Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Samuel was one of the orphans who lived in the orphanage attached to the chapel at Ashbrook End. He was lanky and skinny, like most of the children were. He had recently received the honour of being the very eldest of the boys at the orphanage. Daniel, light-haired and brown-eyed, always laughing until the laughs became coughs—would forever be seven. Samuel was six or seven, depending on who you asked. He used to tell Daniel he was eight. But Daniel was gone now, so there wasn't anyone left to impress.

Unlike the others, he was on the rooftop. The others were singing hymns downstairs, right below him. Right now, it was Confitebor Tibi.

He mouthed it: "Confitebor tibi, Domine, in toto corde meo, in consilio justorum, et congregatione…"

Was that from Psalms 111? Perhaps. He'd check later, after the dreadfully long Litany, which he was up on the roof trying to avoid.

The many hymns today meant that today was the Assumption of Mary. Pilgrims had already been trickling in already, but they wouldn't come in full force until the Feast of Mater Dolorosa.

Ruth probably wouldn't survive this year's Feast. And they had just buried Benjamin, too.

"Sancta Maria—"

The priest's voice.

And he joined in, instinctively: "Ora pro nobis—"

Slightly higher than the other children, as he had been taught to sing. A weak harmony that could make him believe in something sometimes, when he stood alongside the other children.

It was still summer. There was no point thinking about winter. It was festive outside. Tomorrow they would all go and collect alms, much more than the usual, and they would eat better than usual, as if to make up for winter. Winter—when the food and warmth and daylight were scarce, where the infants grew cold, then silent, and then gone. Soon, he would have to think of all those names for the infants who would arrive in the name of Mater Dolorosa.

He could use Daniel.

He would be able to use Benjamin.

Perhaps Ruth.

Jacob…

"Per Christum Dominum nostrum."

And he'd told himself not to think about winter.

He replied instinctively: "Amen."

He watched the colours of the sun set and disappear, then closed his eyes.

He heard the echo of Ruth's coughing speech as he lowered Daniel into the grave:

"All go unto one place, all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again."

It was the first few days of Autumn. The Nativity of Mary.

Before leaving to collect alms, they had to scrub the steps of the chapel. They did it every morning and night. It was the cleanest place of the chapel, this time of the year. Ruth explained to a confused Jacob that they did it so that the mothers' knees would be clean when they left their children behind. Jacob suggested making markings on the steps "so that each one has enough space", which was firmly rejected by the priest.

Ashbrook End was in a festive mood, still. Pilgrims came in clusters in the day. The children would be able to collect a good amount of alms, even though much of it wouldn't end up on their tables. Jacob took a while to prepare, so Ruth and Samuel waited outside.

She jerked her arm up and then relaxed it. A piece of bread appeared in her palm. She was already chewing when he realised what had happened. She was the best of all the orphans at sleight-of-hand.

She did it slower, again, and he caught it this time. She tossed him the bread. Showed him the stitch.

"Your boot?"

He reached down and checked for the knife hidden cleanly in his sock.

Ruth nodded. "Good."

"I'm done!" Jacob burst out from behind them. "Let's go."

He was definitely going to run off with or without them, so Samuel grabbed him by the collar. "And do you remember, when someone says Dominus vobiscum, what should you say?"

Jacob tilted his head. He'd forgotten. "Um. Thank you! Or was it Amen?"

"Et cum spiritu tuo," Ruth said. "Try it."

Jacob repeated it thrice before she was satisfied. He was a little less jumpy now. They walked down the street, the two of them a few steps behind Jacob. He looked too happy, with his ruddy complexion and easy laughter, to get alms out of pity. Samuel, who had been told he had a handsome, frail figure, was always the one who got the most alms.

Ruth told Jacob to hold on, before coughing into her sleeve. When she caught Samuel looking, she gave him a small smile, and walked a little faster.

Some pilgrims gave them coin, others fruit that sometimes smelled nearly of rot, but most gave bread that was rock-hard, or sometimes even bitten into, already. When they ate from their baskets, they had to be careful. Leave no traces or witnesses.

They greeted a family who gave them a meat pie. Eat it fresh, the father said. They didn't. But they thanked them.

They avoided a smiling, hollow-eyed man who offered to buy them lunch.

They thanked a couple who cried when looking at them, giving them three coins, apologising over and over.

They ignored the strange old lady who asked where their parents were.

A man reached towards Samuel, not quite touching, but voice low.

Jacob had been looking at a bloated, dead rat near the river, but he was back now, eyes wide and innocent. He asked suddenly if they were going home already.

Ruth took it as an excuse to pull Samuel away, her voice a murmur, her hand already steering him away: "Quickly."

He felt the cool metal in his boot, the gaze of that man as they left.

"Are you still going to read?" Ruth asked on the way back. "I'm going to try my luck on South Street."

Samuel considered this for a moment, seeing Jacob skipping about with the basket in his arms. He looked at Ruth, who was bone-thin to begin with and yet seemed to get thinner with every cough.

"Yes. Once winter comes, I won't have daylight. I think I'll get it down soon."

She never understood his obsession with reading. He wasn't making much progress, either, so he couldn't disagree with her, not really. Pickpocketing in South Street would've been better, but also more dangerous. He reached down and in one swift motion, drew the small knife and passed it to her. She slipped it into her sleeve expertly, but slowly enough for him to see.

"You don't even like the verses," she muttered, stifling a coughing fit. "I'll be down South if you change your mind."

The book he was looking for was on the pulpit in the chapel. The children weren't allowed to touch it, of course.

It was an old, illuminated bible—with Latin on one side of the page and English on the other. There were still traces of shiny gold, but most of it had long since faded. The pretty capitals were still vibrant. It was very large, and Samuel had to tip-toe to read it properly.

He ran his fingers over the lines. The little black letters jumbled together.

He tried to recite what the priest had said just this morning.

"He…that loveth silver. Shall not be satisfied with silver. Nor that he that loveth abundance with increase. This is also vanity."

He repeated the line to himself.

It seemed right. From Ecclesiastes, chapter 5, verse 10.

The priest always read this out before the children left to collect their alms. He also used it to scold anyone who ate from their baskets. If they were first-time offenders.

Now he just had to find it. Ecclesiastes. Wherever this was.

It was easier with Daniel around. Two sets of eyes were better than one. No matter. Samuel turned one page, then another. The words kept swimming. Too small. The light already fading.

He guessed at one book—the one that looked the right length, had that 'E' shape that he remembered. He ran his hand down the numbers—chapter 5. The smaller number: 10.

The words didn't seem to line up. The line looked too short, and the length of the words were all wrong.

But he tried to read it anyway, finger on each squiggly word as he sounded what he thought the words were:

"Be…something," he said, squinting, "Be…in thy…something. And let thy…word. Be the…same."

It didn't sound familiar at all.

He went back to the very front of the bible. The list of book names.

He remembered Daniel's voice, the way he pointed at one of the book names: "This one's my name. See? Daniel."

Samuel ran his finger over it. Daniel's name.

He looked up the list of books again, from the bottom, where it was easier for him to see. The one starting with 'E' had been wrong. Then his finger stopped at Revelation. He knew this, because Daniel liked to say—

"And I looked! And behold….A pale horse!" His voice would drop then. "And his name that sate on him was Death, and hell followed with him: and power was given unto them, over the fourth part of the earth to kill with sword! And with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth. Revelation, chapter 6, verse 8."

Samuel wondered if Daniel believed the pale horse named Death came for him when he started coughing more than he laughed.

Still, Revelation. The first letter—the one with a straight spine, that curve, that sticking out leg. If Revelation read that way, that letter was unique enough for him to remember. He traced it with his finger, then again in the air, larger, as he worked his way up the books.

There was one book with a very short name. It started with the letter 'R', too. It had a little squiggly curve next to it—small, tight. The last two letters were a 'th', which he remembered seeing before. Like in 'thy'. Like in—he moved his finger down again, until he reached 'Bel and the Dragon'. The 'th', like in 'the'.

"R…th," he tried pronouncing.

He traced the name again. Then it dawned on him.

"Ruth? Oh, I found Ruth's name."

By then the light was fading already, so he hadn't any time to properly memorise it. His legs were shaking a bit from being on his tip-toes for so long, but he made sure to remember how her name looked like. He'd come back tomorrow after the alms collecting. Memorise it. Write it out for her. Before the pale horse came for her, too.

He wondered if she'd care about writing, if it were her name.

By the time winter came, Ruth was spending most of the day near the hearth, not speaking much. She wasn't eating much but things that were already mashed or liquid. Her coughs had turned watery. Bloody. There were three infants they thought weren't going to survive much longer. They were the parting gifts of the pilgrimage season.

There had been one more, a very small toddler, who wouldn't stop crying even before his mother left him. His mother kept muttering apologies to Mater Dolorosa on the steps, but left him there anyway. She said to call the child Clement, to please call the child Clement. But he died soon after, so Jacob actually asked Samuel why she didn't just bury him at home. Samuel hadn't any answer. If Ruth did, she didn't have the energy to reply.

At night, Ruth didn't sleep much, and neither did Samuel. She was always coughing now, no longer hiding the sanguine that stained her hands when she jerked violently.

He snuck off to the chapel more often than he should've, in the cold, trying to write her name. Memorise the way it was written.

They were just preparing for bed when Samuel made it back in, shutting the door behind him. He shook off the powdery snow in his hair and off his clothes. Ruth was already lying down, but she wasn't sleeping.

He shook her a little, and couldn't shake the feeling that he was simply touching bone.

"Samuel," she said, without looking up. She looked awfully tired, already long gone. But she reached up—and with that same, familiar action, retrieved a few pieces of bread she'd been keeping up her sleeve. Likely her whole dinner portion. "Here."

He took it wordlessly. Then he took her hand. He had to do it quick, before she had one of her coughing fits. Ruth drew her hand back, and he saw what she was trying to hide. Dark brown bloodstains dyed a long patch on her sleeve.

"I figured out how to write your name, Ruth."

She didn't respond, but stopped trying to pull away.

He wrote it, gently, on her palm. The funny 'R' with a spine, a curve, a tail. The small 'u', like a little bowl. The 't' and the 'h', like a cross, and a house with a chimney.

"I think the first two are pronounced 'roo'. Then the last two—'th'."

She looked at him like she was considering something. Really looked at him, thinking.

"How about yours?" she asked finally, softly, "Did you find yours?"

"No. I was trying to learn how to write yours…" He looked to the door. He could probably spend a little while more at the chapel, but she held onto his arm with more strength than he thought she still had left.

"Don't. It's too cold." Ruth smiled a little. He knew she was going to have a coughing fit soon. The fits seemed too violent to be coming from her feeble body. "Thank you, Samuel. Can you write my name again, for me?"

He did, even as she started coughing into her other hand. It was dark, but he knew she could tell he was crying.

27^th of December, night.

Samuel pressed his hands together, rubbed them. To stop them from trembling.

Jacob had passed just three hours before Ruth, just as the harsh winter sank into the dirt, making it near impossible to dig deeply without his hands going all shaky and numb. Samuel's breath came out in white wisps, the cold stabbing his lungs sharply. He thought about covering the graves, but there might be a new corpse to bury soon. He didn't want to end up in a grave while digging another's.

He decided to leave them open. It would be slightly easier tomorrow, and who was to say the last infant wouldn't join them?

He set the shovel against the fence, looking at the dim light in the orphanage, then at the darkness of the chapel, and the bell began to toll. Midnight already. Today was another Feast, wasn't it? He squinted one last time at Ruth, still at last, no longer racked with violent coughs. She looked peaceful, and clean; he'd done a good job at washing away her blood…

He kneeled one last time, forcing himself to speak.

"All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again."

Then he forced his heavy feet to move through the snow, keeping his hands in his pockets, chattering from the heavy cold.

He and the rest would survive winter now, he thought. Tomorrow—no, today, actually, was another Feast. There would be soup, even if it was very, very thin soup. At least it was warm, and their portions had increased.

He walked back, but as he turned the corner, he saw something on the stairs. It was an image familiar to him, but it was unusual for its timing. The heart of the harshest of winters. He knelt down to take a look at the infant.

Still warm, but barely.

Still breathing, but barely.

Still alive, but barely.

She was a little thing, wrapped in cloth that already seemed to be frosting over, no letter, no name, no embroidery.

"All right, your poor thing."

She wouldn't survive the night, and he'd already managed to find a little stone for Ruth's grave. At least she wouldn't be alone when he buried her. And she'd have a name.

He picked her up gently and whispered: "Your name is Ruth."

By night, the little infant Ruth was still quiet, in that awful way Samuel had learned to recognise as the stillness unto death. None of the others had even tried holding her. They were expecting the girl to stop breathing at any time. This whole day, she had never cried, not at all.

When he tried to spoon some broth into her mouth, some water—it only seemed to dribble out. Her mouth kept opening and closing though, but she would not take the soup.

"It needs milk," one child remarked.

Nobody replied. There wasn't any milk, of course. Samuel ate well, forcing the broth down, but Ruth would not eat.

"Ruth, come on," Samuel tried to coax her, "it's not hot. You'll die."

The other children looked at Samuel, trying to feed the little thing broth she could not drink, and said nothing. Her face turned away from him, but she didn't cry out.

"It's going to die," another child said.

At night, he hugged Ruth to sleep, trying to keep her warm, at the very least. She was so cold. Like she was still on those steps, in that frosted cloth.

"It's already dead, isn't it?" The priest had asked when Samuel had reported her arrival. "It's not a good sign, coming today of all days."

Like any day was a good one for being left to the mercy of Mater Dolorosa.

He was awoken in the middle of the night by a good slap in the face by Ruth.

So she was alive, after all.

And then another.

"What's wrong?"

She didn't gurgle. Only looked behind him.

And it was drafty behind him—oddly cold and windy. He looked behind him, holding onto Ruth.

The door was open, which explained the drafts.

But at the door there was a goat, its rectangular pupils staring right at Ruth.

Samuel watched it walk towards him—no, towards Ruth. It laid down next to him, and Ruth reached out for the goat.

The goat was warm, unbelievably so. It looked at Samuel.

"You came for her?"

Ruth snuggled into the goat's warmth. Samuel snuck to the door, closed it, careful not to disturb the others, who were still somehow sound asleep. He was convinced he was dreaming himself. But the warmth was real. And the smell—not like a usual goat's smell. It smelled sweet, of honey instead of the sweetness of rot.

The goat fed Ruth with milk, and she drank deeply from it.

He sat there watching, eyes wide. When he convinced himself to sit, Ruth tried to reach for him. He thought she was going to slap him again, the little rascal. But she didn't.

"Are you telling me to drink, too?"

Ruth reached out again, probably to slap him, everything considered, which would have been perfectly fair to Samuel.

Both the goat and Ruth were very still, like they were watching him.

The milk tasted like honey. He didn't want to drink too much—who knew when the goat would bolt, or run out of milk? Ruth needed it more than him, didn't she?

She reached out again. By now he knew how to catch her little fist.

"Spare me, Ruth."

She only made a little sound that seemed like a laugh. First sound he heard out of her mouth.

He drank a little more of the milk, and wasn't hit by Ruth's tiny fists again.

Next morning, the goat was still there, and some of the other bolder and hungrier children drank the goat's milk as well. Even the warier children soon drank from it, too, when they heard the other children say it tasted like honey. The priest and the other adults did not like the goat at all, and did not enter the sleeping room, where Ruth slept warmly throughout winter. The goat fed the children if they were gentle, and watched the adults with a distant stare. Samuel had a feeling that if the adults tried, something terrible would happen. But nothing happened. The adults were wary, and the children were full.

And the children were full until spring.

The goat should have died long ago, but it only weakened come the last week of Lent. Even some of the children had become wary of the milk, because the goat was bone-thin but the honey-tasting milk seemed never-ending. Ruth was the healthiest infant Samuel had ever seen in his life, and even he had put on some weight, though he was still underweight. He sometimes wondered if Ruth would be able to wean off the goat's milk, considering it tasted like honey. Not even honey tasted like honey here.

When the goat finally died on Easter Sunday, Ruth did not cry. She was still holding onto it, sleeping peacefully.

The adults did not like it at all that the goat died on Easter Sunday of all days. At least they were still so shaken that they weren't hard to convince, and gave Samuel the knives he asked for, as long as he skinned and cut or whatever he wanted to do, far away from the orphanage. So Samuel dragged the corpse of the goat and the knives and the shovel to an open field near the river with some difficulty. Ruth was strapped onto his back, because he wasn't sure what the adults would do to her if he left her alone.

He laid out everything, still panting from the effort. He set Ruth down as well, a little to the side, so she wouldn't get too much mess on her.

He was probably supposed to drain the blood first, but he had no idea how. At the very least, he had to get some of its meat, and hopefully its pelt. So he went by feeling.

It was bloodier than he expected, dissecting a goat. He had his sleeves and pants rolled up, but the blood still went everywhere. He tried wiping the blood on the grass and by washing his hands in the river, but gave up at some point because there was just so much blood. The innards were warm and slimy, which was unpleasant. It might have felt pleasant if it were winter. He'd just about accept anything warm during winter.

Some blood got onto her, too, but at least Ruth didn't cry. She just lay there, reaching out sometimes, gurgling.

Everything useful he put aside. He couldn't let anything go to waste. It had come for her, after all.

He did a rather good job with the pelt, although it ended up all bloody. It couldn't be helped. The earth was soft and giving, unlike in winter, so he didn't have a particularly hard time burying the rest of the goat that he didn't think he could salvage.

He wrapped everything up in a bloody, dripping satchel.

A breeze was picking up. He picked the pelt up and wrapped Ruth in it, hoping she'd stay warm now. And now she started crying. From the gore, or perhaps from the warmth? She didn't look uncomfortable, though, so perhaps it was his face, covered in splotches of blood.

He tried to wipe the blood away, but his hands were covered in blood, too.

"You're okay, you're okay…"

He tried to calm her, the only way he knew. He fell back on the first hymn he'd been taught, feeling all helpless.

"Dominis regit me," he sang softly, but she kept reaching for his face again, wailing, "et nihil mihi deerit…"

The blood was all sticky on his face, and it reminded him of the way the milk, tasting like honey, had clung the same way to his skin as well. He pressed his face against hers, crying too, wishing she'd stop crying already. She'd survive. She'd surely survive. He couldn't remember the other words suddenly, but at least the end:

"Et misericordia tua subsequetur me omnibus diebus vitae meae," he whispered to her, barely keeping to the tune, "et ut inhabitem in domo Domini, in longitudinem dierum."

Her face was all sticky, too, with blood. He tried to wipe it away again, but she'd stopped crying, and seemed happier with the blood on her face, like she had wanted to be matching with him. Probably the exhaustion was getting to him.

"All right, Ruth. Now you're going to scare them all, you little rascal."

That night, he was full and warm, for the stew he had made. Ruth didn't cry again, and she drank the broth this time. She also did not slap him again. The pelt was just outside, drying. None of the others would touch it. Some of the orphans partook in the stew as well. This was almost a serious Easter feast for once, he thought. But none of the adults touched it at all. They did not like the goat from the beginning, but dare not act on it, for the orphans were more obedient than they had been in years. The way they looked at Ruth was almost damning. Still, she was alive, and that was most important.

Between sips of warm broth, he looked at Ruth. He thought of the way the goat had looked at him when it had died. Its rectangular pupils. Soundless. He picked her up in his arms again. She was so warm and smelled of honey. He had done a good job washing away the blood.

The girl could not know that the children would be fed for a week for her goat's sacrifice. Only Samuel spoke: "Don't give it away this time. Your name is Ruth."

Chapter Text

Ruth, on her knees, fiddled with the lock, ear to the door. She could still hear, in the distance, Jonah's frenzied confession to the priest, nearly wailing and crying. He'd already been briefed yesterday, but it still sounded very convincing. Samuel's plan was that: Jonah would wake up from a terrible, terrible nightmare this morning and stall the priest. Ruth helped smooth out the details: It was a religious dream, and now you feel compelled to confess your sins, but make the sins utterly harmless. You're only confessing because you're scared you'll be punished by God.

She got the lock open. Samuel and Esther swept into the kitchen first as she checked if the lock was still working—good, it was—and then followed them in.

A glorious, beautiful, roast turkey. Esther stood there, gaping.

Then she asked: "How do we get this out of here?"

The logistics of turkey movement was theirs to sweat over. Ruth went to the back door and checked the lock. This one would be harder than the front door.

"Ruth, your knives?"

She put down her pin and drew her knives, one from her boot and another from her sleeve. Without looking, she threw them behind her. They spun effortlessly in the air and Samuel caught them by their hilts. She was already working on the lock.

"Show-off," Samuel said, grinning.

"I have a good teacher," Ruth replied, trying to make sure the pin wouldn't break in the lock; the latter was rusty.

"Thank you," Samuel laughed, "I'm flattered."

Esther and Samuel wrapped the pieces of turkey in cloth, leaving enough of a mess for it to look convincing. Samuel broke the leg of a chair for good measure, and then put the tray on the floor.

"Here, or there?"

Esther pushed the tray a bit further in.

"Got it," Ruth said then, opening the back door. The lock was still functional. Good.

"We've got to get out of here before we get gored ourselves. How does Jonah sound, Pete?"

"I think we've still got some time left. Right now," Peter reported from the front door, "he's talking about his bed-wetting."

They were all momentarily impressed by Jonah's lack of dignity or perhaps immense dedication to the turkey cause. He must be drooling already, Ruth thought.

"It is true," Esther offered, "he still wets the bed sometimes."

Esther was often in charge of the laundry. She'd know best.

The four of them slipped out. Ruth locked the front door again behind Peter. Carefully, she left the back door slightly ajar before following the others. They brought the greasy pieces of turkey to the designated hiding spot, right at an abandoned house quite a ways from the orphanage. Samuel sat between Ruth and the other children. No one really wanted to sit near Ruth, aside from Samuel and Benjamin. Ruth didn't mind as long as she was full.

At the abandoned house, they watched intently—Jacob and Benjamin had the most important job of all—luring a wild boar into the kitchens. They were the fastest of the children and had claimed to see one in the forest just a while back. The difficulty of the lies later would vary drastically based on whether a wild boar was present or not.

In any case, they started on the turkey. The turkey was still warm and greasy. They all had difficulty eating cleanly, leaning forward with effort so that the grease wouldn't stain their clothes.

"Oh, there they are," Peter said, mouth-full, ever-observant.

Ruth squinted and could make out two—no, three figures running toward the kitchens.

The boar smashed into the back door, which was a better outcome than they expected. The three of them disappeared into the kitchen. Then Jacob and Benjamin ran out, towards the chapel, where Jonah and the priest were.

Jonah was extracted by the two younger boys. He still looked weepy and shaken. A few steps behind was the priest. The two younger boys had been told to tell Jonah to "come and look at something!" without being specific, to arouse the priest's suspicion.

When he saw the state of the door, the priest froze. Then he turned and stalked off to find the other adults. The three boys managed to leave, rejoining the others at the abandoned house a little while later.

"Did you see that?" Benjamin exclaimed, already starting to eat next to Ruth, "It smashed right into the door!"

"We'll be able to steal food more easily for a while," Jonah said, his face still rather confused and weepy, but already clear-minded. "They should take a while to get the boar out."

Benjamin piped up after a while, licking his lips. "Can we eat the boar too?"

"Too dangerous," Samuel said firmly. The rest nodded. Boars were no joke, even if you were cooperative during a turkey heist.

The first four children stood up after eating their share, checking each other for signs of grease. Peter and Esther would go back to do some laundry, while Samuel and Ruth were to take over the role of lying: They were going to help the adults chase the boar out.

The priest, in his state of panic, did not question them at all, especially when Samuel, the eldest, volunteered to coax the boar out. None of the adults wanted to do that. Ruth, as his second, stayed close to him. Fortunately, the boar seemed to have greased its whole face with the leftovers the children had left behind. A very cooperative boar.

"Okay, easy now…easy…" Samuel entered and agitated the boar by jumping around a little. Ruth watched and waited for the boar to twitch, to huff…

Ruth saw it. "Now, Samuel!"

The boar charged at them. Ruth swung the door fully open as Samuel dodged aside, yelping a bit for good measure. The boar burst out into the open. All the adults got a good look at the greasy face of the boar as it prepared to charge Ruth this time.

She thought for a while that Samuel ought to have returned the knives to her, but she also supposed that she couldn't use the knives in front of the adults, and more importantly they wouldn't have been very useful on a boar…

Once the boar readied itself, she ran and dodged just at the right time—she wasn't quite as quick as Benjamin, but her steps were sharp, her dodges clean. Not a single motion wasted. Once they reached the forest again, she was able to shake it off, with the help of Samuel, who had climbed a tree and was flailing the goat's pelt at the boar. He descended the tree quickly once the boar grew bored of it all. He was lanky and long-limbed, perfectly built for scaling trees.

"Here, your knives." Samuel passed them back to her. Things she'd filched from the kitchen or houses. He had his own, too, but had decided to pass them to Benjamin and Jacob for the day.

She put the knives back in her boot and sleeve, then looked at the chapel. There were still many good hours left in the day. She also felt rather filled.

"Think we have time to go read a little?"

"Oh, they'll be distracted all day. Let's go, you little rascal."

Samuel was finally tall enough to read the hefty tome on the pulpit without tip-toeing.

Like always, he pulled a stool over for Ruth to read.

They always started from the contents page, with their names. Samuel would hold out his hand and make her write her name out on his palm. The 'R', with that spine, that curve, that tail. The 'u', the little bowl. Then the 't', the cross, and the 'h', a little house with the chimney.

And he'd learned his name, too. Right below Ruth. 1 Samuel. 2 Samuel. He wrote it with his finger in the air proper, then made Ruth write it too, on his palm—no looking. She always botched the S ("The snake's looking the wrong way"), but at least it looked reasonably snake-like.

"Shall we read some of Ecclesiastes?" Samuel asked, after Ruth managed to trace a proper S, which she'd definitely forget tomorrow.

She nodded, and as he flipped, murmured: "Vanity of vanities, said the Preacher, vanity of vanities, all is vanity."

Samuel's favourite book, so she had it memorised by heart.

"And you remember Latin one, right?" Samuel said, pointing at the script on the other side. "Remember what Ecclesiastes means?"

"Vanitas vanitatum," she replied, not really needing to see the script for this, for he had read it to her so many times, "dixit Ecclesiastes—the preacher—vanitas vanitatum omnia vanitas."

Samuel had favourites—1 Kings (Regnum), Ecclesiastes, Revelation (Apocalypsis Ioannis). And he also liked to tell several stories in his dramatic manner to make her laugh. She liked the Latin better, even though the English was easier to remember. It seemed grander, larger-than-her, and she understood it less, and for that, felt less false.

English, while familiar, was trickier. The symbols looked like one thing, but read like another. Or perhaps they were wrong. How could they know?

Latin didn't seem that way to her, and in a way, felt oddly comforting. She'd always preferred the Latin chants and the hymns more than the droning sermons.

Samuel's finger landed on one of the verses he knew by heart. He used to complain about the oddities—how 'u' and 'v' were used, the strange 'e's at the end of words—but no longer stumbled while reading like Ruth still did on the English.

"All go unto one place, all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again."

And Ruth said, finger on the Latin beside it, trembling to reach: "et omnia pergunt ad unum locum de terra facta sunt et in terram pariter revertentur."

Samuel turned to her, brows raised, impressed. He'd noticed she sounded confident, almost fluent. "You read the Latin better than me, but still can't read the English well."

"The Latin is more interesting. I think 'terra' probably means 'dust' or 'ground'. From the other verse. 'Omnia' means 'all'—like in 'vanitas vanitatum omnia vanitas'. So 'unum' probably means 'one'—and 'locum' means place."

"Oh!" Samuel added, "That sounds like location. Yes, then 'locum' means 'place'. Okay. Plus, 'omnia' is when they say God is omniscient, right?"

Ruth practically glowed with pride. Samuel let her gloat. She was often right, and Samuel didn't mind indulging her interest in Latin. Then she went back to the page.

"So then 'pergunt' means 'go'? I think 'revertentur' means 'again'. But I don't know what 'pariter' means."

Samuel thought about it for a bit, looking between the English and Latin.

He offered: "Maybe it has the same meaning as all? Like 'omnia'."

She didn't seem satisfied by his explanation. But they were used to questions with no answers.

The sunlight was fading.

"Then," Ruth said, "we should 'pergunt' now."

Samuel laughed. "Oh, is that what we're using now?"

They put the stool back and made sure the book looked untouched.

Then they returned to the orphanage quiet as death, like they'd never left.

The children were all looking forward to the Assumption of Mary. The pilgrims would come trickling in, which meant that they would all go out alms-collecting, alms-sneaking, and pick-pocketing.

In the dim moonlight, Samuel showed them how to hide a piece of bread in their sleeve, how to hide a dagger in their boot. In return, the children gave him little trinkets, like cloth, crumbs, little scraps of metal. Except for Jonah, who had earned his right already, having sacrificed his dignity for the turkey heist. Peter and Esther wouldn't let him forget about the bed-wetting, but said she would wash his sheets without complaining if he did, since he did such a good job. Peter kept reciting Jonah's confession, which made Jonah a little embarrassed now.

Samuel knew how to whittle things down to useful shapes, as lockpicks, as clips, or little knives. That was why he managed to preserve that goat pelt, through nothing but observation and careful little hands.

The goat pelt hung loose around his shoulders. Ruth didn't like it, because she had no clear memories of the goat. The adults and most of the children who knew about her and the goat—and all children knew eventually—looked at her different for it. Like she was cursed, having lived due to a strange sacrifice. When she was punished—starved, for example, she never wasted away, like the other children did. When disease came, she never started coughing, like the other children did. When the winter came, she never fell ill, like the other children did.

She thought the pelt looked better on Samuel, anyway. She never quite knew how to feel about the goat.

"She came in the heart of winter," someone would whisper, "after two others died."

"It came on the day King Herod killed the innocents," another would reply. "It died on the day Christ was reborn."

"It came for her," someone else would add. "It died for her."

Angry, perhaps.

Benjamin finally succeeded at the bread-hiding trick, although his knife-hiding technique left a lot to be desired. It was hard to imagine him being able to use a knife effectively anyway, but Ruth tried to show him how to draw it safely again, as Samuel was demonstrating to the others how to whittle a piece of scrap metal down to a few nifty lockpicks.

"Assumption's in two months," Esther mumbled, idly playing with a lockpick, "we've to steal a lot before winter comes."

"Yeah! By then, using this knife," Benjamin exclaimed, "I'll be able to go down South street and slice a lot of purses!"

He did a few slices, making some cutting sounds as it whooshed through the air, cutting imaginary purses.

Everyone shushed him.

"Don't just slice the purse. Remember to take the coin," Ruth reminded.

"Oh, yes. And run quick!" He exclaimed, softer now.

"And run quick." Ruth confirmed.

She made him do the hiding and drawing of the knife thrice before she was satisfied.

He tried to give her his bread in return, but she shook her head.

"You and Jacob did good, luring that boar over. Consider it repaid."

"Okay," Benjamin nodded, "Then teach me that spinny knife thing, and I'll give you my bread in return."

"Aren't you hungry?"

"I'm still stuffed from the turkey," Benjamin insisted, patting his stomach. He did a ridiculous-looking throwing action. "I want to know that spinny knife thing!"

She took out the knife—one of the very ones that had been used to slice up the turkey. Then she passed him a metal spoon. She held the knife by its blade, and then threw it upwards, spinning, and spinning. It landed hilt-first on her open palm and she closed her fingers around it.

"Feel the weight of the thing. Try throwing it up at an angle, see how strong you have to throw it for it to spin."

"It's not about the catching?"

"Throw well, and you can think less about the catching. Samuel likes showing off his catching skills, though."

"I heard my name, you little rascals!" Samuel handed Ruth two new lockpicks. "For the boar chase. I wouldn't have been able to outrun it without you."

"You scaled that tree real quick, though," Ruth said.

"Only because you bought me time."

She accepted the lockpicks.

"It'll be a tough winter…" Samuel looked at the rest of the children. The adults kept saying that the harvests weren't doing well this year. Though they said that most years, they seemed serious this time. It wasn't just a simple excuse to reduce their food portions.

"So we'll steal more," Ruth said. "I'll draw their attention as usual."

"Won't you get scolded again?" Benjamin asked, concerned.

The rest of the children looked at him with furrowed brows. It was always Ruth who drew the attention. The adults distrusted the children, but they barely tolerated the goat-child.

"I'll be punished regardless, Min," she said. "So make it count."

Samuel's jaw tightened. "Min's right to be worried, you know. Last time you nearly died."

"She didn't die though," Jacob said, "even after that."

"If you're worried, Samuel," Ruth said, "just steal enough for me to recover. That's how it works."

"Ten years old and you think you're smarter than me!" Samuel ruffled her hair affectionately. "Fine. Fine. I'll get you some meat pie this time. Now let's go to sleep."

"Good-night, Samuel." Ruth whispered.

The goat pelt still hung on his shoulders.

She drank its milk—fed on its flesh.

Long before she knew what sacrifice meant.

"Yes." Samuel drew the blanket over her, looking at her with an unreadable expression. "Good-night, Ruth."

The next day—neverending torrents and floods.

Esther started complaining of a pain in her chest.

Jonah said his legs felt funny.

Benjamin said his bed was starting to smell a little weird.

"Probably the bridges and roads are all gone," Samuel mentioned one day, looking out of the window. "They won't travel through rain this bed."

Benjamin was propped up on his knees next to him. "It's just like that Noah story. Oh, but we don't have an ark!"

"Didn't God promise not to flood the earth again?" Jonah replied. "It'll end soon, surely."

Ruth looked at Samuel, who had his lips drawn into a thin line. "After the rain…nobody will come. The roads might be ruined."

"I'm not so sure," Ruth added. "Maybe the ones who want to dispose of their unwanted babies will still come."

"Not dispose," Esther corrected sharply. "Leave the babies they can't take care of."

She shouldn't have said anything at all, and it was easy to forget that Esther was sensitive to such things. It seemed so impossible that anyone felt dressing things up made them less bleak. Esther was one of the unwanted babies disposed of here, too.

Samuel was going to step in, but Jonah followed up first, looking at Ruth: "Hey. Didn't you say you didn't want to go out that day before the rain came? I bet this rain is because of you."

"Because of me," Ruth repeated dryly.

Esther started coughing again, pressing against her chest like it'd stop hurting. Jonah's eyes flicked to her briefly, and then back to Ruth.

She was used to this gaze. Like that of the adults.

"They all talk about the goat," Jonah continued. "And last winter the adults said you never ever got sick. That's impossible. The priest was saying this rain was unlucky. And he calls you unlucky, too."

Samuel clapped his hands together, getting their attention.

"Now, now," he said with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes, "let's just head to the chapel and pray for good weather, all right? I'm sure Ruth will pray doubly hard, and maybe it'll start raining roasted turkeys."

The children did not argue. They filed out of the damp orphanage, into the heavy rain, and then into the chapel.

"I think you're right," Samuel murmured, finding his place next to Ruth. "But Esther's always been a bit touchy. I think it's because she was…disposed of when she was a toddler. So she takes it personally, you know."

Ruth swallowed. "But is this rain because of me?"

Samuel turned to look at her.

"If rain comes just because you said you didn't want to go out, we'd be feasting everyday."

"The goat didn't come because I said I wanted it to, remember?"

Samuel shook his head. "Look, even if it came for you, I wouldn't blame you. You didn't want it to."

"This rain is no good," Ruth said. "Everyone's falling sick. It's too wet and cold. The room smells funny. "

Samuel nearly hissed: "And that's not your fault!"

"Two of you!" The priest came into the room, shouting, but strangely weak. His voice was faltering, not as loud as usual. Ruth suspected it was not merely because of age. "Stop whispering before I make you stand outside in the rain!'

They clamped their mouths shut. Esther coughed again, more violently this time. Then with the guidance of the priest, they prayed for good weather.

By the time the deluge ceased, the sickness was starting to sink into Ashbrook End like rot into wood.

No matter where Ruth was, she could hear coughing. The adults were coughing. The children were coughing. The recently disposed-off infants were coughing too.

When the rains ceased, they'd gone outside onto the muddy field and looked at the sky. There was a vibrant rainbow in the sky, placed among the fluffy clouds, and through the gaps, the sun shone through.

The priest crossed himself with joy. When he finished the Pater Noster, he started thanking the merciful Lord who had heard all of their prayers. The rainbow, he said, was a sign that we had overcome His challenges.

Even Esther and Jonah welcomed it. The sky was beautiful, and finally it wasn't raining anymore. Esther braced herself for another coughing fit, but looked relieved.

While Benjamin and Jacob were running around barefoot in the damp earth, Samuel, for his part, had stayed close to the entrance of the orphanage building with Ruth. Ruth found the air unpleasantly humid still, clinging and sticky.

"Esther won't recover," Samuel whispered grimly. Of course he said it. He knew what Ruth was thinking and never dared to put into words. "And they think this rainbow is a good sign. How about the coughing? Are we supposed to pretend we don't hear it?"

"She'll recover," Ruth said automatically. "She recovered that time last winter. The sun's back, so the coughing will stop…"

Benjamin fell down, face first into the mud. Jacob started laughing at him, but had to stop and clear his throat uncomfortably first. He didn't seem to think too much of it.

"Esther smells sick," Samuel continued, "she's going to die. You know it."

"It's not even winter!" Ruth snapped at him. "Nobody's going to die."

Why was she angry at Samuel? She didn't even really care about Esther. Esther snatched her food away from her last night, even swapped their blankets because Ruth's were warmer.

"Listen to me, Ruth," Samuel put his hands on her shoulders, "You have to see things clearly. She's going to die. She coughed up blood yesterday. She smells like death. Nobody recovers from that."

He wrapped the goat pelt closer around himself like he was suddenly cold.

"Ruth," he continued softly, "the rain is not your fault. And neither is her sickness."

Ruth froze.

Yes, she was a baby, but the goat came when she was going to die. Yes, she was just complaining like usual, but the rain came when she hadn't wanted to go out. Yes, she never cursed Esther out loud because words had power, but she hated Esther sometimes.

And Esther was going to die.

She nodded, stiffly, but just enough for Samuel to exhale in relief. "Let's go, then."

They walked together to the shed. They needed to check on the condition of the shovel after all this terrible rain. For the sick ones, they'd need to retrieve the buckets and extra cloths they had. Peter would do the laundry, since Esther was too weak to. With fresh laundry, perhaps everything would be better.

As they walked back to the orphanage, she paused behind Samuel for a while, looking at the graveyard.

She looked at the little grey stone with her name etched on it. Ruth. In Samuel's hand.

Esther didn't last much longer.

They had to stop Jonah from getting near to her body, though she already smelled like the dead days before she died.

It wasn't just in the orphanage. The sickness was everywhere. Ruth and Samuel busied themselves with doing the laundry. Every time they had to do a new load, there seemed to be more and more blooming red spots on the cloths.

"Leave it to me," Ruth told him once, when the bloodstains started showing up, "I won't die."

Samuel only looked at her like she'd gone mad.

"Won't die? We've died the same number of times, Ruth." When she didn't budge, he continued, trying to smile, "Come on. You think I'm going to let you slack out here the whole day? Just pass them to me. Go fetch the water."

But it was true, in a way. Ruth and Samuel—and Benjamin—didn't fall sick, even when everyone else in the orphanage started coughing. And people noticed, of course. Some even rejected the fresh cloth Ruth tried to pass to them, so Benjamin had to be the messenger for a while.

Benjamin, who hadn't looked at her with suspicion, not even once.

He still asked her to do the spinny knife trick for him, using Esther's knife now, which Samuel dulled for him. He was getting pretty good at it.

The earth was soft from the rain and heat, but the bodies rotted more quickly than ever. While the rains had left, the air was still unbearably sticky. The adults couldn't supervise them anymore, so if they wanted to, they could go to the chapel to read. They tried once, but the sound of coughing distracted them too much. They couldn't concentrate on the reading at all.

He stayed strong for a while, but Benjamin soon fell ill. They had to take the knife away from him, not because he was bad at it, but rather because if he started coughing while throwing the knife, he could get himself injured. He was upset about it for a while, insisting he wouldn't get his fingers chopped off by such a dull blade. They didn't relent, so he used his old spoon instead. Samuel gave him the goat pelt, hoping he'd stay warm at night, because he kept complaining about the cold despite the midsummer heat.

The priest still gave sermons for a while, though it was hard to when everyone was coughing. Samuel and Ruth skipped the sermons, because they didn't like the smell, hiding up on the rooftop instead. They never liked the perfume that the priest used, and he seemed to be using more of it than ever.

"He's definitely sick," Samuel said. Ruth agreed—he must be trying to hide the smell of his illness.

When the priest died, Ruth tried to bury him on her own. Samuel was busy trying to dig a hole for Peter. But even after Samuel had settled Peter's rites and that of a couple down South street, Ruth was still stuck in the room, looking at the corpse like it had betrayed her. The priest was too heavy for her to pull out on her own. It wasn't that she was weak or ill; only that the priest was heavy, and doubly so now that he was dead. He smelled horrible, even worse than Esther had, which was why Ruth wanted to do it on her own, in secret. She found his perfume and tried to spray it on the body. She thought it might help with the stench. It didn't. It only made it worse.

"Ruth," Samuel said from behind her.

She hadn't heard his footsteps.

"Samuel…"

"Come on. You go dig his grave. I'll carry him."

So she went and dug the grave. Samuel came after, hauling the body.

She recited: "Et omnia pergunt ad unum locum de terra facta sunt et in terram pariter revertentur."

Samuel watched her cover the priest with earth. "You say it for every one of them you bury. Even him. Even the ones who say you're the cause of the sickness."

She nodded. She'd buried Esther while Jonah was held back by Samuel, saying that it was all Ruth's fault, wasn't it, just like Esther said?

"They change their mind when they're weak," Samuel spat. "They don't deserve you."

Ruth smiled a little at that. "You say it too, though."

"Of course. You remember how it goes in English?" He closed his eyes, echoing her line, "All go unto one place, all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again."

The next day, Benjamin was burning up with a high fever. Samuel told Ruth to go get a piece of wet cloth to put on his forehead, so she did. She tried to get the cleanest cloth they had, dipped it in the river—she wanted the water to be fresh and clean. For Benjamin.

When she came back she heard coughing—not new. But she saw it was Samuel, coughing into his sleeve. She had to stop herself from entering the room.

"Samuel," Benjamin was saying, "you're sick too."

"No, no. Nonsense." Samuel laughed. It was unconvincing. "You imagined it. Come now, try to sleep. You'll get better with rest."

"Okay. But it's really cold."

"I know. Does the pelt help?"

Jonah cut in then. Other than the telltale stabbing pain in his chest, he wasn't coughing much yet. "You should get that stupid pelt of here. It's probably why we're all sick."

"Jonah. Watch yourself."

"You're sick too, Samuel!" Jonah cried. "Stop pretending you're not! Ruth's not even coughed once."

"You shut it. If she comes back—"

Ruth walked in behind them. Jonah shut up and turned away like looking at her would make him sicker. He probably believed so. Samuel looked at her like a deer caught in headlights.

"Ruth," Benjamin said, "I'm thirsty."

She brought the flask of water to his lips and let him drink. Once he was lying down again, she put the cool cloth on his pillow.

"Are you tired, Ruth?" Benjamin asked her, eyes unfocused from the fever, "Sorry you have to take care of me through the night. I'll get better soon. But how do I repay you for this?"

Ruth swallowed thickly. Samuel hadn't moved a muscle.

"You already have, right?" Ruth smoothed his hair down. She thought this was what Samuel would've done. She said what she thought Samuel would've said. "You succeeded in your spinny knife thing, didn't you?"

"Yeah!" He coughed badly before continuing. "Yeah, I'll show you. I'll show you once I get better."

She took the cloths that had been used and went to do the laundry, washing the bloodstains from the cloth. Was there a point in doing this, she wondered. At the graveyard she squatted, knees to her chest, and took a look at the smooth stone with her name etched in it again. She felt the grooves with her finger. The childish lines.

Ruth.

"Ruth," she murmured, to the girl whose name she'd taken, "Samuel's sick now. It's just me left."

She went down the river to find a little soft, smooth stone, and took out her knife. She could still hear the coughing and wheezing from here, but they were soft enough to ignore, if she tried.

Knife to the stone, she started to carve. It was hard. She tried her lockpick too.

The snake-like 'S' she could never get right. This looked correct, though. Next the 'a'.

"What are you doing?"

She turned around. Samuel was right behind her, eyes already on the stone. He looked confused for a bit, then his face turned stony.

No point hiding now.

She raised the stone to him, and asked: "The snake's facing the right way, right?"

His jaw tightened, but he managed to answer: "Yeah. It's ugly, though."

"It's okay. I'll try again."

Samuel did not reply.

That was okay.

She looked back at the stone and continued carving. There were many stones here. And she'd have plenty of time to carve his name right.

By sunrise, Samuel was gone. So was Benjamin. And the goat pelt, too.

He hadn't let her bury them.

Chapter Text

Professor Severus Snape was enjoying a well-earned rest in his office away from all the buzz in the staffroom when there was a knock at his door. Before he could consider locking the door and dealing with the consequences of insubordination later, Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall walked in with the air of someone a few minutes away from collapsing but doing her best to not look like it. She was not doing a good job, given the absurd amount of owl feathers clinging to her hat and robes. Her appearance only served to confirm Snape's suspicions that he was going to be stuck with another sticky assignment before he finished his tea.

"Severus, you aren't our first choice for letter deliveries," McGonagall said before he could even set his quill down.

He hoped that was all.

Of course, it wasn't.

"You are aware that the limitations on apparition have been lifted for the month."

He nodded, already dreading what was going to happen next. She placed an envelope on his table. It was an admittance letter, which read:

The Girl Named Ruth

Chapel Ruins Rooftop

What Remains of Ashbrook End

North Yorkshire Moors

He had not seen many admittance letters—sensibly, as, like she had mentioned, he was not the first choice for deliveries. However it did not take a particularly sharp mind to figure that this envelope was incredibly strange. And Snape, unfortunately, was in the possession of a rather sharp mind.

"The owls have failed to send this letter for a week or so—some of them came back utterly spooked: flight refusal, ruffled feathers, nonstop hooting," McGonagall explained.

"Fascinating," Snape remarked with zero fascination. He hoped—against his better sense—that she'd only come to show off the letter before leaving posthaste.

"We don't have this child's blood status. And the enchanted quill keeps changing the address whenever I leave it unsupervised." She looked vaguely apologetic—or just pitiful with all the feathers—but Snape had a creeping sense that he'd look worse by the end of this. He had an uncanny sense for this sort of thing. "I would go myself, but I've got to convince some muggle parents up north that we won't be teaching their son to multiply cows."

He had a feeling that multiplying cows might be easier than the task that was just saddled on him, but he had enough presence of mind to not protest.

"As all the other staff are on duty, it will have to fall to you to deliver this letter personally."

There it was. He finally picked the letter up like it was a cursed artifact. Perhaps it was.

"Where is this Ashbrook En—"

There was a very familiar whoosh sound which he unfortunately immediately recognised as the sound of McGonagall successfully delegating a troublesome task and Disapparating on him.

He felt a dull ache behind his right eye.

"Excellent."

Not much remained of Ashbrook End. The owl refused to fly any further, hooting in horror and shedding its feathers everywhere.

Snape took the letter from it. The owl flew away soon after, glad to be relieved of its burden.

The wooden signpost—or what remained of it—was all rotten, just like the various bridges and fences he'd seen on the way. He could barely make out the word 'Ashbrook'. The skies were inclement, but the stench that wafted was not the scent that typically came before rain. It was the smell of sickness and death.

He checked the letter. It hadn't burned up, so the girl named Ruth was still alive.

The town itself looked dead. The buildings looked abandoned, rotting already. The smell of illness still lingered. It was clear the place had been utterly ravaged by a sickness of some sort. Visibly, there were no signs of any survivors.

But then, a singular voice—singing something. A child's voice. It broke through the otherwise complete silence of Ashbrook End.

He walked toward it, drawing his robes tighter around him, not for the weather.

Soon it became clear it was Latin. A hymn.

"Oro supplex et acclinis,

Cor contritum quasi cinis:

Gere curam mei finis—"

From the chapel up the hill.

"Lacrimosa dies ilia,

Qua resurget ex favilla—"

When he neared, the singing cut off abruptly.

And then he saw the little thing on the chapel rooftop.

The girl, barefoot, thin, and hollow-eyed, was wearing robes too big for her, stained with dirt and blood. For a moment it seemed as though she was just a trick of the light—the way she sat there in the silence in this dead town. When his robes billowed in the wind, even that noise seemed to be too loud in this too-silent town.

After a few beats, she slid down the rooftop, as silent as death.

"You came for me?"

The same voice that had been singing.

He retrieved the letter from his robes and held it out to her.

The girl rubbed her stained fingers on her robes before taking the envelope. It was sealed with purple wax. She turned it over and squinted at the green ink, finger under each word, mouthing each one as she went along. Her name. The address. She opened it carefully.

She took a while to read the admittance letter, brows drawn as she read each word out soundlessly. Then she folded the letter and put it back in the envelope, taking the time to read the other parchments as well.

He stood there waiting. She looked up at him.

"My name is Ruth," she said. "What's yours?"

The wind was picking up.

"Severus Snape," he replied after a beat, "you may address me as Professor Snape."

In response she nodded, crossing her hands behind her and then relaxing them. The letter was gone.

"Okay, Professor Snape," she said, "I'll come with you after I burn this place down."

Without waiting for his response, she turned, looking for matches. Or flint. He looked at the sky, full of grey clouds, threatening to rain.

"Bring me a stick," he ordered, just as she was turning to walk toward what remained of the orphanage building's kitchen.

So she did, bringing him a dry piece of wood.

He took his wand out. She stared intently as he cast—

"Incendio."

The wood ignited. She looked surprised, but only faintly so—at the flame, the wand, at him. But she recovered quickly.

After adjusting her sleeve so it wouldn't catch, she looked him straight in the eye, holding the fire like a fragile gift.

"Thank you, Professor Snape."

And she was off, starting with the chapel. She ran her hand across the book on the pulpit, considering. It was the very first thing she torched. She then set the whole place on fire starting from where the wood was exposed. Then a toolshed. Then the kitchens. Then the orphanage. No hesitation. Only something like ritual. The buildings caught fire easily and burned down quick—most of what wasn't dry was already rotting.

There was no hurry in her movements. Only a precise, methodical burning—starting from the chapel and orphanage on the hill, building at the time. She never spoke, as if he wasn't there at all. He waited at the rotten signage for her.

She made sure to keep her torch burning, swapping pieces of wood to make sure she didn't get burned. Finally, when the last building had been set on fire, she looked at him directly. So she knew where he had been all this time.

Still holding the fire, she walked towards him.

He moved aside, and she lit the rotten signage on fire.

"Et omnia pergunt ad unum locum," she murmured, eyes closed, voice barely a whisper. "De terra facta sunt, et in terram pariter revertentur."

Finally, she opened her eyes and dropped the blackened torch.

She did not look back.

"I'm done, Professor Snape," she said against the blazing, burning town behind her, the orange light almost warm on her skin.

He held out his hand to her. She stared at it, brows knit.

"Come," he said, "hold on."

She exhaled visibly and wiped her hands on her robe again before doing as instructed.

"Tightly."

She complied, watching his wand hand with her brows still furrowed. Instinctively, she closed her eyes.

They Apparated to Spinner's End.

There was no sound, just a violent rushing of air, but she felt like she had been folded thrice over and squeezed through a pipe.

When Ruth opened her eyes, they were in a living room that had bookshelves lining every wall. The books were mostly black or brown leather. This place was obviously in a state of neglect. The scent of mildew and disuse was unmistakeable. But it was nowhere near as unpleasant as the place she'd just burned down.

She was still holding onto his hand for dear life, white-knuckled despite her earlier hesitation. She looked pale and vaguely queasy, but not sick. Instead, she was already scanning the room, eyes narrowed.

She didn't let go. Not until he spoke.

"We're here," he said. "Let go."

She did so promptly.

When he took out his wand, she watched him intently, hands behind her back.

Then he cast: "Tergeo."

The bloodstains and dirt were siphoned from her skin and robes. She blinked, visibly startled—even more-so than when he had cast Incendio. Then she immediately mouthed the incantation.

He sat on the armchair and gestured to the divan opposite. "Sit."

She sat. The cushions sank. Then they kept sinking, far too much, which made her struggle to sit upright.

His gaze flicked back to her hands. At some point, the envelope had reappeared. She was looking at the way he was sitting in his armchair as if his posture might explain something.

"If you have questions," he said, "ask them now. Be brief."

No hesitation. She took out the shopping list. "There is a list of things to buy. I don't have money."

He considered this.

"You will get a bursary."

She mouthed the word 'bursary'. She hadn't heard it before.

"Where do I buy all these things?"

"Diagon Alley," Snape said, which drew no reaction from her. "We will head there tomorrow morning."

She folded the shopping list back into the envelope and withdrew the admittance letter instead.

"I don't have an owl," she said.

Her finger hovered over the line that read "We await your owl by no later than 31 July."

"I will settle it."

She nodded a little, returning the letter to the envelope. He saw the way she quickly snapped her hand behind her back and then the envelope was gone.

She looked up at him. There was hesitation, but only slight.

Then she asked: "Was that magic?"

She raised her hand as though she were holding a wand herself.

"Incendio. Tergeo. The stick. You waved it like this." She demonstrated the flourish of Incendio. "Was that Latin? Then fire—and the cleaning. No, that's not all. You need to mean it. Really mean it?"

When she finished her last sentence, she froze, as though she hadn't meant to say that much. Her hand jerked back to her lap. Then she schooled her expression back to a neutral one.

He'd said nothing as she demonstrated, but was watching her carefully now, eyes narrowed. She'd just replicated his wandwork exactly. Then there was her intuition.

"Magic, yes," he replied after a pause. "The stick is a wand. Incendio and Tergeo are incantations. They have Latin roots. The waving is called hand movement or motion.And you are correct. Intent is the most important."

She mouthed the words 'incantations' and 'intent', satisfied.

Then she looked at him with finality and said: "That's all."

"You will take the bedroom. Up the stairs, past the bookshelves." Her eyes flicked to the stairs, then back to him, as though measuring something. "If something was placed there, it is yours to use. First of all, you will bathe. Leave your robes outside. I will dispose of them. We will leave promptly at half past six. There will be an alarm and the curtains will draw at six."

She nodded and walked silently toward the flight of steps he had gestured towards. He watched her wordlessly, not expecting her to turn back.

But halfway up the steps she did, as if remembering something. He was going to look away, but she looked him in the eye, and spoke—

"Good-night, Professor Snape."

And the door clicked shut behind her.

The door locked from the inside. Still, this was clearly his home.

Like the rest of the house, it was dimly lit by candles and lamps.

First thing she checked was the window. The curtains were drawn already, the windows shut tight. She unlatched it, making sure it didn't make any sound, then lifted it slightly. No creaks. Lifted it all the way. She could fit through. She could make the jump.

She closed the window. Latched it again, then unlatched it. Opening it quickly wouldn't be much trouble. She closed the curtains.

The room contained a desk, more bookshelves, a wardrobe, and a bed. There was a kettle on the desk, with a tin of biscuits.

He said to bathe first. She looked at the robes she was wearing. From the priest's wardrobe. Spotless. When it was caked with blood and grime moments ago.

"Tergeo," she murmured, remembering the way he had cast it. Incantation. Hand movement. Intent.

The bathroom. Soft, clean towels. A set of clothes already near the sink. Dark colours, already well-used, but freshly-cleaned, just like the towels. She picked up a plunger and carefully jammed the handle so it'd be harder to open from the outside.

He could use magic, but she felt better after doing that.

Then she looked around. Running water from the tap in the sink. Running water from the shower head. The temperature of the water was always just-right. Too many bottles all in different shapes and sizes lined the bar. Fortunately, there was a new bar of soap. That she recognised. It smelled faintly like citrus.

She put on the clothes that were left for her, rolling up the cuffs so she could move her hands without it making too much noise. The pants too were slightly loose, so she rolled the waist up until they wouldn't drop. Finally she felt clean. The towels smelled like nothing at all, which was a relief to her.

Quietly, she turned the doorknob just so and left the robes outside the door. Probably, he would have them burned. Incendio.

Professor Snape was still seated in his armchair, seemingly writing something. Though he didn't turn, she was pretty sure he noticed that she was peeking out, even though she hadn't made a single sound.

She locked the door again. The door was the sort to swing inwards, so she moved the counter near the bed in front of it.

Then she went back to the desk. The kettle didn't seem to have any wires or fire. But the water in it was warm. Sachets of something. She squinted at one. Blue label with a teacup on it. There were little symbols behind. A sachet of tea. There were two words below. She tried to read it: Earl Grey. It seemed like someone's name. Maybe that was Professor Snape's title? It would've been Earl Snape, though, in that case. Regardless of whose tea it was, the sachet smelled fine. Pleasant, even. She put one in the cup and poured some water over it.

Now, the biscuit tin. She put a teaspoon under one edge of it to pry it open, her other hand on the lid. She held the lid down enough so that when it opened it didn't make any noise. It smelled stale, but they were perfectly edible. As she'd been hungry for many days, she didn't let herself eat too many; you could get sick if you got too greedy.

Then she sat down and got to work. She was exhausted and the bed looked very comfortable, but there were many words in the letter she could not fully read. She didn't understand words like 'warlock' and 'mugwump'. Probably just titles. Probably the Headmaster's. He had a lot of titles, this…

She tried to read the name again: Albus Dumbledore.

She couldn't quite make out the cursive at the bottom, above 'Deputy Headmistress', only it looked like it started with a jagged symbol, maybe an 'M'.

Then the shopping list.

On the desk, there was a feather dipped into a jar of black ink. Gingerly, she rolled up her sleeves and picked up the feather. Then she took a piece of fresh parchment from the notepad sitting there. Now she made sure to write everything out. For the pointed hat she decided to draw it out, a little triangle. 1 hat. The ink kept blotting everywhere, but she managed. As long as she understood it, it was fine.

There were 8 books she needed to buy. She would fold the shopping list itself—it would take too long to copy it out.

1 wand—that's the stick Professor Snape was using. 1…She read it out: "Caul-dron". Something used to cook. 'Pewter', she copied. Probably the material. She wrote a '2' in a circle. She had no idea what 'phial' or 'telescope' referred to. Her hand was cramping by now, and the ink was getting everywhere. Last one now: 1 set of brass scales. Probably not the ones from fishes or snakes, but the thing used for balancing. As they asked for a cauldron, she wasn't sure. Since dragons seemed to exist and their skin used to make gloves, she supposed brass fish might not be entirely impossible.

On the shopping list, she circled the word 'may' in the line "Students may also bring…". That probably meant she didn't need to bring an animal. The next line below said she could not bring 'broomsticks'. She thought that wizards didn't need broomsticks because they could use spells like Tergeo to clean. However, it was a very specific ban on first-years from using broomsticks. She supposed wizard children must really cause a lot of havoc cleaning things with magical broomsticks.

The tea was very nice. She removed the string from the label so she could put the label next to the kettle. She closed the biscuit tin quietly, then washed the cup in the sink. There was a little toothbrush set, too, so she brushed her teeth. She had never felt so squeaky clean before, from head to toes.

In preparation for tomorrow, she took out a full set of clothes from the wardrobe. The clothes were all kid-sized, dark-coloured, clearly old but not tattered. She settled on whatever seemed most practical, returning the others back in their place. A little coat with pockets, a dark sweater, a blouse with ink stains on its cuffs. Socks and shoes. The most-fitting set of pants she could find, with fully-intact pockets.

The only thing she regretted was leaving her knives behind. She'd buried her knives with Jonah, since he said he wanted them, before he died. She had figured then that she wouldn't need them anymore. It wasn't ideal, but she took the teaspoon, which reminded her of the way Benjamin spun the spoon pretty well at the end of it all.

She wanted to take a look at the bookshelves, but she was getting very, very fatigued now. She pulled herself to the bed, which, fortunately, unlike the divan, did not keep sinking. It was rather tough, but soft compared to the mattress she used to sleep on. The pillow and blanket, though, were very fluffy. She fell asleep more easily than she thought wise, gripping the teaspoon right, hand under her pillow, looking at the door.

Chapter Text

At six, like she had been told, the curtains opened and the alarm rang. It was a bell-tolling sound that came from the curtains themselves. Ruth couldn't figure it out.

The counter hadn't been touched and, for the first time in a very long time, she had a good night's sleep. That meant he hadn't come in—or if he had, he'd done nothing to her—she'd have woken up for sure if he had.

She washed up first. The citrusy smell and soft towels felt like they were from a dream, but they were all still there. The water ran clear and warm. She folded the clothes she'd worn at night on the counter. The clothes didn't quite fit on her, but when the sleeves and pants were rolled up and if she held herself confidently enough, nobody would think twice. The shoes were slightly big, but manageable and far more comfortable than what she was used to wearing.

This was more layers than she'd ever put on before. She felt a little ridiculous.

She put everything where they were originally found—the plunger, the soap, towels, and lastly the counter. Then she put the letters and shopping lists in her side pocket and the spoon in her sleeve.

There was still some time left, but it was always better to be early. She unlocked the door, careful not to make any sound. Then she pulled the door inwards, lifting it slightly so the hinges would not creak. As if he had not moved at all, Snape was sitting on the armchair, reading a letter. But the robes she'd left outside was gone.

She thought about speaking or greeting him. No, he was busy. Best to let him know she was ready to go anytime, without disturbing him.

She closed the door behind her in the same soundless manner. Walking near the side of the steps, she walked quietly towards him. Then she stood next to him, waiting. It seemed like he had changed robes—the ties were different, the coat of a different cut. Still, they were mostly black or dark-coloured. She'd thought that Death had come to pick her up yesterday, in fact, but perhaps most wizards had similarly dull wardrobes. They hid inkstains well, so they were practical at least, if they used quills and inkwells.

Thinking about it, the clothes that had been left in her room seemed well-worn, though not recently. Perhaps they were his clothes from when he was younger.

He folded the letter.

"We will be Apparating to Diagon Alley, same as we did to come here," he said. Then he asked: "Will you be okay."

His tone was flat and technical. She had a feeling he was asking this because he was told to. Apparition was a little sickening but overall bearable, particularly since this place seemed nowhere near Ashbrook End. Pretty nifty.

"Yes."

He stood and offered his hand again, wand already gripped tight in the other. She held his hand tightly without needing to be told. There was the same rush of air, whipping their robes, and despite the anxiety that welled in her, she kept her eyes open this time. That same terrible feeling, but now she felt it: Snape pulling them straight from where they were to another place, like each nauseating spin and jerk was calculated. The world was twisting and collapsing and curling but there was a certainty in his grip on her, in the way they moved.

"Intent is the most important", she thought, remembering what he'd confirmed yesterday.

Then still ground.

The air was settled, her vision constant.

They were no longer in his home. No longer being twisted all over.

She exhaled shakily and let go of his hand immediately this time. He was studying her with an unreadable expression.

She didn't feel quite as bad as the first time they Apparated, but her legs kept trembling. Even if she understood it, her body was still confused by the strange sensation of it all. Yet she was already taking everything in.

The morning air was still cool, the sun not yet out.

Diagon Alley was a shopping street with cobblestone paths and buildings of different shapes and sizes, with two or three stories at most. There were pots—cauldrons, she thought, on the outside of some buildings, books stacked up in front of others, and strange-looking carts that were still shuttered.

There was hardly anyone. It was quiet, but not in the way Ashbrook End was, after she'd buried Jonah.

The shops were only sleeping. The Alley was still alive. It seemed like he'd arranged for them to come before the place woke up.

"Gringotts Wizarding Bank first," he said, after she'd caught her breath. He was already walking off, dark robes billowing behind him. She followed, a step behind him.

"Gringotts is run by goblins," Snape said by way of explanation as they walked at a brisk pace. She'd never heard of goblins before. Well, she'd see them when she got there.

The weather was cool and she had no trouble keeping up with his pace, even as she looked about, studying the shops' displays. There were some that seemed to have candy and drinks in barrels, and others with eyeballs or wings of some sort. She did not spot any fish scales.

Then something caught her eye.

Up ahead, there was a shop with a broomstick in the display. So she'd been right, after all—Some wizards really were crazy about cleaning. Strangely enough, though, the broom had little metal fixtures in the middle and the shape was all wrong, bent and twisted. Even the bristles didn't look particularly good for sweeping.

She wasn't following Snape anymore. She'd been careless.

But since she was here already, in front of the glass display, she took a closer look. The middle part of the broom was a little flatter, and there was an engraved name into the broom's side.

There was a growing sense of unease in her chest.

Instead of trying to decipher the shop's name from the signage above, she studied the poster next to the broom. There was a moving picture of a windswept man in goggles, laughing as he soared in the sky on the broom in the display.

Her jaw dropped.

Unfortunately, the offending object was still there when she tore her eyes away from the poster. The flattened portion was most certainly a seat. The metal fixtures—footrests.

Snape appeared beside her. She looked up—and caught something flicker in his expression. Perhaps he hadn't expected her to look so horrified. There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Just barely.

Immediately she tried to school her expression into something vaguely neutral, which proved to be almost impossible, because she felt very, very sick just thinking about it. The man in the picture was not merely above ground. He was flying among the clouds. She felt more nauseated than she'd been the first time they'd Apparated.

Finally he spoke, and she thought maybe she'd imagined the amusement in his expression after all.

"You have a question. Speak."

She wasn't sure how to phrase it, but he was expecting a response.

"This broomstick," she gestured weakly at the display, "is not for sweeping."

"No," he confirmed, with an expression definitely more neutral than hers felt like. "It is for flying."

"Flying," she repeated. The word suddenly felt more foreign than 'bursary'.

That explained the ban.

But the ban was specific. Maybe there was hope. "First years cannot own broomsticks. So I will not have to fly this year?"

Snape did not immediately reply. This time she managed to catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

It could not be.

"You will."

So much for hope.

She straightened the crumpled shopping lists with shaking hands. When had she crumpled them?

"I…see."

She tried to nod, but her neck would not move. Stiff. Like she was on the broom already. Which she would be. Within the year.

She forced the words out: "Gringotts first, right?"

He didn't move, however, despite her cue. His silence wasn't unkind.

Turning away from the window, he gestured for her to follow him.

"Gringotts first," he confirmed.

So she did, one step behind him.

They walked for a while more before reaching a large white building which was much taller than all the other shops next to it. Guarding the bronze doors was a…goblin, she supposed. It had pale skin, pointed ears, and strangely long fingers and feet.

She followed closely behind Snape, who didn't greet the goblin. Behind the bronze doors was a second set of doors, this time silver and flanked by two goblins. They bowed as Ruth and Snape entered.

The hall was much bigger than it looked from the outside. The floor was marble, she noted, softening her steps until they didn't make any sound, for the clacking and echoes were uncomfortably loud in the near-silence of the enormous hall.

There were some goblins at work already, seated on high stools behind counters. It looked like hundreds of them would normally be working, but they'd come early, so things were still warming up. Some were weighing gems on scales that looked like they were made of brass. Ruth filed that away—so not brass fish scales. Others were busy writing using quills, just like the one she'd used at Snape's house. The books they were using looked larger than the Bible at Ashbrook End.

There were doors behind almost every counter, filling every wall. Considering the windows let in daylight, she figured the doors must lead downward, rather than out. The place was decorated with marble busts and golden etchings. Grand place. The chandeliers weren't lit; the sunlight and candles at each counter seemed sufficient for the goblins.

Snape approached a free counter, where a goblin was studying a green gemstone with a magnifying glass. He looked up once Snape approached.

Without speaking, Snape produced a letter and passed it to the goblin.

"Hogwarts Bursary vault," the goblin read. "The letter seems to be in order. Still, I have to insist on formalities. Your name, sir, and position."

"Severus Snape. Potions Master."

Potions Master? She looked at the book list again. It listed one book about 'drafts' and potions. But there was also one about magical herbs and fungi. She'd connected both books to the cauldron, but the shopping list only required them to buy one. So Snape was the one who was going to teach the magical equivalent of cooking.

"And hers?"

"Ruth. Incoming first-year."

The goblin nodded, scribbling a little note with a quill. Ruth couldn't see it clearly from her angle, and Snape didn't say anything, so she studied the place. The windows were high enough that Samuel might've had trouble getting out, and the only clear exit was the entrance. This place would be hard to escape.

"I'll have to lead you myself," the goblin said once he was done writing, setting the quill down. "Wait here."

On the counter's side, though, there was a crest of some kind. A key through a circle with a star of some sort in the middle. The banner below had words which she immediately recognised it as Latin.

"Fortius Quo Fidelius," she muttered, not daring to touch the counter. Latin had always been easier to pronounce than English. The words were familiar, too. "Strength through…loyalty."

She liked that.

The goblin must've waved Snape over, because Snape started moving when he spotted something behind the counter. She followed.

They were led to the door behind the counter. It opened into a torch-lit, cramped cavern which descended rapidly to an opening where a cart was waiting. It was intricate, like that musical box one of the mothers left behind. The priest pocketed it quick, but it was a nifty little thing. This cart was set on tracks, and in the distance, she saw that it did not always keep close to the ground.

Still, she trusted this more than a broom.

The goblin got onto the cart first, checking the levers and buttons and other contraptions on his side. She watched Snape get in. He only had a calm, maybe impatient look, despite the shaking of the cart. She kept the shopping lists in her pocket before getting on next to him.

"Your bursary will amount for twenty-three Galleons for the year," Snape said as the cart started moving. "Sufficient to buy everything secondhand."

"Galleons," she repeated.

"Shiny gold coins," the goblin explained. She wondered if her confusion had been obvious, or if the goblin simply liked talking about coin. He continued his explanation of wizarding currency, sounding gleeful: "Seventeen sickles make a galleon, kid. Sickles are silver coins. And twenty-nine Knuts make a sickle. Knuts are the brownish ones. You'll see, they're all pretty things."

"Thank you, mister…"

"Urgnock," the goblin offered, as they rattled over a dead drop into darkness.

"Seventeen, and twenty-nine," she said. Weird numbers. That means she had…she put out her hands and tried to count, figuring how many Sickles and Knuts that meant she had. She and Samuel always did this together, counting out loud after they'd sliced some purses, though the numbers weren't quite as tricky. "Twenty-three of seventeen Sickles. So two-tens of seventeen, which is thirty-four tens. Then add three seventeens, fifty-one. Three hundred ninety-one Sickles."

They rushed over a huge rock. She thought a larger man might've gotten hit by it. But Snape looked calm—just watching her hands, not the track ahead. If he wasn't on alert, it probably wasn't dangerous enough for her to be concerned about. Maybe she'd counted wrong.

"Did I get it wrong?"

Urgnock answered in his stead: "Three hundred ninety-one Sickles, aye."

"Okay. Knuts are twenty-nine," she recalled. The cart turned sharply right. There were many platforms they were rushing past, but they kept going down. Now, figuring out the number of Knuts was very tough; they'd never counted this many coins before, nor were the numbers so odd. "Almost thirty, so three of three hundred ninety-one, which is…nine hundred and twenty-seven tens and three. Together, that makes…"

She considered this for a beat as they descended sharply again.

"Eleven hundred and seventy-three. Ten of that is…"

She hesitated long enough for Urgnock to cut in.

"Eleven thousand, seven hundred and thirty, kid."

"Oh, thank you, Mr Urgnock." That sounded more reasonable than 'hundred-hundred'. "So removing three hundred ninety-one from that would be eleven thousand, three hundred, and…thirty-nine Knuts."

"Correct," Snape said, expression neutral. "So you learned arithmetic."

"Arith-me-tic," she repeated. This word she had no idea.

"To work with numbers."

"Only a bit. We were taught up to a hundred," she said.

Urgnock cackled from behind them. Snape's expression flickered—distaste, maybe—but it soon returned to carefully neutral.

"You were only taught to count, kid?"

"Yes. We counted coin sometimes, so we had to group them up. Twenty-three and twenty-nine and nineteen are a bit odd, though. I like tens and hundreds better."

They had already descended quite a bit, and finally the cart came to a stop.

"We're here," Urgnock announced. "You're a funny one, kid. If you were a goblin maybe you would be a good banker. Shame you're one of those wizard types."

Snape looked like he wanted to speed things up, but before he could say anything, Urgnock had already hopped out ahead of them and reached the door in front. There wasn't any lock.

Urgnock laid his hand on the door.

Ruth frowned.

The door melted away.

"If you had touched that door, kid," Urgnock said, as they went in "you'd have been stuck inside for ten years or so."

Nifty, she thought again. Seemed secure, at least on the surface. She had a few questions about that, but she suspected Urgnock would not enjoy being asked if his finger needed to be attached to his body for it to work. In any case, they'd have to take the cart to get out.

"You can't Apparate here, then?"

"Whole place is warded," Urgnock said. "There's a dragon down here, too, so you don't want to try that, kid."

Dragon.

There was a little passageway before they reached a room containing stacks and stacks of gleaming coin. Urgnock produced a small pouch. When he untied the string, some of the gold coins started zipping straight from the pile into the pouch.

"Twenty-three Galleons, sir and kid. Check the amount."

Snape let Ruth take the pouch. Counting was easier than arith-me-tic. There were exactly twenty-three Galleons inside, so she nodded. They read 'unum Galleon' and had what she assumed was a winged dragon on one side, with a little 1 at the bottom. The other side had the side profile of a man, and it was labelled…'Gringotts Bank'.

"Let's go, then."

Urgnock left the vault last. The door reformed behind him.

"Strap in, kid. Won't want you dropping any of your eleven thousand, three hundred, and thirty nine Knuts worth of shiny, now."

Ruth shook her head.

Then the three of them hurtled back to the surface. A dragon, she thought. She looked at Snape. Unreadable. Either the dragon wasn't close, or it wasn't a danger for Potion Masters. Fine either way.

Urgnock made a few more quippy comments about her arithmetic ability before they left Gringotts. Other people had started to stream in, though it was clear this wasn't the height of the crowds yet. Adjusting to the brightness outside, Ruth squinted to read the lists again. She'd already secured the pouch in one of the inner pockets of the coat.

Snape had already started walking, so she kept up, eyes flicking between the parchment and his dark robes.

"Equipment first, then your uniform," he said. "After that, a quick lunch before we settle the rest. If you have any questions, be brief."

"The list says 'Students may also bring' for animals. So we do not need one?"

"Correct." There was a slight note of relief in his voice.

"You said 23 Galleons is sufficient to buy everything secondhand. Is there anything I should buy brand new?"

He did not immediately reply. Perhaps she'd sounded greedy.

"The wand and cauldron," he replied after a pause. "I would get them brand new."

Not a command. From his wording, 23 Galleons wasn't much at all.

"How much are they?"

"The wand is seven Galleons. Standard."

"And the cauldron?"

They entered a shop that had cauldrons and other metallic objects in bins on display outside. An equipment shop, she supposed.

Now he finally looked at her, but his face was unreadable.

"Varies. You get a telescope," he gestured to a large unlabelled crate at the back which was chock-full of pipe-like objects, "check that it works. I'll handle the potions equipment. It's my subject."

She looked at her list. "The cauldron, pi—phials, and scales?"

"Correct. Pass me nine Galleons."

She retrieved the shiny Galleons. It made sense. He probably knew more than she did—he was the Potions Master, after all. It would've been a tremendous waste of time for her to be stumbling over all the labels and equipment when it was his subject. He did not strike her as someone who liked to dally.

After passing him the Galleons, she walked over to the crate. There were many scuffed-up looking pipes. The sign above read "USED TELESCOPES" and had a drawing of an old man in a pointy hat looking through a similar pipe. So that was a telescope. She picked one up. This one had a large crack in the glass in the narrower end. The next one she examined was warped and melted in the middle.

It took a great while, but near the bottom of the crate, she managed to find one that looked decent. Its outer shell was badly scuffed and had many etchings. One of the etchings read:

'MUDBLOOD'

She read it again, but it wasn't familiar.

The etching itself was jagged and ugly, like the way she'd carved Samuel's name on that river stone.

The glass was all intact and it was the correct shape. The scuffs and etchings she could fix. The label on it didn't write Galleons or Sickles or Knuts, though—the three was next to an unfamiliar symbol, something like a walking stick curled at the top.

Snape was at the counter by then with a black cauldron, a scale, and a set of little glass bottles in front of him. From behind, she saw him wave his wand and all the items in front of him vanished.

She stood next to him, trying not to look poor and ignorant—best to look smart and important and then you wouldn't get ripped off. She put the telescope on the counter.

Snape stilled next to her, inhaling sharply. She thought that she'd chosen wrongly—that it wasn't in working condition, after all. When he remained silent, she turned to the shopkeeper.

"How much for this, sir?"

The shopkeeper looked at the telescope and froze, just like Snape. Unlike Snape, a nervous smile appeared on his lips. He smiled, and not convincingly: "Says right 'ere on the label, 'lil miss—three Sickles."

An opening.

"It was at the bottom of the crate, sir. One Sickle."

Beside her, Snape crossed his arms. She did not look at him, in case he was adding to her chances of haggling successfully.

The shopkeeper paled when he saw Snape's expression. He rubbed his hands together, reaching for the label on the telescope, and then tore it off.

"Tell ya what, 'lil miss—an' sir," he rambled, "thing's been in the crate fer years. I'll let it go fer free. Swear it's in workin' condition. As long as ya don't go 'round sayin' where ya got it from. Do we got a deal?"

The telescope looked perfectly fixable to her. Just had to paste something over the etchings and scrub off the rest.

She turned to Snape. "Will this work?"

After a beat, he sighed.

"It will work," Snape said, voice tighter than usual.

Something was wrong. She thought of putting it back, after all. There were a few dented ones that she could make do with. But before she could decide, he waved his wand and the telescope disappeared like the cauldron had.

He left the shop at a pace faster than she could follow properly. Something was wrong, she thought. But he wouldn't like her asking. So she sped up, nearing a run, to follow him.

"Uniform next," he said. His voice was still unnatural, and he did not slow down.

This looked like his normal speed, in fact. He'd been slowing down for her all this time.

He said that the telescope would work, and she didn't think that was a lie. And he didn't seem to mind secondhand items—he'd suggested the crate himself. So it had to be the word etched on it. It meant nothing to her, but it had meant something to the shopkeeper. To him. Maybe it still did.

He wouldn't leave her behind, she thought. He wasn't going at an unreasonable speed.

But she'd been left behind for less.

"Professor Snape," she called, still trying her best to keep up.

She hadn't thought she was panicked until she heard the tension in her own voice.

Snape froze but did not turn to face her.

She unfolded the shopping lists again, swallowing thickly.

"It says here 'work robes'. What does that mean?"

He exhaled again.

"Minimally blouse, bottoms, and robe," he replied, already walking off, but he was back to normal in both gait and tone.

She followed, one step behind him, like in the morning.

"I'll cover the etchings—I'll find something—and clean it," she said hesitantly, catching her breath. Only now did she realise how cold and clammy her hands had gotten, and warmed them by jamming them into her coat pockets. "It was the only one there that worked."

"Keep up," he said, sighing. "It's just down the street."

She nodded, even though he couldn't see.

No, he wouldn't leave her behind. He wasn't planning to.

She hated the way relief flooded her chest.

Not yet, she told herself. Just not yet.

She went straight to the secondhand clothes section once they reached the shop. It was ordered by price and piece, so things were much smoother than in the magical equipment shop. Blouses were unisex. She started from the cheapest end. As long as they weren't moth-eaten, not totally wrecked, she could salvage them. The stitching, the pockets, the size. Curiously, the nametags were blank despite them being secondhand. Some sort of magic, she supposed.

Once she was done she looked at the skirts, then at the trousers.

Winter…

"Professor Snape, will trousers do?"

"Uncommon," he replied. "But allowed."

So she did the same at the bin of trousers. The waistband, the buttons, the lining. The cloak and robes were easy, same as the blouses and trousers. The cloak she chose was third or fourth-hand, but warm and the size was okay. One of the pockets had a hole—she ran over it with her thumb—not unsalvageable, position-wise. Nothing she couldn't fix with time.

Next she picked a pointy hat as she'd been told. Slightly too big for her, but cheap and in good condition. Besides, most of them were too big for her.

Lastly, the gloves.

She went over the secondhand bin and then realised she had a big problem once she picked up a pair of gloves. They were labelled 'snakeskin'. The pair next to it read 'cow leather'. Snape was already beside her.

"You have a question."

"The list says 'dragon hide or similar'. What's similar to a dragon?"

Instead of answering, Snape turned away and coughed. And then again. At first he looked faintly amused, like when she'd noticed the broomstick, but then it soon morphed into irritation. He muttered something under his breath that sounded like a curse. But it didn't seem directed at her.

She caught the tail end of it: "—bloody list."

He recovered. "Get dragon hide ones, if you value your fingers."

She nodded. But she was facing yet another problem. She picked up a pair of silver-blue gloves. Perhaps made from dragon hide, given the colour? They were a bit scuffed, but nothing too serious. This one was harder to read, and she had to anchor herself with her finger, sounding it out. The first word…

"…Swedish," she managed. The next two words were okay. "Short-snout."

He seemed to have read her thought process, because he muttered something again, exasperated. She wondered if she was taking too much time, but he didn't look really angry at her.

"Yes, that's dragon hide," he offered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "If it's under two Galleons, it will suffice."

She brought everything to the counter. It could have been because of Snape glowering behind her, but she managed to get the shopkeeper to throw in the price of all the other goods for the price of the gloves. Most of the items besides the hat were in poor condition anyway. One Galleon and seventeen Sickles for it all.

As Snape vanished those items, she checked her pouch against her tally: "Ten galleons and seventeen Sickles spent. So two Sickles and twelve Galleons. Seven for the wand. That leaves five Galleons and one Sickle."

They went for lunch like scheduled.

Snape ordered first—just a pot of Earl Grey.

So that wasn't his title. It was probably the name of some sort of tea.

She didn't want to parse the menu; it would take too much time. She looked around, but most of the other customers were eating larger meals—with utensils. Knives, forks, spoons. She wasn't confident in using the utensils properly. Instead, she pointed at the cheapest sandwich they had.

"Get a drink," Snape insisted.

She was thirsty, it was true. She didn't want to impose, but he didn't look like he was looking for a retort, so she ordered some Earl Grey as well.

"After lunch," he said as the waiter floated their orders over to them, "books and wand."

The letter said that term started on first September. But he hadn't talked about what was going to happen in-between.

They mostly ate in silence. When he started pouring his tea into a teacup, she watched first, then did the same after a natural-enough pause.

"School starts in a month," she tested, watching his reaction. He continued drinking his tea, downing it almost like it was medicine. No rejection. So she continued—

"Between now and then, where will I go?"

He set his cup down, studying her. Now she more consciously tried not to let the ham spill out from the bottom of the sandwich.

"My orders are to send you back to where you came from," he said, rubbing his temple tiredly. She shouldn't have burned the place down, then, she thought. But he didn't sound like he even considered it an option. "Or to place you at the Leaky Cauldron."

She hadn't read such a word, but she remembered seeing such a sign near the secondhand equipment shop. A black cauldron overflowing with purple liquid. It had looked like an inn.

He did not offer more information, but it was clear he wasn't considering either option seriously. She wondered idly if she could stay at Gringotts instead. She wasn't sure if they hired wizard children—probably not—but it seemed more secure than the Leaky Cauldron was. She could perhaps figure something out with Urgnock.

"Keep this," he said instead, passing her a small rectangular slip. "For the Hogwarts Express. You're to report to King's Cross station on first September."

She traced the sentences with her fingers, mouthing the words silently:

"Hogwarts Express. Lon…Lon-don: King's Cross to Hogwarts. Plat-form nine and three-quarters. First September, eleven AM."

She understood less than before he'd passed her the ticket. At the very least she'd have to ask about London. It seemed like a place.

When she looked up, Snape looked like he was really nursing a bad headache, because he was rubbing his temples with even more annoyance now. Beside him, the teapot was completely drained, though it had to have been still hot.

"Books and wand first. Just keep the ticket."

She nodded, already biting into her sandwich so they could leave faster. She tilted her right hand just so and the ticket slipped into her sleeve.

Seeing this, Snape sighed again, muttering.

"—bloody protocol."

Diagon Alley was getting crowded now. There were many people with pointy hats doing their shopping, children running around. Many of them looked her age. As they headed to the bookshop, Ruth even saw a giant of a man with shaggy hair in the distance. Snape weaved in and out of crowds, silent as a shadow. She felt like he knew that she was following close behind, though he never turned. His dark silhouette made it easy to track him.

"Flourish and Blotts," Snape announced, stopping outside a store that had large books on display. They were gilded with gold and were flipping open on their own. The sign above was red and had two quills on it, with words below that were probably the name of the shop. She took out the original shopping list—the one with the list of titles—and stepped in after him.

Inside, there were books lining every wall, spilling out at some points. On the floor there were stacks and stacks of books. Some stacks were so high they reached the ceiling, and the way they were balanced suggested that some sort of magic must be cast on them. And this, she realised, was just the first floor. While there were signs attached to the ceiling that seemed like they were for navigation, the whole place seemed to be in such a messy state she was pretty sure they were more for show.

Snape climbed the spiral staircase immediately, so she followed suit. Even on the steps there were books: On the outer step, stacked up to the bottom part of the railing; on the inner step, there were bound tomes stuck to the pillar the staircase winded around. No shelves—the books were simply laid against the pillar, seemingly suspended by nothing at all.

They approached a whole section of bookshelves labelled "Secondhand Tomes", which took a while for her to read, for the words were all curly. There were tags sticking out at certain sections, labelled with letters: "A", "B", "C"… She took a closer look at one book. It looked like they were sorted by the first letter in their names.

"Start from the top of the list," Snape said. "Check the author; there are different books with the same name."

He went straight to the section labelled "D", so Ruth assumed that he was helping her look for books as well, starting from the bottom.

She went to "S", which turned out to be on a different shelf entirely.

"Standard…Book of Spells."

There were many of them, all written by Miranda Goshawk. She looked at the one that looked the oldest, labelled Grade 1. This one was scribbled all over, starting from the contents page. The next one had torn-out pages in the middle. She opened the third one, not feeling optimistic, but this one looked serviceable. There were notes on the side, particularly in the first half of the book, in a childlike hand. No missing pages, though there was what looked like a circular burn mark on the back of the book.

By the time she'd found a working copy of A History of Magic, Snape seemed to have caught up to where she was on the list, putting the books down next to her. She'd only found two books; he'd already retrieved six.

"Check them."

She doubted he'd choose poorly, but if he said to do so—the books had annotations next to the main text, but no torn pages. One had a half-torn title page. Another had doodles in every page's corner. If you flipped it, the doodle moved. But they were all in working condition, exactly how she'd have chosen them. She added up the prices.

"Four Galleons and sixteen Sickles." She would have four Sickles left, after she got the wand.

The door downstairs clanged open. Snape turned to look.

"Severus." A man's voice from downstairs. "In Diagon Alley. A welcome, though unexpected sight."

"Pay for the books," Snape said to Ruth. "This will…take a while."

He went downstairs ahead of her. The two spoke in hushed tones, despite the loud greeting.

She did her best to balance the eight books in her hands, which proved to be quite a challenge.

The man was well-dressed and looked wealthy. He was holding a dark walking stick with a silver snake head attached its grip. His hair was blonde, almost white, kept long, tied in a low ponytail. His eyes were a cool grey tone that reminded Ruth of her own. The suit he was wearing was clearly tailored and made of good material.

Fortunately, they weren't in her way. She wasn't sure how she was to greet a man like that, if she was even expected to greet him at all, and Snape hadn't given her any cues. They seemed to know each other, so she couldn't just copy how he treated the man.

"You're not often delegated for…deliveries, Severus."

"I am well aware," Snape sighed.

She put the books on the counter and counted out the money for the shopkeeper. Looking at the books, he offered a free quill and inkwell to go with the lot, which she accepted carefully.

"Excuse me, Lucius."

Snape was beside her in an instant. He cast the same vanishing spell he'd cast before. This time she was certain there wasn't any incantation, and the wand flourish seemed…inconsistent. It felt similar to apparition. Then she saw that the man. Lucius was watching her, his face unreadable.

The door clanged open. A boy who looked like Lucius, probably Ruth's age, strode in with his hands in his pockets. He, too, had perfectly tailored robes.

"Father! Uniform's settled. There was this rude boy at Madam Malkin's…"

"Draco. I have something to discuss with your soon-to-be professor," he gestured towards Snape, who was next to Ruth. "You're capable of settling your books on your own, aren't you?"

"Of course I am! How about the new Quidditch series?"

"Fine, but don't dally too long. We've yet to get your wand."

"And Mother's waiting, I know. I won't take too long," Draco replied. "Nice to see you, Professor Snape. I'm looking forward to Potions next month."

Snape nodded, but looked drained already from the mention of class.

Before he could reply, Lucius called him over. "Severus. Let's talk outside, shall we."

The two men exited the shop. Ruth decided it was probably best to browse and see what she could learn before Snape came back. But Draco approached her before she could decide which section of the shop to start from.

"Hullo. You're a first year too, aren't you?" Draco asked. He looked curious, as though sizing her up. Definitely self-important, but he was reasonably polite. Spoiled, perhaps.

And he did seem like he was close to bursting, wanting to complain about 'that rude boy at Madam Malkin's'. She suspected this was why he was approaching her.

"Yes," Ruth replied. "It's nice to meet you. My name's Ruth. You are…?"

"Draco. Draco Malfoy." He walked towards one end of the bookshop, clearly expecting her to follow. She did.

"…How do I address you?"

He looked at her incredulously. "Malfoy will do. We're the same age, aren't we?"

"Isn't that too casual? You seem…important."

She was being sincere, but in response he coughed a little, as though embarrassed. Or proud.

"We are important, but Malfoy is fine." He picked out a brand new copy of A History of Magic, and immediately turned to the next shelf, clearly familiar with the place. "You're with Professor Snape. So you're a Muggle-born? I mean, your parents were Muggles—not wizards?"

He looked like he was deciding her worth.

"I've never met my parents," she said truthfully. "I grew up at an orphanage. A…Muggle one, far as I know."

She'd tripped on the word Muggle a little, but Draco seemed satisfied.

"At least you've got manners. Maybe it's to do with Professor Snape. That kid back there at Madam Malkin's? Barely replied when I asked him simple questions. Even got all worked up when I talked about that giant brute."

"Brute?"

"Hagrid, you know. Gamekeeper at Hogwarts. Barely a wizard, really. Was expelled in third-year and everything. I don't see why he's allowed to even be on school grounds. Much better that you're being accompanied by Professor Snape. He's been around the manor sometimes. Respectable—not even comparable to that savage."

Judging from his gaze, the last book he needed was on the highest shelf. As he was carefully balancing one stack of already careening books in his hands, Ruth could already hear the sound of books falling. Possibly onto her.

"I'll hold your books," she offered. "I've already gotten mine, anyway."

"Nice, thanks." His thanks sounded automatic but not unfriendly. And hers sounded the same, sometimes. He passed the books to her and reached for that last one—The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection.

"Does that mean you're wizard-born? Instead of Muggle-born."

He grinned. "Yes, but better than that. We Malfoys are pure-bloods—descended from old wizarding families. Not a drop of Muggle blood in us—better that way."

She nodded. She thought she knew what Mudblood meant, now.

Draco put the book on top of her stack and started moving towards the brightly-coloured section with a moving picture of a man flying on a broomstick. She dropped off the stack at the counter and followed.

"Wait, I didn't catch your surname. Muggles have surnames too, don't they?"

"I wasn't given one. I've never met my parents."

"Oh, really?" He looked at her more closely now, almost intrigued. "Well, seeing as you don't seem all bad, maybe they were wizards themselves. Suppose you've never heard of Quidditch, then."

"No," she replied. She more or less had an idea of what it was. "But first years aren't allowed brooms, are we?"

"Stupid rule if you ask me," Draco drawled. He picked up a boxed set of books, turning it over to check for scuffs. "We're not allowed to play Quidditch 'til second year. Good for the old seeker; I would've taken over his position easily, whoever it is. I think I'll get father to smuggle a broom in for me, at least."

"Won't you get into trouble?"

Draco laughed. "I might, but it doesn't matter. Father won't allow it though, I think. He'll say I ought to focus on my studies."

They walked back and Draco set the boxed set next to the stack of books. He didn't ask for the price. Instead he took out a velvet pouch and poured some Galleons out. Once the shopkeeper put the change down, Draco pulled the drawstring and all the coins went flying back in.

"Say, Ruth, was it? Have you gotten your wand yet?"

"No. Professor Snape said we'd go after this."

"Then we can go together," he offered. He turned, looking out of the shop, where the two men were clearly engaged in conversation. "But they're still talking. Guess we have to wait. Do you know which house you want to be in already?"

"Houses?" Ruth frowned. Then she asked, genuinely: "I guess you're not talking about the building you sleep in?"

"No," he snorted at that. "I mean the Hogwarts houses. You see the crest has four animals on it. Personally, I'd rather be expelled than be sorted into Hufflepuff. It's the badger, see?"

He pointed to the crest on his school admittance letter, at the yellow part of it.

"And the others?"

"Gryffindor. Father says it's just full of reckless loudmouths. The blue one is Ravenclaw—they're bookworms. Then the Slytherins—this one," he pointed at the green part, with a snake on it. "It's the one any self-respecting wizard would want to go."

She nodded. "And where do you think I'd end up?"

He put his hand on his chin. "Well. Are you a bookworm?"

She shook her head.

"Slytherin, then." Draco grinned. "You'd be in the same house as me."

"You already know?"

"No way I'm ending up anywhere else."

Just then the door opened again. Lucius walked over and vanished Draco's books same way Snape had.

"Father—this is Ruth."

Almost out of reflex, she bowed slightly to Lucius. He was studying her, too, but with more skill than Draco had.

"Yes, Draco. Severus and I were just discussing you, Ruth—and your…circumstances."

"Lucius. Let's not waste any more time."

Snape looked even more haggard every time Ruth looked at him. Maybe because of her—since she seemed to have been the topic of discussion. The four of them headed off to Ollivanders. As Draco talked about wand properties—flexibility, wood, core, and length—she couldn't help but feel she was being measured not only by the son, but also by the father.

Ollivanders was only a short walk away, and during that time, Ruth learned that picking a wand was to be the most important part of today.

"The wand chooses the wizard," Draco said. "I imagine Ollivander will tell us that when we get there."

The shop was a little dimmer than Flourish and Blotts, with shelves filled with boxes stacked to the ceiling. Another child and their parents had just left. A tall woman stood at one of the shelves, examining a wand with a faint pink sheen. She was elegant, wearing a tailored dress and coat. Her hair was blonde, her eyes cool blue, a shade off Lucius and Draco's.

"Mother!"

"Draco. Lucius." She looked surprised to see Snape when she turned to face them. Her voice was cool and crisp. "Severus? And…"

"This is Ruth," Draco said as Ruth bowed—just slightly, not overtly. "She's a first year, too."

The woman raised an eyebrow, looking to Lucius. Ruth felt like she was being examined from too many angles. Unfortunately, she was in front of Snape, not behind him.

"Narcissa," Lucius said. "We'll talk later. Did you wait long?"

"Only long enough to go through this entire shelf of wands," Narcissa replied, a hint of amusement rather than irritation in her voice. "I see you were talking to Severus. I understand the…distraction."

"Good afternoon."

It wasn't Snape behind her any longer. Ruth swivelled, taking a step back, hand already gripping the spoon in her pocket. There was an old man standing there, way too close for comfort. His eyes were even paler than Lucius'. She supposed this was Ollivander.

"Good afternoon, sir," she managed to say.

"And you're here for your wand," Ollivander said, still not taking a step back. Ruth swallowed thickly, stepping back instead. Then he turned to look at the others. "And you too, Draco Malfoy. Now, Narcissa Black—no, Malfoy now, isn't it? Ebony and unicorn hair—eleven and a quarter inches, springier than you'd expect. A graceful wand, a very graceful wand…"

Narcissa didn't look like she cared. Ruth, on the other hand, was feeling, honestly, rather uncomfortable.

"Lucius Malfoy," Ollivander continued. "Are you here for your own wand as well?"

"This suits me just fine," Lucius replied, inclining the snakehead-tipped walking stick towards Ollivander.

"There's a wand for you, if you change your mind. Now, Severus Snape." Ollivander turned to face him. "Blackthorn and Unicorn Tail Hair. Ten and three-quarters, unyielding—"

Snape cut in, asking a question more like a command: "Can we stop wasting time."

Ollivander did not take offence at that. Actually, it seemed like he was doing things by habit, not consciously. "No two wands are the same, Miss Ruth, Mr Malfoy."

"Malfoy gave me the gist of it, sir," Ruth said, because Ollivander seemed to be talking for her sake, and she didn't really want to be here any longer.

Lucius spoke next, and for a second she felt relieved.

"You remember every wand, do you not, Ollivander?"

"Every wand I've sold—and some from before, like yours, Mr Malfoy."

"Then this child," he inclined his walking stick toward Ruth. "Do you recognise the wands of her parents?"

Her relief was immediately replaced by dread.

Ollivander's face came very, very close to hers indeed. She held her breath, and stopping herself from using the spoon in defence.

"No," Ollivander finally declared. She retreated just a fraction again. "Her parents never came here. But you remind me of another child, yes…"

The scrutiny was unbearable. She turned to Draco. "Malfoy, would you like to go first?"

"Sure thing," Draco said. He looked mildly pleased to be going ahead of her.

She slid back next to Snape as naturally as she could, eyes on Draco. Narcissa and Lucius were whispering a distance away from them, but looked up once Draco stepped forward.

"Your wand hand, Mr Malfoy?"

"Right handed," Draco said, raising his right hand for Ollivander to measure it. After the shoulder-to-arm measure, though, the tape measure left Ollivander's hands and started measuring everything on its own. The shoulder-to-foot measure she could sort of understand, but when the measuring tape starting measuring what seemed to be the distance between Draco's nostrils, she uneasily gave up understanding what Ollivander was doing.

Ollivander was already climbing the steps. He retrieved a reddish box from the second floor.

"Laurel and dragon heartstring," he explained as the box fell open on the table and the wand floated into Draco's hand, "nine and a half inches. Unbending."

Draco gave the wand a quick flick. The box flew towards him. He flinched, but all the box did was re-box the wand and zip back to its place.

"Try this," Ollivander said, opening a greenish box this time. Draco picked the wand up, more carefully this time. "Silver Lime and—"

There was suddenly a rumbling. Ruth realised that the boxes from the floors above were falling onto them. Ollivander waved his own wand and the boxes flew back to their shelves, except for one, which he opened and offered to Draco.

"Hawthorn and unicorn hair core, ten inches, reasonably springy."

Draco lit up just holding the wand. He gave it a good swish. Layers upon layers of silver light shimmered in the air, the way the sun's rays looked from underwater. Then the light condensed back into the wand, glowing faintly before fading back to normal.

"Wonderful, wonderful. Now, this is a very interesting wand, a very beautiful wand indeed. This is not a wand that is easily won over, Mr Malfoy. Hawthorn requires skill and control. Be careful, very careful with it…but in return, it is not only a powerful wand, Mr Malfoy. It will heal as much as it harms…"

Lucius looked intrigued by the last part, but Narcissa seemed deep in thought, almost troubled.

"Did you see that?" Draco said, looking straight at Ruth. He looked almost giddy, as though he hadn't registered what Ollivander was saying at all. It sounded vaguely ominous, and Ruth wasn't looking forward to what hers meant—if any fit her at all. "Those dancing silver lights—how amazing!"

She nodded. "It was pretty. Did you mean for it to do that?"

"Not at all. But it felt right," Draco explained, already adjusting his grip on the wand, flicking it around. "Come on, let's see what yours is."

She walked towards Ollivander, who already had the tape measure ready.

"Your wand hand?"

"I don't know," she said honestly. She'd always used whichever hand was convenient, and it wasn't like she was formally trained to write.

"Let's take your left first," Ollivander said, "since you were ready to poke my eye out with your left hand."

She extended her left arm without responding to his statement.

"Brilliant. And your right?"

She did the same for her right. Then the tape measure did its own work as Ollivander ran his hand along the shelves. Seriously, why was it measuring the distance between her nostrils?

He shoved a wand into her face. "Walnut and unicorn hair—ten inches, bendy. Come now, try it."

She held it and it immediately felt…wrong. The wand wanted to run. Like it was terrified. Since he insisted, she gripped it tight and gave it a strong swish. Sparks flew out of the wand—desperate red sparks. She tried again and the sparks were brighter this time, but she had to hold on very tightly, as the wand wanted no more of it.

"Strange, strange…" Ollivander opened the box and the wand practically sprung back into its box.

"Wasn't that okay?" Draco asked.

"It's…cowardly," Ruth said, frowning.

"Yes, yes…cowardly, you said?" Ollivander's pale eyes were in her face again. The levity of his words belied the grimness in his gaze. "Try this."

The box was pure white. This wand lay on a cushion of soft, black silk. Much longer than the previous one. There was a faint humming in her ears, but not from the wand, or at least not from this one. She looked around, but no one else seemed to have heard it.

"…What is that?" Snape asked immediately when he saw the wand. He sounded almost alarmed.

She picked it up. It fit perfectly into her hands, strangely warm.

"Phoenix feather," Ollivander said slowly. The wand was too warm, Like it wanted to melt straight into her fingers. There was that humming again. "Twelve and three-quarters, slightly yielding. Yew."

She didn't need to wave the wand this time.

Dark yet vibrant flames sprung from the tip of the wand, slowly at first, then like a broken tap. It ran down the wand and over her hand, onto the floor, like liquid flame. The flames did not hurt her, or burn anything. A beautiful, slim jet of shiny blue flame coiled around her arm, and then drifted into the air, coiling around her in some sort of dance. The fire crackled in a welcoming way, as though inviting her to play.

Everyone else was entranced.

But all she felt was a rising panic, from her stomach, and now caught in her throat. She put the wand back in its box. The flames did not cease, but they did not burn, either.

"The wand has chosen you, then."

She drew her hand away from the wand.

The dark flames on the ground coiled upward, not merely brighter or louder—but desperate, furious, almost like a plea.

"This isn't normal, Ollivander," Snape said, almost urgently.

The humming was clearer now, like wind being cleanly fluted through a pipe. There, on the third floor. Once she looked at it, hand outstretched, a black, unadorned box fell from one of the highest shelves in the shop. The box fell open halfway and the wand slid perfectly into her hand.

Now this wand was calm and quiet, cold to the touch.

Her robes were beginning to smoulder. Her skin was prickling.

But she was calm now, as though the flames licking her skin weren't trying to smother her alive.

Only the steady humming of this wand, still and quiet.

Snape moved first, wand drawn, Ollivander following closely behind him. Narcissa and Lucius were very still. Draco was gaping, hands clenched into fists.

Holding her wand with both hands, she closed her eyes.

Like Samuel used to say—

"Et post ignem," she whispered, "sibilus auræ tenuis."

Her wand listened.

The flames went out.

Everything was absolutely silent now.

She brushed the bottom of the coat where it'd started charring, and then turned to look at Ollivander.

"Elm and dragon heartstring, Miss Ruth. Ten and a half inches, unyielding—almost brittle. That wand that has been here for a while."

"I'm sorry if I overstepped," she apologised, lowering her head, "but I'd like this wand."

"No, no," Ollivander shook his head. Even he seemed… rattled. "The wand chooses the witch. Perhaps I was premature in my judgement."

Lucius had pulled Snape aside. Narcissa joined them soon after. Now they were speaking in hushed tones, and Ruth couldn't make out the words at all. She went to the table to pay for her wand. Seven Galleons, standard, like Snape had said.

Draco was beside her, paying for his wand too, out of his velvet pouch.

"Ruth," he called, frowning. "What was all that?"

"Which?"

Draco played with the edge of his wand box, considering.

"Well, the thing you said at the end?"

"From the Bible," Ruth explained. "'And after the fire, a small, still voice.' It came to me."

"That's not what you said," Draco said, unconvinced. "It didn't sound like English."

"That was Latin. Et post ignem sibilus auræ tenuis."

"You didn't want the second wand?" He gestured to the white box on the table. "It seemed powerful."

The yew wand was quiet now.

"We wouldn't have gotten along for long," she said. "The elm wand understands me."

"Elm," Draco repeated.

He looked at Ollivander, head tilted. Ollivander nodded in response.

"Elm, yes. It is an elegant wand, Mr Malfoy, Miss Ruth. Sophisticated wand—"

"It's elm," Draco interrupted, "Can't only pure-bloods own it?"

"Not at all, Mr Malfoy. Many Muggle-borns have been chosen by elmwood. It is true that elm tends to choose those with a certain dignity or bearing. I daresay I've never seen it choose an orphan, but we don't see orphans everyday—though there was another just earlier today; I suppose there are quite a few orphans these days, given how long it's been…"

The adults were still talking. Even Draco looked a little suffocated.

"Let's head outside," he suggested. He gave his mother a little wave. Narcissa nodded. "They'll join us soon."

This end of Diagon Alley wasn't too crowded. Draco kicked a pebble idly as they walked a little further away from Ollivanders. They found a little bench three shops down. From here, they still had a clear view of the Ollivanders exit.

Draco left her at the bench, and when he returned—not long after—he was holding two big cups.

"Hey," he said. "Which do you want? Ice cream. Chocolate, or vanilla?"

"Whichever you like less," Ruth answered.

"Good answer." Draco held one out to her.

"I've only four Sickles," Ruth said, hesitating.

"That's not a lot," Draco said, unfazed. "You going to let it melt?"

It was hard to argue with that.

Ice cream turned out to be circular scoops of something sweet and creamy. And as the name suggested, it was very cold.

"Is this made using magic?"

"What? No." His spoon froze halfway to his mouth. "Well, they use magic to scoop it, if that's what you mean. Think it's originally a Muggle snack, though."

She nodded. It had started to sink in how that display in Ollivanders might have looked like to the others. Why hadn't he started keeping his distance, even after all that? He'd given her ice cream and sat next to her like nothing had happened. She looked for cues in his expression, but all she could see was that he was enjoying his ice cream.

"Malfoy, why aren't you—"

Her head split into half—or at least that's what it felt like.

"What? Ruth?"

She couldn't answer for the pain. She was wincing, pressing her hands against her forehead.

"Merlin's socks—you devoured that cup. Hey, you good?"

He genuinely sounded confused. It hadn't been a trick.

"My head hurts," she said, pathetically. "What did I do?"

"You ate too quickly. It's a brainfreeze."

He snorted—then laughed, loud and delighted, like he couldn't help it.

"Merlin's bloody beard," he choked, echoing her: "'What did I do?'"

She froze, not for the cold. He simply looked amused, not at all cruel.

"Say," Draco said once she'd recovered. "Are you going back to stay with the Muggles before term starts? Sounds awful if so."

"I think I'll have to stay at the Leaky Cauldron," Ruth replied. "I don't have anywhere to go back to."

"What?" he sat up now, ice cream forgotten. "Then how are you planning to get to King's Cross?"

She shrugged. She didn't know yet and she'd figure it out when the time came.

"Oh! So they're discussing you," Draco declared confidently. "The manor has a lot of space. Your wand display was pretty cool, and you've got an elmwood wand. Father always talked about some of the old bloodlines that died out. No way Professor Snape'd let you stay in that seedy place—and definitely not father."

"You thought that wand display was pretty cool?" Ruth wasn't convinced. "Weren't you scared?"

"Weren't you scared? I thought you were going to get burned up when the flames started smoking your coat. Then you stood there all quiet-like and another wand fell into your hand. Then you said that 'Et post..ignem' thing, and everything went quiet."

Ruth knit her brows. "And…you weren't scared?"

Looking at her expression, he snorted again.

"You just got taken out by ice cream. You're weird, not scary."

She put down the paper cup, which had at some point become creased in her hands.

"I preferred yours," Ruth admitted. "The silver lights and rays. Mine was way too much."

"You have good taste." Draco grinned. "I thought mine looked a little like auroras."

She looked at him, confused.

"Who's that?"

Draco spent some time explaining what an aurora was, but Ruth remained unconvinced that it could be that much better than his display in Ollivanders, which made Draco quite proud.

Soon after, the three adults approached them.

Draco looked like he was going to speak, but when he saw their expressions, he simply stood, and Ruth followed suit.

"You'll be staying at the Malfoy manor until term starts," Snape said to her. "We'll head back to Spinner's End and pick up your things."

"I told you," Draco whispered. She nodded.

Lucius and Narcissa looked amused, almost pleased. She wasn't sure what to make of that. Snape, on the other hand, looked haggard, which was starting to seem usual.

"Draco," Lucius called, "the three of us will leave first. Will you join us for dinner, Severus?"

"Fine. So long as it isn't unbearably long. I'll have paperwork to fill."

Lucius smiled wryly.

"Why, old friend. In that case, three heads are better than one. And a full stomach is better than an empty one."

Snape grumbled under his breath, just loud enough for Ruth to figure: "And a full night's sleep is preferable, but we can't have everything we want, can we, Lucius."

Lucius laughed, grimly delighted.

"Come." Snape extended his hand again, and Ruth took it, holding on tight.

This time, Ruth was pretty sure she knew how Snape Apparated them, and by extension, the things they'd bought today. Once they were in his sitting room, she let go of his hand, running her free hand on the grip of her wand. It thrummed under her fingers faintly as though in agreement, which had the effect of lessening her apparition-induced nausea.

"Apparition requires a license," Snape warned. "Don't get ahead of yourself."

She nodded. Snape made it look simple, but it surely wasn't effortless. She resigned herself to mastering flight on that blasted broom.

Her items were in the cellar, which Snape took some time to retrieve.

She sat on the divan, already positioning her weight to fight against its immense softness. The Malfoys. Spinner's End. Ashbrook End. The fire…

Snape came back, the items levitating behind him. He set a trunk on the floor first, which had a worn satchel in it.

"Don't leave anything behind," he said.

She started packing—the books first, on one side. Then each glass vial, wrapped carefully in her winter cloak. The inkwell and quill, tucked inside one dragon hide glove. Then the telescope—

It was definitely the telescope that she'd picked out from the shop. The one that she'd gotten for free. The one that had 'MUDBLOOD' etched on its side.

But the telescope was clean. She turned to Snape.

"Reparo and Scourgify," he explained, sidestepping the real question in her mind.

The second one didn't sound like Latin.

Benjamin's voice, weakened by sickness, echoed in her mind: "But how do I repay you for this?"

Her mouth was dry.

She wrapped the telescope in her work robes. Put it neatly next to the books. Shut the trunk. Snape hadn't sat in the armchair the whole time, just standing with his arms folded, behind her.

Why were her hands trembling?

She stood and faced him, hands fisted to hide the shaking. Forced herself to look him in the eye. Couldn't read anything from his expression, only exhaustion.

"Thank you, Professor Snape. For everything. I won't forget it."

He studied her silently, gaze flickering down to her clenched fists. She willed herself to be still.

"Don't," he said curtly.

His omission was as glaring as hers. She kept her mouth shut.

Whatever he meant didn't matter—only that she meant it.

She remembered the silence, after Samuel and Benjamin and the goat. The silence, when she buried Jonah. The silence, when the fire…

"The manor is better than the alternatives," he continued. "Watch yourself, but I expect you will. Now come."

He extended his hand to her again.

She took it.

And she watched as he folded the distance between Spinner's End and Malfoy Manor, his black robes the only constant thing in her vision.

Chapter Text

They Apparated into a room with a large table at the very center. There was a marble fireplace, the almost-white flames burning at a perfect strength. There were chandeliers suspended from the ceiling, silver-gilded candle holders on the walls. Neither the candles on the holders nor the ones on the table dripped any wax—the silver holders were spotless and intricately embellished.

She let go of Snape's hand once she felt solid ground. Because she had followed Snape through the folding and compression that apparition felt like, she didn't feel as nauseated as she had the first and second times they'd Apparated.

The Malfoys were watching her, so she steadied herself, following Snape's composure. Draco looked like he'd been vaguely bored until their appearance, while Narcissa was unreadable. Lucius in particular seemed intrigued, but simply gestured to the two empty chairs—one next to Draco, and another next to Narcissa, opposite it.

Before they could move, Lucius tapped his cane twice firmly against the floor, and suddenly the trunk she'd been holding disappeared. Draco raised his hand, as though to wave her over, but Lucius spoke first.

"The girl sits next to Narcissa," he said coolly.

She let Snape walk ahead of her, and mirroring his measured steps, walked silently to the seat next to Narcissa. She copied the way he drew the chair back, the way he sat in it. Then she followed the way Narcissa was seated, hands drawn to her lap, instead of putting her elbows on the table like the others. Lucius did so with command, Draco in boredom, and now Snape in something like resignation.

The sound of another two firm cane-taps on the floor.

"Severus has acquainted me with your circumstances, Ruth," Lucius said, setting his cane down against his chair. "You will be staying here until term starts. You will not need to worry about King's Cross—it will all be settled for you."

Little bald men with bulging eyes and huge flaps of ears walked in, trays upon trays of food floating above their hands. No one else even looked at them, so Ruth only glanced briefly at them to check what they were.

They were wearing rags that looked a little like sheets rather than clothes. Ruth thought they might be related to goblins, but they carried themselves with none of the confidence the goblins had. They didn't look very clever or sharp, like Urgnock had been.

Lucius leaned forward, hands steepled as the food floated onto the table. She ignored something that looked like roast turkey, the steaming bowl of soup, and the dark liquid poured out of bottles into glass, to wait for him to say something, for he was looking straight at her. She did start to worry when there were more than three utensils. In fact there were at least three spoons in front of her now.

"Come, let's eat while it's warm," Lucius said instead.

Her gaze flicked to Draco—then back to Snape, in front of her. They were used to it, of course they were. She took a modest cut of the potatoes and the soup, mirroring Narcissa. Narcissa had also taken a slice of the turkey, which Ruth did not trust herself to take. Her hands trembled as she picked the same spoon and held it in the same way as Narcissa had. Posture straight, she brought the soup to her face, not spilling a single drop, instead of gulping it down with both hands like she used to do.

"Tell me, Ruth," Lucius said, cutting through a piece of steak without even looking. "I am told you can read and write, but not skilfully. Is this true?"

She set the spoon down in her bowl like she'd seen Narcissa do.

"I was never taught, Lord Malfoy." She saw Snape stiffen at the address and Draco suddenly reached for a piece of bread, face neutral, mouth twitching in amusement. But Narcissa and Lucius were unfazed. "I learned to read from the Bible. Barely, because we had to read in secret. I cannot write well. I tried with a quill last night, but it was difficult."

"And you understand you will be required to read and write at Hogwarts, of course."

Lucius looked over to Narcissa, who dabbed at her lips with her napkin.

"Three days," Narcissa said. "Draco's old tutor has agreed to school you for three days."

Draco winced, looking over to Lucius, to Narcissa, then to Snape. When he finally looked at Ruth, he looked sorry for her.

"You are expected at every class and meal—three full days, from breakfast to dinner, with a short lunch break in the study room. You will spend the rest of the month doing self-study, and also…"

She looked to Draco.

"When are your friends coming over, Draco?"

"Next Thursday, Mother."

"Then we shall see your progress by next Thursday," Narcissa continued, studying Ruth now. "And eat up. You will need the energy."

She passed a piece of steak to Ruth.

"…Thank you, Lady Malfoy."

Lucius took over again.

"One of the guest rooms has been prepared for you. It has an attached space you may use for spell-casting practice. Inform Narcissa or me the night before if you are trying new spells." He looked pleased with the way she was trying to cut the steak, copying what he'd done. "You have been granted access to the library."

He paused now, his expression was satisfied, his smile almost warm.

"And I agree with Narcissa. Eat up—but leave space for dessert."

After dinner, Draco volunteered to show her around while the adults discussed the terms of her stay. Hands in his pockets, he slouched once they were out of sight.

"The library's down that corridor," he said, pointing, then turned to climb a flight of stairs. "Your room's up here. Third level."

She followed. The corridors and staircases were carpeted and well-kept, the wood polished to a shine. Portraits of noble-looking figures moved in their frames, murmuring about them. Heads of unfamiliar beasts gaped at them, their eyes dead and motionless.

"You didn't seem to like the tutor your mother mentioned."

"She's…demanding. I admit she's effective, but those days were pure torture," he muttered. "And you're going to be spending three full days with her. I only ever spent three hours with her."

Then stopping at the third level, he turned to face her fully.

"I think you'll be fine," he admitted. "Still, it's going to be dreadful."

The candles flickered to life as they walked along the corridor. Draco stopped at one of the doors near the end. It had a silver snake engraved into it, with its mouth wide-open, bracing to bite, next to the doorknobs.

"It'll bite if you're up to no good," he explained. "But Father already adjusted the wards."

Seeing her hesitation, he added, with a smirk: "At least I think he did."

She looked at him incredulously. He had an innocent look, too rehearsed to be real. She assumed he was kidding.

She reached for the knob. The snake lunged and she braced herself for the bite. However, it only coiled around the handle and the door clicked open. She turned to Draco, expecting him to say something more, but it was just everyday fare for him.

"Dramatic, I know," Draco said, pushing the door open ahead of her.

The room was larger than the one all the orphans at Ashbrook End had stayed in. There were multiple doors: one to the washroom, another to the attached room for spell-casting practice. The trunk was on a bench at the foot of the bed, which was even bigger than the one she'd slept in at Spinner's End. What on earth did people need six pillows for?

Draco went straight to the cupboard, opening it with a proud flourish. There was an array of clothes inside already.

"These are my old clothes," he said, sweeping a hand across the cupboard. "They should fit you well, but if they don't, get one of the house-elves to resize it."

"Those are the ones who served us dinner, right?"

"Yeah. Just call for one and they'll come, if your door's open."

She nodded, though she had no intention of doing so. Now she opened her trunk, taking out her books, first of all. She put them on the shelf above the desk and the little lamp on the edge flared to life. One of the drawers held fresh parchment; the other, a variety of writing materials—quills, inkwells, pencils, and more.

"Mother said the tutor's coming tomorrow. Breakfast's normally at eight, lunch at one, and dinner at seven-thirty. If it's delayed, she'll probably let you know. Guess you won't be at lunch with us, though."

"Thank you, Malfoy."

Draco rubbed his chin, considering.

"You know," Draco said after a moment's hesitation. "You should just call me Draco."

Ruth put the inkwell she was studying down, frowning—but he looked decided.

"Isn't that too casual?"

"Not at all. I just think—considering there are three Malfoys here, that'll make things easier, won't it. And I call you Ruth anyway, don't I?"

"Yes," she replied. "But that's because I don't have a surname."

"Treat this as repayment for the ice cream."

She really had to think for that, brows knitting.

"That doesn't make any sense."

"I paid for it," Draco said, pushing now. "So I get to decide what the repayment is. And I'd rather not have you calling me 'Lord Malfoy' by mistake."

He gave a little snort at the end.

This didn't make any sense.

"Fine," she relented. "We won't get into trouble, will we?"

Draco grinned, almost darkly.

"You won't have time to get into trouble. For three days, at least."

"How encouraging," Ruth said, weakly.

"Okay, I'm going to go back now," he declared, yawning. "My room's all the way on the other side. I think my door-serpent will bite you though, so knock first."

As he opened the door, Ruth called out to him.

"Good-night, Draco," she said, using his name like he'd demanded as repayment.

He looked pleased.

"Good-night, Ruth. Hope the tutor calls in sick tomorrow."

Over a light breakfast of bread with stew, Narcissa handed the packed schedule to her. Draco was reading a book on Quidditch, chewing on some snacks. He came over to take a look at the schedule. His resulting expression suggested he was preparing for Ruth's funeral. Lucius was absent from breakfast.

The tutor's name was Sofia Petkov. Sofia—or as Ruth was to address her, Madam Petkov—was a middle-aged lady who wore dark green robes. She wasted no time commencing the lessons.

The first item on the agenda was to gauge her reading abilities. She was given two excerpts, one in English, and another in Latin. Madam Petkov told her to read it aloud.

The Latin was simple—she couldn't understand every word, but the pronunciation came more naturally to her. She was able to guess at the gist of the text, though not all the words.

As for the English, it looked slightly different from the one she'd learned to read. For one, 'darkness' was spelled differently. Still, she did her best to read the whole thing. This one she understood perfectly, though her pronunciations tripped at certain points.

"You have some difficulty," Madam Petkov said. "But nothing glaring. A problem easily remedied by practice. Read twenty pages from A History of Magic, out loud, until you do not stumble. We will review them tomorrow."

Ruth slotted a piece of parchment into her copy of A History of Magic' starting from the first contents page. There were some pages with only pictures. She skipped those pages, counting twenty pages of dense wording exactly.

"Madam Petkov, pages four to thirty, correct?"

Madam Petkov gave her a strange look.

"Fine."

Writing was a challenge. They couldn't figure out her dominant hand, so she was told to use her right. The quill was proving to be impossible. Her hand wouldn't stop trembling and the instrument was too sensitive for her to write neatly.

They switched to pencil, and it went much smoother. Still ugly, but sufficient to go through the alphabet—Sofia was a little disgruntled, but Ruth picked it up in no time at all. Ruth copied it all down, albeit arduously.

"Each letter—both uppercase and lowercase—a hundred times before tomorrow. In pencil for now."

That made five thousand two hundred letters.

Ruth nodded. Her fingers felt all cramped and numb, but she wrote the homework down at the top of the parchment. It was aggravating—the way she held the lead with too much strength, tearing through the paper; the way it blunted so easily; the way it broke. It was still easier than the quill, which seemed to be determined to make her writing messy.

The wandwork section was much simpler. She held her wand in her left hand at first because her right hand was in such tremendous pain.

They went through the basics quickly.

Ruth felt some discomfort with Transfiguration, which focused on the alteration of the appearance and form of things. When Madam Petkov mentioned simply that it could also be cast on living things, she had to force herself not to grimace.

"Wingardium Leviosa," Madam Petkov cast with a swish of her wand.

Ruth watched the way her wand moved, comparing it to the diagram in her book. The Transfiguration book rose a little in the air. Then it thudded back to the table.

"Note the pronunciation. The movement of your wand."

Ruth pointed her wand at the feather on her desk.

Madam Petkov hadn't mentioned it, but she remembered Professor Snape's words: "Correct. Intent is the most important."

The feather that was on the desk—in the air instead—

"Wingardium Leviosa," Ruth cast, copying Madam Petkov's flourish exactly.

Her wand thrummed and the feather rose easily, as high as Ruth had imagined it, no more, no less.

Madam Petkov nodded. "Now try the book."

She swallowed.

Intent—

She cast.

The book floated in the air, just the same as Madam Petkov's had.

Madam Petkov was silent, scrawling something into a parchment.

"Miss Ruth," she said finally. "You are to attempt at least five other spells from the The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 by tomorrow. Is that understood?"

Now she turned to study Ruth, expecting—what was she expecting? Ruth couldn't figure it out. Wasn't the task simple enough?

Still, she was waiting for an answer.

"Understood, Madam Petkov. Is it Transfiguration next?"

Lucius wasn't at the table for dinner, either. It was just Narcissa, Draco, and Ruth again.

"You're not having the steak?" Draco asked, swallowing a bite of steak himself. "It's good, you know."

He'd noticed. She couldn't really feel her right hand, and didn't trust herself to cut the steak with finesse like she had yesterday.

"It's all right. I like the stew."

"If you say so," Draco said. "So how was today?"

Narcissa looked amused, looking up now. That was probably the question she was about to ask as well.

"It was okay," Ruth reported. "Aside from writing."

"Writing," Narcissa repeated.

"I was assigned practices for tonight. Tracing letters with a pencil. Madam Petkov said the quill would be a waste of time at my current level. Lady Malfoy, did Madam Petkov pass you the revised schedule?"

"Yes," Narcissa replied. "Sofia spoke…highly of you."

Ruth's mouth went dry. Narcissa wasn't the sort to compliment her falsely, she knew, but that didn't seem to be the case in class, nor by her own standards.

Narcissa raised an eyebrow.

"You do not believe it."

"I cannot write well, Lady Malfoy," Ruth admitted. "I understand most of the class assignments require writing."

"Then I assume you will correct it."

Ruth nodded, trying to flex her right hand again. She would.

"Did she give you a lot of homework," Draco asked, grumbling. "She used to make me copy letters. Twenty a time, seriously, as though three hours with her wasn't enough."

Amusement again on Narcissa's face.

"And now your handwriting is perfect, isn't it, Draco?"

"Well, yes, but her classes really were horrible, Mother!"

"Shall I tell Sofia, then?"

"No!" Draco sputtered, then looked to Ruth. "Anyway, did she?"

"Yes."

"Was it a lot?"

"Twenty pages from A History of Magic—to read aloud. A hundred copies of each letter, both upper and lowercase. And at least five spells from the Charms book…" she trailed off. "Oh, Lady Malfoy, will that be okay?"

Draco and Narcissa had stopped eating.

"Yes," Narcissa replied after a beat. "So long as you don't set the room on fire."

"I won't. Thank you. I have to go start on the writing," she stood, bowing to both of them. "And thank you for dinner, Draco, Lady Malfoy."

She decided to start with the spell list first. Shaking her right hand, she walked into the adjacent room.

"Just five spells," she recalled. She looked at the list of spells. Not too tough, as Madam Petkov had listed them during her lecture.

There were some spells that were clear counters of another spell, like she'd mentioned.

Lumos—the wand-lighting charm.

Nox—the wand-extinguishing charm.

She still had a little trouble reading 'extinguishing', but the incantation was simply 'Nox', fortunately.

Colloportus—the locking charm.

Alohamora—the unlocking charm.

Strangely, while 'Colloportus' sounded like Latin, 'Alohamora' did not. The book did not state much about the meaning of the words.

Then she stopped at the one she already knew by heart:

Incendio—the fire-making spell.

She put a rolled-up parchment—one of her failures from writing earlier—on the ground. Then she put her wand in her aching right hand.

Just like Professor Snape had done—

"Incendio," she cast, mimicking his flourish without looking the charm up in the book.

Her wand almost growled in response, the jet of flames precisely hitting the parchment just enough for it to catch on fire. Nothing more.

"One down," she said, watching the paper burn. She repeated again: "Intent is the most important."

Colloportus and Alohamora were all right, perhaps owing to her lockpicking skills. She tried Colloportuson the door, and it held. Then she used Alohamora on it, and it opened again.

She realised belatedly she probably should not have cast Colloportus if she wasn't certain if she could cast Alohamora. Still, it worked. She also tried Alohamora on the lock that was siting in her trunk. That succeeded too, though she felt she would've done it faster with a lockpick.

She had a bit of difficulty with Lumos and Nox, at first. The book suggested that it was easy to set your wand on fire if you didn't cast properly. And she hadn't another seven Galleons to spare.

Just as she was going to decide on two different spells to try instead, Draco came in.

She looked up.

"Want a chocolate frog?" Draco asked, holding out a little box. "What are you doing?"

She rejected the chocolate frog, but accepted the cards he seemed to want to get rid of.

"I'm having trouble with Lumos."

Draco blinked. "Lumos?"

"Yes. I don't know how it's supposed to look like."

"That's easy. Wait a bit."

Putting the chocolate frog boxes aside, Draco drew his own wand. He gave it a good swish for flair.

Then he cast: "Lumos!"

The tip of his wand started to give a whitish glow. He held it out for her to see.

It was rather warm, almost humming.

"Now for the extinguishing charm." He gave a good flick: "Nox."

The light went out.

She tried it herself now.

"Lumos." Easy, like he said. "Nox."

He was smiling widely. "See? Easy."

"Thank you, Draco," Ruth said, finally putting her wand away.

"Oh, don't mention it," Draco waved her gratitude away. "Try a chocolate frog? I'm trying to get Morgan Le Fay and Circe from this series. Maybe you'll be lucky."

The chocolate frog, as it turned out, actually croaked like a frog.

That wasn't all.

She nearly dropped the box while dodging the frog's immediate lunge towards her face.

"Christ—" she caught the frog with her left hand, holding the box with her right, nearly ending up flat on the floor. "Draco, you could've warned me!"

"Merlin—your face!" Draco was doubled-over with laughter. "It's just a frog—a chocolate frog. Eat it before it gets away again."

She did, which felt almost inhumane. She felt a bit ill.

"It's trying to escape," she groaned between each bite. "It's trying to escape, Draco—"

"That's normal! It's just a chocolate frog! Just chew it and gulp it down."

She did, against her better judgement. She could almost hear its croaks as it went down.

When Draco recovered, he took the box from her.

"Ruth! You got one of the ones I wanted." He showed it to her. "It's Morgan Le Fay."

There was a little moving picture of a red-haired woman. She even gave them a little wave, though her expression was neutral.

"You should have it," Ruth said, still queasy. "You gave me a few, anyway. And I'm not so sure about these frogs."

"Chocolate frogs," Draco corrected. "It was tasty though, isn't it?"

"It was," Ruth admitted guiltily.

"All right. You done with your homework already? I'm guessing not."

She picked up the Charms textbook. "I've got the uppercase letters left. And the twenty pages."

Draco frowned. "Bummer. You need help with the reading?"

"I wouldn't want to trouble you," Ruth said. "It's twenty pages."

"It's fine. I've nothing to do, anyway. Mother was saying that she'd speak to Madam Petkov, get your workload decreased a little."

Ruth turned at that. "What? Why?"

"Because it's too much, that's why. I thought you were eating funny—I didn't think you'd hurt your right hand from writing! That's too much, even for Madam Petkov."

"But I am bad at writing, look." She handed him the parchment she'd been working on—copies of 'q's, lined up in a row. They were all ugly—slanted, crooked, the loop too big. The paper was torn under some of the letters as well. "Anyway, I can still use my left hand. It's fine."

"You're insane," Draco said, sincerely, without fear. "Look, A History of Magic is easy for me. I'll read you the first few pages—I've got my copy here already."

Ruth tried to read him as he sat casually on the bench, already eating another chocolate frog.

"Come on," Draco said. Then his voice shifted to mock serious: "Now, class, turn to page four."

She opened her book to page four.

"Thanks, Draco."

"Like I said," he said, looking very proud indeed, "no problem at all. Get me Circe next time."

The next day, they spent more time on writing and reading than they did on spells—Incendio, in particular, managed to crack Madam Petkov's normally calm demeanour.

The twenty pages were fine, particularly thanks to Draco, who'd explained some of the unfamiliar vocabulary to her. It took a while, but she completed it without stumbling. The writing was much tougher, and it was plain to see. Madam Petkov examined all of the fifty-two parchments—each filled to the brim with ugly, forceful letters—without a word.

Ruth stood there, waiting, hands held behind her back.

"This is not a problem that can be solved in three days," Madam Petkov said. "Still, you wrote the uppercase letters last."

"Yes."

"You can barely write in print. Your peers will be writing in cursive."

"Yes."

"Your homework for today will be to copy the first ten pages of A History of Magic. Then one parchment worth of writing documenting the five spells you practised yesterday."

That was fine, but Madam Petkov continued.

"With your right hand." Madam Petkov looked at her, serious. "Is that doable, or not?"

Ruth flexed her right hand.

"The second assignment is doable. May I use my left hand for the first one?"

"Five pages, each hand."

Ruth nodded.

"You will need your hands tomorrow. If you cannot finish it, then do not. You are not my usual student."

It sounded like an apology.

More importantly, they were covering Potions and Herbology today.

However, the Herbology book turned out to be an even tougher read than A History of Magic. There were, as to be expected, many names of magical plants and fungi she did not recognise. That meant she had a thousand new plants and fungi to not just learn to read, but more than that—to recognise. And connect them to their use in Potions. That wasn't even counting the various animal parts that were used in potions. She didn't recognise the animals either.

The reason for the dragon hide gloves, she learned, was to protect her fingers from a variety of threats, such as plants hungry for human flesh, caustic substances, and cauldron explosions, which were beginning to sound common.

"Mind that you will be brewing in a full class of students," Madam Petkov said. "Watch your partner's cauldron if you value your safety, and the cauldrons of the rest of your class, if you are able."

She was introduced to the basics—cauldron stirring posture, heat adjustment techniques, precision in measuring. As she brewed the basic cure for boils, Madam Petkov spoke of common errors, which were all stated in the book, if you read closely enough—which Ruth was already planning to do. Although the difficulty of getting through all eight books was starting to sink in.

And that wasn't even considering the main trouble she was bound to have: Writing. Note-taking. Essays.

That night she wrote until her hands ached, but didn't push them to numbness. As expected, copying was far easier than writing her own words. The letters often turned out mirrored, the words misspelled, her mind going far faster than her writing. And this was with a pencil—not even with a quill. Copying was far easier—quicker, neater, and far less taxing.

She wrote simply about the five spells she'd practised, adding how Draco helped her with Lumos and Nox. Written like a cold report. But almost illegible, she thought, to anyone but her. It was poked through at some points and had cancellations and eraser marks all over.

The copy, on the other hand, was at least arguably legible. There were little holes, too, but not to the point where she had to stop using the eraser.

Today she was to attempt two spells from the Defence Against the Dark Arts book before they covered it in more detail tomorrow. They'd decided on Flipendo and Fumos.

"You had no trouble with Incendio and Lumos. These should prove simple to you, as will Transfiguration."

While Ruth indeed found Flipendo and Fumos not particularly hard to cast, she was not so optimistic about Transfiguration. She'd flipped to a random page of her Transfiguration book.

"Mice to…" Ruth squinted, "snuffboxes. Actual mice."

She closed the book instead, a little shaken.

Though her hands were trembling, she held her pencil in the position she'd been taught, and continued to practise.

The morning of the third day, Ruth found herself hoping Madam Petkov would really call in sick, because she had Flying first thing after breakfast.

During breakfast, Draco walked in with two brooms, grinning madly.

"This one's recommended for beginners," he said, tossing one broom to her. "Much better than the school brooms, I'm told."

"Thank you," Ruth said, already sick. "Why are there two brooms?"

"Obviously I'm going to help you," Draco said, gloating. "I'm a great flier!"

She believed him, but thought he must be mad to enjoy flying on cleaning equipment. It just wasn't right. She was interested in seeing him fly—he clearly loved it—but that didn't change her dread.

Her revulsion must've been obvious—at least to Narcissa, because she was watching with mild interest.

"You remind me of a certain someone," she commented, almost smiling. "I expect you'll do fine despite your…reservations."

She phrased it like a compliment, but it couldn't be one. When it was time, she gripped her broom grimly and left the room with Draco.

"I've been wondering," Draco mused, "the first time you came to the manor, you and Professor Snape Apparated in, didn't you?"

"Yes," Ruth confirmed. Her stomach seemed to be descending faster than the stairs.

"You didn't look ill, then," he was smirking. "You certainly look ill now, though."

"Yes," Ruth confirmed again. She briefly considered skipping, but she was expected to do fine. And she hadn't a license for apparition.

"You look like you're going to Azkaban," Draco said, grinning.

"Azkaban," she repeated. That must be Wizard Hell.

Flying was as bad as she thought it'd be.

To his credit, Draco zipped in the air on his broom with an easy confidence befitting of his words. During his demonstration, Madam Petkov told him off for his grip—but even it wasn't a big problem. He insisted that it let him go faster, and Madam Petkov didn't disagree with that.

"Standard grip, Mr Malfoy," she said simply. "You are here to demonstrate."

He reverted to standard grip.

Madam Petkov said brooms could detect fear, so you had to be confident when calling it up. But when Ruth called, it simply followed her instructions, despite the fact she wanted nothing more than to stay on solid ground like any sane person would. Draco was busy doing figure eights in the sky.

"Your grip—like so. Straighten your back. Whenever you're ready."

She didn't feel ready, but she wanted to get it over with.

She shot off the ground, hands gripped tight on the broom.

Oh, she didn't like this at all.

She hovered near the third floor as she'd been told.

"Three laps around the manor," Madam Petkov reminded. "Mr Malfoy, watch her!"

"Clean takeoff. You look—," he broke off, grinning. "Never mind. Absolutely wrecked."

"Three laps," Ruth managed weakly. "Let's go."

She leaned forward, speeding up. The sooner this was done with, the better. Even if she had to turn mice into snuffboxes for the rest of today, at least that would be on safe, solid ground.

Draco no longer hid it now, laughing in hiccups. "You look like you're being chased by a Dementor!"

She hadn't the headspace to repeat whatever he just said. Probably a flying demon of some sort.

When they had completed the laps, Draco landed with poise first, and she tried her best to emulate his grace. Once her left foot hit the ground, though, she almost collapsed with relief.

"You fly real fast," Draco said, impressed. "I think you could play Quidditch!"

Whatever that was, his tone suggested that she would not enjoy it.

"Madam Petkov," her vision was terribly wobbly. "When are we allowed to learn apparition?"

"When you turn seventeen."

"I see."

Narcissa sat in for the practical half of Defence.

"Flipendo!" Ruth cast cleanly.

There was a loud bang. Then the dummy flipped across the room and slammed against the wall.

"Of all the spells you've learned so far," Narcissa asked suddenly, "which do you find most difficult?"

Ruth thumbed her wand. "Alohamora, for its incantation."

Narcissa nodded. "Alohamora. Why?"

"It doesn't sound Latin, like Incendio or Lumos. Flipendo I think is English. But Alohamora doesn't feel like the opposite of Colloportus. Even if they're taught like they are."

"Explain," Narcissa prompted.

"Alohamora unlocks more than just doors. Unlike Colloportus. Something with Aperto and Portus in its incantation—I think that'd be the true counter-charm for Colloportus."

"Sofia," Narcissa said. "What do you think?"

"It is accurate. Alohamora, with its more general usage, has subsumed other charms, and most wizards do not concern themselves with minutiae." Madam Petkov tapped her finger on the parchment detailing Ruth's report on the five charms she'd attempted. "Miss Ruth. You wrote that you felt resistance using Alohamora to unlock a door locked with Colloportus."

"It wasn't as smooth as Lumos to Nox," Ruth replied. "Though I wondered why the incantation was Lumosrather than Lux."

Narcissa studied her carefully.

"You are certainly like him," she said finally.

The same person who disliked flying, Ruth thought. But Narcissa's words were deliberately vague.

"I expect you to keep to the textbook spells." There was a ghost of a smile on Narcissa's face. Then she added: "For now."

Ruth wasn't planning to try new spells anyway—she had her hands full with trying to write properly. And soon with transfiguring. Still, Narcissa was waiting for a reply.

"Yes, Lady Malfoy."

Narcissa nodded, standing to leave.

"Lucius will be back later tonight. He will want to check in with you."

The quick lecture on Defence was understandable, although alarming, as there were many magical creatures that required defending against.

The problem arose, as she expected, with Transfiguration.

Madam Petkov introduced it as a 'scientifically rigorous' discipline, but the formula she'd pointed to on the book didn't make things any more acceptable.

To change what an object was.

Ruth followed the lesson fine. When Madam Petkov gave her questions, she could answer, but when it came to casting the spell...

They started with the match-to-needle spell.

She copied exactly what Madam Petkov did, down to the incantation. It was Latin-based, so it wasn't very tough. But when she cast, she already knew it'd fail.

The match sat there, unchanged.

Even Madam Petkov was puzzled. "Try again."

She did, trying to picture a needle in her mind. But it was wrong, wasn't it?

"Acufors," she cast again.

The match did not budge.

"Again," Madam Petkov said, without her usual coldness. "Theory-wise, you are on track. As for the spell, many first years will struggle with a perfect transformation. But for it to not change at all…"

She looked at Ruth, ready to continue—perhaps with a stern scolding or punishment, but Ruth was already looking at the formula on her book like it'd give her answers. She cast again, and it did not work. There was nothing wrong with her casting, but she already knew the problem.

"Intent is the most important."

She would figure it out.

"Madam Petkov," Ruth said, looking at the match, which was just a match. "Could we move on to Astronomy first? I will work on this later until I succeed."

Astronomy was all right—they didn't stare up at the sky, since it was still daytime, but Ruth had no difficulty with the knobs and focus. It seemed like a rather dry subject, just like History, and not very practical, to boot. As long as she spent enough time reading, she thought they were reasonable. Madam Petkov mentioned that Astronomy was important to understand as some magical phenomena could be influenced by it, such as Potions and Divination.

"First year Astronomy is foundational," Madam Petkov explained. "But most spells and potions in first year are simple enough that they are hardly affected by the positions of astronomical bodies. Still, Mrs Malfoy expects you to perform in every subject, regardless of interest or difficulty."

As Narcissa said, Lucius was at dinner that night. His presence, though quiet, was commanding, heavy in the room.

After everyone else had taken their first bites, she cut into her steak and ate as well.

"You will be staying until term starts," Lucius said, "as I mentioned in Severus' presence. Pity he couldn't join us today. Some matters to settle at Hogwarts, I understand."

It no longer sounded provisional, as it had on the first night. He sounded almost pleased with himself, looking at her with a faint smile.

Nothing had markedly changed about his tone or gaze.

"Tell me, Ruth," he continued. "How have you found your time at the manor?"

"I learned a lot," she replied, voice even. "Some subjects are harder than others, but I will manage. I know what to work on for the month. Draco has been a great help."

"Draco," Lucius repeated mildly—no approval, no correction. Just evaluation. "I expect no less from him—but you are not merely flattering my son, are you?"

"No, Lord Malfoy."

Draco looked confused at first, but now he beamed. He cut his steak, glowing with pride, keeping an eye on the conversation.

"Now, do you have any questions for me?"

He had his hands crossed on the table, but did not look particularly stern. This was a test. She swallowed, putting her utensils down.

To prove her worth.

"One, Lord Malfoy."

Lucius had been gone for too long. Yet his regard of her had remained precisely the same.

"Does the uncertainty of my blood disappoint you, Lord Malfoy?"

Narcissa set her glass down, the soft clink resounding in the silence.

Lucius let the silent stretch between them.

Draco stopped chewing, holding his knife at a plainly uncomfortable angle.

"If I were disappointed," Lucius said finally, "you would not be seated at this table."

The tension was gone. Draco exhaled, clearly relieved. Ruth finally moved her hands; they'd been still on the table throughout.

Now Lucius looked to Narcissa, inclining his glass toward her—as though passing a sceptre to her.

"As you are aware, you will be doing self-study for the rest of the month," Narcissa said. "Which I expect you will not neglect."

"I won't, Lady Malfoy."

"There is a duelling room in the basement of the manor. You are only allowed to use magical means—no physical contact—when duelling."

It was clear that Draco's steak would be half-eaten for a while now, as he stopped again to look up in confusion.

"Tomorrow night, in the duelling room, against me," Narcissa offered. "Do you accept?"

Draco's mouth was open, as though he wanted to protest, but he said nothing.

Narcissa was asking genuinely—she wouldn't bristle if Ruth rejected. But Ruth already had her answer in mind.

"Yes, Lady Malfoy."

Narcissa smiled in response, pleased.

"Now, eat up," she said, looking between Ruth and Draco. "The both of you. Cold steak isn't very palatable."

"I can't believe you just accepted Mother's challenge like that!"

Draco was lounging on a chair while Ruth tried the Acufors spell again, illustrated Quidditch book on his lap. He'd demonstrated the spell for her, easily—his needle was gleaming proudly on the floor next to her match. There was another he'd failed at, a little strange-looking. He wanted to throw it away, but she kept it in her pocket instead.

"Acufors!"

Still nothing—she knew she was rushing, out of impatience. But it was worth another try.

She'd need a different approach before the match would even twitch.

She kept the matches and Draco's perfect needle aside, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

"Why?"

"Why?" Draco repeated in disbelief. "You're not underestimating my mother, are you? She's an accomplished duellist, you know."

She had guessed that Narcissa was highly-skilled. Her composure didn't just come from posturing. She didn't see why that was a problem—if she was skilled, that meant that Ruth could learn a lot from her, and she wouldn't be killed on accident. Unless…

Ruth looked up at him, eyebrow raised. "Isn't it better to duel an accomplished duellist? I don't believe she plans on killing me, does she?"

"No!" Draco put his book on the table. "Why is that your first concern, anyway? What spells do you even know?"

"Useful spells…Wingardium Leviosa, Incendio, Flipendo, Lumos, Nox, and Fumos."

"Lumos and Nox? How are they useful?" He shook his head. "You're going to be beaten to a pulp!"

She frowned.

"But physical contact isn't allowed, right?"

He choked at that, probably imagining his mother beating Ruth up with fists.

"No, no," he managed. "I mean I'm pretty sure you won't stand a chance. Father told me to watch, but…hey, tell you what: Why don't we take a look at the duelling room? At least you'd know what the layout of the place is like."

"Oh, but will we get into trouble for that?"

"It's not out-of-bounds," Draco said. "And you're going to be duelling my mother anyway."

The duelling room was larger than Ruth thought. There were four stone pillars adorned with torches and many crates and barrels stacked about the place. The chandelier here was made of some kind of dark metal, hung on chains. At each side of the room, there were faintly glowing wards protecting elevated platforms with benches.

Draco leaned against one of the benches, watching Ruth examine the place. She tapped the crates, ducked around pillars, squinting, trying to figure out good hiding spots.

"Have you duelled your mother before, Draco?"

"No," Draco admitted. "I don't really want to, either…Maybe when we've learned Protego and Expelliarmus at least."

Ruth checked the torches, pacing around the room. There was cover, but that meant Narcissa would have the same. She'd have to make use of the environment very carefully. No physical contact, but hiding and observing and dodging—that wasn't new to her.

"I've duelled Goyle and Crabbe, though," Draco continued. "It's easier to duel on a duelling table—this place is too cluttered for me. Won either way, but that's Goyle and Crabbe—oh, they're going to come on Thursday. First-year, like us."

For talking about people Narcissa had previously referred to as his friends, he didn't sound particularly thrilled.

"You don't sound like you like them much."

Draco flinched. "Oh. Well, they're…they listen to me."

Ruth didn't press. She said simply: "I'll see them on Thursday."

"Yes," Draco mumbled, quiet now. "I guess you will."

Lucius stood with hands braced on his cane at the platform. Draco was next to him, hands in his pockets, not slouching—perhaps out of interest, or the pressure from his father.

"No physical contact," Narcissa said, posture utterly still, facing Ruth. Her wand was drawn. "If you concede, simply drop your wand. The duel ends if one of us is disarmed, or otherwise in a compromised position. Any questions?"

"May I make use of the things here, like the crates and torches?"

"Certainly," Narcissa replied. "Though I expect you to exercise caution."

"Then, I'm ready."

"I will not hold back, and neither should you," Narcissa warned. "Now hold your wand in front of you. Bow. We will begin once Lucius gives us the signal."

Ruth held her wand in front of her, bowing, copying Narcissa's movements.

Then they faced each other, Narcissa in a practised stance, Ruth almost crouching, wand at the ready.

"Begin," Lucius announced.

Narcissa raised her wand high, straight, and then sharply moved it down, into an effortless swirl.

Ruth read it before it was even complete. This spell would come directly at her—

"Expelliarmus!"

Ruth dodged the blaze of scarlet light that shot straight at her, casting in return as she rolled on the ground, wand hand steady: "Flipendo!"

Narcissa sliced her wand straight down: "Protego!"

The blast of Flipendo bounced off an invisible shield, the light shimmering as it did.

Something rumbling in the air—

A jagged Z-shaped cast, which shouldn't have looked as elegant as Narcissa managed: "Confringo!"

That didn't sound good. Ruth was already on her feet, jumping behind a pillar.

The heat from the blast warmed her skin. She crouched.

There was a large crash and boom behind her. The spell had exploded several crates and barrels behind her, sending debris flying. She held her head down until it was still.

Ruth scrambled to her feet.

"Fumos!"

As the fog kicked in, she aimed at the torch above her, on the pillar: "Flipendo!"

The torch flew upwards, striking the stone ceiling and going out with a hiss. One down.

She ducked behind crates and pillars, putting out each torch with a well-aimed Flipendo. One, then another.

An Expelliarmus nearly singed her cheek as she put out one torch near Narcissa.

One left—

She narrowly avoided a Stupefy, nearly rolling into a crate.

The torches were all out.

Now she leapt into the open, casting the last Flipendo at the chandelier—

Narcissa cast, seeing the opening: "Verdimillious Tria!"

A lightning-like array of green sparks shot straight towards Ruth's right shoulder.

She was too open to dodge. The crackling spell had stung madly—She couldn't feel her right arm. But her fingers still held tightly onto her wand, white-knuckled.

The duel was still on.

She took the wand in her left hand. Dragging her useless right arm with her, she quickly ducked behind the closest pillar.

She was successful, at least. The candles on the chandelier had all gone out from the movement. Now the only light in the room came from the faintly glowing wards at the platforms.

She would get used to the darkness faster than Narcissa, having snuck around often at night. It was a reasonable bet. Once her vision adapted enough, she crept behind the pillars and crates, along the wall, closing in on Narcissa.

Narcissa whipped around.

"Lumos!" Ruth cast, willing it to flare. The tip of her wand burst into light. She closed her eyes as Narcissa winced, a half-second too slow.

"Nox!" Ruth then cast again, this one coming naturally to her, wand already roaring: "Incendio!"

"Protego!"

The flames flared harmlessly off the conjured shield.

Narcissa was already casting again: "Expelliarmus!"

Ruth dodged as Narcissa aimed another red bolt at her.

Left hand ready, she cast again: "Wingardium Leviosa!"

The torch that had rolled over to Narcissa's feet shot straight up into the air. Narcissa took a step back. She moved her wand sharply down again—the shield charm? But she did not chant this time. Had she faltered?

One more—

"Flipendo!"

She cast it on the torch, trying to make it slam into Narcissa.

Narcissa raised her arm again, casting quicker now—the straight slash into the tight curl—

"Expelliarmus!" Without pausing, she sliced straight down again into: "Protego!"

The torch bounced harmlessly off the shield. Not a beat later, Narcissa's Expelliarmus hit her square in the left hand. Her wand flew out of her hand, and she turned to watch, wincing already.

"Accio."

Her wand snapped into Narcissa's free hand before it could hit the wall.

She'd lost cleanly.

Ruth wanted to stand, but fatigue crashed over her in waves. Her limbs felt heavy, and now her right arm was throbbing. She'd never cast so many spells in such quick succession before.

Narcissa offered a hand. She took it, trembling, bracing against the pillar, heaving. Narcissa looked nowhere near as winded as Ruth felt.

"Now, bow."

They bowed to each other. Narcissa offered her a green potion. Ruth recognised it immediately—Wiggenweld. She drank it gratefully, and her arm didn't hurt so badly anymore.

Lucius was unreadable, hands crossed, watching them. Next to him, Draco's eyes were so wide she thought they might hurt.

"Why didn't you use the spells I used?" Narcissa asked. "You knew the incantation and motion of Protegoonce I cast it."

"You said I should stick to the spells in my textbook, Lady Malfoy."

Narcissa nodded. "Correct. And do you agree?"

Ruth considered this.

"Yes. Unless I don't have any other choice. It's risky to try a new spell in combat without knowing what it does."

Narcissa nodded again. "You were trying to win."

Ruth blinked. "Was that not the goal?"

"It was." Narcissa smiled sincerely now. "We will duel again on Thursday, when Draco's friends come over. And every Saturday, if you accept."

Narcissa held out Ruth's wand, hilt-first.

"Of course," Ruth said, accepting her wand. "Lady Malfoy."

After the duel, Ruth decided to open the little chocolate frog boxes Draco had left on her table as encouragement after they'd scouted the duelling room. Although she felt rather inhumane for eating them, they were, like Draco'd said, tasty. She ate as she read Magical Theory, one hand on the sentence, one hand on the frog.

By the third box, she could now catch the frog before it hopped into her face. She put the frog in her mouth and looked at the card.

"Circe," she read as the frog croaked its last croak.

That was the one Draco said he wanted. The clock read ten-fifteen. If Draco had wanted to come, he'd have visited already.

He did tell her where his room was, though. All the way at the other side, he'd said.

She pulled on a coat and headed out, the Circe card in her pocket.

The door-serpent Draco had was silver too. There were gleaming green gems fitted on the door at certain points. The arrangement seemed deliberate, but she couldn't figure it out.

She knocked three times, firmly, on the door.

No reply. He might've fallen asleep, she thought.

She knocked again, more insistently this time.

"Draco?"

He didn't sleep this early. But the lights downstairs were all out—she'd noted on the way here.

"Draco, are you in there?"

She pressed her ear against the door. The serpent coiled, circling her. She ignored it, trying to listen for anything, but didn't hear anything.

It wasn't likely that Draco would've fainted or anything—he was well-fed and sprightly to boot.

Still, though, she'd rather be safe than sorry.

She reached for the handle. The serpent hissed. It was unlikely to be fatal, she told herself. She put her hand on the doorknob, bracing for the bite as she turned it—

The door slammed open. No bite.

Draco stood there, holding the door.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

His words hadn't any bite, either. He was frowning, clearly exasperated.

"Oh, you're okay," Ruth said, relieved. "That's good."

He ran his hand through his hair, unable to look her in the eye.

"Obviously I'm okay, why wouldn't I be…" He bit his lip. "Why are you here?"

She fumbled in her coat for the card.

"Did you come to rub it in?" He blurted.

She blinked, hand on the card in her pocket.

"Rub what in?"

"Forget it," he said, fiddling with the handle. "Come in. Isn't it cold? That coat isn't even that warm, why didn't you take a thicker one…"

She entered, him closing the door behind her, still looking very troubled.

His room was much bigger than hers, stocked full of things—brooms, books, snacks, and more. His desk was next to the door, coat hung on the chair. He'd just been sitting there. He must've heard her the whole time.

Then why…

Oh. She must've messed up during the duel somehow. Maybe she'd gone too far, throwing that Incendio spell at his mother. She hadn't thought about that. He didn't want her here.

Ruth put the chocolate card on the table.

"It's Circe. The one you were missing," she said quickly.

He picked the card up. Then he moved to the corner of his room where a cupboard was, took out a folio, and flipped to an empty page. He slotted the Circe card in without a word.

"Sorry for disturbing you," Ruth said. "I'll—"

"No, you're not!" Draco cut her off. He kept the folio and walked over. "Disturbing me, I mean. Just—Just sit down or something."

She did as she was told. His copy of Magical Drafts and Potions was open on his desk, annotated in beautiful, flowing cursive. His quill and inkwell sat next to it. And she was still couldn't even manage to write with a pencil, she thought, sighing. He stayed a little away from her, running his hand across his bookshelves.

"How do you do it?" He asked quietly, not facing her.

She looked over at him, but he wasn't facing her. His fist was trembling.

"Do what?"

"You held your own against my mother."

"I lost," she said.

"Of course you lost! We're eleven. You lost, but," he turned to face her, "my mother went all out, you know. She even praised you at the end, asked for another duel. And when you did that Lumos-Nox-Incendio chain, my father, he actually looked pleased—he was smiling—and I was just telling you yesterday that Lumos and Nox weren't going to be useful in a duel!"

She swallowed.

"And you even switched hands—I didn't catch it because the lights all went out, but you were using your left hand at the end, weren't you. That green lightning spell hit your right arm—it was dangling at the end."

"I did," she confirmed, fidgeting with the coat pockets. "Lady Malfoy's Verdimillious Tria stung my right arm. I was exposed when I put out the chandelier."

She'd seen this enough to know where this was going, but she sat quietly, waiting for him to respond.

"I would've conceded," he admitted quietly. "I wouldn't have made it as far as you. Mother wouldn't have been proud of me—much less Father. You can't write, and you practise until your hand goes numb enough you can't cut steak. You can barely read but you already know spell theory, already memorised the cure of boils, haven't you? You're—"

"If you hate me," she said, softly, "I'll go."

"What?" His voice cracked.

"I'll ask Lord Malfoy tomorrow."

He was slack-jawed. "About what?"

"Professor Snape said I was to be sent to the Leaky Cauldron anyway," she explained. "This is your home. I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"No!" Draco's face was red now, like he was going to cry. "That place is horrid. We have space here. Like I said! And we do."

"Well," she said calmly, "that was before I did all that."

"I already knew you were weird," Draco muttered. "You didn't do anything."

Ruth frowned. She clearly did, if not he wouldn't be so bothered. She'd gone too far.

"I did. I understand, so—"

"You don't. And don't bring up the Leaky Cauldron again," Draco interjected. "You told Father that I was a great help, but really. That was just because you're not even a week into this…whole magic thing. You're a Muggle-born—no, Muggle-raised."

"I wasn't lying. You were a great help," she said, truly confused now. "Why does whether I'm Muggle-raised or not matter? Are you disappointed that Lord Malfoy said he didn't know if I'm a pure-blood?"

"Why are you so bloody dense?" Draco grumbled. "Merlin's beard, Ruth. You're usually so quick."

"I don't get it," she admitted. "If I did something wrong, just tell me. I'll fix it."

"Fix it? You don't have to fix anything," Draco sighed. He steeled himself now, fists clenched by his sides, exhaling. "You're so weird. Be honest. Don't you think I'm pathetic?"

"No. Why would I?"

"You're a week-old wizard and you're already better at duelling than me."

"Didn't you beat Crabbe and Goyle? You said something like that."

"Sure I did. But twenty Crabbes and Goyles wouldn't beat you," Draco said bluntly. "I'd lose terribly against you. I just know it."

"Then we can practise," she suggested. "Until you can beat me."

"What?"

"Is that the problem?" She tried again. "I can teach you. We used to sneak around a lot, back in Ashbrook. We stole a whole roast turkey once. You always had to watch your surroundings, you know. Never know if a stray dog would rat you out."

"What in Merlin's name are you on about? Roast turkey?"

"I think I only surprised Lady Malfoy because she's not used to fighting someone who's used to using daggers and the like. So I can teach you, if you want."

Draco laughed weakly. "What, you're not even bothered. Now I feel stupid."

She asked again: "So you don't hate me?"

Draco looked at her, incredulous. "No, I don't hate you. "

Ruth exhaled, relieved. He was serious. She was just weird, then. She could live with that.

Then she corrected him: "And you're not stupid, Draco. You've been a great help. Really."

Draco reddened now, stomping over to the door.

"Okay, that's enough," he said, opening the door.

She stood to leave. At the door, she turned.

"And Draco, I know you told me not to talk about it, but if I ever make you uncomfortable—"

"Nothing about the bloody Leaky Cauldon," he said sternly. "I won't hear of it."

"But—"

"If you really feel sorry, then make sure you teach me how to steal a roast turkey," he said. "And fly with me tomorrow."

She grimaced, but relented. "Okay. Sure."

"Thanks for Circe," Draco said, awkwardly but sincerely. "Good-night, Ruth."

"You gave me the chocolate frogs. But you're welcome. Good-night, Draco."

She felt his gaze on her as she walked back to her room.

With an unsteady hand, she drew out the pattern of gems she'd seen on his door. She'd check tomorrow what it meant.

At least he didn't hate her. She had been so sure of it, too.

And she had to figure out how to teach Draco how to steal a roast turkey. And fly with him tomorrow.

She didn't dread it as much as she thought she should.

Chapter Text

In the days before Draco's friends came over, paper was Ruth's greatest enemy. She spent hours buried in her books. Everything was challenging. 

For example, Draco was breezing through them, but it was arduous work for her to get through One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi and Magical Drafts and Potions. Every time she got to a new page in the former, she'd look up if the ingredient was used in any potion in the latter, trying to sift out ingredient properties. And that was while trying to figure out new words every few sentences. It was hard work.

Then there was writing. She didn't poke quite as many holes in the parchments anymore, but her handwriting was still atrocious. And this was with pencil. Since most assignments at Hogwarts had to be done with quill, she'd have to speed things up, or she'd be getting straight Trolls for her penciled work, and that was unacceptable.

She left actual Transfiguration casting aside, hoping to allocate time to it after all the other subjects had been settled. She still read the book alongside 'Magical Theory', but she knew she'd still have trouble with content.

Some days, she flew with Draco, who always asked her to throw a little ball from the sky for him to zoom and catch it. She wasn't half-bad at flying, according to Draco. He'd set up floating rings in the backyard, so they could pass and throw balls through it. Despite the exposure, she never got comfortable with flying. At least Draco explained to her what Azkaban and Dementors were. She was pretty confident that she'd survive Flying classes at Hogwarts, so long as the other students were reasonably well-behaved.

She added a few more spells to her repertoire, from her textbook. Mostly, though, she focused on the few that had already been tried-and-tested. 

Her days were filled, for better or for worse.

Draco's friends came over Thursday morning, like he'd said. Draco went to get them from the reception hall, Ruth following close behind. They were two very large boys, dull-looking, but mostly quiet at least.

"The rounder one's Crabbe—Vincent Crabbe," Draco said, pointing. "The bulkier one is Gregory Goyle. Just call them Crabbe and Goyle."

Crabbe was indeed more rotund, with a bowlcut to top it off. Goyle was larger than she'd thought an eleven-year old could be, with short, clean-shaven hair. Next to them, Draco looked like a sharp knife, narrow and polished.

"Good morning, Malfoy," they said together.

"Morning," Draco said, looking uncomfortable. "Crabbe, Goyle. This is Ruth."

The two of them glanced to her, sizing her up.

"She's a guest here, so treat her as such."

They didn't question him, but neither did they seem convinced. They walked to the dining hall, where Lucius and Narcissa were already seated.

"Good morning, Mr Malfoy. Mrs Malfoy."

She supposed they had good manners, at the very least. Crabbe and Goyle sat next to Draco, opposite Ruth. She assumed her seat next to Narcissa.

"I trust your friends have been informed of the duel happening this morning," Lucius said as the food came in.

"Yes, father." Draco nodded.

Crabbe was already staring at the food. Goyle was doing his best not to.

"Eat lightly," Narcissa said to Ruth as their plates were set. "I do not intend to go easy on you."

"Yes, Lady Malfoy."

Goyle turned to Crabbe, who was looking uneasily towards Lucius to see if he could start eating. Then he turned to Draco, whispering, not softly: "She's duelling Mrs Malfoy?"

"Yes," Draco confirmed. "Eat already so we won't be late. Come on."

As they entered the duelling room, the chandeliers and torches, back in their original positions, lit up. The debris from the broken crates had been cleared, though the crates hadn't been replaced.

Crabbe nearly tripped over a loose tile as he walked to the platform, too distracted by his snacks. Goyle steadied him, but Draco didn't turn back at all. He was all tense, hurrying to join his father next to the benches. Crabbe sat at first, but when Goyle didn't sit, he scrambled to his feet, slouching next to the others, still chewing.

"She's gonna lose," Crabbe said to Goyle, barely suppressing a snigger. "Is she stupid?"

Goyle frowned. "I dunno. This seems serious."

Lucius tapped his cane on the floor twice, firmly. Crabbe and Goyle shut up. Draco shifted forward, intent.

Narcissa adjusted the silver necklace—an elegant one adorned with a serpent coiled around a green gem. Then she held her wand in her hand, Ruth mirroring her, holding her wand in her left hand this time to start.

They bowed to each other. Then they assumed their stances.

"Begin," Lucius announced.

Narcissa immediately drew a Z in the air with her wand—

Ruth watched Narcissa's wrist and prepared to dodge before the incantation even left Narcissa's lips: "Confringo!"

In return, she moved her wand in that flame-shaped motion: "Incendio!"

She leapt aside once the jet of flames shot out from her wand.

Narcissa raised her shield immediately: "Protego!"

The fiery blast of Confringo whizzed narrowly past Ruth's legs, slamming straight into the ground. She rolled behind a pillar as the tiles exploded on impact.

Ruth ran behind some crates, audible on purpose. Narcissa was surely going to cast—the air weighed heavy like something explosive. Ruth crouched, positioning her wand right low, aiming to blast the crate straight into Narcissa's spell—

"Flipendo!" "Confringo!"

There was a loud thunder-like explosion as the Confringo collided with the crate.

"Depulso! Protego!" Narcissa cast rapidly in succession.

Ears ringing, Ruth was already rolling behind the pillar, dodging pieces of flaming, high-speed debris herself, pulling herself up to run and flank Narcissa.

Mid-leap behind her, Ruth cast, precisely: "Incendio!"

Narcissa turned as the flames roared to life, already casting, with a deliberate motion: "Aguamenti!"

The immense jet of water all but extinguished Ruth's Incendio, hissing and evaporating, splashing onto her wand hand, but Ruth quickly followed up with: "Flipendo!"

It was weaker than usual—the wand slipping mid-motion, or perhaps the surprise from the Aguamenti.

Then the air cooled—

Narcissa wasted no time at all: "Glacius."

Cold enveloped Ruth's hand. She readied herself to dodge the next blast, moving back—

"Expelliarmus!"

She dodged, but not far enough to reach cover.

She scrambled to her feet, but Narcissa cast first, chill already in the air: "Glacius!"

Her spell slicked the floor with ice. She'd aimed at the floor, not at Ruth. Ruth was already grabbing the wand out of her numb left hand, casting with exactness now: "Incendio!"

The low roar from her wand—fire—

Narcissa didn't flinch.

"Expelliarmus!"

Ruth's wand, already sending a jet of flame in the air, flew from her hand, spewing fire as it turned.

Narcissa gave an elegant swish of her wand, silent, and Ruth's wand levitated inches from the wall, the flames sputtering and then stopping.

Ruth's eyes went wide.

Wingardium Leviosa.

Narcissa hadn't said anything. And the motion hadn't been exact, either.

But it was perfect.

"Intent is the most important," Ruth mumbled, breathless.

Narcissa smiled briefly, holding her hand out. Ruth took it, standing.

"Thank you, Lady Malfoy."

Narcissa nodded. Ruth picked her wand up. She saw how Crabbe and Goyle were gaping. Lucius seemed pleased, as Draco said he'd been in the previous match.

Draco himself was fiddling with his coat pockets, looking at his mother, and then at Ruth, but wasn't saying anything.

"Did Severus tell you that?"

Narcissa holstered her wand neatly in her sleeve as she asked, walking toward Ruth.

"Yes," Ruth confirmed. "I asked and Professor Snape confirmed it."

"Of course," Narcissa replied, almost smiling. Then she added, voice low: "I would offer you a potion, but that would be rude to my son."

"Ruth!" Draco called, already coming over. He was holding a bottle of Wiggenweld—perfectly green and shimmering. "Is your hand good?"

"No," Ruth admitted. She couldn't feel it at all.

He grinned. "Mine's a perfect brew—see? Here. Try it."

She did. It was a perfect brew. She flexed her left hand, and it soon recovered.

"It's perfect."

"Of course it is," Draco said. "Now you've got to tell me how that Flipendo worked."

"How about Crabbe and Goyle?"

"Ah." Draco froze, joy replaced by something hard. "We can go to the living room. Come on."

He went over to Crabbe and Goyle, who were still standing stock-still, shocked beyond belief. He grumbled, which got them to panic. Following behind Draco, they left the room.

She hadn't noticed when, but Lucius was already gone.

"Ruth."

Ruth turned to Narcissa, slipping her wand back into her sleeve.

Narcissa reached out and adjusted Ruth's collar, movements slow and deliberate. Once she was done, she gave Ruth a small smile, eyes serious, almost warm.

"Take care of Draco for me, won't you?"

Ruth reached for her straightened collar, nodding.

"Of course, Lady Malfoy."

"You lost," Crabbe blurted, mouth full of jelly beans.

The door clicked shut behind Ruth.

"I did," she confirmed.

Crabbe blinked, then busied himself with opening another pack of jelly beans.

Goyle was swishing his wand in what resembled a Z-shaped motion. Draco was sprawled on the most comfortable of the living room's sofas, Quidditch book open on his lap, but he looked miserable.

"Boom," Goyle said, mimicking a Confringo blast.

"Do not cast Confringo in my living room, Goyle," Draco said acidly, not looking up from his book.

"Are we doing anything, Draco?" Ruth asked. "If not, I have to do my writing practices. I wanted to ask you for help, but if you're busy—"

Now Draco sat up, fumbling with the book. "We can do something. Like the Flipendo."

"You cast Flipendo better than I do," Ruth said. "I just aimed it right."

"Writing practices," Goyle said, a beat late. "Why?"

Crabbe raised his head at this, swallowing whatever he had in his mouth.

"You can't write?"

"Not really," Ruth said.

"So you're the one using the pencils," Crabbe said, pointing to the pen holder on the table. It held pencils. The holder next to a quill and an inkwell. She sometimes worked on writing here with Draco. "Are you a Muggle?"

"She used magic," Goyle pointed out. "She can't be a Muggle."

Draco looked increasingly distressed.

"Oh, then you're a Mudblood," Crabbe concluded.

"Why can't you write?" Goyle asked, again a beat late.

"'Cause she's a Mudblood, Greg," Crabbe sniggered.

Goyle had his brows furrowed, looking at Ruth, as if unsure whether to laugh or not. When he saw Draco's face, he stilled his own face with effort. Draco wasn't laughing. He was gripping his Quidditch book tight.

"Shut up, Crabbe," Draco snapped, fist trembling. "We don't know if she's—Mudblood. Pure-blood. Whatever. Father said he didn't know."

Crabbe was cowed by his tone, flushing and looking away. But he hadn't changed his mind—he was still glancing at the pencils and at Ruth with derision.

"I hadn't been taught," Ruth said, answering Goyle once they were all quiet. "I started writing last week. Draco's been helping me."

"Huh." Goyle looked down at his wand. "That's awful late. We start Hogwarts next year, you know."

"Next month," Draco corrected sharply, still on edge, not relaxing back into the sofa.

"You're acting weird, Malfoy!" Crabbe, who'd been chewing on his jelly beans angrily, stood up now. "If Mr Malfoy didn't know, it means she's not pure-blood, is she? I could probably beat her. She just got lucky. She lost!"

"I don't think she got lucky," Goyle muttered, unsure.

Draco was all red now.

"I told you to shut up!" Draco shouted. "You couldn't beat her if there were twenty of you, Crabbe!"

"Twenty?" Crabbe was fuming now. "She can't even write!"

"That's wrong," she corrected him calmly. "It's slow and ugly, but I can write."

Now he turned to face her. She just wanted to go back and do her writing exercises.

"I don't know what you've done to Malfoy," he said angrily, gesturing at Draco, "Let's see if he still likes you if you lose. I challenge you to a duel!"

"She hasn't done anything to me," Draco said quietly, but not confidently.

Ruth frowned, looking at Draco. "Are we allowed to duel, Draco? I don't think he'd beat me, though."

Draco met her gaze with incredulity. When Crabbe realised the insult, he got angrier and angrier, hand already on his wand.

"What?" Draco gaped. "You can't be serious?"

"I'm serious. Your Wiggenweld healed my arm already," Ruth said, flexing her left hand.

"Well," Draco said slowly, gaze not leaving Ruth, "yes. But he's just saying it, you don't have to duel him."

"Is he?" Ruth gestured at Crabbe.

Draco was silent, fidgeting with the book.

"I'm okay to duel," Ruth said. "Do I have to ask Lady Malfoy?"

Draco deflated. "Fine. I'll go and ask."

"Okay. I needed to sharpen my pencils, anyway."

Crabbe looked ready to cast. Confringo, from the looks of it.

"No," Draco said, horrified, already grabbing her by the wrist, then looking at Crabbe and Goyle."You come with me. All of you."

Crabbe had abandoned his jelly beans, which surprised Ruth. He did look furious, but it was strange to see him not chewing something. Goyle followed next to him, quiet, gaze flicking between the three of them, brow furrowed.

Draco hadn't let go of her wrist, although she wasn't planning to run. Why would she? She let herself be dragged toward what she supposed was Lord and Lady Malfoy's room.

They saw his shadow first as they climbed the stairs from the third to the fourth level.

"Children," Lucius said coolly, from the top of the stairwell. "How quaint. An afternoon stroll on the fourth floor?"

He was only watching Draco and Ruth, without a a single glance to the other boys.

Now Draco relinquished his grip on her wrist.

"Father," Draco started, hesitating, "we, we wanted to use the duelling room."

Lucius did not reply. Demanding elaboration with silence. The corridor felt chilly.

"Crabbe—Crabbe said…" Draco faltered. "Something, to Ruth. They would like to duel."

Lucius looked to Ruth now. He didn't look surprised, but there was something like a sneer ghosting his features. Not aimed at her, she felt.

"Ruth." Lucius tapped his cane once on the carpeted floor. "You would like duel this boy?"

He said 'would like' in something resembling disdain.

"Crabbe is Draco's friend," Ruth reasoned. "It would be rude of me to reject."

Draco nearly flinched, eyes darting from her to his father, silent.

"Rude of you," he said, with a hint of dark amusement. "If it weren't the case?"

He seemed to already know the answer.

"I wouldn't, Lord Malfoy."

Draco froze next to her.

Lucius' expression was unreadable as he studied Ruth. Then he tapped his cane once, already looking at his son. There was a sudden rushing in the air. His tapping of the cane must have constituted an order of some sort.

"The duelling table room will be readied." He looked distinctly displeased now. "I will supervise."

Draco fidgeted with his coat-pocket, looking quite ill. "That won't be necessary, father—"

"Necessary," Lucius repeated. The corridor felt even cooler now, even in the glow of the midday sun. "Well, my son. Tell me, what exactly is necessary, then?"

Draco's jaw tightened, as though willing himself not to look away.

"I'll duel Crabbe myself," Draco said, hands trembling, but voice resolved. "He insulted us."

Lucius did not smile. He turned and walked past the children, down the staircase, toward the duelling room.

Though Lucius was standing, cane clasped beneath his hands, Ruth opted to sit on the bench. Goyle shuffled to sit next to her, slouched forward.

Draco was stiff as a board, though his position looked practised. It wasn't far from Narcissa's—wand-hand behind and above him. But it was less poised, more aggressively positioned—a slight slant forward, wand held higher, pose more open. His wand, unlike Narcissa's, wasn't parallel to the ground. And he was trembling.

Crabbe had looked nervous when they'd climbed down the stairs, but now that he was standing opposite Draco, who was pale as a sheet, he looked triumphant already. His wand was pointed in front of him, other hand fisted. With Lucius around though, even he didn't say anything. Still, just from swagger, Ruth could already tell what spell he'd be using.

And she was sure that all it'd make was noise.

"Begin," Lucius said.

Draco bowed gracefully despite his stiffness, perhaps under his father's scrutiny, but Crabbe bowed only perfunctorily. He raised his head and immediately slashed in a jagged Z—

Goyle flinched, but Ruth didn't so much as move. Lucius looked momentarily incensed.

"Con-fringo!"

Draco held his wand tight, moving one step back, preparing to dodge. He knew the spell's rough range, that much was clear.

But the spell simply crackled and boomed barely inches from Crabbe's wand, mostly noise, a slam instead of a thunderclap. There was no fiery blast at all. Instead of embarrassed, Crabbe looked undeterred—angrier, actually. He took a step forward, preparing to cast again, wand already raised high—

"Flipendo!" Draco cast, the flick and swish exact, with flair.

At Crabbe's wand, not Crabbe himself. She'd have done so herself.

At the same time, Crabbe yelled: "CONFRINGO!"

Ruth shoved Goyle back firmly.

The Flipendo found its mark, striking Crabbe just enough to misdirect his spell. Crabbe hissed with pain, but he managed to keep his wand gripped. The Confringo smashed closer to the platform, with a fiery, resounding boom. The impact was safely away from Draco. The impacted tiles flying toward them were deflected by the protective wards.

Goyle had his hands held up defensively, but now he nervously looked at Ruth, confused.

Draco was breathing hard, hand shaking, clearly considering his options. Crabbe was panicked, but the Flipendo didn't seem to have affected his hand much. They circled each other, but no one cast anything.

"Y…you knew that one would work?"

Ruth nodded, watching Draco.

Goyle had his back against the wall now, but his neck was craned forward. It seemed like he was sweating more than Crabbe or Draco, thinking so hard Ruth could hear his thoughts.

"That Flipendo hit, but Crabbe didn't lose his wand," Goyle said, voicing his thoughts. "If Malfoy wants to win, what does he have to do?"

Ruth considered this. She was sure Draco knew all the spells in the textbook, but Crabbe had more sheer power than him. That meant even a direct Flipendo mightn't be able to throw him back by far. She would've used a makeshift projectile—or perhaps just an Incendio, but that might be needlessly uncouth. Neither seemed like options Draco would pick.

"A Confringo?" Goyle asked.

"CONFRINGO!"

It was still Crabbe, shouting even more loudly this time, the motion unsteady. This time Draco didn't move a step back. He immediately stepped forward, steeling himself: "Flipendo!"

The Confringo fizzled with a bang right out of Crabbe's wand, while Draco's Flipendo hit its mark with precision.

And Draco gritted his teeth now, following up with: "Expelliarmus!"

His pronunciation and motion were nowhere near as clean as Narcissa's, but he clearly had been taught the spell. His wand had jerked in a shaky line into an uncomfortable looking curl. A weak red zap shot out of his wand. But it shot true, heading exactly for Crabbe's wand-hand.

Crabbe was already barely holding onto his wand, for the Flipendo, and the Expelliarmus, with a brilliant burst of red, sent his wand flying, clattering against the wall with a clack.

Draco bowed. Crabbe was still stunned.

Lucius did not move. He watched his son intently. Draco did not look at him as he walked towards Crabbe.

"You lost. You ought to apologise," Draco declared, with no anger. Only command. "To all of us."

"I—" Crabbe reddened. "I…"

"None of your spells connected," Draco cut in, voice calm enough, but his wand-hand was trembling. "And you dare question my authority? My family's authority?"

"Your family?" Crabbe squeaked. "I only called that girl—"

"Ruth is the manor's guest," Draco corrected. "You belittling her means you're belittling me. My father. My mother."

Crabbe paled, understanding dawning on him.

"I didn't know!" He whimpered. "I'm sorry!"

Goyle, to his credit, did not speak.

"I should've stopped you from the very beginning," Draco admitted, more to his father than to Crabbe. "That was my error. But your Confringo. What was that for?"

Draco looked angry now.

Crabbe opened his mouth, but no words came.

"It was distasteful," Draco spat. "You dare imitate my mother in such a fashion?"

"No," Crabbe said hurriedly. "I—I got ahead of myself."

"Fine." Draco swallowed, tension leaving him. "Do not forget yourself."

Lucius tapped his cane twice. "Your Expelliarmus hasn't improved, Draco."

"No, father." Draco confirmed, forcing himself to meet his father's gaze, hands held behind his back. "I was counting on the Flipendo."

"You were ill-prepared," Lucius said matter-of-factly. "You made up for it with luck and clarity."

"Yes, father," Draco agreed grimly.

"You won," Lucius reminded him, almost fond. But his next line was severe, testing. "Are you proud?"

"No, father." Draco's jaw tightened. "The duel shouldn't have happened."

Lucius nodded, the shadow of a smile flickering shortly on his face. Then back to a schooled neutrality. "Do not forget yourself, Draco."

Then Lucius turned, leaving for the dining hall. It was lunchtime.

Draco drew out a Wiggenweld from his pocket. Ruth recognised it. It was her poor handwriting on the side.

"Crabbe. Stop gaping. Drink this."

He tossed the potion to Crabbe, who downed it quickly. He gave his wand-hand a good shake. It was back to normal.

"That potion was Ruth's." Draco said, arms crossed. "I helped her with it. "

Crabbe wouldn't look at them.

"Are you joining us for lunch?"

Crabbe mumbled haltingly: "I'll go home. Thank you for your hospitality, Malfoy."

Goyle finally spoke up now: "We are? Then we got to go thank Mr and Mrs Malfoy as well before we leave."

Crabbe seemed to shrink a bit.

Draco smiled, all crooked, clearly weary, a little awkwardly.

"Let's go," he said.

There was an uneasy silence, but they all followed him without question.

The remaining two weeks went by ruthlessly.

Most of her time was spent in the library. Draco often lounged on the couch with a book while she hunched over a desk next to him, surrounded by open books, scribbling on parchment.

"This one almost looks like handwriting." Draco squinted at her note. "Like mine, but hit with Tarantallegra. Is that why you asked for my notes?"

"Referred to them." She slid him her original pencil draft. It was illegible. "With enough time, I can copy it."

"You're mental!" Draco looked between the two notes. Then he leaned over to correct her quill-grip. "At least you won't get Trolls just 'cause of your handwriting."

She read her books twice over, some thrice, poring over primers and additional texts, even as her eyes watered. Some days they got sidetracked. Draco often read passages for her when she looked puzzled. Sometimes, she asked an inane question they spent the rest of the day researching.

"What makes a door a door?" She'd asked once.

"Is this about Colloportus or Transfig?"

"This is about doors."

Draco often dragged her out to fly, trying out different broomsticks they had in the manor.

"Which do you like best?"

"The one that doesn't fly."

Each Saturday, she duelled Narcissa. She never won. But Narcissa's wandwork was mesmerising—and educative. Narcissa introduced new spells, new forms—which Draco and Ruth absorbed like sponges. He even tried to explain the duelling posture once:

"Spine straight, wand held high. Other arm braced in front." He adjusted her arm as he spoke. "Your starting duelling posture…is it a knife stance? Why don't you just copy mother's?"

"I'm not as good with wandwork." She dropped into her usual stance—left hand forward, wand-tip next to her pointer-finger, right arm drawn back, ready to dodge. "This lets me react faster, like with a dodge, or a cast."

He grinned. "Can't argue with someone who dodges Confringo on the regular."

The tension at dinnertime depended on whether Lucius was present or not. If he wasn't, Draco helped himself to extra desserts. When Lucius was present, he gave them veiled information about the school, their cohort, and about the Boy Who Lived.

On the last night, the atmosphere was taut at the dining table. There was a lavish spread of dishes. Lucius started the dinner conversation while making the deboning of a wing look eerily graceful.

"September already. You are both packed, I presume. Tomorrow morning, we will Apparate to King's Cross."

"Lucius will side-along Draco," Narcissa continued, "and I will side-along Ruth."

Draco winced, looking faintly ill. He didn't find apparition appealing. Ruth thought it was far better than walking to King's Cross, or worse still, flying there on broomsticks.

"The Potter boy was raised by his Muggle relatives," Lucius said. "Still, considering his…circumstances, he may prove to be of value."

Ruth and Draco had both stopped eating, listening intently.

"In your year, there are several other from respectable lineages." Lucius put his knife down.

He listed them, "Abbott, Bulstrode, Greengrass…"

"Greengrass is frail," Narcissa added.

He said the next name coolly.

"Longbottom. Barely magical, by early accounts."

Narcissa said nothing, taking a sip of her wine.

"Macmillan, Nott." He looked to Draco.

"Nott's a quiet fellow," Draco offered. "Keeps to himself, even when he comes over. You might like him."

"Parkinson, and then…" Lucius gave a sneer. "Another Weasley this year, and this one has nothing good being said about him."

"Zabini's only child will be entering this year as well," Narcissa said. "Supposedly Pure-blood."

"There is the matter of your two…friends," Lucius said icily. "Goyle might prove useful yet. As for the other…I expect you have given his position due consideration, Draco."

Draco nodded, frowning. Lucius continued.

"And one Muggle-born was flagged during the staff-meeting. Photographic memory. Requested for additional readings. In any case, I expect information from the two of you. Not by owl, of course."

She spent that night as she had many before it: wand in hand, Transfiguration textbook open, match on the floor.

Draco's match-turned-pins lay a distance away from her. He'd left earlier, urging her to rest. But she couldn't.

It was getting late. Her eyes drooped. Brute force wasn't enough. She knew. She persisted anyway. Like a fool.

The solution was simple.

Intent was the most important.

The solution was revolting.

Bile rose in her throat.

The solution was necessary.

To believe something false was true.

"Acufors."

The pin gleamed on the floor—perfect. She hated it.

"You've succeeded."

It was Lucius' voice, from behind her.

She turned.

Lucius and Narcissa were there.

She stood, swaying a little. Her vision went spotty. But she kept herself straight, hands clasped behind her back.

"You did not enjoy it," Narcissa added flatly. "What was your solution?"

"I had to lie to myself," Ruth said distantly. Her hands were trembling; she tightened her grip on the wand.

She'd succeeded.

Revolting.

"You really are like him," Narcissa observed.

Him again.

Before she could figure out how to ask about him, Lucius spoke, changing the topic—his tone warning: "The Headmaster. Albus Dumbledore. He is a powerful man, Ruth. Watch my son. Watch yourself. Do you understand?"

The Headmaster.

"Yes, Lord Malfoy."

"Go and rest," Lucius commanded. Then there was a tinge of amusement in his voice: "If you vomit tomorrow when Narcissa side-alongs you, we'll take offence. You didn't, with Severus, although his—"

"Lucius," Narcissa warned, without heat.

They turned to leave.

"Good-night, Lord Malfoy, Lady Malfoy."

Lucius did not turn.

"Rest," Narcissa murmured. "You will need it."

Chapter Text

"Ruth! You're wearing trousers?"

Draco strode into the entrance hall. Several house-elves followed him, levitating two trunks and a caged owl. Ruth was adjusting her collar in front of the full-length mirror, trunk next to her.

"Professor Snape said it's allowed."

"Well," Draco mused, "if he says so. Bit uncommon, no?"

Ruth nodded. "He said that too."

She'd patched up the robes and wore her cuffs and sleeves rolled up. She'd decided against cutting the excess length so she'd be able to wear them for longer. They'd wear the outer robe once they boarded the train.

"Got much sleep last night?"

"Enough." But she immediately had to stifle a yawn.

He snorted. "It's fine, we'll be riding the Express until night. Plenty of time to sleep. Your Transfig?"

"It worked."

"Finally!" He grinned. "I wanted to see you try your sleight-of-hand solution in class though. Bummer."

"It's not off the table."

Lucius entered the entrance hall with Narcissa next to him. They were each holding a green school tie.

"Come, Draco." "Ruth."

Draco stepped toward Lucius, and Ruth, Narcissa. They accepted the ties in silence.

The ties were made of silk, embroidered with silver. The crest at the bottom was intricate, framing a serpent that looked almost alive.

The two children looked at each other. Draco glanced back down at the tie, frowning.

"You will be in Slytherin," Lucius said. "Let us be off."

They kept their ties in their pockets.

Draco held onto Lucius' arm. With a silent rush of air, the two of them folded into nothing.

"Stay close," Narcissa said, offering her arm.

Ruth held on tight.

There was a quick rush of wind and the world collapsed around them. Narcissa didn't send them through the compressed space as quickly as Snape had. His had been direct, while hers seemed to glide, almost easy to follow.

Her feet hit solid ground. She let go of Narcissa's arm.

They had Apparated into a small room with a table and four chairs. A curtain of heavy velvet blocked the entrance. Lucius and Draco—who looked vaguely ill—were already seated.

Lucius reached out and tapped the placard on the table. Wineglasses and bottles appeared on the table, all half-finished, napkins beside them.

Narcissa glanced knowingly at Ruth.

"I assume Severus has informed you of the legalities of Apparition."

Ruth nodded, feeling a little light-headed but steady on her feet.

Draco started to speak—then clamped a hand over his mouth, turning green.

"You look better than when Severus Apparated you into the manor," Lucius commented. Draco nodded in agreement, mouth still clamped shut.

"Lady Malfoy's is easier to follow."

Narcissa quirked an eyebrow, clearly pleased, and Lucius actually smiled at that, triumphantly, a dark glimmer in his eye.

"What joy," Lucius murmured. "I will send Severus an owl tonight."

Lucius walked over to the entrance, pulling a tassel that drew the curtain open. A well-dressed man rushed over almost immediately, greeting him.

"I trust you enjoyed your time, sir. Thank you for your patronage!"

Following the Malfoys' lead, Ruth stepped out of the little room into a restaurant, walking as though she belonged there.

Despite carrying two trunks, Draco didn't seem to mind the weight. He noticed her staring.

"I cast feather-light charms on them," he whispered to her, "but they'll wear off soon, so we've got to get a cart."

Ruth nodded but was more troubled by everything else. On the streets now, she took in everything with awe close to dread. There were metal contraptions on wheels shuttling around, lights blinking and flashing. She kept close to Narcissa.

"That's King's Cross station." Draco nodded his head toward the yellow-brick building straight ahead. Two glass-panelled arches flanked a large clock-tower in the middle.

It was even grander on the inside. The ceilings were curved, following the arches, similarly glass-panelled. The place was enormous. It wasn't packed—they had arrived earlier than the crowd.

Draco quickly found a cart and put the two trunks on it, arranging them so Ruth could put hers next to his. Lucius put the owl-cage on top.

As they walked to the correct platform, Ruth took a closer look at the owl.

It was a fierce-looking thing with greyish feathers and a sharp look.

"He's called Eltanin. Call him Elta."

"Elta?"

The owl looked at her. Ruth tilted her head to the side. The owl followed the way her head tilted.

Draco laughed.

"I guess Elta's never seen you before. You've seen an owl before?"

"No."

They walked past Platform 9.

Ruth figured they'd have to walk three-quarters way to Platform 10. Lucius and Narcissa stopped roughly where she thought they would. The two of them were waiting for Draco and Ruth to catch up.

"We've got to go straight into this pillar." Draco inclined his head towards the supposed pillar, which looked solid, as a pillar ought to. "Hold on to the cart. We'll run together, if you're scared."

Ruth studied him for signs of joking, but he was deadly serious. He inched a little to the side so she could grip the cart next to him.

They ran straight into the pillar. There was a sudden change in temperature, and a loud hissing sound. Steam. The sign on the red monstrosity read 'Hogwarts Express'. Lucius and Narcissa appeared behind them. As the two of them talked to Draco, Ruth looked around, pulling her trunk off the cart.

"We'll send you snacks, Draco."

"Let us know if the Hogwarts fare has become more…palatable."

She spotted Goyle with his parents—a larger, hulking man, and a comparatively petite woman. Next to them were the Crabbes, father and son. Beside them was a much smaller greyish-haired boy, talking to a hunchbacked man. Crabbe and Goyle were dressed in casual clothes rather than uniform, but the grey-haired boy was wearing the full set of school robes—a fully black silhouette.

"Oh, that's Nott. Theodore Nott." Draco pointed to the boy. Their conversation was over, then. "The quiet one I was telling you about."

"Two of you," Lucius said. "Do not disgrace the Malfoy name."

"Yes, Father." "Yes, Lord Malfoy."

Narcissa walked over to adjust Draco's collar. "Take care of yourself."

Draco smiled, nodding.

Finally, she turned to Ruth.

"Ruth. Do you remember what I told you?"

"I'll take care of Draco, Lady Malfoy."

Narcissa reached out. Gently, she tucked a stray strand of Ruth's hair behind her ear.

"And of yourself, Ruth."

Ruth blinked, frozen in place. Eventually, she nodded, too.

"Yes, Lady Malfoy."

The five of them went in together without speaking much beyond mumbled greetings. Goyle in particular still looked sleepy. They chose a compartment near the front of the train, since it was nearly empty.

Crabbe helped Draco stow his trunk, while Goyle helped with the rest. Crabbe was stiff and unusually quiet, and not even chewing on anything. He wouldn't look at Ruth. He looked at Draco, but said nothing. He looked as cowed as he did when he left the manor. Goyle was unbothered, clearly waiting to sleep.

Draco, Goyle, and Crabbe sat on one side, Ruth and Nott on the other. The seating felt lopsided.

"Nott, this is Ruth. Ruth—Theodore Nott, like I said."

The ashen-haired boy glanced toward her, offering his hand, which she took firmly. His grip was light, but not weak.

"No surname," the boy noted. His voice was soft and exact. He turned to Draco. "But she came with you, Malfoy?"

"Ruth's a guest of the manor," Draco replied, firm.

"All right. Call me Theo or Theodore."

"Not Nott," Draco followed up immediately, amused. Crabbe and Goyle laughed, not cruelly.

"You see," Nott said, no heat in his voice. "Which is why I insist—"

"I'm Nott calling you that," Draco quipped, which elicited another bout of laughter.

Theodore sighed, though he didn't look angry.

"Theodore, then."

Theodore nodded, taking out his copy of Magical Drafts and Potions to flip through.

Seeing him do so, Crabbe and Goyle rummaged in their bags and took out some snacks. Draco was looking out of the window, elbow on the sill, squinting. Ruth had just taken out One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi when Draco spoke.

"That veiled lady…So that must be Zabini."

Draco pointed to two figures in the distance. There was a woman wearing a large veiled hat, black dress immaculately styled, gloved hands on her son's shoulder. Even without looking at her face, they could tell she was beautiful.

And they could tell that her son was grinning, even from behind. His hair was curly and cropped short, one hand in his pocket. He was wearing a blouse, but not the school one—it was black and likely silk—barely creased where it pressed against his leather messenger bag. He turned to board the train, and now they saw that his blouse had a cravat on it, loosely tied. Still on the platform, he caught Draco's eye, grinned, and bowed dramatically.

Draco nodded in return and then quickly drew back in, confused but pleased. "He knows me?"

"You look like a Malfoy," Theodore said.

"I am a Malfoy," Draco corrected.

There were three dramatic raps on their door, before it slid open.

"Pleasure," Zabini greeted them. His tone was smirking. "Room for one more?"

"Feel free." Draco gestured to the space next to Theodore.

Zabini effortlessly put his trunk into the overhead storage compartment before sitting next to Theodore. He removed his cravat and stuffed it into his pocket, unbuttoning the top button of his blouse.

"Zabini. Blaise Zabini." He gave everyone a firm handshake, smiling. "Favourite son of Arabella Zabini. Now, no need to introduce yourselves. I've seen your pictures. Except for you—"

He looked at Ruth, eyes sparkling with intrigue.

"I'm Ruth."

"Ruth!" Zabini looked delighted, but not warm. He eyed her like one might a puzzle. Or an explosive.

"That's the Greengrass family," Draco said, interrupting Zabini's introductions. "Daphne Greengrass. Younger sister's called Astoria, if I'm not mistaken."

Greengrass was a pale, sickly-looking girl. She still looked cold, though she was wrapped in layers. Her father, a severe-looking masked man, was pulling her trunk for her. They stopped short of the train door.

"She can't carry that," Goyle said, between bites of chocolate.

Zabini stood. "You enjoy your food."

They came in a little while later, Zabini placing her trunk next to his with ease.

"Full house now," he said, squeezing in for Greengrass to sit next to him.

"Thank you, Zabini." He gave Greengrass a little grin. She coughed into her handkerchief, shivering. From her satchel, she drew out a little scarf and wrapped it around her neck. She looked between Theodore and Ruth.

"The two of you are…?"

Outside, there were more and more students appearing, older ones too.

"I'm Theodore Nott," Theodore said.

"She's Ruth," Draco said quickly.

Greengrass nodded, putting her hands into her pockets. It felt like she wasn't quite looking at them—but not out of rudeness.

"Think I saw the Boy Who Lived. Harry Potter. No parents. Shock of black hair—just like that picture of James Potter—and had little round glasses…and a scar over here." Zabini drew a jagged line dramatically on his forehead, leaning forward. "Had a snowy owl with him."

"I don't see him anywhere," Draco said. He frowned for a second, as though remembering something. "Wait, that rude boy at Madam Malkin's…"

"He's wandering around King's Cross alone. Saw him move from Platform 9 and 10 to 3 and 4."

"You didn't help him?" Greengrass gave a little wheezing sound—it could've been a cough or a laugh.

"Any decent magical child would've seen my mysteriously beautiful mother and I, sauntering straight into the pillar." Zabini leaned back in his seat now, crossing his arms. "I know one Muggle-born saw. If he didn't, that's his deal. I'm unmissable."

Goyle looked at Zabini, frowning. "Why would he go to Platform 3?"

"We can ask him, once he comes." Zabini took a quick glance outside, theatrical. "If he makes it."

"Father said he might be important," Draco said slowly. "I ought to greet him once he's here."

For a split second, Zabini looked surprised. "How noble of you, Mr Malfoy. I wouldn't bother."

He took out the same textbook as Nott, then looked up again, smiling.

"So, we are all going to be Slytherins, aren't we?"

Draco blinked. Zabini didn't falter.

"Yes, I suppose we are."

Barely ten minutes to departure, but there were many students still running about on the platform. The place was noisy—trunks being shoved, children crying, steam hissing.

"The Weasleys," Draco said disdainfully.

They came in one by one. A stiff, disgruntled-looking red boy, followed by jovial red twins. Then suddenly a boy with a shock of black hair. A lanky, angry red boy with ill-fitting robes and dirt on his nose. There was a plump red woman with a little red girl right after.

"Is that Potter with them?" Zabini sounded amused. "Train's full, Malfoy. If you're going to greet him, he'll be all the way at the back."

Potter looked as lost as Zabini had made him out to be. She wasn't sure what she was looking out for, but he certainly lived up to his title; he was alive.

Ruth squinted at the red family as the mother rubbed furiously at the lanky red boy's nose. This had the effect of making his nose redder, which matched his hair and clothes, but did not get rid of the dirt. The twins were taunting him. The stiff boy returned, wearing his school robes, gleaming with a badge on its side. They talked a while more, then the stiff boy left, stiffly, redder than before.

"Don't worry, ickle Ronniekins is safe with us," one of the twins was saying.

Ruth went back to her book.

The whistle sounded.

The three red boys rushed onto the train, the dirt-nosed one lagging behind.

"Blood traitors, the lot of them," Draco said. He turned to Ruth to explain. "The father's a Muggle-lover—a disgrace to Pure-bloods. Poor and unsophisticated. Father says they have more children than they have Galleons."

Ruth nodded. Ronniekins hadn't looked well-dressed.

"What was on his nose?"

"Looked like dirt," Goyle answered.

"But you saw his mother dabbing at it." She frowned. "And it was still there. Unless she's putting it on him on purpose."

Draco snorted. "Why on earth would she do that?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "To tell them apart, maybe? They're all red."

Now Draco couldn't help himself, laughing delightedly. Goyle started guffawing. Even the others were amused.

"Definitely all Slytherins," Zabini repeated.

The train departed from Platform 9 and 3/4.

Mostly they read or ate in silence, with Greengrass napping quietly at her end of the seat and Goyle dozing off, snoring, in between Draco and Crabbe. Having finished her second read of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, Ruth took out her Potions textbook instead, like all the others were doing.

"Ah, you've decided to join us," Zabini commented. "Potions is a Slytherin subject, after all."

Seeing her blink in confusion, Theodore spoke next.

"Professor Snape's the Potions Master, and the Head-of-House of Slytherin."

"Flitwick—Ravenclaw's Head-of-House, teaches Charms," Zabini added. "Sprout teaches Herbology and she's Head of Hufflepuffs. And McGonagall's the Gryffindor Head."

"She's also Deputy Headmistress. Teaches Transfig," Theodore said coolly. "The Headmaster was from Gryffindor, too."

Zabini beheaded a chocolate frog before it could even croak. Ruth grimaced at that.

"Ptolemy," Zabini read aloud, looking at his card. Then he ate the rest of the frog.

As Ruth resumed reading her book, she thought it might be good to be in Slytherin after all.

Eventually, Draco took out a carefully-wrapped piece of pastry for them to share, courtesy of Malfoy Manor. Crabbe, unable to resist, took a large piece. Goyle had woken up at the smell of pastry.

Ruth heard a few low ribbits from the door, but no one else seemed to notice, so she continued eating, careful not to let any crumbs fall on her book.

Goyle spoke through large mouthfuls of pastry. "Malfoy, are we gonna grip Potter yet?"

"Greet," Draco corrected.

"Chances are he's with the youngest Weasley," Zabini said, licking his fingers. "I think he was called Donald?"

"Ronald," Draco corrected.

"Wasn't it Ronniekins?"

Crabbe nearly sputtered at this. Greengrass flinched, more at his reaction than at Ruth. The whole compartment turned to stare at her.

"One of the twins called him that," she said, by way of explanation. "The other one even called him Ronnie. I assumed Ronniekins was his full name."

"I believe his full name is Ronald," Draco corrected, biting back a laugh. "We'll go once we're done with this pastry. Ran out of snacks already, Goyle? Crabbe?"

They nodded, Goyle sadly; Crabbe stiffly. Goyle shoved another pastry into his mouth.

"You coming with, Ruth?"

Ruth considered this, looking at Theodore, Zabini, and Greengrass. She remembered the Weasleys' cacophony, and Potter, who'd seemed simply lost.

"I'd rather not. Could you ask about his nose, though?"

Draco's lips quirked, delighted.

"Why not." Draco wiped his hands clean and crushed the wrapper, passing it to Goyle to throw away. "Let's head to the snacks carriage first, then let's see what Potter's like."

Crabbe opened the door with a bang and the three of them left.

There was silence for a while, just pages flipping, until Zabini broke it.

"I would've left with Malfoy if I were you."

Theodore was watching her intently, still slouched comfortably in his seat. Greengrass was awake now, barely, though.

Ruth slotted her bookmark where she was reading. Zabini smiled, eyes unreadable.

"You're not a Malfoy, or you'd have been introduced as such," Zabini said.

"Malfoy said that she's a guest of the manor," Theodore added, matter-of-factly.

Greengrass spoke up now, studying her, somehow regal despite her drowsiness. "You're not Pure-blood?"

"My blood status is unconfirmed," she answered plainly.

A weak rap on the door interrupted them. It slid open hesitantly, creaking.

"H-hello. Sorry to disturb, but have any of you seen a toad?"

It was a round boy whose face was all red from crying. His hair was dirty-blonde and all mussed. He looked at the four of them in the compartment—and he looked like he immediately regretted his decision to open the door. At least the other three weren't here.

Zabini was grinning now. "Ah! You're Neville Longbottom!"

Neville flinched and shrieked, "Yes!?"

Zabini couldn't resist. "Is your toad still croaking?"

Neville whimpered.

"I'm sure Trevor's still alive."

"I heard croaking just now," Ruth said. "I thought it was a chocolate frog though."

Neville's face brightened. "Really? Where?"

"In the corridor."

Now his face darkened again, ready to cry. Greengrass pressed a hand against her temple, pulling her layers even more tightly around herself.

Ruth put her book down, leaning out into the corridor, one hand braced on the frame of the door.

"If he's still alive, he's probably somewhere warm." Ruth pointed to the next carriage. She'd seen the steam billowing from the front of the Express. "The very front, there."

"He's unlikely to be croaking if he's there," Zabini laughed.

Neville burst into tears at that, but valiantly thanked Ruth: "Okay, thanks, I'll che—"

A heavy thud shook the floor. Ruth thought he might've tripped on his robes, but on second glance, his trousers were neatly-tailored. There was nothing to trip on.

Even Zabini didn't immediately laugh. Theodore looked impressed. Greengrass' eyes were open fully for once, studying the oddity in front of her with veiled confusion.

Ruth stepped carefully out of the compartment, crouching to check if he had passed out. It wouldn't be convenient as she didn't know who to report such an incident to. Fortunately, she heard another whimper. His head shot up. Not passed out.

Neville got to his feet, face redder now from hitting the ground quite heavily. To his credit, he did not cry, though he was beginning to look permanently on the verge of tears.

Ruth frowned. "Are you doing this on purpose?"

Zabini cackled.

"What?" Neville reddened even further. "No!"

"Neville! Have you found Trevor? You're awfully red, did you eat something? Is it an allergic reaction?" A bushy-haired girl ran towards them, talking and talking and talking. "Nobody's seen Trevor, are you sure he got on the Express, Neville? I mean, it's possible he jumped off before we left, it's called a wild goose chase, you know, though it's a toad we're talking about—"

The compartment door slid slowly but steadily closed. She glimpsed Theodore's almost pitying gaze before the door clicked shut.

Ruth was caught out in the corridor now, with the bushy-haired girl and toad-owning boy.

The girl, almost impressively, was still talking.

"Come on, Greengrass," Zabini was saying, muffled by the door. "I wanted to keep watching... Okay, okay, fine. Ruth, get rid of them, will you? Greengrass needs her beauty slee—Hey! No underage magic before we hit Hogwarts!"

Then she heard the faint 'ribbit' again. From the carriage she'd pointed out.

"Hey." She turned firmly to the two noisy students. "I'm getting that toad. Follow if you want."

"Where are we going? Next carriage is the prefects'—are we going to ask them? They'd probably know if a toad—"

Ruth cut the girl off. "What are prefects?"

"Sixth and seventh-years—it's two per house, one girl, one boy, and they're authorised to give detentions and deduct house points. They're basically rule enforcers. I'm Hermione, by the way, Hermione Granger. Just call me Hermione. And this is Nevi—"

"I'm Ruth."

They reached the prefects' carriage.

"We should knock—see if anyone would like to help us?"

"We need to check the carriage where the steam comes out of. Do you think the prefects would let us in?"

Hermione furrowed her brows—hard to see through her bushy hair.

"No, it's unsafe, and I don't think they'd—"

Ruth pressed her ear to the door. No shuffling—just faint conversations. They were probably in their compartments. She tried the handle, slowly, until she felt the faintest resistance. It was locked.

She rummaged in her satchel.

Neville glanced at her nervously. "What are you doing?"

"Opening the door. It's locked."

"We can't just break in," Hermione said. "We'll get into trouble, and we've not even reached Hogwarts!"

"Then you two can stay here. It won't take long."

She pulled out a lockpick—one of Draco's poorly-transfigured pins.

"Um," Neville hesitated, "is this against the rules?"

"Checking the boiler or engine rooms—definitely dangerous. On Muggle trains they're always off-limits. Ruth, this is against the rules, isn't it?"

"This isn't a Muggle train."

Ruth knelt and picked the lock.

"I suppose not?" Hermione fumbled with her satchel, pulling out her wand. "Ruth, I can get the door open with—"

The lock clicked open.

"You, Longbottom. Stay here. I don't want you passing out on me. Hermione, it's up to you, but if you're following, I need you to be quiet."

"Oh. Okay. I'll be quiet."

Ruth gave her a look.

Hermione nodded—silently and vigorously.

After checking for movements in the carriage and confirming there was none, Ruth pushed the handle slowly, gently. Then she cautiously opened the door, giving it a slight lift, just-so, away from its hinges, so it would be silent.

She slipped through with Hermione. They kept low. Fortunately, all the compartment doors were closed. At the very front was another door. This one wasn't locked, but a large yellow sign was pasted on it, which read: "Caution! HOT!"

Ruth opened the door in the same careful way and slipped them both in. This room was far hotter and more humid.

Trevor croaked again, from the other side. Hermione pointed to a little greenish-brown thing on the floor, near a pipe. Large cylinders blocked their way, covered with wheels, knobs, and numbers all over. They looked blisteringly hot. Some pipes glowed with magical wards—like the ones at the manor. If they were to cool the pipes—she drew her hand closer—nope. Definitely hot.

Hermione was braced against the door, frightened beyond belief. To her credit, she did not say anything. She took out a little jar from her satchel and passed it to Ruth wordlessly.

Why did she have a jar? Ruth didn't ask.

She tucked the jar into her satchel.

There was a door to her right, and one at the other side of the room, too. Then there was a ladder stowed firmly, lengthwise against the left side of the wall. It didn't touch any of the pipes or cylinders. But it was too high for her to reach. Someone like Goyle or even Nott would've been able to reach it, but not her.

The door was a sliding one, the handle chained shut, stuck to the wall. She picked the lock on the chain quickly. It opened into a rushing landscape. They were passing by some cornfields. Seeing no incoming obstacles that might obstruct her, she leaned out. There were grips running along the side, leading to the top of the train. She didn't know if the door on the other side was locked in some other way. No. Too risky.

She slid the door shut. Instead, she took the chain and slung it over the ladder, so that the chain looped around it. Two firm tugs. The ladder held. Good. She rolled up her sleeves and climbed the chain.

The ladder was wooden with rubber grips, so it wasn't hot, though Ruth expected it to have rotted. She pulled the chain out and slung it around her neck and over her shoulder as she made her way across.

Once she was on the other side, she looked at the toad, which sat there, motionless. One hand on the ladder, she fished the jar out of her satchel and prepared to leap.

And she leapt straight for Trevor, landing noiselessly, and trapping him in the jar. He croaked once, looking at her. He didn't seem very bright. In fact, he was dull-eyed, as though willingly becoming a steamed toad. She capped the jar and stuffed it into her satchel. Then she looped the chain and crossed back.

Hermione helped rechain the side-door—it was too far for Ruth to do it alone. They clicked the lock back into place.

Ruth pressed her ear to the door again. Still no movement. Prefects probably didn't do much on the Express.

They snuck back out silently, seeing Neville, who was on the verge of tears, as usual.

"Why do you have a jar?"

"Oh, for emergencies. It's good to have a jar—especially if you know how to cast Bluebell flames. You can bottle them. They're blue, and not as hot as regular flames, but—"

"I got it."

Blue flames. Ruth frowned at that before passing the jar to Neville.

"Trevor!" He hugged the jar tight and bowed, eyes welling up again. "Thank you so much for finding him, Ruth, Hermione. I—I won't forget it, and I won't lose him again! Sorry for the trouble! Really, sorry—"

"I got it." Ruth eyed the jarred toad suspiciously. "Keep him in the jar. I know he needs air. Poke a hole in the lid. He was pretty close to being cooked in there."

Hermione finally looked shaken. Ruth could already hear her starting to talk.

"Make sure Longbottom gets back with Trevor."

Ruth sped away from them.

Unfortunately, her compartment was not calm, either.

Ruth reached for the door's handle only to hear Goyle yelling.

"I GOT BIT!"

Her hand froze, gripped around the handle. She saw Hermione and Neville heading down the aisle.

She opened the door, slipped in, and quickly slammed it shut behind her.

With a full house, it was harder to squeeze in, but she did, collapsing into her corner seat.

Her rolled sleeves and steamed appearance silenced the compartment for a short while.

Goyle's left index finger was mangled and bleeding. The three of them—Crabbe, Goyle, and Draco—looked incensed, though Goyle in particular seemed more shocked than angry, thanks to his finger. Potter and Weasley must've been aggravating, as she'd expected, unless the food carriage was far more dangerous than she thought it to be.

Ruth passed Goyle a Wiggenweld from her satchel. He took it gratefully, splashing half on his finger and downing the other half.

Goyle's outburst had been so surprising that she had to ask.

"So, who bit you? Potter?"

This deflated Draco's anger. Crabbe followed after a beat, but Goyle already looked deflated.

"Who bit him?" Draco snorted. Then laughed, unable to suppress it.

"The Boy Who Shivved," Zabini cackled. "Wicked. Oh, she's serious."

"It was a rat," Goyle answered pathetically. "We were trying to get snacks."

He looked to Draco pleadingly.

"We were in Potter's carriage," Draco said. "They were being rude, so I wanted to put them in their place…"

He trailed off.

"So you tried to take his snacks," Ruth said slowly, confirming, "and Goyle got bit by a rat."

Zabini was watching Draco's reaction carefully.

"Weasley laughed when I gave my surname," Draco explained, more furious than defensive. "Potter rejected my handshake—"

"Are you sure he knows what a handshake is?"

Draco thought about it. "Yes. He said that he was able to tell who the wrong sort are—he knows."

"It sounds like you said something," Ruth said evenly. She ignored everyone else's pointed stares.

"Are you saying I was wrong to get angry?"

He wasn't quite displeased at her. Yet.

Crabbe looked very interested now. She could almost hear him hoping that this would cause a rift between her and Draco.

"No. I'm saying you lost."

Zabini's gaze flicked to Draco. He looked like he'd been hit, but still looked straight at her.

"Then, what would you have done?"

Ruth fiddled with her potions textbook, thinking.

"I would've reported the rat. Not one of the allowed pets."

"It's probably just a rat that got on," Draco said, waving it away. "Though if anyone were to bring a rat as a pet, it'd be the Weasleys."

"I'd have asked about his nose," she said. "I don't think it would really help you, though."

"I didn't ask about that. Still, that bloody Potter—" Draco rubbed his temple, fuming again. "I'll make them pay, somehow."

Ruth looked at Draco, who should've discarded her long ago—when she'd been engulfed by blue flames, when she'd cast Incendio at his mother without flinching, when she'd somehow made him uncomfortable with his friends.

She felt the silk tie Narcissa had passed to her. Take care of Draco for me, won't you?

And she hadn't.

"I'll come next time," she offered, just barely loud enough for Draco to hear. "I didn't think they had a rat."

He snapped up to look at her. His eyes widened just a fraction. Then he nodded.

"Neither did I," he said.

Crabbe slouched back in his seat, clearly disappointed. Zabini was still watching with a faint smirk on his face.

"So why did he laugh at your family name," Ruth asked. "Did he say?"

Before Draco could answer, Zabini leaned forward with a wicked grin. "I assume it's because his father was one of You-Know-Who's people. Once You-Know-Who disappeared, Malfoy's father was the first one to claim the Imperius defence."

"Zabini," Draco warned sharply.

Zabini mimicked zipping his mouth. Now he watched Ruth.

"It's one of the Unforgiveables," Nott explained coolly, "Imperius puts the victim under the caster's control."

Ruth didn't quite get it. She hadn't read about anyone called Yunohu in the whole History textbook. Too modern, perhaps.

"That doesn't explain anything. I gather this Yunohu fellow is a dangerous criminal."

Zabini and Draco started to correct her, but Ruth continued first.

"Lord Malfoy was working for him, and when Yunohu disappeared, Lord Malfoy said he was under a curse. Sure, but why did Weasley laugh? If he faked the Imperius, he's dangerous too. If he didn't, then he's a victim. Either way Weasley shouldn't have laughed."

Draco was utterly silent, jaw tight.

"Maybe he's just stupid," Goyle suggested.

Ruth nodded immediately. She'd reached the same hypothesis. Goyle grinned proudly.

"It's You-Know-Who," Theodore finally corrected.

"Yes, Yunohu."

"If they can transport the luggages," Ruth asked Draco as she followed close behind him, "why can't they bring us along, too?"

"It's tradition—we'll be going on a boat ride."

After that conversation about the rats, Zabini had tried to interrogate her about the toad and the 'comedy duo', so she did give some basic information: "I got the toad. It steaming in a carriage up front."

"Firs'-years, over here! Firs'-years!"

They were at the front of the train, so it didn't take long to spot the large, shaggy man who was yelling at them to follow.

"That's Hagrid—that 'giant brute' you were talking about?"

"Right. Why's he coming up—shouldn't he be at the front to lead us?"

The steep path they were walking on was flanked by dark, gloomy thickets. Ruth could see glowing eyes in the bushes, though they disappeared once you looked too closely. Hagrid was behind them now as they descended. 

"Firs'-years over here! All right there, Harry?"

"Right, the brutish lot of them," Draco sneered, "Instead it's the Pure-bloods leading us to the lake, rather than the Gamekeeper. Typical."

The other students, slipping and tripping, gasped at the sight of the grand castle. It was atop a mountain in the middle of a dark lake.

Draco didn't seem so impressed. "Anyway, we'll only have to take the boats this year."

From behind them, Hagrid yelled: "No more'n four to a boat!"

"Obviously not," Draco quipped, frowning. 

Crabbe and Goyle were clearly waiting for Draco, so he joined them. It didn't look like the boat could take much more weight, though Hagrid was on a boat himself, which didn't sink. It did look like it was on the verge of doing so, however. Strangely, the boats had no paddles.

"Ruth, hey." Zabini beckoned her over, grinning. "Room for one more here. Would be a shame if you capsized. "

It didn't sound like he really considered it a shame, but she nodded and joined Zabini, who was in a boat with Greengrass and Theodore.

The fleet of boats moved on Hagrid's command.

"The comedy duos have linked up," Zabini mused. "I see the toad you jarred."

Ruth turned to where Zabini was inclining his head toward and saw Potter and Weasley in the same boat as Longbottom and Hermione. Greengrass pressed her hand against her temple, seeming annoyed just by hearing their names.

They reached a little harbour underneath the castle. Theodore and Zabini helped the girls out and linked back with Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle.

By now all the seniors must've been settled already. And they were still in a place that reeked of damp. They all climbed up a stone stairwell behind Hagrid, who had a lantern that was candle-sized in his hands. Potter's comedy quartet was right next to Hagrid.

"He hasn't tripped," Zabini said, smirking. "Surprising. Guess Longbottom can only trip on nothing."

"There's a rat on Weasley's shoulder," Theodore pointed out.

"If any of them get into Slytherin," Greengrass said coldly, clearly plagued by her headache, "I'll make sure they're expelled."

Hagrid knocked on the wooden doors thrice, loudly. The doors opened.

Chapter Text

The doors opened without delay, revealing a black-haired woman in green robes, expression stern. She thanked Hagrid. Then instead of using magic, she physically pulled the door opened. The Entrance Hall was larger than the one at the Malfoy manor, but the stairs leading up were also made of marble and the banisters were polished. Just straight ahead there was the buzz of conversation. The upper-years had already made it here long ago.

"That's McGonagall," Draco told Ruth. 

The Transfiguration Professor, and Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts.

"Why not the Headmaster," Ruth whispered back. "Isn't she the Gryffindor Head?"

"Maybe he's busy," Goyle offered.

They were ushered into a chamber next to the doors where the commotion was coming from. It was a squeeze, especially with Goyle behind her.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," McGonagall said, without smiling, but not coldly.

Then she continued introducing them to The Sorting and the four houses and the house points and the house cup. Greengrass barely suppressed a yawn.

"I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while waiting," she said, lips tight. She was looking at the comedy quartet. "I shall return when we are ready for you. Please wait quietly."

"No amount of smartening is going to help Weasley," Zabini whispered to the others, snickering. "Flashing your ankles in fashion now?"

Weasley was indeed flashing his ankles, despite wearing his outer robes. He was rather tall for a first-year, almost a head above Potter. And he still had a smudge of dirt on his nose. Next to him, Potter's hair looked like he'd let his owl roost in it. And Longbottom, behind them, had his head half-covered, as his robe had somehow been fastened just right below his ear.

"He has to be doing this on purpose," Ruth exclaimed. 

"Is he getting that toad sorted too?" Zabini straightened his collar and tie. "Toad's a clear Gryffindor if I ever seen one."

Just then about twenty or so pale spectres drifted in from the wall, barely paying them any mind.

"Ghosts," Ruth said, blinking.

"There's one that isn't," Draco explained. "Don't see anyone matching his description though."

One ghost asked a few of the corner children if they were getting sorted, and if so, he hoped they'd get into Hufflepuff. This drew several of her compartment-mate's disdain.

"Better than Gryffindor," Zabini said.

"You're kidding," Draco's jaw dropped. "You'd rather Hufflepuff?"

"It's near the kitchens, at least."

Crabbe and Goyle perked up at that.

"Then Hufflepuff ain't all that bad," Crabbe said.

"You'd have to steal the food secretly still," Theodore pointed out. 

This deflated Crabbe and Goyle.

McGonagall came back as the ghosts shimmered and faded through the walls.

"Move along now," she said. "Entrance ceremony's about to start. Form and line and follow me."

Ruth entered behind Draco, eyes kept low. Theodore was behind her, looking bored. 

She understood the place they'd just entered to be the Great Hall as Hermione was giving exposition nonstop. 

The first thing—or rather person—Ruth noticed was Snape, who was sitting next to a purple-turbaned man who was sweating and smiling nervously. Another Professor, she presumed. Snape was wearing black robes like he did when he'd picked her up from Ashbrook. Impressively, he looked more haggard and upset than he did at Diagon Alley.

He saw them—probably Draco, not her, but his gaze didn't linger.

As Hermione was explaining the magic of the Great Hall's ceiling to just about anyone who would listen, Ruth saw the Headmaster. He was sitting at the very center of the long table.

"God above," Ruth exclaimed, more breath than voice, "He's sitting on a golden throne."

Draco shushed her, more shocked than furious. Not many had heard her, though Greengrass in front had notably stilled, next to an amused Zabini.

Draco hissed at her: "That's Dumbledore!"

The Headmaster, who had grey hair and beard, and semi-circular glasses, didn't seem to be looking at anyone in particular, despite having a small smile on his face. 

"And he's sitting on a golden throne," she repeated, whispering back. She played with her top robe button just to have something to do with her hands. Then she went silent. 

"Shouldn't have exclaimed," she said now. "Was caught off guard."

She still didn't look quite all right.

"Right," Draco said slowly, eyes darting from her face to her fidgeting hands. He was somewhere between amused and shocked. "Just dinner and we'll be out of here."

Her fidgeting stopped. He hadn't said not to worry.

"You're saying this golden throne isn't all."

Theodore interrupted them.

"It's Dumbledore. It's never not all."

Ruth had been starving, but now she lost her appetite.

Careful not to look at the golden throne, Ruth studied the rest of the room. There were other teachers at the long table, including one only slightly taller than Urgnock. Another looked like she'd just been out gardening. 

Above them was a night-sky scenery—magic, as Hermione'd described. Candles were floating haphazardly to keep the place lit. Ruth watched as Snape glanced at the first years again, nearer to the front. She couldn't see much—Draco was beside Crabbe—but she knew Hermione—and the comedy quartet were defintely there, as the girl was somehow still talking.

The four tables below the staff platform were covered in tablecloths matching their house colours, gold cutlery already set out on each table—of course. The ghosts were filtering in and out. The upper-years, many draped out in house colours, were whispering and pointing at several of the first-years—Draco, Potter, Weasley…

McGonagall placed a stool on the raised platform the staff were on. Then she produced an old and wrinkly wizard's hat, putting it on the stool.

Which started singing.

"We've got to put that on our head?" Ruth whispered to Draco.

Draco looked amused now. "Hope you're not a Hatstall."

The entire hall started clapping as the Sorting Hat bowed to each table, having finished its song. McGonagall stepped forward, unfurling a roll of parchment, telling them to step forward to try on the hat and get sorted.

"Abbott, Hannah!"

Abbott was a blonde, pink-faced girl. She'd been on the list of names, but Draco didn't seem very interested. It didn't take very long—the hat enveloped the girl's whole head, and it shouted: "HUFFLEPUFF!"

As they went down the list, she realised that some of the students' sortings took longer than the others. She felt the cool of the green silk tie Narcissa had given to her, watching.

Of the ones she knew, Crabbe was sorted first—

"SLYTHERIN!"

He was grinning proudly as he walked over to rightmost table. Snape wasn't grinning, of course. He rubbed his temple, before glancing at Quirrell, who had his hands together, practically quaking.

Zabini had his hands in his pockets. "Can't I go over and sit with him? This is going to take ages."

"Goyle, Vincent!"

"SLYTHERIN!"

Goyle went to join Crabbe, still yawning.

"Granger, Hermione!"

Hermione's one took a good while. Ruth could see her fingers digging into the side of the stool.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Greengrass relaxed, sighing. She was called next, and was almost immediately sorted into Slytherin.

"Longbottom, Neville!"

Longbottom climbed the steps nervously, robes still askew, toad-jar in hand. He fell on the steps once, but held the jar above his head so it didn't crack. 

"Merlin's beard," Theodore shook his head. 

Zabini had an eyebrow raised.

"Still think it's on purpose?"

Ruth didn't know. Longbottom sat on the stool, face still red from slamming into the floor, and from embarrassment. Behind him, Snape had a rather pointed look, although he always had such a look, she supposed.

This one took a while.

"Toad has to be interfering," Zabini said, immensely bored.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Neville looked ashen, but Ruth couldn't tell if it was because the Hat stank, or if he didn't want to join Gryffindor.

"Malfoy, Draco!"

He made a show of walking with swagger, but his shoulders were tight with worry. He'd stuffed one hand into his pocket, where he put his tie from Lucius, too.

He hadn't had to worry, because the Hat had barely touched his head when it went—

"SLYTHERIN!"

He exhaled, then walked, grinning, to sit with Crabbe and Goyle, next to Greengrass. 

"Nott, Theodore!"

Theodore slipped through the ranks and placed the Hat on his head. His took no time at all. 

"SLYTHERIN!"

Parkinson also joined the others at the Slytherin table, next to Bulstrode, who'd left a space for her.

Zabini stifled a yawn. 

"Potter, Harry!"

The tables had been rowdy for a while, but now the Sorting commanded their absolute attention. Leaving Weasley's side, The Boy Who Lived went up the steps, slowly but surely, and put the hat on his head. It was taking a while. She and Zabini, two of the last four left, could see his hands gripped tight on the stool, hear him muttering—

"Not Slytherin, not Slytherin—"

Zabini gave a sardonic grin. "Not like we want him either, do we?"

Snape might've been trying to bore a hole into the Hat Potter was wearing.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

"Thank Merlin," Zabini said. The Gryffindor table started cheering, many seniors shaking Potter's hand as he went to sit. 

"Ruth," McGonagall read. Most of the Hall was still in an uproar about Potter, so there wasn't any immediate reaction to her name, except for the Slytherin upper-years, who were whispering, looking at Draco, down the table.

"…no surname…"

"…talking to Malfoy?"

Zabini gave her an exaggerated wave farewell she ascended the steps. Snape was staring at the Gryffindor table—at Potter, with an intensity she didn't have the time to decipher, then back to the front, where Ruth was. His expression was unreadable. The turbaned Professor didn't bother looking at her, still gazing at the Gryffindor table.

She didn't allow herself to look at the Headmaster on that golden throne.

She sat on the stool. Then the hat dropped on her head, enveloping her in darkness. There was that same voice, but now in her head. She stilled herself, trying not to squirm.

"What do we have here? A new Hufflepuff, with unyielding loyalty?"

She suppressed a wave of annoyance. 

"No, a Gryffindor—with nerves of steel."

Was it trying to goad her on? She kept her hands folded in her lap and waited. 

"A Ravenclaw, perhaps, with your quick mind?"

She gave nothing away. 

"Nothing?" The Hat almost seemed disappointed, his chuckle almost cruel. 

Then now it shouted, not in her head—

"SLYTHERIN!" 

She practically tore the Hat off her head, striding straight to Draco, who was waving her over. She sat next to Draco, who was opposite Theodore. They'd one place left for Zabini.

The murmur from the upper-year Slytherins got even more intense, now.

"Welcome," Draco said, grinning. The others she knew gave her curt nods.

Now Draco took out his silk tie. Following how his demonstration, Ruth put hers on, too. 

The girl after her was sorted into Ravenclaw. Then came Weasley.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Zabini, last one left, was already striding forward, earning a stern look from McGonagall. 

"Zabini, Blaise."

It took no time at all.

"SLYTHERIN!"

He walked with his hands in his pockets to join them.

"I should've taken my father's surname," he said, sidling in. "'Zabini' sounds beautiful, of course, but it does start with a 'Z'."

And now the Headmaster stood from his golden throne.

She braced herself as he opened his mouth to speak.

"Welcome! Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words."

Draco gave her a little kick from under the table. She turned to him. He gave her a warning look of sorts, more concern and amusement than embarrassment.

"Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"

Ruth hoped she didn't look as ill as she felt.

Zabini was holding back his laughter.

"Thank you."

The other tables erupted in claps and cheers. Nearby, only Zabini clapped, for Ruth, not for Dumbledore.

"You look horrid," he said, just as dishes of food appeared on the golden platters on their tables. 

There was a wide array of food—steak, sausages, roast potatoes, roast chicken and beef, and more. There were bowls full of hard sweets, too. Their goblets were filled with something orange. When she looked at it weird enough, it drained itself and filled with water instead. 

She hadn't any appetite at all, but she took some potatoes and sausages and started eating. Crabbe and Goyle were already stuffing their faces with food. Greengrass moved slightly away from them, toward Theodore. These two were eating with poise.

"Got your ties already, the two of you," Zabini started the conversation, cutting some steak. "Confident, aren't we?"

Draco quickly gave a good nod. "Of course."

A bloody ghost drifted through their table, eliciting a shriek from Parkinson. The ghost himself didn't seem fazed, looking around for a seat.

Theodore squinted at the staff table. "I think that's Sprout and Hooch. The turbaned one…"

"Quirinus Quirrell," Greengrass said. "Teaches Defence."

Ruth looked at the turbaned Professor. He didn't seem like he'd be good at Defence. It seemed like they were all thinking the same thing, too. Snape was talking to him, and Quirrell was leaning away, smiling nervously.

Bulstrode and Parkinson were whispering to each other, nodding towards Ruth and Draco. 

The potatoes and sausages were good, but worse than the ones at Malfoy manor. Draco didn't seem to be enjoying himself. He didn't like the golden cutlery either—and she had to agree. She preferred their silver cutlery by far. 

"Unconfirmed blood status," Greengrass said, already done with her meal. She was hardly even looking at Ruth. "No surname, either. Taken in by the Malfoys. Sorted into Slytherin."

Crabbe stopped chewing halfway through a chicken thigh, turning to listen. 

Ruth nodded, cutting off another bite of sausage. 

"Who are you, really?" Zabini continued. 

"I was from Ashbrook End," Ruth said after a while. "Orphan. Never met my parents. None of us had surnames. Not all of us had names." 

"Muggle-raised," Greengrass said clinically. She leaned her cheek against the back of her palm, eyes half-lidded. "Secondhand robes worn like a tailored fit. Genuine silk tie—must be Mrs Malfoy's. Got rid of the noisy ones." 

Draco's fork, stabbed through a cut of roast beef, stopped halfway to his mouth. All the other first years were supposedly Pure-bloods. 

"So," Greengrass said, looking straight at her finally, "I will take the corner bed. Take the one next to it. Be quiet, of course." 

"The corner bed's good?" Ruth asked. 

Greengrass had already gone back to closing her eyes, leaning against her hand. "Quietest. No one walks by." 

Ruth nodded. 

Bulstrode and Parkinson gaped at this, staring at Greengrass. Then at Ruth. almost angrily. If Greengrass noticed, she didn't seem to care. 

Zabini's mouth twitched, as if to say, "That's it?" 

Their compartment's table discussed professors and schoolwork after, though it was obvious the other tables were talking about other things.

"…another useless Defence Professor…"

"The Boy Who Lived…"

"…all Pure-bloods, except…"

Once they were done with dinner, the food vanished and was replaced with dessert. Ice cream, pies, and all sorts of other pastries, fruits, and sweet things appeared, heaps upon heaps of them.

Draco helped himself to some chocolate ice cream. Ruth tried a few strawberries, gingerly. They were sweet, like the ones at the manor.

Zabini ate an eclair. "Malfoy, did you tell her about Slytherin's welcoming tradition?"

Draco continued eating. 

"We're all—" 

He cut off, then paled. 

"Oh, right."

Zabini was delighted.

"Ruth," Draco turned to her, serious, voice low, so only those at the table could hear. "You'll probably be asked to duel when we reach the common rooms."

Crabbe paled. Zabini raised an eyebrow at that. Goyle continued eating jam-stuffed donuts, undeterred.

Because she wasn't already known, she supposed. 

She considered this. 

"Should I win?"

Zabini's smile froze.

Draco gave her a grin. "Obviously."

"Why would they?" Goyle asked a beat late, still munching. 

"They haven't seen Ruth fight," Draco answered.

"Oh, right." Goyle ate a scoop of ice cream this time. 

Snape was looking over to their table now, rubbing his temples. Ruth saw now that, much like he did during lunch at Diagon Alley, he'd only a carafe of something that was nearly black. 

"How did your letter reach you?" Goyle asked suddenly. Ruth had a feeling that he'd become far bolder after she'd agreed with him. 

Draco seemed a bit peeved they were talking over him.

"Professor Snape delivered your letter, right?" He answered for her. "Heard Father talking about it."

"Yes."

Theodore raised an eyebrow, nibbling on an eclair. "I've heard they do personally deliver letters for Muggle-borns. I imagine there'd be resistance."

He turned to look at Ruth, questioning.

"No resistance in my case," she stated plainly. 

The desserts disappeared from the golden platters. Crabbe stuffed one last ice cream down his mouth.

Dumbledore got to his feet again, clearing his throat. 

"I have a few start-of-term notices to give you," the Headmaster announced. 

He went on to say that the forest was forbidden, and that no magic was to be used between classes in the corridors. Quidditch trials were to be held in the second week of the term, and anyone interested ought to talk to Professor Hooch.

There was a beat of silence which gave her a very bad feeling. Draco gave her a firm kick under the table, warning.

"And finally," the Headmaster said, finally, "I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to anyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

There were maybe two or three people who laughed at this—Ruth saw Potter as one of them almost immediately. Perhaps he thought it was a joke, though Ruth wasn't quite sure how. None of the Slytherins or Ravenclaws were laughing. Almost all eyes were on the Boy immediately. 

"He must be dim," Zabini said, not even acidly. 

"You're being awfully generous," Draco followed up.

Ruth looked up to the staff table to see Snape a more displeased-than-usual frown, hands folded.

Potter whispered to the stiff red boy, who was already frowning, confused. It didn't seem like Potter really understood what the boy was saying before Dumbledore spoke again, telling them to stand up and sing the school song. The other professors stood up, mostly reluctantly—Snape slowly, mouth drawn in a thin line.

Dumbledore gave a little swish of his wand, and a golden ribbon emerged from it, dancing in the air, forming words in a flowery cursive. Ruth couldn't read it fast enough, and she wasn't planning to, either way. They were all standing, even Greengrass, who was leaned one way a little, eyes closed.

It was a cacophony, as everyone followed "their favourite tune" like Dumbledore had told them to. This meant, of course, that the Slytherin table was deathly quiet. She'd have sang if Draco had, but he hadn't. They were all like their Head of House, who was also standing and waiting for it all to end.

Ruth recognised the voices of the two who were still singing when everyone had left—the two red twins, from the Gryffindor table. Dumbledore waved his wand in the air to the beat of their singing as it faded out to the end—

"And leaaaarnnn untiiiiiil our braaaaaaaaiiins aaaaalll roooooooot."

Some clapping erupted from the Gryffindor table. And from Dumbledore himself.

"Absolutely dreadful," Draco muttered, adjusting his tie.

"Are we quite done," Ruth whispered to him.

"I am," Draco replied drily. 

"Ah, music," Dumbledore said as though on cue, wiping a tear from his eye, "A magic beyond all we do here!"

Draco kicked Ruth in the nick of time, who had already opened her mouth to invoke God's name again.

"And now, bedtime! Off you trot!"

That was all, fortunately.

Two prefects led the first-years to their common rooms. The one ahead of them introduced himself as Antonio Montague, dark-brown haired boy with a crooked smile. Trailing behind them was Fleance Perrot, a serious-looking girl whose face was scrunched in a frown.

"Welcome to the Dungeons. Potions is right that way. Take this flight of steps down, and we're at the entrance already," Montague explained, showing them a room that had no doors whatsoever on the walls.

"Most of you will just need to stand in the right vicinity," Perrot instructed, walking over to one of the looser-looking stones, "and say 'Pure-blood'."

Two silver snakes slithered from the cracks of the stone floor, revealing a magnificent green door.

Then Perrot turned to Ruth. "You. If you're not Pure-blood, you will have to do it the longer way." 

Probably based on school records, Ruth supposed. Snape had said that her blood status was undocumented.

"Tonio, you remember it?"

Perrot returned to the first-years. The two snakes slithered back into the cracks, the door disappearing with them.

"Been a while since I've seen it." Montague rubbed his chin. "You walk over to the door first. Can't show you—I'm Pure-blood."

Ruth did, walking past the loose tiles.

"Reach out as though you're already pushing the door open."

She placed a hand on the door on the right side.

"Then say: 'ubi nihil vales, ibi nihil velis'. Mind your pronunciation."

Where you are worth nothing, you will wish for nothing.

Ruth recited it. It rolled off her tongue like an old friend.

The door appeared first, before the snakes slithered up to frame it, hissing. At Montague's instruction, she pushed the door open.

The common room was slightly cold, the windows showing something underwater rather than the night sky. Green, silver, marble. The couches were pushed to the side, leaving a wide, empty space in the middle. The whole house was waiting, lazing on divans or standing around, murmuring. 

"First-years dormitory rooms are at the very top of the stairs." Montague pointed to the stairwell on the left, and then to the one on the right. "Boys on the left, girls on the right."

He passed out parchments. They were labelled 'TIMETABLES—WEEK 1 (TENTATIVE)'. 

Potions was with the Gryffindors.

"Shame," Montague said. "Quite impossible to study anything when the Gryffs are around."

Monday's timetable was sort of greyed out.

"No classes tomorrow," Perrot explained. "Make sure you orientate yourselves with the school by tomorrow night."

One of the students, a third or fourth-year, maybe, with dusty blonde hair, walked into the empty space, watching the first-years. Montague moved aside as the first-years moved next to the couch closest to the entrance.

"Time to prove yourself," Zabini said.

Ruth stepped forward without being asked directly.

The student opposite her grinned, almost cruelly. It seemed like he'd been goaded—probably someone hungry to prove himself. The looks of his house-mates weren't that of concern—only vague, cold amusement, almost disdain.

She didn't introduce herself. She drew her wand—

Which immediately drew a reaction from the rest of the common room.

"Elm?"

"—isn't that for Pure-bloods?"

The boy didn't seem cowed by it. 

She bowed, same way Narcissa had. The boy barely nodded his head, already casting. But it was no advantage—where Narcissa was all poise and grace, his was clumsy and obvious. It was disrespectfully easy to read, even with the early start.

"Expelliarmus!"

It was aimed at her chest, rather than her arm. His movements were weaker and less elegantly flourished than Draco's, despite the swagger. The pink—rather than red—fizzle streaked toward her ribs. He looked triumphant already, seeing her lack of reaction. But there wasn't any need to dodge—colour aside, she could tell it was weak. She held fast to her wand and cast as the Expelliarmus hit her—

"Flipendo."

Right at his face, for maximum impact. He hadn't expected her to be unfazed by his spell. He flew backward, flipping in the air, into the marble pillar. There was a heavy thud and a groan. 

Then the room was pin-drop silent.

She sheathed her wand.

"Will that be all?" she asked, coolly.

Greengrass had already turned, heading for the stairs, movements languid. She was already yawning. Ruth, seeing as no one replied, followed closely behind. 

Four four-posters, as expected. Greengrass pulled her luggages over to the very corner bed. She opened the closet first, then her desk drawers, and finally her luggages. The items levitated and sorted themselves into place. The luggage slipped underneath the bed, out of sight.

At the same time, Ruth carried her trunk over to the bed next to Greengrass', unlocking it, unclasping it, and taking each item out neatly. The clothes in the closet, each book carefully arranged, next to the inkwell, quills. Box of pencils tucked into the topmost drawer, next to her parchment pads. Cauldron and scales carefully placed in the largest drawer, near the bottom. Telescope tucked away, left-side drawer…

There were little silver snakes, one on the leftmost corner of the desk, another on the handle of the closet, and one larger one coiled around one of the bedposts. She didn't touch them, though they were eyeing her through gleaming green eyes.

"Activate the locks on the desk and closet," she said, gesturing vaguely. "Impervious against most students' Alohamora. The silver snakes. Try it."

Ruth moved closer to the one at the bedpost, reaching out. The snake snarled, uncoiling. Then it licked her palm, its tongue feeling like liquid metal. Then it coiled back around the bedpost. She did the same for the one on the desk, and the one on the closet. They hissed at her almost obediently when she got close.

Once she was done, she grabbed a set of nightclothes, hurrying after Greengrass, who'd left to wash up. Parkinson and Bulstrode hadn't come in yet—they were still speaking downstairs. 

"Potions with Gryffindors. Horrible," Greengrass grumbled, bathing set floating above her in a basket of some sort. "I was looking forward to Potions—pity."

"And it's a double slot," Ruth added. 

"Unbearable," Greengrass remarked before entering the shower. This was the most emotion Ruth had seen on Greengrass, beside when Longbottom had fallen flat on his face in the Express. 

"The one class that would benefit from self-regulation." Ruth caught her mumbles from the partition that separated them. "Hopefully the Hufflepuffs are bearable in Herblogy…"

The water was warm, out of a snake-shaped spout. 

By the time they were dressed and ready for bed, the other two girls hadn't come in yet. Greengrass turned to face her, but her eyes were closed.

"Ruth, wake me up tomorrow at seven," Greengrass said coolly, like an order. "Just tap on the bedpost. That'll suffice. Good-night."

The heavy velvet drew shut. Ruth went to sleep too, gripping her wand under her pillow. She was exhausted beyond belief, and fell asleep easily.

Chapter Text

At seven she gave a quick tap on Greengrass' bedpost, before returning to her book. Ruth had already taken a morning bath, dressed in her blouse and trousers, outer robe resting on her chair. She was re-reading her textbooks while waiting.

Greengrass drew her curtains aside and climbed out of bed, obviously groggy but with elegant movements still. When she came back from her bath—a long one, she looked slightly more functional.

She was wearing a silk green tie, too, freshly enchanted and brand-new.

"Checking the library," Greengrass said. When Ruth started to pack her things, she waited for her.

There weren't many people in the common room, just a few groggy-looking seniors sitting around, another few who were studying, then some playing board games. Greengrass and Ruth exited the room without greeting anyone. Draco and the others certainly weren't around.

They walked mostly in silence. Then they reached a fountain in the center of a grand hall and turned left, walking down towards a narrow passageway that led to the library. Greengrass didn't look like she was lost at all. The door opened to a grand library, with spiral staircases leading up to the second floor. Shelves upon shelves of books stood gleaming, the windows letting the morning light in.

It looked like a very pleasant place to study in. There were more students here—mostly Ravenclaws, already reading and writing.

"Layout hasn't changed," Greengrass said decidedly. "Great Hall. Breakfast."

They walked out of the building itself, pushing the grand doors open. It was a pleasant morning, a little breezy. Greengrass led the way to the building without hesitation. There were a few students already seated there, eating, talking—mostly Hufflepuffs. Not a soul at the Gryffindor table.

Greengrass walked them to a little corner of the Great Hall behind the staff's table, where several pieces of parchment were posted. They were enchanted, constantly flickering.

Greengrass gave the one at the very bottom a stern look and the flickering crest finally stabilised into the Slytherin crest.

"Flying," Greengrass murmured. "Thursdays, three-thirty."

"It's red and green," Ruth noted.

Greengrass pressed a hand to her temple, silent.

The bell tolled soon after, signalling breakfast. Piles of food and drink—less extravagant than yesterday's feast—appeared on cue. Greengrass and Ruth started eating even before most of the students were seated. The Gryffindors started spilling in, robes unkempt, noise first before visual.

The other Slytherin first-years joined them eventually.

"Morning, Greengrass," Zabini said, yawning, top-button askew, "Ruth."

Theodore joined silently, giving them slight nods.

Draco came in with Crabbe and Goyle. All three looked tired.

"Good morning," Draco greeted. "Suppose we'll be resting today, won't we?"

"Yeah," Parkinson confirmed.

"Checked the Grand Timetable. Flying's with the Gryffindors," Greengrass reported. "Thursdays, three-thirty."

Everyone looked horrified.

"Seriously?" Bulstrode said. "Not just Potions, but Flying, too?"

"Woe," Zabini said, crumpling dramatically onto the table. "Is it too late to transfer to Durmstrang?"

They complained about the pairings and ate a little before the owls started flying in in a flurry of feathers, bearing letters and packages. Greengrass and Ruth frowned almost immediately, moving their dishes closer to themselves.

Many packages for the Slytherin first-years. Draco had a whole snack delivery from the manor, Zabini a nice tie… Ruth simply thought this owl delivery over breakfast was quite unhygienic.

The hall was abuzz with conversations about Potter, except for the Slytherin table, really—which were focused more on House points, Quidditch, classes…and the no-name freshman's display of magic last night.

Draco shared the snacks with the compartment crew, leaving the best for himself.

"Mother said she'll be sending me these daily anyway," he said, proudly.

He passed Ruth a small bar of chocolate ("Mother sent two—must be for you.") and kept the larger one for himself. The pastry that came along with it—an apple pie—was fragrant, freshly-baked despite it being a delivery. They shared it for breakfast, rather than the Hogwarts fare.

Once they had eaten, they all rose and headed back to the dormitory, Parkinson and Bulstrode following close behind.

While Ruth did want to orientate herself, none of the other first-years Slytherins seemed to need to. When she asked Draco, he only raised an eyebrow.

"You'll be following us, won't you? We know our way around," Draco said. "Just do your prep or rest, really."

She spend most of her time in her room, reading, re-reading, writing. Greengrass was with her, lying in bed, resting most of the time.

It was an uneventful first day.

Classes began in full swing on Tuesday. Ruth woke Greengrass up at seven like she'd requested, then they all headed for breakfast, which was supplemented by Draco's Malfoy manor snack delivery. Even though the others seemed more at ease than her, she noticed that even Crabbe was eating less than usual. So they were all nervous, too.

Defence was in a separate wing of the castle. The Pure-blood children—even Crabbe and Goyle—knew exactly where they were headed. They took each turn exactly, except for one, when Draco, leading the group, gave a sigh, backtracking: "Layout's changed. Take note, Goyle."

At one point, Crabbe was sent forward to give one of the steps two strong stomps, which revealed a hidden passageway.

Goyle took notes in a little notebook, which he passed to Draco when they'd reached their destination.

Even one floor away, they could smell the Defence classroom. A heavy garlic smell. They all froze at the landing. It was so bad that even Zabini's smile looked a bit strained.

"I'm not imagining that, am I?"

"Got to bathe again later," Parkinson grumbled. "At least it's Herbology after…"

"We've Charms between," Bulstrode reminded her. This earned another groan from Parkinson.

Crabbe was sent to open the door. It reeked even worse inside, but Quirrell, that turbaned Professor, didn't look the least bit bothered by the smell. He was smiling and sweating profusely, as he'd been at the Welcoming Feast.

"G-g-good morning, S-S-Slytherin f-f-first-years, I assume?"

Greengrass walked immediately to the seat farthest away from him, near the back of the class. She yanked Ruth along, so that Greengrass was seated center, and Ruth on the aisle. Theodore quickly took the other seat next to Greengrass.

The Slytherins all sat near the back, following the three of them. The Ravenclaws came in a little late, holding maps and clearly frazzled. Quirrell greeted them too. They filled up the front rows.

"W-w-welcome to D-D-Defence Against the D-D-Dark Arts!"

He introduced himself and told them to take out their books. His stammer was so terrible they could hardly make out anything, not to mention the garlic stench which was even throwing Zabini off.

At least he kept to the front of the room, pacing about, laughing nervously and talking. Ruth had serious doubts as to whether he could even cast Flipendo without shaking. Theodore was hiding a frown, though some of the other Slytherins—and even some of the Ravenclaws—were clearly having a laugh at Quirrell's expense, mocking his stutter. Greengrass had her scarf up to her nose, but it looked like an actual part of her outfit, and not that she was disgusted by the stench.

"Professor," one Ravenclaw said, raising his hand. "I heard you fended off some Vampires, is that true?"

Quirrell gave a nervous, squeaky laugh.

"W-w-well. W-w-would anyone l-l-like to share what the t-t-textbook s-says about v-vampires?"

"V-vampires," Draco snorted.

"W-w-well, I don't know, Professor. S-S-Shouldn't you tell us? A-A-Are they scared of g-g-garlic?" Parkinson mimicked.

Crabbe and Goyle burst into laughter. Draco grinned. Even some of the Ravenclaws laughed.

Quirrell turned red and stammered even more now, reading off the textbook in a way that made it clear that even his eyes were stuttering. Some of the Ravenclaws took down notes, quills scribbling. None of the Slytherins bothered.

"You look awfully sweaty, though, Professor." Zabini leaned back in his seat. "I could get a nice feather hat for you—would fit you better than that turban."

"N-N-No thank you, Mr S-S-Sabeneye," Quirrell replied, "I-I-I got this t-t-t-t-turban when I got r-r-r-rid of some z-z-z-zombies. A p-p-prince in Africa p-p-passed it to me, y-y-you see."

Zabini was too busy laughing to correct his mispronounced name.

Now Quirrell walked toward the back of the class to retrieve something, and there was, for a second, an undercurrent of something different as he walked by the last table, with Ruth, Theodore, and Greengrass. The garlic smell was even stronger now, emanating from him, really. No, but it wasn't that.

Greengrass already had a frown upon her face, but now it deepened—from sheer proximity.

Theodore and Ruth, however, waited for him to walk back again, stock-still.

That smell—

Greengrass loosened her scarf as Quirrell walked away. She hadn't noticed anything.

Her gaze flicked to Theodore.

He met her gaze. Then he nodded, a little pale. Then, hand cupped, he mouthed: "Talk during Charms."

Defence was an expected disappointment. And then some.

The Ravenclaws followed closely behind them to the Charms classroom, writing notes on their Hogwarts maps, brows furrowed. Probably it wasn't very accurate. Or perhaps it was the passage they were taking—off the map, maybe?

Theodore walked close to Ruth, once they were a good distance away from Defence.

"You smelled it too," he whispered. "That stench."

"Rot," Ruth replied, voice low.

"I thought I might be imagining it," he nodded, wrapping his robes a little tighter around him. "Good thing we're seated near the exit."

"What's wrong with him?" She thought a while for the word. "Gangrene?"

Theodore frowned, gaze distant. "Something Dark. Or gangrene."

They went quiet. Zabini broke away from the main pack to join them.

"What are you two on about?"

"How Quirrell'd look in a feather hat," Theodore said bluntly. Zabini gave a quick bark of laughter.

The Charms Professor was Filius Flitwick, a short little man who stood on a stack of books to be seen over the podium.

Perhaps it was because they'd just came from Defence, but the class was productive. Though he spoke on the quick side and had an altogether squeaky voice, it was welcome especially when compared to Quirrell's stammer.

"Now, since we've finished theory faster than expected—raise your hand if you've any questions—no? Great! We'll try the Wand-Lighting and Extinguishing charms now, very nice. Take out your wands, flip to page seventeen—or eighteen, depending on your version—yes, Corner, twenty-one on yours, so—"

He gave a clean loop of his wand: "Lumos!"

A clean little light shone from the tip of his wand.

Then a swish into a jagged draw—a wave of sorts: "Nox!"

And the light went out.

"Remember the pronunciation—and the swish! Try Nox first, and I'll give you the okay to cast Lumos—in front of me, please, no rushing—we don't want any wands on fire…"

The wand hummed in her hand. Greengrass, next to her, held her wand with poise, casting with perfect pronunciation: "Nox."

Nothing happened, of course.

Almost everyone on the Slytherin side cast Nox with ease, even Crabbe, whose motions were exaggeratedly large but accurate. They were given the okay to cast Lumos soon after, which nobody really struggled with.

On the other side, the Ravenclaws mostly did, too. The one or two who couldn't cast Nox on their first try followed the book again and again until they succeeded. Flitwick paid a little closer attention to some of the Ravenclaws as they cast Lumos: "Tighter loop! Careful with your pronunciation!"

It was really an altogether smooth class. She thought it might be worthwhile to ask Flitwick about Lumosversus Lux as she'd raised earlier with Narcissa, but decided to observe a while more.

Flitwick climbed atop his books again, swishing his wand, making the curtains do a quick flap, which caught everyone's attention.

"Wonderful! Ten points to Slytherin and Ravenclaw each. I suppose this class might be able to do an accelerated syllabus."

A few Ravenclaws perked up at that.

"There are charm modifiers—wonderful things, really. Let's try it—with the modifier Maxima. From the incantation, can anyone tell me what Lumos Maxima might do?"

Ruth supposed it would make Lumos brighter, but she'd managed to do something similar just by intent, she thought. The way she'd willed her wand to blind Narcissa during the duel—she'd used the base spell, then.

Still, now that she could think about it, it was strange that Lumos emitted heat, not just light. Improperly-cast Lumos could sear the wand, the textbook had warned.

She wrote, haltingly, with a pencil, the words: 'modifire: Maxima', and waited for it to be defined.

Many Ravenclaws raised their hands. Flitwick chose the first one, a girl sitting in the front row.

"The Wand-Lighting charm will shine even more brightly," she said.

"Quite close! Five points to Ravenclaw. Give it a go, all of you."

Many of them succeeded on their first try. Goyle took a little more time, struggling with the pronunciation. Ruth tried without much conscious intent to make it brighter. This was brighter than a usual Lumos, but not as bright as that blinding light she'd willed in the duel. With the increase in brightness, there was also more heat emanating from the tip of the wand.

So it wasn't just modifying brightness, but rather the whole spell itself.

She cast Nox, looking at where Flitwick was.

One boy had failed to cast Nox again, prompting Flitwick's sharing on the invention of the charm as he fixed the boy's movements.

"You see, the inventor of Lumos thought it incredibly inconvenient to have to walk around with a lit wand all the time. Now, Mr Boot, your wrist movement, try it like this—"

Mr Boot succeeded.

"Now, can anyone tell me what the exactly the Maxima modifier does?"

"Not brighter, sir?" There were murmurs from the Ravenclaw side.

"Quite close, as I said." Flitwick pointed to Draco, who was already writing something down in the margins of his textbook. "Mr Malfoy, would you be so kind as to let us know what you've figured out?"

Draco replied without hesitating, putting down his quill.

"Yes, sir. Maxima increases the intensity of the spell. It's a general-purpose modifier."

"Exactly! Ten points to Slytherin."

Draco gave a smug grin, before sitting down and completing his notes. The Ravenclaws, too, copied down his words. Ruth drew a little triangle next to her written 'Maxima'. Increased intensity.

Then— 'Jeneral'. She squinted, rubbed out the 'J' for a 'G', which came out reversed, so she had to try again.

Flitwick gave a swish of his wand, opening the door leading out. He beamed at all of them.

"And that's all for today's class! We've made good progress. Keep this up and we'll be able to cover the syllabus and then some! Thank you all!"

"Thanks Prof—" "Thanks, Prof Flitwick!" "Thank you, Sir!"

He waved them goodbye from the podium, standing on the same stack of books.

They had Herbology thrice a week, scheduled with the Hufflepuffs rather than with the Ravenclaws. Lessons were in the greenhouses, pleasantly warm and sunlit. Tuesday's class was fourth period. The Slytherins reached early, silently taking the best seats at the back. The Hufflepuffs came in soon after, laughing and talking.

Professor Sprout had a quick check-in on the progress they'd made on the Textbook. It seemed that the Hufflepuffs had read enough—most of them were looking forward to Herbology, and some of them already tended to plants—magical or non-magical—at home. The Slytherins had been tutored or at least done their prior readings, like Ruth.

"Wonderful!" Sprout said after a Hufflepuff shared about their experiences growing Moly at home. "It seems we're ready to jump right into it. Everyone, put on your gloves and raise your hands so I can have a quick look."

Ruth put on her gloves and raised them. Sprout gave her a quick nod.

Ruth wasn't bored or anything, but she felt very, very drowsy. Perhaps it was the sun. She turned to face the two potted plants in front of her. She opened her book, confirming if she'd identified the plants right.

"Aconite and Dittany," Ruth murmured, turning to Draco. "Is that right?"

Draco was playing with his sleek green-and-black gloves. His mouth quirked a bit when she asked.

"Sure. Now name a potion that uses them both."

"Wiggenweld," she said immediately.

He nodded.

"Wasn't that Monkshood?" Goyle mumbled. "Or is this the one with three names. Wolfsbrain, right?"

"Wolfsbane," Draco corrected. "You're right."

They spent the lesson potting and re-potting the plants and filling up a parchment with additional drawings and notes. The worksheet was to be a two-week documentation on Dittany and Aconite growth. Draco helped Ruth with the Dittany leaf drawing, his quillwork light and precise over her shaky pencilled sketch.

"Shape's right, but your grip's still awful," he said. "Quill's worse, isn't it."

She sighed, taking out her quill to write the notes. "Going to have to rewrite it."

"Here, take mine." Draco handed his parchment to her, almost smugly. The drawings were precise, the notes neat. Then he went over to look at Goyle's and Crabbe's. "Shape's wrong for yours, Crabbe. Goyle, it's 'Dittany' with two t's. Refer to your textbook."

At the end of class Professor Sprout brought them around the greenhouse, introducing them to different plants and fungi, like the Devil's Snare, Asphodel, and Puffapods. The Slytherins flipped through their textbooks, while the Hufflepuffs huddled around said plants and fungi, poking some with gloved fingers, and asked questions, sometimes unrelated to the topic.

"Is it edible? Devil's Snare, I mean," one of the Hufflepuffs asked.

"I daresay it wouldn't be tasty," Sprout replied. "It isn't poisonous, though."

Then another Hufflepuff volunteered his answer.

"I wouldn't recommend it."

They all turned to look at him.

"Tastes funny. My brother said so."

A few of the Slytherins, despite their grimaces, wrote this tidbit of information down in their books. The Hufflepuffs asked for more information—how was it prepared? Did it taste like octopus?

They walked back to the main classroom, where they labelled their pots and packed their things.

"That's all for today's class. Make sure your pots are labelled right! Check your hands once you leave. Do head over to the Hospital Wing if you've any rashes."

One Hufflepuff boy came up to the Slytherins after class.

"Hey, uh, Malfoy. If it's no trouble, could we follow the Slytherins to the Astronomy tower at half-past ten? We got lost third period trying to get to Defence already."

"Macmillan," Draco greeted. One of the Pure-bloods Lucius had mentioned. "Sure. Meet outside the library. Be there on time. We won't wait."

"Thanks. Followed the Gryffs this morning." Macmillan gave a little shrug. "Didn't turn out so well."

"How surprising," Zabini quipped, already smirking.

"Two of them ran down the corridor, well, the exact one the Headmaster said to avoid," the Hufflepuff girl next to Macmillan added, "and, didn't even look all that worried about it. Then, you know, Filch caught them."

"Sounds about right," Parkinson said.

The Hufflepuffs didn't seem to mind all that much—just found it a great laugh.

"Lunch now," Greengrass said, cutting their meandering conversation short, eyes barely open. "Hurry up."

The Hufflepuffs followed the Slytherins as they walked back to the Great Hall for lunch.

"At least we won't be late for lunch," one of the Hufflepuffs said cheerfully.

Lunch was a relatively painless affair, as they'd reached before most of the first-year Gryffindors had. Theodore, Greengrass and Ruth left as the Gryffindors rushed in, robes askew. Greengrass ducked to the side, which was the most inelegant thing Ruth had seen her do.

The three of them returned to their dormitories.

"Shower. Then library," Greengrass told Theodore as they parted ways.

So they did. They had Tuesday afternoons basically free. Ruth braced one hand on her forehead, copying Draco's script with a quill. Theodore read a library text next to her, something about medicine. Greengrass snoozed intermittently on a couch, occasionally reading a dense-looking potions reading. A pleasant autumn breeze came in through the open window, lace curtains fluttering.

Zabini and Draco joined them a good while later, and by then Greengrass was out cold, very regally, book face-down in her lap, head barely turned to the side. Theodore was reading a different book now, an old Defence textbook. Ruth had copied out her Herbology parchment, and it looked vaguely legible, if you squinted. She was trying again on a piece of fresh parchment.

There were sheets of cramped, painful-looking handwriting scattered about. Still, they were hardly legible.

"You still need your arm for Astronomy, you know," Draco said, pulling a chair to sit next to her.

She nodded, blinking away her exhaustion. She was going to rub her eyes but Draco caught her wrist first. Then she saw the inkstains that had blossomed all over the wrist of her blouse-sleeve.

There was a sudden blast of pain. She grimaced. Her whole arm was throbbing with a terrible ache, not unlike the first day after Madam Petkov. Her wrist was almost dead.

She hadn't even realised.

"Merlin's teeth," Draco cursed—softly, as they were in the library, "you ought to rest."

She didn't reply. He let go of her wrist, frowning, but did not press.

Zabini was watching her with renewed interest, sitting on one of the desks instead of the chair.

She put the quill in her left hand instead and continued practising, rolling her sleeve up this time. Draco sighed, opened the book he'd found, and started to read.

"You know," Zabini said, holding a piece of her penmanship practice at his eye-level, "the Gryffindors are calling that Mudblood a know-it-all."

She didn't react to the word, looping the 'g' in the way Draco did.

"Granger," Zabini clarified, watching her. "The noisy one on the train. You understand they haven't even cast Lumos in Charms—fifth period."

"I figured," she mumbled.

"She's being ousted. Longbottom, too."

She shrugged.

"Zabini," Theodore said suddenly.

"Hm?"

"Librarian's looking over."

Zabini took a quick glance, then slid off the desk and dragged a chair behind Draco and Ruth. The librarian looked away.

"Ruth. Ruth. Nothing gets on your nerves," Zabini continued, softer now. He rested his chin on his palm, grinning. "Nothing at all, or not yet?"

"Zabini," Greengrass spoke, not opening her eyes. "If you're here to talk, do so at least five shelves down."

"Sure, Greengrass." Zabini raised his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. "I just think three of you are very chummy with her, given her…undocumented status. And she can barely write. You understand how it's looking to Parkinson and Bulstrode."

Draco turned to him sharply now, but before he could speak, Zabini cut in first.

"And Malfoy, you've made Crabbe upset, haven't you?"

Draco didn't flinch, voice even: "You're using an awful lot of words to warn her about Parkinson, don't you think, Blaise Zabini."

Ruth hadn't taken it that way, but Zabini was silent for long enough to confirm Draco's accusation.

"Am I?" Zabini deflected, not convincingly.

"You don't have to worry about Parkinson," Draco said, turning back to Ruth, away from Zabini. "If she does anything…"

"I'm not worried about Parkinson." She gave him a small look, calm and steady. "I'm worried about the essays."

"Yes, I'd be, too." Draco grinned crookedly, holding a piece of her penmanship practice. "This is awful."

Zabini didn't say much after that.

They left for dinner at five to six.

Dinner started at six and was a leisurely affair until eight, so students streamed in and out. Most of the Professors were present for dinner, even Snape—who was just drinking tea. Dumbledore wasn't present, though, but his golden throne sufficed as the centrepiece.

Parkinson was already there with Crabbe, Goyle, and Bulstrode. Several of the second-year Slytherins were seated nearby, too. They were gossiping.

The five of them took their seats at the endmost table. Zabini leaned in shamelessly, listening in.

"Only one of them succeeded in the match-to-pin transformation," Parkinson was saying, "in the whole class. It was that loud Mudblood—"

Parkinson glanced to Ruth, but she was busy trying to copy how Greengrass dug into her potato with grace.

"—Granger, I believe. Nobody else even changed their match's colour!"

Crabbe guffawed. "Acufors? Really?"

"And they were complaining about the stack of homework they got," Parkinson continued. "My, failing Acufors that badly—you'd think they were Squibs or Muggles. Getting outperformed by a Mudblood, too. I'd just drop out, if I were them."

"Did you hear about Potter and the new blood traitor—they were caught by Filch just this morning, trying to get into the third floor corridor," a second-year offered. "Quirrell got them out of trouble, or they'd be in detention right now! Instead, look—"

They all turned to look at the Gryffindor table, which was loud and rowdy—some food was being floated around, and there were colourful sparkles of something flying around in the air. The Weasley twins were fleeing the scene, swishing their wands alternately, which made farting sounds. Potter was laughing at something Weasley said. At the far end of the table, Longbottom was picking at a bandage on his cheek, eating opposite Hermione, who was reading a book out loud.

"Just Ravenclaw classes the next two days, aside from Astronomy," Theodore said at their end-table. "Fortunately, Flying only starts next week."

"Might be better to have Flying with the Gryffs than with the Ravs," Zabini said. "Bookworms, you know. Come to think of it, Ruth, you good on a broom?"

"No." "Yes."

Ruth looked at Draco, frowning. "Didn't you say I fly like a Dementor's chasing me?"

"Yes," Draco nodded, grinning at the image. "You look horrible flying, but you fly real fast."

"She doesn't like Flying?" Parkinson cut in, head tilted slightly. "Most Muggle-borns love it, you know?"

It didn't sound very caustic, but Parkinson was looking at her, so Ruth looked up.

"If you say so," she said coolly.

"I'm Pansy. Pansy Parkinson. This is Milicent Bulstrode. I thought you mightn't know."

Bulstrode gave a curt nod.

Ruth knew them both, but she didn't argue with her. Ruth nodded back. "I'm Ruth."

"Good you're keeping up," Parkinson continued, watching her carefully. "In Charms today, especially. Not a wasted movement. Even in the Flipendo last night."

"Thank you."

Parkinson's hand movements had been perfect in Charms, too. Just like almost all the Slytherins. And Ruth had noticed her watching pointedly, waiting expectantly for Ruth to mess up, not just in Charms, but also during the duel yesterday.

"And your wand, it is Elmwood, is it not?"

"Yes." Ruth gave a quick flick of her left wrist, and her wand slid into her hand in one clean motion, holding it up for Parkinson and the others to see. "Dragon core."

"It's a nice wand," Parkinson commented, almost displeased. Ruth kept her wand with a quick reverse of the motions before. "I believe I speak for everyone when I say this—make sure you keep up. We'd hate to be dragged down."

A threat, or a warning. Draco glanced quickly over to Ruth, a flicker of concern in his gaze. She was smoothing her right sleeve, stained with ink.

"I won't, Parkinson."

Parkinson watched her for one beat more, eyes narrowed.

"Good," Parkinson returned to her meal, turning to face the others. There was a hint of disappointment, as though she'd missed her mark. "As I was saying, in Charms—they've not even finished Lumos-Nox, and we're on modifiers already…"

Snape was frowning, tearing his eyes away from the chaos that was the Gryffindor table, to look at the Slytherins. Ruth rubbed her ink-stained sleeve wrist—she'd have to ask him or maybe one of the other Slytherins about Tergeo, if that could get the ink-stains out. She had three sets of work robes, sure, but at the rate she was going, all their wrist-sleeves would be ink-stained soon enough, and they didn't come off easy, even when scrubbed with the school-provided soap bars.

There was a laundry service, but it cost money. Just a few Knuts, but Ruth hadn't much of anything.

The others didn't seem very bothered—some had brought little artifacts that would clean their clothes and iron them too. Others had five or six sets of work-robes. And they all had enough coin to spare.

Every Wednesday at the very least, she'd have to hand-wash her clothes. She really couldn't keep taxing her arms by writing so much, or everything would end up falling into disarray. Draco had been right, too—she'd need her arms for Astronomy.

But even the ones who were Muggle-born knew how to write. And they could read without difficulty.

Greengrass stood now, folding the napkin back to its original place. Ruth snapped out of her thoughts and followed her.

She and Greengrass took a short nap before Astronomy, with Ruth waking her up quarter past ten.

Greengrass yawned as they left their room, grumbling: "Terrible schedule. But at least it's not with the Gryffindors."

"Are the Gryffindors that much worse?"

"For our year, definitely." They descended the steps. Greengrass was far more chatty at night, Ruth realised. "There's Weasley, then there's the Boy Who Lived. That loudmouth. The boy with the toad. You saw on the train. They ought to pair us with the Ravenclaws for every subject. But at least the Hufflepuffs have been bearable so far. Though, it'd be nice if Abbott forgets to wake up for this—she was quite noisy."

Then Greengrass paused.

"Look, you've been more than bearable so far," she said, looking at Ruth closely. "Ignore Parkinson. I'm not saying this out of kindness—just that it'd be annoying for there to be disagreements in our room. I suspect she'd be the one causing it, but still."

"Greengrass," Ruth asked, confusedly, "do you not care about my blood status?"

Greengrass gave a small smile. In the dim candlelight, it looked almost sad.

"It'd be better if you were Pure-blood, but there are some things more important pedigree alone. And then, well, there's a cost to everything, isn't there."

She didn't elaborate, the conversation palpably over.

The Slytherin first-years left soon after, and the Hufflepuffs met them outside the library as stipulated. They weren't as jovial as this morning. All of them were muted by sheer exhaustion.

They made their way to the Astronomy Tower. There was a winding spiral staircase. The first torch lit up. Then the next. From the very center they looked up and saw the sheer amount of stairs they'd have to climb.

"Looking at it won't help, I suppose," Macmillan sighed.

They climbed up the stairs. The Hufflepuffs were sandwiched between two groups of Slytherins—Ruth, Theodore, and Greengrass were lagging behind.

Theodore was probably just lagging behind as he liked to be near the end of the line. Ruth was sleepy, exhausted from the day's efforts, but it was tough to fall asleep while climbing at least.

The slowest one was Greengrass.

She was paler than usual, gripping the handrail as though her life depended on it. She looked on the verge of collapse, breathing shakily and sweating hard. Yet, she didn't say anything, jaw clenched with effort.

They were left behind pretty quickly, the footsteps and grumbles of the other students echoing from way above them.

If Greengrass had been slighter than her, Ruth would've offered to carry her. They were going to be late at this rate. Although Greengrass was slight—smaller and frailer-looking than Parkinson and Hermione—Ruth was even skinnier and tinier than her.

Theodore was sturdier than the two of them, but he was still the stringiest of all the Slytherin boys. Ruth thought she probably stood a better chance than him.

"I suppose we should leave quarter-past ten next time," Theodore said, just factually.

Ruth held her hand out. "Your telescope."

Greengrass lifted her head barely, to meet Ruth's gaze. Even if she wanted to reject the offer, she couldn't have had the energy to argue. She handed the telescope over. Her fingers were icy cold where they brushed against Ruth's.

Greengrass' hands lingered on the telescope for a while longer. Then she nodded, briefly, swallowing, and continued her trudge up.

If she collapsed here, would Ruth and Theodore have to climb up and tell the professor? What would they have to do?

She pushed such thoughts out of her mind as Greengrass took step after tiring step up the stairwell.

Now Ruth realised they'd have to trudge back down later, and again tomorrow morning for the daytime Astronomy session.

Theodore looked up. "I don't remember being told about this many flights of stairs. Seems like these steps are longer this time of the year."

Greengrass didn't have the energy to reply.

"This time of the year," Ruth repeated.

"Yes. I did hear that the Tower's stairs changed sometimes. I've been counting. Will check my notes later."

By the time they reached the top of the tower, the others had their things all set up. There were hushed murmurs. Professor Sinistra stood when she saw them. But it was one of the fitter-looking Hufflepuffs who spoke first, cheerily.

"You guys okay? What took you so long?"

Sinistra shot the Hufflepuffs a look and the whole room shut up. She looked like she was about to scold them. Then she saw Greengrass, leaning against the railing, panting but composed, and Ruth holding two telescopes.

"Get your telescopes set up, the three of you," she said simply.

Draco and the others had left a nice spot for the three of them. As Greengrass caught her breath, still heaving, leaning against a pillar, Draco helped to set up her telescope.

Sinistra wore dark robes, like Snape, but she also wore a pointy hat though they were indoors. There were little shimmers in the fabric. It looked a little like the starry night sky, and changed depending on the angle you looked at her.

It was only an hour long class, but after the climb and the long day, many of them could barely stay awake. Most of the Slytherins stayed standing though they could sit, though Goyle did look like he was going to knock out regardless. Sinistra scolded a few Hufflepuffs for falling asleep, and had them stand on their tip-toes to help them stay awake.

"Now, the study of Astronomy requires your utmost attention. Once you get used to this time of the day—and you will, by next week—you'll find that many things are revealed to you when all is quiet."

Sinistra gave a few quick flourishes. The chalkboard behind her lit up, showing an array of constellations and what Ruth assumed to be their names.

"In Year One, Astronomy hasn't a textbook. That's because we'll be learning it from observation. Once you're able to identify the planetary bodies on your own, the texts will be easy to understand. You, Ms Abbott. Stand. Hands above your head."

Ms Abbott got to her feet and did so, trying her best to blink away her sleepiness.

"Today, I want you to spot and identify at least one of the constellations on the board. Make sure you know how to adjust the focus of your telescope. Begin."

Ruth couldn't make out the constellation names as they were in cursive. Fortunately, Zabini pointed one out, grinning.

"Draco!" Zabini said. "Let's see if I spot your namesake faster than you, Mr Malfoy."

The way the stars were patterned was the same as the one on Draco's door, back at the manor. Now that she knew what its name was, she could make out the cursive 'D' and the 'o' at the end.

Draco rolled his eyes, telescope angled perfectly. "Already got it, Zabini."

"Is it this one?" Goyle asked.

Zabini took a look before Draco could.

"That's Draco's grandfather," Zabini said. "Cygnus. It's also on the board. Draco's right next to it."

Draco gave an exaggerated sigh.

Ruth squatted and tried to look for Draco, the constellation. All the stars looked the same as first until she adjusted the knobs like Madam Petkov told her to. Still, this took a while.

The little glinting gems on his door...

She thought she saw it. She twisted the knobs until it came into focus.

"Found it?" Draco stalked over. He took a look through her telescope. "Yup, that's it."

"So this is the pattern on your door," Ruth said. "The gemstones were differently-sized, too."

He grinned crookedly.

"Yeah, Father really liked the naming scheme of the Blacks—Mother's family. Though Mother's the only one of her sisters who doesn't have a constellation or star-related surname. You remember my owl's name?"

"Eltanin," Ruth recalled.

"Yeah. If you look at Draco, that's the name of the brightest star. Muggles haven't named it so—but they'll catch up eventually."

Then he beckoned her over to his telescope and showed a few other constellations that Sinistra had chosen.

"This is Cygnus, the one Goyle found. Looks like a swan, can you see it?"

"It does look like a bird," Ruth said, looking through the telescope. "Oh, like Eltanin, there's one really bright star."

"That's likely Deneb. Can you make out the Northern Cross?"

"I think so," she replied. There were several stars arranged in a cross. Now she looked up. "You know these pretty well."

"But of course. It's basically my birthright," Draco said smugly.

Though they were chattering, Sinistra didn't tell them off. She did, however, scold several Hufflepuffs and Crabbe. They had to stand up and do a few jumping jacks, because they'd fallen asleep before they identified any of the constellations.

Greengrass looked, at least outwardly, very composed for someone who would soon have to trudge down the stairs. She leaned against the wall as Sinistra debriefed them.

As the class was dismissed, though, she finally relaxed and gave a quick exhale. It took a while before she even found the energy to leave the pillar and pack her telescope set.

Ruth moved closer to the board. She had to copy the constellations—it was clear to her she had to catch up for this subject, too, and besides, she probably should wait for Greengrass.

The Hufflepuffs and some of the Slytherins left first. Some Hufflepuffs descended, groaning and moaning about the staircase as they chattered about how good a sleep they'd have tonight.

Draco lingered near Ruth, occasionally correcting her labels. Right hand holding her Lumos-lit wand, she copied with her less-battered left hand.

When she saw that Greengrass was done packing, she looked at the chalkboard and committed the remaining constellation—Draco—to memory, rolled up her parchment, and stood to leave. She couldn't make her wait.

"The six of you," Sinistra called.

Theodore came over from the far end of the platform. He actually looked more awake at night. It was more obvious now that he was standing next to Zabini and Draco.

But six? Zabini emerged from behind a pillar, tapping Goyle's shoulder. The latter was dead asleep against the same pillar, and had to be shaken awake by Draco.

"There's a switch behind the cupboard that folds the staircase into a slide as long as someone is on it. If I catch you misusing it, there will be consequences. Am I clear?"

"Of course, Professor," Zabini said, smiling lazily.

Sinistra looked like she was beginning to regret her decision. But one more look at Greengrass and she gave a quick flick of her wand as she walked toward the cupboard. It creaked, moving aside.

Then she looked over to them, expectantly. Someone needed to stand on the stairs.

"Goyle," Draco said, "Let's go."

The two of them stepped on the stairs. Sinistra flicked the switch.

"OHHHHHH MERLIN'S HOLEY SOOOOOOOOOOOCKS!"

Goyle's howl echoed comedically as he went down. Draco didn't yell, but his silence was equally telling.

Zabini and Theodore went next. Zabini even gave a little twirl as he slid down the steps.

Greengrass gave a little sigh next to Ruth as they stepped on the slide.

"Don't puke," Greengrass muttered under her breath as she began to slide. It was unclear if the intended recipient was Ruth or herself.

Greengrass took a while to stand when she reached the landing, telescope clutched to her chest like a lifeline. Ruth quickly got onto her feet.

Theodore had his hand on his chin, studying the stairwell. It was still a slide, with Greengrass lying at the bottom.

He put his foot on the last slide-step as Greengrass gathered herself enough to sit up. Ruth helped her up, the stairs still remained a slide. He rummaged in his bag but didn't seem to find what he was looking for.

"Something wrong, Nott?" Draco asked, yawning. "Let's go back already. It's awful late."

"Hold on. Testing something." He lit up suddenly.

Theodore retrieved his wand and cast Lumos Maxima without delay. He put his hand near the tip of his wand, where it was slightly warm.

He was figuring out how the slide worked. Out of curiosity, probably, seeing the way he was almost smiling. Ruth watched as he put his wand on the last step, holding it up with his telescope.

But once he let his wand roll off onto the ground, the telescope alone wasn't enough. The steps raised back to normal. Theodore picked up his telescope. The torches on the wall went out.

"Not weight," Theodore said. "It's got something to do with warmth."

Satisfied, he took his wand and cast Nox.

And they were enveloped in near darkness.

"Hm," Zabini said, definitely smiling. "Bit dark. Your Nox is very impressive, Theo."

"Thanks," Theodore said drily.

Theodore and Draco cast Lumos again. They walked back to their dormitory.

Despite their exhaustion, Ruth and Greengrass still packed their things and went to take a bath before sleeping—they couldn't do things sloppily. By now, Parkinson and Bulstrode were fast asleep.

After their bath, back in their room, Greengrass lay on her bed, curtains not drawn yet. She watched Ruth fold her used robes in the light of a dimmed Lumos.

"Ruth," Greengrass murmured, voice barely a whisper.

Ruth turned, inching closer. "Yes?"

She couldn't quite make out Greengrass' features, only the drowsiness in her voice. There was the sound of shifting bedsheets. Then Greengrass spoke.

"Call me Daphne."

Ruth held her breath. She'd sounded certain, but could it just be the drowsiness?

"Okay?" Daphne asked, drifting off already.

"Okay, Daphne."

Daphne shifted in her bed, the curtains slowly drawing closed.

"Wake me up at half-past seven. Good-night, Ruth."

"Good-night, Daphne."

Chapter Text

Daphne didn't wake up like she did yesterday when Ruth knocked on her bed-frame. Parkinson and Bulstrode had already washed up and gone downstairs to the common room. 

"Daphne," Ruth called. She moved closer to the curtained bed, knocking more firmly this time.

Now she gave a strong enough knock that made Daphne's bed-serpents hiss at her.

Daphne groaned. The curtains opened just a little.

She was paler than last night, slick with sweat.

Her voice came out like a rasp.

"Callisto?"

Someone's name, it seemed. Ruth shook her head, leaning in. Daphne's eyes were glazed over and she was whimpering in pain.

"I'm Ruth. Daphne, I'm going to check your temperature, okay?"

Daphne closed her eyes, exhaling.

Ruth put one hand against Daphne's forehead, but even without checking more closely, she could tell Daphne had a very high fever. She wasn't quite sure what to do, though. Back at the orphanage she would fetch a pail and some water.

She retrieved her cauldron and a fresh face-towel from her cupboard. Then she put them on the ground, opening Daphne's curtains fully and carefully peeling the blankets off her.

"It's cold, but we've got to make sure you're not getting any warmer," Ruth explained. 

Daphne nodded weakly. Now Ruth picked her cauldron and towel up, turning to leave.

"Where are you going?" Daphne asked, voice nearly cracking.

"I'll get some water—have to bring your fever down. And I'll ask—Draco or someone, if we can get you something else, I don't know."

Daphne closed her eyes, inhaling sharply. 

"Okay."

Ruth practically ran downstairs.

There was a strange sort of guilt eating at her, and she had the ridiculous thought that this must have been because Daphne'd been kind to her. What happened to Ashbrook, to the goat, to Samuel and Benjamin? The deluge, the plague, everything burned down by her hand—

She clenched her jaw, trying to stop thinking about all that nonsense—Samuel always said it was nonsense.

The rain is not your fault.

And neither is her sickness.

She tried repeating those statements in her mind, mouthing them, even, but another truth was smiling at her, as though mocking: And look where that got him.

"She won't die," she murmured, gripping her cauldron tight.

She reached the common room now.

Draco looked up from where he was speaking to the other first-year Slytherins.

"We don't have Potions today, Ruth," he said, seeing the cauldron.

But she must've looked in a bad way, because he grew serious.

"What's wrong?"

Her mouth was dry, suddenly.

"Where's Greengrass?" Goyle blurted.

At this, Parkinson and Bulstrode looked alarmed, too.

"She's running a fever," Ruth managed. "I'm going to get some water. Have to bring the fever down. What else should I do?"

Draco's eyes widened. 

"Okay. You go do that." He stood, looking around. "Someone has to go to the Hospital Wing. We ought to tell the Prefects, and Professor Snape. Oh, and Professor Sinistra—that's the first class of today."

The first-years got to their feet, Draco delegating quickly. Problem was they didn't know where anyone was. Parkinson and Bulstrode were to check the other female dorm rooms for Perrot or any of the other female prefects. Zabini and Theodore went to the Great Hall. Crabbe and Goyle were to go to the Astronomy Tower. Draco himself would check Snape's office and the staff wing.

Ruth went to the bathroom quickly, filling the cauldron with cool water. Then she rushed back up to her room. 

She squeezed the cloth and then put it over Daphne's forehead. Her hands were shaking, and not just from overwork.

"Ruth," Daphne said blearily. "You don't have to worry. Just pushed myself a bit too much. Just a bit of sleep and I'll be fine. Then I'll ask for some potions…"

It sounded like Daphne was used to it. But she hadn't sounded calm, even before Ruth had left.

And it was so easy to imagine Daphne dead, just like all the others.

Ruth swallowed.

"I think everyone's worried," Ruth said apologetically, "Draco noticed, and I ended up telling. Sorry."

Daphne laughed a little, more a wheeze. 

"You're very strange," she mumbled, just like Draco had described Ruth before, "and I don't remember being warned about Malfoy being this much of a busybody."

"Really?" Ruth recalled Draco's constant visits to her guest room and all the help she'd been given. "He's helped me out a lot, though."

Daphne closed her eyes. Ruth prepared another cool, damp cloth and replaced the warm one on Daphne's forehead.

"How was it, at the Malfoy manor?"

"They all helped me a lot. Lord Malfoy took me in and gave me access to the library. Lady Malfoy trained me in duelling."

"So that's why," Daphne murmured.

Ruth really wasn't used to talking so much, but Daphne seemed to want her to, so she swallowed and kept going.

"Lady Malfoy got Draco's old tutor to teach me for a while. Madam Petkov. Draco called it 'torture disguised as class'. But it was so I wouldn't be behind when I got here, and I learned a lot."

Carefully, gingerly, she smoothed Daphne's hair from her forehead.

Still burning, like some sort of iron brand.

"They have metal serpents on their doors, a bit like the ones here, but larger. Draco's door has Draco—the constellation—on it, embedded with gemstones. The food's even better than Hogwarts."

Just then, Perrot rushed into the room, Montague behind her. Zabini was holding three vials of potions, less smirky than usual. He looked like he'd been scolded. 

"Greengrass, take this Wiggenweld first." Perrot made Zabini pass her the green potion. "We'll need to move you to the Hospital Wing. Can you walk? If not, 'Tonio will carry you."

Daphne downed the potion quickly. Then she reached for the blue one. Zabini looked at Perrot, who shrugged. Daphne downed the blue one too.

Then she flopped off her bed, still shaky, pulling her outer robe over herself for some semblance of propriety. Ruth walked next to her, prepared to brace her if she fell.

"Will she get to skip Astronomy at least?" Zabini asked. "The climb's horrible."

"Depends if she's fine by then," Montague explained. "You two ought to head for breakfast. The rest of your year-mates are there already."

"Nah, it's fine. Right, Ruth?" He didn't wait for Ruth to respond. "Unless that's an order, Montague?"

"It ought to be," Montague replied, rolling his eyes. "Watch yourself, Zabini."

There were a few flights of steps to the Hospital Wing, but Daphne mostly managed, Perrot behind her and Ruth, watching cautiously. Theodore emerged from behind the door when they reached, followed by Draco. And Goyle. And Crabbe. Parkinson and Bulstrode also popped out sheepishly from behind them.

"What are all of you doing here?" Perrot sighed. "Didn't I tell you to go for breakfast?" 

Draco raised a basket of Malfoy-manor snacks. Goyle and Crabbe were munching on something already. Parkinson had brought a tub of porridge up too, and Bulstrode was holding a set of utensils.

"Where's the girl, Montague?" Pomfrey approached them. "So many first-years—I thought it was the Longbottom boy again, but no—he normally comes alone. These are yours, aren't they?"

"Unfortunately," Perrot replied for him.

Pomfrey ushered Daphne to the bed all the way in, where there was a large waiting space with tables and chairs. There were a few other students in the beds, too, covered in bandages, some who had funny-coloured skin.

"You're letting them in, Madam Pomfrey?" Montague asked, incredulous.

"Malfoy promised they'd be quiet, and they brought patient-appropriate food. And they'll leave for Astronomy right on time, won't they."

"Of course, Madam Pomfrey," Draco replied, giving his most charming grin.

If his grin worked, Pomfrey didn't give any indication of it.

"The instant I hear any commotion whatsoever, you're all getting detention."

Ruth helped Daphne into bed.

"Do you want to start with porridge or apple pie?" Parkinson asked, voice a whisper.

Pomfrey sighed. "Montague, Perrot, I assume they have things under control. Come. You said the Slytherin stores have been depleted?"

Greengrass ate the porridge quietly as the rest of them shared the manor's apple pie and cupcakes. Ruth had a bite of the cupcake and realised she really hadn't an appetite, but managed to down it with a glass of water.

Montague returned with a rack of potions and set it next to Daphne.

"Fleance and I have to head off for class now. Update either of us or Professor Snape during lunch."

He and Perrot left quickly.

Pomfrey drew the curtains closed, casting something with a flourish of her wand. She was definitely talking to Daphne, but all of them outside couldn't hear a thing.

It didn't take very long. Pomfrey walked to the other students now. Daphne was still eating her porridge. She looked much better now. Three of the potion-vials were empty.

"So are you gonna go for Astronomy?" Goyle asked, trying his best to whisper.

"Madam Pomfrey advised me to skip," Daphne said.

"So you're coming," Zabini said, swallowing some pie. "Professor Sinistra said you don't have to. Right, Crabbe?"

"Yeah," Crabbe replied, through a mouthful of cupcake. "Said the climb wouldn't be good for you."

"I asked. She said you can't slide up," Goyle added.

Parkinson and Bulstrode looked confused at that, but didn't press.

Theodore was looking at the clock.

"If we go now you'll probably make it there at a more comfortable pace," he said matter-of-factly. "But you're not in uniform, and you didn't bring your satchel."

Ruth stood immediately. She could tell that Daphne was looking at her, but she couldn't meet her gaze.

"I'll go bring them over."

She'd already started walking, but Bulstrode caught her sleeve, stopping her.

"Wait for us," Parkinson said, not unkindly, getting up, "you look absolutely dreadful, you know."

Bulstrode nodded, agreeing.

"Do you even remember the way back? Come on."

The three of them returned to the dorm.

Ruth took a right turn and was yanked back by the collar by an alarmed-looking Bulstrode.

"The left-side staircase has a few vanishing steps on Wednesdays!" Parkinson scolded, exasperated. "Didn't Montague and Perrot take the one on the right?"

They had. But they'd always taken the left staircase on the way to the other classes just yesterday.

"Honestly," Parkinson continued, "if you'd left and couldn't get back, what were you planning to do?"

Ruth nodded solemnly, following behind Bulstrode and Parkinson closely now.

"I wasn't thinking."

This caught Parkinson by surprise.

"W-Well, at least you know. Just ask Malfoy for his notebook—you clearly know him well, so why are you being so dim all of a sudden?"

They reached the dorm. The lock-serpents didn't attack them. Ruth carefully folded a set of Daphne's blouse and skirt into the satchel lying on the table, then placed the set of quills and parchment next to it snugly so nothing would get crumpled. Then she grabbed the scarf from Daphne's bedpost and tied it carefully on the satchel, the way Daphne did during mealtimes.

"Here, let me hold it," Bulstrode offered, holding her hand out. "Don't you need to bring yours?"

Ruth froze, embarrassed. She'd almost entirely forgotten.

She quickly stuffed hers into her satchel and followed them, nearly running as they returned to the Hospital wing.

"So why're you wearing trousers anyway? You know all the other girls are wearing skirts," Parkinson asked, not even slightly out-of-breath. "You stand out like a sore thumb, even more than that Mudblood."

"Winter," Ruth replied, trying not to look tired as she ascended the stairwell to the Hospital wing, "trousers are warmer, and Professor Snape said it wasn't against the school rules."

"What?" Parkinson was actually offended. "You can't be serious. Just get some leg-warmers or something. It comes with the standard set at Madam Malkin's—along with a scarf, a sweater, a blazer, gloves—"

Ruth looked blankly at the two of them.

"You didn't even get a school scarf?" Bulstrode gasped.

"I didn't," Ruth admitted. "I didn't go to Madam Malkin's—I went to a secondhand shop."

"It's hardly that much money." Parkinson shook her head, flabbergasted. "So that's what Greengrass was saying. You mean everything you have's secondhand?"

"Yes. Draco gave me some of his old things. They're plenty."

"Right, your nightwear looked a lot like silk," Parkinson nodded. "Oh, but I saw your cauldron—that's brand new, though. Must be from the Malfoys? That's a good call—you never know with secondhand cauldrons."

Brand new? Snape had bought her a set from the store after asking for her nine Galleons. If it looked brand new, he probably chose very well, as expected of the Potions Master. It hadn't been the Malfoys, though.

"We're with the Gryffindors, so you'll see it yourself soon," Parkinson continued as Bulstrode braced the door to the hospital wing open for them.  "Secondhand cauldrons are a safety hazard, really."

"Oh. But my cauldron—"

Pomfrey shot them a glare.

"Girls. Silence. There are patients here."

Their conversation was cut short.

Bulstrode passed Daphne her satchel. It didn't take very long for Daphne to change. Then they all headed for Astronomy class, Draco and Parkinson leading, Ruth, Daphne, and Theodore at the back, as usual. Except this time they were flanked by Goyle and Zabini, who were watching Daphne very carefully.

"Malfoy said to catch you if you fall," Goyle said.

"Dear Goyle," Zabini immediately replied, smiling, "you're on the wrong side."

"Not planning to fall," Daphne said icily.

The Astronomy classroom was halfway up the tower, in a room with a carpet of the night sky that was enchanted in the same way Sinistra's robes and hat. The Hufflepuffs were more jolly now, more chatty, which slowed down the class by quite a bit.

Of all the Slytherins—no, all of the students in the class, really—Ruth was the only one really constantly frowning, trying to memorise everything Sinistra said. It'd have been far easier with a textbook—there were so many new names to memorise.

She'd taken out her pencil, meaning to take notes, but her writing was far too sluggish and effortful to keep up. She had to stick to listening and trying to memorise everything Sinistra said for now. Then she'd go and look in the library for some references later.

The Slytherins—all Pure-bloods—already knew most of the things Sinistra was talking about by heart, since this was mostly an introductory lesson. The Hufflepuffs were more awake, but didn't look very engaged without any wand-swishing or telescope-swivelling.

"How do you spell Galilean Satellites?" Ruth asked Goyle softly, who was seated beside her. Sinistra was scolding a Hufflepuff boy for tipping his chair too far back and actually falling down.

"I dunno. I don't like spelling," Goyle replied, clearly not listening to Sinistra's lecture.

She pointed at the board, at the squiggles she was pretty sure had it written out. But they were just squiggles to her—she couldn't make anything out.

"It's that thing on the board."

"Oh," Goyle nodded. He was able to read out the cursive easily for her, quietly, even though he clearly didn't enjoy reading or writing.

He looked over, seeing her ugly drawing of Jupiter and four of its largest moons.

"This one's Ganymede," he whispered, looking at the board for confirmation. "This one's Io. Smallest one's Europa. Yeah, that one. The last one is Callisto, with a C, two l's."

"Callisto," Ruth repeated quietly.

That was the name Daphne had called her this morning, when she'd been delirious with fever.

"Yeah, Callisto. The note next to it says… It's almost the same size as Mercury."

He spelled out Mercury for her as well.

She wrote that down too, in shaky pencil.

"Hey, weren't you using your right hand yesterday?" Goyle said, voice louder now, clearly more excited to be talking about anything but big old rocks they could only see properly through telescopes. "Oh! But you changed hands during the duel, the one against—"

This earned a quick kick to his chair by Draco.

Sinistra was looking at them.

Goyle shut up immediately.

Sinistra looked between Goyle and Ruth. Ruth instinctively covered her parchment, filled with so many ugly pencil markings. Perhaps it was that action—or the fact that her parchment looked too much like meaningless doodles—that prompted Sinistra to question her over Goyle.

"Miss Ruth, stand," Sinistra commanded.

She did. Everyone's eyes were on her. She could almost see Zabini smirking expectantly, though he was seated at the back.

Sinistra gave a similar flourish of the wand as she did yesterday. The squiggles on the board disappeared. Well, Ruth hadn't been able to read them anyway.

"I mentioned earlier that Jupiter has two groups of regular satellites."

"Yes, Professor."

"Io is one of those groups. The group that Io isn't in—what is it called?"

She frowned, thinking for a while.

"The Amalthea group."

"And the four moons I mentioned?"

She tried to remember how to pronounce it again, for the names were still foreign on her tongue. The class was deadly quiet, several of the Hufflepuffs already braced for fallout.

"Metis, Adra…stea, Amalthea, and Thebe."

"Correct. Sit. Now, Mr Goyle."

Goyle stood slowly.

"What's the group with Io in it?"

Goyle had to think about this for a while. Then he looked at Ruth's paper and recalled what he'd said.

"Io's one of the Galilean, er, settle-lights."

"And other than Io?"

"Ganymede. Callisto. The smallest one is Europa."

"Correct, the two of you. Sit, Mr Goyle. Ten points to Slytherin." Her eyes narrowed. "Still, focus in class."

With another swish and flick, the Amalthea group appeared on the board this time.

Ruth grit her teeth and copied the diagram, until Sinistra started talking again.

Fortunately, they'd only Astronomy in the morning. Then History and Transfig in the afternoon. No Flying until next week, so she'd have tomorrow, too. There was time, even with her slow writing speed.

After Astronomy, they split up, some studying in the Library, others heading back to the dorm instead.

Ruth and Daphne had naturally returned together to the dormitories to take a shower. Daphne didn't talk much, especially now that there were other students around, and she still looked rather drained, not entirely well yet.

Back in privacy of their room, though, Daphne finally spoke.

"Got to get the sheets washed, I'll send your towels and robes for cleaning, too. Hand them over."

Ruth wanted to protest, but it was clear Daphne wasn't asking for her input. She passed everything over and went to empty her cauldron. By the time she was back, everything was already freshened up, robes on Ruth's bed.

Daphne was lying on her bed, eyes closed. But when Ruth finished packing her things and sat at her desk, between their beds, Daphne turned her head, opening her eyes groggily.

Ruth was carefully writing down what she remembered from Astronomy. It'd have been best if she could get a book from the library to refer to, but she couldn't just leave Daphne here in the state she was in.

She decided to study History instead. She took out the textbook and continued her second reread of it. She was halfway through it, squinting and mouthing words out loud, when Daphne broke the silence again.

"Callisto would've liked you."

Ruth closed her book.

"My elder sister," Daphne continued. "Would've been a fourth year by now…"

But she wasn't. Ruth looked at Daphne, but she didn't seem particularly sad. Only tired.

"Frightened you this morning, didn't I?"

Just remembering how pale Daphne looked was enough to make her hands clammy.

"A little," Ruth admitted.

"Didn't think it'd be that bad," Daphne said. "I've always been frail. This time was serious. I mustn't have realised—perhaps I was muddled."

Ruth couldn't help but think of that smell in Ashbrook. Of rot; of the dying. When she'd put fresh towels on the scalding-hot foreheads of children who pointed fingers at her. The wax-like pallor of the bodies when she'd lowered them into the graves.

Daphne watched her for a while longer. as though considering something. Instead she closed her eyes and exhaled.

"Wake me up for lunch, okay?"

"Okay."

Daphne kept her curtains open this time. She didn't look quite as pale, just sleeping.

Ruth suppressed the urge she had to go over. She saw the faint rise and fall of Daphne's chest, and wasn't that enough?

Like they'd been told, the Slytherins informed Montague and Perrot, who looked rather wrung, that Daphne had not taken Pomfrey's advice, but she hadn't fainted, either.

A tall and muscular black-haired boy seated near Montague was observing the first-years carefully. He looked particularly at Crabbe, Goyle, Bulstrode, and Zabini, sizing them up.

"This is Marcus Flint. He's the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team," Montague said, monotonously. "Flint, you know they're not allowed to play yet."

"Of course." Flint grinned. "Haven't even had their first Flying classes, right? What time's your first class scheduled for?"

"Three-thirty, next Thursday," Draco answered.

"We've Creatures class then," Montague reminded Flint.

"Yeah, awful shame," Flint agreed. "Well, let me know if any of you are any good at flying. Looks to be a few standouts this year. Professor Snape doesn't allow early training, though, but we've done splendidly so far, if I say so myself. Keep your heads up, and next year? We'll beat them all!"

Draco and Crabbe looked excited for that.

Flint turned to Ruth, mouth still twisted in a grin.

"And you. Ain't you the Mudblood who flattened that fourth-year in the duel? One spell?" He didn't sound cruel, only factual, almost excited. Before she could respond, he continued. "I saw your aim, hit that weakling right in the forehead, flipped him halfway across the room."

He tapped his forehead twice, two fingers. "Perfect Flipendo. And you didn't even flinch at his Expelliarmus."

Perrot glanced to the staff table—to Snape's usual seat, but Snape wasn't there.

"If your aim with a bludger's half-good as that, you'd be a good addition to the team yourself. Too tiny though—you're even tinier than Greengrass!"

Privately, Ruth thought she'd much rather drop out of Hogwarts than play Quidditch, but she kept that to herself.

"By the way," Montague said, gesturing towards the head of the table. "If, say, Fleance and I aren't around, you can always look for the upper-year prefects."

Perrot pointed two of them out.

"That's Eleonore Rosier—sixth-year prefect. Then Acastus Carrow, right over there, seventh-year."

As the first-years left for their table, Flint gave them some advice.

"If you're heading for History later, it'll be best if you learned quickly how to sleep with your eyes open."

He pointed at the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, who were still obviously drowsy from History. One of the first-year Gryffindor boys—not Potter or Weasley—seemed to be sleeping in a fallen bowl of mashed potatoes.

Even Perrot couldn't hide a smirk at that.

It soon turned out that many of the Slytherins were perfectly able to sleep with their eyes open—Draco looked almost dignified, though on closer look, Ruth could tell that he was completely zoned out. He even occasionally flipped the textbook as though on autopilot, eyes glazed over.

Most of the Ravenclaws looked straight-up dead, despite their typical studiousness. Mr Boot from yesterday was completely stock-still, though his quill was still in his hand. He and the dark-haired boy next to him took turns pinching each other, and the frequency of pinching got higher and higher until they eventually gave up.

The one teaching History was Professor Binns, a ghost who lectured in a way that made their souls leave their bodies to join him in the non-corporeal realm.

Binns' handwriting was absolutely undecipherable. Sinistra's cursive had looked at least like squiggles. His looked more like random jagged lines etched on the board, and his droning voice, combined with them coming from lunch—this was basically a death sentence.

And the Pure-bloods knew everything—they hadn't even opened their textbooks to the right page, because they'd known stories like those about Emeric the Evil and Uric the Oddball by heart.

"Emeric the Evil is also the first well-documented owner of the wand made of Elder wood. This is mentioned by Beedle the Bard. The timeline's murky around there, and also in various enchanted paintings at the time, but of course in several texts we have surviving from the Late Middle Ages…"

Crabbe had fallen dead asleep, so Binns swished his hands and something mist-like fell over Crabbe. He jumped to his feet immediately, shivering. Ruth saw that Crabbe had the Transfiguration textbook on his table instead.

"Yes, sir?" Crabbe asked, yawning.

"We do not know the exact date, but after Emeric the Evil, who is the direct successor of the wand of Elder?"

Crabbe stifled another yawn and started singing something out loud. Ruth didn't have to know the tune to know that he was entirely off-key.

"Antioch, Emeric, Egbert, then a hundred years later, Godelot's doom…"

All of the other students clearly recognised the tune. Some of the Ravenclaws had woken up at the sound of Crabbe's off-key singing. There was a little chorus after Crabbe, hummed low by some of the other students: "At the hands of his son, in Hereward's room…"

"Egbert the Egregious, Professor," Crabbe drawled.

"Remain standing," Binns said, already floating away. "Next we will talk about Uric the Oddball…"

Crabbe wilted but didn't protest. The rest of the class passed in a similar drowsy pace, Binns reading out names and dates and events as the rest of the class nodded off. Ruth flipped to each page carefully, adding any pieces of new information in a cramped, painful hand. Fortunately she'd taken note of the major dates and people on her first read-through and didn't have to spend much time flipping about.

It was dreadfully draining, though, and she almost wished Binns would do that misty magic on her and get her to stand—the students who were standing certainly seemed to have an easier time at it.

Transfiguration was a shared Ravenclaw-Slytherin class too, so the whole class huddled along as they made their way to the classroom.

"Oh, right. You wouldn't know the tune. And none of the Ravenclaws were Muggle-raised," Draco explained. "If you're studying History, just ask any of us, really. Most of us should know the first-year content by heart. Well, specific dates aside."

"Most of the Muggle-raised ones are in Gryffindor," one of the Ravenclaws piped up. "Only two or three Muggle-borns this year—Granger and Thomas from Gryffindor, and Finch-Fletchley from Hufflepuff. Finch said he was going to Eton—it's a real impressive Muggle school."

"Granger's Muggle-born? The one who was talking nonstop through Herbology?" Another Ravenclaw asked. "Didn't you say she was the only one who succeeded at Acufors yesterday?"

"Yeah, that's her."

"Honestly, she ought to come to Ravenclaw instead. She was reading during breakfast, did you see?"

"She's real noisy, though."

"Is Acufors that hard?"

"It's not that hard—you just have to understand the theory, say the spell right, and move your hand correctly…" Boot answered. "If that Muggle-born could do it, Li, you'll be fine. Didn't you get Nox faster than I did?"

"But didn't you say the whole Hufflepuff-Gryffindor group failed but her?" Li was already flipping through her Transfiguration textbook, which was covered with annotations and sticky-notes. "Oh, this class is going to be horrid!"

The Ravenclaws continued squabbling, worried now.

"Well, they're Hufflepuff and Gryffindors," Parkinson sneered. "We got to modifiers in Charms, and I heard they've not even tried Lumos and Nox in class yet."

Several of the Slytherins snickered at this, but the Ravenclaws who weren't in the know simply looked shocked.

"Then what did they cover in first class?"

"Anyway, Li," Zabini added smoothly. "The only reason Granger's the only first-year so far who's succeeded is because we've not had Transfig yet. Don't worry your little head over it—we're right here now, aren't we?"

He pushed the doors open. It was time for Transfiguration.

McGonagall was dressed in emerald robes as usual, her black hair smooth and neat.

"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you'll learn at Hogwarts," she said sternly, tapping on the diagrams on the chalkboard. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."

Zabini's mouth quirked. Ruth could almost hear his thoughts—"So how many are left in your class from Hufflepuff and Gryffindor?"

The introduction wasn't very different from what Madam Petkov had covered—the annotations largely corresponded with McGonagall's additions, too. Then as they started losing focus, McGonagall gave a quick demonstration.

She gave her wand a quick, precise swish, and her desk turned into a pig, squealing and crying, which ran toward the door. With another sharp motion the pig flew back towards McGonagall and—the reverse of the swish from before—it turned back into a desk.

The Slytherins didn't look very amazed, but they were entertained. Ruth was feeling quite sick.

Then there was another round of lecturing, McGonagall wrote a lot on the board. Transfiguration did require quite a bit of theory, and she seemed to go very much by the book. Most of it was in their textbook already, and in any case, Ruth couldn't copy so quickly. So she could only barely take down the key points after grasping what McGonagall said—which wasn't very hard. McGonagall was quite clear, and after Binns, actually quite engaging.

McGonagall stood now, giving her wand a wave. Matchboxes appeared on their desks. The chalkboard behind her changed to Acufors—the hand movement, the intonation, the page number.

She looked at them, expecting some sort of protest, but the whole class simply flipped to the correct page and retrieved their wands, waiting. Li, seated on the opposite side of the classroom, was already moving her wand, tracing it on the textbook, silently.

"Today we will try Acufors. Simple match-to-pin transfiguration," McGonagall said.

"Why do you look so worried?" Draco asked her as they stood, taking one match out and putting it on the table. "Didn't you say you succeeded?"

"I did," Ruth said.

They all started casting before Ruth did. Li succeeded on her first try, though the pin was still a little wooden-looking. She immediately took another match out and tried again. Boot, next to her, had a pin with a little red-head. He frowned and tried again.

But like Zabini'd expected, nobody was outright failing.

Their table—Draco, Daphne and her—only started casting when McGonagall came over.

"Acufors," Daphne cast first.

Her pin was perfect, gleaming and pointy. She immediately sat once McGonagall made no comments.

Draco went next. This was simple for him—of course it was. He'd demonstrated it countless times for her at the manor. He sat proudly, smiling at Ruth, confident that she could do it, too.

And now came Ruth's turn.

She held her wand in her hand, jaw clenched.

Intent is the most important.

The match was a pin, she told herself. Nothing more, nothing less.

And she cast, distantly, perfectly: "Acufors."

The match was a pin, she saw for herself. Nothing more, nothing less.

Utterly revolting.

McGonagall put another match on her table. The other Slytherins were immediately confused.

The pin was perfect, gleaming, metal. Pointy and sharp, perhaps even moreso than Daphne's and Draco's.

"Again, Miss Ruth."

Ruth swallowed, but didn't protest. She did not meet McGonagall's gaze, only looking at the match. She'd done something wrong.

She considered failing this time, but backpedaling now wouldn't do anything.

"Acufors."

A perfect pin.

McGonagall said nothing, but stood there for a moment more, looking at the four pins on the table. Ruth did not let herself fidget, though she all she wanted to do was bolt, under McGonagall's scrutiny. For all her poise, McGonagall almost looked puzzled now, but quickly returned to her usual stern self.

"You may sit, Miss Ruth. Ten points to Slytherin—all three of you have made perfect pins."

As McGonagall strode around the classroom, checking everyone else's pins, making Goyle redo his as it wasn't sharp enough, waiting for several of the Ravenclaws to try again and again until they succeeded.

"Why did she make you do it again?" Draco held the first pin Ruth had transfigured. "This is fine, isn't it, Greengrass?"

"It's better than Zabini's," Daphne replied coolly.

Zabini, seated in front of them, turned around in mock hurt.

"I made mine emerald green by design, Greengrass. Let me have a look."

Draco passed him the pin. Zabini gave it a little flick, looked a little closer.

"This appears to be a pin," he said, deadpan.

Theodore rolled his eyes.

"It's not the pin," Daphne said softly, pulling firmly down on Ruth's sleeve to make her sit. "She didn't like the way you cast."

She didn't let go of Ruth's sleeve, but didn't say anything more. Ruth looked at Daphne, almost horrified. She nearly shivered, thinking of McGonagall's gaze on her.

"I should've failed it," Ruth whispered, eyes trained on McGonagall's back now, only loud enough for Daphne and Draco to hear.

Before they could respond, Zabini leaned back, grinning, pin above his head.

"You mean Prof didn't like her perfect pronunciation and wand motion?" Zabini said. "Ruth, you've got to stop having standards—be more like a Gryff, you know. Can you believe that whole damned class couldn't do it—"

"Mr Zabini," McGonagall warned from across the classroom.

Zabini gave a devil-may-care smile, turned back around, hands behind his head, relaxing casually.

Crabbe and Goyle couldn't suppress their snickers, though. And even Parkinson looked annoyed in a puzzled sort of way.

"I mean, obviously it's perfect," she said to Bulstrode, frowning, "why did she have to get her to do it twice?"

"Exactly," Bulstrode whispered back, "what was the issue? It was textbook-perfect…"

"Probably disappointed she couldn't deduct points from Slytherin," Parkinson scoffed.

The rest of the Ravenclaws succeeded too. Li looked relieved, and then quickly confused, whispering to Boot, who nearly laughed. McGonagall glared at them, too, and they shut up.

"Wasn't that hard, now, was it?" Zabini said to Li as they streamed out of class.

"No, not really," Li admitted, a little jittery, still. "Really fun class, actually. The theory and everything—"

Ruth's hand still hurt from the writing. The Ravenclaws had been scribbling nonstop, opposite them.

"And that's why you're in Ravenclaw," he laughed. "You'll run out of margin space soon."

After Ruth asked if books could be checked out from the library, which earned a few amused but not quite mean quips from Zabini and Parkinson, all of the Slytherins headed to the Library.

Draco helped Ruth find a few decent primers on Astronomy, and one basic one on History.

They checked out some books this time, with Ruth limiting herself to three, since she couldn't read that quick anyway.

Madam Pince, the librarian, didn't seem to be too worried about even Zabini's flippant manner with the book on various types of magical reptiles, or Theodore's large stack. But when she saw Ruth's battered Transfiguration book in her hands as she put the library books on the table, her eyes narrowed.

"Keep the book indoors, girl," Pince warned, "any damage on this book—any at all, and I will make sure you suffer the same way the books have."

Ruth only nodded.

"Merlin's beard," Parkinson said when they left. "You're not catching a break. Your book's secondhand, isn't it?"

"I think fourth-hand," Ruth replied, putting the library books carefully into her bag. "There are at least four different types of handwriting in it, and I had to stick some of the pages back. Readable though."

"Readable," Parkinson repeated, rolling her eyes, "you ought to just swap books with one of the Gryffs or Huffs—I swear they haven't opened their brand-new copies."

"I doubt you're planning to go around flying with the book, but anyway, I heard most Profs don't care if you bring the books out." Zabini threw his book in the air and caught it again, smirking. "Madam Pince barely ever leaves the library—I wouldn't be too worried if I were you."

They returned to their dormitories to rest and study before dinner. Crowded around a corner of the common room, they chattered over ink and books.

"Double period of that garlic mess tomorrow," Zabini complained. "And then our most anticipated double Potions with Gryffindors on Friday!"

Parkinson groaned.

"Oh, tell me about it. What do you mean only that Mudblood cast Acufors properly? They probably don't even know the right way to stand a cauldron!"

Daphne, lounging in the couch opposite Theodore, flipped a page of her Potions textbook.

"Is it Cure for Boils first?"

"Think so," Draco said. "That was the case last year."

Ruth was copying notes for History and Astronomy, a sheet of Draco's notes for handwriting reference, legs swinging alternately to keep herself awake.

On the floor, Crabbe and Goyle were eating jelly beans and playing wizard chess.

"By the way, Ruth," Parkinson called, clearly bored of reading, "you said you hadn't money, but Montague said in that case, you probably got a bursary, is that right?"

"Yes," Ruth confirmed, finishing her last line, rolling her sleeves up again. "Professor Snape signed it for me. He said it was enough to cover everything secondhand."

"What's a bursary?" Goyle mumbled to Crabbe.

"Your wand's not secondhand, though," Bulstrode said. "Brand new, isn't it?"

"Yeah, we went to Ollivanders together," Draco confirmed.

Ruth nodded. "Professor Snape said I should get the wand and cauldron brand new, if possible."

"Exactly," Parkinson nodded. "Have you seen Weasley's wand? It's a hazard to be around him, I'd say."

"How much was the bursary?" Theodore asked.

"Twenty-three Galleons," Ruth said.

"Not an awful lot," Draco said, almost wincing.

"Think that's barely enough for a cauldron," Bulstrode muttered.

Ruth frowned, confused, but Draco was pointing to one of the letters on her parchment.

"Hey, your G here's reversed."

She corrected it.

"And—I'm sorry," Parkinson said, "you can't write?"

Crabbe looked up, interested now.

"I can, but not well, yet," Ruth replied, checking the rest of the parchment for the reversed letters, "I learned at the manor."

"That's one month of writing," Bulstrode exclaimed, gaping. "Do they not teach Muggles to write?"

"Granger and Finch write fine, don't they?" Zabini said. "Just Ruth, isn't it."

"I suppose so," Ruth confirmed. "We weren't taught to read or write, where I was from."

She rolled her sleeve again. It kept dropping, because it was slightly too large for her.

"Still cast a better Acufors than half the level, and twice at that," Zabini snorted. "Oh, but you know—Binns can only read cursive."

"Is…that so." Ruth sighed, resigned. "Well, I was planning to rewrite my essays in cursive, anyway."

"You're mad," Draco said, shaking his head.

They studied a little more before heading for dinner, where the Hufflepuffs first-years were complaining about the garlic smell in double Defence, so bad that half of them had actually lost their appetite. Strangely enough, the Slytherin first-years were all walking as a cohesive unit, though they didn't all like each other. The other first-years were still coming in in odd clumps.

"It'll be our turn tomorrow," Draco said glumly, voicing everyone's thoughts as they looked at the Hufflepuffs who had no appetite, which was a rare sight. "Let's eat up."

Chapter Text

On Thursday, they had double Defence before lunch, and double Charms after lunch. Defence went just as stinkily as they thought it'd go. They learned Mucus ad Nauseam in class, but it wasn't really Quirrell who taught it—he'd asked for a volunteer, which not even the Ravenclaws would agree to.

When Zabini was told to come up anyway, he did, but requested to be the caster instead, and that was how Quirrell was blasted with a particularly effective Mucus ad Nauseam. Together with his stammer and sweating and general nervousness, the constant sniffing and sneezing made Quirrell nearly impossible to understand.

He tried casting the counter-curse for it, but he was sneezing so badly he couldn't complete the motion nor the incantation properly. One of the Ravenclaws, annoyed beyond belief, actually volunteered to go and get Pomfrey over, but Quirrell only laughed (while sneezing) and said he'd just need a Pepper-up potion and he'd be good as new, which would be at the end of the day, since he had a full day of classes today.

"He ought to just skip his classes," muttered Zabini, who actually looked slightly guilty for casting it on Quirrell. "I thought he'd know the counter-curse, since he agreed so readily…"

Theodore and Ruth were the second ones to leave the class, right behind Parkinson and Bulstrode.

"Shouldn't we tell the others?" Ruth whispered to Theodore as they left. They hadn't smelled the rot today, but neither of them could shake the feeling that Quirrell really wasn't as benign as the others thought him to be.

Theodore, as expected, only raised an eyebrow at this.

"Tell whoever you want—just don't say it was me. I don't know what he is, but it really can't be anything good."

In her class, she only really wanted to tell Draco—whom she had to protect, and Daphne—whom she felt she owed something to. But she had nothing but a gut feeling. And like Theodore had suggested—if Quirrell really was something horrid, might telling people actually get them into more danger?

Potions tomorrow—she could tell Professor Snape, she supposed. But if she'd noticed anything, she was sure he had, too. Maybe that was why Snape had been talking to Quirrell during the Start-of-Term feast.

There wasn't any point in saying anything, if so. She ought to just keep her head down and not attract any undue attention, like she had with McGonagall.

All the Ravenclaws and Slytherins had trouble stomaching their lunch after the garlic beatdown they received nasally through Defence. Except for Theodore, Crabbe, and Goyle, who were eating just fine, and Ruth, who'd lost her appetite for a different reason.

Charms was fine—they covered what the syllabus stipulated, and a little more, too. Today they covered quite a few charms.

After one of the Ravenclaws lamented that they had only learned Mucus ad Nauseam—and from Zabini, too, not from Quirrell—Flitwick explained the Knockback Jinx to them, drawing it excitedly on the board as they took their Defence textbooks out ("Since we're ahead of time, I don't see why not!"). Then he asked for volunteers to demonstrate Flipendo.

All the Slytherins turned to look at Ruth.

Zabini looked absolutely excited.

"Would you like to give it a go, Miss Ruth?"

Ruth nodded, drawing her wand and joining Flitwick on the platform. Fortunately, he put a feathery cushion in front of her, and, unlike Quirrell, he wasn't asking her to test it on him or anything.

Zabini looked less excited now.

"Remember, it's a slice into a swish! Flipendo!"

The cushion would fly right towards Daphne and the others, if she cast it right where she was. Daphne saw the way Ruth was looking at her and there was a momentary look of betrayal on her face.

"The other way," Daphne mouthed, alarmed.

But Flitwick was standing pretty close—she couldn't just move or anything.

"Professor Flitwick," Ruth asked slowly, holding her wand, "how far—how far do you want it to go?"

He beamed at that. "What a wonderful question! Say, why don't you go ahead and send it whizzing over Mr Goyle's head, if you can."

Said person was right behind Daphne, one platform up. Now he looked even more alarmed than Daphne. The rest of the Slytherins laughed—all except for Crabbe and Daphne, who were in the blast zone of the feather-cushion.

"Professor Flickwit, she's good at aiming!" Goyle cried. "Could I sit somewhere else at least?"

"Well, if she's good at aiming, I don't see what's the problem? And it's just a feather pillow!" Flitwick said jovially.

"Just a…feather pillow…" Goyle lowered his head and slumped into his seat, trying to make himself small, which was a tough feat.

She crouched down low, right arm around her knees, for the right angle. Above Goyle's head, over…

She cast—

"Flipendo!"

Goyle yelped. There was a bang and the cushion flew right over Goyle's head, landing with a soft fluff against the wall behind him. The stuffed feathers came flying and whooshing out. Flitwick gave a few waves of his wand and the feathers flew about, so that one was on each of their desks, and one on the podium.

"Perfect!" Flitwick said, pulling Ruth to her feet. "Very precise—my, is that an Elm wand, Miss Ruth?"

She startled backward a little. "Yes, Professor."

"These are wands that exactly reward precision! How wonderful—steady casting, too, and did you use a different hand from when you cast Lumos and Nox on Tuesday, or was that my imagination?"

"I did, Professor. I can cast with my right hand, too."

Her neck rather hurt from looking down at him from the platform. She much preferred her seat.

"Ten points to Slytherin—and can I have a Ravenclaw volunteer this time, for the Levitation charm?"

As several of the Ravenclaws' hands shot up, Ruth went back to her seat. Goyle had finally gotten back on his seat fully, and was holding the pillow that she'd shot over him, looking quite ready to sleep. He'd recovered quite quickly.

Flitwick welcomed Padma Patil onto the teacher's platform. She looked determined, holding her wand at the ready.

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

Her hand motion was a little shaky, but it worked. The feather lifted off the podium, and Flitwick, praising her, gave the Ravenclaws ten points as well.

"Let's all give it a go, and in pairs, please. Then we can do something a little extra, we'd like that, I think!"

Daphne cast it without standing, the feather floating inches above the table. Then she lifted it and moved it to Ruth's side of the table.

There was commotion all about them, particularly from the Ravenclaw side, correcting each others' intonation, and Crabbe was sneezing madly at the Slytherin side after Goyle had levitated the feather too close to his nose.

As Ruth cast, Daphne leaned in, speaking softly.

"You and Nott—you were acting strange, after Defence—there's something wrong with Quirrell, isn't there?"

Daphne was sitting between the two of them for Defence, so it wasn't too surprising that she'd noticed something was off.

The feather floated slowly down from where Ruth had levitated it.

"I thought he smelled like…rot," Ruth said. "I thought it might be gangrene."

Daphne nodded, her gaze going to the side. "And Nott?"

Ruth followed Daphne's gaze.

Theodore was busy trying to swat Zabini's feather away from him.

There wasn't any point in pretending, Ruth supposed.

"…He said it might be something dark," she whispered.

"You didn't tell me. Why?"

"He seemed to think nothing good would come out of more people knowing," Ruth said. "I don't know how this…Dark stuff works. And I didn't want to get you into trouble."

"Of course not," Daphne gave a wry smile, which quickly faded into a yawn. "Have you told Malfoy?'

"It wouldn't help him," Ruth said. "I can't put him in danger."

"And Professor Snape?"

Ruth blinked.

"You don't seem to be afraid of him," Daphne noted, watching the Ravenclaws across them repeat the motions again, but getting the intonation wrong this time, "he delivered the letter to you, didn't he?"

There was a hint of something else in her voice—like amusement or displeasure or doubt, but Ruth couldn't quite place it.

"Should I be afraid of him?"

Daphne didn't look at her for some time, idly running her thumb across the feather on her table, pensive.

"Would my answer change your mind?"

Ruth looked at Daphne, who was now studying her carefully.

"You know more than me," Ruth admitted, "but no, I don't think so."

Daphne smiled, soft, almost fond.

"Forget it." She tightened her scarf around her throat. "Are you going to tell him?"

Ruth frowned. "I don't know. Would telling Professor Snape help him?"

Daphne laughed now, soft, like when she had that fever.

"Help him," Daphne repeated. "You're very strange."

Ruth thought Daphne might elaborate, but just then, Flitwick got all of their attention again. They'd be chaining spells this time, flinging little balls of parchment from one end of the room to the other, by casting Wingardium Leviosa first, and then chaining it into Flipendo. Deceptively simple, and for Ruth, very familiar.

"Ruth, isn't that what you did when you duelled my mother?" Draco asked excitedly, leaning from his desk where he was seated with Theodore.

When Flitwick asked for a volunteer, Draco's hand shot up first. He twirled his wand twice, exhaling.

His Levitation charm was clean, and the lead-in to Flipendo was flawless. The paper ball shot like an arrow through the air, slamming against the far end of the classroom.

"Marvellous!" Flitwick exclaimed. "Why, that's some clean spell-chaining, especially for a first-year! Ten points to Slytherin! Mr Malfoy made it look very simple indeed—I see you, Mr Corner, waiting to give it a go. Now, let's all give it a try!"

Each house formed little rows as they took turns casting on paper balls, which Flitwick sent back with practised eased, standing in the danger zone with a beaming smile.

Zabini's spell fizzed as he rushed too quickly from the motion of Wingardium Leviosa to that of Flipendo.

"Merlin's socks, Malfoy. You really made that look smooth," Zabini laughed, going to the back of the line.

"Is that Miss Ruth, now?" Flitwick held up a little piece of paper with a big X on it. "Aim right there—got it?"

The class quieted now, the Ravenclaw line turning to watch.

Ruth was going to cast already, but now Flitwick had a glint in his eye and with a quick wand flourish, sent the parchment flying, moving in some sort of circular motion.

"Give it a go now, will you?"

Draco looked excited.

Goyle laughed. "Smash straight through it!"

Ruth watched the parchment carefully, swallowing. It was regular enough, the speed steady.

"Wingardium Leviosa," she cast, letting the paper ball fly up high, before she aimed her next spell—

"Flipendo!"

The paper ball whizzed through the air, darting straight towards the parchment's path, like she wanted it to. It bounced off harmlessly off the paper and into Flitwick's hand.

After a beat of stunned silence, the class burst into applause.

Flitwick laughed, all jolly. "Wonderful, wonderful! Ten points to Slytherin!"

When Zabini clapped her shoulder, grinning madly, Ruth almost felt triumphant.

They all took turns now, Ruth being sent forward first for the Slytherin row to levitate the target paper, and Patil, who'd succeeded when Flitwick did the same for the Ravenclaws with an unmoving target.

"Move mine, Ruth!" Goyle rolled up his sleeves, smiling wide.

Ruth moved it in a circle—it took quite a bit of concentration, this.

Goyle's Wingardium Leviosa was shaky, but his Flipendo was clean and powerful.

His paper ball swerved cleanly and was likely going to hit its mark, when Ruth saw another paper ball flying towards her. Boot's paper ball, probably, given that he was at the front of the Ravenclaw line and had his hands covering his mouth. Ruth jerked aside, still keeping her wand fixed on the target paper.

"I'm so sorry!"

Ruth gave him a curt nod and looked at Goyle, then at the ground. The paper ball wasn't there.

"OH YEAH I SMASHED THROUGH IT!"

Goyle yelled loudly, hands punching the air, on his knees.

Ruth looked up. Oh, he really had.

"Isn't that paper?" Patil managed, actually flabbergasted.

Flitwick gave a happy laugh now. "Amazing, amazing. Reparo!"

The target paper went back to normal. Ruth swapped hands, because her right hand was getting tired.

Most of the Slytherins succeeded—at least with the unmoving target. Draco and Zabini asked for and managed to succeed on the moving one, though Goyle was indisputably the powerhouse here. Crabbe's cast definitely had the same—or even more power than Goyle's, but it kept missing the mark. Ruth hadn't really paid attention to the Ravenclaws, but they seemed to be having fun, too, since Patil was now moving the paper in an erratic star-shape.

"Miss Greengrass. Moving target this time?" Flitwick asked.

Daphne sighed, but nodded. Ruth moved the target in a circle, watching Daphne get up languidly.

Her spellcasting reminded Ruth of Narcissa's, that controlled elegance—even more than Draco's stances, which were more rigid, more flourished. Ruth hadn't ever seen Lucius cast, though, so perhaps Draco had learned from him. Of course, Daphne was slower, even if it looked graceful; that differentiated her from Narcissa.

"Wingardium Leviosa—"

Daphne did exactly the same thing as Ruth, letting the ball fall from above, rather than keep it at eye level.

"Flipendo."

Small, precise motions. It might have been a mirror of Ruth's. The ball hit the paper without much force, but with exacting precision. Then Daphne kept her wand and went back to her seat, yawning. Parkinson and the others were going to give it another go, but there was a knock on the door, and some second-years were looking in.

They'd all missed the bell. No one had noticed.

On Friday, since Potions was down in the dungeons, near the dormitories, Crabbe and Goyle went to grab the Malfoy Manor daily delivery from the Great Hall and brought it back to the common room for everyone to share. It was a huge basket today, so Crabbe and Goyle hadn't grabbed any of the Hogwarts fare. Crabbe's mouth was already watering.

"There are three pies in there," Crabbe deduced, "at the very least. I can smell at least three pies."

"There's cake," Goyle added solemnly. "There is also cake."

There were four pies and a very handsome chocolate cake in there.

"Your noses are just naturally like that?" Parkinson was actually confused at this.

Draco was reading the little note Narcissa had sent along with it: "To end off your first week at Hogwarts."

He didn't read the little saccharine part at the bottom aloud, his ears red.

As they all dug into the food, sparing some for an amused-looking Montague who was leaving for Charms, Draco got serious, clearing his throat.

"As you all know, we have Potions right after this."

"Double Potions," Zabini added.

"With the Gryffindors," Parkinson added next.

"We've got to make sure we're absolutely perfect, no problems, and Professor Snape will definitely give Slytherin points—and deduct points from those idiot Gryffindors."

Daphne, Ruth, and Theodore listened to this between bites of meat pie. Ruth had no idea where they were going with this.

"We've been sitting all randomly before, but we really have to plan this properly. Potions is in pairs, facing each other, so basically groups of four. One of us is going to be left out."

Daphne shifted slightly closer to Ruth, who was surprised at that—she couldn't have known Ruth was pretty decent at Potions. Bulstrode to Parkinson. Crabbe and Goyle. The pairs were clear, all except…

"Dearest Nott," Zabini started, turning to Theodore, smiling and offering a cut of chocolate cake, "haven't I proven—"

"You aren't letting Crabbe and Goyle go together, surely?" Theodore asked, still eating his pie, looking at Draco, ignoring Zabini. "Didn't their Cure for Boils explode that one time?"

"Yeah, but we were seven," Goyle confirmed, nodding. "And I don't think it happened again…"

"It did," Theodore said drily. "Multiple times. It's just that one blew up in your face."

"I was thinking of going with Crabbe," Draco confirmed. "Ruth—could you go with Goyle?"

Daphne put her piece of pie down. "No."

Draco looked at her, but even Ruth couldn't quite read Daphne now. She supposed Daphne didn't want her to explode?

"I'm not that bad at Potions, Malfoy," Crabbe said, a mix of defensive and meek.

Draco cleared his throat, composing himself.

"No, you're not—at least not at the actual brewing. But you can be careless, and Goyle is, too. Ruth is careful and good at Potions—but she lacks strength, and will need help openings jars and the like. Which Goyle can help with."

Daphne relaxed now. Draco exhaled.

"Someone still has to sit alone, though," Draco said.

"I'll just brew alone," Theodore said. "I'll request that. The tables are in three groups of fours, so it's not like I have to go over to the Gryffindors."

He really did know the place very well.

"So, Zabini with Greengrass?"

"Fine," Daphne said through gritted teeth, sighing. "But opposite Ruth and Goyle. And you—"

She turned to Zabini, serious.

"You are not to volunteer us for anything."

"Okay, Miss Greengrass! I won't!" Zabini raised his hands in mock-surrender.

They came into the Potions classroom early, just like they'd planned, and took the seats closest to Snape's table which was near the ingredients, just like they planned. Theodore had also pointed out that the sinks here worked best. They set their cauldrons, textbooks, scales, and writing materials down, already prepared for class.

Professor Snape came in soon after, from the office connected to the Potions classroom, which gave Ruth a little bit of a surprise, considering this was the first class of the day. Perhaps he slept there, too?

"Here early," Snape said coolly, "unlike a certain other House."

Draco nodded seriously. Snape walked to his table and pulled several red-inked parchments aside, taking out the attendance list. He didn't bother looking up—just gave nine quick ticks on the list, then took out one stamped with the Gryffindor crest on the top and left it aside.

Now that she looked around, her cauldron really looked the same as everyone else's—brand new.

Goyle shifted his cauldron a bit closer to her so she could inspect it. She couldn't spot any differences between hers and his. In fact, her handles were slightly nicer, not rusted at all.

The bell sounded.

They heard the Gryffindors before they saw them, as usual. It was the first class of the day, but their robes were all askew, shoes untied, satchels bulging and flapping open, crumbs all over their faces. One boy even had to run back to the Great Hall to grab his cauldron.

"Brown, Lavender," Snape read off the register. The Gryffindor girls raised their hands as their names were called.

"Finnigan, Seamus."

The boy who'd had to run back for his cauldron raised his hand. This seemed to be the boy sleeping in the mashed potatoes, after their History class.

"…Longbottom, Neville."

Longbottom raised his hand, withering under Snape's sharp gaze.

The boy's robes were inside-out. No, his trousers were, too, and his cauldron was upside-down. It all looked quite comedic, and Ruth really didn't know if this was on purpose.

Potter, seated with Weasley across Longbottom's pair, was already prepared to raise his hand.

Snape paused.

"Ah, yes," Snape said, softly, "Harry Potter."

Ruth looked up now. It sounded annoyed, but no, it was something else. But it was gone immediately, replaced by a measured distance.

"Our new—celebrity."

There was a degree of scorn in this. Just yesterday the Slytherins had been talking about his performance in class—they were only ever hearing about how Hermione had been outperforming her class, which meant even Potter, in spite of all his fame, was really doing nothing special, was he?

Some of the Slytherins couldn't help it. They did a poor job of hiding their snickers.

"Thomas, Dean," Snape called. When Thomas raised his hand, Snape didn't bother calling Weasley, just ticking his name off on the register.

Snape's voice wasn't very loud—especially in comparison with McGonagall or Flitwick—but perfectly audible if you listened closely, and he looked irritable, so even Zabini was a little on edge. The classroom was utterly silent, so that helped.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," Snape began, unmoving, staring straight at the Gryffindor table as though it personally offended him, "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses…"

He shut the notebook in his hands, placing it on the table.

"I can teach you to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

The Slytherins all looked over to the comedy quartet, soundlessly, in tandem, which made it quite hard not to laugh.

"I guess we won't be learning any bloody thing," Zabini mouthed.

Hermione looked like she was going to explode if she wasn't given a chance to show she wasn't a dunderhead, which looked even more jarring since not too far away, Longbottom looked like he was trying to become a cauldron himself rather than have to look at Snape.

Weasley and Potter were looking at each other with raised eyebrows. Ruth was pretty sure the 'dunderhead' remark was meant to be a snide snark on the Weasley twins, but now that Weasley himself looked confused, she was less sure.

"Potter," Snape called now, "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Potter looked utterly lost, and did not stand up even though he'd been called. He looked at Weasley, who was probably the only one in class who looked just as lost as he did. Hermione's hand was ramrod-straight, high-up in the air.

Oh, but Goyle looked confused too.

"Probably Living Death, right?" Ruth whispered to him as he started flipping through the book, unusually serious.

"Yeah, the powerful sleeping drought," Goyle corrected, voice low. "I thought so, too?"

So he was confused at Potter's lack of answer. She helped Goyle flip to the right page. One of the small margin notes under asphodel.

"It's called the Draught of Living Death," Daphne whispered, forehead braced against her knuckles as though she was having a headache. Perhaps she was.

"I don't know, sir," Potter said. He didn't sound ashamed at all.

Crabbe, who'd sang a whole nursery rhyme in History just to answer Binns' question the day before, looked utterly shocked, too. Draco kicked him under the table and Crabbe had to clap a hand over his mouth to avoid laughing. But Draco wasn't doing too well himself.

Snape's stern expression turned into a sneer.

"Seems like fame isn't everything," he said.

"Is it anything?" Zabini mouthed, grinning.

Goyle smashed the book into his face, trying not to snicker. He and Ruth really should've been sitting in Zabini and Daphne's place, back-facing the Gryffindors. Daphne was unbothered, and at least Zabini could control his expressions.

"Let's try again," Snape said. "Potter, where would you look if I told you to find a bezoar?"

Daphne closed her eyes, doing her best not to sleep entirely.

Silence, except for Hermione's hand shooting into the air yet again.

Parkinson was dying. Bulstrode was barely holding on. Theodore, well, Theodore had chosen a good seat.

"It's the stone in the stomach thing, right? Normally a goat," Goyle asked, confidence dropping somehow with every word he spoke. "Right?"

She flipped to the page for Goyle, where the drawing of a goat stared up at them. He grinned a bit, confidence back.

"See, a goat."

"Not see, it's—"

Ruth could practically hear Zabini going to make a bleating sound, but Daphne shot him a look and he opened his book and pretended to be innocent.

"I don't know, sir," came Potter's reply.

Zabini gave a look of mock surprise. Goyle nearly sputtered.

"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?"

Snape's voice was even colder now.

Ruth sat up, leaning to see over her cauldron. Potter in fact did have the books. The latest editions, if Zabini's were anything to go by.

"What's wrong?" Zabini asked silently, a glint in his eye.

"Can he read?" Ruth asked back silently.

"What?" Zabini gaped, not-so-silently now.

"Can he read?" Ruth repeated.

Parkinson sputtered behind her, and turned to look at Ruth, alarmed and amused. Zabini was having a worse time at it, actually having to clamp his mouth physically.

She wasn't sure why this was so funny. Potter had the books but didn't know anything, so she thought this was a reasonable question to ask. After all, he was an orphan, like she was.

"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

"If he can't answer this he really shouldn't be allowed in here," Parkinson muttered to Ruth.

"They're both aconite, right?" Goyle looked to Ruth. He opened his book, and this time Ruth didn't have to flip it for him, because it was one of the first few pages.

Aconite, also known as monkshood, or wolfsbane…

This confirmed it for Ruth. It made sense now.

Potter definitely couldn't read. Zabini, seeing her relax, tried to catch Draco's eye.

"Can Potter read?" Zabini mouthed.

Draco looked incredulous until Zabini made some hand motions that probably meant "Ruth asked". Then Draco had to chuckle, choked.

Potter looked like he was getting red now, almost as red as Weasley, which was quite a feat.

"But I think he can't read," Ruth repeated to Parkinson. "Maybe I'd be angry too, if I couldn't read."

"He's angry?" Bulstrode leaned over to see. "Oh Merlin, he's angry."

Theodore caught her lips this time, left eyebrow quirking up in something like curiosity. He looked over to Potter, observing. Draco and Crabbe had turned all red from trying not to laugh.

"I don't know," Potter said finally, dropping the sir, "I think Hermione does, though, why don't you try her?"

Aside from Longbottom and Hermione, all the Gryffindors laughed at this. Hermione looked a bit shocked at first, but stood immediately. Ruth thought they might be laughing at Potter for being so outrageously rude and stupid, but they didn't look mean—they looked triumphant.

"What in Merlin's name?" Parkinson cursed. "He's bloody angry."

Bulstrode was equally baffled.

"He doesn't know anything, got angry, and deflected it to that Mudblood—why are they laughing?"

All the Slytherins had stopped laughing for a while now.

Ruth's theory didn't hold water anymore. She frowned, trying to think of another.

Zabini leaned towards her. Daphne watched him cautiously.

"What are you thinking now, dear Ruth?"

Ruth shook her head. She really hadn't any idea.

"Sit down," Snape ordered Hermione.

Then he turned to Potter. Now his voice was angry, but his posture wasn't. This was turning out to be a rather confusing morning.

"For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion that is so powerful that it is called the Draught of Living Death."

Ruth opened to the page now, checking the words, which took some time. It was in the One Magical Herbs and Fungi book, in one of the little margins of asphodel, right near the front. Right, that was what was weird. Snape had said 'powdered' root of asphodel, but here in the textbook, it said 'sliced'. She circled it with a pencil and wrote 'powdered' with a question mark beside it.

"A bezoar is a stone taken from a stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons."

She flipped to the goat page and read carefully again, but didn't have time to check if it was just goats, or just stomachs in general, as Snape continued speaking.

"As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite."

This one she knew. She continued reading the goat page, squinting with effort.

"Well?" came Snape's irritated voice from the Gryffindor side. "Why aren't you all copying it down?"

The Gryffindors fumbled for parchment and their quills.

"Is it only a goat's stomach," she asked her table, "or will any stomach do?"

"Assume a goat's stomach, unless stated otherwise," Daphne answered. "Works for most simple poisons."

"And a point will be taken from Gryffindor for your cheek, Potter."

Cheek?

Standing on the little leg-rests of her stool, she peeped yet again over the cauldron at Potter's cheek.

Zabini had a mischievous glint in his eye. "Yes, dear Ruth?"

"What's wrong with his cheeks?"

"It means he's been rude," Daphne replied, as the others really couldn't help but cackle.

"Oh." Ruth blinked.

Zabini was waiting eagerly.

"Only one point for his cheeks? Is Professor Snape not allowed to deduct more?"

The Slytherins actually all laughed at that, until Snape had to shoot them a look, and they really, seriously, tried to calm themselves down.

"Today you will brew a very simple, basic brew—a cure for boils. You, Gryffindors, one potion per pair—so we'll have half the number of failed potions, at least."

Snape gave a sharp swish of his wand and the chalk flew up, jotting what seemed to be instructions in a tight, controlled cursive. It was easier to read than Binns', of course, but still impossible to read for Ruth.

"Well? What are you waiting for? Begin."

Goyle took a jar of horned slugs from the cupboard and began prying it open. She supposed it couldn't be that far off from the textbook recipe, then, which she'd memorised completely yesterday, considering the possibility that she couldn't read off the textbook while brewing, since some steps required immediate and constant monitoring, or something might blow up.

She weighed the dried nettles carefully on the brass scales, exactly as the book had said, adjusting the heat of the cauldron and pouring just the right amount of water. Then she reached for the snake fangs that Goyle had brought over—chose a few of the appropriate size, then started shaving them, before crushing them into a fine powder. She measured this too, then poured them into her cauldron.

Bracing herself on the stool, knees on the top, trying her best not to shake, she stirred thrice clockwise and four times anti-clockwise. Then she turned the flame to a lower setting and put the lid over it.

She carefully cleaned the porcupine quills, turning off the heat on the cauldron halfway through. Once the cauldron stopped boiling, she gave three good clockwise stirs, then put the quills one-by-one into her cauldron.

Then she added the dried nettles, stirring clockwise, which she'd have to do until it turned grey, before turning the flame back on.

Snape had walked around, constantly criticising the Gryffindors, but now he came over to the Slytherin table—not commenting on Theodore's brew, but praising Draco, who had somehow reached the step where they had to put the horned slugs in—no, the slugs were already stewed to perfection.

"This is how a decent cure for boils ought to look," Snape was saying.

She looked at the chalkboard, but even if she'd messed something up, it was probably too late to stop it. She kept stirring and stirring.

From her vantage point now, she saw Longbottom's brew which looked strangely neon red. The boy next to him—the mashed potato boy—didn't look very bothered by it, and neither did Potter or Weasley, opposite them, as Longbottom added more quills—powdered ones, she realised—into the cauldron that was still on high heat.

This looked quite similar to what she'd read in her textbook—that adding quills while it was on heat would become rather caustic, and hence not really recommended, unless you were an experienced brewer. Was that what Snape had written on the board? Or was Longbottom doing something weird again? Perhaps they were experienced brewers?

Then there was a hissing sound, then a huge green cloud puffed from Longbottom's cauldron. Ruth kept stirring, watching as the cauldron collapsed into a twisted blob, spilling its neon red contents all over the Longbottom and the floor—burning holes in the Gryffindors' shoes and all the way through Longbottom's inside-out robes.

The boy lay in agony on the floor, whimpering in pain. With a wave of his wand, Snape got rid of the mess, though he didn't bother with the Gryffindors' new holey shoes.

"Idiot boy! I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire? You. Take him to the hospital wing."

The mashed potato boy escorted Longbottom, whose face was all covered in boils now, out of the room.

Then Snape turned on Potter and Weasley, who'd been working next to the two who'd just caused that catastrophe.

"You—Potter—why didn't you tell him not to add the quills?" Ruth agreed, but she was rather confused when Snape continued. "Thought he'd make you look good if he got it wrong, didn't you? That's another point you lost for Gryffindor."

She wondered mostly if Snape was only allowed to deduct one point at a time, though the thing about Potter's image didn't seem entirely unfounded—she couldn't figure out why Potter would spend time with Weasley over Hermione or Longbottom.

Potter looked indignant now, practically as red as Longbottom's neon red, caustic potion, but Weasley did something and he shut up.

Ruth kept stirring, confused, looking at the chalkboard. Her cauldron was grey now, and she turned her heat back on, still on her stool.

She wanted to look around—check if everyone else was powdering their quills, but it was hard to tell, since she had to focus on stirring and checking on her potion's colour while adjusting the heat, while balancing on her stool.

Then Snape came over to their table, and at looking at her cauldron, he froze.

She carefully salted each slug and put them one-by-one into the cauldron.

"Ruth," Snape demanded, sharply, "what are you doing?"

Ruth looked up at him, but she couldn't delay this step or it'd catch on fire. She finished putting the slugs in, raised the heat, and covered the cauldron before getting off her stool, standing before Snape.

Snape studied the configuration of leftover materials on her table, her closed textbook. Then back at her.

"You are not following the recipe on the board," he deduced, words slow and deliberate.

She looked over to Draco, who was done already.

So the recipe was different from the one in the textbook, after all. Goyle looked over, and immediately looked ashamed. But it hadn't been his fault—he'd been following a new recipe, and she'd been so focused on trying to finish the potion on time…

Now that she looked more closely, it should've been obvious to her that the number of lines on the board clearly didn't match the long one in her textbook.

"I didn't realise they were different, Professor Snape."

"Five points from Slytherin for not following instructions," he said curtly.

Now the other Slytherins looked to her, confused. But all she did was reach over, checked the colour of the potion, then increased the heat before she climbed onto her stool and added two more quills. Then she returned to where she was, standing in front of Snape, hands behind her back.

Snape's frown had deepened.

"Continue your version," he said finally. "It is too late to restart now."

"Yes, Professor Snape."

She didn't look at the others as she continued the brew. They were all done, table-by-table, although only a few of the Slytherins were praised for their brews—Draco, then Daphne, then Theodore. Their potions were all cloud-looking, though the colour looked roughly correct. Zabini's one looked a bit different from the others. Snape didn't call it 'acceptable' like he'd called the others—but neither was Zabini scolded.

They earned five points each. Nobody from the Gryffindor side succeeded. Some had already left except for Hermione, who was trying to figure out what had went wrong. The Slytherins—some had packed up already, but none of them had left.

Maybe they were going to tell her off for losing those points.

Then she finally stirred seven more times clockwise, perched on her stool, turned the heat down, stirred eighteen times counter-clockwise, and took the cauldron off the heat entirely.

Snape strode over as she stoppered a vial of the cure carefully, sealing it in the way Madam Petkov had taught her to, labelling in her ugly, cramped hand—"Cure for Boils".

It was a shimmering, almost sparkling, warm potion, the exact colour stated in the textbook, even better than that of Draco, somehow. She'd never brewed one better than Draco before.

"Acceptable," Snape evaluated, looking at the cauldron. "Ten points to Slytherin."

"I'm sorry, Professor Snape," she said immediately.

He stilled. "Explain yourself."

"I thought Longbottom could've been doing it on purpose, so I didn't think to intervene—I thought the quills or the bubbling or the red might have been noticeable to them. I put everyone in danger."

She waited to be scolded, but the room was simply deadly silent for a while.

"…Tell me next time," Snape said. Then he sighed, gritting his teeth. "I wasn't asking about that."

She must've looked confused.

"Your potion," Snape clarified, frowning.

"Oh. I can't read your cursive, Professor Snape," she said. "I followed what I'd memorised from the textbook. I should've figured so."

He looked at the board, then back at her perfect potion.

"You should've," he agreed, frowning. "The difference between the two is obvious."

Ruth looked at him, confused; he was waiting for her to go on.

"Well?" He crossed his arms. "What's the difference?"

Hermione looked to them now.

From what she'd managed to see of Draco's potion, and the few steps of the slower ones at the Gryffindor table, she'd noticed quite a few differences.

"The cauldron is taken off the station rather than just reducing the heat, which should allow the broth to cool more quickly. Powdering the quills allows it to…spread around faster, go everywhere..."

Snape's mouth was drawn in a thin line, but he did not stop her.

"Dissolve," Draco mouthed from behind Snape.

"Oh, dissolve faster in the soup," Ruth corrected.

Then he kept mouthing: "Not soup! Potion! Potion! NOT SOUP!"

Yes, she was talking about the potion?

"But unlike just putting the full quills in, leads to the cloudiness of the board version of soup…? Oh. I mean, potion."

This was clearly not the answer Snape was expecting. He didn't look quite so tired anymore, almost surprised.

When he stayed silent too long, she continued.

"I think it has to be as effective as the one in the textbook—or you wouldn't teach it, Professor Snape. So maybe the textbook one is just shinier and clearer, but does the same thing. It takes far less time to cook, too. I mean brew. Compared to the textbook one."

She couldn't think of anything else.

"That…was not what I was asking," he said finally, looking almost disarmed. "But you are correct."

"Oh." Ruth looked at the board, then at Goyle's open book. "Um, your instructions are probably shorter?"

There was silence for a while. There were upper-years waiting outside the doors now.

"I did not ask you to answer it again," he said through gritted teeth, not particularly scolding. Then he pocketed her potion, looking at her steadily. "As your Head-of-House, we will have check-ins every Friday, starting today. In my office. Anytime from four onwards."

Check-ins? What for?

He was looking at her, waiting—for dissent, perhaps.

"Four, then," Ruth decided immediately.

"Fine. You are dismissed."

"Professor Snape, am I allowed to bottle the excess?"

"Yes. Do not ask again."

Chapter Text

With three stoppered vials safely tucked in her satchel, Ruth left the classroom behind the other Slytherins.

Hermione, who'd just noticed the time, tried to rush out of class, too, ahead of the Slytherins. But she bumped into the upper-year students and couldn't make it very far. There were fifth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins, tall and drowsy, holding cauldrons and books, blocking the whole doorway.

By the time they made it out, Hermione had nearly lost her satchel—it was bulging with books and gloves, her cauldron hanging off on it.

The Slytherins turned to walk toward the dorm, and Ruth left, recalling the route to the hospital wing.

"Ruth!" Zabini called. "Running away from us?"

Ruth froze. His tone was flippant, but then again, Zabini's tone was always flippant.

"Herbology's not until fourth period," Theodore muttered.

"The dormitory is this way," Parkinson said, eyebrows raised.

"I'm going to the hospital wing," Ruth explained, slowly, not quite meeting their gazes. "I don't want to let the potions go to waste. I'll be quick—won't lose any more points."

She turned to leave, but Hermione peeked around the bend where she'd left, already talking. She sounded far more frazzled than she'd been on the train.

"Ruth, if you're headed to the hospital wing, could you help me check on Neville? He looked awful—it wasn't even Harry's fault, so I don't understand why Professor Snape scolded him! I would join you but I've Herbology—"

Ruth frowned, puzzled.

"Professor Snape failed your potion, didn't he?"

Then there was no reason for Hermione to come, was there?

Hermione gaped at this, turning red. She gripped the edge of her cauldron, gritting her teeth, looking at Ruth as though she'd betrayed her.

"Yes—he did. Why are you also…" She looked to Ruth again, pleading, voice getting louder. "You helped with Trevor on the train. So I thought…But in class, you said you knew, and yet didn't help Neville?"

As Hermione stepped closer to her, Ruth retreated, taking a step back, trying to resist the urge to run.

The potions in her satchel clinked as she bumped into Daphne, who braced her by the shoulder, just-so. Ruth flinched on instinct, but Daphne didn't let go.

Hermione's eyes widened at Daphne, as though finally seeing the other Slytherins behind Ruth.

"I mean, I know you're in Slytherin," she continued, brows knit, "but I was so surprised when you were sorted there; the others were saying Slytherin's no good, but that's sort of reductive, isn't it, I mean…"

There was a brief snort at this—Draco, probably.

Hermione sounded desperate now, voice raised: "I thought you'd understand—"

Ruth's eyes flickered to the staircase.

"Aren't you late for class, Granger?" Parkinson snapped, stepping next to Ruth.

Bulstrode added: "Where's the rest of your house?"

"Decided she was too noisy, I think. You know, they call her a know-it-all," Zabini pretended to whisper to the two of them, but his voice was clearly audible across the hallway.

"Blaming a Slytherin—how typical," Draco sneered, flanked by Goyle and Crabbe. "So why didn't the Gryffindors stop Longbottom? Why didn't you?"

Hermione was shaking now, gripping her satchel, white-knuckled.

They weren't saying anything false, but Ruth understood even less why they seemed to be helping her. She hadn't helped Longbottom. She wasn't sure if she belonged anywhere. She'd lost them points. She couldn't even read Snape's cursive, didn't even figure that she'd messed up until Snape had pointed it out, and it'd been so obvious, too.

Why weren't they blaming her?

As Ruth's brows knit, Daphne pulled Ruth gently but firmly back, behind Goyle.

"I didn't notice. And I wasn't blaming her—"

"Granger," Draco interrupted her, "Hogwarts can be hard to get around for Mudbloods. Do you need us to show you the way to the greenhouses?"

"Ruth," Daphne said at the same time, voice low and steady, "Hospital wing, right?"

Daphne took her by the wrist, her grip loose and ghostlike.

Ruth looked at her, then back at Hermione, who had gone speechless. Then she allowed herself to be dragged along, the Slytherin cohort behind them both.

They walked in silence all the way to the hospital wing. Only when they'd reached the top flight of stairs did Daphne let Ruth's wrist go—Ruth had been looking at Daphne's grip the whole time, somewhat dazed.

"Herbology's in fifteen," Daphne said, waiting for her to enter.

The Slytherins waited outside as Ruth went in. Behind her, Daphne drew Draco aside, already whispering.

Pomfrey came to Ruth immediately, and she fished out the three vials, labelled in her cramped writing.

"Professor Snape said these potions were acceptable. Could I pass them to Longbottom, if he still has boils?"

Pomfrey examined the potions, vial at her eye-level.

"I've not seen this brew since I was a student," Pomfrey muttered. "Longbottom's right over there. Follow me."

She followed closely behind Pomfrey, hearing Longbottom's whimpers before she saw him. From his eyebrows down to his collar, his skin was bursting with painful-looking boils. He looked horrid.

"Longbottom," Pomfrey said, "your friend's come to visit you. I've vetted her potions."

Then Pomfrey left to take care of the moaning Hufflepuff on the other side of the room, whose feet were swollen and green.

Ruth uncorked the vial and put it to Longbottom's swollen lips.

He drank, nearly choking half-way, but he managed to drink most of it down.

"Wuf?" Longbottom sputtered. Maybe her name.

Wordlessly, she uncorked the other two vials and passed it to him.

By the time he'd downed the third one, he looked bearable now, even if his face was still sort of scalded. He reached over to the counter and drank a bottle of Wiggenweld. Now he was back to normal.

He still looked miserable.

"Is Potions over?" He asked, peeping behind her.

"Yes," Ruth answered, corking the vials and putting them back in her satchel. "The other Gryffindors are at Herbology now."

"I've been spending more time here than in class," he admitted, downcast. "Herbology. Guess I'll probably get stung again."

Despite his ominous statement, he stood, gathering his things, though his inside-out robes and trousers were melted through in several places.

Pomfrey shot him a sharp look. "Longbottom, you stay there until I've cleared you."

He sat back down on the bed, distressed.

"I get hurt like this all the time," he mumbled. "It doesn't matter."

"So," Ruth said, "you didn't do that on purpose?"

Longbottom looked up, frowning. "What?"

"Melting the cauldron. Exploding the potion. Getting covered in boils."

"N-no?! Why would I?"

"The instructions in the textbook said putting the quills while it was still hot would cause it to become caustic. I think it must have been written on the board, too. So I thought you knew what you were doing."

Longbottom looked distraught. "No, I just didn't realise that it was hot."

"It was boiling," Ruth countered.

"I thought it was supposed to be like that," he said miserably. "I wasn't allowed to practise at home—not even allowed to watch, really. And when Professor Snape glared at me—ohhh..."

He looked quite ill.

"How about the red? It turned red."

"I know, but I thought maybe it was supposed to do that," he explained. "I don't know, Seamus didn't seem worried about it, but I guess he wasn't looking at it when it exploded."

"Cure for boils doesn't ever turn red. Unless it's going to explode." She took out her book and pointed at one of the tiny footnotes. "Here. Scarlet means it's going to blow up."

"Oh," Longbottom took out his book, which had a burn on the front already, and turned to the page.

There was a jagged tear exactly where the footnote was.

Ruth went silent. This was really quite serious, and it was frankly amazing, if this wasn't on purpose. It really didn't seem to be on purpose.

Longbottom simply took out a quill and scribbled what Ruth had said on the side, lips quivering, but hand steady.

"And what I drank—those were your potions?"

"Yes. Professor Snape said they were acceptable."

"Woah, he praised you?" Longbottom was awed. "I don't think he'll ever praise me."

"If you mean that's praise," Ruth said bluntly, "then you just have to succeed."

Longbottom looked up, gaping.

"He said Daphne's, Theodore's, Draco's, and mine were acceptable. So you just have to brew a perfect potion. Then he'll call yours acceptable."

"Er, they say he's biased, though," Longbottom said, unsure. "That he doesn't like the Gryffindors. You saw how he questioned Harry today, didn't you?"

Ruth crossed her arms, thinking.

"All the Slytherins knew the answers. Even Goyle. Did you?"

"I wasn't so sure about the first one," Longbottom admitted. "I thought it was sliced, not powdered. But I guessed it would probably have the same result…"

Ruth's eyes widened. So Longbottom had been prepared. So why did Weasley and Potter not know a thing?

"That's how it's written in the textbook. I think he expected Potter to infer."

"Oh, really?" He looked quite happy now, but he dampened it quite quickly. "But I'd surely have started wailing if Professor Snape picked on me."

"Then you shouldn't wail," Ruth said matter-of-factly.

"The two of you," Pomfrey scolded, coming over, "are making too much noise."

Longbottom looked sheepish now.

"You look fine. Now go, and stop coming back. Reparo!"

Longbottom's clothes were mended by the spell, though it did not fix how he'd worn several pieces inside-out.

"Do I go back to Herbology?"

Ruth looked at the clock.

"We have Herbology in five. You could ask Professor Sprout if you could join."

"Um, okay. If you don't mind."

"No, it depends on Professor Sprout."

Pomfrey shot them a look and they shut up until they reached the door.

Surprisingly, the Slytherins were still there, waiting. Daphne was sitting, eyes-closed, on the bench outside next to Draco, who looked up immediately.

"Pomfrey allowed the potions?" Draco asked.

"Yes," Ruth confirmed.

"Mm. Guess I'll bottle mine next time," he nodded. "Pouring it into the sink does seem a little wasteful."

Longbottom now appeared behind Ruth. The Slytherins studied him. He looked like a deer caught in headlights.

"Neville Longbottom!" Zabini called, like he did on the train.

Longbottom flinched and bowed, offering his hand this time.

With a quirked mouth, Zabini took it.

"Pureblood manners always please. I'm Blaise Zabini. You're the first explosive I've seen at Hogwarts. Pleasure."

"First…explosive?"

Draco was simply looking between Longbottom and Ruth. Daphne was leaning against the railing, either deep in thought or resting.

"Erm," Longbottom hesitated, "are…are we going for Herbology?"

"We?" Draco repeated, raising an eyebrow. "I'm pretty sure you just missed your Herbology."

"Er, yeah."

"Really. Joining us?" Zabini gave a sly grin. "You won't blow anything up, will you?"

"I was whipped by a plant pretty badly last time," Longbottom admitted, "but I haven't blown anything up in Herbology, yet."

"How promising," Draco muttered drily. "I suppose it'll be entertaining, either way."

Draco turned and started walking. The Slytherins followed closely behind, flanked by one robes-askew, slightly red Gryffindor.

"My opinion? You'd be right at home with the Hufflepuffs," Zabini said to Longbottom, "Ever try eating Devil's Snare?"

"Um, no…?"

"Try it sometime, I heard it tastes like octopus. Say, Ruth," Zabini changed targets, ignoring Daphne's glare, "any idea what Professor Snape's one-on-one check-ins are all about?""

"I will find out today at four," Ruth replied.

"Check-ins?" Longbottom squeaked. "With Professor…Snape?! But you're not Muggle-born, are you?"

Longbottom had turned a bit pale from just thinking about said professor.

"I don't know," Ruth answered plainly. "Maybe."

"W-wait, really? Well, in that case," he said, haltingly, "if you're having weekly check-ins, maybe it's because of that. Hermione was talking about her check-ins with Professor Mc…McGonagall. Said it was because she's Muggle-born."

He didn't look much better talking about Professor McGonagall either.

"Does Potter get the same?" Theodore asked.

"Er, no. I don't think so."

"Well, Potter isn't Muggle-born," Draco offered.

"And Ruth isn't—at least not definitively," Zabini countered.

"Maybe McGonagall's busy," Goyle said.

"Maybe she's just following the rules by the letter," Parkinson added.

"So what's Professor Snape doing?" Zabini asked. "Oh, well. If I were McGonagall, I wouldn't want to meet Potter either. Though I wouldn't want to meet Granger either."

"That's not very nice," Longbottom mumbled.

The Slytherins ignored him as they reached the greenhouses. Daphne braced behind a bend as the Gryffindors burst out of the doors, covered in dirt, Ruth instinctively following her. Now that she was next to Daphne, she saw how Daphne's skin was slightly pale, how haggard she looked.

From potions, perhaps—the brewing—or maybe when she'd stepped in to drag Ruth away from that hallway.

Ruth felt the ghost of Daphne's grip on her wrist.

There was that awful, familiar feeling of bile rushing up her throat, the awful realisation sinking like a knife in her ribs.

"Oi, Neville! Why are you with the Slytherins?"

It was a boy's voice, but she couldn't make out who it was. Longbottom hesitated before speaking up.

"Um, I—"

His voice was cut off by Parkinson.

"Get out of the way, bloody Gryffs," Parkinson said.

"Merlin's toes, you're covered in dirt." Draco smirked. "Did you try burying yourself instead of the plant?"

"Certainly looks like it," Zabini smirked. "You know the dirt's supposed to go into the pot?"

"Well, they are Mudbloods," Parkinson snickered. "Are you surprised they like being covered in dirt?"

Crabbe and Zabini grinned at this.

"Y-you shouldn't say things like that," Longbottom squeaked.

But no one was looking at Longbottom.

Even Ruth wasn't. She was looking only at Daphne. She didn't seem fevered, just impatient, or tired—of the noise, eyes shut, leaning against the wall.

Not sick, surely not.

She rubbed her wrist, where Daphne'd held her.

She told herself it wasn't anything—it couldn't be her fault. But she remembered Samuel's empty bed.

One of the Gryffindors started yelling.

"What did you say?! You say that one more—"

"You didn't hear us the first time?" Draco said, coolly, leaning back. "Get out of the way."

Taking this as his cue, Crabbe shoved the Gryffindors out of the way and cut a way through into the greenhouse. Daphne moved first, eyes flickering momentarily to Ruth, a sudden flicker of confusion. Then the rest followed, filing in, the Gryffindors fuming with rage behind them.

"Bloody Slytherins—always so high and mighty. Bet he's half-troll, Dean, are you okay?"

"Acting so smart 'cuz of Potions, but Snape's just biased, and they're proud of it? Laughing when Snape targeted Potter, like they knew the answer."

"Neville! Are you better now? I was going to check on you! How are your boils—"

Hermione.

Before Longbottom could answer, Sprout caught sight of him and levitated his pot over.

"Longbottom! Will you be joining this class instead?"

"U-um, if that's okay?"

Draco took his seat next to Ruth, who was quiet, looking straight at her plant.

Dittany.

She looked at Daphne, who looked better already, maybe in the light of the sun. She let go of her wrung wrist, exhaling.

"By all means! Sit with Miss Abbott—over there, at the front. The Hufflepuffs will come soon, I'm sure."

Herbology went okay—Longbottom looked more at ease in Herbology, under Sprout's guidance, and with Hufflepuffs by his side.

Today he didn't even get stung or whipped by anything like he was saying he had. Zabini muttered that it was a bit of a shame, but they were pretty busy anyway, so it didn't really matter.

They spent the time repotting the aconite and dittany, then taking samples and drawing them.

Ruth really did feel intensely sleepy, and now she felt strongly that it was the pleasant temperature and the sunshine. She dug her aconite out of its original pot, her eyes barely open.

"Won't these be ready by—" She yawned unceremoniously, as she pat the soil. "—by Monday, and can we use it for Potions?"

"We can just use the ingredients in the dungeons," Draco said. "We aren't expected to procure our own ingredients yet. I guess you could ask Professor Sprout."

"I know," Longbottom was telling Abbott. "But I tripped and fell into its leaves."

"Which are very, very toxic," Abbott said, eyes wide. "And then?"

Ruth repotted the dittany and went to drawing, not sitting on her bench, because she found it quite hard to stay awake. There were tears in her eyes from yawning so much. Daphne looked okay, at least.

"Very clean repotting work here, Miss Ruth," Sprout said, walking by.

Ruth blinked back tears and nodded. "Thank you, Professor."

"Are you more comfortable using pencil?" Sprout asked. "It's certainly a good choice for sketching, though I'll need your annotations in quill."

"Mhmm. Okay," Ruth replied, stifling a yawn. "Oh, Professor, could I harvest some of the ingredients?"

"I don't see why not. But make sure to tend to it, and be careful when you're handling anything toxic, all right?"

She seemed a little worried now, seeing Ruth, who was drowsy and wobbly. But when Ruth nodded and thanked her again, gloves on already and harvesting with precision belying her drowsiness, she looked impressed and left.

She wrapped the ingredients in her used parchment, carefully, and tucked them into her satchel.

Then she carefully disinfected her gloves and went back to measuring and writing, head resting on her palm, eyes half-closed.

"What was that you were humming?"

Ruth yawned again, looking up. Goyle was looking at her.

"I was humming?"

"Yeah," Draco said, "some words, too. Sounded like Latin."

Goyle hummed it a bit. It was a little off, but Ruth recognised it.

"Oh. It's a hymn. Dominus Regit Me," she explained. "We sang it back at Ashbrook."

"I didn't know you sang," Draco said.

"We were all required to. I suppose I must be very tired."

"You look like you're sleeping already," Draco said, smirking. "Look. Your handwriting here's all jagged."

She looked down. There was indeed a line that streaked straight across the page. She'd have to rewrite it.

"I think it's the sun," Ruth said.

"You weren't sleepy when we flew during the afternoons," Draco countered.

"I won't sleep on a broom in the air."

Sprout actually praised the Longbottom-Abbott pair.

"He seems to be doing well with the Hufflepuffs," Draco muttered. "What was wrong with him in Potions?"

"His textbook is torn," Ruth explained, writing even more painstakingly now, "he said he didn't know red meant it was going to explode."

"He's no poor Muggle-born, though. He's a Longbottom—Pure-blood."

"Said he wasn't allowed near cauldrons," Ruth said, yawning. "He even knew the answer to Professor Snape's questions. He's not dim, but he's quite a big danger though."

"He's explosive," Draco added, remembering what Zabini had said. "I wonder if it's just 'cause of the Gryffindors. Doubt they get any learning done."

"Maybe," she yawned again. "I'd not want to be with the Gryffindors in any class."

"Exactly. Wow, you look sleepier now than you were in History," Draco said now, snorting. "Stay awake, come on."

She gave another yawn in response, writing again. She'd have to rewrite the whole thing later.

They went back to the dorms to put their things down and wash their hands before heading for lunch. They'd left before the Hufflepuffs and Longbottom.

"Weird," Zabini said. "He really didn't blow anything up."

"It is harder to blow things up in Herbology," Theodore offered.

"Maybe it was that other Gryff, not Longbottom, who'd messed up that potion," Draco said. "Isn't that fellow a Mudblood?"

Back at the Great Hall, Ruth didn't eat much, still more drowsy than hungry.

The Gryffindors were making a huge fuss about finally getting an afternoon off.

"Heading to the Hospital wing," Daphne announced, standing. She didn't have to wait long for Ruth to follow her, having finished whatever little she had of her meal.

As they left the Great Hall, side-by-side, Daphne turned to look at her.

"So you do know it's wrong to leave on your own," she said.

"Wrong," Ruth repeated, frowning. "Wrong?"

Daphne sighed. "Or not. Once you go missing in these halls, who's going to find you?"

"But I do know how to get to the hospital wing," Ruth said, "I'd have come straight back."

"Then lead. Which staircase should we take?"

Ruth furrowed her brow and moved towards the right staircase, which Daphne'd led her to climb just this morning.

"That's the wrong one," Daphne said. "Friday afternoons, it leads to the third-floor corridor."

"Oh." Ruth swallowed. "I didn't know that."

"I know," Daphne muttered, turning. "So stop going off on your own."

Ruth nodded, following Daphne quietly. She knew Daphne seemed more irritable—or perhaps just annoyed, than usual. But she wasn't told to leave, so she didn't. If she'd be in danger walking alone because of changing staircases, then how could she let Daphne walk alone?

"Look," Daphne continued, not looking at Ruth, "I've been sick my whole life."

Daphne stopped at the landing, ahead of Ruth.

"I don't know what it is you're thinking, but you're wrong."

Ruth didn't repeat it this time. She looked at Daphne again, uncomprehending.

"I don't understand what you're talking about," Ruth admitted.

Daphne sighed. She considered for a moment, Ruth still braced on the steps, brows furrowed.

"Just look at me with pity like everyone else. Why do you keep looking like you've poisoned my food?"

Ruth's mouth went dry.

"Well?"

"It's not your food," Ruth said, faltering, "It's just…"

She couldn't help but think of all the bodies she'd buried. The plague that hadn't taken her. The deluge that had come—because of her, like the goat, like…

"Merlin's teeth, Ruth." Daphne caught Ruth by the wrist again, more firmly this time. Ruth instinctively flinched, trying to get out of Daphne's grip—she couldn't make her more sick. "You see?"

"Daphne," Ruth mumbled, frightened. "You shouldn't—"

"You think I'll get sick if I touch you? I—"

Just then, Daphne coughed. Immediately Ruth pulled her arm back, though she braced for Daphne's stumble, eyes wide with horror.

Daphne didn't fall, but she looked wry, almost angry.

"This thing comes at the worst of times," Daphne grumbled. "I've been like this my whole life, do you get that?"

It wasn't particularly convincing. If only Draco were here—then Ruth'd leave, immediately. She really couldn't endanger Daphne anymore.

She couldn't bring herself to nod. Not to Daphne.

Still, when Daphne moved to the door, Ruth followed.

"They all died," Ruth mumbled. "Everyone. And I buried them all."

Ruth's voice was softer than she'd expected. Well, she hadn't expected to speak at all.

"I didn't die, you—" Daphne was almost white with fury. "—you helped me, when I was fevered."

"I wasn't of any use," Ruth denied, alarmed, "It was Draco who helped. I didn't even think of getting your things—I didn't even know there was a hospital wing, until Draco said so. The rags were useless, I was usel—"

"Listen to me, Ruth," Daphne interrupted, almost grimacing, "if I die, it's not because of you."

It was childish, but just hearing the word—Ruth wrung her wrist in panic, like it'd erase Daphne's having held it.

"That's what Samuel said, too, and then he—they all—"

"What are you two doing here," Pomfrey cut in, sternly. "If you're going to chit-chat…ah, Greengrass. Come on in. Your friend, too?"

Daphne shot Ruth a look, clearly not allowing her to leave.

Like being marched to the gallows, Ruth followed them.

"Drink this," Pomfrey said, passing Daphne a vial of something green. Wiggenweld, maybe, or a variant.

Daphne did. Pomfrey looked to Ruth, who was standing behind Daphne, hands behind her back like some sort of bodyguard or criminal waiting her sentence.

"It's fine," Daphne said. "Go on."

"I've written to your father. Your sister dropped out in the first month of her schooling with similar symptoms. And I've heard that she did not last much longer."

"No," Daphne said coolly.

Ruth's eyes flickered to the neatly arranged potions Pomfrey'd laid out for Daphne.

"I wasn't aware you were suffering from a similar issue," Pomfrey continued. "If I'd known, you'd have been monitored from day one."

"I'm stronger than Callisto was," Daphne explained.

"That's not saying much," Pomfrey said. "You don't seem to understand how that fever might've affected your already frail constitution, Miss Greengrass."

Daphne grimaced.

"Flying will be cut to half the time, and if you ever feel weak, you are to stop flying immediately, do you understand? Madam Hooch has already been informed, as has your Head-of-House. You are to sit out of physically-straining activities. And that includes the climb to the Astronomy Tower—we've approved your use of Floo powder on campus."

Pomfrey passed her a labelled satchel, which Daphne accepted slowly.

"I can't imagine my father agreed to this," Daphne said.

"He doesn't have to," Pomfrey said matter-of-factly. "You're sitting out regardless, and he can transfer you to Durmstrang if he'd prefer. If you overexert yourself—if the fever had been brought to our attention any later—well, you, Greengrass, of all people should know what a fever can do to a weak body."

Pomfrey turned to the vials and handed them over to Daphne.

"These aren't long-term. They're for this week and the next, while you're adjusting to school. We'll monitor after that. The instructions are right there."

Then Pomfrey turned to Ruth, who had to drag her gaze away from the potions, to Pomfrey.

"Your friend—Miss Ruth, was it?" Ruth didn't nod, but Pomfrey continued. "You will ensure she takes them as per the instructions. Check on her every morning, preferably at a consistent timing. If I'm not in the wards, I'll be in my office—simply knock and I'll come. Otherwise, find Professor Snape, your Head-of-House."

Ruth swallowed, jaw clenched. "Yes, Madam Pomfrey."

Walking back to the dormitories, Ruth hesitated for a long while, trying to figure out what to say. Ask Parkinson or Bulstrode to do it? Say sorry? Her wrist felt like it was burning up, just like Daphne was, on day three.

Daphne had a weak constitution. She understood that. Maybe the plague and the deluge weren't her fault, like Samuel had said.

In the end they hadn't spoken a word by the time they hit the dormitories. Most of the first-years were in the common room, flipping through the Transfiguration notes over snacks.

Daphne turned to go back to her room, so Ruth wordlessly followed.

She watched Daphne take out the potion vials, labelled in Pomfrey's script. The Wiggenweld was of a different colour, from what she and Draco had brewed before. Not nearly as clear.

Then Daphne turned around, holding her hand out.

"Your hand," Daphne said.

Ruth stiffened. Daphne clearly looked awkward too, but resolved.

Ruth gingerly put her hand on Daphne's, gritting her teeth. Daphne's hands were far cooler than Ruth's.

"I didn't cough this time, did I?" Daphne spoke, voice too loud in the quiet room. "I'm just unwell, Ruth."

"But what if I'm right?" Ruth asked.

"Look, if you're doing anything, maybe stop making me worry about you," Daphne said. "That whole Granger thing was avoidable, don't you think?"

Ruth resisted the urge to pull her hand away; she felt it was clammy, and she couldn't help but think of some sort of caustic effect she might have on Daphne. Ruth's gaze flickered down, and as though in response, Daphne held her hand tightly. Avoidable? Was it?

"You…" Ruth started slowly, "You don't need to worry about me."

"Of course not," Daphne murmured. "Should I have not stepped in, then?"

"No, you shouldn't have," Ruth answered stiffly.

"So you won't wake me up, then. No potion reminders?"

"What?" Ruth shook her head. "I will—the potions too."

"Why?" Daphne asked. "Because Madam Pomfrey said so?"

Ruth looked away, thinking.

"Um," she said hesitantly, "no. Because it'd help you. Would it help you?"

"You're very strange," Daphne said amusedly. "Yes. It'd help me. And it's not your fault if I die. Unless you forget to wake me up, or if you forget the potions, or if you make me overexert myself. Again."

Ruth nodded. "Okay. I won't forget. I won't wander off again."

"Hey, you two, we're heading for Transfig! Hurry up already!" Parkinson's voice.

Daphne held on for a second longer, then let Ruth's hand go.

"See?" Daphne said, smiling. "I didn't cough."

"No," Ruth said, awkwardly putting her hand back in her robes' pocket. "You didn't."

The hand Daphne'd held was colder than the other.

Daphne held her hand up, turning it over.

"And I didn't melt either. Did I?"

"No," Ruth confirmed again.

"So stop thinking stupid things," Daphne continued. "I'm no cripple. Much less crippled by you."

"I'll try not to," Ruth said.

She couldn't promise more than that.

"Good," Daphne smiled finally, almost laughing. "I thought you might lie."

"I don't like lying," Ruth explained.

Daphne laughed now.

"You know," she said. "You're easier to read than I thought."

Even Samuel hadn't said that to her before.

Daphne grabbed her by the arm now, and dragged her out of the room.

"Snap out of it. Transfig next," Daphne said.

Ruth nodded, though she was still dazed. Easy to read?

But she allowed herself to be dragged by Daphne downstairs, and to their next class.

Chapter Text

Transfiguration this time was a theory lesson, thankfully. Ruth annotated her textbook in pencil, pointedly not looking up. While the Ravenclaws looked engaged, scribbling things down, the Slytherins were bored to death. Most of it was covered in the textbook, though McGonagall's explanations were easier to understand. Ruth really couldn't understand why the Ravenclaws were all writing nonstop. Still, with McGonagall's no-nonsense command of the class, nobody fell asleep, not even Goyle.        

After class they all headed back to the dormitories, Theodore, Ruth, and Daphne lagging behind.

"Are you going to tell Professor Snape?" Daphne asked again, softly. "About Defence."

"If he asks, I will," Ruth replied.                

"There's a chance he doesn't know," Daphne said. "Who wouldn't let their guard down around first-years? But you'd certainly be more careful around a professor."          

Ruth considered this a while.

"Okay. I'll tell him."                  

"Ruth, you can say that I suspected it might be something dark," Theodore offered. "As long as it's only to Professor Snape."        

When they walked past the Potions classroom, the door was closed. Snape was likely still conducting a class. The other Slytherins were talking about weekend Slytherin common room duels. It seemed to be a common occurrence. Ruth hoped she wouldn't be dragged into any more of such duels—they surely weren't going to be anywhere near as instructive as her duels against Narcissa, and she had a lot of reading and writing to catch up on.

The Potions classroom smelled like something burnt when she neared, some second-years Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors stumbling out. She and Goyle stood behind a pillar, waiting for the students to stream out.

"Can't imagine a class like that goin' well," Goyle mumbled. "Should I wait for you? Your password's harder, right?"

"I've got it memorised," Ruth said. "I'll be fine. Thanks for coming with me."

"Malfoy told me to," Goyle said, yawning, "and it ain't that far anyway."

He waved goodbye and left.

It was three minutes to four when she peeped into the classroom. Snape waved his wand to clear a still-bubbling spillage on the floor, frowning deeply. There were multiple blast marks on the floor that hadn't been present when she'd come in for Potions just this morning.

He gave another flourish of his wand and the chalkboard cleared. The door behind her, leading to the corridors, shut. Instead the door to his office clicked open.

"We will begin at four," he said.

She walked briskly into his office, making sure the door didn't creak once. Inside there were shelves lining the wall, filled with all sorts of potion ingredients. There was one door leading further in, and another one up some stairs—probably another entrance from the dungeons.

The whole place was rather dimly-lit, only by candlelight and the dying fireplace. The smell of ink and parchment and Earl Grey cut through the ever-present smell of potion ingredients and candle-wax.

Jars with organs and feathers suspended in liquids, jars of powder, jars of leaves and roots and flowers, some labelled, some not. Snape's handwriting—the same tight cursive.

"Dittany," she identified. Then she tried to match the spelling to the cursive.

The jars looked to be arranged haphazardly at first, powders on one end of the shelf but also the other end; leaves here and there rather than sorted by type. But the ones a little above Ruth—easiest for Snape to reach, she supposed—were commonly-used ingredients. Those weren't dusty, like the ones on the shelves above and below. Grouped almost by usage—she could brew Wiggenweld with this group, then cure for boils…

The rest of the room: A barely-balanced chest on a step-stool, holding vials of shimmering potions. Books stacked on small stools, corners of the room, and above potion ingredients on shelves.

On his table was a pot of something almost black, scattered papers and books. There was a small leather-bound book labelled 'Hogwarts Guidelines for the Integration of Muggle-borns and Those with Peculiar Circumstances'. Under the table, a stool was tucked away, opposite the leather chair she assumed was Snape's.

"Sit," said Snape as he entered. He closed the door behind him.

She took the little stool out and sat carefully on it, as it was a little shaky. She leaned forward so it wouldn't make any noise. He sat opposite her, pouring himself some black liquid into two flasks that looked more like a potion implements than cups. It smelled like Earl Grey, though rather darker and stronger than she was used to.

She had a feeling offering tea was part of the instructions; a formality. Still, she accepted the tea.

He put the book aside, pulling out a folder, opening to a fresh page, writing the date on the very top in that tight cursive of his.

"How are you finding your housemates," he asked, but it didn't really sound like a question, the way he intoned it.

"They're okay," Ruth answered.

He exhaled sharply.

"You were involved in a duel on the first night," he said, clearly unhappy with her answer.

She supposed she was expected to say a bit more.

"Yes. Draco said I should win. The boy cast Expelliarmus, but it was poorly-aimed and weak. So I let it hit me and cast Flipendo. I won."

When Snape still didn't write anything, she continued.

"I asked if that was going to be all. Nobody replied, so I followed Daphne to our room."

"Greengrass," Snape said. "Any other students you talk to?"

"Yes. We all stick together. Daphne told me to not wander off on my own."

Snape sighed again.

"I assume the rest have not been causing any issues."

She thought about this for a while.

"No," Ruth said plainly.

Putting his quill down, he studied her for a beat. Then he shut the folder and took a sip of tea, taking a look at her again but finding nothing.

"Elaborate."

"They've all been okay," she said. "Crabbe wanted to duel me once, but he won't try anything. Draco beat him in a duel back at the manor, so I don't think he'd try it again."

"A duel," Snape repeated.

"Yes. I duelled Lady Malfoy in the morning—"

His jaw tensed.

"—while Crabbe and Goyle were watching. Crabbe insulted me, and then when we went to ask Lady Malfoy if we could duel, we were caught halfway by Lord Malfoy, who talked to Draco. Then Draco duelled Crabbe and won."

"It does not sound like a one-time affair," he said, tone clipped, "the…duel with Narcissa."

"No. We had them every Saturday. Except for the one with Crabbe and Goyle. That was on a Thursday."

"Why," he asked outright.

She considered this for a while, not sure what he was getting at.

"Lady Malfoy asked, so I accepted. I thought I would learn a lot, and I did. I couldn't beat her."

"She's Narcissa Malfoy," he reminded her. It was strange. After all, she wouldn't have forgotten something like that.

"Yes. After that she asked if I wanted to duel her every Saturday. She didn't tell me why, only explained the rules of duelling and taught me to bow. I think maybe she expected that I'd be challenged by someone here. Then I guess she'd be right."

She wondered how Narcissa was doing. Draco never really let her read the notes Narcissa attached to the deliveries; he always looked a bit embarrassed reading them.

"I heard you preferred her Apparition," Snape said, drily. "Over mine."

Ruth frowned at that.

"Oh. So Lord Malfoy was serious about that owl." She seemed confused. "But that's not what I said."

Snape raised an eyebrow.

"Lady Malfoy's Apparition is easier to follow. I said that. I prefer yours. It's more direct. Faster."

For a few seconds, he didn't reply. Didn't even blink. Then, turning away, he made a strangled coughing sound of sorts. Ruth reached for her flask of tea and drank uncertainly. It was strong and bitter.

"Fine," he said finally. "How about your studies."

"Madam Petkov tutored me for three days at the manor. I studied the rest of the time, with Draco's help. Classes are okay. But I cannot read as quickly as the other Slytherins. My writing is still bad."

"How do you find Potions?"

There seemed to be a checklist in his mind now.

"Okay," she said, after a beat. "We were looking forward to your class, but not the Gryffindors. They are…burdensome."

"Burdensome," he repeated, lips tightening. He seemed to think it an understatement.

"Yes. They're noisy. Unserious."

His mouth twitched, only slightly.

"I'm sorry for not following your instructions today. I'll learn to read cursive."

Frowning, he started scribbling something onto a piece of paper. It took a while. She sipped the Earl Grey. It was nice, even if over-steeped.

Once he was done, he tore it out and handed it to her.

"In two weeks you are to be able to read the board quickly enough. These are the recipes until then."

She folded the parchment carefully, like something precious, and put it into her Potions textbook, and into her satchel.

"Professor Snape, why did you ask Potter about powdered asphodel? In the textbook, the recipe for the draught of living death uses sliced asphodel."

Snape frowned. "What do you think?"

"I thought you might cook it that way."

"Brew," he corrected.

"Yes. It seemed to me that slicing doesn't have many practical benefits. So I assumed you expected Potter to infer it."

"Practical benefits."

"Yes. For the juice, crushing the ingredient is better. Powdered versions just make the potion cloudier but don't reduce the efficiency of the potion, except in select cases."

"You read the whole textbook."

"Yes," Ruth nodded. "Draco did, too."

His mouth drew into a thin line.

"You seem to have understood it."

"Yes. It would be hard to memorise otherwise. Longbottom agreed with me about the slicing."

He tensed. "Longbottom."

"Yes. You called him an idiot, and I felt so too. But I passed my potions to Longbottom because I didn't want it to go to waste and I don't plan on getting boils."

"I suppose not," Snape said drily.

"His potions textbook is damaged, that's why he didn't know his potion was going to explode. I suppose Finnigan mustn't be very serious. Longbottom knew the answers to all three of your questions. Of all the Gryffindors, he's okay. But clumsy to the point of danger. I thought you might want to know."

After a moment of silence, Snape took a sip of his tea and sighed.

"Fine. Then, your other subjects?"

"Charms is nice. We've learned up to Wingardium Leviosa. Professor Flitwick is easy to understand. He says our class is going faster than the other one, and introduced modifiers to us during the first lesson."

"…And your performance?"

"Professor Flitwick said my wand suited me. He made me demonstrate spell-chaining. It was..." She thought for a while to think of a better word, then gave up, "fun. Everyone else tried too—some of the other Slytherins managed it as well."

"In week one." Snape studied her carefully. "History?"

"History is…okay. I have a lot to catch up on. The Slytherins don't have to listen--they know most of it. They help me during breaks."

"Herbology?"

"I get sleepy in the sun," Ruth answered. "It is inconvenient. But it's okay otherwise. Professor Sprout let me harvest some potion ingredients. May I use them?"

"Bring them on Monday. We shall see," Snape said, unreadable. "Transfiguration?"

Ruth was silent for a while, thinking.

"I do not like it. But it's fine."

"Elaborate."

"Professor Snape, you said that intent is the most important thing. Intent, for Transfiguration, needs me to lie to myself. I can't stand it. But I can do it. I'll try to get an Outstanding…"

She faltered for a while, looking at the tea.

"Professor McGonagall made me recast the spell, though," she said, doing her best to say this neutrally, "so I'm not sure. Daphne said she just didn't like the way cast. She—she didn't explain. But I'll manage an Exceeds."

She looked at him, hoping she didn't look spooked—of McGonagall. Then, considering her words, she continued, haltingly.

"...Professor Snape, Lady Malfoy said I was like—him." She noticed she was playing with the cup and withdrew her hand from it, but couldn't stop her trembling. She forcibly put them in her lap, under the table, where Snape wouldn't see. But her words were coming out jumbled. "Lady Malfoy didn't seem worried. I don't know—but is she talking about…someone who owned a Yew and Phoenix feather wand? Back at Ollivanders—that wand, when it tried to…everyone seemed—"

"If it were him," Snape interrupted sharply, "Narcissa wouldn't have agreed to house you."

She studied him, trying to figure out—something more, perhaps. But he was utterly unreadable.

"Okay," Ruth said finally.

She managed to hold the flask without shaking, and drank from it, feeling slightly better now. Snape exhaled, pouring himself a second cup of Earl Grey.

"Astronomy," Ruth said, "is okay. Just it's up the tower, which wasn't good for Daphne."

"She had a serious fever," Snape said, prodding.

"Yes," Ruth said, not meeting his gaze. "Draco got everyone to help. She's okay."

"That is not what I heard."

Ruth swallowed.

"Daphne told me to wake her up," she said, faltering a bit, having not completely dampened that strange guilt. "She had a fever—so I asked Draco for help. I didn't—I could only keep her temperature down with cool rags—I didn't even know we had a hospital wing—didn't know who to tell…Madam Pomfrey told me to make sure she takes her potions and check on her every morning. I—don't think...."

He didn't interrupt her, but she would've been grateful if he had.

"Daphne said…I'm of help," she managed weakly, not quite meeting his gaze. "So I will."

"…Then do so. Defence?"

She stiffened at this.

Immediately Snape drew out his wand, standing and cast something wordlessly—on the door. Then on the walls. The window.

Wards?

When he sat back down, Ruth continued.

"It's…far less effective than duelling Lady Malfoy." She steadied herself. "Professor Quirrell smells of garlic. Too much. The priest—he used a lot of perfume when he fell sick. It was tough to bury him. So…"

She was watching his reaction, but his expression betrayed nothing. She continued.

"When Professor Quirrell walked past us, on the first day…Theodore and I smelled rot." She suppressed a shudder. "I thought it was gangrene. Theodore said it might be something…dark? I don't think anyone else noticed, except for Daphne, because she sits between Theodore and me."

"You and Nott thought so on Tuesday, and tell me now," Snape said, expressionless. But his grip on the flask had tightened.

"I didn't want to waste your time—I thought you knew," Ruth said, matter-of-factly. "But Daphne told me that if Professor Quirrell was hiding something—he'd be more on guard against you than us. I thought that made sense. So I'm telling you now."

"Fine," he said, exhaling. He considered her for a second, then added: "Do not be alone with him."

"I wasn't planning to be," she said, swallowing tightly.

He thought for a moment before speaking.

"You spoke about him in class. What do you think of Potter?"

Unlike in class, Snape's voice had no scorn, only a calm distance, as he steepled his fingers.

She ran her fingers along the edge of the cup, glad for the change in topic. After talking about Quirrell she'd almost felt like she could smell the garlic in the air. However, she didn't care for Potter, so it took a while for her to speak.

"He is alive, like his title suggests."

Snape cleared his throat, though his expression remained mostly unchanged. His voice came out a bit strangled when he next spoke.

"Elaborate."

"I don't think much about him, Professor Snape. He was rude to Draco on the train," she said slowly, listing dispassionately instead of evaluating. "And during sorting he chanted, 'not Slytherin, not Slytherin'. I've heard only Hermione's succeeding in Transfig, and they're behind us in Charms. During Potions, he couldn't answer any of your questions, got angry, and deflected the question to Hermione. His robes and books are new—and he has a snowy owl."

Considering all of this, she looked at her flask of tea, and then summed it up.

"Draco and I were told by Lord Malfoy that he might be of value," she continued plainly, "and I have not found any evidence worth reporting to him."

They sat in silence for a while. She downed the last of her tea, looking at her ink-stained sleeves.

"I see," he said finally. "Questions?"

"Does Tergeo work for ink-stains, and if so, could you teach me, Professor Snape, if it's not too much trouble."

He leaned back in his seat now, expressionless.

"Your incantation and wand-motion were correct at Spinner's End."

"I won't cast it until I understand what it does. Lady Malfoy told me to stick to the spells in my textbook. But I can't get the stains out with the soap provided."

His face was a practised mask.

"Your wrist."

She raised her left wrist—the one with more ink-stains. Wand in hand, he cast.

"Tergeo."

The ink separated itself cleanly from her sleeve, coalescing into a dark ink-blob above his wand. Then he gave another swish of his wand and the blob disappeared.

"It is a siphoning spell," he said coolly. "Identify the target and the base material. Your other wrist."

She held out her other wrist.

"Cast it."

With a practised flick of her left hand, she withdrew her wand. Then she cast, movements mirroring his.

"Tergeo."

It wasn't as quick as his had been, but the ink slowly lifted from her sleeve, clumping right above her wand. He gave a quick swish of his wand and it was gone.

In one swift, sharp movement of her left hand, the wand slid back into her sleeve. She rested both hands in her lap.

"That's all, Professor Snape."

He gave her one last look-over.

"Fine. You are dismissed."

A flick of his wand, and she felt something shatter in the room—the wards, perhaps. If they had been wards. The door clicked open. He had already retrieved a stack of parchments a bottle of reddish ink.

She turned the handle silently. As she slipped out, she turned around, just once.

"Thank you, Professor Snape."

Then she left noiselessly, closing the door behind her.

The first-years all looked up as she came into the common room.

"Your sleeves are clean," Goyle blurted as she entered.

She joined Theodore and Draco near the fireplace. Theodore had been looking through his library book, cheek braced on his knuckles. She gave them both a quick nod, which Theodore acknowledged by going back to his book. Daphne shifted to give her space to sit.

"How did it go?" Draco asked.

"I think it was according to procedure," Ruth replied. "How I'm settling in, my classes."

"Awful long," Draco said, clearly not envying her. "We were just talking about that."

There was a copy of the Daily Prophet, forgotten, on the table. The moving-picture printed on the front page was that of Gringotts. A well-dressed goblin was speaking, not nervously.

"It's about the Gringotts Break-in," Draco explained, seeing her sigh and start reading, squinting, "it happened 31^st July—that's the day we were at Diagon Alley. They suspect a dark wizard broke in—tried to take something from a high-security vault."

"Whatever it was, nothing was taken," Zabini said, yawning as he checkmated Crabbe. "Apparently it'd been emptied in the morning."

"Wait," Crabbe frowned. "Since when did my knight disappear?"

Zabini quickly reset the board and took the chocolate frog box that'd been wagered.

"Did you go to Gringotts in the morning?" Parkinson asked. "You said Professor Snape signed off your bursary—I assume that's got to be from Gringotts? Saw anything suspicious?"

"I don't think so. We reached before seven. Gringotts was quite empty. Other than me and Professor Snape, there were only goblins, just starting their day. We went to the bursary vault and straight out, and even then it was still quiet."

"Got to be after that, then," Draco said. "Even though they didn't take anything, it's got to be a pretty powerful wizard, to break into Gringotts."

"Seems rather convenient that the vault was emptied just the morning of the break-in," Zabini said, leaning back against his chair. "Goblins wouldn't lie about something like that, though."

"What are you kids on about?" It was Montague.

He was coming down the stairs, followed by Flint, who was cracking his knuckles as he descended. Another two fifth-years followed, studying the first-years with some amount of amusement. They looked like they were going for a pre-dinner shower.

Montague saw the newspaper in Ruth's hands.

"Oh, talking about the break-in, too?" Montague asked.

When Draco nodded, one of the fifth years behind Flint spoke. He looked a little like Montague, but where Montague's smile was a little crooked, his was downright devious.

"Terribly interesting, isn't it? You'd have to use a Polyjuice potion…or one of the Forbidden Spells."

"Nothing was stolen, though," Montague said.

"Wonder what was in it," Flint said, stretching his forearms now.

Over the weekend, Daphne and Ruth spend time in the common room, as it had become a duelling arena. Apparently, some of the first-years had joined in, like Crabbe, Draco, and Zabini. Sometimes the noise of the chaos downstairs drifted up—after lunch, for example, when things got a bit heated—and they'd leave for the library instead.

Daphne rested between bouts of reading. When she annotated, her quillwork was neat and precise. Ruth sat next to her, parsing Snape's handwritten potion instructions, re-reading textbooks, primers, and doing writing exercises.

There were quite a few students in the library, though surprisingly there weren't as many Ravenclaws as Ruth had expected.

"Their dormitory is apparently rather conducive for studying," Daphne answered when she'd remarked so.

The two of them stayed near a quiet corner near the restricted section, where the other Slytherins were. It was a little dimmer and chillier than the other sun-lit desks of the library, but quieter and calmer, too.

Over dinner, Draco complained about first-years not being allowed to play Quidditch for their houses.

"Stupid rule if you ask me," Draco complained between bites of steak, "I'd be able to evade a Muggle helicopter while chasing a snitch, if given the chance."

She wasn't sure what a helicopter was, and didn't want to ask. Most of the first-years seemed crazy about flying, barring her usual compatriots, Daphne and Theodore. Across the hall, at the Gryffindor table, Finnigan and Weasley were chattering animatedly about their flying experiences.

"I can't imagine Weasley being good at flying," Parkinson said, seeing Weasley mime something that was probably supposed to be an evading manoeuvre, "he's as tall as the twins, and that's all he has going for him."

"James Potter's supposed to have been a decent Chaser," Draco said, eyeing Potter, who was gaping at Weasley's antics.

"Well, his father was apparently decently-brained, too," Zabini said, smirking. "And his mother a skilled potioneer. I don't think he's much of anything, except in Gryffindor."

Draco delighted in this observation.

"Then Flying next week will be wicked," he said, grinning. "Let's see if he's any talent at all, this Potter."

On Sunday morning, Ruth went with Theodore and Daphne to the library. Theodore looked rather annoyed.

"I'd rather be expelled than be Zabini's second," he grumbled as the dorm doors closed behind him.

In the library, in hushed tones—before anyone else had really arrived, Ruth told them about Snape's check-in.

"I think Professor Snape warded the room before I started talking about Defence."

Theodore thought about that for a while.

"So he suspects the same? Did he say anything?"

"He told me not to be alone with him."

"That's vague," Daphne said. "Even the wards might've just been a general safety precaution."

"What makes you think they were wards?" Theodore asked.

"It was aimed at the door, the walls, and the window. Then when I had to leave, I think he shattered them. I felt something break."

"You mean you felt something magical break?" Theodore asked, studying her.

"Before Lady Malfoy cast during our duels," Ruth explained, "I could feel the air change. Like the drop in temperature before Glacius. The tremor before a Confringo."

Theodore nodded, convinced. Something seemed to have settled in his mind.

"Your description would match magical warding against eavesdropping, then. Interesting."

Theodore had already returned to his book.

"Is it uncommon?" Ruth asked. "To sense things like that?"

"I'd keep it to myself if I were you," Daphne said. "It's not uncommon—among skilled or combat-trained duellists."

After that, they continued their work in the calm of the library, away from the commotion in their common room.