Chapter 2

The thing about being a Legilimens is that crowds are a nightmare. It doesn't matter how much practice you put in (and trust me, I've done all the training), there's just no way to block out so many thoughts and emotions. A few people here and there? Sure, no problem. But a crowd? It's like dodging raindrops in a downpour. Something's always bound to slip through.

As bad as crowds are, teenagers are the absolute worst. They spend whole days thinking about things—overthinking, if I'm being honest—because they aren't quite sure yet what life means and what it should be. Then there's the feelings. They aren't little kids, who are easily impressed by a world that is still shiny and wondrous and new. Teenagers are old enough to be tainted by doubt and burdened by experience—some more than others. And the negative thoughts are always the hardest to drown out, because they're the loudest.

I know that I'm in trouble as we draw to a stop in front of the large double doors that lead to the Great Hall. We being the first years—whose nervousness practically drips off them and leaves greasy puddles of emotion on the floor—and myself. Standing at least two heads taller than all of them. Inwardly cursing Booker's insistence that starting as a sixth-year transfer would be simple.

Professor Weasley had assured me that the Sorting was merely a formality, but that it had to be done, nevertheless. At the proper time. In front of everyone, just like all the other students. The fact that a hat—sentient or otherwise—is meant to pry into my mind to uncover the real me in order to shove me into the perfect box is laughable. As if Legilimency works that way.

Still . . . I can't help but wonder what House my father was in, what sort of things the Sorting Hat saw in him all those years ago. Those memories belonged to a boy I never knew, who grew into the sort of man who kept them locked away and never talked about them. Too late to ask now.

"What House do you think you'll get?" a girl next to me whispers to the boy behind her.

"Me whole family's in Gryffindor. Reckon I'll be the same," he says proudly, puffing up his chest.

"Well, I don't care where I end up, so long as it's not in Slytherin. Could you imagine?" another girl interjects, earning her a withering glance from a boy beside her. A boy whose only thought is for Slytherin.

"Settle down now. It's just about time," Professor Weasley calls, gesturing for everyone to get into place.

They fall in line—more or less—with me at the head. I'm to be the first one Sorted, a minor bump in the road to deal with before getting to the real festivities. Not exactly the way they put it, but I can read a room. What else is there to do with a new student who is five years older than she should be?

As soon as the doors open, it's obvious the Great Hall is everything I feared it would be. Too many bodies are crammed into not enough space, filling it with a jumble of thoughts and emotions. I draw in a deep breath and shutter my mind, blocking out all the noise. It's easier now than it used to be, but it's far from perfect. The nerves roiling in my gut make it harder, but I can't figure out how to quiet those. Over a silly hat! What Father would think if he could see me now.

All eyes turn to watch us enter. So many eyes. I'm dying to know what each one is thinking. My skin itches and prickles with the effort of holding it in, from resisting the urge. Sweat gathers on my palms as I try to shove everything I am into a small, indestructible box. It's like taking a roaring bonfire—uncontrollable, unconfined, and free—and condensing it down to a candle. As much as I hate the flames, as much as I burn from the exposure, holding my power in is a different sort of pain. It's like amputating a part of myself.

With an effortlessness I wish I had, Professor Weasley commands the attention of the room and explains the proceedings. A whisper snakes through the crowd at the mention of a new sixth year. I haven't even been here half a day yet, but I bet the rumor mill is already churning.

"Prudence Craven," Professor Weasley calls my name and gestures to a stool.

My butt is just barely on the seat when a hat is dumped unceremoniously over my head. Or, I suppose, it must have some ceremony, since this was supposedly the Sorting ceremony. One would think there would be a bit more pomp and flair to it, though, at the very least. The hat itself isn't much to look at, with wrinkles and tears and shoddy patch jobs in places. But then again, who is these days? Life wears on the best of us, at times.

"Oh my, a transfer student. Interesting. Don't get many of those. You're a special case, indeed.""

I feel like I'm more surprised than I should be when the Hat starts talking. Probably I should have expected something like this from a hat meant to sort people, but . . . you know. It's a hat. I grip the edge of the stool harder, resisting the urge to throw it off my head.

The Hat hums to itself a moment, seemingly oblivious to my inner struggle. "You're filled to the brim with cunning, and never afraid to face a challenge head on. Plenty of smarts here, too. What to do with you, hmm?"

I resist the urge to snort, but just barely. I've heard that question before. Might as well be my catchphrase. My family has never been able to figure out just what to do with me, either. Guess they still can't. That's why I'm here.

As if on cue, the Hat asks, "Why is it you're here exactly?"

A litany of answers crowds my mind all at once. Because I have to be. Because I didn't have a choice. Because my father is a liar—about so many things, but most importantly about always being there for us. Because Death cares not at all for promises, no matter how sincere.

Perhaps the hat can sense my indecision. Maybe it can even hear my thoughts. Or maybe I just take too long to answer, because it clarifies, "What is it you hope to achieve during your stay at Hogwarts?"

Well, that one's easy enough, at least. I want to be as great a witch as the rest of my family. As the youngest of four, I've always had big shoes to fill. Not to mention that Father cast his own impossibly long shadow.

"Ah, quite ambitious of you. I think you will find everything you need in SLYTHERIN."

The final word is so loud that I nearly topple off the stool in surprise, but manage to catch myself at the last minute. It's not exactly the most graceful descent, but at least it almost looks like I meant to slide off the stool. Almost.

One side of the room breaks into scattered applause as Professor Weasley removes the Hat from my head. "You may join your House," she says as she motions to a table decked out in green and silver. With a flick of her wand, the colors of my robe bleed out until they match the rest of my House.

I look down the long table of Slytherins and assess my options. If I'm going to get through this dinner, I have to be careful about where I sit. Extroverts can be pushy—unintentionally so. They want so badly to make a connection that their thoughts and feelings become invaders at the door, refusing to take no for an answer. Frankly, they're just exhausting, even if they mean well.

Have to watch out for the Blackholes, too. That's what I call them, anyway. They're so mired in their trauma, have dug so far down into their psyche to bury it away like it never existed, that they suck all the positive thoughts and emotions out of those around them. Dark thoughts and feelings are as catchy as a plague, and equally hard to stop.

Then I see him. Midway down the table. Hard not to notice him, though I don't think that was his intention. A layer of prickly loneliness envelopes him in spikes, like a pufferfish just waiting to go off. Daring others not to get too close. But yet . . . there's something about him. Something I can't quite put my finger on that wants to be seen. A loss that feels familiar, that almost seems to mirror my own.

Before I even register what I'm doing, my feet are moving toward him. Too late to change course now. For better or worse, I slide into the seat beside him.

"You're the new sixth year, aren't you?" the girl on my left asks right away. She seems . . . normal. I'm terribly suspicious of normal people. Never can quite tell what to expect from them, since they can go either way.

"Prudence. Err . . . Pru," I say with a nod.

"I'm Imelda. Imelda Reyes, to be precise. You probably haven't heard of me yet, but you will. I'm the best flyer in our whole House. Captain of the Quidditch team, too. You do fly, don't you?"

"Well . . . not really," I admit, which is probably underselling it. I happen to have an irrational fear of heights, considering they've never done anything to me. If my feet aren't firmly planted on the ground—or, at the very least, ground adjacent—I have a problem.

"Not to worry. I'd be happy to teach you." Imelda pauses to politely clap as a first-year whose name I completely missed is assigned to Slytherin. Out of the corner of her mouth, she adds, "Though, don't expect to be as good as me anytime soon. If ever."

I pause as a Prewett—who's so nervous it's rolling off him in waves, making my stomach somersault—is shuffled off to join Gryffinder.

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Ever so humble Imelda," a boy across from us says with a laugh.

This earns a shrug from the girl next to me. "Don't mean to sound rude. I just put a lot of time into it. That's how you get to be the best at something. And I am."

I have no doubt this is true. It certainly doesn't feel like a brag. It's easy to tell when someone isn't being sincere. Their words leave a greasy, grimy feeling that's extremely unpleasant (generally, much like their company). That's not the case with Imelda. I let down my guard just enough to feel the burning pride that flares up when she talks about her hard work and accomplishments. The emotions are hard won, and she's earned every last one of them.

Lowering my guard, even that little, is enough to remind me of the boy sitting to my right. I hadn't gotten a good look at him before, but I sneak one now. He's around my age, pale, with his brown hair neatly slicked back. Everything about his appearance screams care and confidence, except the way he slouches when he sits. Like a turtle trying to retreat into its shell. Like he's trying to take up as little space as possible. His eyes stare unseeing across the table, but only a fool would assume that means he isn't listening. I can feel his attention like a sentient thing, and it raises goosebumps along my arms.

"I'm Prudence Craven," I whisper to him, as if it's our little secret. The name feels wrong as it tumbles off my tongue. It doesn't belong to me, not really, but what does these days? It's mine now, even if it hasn't always been, and it describes me as much as anything else, I suppose.

These are the things adults don't tell you when they're preparing you for the worst. They talk about death as a loss, sure, but not about all the other things you lose, more than just a person. As if anyone you love could be "just" a person.

He hesitates for a moment, and I can feel the emotions inside him warring with each other—determination to be polite and welcoming at odds with the thought of letting anyone else in, even for a moment. Because friends aren't forever. Just like family.

"I'm Ominis Gaunt. Welcome to Slytherin." His voice is soft and gentle, so at odds with his frigid demeanor.

Part of me wants to say more, to at least come up with something witty and smart that'll chase even a ghost of a smile onto his face. But I recognize his guardedness all too well. I'm a bit of an expert at it, if I do say so myself. Plus, I'm not really all that witty. It's more Booker's thing. Guess it's obvious why I didn't land in either Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw. So I say nothing.

Five more first-years get sorted, with the last—a Black—going to Slytherin. The roar at the table is so deafening, I almost miss the slightest clearing of throats. Almost.

"Don't let Imelda get you down." Ominis leans in to whisper over the clapping around us. "She can be intense, but she means well."

"Thanks, but if I'm honest, flying isn't really my thing anyway."

Ominis nods as he sits back in his seat, putting distance between us once more. "Nor mine."

Out of the corner of my eye, I swear I see his lips twitch into the slightest smirk before he catches himself and rearranges his features into a mask of nonchalance.

. . . o O o . . .

The Sorting Ceremony lasts far too long for my comfort. By the time it's done and the Great Feast appears on our table, I'm already sweating from the effort of keeping my mental walls up, which makes it hard to enjoy any of the food. I throw a few things on my plate for appearance, but I spend most of the time just chasing them around with my fork. What a shame, too. It all looks—and smells—absolutely delicious. But the knot in my stomach only grows with each passing minute, and I doubt I'll make a good impression if I spew on my Housemates on the first day.

Dismissal can't come quick enough, and I'm relieved when the food finally vanishes from the table. It's taken all my energy to stave off my peers' emotions, and I can't imagine how I'm going to survive the rest of the school year at this rate. There's a reason I've always been homeschooled, despite having every opportunity to go to almost any school of my choosing. Father always said it takes time, discipline, and strength to master a gift like mine. Then again, Father didn't have a dozen people's thoughts and feelings knocking at the door of his brain every time he stepped outside, so I'm not sure he was the expert he thought he was on the matter.

"I'll show you where you need to go," Imelda says as she sidles up beside me in line. "You'll be bunking with us."

"Us?" Living with a group of other girls is perhaps the most daunting aspect of school. Despite having three siblings, we're all different ages, and rarely in the same house at the same time for too long. The overwhelm was minimal. Well, for the most part.

"Violet McDowell, Nerida Roberts, and Grace Pinch-Smedley." Imelda counts them on her fingers as she lists them off. "Well, and me, of course. You haven't had a chance to meet the others yet, but not to worry, I'll introduce you."

The first two names mean nothing to me, but I'm familiar with the Pinch-Smedleys, at least. They're well regarded for their knowledge on art and science, and Father consulted with them numerous times for various missions. This arrangement could work out in my favor after all.

Imelda's attention is stolen by another Slytherin who passes us, and I'm given a moment of reprieve to look around as we head to the common room. Portraits line the hallways, always in motion, with images flitting out of one frame and into another. Suits of armor occasionally stand at attention just outside of archways, and I swear one turns its head to watch us as we pass.

I'm relieved when we finally reach the Grand Staircase and start our descent. Clear shot to the common room from here, or so Imelda reassures me. Midway through descending them, though, the stairs jolt and shudder underneath me, causing me to stagger. I fall into the person beside me as the stairs begin to move, grabbing onto them to stay upright, before I can stop myself.

And I see . . . Inferi and flames and a seering flash of green. And I feel . . . anger and sadness and betrayal.

I jerk my hand back, but it takes a second more before I realize I'm staring into the face of Ominis Gaunt. A warm rush of embarrassment fills me, but I can't tell if it's his or mine—or maybe ours.

"S-sorry, I just . . . why is the staircase moving?"

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, and the cool rush of his amusement soothes my embarrassment. Well, at least a little bit. "You can't expect them to sit around and wait for us all day, now can you?" he answers, as if it makes all the sense in the world. It does not. I know plenty of perfectly sensible, reasonable staircases that do just that. Prefer them, in fact.

"Looks like we're taking the long way to the dungeons, folks," someone calls from the front of the crowd of Slytherins now stuck on this staircase going who knows where. A couple of upperclassmen groan, but most take it in stride.

Beside me, Ominis shrugs as he tilts his head in my direction. "You get used to it eventually."

It's the last thing he says to me before the staircase jerks to a stop and we're moving again, split by the throng of students around us. I can still sense his attention, feel the stickiness of his curiosity as he tries to figure me out. He isn't the first and won't be the last. I do my best to ignore him . . . and the lingering feel of his memories. Thankfully, it isn't too much longer before we find ourselves at the dungeons.

Though the trek to get here is way too long—and, frankly, downright inconvenient—the dungeons themselves are breathtaking. The common room is awash in dim lighting. Even though it's dark, I can still see a faint blue tinge from where moonlight filters in through two large, glass windows that overlook the lake. The effect is stunning, and I never want to leave. Except Imelda is already tugging me toward our dorm room. I let her, mostly because I'm too tired to resist.

We're joined by three other girls, who greet each other like old friends. Because of course they are. I'm the outsider here. It's a role I've gotten used to, but part of me wonders if I'll ever be able to greet someone like that, with such a casual familiarity that it feels like coming home. Someone outside of my family, of course.

Introductions are made as we enter our room, but I'm more taken by the sight of our lodgings than with my roommates. It's plush and luxurious in a way home never was—in any of the many iterations it has taken over the years. Our trunks have been placed at the foot of the beds, just waiting to be unpacked.

"So what made you decide to start during Sixth Year?" Nerida asks as she begins pulling a seemingly endless stream of things out of her trunk.

How much of the truth do I tell her? Just enough to make it convincing, but certainly not the whole truth. "My father was homeschooling me, but he passed away. Since he attended Hogwarts, it seemed like the right place to go," I answered as I lifted the lid of my own trunk. Not an outright lie. Not exactly. Just enough truth to make it believable.

"I'm so sorry." The way Nerida says it makes me believe it. Not everyone is so sincere in the face of another's grief. They tend to just go through the motions.

"I lost my mother two years ago," Violet says quietly as she sets a stuffed niffler on her bed. "If you ever need to talk . . ."

Even though her words falter, Violet's grief bridges the gap between us, and I push it away. I have enough of my own to deal with, and I've never been particularly good at sharing.

"Thanks. You, too."

The conversation mercifully moves on, and I withdraw what few things I brought one by one, putting them in their proper places. At the bottom of my trunk, hidden beneath a false bottom, I extract a worn leather notebook. It looks like a diary—maybe because it was one in another life—but it's actually so much more than that. When I'm sure no one is looking, I slip it and its accompanying quill under my pillow for later.

It takes forever for the idle chatter to die down and my roommates to fall asleep. Imelda is the final holdout, as she runs Quidditch drills in her head. It's almost enough to put me to sleep. Finally, her breathing deepens, and her thoughts become the scrambled, chaotic mess of dreams.

Once I'm sure everyone else is fast asleep, I grab my journal from beneath my pillow, pull the blankets over my head, and cast a silent lumos. The quill for this is special, one that requires no ink. Why would it, if the words aren't meant to last? It's simply one, among many, of Eli's brilliant inventions meant to bring us siblings closer, even when we're countries apart, as we so often are.

Book? I write on the first page.

His answer scrawls itself across the page slowly, and it's somewhat surreal, as it always is, watching as words are born little by little by an invisible hand. I'm here, Pet. How was your first day?

The familiar nickname teases a smile out of me, which I suspect it's intended to. Its origin story was always my favorite growing up. Booker begged Father for a pet. Makes sense, given his penchant for magizoology. Any pet, he said, would do just fine. But the next thing Father brought home was me. Not what he had expected—not even what he'd wanted—but Booker made it work all the same. From that day forward, I was his pet.

I can't tell him about the overwhelming press of other students' minds, or the way I feel cut off from everyone and everything I used to know. So, instead, I simply write, Slytherin, hoping he'll know what I mean.

Like Merlin, comes the answer, and I can't help but grin at Book's exaggerated—and probably misplaced—belief in my abilities. A great wizard, I am not. Just Prudence. Craven now, to distance us from our father's legacy in the wake of his death. Before I have a chance to respond, the words disappear and are replaced with, Father was in Ravenclaw.

How do you know that? Even I had no idea, and I spent the most time with Father. Then again, it never really came up in conversation. I had no reason to ask him about his school days, and he never expressed any interest in re-living them.

Magic.

I roll my eyes at the answer and scribble back, You were poking through his things, weren't you?

Yeah I was. You wouldn't believe some of the things he held on to.

I start writing a response several times, but each one ends up scratched out before I can finish the thought. Part of me wants to know, to be able to share this moment with my brother and pretend like our father isn't gone forever, he's just gone for now, like so many times before. But I don't think I can deal with the pain of losing him all over again when reality inevitably sets back in.

Before I can decide on what I want to say, a hasty reply races across the page. Listen, I need to go. Contact Eli or me if you need anything, okay? Love you, pet.

Love you, I scribble back as fast as I can, hoping to catch him before he closes the book. Because he needs to know, even if he's heard it a thousand times before. Because it's the one thing I regret never getting to tell Father one more time, and now I'll never have the chance.

I vanish the light and tuck the journal and quill back beneath my pillow. With a sigh, I roll onto my back, hoping that'll shake loose the guilt that sits heavy on my chest. No such luck.

There are a lot of things people don't realize about Legilimens, especially those born with the gift. Most often, they're so focused on the simple act of reading minds—which, okay, fair, that's plenty daunting in and of itself—that they forget that talented Legilimens are actually a triple threat: read, write, erase. Technically, that last one is all but forbidden, but people have a way of getting around such technicalities.

Creating a false memory is no simple matter. It takes a lot of skill and craftsmanship. False memories not only have to look and feel real but also exist in a certain realm of possibility. A brain will naturally resist interference, will reject memories that have jagged edges or don't seem to fit quite right. It's taken me years of training to figure it out, and I still don't always succeed.

Booker knows this, knows the things our father has trained me to do. He just never expected I would use it on him. He has no inclination that attending Hogwarts was really my idea—masquerading as his—or the sort of chimera's den he's sent me into.

Because Hogwarts isn't safe. Far from it. In fact, I'm almost positive that someone at Hogwarts is the reason Father is dead. And I intend to find them.