Author's note: Hello hellooo beautiful people, thank you for reading and supporting this story. I apologise for any typos and mistakes, I had to edit this chapter rather quickly. I hope all is well on your side 3

- Enjoy -

January 1942: January 1942 - I'm Just a Well-Informed Girl

Dust particles floated in the light casted by the cold winter's sun. The girl yawned and turned around to lay flat on her belly, still half-asleep. She heard her roommates chatting excitedly, rummaging through their closets and crates in search of something warm, fitting for such weather. They were always so active in the morning, something the girl never understood for she always took ages to wake up and Saturdays were no exception.

"It's all white outside" screamed Margaret in delight as she peered through the window. "Annabel! Wake up you lazy slug or we'll be late" she issued as she turned to the left and pulled the comforter away from the sleepy girl.

Annabel protested idly but managed to prowl herself up on an elbow and squinted, blinded by the cold brightness of the room. Her roommates were almost all dressed, only waiting for her. She fumbled around for a while until she found something proper to wear and twenty minutes later, she was sitting at the blue and silver table, shoving excessively sweetened pancakes inside her mouth all the while pretending to find interest in the detailed programme Margaret had planned.

Of all of them, the small and curvy brown-haired girl was the most organised, and she was reading out loud the list of errands they needed to run and that she had neatly wrote on a parchment, from the most to the least important ones.

"And finally Elena said she would soon need new ink so we will stop by Scrivenshaft's and then go for a Butterbeer at four" she smiled, accentuating the last words with a decisive knock on the table.

"A Butterbeer?" asked Annabel who suddenly stopped chewing.

"I booked a table for four o'clock"

"What about the plan of going for a cup of tea at Madam Puddifoot?"

"Too late, Anna, I already made the reservation. Besides we cannot always go to Madam Puddifoot" chastised Margaret.

"But it is nice, and cozy…" and empty, she thought as her mouth became as dry as the scales of a Moke.

"Is it? Who here thinks the Three Broomsticks is nicer than Madam Puddifoot's teashop?" asked Margaret in a booming voice as if she was a scout leader.

Annabel shot a desperate glance at Elena who mouthed a "I'm sorry" before she raised her hand, siding with the other girls whose palms were already high up in the air.

"The Three Broomsticks it is then" clapped Margaret with a victorious smile that would not tolerate any more objection and Annabel sighed.

She hated the place. Too loud, too crowded, too warm. Just... too much.

—

Six hours later, Margaret was holding the heavy wooden door of the inn opened and shot Annabel a stringent glance as the girl entered with a sigh. The place was filled to the brim, and Anna felt her heart constricting in her chest.

She feared crowds, especially in such cramped areas and she instinctively tugged at her sleeves. She cursed at herself, for having desperately tried to hide her condition to her friends, something she could have disclosed years ago and which would have saved her many awkward situations like this. Like the time her friend Elena had lured her to a particularly full end-of-season Quidditch party. Yet she had kept quiet all these years, and the longer she waited, the more she felt compelled to stick to her stupid lies and half-decent excuses.

"Where is our table?" screamed Violet over the music while she was being pushed by an elderly couple who was trying to make its way to the entrance door.

"I can't see it" mumbled Margaret who was standing on her tiptoes to try to peek at the back of the room. "I'm sorry, Madam? I booked a table for four o'clock. My name's Margaret Quinton" she added as she walked towards the counter and elbowed a few people along the way to make it to the counter.

"Right Miss, I've got your name here but you're late. I had to give your table to somebody else" replied the hefty innkeeper with a shrug as she turned around to pour some tap Butterbeer in a greasy jug. She had spoken loud enough for all the girls to hear and Anna repressed a sigh of relief. She made a step back towards the door, ready to leave. With some luck, Madam Puddifoot was still opened.

"There" pointed Margaret suddenly to a corner in the back of the room where a table that could easily accommodate a greater number of people was only occupied by three Slytherins. She grabbed Annabel's arm and held her back before the girl could open the door again and leave.

"Isn't it your friend Rosier over there?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

"We shouldn't go sit with them" reproached Eudora.

"She is right. Sophia will be furious if she learn we spent time together" nodded Annabel in haste, hoping to change Margaret's mind because it was, indeed, her friend Alastair in the back of the room, accompanied, it seemed, with his usual clique.

Since the Hogwarts Express incident, as they henceforth called it, Sophia made a point of honour in avoiding the Slytherins at all costs, who she now referred to as "psychopathic squid-heads." Annabel remembered how conflicted she had looked a few months back, when Tom had held the door for her on a day like this, and waited politely for Sophia to get inside the castle. She had been forced to comply because students were piling behind her, complaining, but later that night she had called this a "power move" and Margaret retorted that it was nothing but gallantry and that she was overreacting.

"Come on… It's too early to go back to the castle now and Sophia isn't even here" coaxed the small brown-haired girl before she weaved in and out between the tables and headed to the back of the room.

"I'm sorry, this place is horridly full everywhere else. Would you mind if we'd sit with you?" she asked the group of Slytherins temerariously.

The boy with jet black hair looked up and his eyes grazed the small crowd of Ravenclaws, his gaze lingering on Annabel who composed a detached look in response.

"Certainly" he finally replied with a smile and he removed his coat that was laying on the seat booth next to him. Annabel felt Margaret applying pressure on the small of her back, pushing her towards the boy. She took place next to him, and he slid to the side to accommodate her, but the room was too packed and she was soon enough squeezed between him and Violet, who sat on her right.

Tom handed her a menu in a greasy plastic sleeve and she held it between two fingers for herself and Violet to see. She decided for a Butterbeer and a big portion of chips and after she gave her order to the overly affable waiter, she realised no one was talking, and that Margaret was darting her glances, as if it was now her duty to make conversation. She bit her lower lip awkwardly and racked her brain for something to say, but before she could demonstrate her poor skills at making small-talk, Tom began to speak and the conversation livened up, as if the crowd was suddenly captivated, and she was both grateful and admirative of the boy's effortless magnetism. Soon enough, more voices joined him and when the beers were served, the small party was already bonding over shared gossips and complaints.

The girl nibbled absentmindedly on a chip covered in brown sauce, listening to the sound of Tom's relaxed voice, low but soft and warm, sensuous even, and she noted it had changed during the Christmas break. She caught him glancing from times to times and she grew self-conscious when his gaze dawdled, and it moved from her eyes to her ear, behind which she had nervously tucked a strand of hair, sliding all the way to her collarbone, and she felt exposed as he stared at the soft skin of her neck. She remembered she hadn't told anybody about her recent association with the boy, and she feigned a relaxed look.

Fortunately, Cillian Lestrange began to recount his holidays in the company of his cousin, schooled in Durmstrang, and how he had spent his vacations desperately trying to reproduce the few dark charms his cousin had taught him. This piqued everyone's interest of course, for the practice of the dark arts was forbidden in Hogwarts, making it just all the more alluring, and Margaret was now drawing everyone's attention with all the questions she had and Annabel found herself savouring not being in the spotlight.

Yet, her respite did not last, for Alastair was mentioning her name already, saying she knew tons about black magic, and that Cillian should reiterate his question because she would be able to help him for sure. The girl could not help but shoot him an irked glance, for she felt like he just threw her under the Knight Bus as many pairs of eyes suddenly turned to her. She raised an inquisitive eyebrow nonetheless, patiently waiting.

The red-haired boy cautiously looked around him before he whispered, loud enough though for everyone to hear: "Why did the stones I practiced on did nothing more than crack when I tried to cast Confringo? My cousin could literally make them explode"

"Did you try to use your left hand?"

"Why?" interjected Margaret, her eyes gleaming in curiosity.

"Well, it is assumed that dark magic is more easily conveyed through your left hand. The right hand is associated with your mind, your rational, reliable self. It is the hand that shows the mastered version of you, the outer self. The left hand, however, is said being connected to your heart, your inner self. The secret things you protect, that you profoundly desire, everything you hide. This is where you have to draw on if you want to use more powerful magic than the one they teach you here" she spilled before she fell quiet, suddenly aware of her choice of words. She had used her grandfather's terminology, the one that categorised dark magic as being nothing but simply another, more powerful magic. Her parents had chastised her multiple times for pronouncing those exact same words in the past, and they would not be proud of her right now. Her cheeks reddened at this thought and she felt Tom's piercing eyes gauging her.

"It just... might be easier if you used your left hand" she finally added, her voice betraying her discomfort.

The conversation came to a sudden end when Violet realised it was already past seven o'clock and suggested they'd go back to the castle. They paid, giving little to no tip to the poor waiter, for their meagre allowance did not permit more generosity than a few sickles and the group moved ahead, disappearing behind the screen of smoke as they snaked in and out the around the tables. Annabel put her wallet back in her purse and waited for Tom who put on his coat.

Once their friends were finally out of sight, the girl indicated with a smile:

"We just received a new book at the library which I believe would be to your liking"

He shot her a knowing look.

"I suppose I will be seeing you at the library next week then"

She smiled, and as they finally reached the exit, Tom asked:

"How do you know all of this?"

"All of this?"

"All of these things about the dark arts"

She laughed as she replied: "I'm just a well-informed girl"

They were standing in front of the door now, behind a heavy velvet curtain that operated as a barricade against the Scottish frosty winter when Tom whispered, in haste.

"Teach me what you know"

It was not a question, barely a request and Annabel stopped moving, half-aware of their friends who were getting impatient outside, slightly merry, calling their names. She met Tom's gaze and held it, her hand on the doorknob. She did not know what pushed her to accept, if it was out of graciousness or simply because of his dark brown eyes that were a smidge too hypnotic...

"Of course. I'll teach you if you want"

Author's note:

Ps: Confringo is a blasting curse ;)