Snape descended upon the Gryffindor table in a flutter of dark fabric, his face an inexpressive rictus. He crouched next to Dumbledore, muttered something to him, and together they started working on Potter's fallen form.

I had to climb down the bench at that point. The older men's wide attires blocked everything from sight... but also, seeing a possibly dying Harry Potter was like a physical punch to my chest; I suddenly felt unsteady on my feet.

We waited in a silence that was broken only by McGonagall, who at some point cast a silent spell, waving her wand to encompass the whole of the Great Hall. At her command all the food on the tables disappeared at once; every dish, every piece of half-eaten bread or cup of pumpkin juice simply vanishing into nothing.

It was telling, that nobody protested.

McGonagall then joined the two men, walking up to the Gryffindor table along with Professor Sprout, who had also descended from the raised dais. Together they helped contain a distraught Ron and Hermione, blocking them from interfering with the first aid efforts. Hagrid had also approached them, and now paced a few steps away, looking out of place and as if he couldn't decide whether he should try and lend some help, or simply let the more knowledgeable wizards work in peace. With all the eyes put on the centre of the unfolding drama I almost missed Professor Duskhaven standing up, wand in hand, and simply walking out of the Great Hall through the door closest to the professors' table.

We waited for what seemed like an eternity. Slowly, almost reluctantly, the deafening silence started to break; whispers and rumours making their way across the students as the ones who had seen it happen or were closest to the action informed the others of what was transpiring. 'It's Potter, he was poisoned, I think.' 'He was just talking and started coughing.' 'He was eating some nuts, I saw Dumbledore taking them away.'

The tension in the air was so high it felt like sparks of electricity —or more likely, accidental magic— would soon erupt between us. On the enchanted ceiling above us the sky was dark and gloomy, with the moon barely piercing through the cover of clouds, as if it too was holding its breath.

Eventually, an eternity later, both Snape and Dumbledore stood up again. Harry hovered between them, his body horizontal as if placed on an invisible stretcher. There were gasps when the rest of the students finally laid eyes on him. He didn't look blue anymore, now he just looked colourless, as if all the blood in his veins had vanished somehow.

He looked dead, in fact.

Both wizards walked towards the main doors, taking the boy alongside them; they were followed by a sombre Ron and a tear-streaked Hermione, who the other professors had proved wholly unable to restrain. I tried to examine Dumbledore's expression, try to see if it betrayed any clues as to the situation, but he looked only serious and determined. Snape's own poker face was, as expected, absolutely unreadable. The doors opened on their own to let the little group pass, and closed after them.

It was like someone had pierced the bubble, broken a Silencing Charm; the Great Hall suddenly exploding in noise as everyone in attendance started discussing at once the haunting scene we'd just witnessed, groups gathering to put forth theories and share information that might or might not be true, the other Slytherins around me included: It was belladona; no, it was obviously acromantula venom; no, Lee Jordan is saying he just choked on a nut...

It was McGonagall who put an end to it. She stood at the very same spot where Dumbledore had pronounced his little speech back on our first day, and said in a commanding tone: "Silence! Everyone, be silent, and return to your seats at once."

We all did, reluctantly; me sitting back next to Tracey, who was nervously drumming her fingers on the now empty table. Around us, my housemates wore grave expressions. I half expected Draco to make some disparaging comment, to celebrate Potter's misfortune somehow. But when I turned my head to look at him, the blonde heir just appeared scared. He met my eyes for a beat, then quickly averted his gaze.

This was madness.

But was it caused by me, somehow? I struggled to see how, other than by merely existing here. Not that it wouldn't be reason enough, though.

I suspected this was sort of like the situation with the acromantulas on Hallowe'en. That day the troll attack hadn't happened, but there had been an attack. One that, all things considered, had been worse than the troll had been in the original plot; with more potential to seriously injure any of us.

So was this something like that? The attempt on Harry's life that was supposed to have happened earlier in the day, during the Quidditch match, somehow morphing into this? Into something... worse?

Something more successful, perhaps?

But why? Was it simply Quirrell sticking to the same shape of a plan as in the original story? Was it his thinking in a similar way which led to similar results, even if the details varied? Or was there something more? Fate and destiny, perhaps. Were the very stars and planets guiding his hand? They did have an influence on us magical folk, according to what Professor Sinistra taught us in Astronomy, so I couldn't simply discount it as superstitious thinking.

It was an interesting angle of research, and something that I should definitely look into over the next days and weeks. I knew there were plenty of books in the library talking about prophecies, destiny, seers and fate and what not. I had never paid much attention to them, thinking them to be a bit too academical, and maybe a bit too full of shit —you only had to take a quick look at Professor Trelawney to come out with that impression— and so I always preferred to put my focus on the more... practical kind of stuff.

But perhaps I should branch out.

Or perhaps it didn't matter anymore, right? Because perhaps Harry was dead. And if so, my fore-knowledge would have lost most of its original value anyway.

Could that even happen? Wasn't he protected by his mother's sacrifice? Or did that only apply to certain situations? What about the prophecy? But of course, if this was Voldemort's doing, the prophecy would be satisfied, wouldn't it?

I didn't know, and there wasn't much to go on with that line of thinking; so I tried to analyse the professors instead, who were all gathered in a group of their own and discussing in intense whispers. I tried to learn more information from just observing their postures and gestures, but it was hard to tell anything other than they looked concerned. Which, yeah, you didn't need to be a bloody genius to figure that out.

It took about half an hour before we got an answer. The main doors opened once more, and a lone Dumbledore re-entered the hall under the weight of all our combined gazes. The Headmaster walked up to the High Table, and turned to address us all, his expression grave:

"My dear students, it has no doubt come to your attention that a grievous act was just attempted upon young Harry Potter. He was, I regret to say, been subjected to a poisoning. It is imperative not to downplay the severity of the situation, as it was indeed an attempt... on his very life."

I noticed the looks of alarm, the sudden tense bodies among the rest of the students; but I allowed myself to relax a notch at last. Because of course, Dumbledore wouldn't speak like this if Harry was dead.

And sure enough, he followed it with: "But thanks to the invaluable expertise of our Potions master," he pointed towards a frowning Snape, who was just now joining the room, "we managed to counteract the poison in time, ensuring Mister Potter's survival. He now recovers in the care of our Infirmary Wing, surrounded by the comfort of his friends.

"I have taken the liberty to personally inspect the food served to us this evening, and I assure you, every morsel is completely safe to eat. The poison was delivered via a bowl of nuts that most certainly should not have been present, and has been duly removed from the kitchens. So I implore you, please continue with your dinner without any fears or apprehensions."

With that, he clapped his hands causing our food to reappear back on the tables. Although most people eyed their own dishes with distrust at first, tentatively, bite by bite the Great Hall went back to a semblance of normality. But I noticed Dumbledore slipping out of the hall a couple of minutes later, once most people weren't paying attention to him anymore.

I was sure that my own food tasted the exact same —it had even preserved its warmth— but I couldn't help but finding it somehow... hollower. Potter being alive allayed my fears... somewhat; at least this train we were all riding hadn't completely derailed. But if things were... well, worse than they should, I had to wonder about what would happen by the end of year, when Harry was supposed to face Quirrell-slash-Voldemort in person.

And beyond Harry, how many of us were truly safe? Forget about Selwyn for a minute; could I be sure any longer that, as long as the timeline was kept in its proper shape, I would be safe from Voldemort himself until the war actually started? What about the other students? Would Quirrell make another attempt tomorrow, one that actually ended with, say, a dead Ron Weasley? Or worse: a dead Sylvia Sarramond?

I had to shiver at the prospect of what could happen next year if this pattern held, with a basilisk on the loose.

The rest of the Slytherins seemed not to share my worries, because Draco went back to his usual self. He said: "Did you see his face?"

To which a round of laughter followed, with Goyle making spluttering noises and scrunching his face in a mockery of someone suffocating —or maybe that was just how he ate now, I didn't pay much attention to Goyle most of the days, to be completely honest.

But I ignored their by now customary bashing of Potter, their banter unable to push aside the thoughts in my head for the remainder of the dinner. And I guessed that at least some of my housemates had thoughts of their own —judging by the furtive stares of Greengrass towards either the Gryffindor table or the teachers'— even if they were less specific. The question that was asked the most along the table that night was: who did it?

"He probably did it to himself, just to get everyone's attention," was Pansy's answer to that, as she simpered to Draco.

But I knew the truth, and the way Tracey looked at me and fidgeted uncomfortably told me that she probably suspected that I did. Or maybe she also knew the answer herself, if she still remembered our visit to the kitchens.

It was Snape who brought me out of my funk, of all people. We were finished with dinner and on our way to leave the Great Hall —slowly, almost with resignation, just in case something else happened or some other juicy piece of information was revealed— when he suddenly stepped in front of me.

"Sarramond," he spoke in a funerary tone, "the Headmaster wishes to speak with you."

Shit.

Snape escorted me in silence towards the most dangerous place in the entire castle. A place I considered more threatening than the Slytherin common room and its prejudiced teenagers, more deadly than even the Chamber of Secrets with its hungry basilisk: Dumbledore's office.

I walked with a mix of fear and resignation taking root in my bones, like a convict sent to the guillotine. This was a nightmare come true, a situation I had played in my imagination time and time again: the day Dumbledore would figure me out. The day I would get exposed, and control over my life would finally be wrenched out of my hands, never to return to me again.

So I walked in silence because I was too afraid to ask my Head of House what this all was about, why Dumbledore would call for me right after Potter was poisoned. Too afraid he would confirm my fears. And as long as I didn't know, didn't have that confirmation, I could pretend that I was still safe and everything would be okay in the end. So I walked in silence to keep that flickering flame of hope alive, if only for a few more minutes.

Snape walked in silence because he was Snape.

Too soon, way too fucking soon we were in front of the stone gargoyle guarding the door to the Headmaster's Office. While Snape spoke "Peppermint Toad" —in a tone of voice I believed those two words had never been spoken aloud before— and the statue moved to the side, I used the opportunity to produce my sunglasses out of the inner pocket of my robes and put them on.

Snape noticed, though. He grasped my shoulder hard with his hand like he had done back at his office, and hissed at me: "I'm warning you, girl, tonight is not the time for your irreverences."

I tried to shrug his hand away, but his grasp tightened further. So instead I clenched my jaw and looked at him in the eyes —something I would've never done if not for my sunglasses, of course— and I hissed back: "I will look my best in front of the Headmaster. I'm a girl, you know. We are shallow like that."

He didn't miss the irony and venom in my voice, and I could almost hear his teeth grinding against each other. But the door was open and waiting, so in the end he simply pushed me forward, the moving staircase taking me up and towards the office above, like an oddly-shaped escalator.

The circular room was empty of wizened wizards when I arrived, but full of gizmos and interesting sights. An entire wall was covered in dozens of portraits of the previous headmasters and headmistresses, some of which I recognised from seeing in other pictures around the castle. Most paid me no attention at all as I looked around: here was Fawkes, the colourful bird resting asleep atop his perch; there was the Sorting Hat, raising an eyebrow at my narrow look. Here was Gryffindor's sword on a shelf, there was the famous pensieve, now empty of water... and memories. I approached the vacant yet massive desk that presided the room with trepidation.

I paused for a moment, turning to look behind me to check if Snape had followed me here. But no, I was alone. What was this, then? Some sort of test? Knowing Dumbledore, I couldn't discard that. I eyed the portraits again with distrust. Well, if this was a little trap, if the Headmaster was trying to see if I'd be as brazen as to try and steal something, he was going to be sorely disappointed. I might be a thief, yes, but I was no fool.

So with nothing else to do, I simply approached one of the seats in front of the desk meant for the students. It seemed I was doing a lot of that today. But before I could sit down, one of the little instruments on top of the desk started spinning and emitting a soft puffing noise, its gears and little metal rings turning around. I observed it for a moment, getting closer to see if there was some sort of label or indication as of its nature.

I didn't get much time to examine it before the fireplace to the side erupted in green flames, Dumbledore stepping decisively out of it, wrapped in a thick scarlet robe. His sudden appearance caused me to jerk and take a step away from the little thing, as if scared he would think I was going to steal it or something. Immediately, I became angry at that thought, at the betraying nature of my instinctive reaction; I forced myself to move forward again, to turn my gaze back towards the spinning gizmo as I relaxed my stance, my hands inside my robe's pockets.

"Ah, I see you found my curiousometer," said Dumbledore, as if he hadn't planted it right there to begin with. He walked slowly around the desk and sat on the chair behind it with a tired huff. "A rather fascinating device, isn't it? It reacts to things or individuals it deems... intriguing, curious."

I followed his example and sat on one of the chairs, but kept my eyes on the contraption. "That it finds curious, or that you find curious?"

That seemed to take him by surprise, but he granted me a soft smile. "That is an excellent question, Miss Sarramond. What would you think is the case?"

I narrowed my eyes, trying to remember what I'd read on enchantments, all the while Dumbledore observed me in silence —he'd made no comment about my sunglasses, and I had to wonder if he'd even noticed them... probably yes. Anthony Goldstein had mentioned something before, about the book he was reading on enchantments. Magic worked on intention, and most enchantments took the intention of the wizard or witch doing the enchanting. But you could also enchant something so that it would take other people's intentions into account instead. That's pretty much how Tracey's Sneakoscope worked, after all. And speaking of...

"I think it reacts to what you find curious," I decided at last, waving my hand to encompass the whole room. "Otherwise it would be spinning all day, with everything else you have in here."

"One point to Slytherin! A very astute deduction, yes," he said genially. Then, he waited for a beat, his gaze straight on me as if piercing me to the core. "Now, tell me, Sylvia, do you perhaps have any inkling as to what I might find so curious about you?"

I shrugged, trying to look calm as I avoided his gaze. This was like the traffic police asking you the reason of why they'd just given you the stop. It could be any number of things, and I wasn't about to incriminate myself, so I went with the obvious with a hint of sarcasm added in for good measure: "Well, I am a Muggle-raised orphan, and sorted into Slytherin. That is rare, I've been told."

He nodded slowly, his elbows on the table, his hands grasped together as if in deep concentration as he observed me in silence.

"Indeed," he said at last. "It is uncommon, but not without precedent. In my earlier years, before I assumed the title of Headmaster, when I served as Hogwarts' Professor of Transfiguration, there was a young orphan boy. Much like yourself, he too was sorted into Slytherin, where he faced his share of tribulations at first..."

Oh no.

"... and similarly to you, he too was regarded as... unusually precocious by his minders..."

Oh God.

"... and he possessed a certain proclivity for bending rules on passion, to... misbehave, let's say..."

Oh fuck.

"Needless to say, these parallels do arouse a certain curiosity in me," he concluded.

"Oh," I said, pretending ignorance. "And... I guess things didn't go all that well for this fella, no?"

His face went sombre and his eyes seemed focused on me, but also eerily distant; almost as if he was watching something that wasn't there.

"No, they did not," he admitted. "However, and I find this crucially important, Sylvia: there are also differences between you two. You are an individual in your own right, and it is the choices you make during these formative years that will shape the person you will grow into. Always remember that."

He paused, waiting for an answer. I gulped and nodded.

He nodded back, but remained still and with his gaze lost into the depths of my soul, apparently. I wondered for a moment if eye contact was actually necessary for legilimency at all, or if Dumbledore had perfected it to such a degree that he was capable of extracting my every thought despite my sunglasses and evasive gaze, merely by looking in my general direction.

The moment seemed to stretch, until I finally couldn't take it any longer. I let out a soft cough and said: "Uhm... so, why did you call for me here... sir?"

That seemed to break the sudden tension, his intense mood suddenly lightening as if he had just returned to the present from wherever his mind had taken an excursion to.

"Ah, yes, indeed. Please do excuse an old man's diatribes, Miss Sarramond." He produced a bowl out of one of the drawers in his desk. "Ah... a sherbet lemon, if you'd like?"

"Sure, thanks," I said, grabbing one and popping it into my mouth. I didn't really want a sweet, I wanted to leave. But sweets were always a good consolation prize, I'd found out over my foster years.

"The reason I felt necessary to call for you," said Dumbledore, "is related to the grave incident that occurred at dinner, when Mister Potter was poisoned. Professor Duskhaven and I conducted a visit to the Hogwarts' house-elves to try and unravel the sequence of events leading to such an unfortunate event, and during our inquiries your name emerged. It appears you also paid a visit of your own to the house-elves quite recently, and... unless I'm mistaken, persuaded one of them that the dietary preferences of one of your housemates were... rather peculiar."

I went very rigid at that. "But that was a prank!" I protested, my hands clenched into fists at the injustice. "Are you seriously implying I poisoned Harry? You can't believe that!"

"Oh, no, no," he placated me. "Rest assured, we do not believe you were responsible for this deed, Miss Sarramond. Professor Snape analysed the remaining traces and ascertained it was a poison that only assumed its lethal form upon contact with a person's mouth, appearing completely inert otherwise. This is the reason why it eluded Hogwarts' protective enchantments. To be quite frank, concocting and handling such a substance is well beyond the capabilities of any first year student, yourself included.

"No, the actual reason for your presence here is tied to a different matter. During our inquiries, one of the house-elves mentioned that you had asked them about another elf, one that you had ran across within Hogwarts, but who is not a part of our regular staff."

I nodded at that, relaxing at last. So, this wasn't really about me at all.

"You mean Squeeble, Professor Quirrell's elf."

"Indeed. This is a matter of great importance, Sylvia: can you recall the specific time and place where you saw him? And what he was engaged in at the time?"

"Sure. I don't recall the exact date, but it was the day of our first Flying lesson," I explained. Now that I didn't feel like a suspect myself, didn't need to be so guarded, I found my words coming much easier. I even leant back on the chair a bit. "I saw him at night, by that gallery with the stained glass windows on the third floor. He was crying and looked hurt, but he disapparated before I could help him. He did mention his master had instructed him not to be seen, though."

The Headmaster nodded, then asked: "And what brought you to the third floor, at such late hour?"

I shrugged. "Couldn't sleep."

"Ah," he said, narrowing his eyes at me in an inquisitive fashion, but with a soft smile. "Now that you mention it, am I mistaken in recalling that this was the very same night that someone paid a most suspicious visit to the office of our caretaker, Mr. Filch?"

"Uhm... was it? Curious, that."

He raised his eyebrows. "Indeed. How curious."

Surprisingly, I was okay with him knowing it was me, or suspecting it at least. Because as far as these things went, it was a minor transgression at best. According to my fore-memories, it was the kind of thing that he'd always allowed Harry and the Golden Trio to get away with in the regular; probably the Weasley twins too. So I hoped his tolerance to mischief would at least extend somewhat past the house of the lions.

But if it didn't, it was also fine. One of the first criminal lessons the older kids at the Residence had taught me was that allowing the adults to find out a less important transgression was a good way to stop them from figuring out a bigger one. Most guardians just stopped digging after they found you guilty of something, whatever it was, assuming they'd already won and going straight for the punishing.

So yeah, I'd rather Dumbledore punish me for stealing from Filch and let me go in peace, rather than he keep digging into my secrets.

The Headmaster, however, wasn't so easily satisfied:

"Is there anything else you can tell me about the elf?" he asked. "Anything at all that stood out to you? Perhaps something else he said, or any other detail that caught your attention?"

My mind went immediately to the white key I'd found.

I shrugged. "No, just that it didn't look like his master, this Quirrell was treating him too well, if he was so scared about failing him."

I didn't even think about the misdirection, didn't consider its long-term benefits and consequences. It simply came to me as the most natural response, because... the key was mine now. And I just didn't want to give it away.

Call me selfish if you want, but I knew I wouldn't have an invisibility cloak waiting for me come Christmas. Neither McGonagall nor Snape were going to surprise me with a racing broom. The Marauder's Map was simply out of my reach. I would have no cool uncle like Sirius to talk to. And there were no moving pictures of my lost family in store for me.

So yeah, I decided to keep the bloody key. It's not like Squeeble was going to be using it anymore, in any case. There was no way it could have played a part on the attempt on Potter's life.

I didn't know if Dumbledore suspected anything, because he gave a soft, tired nod, commented something about treating house-elves with respect, then stood up. I imitated him and he escorted me towards the office's door. Fawkes gazed at me with bored eyes.

"Thank you for your assistance, Miss Sarramond. I must advise you, particularly in light of tonight's events, to remain in your dormitory during the night. And should you recall any further details, please don't hesitate to come and see me at once."

"Of course, sir. Good night."

I was allowed to finally, finally descend the stairs out of the office after that. I let out a deep sigh once in the corridor outside, resting my back against the cold stone wall for a minute, my eyes closed as I reviewed the interaction. I tried to see it from Dumbledore's eyes, tried to see if there was something I'd given away. Something other than the obvious, of course.

But no, I couldn't see anything that would seriously impact me. No reason for him to suspect I was an adult reincarnated into a newborn girl, with knowledge of the future.

No, he only thought I was the second coming of Tom Riddle.

I hit my head softly against the wall.

Which meant he would keep an eye on me, which yeah, bollocks to that. But it was certainly better than the alternative, at least in my books.

In any case, the close encounter —and what had happened to Harry— left me in a shaken mood over the next few days. It didn't help that I also lost my Plixiette privileges due to whatever new and stricter rules were given to the kitchen house-elves, and had to revert back to the same old boring British food that everyone else ate.

At least Harry Potter seemed to be doing well. He spent a couple of days stuck to the Infirmary, apparently, before reappearing on the Great Hall for breakfast amidst the applauses and cheering of his housemates. He looked a bit shakier but otherwise not worse for wear. I guessed my own looks were probably worse these days, in fact.

Because winter had finally arrived. Undeniably, with snow falling from the sky and covering the grounds in a white carpet, the bloody cold permeating every single corridor, hall and classroom in the castle. Why couldn't the founders use a different construction material other than... blocks of stone? Hadn't they heard of timber?

I was sensitive to cold in the best of times, and I found myself spending entire days wrapped in my winter cloak and Tracey's Quidditch scarf —she wasn't using it now that the match was over, and I wasn't above begging for it— and just feeling more and more fatalistic with every passing day. The initial frenzy and drive to find a way to get out of the Selwyn situation before winter break came was long gone by now, surrendering to the stubbornness of reality. It wasn't that simple, proving I wasn't a Muggleborn. The only promising avenue was Nott's ritual, and I simply had no way to acquire the cursed ingredient in time.

Which left me dead in the water, I guessed.

There was the option of trying to fake it, but I'd need to explain the ritual to Selwyn and he'd know I wasn't using unicorn blood, so yeah, not ideal. Coming up with a bullshit alternative ritual would risk Nott spilling the beans, and I didn't know how I could forge a Ministry letter certifying my origins either.

So I took refuge in the routine, then: the classes and the homework, the trading of barbs with Pansy and Bulstrode and the practising of spells with Tracey, and tried my best to ignore the precarious nature of my situation; as if by not thinking too much about it myself, perhaps Selwyn would simply forget about it.

And of course, should that happen, Parkinson would no doubt remind him.

It was only the arrival of Snape one morning to the Great Hall that pierced my bubble, because he carried a list with him and told us he'd be placing it in the common room, and to write our names if we were planning to spend our winter break at Hogwarts.

You know, winter break, which was just one week away.

So yeah, it was time to face reality.

That night the common room was buzzing in the nervous anticipation that teenagers and children universally have for any upcoming vacations, only coloured by the Slytherin filter: older students boasting about their impossibly expensive vacations to the Caribbean, that one dragon reserve in Sweden, or in the case of Lucian Bole, the ruins of Atlantis.

I ignored all of that in favour of focusing on my target, gathering my courage and all the determination I could find lying around. I was carrying my wand in one pocket, Nott's parchment in another, and little more; because there were no clever tricks to get around this, no Weasley joke product I could use here.

Still, I'd made sure to wait until Prefect Farley was also in the room, sitting relaxedly with her own friends around a tea table and sharing gossip. She didn't look at me even once, but I was pretty certain my odd presence in the common room didn't escape her notice.

That was my only shield, really, my only protection against Selwyn doing something... well, terminal.

So with that happy thought in mind I approached the young Death Eater. He sat in what I could only imagine as his throne: a large wing-back chair with elegant reddish leather upholstery, his court of prejudiced pure-bloods taking the less excessive seats by both his sides.

And as I closed the distance, one by one their eyes went to me. It was like a gazelle being surrounded by a pack of hyenas: their gazes were teasing and hungry for violence, their smiles sporting too many teeth.

Selwyn said: "Speak."

Like he was a king in the Middle Ages or something, the absolute arsehole. That, surprisingly, strengthened my resolve; because just who the fuck did this thug think he was, to lord over us like this?

So I clenched my fists, and started speaking: "I... I have been searching for my birth family, and what I've learnt all points to magic being involved. The Muggle police report of my being found is missing obvious information, which I believe could be caused by them having been obliviated..."

I summed up my theory: that of my father —or someone who knew him— being somehow... unwell of the head, should we say, and leaving me with the police before disapparating in front of them, which prompted the Ministry to intervene. And because it was during the war, they did just the bare-bones: obliviate the police and then head off to a pub or something, leaving me within the Muggle foster system.

"I know it isn't much," I concluded, "but I'll need time to go through the Ministry's bureaucracy and learn more."

There was a moment of silence after I stopped talking, and I noticed the hush that had fallen across the common room. A quick look over my shoulder told me that this little drama of Selwyn and me had just become the focal point of the night.

The teenager tusked, self-satisfied, as he rested a hand on top of his wand —that was placed on the chair's armrest and aiming in my general direction. "Pity. That doesn't seem like... quite enough, now does it?"

I nodded quickly. "I agree," I rushed out, "which is why I searched for another alternative."

With that I produced the ritual instructions and handed them to him. This was pretty much part of my play: start with the weakest evidence before moving to the more promising ritual; I hoped that the contrast would help him see this new option in a more positive light.

"Nott, uh?" he said, then looked across the room searching for the quiet boy. "Do you confirm the validity of this?" he asked him, holding the piece of parchment in his hand and waving it at him.

Theodore gave a curt nod.

"Well, this is better," said Selwyn, turning back to me. "When will you perform it? You don't have much time left."

"Uhm. Yes, that's the issue. If you look at the list of ingredients... I'm sure you'll see the problem."

"Ah..." he said, reading. Then he shrugged, a cruel sneer in his lips. "Too bad, then."

"No, hold on! I mean... I know of a way of acquiring the... that ingredient. I just need some more extra time. But!... but if I'm allowed this opportunity, I would of course return your... uhm... generosity. I can give you one entire vial of it, for you to keep as a... a tribute, a payment for my delay."

His eyes went back to the parchment, and I could make a guess as to what line he was reading again. He tried to feign disinterest, but I could see the greed glinting in his eyes. Because a vial full of unicorn blood... well, you didn't find that every day just lying around, did you?

He seemed to be aware of that, because he asked: "And do you have access to... this ingredient? Hard to believe."

I gave him a convinced nod. "Not yet," I said, "but I will. I can promise you that."

He tilted his head and asked the question I was dreading: "Well... how much time will that take?"

I took a deep breath. At least we'd gotten here, to the point where he was obviously interested in the deal. Now for the hardest pill to swallow.

"I'm not... sure, exactly," I replied, tilting a hand back and forth. "Possibly until spring, uhm... after the Easter Holidays, that is. Might be a bit longer, but still... well enough time before the end of the school year, in any case."

There was a beat of silence as a sardonic grin slowly bloomed across his face.

"After the Easter break. So by Beltane, then?" he repeated.

I wasn't sure when Beltane was, exactly, but I simply nodded. "More or less, yes."

"Ah, well," he said, shrugging as he leant back on his seat. "In that case, if it's only that long... Crucio!"