Tracey disagreed on the handling it well angle, it seemed, because with every passing day she grew ever more confrontational, ever more direct in her attempts to... talk about it. My hope was that by not encouraging her, by returning to a sense of normality —if only in our actions— she would eventually let it go. Winter break was right there —barely half a week ahead— and perhaps by the time she returned to Hogwarts in January she would have forgotten about it.

Perhaps everybody would have.

But when she floated the last minute idea of staying here herself, I knew I had to give her something.

"Aren't you going to tell anyone?" she asked while we were walking back from Herbology; she'd been asking around the topic for the last couple of days, tentatively edging her way in, but this was her most brazen question yet.

"About this?" I said, showing her the new cut in my index finger, courtesy of a Whisper Thistle. "I should, those plants are a bloody pest. We could ask Snape to burn them all, Greenhouse and Professor Sprout included."

"Not that! You know that I mean."

"I know," I said, trying to leave it at that.

"So?" she asked again after a beat, because Tracey was eleven, and heaven knew how bloody persistent those can be.

"Just let it go already, Tracey!" I snapped back.

She jerked at my harsh tone and went silent, her eyes downcast. It was like I'd just kicked a puppy.

I sighed, shook my head and said: "Sorry. No, I won't... maybe I should, but I worry what they could do next, if I did."

Because Selwyn had been playing with me that day in the common room, but I couldn't discount an actual Cruciatus or something like that hitting me in the back next time they ambushed me in the corridors, if I provoked him. At least it seemed turning me into an insect had left them satisfied for the time being. And I didn't want to poke the sleeping basilisk, so to speak.

"Do you still have any... hmm... lingering effects?" she asked.

"No. It wasn't that bad a spell, all things considered. It's just the..."

I shook my head again and muttered a weak "never-mind," but now that she'd found a crack in my walls she wasn't willing to let it go.

"Just the what?" she asked.

I paused, my hands clenched in my pockets, and took a quick look around. We were already on a narrow dead-end where the second floor corridor ended in a small reading nook, and safe enough from prying ears.

"The... humiliation," I managed to grind out.

And that was all I could say about it without trembling, without my mask coming undone. Because that was the issue, really: how Selwyn and his followers had stolen all agency from me, my very body betraying me, becoming useless and distorted. How all my practising spells, reading Duskhaven's book for Aurors, all my preparation had meant absolutely nothing in the face of that simplest of ambushes. Just a spell to the back and I was paralysed. A spell to the back, and I was no more than a human log, falling to the floor.

And the knowledge that it could happen again, that they could still do anything to me, anything they wished, and all my plans would mean nothing. That despite all my focus, my almost obsession on being independent, on being able to decide over my whole life... at the end of the day it was Selwyn and his court of worshippers who held such power over me.

I didn't know if Tracey understood all that, but at least she understood something of it, because she gave me some breathing room and tried her best to take my mind off it by sharing stories of her previous Christmas with her family: like when her grandfather —a Muggle, apparently— forgot that you were supposed to throw a pinch of powder into the fireplace when using the Floo, and had instead stepped onto the actual flames and caused his trousers to catch fire.

I welcomed the distraction for what it was, and I shared some of my own stories, telling her of when this kid at the Residence decided to remove all the ornamental balls from the Christmas tree and hide them in unsuspecting places; or the 'steal all the socks' game Astrid, a couple of the other youngest kids and I liked to play. I remained the undisputed champion at that.

But overall, my mood was still thunderous when winter break finally arrived and she left to spend it with her family. She wasn't the only one to leave, in fact, and soon I found myself completely alone in our shared dorm, the only first year Slytherin to remain at Hogwarts.

Very few other people remained in our house: only some of the fifth-years —who were so focused on preparing for their O.W.L.s that they didn't pay me an iota of attention, thankfully— and the odd straggler here and there. Selwyn, most importantly, also left.

Which suited me just fine, and for the first time I was allowed to simply... exist in our common room. To sit on a comfortable seat with a book on my knees and my gaze lost into the depths of the Black Lake, watching as the underwater weeds danced in its soft currents, catching a glimpse of a darting fish now and then.

That soon became my favourite activity, in fact. And while I was very aware that starting into water wasn't the most productive use of my time, there was something addictively melancholic about it. The cold didn't help, making me want to remain hidden and warm under my bedspread. Which I might have, if not for bodily needs. Staying at the common room was a compromise of sorts.

But soon I finally tired of whiling my time away in the dungeons, and so I wrapped myself in my winter cloak and went to the grounds outside, walking loops around the lake like I'd done in my very first days at the castle, and listening to the soft crunch, crunch noises my steps made on the newly fallen snow. It was cold as all hell, but by that time I was starting to feel as if the stones were suffocating me, and I simply needed to be... outdoors. Common room fever, I guessed we could call it.

Or maybe it was something else, some deeper need within me. Because on Christmas Eve I found myself on the seventh floor, in front of a tapestry depicting some dancing trolls. And after verifying the coast was clear, I paced angrily back and forth, all the while thinking: 'I need a room where I can let loose', 'I need a room where I can let loose'...

The door manifested itself, and I quickly crossed it to find myself in a large chamber. There were some of those dummies we'd used sometimes in Defence class, and a few pieces of old furniture barely holding together: chairs with uneven legs, tables with wide gaps on their surface... The results of too many botched mending charms, was my guess.

It would do.

I whipped out my wand, pointed at the nearest coffee table, and shouted at the top of my lungs: 'Depulso!'

The table shot into the air, tumbling end on end, and crashed against the room's wall with a loud boom, in an explosion of splintered pieces of rotten wood that flew all over the place.

Good. But not enough.

I followed it with all of my growing offensive repertoire: making a chair float as I put cut after cut into its surface with the severing charm, then launching it at full speed to the face of one of the dummies. I threw shit around, I set shit on fire. And yet...

Not enough.

So eventually I aimed at one of the dummies —already on fire— and slashed with my wand as I spoke: "Sectumsempra!"

I had read the notes on the curse —I had copied them to my own diary, then returned Snape's Potions book back to the classroom's bookshelves, leaving it ready for Potter to find in five years or so, assuming nothing else changed— but I had never attempted to cast it. As such I half expected it to fail, it being my first try.

But instead a deep gorge appeared on the dummy's charred surface. It was soon followed by another long, curved gash, the wood creaking in agony; and a twisted groove as I played with the wand: waving it this and that way, imagining it was Burke's flesh I was carving —or maybe Selwyn's— and not a stupid person-shaped piece of wood. The cuts were deep and wide enough that I knew they'd be lethal, if that were a real person.

But as it wasn't a real person, the dummy simply stood there and took the abuse without complaint, the idiot. I tried a couple more jinxes and hexes on it, but eventually I grew tired and bored of the exercise. In the end I was left panting in magical exhaustion, and surrounded by splintered wood and pieces of broken furniture that was well beyond the capacity of any mending charm I knew to put back together. And while I had expected to feel... somehow lighter... it still wasn't enough. There was still that unresolved clog of emotions within me.

Of course, if I really wanted to get rid of it, there was always the option of repeating this performance in the Slytherin common room.

Or, to be more accurate: trying out Sectumsempra in the actual people who had wronged me, and not just some mannequins. If there was something I should thank them for, it was showing me just how effective a sudden and unexpected spell to your back could be. And I guessed even a seventh year wouldn't be immune to such an attack.

So yeah, I could do that. I could bide my time and wait until winter break was over, trying out the spell in this room time after time, day after day until I had it perfected. Then I would stalk them, learn their movements to figure out when and where I could find one of them alone. I would focus on Burke, probably. I knew Selwyn was behind that attack on me —I wasn't so naive to pretend otherwise— but it had been Burke who carried it out —which meant it was his face the one I saw in my bad dreams— and he seemed like he'd be the easier target.

And I would be there, then, stepping out of the shadows to say...

"Sectumsempra!"

A fragment of sliced wood fell off the mannequin.

The problem would come afterwards, of course. Because I knew half my entire house would band together against me, against the mudblood who had dared to attack one of their precious pure-bloods with a dark curse. How long would I survive for, then, if I escalated like that?

I liked to think I was good at magic, but I wasn't seventh-year good. And that was the problem here, really: those teenagers weren't just physically bigger than me; they also knew more spells, had more practice with their own wands. Plus they were Slytherins, so they probably knew their own little dark spells of their own. The kind of spells which effects don't fade away overnight.

I wouldn't give myself even twenty-four hours.

The only way to do something like that and survive to live another day would be to frame it as a tit for tat, a reckoning for past offences. Which meant Selwyn was already out, because I hadn't actually seen him when I was attacked, and I had no definite proof that he'd been the mastermind.

What about Burke: could I win a duel against him?

It wouldn't be anything like with Parkinson. Tracey had since explained to me that the reason Pansy hadn't got that much backlash for running away from our duel was that I was a presumed Muggleborn. And sure, a witch had the right to issue a challenge when insulted, but Muggleborns barely qualified as witches and wizards in the eyes of many of my housemates. Which wasn't to say she hadn't received any flak over it —because it had been so evident to everyone that she'd just been too scared to fight— but it would have been much worse for her had it been, say, Perks issuing the challenge and not me.

Burke, though, he wouldn't run. He'd just wipe the floor with me.

Telling someone, then? Well, with the distorted way the Wizarding World treated its kids, I wouldn't expect much more than a slap to the wrist. Even less, given that Snape was our Head of House; and if pushed, he'd need to side with the Death Eaters' camp rather than the Muggleborn, if only to protect his cover. That would only succeed at provoking them into bullying me further; and a lack of punishment would also risk them going even further.

So it was back again to shooting a spell to Burke's back. And if I wanted to do that without kicking the vipers' nest, so to speak, I would need some ally. Someone that would be willing to vouch for me and had enough gravitas to prevent people like Flint, or say, the Carrow Twins from joining the party.

That someone was Daphne, of course. But she'd been clear enough —in her own way— that she wasn't willing to go that far. At least, as long as I was the... what had Tracey called it? Presumed Muggleborn?

So it all circled back to my lack of status and the ritual, like a bloody ouroboros or some shit. But if I could complete that —even if that meant I had to cheat— and become non-toxic enough for Greengrass to publicly associate with... Well, then it was open season on Burke, I guessed. And I had some machinations in mind to deal with Selwyn too.

Still, I'd need to wait for quite some time yet. And what would that be like, in the meantime? Would I need to keep fending off attack after attack? Had this been a one-off, or just the opening salvo of what would come next?

I sighed; too many unknowns, I'd need to wait and see. Which was fucking infuriating, and I was tempted to ask the room for more furniture.

But given that I was in the Room of Requirement, I could perhaps tick another checkbox out of my to-do list instead. So I closed my eyes and said "I need a room with things I can gift to other people, and that are... you know, not cursed."

I was welcomed with the sight of endless stacks of assorted items, piles on top of piles as far as I could glimpse. A version of the Room of Hidden Things, possibly.

Not being sure if the room had truly respected the 'not cursed' part of my requirement, I was especially careful as I shopped around for my Christmas gifts, and limited myself only to those things that looked... safe-ish. Books, mostly. Also because many of the other items looked too worn and used to pass muster as a Christmas gift anyway.

But the selection of books in this room differed greatly from that of the Library, with a much deeper focus on fictional stories, comics, and of course trashy romance novels —of which there were plenty. There were also quite a few books of Muggle origins, possibly brought over by other Muggleborn students across the years, which I figured would make great choices as gifts —given that most people I knew here had been raised in the magical world and so wouldn't be too familiar with them.

So I ended up with a few of them that later that day I ran through one of the house-elves to verify were indeed safe before going to the owlery to deliver. To the only actual friend I had —Tracey— I sent a copy of Stevenson's 'Treasure Island', simply because it was my favourite and a classic and about pirates, which always was a plus —let's just say that if I ever reincarnated again, I wouldn't mind being a pirate queen. I wouldn't mind that one bit.

And while I didn't know pure-blood etiquette, I figured that sending a gift to Daphne Greengrass would probably be expected of me, she being the highest status housemate in my same dorm and all that. So I gifted her the copy of 'Bridge to Terabithia' that I found next to a broken flute.

And... that was it, really, wasn't it? I couldn't be expected to send gifts to anyone else. But still, I figured giving books to the members of my Read-Ahead Club was also fair game, even if I doubted any of them would be sending any presents my way. To Hermione went the 'Compendium of Fairy Tales, Fables and Children's Stories' —it contained such classics as 'Little Red Riding Hood' or 'Jack and the Beanstalk', only these were their magical counterparts. I guessed Hermione would have a field day cataloguing all the little differences between these and the Muggle versions of the same tales.

I was less thorough with the others, though, choosing mostly based on how intact or not the books looked: 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory' went to Anthony Goldstein, 'The Hobbit' to Michael Corner, and 'Matilda' to Susan Bones.

Finally, to Astrid at the Residence I sent a handful of Every Flavour Beans that I'd bought from a Ravenclaw, along with a note warning her of what to expect. Yes, I was sending magical food to a Muggle. No, it didn't worry me too much that we'd be caught infringing the Statute of Secrecy. As far as Astrid would know, they were just some odd sweets from Scotland, that's all; and if she suspected anything I could always say they came from the continent or something. I doubted magic of all things would enter her mind. And if it did, well... I'd already warned her on the importance of keeping mum on the nature of my schooling.

So I went to sleep that day back on that empty dorm, the vacant beds making it somehow more imposing. I missed... their company, the other girls'. Odd, that I'd rather have Parkinson in here than sleep on my own, alone in the large circular room. I guessed it was the Christmas' spirits, infecting me or something.

Or maybe it was this new fear of mine rearing its head once more, the same one that hit me whenever I found myself alone in a narrow corridor.

But when I woke up after yet another restless night punctuated by the occasional wand-in-toilet dream, there were three packages on my trunk, next to my bed.

One, the only one I'd half-expected, was from Tracey. It contained a set of thick wool gloves along with a scarf, all in a matching deep blue and with subtle stamped snowflakes —not animated, sadly, but that was fine. The included parchment note was in my friend's handwriting and said: 'Now you won't have to steal my scarf anymore. Happy Yule!'

The second package was from Daphne Greengrass, and it contained a robe brooch, like the ones some of our older housemates liked to wear to signify their wealthy status, only this one was smaller and more elegant and less... flaunty. It was in the shape of a slender silver snake, and the girl's note explained that she had purchased identical ones for each one of us girls at our dorm.

It was nice, and I could read between the lines as for what she was really saying with it: that I was one of them, that I too was included in the group. I only wished the group didn't have to include Parkinson and Bulstrode too.

The third package didn't have a sender's note. It was just a thin book titled 'The Other Healing', by one Celestina Dervish, and I could tell by the worn corners that it had already seen some use. I figured the mysterious gift-giver was another member of my school of solving your Christmas needs without spending a single Galleon.

I opened it to the inside cover and read: 'A great number of tomes have been written on the topic of fixing the damages caused by offensive magic, but not everything a healer does is mending wounds and growing bones back. Sometimes it's our minds that need care, not our bodies. In this book, St. Mungo's renowned Celestina Dervish shares a plethora of meditations, rituals and other techniques to soothe–'

I promptly closed it again with a snap and banished it to the depths of my trunk. And if my hands trembled while pinning the brooch to my robes, there was nobody there to comment on it.

Christmas was a strange day, all things considered. I'd never found the Holidays to be a happy time for me, not even before I was seven and I became cognizant of all I had lost. Perhaps because the festivities at the foster homes I'd been in had always seemed as poor imitations of the real thing, matching the looks and noises but never the spirit of it. Like the fake smile you put on for the camera, only there for the brief moment of taking the picture.

Then at the Residence, it seemed like the staff didn't even care. Or maybe they knew better, they were aware that these weren't exactly the happiest days for most of the... problematic kids in there. Too many bad memories for some, too many good memories now turned bittersweet for others. In the end I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out they had decided to walk the Holidays as if on eggshells, doing the bare minimum of gestures that they could get away with —a tree, yes, and a more elaborate dinner, and a couple presents per kid that mostly were new pieces of clothing to replace the ones we'd outgrown already. There was no expectations of anything else, and no attempts at imposing a festive mood that most in the building weren't feeling anyway.

Which I appreciated, to be fair. Five points to the Giraffe, I guessed. If you can't give love to the kids, at least don't rub it in their faces.

But Hogwarts did rub it. Exceedingly. With its Christmas feast and its dozens upon dozens of platters, its fully decorated Great Hall —complete with illusionary snow falling on us— a Dumbledore dressed in festive robes that put my animated faeries to shame, students pulling on crackers that went 'boom' and disgorged all manner of magical items and effects across the tables, and even one of my older housemates greeting me with a 'Happy Yule!' that for once didn't sound malicious or backhanded.

It was too much, and it made me feel out of place. An intruder.

So I defaulted to my new normal, and went through the motions. I ate roast turkey, and drank butterbeer, and pulled a cracker that gave me a toy salamander —I managed to catch it by the tail before it scampered away— and pretended to ignore the Headmaster's occasional gazes my way —did he know something? Or was he simply keeping an eye on the new Tom Riddle?— and made the appropriate sounds at the appropriate times when listening to Terence Higgs' tale about that one time his aunt had invited his entire family to celebrate Yule, but when the day came she had completely forgotten about it, and had to improvise food for more than a dozen people, which somehow resulted in a couple of them ending the day at St. Mungo's.

I ended my own day back at my solitary dorm, climbing in bed with my belly full, but only to toss around still under that strange malaise; and also because I knew that somewhere above me Harry would be going on a night stroll to find a very particular mirror.

One that I wouldn't mind taking my own look at.

But I had to bid my time. I didn't want to interfere in Harry's discovery of his parents; that seemed important, plot-wise. Except that I couldn't wait for too long either, since the mirror would only be there for two or three nights at most, if my fore-memories didn't fail me.

I decided to make my visit the day after Christmas, the 26th. And so I spent that afternoon casing the joint, so to speak; taking a long walk along the corridors near the Library, taking good note of the closed doors that could possibly lead to unused classrooms. I didn't try to enter during the day, though; the castle was much quieter during the winter break, true, but that didn't mean it was empty. And I pretty much didn't want to call any unwanted attention towards me or the mirror ahead of time. Especially because I heavily suspected that the mirror's surprisingly unguarded presence during the few nights right after Harry Potter had received his invisibility cloak wasn't exactly a coincidence. And if I was interfering into a Dumbledore plot, I better tread carefully.

But that night I was ready: equipped with my wand, a couple of my last remaining prank items —mostly in case I ran into Filch again— and with a destination in mind. I opted to leave the dungeons as soon as possible, taking advantage of the lack of students to slip out unnoticed. The plan was simple: get there, take a quick look, and leave well before Harry arrived.

Of course, since I didn't happen to be the lucky inheritor of an invisibility cloak, getting to the classroom unnoticed was easier said than done. I took advantage of all my experience sneaking around and... well... thieving... to move smoothly and yet without a sound, making sure to keep my balance low, always stepping with my little toes first then rolling the feet down like Colin at the Residence had taught me —ninja walking, he'd called it. I had to stop at times, make sure there were no other noises, that nobody was getting nearer. And it took time to check door after door, a quiet 'Alohomora' here and there to open my way through.

But eventually I found it. The classroom's door was unlocked, and after a quick check to verify I was indeed the first to arrive, I slipped inside and softly closed the door again behind me.

The Mirror of Erised stood proud, golden and menacing in the middle of the room, contrasting with the dusty desks and chairs and glinting under the light of my wand. I double checked once more that I was alone, then approached the imposing mirror with some trepidation.

This, of course, was stupid.

It was stepping right into the plot, standing right in the middle of Harry and Dumbledore's path for no real gain at all. There was no angle, no advantage I would get here, no danger I was foolhardy enough to think I could prevent. This wouldn't help me get Selwyn out of my hair, or give me a clue as to Quirrell's next move.

No. This was just for me. Because this, this was my chance to see my family for what could very possibly be the last time ever.

So I looked into the mirror. After all, this world owed me at least this.

The reflection that met my eyes was that of a young woman in her late twenties: Sophie, the old me, with her golden hair styled into a messy bob —trendy, yet casual— and sporting some sunglasses that I knew extremely well. She wore some fashionable robes that looked like they belonged on the cover of that 'Chic-Witch' magazine some of the teenage girls at Hogwarts liked, and held her wand —my wand— with a nonchalant, almost je-ne-sais-quoi self-assurance.

It was the perfect meld: the me that I'd been before, but also a witch, but also better than I'd ever been before or now. That girl would never be left crawling on the floor like a bug. Nobody would ever steal her wand and try flushing it down the toilet; no, that girl was above any of that.

Only she was a lie, of course.

But my eyes were drawn by the other figures next to her: my parents, just as I remembered them; starting to get old, yes, but still with many years ahead —many years to share with them that I'd been just robbed out of. And my younger brother, who winked at me when our eyes met and gave me his easy smile, the only Christmas present I really, truly wished for.

Then, right there; that was when I finally fell apart. Reality catching up with me, like the Coyote when he looks down to realise there had been no ground under his feet all along, and only then starts falling down.

That was when the tears came at last, when I sat down on the frigid stone floor among quiet sobs, my muscles suddenly failing me, my breathing coming in pained gasps as I slowly rocked back and forth.

I had always tried to avoid self-pity, never liking it when I found it in others. Despite everything, I knew my rebirth, or whatever it was, was nothing sort of miraculous. I was unfairly ahead of my peers —both at the Muggle schools, and in many subjects here— thanks to my unnatural knowledge. And knowing what the future held made for what could very well become an easy life filled with riches and pleasures beyond belief, if I cared to play my cards right.

Even being here, at Hogwarts, with magic at my fingertips and the ability to say 'no, thank you' to the laws of physics felt like the cherry on top of the cake of impossibly good fortune. I was aware many people would kill for the chance of taking my place.

But glancing back at the mirror stripped all those... those trappings away. All the fashion in the world and the most powerful magic spells seemed empty in comparison to what the girl in the mirror had: the one thing I couldn't ever have myself.

She had a family.

And yes, my family existed here too, in this strange universe. And perhaps one day I'd choose to go visit them. But I doubted it would work out. Because to them, Sylvia would always be a stranger at best, someone with memories from a life none of them had yet lived. Some creepy girl who knew all about them, but who none of them would recognise as their blood. Even their ages wouldn't match with my new birthdate.

And that was if they accepted me. Because perhaps... perhaps they wouldn't. Perhaps it would be better not to visit them, then; rather live with the unknown than risk meeting them and being rejected. Having them think me a freak.

That, I knew it would destroy me. And I even felt an ugly pang of envy directed at Harry Potter of all people, because even when he was an orphan himself, at least he had never known his parents. Which sounded horrible, of course, but then it also meant he didn't have to miss the actual people, just the idea of them. He didn't have to miss my mum's 'Poule au Pot' or her 'Tarte Tatin' —and of course, why the fuck else would I've been so bloody obsessed over Plixiette's food?— and he didn't have to miss the aviator glasses my father gifted me on graduating from university —the ones the witch in the mirror was wearing— and feel that subtle pang of grief every time I wore the ones I had nicked, that poor replacement. And still I always chose to wear them, because the alternative was worse.

He had no memories of them. But me, I had years worth of memories that were now tainted, corrupted with pain. And yet at some level I knew I was also a hypocrite, because I would never have traded our positions if I'd had the chance.

It felt like the mirror was laying me bare, peeling my skin away, and I hated it for that. But at the same time I couldn't stop looking at the image it was presenting back to me. Like running your tongue over and over again over the same toothache, the pain becoming... somehow addicting, familiar.

It was a soft noise behind me that broke me out of my trance. I turned to look with a sudden sense of panic, wand high and tears streaking down my cheeks; but there was nothing, and the door was still closed. I cleaned my face on the sleeve of my robes and climbed back to my feet, my whole body stiff and cold.

'Revelio', I cast. Still nothing.

But I had lost too much time here already, and it was time to go. Harry Potter would be on his way here by now, possibly along with Ron Weasley, and I pretty much had no intention of meeting either of them in this state. So with a quick, last glance at the mirror, I departed the room and made the way back to the dungeons, only having to stop and hide one time to avoid Filch on patrol.

That night, though, when I finally hit my bed... I did sleep better.