Thursday did not begin well.
If there was any doubt – any at all – that Albus Potter had severely and perhaps irreparably damaged his friendship with Scorpius Malfoy, it was erased when Albus tried to greet him first thing that morning.
Scorpius's curt response as he left the dormitory (trailing right behind Stephan Vaisey of all people) was, "Go to hell."
"What's his issue?" queried McLaggen as if he had been personally insulted. Albus was about to answer for once, but McLaggen shook his head. "Y'know what? Don't bother. We'll be here all day."
Shaking his head, he went back to making sure he had all of his things. Defence was today, among other things. Albus wondered what mark he had gotten on his practical. Not awful, he imagined – although maybe Malcolm docked him a few points for lack of creativity. Jacob Bower from Hufflepuff had something elaborate prepared. It probably wouldn't have been comfortable for Albus had Bower been able to finish the incantation… but he was much, much too slow. Albus had time to cast a Disarming Charm and pluck the wand from Bower's hand. Great in an actual practical situation, Albus thought. Only, Professor Malcolm was implicitly discouraging the use of Disarming Charms this year. They could apparently be countered by a skilled enough wizard – although Albus was yet to see it happen. The cynical part of him wondered whether Professor Malcolm disliked the Disarming Charm because it didn't carry quite enough chance of injuring its target.
Speaking of injured targets, Albus wondered whether Sylvia was alright. Lilith Cross had hit her with a Modified Knockback Jinx during the practical and cracked a couple of her ribs. Healing the actual bones was no problem for Madam Pomfrey, who had seen far worse injuries in her half century or so of work as Hogwarts matron. That said, there were lots of things besides bones that took damage when someone was hit hard enough to actually crack one. She hadn't been allowed to fly with her teammates for practice yesterday, and hadn't been happy about it.
Of course, Albus only remembered most of this late that night, lying awake in his dorm after the two had gone separate ways. It didn't do much to help his feeling like an arse and an awful friend.
"Looks like we're the only two left," McLaggen stated the obvious. Rowan, as usual, had been first to wake, and was gone long before anyone else. Scorpius had left with Vaisey. "Maybe we should stick together."
Albus almost wanted to reject him outright. McLaggen wasn't a bad bloke, but Albus still didn't completely trust him. That, and he just wanted to be alone, in all honesty. But the rules wouldn't allow that, and only Merlin knew what waited for the Gryffindors outside the tower after yesterday. It wasn't a good idea from any angle.
"Yeah," he therefore said half-heartedly.
So the two left together. Toward the foot of the stairs they caught sight of the back of a very familiar head.
"Oi! Nine! You're in the way," McLaggen called.
The girl turned around, caught sight of McLaggen, and rolled her eyes before slinking aside to let him through.
"How's your ribs?" he asked when he reached her, and suddenly, Albus hated him again.
"I'm alright," Sylvia replied, her eyes giving McLaggen a distrustful once-over.
"Good. You should be able to go tomorrow, right? Yesterday was a disaster," he remarked.
"Not my call," she reminded him. "Madam Pomfrey's the one who's got to clear me. You know how she is…"
"Good point," McLaggen sighed. Then, letting out a groan, he muttered, "God, I can't wait for this weekend…"
And he went on ahead. When he did that, Sylvia's posture noticeably slackened. She leaned against the wall, and her hand went to her midriff.
"You're alright?" Albus queried. Sylvia, somehow, hadn't noticed he was there, and immediately straightened when she heard his voice.
"Yeah, I'm fine," she said much too quickly. Then, averting her eyes, she muttered, "Just a bit sore."
Albus descended the few last steps to level with her, and tried to put on what was meant to be a disbelieving expression.
"Really?" Albus queried again. Sylvia scowled sourly in an attempt to hide a grimace of pain. She failed, clutching at her side again.
"Okay, a lot sore," she murmured.
Albus frowned. "Maybe there's a potion Madam Pomfrey can give you for the pain?"
"I'd rather not," she deadpanned. "It's already going to be a few days as is. If I go up there now, she won't clear me to start practicing again ever. I'll be alright. I just need some time."
"You sound tired," Albus remarked, noting the weakness in her tone.
"I didn't sleep well last night," Sylvia confessed with a sigh. "Hard to find a comfortable position when you're basically one great effing bruise. Plus, Rose cried the whole night."
Albus's heart sank. He figured she might not take the whole fallout with Scorpius well, but…
He glanced up the staircase.
"Where is she?" he asked.
Sylvia sighed. "I don't think she's coming."
Albus's jaw slackened for a moment. "What do you mean, she's not coming? We've got class."
Rose had missed a couple of days of class last year, mainly when she was sick. (Albus was fortunate; various bugs and ailments that tended to circulate around the castle, particularly during the early fall weather change, tended to miss him.) He had never know her to simply skive off, though.
Sylvia frowned. "She's going through a lot. She's even worse at acting than you are."
Albus glanced at Sylvia. Not that Sylvia was lying – she definitely wasn't – but this was unusually astute for her.
"What?" Sylvia squawked defensively. "You sleep in the same room with someone for two years, you start learning stuff about them."
She averted her eyes from Albus again.
"We should probably go before it gets too late and we miss breakfast," she suggested.
"R-right," Albus agreed with a bit of a stammer. "Are you sure you're alright to walk?"
Sylvia rolled her eyes. It looked almost like a reflex. "Honestly, Albus. I've been walking since it happened and I haven't keeled over." Then a smirk crossed her face. "You can carry me all the way down, though, if it'll make you feel better."
A hot blush instantly rose on Albus's nose. "You sure about that?"
"Are you saying I'm heavy?" Sylvia ducked into Albus's view a step or two below him.
"No, I'm—" Albus frowned and looked away from her.
"Hey," a voice came from atop the stairs. Albus turned around. "Clear the staircase."
It wasn't Albus fault, he thought as he shifted to a side and allowed Eamonn Temple to pass, that Temple needed so much space. Sylvia glared mutinously at the Prefect's back for a moment, then raised her arm and began to do something with her fingers—
Temple turned around. Quickly, Sylvia stowed her hand behind her back.
"Thomas," he said. "Offer still stands, by the way, once you're well enough."
"Tell it to pull up a chair, then," Sylvia answered. "You're wasting your breath."
Temple stared at Sylvia and Albus for a long moment. Then, sighing, he turned around again and finally walked away. Sylvia's nose wrinkled in a way that was almost – almost – unattractive. She muttered, just loud enough for Albus to hear it:
"Ass."
Breakfast was quick; they'd spent so much time dawdling that they hadn't left themselves much to eat before it was time to walk briskly to the tower where Professor Malcolm held Defence lectures. Even so, they were among the first Gryffindor third years to arrive – which was a good thing, because Malcolm already looked out of sorts. Albus thought at first that Malcolm was annoyed by something, but when the professor came closer, Albus realized that the face he was making wasn't one of annoyance. After all, Malcolm always seemed annoyed by something or other, so Albus had seen that face his fair share of times. This was different. It was a bit hard to see from this distance, and even harder because of the thin-rimmed windows in front of his eyes reflecting light off the top of the tower, but a bit of skin had gathered under his spectacles in telltale pouches. Malcolm's posture wasn't quite as straight as it normally was.
"Hey, Sylvia," Albus murmured.
"Yeah?" she'd been reaching into her bag, but stopped what she was doing immediately to answer.
"Does Professor Malcolm look… tired to you?"
Sylvia squinted – even leaned forward over her desk. "A little bit. Maybe he had a long night yesterday?" A smirk crossed her face as she theorized aloud.
"Everyone kind of had a long night yesterday, I'd bet," Albus said sadly.
"Probably not the same kind he did, though," Sylvia said, the smirk now full on her face for about two seconds. Albus was still trying to figure out what was so funny when the grin slid off her face like melting candle wax. She swore and then muttered, "Did he see me from all the way over there?"
"What?" Albus intoned flatly, his head swiveling around. With a jolt, he found Professor Malcolm not only nearby, but striding down the row of desks in front of them. When he reached them, Albus tried hard not to meet his eye. Malcolm was considerably taller than Albus's own father, and even a row down, towered menacingly in his black robes over Albus and Sylvia's sitting forms. Albus dared to glimpse him in the long, awkward silence. Now that he was close up, Albus could see that Malcolm didn't look tired – he looked exhausted. Albus wondered (silently, of course) whether the professor had slept at all last night.
"Miss Thomas," Malcolm addressed Sylvia in a low, slow voice. "I trust your injuries are healing well?"
"Well enough," Sylvia replied, the confusion and suspicion at Malcolm's sudden concern showing in the curves of her eyebrows. Her eyes did a quick dart in Albus's direction.
Desmond McLaggen appeared a moment later and walked toward the seat to Albus's right, which normally wouldn't have done much for Albus's nerves, but it diverted Malcolm's attention.
"Mr. McLaggen," he said quickly. McLaggen was a bit startled – Malcolm never spoke to him much, if at all. "I shouldn't get too comfortable."
McLaggen tilted his head. "What's going on?"
Malcolm's mouth contorted. Then he let out a resigned sigh. "I suppose I should wait until class has properly started to tell everyone."
"We've got assigned seats now?" asked McLaggen, and if there was ever a particular tone of voice that sounded like eye-rolling, he was using it. Albus saw Sylvia visibly wince on his left. He knew what she was thinking. McLaggen had already lost Gryffindor a handful of points a couple of days ago. Add to that the fact that Malcolm, as a general rule, didn't like Gryffindors, and you had yourself a recipe for something awful happening right… about… now.
But it never did. Malcolm stared at McLaggen for several moments. Albus saw the man's jaw tighten. Then, he said, "Yes and no."
And he walked away. Even McLaggen seemed to register how strange this was; his facial expression changed from mild confusion to utter bewilderment.
"What just happened?" he asked, not addressing anyone in particular.
"You got lucky," Sylvia suddenly piped up. "Now, can you find another row before he comes back over here and decides to put our whole year in detention?"
McLaggen frowned and seemed to consider challenging both Sylvia and Malcolm just to see what would happen. He thought better of it, though, and (with an extremely long, grandiose sigh) left Albus and Sylvia by themselves on the row, choosing the one below it, which was still empty. Now that he had a view of most of the room, Albus could see that most of the third years from both Gryffindor and Hufflepuff were already here. The Mack triplets were just arriving – together as always. Malcolm saw them and appeared to want to make a move in their direction but hesitated.
A group of three Gryffindors arrived; two girls – Nina and Liz, Sylvia's gossipy roommates – were followed quickly by two boys.
It took a second for Albus to recognize Stephan Vaisey. He'd had long hair past his shoulders when they had met at their Sorting, which seemed forever ago now. Then, after 'the incident', he'd cut it shorter. But it had grown back a bit in the months since, and certainly had never been this short. Where flowing locks had been two years back, now there was a stubbly, well-trimmed buzz that made Vaisey look a few years older.
Scorpius's hair, however, was the same as it had been when the year started – silver-blond around his ears and neck, with a bit of turn to its longest strands. He separated himself from the group as if he couldn't wait to be rid of at least one of them. He and Albus met eyes for a moment as he came up the stairs. Sylvia called for him.
Scorpius ignored them both and sat a row up, a considerable distance away from everyone else in the room.
Speaking of loners, Lilith Cross walked in next, looking around the room as if for someone, then made her way to the side where the Hufflepuffs normally sat. She also sat by herself. Others filed in – Rowan, Bower from Hufflepuff, another Hufflepuff boy and girl whose names Albus didn't remember…
"So, before we start the lesson…" It was the softest, least authoritative announcement that a lesson was beginning that Albus had ever seen Malcolm perform. Despite that – or maybe because of it – it got everyone's attention almost instantly. Albus's heart sank horribly. Rose wasn't coming. Malcolm was standing in the middle of the room, having paused mid-sentence. He stared vaguely at the entrance. "Miss Weasley."
"Professor," a small voice preceded a head of bushy, auburn hair into the classroom. Albus's stomach did a feeble lurch; she had shown up, but she did not look or sound well. And now, Malcolm was going to have the chance to punish her publicly.
"You're late," the professor said curtly.
"I know," Rose replied. There was a disquieting 'do whatever you want to me, I don't really care at the moment' tone in her answer.
Malcolm paused. Albus waited for the proverbial gavel to drop…
"I heard about your brother," he said. "How is he?"
Albus was a bit surprised. So was Sylvia.
"What's he playing at…?" she muttered suspiciously.
"Fine. Safe in class, as far as I know," Rose answered shakily. Albus's mild shock morphed into anger. Was this Malcolm's idea of a punishment – to push Rose's sore points in front of the entire class?
Just take the points from her and be done with it, he thought to himself.
There was another awkward silence, during which Rose dared to try to move toward one of the many open seats.
"Don't sit down," Malcolm said softly, but sharply. Now Albus's fists were clenching under the table. "Not yet."
So Rose, either out of obedience or because she didn't have any energy to spend on resisting, stood there without a word.
"I almost… almost said, 'before we start the lesson,'" Malcolm recounted. "That was… inaccurate. Disrespectful, even. This is the lesson – and I want all of you to listen to me with every bit of attention you can muster up."
Predictably, the classroom was almost eerily quiet – so quiet that when Nina Edgerton, sitting in the row below them, pierced the silence with a cough, Albus was fully convinced Professor Malcolm's wrath was about to come down on her in all of its full, terrifying glory.
But it never did.
"I need to make something very clear," he said. "And it's that I don't approve of what's going on right now. I wish I could say it's something I've never seen before. But I would be lying. I know what this looks like. I know exactly what this looks like. I've seen how far it can go, and the tragedy that can result if it's left unchecked."
More silence.
"I was a student here once, like all of you. And I had the… fortune, I guess you'd call it… to arrive at Hogwarts at a very unique time in its history," he went on. He paused again, closing his eyes. "I turned eleven the year Voldemort took over the Ministry. At the time, though, I didn't know about Voldemort, the Ministry, or even that magic was real. And I went on not knowing, because that was the year that Muggle-borns were not allowed into Hogwarts. I would only find out about everything – about myself, about magic, about Hogwarts – the following summer, after the war had ended. Thus I found myself, a newcomer to a world I knew nothing about, seated in a train compartment with children I had never met. As fate would have it, I ended up in a compartment with two other first years. We became friends on the train, but when we were Sorted, we all ended up in different Houses. One Ravenclaw, one Gryffindor—"
He paused for a moment, glancing at the Gryffindor side of the room.
"—And myself, in Hufflepuff."
Albus, who had a fairly good memory, figured out who these people were without Malcolm naming them. One was Professor Gladstone, and the third…
Albus looked over his shoulder, at Rowan, who was watching Professor Malcolm intently.
The third, Albus thought, had to be Rowan's uncle and godfather, Flynn Lester. If the little he'd heard of and about Flynn was to be believed, he had been old school friends with Malcolm, and a bit more than old school friends with Professor Gladstone. They all seemed to be around the same age as well, so it made sense.
"Even back then, we wanted more than anything to see Hogwarts come together," Malcolm claimed. "Some weren't so welcoming of that idea. It was a sensitive time back then. So we decided to do it ourselves. Maybe, we thought, if we studied hard and became Professors one day, we could have the power to change Hogwarts for the better – and, in so doing, change Britain for the better. There was a point that I thought we were doing a good job, but… the last several months have shown me how far we still have to go."
Another pause.
"I'm going to tell you a secret," Malcolm said, "one that your parents likely won't tell you – one that our Ministry certainly would never admit. We, and by that I mean Britain, have spent a long part of history – too long – as a punchline for other wizarding communities around the world. Until recently, it was difficult to rise high in wizarding society here in Britain unless you were a certain 'blood status'. We have a 'Dark Lord' or some other destructive extremist every other generation, it seems. We spend time and blood making war with each other – let alone any threats from outside our world. The infighting and the bullheaded adherence to traditions from past generations have drained our numbers and cost us valuable progress. Why do I tell you all of this?"
Malcolm had become more animated, and now he stood on the stairs in the middle at the divide between the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, glancing at each.
"Why do I tell you all of this?" he repeated the question. "Because it's necessary that each and every one of you remembers that your peers are just that. If you look across this aisle at someone who has done you no wrong, and see either one of you as inferior – you are standing in the way of our progress. And those who hold on too tightly to history often disappear within its pages."
He descended to his original place.
"That'll be all for today," he finally announced.
"Seriously?" Albus heard Sylvia murmur next to him. "That's it?"
No one moved.
"You're dismissed, in case you're unsure," Malcolm said. Slowly, students began standing and gathering their things, everyone glancing at each other quizzically. "We'll be starting minor dark creatures for our next lesson. Do not show up on Tuesday not having read anything. You may regret it."
"What the hell was the use of that speech?" Sylvia asked. "Did he not come up with a lesson plan or something?"
"I doubt that," Albus replied. He and Sylvia ended up being among the last to leave, and when they finally got to the door…
"Mr. Potter."
Albus froze. His arms and hands tingled for a moment.
"Off with you, Miss Thomas. This is between us," Malcolm added loudly. Albus glanced at Sylvia, who rolled her eyes.
"I'll see you later, then," she muttered. She began to separate from him but some mad compulsion convinced Albus to reach out and grab hold of her arm. She let out a gasp and whirled her head around.
"Don't," he murmured, not meeting her eye. "I mean… you shouldn't go back alone. I'll catch up."
Sylvia said nothing, smiled, and walked away. Albus sighed.
"Mr. Potter," Malcolm repeated.
Albus finally turned to address him. "Yes, Professor?"
Malcolm paused for a moment – perhaps for effect, perhaps to gather his thoughts. "Tell me," he implored the young Gryffindor boy. "You're not a thoroughly untalented wizard; I can tell by your spellwork. Your marks are fair, all of your other professors speak well of you. I've never seen someone with your talent and, frankly, your pedigree, seem so ashamed to be a wizard. To be completely honest, it bothers me a bit."
Albus swallowed hard. He'd figured this would have something to do with the practical.
"That's…" he stammered. "Ashamed? What do you mean?"
"It's almost as if you fear who you would offend if you showed your true talents," Malcolm said. "Your brother, your sister, now that I've met her… they have no such problem. You're the odd one."
Albus looked at his shoes. He didn't need reminding of that. He already knew he was the most average of his siblings.
"Your Disarming Charm on Mr. Bower on Tuesday…" Malcolm commented. "I've seen fully-grown Aurors that can't cast the charm that well in a fight. Still, it was only a Disarming Charm. I get the impression, though, that you could master any type of magic, including combat magic, that you really wanted. So why don't you? Why are you holding yourself back?"
Albus grimaced. "I don't like hurting people. I don't like seeing people get hurt."
Malcolm nodded. "Thought that was it. This situation between Gryffindor and Slytherin must be eating away at you."
For one short, awful moment, Albus felt a tingle rush through his body as his throat closed and his eyes misted over. But he blinked it back and stood up straighter instead.
"You're worried about your sister, aren't you?" Malcolm asked.
Not just Lily… James. My friends. Everyone. He thought these things but did not speak his thoughts. Instead, Albus only said, "A bit. I don't get to see her much anymore."
"Sometimes friends, family members, even siblings, drift away from each other as they get older," Malcolm said, his voice tinged with a sadness Albus had never heard. "But that's not what this is. This conflict, this… war, if you will – has separated you from people you love. And that's not right."
"No," Albus agreed, for once. "It's not."
"Suppose I said I knew of a way to stop it – to bring things back to the way they are," Malcolm said. "Would you be willing to help me? You could be a hero. Finally recognized for the talent you have –"
"No."
The word was out of his mouth without much thought – but even in the encroaching soundless pause, even as Professor Malcolm's piercing, blue eyes widened alarmingly for a second, Albus knew deep down that it had not been a mistake, or a slip of the tongue.
He had said it – and he had meant it.
"No?" Malcolm repeated, as if Albus had said a word in a foreign language. "Don't you want to help put a stop to this?"
"Not to be a hero," Albus answered. "I just want the people I care about to be safe."
"A fine sentiment," Malcolm replied. "I'm not entirely convinced it's the truth, though."
A long silence followed.
"Professor?" Albus queried. "If you've got nothing else to say to me, then maybe I should go."
"Yes," Malcolm replied, and any warmth that had ever been in his voice was now gone, as it if it had never existed. "Maybe you should, Mr. Potter."
Albus didn't realize how deathly afraid he'd been until halfway down the staircase, when his knees nearly gave way underneath him. He felt a chill across his entire body, yet beads of sweat were forming on his nose. His heart was punching him in the ribs from within, and numbness was attacking his fingertips like thousands of tiny needles assaulting hands that felt like they belonged to someone else.
But he knew better now than to let anyone but a select few see weakness – so he straightened himself again, and walked.
He reached the bottom.
"Malcolm give you another speech?" Sylvia emerged from sort-of underneath the stairs, wearing her wry, mischievous smile. It slid off her face after a second, though, replaced now by a look of mild concern. "You alright?"
Albus, obviously, had never been struck by lightning. He could not imagine anything else, however, to compare to the sensation he felt when she reached up with a hand and touched his temple. A mild flicker of what looked like disgust crossed her face. His heart lurched and shrank like a wounded animal. By the time he was able to read the details of her expression, it had changed to one of pity – his least favorite of her usual faces, if he indeed had one. Still, it was better than disgust.
"God, you're clammy," she remarked. "Are you alright? You're not coming down with something, are you?"
Albus didn't know how to answer, somewhat because of shame. Did he really look that pathetic?
Sylvia frowned. "What did he say to you? Did something happen?"
I think I made an enemy, was the first thing that came to mind. The first thing to mind, however, was seldom ever what actually came out of Albus Potter's mouth. He'd developed a talent for making sure people didn't worry too much about him. So, instead, he gave a softened version of the truth. "I don't think he likes me very much."
Sylvia raised an eyebrow and said, very seriously, "I don't think he likes anything very much."
Albus found himself smiling in spite of himself. Making people smile even when the reasons to do so were few and far between… that was her talent.
And that was why he felt he could get through… today, at the very least.
"So…" she drawled hesitantly. "We've got a little over an hour of free time."
"Yeah, I guess so," Albus said. What Malcolm had done was quite unusual for him on lecture days. He usually lectured right until the class was over and hardly a moment sooner.
"What do you want to do?" Sylvia asked. Albus shrugged. She smiled. "It's nice out. May not be that way for much longer. Besides, we've got Magical Creatures next, so we'll have to head that way anyways."
"Good point," Albus said, and they started away from Malcolm's tower classroom.
"Between you and me, though, I kind of want to skive off and fly. Bowtruckles don't sound much more interesting than flobberworms…."
Brynne
"Walter!"
Brynne's teeth gnashed in irritation behind her closed lips. She had been relaxing, trying to think…
Actually, she had very nearly dozed off. To her mild surprise, it was quite comfortable here.
Alas, she now had to open her eyes and address whoever was shouting at her. It wasn't normal, for one. Slytherins weren't typically that loud.
Standing behind one of the couches, green flickers of light dancing across her pale face, was a tall girl whose black robes bore the emblem of the Slytherin Prefect – a green and silver badge that looked even more resplendent in the ambient light. Her black hair was pulled back into such a ponytail so tight that it looked almost painful. Perhaps, Brynne thought, that was why Amarilys Pucey was constantly in such a sour mood.
"Are you mad?" Pucey asked. "Get away from there."
"Am I breaking any rules?" Brynne asked.
"Well, no—but…" Pucey stammered. "You're far too close to the hearth. Do you think I want to have to explain that to Professor Ambrose, if you caught fire somehow?"
"You think I wouldn't know it if I was on fire?" Brynne asked. "I've been here fifteen minutes. And it's freezing down here."
"You're not close enough on the chairs?" Pucey queried, sweeping her arm across the couch as if Brynne could not see it.
But Brynne leaned against the wall right next to the fireplace and simply said, "I feel like being here."
Pucey puffed a breath through her jaws like a whickering horse.
"You're strange, Walter."
And she finally walked off.
She closed her eyes, trying her best to relax. Panic would do no good here…
"You don't like chairs now?"
Brynne tried not to cringe. Of all times to want to have a conversation, and him of all people…
She opened her eyes again, and looked up. Phillip Bletchley had grown in the past year. He looked nearly a giant from this vantage point, even taking a step backward.
"This looks…" he said haltingly, never finishing the sentence. Instead, he backed himself the brick wall next to the hearth as well, and slid down to sit level with Brynne. Neither one spoke for a while. Neither one as much as looked at each other.
She was unprepared for everything she felt – simultaneously drawn and repulsed, relieved and yet tense, feeling a sense of pity and yet a sense of disgust… sad he had ever left, yet angry now that he was crawling back. When she finally spoke, it was with a mix of all of the above:
"I thought we had nothing to say to each other."
"You may have nothing to say to me… I have things I'd like to say to you," Bletchley replied.
"And what if I don't want to listen?" asked Brynne, finally turning her head.
"Then you'll wind up getting hurt…" he answered, still not looking at her, although she could have sworn he'd heard his voice break a bit on the last word. "And I don't want that."
"You don't, do you?" Brynne asked, her question a murmur of calm, but naked disbelief. "Who's to say you haven't hurt me already?"
"Because I'm not close enough to you to hurt you," Bletchley said, sounding resigned.
Brynne sighed through her nostrils. "I never said that."
"You've thought it," Bletchley argued.
"You read minds now," Brynne replied. Deep down, she knew she wasn't helping the situation by being sarcastic. Another part of her no longer cared.
"No," Bletchley, somewhat to Brynne's surprise, completely kept his cool. "I just take hints well. I just… I wish I knew what happened. Last year, I thought… maybe that was just me being stupid. Maybe… maybe I just wasn't ever good enough."
The hearth crackled for a long while before Brynne finally spoke.
"You don't understand me."
Bletchley's mouth opened in a pained expression. "What?"
"I don't think you're a bad person, Phillip," Brynne said. "But you don't understand me. We believe differently."
Bletchley swallowed hard. In a cracked whisper, punctuated by a bit of a chuckle, he agreed, "…We do, don't we?"
Brynne shut her eyes tight, and their corners were wet before she knew what had even happened. Her eyes stared at nothing in particular, running now with each breath she tried to take.
"I know what you want to do," Bletchley said. "And I came here to try to stop you. But I won't be able to, will I?"
Brynne shook her head. "No."
Bletchley heaved a breath – a sound that almost could have been mistaken for an expression of relief. "I won't ever raise my wand or hand to hurt you. I promise. But… I can't guarantee that for the others."
He stood, and remained still for a pause.
"I do get one thing," he said. "What you feel about him… you can't really help that. I can't either, though. I hate him. Probably always will. If you're happy in the end, I'll hate him. If you aren't, I'll hate him worse."
Then, though, he crouched down in front of Brynne and looked her right in the eyes. To her great surprise (not completely unpleasant), he reached forward and wiped away a tear or two that had been hanging on one of her cheeks.
"I can't help this either," he said, and as he looked at her, his face went back in time, back to when she could look him in the eyes and find warmth and little to no bitterness. "That's why it's probably best this way…"
But he stood up again, and before he walked away for the last time, he said, coldly enough to make Brynne shiver a bit next to the dungeon's warm fire:
"Now we have nothing left to say to each other."
Brynne questioned herself inwardly as she sat there alone again. Shouldn't she have been hurting, or at least disappointed…? Yet, she felt relieved – if, indeed, she felt anything. Maybe it was because, deep down, she had known this moment was coming, ever since the first morning she woke up this past summer and realized how clearly she saw both of them…
Maybe her heart was broken. Not the 'hurt' sort of broken – but in the way a clock fails to move the way it should. That thought, the possibility that she was somehow ruined inside, no longer able to feel anything… that frightened her.
Brynne finally got to her feet.
The 'others'…
"Brynne."
Brynne had to try not to jump when she saw the boy leaning over the couch. Kadric Howell had a gift for moving quietly. It was one of the things that made him so…
'Useful' was such an awful word. He was more than a pawn.
It was his talent. It was what he could use to help. She knew that – but, more importantly, he knew that. Everyone was good at something.
"How many?" she asked, a bit afraid to hear the answer.
"Twenty, at least."
A heavy breath escaped Brynne's nostrils. "Sounds about right. You didn't get names, did you?"
"You mean, the actual list? No," Kadric sighed. "Nott was milling about. He would have noticed me."
Brynne's teeth grit within her mouth. She had been hoping for the last several days that she could sway Tellius – but the more she thought about it, the more she realized she would have had an easier time teaching letters to a mountain troll.
"Stealing the list outright would've been a bad idea from the off," Kadric conceded. "Everyone would have suspected us."
"Plus, Phillip and Tellius know the both of us," Brynne added. "You're right. There's no way we would have gotten away clear."
"…Some kind of speech by Malcolm," Kadric commented. "What's he playing at?"
"Nothing," Brynne replied succinctly. "He helped create this mess and now he wants to be the savior."
"I get that part," Kadric replied. "But why? Why go through all that trouble?"
"It's like I said," Brynne repeated. "He wants to be the savior. He wants to be famous as a savior." Smiling sadly, she added, "He's only slightly more selfish than I am."
Kadric frowned, almost as if personally insulted. "Don't say things like that…"
"It's the truth," she countered. "I thought there was some… noble reason that I didn't want the Houses to fracture. I told myself that I didn't want to see something like what happened to my parents. But… that was a different time. There's nearly no chance of a group like Gladius Leo ever appearing again. I was lying to myself. In the end… I'm not much better than he is."
"That's not true," Kadric replied firmly. "That's not true at all. You're not doing this for power or glory, right?"
Brynne swallowed hard, and thought.
"If I ever got power, I'd use it to change things for the better," she replied. If I achieved my dream one day… Headmistress of Hogwarts – that's what I'd do. "But that's not why…"
She turned to look at the fire, and her thoughts made the images in her mind. She shivered again as she remembered the intense pain, like white-hot needles piercing each of her pores, all armed with the sort of hatred that was the only way such pain could be inflicted. That was no opinion. Rather, that was the law of this particular magic. It was precisely what made it Dark magic of the highest and most terrible order.
Unforgivable curses, she realized after that day, were not Unforgivable because of what the curses did. After all, there were thousands of ways to cause pain, with magic and otherwise. They were Unforgivable because of the level of darkness and hate that needed to be inside an individual in order to cast them effectively. It may have been better to say that the caster was Unforgivable as opposed to the curse. Such animus within a human being's soul made them a general danger to society.
Her assailant hadn't simply wanted her to die; he could have done that, she thought now with another shiver. He wanted her to suffer – to suffer so much that she begged for death. Then, he wanted to torture her all the more by withholding it. That had been his aim.
But something had happened – a candlelight of a moment that, ironically, with every horrible summer's night of reliving that fateful afternoon, split through the dark fog of her dreams all the more clearly.
Slipping in and out of consciousness on the ground, she remembered the sound of a yell, vaguely perceiving light from flashing spells. Her eyes, blurred with tears and hardly seeing, focused on a dragging beast with two uneven limbs, pulling itself across the floor at a slow crawl. A pane of glass shattered somewhere in the distance. Everything went black for a moment. The next sensation she felt was something brushing against her hand. Her eyes, with their blue irises, felt like they were made of solid stone. It seemed to take an almighty effort for her to focus her eyes on her outstretched hand. Somehow, she managed it, and there saw another hand, reaching, touching her finger just barely. The hand belonged to a boy who lay almost prone on the ground in a heap, face-down against the carpet, utterly spent. She identified him by his somewhat curled, dark hair. Her hand tried to close the last of the distance to grab his, but her arms were leaden. A moment later, she heard a band of quiet voices, and, sensing a strange, out-of-place wave of calm envelop her, sank into blissful darkness and nonfeeling…
That was what she remembered – a fight being taken up on her behalf, to save what was left of her, and then him, injured, crawling on his hands and knees, then dragging himself by one hand and his chin, trying to do something, anything, to reach her, to try to protect her from what was happening…
The fire in front of her seemed now to be made manifest in her very bones. Something hot started in her chest, coursed through her shoulders, arms, hands, fingertips; then her legs, knees, feet, toes…
Her fists clenched and loosened.
"If you're going to back out…" she heard herself say.
"We went over this already," Kadric interrupted. "I'm in. Lena, too. But just us three, in the middle of all this…"
"I know," Brynne said. "We don't have a chance. We need to get a message to Gryffindor."
By Gryffindor, she had meant 'one of a certain three people in Gryffindor.' But, of course, Kadric Howell knew that already because she had told him.
"How do you propose we do that?" he asked doubtfully.
Brynne thought for a moment. She'd been mulling over a shell of a plan for weeks now. "I think James has a cousin in Ravenclaw. I haven't met him, but I know he's a second year."
"I don't know a lot of second years," admitted Kadric. Then, he added, "I don't know many people, full stop."
"Lena might, though," Brynne pointed out. "If he's in second year – Slytherin and Ravenclaw have double Defence together. Let's see if she can get him to give them a message."
"I'll let her know," Kadric said. "What about me?"
You get the difficult part, Brynne thought to herself. "Lilith Cross."
"What about her?" Kadric questioned, and Brynne could hear a trace of trepidation. It was a risk… but one where the potential reward was worth it.
"She's back this year, if you haven't noticed – and if my guess is right, she'll be completely rogue. She'll have people after her," she replied. Then she turned to Kadric, so he could see the urgency in her eyes.
Judging by his expression when she looked at him, he already understood. Therefore, there would be no mistaking the importance of what she said next:
"We have to get to her first."