Hello! I first want to apologize for my extended and unannounced absence (I come bearing a double post as a peace offering). The end of my first quarter of grad school was busier than anticipated, and in the interest of quality, I wanted to get finals out of the way before posting. Both me and this fic are very much alive ;)
"ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏɴᴇʟɪᴇꜱᴛ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ ɪɴ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ'ꜱ ʟɪꜰᴇ ɪꜱ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ꜰᴀʟʟ ᴀᴘᴀʀᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴀɴ ᴅᴏ ɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴇ ʙʟᴀɴᴋʟʏ."
― ꜰ. ꜱᴄᴏᴛᴛ ꜰɪᴛᴢɢᴇʀᴀʟᴅ
Chapter Eleven: Cinders and Ashes
To say that the mood had done a one-eighty would be an understatement; all of the upper years of Gryffindor were causing a racket in the common room, whilst a disgruntled Percy Weasley shepherded the lower years away from the commotion inside, and now they aimlessly floated around the halls.
People were trying to leave Hogwarts as soon as possible a mere few days ago, and now it was a crisp winter day, the hours of New Year's Eve harmlessly floating away.
A waspish journalist for the Daily Prophet with blonde curls so stiff they wouldn't move in a hurricane, garish, sparkly magenta cat-eye glasses and shoes to match couldn't seem to get enough of Lockhart.
Tack-y, Harry heard Aunt Petunia saying. He saw her oval, salmon-coloured nails scraping against a glass as she inspected it for spots, wrapped around the handle of a frying pan, pulling on his sister's hair — snip, snip, snip went the scissors.
Scrubbing off the face paint from a birthday party they'd gone to with Dudley, as strange, cabbage-scented and cat-loving Mrs. Figgs had been busy that Saturday; tacky, Aunt Petunia had said as she attacked the vestiges of an emerald snake wiggling across his cheek.
He'd tried, and failed to replicate the vibrant colour with his (thrown away by Dudley) cache of stubby crayons.
Tacky.
Lockhart didn't mind, however; lounging in a conjured chair and chatting animatedly as Harry lurked, yet unseen, behind a chintz curtain.
"And then ― get this down, Rita, if you can ― the beast lumbered towards me, gnashing its fearsome teeth― make sure you get my left side," he rattled off to the journalist and the photographer, behind whom lurked an awe-struck Colin Creevey.
"A real hero! A real-life hero, Harry! Amazing, isn't it?" Colin had enthused to Harry in the common room immediately before Percy had grabbed them both by the collars and shepherded them outside with a sharp admonishment.
Dumbledore stood at the top of a nearby staircase, surveying the organised chaos, his eyebrows slightly furrowed, though still doing his best to portray the image of the serene headmaster. Either he was not trying very hard to hide his displeasure, or he was exhausted of the pretence. Harry wondered which was more likely.
Nicholas Flamel, however, did mind the intrusion, and did not care who saw or judged his pleasure. Perhaps six hundred and sixty odd years of experience would do that, Harry thought.
He emerged from the long-abandoned alchemy classroom, looking very grim and dusting off his robes, and went to stand beside Harry (not before shooting long glares at Rita and the photographer, the former of which alighted from her chair to stalk down Flamel).
"Is it real, sir?" asked Harry. He could not tell which outcome would annoy Flamel more.
Flamel frowned.
"Indeed it is; a real basilisk fang, of a beast about the age of Salazar's serpent, filled with the same type of venom that injured your friend. The monster has been killed; the mystery solved. Now we may all go back to life as normal, until the next crisis," he finished distastefully. "It would appear le professeur has saved us all with his... most valiant feat."
"A quote, if you would, Mr. Flamel?" asked Rita as she appeared in front of them with frightening speed, quill poised above her parchment like a cat waiting to spring. "My readers would be ever so tickled... what mysteries lurk under those ancient eyebrows... what wisdom behind that eternal gaze?"
Flamel waved a hand as if to swat her like a fly.
"Tell them I pity anyone who willingly reads your drivel... the pathetic rag you deign to call journalism― bah! Begone; guest of Dumbledore though you are, I have not the compunction nor the desire to extend hospitality to you," he finished curtly.
Well, that told her, thought Harry, but his eyes met Rita's in the split-second before she turned away, and all was lost.
"Well, well, well!" she said, the last 'well' ending in an overexcited screech that chilled Harry to the bone. Rita looked over her shoulder, and coquettishly called: "Gilderoy, darling, would you mind terribly? It's not every day a girl gets to interview the Harry Potter, you know! A double feature would be lovely!"
Lockhart glanced over at them, and Harry, catching his eye, shook his head desperately; but the professor did not take pity.
"Go on; fame is as fame does, of course. Have at it, I say."
Flamel gave Harry a strange look, roughly grabbed him by the shoulders, and then dragged him thankfully far away from Rita Skeeter, who turned away, scribbling fiercely in her notebook and muttering "Harry... Potter... declined... for... comment... new line, let's get back to it, Professor Lockhart!"
LOCKHART'S TRIUMPH: HOGWARTS SAVED, DUMBLEDORE STYMIED
Gilderoy Lockhart, Wizard Extraordinaire, bewitches and bedazzles us yet again with another toe-nail-bitting account of his heroic encounters with the dark side. Wrestled with werewolves, defied demons, battled bests, Gilderoy's bewildering bravery never ceases to amaze in this magical masterpiece. Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent, sits down with the living legend for an exclusive interview. Nicholas Flamel, famed alchemist and creator of the Philosopher's Stone, as well as the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter, were both present, but mysteriously declined for comment while Hogwarts Headmaster Albus Dumbledore presided over the scene. Is a scholastic scandal to be had? Skeeter gets to the heart of things as 'Gil,' as his closest friends know him, opens up about teaching during a crisis, death of a colleague, and the sordid secrets of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
RS: So, how did this all come to pass, Gilderoy? How did we come to have you to thank for the banishment of such a frightful being from the most famous school in Wizarding Britain?
GL: Well, you see, Professor Dumbledore had these (laughs) these weasels running about the place. It was a mess, Rita, a travesty. I had to do something.
RS: And what role did Albus Dumbledore, eccentric Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, play in this?
Here, Gilderoy reaches for a sip of pumpkin juice, as if to conceal his expression; ever the professional.
RS: And Harry Potter?
GL: Well, he's been ill. The Obscurus, you must know... nasty business. But never fear monsters while I remain at Hogwarts, Rita, never fear.
Ron's hand emerged over the top of the article, crumpling the paper and all but forcing it out of Harry's hands.
"Give it a rest, will you," he griped. "Lockhart's head's big enough as it is."
Hermione, seeing an opening as she had been looking for a Daily Prophet of her own for the past twenty minutes, excitedly snatched up Harry's copy, to Ron's chagrin. For a few seconds, her bushy hair disappeared, only for her to slam the paper down on the table.
"The most famous school in Wizarding Britain? Everyone keeps mentioning these other schools sort of offhand, but what wizards and witches go to them?"
Of all things, thought Harry, that's what Hermione choses to focus on. School.
Lavender Brown, who had never quite gotten over her state of shock since the incident at the library, gave a rather large sniffle at that moment.
"Wizards? Witches?" Percy sniffed. "The vast majority of them leave school without being able to fill a cup of water, more of a liability than anything else during the war — imagine the whole of Hogwarts being at the level of Longbottom, God knows how he ended up here in the first place — what, Mafalda?"
The aforementioned was giving him a very nasty look, but said coolly: "Imagine measuring people's value by their amount of magical power, but then, Mum and Dad do find Muggles such funny pets," and then proceeded to fit half a slice of heavily-buttered toast in her mouth without breaking eye contact with an extremely revolted Percy, which Harry found a bit petty even for his taste, but to each their own.
Come to think of it, when did Mafalda get here?
"If someone's got even an inkling of magic," Percy explained, "meaning nearly complete Squibs, they go to what's essentially the village school a few days in the week. They might be able to do a few magic tricks by time they're seventeen, but most of their schooling concerns what to do should you run into a Dementor when you haven't a chance of producing a Patronus, you know."
It was Mafalda's turn to appear contemptuous.
"And who here can produce a Patronus, aside from the obvious?"
"The obvious meaning Professor Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall," Percy could not keep the disgust out of his voice, "and Professor Snape."
"Maybe Lockhart, too," added Mafalda, and Harry thought her ears looked pink. She coughed.
"When did you get here?" asked Ron, who was uncomfortably sandwiched between her and Hermione. "I mean, why are you even here, Mafalda?"
Mafalda swallowed another insufficiently-chewed piece of toast and glowered in the general direction of the Slytherin table.
"Him," she muttered.
Him, Harry would assume, was the man sitting beside Theodore Nott, his watery, broken-pupiled eye enlarged by a golden monocle darting around as he whispered into his son's ear — Nott Senior's considerable size making his son look all the more scrawny and young for his age — like a hungry rabbit in the clutches of a well-fed wolf. A few seats down sat Ruby, half-hidden behind Daphne Greengrass and scribbling in the diary that had mysteriously appeared at the beginning of the school year.
"That's Thaddeus Nott," Percy supplied, as if Harry couldn't tell.
"—the Death Eater," Mafalda cut in, and at the shocked glances from Oliver Wood and Alicia Spinnet, followed it up with an over-exaggerated "What?"
She leaned over the table and nudged Harry. "See that little blonde first-year in Ravenclaw sitting by herself?"
Harry turned to see who she was pointing at; a small girl with long, dirty-blonde hair, bare feet, and a permanently-dazed gaze as if she was seeing something horrible over and over again.
"Is she... all right?" he asked.
Mafalda snorted. "That's Nott Senior's sister's daughter. Theodore's cousin, in other words. Thaddeus got the inheritance and the family name, you see, but Pandora, much younger obviously, had the brains. Voldemort was very fond of her, apparently."
"And then?"
"And then she blew herself up with one of her own spells. So you can see why little Lovegood's not all there; who would if their mum blew herself up right in front of them?"
"Yeah, 'course not," Harry muttered.
Mafalda shifted in her seat. "So what's your first memory?"
Weird question.
Harry shook his head. "I don't— I don't really know. Probably, you know, that night. I used to dream about it sometimes, but I thought it was just a weird nightmare." He coughed, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. "The Dursleys told us our parents died in a car crash, so..."
"That's your first memory? But you were only a baby!"
Why would she ask me something like that?
"I don't really want to talk about that stuff," he finished. "Can't you just leave it alone?"
Mafalda shut up, but clearly, the question remained at the front of her mind.
"Master of subterfuge, I am not, clearly," she muttered, but did not care to clarify; so Harry, seeing Ron occupied, turned his attention back to the paper.
RS: And before I finish, Gilderoy, I must ask... since you have been so terribly evasive of this question which our readers, on good authority, are dying to know — what about Dumbledore?
Here, esteemed Professor Lockhart sighs deeply, and adjusts his glasses once more, regarding me with that legendary sapphire smolder that would make a lesser woman shake.
Rita, he says, removing his glasses with another sigh more plaintive than the last, being sensitive as well as brave, it's been difficult, I must say. Albus Dumbledore is a man — much like his predecessor Armando Dippet, who was legend in his prime, he is no longer who he once was. That quick mind has, I am afraid, turned feeble with age, Rita.
One cannot outrun the sun, indeed.
To imagine the defeater of Grindelwald was unable to put down the monster, is unthinkable. But I believe his asking of me to join him at the school was a masked cry for help, and that change will soon follow this tragedy, as change always must.
"He must be furious."
"Furious?" Percy snorted. "Dumbledore's never been furious a day in his life. Look at him!"
His serene exterior notwithstanding, Harry doubted Dumbledore, being flesh-and-blood, had never been furious. In fact, Harry thought that façade must only hide a volatile interior.
But Dumbledore's not senile. Especially given that he's giving Lockhart that look. Like he's a chicken about to be plucked and skinned and cooked.
Out loud, he said, "Lockhart never answered my question about Herpo the Foul."
"What question?" asked Hermione.
"How he got so old—"
"—Not that again!" muttered Ron.
"I just want to know, alright? Lockhart shouldn't have made it sound so interesting! Like how he wouldn't talk about how to make a basilisk when it's not really that complicated—"
"—A serpent's egg hatched in the shadow of a cockerel, of course—"
"—Thanks, Hermione. And if Lockhart's so great, why's Anthony still in a coma? If he can kill a basilisk, he can make a phoenix cry."
"Oh, don't criticize him," Hermione scoffed. "He's been a bit rude to Dumbledore, but honestly, he's just frustrated—"
"—And we're not? Should we just start blaming everyone, too?"
"Of course not!"
"But Lockhart—"
"Handsome, perfect Lockhart, with his sword and his hair and his award-winning smile—"
"Ron!"
Harry looked up, ignoring Ron and Hermione's bickering for the moment. Nott Senior's conversation with his son looked even more heated, two fingers clutching and twisting Theodore's ear.
Even as he watched, something hissed at him, "Distraction," and Harry glanced as the snake coiled next to his feet.
Lockhart was mysteriously gone.
And as he watched, Dumbledore stood up, and walked slowly over to the Notts.
"I want you to watch him," Dumbledore's advice had been.
Him, evidently, was Nott Senior, thought Ruby. But why? If Dumbledore can read minds, what does he need me for? And it's got to look a little suspicious.
Theodore wandered a few steps behind Dumbledore and his father in what was described by Aunt Petunia as a 'respectful distance' (children should be seen and not heard), while Ruby, half-hidden in the snow-covered shrubbery, lurked closer, fiddling with the crimson ribbon that Parvati had given her.
She couldn't imagine what Dumbledore possibly thought she was going to see that he wasn't. After all, he was the one standing opposite Nott Senior, talking to him in hushed tones so that no one could hear their conversation.
Dear Tee, she wrote as she kept one eye on Dumbledore and Nott Senior just in case anything interesting happened, quite unafraid of the snow collecting on the worn pages, the basilisk is dead.
Is that so? came the half-whisper. Have you seen its corpse with your own eyes, little witch?
No, said Ruby, not enamoured with being called 'little,' being all twelve years and all six months of nearly thirteen.
I don't trust anything I can't perceive.
You can't perceive me.
Nor you I. Do you trust me?
Not as far as I can throw you.
Which, since you're a diary, is quite far, but you get the point.
I am human.
Is that all a human is, Tee? When I'm supposed to put you back together out of bits of salt and sulfur and quicksilver?
No,said Tee, as if not quite sure himself. I am more than the nothingness that holds me.
What are you?
And when will you get the sulfur and the mercury?
I'm trying! she responded, irritated. You try mastering a duplication spell all by yourself. If Flamel catches me, I might as well kiss my sanity goodbye.
Ha! Babies can do that. Besides, I stole with my bare hands before I knew I was a wizard—
Me too!
—And I was never caught.
Ruby frowned. She took her wand out, straightened up, and pointed it at a sufficiently-complicated-looking stone, whispering the incantation. The duplicate appeared beside it; a decent-enough dupe for a rock, but not good enough for Flamel. He'll know something's up. I won't have enough time.
But maybe, just maybe... Walpurgis Night?
Wishing for the alignment of the stars, or whatever it was that made Walpurgis Night special, was like wishing lightning to be a specific colour.
Harry has time, she told herself, shutting the diary. So does Anthony, but all the same nobody can tell when their time will run out.
And that's why I need Tee's help.
But Tee's unpredictable, too. I need someone I can trust.
Better yet, I need a plan.
Seeing that the Notts had disappeared, Ruby got up, dusting the snow off her cloak, and walked over to the roofed part of the courtyard.
"Did you observe the look of his monocle?" asked Dumbledore, pulling up the azure hood of his own cloak as he began to walk towards the Black Lake, Ruby trailing behind.
Ruby wrinkled her nose, kneeling down to retrieve a stone flat and smooth enough for skipping across the portions of the lake that hadn't iced over. "A little blue-ish. And plastic-y. Is it fake?"
"Not quite, though you are correct that it is not normal glass. It was either discovered or charmed by Lord Voldemort, and has the power to aid the wearer in resisting Legilimency; a true one-of-a-kind."
"Wow. No wonder he wears it so often. Especially around you." She glanced up at Dumbledore. "Not meant to be rude, sir, I'm just saying."
"Of course," said Dumbledore amusedly. "What else did you observe?"
"He didn't want you to talk to Theodore; he told him to wander around a bit, probably in case you read his mind or something. And he had some ink peeking out from under his sleeve when he lifted his arm; he looks a bit conservative to have tattoos... sir?"
"Indeed," said Dumbledore, nodding sagely. "I wanted you to observe that. Does anything of the placement remind you of anything?"
Ruby thought for a while, scraping the roof of her mouth with her tongue. "Nuh— actually, yes! The Dark Mark! Because he's supposed to be a Death Eater."
"The colour?"
"Faded. Brownish. Like a henna tattoo. It's a fake Dark Mark?"
"Inactive."
"And what does that mean, Professor Dumbledore?" asked Ruby, but she could already guess.
"Voldemort has not returned. Yet, of course."
"That's good?"
"That is information, Ruby," said Dumbledore. "I must only wonder what is delaying him. Take care."
"You too, Professor," she muttered as he disappeared back into the tree line, then wound up and threw the stone.
It was some kind of lesson, she supposed. Keeping her eyes open and her mouth shut. Being able to recognise the Dark Mark the next time she saw one.
Only three skips.
Blah.
Ruby found Cho Chang very intimidating.
She'd always struggled to interact with older girls, and Cho was older, pretty, smart, and, most disturbingly, nice and endlessly patient.
"You've almost got it," she said encouragingly, glancing at the greasy dark smudge that was Ruby's first attempt at summoning flames, as her own well-behaved flame flickered above a perfectly-drawn straif. "Just try to concentrate more. At least you're not doing as badly as Cormac."
Cormac McLaggen (dis- click of tongue from Cho's friend Marietta Edgecombe -tasteful boy), had managed to get a small grease fire out of control a few minutes earlier, and now he sat in the corner, glowering and singed. Wizards aren't any good at runes and divination and stuff, Marietta had supplied later, in a very conspiratorial tone of voice, takes too much concentration for them.
"Hold the meaning in your mind," Cho said, for probably the nineteenth time today. Everyone kept telling her that. But it felt silly to think about fire from nothing, after spending her first year and a half of learning magic being told over and over again that you didn't get anywhere by wiggling your wand around and and saying some funny words.
Much less drawing a picture and wishing on a star.
She glowered at her little chalk triangle, all neat and pointy on the wooden floor, boards sanded (probably spelled) to glossy, silky smoothness, the rich colour of chestnuts and winter.
"All things are an interchange for fire, and fire for all things, just like goods for gold and gold for goods. Heraclitus," intoned Professor Babbling, smiling down at them all from her perch, as if that was supposed to be helpful.
You have to hold the right meaning in your mind, Tee had said, too.
What is the meaning of fire?
"Change," she said, half to herself, glowering at the chalk, dusty scent filling her nose and the stubborn air, still and dry. Flammable. "Change. Change it all. Come on."
Then the fire was there, and the air was boiling, bruising, red.
Professor Babbling stood ready to put it out, as it poured towards the ceiling.
"Control yourself, Miss Potter, or you'll burn off all the air in the room!"
Ruby closed her palms, digging her fingernails into them, but still her vision blazed red and her concentration faltered, as she struggled to breathe, woozy from the flames and the smoke.
A loud clap. Professor Babbling. The fire had dissipated.
"Did you see that?" Giggling. "Why didn't Babbling put it out sooner? She could have killed us all!"
"Told you the Potters are mad."
"Too bad they're Dumbledore's favourites."
"Do you think that's what they did to those Muggles? Roasted them alive?"
"Bet Harry Potter killed Goldstein after all."
"Shhhh," said Cho, even pressing a finger to her lips for full effect as she turned around to face the rest of the class, her pin-straight hair floating around her.
Professor Babbling's hand was extended towards her, holding something like a marble, clear and lit up from the inside. Ruby took it from her; it was warm to the touch, but not unbearably.
"What's this, Professor?"
"Pure fire," said Babbling, beaming as usual. "Excellent job, Miss Potter. Though," she added with a quirk of her eyebrow, "your control is sorely lacking."
"Thanks?" she muttered, slipping the marble-thing in her pocket.
"Don't break it, Potter," hissed someone behind her, leaning over their desk.
Her fist tightened around the marble, considering what would happen if she smashed it against the corner of her desk. Maybe I will. She imagined the fire spurting out, licking and burning and consuming and changing.
Not worth it. I might need it later.
For what? Burning somebody?
You're the witch. You burn.
"It's easy enough to summon fire in pure form," said Professor Babbling, "and you will all manage by the end of the next week."
"But what's the point, Professor, of this?" asked Ruby, giving the marble a tentative shake. Nothing happened. "It's just fire."
"Mister Flamel could tell you the difference, Miss Potter," said Babbling, in a very this-conversation-is-over tone.
Could he, she wondered. Then why doesn't he teach this class instead?
It was only through thoroughly irritating the alchemist that she had managed to cross-reference the near-incomprehensible text of Magick Moste Evile.
Well, sulfur needs something to change, you see, he'd explained one winter evening in the Hospital Wing. Why quicksilver, you might ask... well, metals are the most malleable, and mercury's the only metal that's liquid at room temperature, and thus it can easily be shaped.
Hermes, Mafalda had supplied at that point. Mercury's Greek name. Hermes. Hermetic. The Hermetic traditions of alchemy, magic, and astrology.
Hermes Trismegistus, Flamel corrected. Hermes and Thoth. Communication and wisdom. Release from the constraints of the material world.
Gibberish, more like, Ruby had thought, her shoes squeaking on the shiny, clean floors. And out loud: What about the opposite?
Are you familiar with the concept of a seed crystal? asked Flamel. Offer the system a little structure, begin the process of transmuting source material to crystal, and the rest of the structure will follow, as the laws of energy command. All is cyclical, as we follow the sun's apparent travel through both space and time. He gestured to Harry's ring. Hence the ouroboros. There is more philosophizing and navel-gazing to follow, but it is quite uninteresting, and I suggest you leave the moralizing to the scholars in their stuffy libraries.
Aren't you a scholar, sir? Mafalda had asked.
No, said Flamel, with a rare laugh. I prefer my stuffy laboratory, as does my wife. One of the students of my younger years — Paracelsus — ah, he could tell you stories of egg yolks and salamanders, but it is his understanding of poisons and illness that remain his greatest achievement, I believe. Sola dosis facit venenum. Only the dose makes the poison. But, what, then, I would say, makes the cure...
And then she had looked over at Anthony, still and grey-faced—
"Miss Potter, what did I just say?"
Ruby stared blankly at the scribbling on the board behind an peeved-looking Babbling, and shook her head.
"Fifteen points from Slytherin. Pay attention. As I was saying..."
"It's her new coping mechanism, all this runes stuff."
That was how Parvati explained it to Percy Weasley on the way up the stairs, at least.
"What exactly is all this runes stuff?" Percy had asked, drawing himself up to his full height.
"Stop geggin' in, Weasley, it's witches' stuff, you wouldn't know," Parvati had snapped finally, dragging the other two up the stairs with her then laughing hysterically as the stairs turned into a slide when Percy attempted to follow them up.
"Why do people draw circles around runes, anyway?" asked Lavender, folded up against the bed in the girl's dormitory.
"I don't know," Ruby admitted, "but I want to try it without Babbling breathing down my neck."
This time, she had to admit, focusing was easier. Her palms hovering over the little chalk triangle, the fire sparked to life, snapping and sparking on the wooden floor, as the smell of charcoal filled the air. Lavender and Parvati leaned forward into the blaze, their faces cast crimson by the light, and Ruby thought they might be experiencing something like what the first person to rub together sticks and make their own fire must have felt; wildly-exhilarated, all-powerful, hypnotised.
She closed her palms before the fire spread further, and sat down with her legs tucked under her skirt to keep her frozen toes warm inside her thin socks, feeling quite pleased with her mastery of one of the simplest summoning spells in all of magic, until she envisioned the sort of snide little comment Tee would make — even babies can do that!
Instead of consulting His Irritating Highness, she sat back against the bed, too, listening to Lavender chewing gum and humming softly whilst she braided Parvati's hair.
"Do you want hot cocoa?" asked Parvati, after a while. "I've got some packets of the powdered stuff."
"I want to go home," Lavender murmured, leaning on Parvati's shoulder.
Me too, thought Ruby. And then she wondered where on earth home was.