Everyone goes still during breakfast that morning when two Slytherins walk up to the Gryffindor table. Classes have not even begun yet, and already a Gryffindor has managed to antagonise the Slytherins. They are fifth-years, too, like Percy and Oliver, and yet they make their way to where the majority of the first-years sit.
Haven watches Cassius and Marcus approach from where she's sitting next to Hermione, wondering what they're doing. She hasn't been here twenty-four hours yet, and she can already tell that Houses do not go to each other's tables, especially when the Houses in question are Slytherin and Gryffindor. And yet, Cassius and Marcus are still walking towards them.
"Budge over, will you?" Cassius asks Ron and Neville. The question is phrased rather politely, all things considered, and the boys scoot over, leaving enough room between them for both Marcus and Cassius to take a seat. The occupants of the hall relax and return to their conversations.
"So. Granger and Potter. And the both of you in Gryffindor, of all Houses. I've got a bone to pick with you, Potter." He sticks a slender finger into her face accusingly. "You were supposed to land yourself in Hufflepuff so that Marcus would have to hand his Captain's Badge over to me."
From down the table, Oliver snorts. He and Percy gather their plates and bags and, with some rearranging, manage to get seats closer to Haven and her friends. Fred and George join them almost immediately after, looking for all the world like they've nothing better to do with their time. "You don't even play Quidditch, Warrington."
"Well how hard can it possibly be? All you've gotta do is sit on a broom and catch things. I can do both."
"Barely," Marcus mutters, smirking slightly at the affronted look Oliver aims in Cassius' direction.
"Sit on a - catch?" Oliver sputters. "There's a bit more to it than that, you ass."
"That's something we can agree upon. And, Cass, you may not appreciate the delicate complexities of a really good Quidditch game, but I know you hate losing; if you'd managed to win our bet and become Quidditch Captain, the Slytherin team would become the laughingstock of the whole school. I'm the best Captain our House's got to offer, and now that Charlie Weasley is off in Romania playing house with Dragons, well." He offers Oliver, Fred, and George a shark-like grin. "I hope you three are ready to lose."
"You wish," Oliver scoffs. "Just 'cause we haven't got Charlie anymore doesn't mean we'll lose, and especially not to your team, Flint."
Marcus gives him a mock-pitying look. "You may be the best Keeper this school's got right now, but Bletchley can more than hold his own against your Chasers. Besides, I'm the best Chaser this school's seen since her father left. I've heard McGonagall tell Snape as much several times."
"You're a good Chaser, Flint, I'll give you that. But your other decent Chaser is Higgs, and your third would be better replaced by the Quaffle itself. You've got a shoddy Keeper, and your Beaters may be brutal, but they've got awful aim. And your Seeker may have some talent, but even you've gotta admit that Pucey is timid."
Marcus scowls at him. "Better a timid Seeker than no Seeker at all, wouldn't you say, Wood?"
Oliver sticks two fingers up in a vee at Marcus before scooping a forkful of eggs into his mouth.
"Hold up," George says. "I just realised something." He turns towards Cassius, and asks, very incredulously, "Did you bet that Haven - as in Haven Potter, the daughter of James and Lily Potter, both of them well-known Gryffindors - would end up in Hufflepuff?"
"I did," Cassius says forlornly. "Clearly, I was wrong. I can see that now; really, I'm not sure how I could have been so terribly mistaken. She wasn't acting like an insulted Kneazle or anything when we met, and it certainly wasn't on the behalf of the friends she'd just made that day." He rolls his eyes and drops the dramatic tone. "Of course I thought she'd end up in Hufflepuff; you don't see that kind of loyalty in your typical firstie."
Fred and George exchange a glance. "Well."
"When you put it that way."
"Yes, well, I guessed our lovely Miss Potter here would end up in Gryffindor," Marcus says smugly. "And since we placed bets, and you agreed to my terms, Cass, I believe now would be a great time to start on making that happen."
Cassius groans. "You were serious about that? I thought you were just messing around!"
"Just because you were doesn't mean I was, and you should know me well enough by now to know that I never mess around about potions," Marcus says seriously. "Go on, get to."
"What does he have to do?" George asks curiously.
"He has to convince your brother to tutor me in potions. It's my weakest subject, and I need to pass the OWL for it."
Fred looks impressed at his admission. "If it helps, Percy'll probably agree to help you out. He loves imparting his knowledge to others."
"Really?" Marcus frowns. "You think it'll be that easy?"
"Yeah," George says. "Look, he's already got an answer." He points to where Percy and Cassius have been talking quietly. Percy turns around to face Marcus.
"Meet me in the library after our first class, Flint, and I'll see what I can do for you," he suggests, and Marcus nods, dumbfounded.
"What do I owe you?"
"Owe me?" Percy gives him a confused look.
"Yeah. Owe you."
"Nothing. It's just an hour of time I was going to spend on homework anyways. I might as well have someone to do it with."
Haven wonders if Percy even notices the slightly shell-shocked expression on Marcus' face at his reply. Clearly he'd been expecting an actual transaction, or a more substantial answer than the one he'd gotten.
"Wasn't that easy?" Fred asks.
"Yeah. What do you think he's going to want in return?" Marcus still looks unconvinced, even when the twins raise their eyebrows.
"Nothing, you big lump!"
"Like we said,"
"He loves to,"
"Share his knowledge."
"Likely," George adds, once Fred has said his piece, "he'll feel indebted to you. He really does love teaching."
"He does," Ron agrees. "He tried to teach me all the basics of Transfigurations before school started, and I actually understood them. He also taught me the basics of chess when I was younger, though Dad kept teaching me after I got better than Perce."
"Percy taught all of us to play chess, you're just the only one who was any good at it," Fred tells Ron.
"You play chess?" Cassius asks with interest. "Maybe we could have a match sometime?"
"You'll want to play Ronnie," George says with certainty. "Dad's teaching really stuck to him."
"Sure," Ron replies. "I hope you're ready for me to kick your arse, though. I've been told I'm rather good." He taps his temple. "I've got a mind for strategy, you know?"
"Bring it on," Cassius says.
"Wait, if Percy likes teaching, he must like learning," Marcus says, dragging the conversation around.
"Well, duh." Ron pushes his empty plate away. "He likes learning more than he likes teaching. I think he'd continue school for the rest of his life if he could."
"So why isn't he in Ravenclaw?" Marcus asks.
"And speaking of Ravenclaw, how the hell did you end up in Gryffindor over Ravenclaw, Granger?" Cassius demands.
"That's also a good question," Marcus nods. "I'd very much like to know the answer to that, myself."
"The hat said I'd grow the most in Gryffindor," Percy says. "Apparently if I were a Ravenclaw, I'd have become a recluse."
"That's not an inaccurate sentiment, Perce," Oliver tells him. "Whenever I visit you over the summer, you're always more interested in reading whatever textbook you've stumbled across than spending time with Prajav and Amaryllis and me, and with our personalities, and your family, it's not like you're lacking for human contact."
"I enjoy some peace every now and then!" Percy protests.
"Assigning yourself essays about random topics is not peace!"
"Yes it is! It's very relaxing."
Hermione snorts. "Even I'm not that much of a fanatic about learning. The hat thought I'd do well anywhere except Hufflepuff, but apparently I'm smarter than I am cunning, and I'm braver than I am smart."
Cassius and Marcus look at her with something approaching horror. "That's a terrifying thought."
"Isn't it just?" she asks sweetly.
"Well, if you're afraid of bravery, that explains why you're not in Gryffindor," Haven teases them.
"She's smart. If she's braver than she is smart, I think terror is an acceptable reaction," Cassius counters.
"If she's as smart as you seem to think," Oliver breaks in smugly, "it sounds like we'll be winning the House Cup this year. What will that leave you with?"
"The Quidditch Cup," Marcus snarls.
"No, we win that, too."
"The Gryffindor team has nothing on the Slytherin team and you know it, Oliver."
"Well I'm glad to see there's so much passion about Quidditch in the hall this morning. The season hasn't even begun yet," McGonagall says, interrupting their conversation and holding out sheets of parchment. "But Severus won't be pleased to find the two of you over here when he's trying to sort out schedules, so I suggest the two of you head back to your table for the rest of breakfast and continue this discussion over lunch."
Cassius and Marcus nod briskly, gathering their things.
"Feel free to bring more people for lunch," Oliver tells them. "Preferably people who can actually talk Quidditch," he adds, looking at Cassius.
"Just for that comment," Cassius replies, "I'll be inviting people who prefer talking about Arithmancy or Ancient Runes. I'd love to see you flounder during conversation for once, Wood."
"I'll bring my chess set," Ron tells him. "You bring your pieces, and we can start a game, if you want."
"Sure," Cassius calls over his shoulder as he and Marcus walk back to the Slytherin table.
"It is wonderful to see you all getting along," McGonagall sniffs, tapping their parchment with her wand. Ink bleeds onto it to form a schedule.
Haven looks down at hers. It really doesn't look so bad; she's got at least two classes each day, but she's also got plenty of breaks in-between, as well as an hour for lunch each day. She looks over Hermione's shoulder at her schedule, and finds that they're the same. "So, we've got Transfiguration first thing today," she says. "Class starts soon; shall we get going?"
"Actually, I think I'd like to stop by the tower," Hermione says. "I wasn't sure what classes we'd have today, so I brought all my books. If we won't need them, I don't particularly fancy carrying them all around all day."
"I'll come with," Ron says. "I've got all my books, too, so I want to drop 'em. Besides, this way I can grab my chess set now, and I'll get another chance to get the way to the tower in my head."
Neville ends up joining them; the way to Gryffindor tower is far less complicated than the one Percy and Amaryllis had taken them the night before, and so they manage to get there with minimal back-tracking; of course, then they realise that they don't know how to get to the Transfiguration room, but there are so many upper years in the common room that it's an easy thing to get directions.
They arrive to class on time, and Hermione's relief is palpable. They have Transfiguration with the Ravenclaws, and out of all forty of them, Haven only recognises Kennedy and Violet, who are sitting next to a blond boy.
Violet waves them over. "Haven! Hermione! You guys come sit over here, yeah?"
Haven and her friends move over to sit at the table Violet has indicated, doing their best to ignore the cat sitting on the desk at the front of the room. The Transfiguration room has ten of these tables, each with eight seats, and they fill up quickly.
"Morning, Vi. Kennedy," Haven greets them. "You guys remember Ron and Neville, right? We met them in Diagon."
"Yes, of course," Violet says, smiling. "You introduced us to Neville in Gringotts, and we all met Ron and his family when they were putting on that soap opera in the Apothecary." She nudges Kennedy's shoulder.
Kennedy picks up her parchment and taps it against the table, forcing the edges to line up. She places it carefully in front of her, so that the edge of the parchment is a little over two centimeters away from the edge of the table. She places her pen parallel to the side of the parchment, and looks up at Violet. "That's right. We also met that rude boy in the robes shop." She eyes Haven and Hermione suspiciously. "You haven't gone and befriended him, have you?"
"Malfoy? Definitely not. I'm likely to strangle him long before we manage anything approaching friendship," Haven laughs.
"What did Malfoy do this time?" the blond boy - Haven thinks she remembers him walking up to the Sorting Hat after McGonagall had called the name Ollivander - asks with a put-upon sigh.
"Only took one look at us and decided that because we're Muggle-borns we're worth less than the dirt under his shoe, Virgil. Nothing insulting or anything," Kennedy tells him sarcastically.
Virgil nods sagely. "My great-grandfather has been selling to the Malfoys for decades, and he says they've always been pretentious and stuck-up."
"Of course they have been." Kennedy rolls her eyes. "They probably think that everyone in the world is beneath them, too. We haven't even been here an entire day, and I've already seen Malfoy strutting around the Great Hall with his very own entourage. He's like a peacock: pretty, if you like that kind of extravagance, and really showy, like he's forgotten that he's got ugly things about him, just like everyone else."
"You forgot mean," Hermione adds. "Peacocks are very territorial; I wouldn't be surprised if Malfoy feels like we," she gestures at the Muggle-borns in their little group, "are encroaching on his territory or something."
Haven cackles, catching the cat's eye; to her surprise, it leaps off the desk and McGonagall lands gracefully on the ground. The class falls silent.
"Transfiguration," McGonagall begins smoothly, "is one of the most complex branches of magic you will learn during your time here. It can be dangerous, and so I expect you all to pay attention when I am speaking, so that you do not end up damaging yourselves. If I catch you fooling around, you will be asked to remove yourself from the classroom until you can contain yourself." She brandishes her wand. "Now, observe."
She flicks her wand at the massive desk she was sitting on, and it promptly turns into a pig. Haven stares at it in disbelief as it scuttles around the room squealing.
"How…?" Hermione mutters under her breath.
Kennedy raises her hand. "How did you do that? That shouldn't be possible."
McGonagall raises an eyebrow as she flicks her wand once again. The pig returns to its original form as a desk. "It is not possible by Muggle methods, Miss Williams, but Muggle methods are not the only method."
Violet's eyebrows furrow. "But even if Muggles can't do it, scientists are all in agreement that mass can't be created or destroyed, and a pig doesn't have the same mass as your desk."
An amused smile graces McGonagall's regal face. "But I have used magic, not science, to Transfigure this pig."
"Magic is just science we don't understand yet," Hermione quotes, backing Kennedy and Violet up, and Haven nods in agreement.
"Magic is magic, not science. Muggles will never be able to, say, turn a desk into a pig and reverse it, because that is magic. Magic cannot be explained by any Muggle science that has existed, still exists, or will exist in the future. Our magic and Muggle science are two separate branches that - while having some similarities every now and then - will never collide."
She looks around the room at everyone, and seems satisfied by what she sees in their faces. "Now," she says, flicking her wand again, and catching a small box that flies towards her, "I'm going to have you all attempt to Transfigure a match into a needle. Remember, spell casting requires three things. Can anyone tell me what they are?"
Hermione's hand flies up. "Proper pronunciation and annunciation, the correct wand movement, and the belief that you really can cast whatever spell you're trying to cast."
"Very good. One point to Gryffindor."
McGonagall flicks her wand again, and a matchstick settles in front of each of them. Everyone begins attempting to Transfigure the match at once, and McGonagall makes rounds around the room, offering advice to people every now and then.
For most of class, nothing happens. Then, about forty-five minutes in, one of the Gryffindors manages to set his match on fire; it blows up, sending splinters of wood across the room. Haven hides a smile behind her hand at the sniff Hermione expunges, and frowns when - with a flick of her wand - Hermione's match turns silver and slim and pointy. There is even, Haven notes with some disgruntlement, a singular strand of bright red thread looped through the eye of Hermione's needle.
"Five points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger," McGonagall says in approval, and Hermione flushes with pride.
Kennedy is quick to follow in Hermione's footsteps, her needle glinting on the table in front of her. Haven frowns. "How are you guys getting this so fast?"
Hermione shrugs her slender shoulders. "I don't know. It just makes sense. Here, try again, and I'll see if I can tell what you're doing wrong." She watches as Haven flicks her wand, and says, "Wait, stop, stop. You're angling your wand wrong, and the way you say the spell is a little too round. Try again, but like this." She demonstrates, and Haven is just able to figure out the differences.
With the correct angle and pronunciation in mind, Haven tries again, and this time, her matchstick quivers before it changes. Haven watches as the wood grows into a small yellow block that looks like it's made of straw. At the top of it, a slender silver needle sticks out. The light coming through the window sparks like fire against the eye.
McGonagall comes over to stare at her creation. "A needle in a haystack." She purses her lips. "I'll give you credit for the needle, but you need to keep working on this so that you can Transfigure the match into a needle and only a needle."
Haven frowns down at where the needle shines out from the hay, wondering why she couldn't have just Transfigured a needle.
"Your wand will sometimes fail to cooperate with your intentions," Virgil tells her, catching her arm as they walk out of the Transfiguration classroom, "because of the type of wood it's made with. It desires a true connection before it helps you without complaint."
"Um," Haven replies, feeling slightly bewildered, "thanks?"
Virgil nods and walks off, Violet and Kennedy flanking him.
"I think," Hermione says, "that we should head to the library before Charms. We can do our Transfiguration homework."
"We have to find the library first," Ron counters. "I say we explore the castle so that we know where everything is, and if we have time after that, we can go to the library."
Hermione huffs, but she nods her assent, and the four of them begin wandering the castle's halls until they find the Great Hall. This, they agree, will be their starting point. It is Hermione who thinks to write down where everything is; she scratches out rough floor plans on a spare bit of parchment, and as they peer into room after room after room, she inks lopsided boxes into her drawings and labels them.
They learn that the Great Hall is on the first floor, as is the Transfiguration room. There are several other classrooms, many of them playing host to cluttered desks, or seats missing a leg, balancing precariously against each other. Others are nest-like in nature, the floors covered in fresh-smelling pine needles, the walls crawling with ivy. Still more of the rooms have blankets and pillows and overstuffed couches and chairs placed haphazardly on a plush rug. One room has what looks like a cupboard filled with games both Muggle and magical in nature, and another has instruments lining its walls in glittering rows, and more resting against the stone floor. Some of the rooms contain nothing but books, and there are even some rooms that have an odd amalgam of everything and anything, from old broomsticks to what looks like crystal balls to tubes of crusty old paint.
Somewhere on the second floor, they get turned around; Hermione looks down at her map, trying to help the backtrack, but it doesn't work out as they expect; they find their way back to the staircase they used to get up to the second floor just as it is realigning itself in exactly the wrong direction for their purposes. The four of them exchange helpless glances before tromping up the steps to the third floor.
Hermione casts an interested glance to the right, but ultimately decides to take a step towards the left-hand corridor. The sounds of their footsteps echo ominously against the walls, which stretch out before them endlessly, without doorways or windows to mark the distance.
Haven shivers; they haven't even started walking down the Hall yet, but the emptiness is unwelcoming, and there is a fine layer of dust along the floor that their very presence has kicked up into the air; In the candlelight, it almost looks like snow.
Someone taps her shoulder, and haven jumps, turning around to express her displeasure. Only, it is neither Ron nor Neville who has startled her. Hovering before her is a little man. He is dressed in purple and orange, and the colours managed to accentuate the mischief that his crooked smile brings to his eyes.
"What do we have here?" he asks in a mocking lilt. He widens his eyes and sticks out his lower lip, tilting his head to one side. "Has Peevesy found firsties on the third floor? You are not supposed to be up here, you know." His grin stretches wider across his boyish face.
Hermione scowls at him. "We aren't supposed to be on the right-hand side," she says in what Haven thinks is a rather snobby tone.
Peeves cackles. "Right and left are all a matter of perspective, silly. From where I'm standing, you are in the right-hand corridor." He smiles even wider, and it is not a nice smile anymore – it is all thin-stretched lips and teeth.
"Here, Peeves," Neville says placatingly, "we'll just leave now, and you don't have to tell anyone, alright?"
Peeves twists his face into a thoughtful moue. "Well," he says, drawing out the vowel until the word has lost its meaning.
Impatient, Ron lunges for Peeves, saying, "Look here you little rat," and the poltergeist leaps back, hurtling through the air and out of reach, his offended shrieks slicing through Ron's words.
"Students! Students in the third-floor corridor!" he screams piercingly, giving the four of them a nasty look as he somersaults through the air.
They exchange glances and turn around, running the way they came. The stairs have shifted again, and so they keep running. Haven can hear the dull thud of footsteps running behind them, and so she keeps moving, pulling ahead of the others. She stops suddenly. At the end of the hall, there is a massive door. Undeterred by this, Hermione steps past Haven and tries the knob. It is locked. She whips out her wand and practically shouts, "Alohomora!" before pushing the door open.
Once they've got the door closed, all four of them press themselves up against the wood, hoping that their added weight will be enough to keep any intruders out.
"… are… Peeves?" a muffled voice asks, and Haven strains to hear it better.
"Peevesy doesn't know!" Peeves' much clearer voice answers, the mocking lilt back and identifiable even through the heavy door. Haven breathes out a sigh of relief and relaxes slightly, feeling the others do the same.
"You're the one who said there were students up here. You were screaming it at the top of your lungs," the other voice says angrily.
"Did I?" Peeves sounds unconcerned about the vitriol coming his way.
"Yes! Now, where are they?"
Peeves giggles maniacally. "I won't tell you where they are if you don't say please, Filchy."
"Please," Mr Filch says ungraciously, sending Peeves into another fit of laughter.
"Now, now, I said you have to say please, Filchy."
"I did!"
"Didn't!" comes the cheerful reply.
"I said please!" Mr Filch snarls.
"Say please, Filchy," Peeves repeats, sounding as though Filch's temper is the least of his worries.
"Please, Filchy," Filch says murderously, and Peeves cackles again.
"Where they are!" he replies, still laughing as Filch growls in frustration and stomps down the hall furiously. A few moments later, Peeves is gone, too, his laughter drifting down the corridor behind him.
Haven turns, sliding down the door in breathless laughter. It promptly dies in her throat at the sight of the massive three-headed dog staring at them, long trails of saliva dangling from each of its mouths. She scrambles to her feet, and the four of them shove their way out the door frantically.
"Merlin!" Ron gasps, once the door is shut behind them and they've reached the stairs that are thankfully in the direction they want to go.
"No kidding," Neville says as they clatter down the steps. "I think I'm done exploring for the day, if it's all the same to you."
"I think we all are," Haven replies. "Anyways, we've got Charms soon, so we should probably head there now."
"Cerberus!" Hermione says triumphantly, apropos of nothing.
"Um. What?" Haven asks in bewilderment.
"Oh, I've been trying to think what that giant dog was," Hermione says, looking down at her map and taking a right. "The Charms classroom is this way, by the way. So I was trying to think of what it was, and I think it was a Cerberus."
"What's a Cerberus?" Haven asks her friend.
"It's a giant three-headed dog that guards the entrance to the Underworld in Greek mythology," Hermione says thoughtfully. "Apparently, music can put them to sleep."
"That's right!" Ron says, sounding as though he's just remembered something. "Charlie used to talk about magical creatures all the time, and after Dragons, Cerberi were always his favorite. He said that a popular theory is that someone bred a Runespoor with a Crup, which is why it has three heads, but it's so big. Apparently, though, no one has come up with an explanation for why music is a Cerberus' weakness."
Neville hushes their conversation suddenly. "We weren't supposed to be up there, remember? We don't want to let on that we were, especially not in front of a bunch of people we don't really know yet."
They fall silent obediently, and file into the Charms classroom behind the other Gryffindors and Ravenclaws.
Professor Flitwick, Haven decides as she sits down between Neville and Kennedy, is even smaller than Peeves. Nevertheless, Flitwick seems to have no trouble getting their attention, and after taking the register has them immediately start trying to levitate a feather.
It is part-way through the class that Haven and Neville, who are sharing a feather, realise that having Ron and Hermione work together was not a wise decision.
"It's Win-gaar-dium Levi-O-sa," Hermione tells Ron snottily, "make the 'gar' and 'O' sounds nice and round."
"Wingardium Leviosa," Ron tries again, and Hermione shakes her head in disappointment.
"No, Ron, you're squashing all the vowels. I just said to make them nice and round. They need to be long sounding, otherwise it won't work. Don't you remember that McGonagall said pronunciation of spells matters?"
"Actually," Ron mutters petulantly, "it was you who said that. McGonagall just gave you a point for it. And, anyways, if you're so smart, why don't you try it?"
"Alright," she replies, rolling up the sleeves of her robes. Haven rolls her eyes in exasperation, but says nothing as Hermione swishes and flicks her wand, saying the spell. Her feather rises into the air, and Ron scowls.
"You don't have to be such a know-it-all," he says angrily, copying her movements jerkily. The feather slips into the air to dance around Hermione's shoulders before brushing against her neck. She shrieks and shivers violently.
Haven gives Neville a pleading look, and he leans over to poke Ron in the ribs. "Can you two stop? Let's try and wait a little longer than a day before starting a friendship-destroying fight, yeah?"
Ron frowns, but lowers the feather to the table. "Sorry, Hermione."
"It's alright. I'm sorry, too. I could have been nicer about telling you how to do it the right way."
"Yeah, you could've," Ron agrees.
"Ron!" Haven hisses.
"Sorry! It's fine, Hermione. I was just feeling stupid and so I reacted badly."
"It's okay," Hermione replies.
Haven looks at the two of them doubtfully, but they seem to have gotten over themselves fairly quickly; they have moved on to taking turns with the feather and stealing it from each other, and by the end of class, they are laughing quietly together.
"Alright, Wood." Marcus sits down across from Oliver, Cassius beside him and two boys who look like they're Fred and George's age flanking them. "Allow me to introduce you to your doom. This is Adrian Pucey, Slytherin's Seeker, currently the best Seeker at Hogwarts, and certainly better than whoever your team's gonna pull out from the woodwork now that Weasley's gone. That's Terrence Higgs," he points to the sandy-haired boy on his left, "our other - what was the word you used? decent? yes, our other decent Chaser."
Oliver's back straightens comically, his hackles raising at Marcus' perceived insult, and his face takes on a mulish cast. "I've seen you play," he grunts at Adrian begrudgingly. "You're good. Not as good as Charlie was, of course, but you're better than Diggory and probably better than whoever Ravenclaw'll be tossing out of their nest. Your one problem is that you're scared of being hit by one of the other balls on the pitch."
"I notice," Adrian muses goadingly, his voice slipping awkwardly between two registers, reminding Haven of Piers Polkiss' older brother, whose voice had started cracking at fourteen, and whose slip-sliding range was accompanied by scraggly hairs on his pointy chin, and patches of pimples cropping up on his cheeks and forehead, "that you haven't said anything about how you think I'll do against the Gryffindor Seeker, regardless of my supposed fear of the Quaffle and Bludgers. Are you afraid to admit that I'll be able to defeat whoever you pick?"
Oliver gives him a shark-like grin. "No, Pucey. Unless a miracle happens, you're currently the best Seeker in the school. But Gryffindor will still beat Slytherin; you may have the best Seeker, and you may have Flint as one of your Chasers, but my Chasers are better than the other two, and, like I told Flint at breakfast, my Beaters are far superior to yours, and I'm a better Keeper than you've got. You may have the advantage of a good Seeker, but Gryffindor's practically got the Cup already; all we've gotta do is score on your sorry excuse for a Keeper, and keep your shots out of our goals. It'll be like taking gold from a Niffler."
Cassius snorts as he sets up his pieces on the chessboard Ron sets in the centre of the table, between two gold plates piled high with food. "I don't know where you've been during Care of Magical Creatures, Wood, but even Kettleburn has difficulty getting the Nifflers to give up their gold. If that's the comparison you're going with, I wish you luck. Alright, Weasley, white goes first."
"Pawn to E3," Ron says, and Haven watches the intricately carved piece march forward two spaces, grumbling bitterly about always being first.
"I don't need you to wish me luck," Oliver dimples menacingly, his teeth gleaming in the candlelight. "I can be very persuasive. I assure you that beating your sorry excuse for a team will be extremely easy."
"What's that?" Haven hears Hermione ask curiously. She turns her attention in that direction just in time to see a tawny owl push itself off the table to perch on one of the window-sills high above them.
"It's called a Remembrall," Neville tells her, his voice sulkier than Haven has heard it since they met. "As you can see," he scowls down at the delicate glass ball resting innocently in his hand, "it turns red when you've forgotten something."
"So what have you forgotten?"
"That's the trouble with Remembralls. They tell you that you've forgotten something, but not what you've forgotten."
"That sounds useless," Haven observes.
Neville shrugs. "It is, but Gran likes to give me interesting magical objects every now and then. I guess it's a good way to get me to work on remembering things." He slips the Remembrall into one of the folds in his robe and takes a bite of his food.
"What other things has she given you?" Hermione asks, sitting forward, her eyes lighting up in intrigue.
"You're sure you don't mind?" she hears Marcus inquire in a low voice, and the uncertainty in his tone draws her attention away from Hermione and Neville, who continue their conversation about magical objects in low tones.
"Of course not," Percy replies. "Potions is one of my favourite subjects. Besides, I've seen you in class, and it's not like you don't try. If you didn't, I wouldn't be willing to tutor you because it's OWL year, and I don't want to be wasting my time. As long as you actually make an effort -"
"Of course I will!" Marcus interrupts in affront. "I'm not lazy, Weasley. I may look like a Troll, but I'm not stupid or lazy like one."
Percy rolls his eyes impatiently. "I didn't say you were, Flint. In fact, you may have noticed that I said the reason I'm willing to help is because I know you aren't lazy or stupid. And you don't look like a troll, you've just got bad teeth, and that's an easy enough fix."
Marcus looks uncomfortable at Percy's words, and shifts in his seat. He is not the only one who startles at the unexpected cackle a few moments later.
Haven stares at Ron in disbelief as he grins at Cassius, who looks shocked as he glances between the chessboard and the place where his opponent is dancing like a fool.
"Um?"
"He beat me," Cassius says in confusion. "I haven't been beaten in chess for years, and he did it in under twenty minutes!"
"We told you he was good," George says, pulling himself from his conversation with Fred and Terrence.
"You didn't say he was this good!" Cassius protests.
The twins give him an unimpressed look, the corners of their mouths twisting down and their eyelids slipping half shut. "We told you he was good. You just underestimated him. That's not our problem." Fred turns back to Terrence. "You said your father didn't notice that the painting on his cup was missing?"
Terrence shakes his head, laughing slightly. "No, he didn't. He was shocked when the people walked up to his cup while he was drinking from it and pressed themselves into the sides again."
"Fred and I were helping our Mum cook dinner this summer," George offers with good humor, "and he managed to Transfigure one of the potatoes into an ear. It ended up on Bill's plate during supper, and he flipped out."
Bored with the conversations around her, Haven pushes her plate aside and makes her way over to the Slytherin table, where she can see Daphne, Blaise, Millie, and Theo sitting across from each other, not far from where Lionel and Gabriel are seated.
"You guys should all sit with us at dinner," Haven says, sinking onto the bench next to Lionel. "Hi, I'm Haven." She sticks her hand out for him to shake, which he does, before gesturing back at the Gryffindor table. "There's plenty of room, and I don't think anyone'll even think it's weird. We've had three of your Quidditch players over there, plus Cassius, over there since breakfast, and there's plenty to talk about."
"Let's see how Flying goes before we make any commitments," Daphne says amusedly. "How's Gryffindor, by the way? Everything you dreamed and more?"
"I love it," Haven gushes. "They all seem so nice. What's Slytherin like?"
"Pretty good," Millie says in her low voice. "Malfoy's already crowned himself the king of the first-years, and no one's pushing against it because his family's got enough money to put the Muggle queen to shame. Hopefully he'll figure out that no one actually likes him soon. It's only been a day, and the most interesting things he's got to say are 'my father blah blah blah.' He also complains about you a lot. You and Lionel here have made quite the impression."
"That's an understatement," Theo mutters. "And Crabbe and Goyle like Malfoy, Millie. They follow him wherever he goes like lost Crups."
"Crabbe and Goyle aren't smart enough to have an opinion on anything," Blaise counters snootily. "I bet Mr Malfoy hired them to act like guard-dogs for his son because he knows that Malfoy's got a gift for making people want to kill him."
"I really don't understand why Draco is the way he is. Mrs Malfoy is a good friend of my father's, and she's an absolute doll," Daphne says thoughtfully. "I bet she's the reason Malfoy tried apologising to you on the train yesterday. She's always seemed like a pacifist, but maybe I'm misreading her." The tone Daphne adopts makes it clear that she doesn't think she's misread Mrs Malfoy at all.
"Whatever the reason," Lionel grunts, "Malfoy is an irritating prick who can't stop himself from parading around the common room like he's better than the rest of us."
"In reality," a red-haired girl with a constellation of freckles across her face says, "he's just more inbred than the rest of us. I don't care how nice Narcissa Malfoy is, she used to be a Black, and everyone knows they've got no qualms against marrying their own cousins."
"We've all got some Black blood in us, Mafalda," Daphne argues.
"Not as much as she's got, though. My grandmother may have been a Black, and your great-great-grandmother, as well, but Narcissa is a Black, through and through, and it's not like the Malfoy family believes in introducing non-Pure-bloods into their family, either. Malfoy may not look like Crabbe and Goyle do, but I guarantee you that's only because the Malfoy family and Black family have never intermarried before, and both his parents are unusually attractive, especially given who their parents were."
"Were their parents spectacularly ugly or something?" Haven wonders.
"Druella Rosier and Cygnus Black - Narcissa's parents - were nowhere near as beautiful as she is. And she got really rare colouring for a Black, too. And Lucius Malfoy's parents. Well, let's just say that the inbreeding was more apparent in them than it is in him," Theo answers.
"Really?" Haven asks before Daphne hisses at her to be quiet. The reason for this becomes apparent very quickly, when Malfoy steps into view with a sickly grin on his face.
"Good afternoon, Potter. Are you ready to make a fool of yourself on a broom?"
Haven snorts. "I'm ready to make a fool of you on a broom. Haven't you heard? My father was a Chaser, and I love heights. There's no way I'll be anything less than spectacular."
Malfoy scowls at her. "We'll see." He turns on his heel and walks away, his robes swishing around his ankles dramatically.
"Whatever," Haven mutters to his back.
"I hope you know what you're doing," Theo says, his eyes serious. "Malfoy's been flying since he could walk, and he can make your life miserable if you're not careful. Try not to egg him on intentionally."
"But he makes it so easy!"
"He's a peacock. Try not to offend him, or he'll find a way to get you expelled, or worse."
Haven purses her lips and says nothing, choosing instead to walk with her friends to their flying lesson. They engage in carefree chatter, and she allows their light, lilting tones to soothe her. Though she will never admit it, she hopes she knows what she's doing, too. It would be terrible to have confronted Malfoy the way she did and have it all backfire on her.
She is nervous all through Astronomy, which is in one of Hogwarts' many towers. Similar to the ceiling of the Great Hall, the Astronomy tower portrays the sky; it seems to be a permanent rendition of a cloudless night, though Professor Sinistra displays its capabilities, cycling the sky through a year's worth of constellations. Haven finds herself bored, even through the tale of Orion, and though Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones are sweet and friendly, her mind wanders to her upcoming Flying class.
Her worries are unnecessary; under Madam Hooch's sharp eye, Haven coaxes her rickety old broomstick into her hand with a single word, and she can feel how eager the broom is as soon as she wraps her fingers around it. When she looks around herself, she can see that she is the first to have succeeded. Beside her, Ron's broom is much less eager to lift itself into the air; Hermione's makes a jerking motion before falling back to the ground; Neville's broom doesn't move at all. Blaise and Theo are almost immediately successful, as is Malfoy, and Haven cannot help the frown that crosses her face at that particular observation.
Once all her fellow first-years have managed to coax their reluctant brooms into their hands, Madam Hooch has them mount the middle of the handle.
"On three," she tells them seriously, "I want all of you to push yourselves gently into the air and hover there until I tell you to come back down. One, two,"
Before she can get to three, Neville, who Haven had noticed seemed paler than usual throughout the process, shoots into the air in an uncontrolled spiralling motion. Despite Madam Hooch's commands to descend, Neville's broom carries him erratically around the grounds before bucking wildly. Neville sails forward through the air, catapulting over the front of the broom's handle and falling to the ground. Even as far away from the action as she is, Haven can hear the wet snap that accompanies Neville's grounding.
Madam Hooch rushes towards Neville's prone form, and Haven and the others follow her with a morbid sense of curiosity. "Broken," she hears Hooch mutter. "Come on, Longbottom. Let's get you to the Hospital Wing." She turns a sharp glare on the rest of the class. "Stay off your brooms until I return. If I discover any of you in the air on a broom, or if I hear from your classmates after the fact that you were on one despite my explicit instructions, I will arrange a very unpleasant series of detentions for you." And with that, Hooch marches off, almost dragging Neville behind her.
"What a lump," Malfoy says into Haven's ear, and she startles; she hadn't realised he was there. "I suppose this isn't much of a surprise, though; Longbottom is practically a Squib, anyways. He couldn't perform any magic at all until he was dropped out of a window." He laughs quietly, and the sound of it is mocking, and a little mean. Haven finds herself liking Malfoy even less than she already had. "What's that?" he wonders aloud, pointing, and Haven follows his finger to a round object, shining where it is nestled in the grass.
It looks like Neville's Remembrall. When Malfoy scoops it up, the translucent globe remains as clear as glass; there is none of the red smoke curling through it like there was when Neville was holding it. Malfoy tosses the Remembrall up in the air, and it catches the sunlight, glittering as the warmth from the sky refracts through it on its way down, resulting in a hazy rainbow circling the glass. It lands with a solid thunk, and Malfoy's fingers curl around it, cutting through the halo of light.
"Give it here, Malfoy," Haven says quietly. "It's not yours. Neville's Gran gave that to him."
Malfoy snorts derisively. "It's a Remembrall. Only forgetful people have them. I bet Longbottom won't even realise it's gone. He'll have forgotten that it ever existed by dinnertime."
Haven grinds her teeth. "Neville will notice that it's gone. Give it to me." The force behind her words draws Ron's attention, but Haven shakes her head at him, and he returns to his conversation with Blaise and Theo.
Malfoy takes a step back, straddling his broom as he does so. "If you want it so bad, come and get it," he challenges, pushing into the air and hovering above her with a smug smirk on his face. He tosses the Remembrall up into the air again, and catches it with the tips of his fingers.
Haven growls, mounting her own broomstick and pushing into the air. Her sudden movement draws the attention of the other first-years. "Haven!" Hermione says from where she is standing with their Slytherin and Ravenclaw friends. "Madam Hooch said not to get on the brooms while she was gone! You'll get detention."
Haven ignores her, leaning forward on her broom. It shoots towards Malfoy, whose eyes widen in shock; he manages to fly out of the way, but it is a near thing, with Haven rocketing past him, less than a metre between them before he finally manages to put any substantial space in-between her and himself.
With a snort of disgust, Malfoy says, "If you want it so bad, catch it!" and tosses the Remembrall into the sky, where it shimmers a cool gold as it curves upwards through the sun-soaked air, rotating and revolving up and up and up, until it suddenly reaches its zenith and comes careening back to earth; Haven leans down subconsciously, and her broom shoots forward, the sleek line of her motions smooth and straight as she moves through the whistling wind to intercept the arcing Remembrall before it shatters on the ground.
It lands in her hand, and her fingers curl around the smooth glass, and the aurous band circumventing the shining delicacy and cutting through the glimmering grooves circulating across the surface is so fragile and fine that it hardly registers against the nerves of her fingertips. Haven holds the Remembrall up against the unblemished ether, and suddenly the translucent orb is shot through with ultramarine and gold.
"Haven Potter!" an unfortunately familiar voice shouts, and any sense of accomplishment that had settled into her bones upon landing immediately evaporates. Haven turns, a sense of dread threading and knotting itself along her spine, tightening her muscles and drawing her shoulders back in preparation for a sharp blow that she knows will never come. McGonagall is striding towards her, her steps short and fast. Her robes swirl around her ankles, but they don't seem to be enough of a tripping hazard to be a deterrent; McGonagall is by her side, her hand closing firmly around Haven's right biceps in a grip as steely as her expression, and the eyes of every first-year other than Neville are looking at them curiously.
"Never in all my years," McGonagall mutters furiously, her brogue thickening, "follow me, Potter."
Sensing that the words are a command, Haven hands her broomstick to Ron, and dutifully dogs McGonagall's brisk footsteps back towards the castle. McGonagall leads her through the winding hallways, which look familiar after her exploration of the first two floors earlier that morning.
"You have detention with Professor Quirrell for that stunt," McGonagall says grimly, drawing to a stop outside the Charms classroom. She raps on the door, which creaks open to reveal Percy's inquisitive brown eyes and shock of red hair. "I need to speak with Wood, Weasley."
The door closes, opening again a moment later to eject Oliver's impressive bulk. "Professor. Haven," he greets, his chin dipping, and his voice and expression displaying his interest, "long time no see."
"Wood, I've found you your new Seeker," McGonagall tells him brusquely, and Haven feels her eyes widen.
"What, really?" Oliver's eyes gleam, and he grins toothily. He nods in Haven's direction. "Her? She's got the build for it, to be sure, but are you sure she's gonna be able to play Seeker. I mean, has she even got any experience?" He grimaces when Haven shakes her head. "No Seeker is probably better than a complete rookie, Professor. We've got a good team; sure, we don't have Charlie this year, but we're good enough to face off against the other Houses. I mean, you've seen us play. I'm the best Keeper at the school, and our Chasers and Beaters are all pretty spectacular. We can hold our own."
"And I'm telling you you don't have to," McGonagall argues. "Just - take her onto the Quidditch pitch, lend her a broom, and have her try catching things. You have to see it to believe it, but she caught Longbottom's Remembrall after a truly impressive dive."
Haven holds up her hand where the Remembrall still rests, the clear sphere giving off an innocent glow in the dim light of the sconces lining the walls. Oliver plucks it from her palm and holds it between two fingers. He blows out a breath. "Alright. We'll give it a try. Meet me on the Quidditch pitch after class, alright, and we'll do some drills to see if you're really as good as the Professor thinks. I'll let you know what the verdict is before dinner, Professor. If she's on the team, we'll have to find a way around the broom restrictions. If she's not," he shrugs carelessly, the movement fluid and oddly graceful on his big frame, "well, it won't matter if she's not."
With that vote of confidence, Oliver turns and slips back into the Charms classroom, closing the door behind him.
"Now," McGonagall says, "let's go arrange your detention."
Professor Quirrell's classroom is on the seventh floor for a reason that Haven cannot determine; nor, it seems, can McGonagall. They manage to arrive just as Quirrell has dismissed his last students, and though he seems surprised by their appearance, he invites them in with little more than a raised eyebrow.
"Miss Potter," McGonagall begins, "seems to be as prone to making trouble as her father was, and has managed to secure herself several days' worth of detentions."
Professor Quirrell purses his lips, and Haven thinks that he looks like he's fighting a smile at this news. "Already?" he asks. "It's the first day of classes. What did you do?"
"I was getting Neville's Remembrall back from Malfoy," Haven mutters petulantly.
Quirrell snorts amusedly. "Out of her and James, who do you think has the larger hero's complex?" he asks.
McGonagall smiles thinly. "As of right now? James has her beat. In the future, though, I have no doubt that she will surpass her father."
"You knew my father?" Haven asks curiously, reassessing Quirrell. He looks as though he's quite a few years younger than Aunt Petunia, but Haven also has the impression that McGonagall has several years on her aunt, and she has no gray hairs, or wrinkles, or anything beyond her stately demeanor to lend credence to the idea.
Quirrell gives her a peculiar look. "I knew of him, though I didn't know him personally. I was in Ravenclaw, and a year above both your parents."
"Could you tell me about them sometime?" Haven asks. "Aunt Petunia didn't know my father very well, and she didn't see much of Mother after she started attending Hogwarts."
"I don't see why we can't try to arrange something, though you must understand that no matter what our conversations outside of class may address, I will not allow myself to show you favoritism during Defense Against the Dark Arts."
"Okay," she replies agreeably.
"Perhaps," McGonagall says, her stern expression tempered by something Haven would call fondness on anyone else, "the two of you can negotiate your information sessions at some other time. Quirinius, I am designating you as her supervisor for her detentions. Potter, I believe you have a meeting that you need to attend."
"Yes, Professor," Haven replies. "I suppose I'll be seeing you this evening, Professor Quirrell?"
"Right after dinner," he agrees with a serene smile.
Haven hurries through the corridors and down seven flights of stairs; she makes a wrong turn twice, and by the time she reaches the Quidditch pitch, she is out of breath. Luckily, it seems like Oliver has just arrived as well; he carries a solid wooden chest under one arm, and a broom under the other.
"Here, Haven." He tosses the broom at her, and she catches it, noticing that it is in far better condition than the broom she had used during Flying class. The handle is smooth and polished, and the twigs and bristles of the actual broom are neat, all of them facing the same direction.
Oliver pops the chest open. "So in Quidditch," he begins, and his voice grows increasingly excited the longer he speaks, "there are two teams playing at the same time. Each team has seven players. The Keeper - me - guards the goal posts," he points to the sets of hoops sticking up from the ground on either side of the pitch. "The Chasers try to score goals with the Quaffle - that's the big red ball. Each goal is worth ten points. The Beaters use their bats to aim the Bludgers at the other team's players." He points down at the pair of black balls that are vibrating in their chains. "Then, there's the Snitch." Oliver opens a small cage that is half-hidden in the chest, reaches in, and holds his hand out, his fingers falling open. A dove-gray cloth lies flat against his palm, covering the skin. In the center is an intricately carved golden ball that's even smaller than the Remembrall. Before her eyes, it unfolds delicate silver wings, which flutter rapidly as the Snitch rises slowly into the air. "Whichever Seeker catches the Snitch gains a hundred and fifty points, and the match ends. Getting the Snitch doesn't always mean a win, but it usually does. There aren't any rules against Seekers scoring goals or otherwise interfering with the match, but usually they stay pretty well out of it and focus on finding the Snitch."
Haven nods thoughtfully when Oliver looks in her direction to see if she's following. He wraps the gray cloth around the Snitch again and puts it back into the cage, locking it. "Snitches have flesh imprints," he explains. "The first person to touch them is always the person who catches them, that way no one can mess with the results of the game. Or, at least, no one can mess with who ended the game and got a hundred and fifty points."
He hands her a heavy metal-reinforced wooden bat. She wraps her hands around the weathered handle, watching attentively as he grabs one for himself and unlocks one of the Bludgers' chains. The Bludger leaps into the air, flinging itself high up, and then speeding back down towards them. "Hit it!" Oliver orders, and Haven swings her bat at it when the Bludger comes close. The wood and metal make a sharp cracking sound, and vibrations course through her arms as the Bludger ricochets away from her. It boomerangs back, and Oliver drops his bat, wrapping his arms around the black ball and wrestling it back into its chains. He runs his arm across his forehead, wiping the sweat away, and nods at her. "Not too shabby. We'll work on your arm, just in case, if you get on the team. Now, I'm going to throw these small balls, or charm them to fly around, and you're going to get on that broom and try to catch them. Up in the air, kid."
Haven mounts the broom again, shoving off the ground and into the air, and she swoops forward to catch the first ball that Oliver throws. She spends the next hour catching increasingly more complicated tosses, until Oliver motions for her to land again. "Welcome to the team, kid," he says cheerfully, throwing an arm around her shoulders and beaming down at her. "I'll let McGonagall know, and we'll figure out the broom situation by the time our first practice rolls around."
Haven grins at him. "Okay. When is the first practice?"
"Sometime next week. I haven't really figured everything out yet. Oh, and let's keep this a secret, alright? Obviously we'll tell the team, but the other teams think they've got us beat right now, and I'd like to keep it that way so that you can surprise them when we play the first game. Maybe it'll throw them off."
"So I'm going to be your safety net?" Haven frowns thoughtfully as Oliver crouches down to lift up the chest.
"Eh. I was thinking more like a secret weapon," he disagrees. "C'mon, let's head inside for dinner."
"So what did McGonagall do when she took you inside?" Ron asks before shoving a bite of food into his mouth.
"She gave me detention with Professor Quirrell," Haven tells him. "Oh, by the way, here's your Remembrall, Nev."
He takes it from her, watching the globe as it sits stationary in his hand. This time, there is no red smoke curling through it. "Thanks."
"What did you remember?" Hermione asks, gesturing to the colourless object. "You said it turns red when you've forgotten something, and it was red during lunch; now it's not."
Neville sets his Remembrall aside, looking around at where Oliver, Marcus, and Adrian are talking about Quidditch; Fred and George have once again captured Terrence's attention with stories of their pranks; Percy is sitting farther up the table, talking to Prajav and Amaryllis, but he glances their way every now and then and sends them a smile; Millie, Theo, Blaise, Daphne, and Lionel are holding their own conversations, threading words in and out of the swirling mass of syllables around them. "I just remembered that Gran told me that even though I'm not at home, there are still people who will care about me."
"Of course there are," Haven reassures him; she grabs his arm and walks with him over to the Hufflepuff table. Hannah and Susan wave them over, and she and Neville sit down across from them.
"How're you doing?" Susan asks Neville. "Your arm looked bad, and Madam Hooch said it was broken, right?"
"It was," Neville says modestly, "but Madam Pomfrey fixed it up really quickly. She must be a really good Healer."
"Daddy says that she was the best Healer in her generation," Hannah says softly. "He always sounds like he's proud of her for picking Hogwarts over St Mungo's."
"No matter how good a person is at Healing, working at Hogwarts can be more stressful than St Mungo's," a sandy-haired boy says. "Kids tend to get sick or injured more than almost anyone else, not including Aurors, of course. A Healer would have to be well versed in more magical maladies to work in Hogwarts than they'd have to be to work at St Mungo's. There's more room for specifics if you Heal somewhere that isn't a school."
"I don't think they were really looking for that much detail, Cedric," an older girl with pink hair snorts.
Cedric smiles sheepishly. "Sorry, guys. Healing really interests me. I hope my affinity is either Healing or Inyanga. But Madam Pomfrey is a really well-known Healer in the English Wixen world."
"Well," Neville says again, "she's really good."
The conversation falls flat for a moment, until Cedric says, "I think we killed it, Dora. We'd better leave the firsties to their discussion. We can always join in some other time."
Dora shrugs, and she and Cedric turn to talk to some of their older Housemates.
"I wanted to apologise for how I was in Astronomy earlier," Haven tells Susan and Hannah. "I know it seemed like I wasn't interested in what you guys had to say; I was caught up in my head about Flying."
"It's fine," Susan shrugs, and Hannah nods in agreement.
"Thanks. So you mentioned that you'd heard another version of the story of Orion, Susan?" Haven directs her attention to the red-haired girl as she launches into a version of the myth of Orion that is very different from the one Professor Sinistra had told them.
"A lot of Greek and Roman myths have different versions," Susan says when Haven mentions it. "That's why I like mythology so much. It's a matter of eye-witness account. Not everyone experiences the world in the same way, you know?"
Haven finds herself mulling Susan's words over throughout detention and long into the night, wondering what they could mean.