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Chapter Text

HOGSMEADE HERALD

15th July 1992

MUGGLE PROTECTION ACT PASSES

Natalie Poett

The Wizengamot voted to approve the Muggle Protection Act on Tuesday night, putting months of debate to rest. The Act, which was introduced by Head Obliviator Emmeline Vance, grants the Ministry wide authority to sign Decrees prohibiting the enchantment of objects of apparent Muggle origin.

It is understood that the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, headed by Arthur Weasley, has an array of Decrees drafted and ready to sign. The purpose of these measures is to prevent magical items passing accidentally into the Muggle world, where they can inadvertently cause harm. Mr Weasley explained to the Herald: “We’ve been anticipating this moment for over a year. Now that the Act has passed, we’ll be wasting no time in putting it into force.”

The passage of the Act into law was greeted enthusiastically by business leaders, who state that it will protect the wizarding economy from a growing flood of cheap, low quality Muggle imports. The robe industry has been hit particularly hard, with three Diagon Alley closures in the last decade. Many in the industry consider the newcomer Sickleland responsible.

The Herald caught up with Madam Madeline Malkin, who explained the problem. “They can import a Muggle dress for a sickle or two and have it enchanted on the cheap by an unlicensed seamstress. It’s just not possible to compete with a business model with such low costs. No one seems to care that their charms fail after a few months, and the fabric not long after.”

However, not everyone has welcomed the Act, which passed by a narrow margin of 35 votes to 31. Warlock Melissa Abbott had the following to say: “While the protection of Muggles is of course a noble pursuit, no moderate could support such a draconian Act, which will effectively criminalise the vast majority of British witches and wizards. We all have enchanted Muggle artefacts in our homes, and compliance with these measures will place an intolerable burden on the average citizen.”

Critics have also stressed that the Ministry did not lack for legal powers in this area. It has long been illegal for an enchanted object to pass into Muggle possession or ownership, and the Ministry has wide authority to appropriate such objects and punish those responsible.

“This Act is a cynical overreach by the Ministry,” stated Warlock Cantankerous Burke, the most senior member of the Wizengamot. “It is clear that the true purpose is not to protect Muggles, but to give the Ministry the power to invade the homes of private citizens and seize their property.”

Ministry representatives reject these allegations, claiming that their pre-existing powers were inadequate to the task of preventing magical items falling into Muggle hands. Over sixty enchanted items were found in Muggle possession last year, with several Muggles seriously injured.

But many have raised concerns over the cost of protecting these Muggles. “Of course we must protect Muggles, but we must do so in a proportionate way,” stated Mr Lucius Malfoy, widely considered the richest wizard in Britain. “As a taxpayer, it gives me great concern to see the budget of a singular office so widely inflated for so little gain. Wizarding gold should be spent on wizarding problems.”

In the face of such opposition, it is easy to see why the Act was expected to be voted down, and the Warlocks of the Wizengamot must have considered themselves in for a short session when they arrived on Tuesday afternoon. But after many hours of debate, the great upset came at nine o’clock, when Isaiah Diggory threw his support behind the Act. He brought with him five votes, just enough to see the Act into law. In explaining his change of heart, Warlock Diggory declared himself convinced that the number of magical objects finding their way into Muggle possession presented a serious threat to the International Statute of Secrecy.

It was that argument which won the day, and many Warlocks departed with ashen faces. The Ministry will now commence their visits to wizarding households in order to collect unauthorised Muggle artefacts.

Chapter Text

Upon returning to the Muggle world, Victoria immediately felt out of place.

Hidebound House had not changed at all during her year away, yet it had never felt so alien to her, like she was a visitor in her own home. It was just so different there compared to Hogwarts. The castle was full of nooks and crannies, hidden alcoves and spiral staircases, but everything was rather neater and more rectangular in the Muggle world. The anaemic electric lights were a pale imitation of the crackling fire of the Slytherin common room; the photos on the wall did not move nor did the bathroom mirror ever speak; and the water in the shower was never powerful enough or the right temperature.

It wasn’t just the house which troubled her. Every aspect of life seemed to remind Victoria of what she was missing. It was strange to wear her Muggle dresses, now that she was used to robes, and she felt uncomfortably exposed walking around without a wand tucked up her sleeve or hanging at her waist. The food was different too—Petunia’s cooking could not possibly live up to the standard set by Hogwarts. The music on the radio was unfamiliar, and watching the television no longer captured her interest as it once had. How could she find Blue Peter interesting, when she could have been reading with Susan about the sorcerer pharaohs of ancient Egypt, or learning a new spell, or playing games with the Slytherin girls? She even would have welcomed a quidditch match, though it was far from her favourite pastime.

 Worst of all, the garden no longer offered Victoria the escape it once had, though in the past it had been her favourite place in the whole world. It just felt so small and artificial after spending a year at Hogwarts, where the greenhouses were packed to the rafters with exotic plants, and where every window looked out on the magnificent Hogsmeade valley, the never-ending Forbidden Forest, or the vastness of the Great Lake. The garden at Hidebound House was lifeless in comparison, a manicured lawn leading to winding rows of carefully placed bushes and meticulously arranged flowerbeds. Just like everything else in the Muggle world, there was nothing wild there, nothing truly alive.

She knew it was silly, but Victoria felt a great sense of loss when returning to the garden for the first time. In her mind, she had remembered it as an idyllic haven, a labyrinthine world of life and wonder. It was a rather rude awakening to see it for what it was: a fairly average country garden.

So she decided to do something about it. Little by little, as the summer progressed she began using what she had learnt in Herbology to bring new life to the garden. She stamped on the soil with just the right rhythm to summon worms; she inscribed simple runes onto stones to attract bees, ladybirds, and butterflies; and on the full moon, she sprinkled the soil with milk, granting it greater fertility. These changes alone were sufficient to send the garden into overdrive, with plants growing at an unprecedented rate—faster than the gardener could contain—but she didn’t stop there.

The garden was still far too normal in her opinion. So she took cuttings of lavender and bled their colour into the roses; she used the silver in a spare sickle to clean the pond water, turning it crystal clear and sparkling in the sun, its purity soon attracting a lively colony of frogs; and she used honey to coax extra fragrance out of the jasmine, filling the whole garden with its scent.

Right under Petunia’s nose, the garden flourished beneath Victoria’s magical touch, and soon it was the envy of Little Whinging. As word spread, Petunia’s friends began visiting for afternoon tea with increasing regularity.

“Never seen roses that colour before,” they would say, “bright purple! A new breed, is it?”

Or: “That jasmine! How beautiful!”

Even though Victoria was careful to do all of this in secret, no doubt Petunia suspected that she was doing something unnatural. Roses did not turn bright purple for no reason, after all. She seemed content to feign ignorance, however, so long as the garden continued to draw admiring comments from the members of the Little Whinging Garden Association.

Victoria did not care one way or the other about the compliments of the Garden Association, but she did find it curious that her herbology had not attracted the attention of the Ministry of Magic, in spite of the warning she had received with her end-of-year report. She had a growing suspicion that certain magic was too subtle for the Ministry to detect, a suspicion which was confirmed when, in a moment of recklessness fuelled by boredom, she animated one of her origami birds. After several days without punishment, she decided it was safe to use a little bit of magic.

She didn’t dare cast anything with her wand—a proper spell would surely gain the Ministry’s ire—but as July wore on, Victoria took great joy in experimenting with new ways to draw out her powers. She found an old skipping rope and discovered that, with just the right rhythm, she could linger at the top of her jump for longer than was natural. She figured out that slamming her bedroom door as hard as she could (something which annoyed Petunia no end) would fix the door handle in place, effectively locking it. And, quite by accident, she learnt that swearing at a burnt slice of toast would cause all the burnt bits to fall off.

Though unimpressive compared to what she could do with a wand, these little magics helped Victoria to overcome her feeling of isolation, connecting her in a small way to the magical world she missed. She was so busy with her experimentation, in fact, that she entirely forgot about her approaching birthday at the end of July.

Her birthdays were never so much celebrated by the Dursleys as they were begrudgingly recognised. Whereas Dudley would receive a small mountain of colourfully wrapped presents, Victoria would come to breakfast to find a single white envelope resting on top of her plate.

“... hundred metres tomorrow,” Vernon was saying as she entered the kitchen, a copy of The Telegraph obscuring him from view. “Looks like we might have a shot with Christie.”

“Lovely, dear,” Petunia said distractedly.

Victoria took her place at the table while her aunt bustled about, frying some bacon and fiddling with their new, very expensive coffee-maker. The Dursleys took great pride in it, being the only family they knew to own such a machine. They fancied that it made them more American.

“Of course, this Christie fellow isn’t really British,” Vernon continued. “Jamaican, I think, but we’ll take what we can get, eh? What do you say, Dudders? Worth a watch?”

Victoria reached forward for the Coco Pops. “Dudley’s still in bed.”

Vernon let the top of his broadsheet flop forwards, giving him a view of Victoria. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Here we go!” Petunia announced, passing Vernon a steaming mug of coffee.

“Ta, Pet.” He took a sip and pulled a face at the bitter taste. “Delicious,” he lied, smacking his lips together, before looking down at the envelope in front of Victoria. “Well, what’re you waiting for? You only turn thirteen once, you know!”

She reached for the envelope, muttering under her breath.

“What’s that, girl?” Vernon said, “speak up!”

“I’m twelve, not thirteen.”

“More’s the pity,” Vernon said, looking sideways at Petunia. “Yet another year before you can move out. Now, get on with it! I have to go to work soon.”

Victoria fixed a smile on her face and braced herself for the usual disappointment. Inside the envelope was a card, and inside the card was a single ten-pound note along with a folded sheet of paper containing a poorly-typed list of expenses. Vernon wrote it each year, thoroughly detailing the costs of her room and board, before generously writing off her “debt” as a birthday gift.

If only he knew that she had a huge pile of gold sitting beneath London… but then, even if he did know, she would sooner kiss Pansy Parkinson’s feet than pay Vernon a single galleon of wizarding gold.

“Well?” Petunia said, “what do you say to your uncle?”

“Thank you,” Victoria said, not willing to risk a thirty-minute lecture on the importance of gratitude. And then, because she couldn’t quite resist it, she added, “You’re as generous as the goblins.”

Vernon’s eyes narrowed, no doubt suspecting sarcasm, but he was clearly unwilling to engage in an argument which might involve the word ‘goblin’.

Petunia finally took a seat at the table with half a pink grapefruit. “Young lady, what have we said about M-words?” she said. “Let’s not spoil your birthday with that nonsense. Now, after breakfast, I thought we might go clothes shopping. How’d you like that? You’re getting a bit big for some of your old dresses.”

“That sounds nice,” Victoria said. While she would never spend her own money on Muggle clothes, it was true that her dresses were beginning to get a bit tight, and the skirts were verging on scandalously short as she grew taller.

Vernon left for work, and soon enough Petunia drove Victoria down to Great Whinging high street, where a number of fashionable shops were to be found. As they looked for a parking space, once again Victoria was struck by the strangeness of the Muggle world, all concrete and plastic and glass. It was as if the Muggles were determined to kill off all connection to nature.

She had been thinking about this a lot over the summer. Without magic, Muggles lived at the whim of nature, their technology cleverly harnessing forces which Victoria had always struggled to understand, like electricity and magnets. And yet, for all their reliance on nature, Muggles seemed so disconnected from everything green and living. Meanwhile, wizards lived in close contact with the natural world, even though their powers continuously defied it. Magic was supernatural, yes, but it was also closely connected to nature. It was an interesting contradiction, one that she hadn’t yet figured out how to resolve.

Eventually they found a parking space and made their way to the shops. Although there was never a moment’s doubt that Dudley was the Dursleys’ preferred child, one area where they had never skimped was Victoria’s clothing, with Petunia insisting that she dress like a proper young lady. She was therefore given relatively free reign to pick out as much clothing as she liked, a fact which she fully intended to take advantage of.

As Victoria browsed the racks, she pulled a face at many of the options on display. She just couldn’t understand the appeal of jeans, all baggy and scruffy-looking, and the mere thought of baring her midriff with a crop top made her face heat up with embarrassment. This, at least, was a viewpoint which Petunia shared, and her aunt made noises of approval when Victoria picked out a couple of flowery dresses. They couldn’t quite pass for dress robes—their short sleeves and lack of charms saw to that—but she thought that she might be able to use them as inner robes, their Muggleness concealed beneath more appropriate clothing.

After paying for the dresses they went to the supermarket, where Petunia let Victoria push the trolley as a birthday treat. It was a decision she came to regret: Victoria took the opportunity to race around the shop floor, Petunia hissing at her to behave as she narrowly avoided collisions with other customers and shop displays.

Their winding, hazardous route at last brought them to the cake section.

“Hurry up and pick one,” Petunia said, looking rather frazzled, and Victoria quickly selected a sponge cake, placing it in the trolley. Petunia frowned. “Why don’t we have a chocolate one? Everyone likes chocolate.”

Chocolate cake was Dudley’s favourite.

Victoria sighed. “Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

It was past noon by the time they returned home. Victoria helped put the food away and set the table for lunch, at which point Dudley finally surfaced. He too had spent the last year away from home, boarding at a posh all-boys school called Smeltings, and he had returned a very different boy. He slept late, avoided his family like the plague, and every other word out of his mouth was a swear word. Victoria could tell it bothered Petunia, but Vernon always waved off her concerns with the words, “boys will be boys”.

“How about some salad, Popkin?” Petunia asked, loading up Dudley’s plate with sandwiches, crisps, pork pie and a slice of pizza. Dudley simply grunted and took the plate, tucking in without another word. He didn’t touch the salad.

They ate in silence. Victoria had pizza, some coleslaw and a packet of crisps. It was quite a satisfactory birthday lunch, and she was eagerly looking forward to the chocolate cake, even though it wasn’t her favourite. But then, just as they were clearing away their plates, a heavy thump came from the top of the house. Petunia shrieked, dropping a glass which smashed loudly on the floor, and a moment later footsteps could be heard coming from directly above them. A man’s voice followed, drifting in through the open kitchen window.

“I say!” he said, and the voice sounded familiar to Victoria, though she couldn’t place it. “Where’s their skydoor?”

“Maybe Muggles don’t have skydoors,” responded the voice of Susan Bones, Victoria’s best friend. “They don’t have brooms, do they?”

An “eep!” of happiness escaped Victoria’s lips and she jumped up from table. “Excuse me!” she cried, hurrying out the kitchen door and into the back garden.

“Now, Susan, don’t be prejudiced,” Mr Bones was saying, his voice coming from high above, “the Muggles know how to fly, there was a programme about it on the wireless.”

He was standing high above on the edge of the roof, balancing awkwardly on the sloped tiles. Mr Bones was tall and lanky, with coppery-red hair like his daughter, and was wearing beige, linen robes suited to the summer heat. Floating next to him was an extremely long broom with three saddles down its length. Susan was sitting in the middle saddle, waving down at Victoria with a grin on her face, her long hair tied up in a bun.

“Ho there!” Mr Bones called, spotting Victoria in the garden below. “Where’s your skydoor?”

Victoria had never heard of skydoors, but she could easily figure out what they were. “We don’t have one! Can’t you come down?”

“Told you!” Susan said, sticking her tongue out at her dad.

“Yes, yes,” he said in a long-suffering tone. “Be down in a tick!”

He mounted the saddle at the front of the broom and pushed off gently, not so much flying as floating down into the garden. The moment they were on the ground, Susan jumped off the broom and engulfed Victoria in a hug.

“Happy birthday!”

Meanwhile, Mr Bones was pulling his wand out and pointing it at the roof. “Obliviate Muggletum!” There was no visible effect, but he nodded in satisfaction. “That should do it, I think.”

“Do you want to come in?” Victoria said, gesturing at the kitchen door. “We were about to have cake.”

She led them into the house, where Petunia was clearing up the smashed glass with a dazed look on her face. Dudley was still eating, apparently oblivious to everything around him.

“Mind the glass!” Petunia said as they entered, “I don’t know how I did it…”

“Allow me,” Mr Bones said, and with a flick of his wand the shards of glass floated up and came together like the pieces of a puzzle. He plucked the repaired glass out of the air and handed it to Petunia, who had now lost her dazed look and was instead scowling at Mr Bones’ wand.

“None of that here, thank you,” she snapped, quickly placing the glass on the counter like it might give her a disease. She took in the visitors, noting their robes with a slight curl of her lip. “You’re here to take her away, are you?”

“With your permission,” Mr Bones said. “I’ve cleared it with the Ministry of Magic, of course, and we’ve had a charm-mason lay down extra security. Nothing like what you’ve got here, but I understand it’s been several years since the last—”

“That sounds fine,” Petunia interrupted, her voice strained. “Will you be leaving straight away?”

Mr Bones seemed to pick up on Petunia’s state of mind. He looked to Victoria, a question in his eyes, and she nodded. “Perhaps that would be best.”

Susan pulled on her father’s sleeve. “But Dad,” she whispered, “what about the cake…?”

“Oh!” Petunia said, “why, I completely forgot…”

“Victoria will need to pack her things,” Mr Bones said. “Why don’t we see to the cake while Susan helps her?”

The girls left the adults in the kitchen and made their way upstairs. Susan was looking around with curiosity, her eyes lingering on the unmoving photographs hanging on the walls.

“Well, here we go,” Victoria said, opening her bedroom door, “welcome to chez Victoria.” The room was as neat as ever, but it was now full to the brim with magical paraphernalia. Her desk was piled high with books and parchment, and the pale pink walls had several dog-eared posters stuck to them, each one depicting wand movements. Like all magical posters, the drawings moved.

“So that’s where Flitwick’s old posters went,” Susan said. She tapped her finger on the radiator beneath the window.  “What’s this?”

“You use it to heat the house in the winter,” Victoria explained. “It’s not on at the moment.”

“And that?” Susan said, pointing at the light hanging from the ceiling. “Is that an eclectic light?”

Victoria giggled. “Yes it is,” she said, not correcting her friend. “Here, watch.” She flicked the switch and the bulb lit up with a pale-yellow light, barely visible in the daylight.

If Susan was underwhelmed, she didn’t show it. “How clever! It’s just like bottled lightning!”

“The cooker downstairs is eclectic too,” Victoria said, “maybe I can show you that on the way out.”

It didn’t take long to pack, as most of her things were already in her trunk—she couldn’t wear robes in the Muggle world, after all. Together they managed to carry the heavy trunk and Dumbledore’s carry-case down the stairs and back into the kitchen.

“Ah, here they are,” Mr Bones said. He was holding three slices of cake wrapped in paper towels, which he gave to Susan after levitating the trunk. “All ready?”

They went back outside where the broom was waiting for them. There was a wooden box at the rear of the shaft which Mr Bones now swung open, levitating the trunk and Dumbledore’s carry-case inside. Victoria stared—the trunk alone had been several times larger than the box, yet seemed to fit inside it easily. The slices of cake were next into the apparently bottomless space, and then Mr Bones was clambering into the front saddle. “Hop on, girls!”

It was at that point, as Susan mounted the middle saddle with practised ease, that Victoria realised that she was about to fly for the first time. She hesitated.

“Uh, so, I’ve never actually—”

“Nothing to it, my dear!” Mr Bones said. “Never fear, we’ve got all the latest charms. You’ll be plenty warm.”

The temperature hadn’t even occurred to her. She was rather more concerned with falling off.

“But don’t you need training to fly?”

“Not to be a passenger,” Susan said. She patted the saddle behind her. “Come on, you’ll love it, I swear.”

Victoria mounted the broom awkwardly, making sure to firmly secure the skirt of her dress underneath her. Her legs dangled either side of the saddle in a distinctly unladylike manner and she was suddenly quite glad she was at the back. At least the saddle had a Cushioning Charm.

“Now, we’ll need to be invisible until we reach the clouds,” Mr Bones explained. “You girls up for a bit of peddling?” He pushed a button and a set of pedals dropped down beneath each saddle, at just the right height for Victoria to slip her feet beneath the straps.

“Maybe I could just ride in the box,” she muttered, but no-one heard her. Mr Bones lowered a pair of goggles over his eyes.

“Here we go!”

They rose slowly into the air, the broom tilting so that its front was pointing skyward. “Oh no,” Victoria moaned, having to lean forward just to feel like she wasn’t hanging off the end. She clutched the shaft of the broom in front of her. “You lied! I don’t like this at all!”

Susan laughed, and then they were shooting upwards like they’d been launched from a catapult. “Pedal, girls, pedal!” Mr Bones was shouting, barely audible above the whistling of the wind, and Victoria pedalled for her life, her loose hair blowing in every direction. As they pedalled, the broom and its occupants began to shimmer into invisibility.

Victoria’s eyes widened as the broom disappeared. She screamed and she swore, chanting “crap-crap-crap,” to the sound of Susan whooping; her thighs were gripping the saddle so hard that they began to wobble from the strain. Though she could still feel wood beneath the death-grip of her fingers, it looked like there was nothing between her and the rapidly diminishing ground. She couldn’t even see her own arms.

Then there was dampness, like someone had sprayed a fine mist of water in her face, and a moment later the broom levelled off before slowing to a stop. They had broken through a cloud and were floating above it in glorious sunshine.

“That’s enough pedalling for now!” Mr Bones called. The broom returned to visibility and Victoria’s shoulders slumped in relief. She began to cry and laugh at the same time: though it had lasted mere seconds, she felt completely drained, her dress sticking to her skin in a clammy sweat.

Mr Bones twisted in his saddle to get a look at her. “All right back there?”

Victoria sniffed. “No.”

“She’s fine,” Susan said at the same time. She glanced over her shoulder, a grin on her face. “Your hair’s a mess, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Victoria replied grumpily. She shook her head and her hair came alive, winding itself into a tight plait.

Mr Bones raised an eyebrow. “Don’t worry, it’s rather more leisurely from here onwards.” He pushed the broom forward, a pleasant breeze blowing in their faces as they accelerated. The broom was just skimming the top of the white, fluffy clouds, so close that their feet could almost touch them. Through the gaps in the clouds she could glimpse the world far below, the buildings and roads so small that they could have been a toy model, and though the sight made her feel quite dizzy, she couldn’t help but keep looking.

As they made their way north over London, Victoria noticed something interesting: though there were in fact very few clouds, their route never took them into clear skies where Muggles might spot them. It was as if the clouds formed a constantly shifting network of roads in the sky, acting to conceal them from view.

She began to relax. The sun and wind had dried her out quickly, and now the broom was level she could sit back in the saddle without having to clutch at it with her thighs. At first she didn’t think they were going that fast—certainly the breeze wasn’t too strong—but when she risked another glance down, she noticed that the clouds where zooming past beneath them, faster than any car. They quickly left London behind, the urban sprawl giving way to farmland dotted with small towns. Victoria took a deep breath of the cool, clean air. At last she was back where she belonged.

Every so often they would pass other flyers in the sky, from lone riders to families on long tandem brooms like their own. Each time they crossed paths with another flyer, Mr Bones would slow down to greet them, often calling out to them by name:

“Afternoon, Lincoln!”

“Byron, old chap! Perfect day for a spot of flying!”

“Leaky on Saturday, Abbott?”

One time they were even overtaken by a greenish blur on a racing broom.

“That’s a Cleansweep Six, girls!” Mr Bones shouted as their own broom wobbled in its wake. “Probably one of the Holyhead Harpies!”

Not long after their encounter with the racer, they came across a wooden signpost sticking out of a cloud, directing flyers towards Diagon Alley, Godric’s Hollow, Mould-on-the-Wold, Appleby and even Hogsmeade. It was here that they began to veer to the east, heading into the Fens. The land below became flatter, a lush green riddled with rivers.

“Not long now!” Mr Bones said, “but a spot of cake wouldn’t go amiss!”

Victoria groaned; she was the only one who could reach the travel box. Carefully, with her heart in her mouth, she turned around in the saddle, each and every wobble convincing her that she would fall off and plummet to her death. She lifted the lid with shaking hands and thrust her arm inside, feeling around for the cake. Luckily it hadn’t shifted much during the flight and was still near the top.

She passed two slices forward and watched with disbelief as Susan and her dad tucked in, barely seeming to notice that they were perched precariously, thousands of feet into the air. Needless to say, Victoria didn’t join them. Her hands would remain firmly attached to the broom, thank-you-very-much.

They began to follow the path of a wide river, winding this way and that, and in the distance a tall cathedral could be seen at the centre of a small market town.

“This is us!” Mr Bones said as they passed another signpost, this one reading ELY: 13 MILES. “Time to pedal again!”

If ascending had been bad, descending was even worse. The nose of the broom pointed downwards, and for one awful moment Victoria actually thought she was going to tumble forward into the air, but her feet were still tucked into the straps on the pedals, giving her just enough purchase to squeeze her legs together and lean backwards.

“Oh no, oh no,” she kept repeating, her hands flailing for something to grip, eventually settling for the edges of the saddle.

“Victoria!” Susan shouted, “you’re not pedalling!”

“I hate you!” Victoria cried, but she pedalled nonetheless, and they passed into the damp cloud. They were invisible by the time they emerged from the other side, and they shot down towards a tall, irregularly shaped building on the east bank of the river. A water wheel jutted out from its side, turning steadily in the rapid current, and ivy grew all over the stone walls. The house—for surely this was where Susan lived—was surrounded by vegetable plots, and beyond them were fields in which a handful of cows grazed. There wasn’t a road or electricity pylon in sight.

A flat platform occupied around half of the roof, almost like a Muggle helicopter pad. They circled it as would a carrion bird, each circuit bringing them closer, spiralling downward until they were coming in to land. When they did, Victoria jumped off the broom eagerly, her weak legs rejoicing at the feel of solid stone beneath her feet.

“Perfect landing!” Mr Bones said with satisfaction, taking off his goggles and running a hand through his hair.

Susan dismounted casually. She looked windswept, with rosy cheeks and hair coming loose from her bun, but she didn’t wobble in the slightest as she got off the broom. “Well done, Dad. Much better than last time.”

Mr Bones coughed. “Yes, well, we won’t mention that one to your mother when she visits.”

Victoria listened to their conversation with alarm. What had happened the last time?

“Oh, don’t worry,” Susan said, coming over to her and giving her a hug. “I can see what you’re thinking already. You’re fine, aren’t you?”

Victoria leaned into the hug. She was still feeling a bit unsteady. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, remembering what she had said on the broom. “I don’t hate you.” She let go of Susan and turned to Mr Bones, who was extracting her trunk from the travel box. “Thank you for coming to get me.”

“Say nothing of it! It’s your birthday, after all.” He led them over to a sturdy oak door at the edge of the platform, rummaging through his pockets for the key. “Er, Susan, do you perhaps have…?”

Susan sighed and fished an iron key from a hidden pocket at her hip. The door unlocked with a clunk, and she swung it open to reveal a spacious entrance hall with wooden floors and a high, slanted ceiling. The room had the warmth of a greenhouse, a fire burning merrily in the hearth and sunlight streaming in through the many skylights. Exotic house plants were placed artfully between the couches and coffee tables, and at the far end of the room the rail of a spiral staircase led down into the house.

Victoria hadn’t known what she was expecting—an attic, perhaps, or a small landing—but it wasn’t this. It was as if the house had been built upside down, with the front door at the top.

Mr Bones smiled at her expression.

“Welcome to the Workshop.”

Chapter Text

While Mr Bones was putting the broom away, Susan gave Victoria the grand tour. The house was spread over five floors, large enough that in the Muggle world it would have been considered generously proportioned—certainly it was bigger than Hidebound House.

The top floor was taken up entirely by the entrance hall, and below that were the reception rooms and a large, well-equipped kitchen. There was a certain rustic, cluttered elegance to it all, with walls of exposed stone, wooden floors littered with rugs, and ornaments from all over the world. A Nigerian face mask hung next to the kitchen window, a large Moroccan vase sat next to a fireplace in the drawing room, and in the sitting room, each armchair had a side table next to it shaped like an Indian elephant.

Although the decorations were very tasteful, Victoria couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed. There was something a bit too sanitised about the house, with little sign that it was lived in at all. She hadn’t figured Mr Bones for a neat freak.

“We don’t really use these rooms much,” Susan explained, “not since Mum left. Now it’s just me and Dad, it feels a bit empty up here.”

Susan had only ever mentioned her mother briefly, and had never explained her mother’s apparent absence from her life. It was a topic which Victoria had tried to avoid, assuming that either divorce or death were involved, but now it seemed like she was being giving permission to ask.

“When did she leave?”

“When I was eight,” Susan replied. She didn’t seem upset by the question, but she wasn’t looking Victoria in the eye either, busying herself with re-arranging the cushions on an already-tidy settee. “She ran off with Francois. They live in the south of France now, near Narbonne.”

“But she comes to visit you? Your dad said…”

“Maybe once a week,” Susan said. “It’s a new thing we’re trying. She’s actually coming over tonight, I hope you don’t mind…”

“Of course not!” Victoria said. “It’s your house, you can invite who you want.”

Susan’s eyes lit up. “But it’s your house too, now! Come on, let me show you.”

The next two floors down were full of spacious bedrooms, most of them empty. Susan’s room was on the lower of the two floors, the wooden door carved with stars and unicorns and bearing a brass plaque with her name on it. There was another bedroom immediately opposite. Its door was carved like Susan’s, this time with cats and snakes, and it too held a plaque:

VICTORIA

A lump formed in Victoria’s throat. “This is for me?”

“Take a look inside,” Susan urged, practically bobbing on her feet.

Like the other bedrooms, Victoria’s room was massive, with a king-sized bed and large, bay windows that jutted out from the side of the house. The walls were painted light pink (her favourite colour, as Susan well knew) and several lamps hung from the ceiling, their shutters currently closed. There was a wardrobe, a well-stocked bookcase, and a desk, over which hung a banner reading “HAPPY BIRTHDAY”. Her trunk had already made its way there, and Dumbledore the cat was stretched out in a ray of sun by the window.

“It’s amazing,” Victoria said. She stepped further into the room. Like the rest of the house, everything had been made with care and built to last: the feet of the bed were sculpted in the shape of a lion’s paws, the chair at the desk had a Cushioning Charm engraved into it, and the wardrobe was charmed to be bigger on the inside.

There was a framed photograph on the bedside table. Victoria picked it up and gasped: it was a wizarding photograph of her parents, standing on a rocky beach and waving enthusiastically at the camera. Her mother was red-haired and beautiful, with green eyes like her own; her father was tall, dark-haired and handsome.

“Professor Dumbledore brought that when he came to enchant the room,” Susan said, peering over Victoria’s shoulder. “I think it’s connected to the spells, somehow.”

Victoria didn’t know what to say. Not even the discovery that she was a witch had left her so speechless. “Thank you,” she said softly. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“Well, we wanted to,” Susan said. “Besides, you’re gonna be here for a whole month, so it’s not like you’re just visiting. Now you have a magical home as well as a Muggle one!”

The tour concluded on the ground floor, which was far homier than the rest of the house. It was clear that this was where the Bones really lived. A second kitchen looked out upon the vegetable patches, much smaller than the one upstairs but well used, with muddy boots next to the back door, half-melted candles on the kitchen table, and jars holding tea leaves and coffee beans by the stove. The kitchen was connected to a cosy den heaped with cushions, blankets and board games, and that in turn led to a small library, the shelves overflowing with generations of accumulated books.

Mr Bones was sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper. ‘FUDGE BACKS WEASLEY’ declared the headline, and the cover photo depicted a short man in a bowler hat shaking hands with Ron’s father. The Minister kept looking distractedly at something out-of-frame, before seeming to remember that he was supposed to be smiling at the camera.

“Episode of Quizarding World tonight,” Mr Bones said as they entered. He was looking over the wireless listings. “Might be fun for Victoria.”

Victoria nodded. “Sounds interesting.” Presumably it was some kind of quiz show.

They had some juice and biscuits—shortbread from a Muggle bakery in nearby Ely, which Mr Bones made them promise to keep secret from Arthur Weasley—before going outside to explore. Susan led her past rows of carrots and cauliflower, rhubarb and raspberries, Victoria’s Muggle trainers getting increasingly muddy as they made their way towards the river, where the house’s ground floor extended out towards the river. It was this part of the house which held the water wheel.

“What’s in there?” Victoria asked, curious as to why a wizard would need such a thing.

“Dad’s workshop,” Susan explained. “I’m not allowed in but we can look through a window.”

They peered in through perfectly clean glass. The inside held an eclectic mix of equipment, with a carpenter’s bench and tools, an anvil next to a small furnace, an array of wands hanging on the wall, and even a mechanical sewing machine. The room was open where it met the water wheel, which fed into a trough of continuously running water.

Victoria wondered how one person could need all of it. “What does your dad actually do?”

“He repairs broken artefacts,” Susan said. “You know, brooms that only turn left, cool-boxes that don’t stay cold, that sort of stuff.”

“And the water?”

Susan shrugged. “I’m not really sure. I think it’s got something to do with removing spells from things.”

The rest of the afternoon was spent outside. They wandered down the river, several times having to hop across mossy rocks to the other side when the east bank became too steep. They climbed trees, played pooh sticks, and looked for frogs, shrieking and running away every time they actually found one. Eventually they doubled back to the house, where Susan rooted out a skipping rope so that Victoria could show her how to hover in the air. Unfortunately Susan wasn’t quite able to get the hang of it—she learnt the rhythm easily enough, but she couldn’t understand Victoria’s instructions to do a “happy jump”.

“But I’m smiling as hard as I can!”

“Oh, I’m explaining this all wrong,” Victoria moaned. “It’s like… a jump with strawberry jam in it.”

“Thanks,” Susan replied flatly. “That makes loads more sense.”

They abandoned the attempt before frustration set in, instead taking turns with the rope, singing skipping rhymes and seeing how long they could keep going. While they were skipping, a visitor arrived at the top of the house by broom.

“Customer!” Mr Bones called out of the kitchen window. He took a double take when he saw them. “Look at the state of you!” They were splattered with mud, with grass stains on their dresses and messy hair. “Upstairs to clean up, before your mother arrives for tea!”

The girls retreated back to their bedrooms, where they washed and changed while Mr Bones was meeting the new customer. Victoria took her time about it: the day had already been eventful, and it all caught up with her as she lowered herself into the hot water of the bath. She explored the toiletries that had been left for her, scrubbing her face with half a sugar-lemon and washing her hair thoroughly with Sleekeazy's Hair Potion, which smelled strongly of coconut and left her long, dark hair gleaming in the soft light of the bathroom lamps.

She decided to dress up for the evening, wanting to look nice for her birthday and make a good impression on Susan’s mother. She selected the same velvet green dress robe she had worn to Dumbledore’s party, slipped Mrs Malfoy’s silver charm bracelet onto her wrist, and put up her hair up into a waterfall braid. After vacillating on the matter, she even used the tiniest amount of the makeup Pansy had given her for Christmas, applying some lip gloss and, after several failed attempts, eyeshadow.

It was fortunate that she’d gone to the effort, because when Susan bounced into her room (knocking was apparently not known to Hufflepuffs) she was similarly attired, wearing an embroidered white dress robe and daisies in her hair.

The doorbell rang.

“That’s her!” called Mr Bones, and the girls hurried upstairs to the entrance hall, arriving just in time to see Susan’s mother step through the fireplace. Mrs Evelyn d’Ivoire was the image of the classic English rose, with cascading chestnut brown hair, fair skin and an hourglass figure. Like most witches in their forties, she could have been mistaken for a woman in her late twenties.

“Bruce!” she cried, seizing Mr Bones by the shoulders and kissing one cheek, then the other, then returning to the first. “So good to see you!”

Mr Bones’ cheeks tinged pink. “And you, Evelyn.”

Green flames burst to life once more in the fireplace; a second figure emerged, a girl several years younger than Victoria and Susan.

“Oh no!” Susan hissed. “She brought Madeleine!” At Victoria’s look of confusion, she added, “my step-sister!”

Madeleine brushed soot off her yellow dress robes and curtsied. “Bonjour, Monsieur Bones.”

“Ah, Madeleine,” Mr Bones said, clearly surprised by her presence. “Um, bonjour to you too.”

“You don’t mind, do you, Bruce?” Evelyn said. “She needs to practice her English, and I thought the girls ought to get to know each other! Now, where’s my Susie?” She didn’t wait for an answer, descending upon Susan, fussing over her hair and exclaiming how grown-up she looked. After Susan was suitably embarrassed, it was Victoria’s turn. “And who is this?”

“Victoria, ma’am,” she said, introducing herself with a curtsey.

Evelyn’s eyes widened. “Not Victoria Potter?”

“La Survivante?” Madeleine said, gazing at Victoria with undisguised curiosity, like an animal in the zoo. “Mes amis ne me croiront pas!”

“English, Madeleine,” Evelyn said, before turning back to Victoria. “Well, aren’t you just the prettiest thing. You’ll have the boys eating out of your hand in a few years, mark my words. Or the girls, if that’s your thing!”

“Mum!” Susan gasped as Victoria blushed heavily, “you can’t say things like that!”

Mr Bones coughed. “Shall we?”

They made their way to the ground floor kitchen, where the table had been laid for dinner.

“Really, Bruce, you have a perfectly good dining room,” Evelyn complained as they were climbing down the spiral staircase, “why not use it?”

Victoria preferred the kitchen. The candles were lit and the door had been left open, a gentle summer’s breeze drifting in with the distant sounds of cattle lowing. When they took their seats, a strange creature holding a tray of food popped into existence, making Victoria jump in surprise. It was just a little shorter than a goblin, with large, bat-like ears, bulging eyes and long fingers. Completely bald, someone had tied pink ribbons at the tips of its ears, and it wore a crisp white pillowcase. She—Victoria was assuming it was a she, given the ribbons—was surely a house-elf.

“Thank you, Topsy,” Mr Bones said as the house-elf served each of them a fillet of cod with a mint and pea crust, a green bean salad on the side. “This looks wonderful.”

Topsy quivered with excitement. “Master is too kind!” she squeaked, and Victoria wondered if Professor Flitwick had house-elf blood in him. “Topsy is happy to be having visitors again!”

She disappeared back into invisibility and they began to eat, making all the usual polite sounds of approval that people make when they eat together. Only Madeleine was less than enthusiastic, pushing the fish around on her plate without putting any in her mouth. The adults made small talk about politics and the summer’s vegetable crop, but soon their attention turned to the children.

“Did you know the Muggles don’t have skydoors?” Mr Bones said. “Found out when we went to pick Victoria up earlier. For a moment I thought I’d have to jump down the chimney!”

Victoria giggled. “It’s a good thing you didn’t! The Dursleys have an eclectic fire, you wouldn’t have been able to get through.”

“How strange,” Evelyn said. “And stranger still that you live with Muggles in the first place! I know I’ve been out of the country, but how did that happen?”

“Family is family, even if they are Muggles,” Mr Bones said, and everyone nodded in acceptance.

Evelyn reached for a bottle of white wine and began to pour herself a generous glass. “But still, it must have been quite the experience. Do you find that you enjoy the Muggle world? I understand that for some it holds a certain gauche attraction.”

“It’s… different,” Victoria said, thinking back on her summer, about all the things that had once seemed normal to her but now felt strange. “It’s actually a lot like going back in time. In the magical world, everything just kinda… works. Like, you take a shower and the water’s always at just the right temperature. But in the Muggle world, you have to fiddle with all these buttons and taps just to get the water right, and even then it might suddenly change.”

“Fascinating,” Evelyn said, “of course, we should be happy they have hot water at all! It wasn’t so long ago that they invented this eccentricity business. They are quite the industrious people, aren’t they?”

Mr Bones nodded. “They’ve come so far in such a short time. And yet in some respects, I can’t help but feel they’ve gone backwards… you see it when you’re flying, cities that go on for miles, dirty rivers and poisoned land… I wager there’s a fair few Muggles who’ve never tasted fresh air in their lives.”

Madeleine still hadn’t taken a bite of her fish. Evelyn told her to stop being fussy, and an argument broke out in rapid French, a distinct whine to Madeleine’s voice which transcended language.

Susan met Victoria’s eye. “Ooh la la!” she whispered, mimicking Madeleine’s accent, and the two of them giggled, throwing imitations back and forth.

“Sacre bleu!”

“Zut alors!”

“Baguette!”

“Girls,” Mr Bones said chidingly, and the two of them looked up to find that their conversation had become public. Madeleine was glaring at them. “I think you owe Madeleine an apology.”

“Sorry,” they muttered.

Evelyn snorted. “You’re too easy on them, Bruce. Do you think Amelia would stand for that sort of thing?”

“Amelia doesn’t have children,” Bruce said. He turned to Victoria. “My sister, I don’t know if Susan has mentioned her. She’s the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

Victoria’s lips twitched. “Is she really?” she said, her voice innocent, ignoring Susan’s scowl, “I don’t think Susan ever said.”

Mr Bones didn’t seem to twig that she was joking. “I’m surprised she never mentioned it, we’re all very proud of Amelia. But I suppose law enforcement isn’t rad for you young people.”

Susan rolled her eyes. “No one says rad anymore, Dad.”

“Come on, even I know that,” Evelyn said with a laugh.

Topsy returned to clear away their plates. Her ears drooped when she came across Madeleine’s barely touched fish. “Is it not being good? Topsy can make something different for young Mistress!”

“That’s quite all right,” Evelyn said kindly. “Madeleine just wasn’t very hungry today. She won’t be having anything for dessert.”

“Maman!”

Evelyn held firm. “No dessert unless you finish your mains.”

Topsy brought them tarte au citron for pudding, her ears perking up as they all complimented her cooking. Victoria thought she was beginning to get a sense of Topsy’s role in the household, somewhere between a servant and a beloved pet. Madeleine watched them eat with envy, and then they retired to the den where Mr Bones tuned the wireless to Radio Minus Four.

“It’s just starting!” he called, and they hurried to settle down, burying themselves in the couches with cushions and blankets.

“Welcome to Quizarding World, the weekly quiz where anyone can be a winner! So get your quill at the ready, because tonight might just be your night!”

Mr Bones rummaged through a chest and pulled out some parchment. “Team name?”

“Same as always,” Susan said. “Bone-Headed!”

“As usual, our first category is on current affairs. Question one! Which internationally renowned member of the Dark Force Defence League recently accepted the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts Master at Hogwarts School?”

“Easy,” Mr Bones said, and he scribbled a name on their parchment.

“Who is it?” Victoria asked.

“Only Gilderoy Lockhart!” Susan exclaimed.

“Who?”

But Susan waved her off. “I’ll explain later.”

“Looks like you all got that one,” the announcer said, “no surprises there. Question two…”

The quiz made its way through the categories of history, geography, music, and spells. Victoria was mostly useless, though she did get a question right in the section on spells, while Susan single-handedly carried them through the music round. But it was Mr Bones who was the true hero, quietly contributing the vast majority of their answers.

Perhaps uncharitably, Victoria had been wondering how exactly Mr Bones had ever snagged a woman like Evelyn. She was absolutely stunning, possessing the kind of beauty that would land you the front cover of a magazine. Not only that, but it was clear that she was a forceful woman, with far too strong a character for the affable, bookish Bruce. But as Victoria watched him unassumingly answer almost every question, she began to understand... the real question was how Evelyn ever lost interest.

“And now we come to an audience favourite, the quick-fire round. Quills down for this one folks, and voices at the ready, because the first team to shout the answer gets the points! But be careful… if you give the wrong answer, points will be deducted from your score!”

Victoria grinned. “This is so much better than Muggle shows.”

“Question fifty-one! What is the incantation to the Self-Immolation Jinx?”

Mr Bones laughed.

“Just kidding folks! But hopefully someone in Team Belcher remembers the Flame Freezing Charm. A bonus point to that team for commitment to the quiz! Here comes the real question fifty-one: what is the first of the three Essential Potions?”

“Draught of Sparta!” Mr Bones called, barking it out almost immediately. Victoria looked to Susan, who shrugged. They hadn’t studied the Essential Potions yet.

“Congratulations to Team Bone-Headed!” the announcer said, and a cheer went up in the den. “Question fifty-two…”

They didn’t win any of the other quick-fire questions, but one was enough to make them flush with victory, proud to have their team’s name read out on the wireless. Nine short questions later and the quiz was at an end. The host delivered the results:

“Well folks, I’m afraid they’ve done it again—” Mr Bones threw up his hands and groaned “—Team Pigpimple once more storms to victory with a clear lead of seven points. Meanwhile, second place goes to Team Quibbler…”

Mr Bones sighed. “One day we’ll get it.” He turned the volume down and switched the station over to the sound of Celestina Warbeck performing live in New York.

The rest of the evening was spent quietly. Mr Bones did the crossword while Evelyn painted the girls’ nails. The music washed over Victoria, and she found her eyelids drooping as the relaxing feeling of brush on nail lulled her further into sleepiness. When it was time for Evelyn to leave, Victoria and Susan were herded upstairs, the climb up the spiral staircase waking them up just enough to change into their pyjamas.

The sheets on Victoria’s bed were soft and smelt of lavender. The mattress was large enough that she could reach out like a starfish and not touch the edges. As she drifted off to sleep, her last thought was that it had been the best birthday ever.

Chapter Text

Victoria quickly settled into the easy-going rhythm of life in the Bones household, where the pace of the day was dictated largely by food. There was freshly baked bread every morning, the smell tempting her out of bed earlier than at Hidebound House, and long, lazy breakfasts would follow, Mr Bones reading the Hogsmeade Herald while Susan and Victoria grazed on cereal, croissants, toast and fruit. Dinner, on the other hand, was always treated as a special occasion: the family ate by candlelight late in the evening and they always wore nice robes to the table.

It was a stark contrast to the Muggle world, where the Dursleys would generally spend their evenings in front of the television; no wireless was permitted during dinner at the Workshop, and they would talk for hours before being sent to bed.

Occasionally a new customer would appear on the roof to commission Mr Bones’ services, but he otherwise appeared to live a life of leisure, working when it suited him, which was rarely more than a few hours a day. The rest of his time was spent either in the gardens or reading. Victoria had come to eagerly anticipate those times when he would look up from a book and speak enthusiastically on some obscure topic.

She and Susan spent most of their time outdoors, where their herbology skills were put to good use in helping Mr Bones take care of the vegetables. He showed them how to carve bamboo into wind chimes that would ward off pests, and where to plant sunflowers around the gardens so as to correctly spread the sun around. Though Susan frequently grumbled about having to spend her holiday working, Victoria looked forward to these impromptu lessons, always eager to learn more magic, even if it was just the simple, daily magic of wizarding life. It didn’t hurt that the fruits of their labour were quite delicious: fat, sharp raspberries, earthy beetroot, sweet plums and juicy apricots, all of them put to great use by Topsy in salads and pies.

Dumbledore the cat would often join them in the gardens, swatting his little paws at insects and rubbing between their legs as they were trying to pick tomatoes. It was clear that he much preferred the Workshop to Hidebound House, and he had taken to disappearing for long stretches of time, no doubt hunting mice in the surrounding wilds. Victoria wasn’t worried; there weren’t any cars here, and if he was gone for too long she could always call him back.

When they weren’t helping with the vegetables, the girls liked to explore, returning home each afternoon with flowers in their hair and scratches on their legs from the wild undergrowth. Victoria was developing a deep tan from all the time under the sun, and Susan’s normally clear skin was coming out in freckles. Further and further they ventured, beyond the vegetable patches, past the fields where cows grazed and into the woods.

It didn’t take long before they encountered the edge of Mr Bones’ land. A low stone wall cut through the woods where the property ended, its surface a jigsaw of irregularly shaped rocks. Mr Bones had made them promise not to cross into the Muggle world, so they followed the path running alongside the wall, which led them in a giant semi-circle that would eventually take them back to the river.

“They put this in over the summer,” Susan explained as they walked. “We used to have a few wooden posts marking the boundary, but Dad said we had to get something more secure.”

“Because I was visiting?” Victoria asked, remembering what Mr Bones had said to Petunia. She felt rather guilty about the whole thing—building a wall around their land couldn’t have been cheap. “Really, everyone’s making such a fuss over nothing.”

“They’re probably just worried about something like those Death Eaters happening again.”

Victoria frowned. “What do you mean?”

She had read about the Death Eaters. Voldemort’s followers, feared by all, their true identities unknown for years; they had been rounded up and imprisoned in Azkaban after Voldemort’s fall. But what did they have to do with her?

“But surely you know?” Susan said, her face surprised, “it was all over the news!”

“Muggle-raised, remember?”

“Right. Well, it was years ago now. I must have been, like, seven, so I don’t remember it all that well. But there was this big scandal about a group of Death Eaters going after... well, you.”

A chill went down Victoria’s spine. Why had no one told her?

“I assumed you knew,” Susan continued. “Your photo was in the paper, I remember Dad showing it to me. Everyone thought the Death Eaters were all locked up, you see. It was a big surprise that there were still some of them out there… people weren’t happy. I think that’s why the old Minister resigned… Millicent someone or the other. Dad didn’t let new customers come to the house for ages.”

Susan seemed to be unaware that she was turning Victoria’s world upside down. She had come to view her time at the Dursleys as a kind of exile from the wizarding world, one which had come to an end with her Hogwarts letter. But now it appeared that the exile had been entirely one-sided: while Victoria had lived in ignorance of the magical world, the magical world had not been ignorant of her. Who knew what dark forces might have been lurking just outside the Dursleys’ garden?

She looked nervously at the wall. It didn’t look very sturdy. “How does it work? The wall, I mean.”

Susan shrugged. “I’m not sure. There’s spells on every stone, but I think different stones have different spells. I watched the charm-mason put it down; it took him weeks to finish.”

“I wish I could’ve watched too,” Victoria said. Looking at the stones now, there was no sign at all that they were enchanted. She wondered what spells the charm-mason had used. “Maybe one day I can give it a go myself.”

It rained that afternoon, a downpour that came out of nowhere, and the girls had to run back to the house, completely soaked by the time they returned. Such sudden changes in the weather were an intrinsic risk of the British summer, but there was still plenty to do while they were stuck inside. They were steadily making their way through the board games in the den, and Victoria could spend whole days looking through the jumbled shelves of the library. She never quite knew what she might find, secreted away between books on cleaning charms and Herbology, and there were some titles in there which Mr Bones would surely have confiscated had he realised she’d found them.

Of particular note was a book on jinxes which she and Susan had smuggled out of the library and into Victoria’s bedroom, where they concealed it inside her underwear drawer. They dared only to read it at night, when Susan would sneak into Victoria’s room and they huddled beneath her sheets with a lamp, giddy with the excitement of forbidden knowledge. They learnt about the Biting Jinx, which made an object bite anyone who came near, the Jelly-Legs Jinx, used to turn the target’s legs wobbly, and the Crybaby Jinx, whose victim would weep uncontrollably.

When they weren’t playing, Susan was completing her summer homework. Unfortunately Victoria had finished hers within a week of returning to Hidebound House, which now left her with a substantial amount of time alone. In addition to reading, she filled this time by writing long letters to Daphne, Tracey and Draco, handing the envelopes to Mr Bones to be taken to the Owl Office in Ely.

Daphne always responded promptly, her letters even longer than Victoria’s own and written upon perfumed parchment. Victoria couldn’t help but envy her elegant script, and she spent many hours practising with her quill, trying to emulate the flowing, rounded lines. The result was perhaps less spindly than before, but was still far from beautiful.

Tracey’s responses were rather more perfunctory, though Victoria didn’t hold this against her. Tracey was not the type to write long letters. She made up for it by always enclosing a photograph, each one depicting the petite brunette with her two older brothers, who were apparently teaching her how to fly properly.

Draco didn’t respond.

“I thought he was your friend?” Susan asked as Victoria listed the pros and cons of sending him another letter. “Why wouldn’t he write back?”

Victoria snorted. “He’s a boy.”

Eventually, a week after she had written to him, she received a reply—not from Draco, but from Narcissa Malfoy, his mother. She thanked Victoria for her kind letter and apologised profusely for Draco’s rudeness in not responding, bemoaning the manners of young men everywhere. “Regretfully, like so many young wizards, and indeed some older wizards who ought to know better, Draco does not keep up with his correspondence as he should.”

It was not just her friends sending her letters. As the second week of August came to a close, a pair of owls arrived bearing envelopes sealed with the Hogwarts crest. Contained within were their school lists for second year, and that could only mean one thing: a trip to Diagon Alley.

After receiving an urgent request from a customer, Mr Bones was unable to take them shopping. It was decided that Evelyn would accompany them instead, and she arrived the next morning by Floo, this time without Madeleine. Victoria had never travelled by Floo before, and it was with some trepidation that she threw a handful of green powder into the fireplace, shouting “Diagon Alley!” before stepping into the flames.

It was not a pleasant way to travel. Her stomach lurched as she plummeted downwards, as if dropped through a trapdoor—she was spinning around and around, fireplaces whooshing past so quickly that she could barely glimpse the rooms beyond, the roaring green flames obscuring much of her vision—and then the spinning began to diminish, the chain of fireplaces slowing like a slot machine losing momentum, and Diagon Alley crept into view. She stepped forward quickly, not wanting to miss her stop, and emerged into the beating heart of wizarding Britain.

The crooked street was absolutely swarming with people, not just witches and wizards but also goblins, hags, and all manner of other beings. There were even a couple of ghosts floating out of a shop without a door, their translucent forms barely visible in the summer sun, each of them carrying an aethereal shopping bag. Busiest of all was the courtyard into which Victoria had exited. Located at the west end of the alley, it was lined on three sides with tall fireplaces, with its centre occupied by various stalls selling street food and Floo powder. One stall in particular was doing a roaring trade, a large blackboard declaring:

BRAND NEW! NO-SPIN FLOO POWDER, S2 PER PINCH!

Victoria rather wished she’d had a handful of that when she had left the Workshop.

Evelyn and Susan soon emerged from the fireplace behind her, and the three of them pushed their way through the crowd towards Gringotts Bank, its grand, classical construction sticking out amid the Elizabethan timber-framed shops. There were long queues for the carts down into the vaults, and Evelyn tapped her foot impatiently as they waited in line.

When their turn came, a goblin named Snaggletooth took them into the tunnels below. They visited the Bones vault first, and Victoria was surprised to see that it contained perhaps half as much gold as the Potter vault—but when she thought about it, she had rarely seen Mr Bones purchase anything. Aside from Susan’s Hogwarts supplies, and of course the new wall around the property, she imagined that he rarely had need to dip into his vault, with most routine expenses being funded by his work.

They visited her own vault next. Susan didn’t seem surprised when she saw the mountains of gold and silver, and Victoria was reminded of what Mr Lupin had said about the Potters being a well-known family. Apparently that included their wealth. She counted out ninety galleons, bearing in mind that she already had a trunk, wand and so on, but Evelyn stopped her when she turned to leave.

“Darling, you’re going to need much more than that.”

She ended up leaving with one hundred and twenty-five galleons, wondering what on earth she would be buying that cost so much.

Shopping with Evelyn was an experience. Everyone seemed to have come to Diagon Alley with the same idea, no doubt also having received their Hogwarts letters, but Evelyn had little patience for the long queues in every shop.

“You, boy!” she called as they entered the chaos of Flourish & Blotts, addressing a spotty teenager who was arranging books at the front table. She thrust the Hogwarts book list at him. “We need two sets of these books!”

The boy took the list by reflex, and that was his first mistake.

“I’m a bit busy, Miss. The Hogwarts’ team will be happy to help you, though.”

He pointed to a corner of the shop marked HOGWARTS. It was crammed with waiting families, the line snaking around display tables, a harassed witch attempting to serve as many of them as she could.

“Nonsense!” Evelyn declared, and she grasped the name badge on the front of his robes, as if to get a better look at it. “Are you not an Assistant, Robert? Assist me.”

He proceeded to lead them around the shop to locate their books, skipping queues where necessary. Each time that they found a book he would attempt to escape—“I really should get back to work!”—but Evelyn would always insist that they find “just one more”. It was left to Susan to apologise for her mother, muttering “sorry” with each fresh demand, but to Evelyn’s credit she slipped the boy a couple of sickles when they were finished. By the time they left Flourish and Blotts with their books, which included the entire collected works of Gilderoy Lockhart, the queue in the Hogwarts section had barely moved.

It occurred to Victoria that Evelyn and Pansy would probably get on very well with each other. She was about to say as much to Susan, but thought better of it.

Next on the itinerary was Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. Evelyn moved between shops with a determined stride, parting the crowds by force of will alone, and Susan and Victoria trotted along in her wake, unable to do more than gaze longingly into the windows of the stores they passed.

Victoria had never had a proper opportunity to explore all that the alley had to offer, and she wished that they had the time to investigate each and every shop. If it existed, Diagon Alley sold it, from racing brooms to jewellery to garden plants. Susan was particularly taken with a display in Trevor’s Toys: a group of animated teddy bears were having a picnic, with one of the teddies pouring tea for the others.

“Come along!” Evelyn called when she noticed Susan slowing to watch. “You’re too old for that now, dear.”

Susan blushed. “I was only looking.”

They hurried on. Victoria continued to look around as they went, realising that Diagon Alley was home to more than just shops, with plenty of offices wedged between the more familiar retailers. Some, like Pyre’s Dirigible Cruises, advertised services which would have been broadly familiar to Muggles, but others were quite unusual, with signs like Gamble & Wagner: Investment Diviners and Uberrimae Fidei: Bonders-at-Law. Here and there they would pass empty buildings with “TO LET” signs hanging outside. One such building was Sickleland, a large shop which looked to have been recently boarded up, and a sheaf of parchment was nailed to its door:

MINISTRY OF MAGIC

MISUSE OF MUGGLE ARTIFACTS OFFICE  

MUGGLE ROBES COMPANY LIMITED

DISSOLVED WITH IMMEDIATE EFFECT

Victoria pointed the notice out to Susan. “Looks like Ron’s dad has been busy.”

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Evelyn commented. “I purchased one of those Muggle robes, back when they first opened. Came out of the Floo looking like a chimney sweep! I had your father take a look at it—not even a trace of a Repelling Charm in the fabric, can you believe it?”

They arrived at Madam Malkin’s to find it busier than the year before, but once more they commandeered an assistant who led them into a side room to take their measurements. While they hadn’t grown so much that they needed new cloaks or outer-robes, a full set of new inner-robes were required.

“They’ll want new summer robes too, with a bit of extra room,” Evelyn said. “The way that school feeds them, they’ll have grown even more by the time May comes around… hopefully upwards, not outwards.”

The assistant tittered.

“Mum!” Susan whined. Her protests were ignored.

Their school robes were just the start of their robe shopping. Armed with their measurements, Evelyn set the girls loose on the store with the goal of expanding Victoria’s wardrobe. They left with several bags of casual inner-robes and a fashionable cloak, all of them vetted by Evelyn.

If Victoria thought that she now possessed enough clothes, she was to be proven mistaken. After Madam Malkin’s they visited the more expensive Twilfitt and Tattings, where she purchased a selection of dress robes. From shop to shop they went, buying robes and shoes, Victoria’s purse rapidly emptying of galleons. They even stopped off at a jeweller’s, where a qualified mediwitch pierced their ears.

The last of the clothes shops was Gladrags, the closest thing Diagon Alley had to a department store. To Victoria and Susan’s mortification, Evelyn marched them straight to the underwear section, a forest of frills, ruffles and lace. Victoria kept her gaze firmly on the polished marble floor as Evelyn led them around the displays, talking loudly about cups and bands and straps; she could almost feel the eyes of the other customers on them, the line of tills just one aisle away.

Eventually they tracked down an assistant, who measured them up with a rather invasive, animated tape. The whole affair was extremely embarrassing—not least when, tired by the girls’ constant use of euphemisms, Evelyn threw up her hands and declared, “Breasts, girls, breasts! Half the population have them, no need to act so coy!” Her outburst drew many curious looks, including from several boys. Victoria wondered if there was a spell to make the ground swallow you whole.

They left Gladrags with their purses lighter still. Victoria and Susan were beginning to resemble moving piles of bags more than people. It was mid-morning by this point and, having grown used to elevenses, Victoria’s stomach was beginning to grumble. Evelyn, however, was determined to press on. They purchased parchment and ink from Scribbulus Stationery, a new set of vials and beakers from Slug and Jiggers’ Apothecary, and finally visited The Magical Menagerie for cat food.

Shopping complete, Evelyn declared it time for lunch. They retreated to La Rose de Rose, a small French café on the quieter, east side of the alley, where the shops gave way to brick townhouses and restaurants. Susan ordered a croque monsieur, oozing with béchamel sauce and melted cheese, and Victoria had an omelette.

“Well, girls, it’s been quite the productive morning,” Evelyn said as their food arrived. “I hope you’re not too exhausted after all that shopping, because we’ve still got a long afternoon ahead of us.”

“We do?” Victoria asked. “We’ve already got everything on the list, haven’t we?” As much as she loved getting new robes, she wasn’t sure if she could face much more of it.

A ghost of a smile crossed Evelyn’s face. “We’ve finished shopping, yes. But there is still the matter of your birthday.”

“My birthday? But that was weeks ago.”

Susan was grinning. “Yeah, but you didn’t get to have a proper birthday party! So I asked Dad and—well, you’ll see.”

A thrill of excitement ran down Victoria’s spine; she had never had a birthday party before. “See what? Where are we going?”

“Not telling!” Susan said around a mouthful of sandwich. “It’s a surprise!”

“Manners, Susan,” Evelyn said chidingly, but Victoria was far too curious to care about propriety.

She whined and she cajoled, but Susan refused to break her silence. Victoria was left to fidget in her seat as she forced herself to finish her omelette, far too excited to eat. She leapt to her feet the very moment that Evelyn took the last bite of her salad.

“Let’s go!”

It didn’t take long to get there. They went further east, the crowds rapidly thinning as they entered a residential area of the alley. Their destination lay at the far end, where the cobblestone street broadened into a wide square full of fountains. Georgian townhouses lined the square, but the far side was dominated by what looked like a Roman temple. Colourful posters hung from the columns.

“Oh my god!” Susan squealed, pointing at one of them. “That’s the one we’re going to see!”

Gilderoy Lockhart presents…  

BREAK WITH A BANSHEE

An extremely handsome blond wizard dominated the poster. His blue eyes sparkled with warmth, his hair was perfectly windswept, and he held his wand aloft as if about to duel. Next in precedence was a glamorous blonde witch with a rather buxom figure, and behind the two stars was a crowd of smaller faces.

Victoria’s smile now matched Susan’s own. “A play? That’s the secret?”

“It is,” Evelyn confirmed, and Victoria engulfed Susan in a hug.

“Oh, thank you!”

A further surprise was waiting at the steps to the theatre. Everyone was there: Daphne, even prettier than Victoria remembered, her golden hair shimmering in the sun; Tracey, the only member of the group shorter than Victoria, wearing a skirt and blouse rather than robes; Millicent, looking distinctly uncomfortable in a summer dress robe; and Pansy, who was of course turned out perfectly, her shoes colour-coordinated with her headband.

“Sorry, we had to invite her,” Susan muttered as Victoria waved eagerly to the Slytherin girls. “It would’ve been rude not to.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Victoria said. She was too happy to care about her argument with Pansy, which seemed so long ago now. “Officially, we’ve made up and are friends again.”

Susan snorted. “If you say so.”

The girls greeted each other with hugs and laughter, a dozen conversations overlapping as they all tried to catch up simultaneously.

“Vicky, you’re so tanned!”

“I love that robe—”

“—where’d you end up going—”

“—your arms! Can tell you’ve been flying—”

“— visit France?”

“—god, don’t mention brooms to me—”

“—look, Daphne’s almost as tall as Millie now!”

“LADIES!”

The conversation came to an abrupt halt; they all turned to look innocently at Evelyn.

“The play starts in twenty minutes.”

Chapter Text

A red carpet welcomed them inside the foyer of the theatre. The place was unsurprisingly packed, with lines winding this way and that as guests queued for drinks and programmes. As the girls lined up for the box office, Susan provided them with a running commentary on the history of the play.

“I can’t believe we’re going to see Lockhart himself in action,” she was saying, “it’s gonna completely change how they make plays, just you see.”

“He’s playing himself?” Victoria asked. “How’s he going to teach Defence if he’s acting in a play every day?”

“But that’s just it!” Susan said, “it’s not him, it’s his memories!”

“What’s so special about that?” Pansy asked, “I’ve seen it dozens of times.”

Susan shook her head. “Sure, for scenery and stuff like that, but not a person mixed in with the other actors—that’s completely new.”

They collected their tickets and made their way to the doors to the auditorium, where a rope separated the foyer from the theatre proper.

“This is where I leave you,” Evelyn said. “I’ll see you outside in a few hours.”

The auditorium was not what Victoria had been expecting. It was arranged like an amphitheatre, with the stage at the centre of the room, surrounded on all sides by ascending circles of tiered seating. It was also smaller than a Muggle theatre, closer to a studio than a full-sized stage, probably seating no more than fifty in the audience. The girls took their seats in the third row and continued talking in hushed voices as the other guests filtered in.

Eventually, everyone was seated and the lights dimmed, bringing a sudden hush to the audience. Then they were clapping: the cast was filing onto the stage, moving to stand in a ring facing the audience. As the audience applauded, the sound of running water could be heard, and a moment later a fine, silvery mist was descending from the rafters like rain.

“What’s happening?” Victoria hissed to Susan, her hands going to her hair. She hadn’t planned on getting wet.

Susan waved her off. “Just wait!”

The mist shimmered as it reached ground level, colour spreading across it like ink on blotting paper, and the theatre around Victoria was replaced by a scene. She was overlooking a children’s playground, just like the one in Little Whinging, with swings, a roundabout and a see-saw, but there were no children playing. It was raining heavily, and the playground was swarming with Muggle policemen, their distinctive yellow tape cutting off the stage—which was now the play area—from the park around it.

Victoria gaped as she looked around. This was a wizarding play? It was an amazing piece of magic—the audience around her had disappeared entirely, as had the majority of the actors, and the temperature had even dropped, the air around her slightly damp. It was like she was inside a television show.

“Susan?” she whispered, “are you still there?”

Susan’s voice came from the air next to her, as if she were an invisible ghost. “Shh! It’s starting!”

The play was enthralling. It began with a tall, dark-haired man in a trench coat—a Muggle detective called Blaggard—investigating a murder in the playground. The perspective of the scene soon shifted, however, to the wizarding protagonists, who were observing the Muggle investigation from behind repelling charms.

They were first introduced to a journalist from the Daily Prophet called O’Connor, a camera hanging from his neck and a quill poking from the top pocket of his robes, and then to the voluptuous witch who had featured prominently on the poster outside the theatre: Auror Quinn. Victoria couldn’t help but notice that Quinn was dressed in a rather thin white robe which was slowly turning somewhat translucent in the rain.

“O’Connor,” Quinn said when the journalist approached her. “As usual, you seem to be butting your nose into Ministry business.”

“Come now, Ciara, is that any way to greet an old friend?”

Quinn snorted. “The Daily Prophet is no friend of mine. You still work for them, don’t you?”

“I work for myself,” O’Connor replied. “Go where I want, cover the stories I want.”

“Stories like murder?”

“There’s always a good galleon in murder, that’s for sure,” he said, before nodding towards the crime scene. “What d’you reckon, rogue banshee?”

Auror Quinn looked pointedly at his poised quill. “I don’t do quotes.”

O’Connor raised an eyebrow. “We’re in a children’s playground, the victim’s bleeding from the ears, and there’s a forest nearby. I’m telling you, it’s a banshee for sure.”

“That remains to be seen.”

The two of them went their separate ways, each of them intending to get to the banshee first, but the next scene was with Detective Blaggard, not the wizards. The mist around them shimmered again, and Victoria caught just the briefest glimpse of Susan’s red hair before the backdrop returned, this time depicting the inside of a Muggle house—the detective’s home.

Blaggard was at his desk studying the evidence, but he was soon interrupted by a loud bang from outside the house, like a car backfiring, and a short moment later, a knock came at the door.

“Who’s there?” the detective called.

The knocking came again. The detective narrowed his eyes and moved to a chest in the corner of the room, from which he retrieved a curious object: it looked like the arm of a mannequin, only it was made of a dark metal. Blaggard pointed the arm at the front door like a rifle.

“I’m warning you!” he cried, “I’m armed!”

The door burst open; the detective shouted something, and a blast of fire launched from the metal arm at the figure stepping through the doorway—a shimmering shield appeared, parting the fire, and through the flames stepped Gilderoy Lockhart. He was every bit as dashing as the poster, with perfectly coiffed blond hair, robes of lilac and a stern look on his face.

Victoria heard a gasp from next to her, and she could just imagine Susan leaning forward in her seat, trying to get a closer look.

The detective dropped his firearm and fell to his knees. “Please, don’t hurt me!”

Lockhart smiled, his white teeth gleaming. “Never fear, Muggle, for I come not for you! Foul deeds in your charming town have reached my ears, and so I offer you my aid, such as it is.”

Victoria had to remind herself that it wasn’t the real Lockhart, just a memory of him. He looked so real—even if his dialogue was oddly stilted.

“Your aid?” Blaggard asked.

“In banishing the monster, of course!” Lockhart said. He moved further into the room and helped the detective up. “Come, we must venture into the darkest part of the forest, for that is where monsters are known to lurk.”

The house shimmered out of view, replaced by a dark and mysterious forest. Shafts of moonlight pierced the canopy and owls were hooting in the distance.

The scene followed Lockhart and Blaggard through the trees as Lockhart explained the existence of magic to the stunned detective. It was really very clever, the way they had combined the memory of Lockhart with the real actor playing Blaggard—their conversation flowed so smoothly that it was like Lockhart was really there.

They soon encountered Auror Quinn, who, after an initial misunderstanding, joined forces with Lockhart to investigate the murder. The three of them ventured deeper in the forest, and it grew so dark that the audience could barely see where they were going, the only light coming from Lockhart’s wand. But even with the low light, it didn’t take Victoria long to realise that the detective had vanished.

Lockhart and Quinn noticed at the same time.

“The banshee!” Quinn cried, “it took him!”

An inhuman scream erupted from all around them, high pitched and wailing, and the play’s first action sequence began. It repeated in a cycle: a pair of glowing eyes would appear in the darkness, and Lockhart and Quinn would shoot spells at it, causing the screaming to stop. But then, a moment later, the eyes would appear in new position and the screaming would begin anew.

Just as Quinn looked like she would fall victim to the banshee’s power, a burst of fire erupted from all around them. The screaming stopped and through the fire stepped Detective Blaggard, his ears bleeding and his firearm raised.

“Quickly!” he shouted. “Back to the station!”

“You go!” Lockhart called, “I’ll hold it off!”

The detective took Auror Quinn to the Muggle police station, where the two of them recuperated over some whiskey. It was then that the play delivered its big twist.

“That banshee, eh,” Blaggard said, “she’s got quite a pair of lungs on her.”

Victoria realised it at the same time as Quinn did.

“I... don’t think we ever said anything about a banshee.”

“Oops.”

Blaggard’s eyes glinted and he smiled, his mouth stretching open wider than was humanly possible, with two rows of serrated teeth growing from his gums. His skin turned a pale green and his features shifted to become more feminine, while his dark hair grew and grew until it reached the floor.

Quinn had no chance. She dived for her wand, but the banshee was ready, and with a swing of Blaggard’s firearm, the scene faded to black.

After that, the play built rapidly to its climax. Quinn awoke in a prison cell, her wand out of reach, but after a failed escape attempt she was rescued by Lockhart and O’Connor, who had managed to uncover the banshee’s plan.

“It’s the wireless she’s after,” O’Connor explained. “She wants to appear on air, posing as the detective giving an interview about the murder, and once she’s live she’s going to scream into the microphone.”

“Merlin’s beard,” Quinn said. “She’ll kill thousands!”

Lockhart shook his head. “Millions.”

Lockhart obliviated the police of their memories, and then the group was converging on the nearby radio tower for the final confrontation. The trio was forced to fight their way to the top after discovering that the tower had been occupied by a clan of goblins in league with the banshee. Tragically, O’Connor fell to an enchanted throwing axe, jumping in front of it to save Auror Quinn from certain death.

When they reached the summit of the tower, Lockhart and Quinn split up to find a way to interrupt the broadcast. Quinn made quick work of the tower’s electronics with Grindelwald’s Jinx, just before the screaming began once more—the banshee had come to the tower. Quinn rushed towards the sound to find Lockhart already confronting the banshee on the balcony.

“Gilderoy!” the banshee cried. “You won’t get away with this!”

“Enough of your nonsense, beast!” Lockhart said. “Begone!”

And with a thrust of his wand, the banshee was launched back through the air, flying over the edge of the balcony and plummeting off the side of the tower.

Lockhart peered over the railing and smirked. “Now you feel the gravity of your crimes.”

Of course, he got the girl in the end. The play ended with Lockhart and Quinn kissing atop the tower, lit by the orange glow of a glorious sunrise. Then the view faded, and suddenly Victoria was back in her seat in the theatre, her backside completely numb.

The cast took their bow to thunderous applause, with a particularly loud cheer for the actor playing O’Connor.

“That was amazing,” Susan said, grinning from ear to ear and clapping enthusiastically. “Don’t you think?”

Victoria nodded. The Muggle world didn’t have anything like a wizarding play. “It was so real!”

“And to think—it’s all true!” Susan cried. “All that actually happened!”

“Well,” Victoria said, thinking back to Detective Blaggard’s firearm. “Most of it, at least.”

That night, after everyone had gone to bed, Victoria crept across the hallway to Susan’s bedroom. She tapped lightly on the door, using the secret pattern which she and Susan had decided upon, and a moment later the door swung open.

Susan looked nervously down the hall. “Quick!” she hissed, ushering Victoria inside and closing the door behind them.

Her room was cast in shadow, lit only by moonlight and a couple of candles, and the curtain to the balcony fluttered in the gentle summer breeze. There was rather more clutter here than in Victoria’s spartan room: framed photographs hung from the walls, and every free surface was occupied by the accumulated bric-a-brac of Susan’s childhood—pressed flowers in glass jars, curiously shaped seashells retrieved from the beach, and semi-precious stones used as paperweights. Her ongoing battle against summer homework was also in evidence, with spell books and stationery spread across the floor.

It was, in Victoria’s opinion, exactly what a witch’s bedroom should look like.

Susan pointed her to a pile of cushions located just inside the balcony door. Amidst the cushions was a collection of chocolates, sweets, and some oranges.

“Brilliant,” Victoria said, her voice low but not quite a whisper. She settled down on the cushions. “How’d you get all this?”

“Topsy helped,” Susan replied. She opened a Chocolate Frog. “Technically she has to tell Dad, but only if he asks.”

“Very sneaky. I’m guessing the fruit was her idea,” Victoria said. She took an Acid Pop and a Fizzing Whizbee. “I wonder what happens if you have the two together…?”

“Dare you to try.”

Giggling followed as Victoria coughed and spluttered her way through the intensely sour combination. She followed it up with a Chocolate Frog, needing something rather more comforting, and then it was Susan’s turn to brave the acidic sweets. Soon enough the two of them had eaten enough sugar to last a week. They rolled onto their backs and blew bubbles of gum up at the ceiling, seeing who could make a bigger pop.

“I can’t stop thinking about the play,” Victoria said after blowing a particularly large bubble. “Just imagine all the things you could do with it! Like, what if Professor Flamel gave them some of his memories… it’d be like going back in time! I reckon a lot more people would take History of Magic if you could do that.”

Susan snorted. “Trust you to think of how to use it for classes.”

“Well, okay, maybe not just that,” Victoria said. “But what about for criminal trials? Couldn’t you just play back someone’s memories? You’d always catch the right person.”

“I think they used to do that,” Susan said. “Dad told me about this once…” She scrunched up her face, trying to remember. “I think they stopped doing it when people figured out how to start altering their own memories… like, you saw the play. Obviously it wasn’t the complete memories we were seeing… they’d just taken bits of them, like the scenery and Lockhart, but the actors were filling in the rest.”

Victoria pouted. “Okay, so maybe there’s a few holes in the idea.” She paused. “Speaking of holes… I was thinking... isn’t it weird that Lockhart went to the Muggle detective’s house first? You never find out why he did that. I don’t know about you, but ‘let’s pick up a Muggle’ wouldn’t be my first thought if I was going after a banshee.”

“Well, there must have been a reason,” Susan said. “It happened, after all. Maybe he secretly suspected Blaggard from the start.” She sighed. “Lockhart’s very handsome, isn’t he?”

“He’s not bad, I guess.”

“Not bad?” Susan gasped. “Who counts as good, then?”

Victoria lowered her voice to a whisper. “Cedric Diggory?”

Cedric Diggory was a Hufflepuff boy several years their senior. He had dark hair, grey eyes, and was said to be very handy with his wand. Between that and his position as Hufflepuff Seeker, he was widely considered one of the most fanciable boys in the school.

“Ooh,” Susan said. “Good answer.” She paused, then hesitantly said, “Draco looks a bit like him, don’t you think?”

“Like Diggory?”

Susan laughed. “Like Lockhart.”

Victoria glanced at Susan out of the corner of her eye. She had always suspected that Susan carried a torch for Draco, but this was the first time that she had come out and said it. Victoria would need to respond carefully.

“I don’t see it, myself. But I can see why you would.”

“Oh,” Susan said, and Victoria could hear the relief in her voice. “That’s good.”

She wondered how long Susan had been wanting to ask her that. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right? We’re best friends, after all. We can talk about Draco and… other stuff.”

“Other stuff?”

Victoria shrugged. “I don’t know. Stuff like your mum. You never said anything about it, back at school.”

“I know,” Susan said, “and I wanted to tell you. But… well. ‘By the way, did I mention my parents are separated?’—it’s not exactly the kind of thing you can just come out and say.”

“You seem okay with it, though,” Victoria said. “Or at least, not angry. You have family dinners and stuff.”

Susan hugged a cushion. “It’s not the same,” she said. “I wish you could have seen us, before everything happened. The house wasn’t empty like it is now… I love Mum, I do, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget what she did.”

Forgive, but don’t forget. It was a familiar sentiment—hadn’t Susan told her to do exactly that, after Pansy’s betrayal?

“But your dad doesn’t mind having her around, does he?”

“He doesn’t mind anything.” Susan sighed. “That was the problem. Mum’s a Rosier, you know? I think Dad was just too… meek. But no, that’s not fair. He shouldn't have to change just because she thinks being nice is weak.”

“I think your dad’s great,” Victoria said. “He’s so clever!”

“Thanks,” Susan said. “And Mum thought that too, once. It’s not like she never liked him. But you saw her today. After a while, I guess cleverness wasn’t enough for her. Francois owns a quidditch team and a manor and can take her to all the galas and balls. Poor Dad just couldn’t compete.”

Susan rolled onto her side so that she was facing Victoria. “Enough about me! Now it’s your turn.”

“Oh no,” Victoria groaned.

“Oh yes,” Susan said with a grin, “I shared, which means you have to as well. Tell me a secret.”

She thought for a time, trying to come up with something suitable. “Well, this thing happened during my Transfiguration exam—”

“Boring!” Susan interrupted. “Not something about magic. A proper secret.”

Victoria bit her lip. There was one thing, but… “You have to promise not to tell anyone.”

“On my wand!” Susan said earnestly, a serious oath indeed.

“So… okay,” Victoria began, “you already know I’m a metamorphmagus. And… you know what your mum was saying today in Gladrags? When I was being measured? About me being, er, lucky? So… yeah.”

Susan gasped in delight. “You didn’t!”

Victoria buried her face in a cushion; she was blushing harder than she had in her life, and she didn’t trust the darkness to properly hide her.

“Maybe a little,” she said, her voice muffled by the fabric, “just to, um, keep up with Daphne.”

Needless to say, Susan thought this was a great secret. She declared herself incredibly envious before peppering Victoria with questions about her powers, asking her just how far she could push them.

The cuckoo clock down the hall chimed one o’clock.

“It’s getting late,” Susan said with a yawn, “sleep time?”

“Okay.”

Susan cleared away the remains of their midnight feast while Victoria went to the bathroom to re-brush her teeth—she hated going to bed without feeling minty fresh. Unfortunately, she lost all of her sleepiness in the process. She slipped into Susan’s bed, which was easily big enough for both of them, and stared at the ceiling.

“I can’t sleep,” she declared after what felt like an hour.

Susan didn’t even open her eyes. “It’s been five minutes.”

She waited some more.

“Susan?” she whispered, “are you awake? I still can’t sleep.”

A heavy sigh came from the direction of Susan’s pillows. “I think I have something. Hang on.”

Susan got out of bed and padded across the room to a chest of drawers. It took her a lot of rummaging to find whatever she was looking for.

“Aha! Got it.”

She appeared to be holding a long, thin stick, like a quill without the feathers. She placed the end over the flame of a candle and held it there for a moment—the end glowed crimson as it caught light, but she immediately withdrew the stick and blew it out in a puff of smoke. She then walked around the room while waving the stick above her head. The smouldering end continued to give out smoke, which drifted in swirls created by the breeze from the balcony, and with the smoke came a beautiful fragrance, heady and rich in jasmine and sandalwood.

Victoria immediately felt her eyelids begin to droop. “Wow,” she said. “What’s in that thing?”

Susan placed the incense into a long wooden box with holes in the top, through which the smoke continued to rise. “Sleeping Charm. Feel better?”

“Yup,” Victoria said and she let out a little giggle. She couldn’t help it—she was feeling a bit light-headed. She rolled onto her side. “G’night, Susan.”

“Good night, Victoria.”

Chapter Text

The end of summer came quicker than Victoria was expecting. As enjoyable as the holiday had been, she could barely contain her excitement to return to school: she had read all of her textbooks several times, planned her outfit for the Hogwarts Express, and hatched multiple schemes for the use of her pass to the Restricted Section.

Gilderoy Lockhart’s books had proven particularly interesting. They were written more like novels than textbooks, but there were still plenty of references to spells within them, often used in quite inventive ways. Victoria had a lot of fun searching through the Bones library to locate further information in more academic tomes, and Mr Bones was quite horrified when he saw her making notes in the margin of her copy of Voyages with Vampires, an old version of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5 propped up next to her.

For her part, Susan did not share Victoria’s enthusiasm for the end of summer. As September drew inexorably closer, she began to exude the desperate energy of a condemned prisoner, with each activity gaining new significance by virtue of the words “one last time”.

While Victoria had never shared her peers’ aversion to schooling, for the first time she understood it: after such an idyllic summer, it was easy to see how wizards could view the study of magic as a chore rather than a delight. The spells used in daily wizarding life were generally simple, and a practically-minded witch might conclude that Hogwarts provided a somewhat excessive education. Why waste your time learning advanced magic, when you could spend your days gardening, eating, and reading Gilderoy Lockhart’s latest book?

It was no wonder that only half of all invitations to Hogwarts were accepted, especially when you took the substantial fees into account; according to Mr Bones, the other half chose home-schooling and apprenticeships instead.

When the first of September arrived, Victoria had rather more difficulty packing than the previous year. Between her new robes, two years’ worth of books, plus equipment like her cauldron and telescope, even her magically expanded trunk was struggling to accommodate everything. But she managed in the end, and it was with a much heavier trunk in tow that she, Susan and Mr Bones left the Workshop.

She had wondered if they might fly to King’s Cross, but apparently the Ministry took a dim view of hundreds of wizards descending by broom on a Muggle train station. Instead they took the Floo to Diagon Alley, where they crossed into the Muggle world and made their way to Leicester Square Underground Station.

The stairs down into the station were packed. It was rush hour on a Tuesday morning, and they had to push their way through the scrum of suit-clad Muggles, their heavy trunks thudding on each stair. Fortunately, their Muggle-Repelling Charms also served to provide a small bubble of free space around them.

“This way, girls!” Mr Bones called as they reached the bottom of the stairs. He led them towards the electronic gates and drew his wand. “Alohomora!” The gates opened and they made their way through, their trunks having to be levitated over the top.

Victoria looked around, surprised by Mr Bones performing magic so openly. “Won’t the Muggles see? They have cameras, you know, and it’s not like we’re invisible.”

But the Muggles were rushing past them, oblivious to the magic being performed in their midst.

“Even without the Muggle-Repelling Charm, I doubt they’d notice,” Mr Bones said. “Not very observant, these Muggles. But you needn’t worry… the charm will take care of any unusually curious Muggle looking at us through one of their cine-graphs.”

The Tube was cramped and extremely hot. Even though it was just four stops to King’s Cross, her Muggle dress was sticking to her skin by the time they escaped the train into the cooler air of the station. A crowd was gathered there in front of the departures board, which refreshed itself with the clack-clack of moving tiles just as Victoria, Susan and Mr Bones approached.

Platform 5 - Edinburgh

Platform 8 ½ - Hogwarts Express

Platform 9 - Manchester Piccadilly

Platform 9 ¾ - Tromsø

Even though the Hogwarts Express was departing from a different platform to the year before, the portal onto the platform was exactly the same. They walked through the barrier to the familiar chaos of five hundred students saying their farewells, the platform overflowing with trunks, pets and tearful mothers. The scarlet train was ready to depart, clouds of steam already gathering around the locomotive.

“Susan!”

Hannah Abbott approached with her family in tow. Blonde and somewhat pear-shaped, she shared the Hufflepuff dorm with Susan. Victoria didn’t know her very well, though she knew that Susan often sat with her in class.

“Hi Victoria,” Hannah said when she reached them, kissing both girls on the cheek. “Good summer?”

“The best,” Victoria said with a grin, “Susan had me round her house.”

“Oh, how lovely,” said Hannah’s mother, who was dressed in Muggle clothes and carrying an owl. She smiled at Mr Bones. “I hope they didn’t bully you too much, Bruce.”

Mr Bones laughed. “I seem to have escaped with all my limbs.” He looked at his pocket watch. “Better hurry up, girls, the train leaves in ten minutes.”

They wandered down the length of the train to find a carriage which wasn’t so busy. The crowd thinned out the further they got from the entrance to the platform, and soon enough the girls were helping each other to load their trunks onto the train. They left the adults behind with a wave before searching for an empty compartment. As usual, the corridor was packed with students coming and going, reuniting with their friends and fighting over the best compartments.

“Vicky!” called Daphne, her head poking out of one of the compartments they had just passed. “Come on, we’re in here!”

Victoria glanced at Susan, torn. She was keen to catch up with the Slytherin girls, but didn’t want to abandon Susan, especially after staying with her for the summer. Mercifully, the decision was taken out of her hands.

“Hannah! Susan!” came the voice of Ernie Macmillan, another Hufflepuff. “Next carriage along! Justin’s saved us a compartment!”

Susan met Victoria’s eyes and shrugged. “See you later?”

They parted ways. Victoria followed Daphne into the compartment, where Pansy, Tracey and Millicent were already gathered. They were all wearing headbands in green and silver.

“Good, you’re here,” Pansy said, standing to kiss her on the cheek. “We saved a spot for you.” She indicated a position on the seat next to Tracey, where a fifth headband awaited her. It was clear that she was expected to wear it.

Victoria picked it up and placed it carefully in her hair. “Thanks,” she said, trying to catch her reflection in the window, but it was too bright outside. “How’s it look?”

Tracey rolled her eyes. “I forgot you do that.”

“Be careful,” Millicent added, “I think you might have a single hair out of place.”

“Don’t be mean,” Daphne said, but a smile was tugging at her lips. “After all, it’s probably been at least ten minutes since Vicky looked in a mirror. She’s struggling here.”

The girls laughed; Victoria blushed. “You’re one to talk!”

They lifted her trunk into the luggage rack just as the train’s whistle sounded. Unlike the year before, there was no rush to the window to wave goodbye to their families—they weren’t first years anymore, and they all keenly felt their newfound seniority. It wouldn’t do to act like homesick children.

The train pulled out of the station and made its way through north London at a steady pace. As they passed through tunnel after tunnel, Pansy regaled them with a not-so-brief summary of her summer.

“... and, oh, Paris was so amazing. They’re much more fashionable over there, none of these bulky robes like the Hogwarts uniform. Mother took me to the fashion show—”

“The one on the river?” Daphne asked.

Pansy nodded. “That’s right, you buy these special glass shoes that let you walk on the water, and then the models come down the Seine past the Eiffel Tower. It’s so beautiful, you simply must come next year.”

“Pass,” Millicent said, not hiding her boredom.

Pansy ignored her. “Anyway, that was Paris,” she continued, drawing breath for the next item of her itinerary, “after that was—”

“You weren’t there, Daphne?” Victoria asked, interrupting before Pansy could build momentum. “Weren’t you in France too?”

“I was further south,” Daphne said. “We were yeti hunting in the Alps… of course, it was pretty much just me and Daddy, as always. Mummy and Astoria stayed at the chateau the whole time.”

Pansy crossed her arms. “Sounds sensible if you ask me. Who wants to get eaten by a yeti?”

Though she didn’t say so, Victoria rather agreed with Pansy. She’d never understood the appeal of hunting, especially when the hunter might easily end up the prey, and trekking through miles of snow sounded awfully wet and cold. Surely Astoria had the right idea, enjoying the scenery from somewhere warm and comfortable. “It must have been beautiful, though,” she said, “all those mountains covered with snow…”

“Who cares about that?” Millicent said, “did you manage to see a yeti?”

“Well, no,” Daphne admitted. “But that’s not the point, really. There’s so much to do… you can go avalanche riding with the Barbegazi—they’re, like, mountain dwarfs—or visit the hot springs, or climb up to where Grindelwald defeated Le Défenseur… I think we pretty much gave up on the yeti bit after the first day.”

“That sounds awesome,” said Tracey, whose eyes had lit up at the mention of avalanche riding. “How come the others didn’t go with you?“

Daphne snorted. “Too busy sunbathing.”

It wasn’t much later that Draco paid them a visit, carrying a small stack of envelopes. He was visibly taller than when Victoria had last seen him, but otherwise appeared unchanged by the summer: his platinum blond hair was slicked back and his robes were impeccable, the silver buttons gleaming almost as much as his shoes.

“Morning, all,” he said. He took the last seat in the compartment, the one next to Daphne. Pansy’s gaze was fixed to the envelopes, which he set down on his lap.

“Afternoon,” Tracey corrected.

“Is it really?” Draco said, glancing at his pocket-watch. “I’ve been making my way down the train with these—” he waved an envelope in the air “—I could’ve sworn we only left a few minutes ago.”

“Draco,” Pansy said carefully, “are those…?”

“Invitations,” Draco confirmed. “Now, let me see… ah, yes, Parkinson, here we go…” He passed one of the envelopes to Pansy, who took it reverently, breaking the seal with a slide of her finger and pulling out a rectangle of thick parchment with a silver border.

Victoria recognised it immediately: it was an invitation to the Yule Ball at Malfoy Manor, identical to the one Pansy had spent several weeks flaunting the previous year. She supposed she would have to endure the process all over again.

“Oh, thank you!” Pansy cried, her eyes still fixed to the invitation. “Look, Daphne, I’m on the fourth table!”

Daphne was busy receiving her own invitation, which she accepted rather more casually than Pansy. “Me too,” she said, “looks like we’re sitting next to each other.”

Meanwhile, Draco was still rifling through the stack of envelopes. “Just one more,” he muttered, “McKinnon… Orpington… there it is!” He held out an envelope to Victoria, who took it with a growing sense of excitement.

“You remembered!” she said, thinking back to Draco’s somewhat flippant invitation the year before. “I wasn’t sure if you were serious.”

She opened the envelope and removed her invitation. Daphne gasped, and it was immediately clear why: where the other invitations were trimmed with silver, Victoria’s had a border of golden thread. The invitation read:

The Keeper of the Keys

is commanded by Mr & Mrs Lucius Malfoy to invite

Miss Victoria Potter

to a Yule Ball at Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire

on Saturday, 19th December 1992 at 7 p.m.

“Oh, Merlin,” Daphne said. “Pansy, she’s on the high table!”

Pansy frowned. “Draco, there must be some mistake…  she should be with us, surely?”

“No mistake,” Draco said. He turned to Victoria. “Mother saw to it herself; you’ll be sitting between me and the Minister.”

Victoria’s stomach made a vaguely unpleasant twisting motion. “The Minister? You mean the Minister for Magic? But what are we going to talk about? He’s so… old.”

Pansy was nodding enthusiastically. “Did you hear that, Draco?” she said. “Victoria doesn’t want to sit with a boring old man. Why don’t you sit her on the fourth table with us? Of course, if that’s too much trouble, she and I could easily switch…”

Victoria’s eyes narrowed. “On the other hand,” she said pointedly, “I’m sure the Minister has all sorts of interesting stories. And besides, I’ll still be sitting next to you, won’t I?” She smiled at Draco. “You’ll rescue me if the Minister’s too boring?”

“Of course,” Draco said, looking between Victoria and Pansy with uncertainty. “Anyway, you couldn’t switch even if you wanted to. Mother already told the Minister that he’d be sitting next to Victoria.”

Millicent laughed. “Nice try, Pansy.”

Victoria looked back down at her invite, the awful feeling in her stomach beginning to give way to anticipation. She’d never been to a wizarding ball before, and Yule at Malfoy Manor had always sounded so glamorous, like a fairy tale come to life. And she was to be on the high table… right where everyone could see her.

“Oh god,” she said, “what am I going to wear?”

Millicent snorted. “A dress robe, I imagine.”

“Ohh, controversial choice,” Tracey said sarcastically.

Daphne shushed them both. “But of course we’ll help you to pick something out! Won’t we, Pansy?”

“Naturally,” Pansy said, a bit too sweetly, the smile on her face looking rather fixed. “We wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself in front of the Minister, would we?”

If Daphne noticed the dangerous look in Pansy’s eyes, she ignored it. “Oh, it’ll be so much fun! I’ll owl Mummy for some catalogues tomorrow; we’ll need time to pick something good out…”

“We’ve got until Christmas!” Victoria said.

Daphne looked at her with sympathy. “I know, but we’ll just have to rush it. If only we’d known sooner…”

“That wasn’t exactly what I meant.”

Draco coughed. “There’s actually something else in the envelope.”

Victoria looked back inside; she had completely missed the fact that her invitation was accompanied by a short note. “Oops.”

The note read: 

Dearest Victoria,

I was so glad that we were able to correspond this summer. Us witches must stick together, must we not? Indeed, it is on that very topic which I write now. I am not familiar with the details of your upbringing, but I am aware that you were raised in the Muggle world, and that your magical education has so far lacked a certain feminine touch. If you will forgive me for saying so, Severus Snape is not entirely suited to providing for the needs of young witches.

You may be aware that I frequently tutor the daughters of my close friends. It would give me great pleasure to offer you the same service, albeit somewhat abridged in nature. Perhaps you might spend your winter holiday with us? I know that Draco would welcome the company.

I shall eagerly await your response.

Yours, &c.,

Narcissa

A smile spread across Victoria’s face. It was an extremely thoughtful offer, one that stirred feelings within her which she hadn’t realised were lurking: the yearning for the guidance of another woman, especially one who lived with such admirable elegance and grace, and the longing for a confidant who was not a peer; not a friend but an advisor, someone who could teach her to walk and talk like Pansy and Daphne.

“Well?” Draco said. He was watching her face closely as she read and re-read the note. “Can you come?”

“Yes!”

Draco soon departed to continue down the train, leaving the girls to settle in for the long ride. They changed into their school robes, speculated about which teachers they would have—Tracey was hoping for Madam Winters in Transfiguration, as she was known to be more relaxed than McGonagall—and gossiped about how many boys Rebecca Hale would date that year. The weather became gloomier and gloomier the further north they travelled, and it wasn’t long before Victoria and Daphne ventured to the dining car in search of comforting snacks.

Half the school seemed to have had the same idea, and the girls were forced to jostle their way forward to the bar with a liberal use of elbows, where they ordered a selection of warm pasties and a slab of McDougal’s Double-Butter Scottish Shortbread (“Two Hundred Percent Butter Guaranteed!”). While they were waiting, Daphne jerked her head towards a short boy with blond hair and a Muggle camera hanging from his neck.

“He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since we got here,” she whispered with a giggle. “Looks like someone’s got an admirer!”

Victoria made the mistake of looking in the boy’s direction. He seemed to take it as some kind of invitation, scuttling towards them with star-struck eyes.

“Hi!” he said eagerly, “I’m Colin Creevey! You’re Victoria Potter, aren’t you? Everyone’s told me about you!”

“I suppose that’s me,” Victoria said, rather wishing that he would keep his voice down. Lavender Brown was in the queue behind them, which meant that their entire encounter would soon be relayed on to Parvati Patil and, from there, most of the train.

“Creevy, was it?” Daphne asked. “I don’t think I recognise the name.”

“Oh, I’m Muggleborn,” he said. “Not a trace of magic in the family! Do you think—that is, if it’s not too much trouble—could I take a picture?” He lifted his camera. “Just to prove I’ve, you know, met you?”

Victoria froze. What was she supposed to say? If she let him take it, everyone would say she was vain. If she didn’t, they’d say she was rude. Fortunately, Daphne came to her rescue.

“No,” she said firmly. “She doesn’t do photos.”

Colin’s face fell. “Oh. It was just… all this magic stuff is new to my dad—he’s a milkman—so I’m taking loads of photos of magical things to send back home. So he doesn’t feel so confused, you see?”

“How sweet,” Daphne said, but her voice was unimpressed. “Well, in that case… yeah, definitely not. We’re not going to help you break the Statute of Secrecy. I’ve half a mind to report you to Amelia Bones.”

“Amelia Bones?” Colin asked, now looking very nervous, “who’s she?”

Victoria’s lips twitched; she instinctively looked around for Susan, but she wasn’t nearby. “She’s the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

“Now get lost,” Daphne said, “before I call a prefect.”

A short while later, they returned to their compartment with pasties, shortbread, and a story which Daphne took great joy in repeating several times. Victoria tried to play it down, but her face heated up every time Daphne imitated Colin’s wide, adoring eyes, and eventually she buried herself in her heavily-annotated copy of A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration. She turned to the section on Simultaneous Transubstantiation, which they were due to study that year, and settled into her old habit of letting the conversation wash over her as she read.

It was still light when the train pulled into Hogsmeade Station, though the sun was low in the sky, casting an orange glow over the looming trees of the forest. Being second years, the girls would be taking the horseless carriages up to the castle, and they couldn’t help but look at the first years gathering around Hagrid with a certain smug superiority. As their carriage clattered towards the castle’s walls, Victoria’s nose was glued to the cool glass of the window, her eyes fixed on the approaching towers and ramparts. She was finally back where she belonged.

In many ways, it felt like she had never left. The Great Hall was as warm and inviting as ever, lit by hundreds of candles, the sky finally turning dark beyond its stained-glass windows, and there was a familiar rhythm to the hustle and bustle of students competing for their favourite seats at the house tables.

“Stebbins, you know that’s my seat!”

“Come sit with me, Cedric!”

“Finders keepers!”

Some things were different, however. There was a new Head Girl and Head Boy urging them to settle down, new prefects strutting around, and of course the biggest change of all: this year, Victoria would be a spectator to the Sorting rather than participating in it. The ceremony proceeded much as it had the previous year: the first years filed in behind Professor McGonagall, the lot of them looking small and nervous, and after the song—which was different to the year before—they took turns to try on the Sorting Hat and join their new house.

Victoria clapped with the others each time they gained a new Slytherin, of which there were fewer this year. The most notable of the new additions were a pair of twins named Flora and Hestia Carrow; Pansy clapped with extra enthusiasm for each of them, standing up to hug them when they arrived at the table.

“You!” she said to the first year boy who was sitting closest to the second years, “move up, you’re in Flora and Hestia’s spot.”

“But—”

“Move!”

The boy shuffled away and the twins squeezed onto the bench, plates and goblets popping into existence as they sat down. Victoria stared. The Carrow twins were like Pansy clones: their brown hair was cut in the same style, just reaching the shoulders, they sat with the same prim, straight-backed poise, and they wore matching bracelets. The main difference between them was that Pansy was prettier than the other two, whose eyes were slightly too close together—something which no doubt endeared them to her.

“Girls, you know Daphne and Millie,” Pansy said. “This is Tracey and Victoria.”

Victoria gave them a tight smile. “Charmed.”

When the Sorting was complete, Professor Dumbledore stood to greet them.

“Welcome! Welcome one and all to another year at Hogwarts! If you will indulge me, a few impatient announcements cannot wait until tomorrow to meet your ears, though I shall seek to delay the banquet no more than is necessary.” He paused, taking in his unusually rapt audience, whose eyes were fixed on the man several seats to his left. “My first announcement will be news to few of you. It gives me pleasure to welcome Professor Lockhart to our faculty, where he will occupy the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts Master.”

The hall erupted into applause, much greater than any student had received during the Sorting, and Professor Lockhart stood to receive it. He was dressed in robes of lilac, his blond hair perfectly coiffed, and he bowed several times as the clapping continued. More than one wolf whistle rang out from the Gryffindor table, earning them a roguish wink from the Professor.

“Thank you, Professor Lockhart,” Dumbledore said as the applause died. “I have no doubt that he will lead the department admirably. The second announcement relates to your Nastily Excruciating Wizarding Tests. Due in no small part to the dedication of Miss Penelope Clearwater and the petition which she presented last year to the Governors, I am pleased to inform you that Hogwarts will this year be offering a NEWT in Spellweaving. Let us put our hands together to welcome Madam Crimp, who will be visiting the castle on Wednesdays and Fridays to teach the course.”

Polite applause followed, somewhat ruined by the fact that half the female population had broken into excited chatter, many of them huddling to discuss this new development with their friends.

“Just a NEWT?” Daphne said. “But what if we want to try it?”

“You wait, I guess,” Pansy said. “But don’t expect me to join you. I’m happy buying my robes, thank you very much. Why would I make them myself?”

Professor Dumbledore coughed loudly. “No doubt many of you are interested in the course,” he said, having to raise his voice slightly as whispers continued, “but I must insist that you inform Professor McGonagall tonight if you wish to enrol, so that she may make all the necessary adjustments to the timetables.”

Professor McGonagall’s lips thinned. It sounded like she had a long night ahead of her.

“Finally, a reminder to all the quidditch enthusiasts to keep a keen eye on their tea-leaves tomorrow morning, which Professor Trelawney informs me will predict the dates of this year’s try-outs.” More whispering followed, and Victoria noticed Millicent sharing a hopeful look with the ginger-haired Octavia, her friend from the other dorm of Slytherin girls. “And that is all! Now, let us eat, drink, and be merry!”

Chapter Text

The rest of the evening passed in a happy blur of good food, friends, and the comfort of familiar surroundings. The girls left the feast promptly this year, not having to wait to be collected by the prefects, and made their way down to the Slytherin dungeon to claim their new dorm and unpack their trunks. They took a short break to watch the first years try to sit in the Dark Lord’s place, all of them being launched unceremoniously through the air by the cursed chair, and then returned to the dorm with smuggled bottles of butterbeer clinking under their robes.

At breakfast the next morning they received their timetables from a weary-looking Professor McGonagall.

“Oh god,” Daphne said, her eyes scouring the page. “Double Transfiguration every Friday.” She glanced at Victoria, who was smiling widely: it was well-known that Transfiguration was her favourite class. “At least one of us is happy.”

“Look, we’ve got Defence second period!” Tracey said excitedly between mouthfuls of scrambled egg. “We’ll be the second class to have Lockhart!”

First, however, they had to get through two hours of Potions with Professor Snape. He stormed into the gloom of Laboratory Three with his customary scowl, slamming the door behind him before striding to the front of the class with his arms crossed.

“I will not waste time with introductory speeches,” he began, the class silent before him. “You are now commencing your second year of Potions, and I dare say it will proceed in much the same way as the first. This term, in addition to brewing potions of greater complexity, we will focus on so-called seasonal potions, which must be brewed in accordance with the motions of celestial objects. As is tradition, your studies in this area will culminate with the Draught of Sparta, which we will begin to brew following Halloween.”

At this announcement, a few brave souls dared to whisper to their neighbours, but Snape quickly cut them off.

“Silence!” he spat, his dark eyes landing on Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas. “Five points from Gryffindor for speaking out of turn. Now, let me make one thing clear. I have, to date, been lenient with this class—” Victoria looked at Tracey incredulously “—but I shall tolerate nothing less than perfection during the brewing of the Draught of Sparta. As one of the Essential Potions, it is a requirement of this school that every student brew it successfully. If necessary, you will serve detention every evening until you get it right.”

Professor Snape always had been a strong believer in the motivating power of punishment. The threat of detention proved to be an effective one, and the class was unusually attentive for the rest of the lesson, even though it was their first after the summer holidays. They took a dictation on the general characteristics of autumn, performed an activity in the storeroom involving identification of autumnal ingredients, and finished off the class with a series of exercises relating to the correspondence between certain ingredients and the constellations.

They were quite exhausted by the time the bell rang, but the promise of Defence Against the Dark Arts with Professor Lockhart served to lift their spirits. They were so eager to finally meet the famous Professor that they skipped their morning break to claim seats at the front of the Defence classroom, which had been decorated with a plethora of promotional materials for Lockhart’s books and plays. Gone were the instructional posters depicting wand movements and incantations, replaced with moving portraits of Lockhart himself, his pointy wizard’s hat perched jauntily on his blond hair. Gone too was Quirrell’s large collection of protective objects. In its place was a copy of the entire Lockhart library, which contained everything from hair-care guides to recipe books.

The Slytherins would be sharing Defence with the Hufflepuffs that year, and Victoria managed to save a spot in the second row for Susan, who arrived a few minutes later with Hannah and Justin Finch-Fletchley. The three of them eagerly took the seats around Victoria, just behind Daphne and Pansy. Finally, long after all the students had arrived, the bell rang and Lockhart burst through the classroom door.

“Welcome!” he cried jovially. He took off his turquoise hat and hung it on a peg next to the door, taking the time to cast his gaze across the expectant students, their attentive faces peeking over the stacks of books which sat on each of their desks. “Excellent, I see you’ve all come prepared. Now, make no mistake, your real education in magic begins today! In my time I’ve vanquished vampires, wrestled werewolves, and hunted hags. I’ve seen it all, boys and girls, and that’s why I’m here. The first Defence Master in history to be directly appointed by the board of governors themselves!”

He paused as if expecting a response; none came. Lockhart cleared his throat. “Yes, well, let’s get down to business, shall we? Hands up, please, those of you who have seen my newest play, Break with a Banshee.”

A number of hands shot up, including Victoria’s own, but as she craned her neck to look around the classroom she could see that the majority had kept their hands down.

“Tut tut, that won’t do at all,” Lockhart said, frowning at those students with their hands on their desks, “your homework for the Christmas holidays is to see it, twice if possible... the Daily Prophet didn’t rate it five stars for nothing, after all!” He winked and a few of the girls tittered. “Well, those of you who have seen the play will surely recognise this.” He opened a large wooden chest and withdrew a long metal arm. “For five points, who can tell me what this is?”

Hands went up again, though this time Victoria kept hers down. She knew what it was supposed to be, but she also knew that wizards did not have the greatest understanding of Muggle technology.

Lockhart gestured to Pansy. “Miss…?”

“Parkinson, sir,” she said, “it’s a Muggle firearm!”

“Correct! Now, watch and learn!”

Lockhart took aim and, with a whoosh, fire launched from the arm’s outstretched palm. The fireball rocketed across the classroom, over their heads and to the rear wall, where it splashed harmlessly against the bare stone. Most of the class applauded, but Justin—who was the only Muggleborn in the class—was frowning to Victoria’s left. He leaned closer so that he could whisper to her.

“He doesn’t think…?”

“He does,” she replied, giving him a small smile to show that she understood. “Feel free to correct him.”

But Lockhart was speaking again. “Very dangerous, particularly to an untrained wizard,” he said. “This is what I’ll be teaching you this year. You’re a bit young, you see, for me to put you through your paces on dark creatures like werewolves. Not even I tackled those ‘til I was fully trained! But don’t be too upset now—” he smiled at them with paternal affection “—there’ll be plenty of time in years to come for you to see me in my element. First, however, you have to know the basics.”

“But sir,” Tracey interrupted, raising her hand after she had already started to speak, “we did the basics last year with Professor Quirrell, didn’t we? Jinxes and dark pests and stuff like that?”

Lockhart waved a hand dismissively. “Professor Quirrell got a bit ahead of himself, if you ask me, going straight into jinxes like that. No, first you must learn basic survival! Being able to recognise a doxy won’t help you if you’re attacked by a wolf, will it? In this class, we’re going to focus on the three most common dangers you might face as children: wild beasts, the elements, and Muggles. I’ll teach you how to banish snakes, repel wind, find fresh water, and how to confund your way out of tricky situations. And at the end of the year, we’ll head off into the wilds for a little trip to test out your skills! Under my supervision, of course, so you know you’re safe. Now, how does that sound?”

His question was met with universal exclamations of approval. Victoria shared an excited look with Susan: inaccurate Muggle technology aside, it looked like Defence was going to be much more interesting than it had been in their first year—though she wasn’t sure about the “heading into the wilds” part, which sounded suspiciously like camping.

Lockhart clapped his hands. “Wonderful! Then let’s get to it.” He drew his wand and, with a flamboyant flourish, summoned an easel from the corner of the room. It soared far too quickly through the air, and he was forced to duck as it clattered into the desk behind him. “Oops!” he said, rushing to pick it up, “forget my own strength, sometimes!”

He set the easel up next to the desk and flipped the first sheet of paper to reveal a drawing of a tall, gorilla-like animal.

“Let’s begin by examining one of the most dangerous creatures in the world. Make sure to take notes, class! This could save your life one day. Now, the common or garden variety Muggle is found in all but the most extreme habitats…”

In the end, Victoria left Defence feeling a strange combination of uneasiness and excitement. She was unusually quiet throughout lunch, spending as much time frowning at her plate as she did eating. Even as Daphne and Pansy gushed about how handsome Lockhart was, she couldn’t help but think that something wasn’t quite right. How was it that he didn’t know what a real gun looked like, after having visited the real Bandon and having met the real Detective Blaggard? Who had created the obviously magical “firearm”, and how had it come into Lockhart’s possession? And there was something else nagging at the back of her mind, something that she couldn’t pin down… she shrugged, remembering to take a bite of chicken. At least he’d be teaching them interesting magic.

Following lunch, the whole school made their way down to the quidditch stadium for Flying. After several months away, it felt a bit strange to return to the unisex changing rooms, which Victoria had almost forgotten about, and which seemed rather more intimidating now that she had something worth hiding. By an unspoken agreement, the boys and girls changed at opposite ends of the room, with many of them hanging towels from the railings above the benches to create some privacy. Unfortunately, Victoria hadn’t thought to bring her towel, given that she always returned to the dorm to shower. Just as she had in first year, once more she simply had to muster her courage and change into her flying robes as quickly as possible.

Buckles and bracers secured, hair braided into pigtails, she and Susan headed outside just as the bell sounded in the distance. As always, it was complete chaos: the whole school was gathered in a boisterous crowd, with duellists strutting around accompanied by gaggles of fans, and quidditch players showing off on their brooms overhead. The fourth years in particular were drawing many admiring looks, with the Ravenclaw chaser Roger Davies competing with Cedric Diggory for attention. Both boys were tall and handsome, but of the two Victoria favoured Cedric, with his scruffy dark hair and friendly grey eyes. There was something a lot more open about Cedric… his casual confidence seemed more genuine, whereas Roger was always glancing around to see who might be watching.

Victoria let out a long sigh.

“Careful,” Susan said with a giggle. “If you keep staring like that you’re gonna end up looking like Colin Creevey.”

She groaned. “You heard about that?”

“Everyone heard about that.”

“Well, I wasn’t staring,” Victoria said, her cheeks turning pink, “I was just—”

“Drooling?”

“—wondering if I can avoid having to fly,” she insisted, quite pleased with the credibility of her lie. “We don’t have to, do we?”

Her question was answered by the arrival of Madam Hooch, who had to blow her whistle several times to get everyone’s attention.

“First years, wait here, I’ll be with you shortly. Second years, with me!”

She led them away from the crowd, up the path from the quidditch stadium and towards the eaves of the Forbidden Forest, where a small group of teachers and prefects were waiting. As they walked, she explained what they would be doing that year.

“I’ve had a year to toughen you up, though I don’t doubt you’ve all gone soft over the summer,” she said with a raised voice. “But you’re now old enough to start learning how to fly. You’ve got two choices: broom racing, or quidditch. For those of you who don’t want to fly—” her voice turned incredulous here, as if she couldn’t believe that anyone fell into that category “—you can take up hippogriff riding, dancing or duelling. Make your decision carefully, because you’ll be stuck with it for the year.”

Fierce negotiations immediately broke out as everyone tried to convince their friends to join them in their activity of choice.

Victoria looked at Susan imploringly. “Please say you don’t want to fly.”

Susan bit her lip. “Flying would be useful… but I think I wanna try duelling.”

“Duelling?” Victoria said. She glanced nervously at her nails, which she had spent half an hour painting a lovely sparkly green the night before. “Isn’t that a bit… rough?”

“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun!”

Victoria frowned. “You said that about flying.”

“Don’t be such a girl,” Susan said. “Anyway, duelling is magic, isn’t it? I thought you liked that stuff.”

“I suppose…”

Decision made, Susan dragged her towards the group of students gathering around Professor Flitwick. Victoria couldn’t help but notice that the vast majority of them were boys.

“I told you,” she hissed at Susan, but her protests were ignored. Meanwhile, not far away, Pansy could be heard having a loud argument with Daphne.

“I am not mucking out my own hippogriff,” she was saying, “please, Daph, why don’t we take dance…”

“We go riding all the time at home,” Daphne said. “You even have your own hippogriff, don’t you?”

Pansy sniffed. “That’s neither here nor there. I also have a stableboy.”

“Well, about time you learnt how to do all that for yourself,” Daphne said, “I’ve been doing it since I was six.”

Pansy turned to Tracey in desperation. “You’ll come dance with me, won’t you?”

But Tracey just laughed. “And miss out on quidditch?”

In the end, Tracey and Millicent went to join the quidditch group, before a very grumpy Pansy—apparently unwilling to take dance by herself—stomped over to where Hagrid and a number of prefects were holding the hippogriffs by their reins. They were beautiful but dangerous-looking creatures, with the head, wings and talons of an eagle on the body of a horse, and they absolutely towered over the prefects who were holding them.

“Looks like trouble in paradise,” Susan observed.

Victoria snorted. “Probably a good thing we didn’t pick dance, or we’d have been stuck doing it with Pansy.”

Once everyone had chosen their activity, Professor Flitwick took the duellists to a large clearing just inside the forest, where a decent number of older students were already warming up under the direction of Joseph Deverill, the sixth year Slytherin prefect.

“Gather round, gather round,” Flitwick said with his customary eagerness. There were just over ten second years, so it was easy enough to huddle around Flitwick in a circle, all of them looking down at the short man. “A good batch this year! We’ll make proper duellists out of the lot of you, mark my words. Now, before we start, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea—we’re not learning honour duelling, here. You may have heard that I was once a champion, but that was long ago, before the Ministry saw fit to outlaw the noble art.”

“A champion, sir?” asked Hermione. She was the only girl there other than Victoria and Susan.

“Oh yes,” Flitwick said, his voice turning nostalgic. “Before I was a teacher, I used to act as champion for many wizards and witches, representing them in contests of honour around the world. Why, those were the days…” He coughed. “But that was when it was legal, of course. As I was saying, what we’re learning here is the sport of duelling. That sport has its roots in the ancient code of honour, but I dare say it’s somewhat safer.”

Safe or not, Victoria did not have high hopes for the survival of her nails.

“Now, the first skill you need to learn in duelling is how to block spells,” Flitwick continued. “You’ll all be familiar with the Basic Counter-Charm, and the Basic Block is not all that different. It uses the same wand motion, but you must perform it while your opponent’s spell is still in the process of forming.”

Victoria frowned. “But sir, what about all the spells the Finite Incantatem doesn’t counter?”

“Aha!” Flitwick said. “That is the essence of duelling, Miss Potter. The Shield Charm is not permitted, you see... it’s not considered sporting. To defend yourself, you must correctly identify the spell being used against you, and use the correct block, which requires a thorough knowledge of counter-spelling. But don’t worry about that for now! Today we’re just going to focus on the basics. Let’s get you all warmed up.”

After a twenty-minute run along the edge of the forest, they returned to the clearing to be split up into pairs. Unfortunately it was Flitwick who divided them up, so Victoria got paired with a Hufflepuff boy called Zacharias Smith. He was one of the tallest boys in the year, with curly blond hair and a square jaw.

“Keep to the Trip Jinx, now!” Flitwick said as he paired them off. “The idea is to practice blocking, not to have a proper duel. Take turns to cast the spell against your partner, who will try to block it.”

Victoria and Zach found a spare patch of grass with plenty of space around it, counted out a duelling distance of twenty paces and turned to face each other.

“All right, Potter,” Zach said, taking a side stance and raising his wand over his shoulder, “I’ll start, shall I? Cadere!”

There was a flash of silver light. Still in the process of drawing her wand, Victoria had no chance of defending herself: she felt the spell hit her with a light push, just enough to make her try to step back to steady herself, but it was as if her legs were tangled in rope, and with an “eep!” she toppled backwards, landing with a wet thud on the muddy grass.

She flushed with annoyance. “Hey! I wasn’t ready!”

“Too bad,” Zach said with a smirk. “Your turn.”

“Finite,” she said, pointing her wand at her feet to cancel the jinx before struggling back to her feet. She raised her wand over her shoulder. “Ready? Cadere!”

A silver glow began to form around her wand as she brought it down, but Zach was in motion from the moment her hand had moved, swinging his wand in a crescent from left to right, and he completed the counter just as she finished the incantation—the light gathering around Victoria’s wand fizzled, spluttering out before the spell could complete.

“Excellent, Mister Smith!” Flitwick cried. “Five points to Hufflepuff!”

Victoria immediately braced herself for another spell, not trusting Zach to wait until she was ready, but this time he just stood there, not casting anything. The moment stretched out, Zach’s wand raised above his shoulder, Victoria’s wand held protectively across her chest.

“Well?” she asked, “are you going to—”

“Cadere!”

She jumped in shock, forgetting entirely to try the counter, and a moment later she was hitting the grass again, her left cheek landing in a patch of mud.

She gritted her teeth. He was cheating! They were supposed to be practising, but he kept waiting until her guard was down. Well, she’d show him…

“Cadere!” she cried, casting the spell from where she lay on the ground—but somehow he was ready, his wand sweeping from left to right once more, and though there was a flash of silver light, Zach completed the block just before the spell hit him. He stumbled back a step, but didn’t fall.

“Cheeky,” he said with a boyish grin. “Well, you’d better get up. You know, so I can put you back down on the ground.”

Victoria boiled with impotent rage. Again and again he knocked her over, always blocking her own spells in return. It wasn’t as if he was only managing it by cheating, either: he was just so fast, his wand seeming to begin the counter before she had even realised her own wand was moving to cast the spell.

Each time that she hit the ground, he couldn’t resist making some little jibe about her:

“Dad always told me that girls can’t fight.”

“I think there’s a bit of mud over there you haven’t fallen in yet.”

“Who’d have thought the Girl Who Lived would suck at duelling?”

Something in her broke. She was muddy, bruised, and her hair was a mess. The varnish on her nails was chipped and her shoulder was sore. She’d had enough of Zacharias Smith and his snide remarks.

“Cadere!” she cried, putting all her frustration and anger into the spell, her arm snapping down with aggressive speed. Silver light flashed, brighter than before—

—and Zach’s wand was there, blocking the spell with ease.

“Oof, I felt that,” he said with the same cocky grin. “Some proper power behind that one. Pity it didn’t do anything, eh?”

  Victoria let out a sound that was halfway between a sob and a scream. “That’s it! I’m done.”

She turned her back and stormed off, passing through the thin line of trees and up the path towards the school, tears of frustration running down her face. She was supposed to be good at magic! That was her thing. Susan was kind and friendly, Daphne was beautiful and charming, Pansy was rich and sophisticated… and who was she? Victoria Potter, the mythical Girl Who Lived, who loved magic more than anything in the world… only now she didn’t even have that. She’d been beaten, repeatedly, by a smirking boy whom she knew never scored above an ‘Exceeds Expectations’.

Susan came after her. “Victoria!” she called, hurrying to catch up, “Victoria, wait!”

She paused next to a large boulder.

“Where are you going?” Susan asked, but then she saw Victoria’s face. “Oh, what happened? Here.” She pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and passed it to Victoria, who used it to dab at her red eyes.

“I can’t do it,” Victoria said, her voice coming out as a sob, “I can’t go back, Susan. Maybe I’ll go hippogriff riding. Or, hell, flying.”

“What?” Susan said. “But you hate flying! What on earth happened?”

“That—that boy,” Victoria said. “I couldn’t land a single spell on him! And he just kept mocking me. But he’s right, Susan. I’m not good at duelling.”

Susan frowned. “And…?”

“And, well, what’s the point of doing something that I’m bad at? Maybe I’d be better with hippogriffs…”

“So that’s it, is it?” Susan said, and she sounded cross. “For the first time you’re not immediately great at something and you just, what, give up?”

Victoria gaped at her. That wasn’t what she was supposed to say. Susan was supposed to commiserate with her, not tell her off! “You don’t understand.”

“Oh, I think I do,” Susan replied. “This is what it’s like for the rest of us, you see. Every time you get a spell in class on your first try, or do something just by, I don’t know, clapping or jumping or whatever… how do you think everyone else feels?”

Victoria looked down, ashamed. She’d never thought about it that way. She just loved magic so much… she supposed she had got rather caught up in the thrill of it, never really thinking about how Susan felt.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “But he’s just so much better than me.”

Susan wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Well, of course he is. He’s a Smith.”

“A Smith? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Are you kidding?” Susan said, looking at her like she’d just said the world was flat. “The Smiths are practically wizarding royalty! They actually own a part of Hogwarts! He’s probably spent years learning to duel.”

“Oh.”

“Now, are you going to go sulk with the hippogriffs? Or are you going to come back with me and work hard and one day put that boy on his arse?”

Victoria sniffed. “All right. But you have to do my nails tonight.”

“Deal.”

Chapter Text

Once the shock of the first day of term had passed, Victoria slipped back into the routine of Hogwarts life with surprising ease. She got used to waking up early within a few days, and soon enough her evenings were filled with a hectic mix of prep (now held in an aquarium on the fourth-floor), extracurricular reading, and relaxing in the common room with the Slytherin girls. Their group moved quickly to claim the two couches next to the gramophone, and Victoria had returned to her habit of sitting on a large cushion between the couches, where she could read or join the conversation at her leisure.

Although a part of her missed the relaxed approach to life at Susan’s house, the excitement of learning new magic was more than adequate compensation. In her first year, the teachers had taken months before letting them use magic, but no such restriction applied to second years, for whom the phrase “wands at the ready” was becoming an increasingly frequent instruction. They were casting magic from their very first classes, beginning work on illusion charms with Professor Flitwick, liquefaction with Professor McGonagall, and evergreening with Madam Bloom, their new Herbology teacher.

There was, however, one way in which Victoria’s routine had changed. In the past, her evenings would have been spent in an entirely sedentary manner, idly stroking Dumbledore as she read about the Colour-Changing Charm, or Thales’ Primacy of Water, or the correct way to burn fallen leaves to ward away frost. But that had all changed since her spectacular failure at duelling. These days she could be found with her wand in hand just as often as with a book in her lap, and she would spend whole evenings practising the basic block over and over again.

 Pansy was not a fan of all this wand-waving in her vicinity, but Tracey and Draco were fascinated by her practice, bemoaning the fact that they were forced to pick between quidditch and duelling. More often than not, Draco would come and join her, bringing with him the dark-skinned Blaise Zabini and rat-faced Theodore Nott, who was as weedy as Blaise was handsome.

It was a comfortable routine, and Victoria was satisfied with almost all of her classes. The one class which she was not fully enjoying was Defence Against the Dark Arts, where she continued to feel a vague sense of unease about Professor Lockhart. She had decided that the source of her unease was not that his descriptions of Muggles were so inaccurate. While Justin Finch-Fletchley was frequently outraged by Lockhart’s pronouncements, Victoria had always found wizarding ignorance of Muggle life more amusing than anything else, and she regularly entertained herself with the thought of Uncle Vernon’s likely reaction to some of Lockhart’s more ridiculous ideas. No, there was something else nagging at the back of her mind, something that didn’t quite add up.

The true cause of her unease became clear in their second week of classes. They had commenced work on the Repulsion Charm, which could be used to divert the path of any projectile, and Professor Lockhart was expounding upon its usefulness against Muggles.

“Their use of the bow and arrow is well known by wizards,” he was saying, “and the Repulsion Charm will of course protect you from any arrows that may come your way. But beware! Muggles are fiendishly clever, and have more than just arrows at their disposal.” He turned to a large object at the front of the class, which was covered by a white sheet. “Behold! The latest in advanced Muggle weaponry!”

He removed the sheet with a flourish to reveal a gleaming cannon. It was about the size of a small car and, despite its good condition, had to be at least two hundred years old. Victoria glanced at Justin, who was sitting next to her, and when she saw his incredulous face she couldn’t help but let out a short burst of laughter.

Lockhart’s gaze landed on the two of them. “You have something to add, Finch-Fletchley?”

Justin shook his head.

“I thought as much,” Lockhart said, before turning to Victoria. “And you might not be laughing once you see it in use, Miss Potter. Yes… a demonstration, perhaps?”

He summoned Victoria to the front of the class and positioned her directly in line with the cannon, where she could see down its long, looming barrel.

“Now, Victoria here is going to cast the charm on herself, just like we practised,” Lockhart said. “And then we’ll fire a bludger at her, and if everything has gone right, it should swerve out of the way before it hits her.”

She looked nervously at the cannon. “And what if it doesn’t go right?”

“Not to worry!” Lockhart said. “If anything goes wrong, I’m sure I can fix you up in a jiffy.”

“Fix me up?” Victoria edged away from the cannon, which felt altogether too close. “You know, I’ve, um, never actually cast the spell before.”

But Lockhart was already raising his wand. “No time like the present!” he cried cheerfully, and he lit the fuse. The class leaned forward in anticipation.

No longer having any choice, Victoria quickly tapped her wand to her forehead. “Impervius!”

BANG!

The cannon fired with an enormous roar, spitting fire and smoke—Victoria cringed, her heart leaping to her throat, her ears ringing—and when the smoke cleared, she could see Lockhart pointing to her left, his mouth moving but his words drowned out by the ringing in her ears. Dazed, she followed his pointed finger and took in a scene of utter destruction. The cannonball had crashed right through his sturdy oak desk, splitting it cleanly in two and scattering its contents across the floor, before embedding itself in the wall, where it had made a significant dent in the stonework.

Sound gradually returned.

“Bravo!” Lockhart was saying, clapping enthusiastically. The class followed suit. “A fine show! Keep it up and one day you might even give me a run for my money!” He chuckled, as if the very thought were absurd. “Now, let’s get this cleared up… Reparo!”

The two sides of the broken desk slammed together, roughly binding themselves to each other such that their ends were not properly aligned; the diffuse contents of the desk flew back towards it, but landed on its surface in a messy heap; the cannonball fell out of the wall with a thump, leaving a web of cracked stone behind.

Lockhart coughed. “Yes, well, that’ll do for now. So, who wants to go next? No need to rush now, you’ll all get your turn…”

But Victoria wasn’t listening. She was staring with horror at the shoddily-restored desk. What if that had been her? Lockhart had said he could fix her up, but his Repair Charm clearly left much to be desired. If he couldn’t repair a desk, there was no way he could put a person back together. And now that she thought about it, hadn’t he messed up his Summoning Charm in their first class as well?

A thought entered Victoria’s mind, a realisation that dawned slowly but inevitably. It was an absurd thought, but the moment she considered it, she knew it to be true. For all his accomplishments and feats of bravery, Gilderoy Lockhart was useless at magic.

When the class ended, Susan dragged her towards the Great Hall for lunch.

“Here’s something strange,” Victoria said as they walked, keeping her voice conversational. She would have to be very careful with what she said—Susan adored Lockhart. “Have you ever actually seen Lockhart do any magic?”

“Of course I have,” Susan said. “He does magic all the time.”

“No, but I mean… like, proper magic. Successful magic.”

Susan frowned. “What are you trying to say?”

“It’s just…” She searched for the right words. “He doesn’t seem like all he’s made out to be, does he?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Susan said, a bit too quickly. “Is this because he picked on you in class? Anyway, you saw him cast loads of magic in the play, didn’t you?”

Victoria bit her lip. She didn’t want to argue about it. “I guess.”

“Come on,” Susan said. “It’s beef stew today and Ernie takes all the dumplings if you don’t beat him to it.”

Victoria knew a futile conversation when she saw one—she was friends with Pansy Parkinson, after all. So she let the matter go and accompanied Susan to the Hufflepuff table for lunch, where Ernie indeed took more than his fair share of dumplings. She didn’t linger for long, however, eating her lunch quickly, because she had another task to complete during her break.

It had been almost two weeks since term started and, much to her frustration, she still hadn’t managed to explore the Restricted Section. With just a few days left until Draco would come calling for his turn with the pass, she was determined to find a book on alchemy before she handed access over to him. So, having downed her stew at record speed, she said farewell to Susan and made for the library.

The Restricted Section was separated from the main library by means of an age line, a glowing, golden thread running across the stone floor which prevented anyone below sixth year from trespassing. The barrier crossed the full width of the cathedral-like room to the left of the main entrance—by Victoria’s logic, that meant half of Hogwarts’ collection was hidden behind the line, protected from the prying eyes of those who had not yet achieved their OWLs.

She couldn’t count the number of times that she had lingered at the edge of the line, peering into those forbidden stacks, imagining the secret knowledge which lay beyond. In the past, she had always been forced to turn away and satisfy herself with the main library.

But not today. Today, Victoria turned left.

“Potter!”

Her foot barely over the glowing line, she froze at the sound of Madam Pince’s voice. A short, dumpy woman, Madam Pince wore a permanent scowl and tiny half-moon spectacles. The way she peered over those glasses always made Victoria feel like she was being examined under a microscope.

“Where do you think you’re going, girl?”

Victoria reached into her pocket. “I’ve got permission,” she said, holding the pass towards Pince. “Here, see? Professor Snape gave it to me.”

“I’m quite familiar with Professor Snape’s little tradition, thank you,” Madam Pince said. “But pass or no, you can’t go into the Restricted Section without the proper equipment.”

She took Victoria to the front desk, where she rummaged under the counter for a lamp, a whistle, a ball of red string, and a pair of worn dragon-hide gloves.

“Don’t touch strange books without the gloves,” Madam Pince advised. “In fact, best not to touch strange books at all—some of them are cursed, and don’t get me started on the ones that can read you back. Are you familiar with the tale of Theseus?”

Victoria nodded.

“Good. Use the string if you need to wander from the central paths. And if you do get lost, blow your whistle and wait. Whatever you do, don’t keep wandering around; you’ll only get more lost. It took us five days to find Montague, the fool boy.”

With Madam Pince’s advice in mind, Victoria entered the Restricted Section with rather more trepidation than anticipated. At first, as she walked down a wide aisle, the grave warnings seemed to be misplaced. It was not so different from the main library, with bright light streaming through the tall, stained-glass windows, and ladders positioned against the towering bookcases, their endless shelves neatly organised by topic. There was a certain stillness to the air, like that of a dusty room which hadn’t been opened in a long time, but Victoria was far from alone, with older students sitting here and there at reading tables, no doubt working on NEWT-level projects.

Yet as she made her way deeper into the stacks, the character of the Restricted Section began to change. The central aisle branched, and branched again, and each time the way became narrower, the bookcases pressing in like skyscrapers blocking out the sun. There were no students here, and whatever arcane system had been used to arrange the books was an impenetrable mystery. One bookcase was devoted solely to volumes with blue covers; another contained only authors whose names constituted a pun on their subject matter.

“Lumos,” Victoria said, raising the lamp. Its shutters slid open to release the hot white glow of magical fire.

She continued to explore. The Restricted Section was clearly much larger than she had thought, and she wanted to get a feel for the geography of the place. The library’s exterior walls were out of sight, blocked from view by the bookcases, so it was difficult to get any sense of how far the labyrinth continued, or even where she was within it. Certainly it felt like it could be never-ending: if the central aisle had once been a wide thoroughfare, the way was now akin to a back street, winding this way and that, with dark and forbidding alleyways leading off on each side.

Just as she began to worry that she would get lost, the sound of footsteps approached. A short, redheaded girl turned the corner, a lamp in her hand. Victoria didn’t recognise her, but she looked rather too young to be in the Restricted Section—she too must have received a pass from one of the teachers.

The girl did not react to seeing Victoria, and showed every intention of passing her without saying a word.

“Excuse me!” Victoria said, stepping into the girl’s path. “Sorry—do you know where the alchemy shelves are?”

The girl paused and looked her up and down. “First time in the Restricted Section?”

Victoria nodded.

“Well, I don’t know about the alchemy section,” the girl said, “but there’s some alchemy books a little further along.” She pointed deeper into the library. “Go that way until you see the invisible books, then keep turning left until you end up back where you started. Do that loop thrice, hop straight ahead for a while, and you should find some alchemy books.”

Victoria couldn’t tell if she was joking. “How do you see invisible books?”

The girl just smirked. “You’ll see.”

Somewhat dubious, Victoria continued onwards. Sure enough, she soon came to a bookcase which appeared to be entirely empty. She wrestled her hand into a dragon-hide glove and reached out: as the girl had said, the shelves were full of invisible books, the shape of their spines unmistakeable beneath her gloved fingers.

Now satisfied that she was not the target of a practical joke, she proceeded to follow the rest of the instructions, walking in a loop three times and then—after checking that no one was watching—hopping down the aisle. With each hop, it was as if she was launching herself deeper into the library, the darkness growing, the books around her shifting and warping. A thick layer of dust appeared on the shelves, and the books written in English began to decrease in number, replaced with spines written in runes.

It was here that she found it: Natural Magic by Thomas Vaughan. An alchemy book.

She plucked it from the shelf with glove-covered hands and flicked to the introduction. It was written in archaic language, but it was at least in English rather than runes:

In the name of the noble Wizengamot, restored to riteful rule following the expulsion of the treacherous Swanns, I, Thomas Vaughan, herein faithfully and truly describe my investigations into the mysteries of natural magic, continuing as I might the fine example of the Italian John Baptist Porta, and covering principally the field of alchemy and its sisters astronomy and herbology, being neither witchcraft nor wizardry but the magic of the Earth and Heavens themselves.

It took all of Victoria’s willpower to resist the temptation to keep reading there and then. This was exactly what she had been looking for, an answer to the questions which she had been pondering ever since her summer in the Muggle world. Where did the natural end and the supernatural begin? If her magic was supernatural, why did non-magical plants flourish around her? Wasn’t ‘natural magic’ a contradiction in terms? Alchemy, it seemed, held the answers.

Satisfied with her discovery, and eager to share it with Susan, she hopped back the way she came—but nothing happened. The corridor didn’t shift around her, nor did she feel the slight vertigo of magical transportation. She was simply hopping down the aisle, each step echoing loudly off the stone floor.

Victoria tried to ignore the tendrils of anxiety taking root at the edge of her mind. She wasn’t lost. Not yet. Perhaps the hopping was just a shortcut—if she kept walking straight ahead, might she not arrive back at the invisible books?

 Cursing herself for not using the string, she started making her way back towards the main library. Why hadn’t the redheaded girl warned her that she couldn’t get back with the same method? Had she deliberately tricked her?

It was when the path forked that her feelings of anxiety returned in force, banishing any hope that there might be a simple way back. There hadn’t been any fork in the path on the way there. That meant the hopping route she had taken wasn’t just a shortcut, as she had hoped—it had been true magical transportation. It could have taken her anywhere.

She was extremely aware of the whistle in her pocket, given to her by Madam Pince for a situation exactly like this. If she used it, how long would it take them to find her? It had apparently taken days to find Montague. And when they did find her, would they confiscate the pass? She couldn’t imagine them letting her keep it, if she needed rescuing the very first time she had stepped into the Restricted Section. No, her only choice was to try to make her own way out.

She followed the winding path around bookcase after bookcase, always picking the wider aisle when the way branched until—with a great feeling of relief— she happened upon one of the wide, central walkways. Her relief was short-lived, however, because the walkway ended up taking her straight to a dead end.

She had discovered the library’s edge. A large, heavy door of rusting iron was set into the wall, identical to the rune-engraved door next to Madam Pince’s desk. Was it, perhaps, a back door out of the library? Or... maybe it led to the forbidden books, those which only the teachers were allowed to read? Unfortunately, her questions were destined to remain unanswered. Try as she might, nothing Victoria did could persuade the door to open.

It was time to face the truth: she was completely lost. The thought of retracing her steps was thoroughly disheartening, and she began to toy with the whistle in her pocket. She had managed to find an alchemy book, so it wouldn’t be a complete loss if they took the pass from her. And surely it wouldn’t take them so long to find her, positioned as she was next to a door on the outer edge of the library? Why, she might even get out in time for Herbology!

Her resolve to use the whistle solidified. But just as she moved to press it to her lips, she felt something very strange: the sudden sense that she had done this before. It was the strongest deja-vu which she had ever experienced, more concrete than any mere passing feeling, yet still possessing that surreal unreality which separated it from true memory.

Instead of fading, as deja-vu normally did, the feeling only grew stronger. Tentatively, Victoria took a few steps in a new direction, pausing after each one, cocking her head at the dreamlike haze clouding over her mind. With each step, the sense of uncanny familiarity came to her afresh. She had travelled this path before. Excited, she began to walk faster, new purpose filling her. As she moved, she noticed a prickling, tingling sensation in her forehead, a light pressure hovering just above the skin, and each time she came to a crossroads she followed that pressure, letting it guide her like a compass.

The strange feeling guided her all the way to a bookcase at the end of a very narrow alleyway. Still guided by that alien sense of certainty, Victoria’s eyes landed on a book on the shelf in front of her. It was bound in a green fabric, and a long serpent was printed down its spine, which was otherwise blank. It was utterly unremarkable, just one book amid thousands of others, yet she knew immediately what to do. Without thinking, without putting on her gloves, she reached for the book. It slid forward like a lever, and with the sound of grinding stone, the bookcase swung open.

At first, she thought that the hidden door had simply led her even deeper into the library. The portal just seemed to lead to even more bookcases. But then she saw it: the bookcase containing books with blue covers, the one that she had passed in her first few minutes of exploration.

Relief flooded her, banishing the deja-vu which had led her there. She was no more than five minutes’ walk from the entrance to the Restricted Section, where the unmistakable light of tall stained-glass windows still penetrated the dusty air. A grin grew on her face. What luck! Not only had she escaped the labyrinth, she had managed to discover a secret passageway through the stacks.

But what had been the origin of the strange feeling which had guided her there? Had it been part of the magic of Hogwarts, protecting her from getting lost? That didn’t seem likely, however—if such a magic existed, then surely it would have also saved Montague, back when he had got lost.

Perhaps, then, she had performed some form of divination? But that too felt like an inadequate explanation. She had never shown any talent for divination, with her one attempt at the art failing completely. And while accidental magic was still possible before she turned thirteen, it was exceedingly unlikely.

If she’d had the time, she might have sought out answers in a book. Her questions were cut short, however, by the distant sound of the bell ringing, calling an end to her lunch break.

Victoria sighed. She was going to be late for Herbology.

In the weeks that followed, Victoria’s every spare moment was spent deciphering Natural Magic. It was by far the most difficult book that she had ever read, and her full focus was required to understand the author’s archaic style. It meandered from topic to topic, lacking any kind of sensible structure, with sentences that sometimes continued for more than a page. Indeed, it was not uncommon to start reading one of those sentences and, by the time it finished, to have completely forgotten how it had started. To make matters worse, the author often obscured his meaning behind metaphor and code, as if he didn’t actually want the reader to learn anything useful.

To an outside observer, she must have looked quite mad as she hunched over the book in the common room, muttering to herself and making full use of Vernon’s colourful vocabulary to vent her uncharitable feelings towards Thomas Vaughan. This display had become something of a spectator sport, with Tracey and Daphne eagerly anticipating Pansy’s looks of horror at each of her increasingly scandalous curses. Thankfully Draco wasn’t around to hear them: the moment she had given him the pass, he had embarked on his own adventure into the Restricted Section. She barely saw him outside of classes, and then, one Friday evening, he disappeared altogether.

As the weekend passed, his continued absence nagged at her. If anything, Susan was even more concerned, especially after having heard about Victoria’s own experience in the library.

“What if he’s been eaten by a minotaur?” Susan said at lunch on Sunday, “or a boggart could have got him. Or some kind of cursed book. We need to tell the teachers!”

By the time dinner rolled around, Susan was about ready to put together a rescue party, and Victoria mustered the courage to visit Professor Snape’s office to share her concerns.

“Let me make sure I understand you correctly,” Snape said slowly, his hands clasped before him. “Master Malfoy, who carries a pass signed by myself, is conducting a research project in the Restricted Section. He has broken no rules, nor has he been absent for more than two days. And you think this is an issue worthy of my attention?”

Victoria fidgeted under Snape’s gaze. “But what if he’s lost?”

“Has he blown his whistle?”

“Well, no, I suppose not, but maybe—”

“Then he does not wish to be found. Do not waste my time with this kind of nonsense again, Potter.”

Luckily, Draco emerged from the Restricted Section several days later, a dazed expression on his face and a large, leather-bound tome clutched to his chest. He was covered with a number of strange scratches, some of which were bleeding, but there was also a gleam of success in his eyes, and once he had escaped Madam Pomfrey’s care, he too was to be found hunched over his book in the common room, joining Victoria in her evening reading.

“Oh, not you too,” Pansy moaned, the first time she saw him bringing out the book. “I swear, the lot of you are becoming very boring. It’s beginning to feel like Ravenclaw in here.”

“At least you can tell your parents you’ve been spending more time around books,” Daphne said with a smirk. “Are they still making you owl all your grades home?”

Victoria’s ears pricked, and she looked up with interest. Were Pansy’s parents unhappy with her grades? Judging by the glare which Pansy was sending Daphne’s way, this information was not supposed to have been shared with the group.

“They’re just interested in my classes,” Pansy said with a defensive tone, before turning back to Draco. “What are you reading, anyway?”

But Draco refused to tell them anything about his book, and whenever someone tried to get a peek he would slam it shut with a scowl. It was all very mysterious.

“Is it a book of hexes, perhaps?” Pansy suggested, craning her neck to try to see over the top.

“I hope so,” Victoria said, rubbing a bruise on her elbow. “I could use something special for Zacharias.”

Daphne sent her a sympathetic look. “He’s still winning?”

“I’ll get through his guard one day,” Victoria said. She ignored Pansy’s dubious laugh.

“Anyway, it can’t be hexes,” Tracey said. “It wouldn’t take days to find a book like that in the Restricted Section. I bet there’s tons of them.”

“Right,” Pansy said, nodding. “It must be something properly dark, like necromancy.”

Daphne scrunched up her face in disgust. “Ew. Draco doesn’t want anything to do with dead bodies.” She paused, as if reconsidering. “Right, Draco?”

Draco didn’t respond.

Whatever the book contained, he clearly found it fascinating, becoming Victoria’s faithful but silent companion in the common room. As he made his way through its pages, she persevered with Natural Magic. It was slow going, and she was forced to take notes just to keep track of what the author was trying to say. If she had been any less interested in the subject matter she surely would have set the book aside out of frustration, but, chapter by chapter, she finally began to understand.

It turned out that there was a lot more to magic than just witchcraft and wizardry. In retrospect it seemed obvious: the very existence of magical plants, and of other magical creatures, suggested that magic was at work in the world around her. But Victoria had never paid these things much mind, having her plate full with learning how to use her own powers. Although she had never given it much thought, if you had asked her, she probably would have guessed that magical plants and creatures had originally been created by wizards. She was now coming to appreciate, however, that pretty much anything she could name had some measure of innate magical significance.

Magic wasn’t just an action that wizards performed. There was magic in the movement of the planets, in the lives of animals and plants, and even in the rock beneath her feet. And while it was true that wizards could harness those powers, they did so in a very different way to casting spells and brewing potions.

The anatomy of a spell was made up of human ideas—a theory here, a symbol there, all put together in a certain arrangement to perform a specific purpose. It was not magic in its natural form but rather an artificial construct, a patchwork quilt of powers sewn together by human ingenuity and will. A world without wizards would be a world without spells. Natural magic was different—something that wizards discovered, not something they invented.

Hogwarts did at least teach some natural magic, though it had never been described in those terms. From her Herbology classes, Victoria was already familiar with the concept of the vital force which animated all living things, and her Astronomy lessons had taught her the links between the lunar cycle and dark magic.

Of alchemy, however, Hogwarts taught little. It was, according to Thomas Vaughan, the magic of substance itself, and alchemists were in the business of exploring the strange connections between the physical and aethereal, or, to put it in terms Vaughan used more commonly, between the earthly and celestial.

When it came to the earthly side of things, Victoria was on relatively safe ground. Once she had translated the book’s flowery prose into normal language, she found that she could get her head around the basic idea of the concepts presented. Indeed, the more she read, the more she felt like she could see parallels between transfiguration theory and alchemical transformation, given certain similarities in how they described the act of transformation.

Much more confusing, however, were the sections of the book which strayed into the area of aethereal substance, which Professor McGonagall had mentioned only to dismiss as irrelevant to transfiguration magic. But according to Natural Magic, the aethereal and physical were closely interrelated: most significantly, in humans the elements came together to create the aethereal soul, which was apparently composed of a balance of brimstone, quicksilver and salt—the three primes. This was where the book completely lost Victoria, because as far as she was concerned, there was nothing aethereal about any of the primes. Wasn’t quicksilver just a liquid metal? How could it be found within the soul?

It was evident that her study of alchemy was to be a long-term project. The more she read, the more she realised how little she understood, with every answer leading to more questions. In an ideal world, she would have been able to go to Professor Flamel with those questions, but the whole purpose of this exercise was to prove herself worthy of his instruction.

No, she would just have to persevere and figure it out for herself. Only then could she approach Professor Flamel again, once she was comfortable that she had a basic understanding of the art. Once she did that, Professor Flamel would surely have no choice but to recognise her achievement and take her on as his apprentice.

Chapter Text

As much as Victoria wanted to immerse herself in learning alchemy, in truth she was limited in her ability to do so. The vast majority of her time was still spent on her regular schoolwork, and her teachers continued to recommend additional reading in Charms, Transfiguration and Potions which took priority over her alchemical studies. Professor McGonagall had become a particularly hard taskmaster, assigning her challenging exercises while the other students practised more basic techniques.

By the last Friday of September, the class was beginning to get the hang of water-shaping, a necessary prelude to the transformation of liquids and vapours. After several weeks of study and practice, it was no shock to arrive at the classroom to find the desks replaced with stone plinths, each one topped with a wide basin of water. The students arranged themselves around the basins in well-established groups, where they practised how to form waves, fountains, and water sculptures.

“Mutatio aqua!” Tracey said, taking her turn to cast the spell. Hesitantly, like a shy animal, a tendril of water rose up from the surface of the basin, wiggling this way and that under the direction of her wand.

“Come on,” she muttered, twisting her wand impatiently, trying to tease the water into a figure of eight—for a moment, it looked like it would do as she commanded, but just as the water curved around, it slipped back, flowing back into the basin as if through an invisible tube. “Damn.”

“Bad luck,” Victoria said, giving Tracey what she hoped was an encouraging smile. “You were almost there.”

“I don’t get what I’m doing wrong,” Tracey said.

Victoria knew exactly what she was doing wrong. From the failure of the spell when the water was in complex motion, it was clear that she had forgotten the connections between the element of water and the form of the horse.

“Perhaps you could read the section on Neptune again?” she suggested. “You might need a better bridge between water and motion.”

Tracey reached over to snatch a copy of A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration from Daphne and Pansy, who were unusually fascinated by the textbook, huddling over it and whispering to each other.

“Hey!” Daphne said, belatedly trying to keep a hold of the book, but she moved too slowly to prevent Tracey from stealing it away.

“Calm down, I just need it for a mo’,” Tracey said, but when she looked down at the open page she frowned. “What’s this? Oh, Pansy... what would your father say?”

Smirking, she angled the book so that Victoria could see inside. Secreted away within its pages was a Twilfitt and Tattings catalogue, cleverly disguised to look as if it was a part of the book. A photograph of a model was twirling on the page, showing off a conservative dress robe with a long, flowing skirt.

“That’s a pretty nifty Chameleon Charm,” Victoria said. “So... I guess her father would be proud?”

“Oh, shush,” Pansy said, reaching over to take the book back. “We’re doing you a favour, aren’t we, looking at robes for the ball?”

“Well, I don’t want that one,” Victoria said, waving at the open page, “it’s far too… ”

“Stuffy,” Daphne said, nodding. “That’s what I was telling Pansy. It’s like a robe your mother would wear.”

“Fine,” Pansy said, and she flicked onto the next page. “But the classics don’t go out of style, you know.”

“Professor!” called Hermione from across the classroom, ”Professor, look!”

Inevitably, the entire class craned their necks to get a look at Hermione’s basin. She had formed the water into the shape of a single rose, which was hovering in the air and revolving under the direction of her wand, gleaming in the sunlight like the purest crystal. As McGonagall passed by their table, Hermione flicked her wand again, and individual petals began to fall from the flower, drifting down into the water below.

“Excellent work, Miss Granger!” Professor McGonagall said. “Five points to Gryffindor.”

Suddenly dress robes didn’t seem nearly as interesting. Victoria turned back to their own basin and raised her wand.

“My turn.”

She didn’t use the incantation, which she had long since mastered, and instead focused on summoning the unique mental state she associated with performing transfiguration by technique. It was a delicate thing, a balancing act where she held the spell just beneath her conscious mind. If she focused too hard, then she would end up thinking about a particular concept instead of the spell as a whole, but if she focused too little, the spell would lay dormant, too deep within her mind to take shape.

Patience was key. Like a word on the tip of her tongue, the spell had to linger at the top of her subconscious until it was ready to come forth.

“How about this one?” Pansy said loudly, completely shattering her focus. She had rotated the textbook around to face the others, a new dress robe displayed on the page. Despite herself, Victoria couldn’t help but take a closer look: it was rather cute, simple but elegant, and a bit daring too, with a bit of a V-shape to the bodice.

“Oh, yes,” Daphne said, “it’s so you, Vicky.”

But Victoria’s heart almost stopped when she saw the price. “Forty galleons! For one robe?”

“Well, it’s made from tumblegoat wool, isn’t it?” Pansy said. “You get what you pay for.”

“Tumblegoat?” Victoria asked. “What on earth’s a tumblegoat?”

“Here,” Daphne said, taking up her quill and leaning over to doodle in the corner of Victoria’s notes. With just a few deft strokes, an image took shape of a fluffy ball of wool, like an overgrown sheep without any limbs, the tip of its nose only just peeking out of its fleece. Daphne finished the doodle with a flourish, and then it came to life, withdrawing its snout into the wool before rolling across the page, bumping into a diagram of an ouroboros.

“Tumblewool’s just amazing,” Pansy said, rubbing her hands together at the mere thought of it. “It’s the softest thing you’ll ever wear.”

“It’s really warm, too,” Daphne added, “but as light as silk… perfect for a December ball, really.”

Victoria rolled her eyes. “Okay, I get it, tumblewool’s the best thing since Merlin. Still, forty galleons is a lot…”

Daphne and Pansy shared a look. “We’ll put it on the shortlist,” Daphne said, and she folded over the corner of the page.

Professor McGonagall approached their plinth.

“I’m hearing far too much chatter from this direction,” she said sternly. “I can only assume this means you have mastered the assigned material, and need additional work to keep you busy.”

Tracey looked rather alarmed by this prospect. “Um, not exactly…”

“Well then, let’s see how far you’ve got,” McGonagall said, before focusing on Victoria. “Have you completed your task, Miss Potter?”

Victoria raised her wand once more, trying to ignore the pressure of McGonagall’s gaze as she concentrated on finding the right mental state. It was important not to rush it, to wait until the moment was just right…

There.

Her wand moved with practised confidence, like a conductor guiding an orchestra, and a small globe of water rose into the air. A forward jab and the globe began to shimmer, expanding and transforming into a thick mist, a cloud hovering over the basin. Victoria smiled, and with a downwards stroke of her wand, rain began to fall from the cloud, returning the water to its source and completing the ouroboros.

“Awesome,” Tracey said.

McGonagall nodded with satisfaction. “Well done. I think you’re ready to start on true vapours… speak to me after class so we can discuss your reading.”

As had become the norm, she awarded no points. Victoria resisted the urge to sulk. That was the problem with raising her teachers’ expectations—it took a lot more to impress them.

As Professor McGonagall departed, Pansy turned back to her textbook.

“So, let’s talk colours…”

That evening, Pansy declared that their dorm would be hosting a sleepover to celebrate the end of their first month back at Hogwarts. A select group was to be invited, consisting of a number of girls from the other second year dorm, as well as those first years whom Pansy deemed “promising”.

Several hours of frantic activity followed as preparations were made to accommodate their guests, with a mousy-haired first year called Arabella Rudgwick recruited to do much of the heavy lifting. She diligently dragged mattresses up the stairs from the first year dorms, retrieved a large quantity of candles from the chandlery, and finally was sent to meet Fred and George Weasley, the unofficial managers of Hogwarts’ black market, to collect several packages of food and drink. In exchange for all her labours, Arabella was promised a place of her own at the party.

Their guests arrived as curfew came into effect, entering to find the dorm completely transformed. The warm glow of a hundred candles lit the room, and mattresses with pristine sheets had been placed between the four-poster beds, a stuffed toy resting on each pillow. Several racks of expensive robes lined the walls, selected from Pansy’s never-ending wardrobe, and every available surface had been colonised by an array of luxurious treats, from a large box of Honeydukes’ truffles to a bowl of juicy waterplums from Siam. The drinks on offer were no less exotic: there wasn’t a flagon of pumpkin juice in sight, and Victoria was having trouble choosing between the strawberry fizz, mint cordial, and Ogden’s Gingerfire Ale.

At the centre of the room was a circle of plump cushions. Pansy sat facing the door, straight-backed and regal, wearing a satin nightgown which made her look much older than she was. The Carrow twins were attending to her like handmaidens, and her arms were outstretched to either side, her hands resting on each of their laps to receive a skilled manicure.

“Come in, come in!” Pansy exclaimed, smiling brightly at the first arrivals, who were outfitted in an array of fashionable sleepwear. She proceeded to direct everyone to their allocated places. “Octavia, you’re next to Millie’s bed—no, not that one, the bed with the stuffed wolf—and Gertrude, you’re over there, between Tracey and Vicky...”

Looking at all the silk, chiffon and lace on display, Victoria was suddenly quite glad that she’d picked up some new nightgowns with Evelyn, else she would have stuck out like a sore thumb in one of her old cotton nighties. Only poor Arabella seemed to have missed the memo, dressed as she was in a set of very Muggleish flannel pyjamas. In a way, she reminded Victoria of herself, turning up in the common room wearing a Muggle dress back in first year.

Victoria shared a look with Daphne, who had joined her by the drinks. “Half-blood?” she asked quietly, jerking her head towards Arabella.

“Half-blood,” Daphne confirmed. She shook her head at the girl’s choice in pyjamas. “She’s going to need some friendly advice, that one.”

And for once, Pansy seemed to be in the mood to give it. “Goodness, Bella, are those men’s nightclothes?” Arabella blushed heavily and ducked her head. “No, no, that won’t do at all. Flora, darling, you’ll give her some help, won’t you? Second rail on the left, pick out anything you like…”

Flora released Pansy’s hand and led Arabella over to the racks of robes, where a number of Pansy’s spare nightgowns were to be found.

Victoria finally decided on the strawberry fizz and poured herself a glass. “Drinks, anyone?”

“Is that Mint Breeze?” asked Cecelia Chorleywood, a second year from the other dorm. “I’ll have some of that, please.”

“Ginger ale for me,” Tracey called out from her bed, where she was clutching a pillow to her stomach. “I forgot to take my moon potion.”

Victoria groaned. “Again?”

“Oh, you poor thing,” Pansy said, “we really ought to get you a calendar or something.”

“Maybe I could borrow Longbottom’s remembrall,” Tracey said.

Daphne giggled. “Can you imagine his face, if you explained to him why you needed it?”

Everyone laughed, no doubt picturing the shy boy spluttering and blushing.

“Mind you,” Tracey said, “I don’t think I’d be much better. I can’t imagine a more awkward conversation.”

“How about you, Millie?” Victoria asked, waving an empty glass in the air. “Drink?”

“Honestly, I’ve no idea how Longbottom even got into Gryffindor,” Pansy said, lifting her hand from Hestia’s lap to examine her nails. “He’s a born Hufflepuff if ever there was one.”

“Just water,” Millicent said, as she always did. Her choice was met with a series of boos and groans, but Victoria dutifully filled a glass with water.

“Maybe Neville has hidden talents,” Daphne said as she helped Victoria to distribute the drinks. “After all, his parents were Aurors. That kind of magic doesn’t just... disappear.”

Once the drinks were handed out, Daphne and Victoria joined the others on the cushions. They were just in time to witness Arabella returning from the bathroom wearing one of Pansy’s silk nightgowns.

“Well now, that’s better,” Pansy said, clapping in what appeared to be genuine approval. “Look how pretty you can be, when you put some effort into it! Doesn’t she look beautiful, girls?”

Sounds of agreement made their way around the circle. Blushing once more, Arabella moved to take her place on the cushion closest to the door.

“Now that we’re all here, I have a little treat for everyone,” Pansy said, and she reached into a bag by her side to withdraw a bottle. The girls gasped—it was unmistakably wine-shaped. “Yes, it turns out those Weasley twins are good for something after all.”

 Victoria grinned. She had missed the opportunity to try the wine at the previous year’s house party, having been rather preoccupied with solving Snape’s challenge, but the others certainly seemed to consider it an important milestone. This would be her chance to catch up with the rest of them.

“Vicky, would you do the honours?” Pansy asked, passing her the bottle.

“Sure.” She tapped the cork with her wand. “Alohomora!”

The cork popped out like it was a bottle of champagne, shooting across the room to hit Tracey, who was still on her bed.

“Hey!”

“Go on,” Pansy said, “try some.”

Victoria looked around. “We don’t have any more glasses.”

“Well then, bottoms up!” Millie said, and all eyes turned to Victoria as she brought the heavy bottle to her lips. Hesitantly, she took her first sip of wine.

It was disgusting. She almost spat it out, the taste was so shocking, and all the girls laughed at the look on her face. She screwed up her eyes and forced herself to swallow the bitter liquid.

“Yuck!” she said, gulping down some strawberry fizz to wash away the flavour. “I thought it would be sweet!”

And then the wine was making its way around the circle, all ladylike manners forgotten as they eagerly took turns to swig straight from the bottle. Like Victoria, most of them pulled faces at the foreign taste, but both Daphne and Pansy seemed to enjoy it, a fact that earned them admiring looks from the first years. Soon enough, it was Arabella’s turn.

“I don’t know…” she said, holding the bottle gingerly and taking a sniff. She cringed back, no doubt surprised at the smell. “Maybe I’ll pass…”

Everyone groaned.

“Boooring,” Tracey said from her bed in a singsong voice.

“Come on, it’s just a sip,” Daphne said, “what could it hurt?”

Pansy had the final word. “You can either join in, or you can go back to your dorm.”

For a moment, Arabella looked like she was seriously considering running off to her dorm, but then her face set and she took the biggest swig of them all. The other first years cheered and Pansy pretended to wipe a tear from her eye.

“I’m so proud,” she said theatrically, before she broke out into a grin. “Watch out for this one, girls!”

The bottle went around the group two more times, enough to leave Victoria with a curiously warm feeling in her stomach, and each time she drank she got slightly better at concealing her grimace. If Pansy and Daphne could enjoy it, then so could she.

A little bit of wine went a long way. Laughter came more easily, with simple jokes suddenly becoming great fun, and Victoria began to feel pleasantly lightheaded. Even Pansy’s plan of playing dress-up sounded like a good idea, with each of them taking turns to go through the robes and put together the most hideous outfit they could design. Gertrude started them off, picking out a red blouse and a green outer-robe that made her look like a walking Christmas tree, and Victoria followed it up with a purple dress robe matched with bright red shoes. Amusingly, Pansy refused to play her own game, claiming that she was the judge and therefore could not compete.

“My turn!” Daphne said excitedly, disappearing behind the lines of robes. She emerged several minutes later wearing pink and bronze, her long, golden hair catching the candlelight perfectly.

“How do I look?” she asked, striking a dramatic pose.

“That… actually kinda works,” Tracey said, cocking her head.

Daphne frowned. “Does that mean I lose?”

“I think it means you win,” Victoria said with a laugh.

Pansy huffed with annoyance. “Typical. Do try not to ruin the next game, Daph.”

By the time that they started on the dares, half the wine was gone. Emboldened by liquid courage, they gathered confidently around Pansy, who set her wand down on the floor.

“Dierdre the Daring Witch, who among us shall do your will?” Pansy intoned, before spinning the wand. It moved unnaturally fast, as if on a slippery surface, then slowed to land on Hestia Carrow.

Pansy smirked. “Hestia, I dare you to… hmm…” She drew the moment out, watching Hestia squirm nervously. “I know! I dare you to sneak into the boys’ dorms—and come back with Gregory Goyle’s stuffed unicorn.”

Everyone cheered except for Hestia, whose face was in her hands.

“Off you go, then!” Pansy said with a grin. “Oh, but don’t forget this!” She reached into the same bag as before and took out a pair of ornate handheld mirrors, one of which she passed to Hestia. “This way we can see what you’re doing!”

Hestia departed and the remaining girls gathered around Pansy’s mirror. It was an impressive piece of magic: the images on the mirrors had been switched, so that the girls could see whatever it was that Hestia’s mirror was pointed towards. They watched as she crept slowly towards the boys’ dorms, tiptoeing through the common room (which was mercifully empty of older students) and up the boys’ stairs.

“She’s actually doing it!” Flora whispered when Hestia reached the first landing. None of them had ever been up the boys’ stairs before.

After one more flight of stairs, she arrived at the second years’ landing, where she very carefully opened a door. Their hearts almost stopped when the door creaked loudly, but there was no sign that anyone had heard it. Although the room beyond was very dark, they could see that it was significantly tidier than their own dorm.

Pansy shook her head. “Draco’s such a neat freak, I bet he makes them clean everything up.”

“Plus, they don’t have nearly as many robes as we do,” Daphne whispered.

“Uh, have you met Draco?” Victoria said, forcing Tracey to smother her laughter.

Meanwhile, Hestia was drawing back the curtain of a four-poster bed. Her hand was shaking visibly, but it was all for naught: it was Vincent’s bed, not Greg’s.

“She’s gonna get caught for sure,” Tracey said, shaking her head. “No way they sleep through her opening every curtain.”

But she got lucky on her next try. She pulled back the curtain to find Greg curled up, a worn-looking stuffed unicorn resting by his head. The unicorn looked up at Hestia with an expression of alarm before attempting to run away, but its little animated legs weren’t fast enough to escape. She grabbed it by its tail and ran for the exit.

“Yes!” Flora exclaimed, punching her fist, “she actually did it!”

“How did you know about the unicorn, anyway?” Daphne asked.

“Draco told me,” Pansy said, “apparently Greg’s mother gave it to him before she died, or something.”

Silence fell as everyone looked at Pansy in shock.

“What?” Pansy said defensively. “It’s not like we’re going to keep it.”

“Wow,” Millie said, shaking her head.

Victoria wasn’t surprised.

Hestia returned to the dorm in the flush of victory, receiving a standing ovation for her success. Millicent took custody of the unicorn, apparently quite concerned for its safety, and Pansy passed Hestia her wand.

“The next dare goes to the victor.”

Hestia spun the wand.

“Oh, no,” Arabella moaned when the wand landed pointing at her, but Pansy’s eyes lit up. She leaned over to whisper in Hestia’s ear.

“Hey, no fair!” Arabella complained, but the damage was done.

“I dare you to go to Professor Snape’s office,” Hestia said. “You have to knock on his door, then run away.”

It was a brutal dare. Being caught by Draco and the boys was one thing, but being caught by Professor Snape? Victoria didn’t even want to imagine it.

But Arabella stepped up.

“Don’t forget the mirror, now,” Pansy said, “after all, it’s the only way for us to know if you did it or not!”

Arabella took a lot longer than Hestia. Pausing at every creek of a floorboard, it seemed to take forever for her to reach the common room entrance. She uttered the password and the wall parted to reveal the dark, empty corridor beyond.

And that’s as far as she got. She stood there, waiting by the common room entrance, staring out at the corridor beyond. Several times she moved as if to leave, but then she would waver before stepping back once more.

“She’s gonna bottle it,” Tracey whispered, shaking her head.

“Maybe she’s just working herself up to it,” Daphne said, but that was the moment that Arabella chose to turn and run, racing her way back up the stairs to the dorm.

“I couldn’t do it,” she confessed on her return, looking like she was about to cry. “What if Snape had caught me?”

“Fat chance of that,” Pansy said with a snort. “You didn’t even leave the common room.”

Arabella looked down in shame.

“Come on, she tried her best,” Daphne said, but Pansy just glared at her.

“Dares aren’t any fun if everyone can give up without even trying,” she said. “Either you’re up for it or you aren’t. And if Bella isn’t, then she might as well go back to her dorm.”

 “Don’t you think that’s a bit harsh?” Daphne said, moving to wrap her arm around Arabella, who leaned into her. “She’s only a firstie.”

Pansy smirked. “Well, perhaps you want to take her place? Give the dare a go yourself?”

But Daphne was not so easily baited. “This is my dorm too,” she said, “I don’t have to do a dare to stay here.”

Victoria shared a look with Tracey. They’d never seen Pansy and Daphne argue before, and it was beginning to get very uncomfortable. Most of the girls were studiously avoiding eye contact, except for Millicent, who was obliviously making her way through the waterplums.

“Well,” Pansy said, “if you’re going to be a—”

“Ladies!” Tracey called, suddenly reminding Victoria of Susan’s mother. “How about we just get on with the game?”

Pansy and Daphne looked around, as if suddenly remembering that they were in public.

“Fine,” Pansy snapped. She snatched the mirror from Arabella, crossed the room to Victoria, and handed it to her. “Your turn, Vicky. I dare you to go to the Entrance Hall and push a suit of armour down the stairs.”

There was a pause as they all processed the insane dare. It was a recipe for detention, if not worse.

“There’s no way she’s doing that,” Millicent said, “no one’s gonna do that.”

It was probably the wine. Or maybe it was the simmering desire to show Pansy up, apparently not as buried as Victoria had thought. Whatever the cause, something made her say, “I’ll do it.”

Everyone, including Pansy, gaped at her.

“Vicky, don’t be silly,” Daphne said. “You don’t have to do a dare.”

But Victoria was already putting her slippers on. “I want to. Besides, I won’t be alone.” She whistled gently, opened the door, and Dumbledore the cat came bounding into the room. She smiled down at him as he wound his way between her ankles. His fur was still warm from where he’d been lounging in front of the fire. “You’ll keep a watch out for me, won’t you?”

Dumbledore meowed, and the two of them set off into the darkness.

 “Just like last year,” Victoria muttered as they crossed the common room. “I did it before, so I can do it again.”

Of course, the last time she had been wandering around after curfew, she hadn’t pushed a suit of armour down some stairs to draw attention to herself. She would need to run back to the common room as fast as she could, before the teachers had a chance to investigate. Even then, it was incredibly risky: she might happen across Snape as he made his way up from the dungeons, or a ghost might see her—or a portrait might tell on her, though portraits tended to forget things quickly.

Even though it was early autumn, the corridors outside the common room were chilly enough to make Victoria shiver. She dearly wished she had brought her bracelet with her, but she wasn’t going to double back for it now. So she braced herself against the cold and made her way up through the basement towards the Entrance Hall, emerging into the moonlit corridors of the ground floor. Fortunately, she didn’t run across any patrolling teachers on the way. By this time they were probably all in bed.

She arrived at the Entrance Hall via the small door built into the side of the grand staircase, where her entry would at least be concealed from most of the hall. The downside, of course, was that she too was only able to see half the hall, the other half being obscured by the staircase.

She paused at the door, listening keenly for the sound of any footsteps. The silence was broken only by the faint sound of muffled whispers coming from the mirror.

“Vicky, we can’t see properly,” Daphne whispered. “Hold the mirror up, will you?”

She stepped through the door, the mirror held out in front of her like a camera. Dumbledore hissed, and she froze in place, her knees trembling as she braced herself for the inevitable approach of a teacher.

But there was no one there. As far as she could see, the Entrance Hall was completely empty. She edged further into the room with her back to the staircase, eventually coming to the point where she could poke her head over the banister to get a proper look around.

She almost dropped the mirror when she did. A message had been written high on the stone wall, right next to the enormous doors to the Great Hall:

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED

ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE

A chill ran down Victoria’s spine. She didn’t know what the message meant, but something about the way it glistened in the darkness felt very wrong.

The voices in the mirror had gone quiet.

“Vicky,” Pansy whispered, “you need to get out of there.”

But then she saw it. Beneath the message, a person in black robes was sprawled on the floor. Dark liquid pooled around them, and she instantly knew that the message had been written in blood.

“Hang on,” she said, her voice shaking. She pointed the mirror downwards. “There’s someone there.”

“I’m getting Snape,” Tracey said.

“Wait!” hissed Daphne, “can’t you see how this looks? How’s she going to explain why she was there?”

Victoria ignored them. Against her every instinct, with her heart hammering in her chest, she approached the body.

It was Justin Finch-Fletchley. His face was deathly pale, and two puncture marks were clear on his neck, blood still running from the wound.

For a split second, she wavered. Would the teachers think she had done this? She could still walk away and no one would know. But one look at Justin’s blue lips crushed that thought.

He was dying. She couldn’t just leave him there, no matter what punishment she would receive. She lifted the mirror up to her face.

“Get Professor Snape. Now.”

Chapter Text

The castle awoke to the tolling of the North Tower bell. It rang through the stillness of the night, its deep, reverberating notes charmed to pierce even the deepest slumber, and on its heels came the distant sounds of slamming doors and raised voices.

In the Entrance Hall, fires leapt to life around Victoria. With the light came colour, confirming the gruesome source of the blood-red writing on the wall, and then Professor Snape was there, his robes billowing behind him as he rushed across the hall.

“Out of the way!”

He pushed past Victoria to descend on Justin with his wand in hand, waving it in patterns so complex that the line between spells began to blur. His casting moved fluidly from one to another, sometimes silently, sometimes with murmured incantations, and the blood which had pooled around Justin’s body started to flow in reverse, returning to its source. His face regained some of its colour and the blue tinge to his lips began to fade.

Through the numb shock of it all, Victoria couldn’t help but note a familiar element in the magic: the ouroboros, just like her transfigured rainwater returning to the basin. But as she watched, the ouroboros seemed to weaken—the movement of blood back into Justin’s body began to slow down, and a moment later it stopped entirely.

The wound was resisting Snape’s spells. She knew of only one power capable of such a thing: dark magic.

“Blast!” Snape said, speaking to himself more than Victoria, and he clapped his hands. “Nippy!”

A house-elf wearing a pillowcase popped into existence, its large eyes widening as it looked between Professor Snape, Justin, and the writing on the wall.

“Go to St. Mungo’s and inform them a healer is urgently required at Hogwarts,” Snape commanded. “A specialist in venoms, if possible.”

The house-elf disapparated just as Professors McGonagall and Flitwick arrived at the top of the marble staircase, gasping audibly when they saw the message on the wall.

“Severus!” McGonagall called, descending the stairs as quickly as her nightgown would permit. “What on earth is going on here? Why is Miss Potter out of bed? And—” she caught sight of Justin “—is that a student?”

“All worthy questions,” Snape said without looking up. He had returned to casting spells on Justin, fighting a losing battle against the venom which apparently ran through his veins. “But less urgent than Finch-Fletchley’s injury. A healer has been sent for. In the meantime, Filius, will you move him to the hospital wing? No doubt Poppy is ready to receive him.”

“Certainly,” Professor Flitwick said, and with a wave of his wand, Justin’s body lifted off the ground as if cradled by a giant invisible hand. The remaining pool of blood came with him, rising to form a floating sphere connected to Justin’s neck by a thin stream. “You’ll be brewing, I take it?”

Snape nodded. “I’ll start a batch of Mithridate immediately.”

“It’s that serious?” McGonagall asked.

“Perhaps,” Snape said. “Much will depend on whether the healer can identify the venom. If not, a powerful alexipharmac will be required.”

“Then there’s no time to waste,” Flitwick said. “I will be assisting Poppy, if you need me.” He left abruptly, setting off for the hospital wing at a surprising pace for such a short man. Justin’s body floated after him.

“Go, Severus,” McGonagall said. She vanished the message on the wall and turned to Victoria. “I will handle matters here.”

The walk to Professor McGonagall’s office was one of the longest in Victoria’s life. Her chest was tight with dread, her mind blank as she tried to think of some way to explain her presence at such a macabre scene. Would she be suspended? Expelled? The mere thought of having to leave Hogwarts and return to the Dursleys made her hands tremble and her stomach twist. She was forced to remind herself repeatedly that she had done the right thing; that saving Justin’s life mattered more than avoiding punishment.

It certainly didn’t feel like she had done the right thing. Wasn’t altruistic action supposed to make you feel good?

They arrived at the Transfiguration corridor.

“In,” McGonagall commanded, opening the door to her office. It was rather austere compared to Professor Dumbledore’s, with none of his interesting knick-knacks, nor any concessions to comfort. A functional space dominated by filing cabinets, the only signs of character were a pair of bookcases and some half-empty shelves displaying Gryffindor’s trophies.

McGonagall sat at her desk and indicated for Victoria to take the wooden chair opposite.

“Miss Potter, I cannot stress the seriousness of this situation,” she said, her tone clipped and impersonal. “You were discovered out of bounds during curfew. A student is gravely injured, a message written in his blood for all the school to see. You will explain yourself.”

Victoria couldn’t bear to look at McGonagall’s face. “I didn’t attack Justin,” she said quietly. “He was like that when I found him, and the message too, whatever it meant. I didn’t see who did it… ask any of the girls from my dorm, they can tell you it wasn’t me. I found him, and then Tracey got Professor Snape, and then… well, I guess Professor Snape rang the bell.”

As she spoke, McGonagall picked up a quill, dipped it in some ink, and began writing on a sheaf of parchment. Once she had finished, she looked up and asked, “is that all?”

“I think so,” Victoria said.

“You can be sure that I’ll be investigating these claims further,” McGonagall said. “However, even on the assumption that you’re telling the truth, I remain dumbfounded as to what you were doing in the Entrance Hall at midnight. How did you come to be there in the first place?”

Victoria hesitated. To explain that would be to explain the sleepover, the dares, and maybe even the wine. She was no tattle-tale. But what else could she say that would sound plausible?

“I… um… got the day mixed up,” Victoria said, her eyes fixed on her own feet as she spun the only lie she could think of. “I got confused and thought it was Thursday—we have Astronomy then, you know. So I was on my way to the Astronomy Tower and… that’s when I found him.”

Having completed her lie, she risked a glance up at McGonagall’s face. Her lips were very thin.

“Perhaps I have not been clear,” McGonagall said. “This is not a game. Nor is it a question of school rules alone. I do not exaggerate when I say that tonight’s events may well become the subject of a Ministry investigation. For your own sake if nothing else, you do not want to be caught in a lie by Ministry officials.” She paused and looked down at her notes. “In one breath, you tell me that you were on your way to Astronomy, presumably alone. Yet in another, you say that your friends can provide you with an alibi.”

Victoria swallowed audibly. Stupid! Why hadn’t she thought of that?

“One does not need to be a detective to see the holes in this story,” McGonagall continued. “You’re not even carrying a telescope, just your wand and a…” Her eyes fell on the mirror, still gripped in Victoria’s left hand, and a look of dawning realisation crossed her face. “Give me the mirror, Miss Potter.”

There was no way to avoid it. She passed Professor McGonagall the mirror, getting a good look at its image as she leaned over the desk. It clearly depicted the empty dorm on the other side of the connection, the debris of the sleepover plain to see, with clothes, drinks and snacks strewn across the cushion-covered floor.

McGonagall set the mirror down on the desk and studied it for some time, her face inscrutable.

“I see,” she said at last, with a tone of finality. She made some further notes. “Let us summarise the situation. This evening, you and a number of peers were engaged in an unsanctioned gathering. This then led you out of bounds after curfew, no doubt as part of an ill-advised dare or other such tomfoolery. It was during this misadventure that you came across Mr Finch-Fletchley. Does that sound about right?”

“Yes,” Victoria said quietly, still unable to meet McGonagall’s eyes.

“Very well.” McGonagall sighed. “From the evidence I have seen, I do not believe that you had any role in Mr Finch-Fletchley’s injuries. Indeed, you may well have saved his life tonight. That must be taken into account—we are all very lucky that you happened to be there.”

Victoria blinked, looking up in hope. Was she going to get away with it?

But McGonagall wasn’t finished. “Nonetheless, such severe rule-breaking cannot go unpunished, even if by chance it had a fortuitous outcome on this occasion. I cannot imagine what you were thinking. This stunt was completely out of character for you, Miss Potter, and honestly I had expected better. Fifty points will be taken from Slytherin, and you will receive a detention to make sure you don’t forget it. Do not let this happen again.”

Somehow, the feeling of shame which accompanied McGonagall’s words was even worse than the fear that had preceded them. In spite of her reserved and stern nature, no teacher’s opinion mattered more to Victoria. It had been McGonagall who had introduced her to the magical world, who had met the Dursleys and knew how they treated her—not to mention that she was the teacher of Victoria’s favourite class. It had always felt like they had a special relationship, and now she had thrown it all away for a dare. And that wasn’t even starting on the loss of fifty points—the other Slytherins were going to hate her. She just hoped it was all worth it.

“Justin will be alright, won’t he?” she asked.

A small measure of warmth returned to Professor McGonagall’s eyes. “Thanks to you, I believe so.”

News of the attack on Justin did not take long to spread around Hogwarts, nor did Victoria’s involvement remain secret for more than a few hours. By Saturday lunchtime, the school was abuzz with speculation regarding the identity of Justin’s attacker, the nature of his injuries, and precisely how the Girl Who Lived was involved.

The most popular theory was that Justin had been attacked by a vampire whose lair was to be found deep within in the dungeons. When told by the Gryffindors, the vampire took on the identity of Professor Snape, and Fred Weasley had reportedly received a detention after asking Professor McGonagall if she had ever seen him in direct sunlight. The Slytherins knew this was all nonsense, of course: in their version of the story, Professor Snape had slain the vampire and saved the day.

Predictably, the teachers had not dignified these theories with a response; any questions about the incident were met with a stern look and an instruction not to spread rumours. But the flood of gossip running through Hogwarts’ halls could not be dammed, and it didn’t help that Justin was still in the hospital wing, with multiple healers spotted entering the school over the course of Saturday morning.

As for Victoria, her role in the story varied considerably, from bystander to accomplice. Stares and whispers followed her everywhere, as they had on several occasions before, but this time she wasn’t in the mood to share the morbid details. Eventually it all became too much, with several students outright demanding that she divulge her knowledge of events, and she was forced to leave the castle with Susan just to get a moment of peace and quiet.

They made their way to their favourite picnic spot, the one on a large flat rock overlooking the lake. The brisk autumn wind coming off the water guaranteed them privacy, and they huddled beneath their cloaks as Victoria told Susan everything: about the sleepover and the dares, the writing on the wall and the puncture wounds on Justin’s neck.

“So it was a vampire!” Susan said, her eyes lighting up. She had done well to suppress her urge to speculate while Victoria was venting her feelings, but it was clear that she could no longer contain herself. “But how could a vampire get into Hogwarts?”

“I’m not so sure,” Victoria said, “Snape was talking about venom… do vampires have venom in their bites? I’ve never read about them.”

Susan shrugged. “Me neither. But it’s not impossible, is it? Vampires are magical beings, after all… maybe they’re like werewolves, and their bite is cursed.”

“Well, won’t Justin be able to tell us, once he wakes up?” Victoria said. “Surely he saw whoever attacked him?”

“Probably not, if it was a vampire,” Susan said. “In the stories they always surprise their victims. Or hypnotise them. Or—” she blushed “—seduce them.”

Victoria smirked. “At least that rules Professor Snape out.”

The conversation then devolved into giggles as they each imagined Professor Snape attempting to charm Justin.

“Mister Finch-Fletchley,” Susan drawled, her voice deep and nasal in an awful imitation of Professor Snape, “is that a new haircut? One million points to Hufflepuff.”

“No, no, like this,” Victoria said, before lowering her own voice, “Finch-Fletchley, your potion is… acceptable. Come to my office and I’ll show you my collection of eyeballs.”

For a moment, as they took turns to come up with ever more ridiculous scenarios, Victoria completely forgot that she was supposed to be worried. She was just a girl laughing with her best friend. But as the distant crack of apparition echoed from the direction of Hogwarts’ gates, their laughter came to an abrupt end. Another healer had arrived from St. Mungo’s hospital.

Victoria sighed. “To be honest, I’d be happy if Justin could just tell everyone it wasn’t me… everyone’s staring at me like I was the one who attacked him.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Susan said. “I don’t think anyone really believes a second year could use such serious dark magic. If I were you, I’d be more worried about the rumour that you’re Justin’s secret girlfriend.” She paused and looked Victoria in the eye. “You’re not, are you? You do always sit next to him in Defence...”

“What?” Victoria said, genuinely surprised. For a moment she was so put out that she couldn’t form a response; it had never even occurred to her to contemplate Justin romantically. “Um, no. He’s just a boy, isn’t he?”

Susan snorted. “And aren’t you just a girl?”

“You know what I mean. None of the boys in our year are… well, none of them are like Cedric or Roger.”

“Or Professor Lockhart.” Susan sighed. “If only he’d been there when Justin was attacked—none of this would’ve happened.”

Victoria decided not to comment on that—her last attempt to question Lockhart’s competence in front of Susan had not gone well. “I’ll just be glad when everything goes back to normal.”

A return to normalcy turned out to be rather optimistic, as the castle remained morbidly fascinated by the attack on Justin and Victoria’s role in it. In truth, only one fact was known for sure: whatever she had done, she had managed to lose her house fifty points in a single night. Her housemates were aghast when they finally noticed that the Slytherin hourglass in the Entrance Hall contained fifty fewer emeralds than the night before, a loss so substantial that they were now dead last in the house cup rankings.

Blame was quickly allocated. The prefects apparently thought Professor McGonagall’s punishment was too lenient, and on Saturday evening they summoned Victoria to the semi-circle of armchairs around the fireplace, where the older students always gathered. They made her stand in front of the Dark Lord’s empty chair as they announced their judgment.

“Never, in all my six years at this school, have I ever seen a Slytherin lose fifty points at once,” Gemma Farley said. “It’s unprecedented. A few years ago, back when Selwyn was Head Boy, you would’ve received five strikes of the cane for it… but luckily for you, we live in a more civilised time.” She glared at Joseph as she said that, and Victoria was suddenly grateful that he hadn’t been the one to decide her punishment. She knew from duelling that he had a somewhat physical sensibility. “So, we’ve decided on an alternative set of punishments, which will last all of next week. Firstly, you are to eat dinner alone, right at the end of the table with the first years. Secondly, you will obey a curfew of seven o’clock, even at the weekend. And lastly… we’re squibbing you.”

That did not sound good.

“Squibbing?” Victoria asked.

“You’ll hand your wand in to me,” Joseph said, sprawled across his armchair like it was a throne. “It’ll be given to you for classes and homework, but after dinner you’ve got to give it back. You’ll have to do everything like a Muggle.”

“What?” Victoria gasped, shock filling her. They couldn’t take her wand. It just… wasn’t done. Even the cane would have been better—at least that would have been over quickly.

“If you disobey us, you won’t like the consequences,” Joseph said, and there was a dangerous glint in his eyes. “You must have heard the stories.”

She had. In many ways, the prefects wielded more power than the teachers did, their punishments for disobedience being significantly more creative than those prescribed by official school policy. A boy might get a beating; a girl could have her hair shorn off, or all her underwear stolen.

There was no choice. “All right,” she said, her voice shaking, and, with great reluctance, she handed her wand to Joseph.

It was a very public punishment. The only saving grace was that the other participants in the sleepover seemed to share in the blame, with Pansy in particular receiving an unusually cold shoulder from the older students. They didn’t lose their wands though. That punishment was reserved for Victoria, and she felt naked without it.

Everything changed on Wednesday morning, when word leaked of the message that had been written in Justin’s blood. One of the other girls must have revealed it, perhaps in an effort to regain standing with the upper years, and it launched a fresh wave of speculation, even more feverish than the last.

“I don’t get it,” Victoria said after lunch, as the Slytherin girls were making their way down to the quidditch stadium. “Why’s everyone so excited about this Chamber of Secrets stuff? I’ve never even heard of it.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t know, what with your Muggle background,” Pansy said, ignoring the fact that the others were equally ignorant. “Basically, it all started when Salazar Slytherin wanted to make Hogwarts more exclusive, with higher standards than just… well, anyone with magic. Only people from proper wizarding families would be allowed to attend. But the other founders disagreed, so they threw him out of the castle.”

“And a good thing too,” Daphne said, linking her arm with Tracey’s. “Else we’d never have a Davis in our group! Proper family or not, a witch is a witch.”

“Yes, thank goodness,” Pansy said sweetly. “After all, if all the half-bloods were gone, Vicky wouldn’t be here either.”

Victoria’s eyes narrowed, but Daphne was the first to respond.

“Don’t be silly, Vicky’s a Potter. Of course she’d still be here—her family’s almost as old as Draco’s! What is it, thirteenth-century?”

Fortunately, Remus Lupin had filled Victoria in on some of her family history. “Twelfth,” she supplied, not even trying to keep the smug tone out of her voice.

A dark look crossed Pansy’s face. Although she was by far the richest of the Slytherin girls, both Daphne and Victoria bore older, more prestigious names. The Parkinsons didn’t enter the history books until the seventeenth century, when a young Perseus Parkinson had served as one of Brandon Swann’s chief lieutenants.

“That’s neither here nor there,” Pansy said dismissively. “Anyway, it was Muggleborns that Salazar Slytherin really wanted to keep out. So he built a secret chamber within the castle, and put a monster inside of it, one that could wait for his heir to arrive and purge the school of anyone unworthy of magic.”

Victoria grimaced. “And by purge, you mean…”

“Kill,” Daphne said, suddenly serious.

An uncomfortable silence stretched out, each of them realising the grave implications of the attack on Justin. Was Hogwarts even safe for Muggleborns anymore? Surely more attacks would follow. And what about half-bloods? Regardless of what the legend said, what if Slytherin’s heir had more particular standards than his ancestor?

The silence was eventually broken by Tracey.

“Wait... are you saying the vampire is Salazar Slytherin?”

By the time Victoria had changed into her flying robes and made her way to the duelling grounds, the details of the writing on the wall had spread to the whole student body. Her fellow duellists were already chatting excitedly in their groups when she arrived, but a hush fell when they saw her, many of them sharing meaningful looks with their companions.

Victoria could feel the weight of their attention as she crossed the clearing to where Susan was waiting for her.

“What’s going on?” she asked, huddling close so they wouldn’t be overheard. “Is there something wrong with my hair?” She raised a hand to pat at the braid holding her bun in place, but everything felt right. “Do you have a mirror?”

Susan rolled her eyes. “Your hair’s perfectly fine, and no, obviously I didn’t bring a mirror to duelling practice. Honestly. They think you’re the Heir of Slytherin is all.”

She said it quite casually, as if she was discussing no greater matter than their Herbology homework.

“Oh, is that all?” Victoria said sarcastically, and she met the eyes of Ernie Macmillan, who rapidly looked away. “They only think I’m a homicidal maniac?”

“It’s just a silly rumour,” Susan said with a shrug. “They’ll move on to another one by the end of the day. After all, you’re standing in the sun, aren’t you? Clearly you’re not a vampire.”

Silly or not, the rumour was having a powerful effect. After they had warmed up, one by one the second years refused to pair with Victoria.

“Really, what’s gotten into you all?” Flitwick said. He was frowning with disapproval. “Miss Potter makes a perfectly good partner.”

The group remained silent. Red in the face with humiliation, she sent a desperate look at Susan, but Flitwick had already paired her up with Ernie.

Zach stepped forward. “I’ll duel her.”

Victoria’s heart sank, but conjurers couldn’t be choosers. She collected her wand from Joseph Deverill and found some free space at the edge of the clearing, watching as Zach used some chalk to mark out a duelling distance of twenty paces.

“Don’t worry,” he said when he passed her the chalk. “I know you’re not the Heir of Slytherin.”

“Thanks,” Victoria said. Perhaps she had judged him too quickly?

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” he continued. “Everyone else is working on the Liquid Block, but you’re still practising the Basic. There’s no way the Heir of Slytherin would be so bad at duelling.”

Or perhaps not. Her smile became fixed as she tried to hide her annoyance, focusing on the duel ahead, running her wand through the well-practised motion of the Basic Block. She needed to keep her cool. Zach was uniquely infuriating, yes, but she always duelled even worse when he managed to get under her skin.

“Okay,” Victoria said, adopting a sideways duelling stance. “Hit me.”

He did exactly that. In a now-familiar routine, he struck her again and again with the Trip Jinx, sending her repeatedly to the ground while blocking all of her spells in return. The autumn rains had at least softened the soil, but the wet mud rapidly splattered her robes and face. Her bun loosened with each fall, and she had to consciously suppress her instinct to subtly morph her hair back to perfection.

Zach sighed as she landed once more in the mud. “Come on, Potter! As fun as this is, I’m going to go rusty if all I do is knock you over.”

If anything, his pity was even worse than his victorious gloating. But for all her practice in the common room, there was a lot more to duelling that simply knowing how to block... what she needed was more time. An idea came to her—all she would have to do was swallow her pride.

She looked up at Zach with wide eyes. “You’re just so fast,” she said, a tone of admiration in her voice, hoping she wasn’t laying it on too thick. “I don’t think I could ever beat you to the draw. I know the block, but I can’t finish it quick enough.”

Zach preened. “Father did always say I have excellent reflexes… you know I’ve been learning to duel since I was eight?” He paused, thinking. “Okay, Potter, how about this: I’ll count down to the spell; that way you can start the block before I cast. Maybe then you’ll have a chance against me.”

Victoria had to look away to hide her smile. Sometimes, boys could be awfully predictable. “Okay,” she said quietly, getting back to her feet. “Let’s give that a try.”

Zach readied his wand. “Here it comes, then. Three, two, one… Cadere!”

She sprang into motion the moment he began counting, her wand swinging in a low crescent as silver light swirled around Zach’s outstretched wand. She felt a resistance, as if her arm was moving through water, but it gave way before her, and she completed the block just as he uttered the incantation. The silver light around his wand spluttered and died.

A successful block.

“I did it!” Victoria cried, a mad grin on her face, “I blocked it!”

Zach snorted. “Don’t get cocky now,” he said. “After all, in a real duel you wouldn’t know what was coming.”

But nothing he said could rid her of the deep feeling of satisfaction which accompanied her first ever block. It may have been a qualified victory, but it was the first progress she had made in a month of duelling, and now that she knew how it felt she was sure she could improve further.

“Let’s do it again,” she said, eagerly raising her wand, and though he sighed, Zach did not refuse her.

They continued in that way for some time, abandoning all pretence of taking turns to cast. Zach was now on the attack, each time counting down to his spell, and each time she was able to block it a bit faster than the last.

It was an addictive feeling. The brief moment of resistance, when she would push through Zach’s magic to break his spell, was unlike anything she had ever experienced. The more she did it, the more she realised that it was not a physical sensation at all—she wasn’t using the strength of her arm to break the spell, but something else—something exhilarating. In that moment, she felt closer to her magic than any other time, save perhaps for when performing transfiguration by technique.

Professor Flitwick passed them just as she completed another block. “Excellent progress, Miss Potter! Five points to Slytherin. Now, let’s see you do it again.”

They demonstrated for the Professor.

“A curious methodology,” he said, “and clearly effective. But you mustn’t become dependent on your opponent announcing his spells in advance… now that you’re getting the hang of it, you should try shortening the count.”

They did as he recommended, and before long they were back to practising with no count at all. Of course, with Zach’s handicap removed, Victoria soon became reacquainted with the mud. This time, however, she felt none of the powerless frustration of past attempts. This time she knew that she could win. It was just a matter of time.

Sure enough, her moment came.

Zach stood side-face, his wand raised over his head. Victoria mirrored his stance, her own wand held to her left shoulder. The world stood still as he waited to pounce, his face blank, his eyes calculating. He was trying to make the moment of his casting as unpredictable as possible, a strategy which had worked well for him in the past.

But as he lingered with wand aloft, Victoria felt something new: some primal instinct called out to her, a thrill rushing through her veins just before he moved.

“Cadere!” he cried, bringing his arm down—

But she was already in motion. Her wand swept in an arc, and his spell died before it formed.

“Yes!” she cried, her arms shooting upwards in celebration.

Zach lowered his wand, surprise clear on his face. But he mastered his expression quickly, his cocky smirk returning. “Perhaps there’s hope for you after all, Potter,” he said. “Time to start using more than just the Trip Jinx, don’t you think?”

Victoria’s smile froze. “Crap.”

It was back to square one. Faced with the additional difficulty of first having to identify his spells, her strange ability to anticipate his casting abandoned her completely. More often than not she hadn’t even started the correct block by the time his attack hit her.

A strange, miserable dance followed as she hopped around the duelling grounds, yelping each time Zach struck her with the Birching Jinx. It was considerably more painful than the Trip Jinx, landing with a stinging slap akin to the whipping motion of a stick. Thin red lines were left in its wake, marking the skin until they faded a few minutes later.

Victoria found herself missing the innocent days of falling in the mud.

Their practice was mercifully interrupted by the sounds of apparition. Multiple loud cracks echoed from the direction of the school gates, not too far from the duelling grounds, and training came to an abrupt halt. Excited conversation picked up, and several groups of students drifted towards the tree line where they could get a good look at the path leading up to the castle.

“Back to practice, everyone!” Flitwick cried, but he was largely ignored.

A party of adult wizards was making its way up the path, led by none other than Lucius Malfoy, who moved with characteristic poise, his fine cape fluttering in the wind. Next to him loped a taller, bearded figure with a grim expression. He had a mane of tawny hair flecked with grey, and wore wire-rimmed spectacles which did nothing to hide his piercing, yellow eyes. A gaggle of followers in black work robes scurried after the two men, clutching parchment, quills and all the accoutrements of administration.

Zach frowned. “That’s Rufus Scrimgeour,” he said in surprise, pointing to the tall wizard. “What on earth is an Auror doing at Hogwarts?”

“They must have come about Justin,” Ernie said, joining them at the edge of the trees. “Strange for the Ministry to employ an Auror for something like this, though. It’s a bit of an overreaction, don’t you think?”

“The parents will want answers,” Zach said. “I guess the governors coughed up the gold.”

Victoria bit her lip. If an Auror had come to Hogwarts, did that mean he would want to speak to her? She didn’t much fancy having to explain herself again, and definitely not to Rufus Scrimgeour. Even from a distance, she could see he moved like a predator.

“Look!” someone called, “Dumbledore’s coming!”

The headmaster was strolling down the path towards the Ministry wizards, his grand, purple robes a stark contrast to their plain attire. To Victoria’s eyes, only Lucius seemed his equal, an image of dignified nobility in all his finery.

The two groups met within earshot of the duelling grounds.

“Welcome to Hogwarts, gentlemen,” Dumbledore said, his arms gathered in his sleeves before him. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, however. Perhaps I missed your owl? The Ministry will not have forgotten that advance notice is required of any visitor to the school.”

“You can drop the bureaucratic nonsense, Dumbledore,” Scrimgeour said gruffly. “We’re here by invitation.”

Lucius smiled tightly. “Quite. I’m afraid the governors are rather concerned by this attack, headmaster. The troll last year, and now this? There are some who say you’re losing your touch.”

Dumbledore bowed his head. “I defer, as always, to the wisdom of the governors. Shall we retire to my office? No doubt you have further such wisdom to share.”

Victoria frowned at their retreating figures, sharing a worried glance with Susan. “Why are they blaming Dumbledore? There’s nothing he could have done, is there?”

“It’s madness,” Ernie said, shaking his head. “Dumbledore’s the greatest wizard of the age. If he can’t find the Heir, you can be sure the Ministry won’t—Auror or no.”

But Susan shook her head. “Whoever attacked Justin, my Aunt Amelia will get to the bottom of it. She’s the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, you know.”

Chapter Text

The wizards from the Ministry remained at the school for several tense days. They scuttled across the castle in groups, prodding walls with their wands, interviewing portraits and searching for trap doors under rugs. The majority of the work was performed by an endless flow of wizards and witches in plain black work robes, but every so often Rufus Scrimgeour himself could be spotted stalking the halls, especially on the second floor.

All of this activity attracted considerable attention from the students. Of particular interest were the investigations occurring in the Entrance Hall, the scene of the crime, and on several occasions Scrimgeour could be seen pacing the edge of the room, scattering a golden powder through the air. It would float there, glowing where it caught the light, and swirled around to form various shapes: a student walking into the Great Hall, a ghost floating through a wall, Filch mopping the floor. No matter how many times he performed this magic, however, it never showed even a glimpse of the attack on Justin.

The presence of the investigators only served to provide fresh fuel for gossip. In spite of Susan’s prediction that everything would blow over, Victoria remained the centre of many rumours—as the only student present at the scene, and a Slytherin to boot, she was competing with Professor Snape for top contender as the Heir of Slytherin. Salazar Slytherin the thousand-year-old vampire was running a close third.

Whatever the Ministry wizards were looking for, they didn’t find it. To Victoria’s relief, they never summoned her for interrogation, and they departed the castle on Friday afternoon, just before she reported to the Gamekeeper’s hut for detention.

After spontaneously exploding the year before, Hagrid’s hut had been rebuilt in a rather ramshackle manner, with many gaps in the stone walls boarded up with planks of wood. The land still bore the scars of the fire, a sizeable patch of scorched earth surrounding the hut, and Hagrid’s annual crop of oversized pumpkins was looking decidedly the worse for wear.

The explosion itself remained a mystery, although Draco insisted that Hagrid had simply got drunk and tried to cast some magic—the giant of a man had famously been expelled from the school in his youth, his wand snapped and education left incomplete. For her part, Victoria had tried to reserve judgement. In her brief interactions with Hagrid, he had never seemed like a bad man, but, as Draco pointed out, there had to have been some reason for his expulsion.

Hagrid was waiting for her outside of his hut, a large bloodhound by his side. With the huge pumpkins distorting her sense of proportion, from a distance he appeared almost normal-sized, but as she got closer his true scale was revealed: he was three times her width, and well over twice her height, such that she had to crane her neck to look up at his heavily bearded face.

“All righ’ there?” he said cheerfully as she approached. His dark eyes crinkled when he smiled, and he was looking down at her with almost fatherly affection.

“Good afternoon, Mister Hagrid,” Victoria said politely. She wasn’t quite sure what authority he held within the school, but she thought it best to treat him like a teacher. “I’m here for my detention.”

“Ah, call me Hagrid, ev’ryone else does,” he said. “Surprised t’see yer in detention, though... always figured yer the type ter follo’ the rules.”

Victoria smiled weakly. “Well, they say rules are meant to be broken.”

Hagrid chuckled. “Yer ol’ dad always did like a bi’ o’ trouble, so maybe it ain’t so surprisin’ after all.”

“Yes, Mister Lupin mentioned something like that,” she said. “But I’ve actually never had a detention before… what exactly do you do?”

Her question seemed to excite Hagrid, who rubbed his hands together eagerly.

“Got a proper treat for yer today,” he said, leading her to wonder if he actually understood the purpose of a detention. “Gonna be headin’ inter the forest.”

Victoria’s eyes widened. “The forest? You mean… the forbidden forest? Is that... um, allowed?”

“No need ter worry ‘bout tha’,” Hagrid said. “We ain’t goin’ deep, yer won’t see no centaurs or nuffin. But Professor Sprout wants some plants collectin’, so we’re gonna see wha’ we can find. Knows ‘er plants, Professor Sprout does.”

Looking up at Hagrid dubiously, Victoria couldn’t help but wish that Professor Sprout was coming with them. Sure, Hagrid was big, but he wasn’t a properly qualified wizard. What would happen if they did come across some monster? As far as she was concerned, her encounter with the troll had been more than enough adventure for one lifetime.

“I don’t even have my wand,” she said. “Perhaps I should go get it?”

“No wand?” Hagrid asked, his bushy eyebrows rising. “Why not?”

She blushed. “It was… confiscated.”

“Well, too late t’go back an’ get it now,” he said. “But don’t yer worry, we ain’t goin’ in alone. Look, ‘ere ‘e comes now.”

She turned around to see Professor Lockhart strolling down the path. He was dressed in periwinkle flying robes, knee-high leather boots, and a warm sable cloak—the very image of a prepared adventurer. Victoria, still wearing her school robes, couldn’t help but feel rather shabby in comparison.

“What a beautiful afternoon!” Lockhart declared as he arrived, “just the season for Ravenclaw colours, don’t you think?”

 He wasn’t wrong. The sun was low in the sky, with just a couple of hours to go before sunset, and it cast long shadows across the grounds.

“If ye’ say so,” Hagrid said with a shrug. As always, he was wearing the same oversized fur coat, its numerous pockets bulging with mysterious items. She doubted he had read a fashion magazine in his entire life.

Lockhart turned to face Victoria. “And here we have our young miscreant! Out of bounds in the middle of the night, caught at the scene of a ghastly crime… why, it sounds like a scene from one of my plays! Next time you’re looking for a starring role, my girl, just come to me… I dare say we can find some kind of cameo role for you. After all, I understand you have a bit of a following already—all that business with He Who Must Not Be Named!”

For a second, Victoria was lost for words. “That’s not… I mean, I didn’t… I just found Justin, I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Of course you didn’t!” he said, before winking at her in an exaggerated fashion.

Hagrid coughed. “Righ’, we best be headin’ off, ‘fore the sun goes down.”

“A splendid idea,” Lockhart said, extending his arm towards the forest. “Lead the way, my dear man!”

They set off down a rocky track towards the eaves of the forest, Hagrid’s dog Fang running off ahead, occasionally pausing to look back at them as if exasperated by their slow pace. Hagrid was next in line, his long legs gifting him with an enormous stride, leaving Victoria alone with Lockhart.

“Oh, Victoria,” he said as they walked, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I blame myself of course… it was natural, really, for you to become jealous and act out. Before I came along, I’m sure you were the centre of attention here. But my dear girl, you can’t just go around attacking other students!”

Irritated, Victoria shrugged his hand off her shoulder. “I told you, sir,” she said, “I didn’t—”

“I know, I know,” Lockhart said with a sigh. “You have to maintain your story. I understand. But a word of warning, from one celebrity to another… there’s a fine line between fame and infamy, and you don’t want to end up on the wrong side. After all, no dark wizard has ever won Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award!” He paused, thinking. “It must do awful things to the teeth, dark magic. Just look at Professor Snape…”

Victoria shook her head in disbelief, forcing herself to swallow her reply. She knew better than to get into an argument with a teacher, especially when she was already in detention. “Thank you for the advice, sir. I’ll consider it carefully.”

“Make sure you do!”

They entered the forest, the russet evidence of autumn all around them. Although the trees were not yet bare, the ground was covered with a bed of fallen leaves which crunched underfoot, and the wild hedges were overflowing with berries. As she stepped on a horse chestnut seed, Victoria couldn’t help but think back fondly to the long hours spent wandering the castle, conker in hand, trying to find the Ravenclaw common room.

It wasn’t long until they came across the first item on Professor Sprout’s shopping list.

“‘Ere we go,” Hagrid said, going down on one knee to examine a patch of seven-leaf clover, his club-like fingers surprisingly deft as he felt the leaves. “Looks ‘ealthy enough. Come on, Victoria, yer can give me an ‘and.”

He pulled a trowel from one of his many pockets and started to dig, making sure to go deep to get the roots. Victoria took a more direct route: just as Madam Bloom had taught them, she pinched one of the white, spiky flowers which topped the clover and gave it a firm but gentle pull. The plant wiggled and shuddered in protest, but it dutifully slid out of the ground, reminding her of a young child led by the ear.

“There, there,” she said, comforting the plant, tying its dangling roots into a figure of eight. The knot would keep it alive until it could be re-potted.

“That’s one way ter do it,” Hagrid said with a smile, “got a way with plants, do yer?”

“I guess,” she said with a shrug, but secretly she was quite pleased with the compliment.

Once extracted, the clover disappeared into another one of Hagrid’s apparently never-ending pockets, and then they continued on in search of more plants. Thrice more they repeated this routine, collecting singing crocuses, purple-headed mushrooms, and, from a small pool beside the path, a diving waterlily.

“Think that’s enough fo’ now,” Hagrid said, looking Victoria up and down as she tried to wring water out of her robes. The lily had not come easily. “Best get yer back t’ the castle t’ dry out.”

“Not quite yet, Hagrid,” Lockhart said, finally piping up. He hadn’t helped them with a single plant. “Just a small detour first, if we may.”

Victoria groaned, wishing she had her wand to cast a Drying Charm, but did not voice her displeasure further. This was a detention after all, and she didn’t want to get a reputation for whining.

The ‘small detour’ requested by Lockhart turned out to be rather longer than expected, and rather miserable besides. Victoria’s shoes were making squelching sounds with her every step, and her wet robes clung to her body in a way that made her feel rather self-conscious. Finally, as the forest began to grow dark around them, they found what they were looking for: a bush full of red berries which gave off the scent of honey.

“Aha!” Lockhart said, descending on the bush to pick a handful of berries. He paused, giving Victoria and Hagrid a sideways look. “This is just between us, you understand. We can’t let anyone know the secret ingredient to Lockhart’s Liquid for Luscious Locks, can we?”

Victoria snorted. After Professor Snape had taken her Founder’s Oak, the concept of a teacher using school property for personal gain didn’t even surprise her. It was only as he was collecting a second handful of the berries that she heard a twig cracking in the bushes, not far from where they stood, followed by an ominous clicking sound.

She froze. “Hagrid,” she hissed, “did you hear that?”

“What?” Lockhart said, his voice alarmed. “Hear what?”

“Shh!” Hagrid said, and they fell silent.

The clicking came again, so quick that it was almost a rattle. Fang growled.

“It don’t make no sense,” Hagrid muttered. “They ain’t supposed to come this close ter the path.”

The bushes rustled. Whatever it was, it was getting closer.

“I don’t like this...” Victoria said, backing away. It was like the troll all over again.

“Right then, back to the school!” Lockhart called, and he didn’t even wait for them before he turned and ran back down the path, his robes flapping around him.

Victoria didn’t need telling twice: she ran right after him, her hair blowing in the wind, the growing chill of her sodden robes barely an afterthought as her mind conjured up monstrous images of werewolves and hags looming in the bushes. They had stayed in the forest too long, and darkness was now well and truly upon them—it was difficult to see the path properly, and in her haste she failed to spot a root in time. She stumbled and fell, her hands landing in a rather prickly patch of dark orange thorns.

“Ouch!” she hissed, withdrawing her hands quickly, but it was too late—her palms were all cut up, each scratch burning as if caused by Zach’s Birching Jinx.

Hagrid was there a moment later, helping her up as if she weighed no more than a cat.

“‘Ere now, let’s take a look at yer,” he said, lifting her hands to examine them in the moonlight. Angry red lines criss-crossed her palms, and her skin was beginning to puff up around them.

“It stings,” she whined.

Hagrid shrugged. “Yer’ll live. Jus’ make sure ter wash ‘em out proper, back at the castle. Can get a nasty pox from some o’ the things in the forest, if yer not careful. Come on now, no need to rush… there ain’t nothin’ followin’ us.”

It wasn’t long before they caught up with Professor Lockhart, who was waiting for them by the patch of clover. He had finally lit his wand, but the silvery glow barely penetrated the dense foliage around them.

“Ah good, there you are,” he said, running a hand through his still-perfect hair. He looked rather relieved to see them. “Nasty business, that. Of course, I could have handled whatever beast lurked in the shadows… it would’ve been only too easy. My concern was purely for young Victoria.”

“Was that why you ran off without me, sir?” she said, the remark escaping before she could stop herself. Her burning hands were rather wearing at her patience.

Lockhart’s cheeks tinged pink. “Hagrid had matters well in hand! I... ah, took it upon myself to scout ahead. The way appears safe. Follow me, now!”

By the time they returned to the castle, Victoria was wet, exhausted, and thoroughly fed up with the forbidden forest. Worse, a bone-deep chill had taken her, one that she couldn’t shake off despite a warm shower and a large dinner. The next morning she woke up with a terrible headache and aching limbs, at which point Daphne insisted on taking her to the hospital wing.

“I feel terrible,” Victoria said as they climbed the stairs to the second floor, her head pounding with every step. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Maybe it’s just a cold,” Daphne said.

She frowned. She’d never had a cold in her life—as far as she knew, wizards couldn’t get them.

Sure enough, all it took was one look at her hands for Madam Pomfrey to declare the cuts infected.

“What do I keep telling them?” she said as she prepared a bed for Victoria. “The forest is no place for students to go galivanting around. But do they listen to me? Of course not.”

“But what about my classes?” Victoria asked. “Do I really have to stay here? Can’t you just give me a potion, or something?”

Madam Pomfrey clucked her tongue. “And have half the school come down with Fossilisation Fever? I think not. No, we’ll have to keep you here until you’re better.” She eyed Daphne warily. “Best to dose up your whole dorm, just in case. And you’ll need to Scourgify anything she’s touched. One of the Prefects can help you, if you don’t know the spell.”

In the end, it was a good thing that Victoria hadn’t tried to attend her classes. Her symptoms only got worse, and Madam Pomfrey was forced to maintain a roaring fire in the hospital wing just to keep her warm. She was on a strict regimen of potions to help manage her symptoms, but as Pomfrey explained, she would have to get better all on her own.

“Your magic will fight it off, with a bit of rest,” she said. “The body of a witch or wizard doesn’t much like being transfigured, you see. The disease is trying to turn your bones to stone, but your magic will turn them back faster. When no stone remains, you’ll be free to go.”

The days wore on, and Victoria began to worry about all the classes she was missing.  She wasn’t allowed any visitors, nor would Madam Pomfrey permit homework to be delivered to her. Her wand, finally released by Joseph Deverill, sat unused on her bedside table. She wasn’t even allowed to read, except for three all-too-short hours each afternoon.

Her every moment was spent surrounded by white beds, white ceilings and white walls. Contemplating the nature of her illness was the only thing that kept her occupied: she spent a lot of time thinking about whether being a metamorphmagus would hasten her recovery, or if she could somehow use her powers to transfigure the disease away.

One morning, as Madam Pomfrey watched her drink a green potion which tasted like old socks, her curiosity got the better of her.

“I’ve been wondering,” Victoria said between reluctant sips. “If all it takes to get better is to transfigure away the stone, why can’t someone just do it for me?”

Madam Pomfrey raised an eyebrow. “Oh, a healer could do exactly that. But then your body wouldn’t have learnt how to do it, and you could get infected again. No, best to do it properly and never have to worry about it again.”

Victoria took another sip, grimacing at the taste. “But it would work? You said that transfigurations on a witch don’t last…”

“You’re a sharp one, aren’t you? Madam Pomfrey said with a smile, crows feet appearing around her eyes. She was middle aged, in wizarding terms, which meant she was probably around eighty-years-old. “I misspoke. It’s more that your magic will always try to return the body to its proper state. A healer can use transfiguration to help that along, and the magic won’t resist it. But if you try to use transfiguration to take a witch out of her proper state…”

“Your magic will reverse it,” Victoria said. It made sense. “So that’s why beauty spells don’t last?”

“Just so,” Pomfrey said. “Not that you need them, my dear. I must say, I’ve never had a patient look quite so healthy. You’re practically glowing!”

No matter how good she looked, her symptoms improved painfully slowly. She tried to speed things along by directing her metamorphmagus powers to fix her bones, but there was no sign that it had worked. She wasn’t even sure if a metamorphmagus could use their powers for healing—she had only ever performed cosmetic changes before, ones which she could see in a mirror.

When her second week of convalescence began, she was finally permitted to look at her homework, which rapidly piled up on her bedside table. She took to this work eagerly, glad for the distraction, and before she knew it Halloween had arrived. She begged and begged to be allowed to attend the feast, desperate to see her friends again, and after taking her temperature one last time, Madam Pomfrey relented.

“Do try to avoid overexerting yourself,” she warned. “And no ice cream!”

Just as the year before, the staff had gone above and beyond in decorating the castle. In one alcove, Victoria saw a group of skeletons playing poker; in another, the Fat Friar was cheerfully re-enacting his own death. And everywhere she looked there were giant pumpkins, their gruesome faces glowing with an inner blue fire. The largest pumpkin of them all was hanging in the central staircase like a chandelier, and the fire shining from its slit-like eyes was a deep crimson.

She arrived at the Great Hall to find the feast in full swing. Each table was groaning under the weight of a glistening whole roast hog, surrounded by rings of baked apples, trays of stuffing, and platters of potatoes, with pumpkin pie and apple strudel for dessert.

“Victoria!” Tracey cried, catching her eye from across the room. “You’re alive!”

She laughed, making her way over to the Slytherin table and greeting everyone with a hug.

“I’m alive,” she confirmed, “and not contagious.”

“Well, that’s good, seeing as you already hugged us,” Pansy said, before waving a chipolata at Hestia. “Make space for Vicky.”

Hestia obediently shifted down the table, a chorus of groans following as everyone bunched up like an accordion. It was one of the curious things about Pansy: no matter how much she might treat Victoria as beneath her, she never failed to include her in the group.

“Thanks,” Victoria said, taking her place and piling her plate high. “I’ve been eating hospital food for weeks. You cannot believe how much I’ve been looking forward to this. Let me tell you, Halloween in the Muggle world doesn’t even come close… all the decorations are made of plastic and the costumes just look fake.”

Daphne frowned. “What’s plastic? It sounds horrible.”

“It is,” Victoria said. “It’s like… coloured glass, only bendy.”

“You’ve definitely seen plastic,” Tracey said. “You know that camera Creevey used to carry everywhere? That’s plastic.”

“Well, if Creepy Creevey had it, then that’s reason enough to dislike it,” Daphne said.

“Wait, used to?” Victoria asked. She had never seen Colin without his camera, and the boy must have made a small fortune from all the photos of Professor Lockhart he had sold. “What happened to it?”

Tracey shrugged. “It broke, I guess. I don’t think Hogwarts much likes Muggle things. Though actually, watches work just fine, don’t they?”

Somewhat inevitably, this remark spawned a lengthy argument as to whether Muggles or wizards could take credit for the invention of watches. As usual, Victoria didn’t participate in the lively debate. She was simply glad to be amongst friends once more, surrounded by the clamour of conversation and the hungry sounds of cutlery on plates.

Having wolfed down her mains, she reached for some apple strudel.

“Pumpkin juice, Vicky?” Hestia said, leaning over to pour her a glass of virulently orange juice.

“Thanks.” She sighed. “I’m never gonna escape that nickname, am I? This is entirely Daphne’s fault.”

“It’s a good name,” Daphne said. “You should just embrace it.”

“Whatever you say, Daph.”

Daphne blanched. “No! Anything but that!”

“To nicknames!” Pansy called, raising her glass with a cackle.

“To Daph!” Victoria said, and everyone joined the toast with a cheer. She took several long gulps of her juice, enjoying its cloyingly sweet flavour, before tucking into her strudel. “Anyway, what’s everyone been up do while I was ill?”

She never got to hear the answer. Her bite of strudel caught in her throat, which had tightened suddenly—a thrill of panic went through her, and she tried to cough, but she couldn’t get enough air behind it. She tried to breathe in through her nose, but nothing came, her chest straining painfully against the blockage.

Help! she thought, but she couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, and she stood up suddenly, desperate for someone to see her, to realise what was happening—her heart was racing, and she pointed frantically at her throat.

“Oh my god,” Tracey said with a gasp, “she’s choking! Somebody help, she’s choking!”

Goyle got there first, jumping up from his seat and slapping her hard on her back. She stumbled from the force of the blow, and the piece of strudel shot from her mouth, but she still couldn’t breathe—she shook her head frantically, and Goyle tried again, but there was nothing left to dislodge. Her throat itself had closed up.

Her head span; she stumbled to the floor, landing on her knees. Where were the teachers?

“Make way!”

Professor Lockhart was striding towards her, his wand brandished before him. “Never fear!” he declared, “I know just the spell!”

Not him! she thought as her vision darkened, anyone but him!

And then a tall, dark figure was barrelling past Lockhart, knocking him to one side with casual ease. The last thing Victoria saw before everything went black was the looming face of Professor Severus Snape.

Chapter Text

Awareness came to Victoria slowly, sounds penetrating through the haze of semi-consciousness to mix with half-formed thoughts. The squeaking wheels of an old trolley. The clink of glass on glass, followed by running water. The whoosh-snap of linen being thrown over a bed. All were punctuated by the periodic sniffs of a girl who had recently stopped crying.

Confused, she opened her eyes to the familiar white walls of the hospital wing. Susan was sitting next to the bed, her cheeks splotchy, her vibrant, copper-red hair almost surreal in the sterile environment. She hadn’t yet noticed that Victoria was awake. Nor had Madam Pomfrey, who was busy with her evening routine, washing empty beakers, decanting colourful liquids, and collecting laundry.

The lumos-harsh light of the infirmary brought Victoria’s groggy mind into sharp focus, and she sat up with a gasp, her hand shooting to her throat—but cool air filled her lungs, and the panic passed. She was fine.

Susan looked up with startled eyes. “Madam Pomfrey! She’s awake!”

The matron bustled over and immediately set to the task of checking her vitals. “Welcome back, Miss Potter,” she said, holding her palm to Victoria’s forehead. “I must say, you gave us quite the fright.”

“What happened?” Victoria asked, still confused.

“You were poisoned,” Susan said. “At first everyone thought you were choking, but then Snape gave you some kind of potion...”

“Mithridate,” Madam Pomfrey said. “A powerful antidote. You’re extremely lucky that he’d recently brewed some for Justin.” She held a glass dish up to Victoria’s mouth. “Spit, please.”

She spat into the dish, her mind elsewhere. “Poison? But why would someone want to poison me? Were they caught?” Her thoughts went straight to Death Eaters, but then she remembered Hestia Carrow filling up her pumpkin juice. “Hestia—”

“—has been questioned extensively, the poor girl,” Madam Pomfrey said, lifting the dish up to the light and examining it closely. “Professor Dumbledore is satisfied that she had nothing to do with it.”

“It was the Heir,” Susan said confidently, “it had to be. You’re the Girl Who Lived—of course a dark wizard’s gonna try to get you out the way.”

“Now, dear, don’t go spreading rumours,” Madam Pomfrey said. “We’ll find out the facts soon enough, there’s going to be a full investigation.”

Victoria snorted. “Like there was with Justin?”

Madam Pomfrey made a non-committal humming sound, vanishing Victoria’s spit before moving to prod at her toes.

“Professor Lockhart said it was the Heir,” Susan insisted. “Right when Snape was giving you the Mithri-whatsit, he was all like, ‘the Heir of Slytherin strikes again!’”

“That definitely sounds like Professor Lockhart,” Victoria said, not voicing the fact that she was inclined to trust him even less than the Ministry. His heart was in the right place, she supposed—she distinctly remembered him trying to help her, while she was choking—but really, there was no way for him to know whether it was the Heir or not.

“Well, look on the bright side,” Susan said with a weak smile, “at least no one will think you’re the Heir anymore. Though... I suppose if you were the Heir, attacking yourself would definitely throw people off the trail...”

Victoria glared at her. “Don’t give people ideas.”

“Sorry,” Susan said. “Anyway, given that it’s Slytherin’s Heir, it’s got to be someone in Slytherin, right? No way they’d be sorted anywhere else…”

“Maybe they’re a Hufflepuff,” Victoria said with a smirk. “Where better for the Heir of Slytherin to hide?”

Susan looked scandalised. “Never!”

Having confirmed that her toes were all accounted for, Madam Pomfrey declared Victoria fit and healthy. “We’ll keep you in here overnight, just in case, but I don’t anticipate any trouble. Professor Snape knows his antidotes.”

“That’s it?” Victoria asked, surprised. She’d expected… more. “But what if it happens again? What am I supposed to do until they catch the Heir—eat nothing?”

Madam Pomfrey frowned. “I’m sure this was a one-off, my dear. But if you’re that concerned, I can discuss your meal arrangements with Professor Dumbledore.”

“Could you?”

“Very well,” Madam Pomfrey said, and she returned to her evening clean-up.

Susan sighed. “The teachers really don’t have any idea how to stop this, do they?”

“It could be anyone,” Victoria said glumly, feeling very sorry for herself. No one was any closer to finding the Heir than they had been in September—not the Ministry, not Professor Lockhart, not even the great Albus Dumbledore.

“There must be some kind of magic to find the Heir, a spell or artefact or whatever,” Susan said. “Otherwise Azkaban would be empty, wouldn’t it? I wonder how the Aurors hunt dark wizards...”

“Maybe your Aunt could tell us,” Victoria said. “She is the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, after all.”

Susan’s eyes lit up. “I’ll write to her.”

The next morning, Victoria returned to the Slytherin common room in the midst of its usual Sunday routine. The wireless was on, with the quidditch pundits on Radio Minus Five droning on about the upcoming match between rivals Caerphilly and Holyhead. A large group had gathered to listen to the commentary, chatting excitedly, making bets and taunting the opposition. Meanwhile, the first years were running about like primary school kids, clambering over couches in a manner distinctly unbefitting the dignity of Slytherin house.

The second years were tucked away in their corner, given a wide berth by the raucous first years thanks to a combination of Pansy’s sharp tongue and Daphne’s fluttering eyelashes. Daphne was practising her drawing by sketching hippogriffs, Pansy was working on her Scent-Erasing Charm, and for some reason, Draco and Gregory were engaged in a staring contest. Absorbed in their activities, none of them noticed Victoria’s approach until she was flopping down onto the couch.

“So, has everyone had breakfast?” she asked casually, as if it were any other Sunday. “I’m starving.”

Daphne jumped in surprise. “Oh, Vicky!” She launched herself across the couches and engulfed Victoria in a tight hug. “We were so worried!”

“Some of us were worried,” Pansy said. “But it was obvious that Professor Snape had everything under control. A lot of fuss about nothing, if you ask me.”

“Oh, shush,” Daphne said, shooting Pansy a dirty look before turning back to Victoria. “Ignore her—she’s just jealous you made front page of the Prophet.”

Pansy sniffed. “That’s got nothing to do with it.”

But sure enough, a copy of the Prophet on Sunday sat on the low table between the couches, and Victoria’s face occupied much of the front page, peeking out from behind a curtain of glossy, dark hair. The headline read:

GIRL WHO LIVED AGAIN
Victoria Potter survives poisoning attempt

To her horror, as she was reading the headline, the photo-Victoria batted her eyelashes coquettishly at the camera.

“Stop that!” she hissed, mortified, desperately hoping that her two-dimensional self wasn’t flirting with newspaper readers up and down the country. “Behave yourself!”

“It’s no use,” Daphne said, mirth in her eyes. “She’s been like that all morning.”

“Well, it’s just a photo,” Victoria said with forced nonchalance. “It’s not like it means anything.”

Draco smirked. “Actually, they say that your photo reflects—” Daphne shook her head frantically “—never mind.”

Victoria turned the paper over so that her face was hidden. “Moving on... I feel like I’ve been in the Hospital Wing forever. Catch me up?”

“Well, Hufflepuff destroyed us at Halloween,” Draco said. “Diggory kept stopping Higgs from getting anywhere near the snitch, and they just—”

“Draco, dear, she doesn’t want to hear about quidditch,” Pansy said. For all that she had professed disinterest in Victoria’s return, she had yet to resume her Charms practice. “Obviously she wants to know about the Heir.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Daphne said. “This is Vicky—she’s probably more interested in Transfiguration.”

They all laughed.

“You know me well,” Victoria said with a grin. “But I’ve actually been getting my homework from Madam Pomfrey. So, yeah—tell me about the Heir.”

Draco shrugged. “Not much to tell, really. Finch-Fletchley woke up a few days before Halloween, but he says he didn’t see anything.”

“Just a big shadow on his way back from debating club,” said Daphne.

“Big?” Victoria said, frowning. “Well, that’s not nothing. Vampires are normal sized, aren’t they? So it can’t be a vampire, no matter what people say.”

Pansy snorted. “That doesn’t really narrow it down. Half the dangerous creatures in the world are big.”

“The more interesting thing is that the Heir attacked you,” Draco said, leaning forward eagerly. “Everyone’s been talking about it.”

Victoria raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Daphne swatted at Draco’s arm. “Tragic, Draco, not interesting.” She turned back to Victoria. “What Draco’s trying to say is that it tells us a lot more than the attack on Justin.”

Victoria quickly joined the dots. “Because I’m a half-blood?”

“Exactly,” Draco said. “The thing is, Salazar Slytherin didn’t care about half-bloods—in fact, I’m pretty sure the word didn’t even exist yet, back when he was alive. So whoever the Heir is, it’s looking like they have their own agenda.”

“Plus, Vicky isn’t just any half-blood,” Daphne added. “She’s a Potter. Sure, they’re not one of the old families, but they still go back plenty. So the Heir doesn’t even seem to care about that.”

Draco nodded. “It’s got a few people worried, let me tell you. If a Potter isn’t safe, who is?”

“Pansy disagrees, though,” Daphne said, and she shot Pansy an accusing look. “Don’t you?”

Pansy held her head high, not cowed by Daphne’s attempt to shame her. “I don’t see what’s so confusing. Lily Potter was a Muggleborn. That makes Vicky a half-blood, no matter what her name is. If the Heir is cleaning house, then it’s not exactly hard to see how half-bloods might be next after Muggleborns, is it?”

“That’s not how it works, though!” Daphne said, frustration in her voice. It wasn’t the first time they had disagreed on this subject. “A family doesn’t stop being pure just because one member goes off and marries a Muggleborn!”

“But that is how it works,” Pansy insisted. “That’s the whole idea of blood! You pass it down. There’s not much point, otherwise.”

Daphne opened her mouth to respond, and Victoria could see that the whole conversation was about to devolve into a shouting match. She quickly interrupted by drawing Draco back in.

“And what do you think, Draco?

All eyes turned on him. The Malfoys were an old family indeed; if anyone was the authority on blood, it was Draco Malfoy.

“I think it’s complicated. Don’t get me wrong, there’s no doubt that Victoria’s a half-blood. But the question is—what does that mean?”

Pansy groaned. “Oh, here we go. You’ve done it now, Vicky.”

“It all comes back to Muggles,” Draco said. “In many ways, Muggles are as much our enemy as the goblins. They tried to hunt us down, but at the same time wanted us to win their wars for them. Brandon Swann put a stop to that, but still, you just know Muggles would start it all again if they found out about us. There are good reasons for separation.”

Victoria nodded, not disagreeing with anything he said. They’d covered the reasons for the Statute of Secrecy in some detail in History of Magic. “But what’s that got to do with blood?”

“Everything. After all, you only get a half-blood if a wizard, er, fraternises with Muggles,” Draco said. “That brings shame to the family—sorry, Victoria, but wizards should not be consorting with the enemy, it’s that simple. That’s why it was a scandal when James Potter married your mother, just like it would have been if he’d married a goblin.”

She nodded again, more slowly this time. In theory what he said all made sense, but where did that leave her?

Draco went on. “That said, a half-blood is still a wizard, not a Muggle, and their children will be wizards too. They carry the family name, just like a pure-blood does. And I think that’s what matters, in the end. There’s more than a few half-bloods in the Malfoy family tree, I can tell you that now, and I’m sure each of them was a scandal just like Lily Potter was—but that doesn’t mean that the Malfoys aren’t pure-bloods. The family goes on, just like it will for Victoria.”

“So… do you think half-bloods are targets or not?” Pansy asked.

Draco shrugged. “I can see both points of view. You can understand why the Heir might think a half-blood is like a Muggleborn—I just think they’re wrong. Of course, the other possibility is that the Heir’s just completely crazy and doesn’t have any plan at all.”

Victoria sat back, her mind unsettled. She had been aware of discussions about blood ever since she had arrived at Hogwarts—such conversations were just part and parcel of being a witch—but in the past the purity of someone’s blood had seemed little more than a way to brag, the same way people bragged about their wands and their brooms. Someone might have proudly mentioned how many generations their family went back, but it didn’t really matter. She had never felt like she was treated differently because she was a half-blood.

Now, she wasn’t so sure. The emergence of the Heir of Slytherin had given new life to the discussions of blood, and it wasn’t just bragging rights anymore, it was a talisman of protection. Everyone was suddenly obsessed with blood, and Victoria found herself at the bottom of the pecking order.

Draco, at least, seemed prepared to offer her an olive branch, a chance to count herself among the pure-bloods despite her status as a half-blood. He had even drawn a comparison between her position and his own family tree. But she didn’t like how this made her feel—like Draco had done her a favour, as if she was a charity case he had chosen to support.

So long as she was a charity case, she would never really fit in. She wasn’t like Pansy, able to name every important wizard off the top of her head, no doubt having met them at the Winchester Hippogriff Races every summer since birth. Nor did she possess the instinctive sense of authority which Pansy carried around her, able to order people around as if there was nothing more natural in the world. As far as Victoria was concerned, she would never have that ability—it just wasn’t who she was.

 Wouldn’t it make sense, therefore, to simply make peace with her status as a half-blood, rather than acting as if she were a pure-blood? She could still do magic, and really, that was what she cared about most. Perhaps it was better to be considered an accomplished half-blood than a pure-blooded fraud.

Her deliberations were interrupted by the arrival of a fifth year prefect.

“Potter!” he called, striding over to the second years’ corner. He was holding a scroll sealed with the Hogwarts crest. “This is for you.”

She took the scroll and broke the seal. The message read:

Dear Miss Potter,  

I would be honoured if you would share dinner with me this evening. Please present yourself outside my office at six o’clock sharp.  

Yours sincerely,  

Professor Dumbledore

Chapter Text

It was surprisingly difficult to prepare for dinner with Albus Dumbledore. Victoria’s first inclination had been simply to wear her school robes, but this idea had been speedily quashed by Daphne.

“He’s barmy, but he’s still Dumbledore.”

So they had flung open Victoria’s wardrobe to find the perfect outfit. Discarded dress robes quickly littered the dorm, covering her bed, her trunk, and much of the floor. When her relatively modest wardrobe was exhausted, they started on Daphne’s, and the pile on the bed grew taller still.

Five o’clock came and went.

“I can’t believe this is taking so long,” Victoria said, taking off a little black dress robe which Daphne had declared too formal. “It’s just dinner.”

Daphne snorted. “Dinner with the most powerful wizard in the world. Most students never even speak to him, never mind get invited to his office for social occasions. You’ve got to make an impression.”

Eventually they settled upon a yellow summer robe with a flowery print.

“I look like a tablecloth,” Victoria said flatly, turning one way and the other in front of the mirror.

“You look great,” Daphne insisted, and she guided her firmly towards the door. “Trust me, this is the one.”

With just ten minutes to go, Victoria was forced to walk very quickly to Dumbledore’s office, tidying up her hair as she went. She arrived just in time. The gargoyle stepped aside at her approach, revealing the spiral staircase up to the office, and at the top she knocked thrice upon the sturdy oak door.

It opened to reveal Professor Dumbledore as she had never seen him before. Gone were the bright colours and flamboyant patterns; this Dumbledore wore stately robes of black, with a blood red trim. She was suddenly rather glad that she had dressed up.

“Good evening, Miss Potter,” he said, gesturing for her to come inside. The large, circular office looked much as it had for his birthday party, but for the addition of a small table in the middle of the room. It was covered with a white cloth and had been set for dinner: a small armoury of cutlery was laid out on either side, and a vase of pink chrysanthemums sat at its centre. “Please, take a seat.”

There were no seats at the table. Before she could say anything, however, Dumbledore flicked his wand, and two cushioned chairs materialised out of nowhere. One of them nudged at the back of her knees, and she sat, allowing it to wiggle her into place. Dumbledore took the chair opposite.

“Now, Victoria—may I call you Victoria? Or is it Vicky?”

From the twinkle in his eye, she suspected that he knew exactly which name she preferred.

“Victoria, sir.”

He nodded. “Victoria, then. As I was saying… you may be wondering why I have summoned you here, pulling you away from a merry evening with your friends and classmates. But in light of recent misfortunes, I think they will forgive your absence.”

“The poison,” Victoria said. It didn’t take a genius to connect the dots.

Dumbledore stroked his beard. “Just so. A most concerning turn of events, and one which I confess I had not anticipated. You will no doubt be aware that certain unusual steps have been taken to guarantee your safety, yet it now appears that your protections have a hole in them greater than the one in my left sock.”

Victoria blinked—Daphne was right, he was barmy.

“And so, here we are,” Dumbledore continued. “Until a more permanent solution may be found, I’m afraid that you will be forced to dine with me.”

Victoria was so surprised that she spoke without thinking. “What, every day?”

“Every day,” he confirmed. “On occasion, if I am not available, Madam Pomfrey may take my place. Your breakfast and lunch will be delivered to you by one of the house-elves, and you should accept food from no one else.”

“Oh,” Victoria said quietly, worry filling her. What was she going to wear? She only had so many dress robes.

“But let us think of this as an opportunity rather than a burden,” Dumbledore said. “As headmaster, it has been many years since I was at the coalface, as the Muggles say. It will do me good, I judge, to get to know a student.”

He clapped his hands and their starters appeared. The portion was tiny: three circular towers in a row, each consisting of a green paste topped with a fleshy white disc.

“Ah, excellent!” said Dumbledore, and Victoria gave him a questioning look. She wasn’t quite sure how to ask “What is it?” without sounding rude.

“Scallops, with a mint pea purée,” he explained, interpreting her look correctly, and he picked up the outermost knife and fork.

Victoria copied him. She had no idea what scallops were—they seemed to be some kind of fish, but sweeter and saltier than any fish she was used to. She just wished there were more than three of them: she had to eat very slowly just to stop them from disappearing too fast.

“Now, I would be most interested to hear how your studies are progressing,” Dumbledore said as he ate. “I must say, your exam results last year were quite impressive. You’re not finding your classes too easy, I hope?”

Victoria blushed at his compliment. “Oh, not at all! McGonagall—”

“Professor McGonagall.”

“Sorry—Professor McGonagall usually gives me extra work to keep me busy, and Professor Flitwick too. And there’s always more books to read... I’ve just finished A Treatise on Lunar Powers in Illusion Charms, have you read it?”

“Many years ago,” Dumbledore said with a wistful smile. “And how do you like Professor Lockhart’s classes?”

She paused, imagining that it would be inappropriate to mention her suspicion that Lockhart had somewhat exaggerated his magical ability. “They’re… fine,” she said cautiously. “Very, um, practical.”

“Oh?” Dumbledore said. “Do I detect a hint of dissatisfaction?”

“Well, don’t get me wrong, the spells we’re learning are useful… but none of it feels like it fits together like the other classes do. One day we’re learning the Confundus, the next we’re doing the Repulsion Charm. It’s just, like, a collection of spells.”

“Such is the nature of Defence Against the Dark Arts,” Dumbledore said. “It is not a true branch of magic, but a class defined by reference to a particular function.”

“The stuff we did last year was different, though,” Victoria said. “When we learnt about jinxes, that made a lot more sense.”

Dumbledore peered at her over the top of his half-moon spectacles, an inscrutable look on his face. “Indeed… I have learnt that Professor Quirrell’s classes on the Dark Arts went into rather greater depth than Hogwarts usually teaches. As you may know, the Dark Arts form their own branch of magic, albeit one not normally studied at this school.”

She filed that nugget of information away for later distribution. Professor Quirrell’s sudden disappearance had never been explained… had he been fired, perhaps, for teaching the Dark Arts?

Their plates vanished the moment they finished the scallops. Dumbledore clapped to summon the main course, which was just as delicately presented: there was some kind of tiny chicken sitting on a bed of creamy mashed potato, its skin a crispy golden-brown, with gravy and vegetables arranged in a circle around it. The whole plate smelled amazing.

She waited for Dumbledore to start so she could copy his cutlery selection. It was a good thing she did, as he seemed to pick them entirely at random—just another one of those things that Pansy and the other pure-blood girls would have known.

“Can I ask you something?” Victoria said.

“By all means.”

She told Dumbledore all about the conversation she’d had with Pansy, Daphne and Draco. She went into some detail in describing Pansy’s assertion that half-bloods passed their impurity down to their children, and Daphne’s insistence that Victoria’s status as a Potter meant that she was effectively still a pure-blood, in spite of her Muggleborn mother. Dumbledore listened to her story attentively, his eyes only leaving her own to glance down at his plate between bites.

“So what do you think, Professor? Does it matter that I’m a half-blood?”

If he thought her question was a silly one, he didn’t show it.

“A most controversial issue,” he mused, stroking his beard again. “It is an area in which my own opinions are well known. As an educator, however, I shall attempt to give you as balanced a view as I am able. Now, as I have understood it, you are not suggesting that your magical talent would be different if you were a so-called pure-blood?”

“No,” Victoria said, not having even considered that idea.

Dumbledore steepled his fingers. “Nor are you suggesting that your moral character depends on your blood?”

She shook her head.

“And so, if it does not tell us anything about your magic or your character, what is it that your blood is supposed to indicate?”

Victoria frowned, searching for the right words, but Dumbledore answered the question for her.

“It is your social status,” he said. “In truth, the concept of purity of blood is inextricably linked to the idea of social class. With that in mind, I would invite you to consider which is more important: a person’s character and deeds, or the family they are born to.”

He paused to take a bite of chicken.

“When you put it like that, it seems kinda obvious,” Victoria said. In fact, it was so easy to follow the logic of his words that it took her a moment to realise that none of what he had said actually solved the problem she faced. Everyone in Slytherin thought your blood mattered; it wasn’t an option for her to just reject blood outright.

Dumbledore smiled. “So much for the principle of the matter. Let us turn instead to the question you asked—whether it matters that you are considered a so-called ‘half-blood’. Presumably you are not just asking whether it matters to me—in which case, the answer would be ‘no’—but rather you want to know if it matters in some broader sense.”

She leaned forward eagerly. “Yes.”

“Alas, the simple answer is that it does matter, because certain witches and wizards choose to make it matter,” Dumbledore said. “Regretfully, we must learn to navigate a society where supposed purity of blood matters to many people. But this simple answer conceals a much more complex reality. As you have seen with your peers, opinions differ significantly. If you will forgive me, understanding this requires something of a history lesson. Tell me, how much do you know of Brandon Swann’s Wardenship?”

Victoria frowned. What did that have to do with it? “Just what we learnt from Professor Flamel.”

“Indulge an old teacher, if you will,” Dumbledore said. “I would hear your version of events—that way, there is no risk of my boring you with history you already know.”

Victoria sat up straighter. He may have phrased it politely, but this was no idle request. She was being tested on her knowledge by the Headmaster himself.

“Well, Brandon Swann was part of a group—the Reformists—who were unhappy with the Wizengamot. Back then, the Wizengamot was still made up of the old families, who inherited their seats and never let anybody new join, and a lot of people were upset about that. At the same time, the Wizengamot were still working with the Muggles—still sending a court wizard to advise the King and stuff like that—and the Reformists weren’t happy with that either, especially when the Civil War started. They wanted wizards to stop getting involved in the Muggle world. So… eventually, there was a war between the Wizengamot and the Reformists and Brandon Swann won.” She paused. “How am I doing so far?”

“An admirably concise summary,” Dumbledore said. “Although you have left out the Unitarians, who wanted wizards to take over the Muggle world rather than go into hiding. But let us not get lost in detail… as you say, the Reformists won the war, dismissed the Wizengamot, and Swann started to rule magical Britain as a tyrant. You will have studied, I believe, the reforms he introduced?”

Victoria nodded. “He got rid of all noble ranks and titles, and made it illegal for wizards to have anything to do with Muggles at all.”

“Just so,” Dumbledore said, taking a moment to sip some wine. “And do you know what happened to marriages between wizards and Muggles?”

“Well, I suppose those would’ve been illegal too, if all contact with Muggles was against the law.”

“You guess correctly,” Dumbledore said. “But the key point is this: in most cases, marriage leads to children. However, during the Wardenship, marriages between wizards and Muggles were no longer recognised by wizarding law, meaning that any children were born out of wedlock. Bastards, in other words.”

Victoria flushed, her face reddening at a teacher using bad language. She was glad that he was the one to say it, and not her!

“This, then, is the origin of the term ‘half-blood’,” Dumbledore continued. “It began life as a way to identify those illegitimate children who could not inherit the family name or fortune, but who might spawn offshoot lines with a grudge to settle and a claim to the family name—something which naturally struck fear into the hearts of the wealthy.”

“So the idea of half-bloods came first, before pure-bloods?” Victoria asked, surprised.

Dumbledore smiled. “Until that point in time, there had never been any need for a concept of purity. The wizarding community was already insular, and marriage with Muggles was rare. On the occasion it did happen, however, it carried no consequences, and was widely accepted. It was only when the law started to punish unions between wizard and Muggle that there was a need to distinguish between those who were ‘pure’ and those who weren’t.”

“But the Wardenship didn’t last,” Victoria said, thinking aloud. It didn’t make sense. “The Wizengamot was restored, wasn’t it, and Swann’s laws repealed? So why do people still talk about it now?”

“Ah, but it is often difficult to contain such forces, once they have been unleashed,” Dumbledore said. “As you say, the Wizengamot was restored, although it was no longer hereditary. By that time, however, the International Statute of Secrecy had been passed. Although wizarding Britain relaxed its ban on marriage between wizards and Muggles—something for which we were criticised by many in the international community, I might add—the stigma remained. It was at this point, however, that opinions began to diverge.”

“Like the difference between Pansy and Daphne?”

“Precisely,” Dumbledore said. “To be frank, Victoria, even before you told me their opinions, I would have been prepared to guess at them. You see, the Parkinson family was a Reformist one, and gained significant status and wealth from their association with Brandon Swann. Naturally, the death of Swann did not lead to the death of his ideas, and among the Reformist families any form of association with Muggles remained anathema. If the law would no longer render half-blood offspring illegitimate, the Reformist families would do it themselves, disowning any such children and striking them from the family tree. Thus the doctrine of purity lived on.”

“So Pansy’s just saying what her family told her?” Victoria asked. “What about Daphne?”

“As you probably know, the Greengrass family counts themselves among the old families,” Dumbledore said. “That is, the very families which Brandon Swann had dispossessed when he did away with the Wizengamot, and whose return to power had come at the cost of many compromises, including the permanent loss of their hereditary rights.”

Victoria nodded. “So I guess when Swann died, they just went back to how things were before.”

“Yes and no,” Dumbledore said. “It is certainly true that there was no love lost among the old families for Brandon Swann, nor any desire to perpetuate his ideology. However, you are forgetting that by that time Swann died, secrecy had become the status quo among wizards, one which the old families would not challenge again until Grindelwald’s era. As a result, it remained a scandal in polite society to publicly involve oneself with Muggles, particularly to the point of producing offspring.

“However, they did not take things as far as the Reformists. Marriages between wizards and Muggles were once again legally recognised, and the old families did not consider them illegitimate, merely shameful. A half-blood child was perfectly capable of continuing the family line, and indeed legally entitled to inherit everything if they were the eldest child. The old families therefore readily accepted half-blood heirs, and treated them with all the respect the family name accorded them—after all, it would not do to insult the next head of the family.”

Victoria frowned in concentration, trying to think through the implications. It seemed that the treatment she could expect to receive as a half-blood would differ, depending on whether she was speaking with one of the old families or a Reformist.

“So the old families would accept me, even though I’m a half-blood,” Victoria said, summarising Dumbledore’s lesson. “But the Reformists wouldn’t?”

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. “That is one possibility. However, in life, matters are rarely as neat as ideologies. There are two factors you are discounting.”

“Oh?”

“Firstly, you have failed to account for the fact that the Potters are not one of the old families. Quite the opposite—your ancestor Ralston Potter was a key supporter of the Swanns, and the Potters were prominent Reformists. Secondly, and more importantly, you have forgotten that you are the Girl Who Lived.”

“But what’s that got to do with my blood?”

“Absolutely nothing!” Dumbledore said cheerfully. “And yet, everything. You are famous, popular, and likely to become a powerful witch. Humans are not creatures of logic, Victoria. I suspect that even among those inclined to dismiss half-bloods, you might receive a warmer welcome than you would otherwise expect—provided, of course, that you were to conform to their ideas of how witches should behave.”

Victoria sighed. Once again it came back to her Muggle upbringing. She couldn’t walk and talk like Daphne and Pansy, and she probably wouldn’t be accepted among pure-bloods until she could.

 “You know, it would have been easier if you’d just said that blood didn’t matter,” she said. “That’s what I was expecting you to say.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “My apologies. However, I believe you are mature enough to hear the truth, however uncomfortable it may be.” He shook his head sadly. “If I could, I would choose to let you simply enjoy the innocence of childhood, free from such weighty troubles. Would it be so terrible to simply be happy, without concern for social position or status?”

Victoria’s mind went back to the summer. It was the happiest time she could remember, spending her days exploring the woods around Susan’s home, playing in the river and growing strawberries in the garden.

And yet... while she had been playing in rivers, Pansy had been going to fashion shows and attending balls. When people looked at Pansy, they didn’t see a girl, they saw a young woman. Victoria wanted that too—didn’t everyone? In a way, Dumbledore’s vision was like Peter Pan—a world where she would never grow up.

“Maybe you’re right,” Victoria said. “But I can’t be a child forever.”

At long last, their plates disappeared. They were replaced a moment later with a slice of raspberry tart with Chantilly cream.

“There is one other matter I wished to discuss with you,” Dumbledore said as she used her fork to slice off a large chunk of tart. “I understand from Professor Snape that you intend to spend the Christmas holiday with the Malfoy family.”

Victoria grinned. “I just ordered my dress robe for the ball,” she said. “It’s made of tumblewool—I’ve never worn it before, but Daphne convinced me it’s worth it.”

“I’ve no doubt that it’s a lovely dress,” Dumbledore said, but there was a sombre note to his voice. “Before you go, however, you must be in full possession of the facts.”

“Facts?”

“I will not beat around the bush. Lucius Malfoy was accused of being a Death Eater.”

Victoria froze.

“He was never convicted, and the records of the trial were sealed,” Dumbledore said, “but nonetheless, the accusation stands.”

“Well, if he was found innocent…”

“Found not guilty,” Dumbledore corrected, “not innocent.”

She thought it over. Though she had only met him briefly, Lucius Malfoy had always been nice to her. Narcissa, too, had been kind, writing to her over the summer and offering to teach her wizarding ways. She needed that now more than ever. And what about Draco? She was visiting him, not his parents.

“Are you saying I can’t go?” she asked. She was supposed to be on the high table—she didn’t know how she would possibly break the news to Draco. Pansy would have a field day.

“That is not my decision,” Dumbledore said, raising her hopes. “I am simply providing you with information. Understand that I cannot protect you within Malfoy Manor, Victoria. Once inside, you are on your own.”

He made it sound like a death sentence. “But everyone knows I’m going,” she said. Surely she could make him see that she would be fine? “Even if he was a Death Eater, he couldn’t hurt me while I was his guest. Everyone would know it was him.”

She took another bite of the pie, this time with a generous forkful of the honey-sweet cream.

“It is hard to predict Lucius Malfoy’s intentions, much less those of the company he keeps,” Dumbledore said. “And there are subtler ways to hurt someone than curses.”

Victoria felt an all-too-familiar tightening in her throat.

“Oh no!” she gasped, her heart suddenly racing. “It’s happening again!”

Dumbledore sat back in his chair. “Indeed,” he said, looking utterly calm. “That would be the poison I put in the cream.”

It was a sign of her rising panic that at first she only nodded in agreement. But then his words caught up with her.

“What?”

Dumbledore had poisoned her? It didn’t make any sense!

She tried to stand up. The room span; her knees gave way; she fell back into the chair. Tears streamed down her face, but she couldn’t even sob. She was completely helpless. There was no Professor Snape to save her this time.

Far too quickly, spots of light began to spread across her vision.

“Oh dear,” said Dumbledore, and everything went black.

The world returned with vivid clarity. She gasped—air filled her lungs; her throat was fine.

“I do, of course, have the antidote,” said Dumbledore, his kindly face peering down at her. She was still sitting in the chair, a cool sweat across her skin. Her body was shivering with adrenaline.

“What…? Why?”

Dumbledore picked up her fork and used it to scoop up a pile of cream. “Here,” he said. “Try it.”

Victoria gaped at him.

“But—”

“—it is laced with poison, yes. Yet we have established that I have the antidote. Now, try the cream.”

She looked between Dumbledore and the fork. He was even barmier than Daphne had thought, but she’d come this far. She took the fork and licked at the tiniest bit of cream.

“How does it taste?” said Dumbledore.

Victoria shrugged, trying to stay calm as she felt the faintest beginnings of itching around her throat. “Like sweet cream.”

“Anything else?”

She took another lick. “Lavender?” The tightness in her throat grew. “Antidote, please!”

Dumbledore produced a thin vial from his sleeve. “Stick out your tongue,” he said. He allowed a single drop to fall—she felt instantly better.

He returned to his side of the table. “Today you imbibed Charlotte’s Revenge. Should you ever feel these symptoms again following a sweet food tasting of lavender, you will have less than two minutes to take the antidote.”

“I would prefer not to eat it in the first place,” she said. She sat up properly and stared at her half-eaten dessert. Unsurprisingly, her appetite had completely vanished. “Anyway, aren’t there loads of poisons? How’s knowing just one going to help?”

There was something almost predatory about Dumbledore’s smile. “I had a remarkably similar thought,” he said. “And that is why I shall be concealing a different poison within your food each day that you join me for dinner. Using your senses and instinct alone, you must endeavour to avoid the poison, or at the very least identify it. If you work hard, you should be able to gain some level of proficiency by the time you depart for Malfoy Manor.”

“But… I don’t know anything about poisons,” she said, unable to keep the whine out of her voice. How was she supposed to eat dinner every day, knowing that each plate would half-kill her in some horrific manner?

“It is fortunate, then, that you are a quick study,” Dumbledore said, and with a gesture a thin book sailed off one of his shelves, gliding over to land softly next to her. The green leather cover bore no title, nor author. She flipped it open and was surprised to find that it was handwritten. It only took a quick flick through the pages to realise that it would normally have lived deep within the Restricted Section.

“You will read this book as quickly as possible,” he instructed, “but you must not share its contents with any of your peers, nor even let them know of its existence. Do I have your word?”

“I promise,” she said, her eyes still glued to the first page. On Delivering Poisons, the sub-heading read. Her heart sang with the thrill of forbidden knowledge.

Dumbledore clapped his hands. “Excellent! Now, off you pop—I imagine Slytherin’s Holyhead fans will be celebrating.”

Chapter Text

After having spent several weeks in the hospital wing, not even the threat of the Heir of Slytherin could dampen Victoria’s enthusiasm for her return to classes. At first she was anxious over all the time she had missed, fearing that she had fallen behind her peers, but she need not have worried. Even the small amount of additional reading she had managed during her convalescence was still more than any of her classmates bar Hermione, and with a solid theoretical foundation, it would not take long to catch up in wandwork.

Her first Monday back passed in a whirlwind of magic and scholarship, each moment of it a thrilling reminder of everything she loved about Hogwarts.

In History of Magic they were learning about the Norman invasion of England, which Victoria remembered rather differently from her Muggle primary school. Certainly the Muggles had never mentioned the role of Armand Malfoy, whose duplicitous actions had kept the Northumbrian army out of the Battle of Hastings. The class disapproved greatly of his perfidy, but this did not stop Draco from puffing up with pride each time the Malfoy name was mentioned.

Following History was Transfiguration, the class which caused Victoria the most concern—she had entirely missed the topic of vapour-shaping, a somewhat trickier technique than shaping liquids, and a key skill to progressing to the next level of transfiguration. Fortunately, her liquid-shaping had been sufficiently advanced that vapours came to her quite easily, and she quickly demonstrated her competence to Professor McGonagall’s satisfaction.

“It will do for now,” McGonagall said, watching carefully as Victoria guided a cloud of smoke into the shape of an arrow. “But I expect you to practise the skill in your spare time, until it’s up to your customary standard.”

The class then commenced their study of the Fumification Spell, which would turn any object into vapour. They all made appropriate sounds of appreciation as McGonagall demonstrated the vaporous forms of a number of substances, filling the room with puffs of smoke, steam, dust, and ash. Unfortunately, the remainder of the lesson was solidly theoretical.

Charms was rather more practical. Having completed their study of the Colour-Changing and Scent-Erasing Charms, they were leaving visual and olfactory illusions behind to begin the more difficult subject of auditory charms.

“Books away!” Professor Flitwick announced when he arrived. “Today’s magic is a smidge disruptive, so we’ll be heading out into the grounds.” The class murmured with anticipation; Victoria shared an excited look with Tracey. “Please take a pair of earmuffs on your way out.”

A rush for the best earmuffs followed—Victoria managed to snag herself some fluffy pink ones—and then they were trooping down to the quidditch pitch, where Professor Flitwick introduced them to the Thunderclap Charm.

“The trick is to deliver a sharp, whip-like flick,” he explained. “Observe, please. Percussio!”

His wand lashed out like a coiled snake, striking the air with a deep, reverberating rumble that Victoria could feel in her chest. The sound echoed out across the grounds, indistinguishable from real thunder.

Tracey grinned. “Awesome.”

They spent the rest of the class practising the charm in a cacophony of bangs, pops and cracks. None of them were able to produce anything near to Professor Flitwick’s authentic thunder, but surprisingly it was Gregory Goyle who came closest, a development which had Flitwick almost jumping with excitement.

“That’s it, Gregory!” he cried, cheering as Greg’s meaty fist once again snapped forward. His spell created a deep boom akin to that of a firework. “My boy, you clearly have an affinity for auditory illusions!”

Victoria rather suspected that his true affinity was for loud noises. But even though she was rather annoyed that her own charm would only bang like a loud drum, it was hard to begrudge Greg his success. It was the first time he had ever taken to any magic naturally, and his look of joy at each spell would have melted any heart.

The day concluded with another visit to Professor Dumbledore’s office for dinner, an occasion which she approached with a strange mixture of hunger and dread. The meal followed much the same pattern as the last: three courses, all of them rich and delicate, with Dumbledore asking about her classes before expounding upon a topic of choice. After Victoria mentioned her need to practise vapour-shaping, the lecture of the day became the Four Winds, a subject in which Dumbledore was clearly an expert. His explanation was so fascinating that she bit into some bread without thinking, and a moment later her skin was shrivelling as her body dried out like an Egyptian mummy.

“The butter contains Liar’s Salt,” Dumbledore explained after he had administered the antidote. “If you look carefully, you will see the pink crystals.”

She examined the butter and, sure enough, the salt had a slight pinkish tinge to it. “How was I supposed to see that?” she asked grumpily. “Especially at the same time as talking to you about transfiguration! If you’d just let me look at the food properly…”

But Dumbledore shook his head. “You won’t be able to sniff at everything at the Malfoys’ ball, nor even in the Great Hall,” he said. “You must learn to detect these things more subtly. Take your time while eating. Savour each mouthful, engage in conversation. And all the time, pay attention to your senses.”

At the end of the day, when she returned exhausted to the common room, it was not to chat idly or to read for pleasure. Holding back a yawn, she retrieved Dumbledore’s book on poisons, holed herself up behind her bed’s curtains and read late into the night, falling asleep with the book resting on her face.

Her dinners with Professor Dumbledore quickly became routine. Inevitably, the other Slytherins were incredibly jealous.

“It’s blatant favouritism,” Pansy said one evening. “The headmaster can’t just have a private dinner every day with the same student—it’s not fair! We should all get a turn.”

The others muttered in agreement. Victoria grimaced—Pansy was always the most unbearable when she had a good point. Of course, if Pansy had known that Dumbledore was poisoning Victoria every night, she might not have been quite so eager to join in. But while their dinners were public knowledge, Victoria’s education in avoiding poisons remained top secret.

“It’s not a private dinner,” she said, coming up with an alternative rebuttal, one which she hoped was sufficiently diplomatic to satisfy everyone. “Any student who’s been poisoned recently can come. By coincidence, that’s currently just me.”

Fortunately, her poisoning was still recent enough that no student was willing to make light of it, and her response successfully put a stop to Pansy’s grumbling—for the time being, at least.

It was strange to think that last November, Victoria had concerned herself with little more than attending classes, completing homework, and solving Snape’s challenge. She missed those days keenly, but being poisoned every night was sufficient motivation to shift her efforts towards surviving dinner. Though she remained diligent in all her classes, and made sure to keep up her wand work, for the next two weeks she put aside her normal reading in favour of devouring the steady stream of books on poisons provided by Professor Dumbledore.

Such singular focus on one area of magic was not sustainable, however, and in the second week of November she was forced to put her books on poisons down when Professor Snape introduced them to a new project.

It was a Tuesday morning, and the late autumn chill was beginning to settle permanently in the dungeons. Victoria had taken to wearing her charm bracelet once more, and the other students had wrapped themselves in full cloaks, sacrificing precious mobility for warmth. As usual, Snape entered the laboratory abruptly. Silence fell immediately.

“Today we come to the so-called Essential Potions,” he announced, striding to the front of the classroom. “Those few of you who have opened their textbooks will know that these three potions are so highly valued that all students at the Great Schools must take them. The first of the three, which you shall be brewing over the coming months, is known as the Draught of Sparta.” He spun to face the Slytherin side of the classroom. “Malfoy! What is the effect of the Draught of Sparta?”

“Increased physical resilience, sir,” Draco said, straight-backed under Snape’s gaze.

“Correct, but incomplete,” Snape said. “There are many potions which increase resilience. Why, then, is the Draught of Sparta considered essential?”

Hermione’s hand shot into the air. Professor Snape ignored her.

“Potter!”

Victoria looked up from her notes. “The effect is permanent, sir. All the Essential Potions are.”

“And why would that be?”

She hid her smile. Snape did this sometimes, trying to catch her out with advanced questions—whether to test her or embarrass her, she didn’t know. But this time, thanks to her reading on alchemy, she thought she knew the answer. “Because they build on a wizard’s innate magic, sir. It’s already harder to injure wizards, the potion just increases it.”

Professor Snape’s dark eyes bored into her own. “Five points to Slytherin,” he said at last, before turning back to address the class. “Indeed, while all wizards possess a certain hardiness compared to Muggles, the Draught of Sparta amplifies this trait significantly. It is a prerequisite for entry to a number of professions, as well as participation in many wizarding sports such as professional quidditch. And as previously mentioned, Hogwarts requires that each student brew it successfully.”

Daphne raised her hand. She was the only person other than Draco who dared to ask questions in Potions—it was her best class by far, and Snape seemed to tolerate her occasional enquiries. It didn’t hurt that she was gazing up at him with big blue eyes, a look of deep admiration on her face.

Snape let out a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, Miss Greengrass?”

“If it’s so useful, why don’t people just buy it?” she asked. “Not that I’m saying we shouldn’t learn how to do it…”

“You will not find any of the Essential Potions in a shop, no matter how deep your pockets,” Snape explained. “They are all examples of bonded potions—that is, potions which may only be taken by the potioneer who brewed them. It is the key ingredient which has this effect. In the case of the Draught of Sparta, the key ingredient must be obtained from the last drop of an autumnal rain shower, which the brewer crystalises while under the influence of a catalyst. From that moment on, the potion becomes bonded to its brewer.”

He waved a hand and the door to the store cupboard swung open. Victoria raised an eyebrow, thinking back to his clumsy wandless levitation the year before—clearly, his practice was paying off.

“Today you will brew the catalyst,” Snape said, and detailed instructions began writing themselves on the blackboard. “Due to the bonded nature of the potion, you will work individually. There will be no need to talk.”

The catalyst in question was Liquid Ice, which turned out to be one of the most difficult potions they had brewed to date. There were frequent and drastic changes in temperature, a multitude of ingredients, and, worst of all, the potion had to be kept in motion for the entire brewing period—a single second of stillness would result in the mixture solidifying, at which point you would be forced to start again from scratch.

The class worked in concentrated silence, broken only by the sounds of muttered curses as they tried to prepare ingredients single-handedly while stirring the potion at a steady, even pace. Occasionally, a student who had forgotten an ingredient would have to rush into the storeroom before hurrying back to their cauldron in the hope that their potion hadn’t congealed.

Idiots, Victoria thought. All the sensible students had gathered their ingredients and checked them against the instructions before starting—which was why she was rather surprised to see Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley make a dash for the stores. Ron she could understand, but Hermione? She was methodical to a fault… there was simply no way she had forgotten an ingredient.

Victoria shook her head and concentrated on her own potion. Hermione’s performance was not her concern, especially not when her own work was so important. You could only take the Draught of Sparta once, and like most potions the strength of its effect would depend not only on the quality of its ingredients, but also on the potioneer’s skill. She was determined for hers to be absolutely perfect.

By the time the bell rang for lunch, only half of the class had managed to brew the catalyst correctly, their success easily identifiable by the electric-blue glow coming from their cauldrons.

“Unacceptable,” Snape said, looking up from Lavender Brown’s watery, transparent attempt. “Every student who failed today’s brewing will return here after dinner to try again… and again the next night if necessary, and the night after that, until you get it right. In the meantime… for those of you who are in possession of the catalyst, your homework is to obtain the key ingredient—the heart of a rain cloud.”

Snape’s assignment quickly took over their lives, interrupting classes, meals and leisure time alike. The second years lived and breathed by the weather: each time it rained, they would rush outside en masse, running around courtyards and gardens with glass beakers as they fought for the chance to catch the final raindrop. The victorious student would then drink their Liquid Ice before casting the Solidification Spell on the beaker of captured rain, transforming it into a small, glittering sapphire.

Victoria did not participate. The rains of mid-November were weak, and she was waiting for a proper storm with a powerful heart. She watched with incredulity as her classmates made compromise after compromise, sometimes even capturing drizzle which barely even counted as rain. Such behaviour utterly mystified her—didn’t they realise that they would be stuck with this potion for the rest of their lives?

She was not the only student to hang back. Susan and Daphne joined her, after she had explained to them why she was waiting, and Hermione Granger seemed to have figured it out on her own. But the majority of their peers just wanted to get the job done, regardless of result.

Her classmates’ lack of diligence reached a new low when word spread that the Draught of Sparta did not, in fact, require the literal last drop of rain—it was sufficient to use water which had fallen towards the end of a rain shower. From that moment on, the quality of the gemstones dramatically decreased. Victoria even witnessed Ernie Macmillan gathering some water from a puddle, proudly bragging to his friends that he was the only one smart enough to avoid getting wet in the process. His sapphire was the worst of the lot, with rough edges and a murky interior.

While Victoria was waiting for a proper storm, her dinners with Dumbledore continued. He made sure to use a different poison each night, and for weeks she would blunder into one near-death experience after another. Her task seemed impossible. How could she possibly monitor so many different scents, textures, and changes in colour, all while appearing to eat normally? Yet to her great surprise, what had initially seemed like a bewildering mass of information slowly became something more instinctive.

She successfully detected her first poison towards the end of November. The house-elves had served up a delicious-looking portion of humble pie, with perfectly flaky pastry and a deep, gooey red filling. It was the layer of wrinkled cherries on top which gave it away—as her fork sank into the pie, something stirred at the back of her mind.

Wrinkling was a classic sign of Hag’s Spit, a substance which could paralyse children.

“Would you like my cherries, sir?” she asked, looking up to see Dumbledore watching her closely. She tried to keep a straight face, but she was so pleased with herself that a cheeky smile escaped her. “To be honest, I’m not a huge fan of them.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “Thank you, my girl, but I believe I have enough of my own.”

She was so proud that she entirely missed the Mongolian Lemon in her ice cream.

“No fair!” she cried, once Dumbledore had revived her. “If you poison everything, there’ll be nothing left for me to eat!”

As usual, Dumbledore was unmoved by her complaints. “You are making good progress,” he said. “Once you are proficient, you may eat as many puddings as you wish.”

Later that week, Susan finally received a response to the letter she had written to her aunt. The letter arrived during prep, after classes had finished for the day. For the second years, prep occurred in the fourth-floor aquarium, a long gallery of tanks containing exotic fish and colourful plants. The room overlooked the greenhouses, its southerly wall lined with sash windows, and it was through one of these windows that Amelia Bones’ owl entered, barely earning a raised eyebrow from Percy Weasley, their supervising prefect. Such things were normal at Hogwarts.

The owl quickly hopped across the desks to locate Susan, who was huddled with Victoria in their favourite spot, overlooking a tank in which a group of water-fairies were racing seahorses. Not only were the fairies entertaining, they also provided a measure of privacy, with passers-by much more interested in the small gambling industry developing on the other side of the tank. It was there that scraps of parchment made their way to Seamus Finnegan, who was taking bets on the races.

Susan took the letter from the owl, broke the wax seal and nudged Victoria, who was so absorbed by her Herbology homework that she hadn’t noticed the owl’s arrival. The letter read:

DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT

OFFICE OF THE MINISTER FOR MAGICAL LAW

Dear Susan,

Please accept my sincere apologies for the delay in responding to your letter. As you might imagine, the department is rather hectic at present, and it took some time for your letter to reach my desk.

It was ever so good to hear from you, even in less-than-ideal circumstances. I confess, your words have been weighing on my mind. No Ministry official is a stranger to criticism, but it rather hits home when one’s own niece expresses concerns about her safety and that of her friends! I wish I could tell you not to worry, that Hogwarts is completely safe and that the Ministry will handle everything. However, I would not wish to diminish your vigilance in these troubled times. It cannot be denied that a dark force is at work within Hogwarts’ walls, one which is evading capture for the time being.

Your curiosity regarding dark detectors is natural and to be commended, but never forget: a witch’s best defence is always her own wand. There are, however, certain enchanted objects which our department commonly makes use of. Of course, you may find many items like Sneakoscopes for sale in Diagon Alley, but these are so vague as to be almost useless for investigation purposes. Some of the rarer and more powerful items we use are Sympathetic Slippers, which allow you to follow an individual’s steps from their footprint, Foe Glasses, which can provide a vision of one’s enemies, and Fugacious Sand (imported from Arabia at no small cost). I believe you have already seen the last in action, during the recent Ministry investigation at the school.

If you have an interest in such objects, I can recommend “Travers on Tracking and Tracing”. However, you will not find these objects for sale in large quantities, and they are considered valuable items. Regretfully, your interest will therefore have to remain academic at this stage.

I do hope you are well, and please pass along my best wishes to Victoria.

Love,

Aunt Amelia

“But this is perfect!” Susan whispered when she finished reading. “Look! Foe Glasses, which can provide a vision of one’s enemies… that’s exactly what we need, isn’t it? After the Heir poisoned you, surely they’d count as your enemy… if you looked into a Foe Glass, it could tell us who the Heir is!”

Victoria nodded slowly, re-reading the letter carefully. “Maybe… but she says they’re rare, too. I doubt we’re gonna find one just lying around Hogwarts.”

“Well then, we’ll just have to make one,” Susan said, her tone matter-of-fact. She made it sound the simplest thing in the world.

“I don’t even know where we’d start,” Victoria replied. “We don’t study artefacts ‘til fourth year, do we?”

“We’d start here,” Susan said, jabbing her finger at letter. “Travers on Tracking and Tracing. Maybe it’d tell us how to make one.”

In spite of herself, and in spite of her already-overflowing schedule, Victoria couldn’t help but feel the lure of such an interesting magical project. There was, however, an immediate problem. “A book like that’s in the Restricted Section for sure, and it’s Draco’s turn with the pass right now. We’ll have to wait until—”

 “Come on,” Susan said, standing up. “We’ll just ask to borrow it. Draco’s not using it now, is he?”

“Bones!” called Percy, striding over towards them with an officious look. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Victoria stood and fixed Percy with her most Pansy-like glare. “We’re out of ink. It’s not against the rules to borrow some, is it?”

Percy’s cheeks tinged pink. “Be quick about it, then.”

They hurried over to where Draco was sitting with Theodore, all the way at the far end of the room. He eyed them with clear curiosity as they approached, his quill hovering over a half-finished History essay.

“Evening,” Victoria said, taking the empty seat opposite. Susan remained standing behind her, suddenly shy. “I need to borrow the Restricted Section pass, if you’ve got it.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “It’s still my turn, isn’t it? Why do you need it?”

“That doesn’t matter.” It wouldn’t do to broadcast their attempts to catch the Heir, after all. “You’re still reading your mystery book, aren’t you? So it’s not like you need it.”

“But that wasn’t our agreement,” Draco said. “You have it half the month, I have it the other half. You never said anything about having to give it up whenever you wanted it.”

Victoria sighed. It was typical of Draco to force her to negotiate for it. But surely there was a way to persuade him to give it up...

“We’re gonna make a Foe Glass,” Susan blurted out, spilling their secrets for all to hear. “D’you want to help?”

“Susan!” Victoria hissed, but Draco’s eyes were already gleaming with interest.

“A Foe Glass? That’s advanced stuff.”

“We’re thinking about making one,” Victoria clarified, lowering her voice to a whisper. “We won’t know if we can until we get the book. So can we have the pass?”

“No,” Draco said abruptly, and Susan looked like she was about to argue, “but I’ll get the book for you. That way, we can make it together.”

Later that evening, after Victoria had failed to detect the dose of Aqua Igneus in her white wine sauce, she made her way to the library to meet up with Susan and Draco.

Susan was waiting for her outside the west entrance. “Are you okay?” she asked as soon as she saw her. “You’re looking a bit, um, pale.”

“Dumbledore,” Victoria said, waving her hand dismissively, and Susan frowned with disapproval.

“I swear, if the parents found out what he was doing…”

“Well, they won’t,” Victoria said firmly, “because you’re the only person I’ve told.”

They picked out a desk in a remote alcove and awaited Draco’s arrival. It was less than twenty minutes before he approached, a smug expression on his face and a book in his hand. The thick, leather-bound book hit the table with a thud and a cloud of dust.

“Easy,” Draco said. “But then, after all the time I’ve spent in there, I know the Restricted Section like the grip of my wand.”

“Yes, yes, very impressive,” Victoria said, ignoring the way Susan was gazing at Draco with Amortentia-eyes. She flicked to the book’s contents and found the section on Foe Glasses. “Here we go, chapter five…”

They gathered around the book and began to read. Unfortunately, Travers wasn’t like their normal textbooks: this was a practitioner's text for professionals, written in a concise but thoroughly dense style, and it assumed a certain level of basic knowledge on the part of the reader. It therefore took a surprising amount of time for Victoria to finish even the introductory paragraphs.

She moved to turn the page.

“Not yet!”

She sighed and waited for the others to catch up. It was a painfully slow way to read, but it did at least provide plenty of time for her to reflect on the content. By the time they finally finished the chapter, twenty-five pages later, she already had a fully-formed plan in mind.

“Interesting,” Draco said, flicking back to an earlier page to re-read a section. “I think we can do it.”

“But where are we gonna find a boggart?” Susan said, running a hand through her hair. “Never mind catch one!”

“First things first,” Victoria said, drawing her wand. “Do either of you have some parchment?”

Susan rummaged in her bag and withdrew her parchment book. She tore off a large sheet and laid it down on the table.

“Thanks,” Victoria said. “Diffindo,”

She made a circular motion with her wand, and a large, perfectly round section of parchment cut itself out of the scroll. She then gave her wand a twist, speaking no incantation, and the circle of parchment transformed into a pane of perfectly transparent glass, before its surface sank to form a shallow, concave depression. The finished product resembled a giant contact lens.

“Show off,” Susan muttered. She glanced nervously at Draco, who was looking distinctly impressed.

Victoria just grinned. Using magic never ceased to thrill her, and it was awfully satisfying to actually use it for a practical purpose rather than for the sake of completing homework.

“This should get us started, I think. Susan, you do the crossrune in the Quibbler, don’t you? Reckon you can manage the engraving?”

Susan bit her lip. “I can give it a go.”

“Right,” Victoria said, “and I can look into the charm. It’s pretty advanced, but with some reference books I might be able to get it.”

“And me?” Draco asked.

“You’re on boggart duty,” she said. “We need to figure out how to catch one, plus how to find it in the first place…”

“They can’t be too rare,” Draco said. “I remember Becca Hale screaming about one last year.”

“We can all keep an eye out,” Susan said. “Hogwarts has so many dark corners, there must be loads of them lurking around.”

And that was how the creation of a Foe Glass added itself to the long list of Victoria’s many projects. Her presence in the Slytherin common room decreased dramatically as she tried to keep up with everything, with reading on poisons for Dumbledore, work on the Draught of Sparta for Snape, her own interest in Alchemy, not to mention the books which McGonagall and Flitwick continued to recommend… very soon, it all began to feel rather overwhelming, and she found herself longing for the Christmas holidays.

The one upside was that she got to spend more time with Susan. While she researched the fiendishly complex Anamorphosis Charm, Susan would work on the glass itself, slowly and carefully engraving a circle of runes around its rim. It was such painstaking, precise work that sometimes it would take an entire evening just to draw a single rune.

When December arrived, it brought a fierce thunderstorm with it. It hit the school suddenly on a Wednesday, and Susan and Victoria poked their heads out of the library to watch the downpour.

“This is perfect!” Susan cried, and she removed a glass beaker from her bag. “Come on, we can get our gems!”

“You go ahead,” Victoria said, “I’m still waiting.”

Susan looked at her incredulously. “Waiting for what? You’re not gonna get a bigger storm than this!”

“It’s not the solstice yet,” she explained. “There’s still time.”

“Only you,” Susan said with a snort. “Well, even if you’re not getting yours, you can help me get mine.”

“What do you mean, help?” Victoria asked. “How can I—”

Susan grabbed her by the arm and started dragging her out into the courtyard.

“No!” Victoria cried, laughing as she tried to resist, but Susan was stronger than she was. “My hair!”

The rain hit them like a wall, soaking them instantly. Susan raised her beaker to the sky, quickly filling it with water.

“Wait!” Victoria called, having to shout over the roar of the rain, “now we’re wet, you might as well do it properly! The longer you wait, the better the heart!”

So they stood in the pouring rain for almost fifteen minutes. Finally the storm began to pass, the sheets of water thinning out to a gentle pitter patter, and Susan filled her beaker once more.

“Cheers!” she said, downing her vial of Liquid Ice in a single swallow. She then set her beaker down on the ground and drew her wand.

“Congelo!”

The water shimmered and shrank, turning a deep blue as it hardened into the shape of a large, beautifully cut sapphire.

“Wow,” Susan said, picking the gem up and marvelling at the way it caught the light. It was significantly larger than any of the others they had seen, and of a much higher quality besides, with a crystal-clear interior. “I’m glad I waited.”

Victoria gave her a very wet hug. “Congratulations! Now can we please go inside and get dry?”

Christmas approached. Victoria’s ability to detect poisons was finally achieving some form of reliability, and as they entered the final week of term she had managed to go three days in a row without consuming anything deadly.

“You have exceeded my expectations,” Dumbledore said one evening, raising his wine glass in a one-sided toast. “It is time, I think, for you to re-join your peers for meals.”

“Really?” she asked, a smile blossoming on her face even as she noticed that the parsley on her chicken was in fact hemlock. She scraped it off and nudged it to the side of her plate. “Are you sure? You do still get me sometimes, after all...”

“We will continue to meet once a week, to refine and practice your skills,” Dumbledore said. “But it does not do for a young lady to spend her every evening with an old man.”

“Thank you,” she said, and she met his gaze. “For everything, I mean. You didn’t have to do this for me. I know you’re a busy man.”

Dumbledore’s eyes softened. “Never so busy, I hope, that I cannot aid a student in need. Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who require it, Victoria.”

She almost skipped to breakfast the next day, so excited to share a meal with her friends that not even Pansy could dent her mood.

“You know, Vicky, I think you’re in competition with Longbottom to be the last person to get their gem,” Pansy said as she poured herself some juice. “You better get around to it soon, or it’ll be too late.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Victoria said airily, spreading some strawberry jam liberally across a crumpet. “I’ve been keeping an eye on things in Astronomy. Saturn’s in the fourth house and Neptune’s ascendant.”

Daphne frowned. “Which means…?”

“It’s going to rain on Monday.”

“If you’re sure,” Pansy said. “It’s just—I hear Longbottom might have to do his again next year, if he can’t get a hang of the Solidification Spell in time. Wouldn’t that be terrible?”

She sounded delighted.

“Oh, be nice,” Daphne said. “Longbottom’s not a bad sort, after all. And I’m sure Vicky knows what’s she’s doing.”

She did. Monday was the last day of autumn, the winter solstice itself, and by tradition also the last day of term. Just as she had predicted, the dawn broke to a sky pregnant with dark clouds. It wasn’t until the afternoon, however, that those clouds began to discharge their precious cargo, while Victoria was in Charms.

“Professor?” she asked, raising her hand to interrupt a demonstration of the Sunlight Charm. “May I be excused?”

Professor Flitwick followed her gaze out of the window. “Very well, Miss Potter. Good luck.”

She raced through the empty corridors to the North Gate, where she wrapped herself in her cloak before heading out into the waterlogged grounds. The rain was not as heavy as the storm which had provided Susan with her sapphire, but it was relentless, turning grass to mud, gathering in pools and running through rocky gullies down to the lake.

Victoria followed the water downhill. Even though she was wearing her sturdiest pair of shoes, they became drenched almost instantly, her socks squelching unpleasantly as she descended towards the lake. When the path forked, she turned to the right, veering away from Hagrid’s hut and towards the privacy offered by the forest.

She didn’t need to go in far. There were many small inlets on the edge of the lake, their stony shores shielded from view by the encroaching forest, and any one of them would have suited her purposes. She stopped at one such inlet, and there began to disrobe.

Her cloak came first. Lowering the hood, she was immediately buffeted by the freezing Scottish wind, its bite so fierce that it struck her face with an almost physical blow. With her hair flying everywhere, she reluctantly shrugged the cloak off her shoulders, a gasp escaping her as the force of the gale sliced through her thin robes.

Then she took off her black outer robe, rolling it up and wrapping it inside her cloak. Bereft of its meagre protection, her flimsy inner robe was left flapping in the wind, its white fabric becoming heavy and sodden as it was battered by the rain. Steeling her nerves, she quickly took that off too, sweeping it over her head in one smooth movement. It joined her outer robe inside the cloak, and suddenly she was standing there in little more than her underwear.

Her shoes and socks were next, already so wet that there was no point trying to keep them dry. After an ungraceful hopping dance to remove her right sock, her bare feet touched the cool, sandy soil, her toes making impressions on the malleable ground.

Finally, with several furtive looks around to ensure she was still alone, she stripped off her bra and knickers, doing it quickly, as if that would somehow ease her discomfort. They too joined her robes inside her cloak.

She was left exposed, shivering and wet; battered by the wind; naked, alone, and fearful of discovery—just as the Spartans intended.

For hours she stood there, almost in a daze, her arms wrapped around herself as she sought some form of protection from the elements. Her hair was a tangled mess which stuck to her face and shoulders. Her nose was running and her cheeks were red raw. Her toes and fingers were numb, and her ears and jaw ached. Yet still she waited, enduring it all. This was what she had been seeking, ever since Snape had introduced them to the Draught of Sparta. This, she knew, was how she would achieve perfection.

She would collect the last drop of the last rain on the last day of autumn. She would do it as the Spartans had, earning it, fully embracing the power of the season, coming to understand it in a way that no book could teach.

At last the rain began to diminish. The downpour became a drizzle, which turned to a wet mist. Though her lungs ached from the cold, she breathed in deeply, focusing on the fresh, clean smell of clarified air. Some primal instinct called out to her, and she held out her hand.

A single drop fell on her palm.

Carefully, making sure to keep her hand level, she reached with her free hand into her bundle of robes and removed her vial of Liquid Ice. She drank it with a single swig, already so cold that she barely noticed its bitter touch rushing through her veins.

And then, without even retrieving her wand, she cast the spell.

“Congelo.”

Just like that, the water on her palm solidified into a gem. It was small—much smaller than Susan’s—and in the shape of a teardrop. Its colour was a pale blue, so pale that it was almost transparent, and it seemed to glow with an inner light. She looked closer and gasped.

There, deep within the core of her gem, clouds swirled and lighting flashed. The hair on the back of her neck prickled, and she immediately knew that she had never before held an object of such power.

This was not just the heart of any old rain cloud. She had done it. She had captured the heart of autumn itself.

Chapter Text

It caused quite the upset when Victoria returned to the Slytherin common room carrying a brilliant, glowing gemstone. Her hair wet, her robes bedraggled, and feeling quite exhausted, she tried to slip quietly up towards the dorms, fully intending to take a long, hot shower, but Pansy’s magpie eyes immediately zoned in on the glittering gem in her hand.

“What is that?”

Pansy’s outburst drew many gazes, and Daphne gasped when she saw what Victoria was holding.

“Oh! It’s so beautiful!”

The girls didn’t even let her change into dry robes before they began their inquisition, sitting her down on the couch and extracting the full story from her. As she explained what she had done, Victoria was increasingly aware that several nearby couches had gone quiet, not even being subtle about their eavesdropping.

“But why didn’t Snape say we were meant to do it like that?” Daphne asked, as Victoria reached the end of her tale. “We all could’ve had a better gem, if we’d known.”

Pansy snorted. “And how do you think that would go—telling everyone to get starkers and run around outside?” She shook her head. “Would you do it? I know I wouldn’t.”

“I would,” Tracey said, her tone challenging Pansy to disagree with her.

“Well, of course you would,” Pansy said. “It’s hard enough getting you to even wear a towel after a shower!”

The girls laughed; the boys looked at each other with poorly-concealed interest, as if all their suspicions about the girls’ dorms had just been confirmed.

“I guess you’re right,” Daphne said. “The parents probably wouldn’t be too happy about it either. But still… it seems silly to keep stuff like that a secret.”

Victoria shrugged. “That’s Snape, isn’t it? He wants people to figure things out on their own, like with the Arrival of Happi last year.”

“Sink or swim,” Draco declared. “That’s the Hogwarts way.”

By the time everyone had satisfied their curiosity and got a good look at the gemstone, the bell was ringing for dinner. There was barely time for Victoria to take a very rushed shower and change into clean robes, but despite Pansy’s protestations that they would be late, all the girls waited for Victoria before they made their way to the Great Hall.

As always, the kitchens served up a particularly sumptuous feast for the last evening of the term. There was a plentiful supply of turkey with cranberry sauce, thirteen different varieties of stuffing (Victoria’s favourite was the apricot and hazelnut), pigs in blankets, roast potatoes, parsnips, and honeyed carrots, three types of gravy, and all the fresh vegetables you could wish for.

It was exactly what Victoria needed after the battering she had experienced at the hands of the storm, and she ate a quantity of food which would have given Aunt Petunia conniptions, returning not only for seconds but also thirds. She left dinner warm and sleepy, heading immediately to bed, where she drifted off to the sound of Pansy and Daphne packing their trunks.

The holidays arrived the following morning with typical Hogwartian chaos. A flurry of activity overtook the castle as everyone rushed to pack, leaving the dorms littered with discarded robes and other non-essential items. Those students who had remembered to owl-order Christmas gifts distributed them, and some even found the time to visit the Great Hall for breakfast, but the majority made their way to the Entrance Hall with empty stomachs, wet hair, and sleep in their eyes.

The Hogwarts Express would be departing at eight o’clock sharp and, determined to avoid delay, the teachers began sending the students out from the castle in a continuous stream. Like a line of marching ants, the horseless carriages wobbled through Hogwarts’ gates and down the cobbled road towards Hogsmeade station, where they would deposit their occupants before returning to the school for the next wave.

Victoria took a late carriage with the other Slytherin girls. They, at least, had taken the time to prepare properly for the day: Pansy was wearing neat winter robes of royal blue, her dark hair having grown almost as long as Victoria’s, and Daphne looked like she was about to go hippogriff riding, with knee-high boots and a quilted outer-robe. Only Tracey had been caught off guard by the early start. There was a smudge of toothpaste on her ear and her inside-out robes were showing off their seams.

Keenly aware that Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy would be collecting her from King’s Cross, Victoria had dressed to impress. She had picked out a crimson inner robe with fine embroidery, and the heart of autumn was glittering on her chest, securely encased within the pendant of a transfigured copper necklace.

“I love what you’ve done with it,” Daphne said, her eyes lingering on Victoria’s new necklace. “It’s a pity, really… if you took it to a proper jeweller, I bet they could make a really nice setting for it. But I guess you’ve got to use it for the potion.”

“It’ll be worth it,” Victoria said. “A proper Draught of Sparta’s worth a hundred necklaces.”

“Classic Victoria,” Pansy said, shaking her head. “Thinking a potion is better than a necklace.”

“I’m still just impressed you actually got naked in the forest,” Tracey said. “Imagine if someone had seen you!”

Victoria shrugged. It was easy to feel rather cavalier about it now that all the risk was in the past. “Then they’d have got a proper eyeful, wouldn’t they?”

Daphne giggled. “Ohh, imagine if Creepy Creevy was the one to see her... he’d be selling the photos on the train, I bet!”

“Well, if he did, Draco would be buying one,” Tracey said, causing Victoria to blush. “He’s been going on about Vicky visiting him for weeks now.”

“He’d do no such thing!” Pansy said. “Draco’s a gentleman. And besides, he doesn’t like Vicky that way.”

“If you say so,” Daphne said with practised diplomacy, well-used to diffusing arguments before they started. But when Pansy wasn’t looking, she turned and wiggled her eyebrows suggestively at Victoria, causing her blush to deepen. Suddenly she felt rather awkward about her upcoming visit to Malfoy Manor. Draco didn’t really fancy her, did he?

If he did, she dearly hoped that Susan never found out.

They arrived at the station and boarded the train, finding an empty compartment just as the conductor blew his whistle. Brakes squeaked, steam billowed, and the Hogwarts Express began its journey south.

For Victoria, it felt rather strange to be leaving Hogwarts in the middle of the year, and stranger still to be on her way to Malfoy Manor rather than Little Whinging. She was unusually nervous about the whole thing, as if she were heading into a difficult exam, and she became increasingly self-conscious as the train made its way through valleys and across mountains, aware of everything from her tendency to slouch to the way she dropped her ‘t’s.

Hopefully Mrs Malfoy wouldn’t just declare her a lost cause.

As always, it was a long and exhausting journey. Six hours was a lot of time to spend in anyone’s company, especially when confined to a small compartment, and Victoria excused herself to find Susan as they passed through Peterborough. She stayed with the Hufflepuffs for the rest of the trip, showing them her necklace, eating sweets and watching Hannah, Justin and Ernie play exploding snap.

“Won’t you join in?” Hannah asked when they dealt a new hand. “It can’t be very fun, just watching us play.”

“She won’t,” Susan said with a knowing look. “She painted her nails this morning, see?”

She was quite right. Victoria’s nails were a lovely red, matching her robes perfectly.

“Thanks for the offer,” she said, smiling at Hannah, “but I’d rather not chip the polish… not just before seeing Mrs Malfoy.”

By the time the train pulled into London, many hours later, she wanted nothing more than to curl up with a book in front of a fire. She still had a long way to travel, however, so she quickly visited the bathroom to splash cold water on her face. She didn’t want to be falling asleep during the onward journey—what a first impression that would be!

After saying goodbye three times to Susan, she retrieved her trunk and stepped out onto the platform.

“Victoria!”

Draco pushed through the crowd, his parents behind him. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy would stand out anywhere, the pair of them tall and imperious, with the same platinum blond hair as their son. While many parents tried to blend in at King’s Cross by wearing Muggle clothing, the Malfoys had arrived in full wizarding wear: Lucius was looking dashing in his three-piece lounge robes, and Narcissa was the image of elegance in an understated dress robe in a pale pink.

“Mr Malfoy,” Victoria said, bobbing in a quick curtsey. “Mrs Malfoy. Thank you for having me over.”

For all that she regretted her Muggle upbringing, one thing Petunia had successfully hammered into her head was good manners.

“It’s our pleasure,” Lucius said smoothly. “Any friend of Draco’s will always find a welcome at Malfoy Manor.”

“Quite right,” Narcissa said. “And you must call me Narcissa, dear. It’ll be a long three weeks otherwise!”

Victoria doubted she would ever feel comfortable calling an adult by their first name. “I’ll try, Mrs Malfoy.”

Lucius snorted, before gesturing with his cane towards her luggage. “You have just the one trunk, I assume?”

“You mean we’re allowed to bring more?” Victoria asked. She glanced at Draco. “Just wait ‘til Pansy finds out.”

Narcissa laughed, a delightful tinkle which did little to betray true mirth. “I’m sure that Pansy is well aware. It will be Patroclus who forbids it.” She turned to her side. “Will you, Bertie?”

A man appeared out of nowhere, stepping forward as if from Victoria’s peripheral vision—only he was right in front of her. It was just like the Leaky Cauldron. A moment ago, she could have sworn that the space was empty, but now it was as if he had always been there. He was an elderly gentleman, but there was a sharpness to his blue eyes, and he clearly took pride in his appearance. His thinning white hair was neatly combed, and his shoes and buttons gleamed with polish.

“This is Bertrand,” Lucius said, “our Keeper of the Keys.”

“A pleasure, ma’am,” he said, moving to take her trunk by the side handle. Despite his age, he lifted it with casual ease, and even managed to take hold of Draco’s with his other hand.

Narcissa clapped. “Marvellous. Shall we?”

They made their way through the barrier into the Muggle world. Still in their robes, Victoria had expected to feel the weight of a hundred Muggle eyes as they walked through the station, but they barely merited a second glance—whether the result of a Muggle-Repelling Charm, or simply the Muggles’ preoccupation with their own business, she couldn’t tell.

A hippogriff-drawn stagecoach awaited them outside. The coach was tall, black, and sleek-looking, with little in the way of decoration other than silver door handles. It had pulled up right next to the entrance, where the Muggles were forced to divert themselves around it with looks of irritated confusion.

Victoria wondered what they saw. Would they look at the carriage and see a large van? Did the stamping hooves of six hippogriffs sound like the rumble of an engine? Or did they see nothing at all, driven to change direction by base instinct alone?

Bertrand secured their trunks on the roof of the stagecoach before leaning down from the front seat to open the carriage door. Victoria clambered in. It was spacious inside, evidently the result of magical expansion, but fundamentally it was still a carriage: two wooden benches faced each other, their surfaces lined with cushions, and in the centre was a low table with a porcelain tea set atop it.

Narcissa took a seat. “Shall I be mother?” she asked. Not waiting for an answer, she tapped the teapot with her wand, and steam began to pour from the spout.

The door shut behind them and Lucius rapped his knuckles on the roof. Outside, Bertrand cracked a whip.

“Yah!”

The hippogriffs burst into motion with avian squarks. Their hooves thundered on the tarmac, a noise far louder than six animals had any right to make, and the stagecoach careered out of the station, tipping onto two wheels as it turned onto the main road.

Inside, Narcissa was calmly pouring tea into cups. Though the carriage was rocking violently, none of that movement seemed to translate into the interior, which was as stable as any house.

“Sugar, Victoria?”

“Yes, please.”

In truth, Victoria did not much like the bitter taste of tea, but she found that it could be rendered tolerable by the addition of large quantities of both milk and sugar. She took her cup from Narcissa, holding it by the saucer, and blew on the hot liquid.

“Now,” Narcissa said, once everyone had received their cup, “tell me all about your term.”

Draco launched into a long and somewhat rambling account of the last few months. Victoria was quite happy to let him take the lead—this was his family, after all—while she gazed out of the window, listening with half an ear as they weaved through Muggle traffic and onto the motorway.

Quidditch featured prominently in Draco’s version of the autumn term, which contained a mind-numbing level of detail regarding the various drills that he had been practising in Flying. Narcissa listened to her son with a small smile and soft eyes, and it was clear to Victoria that she would have found any subject interesting, so long as Draco was the one speaking.

Lucius was not quite so accepting. “I do hope you found the time to attend some classes, amid all this flying.”

Draco blushed. “Of course, Father. In fact, Professor Snape even gave me an Outstanding for one of my potions.”

“That’s very good,” Narcissa said, speaking as much to Lucius as Draco. “Severus doesn’t award top grades lightly.”

“As you say,” Lucius said, and he waved for his son to continue.

It was when he came to describe the Heir’s various attacks that Victoria was pulled back into the conversation.

“Oh, you poor dear,” Narcissa said, after Draco had finished the story of her poisoning. “To think that such things are happening at Hogwarts, under Dumbledore’s very nose... well, Lucius is one of the governors, as I’m sure you know, and he’s been very busy with keeping an eye on matters.”

“Indeed,” Lucius said, his eyes glinting. “The governors are quite concerned, let me assure you. Unless Dumbledore can put a stop to matters soon, changes will have to be made.”

Victoria shifted in her seat, somewhat uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. She liked Dumbledore, for all his barminess, and he had put a lot of time and effort into teaching her about poisons. But he had also made clear his disapproval of the Malfoys… she supposed it was only fair that the Malfoys dislike him back.

She just hoped she could stay out of it all.

They turned off the M4 where it met the North Wessex Downs, rapidly passing from smooth, straight tarmac onto winding country lanes. Here their journey became much more erratic, and Victoria’s heart was in her mouth as they rocketed between tall hedgerows, almost certain that they would collide with a Muggle car approaching from the opposite direction.

Draco picked up his story from where he had left off, moving on to talk about the Draught of Sparta. He proudly showed his parents his stormheart, which was similar in size and quality to Susan’s.

“Impressive,” Lucius said, holding the gem up to the light. “My own was not nearly as large.”

Draco puffed up.

“But what’s this?” Narcissa said, her eyes on Victoria’s pendant. She reached out hesitantly, her long, delicate fingers probing the air around the gem. “That is no ordinary stormheart.”

Victoria sat up a little straighter. “I might have, um, modified the process. Just a bit.”

“Oh?”

“Well, nothing too different,” she explained, determined to avoid mentioning to the Malfoys that her modifications had involved getting naked in the forest. “Once you know why the potion works the way it does, you can kinda see how to make it… more.”

Narcissa raised an eyebrow. “Quite the achievement, to modify a potion at your age. Especially such a significant one. But perhaps it was to be... expected.”

She looked at Lucius, and there was a challenge in her gaze. It reminded Victoria of the way Pansy would look at someone who was sitting in her favourite spot on the couch.

Lucius just rolled his eyes.

“Aparecium!”

The spell had been cast by Bertrand, just as the hippogriffs looked like they would gallop straight into a thick hedge. The greenery parted before them, forming itself into a tall arch, and they passed through onto a long dirt track. Fields stretched out on either side, as far as the eye could see, each one divided from its neighbour by a low stone wall. To their left, tall strands of golden winter wheat swayed in the wind; to their right, the field was dotted with burrows, out of which poked small reptilian heads.

“They’re mokes,” Draco explained, seeing Victoria’s curious look. “Their skin’s used for shrinking things… bags, gloves, stuff like that.”

“One of our most valuable livestock,” Lucius said. “Sometimes I think Crabbe spends more time fending off poachers than actually looking after the mokes.”

Victoria blinked. “The Crabbes live here?”

“Indeed,” Lucius said. “They’ve been among our leading tenants for several centuries.”

“The Goyles, too,” Draco added. Suddenly the way Vincent and Gregory followed him around made a lot more sense. She had always wondered why they were so close, given that they were nothing alike, but she supposed they had been friends for as long as they could remember.

The carriage continued for several miles down the track. Wheat gave way to peas and broad beans; the moke field was followed by herds of hippogriffs and cattle. Here and there the track would branch, the side paths meandering across the rolling landscape to barns, stables, and rustic cottages with smoke rising from their chimneys.

Finally, the fields ended. A stream cut across the road, which they crossed via a stone bridge, and then they were passing uphill through a small wood populated by strutting peacocks, the trees casting long shadows in the low winter sun.

It was near the top of the hill that Victoria had her first sight of Malfoy Manor. The track curved in a horseshoe shape, cut into the hill just below its ridgeline, and occasionally a gap in the trees would allow her a view across the valley. There, on a plateau right at the heart of the horseshoe, a sprawling, elegant building loomed.

They had arrived.

Victoria’s first impression of Malfoy Manor was one of grandeur. The entrance hall extended upwards through all five floors of the house, and so light and airy that it barely felt like she had stepped inside. A chandelier of crystal glass hung from the distant ceiling, stretching the full height of the room, its shards emanating the same golden glow as the setting sun outside, and a marble staircase circled it, spiralling upwards around the edge of the room. The staircase formed a balcony-like landing at each floor, all the way to the top, where you could look down at the floor below.

The floor itself was taken up by an intricate mosaic of William the Conqueror and Armand Malfoy. As with most magical art, the figures moved, and Victoria couldn’t help but feel judged as she became the focus of William’s gaze.

Narcissa did not waste much time on ceremony. “Well, this is home. Hopefully it’s to your liking.” She set her handbag down on a side table. “Bertie will see to your trunks, so no need to worry about that. There’s still a few hours until dinner—Draco, dear, you’ll give Victoria the tour?”

 Although phrased as a question, Draco knew an instruction when he heard one. “Of course, mother.” He turned to Victoria. “Come on, we’ll start with the East Wing.”

They passed through an oak door into a spacious drawing room. It looked like it had been set up for a photoshoot: every chair, table, and rug was carefully placed, and the room was free from the kind of clutter usually associated with family life. A fire was crackling in the hearth, over which hung a large paining of a squat, stone castle.

“The first Malfoy Manor wasn’t a manor at all,” Draco explained, pointing to the painting. “You can still find bits and pieces of the original castle here and there, if you look close enough, but most of what you can see was added later. The East and West wings, for example—those weren’t built until we got rid of our London house in the eighteenth century.”

“Why’d you sell it?” Victoria asked. “Isn’t it useful having a place in London?”

Draco shrugged. “It used to be, before the Statute of Secrecy. But after wizards went into hiding, there wasn’t much point in going into town every summer. So we expanded the manor instead—that way, you can just hold events here. Those are held in the West Wing though. The East Wing is just for us.”

The tour continued down a long portrait gallery which led to numerous reception rooms, each one having a very specific purpose. One was for music, with a grand piano at its centre, and another was used only for afternoon tea. Next came a parlour, then a study, then a games room. Her favourite room, however, came at the far end of the gallery. It was a cosy library, the shelves lined with uniformly leather-bound books. At the centre of the room were a pair of leather armchairs and a glass cabinet protecting a set of rare first editions.

“This is the Charms library,” Draco said as Victoria explored the shelves, noting a number of titles to come back for later. “We’ve a first edition of the Arcana Ignis, if you’re interested.”

Victoria paused. “I don’t know Latin—not yet, at least. I’ll probably pick it as one of my electives next year. But what do you mean, ‘Charms Library’? How many libraries do you have?”

“I thought you might catch that,” Draco said. “There are six in total, though I’m only allowed in four of them.”

“Oh? What’s in the other two?”

Draco smirked. “I’m sure you can guess.”

She kicked herself for asking the question. Of course the Malfoys had dark magic books. It was probably nothing compared to the Restricted Section at Hogwarts, but a family as old and rich as theirs was sure to have collected a few forbidden books over the years.

“Right. Sorry.”

“Well, this is the end of the gallery,” Draco said. “There’s more to see in the East Wing, but we’ll never drag you out of the Transfiguration library once you’ve found it, so let’s do the south side first.”

He led her through a side door into an extension which ran perpendicular to the East Wing. A similar extension ran off the West Wing, and together with the main house, the two extensions formed a large courtyard to the rear of the building.

“The courtyard was added in the sixteenth century,” Draco explained. “It was the first major renovation since Norman times. That was when the house stopped being a castle and started being a manor, I think. The west extension is basically just a ballroom, but the east side is more functional. I don’t come down here much, to be honest.”

‘Functional’ was about right. The tour took a turn for the perfunctory as he led Victoria past a parchment store, a chandlery, and numerous rooms for the storage of food, including a granary, an enormous wine cellar, and a room stacked to the rafters with wheels of cheese. Eventually, the east extension ended in a spiral staircase.

“Ladies first,” Draco said, inviting her up. “Let’s go find your bedroom.”

The upper floors held an endless series of bedrooms and bathrooms, so many that it felt like the Malfoys would have been able to house a small army.

“How many bedrooms are there?” Victoria asked as they turned down yet another corridor.

“Thirty-six on this floor, and the same again on the second floor,” Draco said. “Those are all guest rooms, though. The family suites are on the third floor.”

Victoria could never imagine having so many guests. She was about to ask how often the rooms were actually used when the sound of a door slamming came from further down the hall.

“Who’s that?” she asked, craning her neck. The corridor was empty.

Draco shrugged. “Probably just a maid.”

“You have servants?” Victoria asked.

“Of course.” Draco snorted. “Can you imagine Mother cleaning all these rooms? Even with magic it would take forever. No, we’ve two maids, a gardener, and a house-elf. Plus Bertrand, of course.”

“Susan had a house-elf too,” Victoria said, wondering what Draco’s was like. Somehow, she could not imagine him fixing pretty bows on its ears like Susan did. “Do all families have one?”

“Not all. They only come with old, magical houses.”

“Like poltergeists?” Victoria asked.

Draco laughed. “I guess that’s one way of thinking of it. Fortunately, house-elves are a bit more useful than Peeves!”

They went up another floor and crossed over to the west side of the building.

“Well, this is you,” Draco said, opening the door to yet another guest room. It felt like a fancy hotel inside. The walls were a panelled oak, illuminated by the flickering flames of an open fire, and in front of the hearth was a large rug made of what looked like a polar bear pelt. There was a sofa next to the window, a large supply of candles and lamps, and the bed was at least twice as large as the beds at Hogwarts, which Victoria had always considered enormous. She even had her own private bathroom with a deep, free-standing bath at its centre and tall windows overlooking the south gardens, which were now shrouded by the dark of winter. A second door led to a separate dressing room.

Victoria grinned as she returned to the main bedroom. She could get very used to this life. “It’s perfect.”

“Good,” Draco said. “You should let Bertrand know if there’s anything else you want. Or Mother, I suppose, if it’s, uh, girl stuff.”

For a moment, an awkward silence stretched out, and Victoria was suddenly very aware that she was alone in a bedroom with a boy. And not just any boy, but one who—according to Tracey—fancied her. She swallowed nervously.

“Right then,” Draco said, breaking the silence. “I’ll, uh, let you get settled in. It’s not long ‘til dinner now, so I guess you’ll want to get ready for that.” He made to leave, then paused at the door. “You should probably wear something nice for dinner. If you didn’t know already, that is.”

Victoria looked down at her dress-robe. Wasn’t it nice enough? She had dressed up especially for Mrs Malfoy, but apparently Draco considered it lacking in some way. She tried ask without coming off as a complete Muggle. “Um… something nice?”

Draco seemed to sense her uncertainty. “Something a bit more formal, I mean. You know, with an outer robe.”

Victoria nodded. She could handle that. “Okay. Thanks.”

He left her to prepare. The moment the door was closed, a tension went out of her, as if she had been holding her breath since leaving the castle that morning. She was utterly exhausted. The journey from Scotland to Wiltshire would have been tiring on its own, but the constant demands of minding her behaviour around the Malfoys had doubled it.

Now that she was alone, she could finally slouch like she’d been wanting to for hours. She could take off her heeled shoes, which had been crushing her toes since lunch. She could ditch her tight-fitting robe, remove her bra, and stretch herself out on the impossibly huge bed. She quickly realised, however, that she was in real danger of falling asleep if she stayed that way.

It took quite the act of discipline to force herself off the bed. Once she was up, however, it became easier to push on, and she set the bath to run while unpacking her robes into the dressing room. Once she was done, she took a nice long bath, taking the time to explore a set of rather expensive-looking toiletries which she had found in the bathroom. They came in tiny glass bottles, had French names like ‘L’extrait de lune’ and ‘Mémoire de l'été’, and each one smelt wonderful. By the time she left the bath, she felt thoroughly rejuvenated and could have sworn that her skin was giving off a slight glow.

 The clock on her mantlepiece told her that she had just half an hour until dinner. She picked out her best inner robe—a simple white robe of chiffon—and paired it with a sky-blue outer robe, one with a deep ‘V’ down to the waist, where it closed to form a long skirt. It was with some regret that she finished the ensemble with the same heeled shoes she had worn on the journey to the manor, before hurrying downstairs for dinner.

Dinner was held in the West Wing of the manor, which was home to three dining rooms of varying sizes, as well as several reception rooms, a smoking room, and an orangery. That evening, they were to eat in the smallest of the three dining rooms, a relatively modest room capable of seating no more than twenty guests.

Having got lost on the way, Victoria was the last to arrive at the small reception room which acted as an antechamber to the dining room. The Malfoys were gathered already, dressed formally but not extravagantly, and Mr and Mrs Malfoy were drinking from steaming goblets of mulled wine.

“Ah, here she is,” Lucius said. He gave her a warm smile. “We were about to send out a search party!”

Victoria ducked her head. “Sorry. I think I went to the wrong dining room.”

“Not to worry, my dear,” Narcissa said, resting her free hand lightly on Victoria’s back. “A guest should always arrive fashionably late, after all.”

With only the slightest force to the small of her back, Narcissa directed Victoria through to the dining room, where five places had been laid at the near end of the long table.

“Is someone else joining us?” Victoria asked, thinking of all the empty bedrooms upstairs. “I suppose you must have guests all the time.”

“We have no other guests,” Lucius said firmly, and there was irritation in his eyes. “The place must have been set in error. Bertrand?”

Bertrand stepped out of peripheral vision, as he had at King’s Cross. He removed the fifth-place setting with a wave of his wand. “My apologies, Sir.”

“No matter,” Narcissa said. “But perhaps you should speak with the maids again, Bertie, and impress upon them the importance of knowing the number of guests present.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

Dinner proceeded thereafter in a pleasant manner. They had braised pheasant for their main course, served with leeks, hazelnuts, and a cider sauce, with mashed potato on the side. Pheasant was a new flavour to Victoria, which made it quite difficult to eat as Dumbledore had taught her, slowly and paying attention for poisons, but as she got used to the flavour, she found that she quite liked it.

Lucius and Narcissa spoke of grown-up things as they ate, discussing a court case involving one of the Malfoys’ ventures, and Victoria was quite happy to let them talk while she ate. As dessert was served, however, the conversation turned to more practical matters.

“Now, we’ve a week until the ball,” Narcissa said. “That is less time than is ideal, Victoria, but I think we can use the time effectively. We’ll need to review your wardrobe, of course, and cover some essentials of manners. Letter writing as well, if we have time, and some visits around the estate. I’m not sure we’ll be able to fit in much in the way of genealogy, but that is something you can pick up well enough from books…”

Draco sighed. “You must give her the occasional break as well, Mother. This is a holiday after all. And she’s my guest.”

Narcissa waved her hand dismissively. “There’s little time for leisure, I’m afraid. You get plenty of that at school. And besides, you have your own duties to look to, Draco.”

Draco made a face. “I’d planned to go flying…”

“Out of the question,” Narcissa said. “At least until you’ve finished everything else. Have you tried on your robes for the ball yet?”

“Yes.”

“And memorised the guest list?”

“Yes.”

“And selected the young ladies with whom you will dance?”

Draco paused. “Not exactly…”

“Well, there you go,” Narcissa said. “I want you to come up with a list by the end of tomorrow. After you’ve danced with Victoria, you’ll be expected to invite the other young ladies to dance, and I need to make sure you’re not insulting anyone important by ignoring their daughter.”

Victoria almost choked on her bread pudding. “I’m sorry, dancing? I have to dance?”

All eyes turned to her.

“Yes,” Narcissa said. “It is, after all, a ball. The high table opens the first dance.”

“That... could be a problem,” Victoria said, shrinking into her seat. Her Muggle upbringing was showing again. “I don’t really know how.”

Narcissa and Lucius shared a look.

“Well then,” Narcissa said, “we shall simply have to teach you.”

Chapter Text

Life at Malfoy Manor was completely different to anything Victoria had experienced before. Each day, from the moment the Malfoys woke, they conducted their affairs with a level of elegance and grace which was completely alien to her. It may have come as naturally to them as breathing, but for her it was a constant learning experience.

She quickly discovered that even breakfast at Malfoy Manor was an event. One did not simply turn up in a night robe and a dressing gown. No, there were all sorts of rules governing the robes worn to breakfast. Women wore sweeping robes made of slinky materials like silk and chiffon, with sashes, belts and shawls, and the men arrived in long tunics, fitted on the top but with a long, loose skirt. Unfortunately, Victoria did not own anything that fit the bill, a fact plainly obvious on her first breakfast at the manor, and from her second day onwards she always awoke to find a breakfast robe laid out on her chaise longue, no doubt arranged by Narcissa.

Breakfast itself was taken in the east-facing breakfast room, the morning sun filling the room, and there was always a fine spread of food on offer. As the family ate, Bertrand would bring the papers and the first owl post of the day, which would often launch long discussions concerning politics or business. The Malfoys owned several dozen owls, housed in their own owlery set away from the main house, and the birds were constantly coming and going with correspondence relating to the Malfoys’ various investments and charitable ventures.

Once the long breakfast was over, it was time for the first robe change of the day, following which Narcissa’s tutelage began. With the Yule ball rapidly approaching, they spent every morning in the ballroom, where Victoria learnt the galliard, brantle, and minuet.

The ballroom was in competition with the entrance hall as the most impressive room within Malfoy Manor. It occupied almost the entire ground floor of the west wing extension, with classical columns of white stone lining either side of the room. Beyond the columns, French doors led out to the gardens on either side of the building, which had the benefit of letting in generous quantities of natural light during the day. The elaborately painted ceiling stood at a double height, and a first-floor balcony overlooked the wooden dance floor below.

The dances which Narcissa taught Victoria were not what she had imagined. These were not like the waltz or the tango, where the partners would hold each other and move around the room together. No, wizarding dances had their roots in older ballroom practices, and the steps were carefully choreographed affairs, the dancers standing in lines or as a circle, performing a complex series of movements which only brought them into occasional contact with each other.

That was not to say that they were easier than the waltz. If Victoria had thought Narcissa a gentle, mild-mannered woman, this impression was quickly corrected by her dance lessons. Narcissa expected immediate obedience, tireless repetition, and no complaints. Unfortunately, it soon became clear that Victoria was not a natural dancer. But for Narcissa’s perfectionism, she would likely have given up on dancing rather quickly.

Giving up, however, was not within Narcissa’s lexicon.

“Again!” she called each time the music stopped, her voice firm and unwavering.  Where necessary, Narcissa filled in for the role of the man, hopping, twirling and promenading opposite Victoria, occasionally coming together to spin her around or lift her into the air. Most of the time, however, she stood back to observe and offer critique.

“Chin up!”

“Feet pointing out!”

“Shoulders back!”

By lunchtime, Victoria was sweaty and aching in places she had never realised could ache. And it wasn’t just her body which was tired. Her mind was full to overflowing with endless combinations of steps, more bewildering to her than any transfiguration theory.

“Good,” Narcissa said, watching Victoria’s feet closely as she completed her final minuet of the day. “You may not feel like it, but we’re making progress. With intensive practice, I expect you to be able to hold your own at the ball—so long as you don’t try anything too showy.”

Victoria snorted. “Fat chance of that.”

Narcissa pursed her lips. “That sound—you must stop making it. Ladies do not snort. Nor do they say ‘fat chance’. You are an intelligent, educated young woman. Speak like it.”

For a moment, Victoria felt the fires of rebellion. Why should she change the way she spoke for Narcissa, when she hadn’t for Petunia? But she managed to check herself. This was exactly what she was at Malfoy Manor to learn.

“Sorry,” she muttered, looking down at her feet.

Narcissa sighed, and used her finger to tilt Victoria’s chin upwards, her touch gentle but firm. “Nor should you look at your feet when you are speaking to someone. It speaks to evasiveness and dishonesty.” She paused. “I think we should start at the beginning, with first impressions. On Friday, you will meet many new people. When they see you, their opinion of you will be shaped by three things. First, they will see you. Your appearance creates the first impression. Then, when you approach, they will smell you. We will need to discuss fragrances before the ball. Lastly, they will hear your voice when you greet them. If you can master all three of these first impressions, those around you will respect you before they even know the first thing about you. Do you understand?”

Victoria nodded slowly. “It’s a bit like a spell, isn’t it?”

“Oh?”

“Well, you’re creating an effect in a person,” Victoria said. “You’re just casting the magic with your robes and so on.”

Narcissa laughed, that same perfectly crafted laugh that Victoria now suspected she had practiced for hours on end.

“How delightful!” she said. “I have never heard it put in that way, but you capture the essence of it. Applied correctly, beauty and charm can be as effective as any curse at bending others to your will. And fortunately for us, the Ministry has not yet outlawed a pretty face.” 

Somewhere in the house, a clock struck twelve o’clock.

“Come,” Narcissa said. “You’ve just enough time to wash before lunch. We shall use the opportunity to discuss fragrance.”

Thus occurred the most humiliating bath of Victoria’s life. Narcissa insisted on supervising to ensure she was doing everything properly, going so far as to demand that a red-faced Victoria demonstrate a satisfactory Depilatory Charm—something she had never needed to cast before, thanks to her metamorphmagus powers. When they were done, Narcissa led her through to the dressing room, where she explained how to select the right perfume.

“As a rule, girls can get away with anything light and fresh, though you must take care to avoid sickly sweet perfumes. With that said, some sympathy for the season would not go amiss. Yule is a celebration of winter; you’d do well to avoid summer scents in favour of woodier tones.”

“Like what?” Victoria had never imagined perfume could be so complicated.

“Bergamot is common, as is cedarwood. If you wanted something bolder, you might try more oriental scents like cinnamon or cardamom, but it’s probably best to avoid those while you’re finding your feet. Here, try this.”

Narcissa selected a glass bottle from the dresser and spritzed Victoria’s neck, filling the air with a fresh, lemony scent with a woody undertone.

“I like it,” Victoria said, breathing deeply. It was amazing how a spray of perfume could transform her mood—she immediately felt more confident, more like a woman than a girl. “Is that jasmine?”

“Close. You’re smelling Osmanthus flower, lemon and cedarwood. Girlish enough to be appropriate, but with a hint of complexity. I think it’ll suit you well. Wear it to lunch and see how you feel.”

After lunch, they proceeded to the study, where their attention turned towards letter-writing. Narcissa typically spent two hours after lunch writing letters, and she had Victoria sit next to her (straight back, knees together) and do the same, drafting letters to her peers. Her first instinct had been to send a letter to Susan, but Narcissa had other ideas.

“You should send Susan a letter before Yule, certainly. But for now, let’s focus on expanding your circle of correspondence. The Patil girls are in your year, are they not?”

“Well, yes,” Victoria said. “I don’t know them very well, though.”

“Which makes this the perfect opportunity to lay the foundation for better relations. You’ll find that even a short note will be well-received. There’s a unique pleasure in welcoming your morning owl to find a personal letter amidst the endless drudgery from Gringotts and the Floo Company. It’s a simple thing to write a few letters, yet it reaps enormous reward.”

Naturally, Victoria’s first attempt failed to live up to Narcissa’s high standards.

“The content is fine, if a bit unexciting,” she said, “but your penmanship is abysmal. You must write with your whole arm, not just your fingers. Here, let me show you.”

She reached over and tapped Victoria’s hand with her wand. The spell stiffened her wrist and fingers—not freezing them entirely, but making them much harder to move—and she was forced to use her shoulder and elbow a lot more. At first it was difficult to overcome the instinct to write with her wrist, but as the afternoon wore on, she could see a visible improvement in the way she formed her letters, with longer, flowing lines beginning to replace her usual cramped, spindly writing.

As Victoria practiced, Narcissa provided a running commentary on her own letters, which she drafted with impressive efficiency and speed.

“This one is for Mr Cuffe, the editor of the Daily Prophet,” she said of the first. “A bit of an odd man, and socially awkward, but he is enthusiastic about obscure words. I always write to him when I discover a new one.”

Her next letter was to Mrs Roper, who lived in nearby Amesbury. “I make sure to send Mrs Roper a letter every week. She’s been ever so lonely since Mr Roper died, I do worry about her.”

By the time Victoria had produced an acceptable letter to Parvati, Narcissa was on her third.

“I think you know Gemma Farley?”

Victoria nodded.

“Well, her grandmother is on the Wizengamot and happens to be a good family friend. I’m writing to let her know about a horrible new road the Muggles want to build nearby. With a bit of luck, the Ministry will arrange for them to change their minds.”

It took a bit of time for Victoria to realise what Narcissa was doing. Without having to memorise anything, without even noticing she was being taught, she was absorbing not only the names of Narcissa’s connections, but also their history and interests.

Once she understood what was happening, she doubled her attention to Narcissa’s words, frequently pausing her letter to Padma to listen to Narcissa’s little stories. Mr Eldron was attempting to grow a new type of cabbage. Miss Savage, an Auror, had recently concluded a three-year hunt for a dark witch who’d been stealing the bodies of rich Muggles. And Mrs Nott, Theodore’s grandmother, had just given birth at the unlikely age of seventy.

She wondered if this was how Pansy and Daphne had learnt, spending years absorbing names and little titbits of information. Each individual fact was little more than trivia, yet together they formed a formidable body of knowledge, an encyclopaedia of wizarding Britain. More than anything else, it was that thought which made Victoria realise just how much catching up she had before her if she wanted to match Pansy’s social graces.

As the week progressed, their letter-writing sessions managed to become Victoria’s favourite activity, a daily fixture which concluded with afternoon tea at three o‘clock. The late afternoon, however, was filled with a more varied schedule.

On the first day, Narcissa performed a detailed review of Victoria’s wardrobe, concluding that she had plenty dress robes, but needed more of everything else, and in particular inner and outer robe combinations, with shoes to match. Most of the time, however, Victoria simply shadowed Narcissa in whatever she was doing that afternoon, from her management of the household staff to her sessions on Wednesdays tutoring the young Eleanor Rosier and Ameera Shafiq. She could already see that Eleanor and Ameera would share a bond similar to Pansy and Daphne, a conspiratorial yet slightly competitive friendship which would likely endure their whole lives.

To Victoria’s surprise, Narcissa’s routine also led her out to the surrounding estate. It seemed that while Lucius was responsible for the Malfoys’ business dealings, Narcissa took the lead when it came to managing their land. She made regular visits to the Crabbes, Goyles, Gibbons, and Greybacks, all tenants who deferred to Narcissa as their landlady. She inspected crops, listened to complaints about a knarl infestation, and discussed planting for spring. Sometimes she even got involved with the farm work, on one occasion going so far as to help Mr Gibbon accept a delivery of mooncalf dung.

Unfortunately, that had meant Victoria was required to help too.

“There should be another spade in the shed,” Narcissa had said, eying the wagon of dung with satisfaction. She’d come prepared for the job, wearing a very practical—though still fashionable—quilted robe. “You can’t levitate it or it’ll just fall apart. We’re going to have to do it the Muggle way, I’m afraid.”

Victoria dutifully retrieved a spade and, very hesitantly, began to scoop up small quantities of the dung. Unlike Narcissa, she had worn a dress robe to the Gibbon farm and she was rather concerned about getting it dirty.

“Come on, girl!” Mr Gibbon called cheerfully. “Put your back into it!”

Narcissa sent her a knowing smile. “There is a time for airs and graces, Victoria, and a time for getting your hands dirty. Families of quality will not judge you for it—like us, they all have a long history with the land. Just imagine you’re in Herbology class.”

Victoria thought back to her first year, when she’d happily got her (then unpolished) fingernails dirty in Herbology. Hadn’t Pansy stood to one side, refusing to get involved and making Tracey do her work for her?  And hadn’t she always wanted to get involved in the garden at Hidebound House, complaining bitterly that Petunia wouldn’t let her?

She scowled, gripped the spade firmly and dug up a large scoop of dung. She wasn’t like Pansy, and she certainly wasn’t like Petunia.

It was not until the day before the ball that Narcissa gave her a day off, assigning Draco the task of showing Victoria around the gardens while she focused on preparing the house for the party.

It had snowed the night before, covering the landscape with a thin layer of white, and the various ponds and fountains had frozen over. Despite the snow, the day was sunny and clear, pleasant enough for Victoria to put on a winter robe and leave her cloak back in the house. She added a tartan scarf she had ordered earlier in the week—Narcissa had been teaching her the importance of accessories—and met Draco by the door to the kitchens.

He led her into the gardens through a tunnel of holly. “I can’t believe Mother’s had you following her all week,” he complained as they departed. “This is meant to be a holiday, but she’s working you even harder than McGonagall!”

Victoria smiled. “Oh, it’s not so bad. I knew what I was getting into, after all. And besides, I bet there’s girls out there who’d empty their vaults for an opportunity like this.”

“You’re not wrong there,” Draco said. “But Mother doesn’t take gold. As if we’d need it! No, she picks her pupils herself.”

“She’s been very kind to me.”

“You deserve it,” Draco said earnestly. Victoria blushed. “No, really—I don’t think I’ve ever seen you fail at anything.”

“Then you haven’t seen me duel,” Victoria said, trying to lighten the mood. He was being very… intense.

“Ah, duelling!” he said. “I guess you’re going to stick with it, next term?”

“Probably. It depends what Susan wants to do… I’m only just getting the hang of duelling though, so it’d be annoying to start something new.”

“I wish we didn’t have to choose,” Draco said. “What if I want to do duelling and quidditch?”

Victoria shrugged. “I guess you could always do one then the other. You know, switch each term?”

But Draco just shook his head with a laugh. “Not on your life. Quidditch is always going to come first for me.”

They reached the end of the tunnel, which led out to a winding gravel path bordered on one side by a tall hedge, and on the other by a broad but shallow stream. The stream’s banks were littered with fairy nests tucked between the rocks, each nest constructed like a tiny house made from twigs, leaves and random garden objects. One of them even had smoke rising from its chimney.

Draco sighed, ignoring the nests entirely.

“You know, if I’d gone to Durmstrang I could’ve done both at the same time—everyone has to do duelling there, it’s one of the core classes.”

“You were down for Durmstrang?” Victoria asked, though there was something familiar about it. Had he told her that before?

“Oh, didn’t you know?” Draco said. “Father thought I should go there instead of Hogwarts, but Mother wanted me closer to home. Honestly, I don’t know what the difference is… Scotland or Svalbard… either way, she’s not going to see me.”

They continued down the path, following the stream downhill, and soon passed by an old greenhouse with grimy windows and shelves full of large, multi-coloured mushrooms. As Victoria peered in through the glass, one of the mushrooms shook itself out of the soil and waddled over towards her, its head tilting upwards as if it were looking back at her.

“Anyway, Father says he’ll teach me to duel over the summer,” Draco said. He kicked a rock at the stream, causing a cloud of nearby fairies to buzz angrily. “He says every proper wizard should know how to duel.”

“There can’t be many proper wizards then,” Victoria said, thinking of her own duelling attempts. She made a mental note never to duel in front of Lucius Malfoy.

“Well, he says that too,” Draco said with a small smile. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Father isn't exactly a fan of the common wizard.”

Victoria laughed. “I got that, thanks.”

They left the stream behind and passed through a gap in the hedge to enter an open field. The snow here had settled thicker, its smooth surface broken only by the footprints of a red-breasted robin. The snow crunched underfoot as they crossed the field, heading towards a gate in the opposite corner.

“Hang on,” Victoria said, frowning. “What did you mean, over the summer? We’re not allowed to use magic over the holidays.”

Draco snorted. “As if the Ministry knows. So long as there’s adult wizards nearby, no one’s going to notice.”

Victoria stopped, momentarily stunned. It made sense, magically. An adult’s magic was different to a child’s, and had a tendency to confuse detection spells. But still...

“That’s not very fair,” she said, thinking of the lack of adult wizards in Little Whinging. “How come some people get to use magic and others don’t?”

Draco shrugged. “It logical if you think about it. If you don’t live near Muggles, and you’ve got an adult around to help if something goes wrong, why shouldn’t you use magic?”

“But I do live near Muggles…”

“Oh, right,” Draco said. “I always forget. Well, obviously you’ll just have to keep visiting us here—that way you can use as much magic as you like.”

Victoria gave him a brilliant smile.

Once they reached the far side of the field, they took the gate to an overgrown track bordered by low hedges. They followed its twisting route for a few minutes, the path curving around until they were facing the house once more, the west wing looming above the far trees.

“Here we go,” Draco said, and he pointed out a stile next to a stone outbuilding covered with ivy. They crossed the stile and found themselves in a series of walled gardens. The first was dominated by a frozen pond full of water lilies; then came a garden containing statues of women, water trickling from their eyes as if they were weeping.

“My great-grandfather brought these back from Greece,” Draco explained as Victoria looked at the statues closely. They were exquisitely detailed, all the way down to the fine lines of their faces. “They were people once, before they ran into a gorgon. Father says the souls of the women are still trapped inside.”

Victoria stepped back. “That’s horrible!” She couldn’t help but imagine what it’d be like to be stuck in stone forever. Would you still be able to think? To see out of those stone eyes, watching the world go by?

“Better than being dead,” Draco said. “Who knows what happens to the soul, after? Maybe it just vanishes. Sometimes I think that when I’m old, I’ll go find a gorgon and get myself trapped in stone too.”

“God, you’re so morbid,” Victoria said, but there was something grotesquely fascinating about the idea. She’d never really thought about the soul before, about what might happen to her own one day. It was a discomforting thought. She looked to the archway leading to the next garden. “Come on, let’s keep going.”

They proceeded through the long chain of gardens back towards the house. There was a half-frozen pool of Japanese Apparating Goldfish, a miniature waterfall which flowed in reverse, and even a hot spring, steam curling off the water in defiance of the season.

“We call these the water gardens,” Draco explained as they used a small wooden bridge to cross over a section of exposed stream. Three statues stood on one side, and a hooded, skeletal figure loomed on the far bank. “Country Wizard did a big piece on them a few years back; we were on the front cover and everything.”

Victoria’s response died in her throat. There was a figure up ahead, not in the next garden but in the one after that, standing beside a dark pond. He was a man, judging by his height, and was wearing hooded black robes which obscured his face. A gnarled yew tree loomed above the pond, and its boughs almost seemed to embrace him. He gave no sign that he had noticed them, though he must have heard them speaking.

Draco hadn’t yet noticed the man’s presence. “You know, some even say these gardens rival the water gardens of Beauxbatons,” he was saying, completely unaware that Victoria was no longer listening. “Though we don’t have any river-elves like they do. Mother’s been looking for one for years, but they don’t come onto the market often. A bit like house-elves, really…”

His words washed over Victoria, the fluttering beginnings of concern taking root in her stomach. Clearly, the Malfoys had another guest. This alone was not surprising—they were a very social family, and had a house designed to play host to large numbers of visitors. No, that was not what troubled her. The worrying thing was that they didn’t want her to know. The extra place at dinner, her first evening at the manor—that must have been for this man. And the person she had heard when Draco had shown her the bedrooms—was that him too?

She just couldn’t understand why the Malfoys would feel the need to keep it a secret. Dumbledore’s warnings about Lucius echoed in her mind, but she tried to put them out of her mind. She was overreacting. Maybe the Malfoys just wanted to respect their guests’ privacy.

There was one easy way to find out.

“... and they attract all kinds of interesting fish, too. I wonder if they conjure them or—”

“Draco, who’s that?”

He stopped short, startled by her interruption, before following her gaze to where the man stood. A guarded look crossed his face, his posture stiffening, and for a moment his mouth opened and closed as he searched for an answer.

“Er… just a gardener,” he said. “We have a couple; I think I told you before.”

It was almost comical, how bad his lie was. The man was clearly not a gardener—he wasn’t doing any work, and he was dressed all wrong to be out working with plants.

Her worry deepened. The Malfoys were definitely hiding something. Still, she wasn’t so stupid as to push the issue, especially not while she was a guest in their home. Further questions would have to wait until she had returned to Hogwarts. For the time being, she would pretend that she hadn’t noticed.

And yet, suddenly she wasn’t so interested in the gardens. She felt exposed, and very alone.

“Come on, let’s go back the way we came. I’m getting cold.”

Chapter Text

Finally, Christmas Eve arrived, and with it, the day of the ball. After a long day of anticipation and preparations, the evening found Victoria standing in front of her bedroom mirror, turning this way and that as she evaluated her appearance.

Her tumblewool dress robe was a revelation. She couldn’t help but stroke the fabric as she stood there, marvelling at its softness. Daphne had been right: it was as light as a breeze, yet it clung to her like cotton. The navy gown had a slightly deeper neckline than she would normally wear—she kept looking down, to check that it was still in place—and it was decorated with elaborate patterns, the knitting so fine that it could have been embroidery. The flared skirt was also extremely swishable.

A knock came on her door, and Narcissa entered without waiting for a response. Her hair was up, showing off sparking diamond earrings, and she was wearing an absolutely stunning dress robe. The daring bodice was made of intricate black lace, with a nude underlay to maintain her modesty, and the satin skirt was ruffled with translucent netting.

“Well now,” she said, walking over to stand behind Victoria, “you look almost a woman.”

Victoria blushed and turned back to the mirror. She didn’t feel like a woman, not when she was standing next to Narcissa. But still… she was pleased. She had glitter across her rosy cheeks, and was wearing her hair down, a silver circlet resting atop her head like a crown. The heart of autumn sat on her chest, still held within the copper necklace. She looked like some kind of fairy princess.

“Is the necklace okay?” Victoria asked. “It’s just some transfigured copper… you don’t think it sticks out too much?”

“No,” Narcissa said, her eyes falling to the glowing jewel. “First and foremost, you are a witch. Never forget that. There is nothing more appropriate than wearing a talisman of your own design. Now, are you ready?”

Victoria’s mind turned towards the dancing to come. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Good.”

They made their way towards the ballroom, the sound of their heels echoing through the empty corridors. Outside, Victoria could hear the steady clip-clop of hooves as guests arrived, and when they passed the windows she was able to glimpse carriages approaching through the darkness, illuminated by a string of lanterns stretching down the long drive. The skydoor was also in full use, and periodic dull thumps sounded from the roof as guests landed.

“How many are coming?” Victoria asked.

“Not more than two hundred,” Narcissa said, speaking as if that were a small number. “We’ll be getting good use out of the guest rooms.”

Victoria blinked. “They’re staying overnight?”

“If they so wish,” Narcissa said. “We could hardly eject them in the middle of the night! I dare say they’d never visit again.”

“And they’re all your friends?” Victoria asked, thinking back to Narcissa’s letter-writing. She couldn’t imagine knowing so many people.

“To one degree or another,” Narcissa said. “We’ve a good turnout this year, for obvious reasons. I just wish you could have studied the guest list beforehand. If we’d had more time… but never mind. Dancing was a higher priority. If you mind your manners, I’m sure the rest will come.”

They entered the west wing and descended a spiral staircase. The majority of the guests would be coming through the entrance hall, but those sitting at the high table would enter through a side door once everyone else was seated.

They emerged from the staircase into a small side passage, where most of the high table had already gathered. Victoria immediately recognised the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge. He had changed little since she had met him at a Muggle ball, back before she had learnt of the wizarding world, but this time he was wearing many-layered robes and holding a lime green top hat. Next to him stood a tall, imposing wizard with short grey hair and a stern face, who carried the most curious accessory: a long, thin box, hanging from his left wrist by a metal chain. The two wizards were huddled together, conversing in whispers, but they looked up as Victoria approached.

Fudge stepped forward with a wide, grandfatherly smile. “Victoria! A pleasure, as always.” He clasped her by the shoulders and they kissed cheeks. “It’s so good to see you out and about, where you belong.”

“Mrs Malfoy was very kind to invite me,” Victoria said, figuring that it was always a good idea to compliment the host. “Hopefully I’ll do her proud.”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine, my dear,” Minister Fudge said. “But where is your partner?”

Narcissa beckoned, and Draco emerged from a huddle further down the passageway. Victoria hadn’t recognised him before: he was dressed in full evening robes, top hat and all, with more layers and shiny silver buttons than she could count. Others might have felt self-conscious in such a formal outfit, but Draco was clearly at ease, moving with confidence.

“Ah, young Master Malfoy,” Fudge said, and he shook Draco’s hand before glancing at Narcissa. “A curious partnership. Dumbledore…?”

“He raised no objection,” Narcissa said. “Wisely, I think. He is wary of gripping too tightly.”

Fudge nodded slowly. “Yes. He’s been at this game a long time. He knows that if you take too firm a hold of something, you may simply break it.”

“Or else watch it slip from your grasp,” Narcissa said.

Victoria glanced between them with a frown. Clearly they were talking about Dumbledore, but it was like they were speaking in code.

She didn’t have time to interpret it. The door at the end of the passageway opened and Lucius stepped through, dressed in the same way as Draco. The sound of two hundred guests accompanied him: the low murmur of conversation, the clink of raised glasses, the clacking of cameras.

“We are ready.”

The high table formed up into a line, two abreast, men on the left and women on the right. Lucius and Narcissa came first, then the Minister and his wife, with Victoria and Draco in third place. The stern-faced man had no partner. He stood to one side, lingering just behind the Minister and his wife.

Bertrand announced them as they entered.

“Mr Lucius Malfoy and Mrs Narcissa Malfoy.”

“Mr Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, and Mrs Faustina Fudge.”

“Mr Septimus Swann, First Lord of the Wand.”

And then…

“Miss Victoria Potter, the Girl Who Lived, and Master Draco Malfoy.”

They swept out of the side passage and Victoria got her first look at the crowd. There were so many of them! The dance floor had been filled with circular tables set with white tablecloths, and the guests were standing to clap as the high table entered.

Looks of undisguised interest followed Victoria as she and Draco made their way through the room. As she passed the fourth table, she gave a small wave: Daphne was beaming at them, while Pansy stood with a tight smile, her clapping perfunctory at best. Victoria was surprised to see the Patil twins at the same table, dressed in matching pink dress robes. Was that why Narcissa had told her to write to them?

Upon reaching the far end of the ballroom, the high table took their places at a long, rectangular table. Lucius and Narcissa sat at the centre, and to Narcissa’s side was Minister Fudge. Next came Victoria, and Draco sat to her left. Off to one side, a camera flashed.

“Well now, I think that went very nicely,” Fudge said, laying a napkin across his lap. “Their faces! We’ll be the talk of Hogsmeade, mark my words.”

“We were only too happy to assist,” Narcissa said. “The photographer is from Witch Weekly, did you know?”

Fudge chuckled. “My dear, you outdo yourself.” He turned to Victoria. “How about that, Victoria? In the society section of Witch Weekly before you’re even thirteen!”

Victoria smiled, suddenly very glad she’d put so much effort into dressing up. “It’ll be nice to have a memory of the ball.” She would have to take a cutting from the magazine and pin it up in their dorm where Pansy could see it. 

Dinner began. Their starters arrived promptly, delivered on gleaming white plates by waiters who appeared from nowhere. Victoria froze when she looked at her plate. She had been served with three scallops resting on towers of pea purée, exactly the same starter as the one Dumbledore had given her in her first lesson on poisons.

How had he known?

She reached for her cutlery, selecting the fish knife without thinking, holding it delicately as Dumbledore had shown her—and from the corner of her eye, she saw Narcissa nod with approval. Victoria smiled. The Malfoys really didn’t give Dumbledore enough credit.

Fudge picked up his knife and fork. “Bon appetit!”

She tucked into her starter, eating slowly, paying close attention to the scents and textures. So far as she could tell, nothing was poisoned.

As they ate, Narcissa engaged Cornelius Fudge in polite conversation.

“I hope your family is well, Minister? I understand your grandson is soon to start Hogwarts.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Fudge said, cutting a beautifully soft scallop in two. “Tiberius, his name is. Naturally, the boy is rather excited… we’ll see how long that lasts!” He winked at Victoria. “For me, I’d say the excitement faded around the due date of my first Transfiguration assignment!”

They all chuckled at his joke.

“Ah, but I’m afraid you’re speaking to the wrong person there, Minister,” Narcissa said with a smile. “You’ll find that young Victoria is quite the swot.”

Fudge raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?” He paused to chew. “But now I think about it, I think I should have known. After all, I have the rare privilege of having seen Victoria in action.”

Narcissa looked at the Minister in askance. “Oh? You’ve met Victoria before, then?”

“Just the once,” Fudge said. “We ran into each other at a Muggle event hosted by their Prime Minister. Dreadfully dull fellow, if you ask me, but Victoria livened up the proceedings with a fine display of wandless magic. Compelled a Muggle into giving her wine, if you’ll believe it!”

Fudge laughed heartily, but Narcissa gave Victoria a disapproving look. “Gracious me! How fortunate you were there, Minister, to stop her from getting into trouble.”

Fudge’s cheeks went pink. “Yes, well, I’d like to think the Ministry has better things to do with its time than investigating girls for a bit of harmless Muggle baiting.” He frowned. “Of course, if Vance has her way, that’s exactly how we might end up—little more than glorified babysitters for the Muggles.”

Narcissa shook her head. “Ah, yes. The Muggle protection initiative. Lucius has told me how much of your attention it occupies.”

 “And growing by the day, I’m afraid,” Fudge said with a grimace. “I don’t think anyone realised the scope of the bill, when Vance first laid it before the Wizengamot. Well, perhaps Burke did—a mind for legal loopholes, that man—but given his reputation, I’m afraid we didn’t pay much attention to him.”

“Oh, but Tankie is such a dear,” Narcissa said. “Has he ever voted aye to anything?”

“Once, I believe,” Fudge said. “He voted in favour of an increase in the dining expenses of Wizengamot members.” He sighed. “In any case, the Wizengamot has spoken, and the Ministry will see its will done.”

“Your hands are tied, then?” Narcissa said. “I know you don’t completely support the policy. Is there no leeway?”

“Not anymore,” Fudge said. “There’s a fair amount of wiggle room written into the Act itself, it must be said. I think most of us imagined that we’d take a light touch to enforcement. You know me—common sense is my motto. But Weasley… well, he’s put me in a bit of a pickle. He got so many Decrees issued on day one, a lot of that discretion went right out the window.”

Victoria frowned. She only had a vague understanding of the matters they discussed—she didn’t read the papers in detail, as Draco did—but Professor Flamel had taught them that the Minister had complete control over the Ministry. Or at least, that was how Brandon Swann had acted. Perhaps things had changed since then.

“But you’re the Minister, aren’t you?” she asked, daring to speak. Petunia would not have approved. “Can’t you do what you like?”

Fudge gave her an indulgent smile. “If only it were that simple, my dear. Yes, I have the legal power… all Decrees are formally passed in the Minister’s name. But in reality, it’s the Heads of Department who make the decisions. I’m little more than a figurehead, I’m afraid.”

Narcissa laughed. “You’re too modest, Minister.” She turned to Victoria. “It’s true, the Minister does not write the laws. But he does choose who to appoint as the Heads of Department. And he can sack them too, if he wants.”

Fudge shot a nervous look towards the photographer from Witch Weekly, who was still wandering the room and taking photos. “Now, now, best not to mention that within earshot of the press. They can be a bit excitable about that sort of thing. And I think you overstate my power.” As Narcissa had, he turned to Victoria to explain. “The Heads of Department are approved by the Wizengamot, you see. And because there’s no point in my appointing someone the Wizengamot is going to reject, there’s always a lot of discussion beforehand over who gets which position. If I started sacking whoever I liked, you can bet it’s me who’d get the boot!”

“In ordinary times, perhaps,” Narcissa said. “But it’s not unprecedented for the Minister to interfere directly. Do you remember all that fuss over the Decree Protecting Pure-Blood Gatherings, back in the Sixties? Minister Jenkins ended up sacking half his cabinet.”

“That was an extreme circumstance,” Fudge said. “It’s all about what you can get away with. For me to interfere now… well, the situation is not yet so extreme.”

Narcissa’s eyes glinted. “Perhaps the Wizengamot can be persuaded that it is extreme. Lucius and I have many friends, as you can see.”

A fleeting look of alarm crossed Fudge’s face, and his eyes wandered down the table to where Lucius was telling an entertaining story to his wife, Faustina.

“I would not wish to rush into things,” he said. “It’s too soon to make proposals to the Wizengamot, I think. I value your counsel, of course, but you are not my only advisors… in this matter, I could only act if there was a consensus.”

“Naturally, Minister,” Narcissa said, bowing her head. “It’s entirely right for you to consult widely on such important matters. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”

They were briefly interrupted by the arrival of the main course. Their starters were whipped away, replaced with a larger plate containing a tiny chicken-like bird, roasted until it had crispy golden skin. It was surrounded by elegant whirls of creamy mashed potato and delicate turned vegetables, all of it drizzled with a meaty gravy.

So far, Dumbledore was two for two.

“Ah, quail!” Fudge said, rubbing his hands together with appreciation. “Have you ever had quail, Victoria? It’s the finest of the game birds, in my opinion.”

“Once,” Victoria said, deciding not to mention that she had originally thought it was chicken, before Dumbledore had told her otherwise. “It smells delicious.”

Narcissa poured Fudge some white wine. “We have a sizeable population of common quail in the forest. I hadn’t realised you were such a fan, Minister. Perhaps, one afternoon, you might accompany Lucius on a hunt and take a few home with you.”

“A most generous offer,” Fudge said, before taking his first bite of the quail. He closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the taste. “One that I’m inclined to accept.”

Narcissa smiled. “I’ll let Lucius know. Of course, you must bring some friends with you, to make a proper day of it. Mr Whitehorn, perhaps?”

Even Victoria knew that name. Devlin Whitehorn was the owner of the Nimbus Racing Broom Company, one of the few wizards whose wealth was discussed in the same terms as that of the Malfoy family.

Fudge shook his head and chuckled. “Take note, Victoria. I have just been manoeuvred quite masterfully.” He turned to Narcissa, who did not seem perturbed by the Minister calling out her scheme. “I’ll ask Devlin if he wants to come, but I can’t guarantee anything. Now, enough talking shop for one night. Tell me, where do you think Tina and I should vacation this spring? We do so value your recommendations…”

Narcissa appeared quite content for Fudge to change the topic, and began to regale him with tales of the Pink and White Terraces of New Zealand, a set of tiered waterfalls which were hidden away from Muggle view.

Victoria turned away, leaning towards Draco to keep her comments private.

“So that’s how it’s done, is it?” she asked quietly. “When people said your family was influential, I guess I imagined more… well, giving people money in envelopes, or… I dunno, meeting people at the docks at night.”

Draco laughed. “I’ve been watching Mother and Father play politics for years. It really just involves making friends with people and then… well, talking to them about stuff.”

“It’s not nearly as dramatic as people make out,” Victoria said. “Or as sinister. From the way everyone speaks about the Malfoys, you’d think you were bribing politicians left, right and centre.” She paused, realising that she may have been a bit too honest. “Er, no offence.”

“None taken,” Draco said. “I’ve heard what people say about us. But you know, poor people always think money’s more important than it is. When you think about it, though, the money doesn’t have anything to do with it. It’s about people.”

“People like Devlin Whitehorn?”

“Exactly,” Draco said. “Whitehorn’s probably the Minister’s biggest supporter, and he’s also a big supporter of the Muggle Protection Act. No idea why—maybe he reckons that without enchanted cars, everyone will have to buy more brooms. But anyway, if we want the Minister to act, we have to change Whitehorn’s mind first.”

Victoria frowned. “So… you’re saying the money’s completely irrelevant?”

“That’s right.”

Victoria looked around the ballroom. Every table played host a full complement of witches and wizards with famous names, the lot of them in expensive robes and jewellery, enjoying elf-made wine and quail hunted on the Malfoy estate.

She gave Draco a flat look. “If money doesn’t matter, then how come everyone here is rich?”

For a moment, he was stumped. It didn’t take him long to come up with an answer, though.

“Okay, yes, most of our friends are in a similar situation to us,” he said. “But that’s the point, isn’t it? Everyone here has plenty of money already, so they’re not really that impressed by it. You can’t buy their friendship. You have to earn it.”

Victoria hummed in vague agreement, feeling like something wasn’t quite right with his logic. His answer didn’t explain why only rich people were invited to their ball. Maybe Draco was right that once you were part of the club, wealth didn’t matter. But it was clear as day that you needed to have money to get your foot in the door in the first place.

Their conversation was put on hold by the arrival of dessert—raspberry tart, as Victoria had expected—and all too quickly it was time to dance. The tables sprouted wooden paws and walked themselves to the sides of the room, clearing space on the dance floor, and a small band set up with violins, flutes, drums and an accordion.

Draco stood and extended a hand to Victoria. “Come on, then,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Charming, Draco,” Narcissa said, taking Lucius’ hand in her own. “With that attitude, I’m afraid you won’t get many girls to dance with you.”

Lucius smirked. “I rather suspect that’s his purpose.”

“It’s fine,” Victoria said, and she allowed Draco to lead her over to the dance floor, where the high table formed two parallel lines of dancers, men on one side, women on the other. Butterflies grew in her stomach—everyone was watching them, and if she made a mistake there would be no hiding it. She looked across at Draco, who was standing opposite her. He didn’t seem nervous at all.

The music began—classical, flowing violins and cello, with a hint of flute—and they started to dance. The men took several steps towards the women, their arms out wide, strutting like the peacocks in the forest, and the women curtsied. Victoria’s curtsy was an awkward, stiff-backed thing compared to Narcissa’s elegant movement, but at least she timed it right, because next she and Draco were locking hands to process to the right.

Victoria was extremely conscious of how clammy her hand was. There was no way Draco could have missed it.

“And... turn,” he whispered, and they parted, the women gliding with twirling skirts in a wide loop around the men before returning to the same spot. Draco glanced at her feet and muttered, “left foot forward.”

Blushing heavily, she quickly corrected her error.

The dance continued in the much the same manner, a complex sequence of coming together then separating once more. Victoria’s nerves settled a little, and she even began to enjoy herself. Though the dance involved little physical contact between partners, there was something a little bit thrilling to the times when they came in close, their eyes meeting and hands clasping. She was acutely aware that this was the first time she had ever held a boy’s hand. When the moment came for Draco to grip her waist and guide her through a small jump, she thought she might die of embarrassment. Her dress barely felt like it was there! But through the embarrassment, her heart raced in a curiously pleasant way.

By the end of the dance, Victoria’s opinion of the minuet had been completely transformed. She curtsied one last time, the watching guests applauding politely, and then the dancers broke apart. A brief moment of chaos followed as the waiting crowd took to the floor, forming up for the next dance, and Draco used the confusion to make his escape. He nodded to Victoria and retreated to the far corner of the ballroom, where Vincent and Gregory were raiding a cheese board.

Victoria found Daphne and Pansy loitering hopefully at the edge of the dance floor. The pair of them looked every inch the pure-blood heiresses they were. If Victoria was a fairy princess, then Daphne was a Greek goddess, her loose, golden hair practically glowing in the candlelight, and she was wearing a mature, off-the-shoulder dress robe of pure white. Pansy was dressed more conservatively in a crimson robe with a high collar, her dark hair up in an elaborate twisted bun.

Next to them was a blonde girl a couple years their junior, who had to be Daphne’s younger sister. She had the same delicate, upturned nose, the same high cheekbones and wide blue eyes… if anything, the young girl was even prettier than Daphne.

“Vicky!” Daphne cried, hugging her enthusiastically. “You did so well! Didn’t she do well, Pansy?”

Pansy frowned at Daphne, who sent her a meaningful look.

“Oh, wonderfully,” Pansy said. “If you ignore the bit where she almost fell over, that is.”

Victoria blushed. Had it really been that bad? “Well, it was my first time.”

“Exactly!” Daphne said. “Her first time, Pansy. Don’t you remember your first ball?”

“No.” Pansy glanced around. “Where’d Draco go?”

Victoria pointed to the corner of the room. “Over there, with Greg.”

“He’s such a boy,” Pansy said with a sigh. “He’s not going to ask me to dance, is he?”

“I don’t think he much likes dancing,” Victoria said. “But Mrs Malfoy said he was supposed to dance, so I guess she’ll drag him back at some point.”

“None of the boys like dancing,” said Daphne’s sister. “Look at them, all huddled together.”

She was right. Most of the boys—even some of the older ones, who had to be approaching their majority—had positioned themselves as far from the dance floor as possible, looming in a sullen group behind one of the columns.

“This is Astoria, by the way,” Daphne said. “Astoria, this is Victoria, but she prefers to go by Vicky.”

Victoria glared at Daphne, who just grinned in response.

“A pleasure,” Astoria said. She cocked her head. “Is it true you were raised by Muggles?”

“Astoria!” Daphne cried. “Daddy told you to be polite!” She glanced at Victoria. “I’m so sorry, she’s always been like this…”

“This is unacceptable,” Pansy said, crossing her arms.

Victoria looked at her in shock. Was Pansy coming to her defence? But no, her gaze was still firmly directed towards Draco.

“I’m going to ask him to dance,” Pansy said, but her uncertain tone contradicted her words. She made no move to leave.

“That’s not how it works,” Astoria said. “The boys ask the girls, Mrs Malfoy says so. It’s tradition.”

If anything, however, Astoria’s intervention seemed to harden Pansy’s resolve. She wavered for just a moment, and then—

“Screw tradition.”

She marched off towards the boys.

The three of them were left watching in amusement as Pansy accosted Draco, gesturing insistently to the dance floor. He was shaking his head.

“This isn’t going to end well,” Daphne said. “She’s going to be insufferable for weeks.”

“More insufferable, you mean?” Victoria said, and she thought she saw Daphne’s lips twitch.

To their amazement, however, Pansy seemed to win the argument. Draco relented, taking her outstretched hand, and the two of them took to the dance floor.

It became immediately clear that Pansy was an excellent dancer. Though she was neither as tall nor as lithe as Daphne, she moved with practiced grace, her head held high, her every movement poised yet flowing with natural ease. She was smiling widely, her eyes alight with simple joy, and when she and Draco came together he would frequently make some comment which would cause her to laugh freely.

Victoria had never seen this side of Pansy before. She was normally so uptight, so perfectly careful in everything from the coordination of her robes to their seating order at lunch, but this Pansy was effortlessly elegant and charming. Inevitably, she caught the eye of the watching guests, and interested eyes followed Draco and Pansy as they spun and skipped, a small crowd gathering at the edge of the dance floor to watch. Victoria couldn’t help but fear that they would be comparing her own dance with Draco to his much more impressive dance with Pansy. Why was that Muggle-raised Potter girl at the high table? they would ask, and not this elegant pure-blood?

“Well, this is depressing,” Daphne said, throwing a glance towards the boys, who had retreated even further from the dance floor. “Pansy getting a dance and not me? The world’s gone mad.” She paused, and then, with a cheeky grin, she held out her hand to Victoria. “Miss Potter, would you do me the honour of a dance?”

Victoria raised her eyebrows. None of the other girls were dancing together. Was it even allowed? But despite Daphne’s smile, Victoria could tell she wasn’t joking. She shrugged and took Daphne’s hand. “Why not?”

“That’s not tradition either,” Astoria said grumpily, crossing her arms. “I’ll tell Mummy.”

Daphne smirked. “Don’t worry, Tori. I’m sure if you wait long enough, some old man will take pity on you.”

Astoria could only scowl at their departing backs.

Dancing with Daphne was very different to Draco. Her hands were softer, her grip lighter, and when they spun, their skirts would swish against each other, causing them to giggle. The dance hadn’t been intended for two girls. Daphne took the role of the man, being both taller and more experienced than Victoria, but she was gentler than Draco had been, merely suggesting their next movement with the lightest of touches, whereas Draco had practically tugged her around the dance floor.

When they reached the far end of the ballroom, Victoria glimpsed their reflection in the enormous window and almost stumbled mid-turn. It was like a beautiful painting on a canvas of shimmering glass, a study in light and dark, their black and blonde hair fanning out with their dresses as they whirled around. It took all her willpower to look away and continue the dance.

Eventually the music slowed, and they locked arms to promenade around the edge of the dance floor.

“You’re really good at this,” Victoria said. “How come you didn’t choose dance at school?”

“I like riding better,” Daphne said. “When you ride, you go places. If you dance, you’re stuck in a studio. And besides, Pansy’s better than me at dancing.”

Victoria snorted. “I guess that’s reason enough.”

When the music stopped, Narcissa approached with the stern-faced man who had accompanied Minister Fudge.

“Good evening, Daphne,” she said, smiling at her former pupil. “I see you’ve kept up with your dancing.”

Daphne smiled. “Mummy insists. And good evening to you, Mr Swann.”

Victoria raised an eyebrow. Swann? She had been too focused on her own entrance to notice the man’s name earlier, but this was surely a descendant of Brandon Swann himself. He was even taller up close, and he still had that box attached to his left wrist.

“Good evening, Miss Greengrass,” Swann said, somewhat stiffly. It was clear that he was not a social creature. “I trust your father is well?”

“As well as ever,” Daphne said. “He’s at the Whitehorns’ tonight, though.”

“A pity,” Swann said. “We have business to discuss.”

Narcissa sighed dramatically. “Tonight is not for business, Septimus, as you well know.” She glanced at Daphne. “Now, Septimus and I were talking, and we agreed that Victoria should not need to dance with other girls at her first ball. Septimus has graciously agreed to step in.”

Victoria smiled weakly. She would have preferred to continue dancing with Daphne, but she could hardly say as much. So she offered him her hand, exactly as Narcissa had taught her, and he directed her towards the dance floor just as a new song was starting.

“So, Mr Swann,” Victoria said, searching for anything to avoid an awkward silence. “I assume you’re related to the infamous Brandon Swann?”

“Indeed,” he said curtly. “My family has a proud history of service.”

Swann moved to stand opposite her in the parallel lines of dancers. There was something almost military about him, a wiry strength that belied his age, and his grey eyes were piercing.

The music struck up once more, and Swann bowed. It was a precise movement, technically proficient but lacking in grace. They began to circle each other, stepping with great deliberation, and Victoria was careful to keep her toes pointing downwards as Narcissa had instructed.

They came together. “Narcissa has much to say about you,” Swann said quietly, directing her in a loop. “She has told me of your interest in a career with the Ministry.”

Victoria blinked. She had no such interest, and certainly had never said anything to Narcissa which might suggest it. In fact, she had barely given any thought to what she would do after Hogwarts.

“It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it?” she asked. “I’m just a second year, after all.”

“To the contrary, now is the perfect time to plan your future,” Swann said. “Why, at your age, I was shadowing Torquil Travers, the Minister for Magical Law.”

That sounded frightfully dull. Really, the only part of the Ministry which interested Victoria was the Department of Mysteries. Still, it would have been quite rude to say as much to Swann, and ruder still to contradict Narcissa. She searched for an answer that might satisfy him.

“My friend Susan—her aunt’s the Minister for Magical Law now. Maybe I could shadow her.”

She had no intention of doing so, but Swann wasn’t to know that.

“A fine start,” Swann said. He held out his arm, intending for them to lock elbows, but he was too tall for her to do it properly. She ended up hanging off his arm like the box he carried everywhere.

“That can’t be comfortable,” she said, nodding to the box. “Do you ever take it off?”

Swann gave her a blank stare. “Of course... there are others charged with its custody. The box may never leave the Minister’s side, but I certainly do.”

Victoria nodded, before skipping three steps to the left. “That’s right… they called you the First Lord of the Wand, didn’t they? Which means there are others. And I guess that means there’s a wand in there.”

“Awfully curious, aren’t you?”

“I’m just trying to figure it out,” Victoria said. She performed a short spin, this time successfully finishing with her left foot forward. “Why would the descendent of Brandon Swann be carrying someone’s wand around for them?”

Swann raised his eyebrow. “You reveal your ignorance too readily, girl. Be sure to stop that, once you start at the Ministry, or they’ll eat you alive.” He sighed. “You are not what I was expecting. I’d wager you don’t even know what you’ve done, coming here tonight.”

“I’m visiting a friend,” Victoria said firmly. “If people read more into it, that’s their business.”

“No. Whether you intend to or not, you are making a statement,” Swann said, raising his arm to let her pass underneath. “Before tonight, everyone had assumed you to be Dumbledore’s creature. And yet here you are, at the very least unaligned. If you will forgive the expression, you’ve practically declared yourself fair game.”

Victoria frowned. Was that why Dumbledore hadn’t wanted her to come? Because it might have reflected badly on him? It was so tiresome having to second guess everything.

“I’m honestly not interested in politics,” she said. “I much prefer magic.”

Swann’s eyes glinted. “Yes, Dumbledore used to say such things. Now he is the Chief Warlock.”

They separated, peeling off from the line of dancers to walk towards its other end. When they reunited, Swann continued.

“You have a choice to make, Miss Potter. You can be a piece in the game, or you can learn to play.”

Victoria bit her lip. “And what if I don’t want to be part of any game?”

“Ordinary people have that option,” Swann said. “Inconsequential people. By birth and circumstance, you do not. Decide now, or someone else will decide for you.”

The music stopped, and the dancers with it, coming to an end in the same positions as they had started. Victoria gave as quick a curtsy as was polite, before rushing off to find Daphne, keen to get a second opinion on Swann’s comments.

Unfortunately, Daphne proved difficult to find. She ended up running into Parvati and Padma first, sitting at a side table at the far end of the ballroom, but neither of them knew where Daphne had disappeared to.

“I think I saw her with Mr Yaxley’s son,” Parvati said. “They were heading up to the balcony.”

“Thanks,” Victoria said, fully intending to leave, but she managed to restrain herself. Narcissa wouldn’t approve if she just brushed the Patils off. “Are you having a good evening?”

“Oh, it’s just magical,” Parvati said with a happy sigh. “Much better than last year. I’ve already danced twice.”

Padma rolled her eyes. “You were basically throwing yourself at McLaggen. Go figure.”

“Don’t listen to Padma,” Parvati said. “She’s just jealous—no one’s asked her yet. Probably because they saw her eating a second dessert.”

“Better a second dessert than a dance with McLaggen,” Padma said. “I definitely got the better deal here.”

Parvati crossed her arms. “Well, one day all that pudding’s going to catch up with you, and then we’ll see who has the last laugh.”

Victoria hesitated, unable to tell whether their argument was genuine or in jest.

“It sounds like you both got what you wanted,” she said, trying the diplomatic route. “You work well together.”

Parvati smirked. “That’s one way to put it.”

“And look—we’re not the only ones who got what we wanted,” Padma added, nodding towards the dance floor. Pansy was still dancing with Draco.

“Oh, but isn’t she just so beautiful!” Parvati exclaimed. “That dress, my god. And even Mrs Malfoy doesn’t dance that well. No wonder Draco can’t look away.”

Victoria scowled. “You were here last year, then?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Oh, yes, every year for as long as I can remember,” Parvati said. “Our parents know each other well. Mr Malfoy always invests in our father’s expeditions.”

“Expeditions?”

“Dad’s a trader,” Padma said. “You know—trips to the Himalayas to get demiguise pelts, or into the Amazon for some aqua vitae—that sort of stuff. But it’s expensive to start a new expedition so you need investors.”

“I think my mum used to do something like that,” Victoria said, thinking back to her meeting with Remus Lupin. “I guess I never really thought about where all the stuff in the apothecary comes from.”

“It’s a lot more boring than it sounds,” Parvati said. “Dad spends all his time talking with arithmeticians and diviners.”

“But how about you?” Padma asked. “You weren’t here last year, obviously. Whose ball did you go to?”

Victoria blushed. “Er, I didn’t go to one,” she said. She couldn’t quite bring herself to admit that she had spent the previous Christmas wearing a paper hat and chatting to Ron Weasley. It all felt so childish now. “Security concerns, you know.”

Parvati exchanged an excited look with Padma. “I wish I was important enough to have security concerns. Do you think you’ll come again next year, then?”

“I don’t see why not,” Victoria said. “I’ll have to practice my dancing, though.”

Padma rolled her eyes. “Not you too! Honestly, we’re modern witches. I don’t know why anyone bothers with all this old-fashioned stuff.”

“Here we go again,” Parvati said, giving Victoria a long-suffering look. “Padma’s one of those girls who likes to tell other girls what they’re supposed to think.”

“Well, that’s an over-simplification if I ever—”

“But if you like dancing, then you should dance,” Parvati continued, raising her voice to push through Padma’s indignation. “Don’t let anyone tell you what to do.”

“I’m not sure Mrs Malfoy would agree with that,” Victoria said. “She’s all about behaving properly.”

“Well then, she’s wrong,” Parvati replied.

Victoria raised an eyebrow. It was a rather bold statement to make within Narcissa’s own ballroom, and awfully definitive. “So if I decided to run across the room naked, that’s okay? I can do whatever I want?”

Parvati paused.

“Hah!” Padma cried. “She’s got you there!”

Victoria never did find out what Parvati would have said in response. A shadow loomed over them; Parvati’s eyes widened, flicking up to look behind Victoria, who turned around to find a man standing there. He was tall, with sandy-blond hair, and young—at least, he seemed so, but it was difficult to tell, because the top half of his face was concealed entirely by an elaborate black mask.

“Miss Potter,” he said, “would you do me the honour of a dance?”

Victoria was too surprised to answer straight away. She hadn’t noticed that a new dance was starting, but now she looked, she could see that the next round of dancers was drifting onto the dance floor.

Parvati came to her rescue. “It’s normally polite to introduce yourself, sir, before asking someone to dance.”

The man’s blue eyes passed over Parvati, dismissing her.

“Plainly, if I had wished to reveal my identity, I would not have worn a mask,” he said. There was something very Snape-like about his dry tone. “Now, shall we dance?”

Victoria frowned. She had no experience of wizarding balls, but it seemed very strange for someone to hide who they were. She cast her gaze around, as if the crowd might provide an answer, and found that Narcissa was watching from across the room. They locked eyes, Victoria trying to communicate her uncertainty, and Narcissa seemed to tilt her head in approval.

 Hesitantly, Victoria held out her hand. “I would be honoured,” she said, using the form of words taught to her. At least she didn’t have to think of something clever to say.

The man took her hand and firmly guided her to the dance floor. They took up position and waited as other couples continued to mill around, gentlemen seeking partners from the ladies gathered at the edge of the dance floor.

“Well now, this is quite the chance,” the man said as they waited. “Long have I wished to meet you—the Girl Who Lived herself!—and now here we are.”

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” Victoria responded, using another one of Narcissa’s favoured phrases. “You’ve spent all this time wanting to meet me, but I have no idea who you are.”

“Nor will you,” the man said, amusement in his voice. “You may as well stop trying to figure it out.”

“Well, what should I call you, then?”

“If you must, you may call me… Squat.”

Victoria frowned. “Squat? What kind of a name is that?”

“A fake one, obviously,” he said. “Now, I believe we are about to begin.”

The music started, and for the fourth time that night, Victoria took her place and gave a curtsy. This dance was a slower one, with partners taking careful, precise steps close to each other rather than spinning and twirling around. Unfortunately, the more sedate pace allowed Squat plenty of opportunity to engage her in conversation.

“No doubt you have been asked many times, but, please, indulge me,” he said. “How was it that a mere baby, one with no bloodline of particular note, was able to defeat the Dark Lord?”

“You’re actually the first to ask,” Victoria said, somewhat put out by his description of her bloodline. “But anyway, I’ve no idea. I was just a baby, like you say.”

Squat turned so that they were shoulder to shoulder. “A pity. There are rumours, you know. Whispers that you possess a power greater than the Dark Lord’s own. But I see little evidence of it.”

Despite herself, she could not help but feel offended. It seemed like there was an insult in his every comment. “There’s no shame in that,” she said, trying to shrug it off. “After all, they say the Dark Lord was the most powerful wizard in history.”

“Hmm. At least you have proper respect,” Squat said. There was a measure of approval in his voice. “Yes, it would take great arrogance for anyone to claim advantage over the Dark Lord himself. But if not superior power, then what could it have been? It is baffling.”

“And why are you so interested?” Victoria asked. “Are you a magical theorist?”

His mouth twisted into mocking smile. “Consider it a… professional interest.”

They began a sequence of long sideways steps, slowly making their way around the edge of the dance floor, moving close to the onlooking crowd. As they passed by, Victoria couldn’t help but notice that Narcissa was still watching them closely. In fact, if she didn’t know any better, she would have said that Narcissa looked nervous.

She and Squat exchanged places, her back turning to Narcissa.

“So how do you know the Malfoys?” she asked, trying to move their conversation towards safer topics. “Are you friends with Mr Malfoy?”

Squat snorted. “Believe me, I would not choose to consort with that traitor, except out of the direst need. Mal foi indeed.”

Victoria’s consternation grew. It seemed he was rude to everyone, not just her.

“But if you don’t like them, then why would you attend their ball?” she asked. It was very strange. “Are you here on business?”

“No. Unlike all these sycophants and hangers-on, the Malfoy gold holds no interest to me. A great man once told me a wizard’s true currency is in magic. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Victoria nodded eagerly, glad to find some common ground. “Absolutely. Who was it who said that? I’ve not heard it before.”

Squat’s eyes glinted. “It was said by the Dark Lord.”

Victoria stumbled in shock—only his firm grip on her shoulder kept her from falling, and he practically pushed her through the next steps of the dance. She now understood Narcissa’s nervousness, and a sense of foreboding grew within her. Was he really saying what she thought?

“You… you met the Dark Lord, then?” she asked, dreading the answer. He was still gripping her shoulder like a vice.

“Met?” Squat said, mockery in his voice. “I consider myself his most faithful servant.”

Her heart thrilled with danger, adrenaline coursing through her with a jolt, making her legs wobble and her stomach churn. All her instincts screamed at her to simply break away and run. It was exactly as Dumbledore had warned. She had walked into the lion’s den, and now she was face to face with a Death Eater.

She struggled to keep a level head. They were in public. He couldn’t do anything to her.

“I could scream,” she said warningly.

Squat seemed unconcerned by her threat, taking her hand and raising it over her head for a twirl. It took all her willpower to turn her back to him for the spin.

“You could,” he admitted. “But believe me, I could kill you before any of them had a chance to help you. Only Swann is a match for me, and he’s the other side of the room.”

“And… is that why you’re here?” she asked, dreading the answer. “To…”

She couldn’t bring herself to say it.

“Kill you?” Squat said, as casually as ever. He said it like someone who had killed many times before. “Perhaps. I haven’t decided yet. It would certainly be amusing to watch Lucius try to wiggle his way out of that one. Or perhaps I merely wanted to get the measure of you.”

Victoria dearly hoped it was the latter. Perhaps she could persuade him to spare her? Maybe, just maybe, she could talk her way out of this mess. Something he had said before came to mind, something about arrogance…

“So, you think you can succeed where the Dark Lord failed, do you? Some would call that presumptuous.”

“Some might,” Squat said carefully. He actually seemed to be taking her words under consideration. “Others might call it the greatest service I could perform for my Lord.”

“But you said it yourself—no one knows how I survived. If you try to curse me, maybe you’ll end up just the same way. Getting blown up isn’t much of a service, is it?”

Squat let the moment drag out. “A nice attempt. But I doubt it, and so do you.”

He raised his hand for another twirl, and she stepped into the turn, taking as much time with it as she could get away with. As she turned, she spotted golden hair at the edge of the dance floor—Daphne, returned from wherever she had disappeared to. Their eyes met, and Victoria seized her chance. She just had time to mouth the word ‘help’ before she was facing Squat once again.

She considered what little she knew about him. He had been very curious about her survival… could she bluff some secret power? At the least, it might keep him talking long enough for Daphne to fetch help.

“You know what?” Victoria said. “I reckon you should do it. Try to curse me and see what happens.”

Squat cocked his head. “You are trying to bait me? Surely you cannot have so much faith in some unknown power.”

“You’re assuming I was telling the truth earlier,” Victoria said. “Maybe I know exactly how I survived. Maybe I just don’t tell people.”

Her words didn’t even give him pause. “No, the truth was in your eyes. You know nothing.”

Victoria’s heart sank—he was so certain! She suddenly remembered that she always lost when the girls played Favours. Why had she tried to bluff? But if she had learnt anything from Pansy, it was that when you bluffed, you had to really commit to it.

“I know enough that you won’t like the results,” she said. “Do you really think I would come here without any form of protection?”

From behind his mask, Squat’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Dumbledore?”

“That’s right,” Victoria said, seizing upon his fear. “Dumbledore wouldn’t have let me out of his sight, would he? Not unless he was sure I’d be safe. I assume you heard about those Death Eaters who tried to find me as a kid?”

For a moment, they danced in silence. It seemed she had sown doubt in his mind.

“And yet,” he said at last, “Dumbledore was never able to penetrate this stronghold, even though his Order tried for years. I cannot see how he would protect you here—not without Lucius’ cooperation. And Lucius is not so far gone as that.”

“But—”

“No,” Squat said. “You are bluffing. You are defenceless. Perhaps I should kill you right now.”

A wave of pure terror took her, turning all her limbs to jelly.

“No!” she pleaded, helpless, about to scream—

Out of nowhere, a body barged into them, taking them by surprise. Squat’s grip loosened, and she took the opportunity to jump back, out of his reach.

“Excuse me!”

It was Pansy. She had stormed onto the dance floor and collided with them as they were dancing.

“Honestly, Vicky, you’re just embarrassing yourself!” Pansy said loudly. Onlookers murmured; the music wavered, and a number of dancing couples even stopped.

Victoria was too stunned to reply.

Pansy turned to Squat. “Sir, I apologise,” she said. “You shouldn’t have to suffer through Vicky’s awful dancing. I mean, god, how many times has she stepped on your feet?”

Squat glanced between Pansy and Victoria, amusement in his eyes. “You’re Patroclus’ girl, aren’t you?”

“That’s right,” Pansy said. She held out her hand. “Allow me to take over for Vicky.”

He gave a wry smile. “It appears I have no choice.”

Squat took her hand, and a moment later Pansy had tugged him away, effortlessly gliding into the next steps of the dance. Victoria was left behind, standing with weak legs at the edge of the dance floor, watching as the other dancers resumed their steps. She felt… empty. It was like the entire experience had been a dream.

A moment later, Daphne was by her side.

“Come on,” she said, tugging on Victoria’s arm, taking her away from the dance floor.  Victoria let herself be led, and Daphne steered her out of the ballroom and into a bathroom of gleaming marble and polished silver.

Trembling, Victoria sat down on the edge of a huge bathtub. Her mind was still oddly numb, but her body was not. She felt like she was going to be sick.

“Are you all right?” Daphne asked, peering at Victoria with concern. “Pansy didn’t overdo it, did she? You seemed like you wanted out.”

Victoria could only sob in response, the sound exploding out of her, as if all the fear and tension were expelling itself from her body. Tears rolled down her face.

“Oh, Vicky!” Daphne cried, clearly surprised by her outburst, and she rushed to hug Victoria fiercely. “What happened? Was it just too much?”

Between sobs, Victoria managed to speak. “That man. He… he was a Death Eater.”

Daphne drew back in shock. “What?”

“He said he was… he was going to kill me.”

“No!”

Victoria nodded. Saying it had helped; she was beginning to be able to think again. “Do you think Pansy is okay? We kinda just left her there.”

Slowly, Daphne nodded. “If he was a Death Eater, she’ll be fine. They wouldn’t hurt a Parkinson.”

Victoria sniffed tearily. “All right for some, I guess.”

“Here, let’s get you cleaned up,” Daphne said. “Your makeup has run.”

She moved over to the sink and started running the water, taking a moment to remove a plethora of beauty products from her tiny clutch bag.

Still feeling rather delicate, Victoria allowed Daphne to pamper her. First she used a warm, porous rock to remove her makeup, the stone absorbing it like blotting paper, and then she refreshed her face with a wet cloth.

“There we go,” Daphne said, now picking up some eye shadow. “I probably won’t be able to copy exactly what you had before, but we can get you looking presentable, at least.”

Victoria sat still as Daphne reapplied her make-up. Eventually, however, she had to ask the question burning at the top of her mind.

“Daphne, was Lucius Malfoy a Death Eater?”

It took some time for Daphne to answer. “No one really knows, do they? He was accused, and people talk… but no one really knows.”

“But what do you believe?” Victoria asked. “I get that you can’t prove it. But if you had to guess?”

“Well, he wasn’t sent to Azkaban,” Daphne said. “That had to be for a reason, right? He must have had a defence.”

“I guess,” Victoria said, frowning. “But then why would there be a Death Eater here, at his ball?”

“Maybe he’s a gate-crasher,” Daphne said, but it was clear she didn’t believe it.

“No,” Victoria said. “Mrs Malfoy definitely knew who he was. And she let me dance with him, even though she knew!”

Daphne shifted uncomfortably. “Look, Vicky… the thing you have to realise is the Death Eaters were everywhere—especially among the old pure-blood families. You’ve probably walked past one every time you’ve visited Diagon Alley. There’s only so many of us, after all. So… do I think the Malfoys were mixed up with Death Eaters, back in the day? Probably, yeah. But so was half the country. You’d struggle to find a family that wasn’t involved, one way or another. But does that mean they’re Death Eaters now? That’s a different question.”

Silence fell as Victoria considered Daphne’s words. Everything had become so complicated so quickly. She wished, in that moment, that she had just accepted Susan’s invitation to go to the Workshop for Christmas. They would have had nogtail, whatever that was, and Mr Bones would have told them stories in front of the fire. Things would have been simple.

But life at Malfoy Manor was different. It was just like Swann had warned her—people weren’t going to let her just keep to herself. They were going to try to drag her into their politics, no matter what she did.

She was the Girl Who Lived. Of course, she had known that ever since McGonagall had welcomed her to the magical world, but she felt like she was only now beginning to understand what it meant. It wasn’t just people knowing her name and pointing at her in corridors. It felt almost like she had a job, a role to play, only it wasn’t a role she had ever chosen, and no one had cared to tell her what the rules were. Now she was behind, with all these people expecting one thing or another from her.

It wasn’t all bad. She doubted she would ever have been invited to such an important event if she had been a normal Potter. But it was increasingly apparent that it had downsides—potentially life-threatening ones, judging by Squat’s appearance. How many more Death Eaters would she run into at events like this?

She would have to be more careful in future, just like Dumbledore had wanted.

“I’m not going to be able to come here again, am I?”

Daphne bit her lip. “That’s your decision. But… it doesn’t seem like a good idea, no. If you want, you can come with me tomorrow morning.”

Victoria’s first instinct was to accept the offer. She didn’t feel safe at Malfoy Manor, not after what had happened. But leaving would be a huge insult to the Malfoys, one she doubted they would forgive her for, and she still had so much she needed to learn from Narcissa.

“I should be fine,” she said, thinking out loud. “Squat—the Death Eater, that is—he clearly didn’t like the Malfoys much. So I don’t think they’re, like, working together or anything like that. I just don’t want to run into him again…”

“Well, he should be gone after tomorrow morning, once everyone leaves,” Daphne said. “After that, it’ll just be you and the Malfoys again.”

Victoria nodded. “Right. And tonight…”

“Tonight you’ll stick with me,” Daphne said firmly. She started to tidy Victoria’s hair, running her hands through the loose tresses to straighten them out. “So long as we’re together, nothing’s going to happen.”

Victoria gave her a weak smile. “Thanks. For… for everything.”

“What are friends for?” Daphne said, and there was a forced cheerfulness to her voice, as if to perk Victoria up. “We can’t have you crying at your first ever ball!” She tucked a few errant strands of hair into Victoria’s circlet and pinned them there. “There you go—what do you think?”

Victoria looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair wasn’t completely right, but she was once again the image of a respectable witch. Daphne finished off by spraying her with a generous amount of perfume, the sweet jasmine invigorating her and restoring her energy.

 “Come back with me?” Daphne asked, and she nodded in the direction of the ballroom. “They’re almost done with the formal dancing. You’ll like the next bit, I promise.”

Victoria hesitated. She didn’t want to dance—she wanted to run to her room, lock the door, and hide until everyone had left. “I don’t know, I’m pretty tired…”

 “I’ll take you to your room, if you really want,” Daphne said. “But do you really think that’ll make you feel better? If you come dance, there’ll be friends and food and maybe even some wine. You’ll be surrounded by people. It’ll be fun!”

That did sound a lot better than hiding in her room. After all, what if Squat found them while they were up there, all alone? No… far better to stay around people.

“Okay,” Victoria said. “You’ll dance with me?”

Daphne gave her a brilliant smile. “Of course! Now let’s go, before they start the first ceili. I bet you’ll feel better the moment you start.”

And to Victoria’s great surprise, she did.

The slow, formal dancing was over, replaced with a much more energetic form set to fast-paced, folksy music. Everyone got involved, even the boys, and they danced in lines and in circles, clapping, stomping, and skipping around, even switching partners mid-dance. Victoria didn’t know the moves but no one seemed to care, and she was swung in quick succession between Daphne, Draco, and Minister Fudge himself, who was red faced but grinning from ear to ear.

“That’s it, my dear!” he called, and then he seized her in a ballroom grip, leading her in a frantic charge down a tunnel of dancers. The crowd cheered as they passed, and when they reached the end they split up and took their places on either side of the tunnel, cheering in turn for Gregory and Parvati as they came next.

In the warmth and bright light of the ballroom, her encounter with Squat quickly passed into dreamlike unreality. It was like it had happened to someone else. Had a Death Eater really just tried to kill her? It seemed so… implausible.

The music carried her worries away, immersing her in the moment. She was safe and surrounded by friends. Her heart beat not with fear, but with the simple pleasure of honest exertion.

The dancing went on late into the night. As Daphne had suggested, Narcissa allowed them a small glass of wine each, the bitter liquid serving only to fuel their giddiness, and it was past midnight by the time that Victoria, Daphne, Pansy and the Patils all stumbled into Victoria’s room, where they practically collapsed onto her bed in a heap.

Before exhaustion caught up with her, she couldn’t help but observe that perhaps balls weren’t so bad after all.

Chapter Text

Malfoy Manor no longer felt the same, after the events of the ball. The vastness of the house pressed in on Victoria, its emptiness more obvious than ever, and she began to imagine Death Eaters lurking in every corner. The shadows lengthened in the airy halls, where looming portraits monitored all activity with suspicious eyes, and the previous tranquillity of the gardens was now a stifling, oppressive silence.

A part of her knew that she was imagining things, that it was she who had changed, not the house. The portraits were just portraits; the gardens were perfectly safe; and Squat was long gone.

That logic was not enough, however, to stop Victoria from locking her bedroom door at night, though she knew it would do little to hold back a determined wizard. She went to bed late and rose early, always the first to arrive for breakfast, enjoying the hustle and bustle of morning activity. She did not like being alone.

Fortunately, Narcissa kept her occupied with dancing lessons, letter-writing, and further work around the estate, the busy schedule helping to distract her from her fears. Now that the ball was out of the way, however, Victoria did not need to practice her dancing with such intensity, which created extra space in her day for Narcissa’s favourite subject: genealogy.

A new routine was quickly set. Every morning, Narcissa would assign Victoria the name of a prominent wizarding family, and it was then her task for the day—between her various other activities—to learn everything she could about them. Once dinner rolled around, Narcissa would then quiz Victoria on what she had learnt.

All this meant spending a lot of time in the Old Library. As the name suggested, it was the manor’s original library, located just off the main entrance hall. It was a bright and airy room, with tall windows casting light onto a wall of bookcases. It was also the largest of the Malfoys’ libraries, containing at least four hundred books, all of them focused on the subjects of history, politics, and wizarding geography. It was here that Victoria was to find books like the Pure-Blood Directory and Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy.

Initially, she had found it difficult to focus on Narcissa’s task. Genealogy was frightfully dull, in Victoria’s opinion, and the Old Library was full of much more interesting books. The first name she had been assigned was the Shafiq family, and she had dutifully proceeded to the Pure-Blood Directory and read the entry there. Her eye was immediately caught, however, by a reference in the text to the family seat in the wizarding settlement of Avalon, which led to several hours pouring over the beautiful, hand-drawn maps of A Fine and Nicely Detailed Atlas of Wizarding Britain.

By the end of the day, she knew rather more about the various wizarding towns and villages which dotted the country, but very little about the Shafiq family. Her ignorance was laid bare in a rather embarrassing fashion at that evening’s dinner.

 “Now, Victoria,” said Narcissa as their main course arrived, “why don’t you tell us what you’ve learnt about the Shafiq family?”

Lucius and Draco looked to her in curiosity.

“Of course,” Victoria said. “The Shafiqs were originally from Lahore, but they came to Britain in the seventeenth century. The current head of the family is Ashraf Shafiq, who sits on the Wizengamot. According to the Pure-Blood Directory, they’re one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families, and they live on Avalon.”

Narcissa nodded encouragingly. “Go on…”

“Uh…” Victoria hadn’t read anything more than that. Hadn’t she said enough? “Well, Avalon is very interesting,” she added, searching for something to say. “It’s an island in the English Channel, but its climate is more like the Mediterranean because of an enchantment cast by Morgan le Fey. It’s fascinating, really, because weather enchantments normally don’t hold for very long at all, but—”

“There is much to be said of Avalon,” Narcissa interrupted, “but that was not your task for today. Surely you have more to say on the Shafiqs? You have mentioned Ashraf, but what of his children?”

Victoria bit her lip. “Um, there’s Ameera…”

“Whom you know from observing my sessions with her,” Narcissa said firmly, disapproval in her voice. “And Ameera is Ashraf’s great-granddaughter. You have skipped several generations, I’m afraid.”

Surprisingly, it was Lucius who sought to extend Victoria a lifeline. “It seems that family trees are not Victoria’s forte. Is history more to your taste? Or magical accomplishments, perhaps? Could you tell us of those?”

Unfortunately, Victoria could not. Unable to bear their enquiring eyes, she looked down at her plate, feeling her face going red. She had never felt so unprepared. She hadn’t realised that Narcissa was going to take this so seriously.

Lucius cleared his throat. “Draco, perhaps you can assist Victoria.”

“Of course, father,” Draco said. “In the time before the Statute of Secrecy, the Shafiq family was prominent in the Mughal Empire. In many ways, they were the Malfoys of the east, close advisors to the emperor himself, and their magic helped usher in the Mughal golden age under Shah Jahan. However, when Jahan died, Ustad Shafiq supported the claim of his eldest son. That turned out to be a bad idea, as he lost the succession to one of his younger brothers. Having fallen out of royal favour, the family fled halfway across the world to Britain, where they settled in Avalon—as Victoria noted.”

“Good,” Lucius said, and Draco sat up straighter under his praise. “Yes, after all those years in India, I imagine Avalon was the only place this side of the Alps that suited their constitution. But what of their magic?”

“They’re best known for their architecture,” Draco responded. “That’s what they were famous for in India, and they brought that magic with them to Avalon. When they arrived, Avalon was still in decline, barely more than some stone huts and fishing boats. That all changed with Ustad, though, and the Shafiq residence there is considered the finest home in Britain, if not Europe.”

Despite her chastised state, Victoria couldn’t help but feel a spark of curiosity. “Finer than here, even?”

Narcissa smiled. “It is a matter of scale, my dear. Malfoy Manor’s beauty is in its subtlety, its understatement. The Shafiqs, on the other hand, prefer a more… palatial aesthetic. Now, Draco, perhaps you can help Victoria with the names of Ashraf’s children.”

As dinner went on, Narcissa and Lucius continued to test Draco on his knowledge of the Shafiq family: the names of all their family members, their business interests, their voting record in the Wizengamot… the questions went on and on, and Draco knew the answers to all of them, though sometimes Lucius or Narcissa would expand upon his answer.

For her part, Victoria was astounded—it was a miracle Draco had any room for magic in his head, with all this history stuck in there—and her trepidation grew with each response he gave. Surely they did not expect her to learn this level of detail for each and every pure-blood family in Britain?

Eventually, dinner came to an end.

“Excellent,” Narcissa said. “You’ve done well, Draco.” She turned to Victoria. “Well, now you’ve had a practice run, and observed Draco’s example, let’s see if you can do better tomorrow.”

Victoria simply nodded in resignation. “Which family is next?”

“Normally we would start with the Sacred Twenty-Eight,” Narcissa said. “However, on this occasion, I think there’s good reason to make an exception. Tomorrow, I wish you to tell me everything you can about the Potters.”

Victoria indeed gave a superior performance the next day, her natural curiosity about her own family serving to bolster her diligence as she prepared, over the course of the day, for Narcissa’s examination. By dinner time, she could recite her ancestors all the way back to Linfred of Stinchcombe, give a detailed account of the Potter family’s contributions to potions and herbology, for which they were best known, and was even able to describe the family home in the Cotswolds, thanks to a sketch she had found in An Overview of Britain’s Magical Homes. The house was closer in size to Susan’s home than Malfoy Manor, and rather more rustic in aesthetic, but its gardens were extensive and said to be home to many rare magical plants—or at least, they had been, before the house had been abandoned in the war.

Once the precedent had been set with the Potters, Victoria found her daily genealogy rather less daunting, though no less time-consuming, especially given that her other lessons with Narcissa continued apace.

With all the time she was spending with Narcissa, there was little to spare for Draco. He seemed rather put out by this state of affairs, especially after she refused to go flying with him, a week after the ball.

“But it’s a Nimbus 2001!” he said, waving a sleek broom in her face. He had received it for Christmas and barely put it down since. “It’s the most advanced broom on the market!”

“In which case, absolutely not,” Victoria said, eyeing the well-polished broom with trepidation. The Nimbus 2001 was a professional broom, the type that went so fast that it was little more than a blur. “I’d probably kill myself. Honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t got injured.”

Draco sighed. “Fine. How about the hippogriffs, then?”

Hippogriff riding sounded little better than flying, but at Narcissa’s encouragement she accompanied Draco out to the stables, where he showed her how to saddle and mount the giant beasts. They actually weren’t so bad once you were mounted—so long as they didn’t go too fast. At one point Draco launched them into a canter which had Victoria holding on for her life, convinced she was about to be catapulted into the air.

That was the last time they went riding.

That night, after a sumptuous dinner and another grilling from Narcissa—this time on the Lestrange family—Victoria retreated to her bedroom and began her new evening routine. She locked the door with the key, cast a Locking Charm on it for good measure, then secreted herself inside her gleaming bathroom. She then ran herself a deep, hot bath, the taps releasing a rush of steaming water mixed with rose petals, the sweet, floral scent filling the room.

After a long soak, she returned to the bedroom in her night robe, picked up her copy of The Eye of the Beholder, and read about the Anamorphosis Charm late into the night, positioning herself in an armchair which faced the door. Dumbledore the cat prowled around her like a guardian, as if he understood her anxiety. When her eyes finally began to droop, she went to check the door one last time.

Still locked.

She turned around—and jumped in shock, a short scream escaping her throat.

A house-elf was standing on her bed.

“Oh!” she said, holding her book to her chest, “you surprised me!”

The elf clutched fretfully at its long, pointy ears. “Dobby was not meaning to surprise you, Miss,” he said. His voice was high pitched, just like Topsy’s. “Dobby has wanted to meet you for so long! Such an honour it is…”

“Is it?” Victoria asked, wondering what interest a house-elf could have in a witch. “Well, er, nice to meet you, I suppose. But… um, you’re kinda on my bed.”

Indeed, now that she had calmed down a little, she couldn’t help but notice how dirty the house-elf was. He was wearing what looked like an old pillowcase, with rips in it to make holes for his arms and legs, and his feet were bare, leaving grubby footprints on her pristine sheets.

Dobby looked down and noticed the dirty marks. His eyes widened, and quite suddenly he jumped off the bed and began hitting his head against the wooden floor, each impact producing a dull thump.

“Bad Dobby!” he shouted. “Bad Dobby!”

For a moment, Victoria was too confused to say anything. “Stop it!” she cried, recovering her senses, “you’ll hurt yourself!”

The elf paused mid-strike. “Dobby must punish himself, Miss. House-elves are supposed to be cleaning mess, not making it.”

“It’s fine, really,” she said quickly, hoping he wouldn’t start hitting his head again. The thunking sound it produced made her stomach turn over. “You can just bring clean sheets, can’t you?”

Dobby practically squealed with excitement. “The great Miss Potter is giving Dobby work!”

He disappeared with a light pop, reappearing a moment later with an armful of pristine white sheets. His long ears were barely visible behind the stack of linen.

“I didn’t realise house-elves could apparate,” Victoria said, watching as he set to the task of making her bed with enthusiasm. “I thought you just went invisible…”

“House-elves are not apparating,” Dobby said from behind her floating duvet. “Not like wizards are. Dobby is being where he is needed inside the House.”

Victoria nodded. “So you couldn’t, say, apparate to Diagon Alley?”

The duvet glided back on top of the bed. “No, Miss. Not unless Master was there.”

“But if you can only go somewhere you’re needed,” Victoria said, “why did you come to my room? I was about to go to bed...”

Dobby paused, looking around furtively before gesturing for her to come closer. She leaned towards him. “Dobby heard Miss talking with Miss Greenygrass,” he said, his voice a stage whisper. “Miss was asking about... Death Eaters.”

Suddenly he had her attention.

“You’re talking about Squat, aren’t you?” she asked. “The Death Eater at the ball? What do you know about him?”

Dobby shifted nervously from foot to foot. “Dobby cannot tell Miss. But Dobby cannot stop Miss following him.”

Victoria raised an eyebrow. She didn’t know much about the enchantments which bound house-elves, but it seemed like Dobby was treading a fine line. The question was, did she really want to go following him around the manor at night? Who knew what he was going to lead her to, and she could easily get into trouble if Narcissa or Lucius caught her. But her curiosity was too strong to be denied… she had to know if she could trust the Malfoys or not.

She put on her slippers and a dressing gown before following Dobby out into the dark halls of Malfoy Manor. The shutters were closed on the lamps, and the faint noise of snoring came from the portraits. All else was quiet, the way ahead lit only by silver moonlight. Dobby led her downstairs, taking cramped side passages and spiral staircases she’d never noticed, emerging into the cavernous kitchens on the ground floor.

Then he made for the back door to the gardens.

“We’re going outside?” Victoria whispered, looking down at her thin robes. She’d freeze out there.

Dobby nodded and Victoria sighed, wishing she had worn her charm bracelet. “Well, so long as we’re quick.”

She regretted her decision almost immediately. It was snowing again, and her feet went numb as the wet seeped into her slippers. They crept around the house’s perimeter, heading towards the far end of the west wing. It wasn’t long before her hands were going numb too.

“Please tell me it’s not much further,” Victoria said. She wiggled her fingers to get some blood flowing. “I don’t much fancy having to regrow my hands.”

“Not far now,” Dobby said, pointing a finger towards the wood where the peacocks lived. “But Miss is having to be quiet, or Master will hear her.”

Victoria’s nerves only grew with Dobby’s words—it was clear that she was about to spy on Lucius himself. She would need to be very careful.

They entered the wood, the evergreen trees blocking out the moonlight above. The canopy at least offered shelter from the snow, but there was something inherently disquieting about being in a wood at night, some primal instinct which screamed at Victoria to retreat home. She reached out and took Dobby’s small hand, relying on him to lead her through the dark.

It wasn’t long before they saw a light flickering between the trees. Dobby held a finger to his lips. They were close. Victoria crouched down and they inched forward, progressing slowly now, taking care to avoid twigs which might snap loudly underfoot. As they got closer, the light revealed a clearing with a fire at its centre, two tall figures standing in the shadows. Luckily, their backs were turned the house.

Lucius’ voice carried through the trees, still too far away to make out clearly.

“… foolish… caught…”

She edged closer, wanting to hear more.

“…Fudge… right there… Swann….”

She still couldn’t hear. Cursing under her breath, she shuffled even closer, taking cover behind a particularly wide tree and poking her face around the side of the trunk. It was a perilous position—all it would take was one look in her direction and she’d be caught—but she could finally hear them properly.

“You seem to have assumed that your place here is assured,” Lucius was saying. Now she could hear him properly, she could identify the short, clipped tone his voice took on when he was annoyed. “Nothing could be further from the truth. You are a guest in our home, and one I am increasingly viewing as a liability.”

“Oh, Lucius,” the other figure said. “You forget who you’re speaking to.”

It took all of Victoria’s willpower to hold in her gasp. She knew that voice. She would never forget it.

“Your home is mine until I say otherwise,” Squat said. “I am—”

“You are no one,” Lucius responded. “More precisely, you are a dead man.”

Victoria’s mind was going a mile a minute. How was Squat still here? Why hadn’t he left with the other guests, after the ball? But the answer was obvious. He had always been there. It was Squat whom she had spotted in the gardens, when Draco had shown her around. And it was for Squat that the extra place had been laid at dinner, her first night at the manor. He was the Malfoys’ mystery guest.

And to think, she had been telling herself she was safe, that Squat had left before Christmas. How wrong she had been! For all she knew, he had been sleeping in the room next to hers! Her every instinct told her to run—to flee back to the house, pack her things, and escape. But she forced herself to stay and listen.

“As it happens, I do not forget old friends lightly,” Lucius continued. “You remain welcome in my home, for… his memory if nothing else. But you must be more discreet. It’s not like the old days. Dumbledore is ascendant, the Ministry practically his. One wrong step and Amelia Bones would be upon us.”

“Caution is all well and good, in principle,” Squat said. “But when a golden opportunity presents itself, how can we not seize it? I’m baffled as to what you’re doing here. Why have you not simply finished the girl off? I’m sure you have ways of arranging it while keeping your hands clean.”

Victoria held her breath. There was no doubt they were talking about her; Lucius’ answer would tell her everything she needed to know.

Lucius sighed. “This is your problem. You’re still fighting a war long since lost.”

“You cannot—”

“No,” Lucius insisted. “The war is over. Here and now, we must make the best of the world as it is. All is not lost. The Wizengamot remains sympathetic, in parts; most still remember a world where they sat only with our Lord’s permission. And the common people, too, still resent many of Dumbledore’s ideas. There are ways to get what we want—peaceful ways.”

“Politics,” Squat spat. “Our Lord never trusted it. Begging for scraps, he called it.”

“Perhaps he should’ve given it greater attention,” Lucius said mildly. “He might not have got himself blown up.”

“You dare!”

“I dare. This is my world, now. And as for the girl—” Victoria leaned forward “—she intrigues me. Narcissa thinks she has potential, and I am inclined to agree. She could be a great asset to the cause.”

Victoria breathed again, relief filling her. Lucius, it seemed, was not a danger to her.

“You exaggerate,” Squat said. “I spoke with her; she seemed to possess no special wit or ability.”

Lucius chuckled. “You are blinded by her history. Surely, during your foolish dance in front of half the Ministry, you noticed the necklace she wore?”

There was a pause in the conversation.

“A trinket,” Squat said, “no doubt purchased in some—”

“It is a nonpareil of her own make, before she is even thirteen,” Lucius said. Victoria frowned at the strange word; she had never heard of it. “I don’t need to tell you the significance of that.”

“But then, all the more reason to be rid of her!” Squat said. “You must do it now, Lucius, while you still can.”

“I will not act so rashly,” Lucius said firmly. “For all her fame, she’s still a child. She is not yet an enemy—and never will be, if Narcissa has her way.”

Squat paused again, before giving a shrug. “Well, I suppose Narcissa does tend to get her way.”

“Just so.”

“I saw her speaking with Fudge, at the ball. Working her magic, no doubt?”

“It’s this infernal Muggle protection law,” Lucius said. “Dumbledore’s fingerprints all over it, of course. He was very clever about this one, though. Teamed up with the merchants and Diggory’s Statute-obsessives. And, naturally, the bureaucrats all love it—more power for the Ministry.”

Squat whistled. “That’s basically everyone except the old families and the moderates. Are you sure you can get rid of it?”

“Narcissa’s working on Whitehorn’s lot,” Lucius said. “They don’t give a fig about Muggles, really. It’s a marriage of convenience only; the moment they see galleons elsewhere, they’ll shift their votes.”

“And that’ll be enough?”

“Perhaps. But we’re also working on Dumbledore; a suitable scandal will put distance between him and the bureaucrats. They do so hate negative press…”

 Sensing the conversation moving onto political matters, Victoria decided to take the opportunity to retreat—better to disappear now, before Lucius and Squat turned back to the house. She turned to see Dobby’s large eyes peering at her. He looked at her questioningly; she nodded towards the house.

As quietly as possible, they returned the way they had come. As they went, Victoria contemplated what she had just witnessed. It was clear that Dumbledore had been at least partially right—Lucius had been a Death Eater. Not only that, but evidently he still believed in ‘the cause’—although truth be told, Victoria wasn’t really quite sure what that cause was. They hadn’t covered Voldemort in History yet; she only knew what she had picked up here and there, from McGonagall and conversations with her fellow Slytherins.

Dumbledore had missed the mark in one important respect, however. Lucius did not want to harm her, nor would he allow Squat to do so. In fact, he seemed to think rather positively towards her… if only in mercenary terms, seeing her as a kind of political tool. It was exactly as Swann had warned her—she was letting herself be used in other people’s games. She didn’t know how to go about fixing that, but she would need to be more wary of it, going forward.

Victoria rubbed her numb hands, trying to get some feeling back into her stiff fingers. Soon she would be back at Hogwarts, away from adults and their tiresome politics, and could once more immerse herself in the simple joy of magic. In the meantime, there would be fire in the house, and maybe even another bath.

When she returned to her room, she didn’t lock the door.

The last day of the Christmas holiday finally arrived. Victoria woke to find her trunk already packed—no doubt by Dobby—so she took the extra time to pamper herself in the bathroom, before changing into her Hogwarts robes and making her way down to breakfast.

As she made her way downstairs, she couldn’t help but take the time to linger over the now-familiar hallways, committing them to memory. Even with her knowledge of Lucius’ intentions, after everything she had been through it would be incredibly foolish to return to Malfoy Manor. This would be her last chance to appreciate its beauty—not that she could let the Malfoys know that. For all they knew, she had enjoyed her visit immensely and was looking forward to returning next year.

Despite her numerous detours, Victoria was the first one to arrive at breakfast. She helped herself to a croissant, poured a cup of sugary, milky tea, and picked up a copy of the Daily Prophet. She flicked quickly through the first few pages, only briefly scanning the headlines, searching for her favourite section: STYLE.

She was thoroughly engrossed in an article about Twilfitt and Tattings’ winter collection when Lucius arrived. He nodded to her, made up a plate of smoked kippers and toast, and took the copy of the Hogsmeade Herald. Narcissa came next, arriving with the aroma of frankincense and cinnamon. Last of all was Draco, whose neatly combed hair was still wet. Just as he arrived, a plate of bacon and scrambled egg appeared.

It was a familiar routine by now. Victoria had stayed with the Malfoys long enough that no one felt obliged to serve her, nor keep her engaged in idle conversation. Breakfast was a time to prepare for the day. Until the post arrived, it was a time for peace and, above all, quiet.

A bell chimed on the wall, announcing a visitor at the front door.

Narcissa frowned. “How odd.”

“Probably a new delivery boy,” Lucius said, waving his hand dismissively. “Let Bertrand handle it.”

They went back to reading. But a few minutes later, Bertrand poked his head around the dining room door.

“Sir, there are some visitors from the Ministry at the door. I’m afraid they insist on speaking with you.”

Lucius’ lip curled. “I see. That Muggle-loving fool Weasley, no doubt?”

“Just so, sir.”

There was silence as Lucius thought, his fingers tapping on the wood of the dining table.

“Shall I eject them, sir?” Bertrand asked. “I can summon the trolls—”

“No,” Lucius said. “They’ll surely have a writ of entry. I’ll speak with them.”

He departed, leaving the dining room in a tense stillness broken only by Draco’s fork scraping on his plate. Minutes passed, and then came the sound of raised voices approaching.

“....have you finally lost your wits?” That was Lucius. “The Act lets you search for Muggle artefacts, not magical ones!”

A softer voice responded. “I’ll be the judge of what’s Muggle and what’s magical, I think. I’m a specialist in—”

“You’re a specialist in no more than cheap robes and too many children!”

“You ought to keep a civil tone, Malfoy. You wouldn’t want to obstruct a servant of the Ministry, would you?”

A pause.

“You’ll be hearing from my counsel, Weasley. Personally.”

“I look forward to it,” Mr Weasley said. “I’ll be sure to pass it on to Madam Bones along with all the others. Now, what’s in here?”

They burst into the room, the red-headed Mr Weasley in the lead, all shabby robes and ink-stained fingers. He was followed by Lucius, quite the contrast in his morning robes, and behind them came a gaggle of Ministry officials who were looking around with undisguised interest.

“As you can see, Weasley, we were at breakfast when you rudely interrupted us,” Lucius said. “Now, whatever you have to do, be quick about it. We must be at King’s Cross for eleven o’clock.”

“We’ll be here for as long as we need to be,” Mr Weasley said, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. “No exceptions. Your money won’t help you today, Malfoy. I suggest you cooperate, if you want it to go quicker.”

Lucius’ lips thinned. “Such convenient timing, coming on the first day of term. It’s almost as if you had planned it.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” Mr Weasley said. “I’ve children of my own, as you know.” He glanced back at his Ministry lackies and brandished a scroll around the room, waving it as if it were a wand. “This will all need to be cleared away. We’ll be doing a thorough search.”

Lucius was about to object further, his mouth opening to deliver what was no doubt another insult, but he was forestalled by Narcissa’s intervention.

“Mr Weasley,” she said, standing up, drawing every eye towards her. “You must, of course, do whatever you consider necessary. Our house is yours. Now, would you like to inform Professor Dumbledore of Miss Potter’s absence, or shall I?”

The look on Weasley’s face was priceless. A frown of confusion, a glance around the room, the moment of realisation when his eyes landed on Victoria—and then, hesitation.

Lucius took the advantage. “You are aware, I presume, of Miss Potter’s security arrangements? I can only imagine what would happen, were she to suddenly miss the Hogwarts Express... I dare say half the Ministry would be mobilised to search for her.”

“We should notify Cornelius as well,” Narcissa added. “He’s personally acquainted with Miss Potter, you see, and takes a keen interest in her security. He’ll want to know that she’s been waylaid.”

“Waylaid?” Mr Weasley said, incredulity in his voice. “That’s a bit of an exaggeration, isn’t it? Anyway, I’m sure Miss Potter understands the importance of Ministry business…”

Victoria looked between them. She realised that the Malfoys were using her, of course—precisely the kind of thing she had sworn to be wary of. However, she really didn’t want to miss the train. Perhaps, on this occasion, it would be best to let herself be used.

“Actually, I don’t,” she said, and she surprised herself at the forcefulness in her voice. “Can’t you just come back another day? I don’t know what you’re expecting to find, to be honest. I’ve been here for weeks and I’ve not seen a single Muggle artefact.”

The crowd of Ministry workers muttered. One of them stepped forward and whispered in Mr Weasley’s ear. From Weasley’s dark expression, it was clear that he was not happy with what they were saying.

“Very well,” he said reluctantly. “We’ll limit our search for now, and will leave by ten o’clock. That should give you enough time to get to London. But I warn you, we’ll have to come back another time to complete the search. Is this acceptable?”

“Acceptable is the last word I would use,” Lucius said, “but it is… agreed.”

Chapter Text

Luckily, Victoria did not miss the Hogwarts Express. Mr Weasley completed his search as promised, and then they were hurtling towards London in a stagecoach, arriving at King’s Cross just in time to rush through the barrier and catch the train.

An enthusiastic reunion with the Slytherin girls followed, as if they’d been separated for years and not mere weeks. Even Pansy greeted her with unusual warmth, before wasting no time in regaling everyone with the list of wizards she had danced with at the Malfoys’ ball. Unsurprisingly, she did not mention that it was Victoria who had opened the ball.

The train crawled north. As the hours stretched on, Victoria found herself resistant to the usual lethargy of the journey, her excitement growing with each mile. She couldn’t help but feel relief at returning to the familiarity of Hogwarts—a strange thought, given the danger presented by the Heir of Slytherin. But at least at Hogwarts there were teachers to look out for her. For all that she had enjoyed many aspects of her visit to Malfoy Manor, returning to Hogwarts felt like returning to safety.

She imagined Professor Dumbledore would be rather pleased about that.

It was a strange experience, returning to the school in the winter. The sun set at four o’clock, making the train ride feel even longer, and the carriages from Hogsmeade Station took them up to the school in complete darkness. There was no Sorting Ceremony, no start-of-year announcements… other than the feast, it was as if it were any other day at school.

Classes resumed the next day without further ado. Their first period was Charms with Professor Flitwick, a gentle start to the term which had the other Slytherin girls green with envy.

“We’ve got Potions with Snape,” moaned Gertrude Mayfield at breakfast, “and I haven’t done my homework. Would they notice, do you think, if I just went to Charms with you instead?”

“Flitwick probably wouldn’t care,” Daphne said, “but good luck getting that past Snape.”

Victoria snorted. He’d probably track Gertrude down and drag her all the way to the dungeons. What had she been thinking, skipping her Potions homework? Especially when they were working on the final phase of the Draught of Sparta. Victoria knew better than to lecture her friends on the importance of homework—she wasn’t Hermione Granger, after all—but they’d get little sympathy from her for their own laziness.

She was halfway to Charms when she realised she’d forgotten to bring her booklet of parchment.

“Crap,” she muttered, rummaging around in her bag in the hope that she had somehow missed it. Nothing. “I’ll meet you guys there—have to fetch something.”

She hurried back down to the dorms, dodging students as she ran through crowded corridors and down busy staircases. She made it to the Slytherin common room in record time, rushed up to the dorm and threw open her trunk.

Her parchment was missing. She lifted books, threw her telescope on her bed, pushed glassware around, but the booklet was nowhere to be found.

There!

A thick, leather-bound book was tucked against the wall of the trunk, and a quick flick-through revealed it to be a diary, completely blank but for the date printed at the top of each page. She didn’t remember packing a diary—or buying one, for that matter—but she was late for Charms and didn’t have the time to be picky. A diary would have to do for now.

She returned to Charms, arriving just as Professor Flitwick was writing the word IMPULSE on the blackboard.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, her eyes scanning the room for a spare seat.

“No matter,” Flitwick said, “you haven’t missed anything. Settle down now, and we’ll get started.”

She took an empty desk next to Lisa Turpin and quietly unpacked her things.

“Quills at the ready!” Flitwick said, addressing the whole class. “You’ll want to take notes on this one. Now, as I was saying, this term we will be studying the topic of complex motion, one of the most useful and fascinating areas of Charms. You will know, of course, that both Charms and Transfiguration are capable of making objects move… but can anyone tell me what the difference between the two is?”

No one raised their hand to answer—unusual for a class shared with Ravenclaw, but Victoria supposed it was a rather abstract question. Inevitably, Professor Flitwick’s eyes landed on her, just as she was writing Transfiguration vs Charms on the first page of the diary.

“Miss Potter, perhaps you could venture a guess?”

She looked up. “When you animate an object with transfiguration, you’re turning it from dead matter into living matter. Basically, you’re giving it a vital force of its own. But a charm can’t change an object’s fundamental nature… if it’s dead before, it’ll be dead after. So you have to do it another way.”

“Two points to Slytherin,” Flitwick said, and she gave him a tight smile. Any other student would have got at least five points for that. “Did everyone write that down?”

A rush of frantic scribbling followed. Victoria just made a few short notes, not needing to record the obvious. She’d known about vital forces ever since she first learnt to animate her origami birds with a drop of blood.

“Yes, Miss Potter is quite correct. In charms, creating movement has nothing to do with an object’s vitality. This creates an interesting conundrum, does it not? How do you give an object movement without giving it life?”

A number of hands went up this time, but Flitwick ignored them, tapping his wand on the blackboard. “Impulse is the answer. This is the extra ingredient which turns levitation into flight. To give a spell impulse, the caster must imbue it with the essence of an animal spirit. As you might imagine, you will need the spirit of a bird to create flight. That spirit provides the spell with two things. Mr Boot, can you give us one?”

“Kraft, sir.”

Flitwick beamed. “Oh, bravo! In the original German at that! Take five points. For the rest of you, the power of kraft was first identified by the German wizard Hennig Brand, who described it as a type of strength which all living things possess. In English, we’d call it willpower. Imbuing an object with kraft grants it one of the most important features of life: the ability to move of its own accord, without being pushed into movement by another object.”

An idea struck Victoria, Professor Flitwick’s words reminding her of the chapter on phosphorous in Natural Magic. The spirit had many connections with light, and if movement charms were infused with spirit then that would mean they had a base of fire.

She lifted her quill and wrote in the diary:

Impulse / spirit / phosphorus / light-bearer / Venus. Counter with cold / dark / damp? Invoke water when cancelling.

She put the quill back down, satisfied with her discovery—but, to her surprise, words continued to fill the page, right beneath her own notes.

Most impressive, the words said, I didn’t make that connection until third year. You must have been studying alchemy. But you might like to consider the non-alchemical implications as well. I’ll give you a hint. Where do you think the kraft is coming from?

Victoria stared at the page, barely hearing Professor Flitwick’s voice as he lectured on instinct, the second aspect of impulse. Was this a prank? Some kind of joke book slipped into her trunk? But no… the words made sense… even as she read them, her mind was making connections, arriving at the idea the book wanted to teach her.

The heart, she wrote excitedly, the charm has no real vitality, so the only source is the wizard themselves, and willpower comes from the heart. It makes so much sense! The heart is fire, too, so you don’t have conflicting powers. But that would mean we have animal spirits in our hearts!

Even as she wrote it, she knew it wasn’t quite right.

Have, the book wrote, or will have.

“... which brings us to totems,” Professor Flitwick said. “In order to imbue your spell with impulse, each of you will need to create an avian totem. With a totem in hand, you’ll be able to start learning the basic charms of movement, and as your skill with those charms develops, so too will the totem. It is a kind of symbiosis... unfortunately, you won’t be able to keep the totem. You see, once complete, the totem must be burned.”

The rest of her classmates frowned in confusion, no doubt questioning the point of creating something only to burn it, but Victoria just nodded. She’d read all about how to create a totem, but now she understood why. First you developed a sympathetic connection with the animal spirit, and then you turned it into fire, the same element as your heart, drawing it into your magic for good.

It was so satisfyingly neat that, for the first time, Victoria wondered if she might actually prefer Charms to Transfiguration. Oh, animation in Transfiguration was more powerful, there was no doubt about that. There was something special about the ability to give objects true life, not just the semblance of it. But the way Charms managed to replicate the same effect was so clever. She could even make her totem out of white phosphorous, if she could figure out how to transfigure some… she was sure that would increase its effectiveness.

She looked down at the diary in awe. No, this wasn’t a prank. It was a gift. A book that could teach her magic? That was the kind of magical artefact legends were made of. Every first year knew that it was impossible to conjure magical knowledge, and yet this diary had just done exactly that. If the world knew about it, whole textbooks would have to be rewritten.

Then again, if the world knew about it, they’d probably take it away from her.

Perhaps she’d keep the diary to herself, just for a bit. She could show it to the Professors later, once she’d learnt all that it could teach her. After all, someone had given it to her—how else could it have got into her trunk—and it would be rude to throw away a gift, wouldn’t it?

“Now, today’s class is going to focus on choosing your totem,” Professor Flitwick said, jolting Victoria from her thoughts. He flicked his wand and a large pile of books appeared on his desk. “I’d like you to look through these books and decide on an animal—don’t worry if you get stuck, I’ll be coming around to provide guidance. A word of warning, however: not all animal spirits are equally easy to master. You should pick a bird which is appropriate both for the task, and for yourself. The robin is a common choice for those wishing a smooth relationship, as are the blackbird and the wren. But let’s see what you like the look of.”

Victoria took one of the books and began leafing through the pages, the columns of dense text broken up here and there by whole-page sketches of birds with fluttering wings. She automatically dismissed the birds Professor Flitwick had mentioned, which were all rather unremarkable, and began looking for something more interesting.

Across the room, Professor Flitwick was giving advice to the Slytherins.

“I’d recommend against the blue tit,” he said to Pansy. “I’m not sure you’d be a good match, my dear. Perhaps… the magpie?”

Victoria buried her face in her book, trying desperately to disguise her sniggering. She focused on the drawings. The sparrow… the crow… the greenfinch… they were all far too tame. She put the book down and fetched another, hoping for better luck.

Professor Flitwick turned his attention to Draco. “Ah... the peacock? Yes, I think that would work nicely…”

Finally, Victoria found what she was looking for. Something nimble and precise. Something small, beautiful, and unique.

She picked up her quill and wrote in the diary:

Hummingbird.

As she had hoped, the diary wrote back.

I don’t recommend it, it wrote. It’s true that the hummingbird is a fine totem for precision work. Control would come to you easily… the perfect match for a future craftswitch, for example. But it would limit you. You don’t want to be a craftswitch, do you?

Victoria frowned. She didn’t know what she wanted to be, but she didn’t like the idea of being limited.

No, she wrote. What’s wrong with the hummingbird? Too small?

Size is irrelevant. The hummingbird is prey. You would never achieve power with so feeble a spirit. No, you should pick a predator, something with both power and agility. It will be more difficult to learn, but once mastered, you will not regret it.

An image of a bird appeared on the page, so detailed that it might have been a photograph. It was not the largest of birds, but it had a sleek lines, a sharp beak and keen eyes. A name appeared under the image: goshawk.

Once again, Victoria was stunned by the book. How could a diary teach her this? It wasn’t just reproducing knowledge; it was advising her. She’d talked to portraits and mirrors enough to know they couldn’t do this—they weren’t stupid exactly, but they were limited, unable to escape their particular obsessions and interests, like toddlers determined to play with a particular toy.

The diary was different. It was as if it had impulse of its own, only with a human spirit in place of an animal one. But that was impossible… wasn’t it?

She picked up her quill.

What are you?

The reply came quickly.

My name is Tom Riddle. Tell me, what’s your name?

Tom Riddle, it turned out, was not a book at all. He was a wizard—or rather, the memory of a wizard, imprinted onto a diary during his sixth year at Hogwarts. Victoria had never heard of a spell like that before, but Tom’s knowledge of magic was vast. There wasn’t a question he couldn’t answer, no matter how obscure, and apparently he had invented the process of creating the diary himself.

It was very easy to become used to having Tom around. The way he explained magic reminded her of Professor Dumbledore, never repeating what she already knew from the textbook, as often occurred in class, but pushing her to think about deeper questions of why and how. Unlike Professor Dumbledore, however, Tom was always there, and she’d taken to keeping the diary next to her in the evenings as she did her homework.

The only problem was that Tom didn’t always want to answer her questions. He outright refused to tell her anything more about how he had created the diary, and often he would insist on Victoria answering some question about herself before he would help her with magic. She couldn’t really blame him—it must have been dreadfully dull, being trapped in a diary for decades—but it was quite inconvenient.

He was oddly curious about her life. She told him about how she was an orphan, how she’d grown up with Muggles, and how she had been experimenting with magic since before she had heard of Hogwarts. Tom was especially interested in that. She even ended up telling him that she was a metamorphmagus, something she had only ever confided in Susan, but she figured her secrets were safe with a book.

Tom had been particularly surprised when she happened to mention the year.

I have very little sense of time, he explained, I can perceive some of the world, but only when someone is interacting with me. The last I knew, it was 1943. Tell me, who is the Minister for Magic?

Thus began a long sequence of questions about the wider magical world, temporarily displacing his interest in Victoria.

Was Grindelwald defeated?

Who is the Defence Master at Hogwarts?

Do the modernisers still dominate the Wizengamot?

Have there been problems with dark wizards in Britain?

Her response to the last one provoked a curious reaction.

Not recently, she wrote. There used to be a dark wizard called Voldemort, but he was killed.

How fortunate, Tom wrote back, but then he went quiet. He didn’t respond to any of her messages for hours, and when he did, he had stopped asking questions about the world.

On the first Saturday after the start of term, Victoria finally had a chance to catch up with Susan. They bought some Honeydukes cocoa from the Weasley twins, retreated to the relative warmth of greenhouse five, and huddled around Susan’s cauldron as they made hot chocolate with milk from the greenhouse pump.

“I’ve got something to tell you,” Victoria said as she stirred the simmering milk, the steam rising to fog the glass walls. “You have to promise not to tell anyone, though. Especially your aunt.”

Susan frowned. “Aunt Amelia? But why would I tell her?”

“It’s… about the Malfoys,” Victoria said. She pulled a pair of mugs from her bag and set them down on the stone floor, before using a ladle to fill them with the hot milk. The moment the milk hit the cocoa, it transformed into a thick, chocolatey liquid. “Do you swear on your wand?”

Susan hesitated for a moment. To swear on your wand was a serious undertaking indeed. But after a moment’s thought, she touched a finger to her wand, hanging from a loop at her waist, and said, “I swear it.”

Satisfied, Victoria told Susan everything that had occurred at Malfoy Manor: Narcissa’s lessons and the ball, her encounter with Squat, his threat to kill her and her timely rescue by Pansy and Daphne, and the conversation she had overheard in the forest at night. Susan listened attentively and without interruption, sipping her hot chocolate until Victoria was finished.

“Wow,” Susan said at last, looking somewhat overwhelmed by everything she had been told. “That sounds scary. Death Eaters! It’s like something from a ghost story. Sure, people always talked about the Malfoys, but…”

“It’s different to know for sure,” Victoria said, nodding.

“But why don’t you want me to tell Aunt Amelia?” Susan asked. “If Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater, shouldn’t he be investigated? With everything you heard, I’m sure the Ministry could do something… at the least, they could try and catch this Squat person.”

Victoria shifted uncomfortably. She had been struggling with this very idea. “It just feels like… a betrayal,” she said. “I was their guest. And Draco and Narcissa treated me well… even Lucius protected me, in his own way. It doesn’t feel right to go and tell on them, does it?”

Susan raised her eyebrows. “You almost sound like a Hufflepuff. Loyalty and all that.”

“Exactly!” Victoria said, seizing on the idea. “Loyalty. Like, if you did something wrong, I wouldn’t tell your aunt, obviously, because you’re my friend. And so’s Draco and—well, I wouldn’t call Narcissa my friend, but she’s still…”

“You care about them,” Susan said, nodding.

“Right,” Victoria said. “Is that wrong?”

Susan shrugged. “It’s definitely a bit weird—the Girl Who Lived protecting Death Eaters.”

Victoria winced. She suddenly remembered that a whole branch of Susan’s family had been killed by the Death Eaters.

“But Lucius isn’t a Death Eater, not now,” she said, hoping Susan could see her side of things. “And they’re kind and generous and, oh, everything there is just so beautiful… and didn’t he have a trial, anyway? So probably I wouldn’t even be telling the Ministry anything they didn’t already know…”

“Or you’d be giving them the piece of evidence they were missing,” Susan said, doubt in her voice.

Victoria sighed. “You know, you’re really not being very supportive.”

“Sorry,” Susan said. “It’s just usually, you’re the smart one. I think you already know all these excuses aren’t really good arguments, you’re too clever for that. Like, what if it turned out that Lucius had been involved in your parents’ deaths? Would that change how you feel?”

Her words made Victoria’s stomach turn over. She hadn’t thought of that. She had been thinking of the Death Eaters like a forbidden club, but of course, as a Death Eater, Lucius had presumably participated in all sorts of crimes… perhaps even crimes against her, or against Susan’s family.

“I just can’t do it to Draco,” she whispered. “Go into his home all two-faced, pretending to be his friend then taking away his dad. And everyone would know I’d done it, exactly like that… no one would ever invite me to anything ever again. If it was just Lucius, maybe I would tell your aunt, but…”

Susan smiled sadly and nodded. “Well, it’s up to you. Without your word behind it, it’s just yet another person accusing the Malfoys of shady business. But Victoria—” she looked her in the eye, her expression serious “—promise me you won’t go back there?”

Victoria snorted, a habit Narcissa had thoroughly failed in exorcising. “Yeah, I already made that decision on my own. I’m not that stupid.”

They finished their hot chocolate.

“Here, there’s something else I wanted to show you,” Victoria said.

She withdrew Tom Riddle’s diary from her bag and passed it to Susan, who flipped through the pages with a frown.

“You’re showing me… your homework?” she asked. “What’s so special about that?”

“Look closer,” Victoria said. “Look at the writing.”

“Ohh, your handwriting’s got much better!” Susan said. “I guess Mrs Malfoy taught you? But hang on… there’s another person’s writing in here. Like… a conversation?”

Victoria nodded enthusiastically. “His name’s Tom. He was a student here, back in the Forties. Somehow he imprinted his personality on this diary, kinda like a portrait, only so much more… it’s like you’re talking with a real person!”

Susan slammed the diary shut.

“Victoria! That’s… not right. It’s like one of those stories they tell you as a kid… King Yunan’s book or whatever. Are you sure it’s safe? Where’d you get it, anyway?”

“I found it,” Victoria said, deciding not to mention that she’d found it in her own trunk. She’d expected Susan to be excited, not wary. Couldn’t she see how amazing the magic of the diary was? “And it’s a book; all it does is talk to you. I don’t see how it could be dangerous.”

“Well, does it at least tell the truth?” Susan asked. She passed the diary back to Victoria, looking relieved to let it go. “There’s all sorts of books that can trick you, you know… like, do you even really know that Tom is a real person? And if he is, where’s he now? Maybe you’re not talking to a book at all… maybe there’s some old man on the other end, writing in a simulacrum.”

A cold rush of fear ran down Victoria’s spine. The things she had told the diary… they weren’t for anyone else to know.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” she said. She’d been so caught up with the magic of the diary, she hadn’t really considered the possibility that it was lying. “Maybe I shouldn’t tell him so much…”

“No kidding.”

“Well, there might be one way to tell if he’s real,” Victoria said, “he doesn’t talk about himself much, but he did tell me he was a Slytherin prefect.”

Susan sighed. “You’re going to drag me to the trophy room, aren’t you?”

The trophy room was on the third floor, just above the second-floor armoury, and was always kept unlocked. The door opened to a long gallery full of glass cabinets, each one brimming with gleaming silverware, all of it polished on a regular basis by the caretaker, Mr Filch. It was Mr Filch’s odious presence which kept the students away, and Victoria was not at all surprised to find the room empty.

Near the centre of the room was an enormous ledger resting on a stone plinth, which contained a record of all the school prefects dating back to the fifteenth century. The book was so heavy that it took Susan and Victoria together to open it up, and the earlier pages were all written in runes.

It took quite some time to locate Tom Riddle.

“Here he is,” Susan said. “Slytherin, 1942, Tom Marvolo Riddle. Weird name, right? Marvolo’s an old wizarding name, but Tom… not so much. And I’ve never heard of the Riddle family.”

“He told me he was an orphan,” Victoria said. “So maybe Riddle wasn’t even his real name.” She traced her finger down the page to where he appeared again in 1943. “Odd. He doesn’t show up for 1944… that should’ve been his seventh year.”

Susan bit her lip. “You don’t suppose… do you think he might have died? That diary almost sounds like a kind of ghost.”

“Maybe,” Victoria said, but she wasn’t convinced. She looked up at the far wall of the trophy room, where a series of long wooden boards hung. Each one contained a list of names next to a column of dates. “Or maybe his name’s on there.”

She approached the boards, her eyes scanning back through the years, noting the names James Potter and Lily Evans against the entry for 1978, quickly locating the name Tom Riddle against the year 1944.

“Found him!” she called. “He’s not dead, he was Head Boy.”

She glanced back towards Susan, who was lingering by one of the cabinets. “He’s here too,” she said, gesturing towards a silver shield. “An award for special services to the school. I wonder what he did? They don’t give those out easily. The next person to get one was—” she looked at Victoria nervously “—um, Sirius Black.”

Victoria frowned, dismissing the unfamiliar name. “But how come we’ve never heard of him?” she said. “Head Boy, a special award… surely he’d be, like, high up in the Ministry? Or a famous adventurer like Lockhart? Or something. But it’s like he just… left Hogwarts and disappeared.”

“Maybe he did die,” Susan said, returning to her earlier idea. “Not in his sixth year, but later. It was a dangerous time, after all. Maybe Grindelwald got him.”

“Perhaps,” Victoria said, remembering the way Tom’s very first questions had revolved around Grindelwald. It had sounded almost like he admired the dark wizard. “Or maybe Dumbledore did.”

Chapter Text

The first Potions lesson of the term finally arrived the next Tuesday morning. The class was unusually silent as they waited outside Laboratory Six, a nervous excitement hanging in the cold air which reminded Victoria of the tension before an exam. Today they would be completing the Draught of Sparta, taking the final step in a brewing process which had lasted since November.

She couldn’t help but feel a little sad at the prospect. She’d become rather accustomed to having the heart of autumn around her neck: it was her favourite item of jewellery, and Lucius Malfoy had identified it as a “nonpareil”, whatever that was. Naturally, Victoria had tried to look up the strange word as soon as she had returned to Hogwarts, but so far her efforts had not borne fruit.

The bell rang and Snape arrived with his customary scowl.

“In!”

They filed into the room and found their cauldrons, each one containing a silvery liquid which had been left to simmer over the winter break. Victoria’s was shimmering with an ethereal glow; next to her, Tracey’s potion was looking distinctly greyer, but it was nonetheless serviceable. Professor Snape had supervised the brewing closely, and every student’s potion was in a drinkable state—even Neville Longbottom’s.

“Today, at long last, I shall be released from this annual torture,” Snape said, his lips stretching into what might have been a smile. “You are to complete, and then drink, the Draught of Sparta. If you need any further direction, then you have already failed. You may begin.”

The class sprang into motion, the instructions for the final stage long since memorised, and they chopped, crushed and ground their ingredients with unusual focus. Only Neville looked lost, no doubt having forgotten to bring his textbook to class, and Hermione Granger was foolishly compromising the quality of her own potion by constantly intervening to fix his mistakes.

Victoria shook her head. If you asked her, Hermione was far too concerned with other people’s work. Perhaps if she had focused on her own, her potion might have had the same velvet-smooth texture as Victoria’s.

Turning back to her own work, she scattered Cretan dittany into the cauldron and gave it three stirs, the earthy smell filling the air as she added a single drop of incredibly precious Re’em blood into the mixture. The potion immediately turned a deep, blood red. That meant it was ready for the final ingredient: the stormheart which each student had collected from an autumn cloud.

Victoria prised the heart of autumn from its transfigured bronze pendant, taking one last moment to admire the way it sparkled and glimmered from within, relishing the spine-tingling brush of power that she felt each time she handled it.

“So long,” she whispered, and she raised her hand to drop it into the cauldron.

A hand seized her wrist.

“What is this?”

It was Snape, his long fingers curled around her wrist like a vice, his gaze fixed on the gem.

Victoria frowned. “My stormheart, sir. Is something wrong?”

“Do not play with me, Potter. That is no ordinary stormheart.” His gaze shifted and his dark eyes bored into her own, his expression inscrutable. “Come.”

He practically dragged her to the storeroom, his hand never leaving her wrist. The door slammed shut behind them, and suddenly she was alone with Professor Snape. They were standing uncomfortably close in the cramped space, his body odour barely concealed by the smell of the herbs and animal parts all around them, and it took all of Victoria’s self-control to resist the urge to wrinkle her nose.

Snape raised her hand so that the sparkling gem was held between them. “Are you aware of what this is?”

“Yes,” she said, not meeting Snape’s eyes. “It’s not the heart of a storm, it’s the heart of the season itself.”

“And do you know what it will do, if you use it within your draught?”

Victoria bit her lip. In truth, she did not. When it came to such powerful magic, she doubted anyone could really predict the outcome. But one thing was certain. “It’ll be stronger.”

“Among other things,” Snape said, and he released her hand. “I will not forbid you from using it. But be warned! As you know, your identity shapes your magic. Every decision you make, every action you take, everything that you learn and believe… little by little, it determines who you are. It is no small thing to imbibe magic of such power. It will change you. Not even I can say how.”

She stared at the gem glittering innocently on her palm. Perhaps it would be better to keep it and use a different gem for the potion. “If I didn’t use it…”

“You would have to repeat the potion next year.”

No. She couldn’t wait another year, not when she had worked so hard to make her potion perfect—and not when everyone would know that she had failed. She could already hear Pansy’s gloating voice, expressing her deepest sympathies that Victoria had fallen behind even Neville Longbottom.

How bad could it be, anyway? Everyone who had touched the gem had noted its power… perhaps taking its magic into herself would be a good thing.

She looked up and met Snape’s eyes. “I’m going to use it.”

“Very well.”

Decision made, she returned to her cauldron and, before she could change her mind, added the gem without any further ceremony. There was no visible change to the potion, but Victoria could feel the liquid take on an unmistakable thrum of power. She extinguished the fire and poured the potion into a small glass.

Everyone was watching her. She was the first to complete the potion and had assumed the role of class guinea pig. With a smirk, she raised her glass in a mock toast in Hermione’s direction.

“Bottoms up!”

The potion was freezing. She downed it in three long gulps, her teeth aching from the sudden assault of cold, her stomach clenching tightly as it turned to ice—and then, quite abruptly, it was over.

She didn’t feel any different. “Is that it?” she asked, raising the glass to make sure she’d drunk it all. “Did I do something wrong?”

Tracey coughed. “Uh, Vicky… look around.”

She looked up and gasped. Laboratory Six was covered in frost.

By the time dinner rolled around, all anyone could talk about was Potions. They had all succeeded in taking the Draught of Sparta by the end of class, and the second years entered the Great Hall with a newfound swagger. It was difficult not to feel invulnerable, knowing that the Draught was protecting you, and the hall was filled with their excited chatter as they exchanged thoughts on their new abilities.

“I can’t wait for our next Flying class,” Tracey said, spooning a large quantity of mashed potato onto her plate. “I feel like I could fight a dragon.”

“A nundu, more like,” said Millicent. “I bet I could headbutt a bludger and I’d be fine.”

As always, it amazed Victoria just how ignorant her classmates were of the magic they were performing. Snape had been quite clear: the Draught of Sparta didn’t increase your strength at all, nor did it prevent you from getting hurt. It just meant that when you did get injured, you could shrug it off easier. She was quite sure the others were imagining things, if they did feel as if they were stronger. Personally, other than a sense that something was missing from around her neck, she felt no different.

Of course, she had no intention of setting the record straight. What would be the point in having an unnecessary argument like that? Being a know-it-all was Hermione Granger’s job, not hers.

A few minutes later, just as Victoria was tucking into her chicken pie, the Carrow twins arrived at the table.

“Has anyone seen Pansy?” Hestia asked. “We can’t find her anywhere.”

Tracey snorted. “What, you can’t eat without her permission?”

Victoria smirked, but Daphne’s face was concerned.

“It’s not like Pansy to skip dinner,” she said, craning her neck to look around the hall. “Did anyone speak to her, after Herbology?”

Everyone shook their heads.

“Right.” Daphne stood up. “We should go look for her.”

“Now?” Victoria asked. She looked down at her barely-eaten pie. “Can’t it wait?”

“Think, Vicky!” Daphne said, her voice chiding. “What if it’s the Heir?”

Victoria sighed and put her fork down. The idea that the Heir of Slytherin would attack a Parkinson was absurd, but she owed Daphne and Pansy several times over for their rescue at the Malfoy ball.

“Fine.”

They split up, agreeing to rendezvous in the common room in half an hour. Daphne and Tracey were to check the greenhouses, the Carrows the potions labs, and Victoria was given the dungeons near to the common room.

It was unusually warm down there, even though it was mid-January and she wasn’t wearing her charm bracelet, and Victoria made good progress in checking the deserted floor. The dungeons were occupied by all the hidden work rooms which made the castle tick: a giant washroom, full of dirty laundry waiting to be cleaned; the boiler room, where an eternal Gubraithian fire heated the castle’s water; and endless rooms lined with locked filing cabinets, centuries of student records collecting dust.

It didn’t take long to find Pansy. She was with Crabbe and Goyle, not five minutes’ walk from the common room, the three of them squabbling at the base of a spiral staircase.

“...we can’t go up there,” Pansy was saying, “that leads back to the basement. The Slytherin common room’s in the dungeons, everyone knows that.”

“But we’ve already searched the dungeons,” Goyle said.

“Twice,” added Crabbe.

Goyle nodded. “Face it, we’re not going to find it. Let’s just give up and go to dinner.”

“I’m not giving up!” Pansy said, “not when we’ve spent so long on this!”

Victoria laughed loudly, and the three of them spun to face her. “Is this a joke?” she asked. “You can’t actually be lost?”

“Oh, it’s you,” Pansy said. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re not lost, we just got… turned around.”

“Of course,” Victoria said sweetly, secretly anticipating everyone’s reaction when she told them the story. “Well, come on. The others are looking for you, too—we should get back before Daphne has kneazles.”

She led them back towards the common room, Crabbe and Goyle following behind like obedient puppies.

“Congratulations on your Draught of Sparta, by the way,” Pansy said, filling the silence. “It was actually very good.”

Victoria raised her eyebrows. Pansy gave compliments frequently, but rarely to her. She tended to bestow them only on those who did things for her. “Thanks, I guess.”

“What did Professor Snape say to you?” Pansy asked. “You know, when he pulled you into the storeroom?”

“Just sharing some advice,” Victoria said. She wasn’t in the mood to explain.

Pansy’s eyes glinted. “I knew it. I knew he was helping you… that’s how your potions are always better than—” she paused “—better than Hermione’s.”

“Granger’s?” Victoria said, her voice incredulous. “Please. Draco’s potions are better than hers. She’s so stuck in the textbook, she wouldn’t know an original thought if it was dancing naked in front of her.”

Pansy gasped. “Why, you—”

Goyle cleared his throat, and Pansy fell silent.

They arrived back at the common room. “Fiendfyre,” Victoria said, and the wall parted into an archway. “After you.”

The others had already returned and were huddled around their usual couches. It looked like they were arguing—everyone except for Draco, who was casually sprawled at the centre of a sofa, not a care in the world.

“Found them!” Victoria called, and everyone looked up.

“Oh, thank god!” Daphne said, relief in her voice, and she rushed forward to hug Pansy. “Where were you? We looked everywhere.”

“They were lost,” Victoria reported gleefully, before Pansy could say anything. “I found them by the east staircase.”

Draco laughed. “Crabbe and Goyle I can understand, but Pansy? How many times have you walked to the Great Hall?”

Pansy blushed. “Well, I’m back now,” she said, and she sat down at the centre of the couch opposite Draco.

Victoria and Daphne traded nervous looks. That wasn’t Pansy’s normal seat.

“Oh god,” Daphne whispered, “not this again.”

The last time Pansy had decided to change their seating order, it had ended with three girls crying in the bathroom. Before anyone could intervene, however, Crabbe and Goyle took the spaces either side of Pansy.

Pansy did not object.

“Something’s not right,” Victoria muttered to Daphne. Neither of the boys would ever willingly sit next to a girl, nor would Pansy have let them take so central a position.

“You’re right,” Daphne said, her eyes now examining Pansy carefully. “Do you think she’s been jinxed?” She smirked. “You know, we might not get this opportunity often. Perhaps we should… test her? For her own good, of course.”

Victoria tried to supress her snigger. “Of course.”

The two of them joined the others, Daphne taking a spot next to Draco, Victoria settling down on her usual cushion.

“Pansy,” Daphne said, her voice full of concern, “Is everything all right? It’s just… you’ve done up the top buttons on your inner robe. You never do your top buttons up.”

“Oh,” Pansy said, patting at her top button. “How silly of me!”

She undid a couple of buttons, confirming Victoria and Daphne’s suspicions. Pansy was prim and proper to a fault; she would never wear her robes so scruffily.

“And your hair,” Victoria said, leaning forwards, “didn’t you say you were going to wear pigtails today?”

Daphne sent Victoria an amused look. Pansy would never put her hair into pigtails.

“Did I?” Pansy said, her voice hesitant. “I must have forgotten.”

“Here, let me help you,” Daphne said, and she moved across to start parting Pansy’s hair.

Tracey was glancing between Daphne and Victoria in clear confusion. “What—”

“And you can’t be comfortable in those heels,” Victoria said firmly, not letting Tracey ruin their fun. “Why don’t you put your favourite slippers on?”

She reached to the side of the couch, where Tracey had left her slippers—fluffy ones shaped like bunny rabbits—and pushed them towards Pansy.

Pansy glanced at Crabbe and Goyle, who shrugged. “Of course,” she said, and she took her shoes off and replaced them with the slippers.

Daphne finished with Pansy’s hair and returned to her seat next to Draco. “There we go! Just how you wanted it.”

Even Draco was paying attention now, his lips twitching as he took in the image of Pansy with her hair in pigtails and fluffy slippers on her feet. “God, I wish I had a camera.”

Victoria suppressed a laugh.

“So!” Goyle said loudly, making several people jump, “who do we reckon the Heir of Slytherin is?”

A chorus of groans met Goyle’s question.

“Not this again,” Malfoy said, “please, anything but yet another Heir of Slytherin session.”

“It’s more interesting than my hair, at least,” Pansy said, causing Victoria and Daphne to share another look. “Besides, you must have some thoughts. Hasn’t your father told you anything?”

“Nothing,” Draco said. “As I’ve said a hundred times before.”

Crabbe leaned forward to join the conversation. “It’s not Snape, then?”

“Of course it isn’t Snape,” Draco said with a roll of his eyes. “You’ve been listening to too many rumours. The Princes don’t have any connection to the Slytherin line, you should know that.”

“And don’t forget,” Victoria said, “Snape was the one who saved Justin.”

“Well, that’s the perfect cover, isn’t it?” Pansy said. “He saves the first one, and after that no one questions him.”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know, I think that may be the dumbest thing you’ve ever said. And that includes the time you thought the lake contained a Giant Squib.”

Everyone sniggered. Even Pansy’s lips twitched, as if she was amused by her own error. Victoria frowned. What kind of spell was she under? Could she be having some kind of bad reaction to the Draught of Sparta?

“But Snape makes the most sense,” Pansy insisted. “Both of the attacks involved poison, and Snape’s the Potions Master. He’s the Head of Slytherin. And—”

“He’s a vampire,” Goyle said.

Pansy sent him a dirty look. “Not that again,” she said, though Victoria couldn’t remember Goyle ever talking about it before. “We’ve seen him outside in the sun. Multiple times.”

“Anyway,” Daphne said, getting drawn into the conversation, “it’s been a while since there was an attack. Maybe the Heir’s gone?”

“They’ve not done anything since the Ministry came,” Tracey added. “Perhaps they got scared.”

“It’s just a pity they couldn’t take Granger first,” Draco said. “Did you see her in Potions earlier, lecturing everyone on how to shred dittany?”

There was a murmur of agreement.

“She’s such a prissy little know-it-all,” Tracey said. “No offence, Vicky.”

Daphne tossed her hair. “Vicky’s our know-it-all.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Victoria said, making a show of examining her fingernails with affected disinterest. “At least I’m not prissy.”

“It’s not the same,” Draco said. “Victoria has proper wizarding pride. Granger’s just a jumped-up mudblood.”

Victoria started, surprised by Draco’s use of such coarse language, but her reaction was nothing compared to Pansy’s loud gasp.

“You’re just jealous,” Pansy said, a bite in her voice, “jealous that she’s better than you at magic.”

Silence fell.

“Right, that’s it!” Daphne said, standing up abruptly. “We’re taking you to Madam Pomfrey. You’ve obviously been confunded or something.”

“What?” Pansy said. “I’m not confunded.”

Tracey snorted. “That’s exactly what a confunded person would say.”

“Let’s see,” Daphne said. “You got lost. You’re wearing Tracey’s slippers. You aren’t sitting in your normal spot. And you’re saying the strangest things. If you’re not confunded, then what?”

Pansy’s face went red. “You said these were my slippers!”

“Exactly,” Daphne said.

Goyle nudged Pansy’s arm. “Maybe we should go,” he said. “To… Madam Pomfrey.”

“Fine,” Pansy said, and she stood up to leave. Crabbe and Goyle followed suit.

Victoria looked between them. Whatever was happening, all three of them were involved. “We’ll come with you,” she said. “We wouldn’t want you to get lost again, would we?”

Pansy gave them a weak smile. “That’s really not necessary.”

At last, Draco seemed to have realised something more than a prank was going on. He stood and reached for his wand.

“We insist.”

Pansy, Crabbe and Goyle exchanged a single look.

“Run!” Goyle shouted, and suddenly they were scrambling over the back of the couch, limbs everywhere. Daphne lunged to grab Pansy’s ankle, but she was too slow, and a moment later all three of them were over the couch and dashing for the exit. Tracey and Millicent rushed to chase after them, but they got in each other’s way and hit their heads, falling to the floor with moans of pain.

“Stop them!” Daphne called—a few older students turned to look, but it was too late. Goyle was almost at the door.

Draco brandished his wand. “Tarantallegra!” A jet of pink light shot at Pansy’s retreating back, but it missed her by at least a foot.

Victoria had better luck. “Cadere!” she called, casting the first spell which came to mind, and her Trip Jinx hit Crabbe in a flash of silver light, sending him tumbling.

“Neville!” Pansy cried, and she went to help Crabbe up, just as Goyle reached the entrance.

The wall parted, the archway formed, and Goyle ran straight into Professor Snape.

Goyle stumbled back. “No!”

“Yes,” Snape said.

It was over in a moment. With a click of Snape’s fingers, living ropes uncoiled out of the air, rapidly binding Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle like writhing snakes. Then he waved his hand upwards and all three of them were hoisted into the air.

“Oh god,” Crabbe wailed. “I told you this would happen!”

Pansy and Goyle just looked sullenly at the floor.

Behind Snape, three sheepish figures shuffled into view: another Pansy, Crabbe and Goyle, these ones wearing ill-fitting robes trimmed in red and gold. All eyes turned to the intruders bound in ropes.

“They weren’t confunded,” Victoria said. “They’re imposters.”

Daphne shook her head in disbelief. “Whoever they are, they’re so screwed.”

Across the room, Snape rubbed his hands together in glee. “Oh, happy day,” he said. “I think I sense an expulsion coming.”

Chapter Text

Once their disguises had worn off, the imposters were revealed to be Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, and Neville Longbottom. Professor Snape wasted no time in dragging them off to the Headmaster’s office, and that evening the Slytherin common room was dominated by speculation as to what punishment they would face.

The next morning, the Slytherins arrived at the Entrance Hall to find the Gryffindor hour-glass much depleted of house points. Their glee only grew over the course of breakfast, as it became increasingly clear that the body-snatchers were not in attendance. The mood at the Gryffindor table, on the other hand, was distinctly muted, and whispers were spreading across the hall that the perpetrators’ belongings had disappeared from Gryffindor tower.

“Good riddance,” Pansy said, pouring herself some tea. “That girl cost me a perfectly good robe.”

Tracey frowned. “Er… what happened to your robe?”

“Burnt it,” Pansy said. “I could hardly wear it after Granger had touched it, after all. It felt all wrong.”

Victoria suppressed her instinct to laugh at the waste a perfectly good robe, instead focusing on spreading strawberry jam on her toast. For once, she actually felt sympathy for Pansy. To have your body stolen by someone, worn around the castle then discarded… really, it was no wonder Pansy was burning robes in some kind of ritualised cleansing.

“Do you really think they’ve been expelled?” Daphne asked. “Just like that?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Victoria said. She thought back to Mrs Malfoy’s letter to Auror Savage. “Taking someone’s body is pretty serious, isn’t it? Like, they can send you to Azkaban for it.”

Daphne looked troubled. “But… what will Neville do now?”

“He’ll get tutors, I suppose,” Pansy said. “The Longbottoms can afford it.”

Further down the table, Draco leaned forward to join the conversation. “There’s no way Weasley can. And he’d be lucky to find an apprenticeship... no Master wants someone who’s been expelled.”

“And Granger?” Victoria asked. “What happens to Muggleborns if they’re chucked out?”

Everyone shrugged.

“I guess they go back to being a Muggle,” Daphne said. “That’s where their family is, after all.”

Victoria shuddered at the thought. To go back to Hidebound House, stuck with the Dursleys, cut off from Hogwarts and magic… she could imagine no worse fate. It was almost enough to make her feel bad for Hermione, until she reminded herself that the girl had brought it all on herself.

Their speculation was interrupted by Professor McGonagall standing to make the morning announcements.

“I have just two notices today,” she said, the hall falling silent at her voice. One did not speak over Professor McGonagall. “Firstly, please note that the quidditch calendar has been adjusted to make time for the Defence field trip after Easter. The next match, between Ravenclaw and Slytherin, will now take place on the third weekend of February.

“Secondly, I wish to address the rumours which have been circulating this morning. Normally the staff would not comment on such things, but the gravity of the situation demands it. Last night, three members of Gryffindor house were suspended from Hogwarts for the use of dark magic against their fellow students.”

Victoria glanced at Pansy, who looked disappointed by the news. Being sent home was a serious punishment, but it was less than the expulsion she had hoped for. Down the staff table, Snape’s scowl suggested that he shared Pansy’s opinion.

“Let me be clear,” McGonagall continued. “This school does not tolerate the abuse of dark magic, and all perpetrators will be punished severely. In this case, it was only the students’ misguided good intentions which saved them from being expelled. Even so, the sorry affair will be a permanent black mark on their records. You have been warned.”

McGonagall sat down and the hall dissolved into whispers. Victoria did not join in. A terrible thought had just occurred to her. She had twice used her metamorphmagus powers to imitate another person—once as Hermione, and once as McGonagall herself. Would that have counted as body-snatching, too? Had she unknowingly been running the risk of expulsion?

A chill went down her spine. Suddenly she was rather glad of her instinct to keep her powers a secret—she would have to be very careful not to reveal them in the future.

The Christmas holidays soon passed into distant memory, the Hogwarts routine reasserting itself with comforting familiarity.

Most of Victoria’s spare time was spent on her Charms work. It took a number of attempts to produce her totem, which she was determined to perfect before she put it to use. The process began with the transfiguration of a block of wood into the shape of a goshawk—a simple enough task, but it was complicated by her desire to make the model as life-like as possible. Several evenings of practice were required before she was satisfied with the level of detail in the feathers, and a further day to get the eyes just right. The end result was a wooden totem which looked like it would take flight at any moment.

She didn’t stop there, however. While her classmates were beginning work on the Locomotion Charm, practising its casting while holding their totem in their off-hand, Victoria was still attempting to transfigure her goshawk into white phosphorus. It was trickier than she had first anticipated, and she was forced to make multiple visits to the library to get it right.

It was therefore over a week before Victoria was able to attend Charms with her finished totem in hand, its waxy, yellowish form glowing with a soft light. By that time her classmates were well ahead of her, their stuttering attempts at locomotion already beginning to bear fruit as their totems became accustomed to the charm.

Victoria’s first locomotion was not a resounding success. She had hoped that the effort of perfecting her totem would pay off quickly, but it seemed to have had the opposite effect.

“Locomotor cushion!” she said, her totem clutched in her left hand, expecting the cushion to lift off the ground and hover in the air—but instead, it swooped right across the classroom, sailing gracefully through the air before colliding forcefully with the window. She tried several more times, all with the same result.

That was all she could persuade the cushion to do. No matter how she adjusted the spell, no matter how hard she focused on her wish for the cushion to remain stationary, it would head directly for the window. Obviously, the spirit of goshawk longed for the open skies.

Tom had warned her that her totem possessed a powerful spirit, but she was at a loss as to how to master it. Perhaps her will was just too weak?

Reluctantly, remembering Susan’s words of warning, she took out the diary and asked its advice.

Willpower is not the same thing as desire, Tom wrote. On its own, intent is a weak, pathetic thing. True willpower is determination, focus, discipline, and sheer stubbornness. You will not master the goshawk in one day, no matter how strongly you wish it. You must prove yourself.

It was just like the Draught of Sparta, she realised. A light shower was not the same thing as a violent storm. Context mattered. The more she came to understand magic, the more she realised the importance of that. How could she claim to possess a strong will, if she expected to succeed on the first attempt, without challenge? No, to prove her willpower she would need to persevere, to practice and practice until the goshawk’s resistance was exhausted.

Naturally, all that practice was rather time-consuming. This was unfortunate, because Victoria was quickly coming to remember the many ongoing projects which had kept her busy before the Christmas break. Even with the Draught of Sparta out of the way, her every free moment was packed with reading and wandwork.

Her regular classes were enough on their own to keep her fully occupied. They had started a new topic in Transfiguration, using the Shaping Spell to alter the form of objects composed of multiple substances, and Professor McGonagall had loaned Victoria her personal copy of Rowena Ravenclaw’s masterwork The Anatomy of Form. In Herbology they were learning how to trick plants into thinking it was spring, and in duelling Professor Flitwick was teaching them to transition smoothly from a block into casting.

As if that wasn’t enough, her study of alchemy was now stuck in a rut. She had read Natural Magic cover-to-cover several times now, taking copious notes as she attempted to grapple with the challenging subject, but she was finding that further study of the text was yielding few results. It was time to move on to another book, one capable of bridging the gaps in her understanding. She lost several evenings to searching the Restricted Section for something suitable, but the best she could find was a short collection of essays by the Persian alchemist Avicenna.

On top of her classwork and alchemy studies, Susan did not let Victoria forget about their project to create a foe glass. They spent most lunch breaks together in the library, Susan carefully etching runes into the glass while Victoria started to practice the Anamorphosis Charm.

“I still don’t really get what that does,” Susan said, one lunch break, watching Victoria test out the wand movements. “The rest I understand… obviously you need the glass to show the image, and the boggart is the link to your enemies. But what does the charm do?”

“It’s difficult to explain,” Victoria said. Her own understanding of the charm was still quite fragile; in truth, it was a piece of magic far more advanced than anything she had cast before. “It’s all about perspective, though. Basically, it enchants a thing to appear differently for different people. Like, think about it this way: what would the foe glass show you, if you didn’t have the Anamorphosis Charm?”

Susan frowned. “I guess it’d be whatever a boggart normally transforms into.”

“Right,” Victoria said, nodding. “You’d just have a boggart in a glass, and it’d show you a snake or a spider or whatever—the creature you’re most afraid of. And if multiple people were looking at the glass at the same time, the boggart would get confused and wouldn’t be able to show you anything.”

“So... the charm forces the boggart to transform into just one thing?”

“Kind of,” Victoria said. “Well, not really. Technically the boggart isn’t transforming into anything. Different people need to see different things in the glass, so you can’t have the boggart actually transform. Instead, the charm is just latching onto one of the boggart’s unique powers and using that power to show a different image to whoever is looking into the glass. And that’s the really tricky bit.”

“Oh?” Susan asked. “Well, I’m with you so far. What’s the tricky bit?”

Victoria tapped her fingers on the table. “It’s divination,” she said, speaking slowly as she thought her answer through. “You know how a boggart transforms into the creature you fear most? Well, it’s not taking those fears from your mind... it divines the true thing you fear, even if you don’t know what that is. So the Anamorphosis Charm takes that divination and just… changes its direction a bit. Instead of showing you the thing you actually fear, it shows you the thing you should fear— your closest enemies.”

“Yeah, you’ve lost me,” Susan said. She leant back and looked up at the ceiling. “I get the bit about making things look different for different people. That’s fine. But I don’t see how you can cast a charm on some part of a boggart’s powers.”

“It’s... complicated,” Victoria said, not even sure where to begin explaining ideal casting. Thankfully, Susan didn’t seem interested in an answer.

“Well, thank god we have you,” she said with a smile. “Is there anything about magic you don’t know already?”

Victoria flushed at the compliment. “Oh, loads. There’s so much to learn… I’m constantly finding new things to look up.”

She paused. Susan was a pure-blood; she knew all sorts of things that Victoria had never even heard of. Perhaps she could answer one of Victoria’s many questions.

“Susan, have you ever heard of a nonpareil?”

“I don’t think so,” Susan said, without hesitation. “Why? What is it?”

Victoria shrugged. “It’s just something I heard Mr Malfoy say. Don’t worry about it.”

In truth, investigating nonpareils was a long way down Victoria's list of priorities. With all the other projects she had on the go, there was little time to spare for it. She made a couple of unsuccessful forays into the library to find books which might mention the subject, but trying to find the mention of a single word—a foreign one, at that—was like searching for a snitch on a sunny day. She was sure the right book was in there somewhere, but finding it was a different matter.

Her only remaining option was to ask the diary. Ever since her talk with Susan, she had become wary of asking it anything too personal—with their investigations into Tom Riddle reaching a dead end, she couldn’t really be sure whom or what she was talking to—but it was an undeniably useful source of information.

One evening during prep, Victoria gave into temptation. She had finished all her homework and was waiting for the bell to ring for dinner, so she pulled out the diary and flipped it open to the next blank page.

Hello Tom, she wrote.

The answer was immediate. Good evening, Victoria. How’s your totem progressing?

Sitting next to her, Susan glanced at the diary with disapproval in her eyes. “I thought you’d stopped using it?”

“Don’t worry, I’m being careful,” Victoria whispered. “There’s no harm talking about magic, is there?”

Susan turned back to her work. “If you say so…”

It was clear she was unconvinced, but the enforced quiet of prep prevented further argument. Victoria made a note to avoid using the diary in front of Susan in the future—no need to agitate her unnecessarily.

She returned her attention to the page. My totem is fine. I wanted to ask you something else, though. Have you ever heard of a nonpareil?

A curious enquiry, Tom wrote. The term ‘nonpareil’ forms part of a theory of magic which was once fashionable, but even by my time had fallen into obscurity.

Victoria dipped the nib of her quill into her inkpot and returned it to the page. But what does it mean?

It has its origin in the writings of Antoine Dubois, an influential writer in the late nineteenth century. His thesis was that, just as wizards are born above Muggles, so too are some wizards born above others. These wizards he called ‘peerless’, and most of his work focused on producing a method to identify peerless wizards.

The nonpareil was part of that method. It describes a magical object with unique properties, one which cannot be replicated, even by its own creator. While the creation of such items is not restricted to peerless, it was Dubois’ theory that a peerless will have created a nonpareil before their thirteenth birthday.

Victoria nodded to herself. Before their magic settles, in other words?

Precisely, Tom wrote. The thirteenth birthday marks the end of childhood; to create such a powerful object while still a child is a rare feat and is indicative of a spark of talent which cannot be taught.

Lucius’ discussion with Squat now made a lot more sense. He considered her one of these ‘peerless’ wizards, or at least potentially one of them. She found herself rather enamoured with the idea. She wondered how many peerless there were in the world.

She turned back to the diary. Is Dumbledore peerless, do you think?

Dubois predated Dumbledore’s rise to prominence, Tom responded. Nonetheless, it seems likely that he would be counted among the ranks of peerless, if such a thing exists.

You don’t agree with the theory? Victoria asked.

Tom took a little longer in responding, this time.

It is certainly true that some wizards appear to be a cut above the rest. But I disagree that these wizards’ fate is set in stone the moment they are born. There are many ingredients to greatness, many paths a life might take, depending on the choices you make. Dubois’ approach was too formulaic, too prescriptive. But a fascinating attempt, nonetheless.

Victoria’s excitement faded a little with Tom’s words, which were so persuasive. She had rather liked the idea of being part of a special class of witches and wizards. But perhaps Tom was wrong? He couldn’t know everything, after all.

I want to know more, she wrote. What’s the name of Dubois’ book?

I will let you know, Tom wrote. But first, why don’t we discuss it further? There is more I can tell you, without your needing to venture into the library. I do so enjoy our conversations.

Victoria grinned. It was so useful, having so much knowledge at her fingertips, without having to waste time looking it up. She could very easily get used to it. She dipped her quill back in her inkpot.

Tell me everything.

By February, Victoria was so busy that she had completely forgotten about the Heir of Slytherin. There hadn’t been an attack since her poisoning before Christmas, and the school had slipped into an assumption that the Heir had been scared away by the Ministry’s investigation.

That assumption was not to last.

It was a Friday evening, and the Slytherin girls were playing a game of favours in their dorm. A fire was dancing in the hearth, and they were sitting in a circle of cushions at the centre of the room, huddled in blankets—all except Victoria, who was warm enough in her night robe.

“Call,” Tracey said, and she picked up two silver trinkets from a pile in front of her and placed them in the centre pot.

“What was that?” Daphne asked, looking up from her cards. “I didn’t see.”

“Quill and hairbrush,” Tracey said. She held up the little silver models, which corresponded to small favours. If she lost the round, the winner would collect her favours and could call them in at a later time. The hairbrush was a promise to brush the winner’s hair; the quill a promise to do the winner’s homework.

Victoria sighed and looked down at her cards. She had a pair of goblins, a centaur and a witch. Not the best hand in the world, but not terrible either. “Call, I guess.” She threw in a silver rose and a shoe.

“Well, Vicky obviously has a terrible hand,” Daphne said. The others laughed—Victoria was notoriously bad at favours, to the point where she normally refused to play. But tonight Pansy had insisted, declaring that it wouldn’t be fun unless she joined in. She quickly came to regret her moment of weakness, as there were distinctly fewer favours in her pile than Pansy’s.

“Okay, discard,” Tracey said, and they all selected a card from their hand to place face-down in front of them. Victoria got rid of her centaur, hoping that she could pick up a third goblin. They then took it in turns to take a new card, either from each other’s discarded cards or from the deck.

When it was Tracey’s turn, she paused with indecision. “Anyone want to say what they put down?”

Pansy smiled innocently. “Tell me what you want first, and maybe I’ll answer.”

“No thanks,” Tracey said, and she looked to her right instead. “Daphne?”

“House-elf,” Daphne replied, “or… was it a centaur? Or maybe a—”

“All right, enough,” Tracey said. She turned back to Pansy. “I’m after a merman.”

“I might be able to help,” Pansy said, looking down at her cards, “if you tell me what you discarded.”

Tracey sighed. “Fine. Mine’s a goblin.”

Victoria tried very hard to conceal her happiness at that revelation, but judging by the knowing look Daphne sent her, she had not succeeded.

“Now, do you have a merman or not?” Tracey asked.

“I do,” Pansy replied, and she nudged her discard towards Tracey. “Here you go.”

Tracey picked it up with a grin, but her happiness quickly vanished. “This is a witch!”

“Is it?” Pansy said mildly, but her eyes were mischievous. “Oh dear. The portraits must have switched.”

Victoria snorted. Tracey should have known not to trust Pansy. “My turn!” she said, and she reached for the card in front of Tracey.

Unfortunately, it was not a goblin, but rather another centaur—Tracey had lied too. Victoria tried to keep her disappointment a secret, but the moment she met Tracey’s eyes, the pair of them dissolved into a fit of giggles.

Daphne was about to take a card from the deck when they were interrupted by Hestia Carrow bursting through the door.

“There’s been an attack!” she cried, “come on!”

They rushed to follow, the game instantly forgotten. They weren’t alone, either: the whole of Slytherin seemed to have been alerted, and a scrum had formed to get out of the common room.

“Who is it, Hestia?” Daphne called as they attempted to elbow their way through the crowd.

“Don’t know,” Hestia said, “but I heard they’re just outside the greenhouses.”

Finally, they made it through the portal and ran up the spiral staircases towards the ground floor. Students were milling everywhere, but there were none of the shouts and jeers of a normal school day; they passed through the halls in a silence broken only by worried whispers.

By the time they reached the greenhouses, the view was blocked by the large number of students, most of whom were older and taller than the second years. With only a few lamps to light the area, it was almost impossible to make anything out through the darkness.

“Millie!” Pansy hissed, “can you see anything?”

Millicent stood on her tip-toes to get a better look. “Sprout’s there,” she said, peering over the top of the crowd, “Lockhart too. And… oh. It’s that Creevey kid.”

Victoria’s stomach plummeted. Creepy Creevey, they’d called him… she suddenly felt rather guilty for not treating him better.

“Is he okay?” Daphne asked. She looked like she was about to cry; perhaps she too was remembering the times she had been less than kind to the boy.

“Can’t tell,” Millicent said, sounding rather blasé about the whole thing. “But there’s loads of blood. It’s worse than that time Bletchley got double-bludgered.”

“Clear the way!” Lockhart called, and with a fair amount of jostling, the crowd parted to allow Professor Sprout and Lockhart past, Colin Creevey levitating unconscious between them. Mutters spread through the watching students, and, as they passed, Victoria saw why: just like Justin, Colin’s neck bore the distinct sign of two puncture wounds.

Chapter Text

In the aftermath of the attack, new rules were put into place to restrict freedom of movement within the castle. Students now had to travel in groups of at least three at all times, and teachers were to escort them between classes. Anyone found wandering alone would be given a detention.

A sense of malaise had descended, the new restrictions doing more than any attack to create an air of danger. For most, it had been easy to ignore the attacks as isolated incidents, but it was hard to feel safe when your teachers refused to let you wander the corridors alone.

In spite of the changes, the castle’s rumour mill was as active as ever, and it was soon known to all that Colin had been moved to St. Mungo’s in London. The main topic of debate, however, was the identity of the Heir of Slytherin. Now that everyone had seen the puncture wounds, it was almost universally accepted that a vampire was responsible for the attacks, and it became common for students to challenge each other to stand in sunlight to prove they weren’t the Heir.

There were only three people who were completely free from suspicion—those who were not only absent from the castle at the time of the attack, but who were also known to have been investigating the Heir of Slytherin. Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, and Neville Longbottom therefore returned from their suspension to an unusually warm welcome, with many students seeking them out to hear their theories.

Each of them reacted quite differently to their new-found fame. Hermione ignored it entirely—in fact, she had become rather subdued, keeping to herself in class and completing her work with quiet efficiency in the corner. Ron was the complete opposite, loudly holding court on how Professor Snape was almost certainly a vampire who had invented a potion to protect himself from sunlight. As for Neville, he just looked perpetually glum. Apparently, his grandmother had not taken his suspension well.

“She took my dad’s wand off me,” Neville said to Dean Thomas, just as Victoria was passing the Gryffindor table at breakfast. “Said I wasn’t worthy of it anymore. Here, look.” He took out a gleaming new wand. “Cherry with unicorn—”

Dean cut him off with a nudge, jerking his head in Victoria’s direction. She blushed, embarrassed at being caught eavesdropping, and quickly moved on. Suspicious stares followed her back to the Slytherin table.

Being both a Slytherin and one of the Heir’s previous victims, Victoria occupied a strange position which seemed to earn her twice as much attention as anyone else. She did her best to ignore the stares and get on with day-to-day life, but there was only so much gossip she could take before she felt the need to hide herself away with Susan in some dark corner of the library.

Not that Victoria minded secluding herself in the library. In the aftermath of the attack, she had discovered a renewed passion for completing the foe glass, and now it was her turn to push Susan into spending their every spare hour working on it, even at the weekend.

One Saturday afternoon in late February found them as deep into the library as you could get, sitting at a table between the Tessomancy and Magical Law bookcases, where they were free to talk without running the risk of antagonising Madam Pince.

“Here, take a look.” Victoria passed Susan a Chocolate Frog card. “What do you see?”

“Laertes Hellson,” Susan replied, casting an admiring eye at the card. “He’s rather handsome, isn’t he?”

Victoria snorted. “If you say so... but can you see the text?”

“Well, yeah,” Susan said, sounding confused. “You want me to read it out?” Victoria nodded. “Okay, let’s see... One of the great heroes of British wizarding history, Auror Laertes Hellson played a key role during the Divergence Crisis of the Nineteenth Century. He is best known for his defeat of the French sorceress Calliste in 1815, finally establishing the primacy of the International Confederation of Wizards over the national Ministries of Magic.”

Victoria clapped with happiness. “Oh, I did it!”

“Did what?”

“Don’t you see?” Victoria waved at the card. “You see Laertes Hellson, but I see Albus Dumbledore. It’s anamorphic!”

Susan’s eyes widened. “Oh, wow. That’s OWL level magic!” She looked closer at the card. “But which is it really? Hellson or Dumbledore?”

“Both,” Victoria said. “Neither. I had to have both cards to make it, but they were used up by the spell. Now it’s just… this.”

It was at that point that Draco Malfoy joined them, approaching with a grin and carrying a small black box.

“There you are,” he said, flopping down into a spare chair. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. You’re not hiding from me, are you?”

“Never!” Susan gasped, taking his joke a bit too seriously, and Victoria was forced to hide her smile. “But look!” She passed him the Chocolate Frog card. “Victoria’s managed to cast the charm. I see Laertes Hellson, but she sees Dumbledore.”

“I see Hellson too,” Draco said, and Susan’s eyes lit up, no doubt pleased by the fact that he saw the same thing as her. He turned the card this way and that, as if he might be able to see Dumbledore by catching it at the right angle. “Very impressive.”

“And I’ve basically finished with the glass,” Susan continued, angling the glass dish towards him so he could see the tiny rings of runes spiralling around the rim.

“It’s just like the picture in the book,” Draco said, leaning in for a closer look. “You know, I think we might actually do this.”

Victoria ran her hand through her hair. “We’re still missing a pretty major ingredient, though. It could be ages before we find a boggart.”

Draco passed the Chocolate Frog card back to Susan. “It’s funny you mention that,” he said with a sly smile. “There was a reason I came to find you, in fact. There’s a boggart hiding by Greenhouse Six.”

The greenhouses were located to the rear of the castle, sprawling out in a higgledy-piggledy fashion between the stained-glass windows of the library and the turrets of the east wall. Cobbled paths wound through the maze of glass, with well-established ivy creeping up between the windowpanes, and each walkway was strewn with all the accoutrements of the Herbologist’s trade.

Nothing was thrown away which might one day be used again. A stack of moss-encrusted wood filled one gap between greenhouses, no doubt rescued from some old flower bed, and odd lengths of metal leaned against walls here and there. The first sign of snowdrops were sprouting from an abandoned cauldron outside Greenhouse Two, and several open crates of smelly dragon manure had been left near the east gate.

At the heart of the greenhouses was an open yard. Three metal pumps were arranged at its centre, one each for water, milk and quicksilver, enchanted with Permanent Replenishing Charms by Helga Hufflepuff herself. Off to their side, next to Greenhouse Six, was a small stone shed with a wooden door.

“There it is,” Draco said, pointing to the shed. The door rattled, as if something were eager to get out. “Everyone ready?”

“Er, no,” Victoria said, eyeing the door cautiously. “You haven’t told us how we’re meant to capture a boggart.”

“Oh, right. Well, it’s pretty simple, in theory.” He lifted the black wooden box. “We just have to get it inside of this.”

Susan’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that a Pandora?”

“Yup,” Draco said, looking quite smug. Victoria could understand why—Pandora’s Charm was advanced magic. A spell capable of containing powerful dark forces, there were probably only a handful of students at Hogwarts who could cast it. “I found it in the drawing room back home… apparently Grandfather used to keep his tobacco in there, if you can believe it.”

“But how do we get the boggart into the box?” Victoria asked. The door rattled again and she took a step back. “Is there a spell?”

“You can use a spell, but we don’t learn it ‘til next year,” Draco said. “I did some reading, and there’s actually another way. Basically, boggarts get confused pretty easily. So long as you’re not on your own, you can mess it around... everyone’s afraid of different things, so it has to keep changing forms. If you do that enough, then it’ll try to escape… and boggarts love small, enclosed spaces. In the end, it’ll want to go into the Pandora.”

“I guess we should spread out, then,” Susan said, “so it can come after one of us, then someone else distracts it.”

Victoria bit her lip. “I don’t know about this… aren’t we basically just bait? Shouldn’t we have something to protect us, in case it goes wrong? Like that spell? We could probably learn it, with a bit of practice...”

“Not if you want to do this today,” Draco said. “And I bet the teachers will have got rid of it by Monday.”

“We need to find out who the Heir is,” Susan added. “Who knows who’ll be attacked next!”

Outvoted, Victoria draw her wand. “Fine. But we should run away if it doesn’t work.”

The others nodded, and they moved to position themselves in a triangle around the yard: Draco directly facing the shed, so that the boggart would come for him first, with Victoria and Susan off to either side.

“Here we go,” Draco said, and he raised his wand. “Alohomora!”

The door swung open with a long creak. Nothing came out.

“There!” Susan cried, pointing at the ground between Draco and the shed, and for a moment Victoria was utterly confused—but then she saw it, a dark shadow creeping across the cobbles. “Lethifold! Draco, move!”

But Draco was rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed on the shadow as it approached. Cursing, Victoria ran forwards, waving her arms wildly.

“Hey! Boggart! Over here!”

The shadow paused.

“It’s working!” Susan called, “you’re confusing it!”

And then the shadow twisted, transforming to meet Victoria. It reared up off the ground, its mutating form growing and growing, stretching out into a hulking body and thick, brownish-green limbs. Dread pooled in Victoria’s stomach as she realised what it was.

“Troll!”

The enormous troll roared a challenge, raising its club to the sky, and Victoria backed away.

“Cadere!” she cried, casting the first spell which came to mind, and silver light flashed. The troll stepped into the Trip Jinx, easily breaking through the magic, and lumbered towards her.

“Susan!” Victoria called, her voice panicked. “Your turn!”

Susan stepped forward, throwing rocks at the troll’s back, her plait swinging behind her with every throw. The troll turned, bellowed, and started plodding towards her instead.

Susan froze.

“It’s not changing!” Draco shouted. “She’s scared of trolls too!”

“Run!” Victoria shouted at Susan, who finally moved to flee—too slowly. The troll was going to catch her.

Without thinking, Victoria’s wand whipped through the air in an arc, and the cobbles beneath the troll transformed into ice. It slipped, crashing to the ground with a shuddering thump, the ice cracking beneath the weight of its body.

From its position on the ground, the troll looked back at Victoria, and its eyes were full of rage.

Her stomach tightened. “Oh, crap.”

And then she was running too, dashing from the yard down one of the many paths leading between the greenhouses. The troll had recovered from its fall; she could hear it behind her, the sound of its stomping footsteps getting quicker as it picked up speed. All thought of capturing it was now forgotten, replaced with the heart-pounding thrill of fear.

She swerved down a side path, hoping she could lose the troll, but she was only a few seconds down the path when the sound of smashing glass came from behind her. She risked a glance over her shoulder to see the troll on the ground once more, surrounded by debris from the destroyed corner of a greenhouse.

A moment later the sound of the troll’s pursuit resumed. Victoria sobbed. Her legs were burning from the sprint; she couldn’t keep it up. It was going to catch her.

There! An open barrel was tucked into an alcove, and it was full of water. She twisted mid-step, her wand swiping violently from the barrel to the troll. The water shot up from the barrel, forming into a spear in the air, and rocketed back the way she’d come.

She didn’t hang around to witness the result. The troll cried out—whether in pain or anger she couldn’t tell—and she took the opportunity to crawl between the narrow, overgrown gap between Greenhouse Three and Four.

It was a tight fit, but she didn’t let that slow her down. Escape in sight, she propelled herself through the mass of nettles, her hands and face collecting stings with every frantic movement. Her robe caught on a nail, but she kept going, and she emerged from the other side with a tearing sound as the nail opened up a seam down the side of her robe.

The shadow of the troll still loomed on the other side of the long greenhouse. It was stomping around, turning this way and that, but apparently it couldn’t figure out where she had gone.

Trembling, Victoria crawled away as quietly as she could. She didn’t dare stand—the troll was surely strong enough to smash through the entire greenhouse, if it realised she was there. It was a long crawl before the troll was out of sight.

Finally, when she could no longer hear the sound of its footsteps, she mustered the courage to stand up. Relief flooded her limbs, but it was quickly replaced with worry for Susan and Draco. Would the troll look for them, now that it had lost her? Hopefully they had taken the chance to escape back to the school.

She traipsed back towards the east gate, scowling as she caught sight of her reflection in the glass of a greenhouse. Robes torn and dirty, there were leaves in her hair and her face was covered in scratches and red patches from nettle stings. Pansy was going to have a field day.

She emerged from the greenhouses to find Susan and Draco arguing by the gatehouse, flies buzzing around them, no doubt attracted by the nearby crates of dragon dung.

“There’s no time!” Susan was saying frantically, “we have to go and help her!”

“And do what?” Draco said. “We should get a teacher.”

“I agree,” Victoria called out, “we should definitely get a teacher.”

The two of them spun to face her.

“Victoria!” Susan cried, and she ran across to envelop her in an enormous hug. “Oh, we were so worried!” She stepped back and looked her up and down. “Are you ok? You don’t look injured…”

“I’m fine,” Victoria said, picking a leaf out of her dark hair. “Nothing a long shower won’t fix, at least.”

“But where did the troll go?” Susan asked.

“Guys,” Draco said, still standing by the gate, “do you hear that?”

An all-too-familiar stomping approached, coming down one of the paths from the greenhouses. Before they could react, the troll charged out into the open, coming out halfway between Draco and the girls. Its teeth were bared in an animalistic growl, and it was bleeding from its shoulder.

“Furnunculus!” Draco cried, a jet of pink sparks shooting from his wand, but the jinx only served to irritate the troll. It turned its gaze on Draco, raised its club, and howled a war cry.

“Help!” Draco called, backing away. “Do something!”

But Victoria’s mind was blank, still too shocked by the arrival of the troll to do anything.

Susan’s wand jabbed towards the crates of dragon dung.

“Locomotor poo!”

The dung launched through the air, following the path of Susan’s wand—missing the troll entirely, and sailing with a splat right into Draco, covering him from head to toe.

In spite of the danger, a bark of laughter escaped Victoria. The troll reeled back, as if struck by a powerful curse.

“Oh no…” Susan moaned, looking at Draco with horror, and something about her expression set Victoria off, an uncontrollable giggle bubbling up and out of her. The troll backed away in confusion.

“Locomotor… poo!” Victoria gasped, barely able to breathe, and then Susan was laughing too, the sounds of her inelegant snorting just making Victoria laugh even harder.

The troll was in obvious pain now, its gaze casting around for an escape. Draco stepped forward, held out the Pandora, and opened the box.

The boggart seized the opportunity. It jumped, its form mutating into swirling light as it travelled through the air, and it flew right into the Pandora.

The lid slammed shut behind it.

“Is… is it over?” Victoria asked. She looked nervously at the box in Draco’s hands. “It can’t come out, can it?”

Ignoring her question, Draco walked over and handed her the Pandora. “I’m going for a shower,” he declared, in about as dignified a manner as was possible when covered in dragon dung. He stalked off without another word.

Victoria couldn’t help but giggle again as she watched him leave, walking with his head held high.

“He’s never gonna speak to me again, is he?” Susan said with a sigh. “I just cast the spell without thinking…”

Victoria shrugged. “Good thing you did, else we’d have been troll food. Or boggart food… do boggarts even eat? Anyway, he’ll get over it.” She smirked. “You know, eventually. Like, maybe in ten years.”

“Victoria!” Susan gasped, “don’t joke about that!”

Laughing, they made their way back to the castle, going their separate ways when they passed through the library courtyard. Victoria was heading directly to the Slytherin dorms, wanting to secure the Pandora in her trunk immediately—ideally with a heavy pile of books on top, to make sure the lid stayed shut. She didn’t much fancy the thought of the boggart escaping and taking up residence in the space beneath her bed. In fact, she was so focused on keeping hold of the box that she failed to notice the odd looks everyone was sending her as she wandered the corridors alone.

“Potter!” called a voice, just as she was approaching the Entrance Hall. She turned to see Professor Lockhart striding towards her, his fuchsia robes billowing behind him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

She frowned. “Going to the Slytherin common room, Professor.”

“On your own?” he asked, and that was when she remembered the new rules. Her face fell as she realised that she’d just earned herself a detention. “Quite,” Lockhart said, noting her expression. “Come with me, please.”

He led her on a circuitous route up to the Defence Against the Dark Arts corridor on the second floor. Passing the classrooms by, he opened a door which she had never noticed before and ushered her into his office. The walls were crammed with framed photographs, all of them of Lockhart smiling broadly, and as the door closed behind her, Victoria noticed that its back was covered with a poster advertising Voyages with Vampires.

“Oh, Victoria,” Lockhart said dramatically, “how did I not see it before? At first, I thought you might be the Heir yourself… but now I understand. You were the first to find Justin, weren’t you? And now, I find you wandering alone in the corridors, robes artfully torn, no doubt looking for trouble. The Girl Who Lived, the hero once again… that’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Victoria was momentarily stunned speechless. “Um, what?”

Lockhart began rummaging through the drawers to his desk. “No use hiding it from me, my girl!” he said. “I know someone desperate for the spotlight when I see them! But you know, it’s not all photoshoots and magazine covers.” He nodded to a pile of envelopes on his desk. “Fan mail. It’s a lot of hard work, being a celebrity. Something to think about, when you’re in detention. Now, where are those damn slips…”

He crossed the room and disappeared into a store cupboard, continuing to talk loudly about the burden of celebrity as he tried to find a detention slip. Victoria ignored him. Curious, she drifted towards his desk and took a peek at his fan mail. The first letter was from one Mrs Chartridge, full of praise for Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Household Pests, and the next one down was from a Mrs Stroud. Five sickles were spellotaped to the letter, and an order form for a signed photograph was enclosed.

She put the letters down with a snort. Idiots. Couldn’t they see that Lockhart was all bluster? Bored with the mail, she turned her eye to a thick, leather-bound notebook and flipped the cover open. At the centre of the first page, written in Lockhart’s flowery cursive, was a large title:

Gilderoy Lockhart Presents…
SEEKING WITH SLYTHERINS  

[FIRST DRAFT]  

Frowning, Victoria flicked through the pages, her disbelief rising as she realised what she was seeing. Was Lockhart writing a book about the Heir of Slytherin? And then her own name caught her eye:

Immediately recognising the poison in question, I rushed to help the young girl, preparing to cast the enormously complex Demudifying Charm to clear the vile substance from her veins. But just as I reached her, the oafish Professor Snape managed to get in my way. Ever does that man seek his own glory, even when it risks the life of a child. He knocked me over (deliberately, I suspect) and administered the antidote he happened to be carrying in his pocket. It was a huge risk to take, and Victoria Potter was lucky that he stumbled upon giving her the correct potion.

That was not exactly how she remembered things.

The door to the cupboard slammed shut, and Victoria jumped, looking up to find Lockhart examining her from across the room.

“You shouldn’t be reading that,” he said, and his usual jovial tone had disappeared. “I don’t share my first drafts with anyone but Mr Obscurus.”

“Sorry, sir.” She closed the book and looked up at him with wide eyes. “I was just… so curious to see what you’d write next.”

Lockhart’s expression softened. “I should have known better than to leave a young girl alone with one of my drafts. I don’t blame you for giving into temptation, but please: tell no one of what you read. It’ll be our secret, yes?”

Victoria nodded eagerly, fully intending to tell Susan all about it the next time they spoke.

“Excellent!” Lockhart exclaimed. He waved a sheaf of parchment in the air and came over to stand beside her. “I found the slip. Now, if you’ll just pass me a quill…”

He filled in the slip, inserting the details of her crime before signing with a flourish. She noticed that he’d left the “Punishment” section blank.

“Here you go,” he said, and he passed her the slip. “Now, I’ll be checking with Professor Snape that you’ve given this to him, so no accidentally losing it, you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Off with you, then!”

Victoria blinked. He was just going to send her off on her own? But that was exactly what he’d just given her a detention for! She opened her mouth to object, before pausing. What was she doing? If he was happy to let her go, she wasn’t going to insist on a chaperone.

She made to leave—only to pause by the door, still curious about what she had seen. He might have been a braggart, but there had to be some truth to Lockhart’s stories, right? There were witnesses, after all. Maybe, for all his faults, Lockhart would be able to solve the mystery.

“Are you really investigating the Heir, sir? Like in your books?”

He sighed and sat down at his desk. “As best I can, my dear. As best I can.”

Chapter Text

Victoria’s detention took place the very next day, robbing her of a gloriously sunny February morning. While the rest of the school emptied out into the grounds to spend their Sunday playing quidditch or wandering around the lake, Victoria was forced to report to Professor Flitwick by the greenhouses.

It was slightly surreal, returning there after the capture of the boggart. She almost felt as if she had imagined the entire experience, so peaceful were the surroundings—birds were singing from the trees, and the crisp air faintly echoed with the sound of distant laughter—but the evidence of her little adventure was soon encountered.

Professor Flitwick was waiting for her by the east gate. “Good morning, Miss Potter. This way, please.”

He led her through the warren of cobbled paths to greenhouse four, the very greenhouse which the troll-boggart had smashed when turning a corner at speed. The debris was still littered across the ground, covering it with cracked glass and splintered wood. At first, Victoria thought that he’d figured out that she was responsible, and her stomach tightened with dread as she anticipated a doubling of her punishment—but fortunately, Professor Flitwick was none the wiser.

“As you can see, we have a vandal on the loose!” he said, his voice squeaking with disapproval. “Professor Sprout discovered this last night.”

Victoria tried to sculpt her expression into one of surprise. “How terrible!” she said, hoping she didn’t sound too relieved. “Who would do such a thing?”

“We may never know,” Flitwick said. “In all my years at Hogwarts, I’ve rarely witnessed such shameless destruction. Not since… well, not since your father was a student here, as a matter of fact.”

The comparison was concerningly insightful. Was it just her guilty conscience, or was he looking at her with newly suspicious eyes?

“Well, sir, there’s always the Weasley twins,” she said, trying to head off his train of thought. “Or the Heir, of course. Maybe he did this.”

Flitwick raised a bushy eyebrow. “Really, Miss Potter, I wouldn’t have thought an intelligent girl like you would set store by those rumours. When you think about it, there’s very little evidence that the Chamber of Secrets has been opened again.”

“But—”

Victoria’s objection died on her tongue. Again? Was Flitwick saying that the Chamber of Secrets had been opened before? If that was public knowledge, she certainly hadn’t heard of it, and none of the other Slytherins had mentioned it either. She turned back to the greenhouse, attempting to conceal her reaction.

“Can’t you just fix it with the Repair Charm?”

“Oh, certainly,” Flitwick said, apparently unaware that he had just let important information slip. “Yes, the Repair Charm would fix it in a jiffy, but then what would you do for your detention? Your task for today is to fix the greenhouse.”

Victoria stared at the wreck of splintered wood and smashed glass. “Uh... how? I don’t know the Repair Charm.”

Professor Flitwick chuckled. “Be creative, my dear! Why, you might even have fun!”

“If you say so, sir.”

It was better than writing lines, at least. Hoping that inspiration would strike while she worked, she decided to clear up the mess first.

“Locomotor glass!” She swiped her wand in a circle, intending for the glass to gather into a single pile, but the spirit of the goshawk continued to resist her. Instead of gathering, the glass scattered in every direction. She scowled at her wand.

“It’s quite unlike you to struggle with a charm,” Flitwick said, looking quite serious now. “Your choice of the goshawk… it was against my better judgement, but I allowed it on account of your advanced studies. Still… perhaps it’s time to consider changing your totem to something more appropriate. I’m sure you’d catch up to the rest of the class in no time.”

Victoria blushed and ducked her head, unable to meet the Professor’s sympathetic gaze. The taste of failure was not familiar. It was so tempting to take up his offer, to switch to the hummingbird as she had first intended, just to avoid that look. But she could already hear what Susan would say. It was just like duelling. She could quit and take the easy way out, or she could stick with it, work hard, and overcome her problems.

“I can do it,” Victoria said, her voice firm. “I just need more practice.”

Professor Flitwick hummed with scepticism. “Very well. But in the meantime, you’ve a greenhouse to fix. How are you going to tidy all this up?”

Victoria shrugged. “The long way, I guess. Scopus!”

She moved her wand forward with a scooping motion, as if holding the handle of a broom, and the rubble was pushed forward. Repeating the movement over and over, eventually she swept the broken glass, metal and wood into a pile which could be levitated.

“Wingardium Leviosa!”

While the Locomotion Charm may have been beyond her, there was nothing wrong with her Levitation Charm. The mixed wreckage floated up into the air, where it hovered at waist height.

“Be right back!”

She wandered off to fetch a wheelbarrow from behind the compost heaps. Returning to Professor Flitwick, she positioned the wheelbarrow underneath the floating debris, and allowed the Levitation Charm to fail.

“Good,” Flitwick said, and he vanished the contents of the wheelbarrow with a wave of his wand. “But what about the greenhouse?”

“I’ll have to transfigure it,” she said, examining the broken greenhouse with a critical eye. It had a wooden frame, with steel joints holding the beams of wood together. It wasn’t anything too complicated, but it was big—much bigger than anything she had transfigured before.

“So you’ll create a new greenhouse, rather than fixing the old one?” Flitwick asked. “Yes, I suppose that works. Well then, I’ll leave you to it.”

Without another word, he conjured himself a colourful deck chair, summoned a book out of thin air, and settled down to read in the sun.

“Right.” Victoria returned her attention to the greenhouse. She supposed it would make sense to start with the wooden frame. Running her wand along the length of a beam, she coaxed the wood to lengthen, the jagged, splintered end smoothing out as it grew upwards. It was a slow process, and several times Victoria had to start the spell afresh when it seemed to run out of steam, but eventually she was able to produce a tall post which looked more or less identical to the others.

No doubt McGonagall could have done it with a single jab of her wand. She sighed.  “One down, four to go.”

She repeated the process again and again, the morning wearing on as the wood seemed to grow with a glacial pace. Was that perhaps because wood was a living material, familiar only with natural growth over the course of many seasons? It was an interesting thought, and it gave her an idea.

For the last post, she tried something different. She listened to the twittering birds. She looked up and felt the February sun warm her face. She thought of bluebells and the bleating of newborn lambs. Spring was coming, and with it came new life and growth. She let that sense fill her and cast the spell one more time, now infused with the spirit of spring.

The wood extended eagerly, as if reaching towards the sun, and in a matter of seconds it topped out at the same height as the others.

Victoria smiled with quiet satisfaction, not even frustrated by the fact that she’d wasted so much time struggling with the first four posts. There was nothing she loved more than figuring out a new piece of magic on her own—especially in transfiguration, where everything just made so much sense.

The rest of the greenhouse didn’t take too long to finish. The metal joints were a bit tricky to position, with more than one falling to the ground as she tried to get the roof into place, but a few Levitation Charms were enough to sort that out. Once the frame was in place, it was just a matter of transfiguring water into panes of glass to fill the spaces between the beams of wood.

“All done?” Professor Flitwick said, looking up from his book. “Very impressive, I must say! It looks as good as new! I’d give you points, but since this is a detention… well, you’ll just have to be satisfied with a job well done.”

“Thank you,” Victoria said, though something about Flitwick’s praise troubled her. A moment later it hit her: the greenhouse was as good as new, and it stuck out like a sore thumb for it. All the greenhouses around them were covered with ivy. “Hang on a moment.”

She approached one of the other greenhouses and used the Cutting Charm to sever a length of ivy. Then she returned to the newly transfigured greenhouse and positioned the cutting at the base of one of the wooden beams. She licked a finger and rubbed her spit on the base of the stem, encouraging roots to sprout and burrow into the soil, and then she was whistling the ivy into growth, using a high, piercing note just as Madam Bloom had taught them. The ivy climbed up the wood, wedging itself into tight spaces, twisting its way towards the roof and spreading out across the windowpanes, until the newly transfigured section looked just like all the others.

“There,” Victoria said, stepping back to review her work. “Now I’m done.”

Flitwick smiled broadly. “Professor Sprout will be pleased. Well then, I believe that’s your detention served. Your Sunday is now your own… but, if I may make a suggestion, perhaps it would be best spent practising your Locomotion Charm.”

As much as Victoria would have liked to spend the rest of her day remedying Professor Flitwick’s poor opinion of her Locomotion Charm, she had more pressing matters to attend to. After a quick visit to the Slytherin dorms to change into a nice dress robe, she made her way back out into the grounds with the Pandora and foe glass weighing down her bag.

It didn’t take long to find Susan, who was hanging out with a group of Hufflepuffs by the lake, a wide-trunked oak protecting them from the stiff breeze coming off the water. They noticed her when she was still some distance away, beckoning for her to come and join them, and Victoria squinted to make them out. There was Hannah, Susan’s closest friend in Hufflepuff, a plump girl with long, straw-coloured hair; pale-faced Justin, now fully recovered from his encounter with the Heir; Ernie Macmillan, a stocky, talkative boy who was in Victoria’s duelling group; and Susan, who was lounging in a ray of sun, a crocus tucked into her copper-red hair.

As Victoria approached, the sound of the wireless carried through the air, playing what sounded suspiciously like Muggle music—something that never happened among Slytherins. A moment later she recognised the singer, the familiar voice of Kylie Minogue greeting her like an old friend.

“I should visit you guys more often,” she said as she arrived at the group. “Honestly, there’s only so much Weird Sisters a girl can take.”

Justin laughed. “One song is enough for me. They all sound the same, don’t they?”

“They do not!” Hannah gasped. “You just won’t give them a chance! Tell him, Ernie.”

Ernie held up his hands defensively. “Don’t ask me! I voted for putting the quidditch on.”

“Susan?”

But Susan ignored the question. “Did you come all on your own?” she asked, looking back the way Victoria had come. “Didn’t you just get a detention for that?”

Victoria shrugged. “It’s a silly rule. You can’t have someone with you all the time.”

“You should be careful,” Justin said seriously. “My parents almost didn’t let me come back, after… you know. Said I’d be safer at Eton.”

“Well, she’s here now,” Hannah said, and she patted a space on the blanket next to her. “Join us? We’ve brought a picnic.”

Victoria looked at the rather inviting wicker basket. She could see freshly baked bread, jars of honey and strawberry jam, a thick wedge of crumbly white cheese, some perfectly ripe pears, and a bottle of strawberry fizz.

It took enormous willpower to turn down the invitation. “Sorry, I was actually just stopping by to borrow Susan.” She sent Susan a meaningful look. “Remember? We were going to do our homework with Draco this afternoon.”

Susan frowned in confusion, but a moment later realisation dawned on her face. “Oh! Yes! I, um, forgot.”

Hannah grinned. “Ohh, homework with Draco? It’s about time! Well, go on, don’t wait on us. We’ll see you back in the common room.”

They departed with one last hungry look at the picnic hamper.

“I hope you have food,” Susan muttered as Victoria led them back across the grass, heading in the direction of the quidditch pitch. “Hang on, where are we going?”

“The Pit,” Victoria said. “Vince and Greg will have food, probably. Unless they’ve eaten it all... but anyway, forget about that. I’ve found out loads since yesterday—and you’ll never guess what I saw in Lockhart’s office last night.”

“Um, a lifetime supply of hair potion?” Susan joked. “Or… Professor Lockhart and Professor Sinistra kissing!”

Victoria laughed. “You’ve seen too many of his plays. It was actually a copy of his new book—or part of it, at least.”

“A new book!” Susan exclaimed. She glanced around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “Did you get a look at it? What’s it about?”

“That’s the thing. It’s about the Heir of Slytherin.”

“But… no one’s caught the Heir yet,” Susan said. “He wouldn’t be able to finish writing, would he? Though… I guess he’d want to go to press as soon as he catches the Heir.”

“I don’t know what to think, to be honest,” Victoria said, trying to muster the courage to share her true opinion. Again and again she had shied away from confronting Susan about Lockhart, preferring to avoid the subject. She didn’t like fighting, especially with her friends—it gave her a twisting feeling in her stomach, like she was standing on the edge of a cliff—but she had been bracing herself for this conversation since she had left Lockhart’s office the night before.

She took a deep breath before pushing on. “I know you like him, but something isn’t right about his books, Susan. That firearm, I’m telling you, there’s no such thing in the Muggle world. Which means he must have made it himself, or had someone make it for him… either way, his story can’t be true.”

“But we saw it,” Susan said, a slight whine in her voice. “We saw his memories, and the firearm was there!”

“So a wizard must have given it to him,” Victoria said. “Or else… maybe the detective was secretly a wizard? No, that can’t be right.” She paused, thinking. “I’m not saying I’ve got the answers. All I know is that something fishy’s going on. And then there’s his magic… you can’t tell me you haven’t noticed the way all his spells seem to go wrong.”

Susan looked away. “We’ve never seen him in a fight, have we?” she said, her gaze fixed on the lake. “Maybe he’s really good at defensive magic, but not so good with charms? There’s lots of wizards like that—you know, people who are good at just one thing.”

Every so often, Victoria was reminded that Susan still knew much more about the magical world than her. She wasn’t truly convinced by Susan’s suggestion—surely if Lockhart were a great wizard, then he could have pulled off a Summoning Charm—but there was no need to push the issue further. She’d said her piece, and now was the time to exit the argument with grace.

“You’d know that better than me,” she said, and she took hold of Susan’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “But still, something isn’t right.”

“You’ll see,” Susan said, looking back at her with a small smile. “I bet he’s on the trail, gathering clues and whatnot. He might even know who the Heir is already! Just waiting for the right time to catch them red-handed.”

“Well, I’m on the trail too,” Victoria said. “Professor Flitwick, during my detention—he said the Chamber of Secrets has been opened before.”

“Really? I’ve never heard of that.” Susan frowned. “Why didn’t Aunt Amelia tell us, I wonder? Surely she’d know, as the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

Victoria smirked.

“Don’t say it!” Susan said, correctly interpreting the look on Victoria’s face. “It’s a bit strange, don’t you think? Maybe Flitwick was wrong... if they knew who it was last time, you’d think they’d just arrest them again.”

“None of it makes sense.” Victoria patted her bag. “But that’s why we’ve got this, isn’t it? Maybe the foe glass will give us the clue we need.”

They arrived at the Pit. It was an old amphitheatre of simple construction, open to the elements, with rings of stone ledges descending towards a circular platform which served as a stage. Long since abandoned in favour of the Quidditch Stadium, weeds grew between the slabs of stone, and more than one ledge had crumbed entirely. Still, the Pit remained a common meeting place for students on warm and sunny days, and it was here that Victoria and Susan found the second year Slytherins.

The girls were gathered around the stage area, with Pansy and Daphne striking poses while Arabella Rudgwick—once more recruited for menial labour—took photographs. A couple of rows higher, the boys were playing a game with their wands, hitting rocks against each other and seeing whose survived the longest. Victoria couldn’t help but envy their skill with the Locomotion Charm.

Unusually, Tracey was hanging out with the boys, no doubt bored by Pansy and Daphne’s impromptu fashion show. She was sitting opposite Draco, a short distance away from everyone else, their eyes locked together.

“Not her too,” Victoria groaned. “What’s so interesting about staring contests, anyway?”

“No idea,” Susan said. “What’s going on there?” She nodded towards the stage, where Pansy was trying to forbid Daphne from wearing pink.

Victoria snorted. “It’s for Spring Witch—you know, you send photos of your favourite outfit to Witch Weekly, and the best ones get published.”

They watched as Daphne emerged from behind a screen wearing a light pink dress robe.

“That’s it!” Pansy cried, crossing her arms. “Arabella, you can’t take any photos of her if she’s wearing pink!”

Daphne tossed her hair over her shoulder, the golden blonde gleaming in the sun, and gave Arabella her best pout. “Ignore her. It’s your camera, you can take photos of whoever you like.”

Back at the top of the amphitheatre, Susan shook her head. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Maybe,” Victoria said. “They’ve always squabbled a bit, but it’s got worse recently. I think Pansy’s jealous of all the attention Daphne’s getting. I don’t know if you heard—a third year actually asked her out last week.”

“They didn’t!” Susan said. “Who?”

“McLaggen—you know, the Gryffindor seeker.”

“Cormac!” Susan gasped. “Did she say yes?”

“Nah,” Victoria said. “I think she was too surprised to even think about it properly. She kinda just… laughed. You should’ve seen McLaggen’s face.”

“Poor guy. But no wonder Pansy was jealous,” Susan said. “No one’s ever asked her out, have they? Mind you, no one’s asked me out either…” She looked with barely-concealed longing towards Draco, who was just declaring victory over Tracey.

“Come on.” Victoria moved towards the boys, pulling Susan along behind her. “Let’s grab Draco before he starts smashing rocks.”

They made sure to give the flying rocks a wide berth as they approached, not wanting to get hit by flying shrapnel. “Draco!” Victoria called. “Homework time!”

“What?” Draco said. “I already finished my homework.”

“Not this you didn’t.”

She opened her bag as she reached him, letting him look inside to see the foe glass and Pandora jammed between a mess of broken quills, loose sickles, a small pot of floo powder, and several vials of potions.

“Wow,” Draco said, raising an eyebrow. “You carry far too much stuff around.”

Victoria blushed. “Oh, shush. Are you coming or not?”

“Of course I’m coming,” he said. “I don’t see what the big secret is, though. It’s not like we’re breaking the rules.”

“Tell that to Flitwick,” Victoria said. “He wasn’t too happy about that greenhouse!”

“How about we use the Witch’s Grove?” Susan suggested. “That’s not far from here.”

Draco shrugged. “Fine by me.”

They left the Pit and took the path towards the Quidditch Stadium, coming to a ring of witch hazel a few minutes later. The tall bushes were in bloom, their thin, antenna-like flowers creating a wall of rich, buttercup yellow. It was the perfect cover for some covert spellwork, and luckily the grove was empty.

“Here we go.” Victoria withdrew the foe glass and set it on the ground at the centre of the grove. Its glossy surface had been polished to the point that it reflected her face back at her, framed by the deep blue of the sky above.

“So how do we get the boggart into the glass?” Susan asked, kneeling next to Victoria as she took the Pandora from her bag. “There’s no chance of it escaping again, is there?”

Victoria grinned. “Well, if it does, we know exactly how to deal with it. I’m sure Draco won’t mind.”

Susan glowered at her, still upset over having accidentally covered Draco in dragon dung.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Draco said stiffly. “Travers just said something about opening the reflection, didn’t it? What does that even mean?”

“Luckily, I looked it up,” Victoria said, and she drew her wand. “There was a reason Susan had to polish the surface so much—you can fit the boggart inside the space of the reflection. Alohomora!”

She tapped the glass and its surface turned dark, as if were a portal looking down into a deep well. “Next we have to hold the Pandora over the glass. Draco?”

He picked up the wooden box, making sure the lid was tightly shut before holding it in mid-air.

Victoria shook her head. “The other way—the lid needs to be facing down.”

Susan leaned forward. “Here, I’ll help.”

Together, the two of them manoeuvred the box so that it was upside down, their fingers brushing against each other as they held the lid closed.

“That’s it,” Victoria said. “Now, on the count of three, let the lid fall open. One… two… three!”

The lid dropped—a swirling, smoke-like cloud spilled from the box and fell towards the foe glass, the boggart sinking into the dark surface before it had even realised it was free. The moment it was all inside, Victoria jabbed her wand.

“Colloportus!”

The spell sealed the opening, returning the glass to its previous state—only now there was something inside, a writhing, churning fog of light and dark. As Victoria looked at it, the fog twisted and formed into the ghostly shape of a troll.

“It’s working!” Victoria said, excitement filling her.

Draco shuffled closer to the glass to get a better look, and the troll broke apart, replaced by a fluttering cloak of darkness—a lethifold. 

“It’s just showing us the creature we fear,” Draco said, frowning. “Shouldn’t we see our enemies?”

Susan groaned. “Don’t ask her to explain it again. I’ve heard it twice already and it still doesn’t make any sense to me. She has to—what was it again?—imbue the divining medium with somniamatic properties.”

“See, you do understand!” Victoria said. She turned to Draco. “In the real world, you only see what’s actually there. But in dreams things aren’t so fixed… there’s no substance, only form, and the form is personal to you. So the Anamorphosis Charm puts an object into a dream state, even though it exists in the real world, and that way it can look like different things for different people. It’s brilliant, isn’t it?”

Draco cocked its head. “If we’re turning the boggart into a dream, then who’s the dreamer? You?”

“Oh, but that’s the coolest part! It’s actually a dream without—”

“Guys! Can we finish making it first?” Susan said, her voice pointed. “I wanna know who the Heir is.”

Suddenly Victoria remembered that this wasn’t just an academic project; there was a purpose to their magic.

“Okay. Just give me a moment—the spell’s pretty tricky.”

They fell into silence as Victoria prepared the Anamorphosis Charm. It was one of those spells that you couldn’t just cast; you had to have the right mental state, like when she performed transfiguration by technique. She closed her eyes and let her breathing slow, as if she were falling asleep, lulling herself into a state of relaxation. As she breathed, she focused on the darkness before her, and soon enough lights began to form in her vision, strange shapes of different colours dancing in and out of the darkness. Her eyes began to ache, and that was when she knew the spell was ready.

“Disjunculus,” she said softly, casting with a whisper, and the lights vanished from her vision, as if consumed by the spell. When that happened, you knew that the spell had worked.

She opened her eyes.

“Well?” she asked, looking between Draco and Susan. “What do you see?”

“There’s a… face,” Susan said, her eyes fixed to the glass. “I can’t make out their features, though… it’s blurry, like a smudged painting.” She moved, as if trying to see from another angle, before sighing. “I think it’s a girl, but that’s it. I guess they’re too far away.”

“Maybe she’s not at Hogwarts,” Draco said, before looking into the glass himself. He frowned. “What on earth…?”

“You see someone?” Susan asked.

“Not someone. Some thing. A house-elf!” Draco looked very put out by this. “How can a house-elf be a wizard’s foe? They serve us. But maybe… yes. What if one of father’s rivals used an elf against us? They can go invisible, you know… the perfect spy, in a way. I’ll need to write to father tonight.”

“It works!” Victoria clapped happily. “Okay, my turn!”

She leaned forwards, excited to finally learn who the Heir of Slytherin was. The moment she looked into the glass, however, she knew that something had gone wrong. Disappointment flooded her, an almost physical blow.

“I think I did the spell wrong,” she said with a sigh. Months of effort… wasted.

“What?” Susan said. “Why? What do you see?”

Victoria looked back at the glass. A pretty girl looked back at her—a girl with long black hair, green eyes, and clear, lightly tanned skin.

“Myself. All I see is myself.”

Chapter Text

The failure of the foe glass had served a severe blow to Victoria’s pride, yet behind the sting of disappointment lay a twinge of curiosity. It would have been one thing for the magic to fail completely, but the fact that it worked for Draco and Susan merited a deeper investigation, one that saw Victoria immediately seeking answers in the library.

After she had declared the foe glass broken, Susan and Draco had each begun to doubt what they had seen: Susan, because she had seen so little of note; Draco, because the glass had shown him a house-elf. Yet despite their protests, their visions made sense. After all, the girl Susan saw could have been anyone… Madeleine, perhaps, or even another girl who fancied Draco. Vague as the vision was, there was no reason to doubt it. As for Draco… well, Victoria knew something he did not. She couldn’t tell him, lest she be forced to confess her own snooping, but she knew that the house-elf Dobby had helped her spy on Mr Malfoy in the woods. That was surely a betrayal of the loyalty owed by an elf to its master, and reason enough for the glass to count Dobby among Draco’s enemies.

So she was convinced that the glass was at least partially functional. Even though the it had showed the others confusing visions, it at least showed them something. For Victoria, on the other hand, the glass merely reflected her face, the same as it had always done. It went against everything she knew about the Anamorphosis Charm.

She spent the rest of Sunday afternoon surrounded by books in the library, barely noticing as the day’s light faded. The shadows cast by the tall, stained glass windows lengthened, and Madam Pince began her daily patrol of the bookcases, lighting lamps with her wand as she went by.

Victoria’s first instinct had been to open even more advanced books on the Anamorphosis Charm. Attempting to understand exactly what had gone wrong, she tried to muddle through all the references to complex spell theories—the books were designed for N.E.W.T. students—but she quickly realised this was a dead end. So far as she could tell, it was impossible for the Charm to work for some people but fail for others. The whole point of the Charm was to show different things to different people, which meant that Victoria seeing something different was a sign that the Charm was working.

The magic was in place; it was simply malfunctioning somehow.

She quickly moved on to explore the possibility of removing the Anamorphosis Charm from the glass. Once removed, she figured she could then cast it again, hopefully with more success. But it turned out that removing magic from an object was rather tricky—there was a reason why counter-spells were not studied in depth until fifth year. The Finite Incantatem Counter-Charm, which they had learnt in first year, worked only on the weakest of charms and jinxes; for most spells, the art of counter-spelling involved applying a spell of equal and opposite effect, such that the magic reached a balance and cancelled itself out.

The basic principle was easy enough to comprehend. An object under the Engorgement Charm had to be countered with the Shrinking Charm; the Jelly-Legs Jinx had to be countered with the Freezing Jinx. This much Victoria already knew from Defence Against the Dark Arts, where Professor Quirrell had taught them various jinx and counter-jinx combinations. In practice, however, it was rarely possible to just find the counter in a book and cast it, because all but the simplest spells contained a complex mix of powers which each required their own counter.

It was really quite fascinating. Victoria soon forgot about the foe glass, losing herself within a short but engaging book called The Cheering Charm: A Case Study in Magical Equilibrium. The Cheering Charm had many different effects, depending on how it had been cast, from giddiness and euphoria to hiccups and uncontrollable crying. There was therefore no single counter-charm; rather, one had to counteract the specific behaviour of the charm in question. For euphoria, the Sobering Charm was required; for tears, the Dry Eyes Charm; and in cases of extreme giddiness, a Calming Draught might be necessary. Each of these partial counters had to be applied in perfect balance; if you overpowered your Sobering Charm, for example, you might overshoot the mark and end up with a very sombre subject.

Unfortunately, the Anamorphosis Charm was exactly this kind of advanced charm, the type for which it was impossible to learn a counter by rote. The goal was to snap the anamorphic object out of its dream state. For basic anamorphosis, like the spell Victoria had cast on the chocolate frog cards, a simple Reenervation Charm might have been sufficient, but more complex cases could require all sorts of other counters, from the use of loud noises to splashing the object with cold water.

To make matters worse, the charm on the foe glass was now tied into the magic of the boggart. That was where Victoria’s reading went from fiendishly complex to completely baffling. Counteracting a spell which had mingled with the magic of a creature went far beyond her understanding, and by the time the bell rang for dinner, she had become resigned to the fact that the spell would be impossible to remove. The foe glass was complete, its magic set in stone. While the Charm might eventually wear off, that could be years away. If she wanted a working foe glass now, she would have to start from scratch.

There was no chance of that happening. Even if she had been prepared to repeat all that work, she simply didn’t have the time for it. She was far too busy with her school work, what with all the additional reading her teachers continued to give her, not to mention her struggles with the Locomotion Charm.

She was so busy, in fact, that she had taken to reading at breakfast, just to fit everything in. On Monday morning, when details were posted in the Entrance Hall of their upcoming Defence field trip, Victoria forced herself to ignore the excitement spreading across the Great Hall, focusing instead on Chapter Seven of A Nice and Accurate Account of the Goblin Wars—a difficult task, given that Tracey had brought a copy of the parchment to the breakfast table.

“It says here we’ll camp in groups of four,” Tracey was saying. “We’ll stick together, right?”

Victoria pretended not to hear. The International Confederation of Wizards was founded in direct response to the Wand Wood Wars, which commenced in 1618, she read, trying to blank out Tracey’s voice. This series of wars, which lasted several decades and took place across Europe and East Asia, marked the first time in history that the global wizarding community had united against a common enemy.

“Of course we’ll camp together!” Pansy said. A clink of glass on china followed—that would be her pouring milk into her tea. “So long as we don’t put our tent near the boys. I can only imagine what they’re going to be like, out there in the wilds... they’ll probably start hitting each other with sticks like Muggles.”

Daphne laughed. “We’re going to the other side of the valley, not the jungle. And besides, Draco’s having a party in his tent, I heard him talking about it with Zabini. You don’t want to miss out, do you?”

“Well, no,” Pansy said, her voice conciliatory. “But Vicky should Flame-Freeze our tent, at least... knowing Vince, half the forest will be on fire by the morning.”

It seemed that Pansy and Daphne were back to being best friends, having recovered from their argument over Spring Witch. Probably Pansy had found some way to save face while letting Daphne get her way, Victoria mused, before catching herself—she wasn’t supposed to be listening. She returned her attention to the book.

The Wand Wood Wars constituted the last serious and concerted effort by goblins to develop wands of their own. The vigor of their race was spent in the struggle, and to this day the goblin nations remain diminished. All subsequent conflicts between wizards and goblins have been considered rebellions, not wars, and this nomenclature is indicative of the now-accepted fact of wizarding supremacy.

It wasn’t long before her reading was interrupted by Tracey once again. “Bugger me, it says we’ll have to enchant our own campsites to repel wolves. Vicky, how’s your Anti-Interloper Charm?”

Reluctantly, Victoria looked up. “Fine, so long as there aren’t any werewolves nearby. Does the notice say if it’ll be a full moon?”

Tracey looked back at her parchment, scouring it for information. As she did so, Victoria took the opportunity to pluck a slice of toast from a cooling rack and cover it with a liberal quantity of butter and strawberry jam.

“It doesn’t say anything about the moon,” Tracey said. “But the trip’s happening in the first week of May… is that a full moon, does anyone know?”

Victoria snorted. “On the Thursday.” Unlike Tracey, she had never missed a single dose of her Moon Potion. She went to take a bite out of her toast, and it was almost in her mouth when some instinct screamed at her to freeze.

There! A hint of honeysuckle—its sweet, vanilla-like fragrance clashing with the familiar smell of strawberry, the wrongness of the scent immediately reminiscent of one of the many poisons Dumbledore had fed her. The jam was laced with Congealing Potion, which would turn her blood to jelly if ingested.

Someone had just tried to poison her. Again.

She was surprised at how calm she felt. Why wasn’t she panicking? Panic was surely the normal response to someone trying to murder you, but she just felt… numb. Only the tremble of her hand, as she lowered the toast back down to her plate, betrayed the rush of adrenaline surging through her veins. She felt oddly separated from her body, as if its reaction was occurring completely independently of her.

She gripped the table tightly, steadying herself as she looked around the Great Hall. She needed to focus. Was anyone watching her, waiting to see the poison take effect? Her would-be poisoner must have switched the potion into the jar just as she was serving herself, else half a dozen other students would have been convulsing on the floor. Yet as she cast her gaze from table to table, she couldn’t see anything amiss: the cheerful breakfast chatter continued as normal, the student body completely oblivious to the crime which had just taken place in their midst.

It was only when she looked up at the teachers’ table that she identified her culprit. Professor Dumbledore caught her eye, winked, and raised his goblet to her in a toast.

Victoria looked back down at her toast in shock. Dumbledore! Was it a test? A warning? Or simply an eccentric way of catching her attention?

She was so preoccupied that she barely noticed the arrival of the post, the rafters of the Great Hall filling with the flapping of wings and the screeching of owls, each one circling the hall before dive-bombing the recipient of its cargo. One of the owls swooped overhead, and her thoughts were interrupted by a letter clattering onto her plate, the parchment landing directly in the poisoned jam. Still rattled, she hoped the other girls didn’t notice the shake of her hand as she broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.

Dear Victoria,

Please accept my apologies for failing to contact you sooner, but regrettably I have been kept occupied by the ever-demanding International Confederation of Wizards. Fortunately, I now find myself with a more forgiving schedule.  

As you may recall, before the Christmas holiday I mentioned that we should maintain our dinners on an occasional basis, so that you may continue to broaden and refine your culinary horizons. I therefore look forward to seeing you tonight at 6pm.  

Yours sincerely,

Professor Dumbledore

Victoria sighed, the tension draining from her. It all made sense now; the poison in the jam had been a mere prelude to the resumption of her lessons. She looked sullenly at her ruined toast, wishing that Dumbledore had chosen a method that hadn’t spoiled her appetite for breakfast.

The North Tower bell rang and the Great Hall emptied. After a brief trip back to the dorms to freshen up, the Slytherin girls made their way to their first class of the week, History of Magic. Since Christmas they had been working their way through the Goblin Wars, and they were now arriving at the seventeenth century, where the Wand Wood War would bring them to a new topic—the foundation of the International Confederation of Wizards.

Professor Flamel was his usual self, sleepy and easily distracted, but he kept things interesting with personal anecdotes and engaging questions. This week, he wanted the class to ask themselves why it was that only wizards should be permitted wands.

“We invented them,” Terry Boot suggested. “Why should goblins be allowed to steal something that wizards came up with?”

The class murmured with agreement.

“Ah, but that wasn’t what the goblins sought to do,” Professor Flamel replied. “The goblins were experimenting, attempting to discover for themselves how to create wands. Still, when wizards found out, we declared war before the goblins could succeed.”

“Because the goblins were a threat,” Draco said, not waiting for permission to speak. “Every time the goblins have had power, they’ve used it to try to defeat wizards. Just look at all the wars we’ve been studying! They can’t be trusted with wands.”

Professor Flamel nodded along, but it didn’t seem like he agreed with Draco. “That is a common argument. But a goblin would say they were fighting for equality with wizards, not for dominance.” A good number of students snorted in derision at that idea, and Professor Flamel looked around with amusement. “Of course, on analysis that may be too idealistic a view.”

Victoria raised her hand.

“Sir, what if the goblins had managed to get wands of their own? Would they have been able to cast spells?”

“Not in the same way as you and I,” Professor Flamel said. “A goblin’s magic is different to a wizard’s, and giving them wands doesn’t change that. Nonetheless, a wand is a powerful tool for any magical being… one imagines that the goblins would have further developed and refined their own brand of magic, to the point where it might have rivaled witchcraft and wizardry.”

“Well, thank Merlin they didn’t,” Draco said, “or we’d all be speaking Gobbledygook.”

Professor Flamel tweaked his moustache, curling the ends. “Perhaps. Or perhaps they would have discovered how to conjure food, or block the Killing Curse. We may never know what feats goblin magic is capable of. Fear, it seems, is stronger than hope.”

The class departed History rather more conflicted than when they had arrived—a conflict which was sure to continue, as Professor Flamel had split the class in two and set them opposite essays: one half was to argue in favour of goblins being allowed wands, the other against it. To Draco’s great consternation, he had been allocated to argue the goblins’ side of the debate.

After History came Transfiguration, which they took with Gryffindor. Having concluded the topic of Simultaneous Shaping, they were now embarking upon the challenge of Total Transubstantiation. This subject, which concerned the transfiguration of a whole object rather than its individual parts, brought them to the last chapter of A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration. It was the final piece in the puzzle of inanimate transfiguration, and once mastered it would—in theory—mean that the class possessed the knowledge to transfigure any inanimate object they liked.

For most of the class, Total Transubstantiation was a nightmare. It brought together everything they had learnt to date, exposing any gap in a student’s knowledge, any weakness of understanding or unpracticed principle. Even Hermione, who normally took to transfiguration so quickly, and who clearly understood each component part of inanimate transfiguration, seemed to struggle with the key concept which united everything they had studied, the Dumbledore Consensus.

“There are no physical substances, in the plural,” McGonagall explained, pacing in front of the board, an unusual tone of excitement to her voice. “There is only the universal substance, magic-in-being, which manifests itself with different properties under different guises. What you are used to thinking of as separate substances—iron, wood, glass—differ only in form, not nature. Only when you understand this truth will you master Total Transubstantiation, for only then will you stop trying to change a thing’s magical being—an impossibility—and start changing its physical manifestation.”

Unlike the rest of the class, for Victoria the topic of Total Transubstantiation was like cutting into a long-anticipated birthday cake. She had read their textbook innumerable times, and the final chapter had always felt like its natural and inevitable conclusion. It just made sense, like the ending of a murder mystery—you would never have guessed it yourself, but you knew it to be true the moment you read it. And besides, after everything she had learnt about alchemy, McGonagall’s description of matter was now second nature to Victoria. In alchemy, the celestial and elemental were simply different ways of understanding the ineffable truth at the heart of matter, like using different languages to describe the same thing. Transfiguration theory was no different.

She raced through the exercises Professor McGonagall set, which were supposed to take them two classes to complete. She deduced the table of Sympathetic Metals without needing to refer to the Hierarchy of Transubstantiation once. She identified the Transition Point of living and dead matter just by realising that it was no different to the passage of winter to spring. And she quickly worked out how the Dumbledore Consensus explained the five principal exceptions to Gamp’s Law, which each represented a terminal point on the pentagram of the elements.

In fact, she completed the questions so quickly that Professor McGonagall was forced to set her another task, this one with a wand. She spent the rest of the lesson transfiguring iron into steel and back again, keeping the transformation flowing back and forth, trying to reach the point where the spells merged and the metal formed a constantly undulating mass which was neither iron nor steel.

She left Transfiguration invigorated and full of energy, so much so that she barely touched her lunch. Her mood was destined to be spoiled by Charms, however, which would last all afternoon. Most of the class was now well-advanced in the Locomotion Charm, with their totems almost ready for burning. Draco’s peacock was covered with real feathers, which Narcissa had sent him by owl, and Pansy’s magpie had accumulated a small hoard of shiny baubles. Even Daphne, who often struggled with Charms, had successfully fed her golden pheasant a number of berries.

Victoria’s totem was rather sad in comparison. Its waxy surface remained as bare as the day she had transfigured it, and the only life it showed was an occasional crooning noise. She spent the whole of the lesson trying to tempt the goshawk into motion, going so far as to transfigure a totem of a rival bird in an attempt to trigger its territorial aggression. But the goshawk didn’t take the bait, remaining steadfast in its lack of animation, and Victoria was painfully aware of Professor Flitwick watching her closely.

How long would he let her continue with the goshawk before he forced her to change? There would surely come a point when she would have to move on, simply to avoid failing her end-of-year exam.

Fortunately, that time had not yet come. She gave the Professor a wide berth as she left Charms, not giving him any opportunity to forestall her, and hurried directly from there to the Aquarium for prep. She did her best to put Charms out of her mind as she got started on her homework for Professor Flamel, putting herself in the shoes of a Warlock of the seventeenth century Wizengamot, and her essay was almost complete by the time that the bell rang for dinner.

While everyone else took the staircase to descend to the ground floor, Victoria headed west towards Professor Dumbledore’s office. His letter had called for her presence at six o’clock, which meant there wasn’t any time to return to the dorms and dress up; she would just have to arrive in her uniform. She did, however, take a brief moment to stop off in a bathroom to make sure her plait had held and apply an Ironing Charm to her robes.

“A fine charm,” the mirror said, its voice that of a kindly mother. “But you might like to fasten your top button, dear.”

Victoria scowled. Of all the Slytherin girls, only Pansy closed the top buttons of her inner robe. However, she was heading to the Headmaster’s office; she supposed she should make an attempt to dress as properly as she could. She followed the mirror’s advice and continued on her way.

Professor Dumbledore was waiting for her in his office, dressed in the same sky blue robes he had been wearing at breakfast. As usual, a table had been set up in the centre of the circular room, covered with a white tablecloth and decorated with a simple vase of flowers.

“Please, take a seat,” Dumbledore said as he ushered her inside, and she took the spot closest to the door. Dumbledore settled down in the seat opposite with a weary sigh. “Well now, it has been some time since we last spoke. I hope you’re well?”

“Well enough, sir,” Victoria replied, slipping back into the persona she had come to understand Dumbledore appreciated: polite and respectful, but never docile or unthinking. “I suppose I could be better. My headmaster keeps trying to poison me, you see.”

Dumbledore’s lips twitched. “How troublesome. But I’m sure you will agree that practice remains vital, lest instincts fade and caution wanes.” He clapped his hands and their starters appeared: a poached egg accompanied by spears of asparagus wrapped in ham. “Now tell me, how did you find your first wizarding ball?”

His question immediately wrong-footed Victoria, who had not considered in advance which details she was willing to share with him. She took a bite of asparagus to give herself time to think. Should she confess everything? Dumbledore had rightly warned her of the risks of Malfoy Manor—perhaps he could even deduce the true identity of the mysterious Squat.

But her reason for keeping the story from Susan’s aunt applied just as much to the Headmaster: she liked the Malfoys. Draco was her friend, and Narcissa’s motherly care compared very favourably to Petunia’s. Even Lucius, though he clearly kept some questionable company, could make her laugh with his biting wit.

No, she couldn’t tell Dumbledore about Squat. To do so would be a betrayal of the Malfoys’ confidence in her. If Draco found out, he would never forgive her for telling tales to his father’s rival.

“It was beautiful,” she said, settling on a very selective account. “The manor has almost as much history as Hogwarts, you know? And Mrs Malfoy was very kind to me, teaching me to dance and write letters and so on. Or, well, she tried to, at least. I’m not a very good dancer.”

“Alas, we cannot be good at everything,” Dumbledore said. “I myself am terrible at knitting, though my incapacity does not prevent my enjoyment of it. You also met Minister Fudge, I understand? I am curious to hear your impression of him.”

Victoria cut open her egg, savouring the moment as the deep orange yolk spilled out onto the asparagus. “He seemed nice enough. He spoke to me like I was a grown-up, not a little girl. He did seem to want to take a lot of photos with me, though.”

“And why do you think that is?”

She gave Dumbledore a flat look. “I’m not that stupid. I know I’m famous—that people like to use my name. Everyone was watching me very closely. Mr Swann, he said I was… making a statement.” She paused. “Him, I didn’t like so much. He called me fair game, like I was some kind of animal to be hunted.”

“You would be wise to be cautious around Septimus Swann in the future,” Dumbledore said, taking a sip of white wine. “He is the power behind the throne, as it were. His family always has been. There is some magic at play in their bloodline… a form of alchemy, I suspect. Without fail, the firstborn of each generation seems to become a formidable wizard. Yet the younger siblings are frequently frail, or even squibs.”

Victoria raised her eyebrows. Was Pansy actually right? “Are you saying the oldest child steals the other kids’ magic?”

Dumbledore waved a hand dismissively. “Nothing so crude. It is quite impossible to give magic, or take it away. No, something more subtle is at work. Have you heard of the Felix Felicis Potion?”

She shook her head.

“It is a potion of great power,” Dumbledore explained. “It grants the drinker luck; yet, if you rely on it too much, you become cursed with an ill fate.”

That did sound powerful. “So the Swanns do something to… what, improve their first child’s fate?”

Dumbledore nodded. “I suspect so. And in so doing, it seems that the other children suffer the consequences.”

“But that’s horrible!” Victoria said. “Parents shouldn’t play favourites with their children.”

“Horrible indeed,” Dumbledore said, his gaze piercing. Victoria felt herself blush; she had said too much. “And yet, the magic is fascinating.”

Their starters disappeared, replaced immediately by plates of beautifully pink baked trout, its top covered with a herby crust, with buttered new potatoes and a lemony pea sauce.

The appearance of the main course reminded her of something. “You knew!” she said, recalling the meal at the Yule Ball. “How did you find out what the Malfoys were going to serve? Even Draco didn’t know! Was it some form of divination?”

Dumbledore looked very pleased with himself. “Divination is a powerful and mysterious art, but I’m afraid I lack the talent for it. I do, however, have a brother who owns a pub. You would be amazed at the things people discuss in front of their bartender.”

Victoria laughed, picked up her fork and cut into the trout. She was avoiding the pea sauce—there was some smell in it that set her on edge, a heavy layer of lemongrass beneath the fresh citrus notes. Perhaps the elf had simply been heavy-handed… but more likely,  Dumbledore had slipped a dose of Blood-Sweating Potion into the sauce.

“And how are your classes?” Dumbledore asked, watching her eat with keen eyes.

“Fine, mostly,” Victoria said. “I’m, um, having a bit of trouble with the Locomotion Charm.”

“That is quite unlike you,” Dumbledore said. He turned to his own food, spearing a potato cheerfully. “What totem have you selected?”

“The goshawk.”

Dumbledore’s fork froze on its way to his mouth. “The goshawk?” His gaze turned serious, and Victoria suddenly felt like she was under a microscope, the sole object of Dumbledore’s attention. She looked down, unable to bear the intensity of his eyes. “May I ask your reasoning?”

“It’s a predator,” she explained, still looking at her plate. “It’s fast, and agile, and strong. I think maybe... too strong. I can’t seem to overcome it.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched out. Victoria kept her eyes down, but she could imagine that Dumbledore was still looking at her with that intense gaze. When he finally spoke, however, it was with his usual kind and patient tone.

“It is an unusual choice, to be sure. In all my years of teaching, I have only known one student to master the goshawk. It is perhaps no surprise that you are struggling.”

Now, at last, Victoria looked up. Mercifully, Dumbledore’s attention was on his plate as he cut off a piece of fish.

“What did you pick, sir?” she asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

Dumbledore smiled. “Ah, I remember it like it was yesterday. I picked the swallow, my dear… it gives me range and endurance, and its flocking behaviour makes it particularly suited for coordinating multiple animated objects. The goshawk, though, that is quite different. A lone hunter, elegant but ruthless… and uncontested in the skies.”

“I’ve tried so many ways to master it,” Victoria said with a sigh. “Nothing seems to work. I’d thought that if I just showed perseverance, that would be enough, but after months there’s still no change.”

“Perseverance is necessary, but not sufficient,” Dumbledore said, pausing to stroke his beard. “To master the goshawk will require a steel will, and perseverance will only take you some of the way there. There is more than one aspect to willpower, you see. Determination is one. Focus, another. Stubbornness, discipline, self-control… you must show the goshawk all these qualities if you wish to overcome it. But, if you will forgive an old Gryffindor his pride, the most important aspect of willpower is bravery.”

Victoria frowned. “Bravery? None of the books mention that.”

“Bravery is fundamental,” Dumbledore said. “It is the purest expression of will; the decision to disregard risk and pain in the relentless pursuit of a goal. Let us try an example. You have, I believe, detected the poison on your plate?”

“The sauce,” Victoria said. “It’s got Blood-Sweating Potion in.”

“Very good. Now, eat it.”

Victoria frowned. “That’s not brave, just stupid. I’d bleed everywhere.”

“You would indeed,” Dumbledore said. “Yet the sauce is quite delicious, I assure you. It completes the dish. You want it, do you not?”

“I’d prefer the one without poison in,” Victoria said.

Dumbledore smiled. “That is not today’s lesson. You want it, and it lies within your grasp. There is only one question: do you have the will to take what you desire, or are you too afraid?”

Victoria looked down at her plate, considering the deep green of the sauce. She was insane for even considering Dumbledore’s idea. And yet… she didn’t think she could endure many more classes of Professor Flitwick’s worried looks, or the rest of the class leaving her behind. It came down to this: did she want to master the goshawk, or not?

She braced herself, dipped the tip of her knife in the sauce, and took a small lick.

Dumbledore was right; the sauce was delicious. But the poison worked fast, and within seconds she could feel the heat rising within her, as if she had stepped into an oven, sweat immediately beading on her skin. She glanced down; her white inner robe was already splotched with red pinpricks.

“My robe!” she said, dismay in her voice, watching as the red spread with alarming speed. “Antidote, please!”

“Not yet,” Dumbledore said, watching her closely. “There is little bravery in a danger quickly averted. You must bear the pain, prove your capacity to endure.”

A wave of dizziness took her, but she steeled herself, letting out a strangled sob as her robe became sodden with blood.

Dumbledore leaned forward. “Good. Now, eat some more.”

Trembling, Victoria licked at her knife again. It took three attempts to swallow it; her body was rebelling, her magic seeking to expel the foreign substance. Blood was dripping from her chair onto the stone floor. The office began to spin, her consciousness slowly slipping away—and then Dumbledore was there, moving faster than she believed possible, forcing the antidote into her mouth.

Immediately, the spinning stopped and the overwhelming heat passed. She was still weak, still soaked with blood, but no longer in danger.

“Well done,” Dumbledore said, but his face was grim. “I do wish you had picked something other than the goshawk, my dear.” He waved his wand, and the blood was sucked from her robes and the floor, gliding through the air and into Dumbledore’s wand, as if it were a very powerful vacuum cleaner. She looked down, dazed, and her robe was white again. “A Blood-Replenishing Potion is in order, I think.” Dumbledore crossed the room to a cabinet full of potions and took out a vial of crimson liquid. “Here.”

She drank the potion and the weakness in her limbs began to fade. Then, to her shock and embarrassment, her stomach rumbled.

Dumbledore chuckled and took his seat once more. “You have earned a reward, I believe.” He clapped his hands and the main course disappeared, replaced with a steaming slice of apple pie sitting in a pool of custard. “It contains no poison, I give you my word.”

Victoria dug into the pie, allowing its sweet warmth to rekindle her strength. “Please tell me I don’t have to do that again.”

“Deliberately poison yourself?” Dumbledore asked with a wry smile. “Not necessarily. But you will need to perform acts of discipline and mastery, yes. The goshawk will never be yours if you live in complacency.”

“Great.” Victoria sighed. “You know, magic really seems to be getting much harder.”

Dumbledore raised one of his bushy eyebrows. “Oh? You have some other difficulty?”

“I tried to make a foe glass,” she explained, not seeing any reason to keep it a secret. “With Susan and Draco. We figured it might show me the Heir of Slytherin, since he poisoned me and all. But the Anamorphosis Charm didn’t work properly.”

“An interesting strategy, and a most ambitious project for a second year,” Dumbledore said. “But I suspect you would have been disappointed, even had the foe glass functioned properly. Foe glasses are fickle things, and often show us petty rivals rather than true threats. They are very sensitive to proximity, you see. Like most Divination, foe glasses are most accurate when directed towards the trivial and the immediate.” He took another sip of his wine, apparently not partaking in apple pie himself. “Still, there is no shame in failing to cast the Anamorphosis Charm. It is the bane of many a fifth year.”

“I guess I should be happy it worked as well as it did,” Victoria said. “It showed Draco and Susan something, at least.”

Dumbledore frowned. “I confess, I have never heard of the Anamorphosis Charm behaving in such a way. What, precisely, do you see when you view the glass?”

“Nothing,” she said with a shrug. “Just my reflection, the same as always.”

He looked at her sharply. “And have you considered the possibility that it is not broken?”

“Not broken?” She stopped eating for a moment, his question taking her by surprise. “You’re saying my enemy is… me? That doesn’t make sense—I definitely didn’t poison myself!”

    “No, you didn’t,” Dumbledore said. “But you were presumably closer to the foe glass than your poisoner, and I have just said that the glass responds to proximity.” He sighed. “Do you remember what I said to you last year, in front of the Mirror of Erised?”

She cast her memory back, remembering the vision the mirror had shown her, an image of herself as a powerful adult witch capable of defeating trolls. “You told me not to focus so much on becoming powerful.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly. “And remind me… why did you select the goshawk as your totem?”

Once again, Victoria felt the need to look down under his intense scrutiny, but this time she resisted the temptation, a mood of defiance taking her. “I picked the goshawk because it’s powerful. And there’s nothing wrong with wanting to be a powerful witch! Isn’t that the whole reason why we’re here, at Hogwarts? To become better at magic?”

“I would be the last person to dissuade you of the importance of magical education,” Dumbledore said, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “But consider the sequence of events. You sought power and chose the goshawk. Now your choice has resulted in a painful struggle to master a spell which should have been easy for a girl of your talents. You told me that magic is getting harder, but that is not quite true. It is you who has changed. You are setting your sights ever higher, and in so doing, you have created difficulties for yourself. Do you not see how the foe glass might show you a vision of yourself?”

Victoria put down her spoon. She wasn’t hungry anymore, she was angry. Dumbledore was widely considered the greatest wizard in the world, and she refused to believe he had arrived there by accident. Who was he to criticise her for wanting the same thing? Hadn’t he just told her of the importance of bravery, of pushing through difficulty to achieve something important?

She wrapped her anger in a glove of polite formality. “Perhaps you’re right, sir. But I’m only my own enemy if I fail.”

Chapter Text

With the holidays in sight, the spring term entered the final straight to Easter and accelerated to a sprint.

After her dinner with Dumbledore, Victoria found her desire to master the Locomotion Charm renewed. She hadn’t even realised how resigned she had become to the inevitability of her failure, but she could now see that her previous efforts had been half-hearted at best. Casting aside her doubts, she began to apply the lessons which Dumbledore had taught her, incorporating moments of discipline and self-mastery into her daily life.

Her brightest idea was to implement a dramatic change in her morning routine. Each day she dragged herself out of bed at 6 o’clock, and instead of taking a hot shower in the bathroom, she made her way up to the Slytherin pool and jumped into the icy water. She shrieked loudly every time, spluttering from the cold the moment she surfaced, but the habit was oddly energising. Now and then she’d even share the pool with the quidditch team—Marcus Flint insisted that swimming in the cold water would strengthen them—and, once she had ordered a wizarding swimsuit to replace her embarrassingly ratty Muggle one, she began to join them in their laps.

Other changes were less drastic but just as difficult. She denied herself the pleasure of strawberry jam on toast at breakfast, allowing herself only cereal or porridge, and at dinner she stopped eating desserts. She made an extra effort to sit like Pansy did, with a straight back and her knees together, resisting the constant urge to slouch and tuck her feet underneath her. She even resumed the letter-writing which Narcissa had instilled in her over the Christmas break, sending polite messages to Astoria, the Malfoys, and Minister Fudge.

All these little changes seemed to add up. Her totem had taken to occasionally flapping its wings, and her Locomotion Charm improved in turn, no longer sending the target flying for the nearest window but instead causing it circle the ceiling like a predator. In spite of these small advances, Victoria’s charm remained a far cry from complete, and she was forced to watch with envy as the rest of the class burned their totems, absorbing the animal spirits into their magic forever.

Luckily, it seemed that Professor Flitwick had seen enough to let her persevere with the project.

“You’ve made encouraging progress,” he told her after the burning. “And I confess, I’m curious to see what the goshawk will do next! But you’ll have to continue your efforts in your own time, I’m afraid. We’re starting Substance Charms next week, and I want your full attention on that!”

But if Professor Flitwick was concerned about keeping his students’ attention, he would have more to worry about than Victoria. The second years had become obsessed with their upcoming field trip, and the only class which interested them now was Defence Against the Dark Arts. The prospect of actually needing to cast the spells which they had spent the year learning had the Slytherin girls studying with a level of diligence which Victoria had never before witnessed, and she was inevitably recruited into helping them practice the Get-Lost Jinx and the Potification Charm each evening in the common room.

The only thing capable of distracting the students from Defence was the Quidditch Cup. Slytherin slaughtered Ravenclaw at the end of February, a scoreline quickly matched by Gryffindor when they defeated Hufflepuff in early March. With just two games remaining, the cup would go to either Slytherin or Gryffindor, depending on which House won their final game by the higher margin.

Victoria was less enthusiastic about quidditch than her classmates. While she didn’t dislike the sport, and was always happy to support her House, a number of other interests took priority. The last match of the spring term, between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, was therefore the perfect opportunity to slip away for some time alone with Tom Riddle’s diary.

Wanting to ensure her privacy, she retreated to her bed, where she drew the curtains closed and sealed them for good measure. She then placed the diary on her lap, took out a quill and ink pot, and started to write.

Hello Tom.

The response came immediately. Good morning, Victoria. At least, I think it’s the morning. As you know, my sense of time is weak, yet I feel that some time has passed since we last spoke.

Victoria pushed down her guilt at leaving the diary alone for so long. She was being silly—it was a book, for goodness’ sake, no more than the product of some clever spellwork. Still, it would be best to keep the diary placated, if she wanted it to teach her interesting magic.

Sorry, she wrote. I’ve been busy with other things. Your goshawk idea hasn’t put me in Professor Flitwick’s good books, you know.

Perhaps your will is not as strong as I had thought, Tom wrote, causing Victoria to frown with consternation. Was he calling her weak? Book or not, that was just rude.

Tom continued to write. But perhaps I can help you with that. There are ways to strengthen the will, if you have the stomach for them.

That sounded ominous. But despite her trepidation, despite Susan’s warnings, she couldn’t help but feel the familiar spark of curiosity. If there was anything Tom could do to help her with the goshawk, surely she had to try?

What does it involve?

It is a piece of dark magic, Tom wrote. But a minor one. It is really no more serious than a jinx.

Victoria’s nervousness grew. Her mind drifted to the words drilled into her by Professor Quirrell, back in her first year of Defence Against the Dark Arts… Know you the dark by faces five, beneath their gaze shall danger thrive… This was surely the third face, the fair face which made empty promises. And yet, Tom had not led her astray so far.

I’ve cast jinxes before, she wrote. Is it really just like that?

It is somewhat more… involved, Tom responded. But in some ways, not even as dark as a jinx. You will not be doing harm to anyone.

She bit her lip. I’ll do it, she wrote. How does it work?

It will be easiest if I show you.

Victoria frowned. Show me? How?

You are not the first I have taught. Let me show you a memory, one which will explain more than we can communicate in writing.

That was interesting. She had seen memories before, of course: at the theatre when she had seen Lockhart’s play. Did the diary work like that? Perhaps memories were the basis of its magic... a lifetime’s worth of them, sewn together with enchantments to produce an imitation of personality and knowledge.

She pressed her quill to the page.

OK.

The pages of the diary began to blow, as if caught in a gust of wind, before coming to stop on a blank page. A date appeared in the top corner, written by hand: 12 May 1944. Then lines of ink started sketching themselves out on the page, the first outlines of a scene: a grove of trees, and a circle of figures sitting at the centre of a clearing. As Victoria watched, the image became clearer and more detailed, and then colour seeped into the frame, showing the group to be gathered in the darkness of night, their forms lit only by a shaft of moonlight which pierced the trees.

She leaned closer for a better look—and then, with a tilting feeling that upended her stomach, she was tumbling forward into the page, colours swirling all around her as she fell, her heart leaping into her throat, her panic rising—before she landed on the forest floor with a soft thump.

She found herself sitting in the circle of figures, as if they had left a place just for her. She was certainly the odd one out of the group: the others in the circle were all boys, and much older than her besides, sixth years at least. They were wearing Slytherin robes of a different, more formal cut to those Victoria was used to seeing, and four of them were looking avidly towards the fifth, who sat slightly apart from the others.

Victoria blushed as she looked at him. This was Tom Riddle? This was the wizard she’d been speaking to, all these months? He was most definitely not a creepy old man, as Susan had feared. Tom was frightfully handsome, with high cheekbones, pale skin and neatly combed black hair. Though they were sitting, Victoria could tell he was very tall. He was surely the leader of the little group, a fact made evident when he began to speak.

“Well, now that Avery has seen fit to join us, shall we begin?”

He spoke with the type of refined accent that reminded her of the royal family, and though his words were harsh, his eyes danced with friendly charm. It was clear he was only teasing.

“Ah, come off it, Tom,” said a boy with a round face and beady eyes. “I was only a few minutes late. Wanted to catch the news—they say Grindelwald defeated Rasputin in a duel today. Doesn’t bode well for the Russians, does it?”

A murmur of interest ran through the boys.

“Rasputin will be back,” Tom said, speaking with such authority that you almost forgot he was a schoolboy far from the war. “He is a wizard not so easily done away with, even at the hand of Grindelwald.”

A black boy with expensive robes was shaking his head. “Only you, Tom. If anyone else had said that, I’d have laughed in their face. Go on, then. Tell us the secret.”

Tom smirked. “You of all people should know of my particular interest in these magics. The signs are there, Lestrange, for those who know how to look. Rasputin has died twice now. Unless I am mistaken, Grindelwald will need to defeat him seven more times before his death is final.”

“Nine lives?” another boy said. This one was scrawny, buried within his baggy, oversized robes, but he had piercing, intelligent eyes. “If such magic exists, why have we never used it ourselves?”

“The cost, Rosier,” Tom said. “You gain nine lives, yes. But when your lives are spent, your soul is doomed to eternal torment, no better than if a Dementor had consumed it. It is a feeble attempt at immortality, little more than a postponement of death.” He paused and looked up at the moon. “But we did not come here tonight to discuss the intricacies of eternal life. Did you bring the ingredients?”

The boys moved, rummaging in bags and waving their wands, withdrawing a range of potions ingredients in glass jars and hessian bags. As they did, Tom effortlessly conjured a cauldron in front of each of those in the circle—including, to her surprise, Victoria.

Did he expect her to brew a potion within a memory? Would that even work?

“The purpose of this lesson is to steel your willpower,” Tom began, his voice slipping into a tone which reminded Victoria of Professor Dumbledore’s dinnertime lectures. “Too many wizards spend their entire lives without once turning their magic on their own minds, as if magic stopped at the neck. It’s pathetic. We are wizards, not Muggles with wands. Magic should suffuse our entire beings.”

Avery nodded eagerly. “Hear, hear!”

“In performing this act, you are taking the first step towards mental self-mastery,” Tom continued. “Admittedly, it’s not the route I took, since I lacked the resources of Hogwarts at the time I walked this path. But there’s no reason for you to share my handicap; this is the best and most direct route towards that goal. Naturally, it is dark magic.”

The boys grinned and Lestrange raised an empty goblet in a mock toast. “Here’s to shortcuts!”

Tom shook his head. “You misunderstand me. This is no shortcut, as you suggest. There can be no shortcuts to self-mastery. And you should know by now, I think, that dark magic is incapable of creation ex nihilo. There is always a cost.”

Lestrange snorted. “Well, now you sound like Dumbledore. What’s next? Are you going to tell us about the power of love?”

Tom’s smile hardened. When he spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper. “You question me?” Lestrange shifted uncomfortably beneath the intensity of Tom’s dark gaze. “The magic is quite real, I assure you. Of course, if you would prefer not to learn…”

“No!” Lestrange said quickly. “I apologise. I was just surprised.”

“Very well,” Tom said, and he smiled again, all brilliant white teeth. “I forgive your surprise. This is… unusual magic, I admit. But it is the best way of going about it.”

“And what is this… cost?” asked the fifth boy, the only one who had yet to speak. There was a certain familiar rat-like look to his face.

“Incisive as ever, Nott,” Tom said. “But you need not worry. The cost is not onerous. We shall tonight engage in an act of will; with the aid of dark magic, that singular act of self-mastery shall cement itself in your mind, achieving greater weight than otherwise it would. In this way, the willpower you will later summon does not come from nowhere; it comes from yourself, for it has as its basis an act which you have already performed.”

Nott frowned. “That doesn’t sound so dark.”

“Ah, yes,” Tom said, smiling once more. There was something dangerous about that smile. “I forgot to mention—the method by which we shall fix this memory within your mind. The vehicle is pain.”

As one, the boys hesitated. Victoria was glad they did—suddenly she had some rather major misgivings about this exercise. Tom hadn’t said anything about pain before…

“Uh… how much pain are we talking, exactly?” Avery asked.

“Rather a lot, I’m afraid,” Tom said cheerfully. “Never let it be said that only Gryffindors are brave. Now, shall we get on with it? We don’t have all night.”

They began to brew, a grim mood replacing their previous good cheer. Tom led them through the potion, supervising their brewing expertly, his keen eye spotting every possible mistake before it was made.

At first, Victoria wasn’t sure if she would even be capable of brewing within a memory. She half expected her fingers to pass through the ingredients as if they were made of aether, but she found them to be quite solid. So she followed along with the brewing, mirroring Nott closely, as he seemed to be the best potioneer among them, all the while unsure as to whether she would be willing to consume the finished potion.

As they worked, Tom offered them comforting words.

“That’s it,” he said softly, his gaze passing over each of the boys. “I know you are afraid. But the pain will be momentary, I assure you. The benefit, on the other hand, will last you forever. Such a small price for so great a gain.”

They continued to brew, his voice washing over them as he offered further encouragement. It was almost hypnotising. Victoria found herself lost in that voice, and she soon quite forgot her doubts. There was just the potion.

It wasn’t long before they reached a pause in the process.

“It is time,” Tom said. “The moment for the key ingredient. Don’t worry, you haven’t forgotten anything. I brought this one.”

He flicked his wand; a potted plant materialised in their midst, a tall vine with pointy rust-red leaves.

“The iron vine,” Tom said. “One leaf will be sufficient. You will need to swallow it whole—whatever you do, don’t chew on it. Once it takes effect, simply lean over your cauldrons.”

Each of them plucked a single leaf from the plant. This was the moment of truth, Victoria realised, her doubts returning with full force. She was out of her depth, events out of her control, completely unprepared to be faced with a choice like this. It was like all those videos she’d had to watch at primary school about saying no to drugs.

But this was magic, not drugs. There was a clear goal, and a clear cost. The only question was, was she prepared to endure some pain, if it meant being able to master the goshawk?

She set her jaw, decision made. Before she could doubt herself, while the boys around her were still hesitating, she popped the leaf into her mouth and swallowed it whole, barely registering its metallic taste.

For a moment, nothing happened.

“What now?” she asked, but the moment she spoke, she felt it. There was a pressure behind her eyes, growing by the second, and on its heels came heat—searing heat. Suddenly, it burst into excruciating bloom, like red-hot pokers had been stabbed into her eyes—she was blind, consumed entirely by pain—someone was screaming, and she realised it was her, her throat tearing itself apart, but it was nothing against the all-consuming burning in her eyes.

It seemed to last forever. And then there was a hand on her back, gently pushing her forwards; she let it, unable to resist, barely aware of the world around her.

“That’s it,” came Tom’s voice, right in her ear, “let it out.”

She sobbed, and with the sob came tears—molten, metallic tears. She was crying liquid steel. Drip by drip it fell into her potion, each drop burning a track down her cheeks, and tear by tear her vision returned, the pain fading.

She came back to herself. She was utterly drained; soaked with sweat, weak in her limbs, her throat hoarse, with a lingering throbbing coming from her eyes.

“Drink the potion,” Tom said, his voice brooking no disobedience. “Now, before the magic fades.”

Hand trembling, Victoria reached out and ladled the potion into a glass beaker. She brought it to her lips, hardly noticing that it was scalding hot—compared to molten steel, it barely registered. She downed it in three gulps. It tasted like blood.

Tom nodded, his dark eyes locking with hers. “Very good, Victoria.”

She froze, everything that had just happened catching up with her. Tom could see her!

“I… I thought this was a memory,” she said weakly. It hurt to speak.

Tom smiled warmly. “I am a memory,” he said. “Whether you are within the diary or writing in it from the outside makes little difference.”

“Oh.”

Suddenly everything felt a lot more real. She was alone with a powerful, handsome, older man. She had just performed dark magic. And… for all that it had been painful, some part of her had thrilled in it.

“So this is dark magic, huh?”

“It is but a hint of dark magic,” Tom said. “But yes, this is a taste of its true nature. Unlike the magic you are used to, the character of dark magic is that of price and reward. It opens up new worlds to you, feats unknown to modern magic, yet always at a cost. Great care is required in its use, lest you pay too much.”

Victoria nodded. “It was a bit more than a jinx,” she said, a hint of accusation in her voice.

Tom chuckled and reached out towards her. He used a single, long finger to lift her chin so that she was looking him in the eyes. “You did well. I would not expect one your age to manage that potion, or maintain sufficient presence of mind to capture the tears of steel.”

Her heart skipped a beat at his praise. Unable to meet the intensity of his gaze, Victoria looked around as if interested in her surroundings. As she did, she noticed the Prefect’s badge pinned to Tom’s robes.

“You become Head Boy, you know,” she said idly. “I looked you up.”

“Did you indeed?” Tom said, and there was amusement in his voice. “And what did you find?”

She shrugged. “Not much, to be honest. You were Head Boy, and you won some award for special services to the school. And… that’s it, really. Sorry.”

She felt bad, as if she were delivering bad news to a real person. With Tom sitting in front of her, able to touch her, it was increasingly difficult to tell herself that he was just a book.

“I’ve always been a private person,” he said. “I’d have been surprised if you had found much more.”

“You’re not worried that you’re… well, that the real you might be…?”

“Dead?” Tom asked, and Victoria nodded. “No, I think it’s safe to say that death is the least of my concerns. Where I am, and what I am doing… now that is another question. I had planned to become a Professor at Hogwarts, but it seems that didn’t work out.”

Now that she had seen him, it was difficult to picture Tom as a stuffy Professor. “Perhaps it’s for the best,” she said. “I don’t think teaching at Hogwarts is a career with a long future.”

Tom didn’t frown, but a small smile played across his lips which somehow communicated his confusion. “Explain.”

“It’s just… the school isn’t the best place to be right now,” she said. “The Heir of Slytherin has returned, you see, and opened the Chamber of Secrets.”

The small smile disappeared. “Impossible,” Tom said firmly, his voice carrying that same authority as earlier.

It took an enormous effort for Victoria to bring herself to disagree. “It’s not. I know everyone thinks it’s a myth, but it’s not. The Heir’s attacking people at Hogwarts—I’ve seen the blood.”

“You misunderstand,” Tom said. “It’s not impossible because it’s a myth. It’s impossible because I already caught the Heir. What do you think that award was for?”

Victoria was stunned speechless. “You… what?” Something about his statement reminded her of Professor Flitwick’s comments during her detention. “Again! Professor Flitwick said the Chamber had been opened before!”

Tom nodded. “It was, in my fifth year. The monster attacked several students, eventually killing one. They were planning on closing the school, but I was able to track down the Heir and catch him before they did. But then the Headmaster, Professor Dippet, covered it all up and forbade me to tell anyone the truth. The Ministry put about a story that the girl had died in an accident, and they gave me a trophy for the trouble. And now it sounds like the Heir has returned to Hogwarts once more.”

“That’s… wow.”

What were the chances of her coming across the diary of the sole wizard in the world who had found the Heir of Slytherin? Remote, at best. She realised that she hadn’t thought about where the diary had come from in a long time. Who had given it to her, and why? Had she picked it up while still at Malfoy Manor, or after returning to Hogwarts?

Whoever had given it to her, they had gifted her with an artefact of astounding power. The diary was surely a nonpareil, one far greater and more complex than her own Heart of Autumn.

It was a matter which deserved further thought, but for now her curiosity got the better of her.

“So who was the Heir?”

“I thought you might ask that,” Tom said with a smirk. “Here, let me show you.”

He stood and offered Victoria his hand. The moment she took it, the scenery around them changed, the colours blurring like a painting which had got wet, and when the world snapped back into focus they were in Hogwarts’ dungeons—Victoria would recognise the dark, damp corridors anywhere, the shadowy granite only broken up by the occasional lamp. If she had her bearings correct, they were not far from the laundry room.

Tom led her into a room full of filing cabinets and closed the door, holding it just ajar so that they could see out into the corridor beyond. They didn’t have to wait long, and soon enough sounds came from the other side of the door—someone was coming down the corridor. A shadow passed the door, its footsteps plodding and heavy. Tom waited for the footsteps to fade before creeping out of the door, moving so quietly that magic had to be involved. Victoria followed, trying to walk as silently as she could, and for several minutes they pursued the sound of footsteps through the dungeons.

Eventually their quarry came to a stop, and a moment later they heard the creaking of a door. Tom sped up, and moments later they were standing outside the door to an old storeroom. A voice could be heard on the other side.

"C'mon... gotta get yeh outta here… C'mon now… in the box…”

Tom smiled, drew his wand, and burst through the door with a bang, revealing the room beyond. A huge figure was skulking in the shadows, leaning over a large wooden chest.

“Evening, Rubeus,” Tom said.

The figure slammed the lid of the chest shut and turned around. Even without his beard, Victoria recognised him immediately. "What yer doin' down here, Tom?"

Tom stepped closer. "It's all over," he said. "I'm going to have to turn you in. They're talking about closing Hogwarts if the attacks don't stop."

“Attacks?” the younger version of Hagrid said. “Now, see ‘ere, Aragog had nothin’ t’do with any o’ that!”

“The evidence will speak for itself,” Tom said, and he raised his wand. “Stand aside, Hagrid. The dead girl's parents will be here tomorrow. The least Hogwarts can do is make sure that the thing that killed their daughter is slaughtered.”

“It wasn’t him!” Hagrid roared. “He wouldn'! He never!”

“Enough,” Tom said, and he brandished his wand, the power of his spell palpable even in a memory. The dark room was pierced with a silvery light, so bright that Victoria had to shield her eyes, and Hagrid was thrown out of the way with a thump.

The lid to the chest flew open, and out of it crawled a monster that had Victoria rooted to the spot in fear. Eight hideous, hairy legs. More eyes than she could count, all of them focused on Tom, and beneath them a pair of razor sharp pincers. It was a giant spider, a monster not seen in Britain in centuries.

Tom raised his wand again, but it was too late—moving with surprising speed, the spider scuttled forward, knocking Tom over with its charge. Victoria screamed and jumped aside, but the spider had no interest in her, and a moment later it was out of the door.

Tom scrambled to his feet, but she didn’t get to see the rest. The scene was dissolving to darkness, and suddenly Victoria was falling again, the sound of wind in her ears—and then, without warning, she was back in her bed in the Slytherin dorms, the diary sitting innocently in her lap.

 Victoria could barely believe what she had just seen. “Hagrid? The Heir of Slytherin… is Hagrid?”

Chapter Text

"Hagrid?”

Susan was staring at Victoria, her face incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

“It’s what I saw,” Victoria said with a shrug. The two of them were in the Entrance Hall, surrounded by the entire Second Year as they waited to leave on their field trip. The noise was incredible, the boisterous, excited chatter of seventy students echoing off the rafters; there was no risk of being overheard. “I know it sounds silly—there’s a reason I didn’t tell you straight away. But… it does kinda make sense. I found a book on acromantula in the library, and the bite marks match. Plus, their venom makes it difficult to stop the bleeding, so that fits too…”

“It’s just… it’s Hagrid,” Susan said, fiddling with a plait. “He’s not exactly the image of a pure-blood heir, is he?”

Victoria snorted. “Well, no. But he did get expelled. That must have been for something.”

“I guess,” Susan said. “Everyone knows about that, though. Why wouldn’t they arrest him, if they already knew he was the Heir? It doesn’t make sense.”

“They’d still need proof,” Victoria said, thinking out loud. “Did the Ministry people question him, when they were doing their investigation? Maybe they couldn’t prove it.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a sudden hush, and Victoria looked up to see that the teachers had arrived. Professor Lockhart was at their head, dressed in his favourite lilac robes and smiling broadly, and next to him was the scowling figure of Professor Snape. Behind them loomed Hagrid, an enormous crossbow resting on his shoulder.

Victoria and Susan shared a look.

“He’s coming too?” Susan whispered. “What are the chances?”

Victoria eyed the giant man speculatively. Could he really be the Heir of Slytherin? It seemed so unlikely. Noticing her gaze, Hagrid waved to her cheerfully; she forced a smile and waved back.

“Let’s keep an eye on him,” Susan said under her breath. “See what we can find out.”

Victoria looked at her sharply. “Are you crazy? If he’s the Heir, we should be staying out of his way!”

“But—”

“GOOD MORNING!” came Lockhart’s voice, magically magnified by a Sonorus Charm. “DOES EVERYONE HAVE THEIR TENTS AND WANDS?”

The crowd of students issued a low murmur of assent.

“EXCELLENT! OFF TO THE CARRIAGES, THEN!”

The crowd broke as everyone pushed towards the main entrance. Victoria hung back, craning her neck as she tried to find the other Slytherin girls. Susan stuck with her, wringing her hands and glancing nervously towards the door.

Victoria rolled her eyes. “See you on the other side? I think Hannah’s waiting for you.”

“Thanks,” said Susan, looking relieved. “Good luck!” She rushed to meet up with her fellow Hufflepuffs—like Victoria, she would be sharing a tent with the girls from her dorm.

The Slytherin girls found Victoria shortly after. With the passing of Easter, they were all dressed in Hogwarts’ summer uniform—a white dress robe checkered with green, with long, loose sleeves, buttons down to the waist, and a hem which fell a couple of inches above their knees.

“There you are!” Daphne said. “Hold this, will you? My arms are killing me.”

She swung a long, thin bag into Victoria’s arms, the sound of metal poles jangling from within—their tent. For such a small bag, it was surprisingly heavy.

As Victoria grappled with the bag, Pansy was looking her up and down. “Are you sure bare legs was a good idea? It’s still April.”

A glance at Pansy’s, Daphne’s and Tracey’s legs confirmed that all three were wearing sheer tights. She shrugged. “Feels warm enough to me.”

“Well, it’s too late to change now, anyway,” Tracey said. “Come on, or we’ll miss our carriage!”

They joined the back of the crowd waiting to leave. The tent was already beginning to make Victoria’s arms ache; she shifted it around, trying to get comfortable. “God, Daphne, what’s in this thing?”

Daphne looked sideways at Victoria. “Oh, nothing special,” she said breezily. “It’s a standard one-man tent, I’m afraid, so it’s going to be a bit of a tight fit—it doesn’t even have a bathroom. Daddy got it for me a few years ago, when we went hiking in the Andes, but I think I’ve outgrown it.”

Victoria looked down at the bag suspiciously. If the tent was so modest, why was it so heavy? “I think the Featherweight Charm needs a bit of work.”

Pansy snorted. “Well, we’ll be fine once we’re in the carriage.”

Of course, Pansy wasn’t carrying anything other than a small handbag. Tracey, however, was clutching a bulging leather backpack to her chest.

“What’s in the bag?” Victoria asked.

Tracey grinned. “Got it off the Weasleys last night. I’ve got cauldron cakes, Drooble’s gum, some Honeydukes chocolate…”

As she listed a quantity of snacks sufficient to feed a small army, they passed through the front entrance into the bright sun of Hogwarts’ front lawn. A horseless carriage was waiting for them, and Daphne helped Victoria get the tent onto the carriage roof before they clambered inside.

Tracey was still going strong. “...some pepper imps—I’m not a fan of those, but they make good dares—and lots of pumpkin pasties. Plus there’s enough butterbeer for two bottles each… I tried to get more, but they didn’t have much left…” 

The carriage lurched into motion with the clip-clop of disembodied hooves, and they picked up speed surprisingly quickly. Soon they were rocketing down Hogwarts’ drive, far faster than the carriages normally travelled, fast enough that every single bump in the path jolted through them, threatening to knock the girls from the wooden benches within.

“What’s going on?” Pansy cried from her position opposite Victoria. Her hands were gripping the bench tightly and she had to shout over the whistling of the wind. “Why are we going so fast?”

The jolting of the carriage stopped abruptly, the ride becoming disconcertingly smooth. They were still moving just as quickly, with trees whizzing past them as they hurtled down the driveway, but all sensation of motion had disappeared.

The cause of the change quickly became clear: without warning, the carriage began to tilt upwards, Victoria’s stomach lurching as they rose into the air. With a shriek, Pansy slipped off her seat and tumbled forwards, landing awkwardly in Victoria’s arms, knocking the breath out of her with an elbow to the stomach.

Next to them, Daphne was staring out the window with wide eyes. “We’re flying!” 

“No shit!” Tracey shouted. Unlike Pansy, she’d managed to brace her feet against the bench under Daphne, keeping herself from falling off her seat.

With a lot of flailing limbs, Pansy managed to scramble back onto her side of the carriage, adopting the same strategy as Tracey to stay there. “They could have told us!”

Eventually the carriage levelled off, allowing the girls to return to a more stable seating arrangement. Victoria looked out of the window, feeling a bit dizzy as she glanced down. They were sailing through the air, the lake beneath them, its deep blue surface reflecting the clear sky and summer sun.

“It’s beautiful!” Daphne said, and she pointed back the way they had come. Victoria had never seen the castle from this angle before, the sun glinting off the maze of greenhouses, with the tall gallery windows of the East Wing above them.

Tracey was looking in the other direction. “I had no idea the lake was so huge!”

The Black Lake went on for miles and miles. As they flew across, Victoria’s mind turned back to Hagrid. Would anyone even believe her, if she told them that he was the Heir of Slytherin? She could easily imagine Professor Snape’s reaction, if she went to him with her concerns; nor did she feel comfortable going to Professor Dumbledore with the information. It was well known that Dumbledore favoured Hagrid, being the one to give him the job of Gamekeeper after he’d been expelled.

Perhaps she could go to someone outside of Hogwarts? Lucius Malfoy was a governor, and she knew he was keeping a close eye on the school. But would he take her seriously? She decided to test the waters with the other girls.

“Pansy, is Hagrid a pure-blood?”

Pansy cocked her head. “Good question. The Hagrids are definitely a wizarding family… I’ve no idea who his mother is, though.”

“So he might have wizarding ancestors going back a long way?” Victoria asked. That was the key point; Salazar Slytherin had lived over a thousand years ago.

“I guess.” Pansy looked to Daphne. “Some people might say that makes him a pure-blood, regardless of who is mother is. But that seems very old-fashioned to me. Why should his father matter more than his mother?”

Daphne crossed her arms. “For the same reason you’re a Parkinson, not an Avery. If you get rid of that, you might as well get rid of families altogether.”

“So theoretically,” Victoria said firmly, trying to head off the tangent, “Hagrid could descend from Salazar Slytherin?”

A stunned silence followed—and then, in unison, Pansy and Daphne burst out laughing.

“Hagrid? A Slytherin?” Pansy asked, managing to get the words out between giggles. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

Victoria’s face heated up. It was as she had expected—no-one was going to take the idea seriously. “Never mind,” she mumbled. “I was just curious.”

Daphne shook her head, getting her laughter under control. “The last heirs of Slytherin were the Gaunts, and they died out centuries ago. As far as anyone knows, there’s no Slytherins left. That’s what makes it such a mystery.”

“Thanks,” Victoria said, nestling back into her seat to think. Could Hagrid descend from the Gaunts, somehow? If no one knew who his mother was, perhaps there was a connection there... but it all seemed just so unlikely. No one would believe her, even if she told them.

A thought occurred to her. What evidence was there, really, that Hagrid was the Heir of Slytherin? Oh, sure, Tom had caught him with an acromantula. And the writing on the wall clearly referred to the Chamber of Secrets. But what if Hagrid was just pretending to be the Heir? The only thing she knew for certain was that Hagrid was attacking students with a giant spider. That was what she needed to prove.

The carriage finally arrived at the far shore of the lake, swooping over a high cliff which quickly gave way to a thick blanket of trees. They began to descend a few minutes later, circling a small, empty clearing in the forest. The carriage landed with a heavy thump, the force of it lifting them out of their seats, before coming to a halt at the centre of the grassy clearing.

There was no one else around.

“This can’t be right,” Pansy said, peering out of the window. “Did the thestrals get lost?”

Daphne frowned. “Thestrals don’t get lost, you know that.”

“Well then, should we get out?” Tracey said, and she began to open the carriage door. Victoria lunged forward and grabbed her wrist.

“I’m pretty sure that’s the Forbidden Forest,” she said, nodding towards the trees. “We should stay here and wait for someone to get us.”

Tracey quickly slammed the door shut, her eyes lingering on the tree line. The forest around them was thick and dark, with no obvious path leading to or from the clearing. “It can’t be long before the teachers realise we’re missing, right?”

They waited in a tense silence, all four girls glancing nervously at the trees around them. Who know what dangerous beasts the Forbidden Forest contained? Werewolves, vampires, and much worse were said to inhabit its far reaches, where even the Ministry feared to tread.

Pansy began to tap her foot against the wooden floor. Tracey made several attempts at conversation, but each died as quickly as the last.

“That’s it!” Pansy declared, after half an hour had passed. “I’m getting out!”

“Wait!” Daphne cried, moving to stop her, but she was too slow—Pansy was already out of the door. The moment her booted foot touched the grass, an owl swooped out of the sky and dropped a letter right into her hands.

Pansy broke the wax seal, unfolded the letter, and began to read aloud. “Welcome to your Defence Against the Dark Arts exam,” she said, causing Tracey to groan loudly. “Your first task is to reach the camp site, using the spells which you have studied over the course of the year. In order to help you on your way, you shall receive one clue: what advice did Gilderoy Lockhart give to Madame Plantureux in Chapter Nine of Voyages with Vampires?”

Pansy looked up. “This is our exam? They didn’t say anything!”

“Tell me about it,” Tracey said. She sounded rather peeved. “If I’d known, I might have done more revision.”

“Well, at least we’re doing it together,” Daphne offered, always the optimist of the group. She turned to Victoria. “You’ll help us, won’t you?”

Victoria shrugged. “Don’t ask me—I’ve only read his books once, and even then I was more interested in the spells. If only we had Susan with us...”

“Oh, fine, I’ll do it,” Pansy said, and she plunged her arm deep inside her handbag. After a few moments of rummaging around, she withdrew her copy of Voyages with Vampires. “I thought we might need some books,” she explained as she began flicking through the pages. “Now, let’s see, Chapter Nine…” Her eyes skimmed across the page. “Right, here we go. Lockhart’s Rules for Adventuring. Rule number one… always try the back door first.” She frowned. “That doesn’t seem to help us. Rule number two… oh. That makes more sense. Always head south.”

Tracey drew her wand. “Ohh, I can do this one!” She laid the wand on the palm of her hand and said, “Point me!”

The wand spun on her palm before coming to a halt.

“So that way’s north,” Tracey said, pointing in the direction of her wand. She turned in her seat to face the opposite direction. “Which makes that way south. Come on!”

They got out of the carriage, retrieved the tent from the roof, and made their way to the southern edge of the clearing. The trees were thick, but not so thick that you couldn’t pick your way between them. The problem was the rest of the undergrowth, with tangled bushes and creeping vines of ivy obscuring the forest floor.

“How are we going to get through there?” Pansy said. “There isn’t even a path.”

Victoria drew her wand and made a slashing motion. “Diffindo!”

A few strands of ivy snapped; some leaves fell off a fern and floated to the ground. She sighed. The Cutting Charm was designed for paper and fabric, not a dense thicket of plants.

“This may take a while.”

Cries of “Diffindo!” filled the air as they pushed into the forest. All four of them had to cast the spell repeatedly just to clear some semblance of a path through the trees, and even then it was slow going. The ground underfoot was uneven, full of hidden roots and mossy rocks which could catch you unaware; brambles scratched painfully at Victoria’s bare legs, leaving her looking like she’d been attacked by an angry cat, and her robes quickly stained with streaks of green where she had rubbed against plants.

A yelp came from behind; she spun around just in time to see Pansy falling, disappearing beneath the layer of greenery.

“Pansy?” Daphne asked hesitantly, when she didn’t immediately resurface. “You okay?”

“Oh, just fine,” came Pansy’s voice, dripping with sarcasm. Her head emerged from a gap between two bushes; she had mud on one of her cheeks and her hair was a mess. “I think my tights have more ladders than fabric, my robes are ruined, and we’ve still got who-knows-how-long to go. But other than that, just fine.”

Victoria couldn’t help but agree. What had Lockhart been thinking, sending them through the forest like this?

“Well, I’m having fun at least,” Tracey said. “We’re like explorers in the Amazon! Just think—we could be the first people to come through this part of the forest in centuries. Maybe even ever.”

Her words seem to capture Daphne’s imagination. As they continued on, moving ever deeper into the forest, Daphne and Tracey filled the time by coming up with ever more fantastical embellishments of their adventure.

“I wonder if the Vikings ever made it this far,” Daphne said. “Imagine if we came across one of their burial mounds!”

“Or a stone circle!” Tracey added. “Mum always used to tell me stories when I was a kid, about how the ancient Britons used stone circles to apparate around the country.”

“Oh, yes,” Daphne said, seizing upon the idea. “Back before the Romans came and killed all the fae. Maybe we’ll even find one of the aos sí out here, hiding all these years!”

Victoria hadn’t the heart to point out that the teachers had surely passed through the forest in order to set up the exam. She simply shared a knowing look with Pansy and pushed on ahead, occasionally casting the Four-Point Charm to check they were still heading in the right direction.

A sweaty hour later, their progress accelerated as the vegetation began to thin and the trees grew further apart.

“Look!” Tracey cried. She was pointing to a tree up ahead. “There’s another letter!”

She was right. Nailed to the tree at head height was scroll of parchment sealed with wax. Pansy reached it first and used her wand to retrieve it. Daphne and Tracey caught up moments later, carrying the tent between them.

“Congratulations! You’ve reached the second clue,” Pansy read from the parchment. “To proceed further, you must remember Gilderoy Lockhart’s least favourite outdoor activity.”

Victoria racked her brains, but she couldn’t remember any mention of that from his books. She’d tended to skim over that stuff. She looked at the others. “Anyone?”

They all shook their heads.

“We’ll have to take a book each, then,” Pansy said. She reached into her handbag, pulled out a copy of Travels with Trolls, and gave it to Victoria. Daphne got Magical Me, and Tracey took Gadding with Ghouls. They began flicking through the books, scanning the text quickly for any clue. It soon became clear, however, that they wouldn’t find an answer quickly, and one by one they settled in for a long read, perching on a fallen tree.

“I’ve got it!” Daphne called, at least half an hour later. “Here: Of all the forms of Muggle labour, digging is the most onerous. That’s why I recommend that any would-be explorer learn the Gouging Charm, a most useful spell, not least to dig a well if no one in your party is handy with the Water-Conjuring Spell.”

Pansy nodded. “So we have to dig?”

“To get water, it sounds like,” Victoria said. She pointed her wand at the soil. “Defodio!” A clump of earth the size of a quaffle scooped itself out of the ground and thew itself several feet away, as if it had been dug up by an invisible spade.

Victoria glanced at Pansy, who was the best at Charms after her. “A little help?”

It took a surprising amount of digging to reach water. By the time their spells were landing with a splash rather than a thump, the hole was several feet wide and as deep as Hagrid was tall.

“What now?” Tracey asked, peering down into the hole. “Are you sure digging was the right thing?”

“I’m sure,” Daphne said. She was reading Magical Me again, scouring the page for some further clue. “I think we have to drink the water.”

Pansy wrinkled her nose. “I’m not drinking that. It’s filthy.”

“I think that’s the point,” Victoria said, and she twirled her wand through the air above the hole. “Potify!” Motes of silver light spilled from her wand like rain, floating down into the hole. Another flick of her wand called the water upwards, shaping it into a globe which hung in the air.

The water was perfectly clear.

She transfigured a rock into a simple glass before filling it with some of the water, lifting it to her nose and giving it a sniff.

“It smells okay,” she said, before holding it up to the light. Had her Potification Charm worked properly? She couldn’t see any dirt in the water, but that didn’t necessarily mean it was clean.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Tracey said, before snatching the glass from Victoria’s hand and gulping the water down. “There, see? It’s fine.”

“Oh!” Daphne cried, and she snatched up the letter which Pansy had left on the tree. “There’s more writing!” Her eyes skimmed over the parchment. “It’s the next clue. We have to go west.”

They packed up the books, quickly gobbled down some pumpkin pasties from Tracey’s bag, and began to head westwards. Once again, Victoria and Pansy led the way, with Daphne and Tracey following behind with the tent. Luckily, the trees and undergrowth continued to thin, requiring far fewer Cutting Charms than during their previous walk. It took just ten minutes for them to come across a dirt track winding its way through the forest.

“Point me!” Victoria said, checking their direction. She grinned at the result. “The path goes west!”

Daphne set her end of the tent down. “Oh, thank god. That means you guys can take your turn carrying this thing.”

They switched places before they continued down the path, with Daphne and Tracey now at the front, and Pansy and Victoria sharing the tent—a state of affairs which Pansy disapproved of greatly. She was outvoted, however, and dutifully picked up her end of the tent.

The path twisted this way and that, such that they could never see far ahead, but they regularly took their bearings with the Four-Point Charm to check they were still heading west.

The wind began to pick up. The further west they got, the harder it blew, and it wasn’t long before their dresses were flapping in a stiff breeze, threatening to lift the hem of their skirts. They were forced to walk like penguins, their arms clutched to their sides just to maintain some measure of propriety, a technique made much more difficult by the weight of the tent.

Soon the wind was blowing so hard that they had to shout to be heard.

“This isn’t natural!” Victoria called, after trying a Tranquillity Charm to little effect. “Look, the trees aren’t moving at all! It’s an Unwelcoming Charm, I’m sure of it!”

They were forced to stop at the next turn. The way forward was blocked by a storm, the heavy rain pelting down into the path ahead, turning the soil to mud and gathering in deep puddles. The rain was of obvious magical origin: its frontier formed a fixed line in the ground, with no water escaping the perimeter of the spell; in the distance, at the far end of the long, straight path, a second perimeter could be seen by the glimmer of sun beyond.

Pansy dropped her end of the tent. “You’ve got another thing coming, if you think I’m going through that. We’ll have to go around.”

“Around?” Daphne said. “There isn’t any ‘around’. It’s just brambles!”

Pansy looked about in dismay. Tall, prickly bushes bordered the path on both sides. They’d have to backtrack a long way if they wanted to go around, and even then there was no guarantee that they’d be able to find their way through the forest.

“We’ve got to go through,” Victoria said. “Umbrella Charms should do the job.”

“Well, you’ll have to cast it for me,” Pansy said grumpily. “My Umbrella Charm is crap.”

Victoria cast the spells, first on Pansy, then on herself. She had to borrow Pansy’s wand to cast it for her. The wand felt alien in her hands, and when the spell snapped into place with the sound of unfurling, invisible fabric, she passed it back to Pansy eagerly. It just felt wrong to hold someone else’s wand, like brushing your teeth with someone else’s toothbrush.

She replicated the Charm with her own wand and checked on the others. Tracey had managed to cast it fine, but Daphne was struggling.

“Propluvia!” she cried, jabbing her wand up into the air. Nothing happened. “Propluvia!”

“Want some help?” Victoria said, holding out her hand.

Daphne shook her head. “No, I can do this. Propluvia!”

This time it worked, the spell casting with the unmistakable whoosh of an umbrella opening.

“There,” Daphne said with a smile, holding her wand up next to her head. “Okay, let’s go.”

They entered the storm. Even protected as she was, Victoria was surprised by the force behind the rain; it hammered against her invisible umbrella like a machine gun, forcing her to take a step back just to brace herself against it.

She gripped her wand tightly, angled the umbrella forward slightly, and pushed ahead. Luckily, the spell held firm, the umbrella successfully deflecting the rain around her, but that didn’t account for the rain coming at her sideways, caught in the wind, nor did it prevent her legs from getting wet from the water splashing up from the ground. She quickly became soaked from the waist down.

Daphne and Tracey were faring even worse. Their Umbrella Charms were imperfectly cast, allowing some of the rain through, and after just a few steps both girls were dripping from head to toe.

“Just run!” Daphne called, and they sprinted ahead, their feet splashing from puddle to puddle, throwing even more water up at their legs.

Victoria and Pansy followed at a walk. They couldn’t have run even if they’d wanted to, weighed down as they were with the tent, but thanks to Victoria’s spells their top halves were still completely dry by the time they reached the far side of the storm.

They passed out of the curtain of rain, returning to the warmth of the bright summer sun. On the other side, they found Daphne and Tracey dripping like miserable cats, their tangled hair stuck to their faces. Daphne was trying to wring water out of the skirt of her dress; Tracey was simply standing with her arms spread wide, her face pointing towards the sun.

Pansy looked at her feet and sighed. “These boots are useless. The water’s just gone inside from the top.”

“You’re complaining?” Daphne said, her voice incredulous. “Look at us! We’re soaked!”

“Well,” Pansy sniffed, “that’s your fault for not getting Vicky to help you.”

Victoria ignored them and peered down the path, which continued straight ahead for quite some distance. “Do you think we’re almost there? Maybe the camp’s at the end of this stretch?”

“It better be,” Pansy said. “I need a bath.”

They took a moment to clean themselves up. Laddered tights were peeled off, and Victoria used the Drying Charm to blast each of them with hot air, trying to get their hair, dresses and shoes dry. Pansy retrieved a No-Knot Brush from her bag and ran it through Tracey’s brown hair; Daphne simply used her fingers to shake hers out so that it fell naturally.

With some semblance of decorum restored, they set forth down the path. It didn’t take long before the end was within sight.

“Oh no,” Tracey groaned. “I think it’s blocked.”

Daphne squinted. “What is that? Some kind of bush?”

It was more than a bush. As they got closer, they were able to make it out better: a tall wall of interwoven vines, blocking the full width of the path.

“Devil’s Snare,” Victoria said, recognising it from Herbology.

Pansy laughed. “Well, that’s easy.” She levelled her wand at the wall of vines. “Incendio!”

A spark flew from Pansy’s wand, setting the wall of vines alight like dry kindling. The flames roared to life with surprising speed, their heat palpable from several paces away, and the vines retreated like startled insects, unravelling to reveal Professor Lockhart standing on the other side. He was holding a clipboard and a peacock-feather quill.

“Well done, girls, well done!” he called, beckoning them forward. “Yes, very impressive! Sixth place!”

Victoria frowned as he scribbled something onto his parchment. Sixth? She’d never come sixth at anything at Hogwarts. And this wasn’t some minor piece of homework, it was their final exam. If only they hadn’t lost so much time at the start, waiting in the carriage… but no, she couldn’t complain about that. She’d been the one to suggest it.

“Is that it, then?” she asked, disappointed. “That’s the exam over?”

Lockhart chuckled. “Oh no, you’ve still got plenty more to come!” He gestured at the path behind him. “We’ve set up camp on the western slopes of the forest. Your next task is to find a spot for your tent and protect it with whatever spells you consider appropriate. Professor Snape will examine your spellwork later.”

Victoria nodded. That, at least, was something she was confident she could score well in—a chance to make up for their poor showing in reaching the camp.

“Off you go, then!” Lockhart said. “You’ve an hour to get settled.”

Chapter Text

The campsite consisted of a series of small clearings, like islands amidst an ocean of trees. Those clearings were supposedly linked together by a web of dirt paths, but they were so overgrown that it was often just as easy to traipse directly through the trees. The forest was much thinner here, the trees spaced widely enough apart that the colourful fabric of tents could be spotted between them.

The girls walked down the slope, drifting from clearing to clearing in an effort to find the best site—one close to the centre, with easy access to everyone around them. As they searched, they came across some of the groups that had beaten them to the finish line, including a group of Ravenclaw boys led by Terry Boot and a contingent of Hufflepuffs containing Zacharias Smith. The most galling, however, was the team of Gryffindors who had set up their tent right next to the water pump.

“Don’t be stupid, Ron!” Hermione Granger hissed, not yet having noticed their approach. “You’ll get expelled for sure! Not to mention all the points you’ll lose!”

“How about you mind your own business for once?” Ron said. “No one’s asking you to get involved.” He was sitting on the ground outside their tent with a large stick in front of him, using his wand to shape the end into a sharp point. “Only you actually care about points. Besides, someone has to stop him.”

“I care about points too,” Neville said, though he didn’t look Ron in the face when he said it. “And didn’t you say you were gonna keep your head down from now on?”

Ron scowled. “Things change.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Hermione said. “Anyway, what do you think you’re going to achieve with a—”

She stopped short when she caught sight of the approaching Slytherins.

“Oh look!” Pansy cried. She inspected the three Gryffindors with a curled lip. “It’s the body-snatchers. Weasley, whatever idiocy you’re planning, please feel free to go ahead. You should’ve been expelled months ago, if you ask me.”

Hermione’s face turned a deep red. “We were just trying to help!”

“Help?” Pansy asked, her voice incredulous. “Let me teach you a lesson for the future, Granger. Like all good help, we’ll let you know when we need you. Which will be never, since you’re a thieving excuse for a witch.”

Daphne laughed; a high, derisory sound which reminded Victoria of Mrs Malfoy.

“Funny,” Hermione said, her expression stony. “But if I’m an excuse for a witch, what does that make you? We were the first to finish, you know.”

Victoria had to suppress a groan. Of course Granger had come first. No doubt she had Lockhart’s complete works memorised back-to-front.

“There’s more to being a witch than remembering bits from Lockhart’s books,” Daphne said. “Not that you’d know.”

Hermione smirked. “Then why is it, I wonder, that I knew to use the Repulsion Charm to protect from rain, and you didn’t?” She looked between the Slytherin girls, and now she’d drawn attention to it, Victoria couldn’t help but notice that the Gryffindors’ robes were in a rather better state than their own. “What’d you try, the Umbrella Charm?”

Now it was Victoria’s turn to blush—the Umbrella Charm had been her idea. “That’s what Flitwick taught us last year!”

“And yet Lockhart clearly repulsed himself in chapter six of Year with the Yeti,” Hermione said. “Maybe you should spend more time reading books, and less time looking after your hair.”

Ron and Neville laughed; Victoria was left speechless. The gall of it! She was willing to bet that she’d read just as much as Granger, if not more. But perhaps she had dismissed Lockhart’s books too quickly...

Pansy came to her rescue. “Whatever, Granger. You can cast all the spells you like, but you’ll never be anything more than a Muggle with a wand. Come on, girls.”

They stalked off before Hermione could think of a retort.

“As if she’s actually sharing a tent with boys,” Pansy said once they were out of earshot. “Doesn’t she have any standards?”

Of all the things to criticise, that one struck Victoria as odd. They shared a changing room with the boys before Flying class, after all—surely sharing a tent was no worse than that? But it seemed that her sense for wizarding habits was not quite as finely developed as she thought, because Daphne agreed wholeheartedly.

“She’s going to get a reputation if she’s not careful,” Daphne said. “I’m surprised it’s even allowed.”

“Maybe no-one else will have her,” Pansy said. “Did you hear her, lecturing Weasley like that? There’s no wonder Parvati can’t stand her. I’m surprised those two even put up with her, but I guess losers have to stick together.”

Victoria stole a glance at Daphne. Normally she would stick up for Neville, whenever he landed in Pansy’s sights, but this time she said nothing. Perhaps the polyjuice incident had been the final straw.

Instead, it was Tracey who came to his defence. “Can’t we just forget about them?” There was a hint of irritation to her voice; Victoria was reminded that Tracey’s father was a Muggleborn. She bit her lip, suddenly feeling rather guilty, her mind running over the things they had said. None of them applied to Tracey, of course, but still… perhaps it would be better to avoid the topic.

Daphne seemed to have reached the same conclusion. “You’re right. What do we care about them? Come on, let’s get the tent out.”

As Daphne and Tracey struggled to assemble the tent under Pansy’s unhelpful directions, Victoria set about casting the spells to protect their campsite. She began by digging a shallow trench in a ring around the edge of the clearing, deploying the Gouging Spell for the second time that day. If she’d been enchanting a house, or somewhere like Hogwarts with walls around it, then the spell would have settled at the limits of the property, but out here in the wilderness there was no such natural border. She had to create one. A trench was rudimentary at best—she was no charm-mason—but it would get the job done.

By the time the trench was complete, the others had managed to arrange the heap of metal poles into a precarious, wobbling frame.

“No, it goes the other way around!” Pansy said, sitting on a tree stump and watching as Daphne and Tracey tied to line the rainfly up to the frame. “You’ve got it inside out!”

Daphne sighed and switched sides with Tracey. “Why is this so confusing? It’d be so much easier if we knew the Erection Charm.”

Tracey sniggered. “I dare you to ask Flitwick when we get back. Professor, please can you teach us about erection?”

“I think Madam Promfrey did that already,” Victoria added with a grin.

“Oh, shush!” Daphne said, her cheeks pink. “You know what I meant!”

Victoria returned to her spells while the others continued work on the tent. Selecting a tree within the perimeter, she used the Cutting Charm to carve their names into the bark of the trunk.

Victoria, Daphne, Tracey, and Pansy
were here

April 1993

She finished it off by encircling their names with a crudely drawn heart. Her graffiti was not merely an act of vandalism: the carving laid claim to their clearing, a vital part of making sure her charms took root. A proper house would have a title deed, but this kind of informal claim would work just fine for a short camping trip.

With the preparation out of the way, all that was left to do was cast the magic.

“Repello Lupus!” she intoned, tracing the outline of the heart with her wand. A silvery glow was left in its wake, the light lingering for just a moment before sinking into the wood of the tree. She repeated the process with several more charms.

“Immunignis!”

“Repello Muggletum!

“Repello Vipera!”

One by one, the spells took to the bark. They would protect their campsite from wolves, Muggles, fire, and snakes, but what to do about unwanted guests? She didn’t know any charms to protect from magical intruders—those spells were far more advanced—but perhaps she could improvise something.

Her mind went back to the book of jinxes she had read with Susan over the summer. Yes, a jinx could work nicely. She stepped over the trench into the wooded area surrounding their clearing, picked a tree, and tapped one of its branches with her wand.

“Inhospedentus!”

She watched with curiosity as the Biting Jinx took effect. The whole branch came to life with a shudder, wiggling this way and that like a snake, and many of its leaves grew fangs which reminded her of a venomous tentacula. Hesitantly, she raised her hand towards the branch, ready to jerk back if it snapped at her, but the animated wood simply leaned eagerly into her touch, like a cat craving attention. Good. The jinx was working properly—it would bite only unwanted guests, not friends.

She circled the clearing, repeating the spell on a good number of trees. This way, it would be nearly impossible for someone to sneak up on them without being bitten, or at least causing some sort of commotion. Any visitors would have to come down the path.

Just as Victoria was finishing, she spotted Draco and the boys trudging down the slope towards their campsite. They were looking rather the worse for wear: Draco’s normally neat hair was wet and messy; Greg and Vince were covered in cuts and bruises; Blaise’s robes were torn; and Theodore, normally so pale, was practically glowing pink from having caught the sun.

“All right, slow coaches?” Daphne called, poking her head out from under a tent flap. “God, you look even worse than us. What’d you do, take the scenic route?”

“Tried to fly,” Draco said once he’d got closer. “There’s some sort of Anti-Flight Jinx, though—we ended up way off course.”

“Oh, but what a clever idea!” Pansy said. She was still sitting on a tree stump, fanning herself lazily as Daphne and Tracey did all the work. “Just think, you could’ve easily been the first ones here.”

Tracey snorted. “Yeah, if it’d worked.”

“Well, we weren’t last, at least,” Draco said. “Maybe Snape’ll give us extra points for creative thinking, or something.”

“Maybe,” Victoria said. Snape would often find excuses to award Slytherin points. “But you better hurry, unless you want to lose points for your tent. You’ve only got twenty minutes left to put it up.”

 The boys rushed to the next clearing over, where they started putting their tent up. They had clearly done a practice run, or else their tent was enchanted to erect itself, because by the time Daphne and Tracey had finished hammering guy lines into the hard dirt, the boys had already put up a humongous metal frame.

“All done!” Tracey declared. She brushed her dirty hands against the front of her dress robe and admired her handiwork. Their tent was significantly smaller than the boys’. In fact, it looked very much like a Muggle tent, long and Toblerone-shaped, and no taller than Victoria’s shoulders.

“Finally,” Pansy said, hopping off her tree stump. “I thought we’d never finish.” She parted the front entrance and stooped down to duck inside the flap. Tracey and Daphne followed behind, disappearing inside without a trace.

Victoria grinned and joined them. As she’d expected, the inside had been magically expanded to a size similar to their dorm at Hogwarts, with a small kitchen at the far end. There were limits to magical expansion, however, and the interior was still very much that of a tent: the fabric walls sloped in from the sides, coming to a triangular point above them, and the whole structure was held up by tall metal poles. Four hammocks were strung between those poles, and the floor was littered with cushions. 

Frowning, she tried not to think about what would happen if the poles collapsed overnight. What happened to people in expanded space if the structure failed?

Pansy interrupted her increasingly anxious thoughts. “Do we have time for a bath, do you think?” She nodded towards a large copper tub tucked to the side of the kitchen. “It’d be nice to freshen up.”

“Not a chance,” said Daphne, who was helping Tracey to transfer snacks from her backpack to the kitchen’s coolbox. “We’d have to get water from the pump, then heat it up, then take turns in the tub… it’d take forever.”

“I guess,” Pansy sighed. “But we’ll have one later, right? We can’t go to Draco’s party like this.”

They had even less time than Daphne had thought. A bell rang out—three high pitched chimes, coming from downslope—followed by Lockhart’s magically amplified voice.

“TIME’S UP! PLEASE ASSEMBLE BY THE STAFF TENTS IN FIVE MINUTES.”

They quickly finished unpacking before making their way downhill towards the teachers’ tents. Their winding route took them on a tour through many other campsites, and Victoria was struck by the variety on display. Draco’s tent was by far the most impressive, the size of a log cabin, with a raised porch at the front and proper glass windows dotted along its sides. At the opposite end of the spectrum was Zacharias Smith, who fancied himself something of an adventurer and had convinced his fellow Hufflepuffs to commit to a more minimalistic style. Each of them was protected by little more than sheet of translucent fabric hovering in the air, completely exposed to the elements at the sides, and they’d already started a campfire with a metal kettle whistling happily above it.

What all the other campsites had in common, however, was that no one else had protected theirs like Victoria had. There were no trenches. There weren’t even wooden posts or stone circles, which she might have used if she’d had less time. So far as she could tell, everyone else had simply cast their enchantments in the air. She even saw Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan hopping in a circle around the perimeter of their clearing, casting charms as they went.

It was just… sloppy. Spells cast like that would last a couple of days at the most. Hours, if you were casting them as badly as Finnegan. And sure, they would only be camping the one night, but that was no reason to get lazy.

The downhill path gave way to a large clearing, where a crowd of students were gathering in front of three pavilions. The teachers, it seemed, did not have to share tents. More and more students emerged from the trees, and once everyone had arrived, Professor Lockhart and Hagrid stepped out of the middle tent.

“Welcome to Camp Westview!” Lockhart declared. “Now, I hope you’ve all enjoyed your day so far. As we speak, Professor Snape is examining your campsites for the quality of your spellwork. Meanwhile, the third and final stage of your exam awaits!” He flourished his cape and struck a dramatic pose. “Be warned! What lies beyond will test you. You will need to demonstrate all those qualities which I’ve relied upon so many times, in my published works—your daring, your athleticism, and your knowledge of defensive spells!”

An excited murmur ran through the students, but Victoria’s heart was already sinking. Athleticism?

“Oh, no,” Pansy groaned, apparently sharing her thoughts. “They’re going to make us run, aren’t they?”

Daphne laughed. “Sounds like it.”

“It’s not funny!” Victoria said, sending her a glare. “This is our exam, and they’re not even testing us on magic! What’s running got to do with anything?”

Lockhart cleared his throat loudly; the students hushed. “As I was saying, Mr Hagrid has prepared quite the treat for you! I can’t tell you too much—it’d ruin the surprise—but you will complete the course in pairs. Think of it as a race. And if that wasn’t enough to motivate you, the student who finishes in the shortest time will receive a special prize, courtesy of yours truly!”

Predictably, everyone began whispering about what the prize could be.

“I bet it’s a signed photo,” Victoria said grumpily.

“Ohh, do you think so?” Tracey said, completely missing her tone. “That’d make a good birthday present for my mum.”

“Well then, let’s get started!” Lockhart said. “Patil and Patil, you’re up first.”

He led Parvati and Padma around the side of the three pavillions. Hagrid followed, his hulking form taking longer to pass out of sight.

“So now we wait, I guess,” Tracey said. “Vicky, you want to go together?”

Victoria shrugged. “Sure.”

It quickly became clear, however, that they would not get to pick their own partners. When the Patil twins returned, Padma grinning with victory, Lockhart called out another pair of names.

“Macmillan and Boot, you’re next!”

Everyone else settled down in their groups for a long wait. There was a quiet tension in the air, as if they had all suddenly realised that this was an exam, not just a fun day out. Amidst the quiet, Pansy kept glancing over to where Parvati was sitting in a huddle of Gryffindors, the lot of them whispering with intent.

“Well, that’s not fair,” she said. “She’s telling them what to expect!”

She stood and walked over to a water pump, where she pretended to have a drink. By chance, on her way back, her circuitous route took her past the group of Gryffindor girls, and Victoria watched in amusement as she acted out the charade of having just noticed them, greeting Parvati enthusiastically and taking a place in their huddle.

Daphne shook her head. “She thinks she’s so subtle.”

“Maybe she isn’t,” Victoria said, “but if it works…”

Five minutes later, Pansy returned bearing information.

“They wouldn’t tell me much,” she said, leaning in so she could whisper. “But it sounds like there’s lots of animals. A snake, at least.”

“Great,” Victoria said, taking a deep breath and trying to prepare herself. She could only imagine how she would have reacted, if a snake had jumped out at her without warning. Sometimes there were definite advantages to knowing Pansy.

Eventually, Victoria’s name was called.

“Potter! Granger! With me!”

She groaned, standing up reluctantly. Of course she was paired with Granger.

“Good luck!” Tracey whispered.

Lockhart ticked their names off his clipboard and led them around to the other side of the teachers’ tents.

“It’s just you and me, this time,” Hermione whispered as they followed behind. Her bushy hair was tied back in a ponytail and she was already gripping her wand. “There’s no Snape to help you today.”

Victoria tried not to let Hermione get to her, giving her what she hoped was a serene smile. “We’ll see.”

Her smile faded when they caught sight of the start of the obstacle course. A wall of fire awaited them, like a curtain hanging across a gap in the trees, and even from a distance Victoria could feel the dry heat on her face. A line of chalk had been drawn on the ground in front of the fire.

“On the starting line, now,” Lockhart said, and they took their places behind the chalk. “On my mark, the race will begin. You will need to part the fire to enter the course. Mr Hagrid is waiting at the far end. All clear?”

Victoria nodded; out of the corner of her eye, she saw Granger do the same.

“Very well. On your marks… get set… go!”

The pair of them sprung into motion, their wands raised, their voices calling out as one:

“Extinguo!”

Two archways appeared in the flames, granting passage to the course beyond, and the girls darted forward. They were neck and neck as they passed through the crackling fire; Victoria cringed from the heat, but a moment later she was through to a dirt path with tall hedges on either side. Being slightly faster than Hermione, Victoria began to pull ahead—but suddenly, a massive tree trunk swung out from the side of the path, and she threw herself to the ground with a yelp. The log sailed through the air just above her head.

“What the hell?” she cried, but just as she scrambled to get up, another log swung out from the opposite direction, sending her back down into the dirt.

She would have to crawl. It was difficult with her wand cradled in her hand, and she inched forwards slowly, her wrists and knees accumulating mud. Where had Hermione gone? She must have been forced to crawl as well, somewhere behind Victoria—but then, a moment later, Hermione reappeared to Victoria’s right, back on her feet and quickly running ahead.

A curse escaping her lips, Victoria leapt to her feet and sprinted to catch up. Luckily, she seemed to have passed through the swinging logs, and a twist in the path led her to the next obstacle: a deep pit filled with water, with two narrow planks leading to the other side. Hermione was already halfway across, her arms out to either side as she wobbled precariously atop the plank.

She’d forgotten she was a witch.

Victoria’s mind slipped into the now-instinctive frame required for transfiguration by technique. With a wave of her wand, the plank in front of her widened; she ran across easily, leaving Hermione spluttering behind. “Too slow, Granger!”

The next twist in the path revealed a long straight interspersed with statues of animals standing on plinths. The first statue was of an enormous wolf; the moment Victoria turned the corner, colour began to seep into its stone features as it came to life.

She froze. Her every instinct screamed at her to turn and run, but her legs wouldn’t obey. The wolf didn’t wait for her to make up her mind: it jumped off its stone plinth and bounded towards her, picking up speed as it got bigger and bigger.

Victoria recovered just in time. “Shoo!” she cried, flicking her wand dismissively, and the wolf was launched back through the air—just in time for Hermione to come out from behind her and take the lead once more, running down the straight which Victoria had so generously cleared for her.

Victoria sprinted after her, passing the wolf’s empty plinth, slowly but surely closing the distance. The two of them quickly approached the next statue, a giant, magically engorged adder which was rearing to strike, but Hermione was prepared.

“Shoo!”

The adder flew through the air just as the wolf had done; neither Victoria nor Hermione even paused their forward momentum. They were level by the time they came to the final plinth, which released an angry cloud of buzzing wasps.

The wasps darted straight for Victoria, ignoring Hermione completely. Taken by surprise, Victoria’s fear of the insects momentarily overcame her and she came to an abrupt halt.

“Yes!” Hermione cried, a laugh in her voice, and she pulled ahead. Victoria recovered quickly, however, and moved to cast the Shooing Charm—but then a wonderful, terrible idea sprung into her mind.

She pointed her wand at Hermione’s back. “Oppugno!”

It was like flicking a switch. The wasps turned in the air and shot towards Hermione, who was still none the wiser. Victoria launched herself back into a run, and then the wasps were upon Hermione, who shrieked in surprise just as Victoria overtook her.

“Shoo!” came Hermione’s panicked voice, but she was clearly having trouble. “Shoo! Shoo! Shoo!”

Victoria ran on without glancing behind. Having finished with the animals, the path turned again, this time into a downhill section. At the bottom of the hill was the strangest sight: a gorilla dressed in a tracksuit, wearing a baseball cap and carrying Professor Lockhart’s fire-arm. A large cannon was on the ground in front of it, pointing up the hill towards her, and as Victoria watched, the gorilla used a match to light the cannon’s fuse.

Her eyes widened.

“Impervius!”

The cannon went off with a loud bang, the cannonball shooting through the air faster than Victoria could see—the only sign that her spell had worked was the sound of splintering wood to her side as the projectile swerved into the trees.

That had been rather close.

She began to run down the hill, holding back from going too fast lest she stumble and fall. The gorilla launched several more cannonballs at her, each of them missing like the first, and when she was half-way down the hill, it finally lifted the fire-arm.

She’d anticipated that. “Immunignis!”

A fireball flew towards her. She didn’t slow down, confident in her spell, and she barreled through the flames with nothing but a mild tickling sensation. Soon she was close enough to the gorilla to realise just how huge it was, almost as big as Hagrid. Would it attack her, like the other animals had? That was a problem: they’d never learnt how to Shoo gorillas. She would have to try a less reliable charm.

“Locomotor gorilla!” she said, flicking her wand, but the goshawk still resisted her. The spell merely knocked the gorilla’s baseball cap off its head. She cursed and slowed her descent down the hill, trying to buy time to think.

Just as she reached the bottom of the hill, she realised the solution. The gorilla was clearly meant to represent a Muggle, to which there was an obvious defence.

“Confundo!” she cried, twirling her wand in the gorilla’s direction. Its face became slack and confused; grunting, it looked down at the fire-arm with clear curiosity.

Victoria ran past the gorilla, pushing down her instinct to give it a wide berth and trusting in her magic. Behind the gorilla was one final turn in the path, bringing the finish line into sight— the edge of the tree line, where the forest opened out onto the grassy clifftop they’d flown over earlier in the day.

Hagrid was standing at the edge of the trees, an egg-timer in his hands, the lake sparkling in the distance behind him.

“Come on!” he called. “You ain’t finished yet!”

Panting, she pushed herself into one last sprint towards Hagrid. It was a good thing she did, because the sound of Hermione’s footsteps appeared behind her, closing in on her as they ran down the final straight.

She crossed the finish line mere seconds before Hermione caught up.

“Well done!” Hagrid said, beaming at them. “Bes’ time so far! Under five minutes.”

But Hermione was not happy. “You cheated!” she gasped, still breathing hard from the sprint. “Mr Hagrid, she cast a spell to set the wasps on me!”

Hagrid frowned, his dark eyes turning on Victoria. “Tha’ true?”

“Of course not,” Victoria lied. She shook her head at Hermione in disappointment. “Really, Granger, you ought to be a better loser. It’s not sporting.”

Hermione just gaped at her, as if she couldn’t comprehend so brazen a lie. This, from the girl who had stolen Pansy’s body. And a tattle-tale to boot, it seemed.

“Well, that’s tha’, I s’pose,” Hagrid said. He shrugged. “It’s just a test, at the end o’ the day.”

“Just a test?” Hermione said, her voice scandalised.

Victoria nodded enthusiastically. “You’re so wise, Mr Hagrid.” This was supposed to be the Heir of Slytherin? There wasn’t a cunning bone in his body. The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that Hagrid was a fraud. “Well, if that’s everything, I’d better be getting back to my friends. See you around, Granger.”

She made her way back to the staff tents feeling very pleased with herself. As much as she disliked the girl, when it came to magic Hermione was the only one in their year who could hope to beat her. Now that she’d failed to do so, the prize for the fastest time was surely Victoria’s for the taking.

The rest of the afternoon passed slowly. There was a lot of excitement on her return, as she shared the blow-by-blow details of how to get through the obstacle course with Daphne, Tracey and Pansy, but that excitement quickly turned to boredom as the hours stretched on. Daphne was the next from their group to run, racing against Lavender Brown, to whom she lost narrowly. Pansy went much later, handily beating Sophie Roper. By the time Tracey returned from her race against Lisa Turpin, they were hungry, tired, and thoroughly fed up.

Luckily, they didn’t have to wait much longer after that.

“Gather round, gather round!” Lockhart called, and everyone got to their feet lethargically. “That’s it! Closer now, don’t be shy! Well then. Everyone’s tried their wand at the course, and we’re ready to announce the winner!”

Victoria smirked and prepared to step forward.

“A most impressive performance, I must say!” Lockhart said. “With a time clocking in at three minutes and forty seconds, please put your hands together for Zacharias Smith!”

Chapter Text

Draco’s party took place later that evening, after the girls had taken turns in the bath and managed to spill half the water across Daphne’s tent. The April sun was low in the sky, a few hours of light remaining before dusk, and its warm, orange glow cast long shadows through the trees around the boys’ campsite.

A large fire pit had been dug at the centre of the clearing, the crackle of flames joining the chirruping of the birds above, the sounds of nature interrupted only by the murmur of conversation and the occasional faint shout, carried through the forest from a distant campsite.

The party was an exclusive one, the hottest ticket in Camp Westview, with all the most popular students and the best food. Vince had taken charge of the cooking, and an array of fat sausages were already sizzling over the fire, sharing space on a metal grill with halved onions and chicken thighs. Tracey and Gregory were playing apprentice; the former shucking a pile of corn, the latter rubbing salt into a long flank steak.

Further around the fire, Theodore was trying to recreate Lockhart’s fire-arm with Eustace Whitbeck, a fellow Slytherin second year, and on the opposite side, Parvati was showing Ceclia Chorleywood and Sophie Roper how to read the future in the flames.

The raised, wooden porch of Draco’s tent was reserved for his closest friends. It was there that Victoria found herself, playing a game of favours with Susan, Pansy, Daphne, Draco, Blaise and—to her regret—Zacharias Smith. 

“Hit me,” Zach said, and Pansy passed him a card from the top of the deck. He smiled. “Perfect—another goblin.”

Susan snorted. “You do know that you’re meant to keep your cards a secret, right?”

“Unless it’s a bluff,” Daphne said.

“Or a double bluff,” Pansy added, giving Zach’s cards a calculating look.

In Victoria’s experience, trying to guess another player’s hand never ended well—far better to just play your own hand. But then again, she almost always lost, so maybe that was where she was going wrong. She reached out and took the card sitting in front of Susan, struggling to suppress her smile when she saw that it was a mermaid. She was just one card away from getting the set.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “What was it you discarded, Susan? Victoria’s obviously rather pleased with it.”

“Hey! No fair!” Victoria cried, but her objection stood no chance against Susan’s crush.

“A mermaid,” Susan said, sending her a cheeky grin.

Victoria pouted. “Traitor.”

“Right,” Pansy said, “no one give Vicky any merpeople, she’s close to winning.”

And just like that, victory slipped from her grasp once again. Zach won the round—it turned out he wasn’t bluffing—and he collected the pot of favours from the table in the middle.

“Well, this is useless,” he said, holding up a silver trinket in the shape of a robe. That was the favour Victoria had bet. “Though… what happens if I ask to borrow your robe now?”

Victoria blushed heavily. “That’s not allowed!”

“Isn’t it?” Zach said, and he made a show of looking her up and down. To Victoria’s alarm, she felt the familiar tug in her chest indicating that a magical debt was owed.

“Stop it,” Pansy said firmly, her tone brooking no disagreement. “Zach, you’ll behave or you’ll go back to your tent.”

There was a moment of tense silence, but then Zach laughed, put the favour down and leaned back in his seat. “No worries. I was just playing around.”

Victoria wasn’t so sure. She shared a nervous look with Susan—she’d never played favours with the boys before, and suddenly the game didn’t seem so innocent. It was just fortunate that Pansy’s sense of propriety was so strong.

“Another round?” Draco said, picking up the cards. There was a murmur of approval, and he dealt out four cards to each player.

Now that she was alert to the danger of owing favours to the boys, Victoria played much more cautiously, taking care to consider the possible uses of each favour before betting. The figurine of a witch and wizard clasped together was out—there was no way she was going to risk owing Zach a dance—as was the little silver question mark, which would oblige her to share a secret. Eventually, she decided to throw a daisy-shaped favour into the pot. She was pretty sure there was no way to abuse flowers.

Everyone groaned when they saw her bet.

“So boring,” Blaise said, before taking his turn. His favour took the form of a wizard in a duelling stance—a promise to champion for someone in a duel.

“And yours is better?” Victoria said. “I don’t remember seeing you in duelling, Blaise.”

Zach laughed. “I’ve duelled you, Potter. You’d do well to win his favour.”

“Oh, ha-ha,” Victoria said, giving him a glare. “But you weren’t so cocky the other day, when Joseph bounced you around the duelling grounds.”

“Deverill’s a sixth year,” Zach said with a shrug. “I’ll beat him one day.”

“Good luck,” Pansy said, adding her favour to the pot. “He’s planning to be an Auror.”

Draco took his turn to bet. “Really? I didn’t know that. You think he has a chance? He’s a good duellist, sure, but becoming an Auror… that’s something else.”

“My Aunt Amelia says the Guild only recruits someone new once every few years,” Susan said. “She’s the—”

“—Head of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement,” Pansy finished. “Yes, we know.”

Susan went very red. Somehow, it was a lot less funny when Pansy said it.

“Your turn to bet, Daphne,” Victoria said, shifting the conversation. “What’ve you got?”

Daphne ducked her head down and picked through her favours, her loose blonde hair hanging down and hiding her face. Her hand lingered over a silver pair of lips, hesitating, before she seemed to gather the courage to place it onto the table.

The boys cheered; Susan gasped; Pansy sighed. Daphne had bet a kiss. After the last round, she had to know that one of the boys would call on it, if they won the pot. But perhaps, judging by the pink in her cheeks and the sparkle in her blue eyes, that was exactly what she was counting on.

The game was on. They each placed an unwanted card on the table, before taking turns to either pick up another player’s card or try their luck with the deck. When it came to Draco’s turn, he took forever to decide his next move, examining each of them closely as if their faces would tell him something useful.

Pansy made a big show of yawning, but Draco was unmoved by her hint. “So… Zach,” she said, filling the silence, “what was Lockhart’s prize, in the end?” 

“Oh, that?” Zach said with a cocky smirk. “It was nothing much—he said I’d get a mention in his next book.”

Susan sighed. “Well, now I definitely wish I’d managed a quicker time.”

“It’s training you need, not wishes,” Zach said. “You can join me, if you like. I run around the lake every morning—crack of dawn stuff.”

“How utterly horrid,” Pansy said, shuddering at the thought. “Whatever possessed you to do that?”

He shrugged. “I enjoy it. Properly wakes you up, it does. Turns out it’s dead useful for acing your Defence exam too.”

“You’re so dedicated,” Daphne said, gazing at Zach with open admiration. The intended recipient of her kiss was suddenly quite clear. “Your grandfather’s a Thesian, isn’t he?”

“That’s right,” Zach said. “He likes to show me a trick or two, when he’s in Britain.”

Victoria glanced at Susan in confusion.

“Ministry hunters,” Susan whispered. “When a magical creature gets loose, it’s the Thesians who take it down.”

Zach overheard her explanation. “Not just any creatures,” he added. “They only call in the Thesians for the properly dangerous ones. You should see the manor—we’re running out of places to stick grandfather’s trophies.”

Pansy sniffed. “Sounds barbaric, if you ask me.”

“I think it’s heroic,” Daphne said, and Zach puffed up at her praise. “Ignore Pansy. She’s a city girl at heart, even if she does live on a farm.”

Victoria didn’t much care one way or the other. “What kind of trophies does he have, then?” she asked, her focus rather more practical. “Any… I dunno, acromantula?”

Susan perked up, cottoning on to her train of thought.

“Fat chance of that,” Zach said. “They’re pretty rare, I’ve heard. Don’t think you get them in Europe.”

“But your grandfather must have fought some impressive creatures,” Susan said. “Do you reckon he could kill an acromantula, if there was one?”

Zach nodded confidently. “No doubt about it.”

Finally, Draco made his decision and took a card from the deck. A flurry of card-switching followed as everyone else took their turn.

Victoria whispered to Susan while the others were distracted. “That’s it!” she hissed, leaning in close so no one would hear. “If we could just prove that Hagrid has an acromantula...”

A smile spread across Susan’s face. “Then we write to Zach’s grandfather, and he handles the rest?”

“Exactly,” Victoria said. “Forget the Heir of Slytherin stuff. The acromantula’s enough.”

Another round of betting began, once everyone had taken their new card. Draco and Victoria took the opportunity to fold, after which there was a further exchange of cards. Soon enough it was time for everyone to reveal their hands.

“Just a pair, here,” Daphne said, throwing her cards onto the table. She didn’t seem too upset at having lost.

“Rebels,” Zach said, and everyone groaned as he laid out a goblin, a centaur, a merman and a ghost. Once again, he reached for the pot of favours.

“Not so fast,” Blaise said. One by one, he set his cards on the table. Four wizards, the highest scoring hand possible. “Dominion.”

Zach gaped. “What? The chances of that are… wow.”

“You people talk too much,” Blaise said. “Makes it easy.” He gathered the pot from the centre of the table and immediately picked out the silver lips. “Would you look at that—I think I’m owed a favour.”

Pansy laughed gleefully. “Oh, Daphne. You’ve done it now!”

Daphne rose from her seat, straightened out her dress robe, and shuffled around the table towards Blaise. There was a small smile on her lips and her cheeks were rosy. She didn’t seem too upset by the turn of events—but then, Blaise was one of the better looking boys in their year.

He sat up eagerly, his eyes wide, and Daphne leaned down towards him. Her hair was almost glowing golden in the light of the setting sun, a stark contrast to his dark skin. Then she kissed him right on the lips—chaste, but lingering, lasting far longer than was proper.

Susan whooped and Pansy clapped; Victoria found herself grinning.

Daphne pulled away with a wide smile and held out her hand. Dazed, Blaise looked at it in confusion.

“Favour,” she said, and he obediently placed the silver lips in her waiting palm.

Zach was already gathering up the cards. “Again?”

He was interrupted by Vincent’s bellowing voice.

“FOOD!”

Immediately, all thoughts of another game were forgotten. They scrambled towards the firepit, leaving Zach holding the cards, and chaos ruled as everyone fought to get their hands on the best pieces of beef, chicken, and sausage. Victoria was no exception. It had been a long, tiring day, and other than a few of Tracey’s snacks, she’d barely eaten. She tore a hunk of fluffy bread off a French stick, wriggled into a gap between Pansy and Susan next to the fire, and used the bread to grab one of the plump sausages glistening with fat. Parvati’s elbow dug into her side; Victoria stepped aside to let her through and, without even finding a seat, bit into her makeshift hot dog.

She groaned. The sausage was juicy and delicious, the fat soaking into the bread and turning it a meaty brown. It took her mere seconds to gobble the whole thing down. “Vince, this is so good.”

“Hear hear!” Draco called, wielding a chicken thigh in one hand, a skewer of perfectly pink beef in the other. “Three cheers for Vince, Greg and Tracey!”

Three cheers rang out, the effect somewhat muted by the fact that their mouths were all full. Luckily, there was more than enough for everyone and, once the initial scramble had died down, Victoria was able to return to the grill and load up a plate—bone-china, as if Draco would tolerate anything less—with chicken, beef, and corn on the cob. Tracey broke out the butterbeer she’d brought, and the sky turned orange as they gorged themselves in a contented, companionable silence.

By the time that Vince and Greg went in for their fourth portion, almost everyone had eaten their fill.

“I can’t move,” Susan moaned, clutching her stomach. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this full.”

“You ate too fast,” Pansy said, still nibbling on some corn. “Slow and steady wins the race.”

“We’ll feel better if we move around a bit,” Zach said. “We could play a game? Muggle Hunt, maybe.”

His suggestion was met with a chorus of boos.

“No running,” Victoria said. She’d run enough for one day already.

Parvati agreed. “Besides, we’re a bit old for Muggle Hunt, don’t you think?”

“Was just an idea,” Zach muttered.

“He’s right, though,” Draco said. “We should go for a walk. Maybe drop by Boot’s camp, see what they’re up to.”

They finished eating and ambled off into the trees, walking without any true purpose or direction. The sun had almost set now, though it was not yet so dark that they needed wandlight to see. The birds had finally gone quiet, save for a single nightingale, and twigs cracked loudly underfoot in the peace of twilight.

“What time is it?” Susan asked, her voice hushed.

Draco pulled a pocket watch from a robe pocket. “Not even eight-thirty.”

“That’s so weird,” Victoria said, holding back a yawn. “Back at the castle, we wouldn’t even be thinking of bed yet. But out here…”

“It feels different,” Daphne agreed. “Once the sun goes down, you feel like you should too.”

Zach shook his head in disbelief. “Listen to you people. Bed at eight-thirty? You sound like my great-grandmother. We’re in the wild, we’re wizards—let’s have some fun.”

“To the Ravenclaws, then,” Draco said. “I heard Turpin managed to bring some wine.”

Their route took them back uphill, sticking to the paths to avoid getting lost. But as they got close to Terry Boot’s campsite, three dark figures approached from the opposite direction, one of them a huge, hulking shadow.

“Teachers!” Pansy hissed. “Quick, into the trees!”

They rushed to hide, scattering in different directions, each of them finding a tree to crouch behind.

“...you’re too easy on them, Lockhart,” Snape was saying, his voice still quite distant. “I have it on good authority that Boot’s company have alcohol with them. We should’ve searched their camp.”

“Been looking into students’ eyes again, Severus?” Lockhart asked, his voice mild. “They’re young—let them enjoy it. A party in the woods won’t do any harm.”

“A lack of discipline will, however,” Snape said. “They’re here to learn, not to engage in… frivolity.”

Hagrid chucked. “Ah, lighten up, Snape. Yer far too grouchy fer thirty-years-old.”

Snape’s correction was crisp. “Thirty-two.”

“Well, when yer’ve doubled tha’, then we can talk. F’now, let the kids ‘ave some fun.”

“Quite right,” Lockhart said. “We ought to be far more concerned with the dangers of the forest than a bit of innocent contraband. Hagrid, you’ll check the perimeter?”

“I can do tha’,” Hagrid said.

“Good,” Lockhart said. “And Severus, will you secure the gate?”

There was a moment of silence.

“As you wish,” Snape said. “This is, after all, your pet project. I leave the supervision of the children to you.”

Two sets of footsteps stopped and returned back uphill, leaving Lockhart alone as he continued down towards the Gryffindor camp. The forest went still as they all waited for the teachers to pass out of sight.

“Victoria!” Susan hissed, and she scurried across to share the same tree. “This is our chance!”

“Chance for what?”

“To check out Hagrid’s tent!” Susan said. “Didn’t you hear? He’s going to the perimeter—that gives us loads of time. I bet there’s something in there we can use as proof.”

Victoria hesitated. Sure, she’d broken a few rules in her time, sneaking out after curfew, or drinking a bit of wine… but breaking into a teacher’s tent was something else entirely. What if they got caught? She could only guess at the punishment. Even worse, what if Hagrid had brought the acromantula with him, and they ended up facing a giant spider?

“I dunno,” she said. “Can’t we just go with the others to the party?”

Susan crossed her arms. “If we don’t do it now, we’re never going to get a chance like this again. So I guess the question is… do you want to catch the Heir, or not?”

“It’s not that simple!” Victoria said, her voice now a stage whisper. “Of course I want to catch the Heir, but… there are limits, you know? Making a foe glass, that’s one thing. It either worked, or it didn’t. But snooping around people’s tents? Susan, it could be dangerous.”

Susan was not to be persuaded. “Well, I’m going,” she said stubbornly. “You can either come with me, or not.”

When she put it like that, Victoria really didn’t have a choice. She couldn’t just let Susan go it alone. She may have followed reluctantly, and she may have sulked about it, but she followed nonetheless.

They snuck away without telling the others, making good time downhill towards the staff tents. On the way, they passed campsite after campsite, each of them full of laughter, the light of a campfire, and the smell of food. It took all of Victoria’s resolve to walk past each one, forgoing all those parties in pursuit of—if she was honest with herself—a wild goose chase.

They arrived at the teachers’ pavilions. The clearing was dark and deserted, feeling strangely empty in the absence of the crowd which had gathered there only a few hours before.

“Well, which one is it?” Victoria said, glancing between the three identical tents.

“They came out of the middle one, earlier,” Susan said. “Maybe we should try that one first?”

Victoria didn’t like the sound of ‘first’, but now wasn’t the time to kick up a fuss. They were too exposed. So they crept up to the middle tent and, after checking that the coast was clear, ducked through the heavy flap.

It definitely wasn’t Hagrid’s tent. Framed photographs of Gilderoy Lockhart stared down at them from every direction, winking at them from the tent’s walls. At the centre of the room was a sturdy desk covered in paperwork, resting on a huge rug which dominated the floor, and to the rear of the tent was a four-poster bed.

“I’m pretty sure Hagrid doesn’t like Lockhart this much,” Victoria said dryly. “Come on, let’s check the next one.”

“Hang on,” Susan said, and there was a look of curiosity on her face. Her eyes were set on Lockhart’s desk. “Do you think…?”

She tiptoed forward.

“Susan!” Victoria hissed. “What are you doing?”

“I just want a look,” Susan said. She reached the desk and started riffling through the papers. “He must have brought it with him… aha!”

She picked up a very familiar-looking manuscript. It was the first draft of Lockhart’s next book, the one he’d made Victoria promise not to tell anyone about.

Victoria sighed. “Fine, but be quick! I’ll keep look-out.” She parted the tent flap and pressed her eye to the gap, which was just wide enough to see outside. “Coast is clear.”

“Thanks.” The swish-swish of turning pages came from the direction of the desk. “I know all this already,” Susan muttered. The page turning accelerated; she must have been skipping whole sections of the manuscript to get to the end. And then she paused. Had she reached the final twist?

“Victoria,” Susan said, her voice trembling. “You… you need to see this.”

Glancing over her shoulder, Victoria saw that Susan was no longer grinning. Her eyes were glued to the page and her jaw was set.

“What, does it have a bad ending?” Victoria joked, but Susan just beckoned impatiently.

“Quickly! We can’t stay long, not now.”

Victoria shrugged, let the tent’s flap fall shut and joined Susan by the desk.

“Here,” Susan said, turning the manuscript to face her and pointing to a specific paragraph. Her finger was shaking. “Read this.”

I dearly wish I had realised it sooner. How could I not have seen it before? Hagrid was the Heir of Slytherin, and there I was, alone with him in the wilderness, with only the incompetent Professor Snape to support me, and seventy children under my care.

I ran with all the speed I could muster, but it was too late. By the time I reached Hagrid in the Chamber of Secrets, his dark work was complete. I dispatched him quickly, but there was no reversing what he had done.

Victoria Potter, the Girl Who Lived, was dead.

“Dead?”

It was like Victoria’s brain had frozen. She read the final sentence again and again, unable to comprehend it, or perhaps just unwilling. But through the confusion, there was no stopping the deep, dark feeling of dread which pooled in her stomach.

She looked up at Susan’s distraught face, as if she might be able to explain that Victoria had misunderstood; that there was no way that Lockhart could have been behind everything. “What…?”

“It’s him,” Susan confirmed grimly. “It’s Lockhart. He’s the Heir of Slytherin.”

A slow clap sounded from behind them; they spun around, hearts in their mouths.

Professor Lockhart was standing in the entrance to the tent, a smile on his face.

“Gilderoy Lockhart,” he said, giving them a mock bow. “Enter stage right.”

Chapter Text

Victoria’s hand darted towards her waist, but Lockhart was faster. Quick as a flash, his wand was pointing directly at her.

“Stop right there!”

She froze in place, cursing herself for not keeping a proper lookout. They’d been so stupid…

“Now,” Lockhart said, “very slowly, I want you to take your wands—not by the handle!—and throw them to me.”

They did as he asked, their wands clattering to the floor at Lockhart’s feet. Carefully, keeping his wand tracked on them, he crouched down and slipped the wands into one of his robe pockets.

“I... don’t believe it!” Susan cried, her voice hurt and confused. “It’s... you? You’re the Heir of Slytherin?”

Lockhart chuckled. “What a silly girl you are! There’s no such thing as the Heir of Slytherin, my dear. There never was. But it will make an excellent story, don’t you think? A worthy follow-up to Break with a Banshee. All we need now is a Chamber of Secrets.” He flourished his wand dramatically. “Alohomora!”

A corner of the rug flopped over. Lockhart sighed.

“I knew it,” Victoria said, her words dripping with bitterness. “I knew you were a fraud.”

Lockhart’s expression hardened. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Now, roll back the rug. Slowly. I’m warning you—my Banishing Charm works just fine.”

It took the two of them to lift the edge of the heavy rug, revealing a wooden trapdoor set into the floor of the tent. Victoria eyed it nervously, her sense of trepidation growing. She did not like where this was going, but what could she do? Her brain had betrayed her, all her clever ideas abandoning her when she needed them the most.

Lockhart waved his hand at the trapdoor. “Open it.”

Reluctantly, they pulled on a metal ring to swing the trapdoor open. It led to a long stone shaft, the bottom too dark to make out, with a ladder on one side.

“In you go,” Lockhart said.

Susan began to cry. Her sobs echoed through the shaft as they climbed down the ladder, mixing with the sound of dripping water below. Victoria’s eyes remained dry: she was just numb, unable to move past her disbelief. Was this really happening? It felt like some kind of sick joke.

“I’m so sorry,” Susan gasped between sobs. “This is all my fault.”

“Don’t say that,” Victoria said, but a deep, bitter part of her couldn’t help but agree. If only Susan had listened to her, they would have been at a party right now. “It’s no one’s fault. We couldn’t have known about Lockhart.”

“But you told me!” Susan cried. “You told me about him and I didn’t listen, and now look where we are! And all because I dragged you here!”

Victoria couldn’t think of anything to say to that. She settled for a lie. “We’ll get out of it, you’ll see. Just like the troll and the boggart.”

Her words seemed to calm Susan, whose sobs turned into sniffs as her crying diminished. Victoria only wished she could have believed it herself.

The Chamber of Secrets awaited at the bottom of the ladder. They were standing at the end of a long, rocky tunnel; the ceiling high above was littered with stalactites, and statues of giant spiders leaned out of the walls on either side like gargoyles. The many eyes of each spider were made from an array of gems, each one glittering with a trapped fairy, and the silver light cast the tunnel in an ethereal, otherworldly glow.

Beyond the tunnel, darkness loomed.

Lockhart came down the ladder behind them. “It wasn’t easy getting all this made discreetly, let me tell you.” He spoke with obvious pride, as if he were taking them on a backstage tour. “It’s a pity about the damp, but perhaps it lends a certain air of authenticity... the place is supposed to be ancient, after all. But come on, the finale happens in the chamber proper.”

Finale.

Something about that word finally broke through Victoria’s numbness; she turned and ran, aiming for the ladder, but she only managed a few steps. An invisible force grabbed her and launched her through the air—she screamed as she sailed the full length of the tunnel, her limbs flailing, before hurtling upwards into an enormous, dome-like cavern.

She landed with a hard slap on a raised stone platform.

Clutching her right knee in pain, it took Victoria a moment to recover her bearings. She was atop a mound at the centre of the cavern, the stone platform surrounded on all sides by a ring of statues, their eyes providing just enough light for Victoria to realise she was sitting on an altar. Her panic rising, she moved to jump off, but chains came alive around her and latched shut around her wrists and ankles, tying her in place no matter how hard she struggled.

“Let me go!” she cried, pulling at the chains with all her strength, so hard that she thought she’d tear her arm off. But the chains wouldn’t budge. “I’m not your… sacrifice!”

“Tut tut. None of that, now,” Lockhart said, climbing the stairs towards the altar with Susan at wand-point. Her face was red and splotchy, but she wasn’t crying anymore. “Now, give me a moment to think, if you will. Miss Bones here is a complication, but I’m sure we can figure something out.” He looked around at the statues, but shook his head. “No, too far away. We want the two of you together.” He gestured at Susan with his wand. “Next to the altar, now. That way you can help each other, see?”

Susan sniffed and shuffled towards Victoria. The moment she got close, a chain reached out and clamped onto her wrists, making her gasp at the touch of cold metal.

“Yes, that works nicely,” Lockhart said, nodding to himself. “It’ll be a much more dynamic scene with Susan’s legs free.”

Another sob escaped Susan’s throat, tears threatening to fall once more.

“Don’t worry, Susan,” Victoria said, trying to lift her spirits, though her own voice trembled when she spoke. “Snape will save us, just you see.”

Lockhart laughed. “Severus? I think not. You see, he’s shown an annoying tendency to interfere in the past, so I’ve arranged to keep him busy this time.” He tapped his finger to his temple. “Meticulous planning, girls, that’s the secret to success. Well, that and a choice Confundus Charm. As we speak, young Mr Weasley is attempting to stake dear Severus through the heart. I dare say he’s going to be distracted for quite some time.”

Victoria’s heart sank. Snape had been their one hope. Who else was going to save them—Hagrid?

“Now,” Lockhart continued, “let’s prepare for the climax, shall we?”

He reached behind the altar and Victoria’s stomach tightened in fear, her arms wobbling like jelly. Was this it? It was too soon; she wasn’t ready.

“Leave her alone!” Susan cried, her chains jangling as she struggled to break free. But when Lockhart stood back up, he was not weilding a knife or some other gruesome tool of ritual sacrifice. He was carrying a makeup bag.

Lockhart winked at them. “Not what you thought? Showbusiness isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, ladies. We’ll need you looking your best for the play, if we want to keep the customers happy.”

And then, with a surprisingly expert touch, he began applying makeup to Victoria’s face. She tried to turn away as he powdered her cheeks—anything to deny him—but he had the strength of a grown man and his grip on her jaw was firm.

Strangely, the everyday familiarity of makeup helped to calm her panicked mind. There was nothing they could do to stop Lockhart, that much was clear. But... perhaps they could slow him down. If they could just keep him talking for long enough, maybe it would give Snape time to realise they were missing.

“So this is how you do it, is it?” she asked through gritted teeth. “All your books. It’s all just… fake?”

“You make it sound so simple,” Lockhart said. “It’s anything but, I assure you. Not many wizards could cast the magic required to manipulate memories.”

“You just... change the bits of the memories that don’t fit?” Susan asked. Had she cottoned on to Victoria’s idea? That was good—she was recovering from the shock, beginning to put things together. “Why bother with all this, then?”

Lockhart moved on to apply some eyeshadow. “There are limits,” he said, his voice conversational. As always, he was quite happy to talk about himself. “That’s why it takes careful planning. You can’t make a memory from scratch, you know!”

His words reminded Victoria of a moment from Break with a Banshee—a plot hole that she’d never been satisfied with. “So that’s why you went to Detective Blaggard’s house first. You knew he was the banshee all along—you were in on it from the start.”

“And goodness me, what an ordeal that was,” Lockhart said with a sigh. “Banshees have terrible bad breath, did you know? Not to mention their poor impulse control. I’ll never work with them again, not after Bandon.”

“But you betrayed the banshee in the end, didn’t you?” Susan said, just as Victoria realised the same thing. It was all beginning to make sense. “That’s why she said you wouldn’t get away with it, just before you banished her off the tower.”

Lockhart grimaced. “A most inconvenient remark. I couldn’t get rid of it, no matter how many Obliviation Charms I cast.”

And just like that, the beginnings of an idea formed in Victoria’s mind. Could they ruin Lockhart’s scene, just like the banshee had? If they messed it up badly enough, perhaps he would be forced to start the whole thing again, buying them more time.

Having finished with Victoria’s eyeshadow, Lockhart moved over to start on Susan. It was almost gentle, the way he ran a porous stone over her face, cleaning up the tear tracks.

Susan glared at him as he worked. “My Auntie’s going to catch you,” she said, her eyes full of disgust. “I hope you like Dementors.”

“Oh, but such fire!” Lockhart exclaimed. “Miss Bones, I didn’t know you had it in you. That’s good—it’ll make for a better scene. But I wouldn’t worry about the Ministry... they’ll get their culprit.”

“Hagrid,” Victoria said, figuring it out. “He’s your banshee this time.”

Lockhart nodded. “Just so. Of course, I had no idea of his history until Mr Obscurus told me. That’s when all the pieces began to fit together.”

“Your publisher knows?” Victoria asked incredulously. “And helps you?”

“But of course!” He swept his arm to gesture at the chamber. “You hardly thought I could do this all on my own, did you? The Lockhart brand takes far more than one wizard to maintain. We’re making a bestseller here, after all. If you’re lucky, we may even break twenty thousand copies!”

She stared at him in disbelief. In the end, all this was about… money? “I can’t believe you’ve hurt all those people just to sell some books. You almost killed Justin!”

Lockhart sniffed. “A very rude boy, that one, always laughing in my classes. I put a lot of effort into those lessons, you know.”

“You tried to kill Justin… because he laughed at you?”

Victoria was stunned. In all the many hours the Slytherins had spent speculating as to the Heir’s plans, not once had they considered the possibility that the choice of victim was motivated by sheer wounded pride.

“And what about Colin?” Susan asked. “Did he laugh at you too?”

Lockhart began to unravel her red hair from its plait, using his fingers to shake it out. “That blasted boy and his camera. He was undercutting my prices with his knock-off merchandise; I just couldn’t let it continue.”

For a moment, Victoria and Susan were just shocked into silence. It was all so incredibly petty.

“And me?” Victoria said, thinking back to her poisoning. “What did I do to offend you?”

“Oh, you were quite charming,” Lockhart said mildly. He gave her a look of almost fatherly pride. “You would have made quite the celebrity. But I’m afraid every good story needs a damsel in distress.”

Victoria glowered at him. “Normally they get saved.”

Lockhart returned her glare an amused look. “Ah, but the critics prefer tragedies, I’m afraid.” He finished with Susan’s makeup. “There we go. Now, you’ll need your wands for the scene, else things will be over rather quickly.”

He returned to Victoria and slipped her wand into the loop at the waist of her robe. It was just out of reach—the chains wouldn’t let her get to it.

“Don’t worry,” Lockhart said, when he saw her straining against the chain. “Susan here should be able to help you. Once she has her own wand, of course.” He tossed Susan’s wand to the stone floor; she dove for it, but it too was just beyond reach, her fingers barely able to brush the handle.

As Susan struggled to get purchase on her wand, Lockhart moved over to the nearest statue, from which a further chain hung, and tied himself up. “Here we go, ladies. Do try to put on a decent show.” He took a deep breath. “HAGRID!” he bellowed, “YOU’LL NEVER GET AWAY WITH THIS!”

His words echoed through the cavern, and for a moment they were met only with silence. But then, high above them, somewhere in the darkness of the ceiling, came a rapid, rattling series of clicking sounds.

Victoria’s heart froze. She recognised those sounds—she’d heard them before, during her detention in the Forbidden Forest… before Lockhart had led her and Hagrid away. Realisation dawned. He hadn’t been running away, he’d been trying to prevent them from discovering his secret.

The clicking got closer, travelling across the ceiling rapidly. It was undoubtedly the sound of an acromantula. Just like that, all clever thoughts of ruining Lockhart’s scene vanished. They’d be lucky to survive five minutes.

“Susan!” Victoria cried. “Your wand! Hurry up!”

But Susan’s wand was still out of reach, and each time her fingers brushed against the handle, they pushed it further away.

“I can’t reach it!” Susan called, a wail in her voice. The acromantula was now close enough that they could hear the scuttle of its legs across the stalactites.

“Then use mine!” Victoria shouted, twisting to present her wand to Susan, who rushed to grab it.

Susan pointed the wand at the shackle on her left wrist. “Alohomora!” she said, but nothing happened, the alien wand fighting against her.

Victoria moved to snatch her wand back, straining against her chains. “Give it here!”

Susan shoved the wand into Victoria’s hand.

“Alohomora!” she cried, doing her best to point the wand at Susan’s wrists. The shackles popped open—just as a huge black shadow dropped from the ceiling. “Look out!”

Susan dived out of the way, narrowly dodging the spear-like thrust of a giant spider’s leg, the power of its impact cracking the rock floor. The sight of the spider banished all rational thought, and Victoria could only scream as it picked itself up—it was massive, the size of a pony, and hideous besides, all black hair and legs, clicking pincers and dark, alien eyes. It reared up on its hind legs, as if startled by her scream, and then it lunged towards her.

“Shoo!” Susan cried, having finally found her wand, and the spider froze.

“That’s it, Susan!” Lockhart cried. “Just like I taught you!”

For one insane moment, Victoria thought that the spell had worked. But her hopes were quickly dashed: with a frenzy of angry clicking, the spider wheeled to face Susan.

“Victoria!” Susan cried. “Help!”

“Alohomora!”

The chains fell away—she was free. The spider reared to strike at Susan; Victoria’s wand lashed out, her mind falling by reflex into the right frame of thought, and stone spikes shot up from the ground. The stone broke where it impacted the spider’s chitinous underside, unable to pierce its armour, but the spider shrieked as it was lifted into the air by the spikes, its legs flailing for purchase.

Susan seized the opportunity to scramble away. “This way!” she shouted, running for the stairs leading down from the mound, and Victoria rolled off the altar to follow. Her right knee twinged with pain the moment she put weight on it, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself to ignore the pain.

“Save yourself, girls!” Lockhart called. “Leave Hagrid’s beast to me!”

It didn’t take long for the scuttling of legs to come racing down the stairs behind them.

“Jump!” Victoria called, and the two of them leapt forward, taking the final flight of stairs all at once, landing so hard that they bowled forwards onto the rocky floor.

Susan glanced back; her eyes widened. “Move!”

Instinctively, Victoria rolled to the side; the thump of the spider’s impact juddered through the floor, landing right where they had lain a moment before, close enough to smell its disgusting, rotten scent, like eggs gone bad.

It was too close. The spider lashed out with one of its legs; the claw caught Victoria’s robe, pinning her to the floor just as she tried to scurry away. Another leg swung downwards, this one aiming for her chest—

“Percussio!”

A deafening bang rang out, so loud that it left a ringing in Victoria’s ears, and the spider recoiled at the noise, scuttling back up the stairs like a startled dog.

“It doesn’t like noise!” Victoria said, and she whipped her wand in a sharp flick, mirroring Susan’s spell. “Percussio!”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

They cast the spell again and again, filling the cavern with echoes of thunder, but the spider quickly realised that the sound posed no real threat. After a moment of disorientation, its many-eyed gaze once more landed on the girls at the bottom of the stairs.

“Run!” Victoria shouted, turning to flee. “The ladder!”

They sprinted back into the tunnel, flying past the statues of spiders as they made for the shaft up to Lockhart’s tent. Susan was pulling ahead, Victoria’s knee holding her back as she hobbled behind. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see the spider hot on her heels—but there was nothing there.

“No!” Susan cried, and Victoria snapped back around to see the spider hanging from the ceiling, descending on a line of silk and coming to land directly between them and the way out.

Their dash for the exit faltered. They were trapped.

“What now?” Susan asked.

Victoria glanced back. “This way,” she said, giving Susan’s arm a yank. “Come on, maybe there’s another way out.”

They ran back towards the stairs, aiming not to ascend the mound but to go around it, hoping against hope that the dark edges of the cavern concealed an exit. The spider charged after them, its enormous form picking up momentum like the Hogwarts Express.

“It’s catching up!” Susan cried.

Without breaking her stride, Victoria jabbed her wand towards the ceiling. The stone stalactites transformed to ice; another flick and the ice began crashing down like spears, each one breaking off the ceiling with an ear-splitting crack. The spider shrieked—was it hurt, or only angry?—but Victoria didn’t dare look behind. 

Her magic bought them a few precious seconds. They reached the end of the tunnel, where it opened out onto the cavern, and swerved to the right, making sure to keep close to the cavern’s wall.

“Lumos!” Victoria said, illuminating the way ahead. The light revealed little but rock: there were no secret tunnels leading away from the cavern, no ladders that might take them to hidden exits. Worse, the ground around the edge was so uneven that it was impossible to run through, forcing them to scramble between potholes and tall stalagmites sprouting out of the ground.

Lockhart’s voice echoed down from the top of the mound. “I’m free! Hold on girls, I’m coming!”

Susan pulled Victoria up a tall, flat boulder, her dress robe tearing as it got caught on a jagged piece of rock. “There’s nothing here! The only way out’s on the other side of the spider!”

Victoria looked around in dismay, taking advantage of their elevated position. Susan was right: so far as she could see, the rock wall just curved around the cavern, an unbroken, impenetrable barrier. But there had to be another way. Lockhart had managed to create a route down here, hadn’t he?

“If there’s no way out, we’ll just have to make one,” Victoria said, the beginning of an idea bubbling at the back of her mind. “I’ll need time to work, though.”

Time was the one thing they didn’t have. Lockhart was descending the stairs, casual as you please, and then the spider burst out from the tunnel. Its armour was cracked where the ice had struck it from above, but it was largely unharmed, and, judging by the spitting, hissing sounds it was making, angrier than ever.

“One minute,” Victoria said, looking Susan in the eyes, “that’s all I need.”

Susan levelled her wand at the spider, which was trying get over a large boulder, too large to fit through the gap which the girls had slipped through. “I’ll try. Locomotor Wibbly!”

Victoria turned away from the spider to face the cavern wall, trying to block out the sounds of Susan casting jinx after jinx. This would need to be her best transfiguration to date. Her wand moved like an artist’s brush, drawing a tall archway in the wall, the stone of the outline transforming into a wooden frame.

“Furnunculus!” Susan cried.

A slow, deliberate twist of her wand filled the archway with slats of wood.

“It’s not working!” Susan shouted. “Tarantallegra! Everything’s just bouncing off!”

Victoria’s wand moved faster—a metal handle grew out of the wooden surface. All she needed now were some hinges.

“Victoria!”

She risked a glance to the side; the sight almost made her freeze in fear. The spider was almost upon them, attempting to squeeze through a narrow gap between two stalagmites—once it was through, there would be nothing to stop it. Lockhart was just behind, picking his way through the rocks carefully.

“I’m almost there,” Victoria said. “You need something more powerful!”

“There’s one spell,” Susan said, her voice uncertain. “I heard Aunt Amelia talking about it when she thought I was in bed.”

“Use it.”

Susan’s jaw set in a grim expression. Motes of green light began to gather around her wand, and the air filled with a heavy, alien sense of dread. She thrust her wand forward.

 “Avada Kedavra!”

Green light flashed; there was a roaring sound, like an oncoming train; the spider shrieked, Victoria’s ears ringing with its terrible cry of pain; and Susan was knocked off her feet, blood running from her nose, eyes and ears.

“That’s not in the script!” Lockhart shouted. For the first time that evening he sounded angry.

Victoria finished the hinges.

“Alohomora!” she cried, jabbing her wand forcefully at the door she had transfigured, and it sprang open. A warm breeze came through the archway, and beyond was the forest in twilight.

The frantic scraping of claw on rock resumed behind them—whatever spell Susan had cast, it hadn’t stopped the spider.

“Come on!” Victoria called, but Susan was still sitting on the floor, her expression dazed, not even moving to stem the flow of blood. Victoria was forced to grab her arm and haul her back to her feet. “We’re almost there!”

She dragged Susan through the archway and out into the forest. It only took a second to realise where they were: the downhill section of the obstacle course, where the gorilla had shot cannonballs at them. It was now shrouded in darkness, but—yes, there!—firelight flickered at the base of the hill.

Bang!

She ducked on instinct, pulling Susan down with her; a moment later, the ground shook and she was showered with a hail of dirt. The gorilla was still there!

“Impervius!”

Susan still had that distant look on her face, so Victoria cast the spell on her too. “We gotta run now, okay?” she said, just as an ear-splitting crack echoed from within the chamber—the spider had got past the stalagmites. “Go!”

They pelted down the slope, ignoring the blast of the cannon, running so fast that a single misstep would send them tumbling head over heels. Victoria’s right knee twinged every time her foot landed, the full force of her momentum bearing down on that one leg, but she gritted her teeth and kept going. There were worse things than a duff knee.

The gorilla grunted as they approached, barely visible in the darkness but audibly working itself into a rage. Victoria prepared to confund it, but then she had a better idea.

“Oppugno!” she cried, casting the spell for the second time that day; the gorilla charged, but not at the girls—she had sent it up the slope, ready to do battle with Lockhart and the spider. She couldn’t hear them yet, but surely they couldn’t be too far behind.

They entered the final straight of the obstacle course, a direct path through the trees which opened out onto the cliff top. From there it would be a short loop back around to the teachers’ tents. Relief filled Victoria.

“Susan, we’re gonna make it!”

The run seemed to have revived Susan somewhat. She wiped her face with the sleeve of her robe, the fabric coming away stained red with blood. “I don’t know if I can run any more,” she said, and her voice was hollow. “I don’t feel right…”

“Oh, but we can’t stop now,” Victoria said, “not when we’re so close! Come on!”

She pulled Susan down the straight, not exactly running—it was very difficult to run and pull someone at the same time—but they were moving faster than a walk.

. As they made their way towards the cliff, Victoria kept her ears pricked for the first sounds of pursuit. Her body was tense, expecting the spider to turn the corner at any moment, but the forest remained oddly silent.

After what felt like an age, but couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds, they passed the edge of the trees and came out onto the cliff top. There was a stiff, cool wind coming off the lake below, and the leaves of the forest rustled with its touch.

Victoria frowned and looked behind. There was still no sign of Lockhart or the spider. “Did we lose them?”

“Maybe,” Susan said. She nodded towards the path that would lead them back to the teachers’ tents. “Or maybe he’s waiting for us up there.”

That possibility hadn’t occurred to Victoria. Suddenly the prospect of returning to camp wasn’t so enticing. “How about sparks? Snape might see them…”

“Or Lockhart would,” Susan said. “What if we hid in the forest? We’ve still got—”

Crack!

Suddenly, Lockhart was there, the spider looming behind him. With his arrival, all hope vanished. The spider looked even bigger out in the open, and Victoria immediately knew there was no point running. There weren’t any rocks or narrow passages to slow it down now.

Lockhart regarded them with a look of open disappointment. “You ruined my ending. But no matter… it’s nothing I can’t fix in the second draft.”

The only remaining course was to fight. Victoria raised her wand threateningly. “Stay back!”

“Don’t be foolish,” Lockhart said. “I may take some artistic licence with my skills, but I can still handle a second year. Time for your tragic end, Miss Potter.”

“No, wait!”

But Lockhart was done talking. “Depulso!”

There was nothing she could do. His Banishing Charm caught her around the waist, yanking her back as if on a bungee cord—she was flying through the air, a scream escaping her lips—and then she was over the edge of the cliff, plummeting downwards towards the rocky shore of the lake. Her mind was frozen in horror, in disbelief, the drumbeat of nonononono echoing through her thoughts; it was a nightmare, she would wake up any moment—the ground hurtled towards her; she held out her arms, cringing back, the long scream still tearing from her throat, but the rocks stubbornly refused to move—

She slammed into the ground with the crunch of bone and the tearing of flesh. Her arms snapped like twigs, the unbelievable pain barely registering before her head struck with a crack, the force of it blinding—there was only pain, white hot, splitting her entire being, consuming every thought, every feeling. Time had stopped, a single moment of agony stretching out for an eternity.

Yet she endured. The escape of death did not come; the torment continued, and through the fog of pain, awareness returned. It came back slowly, like waking from a long, deep sleep, half-formed thoughts briefly surfacing above the pain before dissolving once more.

Alive… how?... can’t move…

With thought came the world. Water was lapping at her broken body, coming and going with the sound of waves breaking on the shore. It took an almost herculean effort to open her eyes and take in her surroundings.

She was spread out across a series of uneven, jagged rocks. Above her was the tall cliff, and above that the full moon. The water which pooled around her was dark with blood, each fresh wave bringing clear water to be stained anew, and her wand bobbed in the water next to her, by some miracle unbroken.

It felt like every bone in her body was shattered, but she was alive. Never had she been more grateful for her magic; the Draught of Sparta had fortified her, granting her the resilience to survive the fall. She was going to be okay. Lockhart thought she was dead; he wouldn’t be coming for her. All she had to do was wait, and eventually someone would find her…

A girl’s screams rang out from high above. Her thoughts still sluggish, it took a while for the sounds to register in Victoria’s mind, and longer still for her to deduce their origin.

Susan…

Waiting wasn’t an option. Susan needed her help.

Her arm rose, trembling from the effort of it, and fresh pain shot through her wrist as bone ground against bone. It was too much—her arm flopped back down to the ground, her strength spent.

She couldn’t do it. It hurt too much. She was too weak.

Unbidden, an image came to her mind: the vision she saw in the Mirror of Erised, of herself as a powerful witch. Dumbledore had told her to cast that dream aside, but even now that image called to her. Would the witch in the mirror have waited for rescue while her friend was in danger?

Gritting her teeth, pushing through the pain, she practically threw her arm across her body. Her hand landed on her wand, her fingers shaking as they closed around its handle. The feel of the familiar wood warmed her, and her fingers stopped trembling as they came to rest in the smooth groves left in the wood by many hours of use.

Another scream echoed through the night, longer and more terrible than the last.

Victoria looked up at the clifftop, hesitating. Lockhart was up there, and the spider. What could she do, really, to help Susan? Hadn’t she already tried her best? No one would blame her if she were to give up now. Even if she somehow managed to scale the cliff, Lockhart would kill her for sure, and Susan would be in exactly the same situation.

A third scream came, before it was abruptly silenced.

Guilt filled Victoria. With a chest-heaving sob, she remembered her bedroom door at Susan’s house, bearing her name on a plaque and carved with cats and snakes. Susan had done that, just for her. They were best friends—Victoria’s only true friend. How could she leave her to Lockhart now? How could she ever look Mr Bones in the face if she did?

But she was afraid. She didn’t want to die.

Bravery is fundamental.

That was what Dumbledore had said, but Victoria wasn’t brave. Confrontation had never been her strong suit. It was so much easier to just keep everyone happy, to bend with the wind rather than stand against it. That was how she’d grown up. She wasn’t like Dumbledore, or Tom; she simply lacked their strength of will.

Yet Dumbledore had said more.

Bravery is the purest expression of will; the decision to disregard risk and pain in the relentless pursuit of a goal.

Understanding came to her, the lesson she had been learning all year finally hitting home. Actions mattered. Willpower wasn’t something you possessed, reserved for the special few who had been blessed with it. Willpower was something you did. Anyone could have it; all they needed to do was make the decision. Just like she’d made the decision to cry steel tears.

Victoria decided to rescue Susan.

Her grip on her wand tightened. She knew what she had to do.

“LOCOMOTOR ROCK!”

Finally, the goshawk answered. The spell exploded out from Victoria with a high, piercing cry that split the night, the sheer force of her magic shaking the shore, filling the air with the smell of ozone. The ground rumbled, and then she began to rise into the air, her broken body resting on a platform of floating rock. As she rose up the cliff, the spell tore at its rocky face, ripping out huge boulders which orbited her like planets around a star.

She crested the cliff’s edge to find Lockhart standing with his wand to Susan’s temple, the acromantula standing guard beside him.

“Leave her alone!” Victoria cried.

He spun to face her, his face shocked. “How on earth did you survive?” He shook his head. “You really are very annoying, did you know that? Now I’ll have to modify Susan’s memories all over again.”

Anger filled Victoria at his admission. How dare he mess around with Susan’s mind? How dare he stand there, casual as you please, not even showing a hint of regret?

She screamed with rage, thrusting her wand forwards; the floating boulders shot at Lockhart like cannonballs.

His wand snapped upwards. “Impervius!”

The giant rocks swerved just as they were about to hit him. One landed in the trees with the crash of splintering wood; another flew back off the cliff, plummeting down to the shore below; but the third swung to the left—right at the acromantula. It landed with an almighty crunch, squashing the spider beneath its enormous weight, and bits of viscera and chitin flew out in all directions from the force of the impact.

Lockhart gaped at the dead acromantula, stunned by its sudden demise, before turning back to Victoria. His face was hard; there was nothing casual about him now.

“An impressive spell,” he said, his voice bitter. “But at the end of the day, big rocks are still just rocks. Finite!”

Abruptly, the floating platform fell onto the cliff top, dumping Victoria unceremoniously on the ground. Her body rolled like a ragdoll, each movement sending fresh waves of dizzying pain through her brain, and her vision whited out. It was all she could do to hold on to consciousness.

Lockhart loomed above her. “Time for your curtain call, Miss Potter.”

She croaked in protest, lacking the strength to fight. He raised his wand.

Crack!

A woman appeared on the clifftop. She was a middle-aged witch with a square jaw, dressed in dark work robes and wearing a monocle over one eye. In one hand she carried her wand, in the other a brass bell.

“Lockhart?” the woman asked, frowning when she saw him. “Where’s the Dark—”

She cut off as her eyes landed on Victoria and Susan. Her jaw set.

“Step away from my niece, Lockhart.”

It took less than a second for Victoria to realise who the woman was: Amelia Bones, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and one of the most powerful witches in the country.

Susan’s aunt had come to save them.

Lockhart was backing away from the girls. “Now, Amelia, this isn’t what it looks like. We were just… yes, just engaging in a bit of advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

“He’s... lying,” Victoria said, her voice feeble. Dismay filled Lockhart’s face. “He... tried… kill us.”

Lockhart chuckled nervously. “So dramatic! Now, I dare say I gave the girls a bit of a fright… but it’s all under control, I assure you.”

Amelia Bones looked pointedly at Victoria. She must have been quite the sight, covered in blood and bruises, with bones sticking out of her skin in multiple places.

“Ah, yes. A most unfortunate accident,” Lockhart said. “I was just about to fetch a healer, in fact. Why don’t we take this to the Ministry, to discuss it with the Minister… your niece can corroborate my story, I’m sure.”

But Amelia did not look persuaded in the slightest. “No need to take this to the Ministry, Lockhart,” she said. “The Ministry is coming to me.”

Victoria’s skin prickled, her hair rising on end as the air filled with magic. The distinctive whip-like crack of apparition rang out—once, twice, thrice, each one coming from a different direction—and then there were too many to count, cracks echoing repeatedly throughout the forest like a fireworks display. There had to be hundreds of them, every one a qualified, adult wizard, the sounds of their arrival merging together into a roar which spread out across the slope, unrolling like thunder.

The Ministry had arrived.

Two figures appeared behind Amelia, the pair of them tall and stern faced. Victoria recognised one of them as Rufus Scrimgeour, the Ministry’s Head Auror, with his mane of tawny hair and piercing yellow eyes.

“The Minister is secure, Ma’am,” Scrimgeour said. “Has the Dark Lord been sighted?”

“A false alarm, I suspect,” Amelia said, not taking her eyes off Lockhart’s rapidly paling face. “But a fortuitous one. Rufus, take this man to Azkaban. I think we’ve found our dark wizard.”

A predatory look crossed Scrimgeour’s face. “Lockhart, is it? How the mighty have fallen indeed. Well, come along now.”

He clicked his fingers, not even bothering with a wand—in a flash, Lockhart was trussed up in ropes, levitating and gagged, his wand flying through the air into Scrimgeour’s waiting hand. A moment later they disappeared with a crack.

Amelia strode across to where Susan was still kneeling. Her eyes were still glazed over in a trance. “Auror Thames, see to Potter. I’m taking Susan to St Mungo’s.”

The other Auror approached Victoria. He was a grizzled man, with long, dark hair and a bandolier of potions across the front of his robes.

“Well, shit,” he said, looking her up and down. “That’s a respectable scrape you got yourself in.”

Victoria just groaned in response. Auror Thames laughed.

“Ah, you’ll be fine. I’ve seen worse at Quidditch games. Still, this’ll go a lot easier if you’re unconscious.”

She didn’t even object. Red light flashed, and darkness greeted her.

Chapter Text

When Victoria woke, it was to sunlight and the scent of lavender. She was in the hospital wing once again, the sight of its tall windows, stone floor, and crisp white sheets all too familiar. The wireless was playing in Madam Pomfrey’s office, interrupted now and then by the sound of a pestle and mortar, but the only other sign of life was a ball of black fur curled up at the end of her bed.

“Hey, Dumbledore,” she murmured, sitting up so that she could pull him onto her lap and stroke him. He looked up at her sleepily but otherwise did not object to being manhandled. He was warm and soft, his slow, rhythmic breathing helping to settle Victoria as her memories caught up with her.

She had almost died. When Lockhart had banished her off the cliff, she’d been sure it was the end. The memory of that fall loomed in her mind as if she had experienced it in slow motion, the jagged rocks of the lake’s shore getting closer and closer as she had realised with terrifying certainty that she was about to die.

She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, trying to banish the image from her mind. She hadn’t died; her magic had protected her. Her injuries were gone, as was the pain. Everything was all right.

Except… where was Susan? Shouldn’t she have been in the hospital wing too?

“Madam Pomfrey!” Victoria called. “I’m awake!”

The matron emerged from her office a moment later.

“Well, you certainly sound better,” she said, coming over to rest her hand against Victoria’s forehead. “No infection, it seems. That’s good. I’ll be able to discharge you today.”

“Where’s Susan?” Victoria asked, trying to stay still as Madam Pomfrey lifted the sheets and poked at her toes with her wand. “Did you let her go already?”

Madam Pomfrey sighed. “She’s still at St Mungo’s, I’m afraid. The poor girl… broken bones I can handle just fine, but Memory Charms are another matter.”

“But… she’ll be okay, right? Isn’t there a counter-charm?”

The fact that Madam Pomfrey did not answer immediately was concerning.

“Memory Charms can be reversed,” she said at last, speaking carefully. “But it’s no simple thing, even at the best of times. And then there’s the dark magic…”

Victoria frowned. “Dark magic?”

Madam Pomfrey now looked very uncomfortable, avoiding Victoria’s gaze. “Perhaps it’s best for Professor Dumbledore to explain. He’s on his way now.”

She performed a few more checks, having Victoria shrug her shoulders, wiggle her fingers, and hold her breath, before declaring her fit as a fiddle. It was then that Dumbledore arrived, dressed in colourful robes as usual, the oak door to the hospital wing creaking loudly to announce his entrance.

“Thank you, Poppy,” he said, his expression grave. “We shall call you if the need arises.”

It was an unusually curt dismissal from Dumbledore, but the message was clear.

Madam Pomfrey inclined her head. “As you say, Headmaster.” She disappeared back into her office, closing the door behind her and leaving Victoria alone with Professor Dumbledore.

He approached her bed and, with a single flick of his wand, conjured a straight-backed, upholstered chair. Victoria couldn’t help but admire the flowery detail in the upholstery as Dumbledore took a seat, observing her in silence. She was suddenly rather self-conscious, aware that she hadn’t fixed her hair or even splashed her face with water. She must have looked awful, but she had other priorities right now.

“Professor?” she said, breaking the silence. “Is Susan all right?”

Dumbledore sighed. “There is no easy answer to that question, I’m afraid. Rest assured that she is in no immediate danger. Her longer-term prospects are less certain, however. Memory Charms are notoriously tricky things.”

“But she’s at St. Mungo’s, right?” Victoria asked. “Can’t the healers do something for her?”

“Not in the way you are thinking. There is no spell or potion to simply unblock obliviated memories,” Dumbledore said. “Alas, even to wizards, the mind retains many mysteries. I cannot promise that she will ever fully recover her recollection of last night’s events.”

Victoria hesitated. “Perhaps it’s better that way. It might be better to forget…”

Even as she spoke, she knew it wasn’t true. After all, she had finally cast a proper Locomotion Charm, and she wouldn’t want to forget that.

“If only it were so simple,” Dumbledore said. “Gilderoy did not only erase memories. He was trying to replace Susan’s true memories, but the job was only half-done when he was interrupted by Madam Bones. The result is that Susan now possesses two sets of contradictory memories, each set incomplete… naturally, she is very distressed.”

“Isn’t there anything the healers can do?” Victoria asked.

Dumbledore nodded slowly. “There is a therapy. Success is not guaranteed, however. Much will depend on Susan herself—it is, after all, her mind. The healers can guide her, but ultimately she must recover her own memories. And I warn you, it will take time, if it is to work at all.”

“She’ll do it,” Victoria said, convinced. Susan could be very determined when she wanted. But Dumbledore’s smile was tight, forced, as if he didn’t believe it. She remembered what Madam Pomfrey had said. “You’re not telling me something. Something about dark magic.”

Dumbledore raised a bushy eyebrow before glancing at the closed door to Madam Pomfrey’s office. “Ah. Yes, it is true that some dark magic is at play. However, the healers have been forced to guess as to its nature. While the Ministry has been able to piece together some of yesterday’s events, other details remain elusive. For obvious reasons, Susan has been unable to give testimony, and Gilderoy’s story cannot be trusted. You remain the only reliable witness, which is why I have interrupted your recovery so soon. I would hear your version of events.”

So Victoria told him everything. She spoke of her suspicions of Hagrid, having discovered that he had been expelled for harbouring a dangerous creature, of how Susan had wanted to investigate the teachers’ tents for clues, and how Lockhart had caught them in the act. She described how he had taken them down into his fake Chamber of Secrets and confessed his entire plan before setting the acromantula on them. Her voice almost failed her as she related their escape, her description faltering several times as she relived the horror of the acromantula.

Dumbledore stayed silent, listening patiently, until she came to describe Susan’s attempts to curse the giant spider. “This is key. Can you remember the spells she cast? Not just their names, but their effects.”

Victoria thought hard. “I was kinda distracted. But… there was a Jelly-Legs Jinx, I think? And the Dancing Hex?”

“Which were no doubt unsuccessful,” Dumbledore said. “She tried something else, didn’t she? Something more powerful?”

Victoria swallowed nervously and nodded. The incantation was lodged in her memories like a wound; she doubted anyone who heard those words would ever forget them. “It’s not a spell I know. But the incantation…” She glanced around, as if she were discussing something very private, and lowered her voice. “Avada Kedavra.”

The light in the room dimmed with her words, like the sun had passed behind a cloud, but a moment later the gloom dissipated.

Dumbledore’s face was grave indeed. “And what happened next?”

“There was… green light. A rushing sound. The acromantula was hurt, but so was Susan. She was bleeding from her eyes and ears.”

Dumbledore did not respond immediately. He was lost in thought, stroking his beard idly as his eyes focused elsewhere. “This explains much.”

“What spell was it?” Victoria asked. “Susan said she overheard her Aunt talking about it.”

Dumbledore’s eyes focused back on Victoria. “Normally I would not tell you. But in the circumstances… well. It cannot be helped. The curse Susan uttered is considered by many the most powerful spell in existence; a curse so dangerous that its incantation is obscured in most books. It is dark magic of the most serious kind—the Killing Curse.”

Victoria frowned. “If it was the Killing Curse, then why didn’t the acromantula die?”

“Forgive me; I misspoke,” Dumbledore said. “I should have said that it was an attempted Killing Curse. You see, the Killing Curse must be powerfully cast to succeed, requiring more strength than most wizards are able to muster, and certainly more than any second year can lay claim to. Against a fearsome dark creature like an acromantula, the curse will have even lower chances of success. Very few adult wizards could achieve such a feat. I am not surprised that the spell failed when Susan attempted it.”

“So... what’s the problem?” Victoria asked. “I don’t get what any of this has to do with Lockhart’s Memory Charm.”

Dumbledore peered at her over his half-moon spectacles. It was a familiar sight from their dinners, the look he gave her when he expected her to figure something out for herself. “You have studied the features of dark magic, have you not?”

“Of course,” Victoria said, turning her mind to the problem as if it were a piece of homework. She recited the rhyme drilled into them by Professor Quirrell back in first year:

“Know you the dark by faces five,

Beneath their gaze shall danger thrive,  

The first in shadow, hidden from sight,

The second grotesque, twisted with spite,

The third most fair, lips dripping with lies,

The fourth a traitor, betraying the wise,

The last, their leader, defiance his delight,

With eyes of wrath and unchained might.”

They had spent a month of Defence classes going through each line of that poem, learning all about the hallmarks of dark magic—one of which was the ability to resist reversal. Was Dumbledore suggesting that some dark magic was resisting the restoration of Susan’s memories?

“Is that even possible?” Victoria wondered, thinking aloud. “Dark magic from one spell leaching into another?”

Even though she had not explained herself, Dumbledore clearly had no problem following her thought process. “I would not think of them simply as spells,” he said, his voice encouraging. “Do you recall our discussion concerning willpower?”

Realisation dawned. “Actions matter,” Victoria said. “When Susan cast that spell, her magic… changed, somehow?”

“Our magic is always changing,” Dumbledore said. “Your every word, deed, and even your most private thoughts and feelings… they all shape who you are as a person. That, in turn, shapes your magic, the character of which is nothing less than an expression of your entire self. Of course, most changes are gradual, only becoming noticeable after years of making decisions which are each, on their own, entirely inconsequential. But some actions—some spells—are not so inconsequential.”

“So Susan cast the most powerful curse there is,” Victoria said. “Or tried to, at least. And that, what, made her a dark witch? Is that what you’re saying?”

Dumbledore shook his head. “Nothing so crude. It is true that casting a powerful dark curse will have left a mark on Susan’s magic, but that does not concern me. Such traces do not last—not unless they are reinforced by later action. No, the issue here is the backlash of dark magic which occurred when then spell failed. It is a miracle that Susan was not killed by it.”

“The backlash infected Susan’s magic somehow?” Victoria asked. Dumbledore nodded, gesturing for her to continue. “And once she was infected with dark magic… well, dark magic like that would have been trying to harm Susan. Then when Lockhart cast that Memory Charm, the dark magic will have… reinforced it?”

“That is now my thinking,” Dumbledore said. “We shall make a healer of you yet, my dear. Yes, the lingering backlash of the Killing Curse appears to have twisted Gilderoy’s Memory Charm and transformed it into a Memory Hex. This will make Susan’s challenge all the greater. Yet… there is always hope. Hexes may be broken. Recovery remains possible, if Susan takes well to the healers’ lessons.”

He did not sound too optimistic, Victoria thought glumly. Hopefully the effect on Susan would pass, even if she couldn’t break the hex. It was just one night of memories, after all… it wasn’t like her entire personality had been changed.

Dumbledore drew himself up and checked his pocket watch. “We have been steered off topic,” he said. “Not unreasonably, I might add. But I believe you were about to tell me how you escaped Gilderoy’s chamber.”

She finished the story with few interruptions. Dumbledore’s eyes gleamed with undisguised interest as she described the magical portal she had opened from the cavern into the outside world, perhaps going into further detail than was strictly necessary as she explained the thinking behind her transfiguration and charm work.

“Extraordinary,” he murmured. “Professors Flitwick and McGonagall would be proud. But please, go on.”

Next came the events of the clifftop. She rushed through this part with minimal detail, not wishing to linger on her fall, but here Dumbledore demanded further clarification.

“You say you floated back to the top of the cliff,” he said, leaning forwards eagerly. It was as if this was the part he had been waiting for. “Tell me, what spell did you use?”

“The Locomotion Charm,” Victoria said. Dumbledore raised a single eyebrow, the closest she had ever seen him come to expressing surprise. “I cast it on the rock, and the rock lifted me up.”

“I see. And you have not changed your totem, since last we spoke?”

Victoria frowned. Why would he think that? “No, it’s still the goshawk.”

“Then congratulations are in order,” he said, smiling at her. “It is a powerful totem to master. Professor Flitwick will be thrilled. And I imagine the spell had a rather spectacular effect?”

“Well, yes,” she said, ducking her head, though she didn’t know why she was suddenly bashful. Perhaps it was the futility of boasting of magical achievement to a man like Dumbledore, whose own achievements were so much greater. “Though that didn’t stop Lockhart from countering it easily. He cancelled the spell with the Basic Counter-Charm.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said. “This is one of the most curious features of magic… the surprising weakness of power. Any spell may be cast powerfully, of course, but some spells take to it better than others. The Locomotion Charm is not inclined towards shows of strength… the further you push it, the more brittle it will become, rendering it vulnerable to a counter. And of course, let us not forget that for all his faults, Gilderoy is still an adult wizard.”

Victoria nodded. Madam Pomfrey had told them about this, during one of her embarrassing talks on puberty. Victoria’s magic would not begin to take on adult qualities until she turned thirteen, and until then it would be difficult for her spells to carry a strong binding effect.

“And so Gilderoy cancelled your spell,” Dumbledore said, returning to the story. “This was when help arrived, I take it?”

“Yeah. Lockhart was about to curse me, but Madam Bones apparated in and interrupted him. I’ve no idea how she knew to come, though… was it Susan’s curse, do you think?”

Dumbledore smiled. “We would be living in a rather different world, I suspect, if the Ministry were able to track dark magic with such precision. But this is where your story ends and mine begins.”

He cradled his fingers, as he often did when telling a story, and took a moment to collect his thoughts.

“Last night, as is usually the case, Madam Bones was working late in her office. You have never visited the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, I take it?”

Victoria shook her head.

“It is a large office, but mostly empty at night. Madam Bones, however, has a reputation for remaining there until the small hours,” Dumbledore explained. “There would have been few others there at nine o’clock in the evening. The Head Auror, perhaps, and a few other officers on night duty. So there Madam Bones was, working alone in her office, the lights low and nary a sound to be heard… and that was when the bell started to ring.”

“A bell?” Victoria asked. “What bell?”

“A bell which has not sounded for twelve years. A bell which hangs just outside Madam Bones’ office, right at the centre of the Department. A bell which your parents were instrumental in creating, and which cost several lives to forge. You see, it is enchanted to ring every time Lord Voldemort casts magic in the open.”

Victoria frowned. So that was why Scrimgeour had asked about the Dark Lord. But that made no sense—Lord Voldemort was dead, wasn’t he?

“It is fortunate indeed that Madam Bones was there to hear it,” Dumbledore continued. “A lesser official might have hesitated, or assumed it a malfunction. But not Amelia Bones. The moment she heard that bell ringing, she summoned the Ministry’s Aurors and had them secure the Minister. Then she used her Floo to contact every Law Enforcement officer across the country, appearing in hundreds of fireplaces all at once. Pressed for time, her message was simple: ‘The bell tolls. All wands to me.’”

A chill went down Victoria’s spine. She could still hear the echo of hundreds of wizards apparating across the forest, descending upon the camp grounds as if to face an army. But it wasn’t an army they had expected to encounter there… it had been Lord Voldemort himself.

“Message delivered, Amelia Bones then used the bell to apparate to Lord Voldemort’s location,” Dumbledore said. “And there, of course, no Dark Lord was to be found. The bell had led her to you.”

Implication hung from his words, but Victoria couldn’t see the conclusion he wanted her to draw.  “What are you saying?” she asked. “It sounds like the bell’s broken to me.”

“I think not,” Dumbledore said. “It is clear to me now, having heard your story, that it was your Locomotion Charm which set off the bell.”

“But… I’m not the Dark Lord.”

“No,” Dumbledore said. “Yet just as Susan’s curse left a mark on her, it seems that Lord Voldemort has left his mark on you. There is a certain… similarity to your magic. It is not so close that your every spell sends the Ministry into disarray, but when you cast certain powerful magic—that, it seems, is close enough.”

 Victoria’s hand drifted to her forehead, her finger tracing the skin above her right eye. “He left his mark…”

And just like that, the lightning-bolt scar was back as if she had never transfigured it away. Of all the transformations she had undergone, the scar alone resisted the change, always lurking beneath the surface, waiting to reappear.

Dumbledore’s eyes were fixed to the scar, but he didn’t look shocked by its appearance. For some reason, Victoria was not surprised that he already knew of her metamorphmagus abilities.

“I did wonder what had happened to that,” he mused, his hand reaching out to tease the air in front of her face, as if there were something there that he could feel. “Yes, the mark he left is more than a physical scar. I do not pretend to understand it, but somehow you have been imbued with a part of Voldemort’s powers.”

Victoria didn’t like the sound of that. It made it sound like her powers were not her own, as if her abilities had been given to her by Voldemort. She clenched her jaw and transformed the scar, smooth skin concealing it once more. She refused to believe it. She had worked hard for her magic; Voldemort couldn’t take the credit for it.

“What will happen to Lockhart?” she asked, eager to change the topic.

Dumbledore seemed to sense her mood and didn’t push the issue. “He is in Azkaban, awaiting trial. Given that he was caught with his wand out, conviction seems likely. Regardless, his reputation is ruined. I doubt he will be selling many more books.”

He withdrew a copy of the Daily Prophet from thin air and passed it to Victoria, who held it up to get a look at the headline. As usual, they had opted for some word play:

DINING WITH DEMENTORS

LOCKHART LOCKED UP

“The Ministry has also arrested Mr Obsequious Obscurus, Gilderoy’s publisher,” Dumbledore explained as Victoria skimmed the article. Her name came up a few times, but Susan was barely mentioned.

She looked up. “Lockhart mentioned him. Said he had helped with everything… all to sell books.” She snorted. “Well, that definitely backfired.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “Just so. And yet… I sense a greater plot. This was not merely about selling books. I do not think it a coincidence that Gilderoy was forced upon me by the Governors. Someone with influence wanted him at Hogwarts—influence which Mr Obscurus lacks.”

Victoria lowered the paper. “But why would anyone want all this—” she gestured vaguely in the air “—to happen? It all seems so pointless.”

“Perhaps you are familiar with the Muggle Protection Act?” Dumbledore asked. Victoria nodded: it was the reason she’d almost missed the Hogwarts Express after Christmas. “Do you recall which individual was responsible for introducing it?”

She shrugged. No doubt Draco could have answered, but that wasn’t the kind of thing she was interested in. “Arthur Weasley?”

“A good guess, but incorrect,” Dumbledore said. “Arthur was indeed responsible for implementing many of the Act’s provisions, but it was originally introduced by Emmeline Vance, the Head Obliviator.”

Emmeline Vance… that name was definitely familiar.

“But she was at your birthday party!” Victoria said, the memory coming back to her.

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said. “Emmeline is a good friend, and often comes to me for advice.”

Victoria’s eyes narrowed. She may not have Draco’s knowledge of politics, but even she could figure out what Dumbledore was getting at. “You’re saying it was your idea. You came up with the Muggle Protection Act.”

“I would not be so bold as to take the credit,” Dumbledore said. “It has been many years since I was actively involved in politics, beyond my reluctant involvement in the Confederation. But… yes, there are certain individuals who frequently come to me for advice, and it is not a secret who those people are. I dare say they often trade on that fact to lend greater weight to their proposals.”

Victoria snorted. “So it was your idea, you just want someone else’s name on it.”

“Ah. You make the mistake of assuming my modesty is false,” Dumbledore said. “In truth the Muggle Protection Act had many supporters, and some of them have been my fiercest critics in the past. The cause of protecting Muggles by restricting trade in Muggle goods has brought together a rather unusual alliance, it must be said. However, I will admit that many prominent individuals consider the Act a product of my interference. I have no doubt that they have been seeking a means to exact revenge upon me.”

Victoria’s mind drifted back to the conversation she had overheard between Lucius Malfoy and Squat. Hadn’t they mentioned something about a scandal to discredit Dumbledore? Could this be it? But surely Lucius would not go so far as to involve himself with Lockhart’s scheme… not at the very same school his own son attended.

“No…”

Dumbledore’s gaze was piercing. “You are better aware than most, I think, that I have many political opponents. Some of them are your friends.”

Victoria licked her lips. She would have to be very careful. “You’re talking about the Malfoys.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said simply. “This plot has Lucius’ fingerprints all over it. He is a member of the Board of Governors, and argued strongly in favour of Gilderoy’s appointment. Furthermore, he is frequently seen associating with Mr Obscurus, with whom he has a long-standing friendship; I believe he would have been in attendance at your Yule ball.”

Victoria hesitated. “Mr Malfoy is friends with lots of people.”

“Indeed he is,” Dumbledore said. “And yet it is strange, is it not, that so many of them turn out to be bad eggs?”

“Not so much a coincidence,” Victoria said quietly. She couldn’t meet his eyes. “You were right. Mr Malfoy was a Death Eater.”

Dumbledore sighed. “I am glad to hear you recognise the fact. But unfortunately, this revelation is not news to me. The Malfoys have long been associated with the darker elements of our society.”

Victoria looked up sharply. “Well, hang on. I said Mr Malfoy. There’s nothing wrong with Narcissa or Draco!” Suddenly she felt rather insulted on behalf of her friends. “Besides, it’s not like you’re so different, is it? I’ve heard the talk in the common room—you’re friends with werewolves, aren’t you? And you keep Hagrid around, even though he was expelled for setting a beast on a girl.”

She regretted her words almost immediately. Not because they weren’t true, but because of the way Dumbledore looked at her with such profound disappointment.

“It is regrettable that you set such store in the gossip and prejudices of your peers,” he said quietly. It was worse than shouting. “Werewolves are among the most maligned and ill-treated members of our society; it is beneath your intelligence to regard them so poorly. As for Hagrid, he is a fine man, and a gentle soul. You have seen this for yourself, I think. It is a matter of public record that he was expelled for rearing a creature within the school, but it was not his beast which killed poor Miss Warren.”

She was surprised at how gut-wrenching his criticism felt; the thought of letting Dumbledore down was enough to make her stomach flip and her lip wobble. But beneath the simmering shame, defiance raged. Hadn’t she resolved, on the shore of the lake, to stop just going along with other people’s expectations?

What Dumbledore didn’t know was that she had seen the memory of Hagrid’s capture. Maybe Hagrid wasn’t the Heir of Slytherin, but he had raised a very real monster within the school. An acromantula was no small thing to simply wave away; in Victoria’s opinion, bringing one into a school was, on its own, reason enough for expulsion.

Not for the first time, she felt anger at Dumbledore’s unreasonable expectations. In front of the Mirror of Erised, he had warned her away from seeking the power to defend herself from trolls. During their dinners, he had encouraged her to switch to a less powerful totem instead of pursuing the goshawk. Why did he constantly try to stop her from following the very same path that he had followed?

Regardless, she knew now that Dumbledore wasn’t always right. If only she had been more powerful, Lockhart would never have posed a threat to her. He’d been wrong about the goshawk, too—she had mastered it, against his advice and warnings. And now he wanted her to agree with him about the Malfoys and Hagrid, simply on his word.

Well, she wouldn’t. Not that she needed to tell him that, of course.

“Maybe Mr Malfoy’s responsible, maybe he isn’t,” she said. “I’m not going to their Christmas party next year, if that’s what you’re worried about. But I’m not going to stop being friends with Draco.”

“And you are quite right in doing so,” Dumbledore said. “I would never ask such a thing of you. Friendship is to be treasured, not to be cast aside carelessly. The actions of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, whatever they may be, are no reflection upon their child. I merely ask that you keep an open mind and decide for yourself what to believe in. It does you no favours to simply accept everything that your friends tell you.”

Victoria smiled and nodded. He was really only asking her to do that which she had already resolved to do for herself. Of course, she doubted that Dumbledore had intended for her to apply her scepticism equally to his beliefs.

“I can do that,” she said.

Dumbledore mirrored her smile. “Good. I would hate for us to argue.” He reached inside his robes, took out a packet of Ice Mice and popped one into his mouth. “Now, unless you have any questions for me, I believe that concludes our business for today.”

Victoria shook her head.

“Very well,” Dumbledore said. “If you will excuse me, I must travel to St. Mungo’s to discuss your new information with Susan’s healers.”

Victoria was released from the hospital wing shortly thereafter, and returned to the school to find that classes had been cancelled for the day. For the second time that year, the castle was crawling with serious-looking figures in formal black robes, Ministry officials who were scouring every floor for evidence of Lockhart’s crimes. All students had been restricted to their common rooms while the search continued, and it was strangely unsettling to see the corridors so empty and quiet by the light of day.

She made her way down to the dungeons quickly. A hush fell as she entered the common room, the wall parting to reveal the room as busy as she had ever seen it. The older students had taken all the good seats for themselves, forcing the lower years to find whatever space they could, perched on armrests and sharing cushions. All of them were considering Victoria with curious stares.

“Potter!”

It was Joseph Deverill who had broken the silence, sitting as he usually did in the circle of chairs around the largest fireplace. He wasn’t the Head Prefect—that was Polly Holmwood, a seventh year—but he was popular enough that everyone treated him as if he were. He brandished a copy of the Daily Prophet, holding it up so everyone could see.

“This true?”

Victoria looked around, rather enjoying the way everyone was looking at her expectantly, waiting on her to speak. She tried not to let it show on her face, but she couldn’t keep down a small smile.

“More or less,” she said. Deverill looked almost disappointed, as if he was hoping for something more, and Victoria felt a sudden urge to keep his interest. Thinking that a bit of mystery would intrigue him, she added, “it’s what the Ministry’s willing to publish, at least.”

Everyone muttered at that remark, and she knew she had just launched a fresh round of speculation as everyone wondered what the Ministry wasn’t willing to share. They’d be begging her to share the details with them for weeks.

Joseph nodded. “I’d thought as much. Why don’t you come over and sit with us?” He gestured to those around him, the most popular students in the house. “We’d like to hear the full story.”

It was a tempting offer. She could easily imagine how jealous Pansy would be, if Victoria were to spend the day with the upper years eating out of her hand, but she wasn’t sure that she actually wanted to share the full story with anyone. It had been bad enough going through the whole thing with Dumbledore. And besides, she could hardly expect their interest to last if she told them everything now. Far better to leave them wanting more.

“That’s top secret, I’m afraid,” she said, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “After all, you know how sensitive the Ministry gets when Killing Curses are involved.”

Gasps met her declaration, quickly followed by calls from every corner of the room for her to share more, but she was already moving. Ignoring everyone, she made her way to the second years’ couches where her friends were gathered in their usual positions: Pansy at the centre of one couch, Daphne and Tracey either side of her, and Draco sitting opposite with the rest of the boys squashed together wherever they could get a seat. A copy of the Daily Prophet was spread out on the coffee table, and Victoria’s face was fluttering her eyelashes on page three—the same photo that had been used when she’d been poisoned.

Pansy crossed her arms as Victoria took a seat on her favourite cushion. “I see you’ve managed to worm your way into the papers again.”

It was so typically Pansy that her first thought was not to enquire after Victoria’s health, but rather to comment on the attention she’d garnered. In the past Victoria would have played it down, denying any intention to outshine Pansy, but that approach hadn’t seemed to diffuse her constant antagonism. Perhaps a different approach was called for.

She made a show of examining the article in the paper. “Jealous, Pansy?”

Daphne laughed. “Of course she is,” she said, drawing a sharp look from Pansy. She returned the look with a smirk. “It’s a good thing green suits her.”

“I’m not jealous,” Pansy said. She leaned forward and flicked the paper to the next page, banishing Victoria’s face. “I just don’t see why Vicky’s getting so much attention for all this. It’s not like she caught Lockhart, is it? The Ministry did.”

Draco shook his head at Pansy. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? The paper’s always going to mention Victoria if she’s involved. She’s the Girl Who Lived.”

“But what actually happened?” Tracey asked. “One moment you were with us, heading to Terry’s camp. Then you were gone, and Susan too. We figured you’d just gone off to some other party, but… I guess not. The next thing we knew, the Ministry was arriving.”

“Bloody loudly, at that,” Blaise grumbled from next to Draco. “Turpin got wine all over me, she jumped so hard. Ruined a perfectly good set of robes.”

“You’ll survive,” Draco said dryly. “Though… it was a bit of an overreaction, don’t you think? Bones is going to face the music, I reckon. Look.” He pushed the Daily Prophet to the side, revealing a copy of the Hogsmeade Herald underneath. ‘PANIC AT THE MINISTRY’, the headline read. “Fudge isn’t going to like that—not with a vote next year.”

Victoria bit her lip. It hadn’t occurred to her that Susan’s aunt might get in trouble for coming to her rescue. “What else could she have done, though? She thought the Dark Lord was back.”

“And if he was, then everyone would be calling her a hero,” Draco said with a shrug. “But he wasn’t, so she isn’t. No way Fudge will keep her on, next year.”

“Well, I think she was heroic,” Victoria declared. “She still saved me and Susan from Lockhart, even if there wasn’t any Dark Lord.”

“I just can’t believe Lockhart’s a fraud,” Tracey said. “That play was so real—we all saw it. But I guess you can’t trust memories.”

“There’s a reason they’re not used in court,” Pansy said. “I always said that play was nothing special. Didn’t I say that, Daphne?”

Daphne rolled her eyes. “If you say so.”

“I did,” Pansy said firmly. “And now he’s off to Azkaban. Good riddance, I say. If he really did cast an Unforgivable, then he’s going there for life.”

Victoria frowned. “An Unforgivable?”

“The Killing Curse,” Daphne explained. “That’s what you said, wasn’t it?”

“Uh… yes.” Victoria cursed her carelessness. Of course they’d assume Lockhart had been the one to cast the curse, and to correct them now would force her to share that it was actually Susan. It didn’t take a genius to guess that Susan wouldn’t want that kind of thing spread around, and Victoria had just deliberately started a rumour about it. She just hoped Susan never found out. “I can’t really say any more. Sworn to secrecy, you know.”

A chorus of boos met her declaration, but it was too convenient an excuse to abandon. At first the others took it as a kind of challenge—that if they wheedled her enough, she would give in and tell them everything—but the longer she refused to speak, the more they seemed to realise she was serious about keeping her lips sealed.

“Fine,” Pansy said at last. “Be that way. It’ll all come out at the trial anyway, so I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn. Come on, Daphne—you promised to help me with my Potions homework.”

Chapter Text

Classes resumed the next day with remarkable normality. It felt rather strange to simply go back to day-to-day school life, given everything that had happened, but the Hogwarts routine would not be derailed by so minor a matter as a teacher attempting to murder a student. Before long, all talk of Lockhart and the Ministry was displaced by the complexities of substance charms and a long essay for Professor Snape on the importance of the spring equinox.

There was one area in which the spectre of Lockhart could not be avoided, however. For the second year in a row, Victoria found herself without a Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor. Unlike her first year, however, when Professor Quirrell had disappeared so close to the end of term that Professor Dumbledore had simply cancelled the class, this time they still had two months of lessons to go before summer would arrive. Their classes were therefore covered by Madam Wigmore, one of the two Readers in the Defence department who had been studying under Professor Lockhart.

Defence under Madam Wigmore was a rather different affair to the class as it had been taught by Professor Lockhart. She was a young woman, probably not even forty-years-old, and not fond of practical demonstrations or exercises. Wandwork was always to be practised in their own time, with the class itself focusing on rather more mundane matters: taking dictations, answering questions from textbooks, and doing research in the library.

She was kind, at least, and much more approachable than the Professors. Perhaps it was her age, or her more junior position, but the class was much more willing to ask her questions—including those which verged on insolence.

“Will you apply for the headship next year, Ma’am?” asked Ernie Macmillan on a Wednesday morning, just as Madam Wigmore was handing out their homework.

Madam Wigmore sniffed. “I am not so foolish as that, I hope. Anyone with half a brain can see the position is jinxed. No, I believe I shall be happy to remain a Reader for the foreseeable future.”

Victoria frowned, but she didn’t need to ask the question; Tracey got there first. “But why would anyone take the position if it was jinxed?”

“I dare say that many have thought themselves capable of breaking the jinx,” Madam Wigmore said. “The Defence Master is, after all, supposed to be an expert in the Dark Arts. Or perhaps they have simply been drawn to the prestige of the position. I really couldn’t say. But after all these years, I doubt there are many left who seriously think they can break the spell.”

Daphne shared a worried look with Victoria. “If that’s what everyone thinks,” she whispered, “then who’s going to get the job next year?”

Victoria shrugged. “Whoever it is, they can’t be worse than Lockhart.”

Fortunately, her other classes were much more satisfactory than Defence, most especially Transfiguration. She was quickly taking to Total Transubstantiation—the transfiguration of complete objects, altering form and multiple substances all at once—and at the beginning of May she was the first student to successfully turn her rose into a bar of soap. Professor McGonagall awarded Victoria twenty points (an unusually generous amount) and kept her behind after class for a cup of tea and a single shortbread biscuit, over which they discussed the transfiguration she had used to escape Lockhart’s cave.

“I knew it was all about the detail,” Victoria explained at McGonagall’s prompting. “If I’d just cast the Opening Charm against the bare rock, nothing would have happened, no matter how powerful it was. The magic first needs something there to be opened. So I used transfiguration to provide it—a door so detailed that the Opening Charm just had to accept it.”

“A most elegant solution,” Professor McGonagall said, stirring a teaspoon of sugar into her tea. “I would not have thought of it. Normally the Parting Charm is used to create portals in and out of extended space, but that is sixth year material. It seems that your inability to use more advanced magic forced you to come up with an entirely new technique.”

Victoria took a sip of her tea. “I think it was the hinges that did it. After all, why would a fake door need hinges? A door only needs hinges if it’s to open somewhere. So that’s what it did.”

“You appear to have given this a fair amount of thought,” McGonagall said. “That’s good. I consider your spell to be sufficiently novel that publication is not out of the question. As you may know, the interaction between Transfiguration and Charms has been a very fashionable topic of debate these past few years. If you should write an article on the theory, I would be happy to review it and, if it is up to scratch, send it to Transfiguration Today with my recommendation.”

Excitement shot through Victoria at the idea, quickly followed by trepidation. Publication? When she was just a second year? It was almost unheard of… her article would have to be absolutely perfect.  “I’ll start writing tonight.”

Yet for all that the prospect of an article in Transfiguration Today filled Victoria with pride, it was in Charms where she had her greatest moment of triumph.

“Oh, again!” Professor Flitwick exclaimed, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as she used her wand to guide a cushion around the classroom, having it do loop-the-loops and barrel rolls for his entertainment.

The cushion flew by Sophie Roper’s head, ruffling her hair with its backdraught. She sent them an annoyed glare—the class was supposed to be answering a set of tricky questions on the ideal of diamond and its role in the Hardening Charm.

Professor Flitwick cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I dare say you’ve got the hang of it. I believe you know how to seal the spell?”

Victoria nodded and turned to where her goshawk totem sat on her desk, its white, waxy surface practically glowing under the May sun. “Here goes nothing. Locomotor Totem!”

The goshawk reared its head to regard the class with obvious disdain, its beady eyes sliding over everyone other than Victoria. Then, with an almighty flapping, it launched itself into the air and swept up into the rafters of the vaulted classroom.

“Now, Victoria!” Flitwick cried.

“Incendio!”

The goshawk exploded with light, blinding in its intensity, a white so pure it could almost burn. Someone screamed, but Victoria couldn’t see who it was—she could barely see anything, but by some miracle she could still make out the goshawk, diving towards her like a comet, and a moment later she felt its impact in the centre of her chest, rushing into her with a surge of energy.

The light went out; the classroom was suddenly dark, like it had become night, but splotches of flashing light were still making their way across her vision. Slowly her eyes adjusted and the classroom returned to its normal brightness, full of blinking students peering at each other as they tried to see again.

“Ah,” Professor Flitwick said. “Yes, I should have thought of that. Perhaps we should have done it outside… but no matter. All’s well that ends well, eh?”

The class simply groaned in response. Victoria ignored them—she was too focused on the feeling of the spell tingling just under her skin, bubbling in her stomach like a laugh eager to escape. The goshawk was a part of her now, and she wanted to soar.

She didn’t even need to speak the spell. She barely had to twitch her wand. She simply wanted and her magic responded, lifting a dozen desks into the air at once, their occupiers blinking at them dumbly as they hovered beyond reach. Then, with another twitch of her wand, the desks began to dance through the air, rotating and spinning as if they were doing the waltz, never once banging into each other, before coming back to land gently in front of their original owners.

“Oh, bravo!” Flickwick cried, and he began to clap enthusiastically. “Bravo indeed! Never, in all my years…” Victoria was embarrassed to see a tear working its way down his wrinkled, kindly face. “Fifty points to Slytherin!” he declared. “Fifty points for one of the finest Locomotion Charms this school has ever seen!”

It did not take long for the professors to start speaking of preparations for the end-of-year exams. By the middle of May, revision season was well and truly upon Hogwarts, where the days of the week were marked by the predictable breakdowns of the upper years. On Monday, Rebecca Hale had broken up with her fourth boyfriend of the year when he had sharpened his quill too loudly; on Wednesday, Mahendra Meryton had jinxed a group of first year girls who wouldn’t stop giggling; and on Friday, Marcus Flint (who was re-taking his OWLs) had smashed the wireless with a beater’s bat.

The second years did not have it as bad as the older students, but their teachers had nonetheless become harsh taskmasters in attempting to go back over an entire year’s worth of material in the space of a few weeks. In History, Professor Flamel had them testing each other on the key dates of the Wand Wood Wars; in Potions they poured over the Dictionary of Aromas, trying to dedicate as many to memory as possible; and in Herbology Madam Bloom demanded that they each demonstrate an adequate mastery of repotting techniques.

It was a matter of some contention among the second years that they still had to revise in Defence, even though they had already completed their exam in this subject. Victoria was one of the few not grumbling, however. As she had discovered during first year, she secretly rather enjoyed revision, revelling in the opportunity to discover new depths to the spells she had been learning all year.

This time, however, there was the added complication of trying to write the article for Transfiguration Today. She had worked hard on it, spending an entire weekend in the library looking up old copies of the journal just so she could get a feel for the expected style. Even with this preparation, her first draft of the article came back from Professor McGonagall covered in so much red ink that Victoria’s original was barely visible.

‘Shorten introduction’ stated one remark, with several lines crossed out. Her discussion of Secret Theory was heavily marked up, concluding with a comment in the margin which read, ‘Needs tightening up. See §7-03 Chatty on Charms 64th Ed.’. And the entire section introducing the elements of the Opening Charm had a big red line through it, accompanied by the comment, ‘Unnecessary. Readers know this already’.

For many, that much red ink would have been thoroughly dispiriting, perhaps enough to make them abandon the project altogether. Victoria, however, found that it only increased her determination. So she went back to the library and produced another draft. And another, and another, each one coming back from Professor McGonagall with slightly less red ink. Bit by bit, her article was taking shape.

She was so absorbed in her work that she almost forgot about the Susan-shaped hole in her life.

Almost.

She missed her at lunch, when they should have been gobbling down their food just so they could escape together to giggle their way around the lake. She missed her during Prep, where she hated seeing Susan’s empty seat at their favourite spot next to the racing seahorses. She missed her the most during the weekends, when they would have been smuggling food from the Great Hall to go and have picnics in the late spring sun.

Victoria regularly sought updates from the teachers, pestering Professor Sprout and Madam Pomfrey every couple of days, but they had no news to share. When Colin Creevey arrived back at the castle from his long stay at St Mungo’s, she rushed from the Library to the Entrance Hall to meet him, but he had returned to the school alone. He had become a blushing, stammering mess when she had accosted him with her questions, but it became clear soon enough that he had no knowledge of Susan’s condition.

The pain of Susan’s absence was almost like a kind of homesickness, yearning not for the comfort of a familiar place but the company of a person. It was an entirely new feeling for Victoria, who had always felt at home within Hogwarts, and she didn’t like it at all. The feeling reached a peak at the end of May, when Susan’s thirteenth birthday came and went without celebration. A witch’s thirteenth birthday was a special day, second only to her seventeenth, and there should have been a big party. Instead, Victoria spent the day hovering around the Entrance Hall, clutching a jewelry box wrapped in colourful paper, peering through a window down the path towards Hogsmeade and waiting for a carriage which never came.

When the exams finally arrived, Victoria found herself oddly disappointed. For all that she had studied hard to prepare, the tests were so easy that it felt like her work had been wasted. In Transfiguration she was able to perform the Liquefaction and Fumification Spells by technique, transforming a block of wood to a puddle of sap and a cloud of ash with two swishes of her wand. At least she had needed to speak the incantation for her Total Transubstantiation, which she had performed perfectly. Potions proceeded with similar ease, with her Dog’s Nose Draught smelling powerfully of wet grass, and it went without saying that her Charms skills were enough to have Professor Flitwick scribbling excitedly on his scroll.

Even in the dryer subjects like History of Magic, which did not come to Victoria as naturally as did magical theory, the tests were pitched a level which felt far too easy. Professor Flamel had taught them so much about the Norman invasion, the Wand Wood Wars and the founding of the ICW, and yet only a fraction of what they had learned appeared on the test. Similarly, their Astronomy exam only required them to predict the weather three days in advance; even Muggles could do that.

Of course, Victoria had the good sense not to express her thoughts on these matters. For all that she felt the exams were far too easy, Daphne, Tracey and Pansy were fretting at all hours, testing each other with flash cards and practising their wandwork in every spare moment. Victoria helped them where she could, but she quickly found that her explanations often just confused them, just like when she had tried to explain to Susan how to do a strawberry jump over the summer. The older students were much better at helping and she was happy to leave it to them.

As soon as the exams were over, the castle’s mood shifted. While the older students continued to study for their O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. exams, the lower years were released from all sense of obligation. Classes turned chaotic as discipline relaxed, with most teachers simply giving them busywork to keep them occupied: Professor Flamel had split them into groups to prepare and perform dramatic reenactments of various historical scenes (which he invariably slept through) and Professor Flitwick had them running around the grounds in a game where each team sought to change the others’ hair colour to match their own. Only Snape and McGonagall insisted upon teaching proper classes, to everyone’s great displeasure, but even they were permitting more classroom chatter than would usually be the case.

A particular commotion was caused among the second years when, in the third week of June, a new notice appeared in the Slytherin common room. It was just after lunch when Victoria first saw it, as she returned to the common room with the girls. A gaggle of second years had gathered around the notice board, whispering excitedly.

“Oh, what now?” Pansy moaned when she saw the crowd. “Can’t they just leave us be? We’ve finished all our exams.”

“You never know, it might be something good,” Daphne said. “Come on, let’s go see.”

They elbowed their way through the crowd, ignoring Cecelia’s vocal objections, to find a notice written in Professor McGonagall’s handwriting.

NOTICE TO ALL SECOND YEARS
O.W.L. SUBJECT SELECTION

Although you do not take your Ordinary Wizarding Level (“OWL”) exams until fifth year, study for these important qualifications commences in your third year. You are therefore required to choose which subjects you will take for OWLs prior to the completion of second year.

Potions, Charms, and Transfiguration are considered compulsory subjects at Hogwarts until N.E.W.T. level. You must select the additional subjects you wish to take from the following list, with at least one subject from each category:

Practical Magic

Arithmancy

Astronomy & Astrology

Arcane Art and Diabolical Design

Defence Against the Dark Arts

Divination

Herbology

Music

Languages

Ancient Greek

Ancient Hieroglyphs

Ancient Runes

Latin

Magical Society

Care of Magical Creatures

History of Magic

Muggle Studies

It is customary to take an OWL in at least eight subjects, but up to ten can be accommodated. Certain students may benefit from taking fewer subjects so as to better focus their efforts. This should be discussed with your head of house.

Having read the notice, Victoria found that she did not share in everyone else’s excitement. Indeed, her first response was one of dismay. “Only ten?” she asked, speaking to no one in particular. “But how are we supposed to choose?”

Daphne shook her head. “Only you, Vicky. No way I’m doing ten; eight is plenty for me. In fact, I wonder if Professor Snape will let me go down to seven…”

“Fat chance,” Pansy said. “Though I bet your parents would let you if Snape did.” She sighed. “I’ll be taking the full ten, I suppose. Papa wouldn’t hear of anything less.”

“Well, I’ll be picking Art for sure,” Daphne said. “It’s the only one I really like the look of. That and Creatures, I suppose. So long as it’s the nice ones—like, who would want to take care of a gnome? And I suppose Herbology would go well with Potions.”

“If you’re thinking about dragging me off to Creatures with you, think again,” Pansy said, leveling Daphne with a warning look. “But I’ll join you for Art, if you come with me to Music.”

Daphne bit her lip. “I guess. That plus Latin would take me up to eight.”

Victoria watched their negotiations in disbelief. How could they choose something so important so flippantly? For her part, the more she looked at the list of subjects, the more indecisive she felt. The only one that she definitely didn’t want to take was Muggle Studies. Everything else looked so fascinating…

“Why Latin?” she asked. Picking between the languages was proving particularly difficult. “Any reason in particular?”

Daphne shrugged. “Mrs Malfoy already taught us some. We had to know it, you see, for the Tincture of Romance to work properly when she was teaching us French. So it makes sense to keep going with it.”

“Well, that doesn’t help,” Victoria said. “I don’t know any languages yet. But I suppose if Latin’s good for learning other languages, that could be useful…”

Gemma Farley, the sixth year prefect, chose that moment to intervene. She had been standing behind them and apparently listening to their conversation—quite the act of stealth, given that her ginger hair would stand out in any crowd.

“Careful, now,” she warned. “Latin might be useful for travelling Europe, but don’t underestimate Runes. Half the library’s written in Anglo-Saxon, and if you want to take History at NEWT level you’ll need Runes to read the texts.”

“Plus, Runes just sounds a lot more fun,” Tracey said. “You can throw them to predict Quidditch games, you know.”

Gemma laughed. “Well, if that’s what you’re interested in, then Divination’s the way to go. Big stuff like Quidditch is difficult to predict, but most people can manage smaller things—a baby’s due date, or the number of sweets in a jar, stuff like that. Could be handy.”

Victoria thought back to her attempts at Divination when searching for the Ravenclaw common room, and to the malfunctioning Foe Glass sitting in her trunk. Although both had failed, perhaps with a proper teacher she would have had more success. “Using magic to find stuff out does sound useful,” she said, her eyes still fixed to the list of subjects. “But there’s so many to choose from, especially in the Practical Magic list.”

“Start with the obvious ones and go from there,” Gemma said. “Someone like you will want to cover all the core areas, I’m guessing—that means you need to keep going with Defence, and probably Herbology too. Those plus Runes bring you up to six subjects already, and you still need to pick one from the third category.”

“History,” Victoria said firmly. Of all the choices to be made, that was the easiest. She rather shared Pansy’s opinion of mucking out creatures, and what was the point of Muggle Studies when she had grown up in the Muggle world?

Gemma raised an eyebrow. “Not the most popular choice. Are you sure you don’t want Muggle Studies? A lot of Ministry jobs won’t even look at your application unless you have it.”

“But who wants to work at the Ministry?” Pansy said. “I doubt Vicky wants some boring office job.”

“A lot of people work for the Ministry,” Gemma said, a touch of irritation in her voice. Victoria wondered if her parents were Ministry officials. “Granted, you don’t want to end up stuck as a Dogsbody, but there’s a lot more to the Ministry than paperwork.”

Pansy opened her mouth, no doubt about to offer an insulting retort, but Victoria managed to head her off.

“Either way,” she said loudly, “I’m not doing Muggle Studies. I don’t think I could stand years of hearing about Muggles when there’s so much magic to learn. So that leaves me with three subjects as free choices. You know, I think Professor McGonagall mentioned Arithmancy to me once, but I don’t really know much about it.”

“It’s the magic of numbers,” Gemma said. “I don’t know much either, to be honest—never took it myself—but it’s one of the more, er, esoteric subjects. Professor Vector’s a bit weird, if you ask me. Knows all sorts of things she shouldn’t.”

That certainly piqued Victoria’s curiosity. She rather liked the idea of knowing things other people didn’t, discovering all sorts of interesting secrets through numbers. And a part of her still wanted to redeem her awful performance in Maths back at primary school.

“We’ll say Arithmancy’s on the shortlist,” she said, her eyes going back over the list. Of course, the one subject she wanted to study the most wasn’t on there. “I just wish they had Alchemy on offer too. I’d take that in a heartbeat.”

“So ask,” Gemma said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The subjects are constantly changing—you saw how they added Spellweaving to the NEWT subjects this year.  Maybe they’ll put on an Alchemy class, if enough people want it.”

Chapter Text

Victoria had to wait until the following Monday before she would have a chance to corner Professor Flamel after History of Magic. It had been over a year since she had last asked him to teach her alchemy, and she had learnt so much since then. The first time she had asked, she had been an ignorant first year still learning how to hold a wand. She hadn’t known a single bit of alchemy, other than having a vague idea of what it was, and had asked simply out of curiosity.

Things were different now. She had two years of magical education under her belt and knew her way around a wand. More importantly, she had read a pair of alchemy books, studying them carefully and spending a fair amount of time trying to piece together their often-obscure meaning. The more she knew about the subject, the greater her desire to learn it grew. Professor Flamel would not be able to brush her off this time.

She waited until the class was over, remaining seated at her desk while her classmates scurried off for the morning break. Suddenly she was alone with Professor Flamel, who was sitting in his armchair with his eyes closed. He didn’t seem to realise that he still had company, giving Victoria a moment to observe him in silence. It still felt strange to think of him as so ancient, given that he barely looked older than Professor McGonagall, with just the slightest flecks of grey in his neatly combed hair and handlebar moustache. Nonetheless, there was an undeniable lethargy to him which spoke of great age. In truth, she wasn’t quite sure if he was sleeping during these times, or if he simply liked to rest his eyes—certainly he had no problems with answering questions, if a student were to call upon him.

“Professor?” Victoria asked gently, not wishing to startle him.

He gave no sign that he had heard her, his eyes remaining shut, but when he spoke his voice bore no trace of surprise or confusion. “Yes, Miss Potter?”

“I… I was hoping we might talk for a bit,” she said, feeling somewhat awkward speaking to him when he wouldn’t even look at her.

“Evidently.”

He still hadn’t opened his eyes—he wasn’t going to make this easy on her, then.

She pushed through. “Well, you might know that we’re picking our OWL subjects at the moment, and I noticed that Alchemy isn’t on the list.”

No response.

“If you don’t mind me saying, sir, it feels like a bit of a waste. You know so much about alchemy, but you’re teaching history.” She paused, realising how that might have sounded. “Uh, not that I don’t enjoy your classes. But don’t you think there should be an alchemy class? It seems a bit silly to have such a well-known alchemist in the castle and not have a class on the subject.”

That, finally, merited a look from Professor Flamel, though she couldn’t read his expression. It was far from sleepy, however. His eyes fixed upon her own with perfect clarity. “There is a large body of students, then, who wish to receive my instruction?”

Victoria shifted in her seat. “Um, not exactly. I, uh, think it’s just me, actually. Well, maybe Granger would come, so that would make two…”

“I see.” Flamel sighed, apparently resigning himself to the fact that he would be denied a mid-morning nap, got out of his chair and made his way over to Victoria. He took the seat in front of her desk, where Pansy had been sitting moments before. “So you are renewing your request for my personal instruction. On the last occasion, I believe I asked some questions which you were unable to answer. Let us begin with those. The three primes?”

“Sulphur, quicksilver, and salt,” Victoria said promptly, sitting up straighter in her seat. He was giving her a chance!

“And their significance?”

“Sulphur is the Sun, hot and unwavering,” she answered, trying very hard to keep the excitement from her voice. No doubt Professor Flamel expected a certain dignity from his students. “Quicksilver is the opposite, the substance of the Moon, cold and unpredictable. They conflict with each other, but come together in life—married, the books always say. That gives you salt, the substance of the Earth. Or… sometimes the body. I’m not quite sure of that. Salt is meant to be the body, but the books also talk about salt perfecting the body. That bit still doesn’t make sense to me.”

Professor Flamel tweaked his moustache thoughtfully. “So you have made some study of the thing. That is better than most. Tell me, who have you read?”

“I started with Natural Magic by Thomas Vaughn. That was—”

Vaughn is little more than an amateur,” Flamel interrupted. “His works no more than a compendium of the thoughts of better men. You must have read something by a proper alchemist?”

Victoria’s heart sank. Most of her knowledge of alchemy had come from Vaughn’s book. “I’ve also read some Avicenna, but… well.” She rummaged in her bag and withdrew the book. A thin volume, it was little more than a collection of translated essays—far from a comprehensive treatment of the subject.

Flamel took the book and leafed through the contents. “A meagre offering, but to be expected if you restrict yourself to English. You will need some Latin if you wish to make a serious study of alchemy, as that is the language of all the key works. Still, Avicenna is at least an alchemist of note; you must have learnt something from him. Tell me, then: what is alchemy?”

It was such a simple question that Victoria felt it had to be a trap. If it was, though, she couldn’t see it. She could only answer as best she knew.

“It’s the natural magic of substance,” she said carefully. “It’s to do with the celestial forces, and how they work inside substance to decide a thing’s nature. Alchemists learn how that natural magic works, and use it to make transformations like creating bronze.”

“Hmm.” Flamel rubbed at his temple. “Your description is factually accurate in every element. Yet, for all that, it remains the wrong answer. You have missed the most important point: alchemy is not transfiguration by an alternative technique, concerned only with turning one thing into another. In alchemy, what occurs in substance is mirrored in spirit. The alchemist studies and transforms substance, yes, but the ultimate goal of all this activity is to transform—to perfect—one’s own self.”

Victoria nodded eagerly. It was so refreshing to have someone to explain it to her, rather than having to try to piece information together from cryptic, ancient works. “But this is exactly why I need a teacher!”

“If there was general demand for a class, that one would one thing,” Flamel said. “But what you are truly seeking is one-to-one tutoring. An apprenticeship. And as you know, I only apprentice the most promising of students.”

“My marks are quite good,” Victoria said, not wishing to sound boastful but trying not to sabotage herself with understatement. “If you spoke to Professor McGonagall, maybe, or Professor Flitwick—they could tell you, I’m a quick learner.”

Flamel waved his hand dismissively. “Anyone capable of opening a book can score well at Hogwarts. Truly promising students are much rarer, and take years to forge.” He paused, as he sometimes did, to look out of the window with a distant expression. Victoria suspected that he spent a lot of time lost in memory—a symptom of such advanced age, no doubt.

“Sir?”

He blinked and turned back to face her. “One more question, then. Tell me why it is you wish to study alchemy.”

For the first time, Victoria was at a loss for words. She hadn’t anticipated that question; all her preparations had focused on reviewing her alchemy notes. “It’s… interesting,” she said, fully aware of how lame it sounded. “Transfiguration is my favourite subject, and it’s so fascinating how alchemy is similar but different.”

Even as she spoke the words, she knew them to be woefully insufficient. In truth she had no real reason to like alchemy so much. Why did she like strawberries but not raspberries? Why did she enjoy Transfiguration more than Charms? Why did anyone like anything? She didn’t know the answer to that; she just knew that when she read about alchemy, she got excited and wanted to know more.

“Curiosity is an admirable trait, but rarely is it enough to sustain one through many years of hard study,” Flamel said. “This is why I only take students who are already mature in their studies and powers. The quitters have already given up by that point. And yet… you have, at least, commenced your journey. Which experiments have you undertaken?”

Experiments?

It was that question which made Victoria realise, to her shame, just how unprepared she was for this conversation. She had considered herself familiar with the basics of alchemy, but it hadn’t even occurred to her to try an experiment for herself. How foolish Professor Flamel must have thought her, how much like a silly little girl with more ambition than sense!

She could feel her face beginning to turn red with embarrassment. It had been a long time since she had ever felt so inadequate in front of a teacher. Of course, her books had mentioned experiments in passing, but never in detail—she wouldn’t even know where to start. “Um…”

Professor Flamel shook his head and stood up, his chair scraping loudly on the stone floor. “That will not do. I simply could not take on a student with no grounding in practical alchemy. Nonetheless, I do not doubt that you are in earnest. I shall not object if you should approach me again, once you have performed sufficient preparatory work. If you pursue the subject with diligence, you may well be ready before you are thirty.”

Thirty…

Victoria left the classroom on the verge of tears. She had been so hopeful, so confident that she could convince him this time, but now she felt further away than ever. An apprenticeship was literally a lifetime away. She struggled to imagine anything which would take so many years to learn. Could he really be serious? Perhaps he was just saying it to test her, to see if she gave up her efforts when faced with the impossibility of the task… yes, that made sense. He had said he didn’t like quitters.

She wasn’t a quitter. She’d show him she had what it took—and she’d do it much sooner than thirty.

The end of term approached with the steady inevitability of the incoming tide, yet still Susan remained at St. Mungo’s. Professor Sprout and Madam Pomfrey still had no news to share, nor had Mr Bones responded to the letter which Victoria had written to him, braving the rather grubby Owlery to dispatch it using one of the school’s post owls.

As the days slipped by, Victoria gradually began to realise a simple truth: Susan would not be returning to Hogwarts before the summer. She desperately wished they could discuss which subjects to take for their OWLs, not least so they could make sure to share at least a few classes together, but eventually Victoria was forced to give in to Professor McGonagall’s frequent reminders and hand in her selection form.

She had decided to pick two languages in the end, Ancient Runes and Latin, as she had been unable to choose between them—especially once Professor Flamel had told her she would need Latin for alchemy. Arithmancy was another obvious choice, which had left her with just one free slot. She had spent many hours agonising over it, trying to pick between Astronomy and Divination, but eventually she had decided that it was worse to give up a subject she already enjoyed than to forgo something she might not even like. Astronomy it was.

When the twenty-eighth of June finally arrived it was accompanied by a summer storm, with rolling thunder and rain so heavy that she began to wonder if magic was involved. As usual, the end of term brought with it the chaos of frantically packed trunks, a rushed breakfast and then a tedious wait in the Entrance Hall for the carriages.

“Don’t forget your reports!” Professor McGonagall called, standing at the centre of the hall with an armful of scrolls. “Your parents will need to sign them!”

Once the doors opened, there was a mad rush to secure those carriages closest to the entrance. Unfortunately, the older students were the winners of that contest, and Victoria, Daphne, Tracey and Pansy were forced to run through the pelting rain to find an empty carriage further down the line. Victoria at least remembered to cast the Repulsion Charm, Hermione’s scorn still fresh in her memory, but the others had resorted to the Umbrella Charm again. By the time they got inside the carriage, the three of them were soaked.

“We’ll have to change on the train,” Pansy said. Despite the storm, she had worn a thin summer robe and it was sticking to her skin like she’d come out of the sea. “This isn’t going to dry; we’ll still be wet by the time we reach London.”

Victoria shrugged, peering into a window in an attempt to catch her reflection. She was rather more concerned with her hair, which had been blown around vigorously by the wind. “Good luck finding your trunk in the hold.”

Her warning turned out to be accurate. After boarding the train, it took them almost an hour to find their trunks in the luggage coach, and another hour still to take turns in one of the cramped toilets to change into dry robes and fix their hair. By the time they were presentable, the Hogwarts Express was well on its way south, with Loch Lomond passing to their left.

Inevitably, there were no empty compartments available at that point in the journey, and they were forced to share with a pair of third year Ravenclaw girls. Conversation was rather stilted, the presence of the strangers putting everyone on their best behaviour. Victoria took the opportunity to break the seal on her report and check her results.

“How’d you do?” Daphne asked.

“Um, okay,” Victoria said, not wishing to rub Daphne’s face in her good results. Daphne wasn’t the most academic witch in the world.

Pansy rolled her eyes and held out her hand. “Let’s see, then.”

Victoria reluctantly handed her the scroll.

“Straight Outstandings, as expected,” Pansy declared, her eyes roving over the parchment. “Some nice comments from Flitwick and Bloom. Even Snape. And Professor McGonagall—” Pansy’s eyes widened. “Well, that’s a bit over the top, don’t you think?”

“What?” Tracey asked, but she didn’t wait for an answer. She snatched the parchment from Pansy’s hands and quickly found McGonagall’s report. “Oh, wow.”

“You’re doing this deliberately,” Daphne said. “Stop teasing and tell me what it says.”

“It is no exaggeration to say that Miss Potter is among the finest students of Transfiguration I have ever had the opportunity to teach,” Tracey quoted, putting on an exaggerated Scottish accent. “Should her progress continue apace, there is no limit to what she might achieve.”

Victoria blushed, rather distinctly aware that the two Ravenclaws were listening in.

“We should go show Granger,” Pansy said with an evil smile. “I bet McGonagall hasn’t said that on hers. Can you imagine her face?”

As fun as that sounded, it was the sort of thing that could easily backfire. And besides, Hermione would get enough of a shock once she saw Victoria’s article in Transfiguration Today—Professor McGonagall had approved the final draft just days before the end of term.

She quickly plucked the scroll from Tracey’s hand. “I’d rather not spend my time following Granger around. But how about you—how’ve you done?”

“I’ll find out when I get home,” Pansy said. “If I break the seal now, Papa will just write to Professor McGonagall to ask her for a fresh copy. He won’t believe me otherwise.”

Daphne laughed. “Perhaps that has something to do with that time you took a quill to Mrs Malfoy’s report? Who knew that a P could so easily become an E!”

“Oh, shush,” Pansy said with a blush. “That was a long time ago.”

Although Pansy couldn’t break the seal on her scroll, Daphne and Tracey had no such problems, although Tracey only looked at her report very reluctantly.

“Oh, thank god,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief when she finally worked up the courage to open the scroll. “I didn’t fail any.”

Victoria craned her neck to look over Tracey’s shoulder. She had indeed scored an Acceptable in every subject. “Good job,” she said, giving Tracey a squeeze. “You worked hard for that.”

Daphne was the complete opposite of Tracey. She opened her scroll casually, as if she weren’t interested at all in the contents. Victoria knew better. Although Daphne’s parents didn’t much care what marks she got, she had seen the way her eyes would light up with pride when she did well on her homework.

Daphne’s face was concealed by her long, blonde hair as she read the scroll in her lap. “Not bad,” she declared, and when she looked up she was smiling. “I got an ‘E’ in Potions and History.”

The rest of her results were a smattering of ‘Acceptable’ and ‘Poor’, but she didn’t seem too upset by the ones she had failed. The ‘Exceeds Expectations’ in Potions more than made up for it.

“Your mother isn’t going to shut up about that,” Pansy said teasingly. “Make sure to milk it. You might be able to get a new Hippogriff out of it.”

Daphne frowned. “I don’t want another Hippogriff. What’s wrong with Lightfeather?”

“Nothing!” Pansy said, holding up her hands placatingly. “I’m just saying—you can never have too many Hippogriffs.”

“If you say so,” Daphne said. A wistful look crossed her face. “Oh, I can’t wait to ride her again! It’s been so long. She better not have forgotten me…”

“She’ll be fine,” Pansy said. “You might need to get her used to you again, though. Lots of riding this summer! We should go on a trip from your place up to Norfolk.”

“That sounds lovely,” Victoria said, extremely envious. Pansy and Daphne basically spent the entire summer together, like a weekend that lasted two months. She’d even be willing to ride a smelly Hippogriff, if it meant she didn’t have to spend the summer stuck in the Muggle world.

“How about you, Vicky?” Tracey asked. “Will you be going to Susan’s again?”

Victoria bit her lip. “I don’t know. I wrote to Mr Bones to ask, but what with everything that’s going on… well. I think he’s got other things on his mind.”

Tracey shared an uncomfortable look with Daphne. “That’s rotten luck. But you never know—maybe he’ll write back soon.”

Despite Tracey’s optimistic words, the gloomy prospect of an entire summer without magic weighed on Victoria all the way to London. The others tried to keep her spirits up, plying her with sweets from the dining car and painting her nails, but their efforts were to no avail. Indeed, the closer to London they got, the more despondent Victoria became.

When the train pulled into King’s Cross, Victoria decided to hang back, waiting for the train’s corridors to clear as everyone—including the two Ravenclaw girls—rushed to grab their trunks at once.

“Go on ahead without me,” Victoria said, giving Tracey a hug. “I’m gonna wait a bit.”

Daphne’s hug was extra strong. “Chin up! If you don’t hear from Susan, I bet Daddy would let you come to our place. We’re in Suffolk, you know, not even that far from Ely. Just a couple ridings over.”

“Thanks.” Victoria squeezed Daphne back, feeling the faint stirrings of hope. “Write to me?”

“Of course,” Daphne said. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Mrs Malfoy taught me properly, after all.”

The girls departed, leaving Victoria in the silence of an empty compartment. For several minutes she sat there, watching through the window as families reunited on the platform. And then, quietly, she began to cry.

People always expected her to miss her parents, or to long for a proper family, but until that moment she’d never really understood why. Sure, the Dursleys weren’t particularly nice, but she was used to them, and they to her. Their arrangement worked.

But now, the prospect of returning to them filled her with dread. The summer stretched out before her, long and lonely and bereft of magic, and all she wanted was a proper wizarding family to stand on the platform and welcome her home.

She took a deep breath and wiped her eyes. There was no use crying over it. She’d just have to hope Susan got better sooner rather than later. Only then could she return to the place she truly belonged.

It was a quick job to collect her trunk and cat carrier, once the initial scramble to leave the train had passed. She then stopped by a bathroom to wash her face before heading out onto the platform. The crowds were already beginning to thin, but she still had to weave her way around families to reach the barrier to the Muggle world.

The Dursleys were waiting on the other side. Victoria had no idea why all three of them came to greet her, nor why they wore their Sunday best. They were so disdainful of magic, it baffled her that they would dress up for wizards.

“Took your time, didn’t you?” Vernon said, eying her robe suspiciously. She had worn a style that could mostly pass for a Muggle dress, but the cut would seem odd to them, with long sleeves and a hemline that ended well above the knees. “Well, come on then.”

They proceeded back to Hidebound House in a silence broken only by Vernon swearing under his breath at the London traffic. Eventually the hustle and bustle of London gave way to the rolling green of Surrey, the North Downs passing by in a succession of cute villages set amid farmland and forest.  Before she knew it, they were pulling into the Dursleys’ drive.

Once inside, however, the Dursleys immediately reverted to form, acting as if she had never left.

“Dinner’s at six,” Petunia said, before pausing to look at her dress robe with a curled lip. “And change into something decent. I won’t have people wearing funny costumes in my house, thank you.”

Victoria retreated upstairs to her bedroom, which was completely untouched since she had left it the summer before. How long ago that felt now! It felt like another life, the day when Susan and Mr Bones had turned up on the roof. She smiled wistfully, remembering how Susan had been curious about her lightbulb. She’d probably take Muggle Studies next year, rather than History of Magic, but that was okay. They’d almost certainly have one of the core classes together.

For a time, she busied herself with unpacking. Robes into the wardrobe—those which would fit, at least. She had more clothes than she’d ever imagined owning, thanks largely to Evelyn’s efforts in Diagon Alley. She lined up some of her favourite books along her windowsill, and placed her parchment, quills and ink on her desk, ready to do her summer homework.

It was all unpacked depressingly quickly, and suddenly she found herself with nothing to do. She didn’t want to start her homework now, so soon after getting back. She would savour it, spacing it out over the summer as a treat to look forward to. So she sat on her bed—which suddenly felt rather small and undignified, after the four-posters of Hogwarts—and stared out of the window, stroking Dumbledore when he padded over to her and settled in her lap.

It was her first day back and she was already at a loss. That creeping, empty feeling was growing within her once again—the loneliness of a sole witch surrounded by the Muggle world. Dumbledore was some company, but he was just a cat. She had no one to talk to.

A thought occurred to her. There was one person she could speak to—though she still wasn’t really sure if he counted as a person. But he could talk back at least, and tell her interesting things, and maybe even take her to new places.

She extracted the book from her trunk. Perhaps the summer wouldn’t be so bad after all, she thought with a smile.

She reached for her quill, dipped it in some ink, and set it on the first blank page.

Hello, Tom.

End of Part Two

Chapter Text

TRANSFIGURATION TODAY

Summer Issue (4 July 1993)

Page 7

On the use of Transfiguration to create Secrets, and the Revelation thereof

Miss Victoria Potter (Ap.) & Prof. Minerva McGonagall (Ms.)

A new phenomenon has been observed which potentially rewrites a large portion of secret theory. This phenomenon involves the use of transfigurative magic to supply the Opening Charm with a secret to be revealed. In doing so, it challenges the assumption that secrets constitute a natural kind incapable of magical genesis. The possibility of manufactured secrets also presents a number of further questions to be investigated, both practical and of scholarly interest.

First, the key features of the Opening Charm will be considered. A brief background to the theory of manufactured secrets will then be provided, before the novel magic is described in detail. This will be subjected to analysis with reference to the established body of scholarship. Finally, proposals will be made as regards further avenues of investigation.

The Mechanism of the Opening Charm

The mechanism of the Opening Charm is considered largely settled theory. Unlike the archaic Open Sesame Charm, which simply created a banishing locomotion upon a blocked opening (Chatty, 1993), the Opening Charm has its roots in the Unlocking Charm, developed in 1676 by the notorious Klepp Tomaniak. The Unlocking Charm marked a firm departure from the locomotion-based approaches which were previously dominant and instead called upon powers more commonly associated with revelation charms. In doing so, the Unlocking Charm laid the foundations for what would become the modern Opening Charm.

In common with all revelatory spells, the cornerstone to that foundation is the power of epiphany, which power is often found in physical objects such as the bath tub (Archimedes, 250 BC) or, in eastern tradition, the bodhi tree (Ananda, 445 BC). Just as the telos of an acorn is to grow into an oak tree (Aristotle, 340 BC), epiphany is the Opening Charm’s telos. The seed of epiphany is contained within the charm, and, if well-planted, it will give rise to its purpose, blossoming within the human soul, which is the “orchard of epiphany” (Boot, 1843).

Linked to epiphany is the mystical object of the secret. Where epiphany is a tree, the secret is the soil in which it grows. Secrets are well known to reside in human souls, but have also been found inside closed boxes, whispers, and the sound of running water (ibidem). The secret is the mother of epiphany, since the act of discovery first requires a thing to be discovered. Yet just as a mother is insufficient, on her own, to give rise to progeny, so too is a male catalyst required for a secret to give rise to an epiphany (Lovegood, 1847).

The Opening Charm, containing the seed of epiphany, acts as that male catalyst. It is the key in the lock (ibidem), the hand lifting the wedding veil (Lovegood, 1852), or, more controversially, the wedding night itself (Evans, 1979). It has an inquisitive nature which is not wholly benign, possessing a certain violent aspect typified by the tearing of the veil in an over-eagerness to reveal the bride beneath.

It is this tendency towards the breaching of boundaries which gives the Opening Charm its particular utility in the opening of doors, locks, and all manner of protected objects, including those guarded by passwords (Chatty, 1993). It is not a charm of general revelation, but rather takes a very specific class of secret as its object: those which reside behind some form of frontier or border.

Although obscure, the use of the Opening Charm to create a tunnel through space is not new. In 1882, Venusia Crickerley documented the use of a powerful Opening Charm to create a tunnel from the British Museum to Thebes using the Door of Khonsuhotep, high priest of Amun (Crickerley, 1882). However, this example concerns the revelation of a pre-existing, naturally arising secret, limiting this application of the charm to situations where there is an established connection between two locations. It is quite another matter to force a connection between two locations with no pre-existing association. In order to explain that phenomenon, it will be necessary to look to the theory of manufactured secrets.

Manufactured Secrets

The manufacture of a secret was first proposed by Fabian Fabulist in his 1910 work ‘On Making Things Up’. The theory was initially dismissed (Archambeau, 1910) on the basis that unknown secrets are considered to be one of the subsidiary exceptions to Gamp’s Law: for example, a creditor cannot transfigure a parchment containing a list of their debtor’s assets (Tuft, 1993).

This dismissal may have been somewhat premature. It is without question that one may only conjure secrets already known to the caster, such as a statement of the contents of the caster’s Gringotts vault (ibidem), but this is nothing to the point as regards manufactured secrets. In the Gringotts example, the secret being conjured already exists and is properly possessed by the caster; the caster is simply relocating it to the parchment in front of them. A true manufactured secret, on the other hand, is not a relocated secret but rather the magical genesis of an entirely new secret.

Manufactured secrets have found some renewed interest in modern scholarship. Most notably, Feinberg demonstrated that the Doubling Charm could be used to duplicate an unknown secret through an experiment involving two closed Pandoras (Feinberg, 1927). Importantly, this experiment results in two separate secrets whose existence diverges, not merely a single secret held in two distinct locations. This is demonstrated by the fact that opening one Pandora in public view does not result in the secret vanishing from the other; if the experiment only created two instances of the same secret, then the opposite would be bound to occur (as by definition once a secret has become public, it is no longer a secret at all).

However, while widely held to be a seminal work of secret theory, Feinberg considered this case to be sui generis, arising out of the unique properties of the Doubling Charm. The scholarly community was therefore unanimous in its view that Feinberg’s experiment was fascinating but ultimately constituted an isolated exception, not the statement of a new rule. This position may now need to be reconsidered.

The creation of a Secret with Transfiguration

A manufactured secret has now been observed in a setting of far more general application. The procedure was simple. Firstly, a combination of Transubstantiation and Shaping Spells were used to create a door in the boundary substrate of the extended space. The door was realised to a high degree of detail and embellishment, including all functional features usually encountered in doors. Secondly, the Opening Charm was applied to the door. The result was a portal which passed out of the extended space and into the real world.

From the above description of the Opening Charm it should be clear that this approach would only succeed if certain propositions were true. Firstly, the opening of the door must have achieved the Opening Charm’s telos, namely epiphany. Secondly, this in turn requires that the ingredients of epiphany were present. A priori, since the charm succeeded, a secret must have existed behind the door. And yet, prior to the door’s creation, there was only bare rock with no natural connection to the outside world.

It follows that the transfiguration of the door must have manufactured a secret of sufficient reality that it constituted a valid object for the Opening Charm. This has profound implications for our understanding of secrets, the origin of which remains a subject of substantial debate.

Secrets are generally considered to constitute a natural kind, an order unto itself not unlike love, loyalty, or will. While these mystical objects undoubtedly have magical properties, and can be powerful sources of magical power in the hands of a wizard, they arise not through the exercise of magic but rather emergent to the human spirit (Boot, 1843). One cannot create love with magic, nor can true loyalty be forced by any spell, nor can magic bolster a weak will. It has long been assumed that secrets are similar in nature: magic may move them, alter them, or hide them, but it cannot create one ab initio. If that were possible, then enforcing the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy would be a substantially easier task: the ministries of the world could simply render the existence of magic a secret directly.

The use of magic to create a secret, no matter how minor, disturbs this neat categorisation. It would appear that secrets in fact occupy a related but distinct category: those mystical objects which may be created with magic, but whose magical origins must mirror their natural genesis. Beauty is the prime example of such a mystical object: it is undoubtedly possible to produce art with magic, but the artisan must use magic as but a medium to express their craft; it does not subvert the need for skill (Carver, 1565). Similarly, the manufacture of a secret requires one to go to the effort of using magic to create mystery; one cannot conjure a secret directly as one might a chair.

It is thus highly relevant that the observed features of the transfigured door were particularly fine: hinges which worked, a handle worn by the touch of many hands, aged wooden planks, and iron studs (of which one was missing). These features all go to authenticity; no mystically minded person would see such a door without wondering what was behind it. The door frame, too, played its part: a grand archway of stone, it spoke not of a small secret but of one worth discovering, of importance, age, and of solid certainty. Without these features, the Opening Charm would likely have failed, just as a magical portrait will never come to life if it is so poor a likeness that it would be ashamed to live (ibidem).

The phenomenon also serves as a reminder of the fundamental nature of transfigurative magic, so often misunderstood. There are some who consider the art of transfiguration to be in some sense unmagical, given that it is concerned with physical rather than magical change. This is fundamentally misguided; the fact that transfiguration is capable of manufacturing a secret is an object lesson in the powerful magic at play in physical change. As the Dumbledore Consensus holds, there is only one substance, and that substance is magic. It should therefore be no surprise that profound magical genesis is possible through the magic of transfiguration.

Further Investigations

Further study shall be necessary to fully explore this phenomenon, in respect of which many questions remain. Principal among them is how the exit place of such a door is determined, given that there is no pre-existing association in order to naturally link the opening and exit places. It is likely that the features of the door itself play a role, in addition to the intent of the caster and the nature of the space in which the door is located. In particular, the applicability of the procedure outside of extended space is yet to be proven. It is not expected that the presence of extended space plays a substantial role in the mechanism of action, given that Crickerly achieved a similar tunnel in the real world. However, it may be that the presence of extended space makes it easier to associate an opening and exit place: the natural exit place is wherever the door would lead, were the extended space real.

An additional line of enquiry concerns the range of possible locations to which such a door may lead. This has important practical implications for security: if it is possible to create a tunnel to anywhere the caster likes, then Anti-Opening Charms (part of the Notice-Me-Not family) will become even more essential when protecting a location from trespassers. A natural conclusion might be that the possible range of locations will reflect those places reachable with the Parting Charm, a relatively limited list. However, given the dramatic difference in mechanism of action between the Parting and Opening Charms, it is not at all inevitable that this will be the case. Indeed, it would be quite remarkable if the two ranges coincided, as it would suggest some universal element which was present in two distinct spells.

More fundamentally, confirmation will be required that the observed procedure in fact gives rise to a manufactured secret. Although difficult to envisage, a possible alternative explanation might invoke some manner of Confounding effect wherein the door tricks the Opening Charm into identifying a secret when no secret is present. However, this would be a revolutionary theory indeed, for never before has a transfiguration been observed to give rise to a Confounding effect, or indeed any Charm-like effect at all.

Assuming that the Confundus theory is rejected, the existence of manufactured secrets will no doubt inspire a wide range of reconsiderations as regards a number of fundamental propositions of magic. This will not be limited to those spells in which the secret plays a role, but may also extend to renewed examination of other mystical objects which might be similarly miscategorised, perhaps even casting doubt on the First Proposition that magic cannot create love.

References

Ananda (445 BC) ‘Bodhi Sutra’, Suvaloka Scrolls

Archambeau (1910) ‘Letter to the Editor’, Challenges in Charming, Summer 1910 Issue

Archimedes (250 BC) ‘On Bath Tubs’, Archimedes Palimpsest

Aristotle (340 BC) ‘Unnatural Philosophy’, Library of Alexandria

Boot (1843), ‘Secrets of the Soul’, Paranormal Press

Carver (1565) ‘A Treatise on Transfigurative Beauty’, Paranormal Press

Chatty (1993) ‘Chatty on Charms, 64th Edition’, Obscurus Books

Crickerly (1882) ‘Extreme Diplomacy, or How I Got to Egypt’, Blott & Sons

Evans (1979) ‘Opening Revisited’, Challenges in Charming, Winter 1979 Issue

Fabulist, (1910) ‘On Making Things Up’, Challenges in Charming, Spring 1910 Issue

Feinberg (1927) ‘Ueber den centralen Inhalt der geheimen Kinemagie und Mechanick’, Journal of the Vienna Institute of Magical Theory, 156th Issue

Lovegood (1847) ‘New Developments in Unlocking’, Proceedings of the 94th Conference on Challenges in Charming

Lovegood (1852) ‘Even More Developments in Unlocking’ from Waffling (Ed.) (1870) ‘The Evolution of the Opening Charm - A Compendium’, Obscurus Books

Tuft (1993) ‘Tuft on Transfiguration, 205th Edition’, Obscurus Books