As the raindrops pattered against the windowpane, Mary and Florence lounged upon the plush violet chaises in the boudoir, lost in the whimsy of their girlish chatter. Suddenly, Osborne Urquart appeared in the doorway, tightly clutching a letter in his over-vascular right hand.

"It appears that Arcanius has responded to you, Mary," he intoned gravely, holding the letter aloft.

"Indeed?"

Urquart extended the letter to Mary. It did not budge when she tried to take it, so she smiled at him—and then he let go of it with a sigh. The envelope was made of smooth white parchment. It had a beautiful seal: a crest of three sunflowers crossed to make a golden star on a hexagonal green stamp.

"The Fawley insignia," said Florence, tracing a finger down the central flower of wax. "Can't say I like it. It's effeminate. The old Travers had a pair of red staves crossed over a black tower."

"I find it rather charming. The old Travers? Has your insignia undergone a metamorphosis?"

"It remains unchanged. But we no longer use insignia for the same reason as we no longer use staves—they're positively mediaeval. Only the really poncey families who continue to use them, the Fawleys, the Malfoys—and of course the Blacks! Those sister-lovers put 'Toujours Pur' on everything."

Mary privately thought 'sister-lover' was one of the nicer epithets one could give to a Black. Not wishing to mar the handsome seal, she waved her wand along the top of the envelope, creating a lengthwise aperture. She extracted the letter, unfurled it, and read it aloud with an unrepentant grin.

"Dear Mary,

Cease your seduction of me. I try, and will continue to try, to resist your temptations. If you continue to behave as you currently do, all will end poorly for both of us. But I—"

"Stop!" Urquart snarled, as he swiftly seized the letter out of Mary's hands. "I cannot allow you to further besmirch the good name of Arcanius."

"It's her letter!" shouted Florence, trying to snatch the latter back. "Give it back!"

But Mary had already read enough to know all she needed to know. She continued to speak as if nothing unpleasant had transpired. "Osborne, would you kindly send another letter on my behalf?"

"Absolutely not!" bellowed Urquart.

Mary batted her eyelashes at him. "No lipstick or fragrance this time. Promise."

"You've already lowered him in my estimation. I won't have you lower me in his."

"Suit yourself." Mary turned in her chaise to toss her ankles into the air and playfully kick them back and forth. Resting her head sideways on her arm, she continued to stare inquisitively at the older boy.

"Very well—Riddle—I shall send a single, final letter to Arcanius this summer." Although he spoke as if he held sway, Urquart gazed at her with eyes of supplication. "And I will read it before I send it."

"Thank you kindly, Osborne." Mary sprang up in an instant, snapping her fingers to summon Florence's elf. "Ellie, I require writing implements."

"Yes, mistress," said the elf before promptly disapparating.

Mary spent the rest of the day—and most of the small hours after midnight—perfecting her letter. She drew flowers and butterflies along the margin of the letter (not only did they vary in colour, but also in form; Mary took inspiration from an illustrated encyclopaedia from the Travers' library). Despite her promise to Urquart, Mary sprayed the letter with the same perfume that had enchanted her last memento.

Tom often chastised her for putting so much effort into writing her letters, when she put so little in her essays. When Mary finished her letter to Arcanius and held it before a floating candle at three o'clock in the morning, she understood why Tom scorned her so. She had never put nearly so much time into anything obliged by her professors as she did into her valentine for a boy who already had an amour. Yet she didn't think herself bad. Far from it. Mary's grades were excellent and all her professors adored her—she saw no reason to labour more to win that which she already possessed. Tom's contempt was unmerited.

Mary was distracted from her brooding by a mosquito that came in through the window, or rather where the window was, for she had vanished the glass to ventilate the room. It buzzed noisily flying around her head. She sighed, placed her letter on the bureau, and drew her wand. She swished it three times. The creature was transformed into a raindrop. A faint clink sounded as the glass of the windows rematerialised, and the seven floating candles that rotated around Mary extinguished at once.

When Mary handed her masterpiece to Urquart the next morning, his eyes gleamed with amazement as he read, beheld, and scented the artistry and ardour that Mary had imparted into it, while his face contorted hideously from the awareness that all this adoration was not for him. But Mary cared not, for Urquart would send the letter as promised, and then disappear for a week—indeed, Mr. Travers and Urquart left for Whitehall every Monday, and returned on Fridays.

The following week passed like a dream for the Slytherin girls. Every day they breakfasted together. From ten o'clock until noon, Florence potions' tutor, a jovial young man named Fleamont Potter with wild hair that reminded one of the plumage of crows, kept Florence in the makeshift potions laboratory by the dining room, during which Mary would run down the sloping lawn of Tarquin's Court to its adjoining beach whose sand was as white as marble and as unblemished as porcelain, where no muggle feet had tread for centuries.

Mary would lie on the sand with books from Florence's library, a small bouquet of singing saffrons, and Ellie to bring her iced chocolate. While Mary was alone during these two hours, she was not lonely, for she had the sun for company, and the expectation of Florence for the rest of the day. Florence's books were lovely, too; Mary was particularly taken by a French picture book of plants entitled Dictionnaire illustré de Botanique Magique, in which she searched for and found a tantalising picture of the saffrons she had so painstakingly sought to cultivate during the term.

Carmen la Maudite et ses sirènes à pétales

Carmen was a beautiful girl with a Greek profile and long, vividly curly black hair. She blinked and smiled at Mary. Mary smiled back. She stood upright, supported by what was either a long walking-stick or a short staff garlanded with flowers that spiralled around it like a coiling snake. Its handle was a small skull, which Carmen held languorously in her left hand; her right hand picked at a latticed garden wall from which singing saffrons grew abundantly.

What struck Mary the most, however, was the girl's dress. Mary had never seen such a pretty garment. A loose satin gown, dark green and smooth like an extravagant curtain from the ballroom of a palace, it was embroidered with dozens of flowers—begonias, snowdrops, varicoloured hydrangeas—that permeated its fabric with chaotic evenness, like lilies scattered across a lake. It was simultaneously reminiscent of baroque France and the Far East. So intensely did Mary desire this dress that she was seized with curiosity for its wearer—who was this enigmatic French with, with her splendid dress and dark features that resembled Mary's own?

In the afternoons, Florence joined Mary at the beach for tea. There they would gossip, embroider, transfigure, dance, swim, and fly until dinner, after which they returned to it for another jaunt—they could not miss the nightly processions of jellyfish, shimmering like sentient diamonds as they made their summerly westward migration.

On Friday night, when Mr. Fawley and Osborne Urquart returned, Florence and Mary took longer than usual on their nightly jaunt. The sky was clear and full of stars; the girls were inspired to talk of astrology.

"Flo, did you know that Tom and I are Capricorns? Capricorn is quite the opposite of Cancer, and our Pluto is in Cancer. Astrophel told me it might be tough for me to find happiness in life, but I don't believe it. I've been happier this past week than I've been all year!" Mary exclaimed.

"But what about your Ascendant and moon? Those are quite important too," Florence replied.

"I'm not sure, but I have this vision of my future, Florence. I see myself with Caney, my future husband. We'll live in a place like this, with a beach where no muggles have ever set foot. I'll spend my days enchanting seashells, swimming, flying, and hosting dinner parties. It's all quite possible, I think, except for the fact that Tom would oppose it," Mary said dreamily.

Florence was less than impressed. "Mary, are you serious? You want to be nothing more than a house-witch?"

"A house-witch? No, no, no. Call it what you like, but this past week has been pure bliss for me," Mary replied.

"You, Mary? You who mastered the swapping charm in first year? Who turned wilting flowers into their seeds in second year? You who dined with Minister Spencer-Moon and Longinus Malfoy?"

"Do you envy me, Flo?"

"Wake up, Mary! You're a Slytherin! The brightest lass Slughorn's met since Dumbledore's sister, who tragically died or whatever!" Florence took Mary by the shoulders and shook her unceremoniously. "Tom's really made a fool of you! Yes, he hurt you—rather badly, evidently, for you to sulk like this—but a house-witch. Mary Riddle, a house-witch. Good grief."

"But what could be greater than living the life of Carmen La Maudite?" Mary asked.

"Carmen the Cursebearer?!" Florence cried incredulously.

"Cursebearer? I don't know French. I just saw her in a book and I'd never seen such a beautiful woman. I told myself, surely she lead a charmed life."

"She was the half-sister of Bonstrégon. The Russians snatched her and locked her in a tower for twenty years. Then they killed her."

Mary suddenly felt sick. The chilly nocturnal wind blowing against her face went from vivifying to cold.

"Why? Why'd they kill her?"

"Her brother never even tried to save her. He easily could have. Bonstrégon never compromised his vision for his personal cares. That's what made him a Great Wizard."

"A Great Wizard? How horrid. How false. Beauty wouldn't suffer in the hands of greatness."

Mary felt a wave of revulsion wash over her like sewage water. The happiness she had felt just moments ago was now shattered into a thousand pieces. But she managed to compose herself and asked Florence a banal question.

"How would you like your life to be then, Flo?"

Florence, who perceived the silent fluctuation of emotions in Mary like a premonition of violence, jumped at the banal question.

"A husband's going to be needed. But he won't be everything. I won't be a house-witch, I'd have to be out of the house more than I'm in it. I'll need hunt monsters and curse people every now and then."

For the rest of the night, Mary let Florence talk of her witchy ambitions, of which there were a diverse, healthy many. Florence was as a Slytherin girl ought to be. When they returned to Tarquin's Court, the girls heard Mr. Travers' loud voice reverberate through the house. He conversed with someone whose voice was familiar to Mary. The girls stalked down the main corridor until they reached the lounge room, whose door, permitting a narrow view into its interior, had accidentally been left ajar. They spied on Mr. Travers through this fissure. He sat on an old armchair as though it were a throne, a glass of liquor in one hand and a long, wand-like pipe in the other. The only other apparent object in the dark room was a dim fireplace whose flame was a mellow, strawberry red. Mary gasped when she saw the flame was the shape of a man's head.

"… this week, Longinus. My men say it was done by blood-purist vigilantes, reacting against our alleged passivity towards Grindelwald."

"He's talking to Abraxas' dad!" Mary whispered in amazement.

"We shall attribute the deed to the Germans," croaked Longinus Malfoy, his head wreathed in flames. "The Department of Accidents and Catastrophes is overburdened. Any other course of action would be untenable. You shall apprise Churchill of this, disclosing only what he needs to know."

"Pish posh! Churchill! That fellow possesses the temper of a fourth-year Gryffindor beater. Furthermore, what shall be the response of the Minister? Smith appears to be armed and ready to draw. He is trying to turn the Minister against us," Mr. Travers exclaimed with a sneer.

"Smith has no allies," Malfoy said silkily. "He is as charismatic as an octogenarian house elf."

"His apprentice is the fiancée of Hector's son. They may form a coalition against us."

"Your father's talking about Ilaria Greeengrass! Who's Smith?" Mary hissed to Florence, who furiously pressed a shushing finger to her mouth.

But it was too late. Mr. Travers stirred in his seat, glared at the door, and drew his wand. Mary and Florence scrambled to run—but the door simply slammed shut. As they climbed the stairs, Mary interrogated Florence.

"So?" she asked in a whisper, as though Mr. Travers, whose resonant, shrill voice could still be heard as muffles through the walls, could still hear them. "What was all that?"

"I'm not sure," Florence replied, looking perplexed. "But I think he was talking about Sennacherib Smith. He's a rather odd chap, you know. He's the last heir of the founders."

"The founders of what, exactly?"

The two girls settled into their usual spots on the chaises in Florence's bedroom.

"He's the heir of Helga Hufflepuff, one of the founders of Hogwarts," Florence murmured, astonished that Mary was unacquainted with this fact. "You know, like Godric Gryffindor and Rowena Ravenclaw."

"I've never heard of him," replied Mary, in a somewhat defensive tone.

"He's a bit of a relic, really. His whole business is three centuries out of date, like carrying around a quill and inkwell. But apparently, all the founders had heirs. Rowena Ravenclaw chose a talented student to inherit her stuff, who then passed it on to someone else, and so on. But eventually, all the bits and bobs got lost or sold, and people stopped caring about who owned the most of Rowena's old knickers."

"Rowena's old knickers? How much do they go for at Diagon Alley?"

"Five hundred galleons, I'd wager. In any case he's the last heir there is—the Gryffindors kept theirs by blood, but only loosely. Sometimes a heir's son would be thick, so they'd choose their clever second cousin instead. Sometimes they settled who was heir by duel. I'd reckon too many of them got killed this way and they just stopped the charade. So now the only thing left is the Heir of Hufflepuff."

"But what about the Heirs of Slytherin?"

"Ours is most queer," said Florence. "They all came from one family, the Gaunts. Hold on, I've got just the book on them."

Florence popped up from her chaise, went to her bookshelf, and returned with a huge black book in her arms. She gestured for Mary to move and make space for her. Sitting down beside her, Florence placed the book between them. On its cover was a sombre grey tree, hardly distinguishable from the blackness of the book's binding, atop which was printed the following in a golden font:

The Sacred Twenty-Eight, Third Edition

Amended and Improved by Various Elder Unspeakables of that Noble Fellowship, the Department of Mysteries

"Gaunt, Gaunt, Gaunt," murmured Florence flipping through the pages. "Found them!"

Taking up the surface area of a large prostrate cat between the laps of the two girls, the book was designed so that every left page consisted of text, and every right page, of illustrations pertaining to the text. On the left page was a hefty introduction to the 'Sacred House of Gaunt', and on the right, four agreeable illustrations in a style that reminded Mary of the simple yet fantastical style of drawings one found in muggle's children's books. They were;

On the top left, the Knight of Jaunet, the progenitor of the Gaunt family. Astride a horse in a golden coat, he sat with a devil-may-care look, his blond hair tied in a long, singular braid, his charcoal black armour absorbing but not returning the sun, his black cape billowing like an evil curtain in a storm. In his gloved hand was a terrific weapon: a staff of wood entwined with yellow flowers jutting out of its criss-crosses, and the blade of a longsword sticking out of its end. A giant could have used it for a javelin; but for a magical knight it was at once a lance and a staff.

"What a beau," marvelled Florence.

On the top right, Salazar Slytherin himself. Mary was surprised by the simplicity of his figure, and the vigour of his simplicity. He wore a green robe the hue of overripe parsley, with no distinguishing features—it was neither large nor small, not tight nor loose—it had no ornamentation of any kind whatsoever. No layering, no embroidery, no jewellery—nothing. Mary would have been unable to find a wizard of such asceticism in all of Diagon Alley. His bald head, wild eyes, and long, unkempt grey beard reminded Mary of a painting she had seen of an evil Russian King. One of Slytherin's hands was behind his back; the other, furtively by his side, held his bone-coloured wand as though it were a dagger.

On the bottom left, Salazar Slytherin's daughter, Ermesinda. A beautiful young witch, she was dressed much more elaborately than her father, though she retained his penchant for the colour green. With the same lustrous black hair as Carmen La Maudite, she presented a face somehow too solemn and guarded for a witch her age. She wore a golden necklace with a large pendant, upon which glittering green stones encrusted to form the shape of a serpentine 's'. Elaborating on this theme, there was a long, vividly green snake coiled around her arm.

"I had a pet snake too when I was a little girl."

"'What happened to it?"

"A muggle boy scared it away."

On the bottom right, the Knight of Jaunet once again—except now his hair was black, and his armour, covered in golden heraldry. Although this knight likewise rode a warhorse and wielded the magnificent lance-staff, his face was much more grave and absorbed than that of his blond counterpart. While the blond Knight of Jaunet could have been a Gryffindor, the black-haired one was undoubtedly a Slytherin. The ambiguity of the Knight's features came from the fact that while none of the visual depictions of him survived him for long, many written chronicles did—a ridere blæc & gold—was it his armour that was black and his hair gold, or otherwise?

The tale was a tragedy. Salazar Slytherin was notorious for his protectiveness of his daughter's virtue—even his eleventh-century peers had found his style of custody a fault rather than a merit. He made Ermesinda a necklace that a few called blessed, but most called cursed. If any man laid a hand on its wearer, their hand would rot like carrion under the sun; and if they tried to kiss her, their lips would wilt like roses in the winter. The necklace could not be taken off Ermesinda—not even by her herself—until her death. Or at least Slytherin thought so. The virginal Ermesinda grew like a willow tree in a cavern under a tall cliff—she was beautiful, but inaccessible to mankind. Mary had already known that Salazar Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor had a row that led to the former leaving Hogwarts; what she had not known was that Slytherin deserted not only the school he helped found, but also the daughter with whom he was so obsessed.

"Typical wizard," Mary hissed under her breath.

But the worst of Slytherin's neglect was yet to come. Wherever the disgruntled old wizard went, he had become sick—Ermesinda knew, for she became sick as well. Her locket was infused with primal magic that bounded the souls of father and daughter. She perceived Salazar's sorrows, and he perceived hers; and through this horrible intuition she one day learned that he was dying. If he died, the locket would ensure that she would die as well.

Terrified, Ermesinda offered her hand in marriage to whoever could remove Slytherin's locket from her neck. Multiple suitors tried their hand at this quest, and more than one lost their hand from it. It took more than a knight, and more than a wizard, to deliver Ermesinda from her wicked father—it took a mageknight. The Knight of Jaunet was an adventurer from the continent who sought glory in Britain as a dragon-hunter. His great lance had been christened not only by the blood of dragons, but the bile of various magical creatures. He took Ermesinda Slytherin in marriage with a slash against her collarbone.

The Knight and new Lady of Jaunet, fearing the wrath of the dying father of the latter, fled Britain never to return. Likewise Salazar Slytherin, whether from death or a retreat into hermitism, would never reappear in history after his daughter's unsanctified marriage. The Jaunets would not return to Britain until long after Ermesinda's death.

"She looks terribly like you, Mary," said Florence, pointing to an illustration of Ermesinda holding Jaunet-the-Blond's hand, "and he's a handsome chap, isn't he?"

Saturday passed calmly. Potter did not come on weekends; having the entire day to themselves, Florence and Mary wrote the names of every Hogwarts student and professor they could recall onto a large sheet of parchment, to play 'matchmaking'. Florence was put with Augustus Sallow, a Slytherin boys' Prefect who graduated last year, while Mary, of course, was wedded to Arcanius Fawley. To spite both of them, Walburga Black was paired with Osborne Urquart.

At dinner, Mr. Travers was absent.

"Ellie! Where's my father?"

"Master Torquil has business at the Ministry, young mistress. Master told Ellie he will not return until tomorrow night."

"But which Ministry? It's not even built yet. The Ministry is but a few scattered offices across the country," interjected Florence, shooting a sidelong glance at Urquart.

"Ellie regrets her ignorance, young mistress. She only conveys what Master Torquil has told her," the elf repeated ruefully.

With an impatient wave of her hand, Florence dismissed the elf.

"I bet your father's at 10 Downing Street," Urquart drawled with a sly smile. "The Minister and his cronies meet with the muggle Wizengamot almost every day to discuss the war effort."

"Don't speak as if you are one of the Minister's men, Osborne," Florence retorted icily. "You're stuck here with us, two young girls, while the real wizards are meeting with the muggle."

"Alone indeed," murmured Urquart.

As dinner progressed, Mary noticed that Urquart's gaze was fixed upon her with an intensity that made her feel like a specimen under a microscope. She and Florence ate quickly and excused themselves before dessert was served. However, while ascending the stairs to Florence's room, Mary suddenly felt a pair of greedy hands grip her shoulders.

"Ah, I almost forgot, Riddle. I have a letter for you," Urquart whispered, his mouth uncomfortably close to her ear.

Mary turned around to shake off his grasp, her eyes wide with fear and hope. "From Caney?"

"No," replied Urquart in a voice so cold and possessive that Mary shuddered. "It is from Ilaria Greengrass."

"Greengrass? What could she want from me?"

"I suppose you it could only be one thing," Urquart said, thrusting the letter into Mary's hands with a knowing smirk.

The envelope bore no seal; it was secured with a crude sticking charm that Mary undid with finite incantatem. In it was a small, rectangular piece of parchment the size of a business card.

Do not dare write to Arcanius again, you smarmy little mudblood.

Clearly, this pathetic little epigram was meant to strike fear into Mary, and her heart indeed sank—but in resignation rather than fear. Was all the passion she put in her love letter to culminate in nothing but a sentence-long reprimand from Arcanius's domineering, frigid girlfriend? But before she could say anything, the parchment combusted in Mary's hand and burnt her fingers. She shrieked and slapped her hands together to put out the fire.

"Time for you to find a boy who's not already taken, Riddle," Urquart sneered.

"Like who?" asked Mary indignantly. "Yourself?"

"Me?" Urquart scoffed.

"You only ogled at me throughout the entire dinner."

"Ogle? Don't flatter yourself, Riddle."

"Flatter myself? You're the only one here with any 'thoughts'." Mary shot back.

Urquart snorted. "And what thoughts do I have?"

"Don't try to deceive me. You're not clever enough for that."

"I'm not clever?" Urquart asked, jealous and angry. "Riddle, you wrote a love letter to a boy who is engaged to the Head Girl- yes, Ilaria's becoming Head-"

"And what's that to you?" Mary asked, seething. "What concern is it of yours what Ilaria or I do? You're not her boyfriend, and you certainly won't be mine either."

"What?" Urquart scoffed, feeling threatened. "I can't believe you! Florence-"

"Don't speak to us. Come on, Mary, let's leave," Florence said firmly, taking Mary by the arm.

"Your coquette of a friend tried to kiss me on her very first night here!" yelled Urquart.

Mary's face twisted with anger and disbelief. "Do you really believe that?"

"This is what you did to Arcanius, isn't it? You enjoy toying with boys and then denying them once they're hooked on you." Urquart accused.

"But Osborne, you know I actually kissed Arcanius." Mary said with a sly smile. "You're nothing like him."

"You're trying to ruin his life, aren't you?" Urquart murmured, as if he had just made a great discovery. "I won't let you do that. I won't let Arcanius be ruined by you, Riddle."

Mary rolled her eyes. "You can't control Arcanius. He's above you. He's the son of a former Minister for Magic. You work as a labourer for two galleons a week. He doesn't need you, you need—"

Before Mary could finish her sentence, Urquart grabbed her by the arm and pulled her towards him, his foul breath assaulting her face. Florence, disgusted by her cousin's behavior, wrapped her arms around Mary protectively and tried to pull her away. Mary's heart raced with a sudden mix of desire and loathing, the only other time she had felt that way was with Tom.

"You!" Urquart snarled, his spittle landing on Mary's cheek. "You—you know nothing!"

Breathing heavily onto Mary's face, Urquart stared at her with wild eyes for a few more moments. Then, he grabbed her in a violent embrace, not one of affection, but one of rage and terror.

"You sicken me," Urquart spat out in a strangled voice.

After this nonsensical statement, Mary felt Urquart's hands roam all over her body, yanking her hair, roughly squeezing her neck, groping her waist, and violently grabbing at her behind. She could feel something slimy, wet, and warm pressing against her face, his lips and tongue. He kissed her all over before finally kissing her on the lips.

"Get off her! Incendio! Off! You vile worm!"

The spell and the imprecation that followed it came from Florence; the object of the former was Urquart's hair. Urquart yelled and wandlessly conjured water over his head; capitalising off the sudden freedom afforded to her by this moment, Mary frenziedly darted up the remaining stairs, bumping here against the wall and there against the handrail. She heard Urquart stomp down the stairs, followed by a series of enraged expletives from Florence directed at him, and then Florence herself running up the stairs to get to her.

"Oh Mary!" called Florence, wrapping her arms around Mary. "My dear Mary, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! Osborne is a foul, beastly little worm! I'll get my father to send him away, I will!"

Mary said nothing. In that moment her soul was swamped by a grey numbness that precluded all possibility of emotion or judgement. There was some hitherto dormant, childlike faculty within her—perhaps the same power that first enabled her to distinguish hot from cold, solid from liquid, and Tom from Billy—that spurred the motions of her mind to continue to think at all; if not in verbally or emotionally, then physically. Osborne Urquart's saliva was in her mouth. She needed to clean herself.

"I need to bathe," Mary mumbled automatically.

Florence's bathroom was a violet ensuite to her violet bedroom. Albeit smaller than the bathrooms of the Slytherin girls' dormitories, it was just as luxuriously appointed; an attribute Mary was, in that moment, unable to appreciate. Filling the tub with hot water, she sank into it and remained in tense motionlessness for a few minutes, like an old sculpture thrown into a pond. Then, there was a knock on the door—and for a moment Mary felt terror—before Florence's voice announced, "I've brought you some butterbeer."

Her desire to speak being more insubstantial than it ever had been, Mary gave her friend a mere nod of the head for the huge mug that was handed to her. Drinking it, because there was nothing else to do, Mary suddenly felt life return to her. In one long sip from decadent drink, she consumed the equivalent calories of a small cake or very large muffin; another sip, and all the dinner she had eluded was more than adequately compensated for by entire ounces of butter, cream, and sugar. But this sudden energy that streamed into Mary's brain did not furnish her with happy thoughts. Instead, it unearthed all her worst notions.

Arcanius rejected her. On some level Mary had known this since the fatal afternoon at his estate, though she also knew there was a tender part of him that would always prefer her over Ilaria—but these facts worsened rather than alleviated the pain of the basic fact. Mary's brother was farther from her than he had ever been; for the first time in Mary's life, Tom was completely inaccessible to her—she wasn't even able to send a letter to him—and even if she could, what would she write? He was the only family Mary had in the world—and he had sacrificed the greatest good both of them possessed for—for what?

Mary buried her head in the water so that Florence would not hear her scream.

She twisted and writhed in the bathtub like a fish thrashing on soil. Water spilled and splashed everywhere on the violet tiles. Raising her head from the surface of the water, Mary found that her desolation was beginning to transfigure into anger. She hated Osborne Urquart in the way she would have hated a sickly dog that spat on her and gave her a disease. She hated Arcanius not for betraying her, but for betraying his own desires—it was cowardice, rather than fate, that prevented them from becoming lovers—and she hated that she had ever been so stupid to love a coward. Most of all she hated Tom, for subjecting her to the caprices of Ilaria, and then abandoning her to the lecheries of Urquart.

Mary leant over the precipice of the bathtub and vomited.

Her anger subsided into a bitterness that buried itself deep in her heart. She became numb again. The world seemed too big, too cruel, and too overwhelming to navigate alone—and alone she was, for even Florence could not fill the lacuna left by Tom. Even her magic seemed at best a palliative, and at worst, a burden. For so long as she was estranged from Tom, both her wand and the pulsations of her heart disagreed with her.

Mary spent the rest of her time in the bath transfiguring little trinkets out of everything—a bar of soap into a rubber duck, a vial of shampoo into a singing warbler, her empty butterbeer glass into a little crystal ship—and played with it all like a foolish muggle child playing with toys.

"Mary?" came Florence's voice muffled by the door. "You've been in there for two hours. Are you alright?"

"Quite."

Silence ensued for a moment. Florence was unaccustomed to such unresponsiveness on the part of her friend.

"Aren't you sleepy?"

"I think so," said Mary, transfiguring a violet crab back into a violet towel. "May I sleep with you tonight?"

"Of course, my dear."

By the time Mary got into bed, she knew she would not fall asleep anytime soon. It rained, but rain is only conducive to calmness when one is already calm. Florence, who had fallen soundly asleep soon after the pair of them got into bed, was evidently tranquillised by the rain; but Mary's pool of misery only began to well again.

Not wanting to be alone with her thoughts, Mary sought distraction. She saw The Sacred Twenty-Eight lying open on Florence's dresser and levitated it across the room into her hands. She would rather think of the ancient descendants of Salazar Slytherin than anything that had happened in the last day.

It was not until two centuries later, after the Norman conquest and two civil wars, that the Jaunets would return to the Scottish castle Ermesinda Slytherin and her lover-knight fled. Menoetius Jaunt, the first of the many who would later be known as the Gaunts, ascended to the exalted post of Head-of-Slytherin-House and Potions Professor—a title that, in the Britain of yore, was held in esteem equal to that of 'Lord Treasurer,' and was, for a century, synonymous with 'Heir of Slytherin'. Through their connections at Hogwarts, the Gaunts of Edinburgh rose to become one of the wealthiest, most powerful, and most haughty families in all of Britain. But, alas, their pride grew to such a towering height that they deemed their blood too pure to mingle with that of those who lacked it. Soon, few daughters of the Gaunts would deign to change their name for marriage. Within a century, cousin-marriage gave way to sister-marriage, and it wasn't long before the great house became known for all the wrong reasons.

The High Mediaeval Ages witnessed their downfall. Incestuous relations, gambling, drunken brawls, and unpaid debts besmirched the once illustrious clan. First, they relinquished their hereditary office of Head-of-Slytherin-cum-Potions-Master. Then, their patriarchs ceased to register themselves as the 'Heir of Slytherin' with the Wizengamot. Finally, Gringotts was forced to liquidate their East Lothian manor; they migrated south to England, where they frittered away their days in squalid isolation. A sordid, deflating end to what had begun as a love story. Yet, just as Mary was about to conclude the chapter and close the book, she chanced upon something truly incredible.

1493 saw Saturnius Gaunt, the last member of this ancient, revered house to sit on the Wizengamot, reduced to what muggles call 'snake-charming' (quite unrelated to what we understand as ophiomancy, a discipline largely unknown in our age, but practised among the Gaunts, for ophiomancy required that great hereditary mark of all Heirs of Slytherin, the power of understanding the speech of snakes, called parseltongue). For muggles, snake-charming was but a frivolous diversion for the wealthy; indeed, by the late fifteenth century, the Gaunts had become court jesters for muggle highborns.