Winter break arrived, December carrying with it its habitual truckload of cold winds and snow, and yet the threats looming over my head failed to materialize.

Not that I was gloomy at that, of course. I had been worried at first about the menace that was the Gryffindors' anger at their housemates being trounced by me, expecting a sudden attack at any point. But to be fair to the lions, sudden ambushes in the corridors weren't quite their style; not when the source of their humiliation came from what was essentially a sporting contest. So instead it seemed they wanted to defeat me in a fair fight, the idiots.

That meant I had to face an increasingly tougher opposition at the next two meetings of the Duelling Club, almost as if most of them had been busy honing their defensive skills between sessions, in their obsession to dethrone me. At least Snape didn't bother to assist to those anymore —gone, along with a substantial share of the students that were there during the first session— and so Lockhart was free to mix it up, have people other than me fighting on the main stand.

And that was yet another thorn on my side: Lockhart. He didn't treat me any different, at least not overtly, but it was clear there was a new tension there where none had existed before. And since I knew I could only trust the man as far as I could throw him, I had decided it was safer for our little private tutoring sessions to come to an abrupt end. I would need to figure out the finest details about memory charms on my own.

But suspicious of me or not, Lockhart seemed to be bidding his time, not acting any different towards me at class or the Duelling Club.

Funny, that it wasn't a Gryffindor at all who put an end to my streak of victories there. Rather, it was Blaise Zabini.

He'd looked deceptively bored as he faced me during the last meetup of the term. I'd opened with my shield, and his response had been some spell I didn't know: a blue whirlwind of energy, that had simply flew past my side. Assuming his aim had been off, I'd then rushed to dispel the shield and begin casting an offensive spell of my own; but before I could do that, Zabini had pulled his wand backwards —as if reeling a fishing rod— saying: ' Boomeraxio!'

And the next thing I knew is that I was falling forwards, right after something hard and unyielding had just crashed into my back, pushing me to the floor like I was a mere rag-doll. It happened so fast that I couldn't stop my wand from escaping my fingers too: I was defeated before I could even understand what was happening.

What annoyed me the most wasn't the fact that he had won —although only thanks to a little underhanded trick, something that I'd never fall for again, of course— or how bloody smug and satisfied he looked afterwards, hands in his pockets and all. No, what angered me the most was that he simply refused to teach me that reversal spell he'd used. Not unless I was willing to trade him a dark curse first, a bargain that I refused, finding it completely unfair.

But that, it had the very welcome effect of calming down the lions, to the point that I could finally relax that last week ahead of winter break. And yet, the girls in my circle still held to their word, escorting me everywhere I went, making sure I was never alone and undefended.

Even Tracey, which made me feel somewhat guilty, but also appreciative. So I'd decided to focus on completely, fully mending my still hurt relationship with them. And to that end, the afternoon before Christmas saw me climbing my way to the owlery, where one very happy barred owl received me with loud hoots. He was soon to be disappointed, because I wasn't carrying any bacon for him that day, only a handful of gift wrapped little packets to send to my friends —plus a couple of other select people.

The chill as I had topped the staircase to the circular room above the tower —its windows lacking any glass and simply open to the elements— was brutal; but for once it didn't bother me that much. It wasn't only because I was wearing my winter apparel, the gloves and scarf that Tracey had gifted me this time around last year, plus a chunky knit hat that I'd found in the Room of Requirement —it had been originally pink, but I'd transfigured it into a soft, coral blue that better matched my outfit. No, the true, ground-breaking secret was that I'd finally learnt how to perform heating enchantments.

It had cost me five socks with burnt holes in them, but that was okay —the house-elves would either mend or replace them. What was important was that my feet no longer felt like two blocks of ice, my neck was warm and cosy from the soft heat that my scarf now radiated, and my winter cloak felt like I was wearing an electric blanket over my shoulders. Equipped like this I could very well go outside and sit on a stone by the lake, with a book to read under the falling snow, and still I wouldn't feel any cold.

And I knew that because I'd just done it the day before.

All the better than spending time in the Slytherin common room. My friends were away —gone to their families, just like last year— but for some reason Draco Malfoy had remained behind, along with Crabbe, Goyle and Pansy Parkinson. Apparently Malfoy's parents were busy this year having to deal with some inspections by the Ministry or some such, and of course if he was forced to stay at Hogwarts, so did his two henchmen. Parkinson I suspected remained behind just to suck up to him.

It wouldn't have been so bad —nothing like the beginning of last year, when I avoided the common room like the plague out of fear of being attacked— if not because ever since the Duelling Club thing, Malfoy had decided that he wanted us to be friends.

He had taken advantage of my circle being away to begin an unrelenting avalanche of friendly overtures: he began sitting next to me at the Great Hall, discussing the latest news from the Daily Prophet — 'these blood traitors are at it again, you see; now they want to prohibit the rearing of manticores!'— providing Quidditch tips —' I say, you should try a vertical twirl next time you are defending those hoops; do you think you could manage that?'— and discussing duelling techniques —' you are decent at it, of course; but my father taught me that it's foolish to rely too much on a shield charm.'

That was bad enough, but the worst of it came one day after dinner, when we arrived at the common room together and he invited me to sit with the rest of them, to share biscuits and some tea. What I had wanted to say was that no, that I'd rather go and drown myself in the bathtub, thank-you-very-much; but I had opted not to be too impolite instead. Because the truth was that, while I had allies and friends now among the Slytherins, I still couldn't afford to make an enemy of the Malfoy family. They had enough clout and wealth as to turn my life back into a living hell, if they cared to.

And besides: I suspected Daphne would be miffed if she returned after winter break to discover I'd gone and involved our circle into a vendetta, by hurling some curse at the blonde twat in a fit of righteous rage or something stupid like that.

So yeah, in the end I'd gritted my teeth and sat between Goyle —who smelt of something weird and foul— and Parkinson —who continuously wrought her hands as if imagining she was strangling someone's neck— and enjoyed a wonderful, mind-numbingly evening with the greatest pack of cretins that wizarding Britain had managed to produce over a generation.

After that, I decided that once had been quite enough; but rather than force the issue into a confrontation I simply decided to make myself scarce. Diplomacy, thy name is me.

To be completely honest, there was a part of me that secretly enjoyed all the attention that Snape's ploy had earned me. From the Gryffindors's obvious envy to the congratulations I received from some of the upper years in my house. My lack of flying skills had been commented upon before, but I was good at duelling —and charms, too— and so I felt vindicated at having it finally recognised by the public at large.

I'd like to say that I didn't flaunt, that I didn't preen at the comments and congratulations. But I'd be lying.

Still, I couldn't repress my groan when I descended to our common room after dinner the day before Christmas, to find that Goyle, Crabbe and Parkinson were lingering right outside the secret door. I had hoped that taking the long way down via the Grand Staircase would have been enough not to run into any of them, but alas, they seemed determined to ruin my holidays.

Though when I took a quick look around the corridor, I saw no signs of Malfoy. Odd.

"What are you doing out here?" I asked, approaching them.

They all turned to look at me, then met each other's gazes for the briefest of moments. Surprisingly, Pansy Parkinson wasn't scowling at me, instead looking sort of worried.

Hmm...

There was a pregnant pause before Goyle finally spoke aloud: "We... uh... forgot the password."

I blinked. "What, the three of you?"

Crabbe nodded silently. Even Parkinson looked uncharacteristically abashed.

Oh.

Oooooh.

I flashed them a smile with too many teeth, resting a hand on my hip. "Well, that's too bad, no? I'm guessing you'll have to pay the fee, now."

"The... fee?" asked Goyle.

"Two galleons, of course."

"Two galleons?!" exclaimed an offended Parkinson. And now she looked more like she usually did in my presence. Really, she should be thanking me for this; I was merely helping her to sell this performance, make it that much more believable.

I shrugged: "Each of you. One for the password, and another so that I don't tell Prefect Farley. You know how she gets about the passwords; remember that day with Berrow?"

Goyle nodded quickly, confirming my suspicions. Because nothing at all had happened between Darius Berrow and Prefect Farley; but of course, a Gryffindor wouldn't know that, would they? My question had been a test, one that they had just failed.

And sure, you could argue that maybe the real Goyle would also have failed the test. But not Parkinson, who was currently extracting coins in a resigned silence out of a little Muggle-designed purse, zipper and all.

Right, because that wasn't odd at all.

"I don't have two galleons," protested Crabbe after looking at the contents of his pockets. "I only have five sickles."

"Don't try to shortchange me now," I warned, shrugging. "I know your family has money."

I mean... it wasn't like he was a Weasley, right?

He turned to mutter something to Goyle's ear, his face blushing, and then Goyle nodded and said to me: "Here, I'll cover it," handing me four galleons instead.

I examined the six golden pieces under the light of the nearest sconce, mostly checking they weren't trying to trick me with a chocolate galleon or whatnot. I wasn't really feeling guilty, not at all. I mean, not-Goyle could certainly afford this little tax, with the fortune he'd inherited from his parents; and it wasn't like not-Parkinson's family were at risk of poverty themselves, either.

But also, because everything had a price, including information. I would have felt taken advantage of if I simply went ahead and volunteered whatever they wanted to know, getting nothing in exchange for myself. It simply wouldn't have been fair, otherwise.

"Ah, well," I mused aloud, leaning on the theatrics as I made their money disappear inside my own pocket. "It's a little surprising that none of you remember the password, being pure-bloods yourselves, no?"

Behind me, the wall opened to reveal the passage and I quickly crossed the threshold, then paused to look at their surprised faces: "Well? Aren't you coming in?"

Parkinson was the first to react, nodding briskly and following in my footsteps. The boys went through a moment later, and together we entered the common room proper. For a moment, the three of them broke characters as they stopped to gawk around the upscale chamber, their heads as if on swivels. I took advantage of their distraction to also do a quick look around the place myself; though mine was a little more purposeful: I was checking if Malfoy was present.

Not seeing the blond heir, I took charge of the group and guided them past the fireplace and the few housemates lingering nearby, and straight towards the far end of the room by the submerged windows. There was a couch and a handful of seats tucked in the corner there that a group of fifth-years favoured. But since they were away for winter break, it meant we could sit there now and be relatively secluded, out of sight of the main entrance.

My hope was that I could resolve this little scene quickly, talk to them and send them off on their way before Draco found us here. With some luck, I wouldn't be forced to spend yet another horrid evening in his presence.

We stared at each other in an awkward silence for a few moments, until Parkinson visibly steeled herself and asked: "Um... so... Sylvia. We were wondering... are there any news regarding that matter with the Heir of Slytherin?"

I had to give it to her: it was a bloody good opening, worthy of a snake. Prodding for information, sure, but without flat out revealing her own cards. She didn't know what the real Parkinson was supposed to know or not know, after all; and it would have been so easy to mess it up in the first question. But the way she had phrased, it didn't imply anything at all about what she did or didn't know. Kudos to her.

Surprising too, that she was here with the boys and wearing Parkinson's face, rather than hiding a furry visage in a bathroom stall somewhere. I guessed something must have changed in the timing, for her to have targeted Parkinson rather than Bulstrode —or her cat, rather. Which led me to wonder why they were bothering with all this in the first place, after Dumbledore had already announced the matter as resolved. Perhaps it was simply that they had already gathered the ingredients for the Polyjuice potion and didn't want to let them go to waste.

"Not much," I replied, tentatively. "The Headmaster dealt with it."

That seemed to annoy her, because she crossed her arms and said: "But you must know something more, don't you?"

Or perhaps it was just that the attacks might have ceased, sure, but her own curiosity hadn't.

Well, they had paid the price, and this was a great opportunity to fill the Trio on what pieces of the lore they should've known by this point, but that they weren't already privy to due to my own interventions. I scrunched my face in concentration as I plotted my way through the conversation, how to fill them in without telling too much, make it obvious that I knew they weren't who they pretended to be.

"Well, I know that the Heir wasn't a student," I confessed, lowering my voice and pantomiming looking around, as if I was telling them a big secret —which I was. "Or not a current student, at any rate. It was this cursed book instead, which can possess people and force them to act on its behalf. Sort of like an Imperius curse, if you will. I took it from a firstie it was controlling, and gave it to the Headmaster."

"Loony Lovegood!" exclaimed Parkinson, after a moment of silence digesting the information. "I mean... Luna. A first year Ravenclaw. She also was missing, the day after the Hallowe'en Feast!"

Very good. Five points to Gryffindor, I guessed. Though if you asked me, she should've totally been a Ravenclaw too.

"But where did that book came from?" asked Goyle.

This, I had to be careful about. I had ran into them at the Diagon Alley's bookshop after all, and I certainly didn't want him to suspect it was that same notebook he'd handed back to me. With my luck, they'd assume I'd been trying to put it on Ginny's hands or something.

So I shrugged, choosing to go for an incomplete truth, followed by a quick diversion: "Lovegood must have found it lying around somewhere... Whatever; it was a diary of a former student called Tom Marvolo Riddle. If you ask me, he must have been the actual Heir of Slytherin, and leave the diary behind to stir some trouble, murder some Muggleborns."

Parkinson looked uncomfortable at that, but it was Crabbe who spoke next: "So the Chamber... it was all a lie, then? Just a rubbish story?"

"Oh no," I replied. "It exists, I even learnt where the entrance is! But it's of no use; only a Parselmouth like this Tom Riddle can open the way. So unless you happen to know of someone else who can talk to snakes, there's just no way to get in."

Crabbe nodded slowly, while Parkinson looked confused, not getting the reference. However Goyle, his eyes widened slightly, his body utterly still.

And that was one problem fixed! Scratched out of my to-do list! I leant back on my seat, contented and smirking to myself.

I knew it was my fault, that Harry Potter's secret talent had remained unexposed. And while outing him wasn't really necessary, I figured he at least learn of its implications himself. It might be important for the future that the good guys —so to speak— be aware of the connection between Potter and Voldemort, and the boy being a Parselmouth was certainly a piece of that puzzle. Maybe not the only one, or the most important... but I didn't want to discover in five years that none of them had made the connection, and so hadn't figured the Horcrux stuff at all.

The thing was, I had just been too undecided on whether it was safer to subtly encourage Malfoy to cast the snake summoning spell on the boy, or to simply take the time to learn the spell and do it myself —which seemed like the safest option, as I could have timed it for when he was somewhere very public. But in truth... well, I had just relaxed a bit on that front. Without the active threat of the basilisk I simply hadn't seen the need to hurry.

I was glad now, that I hadn't. Because come on, this had been masterful.

My very deserved gloating wasn't to last, though, because a few moments later I heard the most annoying voice coming from behind:

"Oh, there you are; I'd been searching for you everywhere! I've got some news that you're going to like."

I closed my eyes, restraining a sigh as Draco Malfoy dragged a nearby chair to join our little group. So much for trying to do this on the low.

I knew that I was letting a golden opportunity slip by, avoiding the blond boy instead of playing his interest to my advantage. Purposefully or not, Snape had given me an opening with him, one any Slytherin deserving of the name should have milked for all it was worth, exploiting it to get the favour of the Malfoy family's heir for good.

And because I still had that vague idea of somehow turning him away from his father's politics, freeing him from having to join the Death Eaters, I was aware that gaining this foothold now could prove invaluable in the future. But there was this small matter of him being a complete, utterly selfish arse, and I always found it hard not to simply challenge his beliefs straight on —which I knew would only cause him to dig his heels in.

So it was better to avoid crashing into him head-on. Limited, repeated exposure would work best for both of us, I guessed. And besides, I knew that Malfoy's ploy was to pull me away from Greengrass' circle, which I'd rather not leave.

But speaking of politics:

"I know for a fact that this old fool Dumbledore is on very thin ice," said Draco, grinning like a shark. "It's only a matter of time before he's booted out as Headmaster!"

"Dumbledore is not an–!" started Goyle.

"Care to explain, Malfoy?" I interrupted.

"The faculty are trying to keep it all on the hush-hush," he explained, shooting a confused look at Goyle, "but I know this from my father, who is in the Board of Governors: apparently Dumbledore was far too quick to claim he'd stopped the Heir: there's been two more attacks since then!"

"Wait, what?!" I all-but shrieked.

"How is that possible?" asked Parkinson. "Everybody would know by now, if two students were attacked."

"Oh, the victims were just house-elves. But it's only a matter of time before the Heir goes after a mudblood, of course. And when that happens, my father will put a motion through the Board to have Dumbledore step down."

I closed my eyes, cursing my unlucky stars.

What had happened here? I figured the book was still contained, unless Dumbledore was completely incompetent, so it was probably the basilisk that was on the loose. The nature of the new targets —house-elves— seemed to fit with that theory: attacks of opportunity by a predator, then. Probably the monster finding the elves when they were at night and on their own, while they performed their cleaning tasks.

But why hadn't the Headmaster stopped the beast? I hadn't outright told him about it, but the message on the wall spoke about the Chamber, and I had given him the hint that I'd first found Luna near that specific bathroom. So he should have been able to find the entrance, at least.

Unless... he hadn't investigated it at all, of course. Say, if he was certain that the bit about the Chamber was simply a misdirection, and thought that the possessed Luna had simply used a spell to kill Mrs. Norris. Or perhaps he simply couldn't access the Chamber, not being a Parselmouth himself.

"Ugh," I groaned, closing my eyes for a beat. Note to self: this is why you shouldn't trust Dumbledore to fix shit.

"Did they die?" asked Parkinson.

"What?"

"The house-elves, what happened to them?"

Malfoy shrugged, in a who-cares kind of way. I could tell that he was getting annoyed at his news not being received with the jubilation he'd so clearly expected.

That was when Crabbe emitted a very impolite noise, standing up ramrod straight and muttering something about his stomach, before simply running away.

"I'll see to him!" said Goyle, following after him.

"Um... me too!" said Parkinson, leaving as well.

Malfoy looked at their backs as the three of them ran across the common room, rushing towards the main entrance.

"What's up with them?" he asked; then he shot me a suspicious look: "Is it something to do with you?"

"Me? No!" I tried to look innocent, but he wasn't fully buying it, so I changed tack: "I guess they probably want to... um... send letters to their own families, share the gossip?"

"Oh, of course," he drawled, relaxing again. "It would be humiliating to them, if their families were the last to find out."

I nodded, my gaze going to the windows behind Draco, to the lake's deep green waters, and the swift shadow of a giant tentacle —there one moment, gone the next. After a few seconds I said: "Hmm... Malfoy... how sure are you that this is the Heir's doing?"

He frowned at me: "Who else could it be?"

"You must admit it doesn't seem too noble, attacking house-elves from the shadows. More like a common criminal, in fact."

"Well... father said to let them carry on, do what they wish and not to intervene. Perhaps they need to practice their spells first, before unleashing on the mudbloods."

" Perhaps," I sentenced as I stood up, taking a page out of Zabini's book and twisting the word just so, the tone conveying what I truly thought.

And as I walked away, I was surprised to witness an uncharacteristically meditative Malfoy, almost as if he was thinking by himself for once. Maybe because that doubt, those suspicions that still lingered about my own involvement in the events of Hallowe'en lent my words a weight, an air of credibility that they wouldn't have had otherwise. For once, it must have been clear even to him that I knew what I was talking about; perhaps even better than his own father.

But I didn't have much time to meditate about it myself, because when the next morning dawned, it was finally Christmas day; and with it came a well-deserved reprieve away from Malfoy, Parkinson, the Trio, and even the basilisk, as Greengrass's invitation meant I would get the chance to escape the castle for one night at least.

I opened my eyes that day to find that Parkinson —the real one this time, I figured— was busy unwrapping box after box, as she worked her way through the little pile of gifts that covered her bed. She had a pair of loafer shoes with frilly bits on her hands, and an expression of disgust on her face that she was quick to hide the moment she noticed I too was awake.

I ignored the girl, though, because I also had a few gifts of my own next to my four-poster bed. A pitiful amount compared to hers, for sure... but still: these were mine.

Tracey Davis had sent me a pair of star-shaped earrings: silver —so they matched the snake brooch— and each with an aquamarine gem in its centre —so they matched the robes I liked to wear, when not in uniform. I didn't bother hiding the smile that bloomed across my face —to the annoyance of the pure-blood girl sitting across the dorm— and I quickly decided that I'd wear them that same night to the feast.

While Tracey's gift had all the hallmarks of having been chosen by somebody who knew me well, Perks' certainly didn't. Instead it was the sort of generic present that I suspected some sort of parental figure had helped her with: a wizarding stationery kit. It included a goose feather quill, parchment paper, a notebook, two inkwells —enchanted to prevent spills!— and a leather bag to put everything in.

To my surprise, Hermione had sent me a Christmas present too: a book on Wizarding etiquette; which would have been an insult coming from anybody in Slytherin, you know, but as she was a Gryffindor I tried not to take it personally.

I had debated over the last days whether I should send the brainy girl something or not, given that the Read-Ahead Club was a thing of the past. I had finally concluded that Snape's classes pretty much counted as shared trauma, which justified the sending of gifts even if we weren't friends, strictly speaking. The book I'd sent her —on Muggle and Wizarding common festivities, such as Halloween and what not— was also sourced from the Room of Requirement, but I hoped she wouldn't mind the slightly frayed edges.

Dumbledore's gift —yep!— was unassuming, but it was possibly the most important of them all. So much so that it almost made my heart leap out of my chest, my hands trembling. A simple, short letter confirming that yes, the Ministry's obliviators had performed memory charms on two Muggle police officers and a passer-by in Epping, on the same night that I'd been found and placed into the foster system. The stated cause was that they had witnessed a wizard disapparating right in front of their faces.

The rest of the letter was the typical Dumbledore spiel: saying that he would keep investigating the matter and wishing me a happy Christmas and such. But it almost didn't register, because I had it at last: the definitive confirmation that my theories were true.

Not only in regards to having a magical origin —I knew that for a fact already, thanks to my blood. But that... somewhere out there, there was somebody with the answers that I'd always been looking for. This mysterious wizard, this strange man who had came out of the woods holding me. Somebody who must know exactly where it was that I came from. What I was.

And I couldn't help but wonder: was he my father? Was the human part of my blood... his?

There were no answers to that, not yet. So instead I folder the letter, placing it with reverence inside my purple-covered notebook deep into my trunk; before finally turning to the last gift.

Daphne had sent me an owl.

And no, the owl hadn't carried in the gift. The owl was the gift.

It —or he, rather— was a young tawny owl, all brown and spotted white feathers. His two beady, black eyes observed me from above a narrow beak, as he patiently waited inside his cage. And how an owl could look so haughty was entirely beyond me.

Bloody hell... she had gifted me an owl!

Probably because at some point in the last months I must have complained one too many times about Snape's shortness with me during our shared outing to Diagon Alley, and how he had refused to indulge my very reasonable requests. And yeah, this was proof that Daphne cared about me, that she had remembered that and acted on it. But still... it made me feel conflicted, because owls weren't exactly cheap. Not a huge expense —especially not for a pure-blood, wealthy family like hers— but certainly more than last year's brooch. And also way more than I'd spent in all the pitiful presents I'd sent the girls myself, put together.

The thing was, I wasn't that sure where to go from this, what the proper response to it should be. My fore-memories weren't of any help here either, as I hadn't been friends with any millionaires in my past life. I should be thankful, surely, but also... did this mean that she saw me as a charity case? That she saw her role, as the circle's highest status witch was to... to help me?

Or was it perhaps because she was ashamed of me, of my lack of means? Of how it reflected on her to consort with someone... well, let's be frank here: with someone who was poor as dirt. Perhaps it was merely so that she wouldn't need to keep on sending her own owl to me first, anymore.

I eyed the gifted owl —more of an owlet, really— once more, my feelings mixed. I might be destitute, for sure, and somewhat of a thief. But I certainly wasn't a beggar. And I didn't care for her charity, if that's what this was.

But was that what this was?

Just like with the matter of my parentage, there was no way to know for sure yet. Not until I could get the chance to talk to her. So I decided to put it out of my mind until we could meet later that same afternoon, and simply carried the caged bird to the owlery after breakfast, handing him a small piece of ham for good measure —which he took in his beak as it was only his due, without even the smallest thankful look at me, the feathery prat.

I passed the day in a cloud of nerves, deciding to return to my dorm two full hours before I had to leave for the feast. I used that time to make myself as presentable as possible, taming my tangly hair with the help of a quick shower, a brush, and some cursing. I applied some cologne, and considered stealing some of Parkinson's cosmetics too, but finally decided against it. I'd certainly need to buy my own sometime in the future, but for now it would have to wait: I simply didn't know enough about the fashion trends in what regarded wizarding teens, and I figured tonight of all days was not the best moment to start experimenting. This would be my first time meeting Daphne's parents, after all.

I then wrapped myself in my good robes, with Tracey's earrings on my ears and a cheap but nifty necklace joining my ever-present skeleton and Gringotts keys around my neck. At the very last moment I decided to also don the winter cloak —it would be useless, because I wasn't going to be outdoors for even a single minute, but it made for a more impressive and witchier look.

And with that, and the rucksack containing my pyjamas and other essentials for the sleepover, I emerged out of the common room and left for Snape's office.

The veritable plague of Christmas decorations that had invaded Hogwarts over the last weeks seemed to have stopped just short of the door to the office of my head of house. Inside, everything looked the exact same as it had on the day of my detention, one year ago. From the assortment of bottles and jars filled with ingredients and mysterious liquids down to the gloomy wizard sitting at his desk, writing on a piece of parchment. It was like this room existed in an entirely different universe than the rest of the world, like time itself had frozen in here a long time ago.

Well, almost. There was one change that I noticed: on a little table behind the professor, between an extinguished candle and a pile of heavy tomes there was a framed picture. A moving photograph, taken on the day of the Duelling Club's first meeting. It depicted an ominous Snape shooting a flow of magic at a completely surprised Lockhart, who was in turn pushed into the air. The scene repeated in a loop, his humiliation displayed time and time again.

I smirked briefly, schooling my expression right before Snape raised his gaze to me. Plausible deniability and all that: I didn't want to make the situation awkward by forcing him to acknowledge who exactly was behind this little, anonymous Christmas gift he'd received out of the blue this very morning.

He probably suspected it, judging by his inquisitive look. But that was okay; I also suspected him of gifting me that one book last year, so now we were even. Sort of.

"I need to use your floo to get to the Greengrass's Yule Ball," I said, seeing as Snape didn't seem in any hurry to break the uncomfortable silence. Then I added lamely: "um... sir."

I knew that he was already aware of this. I had gone through the proper official channels —meaning Gemma Farley— and had received the confirmation that I was indeed allowed to go. Moreover, being difficult here risked him getting an earful from my friend's family, and he had to have known that. But still, he remained motionless for a beat, as if considering whether or not to allow me passage, whether the pros outweighed the cons.

Then he finally sighed, waving with his quill at the fireplace to his side. He asked: "Do you know how to use a floo?"

I nodded, walking up to it and grabbing a pinch of powder from the little urn nearby.

"I suppose I have no choice but to allow it, then. I expect you to be back for lunch tomorrow. Do not be late, or there shall be... consequences, that I'm certain you will not enjoy. Do I make myself clear?"

I nodded again. "Yes, professor. And... Merry Christmas?"

He gritted his teeth, his gaze going to the ceiling as if asking for patience. "I suggest you do not use the word 'Christmas' while you are at a pure-blood Yule gathering, Sarramond."

"I know that!" I protested. Then paused for a moment and added: "But... thanks for the warning, anyway."

This little scene was rapidly becoming awkward enough that I didn't want to linger for a single second longer, and I suspected Snape would be of the same opinion. So I quickly threw the powder at the fireplace, spoke aloud 'The Greengrass Estate' and rushed to cross the flames the moment they turned green, leaving the man-sized bat behind.