It was three o'clock in the morning. Under a starry sky decorated with peaceful bundles of clouds, Mary rested on a cushioned lounger at the beach beneath Tarquin's Court. A glass of iced butterbeer in one hand, she waved her wand with the other to transform a bluish-black cloud of smoke into the faces of various personages involved in the tragicomedy of her life. Ms. Cole turned into Walburga Black, who turned into Ilaria Greengrass, who turned into Maia Gaunt, who turned into Mary herself, who finally turned into Tom.

Beside Mary's lounger, Florence slept soundly on a violet towel spread over the sand; both of them were covered in enchanted purple blankets protecting them from the coastal wind. Ceasing the motions of her wand, Mary's cloud of faces dissipated into the night air. She sighed and redirected her attention to the sound of the waves lapping against the rocks of the beach. Despite its absence of melody, it was delightfully musical—there were a thousand little liquid cadences, each predestined to recur eternally.

Suddenly, explosions.

Mary's senses were overwhelmed, her ears ringing and her heart racing. Reacting with animal instinctiveness, she leapt from her chaise and grasped her wand with defensive readiness, while Florence, too, sprang upright in a frenzy of alarm.

"Merlin, what is happening!" Florence cried out, with a fear that Mary had never heard before.

Her mind having floated about in a dreamy trance for the past few hours, Mary failed to make sense of her sudden recollection to Earth. For a moment, she entertained the absurd notion that Urquart—who, looking like a debilitated, sentient boiled egg, had been sent to St. Mungo's—had come back to avenge himself, and was blowing up Tarquin's Court. But a second volley of explosions, and a quick glance in the direction of the smoke rising in the distance, soon dispelled that fanciful notion. The blasts were coming from miles away, to the East.

"It's the Germans," Mary realised with a sense of dread. She clamped her hands over her ears as another rumble sounded. "They've finally reached Wales."

"Ah!" cried Florence in an oddly disappointed tone. She lowered her wand and loosened her shoulders. "Muggle Germans. They won't even be able to see us. But must they be so infernally loud?"

Unperturbed, Florence sat back down on her towel, shrouded herself in her purple blanket, and lay down with an irritated sigh. But Mary continued to look apprehensively at the sky. She feared not for herself, but for Tom. The Daily Prophet had reported bombings in London, Aberdeen and Bristol among other coastal cities on a weekly basis through the summer, and while at first the steadily increasing destructiveness of these attacks unsettled her, Mary had found a consolation in the Luftwaffe's seeming avoidance of inland cities, such as Cambridge, and its utter indifference towards Wales. But that the second of these notions turned out to be false evaporated Mary's faith in the first.

The explosions stopped, but an ominous droning sounded in the distance. The noise, manifold and mechanical, grew louder by the second. Mary imagined a troop of giant mosquitoes migrating oceanward to predate on dolphins. When she saw the German planes—three of them in a 'V' formation, the ugly grey crosses on their sides betraying their origin—this impression was doubly reinforced. Flying westward along the coast, they left a stream of lifeless smoke in their wake. Where wizard was made noble by his broom, muggle man was reduced—or perhaps elevated—into a malignant, mechanised tumour by this machine that was designed to do nothing but kill. Two sudden impulses clashed in Mary like a pair of thunderclouds; the first was to shoot the bombers out of the sky and wrench their pilots from the wreckages like a vicious child prying snails from their shells; the second, to run and scream and cry for Tom. She acted on neither, and the whirring of engines soon faded in the distance.


All trains from Cambridge to London were cancelled. The Germans had bombed the railways. Tom glared at the painted boarding signifying this—not because it inconvenienced him, no; there remained plenty of ways to get to London—but because (he calculated precisely with newsprint, map, and ruler) the Luftwaffe had come thirty-one miles within Wool's Orphanage. He wished he never left Mary in London, even if he knew that his desire for her burned particularly hot in that moment because of the estrangement between them he was exclusively responsible for. Though his obsessive reading of The Times told him that the Luftwaffe had only bombed factories and airfields on the outskirts of London, the idea of his sister being in danger quickly became Tom's consuming passion; he spent two sleepless nights in the University library reading about aerial bombing in the Spanish Civil War.

For a few days Tom considered contacting Mrs. Cole. It would have been so easy to call the London Area Director and make all the inquiries he desperately wished to make to her. But whenever he stopped before one of the many telephone booths in the vicinity of the inn where he, Thane, and Alexius were lodged, Tom recalled the foremost principle of their mission—that as few people as possible were to know where they were.

On the last day of August, the three Slytherin boys squeezed into a crowded red double-decker bus to London. The trip took a little over an hour, and for nearly every minute of it Tom's face was pressed against the window. He intently observed the muggle rabble that fled the city—muggles in trucks, in cars, on foot, on mules—as though his sister would be among them. She was not; she could not have been. Shortly before they entered the city proper, Tom beheld the smoking ruins of a factory surrounded by army trucks and ambulances.

At the break of the next day, they sat down for breakfast at The Leaky Cauldron; over pancakes with salted treacle butter Alexius Lestrange announced, "Chaps, let's not kid ourselves. Are we really daft enough to think we stand a chance at swiping Greengrass's necklace?"

Tom raised an eyebrow and calmly replied, "It's not impossible, Alexius."

On Tom's plate rested a stack of pancakes, barely touched. He was not hungry—two predominating emotions in him drowned all the others out: he needed to see his sister, and verify that she was alright and in one piece; and he was, after five long weeks, utterly tired of the company of the two older boys.

Alexius let out a derisive snort. "Not impossible? Well, fancy that. Ilaria's probably got the best warders in the wizarding world on that bloody trinket, thanks to Mary's little stunt last year. And what do we have? A third-year who's too fond of his sister, and a sixth-year who thinks he's Herpo reborn."

"Let us not forget yourself, dear Lestrange," Thane murmured.

"Borgin's wards couldn't stop us, so why should Ilaria's?" asked Tom.

Alexius leaned forward, his face inches away from Tom's. "We nearly met Merlin in Herncastle's bedroom, you twat."

"But we did not," Thane said calmly. "And it is unlikely that Ilaria's necklace is warded to kill, dear Lestrange."

Tom signalled his concurrence with Thane by a slight inclination of his head. "It's too late to turn back."

"Greengrass wears that necklace around her pretty neck like it's Salazar Slytherin's codpiece. A cheeky switching charm won't cut it this time," Alexius said sharply. "And Mulciber, quit with the 'dear Lestrange' nonsense. If you want to shag a bloke, take a trip to Knockturn Alley."

"Perhaps we ought to forget Greengrass," suggested Thane, "and deal with Borgin directly."

Alexius burst into raucous laughter. "Borgin? That man's supposed to be rotting in Azkaban. Do you really think you stand a chance against the likes of him? Merlin's beard, Mulciber, you really do think you're the next Herpo. Why rush everything now? We're students. Hate to sound like old Sluggy, but it's more important we focus on learning than on this fool's errand of stealing a highly warded necklace."

"So, our whole summer was for nought?" Tom asked.

"Not for nought, Tom," said Thane. "You've had a brush with death now. It's a memory you can draw from, and there are certain sorts of spells that such a memory would come in handy for."

"Oh, for Salazar's sake, Mulciber, spare us the mystical rubbish and just say it'd help with Dark Magic," snapped Alexius, "but yes, Tom, not everyone on a broom can catch the snitch."


Mary exhaled in relief as she made it to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. King's Cross Station had been a crowded, chaotic mess; besides having to push their way through the infinite mass of muggle evacuees and battalion of useless soldiers deployed to facilitate their movement, she and Florence respectively wore emerald and violet silk robes, which gained them a hundred more perplexed yet passionate stares from muggle men than they cared for.

Although the magical side of the station was physically unchanged from how it had been both years previous, its existential dimension had profoundly evolved. In their 1938 debut on the platform, Mary had felt every inch a little girl under the divine protection of Tom; in 1939 she still felt, and was in fact vis-à-vis the other students, small, but nonetheless comfortably substantial in conjunction with Tom; now in 1940 she was uncomfortably yet proudly conscious of the fact she somehow stood even taller than most of boys in the year above her—indeed, she was among the well-dressed, impassive-faced older girls that incoming first years stared at with awe—while her brother was nowhere to be seen.

"Look, there's old Prince!" said Florence.

Indeed, a few yards from the girls stood their favourite potioneer—Sextus Prince, a pale, androgynous vampire ("though he's not a real vampire," Florence clarified). His long, silkily straight black hair could have belonged to a wizard or witch of any age. His slender physique, sheathed gracefully in velvety black robes trimmed with lace, likewise had this ageless quality—it was only his thin, austere face that betrayed anything of his real person. Though his pale skin was as unblemished as milk, its hue was a morbid one—that of colourless chalk with undertones of blue—a symptom of decades of chronic potion consumption. Yet this pallor enhanced his charm. The only thing that spoiled his airs of vampirish suavity was his large, hooked nose.

"I didn't know he was a father," Mary murmured in astonishment, scrutinising the runty little girl at the elegant potioneer's side. "It's quite queer to see him outside his shop, don't you think?"

The girl, a pale, sniffling little thing in a bleak little yellow shirtdress, possessed none of her father's presence, but inherited in its entirety his crooked, manly nose. Her father held her by the wrist authoritatively, calling to Mary's mind an image of those glorified bodyguards in Westminster they called 'beefeaters' handling their rifles.

"Her name's Eileen," clarified Florence. "I've seen her assist at her father's boutique working cauldrons, must have a good head on her shoulders."

"Eileen Prince. An uncouth name for an uncouth little thing," Mary said slyly. "Come, let's find prettier children to gaze upon."

Three minutes later, the third year girls found leaning against one of the platform's many archways a pair of familiar, handsome young boys. A resigned, pale blond in a caramel white suit-robe ensemble reminiscent of a sailor uniform and a slender, vigorous tanned brown-haired boy in a dark violet robe.

"Goodness, Abraxas!" exclaimed Mary as the sophisticated and sickly blond boy approached her, and pulled her into a most unexpected but firm and welcome embrace. Helplessly smiling, she ruffled his hair, surprised at how much taller and stronger he had become. By his side, warm Antoine Rosier wore an expression of perplexed merriment.

Abraxas straightened his gown. "I've missed you dreadfully, Mary. Let's find a compartment, I've got things for you."

"But you've already given me so much," said Mary coyly. "Your voice is deeper."

"Is it?" he squeaked hopefully.

"Not anymore," laughed Mary. "Yes, let's find a spot on the train. Hello, Antoine. I hope you had a pleasant summer!"

With like affinity, Florence and Antoine Rosier joined this ceremony of pleasantries; at first they fraternised with adult-like courtesy, each quip made and laugh induced restrained by a contrived gracefulness imitative of that of their parents'. But their parents were not around, so quickly they were chattering about everything and nothing, laughing hysterically at every turn. Mary felt her heart warm at the liveliness of her friends; it was nearly enough—at moments indeed enough—to make her forget that she had yet to make anything of the sordid events or grand revelations of the summer. Antoine regaled them with a tale of a gargantuan boy he spotted on the platform, a chimaera with the "Face of a fat child but the body of a young ogre, you'll see." In turn Florence talked of the diminutive daughter of Sextus Prince. Antoine, whose silky curled hair and faultless tan skin betrayed an indulgent potions regimen, pretended to be ignorant of the existence of the first year girl's father.

After entrusting their luggage to the porter elves, the quartet, chattering and laughing like children on Christmas morning, were ready to board the train and find a compartment to share, before Abraxas gently tapped Mary's shoulder and murmured, "There's your brother."


Like a gargoyle sculpted into the façade of a decayed cathedral, Tom stared at his sister with neither frown or smile. She had grown in size and beauty over the summer. The smooth emerald robes that enveloped her promoted the porcelain clarity of her skin, accentuated the vernal curves of her shape, and contrasted her violently from Tom who wore a black acromantula silk robe with no accentuation except a faint red trim. The distinction between them was sharpened by the troupes that attended each; on Mary's left side was Rosier and Malfoy—both of whom were shorter than her, and somehow more effeminate than her although obviously inferior to her on every count—and on her right was Florence Travers, likewise in an overrefined dress, who stared at Tom with an unreadable expression. While Mary was the tallest among her coterie of dandy pureblood heirs, Tom was slightly shorter than both Thane and Alexius. Both Tom's companions had wild airs, and wore faded dark robes—they had slept poorly in the past week; neither of them had gotten haircuts in over three months; and summer had been for them a monstrous fairground where evil pleasure had been mongrelised by a near-death experience.

As Tom sauntered up to his sister, all the weak little creatures surrounding her averted his gaze. He knew that Alexius and Thane smirked behind him. Through the summer his desire for Mary (and willingness to overlook her unforgivable infidelity) had swelled and swelled until it became as much a reason for his insomnia as the Sultan's dagger. But his passion did not blind him. 'Clarity is found as much in fire, as in water ('Axiomata Virtutis III', In Virtute Tenebrae, p. 45). His hunger for his sister was a source of infinite energy, and with it he had invented and memorised an entire speech, with plenty of rhetorical flourishes, that would be delivered to her at the very platform on which they currently stood.

But upon coming near her and discerning her familiar, plumlike perfume, which attracted and repelled him at once like a magnetic field of unstable magic, Tom changed his mind. Her lovely dark eyes, so much like his own yet infinitely gentler than his, looked at him with simultaneous defiance and affection. A coil of her black hair was tucked between her neck and shoulder, gleaming, like molten onyx against the cream pallor of her—his—their—skin. He could not believe he had ever been angry at her, and he realised that perhaps he had hurt her much more deeply than he ought to have. Beauty and fragility were one and the same thing in Mary; she was his; and he had to get her away from all the imbeciles that surrounded them.

"Mary," he said quietly but firmly, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Let's get a compartment for ourselves. Just the two of us."

She looked at her friends with a countenance of deeply profound regret for a moment (all her expressions were of this nature—the faintest emotions produced spectacular artistic effects on her person, by virtue of her consummate beauty, in the same way that the shadow of someone atop a mountain would be gigantic), before turning to Tom with a faint smile and assenting to his suggestion with a low, firm, "Sure."


Tom was resplendently handsome. He wore a black robe, one that Mary hadn't seen before, trimmed with crimson that grazed the floor, over a simple white muggle cotton shirt and a pair of grey shorts held up by suspenders. It was undoubtedly a gift from Lestrange or Thane; but Mary was certain that Tom had chosen it. Or perhaps she just thought so, and perhaps she thought him handsome, only because she missed him.

Physically Tom had transformed over the summer, as if to the end of fitting better in this outfit; Mary suspected that even he could not comprehend the extent to which he had changed. He had stretched lengthwise—had become unmistakably taller than her—while his shoulders had broadened and solidified like glaciers around his thin neck. His hair, covering the entirety of his forehead and falling to his cheeks, had never been as long or wild as it was then, while the contours of his face had taken on a sharpness that gave him a new, distinct severity. Mary at once knew that something happened to him over the break. Indeed, though Tom was in the springtime of his life, it seemed that in the short interval of two months he had metamorphosed from a grim little seedling into an elegant, morose sapling. Appropriate, perhaps, considering that the summer Mary spent at Tarquin's Court had been the longest one of her life yet.

Then, he heaved her up into the carriage and pulled her, baffled and blushing, into an empty compartment whereupon they sat across each other.

"Mary." Tom said her name quite casually, and without any airs or gestures to suggest that he was to tell her anything significant, before declaring, "I missed you terribly."

Mary was not sure what she had expected her brother to say, but it was not this. Though a butterbeer-flavoured giddiness overtook her, an intense resentment surged alongside it. It was an admission of desire; not an apology. Nonetheless the manner in which they both looked at each other, and indeed leaned forward to stare at each other, was patently desirous, like two strands of devil's snare that had been cleaved in half by a cleaver, organically seeking to reunite, re-entwine. Mary's initial plan had been to withhold all her emotions; to maintain a cool distance from her brother, and let warmth return to them upon his making sufficient amends—but his bluntness made her soft and supple. So she leaned forward, mirroring how he leaned forward.

"Come, lay your head in my lap, like we did as kids," Tom said, his voice a mix of affection and authority. A faint, childlike smile graced his features.

It appeared that her brother had opted for brazenness as the strategy for reunification. Mary wanted to snort; but instead acquiesced with a small nod—how could she help it? She stood up, went to his bench, and laid down, such that her head was on his legs and her knees arched towards the ceiling. Tom brushed a few strands of hair from her head and inclined his head ever so slightly down—the effect was comical and charming at once. Pride suffused his features, and a familiar expression came onto his face—a curled smile signifying that he had gotten what he wanted.

"How was your summer?" he asked, much more softly, now that they were close.

The prospect of telling him the truth was a tantalising one, but Mary knew to refrain from it. There would be too many consequences. Tom would blame Florence for her lack of protectiveness; blame Mary for flirting with Urquart at all; blame, and perhaps try to kill Urquart, for all that he had done; in a word he would blame everyone but himself. Yet she knew that his affection and anger often came together, like a pair of flowers from a single stem.

"I spent it with Florence by the Welsh coast."

For a moment, Tom's eyes narrowed and his expression was inscrutable; but then he continued in the same gentle, almost ridiculous voice he had asked his initial question in. "How was that?"

Mary felt a sudden surge of anger, but quickly suppressed it (a reflex that was quickly becoming automatic). "I'd rather not speak of it," she said, her voice low and measured.

Tom's expression turned grave, his gentle tone replaced with one of concern. "Did someone hurt you?"

Mary gulped and stared disconsolately at Tom's jaw, which looked so absurdly pale and angular from beneath, almost like a fossil with a false membrane in white wax. A thousand sickly thoughts began to race in her mind. To tell him, or tell him not? Discomfort begat sadness, and sadness begat anger. But Tom was relentless. "Tell me," he commanded, cupping her forehead tightly, possessively with his hand. "Who hurt you?"

Tom's grip tightened, and Mary felt a magical quality to the pain. "Tell me!" he hissed, his face contorted with anger.

"No!" she cried out, before composing herself and whispering, "I shan't say anything more. You'll think less of me, call me weak."

"I don't think you're weak," he stated, suddenly composed (and Mary, suddenly irritated, at this one constant that had not changed over the summer—Tom's tendency to fluctuate between opposing emotions so rapidly) and tracing a finger down her neck. "You can't be, for I'm not. But you've clearly been hurt."

Mary took a deep breath and snatched Tom's hand. "What a brilliant observation," she snapped, "after I just all but confessed exactly that!"

Tom's expression hardened. "You want me to take the blame for your pain, but I won't. You have strength and intelligence, but your fickleness overshadows them. You bring your own pain upon yourself."

Mary released his hand. "So I'm not weak, just a fool."

"Inexperienced. Yearning. A baby dragon with grown-up wings. Tell me who did you wrong—I'll pay them back tenfold."

"I've already paid them back," Mary replied. "If you truly believed I have 'strength and intelligence', you would have figured that out."

"Then you did well," Tom said, his expression softening. "I'm proud of you."

He began tracing a finger up and down her neck again.

At once exasperated by Tom's shamelessness but admiring of his effortless tenacity, Mary let out a long sigh and gazed beyond her brother's jaw and overlong, to the window—the sight to which it opened was moving. She hadn't even realised that the train had started moving at some point during their discussion, so tense had it become.

"I don't want to talk about this any more."

Tom, nodding silently, retracted his curious hand and drew his wand, pointed it at the window, and wordlessly transformed the glass into water. Mary shrieked—but rather than going everywhere as it should've against a moving train, the water stayed perfectly still, replicating the exact dimensions and limpid tranquillity of its prima materia.

"As I figured," said Tom, twirling his wand. "The protective spells on this train are good—really good—they allow matter to be penetrated, but not transformed. More durable that way."

Surprised that Tom would bother learning her frivolous glass-weaving spell, Mary quickly concluded that he had only done so to impress her. But rather than yield to his model of intimacy—him to act, and her to praise—she met his magic with her own.

"Expecto memoriam."

Mary's spell had an instant effect, distorting reality before them. Dozens of little crystalline jellyfish appeared to swim through the motionless water where the window had once been. It was like peering into the calm sea of the Bristol Channel—but with the surface of the water and all its depths rotated ninety degrees on an invisible cosmic pivot. By turning her wand left, the jellyfish swam towards the left; right, they went towards the right; spinning her wand in circles, she created a mesmerising wreath of sparkling bluish membrane.

"Soul magic," Tom exclaimed, his eyes aglow with that all-encompassing wonder that Mary both loved and loathed. "Did you learn that at Florence's?"

"Soul magic? The book I learned this spell from called it 'painting.' Wouldn't it be lovely if we painted together?"

"This is more than muggle painting, Mary."

"Oh, really?" Mary asked with a mocking smile.

"Consider, then, whether it would come with any cost?"

"Why should it?"

"There is a good reason why magical artists often succumb to melancholy or madness over time. The ability to reproduce one's memories with such clarity drains one's energy and magic. One begins to confuse memories with reality. Do you not wonder how Carmen la Maudite lost her mind?"

"Because the Russians kept her locked up in a tower for years—wait—how do you know about Carmen?"

"You ask me that?" Tom retorted, in a tone that signified at once nostalgia, indignation, and amusement. "You, who has on innumerable occasions flipendo'd history books out of my hand with the admonishment, 'Oh Tom, stop living in the past and enjoy the present?' How do you know about her? You, who care so little for history."

"Maybe I acquired an affinity for history over summer," said Mary with affected nonchalance.

Feeling oddly belittled, Mary took her head out of Tom's lap and sat up straight; but seeing a look of sudden, unmistakable disappointment cross his face, she gave in and decided on resting her head on his shoulder.

The smoothness of Tom's robe was particularly agreeable in tandem with the firmness of his shoulder. Tom brushed a coil of hair from her eye so that he could bizarrely look at her sidewise. His gaze was full of desire, but now that their customary bickering had seemed to come to a standstill, it seemed transformed into something softer, and perhaps even loving, like it had been before they entered Hogwarts. Perhaps it was the product of whatever he had undergone through summer, separate from her; now his passion was fused with a certain patience—perhaps it was no longer entirely destructive.

"What electives did you choose?" Mary whispered, snuggling her head closer to Tom's, eager to talk of something lighter.

"Ancient Runes and Divination."

"Divination?"

"Don't you think it would be useful to see the future? Or at least get glimpses of it?"

"But you don't see the future. Professor Pond isn't even a real seer, just a snob with a penchant for crystal balls—and teenage witches, or so the rumours go. Everyone only takes divination for an easy grade."

"What if I am?" Tom asked with a playful smile. "If Pond proves to be a charlatan, I'll switch to Arithmancy. What did you choose?"

"Ancient Runes and Magical Creatures."

"Magical Creatures," Tom repeated.

Mary nodded emphatically. "Yes! You get to go out of the castle frequently, even into the Forbidden Forest. It's no wonder it's the most popular third-year elective."

Tom scoffed. "Incendio is the most popular spell for third-years who wish to boil an egg."

Mary laughed.

"You chose magical creatures because Florence is doing it, didn't you?" Tom continued, placing an arm around her shoulder.

"That may have played a part in my decision," Mary admitted.

Tom appeared to have something on his mind, and Mary was keenly aware of what it might be; but he refrained out of consideration for her, though he knew she knew—it was that they ought to take the same electives. It was unbearable that he could not speak frankly, that they were becoming so distinct and opposed, when as children they bathed together and splashed water on each other's faces, backs. Yet still, it was so easy to tell what her brother thought—perhaps there was no need for speech, when they could communicate silently like that. Nonetheless there was one bit of knowledge she withheld from Tom, that he could no way infer through the pure intensity of his staring.

You've changed over the summer. So have I—we've both gotten stronger. Moreover I learned something very important … I'll tell you only if you promise that you'll keep being lovely to me, as you are right now, forever and ever and ever.

Imbecile, Mary thought of herself. A Gaunt should not idealise. All of Tom's loveliness would be spoiled, she realised, if he was to learn that they were some of the last–if not the last—living heirs of Salazar Slytherin. His ego would swell, then rot. He would carve from their sad motley of violent, incestuous, idiot ancestors a sickly pantheon against which she would be measured—she much preferred merely being his sister, and nothing more. The House of Gaunt was an ancient tree from which spurted innumerable sickly, withered branches, while the Riddles were in that moment a pair of twins within a warm little enclosure entangled in affection, indifferent to and ignorant of whatever obligations they had to the world. Maia would want her to lie; Tom was not yet ready for the truth.

With a bright smile, Mary turned to her brother. "Would you mind stepping out of the compartment for a few moments? I need to change into my Hogwarts robes."

Two years ago they had helped each other change into their Hogwarts robes. Tom looked disappointed, but kept his posture upright as he said, "Of course," before exiting.


Mary felt something of a princessly arrogance as she stepped into the Great Hall; she was to Salazar Slytherin, whose colours were trimmed into the robes of the four or five dozen most elegant students in the castle, what Princess Elizabeth is to William the Conqueror. She was tall—too—had discovered that despite all the travails of summer, she had grown several inches, and become more physiognomically defined. Perhaps it were those very travails that incited her to grow—would not her body, in stress, seek to respond to it by prematurely hastening her entrance into womanhood?

The adoring glances of the boys in her house only added to her sense of majesty. Tom was not oblivious to these glances. He tightened his grip on her hand and wore an aloof yet firm expression suggesting nothing less than complete possession of her.

With Tom's slim, warm hand still clasping hers, Mary glanced apprehensively as her brother turned his face towards Florence, who was swiftly approaching them. His countenance was suffused with suspicion and accusation, barely concealed beneath a veneer of civility. No words were exchanged between the three of them, and yet Florence was astute enough to perceive the designs that Tom harboured in his mind. Mary merely offered Florence a consolatory smile, as if to say, this could not have been avoided.

They took their seats, perused the obligatory war papers strewn across the table, and made small talk. Mary, however, found herself studying her brother once more; both their countenances had visibly developed over the summer (his face was now particularly elongated, his eyebrows almost comically but profoundly alluring).

Then, the new first-years filed in. Mary couldn't believe how small they were; that she and Tom could have ever been as defenseless and unspoiled to the world as they were. But above all, they were tiny—oh so tiny. All except for one.

"What on earth is that?" William Wilkes jeered, pointing his finger at a first-year who towered over the rest. "Is it even human?"

As round as a bludger but as tall as the Headmaster, the subject of Wilkes' ridicule still possessed the countenance of a very self-conscious, melancholic 11-year-old boy.

"A half-breed giant," Walburga Black declared with a knowledgeable air, her disgust palpable. "Thank goodness it'd be too dim for Slytherin."

"And yet here you are, Wally dearest," Florence chimed, her grin stretching ear to ear. "Only joking! Only joking," she said, patting Walburga's arm as she scowled.

Observing Tom on her right, Mary saw that her brother's look was also disdainfully cast towards the overlarge little boy; but Mary soon discovered that his contempt was not actually directed at the innocent boy. Rather he actively, feverishly sought anyone who looked at her—she knew he wanted other boys to gaze upon her and admire her—only so that he could look them down. It was his way of protecting her without actually doing anything, and perhaps also, Mary dimly suspected, a way of admiring her beauty vicariously, like how the gluttonous delight in watching others devour food. Mary felt helplessly annoyed at all of this, but then suddenly recollected that he had other, more proactive plans, to protect her.

"Tom," Mary murmured, clasping her brother's arm with both of hers. "Please don't pester Florence about my summer. It will only make things more difficult."

Tom's face snapped towards her with mechanical quickness, his eyes glinting with a hint of annoyance. "I shall know the truth sooner or later anyhow. You can't keep secrets forever."

He spoke true; it would take only a day or two for him to notice that Osborne Urquart, who always flanked Arcanius, was missing—rumours would start to circulate.

Mary let out a frustrated sigh. "I'll tell you soon, I promise. Just please, leave Florence out of it."

Just then, Professor Merrythought's voice boomed across the Great Hall, interrupting their conversation. "When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," she exclaimed.

And so the Sorting Ceremony began. Mary's gaze wandered through the sea of students, but none caught her attention until a familiar name and face were called forth—Héloïse Fawley. With her dark, curly hair that was so reminiscent of Arcanius's, pretty little Héloïse skipped confidently to the stool, as if she had already been sorted. It took but a few fleeting moments before the Sorting Hat bellowed "SLYTHERIN," much to Mary's surprise. Héloïse had not struck her as particularly cunning or ambitious, yet there she was, joining the ranks of the serpentine house.

As Héloïse settled into her new place, next to Arcanius—the spot to his right just about vacant enough for her little form to fit in, Mary suddenly felt ill—she was so used to seeing Arcanius flanked by Osborne Urquart. His absence was too conspicuous; it was perhaps more disturbing than his presence would have been. Her lips felt dirty, and she quickly averted her gaze before Tom could catch on.

A dainty blond boy called Lenobius Greengrass was sorted into Slytherin, before the figure everyone was waiting for was called upon—

"Hagrid, Rubeus!"

The lumbering, overlarge boy in his ragged secondhand robe (whose former proprietor had probably been a reckless seventh-year with a proclivity for Fiendfyre) approached the stool with trepidation, momentarily halting before it as if questioning its ability to bear his weight. Observing this, Professor Merrythought deftly raised her wand and cast a reinforcing charm upon the stool; a thick burst of silver light shot from her wand, eliciting both laughter and awe from all four of the tables. But Hagrid remained wary, continuing to eye the stool with suspicion as he gingerly lowered himself onto the seat.

Perched atop his head, the Sorting Hat looked positively absurd—like a cherry tomato precariously balanced on a mammoth loaf of sourdough bread. Mary couldn't help but stifle a giggle. But it wasn't long before the hat sprang into action, its voice bellowing forth: "GRYFFINDOR!"

Never before had the Gryffindor table erupted with such elation—it was as if news had just surfaced that the war had finally ended, that Godric Gryffindor himself had risen from the dead to expunge Gellert Grindelwald. Several of their male members rose to their feet, shooting fireworks towards the ceiling with their wands, illuminating the hall with crimson and gold. A few audible Stupefys could even be heard. Half of the professors appeared amused; the other half, exasperated.

Hagrid, for his part, did not precisely revel in the glory the lions bestowed upon him—his countenance was one of utter bewilderment as he lumbered heavily to the Gryffindor table.

"Hornby, Olive," came the next call to the stool. A girl with a haughty air made her way to the stool. She was petite and slender, two qualities which, in tandem with a moderately pretty face, seemed to be the source of her confidence. As she was sorted into Ravenclaw, the polite applause seemed to barely satisfy her ego, as if she expected a grander reception befitting her perceived superiority.

Through the rest of the Sorting, Mary oscillated between three activities. She marvelled at how minuscule the new first-years were, reflecting on how she and Tom must have once been as small and ignorant as they (though perhaps not on the latter count). She smiled at particular boys among them, trying to captivate their attention and fixate their gazes upon her—an inaccessible, beautiful older girl, something she revelled in being. And intermittently, she cast a glance towards Tom to ensure he did not take notice of the absence of Osborne Urquart by Arcanius' side.

Shabby Eileen Prince was also sorted into Slytherin, and Mary felt a twinge of pity for her. Unless she was to undergo a beautifying ritual in one of her later years (which, as Mary knew from accidentally eavesdropping on various older girls, involved no small amount of painful human transfiguration), it was improbable that she would ever look even a fraction as lovely as Héloïse Fawley.

The final student to be sorted was a certain "Warren, Myrtle"—a plump, bespectacled, and pale girl with a timid gait, an uninspired coiffure, and an expression of barely-concealed wonder at the grandeur of Hogwarts Castle. It was plain to see that she was a muggleborn, and this fact seemed to imbue her with a certain air of diffidence. She became a Ravenclaw, and like Eileen, she would be among the less aesthetically pleasing girls of her year. Mary couldn't help but speculate on the potential silver linings of Myrtle's fate. While she may not receive the same adoration from boys as her more attractive peers, she would also be spared from unwanted attention. Jealousy from other girls would not be a concern, but the solitary existence that awaited her was surely a lonely one.

The Headmaster rose once more, and the faces of those gathered around Mary were suffused with a sense of impatient ennui. No new professors graced the staff table, and thus no new introductions were to be made. Before the long-awaited feast, only customary announcements remained regarding out-of-bounds areas, forbidden curses, and other banalities.

"Students, staff, friends, and all… welcome to a new year at Hogwarts," Professor Dippet proclaimed pompously, yet with a slow delivery that hinted at his faltering wits. Indeed, it seemed that the summer had left him more senile than before, though he was already three-hundred-years-old. "A new year is upon us at Hogwarts, a haven of enlightenment in these treacherous times. As you know, over the course of the last few months Gellert Grindelwald and his minions have taken over France, using nefarious magic… and duplicity. But fear not... for as Morgana and Herpo the Foul taught us... dark magic is a treacherous... and capricious mistress. Ill-gotten gains are fleeting, and the fickle nature of dark magic shall one day cost them dearly. The atrocities committed by the Freimagier have forced many French wizards… of noble descent to flee their homes and take refuge here. This has led to the establishment… of the French Ministry of Magic within our own… we have the honour of hosting some of their most distinguished witches and wizards. The children of these illustrious guests, who have been exiled from the usurped Beauxbatons, shall be joining us as students of Hogwarts. I implore you all to… extend the warmest of welcomes to our new housemates… and treat them with the utmost respect and kindness. I expect the prefects among you to lead by example, and ensure that these… newcomers feel at home here. Let us show the world that Hogwarts is a bastion of hospitality and learning. Behold, here they are!"

The Grand Doors of the Great Hall parted once again, but this time, not to welcome the customary fifty little British eleven-year-olds in black robes. Instead, a mere nine witches and wizards, draped in delicate azure silk robes, crossed the threshold. The youngest among them could scarcely have been more than a first or second-year, while the eldest, a pallid boy with a blond mane fashioned into a dainty ponytail, appeared no less than a fifth-year.

Mary overheard a Ravenclaw boy behind her ask, "That's not all of them, is it?" To which one of their older housemate muttered, "You daft git, it's just the fancy-robes diplomat kids—you really think Beauxbatons only has nine students?"

Then, a most strange thing happened—Professor Merrythought, instead of standing forth and calling the names of the French students, handed over the scroll to the Headmaster.

With a commanding voice, the Headmaster thundered, "Bonaccord, Euporie!" His French pronunciation was impeccable, a testament, perhaps, to his many years of life.

A young girl, with a bob cut styled after the muggle fashion (though the glow on her cheeks suggested a familiar acquaintance with magical cosmetics), stepped forward and perched herself on the stool. It was a jarring sight to behold–not British, not a first-year, and not garbed in Hogwarts robes.

A few moments passed before the Hat declared, "RAVENCLAW!"

Next up was "Bonstrégon, Jean-Obéron."

Gasps resounded through the hall; not only because he belonged to perhaps the most infamous French wizarding family of the last century, but because the ancestor of his that gave their name such infamy was now associated with Grindelwald. It was the eldest of the new students, the boy with the ponytail. Slim and pale, he sauntered with a leisurely imperiousness to the stool, and when he sat, he surveyed all four tables, as if daring anyone to cast a judgmental look his way. It was a disconcerting sight to behold, this towering wizard, standing head and shoulders above all the first-years (save for Rubeus Hagrid), already assured of his place in the world like a grown-up pureblood of many generations, occupying a seat otherwise reserved for the bottoms of little boys and girls.

The Headmaster placed the Sorting Hat atop the boy's head. Mary, who wished to gaze upon him a while longer, was somewhat disappointed when the Sorting Hat's proclamation of "SLYTHERIN!" only took a few fleeting seconds.

Applause, as expected, was moderate—Slytherin did not invite controversy in the way that Gryffindor did. Many British purebloods had perished in the Bonstrégonic wars.

The remaining seven students were then sorted, none of whom bore as infamous a surname as the blond, ponytailed boy. In the end, Ravenclaw predominated, with four of them—perhaps Beauxbatons inculcated scholarly values to a greater extent than Hogwarts; or perhaps the children of diplomats tended towards study.


Tom, who always made it a point to use his wand to levitate food to his plate rather than cutlery (he found it preposterous, if not obscene, that most students below fifth year were seemingly unable to accomplish this without making some sort of mess, however small), discovered that he was once again beset by lack of appetite at the start-of-term feast. Having placed a few pieces of stewed tripe and a moderate serving of vegetable casserole on his plate, he found himself repulsed by the idea of consumption—instead he sipped idly from his pumpkin juice, whose cool bitterness seemed the only thing that could nourish him in that moment.

This aversion to sustenance was not a novel sensation for Tom; for three years running, he had found himself in this same predicament. In his first year, it was the apprehensive expression of a certain Mary that thwarted his appetite. In his second year, it was the absurdity of war-talk and Mary's apparent insensitivity to its folly that left him disinterested in food. And now, in his third year, it was the knowledge that something evil had befallen Mary over the summer, and that she was withholding this knowledge from him for reasons of girly pride, or perhaps even outright malice against him. Tom sipped at his pumpkin juice with contempt.

"Lestrange as prefect, what a calamity," mumbled the weasel-faced, wiry William Wilkes, haphazardly shredding apart a chicken wing with his wand. "He's gonna be a proper tosser, mark my words. Ain't that right, Avy?"

Avery, brawny and husky, grunted in a voice as deep as his eyes were sunken into his face, "Don't matter to me."

"Nothing ever matters to you, does it, Avy?" Wilkes asked, his voice dripping with an excessive disdain Tom found unbecoming. "You're a dull, dead doxy."

"Shut up, Bill."

Tom gazed down the expanse of the table, his eyes tracing the lines of the fifth-years, until they alighted upon Alexius Lestrange. The boy wore his prefect's badge with a repugnant air of self-satisfaction. Tom could not help but frown at the sight. Did Alexius not comprehend the gravity of his position? Or did he simply not care? Tom suspected the latter. His attention then shifted to the conversation between Alexius and Jean-Obéron Bonstrégon. The latter's expression betrayed a certain sensitivity, leading Tom to suspect that the former was being particularly boorish. It was not that Tom took offense on Bonstrégon's behalf; rather, he was disappointed in Alexius's lack of regard for history and politics. The fact that Bonstrégon the student was a descendant of the world-historical revolutionary Bonstrégon should have been of great interest to Alexius. However, Alexius was more interested in provocation than learning, and Bonstrégon's thin seemed particularly thin.

Tom observed the scene with a keen interest; it was his first time laying eyes on a foreign wizard of such eminent lineage. And yet, he felt only the unpleasant coolness of disappointment. Bonstrégon carried himself like a pureblood, to be sure, but there was an indistinctness to his features and a softness to his demeanour that spoke of a lack of conviction, a lack of fire.

It was a stark contrast to his ancestor, whose portrait Tom had studied with a fervor bordering on obsession. Claude's long, protuberant forehead and sunken crystal-blue eyes had been the objects of Tom's ideation for many months; he almost wanted these qualities for himself, even his enormously recessed hairline. And yet, here was the descendant of this great wizard, dainty and poised, smarting from the insults of a fifth-year Slytherin prefect. He was inferior, even to Alexius Lestrange. Perhaps Alexius had sensed his weakness and punished it. Tom sighed, and looked away.

"Lestrange is the only sensible choice for the post, Will. Do you not see that?" Tom asked, his voice cool and measured.

But William Wilkes had taken to gnawing a chicken wing with disgusting relish, and Tom felt a surge of revulsion at the sight. "What about Amos Nott?" he pressed on, his tone betraying a hint of impatience.

"Nott's a complete dolt," Tom declared, his voice rising slightly.

"Compared to the rest of his year, Lestrange might appear impressive, but let's face it, his year is a sorry lot in general," pontificated Alphard Black, his words oozing with unmerited self-assurance. "Could any fifth-year hold a candle to Fawley, Urquart, or Mulciber? It's the same with us—we're leagues ahead of the year below us."

"Speaking of Fawley," cooed Lucretia Black, who never wanted to hear anyone speak ill of another, gazing down the table with a composed smile and clasped hands as if her gesture alone could change the mood and subject matter. "Isn't he just the sweetest with his sister?"

Walburga Black, ever the little joyless matriarch, saw an opportunity to exhume a dry platitude from her mouth, curled into a condescending smile. "You ought to take his example, Lucy."

"Oh, really? Should I start being sweet to you like he is to his sister?"

Walburga's expression remained unchanged, but her voice took on a stern edge. "No, Lucy. Be sweet to your own little brother, Orion."

Lucretia's lips formed a playful pout. "Oh, I would, but he can be such a little snot sometimes."

"And how do you expect him to behave when you treat him like one?"

Lucretia shrugged. "He'll always be a snot, whether I'm sweet to him or not."

"Little sisters are easier to get along with than little brothers," Alphard interjected, his voice carrying a wise resignation. "Do you think Fawley would be as sweet with a little brother as he is with Helen?"

Tom's fingers tightened around his goblet. He, too, turned to the object of his yearmates' discussion—it appeared indeed that Arcanius Fawley was soberly lecturing his little sister on something or the other; while facing him, Ilaria Greengrass did the same with Lenobius—either her cousin or brother. They looked rather like a frigid married couple—there was nothing particularly 'cute' about either of their interactions with their respective kin. There was nothing particularly captivating about their interactions, and Tom's attention soon shifted to Ilaria's necklace.

With a subtle radiance, the amulet of the jewel beckoned to Tom, inviting him to partake in its exuberance. It was an amoral exuberance, an insistence that beauty always triumphs over goodness. The force of its allure was not born of overt power, but rather a lack of it, which in itself became a force. There was an echo of that same idea in the curve of Mary's smile. Yet Tom averted his eyes as quickly as he had stolen a glance, as if Ilaria would somehow sense his gaze. But the pull of the necklace was too strong, and he found himself stealing another glance, watching as Ilaria continued to chide Lenobius. Yes, he could certainly see why Mary had coveted it so.

Tom was jolted from his reverie by the sharp tone and cutting tone of Walburga Black. "We mustn't discuss family matters in a public setting like this, it simply won't do," she declared.

"Oh, are we before the Wizengamot, dear Wally?" Lucretia quipped, batting her long lashes innocently.

"Blacks are too big for the law, everyone knows that," William drawled with an ingratiating smile. "You might become part of the Wizengamot, but you'll never stand before them, Lucy."

Lucretia returned William's smile with a condescending look, as though he had just said something stupid but endearing. "How grand that would be, wouldn't it?"

Walburga stiffened. "All purebloods are equal before the law, and that is how it should be."

William, not one to be silenced, retorted with disdain. "Nonsense. Muggles prattle on about the rule of law, but we know better. We have the rule of magic."

His gaze now turned on Tom, seeking his approval; Tom had at times delivered such diatribes in the sanctity of their dormitory—Tom remained silent, observing the conversation with detached interest.

"Didn't Grand-Uncle Arcturus put down a muggle who wandered onto our Devon Estate? The Wizengamot called him up, but he didn't even show, and nothing came of it," Lucretia remarked, with the insouciance of someone joking about the bad weather. "Would you have it otherwise, Walburga?"

Walburga's countenance blanched, and she regarded Lucretia with a gaze that surpassed her customary disapprobation. Perplexity became exasperation, and exasperation became loathing. Her expression was that of a deranged mother seeking vengeance against a wayward child. "How dare you speak of such things!" Walburga's voice was low and trembling, containing a barely-repressed fury that Tom had not known she was capable of, and now grudgingly respected her for. "You foolish, foolish girl! Aunt Melania would seal your lips shut and transfigure them into steel if she were here!"

For a few moments the table was entirely quiet; and both Black girls came to look equally abashed, before Lucretia mournfully took Walburga's hand and murmured something inaudible to her. Walburga, in her turn, let out a protracted exhalation, then composed herself, sat up erect, and began carving a piece of roasted broccoli on her plate with her customary, superfluous finesse. Tom, for his part, felt the resentment he always did when others brought up their distant relations. He would have given anything for himself and Mary to possess even a single unhinged great-uncle who recklessly assailed muggles.

"By the way, where's Urquart?" William interjected, smoothly breaking the silence. "He always sits besides Fawley during meals."

Lucretia haughtily flicked her hair before leaning forward to scan the table, though her tone had become deflated. "I don't see him. Travers, did he not spend the summer at your estate?"

"He did," Florence Travers replied stiffly.

Tom had endured Florence's verbosity during their two years together as classmates and roommates; it was remarkable that these were her first words of the evening. At first, Tom had refrained from conversing with her, both out of deference to Mary's request not to bother Florence and to express his contempt. But now, he realised he had forgotten her presence entirely, until she spoke those two words.

"You wouldn't happen to know where he is then, would you?" persisted Lucretia.

Florence hesitated to answer, and just as she was about to speak, Mary, who also tossed her hair back in a gesture that mirrored Lucretia's, except her hair was black and far more beautiful, spoke up. "He's at St. Mungo's."

Silence ensued for a moment, before Lucretia interrupted it by affecting a sorrowful expression and parting her lipsticked lips. "Oh dear. What happened to him?"

"He went for a swim and encountered a swarm of jellyfish," Mary replied with a painted smile.

Tom cast his gaze down the length of the table once more and confirmed that, indeed, Osborne Urquart was not where he should have been.