The afternoon sun bathed Dumbledore's office and the many gizmos and portraits within in an amber, warm light. A light that reflected off the ruby red Philosopher's Stone left almost carelessly on the surface of the Headmaster's desk —as if it was nothing more valuable than a curious paperweight. Next to it was my white key —or rather, Squeeble's key— and a now empty plate of sandwiches that had served as our lunch for today.

I stretched forwards to grab a handful of sherbet lemons out of the bowl near the desk's edge. I offered them to both Ron to my left —who shook his head, almost offended at my transgression— and to Tracey to my right —who took one of them off my hand. I popped another into my own mouth, banishing the rest into my pocket for later. I then sighed, stretched, and pushed my sunglasses back up my nose once more.

The three of us had just finished relaying our respective tales of what had transpired in the forbidden corridor and the trial rooms below it, and now Dumbledore was kneeling down in front of his fireplace; with his head inside the green flames as he talked to someone else about the events of the day, it sounded like.

My version had benefited from a few half-truths: admitting to some of the very things that I figured the Headmaster already knew anyway, while bending the truth around them as much as I dared: yes, I had spied on the Gryffindors —Ron had shot me an angry stare at that. Yes, I knew about Fluffy from Hagrid —thanks to my Self-Writing Quill— and about the Philosopher's Stone because I'd seen Hermione's book on Nicolas Flamel. And since I had read that article about the Gringotts break-in before boarding the train, and I knew about Quirrell and his house-elf thanks to my nightly escapade, I'd been able to put all the pieces of the puzzle together.

I guessed I should've been more worried, scared that the web of lies I'd woven to protect myself from Dumbledore's inquisitive gaze could be about to collapse. Odd then, that where I had before been terrorized at the mere thought of being in this office, right now it felt... safe. Or safe-ish, at least. As if nothing really wrong could ever happen here. No Selwyns or Burkes or three headed dogs, no abominations with two faces.

Funny, how witnessing the true horror that was Voldemort —even as little more than a revenant, a shadow of its true self— could put things into perspective. Or maybe I was simply tired, and sort of reeling from what I'd seen down there. But to be quite frank, it had helped me to straighten out my priorities; as in, which threat should I consider the most dangerous, and which ones were... just a tad less so.

And yeah, seeing his ghastly demise had been... well... horrifying. More than I had expected, from what I had pictured from my fore-memories. It was that same notion once again, how things hit differently once you actually were on this side of the movie screen, of the book page. Once you were no longer safe, no longer untouchable; the story no longer a simple work of fiction you could put behind and forget as you went back to your normal, everyday life.

Now this was my life, a life that included dark, murderous twisted wizards. And all I could worry about right now was whether Voldemort had gotten a glimpse of my face or not during those confusing last moments. Compared to that, even the vague threat that Dumbledore represented seemed... almost welcome, in a way. Familiar.

I knew it could be a trap, though, that feeling of relief; and that Dumbledore was in truth still as dangerous to my own future and freedom as ever, even if he didn't mean it. Which is why I'd put on my sunglasses the moment we'd entered his office, and why I was convincing myself to get my head back into the game, to focus on navigating these next, critical moments with caution.

Because I knew exactly who of the three of us had attracted his suspicions the most, of course. Something that was vindicated a few minutes later, when his Floo call ended and he sat back on his chair across the desk with a tired groan.

"Ah, great news indeed! Madam Pomfrey has informed me that both Harry Potter and Miss Granger have regained consciousness and are recovering well from their respective ordeals. A recovery for which, I must add, we owe a considerable debt of gratitude to the three of you," he said graciously. "Mister Weasley, I assume that you are quite eager to return to your housemates once again, so you are certainly excused to leave for the Infirmary Wing. You as well, Miss Davis; your insights have been most useful, and I believe you have already told us all that was necessary for the moment..."

I didn't even move a muscle, already knowing what the next words out of his mouth would be. And I wasn't disappointed:

"However Miss Sarramond, I would request you remain here for a few additional moments, if it's not too much of an imposition."

I nodded, resigned. I couldn't exactly say no, could I? Weasley didn't need much more encouragement, he jumped off his chair and rushed towards the office's entrance at a quick pace. Tracey, though, paused mid-movement, as if her legs wanted to take her back to the Slytherin common room but her eyes were still glued to me. She said: "Er– I can wait."

I shook my head. "No need, but thanks. And... uhm, sorry for dragging you into all of this."

She shrugged, then followed in Ron's footsteps; leaving me alone with the Headmaster —who had observed our little interplay with the keen attention of a bird of prey.

"You command her trust," he commented out-loud the moment she'd descended the stairs back to the corridor outside. "Such fidelity, I must say, is somewhat of a rarity among the ranks of your house."

I frowned. That was a lot to read out of a couple of spoken words. I said: "You mean, just because she wanted to wait for me to be done here?"

"No, Miss Sarramond. It's because she did not hesitate to follow you into danger."

I shrugged. "We're friends," I said simply, refusing to elaborate. Because really, that was the truth of it, wasn't it? That our relationship wasn't just... transactional, like it had been at the beginning, like it still was in some sense with Greengrass. Not anymore.

And what did Dumbledore mean with it? I guess it was still the same old suspicion: that I was gathering followers, like Tom Riddle had once done. Loyalty could be good and jolly well celebrated in the case of Potter, of course; but God forbid a snake ever have friends willing to follow her into hell.

It rankled, the double standard. So instead of justifying myself further, I decided to divert his attention.

"How's Professor Duskhaven, by the way?"

His eyes rested on me for a beat before he leant back on his chair. "Ah, poor Xenia. To have braved the fury and cold of the North Sea's waters without the aid of a wand —even if but for the span of a few minutes— is indeed a formidable feat, particularly for one who is no longer in the prime of her youth. Her ordeal has left her indeed injured, both physically and in spirit, but so far she recovers well at St. Mungo's. I dare say, however, that she might have had her fill of this little island of ours for a lifetime.

"But the essential thing is that she survived, thanks in no small part to your intervention. And while offering false hopes to the house-elf may, perhaps... not align perfectly with the highest ethical standards, the end result was undeniably effective. So I must thank you for the service you have performed to our school, not only today, but yesterday as well; as it is my understanding we have you to thank for bringing Mr. Selwyn's transgressions to our attention."

I nodded, but couldn't suppress a smirk: "I guess Snape wasn't lying, when he said he was aware of everything that happened in our common room. What was that... thing, though? The Dark object?"

"Professor Snape, if you would," corrected Dumbledore; but not unkindly. "As for the object in question, it is sufficient to say that it was something that should have never entered our castle, and that we will rest more soundly now that it has been removed from the premises. However, there is a matter of some concern that Professor Snape brought to my attention, regarding the... likely provenance of certain other materials found in Mr. Selwyn's possession."

Yeah, I'd counted on him knowing, so no real reason to lie now. "I'd have liked not to do any of that," I admitted. "To simply focus on my studying and going to class, but I didn't really have a choice."

"On the contrary, Miss Sarramond. I firmly believe that, when we truly look for it, we often find that there's always a choice." He paused for a beat after that, eyeing me over his half moon glasses until I nodded in acquiescence.

"Very well, let us regard this as a lesson to learn wisdom from, then," he added; then he showed me a faint smile as he said: "And speaking of Professor Snape... in light of Professor Duskhaven's indisposition, it will fall to him to impart the remaining classes of Defence Against the Dark Arts, as well as overseeing the nearing evaluations. I deemed it best that you and your housemates be... forewarned, as it were."

I would have snorted —and I was pretty sure that reaction was exactly what Dumbledore was after— if not because a sudden thought about the possible ramifications of that particular change to the timeline made my heart skip a beat. I camouflaged my reaction the best I could by raising my eyebrows and asking: "Oh? Will he teach it next year too? I heard from the older students that he'd always wanted the position."

Dumbledore's smile never vanished, but still I could see how immediately he became subtly guarded, as if reluctant to share specifics. "Oh, we shall see, we shall see... The task of filling that particular position is always a challenging one. Would you believe it, if I were to tell you that I even considered appointing Professor Quirrell to teach it this year? I believe we can all consider ourselves lucky such a plan never came to fruition."

I could see the misdirection for what it was, but I decided to bite nevertheless. Because it was a juicy one, given that it was something I'd been wondering for ever since the day I first arrived to the castle.

"Oh? Why didn't you hire him, then? Did you... uhm... suspect anything already?"

His expression turned mournful, his gaze following the sun, the way its rays glistened on the lake's surface. I waited patiently for a few moments as an uncomfortable silence settled around the old wizard. But when I was starting to suspect he wouldn't share the answer with me, he let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh and said:

"That he was concealing Lord Voldemort within himself? No, no, I didn't see it at the time. And I dare say, it is entirely possible that such a truth might have eluded me even should I have decided to employ him. I fear to think of what could have happened then... But no, Miss Sarramond, my decision to do without Professor Quirrell stemmed from a different concern altogether: His approach to the Dark Arts was, should we say, one driven most by an academic curiosity rather than practical wisdom. And perhaps it was this very curiosity that ultimately lead to his downfall. However, this year, with the presence of some... unique students, such as Mr. Potter, I felt it was imperative to select a teacher who would be certain to convey the dangers associated with the Dark Arts from the very outset."

Yeah, and that was a lie; or a half-lie at least. Because in the original plot both Potter and Quirrell had been there, and Dumbledore hadn't felt the need to hire someone else. It was only when you added me into the mix that it suddenly became oh-so-very-important to inoculate us against having too much curiosity about dark magic.

"Students like Potter... or myself," I said, my voice harsher. "Because I remind you too much of that one student you had in the past, no?"

His eyes fixated on mine, his expression pensive.

"Yes," he admitted at last, with a soft nod. "That as well. I wished to... avoid repeating the same mistakes from the past."

So was that it, really? The reason why the plot had shifted so early... just because, I'd been invited to Hogwarts?

And then, what? Had he taken a look at me and pegged me as the next Riddle? It didn't track, not really. It wasn't until the Sorting Ceremony that I'd been put into Slytherin, and by that point he'd already made his decision not to hire Quirrell. So why? Was he really that paranoid of every kid raised in a Muggle orphanage?

No. He had to have known something already, seen something else. Something about me. But when? The only possibility that came to mind was during our first meeting, but I couldn't remember any–

Oh, right. The bloody Giraffe!

Yeah, that made more sense. Because what would have it looked like, from his perspective? What did she tell him about me —maybe under a spell to loosen her tongue, who knew?— when he'd first arrived at the Residence? That I was gifted and precocious, certainly; but also a freak. That I displayed challenging and violent behaviour. That my morals were maybe too flexible; that I had taken too much of a liking to help myself to things that didn't belong to me.

And hadn't Riddle stolen stuff from the kids at his orphanage? Yeah, I could see how Dumbledore's alarms might have been ringing, at least a little bit. And then the stupid hat went and sorted me into Slytherin, pretty much confirming his suspicions.

It was starting to annoy me, having to live under that comparison in his eyes. Even more so when most of what I did —the reason behind my sorting, for starters— was just to prevent the bloody dark wizard from winning without even trying, now that the plot was out of whack —and it was Dumbledore's own suspicions themselves that had caused that particular wrinkle to appear. I would have been just another happy Ravenclaw, learning magic without bothering anyone, if not for him.

You know what? Fuck this. Cards on the table it is.

I met his eyes —from behind my sunglasses, of course, because I might have been tired and annoyed, but not quite insane yet— took a deep breath and said: "I'm not him, you know. I'm not Lord Voldemort."

He straightened out in his chair, his eyebrows rising. Then, he smiled and said: "Ah, you figured it out."

I shrugged. Not that it was that hard, specially when you had read the Harry Potter books and already knew the backstory of poor orphan Tom Riddle.

"There must have been some reason the hat offered to sort me into Ravenclaw at first," I said with a certain swagger I couldn't hide from my voice.

That seemed to take him aback, even more so than me figuring out who the mysterious other Slytherin orphan had been.

"Oh, is that so?"

I was about to reply when I noticed the Headmaster wasn't looking at me. Instead I followed his gaze to one of the shelves to my left. On it, the Sorting Hat twisted to stare down at us, looking annoyed at having just been woken up —as much as a hat could look annoyed, that is.

"Yes," it confirmed. "But I stand by my decision to sort her into Slytherin. She wanted more power than Ravenclaw could grant her."

"P– power?" I stuttered, because this was just what Dumbledore needed to hear, wasn't it? After this he'd be liable to just send me to Azkaban already and be done with it. "I never wanted power, you st–! I didn't want to be more powerful or important than other people!"

"No, not more important or famous," the hat corrected, "but you wanted to be influential, girl; you wanted to shape the future to your own will. That is a type of power too, the one you wished for. An ambition better served by Slytherin."

I bit my lip, shooting daggers with my eyes at the traitorous piece of rotten cloth; because yeah... I wanted to change the future, but not to get personally powerful! —I had other plans in motion for that— No, the only reason I'd wanted to have influence over the timeline was to ensure a tyrant didn't raise to power, and also to save some of the people who would die if nothing changed. And in what world was that even in the neighbourhood of a thirst for power?

But of course, I couldn't just explain that to Dumbledore, because the next question out of his mouth would be just why I was so worried about the future. It would give the entire game away! So instead I was pretty much forced to shut up and cross my arms, looking at the ancient hat with a sour expression.

"I don't want personal power," I clarified after a few seconds of furious thinking. "So what's the problem if I wanted to improve things, to fix some of the issues I saw? God knows the blood prejudice thing in the Wizarding world is in need of some fixing."

"It is not a sin to harbour ambition, no," said the Headmaster at last, examining me. "In my youth, I too was brimming with it, and with the belief that I could nearly single-handedly bring about change to the world. However, we must remain ever vigilant of what sacrifices we are willing to make in pursuit of those ambitions... and whom we might... unwittingly or not, sacrifice along the way.

"I do not believe you to be like Lord Voldemort, Sylvia; but I do recognise that you stand at a precipice. It is a risk not unlike the one that he himself faced at your own age. Magic, in all its wonders, can also be dangerously seductive to those students that are the most adept, that throw themselves too freely into the depths of some of its more arcane aspects, too certain of their own abilities. In Voldemort, such risk became a grim reality. It is my hope, and my duty, to ensure that the same fate does not befall you."

I paused at that, considering. Because I had an inkling of what he meant: that I'd been practising spells not meant for my age —like the Shield Charm, yes, but also Snape's little curse— and that was something most other students simply didn't do. Which fair, I could see how too little guidance in something as wild and full of dire consequences as magic, something that allowed you to pretty much play God could be... risky, at the very least.

"You mean, like Duskhaven said? The risks of dark magic."

He nodded. "Yes, indeed. The Dark Arts possess a certain allure, a temptation, if you will. This allure seems to particularly resonate with two kinds of students, who, interestingly, align quite closely with two of the houses in our school. Firstly, there are those who seek to understand magic fully, to unravel its mysteries and map its intricacies —a pursuit often favoured by our Ravenclaws, much like Professor Quirrell. But there are also those who wish to harness magic's power, to be influential and make a mark, to... fix what they perceive is wrong in the world around them."

"... Slytherins," I said in a sombre tone.

"Indeed. But rest assured, Sylvia; there is no dishonour in being sorted into your house. Always recall that Merlin himself was a Slytherin, and his contributions greatly succeeded at improving our world for the better! Your house affiliation is certainly not a stain upon your character, despite the misgivings that you might encounter from students in the other houses —lingering wounds from our recent Wizarding War that, regrettably, haven't had sufficient time to fully heal. Yet I'd be remiss if I didn't caution you about the risks that you, in particular, might face, so that you can remain vigilant and aware of them.

"But that's enough sombre warnings for today!" he said in a chipper tone. "Please, do feel free to rejoin your companions. Ah, just one more matter before you go: while I'm sure that the news of Professor Quirrell's betrayal will very soon spread to the rest of the student body, I must ask of you to keep Lord Voldemort's involvement in this matter confidential, at least for the time being."

"Not that many people would believe it anyway."

"Very true," he admitted, clapping his hands. "Well, I'm sure you have plenty of studying to do for your upcoming exams!"

"Ugh, thanks for the reminder," I groaned. But I stood up quickly and started walking towards the stairs, eager to leave his office before he changed his mind.

"I believe you are forgetting something, Miss Sarramond."

I turned to look at him, and he waved his hand at the two magical objects on the desk.

"The key?" I asked. Because the other option was the Philosopher's Stone, and somehow I doubted he was offering that one to me.

"Indeed. A Skeleton Key: it should be capable of opening most locks, except for those protected by strong magic. Goblin-made, if I'm not mistaken. Not many of these exist. It was very fortuitous that you had it in your possession, for without it you might have arrived too late to help your fellow students. As such, I'm inclined to believe that it would be... prudent for it to remain with you. I do trust, however, that you will use it as wisely in the future as you did today."

What was this, a bribe? Some underhanded way of putting himself into my good graces? As in, 'here, you can have this shiny magical key if you don't go full Voldemort on us.'

Whatever. I'd take it.

I grabbed the key and turned it in my fingers, examining it closer to my eyes. Then I turned to Dumbledore and said: "Goblin-made, uh? So... do you think it would work in Gringotts?"

I waited until the words registered and the look in his face turned alarmed. Then I smirked and said: "Just joking! I already have other, better plans to get filthy rich, you know."

He let out a laugh, then muttered: "Somehow, I have no doubt about that."

And... I liked it. This. The banter, and letting Dumbledore see more of my true self. Not everything, of course; not nearly all of it. Just a sliver, a peek; just this part of me that was irreverent to rules and adults alike, yes, and cunning, for sure; but that didn't go too far, didn't cross that line in the sand. A part of me that schemed for personal gain, but that wouldn't stoop so low as to... say, assault a random Hufflepuff first year who hadn't done anything at all to me.

So yeah, not all of me. But it was at least a part of me that I no longer had to hide in his presence; which meant it was easier to be in his neighbourhood, too. To exist in Hogwarts.

The following days were also easier than the past weeks had been. I returned to the Slytherin common room to discover that, just as the Headmaster had predicted, word about what happened had already spread to most of the school —it tends to happen, when the celebrity boy gets attacked by an old professor turned dark wizard, and one of our teachers gets sent to St. Mungo's. And while Voldemort's role in the whole thing was never made public knowledge, mine was; thanks to Tracey, probably, and maybe the Weasley twins too. I was sure those two were a large part of Hogwart's rumour mill being as efficient as it was, with their Marauder's Map and such.

So my housemates knew that I had survived Burke's attack —while the teenage boy himself still sported some scratches and had had his arm broken by Fluffy— and that along with Tracey we'd helped stop Quirrell, earning a healthy amount of points for Slytherin in the process —one that had put us solidly in front of the Gryffindors, our eternal enemies. That, combined to my acceptance into the circle of the heiress of such a reputable family as the Greengrass were, it made me the closest thing to safe and respected that I'd ever been at our house.

Not untouchable, mind you. No one in Slytherin was that, except for the lucky few such as Malfoy. But if someone wanted to move against me now, they'd need to do it very carefully lest they attract the ire of both my immediate allies, and some of the other housemates who were finally starting to recognise me as a net positive to our house.

Burke and Flint seemed to have bigger fish to fry at the moment, too, dealing with prefect Farley's soon to be successful attempt at becoming the ruler of the common room, so I doubted they'd risk having another go at me before the year ended —unless I served them an opportunity on a golden plate, something which I had no intention to do. And as for Parkinson and Bulstrode: they were pretty much incapable of the level of subtlety required there, and I doubted they'd want to face Greengrass' open ire either.

So yeah, safe at last, with no more worries about bullying, psychopath teenagers, or what the Trio were doing —only Hermione, who acted incredibly strange towards me in our shared Potions classes following the events of the forbidden corridor: she'd look at me as if she was about to ask some important question that troubled her deeply, then she would look away when I turned to face her, then back at me, and finally say something mundane such as: 'do we already have enough silverweed, or do you think we need more?'

Well, whatever. If she wanted something, she'd say it eventually. But for me, now it was only a matter of passing my exams.

Joy.

It took me back to my days as Sophie, now that I was learning things that I couldn't simply rely on my fore-knowledge to know already. And while I was more disciplined at studying and quick to learn the concepts than most people my age, it still made me nervous when I got to stand in front of McGonagall's serious face, transfiguring a spoon into a quill under her intense gaze. And while my quill's feathers were suitably fluffy, and I demonstrated it worked by writing on the parchment with it, I still left feeling uneasy at her curt nod of dismissal.

Compared to that, Charms was easy: I simply demonstrated some of the spells in our curriculum, and a few of the ones I'd learned on my own for good measure —which seemed to please Flitwick greatly, given by his enthusiasm and the words of congratulation that followed. So yeah, at least I could count on one Outstanding score.

Two, with Defence, as long as Snape wasn't a git to me. But he enjoyed torturing the Gryffindors too much for that, tutting after they demonstrated their spells as he wrote words in his parchment notes. I was tempted to perform Sectumsempra in front of him when my turn arrived, but in the end I decided not to provoke him. I did perform a perfect Shield Charm, though, which I hoped would help impress him somewhat, even if he didn't show any outward reaction.

Potions was also with him, and that one was a subject I felt less confident about. In part because I hadn't paid that much close attention to it —thanks to Hermione covering for me during the year, something that came back to bite my arse now that we were forced to brew our exam potions on our lonesome. But also because the girl's very presence a couple desks away distracted me from my dicing of ingredients and stirring of my cauldron; the way she continuously shot subreptitious looks at me, as if trying to puzzle out a particularly thorny puzzle. Well, good luck with that.

Both History of Magic and Astronomy were relatively soft subjects, at least for someone who remembered having to memorize much drier and stuffier material for my university exams. So yeah, they were boring, but I was left with a good impression when I managed to reply to almost all of the questions in our exams without much trouble. As for Flying, I knew I wouldn't get anywhere near the top scores in our class, but thanks to Tracey's help I hoped I'd at least graduated to be reasonably average on top a broom.

Herbology, though... well, the theory part I guessed I got mostly right. And my dittany might not have looked as fresh and healthy as the other students' plants —its leaves sagging down a bit as if saddened— but at least it wasn't dead either. Yet.

Whatever. It wasn't like my grades would matter anyway, was it? I was the only one who would ever care about them, after all, with no parents to scold me if I failed a class. Because I highly doubted the Giraffe would be even privy to them in the first place.

So with the exams done we were left to enjoy the last few days of school in a surprisingly free-form manner, with many of the professors finally relaxing the pace of their lectures, their remaining classes filling with ramblings, diatribes and sometimes, a few interesting questions. And while they gave us homework for the summer, most of us who weren't Hermione didn't feel that pressure to get started on it right away, so it was easy to put out of mind for the time being.

The unexpected spanner in the works came one day at night, when all of us girls were sleeping in our dorm. A soft noise woke me up, and I opened my eyes to the darkness of our dorm room, a darkness only broken momentarily by the soft light that squeezed its way inside when someone cracked open the door to slip out.

It was enough light to recognize the silhouette as that of Tracey's, though. And sure enough, a very low intensity wand-lighting charm revealed her bed to be empty. I didn't give it much thought, however, figuring she would be making a night visit to the loo —all that tasty Greengrass tea, right?— so I simply extinguished the charm and rolled over in my bed, finding a new comfortable position and going back to sleep in no more than a minute.

But when the same thing happened again the day after, I stood awake for longer. And after ten minutes or so of waiting without Tracey returning, I let out a sigh and stood up myself, leaving the dorm and descending the stairs towards the common room.

The common room was completely empty, of course, only lit by the low shimmer of the fireplace's embers. It was so late even my fairies were motionless for once on my pyjamas —one of them cranked open an eye, her wings twitching for a moment before she went back to sleep.

I first looked for Tracey near the grand windows to the lake, but it seemed the girl wasn't as drawn to water as me. Instead I found her curled on a tall seat facing the fireplace, her feet curled under her body and covered under a blanket that she'd carried here from the dorm. It was a picture that reminded me fiercely of Astrid, back at the residence, and made the girl look even younger than she really was. Not that eleven years was a lot anyway.

I took a seat in the chaise lounge next to her, and remained silent. But Tracey didn't even acknowledge my presence, her gaze fixated on the feeble flames dancing inside the vast fireplace —a fire that seemed right about to peter out, but that somehow always managed to survive for one more minute after another.

We remained like that for a few long minutes, the common room's grandfather clock tick-tocking with sombre cadence. Eventually, she spoke, with her eyes still glued to the flames.

"I keep seeing his face," she said, simply.

I didn't dare to ask whose face —Quirrell's, or Voldemort's. Instead I kept silent, allowing her room to expand if she wished.

"He looked scared. And... and so confused, like he didn't understand that he was... that he was disappearing," she clarified with a shudder.

So, Quirrell's, then. I wasn't sure she'd seen Voldemort's face at all, in fact. I hoped not. That was another entire layer of horror she would be lucky to do without.

"And now... I'm afraid of Potter... Like, what if he touches me? Can he... make me go away like that too?"

Well, shit. Now, that was an unfortunate conclusion to make.

"I don't think he can," I said, trying to edge my words. "I talked a little more with the Headmaster after you left. He thinks it had to do with how Potter defeated You-Know-Who, and that it only worked in Quirrell because he had dark magic infused in his body."

Technically, I hadn't lied to her: I had talked to Dumbledore —just not about that. Harry's power to turn Quirrell into dust had indeed something to do with how Harry defeated Voldemort, and Quirrell had had dark magic —a revenant of a dark wizard, specifically— inside his body. All of them perfectly factual sentences, thank-you-very-much.

"Yes... I figured it was something like that. But still..."

"It was a fucked up sight," I agreed with her.

"Fucked up," she repeated after me, as if tasting the words.

I hoped she wouldn't use those words again in front of her parents. I knew I got away with most of my colourful language thanks to a lack of parental supervision, but somehow I doubted she'd have such freedom, and didn't want them thinking me to be a bad influence on her.

Something that, as I observed her small figure cuddled up in the large chair, I figured I pretty much was. Because I doubted the original Tracey Davis, the one that should have existed had I not been here, would be having problems sleeping due to reliving a traumatic experience. Not when she was eleven.

And I had no doubts that I was the cause of it, that in dragging her into my shit —or Harry's shit— I might have hurt her. I might have broken a part of her, ruined something in her that couldn't be fixed. Showed her a side of her own Wizarding world that she hadn't been prepared for, not yet; and that now she could never unlearn, never unsee again.

"I'm sorry, Tracey," I muttered, almost too low for her to hear. She did, though, humming in agreement; though I doubted she understood what had prompted my words. What I was truly sorry for.

"Hey... Sylvia," she said, after a few more long minutes of staring into the fireplace and in which my eyelids had grown heavy once more, my breath steadying as if in preparation for going back to sleep. "Do you think you could... er– nevermind."

"No, what is it?"

She sounded uncharacteristically bashful: "I was wondering if you could tell me... some Muggle story?"

"A Muggle story?"

"Yes. Like in those 'filmies' you mentioned. One that... hmm... that had no magic?"

Ah...

It was a harder request than it seemed, as most of the movies I liked did indeed tended to the fantastical and magical —even if the magic in them didn't fully match with real world magic, which wasn't a weird concept at all, no sir. But let's see... what was a popular movie that was completely without fantasy? Something based on real history, perhaps?

"Do you know about the Titanic?" I asked her.

"No. What's that?"

"It was a Muggle boat that– uhm– yeah... hold on, let me think of a better one."

Because somehow I suspected that a story of a ship sinking and sending hundreds of people to their deaths in the icy Atlantic wasn't exactly what she was after.

So... movie... not fantastic, and not a drama either. I scrunched up my face thinking hard for a couple of minutes.

"I think I have one," I said at last. "There was once a Muggle boy named Kevin that lived in a very big house, in a very large family —think the Weasleys, but with even more people. And since he was the youngest son, younger than even us, his older brothers and cousins always made fun of him. And one time at Christmas, the day before the whole family was meant to leave for vacations to France, he got very angry at being told off by her parents; and so that night he wished that his family would disappear..."

I narrated the story for about half an hour, putting emphasis in all the little devious traps and tricks Kevin had devised. I was lucky the film was still fresh in my memory —perks of living back in the 90s— and that I could do it justice. And by the end of it Tracey was breathing evenly under her blanket, her eyes finally closed.

I had hoped that would have been it. But by the next night it became apparent that the issue ran deeper than I thought, when I also awoke to find her bed empty once more. And so over the following days the story repeated itself: with me telling her the plot of Muggle books and films to help her fall sleep. I was lucky that the school year ended just right then, since by the time I'd finished telling Tracey of the adventures of Captain Jack Sparrow, I was starting to run out of ideas.

The curious thing was that it was only the nights that troubled her, and she didn't look that weary during the day, when the sun was up. And so when the last day at Hogwarts arrived and the entire school gathered for our last lunch in the Great Hall —under a shiny, summer blue sky that more than justified my wearing of the sunglasses— to celebrate the end of the school year, she was among the ones who clapped and cheered the loudest when the green Slytherin banners unfolded to decorate the columns and walls of the Hall.

Another change from the original plot, though one I welcomed for once: with a sum total of 493 points to Gryffindor's 486, it was us snakes who won the House Cup. And while I guessed Harry might have been disappointed at that, the way Tracey beamed at the announcement quickly made me forget about it.

Given what I remembered from my fore-memories, though, I had almost expected Dumbledore's fuckery to steal the Cup for the house of the lions at the last minute; but that never happened. Maybe because the events with Quirrell had taken place earlier than they should have been, and so there was no need —or justification— for any sudden and mysterious point giving on his part. Or maybe because he didn't want to needlessly anger the potential Dark Lady in the making.

So there was a little celebration that night at our common room —despite the Ravenclaws having snatched the Quidditch Cup from us. A celebration that included butterbeer for us younger students, while the older years enjoyed their firewhisky, rum and other assorted spirits smuggled in straight from Hogsmeade; all of it happening right under the surprisingly permissive eye of the prefects. Though I suspected Gemma Farley in particular wouldn't have been that keen to take any unpopular measures so soon into her newly minted reign anyway.

And since the common room was still occupied and it was our last day of the year after all, we were allowed to stay late that night —Tracey, Perks and me— playing with our Chocolate Frog cards; a somewhat childish parody of the cards game that some of the teenagers were playing among themselves a couple of tables away. A sort of magical poker which included some cards transfigurating into others, a generous dose of haggling and bluffing, and quite a few Galleons exchanging hands —all of it punctuated by the occasional shout of excitement or indignation.

Our own game wasn't that much of an emotional rollercoaster, but it still was fun enough to distract Tracey from her nightly fears, so that when we finally went to bed she fell asleep and didn't wake up until morning. And then it was all a mad rush of packing everything into our trunks, heading to the Great Hall for a quick breakfast, and off to board the train back to London.

It was a quiet trip, all of us girls too tired from the lack of sleep to talk too much —except for Greengrass, who had been well-behaved and responsible enough not to linger in the common room for so long after our usual bedtime, and now looked annoyingly fresh and peppy as she read from her magazines and commented aloud on the articles and the expensive trinkets and jewellery they featured.

I myself simply observed the fields roll by with half-opened eyelids, trying not to think too much about the future, about what awaited this little group of girls in the upcoming years. But it was easy, being surrounded only by the very housemates that had accepted me, that had supported me. And now that I'd managed to successfully navigate this critical first year, my being thrown into the snake pit, I could almost believe that everything would turn out fine, in the end.

Almost.

Then we arrived at King's Cross station and disembarked the train. And unlike the sea of unknown faces that platform nine and three quarters had felt like at the beginning of term, this time the people around me felt familiar, even though I didn't know the names of that many students from the other houses. But now that I was paying attention, I saw some of my housemates' parents, such as Zabini meeting with a tall, elegant witch dressed in a flashy robe who I guessed must be her mother —and who was pretty much ignoring the boy, too wrapped in her flirty conversation with an elderly wizard.

I saw the Trio too, and Harry Potter caught me looking at the three of them. Our eyes met for the briefest of seconds, and he gave me a quick nod, right before turning back to his friends.

I turned back to Tracey, who had just pulled ahead of me, dragging her trunk and heading towards a middle-aged balding man wearing a brown cardigan. She said: "That's my father, see? Dad!"

"Hold on, Tracey," I said, opening my trunk to dig through its contents. "Just a moment. Your birthday is in five days, no?"

She paused, eyeing me with undisguised curiosity. "Uh... yes?"

"Well, I know it's ahead of time... and that it isn't properly wrapped... and second-hand, but... Happy Birthday?" I said, presenting my gift to her surprised face.

Slowly, she took the book off my hands and read its cover: "The Other Healing, by Celestina Dervish?"

"I know, I know... but give it a try? It did help me sleep better, right after Christmas when... well, you–"

But I couldn't finish the sentence, because out of the sudden I had Tracey hugging me like I was a tree and she a koala. Which turned a few heads our way, since it wasn't that common for Slytherins to show any outward signs of affection —the socially accepted way of showing you enjoyed someone's company was by gently teasing them, but apparently nobody had explained that to her.

"And... uhm," I said, feeling a bit uncomfortable. "I don't have an owl, but if you send yours to the Residence I could give you something more too? Like one of those Rubik cubes I told you about."

She said: "No, you don't have to—"

"Nah, it's fine; nobody will miss it. Just tell the owl to land on one of the trees outside, not at my window."

She nodded, releasing me after that but not letting me go away yet; dragging me instead to meet his father —who apparently knew almost everything about my backstory already from the letters Tracey had sent him during the year.

But soon after that I was left alone to cross the threshold back into the Muggle world —where I saw the Weasley kids surrounding a portly witch who could be none other than Molly Weasley. I ignored them, though, and headed towards the lone figure waiting by a ticket kiosk, eyeing the arrivals panel on the nearby wall with confusion.

"Oh, there you are!" said Gary, taking the trunk off my hands and effortlessly placing it on top a nearby trolley. "I must have missed your train's arrival; but never matter, let's head back quickly. With some luck we might be able to beat the afternoon traffic."

And if that wasn't enough of a sign that I'd just left an entire world of magic behind, the trip to the Residence was quick to reinforce it: all traffic lights and smoke coming out of the double decker buses as we crawled our way through the streets of London, the noises of a nearby pneumatic drill determined to push through a layer of concrete, and the veritable masses of pedestrians everywhere.

It felt like going back to some sort of familiar, yet alien planet. Or perhaps, like I'd just waken up from a dream.

And yet it still felt different than my previous life, my life before Dumbledore had crashed into it with all the subtlety of a meteor into a world full of dinosaurs. Because I might be going back to the Muggle world, yes, but I wasn't the same anymore. I wasn't the same Sylvia who had left the Residence.

No, Hogwarts had changed me. Subtly, perhaps; but it had. The reminder was everywhere: on the magic I could still feel beating right under my skin. On my wand, still in my pocket. Or on the bone white Skeleton Key hanging off my necklace, begging to be used.