I stood up like a spring, removing the hat while muttering at it "You stupid piece of felt!" under my breath. But judging by the hat's smug expression, my outburst only seemed to reassure it of its decision.

And what sort of decision was that?! Slytherin was for pretentious pure-bloods coming out of stuffy family lines, which I most certainly was not. Sorting a probably Muggleborn into it was a recipe for a future of bullying or social isolation, at the very best.

But with no recourse, I walked up to the snake pit and plopped myself down on the bench, in front of a thin boy I didn't recognize —who gave me a quick perfunctory nod— and next to a girl with cascading blonde hair who didn't even acknowledge my presence. Malfoy was already there, two seats away, as well as his two bodyguards. At least I was able to pick the bench facing the rest of the Great Hall, so that I could keep the other tables in view.

Also in view was the head table, and I noticed that despite the next student after me being already on the stool, Dumbledore was still looking straight at me. His expression was serious and pensive, with a hint of resignation. He looked almost visibly older.

I avoided his gaze, tried to pretend everything was normal, and sighed in relief when he eventually returned his attention back to the proceedings, an eternity later.

What the hell was that about? He hadn't reacted like that for any of the other Slytherins, so why me? Was it because he was the one to personally deliver me the acceptance letter, was more invested in my sorting? Or because he assumed me to be a Muggleborn, and was worried about my future treatment?

There were some muttered conversations —specially coming from Malfoy's neighbourhood— but nobody talked to me and I returned the favour. The last few students were sorted quickly, with Ron Weasley going to Gryffindor as I expected, and the very last of them —'Zabini, Blaise!'— getting into Slytherin. A tall black boy who gave me a condescending smirk as he sat by my right side.

Stupid hat.

With the sorting now finished, Dumbledore stood up and pronounced his random words, back to his usual joviality —a joviality that I was starting to put under doubt, seeing as how quickly it came and went away. He clapped his hands, and the space in front of each of us filled with food: platters of roast beef, chicken and glazed ham; honey-glazed carrots and peas; pitchers overflowing with iced pumpkin juice and jars of butterbeer. So much food that the table let out a groan at the weight suddenly placed on top of it.

I dug in, following the example of the other kids —my housemates now, I guessed, and wasn't that a weird concept to come to terms with. At least the food was great: the meat tender and savoury, the butterbeer refreshing. I discovered I was famished after the long train trip.

People started talking in earnest then, the kids seemingly more relaxed now, and I discovered to my growing horror that most of the Slytherin first year already knew each other, and the topics of their conversations weren't that inclusive: they ranged from their plans for the Yule Ball at the Nott's estate to them agreeing that someone called Cygnus would probably congratulate Malfoy for getting sorted into Slytherin.

It allowed me to put names to their faces, at least. The thin boy in front of me was Theodore Nott, polite and cold and probably the son of a Dead Eater, if my memory didn't fail me. His demeanour was pretty much the polar opposite to Malfoy's flashy bluntness. Talking to him was Sally-Anne Perks, demure and measured, but not as much as the posh girl to my left: Daphne Greengrass, who ate with aristocratic delicateness, each and every bite measured and elegant. I didn't remember if her family liked to torture Muggles in their basement too, but I did remember her younger sister wouldn't grow old.

To the other side of Nott sat Pansy Parkinson, brown haired and snub-nosed, leading the chatter with the Malfoy princeling; and the bulky girl next to her was Millicent Bulstrode. I quickly pegged her as Parkinson's very own Crabbe-and-Goyle; and like them, she was more focused on the food than on the social niceties.

I wasn't the only straggler, thank God. Zabini next to me didn't seem part of the in-group —not that he minded it, judging by how he looked at everyone as if he was in a league all of his own; and the last girl —Tracey Davis, short and sporting a bobby haircut— didn't talk to anyone and simply ate her food with her eyes downcast, as if she wished to disappear entirely.

I was hoping I myself would slip more or less unnoticed too, but by the time the banquet was coming to an end Parkinson deigned to address me. She said: "Pass me those pumpkin pasties."

Just that. No pleases, excuse-mes, or even asking for my name. I figured that was how she talked to her house-elf or something. Just a command, and the expectation I'd simply do as told.

So I grabbed the tray and put it close to her, but just far enough that she wouldn't reach without having to stand up. She frowned at me.

I winked at her. "You didn't say the magic word."

It was like sharks noticing a drop of blood in the water, because a hush seemed to radiate across our end of the table when those words registered. Even Malfoy stopped jabbering for a moment, sensing the unfolding drama. Parkinson stood up, dragged the tray closer to her, and sat back down.

"It's so funny you talk about magic," she said, showing me a poisonous smile. "What was your surname again? Sarramond? I don't recognize it. Are you from a half-blood family, perhaps?"

And there it was, their supremacist nonsense making its appearance at last. It was always going to happen, though. And now I had to decide whether to downplay it, or maybe attempt to diffuse or dispel their suspicion by claiming some estranged ancestry on the continent or something of the like.

It was probably simpler not to lie outright —which they might be able to see through— and play up the orphan angle. My origins were a mystery in truth, so I could be honest about that, at least. The fact that it would leave my blood status in a limbo was also a welcome side-effect.

"I wouldn't know, I'm an orphan. I've never seen my birth family; wasn't raised by them," I replied easily, shrugging as I grabbed one of the pasties from in front of her. "They might all be dead for all I know."

"But you are one of us, aren't you?" interrupted Malfoy. "You must be, to be sorted into Slytherin. You were raised by wizards at least?"

I shook my head. "Raised by Muggles; didn't even know magic existed until this Summer."

He looked as if I'd just told him I'd been raised by wolves in the forest or something, his face a mask of disgust. "Wait! Are you telling me you were raised in a Muggle orphanage?!"

"Muggles don't have orphanages anymore. I went through a couple of foster homes, and now I'm at a group home. It's... sort of a house where a group of kids live together, with some adult staff and-"

"That does sounds quite like an orphanage," interrupted Zabini, looking amused for the first time since he sat down with us.

I tilted my hand in a so-so gesture. "Well, when you put it like that..."

Draco's eyes were about to roll out of their sockets: "So you're a Mud- a Muggleborn!"

"Maybe? I mean, I don't know. I'm Muggle-raised, if you want to be-"

But he was no longer listening. He turned to his sidekicks instead: "I can't believe the Sorting Hat would put a Mu- a Muggleborn in Slytherin! Wait until father hears about this!"

And the gossip seemed to spread like wildfire from there on, heads along the entire table soon turning to look at me in curiosity or open disgust. Parkinson observed all this self-satisfied, grinning at me like the cat that ate the canary. Even Tracey Davis seemed interested, shooting me quick glances. I rose an eyebrow at her, and she focused once more on her dessert.

I pretended to ignore it all and bit into my pasty. It tasted good, but not as much as I'd maybe hoped for.

The feast ended soon after that, and my attention returned to the head table where Dumbledore was once again on the move. His welcome speech was unremarkable for the most part: the Forbidden Forest was forbidden, as was the third floor corridor —so it was confirmed, then: the Stone was in Hogwarts. The only deviation from what I'd expected was his introduction of the new professor for Defence Against the Dark Arts as one Xenia Duskhaven, a former curse-breaker who had also been teaching at Ilvermorny School, in America. The witch in the green cloak stood up briefly to give us all a curt nod.

She was an unknown factor. Someone not in my fore-memories and that I could know nothing about. Was she in cahoots with Voldemort, or on Dumbledore's side? Or maybe she was on her own side, pushing her own agenda.

But I had a more immediate problem to deal with, because with the banquet now ended the Headmaster dismissed us, and one of the Slytherin prefects called for us to follow her down to our common room:

"Oi firsties, listen up! I'm Gemma Farley. You can call me Farley, or Prefect, or my favourite: Prefect Farley. Our common room is in the castle's dungeons, so follow me now and don't get separated! Sarramond, what's the problem? Afraid to join us?"

I looked up at the knowing smile in the prefect's face. A face I recognized: it was the girl with high cheekbones and a ponytail, the same one whose mother I'd trampled down with my trolley back at King's Cross.

I sighed. "No, just... apologies for, you know, before?"

She let out a bark of laughter —to the confused looks of the other first years— turned without a word and started leading the way, the rest of my new housemates following her. I shook my head and joined the group.

We went back through the same wide stairway that we'd climbed to get to the Great Hall, and advanced through stone corridors and down more flights of stairs, the air growing colder as we went on, the colours muted and the sounds of our steps echoing in the depths of the labyrinth of passageways that opened up around us.

We were descending some spiralling steps, with Farley explaining how this path was fastest than going through the Grand Staircase —which I was still dying to see— when Vincent Crabbe slowed down until he was by my left side. Then, out of the blue, he shoved his shoulder into me.

Or, more accurately, he tried to. But because he didn't know that my reflexes had been forged in the fiery hearth of the Elliot-and-Miles' conflicts of the late 20th Century —plus, he was Crabbe, like... not the brightest crayon in the box— he was utterly unprepared when I simply sidestepped his telegraphed attack without even breaking my stride, effortlessly getting out of his way. Surprised and without the support of the body he was intending to impact, he started tilting forwards dangerously, tripping on his own feet as he tried to regain his balance in increasing desperation.

Right before he was about to go rolling down, though, I managed to grab his arm and steady him again.

"Steep stairs, no?" I said.

He pushed my arm away. "Keep your filthy hands off me!"

I was about to reply with some cutting remark about his own table manners or lack thereof when the prefect's voice rose from somewhere underneath us: "Crabbe! Sarramond! What's the matter? Stop dilly-dallying!"

I shrugged and pointed at the stairs: "After you."

There was a momentary look of pure, undiluted loathing in his face, but reason prevailed and we climbed down the last steps without any incident, me palming my wand under my robes as we landed onto the corridor where Farley and the others waited, just in case there were more surprises waiting ahead.

She took us to a nondescript wall, said "Subterfuge," and a hole opened on it, growing to the size of a door. Then she turned to us: "The password for the next week is always on the noticeboard in the common room. Needless to say, never share it with anyone from the other houses unless you want a first-hand demonstration of the Cruciatus Curse." Her wolfish smile made it hard to know if she was serious or merely joking. "I'd also add not to share it with anyone in our own house either, because if remembering a password proves too challenging for any of you, you might not be a good fit for Slytherin; no matter what that old hat told you."

There were a couple of gazes going my way at that, as we rushed to follow her into the common room.

The lobby of an upscale hotel. That was my first impression, and what I likened the place to. Polished floors of emerald marble, engraved columns rising to an arched ceiling far above our short heads, walls covered in artwork and hung animated tapestries, enormous dark leather armchairs clustered in little archipelagos; and the tall windows, impossibly holding back the weight of an entire lake, and that now only offered a view of absolute darkness.

Our older housemates were already in the common room, having taken command of the seats and couches sometime before our arrival, and looked at us with bored curiosity as Farley explained the fundamentals: this is the boy's dorms, that is the girls'; bathrooms are there; better wake up and be on the common room in time for breakfast tomorrow morning, or hope that you could make it back to the Great Hall on your own.

She was winding down her explanation when a gravely voice interrupted her: "So, is it true, then? Do we have a mudblood now?"

We all turned to look at the speaker: a teenage boy, which I pegged as a sixth —possibly seventh— year. He was indolently leaning back on one of the leather seats, looking at me with cold eyes.

Ever since I first took real conscience of my own nature back on my seventh birthday, I'd been... unimpressed by adults or teenagers. I'd begun seeing them as I remembered from my fore-memories: without that innate respect and deference children my age were supposed to have towards those older and bigger than them. And while I admitted I could still learn from other people, my respect wasn't based on mere age. Adults weren't all wiser or more capable than me. I knew; I'd been one myself, after all.

And so I'd developed this habit of talking back freely, of challenging their orders and opinions when I didn't agree. I tended to treat them as if they were my equals, like it had been before I died.

But this teenage boy, he gave me pause. I held my tongue and swallowed hard.

Because he radiated danger, in some primal and subconscious way I couldn't really put my finger on, but that made me feel as if I was a mouse in front of a house cat. It was in how his face lacked any expression other than a subtle sardonic smile, how his eyes looked bored and soulless, or how his hand rested carelessly over a narrow, almost needle-like stick of a wand.

I was no psychologist, but even then I had no doubt: that teenager in front of me was a psychopath. An armed one, and surrounded my his own cadre of sycophants, judging by the cruel snares his mates were sending my way.

"Selwyn," started the prefect, "She-"

"She has a tongue, Farley," he interrupted. "Let's hear what she has to say for herself."

Farley didn't look happy, but she crossed her arms and remained silent, which spoke volumes about the hierarchy of relative power in the Slytherin common room, given that unlike the prefect this boy —Selwyn, apparently— didn't carry any badge pinned to his own robes.

And by now every pair of eyeballs in the room was focused on me, and my year mates had all taken one or two steps away, as if I was contagious or something. Or more likely, they just didn't want to stand on the line of fire.

"I... I don't know," I said, trying my best to keep my nerves under check, to appear self assured. "I'm an orphan. I was raised by Muggles, yes, but I never met my biological parents, so I don't know if I'm a—"

"Sarramond, is it? It doesn't ring a bell," Selwyn said, clearly enjoying my predicament. "Have you heard of a Sarramond family before, Burke? Flint?... Anyone?"

No one said a word.

"So you can see the dilemma I'm in," he continued, his voice almost a smug purr. "Because I take pride in the cleanliness of my house, as any proper wizard should do; and a mudblood in Slytherin... well, that just wouldn't do, now would it?"

My mouth felt dry. I wasn't sure what the threat was, exactly. But while I liked to think that Dumbledore and the other staff wouldn't allow an older student to seriously injure —or murder!— a first year, I also was very aware of the cavalier attitude displayed by most adult characters in the story towards child endangerment, so I wasn't willing to put that theory to the test.

I took a deep breath. All right, time to make use of my foreknowledge, even though I wasn't a hundred percent sure on this particular piece of lore: "But... I read that there were some Muggleborns sorted into Slytherin in the past," I argued. "Wouldn't that be a... a precedent?"

Selwyn's face took a sombre look as he addressed the room at large, rather than just replying to me: "Yes, at some points in the past our house wasn't as... thorough as it should have been. But we have raised our standards since, haven't we? And we shouldn't let them fall again into the filthy ground; we should pride ourselves in being part of the cleanest house, and keep it so. Past mistakes are no excuse for making new ones."

"Selwyn, have you considered she might not be a Muggleborn?" interrupted Prefect Gemma Farley, who seemed to have found a new source of courage. "You heard her. She admits to being raised by Muggles, but that doesn't mean her parents were Muggles themselves. She could just as easily be a half-blood."

"And what are the chances of that, Farley? Do you want to bet on it?"

She frowned. "Well, she was sorted in here, wasn't she? That skews the odds. Many half-bloods hid among the Muggles during the war, we all know that. If that's her case and her family didn't make it–"

He waved his hand dismissively: "If, if..."

"But it's like in that book of yours about the old pure-blood customs, Selwyn. Didn't it say anyone gets the chance to prove their own blood status if challenged? So what's it going to be, then? Are you going to deny that right to a first year just because you don't recognize her name, or are you going to honour your own words?"

For a moment I wondered why the prefect was defending me, but then I saw the way Selwyn and her locked eyes, Farley's hand clenched around her wand, Selwyn grinding his teeth, and realized that this wasn't really about me. These two looked like they had a prior history, and Farley wasn't so much defending me as opposing Selwyn for her own reasons. At the risk of coming to conclusions, this looked like one more battle on a war that preceded my arrival, a war for power and influence over the common room. I was just today's excuse.

But whatever her reasons, they suited me just fine. You go, girl!

Selwyn jumped out of his seat, his listless indolence vanishing in an instant, his wand not quite aiming at the prefect yet, but threatening to.

"Are you really going to come at me, Farley? The first day?"

She shrugged. "I am a prefect now, Selwyn; there are rules I have to follow, and make sure others follow too. Are you really going to force my hand?"

They observed each other in tense silence, and for a moment we all took a step back, sure that a duel was about to break out.

"Very well!" Selwyn said after a beat, spitting the words as he turned to me, his voice full of venom. "We'll delay the inevitable if that's what you want. You have until winter break, Sarramond. Either you prove that you aren't a mudblood by then... or you better not come back."

With those encouraging words he turned away and retreated towards the dorms, followed by his sidekicks and a moment later by the rest of the students still in the common room, now that it seemed the moment of excitement had ended.

Prefect Farley took the first year girls, me included, up a short span of stairs and into a large circular room with several four-poster beds, all of them draped in muted green velvet curtains and all of them facing a central lounge area with a stove, now off. The room should have felt oppressing, with the stone walls and the lack of windows; but the curtains, rugs and portraits that covered every exposed surface managed to soften the mood enough into making the place feel as somewhat of a soothing refuge.

Our trunks were already in place by the foot of the beds, so my year mates simply marched on towards their designated spots. I held back, loitering by the door.

"Thanks," I muttered to Farley.

She paused by my side and shot me a considering glance.

"Don't thank me yet, I might have pushed him too far... It's not like everyone in our house is a blood purist, mind you, but most people keep their mouth shut and so Selwyn and his ilk end up believing they're the kings of the common room."

My gaze was firmly forwards, observing the other girls unpacking their stuff. I said: "Not everyone is a blood purist, but blood status is still important, right? I guess expecting the hat to know what it was doing was too much to ask for. Any ideas on how to go about this?"

"I don't know; owl the Ministry, or hit the Library and ask for some books on magical bloodlines, look for your surname in there."

"Right. And when I turn out to be exactly what it says on the tin, what then?"

She gave me a shrug. "They can't actually push you out, you know. This is your house too. They might threaten you, and they might try to harass you, and use this or that jinx or curse or something. But there is only so much they can do without crossing the line; and this is Selwyn's last year at Hogwarts anyway. So if you make it to Summer, next year should be easier."

If.

I gave out a long sigh. Being harassed for months on end by a psychopathic racist teenager wasn't on my bingo card for this year. I could try to do it, but it would suck having to watch my back at every waking moment. And because of my fore-memories I wasn't as confident as Farley that they wouldn't resort to using the worst kind of spells on me. I knew something that she didn't: that some of those guys would surely end up becoming Death Eaters once Voldemort returned.

She lowered her voice and gave me a conspiratorial wink: "But if that doesn't suit you, well... I suppose there must be some reason the hat sorted you into Slytherin, after all."

Was she suggesting...? Well, yeah. I guessed I could cheat. I guessed in fact, I'd need to cheat, if I turned out to be as much of a Muggleborn as I suspected. The question was how to do that, exactly.

Not for the first time, I cursed the Wizarding World's obsession with blood status and the snake it rode in on. So many backward beliefs taken at face value... I couldn't wait for Hermione to become Minister of Magic.

Farley left us after that, with some last minute instructions and reminders to be up in time in the morning. Then I closed the door and finally walked up to my trunk.

My bed was the second clockwise from the door, between those of Tracey Davis and Daphne Greengrass —whose levitating hairbrush was busy at work while she leafed through the pages of a magazine. Parkinson and Bulstrode were opposite me, as far from my own bed as physically possible, which seemed like the ideal distribution to me. As I opened my trunk and changed into my sleepwear and dressing gown —under the privacy of the four-poster bed's curtains— I wondered vaguely if magic was involved in that. It seemed overkill, to use some sort of spell to ensure the most peaceful bed assignments for first year students, but also like something Wizards would do.

Or maybe it was the elves. Didn't the castle employ scores of them, to cook and clean and such? I guessed moving our trunks here from the train was part of their tasks. I would need to find a way to give my thanks to them. My adult memories told me that being in good terms with those people who handled your stuff —concierges and kitchen staff, janitors and waiters and house cleaners— was always a winning strategy. They might not rule the world, but they pretty much kept it running smoothly, and could easily ruin your day if they so chose.

I was placing my school robes back into the trunk when I noticed everyone else had paused in their own routines and they were all observing me.

"Wot?" I asked. Maybe a little more bluntly than warranted, but by this point I was already getting tired of all this pure-blood asininity. And it wasn't even the first day yet, technically.

There was a moment of silence, and then Parkinson pointed at my pyjamas and said in a disgusted tone: "What's that you are wearing?"

I followed her finger. The stamped fairies had stopped dancing and chasing each other and now they fluttered in place with arms crossed, giving her the stink eye.

"Uhm, fairies pyjamas?"

"I know what they are! They're giving me a headache! Merlin, you're so—!"

"It's... ah... a bold choice," said Sally-Ann Perks from her bed, wearing her own pyjamas with stars and moon motifs. Unfortunately for her, none of them were animated.

"It's childish, it's what it is," continued Parkinson, who herself was wearing the dullest nightgown ever made and was probably actually dying of envy at the sight of my faeries. "What are you? A child?"

"... yes? We are eleven."

"Fairies are for kiddies who still wet—"

"My sister likes fairies," interrupted Greengrass. Her voice was calm and neutral, almost as if she was making an offhand remark about the weather. She didn't even look up from the magazine open on her lap; but Parkinson shut up immediately.

Curious...

"She has good taste," I said after a beat. On my pyjamas, the stamped fairies were resuming their usual flight patterns. There was... a lot of motion, now that I thought about it.

"She does."

I turned my head back towards the other side of the room, to see if Parkinson had anything to add. But it seemed she was simply smouldering in place. It was this hidden hierarchy thing once more, I realized. On paper, we were all equal: first-year students at Hogwarts sorted into the same house.

But our house was Slytherin, which meant we weren't all equal: both Perks and Davis were half-bloods, I'd quickly learned during the banquet. But Tracey Davis was a lower class of half-blood, apparently, which would have put her on the lowest rung if it weren't for me taking that particular spot. And while the other three girls were all pure-blood, it seemed the Greengrasses were a step above the rest. Daphne pretty much acted like royalty, like she was a magical princess, and during the banquet I had noticed even some of the older kids treating her with the same sort of deference they gave Malfoy, or Nott.

I didn't know the motive, though, what reasons caused some families to be above or below the others. Perhaps it was money, or prestige; most likely it was just stupid blood purity. But whatever it was, or however absurd this game was, I was sort of forced to play it now. And with some luck maybe I could get Daphne, if not on my side, at least to act as a calming force in our dorm. A bulwark of sorts, one that could rein in Pansy Parkinson and Bulstrode's worse tendencies and stop them from acting out against me.

The question was whether Daphne was aware of this, or if she was simply going through the motions. She was only eleven, after all, and I doubted she was a little politician, calculating her every subtle move for maximum effect. God knew Malfoy wasn't. But her parents undoubtedly were; and they might have instructed her and drilled her on what her position meant, and how she should act while at Hogwarts. Plus, she did seem a tad sharper than the blonde twat.

Time to give it a try, then. See if she was aware enough of her own power to make conscious use of it. So I yawned and said to her: "Well, good night. Hopefully we'll get some sleep tonight without any noises waking us up; tomorrow is a big day."

She didn't acknowledge me, didn't turn her head even a fraction. But after a few seconds she said: "Yes, I hope that too."

I locked eyes with Parkinson first, then Bulstrode, to drive the hint home. They might have been Slytherins, sure, but again: they were also eleven years old, and those subtle are not.

Except for Greengrass, apparently. Note to self: don't antagonize Daphne Greengrass.

They seemed to forget about me, or pretend to. Good enough. But just to be sure I also placed my wand under my pillow —more to protect it than anything else, since I still didn't know any actual offensive spells; but I certainly did not want the two girls to put their hands on my actual magic wand oh-my-god while I slept.

I was tired, knackered from the whole train trip and the stress of it all; but still my eyes refused to close when the lights went out, and I simply laid there in silence, my gaze lost in the darkness of the windowless room as the other girls fell asleep one by one.

I was at Hogwarts.

Ever since Dumbledore had intruded into my life I'd known this day would arrive, but it had always felt distant and abstract. Even after witnessing all the magic back at Diagon Alley, the castle still remained fixed in my mind as something out of a fantasy book. Unreal. More a dream than anything else.

And now I was at Hogwarts. And tomorrow, I'd open my eyes and I'd still be at Hogwarts. And the day after that too.

I was at Hogwarts, learning magic.

It was an intoxicating thought, and I could understand why the school cast such a disproportionate shadow over the entirety of British magical society. It was simply... fascinating. Mysterious and mythical and so full of possibility.

And also danger. Because somewhere below us was a bloody basilisk, and so far nothing was going according to plan: I was supposed to be up at the Ravenclaw Tower, not deep into the dungeons and fending off murderous blood supremacists; and the plot —that incredible succession of near misses and unlikely events— seemed to be on risk of derailing, if it hadn't fallen of a cliff already.

The beginnings weren't auspicious, and I remembered the words of the Sorting Hat: 'The bravest thing you could do would be to confess your visions to the Headmaster and seek his help.'

It would be so easy, doing that: just find his office and tell him the whole story, rebirth and children's books included. And if his head didn't explode out of an existential aneurysm, I knew he'd handle it all. Make it all go away.

Including myself. My own future and freedom. Maybe.

Or maybe not. But the possibility was there, and the uncertainty was more than I could swallow. Walking into the darkness, trusting only this authority figure I didn't really understand and couldn't fully predict, was more terrifying than a basilisk.

Besides, I always had time to change course if I found myself exceeded by the situation, didn't I?