Everything was not right when the next morning came, it turned out, and even my breakfast toast felt cold and insipid when I bit into it. Perhaps because I'd had a fitful, restless sleep, plagued by visions of a twisted Luna aiming a wand at my face. That, combined with the pain that flared on my ankle whenever my skin brushed against the sheets —I even had to forego wearing my socks when I got dressed in the morning.

Or perhaps it was because we were having breakfast under a gloomy, overcast sky that seemed to threaten us with rain even through the Great Hall's enchanted ceiling. Or maybe —you can take your pick— because Tracy was still acting cross at me over my acts the evening prior, and so far she had only replied to my friendly overtures with monosyllabic responses, if at all. She had answered 'No' when I asked her if she wanted me to help her with her Potions assignment that afternoon —testing the waters, as it were— and then 'Here' when I asked her to hand me the pitcher of apple juice during breakfast.

Nothing overly hostile, just cold and indifferent, like the weather. I decided not to press, though, and instead give her some space to be angry at me, flush it out of her system. I knew from both my lives that fights among children weren't long-lived, and so I merely had to wait for the storm to pass, so to speak. As long as I kept hanging with her and the rest of our circle, adopted a somewhat contrite posture, and avoided provoking her further eventually she'd tire of her sullen mood. Or so I hoped.

At least her attitude hadn't rubbed off on Greengrass or Perks, which was a small mercy. Though they obviously hadn't liked my going behind their backs to do some very obviously shady shit either, they refrained from pressing me on the matter any further; just enough to make me feel somewhat guilty and drive home the point that they had indeed noticed; that they weren't complete, oblivious idiots.

I was also somewhat guilty at the absence of Luna Lovegood among the Ravenclaws. The blonde first-year girl was nowhere to be seen, which made my stomach tighten in anxiety —and perhaps that was the true cause the toast today wasn't up to par. One, because I feared it could mean our confrontation had left her more injured than I'd realised; and two, because part of me couldn't help but wonder if taking the diary out of her hands had been enough. If some trace, some wispy fragment of Tom Riddle might have managed to jump ship at the last possible second and latch onto her soul permanently, the way it had happened with Potter.

And I knew it wasn't likely —hell, it was probably impossible; from what I knew about the Horcruxes, they simply didn't work like that at all— But there was that fearful, scared part of me that didn't want to listen to reason. A part of me that couldn't forget the hateful expression on Luna's face, right before she'd started casting the killing curse. To kill me.

To put an end to me.

And so now I couldn't stop wondering whether Luna would complete the incantation, if given the chance in the near future. Whether I'd be walking relaxed along one of Hogwarts' halls one day next week, maybe on my way to the History of Magic class or something, just to see a flash of green coming from somewhere behind me; and then nothing else at all.

It was the very same part of me that felt partially relieved when I realised she wasn't in the Great Hall. But because I also knew that —logically— she was most likely to be injured herself and at the Hospital Wing, my relief came across as selfish and tone-deaf even to myself.

And then there was Mrs. Norris. Or more appropriately: there wasn't a Mrs. Norris anymore.

I had expected —hoped— that the confusion that must have happened right after finding the message on the wall was behind the rumours of the cat's demise. It was something that I could see happening in the original timeline too: Dumbledore had quickly sent everybody rushing back to their dorms, so it stood within reasons that the students hadn't stayed around long enough to get a clear picture of what had happened, other than a petrified cat and a grisly message. Gossip and rumours would've taken over after that, and so it was of course very reasonable that they'd jump to the conclusion that the cat was in fact dead. Right?

Except that during breakfast that day Dumbledore stood up and clinked his cup to call our attention, and when the last murmurs from the Gryffindor table died out —not that there many to begin with, as the students seemed as subdued themselves as the weather— he announced to us that we were all excused of our first period's classes, so that we could attend the service in Mrs. Norris' memory that would be held at the courtyard outside the Entrance Hall, just after breakfast was over.

I let out a long sigh, my eyes closed, my ankle flaring, and whispered 'Stupid' under my breath.

Stupid, because it was my fault, all of this. I could have prevented it all. If only I hadn't visited the Library yesterday, before going to Myrtle's bathroom —I had wanted Madam Pince to see me around as she prowled across her domains, so that I'd have some sort of alibi in case I was ever confronted for missing the Feast— then I could have intercepted Luna as she was getting into the chamber, still alone and vulnerable. No dead cats, no messages, no nothing.

Or if I'd paid more attention at Flourish and Blotts, enough to realise Ginny hadn't picked up the diary back from where it fell —and why would she? She didn't knew it even existed in the first place, so of course she didn't miss it when picking up her own stuff!

"–not that anybody will miss her," Draco was saying in a low tone, while Dumbledore's speech turned to how we should be vigilant after these grave and sad events. "That cat was a bloody pest. I say, this Heir has done us a favour, they should give them the trophy for Special Services to the School."

There were a couple of quiet, mean laughs at that, then Parkinson whispered: "If only they'd get started on the mudbloods next. And some of the half-bloods too, those that don't know their place."

I knew that needling voice of hers, well enough to realise she was provoking me, trying to get a rise out of me. A good try, as if I got angry and loud during his speech I would no doubt summon Dumbledore's reproving stare onto myself. But it was easy to ignore it today, as wrapped up in my own feelings and thoughts as I was.

"Smart of the headmaster, to cancel the first period classes," commented Zabini idly, between bites of a pastry. "This way there is no excuse not to go to the service. I reckon the courtyard would have been quite empty, otherwise."

"Yes. Nobody in their right mind would want to be there," agreed Warrington. "But everyone in our house should attend. It's the Heir of Slytherin, after all; and you wouldn't enjoy getting associated to them, whoever they are."

Which turned the conversation to the matter of who could be behind it all. And despite some curious gazes going my way, thankfully it didn't seem like I was that much of a suspect, not really. Not even after missing the Feast and being the last one to arrive to our common room.

See, the thing to remember about Slytherins is that they —we— had a well developed sense of pride. And because I had been so thoroughly humiliated the year before, I couldn't reasonably be the Heir myself. Someone who had allegedly opened the Chamber of Secrets and then gone and murdered Filch's cat with some sort of dark curse, as Dumbledore had just finished explaining —although I knew for a fact that it had actually been the basilisk's deadly stare— would have never allowed themselves to be turned into an insect in front of the entire house, right?

It simply didn't fit: if I had that sort of power, I'd have used it before. Add to that the fact that I was a half-blood, and so most likely to side with the Muggleborns than against them —plus a second-year only— and that about cleared me of most suspicion.

Most, but not all. Because I had arrived way too late to be fully innocent, truth be told, and so I gathered some more stares and whispers as we left the Great Hall to go pay our respects, and even an indirect question or two that I gave excuses to.

Zabini's theory —that he was smug enough to present to me, and to everyone in hearing range for that matter— was that while I couldn't be the Heir myself —since they obviously had to be an older, pure-blood student, wink-wink— I must have witnessed something, or being involved somehow. And my gloomy demeanour and refusals to elaborate only gave credence to the idea, so before long my own house-mates started to suggest to each other that I had been threatened to keep my mouth shut.

Which was better to the alternative, to be fair; so whether or not Blaise had been honest about that being what he truly believed, I at least was thankful for its practical results.

It didn't rain on us as we reached the courtyard to gather in a wide circle around the staff. There was Dumbledore at the centre, escorted by the Heads of the four Houses, and by Filch to the left side —who looked like a ghost, like it was him and not his cat who had died; pallid and thin, his hair wild and his gaze lost in the distance.

I didn't have that much appreciation for the Hogwarts' caretaker —I mean, who did?— but that didn't mean I enjoyed seeing the broken shell of a man that greeted us there. Although greeted would be quite the overstatement, as he simply ignored the lot of us. Except for Potter: for a moment his eyes fixated on the Boy Who Lived —who was for once attempting his best at being inconspicuous, observing the proceedings from as far as possible, by the colonnade that enclosed the courtyard— and he clenched his fists as if in a rictus of resentment.

I wondered what this could mean, going forward. There was no lying to myself: this was a change to the plot, as it were, and an unpredictable one to boot: so, my worst nightmare. But what now? Would Filch try and actually do something against Harry? In my fore-memories he was merely an unpleasant annoyance, but maybe that would be about to change now; maybe he'd take a more active role.

Although, active wasn't what came to mind when seeing him; and I couldn't discount the opposite: that he'd leave the castle, too pained to continue with his duties. And if he did and needed replacing... well, all bets were off.

The service was a quick, informal thing presided by the headmaster; nothing at all like the one he himself would receive in a few years, assuming the timeline didn't change. There was no casket in view —they must have disposed of the cat's body already— as he pronounced yet another short speech, this one focused on Mrs. Norris' few virtues: her undoubted intelligence, her tireless patrolling of the school... It painted a kinder picture of her; probably a more virtuous one than she truly deserved, as —at the risk of agreeing with Draco— for us students she'd always been little more than a nuisance.

But then Dumbledore chose to finish his speech with some ominous words, ones that left an eerie aftertaste to the proceedings. He said: "... and it is quite probable that this Heir of Slytherin, whomever they might be, desired a more grisly debut to herald their presence —preferring instead to strike at the heart of our community by targeting a student directly. Hence, we owe a great debt of gratitude to dear Mrs. Norris and her vigilance against malfeasance, for it was indeed her timely intervention that prevented such a dreadful event. By her noble sacrifice, it is likely she spared one of our own students from a grave harm."

Uh... well, I hadn't thought of that. Had Luna —Riddle— actually tried to murder a Muggleborn student yesterday, only for Mrs. Norris to force his hand prematurely? Was that what had happened in the original timeline as well? If so, I had to be really, bloody thankful that the threads of destiny hadn't gone any further than this.

Not that it would matter; now that I had the book. There would be no more attacks.

Speaking of which, when the service ended and we started to file out and return to our common rooms —as we had some free time before our next class of the day— it was a hard internal fight for me not to go along with the girls, if only to double check if the diary was still inside my trunk. But I fell behind, hesitating and unsure as to how to breach the ice.

It was Daphne who noticed: "Aren't you coming with us, Sylvia?"

"Uhm... you go ahead. I better pay a quick visit to Madam Pomfrey now that I have the time; I think I sprained my ankle last night."

"Of course she did," commented Tracey in a cutting tone, not even looking at me. Then she proceeded to ignore me for good, saying to the other two girls: "Come on, let's hurry down before the older years take all the good seats."

I knew I'd decided to give her space, not to press. And that childish spats were short and easily forgotten and forgiven.

I knew that.

But guess what? I was a child too. And it just made my blood boil, the way she disregarded me, the way she didn't even face me. As if I wasn't there; as if out of a sudden I didn't matter anymore to her.

"You can come with me, if you don't believe me," I challenged her, crossing my arms. Which was probably a mistake.

She whirled around to face me again, as if some sort of insect had suddenly stung her. "Oh? Now you want me to come with you?" she said. "Why's that? Aren't Granger, Potter and Weasley your first choice anyway?"

I blinked. "What?"

She put her hands on her hips as she regarded me, in a posture that reminded me of the Giraffe, back at the Residence: "I'm not an idiot, Sylvia! I know you spent yesterday's evening with them. How odd that they also skipped the entire Hallowe'en Feast, and then they were right there when we found the message! I was surprised we didn't see you there too, but perhaps you were hiding behind a corner?"

"I wasn't there, Tracey! I wasn't with them."

But she wasn't listening to me any longer, she just went on with her tirade: "Like last year too, right?! You did the exact same thing, rushing after them on Hallowe'en! And then again when they went after Professor Quirrell, you were quick to–"

"That's not fair; you were there too! And you know that–"

"Only because I followed you!"

"–that they actually needed help! I was right to go after them!"

"What about Potions, then? You were very quick to accept Granger's proposal, weren't you? You didn't even think to ask Sally and me!"

"I wanted to sit with you! It's not my fault Daphne wasn't there and we couldn't arrange the seats better! But Granger's offer was a good option."

"Good for you, of course! You should've seen yourself, how relieved you looked when she mentioned sitting with you. Why is it that you care about them so much?! Is this all about Potter's fame? Do you like the limelight so bad that you'd rather leave us behind just to spend a few minutes in their company? So what, they invite you into one of their antics and you go rushing after them, like a lapdog?"

"Careful now, Tracey," I warned in a cold tone, my teeth clenched.

She paused for a moment, her eyes slightly widened. But then she did something surprising: she visibly steeled herself and took a step towards me as she said: "I guess I understand now why you asked the hat to sort you into Gryffindor. You only wanted to be with them, didn't you? But of course the hat saw right through that... I only wish I'd realised earlier too."

"Realised what? Go ahead Tracey, why don't you say it?" I challenged her. My ankle hurt, and my heart beat fast, and my hand had gone to my wand.

"Where were you yesterday?" interrupted Daphne instead, her voice mild among our raised tones, as if this was just some idle chit-chat.

I waited for a beat as I centred myself, searching for an answer. The thing was, I could tell them something about what had happened, but I knew it would only invite even more questions. Even if I told them I'd seen something strange by chance and went off to investigate it, my timing was very suspicious. I had decided to miss the Feast well in advance, after all, the very same night somebody just happened to kill Filch's cat. It was too much an ask, for them to believe it had been merely a coincidence.

And I'd known that. But I had hoped they'd allow me this one secret, this one transgression. Because it would all be over now, so I had known it was simply a matter of moving them past this one hurdle, before everything would be back to normal.

Except that now they refused to budge. And I was caught between a rock and a hard place, as I didn't want them to get involved; because I couldn't forget how the whole thing with Quirrell had hurt Tracey, in the end. How she'd have been better off without me dragging her into this shit. I wasn't about to repeat that same mistake, not with something as deadly as Riddle and his basilisk.

And maybe I was a little bit angry; that too.

"I went to the Library," I said through gritted teeth, sticking to my guns, "you can ask bloody Madam Pince if you don't believe me. I didn't meet with any Gryffindors."

"Right," replied Tracey, rolling her eyes at Daphne and Perks. "Whatever, she can keep her secrets. Let's head back."

Tracey marched ahead, not waiting for any of us. The other girls stood there for a beat, torn between the two of us; but finally Daphne gave me a saddened, resigned look and followed in Tracey's footsteps, Perks quickly joining her.

I took a first step after them —causing yet another wave of pain to radiate from my ankle— then stopped.

They had left me behind, right there; the last student still on the courtyard.

I sighed, my gaze going upwards to that heavy, grey sky. And to the imposing bulk of the castle looming over me; the Clock Tower rising high right in front, but with the top of the Ravenclaw tower visible to its side too, the same one I'd climbed the night before.

Yeah, I guessed I could have handled this shit better.

I had a sudden panic, right then, a sudden unwelcome idea hitting me as if out of the blue: because what if Tracey had stolen the diary? That would explain her mood, wouldn't it? How angry she was with me out of a sudden. Hadn't something like that happened in the story with Ron Weasley and one of the Horcruxes too?

I almost acted on that impulse, wanting nothing but to rush to the dorms after the girls, check on my trunk.

But I didn't, because I knew it couldn't be the case. Tracey had left the dorm ahead of me, and I'd of course checked the trunk right before leaving, so it was impossible. Or, well... not really impossible —because magic— just incredibly unlikely.

No, the true reason for that idea to sound so appealing was that it would have absolved me, if Tracey's mind had been tampered with. And it would've been so easy to fix it, too: just take the book back and place it somewhere else, and everything would be good once more. No messy, conflicting minefield of emotions to navigate.

So easy.

I didn't go after her, in the end. Instead I did as I'd told them and headed back into the castle and towards the Hospital Wing. In part because it was true that my ankle still hurt a lot, but also because I wanted... I needed to see her, Luna. I needed to see how she'd react to me, and whether she'd remember anything of our fight.

I arrived to the Hospital Wing to discover that it must've been a pretty quiet day for Madam Pomfrey, as nearly all of the patients' beds were empty, their sheets smoothly tucked in. All except for a single one in the entire pavilion: a single bed enclosed by half-drawn privacy curtains.

There was no Madam Pomfrey in sight when I arrived, and so after a few beats of awkwardly waiting by the entrance, I took a few tentative steps towards the occupied bed, the sound of my shoes against the smooth floors too loud to my own ears. Once more my hand went to my pocket on its own, to reach for my wand as if it was a lifeboat; as if it was my very own version of Astrid's blanket.

There was enough of a gap in the curtains for me to take a quick look inside, and with my mouth dry and my muscles tense I approached it and leant forward.

Luna lied on the bed, either sleeping or unconscious. Her skin looked pale, but I didn't have enough familiarity with her complexion to tell whether that was odd or not. Her breath, though, seemed even and relaxed.

Just an asleep, innocent eleven year old girl. Nobody would have suspected her of unleashing a giant magical snake on the school the day before, or of trying to cast the Killing Curse on me.

I stood there a few moments, waiting for... I don't know; something. For her to wake up and apologise, maybe, or tell me she was going to finish that invocation one of these days. At least that way I would have known where we stood.

But she didn't wake up, and I was still standing there when the main doors opened once more behind me, almost causing me to jump in the air like I was a cat myself. I quickly stepped back from the curtains, feeling a bit sheepish at being caught snooping around; but it was too late anyway.

"Ah, Miss Sarramond," said Dumbledore, walking towards the enclosed bed. He was still wearing the same set of robes from earlier, some uncharacteristically sober ones. "Come to check up on a fellow student, I gather?"

The headmaster was escorted by Madam Pomfrey and another man, wearing bright green robes himself and a purple beanie over a mane of blonde hair, as if he had to compensate for the headmaster's solemnity. I wouldn't have recognised him, looking both younger and thinner than his counterpart from the films, but his identity became obvious the moment he rushed ahead, not sparing me any glance as he muttered "Oh, Luna. My Luna..."

I stepped back to give them some privacy as I replied to the headmaster: "Uhm... actually, I was looking for a painkiller? I think I sprained my ankle."

"Indeed. We do seem to have our fair number of students with sprained ankles, don't we, Poppy?" remarked Dumbledore, his voice hinting amusement. "Must be all that dashing about in the corridors and up the staircases, I daresay."

I tensed at his words. What did that mean? Did he know anything? Had any of the portraits saw me running across the castle yesterday, told on me?

Shit. And with my sunglasses deep inside my pockets —because I hadn't expected to run into any legilimens today— I wasn't about to look up into the headmaster's face to check if he was merely joking or if there was a second meaning hiding within his words.

Not that I had much chance to, because Madam Pomfrey quickly rushed me to an empty bed by one of the tall windows, then forced me to sit on it and lift up the end of my robes to show her the injury.

"That's not a sprained ankle, girl; that's a burn!" she exclaimed upon seeing my red, swollen skin —which at least didn't look like an imprinted hand anymore; just a large, fiery red blob. "How did you get that?"

I gave a non-committal shrug, to which Pomfrey replied with a frustrated tsk, as she instructed me to wait there for her to retrieve her salve.

I risked a glance at Dumbledore, who was staring at my burn with a curious expression.

"How is she?" I asked him, gesturing with my head towards Luna's bed. In part to distract him from the mystery of my own injury, in part because I actually wanted to know.

He blinked distracted for a moment. "Ah... it appears to be a case of profound magical exhaustion. It seems she collapsed after overexerting herself, perhaps performing more magic than her young body could bear. The fortunate news is that there will be no lasting effects: she simply needs time and care until she regains her full strength."

I nodded absently. Xenophilius had opened the curtains and sat next to his daughter, who had waken up. Luna's sleepy eyes looked in my direction for a moment, but it didn't seem like she recognised me at all. I let out a soft, relieved breath at that.

Dumbledore remained silent, looking at me over his half-moon glasses. Then, after a beat, he asked: "Is there something you want to tell me, Sylvia?"

Shit.

I closed my eyes, if only to gain a few more seconds to think. Just where in the nine hells did Madam Pomfrey store her bloody salves?

But the witch wasn't going to rescue me. Right... I could even believe Dumbledore might have signalled her to take her sweet time; so I looked back at the headmaster —avoiding his eyes, of course— and said the first thing that crossed my mind:

"Why didn't you tell me you are my legal representative?"

My tone came out harsh and accusing; perhaps because the confrontation with Tracey from earlier was still boiling in my veins. But it worked nevertheless, and Dumbledore's eyebrows rose up at once.

"Ah..." he said, a touch of regret in his tone. "It seems I owe you an apology, Sylvia. The matter simply slipped my mind. Your situation being an orphan witch raised by Muggles unaware of the magical world is unusual, but not without precedent. In such cases it is often best for a student's legal representative to be a member of the school's staff, if only for ease of access. I assumed that role myself last year, prior to your Hogwarts letter being sent, and with the intention of transferring it to your Head of House once you were sorted. However, with the many events that transpired last year, some of which you are undoubtedly aware of, this detail escaped my attention."

"Right..."

He remained silent for a moment, then said, very gently: "Would you perhaps prefer it, if I abdicated this responsibility on your Head of House?"

"Snape?" I asked. I considered it for all of a second, then shook my head: "No, that's... No. He didn't even allow me to buy an owl! I mean, what if I have an emergency while I'm at the Residence?"

"Professor Snape, please... Yes, he does have a reputation for being rather stringent about the rules. I shall ensure you have a means of communication before you depart for your summer's vacations, but I trust no such situation presented itself?"

Odd, to see a contrite Dumbledore. It almost disarmed me, almost felt like I could trust him, somehow. I carefully chose my next words:

"There was something. I... it turned out I'm not a Muggleborn," I admitted, without stating outright what I was. I didn't explain how I knew, either: I figured he'd probably know about Nott's ritual by now; and if he didn't, I wasn't going to incriminate myself. "And I... want to know more about my past. I did some digging last year: I learnt that the police that found me were probably obliviated; but I need some help to know for sure if that was the case, and if so... why? What did they see?"

He nodded, maybe not realising how vulnerable this confession had made me feel. How dangerous it was, for me to confide in him with even these meagre details. But if I wanted to learn more about my origins —and I definitely wanted to learn more about them— there was no going around it. I was a child, and would never get past the barrier of the Ministry's bureaucracy on my own. I needed a legal representative, and which one could ever be more effective than Albus bloody Dumbledore, the Chief Warlock himself?

But also... which one could ever be more dangerous?

"I assure you, Sylvia, I will make whatever inquiries I can," he said. Then he paused, as if hesitating. "However... I should forewarn you: even if we manage to locate your birth family, assuming they still live, there is a significant possibility that they may not wish to rekindle a relationship with you, given all these years of silence."

Joke was on him, I had already given up on the birth family thing a long time ago; there was only one family I was interested in having, and they were a country —and a life— away. I said: "I know. It's not for them; it's for me. I... want to know."

But it was good; if he thought that was what I wanted —just an orphan girl desperate to find her family— that would only help me disguise my true intentions. Plus: I didn't need him to figure it all out; just enough to point me in the correct direction. There was still loads that he didn't know about —my fore-memories, my blood— and I pretty much planned to keep it that way. Hard for him to connect the dots if I kept them well hidden from his gaze.

Dumbledore nodded. "Of course. And remember, Sylvia: whatever these inquiries lead to, you are not alone. Your friends here at Hogwarts have the potential to become your family of choice, should you allow them into your heart."

Yeah... as if I'd still have any friends left, after today. I just nodded weakly.

He gave me a nod of his own after that, then said his goodbyes and walked away towards the entrance door. I observed his parting figure without a word, conflicted myself.

"It was Tom Riddle," I said to his back.

It was barely more than a whisper —as if I hadn't fully committed to saying it— but still it registered, because he went eerily, completely still. Then he turned to look at me, his expression unreadable as he approached my bed once more with solemn steps.

"Tom Riddle's diary," I explained. I found the intensity of his gaze too overpowering —overwhelming, like he was trying to look into my soul— so I turned my eyes towards Luna. "I ran across her last night. She must have found it and... and I believe it was possessing her, somehow. We fought, and I took the book away from her. That's when she... when she collapsed."

He didn't say anything for a few long seconds, but I didn't risk turning my head towards him. I knew what I'd see: the accusation in his eyes, the disappointment. I had left Luna alone last night, after all, abandoned to her own luck. I could have warned someone, let any of the adult staff know. Hell, even telling a house-elf would've been better than nothing! For all I knew, she was in need of urgent magical care.

But I had done nothing of the sort.

"This book," said Dumbledore slowly, his tone careful, "do you still have it with you, perhaps?"

I nodded. "It's in my trunk. I can get it later and bring it to you."

"There might be a faster way," he said. "Poggle, if you don't mind..."

I jerked a little when one of Hogwarts' house-elves apparated right next to my bed. A quick explanation from the headmaster later, and soon enough he blinked out of existence, only to reappear a second later with my own trunk.

I didn't protest, stepping out of the bed to open its lock and dig through its contents. There was that same fear from before, that the diary wouldn't be inside anymore, that it would have found a way to escape. But sure enough: my hand grasped the leather bound notebook, and I extracted it to place it on the bed, next to Dumbledore —who instructed Poggle to take my belongings back to my dorm, then picked up the cursed book.

I had always intended for it to end in Dumbledore's hands somehow, but not like this. In my half-cooked plans I imagined I'd figure out a way to place it somewhere where he'd accidentally find it, or have one of the Golden Trio deliver it themselves. All in an effort not to taint his perception of me, not to strengthen that comparison between me and Riddle that already existed in his mind.

Well, it seemed that ship had sailed now.

The headmaster opened it, leafed through its blank pages as if they would contain some crucial sought-after answer; then paused for a moment on the words that were written on its first page —'T. M. Riddle'

"Thank you, Sylvia," he said at last, an eternity later. "You did a very brave thing."

He didn't clarify if he meant fighting Luna yesterday, or returning the book just now. And I didn't ask, feeling sufficiently humiliated as it was. I looked away —at Luna, again— and felt his hand grasp my shoulder for a moment. But unlike Snape, he didn't clench it to drag me along; he simply let go and walked away. I risked a glance and saw him retreating towards the Hospital Wing's doors, his whole body posture looking visibly older.

Why was I like this? Why had I needed to extract a promise out of him first, before I allowed myself to tell him the truth?

Why did I have to turn everything into a trade, into a bargain?

I shook my head softly, laying sideways on the bed, and saw Madam Pomfrey finally returning from her office —which only increased my suspicions about her perfect timing. But before she could reach me, Dumbledore rushed back towards my bed.

"Sylvia!" he exclaimed, gesturing towards my ankle. "That injury, did you receive it during your confrontation last night?"

I nodded, a cold shiver flooding my body. It only intensified when he produced his wand and aimed it at my wound, making some very complicated movements over it. A bunch of colourful threads manifested in mid-air around my leg.

And by the time he lowered his gaze for a beat, then pulled my own privacy curtains closed around my bed, my heart was beating like crazy and there were alarms ringing inside my head.

"Sylvia," he said, his voice oddly calm now. "Have your Defence Against the Dark Arts professors already taught you about injuries caused by dark magic?"

I nodded, fighting back tears. "Duskhaven, she... she said... said that they never heal."

I risked a look at his eyes for once. They were sad, and full of pity as he regarded me. Then Madam Pomfrey joined us within the enclosed space.

"Poppy," said the headmaster, to the witch's visible horror as her own gaze landed on the lines of magic surrounding my burn. "I fear your salve will not suffice for this."