Michael Corner is not a stranger to keeping his head down. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, stares at the floor a few feet in front of him. The Death Eater is rooting through his trunk, and Michael feels his fingers twitch, if only because it had taken him a good two hours to fold everything and pack everything until everything fit just right.

Michael tells himself he is the son of two halfbloods. He has nothing illegal. He has straight O's and E's. He has nothing to be afraid of. Not yet.

The Death Eater stands up, kicks his trunk, and tells Michael that he's passed inspection. Michael mutters thanks, kneels carefully and starts the tedious task of refolding, repacking.

Terry Boot has all his things, apart from his cat, in a backpack, because his mother had woken him at three in the morning and told him to run. He'd packed the bag months ago, after Dumbledore's funeral, packed it with healing potions and a few books and two changes of clothes and a bag of hash and Weasley products.

The Death Eater rummages through all of it, even checking that there's nothing in the rolled-up socks. He throws the empty bag at Terry when he's finished. "Couldn't afford anything proper?"

Anthony's parents had offered to lend him a trunk; he'd refused it.

Terry licks his lips nervously and kneels to shove everything back into his bag, picks up his cat. His parents would tell him it isn't worth a fight; he gives the Death Eater a polite nod, and hurries toward the castle.

Anthony Goldstein watches the Death Eater closely, winces when the Death Eater finds his yarmulke in his trunk and frowns at it, flipping it over and over.

"What is it?"

Anthony shrugs.

The Death Eater snorts and tosses it back into the trunk. "If it's some Muggle talisman, the Carrows will find it," he warns.

"Noted," says Anthony, a bit higher pitched than is dignified.

A learned man came to me once.
He said, "I know the way, - come."
And I was overjoyed at this.

It's surreal, seeing Snape in the chair that had been Dumbledore's for so long. They sit through the Sorting, and then Professor Snape stands up and gives a long, tedious speech on the new rules. It's the sort of thing that they should be concerned about, which means it's the sort of thing that Terry's making light of.

"Any students found out of bed after eleven PM not on school business," he says, and Terry mouths the rest of the sentence with him. "Will be given detention."

"Any students who are found in possession of the propagandist publication 'The Quibbler' will be—"

"Given detention," whispers Terry. Michael shoots a look at Luna Lovegood; she's sitting a few feet down from them, neatly folding a napkin into charming shapes. A swan, now. A flower. Next to him, Anthony is writing the rules down on a notepad, one hand knotted in his hair nervously.

Tosser, thinks Terry fondly.

"And, as always, the Forest is forbidden for all students to enter, and any students found outside the grounds at any time will—"

"Be given detention," says Terry, now louder than a proper whisper. Padma glances over at him and Michael swats him on the shoulder.

"You realize what they've done," whispers Anthony, as food appears. His voice is overwhelmed by the immediate swell of voices. "They're restricting outside sources of information or news, they're forcing everyone to take Muggle Studies, they're searching the mail—"

"Yeah," says Terry, and he helps himself to a generous serving of potatoes. "They want us to start buying into their anti-Muggle shit."

"Propaganda," says Anthony. "It's propaganda, that's what it—"

"They can't change our minds for us," says Michael. "Come off it."

Terry shakes his head rather than add to the conversation, and they all finish their meals in relative quiet, as though they've said everything that needs to be said, even though they never have. Anthony ditches them to help usher the first years to the Tower, and Terry and Michael head to their dorm alone.

Kevin Entwhistle is Muggleborn, Michael remembers, too late. He wonders if Kevin is in Azkaban. Or dead, or on the run. He shoots a look at Terry, who's frozen staring at Kevin's bed, like he's just remembered too.

Stephen Cornfoot shows up a minute later. "'Lo," he murmurs, and he flips the lid of his trunk and gets his pyjamas out. Terry gets into bed without even changing. Anthony comes in a moment later and drops his Prefect badge on his pillow as though it's burning him.

"Professor Flitwick wanted to talk to everyone before bed," he says. Terry smacks at his bedside table until he finds his glasses.

Professor Flitwick gives them all a long look, considering them. Ravenclaws are sitting on tables, on the arms of chairs and sofas, piled around the room. There are not enough of them to pack the room, but they sit uncomfortably close together anyway.

"You all know what the risks of this year are," Flitwick says, his high voice unusually grave. Nobody responds; Michael and Anthony both glance at Terry. Terry's parents are dead. Or in Azkaban, or on the run. They can't say for sure. Terry shifts uncomfortably.

"It's not in our blood as Ravenclaws to rush headfirst into danger," says Flitwick. He had to stand on a table to be able to see everyone. "But it is in our blood to think for ourselves. Don't let our new teachers, or anything else, decide what you believe. Use your intellects. Do your own research. This year will be dreadful, we all know that. It's up to all of you how you decide to react."

Michael and Terry look at each other, then at Anthony. None of them would ever claim to be brave. They are all wondering the same thing: what, then, will they decide?

Together we hastened.
Soon, too soon, were we
Where my eyes were useless,
And I knew not the ways of my feet.

Ravenclaw seventh years don't have a class with either of the Carrow siblings until the third day of term. By that time, though, the students who have had Muggle Studies or Defense Against the Dark Arts have already managed to spread about fifty different stories about the Carrows, some of them conflicting wildly. The Hogwarts rumour mill works with unbelievable speed.

Muggle Studies is a double lesson with the Hufflepuffs. Carrow gives them a frightening speech about Muggles; the few of them who steal magic, the way Muggles would kill them all if they could, how they're useless alone but dangerous in a mob.

The stories say that Seamus Finnigan was slapped, that Ginny Weasley received detention. That the Carrows yell at students who do nothing wrong and threaten students who say anything out of turn.

Terry shoots a look at Anthony, who is taking careful notes, twisting his hair around his fingers with his other hand. Terry glances to the other side at Michael, who is slouching in his chair but watching and listening closely, eyes narrow, mouth slanted doubtfully.

Slander disguised as indisputable fact. It's terrifying.

Nobody dares to rebel. They are not Gryffindors.

But Anthony explodes the moment they are over the threshold of the classroom. "Utter shit."

Terry nods and keeps pace, putting one hand on Anthony's elbow warningly. They are in earshot of the classroom. "I know, mate. Keep it—"

"People can't steal magic," says Anthony, whose mother is a Muggle. "Muggles aren't subhuman. Muggles aren't beasts."

Padma shakes her head. "Be careful, Anthony," she says.

Michael puts his hands in his pockets and keeps step with Anthony. Says, quietly, "You have to have expected this."

He had, really. He shakes his head, looks sideways at Michael. "It's still wrong."

Defense Against the Dark Arts is, if possible, worse. "We're not learning defense," complains Anthony. "We're learning about the Dark Arts."

"What did you expect?" Michael says, unhelpfully.

Anthony snorts. He is shaking. In anger, maybe, or in fear, or some combination of the two.

"Do you guys remember the DA?" Padma asks them. She has pulled them over to the corner of the Common Room. "Fifth year?"

"Yeah," says Michael.

"Parvati says that they're thinking about restarting it. They're going to hold a meeting," says Padma, lowering her voice and leaning in.

"They?" asks Michael. Harry Potter isn't here this year, and neither are Ron Weasley or Hermione Granger. It hadn't been a surprise to any of them.

"Ginny Weasley, apparently," says Padma, then shoots a wary glance at Michael, who had dated her for over a year. He adopts an aloof expression and Padma continues. "My sister says that she and her friends are restarting it."

"Because never mind detention," says Terry. "Let's get thrown in Azkaban instead!"

"I mean, it'd be useful," says Anthony reasonably. "We aren't going to learn anything good in Defense anyway."

"Are you daft?" says Michael. "Terry's right. This isn't about passing our OWLs with good scores. Do you really want to risk it?"

"Yeah," says Terry, to Michael's surprise. Michael raises his eyebrows at him and he shrugs. "I mean it's the least I can do. Mike, people are dying—" He cuts himself off at the same time Michael does; he's been doing very well at not thinking about that.

"Exactly," says Michael, oblivious. "Do you want to be one of them?"

Michael has done one thing in his life that can be properly counted as rebellious: he joined an illicit study group at fifteen. The situation then was dire, he'd thought. His OWLS were at stake and a tyrant ruled Hogwarts. He sits in the Room of Requirement, turning the counterfeit Galleon over in his hands.

The situation is dire. The world is at stake and a Death Eater rules Hogwarts. He wonders if this means it's time for another act of rebellion. He's about due, anyway.

Ginny has her arms folded, Luna Lovegood and Neville Longbottom flanking her like mismatched bookends. Michael avoids looking at her directly. He is not bitter about their breakup, but it certainly wasn't amiable.

"You all know why we're here. We're here because You-Know-Who has taken over the Ministry and the school, and we need to fight back." Ginny isn't particularly imposing, but just now she looks older than sixteen, determined and fierce. "This isn't about homework or exams anymore. This is about standing up for what's right. If anyone wants to leave, I don't blame you. All I ask is that you don't tell anyone."

"What, that's it?" asks Seamus Finnigan from the far left. "We're staking everything on the hope that nobody here is going to tell?"

"This isn't the sort of thing that gets us put in detention," says Ginny. "This gets us expelled, and once we leave school, we lose the protection we have as students. I trust everyone in this room. I don't think anyone here would wish that on anyone."

Michael tips his head back. That's a stupid idea if he ever heard one. He hasn't got it in him to stand up to Death Eaters. He wonders if his friends do, either.

He's a Ravenclaw for God's sake. He does not pride himself on his morals, or his bravery, or his selflessness, or anything like a spine. All he has is morbid curiosity. He knows what's right and what's wrong, or at least he thinks he does. He doubts he has it in him to stand up for it.

Ginny tells them that there will be another meeting in three days. Three days to think about it, and if anyone decides they don't want to stay in the DA, they can leave then, no harm done, no judgement. With that the meeting is over. Everybody leaves the room in clumps. Tiny clumps—there are so few of them left.

"I don't like this," says Michael, the moment they've crossed the threshold. "It stakes too much on us being able to keep quiet."

Terry and Anthony agree. They walk in companionable silence for a little while. Terry rubs one hand over his face and almost knocks his glasses off.

"I mean, they're Death Eaters," says Michael. "Who's to say they aren't going to do things for information?" He is thinking about Amycus Carrow, and the nasty list of spells he'd defined on Friday.

Terry makes a pained face and Anthony shoots Michael a warning look. Michael catches the hint and drops the subject.

He isn't sure what it is that drives him to rejoin Dumbledore's Army. Perhaps it's that terrible curiosity every Ravenclaw possesses- what happens to him if he does? what happens to them all? what can they do? Perhaps it's his NEWTs. Moral quandaries aside, he doesn't trust a Death Eater to teach Defense worth a damn.

Perhaps it's his friends' influence—they'd done it right away. They're both good people and perhaps Michael wishes he was too. Or perhaps he's a good person too, somewhere.

I clung to the hand of my friend;
But at last he cried, "I am lost."

[Poem: A learned man came to me once, Stephen Crane. Thank you for reading.]