A Lamb Before the Slaughter by MerryMandolin, Cricket

“You… have a son,” Potter repeated, slowly, as if the words had entered his ears on a delay.

It wasn’t a surprising development, his bewilderment. She was used to it at this juncture. Out of all the reactions she’d endured when breaking the news to strangers, this particular one was middling.

“Yes I do.”

“You left school to have a baby.”

“That’s the gist of it, yes,” she affirmed, her arms dropping to her sides.

The boy squinted at her. “How’d you manage that?” he blurted, the words clearly traveling directly from impulse to mouth.

“Which part?”

His brows drew downward, expression pained. “Er… The part where you left school and came back.”

“I almost didn’t,” she admitted, shrugging.

He proffered the photo in his hands to her and she took hold of it. Then, he commented, “I’ve been told that coming back is not very common.”

“For good reason,” she told him. “It’s pretty hard to bounce back into this life after disruptions like that.”

“Then…” The boy met her eyes. “Why did you?”

“I don’t know,” she found herself saying, staring down at her son’s face as her thumb swiped over the gloss of the photo. There were reasons. None fit to mention to someone she didn’t know, at least. But all the same, she often wondered if those reasons were worth it.

Considering Snape’s disposition, that answer was still a resounding “no.”

Potter scratched the side of his head, more of a listless gesture than a purposeful one. “I don’t really understand you,” the boy remarked.

“Well, you’re not alone in that,” she murmured, glancing up again.

“Isn’t there anything you want to do? You know-- after school.”

“Yes, of course,” she replied. “But it isn’t relegated to just here, you know.”

His head tilted. “How’s that?”

“How else? I can go to uni in the non-magical world, have a life there.”

“Oh.” He was still looking at her oddly. “I guess. Wouldn’t that be kind of hard, as a witch?”

“Why would it be hard?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean…” Potter paused, appearing to choose his words carefully. “Well, you are a Muggleborn, aren’t you?”

Something about his tone set her on edge. “What’s your point?”

“I guess I figured I should actually ask,” he commented, wry. “But I’ve just always thought, you know-- magical people would have a hard time in a world where they don’t really… fit in.”

“Understand,” she corrected him, a bit defensive. “They could fit in fine. They just refuse to understand.”

Potter’s expression was instantly puzzled. “Who? The wizards, or the Muggles?”

Bit thick, wasn’t he? “Wizards?”

“Oh-- er, right. Yeah. Of course.”

The sudden lull in the conversation made her feel uneasy and she walked toward the worktable again, carefully folding the photo back into the letter. “So, yeah. No tutoring necessary.”

He was quiet for a moment, unmoving. Then, his voice traveled over the small space between them, standing straight beside her: “Well, if that’s how it is… then… before you go, could you at least tutor me?”

She glanced up from the folded paper in her hand to fit him with a quizzical expression. “What?”

Potter seemed just as surprised as she was. “I can… er, I suppose the thing is, I… I need help in Potions,” he admitted, eyes on the floor. “I don’t really have any friends who care about it, aside from Hermione, but--” He cut himself off with a frown. “Anyway, if I don’t get through this class, I’ll have to give up what I’ve been working for, and I don’t… I don’t really have the kind of options you do.”

It was odd, she thought, to be confronted with the idea that The Boy Who Lived had “plans”. It wasn’t something she’d considered. Nevermind the fact that she’d never really considered him at all before.

“Pott--” her eyes closed as she shook her head, mouth slanting. “Actually, can I call you Harry?”

His eyebrows rose as he shrugged. “Uh… sure.”

She turned to face him, one hand planted on the table. “You ever study chemistry, Harry?”

“No…?”

Go figure.

She pulled the textbook from under her arm, gently pressing it against his chest. “You’ll hear a lot of people say that Potions is like cooking, but cooking is all chemistry. If you understand the fundamentals, you’ll have an easier time.”

He grabbed hold of the book, reading aloud: “‘Chemistry and the Living Organism’? Also, uh, this is… really heavy.”

“I don’t know how long I’ll be around,” she told him, ignoring his complaints. “But if you’re really serious, read chapters one through six, and make notes on anything you don’t understand. I can help fill in the gaps.”

“Seriously?” His tone was cautious. “Just like that?”

“I’ve seen you in Potions, Harry. And believe it or not, I’m not exactly giddy listening to Snape rip you apart like that, much less play fast and loose with the safety of other students.”

“You’d be the first,” was his subdued remark. “So, ah… thanks.”

She shook her head. “For real, Harry,” she cautioned. “Next time, if you don’t know what to do, just leave. I know he doesn’t encourage it, but it’s better if you leave the classroom and spend your time being prepared for the next lesson. Snape gets angry because Potions can be dangerous. And when his hand is forced, he ends up doing stupid things, like daring Gryffindors to test their mettle while somehow pretending as if he has no idea that they’ll fall for it. I don’t want that to happen to Granger again.”

“Right.” He looked troubled.

“Right,” she echoed, stuffing the letter into her robe pocket. “When do you have a free period? I figure I should give you the weekend to study.”

“Before or after Charms,” Harry told her. “And any afternoon I don’t have Quidditch.”

“Since we have Charms together, I suppose after is the safest bet. How does that sound?”

“Okay,” he agreed readily enough.

“Okay,” she mirrored once more, exhaling.

The two of them stared at one another and then took turns gawking at the silence that occupied the room with them -- waiting, impatient. Harry seemed to only be able to endure the pressure of it for a minute more. There was an expectant politeness to him, his gaze fumbling with a cordiality that he was observing for what, she assumed, was make-up for his faux-pas a few weeks past.

It was only when he realized that she wasn’t going anywhere that he finally decided that it would be alright for him to go. His farewell rushed out of him, so brusque and quiet that she hadn’t caught it.

But the sentiment remained with her, awkward and lonely. Regretful. Or maybe just unsure.

She twisted her lips, staring at the gloomily slacked mouth of her bookbag. Hm.

That was all rather silly of her, wasn’t it? She was never going to get that textbook back.

Cleo scratched the side of her neck, frowning. Sorry dad.

She didn’t feel up to braving the troublesome energy that remained in the greenhouse she and the boy had occupied a day prior. Which was well enough, she supposed; it was a good time to be outside. The night had yielded a blustery rain, but the sky was presently clear, the sun warming her skin and drying dew from the grass.

Inconvenience aside, she found a nice spot on the path that led to that row of slumbering greenhouses. She hadn’t exactly decided if she was going to attend Herbology class that morning: That depended on factors. Like the letter clutched in her hand, and a handful of its rejected brothers and sisters lounging in an indecisive fairy ring about her feet. The latest attempt was the most promising. Or the least embarrassing.

Hey, Cal.

I’m an arsehole. I’m sorry. And… don’t deny it. It’s okay. I own it. I’ve been an arsehole. But, I’m going to do better, so there’s that.

It’s weird how two years have just sort of… happened? I know I contacted you after Gabriel was born, but the distance after that was inexcusable. (Again, really sorry.) Recovering in the hospital, waiting for Gabriel to get out of the NICU, then just… digging into motherhood was… distracting, to say in the least. But it’s not really an excuse, is it? So, here’s two years of catch up.

I ended up finishing my Muggle schooling. I got my GCSE. Mum and Dad are very proud. Gabriel’s opinion remains withheld (but I like to hope he’s proud of Mummy).

I’m actually okay at the whole mum thing? I really dig it. Admittedly, it helps a lot having my parents’ support. I would be pretty lost without them. But! Can I give myself some credit? I may not have the money thing going for me, but I’m good at the other stuff (I can change a diaper with my eyes closed and I’ve gotten really good at bedtime stories).

I’ve done that thing where after becoming a mother, all I do is talk about being a mum. Sorry.

Speaking of, Gabriel’s first word wasn’t “Mama” or anything of the like (much to my slight disappointment) but “bug.” He is now obsessed with them. It stresses me out. He is distressingly unafraid of spiders. I’m not certain how to feel and I’ll have you know it’s very difficult to smile encouragingly and say “yes, honey, that’s very cute,” when your two year old gleefully shoves an insect into your face.

Oh, and he’s very chatty. He’s just learned you can string words together to have a conversation. His longest is a five word sentence (“Gammie drink big red juice”) but he really favors shouting two words at at time. Bug fly. More juice. Blue car. Mum look.

I’m back at Hogwarts.

Yeah, not kidding. I’m kind of surprised myself. And lost. Too much has changed. Or maybe it just seems that way, I don’t know. I didn’t really understand how hard it would be until I got here and realized that all of you are gone? And it sucks? A lot? And everyone can tell something’s up with me. They’re not wrong, either. I’m nearing twenty and I look it and suddenly everyone under eighteen seems like a baby.

I’m complaining and it’s annoying. Sorry. More positively, I have a plan. Or, I’m trying to have a plan. It’s like me to make things unnecessarily difficult for myself, yeah? So it’s only appropriate that I choose the one professor in school who hasn’t taken on anyone to advise in like, a bloody century. You know how Snape is. And of course, I’m apparently so disorganized that he won’t considering advising me until I can produce a proper proposal for my -- I don’t really know what to call it in wizarding terms. Senior project? The thing I want to focus on so that when I graduate, I have some mode of specialization, and can work on getting an apprenticeship somewhere.

Ugh. I keep complaining. And rambling. Can you tell I don’t have many people to talk to? I miss you. I miss you a lot Cal and I wish we could go to Honeydukes and you could tell me about tuberculosis and shoveling dung (from what??) and “doing it for science” (can I borrow that book? I think Gabe would like it).

I hope we can see each other soon. Maybe you could come during one of the Hogsmeade visits? I’d really love it.

Please contact me soon, Cal. Let’s never do this whole “not talking forever” thing ever again (even though it’s my fault and God did I mention I was really sorry about that?).

So much love,

Cleo

By the time she finished the fifth or so read, she’d only just noticed a little body had plopped itself down beside her, head perched beside her arm.

“You’re not an arsehole,” Thea objected, frowning slightly.

Cleo’s head tilted in her direction as she folded the letter in on itself. “Don’t say that,” she admonished. “I don’t want to get an angry phone call from your Mums accusing me of teaching you bad language.”

Thea giggled. “As if I’d rat on you,” she countered, drawing her knees up to her chest. “Besides, I’ve heard worse.”

“That’s not much better,” Cleo murmured, tilting her head.

“Yeah well,” the girl scrunched up her nose. “S’not like you can order me ‘round, anyway?”

Cleo smirked. “No?”

“You’ve got that mumly thing going for you,” Thea admitted. “But I know you’re not that lame.”

Cleo glanced back down to the parchment in her hands. “Try me.”

“Pass.”

A smile crept on to Cleo features, before she caught another glimpse of the girl, suddenly nonplussed. “What time is it?” she asked, her head turning, absent-minded, to glance down at her wrist. A wrist, she belatedly realized, was bare. Grimacing, she smoothed the gesture over by turning in Thea’s direction, questioning: “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

She shrugged. “Snape let out early,” she explained. “Some idiot didn’t time the addition of their Horklump juice correctly to their Herbicide potion and the entire thing got all noxious.”

Cleo straightened, her mouth slinking down into a frown. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” Thea brushed off, her wiry curls bouncing as she nodded. “Snape got the whole class out before it spread. Gave the girl an earful about how he was going to have to fumigate the entire lab and how she nearly killed everyone.”

Well, that was an exaggeration. Certainly it’d make people sick for a while, but-- “I imagine she learned her lesson, then.”

Thea hummed, unenthused. “Yep.”

Cleo raised her hand, smoothing a few errant curlicues from the girl’s face. “Well, glad to hear you’re safe.”

“You sound like my mum,” Thea droned, rolling her eyes. Then, with a frown, she leaned away. “You don’t have to get touchy with me.”

Cleo’s fingers reflexively curled in on themselves and she drew her hand back. “You’re right,” she conceded. “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked first.”

“S’fine,” Thea replied, brow furrowing.

“Good on you,” Cleo praised. “Setting boundaries is healthy.”

Thea dodged the compliment in a way that felt familiar to Cleo, dismissing her with a soft: “Well, who’s the letter for, anyway?”

“My friend, Cal.”

“The one who contacted you a couple weeks ago?” Thea asked. “So it was nice?”

“It was very nice,” Cleo admitted, sheepish.

“So nothin’ worth being all skittish about.”

Cleo raised an eyebrow.

“You’re not hard to read,” the girl added, grinning. “No offense.”

Cleo waved a hand. “None taken.”

“Well, that’s nice. What’d he ask about?”

“Nosy, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” Thea wheedled, feigning innocence. “I’d say interested.”

“He just wanted to know what I’d been up to,” Cleo told her, crossing her legs. “Asking if we could meet up soon. So I told him one of the Hogsmeade weekends would do fine.”

“You must be excited,” Theo prompted, staring down at her own feet.

“I kind of am, yeah,” Cleo mused before gracing the girl with a smile. “What about you, though? How’re classes going?”

The young Slytherin shrugged. “Y’know, it’s alright. Astronomy is the only enjoyable thing, really. I’m not much for Charms and Transfiguration, Potions is fine, I suppose, and Defense is just… Defense.” She twisted her lips. “Herbology’s okay, too. Professor Sprout’s a nice lady. She’s been getting us to do Incendio to ward off more dangerous plants, but mine gets pretty wild.”

Cleo laughed softly.

“Glad it’s funny to you,” Thea sneered.

“No, nothing like that,” Cleo assured her. “Just... nostalgic. I remember having trouble with that, too.”

“You did?”

“What, you think I just burst forth into Hogwarts, naturally gifted? Hardly.”

Thea looked at her, intrigued. “How’d you… y’know, fix it?”

Cleo let out a soft, pensive hum. “Well, comes down to setting intentions, I think.”

“Huh?”

Cleo rolled her neck in the girl’s direction. “Something my mother taught me.”

“Thought your mum was a Muggle.”

“She is,” Cleo confirmed. “She’s just… different.”

“What’s it mean, though?” Thea asked, canting her head. “Setting intentions?”

“Well,” Cleo hemmed, leaning back against the grass. “It’s just… deciding something, and then using your will to manifest it.”

Thea’s brows drew together, confused. “That just sounds like magic.”

“Exactly.”

“You said this was something your mum taught you,” Thea reiterated, lost. “How does a Muggle do magic?”

Not effectively, Cleo felt herself thinking before she grimaced. Her mother would have her head for that. “In their own way.”

“So your mum--”

“My mum is religious,” she clarified. “Or, I guess, spiritual.”

“What religion is that?”

“Wicca,” Cleo supplied, breezy. “So my mother is a witch… in a Muggle way.”

“Never heard of anything like that,” Thea giggled. “Must’ve been funny when you found out you were… a witch witch.”

Funny wasn’t the word for it.

“Yes, well,” Cleo smoothed over, glancing to her knees. “Even though my mum does a different sort of magic, there were things she taught me that helped here, too.”

Thea looked skeptical, but she leaned toward the older girl, curiosity piqued. “Well… how do you mean?”

Cleo thought a moment before she bent forward and asked: “So, when you cast a spell… how do you do it?”

Thea blinked. “What d’you mean…? I just, uh -- I say the magic word, and it sorta happens.”

“Okay,” Cleo responded, nodding. “How does it feel?”

“I dunno,” Thea murmured, her head tossing skyward. “Sort of like… Warm, I guess? Flowy, too. Like I can feel my blood, or something, and it kind of rushes out.”

“Right,” Cleo remarked, clasping her hands together as she leaned her arms against her knees. “Do you see anything?”

“Like, what? When the spell goes off?”

“No, more like… In your head. Do you imagine anything happening?”

“Oh,” Thea uttered. “Not… really. I don’t really imagine much at all.”

Cleo glanced down, her fingers tensing on one another, before they separated and she reached into her robe pocket. She withdrew her wand with a small swirl, the point dipping toward the ground. The sound of her whispered Incendio was overtaken by a sudden whoosh as a burst of flame burgeoned from her wand and collected at her feet, coalescing into a flared sphere which glided gently down the rocky path before them. It gradually unraveled, blooming outward and spiraling in lazy, measured tendrils. As it moved, it left elegant, swooping scorch marks on the stones, before the flame petered out, dissolving into smoke.

“Whoa,” Thea gasped, her eyes glued to the path. “How’d you do that?”

“I thought of doing it,” Cleo answered.

Thea frowned, no more enlightened by that statement.

Another tact, then. “For me, it made things easier when I framed doing magic as something that wasn’t simply a result of instruction, but rather something I intended. I’d set my intention to something specific: Make fire. And I’d use my magic to make my intention manifest. The magic word wasn’t the instruction -- it was the conduit. And… it made it easier to control.”

Thea’s forehead wrinkled as she squinted, her lips twitching downward, doubtful. “I don’t think I can do that.”

“Bet you can,” Cleo challenged, smirking.

“What do you bet?” Thea shot back, eyebrow raising.

“Hm. How about… if you can’t make a small, controlled Incendio… I’ll buy you a month’s worth of candy from Honeyduke’s--”

“Can’t bribe me with sweets, I’m not a kid,” Thea drawled, unimpressed.

“--and, I’ll write your next four essays. Any class.”

“Well, that’s a bit more like it,” Thea considered, a bit more agreeable. “Alright. You’re on.”

The girl sat up, producing her own wand from her book bag. She placed herself in a stance before hesitating, tossing her gaze haphazardly in Cleo’s direction. “So… how do I… do it?”

“Alright, first,” Cleo instructed, leaning her chin into her hand, eyes glued to the girl’s posture. “I want you to visualize something. Might be better if you close your eyes.”

Thea acquiesced quickly, her eyes clamping shut as she kept her wand hand poised in the air.

“Can’t see anything, right?”

“No,” Thea giggled. “Just dark.”

“Well, I want you to imagine that darkness all around you, as if you’re trapped somewhere you’d rather not be. And in the pitch, you can see a small ball forming, gradual, no bigger than the size of your fist. A ball made of flame, glowing, warm, tearing through the dark. Can you see it?”

“Yeah,” Thea replied, leisurely. “Coming from my wand. Lighting up my hand.”

“Good. Now…”

Cleo leaned closer, hesitating as she went to grasp Thea’s hand. “Is it okay if I hold your wand arm?”

Thea’s curls bounced as she nodded, her eyes still shut tight.

Cleo grasped her wrist, steadying it in the air. “Still see the flame?”

“I do,” she remarked, her face set in concentration. “Just hovering there.”

“Okay, now… I want you to want it. I want you to dig deep inside yourself; I want you to feel your magic as you described -- warm, like a blood flow -- and I want you to wish you could make this happen, right now. When you feel it, just say the word, like it’s yours.”

For a while, the girl didn’t move, the silence seeming to encompass them both. In that moment, it was the two of them, drawn into the silence of their focus; the world was centered here. The girl’s breathing was slow and deep, and when Cleo felt the girl’s arms tense up, she glanced to the tip of Thea’s wand.

Cleo’s hand moved with the flick of Thea’s wrist as the girl uttered an acute but stern: “Incendio.”

A spark momentarily flickered into the air, quickly evaporating when she noticed Thea's brow wrinkled in what seemed like embarrassment, her entire form jolting back and bumping into Cleo’s. “Wait -- whoops, I didn’t do the wand movement right--”

“That’s okay,” Cleo promised her. “It doesn’t matter. Just do what feels natural.”

“But Professor Sprout said that you have to make sure your swipe is sharp, otherwise--”

“Otherwise what?” Cleo laughed. “It’ll turn into water?”

“Well, no. It just won’t--”

“Focus,” Cleo chastised her, tapping the side of her forearm. “And trust me a little, please.”

“Fine,” Thea agreed, albeit a bit petulantly, though her eyes remained wired shut. “But I’m doing the wand movement correctly this time.”

“Whatever you like,” Cleo grumbled, correcting the girl’s posture. “Get back to where you were before, with the fire. Don’t rush yourself.”

It took another few protracted moments before she felt a similar tensing in the girl’s limbs. She followed the movement of her arm as the girl sliced the air, her voice ringing out with confidence: “Incendio!”

“Open your eyes,” Cleo whispered, lips splitting into a smile.

Her eyelids fluttered open and Cleo’s hand slid to Thea's elbow to brace her as the girl's entire body dipped with the sudden thrum of shock. There, at the tip of her wand: A small cluster of fire hovered, steady and obedient, small fingers of flame lapping outward as it pulsed with energy.

It fizzled and faded slightly as Thea took in a sharp breath, losing concentration. “No way.”

Cleo drew her hand away, allowing the girl to hold her own weight. “Way.”

“I did it,” Thea breathed, astonished.

“You did it.”

“I did it?” Thea turned her head, the small twitch of her mouth betraying the beginnings of a grin.

“All by yourself,” Cleo emphasized, holding her hands up.

“This is so…” Thea’s voice faded as she went to stare at the ball of flame again, mesmerized. “But how do I…?”

“Just think of anything,” Cleo told her, feeling a strange warmth shimmer through her own limbs, “and try to make it happen.”

The girl’s eyes darted to the floor and, within a second, her wand tip pointed down, the ball plummeting with it. It landed with a spectacular thump before fizzling out, the smoke of it curling up around Thea’s legs.

“Whoops.”

Cleo chuckled softly. “What’d you try to do?”

“Make it bounce,” the girl explained, disheartened.

“It takes a bit of practice,” Cleo promised. “You did better than me on my first run, anyway. I was barely able to keep a Lumos lit for a minute. You’ll get there, the more you try.”

“Right,” Thea responded, her voice distant, stare still trained on the tip of her wand. “That was… I really didn’t think I could do that.”

Cleo leaned against her hand, smirking. “Sorry about the homework. And the sweets.”

Thea’s response was a laugh that cut itself short, focus clearly lingering on the memory of what she'd accomplished. Cleo observed as the girl’s shoulders drooped in hesitation, before Thea turned to look at her. “Cleo?”

“Yeah?”

“Could we…” Thea paused and a sense of wonder seeped into the girl’s eyes, her fingers tightening on the hilt of her wand. She smiled this time, more earnest. “Could you show me how to do it again?”

Dumbledore’s office was quiet and cozy, full of plush chairs and odd little contraptions. Still, every time she arrived, Cleo was struck by a pervasive discomfort, a sense that even though she was expected, she wasn’t exactly welcome.

Who was she kidding, though? Hyperbole, she reminded herself.

They went through the same routine. His courteous greeting. Her sheepish reply. His prompting. Her occupying the space she had only a few times before: A chair and desk he conjured for just this purpose, cordoned off into the corner of his office space, where a solitary mirror sat, patient.

He would pass his hand over the glassy surface in the same practiced way and then stroll to where his desk stood, to whatever work he distracted himself with to give Cleo the illusion of privacy she wished she could actually have.

She waited as the glass turned opaque, as if frost glided across the surface, before each blurry streak faded and cleared, piecemeal. And in the clear glass, she beheld two brilliant blue eyes, hovering just above a damp nose and lopsided grin.

He looked offset by the angle of the glass as he, no doubt, held it as close to his face as possible.

But soon, that voice -- that beautiful, lilting, saccharine soprano -- filled the space around her, making her shoulders roll up on an instinct so primordial and bone deep she felt herself ache. “Mama, mama, mama, mama, mama--”

He was singing it, grinning into the glass as if it were a toy.

A wave of emotion crashed over her, forcing her to lurch forward, hands reaching for something that wasn’t there. “Hey, Bedbug,” the words oozed from her, breathless, so infused with emotion that it sounded like a whimper. “Hi. Can you hear me? Can you hear me sweetheart?”

“Hi, Mama.”

Her fingers gripped air. “Hi, Gabriel.”

The image shifted: All at once, he was pulled away from the mirror as it lifted and adjusted itself, settling moments later on a bigger picture. Her mother and father huddled into the frame, Gabriel now seated on his lap as her mum waved his hand for him.

It took everything in her not to burst into tears.

“Happy birthday!” they shouted together, grinning.

“What?” Cleo asked, swallowing back another hard crash of emotion. “That’s not for another few days, yet--”

“We know,” her father answered. “But we didn’t know if we’d be talking to you then, so might as well now, eh? We’re getting help with the owl to send you a present on the proper day.”

“You don’t have to, really--”

“Oh don’t you even start, Clytemnestra!” her mother bleated, frowning. “You’re not too old for birthdays yet, you know. Besides, Bedbug made something nice for you. Didn’t he?”

She glanced down at the boy as he was busy playing with his own fingers. His acknowledgement was a soft hum, followed by a giggle as he looked up again, this time leaning forward to grab the mirror again.

“Something nice he made at nursery school,” she added, intercepting his hand and giving his knuckles a few quick kisses. Gabriel squealed with delight.

“How is that going?” Cleo asked, leaning toward the mirror in earnest.

“Good, really good,” her father fielded. “The nursery aides still think he’s a charmer, though we had a story last week of him bringing worms into the classroom after lunch--”

Gabriel ducked into his own hands as if he were hiding, but his grin showed just under his fingers.

“-- but otherwise he’s a very good boy. Learning a lot, aren’t you? Making good friends. Before you know it, he’ll be starting Primary school and then before you know that, it’s uni--”

On impulse, Cleo’s eyes shut as she shook her head. She could hear her mother crooning, “Oh no, not yet. You’re just gonna stay a little monster forever, aren’t you? Forever and ever and ever and--”

Gabriel squealed loudly as her mother bent down, digging and tickling her fingers into his sides.

What she wouldn’t give to be doing the same. Her eyes opened against their better judgment and she watched with a bittersweet joy as Gabriel leaned back against his grandfather’s chest, cheeks red and with a smile so big it folded his face.

“But he’s doing okay?” she asked, her hand gripping the edge of the mirror.

“He gets fussy sometimes, especially at night. But otherwise he’s doing alright. He misses you awfully.”

“I miss you too, Bedbug.”

“Hi, Mama,” the two year old repeated with a bashful wave. “Where?”

“I’m at school, honey. Remember? Do you remember the name I told you?”

“Hogwash,” the boy pronounced, seeming proud of himself. “Hoggywash.”

“Hogwarts,” Cleo’s mother corrected him. But he’d already started on a tirade of repeating the word, again and again, clearly pleased with how fun it felt to say.

She heard a soft chuckle behind her and her head snapped into the direction of its source; Dumbledore was leaning against one of the columns nearby, having completely given up on the decorum he seemed determined to keep previously. She looked back to the mirror.

“What else has been going on?” Cleo pressed, forcing her hands into her lap.

“Oh,” her father uttered, as if he’d just remembered. “Well, Gabriel’s pediatrician has been calling.”

Her brow furrowed, tense. “Wait, why--”

“Oh, oh no!” he cut in, the deep bellow of his laugh rumbling from within the confines of the frame. “Nothing serious. It’s just about his immunization. He’s overdue.”

“Yes, and we told them we wanted to defer to Gabie’s mum before moving forward,” her mother put in, combing her fingers through Gabriel's hair.

“Right,” Cleo murmured, frowning. “I’m not sure with… after what happened last time--”

“Gammie says,” Gabriel piped up, staring at Cleo intently. “Gammie says.”

“What does Gammie say, sweetpea?” Cleo asked with a tender smile.

“Gammie say, Gammie… Gamme got--” he repeated, struggling with the syntax. It wasn’t surprising -- he liked to be in on conversations, even if the structures of his sentences often melded into one another, or disintegrated into babbling nonsense. It was always fun, though, to talk about nothing for hours.

She felt elated. It was embarrassing with an audience. “Did Gammie get something?”

“Shots,” he said at once.

“Oh!” her mother laughed, waving a hand in front of her face. “I tried explaining to him what shots are and, well--”

“Gammie says shots,” he repeated, his eyes glancing down into his hands again, as he picked at something she couldn’t see. Her father reached down to pull them away from each other, and in a moment the little boy was enthralled with the coarse outline of his grandfather’s hand, outstretching his palm and fingers against the older man’s, where he still fit.

“Look,” he said, glancing to his mum in earnest.

“I see it,” Cleo replied in a small voice, feeling her fingers twitch.

“Can I get shots?” the boy asked.

“Maybe, I think Mama has to talk to some people first,” she explained. “Last time you and I were at the doctors, something went bad. So Mama is going to make sure that can’t happen again.”

“Bad?” the little one questioned, seeming alarmed. “Like sick?”

“Yeah, Bedbug. Like sick.”

“Oh,” Gabriel murmured, though she wasn’t sure he understood. It was hard to know.

“I’ll call Dr. Ulrich,” her mother cut in, “and let him know we’re going to look at other options--”

“Don’t put it like that,” Cleo interjected, a little frantic. “That makes it sound like I’m refusing, or something…”

“What shall I say, then?” her mother asked, sounding put out.

“That I need to make some inquiries with his other doctors involving health concerns before I make the appointment.”

“Alright then,” her mother agreed readily enough, but she could sense the tension wound in the woman’s frame. “Still, I don’t see the harm in alternative options.”

Cleo stared at her mother, incredulous. “A lot? What if he needs his vaccines? It’s tantamount to child abuse if I just outright refuse--”

“It’s not child abuse, don’t be dramatic,” her mother objected, glowering.

As always, her father attempted to diffuse the situation, breezing in with a jovial: “Enough about us. What about you, Cleo? How’s school going?”

Cleo was just about done with that topic as well. “I’d rather not talk about that, if it’s--”

Her mother snorted, derisive. Immediately, and in a manner that only could be described as practiced, her father turned toward her. “Go take a walk, Holly.”

At once, she rose from her place on the floor and strolled out of frame. Gabriel’s eyes were locked on her, even long after she’d exited the space.

Cleo rubbed the side of her face, exhausted. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” her father dismissed her.

“I didn’t mean to set her off.”

“She’s sensitive today,” he elucidated. “I think she believes you’re being critical of her parenting.”

“How in the world--”

“Well, you didn’t get vaccinated.”

Cleo swiped her hand over her face. “How am I supposed to know that?”

“You’re not,” he told her, his voice turning stern for the first time. “You know that’s not how this works.”

He was right. It didn’t make things less frustrating. But in a way, she suddenly felt like she should be critical. “Why didn’t I get vaccinated?”

“Does it matter?”

“Kind of, yeah,” she shot back, frowning.

“It’s not a decision I would’ve made,” he admitted. “But your mother was very convinced on the matter. Had a feeling about it. You know I can’t budge her when she’s got instinct about something. And, well. She wasn’t exactly wrong with you, was she?”

Maybe not, but…

“He might not be the same as me,” Cleo argued, her gaze darting to her son.

“How likely do you think that is?”

It wasn’t likely at all, but it didn’t stop her from hoping. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I don’t know either,” her father said with a laugh. “This is all rather new for me. But, hey. Why don’t I ask some other witches when your mother and I go to group this weekend?”

It was smart. And his unrelenting means of being so… bloody reasonable made it hard to be annoyed. Her shoulders dropped and she glanced toward the ceiling, catching a glimpse of the brass contraption above -- some garish decor Dumbledore must have found charming, she assumed -- swirling and turning in on itself of its own volition. “That’s probably a good idea.”

“I’m best at those!” he exclaimed. “Aren’t I, Bedbug?”

When she glanced down, her son and her father were staring up at one another, grinning from ear to ear.

“You and mum are still going to group?” It felt like a good idea to change the subject.

“Every week,” he said, looking up at her again. “Your mother enjoys it a lot. Has it in her head now that she’s possibly a--” He stopped mid-sentence, his lips puckering as if trying to grasp at a memory that was fading from him. “Well, I don’t remember what they called it. A non-magical person born to magical parents? And I can’t really argue with her, can I? Everything’s possible at this point.”

“Mm,” Cleo hummed, noncommittal, before sighing. “Well, I’m glad it’s going well.”

“Last weekend there was some awful news about a family in the Cardiff chapter. Poor girl that went missing. We were asked to keep our eyes out, but, y’know.”

Considering how much her father watched those bloody cop shows, she knew exactly what he was insinuating. But she didn't want to think about that. Too grim. “That’s sad.”

“Sure is,” he agreed. “But, enough about that. You really don’t want to talk about school?”

“I don’t, Dad,” she insisted.

“That bad, huh?”

Cleo leaned her head against her shoulder. “Coming back has been difficult, is all. I’ll deal with it.”

“Well, I think I may have some good news for you. If you wait a sec--”

He rose from his seat, gingerly placing Gabriel on the floor. “Stay and talk with your Mama, okay? Papa will be right back.”

The scene appeared a bit clearer now, with less bodies to take up the space. Gabriel was still seated in the middle of the floor, of course, but other items began manifesting around him, like the shag carpet that cradled his legs, a few canvas stands, a potted plant, some sconces for incense--

Cleo looked at her son. “Are you in Gammie’s room?”

“Uh huh,” the boy replied, glancing behind him.

She squinted, suspicious. “Is the mirror on Gammie’s altar?”

“Uh huh.”

Figures.

“She got it all decorated for Samhain?”

Gabriel’s entire body lurched into a nod.

“Any pumpkins?”

“Yeah,” he said, a smile creeping onto his features again. Cleo’s heart swelled.

“Did you pick them out with Gammie?”

“Uh huh.”

She felt the urge for her expression to sour. She wished she could’ve gone. But it was ridiculous, wasn’t it, to get jealous? Over something so silly?

“No lit candles right now though, right?”

“Nope.”

It felt weird, talking with him, almost as if he were there in the room with her, but with enough distance that she felt the sting of being unable to hold him. It hurt. It was stupid, how much it bloody hurt. “You know why, right?”

“Fire’s bad,” he recited, leaning forward again, almost as if he wanted to touch the mirror once more.

“That’s right,” she affirmed. “I don’t want you playing around Gammie’s altar, not without her watching.”

Suddenly, a voice blossomed from the right of the frame. “Who’s playing with my altar?”

Gabriel broke into a fit of giggles. Seconds later, Cleo could see her mother’s legs waltzing into the picture once more, as she picked up the boy by his armpits and settled herself on the ground, placing him in her lap.

Cleo tilted her head. “You put the mirror on your altar?”

“Oh, Clytemnestra, don’t,” she begged. “Trust me. It harmonizes the space. I wish I could show you. It has such a positive energy to it. When you come home, you’ll see.”

“Okay,” Cleo conceded, shoulders rolling back.

“I won’t scry with it or anything,” Holly promised, playing with Gabriel’s hands. “I’ve another mirror for that.”

“I believe you.”

She grinned at Cleo. “I know you don’t mean to be so fussy. Samhain was always a very dark time for you. It makes sense, considering. Scorpios are incredibly intuitive like that. You feel the coming of Midwinter long before any of us.”

Her mood had nothing to do with that, but there wasn’t any use arguing such a thing with her mother.

Holly grasped something from the top of the frame, pulling it into sight. “Got my red candle all ready, just for you. I’ll set my intentions for peace and clarity.”

“Thanks, Mum.”

“Of course, darling,” she murmured, leaning upward to set the candle back into its proper place. “Where’d your father go?”

“I don’t know,” Cleo admitted. “He went to get something.”

Holly leaned back, glancing toward the door Cleo knew was off frame. Probably slightly ajar, too, allowing their family portraits to peek in, curious. “Greg!” she called. “Greg, what are you doing?”

There was a muffled shout that Cleo couldn’t make out, but when her mother leaned back toward her, she said: “He says he’ll be back in a second.”

Cleo nodded. “Just -- I kind of don’t know how long I have to talk to you guys. I have Potions in, like, twenty minutes--”

Holly laughed. “So casual. ‘I have Potions’ -- Goddess above me, Clytemnestra, I’ll never get used to that--”

“Got it!”

Greg reentered the picture, hands behind his back as he resumed his spot on the ground.

“I was just telling Mum about how I don’t really have a lot of time to talk to you guys,” Cleo reiterated. “So maybe just--”

“I’ll be quick,” Greg promised. “I was hoping this could be a bit more of a reveal but--” In a second, he pulled his hands from behind him, waving an envelope in front of the mirror.

“What’s--?”

“Oh, come now. Have a guess. Who’s going to be sending you post at this time of the year?”

Cleo’s expression bunched up. “Wait, it’s not--”

“Oh yes it is,” Greg cut in, grinning. “Aberdeen.”

Her stomach clenched. She wanted to sick up.

“Oh God,” she sighed, glancing down.

“Oh God?” Greg questioned, a chuckle riding the back of his voice. “What’s that about? Oh God?”

“Well I don’t know what it says, do I?” Cleo shot back, sounding dreadful.

“You’re assuming it’s bad!” Greg accused, somehow managing to keep the levity in his tone. “Come now, Cleo. Honey. Breathe a second, won’t you? I said it was good news, didn’t I?”

That about winded her just as bad as the dismay, but somewhere in the thick of her anxiety, she found the ability to speak. “I got in?”

“Of course you got in!” her father announced as if this were a forgone conclusion. Her mother cheered, clapping Gabriel’s hands together, as the boy squealed in the excitement, happy to be included.

“I… got in,” Cleo repeated, staring, bewildered, into her family’s elated faces. “For real?”

“For real,” Greg promised. “Congratulations, sweetie.”

She should’ve screamed, leapt in excitement. Been happy. Anything. But for one reason or another, all she could feel was… She didn’t know. But it lied somewhere in between trepidation and pressure; it built, steadily, in the pit of her stomach, climbing higher until she felt almost as if she’d pass out.

“Aren’t you excited?” Holly prompted her.

“Of course I am,” Cleo lied, forcing a smile. “It’s just-- hard to believe.”

“Well, believe it, kiddo. You did it. I’m really proud of you,” Greg added, his smile a small crease in his face.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Step one completed, yeah?” he said and her heart jumped into her throat. He waved the envelope again. “I’ll keep this safe for you.”

Step one… God. She was such a fucking failure.

Cleo didn’t realize how long she’d been staring in silence until she heard Holly calling for her: “Hello? Earth to Clytemnestra? You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry. Just thinking about something.” Cleo shook her head.

Holly looked at Greg, sectarian. “She’s got her head up all in Potions class.”

“As she very well should,” Greg approved. “Always loved that about you, babygirl. Diligent. Should we let you go?”

“You might have to,” Cleo replied, reluctant. Her eyes dropped to her son. “Bedbug?”

However, Gabriel was caught up in playing with his grandmother’s autumn-themed shawls, draping them over the front of his face.

She smiled. “Gabriel?”

Holly pulled the sheer bit of cloth from him, bringing his attention back to the mirror.

“Mama has to go,” Cleo broke the news to him, tender.

His eyes narrowed, confused.

“I have class very soon. But Mama will call you back when she’s able, alright?”

These words, above all else, seemed to not only cause confusion, but distress. “Mama?” he called for her, his entire body bent toward the mirror. She felt that primeval instinct shoot up her spine; her hands held each other tightly in her lap.

“Sweetie?”

“Mama go?”

“Yes, honey. Only for a little while though.”

His expression crumbled. “Coming home?”

“Not yet baby.” Letting him down. Again. Her heart pummeled her ribcage. “I’m sorry. Soon. I promise.”

She could see it, the pools forming just under his eyes. His cheeks were puffy and his lip jutted out, just barely holding back a grief he couldn’t quite understand. “Why?”

Was there a reason? Staring at him like this, it didn’t feel as if there were any good ones. “Because I just have to be here right now, Bedbug.”

Such a lame excuse. Because I said so.

Gabriel looked between his grandparents, searching for clarity. His breathing grew staccato and, before anyone knew it, the tears started coming, accompanied by the sound of Holly’s cooing as she picked him up and began to pace the room with him.

“Don’t worry about that,” Greg assured her, picking up on her distress. “He’ll be right as rain in a little while. They don’t call it the Terrible Twos for nothing.”

“But--”

“But nothing,” Greg shot through that line of thought, a little more stern than she was used to. “You have to be there. Don’t worry about the homefront. Your mother and I have this.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” she whispered.

“Stop that,” he ordered. “Just keep your head at school. Just two short years, and it’s smooth sailing.”

Smooth sailing. How did he have such perfect faith? He had no idea.

The guilt of that had her trying to confess. “Dad, about that actually, I need to talk about--”

“Later,” he interrupted her, glancing behind him, the sound of Gabriel’s tantrum mounting. “Promise. Go to class, babygirl. We love you and believe in you.”

“I--” She stopped, observing the assuredness of his expression. The stalwart confidence. She suddenly felt afraid.

A pair of legs arrived beside her and she glanced down into her lap. “I love you too.”

The sound of Gabriel’s screams faded gradually, seeming to stretch outward into her periphery, until overtaken by the natural ambiance of the Headmaster’s office. The man in question righted himself, after having swiped his hand over the mirror. When she looked up, her reflection faced her squarely. The sight of it made her feel such shame and revulsion that she turned away, sucking in a breath.

“Miss Croft?”

A heaviness bore down on her chest, constricting it. It made it difficult to breathe, much less speak. When she could, she couldn’t manage anything more than a pathetic mewl: “I need a second.”

“As you wish.” The man receded, moving to stand by the fire.

The ‘second’ wasn’t much help. She could likely sit there for an eternity, struggling against the inevitable. Either way, only seconds after the Headmaster had settled himself in front of his mantel, a sob strained her throat, her hand only barely able to catch it as she pressed it hard against her mouth.

She could still hear it, even long after it had gone… The sound of Gabriel’s cries were tattooed within her memory -- from the very first moment she held him, to the present where she cradled her arms against her chest, so cold and empty.

A pink handkerchief appeared in front of her, floating of its own accord, within arm’s reach. The Headmaster hadn’t moved from his spot, but the offering was clearly from him.

It took her a moment to snatch it from the air, but the gesture was enough to instill her with humility. “Sorry,” she whimpered, dabbing the kerchief under her eyes.

“Nothing at all to be sorry for, my dear,” the old man assured her, voice gentle. “I am… I feel certain you must miss them very much.”

“And here I thought I was being subtle,” she joked in some pathetic attempt to stave off the humiliation.

“It is nothing to be ashamed of,” Dumbledore commented, turning in her direction. “Your ability to cherish family is, in many ways, admirable.”

He said that as if it was something unexpected of her. Or, whatever. Maybe she was just misunderstanding… “I appreciate it,” she said, sniffing hard as she wiped more tears from her eyes.

Dumbledore was momentarily quiet. “Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Croft?”

“No,” she answered quickly, forcing herself to stand. “I’m sorry. I should…” Her sentence died as she began to collect her things.

He seemed surprised, his eyebrows climbing upward as he commented, “There is no need to rush yourself--”

“If I don’t get out of your hair right now, I’ll likely never make it to Potions,” she rationalized, halfway across the space, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “And I don’t know how that will help anyone.”

She didn’t search for his expression, nor did he say a word as she left, which was just as well. His kindly demeanor felt no more authentic than the distant image of her family had been.

Hyperbole or not.

In the end, it wasn’t her grief that stopped her from attending Potions... Just the entirety of Slytherin House.

Or, enough congregated to look about that size. She wasn’t the only person obstructed in the proceedings, either. A sizable amount of students, those who were attempting to pass through the Entrance Hall from both the stairs and from the Grounds, were halted by a cavalcade of bodies stood together in defiance, backs turned inward, arms locked together in a chain. Even more bodies stood in between the large circle, giving it strength. Making it tangible. Impossible to pass.

And one body in particular, outside the circle, was making rounds.

“... and do you think, for one moment, that man would make such exemptions for us? Would he descend from his ivory tower for our sake?”

A loud shout came from the crowd, in sync: “No!”

From beside her, a disgruntled Ravenclaw bellowed: “Get off it, Urquhart! Let us through!”

A familiar voice approached her from behind. “What’s going on?” She turned minutely, catching a glimpse of red and gold, round glasses, and messy hair.

She couldn’t be certain. It wasn’t like she often found herself in the thick of Slytherin’s sour disposition, only aware of the rift it created in its wake. She was barely acquainted with the crowd’s leader, Rhys Urquhart, who was at the heart of one faction of her House’s discontent... But the unsettling familiarity of the scene had her speaking, automatic:

“A protest.”

Harry leaned forward, eyes darting around the gathered crowd. “Of what?”

“I don’t know.”

A Hufflepuff girl at the bottom of the stairs, in clear distress, was on the tips of her toes, staring over the group of bodies to the doors that laid beyond. “Come on! I have a test in Herbology!”

“Not until we get what we came for!” Rhys’s commanding voice wafting over the crowd, deep and resonating and full of conviction. “What we deserve!”

“Equal treatment!” a couple of girls in the circle screamed.

“An end to discrimination!” a few boys added.

In the middle, the loudest voice, a young woman belted: “Justice for Montague!”

This riled the entire block of students up, who began to chant this phrase in earnest: “Justice for Montague!”

Over the din, Harry saw fit to ask, “Are these all Slytherins?”

“Who else would they be?” Some Gryffindor she didn’t recognize answered him, just over her shoulder. Cleo drew herself inward, nervous.

Rhys had made his way toward the stairs, the chanting carrying him in confidence. “Dumbledore must answer for the mistreatment of Graham Montague!” he pointed his accusation upward, arm raised and balled in a fist. “He must answer. He will not rest until we get recourse! We will break down this castle, brick and mortar, until he is forced down and he gives us--!”

The crowd filled in the word for him, climbing high over his shoulders, standing loud and proud before the people that filled the stairs: “Justice!”

“Who gives a shrivelfig about bloody Montague?” a voice yelled from the entrance to the grounds, derisive. “Get out of the bleeding way!”

“Who cares about Montague?” Rhys challenged, turning his back to the stairs to face the person who spoke. “You can see who cares about Montague! Who cares about Montague… Why don’t you tell that to his parents? His friends? His fiancée ? You ask them who cares for Montague!”

Harry sounded off an exasperated sigh, raising his voice for the first time. “What’s wrong with him? Y’know, aside from his horrid personality,” he demanded, arms crossed.

Urquhart turned back toward the stairs, seemingly amused not so much by what was said but rather who said it. Effortlessly, his voice climbed upward, even though he spoke in a lower register than his previous proclamations. “You ask your friend Weasley what happened to Montague, Potter,” he mocked, head canted, “that is, if you can force yourself to care for those you deem undesirable.”

The Gryffindor’s eyebrows drew downward, but he did not muster his faculties quickly enough to respond before Rhys turned back toward the crowd.

“Undesirable,” he repeated, his voice blooming from the epicenter of the crowd as they parted, fluid, to allow him to stand in their midst, towering above the deluge of bodies, commanding everyone’s attention. “Because that’s what we are, aren’t we? To Potter and his lot? To Dumbledore and his?”

A steady beat of voices rang out in agreement, sharp eyes keened in a dangerous glare to the boy just over her shoulder. Harry’s arms dropped to his sides, fists clenching.

“Slytherins -- scheming, conniving, ruthless -- minds ready and willing to be plucked by the Dark Lord?” Rhys recited, his head turning to look at every person that gathered around them. “Nevermind those among us who they, themselves, are born of Muggle heritage. Nevermind those of us who would eagerly accept and stand by them, who would protect and defend them! We are nothing but Death Eaters in wait, are we not?!

“That’s what calls for the interrogations,” he accused, incensed. “The conditional re-acceptance into this institution! The stricter curfews! Fewer allowances for Quidditch, for trips to Hogsmeade! The unrelenting, unmitigated bias -- the utter lack of clemency that would otherwise be allowed to students of acceptableHouses--”

She would never know or understand how, during all this, Rhys’s eyes managed to hone in on her exact position. Perhaps on a grand sweep to stick his point to Harry, he had miscalculated and found her in their midst. All she knew was that in the next moment, the crowd parted again and Rhys was making his way to her, pushing past the dissenting bodies as if they were nothing and grasping her wrist with such force it made her gasp aloud.

Seconds later she was careening down the stairs, dragged right behind him, until she was walked to the middle of the Slytherin crowd, her arm held aloft and high in the air as he yelled: “Would Harry Potter have been treated the same as Cleo Croft?” he asked, and she heard the voices around her rumbling, uneven, but all in agreement: “No!”

“Would Harry Potter have lost Gryffindor all their points for a single act of defiance?”

Louder this time, more in sync: “No!”

“Or would he have been rewarded, not for his actions, but for the sake of Dumbledore’s favoritism?”

That felt familiar. She disliked how easily she was tokenized, but she could remember the rage she, too, felt in her third year when Slytherin’s win of the House Cup was stolen away from them and given to Gryffindor, and so arbitrarily. Last minute points for “bravery”, the prevailing trait of the whole of their House. As if that trait was inherently worth more than all the others.

The incident had lost its sting as the years went on, as other things took precedent, but…

She almost felt swept up in it, somehow. She glanced up toward Harry.

“Would Cleo Croft have been regarded as a hero for conquering the Chamber of Secrets, or would she have been framed as its master? Would Cleo Croft have been allowed to reign as Hogwarts’s second Tri-Wizard champion, or would Dumbledore have made an example of her-- sowing fear in the heart of any Slytherin who dared oppose him? Would Cleo Croft have been allowed to create a secret group in direct opposition to Ministry officials or would she have been left to the wolves for being a Slytherin who dared to congregate?!”

Her eyes caught on Harry in the crowd: his jaw set, brow furrowed, hands wound tight around the strap of his bag. What was he thinking? Was he angry to hear all this, or merely upset to be attacked? She didn’t know him well enough to tell, but the fact that he didn’t have a retort was telling.

“Would Cleo Croft be rewarded for such flagrant disregard for the rules, or would she be punished, for nothing more than the circumstances of her sorting, as much as you believe those of us would punish her for the circumstances of her birth?”

A girl beside her grasped her free hand, squeezing tight. When Cleo looked down, she recognized her within an instant: Jodie, smiling encouragingly, her stature just barely allowing her to not be encapsulated in the waves of older students that surrounded her. Her voice rose up above her first: “Justice for Slytherin!” Jodie’s head turned to the crowd that stood in defiance of them and she shouted again: “Justice for Slytherin!”

It wasn’t long before other voices joined in, chanting the same refrain: “Justice for Slytherin!”

A sudden, reverberating cracksounded nearby, followed by another, and another. Everyone’s heads swiveled toward the noise to find Draco Malfoy, sauntering forward with his hands in front of him. Lazily, he clapped his hands together, the sound amplified by magic and echoing off the stone walls of the Entrance Hall.

The first word out of his mouth was dripping with scorn. “Riveting. Truly.”

The first response was from an older looking student at the front of the circle, sniping him with a withering: “Bugger off, Malfoy.”

“You know, I would, except, more’s the pity--” He gestured theatrically to their grouping. “-- it looks like you’re in my way.”

“Join the club, then,” the student shot back, unsympathetic.

His chuckle was scornful to its core. “As if I could ever stoop low enough to associate with your pitiful little band of zealots.”

“As if we’d actually want anything to do with you,” he shot back. “You know what I meant, Malfoy.”

“It’s sad, really,” the blonde continued, as if he hadn’t heard a word. “The amount of effort you’ve put in for --” He paused, imperious gaze darting toward the middle of the crowd. “-- Well, can’t be certain. What, exactly, have you accomplished, Urquhart?”

If Rhys seemed bothered by this jab, he didn’t look it. The boy had the practiced composure of a politician and, with a soft smile, he humored Malfoy with a patient: “A just cause proves itself, Malfoy.”

He smirked. “Ah, just as I thought. All platitudes and no substance.”

Rhys glanced to Cleo as if prompting whether she had any input or interest in this conversation, a soft laugh escaping him. “I don’t find it necessary to explain myself to a boy whose father currently resides in Azkaban.”

A few laughs rang from the students surrounding her, punctuated by the low thrum of voices that rang from the crowd just behind Malfoy, discordant.

Malfoy’s casual demeanor hardened, though his tone remained airy and trenchant. “Oh, good one. Very original. If you can handle a Quaffle even half as well as you insult, Slytherin might stand a chance this year.”

“I’d say that our chances have vastly improved after your removal, actually,” Rhys shot back, casual, turning to face Malfoy fully.

“Rather sharp talk coming from someone of such little import,” Malfoy drawled, hands pushing into his pockets.

“Perhaps not in your circles, Malfoy,” Rhys remarked. “And for that, I count myself grateful.”

The smile Malfoy decided to carry right then was conceited. “My circles,” he echoed, eyebrow raising. “I see, like my father, yes? Well, since you seem to be so fond of the subject of fathers, let’s talk about yours.”

Rhys excused himself from the circle, traversing the gap to Malfoy in what felt like only a few steps. “Listen, I understand how hard it is to feel this lonely,” he mocked, offering Malfoy a magnanimous pat on the shoulder that the boy shook off with disgust, “but I’m not going to play your little game with you. It’s beneath me. It’s beneath anyone, really.”

As the blonde slanted his glare in his opponent’s direction, he lifted his chin in some vain attempt to match Urquhart’s impressive height. “That’s rich--”

“Don’t make me explain again,” Urquhart cut in placidly. “Run along, Malfoy.”

There was a moment where Malfoy seemed frozen, cornered. A tension in his stance, an unease to his expression, a focused intent to his gaze, all infused with expectant potency. Wound tight. Bracing. Then, in a truly surreal fashion, when it seemed as if the boy could be no more taut, the whole of him snapped.

A flash of blue light crashed with a sizzling boomagainst Rhys’s hastily constructed shield. The second wands were drawn, the crowd recoiled, scattering from the epicenter of the clash. Cleo herself could only watch on in shock as students rushed past, some merely seeking a safer vantage point, while others fled the scene in search of teachers.

Hardly any of the protesting group broke ranks, though from the midst of them came a horrific scream, a small brunette squeezing past the crowd as her hand was held out in Rhys’s direction. “Rhys! Darling! You can’t--!”

Rhys, composed as ever, held up his free hand to halt her before he returned his gaze to Malfoy. “This isn’t going to get you anywhere, Malfoy,” he informed the boy, sounding oddly amused, considering the circumstances. “If you’re itching for a fight, I’m just not the proper candidate.”

Cleo could see the slight tilt to Malfoy’s head, the strange energy from earlier having dissipated. In its stead, Malfoy stood before Rhys, wand still held aloft, looking almost… resigned. His tone, however, didn’t match his demeanor. “Maybe so,” he mused, head dipping down to watch as his other hand wriggled something free from his pocket. Cleo couldn’t make it out, other than to distinguish its more obvious features -- small, shiny, round…

Whatever it was, he rubbed his thumb over the surface of it, before addressing Rhys again: “But I’d wager in about--” he flipped the device open, glancing down at it once more, “five or so minutes, your little assembly will be broken up.” The boy looked up again, an exaggerated frown pitching the corners of his lips down, taunting. “What a pity.”

It was unsettling, the shift in Rhys’s countenance: An unnatural, hideous metamorphosis that made the large boy appear truly monstrous. There was no hesitation about him and, in a horrific lurch forward, a bellow burgeoned from him, so violent it rumbled the very foundations of the castle.

Spell after spell after spell was launched at Malfoy, but-- he took every blow. Perhaps Urquhart was too quick for him, the ruthlessness of his onslaught crumbling whatever counter Malfoy may have had, but he never once raised his wand to defend himself. By the time the fifth or so spell had connected, Malfoy was heaped on the other side of the Entrance Hall, looking half dead.

A few from the Slytherin crowd were alarmed, their screams scattering into the fray, a mix of questions and pleas:Rhys, what are you doing!? Stop! You’re going to kill him! What’s gotten into you?!

But there was one shout, above all the others, that had the most palpable effect.

“Seorso!”

It thundered from the doorway to the Grounds, careening into the tumult, not only immediately separating the two quarreling bodies, but every student surrounding, parting them effortlessly to opposite ends of the hall.

Cleo collided with a marble ornament perched on the banisters of the front steps, her arms wrapping the neck of a gryphon to keep herself from falling. When she looked up, she could see what everyone else was staring at, aghast:

Professor Tenenbaum, spindly little arms outstretched and hoisted to her left, the tiny trunk of her torso twisted as she stared at the convulsing body of Urquhart, struggling to break free of the bond that held him against the wall.

From her right, Professor McGonagall strolled up quickly, obscuring her. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, her voice echoing in the large expanse with a familiar, angry waver.

No one answered. A few heads darted to Malfoy, still curled up on the floor. Was he even breathing?

McGonagall glided to him, her wand raised at her waist. It wasn’t long before she was knelt at his side, a slew of cursory diagnostic spells traveling in a deluge from her mouth, ribbons of color cascading and hovering about his limp form.

The next series of events were so rushed that they bombarded into one another: the urgent flow of McGonagall’s spellcasting uproariously interrupted by another scream from behind her; the sound of the brunette from earlier, desperately pleading: “Rhys, no!”; the harsh slap of the boy’s feet as he pushed his way toward the unconscious Malfoy; the quick, clinical trill of McGonagall’s voice, reverberating all around them; the ugly, fleshy thump as Petrificus took hold, with Rhys falling to the floor, unnervingly inert.

In a moment, the brunette was draped on top of him, wailing. It was only then that Cleo was able to recognize her: The girl from the library. The one named Ann. Considering their previous rendezvous, it was a wonder that she was attending an event like this at all. But from her behavior alone, it seemed she cared for Urquhart a great deal.

The Slytherins standing in the periphery were clearly shaken -- some even furious -- but none of them foolhardy enough to even think of approaching McGonagall, much less address her.

It all happened so fast, it dawned on Cleo very belatedly to question how Rhys had broken free in the first place -- she wasn’t alone in this, apparently, evidenced by the uneven, bewildered voices that had only just thought to acknowledge the other professor.

There was a shout from the left. “Professor Tenenbaum?”

She was slumped over in her wheelchair, breathing shallow and ragged. Even from the distance, Cleo could see the droop in her eyes, threatening to shut.

“Oh, Merlin! Professor McGonagall, something’s wrong!”

The woman in question had risen from her place on the ground, herding the crowd with the authority of her voice alone. “Go to your classes, all of you. Immediately. Dawdlers will have points taken, or worse. Go.”

The mob dispersed on command, lumbering in a wide berth around the bodies at the center of the circle. Cleo didn’t move as quickly as the others: She saw McGonagall bend down over Ann’s shoulder and say something she couldn’t make out. Whatever it was, it bade the girl to rise and head in the direction of the stairs, her steps hastened by the threat of some promise that none else were privy to.

McGonagall had the two boys in a float behind her. From over the passing heads, Cleo watched as she approached Professor Tenenbaum’s heaving form. They spoke, Professor Tenenbaum only seeming to barely keep conscious. Cleo’s head ducked down when she saw Professor McGonagall look up again, to observe the march of students shuffling past them.

Cleo escaped into the dungeons and didn’t allow herself to witness the rest.

It was fortunate that she heard from Cal on Saturday; she needed an escape from the somber atmosphere that had taken hold of the Common Room shortly after the incident.

Her boots crunched on iced-over snow littered with hundreds of mismatched footprints. Along the path, the unseasonal snow dusted every stone divider, every lamp-post, every pine needle. The chill wind sapped any warmth the sun might have offered, but its rays still garnished her path with frosty glitter.

Brighton was certainly no stranger to cold weather, but Cleo liked to walk to Hogsmeade on these days, when the unfettered drifts of snow were allowed to roam free and sprinkle the countryside. Snow seemed altogether more an adornment than an annoyance, here. When the town finally came into proper focus, and she passed by the homey facade of the Three Broomsticks, Cleo decided to wander for a bit longer. After all, it couldn’t hurt.

Hogsmeade was busy, but not crowded. Outside of her yearly trips to Diagon Alley, she hadn’t had much chance to observe wizards; their peculiar sense of style had always struck her as bizarre, but this day most everyone was bundled in thick robes and fur. Despite the biting cold, several merchant stalls boasted their wares. Bright, star-speckled awnings shielded their owners from the sun while they conversed and haggled at astonishing speed; Cleo could hardly even keep up with what they were saying, much less interject. Here and there were all kinds of strange objects that Cleo had never heard of: peppermint bark that the seller claimed was carved from an actual peppermint tree; a wide array of toy wands which varied in color, size, and function; a collection of rocks and gemstones which were said to control the weather within a certain radius; and a selection of hundreds of miniature items, evidently intended as romantic gifts for lovers.

Intrigued, Cleo wandered closer to survey what was on offer. Spotting her, the merchant chimed in her direction, “Ah, Miss! Looking to impress with a Flourishing Favor? These wee trinkets are certain to swell along with your passions!”

She waved a hand, her smile contrite. “Ah, no, not for me, thank you--”

Then, within the next moment, a force like a strong wind careened into her, nearly bowling her over with its intensity. The only thing that kept her standing was the two gangly arms wrapped tightly around her middle, and the instant knowledge that they were familiar.

Giddy laughter blared directly in her ear. “Clyde!”

Her arms crossed over her abdomen, tightly gripping the ones that held her, as she leaned back against his body. “You idiot!” she joked, before twisting herself in his grip enough to embrace him fully. “I thought you’d finally given up on that Clyde nonsense!”

With an almighty “Ha! Never!”, he lifted her off her feet with the force of his excitement. Then, a moment later, was obliged to admit, “Ouch, you’re too much taller than me for that.”

She shot him a look. “Well, at least you said tall.”

He settled her back on the ground before letting go, holding her shoulders at arm’s length. Caleb, rather than looking red and raw from the late-autumn chill, was instead the picture of joviality. His blue eyes alight with mirth, his flat, wispy brown hair peeking out from underneath his beanie, the haphazard clasp of his robe, strained by the vitality of his movements… He hadn’t changed much at all. With a wide, brilliant smile, partially obscured by his knitted green scarf, he made an expansive gesture. “It’s been a millenia, Cleo! You look fantastic!”

Her hands reached up to pull the beanie down over his forehead. “I can’t believe you’re still wearing this old thing.”

Cal’s gloved hand reached up to his head instantly. “How do you mean ‘old’?” he chuckled with a mischievous squint. “Did you give me your grandad’s hat, or what…?”

“I’m just surprised my mum’s knitting lasted this long,” she teased.

“Well, it’s a touch frayed, I’ll admit-- on account of my wearing it pretty much every day.”

“You do not,” she laughed.

“What can I say? My head is very cold.”

Her hands lowered to his cheeks, cradling them. “It’s really nice seeing you, Cal.”

He beamed at her before saying, “Well, if that’s how you really feel, then see me more often!”

She glanced over her shoulder, body tensing inward against a shiver. “Should we head in somewhere, then? I didn’t expect it to be so cold out.”

“Let’s,” he agreed, dancing in place to ward off the chill. “The Warming Charm on this robe isn’t what it used to be.” Looping his arm with hers, Cal tried to regally march them through the gathered masses, but was instead pelted in the head by a dislodged chunk of snow.

“How ‘bout that weather, huh?” she joked, grinning from ear to ear.

“Truly,” he commiserated, brushing off his beanie. “It’s not quite November, and yet here we are, looking like a winter wonderland. What’s up with Scotland, anyway?”

“Like you care,” she accused, smirking.

His shoulders rolled upwards, a smile curling his lips. “Caught me,” he quipped. “But hey! I love a good blizzard when it means I don’t have to go into work.”

“Blizzard,” she balked, nudging her shoulder into his. “In your dreams.”

“They are, actually!” Cal insisted, eyes bulging as he gestured with his looped arm. “My mind conjures all sorts of mysterious weather phenomena in the night, though all of them have the same purpose of rescuing me from my responsibilities.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, what are you thinking, anyway? I ate before coming but I wouldn’t mind sitting in with you if you were hungry.”

“I’m full up from this morning still,” he commented. “Mum’s doing. But I could kill for a cuppa.”

“Three Broomsticks it is,” she breathed, craning her head over her shoulder.

It was a short walk to the establishment and Cleo made quick work of finding them a table near the fire as Caleb went to order himself a drink. She’d only just taken off her scarf when he came strolling up to the table, cradling a porcelain cup of tea in hand, before taking a seat beside her.

“Happy now?” Cleo asked, pulling her chair closer to his.

“Very,” he oozed. “Here, smell that. It’s heavenly.”

She leaned in, taking the aroma deep as she breathed in. “Oh, that is nice,” she murmured. “Peppermint?”

“And cocoa and liquorice!”

“Well, aren’t you just a lucky boy?” Cleo shifted in her chair to face him. “But, hey? What’s been going on with you?”

He sighed, shrugging off his robe. “Oh, nothing. That is to say-- more of the same. Mum’s still on about what I should do with my life, et cetera, et cetera,” Cal droned, clearly disinterested in the subject. Then, he seemed to move past it, smiling. “But you! The baby, show me the baby!”

“I’ve only got the photo from when we got home from the hospital,” she confessed, leaning over to dig through her bag. “I had it inside my dad’s old chem text before I lent it out -- I wish I could show you the albums, though. Gabriel’s really cute. Here.”

Snatching the picture from her hand, his face scrunched with some barely-contained emotion. “Merlin, look at him! Like a little puffmallow, isn’t he?” he remarked, cradling the small photo in both hands. There was a pause before he continued: “Oh, right, Muggle pictures don’t move. Forgot. I was starting to wonder why you were so still.”

She leaned against his shoulder, eyes planted on the photo. “It never crossed my mind, really. But it’d be a good idea, wouldn’t it? I’d like to have a photo of him running around Mum’s garden.”

“I think I had a mate once who developed pictures… Want me to ask around?”

“That’d… be nice, actually,” she replied, glancing up at the side of his place. “Yeah, thank you.”

He waved her words away with a hand. “It’s the least I can do, really.”

The least he could do? “Oh, stop that,” she complained, lightly shoving his shoulder.

“Speaking of, though…” Cal rummaged in his own things before emerging with a flourish, offering a thin book with the same panache one might expect of a sacred treasure. “Ta da!”

“Oh! You actually brought it!” she exclaimed, plucking the book from his hands. She flipped through the pages, enthralled. “It’s so cute! Gabriel will love this so much.” She cradled the book to her chest. “Thank you, Cal. Really. This was sweet.”

He humored her with a small smile, hands huddled around his cup before he took a sip. The next moment, however, he was surveying her with premeditated intrigue. With that oh-so-familiar inquisitive look in his eye, he ventured: “So, uh, not to bring up the boggartin the room…”

“Straight to the point, aren’t you?” she mused, furrowing her brow.

Cal lifted his hands, simpering. “Guilty,” he admitted. “Can't blame a guy for being curious, though. Last I heard, ol’ Benjy was resting on his laurels on the whole… having a baby thing.”

She busied herself with packing the children’s book into her bag. “I don’t know where he is, and I don’t really care either,” she said finally. “It’s funny, Dad tried to give him a chance to step up. Actually went about sending an owl before my procedure to tell him where we were so he could come meet his son if he ‘wanted to be a man about it’. Never heard a wink. Not then and not for two years since.”

He grimaced. “Right--! Forget that scummy bastard, then.”

“It’s what I get for letting a Gryffindor knock me up,” she admitted with a rueful chuckle. “I’m never going to live that one down, I don’t think.”

“I doubt it,” he smirked. “And after all that effort, trying to convince everyone you’re such a mean, green snake!”

“I’m really not,” she pressed, laughing a bit harder. “Snape nearly had my head about Harry Potter over it, no joking. It was horrid.”

Cal’s eyes about popped out of his head. “You having me on?” he asked, gripping the table for emphasis. “Snape? Seriously?”

“Oh my God,” she groaned, resting her hand on his arm. “No, listen. It was stupid! He’s like a kid, right? And I’m in this bloody N.E.W.T. class, he has no idea what he’s doing, and Snape is ripping him to pieces -- but it’s so one sided? It’s like watching some grumpy old man kick a puppy. So I got dumb and stood up for him. My mistake, I guess, because the second class is over, Snape’s practically accusing me of barking up Potter’s tree. Honestly?”

She closed her eyes, head shaking as Cal started seizing up with laughter. “First, gross? He’s a baby? No way? Second, oh my God? Where’s that coming from? I didn’t know he was so bitter, Cal! I didn’t!”

“Merlin-- actualSnape, talking about you and the wee Boy Who Lived--!” he wheezed, laying his forehead in one hand. “I can’t even wrap my mind around that.”

“Neither can I, really,” she admitted, settling down. “It threw me off kilter, if I’m honest with you. How are you supposed to respond to something like that?”

Cal settled his elbows on the table, gesturing with both hands. “You have to wonder, though-- I mean, I’m mystified that he even thought to mention it,” was his comment. “I’ve always figured that Snape was just this sexless ghoul.”

“Oh ew!” Cleo declared, recoiling away from the table at the very thought. “Ew, Cal! Don’t even put that image in my head.”

“I’m only saying,” he laughed, “it’s a bit weird for him to talk about!”

“I mean, you’re right,” she confessed. “What was it he said?... “Wouldn’t want wayward attachments to” -- something. Inhibit me? Distract me? Whatever, but maybe try not to be oddly judgemental of my sex life and just, I don’t know… Not do that.”

“Let’s not fool ourselves, here,” Cal remarked, looking at her sideways. “The man’s not a great teacher.”

“He’s not an accessible teacher,” she corrected, slanting her head in his direction. “I have learned a great deal from him, though. Probably because he only does well with people he doesn’t have to be patient with. He’s got none of that.”

“Just because he's smart doesn’t mean he's good at spreading it,” he pointed out. “I may have held out longer for Potions if not for him.”

“I’m not defending him, Cal,” she pointed out, a tad defensive herself. “He’s a miserable person. I’m just being honest. I have learned a lot under him, is all.”

“So, he’s accepted your advising proposal, then?”

“God no,” she snorted. “Funny, isn’t it? The only damn thing I’m good at, magic wise, and I can’t even get this guy to advise me.”

Caleb rolled his eyes. “See what I mean? If the man had any sense, he’d snatch you up right off. Because you know what? You’re not just good at Potions, you’re brilliant at it, and he’s too stuffed up his arse to see it.”

“Yeah, well,” she sighed. “I guess that’s kind of it for me, then? If he’s going to refuse, then it’s done.”

“Cleo, let me be frank,” her friend said, eyebrows raising. “You have something I’ve always wanted, and that’s passion. Goals! A desire to accomplish things! Here-- actually, let’s switch brooms, here…” Cal shifted his weight to his forearm atop the table. “This advising thing? Why do you want to do it? What’s behind this…” He huffed a short laugh. “... shall we say, masochistic streak, that you need Snape for?”

“I don’t even know anymore,” she admitted. “One last shot at doing what felt important to me. Instead I’m ignoring what is important.” Her expression fell. “I’m not there for him, Cal. And it’s killing me. Dumbledore made a whole lot of promises of what I could do to keep in contact, but what does it accomplish? Gabriel’s tantruming constantly, begging me to come home. Time and time again I have to sit there and say ‘I can’t, honey, and for reasons you’ll never understand, and that’ll never be important to you, because what matters to you is the fact that Mummy isn’t there to take you to nursery school, or go trick or treating with you, or to do any of the things mothers are supposed to do.’ And I’m here wondering, how could I be so selfish? What would be worth abandoning my babylike this? And I don’t know the answer anymore, Cal.”

Cleo leaned forward, shoving her face into her hands. “I made a mistake and I just-- I feel like I should go back home.”

There was a moment of quiet between them, where the sounds of the other patrons rushed into their little corner of the pub. Clinking glasses, rumbling conversations, the shuffle of feet on wood. In the midst of it, Cal simply laid a hand on her shoulder.

A laugh, muffled, escaped from the creases in her hands. “You know the worst part?” she asked, her breath hot on her wrists. “How much everyone believes in me. I tried to tell my Dad, you know? But I chickened out. And he’s waving around my acceptance letter to Aberdeen, telling me step one completed.” Her hands drew downward to rest on her neck and a damp glimmer shone on her cheek.

“Step one,” she repeated softly, glancing to the ceiling. “Like I was accomplishing what I promised. Step one, get into Aberdeen, because they have a good pre-med program. Step two, finish my schooling in Hogwarts with recommendation from one of the foremost celebrated Potion Masters in all of Great Britain. Step three, go to medical school. Graduate. Step four, get an apprenticeship with St. Mungo’s or something similar, whatever Healers will take you under their wing. Step five, start integrating.” She shook her head. “Something we came up with together. Stupid, because it’s too simple. It encapsulates years worth of work into something that feels doable. And I fuck up before I even complete step one.”

“Hey, hey,” Cal addressed her, rubbing circles on her shoulder. “You haven’t messed it up, okay? It’s a good plan, a really good one. And you? I know you can do it. Remember when-- I mean, it was ages ago now, but you and I, we found that cute little plant, growing between the stones in the North Tower? And we said, since it was all alone up there, we’d take care of it. And me? I got bored, gave up after a few weeks, but you kept on. Right up until Filch clipped the poor thing off, you kept on. You remember?”

“I get it, I’m stubborn, I know,” she replied, miserable. “But--”

“That’s definitely not what I said,” her friend admonished her. “Although you are that too-- more importantly, you care about things, and you stand by them. And I know, I knowthat you would never have left Gabriel’s side in the first place if this wasn’t important. If it wasn’t worthwhile. Because you’re always out there, making friends with idiots like me, helping people that nobody else will, and, you know, watering plants when no one else cares to.”

“You’re not an idiot,” she disagreed, smiling slightly. “More of a wizard than I am, at any rate.”

He shrugged, the motion exaggerated by his incredulity. “So what, I can sit on a broom. I can rattle off the outcomes of fifty or so battles in the Goblin Wars. I can shoot fireworks out of my arse. If that’s ‘more of a wizard’, then we need less of them. You’re the one with the kind of talent that makes an actual difference in the world.”

“Now you’re exaggerating,” she argued, visibly uncomfortable. She couldn’t even recognize the person he was describing, anyway. It didn’t match any understanding she had of herself, at any rate. “Besides, you’re leagues ahead of me. Shoveling dung or no.”

Cal coughed, uncomfortable. “Actually, uh… I’ve been doing it for a year and a half. I… didn’t even finish my N.E.W.T.s.”

She shrugged. “It’s still an honest job,” she pointed out. “I’d be cashiering at a TESCO to raise my son if I wasn’t blessed with generous parents. There’s no shame in it.”

“You wouldn’t think so, the way my Mum keeps going on about it,” he countered, droll. “But that’s not really my point. All I’m saying is, the things that you want to do? The things you think are important? They aren’t a waste of time. And I’m sure your old man knows that, too. That’s why we both want to see you succeed, even if Snapedoesn’t.”

“It’s not a matter of how Snape feels about it,” she countered. “He gave me a chance, and I was unprepared.”

“Did he though?” Cal questioned, voice thick with doubt. “I mean, how much of this did you even tell him? You’ve got this whole planthat you made with your dad, and I bet Snape didn’t even bother hearing it.”

“I wouldn’t even tell him that plan,” she shot back, scandalized. “It’s stupid. It’s not like… It was just a way to make things seem possible to do, is all.”

“It’s not stupid!” was his objection. “None of this is stupid, it’s your life, your career, your contribution to the bloody world! He hasn’t got any right to ignore it!”

“He’s not ignoring it,” she argued. “He gave me a chance. Even after I’d gone and lost all of Slytherin’s House Points. He expected one thing of me and I couldn’t do it. It’s on me, Caleb.”

“You lost… allof Slytherin’s points?”

“Yes, I did,” she confessed, humiliated. “I’m lucky he didn’t murder me on the spot--”

“Oh, please-- if that’s true, then that settles it, yeah? The man’s a monster about his stupid House. First he takes issue with you leaving school, then he’s making nasty insinuations about you and another student, and now this? He thinks he can get away with taking his personal grudges out on you? It’s disgusting, is what it is. You ought to complain straight to the Board--”

“And say what?” she asked, exasperated. “This mean old man won’t advise me like I want him to? What leg do I have to stand on? I can’t just ask for things, expecting everyone to just toe the line and hand it to me without anything in return! I’m not a child, Caleb!”

He rubbed his face with both hands, heaving out a breath. “I know you’re not. But this is about him, Cleo. You’re doing everything right, and yet you’re being punished because Snape is the one who’s a bloody child.”

“What have I done right, Caleb?” she challenged, feeling much more heated than she ought have. “Seriously. What have I actually done correctly?”

There was a pause, where he was clearly casting about for the proper thing to say. “It’s-- It’s not like I’ve got a list, but you’re alwayson top of things. You’ve got the plan, the vision… I know you’ve put work into this. You’ve made sacrifices by being here. And here’s Snape, throwing all that in the bin like it doesn’t matter? I won’t stand for that, and neither should you.”

“I’m not entitled to his time, attention, or consideration,” she muttered, leaning back in her chair.

“Yes, you are!” Cal argued, punctuating his statement with a sharp thwack on the table. “He’s your teacher! Your Head of House! It’s in his literal job description!”

“He’s not obligated to advise me! That’s a special position! If I were him, I wouldn’t bloody well advise me either!”

At this, her friend puffed himself up, his gestures coming even more staccato. “No-- look. You’ve put up with that git for years, done all the work, let him walk all over you. And you’re going to let him slink away, just like that? No.” In all their years of friendship, Cal had never looked so deadly serious. “Isn’t it time he gave something back to you, after all the shite you’ve had to deal with from him?”

“It’s not that simple,” she protested, frowning. “He doesn’t owe me anything. And I haven’t had to deal with his nonsense… If anything, he’s had to--”

“Don’t start that,” Cal demanded, a barbed edge to his tone. “If you ask me, Snape’s got a lot to answer for.”

“Answer for? What in the world do you think he has to answer for?”

“The way he treats his students! The way he treats you!”

“If you have personal umbrage with him then fine, I can’t blame you for that. But he hasn’t treated me like anything--”

“You know what?” he cut her off, snatching his scarf from the table. “I do. I reallydo.” Cal stood up from his seat, throwing a few Sickles onto the table and fumbling around with his gloves.

“You’ve got to be joking,” Cleo scoffed, observing him with disbelief. When no response was forthcoming, she leaned forward, just barely catching his wrist as he began to stride away from the table. “Seriously. What’re you doing?”

He looked her dead in the eye. “If you won’t defend yourself, then I will.”

A long line of bickering trailed behind them, spanning the entire length of their procession to Hogwarts.

“You’re not even a student anymore. You can’t go in there.”

“Watch me! What the hell are they going to do about it?!”

“I don’t know, let’s think-- stop you? Contact your family? Your boss? You could lose your job?”

“Good, my job’s rubbish anyway.”

“What’s yelling at Snape even going to accomplish, Cal? For God’s sake-- Will you slow down?”

“I have five years of words for that man, and I’ve waited around long enough.”

“So, what? You go in there, yell at him, and then what? You feel better?”

“Yeah! Maybe! And you know what else? After that, I’ll make sure that sack of shite never sets foot in a classroom ever again--!”

“Do you even understand how ridiculous that sounds?!”

“What’s ridiculous is how he’s been allowed to destroy the hearts and minds of children for so long without repercussion!”

“Then lodge a complaint with Dumbledore!”

“I will!”

“Great! I’ll walk you there!”

“But first, I’m going to look that bloody toe rag in the eye and give him a taste of his own medicine!”

“All you’re going to do is find yourself at the business end of his wand--”

“The fact that you think it’s plausible for him to attackme is exactly the problem, Cleo.”

“I’m not disagreeing with you! He’s an unmitigated jerk! He’s mean, cruel, vindictive--”

“Lovely! Then you won’t mind me teaching him a lesson in manners--!”

“I’m saying it’s not damn well worth getting in a fight you can’t-- Caleb? Caleb!”

Acting on instinct and anger, Cal plunged himself into the dungeons, jostling a couple of wayward Ravenclaws on their way up from class. He traversed the dungeons with surprising familiarity and speed and, by the time she caught up to him, Caleb had pushed himself halfway into the man’s office. No knock, no preamble, he just burst through the threshold, fists still balled up tight in fury.

“Where do you get off, you absolute cun--?!”

“Caleb!” Cleo shrieked, wrenching herself through the door.

The exchange only lasted a few seconds at most, but, to both their surprise, Snape had his wand aimed in their direction before they even registered his movement.

She froze, mouth latched shut in an instant.

Cal, on the other hand, had quite a lot to say. “Going to threaten us right off, then? Cutting to the quick already?”

The professor’s expression darkened, wand arm settling back at his side. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, tone sharp.

“Caleb, please--”

“I told you, Cleo, I won’t stand for--!”

She strode up beside him, glowering. “You’re not helping me--”

Snape’s voice cut through theirs. “Explain yourselves, or get out of my office.”

“You aren’t my superior, which means I don’t have to listen to your shiteany longer,” Cal shot back, rising to the challenge.

The man graced him with a twist of the lip and a bored stare. “Neither am I obligated to hear yours.”

“Look, Snape, you’ve had a good run--”

“Caleb stop--”

“-- but when you flat-out ignore the honest efforts of your students just to satisfy this... This heinous sadistic streak--”

“Caleb!”

“-- you reveal yourself as the loathsome, pathetic bully that you are and, frankly, it’s a wonder you’ve managed to escape the consequences, but not anymore--!”

Cleo gripped him hard, shoving him toward the door. “STOP IT!”

Cal staggered, visibly startled, but finally, finallyshut his mouth. He scowled between her and Snape, his wild outrage clearly evident… There were still plenty of words waiting behind his teeth, itching to burst out.

Her grip on his arm tightened. “Just. Stop.”

“You can’t be serious--!“

It was inevitable, wasn’t it? What this was coming to? It wasn’t as if Cal was going to allow himself to leave here, dissatisfied. Not unless there were results. She hated her hand being forced like this. “Just -- go outside.”

“Why--?“

“Go outside.”

He stared at her in abject disbelief, caught between frustration and confusion. Then, his glare slid sideways, honing in on Snape. With little warning, he turned away, grabbing the door as he stalked out and slamming it with such force that Cleo could hear the boom reverberate through the Potions classroom.

Her eyes remained locked on the closed door long after Cal abandoned them and the agitated quiet bled back into the room.

Snape’s voice traversed the space to her. “Miss Croft--”

“I’m so tired,” she groused, her hand reaching up to hold the side of her face. “I am so, so bloody tired, Snape. And I’m just… done.” Not like it mattered. Not like he cared. “I’m already halfway out the gates anyway, so--” Whatever. Let’s do this.

Her body pivoted and she approached the professor’s desk, rushed; without a single consideration for how her actions might appear, her outer robe was thrown atop a nearby chair and her hands worked to unlatch the bottom buttons of her blouse.

Attention drawn by her actions, the man’s eyes darted to her midriff before locking onto her face, narrowing, a wary slant to his head. “Whatever it is you're hoping to accomplish with this--”

“Oh would you just shut up?” she ordered, her face drawn in concentration.

In a moment, she finished, stopping just short of her chest as she pulled the cloth apart. There, a scar, gnarled, rough and haloed by stretch marks, twisted upward from under her skirt, reaching until it clung to the bottom of her bellybutton. Her stomach clenched against the dank chill of the dungeons and she glanced down, grimacing, before looking Snape in the eye again.

“Seven months into my pregnancy, I got sick,” the words clamored out of her, as painful as the memory they recalled. “It started with a headache. I’ve never really had headaches before. But my son’s pregnancy was hard on me; there wasn’t a day when I wasn’t feeling awful. The odd thing was though, the headache didn’t go away. For five straight days, it didn’t leave. That’s when my dad knew something was wrong.”

Snape did not interrupt this time, a clear indication that she had his attention. The man stood very still, expression locked in a neutral affect, simply waiting.

Cleo took in a breath, her eyes closing. “Preeclampsia,” the word sunk from her bottom lip, lumbering, bloated on its own gravity. “Pretty easy to diagnose. One urine test. One urine test and I was burdened with the most loaded choice of my life -- deliver my son early and hope that he could survive, or die.

“The thing that nobody told me, though,” she paused, her eyelids fluttering open to watch him again, “was that Muggle medicine is dangerous for magical people. And that simple fact nearly killed us both.”

An embittered, self-effacing chuckle dislodged from her throat. “My doctors didn’t know what to make of it. They ended up calling it an anomalous anaphylactic reaction to anaesthesia.” Her gaze flickered to her scar, fingers tightening reflexively against her blouse. “The rub of it, though? It was still my best choice, because there wasn’t a better one. The Wizarding World has no idea what Preeclampsia is, much less how to deal with it. In fact, I later learned that the whole of maternity is untouched by magical medicine.

“And here I am, going to an OB/GYN, as if I wasn’t inherently different from the Muggle practitioner in front of me. Magical bodies, non-magical bodies -- they have the same parts. They function similarly. And as it turns out, they experience the same diseases, too. The only difference is, the Muggles understand what to do. Wizards don’t.”

She rest her hands just above her abdomen, the gesture so familiar that it made her insides twist. “I couldn’t explain it,” Cleo murmured, eyes plummeting down to gaze at her stomach. “It’s hard for me to feel much about the Wizarding World. But this made me… so angry. Because if I had gone to a Healer, what would they have done? Even if somehow they figured out I needed to deliver early, how would they have helped my son survive? Thirty two weeks, his lungs weren’t even fully developed. He couldn’t even breathe on his own for God’s sake--”

She clenched her eyes against a sting and she swallowed hard, fingers digging into her stomach. “I shouldn’t have gone through that,” she uttered, slowly, with more conviction. “No witch should ever have to go through that. It was needless. For years I couldn’t make myself feel a damn about what happened here -- but the second after I woke up not knowing whether or not my son was alive--” She sucked in a breath, gritting her teeth. “I wanted it to change. I wanted to change it. That’s why I’m here. This--” she emphasized, raking her nails across the jagged edges of her scarred-over incision, “is why I’m here.”

Her arms dropped to her sides. “Right now, I have a two year old at home, who has no bloody idea why his mother has decided to just fuck off to God-knows-where, doing God-knows-what because, for once, I felt like I could do something good here. And at this moment, you are what literally decides whether or not I give that up and go home, where I should be, and have a different kind of life with my family.”

Her fingers scrunched up the fabric of her skirt, heaving up higher on her legs as she scowled. “So if you could find some piddling token of generosity within you, I’d implore you to please advise me, Professor Snape.”

There was a protracted moment between them, then. He still hadn’t moved, nor given any semblance of a reaction. Despite the man’s stillness, Cleo could tell the air around them was not empty; the sound of her voice was diffused all around, and the professor, surrounded by it as he was, seemed to be in contemplation, his black eyes probing her face.

The attention was distinctly uncomfortable, the silence disheartening the longer it continued. Then, when Cleo was on the precipice of her unease, he finally spoke.

“I assume you’re finished?” the question emerged from him, jagged and barbed. “Got it all off your chest?”

Her fingers ruffled the hem of her skirt as she clenched it tighter.

The man sighed, leaning back against the edge of his desk. “I see your penchant for imprudent, melodramatic spectacles is unchanged. As is my answer to your ultimatum.”

Of course. Expected. In the very least, it gave her clarity.

Lips pressed in a taut line, she pulled her shirt over her scars, eyes locked on the cruel outline of his face. “Great.” She felt a shift in the air when she broke eye contact, her hands fumbling to button her blouse back together.

“Miss Croft.”

She didn’t stop. She smoothed her hands over the wrinkles in her skirt, approaching the chair that cradled her outer robe.

“I did not dismiss you.”

“What more could you possibly have to say?” she mocked, a harsh laugh tearing itself from her lungs. “You’ve been clear. You have no intention of advising me.”

There was a sour edge to his tone. “I have little choice when there is nothing to advise.”

That, above all else, stilled her. Winded, her voice snapped up to him before her head could: “What?”

The man was ensconced in much the same position, except his arms were folded and his glare was more acute. “You still have not offered a proposal.”

“But I just told you what I--”

“You have stated your motivation, not your goal,” Snape interrupted her. “Noble as your intentionsmay be, I can do nothing with them.”

She scoffed at him, incredulous. “Did you even listen to a word I said?” she balked. “I want to start the practice of obstetrics for witches--”

“And of what use is that to me?” he pressed.

Her brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

He lifted his eyebrows in sarcastic acknowledgement. “Unless, of course, you intended to reinvent an entire branch of magic within two years.”

“No,” she shot back, defensive.

The man surveyed her with what she presumed was irritation, or perhaps disgust. Then, with a crisp gesture toward the seat beside him, he remarked, “I cannot fathom why you are so adamant that I be the one to advise you.”

She didn’t move an inch to occupy it. “Does it matter?”

“If you plan to undertake such a lofty and formidable goal,” Snape replied, “then yes, your motivations matter a great deal.”

He wouldn’t care, even if she was honest. What with his utter disdain for emotional displays, she lied through her teeth: “Because you are the foremost Potion Master in the United Kingdom, because you have the wisdom, the discipline--”

“Spare me such sycophantic nonsense,” his antipathy tore through her sentence, forcing her silence. “You are, as always, a pitiful liar.”

“It just has to be you, okay?” she insisted, the full weight of her frustration pulsing in her tensed limbs.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“I don’t care what you believe. It’s true. I just need it to be you.”

“If the situation is so very imperative,” the man sneered at her, “then you must have a reason.”

“Because it just has to be--”

“Why?”

“Because you were the only person to tell me I was being stupid, you wretched arsehole! ” she barked, the harsh thrum of her voice climbing outward, managing to fill the gaps in the emptiness of that room. “Because everyone’s only ever been gentle with me! No one ever seems capable of telling me the bloody truth. I don’t regret Gabriel. I never will, but everyone acted as if my being pregnant as a teenager was some bloody miracle. Even my dad’s boss, who was doing his very best to try to convince me to terminate my pregnancy, couldn’t even force himself to be anything but cordial. In all the time I’ve been here, you’ve never lied to me, even if it hurt.

“You were the only one who told me that I was making the biggest mistake of my life. You were the only one to treat me as if I had potential to squander. You were the only person who actually got angry at me.” She threw her glance to the wall behind him, frowning.

“I never wanted any of this,” she admitted, voice growing quiet. “This school, this culture, this magic. I begged. I raged. I cried. And on that first night, nine years ago, you looked me dead in the eye and you told me, stop it. It didn’t matter what I wanted, what I wished. I had to deal with what I was. It doesn’t matter if Cleo Croft doesn’t want to be a witch. She is one. And when I sat in your classroom for the first time and learned how to brew a Wart-Removal potion, I actually felt something. Do you remember what grade you gave me?”

He didn’t answer, though he did raise his eyebrows in silent inquiry.

“‘Troll’. I’d never gotten a grade like that before. And you know what? It was weird. I couldn’t manage to turn a needle into a match, or produce a halfway decent jelly-legs jinx, but none of the other professors would give me anything below an ‘Acceptable.’ Because I tried, right? But trying didn’t matter to you.” She looked back at him. “‘Success isn’t measured in effort.’ You told me that. And it never really clicked for me until I was looking at your feedback and finding something valuable in it. You’d write on my essay: ‘How could you possibly delude yourself into thinking that Flobberworm Mucus can be used as a base for ageing potions?’ and I would realize that I didn’t know. So I would look it up. I’d learn something. I’d come back to class and I’d do better because it meant something when I could get Professor Snape to look me in the eye and tell me that what I’ve accomplished is worthy.”

She breathed in deep through her nose. “You are cruel, vindictive, exhausting, infuriating and completely unapproachable,” Cleo listed, catching his gaze once more. “But you are a teacher who has meant more to me than any other. You are the only one who made me feel like I belonged here. That I had something to offer. That made me feel that if, given the time to really work, I could actually accomplish whatever I set before me.”

The professor stared at her a moment. His expression was… caught in-between. Not angry, but also not pleased, if the deep lines of his frown were anything to go by. Still, the fact that he had bothered to listen at all was as bolstering as it was mystifying.

“Be that as it may…” Snape, at length, addressed her, his arms crossed taut. “Without an actual proposal, the result is unchanged.”

He said “the result” as if it had nothing to do with him. Like it was impersonal. Out of his hands. His point, however, appeared to her in sharp focus. She’d offered nothing for him to advise. Nothing concrete, at least. Nothing that could be accomplished in the span of two years.

It was daunting when put into that perspective.

Nothing that a silly five step plancould ever attain.

Cleo shifted on her feet, body swaying back on an instinct to exit the room. “Great,” she repeated, falsely chipper. “We’re done here, then. Thanks for your time.”

“Miss Croft.”

Hadn’t they already done this? This time, she refused to stop as she addressed him, gathering her outer robe and draping it over her forearm: “What?”

“One request.”

The man pushed off from the desk, returning to the seat behind it as she prompted: “And that would be?”

Snape let her words hang in the air briefly as he wound his fingers together, leaning back in his chair. “When you supply me with your actual proposal this Friday evening, not a minute after seven, and without a chaperone,” he drawled, his gaze pointed. “Do me the courtesy of knocking first.”