"ʏᴇᴀʜ, ɪᴛ ᴅɪᴅ. ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ʀɪɢʜᴛ. ʙᴜᴛ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴋɪʟʟ ᴍᴇ, ɪ'ᴅ ᴀᴅᴠɪꜱᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ'ᴠᴇ ᴅᴏɴᴇ. ... ᴛʜɪɴᴋ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʀʏ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ʀᴇᴍᴏʀꜱᴇ, ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ. ..."

Chapter Twelve: We Should Talk

The entirety of Hogwarts Castle was decked out in ribbons and ornaments for the holidays; the suits of armour merrily greeted passers-by, and even the decorative bells were prone to strike up rounds and duets. Tee suspected Dumbledore had also enchanted them to keep an eye on everyone's whereabouts, especially his. Despite their conversation, he knew Dumbledore still suspected him of being behind the poisonings.

That might seem a little cynical, but then, he had never much cared for the festive season, anyway.

He had found himself in front of the ancient, gnarled yew that signalled the entrance to the Forbidden Forest, an area famously off-limits to students. Mordred may have taken an unexpected tack and hidden himself here, somehow, maybe possessing animals and feeding on... things. It was foolish to go in there, wandless and alone, but what choice did he have?

He'd have to confront Mordred. Confront himself. It was destiny. And I'll have good luck with my journey.

Tee steeled himself and stepped beyond the yew. Instantly, darkness fell around him, though it was only a little past noon; the evergreen canopy was so thick that barely any light reached the forest floor. Strange howls echoed out around him in the cold, damp darkness. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears, but he pressed on, the thin blanket of snow crunching underneath his feet.

Uneasily, he headed into the trees, which were growing closer and closer together and older and more branched, with only the light cupped in his hand to guide him. When Tee looked over his shoulder, his frozen footprints were the only indication of how to get out. The forest looked the same in every direction.

No matter. He kept going. Branches smacked into his face, dumping snow on him and drawing blood. He frequently had to stop to brush Bowtruckles off his robes and hair. It almost seemed like the forest was fighting back against his intrusion.

All of a sudden, the gaps between the trees widened. It wasn't quite a clearing, but surprisingly winded, Tee stopped to catch his breath. It seemed darker than it had been at first. And colder, much colder. How long had he been in the forest? Had night fallen yet?

Something rustled.

An icy shiver ran down his spine.

I'm not alone.

And that was something big.

Slowly, Tee lifted his head towards the canopy. A jolt of fear went through him as his eyes adjusted to the gloomy darkness.

There, sparkling above him, were the white, sticky threads of a spiderweb, nearly the size of the Great Hall, designed not for catching flies but large mammals. Like him.

A distinct growl sounded out above him. A large, unsightly amalgamation of a man and a bear lumbered down from the treetops with an expression of malevolent stupidity.

The words fell into place in his mind. Blood-Sucking Bugbear.

Not good.

It regarded Tee steadily with its unblinking eyes.

Tee froze. Maybe he could run. He started to step back, but then, the Bugbear spoke.

"Human," it said, in a very wheezy, growling voice, but strangely, English, nonetheless. Has someone taught them?

"Food!"

And then it was saying something else, in an ominous language of grunts and whines, something Tee had no hope of understanding. He reached for his wand — no, what an idiot he was!

Shakily, he knelt down in the meagre snow and started scratching out protection runes, muttering under his breath.

Idiot, idiot, idiot!

A hundred of them were descending upon him, their horrible hairy, ungainly limbs and sharp gnashing teeth coming ever closer. There was nothing for it. His heart in his throat, he got to his feet, and gritted his teeth, forming his left hand into a fist. Tee rolled his shoulders back, stepped forward, and threw a punch—

"Confringo!"

Tee's vision filled with fiery orange; the Blasting Curse thundered through the grass, causing the first row of Bugbears to leapt back in surprise, some of them howling in pain as the burning energy singed them.

His body ached from channelling that much power. Nonetheless, he stepped forward again—

"Stop!" shouted a familiar voice. A confused, clicking noise emanated from the spiders.

"Roundcap!"

That same voice again. A Bugbear the size of a large grizzly loped into the clearing, ambling on its four paws. Unlike the others, its brown body and legs were tinged with grey.

"Hagrid," the monster droned out, and its voice sounded old and creaky. "Is that you?"

Hagrid? Rubeus Hagrid?

He turned. That large, awkward boy had grown into an even larger man, almost twice as tall as Tee and wide as an oak door. A shaggy black beard covered most of his face, but the eyes are always the same.

"Yes, Roundcap!" called Hagrid. Tee stared at him, agape.

"And who comes into my clearing? Wounds my children?"

"They tried to eat me!" said Tee indignantly. Not that it makes much sense. I hardly make a meal for these things, divided a hundred ways.

"It is our instinct, as violence is yours," the ancient Bugbear chided.

"Be tha' as it may, he's wit' me." A giant, heavy hand landed on Tee's shoulder. Gratefully, he let it pull him back into the forest and away from the Bugbear nest.

For what seemed a long while, they walked in silence, the only sound the swinging of Hagrid's lantern on its chain, until:

"Were yeh planning it?"

Tee stopped walking, too. "Planning what?"

"Turnin' me in. Blaming tha' girl's death on Aragog."

"What?" He was really at a loss. Why did everyone keep bringing her up? Minerva, and now Hagrid? They hadn't even known her. Nobody cared about her when she was alive. Why was she so important now that she was dead?

A short laugh escaped Hagrid. "Yeh really don' know? Or are yeh acting?"

"I don't," said Tee, but he trailed off, staring up at Hagrid.

"It's all over."

His own voice, foggy and coming from far away. A familiar dungeon room.

"I'm going to have to turn you in, Rubeus," Tom Riddle went on. Cold, rehearsed, unfamiliar. "They're talking about closing Hogwarts if the attacks don't stop."

Hagrid was remembering, too, his eyes locked on Tee's, trembling.

"It never killed no one!"

He could feel Hagrid's fear, taste it, smell it. But he still didn't quite understand.

"Come on, Rubeus. The dead girl's parents will be here tomorrow. The least Hogwarts can do is make sure that the thing that killed their daughter is slaughtered..."

"It wasn't him! It wasn't Aragog! He wouldn'! He never!"

Tee yanked himself back, staring at Hagrid in shock.

"I—" he started.

"I was expelled," said Hagrid, something in his voice raw. "No one believed me!"

"I'm— I'm sorry."

The admission seemed to surprise them both. You've never been sorry in your life, Minerva had told him, and maybe she was right, but he was sorry, because Hagrid had been stupid and trusting and he'd laid his head in Tom Riddle's lap like an animal willingly going to the slaughter. And Hagrid hadn't let the Bugbears eat him.

"No, yeh aren't." Hagrid shook his head, lifting the lantern. "Yeh're bad ter the bone, Tom."

"Then why'd you save me?" he pressed.

Hagrid scoffed. "Dumbledore thinks yeh can change. I say he's wrong."

Tee stopped in the snow again and laughed — high, cold, and mirthless even to his own his ears. What he found so funny, he didn't know. For a moment, it seemed that Hagrid was considering leaving him in the forest to fend for himself. Thinking better of it, he waited as Tee walked up.

The rest of their walk was in total silence, and when they reached the gnarled old yew again, rosy-fingered dawn had streaked the pale sky, the sun an intense scarlet on the horizon. They both stopped and stood, taking in the quiet, still beauty of a new day.

"I really am sorry," said Tee, sincerely, not like an apology to appease Mrs. Cole, but it was to Hagrid's retreating back. How feeble and unconvincing it sounded!

And fifty years too late, he thought.

"I look ridiculous," said Mafalda, pulling on the sleeves of her magenta robes and squinting unfavourably at her reflection in the spotty mirror. "And does this colour say espionage to you?" she added under her breath.

Tonks, arrayed in a boldly-patterned hot pink and neon-green number, shrugged and pointed out that at most events in the wizarding world, you'd stand out if you weren't wearing something with a striking colour.

"Ready to face the music?"

Mafalda nodded and patted the pocket of her robes to make sure the device that Diggle had given her was still in place. She wasn't, really.

"Have you two washed your hands?" the door reprimanded as Tonks pushed it open.

They emerged into the Atrium, a large and splendid hall outfitted in dark wood polished to a silken lustre and lined with fireplaces like those in the Hogwarts common rooms. Today, the walls were decked out in holly and ivy, the magically enhanced scent carrying through the whole hall, and a fir tree as tall as a one-story house and covered in ribbons and thousands of glittering ornaments was the centrepiece, dwarfing the golden Fountain of Magical Brethren.

And, of course, a crowd of people in bright clothing packed the Atrium from end to end, filling the room with a deafening chatter.

"Send up some sparks if you need me!" And with that, Tonks disappeared into the crowd. Not even her hair served as a beacon, with all the other jewel-bright colours filling the room.

There was nothing to do but try. She rolled her shoulders back, breathed out, and headed into the crowd at a brisk pace, plucking a hors d'oeuvre off a platter carried by two fairies. Unfortunately, Narcissa Malfoy was nowhere to be seen despite Mafalda being in the very thick of the crowd.

What to do? She stood there, searching with her eyes and barely turning her head, taking in the various Ministry officials in gaudy robes.

A hand lightly tapped her shoulder. The scent of sandalwood cologne enveloped her.

"Shafiq." Mafalda spun on her heel, eyes narrowing as she took in the sight of him, his dark, curly hair glossy with some kind of pomade, wearing dark green robes with an elegant cut. For a second, she felt ashamed of the magenta robes Tonks had lent her, her unstyled hair, her bare face. And then, she realised that his playful, subtle attempts at flirtation had probably been a part of that sway-her-to-the-Dark-side-thing.

"How's your training programme?" It came out a little more viciously than Mafalda had hoped.

If Hassan noticed, it didn't show on his face. "Would it be presumptuous to ask for a dance?"

There were faint strains of terrible music coming from somewhere and a few couples attempting to dance to it.

He might know about Narcissa. Whether he's willing to divulge is a different matter.

"Alright. Let's."

He offered her his hand, and somewhat awkwardly, Mafalda took it, feeling self-conscious as they made their way to the dancefloor, where a new song was just starting up. To her surprise, he wasn't as flat-footed as most wizards, or at least, knew what a rhythm was.

After a few awkward minutes, Mafalda put in, very aware of his hand on her waist: "There's a lot of people here tonight."

"I have to confess, Prewett, I didn't think you'd show up. Or dance with me. Can I take this to mean that I'm forgiven?" He tilted his head in a puppy-ish way, smiling with both his mouth and his eyes.

"Narcissa Malfoy's shaking things up at the Ministry, isn't she?"

A panicked look had come over him. "That's a funny thing to say."

Mafalda guided them in a small circle, pulling him a little closer. You won't wriggle out of this one. "You know, the Muggle-born list, fully implementing the Manifesto. Making Muggle-born witches and wizards property of the Ministry and identifiable as soon as they first demonstrate magic, and funding the Department of Mysteries to work on expanding the Trace so it can do exactly that. Funny, right?"

"Our society is built on the tenet of tolerance of all magical beings." He nodded towards the fountain, parroting out the official line on Ministry propaganda since the war, which had been used to help defuse blood-status tensions.

I know you don't believe that.

"I'd like to thank her personally, Shafiq. Could I do that?"

Something passed over Hassan's face, and not for the first time, Mafalda wished she'd been born with the capacity to learn Legilimency.

Did he buy it? Does he think I'm considering it?

The song wound down, and Hassan tugged subtly on her hand. Mafalda could only hope he'd bought it, and her deception was adequate as he led her up the stairs to a balcony overlooking the Atrium, where the higher-ups watched the rest of the party.

Fudge was there, in red-and-green pinstripe, for a festive touch; Umbridge, in her requisite pink, sipping firewhisky from a floral teacup; Barty Crouch Senior, in sombre black as per usual; and Rufus Scrimgeour, as severe as ever in sharply tailored navy. Narcissa Malfoy stood in their midst like a queen amongst pawns, her cream-white robes setting off the pearl-studded, snowflake-shaped comb in her pale hair.

I didn't want an audience!

Hassan politely introduced himself and Mafalda after. All the while, Crouch watched them with a critical gaze, and Umbridge, too, with a look of utter distaste. Narcissa waved a hand, and the four trotted off, along with Hassan. Wow. They do what they're told already.

"Mrs. Malfoy, what a successful year," said Mafalda, the smile on her face unnatural.

"As a mother, I find it easy to imagine a great future for magical Britain when I think of my son, Draco," said Narcissa, graciously, but without the forced self-effacement some people felt the need to respond to compliments with.

"Draco, he was in my cousin Ron's year. So he's fourteen?"

"Fifteen in June." Narcissa smiled. "I feel for young people these days. So hard to think about settling down when the world's in such disarray." She paused. "Mr. Shafiq's a nice young man, isn't he?"

"Quite." How was she going to get close enough to Narcissa to plant the device?

"Have you considered my offer?"

Mafalda's head snapped up, not expecting that question.

"Yes, well, I'm thinking about it?"

"Thinking about it?' She arched a pale eyebrow.

Her heart in her throat, Mafalda cast a wandless, nonverbal Trip Jinx. Narcissa, usually so elegant and poised, let out a yelp as she tripped over the hem of her long, white robes, tumbling to the floor.

"Here! Let me help you up!"

Mafalda scrambled forward, taking the older witch's outstretched hand and releasing the enchanted clockwork insect trapped under her thumb. As Mafalda pulled Narcissa to her feet and magicked the scuffs off her robes, the insect scrambled up her arm. Somewhere, Diggle had told her, it would burrow in her skin, and they'd be able to hear everything she said until the artifice wore off or the bug was discovered, whichever came first.

"You were saying, Miss Prewett," Narcissa continued. She sipped her firewhisky, but her gaze remained on Mafalda.

I must continue to act normal.

Mafalda shrugged, as if she were recruited by Death Eaters every Saturday. "I just don't know what good I'd do. I mean, the Dark Lord seems to have it all under control."

A dark and intelligent look of interest had come into Narcissa's eyes.

"It is not about now, Miss Prewett; it is about the future. What kind of world do you want to be a part of? You are destined for more than bureaucracy, I believe."

"I know." Despite its dubious origin and motive, the praise made her heart beat fast. She'd always imagined a teacher saying such things to her, but they always tended to find her annoying, even her Head of House. "So what would I do? Hypothetically?"

"For one, Hogwarts is a write-off. Even before the schism. Dumbledore's tenure has resulted in such dangers as..." Narcissa lowered her voice "... Harry Potter. That is part of the reason why Lucius and I moved Draco to Durmstrang. Magical education in this country has to be rebuilt from the ground up; it is one of the cornerstones of our society, and it is floundering. The rest of Europe, and the rest of the world, in fact, has left us behind."

Mafalda could see now how some were seduced.

"That sounds like bureaucracy to me."

"That sounds like we need a brilliant and innovative witch with fresh insights into our modern world to reimagine the schools that nurture our children."

"There are other things, too," Narcissa went on. "There's a zeitgeist, these days, that it's not alright to be proud of being pureblood. That we should dilute our unique and precious culture, which deserves to be preserved and protected, and, quite frankly, is superior. Take Hogwarts, for all its faults — what's the Muggles' answer to that?"

Oh, probably Oxford and Cambridge and Eton and Rugby and the fact that rich and privileged people everywhere are the same, regardless of whether or not they hold a wand. Being a Prewett and growing up in Chelsea, that was the one thing she did know.

But Mafalda said nothing and smiled.

"What about The Mórrígan, Walpurgis Night, Samhain, all our old customs?"

"We learn about all those in History of Magic," said Mafalda diplomatically.

"Ah, but who practises them anymore? No, what we have now is the Muggle conception of a magician."

And where'd the first witch come from, Narcissa? That one you won't discuss.

But she only said: "It would be nice to celebrate Walpurgis Night again. I remember reading about observations at Hogwarts in the thirties and forties."

Which were mostly an excuse to get drunk and handsy with someone you'd had your eye on all term, as well as generally make bad decisions with something easy to blame it all on.

Narcissa nodded in approval. "It's a very special date for Lucius and I."

Mafalda nearly gagged.

"Speaking of which," said Narcissa, leaning over the railing. "I think I see him now." She turned back to Mafalda. "Thank you for seriously considering my offer. It gladdens me that so many young people have their heads on straight. Good evening."

"Merry Christmas" was on the tip of Mafalda's tongue, but then she realised that was what would be strictly considered a Muggle import into the magical world, despite the secular nature of the celebration, and held off.

"Good evening to you too, Mrs. Malfoy."

The nightmarish vision of red eyes, marble-white skin and a high, cold laugh faded from Harry's sight as the red curtains surrounding him came into focus. Why did he dream of Voldemort so often? Was it Riddle's presence in the castle?

Ruby had recently confirmed that he was not dead. Harry wasn't sure whether or not he was relieved.

"Wake up, Harry," came Ron's disgruntled voice from behind the curtains. "We'll miss breakfast."

Blearily, he shoved his glasses on, pulled the curtains aside, and slid to the floor with a low groan. Ron was staring down at him somewhat apologetically.

"Rough night? You were talking in your sleep."

He should really ask Madam Pomfrey for some Dreamless Sleep Potion. He'd traded for an undereye concealer off one of the Ravenclaw girls who made makeup out of extra Potions ingredients, but it didn't make him feel any less tired. "What did I say?"

"Kept going on about Dementors and the Ministry and a registry, something like it won't be long... Are you alright?"

Harry hated the concern on his friend's face. He plastered a fake smile on his face. "Yeah, yeah, amazing. Merry Christmas."

After getting dressed, the two made their way downstairs, Ron rushing Harry along to the Great Hall, where they met Hermione, who was attempting (quite futilely) to tie a string of tinsel around a very unhappy-looking Crookshanks's neck.

She seemed to have recovered from her recent stint in the Hospital Wing, but it did not escape Harry that her smile didn't go at the way up to her eyes and there was a greyish look under her skin. Maybe she hadn't been sleeping well, either.

The whole castle had been on edge since the snowfight incident.

Wouldn't it be spectacular if people were to get poisoned today? In an abundance of caution, the pumpkin juice had been discontinued, and every foodstuff had gone through rigorous testing to make it to the table.

Not that it appeared to bother Ron at all, who was currently very absorbed in his sausage and eggs.

Under it all, it was driving everyone crazy, not knowing what was going on out there. Harry supposed, that in a cruel and sick way, he was lucky that everyone he cared about was inside this castle, the only home he'd ever had.

Hermione cleared her throat. "I've started thinking about what I wanted to do for my fifth-year Ancient Runes project, and I made some prototypes." She reached into her pocket, and pulled out what looked like two silver makeup compacts.

"Of course you did," said Ron in what sounded like a bored tone as he took his, but Harry could hear the underlying fondness in it, too.

"They're not very good, so don't expect too much."

Harry sprung the clasp on his. Instead of a mirror and some kind of powder, it had buttons on one side like a Muggle cellphone, labelled with letters and numbers. What stuck out, however, was a round red button in the middle, simply labelled Danger.

"This must have taken you ages," said Harry wonderingly. Ron, who had no reference for things that mimicked Muggle technology, was still turning his over in his hands, curiously nudging at the buttons.

"Not really, most of the trouble was finding someone who had a cellphone and was willing to trade me for it." For the first time since they sat down, Hermione did not look grey and tired. "I had to ask Professor McGonagall about ways to merge the properties of objects, and — Don't touch that!"

Harry dropped his compact as a loud, pealing sound emanated from it; something in Hermione's pocket was doing the same. Most people slapped their hands over their ears, looking around accusingly for the origin of the sound; others, probably Muggle-borns, looked confused as to why they heard a phone ringtone in Hogwarts.

"Here," said Hermione irritably, taking both Harry's and her compact and fumbling with the buttons. The sound stopped. "That's the safety feature." She shot a glare at Ron. "Honestly, didn't you know not to play with the big red button?"

"How would I know that?" asked Ron, glaring back at her.

Hermione huffed, handing the silver compact back to Harry and shutting hers with a snap. "Well, aside from sending messages, I thought it would be a good idea to have a danger alarm. Just in case. I wanted to put some sort of a tracking beacon, too, but I couldn't figure it out."

"These are really good, Hermione," said Harry encouragingly. "Thanks."

A lot of presents were homemade this year. Ron had made an attempt at knitting socks, which were very lumpy but looked more-or-less sock-shaped and warm. Harry had been intrigued to learn about Felix Felicis, or 'Liquid Luck', when Dumbledore mentioned it, but after some investigation, he determined that it was far beyond his capabilities. He'd traded Lavender for crystals, which he'd hollowed out and filled with Antidote to Uncommon Poisons (a necessity these days, just in case), stoppered them, and managed to thread them so they resembled what Uncle Vernon would probably refer to as 'hippie necklaces.'

On leaving the Great Hall, Harry had a nasty shock. He clapped his hand to his stinging scar, stifling a groan of pain and wincing.

There stood Riddle, very much alive, leaning against the wall by the door with his eyes half-closed, looking none the worse for wear, his dark hair thick and glossy and the tips of his ears and nose a faint pink, like a cherub on a Christmas card. Harry froze, signalling Ron and Hermione to stay back, too.

"What do you want, Riddle?"

Revenge, probably.

Riddle's mouth twitched into a smile, but it was small and mirthless.

"Happy Christmas, Harry," he said quietly. "I was hoping to talk to you alone."

Hermione snorted, and Ron said: "Whatever you've got to say to him, you can say to us."

A greedy look had passed over Riddle's face; Harry couldn't quite define it.

"I think we might have a common enemy," said Riddle quietly.

It was Harry's turn to laugh. If Riddle thought he was that stupid, he had another thing coming.

"If you think I believe you're against Voldemort, you're crazy, Riddle. You are him."

Ron flinched.

Angry, Riddle stood up straight, towering over the three of them. "There are forces at play that you don't understand!"

Harry felt anger mounting in him, too. He was entirely sick and tired of being treated like an idiot child. The only reason he didn't have a grasp of the situation was that everyone seemed content, insistent, even, on keeping him as ignorant as possible.

"Try me, then, I might get it!"

Riddle was shaking his head. "No, I don't feel him with you. But he's near, I can tell."

"Feel who?" asked Ron, who looked slightly green at the whole scenario. "Who's near?"

"Obviously, he's working with someone. That's what that house-elf told you, Harry, isn't it? That Voldemort's not alone?"

For the first time, Riddle seemed to notice Hermione, her bushy hair, her fierce expression, glowering up at him. "It's Nott, isn't it?"

Harry watched Riddle's eyes widen in recognition, and his stomach clenched with fear.

"Talked to him already." He flicked something off his fingers. Cigarette ash? There was a weird, smoky smell that hung around him, Harry noted. "Or, he talked to me. To be exact. But I didn't sense it. He hasn't got it."

"Got what?" pressed Harry. Riddle met his eyes uneasily, and Harry, remembering he was a Legilimens, looked pointedly away. Finally, the older wizard sighed.

"Never mind, why bother."

With that, he stalked past them in a billow of black robes; Harry watched a cigarette appear in Riddle's hand, and with a flick, glow orange, a thin line of smoke emanating from it. He stopped in the middle of the hallway, tilted his head back, and inhaled, his shoulders relaxing, then continued on.

Hermione was watching him with an expression of disgust. "Terrible for your gum health," she said in a horror-struck tone.

"With any luck, he'll die of it," said Harry, feeling quite spiteful in particular at Riddle's evasion of his last question. What is he going on about? Sense what? Feel who?

Having been to the tower where the teachers' apartments were on her interrogation a few weeks ago, Ruby knew where to go and arrived, apparently, before Harry. She smoothed her hair (a truly fruitless endeavour), tugged on the bottom of her jumper—

Tee stormed down the hallway, a foul-scented cloud of florals and tar following him as he entered the room at the end of the hall, and slammed the door behind him. Not knowing quite what to make of this, Ruby knocked on the door in front of her, and heard a muffled: "Come in! Door's open!"

She did, finding herself in a sort of hybrid dining room/living room with a medium-sized fireplace, a round wooden table, and a large bookcase off to the side. There were a few ancient-looking rugs on the floor, comfortable-looking chairs, and paintings on the mantelpiece.

"Make yourself at home," Remus Lupin chided gently.

"Don't look so stiff," added Sirius Black.

Ruby smiled sheepishly and went to the mantelpiece, peering at the moving pictures inside the frames. One caught her eye, of the four Marauders, younger than she'd seen them before, perhaps first-years — James, already bespectacled, grinning at the camera; Sirius, saying something that seemed to make everyone else laugh; Remus, with much fewer scars and a shy smile, and little Peter, looking up at James with an admiring gaze.

"That was our first year after finals," said Sirius, picking up the picture and looking at it fondly. "Remember, Moony?"

"I remember Sirius falling asleep with gum in his mouth and nearly crying when James had to cut a chunk out of his hair the next morning. If you look closely, you can see he's instructing whoever's behind the camera to get his 'good side.' "

"They're both my good side," said Sirius, grinning when Ruby let out a laugh at their antics.

Remus ignored him, shaking his head. "Who took this, anyway?"

"Marlene McKinnon." A dark look had come over Sirius's face. Ruby was just about to ask him who that was when the door swung open to reveal a harassed-looking Harry, his glasses askew.

He mumbled out a greeting, adding: "Ran into Riddle earlier."

So that explained Tee's dramatic stomping down the hallway.

"Why Dumbledore allows him such a long leash is beyond me," said Sirius, the venom in his voice palpable.

Harry and Ruby exchanged a look. Ruby thought she could guess what her brother was thinking: If you can let one monster loose, why not another?

"For all we know, he's behind the poisonings," Sirius went on.

"Dumbledore cleared him," Remus pointed out.

"Because Dumbledore's judgement is always right," Sirius grumbled. It seemed that he hadn't gotten over the revelation of what doorstop Harry and Ruby had been left on, of Dumbledore admitting that he knew, at least a little, what they were in for. And maybe a little bit, Ruby wondered, something to do with his imprisonment. Past the basics, Ruby had never gotten the full story. Although she could understand Sirius not wanting to talk about Azkaban. She didn't want to talk about the Dursleys.

"You know what's going on with the poisonings?" There was an accusatory note in Harry's tone. He leaned back into his chair, the faintest hint of shadow settling under his eyes, which seemed to glow a little from the reflection of the firelight.

Remus and Sirius exchanged a look.

"We don't," said Remus. "But they at least seem to have stopped."

That, to Ruby, seemed very dubious. But who was she to question poisonings?

Sirius cleared his throat, clearly eager to change the subject. "We should start lunch. But first, presents."

"Here we go," said Sirius, dusting off a handsome boxed set of crimson leather-bound volumes, which were already spotless, with Practical Defensive Magic and Its Use Against the Dark Arts engraved in gold along their spines. "A bit of light reading, as your friend Hermione Granger would say. From us to you."

"What else from the librarian and the Defence professor?" said Harry with a wry smile.

Ruby pinched him. "He means to say thank you." She gently extracted the first volume; it had been enchanted to feel much lighter than it was. Inside were full-colour, moving illustrations of counterjinxes and hexes, instructions on technique and what they were effective against, and a light but useful primer on their history.

They all shuffled over to the wooden table (had it been set up when she went in? Ruby couldn't remember) a bit awkwardly. Harry glowered at a spot in the wall behind Ruby, clearly in one of his infamous moods, whilst Sirius carved the turkey. Not that it could be helped. She'd done the same when he'd appeared in the Slytherin common room. Tee always had a way of putting people on edge.

Why, Ruby wondered, had she thought 'always,' as if she were thinking of an old friend?

"Trelawney's not very happy about you skiving off her Seer lessons, Ruby," said Sirius, setting a plate in front of her, jolting her back to reality. She realised both Remus and Sirius were looking at her expectantly. Harry, too, had lost interest in the wall.

"Er, well," she began, feeling quite faint. "Divination's a woolly subject. Besides, I'm not a Seer."

The grown-ups seemed at least slightly convinced, but Harry put in: "Lavender Brown told me you specifically swore off it when you got back."

Ruby's stomach clenched. Lav told him what? She made a mental note to confront the other witch about it later.

"Is that right?" asked Remus, looking between the two of them.

Her hand balled into a fist. "Fine!" Ruby snapped. "I swore off it all, scrying, clairvoyance, the works! Seeing — I'm sick and tired of seeing things I can't change! So would you, if you'd scryed Voldemort in your first year and then ended up resurrecting him, scryed Sirius's brother dying, scryed—"

The room had fallen silent around her. Sirius, in particular, had gone pale, with a shocked, strained look about his eyes.

"Regulus?" he asked in a stricken voice. "You scryed —you know — you know how it happened?"

Ruby remembered, with a horrible, cold shiver, how Kreacher had callously told Sirius that his brother had died while he was imprisoned, how Sirius had slumped against the wall and seemed to shrivel.

She owed Sirius the truth, at least. Delicately aware of the tension in the room, Ruby began: "Ever since we got out of the Chamber, T— Vol— Riddle was obsessed with this cave on the south coast."

Sirius nodded, apparently familiar, and Ruby remembered that he'd tracked their journey.

"Right. So, when we went in," she continued, choosing to skip that whole mess with the kelpie, "there was this lake, and we found this little island in the middle of it. There was a basin in the middle of it with some kind of potion in it. It was like that thing Dumbledore's got in his office."

"A Pensieve," Harry supplied. He, too, was regarding her with a strange look in his eyes. Ruby turned her gaze to Sirius, who was still watching her intently. Fiddling with the end of her fork, she went on.

"It's a potion that brings your memories back, or at least, I think that's what it did to him. And it makes you thirsty, but you can't Summon water in the cave. Or, to be exact, you can Summon it all you want, but good luck with drinking it." Shutting her eyes, Ruby remembered the terror that had seized them in the following moments. "There's Inferi in the lake."

Remus sucked in a horrified breath, and Sirius's face contorted.

Looking between the two of them, Harry asked confusedly: "What's Inferi?"

"Corpses bewitched to do a Dark wizard or witch's bidding," said Sirius grimly. "Should add that to the curriculum for next term, I suppose. Being killed by them is..."

He trailed off, but Ruby could fill in the blanks: a torturous fate worse than death itself. No wonder he wouldn't want to say it out loud, not with his brother...

"We don't have to keep talking about this," she pointed out.

"I want to hear the truth."

Ruby took a deep breath. "There's a locket in the bottom of the basin; the one Tee wears around his neck; it used to belong to Slytherin. Your brother was trying to swap it with a fake for some reason. He said it had something to do with forbidden magic, something called a Horcrux, and he wouldn't follow someone who's pure evil. Voldemort caught him doing it, he— he let the Inferi take him."

It seemed cruel to leave the bald truth dangling like that in front of Sirius's stricken face, drained completely of blood. I suppose this is how Dumbledore feels, thought Ruby ruefully.

"I'm sorry, Sirius." But it didn't seem nearly enough. She felt guilty and horrible for knowing, for telling him, as if she'd coughed up a mass of slugs.

Sirius lifted his gaze from the table.

"No... thank you. At least I know, now, that he didn't die for nothing. See?" He laughed uneasily. "Sometimes it's good to see. To know."

The curiosity bubbled up in her again. What's a Horcrux? Something evil, and something that makes Voldemort stronger, Dumbledore said. But Regulus knew what it was. And Sirius, too. There'd been a look of recognition in his eyes when she said the word. He knows a lot about Dark magic, after all.

But it was inappropriate to ask. A cold, uncomfortable silence had fallen over the room.