"ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴏɴᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴏɴᴇʏᴇᴅ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ʙᴜᴛ ᴇᴠɪʟ ᴍɪɴᴅ

ᴘᴇʀꜱᴜᴀᴅᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏʙ, ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ ᴡᴏᴇꜱ ʙᴇꜰᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴇ."

― ᴇᴜʀɪᴘɪᴅᴇꜱ, ᴏʀᴇꜱᴛᴇꜱ

Chapter Twenty-Two: Unspeakable Things

The days shortened and grew colder as November turned into December. Instead of dry, paper-thin leaves, the castle was coated in an ever-growing blanket of snow. The constant presence of the Aurors, strictly-imposed curfews, and being searched up entering classrooms became routine. Students drifted around the castle in small groups, speaking quietly and avoiding strangers. Everyone was still very much trying to act normal, but the sense of distrust was heavy.

If the professors or the Aurors were any closer to finding the imposter, they did not let on.

"I've got to go meet Quirrell again," said Harry, as he, Ron, and Hermione handed in their Transfiguration exams, which they had with the Hufflepuffs. He nervously fiddled with the ring as they sat back down. "Hey... you don't think it looks like the ouro-whatever? From the room?"

"Shh," said Hermione as Professor McGonagall walked by. "Ouroboros. And yeah, it kind of does. Ron?"

"Sure?" Ron shrugged. "Dunno, though... Quirrell said it was fine, didn't he?"

"No," said Hermione. She waved her quill like a conductor's baton. "He said, They are potentially symbols that may be used in the worst kinds of Dark magic. Shouldn't we ask for a second opinion? Like Professor Dumbledore?"

"No," said Harry, suddenly remembering what Quirrell had said about Dumbledore. "I don't think we should."

Hermione gave him a sideways, sceptical look but said nothing more about the subject. Harry, for his part, did not breach the subject of Obscurials.

He almost didn't mind the uncertainty of what exactly the ring did. It was sort of comforting to know that now, nothing bad could happen.

At least, not because of him.

"Who do you think the imposter is, anyway?" asked Hermione as they filed out of the classroom. "When you think about it, it's probably a first-year. That way, the professors wouldn't notice if they were acting weird."

"You think the imposter's one of us?" asked Ron, gesturing at the other students around them. "Not bloody likely. We can't do anything because of our curfews. If you ask me, it's a seventh-year... or, a professor!"

"Don't be ridiculous!" said Hermione. "All the other professors would have noticed."

"Probably teaching something nobody cares about, like Muggle Studies," said Ron.

Hermione opened her mouth again, but before she could retort, Fred and George came boisterously down the hallway, shouting: "Betting pool for the imposter's true identity; step right up and win both Galleons and eternal I-told-you-so's!"

"Do you think it's appropriate to run a school-wide betting pool at a time like this?" snapped Hermione, as students ran towards the twins, offering slips of paper and Galleons.

"Gather round, everyone! Cast your votes here! Step right up! One at a time, single file!" George bellowed, striding through the crowd like a ringmaster at a circus. "Not all at once; make a nice orderly queue, please!"

"Who's winning?" Ron injected. Harry got a distinct feeling that Ron was looking to place a bet himself.

"Mafalda's the favourite candidate," said Fred, grinning ear to ear. "Of course, we've been stacking the pool a bit. You know. Give the people a villain they love to hate and all. S'not all bad, though. Figured we'd give her a cut of the house commission; there's plenty to go around."

"Oh, joy," said Ron under his breath. "When are you two going to tell her?"

"Going to tell me what?"

A girl that Harry didn't recognise forced her way through the crowd surrounding George. She was as ginger-haired and freckled as Ron but tall and mean-looking. She looked like how Harry thought Professor McGonagall might have as a student.

"What, Ronald?"

"Hey, don't pick on him, Mals," said Fred, though he looked distinctly afraid. "It's really nothing―"

"They're making money off you," said Hermione, hopping from side to side and smiling as deviously as the Cheshire Cat. "You are Mafalda, aren't you?"

Fred groaned.

The girl hesitated. "Yes," she said finally, extending a thin, freckled hand towards Hermione, who shook it.

Mafalda's gaze flickered towards Harry, her long ponytail bouncing as she moved her head. For a second, she reminded him of Dumbledore; her eyes looked steely and calculating, though still somewhat warm.

"You're one of the Slytherin Chasers," he said because he could not think of anything else to say.

"Yes," said Mafalda again. "Good game, Potter. For a first-timer. I suppose I'll have to keep an eye on you."

She did not offer to shake his hand and simply turned around and left.

"Don't forget about family tea!" shouted George, but Mafalda ignored him.

"We don't have family tea," said Ron, in response to Harry's questioning look.

"Wait, she's your sister?" asked Harry. He felt perplexed. "I thought she was younger?"

"Cousin," said Fred. "Mum's side. She's a real pain in the arse, though." He glanced at his watch. "Oops, we'd better go before McGonagall comes. See you!"

And, with that, Fred and George swept out of the corridor, and the crowd dispersed.

"Betting," repeated Hermione. "Honestly, at a time like this?"

"You don't really think she could be the imposter?" asked Harry. "She does seem kind of suspicious ― sorry, Ron."

"Don't worry about it. Not like like she could get any more annoying." Ron paused. "Only thing, if I were trying to fly under the radar as a Death Eater, I wouldn't be a Slytherin, even though Mafalda's got a really irritating talent of getting into everyone's business. Everyone always thinks they're up to something. I'd be a Hufflepuff. Or, better yet, a Ravenclaw. No one ever expects they're up to something ― bunch of goody-two-shoes, the lot of them."

Harry frowned.

"But Voldemort―"

Ron flinched as if he had been stung.

"―I mean, You-Know-Who, was in Slytherin, wasn't he? And I guess most of the Death Eaters were, too. So wouldn't it be easier to blend in there?"

To be honest, Harry didn't like thinking about the fact that there was a Death Eater amongst them at all; it made a horrid, cold shiver run down his spine.

"You have got a point," said Ron. "But I don't think we're going to figure it out, are we?"

"You don't think it's got anything to do with Anthony's dogs?"

Hermione snorted. "Don't be so gullible ― look, I've thought about it, and he probably made it up, Harry!"

"He's not an attention-seeker like some people," said Harry, thinking of Draco Malfoy. "And Hagrid was acting really suspicious. I'm sorry, I think he's hiding something."

"Fine, I'm sure Hagrid's hiding something, but Anthony's not exactly logical, is he?"

"All I know," said Harry, who was quickly getting impatient, "is that one, people aren't being very truthful right now, and two, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds for a reason. So I don't know about you two, but I'm going to sneak down and have a look for myself tonight. I just know it's got something to do with what's wrong with me. Whatever's hidden down there is really important."

"No, you can't!" said Hermione, her voice high and indignant. "You could be killed, or worse, expelled!"

Ron elbowed Harry and whispered out the side of his mouth: "She needs to get her priorities straight, eh?"

Out loud, he said: "How are you going to get past the Aurors?" And, to appease Hermione, he added: "You know... if you do it."

Harry looked down at his hands and remembered dangling from his broom as his body slowly became immaterial.

"I think I've got an idea... but I need to ask someone about it first."

Harry shouldered his bag and began to walk quickly.

"Wait, where are you going?" called Hermione.

"Quirrell's office," said Harry, walking even faster. "I've got to ask him something."

"Can we come?"

"Sorry, no," he said. "I'll see you in the common room later, okay?"

Harry didn't think it was a good time to explain the whole Obscurial business. As far as he could tell, it wasn't something he should talk about in public.

Leaving Ron and Hermione behind, he went up the stairs and knocked on the door of Quirrell's office (this was beginning to feel like routine).

"C-Come in, Harry."

How did he know it's me? wondered Harry, as he pushed the door open, stepped into the office, and was instantly enveloped by the scent of garlic.

Professor Quirrell was not sitting at his desk; instead, he had his back turned and was gazing out the window. The snowy owl sitting on his shoulder turned her head around to face Harry.

"Hedwig!"

He reached his arm out, and Hedwig flew over to rest on his shoulder and nuzzle his cheek.

Quirrell turned around too, his hands clasped in front of him and smiling his charming, bashful smile.

"Why do you have her, sir?" asked Harry.

Quirrell merely continued to smile. "Bubo scandiacus. A p-perfect example of the s-s-snowy owl, one of the m-most patient of hunters. Did you know that s-s-snowy owls prefer to nest in airports, H-Harry?"

"I didn't, sir."

But that didn't answer why Hedwig was here. Or what Quirrell was up to. Harry glanced towards the desk, where there were scattered pieces of parchment covered in esoteric-looking symbols. Quirrell seemed to flush with embarrassment as he noticed Harry's staring and cleared the desk with a wave of his wand.

Quirrell cleared his throat.

"But I suppose you did not come here to ask questions about owls?"

Harry shook his head and sat down in the chair Quirrell offered for him.

"Now," said Quirrell, leaning forward. "What is troubling you, Harry?"

Before he lost his nerve, Harry blurted out as fast as he could: "Can I control it?"

There was a glint of something greedy and alive in Quirrell's usually dull eyes.

"C-Control it?"

Quirrell was trying hard to keep his voice measured. Harry could tell.

"You know," said Harry, though he was quickly getting nervous. "The-The Obscurus." He hesitated. This felt unnatural. Forbidden. "Make it do things. When I want. What I want it to."

"The definition of an Obscurus is that it is uncontrollable," said Quirrell, and Harry's heart sank. "But, the boundaries of m-m-magic exist to be p-pushed, do they not?"

"I suppose," said Harry, though he wasn't sure if he wanted to 'push the boundaries of magic.' But Quirrell seemed to think it was a good idea.

"So," said Quirrell, his eyes glittering with that same, strange alive-ness. "Let us try. Let us go where no wizard nor witch has gone before. H-How did you feel, H-Harry... the first time you s-s-saw the Obscurus m-m-manifest? The first time you saw shadows? What happened to you? You can tell me, Harry... you can trust me."

"Afraid," he said, shrugging. Just tell him whatever he wants to hear.

But Quirrell was not satisfied.

"Continue."

"I was―"

Harry bit down on his tongue, hard enough to taste blood.

"You are safe, H-Harry. You are with me, P-Professor Quirrell. You c-can trust me. Don't tell m-m-me out loud; you don't need to. Just... try to remember."

Remembering wasn't hard. He hated that it wasn't hard.

Not remembering was like hanging onto a ledge, high above the rushing current of the river below him and all he had to do was let go.

I'm going to kill him.

Harry could feel each letter scrape across his arm, and he jumped.

You made Aunt Petunia upset; you made Dudley upset. ... You're a bad apple, boy... You're a freak!

A hand clamped down around his wrist.

Let go of me! Harry wanted to scream, but he blinked down at his arm and found it was his own hand.

Not fear. Helplessness. Shame. Guilt.

Yes. He could dig deep enough to find those.

Why don't you love us!

This is the kind of love you deserve.

Harry could picture Aunt Petunia's lip curling.

Don't look at me, she'd say. I hate your eyes.

Harry felt a scream rip itself from his lungs; not a human scream, but something horrible and shrill.

"Very good." Quirrell's voice cut through the buzzing that had filled his ears. "Very good."

His head tossed side to side when he tried to turn it.

Harry looked past Quirrell to the mirror hanging behind him, and his stomach would have given a lurch... if he had one.

What greeted him was a sight that looked like it came straight out of a horror movie.

It wasn't his shadow that had gone strange once more. He was his shadow.

All but his eyes and a bony, wraithlike skeleton remained. Two green, luminescent circles, tangled and trapped in sheer, tangible darkness. He was floating above the ground and wrapped in ink-black shadows.

The shadows were blacker than black. The room had become dim, cold, and airless as if he was draining the life out of it.

Quirrell stared up at him, his mouth open in surprise.

Harry tried to move one of his fingers towards Quirrell, but he had no material fingers. He wanted to scream, cry, call for help... but he was incapable.

He was imprisoned in his own body.

"Let me go!" he shouted mentally, willing someone, anyone, to hear him. The shadows tossed. They ground together, and the friction burned. "Let me out!"

"C-Calm down, Harry," said Quirrell, cool as a cucumber. "C-Calm down. I know how to fix this."

He smiled as if to reassure Harry and waved his wand, saying some incantation that Harry did not understand.

Slowly, as if his limbs had gone dead from lack of blood and were once more refreshed, his body began to feel like his again. The growing flesh itched and felt like being stuck with pins and needles all over, but finally, Harry was lying on the floor of Quirrell's familiar, garlic-scented office, relatively unharmed and trembling with sheer relief.

Hedwig, as if sensing that he was in distress, hopped forward to nuzzle his hand.

From here, Quirrell's smile seemed almost cruel. But Harry felt a little sick. The back of his throat tasted like acid. His head was spinning.

As if he had noticed, Quirrell bent down and extended a hand.

"How are you feeling, H-Harry?"

"Dizzy." His mouth was dry. "And I think I could drink the whole Black Lake."

"Of c-c-course," said Quirrell, laughing amicably, helping him into a chair, and conjuring a glass of water.

All the while, Quirrell watched him as if he were a puzzle that he needed to solve. Strange.

After he was done, Quirrell uncorked a bottle of something that smelled strangely like artificial liquorice, conjured the glass full of water again, and let a few violet-coloured drops fall in.

"It will help you get your s-strength back." He gave Harry a critical look. "You are dreadfully s-skinny, you know."

"Yes, Professor." He knew that already. It was why Dudley and his gang had liked to pick on him so much.

Before Quirrell could ask him any more questions, he picked up the glass of water again and drank.

I'd better not try this on my own, then, thought Harry. So much for sneaking into the third-floor corridor.

"Why―" Harry began but stopped himself. No. Not out loud.

Why didn't that creepy thing happen to me before?

Maybe it's getting worse. Maybe it's like a progressive thing. I'll get worse and worse until I hurt someone.

"Now that we are aware of the p-p-possible risks," said Quirrell, "we m-m-must endeavour to p-prevent them. Without that ring―" He glanced towards the silver ring, and Harry followed his gaze "―we m-might have lost you entirely."

He's done this before, hasn't he? With another Obscurial... but who?

What happened to them?

Harry pressed his fingers to his temples and tried not to think about it.

I won't be scared. I won't.

Harry cleared his throat. "If I am, you know, an Obscurial... how did I survive this long? I mean, the book said Obscurials don't survive past their eleventh birthdays, didn't it?"

"It did," said Quirrell. He steepled his fingers and leaned his nose against the tips of them. "Usually. Normally. It m-ma-makes s-s-sense. At eleven, m-magic sort of―" His fingers twitched "―s-s-settles down. M-Matures."

"Mine hasn't," said Harry, thinking sourly of the rocketing feather. He was sure most of the professors thought he was a hopeless case at this point.

"Yes," said Quirrell. "It is m-most c-c-curious. As if your s-sheer will to s-survive has s-su-superseded all natural order."

The next question was on the tip of Harry's tongue. How long? But he did not say it.

"But you are a master of survival, aren't you, Harry?" Quirrell's eyes twinkled with that strange, fiercely intelligent light once more. "Survived the Killing Curse... why not an Obscurus?"

And under his breath: "The very secret of eternal life... exists within you."

"What, sir?" asked Harry, unnerved.

Quirrell shook his head and smiled. "Nothing, Harry. Nothing at all. Nothing to worry about. But... it does not seem malicious."

"You mean my― my Obscurus? Is it supposed to?"

"Normally," said Quirrell, "the Obscurus wants to destroy others. To lash out at those that c-c-created it. At anyone, really. But, I believe, s-s-strangely... yours only wishes to protect you. After all, it did not try to hurt m-m-me, or your owl."

"So, you think I won't hurt anyone?"

"You have nothing to worry about, as far as I c-c-can tell." Quirrell leaned forward again, this time placing his cold hand over Harry's. "As long as we keep this a s-secret between us."

"Yes," said Harry, although he thought that the secret was between three people instead of two. "I think I'd like to go lie down for a bit, Professor."

"Of course. Take care, H-Harry."

Harry went towards the door, opened it, and looked back.

"Thank you, Professor Quirrell," he said, trying to put a good deal of emphasis into his voice because he really did mean it.

He closed the door behind him and sighed. He still felt incredibly dizzy. His knees trembled, and his face felt cold and empty of blood.

Nevertheless, Harry tried to ignore the discomfort and headed towards the stairs.

When Ruby got to Dumbledore's office for their last meeting before the holidays, Tonks was waiting outside.

"New security procedures," she explained, flipping through a stack of parchment and scribbling something down. "Dead boring. Mad-Eye's gone mad; he thinks he's going to find some kind of pattern in people coming and going. Ridiculous."

Tonks looked up and realised that Ruby was still standing there.

"Go on, then ― oh, er, Lemon Drops."

The gargoyle stepped aside, and Tonks ushered her inside.

Dumbledore was reading quietly at his desk, and Fawkes, as usual, had gone to sleep on his perch, his scarlet wings folded over his head.

"Good afternoon, Professor," she said.

Dumbledore shut his book and smiled as she sat down.

"Good afternoon," he repeated. "Where were we up to... hmm, let us leave that for another time... I was curious if you had any questions for me, Ruby."

The question had sprung to the tip of her tongue before Ruby could even think about it.

"What was my mother like, Professor Dumbledore? Aunt Petunia would say a lot of horrid stuff about her, but it can't be all true, can it?"

She hadn't meant it to sound so desperate.

For a second, Dumbledore's expression was strange. But it passed quickly.

"She saw the world in a different way to other people," he said. "Saw solutions to problems, ways of asking questions that others would never have thought of."

Dumbledore paused.

"Have you been told much about the Ministry of Magic, Ruby?"

She shook her head. "The magical government, I think it is? Like Parliament or something."

"Quite," said Dumbledore. "For about a year, before your parents went into hiding, she worked as an Unspeakable on Level Nine, in the Department of Mysteries."

Level Nine. Department of Mysteries. That sounded ominous. And secretive.

"Is that like a magical MI5?" At Dumbledore's confused look, she added: "Secret intelligence?"

"No," said Dumbledore with a laugh. "Come to think of it, we are lacking that, at least to my knowledge. The rooms on Level Nine concern secrets of a different sort; that of the many mysteries surrounding magic."

"And they can't speak about what they find out?"

"Precisely. Though Unspeakables must be opaque about their work, she did tell me that it was something concerning meanings. Thoughts about the self and others. I cannot say that I understood, I was not allowed to ask, and she was not allowed to tell me."

"What happened to the stuff she was working on, Professor?"

"No one knows; she must have destroyed it. I have an inkling that I know of one concept she might have happened to discover; James told me that she came home from the Ministry quite distressed one day."

"Why?"

"Perhaps she discovered something too dangerous to be revealed. Some things are better left unsaid."

"What kind of dangerous?" asked Ruby. "Everyone already knows there's magic that can kill people, that's how Voldemort — you know —" She shuddered "—killed them."

Dumbledore's gaze seemed strange and impossibly stern. He did not answer, so she pressed on. Though the thought disturbed her, there was almost a sick fascination to it.

"Avada Kedavra. Harry talks in his sleep, and he says that a lot. I used to think it was abracadabra. That is how you kill people, isn't it?"

"Yes," he said carefully. "Those are the words, though alone they would be rather ineffective. As I said, some things are better left unsaid."

At her questioning look, he added: "There are other ways of destroying a person... some far worse than death. Do not press the question, Ruby. I will not answer."

"Can I ask a different question, Professor?" asked Ruby. "Why did our parents go into hiding? Hagrid said they knew Voldemort was after them. That's how they knew to split us up."

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "Yes. I am surprised that you remembered, although it is the sort of thing one would. Let us just say for now that Voldemort suspected that Harry would one day grow to threaten his power. Being the tyrant that he was, he could not let that happen."

"That he was?" asked Ruby. "Hagrid said he didn't have enough human left in him to die. That he's still out there somewhere. And before, when we first met―"

An amused expression had come onto Dumbledore's face. He might have looked a bit impressed, even, but perhaps that was wishful thinking. "I did," he said with a wry, tense smile. "I did indeed. Most do not want to believe that Voldemort is alive. It is easier not to think about such things. But, as Hagrid tends to say, what's coming will come, and we'll meet it when it does; and I suspect sooner rather than later. I advise you to... continue to keep your eyes and ears open."

The breath stopped in Ruby's throat. He was all but agreeing with her and Harry's theory.

"You mean—"

He shook his head, looking nothing short of grim. "It appears our time is up. We shall meet again after the holidays. I take it you and Harry have made amends?"

"Yes, sir."

The grimness about Dumbledore's face seemed to lift slightly. "Good. I am glad." He paused. "Do try to enjoy yourself over the holidays... although I know it may be difficult, given the circumstances."

"Thank you, sir," said Ruby. "Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

When she went out of the office, Tonks was still waiting outside and leaning against the gargoyle.

"Wotcher, Ruby!"

"Hi, Tonks."

Ruby offered Tonks her wand, which she quickly inspected before checking off her name on the list and writing a few notes.

"Any luck finding the imposter?" asked Ruby, standing on her tiptoes and attempting to get a peek at Tonks's notes. She smiled sheepishly when Tonks caught her looking.

"Honestly?" Tonks tapped her quill to her lips. "No, it's sort of odd. Whoever they are, they're deep, deep undercover. I think we'll all be shocked when we find out who it is. All we can do for now is the same as we've been doing; make sure no one gets hurt."

Ruby stepped closer to Tonks and lowered her voice.

"You know about the stone, right?"

Tonks frowned. "Stone?" she whispered. "What stone?"

It wasn't a shocked or an angry frown, but merely a confused one.

Ruby sucked in a breath as she realised that Tonks had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

"Nothing!" she said, all while smiling and feeling very satisfied that they'd figured out something that the Aurors hadn't. "I'd better go before curfew — bye, Tonks!"

And, with that, she dashed down the corridor.

Then, she tripped over an uneven bit in the floor, managed to hook her foot around the hem of her robes, and tumbled to the ground, just barely managing to break her fall and land on her side rather than her head.

Ouch. That was definitely going to bruise tomorrow.

"Do you ever look where you're going?"

Ruby scowled as she pulled herself up into a sitting position.

"Would it hurt you to have the slightest bit of empathy, Harry?" she asked, scraping her fallen books back into her bag.

"Dunno," he said, leaning against the opposite wall. "Would it hurt you to have the slightest bit of coordination?"

He was doing a brilliant job of hiding it, but Ruby had seen that face often enough.

"Did you hurt yourself?" she asked, picking up her bag and getting to her feet.

"Shh! Not here!"

But, confirming her fears, when Harry stepped away from the wall, he pitched forward and had to grab onto her arm to keep his balance.

It was then that she realised that his eyes looked too bright and his face looked ashen.

"Do you need to go see Madam Pomfrey?"

"No!" snapped Harry, letting go of her arm and stepping away. "I'm fine."

Ruby snorted and tugged on his arm. "You're not fine — come on, just go get a potion or something and lie down. You look like you've got a temperature, and it's just going to get worse if you leave it—"

"No! You don't get it!" he hissed. "I can't."

"Can't what?"

"I can't tell anyone," he said, grabbing her by the shoulders. "Not anyone. Not Ron or Hermione or any of the other professors. I'm not really supposed to tell you, but I've got to tell someone."

"Tell me what?" asked Ruby, although from Harry's weird behaviour and the sinking feeling in her stomach, she could tell that it was nothing good.

She tried to think of things they weren't supposed to tell other people. Anything about their lives, really... at least according to Uncle Vernon.

Don't tell the teachers where you sleep, what you ate for breakfast, that your brother's a freak, that you got that cut from weeding Aunt Petunia's rosebushes last Monday...

"What happened?" asked Ruby, as Harry pulled them both behind a pillar.

"I am an Obscurial," he said in a hoarse, horrified whisper. He seemed almost shocked.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

It's not going to kill you, is it?

"It's horrible," said Harry, and her heart plunged. "I-I turn into this awful shadow, and my magic won't settle down, and if it does, it might kill me, and I could just lash out on accident and hurt someone ― kill someone. And the only thing stopping it is the ring Quirrell gave me!"

"Quirrell?" said Ruby, choosing to latch on the least awful part of his story. "That's who you've been seeing?"

Harry groaned. "What do you have against Quirrell?"

"You don't think he's just making all this up to sound impressive?"

Ruby just didn't think you could trust someone who tended towards talking in riddles so often.

"No!" Harry threw his hands up, exasperated. "It's not my imagination, Ruby! I'm not being paranoid! It's not that it could happen! It has!"

"It has?" Her own shocked voice seemed to ring painfully against her ears. "You just..."

No wonder he looked so sick.

Oh, Harry.

She could think of nothing to say, so she just hugged him.

"We can fix this," said Ruby. "Come on. We'll go to Madam Pomfrey, and—"

"Don't you get it?" asked Harry. He was trying very hard not to cry; his voice sounded all choked and strangled. "I've got to keep it a secret, or else they're going to-to take me away."

Ruby swallowed the lump that had come up in her throat.

"Okay," she said. "We'll keep it a really good secret, then? You and me."

"Yeah," said Harry. "Good. I'm going back to lie down for a bit, but I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Yeah. Don't―" She swallowed again. "Don't go anywhere, okay?"

"Okay." Harry started to go up the stairs and turned back. "I'm still going to find out what's in that room, though."

"Find another way," he muttered, turning away and going up the steps. "Anthony's dogs. I'll ask Hagrid."

He must be going crazy.

Ruby put her head in her hands.

I'm really, really worried.

Not just regular worried. Impending-doom kind of worried. It was the kind of worried that made you feel sick to your stomach and turned your insides to mush.

That was the kind of worried that sent Hermione to the library.

But Ruby didn't know what to do.

Just then, she felt the air whoosh behind her, as if someone had walked by. But when she turned, there was no one there at all.

That was weird, she thought. And there was a faint shimmer in the air.

But maybe she was just tired and making things up. You couldn't turn yourself invisible, or, at least, Professor McGonagall hadn't told them anything about that.

Just in case, she called out: "Hey, who's there?"

But no one answered.

Ruby looked up and realised the windows in the corridor were open.

It must have been the wind.

Endnotes:

So, we have two more chapters to go on the middle part of this arc, and then chapters 25-35 will be the final part of the first arc!

-thanks for the review, Amaniel, I'm glad you like this take on the trope!