I stood up, eyed the result for some seconds, double checked what it meant in the parchment —as if I didn't know it already— and stood still for a few more beats.

Then, I started pacing, left and right across the room like a caged animal; all the while I thought furiously, considering options, considering... everything. From time to time, I went and looked back into the bowl, just in case the results had changed on their own or something stupid like that.

I stopped after what must have been five minutes, maybe ten of fruitless walking around; and slowly went back to the centre of the ritual circle, considering the other ingredients around me, considering the very lines of chalk drawn on the stone floor.

I needed to be sure, though. I needed confirmation.

So with that thought in mind I cleared the room and disposed of everything —emptying the contents of the receptacles in a well-placed rubbish container by the room's entrance that I hadn't noticed until then, cleaning the floor with a jet of water that I then dried with some flames. The sample of my blood —now mixed with that of the unicorn— I put into an empty potion vial that I found in the cabinet by the corner; it just wouldn't be the brightest idea to leave traces of my blood lying around, Room of Requirement or not.

It took me about half an hour to return the room to its original state; and sure, I guessed I could have saved myself the trouble by simply getting the room to reset itself, but I sort of appreciated the busywork: it was oddly meditative. Just like pacing, it allowed me the time to think of the repercussions, but it also had the benefit of being a more productive use of my time.

There was, of course, the possibility that Nott had been playing me for a fool all this time. What guarantee did I have that the ritual was something real, after all, and not something he'd come up with on the spot; or that he hadn't manipulated the instructions in some twisted way?

Well, I doubted he had created the thing himself —not to stroke my own ego, but if this thing was too complex for me to fully understand the underlying magical theory, it was also too complex for him to design from scratch. And modifying it seemed... not impossible, but like it would take way too long to alter it in a way that it didn't break apart completely.

Would he do that just to mess with me? If I'd been Nott and trying to pull a fast one on myself, I'd have chosen something that implied a little less work on my part. But maybe that was precisely what he'd thought, and so he had purposefully gone for the big thing, to throw me off the scent.

Still, it was a matter of probability. It would've been much, much easier for him to simply leave me out to dry by sending me on a wild goose chase or taking longer to produce his family's reply, or just forgetting about the whole thing. It's not that I could have really done that much harm to him, anyway; I'd been mostly bluffing that day in the Great Hall, and if he was smart enough to alter a blood ritual, he certainly would've been smart enough to realise that.

So I was tentatively willing to accept the ritual itself was probably accurate; which meant the results I'd gotten also were. Probably.

But I had to be sure.

So I went back to the parchment, retracing my steps as I performed the whole thing once more from the top; double checking every step with the instructions and taking care of following them as accurately and precisely as if Snape himself were in the room with me. Drawing the circles, measuring them again and again to be double —not, triple sure! Then placing more ingredients; and finally, pouring the rest of my vial of unicorn blood.

Another quick cut with the silver knife —this one in my other hand, just in case the blood in the left side of my body was different from that in the right side, I guessed— and I spoke the invocation again:

"Dignita sanguinis!"

I crawled forward, and sure enough, the colour was still the same as before. Because of course it was.

So not a fluke, then. I had my answer at last.

And yeah, this answer wouldn't fly. Which meant I'd have to trick Selwyn, after all. Well, trick him and everybody else, too.

So over the next few days —and mostly, the nights, tossing and turning around in my bed— I meditated over the exact way I could manipulate the ritual into spitting out the result I wanted. There were many tricks you could do, of course, ranging from using different ingredients to altering the runes to casting this or that spell to interfere and redirect the magic. But none of those seemed like something I could learn to do reliably in the time I had —and more importantly, they would have required extensive trial and error, which meant more servings of unicorn blood. Which wasn't ideal.

And it might leave me vulnerable to Selwyn double-checking the process, or even worse: having someone else perform the steps, rather than giving me free reign. In the end, the easiest way to fake the results was to use someone else's blood.

Pouring my blood into the bowl was a step I would always have to do myself —or at least, I dearly hoped so, because Selwyn or his colleagues using a knife on me was terrifying enough to make me want to vomit— and so it was a susceptible step to being fucked with.

The idea was simple, then: I would procure myself someone else's blood, palm it in a vial, then drop its contentsinto the bowl, using my own hand and the knife to cover the swap.

Yeah, not difficult at all.

But it was a plan, desperate or not, and so I started practising my sleight of hand skills in earnest, finding time here and there between classes, when I went to the bathroom, when I was supposed to be working on my Herbology remedial exercises and so on. My old piano skills helped, but in the end I was forced to admit I was no illusionist, and so I had to resort to magic: a Disillusionment Charm cast on the hidden vial itself, so that it would take on the colour of my own skin and robes and be harder to notice, even upon close inspection; and a Sticking Charm to have it stay in place more easily.

The other issue, of course, was getting my hands on a blood sample.

I could've asked Tracey for it. She was a half-blood, which seemed like the perfect result: being outed as a pure-blood would mean having lots of people suddenly gaining a lot of interest in who exactly I was, and where I came from —which sure, would help me get some answers on that particular front, but I didn't want to draw the attention of certain families among my housemates, if that made any sense. The Malfoys suddenly adopting me would make me want to run to the hills.

And getting a Muggleborn's blood wouldn't do either, of course; that was just stupid.

So yeah, I wanted to be a half-blood; a second class in Slytherin for sure, but not abused or treated too badly at all, judging by Tracey and Perk's acceptance; and I felt like that would also open me some doors with the other houses —the Golden Trio in particular— once things took a turn for the worse in the future. Make me look more sympathetic to the cause of the Light.

It was as simple as asking for it, really; I knew Tracey would lend me a hand with this. With her help there was even the Polyjuice option —convince her to pretend to be me, do the whole thing in my stead— that didn't require the risky sleigh of hand. Although I doubted I'd have time to brew the concoction in time.

Odd, then, that I didn't want to ask her. In fact, I didn't want to tell anyone about the true result of Nott's ritual; and I didn't want anyone to know I would cheat when performing it for Selwyn. Not even Tracey.

This seemed... too personal, and too deep a secret. I realised with some surprise that I'd already lumped it in with the full truth about my past, my memories, my rebirth... It felt one and the same. And while I trusted Tracey to keep her mouth close in regards to my blood status, this was something that would have wider implications. Something that would persist for... years, really.

I didn't want to trade Selwyn's Damocles' sword for Tracey's. Didn't want to give her a tool that could utterly destroy me in a few years, if she so chose. Who knew how our relationship could evolve, really?

No, I would not ask her for her blood.

Which meant, of course, that I'd need to steal someone else's.

I evaluated my options one day during breakfast. We were already close to Beltane by then, and I'd been getting some looks here and there over the last days, some reflecting something akin to concern —Farley's— and others nothing but savage, anticipating the ruin that certainly was heading my way. I ignored them all as I munched on my piece of toast and let my eyes wander across the Great Hall, half listening to Tracey's explanation of Muggle flying machines to the pure-bloods:

"Yes, they are called airy-planes; they are hollow inside, and the Muggles fly all the time in them."

"That's rubbish," replied Bulstrode. "How can they fly with no magic?"

"Well, they have big wings made of iron that they flap up and down very fast, like a bird does, and..."

There was Perks, of course —who had realised Tracey's knowledge of aeronautics was a bit lacking, but was keeping her mouth shut in a show of solidarity— which would be the easiest to procure given that we shared a dorm and all; but I'd rather not steal a blood sample from someone in my own house. That seemed awfully risky, given that I'd need to do the performance in front of them in the first place. I didn't want my target to be able to put two and two together.

Tracey too was out. If I didn't want to ask her for her blood, I certainly wouldn't steal it. That seemed all kinds of wrong, and like the kind of betrayal no friendship would ever survive.

So, who else? The thing was, I didn't know the blood status of that many people outside of my own house —it was a thing in Slytherin, yes, but I never cared that much about it to keep track of who was related to what family and whatnot.

Hmm... Harry Potter was a half-blood, wasn't he?

Yeah... better not, though. I was sure that would backfire in a hundred different ways.

So who else? Who did I know was a half-blood, then?

My eyes wandered to the Hufflepuff table.

It took me four days of careful stalking, and a judicious application of the Self-Writing Quill —placed on top of the bookshelf next to my target's favourite table in the Library— to slowly learn their movements, untangle their schedule, and work out a plan. Tracey would have noticed my suspicious behaviour right away, but I was lucky enough that her Sneakoscope started spinning faster than ever over the same days —five points if you can figure out why— and so she was distracted herself watching over Parkinson and Bulstrode's own comings and goings.

The problem with the Hufflepuffs was that they moved in flocks, like zebras, going from one class to the next always as a group; so I couldn't simply jump one of them on their way to class or something, as their friends would be there ready to thwart me. But things were more relaxed during the weekends, when most students kept to their own schedules: some went to the Library, others preferred the open expanse of the lake now that it was warm again, the older students flew on their brooms, while others gathered to play this or that game, whittling away their time.

Wayne Hopkins, it seemed, liked to eat a mid-morning lunch —a sandwich, apparently— by the garden that overlooked the Whomping Willow, watching it move about as he waited for his best friend —a second year and a substitute Seeker in the Hufflepuff Quidditch team— to get done with her flying exercises.

Whatever. It would do; it was the perfect chance. Not many people chose that particular side of the Hogwarts Grounds, and so it was easy to stalk after him and remain out of sight until he was relaxed enough, sitting on a stone bench against the short rampart that led back to the castle, his back to me.

I took a deep breath, and turned to look around; there were a couple of older students in the distance, but they seemed to be too distracted exploring each other's mouths to care. So with that, I pulled the Slytherin Quidditch scarf I'd found lying around after the match with Ravenclaw —that we won, of course— and used it to cover the lower part of my face, raising the hood of my robes to hide my hair. All in all, only my eyes were exposed.

Yeah, I didn't plan for him to see me at all, but it still paid to be careful.

I took out my wand, and approached the sitting boy from his back: one, two, three quick steps. He must have heard me, because he started to turn his head.

"Petrificus Totalus!" I cast, trying my best at lowering my voice. The spell hit him straight on, his full body becoming rigid as if from a spasm. He rolled off the bench, the half-eaten sandwich escaping his hand and falling to the ground.

Okay, okay.

Another quick look around —still safe— and I rushed towards the fallen boy. I approached from his blind angle, crouched next to him —my wand still aiming at his body, ready to react in case he was feigning— then grasped his robes and pulled his own hood over the top of his face, covering his eyes.

There were two reasons for that: one, I didn't want him to see anything of me, not my stature, the look of my wand... anything at all that he could use to later identify me.

But the second and most important one was that I didn't want him to know the reason for the attack; what I was about to do.

I paused for a moment, gathering my courage. Then, slowly, I made my hand into a fist and pulled my arm back.

Shit...

I bit my lip, closed my eyes for a second, and then threw a punch at his covered face, aiming roughly at where I judged his nose to be. My hand collided with force, Hopkins' nose feeling somewhat squishy underneath his hood.

I shook my head, then lifted his hood a little and... no blood.

Shit...

Okay... I just needed to hit him harder, that's all.

I bit my lip. I was going to go to hell for this, wasn't I?

I pulled my hand back again, took two deep breaths, and threw another punch. This time I fully let go, trying my best to channel my nervousness, the bile rising in my throat into the motion. My fist hit his paralysed face, this time with a crunchy noise. Fuck!

But it worked. A trail of fresh blood sneaked out of his right nostril. I quickly grabbed an empty vial from my pocket, and with trembling fingers collected as much of it as I could. Then, I took another quick look around, and stood up.

I took a step away, then hesitated for a moment, observing Hopkins' fallen form on the grassy ground. I approached him again, crouched, took his sandwich and placed it back on the bench.

Yeah, sure; that made me a saint now, didn't it?

I scrambled away, taking off the scarf as I went, as if it had suddenly become something odious and foul-smelling, and retreated quickly towards the castle. All the while I was looking around in search of accusing witnesses, but found none —other than a movement by the third window above us, but that proved to be nothing that either a bird or a too active imagination.

Funny, that a part of me almost wanted to get caught, wanted me to get my comeuppance. But it wouldn't help, staying around and feeling like shit until someone else noticed and went after me. That wouldn't make my attack any less... well, any less. It would only serve to make it be useless, to ruin my whole plan.

And I had already paid the price —or Hopkins had, at any rate— so it would be absurd to let it go to waste, right?

Right.

I went straight to the Room of Requirement after that, climbing the stairs two steps at a time. Not because there was something I needed to do, some little clever part of my plot. No... I just needed...

A place to hide. A place to hide. A place to hide...

It was a room I remembered, vaguely, from the books in my fore-memories. With a cot to sleep in, a table, a desk, a bed table. Almost like a little hotel room of sorts. The room was large enough to suit more people, should the need arise, but the furniture in it was only for me; all of it tucked in one corner, creating a little safe space.

I collapsed onto the bed, holding my head, and remained there for way too long; as if that full body-bind curse had it me instead of Hopkins. There were no thoughts in my head, for once... the realness of the situation had managed to displace them.

Because I hadn't expected that, when I'd been planning this little escapade. In my mind it had all been too... abstract, I guess. I couldn't have imagined how it felt like when I hit him, that spongy...

No, stop.

I produced the vial and examined it, the red liquid pooled at its bottom. It wasn't much, but it was enough, and the little container was enchanted to keep it from drying out. For a little while, at least. Which meant I needed to act soon. As in, today.

I let out a deep sigh, then curled on the bed, feeling like shit. And also, feeling like I didn't have the right to feel like shit, after what I'd just done.

It was an odd afternoon, that I spent in there, emerging only to go to the Great Hall for dinner. I told Tracey some lie about having been trying out new spells when she asked me where I'd been, but I was more focused on everyone's reactions as I walked up to the Slytherin table.

I couldn't look directly at Hopkins or it'd be too obvious, but the Hufflepuff table sported some long faces. I half expected them to rise as a group and come confront me —or worse, any of the professors, Dumbledore maybe, to expose me for the thug I was to everyone else in attendance.

But none of those things happened.

No, it was a normal dinner, for the most part —salmon and salad, which I had trouble swallowing due to my... well... my all of it. The professors looked relaxed, there was noise coming from the Gryffindor table as usual —and Malfoy's monologuing mouth, for that matter— and nobody paid me much attention.

Nobody but Tracey Davis, that is, who was growing increasingly suspicious, judging by her narrowed eyes. Which wasn't ideal, either, because I knew she was smart enough to connect the dots, when given a chance. So I pre-empted it by giving her a good, solid explanation for my looking like a nervous wreck:

"I'm doing it tonight."

"Uh...?"

"The ritual. I tried it before. I'll do it tonight, in the common room."

She paused in her munching to regard me fully. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Blaise Zabini lean it a bit closer, but we were speaking too low for his eavesdropping. "And, do you already know what...? You know?"

"Half-blood."

That seemed to make her day... or well, her evening; because a huge smile bloomed across her face. "Oh Sylvia, that's... that's wonderful!"

"Shh..."

"Sorry. Of course, you probably were hoping for pure-blood," she reasoned, lowering her voice again as she nodded to herself, "but trust me, everything will be good now! Nobody will have it in for you for being a half-blood, not really; it's not nearly the same thing as–"

"I know."

"No need to be nervous, you'll see!"

I nodded; and I could understand why she'd be so delighted. It was exactly what she probably had been hoping for all along. Because now that I was about to be known as a half-blood, that would put me in the same tier as hers, status-wise, which vindicated her decision to befriend me all those months ago.

And sure, you could argue that me turning out to be a secret pure-blood would have made her look even more like a bloody genius in front of everyone —the only among our housemates to have realised it, swooping in to be the first one to claim a spot by my side— and so she should have been hoping for that instead. But there was also the emotional aspect of it: she probably just didn't want me to overshadow her like that.

No, this was perfect for her. And for Greengrass too, who would now be able to claim me as one of her protegees, so to speak.

I knew all that; it was the reason I'd chosen this path to begin with, after all.

But I still had to do the sleigh of hand, manage to trick Selwyn and... well, everyone else. And the margin of error was razor thin.

So yeah, I was fucking tense when we eventually left for the dungeons, and I descended the spiral staircase with uncharacteristically slow, uncertain steps. Dreading what was coming, trying my best to make the short trip last for as long as it could, to delay the inevitable.

It didn't help me much, because much sooner than I wished for we were already entering into the imposing Slytherin common room; my housemates hanging around, the fireplace casting a warm light over the decorated walls, the tall windows stopping us all from being crushed to death by a million tons of cold water.

And right under them, Selwyn's court: the psychopath sitting in his throne as usual, Burke and Flint in the sidelines, discussing about something political with a copy of The Prophet spread open between them. They weren't paying me any attention —they hadn't, not since before winter break— and so I had to fight the urge to hide in my dorm as usual. They didn't know I planned to do this today, so it's not like they would fault me for it if I didn't.

I could delay. I could spent another afternoon trying out the critical move, the play with the vial.

Sure, and tomorrow I'd find myself in the same position, and the day after that too. All the while Hopkins' sample slowly dried out.

I closed my eyes. No, this had to end today.

I discovered, in fact, that I was too tired of this game. Too tired of being the Slytherin outcast, the presumed victim. Sure, I didn't expect them to welcome me with open arms even if I didn't fudge this thing up —and if Parkinson even tried to be friendly after tonight, I was going to punch her in the nose too, and not feel even the littlest bit guilty about it.

No, it was simply about removing the stone weighting me down. Not being on friendly terms with them, but on equal terms. Being allowed to hit back without half the entire house somehow feeling like they had to put me in my place.

Which was stupid, because a half-blood was still lower than a pure-blood —which Selwyn or Parkinson were. But what I've learned since the beginning of the year was that most Wizarding families of renown, even those among the Sacred Twenty-Eight, tended to include half-bloods in some capacity or another. It was either that or going full-on into inbreeding; and you could ask the Blacks as to the results of that particular strategy —Oh wait, you couldn't; my point exactly.

As such, half-bloods tended to crop up in the periphery of the central bloodlines: an aunt here, a cousin once removed there. And that meant most of my housemates had grown up alongside half-bloods, people they liked and respected. There was a level of acceptance through familiarity there, one that just didn't exist in what respected to Muggleborns.

One I was decided to lay claim to.

So I nodded to myself, and then walked to my dorm; not to hide this time, but to retrieve the utensils I'd need for the ritual. And with those in hand, I went back to the common room, and approached the giant arsehole.

I guess the last time I did something like this was still fresh enough in the Slytherin collective memory, because I felt conversations petering out as people turned to watch, as Prefect Farley's head tilted observing us, her posture tense as if ready to intervene.

"I'm ready," I said to Selwyn, not waiting for him to address me first this time. "I can do the ritual to prove my blood status, right now."

His eyebrows rose, barely. He was about to say something when I forged ahead, extracting two vials of unicorn blood and presenting them to him: "Here's the uni–"

"Ah, yes; the payment," he interrupted me. Then, in a lowered voice he added: "There's no need to announce what it is to everyone, is there?"

I nodded, and pretended to ignore Malfoy's sudden gasp from the sidelines.

Selwyn gave a lazy nod to Marcus Flint, who quickly rose to his feet and took the vials from my hands, delivering them to Selwyn. The older boy examined them for a moment.

"Adequate," he declared at last. "Very well, follow me. Let's head somewhere more private."

Now that, that wouldn't work.

I closed my fists, swallowed with a dry mouth, and said: "I'd rather do it here."

A dangerous flash of annoyance went through his face, there one moment and gone the next.

Because of course, he had to know the only reason why I was willing to do this in public —to do it at all— was that I already knew the results would be favourable to me; that I'd already tried it out beforehand. That he'd lost.

But by the same token, he wasn't the only one to arrive at the same conclusion. From behind me, Farley said: "Yeah, let's do it here. Why not? I'm curious to see how this little drama ends."

She was looking at Selwyn with a haughty air. And I realized that this was risky, doing the ritual publicly, in a different way altogether than simply ruining the sleigh of hand. Because it meant Selwyn was about to lose his little contest with Farley in front of everyone; and he had to know that already, which probably angered him well beyond what he was showing to us.

But there wasn't much that he could do about it without losing even more face, so he magnanimously waved his hand at me to continue, as if this had been his idea all along.

Okay. Okay, focus. Time for the ritual. Time to do this.

I walked back with a stiff gait to the nearby table where I had placed the different bowls and plates, and got started drawing the main chalk circle, positioning the handful of ingredients here and there.

My hands were trembling slightly as I traced the lines of the sigils, and I forced myself to relax. I wouldn't be able to perform the little trick if I was all rigid, so I tried my best to not think about that most critical step; to steady my heartbeat and loosen my body's muscles by focusing instead on the motions, the precise adjustments needed to get the circle just perfect. Trying to pretend I was still in the Room of Requirement, all alone, and not under the combined scrutiny of my entire house. Trying to pretend I couldn't hear the murmurs and comments from the spectators that were starting to crowd around the ritual circle.

Eventually the circle was done, and the ingredients placed. Slowly I poured the last one —the unicorn blood— into the bowl. Only a handful of people —Selwyn, Nott, Tracey, Malfoy maybe— knew exactly what substance I was using. So I tried not to call attention to it —it was still a forbidden, cursed liquid after all— but I wasn't entirely successful. Somebody asked: "Is that–?"

"Shh!" hissed Burke, ending the rumours before they could get started.

I tried to take advantage of the distraction, though. Now. Do it now. Smoothly I pulled out the knife the Room of Requirement had gifted me with my right hand, and using it as a cover, I poured the contents of the vial stuck to the inside of my left sleeve into the bowl.

The last drop of Hopkins' blood sample had just fallen into the container when Selwyn sprung out of his seat with the intensity of a panther, grabbing my left arm with his hand and wrenching it away, twisting it with such force that I was brought to my knees in front of him.

A myriad thoughts went through my head, but I still had the presence of mind to let go of the now empty vial, which fell back into the dark depths of my sleeve, secured in place by the Sticking Charm. Selwyn's face was only a palm away from mine, his eyes narrowed as he examined my left hand, and the knife I still held in the right one.

My heart beat like a drum, but I tried to even my breathing, and to keep his own hands —his wand, most particularly— in sight. If he'd figured out that I was cheating, it wasn't going to be pretty. But I could still survive it if I was the one to shoot the first spell —Sectumsempra, obviously. Then, use the confusion as cover to run out of the common room, go straight to... hell, I didn't know. Snape? Dumbledore?

When nothing happened after a beat, I rose my gaze to see he was looking at my own hand, where a single drop of scarlet blood was emerging out of the cut I'd just made in my fingertip —because of course I'd made an actual cut, even if I wasn't using my own blood. Another similar drop was still stuck to the knife's edge, which I rose slowly to show it to him.

He sneered and released my arm with more force than necessary, standing back up. "Continue," he grumbled.

I could have floated up to the ceiling from the sudden relief, when he walked back to his throne. But it was short lived, because I had this sudden, catastrophic thought: 'What if Hopkins isn't a half-blood?'

After all, I hadn't been able to try out the blood sample —too little blood for a trial run. So I only had his brother's word for it. And sure, he probably didn't have a reason to lie... right? There was no reason why someone would want to pass as a half-blood despite not being one, no? No reason at all.

None.

But we'd come this far already, and there was no way back at this point. I guessed we were all going to figure it out together. I placed my hands down and spoke:

"Dignita sanguinis!"

And the blood changed colour.

There was a moment of silence in the common room, while I breathed in and out, in and out again, my eyes stuck to the bowl.

"Well?" asked one of the spectators after a few seconds of waiting.

Nobody answered, because I couldn't just reply myself —I needed someone with more weight to confirm it— so I produced Nott's parchment and handed it back to its namesake boy.

Nott gazed at it, confused for a moment, then he looked into the bowl.

"Blue... uhm... half-blood," he muttered. Not loud enough for everyone in the common room to hear, though enough that Farley picked it up.

"Half-blood!" she announced to all the gathered students, her voice quite loud and with a hint of triumph.

Tracey was the first to clap, and the Prefect eagerly joined her, followed by some of the girls from her own clique, then a few other students which I guessed were half-blood themselves. More importantly, I saw Daphne Greengrass joining the scattered applause with a polite clapping of her own.

Others weren't so enthused, though at least they seemed ready to accept this was the conclusion of it. I noticed some Sickles changing hands here and there, but didn't see much hostility directed at me for a change. Well, except for Parkinson —who probably had a lemon stuck in her throat or something— and Selwyn. Selwyn, who was eerily silent.

Which gave me pause, of course. But the Prefect didn't seem as intimidated, because she simply shot him a challenging look.

The older boy tried to salvage his loss, nodding at me: "Good. Very good. This means that Slytherin's honour is still intact, as it should be. Half-bloods are of course... acceptable, as long as they understand their place. Our house remains clean!" he announced to our gathered housemates, as if these results were just what he'd hoped to see all along.

His words seemed to do the trick, though, even despite the undercurrent of spite in them. Because if even the most recalcitrant blood purist in our house was willing to welcome me officially, then there was no reason for the others not to do the same. Trying to outcompete Selwyn in terms of prejudice was a losing proposition, and they all had to know that already.

But in fact, I suspected they didn't actually need much convincing —looking at Draco's face, for example, who seemed willing to accept this new development with gusto. Because in the prejudiced mind, if I had been sorted into Slytherin and was good at magic, then of course I couldn't be a Muggleborn, could I? Because otherwise it would mean Muggleborns are just people as valid as any other, as capable as any other, right? And that just couldn't be true, right?

Right?

And so as the minutes went on and people started to disperse again I heard the mumbled comments here and there: the "of course, I'd always suspected it," by Higgs, or the "yeah, not really a surprise" by a third year girl whose name I didn't know.

Funny, how the same stupid racism that had been the bane of my existence for the last months now came to my rescue.

Tracey came to hug me, all beaming smiles and encouraging words. I nodded —still somewhat shell-shocked and walking as if in a cloud— and talked to her a little, but all the while my eyes darted around the common room; looking for the threat, the thing I'd missed. Because it just couldn't be this easy, could it?

But there was none, apparently, or none other than what I already knew. The rest of the students weren't paying me much attention anymore, it seemed. For good or for bad.

Yeah, my status as an outcast might have been lifted at last, but that didn't mean everybody would now scramble to befriend me. The cliques were already well established, this deep into the year. So thank God for Tracey, really. At least she was happy enough to hang out by my side.

I excused myself a short while later to go to the bathroom, though. Not because I had to, mind you, but because I simply felt too exposed with the empty vial still inside my sleeve, brushing my skin with every movement.

The girls' bathroom was wide, its walls covered in elegant, dark green tiles. It was empty when I entered, just as I was hoping for. Wasting no time, I quickly unstuck the vial out of my sleeve and approached the central sink —large and with golden trimmings— opened the tap, and started cleaning it.

"I would have gone for pure-blood, myself."

Fuck!

My whole body jerked, the vial escaping my wet hands and rolling down across the surface of the sink with a clink-clink noise. I glared at the figure behind me through the mirror.

"Disillusioned in the girls' bathroom? Really, Zabini?"

He shrugged. "I was curious to see how you did it. And what you were up to."

I showed him the little glass container. "Just cleaning this up. The secret ingredient I used for the ritual, I don't want any traces of it mixing with my potions."

Come on. I'm giving you a bait. Bite it. Bite!

He said: "Do you know how I know?"

"How you know what?"

"Oh, you know."

I shook my head, refusing to play; but that didn't dissuade him.

"It was Davis," he said.

"What about her?"

He flashed me a grin: "She was right. There was nothing to be nervous about, because you already knew the result, didn't you? So why would you be nervous?"

"Well, I was worried about how Selwyn would react to the news, for one."

"Ah. Of course."

"Right."

"Sure."

He rested his weight on the closed door. I eyed him for another beat.

He said: "So... whose was it? The blood. Not Davis, I don't think."

"Piss off."

He barked a laugh, then left the bathroom with a lazy wave.

I stood there for a couple of minutes, the water running, before I produced the next vial —the one that genuinely had contained the unicorn blood— and started cleaning it. I wasn't too worried about Zabini, to be truthful; or perhaps I was too tired, too wrung out to care about yet another crisis this soon. But I just didn't think he'd be telling anyone about his suspicions.

Not that it would be too wise to do so, though: it would all but amount to declaring himself to be smarter than Selwyn —by announcing the older boy had been fooled where Zabini himself hadn't. I didn't think Selwyn would appreciate that, and I hoped Blaise was cunning enough to realise. Besides, it's not like he had any proof. The last vestiges of any evidence had just gone down the drain.

Well, not the last.

I paused for a moment to cast a quick Revelio charm to double-check there were no other peeping toms hiding in the bathroom's corners, then extracted yet another vial. The one that contained my actual blood: the colour-altered mix; the result of the ritual that I'd done in the Requirement Room, the one that had given me the true answer.

I uncorked it too, poured it into the sink, and watched the liquid go down the drain. It was dark green, resembling moss.

I then rose my eyes to the mirror, meeting the gaze of the strange creature with tangly hair and impossible memories.

Just what the fuck kind of monster was I?