Storm
Grace forms a plan.
Grace did not know how to save Regulus.
She had been racking her brain all week long, trying to come up with some or the other plan to prevent Regulus from being thrown into Azkaban. Her immediate thought was to simply have him stop being a Death Eater. But how in Merlin's name was she supposed to accomplish that? She didn't know anything about Death Eaters beyond whisperings from the Hogwarts grapevine and shoddy news articles from the Prophet. If she were to come up with a plan to help Regulus, she needed to know something about the situation he was stuck in—something concrete. She needed to talk to him.
The problem was, of course, that they weren't exactly on speaking terms.
Grace stamped into the Potions classroom, silently hoping Slughorn had a painless lecture planned. She needed an easy day. She was no closer to cracking Vablatsky's journal than she had been the day she found it. Her father had progressed from Stage C of Dragon Pox to Stage D. James was making an effort to owl her every other day, but it was scarcely more than a hastily scribbled sentence or two. (Apparently, he was swamped with work in the Auror Office, although Grace wasn't sure how much she believed that.)
"Hullo." Dirk waved to her as she made her way towards his table. "You look dead awful."
She stopped just in front of him and frowned. "And you look like a prat."
"That's all?" Dirk clucked his tongue sympathetically. "My, my, the rumors are true. You're losing your touch."
"You're going to lose your life if you keep this up," Grace muttered. "Merlin, I thought Hufflepuffs were supposed to be nice."
"You might want to consider being less narky with me," Dirk sniffed, "considering I've got some news you've been waiting for."
The scowl slipped off of Grace's face in an instant. "What do you—"
"Grace!" a loud voice cheered, and Grace found her view of Dirk completely eclipsed by Davey Gudgeon's broad-shouldered form. "I was meaning to talk to you, but you dashed out of Charms before I got the chance."
Grace had actually seen him coming, which only spurred her to move faster. "Oh," she said, "yeah, I just…love Potions. Couldn't wait to get here."
Dirk snorted from behind Davey. Grace shot him a warning glare.
"Makes sense. You've certainly got a knack for it," Davey complimented.
"Yeah…" Grace said, wondering where on earth this was going. "What did you want, exactly?"
Davey straightened up immediately. "I was just wondering if—er—you were going to the Quidditch game?"
Grace stared at him. Between Death Eaters and Dragon Pox, she had completely forgotten such a thing as Quidditch existed. She was briefly struck still by the gall of Davey. Who in Merlin's name had time to watch a bunch of pricks on broomsticks when the world was descending into chaos?
"The…Quidditch game…?" Grace repeated slowly.
Davey scratched the back of his neck. "Yeah. Ravenclaw against Slytherin." He smiled suddenly. "Ever since your brother left, Gryffindor's been out of the running for the Cup. And Merlin knows Hufflepuff's never had a shot. Whoever comes out on top this match is a safe bet for winning the Cup. I heard Renard hasn't been scheduling as many practices for the Slytherin team this term, and I've been putting my team through the wringer ever since we got back, so I'm feeling pretty confident."
Dirk had started pulling faces behind Davey's back. Grace rolled her eyes and stepped past her ex-boyfriend, plopping her stuff onto the work table.
"Davey," she cut in, just barely masking her annoyance, "I haven't got time for the Quidditch game today."
"Oh, it's not today. It's next week."
"I don't have time next week, either."
He deflated. "Er—are you sure? It's not the finals, but it's a pretty big game."
"I've just got too many assignments to finish right now. Maybe next time."
"Alright, yeah. Maybe next time," Davey murmured. He cast one unsure glance back at Grace before padding back towards his own seat.
"I know that look," Dirk said sagely as Davey disappeared into the back. "He's going to do something stupid."
Dirk wasn't exactly wrong. Grace didn't think Davey would do something stupid so much as wildly unnecessary. She used to like that about Davey. She had liked how recklessly creative he could be, how he'd asked her out by setting off fireworks during the Halloween feast in fifth year, how he'd flown them out to Hogsmeade on a charmed carpet for one of their dates. Of course, he ended up using far too many fireworks than strictly necessary, scorching the entire Great Hall. And while Davey had figured out how to get the carpet to fly, he had never paused to think how to make it stop.
"I don't care what he does as long as it doesn't involve me." Grace slumped into her chair and turned to Dirk. "Anyway, what were you saying?"
"Anita sent me a letter this morning."
Grace thought on the name. "Anita…" she began slowly. "Anita from your Smugglers' Society?"
"The very one." Dirk's voice dropped to a low whisper. "She's been helping a lot of Muggle-borns get out of the country. Set up Colvin's family with some relatives in Spain."
"Merlin's beard—you actually found them, then?" Truth be told, the news was a little unsettling. Grace had only given Dirk a first and last name, and he had managed to uncover where Colvin's entire family was hiding out.
"Of course I did!" he let out rather indignantly. "I'm a senior member of the Society, after all."
Grace rolled her eyes. "Technically, I should be a senior member, seeing as I'm the one who actually sold your blasted products."
"Right, but no one needs to know about that," he said hastily. "Anyway—Anita sent me this."
He pulled out a crumpled letter from his bag and slid it across the table. Grace took it her hands and smoothed it out. It was a very brief message: She has the paper. Don't send me anymore school supplies. And stop writing me in Gobbledegook; it's irritating to translate.
"She already got the sheet to Colvin?" Grace asked. Merlin, that was quick.
"I think so." Dirk shrugged. "Can't be too explicit in the letters in case they're intercepted, but I'm fairly certain that's what she meant."
Grace let out a breath of relief. She had initially intended for this to be an apology for Greengrass (because Merlin knew a Slytherin would never apologize with words), but after all that had happened with Regulus, Grace had begun to see Greengrass in a different light. Their situations certainly weren't the same, but Grace could understand not having your best friend by your side. Grace could understand the frustration, the heart-wrenching worry, the deep-seated want.
Now that Colvin had one half the of spellbound sheet, Grace could deliver the other half to Greengrass. Now at least one of them wouldn't have to be completely miserable.
"Thanks, Dirk," Grace said warmly. "Really."
"It was nothing," he waved off. "Well, actually, it wasn't nothing. Say, since we've done your thing now, could you help me out with my rollerblades initiative? Dumbledore vetoed it, but I figure if I get a student petition going—"
"I honestly think issuing rollerblades to students would cause more harm than good, and that's me saying that."
He deflated. "You might have a point there."
"But if you need to get a petition going for any of your other Head Boy ideas, I'm excellent at forging signatures."
"Perfect."
Just as Grace was going to ask what Dirk planned to instate in lieu of mandatory rollerblading, Slughorn waddled inside the classroom, very carefully levitating a large cauldron of bubbling potion behind him. He settled at the front, and set the cauldron down.
"Hello, hello," he chortled merrily. "Apologies for the late start. I was finishing up brewing today's topic." He gestured at the shimmering silver potion. "Now, we've actually covered this potion last year, but due to—er—all that had been going on, we never actually got the chance to brew it."
"I've got to admire how much he refuses to face the realities of the world," Dirk whispered to Grace. "I mean—s'not like things are any better now than they were last year, right?"
"I've been informed by a member of the Wizarding Examinations Authority—an old student of mine, actually. Oliver Thrumbell. Very astute fellow." Slughorn cleared his throat momentarily. "Anyway, Oliver has told me that you'll surely be asked to brew this particular potion for your N.E.W.T.s, and it is my intent to prepare you for that. Now, first thing's first: how many of you actually know what potion this is?"
Grace squinted at the glimmering liquid. The smell wafting from the cauldron was quite nice, but she was seated too far to identify it.
"It's Amortentia, right?" Dirk said lowly.
"Yeah, I think so."
Dirk's hand went up, as did a few other students'.
"Ah, Miss Rosier?" Slughorn called.
"It's Amortentia," Myrcella Rosier said primly, "the most powerful love potion in the world."
Slughorn beamed. "That it is! Five points to Slytherin. Now—since we've already covered this potion last year, I'll not waste time with an overview. Let's get straight to brewing!"
Grace sighed deeply to herself as she opened her textbook to the correct page. "Why can't we do something simple?" she complained uselessly. "Why can't we do the Dog's Breath Potion? It takes thirty minutes to make."
Dirk pored over his own textbook. "Ashwinder eggs, peppermint, moonstone, pearl dust... Jesus, there are like twenty ingredients!" He looked at Grace helplessly. "Sod this. Let's do your Dog's Breath Potion."
The idea was tempting. "I'd rather not risk another round of detention with Slughorn." Grace grimaced as she recalled the two weeks she spent with Slughorn after the smoke incident. She'd never known how smelly Flobberworm guts were. "Come on, let's just be quick about it and get it over with."
They divided the ingredients amongst themselves, cutting up and grinding and measuring until everything was set up for the potion. In a flurry of movement, Grace dumped ingredient after ingredient into her cauldron, giving a brief stir whenever required, more focused on getting the task done with than getting it right.
"It's looking sort of…er—wrong…?" Dirk said after they'd let it simmer for an hour.
It did. The surface was a noxious green instead of the pleasant, glistening silver it was supposed to be.
"Don't worry," Grace assured, crushing up some rose petals in her mortar and pestle. "I'm making approximate Amortentia."
"Approximate Amortentia?"
"It's like Amortentia but not as strong. You just throw in the same ingredients slapdash and then add rose petals to get them to bind better. It'll still look and smell right, but the effect isn't quite the same." Grace dumped the ground rose petals into the cauldron. "Dad taught it to me last year. It's how he managed to get an O on his N.E.W.T. Potions."
"Thank your dad for me," Dirk said as Grace gave the cauldron a quick stir and the color changed from green to scintillating white.
The scent of the potion was thick and strong. Grace took a deep breath, and found herself strangely at ease as the flurry of smells swept over her. Grace was hit by the scent of freshly baked apple pie, the salty sea air of Falmouth, the sweet cool of her mother's homemade pumpkin juice.
She let the familiar scents wash over her, let her memory taste the pie and feel the wind and guzzle down the juice—until she was hit by a scent she couldn't quite place. It was familiar, but subtly so. Grace tried to wrestle down the smell, tried to catalogue it, but as she leaned closer and closer, Dirk suddenly yelped and closed the cauldron with a lid.
"Oh, my God," Dirk breathed, white as a sheet.
She wheeled to him in surprise. "What? What happened?"
"I just—I can't believe—I mean, really now?" he babbled.
She waved a hand in front of him. "Hellooo—"
He swatted her hand away and looked at her. "Abbott!" he cried out, eliciting a strange look from the next table over.
Grace shushed him. "What about Abbott?"
"It's her," he said, gesturing at the cauldron. "I'm—I mean—how is that even possible?"
"Huh. Sort of makes sense though, doesn't it? You've been after her since first year," she pointed out.
"Yeah—to sell her Muggle-born merchandise!" Dirk sputtered out. "Not because I fancy her!"
"Are you sure about that? I mean—have you written and performed dramatic epics for any other pure-blood on behalf of the Smugglers' Society? Have you sung ballads to any other—"
"She's just a tough customer!"
"Yeah, sure."
"Grace!"
She stifled a snicker. "Alright, alright, calm your knickers. You know what—it's probably not even her. How can you be sure?"
"She presses violets in between the pages of her books. It's that exact smell! Violets and stained paper."
Grace's amused smile slipped away slowly. "Paper?"
"Yeah."
She lifted the lid off the cauldron and inhaled deeply. The smell was back again—fusty, old, but there was some fresh edge to it, some second scent. But Grace knew what the first one was now. It was paper—old parchment, pages from musty books and ancient tomes. And as soon as she had that first scent down, she knew what the second was: broomstick polish, the expensive sort, the one Regulus ordered from Quality Quidditch Supplies, the one he'd stain his hands with after cleaning down his broomstick.
"Oh," Grace said, because she understood now. This was the scent of Regulus's hands: old paper and costly broomstick polish.
And, against her better judgement, she glanced over to the other side of the classroom. Rosier was still stirring, but they must have been near finished, because Regulus was hovering by, sniffing.
"Me and a pure-blood," Dirk continued to babble. He buried his face in his hands. "What's the world coming to?"
Regulus stood by the cauldron for a few more moments before grimacing and growing queasy. Eventually, like Dirk, he covered the bubbling potion with a lid, trapping the scent inside.
Grace's insides squirmed. What could have been so off-putting about the smell that Regulus needed to cover it? Was it her he smelled in there? Did he not like it? Or—even worse—was it not her? Was it Myrcella Rosier and that sickly sweet perfume her mother had recently sent her?
"Probably stink pellets," Dirk said suddenly, tearing Grace away from her reverie.
She spun to him. "What?"
"That Black smelled."
She stared at him helplessly. "What are you talking about?"
"He probably smelled your blasted stink pellets," Dirk said matter-of-factly. "You use them in a prank at least twice every year."
Her cheeks burned viciously. "I don't…I mean—Merlin, Dirk! You can't just say things like that."
"What? I can't tell you my observations?"
"Your observations are wrong," she told him hotly. Good Godric—she'd just about die of embarrassment if it turned out that her identifying smell was a stink pellet.
"Oh, please," he scoffed. "Let's review the facts, shall we? Black always makes that face when you burst stink pellets—"
"If you keep talking, I'm going to tell Abbott you don't wash your hands after using the loo."
"I don't care what you tell her," Dirk sniffed. "I refuse to believe it's her violets I'm smelling. We did it wrong or something. The potion's off."
Grace wasn't quite sure about that. She'd smelled the pie and the seaside and the pumpkin juice, too, and she knew without a shred of doubt that she loved those scents, the places and people they represented, the feeling of warmth and home they held. How could the approximate Amortentia get that right and the rest wrong?
Her eyes wavered back to the other side of the classroom. She traced over Regulus's slight face, the hollow of his cheek, the weak tremble of his chin. He had entered with his hair brushed back neatly, but after all the brewing, it had gotten a bit mussed. A stray lock fell over his forehead. Grace wanted to tuck it away.
"You know," Dirk said. "The staring wouldn't be that creepy if you'd at least blink once in a while."
Grace whipped around so fast, she nearly toppled over their cauldron of bubbling Amortentia. "What?" she said wildly.
He rolled his eyes. "So—" he leaned forward, head propped by his hand, "what'd you smell in yours? No, wait, let me guess… Black's luscious dark hair? His expensive, pure-blood cologne? His—"
Grace frowned. "Shut up, Dirk."
She didn't know why she felt so combative to the idea, but she was. It felt like some sick trick. It felt like nothing was going the way she wanted it to. It felt impossible, and it was cruel of the Amortentia to smell the way it did.
For what might have been the first time in all seven years of knowing him, the mischievous glint in Dirk's eye faded. His lips dropped into a worried little grimace.
"Hey—you know I'm only joking, right?" he said.
She glanced at him. Guilt pricked her. "Yeah—I... Yeah," she mumbled.
"Good." He paused a moment, and then added, "Are you okay?"
His eyes shone with such honest concern, that Grace found herself unable to lie. She eased herself forward, elbows landing onto the edge of her table. She stared into the swirling mother-of-pearl sheen of their potion. The subtle scent of old paper and polish wormed its way into her nose once more. The black ink of the Dark Mark, the angry raw-red rash of Dragon Pox, her brother's puffy, tired eyes flashed through her mind.
The world seemed to be built out of problems and riddles, each wrapping around the other trickily, neverendingly. It was tiring to unravel a world like that—carefully, piece by piece—but Grace had to. There was too much at stake.
"No," she replied, "but I will be."
I must be.
At lunch, Grace found Greengrass in her usual spot at the very end of the Slytherin table. The auburn-haired girl was hunched over some dull book, mechanically scooping chowder from her bowl into her mouth without lifting her eyes from the page she was reading.
Grace ambled forward with her own stack of books and dumped them all onto the table. Greengrass nearly jumped out of her seat, accidentally flinging her spoonful of white chowder onto a nearby second-year.
"Must you make a racket everywhere you go?" she hissed.
"How else would you know I was here?" Grace retorted.
Greengrass narrowed her eyes at Grace before deciding it wasn't worth it and returning her gaze down to her book. Grace sat down opposite Greengrass and began to organize her teetering stack of books, all of which were on the subject of runic scripts. The longer Grace examined Vablatsky's journal, the more sure she was that the old professor hadn't been using any formal script. It was some blend of scripts—or perhaps her own personal style. Whatever runic language Vablatsky had used, Grace was sure it was only a matter of time before she managed to crack it.
As Grace rummaged through her bag for the journal, she found the spellbound sheet she had meant to give Greengrass the other day.
"Oh, right," she said quietly, fishing out the paper. Amidst all the drama of brewing Amortentia, she had promptly forgotten all about Anita's news.
As Grace pulled out the parchment, she found there were already paragraphs and paragraphs of text. Colvin, it seemed, had already begun writing to Greengrass. Grace's eyes fled over the neat scrawl:
Hello, my love! The woman we're staying with has a granddaughter who's stationed near Hogwarts, and she managed to get me this sheet. We can use it to send messages to each other. I couldn't believe it when I first got it. It's so dreadfully dull here, and I miss you, Fee. I miss the jade green of your eyes and the soft curl of your hair and the warm press of your lips and…
Grace flushed and tore her eyes away from the parchment instantly, feeling very much like she had intruded on something. She folded the paper in half and held it out towards Greengrass.
The Prefect harrumphed at the intrusion and sidled away from Grace, ignoring her. Grace batted around the paper, waving it wildly in front of Greengrass, and it was only when Grace nearly took her eye out with the corner that she finally looked up.
"What?" she spat. "What do you want?"
"Er—do you remember when I told you about the spellbound sheets?"
"Yes," she said flatly.
"Well, I found someone who managed to get one to Colvin. This one's your half, so now you two can keep in contact."
Greengrass frowned at her, looking very much like she didn't want to believe Grace. But hope won over skepticism, and Greengrass plucked the paper out of Grace's grasp. As she read through the writing, Grace returned to her journal, flipping open to the page she had bookmarked with Sophia.
She had managed to translate some standard words: runes like 'good' and 'bad,' and so on. But whenever there was a rune of some value, Grace found that she couldn't find its translation in any of the standard books. She always managed to find something approximate, though. Currently, she had a list of meanings—all ranging from 'slow' to 'pineapple'—for just one rune.
Grace began to comb through her textbooks, but she was soon interrupted by some pointed coughing. She looked up, and found Greengrass—cheeks pinched with the faintest pink—watching her.
"Yeah?"
"Did you read this?" Greengrass asked, voice steely.
"What?" Grace said, unable to meet Greengrass's eyes. She made a very big show of flipping through her library book for nothing in particular. "Read what? Do I look like the sort of person who reads?"
Greengrass stared at her for a moment longer. Grace was acutely aware of the warmth of her cheeks. Finally, Greengrass broke eye contact, gave a jerky sort of nod, and returned to look at the parchment.
Grace returned to the journal, very much hoping that was the end of that. But it was only a minute later that she was interrupted:
"So…this is really her?" Greengrass croaked out. Her fingers ran over the sheet like she wanted the words to crawl out of the paper and into her heart. "It's really Lila writing?"
"Yes," Grace said. She rummaged through her knapsack and pulled out a quill and ink pot. She passed it over to Greengrass and nodded at the piece of parchment. "You can ask her anything—check if it really is Colvin."
Greengrass grasped the end of the quill and hastily began to scribble out what seemed to be the beginning of a novel. Grace watched bemusedly for a moment before tearing her eyes away, returning to the journal. She honestly couldn't say for sure that any of this effort was worth it, but she hoped it would be. If this was a journal of prophecies, all handwritten by one of the most famed Seers of the century, all about Grace, then…surely it would have some answers, right? Surely it would tell her what to do about Regulus and if her parents would be okay and how much of what James was doing was actually for the Auror Office and how much was for Dumbledore.
Grace's eyes caught onto 'sight' rune, the one Sophia had so proudly translated in the library. She had checked nearly every book, and while it seemed sight might be closest, it wasn't quite right. There was something missing, but she wasn't sure what.
"I didn't know you knew runes."
Grace looked up, and found that instead of being in the seat across from her, Greengrass was now hovering over Grace's shoulder.
"What in the—" Grace spluttered, and covered the page she was translating. "How did you do that?"
Greengrass's gaze wavered to the list of possible rune translations Grace had made. "Oh, you're an amateur," Greengrass said, ignoring the question.
"I—er—yeah, sure," Grace said hastily. "This is just for fun."
"Right…" she said slowly, entirely disbelieving. "Anyway, that's not any standard rune." She pointed at the 'sight' rune Grace had drawn at the top of her list. "It's a conjugation, but a rare one. Medieval. They used to add the arrow when they wanted to represent a verb as a noun."
"Yeah, I know that," Grace said flatly. "So it's 'sight,' not 'to see.'"
"Not exactly. They used to that form specifically to describe professions. So, 'to write' would become 'a writer.' 'To garden' would become 'gardener.' And so—"
"Merlin's beard!" Grace cried out. "So this is Seer! That's what—oh, so the next rune makes this whole phrase the Seer's obstacle."
Grace moved her hand and showed Greengrass the following rune.
"Yeah," she said, squinting at the rune, "but it's a less formal version. It's more like the Seer's misstep. A bump in the road. A snag." She frowned. "That sounds sort of familiar, actually. I think I might have read something like this before." She bent closer, tracing over the sentence. "Something about a Seer being stuck…something about making, but that rune looks weird. Probably stylistic choices. Oh—this one here's—er—slow?" She frowned. "The handwriting is irritating. I can't tell what case this is supposed to be."
"I got that ages ago," Grace said, following Greengrass's finger. "It's 'slow progress.'"
Greengrass shrugged and her hand retreated. "Probably." Her eyes met Grace's. "What's this for, by the way? You're not in Ancient Runes."
"It's for fun," Grace repeated, albeit somewhat defensively. "Er—look—" she pointed blindly at the spellbound sheet across from her, "—I think Colvin wrote back."
Greengrass hurried back to her side of the table, reaching for the quill once more. They spent the rest of lunch like that: Greengrass scribbling, Grace translating. It was only when students began to filter out of the Great Hall that they exchanged words again.
"By the way," Greengrass began hesitantly, "thank you for—er—you know." She waved the sheet, which she had rolled tightly and bound with string. "And about that day in the Hospital Wing—"
"It's okay," Grace said easily. "I was being a prat."
Greengrass relaxed. "Glad you're aware of that facet of your identity." She paused unsurely, watching Grace squeeze her many books into her bag, and added, "Have you finished Flitwick's essay yet?"
"Er—no?"
To her surprise, Greengrass simply nodded. "Good. We can work on it together."
"We can?"
"Yes. I'll see you in the library after dinner?"
"You will?"
Greengrass frowned. "Can you stop doing that?"
Grace grinned. "Can I?"
The taller girl huffed and turned away. "Don't be late," she said before striding away.
The phrase Greengrass had translated as 'Seer's obstacle' or 'Seer's snag' cropped up an awful lot in Vablatsky's journal. It was mentioned at least once every couple of pages, and after Sophia gave Grace a quick course on the different runic forms for proper nouns, Grace realized that this snag Vablatsky had documented wasn't just a one-time thing. It was some actual event.
She scoured the library for anything related to Seers and snags but couldn't find anything—but she didn't lose hope. Greengrass had mentioned Vablatsky's style was more medieval; perhaps that was because some of the phrases were medieval. And a lot of ancient events were rather gruesome. And if it was gruesome enough, then it wouldn't be in the usual shelves of the library.
It would be in the Restricted Section.
"Alright," Grace said, eyeing an eager Sophia, "so after I give you the signal—"
"I run over to Pince and just start screaming," the younger girl burst. "I'll wave my hands around, too—like this—" she began to rotate her arms in a windmill-like fashion.
Grace stopped her. "Er—no, no. You don't need to do that. Just stick to the plan. Scream to grab her attention, and then ferry her over to the burning books."
The glint in Sophia's eye vanished. She gnawed at her bottom lip worriedly. "But won't you get in trouble for burning the books?"
"Oh, no, don't worry. It's not real fire," Grace assured. She raised her wand and gave it a short swish. From the tip emerged a warm orange flame.
Grace ran her finger along the flickering fire. It did little more than tickle her. She offered the flame to Sophia, who shut both eyes and hesitantly reached forward. As soon as hand met flame, Sophia gasped.
"It doesn't hurt at all!" she marveled, smiling. She began to pet the flame. "Can you teach me that? I can use it on Preston during breakfast tomorrow."
"Later," Grace promised. She gave her wand another wave, snuffing out the fire. "Now, go on and distract Pince."
Sophia nodded, gave Grace a soldier's salute, and promptly dashed through the maze of bookshelves. Grace aimed her wand at the shelf they had been loitering by, and promptly set it on (fake) fire. She inched away quietly, settling deep into the library, just a few steps shy of the Restricted Section.
"Madam Pince!" she heard Sophia cry out. "Madam Pince, come quick! There's a fire! Oh, it's absolutely horrible, isn't it, Madam Pince? Who would set fire to all these wonderful books! There's so much wisdom shelved onto these—er—shelves, and someone just came and set it on fire—"
"Stop your blathering, girl, and show me to the place!"
"Of course, Madam Pince. It's over here. I just—" Sophia let out an undignified sob, "—can't believe someone would do this. All that history—lost!"
Grace pressed her knuckles against her mouth, barely stifling a laugh. She strained her ears as she heard a wailing Sophia lead Pince further and further into the library, and father and father away from where Grace was stationed. Grinning, Grace slinked into the Restricted Section. She fished her wand out of her pocket.
"Accio books about Seer's snag," she said, and immediately regretted it as no less than twenty books dashed off the shelves and raced towards her.
Grace ducked, and they collided roughly against the back wall. Wincing and hoping desperately Pince wouldn't head over to investigate, Grace quickly gathered the books, stuffing as many as could fit into her bag and gathering the rest in her arms. She snuck through the shelves, and caught sight of a furious Pince fanning out the flames. Behind her was an aghast Sophia, bemoaning the lack of respect kids nowadays showed for libraries. Grace shot Sophia a beaming smile as she left. The Ravenclaw responded with a covert thumbs up.
As soon as Grace made it out of the library, she sped down the hallways and towards the basement. Once Pince realized her books were missing, she'd search through every dormitory in Hogwarts. The only place Grace figured she would be safe was the kitchens.
"Hullo, Pokey!" Grace said brightly as she slipped inside the bustling place.
She was such a frequent visitor that hardly any of the other house-elves paid her notice. Pokey scurried over, purple ears pert, producing a plate of apple pie from nowhere. "Miss Grace hungry?"
Grace beamed. "Oh, starving. Thanks, Pokey."
With her warm slice of pie and her heavy knapsack, Grace settled down by the hearth. She flipped her bag upside down, letting her stolen books tumble out. She sorted through them quickly, ordering them based on age. With a mouthful of pie, she reached for what appeared to be the oldest book, and flipped through the pages until she caught sight of what she was looking for:
Whan a child born of familie with no Syghte growes with Divinnatoree power, you shal find they shake and screem from the siknesse of the Inner Eyen. This Snagge of Seer bifel a lyne of symple stalke spynners and the doghter swapte with no breeth oon day.
The text was so dense and the script so tiny and strangely written that Grace found she could not continue. All she managed to glean was that this Seer's snag was connected to the Inner Eye—something Vablatsky had brought up sparingly in class. She never went into much detail about it; all Grace really knew was that the strength of a Seer's ability was dependent on how attuned their Eye was with the realm of divination.
She chose a more modern book next, one that seemed less a historical account and more a medical encyclopedia. As she flipped through the pages, she was met with ghastly images of contorted limbs and pus-filled gashes. It wasn't until she reached the section on magi-neurological diseases that she found an entry on Seer's snag:
Witches and wizards of old believed the epileptic fugues their children suffered were the consequence of a young Seer's Inner Eye not having opened successfully at birth. This was a common belief back in the time of Mopsus, but it has since been disproved, most notably by Sir Charles of Lyons in the eighteenth century, who collected several young children supposedly affected by Seer's snag and asked that they predict the outcome of that year's Quidditch World Cup. No child predicted the correct winner, Burma.
Grace found herself rolling her eyes. If these kids' Inner Eyes weren't working properly, then their predictions obviously wouldn't be correct, now would they?
The common consensus nowadays is that what was formerly known as Seer's snag is actually a young witch or wizard's inability to channel their magical energy. This often manifests in a lack of magical talent as a child and, later, in aching headaches and seizures. The condition is referred to as paroxysm via magical strain (common name: Hywell's disease, after Lavinia Hywell, who was the first to document the increase of strain in children's temporal lobes).
The page ended. Grace flipped to the next one, but found a new entry had begun. She turned back to the previous page and stared blankly at the words. Paroxysm via magical strain. Hywell's disease.
"That's not possible," she breathed, because surely someone would have told her, right? Then again, it wasn't as if Healers were clamoring for Divination-centric explanations for diseases, now where they? Quite the opposite, in fact; Grace was yet to find any Healer who was at least interested in Divination.
She stared unsurely at the entry in the book. It was very reluctant to believe that such a thing as Seer's snag existed and, honestly, if Vablatsky hadn't written about it so explicitly in her journal, Grace doubted she'd believe in it, too.
She reached for another book, desperate to find more insight. As she fluttered from page to page, from text to text, she found a common theme: the older the book, the more it espoused the existence of Seer's snag. The more recent, the more it belittled the idea. None of the texts provided any specifics. It was all the same: painful seizures and convulsions, unacclimated magical power, possible link to Divination, and so on.
It wasn't until Grace reached the final book of the lot that she found something actually interesting:
Modern Healers are quick to write off Seer's snag as a relic of the past, but the affliction is prevalent to this day. Caoimhe Stiobhard, born 1809 to a family with no history of the Sight, was plagued by Seer's snag starting from the age of three. She was possessed by crippling fits until the age of eleven, when she was introduced to a wand and subsequently able to open her Inner Eye fully (see: The Divinatory Power of Wands). Of course, the epileptic dimension to her Seeing transformed into something 'bordering insanity,' as her sister later recalled. The power of the Inner Eye is not one to be taken lightly. Ancient Seers recorded stories of true Seers—those with unfettered access to the Inner Eye—that had gone mad from the onslaught of visions. Similarly, Caoimhe Stiobhard buckled under the full weight of the future. At the age of sixteen, she plummeted off a cliffside as she recited a prophecy about flying Muggles.
Grace numbly shut the book and tossed it into the pile. She wasn't completely unaware of this particular facet of Hywell's. Healer Kane had told her many years ago that the mortality rate for the condition was very high in the past, but that was only because people back then didn't have the potions they did now.
Grace sighed and reached for Vablatsky's journal. She wasn't sure how much she believed in this. She did believe there was true power in Divination, but she'd never thought to stop and consider how much power. She didn't think there was much to the art beyond card reading and tea leaves. She'd heard stories about prophecies—real ones, with rhymes and everything—but those were, after all, stories.
But if Vablatsky had written about Seer's snag, if she had compiled this entire notebook about the subject, Grace could hardly be expected to ignore that. There must be some shred of truth buried in the topic.
Grace thumbed back the cover of the journal. Resting in the corner was her name, like always, but now it carried a different sort of weight. Vablatsky didn't write any prophecies concerning Grace. She wrote about Grace's condition and its link to Seer's snag. This journal was about her potential, her capacity to be a true Seer.
Grace took a deep breath and closed the book. She leaned forward and cradled the crown of her head in her palms. The words from the books floated through her mind: Unfettered access to the Inner Eye. Divinnatoree power. The full weight of the future. Snatches of conversation from the past few weeks intermingled with her thoughts: Hogwarts isn't impervious, you know… I took the Mark during the summer… Dumbledore's recruited me for an anti-Dark Wizard taskforce…
The faintest inkling of a plan began to gather in Grace's mind.
Grace spent the entire night perfecting her plan, organizing it into phases, researching Death Eater activity using old Prophet articles, re-organizing it into different phases, rummaging through Vablatsky's old room for more information about the Inner Eye, and so on. It wasn't until she was settled in Transfiguration, her first class of the day, that she felt confident enough to tell Regulus about what she'd been up to. She pulled out her half of their spellbound sheets, and set to writing:
I know you probably don't want to hear from me, but—
She left off right there, because the words she wrote didn't fade. They clung to the yellow of the parchment stubbornly. Frowning, Grace dipped her quill in its ink pot again and scribbled over the paper, waiting for the dark ink to seep into the paper and disappear. As second after second ticked by, as the words refused to leave, Grace's heart sunk deeper and deeper.
He'd destroyed his half of the sheet.
"What in Salazar's name are you doing?"
Grace twisted round, and saw Greengrass looking pointedly at Grace's ruined sheet of parchment.
"Er, nothing," she said moodily, crumpling up the paper and tossing it into her bag. She took out a fresh roll of parchment. "I was just testing out my quill."
"Seems to be working."
Grace nodded absently and began to copy down McGonagall's notes from the blackboard, but found her heart wasn't quite into trans-species transformations. She spent much of the class waiting for it to be over. The toad McGonagall had given her blinked up at her blankly and croaked furiously when she waved her wand over it. It was only after a couple of tries that she managed to transform it into a brightly-colored parrot. She set her wand down after that, and spent the rest of class glowering at nothing in particular, resisting the very strong urge to scowl in Regulus's direction.
She couldn't believe he'd gone and destroyed that sheet. Well—truth be told, she could believe it. She did say she never wanted to see him again. I just…I dunno, she thought restlessly, locked in a fierce staring contest with her beady-eyed parrot. I just didn't think he would let go so easily.
The rest of Transfiguration passed in a daze. As Grace filed out of the classroom with the other students, she was stopped.
"Miss Potter?" McGonagall called, drawing her to a halt.
Grace's shoulders sagged and she turned on her heel, padding towards the stick-thin professor. "I know how to do the transformations," she promised McGonagall. "James taught me a modified spell. I can do it, I swear. I was just feeling tired today."
McGonagall stared at her for one long moment, and then said, "James…devised a spell to simplify trans-species transformations?"
"Yeah, he did it in sixth year." Grace frowned tightly. And she had come up with a version of Skele-Gro that dulled the excruciating side effects in fourth year, but it wasn't as if McGonagall cared about that.
"Of course he did," the old professor said fondly. "In any case, I did not hold you back to discuss your performance today—which was rather good, mind you. I wanted to ask if you would be able to commentate Friday's Quidditch match?"
"I—what?"
"Finchley will be serving detention with his Head of House that evening, and will be unable to commentate. As such, we're in need of a replacement."
"And you want me to do it?"
"You have a passion for the sport, a penchant for humor, and—most importantly—you know the rules. You were also recommended by Mr. Gudgeon. He seems to think you would do a wonderful job."
Grace held back her groan. Of course that was what this was.
"I'm sorry, Professor," she said immediately, shouldering her bag, "but I don't really think I've got the time."
McGonagall's brows flew up. "But this is one of the most important games of the season."
Grace bit the inside of her cheek. How come no one saw how utterly ridiculous it was to play Quidditch in the midst of a war? Did McGonagall and Gudgeon really expect her to climb into that commentator's booth and relay scores and passes as Muggle-borns went into hiding? As James hunted down Death Eaters? As her parents sat in their hospital cots?
"Surely you'd want to support your fellow House members?" McGonagall continued.
Grace wanted to laugh. The last thing she wanted to do was see her fellow Slytherins flying around obnoxiously. Merlin, she didn't even want to see Regulus wasting time playing—
Wait.
That was right, Regulus would be playing in Friday's game. And if Grace couldn't write or speak to him, perhaps she could commentate at him. If she was in that booth Friday evening, he'd have no choice but to hear what she had to say.
"Alright, you've convinced me, Professor. I'll do it."
"They're really putting on a match in this weather?" Greengrass said, wrinkling her nose as she glanced up at the darkening sky.
Grace wrapped her scarf around her neck tighter as the autumn wind blustered around them. The sky was covered in thick, grey clouds. Any light that managed to make it through the congested canopy was shadowed and weak.
"It's not great," Grace agreed.
"They should at least put warming charms on the stands," Greengrass continued to mutter. "Merlin knows they do it at the World Cup."
"You know you don't have to come to the match."
"And miss you making a complete fool of yourself in the commentator's booth? I don't think so."
"Keep that up, Greengrass, and I'll start shouting rumors about you once I'm in the booth."
She rolled her eyes. "I'm only kidding. In any case, today's game will be an interesting one. Everyone except for Slytherin is rooting for Ravenclaw."
"Makes sense," Grace shrugged. Relations between the Houses had been fraught for the past two years. Slytherin had few supporters. "To be honest, I couldn't care less about the outcome. I just want this whole thing to be over with as quickly as possible. Being trapped in a small room with McGonagall is not my idea of a pleasant Friday evening."
"You might get your wish." Greengrass eyed the darkening horizon worriedly. "If lightning strikes a player, they're sure to call off the game, right?"
"They'd probably just pull in a substitute."
"What?" she gasped. "Really? But what if they're dead?"
"Does it matter if they're dead? There's still a game to be won." Grace meant for it to come out as a joke, but she was so tired she sounded completely serious.
Greengrass eyed her warily. "Renard would like you. He lives and breathes Quidditch. Although, I've noticed that he's not so—"
"Grace!" a distant voice cried out.
Both Greengrass and Grace twisted around, and found a uniformed Davey Gudgeon jogging towards them.
"Merlin," Grace groaned quietly. "Why me? Why is it always me?"
"I can hex him for you," Greengrass offered. "Madam Pomfrey has complimented my pus-squirting spell."
"As much as I'm curious to see that out, I think McGonagall and Hooch would have our heads if we hexed the captain of the Ravenclaw team right before the game."
"How would they know it's us?"
"I—" Grace's brows rose, "—well, when you phrase it like that, Greengrass—"
"Grace!" Davey said again once he was close enough.
Grace's mouth snapped shut and she turned to Davey with barely-masked irritation. "Yes?"
"Saw you were headed over to field, and thought I'd walk with you and—er—" he glanced at Greengrass. "Hello."
"Hello," Greengrass responded flatly. She looked him up and down, and frowned. "You were walking the same way we were?"
"Yeah." He gave her a beaming smile. Greengrass's frown deepened. "Serendipity, right?"
"We came from the Slytherin common room."
"Er—yeah—I was—er…" He pointed suddenly at the Quidditch stands. "Hey, we'd better get on before they start the game without us." He inserted himself between Greengrass and Grace as they began to walk towards the stands. "Heard you'd be commentating today, Grace. How're you feeling about it?"
She glanced up at Davey, thoroughly unimpressed. He winked at her. She briefly considered asking him what in Merlin's name compelled him to recommend her as a commentator to McGonagall before deciding she'd rather not know.
"I'm feeling great," she said in a tone that conveyed anything but.
His smiled wondered. "I'm glad! I know you'll do great. Do me a favor and stick around after the match, yeah? I've got—" a shrill whistle broke through the air. Hooch was out in the field, glaring at Davey. He winced. "Er—sorry, I should have been there five minutes ago. I'll catch you later. Can't wait to hear what you've got to say about me!" He gave her one last grin before dashing off.
"Wow," Greengrass remarked as he fled to the part of the pitch reserved for Ravenclaw. "Didn't he break up with you?"
"Yeah, and every day I thank my stars for it."
"Then why is he…?"
"I think he's just dumb," Grace supplied.
"Ah," Greengrass said, and nodded in understanding.
Grace jabbed a thumb at the commentator's booth. "I'd better head up. I'll see you after the match?"
"If I don't die of frostbite," Greengrass said darkly before turning on her heel and making a beeline for the Slytherin stands.
Grace began the climb up to the rickety booth. McGongall was already inside, seated primly besides the microphone, hair bunched into her usual tight bun, lips settled into a displeased grimace, hands clasped together in her lap.
"Hullo, Professor," Grace greeted as she stepped inside. "See you wore your Quidditch gear." McGonagall, who was dressed in her usual tartan robes, didn't even crack a smile. "Er—just a joke…"
McGonagall raised a brow.
Grace hurried over and sat besides the old Transfiguration teacher. She tugged the microphone close to her and tapped on it. "So, how does this thing work?"
A flurry of laughs fell over the stands. Grace jumped at the sound. She looked out of the large, panoramic window and saw students pointing up at the booth, at her.
"Oh, Merlin—it's already on, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Er—right—" Grace willed herself to be less flustered. "So, the teams…?"
Down below, Hooch blew her whistle. The Ravenclaw team emerged from the side, Davey Gudgeon at the head, chest puffed out, beaming brightly. Lined up behind him was the rest of the team. McGonagall slid Grace a paper with a list of names.
"Right," Grace said, squinting down at the names. "So there's the Captain, Davey. Davey Gudgeon, I mean. He's a Beater, too. Next to—"
"Would you mind beginning by announcing which team this is, Miss Potter?" McGonagall said.
"Oh, right, yeah, 'course," Grace fumbled. She cleared her throat. "This is the Ravenclaw team. Gudgeon's Captain and Beater. I said that already. Anyway, next to him are the Chasers: Klaus Caldwell, Mira Bannerjee, and Lionel Reekie. Then the other Beater is Hilda Finley. The Keeper is Polonia Tabard. And the Seeker is Augustus Boot."
She was thankful for the fact that much of her subpar recitation was drowned out by the wild cheers coming from the Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, and Hufflepuff stands.
"From the other end," Grace continued once Hooch motioned for the opposing team, "are the Slytherins." She leaned closer towards the window, sweeping over the line of green-clothed players. Renard was up front, looking, somehow, irritated by the fact there was a game going on, as though it were some big inconvenience to him. The others seemed similarly put-out. "At the front we've got Captain and Chaser Felix Renard. Next to him are fellow Chasers Rebecca Pucey and Damien Renko. Besides them are Beaters Sebastian Selwyn and Lorena Ludwig. Then we've got Keeper Herwick Snyde. And lastly—er—Seeker Regulus Black."
He didn't seem particularly enthused about the game, either. Grace felt that this might be, in part, due to the fact that the cheers from the Slytherin stands were being drowned out by booing from the other Houses. Grace winced as Slytherins abandoned their cheers in favor of yelling at the other stands.
"Right," she began hastily, bringing the microphone close to her, "let's—er—start the game, then. Madam Hooch?"
Hooch released the Bludgers and Snitch as the players mounted their brooms. She walked to the center of the field and threw up the Quaffle. Renard and Pucey immediately rammed into the Ravenclaw Chasers, allowing Renko to grab hold of the Quaffle.
"Oh—whoa—Caldwell, Bannerjee, and—er—forgot the last one's name—"
"Reekie," McGongall reminded her.
"Right. Reekie. So they're barricaded from the Quaffle—okay, wait, forget all that, actually. Something else has happened. Renko throws his Quaffle to Renard, but then Caldwell intercepts—but then—oh, wow—Selwyn and Ludwig are doing tricks with one of the Bludgers. That's neat, actually. I've never seen that before."
They were controlling a Bludger by batting it between themselves. Their plan, it seemed, was to swing it towards the Ravenclaw Keeper to stop her from blocking a Slytherin goal, but only when the timing was right.
"Potter," McGonagall reprimanded. "It would be better if you could commentate while you watch."
"Yeah, I'm doing that," Grace insisted. "Anyway—so, they're doing their Bludger tricks. Very nice. And then…who's got the Quaffle?" Her eyes scanned through the players, trying to spot the red ball.
"Caldwell."
"Ah, thanks. So he's got the Quaffle… Doesn't seem to be doing anything with it, just trying to avoid the Slytherin Chasers. Good luck with that. Selwyn and Ludwig are still doing their Bludger tricks. Merlin's beard—it's honestly really impressive. Am I the only one astounded by this? I mean, that Bludger's charmed to be volatile and move in random patterns, but they're managing to just keep it right—"
"Potter—"
"Right, Professor. Sorry—er… So, Caldwell's still got that Quaffle. He's making a beeline for the Slytherin goals. Chucks it. And—oof—Snyde fails to block. Ten points to Ravenclaw."
A wave of cheers chorused from all stands, save the Slytherin one. A crack of thunder issued from the skies, intermingling with the whoops and cries. Grace glanced up at the dark grey of the sky. She craned her neck further up, and saw a brief flash of lightning amongst the thickly knotted array of clouds.
Grace began to seriously consider that Greengrass might be right: if the storm worsened, the game could be cancelled. She'd better get her message out to Regulus as quickly as possible.
Grace grasped the microphone and pulled it close to her. "Pucey dives past the Ravenclaw goals and gets her hands on the Quaffle. She's coming and going, really taking advantage of all that room out there, staying well clear of the rival Chasers." Her eyes flew to Regulus, who was hovering on the outskirts of the field, looking very bored. Meet me in the Come and Go Room after dinner, you prat. "Pucey angles for the Ravenclaw goals. Selwyn and Ludwig aim the Bludger they've corralled at Tabard, knocking her aside. Pucey chucks the Quaffle—and scores!" Hooch blew her whistle, pointing angrily at the Slytherin Beaters. "And Selwyn and Ludwig have received a warning about the stunt they just pulled. They'll probably be serving detention after dinner if they do that again. Anyway—Bannerjee's managed to get to the Quaffle. She's taking advantage of the room as well—"
"Potter, the Snitch," McGonagall said, pointing at a distant spot in the sky.
"The what?" Grace squinted at where she was pointing, but could hardly see anything amidst the roiling backdrop of the oncoming storm. "Er—there may or may not be a Snitch somewhere in the northwest corner of the field. I dunno. I can't really see it." Boot perked up at her words and sped off. Regulus remained where he was. "Anyway, back to the action. Gudgeon and Finley are aiming Bludgers at Selwyn and Ludwig, probably as revenge for—" she broke off and frowned as she saw Davey wave up at her. "Concentrate on the match, Davey. Merlin, your Keeper just got knocked in the head—"
"Potter!"
Grace swallowed her words and smiled sheepishly at McGonagall. "Er—right—so…the Quaffle… Where'd that little bugger go?"
McGonagall sighed deeply.
"No, wait, I've got it!" Grace squinted and caught sight of it in Renard's arms. "Okay, somehow Slytherin got hold of the Quaffle. Dunno when that happened. Anyway, Renard's angling for the Ravenclaw goals. Taking advantage of the clear field, all that ROOM—" Grace practically screamed out the word, "—out there. Shame the Ravenclaw team isn't spreading out over all room to accommodate—"
McGonagall tapped her wand against the microphone, silencing it. "Potter," she seethed. "I don't know what sort of joke you're trying to get across, but if I hear any more mention of the word room—"
"It's just Quidditch terminology!"
"It most certainly is not!"
McGonagall gave Grace another warning before tapping her wand against the microphone once more. Another blaze of lightning and peal of thunder issued from the sky. Grace leaned back, annoyed, and brought the microphone up to her.
"Renard swings the Quaffle at the Ravenclaw goals, but Tabard blocks," she recounted with heavy boredom. "He doesn't seem too miffed about it. And, you know what, neither am I. I know this game's supposed to determine who's in the lead for the Cup, but who actually cares about that?"
"Potter…" McGonagall said warningly.
"Nothing's happening!" Grace said defensively. "Look—the Ravenclaw and Slytherin Chasers are just squabbling over the Quaffle. It'll probably be like this for a few minutes. Might as well talk about something else. Like—" Her eyes scanned across the field and she wrinkled her nose as she surveyed the dry, cracked, grey-yellow grass of the pitch. "Merlin—the field looks awful. My mum uses E-Z-Gro on her garden when the weather gets cold. I'd recommend it. Keeps the grass warm and moist—"
"Potter, need I remind you there is a game going on?"
She sighed. "Okay… So Reekie managed to get the Quaffle. He's heading for the Slytherin goals. He throws, and Snyde actually manages to block for once. Good on you, Snyde. I was beginning to think you were hopeless." Snyde scowled angrily at the booth as laughter rippled through the stands. "Snyde chucks the Quaffle towards Pucey, but Bannerjee intercepts and throws it right back at the goals. Snyde fails to block, and Ravenclaw gets another ten points. Impressive display by the Ravenclaw team."
A deafening roar erupted from the Ravenclaw stands. Bannerjee did a lap around the circuit, grinning.
"Caldwell picks up the fallen Quaffle, and does a—oh, stop that, Davey." Grace glowered as she caught sight of the Ravenclaw Beater winking at the commentator's booth. He did a large spiral and waved down at the cheering Ravenclaw stands. "Honestly… Can we talk about this, actually? How come Quidditch players are so obsessed with drawing attention to themselves on the field? We get it. We know you can play Quidditch. We're watching the bloody game, aren't we?"
"Potter!" McGonagall screeched. "If you wouldn't mind commenting on the match—"
"Alright, alright… Caldwell has the Quaffle. He aims it at the Slytherin goals. Ludwig aims a Bludger at him—and—ouch—it hits. Caldwell drops the Quaffle, and—and—oh—!" Grace shot up from her seat, microphone tight in hand as the Snitch, slight and golden, fluttered right outside the window of the booth. "The Snitch is here! Regulus, it's right over here!"
"Potter!"
She flushed despite herself. "Er—I mean—Boot, Black, you better get on this before it disappears again."
Boot was still exploring the faraway spot Grace had unintentionally led him to. He twisted around and tried to speed over to the booth in time, but Regulus was closer. The dark-haired Slytherin Seeker shifted from his spot high in the sky, angling his broomstick downward and dashing off towards the commentator's booth. Outside the window, the Snitch was still fluttering, clunking clumsily against the glass.
"Black speeds towards the Snitch while Boot tries to catch up," Grace rattled off, still standing. The grip she had on the microphone was so tight it was a miracle she hadn't broken it. "The Slytherin and Ravenclaw Chasers are still juggling the Quaffle amongst themselves. Selwyn tries to knock a Bludger towards Boot to throw him off course, but Gudgeon bats it away before he gets the chance. Doesn't seem to matter, though. Black's almost there…"
Regulus was plummeting towards the window. Just when it seemed he might crash through it and into Grace, he stopped, reached out, and took the Snitch in his hands.
"He's got it," Grace croaked, only dimly aware of the ensuing cheers. Regulus was stopped right outside of the window. The first trickle of rain began to fall. His eyes caught onto hers. "He's got the Snitch. Slytherin wins—170 to 20."
And before Grace could fit in something else—meet me at the Room, meet me there after dinner—Regulus turned around and flew down to the center of the pitch, where his cheering teammates had landed. The Slytherin stands were emptying out rapidly, students piling together, jumping up and down, all screaming Regulus's name. Grace's heart twisted.
She thrust the microphone towards McGonagall, threw open the door to the booth, and hurried down the long, spindly stairs. The rain was coming down in sheets now, and Grace was instantly soaked. Her dark hair clung to her skin. She wiped at her eyes busily as she sped through the gathering crowd of Slytherins, trying to get to Regulus. She didn't know what she was doing, just that the euphoria of the crowd had at least reached her, just that she wanted him to know she was still with him.
She reached the tight huddle of Slytherins, and was immediately sucked in.
"Three cheers for Black!" Renard roared, lifting him up along with Renko.
Slytherins all around them screamed in joy. Grace felt the cries vibrate in her chest. She pushed forward, clawing her way through the students, marching with them to the Slytherin's side of the pitch. She looked up at Regulus as he looked down at the cheering crowd that surrounded him. He seemed faint with surprise. In his right hand, the Snitch struggled.
Grace felt a hand on her shoulder, and suddenly found herself face-to-face with Greengrass. The Prefect was similarly drenched, her light hair at least three shades darker and matted against her head.
"Shouldn't we get back?" She was shouting out the words, but even then, Grace could barely hear.
"You can go," Grace yelled back. "I've got to do something."
Greengrass's eyes glanced at Regulus before returning to Grace. Her gaze lost that icy, irritated quality. She seemed sorry. Grace didn't like the look. She wasn't chasing after something unattainable. She wasn't lost or hopeless or deluded. Quite the opposite, in fact—she knew exactly where she was going and what she was doing.
She did not know if Regulus understood her strange messages, and she needed to know.
"Despite everything?" Greengrass said. Her voice was like thunder.
"Despite everything," Grace agreed.
"Alright." Greengrass shoved her way through the crowd, until she was right by Renard. Then, she pressed her wand against her throat, and let out a booming, "OI! LISTEN TO ME, YOU TWATS!"
The cheers died out in an instant. Regulus was dropped from Renko and Renard's shoulders.
"The Ravenclaws are arguing with Hooch about a foul," Greengrass made up wildly, pointing at the faraway field. "I think they want a rematch—"
She didn't have to say anymore. The effect was instantaneous. Renard let out a great cry of outrage, followed by the rest of his team. Angry mutters rippled through the crowd of Slytherins, who quickly re-assembled into a disgruntled mob. The whole lot stormed off, back to the field, to give the Ravenclaws a piece of their mind.
The rain continued to come down fast and hard. Grace turned her head away from the disappearing crowd of Slytherins and towards Regulus, who stood lone and wet right where the others had left him. His hair was slick and tousled back. His doused uniform clung to the lean muscle of his body. In his hands, still, was the caught Snitch—fluttering and straining against his grip.
His eyes locked onto Grace's—silver into gold—and the breath was stolen straight from her lungs. Despite the chill air and her drenched robes, she felt inexplicably warm. Her heart hammered against her chest. She had spent all this while—nearly every excruciating minute of the past few days—perfecting her plan, figuring out exactly what it was she needed to do, what it was she had to say.
But any semblance of her plan fled from her mind completely. She stepped forward, the sole of her shoe digging into the wet soil. Regulus's eyes flickered over her, and a shadow of panic passed over his face. He seemed to only just realize that this wasn't any sort of dream. She was here. Right here. There was barely a meter of distance between them.
She was so close, so very close. She took another step. "I—"
"Hey!" a loud voice called over, and the moment was broken.
Grace nearly jumped out of her skin. She twisted around and saw, to her utter confusion, Davey Gudgeon rushing towards her, wet hair flopping against his forehead, Beater's bat clutched tightly in one hand, broomstick in the other.
"Hey—" he panted when he was close enough, "—I was trying to find you after the game, but—"
White-hot irritation climbed up the back of her throat. "What do you want?" she spat out.
Davey stopped right in front of her, panting. "I was sort of hoping Ravenclaw would win this one, because I had a big gesture planned—fireworks and everything—but—"
She shook her head wildly, and his words faltered. "I—I don't care, Davey. Merlin, can't you move on?"
"Won't you at least hear me out?"
"No, I absolutely won't! You broke up with me," Grace said. "You said I was too flighty, too stubborn, too caught up with—"
"I know what I said, and… Grace, I'm sorry. We were both in the wrong then." Davey ducked his head. "I was jealous."
"Jealous?!" If she weren't so irritated with him, she might have laughed.
"Of Black," he said simply. "You were always spending more time with him than me. I figured maybe you were just using me to catch his attention. I dunno—I got too into my own head about it." He brightened suddenly. "But this year, I noticed you two've split. I figured I might actually have a chance now
Grace gaped at him. "Are you out of your mind?" she said. "No—genuinely, Davey. Have you always been this thick? Of course I spent a lot of time with Regulus in fifth year. His brother had just ran out on him!"
"Yeah, well—" Davey struggled. "Look, I'm not saying I was right about any of it. I'm just saying that now I think—"
"I don't care what you've got to say about now! Just because I'm not constantly around Regulus doesn't mean we're not still friends."
"Friends?" Davey repeated in disbelief. "You do really expect me to believe that? When he scarpered the second I got here?"
Grace twisted around, and found, to her utter dismay, that Regulus had disappeared. It was like her stomach had been replaced by stone. That was it, then. Her chance—gone.
She turned back to Gudgeon and wished viciously that Greengrass had given her the incantation for that pus-squirting hex. "Davey Gudgeon, I swear to Merlin, if I ever—"
"You're really not going to hear me out on this?"
"I think I've heard enough!"
Davey opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, someone else did: "Gudgeon."
Grace looked to her right, and warmth flared in her chest like the rising sun as she saw Regulus stare down Davey with a hate to rival his mother's.
"I didn't scarper," Regulus said, and each word was biting. "I went to put my broomstick away." He inclined his head to the side, where the broomstick shed lay a couple of yards away. "Sort of wish I hadn't now, though, because it would have been dead useful to knock your brains out with—supposing you've got any to begin with, of course."
Davey gaped at him. His eyes flickered back to Grace. She smiled at him smugly. After a moment of reconsideration, he simply shook his head, turned away, and began to stomp back the way he came. "I can't believe this," he muttered as he left.
"'Supposing you've got any to begin with'—good one," Grace said, nodding her approval. She turned towards Regulus, and found that he had begun to walk away, too. Alarmed, she lunged forward to catch up with him. "Hold on!"
Regulus stopped, but remained just out of reach. His eyes refused to meet hers. "What is it?"
"We need to talk. I—a lot has happened since we last…met. I didn't really listen before, and I should have. I've been thinking, and—"
Regulus shook his head, and the words blossoming at the base of Grace's throat abruptly wilted and died. A nauseating dread crawled up her spine.
"What?" she asked. It came out like a whisper.
"We can't talk."
"No?"
"You said you didn't listen before. Well, listen now. It's better this way. You've got to go."
She stared at him, unsure of what to make of this. In the distance, she could make out the faint grumbles of the Slytherin Quidditch team. They seemed to have realized Greengrass had lied about the possible rematch.
"Let's meet later," Grace offered. "In the Room. After dinner."
"No."
"Regulus…"
"Grace, please go." He held her eyes for a moment, and in the deep grey, Grace recognized the same pained loyalty she carried.
"If you're okay, I'll leave you alone," she said. "If this is what you want, if this is it for you, if you're happy, I'll stop. Look me in the eye, and tell me you're happy like this, Regulus."
He couldn't. He dropped his gaze from hers and turned back around again, heading towards the changing rooms. As he left, the Slytherin team returned, pushing through her. Grace stood resolute. She would not give in. She would not turn her back on him. She was Grace Potter—obnoxious and loud and unruly, unyielding in the way she helped, fierce in the way she loved, and, most importantly, stubborn till the very, very end.
A/N : Sorry if this one was a bit choppy! I've been busy finishing up college and moving, and I'm trying to get back into the groove of writing. I based the text in Middle English on Chaucer, so I hope it isn't too inaccurate or weird to read.
As always, thank you all so much for reading, favoriting and following, and reviewing! It means the world to me :)
puppyduckster : Thank you for the sweet review! "Yeah the universe isn't going to let you guys stay apart that easily guys" was so funny to read, haha.
QueenAnarchy2.0 : Ahhh, I love your reviews! I wrote a whole thing, but it's simply ENORMOUS, so I PM-ed it to you again :) Thank you for all the thought you put into your reviews!