Tracey Davis waited two weeks and until we were both at sixty feet above the ground before she decided to confront me, which I figured pretty much vindicated the Sorting Hat putting her into Slytherin in the first place.

The two of us were alone, perched on our respective brooms and flying lazily under a foreboding dark and cloudy sky that threatened rain, a chilly wind tugging at my robes, trying to get at my eyes —protected behind my sunglasses— and freezing my hands to the point I had almost lost all feeling in my fingers. Or maybe that was because I couldn't help but grip the broom as if my life depended on it —which it pretty much did!— Something that no amount of gently coaching by Tracey seemed able to change.

Flying was one of those wizarding things she was better at than me —vertigo was very common with Muggleborns, she had said, not unkindly; so this time it was her tutoring me. I had argued at first against the need to be so high up, but she countered that this way nobody on the ground would see our faces and know we were first years. With the Quidditch season just around the corner they'd simply assume we were players ourselves doing some sort of training exercise in our own free time.

Of course, that was if they didn't notice my own wobbly and erratic flying and wonder just which of the houses would have a player who liked making pretty accurate impressions of a bumblebee's flight. But hey, maybe they'd just think I'd had one too many firewhiskeys.

Privately I suspected the true reason she wanted us all the way up here was because Madam Hooch never allowed us to be any higher than the second row of windows on the Bell Tower. So this was Tracey's little rebellion of sorts, then. One that afforded us an unparalleled view of the lake, the ominous Forbidden Forest to our left, the little town of Hogsmeade, and the expansive lush valley that surrounded the grounds of the castle, fading into the foggy distance.

Besides, it's not like what we were doing was strictly forbidden. It was more a case of a legal grey area: they simply assumed as first years we just wouldn't have any access to brooms outside of Flying class so there was no need for an explicit prohibition. But Tracey knew where Hooch liked to store the school brooms, and I knew the unlocking charm; so here we were.

"I just don't get it," I was saying. "Why do this when you can just Apparate instead. That's a much better way of travel."

"Not everyone can Apparate, and brooms are considered safer than Apparition."

"That's rubbish! You can't fall to your death when Apparating."

"You can splinch yourself to death. But it will be years before we can Apparate, anyway. How are you going to travel in the meantime if you don't learn to ride a broomstick?"

"There's the Floo network," I replied, wisely.

"Do you have a Floo at that Muggle orphanage? Try leaning a bit more to your right."

"Not an orphanage, and we don't even have a fireplace, so no. What about portkeys?"

"Can you make one?"

"No. But how hard can it be?"

"My mother says it's harder than Apparating. Now sit up to slow down again."

"A car, then. A Muggle car, enchanted to fly and turn invisible."

She turned to look at me with an odd expression. "Where are you going to find something like that?"

"I'm resourceful. I bet I can find one in the wild, sometime in the future."

"The Ministry would confiscate it if you did. There's a department for misuse of Muggle objects, you know."

"Well, then I will just take the bloody Knight Bus!"

"You better not let anyone in Slytherin hear that's how you get around, if you do."

I shrugged, as much as I could with my stiff muscles. "One of the advantages of not having any reputation worth a damn in our house. I don't need to protect it."

She laughed. "Are there any other advantages?"

"Oh, yes; I get invited to all the Gryffindor parties!"

"Parties at night? Or with that group you have in the Library?"

And there it was.

She had asked it nonchalantly, but I still noticed the tension beneath her words, a mix of jealously and annoyance. As if I was leaving her behind.

Which I was entitled to do. After all, she did spend time in our common room doing who knows what, a place that was pretty much still verbotten to me.

I leaned forward, my broom gaining some speed, the cold wind hitting my face and ruffling my hair.

I could've argued about that, about how if anybody here should be jealous, that should be me. Jealous of how she would always be a step above me in the Slytherin totem pole no matter how good my grades got or how much I excelled with a wand in my hand, simply by virtue of her birth; jealous of how she could slip past the junior death eaters' notice, taking only a lazy jab here and there; jealous of how she'd had a toy broom when she was an infant and so now she didn't have any vertigo when flying.

Or jealous of how she still had a fucking family waiting for her at home.

But I didn't want to ruin our relationship, so I decided to put it in different terms instead:

"I didn't think you wanted me to include you. It wasn't in our deal. Besides, the more time you spend with me, the more the others will–"

"I know that!" she snapped back, easily overtaking me and then arresting the forward motion of her broom as she turned to face me, forcing me to stop. Nice manoeuvrer, by the by. "You think I don't know that?"

"Do you, really?" I couldn't help my voice becoming harsher. "Because it can get bloody lonely, you know."

"It's already lonely," she admitted. "They all ignore me anyway, so what's the difference?"

"The difference is Selwyn."

That at least seemed to give her pause, and we did a full loop of the Training Grounds wrapped in a meditative silence.

"How is that going? The Muggleborn stuff?" she asked at last.

The 'Muggleborn Stuff' had become our codeword for that little quest of mine of figuring out what my origins were. Or more accurately, of coming up with an excuse Selwyn would find good enough not to murderize me on the spot come winter break.

"No records of my surname in the Wizarding World," I summarized my findings. "And not much luck from the Muggle side of things either: I managed to get a letter to my Residence thanks to Michael Corner, who told me about the postbox near Filch's office. Turns out there is a police incident file with–"

"Police?"

"Muggle Aurors. Someone called them because there was some man walking across a golf course in Epping with baby me in arms. They said he was in a daze or something, and repeating my surname again and again. But of course, he disappeared before the police could identify him or interrogate him. Apparently 'Sylvia' isn't even my real first name! It was the police officer who came up with it, I guess because they had to write something down into the form."

"Disappeared or disapparated? Because that sounds–"

"Suspicious as all hell? Yeah I know, but that's the thing: there's no more thread to pull. The Muggles don't know who this was, there isn't even a physical description; and it's been so long they aren't looking anymore. So unless he decides to do me a favour and come out of the woodwork, I'm stuck."

She remained in silence for a beat, then said: "They could've been obliviated."

"The Muggle police? Yeah, I thought of that. But that doesn't change anything; whatever they knew about this bloke is lost anyway."

Although, now that I thought of that... wouldn't the Ministry keep records? If those were Aurors who did it, there would exist some paper trail, wouldn't it?

Food for thought. In the meantime I asked something that had been on my mind for a while: "Do you think I could simply... ask for the Ministry to test my blood or something?"

She shook her head. "No. That's... the Ministry doesn't test for blood status, I don't think. That's just not done."

"Hmm... what about Gringotts?"

"Gringotts? Why would they? They're goblins, they don't care about that."

I... had my own doubts about it, but opted not to challenge her on that point. I hadn't even been inside the bank, after all.

Tracey continued: "But... perhaps Nott..."

"Not what?"

"Nott. Theodore Nott."

"What about him?"

Her look was that of a self-satisfied cat. "I'll tell you... if you tell me what you stole from Filch."

I sighed. "You don't need to make it into a deal, Tracey. If you are sure you want in, I will just tell you."

"I want in."

"Okay. Well... fireworks, some cards, stink pellets, and other stuff I'm not sure what it is. I can show you later. I planned to sell most of it to the Weasley twins; if there's something you like you can keep it if you help me with that. So... what's it about Nott?"

"Just that it was some relative of his who wrote that book about the sacred bloodlines. The one all those pure-blood families have? And they are a very old family themselves, very obsessed with this. So you know... maybe they'll have some sort of secret source on magical lineages? Or a test of some sort?"

"Oh, that book," I said. I had forgotten about that particular detail. "That's... that's brilliant, Tracey."

"Great! Now let's go back to see your loot," she turned her broom on the spot and shot herself downwards, all the way shouting: "Race you to the ground!"

"Race–? Hey, not fair! Wait!"

We met the Weasley twins at the Transfiguration Courtyard the day after, protected from the soft rain under the arches that covered its walkways. We were deep into Autumn by now and the courtyard's ground was carpeted in shed leaves, all yellows and browns. I could feel how it was already getting colder by the day, and I definitely wasn't looking forward to spending the winter months in the Scottish Highlands.

The twins stopped their chattering among themselves the moment they saw us approaching. Tracey had intercepted one of them during lunch at the Great Hall earlier to tell them to be here, and that we had some stuff to offer them. They now looked at us —but mostly at the bulky bag Tracey carried with her— with curious, if not hungry interest. One they tried to hide behind easy smiles and relaxed postures.

"It seems like I owe you five Sickles, Fred," said one of them. "It's not a Slytherin trap after all."

"It's not everyday that you find two snakes with honest intentions," the other commented, observing the two of us.

"But they can't be so honest, can they? If that bag has what we think it has."

"Only the best quality in forbidden items," I said, joining their game of verbal sparring. "Now in offer for the discerning buyer."

They flashed me identical smiles; but I had mixed thoughts about the twins. It was one thing to read about their pranks in a book or see their exploits in a movie; it was another thing entirely to see them in real life, without the safety net afforded by being on the right side of the TV screen. Especially because Slytherin students tended to be their favourite target for their pranks, which had garnered them quite the negative reputation in my house. I hadn't seen them crossing the line into bullying yet, but sometimes they liked to walk right up to it.

I didn't mind it so much when they went after someone like Flint —who pretty much was a colossal arsehole in desperate need of some sweet karmic justice. But they had also pranked Adrian Pucey —which I judged to be a pretty decent human being, for a Slytherin— with some sort of jinx that had him leaking sweat for an entire morning. Which wouldn't have been so bad, except that apparently all that perspiration came out of his body for realsies, because he ended up spending the night in the Hospital Wing due to dehydration.

And besides, they were third years, which meant they were a full head taller than me or Tracey, and with much more magical expertise. So it was with a little trepidation that I approached them and signalled her to show them the contents of our bag. At least, I reminded myself, I hadn't seen them go after any first years before.

Which didn't mean it hadn't happened, of course. Just that I hadn't seen it.

The bag contained the entirely of my loot, except for the Self-Writing Quill —which I was keeping for myself— and a few of what Tracey had told me were Hiccough Sweets from Zonko's, which we had opted to keep and share because apparently they also worked in reverse —stopping a hiccough fit if you already had one.

The rest was presented in full to the two brothers, who looked like Christmas had come early this year.

"–and that's an Ever-Bouncing Boggle Ball!"

"Look, George! Isn't that our Chameleon Ring? The one Filch confiscated?"

"A Chameleon Ring?" asked Tracey, suddenly interested. "What's that?"

"Yeah," I added, eyeing the ring that I hadn't tried myself —I knew better than to put on unknown magical rings; I liked my fingers too much for that. "Does it turn you invisible? Because if it does, then it's not for sale."

"No, look." Fred took the ring before I could stop him and put it on one of his fingers. I didn't see any visible changes, but then his tongue shot out —all four feet of it— grabbed one of the dungbombs resting on the ground between us, and rolled back to drop it in his hands.

"Eww... it's definitely for sale," said Tracey. I nodded in agreement.

"For sale? But it was our ring," said George. "It was just temporarily lost."

I shrugged. "Consider it a finder's fee, then."

"And where did you find all this?" teased Fred with a knowing look in his eyes.

"Oh, just an old cabinet," I said, distractedly.

"One with four locks?"

"And many boxes piled on top?" added George.

"Inside a certain office?"

I shrugged: "I admit nothing."

"Fred, I dare say we found Filch's mysterious thieves. And they are first years! Who does that remind you of?"

"It looks like someone is following on our footsteps, dear brother!"

Not really. I wasn't interested in their pranks gimmick at all. This was all just a means to an end for me: selling this stuff and getting some Galleons. And if I could also get me one or two versatile magical items in the process, well, I wasn't opposed to that.

Of course, I stayed silent. Let them believe what they wished, as long as it helped at getting them to see me in a positive light, beyond the green trimmings on my robes.

"Very well," said Fred at last. "We are interested. We can trade you some of our own not-so-legal stuff."

I paused. That, that was an opportunity I hadn't considered before. Could I simply trade all of this for the Marauder's Map? That would be brilliant, if so. Of course, I couldn't simply mention it myself, or they'd wonder how exactly it was that I knew about it.

"Do you have anything interesting?" I asked instead.

"Oh, not just anything. We have everything!"

"We have Mimic Mints, a Whopie Cushion, Giggling Gums..."

"...a Sneakoscope, Frog Spawning Soap, Glow-worm Lollipops..."

"...Squeaking Shoes, a Petrifying Pillow, a Hovering Hat..."

The image came unbidden, completely out of the blue. One moment I was looking at the two red-headed boys playfully boasting about their many pranking tools, the next it simply... hit me.

It was an image from the movie: Fred Weasley's dead body resting on Hogwart's flagstone floors, broken pieces of masonry laying around. Her mother, Molly, kneeling and crying next to him. Devastated, broken herself. Except that in the image I saw, the face was not that of the original actor; it was the face of the boy in front of me.

Older perhaps, his cheeks harsher, less full. But also grey, expressionless. His eyes open and void. Without any of the life of this Fred, without any of the laughter. Without the easy smile.

And it was my fault.

"... a jar of Bubble Bees, Screaming Yo-yos... hey, are you good?"

I rose my hands to my head, maybe to try and stem the sudden tide of emotion, maybe to try and cover my eyes. Because suddenly I just couldn't look at Fred's face.

"Sylvia?" Tracey's voice seemed to come from behind some far away wall.

"N–no..." I replied, my voice weak. What I was replying to I didn't know. "I, I have to–"

I rose up and rushed towards the open ground, suddenly in a desperate need for more air, fresher air. A despairing need to not be there any longer, to not remain in front of him. The cold rain hit my face, but it just wasn't enough. It wasn't strong enough to cleanse that image out of my mind. Nothing was. An image I pretty much didn't want in me. I wanted it out. Out. OUT! GET OUT!

I bent down and quickly lost my lunch.

I was left gasping and dry heaving, my body feeling very weak out of a sudden, my robes heavy and soaking wet with the rainwater, as if weighting me down.

"Is she okay?"

"I don't know? She ate all that pudding after lunch..."

I shook my head. This was stupid.

Stupid.

Was this what I was going to do starting now? Break down anytime I saw someone I knew would die if I didn't do anything to stop it? There were just too many people for that: Fred would die, sure. But so would Cedric Diggory. Snape would die too. Dumbledore would die. Shit, even bloody Crabbe —or was it Goyle?— would die.

People died. If I couldn't deal with that, I might as well do as Selwyn wished and go back to the Residence right now, because it certainly wouldn't get any better.

And besides, who knew what could happen if I tried to intervene now, so early in the story? Maybe I would save Fred, yes, but cause George to die in some sort of freak accident that should never have happened. What if trying to prevent Voldemort's return totally backfired on me and I caused a never-ending reign of magical terror across Britain?

Yeah, now that would suck.

I didn't need to torture myself, though. Most of the deaths I cared about happened by the end of the books. So I had time. Fred had time. I would warn him ahead of the Battle of Hogwarts, if we both made it that far. It's the least I could do.

And as much as anyone could ask of me, really. Because what right did anybody have to demand any more than that? To demand I be a hero? To sacrifice myself, to risk it all for them?

Nobody had that right.

Nobody.

I paced back towards the little group. I first tried to keep my focus to only George, but his face was so similar to Fred's that it didn't help much, so I resorted to keeping my gaze down and on the items we were bartering away. "Sorry," I said, giving up on the Marauder's Map. It hadn't been on their list so far, and it was simply too naive to believe they'd trade away a unique marvel like that. "Can we finish up here? I'm feeling a bit under the weather. We'll just take Galleons for all this."

"What about the Sneakoscope?" said Tracey. "It spins to warn you of threats, could be useful."

We were Slytherins living in the Slytherin dorms next to Parkinson and Bulstrode, with Selwyn and his little group always in the neighbourhood. It was probably going to spin itself into smithereens. But you know what? Okay, fine. I didn't feel like discussing anything at the moment.

"The Sneakoscope then, the rest in Galleons."

We completed the transaction —which netted me a total of eight Galleons and five Sickles; I allowed Tracey to keep the Sneakoscope— when she took a look at my still trembling hands and all but dragged me towards the Hospital Wing, ignoring my feeble protests that I was feeling perfectly fine and didn't want to be late for Potions.

"You are going to ruin your ingredients and do a Longbottom if you go like this," she said, which was probably accurate. Not that I'd ever admit it.

It would have been endearing, how intensely she was taking this whole 'being friends' thing, if it didn't mean losing one of my rare opportunities to spend some quality time with Hermione and slowly convince her I wasn't a devil incarnate. The two weeks of the Read-Ahead Club –as Michael Corner had nicknamed it, I much preferred 'The Order of the Hydra' but I'd been outvoted— had helped in that front, with her finally being able to relax around me enough to throw herself deep into the whispered discussions about which of all the advanced Charms were more interesting to study on your own, and which were better to wait for next year.

And yeah, she might have some know-it-all tendencies, and perhaps liked a bit too much to dominate the discussions, but so did the rest of the little group I'd gathered; so no one really faulted her for it, focusing mostly on countering her arguments rather than getting on her case for being too overbearing. I figured it would be a welcome reprieve from her treatment at her own house.

It was one for me, too, if I was being honest. I liked to act like none of the put-downs I received daily from my own housemates affected me, like I was a statue made of the strongest marble and nothing ever stained me, the taunts simply slipping off my impregnable skin; and in a sense it might've been true. I knew that had I been just the eleven year old I appeared to be, it would have crushed my spirits, but my fore-memories afforded me a wider picture, a more mature outlook that helped me put the childish abuse into context.

However, I was discovering quantity had a quality of its own, and being disparaged daily for the littlest of transgressions to proper Wizarding etiquette was starting to get bothersome. As were the cultural references that eluded me. No, I didn't know what Maledictus meant, where Upper Flagley was or why it was so evident that the Tutshill Tornados were the better team in the British Quidditch League. In fact, Tracey had tried explaining me the Quidditch rules two times by now, and I was still baffled by them.

At least with the Library group I was free to ask for clarification without losing status —and if I didn't want to ask, I could count on Hermione's curiosity and subtly put on her path whatever it was I had doubts about, so that she would ask in my stead. The others were specially fond of explaining us the more obscure points of Wizarding society, too, as if we were doing them a favour by way of being uncultured in their customs.

So by now Hermione didn't actively hate me, and was merely neutral towards me. I guessed it also helped that I hadn't visibly gone after any other Gryffindors, and she hadn't witnessed me doing anything she considered dishonest. But I was at a merely acquaintance level with her, and so still a long way to go until she started to actually trust me beyond the basics of homework tips and collaborative Potion-brewing.

In the end I had to admit defeat and let Tracey have her way, because I wasn't feeling like fighting her on this and risk losing her brand new friendship; and it wasn't like I was really looking forward to spend my afternoon under Snape's overbearing nose, all the while wrapped in my now cold robes, dripping water.

It wasn't enough for Tracey that I agreed to go, though. I guess by now she knew me too well, because she essentially escorted me to the Hospital Wing's doors and only left after Madam Pomfrey had me under her own wing and I'd told her some lies about my stomach being upset ever since lunch.

Madam Pomfrey was kind enough to dry my robes and hair with some charm I definitely needed to learn, guided me to one of the many empty beds and then went back to her office to rummage through her collection of potions.

I sat on the bed —with one leg folded under my body, the other hanging off— and examined the large ward with distaste: it was almost empty —only one other student, an older Gryffindor with a bandaged leg that was reading a book and pretty much ignoring me. But the Hospital Wing reminded me too much of the Intensive Care Unit I'd visited in my previous life, when my father had his accident. Madam Pomfrey's little kingdom within Hogwarts was similarly laid out: rows of beds separated by privacy curtains, and there was a similar attention to cleanliness and orderliness that contrasted with the rest of the castle. Only here there were none of those beeping machines, and the different smells that drifted in the air weren't chemical in nature.

I grouchily had to admit that the tall windows letting in the afternoon light were also a nice touch; one I'd have appreciated way more had today not have been a cold, rainy misery of a day, the only light coming through casting the room in a grey gloom.

"I told you my stomach was upset," I protested when the matron returned with my potion, some sort of dark mystery liquid contained in a small cylindrical bottle. "Now you want me to drink something that smells of cat piss?"

Pomfrey's face was unamused: "Stop whining and drink it, it will make you feel better."

"You know what? It must be working already, because all of a sudden I don't feel that bad anymore."

"Your hands are still trembling, and you still look like you just saw a Boggart. Now, don't make me take out my wand. Just drink it all and then you can rest on the bed for a while."

I had a moment of impulsive, suicidal curiosity about what exactly Pomfrey would do if I forced her to 'take out her wand'. Would she jinx me? Paralyse me while she poured the little bottle's horrid contents down my throat? Did she herself even know? Her no-nonsense attitude and commanding tone was probably enough for most students, so I doubted she'd ever had to actually take out her wand on anyone before.

Sure, I was pretty much procrastinating, my shaky hands holding the concoction as I wondered about the sort of ingredients Snape had us students use: beetle wings and larvae, hair, slugs and all kinds of disgusting secretions. I'd never made the quite obvious connection that the unholy stuff we made our class potions out of, was actually the same unholy stuff that also went into real world potions.

Real world potions... as if that wasn't a crazy thought in and of itself.

"Ahem," said Pomfrey, still very much next to me, her arms crossed as she waited.

"Don't hurry me. You know, this is actually the first potion I ever drink. I want to... ah, savour the moment."

That seemed to soften her marginally. "It's easier if you don't hesitate. Just drink it all in a single gulp."

"Like a shot of Tequila?"

"Excuse me?"

"... Nevermind."

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I do have other patients to attend to, you see. So will you girl please drink your potion already?"

I turned my gaze to the Gryffindor in the other bed, who still seemed perfectly happy reading his book and definitely not in any sort of pain or medical emergency. Then, I let out a sigh. Because I guessed at some point I'd have to drink one of these abominations, living in the Wizarding World and what not. This was as good a time to start as any, really.

I closed my eyes, put the mouth of the little glass bottle against my lips, and tilted it all the way up, its contents running across my tongue and down my throat. The taste was vile —as I expected— and I had to resist the urge of throwing up once more; but at least it was short-lived, and soon enough the magic of the potion started taking effect, calming both my stomach and my trembling limbs.

"See? It wasn't that hard", Pomfrey gloated. "Now, lie down on–"

"But–"

"Lie down, I say; you will rest here for the remainder of the hour. I'm not above using the full body-bind spell, so I don't want to hear any complains!"

"I know the counter-spell," I muttered under my breath. But I still followed her orders, since I wasn't that sure I'd be able to perform it with my wand in my pocket. Besides, I didn't exactly oppose the opportunity of laying down for a quick nap until the next class —Transfiguration, which was always demanding, specially now that we were starting with the practical exercises in depth. It was just being ordered to do so that ruffled my feathers.

Apparently satisfied, Madam Pomfrey returned to her office, and I let my eyes wander aimlessly across the room, my mind still somewhat reeling from... whatever it was that had happened before. Had it been a panic attack? Or maybe a guilt attack? I decided I didn't want to know. There was a large, musty carpet in the attic of my mind that I pretty much did not want to look under. It was easier to pretend it had never happened.

So much easier.

In the end I must have fallen asleep for a spell, because the room was a little darker when I opened my eyes again and the Gryffindor was talking to a visitor I hadn't seen enter, some girl he was obviously preening for. Ugh, just kiss already!

It was still a few minutes before the turn of the hour, but I was already feeling well-rested enough that I was starting to get bored, and Pomfrey wasn't looking; so to no one's surprise I simply slunk away and left the Hospital Wing.

I didn't descend the stairs to meet with the Slytherins —they would be finishing with the Potions class in the dungeons about now— rushing instead towards the Greenhouses where I knew the Hufflepuffs just had Herbology. When I got there they were already leaving, and the little badgers eyed me with open wariness.

I ignored the stares, heading straight for my target with a genial smile as the herd reconfigured itself around me: "Hey Susan! Bones! Susan Bones!"

The girl with the long braid gave me a surprised nod and proceeded to walk up to me, which seemed to calm down the others. We moved a bit away.

"Sarramond? Why are you here?" she asked. "We don't have a meeting today, do we?"

"Oh, no. Just to ask you for a personal favour, actually. You said you had family in the Ministry, no?"

"My aunt Amelia, yes."

"Right... and does she by any chance happen to work at or near the Obliviator Headquarter?..."