Snape set my detention for the afternoon of the next Saturday, the very same day that the first Quidditch match of the season was meant to take place: Gryffindor versus Slytherin. I figured he wanted me to miss whatever celebrations took place in the common room after what everyone in my house was certain would be an easy victory.

Joke was on him though, I happened to know the Gryffindors would win that match thanks to the ace up their sleeve that McGonagall's bending of the rules would grant them. And even if that weren't the case in this brand new timeline, I wasn't planning on taking part in anything at all that happened in our common room. I wasn't that suicidal.

The days leading up to it I felt uncharacteristically morose, in fact. Perhaps because of the changing weather, a deep cold having taken command of the castle —the winter cloak and my robes' hood helped, but they still left too much of my body exposed to the icy world to my liking. Or perhaps because it heralded the arrival of winter break, which pretty much everyone but me was looking forward to.

The Friday before the weekend of my detention we had Defence Against the Dark Arts, where we kept practising the boring Verdimillious charm and its different colour variations. I'd been having trouble with that one, oddly enough: I could cast the sparks with ease, but I couldn't keep them going for more than a few seconds; I was only getting some pretty but quite short bursts. I knew enough fundamentals of magic theory at this point that it was easy to diagnose the cause: a lack of focus. But it was hard to concentrate on the spells when I could feel the pressure mounting with every day that passed, every hour we got closer to my deadline.

I was quickly running out of time, and I didn't see much of an exit anymore. The Ministry angle would simply take too long: Tracey had indeed owled her parents, who said they'd rather meet me in person and discuss the matter with me —she hadn't told them about Selwyn's threats, of course, so they didn't seem in a hurry. They offered to meet over the Holidays, but in a bout of optimism I'd decided I would stay at Hogwarts rather than spending those days at the Residence. There were... a couple of reasons for that: one of them was that it would be time I could use to keep practising spells and reading the books in the Library, both of which I wouldn't have access to back in the Muggle world. The other one was that opening a Ministerial inquiry wouldn't help much in the little time I had left; if I didn't have a satisfying answer for Selwyn come winter break, it would already be too late.

So now I depended entirely on Theodore Nott coming through for me. I hadn't interacted with him ever since the Hallowe'en Feast, and I was still anxiously awaiting his response; with the hope that he wouldn't have forgotten about it, or worse, simply lied to me, to get me out of his hair.

If worse came to worst, I figured I still had the Snape option, asking him for help and taking whatever repercussions came along with my chin up. And then... then there was the nuclear option too: telling Dumbledore and hoping he'd figure out some way to get me out of the predicament —maybe by switching me to a different house. Which perhaps he'd actually do, if I told him what I knew about what the future held.

So it was a waiting game. And in the meantime I went to class, studied, and pretty much kept to my routine. Parkinson and Bulstrode were starting to falter in their bullying campaign, the cauldron event seemingly leaving a strong impression in them of the lengths I was willing to go —because none of my housemates except for Tracey, and somehow Zabini, realised it had been pretty much a happy accident on my part— and in return I let up on my own reprisals. Which also saved me from spending the last of my diminishing Galleons in stupid prank items.

So yeah, with all of that in my mind of course my results with the Verdimillious spell at class were inconsistent; but it still was odd for me, so I wasn't too surprised when after the class ended and we were packing our things Professor Duskhaven said: "Miss Sarramond. A moment of your time, please."

I nodded to Tracey, signalling her to go ahead, and approached the older witch.

"I know, I know," I said. "Sorry, I just have too much stuff in my head, with the detention tomorrow, and winter break coming and all that."

She tilted her head and said: "If that's the case, why do you insist in making it more difficult for yourself?"

"Uh?"

She produced her wand and demonstrated the spell, casting a burst of red sparks. "This is the wand movement required. But you're adding a backward swish at the end, like this. Why is that?"

"Oh," I said, suddenly feeling self-conscious at being caught as something of a tryhard. "It's a tip I read in a duelling book. It modifies the spells to make them easier to link into a chain, to cast them faster."

She nodded once. "Yes, that was what I was fearing. Tell me, are you reading those books out of a desire to someday become a duellist, or merely to improve your defensive capabilities?"

I frowned. "Those... are the same thing, no? If I'm good at duelling, I'll be good at defence too."

"And therein lies your mistake, Miss Sarramond: duelling is a sport."

That... didn't really track with my experience at Hogwarts so far, the books I'd read, or even what my fore-memories told me of duelling in the Wizarding World.

"I don't know," I challenged her. "I figured they were related. Like when they say Professor Flitwick is a great duellist, doesn't that mean he's good at fighting if needed too? Or with my Head of House? I doubt Professor Snape takes it as a sport."

"Yes, the confusion is not helped by many people using the word 'duel' when they actually mean 'skirmish'. But make no mistake, the books you're probably reading are meant for those trying to participate in duelling championships. And unlike actual fights, tournaments have clear norms and regulations. In those, the opponents always start casting at the same time, and so being able to cast faster is a clear advantage. This is why many so-called duelling books put such a focus on it, and why they developed the chaining technique."

"But isn't being able to cast fast always important, anyway?"

"I'd have figured after your experience with the acromantulas you would know by now that the properly chosen, well invoked spell is worth a dozen rushed ones. Speed has its value, yes, but never at the cost of flexibility, or shoddy wandwork."

I shrugged. "Well, the circumstances–"

"Exactly. The circumstances are always unpredictable, unlike in a tournament duel. Duelling experts can get away with those rigid chains of spells precisely because they know they'll never have to face dangerous beasts when using them, or more than one simultaneous enemy. They can practise their Hinde-Cobris openings with the certainty that they'll never be countered with a Killing Curse.

"But in a real fight, Miss Sarramond, you'll never have such guarantees; which is why flexibility should be a priority, as should be identifying the nature of the threat and the most effective counter. If you're facing an acromantula, perhaps don't use a chain of spells designed to hamper a wizard's mobility. Use fire instead. An acromantula has four times as many legs as a wizard, but its exoskeleton limits how quickly it can cool its body down, making them susceptible to the very same Fire-Making Charm you were taught in Herbology."

I blinked. "Uhm... right. So is there any book I could read, for... you know, actual fighting techniques? I read 'The Definitive Self-Defence', but it's just a list of spells."

She conjured a piece of parchment and a quill, and noted down a few names. "Try any of these. Sadly, the books with the word 'duelling' in their title are always more popular, so you aren't the first student led astray by their appeal. But these ones should help you widen your breadth. In particular, 'A Treatise on Defensive Magic' by Oleander Rook is a required reading for any apprentice curse-breakers or Aurors in North America, although... it might be too dense for your age."

I nodded, accepting the list and looking at her curiously as we left the classroom. Was that how she saw me? As someone with the potential to be an Auror? A curse-breaker? I wasn't sure I wanted to be any of those things, to risk my life on a daily basis. I hadn't given much thought to future professions, in fact, still hoping I could cheat my way into unfathomable richness thanks to my fore-memories.

But it wouldn't be bad to at least have the training of one, in any case, with a war approaching and whatnot. So I pocketed the list, determined to work through it the next time I went into the library.

I had hoped to do that on Saturday, in fact, while the rest of the student body was busy at the Quidditch match. But Daphne Greengrass put a rainy end to my parade the moment I mentioned it to Tracey during breakfast.

"You're going to the match, both of you," she said, surprisingly forceful.

"I was always going to go," clarified Tracey. Unnecessarily, because she had procured herself one of those green Quidditch scarves, with the name of our house along the snake emblem both stamped on it.

"Good," she continued, focusing on me next. "It's a way of showing house unity and support for Slytherin. So everyone must be there."

I looked around for an exit, finding none, only agreement by my traitorous housemates. Even Zabini —who I figured also had better stuff to do than spend his morning watching some kids pirouetting in the air and throwing bludgers around— seemed to agree with the sentiment when my gaze met his. But then he slowly rose some sort of wizarding comic book over the lip of his robes' pocket, giving me a sly grin.

Ugh! I'd left my own books back in the dorm, assuming I'd go back to them later.

"And afterwards I have detention with Snape. This is a nightmare," I declared.

"Don't be so dramatic," said Daphne. "I'm sure the match will be fun."

"I'm not dramatic! This is the worst day of my whole life!"

With no recourse or escape I had no other option but to march along with the rest of my house towards the Quidditch pitch, and slowly we filled out the seats assigned to our house. The stands were high enough to be exposed to the cold breeze, although at least not as high as those in the towers meant mostly for professors, prefects and some of the parents. I tried to keep my heat by stomping on the wooden floor, all the while envying Tracey's scarf. The girl had taken a spot in the front bench and was also bouncing like me, but in nervous impatience. To my right side, I could heard Malfoy whining about Potter being allowed to play:

"It's simply not fair. McGonagall is playing favourites, simple as that! And it's always him, isn't it? Always Potter who gets all the special treatment..."

"She's a hypocrite," I said, in a rare show of agreement with the blonde heir. "She's always going on about following the rules, but then goes behind everyone's back to do this. I bet–"

"Who asked you?" spat Bulstrode.

"No... let her finish, Millicent," said Malfoy. "You bet what, Sarramond?"

"I bet they'll let him have his very own custom broom, better than those of the other players."

"He can't. First years aren't allowed to bring our own brooms to Hogwarts; if we were, I wouldn't be using that splintery old thing in our Flying class. But of course you didn't know that; you probably don't own a broom yourself."

"No," I corrected, waving my hand towards Potter and his very obviously different broom as the players finally strode into the pitch. "We aren't allowed our own brooms. But he is."

"It can't be!" shouted Malfoy. "This is outrageous! This match is rigged!"

He went like that for a few minutes, even after the match itself had started. Zabini sent me an annoyed glare for lighting his fuse, but I shrugged. Disparaging Potter was always an easy way to gain some points with Malfoy, and this time I was pretty sure it wouldn't be overheard by anyone in the other houses, or affect the future plot in any relevant ways. I was only pointing the obvious, after all. It also helped that I felt personally wronged by how evidently the older witch was playing favourites.

Not that Snape didn't do it too, but at least he never tried to claim any sort of higher ground.

Besides, at this point everyone in Slytherin were so used to his rants that we could easily tune him out. I did, paying more attention to the few first plays of the match, observing the two teams weave in and around the open space, shooting cannon balls at each other like madmen. But soon enough the novelty of it wore thin —thanks in no small part to the fact that I still didn't fully understand the rules of the game— and I found my eyes drifting towards the other stands, including the professors'. All of the teachers were there... all except for Quirrell, of course.

I narrowed my eyes, trying to see the fine details. This was a good moment to figure out whose side Xenia Duskhaven was in. If there was an attempt on Harry Potter's life, as there had been in the original story, I should be able to see if she was speaking an invocation or something.

But the match continued without incident and started to drag on. Unlike in the movies, this just... kept... going. It was as boring as I'd feared, but at least Tracey seemed to be enjoying herself, shouting arcane things like "Rising below you, Pucey!" and "That's a foul! He's cobbing!"

And she wasn't the only one. Most of my housemates' attention was wrapped in the match, in fact. Most, but not all; Theodore Nott chose that moment to move onto the empty space next to me, and said:

"There is a test."

"Uh? A test?"

"Yes," he whispered. "A blood test, to discover someone's... purity."

My head snapped to him. "They replied, your family? Do you have it with you?"

He nodded, and produced a closed envelope. I went to grab it, but he pulled it back from my reach. "Remember, you said you wouldn't pester me again, and that–"

"Yes, yes. Give me," I grabbed the envelope and opened it. The piece of parchment inside contained a list of ingredients, and instructions for something that resembled a potion or... not really, it actually was...

"A ritual?" I asked.

"Yes. Not so different from brewing a potion; you put the ingredients in their proper places along the runic pattern, and follow the incantation."

I rose my gaze to look at his eyes. "Thanks. I will keep my promise not to drag you into this, but I might need to tell Selwyn where the ritual came from."

"That's not what we agreed," he snapped.

I shrugged. "But how will he know it's a real ritual, and not something I just came up with? Without your family's name backing it up, it's useless."

He seemed to consider that for a moment, then gave me a nod. "Alright. But don't tell anyone else. This ritual is not... it's not something I'd want the Ministry to know about."

"What do you mean?" I asked, eyeing the parchment. "Is it dark magic?"

"No, not quite... just..." he sighed, "just look at the list of ingredients."

I did, scanning the words quickly. It wasn't a long list, and most of it resembled the kind of normal ingredients that we used in Potions. For a magical definition of 'normal' that is: doxy eggs and three types of bones and essence of searoot... things that I was pretty sure you'd be able to find at a Diagon Alley apothecary —or inside the Potions classroom's cupboard of ingredients, for that matter.

And then I saw it.

"Unicorn blood?! You've got to be kidding me!"

"Not so loud!" he grumbled, his eyes looking at the people around us, who were all entranced by some particularly rough spot of play or something, judging by all the sudden booing.

"But where am I going to find that? And isn't it illegal or something?"

"Yes! So keep it secret! Now you know why nobody does this test anymore. The blood is very expensive, but you can find it in Knockturn Alley, of course, if you know where to ask."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "And do you?"

Nott looked confused for a beat, then alarmed. "Don't even try! I'm not going to get the uni— you know what for you! That's your problem, I've already done more than enough!"

With that, he walked away and left me alone with the parchment. I took another glance at it, then sighed and put it folded into my pocket, my eyes going back to the players in the sky.

It was a complication, for sure, but I had a couple ideas of where to find unicorn blood thanks to my fore-memories. I wasn't even going to try with Knockturn Alley, though: I didn't know who to ask, and didn't have money to pay for it —stealing from a store that sold forbidden ingredients to probably dark wizards also sounded a tiny bit too risky even for me.

But I knew Snape had supplies other than those he made available during Potions class, so that was an option. And then... my eyes went to the tree canopy visible beyond the top of the pitch... well, then there was the Forbidden Forest.

So I wasn't feeling that peeved by the time the match concluded, with no attempts on Harry Potter's life and with the expected Gryffindor victory —the boy catching the Snitch with his mouth, just as in the plot I remembered, which prompted another tirade by Malfoy on how that wasn't a legal catch. Whatever, at least we got to finally return to the castle and its somewhat warmer temperature.

After lunch I went to serve my detention. I found the Potions classroom oddly calm: the tables empty and clear of ingredients for once, the stools neatly stored under them. I knocked on the door to the teacher's office, adjacent to the classroom, and entered once Snape replied with a neutral "Come in."

It was my first time in his office, and I found it surprisingly large —much more so than Filch's had been. There was a large central round table that Snape was using as a desk, with plenty of parchments and tomes spread on top of it, but that still barely covered but half of the large surface. He didn't even raise his gaze as I entered, and continued writing something down with his black quill.

I stood there, hands behind my back, patiently waiting for him to finish whatever he was doing and deign to acknowledge my presence. Meanwhile, I took a subreptitious look around the room. The walls were covered in all sorts of bottles and jars containing ingredients and finished potions, apparently sorted in a random order but that I suspected had some logic to it. But none of them looked like they contained illegal unicorn blood —which wasn't that surprising, I guessed, as it wasn't something you'd want to showcase to any and all visitors.

Two minutes later I shifted my weight, and let out a polite cough. He ignored me still.

There was also a fireplace by the side, currently out, and a short door like that of a large cupboard or larder embedded into the wall. Now that, that was promising.

Snape put his quill back into the inkwell, folded the parchment with precise motions and placed it into an envelope, then looked at me at last.

"What was it," he asked me, "that you put into Malfoy and Parkinson's cauldron, Miss Sarramond?"

His voice was calm, but I could sense a hint of threat underneath.

"Uhm... a stink pellet... sir."

"Tell me... do you know the alchemical composition of this... stink... pellet? Do you have any idea of its magical attributes; the processes that went into its creation, perhaps?"

"No."

"No. And, did you know exactly how far Mister Malfoy and Miss Parkinson were in their own brewing process? Did you know whether... say, they'd already put the billywig stings into their cauldron or not?"

I shook my head.

"Well?"

"No," I spat out, my eyes narrowing.

"So... you admit to putting an unknown magical substance into a brewing cauldron in an unknown stage, without having any idea of what type of reaction it would cause. Is this what you are... saying?"

I clenched my hands into fists. "Well, it was Parkinson who–"

"Who caused a cauldron to undergo a full runaway metamorphic reaction?" he said, in an icy tone.

I remained silent for a beat, observing him. I noticed there were no 'dunderheads' or 'half-wits' this time. This was the most furious I'd ever seen Snape, even accounting for the cauldron incident, and that gave me pause.

He fixated his eyes on me, and said in a scathing tone: "If you ever put your housemates in danger like this again, Miss Sarramond, that imbecile Selwyn will be the least of your problems. Is that... clear?"

I nodded.

"Is it?" he insisted.

"Like water."

He paused for a moment, grabbed his quill again, and pointed with it to the side of the room. "On the shelf to your right you'll find a jar of water beetles, some bottles and a potioneer knife. Separate the eyes, legs and wings and place each in their respective containers."

With that he pretty much went back to ignoring me. I walked up to the shelves, picked up the tools and the jar —which, to my dismay, was filled to the brim— and took a quick look around in case there was a place where to sit and work on the ingredients that I'd missed.

But no; there were no workbenches in his office. Only the same large central desk that Snape himself was using, which I guessed he expected me to sit at, since that was where the only other available chair was, and it was large enough to accommodate both of us. With a sigh, I sat down facing him, opened the jar and set to work.

Minutes went by, the only sounds in the office the soft scratching of Snape's quill against the parchment and the chopping of my own knife. And despite him acting like I wasn't there —his eyes never leaving the letters and exams and other stuff I didn't recognize— I didn't even for a minute entertain the idea that I might be able to step away from the table, to search for that unicorn blood I had no idea if he even possessed.

Eventually I had to ask: "Why am I doing this... sir? I mean, in class we always have to separate the parts ourselves, no?"

A couple of seconds passed, and I thought that maybe he was going to ignore my question, give me the cold shoulder like the overgrown sulky teenager he was, but then he answered: "They are not for class. Seeing as I had to take the time out of my schedule to replace the cauldron you damaged... the least you could do is help me with my other tasks."

"Separating beetle parts? What for? Is that something you–?"

"Focus... on your work."

I sighed, and remained silent for all of two minutes.

"Uhm... don't you have a Wizarding Wireless set? I bet with some music–"

He hit the table with the parchment in his hands, the sudden 'snap!' sound causing me to jump in my seat. "Silence! Pay more attention to what you're doing, you insufferable fool! Can't you see you're cutting those legs at different sizes?"

I bit my lip, nodded and went back to the stupid beetles, my fingertips now so greasy and slippery it was hard to know where one leg ended and the next started.

Time seemed to freeze to a standstill, minutes moving like molasses as I picked apart insect after insect. There was no clock in my line of sight, no window to tell time by. I wondered how Snape even knew when it was time to leave to class, or to go to the Great Hall for dinner; as I doubted the reclusive professor ever went anywhere else at all.

I mean, it was a Saturday, for God's sake. He should be at Hogsmeade or something, like sane people did. Not cooped in here doing... whatever it was he was doing.

But of course, maybe he had nobody to go to Hogsmeade with. And I could sympathise with that, at least, having suffered it myself during my foster years: the lack of meaningful social relationships —friends, they are called friends— turning into a focus on work instead. A refuge of sorts. So that you could pretend to yourself that it was your choice all along, that you kept reading those advanced school books from the year ahead because of your ambition, your superior discipline; and not because you'd rather waste away in your own room than be forced to watch as everyone else had their fun without you. It was terrible, being the odd one out, sitting in a corner while the other kids played together, never once looking at you.

Yeah, I could understand that.

But now I had friends, didn't I? One, at least, in the form of Tracey Davis. And seeing as there was no chance to get some free unicorn blood out of this detention, I'd rather it ended soon so that I could at least hang out with Tracey for the remainder of the day. So I ignored the brooding bat and focused on the damn beetles. And slowly but surely, the jar's contents started to go down. And maybe an eternity later, I placed the wings of the last of the insects in their respective bottle, and stretched out of the hunched over posture I'd unknowingly adopted for the last hour or so.

"I'm done!" I announced after a few seconds, when Snape didn't react.

He rose his gaze for a moment, then pointed towards the door in the corner. "Put the bottles in there," he ordered.

Yes! Yes-yes-yes!

"Sure!" I said, chipper, and walked up to the short door while trying to contain my enthusiasm, to look like I was merely happy the detention was over. There was a lock, but it was unlocked, and I could simply pull the door open. It led to a small walk-in cupboard, with shelves upon shelves taking up all three walls. There were rows of finished potions of all sorts, already bottled, and loads of ingredients —most the same sort of stuff we used in class, but some that looked more expensive, owing to how small their amounts were.

I took a look at the labels as I slotted my own containers into the few empty spaces I could find, and my shoulders sagged. There was a small silver box with some dusted unicorn horn, a few strands of unicorn hair in a glass vial, but no unicorn blood. In fact, everything looked annoyingly legal, for a former Death Eater.

Although perhaps...

I took a quick look over my shoulder, to double check I was out of Snape's direct line of sight, then pulled my wand out and whispered: "Revelio!"

There. Behind the leaves of peppermint. It was faint, hard to notice, but there was some sort of runes engraved into the wall. Some kind of enchantment. I walked closer to it and narrowed my eyes, trying to work it out... a double kaunan, and an othala with two accents I didn't recognise, one of them leading towards a trailing arithmantic circle of some sort. It was...

It was way above my current knowledge, that's what it was. I knew the runes and basic symbols because some of the equivalences in Transfiguration used them, but we hadn't really dove into arithmancy yet; most of McGonagall's explanations to do with that could be summed up as: 'you'll study it in future years, don't worry for now.'

It was probably some sort of secret compartment, I could guess, judging by the size of the circle. And because it made sense that Snape would want to keep some of his ingredients completely out of sight. But I wasn't going to open it anytime in the–

"Did you get lost, Sarramond?" asked Snape, right behind me.

I jerked, my heart skipping a beat, my wand almost jumping out of my hand. I quickly palmed it into my robe's wide sleeve as I turned around. The Potions Master was looming right over me, having walked up to the cupboard's door without me hearing even a single step.

How the bloody hell does he do that?

"No! Um... sorry, sir, I just..."

He grabbed my arm and pulled hard, physically dragging me out of the cupboard as his eyes scanned the shelves inside. I had to scramble not to lose my footing.

"Please," he drawled, "don't insult my intelligence."

I shut up and waited with my eyes low, adjusting my robes once Snape released his grasp on me at last. He closed the door, waved his wand over it, and I heard the sound of the lock latching closed.

I bit my lip as I observed him going through the process of securing his supplies. The thing was, perhaps I was overthinking this. Because he already knew about my situation within Slytherin, right? So maybe I could just... ask him? And while telling any other professor I needed to put my hands on something illegal was certainly not the best course of action —Duskhaven in particular— this was Snape we were talking about. Maybe his underdeveloped sense of morality could be on my side here for once.

I decided to take the risk, then: "I need unicorn blood," I deadpanned.

He paused for a beat, his eyes betraying nothing. Then, he let out a very faint sigh.

"And why exactly, pray tell, do you need a... non-tradeable substance?"

"There's a ritual," I said, nodding to myself. "It allows one to identify the amount of magical blood in a sample, to check if it's from a half-blood, a pure-blood... you know. So that's my plan for my situation: I will use the ritual to prove my own blood status. The only issue is that it uses unicorn blood as a... a 'standard for magical purity to compare against', or something like that... That's the only material I need help getting, the rest are just normal stuff."

Well, under a certain definition of normal, of course. That of people who thought nothing of drinking a beverage with spider juice in it.

Snape examined me in silence, for long enough to become uncomfortable. At last he said: "And you figured you could... steal it from me? What made you think I'd be in possession of illegal materials?"

I shrugged, was he playing with me? "Well, it's obvious, no?"

He quirked an eyebrow.

"I mean... you're the Slytherin Head of House. Somehow I doubt you got there by following all the rules, and that–"

"Careful... with that cheek, girl. You wouldn't want to spend more weekends in detention, would you?" he warned. Then, he walked slowly back towards his own seat, and picked up his quill again. He said: "To answer your question: No, I don't store unicorn blood in my supplies... among other reasons, because it is almost useless as a potion ingredient, as drinking it will only curse you. So will handling it without the proper care. I suggest you abandon this... harebrained plan of yours. Even if you were to find the blood and perform the ritual, it would be worse than useless."

"Useless? Why is that?"

He paused in his scribing to gaze at me as if I was an idiot. "Well. Should the ritual work, it would of course confirm you to be a Muggleborn."

I snorted. "Right. Of course."

I could have argued my case further, tell him about my findings with the police, but I figured it wouldn't do much to change his mind. So with that, I started walking away, dejected.

Because he was probably right, after all. It simply wouldn't make that much sense for me to be some sort of lost heir to some ancient magical lineage or something. An heir that just... what? Hadn't been there in the story, for whatever reason? It stretched believability, if I was being honest to myself.

And yet, I had hopes; and I still wanted to perform the ritual. For my own sake if not for Selwyn's.

I needed to know who I was. What I was.

Snape wasn't going to help in this front, though. If I wanted unicorn blood, I would need to get it myself. And seeing as it was illegal, and a single vial was probably worth more than all my possessions put together, I couldn't exactly go shopping.

That left the only other, more risky possibility.

"Where are you going?" Snape asked me when he saw me walking towards the office's main door.

I paused. Uh-oh.

"Going... out? Because... I'm done?"

"With the beetles, yes... but you still have to dice the dittany leaves."

What an absolute piece of...

I sighed, my spirits crashing into the ground. "Of... course, sir. Where are the leaves?"

In the end I spent my entire Saturday afternoon in Snape's bloody office, dissecting beetles and cutting plants, and with no unicorn blood to show for it. By the time he let me out it was already dark and so I simply marched towards the Great Hall for dinner, where I finally met with Tracey. She went to ask me how bad it'd been, saw my general look of misery, and made a sympathetic noise.

At least, small mercies, Plixiette gifted me with her interpretation of a Croque Madame, the egg on top of the sandwich extravaganza dripping some of its yolk over the side in the most appetizing way. I was starting to forget about the horrid day, lost among the usual sensations of the Great Hall during dinner —tasty French flavours, inane Slytherin politicking, and all the noise coming out of the Gryffindor table— when I noticed my housemates going suddenly tense, eyes looking past my shoulders. I turned to look and...

"Oh, here she is, George!" said Fred, apparently. "Our best client!"

"A true visionary, Fred! Reckon she might give us a run for our money with stunts like that."

"That cauldron. Genius! That's some Weasley-level mischief right there!"

I smirked, giving them both a subtle nod, then stood up to walk a couple of paces away from the Slytherin table. It wouldn't do me any favours to look too friendly with the pair of them.

"I'm honoured," I said, having to raise my voice above the whisper level I'd aimed for due to the escalating Gryffindor ruckus. Some days even Plixiette's cooking was almost not worth the headaches. "But... uhm, how did you find out?"

"Are you joking? It was everything everyone wanted to talk about in our common room!"

"Dean Thomas made a great re-enactment of Malfoy hiding under that table," said George, twisting his own face in a parody of fear.

"Brilliant, really! Only one question–"

"How did you do it?" they asked at once.

I flashed them a knowing grin: "Oh? A lady never tells!"

"Not even for five Galleons?" asked Fred, almost having to shout to be heard over the Great Hall's noise.

I pretended I hadn't heard him: "Sorry, so noisy! Did I hear ten Galleons?"

"Six Galleons and a bar of Frog Spawn Soap?" said George.

Hmm... six Galleons was on the low side. But a bar of the joke soap could be useful. The bathroom was not inside our dorm, so technically it wasn't part of Daphne's neutral zone.

"We know about the hair-raising potion," said Fred. "We're only missing the secret ingredient!"

"What about this?" I said. "You give me–"

But then the noise from the Gryffindor table built up even higher, and I realised someone was screaming in panic.

A sudden hush dropped on the Great Hall as everyone went silent and we all turned to look at the source of the scream. I couldn't see past the bodies of the many students all gathered around the table of the lions, but I felt a deep shiver when I noticed the place they were all crowding around: it was where the Golden Trio usually seated.

The shiver turned icy when I saw Dumbledore rush down from the High Table and parting the sea of students like an unstoppable Moses on a mission. People around me were all standing up to get a better view, so I took the next logical step and stood on top of the bench, stretching myself up all that my young, short body allowed.

I got a glimpse of an unconscious Harry Potter, his face pallid and blue. Hard to judge from this distance, but he didn't seem to be breathing.

"Severus," called Dumbledore in an urgent tone. He wasn't shouting, but we all heard him clearly in the eerie silence. "Severus, quickly, a bezoar!"