I didn't have to wait for long before August ended, both summer and my vacations dying with it. Sooner than I could say 'Goodbye, Astrid' I was already loading my trunk onto Gary's trusty van, and we were off to brave the nightmarish morning traffic on our way to King's Cross station.

I yawned deeply as I left the young man behind and approached the barrier leading to the hidden platform; I hadn't managed to get much sleep in the last nights leading to the big day of my return to Hogwarts —something that was becoming sort of a worrying pattern to me. Perhaps this time it had to do more with the bloody diary and what I knew awaited us all if I didn't find a way to put my hands on it. I had vague ideas of how to do it, but they still felt shaky and uncooked. Most likely, I'd need to observe Ginny's behaviour closely in anticipation for some opening, and wing it.

The other worries were related to whatever nasty surprises I might find once we arrived at the castle, like last year with Duskhaven's unexpected presence. She'd turned out to be quite an alright professors during that year, truth be told, but there were no guarantees other changes to the plot would be so well-behaved. And besides, I didn't like it out of principle when things became too unpredictable.

I didn't think something like that would happen this time, though. Snape had already confirmed to me that we would indeed have Lockhart as our Defence teacher, and that specific class was the most voluble variable of all, wasn't it? It betrayed that Dumbledore was already satisfied with how he'd impressed on us —on me— the need to be mindful of the Dark Arts; and I was guessing this year he'd focus mostly on Harry. Under that light, our new professor of Defence was a walking warning of the risks of letting fame get to your head; and that was something that didn't feel aimed at me.

And I was okay with that, surprisingly. I'd liked Duskhaven —and I wouldn't have minded another competent teacher— but I was perfectly fine learning defensive spells on my own if it meant I could take advantage of my fore-knowledge. A new, completely random professor was always a wildcard; and I didn't want to have so many spinning plates at once as I'd had last year.

I crossed the barrier and smiled faintly at the sight of the Hogwarts Express: there was something... well, magical about it. Not only because it was a magical train —duh— but also because of all the powerful memories attached to its silhouette, to its bright red paint and puffy clouds of steam, to the nervous hissing sounds its locomotive made in preparation of our upcoming departure.

It was a particular mix of nostalgia —coming from my previous life, when the train had been only some symbol of my childhood's wishes, some impossible dream— and tense anticipation —from my current one, where the same train was the door to a world and place that was slowly starting to feel more like home than anywhere else.

"Sylvia! Here!"

A place that felt like home in no small part because of my new friends, too. I raised my hand in response to Tracey's enthusiastic waving, and approached her and her father. The balding man folded the copy of The Prophet in his hands to greet me with a gentle smile followed by a handshake with both his hands grasping mine; like a politician or something. Odd, but okay.

"Nice to see you again, Sylvia," he said. "Did you have a good summer?"

"Sure, Mr. Davis. But not as good as Tracey, it seems," I mentioned, winking at the tanned girl. Her deep dark hair had adopted a somewhat sun-bleached tone to it, and she looked healthier and more... unburdened than she'd been when we'd last seen each other at this very platform. "Did you have fun?"

"Oh yes!" she said, nodding with enthusiasm. "Riding Chrysaor was brilliant, and I was getting good at it too! By the time we had to return to Britain I was only falling into the water one out of every four times! I was telling dad that I think I'm going to enrol in Care of Magical Creatures for next year; do you think Professor Kettleburn will let us ride the hippogriffs?"

"Hmm... maybe? But you know, falling off a hippogriff is probably–"

"Oh, and this too!" she interrupted me, rolling up her robes' sleeve to show me a bracelet made out of tiny colourful beads, one of which —a yellow one— was pulsating softly, emitting a low light. "I got this at the street market in Hyperborea. It's a Chromosentis Bracelet, see? Each bead is for a different emotion, and they light up when you're feeling it. The woman who sold them also told me that one could use the beads to feel that same emotion again? I don't know... I was trying it the other day but I couldn't get it to work; maybe you could try it too? Oh! And I have to tell you about our visit to—"

"Tracey, Tracey," said Mr. Davis, reigning her in. "You will have all the time in the world to tell Sylvia about our summer when you are both on the train; but there is something I need to talk about with her first, remember?"

"Oh. Sorry, dad; I forgot."

That made my heart skip a beat, and I asked: "Did... did the Ministry reply?"

"Oh yes," said Mr. Davis, producing a small parchment envelope out of a bulging pocket in his cardigan, then handing it off to me.

Elias Davis —Tracey's dad— was sort of a mystery man to me, despite all that the girl had told me about her family last year. Her mother was a much more straightforward character to wrap my head around: she came from a long wizarding lineage —not a fully pure-blood one, these days, but one that I figured Greengrass would have heard about— and she was the current manager of her family's firm.

Mr. Davis was a Muggleborn, in turn, and probably the source of Tracey's distorted knowledge about Muggle life and customs. Her parents had first met at Hogwarts, then married not too long after, remaining neutral during the war.

But that was as far as my knowledge of the man extended. I didn't know what his occupation was —other than 'Tracey's dad' and his Muggle outwear was surprising, for someone who according to my friend had pretty much abandoned his mundane roots a long time ago.

In any case, my eyes were glued to the envelope in his hands.

"Take a look," he said, handing it to me.

The name of Tracey's mother's firm was embossed on its surface: 'Ashwick's - Arcane Artefacts & Antiquities'. It struck me as weird at first, until I remembered that this letter didn't come from the Ministry itself, not really; it came from her firm's own lawyer. In the last letter I'd sent to Tracey I'd told her a little about my St. Mungo's adventure —nothing too incriminating about Astrid, of course, I just told her it was due to a mishap with my trunk's enchantments— and the reply I got contained her parents' offer: to ask their lawyer to inquire on my behalf to the Ministry about my legal representative. I had accepted, of course.

I quickly opened the envelope now —it wasn't sealed, which meant Mr. Davis already knew what it contained— and read the parchment note inside, skipping over the legalese. Then... then it almost slipped out of my fingers.

I said: "But... it can't...?"

"What is it?" asked Tracey.

I shook my head, almost laughing, almost not quite believing my own words when I replied: "Dumbledore... Dumbledore is my legal representative."

Because of course he was. Right? Of fucking curse it was him.

"The headmaster?"

"Unless you know of some other Dumbledore?" I half-joked. "Please... please tell me you know of some other Dumbledore."

Both Davis shook their heads, the older one slightly amused at my reaction.

"But he didn't tell me anything! Why?!" I protested. "And he's the school's headmaster! Is... is this allowed? Is it even legal?"

Elias shrugged, smiling at me. "I can ask our lawyer, but most likely..."

"Yeah," I agreed, waving the note around in the air as I rose my voice. "He is Albus Dumbledore! Chief Warlock! Supreme Mugwump! Grand Sorcerer! Of course it is allowed; he probably wrote the bloody legislation himself!"

Tracey had taken an instinctive step back at my outburst, maybe fearing some accidental magic to explode off me. I bit my lip, calming down, then shook my head and asked again: "Why didn't he tell me anything?"

"Most likely it was because it simply never came up. But I think, Sylvia, that you should at least ask about it to the headmaster himself when you get back to Hogwarts," her father said. Then he looked at the clock hanging from the station's roof. "And unless you want to remain here at London, we better hurry up and put you both girls aboard the train now."

I nodded, though I wasn't that sure about the wisdom of confronting Dumbledore about it. What was I going to do, after all? Tell him about Astrid; or about my discoveries about my own past?

I sighed, following them meekly to the carriages where Mr. Davis helped us carry both our trunks inside an empty compartment. After that I thanked him for his help with the whole legal matter, then waited awkwardly still as he and Tracey hugged and said their goodbyes.

After Mr. Davis had left, I asked Tracey to wait outside and be my lookout, as I drew the curtains and changed into my Hogwarts robes. I certainly didn't like wearing Muggle outfits in wizarding places any longer than strictly necessary, and I started to feel more balanced and comfortable —more myself— the moment I was wrapped by the soft dark fabric of the uniform, with my wand within easy reach inside my pocket.

"I figured I'd meet your mother this time," I mentioned idly to Tracey sometime later as we waited for our departure, on a lull after she'd just finished telling me of how she —her mother— had managed to book a visit to the Minotaur's Labyrinth. Apparently it was tremendously expensive, on account of needing to be escorted at all times by trained wizards if you wanted to observe the Minotaur —without it observing you back up close, as it chewed on your bones.

"Ah... she had work this morning, you know how it is," she said, affecting an absent-minded tone. A tone that was quickly betrayed by her bracelet's beads momentarily turning from solid yellow to a soft blue glimmer.

The awkward moment was quickly forgotten thanks to Sally-Anne Perks, who found us and entered the compartment just then, asking for our help with her trunk. After greeting us she started telling us about her own summer, that she'd spent on the Yorkshire Dales; and then she made the mistake of asking us about our vacations, which launched Tracey into another full-on recounting.

I waited there, half-listening to Tracey as the train slowly filled with more students. I eyed some of them in passing: mostly faces I couldn't really pin names on; but that still felt somehow familiar. People in older years you cross paths with on the Hogwarts corridors, or that populate the background of the Great Hall, of the grounds and courtyards.

And then Blaise Zabini's smirking face appeared on the other side of the door's glass.

He entered our compartment, asked "Mind if I sit here?" and then started storing his trunk into the overhead bins without waiting for our reply.

"We were saving it for Daphne," protested Perks. But to little effect, as the boy simply sat down on the only free seat, leaning back into a lazy posture.

"Don't bother, Greengrass is not joining us."

"What?" I said, suddenly very awake and very tense. "What do you mean? Has something happened to her?"

He shrugged. "How should I know?"

"The same way you know she isn't joining us, maybe?"

"Well, they have already closed the carriages' doors; so if she isn't here already... surely that means she isn't on the train."

As if to punctuate his answer, the locomotive emitted a shrilling whistle, and the whole train shuddered as we finally started to move. I eyed the other two girls, and saw the same concern I was feeling reflected on their faces —and on Tracey's bracelet, which was now orange. Which meant they probably didn't know anything, if it had taken them by surprise too.

And neither did Zabini, despite his self-satisfied stance. I was starting to learn how to get a good read on the boy, and I figured he was acting like this to purposefully needle us. Time to deny him his fun, though:

"She probably arrived late," I said, trying to appear relaxed myself, and as if the very idea of the little prim heiress arriving late to anything wasn't absurd to begin with. "Or maybe she's travelling by portkey and will be there waiting for us already at the castle."

"Maybe," drawled Zabini, managing to convey in a single word what he truly thought about my theories.

I tried to ignore him and stared at the brick buildings moving past the windows. It was worrying, Daphne's absence, and I concentrated on my fore-memories, trying to remember if that was what was supposed to happen or not.

I knew Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were meant to lose the train, but I didn't remember if that was also true of anybody else. Could their shenanigans have impacted her too, if she was maybe arriving at about the same time? Maybe, but that would have been in the books, if that had happened; and I didn't remember reading anything like that. Not like I remembered every detail of the story, anyway.

Could this be my own influence? Something I'd inadvertently changed? Also maybe, but I couldn't imagine what that could be. No, most likely this was something else, something that was actually meant to happen. The reason it wasn't on the books was simply that they were written from Harry's perspective, and he wouldn't have noticed about Daphne's comings and goings. She was just an extra character after all, right?

As was everyone else in this train compartment.

Because what attention had the Boy Who Lived pay to any Slytherin other than Draco and his two bodyguards? How much did the books have to say about Perks, or about Tracey? Blaise here might have gotten a few extra mentions, but that was about it.

Just extra characters. Expendable.

A girls' voice came from the corridor outside, and we all turned our heads to look at the door —myself wondering if this would be indeed Daphne, arriving unusually late. But no, the girl who soon stepped right outside our door was as far from a side character as you could get.

Hermione Granger went to open the door, then she paused as her eyes met mine for the briefest of seconds. She averted her gaze to glance quickly at the other occupants of our compartment, then jerked her hand away from the door handle as if it could be cursed or something. She turned, took a step, then paused again. She stared at me out of the corner of her eye for another long beat, her lips silently muttering something. For a moment it looked like she'd open the door after all, but finally she shook her head and resumed her path, walking out of sight. A moment later we heard her knocking on the next compartment over and asking: 'Hello. I was just wondering if you have seen Harry Potter, or Ron Weasley? I can't seem to find them anywhere.'

"Oh God," I muttered. "She's still doing that."

"What?" asked Tracey. "Going with Weasley and Potter?"

"No. That! Acting all weird around me! It started last year, right after... uhm... that thing that happened; you know what, by the end of the year... you know where..." I forged ahead, ignoring Zabini's chuckles. "I'd hoped not seeing me during the entire summer would have made her forget about whatever it is, cured her of it; but it seems I'm not that lucky."

"Perhaps she just wanted to boast," said the boy.

"Boast?"

"About having the best grades in our entire year, of course. A Muggleborn Gryffindor, can you believe it? It could have easily been a Slytherin in her place, you see, it was that close... but no; Herbology is simply too tough a nut to crack, it seems."

I snapped my head back to him. "Wait, you mean–?"

"A shame, really. All that clout, that leverage... all those bragging rights... all lost to a no-name little know-it-all."

"How is it that everyone else seems to know my grades?!" I protested out-loud. "Do you lot have the school owls in your payroll or what?"

He grinned at me, leaning forward: "Do you really want to know? I could tell you... how much is it worth to you?"

"That depends. What do you want in return?"

He pantomimed thinking, looking out of the window. "Hmm... let's say... you teach me how to cast a spell. You're not too bad with those, I hear."

"Better than with plants, sure."

"So?"

"Well, which spell?"

"A dark curse, obviously," he said, staring back at me. "You must know at least one or two of those, by now."

I let out a soft huff as I leant back. "Forget it, Zabini. Your gossip is not worth that much."

"So you know a dark spell."

"I didn't say that."

"But you didn't deny it either," he replied, looking like the cat that got the canary.

I shrugged. "Oh, well, you know how it is: people are always saying all kinds of things about their betters; you can't really expect me to go around denying every rumour."

"Oh? Like this other rumour about your–"

"Merlin," commented Perks to Tracey, "I think they're flirting!"

"What?!" I protested. "We're not... flirting!"

But that had the effect of shutting up Zabini for good, making him look suddenly bashful and flat-footed for once. An awkward silence filled the compartment, broken only by Tracey's repressed laughter, her shoulders shaking. After a few moments the boy stood up, took the second year Potions textbook out of his trunk, and started reading it; ignoring —or pretending to ignore— the three of us girls.

It wasn't a bad idea, though, and a few minutes later I followed his example. I didn't have a mind for something as complex as Potions while on the train, opting instead for History of Magic: I was already half-way through it, and of all our textbooks it was the one that read the most like a story —if you ignored all the dates and lists of names, that is.

Ironic, that History of Magic could have been one of the most entertaining classes, if not for Professor Binns. There was an entire, hidden side of history to the one I'd known about in my previous life as a Muggle; and it was wild to learn how before the Statute of Secrecy, magic had been fully interwoven with mundane affairs. Like how when the Roman legions landed on Britain, they weren't composed only of warriors and legionaries. There were also the Magi of the 'Cohors Arcanum' apparently, and an entire chapter of the book was dedicated to the clashes between them and the local Celtic druids.

Eventually the Romans had won, thanks in no small part to their magic staffs —the predecessors to our own modern wands. And right there you had the reason half of our spell invocations were in some form of Latin.

The oddest thing was that... people had known, back then. Muggles. They knew about magic, knew about sorcerers, about mythical beasts —which weren't really mythical back then, just... beasts. They'd written about unicorns and dragons, and about those famous battles with their magical heroes. And somehow, they had made it all work; the world hadn't ended.

I could see the appeal, when reading the book. The source of all this conflict deep within wizarding society. How a pure-blood family would loath being forced to hide from the Muggle world, and would rather return to that: to the sorcerers that were widely respected, and part of a king's court —or that were the kings themselves, like the ancient Pharaohs had once been.

It was a world that didn't exist anymore, of course; and that the book in my hands looked at with somewhat rose-tinted glasses. I doubted everything would have been so great between Muggles and wizards back then, if somehow it had eventually led to them wanting to burn the everliving shit out of us, right?

Zabini spoke again when the trolley witch opened our door to ask if we wanted anything, and I —now that I had some more Galleons under my belt— decided to splurge a little: a cauldron cake and a couple of chocoballs, along with a handful of jelly slugs, pumpkin fizz to wash it down, and a sugar quill that I planned to save for later.

"Don't they feed you in that orphanage of yours?" he commented, biting into his pumpkin pasty: a suitably traditional wizarding desert.

"Not an orphanage. And no; they only let us eat grass and wallpaper. They say hunger keeps us from softening up."

"I've missed this," interrupted Tracey, preventing the boy from launching into another tirade. "British sweets and food, I mean. They had all these weird looking dishes with all kinds of cheese in Hyperborea... I couldn't pronounce half the names. And people there don't seem to know what pumpkins are!"

I shook my head. "Please, Tracey. It's not like Greek food is anywhere close the perfection of French cuisine, of course; but it certainly beats the hell out of British cooking. Everything does. It's all bland pudding this, bland pudding that, overcooked roasts... and don't get me started on breakfasts!"

"What's wrong with our breakfasts?"

"They're either too heavy or too... tasteless!"

She shrugged. "Speaking of tasteless..."

"You're a lost cause," I muttered, shaking my head again and biting into one of my chocoballs. Which was certainly heavy, filled with strawberry mousse as it was, but also tasted bloody great. I wasn't about to admit the point, though; I didn't feel sweets should count.

The sun began its slow descent after that, as we felt into a discussion about our new professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts, and I told them of Snape's lacklustre opinion of the man's competence. It was a good way of fore-warning them —vaccinating my friends against his stupidity, so to speak; and one of those rare times when I could honestly claim a legitimate source to my knowledge.

I had expected Lockhart to be so famous that all my housemates would already know who he was, but apparently Tracey had learned of his existence right when she'd received the Hogwarts letter for this year. And while Zabini acted as if he knew everything there was to know about him, I suspected it was mostly an act. Only Perks seemed to have truly heard of him beforehand, and only because her mother was a reader, as it turned out.

It matched with what I'd seen during my second escapade to Diagon Alley: the bookshop had been filled with middle-aged witches, mostly. And sure, many had dragged their families into the book signing, but it was clear that —Hermione being the exception— prepubescent girls weren't exactly Lockhart's main target demographic. To his credit, I figured.

As we began entering into the Scottish highlands the sun disappeared rapidly, and by the time the train stopped at Hogsmeade and we finally could stretch our legs, leaving for the fresh and cold air outside, the only lights were those of the platform's own lamps and Hagrid's lantern. The giant man shouted at the confused first years to gather around him, while we instead followed the main throng of people towards the opposite end of the platform, and along a twisting dirt road afterwards. And it made me feel... adult, somehow; not being a firstie anymore. Not being treated that much as a child.

Not that any of us were really adults; not even the older year students, who rushed to the carriages at the front as soon as they appeared from behind the road's bend. We four had to content ourselves with one of the vehicles towards the rear of the flock. Sally-Anne and Zabini quickly walked towards it, but Tracey stopped suddenly in her tracks; her eyes glued to the animals that were pulling the carriages. I paused next to her.

"What's the hold up?" asked the boy in an impatient tone when he noticed we had remained behind, but we ignored him and he climbed into the vehicle itself a moment later, shaking his head. He was soon followed by Perks —who shot us a confused look.

Tracey said: "Those are..."

"Thestrals," I confirmed. The two skeletal horses seemed quite bored, looking at the passing students with idle curiosity. One of them hit the ground softly with a hoof.

"I've read about them. I just didn't think... I mean, of course I can see them now, after... you know."

"Yeah; that."

"Yes."

She observed the creatures for a few moments longer.

"I read they eat meat," she commented, her tone implying a certain suspicion.

"Sure. And? So do dogs."

"It's just... you probably don't know it, being raised by Muggles. But thestrals have a... a bad reputation among wizards."

I shrugged and approached them slowly, making sure not to do any sudden movements. Then, I raised a hand and rested it on the gaunt flank of the closest one; I could feel the ribs underneath the thin black skin. Its body was oddly cold.

"I think they're alright," I commented after a few moments had passed without the thestral mutilating me. Tracey didn't seem too convinced, but at least she boarded the carriage —not without giving the strange horses a wide berth.

This was annoying, actually. Last year I had idly wondered if I would have been able to see the thestrals as it was. Before Quirrell I had never seen anyone dying in front of me or anything; but I remembered having once been an adult —pretty much aware of the concept of death— and besides, I had died myself, hadn't I? So it would have been an interesting scientific experiment of sorts: seeing if my fore-memories were enough to see the creatures, or if it was only my experiences as Sylvia that counted here. But of course, after what happened under the forbidden corridor there was no way to tell anymore.

Whatever. Not that it was important anyway. I removed my hand off the thestral and climbed into the carriage too, sitting in front of Zabini —who muttered a 'Finally!' when I closed the door and the vehicle started moving at last.

We followed the dirt trail for a few more minutes in relative silence, and then the castle emerged into view from behind the canopy of the trees around us, all towering stone walls and warm lit windows. It was always an incredible sight, approaching Hogwarts at night; one that we shared in reverent silence, without any Hermiones around to break it. I figured even the most jaded Slytherin student would still feel something warm at the majestic view, at how it somehow managed to mix the sense of longing for the home you know, with one of mystery and adventure.

The carriages took us straight to the main entrance hall, the combined crowd of students from every year of the four houses carpeting the wide stairs in a sea of people, as we all ascended towards the Great Hall among the noise of a hundred different simultaneous conversations.

A Great Hall that was presided by a simple wooden stool, with a raggedy hat placed on it. I took a quick look at the teachers already waiting for us as we walked up to the benches: there was Dumbledore, of course —showing off in his very visible purple and golden robes, complete with a fitting hat. Next to him was Flitwick —who was probably my favourite professor— Sprout —who pretty definitely wasn't— and the rest of the staff. Snape was, funnily enough, sitting next to a beaming Gilderoy Lockhart, the Potions master's face frozen into a rictus of disgust. The only missing teacher was McGonagall, who I figured would be dealing with the firsties ahead of the Sorting.

We found our usual seats —now shifted along the Slytherin table, the very end left empty for the upcoming new snakes— with the ease of habit; as if it hadn't been months since the last time we were here, merely one or two days. But there was an awkward, empty space among our ranks where Greengrass was missing.

I had hoped we'd meet her upon our arrival at the castle, but it turned out that I had been too optimistic, as the last stragglers —Gryffindors, obviously— had already found their seats and there were no signs of the girl. I noticed Perks shifting uncomfortably as it became more and more apparent something must have happened to her, to miss the banquet too.

She wasn't the only one missing, though. In front of me Draco Malfoy turned on his spot to scan the entire hall with narrowed eyes.

"Typical. They're not here," he said. "Why aren't they here?"

"Who do you mean, Draco?" asked Pansy Parkinson —who, unfortunately, was here.

"Potter and Weasley, of course. They haven't been booted out yet, trust me; I'd be the first one to hear if they were."

"They must have missed the train," commented Millicent Bulstrode.

I said: "What do you mean you would already know? How would you?"

He looked at me over his shoulder, all important: "My father, obviously. He is in the board of governors; and they are always informed of any disciplinary sanction or expulsions. Remember Selwyn, last year?" he finished, eyeing prefect Gemma Farley, far down the table.

"How could I not?" I grumbled. But then my eyebrows shot up: "Wait, is that how he knew what my grades were?"

"Oh, naturally, Sarramond," he said, distracted. "Families of renown like mine always get the annual report from the board, including the best students in each year and their grades. It's important to know which up-and-coming wizards are actually worth paying attention to."

I looked at Zabini with a triumphant expression. He rolled his eyes and mouthed something that could have been 'that idiot'.

But Draco didn't notice the exchange, turning back to look at the Gryffindors once more. "I bet they did some new desperate thing for fame and attention. Always seeking the limelight, are they not? Hopefully they'll get caught this time. If they do, I'll make sure my father knows about it and have him order the school to punish them. It's high time they faced some real consequences."

"Would he?" I asked. "Because I don't really get this vendetta of yours, Malfoy. Is it worth all this effort? What's the benefit here, for you?"

It was something that was bothering me, that had been in the back of my head for the last few months: Draco Malfoy's downfall. How he wasn't, at his core, really a twisted rotten arsehole like the true Death Eaters were —like his father probably was. But he would nevertheless be pressured to join them, and in the end he'd never get a redemption arc, would be too weak and isolated to change into someone better.

And perhaps it symbolized the whole of my house, right? And now that I didn't have the immediate threat of Selwyn looming over my head —let's not think of the basilisk, okay? Okay— I was starting to wonder about my long-term plans.

Could I change my house for the better? Somehow turn Slytherin away from the Death Eaters' influence. Perhaps I'd already inadvertently taken some steps there, simply by helping Farley topple Selwyn last year. But could I do more than that?

Could I try and save Draco from his own idiocy?

The boy turned to face me, looking at me as if it was me who was the idiot here.

"I mean..." I clarified, "it looks like you're just making an enemy for the sake of making an enemy. And he's the Boy Who Lived, after all! Most people love him, justified or not; so you're paying a lot of public standing in front of everyone, and won't get that much in return even if you win. Say you catch wind of them breaking the rules... wouldn't it make more sense to lord it over them, rather than telling your father? Compromising information is best used as leverage to threaten with, get them to do your bidding... If you use it, you lose it."

There was a beat of silence —Perks looking a little alarmed— as the other second years digested my words. Then Draco replied with:

"But you're a half-blood!"

Which was so unexpected that I had to repeat the words to myself to try and understand, but to no avail.

"Meaning?" I asked, my tone harsher.

"Well, that naturally it makes sense for a half-blood to think that way. You need to scrabble for every scrap you can find: working yourself to the bone for a few Galleons, or taking risks just for the opportunity to get invited into a pure-blood circle. You certainly can't afford to make powerful enemies the likes of Potter," he said, turning his nose slightly up. "But me, I'm a Malfoy. There's nothing we can't afford."

That left me speechless for a beat. Because... well, because the bloody posh bugger was right, for once. And it highlighted something of a revelation: that there were in fact two Slytherins, two sides to my house.

Yes, there was the cunning Slytherin, the house of ambition and self-sufficiency. The side I represented best: the machiavellian aspect of it. But there was another side entirely too: that of the pure-blood, ancient families. And even if I'd always been aware of it on some level —on more than one, after all my pain last year regarding my blood— I hadn't really grasped what it meant to be one of those. Because how could I? Their experience was entirely alien to mine.

But now I could get a glimpse, at least, of what Draco thought like. Of what he represented: the side of Slytherin that valued clout, power and appearances above all else. The ones that would punch down, not trying to hide it —in fact, going out of their way to make it as public as possible— because they knew they could. Because they could afford to do so; to display that sort of power, to make those sort of enemies. A display of power that stopped others from getting too ambitious, from trying to topple them in turn like a pack of hyenas.

Theirs was the logic at the top of the status hierarchy, of course; a place I had no access to myself. But under that logic, it made loads of sense to go for the biggest rival you could find. The more famous your enemy was, the more clout points you won when you stroke them down and shrugged off the consequences.

Sort of like getting into a prison and going straight for the neck of the strongest inmate. A somewhat Gryffindorian way of thinking too, that of defeating a great foe; but the difference here was that the lion would try to make it appear heroic and honourable. The snake instead would cheat and backstab, all the way trying to appear as if it had been barely any effort at all.

But there was a flaw in that logic, one that I could see very clearly from the vantage point that my fore-knowledge granted me. And because it really miffed me that he had so thoroughly made evident the difference in status between the two of us, I felt eager to share it:

"That might be true for now," I said with a shrug, interrupting Pansy who was simpering to Draco about how right he was. "But fortunes rise and fall, you know. And if you make an enemy of everyone on Potter's side now, and have no leverage to use on them later on... well, maybe they'll return the favour when your own fortune happens to fall."

He crossed his arms in a bored gesture. "But it won't. The Malfoy name is not like the Weasleys, you see. We are pure-blood aristocracy! Our lineage goes back more than a thousand years. That doesn't simply disappear overnight."

"No? Maybe we should ask the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black what they think about that," I said, pantomiming looking left and right around the Slytherin table; then shrugging. "Oh, that's right... we can't."

Now, that caused a stunned silence in our part of the table, every pair of eyes fixated on me as if I'd just committed a terrible faux pas; Tracey's in particular looking quite unbelieving. I shrugged to her, and she huffed and looked at the night sky through the enchanted ceiling, as if asking the stars for patience.

I didn't get to hear Draco's reply, because at that moment the main doors to the Great Hall opened, and McGonagall entered followed by a flock of firsties —like baby ducklings following on their mummy's footsteps, all of them anxious and fidgeting as they pushed each other and looked around the Great Hall with wide bright eyes.

Dumbledore stood up then, and after a few words of welcome, and singing the silly Hogwarts song, the Sorting itself began.

It was a monotonous process, now that it didn't affect me or the key characters; and one in which we had to remain in a mostly respectful silence —punctuated by the occasional burst of applause— as pipsqueak after pipsqueak walked up to the stool to be sorted one by one. And then one of them would cause the hat to stall for a few minutes, to the annoyance of all and the groans of my hungry stomach.

On the plus side I got to watch as a very fey-looking Luna Lovegood sat on the stool for almost five minutes, her gaze apparently lost in the distance. But following her line of sight to the far wall of the Great Hall, I did notice the faint outline of the Bloody Baron watching the proceedings from above.

Eventually she was sorted into Ravenclaw, so no surprises there. Also unsurprising was Ginny Weasley's sorting into Gryffindor, to the rapturous applause of the two red-headed twins.

On the Slytherin side of things, we ended up with a Thomas Avery —who was a big deal, apparently— and a Sabine Rosier —a frail-looking girl who was also greeted effusively by the pure-bloods around me. I initially assumed that our other new addition Grace Crabbe was Vincent's sister, but apparently they were from different branches of the family tree. Sean Higgs, though, was indeed Terence's brother, who walked up to the end of the table to congratulate him in person —despite McGonagall's reproving stare.

I was glad when the last student went to Hufflepuff and the banquet finally appeared on our tables, and was one of the first to dig in —despite my earlier comments on British cooking.

And between bites, I was also glad to notice how Draco Malfoy looked somewhat thoughtful, for once.