On Monday morning, Aurora's poor Herbology skills took a steep nosedive, as the first plant she touched shrivelled up at her fingertips. She stared at it, quite shocked. She had gotten good with fluxweed, she had thought. But the restless, bitter energy coursing beneath her skin seemed to feel otherwise.

Even Theo, who had hardly spoken to her, was broken from his silence to ask with a tone of incredulity, "How on earth did you do that?"

"I don't know," she muttered, "it wasn't intentional. It just... Doesn't like me."

"You haven't gotten any bad pesticide on your gloves or anything, have you?"

"I keep my gloves perfectly clean and ready to work, thank you." She could feel the cold spirit writhing inside of her chest. Castella. Somehow, she knew, she had something to do with this.

"You did just kill a notoriously hardy plant."

"What's this?" Professor Sprout asked, bustling over. "What have you two done to the Fluxweed?"

"I don't know, Professor, I just touched it and it died!"

"Well, you must have gotten something nasty on your gloves."

She glanced up at Theo, but he had gone back to silence again, dealing with his own, perfectly alive and thriving, fluxweed plant.

Aurora scowled. "I haven't got anything on my gloves. Plants just hate me."

"Planrs do not hate you, dear. You just need to be gentle with them," Sprout reprimanded. "it's all about the attitude, that's what I always say. If you don't like the plants, then the plants won't like you."

"I am… Incredibly apathetic about the plants."

"Exactly — you need to nurture them. Hold on a moment, I'll bring you another — you keep her right, Nott, you're very good with them."

"Oh, yes," Aurora muttered as Sprout left, "Nott's very nurturing."

"I can hear you, you know."

Aurora swallowed her pride and, staring at the worktop, said in a quiet voice, "Sorry."

After a moment of silence, he replied, "I heard."

She nodded. At least he acknowledged her note, if he hadn't directly responded to it. She tapped her nails on the tabletop, waiting anxiously for Sprout to return. Her tongue burned with unspoken words, but she tried to restrain herself. It did not work.

"Did you get the note?"

"Yeah." His voice was strained. "Nice move, sneaking it into a book."

"I didn't sneak—" She started defensively, then stopped herself, swallowing her pride. "I just thought it was... Nice." Awkward silence descended, and the rest of the class's noise became unbearable, only highlighting how quiet they were, how unnatural. She opened her mouth to speak again, but Theo spoke first.

"It doesn't make it alright, you know. You still hurt me."

"I know, and I-"

"If you kill one more plant," Sprout interrupted sternly, placing another pot in front of her, "you can take its remains up to Professor Snape yourself." Theo let out a small laugh. "You can go with her then, Nott, see to it that Miss Black doesn't cause any shrubbery to wither in her presence."

Aurora held back an angry sigh. "You heard her, Nott," she told him bitterly, "you'd better teach me how to keep the world's most durable plant alive."

"I didn't say it's the most durable."

"Well, I'm sure I could manage to kill that too, if you can procure one for me to test out."

Professor Sprout shook her head, going off to deal with Anthony Goldstein instead. Aurora glared at the specimen in front of her.

"I doubt that look will endear the plant to you, you know."

"I don't need to endear it to me."

"You heard what Professor Sprout—"

"I don't need you to chastise me, Theodore." She reached out her hands, nervous and tense. "You clearly don't want me to speak to you now anyway—"

"And when did I say that?"

"You made it pretty obvious."

"You haven't spoken to me in a week!"

"Because you said you didn't want to be around me."

"Yes, but, that didn't mean — oh, forget it, Aurora."

She glared at him for a moment, before turning her attention back to the plant with trembling hands. A restless energy gnawed beneath her fingertips, trying to escape, and ran all the way up to her shoulders and neck. She tried to relax, to make the plant do the same, and picked up the pruning shears. With delicate fingers, she lifted a single leaf, and watched it curl away from her, the plant retreating into itself like a ball. "Oh, for goodness sake," she muttered.

Beside her, Theo sighed. "You have to give in to the fluxweed," he told her. "You have to let it lean into you, before you try to move it."

"I am!"

"You're not."

"You do it then!"

"I already have," he said, and she glared at his perfectly pruned leaves.

"Well done," she said through gritted teeth, then reminded herself to relax, and forced a smile with the plant. It withered in her grasp. "I'm not even doing anything!"

"Again?" Sprout exclaimed, walking past, and half the class turned to see what was going on as Aurora's cheeks burned in embarrassment. "Honestly, Miss Black—"

"I'm trying, Professor, I swear!"

"One more, and then you're reading for the rest of the class."

"I don't need practice reading," she muttered, though too quietly for the professor to notice as she went to retrieve another plant from the front of the class.

Theo sighed, and said nothing more until the end of the class, when he was assigned the truly heinous task of escorting her to the dungeons. Each of them clutching a pot of fluxweed plant — Speout had spared her the indignity of carrying the third, which she had determined was at least somewhat salvageable — they returned to their stony silence, bolstered by the frigid cold air.

As they entered the castle, however, Aurora couldn't help herself any longer and bit out, "I really am sorry I didn't tell you about that article, Theodore. I should have, I know that. It just didn't seem… Tactical. Strategic."

"Right."

"But that's not the only important thing. Strategy and… Well, you know." She had to be careful what she said, even moreso now; Umbridge had banned all discussion and possession of the Quibbler's March issue. "I just don't always think about other things. And I should, and I know I should, and I never want to hurt you, because you're my friend, and that's why I always want to be there for you and comfort you — but it'd probably help if I hadn't helped to upset you in the first place."

Theo took a moment to respond, footsteps echoing in the entrance hall. "I didn't mean to call you a hypocrite, either," he told her. "That was harsh."

"It was true," she told him, even as her pride burned to say it. He didn't deny it. "I'm sorry for that. I'm just, you know... A bit fucked, I think. And I wasn't fair to you."

"No, you weren't."

These short, flat sentences were not like him; they were not like them, used to easy words and looping sentences and lilting jokes and rambling told in half-laughter. Aurora's heart hurt at the thought that she had broken something irrevocably.

"You did hurt me," he told her, not meeting her eyes. "For some reason, I really thought that even if my feelings weren't world-altering, they might still be worthy of mattering to you."

"They do matter to me!" she insisted. "You..." She was lost for words, and clung tightly to her pot plant. "If I'm honest, will you let me speak?" He nodded. "I think I knew, this wouldn't be good for you. I worried about how you'd feel. But, I decided that it was for the greater good, that I put that aside. I think I was thinking of Draco. How I'd always make excuses for my own inaction because of him, and my family, and I'd make excuses for him too, I'd always try and defend him, and I didn't want to go down that path again."

"I get that," he said, voice tense and strained by frustration, "I know all these things about you, Aurora, but I'm not Draco! I never have been, just like I'm not my father or grandfather, and I thought you saw that. You said that you saw that."

"I know that. Rationally. But it's like... My subconscious isn't as smart. The subconscious likes to panic, and do stupid things, and try not to think about the consequences because I'm scared of them but I'm scared of losing you, too."

The words were out there and she couldn't take them back, had to feel their weight in the air as they stopped in the silent dungeon staircase.

"I don't want to lose you, either," Theo told her, but wouldn't meet her eyes, "you know that. But I have because I lost the friend I thought would never hurt me."

"Theo, I didn't want—"

"You broke my trust, because you didn't trust me. I know why you did what you did, but I thought we were closer than for you to hide things from me. I thought you understood…"

"I do trust you."

"Just not enough."

"It wasn't my secret to tell! I am sorry, Theo, I know I should have told you, for the sake of our friendship, but for the sake of everything else, for Potter's mission? I could have, I know that. I just — I didn't know that I could. I didn't know what I could or should say to you, because you're you! You're — I didn't want to put you in a difficult position, too. With your family."

"How many times do I have to tell you, my family doesn't matter!" He whirled around to look at her properly, eyes wide and pleading and frustrated. "I wouldn't have told my father or grandfather anything! You should know that! If you'd actually listened to anything I've said in the last two years, you would know that, and if you cared, you'd be willing to acknowledge that instead of just believing what you want when it's convenient for you to deny that you actually do have friends, and that friends owe things to each other, and friends are supposed to trust each other, and you, for whatever reason, can't!"

"I do!" she said, voice rising dangerously with the restlessness in her chest. "I do know you, Theo, and I'm sorry, and I don't know what else you want me to say! I don't — I want to trust you! I do, I just — I don't know how!"

"Figure it out then!"

"I'm trying!"

The flame in the sconce on the wall flickered and rose sharply, heat searing past them for a moment before Aurora caught her breath. That fire curled in her chest. Theo frowned at her, then at the wall, and back again. Voice slow and heavy, he said, "I know you're going through shit right now, Aurora, I know this isn't easy. But you're not the only one, and I think if you looked outside your self more often, you'd realise that you do have people here who know what you're going through, and that if you only extended the same courtesy to them, would stand by you. But if you won't let people stand by you, and if you won't stand by them?" He let out a sigh, looking away. "What's the point of it all?"

"It — I—" She hated not knowing what to say, but right now it felt like there was nothing to say that would help. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe she was too scared to make things worse, to not be fixing things, keeping safe, to do anything worthwhile. Anything with a fucking point to it. "I don't know. Theo, that's all I've been capable of thinking recently, is that I don't know anything. But I do know that — that I'm sorry, and that I miss you, and that I don't want to hurt you. And I know you wouldn't hurt me, I know you care about me, and I know you're a better person than your family and I know I've been deeply unfair and I — I know that even though you try not to show it, you're angry. Aren't you?"

He stared at her, face falling. "Yeah. Yeah, I am. And it's not just you, it's everything, but I didn't think that you — you, Aurora, my friend — would be the one to make me feel like... Like I was insignificant. Like you said, my feelings aren't important—"

"Theo, I didn't mean—"

"No, I know — I know my feelings might not be the most important thing in the world, they might not be as big as the return of the Dark Lord or a sadistic murderer out for your head, they might not be matters for the Ministy, they might not be newsworthy, but they're something a friend should think about!"

"I know," was all she could say, "and I'm sorry, and I don't know what you want me to say because I have no excuse! I just — I fucked up, Theo. And I'll never stop being sorry. I stand by the interview, it needed to be done, and I know you know that but... I should have told you. I should have known that it'd be alright, I just wanted to be able to control it. Make sure no one else knew, and — it was so stupid. I thought I was clever and I'm not! I was just... Scared."

"I know." He clutched his plant pot tighter and started off down the stairs to the dungeon. Aurora followed, hoping with all her heart that he would reply. "If you'd told me, I would've been alright, you know. I'm not that fragile that I'll fall apart the second I find out something I don't want to deal with. I wouldn't have liked the experience, having people talk about me behind my back, being the centre of attention, but I could've sucked it up, because I'd understand why. Because I already do. And I'd have known that, despite the content of that article, and my family's place in it, you trusted me, that at least one person saw beyond that. But you didn't."

"I did! I do, that's not what it was about—"

"It's what it felt like!" he snapped. "And you can't control how things feel to other people."

She was silent for a moment, swallowing those words. "I know. I know of all people, I should get it. And I do now. I'm sorry I didn't think earlier, and I'm sorry about what I said, and I'm just — I want to fix this, Theo."

"Fix this?" he echoed, stalling, as she came to his side and then hopped a step to look him in the eye.

"Fix this," she affirmed. "Doesn't have to be immediate, but I want to, because I miss you and it's the right thing to do and you're important and I want you back and I need to be able to show you that you are not insignificant to me!"

"I don't know! I don't know when I'm going to get over this, if I even will, I can't put that on a timer and give you a date that everything will be fixed, it's not a potions assignment!"

"Then what do you want from me?"

"I want you not to have done this!"

"Well I don't have a time-turner, so either it's fix this, or never speak again and I don't think either of us actually want that!"

He was silent, sighing, a frown etched deep into his forehead. "I definitely don't want to never speak again," he told her. "I just... I want you to be honest with me."

"About what?"

"Everything you can be."

She let out a derisive laugh. "That's not always an easy category to figure out."

"I know," he said, back to his mild manner which was now oddly infuriating. A part of her wanted him to argue with her, wanted every thought out into the world, visible and tangible and easy to deal with. "But if you think it's something I'd want to know, or need to know, I just want to know that you trust me and that I can trust you not to go behind my back." He looked away. "I don't know exactly how you're going to do that, but... You showed me some things, too. That I can't just bury my head in the sand anymore and pretend like I'm better than my father and grandfather just because I say I'm not. I have to prove myself, too."

"Not to me," she said softly, and he raised his eyebrows.

"Well, clearly I haven't done it already."

"Theo, that's not—"

"Let me speak, Aurora." She pursed her lips. "I have to do this, and it's not because of you or some sort of internal self-loathing that I've adopted, alright, I've known this for a while but it's time for both of us to get real and this is me, doing what I need to do, and trying to be who I need to be and want to be, alright? And I need to be that with or without you, so..."

"So I'll be honest. And you'll... What?"

"I'll be different. I don't quite know how yet, but, I want to be myself. Theo, not Theodore Nott. It's time I started doing something about everything that's going on. It hurts to see that people think I'm like my father and grandfather but, there are people that have died because of them. People will die because of them and — people needed to be warned."

"I didn't want you to be affected—"

"It was inevitable. And I've got it a hell of a lot better than a lot of people. So, this sucks, and you hurt me, and I'm angry. But I don't want this to break us, I just want it to change us."

"I don't know if we can."

"Well, we'd better try," he said, as the bell rang for end of class. "You made a promise."

She didn't know what to do with the feeling inside her, the relief at the idea that even though she'd hurt him and even though they'd fought, all was not lost. That her imperfection and mistake had not lost her everything, that she was allowed to do better. Even if they weren't the way they were before, he didn't hate her. She was still worthy of friendship and she had a chance to prove herself, to be better. That was worth a lot more than if he had simply let her hurt him and not say a word, that was better than not fighting.

They had drawn closer to one another, even now, too close; her back was nearly at the wall and all that kept them apart were the two pots of fluxweed. Even then, it felt like nothing, not when he was looking at her like that, his gaze so intent, like she was some great puzzle he needed to solve, and yet also a puzzle that he felt some silly childhood affection for, a nostalgia, a yearning.

"Thank you," she said, her voice coming out in a whisper that wanted to be more, but couldn't find the strength.

-*

That very same night, halfway through Aurora's lesson with Dumbledore, there was a disturbance in the Entrance Hall and the portrait of Armando Dippet came charging back into his frame, telling the Headmaster he had to go to the Entrance Hall immediately; Professor Trelawney was being thrown out by Umbridge.

Aurora was shocked, but Dumbledore maintained an aura of calm, as though he had been expecting this the whole time. "Very well," he said, "she has the right to dismiss my teachers if she pleases, but I can still choose their replacement. Fawkes?"

The phoenix clucked, and Aurora was sure it understood something Dumbledore had not said. They were unusually canny birds, companions more than they were pets. Dumbledore turned to Aurora with a disarming twinkle in his eye. "I believe I will have to cut this meeting short. Hurry along, Aurora, I shall see you soon."

She scrambled to pack her bag up again, though he waved a dismissive hand when she tried to tidy the desk, too, and as Aurora turned back at the top of the stairs, he winked, clutched Fawkes' tail feathers, and disappeared from view.

"Huh." She blinked in surprise. "That's a new one."

Choosing not to dwell on how unfair it was that she did not have a Phoenix to do whatever she wanted, Aurora hastened downstairs, headed straight for the entrance hall.

A large crowd had already gathered by the time she got there, swarming up the stairs. She shoved a couple of smaller children out the way, leaning over a bannister to watch as Trelawney howled and sobbed in front of half the student body and Umbridge stood, serene and smug, presiding over the two battered trunks between them.

"Hogwarts is my home," Trelawney was pleading; it was so quiet in the usually bustling hall, that Aurora could hear every word travelling up the stairs. "You can't do this!"

"It was your home," Umbridge said with a smug smile, "until an hour ago, when the Minister for Magic countersigned your Order of Dismissal. Now kindly see yourself from this hall. You are embarrassing yourself."

Aurora knew little of Trelawney and wanted to know even less, but even she felt it wretchedly unfair to toss the woman from her home with, apparently, no notice. Trelawney could do nothing to retaliate, only rock herself back and forth, crying and bawling. Aurora spotted Elise a few paces away with her friends, ashen-faced and confused as they watched.

It was Professor McGonagall who broke the still silence in the hall, marching over to Trelawney and putting her arms around her. Aurora couldn't hear what she said to comfort her, but Umbridge did, and Umbridge wanted to be as loud as possible.

"Oh really, Professor McGonagall?" she challenged in a shrill voice. "And your authority for that statement is..."

"That would be mine."

Whatever he had been doing in the forest, Dumbledore had been quick about it. He was standing in the doorway between the oak front doors, and stalked forward, causing students to hurry out of his way.

"Yours?" Umbridge asked with a sickening, disbelieving little laugh. "I am afraid you do not understand your position. I have here an Order of Dismissal signed by myself and the Minister of Magic. Under the terms of Educational Decree Number Twenty-three—" Aurora stopped to glance at the entrance hall wall, which was cluttered with an array of such decrees "—the Hogwarts High Inquisitor has the power to inspect, place upon probation, and sack any teacher she — that is to say, I — feels is not performing up to the standards set by the Ministry of Magic. I have decided Professor Trelawney is not up to scratch; I have, therefore, dismissed her."

She said this with a haughty sigh of finality, as though daring Dumbledore to argue further, which, of course, he did, quite unrattled.

"You are quite right, of course, Professor Umbridge. As High Inquisitor you have every right to dismiss my teachers. You do not, however, have the right to remove them from the grounds. I am afraid that power still resides with the Headmaster, and it is my wish that Professor Trelawney continues to reside at Hogwarts."

Professor Trelawney let out a rather wild, desperate laugh, saying, "No, no, I'll g-go, Dumbledore! I sh-shall leave Hogwarts and seek my fortune elsewhere!"

"No," Dumbledore said sharply, and Aurora got the feeling this was about far more than just one bad teacher. "It is my wish that you stay here, Sybil. Might I ask you to escort Sybil upstairs, Professor McGonagall?"

With a scornful glare at Umbridge, McGonagall did so, helping the ex-Professor to her feet with unusual gentleness. From the crowd, Professor Sprout broke apart too, hurrying to take Trelawney's other arm so the two women could help her together, parting the students on the stairs before them, followed by an agitated Professor Flitwick. Aurora drew back as they passed, listening to McGonagall's furious muttering, as Umbridge continued to rile Dumbledore.

"I have already found us a new Divination teacher," Dumbledore was telling her, placid and rather pleased with himself, "and he will prefer lodgings on the ground floor."

"You've found — You have found? Need I remind you, Professor Dumbledore, that under Educational Decree Jumber Twenty-two—"

"The Ministry has the right to appoint a suitable candidate if, and only if, the Headmaster is unable to find one, and I am happy to say, on this occasion, I have succeed. May I introduce you?"

And to the shock — and doubtless some horror — of everybody in the hall, no one less than a centaur came striding through the double doors. Aurora knew that face, the white-blond hair and blue eyes, from a misty night in the Forbidden Forest many years ago, and could not stop to anticipation that bubbled inside of her at the sight of Umbridge's dumbstruck face.

"This is Firenze," Dumbledore said cheerfully. "I think you'll find him suitable."

-*

Firenze was an immediate hit with the students, and Aurora spent much of Tuesday evening catching up on her friends' opinions in the common room — Theo intrigued, Daphne excited, Leah skeptical. She and Theo were the last to leave the group at midnight, having decided they ought to get some homework done after their lengthy gossiping. It was still stilted and awkward and uncomfortable, but Aurora knew that would continue to be the case. At least they understood each other; at least they could discuss the properties of eel eyes.

As she left the common room, having split from Theo, Aurora spotted Pansy in one of the armchairs near the entrance to the girls' dormitory, looking forlorn.

"Hey," Aurora said softly as she passed, frowning, "are you alright?"

Pansy jumped, staring up at her as though she had seen a ghost. "I — yes, I'm fine. I just can't figure out this essay for Snape. Figure I should try and pass this time."

"You never told me you failed the last one."

"You didn't ask," Pansy said harshly, and Aurora winced. "Sorry. You didn't have to, Aurora. My father's going to be furious if I continue to perform below average, though, and I don't want to give him anything else to worry about."

Then she clamped her mouth shut as though she had said something wrong, and looked away. Aurora knew that look, that action, knew it was how she would act, too, and was quick to come round the side of the sofa and sit beside her friend, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. Pansy tensed, in a way she never would have before, but she didn't push her away.

"Pans?"

"Don't pretend you don't know what's going on," she said, her voice carrying an acidic bite. "Potter's article, I know you knew about it. You were probably in on it, seeing as I told you everything."

"Oh." She blinked. "Look, Pans, I'm sorry. I should have told you about it, Theo was upset too, I just — well, I didn't think. It was shitty of me. But he needed to do it."

Pansy didn't respond to that comment, but she did look at her again. Her gaze kept shifting, like she was afraid to meet Aurora's eyes. "You've been furious with us all, haven't you?"

"Well… I can't say I've been pleased."

"I think Draco wants to call off our… Whatever it is we're doing. And I don't really know if I care anymore, except my family will be furious, and I don't know what I'll do, if I don't have this, which felt like a sure thing, but, he's changed. He's all broody, and upset, and he misses you, Aurora. We all do."

Her heart clenched. "I miss you all, too," she whispered. "Or at least, I miss being a part of you. But I don't apologise for how I acted to Draco. If he misses me, he can tell me himself."

"I know, I know. I get it, Aurora." Pansy sighed, shaking her head. "But you have to admit you haven't been very observant. Or sensitive. Ever."

"I've observed that you and Theodore — and occasionally Daphne — are the only ones from that group who seem to want anything to do with me. Everyone else was eager enough to drop me the second Draco told them I was on the outs."

"Blaise wasn't," Pansy said with a sly grin, "he talks about you far more than he should."

"Blaise only wants one thing, and he knows where he stands with me, and if he cared enough then he would deign to speak a kind word to me in public. Anyway, what does this have to do with you?"

"Oh." Pansy stared down. "Well, it's just — I miss you. And I wish we didn't have to be on different sides but, I think, maybe we don't. I shouldn't be saying anything, so you can't tell anybody..." She trailed off, piquing Aurora's interest, and she came to perch on the arm of the chair, intrigued and hopeful about where this conversation was going. "My father's terrible worried, about what's happening with the Dark Lord. What he's planning... He never really wanted involved, you see, he just felt he should and now he's in too deep and we all are and, we want a way out."

"A way out?" Aurora's stomach turned with skeptical nerves and hopeful excitement. The idea that her friend might be able to stand on the same side as her, that she would have one less familiar childhood face to be threatened by, was alluring, but dangerous. She didn't know if she could believe it. But Theo had wanted her to be more trusting. And she wanted to trust Pansy.

"Of the Dark Lord's service." Usually, the only way out was death. Aurora's blood went cold. But if Dumbledore could help... "He's trying to make a deal with the Vaiseys, immunity if he comes clean about everything, and if he convinces our family to remove support from Fudge. The Progressives are all for it."

"That's the first I'm hearing about," Aurora said, frowning.

"It's all rather hush-hush at the moment. But obviously the consequences could be massive, and we don't really know what they'll be. But I really don't want to serve the Dark Lord, in any capacity, and if my father gave us a choice of who we fight for…"

She trailed off, letting the words linger unsaid. Aurora could hardly dare to let it be true, and yet she hoped so desperately that she understood what Pansy was saying.

"You'd fight with me?"

"You're my best friend. Well, one of them. But Draco is still wrong and I want to fight with you. But I can't, yet, I can't do anything until my father has got us security and we know where we stand, because we'd need to be protected."

"I could—" She cut off her excitement. In theory, she could house and protect the Parkinsons, and she was sure she could persuade Dumbledore. But she didn't dare mention it to Pansy just yet, not so explicitly. And, selfishly, horribly, she wasn't entirely sure that she wanted to. She had always liked Pansy's parents, they had always treated her well, like she was just another one of their daughter's pureblood friends, or any different to Lucille or Daphne or Millicent, even recently, even after Arcturus' death. It was a low bar to clear, but even so, she appreciated them.

And yet, she was unsure. There was a low worry of doubt in her gut. What had the Parkinsons actually done for her — what would they have done for her, had she sought their help? She swallowed and said, "There might be a way I could help, but... I don't know. If your father wanted..."

She trailed off. Pansy's father had been witness to murder, had possibly participated in it. He would have seen Harry die and not done anything about it, and many years ago, he might have done the same if Aurora had been threatened. He may well have; she didn't know the names of everyone involved in her mother's death, and anyway, he might not have cared. He would not have saved her. Even now, given the chance, she didn't know if he would. Pansy, yes. Rosebelle, perhaps, if she had the chance to be close. But it was Pansy's father who had watched over the deaths of so many, people like Aurora and her mother and father, people like Andromeda and Ted and Dora. And she wanted, in that moment, to scream at Pansy that if her father didn't want to be involved in something dangerous, he shouldn't have agreed to kill people in the first place. That it was his mess, his cruelty, that got them there. That part wasn't Pansy's fault; but still Pansy did not seem able to see it.

"There might not be anything I can do for him," she said. "But I'll try. And you might have more of a chance. I'll — I'll see what I can do to try and protect you, Pans. I can talk to my father, I — we can't write but I do have another way to contact him, if I can get it back from Potter..."

There was a glimmer of triumph, excitement, in Pansy's eye as she said softly, "Yes. Oh, Aurora, if there's anything…"

Pansy let out a rare sob and flung her arms around Aurora, holding her tight. After a moment's bewildered hesitation, Aurora reciprocated, pulling Pansy against her and clinging on.

"We'll find a way through this," she promised her in a whisper. "Pansy, you don't have to marry Draco or fight for the Dark Lord, you don't have to do anything you don't want to do, alright? I'll help you."

"We need to sort things with Vaisey first. But — but if you have a backup, if you have your group or contact or… Whoever it is you can speak to."

"I will. As soon as you give me the word." She didn't want to risk word getting out to Dumbledore until it was necessary, especially with all the suspicion lingering in the castle at the moment. But even as enthralling as the idea of saving Pansy from this, from the fate she entertained, she couldn't help the seed of doubt that bloomed in her chest. Did she really owe this to the Parkinson family at large? Should helping people be transactional in the first, should it matter what someone's past crimes were if they wanted to change now, if their family wanted something different, if they were innocent? Even if Pansy barely spoke to her, and more to Draco; even if she wasn't sure who she would choose, if it came to it. Despite their friendship and her desire to trust her, Aurora wasn't entirely sure that she could trust what Pansy was telling her.

"I know you can't tell me much," Pansy told her softly, "but I miss you, so, so much. And I just need you to know, I understand why you can't come back to us. And I — I hope you understand why I can't leave."

"I do," she said reluctantly, wishing it weren't with a wrench in her heart, wishing for once she could just have someone devote themselves, promise their loyalty and not have to add a caveat, wishing she could be selfish and have someone all for herself. "I do, Pansy, I promise I do, even if it hurts me and frustrates me, I — I do."

"And you'll always be my best friend?"

"Always," she lied, leaning back to wipe the tears from Pansy's unusually flushed cheeks. "And, Pans? All this stuff with Umbridge…"

"You still want an in with her?" Pansy asked, eyes wide, and Aurora nodded.

"At least, I want to be safe from her."

"Okay." Pansy let out a low, shaky breath. "I'll see to it."

Somehow, it felt like in that moment they had become less friends and more allies. Aurora wasn't sure that was a good thing.