Midmorning

vi. thirteen days

During—or enduring—Potions, I forced myself through the same train of thought—knives, fire, soil, lead—yet actually managed to not tip half of the contents over like before. In fact, I was able to brew the perfect potion when my mind didn't wander, earning golden approval from Slughorn.

             At first I was shocked to see that Tom didn't care, though he didn't have to while he was the perennial favourite, but then I caught myself caring about the fact he may have cared, and nearly vomited at that prospect—and once I'd gotten over that embarrassment, I remembered he could hear my every thought, and that alone could've made the happiest person alive suicidal.

             But the lesson was over before it could start and everything felt like a dream. Not in the sense that it was whimsical, lifting me off my feet and combing delicate fingers through my hair, brushing my fringe out of my eyes, cherry kiss to my skin. It was very real, but my soul had detached, like this was theatre and I was forever roaming the stage.

             I always tried to be the first to leave, but a remark or brutal shove later and it became a tremendous failure. This time, Wren suddenly brought her clammy fingers to my face before I could even sling my bag over my shoulder.

             She stared at me. 'What did he say, Briar?'

             'It was nothing, I told you that.'

             'Clearly not,' she retorted, pulling her hand away to dig into her pockets, fishing out a folded piece of parchment. 'because he wanted me to give you this. He handed it to Lestrange—Lestrange handed it to Malfoy—Malfoy handed it to me. I can't open it, only you can.'

             I snorted. 'You could've read it, I don't mind.'

             'No, Briar, it's jinxed,' she said, 'You can tell because . . .' but I'd lost all care for the because and flipped it open before I could think straight.

             Second floor. Eleven.

             My face must've turned bloodless as Wren's ramble found an abrupt pause. 'What is it?'

             'It's nothing.'

             'Is it a threat?'

             'No.'

             Wren studied me. 'Then why do you look so scared?'

             I did? 'I expected worse.'

             'Why? Has he been threatening you?' I swore she was the closest thing I had to a sister.

             'Does the Head Boy threaten anyone besides annoying first years?'

             My joke came out flat. She noticed.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

Second floor. Eleven.

             I rolled my feet, north to south, pacing the hall, bones rigid in the case of pounding feet that weren't his. I'd become quite skilled in memorising the way people walked, even if there wasn't anything particularly distinct about it. My mother, for example—her steps were light and airy, adding to her wraithlike quality. Wren walked the same, but there was more pressure and less rhythm, but more rhythm if she was nervous. Tom walked the way Leonard Spencer-Moon walked, never missing a beat, tall strides. Confidence spoilt by arrogance. I prayed no one would ever give him that power.

             Footfalls came.

             'You're here on time.'

             I glanced up. 'Don't sound so shocked.'