Within a week, the portals were installed throughout the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Each common room housed one, with two more stationed at convenient spots on each floor for good measure. The first (and most jarringly positioned) one the twins saw was that of the Slytherin Common Room, a black doorframe as wide as the entrance to the Great Hall, encasing a sheet of opaque white mist that dwarfed all its surroundings. One Friday evening, Professor Dippet announced their purpose. Any who entered them would be teleported to one of two locations—for Hogwarts students, a secret, safe location; and for all others, a holding cell in Azkaban.

"Grindelwald and his ilk shall no longer be able of dislodging even a single brick of our ancient castle," the Headmaster proudly declared, "but in the unlikely event that an attack does come, you shall hear the bells of the castle ring thrice, pause, then ring thrice again. This is the alarm. At its signal, you must immediately retreat to the nearest common room and enter its portal." He concluded his discourse with a rambling, circumlocutory warning against trifling with the portals, for supposedly even a feeble courtyard hex would trigger the Ministry's elaborate security protocols.

The following morning, Gryffindor suffered a great loss of points. A broom, an armchair, and a third-year boy with red hair were thrown into their common room portal, causing the hourglass of rubies in the Great Hall to nearly empty. But as Mary watched the Gryffindors at breakfast, she found them indifferent to their penalty; many of them even seemed to find humour in it.

"Do they really think Godric Gryffindor would approve of their antics?" Walburga Black inquired with an air of disdain, as she elegantly prepared a scrambled egg sandwich.

"I dare say they couldn't give a fig what old Godric thinks," suggested Florence, as she unceremoniously waved her wand at a leg of ham, trying, and failing, to slice it into remotely even pieces.

Later that day, in the library, Mary discovered Tom sporting a mischievous smile (he had hastily departed from transfiguration with less-than-polite haste), a look she recognized as a harbinger of what orphans at Wool's Orphanage would have dubbed 'devilry.'

"What scheme have you devised, Tom?"

"The eleventh of April," Tom replied, scarcely lifting his gaze from the parchment upon which he scribbled with great haste.

"And what significance does that day hold?" Mary asked, with an affectionate touch of condescension.

"It is the appointed day for the testing of the portals," Tom declared. "The entire castle will be evacuated."

"And who shared this delightful tidbit with you?"

"No one," Tom scoffed. "Where's the sport in asking? I figured it out all on my own. You see, Professor Beery possesses a dozen watering cans for his beloved greenhouses. Last night, I snuck into greenhouse two and had a good look at their charms. They're due for extra watering on Sunday the eleventh. Same goes for greenhouse five. Beery won't be there, that's why he left all the work to the cans."

Though she was impressed by the depth to which her brother analysed their herbology professor's watering cans, Mary was not persuaded. "That's enough to convince you?"

"More than enough." Tom's voice hardened, indicating that his mind was made up. "I did some reading, you see. The portals draw their power from the moon and weaken under the sun. They're the opposite of plants. It follows that they are at their weakest during noon, and it is for this reason that the alarm shall sound before lunch, so as to ensure that the portals can hold their own during its weakest moment."

"It appears we'll miss afternoon charms," Mary said.

"You will spend the eleventh with Abraxas Malfoy," continued Tom, ignoring her. "At a quarter to twelve, the two of you will be far removed from the Slytherin Dungeon and the castle itself. When the bells ring, Malfoy will succumb to his delicate constitution. It will be your duty to save him. You will levitate him to the portals and remain by his side, no matter where the portal takes you, even if it means staying with him when everyone has returned to Hogwarts and he has been consigned to the Hospital Wing. In doing so, he will have no choice but to love you."

Mary was bewildered by Tom's proposal. At first, she believed that he had lost his senses, but as she attempted to find a flaw in his plan, she realised that it made sense.

"Why must it be me? You're the one obsessed with Malfoy," Mary replied, crossing her arms.

"For one, I need to divert Antoine Rosier's attention, who's constantly hovering around Malfoy. But it has to be you because Malfoy's dear mum is dead," Tom explained.

Mary was overcome with disbelief and burst into laughter. As her laughter subsided, she began to comprehend Tom's reasoning. It was perverted, inexplicable, yet intuitive, like magic itself.

For the following days, Mary courted Abraxas Malfoy, a boy who was simultaneously one the most tedious and yet most interesting she had ever encountered. Most young wizards who spoke to Mary sought to beguile her with their families' prestige and wealth. They would take her to courtyards and cast spells they believed would impress her, or try to make her laugh, either at others' expense or their own. Sometimes gifts were given, and these she generally appreciated more than displays of magic or wit. But Abraxas Malfoy was different. He welcomed Mary's company but made no effort to retain it. He allowed her affection, much as a flower might allow an enchanted watering can to nourish it, or a sickly son might allow his mother's doting. Mary was not insulted; she was charmed, first by the novelty of the experience, and then by the serenity she felt in his presence. Abraxas was the antithesis of Tom.

On the eleventh morn of April, Mary spent a leisurely half-hour before her dressing table, arraying herself for the day's events. She donned a suit-skirt ensemble of emerald green with pearl-white lining, a gift from one of her admirers, that scarce reached her knees. A scarf of the purest white, as delicate as tissue-paper and brilliant in the sunlight, graced her slender neck.

Pretending to gather flowers for the birthday of Lydia Cotterill, Mary led Abraxas to a clearing in the Forbidden Forest, where bluebells bloomed in profusion. Each with a basket in hand, they set to work harvesting the delicate blooms, to fashion not only a bouquet for Lydia, but also a necklace from their flattened petals, enchanted to remain ever-ripe.

The angle of the increasingly caloroic autumn sun and the dials on her timepiece told Mary that noon was approaching. If Tom's hypothesis was accurate, the castle's alarm bells would soon peal forth. Abraxas would swoon; Mary would come to his rescue, and upon waking, he would be forever bound to her, and by extension, to Tom. The task at hand was simple and straightforward enough, but a bitterness rose within her Mary's chest at each bend of Abraxas's back as he plucked the flowers. It reminded her that Tom decided which boys she was allowed to consort with, and which not.

It had been a year since Mary had conversed with Arcanius Fawley, separated from him by the machinations of Tom. Being thirteen, a year was a frightfully long time for Mary. A year separate from Arcanius—Mary was unsure why she even thought of him, her first 'passing fancy', after so long. Perhaps it was because she saw him that morning, serene and paternal, helping a gaggle of giggling first-year girls with their herbology homework. Perhaps it was because they still exchanged looks when passing in the common room or through the castle—and never was his gaze indignant or indifferent—it was always tender, desirous, and sad. Suddenly, Mary knew exactly what to do. A sickly grin spread on her face.

Abraxas noticed that his companion had not only suddenly adapted a most inexplicable countenance, but also that she stood with statuesque stillness; the flower in her hand could have been made of stone. "Mary, what's the matter?"

"I've got to go to the bathroom," she blurted, tossing the flower to the floor. "Wait here! Don't budge!"

Urgency and excitement mixing in her like oil and butter in a pan, Mary scurried back to the castle. It wasn't just Tom who could conceive schemes and entrap people's affections. But her plan was even better than Tom's; it would satisfy her thirst for Arcanius and capture Abraxas for Tom in one fell swoop. If Tom was correct, it would be a glorious day; Mary and Arcanius would be together, and Arcanius would be terrified all the while, at the prospect of the Freimagier in Scotland. And when one is afraid, anything is possible. She would comfort him, or if not, she would distract his fear with pleasure. Gasping for air, Mary found an empty classroom, took a seat, and kept her gaze fixed on her timepiece. 11:54, 11:55, 11:56, 11:57, 11:58, 11:59...

The bells rang! Tom was right! Tom was a genius. Lovely, lovely.

The bells were infinitely more ear-splitting than Mary had anticipated. She was accustomed to the gentle toll of church bells in London. Thank Salazar the alarm ceased as soon as it started.

She then heard screams. Most of the students had taken Professor Dippet's speech on 'the ringing of the bells' with a sort of eager disbelief. It was a "what if" scenario that was supposed to be impossible. Its primary purpose, like a scary story told to friends huddled around a fireplace, was entertainment. But now the horror had become a reality. However, the primal instinct to survive, common to wizards and men and mandrakes and fleas, quickly awakened in the students of Hogwarts; they acted with a sudden decisiveness that even impressed Mary, who knew there was no invasion. "Everyone, wands at the ready!" "Stay in groups!" "Let students from other houses into your common rooms!"

Mary joined a large procession of students, all of whom had their wands drawn and pointed towards whichever corridor they were to cross next. All of their hands trembled. By the time they got to the Entrance Hall, she raced down the stairs towards the Slytherin common room. There, she found a small group of prefects, including Arcanius, who were trying to keep order. They were guiding younger students through the portal, questioning every newcomer into the room, and dictating information to a enchanted quill that scribbled away on a large piece of parchment.

Arcanius was the first to catch sight of Mary. Relief flooded his countenance upon laying eyes upon her, and he hastened towards her. It had been over a year since their last conversation.

"Mary," he greeted her cautiously. "I'm relieved to see you. You're the last second-year to be accounted for, you know."

"Abraxas Malfoy is in the Forbidden Forest!" Mary blurted out. "I left him there. We were plucking flowers, but I had a desperate call of nature, and then... the bells rang. I would have returned, but oh, the fear, Caney!"

Mary was surprised that Arcanius let loose a string of obscenities; she would not have thought that a boy of so consistently and comically a princely disposition would have been capable of such. "The bells would have knocked him out cold! Surely you know that, don't you?!"

Mary nodded, her voice low and tinged with sorrow. "He should be in a clearing surrounded by bluebells, not too far from the forest's edge."

Arcanius let out a weary sigh, desperation etched upon his face. He stared at an older prefect, as if to seek his counsel, but the latter was preoccupied with a group of frenzied third-year boys—or perhaps merely ignoring him. Spotting a racing broom a joyrider must have left in haste before entering the portal, Arcanius snatched it and declared, "We must find him." He motioned for Mary to join him, and they dramatically flew out of the Slytherin Dungeon out of the castle, and took to the skies, soaring towards the Forbidden Forest in search of the fallen Abraxas.

Mary clung tightly to Arcanius' waist, her head resting against his back. Though his flying was unsteady, whether due to fear or lack of skill, she took delight in the experience. They had never been this close, not even in their former, more siblingly relationship. Now, as Mary approached the end of her second year and possessed a form that kindled fire in the stares of many Slytherin boys, she relished the intimacy more knowing that it must have provoked in Arcanius some semblance of reciprocation. She pressed her face lengthwise against his back and felt tingles flutter through her as she rubbed her cheek across his spine. Her hands dug into his firm abdomen.

"In which direction do we go?" Arcanius asked, his quiet tone barely masking his terror.

"Follow my finger, dear Arcanius," Mary murmured, extending her arm under his. "This way."

It did not take long for them to locate Abraxas. To Mary's surprise, the first-year had not immediately succumbed to unconsciousness upon hearing the bells. In his attempt to reach the castle, Abraxas had managed to find his way out of the forest and progress some forty yards up the uphill path that led to the Entrance Hall, only to collapse, scattering the contents of both his and Mary's baskets along the way.

Arcanius descended and hastened to the fallen boy's side. With a flick of his wand and the incantation "Rennervate!", he brought the boy back to consciousness. Mary had hoped that Arcanius would simply levitate the young boy back to the castle, allowing for the continuation of broomstick-intimacy between the two of them. However, she saw an opportunity to demonstrate her tenderness with the now-conscious Abraxas and made use of the opportunity to show Arcanius the depths of her feminine care.

"Oh, Abraxas, my dear!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around the bewildered boy. "I am ever so sorry—I had no inkling of the situation—oh, Abraxas!"

The boy, though silent, reciprocated her embrace with a surprising strength, and in spite of herself, Mary felt a strange sort of affection at his clasp.

"We must fly back," Arcanius said firmly.

"Just a moment, Caney," Mary pleaded.

With a graceful wave of her wand, Mary righted the baskets Abraxas had dropped, returning the scattered bluebells to their proper place. She then brought the two baskets together and transformed the wicker into straps, which she wore like a backpack. Though she had hoped to cling to Arcanius on the flight back to Hogwarts, she was instead forced to hold the frail form of Abraxas, whose fear of the Grindelwaldians was threefold that of Arcanius.

With tender whispers of comfort and solace, Mary soothed the terrified Abraxas as they journeyed through the sky. "Fear not," she whispered, "Arcanius and I shall keep you from harm's way."

Upon their return to the castle, a silence had descended, suffocating in its stillness. Despite the brilliant sun of noon shining through the many arched windows, the castle was even more silent than the dead of night, where even the chirping of crickets could be heard.

"Hominem revelio," Arcanius whispered before turning every corner.

The sight that greeted them upon their return to the Slytherin common room was a horrible one. The portal, a sheet of opaque white mist, had vanished, leaving behind only its ominous black stone frame. The students, too, were nowhere to be found.

"No, no," Abraxas whispered, his frail form slumping against Mary for solace. She wrapped her arms around his trembling shoulders.

"Fret not," assured Arcanius, though even his own face had turned pale. "I have a p-portkey to my house in my dormitory. I shall retrieve it without delay."

Mary waited, with a trembling first-year boy clinging to her. Her fingers caressed his white-blond locks, tracing delicate patterns around his ear. His hair smelled better than most boys' did. Though Abraxas was close to tears, Mary was overcome with jubilant excitement, for she would see Arcanius's home—she had never been to a magical home before; and Arcanius's would undoubtedly be grand. All that in addition to the accomplishment of Tom's scheme.

Arcanius returned. He held a straw boater with a blue ribbon, an item that looked like part of the uniform of a prestigious public school in London.

"Grasp it tightly," he said gravely. "You might feel a touch dizzy, but under no circumstances should you let go."

As Arcanius pressed his wand on the boater, Mary indeed felt dizzy for a moment, as though the entire world had fallen on its back, before the portkey simply dropped to the common room floor.

"Anti-portkey wards," said Arcanius in a shaky voice. "The Freimagier must have put them in place."

"We'll have to fly beyond their range," said Mary.

"Indeed," nodded Arcanius with grim determination. "Hop on."

They took off in the direction they had come, flying South, towards the sun during the summer, as Mary remembered from her first year Astronomy lessons. Abraxas and Arcanius both unwound as they flew farther and farther from the castle and discovered no German dark wizards ready to blow them to smithereens. Their limbs slackened and their breathing returned to a measured pace.

They alighted upon a verdant hill, surrounded by a magnificent and unspoiled landscape of which the distant castle was but a mere speck. Mary pondered whether any of the older students at the castle ever ventured far from its walls to discover such idyllic spots as this; they would be quite nice for picnics, amongst other things.

"It should function now," declared Arcanius as he brandished his boater. "Take it once more."

Mary and Abraxas did as instructed. With a tap of his wand, Arcanius activated the portkey. Suddenly, Mary was overcome by the strongest gust of wind she had ever felt in her life, and pulled skyward without warning, spinning round and round like a sparrow in a whirlwind, her muscles writhing in pain, her stomach churning. Her surroundings became a chaotic mix of the colours of the scenery that had just surrounded her. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Mary tumbled head-over-heels to the ground, and looked up at the sky, which seemed to spin above her.

"Your first time using a portkey, I presume," Arcanius said, a hint of amusement in his voice as he extended his hand.

As he pulled her up, Mary took advantage of the symptoms of her first time portkeying to accidentally graze her bottom against the prefect's lap. "Pardon me," she murmured coyly. Arcanius stepped back, his pupils dilating in surprise, before he chuckled and shook his head. Abraxas, who had made portkey journeys many times before, stood tall and stoic, unaffected by the experience.

Rubbing her eyes and taking in her surroundings, Mary couldn't believe what she saw.

"Good heavens, Caney," she exclaimed. "Your home is absolutely marvellous."

"It is," he agreed.

And indeed it was. The grand mansion, a harmonious blend of ancient Greek and Victorian English styles, with its Doric columns and Palladian windows, made of finest marble, adorned with a network of rosy ivy. Rising three stories high, with a length of sixty yards, its roof was a stark cherry-red and gloriously overhanging all the aforementioned. It was situated on a vast plain, close to the banks of a river that appeared to be a stream of molten silver under the afternoon sun. Rather than a lawn, the mansion was surrounded by a magnificent garden that extended for a hundred yards in every direction, abounding in variety, with countless species of trees, gargantuan flowers, exotic fruits of hues beyond imagining, and fountains that cascaded with glistening water that housed small crystalline fish. Amongst all this was a charming array of wooden outhouses, the apparent abodes of the dozen elves garbed in green towels tending peaceably to the garden.

However, Arcanius, to whom all this was familiar, wore a countenance of resignation rather than wonder. He made no move to unlock the great oak door but instead gave it a gentle knock. The trio of Slytherins waited but a moment before the door was opened by a bespectacled old elf in a miniature white robe, accompanied by a pretty little girl with a rounded face, whom Mary recognised immediately as Arcanius's sister, Héloïse.

"Helen," greeted Arcanius.

"Caney!" she exclaimed, embracing her brother with a hug before bombarding him with questions. "Why are you here? It's only April! Did something dreadful happen at Hogwarts? Didn't daddy said not to use the portkey unless something dreadful happened? Who are they?"

Arcanius answered only the last of these questions. "Mary, Abraxas, allow me to introduce you to my sister, Héloïse, whom we know as Helen. Helen, this is Mary Riddle, of whom I've written to you before, and Abraxas Malfoy, who you've met before."

"Mary Riddle!" squawked little Héloïse Fawley, her eyes shining as she studied the girl before her. "I've heard that you're ever so clever! Is it true? And is your brother just as clever as you? Oh, and did you actually swipe Ilaria's necklace?"

"That is quite enough, Helen," interjected Arcanius, his tone one that Mary had never heard before. "Show Abraxas to a guest-room. He requires rest."

Héloïse's gaze shifted to Abraxas, and she tilted her little head to the side as if to study him more closely. "You don't resemble your father at all," she proclaimed in a voice of great surprise, as if she had uncovered a disguise. "Except for your hair, perhaps."

"We have met before, Héloïse," Abraxas reminded her.

"Indeed?" Héloïse's brows furrowed in confusion. "When was that, I wonder?"

"When we visited Malfoy Manor in 1936," replied Arcanius, his impatience with his sister growing. "Now, Helen, go along with it."

"Very well," huffed Héloïse, taking Abraxas by the hand. "Don't mind Caney, he can be an old goblin sometimes."

Héloïse led Abraxas down the hall as Arcanius was addressed by a spectacled elf. "Master Arcanius," said the elf, bowing deeply. "Shall Dewell inform Master Hector of your return?"

"No, leave father be," Arcanius instructed. "He is occupied at present. But attend to Abraxas. He has not been in the best of health, and the day has taken a toll on him. Restore him with any necessary potions. Then send an owl to Secretary Wilhelmina, informing her that Mary Riddle, Abraxas Malfoy, and Arcanius Fawley are safe and secure at the Fawley estate. She will in turn inform the staff at Hogwarts."

"As you wish, Master Arcanius," said the elf called Dewell, bowing once more before disappearing with a crack.

At last, Mary was alone with Arcanius again. She furtively cast a glance at him, then around them, and then, rather roughly, snatched his hand and pressed it to her cheek. Arcanius was startled by this strange display of affection, but he did not recoil; he began to slowly knead her cheeks, albeit his expression left it ambiguous whether he did so out of the affection a boy had for a girl, or that a father would have for their daughter. Nonetheless Mary smiled sultrily, feeling a tremor run through her skin as she imagined his fingers exploring other parts of her body.

"You saved us, Caney," Mary said softly. "I hope I haven't caused you too much trouble. Please don't be cross with me."

"No, Mary, of course not," he replied, his tone gentle and reassuring. "Why should I be cross with you?"

"I was the one who dragged you into this mess. I could have handled Abraxas myself if I hadn't been so afraid."

"Nonsense," he said. "You did everything you could. It's my duty as a prefect to ensure the safety of both you and Abraxas."

The desire that had lingered in Mary's stomach for the past hour mutated into something else. On the one hand, Arcanius' assurance that he bore her no resentment made her very glad. It made the day, the hour, the very minute in which she currently existed more beautiful than any that had transpired in the last few months. On the other hand, Mary suddenly wanted to deride the prefect; to laugh at him for taking himself so seriously. It was she who was in charge; not him. And who cared about prefects? She wanted, almost, to attack him with the nasty curses Tom had taught her. However, when her gaze fell upon the firm grip of the hand that cradled her cheek, all thoughts of mischief vanished, replaced by a bright, totalising adoration for Arcanius, as if he were the father she had never known.

"You have no cause for concern," he continued, his voice gentle and understanding. "Students shouldn't have to always be on guard, fretting over the possibility of attack by Grindelwald."

"What do you believe was their intention?" Mary asked. "Could they have been after you?"

Arcanius chuckled heartily, releasing his hold on her face. "Me? No. I see your reasoning, but I think their target was more likely to have been Dominic."

"Dominic?"

"Dominic Spencer-Moon," he explained. "The son of Minister Spencer-Moon. He's a fine fellow, a Gryffindor a year above you. But let's not dwell on that now, we're safe and I'll show you my home."

With Arcanius by her side, Mary was led through the halls of his magnificent residence. An elf was summoned to bring her a mug of iced chocolate, which she sipped absently as Arcanius gave her a leisurely tour. The house, which had been renovated by Arcanius' great-grandfather over seventy years prior, was over three centuries old and stood as a testament to the grandeur of the Fawley family. As they made their way through the halls, Arcanius showed Mary the bedrooms of himself and his sister, Héloïse. The sight of such opulence elicited in Mary a strange mixture of desire and resentment. She could not help but feel a twinge of injustice that she, at Héloïse's age, had languished in one of many identical 'bedrooms' in a ramshackle building in London's East End, but she knew that should she be given the chance to lie in either of their plush beds with Arcanius by her side, as Ilaria had undoubtedly done many an occasion, all her bitterness would be promptly banished.

Then they traversed the gardens. With its botanical diversity and sheer size, the gardens of the Fawley Estate surpassed every public park in London.

"My mother is mad for horticulture," Arcanius informed Mary with a smile. "She and her friends call themselves the 'Order of Antheia' and meet every Friday to discuss changes to the garden. Of course they're not a recognised magical order in Britain, they would need to be registered with both the International Confederation of Wizards and the Wizengamot for that. Nor do they partake in the labour themselves; that is left to the elves."

As they strolled through the enchanting gardens, they stumbled upon a remarkable spectacle; a bower, as grand as a spacious veranda, woven together with magical ivies and purple flowers that shimmered and undulated in the dappled light, reminiscent of seaweed waving in the water. Suddenly, Mary was surrounded by a celestial melody, akin to the choir of a grand church in London, yet the lyrics were unintelligible. But rather than condemning the sinful world and exalting heaven, music extolled the world for what it was, embracing both the joy and harshness of life in its refrain; it could not have come from a church.

Mary had never before heard such beautiful music.

"Saffron sirens, or singing saffrons, depending on who you ask," said Arcanius, staring warmly at Mary. "You mustn't tell anyone we have them; they're not permitted in Britain."

"The flowers are creating the music?" Mary asked in disbelief.

Arcanius inclined his head in assent.

"But they are exquisite!" Mary took a seat on a hewn log within the bower's serenade. She patted the space beside her, gesturing for Arcanius to join her. "Why are they not allowed?"

"You see, they don't truly make sounds," explained Arcanius, settling himself next to her. "They only create an illusion of music within one's mind."

What Arcanius spoke was true, and for a moment, Mary felt nauseated.

"Then we must perceive different sounds from it," said Mary.

"Very astute, Miss Riddle, ten points to Slytherin." Arcanius laughed. "For me, it's the harp. Soft and intricate, each note perfectly balanced. What's yours?"

"People singing," replied Mary. She did not want to elaborate on the notion of a church choir to her pureblood object of affection. "It is most lovely, why should it be forbidden?"

"The saffrons we have here are feeble," said Arcanius. "They have been, to borrow a term you will learn in herbology, 'neutered'. Their roots have been removed, and they must be nourished by potion to survive. But in the wild, they can be horribly dangerous, as evidenced by the fate of those who encountered the colony run on Avalon cultivated by Morgana."

With a flush of embarrassment, the name Morgana immediately provoked in Mary's mind the silly facsimile portrait one found on her chocolate frog card. Chocolate frog Morgana, with her impassive gray stare, long brown hair, and dark, elegant robe, looked an awful lot like Ilaria Greengrass. Mary suddenly felt irritated. Both the collectable card and the sixth-year girls' prefect were pretty. She wondered whether Arcanius felt any special affection for the Morgana card over, say, that of Bowman Wright, the bearded metal charmer who invented the golden snitch.

"How's Ilaria?" asked Mary, seeking to mask her sudden disquiet.

"Ilaria?" Arcanius raised an eyebrow in surprise. "She is well."

"Are you happy in each other's company?" Mary asked. "You hardly ever smile when you are together, Caney, and Aria is downright dour. You've smiled more at me today than you have at her in the past week, haven't you?"

Arcanius gave a hesitant chuckle. "What do you mean, Mary?"

"Are you happy?" she repeated, with a touch more force.

Arcanius met her gaze, his deep blue eyes resting on her own black ones, before answering with a measured resolve. "I suppose I am."

"Love is not bereft of its challenges," he continued, with a sigh. "Ilaria has been facing difficulties this year, difficulties that I am precluded from discussing with you. But we are there for each other, as love requires of us."

Mary leaned closer to him, their faces now no more than four inches apart. "Love need not be so complicated," she whispered.

"And since when have you been an expert of love?" asked Arcanius, with a sarcasm so gentle that it seemed to dissipate into sincerity.

"Do you not find our time together delightful?" Mary countered, her gaze unwavering.

"Oh, you are such a silly creature," Arcanius murmured, a fond smile playing about his lips.

But Mary did not return his smile. She gazed steadily into his deep blue eyes, and for a moment, silence reigned between them.

Then, Mary kissed him on the lips.

It was but a fleeting graze of their mouths, yet it awakened in Mary a fervour that had lain dormant until that moment. A wild, unbridled hunger surged within her, a longing to claim all that lay before her, lest she be claimed by it. And as she felt this insatiable desire stir, she saw in Arcanius' eyes a reflection of that same ravenous and untamed hunger. Caney likes me back, Mary thought, her pulse quickening. Caney likes me back! Caney loves me!

With the swiftness of a wave breaking upon the shore, Mary's second kiss was a tempest of passion and longing, a force so fierce and unrelenting that she unconsciously sent Arcanius tumbling to the ground. Their bodies pressed together, their lips and tongues intertwining in a whirlwind of unspoken physical and psychological affinities. Arcanius like toast spread thick with jam—a detail that endeared him to Mary all the more. His hands were strong and determined, like coals from a blacksmith's forge, as they roamed down her back to the undersides of her thighs, eliciting a flurry of tingles in their wake.

But then, with a sudden surge of strength, he pushed her away from him, jumping to his feet and straightening his robes.

"Enough! Enough! What have you done?! Get away, go!" Arcanius backed away, aghast, as though Mary had transformed into a monster before his very eyes.

In that moment, Mary wished she could indeed become a monster, a small and quick one, to flee from the terror in Arcanius' gaze. But her fear was not one of apprehension; it was a disappointment so sharp it threatened to rob life of all its meaning.

Yet she managed to still the tempest within her heart, and asked in a voice tremulous with hopeful pleading, "Arcanius, do you not love me?"

"No, of course not!" he replied, his tone harsh. But as he saw the hurt in Mary's eyes, he softened. "Oh, Mary! I am sorry, but you must understand—you do not—Mary— "

"But I love you!" she yelled, with no pretension this time. "I love you so much, you idiot!" She could feel a hot tear coursing down her cheek. She swiped her hand at the bower and tore from it a handful of the musical flowers, whose song in her mind remained outrageously pleasant. "I'm prettier than Ilaria! An' I'll be even prettier than 'er when I'm in sixth year!"

Arcanius, who now appeared so solicitous and pitiful, like the father Mary had never known, approached and enveloped her in a consoling embrace. "Merlin, do not weep, dear, dear Mary," he said, but his touch felt chill and impersonal to her.

"You do not love me," he stated, as if explaining a simple fact of the world to a child. "This isn't love, this is obsession."

"But you kissed me back!" Mary protested, her voice trembling. "You kissed me back!"

"Indeed, I did," he admitted, looking abashed. "You are a charming and lovely witch, Mary Riddle, but my heart already belongs to another. One must not act on their every whim."

"You want me, but you don't got the guts to claim me," Mary accused, her soul aching, her voice collapsed into the ugly dialect it was before she had tried to make it all fancy in first year. "A proper Slytherin would take what e' wants."

"Ambition is a hallmark of Slytherin, yes," Arcanius concurred, "yet this ambition requires self-restraint. We cannot have everything we want. Our culture values loyalty and cunning equally; they are not mutually exclusive."

Mary paid little heed to his platitudes and wiped away her tears. "Tell me I'm beautiful again, Arcanius."

"You are beautiful, Mary," he said, gazing at her with a mixture of sadness and admiration. "Truly beautiful, in every sense."

"You mean it, yes?" she asked, searching his eyes for the truth.

"With all the depths of my being," he replied, sincerity shining in his deep blue eyes.

"What am I then?"

"Are you so intent on continuing to humiliate me so? Very well. You are beautiful, Mary Riddle."

Words were not enough. With a ferocity befitting one wrestling with a fierce beast, Mary clasped Arcanius's head in her hands and pressed her lips to his for the third time, this time with a mixture of anger and abandon.

Then she fled the gardens. Sprinting, Mary felt a sense of disgust at the blurry array of trees and flowers before her. The garden was a false Eden; its multitude of hues and scents now seemed nothing more than a nauseating, chaotic mix of paints. Pure artifice; impossible in nature. Mary longed for the familiarity of Abney Park Cemetery in London, with its wet earth, gnarled yews, eerie snowdrops, clumps of nettle, pigeons, rats, worms.

Returning to the manor of the Estate, Mary felt a momentary relief at escaping the cloying fragrance of the flowers, only to be met with a numb emptiness. She ran to Arcanius's bedroom, contemplating the destruction she could wreak with her wand, when a moment of clarity struck her.

She was better off than Ilaria. She was superior to Ilaria. The frigid comportment of the couple, and dryly literality of Arcanius's answer to Are you happy together? made Mary realise their relationship was in its terminal phase. Yet it was also true that there were marriages, as Mary learned from the older Slytherin girls, that were nothing but one long deterioration of love that culminated in death. But it meant the seduction was not over. She had plied Arcanius' lips and heart open so easily, if only for thirty seconds. She excited him, then infuriated him—when was the last time Ilaria had done either?

Contemplating this, Mary discovered she still heard the saffron choir in her head singing soft praises of life and love, and thought for a moment that perhaps the utter love and despondency she endured in the last ten minutes had turned her mad—before she realised that she had, in her fist, a dozen of the flowers she had torn off the bower in a fit of anger. They still moved. She put them in her pocket.

She took her glassy white scarf off her neck and put it on Arcanius' bed. She drew her wand, pointed it at the scarf, and whispered, "Geminio." The duplicate scarf, which looked slightly less transparent (though no boy would be able to tell) and would probably disappear sometime within a week, was wrapped back around her neck. She took her real scarf, pressed it to her mouth to give it a long, sultry lick, and planted it under Arcanius's pillow. Let him miss me, she thought. She had already gotten a kiss from him, and that her first kiss came from him—he, the former Minister's son and fifth-year Slytherin boys' prefect—meant she could get a kiss from anyone.