EDITED: July 10th, 2020

10 — A Whisper In The Dark

On the first weekend of the term, I was shaken out of my dream by a spark of pain that ran all the way down my arm. The line that represented my deal with Tom flickered in and out of existence, settling into a faint line that could've been drawn by the light pressure of a fingernail.

It was the fourth time in the week it happened, so I simply returned to my sleep.

Not a minute later, my bed curtains were moved aside. Grunting, I covered my head – only for the covers to fly straight out of my hands, folding themselves and landing neatly at my feet.

Hermione looked down at me with her hands on her hips. One of her feet was doing the tapping sound that meant she was not amused.

I looked at the clock on Fay Dunbar's bedside. The short arrow was pointing at the number seven.

I did a double-take. Then I looked at the calendar stuck on my ceiling.

Glaring, I threw a pillow at her head. As she jumped to avoid it, I leaned forward to close the curtains. Quicker than I expected, Hermione's hands shot out to keep them open.

"No!" I hissed. "It's the weekend – we have a deal!" Every day, without fail, I would wake up at 5:30 in the morning, the same time as Hermione. Weekends, however, were completely mine; she wasn't allowed to wake me up on Saturdays and Sundays.

After a week of wrestling plants into pots, getting reacquainted with the stoves in Potions class, settling back into the Charms Club, and dealing with Lockhart's religious reading of his books –

And Tom. Tom, who took the rest of my time. Tom, who had me read five different history books and write the most important dates down his diary as well as explain in detail the years of Voldemort's low-key domination of Britain.

That had been tiring. Because part of that involved reminiscing last year, which then turned into a whole conversation about Harry.

I was ready to not wake up until Monday. I groaned, falling back on my bed. Never mind schoolwork – discussing the reason of my nightmares should guarantee me a medal for effort.

"What do you want?" I asked after she kept staring at me. The thinness of her lips was remarkably similar to Professor McGonagall's.

"Ron's waiting for us."

I looked at her blankly.

"And?"

She sighed through her nose.

"Harry's first Quidditch practice it's today." She raised her eyebrows. "We promised we would be there."

I struggled to remember. Most of the week was a haze now, more so when I'd been fighting to not fall asleep in some classes. Snape had been the only one to notice, and the aftermath of that had been a four-foot essay of the properties of a Blood-Replenishing potion. For that one, I'd almost cut my finger, if only to prove the author wrong.

"Yeah, that didn't mean I would wake up at the ass crack of dawn. I like Harry, but not that much."

"Where do you learn that language?" Hermione demanded. Lavender Brown gave a great snore, making us quiet down. "Never mind. "

"It's seven in the morning," I grumbled, standing up and kicking my wardrobe open. I closed the door after seizing my good pair of running shoes. "What would the Quidditch team be doing at this time – practice their snoring? Bad breath techniques to drive away the other teams?"

She ignored this. Hermione began to search into my drawers, pulling out a pair of faded jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. She noticed the ripped seams on the sleeves and frowned.

"You should buy new clothes." Then, hesitating and rushing through words – "I have a few that don't fit me. Mum forgot to check the label and, well, they were too big, so we were thinking about giving them to my cousin Emily – she's tall, you know –"

I tugged the clothes from her. "Okay," I said shortly.

Hermione faltered. "Okay?"

I tried to not make a face. "You're right. I need new clothes. I got these from a second-hand shop two years ago, so I hadn't hoped much from them." I jumped back to the bed and closed the curtains. "Just tell me they're not neon or something."

"No. Mum doesn't like too bright colors – she's used to pastels."

I finished changing. I opened the curtains and looked for my shoes. "Pastels are bright colors, too."

"No, they are calm colors," said Hermione patiently.

"Too bright."

She eyed me as I tied my shoelaces. "For someone who doesn't like pastels, you are awful at noticing most your wardrobe consists of them."

"I'm not picky." The truth was that pastel-colored clothes were awfully cheap at second-hand places because they got sullied easily; they also were pricey if they had been well-conserved. "Let's go."

Ron had fallen asleep waiting for us. It was the prospect of food that kept him mildly coherent all the way down to the Great Hall. I didn't complain either – whoever cooked at Hogwarts laid off the healthy food on weekends. I could eat as I pleased and no one would say a thing about it.

Hermione and Ron bickered back and forth as they ate. It was funny because Ron – even with a full mouth and bags under his eyes – was more reasonable than Hermione. Harry and I had once contemplated telling her this, but the time had never come and we hadn't really tried. Where else would we get our entertainment?

We finished half-past seven. Students were starting to come in groups as we left the Great Hall. Some glanced at us as we made our way outside, probably wondering what some second-years were doing at this ungodly hour.

The Quidditch pitch was pretty much empty except for the small string of people flying above the ground. I easily recognized Angelina Johnson and the Weasley twins for their hair but the others weren't familiar; I remembered their faces but their names eluded me at the moment.

We'd just settled down on the Gryffindor stands when an excited voice called, "Anya Barton!"

I whirled, bewildered. There, just four or five stands above us, sat Colin Creevey. He was wearing loose clothes, almost pajama-alike, and he had his camera ready at hand. At the sight of us, Colin had stood up to jump over and meet us.

It was odd. Very odd. I usually scared other housemates with one look but Creevey appeared to be immune to them; he grinned around me more than necessary.

A horrifying thought came to me. Was I losing my edge? It couldn't be that. Marie had certainly been scared of my presence alone before befriending me. Did Coling Creevey lack a sense of preservation, then?

I had half a mind of running to the Ravenclaw stands when I realized Colin was already sitting next to me.

"I didn't know you were coming over," he said excitedly. "If I had, I would've brought your copy!"

I frowned. "Copy of what?"

"Here, let me show you –"

He brandished a piece of parchment under my nose. Except it wasn't just parchment – it was a black-and-white photograph, the one Creevey had taken days ago. Only Gilderoy Lockhart and I were in view; the latter was tugging at an arm, and from one almost successful tug, I glimpsed Harry's unruly hair. I, on the other hand, was standing with my arms crossed; that version of me was rolling her eyes at them, and part of me sniffed at the fact I looked a lot like Natasha when doing that.

"Ah." Ron was sniggering quietly and Hermione was shooting me a warning look, the one that said I had to be 'nice'. "That's... that's novel, Creevey."

The boy beamed. "I'm glad you like it! I will give you your copy later; I want to take pics of the team and Harry playing ball!"

Ron spluttered as the Creevey boy jumped back to his seat.

"Playing ball?" he repeated aghast. Hermione and I laughed at his beet-red face.

"What's the matter with you?"

We turned. Harry, sitting on his broom, hovered across from us.

"Not important," I said. "You finished?"

"Haven't even started," the dark-haired boy said, accepting the pieces of toast I'd brought him silently. "Wood's been teaching us new moves."

"I thought sleeping was recommended for a better and sharper performance."

Harry snorted. "I'd like to see you try telling Wood that."

I crossed my arms to ward off the cold. "I could. Do you want me to?"

Harry quickly shook his head. "No – I don't want you to give him more ideas. Not when we're this close to finally getting the Quidditch cup."

Before I could retort, he mounted his broom and kicked off.

I scowled. "We've just finished the first week, how close can that be to getting the cup?" I glared after him. "You'd think this was a matter of life and death. Right?"

I turned expectantly to Hermione, the other one to not believe Quidditch was a game of the astral gods. But she was giggling at Creevey, who was shouting, "Look this way, Harry! This way!"

I threw my hands in the air and looked at Ron. He was wearing this weird expression that bordered between disgust and horror.

"What's the matter with you?" I asked the redhead, disgruntled for not receiving an answer from either of them.

Ron shook himself out of his stupor. "Nothing," he said quickly, and went back to look at the pitch. The tips of his ears were glowing red.

The clicking of Colin's camera stopped so abruptly I had to wonder if someone from the Gryffindor team had decided to shut him up with a surprise shot. However, I heard him say confusedly, "Aren't those Slytherins over there?"

Ron flung himself to the railing.

"Oh, oh," he said, "trouble at two o'clock!"

"Can't be good," I agreed, watching as the Slytherin team walked upon the grounds. The Gryffindors were already making their way toward the enemy.

"Let's go," said Ron. He stood and rand down the stands. I followed him. Soon, Hermione fell into step with me.

As we neared them, I heard one of the older Slytherin boys hiss, "Ah look! A field invasion."

"What's happening?" Ron asked Harry. "Why aren't you playing? And what's he doing here?"

He nodded at Draco Malfoy, who was wearing the Slytherin Quidditch robes.

"I'm the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley," said Malfoy, smugly. "Everyone's just been admiring the brooms my father's bought our team."

They were pretty sticks. Probably made of ebony, considering the shine of the wood, and the twigs faded from white to their usual brown. Somehow, they seemed to belong more to a mantelpiece than in the field. Yet, at the top of the handles, the words Nimbus 2001 shone in gold lettering.

"Good, aren't they?" Malfoy gloated. "But perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives; I expect a museum would bid for them."

The Slytherin team howled with laughter.

"At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in," said Hermione sharply. "They got in on pure talent."

I smirked as the smug look on Malfoy's face disappeared.

"No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood," he spat.

I swung my leg forward, kicking his crotch.

There was a moment of silence as Draco howled and fell to his knees. The Gryffindors had naturally reacted badly to the word; the Weasley twins were being held back by their teammates. The Slytherins, on the other hand, had simply held their ground with their mightier-than-thou expressions, which had switched to ones of shock and dismay at my response.

"Be grateful it wasn't your nose again, Malfoy!" I snarled.

I turned on my heel, ready to leave, when I saw Ron pulling out his wand and point it over my head.

"Anya, get down!"

"Ron, no –!"

There was a loud bang. Ron's wand had sparked, and a jet of green light hit his stomach, sending him reeling backwards onto the grass.

Hermione and I knelt on either side of him.

"Ron!" exclaimed Hermione. "Are you all right?"

"Ron, look at me," I ordered. I showed him three fingers. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Ron opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. I gave a startled shout as slugs dribbled out of his mouth and onto the grass.

"What –"

Ron belched violently, spitting more slugs. I was terribly out my depth: all I could think about was to make him face the grass and pat his back, if only to prevent him from choking.

I whirled. Most of the Slytherin team was laughing, but I easily spotted the wand that had been about to attack me.

"Shut up!" I yelled, and his jaw clicked shut; one of his teeth had bitten into his lip, making it bleed.

(Good, I could almost hear Tom say. Very good, Anya. And what do we do with hindrances?)

"You filthy traitor," a Slytherin hissed, stepping forward threateningly.

The Gryffindor team, who so far had been standing uselessly around us, jumped to my defense.

"We better take him to Hagrid's," said Harry, throwing Ron's left arm over his shoulders and ignoring the people around us. "It's nearest."

"You guys go ahead," I said.

Harry looked torn. "You sure?"

I nodded.

With one last look, my friends ran out of the pitch, Colin Creevey on their trail.

"You are going to pay for that," Marcus Flint gasped, touching his throat.

"Not if we have a say," said Angelina Johnson sternly, standing proud and with her arms crossed.

"Yeah," said George, "we've got nine witnesses that can vouch for her. Not even Snape can argue against a number that high."

"And if that doesn't work, we've got our noble idiot of a brother as proof of your backstabbing ways," said Fred. "And that." He pointed at the mess of slugs at the grass.

Oliver Wood stepped forward. "Just take your team out of here, Flint. Nobody's going to use the field today after this. And if I were you, I'd take your Seeker to Madam Pomfrey if you want him to sit on a broom again – I've heard Barton's got a mean swing."

My lips twitched.

A jet of red light streamed past Angelina and towards me. I didn't have any chance to evade it.

The spell hit me right on the face, and suddenly everything was red.

Red eyes. Red hands. Red red red –

I gagged, and a stream of blood dribbled out of my mouth and onto my hands.

Alicia Spinnet shrieked. It was Angelina and George who jumped to my rescue, holding me as I spat blood over and over. Fred and Oliver Wood had jumped at Flint, and other Slytherin members had jumped into the fray as well. Katie Bell was nowhere in sight.

I looked all over this with trembling hands. I caught Malfoy's eye. He was still on the ground, but his expression of pain had been replaced by one of shock and fear.

The blood did come to a stop, but my whole body felt heavy. I could lift my limbs without feeling a pinprick of pain run all over my skin. My head was somehow lighter.

Behind the brawl, Tom stood.

"What do we do with hindrances, Anya?" he asked calmly, his eyes only for me.

I searched for the source of this problem. Marcus Flint had gotten out of the pile of fighting boys, sporting a bruised cheek and a bloodier lip.

He looked fine.

A wave of anger like no other burst out of me. Not even Carol Davis could've prompted this level of emotion.

I shoved George and Angelina Johnson out of my way, brandishing my wand swiftly.

"Caecorum Oculi," I spat.

The effect was instant. Flint howled and doubled, blinking madly as he shook his head.

"My eyes!" he exclaimed. "I can't see!"

For the icing, I turned to Malfoy and yelled, "Diminuendo!"

Malfoy shrank on the spot. I stood, my legs wobbling.

Ignoring all the hands that reached to help me, I made my way out of the field and down to the Black Forest.

It took me little time to reach Hagrid's cabin, but that had been more out of sheer stubbornness than strength. My body still felt like a rock, ready to sink at any time, and it showed the moment I arrived, leaning all of my weight against his door as I slapped the wood.

I stumbled forward, but was cushioned by Hagrid's belly.

"Blimey, Ann!" One hand gently wrapped around my arm and held me up. "Wha' the 'ell happened to ya? Don't tell me Ron also hit ya with that broken wand of 'is?"

He led me inside. Ron was sitting at the table with a bucket in his lap with Harry sitting next to him. Seeing the blood on my shirt made him gag and hide into the bucket. Hermione had been waiting near the window and stood when she spotted me.

"Is that blood?" Hermione shrieked. "Anya, what happened?"

"Was it Flint?" Harry asked. His eyes were as hard as stone.

I nodded.

"Easy, easy," Hagrid murmured, gently pushing me to sit. He went to his kitchen's cabinets, rummaged for a bit, and returned with a tar of water and a large piece of meat. "'Ere, drink this, but don't swallow."

I rinsed my mouth quickly, and with Hagrid's permission, I spat at his floor. It took me three times for the water to stop coming out pink. Then I seized the large chunk of meat and held it to my face like a towel.

It smelt horrible. But the cold relieved my cheeks.

"You shouldn't have come here," Hermione snapped. "You should've gone straight to Madam Pomfrey! Why didn't the team take you? What am I saying... you probably didn't let them, did you?"

I ignored her. Hagrid cleared his throat.

"Hermione's right. Both of ya should've gone straight ta Poppy – 'm no Healer. Still," from the corner of my eye, I saw him hand on another bucket, "better out than in. Get 'em all up, Ron."

"What did Lockhart want with you, Hagrid?" Harry asked, suddenly.

"Givin' me advice on getting' kelpies out of a well," Hagrid growled. "Like I don' know. An' bragin' on about some banshee he banished. If one word of it was true, I'll eat my kettle."

I lowered the meat to stare. Hagrid never spoke ill of a teacher, not even Snape.

Hermione almost bristled. "I think you're being a bit unfair," she said in a high voice. "Professor Dumbledore obviously thought he was the best man for the job –"

"He was the on'y man for the job," said Hagrid, offering us a plate of treacle toffee while Ron coughed onto his bucket. I politely declined, feeling the urge to spit out more blood.

"An' I mean the on'y one. Gettin' very difficult ter find anyone fer the Dark Arts job. People aren't too keen ter take it on, see. They're startin' ter think it's jinxed. No one's lasted long fer a while now. So tell me," said Hagrid, jerking his head at Ron. "Who was he tryin' ter curse?"

"Marcus Flint, the Slytherin Quidditch Captain," Harry said. "But that was because Anya kicked Malfoy in the –" he snorted, gesturing to his own lap. "She did it because he called Hermione something – it must've been really bad, because everyone went wild."

"It was really bad," I muttered, scowling.

"He called me a 'Mudblood,'" said Hermione hesitantly,

"He didn'!" he growled indignantly.

"He did. But I don't know what it means. I could tell it was really rude, of course –"

"Rude?" I cut her off. "It was worse than that! I can't believe wizards teach that term to their children – I mean, who the hell goes around calling people Mudblood –"

"It's about the most insulting thing he could think of," gasped Ron, coming back up. "Mudblood's a really foul name for someone who is Muggle-born – you know, non-magic parents. There are some wizards – like Malfoy's family – who think they're better than everyone else because they're what people call Pure-blood." He gave a small burp, and a single slug fell into his outstretched hand.

As he threw it on the bucket, I said, "Funny thing – that's how I met Malfoy. He took one look at me and said, 'I bet you're a Mudblood." I bristled. "Not the greatest of greetings."

"The rest of us know it doesn't make any difference at all," Ron said, "I mean, look at Neville Longbottom – he's pure-blood and he can hardly stand a cauldron the right way up."

"That may be because Crabbe keeps breaking the grates. But he's got a point – there's lot of wizards out there who can't even tell the different between Aberto and Alohomora."

"An' they haven't invented a spell our Hermione can' do," said Hagrid proudly, making Hermione go a brilliant shade of red.

"It's a disgusting thing to call someone," said Ron, wiping his sweaty brow with a shaking hand. "Dirty blood, see. Common blood. It's ridiculous. Most wizards these days are half-blood anyway. If we hadn't married Muggles, we would've died out." He retched and ducked out of sight again.

"Well, I don' blame yeh fer tryin' ter curse him, Ron," said Hagrid loudly over the thuds of more slugs hitting the bucket. "Bu' maybe it was a good thing yer wand backfired. 'Spect Lucius Malfoy would've come marchin' up ter school if yeh'd cursed his son. Least yer not in trouble."

"Say that for yourself," I muttered. Harry narrowed his eyes.

"You haven't told us what happened after. What did Flint do to you?"

"He tried to curse me. And I think I cursed him back."

"You think you cursed him?" said Hermione sceptically. "Did you or did you not?"

"Considering I am the one who's throwing up blood, I'm not really worried about it." I silently accepted the treacle toffee handed to me.

"Harry," said Hagrid abruptly as though struck by a sudden thought. "Gotta bone ter pick with yeh. I've heard you've bin givin' out signed photos. How come I haven't got one?"

I snorted. Then cursed silently as more blood poured out.

"I have not been giving out signed photos," said Harry furiously. "If Lockhart's still spreading that around —"

"I'm on'y jokin'," Hagrid said, patting Harry on the back, which made him go face first into the table. "I knew yeh hadn't really. I told Lockhart yeh didn' need yeh. Yer more famous than him without tryin'."

"Bet he didn't like that," said Harry, rubbing his chin.

"Don' think he did," said Hagrid. "An' then I told him I'd never read one o' his books an' he decided ter go. Treacle fudge, Ron?" he asked.

"No thanks," Ron said weakly. "Better not risk it."

•••◘◘◘•••

"There you are, Potter, Weasley," said Professor McGonagall as she walked over at us.

"You will both do your detention this evening."

"What will we be doing, Professor?" Ron asked.

"You will be polishing the silver in the trophy room with Mr. Filch," she said. "And no magic, Weasley – elbow grease. And you, Potter, will be helping Professor Lockhart answer his fan mail."

"Oh n — Professor, can't I go and do the trophy room, too?" Harry asked.

"Certainly not," McGonagall said. "Professor Lockhart requested you particularly. Eight o' clock sharp, both of you. Oh, Miss Barton – you should come to my office."

I ignored the cringing expressions of my friends and followed her.

The journey to her office was a long and awkward one. People looked on as we passed, first with disinterest (McGonagall had paraded many students, after all), then with curiosity. No doubt someone would spread the word, if the Quidditch team hadn't done it yet. Fred and George were terrible at keeping the gossip to themselves.

She let me in first, and when she sat down, all she did was stare. I stood before her, trying to not fidget.

"I would offer you a biscuit, Miss Barton, but I believe the situation merits more than that." She waved her wand. A sealed mug floated down from one of her shelves, followed by two clean glasses. Yellow liquid poured, and one of the glasses landed neatly in front of me. "Sit."

I did. After a curious sniff, I drank. I shuddered at the sweetness, but after two more sips, I got used to the taste.

Professor McGonagall looked at me over the top of glass.

"Would you like to tell me what happened today or shall I?"

I shrugged. "What's there to say? It was just another Slytherin-Gryffindor fight."

"Several witnesses of today's performance beg to differ."

I scowled. "All Slytherin, I presume."

The Professor stared at me sternly.

"The Gryffindor Quidditch team vouched in your favour, Miss Barton, but what you did cannot go unanswered."

"What I did?" I repeated. I put down my glass. "What about what he did? He threw a curse at me first! And Malfoy – he called Hermione a 'Mudblood'! What about them, huh? What's their punishment?"

I fell silent under her glare. Professor McGonagall took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing.

"Mr. Malfoy's actions weren't the most reasonable. But seeing as he didn't attack you, I am afraid I can't punish him."

"And Flint? You can't just let him go!"

"I am aware of that. Professor Snape already has arranged his detention for using a dark curse. I shall do the same."

I turned sharply at her, sitting upright on the comfy chair of her office. A dark curse?

"The spell you used," she started slowly. "It was erased from books for a reason. Its purpose was to severely maim the opponent, created from Dark magic – darker than the hex Mr. Flint used. I'm going to ask you one time and only one time, Miss Barton," McGonagall looked directly at my eyes. "How did you get wind of that knowledge?"

Tom hadn't told me it was a curse. He'd said it would come useful if I ever had trouble, going as far to suggest using it on Lockhart, but he hadn't mentioned just how dangerous it could be. He'd said it was difficult to master, so he didn't expect me to actually cast it.

I set to prove him wrong. I practiced the wand movement and its pronunciation for hours until I got them right, skirting my duties at the Charm club. I'd been waiting for the right moment to use it, to show Tom how capable I was. I wanted to show him he'd been right to trust me.

All I felt right now was shame. Mrs. Darcy had taught me better; I knew better. I should tell McGonagall about it and leave it at that. I should let Tom go.

I couldn't. I wouldn't.

"I read it. It was from some book at Flourish and Blotts."

"Are you sure about that?"

I bit my tongue. My hands twitched.

"Yes." I looked her straight in the eye. "What's my punishment, then?"

•••◘◘◘•••

The rest of the day was trying in many ways. After settling the argument (daily detention for a whole month), Professor McGonagall had 'asked' I make my way to the hospital wing, where Madam Pomfrey greeted me with a sigh and – of all things – a log book. It was odd seeing my own name occupying most of last term's entries, but I took it in stride and signed.

I was handed a pile of clothes to change into. They thankfully weren't the ones from... before. Just as I finished changing, the double doors sprung open. Professor Snape marched in as dramatically as always, but his expression was one of upmost fury.

He took one cursory glance at the place. When his eyes found me, he strode up to me.

"You insolent girl," he hissed. "If I were you Head of House, I would've expelled you. What did you do to Marcus Flint?" He backhanded the curtains and I jumped.

The sound caught Madam Pomfrey's attention. She bustled out of her office, and her eyes narrowed when she saw us.

"Severus Snape, shame on you! What gives you the right to haunt my patients like a skulking piranha?"

I sniggered, sobering only when Snape shot me a glare that could've pulverized me on the spot.

"Madam Pomfrey, I assume you are aware of this morning's events at the Quidditch field involving Barton?"

She put her hands on her hips. "You mean the eighth altercation between Slytherin and Gryffindor this week?" She glanced pointedly at the beds at the other end of the room. Lying next to each other were two girls, each of Gryffindor and Slytherin respectively. Before them, two seventh years from Slytherin had finished shedding the crocodile skin the Weasley Twins had given them.

I had no doubt more fight like these ones would happen soon.

"Miss Barton used a forbidden spell," Snape went on, "that rendered one of my top students blind. How, pray tell me, will he continue his studies? Play for his team? His parents will raise hell when their son returns a cripple!"

"For Merlin's sake – I will tell you exactly what Mr. Flint was told. The spell, despite its source, is short-term, meaning that it will last at least thirty-seven hours – thirty-five from now." Madam Pomfrey's expression grew cold. "Mr. Flint's spell, on the other hand, was not as easy as pinpoint. In fact, I had to contact one of my colleagues at St. Mungo's, and according to him, it was a favourite for Death Eaters during the war."

I straightened at that. "What? What the hell am I doing here then and not at a hospital? I could be dying!"

"Yes," Snape drawled. "Pity."

Madam Pomfrey shot a look of contempt at him before crossly stating, "Due to the circumstances, the matter was taken to the Hogwarts Board of Governors." Her lips pursed. "The chairman was kind to pay Professor Dumbledore a visit and inform him they unanimously decided to not take the case further unless it is absolutely necessary."

"You mean until I'm having a stroke," I snapped. "Who the hell is the chairman, anyway?"

"Lucius Malfoy."

At that, I seized my pillow before screaming into it.

•••◘◘◘•••

I felt something slide up my spine. It was the oddest sensation – almost as if someone were running a finger up my skin.

"Anya," a voice whispered in my ear.

I jumped. The hospital wing was dark, but moonlight shone through the window.

Tom stood at the end of my bed, his dark eyes shining with worry.

"Tom," I rose on my elbows. I glanced at Madam Pomfrey's office and lowered my voice. "Is this a dream? Am I still asleep?"

"No, Anya, you're not."

I looked at the window behind me. I saw myself but Tom. Yet, when I turned, he was still standing on the same spot. His eyes, I saw, were lighter than before. Glassier.

"How are you here? I don't have the diary with me."

His eyebrow shot up in alarm. "Anya, you know we must be in constant communication. How could you've forgotten?"

I glared. "Have you looked around? This is the hospital wing – it means I'm sick and staying here for the night."

"What happened?" He leaned forward, grasping the bar of the bed with both hands.

"Harry had Quidditch training really early –"

His eyes flashed. "Harry? As in Harry Potter?" He tilted his head. "Are you telling me you wasted precious resting time to spend you morning mooning over Harry Potter?"

"What? No!" My cheeks heated. "And what's your deal? You said I could spend time with my friends whenever I wanted!"

"Not at your own risk."

"As if Harry could hurt me at all," I grumbled. "What did you want?"

"I remembered something of crucial importance. If your father was a representative from the states, it is only logical his records are in the possession of the Ministry or the MACUSA."

My heart sank. If he was right – and Tom always was – then that meant the only person to have access to those records would be Natasha.

"What about Gringotts? I have a vault there – the goblins must've recorded my father's ancestry." Goblins, as far as I knew, dealt with blood. Every deal with them meant you were willing to give something in exchange of their aid. Like any bank, they probably had interrogated him about his life. "My mother should definitely be there if she was a local. One of them must show, one way or another."

Tom nodded slowly. "Yes, perhaps you're right. But dealing with those creatures is like courting danger."

I shot him a look. "You're talking to the girl who willingly befriended the boy who lived, so your comment was superfluous." Yeah, I was using the big words now. Tom had truly influenced me.

"Very well. I am, as always, at your service." Tom patted down his slightly wrinkled jumper. "But the reason I am here is to cash in that favor, Anya."

I blinked at the less-than-formal vocabulary. "Ooh-kay," I drawled. I moved the covers aside and stood. "What do you want me to do?"

"We're going to a place deep beneath the castle," he said. "But first, I will teach you how to transfigure your current outwear into appropriate clothing."

I snorted and walked past him toward the giant wardrobe next to the potions showcase. "We're in the hospital wing. It's easier to steal someone else's robes."