Chapter 16: What Life is Worth Living For

'—Doesn't the Ministry need you, Flavian!'

In the cot of the Hospital wing, Irene stirs to wakefulness. The glass of the tall windows bleed in red. Rays of scarlet bathe the sterile white of the chamber. It must be evening. She'd nearly slept the day away.

'Did we not divorce believing it would make our relationship more civil, Gail?'

That's the Overlord. Irene's eyes are wide awake now. Right. Fontius was here. Last night—was it last night? It's a bit hazy. And now that she thinks about it, Irene doesn't remember calling for him. She's almost certain she'd asked for Evan.

'I believe that to be a gross understatement. However, yes. That makes me no longer your Gail as well,' she snaps and…that's Professor Merrythought.

'I understand your frustrations; however, I am not the one who'd caused this. I only am here out of worry,' the Overlord's tone is distressingly sweet.

Irene grimaces. Her stomach squeezes uncomfortably. Gripping her sheets, she stares at the partition that sits between her and her guests.

'Yes, I know. I'm the one. I should have paid better attention to the students. This was my fault as an educator,' Merrythought says.

'Perhaps. But we both know violence such as this tends to rise in specific generations. Malfoy, Black, Lestrange, Longbottom, you understand. This is the class with the greatest number of pureblood heirs. Most years, Hogwarts is filled with scions.' Fontius hums.

And that's a surprise to Irene. Couldn't Fontius have given her a warning or something?

'If you are looking to change things, Albus is quite…agreeable. It may do you well to speak with him regarding tightening punishments and encouraging those that speak up against such assaults. He was able to convince Hornby to listen and accept the expulsion, after all. It's likely he wanted a more severe punishment but opted to cut his losses. Should have been in Slytherin, that one.'

Expulsion? She hurriedly sits up in surprise. The bed squeals and squeaks while Irene groans from the thoughtless move.

'Miss Hill?' Professor Merrythought asks.

'Uh…present?' Irene grimaces.

There's a shuffling of footsteps, and then both adults crowd the end of her bed. Something in Irene unravels. Just the sight of her—officially documented—guardian is enough to set the edge she didn't know she'd carried to rest.

Irene fiddles with her hands. It's been a while since she's last seen Fontius, but he's looking a bit haggard. Purple circles halo his eyes while his skin's a bit more ashen than usual. To his side, Professor Merrythought looks much the same, but instead of purple circles, they're red.

'I'm glad to see you up, Miss Hill.' Professor Merrythought smiles, though pained.

'Thanks for checking in on me.' Irene smiles back.

'If you were wondering, Griselda mentioned they will discharge you by Thursday evening,' Fontius says.

Merrythought turns to him. 'Thursday? But her burns, they are—'

'I believe she took some of my suggestions to floo call St. Mungo's. You can thank Margarite for this,' Fontius says. 'We wouldn't want her stuck in here over the weekend, would we?'

Irene tilts her head. Is he really talking about work right now? Dictator.

'Oh, that's wonderful!' Professor Merrythought claps her hands. 'Don't worry about coming into the DADA classroom this weekend. Flavian has, of course, marked you as off for the next two weeks.'

Scratch that. Apparently, the Overlord does have a heart. Irene sheepishly smiles up at him. 'Thank you, Boss.' She bows her head.

'Of course, my dear child. Did you know you've had several guests since the morning? I'm partial to that Wolpert and Fawley of yours. Well behaved those two. The others, however, are…concerning. Especially that McGonagall, coming in with hexed eyes. Must be trouble, that one.' He shakes his head.

'Minerva did? Are you sure you haven't got her mixed up with Ir-Fawley?'

'No, she was able to introduce herself adequately despite her condition. Physically assaulted another student as a prefect. A shame, that one. What has Hogwarts come to?'

Irene grimaces. 'Minerva really isn't the type to do something like that. I'm sure she had her reasons.'

'Although I'd usually agree, Miss Hill, the student Miss McGonagall assaulted, was one of the more mild-mannered children.'

'Again, such a shame.' Fontius sighs, then comes over to rustle his hands through Irene's hair fondly. 'Have fun with your friends this weekend, my dear child.'

Her smile grows a bit brighter. 'I will! Thank you again, Fontius. Oh, but if you don't mind me asking, where's Evan?' Irene furrows her brows. 'I thought I called for him. And it was late at night. I'm sorry for bothering you.'

'No, you asked for Prewett. However, we were both still at work. He wanted to come, but I sent him off on errand.'

Fontius takes the empty chair that Tom had sat in the night before. With a glance to Merrythought, she walks to the end of the ward, watching the door.

'Is this about my, uh, stuff?' She's not sure if Fontius would, but she imagines he'd hex her if she said it out loud.

'Yes, unfortunately so. Though, it's better we have this conversation in-person rather than over the floo like I had mentioned in the letter.' He sighs. 'First, I apologise, but I must ask. Do you remember what happened to that awful child?'

Irene's heart quakes, pulse races. It's hard to breathe.

'No, not really,' she forces out. 'I remember the curse, and-andbeing dragged, then she told me her plans—the dark artefact, the quintaped…. And then the burning was, it was—' she swallows thickly to stop her voice from heightening. Her fists tighten. 'Then I-I let my magic out and passed out. The next thing I remember is somebody breaking in and carrying me out.' She carefully omits the part where she'd pleaded for Hornby's life. Fontius is the opposite of a pacifist, after all.

He hums and taps his fingers. 'A combination of both accidental magic and your abilities, I see. I'd say your magic is quick to protect you. I cannot say whether this is nature or nurture.'

'What's happened?'

'Fortunately, you have left your assailant crippled. She is incapable of performing magic. I do believe that's an adequate punishment.' He smiles.

'No longer capable of magic, I see,' she mumbles, then snaps to him.

'What!?'

'Now, dear, don't look so appalled.' Fontius quirks a brow.

'Is she-will she…? Is it temporary?

'I'm not certain at the moment. Margarite has agreed to send all medical information regarding Hornby's condition to me. We shall wait until I review the results.'

One finger taps against his robes. Irene can't help but worry at what is to come out next.

'There is a question of just how you managed to accomplish this feat. Quite an illegal act—sealing another's magic—let's be grateful we were able to avoid the authorities. I can't imagine breaking a taboo would put you in good standing with the Department of Magical Enforcement.' His finger stills with an exhale. 'Any matter. Either way, brilliant work, Irene. Let's cross our fingers that it's a permanent affliction.' He flashes a smirk.

Irene's not sure how to feel about the overwhelming praise for nearly killing someone and effectively taking their magic away. So, she just swallows. When she looks down, her hands are trembling. But why? Irene tightens them into fists.

'Now onto other matters, I have sent Evan to pick up Miss Gladys Macmillan. And please do send him a letter as soon as you can lest he storm the castle. Miss Macmillan is an upcoming European duelling champion, and originally, plans were for her to come work at the castle starting next semester. However, due to recent events, I'd feel more comfortable if she was here.'

'Oh' she says, a bit shocked. She'd never taken Fontius to be the type to care about bullying, but then again, this was more serious than that. 'Wait, why was she starting here, anyway? Is there something going on?'

'Yes.' He sighs again. 'I'm currently investigating an old friend of mine, Ramhart. He was only mentioned once before to you.'

'The guy you met on Samhain? Isn't he a researcher? Why would you need a, uh, bodyguard because of him?'

'You can never be too careful,' Fontius says, looking over his glasses at Irene. 'We don't want anyone dangerous catching a word of you. Grindelwald is one such dangerous person. He is not above using children as tools,' he snarls. 'I will be heading out of the country as soon as Miss Macmillan arrives. Better to make this an expedient process.'

Irene almost laughs, because well, there's already someone dangerous bothering her. Her mouth does a strange twitch instead. 'Uh, so is there anything I should be doing?'

He clasps his hands between his lap. 'I need you to stay at Hogwarts over the break. Unfortunately, with the other matters we've been swept into, there's been little time to finish the wards on your apartment, and we should just refrain from moving you at the moment. There's also something else. Regarding your letter, transferring….'

The red of the sky has calmed to violet as the sun sets on the horizon. Fontius sits bathed in its cool hue.

'I have finished arrangements for you to live in America. Of course, you will not be alone. Either I or Galatea will join you. There, a new identity and life are waiting. MACUSA, admittedly, is safer since their strict audit of the agency in result of Grindelwald's attack. They also care little for blood purity. You can leave if you wish.'

Her eyes drift to the icy blue of her hospital sheets. In her lap, Irene's fingers nervously fiddle. The bandages over her arms and throb of her abdomen make it hard to not imagine a life without this.

'I'm not asking you to make your decision now. I believe you'll need time to think it over. Regardless of what you decide, I will honour your wishes.' Fontius rustles her hair once more. 'This is your life, Irene. No one can carve out its path.'

Alright. Something is definitely amiss.

Iris has never been the sharpest student, but Minerva's glares are hard to miss. Because, usually, Iris is at the other end of those scathing stares. It's almost prophetic how she knows when Minerva's about to send daggers with her eyes. But she's not the one Minerva seems to be burning holes through.

Thursday evenings hold Potions and DADA. Potions and DADA mean likeable partners and a healthy amount of goofing off, not whatever madness this is.

'Why are you doing this to me?' Iris groans out.

And she is ignored. Minerva stares blankly at their shared cauldron of soon to be Befuddlement Potion.

The Prefect' has gone around the bend. Ever since Irene was attacked, she's been acting strange. Punching Tom Riddle in the face. Trying to talk to Iris like they were back in first-year. And also blabbing on about, 'Something. Something. Make this right.' Honestly, Iris blocks out half of what Minerva says out of respect to herself. If she thinks Iris a spoiled prat, then she'll act as one.

And it's not as if Iris doesn't understand the frustration Minerva must be going through. Hearing that Irene's in the Hospital Wing drifting in and out of sleep from terrible injuries sets her wand on fire. She'd like to hex the pureblood who did this to Irene into the next century, but with no one to point fingers at, they'll have to wait till she wakes up.

Then Iris will get her revenge. One way or another.

The room is as dreary and dark as it usually is. Black desks, blackboards, black chairs, pewter cauldrons. Ugh. This is too much. Even the slate grey floor looks black in the dim and green illumination from the—surprise—black lanterns. Merlin. The only thing that isn't terribly depressing in this chamber is the professor himself, always behaving like some bloody Hufflepuff. She sighs, eyes catching on the same exact spider web that's been there since third-year. Iris would ask the professor to remove it, but knowing Slughorn, it's probably the source of some potion's ingredient. She rolls her eyes.

Grabbing some goosegrass, she crushes it and turns to add it to the cauldron.

Slap!

She's batted away by Minerva. Her hand flares red.

'What in the bloody hell was that?' Iris hisses.

'Scurvy grass, not goosegrass,' Minerva sighs and mumbles something under her breath.

Her face scrunches. 'Well, if someone was paying attention, maybe they could have told me.'

She rolls her eyes. 'Am I supposed to monitor you on top of brewing the potion?'

'No, actually. You're supposed to be my partner, I remind you, since you seemed to have forgotten whisking me away from Gwen, and "partners" work cooperatively.'

'Yes, quite some help you've been, Fawley. Having to monitor our cauldron alongside Riddle's is exhausting.' She glares.

What's she going on about now? 'Minerva, I know we are not friends in any capacity, but I must tell you as the only one who has noticed thus far.' She places her hands on Minerva's shoulders, levelling a serious stare despite their twelve-centimetre height difference. 'You've gone mental.'

Minerva slaps her hands off and grumbles something unintelligible to herself.

Iris doesn't let her drop it this time, but tries to maintain an air of nonchalance. Making quick work of the hemlock using the mortar and pestle, Iris glances at Minerva. 'So, what's with you and Riddle, anyway?'

'What are you talking about?' Minerva grabs the already pulverised lovage while looking at Iris like she'd grown a second head.

To think she's trying to act coy about this. Iris huffs and smashes another collection of white petals. 'I just think physical violence is a very unhealthy method for talking things out.'

'Talking things out?' Now she's looking at Iris like she's daft. Rude. 'Whatever, I don't have time for this.'

Minerva flicks her wand under the table. A mouse materialises from a goblet in her bag. It scurries out to the Slytherin side of the room. It's tiny hand like feet crawling across blacken cobblestone. Iris shivers. Screams erupt as the animal crawls up Davies's pants. But it seems that wasn't the point of the random rat. She cocks her head. With another flick of Minerva's wrist, an army of rats rush out of the poor Slytherin's trousers.

'Oh, my stars! That's absolutely disgusting!' Carrow shrieks.

A full panic breaks out. Slughorn quick to the scene, trying to vanish all the wayward rodents. He's terribly inefficient with his rotund and unagile movements. However, Minerva remains calm. Iris watches as she vanishes the crushed petals and intact scurvy grass on Riddle and Amedeo's desk in the distraction and floats the crushed lovage and goosegrass over in their place. It isn't long before the class settles soon after, all rats vanished to the nether.

'What in the blazes are you thinking?' Iris hisses, grabbing Minerva's elbow.

Minerva shakes her off. 'What we planned,' she hisses back.

'We? I did nothing of the sort!'

Another roll of her eyes and Minerva snatches the mortar away from Iris. 'Do you listen to a word I say?'

'No.' Iris crosses her arms.

'Godric, I should've known.' She sprinkles the hemlock into the cauldron. 'You never bothered to hear me out in second-year. Why would you start now?' Her voice ebbs into a mumble, but this time Iris catches it. 'It seems all I can count on is for you to pulverise the blasted lovage.'

She blinks. 'Lovage?'

'Yes, mash the infernal lovage is the only thing you've done so far.'

Iris swallows, paling.

Minerva blinks. 'You didn't, did you?'

They turn to the cauldron just before it explodes.

Bright purple goop blasts forward, coating them. To their dumb luck, it isn't corrosive.

'Oh my, you two should hurry off to the Hospital Wing,' Slughorn says and promptly vanishes their cauldron.

This is absolute dragon shite. Iris flings off the slime from her face, turning to glare at her disaster of a partner. Minerva glares back, but not at Iris. What? Her eyes follow her scorching stare.

A Slytherin student looks curiously back.

Iris sighs. It's Tom Riddle, of course.

It's a drift, both in sleep and in waking moments. Twice it seems she's missed her friends' visit. The various fruits and candies at the side of her bed sit as proof. Throughout Irene's stay in the medical wing, Madam Weber has come to change her bandages with a new set of potioned patches twice. Each time, they look less like burnt chicken and more like skin. Which is great. She's really going to make it to Hogsmeade on Saturday. And she wants to be excited, she really does. But at the same time, there's a question that lingers.

Is this it?

Fontius has offered her a path free. Irene can leave this castle. Leave the discrimination that's landed her in the hospital, the monster that hides in human skin, and the war that looms on the edge of the horizon. But also, she'll leave the first friends to wander into her life. So, when she looks at her bandages, there's nothing but confusion.

A rattling rolls down the aisle. There's the distinct humming that accompanies it to stop at the foot of her bed.

'Good to see you up, Miss Hill. That potion must really knock one out if it got a teenager like yourself to sleep nearly twenty-four hours in two days.' Madam Weber continues her humming.

Her deft spell unwraps the cloth bandages around Irene's arms and legs. To her surprise, there's no silvertip scar that persists, only some reddened irritation.

'Well, look at that.' She whistles. 'I guess that guardian of yours was right.'

This time, instead of covering her in another set of bandages, the mediwitch helps Irene apply a decent coat of some sort of orange paste.

'This should be the last afternoon I'll keep you. I'll check your burns have healed up one more time before I let you go.' She winks and heads off.

Irene looks down. The orange slime coats her arms and legs like she's some human snail. It's unfortunate. Like this, she's unable to do any work that has been left to accumulate. With a sigh, she is left to sit in the empty ward with only her thoughts as company. Which is not how she'd like to spend her time awake.

Her life's all tangled up. Voldemort's Prince Charming façade has burst into flames. Her building friendships are now possibly coming to their end. She's somehow managed to seal away someone's magic. And Fontius has asked if she'd like to leave.

It's a mess. One she doesn't know where to start with. Irene slouches but doesn't lie back down. Instead, she decides to meditate. Her mom said it was a trick from her father to relax the mind. Although she's never been great at it, it's one way to pass the time.

Sitting cross-legged, Irene closes her eyes. She's in the shadow of her mind. Her chest rises and falls in slow, careful breaths. However, her heart begins to race. The dark brings back memories of the corridor. Sounds of her heavy breaths and robes dragging across stone. The smell of blood fills her senses. Skeletal fingers wrap around her ankles. Irene can't breathe. Stop. Calm down. It's in her mind, she tells herself. She clenches her knees. The burn of her skin flares, white-hot. She tries to open her mouth, but she's unable to move, fear paralysing her. Her throat clenches. A weight on her ankle tugs.

'—stop evading the question!'

Irene opens her eyes and gasps. Phantom sensations fade. The voice is Iris. Her heartbeat slows gradually. The feeling of comfort and safety settles back in her skin.

'You didn't care to listen before. It's none of your business now, Fawley!' Minerva shouts.

That doesn't spell anything good. Irene wonders what the two of them would be doing in the Hospital Wing together. She rises onto her feet. Madam Weber never told her she had to stay put, after all.

She steps out to the walkway, in the glory of her hospital gown and orange limbs, and waves. 'Iris, Minerva!' Irene beams, heart pumping, then blinks.

But both her friends' faces twist in horror.

'Bloody Hell,' Iris says.

'That wanker!' Minerva growls.

Both Iris and Irene's eyebrows shoot up.

'Who are you!?' Iris has her hands ruffling through her hair, unbecomingly. 'And what have you done with Minerva?'

Irene laughs.

'This is not a laughing matter,' Minerva says.

Her serious tone does nothing to stop Irene from slumping over in a fit of giggles. 'I'm sorry, but God.' She laughs even harder, the air leaving her lungs. 'We're quite the gathering, aren't we?' Her hand gestures to them emphatically.

The two glances at themselves to realise what Irene is talking about.

A bright violet goop covers them like some sort of snail paste.

Madam Weber makes her way down to Scourgify the goop off of them and runs tests to check if the solution is dangerous. When all comes back clear, they decide to skip DADA and stay in the Hospital Wing.

'So you want to tell me how you two ended up like that in Potions?' Irene cocks a brow.

'Minerva's lost her mind. That's what happened,' Iris says.

Rightfully, Minerva looks affronted. Irene's just wondering what exactly is going on. Yesterday she'd heard about the punching incident and now a Potion's explosion. Weird. She sits uncomfortably at the edge of her bed, trying—and failing—to keep her lotioned limbs off the linen fabric beneath. Every time she's distracted, her arms automatically move to rest on her lap. Neon orange arm prints leave traces on white cloth. In front of her, sits both Minerva and Iris in two short stools gathered from the other bed sides, their hair temporarily platinum blond from the purple sludge.

'I have not, Fawley. Don't be rude,' Minerva sniffs.

'Oh right, punching Tom Riddle is an absolutely "sane" thing to do.'

Irene blinks.

'He deserved that and more,' Minerva growls.

'Like what you did to us with that hemlock? Fortuna, I do not want to know what would have happened if I had added the goosegrass.' Iris pulls at her fluffed-up platinum hair. The curls have bent out of shape from the rough rounds of Scourgify.

'You punched Riddle,' Irene gasps. 'Oh. My. God. You! Why would you do that!?'

This isn't good. Irene rakes two slimy hands through her hair, not caring about the mess.

Oh God, Minerva's gone and punched Voldemort.

'He deserves far worse!' She raises her chin in defiance and gestures at Irene. 'Look at you, Irene. I'm not such a fool that I don't recognise burn salve when I see it. And based on the fact, you were out for a day and a half, I don't doubt those wounds were worse before!'

Irene's face scrunches in confusion. What is she talking about?

'…By the Gods. So that's what you meant by revenge and making things right!' Iris says.

'Merlin's sake. Does everything I say go in one ear and out the other?' Minerva glares.

'Wait.' Iris grips her knees as if she needs to physically hold herself down. 'That's who did this to you?' She looks at Irene, then Minerva. 'Riddle attacked Irene? Because you scorned him!?' Her legs shake as if she's about to spring up from her chair.

Both speak at the same time.

'No!' Irene says.

'Yes!' Minerva says.

They look at each other and stare.

'Godric. Why, Minerva? Why?' Irene's now slimy hair sticks to her face and neck.

'Still deserved, though it was an honest mistake. Who else would be the primary suspect?' Minerva, not understanding the danger she's put herself in, merely points her chin up, not one bit apologetic.

Irene grieves for her peaceful school-life. 'Any pureblood supremacist?'

'Is that who did this?' Minerva blinks.

Irene nods her head. 'Hornby. She's been expelled anyhow. Doubt you'll be able to inflict any vengeance.'

'Hornby? The Ravenclaw?'

'Yeah, apparently Lestrange has been beating her regularly, so she decided to take that out on me,' Irene winces.

Minerva's face contorts in disgust.

'I know. It's a healthy way of dealing with your problems.'

'Can we take a step back for a minute?' Iris asks. 'So, Riddle didn't attack you?'

Minerva's mouth opens.

'No. He did not.' Irene shoots a glare at Minerva. 'It was Hornby.'

'Then why did you say Tom deserved the punch to the face?' Iris looks at Minerva.

Irene keeps the same glare. If she tells Iris this, she's dead.

'Uh, well, he…ignored my advice to stop touching Irene.' Minerva watches Irene while she says this hesitantly.

Irene smiles.

'Oh, I see. Very well. It was deserved.' She nods. 'However, regarding Hornby.' Iris's face pinches. 'Her being the one to do this in the name of blood supremacy is hypocritical.'

'What do you mean? Hornby is a pureblood name. Maybe they aren't part of the Sacred Twenty-eight, but they've aligned themselves with the Lestranges and Carrows,' Minerva says.

Iris pops up from her chair to see if anyone has entered the medical ward. When she sees the coast is clear, she seats herself and leans in to whisper. 'You didn't hear this from me, but my family is particularly in-the-know of any scandals. Hornby is Lestrange's affair child and one from a muggle woman at that.'

'What? How is this not the news around school?' Minerva asks.

Irene's hands tense into fists. Her mind is whirring with the need to review what was said during her assault. There was the part about Lestrange beating her, and talking like the girl owned her. Would that explain her status in her group of "friends?" She swallows. Then who gave Hornby the wand again and that transfiguration artefact?

'It's well kept. Maybe some purebloods know, but only the ones with vast information channels. You won't find the Potters, Diggorys, Flints, or Goyles talking about this. The only other ones I can think of are the Malfoys, Rosiers, or Changs.'

She mentioned an "uncle." What if that—

'Irene, are you alright? You are looking a little pale,' Iris says.

'Oh, uh, yeah. I just don't think talking about this is helping me.' Her heart is an obnoxious mess in her chest.

'I imagine it isn't.' Iris frowns. 'Why don't we chat about something else instead? On the bright side, you won't have to attend tutoring this week because of all this. Have you told him to sod off yet?'

Irene nods. She doesn't think she would have attended either way after the incident with Riddle. Skipping is not above her methods to ignore him if needed. 'I did. He did not react well.' She grimaces.

'Understatement of the century,' Minerva grumbles.

'He'll get over it eventually. That boy has half the girls in the school drooling for him, even more now that Minerva's attacked him. You know, pity points and all that.' Iris flourishes her hand with a shake of her head.

'One can hope.' But Irene doubts that. 'I wish I could have seen you deck Riddle in the face,' she sighs.

'Maybe one of these days I'll be able to afford a pensieve to show you,' Minerva says.

'I might just buy one for you if I get desperate enough. I have the spare money, working and all.'

With the current nightmare of Voldemort's attention, Irene can see herself needing the memory for stress relief purposes. Although if it gets to that point, she might just punch him in the face herself. At this point, what is there to lose?

'Speaking of which, do you still have Ministry work this weekend?' Iris asks.

'No, my boss told me I'm off for the week and possibly the next one as well. I'm free to join everyone at Hogsmeade this weekend.'

'Your boss. A tall man, tanned skin, and curly silver and brown hair?' Iris asks.

'Yeah, that's him. He told me he met both of you while I was out.'

'Oh, my stars. When you said Flavian, I thought I heard wrong. But Head Unspeakable Flavian Aurelias Dante Fontius is your boss!?' she squeals. 'Why didn't you tell me?'

'Oh no. That was the Head Unspeakable?' Minerva groans. 'I'll never work in the Department of Mysteries now.'

'I didn't think it was a good idea. You know, it would gather attention and everything.' Irene backs away from Iris. 'And you want to work at the DoM? You don't want to be a professor?'

'Oh, how very perceptive, Irene. I didn't know you had that in you.' Iris smiles, proud.

'Thanks.' She rolls her eyes. 'I might not see much, but I can tell what will cause a stir and what will not.'

'How did you know I was considering teaching? I haven't told anyone,' Minerva says.

'Er, you're really good at tutoring. I figured you'd go into something similar,' Irene says.

'Don't tell her that. It'll go to her already gargantuan head,' Iris says.

Minerva sniffs and Irene laughs. She's never had friends like this, never experienced such trust with someone other than her mum. But here, at Hogwarts with her peers, she's found a place she belongs. As the afternoon waxes and the Hospital Wing remains silent aside from their boisterous group, a part of Irene doesn't want to let go. Platinum hair shines brightly in the peak of day. Her gloopy limbs reflect in the light. What happened the days before, feels a faraway nightmare.

In this peace, she wants nothing more than for it to last. Yet perhaps that's selfish of her. Fontius's offer lingers in the background. Minerva punching Riddle feels like a joke, and Hornby's violent assault seems a one-in-a-lifetime incident, but they aren't. Perhaps by being here Irene's making everything worse.

The door from down the hall opens. Madam Weber strolls out with a few things in her cart. It must be time to discharge her. She smiles a bit sadly at her two friends bickering.

Like this, they feel like….

A family.

Irene's always been weak to it.