Chapter 28: The Founders' Veil

"James?"

"James – you there?"

"James?"

Maybe, James thought as a familiar voice became clear in the muddle of his semi-consciousness, I'm at home. Maybe it was an awful dream. I'll open my eyes, and I'll be at home.

So he did.

A white ceiling was above him. There wasn't a single white ceiling in his house. He covered his face and let loose the best swear he knew.

A sting washed over his forearm. Someone had slapped him.

"Come on, Ginny – really? That's your biggest concern right now?"

James was almost too ashamed to uncover his face, especially given that his eyes had started to well up. But he did it anyway. His mother was standing right over his bed, her red hair flaming in the lights above. "I knew I should have gone up with you all to the tower," she said. "But I thought, 'No, don't embarrass him in front of his friends and classmates.' Well, rest assured I won't be making that mistake again—"

"Ginny." James heard his father's voice.

"What is wrong with you?" she kept going – and it took nothing less than the slight fear of being knocked out a second time to stop him from telling her to shut up already. He had a splitting headache, after all, and couldn't for the life of him remember at the moment where he'd gotten it. "Do you listen to nothing your father tells you? Nothing at all? I'm already going gray worrying about your father every day at work, and now you're deciding to try to play hero?"

"Ginny," exclaimed Harry. "Seriously. This isn't the time."

"Don't tell me what time it is, Harry Potter!" Ginny lost her temper and James palmed his face in fatigue and exasperation. If things weren't already bad enough, now his parents were going to have a huge row in the middle of (what James assumed was) the Hogwarts hospital wing. "This is our son you're talking about – and here you are acting like it's no big deal at all. Just because this sort of shit happened all the time when you were fourteen doesn't mean I want it for James!"

"I think this is a very big deal, Ginevra," Harry replied, and James knew he was deadly serious. He never used her full name like that. No one did. "That's why I need you to help me out here and calm down. James is obviously fine – and I'm sure Albus, Rose, and the others would like to know that. You think you could do that for me? It'd be a big help."

She took a deep breath. "Fine. But I'm coming back after that's done."

"Wouldn't expect anything less," James heard his father say. There was the telltale sound of a short kiss, and then James heard his mother depart.

A moment later, James felt his hands being moved down from his face. He didn't resist. Even though he knew it was his father, though, the sight of Harry Potter in the full uniform of his station as Head of the Auror Office was disquieting.

"How are you feeling?" Harry asked first.

The realization of what had happened, hit him like a ton of bricks. He sat bolt upright, held back from jumping from the bed only by the gentle nudge of his father's hand as he insistently uttered, "Hey, hey…"

"Brynne – Murphy – where…" James uttered haltingly in his sudden panic.

"Murphy got knocked around a bit, took a hex to the face, not to mention one of Neville's rather larger Herbology books…" Harry said appraisingly, his mouth turning a bit. James's relief was almost instant; if Murphy's injuries were light enough that his father found them somewhat amusing, he must have been alright, James thought.

"And Brynne?" James asked, the sound of those screams now echoing in his brain.

At this point, Harry's face became grave. "I'll guess you know by rummaging through my texts, what the Cruciatus Curse is?"

James's heart sank into his stomach. "God…" he murmured weakly.

"For what it's worth, I've seen much worse, but…" Harry muttered. "I'm afraid it might have… affected her a bit. She's disoriented. Keeps telling my assistant, Sonia, that she was attacked by a Hufflepuff student named Beal. But everyone else from Neville – he's resting at St. Mungo's, by the way – to Beal himself say that it was Garrick Claudius."

James shook his head. "It was Beal."

"Beal has an alibi," Harry said. "His girlfriend, Laurel Cross, and Professor Ambrose both saw him in the Great Hall while the attack was happening. In fact, as Neville puts it, it was Beal that saved the lot of you."

"I don't know who that was," James said. "But it wasn't Morris Beal."

"How can you be so sure of that?" asked Harry.

James hated to even bring it up. "The map. It never lies, right? That's what you told me."

"Lies? No. Faulty? Possibly," Harry said. "Remember, that map was made in your grandfather's time. Normally wouldn't be a problem, but… after the last war, large parts of the castle had to be rebuilt. Might've thrown the whole thing off."

"Then why'd you give it to me?" asked James.

"You must've hit your head harder than you thought," Harry replied, suddenly stern. "You stole it out of my desk, remember? I let you keep it, and taught you how to use it. I didn't see any problem with that. You were named after two of its makers, after all. But I never guaranteed it would work properly. That said…"

He sighed.

"Whatever you saw on that map… even though it might have been wrong…" he went on. "You might have stopped a murder last night."

"It was Murphy that saw it, not me," James admitted. He was about to say that he almost wished Murphy hadn't… but stopped himself. "You… you really think he would have killed…"

"There's no telling," Harry replied. "We're certainly treating this as an attempted murder. The disciplinary panel's going to need to meet to discuss Claudius's expulsion from Hogwarts, but at this point, that's just a formality. He's been arrested and taken to holding in London."

James's eyes widened. "But…"

"I believe you," Harry said, looking James in the eye. "Really, James. I do. I know the power of that map to uncover the truth better than anyone else living. But Claudius himself confessed to the crime. How would the word of an invention made by four teenage boys almost fifty years ago hold up against that in court? The Ministry doesn't know about that map, and I intend to keep it that way."

"Even if it means sending someone innocent to Azkaban?" asked James desperately. "I don't care about the map. I don't need it. I'll give it back to you if it'll help."

"That's what I'm saying." Harry sighed heavily. "It won't. The only thing that can override Claudius's own confession is hard evidence that someone else committed the crime and forced him to confess to it somehow. The only thing we can possibly use against Beal is the map. At least, right now. Maybe if I can buy another few weeks…"

"We don't have another few weeks," James replied. "Beal graduates next month. What if he leaves Britain? You can't touch him, then, can you?"

"What motive would this Beal fellow have for attacking Neville?" Harry asked. "And if you're right, why would he do it in the guise of Garrick Claudius?"

Quickly approaching footsteps took Harry's attention. In strode a blond woman, very pretty but very severe-looking, in Auror uniform.

"Director," she said curtly. Harry smiled.

"Has she changed her tune at all?"

The woman shook her head stiffly. "Insists it was this Morris Beal person. But I've looked up Beal – thin as a rail, that one. Claudius looks like he could lift London with his bare hands. Can a Cruciatus Curse cause someone to hallucinate that badly?"

Harry frowned gravely. "Given some of the other things I've seen it do, it wouldn't surprise me."

The blonde woman cupped her chin with her hand, in a solemn gesture that made her look twice her age. "Why would Walter want Morris Beal implicated? It's a serious accusation. If she's not addled by the torture, what's she playing at?"

James could no longer stay silent. "So Brynne's either mad or she's a liar? Is that what you've decided?" he asked hotly.

The woman looked appalled at having been spoken to this way. "Have we met before?"

"Not formally," Harry explained, semi-apologetically. "This is my son, James."

The young woman leaned forward for a second, studying James's face as if investigating a signed document for a forgery. It was in that moment that James realized that it wouldn't do any good to take her skepticism personally. Obviously, this was just how she was; come to think of it, she looked and acted rather familiar…

"James, this is Sonia Dawlish, my… I guess 'assistant' would be the simplest word," Harry said.

"Smart-mouthed and clever - maybe a bit too clever for your own good," Sonia said. "Exactly like my grandfather described you."

Sonia sighed.

"Director, I still don't see why we're here and not the Hit Wizards," she said. "I mean… this looks like a simple assault…"

"It was – before the Cruciatus Curse came into it," Harry answered her seriously. "You know as well as I do that not just anyone can work that curse well. You have to be powerful and, maybe more importantly, you need a strong desire to cause pain. Unforgivable Curses are Dark magic of the highest order – not just because of what they do, but because of the state one's mind and heart have to be in to be able to cast them. This is the first case we've had involving a current student in years. I don't even think you were with the Aurors yet, the last time it happened…"

"Are you sure it wasn't because of the people involved?" she asked. "Your son, one of your old classmates…"

"Could you blame me if that was true?" asked Harry. "Besides, I didn't hear you complaining. Not with Neville being the victim here."

Sonia frowned in an exaggerated fashion, and James could have sworn he saw a tinge of pink on her cheeks. Not quite meeting Harry's eyes, she commented, almost at a mutter, "Some will say it's a bad idea, the Director of the Auror Office being overly sentimental with his decision-making…"

"Let them say what they like," Harry said. "With what happened to James, I would have been here at Hogwarts either way." He frowned and wiped his brow, adjusting his glasses on his forehead. "Maybe if I'd come for the Quidditch match in the first place, none of this would have happened…"

James's heart lifted a bit. With all the chaos of the last several hours, he'd nearly forgotten that Gryffindor had won the Quidditch Cup with his help.

"Anyway, it's fortunate that no one's life appears to be in danger."

"Wait…" James looked around. "Where is Brynne, anyway? If she's hurt, shouldn't she be here in the hospital wing? This is the hospital wing, right?"

Harry grimaced. "Professor – Headmaster Flitwick, sorry… it's… what you have to understand, James…"

"Gryffindor and Slytherin students can't keep their feelings in check," Sonia said curtly. "After the news of the attack, last night was one fight after another. Professor Flitwick called on some very old magic – hasn't been seen used at Hogwarts since Gladius Leo was at their peak."

James seethed silently. He hated hearing Gladius Leo even spoken of. At the same time, Sonia's eyes widened.

"Walter… I knew that sounded familiar. That was the case that made you Director," she said, staring almost reverently at Harry, who put his hands up in a defensive posture.

"I don't know about 'made' me Director," Harry said. James, of course, knew all of this already, straight from the source. His father had been the one to bring the murderers of Brynne's parents to justice. And whatever he might have thought of how that one case affected his promotion, Harry Potter had been made the youngest Head of the Auror Office in history, mere months after the case had been closed.

"What's this old magic you're talking about?" asked James, swiping his eyes from Sonia to his father.

"I've actually never seen it before myself," Harry replied. "It's got a few names…"

"Madam McGonagall called it the 'Founders' Veil'," Sonia said. "It's complex, but the long and short of it is that the Headmaster of Hogwarts – and only the Headmaster of Hogwarts – can disallow contact between Houses for a time. It'll be so students from different Houses can't even see each other. And I mean that literally. You could go searching the entire castle for a student that doesn't belong to your house, and never find them. They could be standing or sitting right next to you, and you would never see each other – not until the 'Veil' was lifted."

There was something about the way Sonia described this that sent a shiver up James's spine. At the same time, his heart sank into his stomach. This meant – if Sonia was describing it correctly – that Brynne would be literally invisible to him until the Headmaster said different. And if things were bad enough for Flitwick to use that power, who knew when he would do so?

His eyes started to sting and water. He shut them tight and tried to blink everything back.

"You can go," he heard Harry tell Sonia. A scraping sound soon followed – his father had pulled up a chair next to his bed. "Are you alright?" his father asked him.

His first thought was to yell and scream and rant and maybe throw a couple of things. But the impulse came back empty, and these actions were left undone for a lack of energy to do them. So, spent, sore, tearful, and feeling about half his age, he could only mutter, "I want to go home."

To his great surprise, he heard his father chuckle. "No, you don't. You want to try to solve this. But you don't think you can – and you're probably right. Or is this about Brynne? I know you must be worried about her…"

"You weren't there, Dad," James said. "You didn't hear it. I've never heard anybody scream like that. Never. I couldn't stop…"

He looked down through his tear-blurred eyes at his hands, which he found were trembling madly.

"It'll be alright."

James felt himself enveloped in two long, strong arms as he quivered awfully, trying not to break down. His father wouldn't have understood or even known, but James knew the truth.

James had lead her to her death.

Of course, her body was still very much alive, and her spirit (if he knew her well enough) perhaps stronger than ever. But the real Brynne, the wide-eyed, dreaming girl he had met almost two years ago, had been slowly dying ever since then.

And there was no way she could have survived this.

Albus

"What do you mean, there's a 'no-contact policy'?" Albus looked on from nearby as Scorpius Malfoy yelled at Tommy Jordan in the Gryffindor common room.

"It's what it sounds like," Tommy answered. "There's to be no contact from students from other houses until further notice, with the exception of Prefects and the Head Boy and Girl. There is magic in place that prevents such contact—"

"My cousin's in Slytherin! Geroff!" Scorpius exclaimed angrily, aggressively shrugging his shoulder to rid it of an unwelcome hand.

"Malfoy's right," Dominique Weasley, of all people, spoke up from the small crowd that had gathered around a couple of the prefects. "What about my brother? Why would Flitwick do something like this, knowing some of us have family in other Houses?"

"Listen, I'm not saying I agree with it," Tommy replied, sounding uncomfortable. "I'm just explaining the situation. My guess is that it'll only be a couple of days, until everyone's had time to cool their heads a bit."

"Cool our heads?" Stephan Vaisey's voice rose over the crowd. "'Oh, maybe if Tuesday comes around, Gryffindor will just forget that a Slytherin tried to murder their head of House.' That's rubbish and you know it, Jordan."

"Vaisey's got a point," Eamonn Temple, the junior Prefect, agreed.

"So what's your solution?" Tommy asked, glaring at him. "Some sort of revenge? Not if you want to keep that badge on your chest, you won't."

"Who am I going to get back? They've carted Claudius off already. He was an outright nutter, anyway. I heard he used the Cruciatus Curse on a girl from his own house, so he's going to go to Azkaban and rot there, I'd guess," Temple replied. "But who's to say that'll be the last, huh? I'm sure after that, Slytherins hexing ours in the halls will look like light work to the Headmaster. It's already been happening most of all year, and we're expected to 'cool our heads'?"

"You are a Hogwarts Prefect, Temple," Tommy said. "So the short answer is 'yes.'"

"I'm also a Gryffindor Prefect, Jordan," Temple replied, his jaw set. "Our job is to help the Headmaster and professors see to the compliance and, more importantly, the well-being of Gryffindor's students. You know as well as I do, the professors and Headmaster have failed us. If they hadn't been so soft on Claudius in January, this never would have happened. They should have expelled him from the off."

"On what precedent?" Tommy asked. "Fights – yes, even brutal ones – happen all the time at Hogwarts. I seem to remember you being in a fair few yourself, Temple."

"That was three years ago," Temple said, in a voice bordering a snarl. "And if Bellamy had called your mother what he called mine, you'd have fought him, too. Or maybe not. Maybe that's what this house has come to nowadays… but not me. Not now. Not ever."

"So what's your plan?"

Everyone's head turned toward the door to the common room as a long-haired boy in his mid-teens entered. Several mutters and shouts of shock filled the high chamber. Someone vaguely behind Albus very clearly yelled, "Godric's balls – it's Murphy!"

"Richard Murphy?" Tommy Jordan seemed shocked to see him. "I thought they'd sent you off to St. Mungo's!"

But Murphy (sporting a bandage on his right cheek that Albus was sure was fresh) seemed to have better things to do than to explain why he wasn't laid up in London's wizarding hospital. "What's your plan, Temple? You gonna get an army together and march a pack of Gryffindor students down to a dungeon we can't get into, to attack a pack of Slytherin students that we can't actually see right now? Is that your plan?"

"Are you thick or did Claudius addle your brain somehow?" asked Temple. "You of all people should know the lengths Slytherin's willing to go to now."

"Of course I know better than you do. I was in the room," Murphy said simply. "That's why I'm not on board with this idiocy."

A couple of the younger students gasped.

"Idiocy? Your brother would have agreed with me if he was here," Temple replied. "Guess that makes him an idiot, too, right?"

"That's enough, Temple!" Tommy shouted. "You're out of line!"

"Who's going to put me 'back in line'? Longbottom?" Temple asked, whirling around. "Of course not. Because he's in a hospital bed in London after one of those snakes almost killed him."

"You're behaving in a way that's unworthy of the badge," Tommy answered.

"Unworthy of the badge?!" Temple lost his temper, his voice elevating to a full shout. It seemed, judging by the way his fists clenched and his arms tensed, that the last bit of restraint he had was being used to stop himself from punching Tommy Jordan on the jaw. "How many of ours have been attacked by Slytherin under your watch?! First Vaisey – now Potter and Murphy and even Professor Longbottom! And those were just the flashy ones! How many Gryffindors have suffered 'accidents' this year? What about Malcolm's practicals, huh? Somebody has to make sure Gryffindor is safe – because you and our Professors and Headmaster Flitwick aren't doing it!"

"That's enough, Temple." Now Greta was joining the conversation. "You can voice your concerns during the next Prefects' meeting if you feel that strongly about it. This isn't the time or the place."

Temple stormed away from his two fellow Prefects in a huff, and the crowd that had gathered around them slowly started to disperse.

Scorpius growled audibly. "What the hell was Flitwick thinking?"

"It could be worse, possibly," Rose tried to reason. "Lena won't have to worry about anyone from Gryffindor bothering her as long as the Veil is up. And it's like Tommy said… it'll probably be for a day or two."

Rose ended up being wrong; for almost a full week after the attack on Neville, Gryffindor students could only see prefects, professors, and other Gryffindors. This was much more eerie than Albus had anticipated. Hogwarts Castle, at times, already felt oversized for the population that lived there during the school year. Quartering the numbers gave the castle a too-vast, abandoned, almost haunted feeling. (Certain ghosts being aware of the situation and playing this up didn't help matters.)

This was especially unnerving in the few double periods they had left. They would go into classrooms and sit down as normal, but half the room would appear empty – even as professors acknowledged and answered unheard questions from students that were theoretically supposed to be there. Toward the end of the week, one poor Gryffindor girl had a full-on nervous breakdown in the middle of the common room and had to be taken to the hospital wing for a Calming Draught. She had a sister in Hufflepuff a year younger, and the two had always been joined at the hip any time they were not separated by their class schedules. The rumor was that news of this particular event leaked outside the castle, causing Professor Flitwick to be buried under a large pile of Howlers from enraged parents demanding that the restriction be lifted. Even nature itself seemed to disapprove of the decision; for several days it was much cooler and cloudier than was usual for May, and it rained all day that Thursday.

On a somewhat lighter note, James looked no worse for wear from the events of that fateful weekend – at least physically. Murphy was also largely unharmed, which rather humorously prompted a newfound reverence for the third-year boy. In many Gryffindors' estimation, surviving someone that could incapacitate Neville Longbottom without more than a few scratches was a feat worthy of legend.

The two didn't seem proud of their accomplishment, though, not even as the news came back that they and the other students involved in stopping Claudius had won fifty points apiece for containing him. James, far from being gratified that he'd achieved at least a small fraction of his father's heroic exploits, seemed drained. There was a shadow on his expression that Albus had never seen before. He looked three times his his age behind the eyes, like someone had passed the entire world to him and had asked him to carry it on his shoulders.

This didn't change even after the Veil was lifted the following Saturday, with Flitwick and (to Albus's great surprise and delight) Neville holding a special assembly for students making it clear that retaliatory attacks would not be tolerated and that everyone was expected to be civil to each other. Slytherin adhered to the letter of this rule but not the spirit; their students started traveling in packs of four and five and (hands inside their robes) glaring at anyone that so much as looked at them wrong. They seemed to be daring someone to give them an excuse to strike back. At least, that's how some Gryffindors saw it; they tended to travel in groups anyway, but the Prefects (Temple especially) made a point of warning them not to wander the halls alone.

In that strange sense, not much changed for Albus in the following weeks. And as much as he hated to admit it to himself, he felt much safer in a knot of his closest friends than he would have otherwise. He tried not to look too afraid for their sakes, but the nagging cloud of unease that had hounded him the last several months had only grown.

"Are you alright?" one of them would ask him every now and again.

Every time, he would respond with, "I'm fine." And all of them – Scorpius, who knew him best; Rose, who knew him longest; and Sylvia, who could read his face as well as anyone – would give him a piteous expression. They all knew he was lying, he thought; but they also seemed to know why he was doing it.

Somehow, time kept marching, as it is wont to do. Exams snuck up on everyone this year. Rose panicked initially, but she got through them just fine as she always did. Scorpius, although he was less prepared than Rose (but then, who wasn't?) seemed to finish decently as well. Sylvia was the least prepared of everyone – and, too proud to ask Rose for help and deal with her smug finger-wagging the entire time, she asked Albus for his aid. He wondered whether not dealing with Rose was worth asking someone with about half Rose's wit, but he accepted; behind History of Magic (for which Albus bluntly told her they would both need to get help from Rowan Lester), Potions was Sylvia's biggest nemesis. Fortunately, it was also Albus's best subject.

In the end, Sylvia smiled warmly at him and said, "I think I passed it," – which was better, Albus thought, than being sure that she had failed.

It was only after exams were over that Albus realized he had missed several good opportunities.

Brynne

"Brynne, you're not eating."

She looked up, her eyes darting from face to face at the Slytherin table. (The thought of House tables turned her stomach, but that had been the rule, among other things, ever since the 'incident.')

"I'm not hungry," she said in reply to whoever had spoken.

"Rubbish," the voice – which Brynne realized was right next to her – insisted. "You said that for lunch, too – and breakfast. Have you really not eaten in a full day?"

"Can you just leave it?" she snapped, looking to her right. Phillip Bletchley's eyes averted from her and then down toward the ground. Brynne felt the awful, leaden weight of guilt settle into her empty stomach, joining the myriad of other heavy things that had been robbing her of her appetite of late.

"You shouldn't do that," Tellius advised her from across the table. "He's only trying to help. We both are."

You can't, Brynne wanted to say – but every time she tried, she choked on the words and her eyes started welling up. Whatever state her mind was in, she had to at least keep up the appearance of strength.

Professor Flitwick got up and started to speak, reminding everyone that they had to have all of their possessions packed by midnight tonight if they were to have them for the summer. Brynne had already packed; she had few things to take home with her.

There was going to be a new procedure for reaching and boarding the Hogwarts Express this year; students would depart the castle by Houses – first Slytherin, then Hufflepuff, then Ravenclaw, then Gryffindor. Each House was to have its own section on the train. This announcement was met by mutinous muttering from the Slytherin table.

"Why do we have to be first out of the castle?" Brynne heard one of the students say angrily.

"It's the Battle of Hogwarts all over again," another (who must have heard the story from a Slytherin parent or relative) said.

Very nearby was Amara Zabini, who had a look on her face Brynne had never seen before. She looked like she wanted to melt under the table and disappear entirely.

"Also, to prevent any further incidents, a squadron of Hit Wizard trainees will be assigned to the Hogwarts Express," Flitwick went on. "They will have full power to make arrests at their discretion, so be warned. Most of you know, any arrest by a Department of Magical Law Enforcement authority constitutes an indefinite suspension from Hogwarts until any court case is settled, so it would be in your own best interest not to run afoul of them."

"Hit Wizards?" This announcement finally got under Tellius Nott's skin. "So, what, all of Slytherin House is going to be treated like criminals now? What kind of rubbish is that?"

"Probably Longbottom's idea," Phillip Bletchley replied, his face contorted with venom as he stared down at the table. "The Aurors got hold of Claudius, so he had to take his frustrations out on someone…"

In the week or two following the attack, Brynne had found the courage to blurt out once or twice that Claudius was innocent. Both times, it prompted apologetic looks and sad smiles from the people around her. Most were convinced that she had gone into that room off her rocker from the beginning – and after what had happened, anything she said was apparently to be dismissed as the ravings of a mentally addled torture victim.

But what Claudius – no, what Morris Beal – had done to her, had not driven her mad. It had brought the nightmares back twice as awful as they had been, to the point where she'd awoken her entire dormitory room once or twice with the screaming and had been forced to spend the night in the hospital wing. But she was not mad. In fact, in her estimation, she was one of the few sane people in this castle. She was not mad. The world around her had gone mad, but she saw perhaps more clearly than she had ever seen.

Of course, that still made her mad in everyone else's eyes… and the fact that she'd been caught audibly trying to convince herself that she was not a nutter, wasn't helping her case with the rest of Hogwarts.

Eventually, she went completely silent.

"Lastly," the old headmaster creaked, "Our own Head of Gryffindor House, Professor Longbottom, has a special announcement he would like to make to all of you."

Brynne had hardly heard a silence so thick – or so uncomfortable – as when Neville Longbottom rose from the staff table and rounded it to approach the podium, which rose to the occasion quite literally as it stretched to accommodate his much greater height. The Slytherin table was on pins and needles, staring across the room at the Gryffindors as if daring them to cheer. Likewise, the Gryffindors seemed to be waiting for the slightest provocation. Meanwhile, the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws waited tensely in between at the two inside tables, probably wondering if they were about to get caught in the crossfire of a full-on open battle.

Professor Longbottom gripped the podium with both of his hands. It seemed to take him a moment or two to gather himself, and then he started speaking:

"Most of you have heard by now of my exploits in the War, and the period immediately after," he said. "I'm not asking for you to applaud any of that – Merlin knows I've had quite enough fame and attention to be going on with. I'm only using that as a point of reference. I've seen a lot of things – gone on many adventures, you could say. Some of those things were very sad, some were very frightening. But I survived them all, and I'm still here. Now, though… I'm getting ready to go on what you could call another adventure. With this one, as with most of the other ones, I'm not sure where it'll end. And I'm not sure when it will bring me back to Hogwarts."

Audible gasps scattered around the Great Hall.

"So before I leave for points unknown," he continued, "I want to impress upon every student here what an honor it's been teaching you – all of you. Thank you."

He vacated the podium, and went sent off with near silence; no one seemed to know what to make of this latest announcement. Without more to say, and seemingly at a loss as to how to follow Professor Longbottom, the Headmaster followed him back to the staff table. The feast resumed.

"I heard he was asked to step down," Bletchley muttered, not sounding at all sad about it.

"I don't think that's it," Brynne said. "He makes it sound like he'll be back – at some point."

"Who's going to be Head of House for Gryffindor, then?" Nott queried. "Hagrid, I guess?"

"Doubt it," Bletchley muttered. "He's…"

"He's what, exactly?" Nott asked, his mouth unusually tight.

"He's fair at teaching his own subject, I guess," Bletchley muttered, "but he's not very… he doesn't come off as a leader, really. He's a bit too nice for his own good. And it'd take him away from his pets."

"So, Wenster, then?" asked Nott.

"God, I hope not," Bletchley said seriously. "Next year will be hell if that happens."

Lucan Wenster had been a Gryffindor student, years upon years ago, and had been hired by Madam McGonagall (who, even at her age, was several years his junior) to take her place as Transfiguration professor and Head of Gryffindor. Just three years ago, he had willingly ceded his position as Head of House to Longbottom, who had half his years and twice his popularity. Wenster wasn't old in the same way Flitwick was old. While Flitwick was your tiny old grandfather that would clasp your hand and secretly leave a Galleon in your fist with a wink and a wizened smile, Wenster was the type of old man that was more likely to be seen sitting tensely in a much-too-hard rocking chair, scowling at the children across the street because they were far too close to his fenced-in lawn.

He also disliked Slytherins, and unlike others, made no attempt to hide as much. Everyone sort of dealt with this, though, and accepted that it would never change. After all, he was old enough to remember one Tom Riddle as a fellow Hogwarts student – which was quite old indeed.

"Maybe he'll retire before, or snuff it—" Bletchley mused.

"Phillip!" Brynne uttered with all the tone of a scolding mother.

"That's not funny, mate," Tellius echoed, looking uncomfortable.

"Wasn't a joke," Bletchley answered with a completely straight face. "He's, what, ninety? Or close enough. I mean, to have gone to school with Voldemort himself… anyway, there's nothing we can do about it now." He downed the rest of his goblet in one. "Nothing but be ready for whatever happens."

Against logic, Brynne slept very well that night… which was good. As it turned out, the Slytherins being on the first set of carriages to Hogsmeade meant that they had to be up at five in the morning. It was in a drowsy haze that she climbed into one of the carriages shortly after six, joined by Bletchley and Nott.

As the carriages silently started to roll away from the castle, Brynne opened her mouth to speak.

But something ghostly hit her with a knife between the shoulder blades – or at least, that's what it felt like. Familiar with this sensation but caught off guard by it this time, she curled up at the limbs and winced. If she could breathe – even short, shallow breaths – and grit her teeth long enough, it would eventually pass.

"Why didn't you listen to me?" Brynne heard, once her senses worked again. Gingerly, she lifted her head and looked up into Tellius Nott's concerned face. But it was not he who had spoken.

Brynne shrugged her shoulders forcefully, causing the hands that were on them to withdraw.

"Brynne…"

"Stop," she finally snapped, lashing out at the other voice. "Stop talking. Just stop."

She heard her own breath come out shallow and ragged. She couldn't see. She blinked to try to clear her eyes.

She froze and felt a hand touch her face. Part of her wondered why she wasn't pulling away, why she hadn't found the hand's owner and starting punching for all she was worth. It was only after it left that Brynne realized the hand had been wiping away a tear. Barely composed now, she looked up at Bletchley staring at her. A bunch of things went through her mind at once. She was almost sure, at the end, that he was going to lean in toward her, and she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to turn him down this time. She was curious, and scared, and hurting. She wanted the knowledge, but needed the comfort. And she needed to answer a question for herself.

Can what feels like fate be defied? It seemed her story was drawing her toward certain inexorable conclusions. But she hated being forced down a path – even if the path was not wholly bad. She hated being forced to do anything. Thus, she would see if an alternative of her own choosing felt better…

Somewhat to her surprise in that moment, her first kiss never came. Bletchley looked away, in fact, and as warm as his eyes had been toward her, the gaze he gave the soup of trees and fog outside the carriage was frigid. It was if whatever nobility and compassion had been inside of him, had died.

"I don't get it," he said. "Every time you get close to him, something bad happens to you. Why do you keep going back?"

Bletchley was trying to get her to realize something. But Brynne had held the same conversation with herself for many nights in a row. She noticed the pattern, too. Maybe it was simply coincidence, or bad luck. Maybe it was a hint of something darker – some sort of curse, even. Brynne had started to wonder herself – until one night, when she found herself in a hospital wing bed because of the nightmares, and she lay awake, afraid to sleep again, and wishing one person above all could be there to visit her…

"You're really blaming Potter for this?" Nott queried. "Claudius was the one—"

"She was only there because she was following Potter, right?" asked Bletchley. "…Weren't you?" he turned to Brynne and asked.

"No one's ever forced me to do anything," Brynne replied after a while. But then the pain came again, and she was forced to bend double and shut her eyes tight in order to deal with it without screaming.

"Is it ever going to stop hurting?" Nott asked, rather clinically, when Brynne stopped seizing. Everyone she had talked to had said, yes, the chronic stabs of sharp pain would stop. But it had been weeks since then.

Brynne looked up at Nott, and with the very thought of it choking her, she answered the only way she knew how: "I don't know."

Brynne shut her eyes again. But it was not her body that was hurting her this time. And what Bletchley said didn't help:

"I wish I could make it stop. But I can't… so I'm going to make someone pay for it."

"This isn't about you and Potter," Tellius argued, rather louder than he usually spoke.

"You're right, it's not," Bletchley said. "There were a bunch of Gryffindors in that room that night. None of them gave enough of a damn to stop this from happening. Sure, they would've done if it was one of their own. But not her. Not Brynne. And you and I both know why. Potter and Murphy and Longbottom are walking around just fine. And it's not because she's weak."

Brynne's ears and eyes perked up.

She must have had an expression of disbelief on her face, because Bletchley firmly said, "You heard me. You're not weak. You've got twice the courage of anybody in the so-called 'house of chivalry and brave deeds.'"

Brynne had needed to hear something like that, so she chose to believe him for now. And when they finally reached the train, and she cornered herself nearest the window, he sat down next to her, gave her his hand, and told her to grip it hard if the pain came back again.

She had no idea what was ahead, but it made the here and now just a bit easier.

James

James glanced over to his right from the window seat. To his great disappointment, for about the fifth time, it was Dathan Rama who was seated next to him. He was deep in slumber, his head lolled back at an angle that made James cringe and question how deep slumber in such a position was even possible. Martin Croyle had been in their compartment with them (they jumped on the chance to invite him to fill the empty spot before Cecil Brookstanton showed up), but he was off at the toilet at the moment.

James glanced back out toward the window.

That's done, he tried to remind himself. No use thinking about it.

"You miss her, don't you?" Murphy asked from across the compartment.

"Doesn't matter," James replied immediately. They were atop a bridge over an iron-gray lake that James, through several of these trips, gauged as about the halfway point of the journey. The colors outdoors were not full – they'd had rain the first few hours of the trip. It had mercifully stopped and the skies were beginning to clear, but the sun had not reappeared yet and the lack of light outside made it appear somewhat later than mid-afternoon.

His thoughts turned from one redheaded girl to another.

That's why I was in for this. She's why. Lily – my sister. She's taking this train back to Hogwarts with us in three months, and all I wanted was to make sure it was a safe place for her. Or, at least, as safe as Hogwarts can ever get. I guess I should have known it wouldn't be that easy.

We failed. I failed.

Beal took his N.E.W.T.s and graduated looking like a hero. God only knows where he is now. And what's worse, Claudius is in Azkaban for the crimes Beal committed – because no one could prove it was Beal who committed them. He's good at covering his tracks. He did it last year with the fire, and now this.

No one could stop him. And we all almost died trying…

But I can't give up.

"Can you maybe get an owl to Brynne?" asked Murphy.

James sighed. "Even if I could, I don't think she wants to hear from me."

"She looked just fine the last time I saw her," Murphy pointed out. "For what that's worth. I don't think she's the one avoiding you—"

"Just drop it, alright?" James, for a moment, actually wanted to snap and yell his request, but he couldn't muster the energy right then. "There are bigger things going on."

This caused Murphy to fall silent again, but only for a moment.

"It's not your fault, you know. What happened to her."

"How's that?" asked James cynically. "We had the map – my map. And that's what led us straight to him."

"Do you really think she would have been there if she hadn't wanted to?" Murphy asked. "You think I would have been there if I hadn't wanted to?"

James buried his head in his hands.

"We really bollocksed it up," he groaned. "We're in over our heads, mate."

"Bad time to put them down, then," Murphy answered. James removed his head from his hands and looked up again. Murphy's face was not panicked, but was in a grave, thoughtful squint. And it was at this angle that James could make it out – a thin, barely-there scar under Murphy's right eye. And although the wound itself had healed thanks to Madam Pomfrey's expertise, what existed of the scar would remain there for the rest of his life. James almost had to laugh at the irony. "We'll think of something. Or someone else will, and we can help them."

James leaned back in his seat. He wasn't sure if they could actually do anything now.

But on the off chance we can, he thought, we've got to try, don't we?

The door to their compartment slid open and Martin Croyle appeared in the threshold.

"You guys know Everett Bloom? Sixth year? Well… seventh now, I guess…"

James glanced at Murphy. Both looked at Croyle and shook their heads.

"Well…" Croyle flopped into the empty seat next to Murphy. "If you ever need to go, and you see him coming out of a toilet, hold it and find another toilet."

Murphy made a sound that recalled a chuckle.

James found himself somewhat sad then. He missed that. Missed being able to sit at the tables in the Great Hall together and converse with his friends – any and all of them, no matter what house they belonged to.

Maybe something like that being the inspiration for his wanting to fight back against what was happening… maybe it was selfish, he thought. Maybe it wasn't heroic and sacrificial enough. Maybe it was even unbecoming of the name of 'Potter'.

…But then, he'd never asked for the name of 'Potter' anyway.

"Croyle," he asked – probably a bit louder and more urgently than he'd meant to. Both Croyle and Murphy jolted slightly and turned to look at him. "What do you know about the feud between the houses?"

Croyle's expression changed for a moment, registering the strangeness of the question. Then, he bit his lip in thought. "I know how it started. The two founders – Gryffindor and Slytherin, that is – had a falling out. Slytherin didn't want to let Muggle-born wizards into Hogwarts. Gryffindor disagreed with him, and I guess the other founders did, too, because he eventually just left."

James raised his eyebrows. Of course someone would have told him that. Being a Muggle-born, Croyle probably would have been told by some well-meaning older Gryffindor that Slytherins were a mostly pure-blood lot that disdained those of what they would call 'lesser blood status' – which wasn't true anymore. Or, at least, it wasn't nearly as true as it once had been.

"Do you know why it's still going on?" James asked.

Croyle thought… and thought… and thought.

"Not really," he admitted. "I always thought it was like football clubs. I'm from North London. Tottenham. My family and I have backed the Spurs as long as I can remember. We're rivals with Arsenal. The matches are always fierce, and fans of each club can't stand the other one. My dad would always take us to the Spurs' matches, but never when we played Arsenal. It was too nasty. Fans would get into fights, especially after they'd had a few drinks… they'd just go find someone that wasn't wearing the right colors and start swinging. And that's what Gryffindor and Slytherin have been doing all these years, isn't it? It's kind of stupid, really, now that I think about it. I mean… are we still divided into Houses or blood status when we're all grown up and out of Hogwarts? Aren't we all… just wizards?"

James and Murphy shared a meaningful glance.

A small victory.

"You're exactly right, mate," Murphy replied, drumming his fingers on the windowsill and staring out at the rolling meadows outside their window. The sun was just starting to show itself. "You're exactly right."

END