Gemma had expected her final year at Hogwarts to be interesting, but she hadn't expected it to be interesting like this. Mostly she'd just been hoping to pass her NEWTs with good enough grades to get into a magical university somewhere outside Britain, but instead… well.

Hogwarts has been turned thoroughly upside down by the arrival of Dolores Umbridge and by her increasing control over the school. She seems poised, in Gemma's opinion, to usurp Dumbledore entirely before Easter, and maybe even before Christmas if something really drastic happens. In mid-November she begins "evaluations" of the professors in the school, nominally to ensure that Dumbledore had been practicing an acceptable standard of hiring; realistically, Gemma knows an intimidation tactic when she sees one. So do most of the other older students, and probably even a good number of the younger ones, especially in Slytherin.

She's Head Girl, which means she has a certain responsibility to the younger student body, to keep them safe and ensure that they're being dealt with fairly by the adults of the school—and that they return that fairness with due respect. And she does her best, of course she does; she patrols the corridors after hours when her turn comes up and takes points or awards them as seems suitable, she answers questions from first years lost on their way to classes, and she carries a few absently misplaced library books from the study halls back to the library. It feels like a bit of a loss to have to leave most of the shepherding of the younger Slytherins to the Slytherin Prefects, but she's got responsibilities to the whole school as Head Girl, and in truth it is gratifying to get to know some of the other students. It's been a long time since there was a Slytherin Head Girl or Boy, and for a reason; they're always pretty insular, which has its benefits of course, and Gemma has never regretted not making many friends outside her own House… but it has its drawbacks, too.

One of them is that it's only by the bit of odd serendipity that is her friendship with Harry Potter that she learns about the Defence club being formed by Neville Longbottom and his friends. He's the one to tip her off that something is happening, and a little bit of eavesdropping on the Hufflepuffs is enough to get her the time and location of the first meeting—well meaning but not very subtle, that bunch. And she takes herself and Ayesha and Terence and a small group of younger Slytherins down to the Hog's Head that weekend, and she doesn't look back.

Maybe it's bad form for the Head Girl to be breaking the rules so blatantly, but she hasn't doubted Harry's word about Voldemort's return for a minute, and she's damn well going to be ready when war breaks out again in magical Britain. She'd only been a toddler when Voldemort fell, but her parents talk about those days sometimes when they've both got a few glasses of wine in them. It had been terrible and had gone on for far too long in no small part because everyone had dismissed "Lord" Voldemort at first, him and his little gentleman's club. But the disappearances had become too obvious to ignore after a while, and eventually the Death Eaters had become bold, or perhaps had simply recruited those who didn't care about subtlety, and then blood had run in the side-streets and back alleys that made up magical London, and whole muggle families were found butchered in their homes, and so on and so forth—a lot of it was still shrouded in secrecy, no one willing to talk about what had gone on, or perhaps no one was able. So many terrible things had happened in the shadows, and Umbridge was setting up this new generation to die in that same darkness.

Gemma refuses. So she goes to the meetings of the Defence Association, she teaches students in second, third, and fourth year the Disarming Charm and how to control the temperature of the water summoned with an Aguamenti to scald an opponent. She learns the Bat Bogey Hex from Ginny Weasley, which is frankly brilliant; from Percy Weasley she learns a charm to test food for magical adulteration; from Penelope Clearwater the incantation for a Patronus, though none of them have quite figured out how to make it work just yet—the books, Clearwater says, are just full of useless hokey explanations about embodying the spirit of joy which really makes no sense. Then again, the books all also say that it's quite difficult, so perhaps it's only that they're still schoolchildren, really. The club doesn't have a standout leader, but between herself, the elder Weasley, Clearwater, and Diggory, they're able to plumb the depths of knowledge available to all four Houses, including those tidbits of word-of-mouth that no one else usually gets access too. And they have the resources of all the younger students, too, some of whom have bright ideas or skills to offer.

Neville Longbottom is easy to underestimate, Gemma decides quickly. He's not loud, he doesn't seem comfortable when he's talking in front of the group, but when he's given instructions he can understand there's real power behind his spells and real strength in him when he turns to help his peers. Hermione Granger, too, is a bit of a marvel; she can learn any spell, or so it seems, and her memory is near-perfect and her mind excellent at connecting one thing to another. She'd shared the credit for the enchanted coins the club used to set meeting times with Clearwater, but Clearwater had admitted to Gemma a few weeks into October that Hermione had been the one to figure it out; Clearwater had known and offered up the idea of a Protean Charm, but Granger had adapted it, made it function. She has the mind of an innovator and the stubborn will of a bulldog. It's easy to understand, having made their acquaintances, how Harry had clicked in with them, for all she'd always boggled a little at how such a perfect Slytherin could fit in so well with hapless Gryffs. But they're not just Gryffs… and truthfully, Harry had maybe not always been such a perfect Slytherin.

It's more the boy who'd returned to Hogwarts on the first of September this year who seems that way: reserved and sly, keeping secrets like he was born to do it, keeping his head down except when it's time to deliver a bit of dry wit or a cuttingly sarcastic comment on Draco Malfoy's most recent bit of peacocking about. Or… maybe the boy who'd returned to Hogwarts a week after Easter last spring, the pale one who'd barely spoken, his whole self suddenly coiled up inside, hidden and protected. It's a snake's instinct to hide from the light when harmed; Gemma knows it well. She hadn't known what to do then, and she still doesn't really know what to do now about Harry and the ways he's changed. She only half knows what's caused it, and though it worries her, she also knows him well enough to know that trying to pry would only end in his distancing himself from her the way he's done from everyone else.

So she keeps an eye on him, but from a distance. It's a relief when at the end of November Harry suddenly starts hanging out with Neville and Hermione again, at least to study; she sees them in a study halls from time to time and Harry seems more relaxed in general, though he's still less social than he had been—maybe simply owing to the pressure of the return to school and the sudden imposition of Umbridge and her endless detentions, Gemma thinks. He does spend a lot of time in detention with the professor, to Gemma's displeasure, including the entire final week of November. Gemma hates it when any professor picks on her baby snakes unfairly.

First term seems to be drawing to a close unreasonably quickly, really. Umbridge is a nightmare and makes every hour spent in Defence feel like it drags on forever; what her dubious tutelage is doing to Gemma's chances of an O on her Defence NEWT she doesn't even want to consider. But outside of that, studying for exams eats up a lot of time, and Ayesha and her Head Girl duties eat what's left. So it's a bit of a shock to receive a letter from her mother and realize that the date at the top is December 1st. Absently, she feeds a bite of sausage to her family's Great Horned Owl, Timothy, and reads through the letter.

Gemma, her mother writes.

All is well at home; I hope that you are bearing up tolerably under that odious woman at Hogwarts. I've asked your father as requested what he might be able to do about her from his position in the Ministry, but he has reported that unfortunately this Umbridge is one of Fudge's favourites and will therefore be quite difficult to displace. I wish you luck.

Libby has come down with some sort of elfish flu and so Nuna has been picking up the slack with the laundry. I approve of your choice of her; she is managing well. You shall have to come along again, should we have occasion to acquire a fourth elf.

Also, I have begun preparations for the Yule Ball. The Warringtons did an admirable job of hosting last year but I'm certain we'll be able to outdo them… as always.

Gemma pauses, imagines her mother's delicate laugh, a little mocking as always, and rolls her eyes. Then she reads on, I'm sure you'll be bringing Ms. Hussain as your date no matter what I might have to say about it, also as always, but I have enclosed a further invitation for you to issue. After our brief encounter at the Wizengamot session this past August and your comments over the summer and in previous letters, I find myself desirous of properly making the acquaintance of young Mr. Harry Potter, Heir Black. Invite him to the Ball—and do try to convince him to come. Tell him he may bring his guardian, if he must. I believe in your powers of persuasion, my dear.

I live in hope—though never expectation—of your swift reply.

Love from your mother,

Lady Catherine Farley

Gemma blinks at the letter, then groans quietly.

"Your mum?" Ayesha asks, amused, and immediately snags the letter from her hand to read it herself. She reads quickly as always, refolds the letter, and passes it back. "That's interesting."

"I mean, I'll ask him, and he'll probably even say yes if what he's been like this term is anything to go by," Gemma says. "But I'm not sure my mum realizes what she's getting into."

"Oh, definitely not," Ayesha says. "I read the Wizengamot record from August—she probably thinks he's just a kid, as straightforward and honest as Lord Black, from how earnest he was about you and him being friends."

"Well, she's in for a shock," Gemma says, shaking her head, and goes back to the envelope—indeed, there's a small invitation still inside, penned tidily on card stock. We cordially invite, blah, blah. Well, she'll deliver it, but she makes her mother no promises.

There's really no point dilly-dallying, but her day is full, so it's not until well into the evening that she's able to find a spare minute to try to find Harry. He's not in the common room, and when she asks Millicent Bulstrode, who's sitting by herself in the common room playing with her cat and ignoring most everyone, she says that Harry hasn't returned yet—he'd been given another of Umbridge's detentions.

"Again?" Gemma demands. "He spent all of last week in detention with her!"

Bulstrode shrugs. "He's given up on keeping his mouth shut in class. I think he ran out of patience.

"Merlin," Gemma says. "Shouldn't he be done by now?"

"I was expecting him back fifteen minutes ago," Bulstrode says. Her manner is very casual, but her eyes are sharp; she's concerned. Gemma nods in tacit acknowledgment and doesn't delay, the invitation in her pocket nearly forgotten.

She traces Harry's likely path through the castle from the Defence classroom to the dungeons, hoping that he hasn't taken one of his secret passages along the way and she's missed him. However, as she passes along the third floor corridor not far from Umbridge's office, she catches sight of the corner of someone sitting in a window-seat. The curtains on the windows are drawn, so the figure is shrouded in shadow, but she recognizes Harry's slim form as she draws closer and a moment later realizes that he's slumped over sideways against the wall.

"Harry!" she calls, and moves quicker, coming up to place a hand on his shoulder and shake him gently.

Much to her concern, he rouses slowly, seeming confused. "Gemma?" he says, his voice a little slurred. "Did… I fall asleep?"

"I think so," she says, looking him over swiftly—he's cradling one of his arms close to his chest, his hand tucked protectively against his body, and she remembers in a flash the bandage he'd taken to wearing. She'd known it was because of Umbridge, but assumed she'd taken to smacking students' knuckles with a ruler or some such thing, and he was protecting bruises and scrapes. But that wouldn't cause him to pass out. Before he can react, she snags his wrist and pulls his hand out, baring to the light of the hall the deep bloody marks on the back of his hand, his own handwriting carved into his skin: I must not tell lies.

"Harry—"

"Don't," he says, and yanks his hand back, his eyes suddenly much clearer. "Don't say anything. It's fine."

"You passed out," she says. "What's she been doing to you? I'm going to the Headmaster right now, and you're going to the infirmary, let's go."

"No," Harry insists. "No, I can't. What good would it do? Sirius would only pull me out of school, because Dumbledore's not going to be able to get rid of her, and I can't leave."

"She's torturing you," Gemma says. "I'm not going to let that continue!"

"Too bad," Harry says, ruthless. "If you've got something that will help, great, but I'm not letting you tell anyone."

"You're being unreasonable."

"Maybe. Doesn't matter." As she watches, he reaches into his satchel and pulls out a swathe of bandages, the same sort she's seen wrapped around his hand constantly since the very beginning of term, when he first earned one of Umbridge's detentions.

Horrified, Gemma says, "She's been doing this all term?"

"Yes," Harry says, seeming resigned as he begins to wrap his hand. "It's really not that big a deal—she just had me go on longer than usual this time, and I got a bit woozy on my way back to the common room so I sat down. I guess I fainted."

"Harry…"

"It's fine, Gemma," he says again. Then he looks up, green eyes clear and steady behind his glasses. The look on his face… he's not going to give up, Gemma knows. He's like a dog with a bone at the best of times, and for some foolish reason this clearly matters to him. "I can't actually stop you, but you know I'm right—I'll just end up pulled out of school, and that's the last thing I want."

"The publicity could put a stop to it," Gemma points out. "She's surely doing it to other people."

"Yeah. But if the Ministry wouldn't believe me about Voldemort being back, they're definitely not going to believe an accusation of one of their high officials of torturing children." He shakes his head. "It's still stupid that they won't use Veritaserum in Wizengamot sessions, honestly."

Gemma sighs, then says, "You're not wrong." It's disgusting, of course, but Harry is right. Heir Black or no, he's been painted as a liar quite thoroughly in the papers over the past few months, and plenty of people are willing to believe the Ministry if it means that they're safe. Never mind that believing the Ministry blindly makes them less safe, but that level of logic is beyond most wixen, or so it seems most of the time.

"She'll be gone by the end of the year," Harry says. "And if we can find a real crack to exploit, not something that'll come down to her word against mine in court—"

"Yours and everyone else she's tortured," Gemma says.

"If the others will even speak up," Harry says. "A lot of them are Muggleborns, who must've figured out by now that making a stink will have them out of the magical world on their arses, since none of them have said anything already. I think she doesn't do it to anyone who would actually be believed—I had detention with Neville all last week and she made us write lines with regular quills."

Gemma scowls. "Of course she does."

"I'm a liar and a troublemaker and a pretender to power," Harry says, and shifts to push himself up and out of the alcove. He wavers on his feet for a minute, but steadies before Gemma has a chance to reach out and grab him. His face is a bit pale, the usually warm brown of his skin gone bloodless, but he stays up. "And muggleborns are always looking for attention, or don't have any legitimate representation in the Wizengamot, or don't realize how bad what she's doing is." Harry shrugs, resettles his satchel, and says, "We'd never get anywhere."

Gemma's not sure she entirely believes that, but Harry's conviction is clear, and he is right that Lord Black would have him out of Hogwarts in the blink of an eye. It wouldn't do Harry or anyone else any good for that to happen—better he and others with strong voices and support in the magical world's twisted legal system be here to see what's going on. Silently Gemma commits herself to paying closer attention, figuring out which students are being tortured with the blood quill and documenting it. It's her job, after all, as Head Girl.

"Alright," she says reluctantly. "But I'm getting you some Dittany out of Professor Snape's stores, and you are going to let me tend those wounds."

"He'll ask questions."

"No, he won't. Not if it's me asking."

Harry glances at her, and she sees him make the decision not to ask—she's glad, because the answers aren't hers to give. "Fine."

They begin the walk back down to the common room, and Gemma runs a hand over her face. "This wasn't even why I came to find you," she says.

Another sideways glance. "Did you need something?"

"Sort of." Gemma pauses, Harry stopping with her, and she reaches into her pocket for the invitation. "Just… well, read it. You can say no."

She hands it over, and those emerald eyes flick over the writing quickly before looking up at her once more. "Should I say no?"

"That's really up to you," Gemma says, beginning to walk again. Harry follows along, the invitation vanishing into his bag. "My mother is… difficult, but it's a genuinely meant invitation, and it might be an opportunity."

"An opportunity for who?" Harry mutters, but then nods. "Thanks. Is it okay if I think about it for a bit?"

"Please do," Gemma says. "You should write Lord Black, too—my mother said you could bring him, if you want, though I'm sure she'd prefer you didn't."

"Yeah," Harry says. He considers for a moment, then says, "Who else is likely to come?"

"Well," Gemma says, and consults her memory of who'd attended past balls, who her mother had been talking about recently, and who her father was courting for work. "Plenty—a mix of Grey and Dark Houses for the most part, of course. Farley is a Grey House, as you probably know, but—"

"You lean Dark," Harry says. "So… the Greengrasses, the… Flints? The Higgses, the Warringtons…"

Gemma nods. "Astute of you."

"Sirius has taught me a lot." Harry shrugs, looking a little awkward when Gemma glances at him. "I've got more to learn, though."

"We all do," Gemma says. "There's a lot to know. In any case—you have an idea of the core, it seems. Ask Lord Black—he's not been to one of my family's balls, I don't think, but he'll have ideas about the whole thing for you. It's up to you—if you decide not to come I'll put my mother off somehow. Don't worry about insulting her."

"Thanks," Harry says again. "I'll let you know."

"When you can," Gemma says, because it's really all she has to offer—she'll fetch him some Dittany and try to heal his wounds, but there's a wound in him deeper than a little bit of kindness and a potion to cure the scars on his skin can touch. She knows it, can see it, and wishes that there were more that she could do… but she'll do what she can, at least.

When they make it back to the common room, Gemma tells Harry to wait for her and then keeps going on down the hall toward Professor Snape's office. His door is closed, of course; it's outside of his usual office hours. But she taps the portrait frame with her wand and whispers the password he'd given her at the beginning of the year, with a look that promised dire consequences if she abused his trust, and heads inside. The office is dark and quiet, and she lights her wand with a quick murmured "Lumos" as she makes her way over to the potions storeroom, which responds to another password she'd been entrusted with. She remembers keenly her surprise at being granted such access, but then their Head of House had always been diligent in his care for his snakes.

She's still peering up at labels on bottles when she hears the sound of a door clicking open behind her in the office and turns to find that the professor has come to investigate.

"Miss Farley," he says, when he sees her through the open doorway to the storeroom. "What do you need?"

"Essence of Dittany," she says bluntly, and sees his face go remote in the way she's come to understand means he's hiding some stronger emotion.

"For…?"

She shakes her head. "They didn't want me to say, sir."

That remoteness turns to a frown. "I see."

"I'm sorry," she offers, because she knows he must be concerned—if someone in the House is hurt, he would of course want to know about it. But for various reasons that she's always been sure she only half-understands, he makes himself more a forbidding figure than a protective one, and so younger students have always been more likely to come to her or the other Prefects than to go to him. It's a shame, because Gemma knows that he'd save them all from the world's cruelties if he could… but he's realistic, and so is she.

"There," he says, and points up at a high shelf, where a small vial labelled Dittany sits. "Take the vial, Miss Farley; I can brew more. You remember the dilution?"

She nods. "One drop per half a litre of distilled water."

"Good."

Gemma reaches up and snags the bottle, tucking it away carefully into a pocket, and says, "I'll tell you when I can. If I can."

"Until then, I trust your care," he says. "And that you will inform me if there is anything else you need."

"Yes, sir." She pauses a moment, hesitating, and then says, "I know there's probably not much to be done, but if there is any effort you could make to help oust Umbridge, I and everyone would appreciate it."

The professor takes a measured breath and then steps back from the doorway to the storeroom, waving her out. Obeying the tacit command, she goes, slipping past him. Before she reaches the door to the office, however, he says, "I make no promises, Miss Farley."

She looks over her shoulder, sees him studying her, and nods. "I understand, sir."

She does understand. Sort of, anyway. As much as it's possible to understand Professor Severus Snape and his strangeness—he's always been odd, to Gemma. Stern but wise, always, bitter but determined… and a lot of people, even in Slytherin, don't seem to see past the prickly surface. Maybe it's only because she's always been a good student and reasonably talented with potions, as well as rule-abiding and ready to look out for her fellows that she's been allowed to see past the top layer of his "dungeon bat" persona, but she also suspects that she's one of the few who's cared to look deeper. Then again, getting to know people, her curiosity and her desire to connect even with the oddest ones out, has always been her strongest suit and she knows it; it's how she plans to get ahead. She's no fool—it's better to know people than to know things, and anyone who thinks otherwise is deluded.

So she understands at least that the professor is in a complicated spot. Truthfully, all of them are in a complicated spot right now. It's not a good time to be rebelling against the government, because she's reasonably confident that in very little time, there will be a Dark Lord working actively to destroy their society as it currently exists, including that very government; they'll need to stand together and defend the institutions of order if they want to survive. But at the same time, what sort of society is it that they're trying to save, if their government will install an employee willing to torture children as a schoolteacher? She doesn't know how to feel about it herself; adults with complicated ties bridging back to complicated histories like Professor Snape and even Professor Dumbledore can only have it worse.

There are no good guys, Gemma muses to herself as she steps back into the common room and spots Harry talking quietly with Bulstrode. No good guys, and very few innocents left.

Despite Umbridge's surveillance of classes and students alike—with Care of Magical Creatures and Divination getting the most disdainful scrutiny, according to what Gemma hears from others, though Umbridge seems to be avoiding NEWT Care, which Gemma can't entirely fault her for—the Defence Association manages to meet three times in December. They practice summoning and banishing objects, the Repelling Charm, and the Disarming Charm, the latter of which they'd already learned, but more practice with it always seems like a good idea, even with the newspapers unnervingly quiet. Maybe the Death Eaters really are lying low; maybe the Prophet is suppressing the news. Gemma doesn't know, and doesn't think it matters. She helps some of the younger students practice a Tripping Jinx until they can cast it without an incantation, and quietly but sternly tells everyone that, should anything happen over the holidays, they are to run.

The Gryffindors look mulish about this advice, of course. So do the Hufflepuffs, whose leave-no-man-behind attitude is going to get them all killed one day.

"It's good advice," says Clearwater. "None of us are good enough duelists to take on a Death Eater, I don't care how good you think you are. If someone attacks you or your family, you run. You run and you get word to one of us as soon as possible, alright?"

"Being a member of this club isn't just about learning Defence," Diggory adds. "Or, it is, but it's important to remember that part of Defence is not being alone when you could have allies by your side. We're here to support one another, as we have been all term, alright? So if something happens, get word out."

"How?" asks a Gryffindor girl, the one with a twin in Ravenclaw; she shrinks a little when attention turns onto her. "I mean, I can't Apparate. And… if something happens…"

"That's a good question," Diggory says, exchanging a glance with Clearwater, who's already got that academic frown on her face. A glance tells Gemma that Granger shares the look. "We'll all do a bit of research and try to come up with some solutions, okay? Next week, Friday, before everyone goes home—we'll have our last meeting then, alright? Between now and then, everyone try to look up some solutions for long-distance communication other than owls. Just in case."

Gemma sighs, and then adds, "But getting word out is less important than staying alive, alright? If you can get help without endangering yourself further, excellent. Sometimes, however, it's best to just stay still and silent and hidden, or to get away as far and fast as possible, and not waste energy and time on other things."

She gets a few looks from the other older students, but she's right and she knows it, and if they spared a thought they'd know it too. To smooth the ruffled feathers a little, she adds, "If you can, make a run for the nearest crowded part of the muggle world that you can reach. Remember: the Death Eaters are mostly if not entirely traditionalist purebloods, and know next to nothing about how to navigate the muggle world. But you're all likely to know better, and if you don't, ask your muggleborn friends. Got it?"

There's a murmur. Gemma narrows her eyes. "Got it?" she demands.

"Got it," comes the echo, clearer this time.

"Thank you," she says, and stuffs down the frustration. Clearwater and Diggory have gotten the respect of the group so easily, even with Diggory being a year younger. Damn the Dark Lord for that, too; Slytherins have never been loved, but the fear and the disgust hadn't been nearly so bad a few generations ago, according to her grandmother.

The meeting wraps up and people begin to trickle out in twos and threes, or by themselves; Clearwater and the eldest Weasley go together, heads bent together as usual, and Gemma glances around to locate Ayesha. She's standing by the window that the room always generates when Clearwater is the one to request the room, and Gemma goes over to join her.

"Hey," she says softly, and steps up close enough for the backs of their hands to brush together. Immediately, Ayesha turns her palm to catch Gemma's hand and twine their fingers together, and then turns her body, too, like a flower to the sun. It makes Gemma smile.

"Hey," Ayesha says. There are still other people in the room, so she doesn't lean in; Gemma regrets the loss of the kiss, though she knows she'll be granted one in a few minutes, once they're alone. "I'm proud of you, you know that?"

Startled, Gemma raises an eyebrow. "For what?"

"They wouldn't have wanted us here," Ayesha says, and nods toward the last few people trickling out. Among the stragglers are Diggory, Longbottom, Granger, and Weasley-the-second-most-junior, the club's progenitors, who often linger near to the last. "But you've made this a place for everyone, and you've never given up on what's really important."

"I'm only doing what I have to," Gemma protests. "It's the literal least I could do—I'm no Defence prodigy."

"You don't need to be," Ayesha says. "You just need to teach some common sense. God knows none of the other Houses have any to spare."

Gemma snorts, then laughs fully. "Rude." She glances over, sees that the others have gone and they're alone, and leans in to steal the kiss that she's been craving. "I'm proud of you too. I learned all my courage from you, you know."

"You might've learned some of it from Harry," Ayesha says.

"Well, maybe." Gemma smiles and leans in to kiss Ayesha again, lingering this time. Her free hand comes to rest on Ayesha's waist, holding her close, and their lips slide together, gentle and slick. Ayesha, never as demure as she pretends to others, sucks Gemma's lower lip between her own briefly, and Gemma leans in closer, savouring shared breath and warmth. Finally, for need of a fuller breath, they part, and Gemma leans her forehead against Ayesha's, her forehead pressed to the thin fabric layer of Ayesha's hijab. "Are we going to be okay?"

"Of course we are," Ayesha says. "What's on your mind, Gem?"

"I know you want to stay out of the war," Gemma says, and then hesitates.

There's a pause. Ayesha studies Gemma's face, and then sighs and pulls back a little, giving them both a bit of distance. "But you don't."

Mute, Gemma shakes her head.

"Gemma…"

"I know," Gemma says. "Common sense, right? I suppose I don't have any either."

"You do, though," Ayesha says. "So there's got to be something behind this."

It's a demand for answers, however subtly phrased, and Gemma knows it. The problem is articulating the thoughts that have been chasing around and around in her head since she found Harry passed out in a window seat only a week or so ago. He hadn't yet given her an answer about the ball, but his manner that evening had been… she's not sure she has the words for any of it. But she owes Ayesha an answer. "I can't do nothing," she says, and holds up a hand before Ayesha can interrupt. "I know that protecting myself, protecting us, isn't nothing. But… I was given this badge for a reason." She reaches up and touches the Head Girl's badge. "And it was more than just good grades and not getting caught breaking the rules."

"Being Head Girl is a responsibility," Ayesha says, "but it's a Hogwarts responsibility. We're graduating soon. You don't need to let it anchor you here."

"I'm not," she says. "But I think I've come to understand better what it is the professors saw in me that they decided to give it to me. I'm a Slytherin, Aya, I know it and you know it—that means I look after myself and my own, I survive, and I thrive. I just… don't want to survive in a world that's being destroyed by a war that I could help to fight."

"What makes you think you can help with anything?" Ayesha demands fiercely. "You're a decent duelist, Gem, but you said it yourself: you're no Defence prodigy!"

Gemma's expression goes taut with the stinging hurt the words cause, and she sees Ayesha soften.

"I'm sorry," Ayesha says, more gentle. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean it like that. I'm just…"

"Afraid. I know. Me too." Gemma looks away, looks down. Their hands are still clasped together, Ayesha's brown fingers tangled with her pale ones, and she holds on a little tighter. "That's why, really."

Ayesha squeezes back, and with her free hand reaches to touch Gemma's chin and tilt her face back up so that their eyes meet. There's a patient calm on her face, as there always is, but in her eyes Gemma can see the fear. It's a fear she recognizes easily, partly because she knows Ayesha's face so well, but also because it's the same fear she sees in the mirror every day. "I don't want you to."

"I know." Gemma leans her face into Ayesha's touch. "I won't stand by and watch that bastard destroy our world though. And I won't be the last to know when he turns on those who think they're safe."

Ayesha nods, and Gemma knows they're thinking of the same things: Gemma's own parents, content in their conservatism, convinced it'll protect them when push comes to shove. The nature of war, though, is that it less draws lines in the sand and more opens cracks in the earth, everything shaken and splitting like in an earthquake; if you're standing on the line when the chasm opens, you just end up falling in. Or those like Ayesha's family, who are likely to avoid the conflict, but only by withdrawing entirely, cutting all ties to Britain. Gemma's not willing to give up everyone she knows and everything she cares about that way, to go and return only to survey the wreckage when the dust settles. It doesn't seem worth it.

"So you'll fight," Ayesha says, her voice a sigh. "I… I can't, Gem."

"I know." Gemma leans down, steals another soft kiss. "I wouldn't ask you to. Will you go to Damascus?"

Ayesha shrugs. "Maybe. Depending on how bad it gets, I suppose. My family will go, stay with relatives."

"I want you to be safe."

"You think I don't want the same? You could come with me."

Gemma shakes her head. "You know I couldn't." Even if Ayesha's family approved and they could be open about their relationship, Gemma is unwilling to abandon her own parents or her duties as Heir Farley. "I have protections. And I'm a Slytherin. I'll be careful."

"Not careful enough."

Gemma smiles wryly. "Probably not. Will it help if…" She pauses, swallows, and then says, "Will a promise help?"

Ayesha goes still. "That depends on what kind."

"What if I promise to marry you?" Gemma says, her voice a whisper caught in her throat. "If I promise that we'll have a life together some day? I… I don't have anything proper prepared, not yet—I was going to wait until we graduated, until we got into university and I could really offer you something, but…"

"Thank God," is all Ayesha says, and leans in for another kiss. "You make me that promise, Gem, and I don't care if your engagement gift to me is a muggle bubblegum wrapper. If you promise you'll live, I'll marry you."

"I'll live," Gemma says. There are tears in her eyes and on Ayesha's cheeks as she pulls Ayesha into another close embrace, burying her face in Ayesha's shoulder. "I promise."