Adrian was already lounging by the fire in the Slytherin common room the next morning, waiting for Eleanor and Berenice before breakfast. The stone walls still held the chill of the fading storm, and the flickering green light of the lake outside cast long, watery shadows on the floor.

"Sleep well?" Adrian asked, rising to his feet as they approached.

"Well enough," Berenice replied, brushing a hand through her dark curls. "Have you decided which subjects you'll continue this year?"

They climbed the steps together, and Eleanor glanced up at the enchanted ceiling overhead as they entered the Great Hall. Though the thunder had passed, clouds the colour of tarnished pewter still loomed above, casting a dim grey hue over the hall.

"Of course I have," Adrian said with a flick of his fringe. "My O.W.L.s were decent enough. I'm thinking of going into Healing."

"Do you think Alchemy will be on offer this year?" Eleanor asked as they took their seats. She spooned scrambled eggs onto her plate, the steam curling up into the chilly air.

"Could be," Adrian replied. "I overheard Kenneth Towler and Melinda Quimby nattering about it last term. If there's enough interest, maybe."

"You two are such swots," Berenice said with a theatrical sigh. "I'd rather know whether I'd have made the Quidditch team if Dumbledore hadn't gone all serious and cancelled it."

"Well, that would've depended on who got made Captain," Adrian answered, rolling his eyes.

Eleanor didn't reply; she focused instead on her breakfast while the talk turned to Quidditch strategies and past glories.

At the staff table, Professor Snape rose with his usual sweeping grace, his robes billowing like storm clouds as he made his way down to distribute timetables.

Once the younger years had their schedules, Snape turned to the sixth-years with a look of disdainful curiosity.

"Shall I proceed alphabetically," he drawled silkily, "or begin with the student who achieved the highest marks?"

No one answered.

Snape gave a long-suffering sigh, his eyes glinting with sarcasm. "Mr Clark," he said, flicking his wand to summon Adrian's application. "Let us begin with your 'achievements', shall we?"

He withdrew a parchment listing each student's O.W.L. results and went about matching them with their N.E.W.T. course selections. For once, the process was efficient—no one had dared to apply for subjects they hadn't qualified for.

"Miss Seymour," he said, holding out a pale, waiting hand. Eleanor passed him her application.

"Excellent scores, Miss Seymour," he said, scanning the parchment with a raised brow. "Once again, I must commend your precision in anti-clockwise stirring. Professor Tofty was particularly impressed by your wrist and elbow control."

Eleanor flushed faintly. "Thank you, Professor."

"Will Alchemy be available this year?" she asked, almost too casually.

Snape narrowed his eyes. "That remains to be seen. I must consult the Heads of House to determine the level of interest, but I wouldn't hold your breath. The subject hasn't been taught in over three decades."

Eleanor gave a small, disappointed sigh.

Snape reviewed her chosen subjects: "Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Care of Magical Creatures, Astronomy, Herbology, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes and—" he paused, glancing at her "—History of Magic. One might think you had a phobia of spare time."

"As we discussed in April, Professor," Eleanor said coolly, "I still haven't decided on a career path. I thought keeping my options open was... prudent."

"Indeed." With a flick of his wand, Snape transferred her classes onto a blank timetable and handed it to her. "Don't wear yourself out with all that ambition, Miss Seymour."

"Thank you, Professor."

Eleanor waited for Adrian and Berenice outside the Great Hall before they headed to their first lesson of the term—N.E.W.T.-level Arithmancy.

Professor Vector, a striking witch with bone-straight black hair and chalk-pale skin, stood waiting at the front of the classroom.

"Welcome," she said crisply, once they were seated. "Let me be clear: this is not a class for coasters. Unlike Divination, which is tolerated, Arithmancy is essential for those seeking a future as Curse-Breakers or Lawmakers."

The class, small and unusually diverse, consisted of a handful of Ravenclaws and Slytherins, two nervous-looking Gryffindors, and one solitary Hufflepuff. No one dared interrupt.

"Take outNumerology and Grammatica," Vector continued. "This year, you'll be working independently. Collaboration will not be permitted under any circumstances. Today, we begin by revising the linguistic roots of Latin—one of the pillars of magical syntax."

With a sharp flick of her wand, the day's assignment appeared on the blackboard.

"You may begin."

The room filled with the soft rustling of parchment and the scratch of quills. Eleanor scribbled notes diligently while Berenice reread the same paragraph at least three times with a frown.

Afterwards, with a free period before lunch, the trio retreated to the library. They commandeered a table beneath the arched windows and delved deeper into the dense theory they'd just been assigned. Their conversation shifted between abstract magical linguistics and frantic page-turning.

As they packed up their things to head to lunch, Berenice said, "What do you reckon Defence will be like this year?"

Adrian gave a crooked grin. "Well, we've got it with the Gryffindors, and everyone knows Mad-Eye Moody sees a Death Eater in every dustbin. Let's hope we survive long enough tolearnDefence."

"That's not funny," Eleanor muttered. "He was dismissed from active duty for exactly that reason. What was Dumbledore thinking, hiring someone likehim?"

Her voice was sharp, and she stalked to the Slytherin table with her lips pressed in a thin line. From her bag, she yanked out a battered novel and buried her nose in it, ignoring Adrian and Berenice as they took their seats opposite her.

But her anger had little to do with Mad-Eye Moody—and everything to do with a certain pair of mischievous, light-brown eyes.

After lunch, Eleanor trailed behind Adrian and Berenice on their way to Defence Against the Dark Arts. The Gryffindors were already gathered, noisy and expectant. Eleanor avoided George Weasley's gaze, seating herself firmly between her friends and pulling outConfronting the Facelessas a kind of shield.

The corridor fell silent as the unmistakablethud-thudof Moody's walking stick echoed closer. The classroom door swung open.

"Gryffindors and Slytherins," he growled, lurching in. "Together in Defence. Good. Put the books away."

They obeyed, silently and a bit nervously.

Moody consulted a crumpled list, his magical eye spinning in his head as he located each student in turn.

"Right," he barked. "Everyone's here. I've been told you lot had high marks last year. But knowing a spell and using itunder pressureare two entirely different things. That's why I'm here."

Lucy Vane raised a hopeful hand. "You're only here for a year, Professor?"

Moody's magical eye fixed on her like a spotlight. "AVane, are you?" he said darkly. "Yes. One year, and then I go back to retirement. If I live that long."

He cracked his knuckles. "Let's talk about curses. Real curses. The kind Dark wizards use when theydon'twant to be caught. They don't shout spells like amateurs; they use non-verbal magic. Weasley—what's the benefit of that?"

Fred blinked. "Er—the opponent doesn't know what's coming?"

Moody gave a toothy grimace that might have been a smile. "Correct. It gives you a moment's edge. Might just save your neck."

He paced slowly in front of the class. "Now. There are spells thatmustbe spoken aloud. You use one, you get a one-way ticket to Azkaban. No appeals. Who can name them?"

Adrian raised his hand.

"Yes, Pucey?"

"The Unforgivable Curses, sir."

"Indeed. Your father would know all about those, I imagine. Name them."

Adrian cleared his throat. "The Imperius Curse, for one."

Moody retrieved a spider from a jar and enlarged it with a flick. "Imperio."

The spider swayed like an acrobat, tumbling and dancing on the desk.

"Total control," Moody said. "Make it jump, drown, die. Easy. Many witches and wizardsclaimedthey'd been under it. Some were lying. Some weren't. But resisting it—that takes strength."

"BE VIGILANT!" he barked suddenly, and half the class nearly jumped out of their skins.

Next came the Cruciatus Curse. Angelina Johnson named it, and Moody cast it without hesitation.

The spider writhed in agony. Eleanor turned away, her stomach churning.

"What's the matter?" Moody sneered. "Can't stomach it? Then don't ever cast it."

Finally, George Weasley raised his hand. "Avada Kedavra," he said softly.

A flash of green—and the spider dropped dead, silent and still.

"No counter-curse. No defence. Only one person's ever survived it," Moody muttered. "And he's sitting in this school."

The rest of the lesson was filled with gruesome anecdotes and discussions of non-verbal spellwork. When the bell rang, most of the students bolted. Eleanor lingered, gathering her things.

She hadn't made it ten paces before George caught her arm and pulled her into a side corridor.

"What's going on with you? You didn't evenlookat me today."

Eleanor yanked her arm away. "What's going on withyou, you mean."

George frowned. "I don't follow."

"You and your dimwit brother hissed at Malcolm last night. Why? Because he's a Slytherin? Because he has ambition?"

George's mouth twisted. "That's why you're mad? Since when does Slytherin's duchess care about first-years?"

Eleanor's eyes blazed. "My point is, you're no different from the rest. I thought you were. Clearly, I was wrong. You're just another stupid Gryffindork."

She turned and stormed away, her eyes stinging with tears.

She didn't know why it hurt so much. Only that itdid.