A/N: Thank you so much for all the reads and reviews! As my semester draws to a close, I will certainly do my damnedest to write back to all of you, because your comments, concerns, and even criticisms really do keep me going. So, thank you, truly.

And a special, bigbigbig thanks to my beta for her excellent work with this chapter.

I hope all of you enjoy it!

Thinking back on their conversations that night, Quinn begins to question how easily they fell into the comfort provided by one another. They shared secrets, as well as their most private fears.

"I'm worried, Quinn," was Hermione's first profound revelation. "For Harry, for everyone."

From her place on the floor, staring at her hands, Quinn interlaced her fingers. There was no sense in asking why. Quinn knew, and so did Hermione. So, the former merely persisted.

"I just can't shake this feeling that I have," her voice dropped to a sullen whisper. In spite of this, Quinn didn't need to strain. She heard her as loud and as clear as though she was speaking directly into her ear. "This feeling that something dreadful is just around the corner. It has me on a constant edge."

Quinn nodded, her mouth miserably dry. She didn't know how to articulate her own feelings into words but they were almost painfully synonymous with Hermione's.

"Then again, I suppose you understand this more than anyone," Hermione uttered without judgment, peering over at Quinn from beneath her eyelashes. "Being clairvoyant and all."

"I-" the observation caught Quinn off-guard. She shrugged, abruptly flustered. "I don't know, I guess."

"Have you..." Visibly hesitating, Hermione combed her teeth over her bottom lip. "I know it's not my place to ask, but have you... seen anything, Quinn?"

Quinn went rigid. Having been so resolved to avoid her so-called 'gift' as much as she could, the thought of actually addressing it outwardly terrified her. She drew her legs up to her chest and fought against a sharp intake of breath. Already her pulse was reckless and swift. She expected her palms and the backs of her knees to begin sweating at any moment.

"No," Hermione broke her second-long panic with an apologetic intonation. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. Forgive me. I often forget how overwhelming this must still be for you."

Her apology was genuine and radiant with sentiment, but still Quinn felt compelled to combat it with truth. Balling her hands into fists, the blonde exhaled, her flesh prickling with its usual anxiety.

"Are you aware of how my powers work?" she willed herself to say, using every last ounce of her strength to keep her voice from shaking.

"I'm afraid that I'm not."

She summoned up all of her courage and her tenacity. Hermione would become only the third (to Quinn's knowledge) person to know, aside from Trelawney and Emmeline.

"By touch," was all she could manage at first as her hands unfurled, revealing her mildly glistening palms. Her misery was written, clear as day, on her face, and she didn't even try to hide it. Hermione was watching her, dark brown eyes simply unfathomable in their depths. "That's why I..."

"Oh, Quinn," Hermione essentially hummed her name as she scooted closer. Unconsciously, the Seer recoiled a bit. "If I had known, I would have-"

"No," Quinn shook her head, heart galloping in her chest. "It doesn't matter."

"But I-" Briefly lost in thought, Hermione soon struggled for words. "You- my parents! They shook your hand!"

"I know," the green-eyed witch swallowed the words, a poignant mixture of relief and anxiety etched on the lines of her face.

"Did you..."

"No," breathing out once more, Quinn enveloped herself with her arms slightly. "I can't control them, the visions. Not yet. I don't know why I didn't see anything when I shook your parents' hands." She paused then, cheeks burning as she tried to ascertain whether or not she even wanted to go on. "Every time you and I have touched, I've never seen anything, either."

When Hermione didn't say anything right away, Quinn sought to rectify her uncomfortably cryptic revelation.

"I mean, I guess I've touched others and seen nothing, but..."

Beside her, Hermione shifted again, rising up on her knees to move nearer. Acutely aware of herself and her surroundings, Quinn's jaw grew taut. Now moving to sit up on her knees just in front of her, Hermione tried to meet Quinn's gaze but to little effect.

"What if you took my hands in yours now?" she queried, her expression pensive yet solemn.

Clearly taken aback, Quinn gaped at her at first, her fingers itching as her eyes found their way to the other girl's curled hands. The idea of grasping a hold of someone, much less Hermione, willingly was close to first on her list of things she never wanted to do.

"No."

"You said it yourself." In spite of her passion for the idea, Hermione was notably soft with Quinn. "You and I have touched before, and you've seen nothing. Where's the harm in confirming that theory? It will give you one less person to worry over."

"I appreciate the sentiment," her own bitterness took Quinn by surprise. "But no, absolutely not. I don't want to risk it."

"What are you afraid of, Quinn?" she pressed, eyebrows furrowing in a way that betrayed her patience.

"Nothing."

"Clearly, that is not the truth."

Quinn's nostrils flared slightly as she glowered at the witch in front of her. Her temper and fear started to expand, then, rudely displaying themselves in ripples of the perilous green pools of her eyes.

"I don't know what I'll see," was her vague reply.

"Well, obviously-"

"I don't want to foresee your death, all right? Or anyone's!" The latter was thrust forward as a brusque afterthought. For a moment, Quinn permitted her aggravation to take hold. "I've never seen anything good in these visions, Hermione. It's all death, fire, and brimstone!"

When Hermione didn't reply right away, Quinn continued.

"There's a reason that I try my damn hardest to avoid touching anyone, Hermione. The future is grim. It sucks," reduced to childish explanations, she licked her lips in frustration, unable to meet Hermione's eyes. "I don't want to see you, or anyone I care about, die."

The confession left her mouth without conscious thought or regret. As hot as it burned her veins, she wasn't shy about admitting it. Whether she liked it or not, Hermione had gotten under her skin. She did care about her.

Hermione gave off what looked to be a frown at first but what eventually showed itself to be an anguished smile. With her knuckles rolling against her knees, Quinn watched her fight the urge to reach out to her again.

"Everyone dies, Quinn. We can't evade death forever. It's unnatural," Hermione whispered, silently calling upon the other witch to meet her gaze. They stared into one another's eyes, transfixed.

"Don't you think I know that?" This time, Quinn's voice wasn't irritated or even accusatory. It was honest and forlorn - gentle, even. "I don't need to be reminded. I don't want to be reminded."

Silence clung to the air, comfortable where Quinn supposed it should have been unsettling. It was in this moment that Hermione held out her hands, palms up.

"Take my hands, Quinn," she implored, their eyes never once wavering from the other's. "I'm unafraid. Please... let me help you learn to feel the same."

For all her nervousness, the Seer didn't realize that her lips were now parted. Her green stare became enveloped in the alluring watch of those brown eyes. She released the tense breath that had gathered in her chest. It was then – and only then – that her eyes wandered down to the invitation offered in Hermione's palms.

It felt like a lifetime before the silken promise of palm against palm greeted her. Unexpectedly, Quinn held her breath, holding on for dear life as her thumbs brushed the backs of Hermione's hands.

She saw nothing but the blind determination reflected perfectly in Hermione's eyes.

. . .

Days pass, and that foreign sensation of accomplishment never quite leaves Quinn in spite of the civil war that rages on within herself. After that night, she left with a conflicting sense of understanding and fear. It had been that which sparked the battle inside of her. Anger and concern quickly married to give birth to the realization that, the closer she gets to Hermione, the more danger the other girl would be in for. This is, of course, ignoring the already established fact that one of her best friends is the (in)famous boy-wizard, Harry Potter who had essentially been born with a red bull's-eye scrawled across his back. What good would more bad incentive do for a girl who already had so much on her record?

Sure, Quinn took her hands, a rightful step forward. Yet as soon as her feet touched the welcome mat later that night, Quinn took several giant leaps backward. She swore to erect walls between them again, in an attempt to salvage the days of old when they pretended to loathe one another.

She does this even with the knowledge that they can never again revisit those days. Hermione knows too much, and so does Quinn. They had both grown irrevocably, and no amount of blocking or deflecting techniques could keep Hermione out of her system. That ship had sailed long ago. Hermione had long since effectively crawled beneath her skin. There would be no uprooting her. It's simply impossible.

Frustrated beyond belief, Quinn clenches her fists causing her knuckles to burn with white. She swears beneath her breath, her tongue hot with her irritation as she paces her room, thankful that her mother is out on another dinner date with her new man of choice, Paul.

In two days time, she would be on a train heading back to Hogwarts. Dutifully, she evaded multiple letters of concern from Hermione, June, Luna, and - perhaps most surprisingly - Emmeline. She wrote them back and essentially, wrote them off, but Emmeline's was the one that captured the most of her attention.

As she conjures up the memory of the content of the letter, her eyes drift over to where it sits, opened, on her messy desktop.

Quinn,

I offer my sincerest apologies for my prolonged absence and distance from you as of late. My relationship with you as your mentor is important to me, and I can only assume how confused you may have felt by my absence. As it happened, I had unexpected personal business to attend to, but I shall see you this term. Remember my advice to you, and we will meet at our usual times.

Wishing you the best,
Emmeline Vance

Quinn spent hours wracking her brain over that last cryptic sentence. 'Remember my advice to you,' it read, and even now, as she considers it at the present, her eyebrows furrow. Emmeline has given her heaps of advice pertaining to virtually all aspects of life as far as the magical realm goes. The ambiguous nature of her letter left an uneasy feeling in Quinn that she couldn't quite shake. Sure, it seemed harmless enough - understandable, even, but it didn't sit right with her. This is what led Quinn to the decision to approach Emmeline about this as soon as possible, if only to ease her already worry-ridden mind. It would be one less thing to agonize over on her perpetually expanding list.

Her arrival at Platform 9 3/4 two days later proves to be both equally comforting and unsettling. An odd pair, no doubt, but as she stands toting her owl beneath her arm, looking blankly at the train, she greets the opposite sentiments with hesitation. She is apprehensive, and yet she isn't sure why. Something about this trip back to Hogwarts feels too surreal or, perhaps, too final. Either way, it takes the final hoot of the train to call her back to attention before she is boarding at last. She takes a seat in a compartment with nameless and faceless strangers, and she says nothing pending their arrival. Quinn sits alone with her apprehension.

. . .

The gravity of returning to Hogwarts is unspeakable. As others brush past her, eager to return to their magical lives, Quinn feels caught in the crossfire of their shared enthusiasm. There is a renewed heaviness in her feet. As though weights are wound around her ankles, she hesitates at the mouth of the Great Hall with her palms aching painfully. Swallowing, she brushes her hands against her skirt, only vaguely aware of the uncanny shift in the air around her.

The sensation is stark only a moment after, grasping Quinn directly behind her eyes and pulling her in. A voice prods at the back of her mind, whispering, imploring. She thinks it wishes to call her back, but instead, she's stepping forward.

Suddenly, her feet are bare. Her legs, once exposed by the rise of her school uniform, are shrouded in the purest white. Quinn's chest expands, and the scent of decay, of death, storms into her nostrils, nearly choking her. Pulse racing, she spins about, barely noticing the elongated sway of her too-white gown. Horror paints her face, and she knows all too quickly where she has gone.

"I've slipped..." the final word dies on the threshold of her dry, dry lips. She is overcome with dismay, with the beating of one thousand hearts - like drums - in her mind, escalating. Quinn sees not the Great Hall as it had been only moments before: bright, fresh, alive. She sees it as she knows it will become.

There are limp figures.

"Oh, god-" her voice breaks off into a silent wail.

Bodies. They are bodies. Broken, sullied, lifeless. They litter the Great Hall, coated in ash and congealed blood. She sputters, falling back against the arch of the large gathering area. Her legs become caught, however - entangled in what she thinks is her dress. This is, of course, before her eyes shoot frantically downward in a last ditch effort to reclaim what remains of her balance.

Someone has grabbed her ankles, has called her name. She knows that voice. Her throat constricts. She knows that face.

"Ron?" all but asphyxiating on his name, she yelps as her fingernails snag the stone wall during her descent. She lands on her knees, essentially bent over the boy's crumpled form.

"Help me," he begs, spewing blood from his lips that dares to taint the flawless gossamer glow of Quinn's ethereal robes. "Help me... please."

He's grasping at her frock now, tugging and pulling at the corset of her dress in a dying man's desperation. Quinn doesn't know why, but her eyes are burning horribly. Then, before she knows it, she's crying as though she knows this boy, as though she has any right at all to cry for him.

"I'll help you," she insists with an unfortunate warble in her voice. Her eyes move down to her gown. It's stained so crimson that she, for a selfish moment, wonders if perhaps she has injured herself, too.

But no. On her knees, she starts to examine Ron, to poke and prod for the source of it all and, oh god - there is so much blood. There is just too much blood.

"Hold on for- just, f-for a second, Ron... I-"

"Help me," his plea is just above a whisper but no less desperate.

"I'm going to," she assures him in a fit of wretched defiance.

"Help... me..." but he's fading from her now. She tries to reach for him, but she's grabbing at air.

"Ron!" she screams his name much more loudly than she intends but to no avail. She's groping at nothing, hands left to drip with the disgustingly warm remnants of Ron's demise. "No..." again, she cries, and for what? A noise cuts off in the rise of her throat as she realizes that she's not yet alone, however.

Jerking her head upward, she finds herself face to face with darkness at first. This is only when she remembers that she's still on her knees, crouching where Ron's body should still be. Sniffing, she angles her head upward, engrossed by all the black that appears to surround her.

"Who," once so sure, her voice is now a miserable croak. "Who's there?"

There is silence, destructive and all-consuming, and then there are those eyes: red, serpentine. He has her before the scream can even scratch the surface of her throat.

"Quinn," But it's a different voice than she expects. Certainly, she hadn't expected his arms to feel so hospitable. "Quinn, look at me. Look at me."

Her limbs feel like lead, drooping uselessly to either side. She is only just aware of someone holding tight to her, keeping her steady. Nevertheless, they are trembling, too. Quinn's head lolls slightly, her vision blurring to adjust to the sudden dim quality of the light around her and whoever is with her.

"Her...Hermione?"

"No, Quinn," says the voice, so obviously male now. "It's Harry. Harry."

"Harry," his name sounds so foreign on her tongue. Then again, Quinn's own voice is abstract to her, now, in its slurred, dreamlike quality. "Harry Potter."

"That's right," for some reason or another, Harry sighs in what sounds like relief. "Here, I've got you," tightening his grip slightly on her, he coaxes her toward a nearby bench where he encourages her to sit with him. His hands never once leave her left arm or the small of her back as they sit, however. He supports her, seemingly until he is sure she is steady enough to do so on her own.

"How's that?" asks Harry, giving her arm a gentle squeeze.

For the first time since she has found herself with him, Quinn makes to reassure herself of her surroundings. The scent of winter, cold and severe, stings her nose and cheeks. They are most assuredly outside. Her eyes, still bleary as though with sleep, blink once, twice. They are in the courtyard.

"How did we..." she trails off, trying to focus her eyes on Harry who sits to her left. His hands loosen on her somewhat. For a heartbeat, he almost looks embarrassed.

"You... I saw you stumble," Harry visibly hesitates. "You looked ill, and then you..."

Dread gathers at the base of Quinn's stomach.

"Then I, what?"

"You began to convulse."

Understanding falls upon her like a waterfall of the cruelest realization.

"I had-" she stops herself, pulled far enough out of her vision's reverie to return to her usual sense of shame when it came to her Sight. "I mean- I... I see."

Harry looks at her oddly. From the glimmer in his green eyes, Quinn knows full well that he doesn't believe her terribly faulty lie. Who would? Even a less a boy who's as famous as the word famous itself around here. Surely he knows a thing or two about deceit. She clears her throat softly - just now aware of how cold it actually is outside. Quinn can do little to mask the shiver that follows. Recognition dawning on his face, Harry all but jumps to his feet.

"Right, sorry," he pretends to smooth down his robes before gesturing toward the entrance. "We should probably go back inside. Fresh air is kind of a moot point now, huh?"

Cracking the tiniest of forced grins, Quinn rises to her feet. The blood rushes to her head all at once, however, and she is left unsteady and quivering. Even so, when Harry reaches for her, she quickly denies him.

"Thanks, but I'm fine," she says, if not a bit insolently. Harry doesn't try to help her again, even as she nearly trips on her way up the steps twice. Lucky for him, Quinn reflects, he remains completely silent and stoic. Even in her current state of psychological disorder, she wouldn't allow any quips at her expense tonight.

Once inside and with the door secure, the pair hesitates again. Quinn can see about a million thoughts and questions on his face. Yet, apparently, he lacks the wherewithal to pose them. It's this that separates the two of them.

"Why didn't you take me to the nurse?" she asks out of almost nowhere, regaining bits and pieces of her confidence as her consciousness slowly reclaims its foothold. "You said I began convulsing. What if I had been in serious danger?"

Quinn would be lying if she didn't own up to the great amount of satisfaction that she gets from watching Harry squirm. She practically has to claw off the smirk that covets her lips. No, she forces herself to appear merely curious, perhaps a little off-put. Her lapse of childishness is not lost on her.

"I just had a feeling..."

"A feeling?" Quinn catches him swiftly for his choice of words.

"Well..." now he's really chomping at the bit. It's as though she can see the gears grinding in his head, fighting for a plausible answer. Regardless, Quinn is nowhere near prepared for the words that at last fall from his mouth. "Please don't be angry."

Angry? Her left brow arches.

"Hermione... sort of... told me... about your-"

It hits her all at once: rage, hurt, and betrayal. She's on Harry before she can even register it with her left arm acting as a battering ram to his chest. Quinn has him pinned to the wall.

"My what?" she thunders, her veins throbbing at her temples (aftershocks of both her vision and her fury, no doubt).

"Easy," suggests Harry, not even attempting to fight against her hold. For what it's worth, he just takes it, allowing her to keep him there.

"Whatever she told you...!" Quinn is spouting, but he interjects politely.

"She worries about you, you know."

For a moment, it sounds as though Quinn is about to verbally strike again. However, after registering Harry's remark, she gives a considerable pause, almost as though she is confused. Perhaps more insult to her injury is how she steadily feels her anger melting away. No! No! she berates herself inwardly. You're mad! You're angry! She went behind your back and-. Her heart fumbles against her sternum. All at once, she releases Harry and takes a step back, eyeing first her feet and then the boy in front of her miserably.

"She didn't betray your confidence, if that's what you're worried about, Quinn," Harry murmurs, regaining his footing after Quinn relinquishes her hold on him. "She only told me about the spell outside, nothing else. She asked me and Ron to look out for you when she isn't around."

Bullheaded even at her weakest, Quinn folds her lips into a hard line.

"I don't need looking after," she asserts hotly. "I'm not a child."

Surprisingly, Harry offers her a bit of a smile.

"Believe me, I get it," he combs his fingers through his hair absentmindedly. "Truth be told, even after all these years, I think Hermione would have me tailed 24/7 if she could. She's a worrier, that one."

Against her will, something within Quinn softens at this observation. She furrows her brows, confused. Presumably taking her silence as further proof of her bewilderment, Harry continues.

"She doesn't mean it..." he struggles for the right word, "badly-" though he is visibly uncertain of his choice, he persists. "Honestly, Hermione doesn't have a bad bone in her body, but," and his eyes mollify considerably as he looks at her. "When she cares about someone - I mean, when she really cares, doing anything less than one-hundred percent for that person just isn't an option."

Her face is hot, boiling. Something about this conversation, about Hermione, has set off a volatile chain reaction of unbearable heat throughout her body. Digging her nails into her palms, she struggles to find words. Surely her shock (and awe?) must be written clear as day across her rose red face about now. So she says the only thing that she can think of.

"I'm sorry," it hangs in the air. "For lashing out at you."

Now it's Harry's turn to look confused, though he handles it much more elegantly than Quinn.

"Don't worry over it," he tells her genuinely, and suddenly, Quinn witnesses a kinship between them. The lines beneath his eyes speak to the purple blush beneath her own. This is a boy who, too, has Seen - but in a different but not all-together dissimilar manner. An emotion begins to stir within her, taking root at her feet and blooming all the way up to the top of her head: sympathy.

Then, for a second time, Harry catches her off-guard. He steps toward her, hands to himself yet somehow conveying such a profound level of understanding that it nearly unearths her.

"I won't lie and tell you that it will get easier, Quinn... all of this, but if you let others in... even just one," he falters here, and Quinn knows he must be referring to Hermione. Her flesh prickles. "I can promise you that it can only help you."

She exhales, releasing the tension that had built up inside of her. The silence between them would be comforting if it hadn't been so deafening. Searching for a solution, Quinn deftly averts her eyes.

"I suppose you, of all people, would know," she observes, almost timidly.

Harry remains quiet for a moment before presenting the smallest of smiles.

"Yeah," is all he says, and the simplicity of the reply washes over her as heavily as relief.

Quinn nods, and for once, she means it.

"Thank you," she replies at last, making sure to look him square in the eyes - green and green. Perhaps in an alternate universe, they could have been brother and sister. The blond witch smiles vaguely, entertaining the fleeting thought.

"Of course," he insists dismissively. "Anytime."

. . .

Quinn left Harry there amicably with the excuse that she was tired. This isn't an unreasonable stretch from the truth. She's exhausted. She has been for almost two years now. All she needs now is just a moment's time to herself. With the majority of the student body still tending to their dinners, Quinn is hopeful that she will have her dorm room to herself... if only for a short period. This is all she needs.

After answering a rather mundane riddle, she finds herself in the common room. As expected, there are two, possibly three lurkers, and still it is utterly quiet save for the mild crackling of the fire.

She makes good time of the steps up to her shared room. The familiarity of it all greets her on a wave of nostalgia. In fact, Quinn can't help but smile a little as her eyes brush over the belongings of June and even the other two. She inhales, reminded of the soothing smell of parchment as she strides over to her bed.

Dragging the pads of her fingers along the comforter, she is met with images - images that she quickly recognizes as not-supernatural. For whatever reason, she is thinking of Hermione which leads her mind to tick back to her conversation with Harry just under a half hour ago. She conjures up pictures of their night together over Christmas break, how they had spoken so candidly with one another.

How I willingly took her hands.

At this, her eyes drop to the limbs in question. Upturned, she examines them, reigniting the warmth that was there that night, the gentle blush of Hermione's palms against her own. Quinn's stomach seems to twist almost excitedly at this, and she has to drop her hands to her sides immediately, out of fear.

Hermione cares. She cares about me.

This isn't new information, of course; and Quinn knows this. Hermione is rather adept at making her concerns and feelings crystal clear.

And I care. I care about her, too.

Perhaps this isn't novel, either, but for Quinn, it certainly feels like it. Admitting it, even in the confines of her head, feels new. She relates it to the first initial plunge into a lake, while cold at first, once her body adjusts to the temperature of the sentiment, it feels good - comfortable, even. It feels just right.

A shuddering breath rattles her bones as she swiftly moves to sit on her bed with her hands gripping at the covers on either side of her. The recognition, the depth of her feelings, is just below the surface when she feels a somewhat familiar presence at her back.

"Teacher," she breathes, the hairs along her arms standing on end as she remains in the present. Quinn can feel the enigmatic presence at her back, possibly in the corner of the room on the opposite side of her bed. For a reason unknown to Quinn, the Seer doesn't turn to try to look at the supernatural force.

'IT HAS BEEN... SOME TIME.'

"What do you want?" Quinn expels, not nearly as irritably as she wishes.

'TIME IS WEARING THIN,' comes the chilling hiss of her Guide. 'AND YOU ARE NOT PROGRESSING NEARLY AS SWIFTLY AS YOU SHOULD-'

Anger wells up within the witch, and she very nearly wants to turn on her otherworldly mentor.

"I was on break for god's sake!" snaps Quinn, nerves clearly shot.

'JUST AS THE DARKNESS SHALL NOT ABATE, NEITHER SHALL YOU,' Teacher croaks. 'YOU MUST HURRY, LEST YOU FALL - AND FOR NOTHING.'

Though Quinn is practically itching to lash out again, she feels herself essentially lulled into the submissive stance of an eager student.

'THIS - ALL OF THIS, IS MORE, FAR MORE, THAN SIMPLY YOU. YOU - MUST - HAVE - DISCIPLINE.'

"I do ha-"

'YOU MUST ISOLATE YOURSELF FROM ALL DISTRACTIONS, AND IN TIME, YOU SHALL BE TAKEN TO YOUR RIGHTFUL PLACE.'

The young witch doesn't even bother to disguise her aggravation now. She is on her feet, tense and ready to spring. Still, she feels compelled not to turn around. So she finds herself going at it with the bedpost across from her in place of Teacher.

"My rightful place? You mean, here, in this magical world, as its plaything Seer?"

'NO,' gargles the entity. 'AS A PART OF SOMETHING BIGGER, GREATER... SOMETHING... SOMETHING TO COME.'

Frustrated and confused beyond comprehension, Quinn tosses her hands to her sides.

'BUT FIRST... FIRST YOU MUST REMOVE YOURSELF.'

"Remove myself from what?"

'FROM THE BINDS THAT YOU HAVE CREATED WITH THOSE WHOM YOU DO NOT BELONG.'

Every nerve in Quinn's body feels to go numb. Her face whitens just as her heart stumbles once, then twice. Somehow (and she isn't quite sure on the 'how'), she knows that Teacher is referring to Luna, to June, to Hermione. Blood roars like thunder in her ears, and she gropes for one of the posters of her bed in a last-ditch effort to keep herself standing.

'YOU WILL ONLY BRING THEM DEATH AND DESPAIR. IF YOU TRULY CARED FOR THEM, YOU WOULD HAVE DISSOLVED YOUR TIES LONG AGO - IN THE BEGINNING...'

In the beginning.

Quinn's backside collides with the comforter again. Her heart is beating too fast. Her mind is racing off its intelligible axis. It's no wonder she is reduced to passive silence.

'YOUR PLACE,' Teacher maintains. 'IS ELSEWHERE. REMOVE YOURSELF; REMOVE YOURSELF, AND I - I SHALL SHOW YOU THE WAY.'

Dumbstruck, Quinn is left with her mouth agape and her body shivering almost violently. This seems so unreal, out-of-body even. Is Teacher seriously asking her to isolate herself entirely? To remove every last ounce of meaning and good from her life for the sole purpose of moving past her status as a fledging Seer? A stifled cry trips on the back of her tongue as she wrestles with the reality of the situation. It doesn't seem worth it, to be alone, utterly and completely alone - and for what? To play the faithful mage to some bulky wizard army's tanks of power. She can't fathom the forced solitude. With every ounce of her being, she aches at the prospect of being alone again, of being without anyone.

And Hermione.

'DO YOU WISH DEATH UPON THEM? THOSE WHOM YOU CARE FOR?' the being's words are a cruel and unwelcome uppercut to her already flourishing agony. Quinn's knees are quaking, even as she rests perched on her bed.

"No," she manages to choke out, horrified but wholly certain. "No."

She is greeted with an onslaught of eerie quiet. Something behind her, where she presumes Teacher's likeness to be, stirs; and suddenly, she chances upon her courage again. Quinn turns her head, her limbs a rush of nervousness. But she sees nothing. There is nothing there, in the corner. The room is empty. She is alone. Her body gives one violent shake just as she draws her arms around herself. A ghostly chill feels to have passed through her core, her very soul, and it takes all of her resolve not to succumb to a harrowing whimper.

'THEN YOUR CHOICE IS MADE.'