"ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀʙʏ, ᴀꜱꜱᴀɪʟᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴇʏᴇꜱ, ᴇᴀʀꜱ, ɴᴏꜱᴇ, ꜱᴋɪɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴇɴᴛʀᴀɪʟꜱ ᴀᴛ ᴏɴᴄᴇ, ꜰᴇᴇʟꜱ ɪᴛ ᴀʟʟ ᴀꜱ ᴏɴᴇ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ ʙʟᴏᴏᴍɪɴɢ, ʙᴜᴢᴢɪɴɢ ᴄᴏɴꜰᴜꜱɪᴏɴ; ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴇɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ʟɪꜰᴇ, ᴏᴜʀ ʟᴏᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ɪɴ ᴏɴᴇ ꜱᴘᴀᴄᴇ ɪꜱ ᴅᴜᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀᴄᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏʀɪɢɪɴᴀʟ ᴇxᴛᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴏʀ ʙɪɢɴᴇꜱꜱᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇɴꜱᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴏᴜʀ ɴᴏᴛɪᴄᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴏɴᴄᴇ, ᴄᴏᴀʟᴇꜱᴄᴇᴅ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴍᴇ ꜱᴘᴀᴄᴇ." — ᴡɪʟʟɪᴀᴍ ᴊᴀᴍᴇꜱ

Chapter Thirteen: Salazar Says

"Mistakes have been made," said Percy Weasley, his hands folded in front of him, posture ramrod-straight as he attempted to maintain his composure. "Lies have been told."

He coughed in an attempt to diffuse the tension. Not a single sound was to be heard in the Gryffindor Common Room, although all of the House was present.

Not even, Hermione Granger noted, that of a mouse.

Percy took a very deep breath.

"I just wanttoknowwhotookmyBADGE!"

Fred raised his hand. "Come again, Perce, didn't quite hear that—"

"Yeah," George chimed in. "Could you repeat that, please?"

"It was just all jumbled together."

"Didn't understand a word—"

Hermione, as well as several other students closest to the front, jumped back as spittle and rage began flying from Percy's mouth.

"LOOK, WILL YOU TWO SHUT UP AND GIVE IT BACK! I KNOW YOU'VE TAKEN IT TO HEX IT OR CURSE IT OR—"

"Don't forget jinx it," said Fred quietly.

"Besides, haven't got your bloody badge," said George, turning his pockets out.

"Me neither," added Fred, turning his pockets out also. A few wrapped sweets and Dungbombs fell out, but to Percy's dismay, nothing suspicious, and they went past Percy and traipsed up the stairs with no further harassment. Similarly, the rest of the crowd began to disperse.

Hermione, however, was not altogether convinced.

"If Fred and George didn't steal that badge, who did?"

"Who cares? You sound like Harry, he's turning you paranoid too," muttered Ron, investigating some of the sweets that had fallen out of Fred's pocket. He unwrapped one, and gingerly touched his tongue to it — his nose wrinkled and face contorted in disgust before he swept the entirety of the fallen sweets into the fire.

"Tastes like dung," he explained, when Hermione looked at him funny.

"Turns out a bit of paranoia can be a good thing," she said with a sniff.

Besides, she thought, the joke's over now. If it was just to rile Percy up, the thief would have given it back by now.

"But don't you think—"

"Hermione!"

"Hmph. Fine."

Mafalda Prewett studied the vial of potion in her hand.

Magenta. She really disliked magenta.

Come to think of it, she disliked Percy Weasley, too.

It must not be a coincidence; after all, it was his hair in the vial.

Daring Fred and George to give him an unflattering haircut while he was sleeping (and present the cut hairs as evidence) was as easy as — how do you say — taking candy from a baby?

Bless them, they weren't the sharpest knives in the drawer when it came to trickery of the non-amusing kind.

The point was, being nosy as Percy Weasley was much easier to explain than being nosy as Mafalda Prewett. And besides, with the loss of his precious badge, he should be moping all day in his dormitory.

And so here she was, drinking this grapefruit-flavoured (disgusting!) potion, stolen prefect badge in hand as her skin bubbled and burned. Not her proudest moment.

Frowning, she made eye-contact with 'Percy Weasley' in the mirror, and shuddered at the likeness of her cousin. Appropriately fear-inducing. (She liked to think that she was the more attractive kind of tall and skinny. At the very least, she played Quidditch, and the most exercise Percy ever did was running up the stairs to scream at children).

Anyhow, if she'd done a half-decent job, this dose of Polyjuice Potion should last her about four to five hours of snooping around.

I intend to understand everything, from the beginning. Starting with Harry Potter, and ending with Lockhart's floating book.

Then came an unwelcome knock on the door.

"Prewett, you're not really drowning yourself in the bathtub? Surely Weasley's body isn't that much more unpleasant to inhabit than yours?"

"Coming," she muttered, hastily knotting the Gryffindor tie shamelessly plifered from the laundry, and flinging the door open to reveal (as once more expected) Hassan Shafiq. The deeper voice emanating from her vocal cords almost startled her.

Mafalda stomped past him without so much as a 'hello,' pulling the hood of her robes over her head to conceal herself as they walked through the Slytherin Common Room. She thought she saw Daphne Greengrass staring after them as she left, but Mafalda was certain that she had seen nothing incriminating.

But, thanks to a decent hand at Disillusionment Charms, the dark cover of the Hospital Wing, and a close eye on Ruby Potter, Mafalda knew something Hassan didn't; Voldemort had returned, and at nearly the exact same time, Harry Potter's 'condition' had taken a turn for the worst.

"What will you do now?" asked Hassan. She froze on the spot.

"You need an excuse to get into Flamel's office. I need an excuse to get into Lockhart's."

Hassan let out a short, disbelieving laugh, which startled her again.

"Do you really think you can handle Lockhart, Prewett? Flamel's an old man. You're going soft in your old age, giving him to me."

Mafalda chewed on her bottom lip, considering this. It was true that Lockhart scared her now, or at least, the sickening-vertigo-hot-and-cold feeling when she thought about him frightened her. But a silly crush on a teacher was much more manageable that the terror that Ruby had described when Flamel had used the full weight of his quasi-Legilimency to intimidate her in the Hospital Wing (like an ant being crushed slowly by a stone wall). Yes, she wished that she could be the one to find out about Harry's past, firsthand, but Flamel made her beyond scared.

"I'll take my chances with the Great Braggart," she said, but Hassan was already extending a palm towards her, with two small metal objects.

Surmising that if he was holding them with his bare hand, it must not be cursed, Mafalda took one from him, studying it. It was an unfamiliar shape, though it could have been some kind of jewellery. Absentmindedly, she ran her thumb down the strange, fennel-like plant embossed on it.

"Silphium," Hassan offered. "A long extinct plant, upon which my ancestors made their fortunes in antiquity. Today, we use these beads to stay in contact."

"In contact?" Mafalda repeated. She wasn't sure if she liked the idea of Hassan hearing everything she said.

"Yeah, you know," he said, with an infuriating smirk. "In case Lockhart's charm causes you to swoon, I'll be there to prevent you from jeopardizing the mission."

Mafalda felt her face get hot at that last accusation. Hence, why I'm going as Percy Weasley. Percy Weasley does not swoon.

Nor do I, usually.

"Shut up and let's split up," she snapped, shoving the silphium bead deep into her pocket, and marching off in the general direction of Lockhart's office, only slowing down when she thought she had lost him.

Not long after she had passed by the Great Hall and was continuing up the stairs towards the Office of Doom, Mafalda ran into one of the perhaps top-ten (top-five, even?) people she had been hoping to avoid, sitting right between Harry Potter himself and Professor Snape.

Ruby Potter. Little snake. Mafalda had never been able to work out if she liked the kid or not. On one hand, she had nerve, but on the other, something was off about her.

But here she was either way; perched on the bannister, eating an apple, and regarding Mafalda with a wide, unnerving gaze as if she had been waiting there all along.

If there was ever a direct line to Dumbledore in Hogwarts, it was her. Mafalda had seen them whispering.

"Hi, Percy," said Ruby. "What are you doing here?"

Mafalda jolted; of course, she was Polyjuiced as Percy. This was why she had bothered in the first place; no one ever suspected Percy Weasley of doing anything of his own mind.

How would Percy address her? By her first name, or her last? The kid was unnaturally suspicious.

And why do I feel like something's different about her today? Like she's even more off than usual?

"Hello," she said, trying to adopt Percy's stiff, bossy demeanour. "Get off that. You'll fall."

Frowning, Ruby complied, sliding off the bannister and landing directly in front of Mafalda. The older girl's gaze fell to the worn leather book clutched in her hand, half-hidden by her cloak. If she squinted, Mafalda thought she could see a faint greenish glow.

For a second, Mafalda could not think why her eyes had been drawn to it in the first place.

"Professor?"

"Yes, Miss Prewett?"

"I believe you. And what did the book look like?"

"Very ordinary looking. It was too dark to see the colour of it. Vintage, perhaps. Why?"

"I- It might be a clue, sir."

Mafalda cleared her throat, and prepared her best Percy impression. "Where did you get that book?"

Ruby scowled again. "It was a gift."

From whom? Mafalda almost wanted to ask, but she stopped herself. Ruby Potter couldn't be the Heir of Slytherin. Her brother made a much better candidate. The younger twin was, simply put, nothing special (the heir and the spare, she thought, mildly amused). Nothing like the fabled Heir should be. Harry Potter, however... his young life was littered with consequence and auspiciousness.

If anyone was the Heir, it was likely him.

And perhaps Ruby was covering for him. But he'd been in the Hospital Wing the day Madam Pomfrey was attacked. And even if Lockhart had seen the book floating around...

No. Harry was Hassan's job, and she wasn't about to do His Royal Highness's job for him.

"Find something productive to do," she snapped. "Or else I'll take points from Slytherin. Shoo."

That made her scamper off.

I could do this prefect thing, thought Mafalda as she continued up the stairs. Piece of cake.

"Prewett?"

She turned, but the corridor was empty.

"Prewett?" came the whisper again. "It's me. Hassan. Look, I've found some of Flamel's notes on Potter; I'll copy what's important."

Oh, the beads. She'd forgotten about them already.

"Brilliant," she muttered back, and continued towards the door of Lockhart's office. Hearing nothing, she eased the heavy oak door open to reveal the now-familiar surroundings of Lockhart's office.

The first time she had opened Lockhart's desk drawers, he had known; through either Legilimency (unlikely, developing that skill even if you did have the talent typically took years if not decades of instruction), a ward, or a good curse.

Choosing to err on the side of caution and taking into account that most security wards of this kind were activated by touch, Mafalda had worn gloves.

Now, she reached for Lockhart's desk drawer with confidence, and opened both sides, ready to discover what secrets lay within—

"Pictures!" she yelped, unable to help herself. Tens — hundreds — thousands of photographs spilled out, each depicting a smiling, winking Lockhart in a different pose, and each bearing his loopy, melodramatic signature (From Gilderoy A. Lockhart, to my dearest and most favouritefan), along with the same quantity of crisp white envelopes.

"Pictures!" Mafalda screeched (quietly). "He's got his precious desk filled with pictures! It's unbelievable!"

She sunk into Lockhart's chair, her head in her hands.

Then, a sudden realisation struck her.

"This drawer's deeper than it looks," she muttered to herself, rattling the dragon-headed handle of the drawer and hearing something hollow. "Must be a false bottom. He's hidden something in here."

"Found something?" came Hassan's voice from seemingly nowhere in particular.

"Think so. Worry about what you're doing and leave me alone."

A more skilled witch or wizard, Mafalda knew, could have felt along the edges of the false bottom for the enchantment placed upon it, and removed it without incident. However, she had not yet developed such skill, and could not risk blasting open the drawer for fear of damaging the contents.

The only option was to guess Lockhart's password.

Due to the dreaded quiz, Mafalda already knew quite a bit about Lockhart's personal matters and preferences.

It turned out that the answer to 6. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's dream vacation? did the trick.

She snorted as the false bottom slid away. What kind of sheer idiot would tell the entire student body the password that revealed something he wished to hide?

Most of the student body, Mafalda reflected, was in total awe of Lockhart and would never dare rifle through his belongings in the first place, which had to have afforded Lockhart a (false) sense of security.

Not she, apparently.

Mafalda leaned forward, wary of the contents of the desk as she retrieved each one. A few brown, bland-smelling, wheat-like pellets (pet food? Did Lockhart even own an animal, come to think of it?), a crumbling, theadbare piece of cloth, an old map wrapped around a few spare documents, and a few other trinkets.

She sat back in the chair, disappointed. It's just a load of junk.

"Found anything?" came Hassan's voice.

"Nothing," she said tiredly, and relayed the contents back to him.

"Open the bundle with the map," he prompted.

"Why?"

"Just do it. I've got a feeling... call it déjà vu."

It couldn't hurt, Mafalda supposed. Deliberately, she unwrapped the map from the documents, and shook it out.

"It's a map of North Africa," she said. What she did not say aloud, to avoid further gloating from Hassan, was that Cyrene had been circled in lime-green ink, and notes written all over the map in Lockhart's loopy handwriting.

She resolved to look at it later. The documents next.

The first seemed to be some kind of manuscript... Battling with Basilisks? Of course. Mafalda was disappointed, but not surprised. She shoved the stack of paper to the side and started on the next one... it appeared to be some kind of shipment log, something that had travelled from Cyrene, stopped awhile somewhere on the River Isis (why hadn't its journey across the ocean been registered? Unless, of course, it had been transported using magical means, but you needed a special permit for that, and it wasn't mentioned anywhere in the log), and then finally registered (with a red 'DELIVERED' stamp) somewhere just outside of Banbury.

Banbury.

Banbury. Who lives outside of Banbury?

She pinched the bridge of her nose, or made to, only to realise that her skin had begun to bubble and burn as her other hand grazed the dragon-headed handle again, drawing blood. Her newly re-grown hair tickled the back of her neck; her clothes became slightly too big for her.

Mafalda blinked at the last document.

"To be delivered into the care of—" The conversation in the Hospital Wing made sense now as she whispered the name. She knew what the delivery was, who the Heir of Slytherin had been all this time, even that stupid hair in the vial that the boys had been obsessing over, and exactly who had been lying the entire time. The entire grand scheme unravelled before her, disturbingly simple.

It terrified her.

Her eyes widened as a new sensation replaced that of the potion wearing off.

"Prewett?" came Hassan's voice, through the fuzzy effect of fear. "Prewett, do you need me?"

Everything went black.

"I suppose," said Hassan, when she came to, "you couldn't be expected to know that Lockhart would keep a Bludger inside his desk as a last-minute security feature."

A Bludger. The side of her face certainly felt the worse for wear.

She tried to gage the amount of sarcasm in Hassan's tone.

"I fixed the wall," he continued. "Your face... well, I tried, but I'm no Madam Pomfrey. Besides, it couldn't possibly look worse."

Mafalda attempted to grimace, but the left side of her face was sore and swollen. In fact, she felt as if she'd been hit by a body-sized Bludger.

Instead, she pulled herself into a sitting position, and using the chair as leverage, refused Hassan's hand and got unsteadily to her feet.

"Not pretty," she agreed, tracing her swollen jaw as she gazed into Lockhart's mirror.

At least Lockhart's not here, she thought, and then wondered where that thought had come from.

"It must be activated by the handles," Hassan continued. "Don't touch them again. Just in case."

"I won't be."

Mafalda scowled, despite the discomfort. "I suppose you looked at the papers?"

Hassan dusted his robes off.

"Since when does She-Potter speak Parseltongue?"

It took her a full twenty seconds to process 'She-Potter' into its logical conclusion.

"She doesn't."

"I saw her talking to a rather large grass snake on the way here."

"You saw Harry. That would be the He-variety of Potter. You must need to get your eyes checked."

"I have excellent vision, Prewett," Hassan drawled. "Trust me. My parents' personal Healer assures me that I have a beautiful macula."

"Hmph. Did you read the papers?"

Hassan shrugged. "Yes, I did. Lockhart's sending in a manuscript for some kind of musical theatre production, he even wrote the music himself. Even ordered a massive shipment of serpent parts all the way from Libya for the re-enactment, it's a controlled substance and ever-so-slightly illegal to transport large quantities without a special permit — Prewett, you've gone all freckles."

She had. Mafalda trembled slightly, putting down the papers she had only glanced at earlier.

He's right, she thought, still shaking. I've gone paranoid. What's wrong with me?

Out loud, she said: "I think I need to lie down."

You may experience a momentary sense of depersonalization and temporary dissociation. Some people find it to be an unpleasant experience.

Simon Says was one of the games Ruby vividly remembered playing. It had been a few years before the rest of the kids at school became aware of the pecking order.

Before Harry turned Miss Smith's hair green, too.

Simon Says was not a game that she was particularly good at; she would quickly become entranced by the orders of 'Simon.'

Simon says... arms up! Simons says, arms down! Simon says, hop on one leg!

Hop on two legs!

And there she would be, airborne, jumping awkwardly, and looking confusedly around at the others still hopping on one leg. She had lost the game. Again.

First, she was gripping the edge of the sink, and staring at her reflection.

Next, it was not her in the mirror. It had gone nearly opaque with fog, as if the room had filled with steam.

The reflection was tall; at least a foot taller than her. They looked pale, and their hair was short.

She could not tell if it was her eyesight that was fuzzy and blurry, or if it was simply the mirror.

Instinctively, she reached for her plait, and it was still there.

"Tee? Is that you?"

Tee didn't respond. Instead, the reflection turned his head to the side, and hissed.

"Tee?"

You may find things confusing as I interpret your surroundings using your perception of them, or what I can imagine using your perception. The most important thing is to stay calm.

Calm. Ruby sucked in a shaky breath.

Yes. Oxygen. Nice. Calm.

She curled her fingers against the cool rim of the sink, thought of the shiny green apple in her pocket (it had been stowed under her bed for the past few days.). The ever-present, faint buzz-hum of the diary seemed to be in her head.

And it was not her head anymore. Or, at least, not solely hers. Consciousness mingled with consciousness, and Ruby became increasingly and unpleasantly aware of why Tee insisted so firmly that he was far from ethereal.

Tee was very much human.

My memory comes in bits and pieces.

Albeit a fragmented one.

What is real and what isn't can get confusing sometimes, Tee seemed to remind her.

But it was the wave of misery and desperation emanating from the link between their minds that truly frightened her.

What would a person that desperate do?

Kill, for one. She imagined the monkshood in her hands again, the frothy mix of black tea and poisonous flowers, Uncle Vernon's lifeless body, and shuddered.

The sooner I get this over with, Ruby thought, hopefully to herself, the sooner I can get him out of my head, and better yet, out of the diary and no longer my responsibility.

"Potter, where are you going?" called Daphne, predictably. Ruby felt Tee prod curiously? nervously? in Daphne's direction, but she quickly turned away and headed for the door leading out of the common room.

Today, she thought, is not a good day to run into Dumbledore.

Tee seemed to agree vaguely, and she continued into the Clock Tower Courtyard without incident (minus a small run-in with Percy Weasley).

Ruby was really not sure if she liked snakes or not. This one was quite large, she supposed, and fairly drab-looking.

He wants me to speak to it?

You couldn't possibly.

Then came a strange, jolting sensation, and her limbs were not... her own. Her fingers were limp, and her thoughts were sluggish, shoulders slumped over, and disturbingly, her mouth was moving yet, uttering a string of sibilant, sinuous syllables that she had only heard the like of from one source.

Parseltongue.

Tee was speaking.

With her mouth. Her vocal cords. Her tongue, her lips.

It was unimaginably violating, to be kicked out of one's own brain and to be relegated to some subconscious portion of it.

Intangibly, she shoved.

Nothing gave.

Her hand lifted. Her wand. Her magic. Performing feats she was not capable of.

Ruby felt into despair.

Was this how Tee felt? Inexplicably trapped? Hopeless? Powerless?

Had this been his plan all along? To sweet-talk her into surrendering control of her own body so that he could have one of his own?

The plan will work.

Which plan? asked Ruby, sufficiently wary.

Our plan.

Good, said Ruby shakily, though she was more and more certain that she did not want Tee in her head, ever again. Get out. Now.

Tee faltered, but only reluctantly.

However, it was her head, and Tee did not know it very well. It took the full force of her concentration, but his thread-thin connection to her consciousness snapped under the pressure, and she slumped to the cold floor, exhausted.

Her mouth was dry. She wanted a bath, with lots and lots of soap, to forget that Tee had ever been in her head.

At least, if he had done this before, she would have known. The sensation was unmistakable.

Ruby sat up, despite the fact that her brain seemed to lurch in her skull, and fumbled in her pockets for a pen.

She wrote, in big letters that covered the entire page:

STAY.

OUT.

OF.

MY.

HEAD!

That seemed to give him pause.

How will you save your brother without me?

I'll find a way that doesn't involve you moving my limbs around. And he's doing fine now—

"Ruby!" Lavender was saying, from directly behind her. "Madam Pomfrey sent me to get you, you'd better come quick!"

Anthony, or Harry?

Her stomach sunk to her feet just as she rose to hers. As before, her limbs did not feel her own; not because of Tee's interference this time, but wholly because of fear.

Her legs were cold and leaden; her arms hanging uselessly at her sides.

The diary's leather cover scraped against her fingers, a strange comfort.

The spring air felt cold. She breathed out. In.

"Is he dead?"

Lavender clung to the doorframe, her fingers curled around the stone; a misty, blurry halo of curls and a large purple jumper.

"No."

"So, Harry Potter," Mafalda continued, in the relative safety of the Slytherin Common Room, "doesn't have terribly long to live."

She frowned, gripping her head in her hands.

Hassan was silent for a while.

"So Dark Lord Potter's going to die..." He trailed off.

"Ruby may possibly have killed their uncle."

"Yes. Those are the highlights of Flamel's notes, yes."

Yes.

Mafalda cast a glance over at Ruby, who was sitting off the side, and curled into a ball, clearly upset.

It didn't seem plausible.

She's not a murderer... is she?

"Maybe it was accidental magic," suggested Mafalda. "Children's magic is notoriously difficult to control before the age of eleven." In fact, she remembered being scared for her own parents when she realised that she possessed a strange power which, though could be explained, was entirely uncontrollable.

"Flamel doesn't think so." Hassan paused. "Maybe it was revenge. The family couldn't have been terribly pleasant. His notes said that the Obscurial first manifested in June of 1990. And they were missing for a year..."

Mafalda shook her head. They were getting off-track again.

"But who is Harry Potter?"

"Who he says he is, according to Flamel. However, he's not terribly interested in the Parseltongue, either."

"Harry—"

"—Potter will die once the shadow consumes him, which is only a matter of time. Flamel seems to believe he has months to live."

No wonder Ruby looked so miserable. For a second, Mafalda thought of going up to her, but there was no point. She had never been any good at comforting people.

"What he doesn't understand," Hassan continued, "is what's been holding him back this whole time. What caused him to survive the Killing Curse, apparently, cannot account for his... resilience."

"Why not?"

Hassan did not seem to want to divulge the answer, and when he did, he sounded disappointed. "Because, apparently, Unspeakable Evans did not think of everything. Her own Muggle sister defeated one the Dark Lord could not. It turns out Harry Potter is not so special, after all. He is not another Dark Lord."

Just like Hassan to describe it that way.

She knew it disappointed him; him, and his father, and the likes of Lucius Malfoy. There would be no coup, no political maneuvering.

After all this, her snooping seemed in rather poor taste. What had she been hoping to find? Conclusive evidence that Harry Potter was the Heir of Slytherin and forcing Lockhart to cover up the evidence in exchange for a good story to revive his faltering career as a media personality?

No. Harry Potter was really, truly terminally ill, and Lockhart really was a hero who had saved them all, regardless of his (many) personality flaws.

Mafalda thought that she had lost her taste for curiosity.

The Chamber of Secrets no longer held the same charm. It didn't matter who the Heir was; without the basilisk, they could harm no one else.

Her stomach turned at the next, much less comforting thought. Mafalda looked around the common room, taking in the sight of students laughing and talking in small groups, basking in the warm green glow of the fire and admiring the subterranean view of the Black Lake.

It's all changed. Nothing can ever be the same now, and the only people who know it here are me and Ruby.

Voldemort had returned.

Very much alive.