Lorelei Thurkell and the Philosopher's Stone

She was right. The Great Hall truly lay beyond the door Lorelei had noticed, and Professor McGonagall set off toward it with a brisk pace, leading them in a neat, narrow line. Gabriela walked beside Lorelei, clearly uneasy too, though unlike Lorelei, she either could not or did not try to hide it. Lorelei clenched her fists until her knuckles turned pale, willing herself not to flinch, not to falter. She looked back − no one seemed to be watching, but she could feel it, a sharp, watchful gaze studying her, waiting for her first, fatal mistake, and so she straightened like a drawn bow. Ahead of her loomed the back of Theodore Nott’s head; once, he turned to offer a smile meant to encourage. He was anxious, too. Lorelei, perhaps, had hurt him a little, as she met his smile with a look of doubt. But their quarrels never lasted long. Barely two minutes had passed before Nott turned again. A crowd of thirty-three first-years, including Lorelei, crossed the Great Hall. A hush of awe passed through the children, and Lorelei herself could not hold back a breath of wonder. No finery in the Malfoy household could compare to the grandeur surrounding her now, and she had to remind herself to keep walking forward − not stiff with fear, but struggling against the urge to stop and simply gaze. At what? At the towering walls that had endured centuries and countless students, among them, no doubt, the greatest of witches and wizards. At the thousand candles floating in the air above four long tables where the elder pupils sat. At the black canopy in place of a ceiling, scattered with stars, forming constellations that flared bright only to fade again. Lorelei knew − it was Nott who had told her − that it was not a true sky, but an illusion crafted by magic, and this knowledge only made her wish not to look away. ‘Look!’ said Gabriela, tugging at her cloak as they still walked. She pointed upward. ‘A star fell.’ Following her finger, Lorelei Thurkell found her eyes caught in the shimmer of the stars. She spotted the Great Dog at once. Sirius burned bright before her gaze. She did not see the falling star. Professor McGonagall brought the first-years to the far end of the hall. There, behind a long table, sat the teachers and the headmaster of the school of magic − Albus Dumbledore. Lorelei had seen his face before, in the newspaper. Without letting herself look at the others, she quickened her pace. Forming a line in front of them, but turned to face the elder pupils seated at four long tables like the staff's, the first-years stood still and waited. Professor McGonagall did not speak just yet. She set a wooden stool before them and placed on its seat a pointed wizard hat. It was patched, worn through, and dreadfully grimy. Lorelei knew it straight away − it was the Sorting Hat. ‘Now comes the moment of truth,’ Theodore said with a tremble of excitement. Lorelei swallowed hard and said nothing. For a few seconds, the hall stood hushed in silence. Then the Hat gave a twitch. In the next moment, it opened a mouth-like gap, and began to sing. ‘Oh, you may not think I’m pretty, But don’t judge on what you see, I’ll eat myself if you can find A smarter hat than me. You can keep your bowlers black, Your top hats sleek and tall, For I’m the Hogwarts Sorting Hat And I can cap them all. There’s nothing hidden in your head The Sorting Hat can’t see, So try me on and I will tell you Where you ought to be. You might belong in Gryffindor, Where dwell the brave at heart, Their daring, nerve and chivalry Set Gryffindors apart; You might belong in Hufflepuff, Where they are just and loyal, Those patient Hufflepuffs are true And unafraid of toil; Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw, If you’ve a ready mind, Where those of wit and learning, Will always find their kind; Or perhaps in Slytherin You’ll make your real friends, Those cunning folk use any means To achieve their ends. So put me on! Don’t be afraid! And don’t get in a flap! You’re in safe hands (though I have none) For I’m a Thinking Cap!’ The older students, at once when the song ended, began to give thanks and show their regard with applause, but the first-years did not join in. Bowing to each table (to each house, it seemed, judging by the likeness of their ties), the hat stood upright and stilled. Its mouth was gone. ‘So there’s nothing locked inside our heads, then?’ Theodore asked softly, yet clearly enough. ‘How did they cast it?’ ‘It was done by the school’s founders, in a time when magic bore neither borders nor rules. Such great wizards, in such days, could do far more than charm a hat to know Legilimency.’ ‘Yes, but how exactly?’ Nott asked again. ‘What was the spell?’ Lorelei tightened her mouth; she disliked questions that held no answer she could seek at once or soon after. All the more when she too wished to know. ‘Salazar Slytherin, as history tells, was a gifted Legilimens. If you end up in the house he founded, perhaps you shall learn how,’ Lorelei said in a smooth voice, brushing her shoulder gently. ‘Most likely,’ Theodore replied with bright eyes, almost relieved. Nodding to her, he added, ‘We’ll learn it together.’ Lorelei nodded, a quiet warmth spreading within her. Not enough to reach a smile. ‘When I call your name, you will put on the Hat and sit on the stool,’ said Professor McGonagall, a long scroll of parchment in her hand. ‘Let us begin. Abbott, Hannah!’ Lorelei hardly remembered the faces, but she remembered names – surnames most of all – seeking out the familiar ones from the Sacred Twenty-Eight or those related by blood. To her surprise, there were many, and what was stranger still, not all of them were sorted into Slytherin, and some were happy enough to land in Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or even... ‘GRYFFINDOR!’ The girl with thick brown hair, named Hermione Granger, whose surname meant nothing to Lorelei – and so must have been a Mudblood or half-blood – leapt from the stool with joy and made her way to the table now full of applause. Gabriela beside her was watching that table with interest, and though Lorelei would not let herself guess her own fate, she had already placed Gabriela among them, in Gryffindor. ‘Greengrass, Daphne!’ The girl with long dark-blond hair, falling soft over her shoulders like satin, walked with grace, though a little shaken, and sat with something like elegance on the stool. The Hat, which slipped down almost to her eyes, took but a moment. ‘SLYTHERIN!’ The table where students wore green-and-silver ties – above which, as Lorelei only now noticed, floated banners of the same hue, each marked at centre with a silver serpent, poised and proud – welcomed the newcomer with fierce applause. Among the older students Lorelei caught sight of many familiar faces; and why not, for she had seen most of them at galas, feasts, and carefully arranged family events. She knew, without question, she had been noticed in return. ‘Longbottom, Neville!’ ‘GRYFFINDOR!’ Upon hearing the Hat’s cry, the plump-faced boy with his look of terror leapt from the stool with glee and ran straight to his table, forgetting to take the Hat from his head. Theodore and Lorelei exchanged a glance, layered and sharp. A cruel snicker rose nearby, and Lorelei knew at once it came from Draco. She meant to fix him with a proper look – a reminder not to shame his lineage with such undignified behaviour – when his name was called, just after Miss MacDougal, who had gone to Ravenclaw. When it came, Draco stepped from the line, full of pomp and pride, and truth be told, he did not fail his house – the Hat, touching his head for a mere second, cried out: ‘SLYTHERIN!’ Crabbe and Goyle were waiting at the Slytherin table, and so he joined them at once, pausing only to shake hands with the house prefect. Lorelei had seen that boy no more than twice or three times, for the Rookwoods, since the arrest and jailing of Rookwood the elder in Azkaban for serving the Dark Lord, had fallen from grace among the pure-bloods who now guarded their names from any stain. The pure-bloods rightly valued their good name. ‘Nott, Theodore!’ read the professor from the parchment. With a lifted chin and a breath drawn deep, Theodore looked once more at Lorelei, then moved toward the stool with the bearing of someone born to be watched. The first impression was supposed to have of him had to be the best, so he behaved like the best. Lorelei, perhaps without knowing, held her breath as well, counting the seconds until the Hat spoke its truth. And it did. ‘SLYTHERIN!’ Lorelei smiled – twice in one day now. Watching as Theodore took his seat among the Slytherins, she missed Pansy’s sorting (Slytherin too), the Patil sisters – one to Ravenclaw, the other to Gryffindor – and Sally-Anne Perks, who joined the Hufflepuff table. And then the world stopped still, as the next name was called: ‘Potter, Harry!’ The moment the professor said it, a wave of whispers, sighs, and the creaking of chairs swept through the hall. Everyone wanted a better look at him, to be sure it was truly the same boy who, ten years ago, had stood against the unmatched, undefeatable wizard whose name none dared to speak aloud even now. Lorelei saw only his back – untidy hair, a slender shape outlined under the black cloak – and could not believe this was the legend, the one they called the new Dark Master, the one she had heard spoken of in whispers and loud exclamations by nearly every wizard she had ever known. The Boy Who Lived. Harry Potter, who had beaten death. He sat upon the stool, the professor lowered the Hat, and the silence that fell across the hall – broken only by faint whispers about Potter – made it seem as though the Hat itself was stunned to meet someone so famed. Lorelei cast her gaze across the hall, at the first-years still waiting for the Sorting – their numbers had thinned, and Gabriela still stood beside Lorelei. ‘Is it truly Harry Potter?’ she asked Lorelei. ‘It must be so.’ ‘I wonder if he remembers the one who must not be named?’ Lorelei waited a moment before replying. ‘I doubt it.’ ‘Do you think he truly has a scar?’ Lorelei could see Mr Potter only from the back. ‘Most likely.’ ‘GRYFFINDOR!’ cried the Hat, and the Gryffindor table burst into applause. Along with the clapping came the cry, joyful and loud: ‘Potter is with us! Potter is with us!’ ‘What a disappointment,’ thought Lorelei. From where she stood, it was hard to see Draco or Theodore’s expression, but Lorelei knew what sort of letter would be written to their fathers that night. Oliver Rivers went to Ravenclaw, Sophie Roper to Gryffindor, as did Dean Thomas. ‘Thurkell, Lorelei.’ When she heard her own name, she paused for a moment, frozen where she stood. The weight of more than one stare held her in place, though her back stayed straight, her face calm. ‘Good luck,’ whispered Gabriela beside her, her voice light and glad. Lorelei, brushing aside the thought that one of those stares had come from the staff table, turned her head. She gave a small nod. ‘Thank you. The same to you.’ She stepped forward to the stool and sat. Before she could see a single face, the Sorting Hat fell over her eyes. ‘Mmm...’ came a low voice at her ear, thoughtful. Lorelei flinched. Her wonder at how the Hat had been enchanted suddenly grew too large to hold. ‘Well now. I see it clearly. A strong craving for knowledge. A clever mind – shaped with care. You are cautious, guided by reason. Not a mere reader – you long to test, to seek, to discover... And yes, I see talent. And beneath it all, the wish to be known. To be great.’ Waiting for the verdict, Lorelei clutched the edge of the stool, then quickly let go. She could see no one, but she knew they all saw her. ‘Yes, knowledge can make you great, it can bring you glory. Raven... hmmm... no. That is not your place. Another road lies before you. You are made for something more. I know just what will help you on your way to greatness... SLYTHERIN!’ The bubble inside her, the one that had made it hard to breathe and pressed against her chest, burst. Lorelei heard the clapping like something distant, stepped down from the stool, and walked slowly toward her table. Slytherin. She was in Slytherin. Each step toward the table, where applause still rang, filled her with joy and sweet relief. Slytherin! What happiness! Lorelei felt so light she nearly forgot to shake the prefect’s hand. Only she seemed to notice it. ‘Congratulations, Miss Thurkell,’ he said in a voice that creaked. His face was rough, and there was an untidy bit of stubble on his chin. ‘Thank you, Mr Rookwood,’ Lorelei answered, offering a graceful little bow. There was a flicker of surprise in the prefect’s eyes. For a moment, it seemed his whole face brightened. The heir of what once had been an important – perhaps even great – family, he likely did not receive the same honour or notice as his ancestors once had. He inclined his head and, after nodding, watched her a while longer. ‘Congratulations,’ said Theodore with a wide smile. Lorelei took her seat beside him. She offered thanks with a barely there smile. Inside, she was radiant. She had done it. She had done it! Merlin, could anything be more perfect? She had not brought shame by ending up in Gryffindor – she had ended in Slytherin! ‘She would have been proud,’ the thought rang, over and over. Lorelei was filled with a calm joy, for now everything would unfold as it should, as was proper. She had arrived where she longed to be, the place she had seen for herself in her boldest dreams. But then a girl’s voice rose from the table – shrill as a bird’s song that would not stop – and pulled her back from the clouds. That voice, Lorelei would never mistake. It belonged to Amelia Yaxley. ‘Since when does Slytherin let in just anyone?’ Lorelei looked at her. Straight chestnut hair, small dark eyes, and a straight nose – Amelia Yaxley was three years her senior, and Lorelei, sadly, had met her more than once at formal events. For reasons she never named – though Lorelei could imagine well enough – Miss Yaxley had never tolerated her presence, often leaving the room or the hall with clear disdain, or else making sure Lorelei would. Now, she was enjoying it. The sound of her voice and the weight of it landing around the table drew stares, just as she had meant. Lorelei tried to form an answer – something poised, worthy of her background – but her own standing told her silence was the wiser path. Her left palm burned like fire, though nothing touched it. The Yaxleys stood among the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Lorelei knew there was no word she could say that would not risk disgrace. She could not imagine entering into a quarrel with a member of such a house on her very first day in Slytherin, where blood came first – or, if not blood, then at least protection from someone whose blood was pure. In truth, young Malfoy ought to have stepped in, for she was also representing his name, yet he sat off to the side and paid no mind. And without him – or anyone – Lorelei would lose. As she had lost before. Why had she thought it would be any different now? ‘SLYTHERIN!’ The wave of applause broke the silence, drawing every eye except Amelia Yaxley’s, who, though she clapped with the rest, kept her gaze fixed on Lorelei with a cruel smile, clearly certain of her victory. Lorelei turned her head with effort, just to see who had joined them. Unbelievable! It was Gabriela Vernham. After shaking hands with the prefect, she came and took a seat beside Lorelei. ‘I can’t believe it!’ she whispered in wonder. ‘No one can,’ Lorelei thought, but did not say. Professor McGonagall, having named the last student – Blaise Zabini, who joined Slytherin – rolled up her scroll and carried the Sorting Hat out of the hall. Lorelei’s face, it seemed, had gone numb, so strong was her need to show no feeling. In a moment, all joy and calm were gone; the reminder of who she was and with whom she sat sobered her, cut her off from all that might be called happiness, safety. Lorelei, with her dream come true, now stood bare. And yet, hand on heart, she would not have chosen another way. She was in Slytherin! Then... does that mean she was worthy? The chatter among the pupils slowly faded as the headmaster rose to his feet. A radiant smile played upon his old, lined face. But Lorelei’s gaze was not drawn to the greatest wizard of the age, Albus Dumbledore. Cautiously, for the first time that evening, she allowed herself to look along the staff table. Professor McGonagall, returned and seated. A few unknown teachers. One with a purple turban (surely a teacher of something minor). And... him. Severus Snape. It must have been him. Rare at Malfoy Manor, especially when crowds filled the rooms, he had still appeared a few times. Not once for her. He had never truly spoken to her. Once – she remembered – he had looked at her, just briefly. A thin man, pale, in black, with a hooked nose and long, oily hair down to his shoulders. From where she sat, Lorelei could not see his eyes, but she remembered them – dark as tunnels, with no light at the end. Now he, like the rest, was silent, listening to the headmaster speak. But Lorelei heard none of it, for her mind was fixed on one thing: had he noticed her? What would he think of her being sorted into the house he led? And what when he saw her knowledge of Potions – his very subject? Would he...? Everyone in the hall began clapping, and Lorelei, a little late, joined in. She caught on their faces a surprise, twisted with cheerful doubt, as though the headmaster had played a trick? She noted the expressions, familiar and strange, until they tangled, until someone’s laughter began to itch, to crawl beneath her skin, and Lorelei knew it had to do with the headmaster’s words – not at her, not directly – but where was the proof, how could she know, with Amelia Yaxley smiling like that? The food filled the golden plates – so many kinds: olives, almonds, small tartlets of paste or fish, soup of truffles, veal, lamb, roast, trout baked in sauce, sturgeon and fruits sealed in caramel. All of it rich, perhaps even fine, but Lorelei, still dizzy and with a sickness that rose without reason, forced herself to take just a little paste. Ate, feeling no flavour, but sharp as ever were the eyes that watched her, that burned her hollow. Lorelei breathed twice, shallow and quick, then deep and long. Again. And again. Until faces came back into shape. Until taste returned to her tongue. She was angry. At herself. Softness had no place for her. Once the feast was done, the dishes were changed for sweets and desserts. Ice creams of every colour, apple pies, fruit cakes, éclairs and jam-filled rings, biscuits, strawberries, jelly, rice puddings... She held back, as she ought to, with no show of hunger or joy, and turned instead to study her housemates, marking them by name, by face. Some she did not know. Could the terrible rumours be true – that half-bloods and mudbloods entered Slytherin now? Though… even Lorelei’s blood was not wholly pure. Her gaze shifted – inevitably – back to the staff table. Found Severus Snape again, her mother’s brother, her rightful guardian. Also a half-blood. And Head of House Slytherin. His gaze now was fixed upon the Gryffindor table. Lorelei followed it, but saw nothing save a few fools, loud and ill-mannered, as ever. Mr Snape must have felt a pang of disappointment, looking at them. Who wouldn’t? Once dessert was over, and the sweets had vanished from the golden plates, Albus Dumbledore stood once more. At once, silence spread through the room. ‘Ahem!’ he said, with a grand cough. ‘Now that we are all satisfied, I wish to share a few more words. Before the school year begins, there are things you must know. First-years must remember that no students are permitted to enter the forest upon school grounds. And some of the older students would do well to remember it, too. Mr Filch, our caretaker, asks me to remind you: no magic between lessons. Quidditch training will begin in a week. Anyone who wishes to try out for their House team should see Madam Truke. And finally, I must tell you that the right-hand side of the third-floor corridor is out of bounds to anyone who does not want to meet a painful end.’ Gabriela laughed quietly beside her. Turning to Lorelei, she said, ‘What a strange sort of joke.’ Lorelei did not reply. Older students nearby shared a glance but kept quiet. ‘It is a joke, isn’t it?’ she asked, this time unsure, noticing the unchanging calm on Lorelei’s face. ‘There’s only one way to find out,’ Lorelei answered, voice cold, eyes like polished glass. Gabriela fell silent. ‘And now,’ cried Dumbledore, ‘before bed, let us sing the school anthem!’ The older students started at once: ‘Hogwarts, Hogwarts, our most beloved Hogwarts…’ and the rest became a blur. Everyone sang in their own key, many of them terribly – flat and off-beat – and the only reason Lorelei did not cover her ears, untrained as they were for such discord, was because she knew that to do so would be unbecoming. So, with every nerve raw from the noise, every inch of her mind resisting the childish laughter, Lorelei endured until the final line (some fool had drawn it out far too long). ‘Oh, music!’ the Headmaster exclaimed, as blessed silence filled the hall, dabbing his eyes as though moved beyond measure. Lorelei found herself more inclined to understand Mr Malfoy’s disregard for the Headmaster. That kind of behaviour, especially from a Headmaster, could only worry someone. In truth, sometimes Mr Malfoy had good reason. ‘It is more magical than any lesson we teach,’ he added with a smile. ‘Now off to bed. Quickly now!’ The Slytherin first-years, led by Mr Rookwood, walked past the older students still talking at their tables, left the Great Hall, and followed the long passageways toward the marble stairs leading into the dungeons. The Slytherin common room was there. They walked in darkness for a time, tripping on uneven steps, breathing in the damp air of the stone walls. Gabriela was still at Lorelei’s side, clinging to her each time she lost balance, and Lorelei truly hoped she would not keep near her for the next seven years, always pressing on her patience. As their shoes echoed through the stairwell, the sound was not one of fear, but something proud, like a parade. The joy that had left Lorelei at the table returned little by little. When they stopped at what seemed like a wall, Mr Rookwood was not confused. With all eyes on him, he said clearly to the stone, ‘Serpent Tree.’ And a part of the wall slid open, revealing a narrow way. ‘You’ll need to learn your way in these tunnels. I won’t come looking for you if you get lost,’ said the prefect, his tone sharp as they stepped through. The glow from within, green and soft, lit his face in a strange way, making his features darker. ‘And you heard the Headmaster – getting stuck in a dead end is far from the worst that can happen here. Be careful. Pay attention.’ Behind her, Lorelei heard a quiet laugh and knew it was Draco. She didn’t understand what he found amusing all evening. She shook her head, honestly hoping his pride wouldn’t ruin him. Then she stepped through the opening with the rest. The greenish glow that lit the entire common room, giving everything and everyone a soft, pleasing hue, was not only the result of magic or some careful alchemical arrangement, but of the fact that the dungeons lay close by and even beneath the Black Lake itself, as shown by the view through the window: a heavy curtain of water, soaked in emerald tint, fish drifting by in lazy silence, sometimes halting mid-motion, and larger shadows, half-resembling fantastic beasts from the thick volumes stored in the Malfoy family library. Lorelei, like the rest, lifted her gaze to the old stone walls, where tapestries hung, showing the great sons and daughters of Slytherin: one slaying a unicorn, another, an alchemist, crafting the first drop of truth-serum, and several Ministers of Magic. Lorelei could recall most of their names, or would be able to in a breath or two, should she apply the needed effort. The truly pure-blooded families – those who had never fallen – could be counted on fingers. A few more had blood ties to the greats and carried themselves accordingly, half-made of pride. Lorelei knew every one, their trees etched into her mind through the tenth branch, and in one case – that of the noble House of Black – down to Oswald Black, restorer of the line in the fifteenth century. In truth, a wizard need only know his own name’s line, but Lorelei had been taught to reach farther – and taught to do it better. From the ceiling hung green-tinged lamps on long iron chains. In the fireplace, carved with vines and serpents, a fire burned low, and around it, in chairs carved with snakes and leaves, older Slytherins rested, back from supper. ‘It’s a bit spooky,’ Gabriela whispered, pulling her sleeves around her. The dungeons were much colder than the Great Hall and even the hallways above. ‘It’s a dream,’ Lorelei replied in a breathless whisper. ‘Only if you are fond of nightmares,’ Gabriela added quietly. Some of the first-years glanced at them both, and Lorelei, with a look sharp and full of silent threat, made the red-haired girl fall quiet. Best to keep away from her – one could never tell how such company might stain a name. Mr Rookwood stood the first-years close by the hearth, though no heat came from its flame. A young woman joined him, tall, polished in her bearing. Lorelei knew her too – Gemma Farley, daughter of the Head of the Department of Ancient Pacts. She took the prefect’s post with ease, and the badge on her robes told that she also held the title. Her smile was faint and restrained, and her eyes touched each of them as she spoke the welcome. ‘My congratulations. I am Prefect Gemma Farley, and I welcome you to Slytherin House – the finest of all houses in Hogwarts, though the Hufflepuffs, the Ravenclaws, or… the Gryffindors may say otherwise,’ – her voice shifted at the final word, and all nearby smiled. As though a Gryffindor had ever known good sense. Gabriela frowned. ‘As you’ve seen, our common room lies beneath the ground, and the windows look out to the bottom of the Black Lake. We often see the great squid passing by, and at times, stranger beasts. It is a sweet thought – that the walls of our house recall the silence of drowned treasure.’ Several of the elder students turned toward her, listening. ‘There are things you must know of Slytherin,’ she said, ‘and others you ought to let go,’ Miss Farley declared. ‘Our Head of House is Professor Snape, the master of Potions. In his class, as in all others, you are to behave with grace. To elders, no "yes" or "no" – only "yes, sir" or "no, ma’am". From its very beginning, this house has honoured nobility, intelligence, and quick minds. Those too rude or too dull to uphold that shall be left behind.’ ‘If you ever find yourself in trouble, come to me or Mr Rookwood – and if all else fails, to Professor Snape. This year, and the next, you’re in our care – and we don’t like to be shamed by foolish games or bad names.’ ‘Always stand together. Others may treat you unkindly, just for being in Slytherin. Students from the other houses may mock you or your family – not because they are right, but because they are bitter. They have no greatness, and they wish to pull you down. Do not let them. Do not believe all they say. And never forget – the students beside you are your family, at least while you are here at Hogwarts.’ ‘We, the Slytherins, guard our own – unlike Ravenclaws,’ she said. ‘They’re the largest band of crammers you'll ever come across, and they are famed for stepping over friends just to earn praise. We are not like them. We are kin. And in a castle like this, full of tricks and passageways, you will thank the stars that your housemates walk with you. Once you wear green and silver, you are ours.’ ‘What did Salazar Slytherin seek in his pupils?’ she said. ‘A trace of greatness. This house chose you for the greatness you might become. Yes, some may seem plain, but keep that to yourself. The Sorting Hat does not err. There is something rare within them – and you must remember it.’ ‘Here’s what they don’t want you to know,’ she said. ‘Merlin was a Slytherin. Yes, the Merlin, the most famed of all wizards. He learned his craft here, among us. Would you follow where Merlin walked? Or would you prefer to sit in the old seat of Eglantine Puffett – the Hufflepuff who made a sponge that soaps itself?’ ‘I think not.’ ‘But let us stop with what we are not,’ she said. ‘Let us speak of what we are – the proudest, wisest house within these walls. We crave honour, and we chase after victory not for its own sake, but because we remember who we are.’ ‘As for those who are not meant for greatness, I’ve yet to name the Gryffindors,’ she said. ‘Some say we and they are one coin with two faces. I believe they pretend to be what we are. It is true, they say, that Salazar and Godric once sought the same in their students – so we may be more alike than we wish. But that does not mean we are friends. Best not trade with a Gryffindor.’ ‘There are a few more things you ought to know,’ she said. ‘Each house has a ghost, and ours is the Bloody Baron. If you manage to win his favour, he may agree to scare someone for you. He might also shield you from the unpleasant poltergeist Peeves, whom you will surely encounter within the castle walls. Just never ask the Baron how he came to be stained in blood – he does not take kindly to that.’ ‘The common room password is changed every two weeks. Watch the noticeboard closely. Do not bring students from other houses into our common room, and never reveal the password. For over seven centuries, no outsider has crossed this threshold.’ ‘Our house has won the House Cup for six years in a row. I hope you will do your part to keep that tradition alive.’ ‘Well then, I suppose that is all for now. I’m sure you will enjoy our dormitories. You’ll find your name on the list beside the door of your room. Good night, and good luck.’ Having exchanged a smile with Theodore, both already looking forward to the next day, Lorelei followed Miss Farley’s silent gesture, along with the other girls, up the marble staircase that led to the girls’ quarters, which ended in a dark corridor. The hallway stretched far and low, and dark oak doors glimmered now and then, behind which lay the girls’ rooms. Lorelei could not be certain, but she supposed the boys had their own passage, for they had climbed a staircase vanishing into the opposite wall, which likewise ended in shadow. Daphne appeared at Lorelei’s side. Beaming despite the tiredness in her eyes, she said cheerfully: ‘We’re in the same room!’ The dormitories weren’t private, as most girls were used to. One room could hold up to four girls, and they had to share the space and come to terms with one another. Lorelei wasn’t thrilled. After the Malfoy manor, she had hoped she wouldn’t have to adjust to anyone – but Hogwarts offered no such comfort. There was no need to stop at every door. Lorelei read the names as they walked. She halted when she spotted Daphne Greengrass. Looked through the list. Saw it: ‘We are not in the same room,’ said. Daphne came to a stop beside her. With her stood Pansy Parkinson, the one destined to share a room with her for the next seven years, along with two others Lorelei did not know, though she remembered their surnames – Miss Bulstrode and Miss Davis, and while the first was familiar, the second rang no bell. The names of all four were neatly written on the note, but Lorelei’s was not, and neither was Gabriela’s. ‘Our room is here, Lorelei,’ said Miss Vernham. She stood before the neighbouring door. She waited for Lorelei to approach before opening it. Judging by the list, the room would house only the two of them. Lorelei felt her spirits lift. The matter of the sleeping quarters brought no disappointment. The room was wrapped in shadows, with faint lighting and large windows that likely let in no daylight at all. Beyond the glass stretched the green lake, its bottom laid bare down to the finest roots of the weeds – fish drifted between them and something else moved, far too slowly to be noticed at first glance. Lorelei and Gabriela took their first steps in, and turned to take it in. Set into the wall, as if in a niche, were two beds, set far apart, dressed in heavy dark green drapes with no design, just a soft velvet sheen. The thick curtains had been pulled back, showing tall pillows and tidy sheets. In the middle of the room, on a timeworn round rug, stood a carved wooden table with four chairs. It wasn’t the only one. By the large mirror were two writing desks, like twins – clean, untouched. Nearby was a simple wardrobe, already filled with the belongings they had left on the train. ‘Co-o-ol,’ said Gabriela. Lorelei watched her glide across the shining wooden floor in her glossy ballet flats. Her roommate was clearly impressed – and why not? Lorelei’s eyes stayed on her. ‘Like something out of a story! I thought it would be ugly down here in the dungeons. I really believed we’d be stuck with rats, in damp little rooms with low ceilings. But it’s not like that at all. The ceilings are even high. But it’s still cold.’ ‘Use warming charms,’ Lorelei said, as she walked to her future desk. What nonsense – rats. In the drawers she found parchment, books, and quills with ink bottles. All from her luggage. ‘I don’t know how,’ said Gabriela with a carefree tone. Then she turned, pale and startled. ‘Am I supposed to? Is that something we ought to know already?’ Lorelei did not respond – she had no chance to. The dormitory door swung wide, and in rushed one of the first-years. Bulstrode. ‘It’s not fair!’ she cried. She was rather broad, with a heavy jaw, small dark eyes and plump, pink cheeks. She stamped her foot sharply, placed her hands on her hips. With a grand look, she glanced first at Gabriela, then at Lorelei. ‘There are only two of you in here, and we’re cramped in four to a room! So here’s how it goes: one of you gives up her place right now and moves to our room. Better yet, both of you can go, and I’ll stay here alone. That’s what I deserve.’ For a moment, no one spoke. Lorelei, thinking over everything she knew about the Bulstrode name and its many ties, waited before replying. ‘We shall not do that,’ she said, steady and unbothered. ‘Who are you?’ asked Gabriela, blinking. The room fell still again. Miss Bulstrode seemed less sure now, as though she'd counted on being recognised the moment she walked in. Her name was grand, yes – but Lorelei knew to much to be impressed only by that. Still, the girl did not back down. She lifted her chin, looked down he nose, and said: ‘My name is Millicent Bulstrode. I am descended from the honoured keeper of Gringotts Bank, and my family is one of the wealthiest in Britain – perhaps in the world. That’s why I’ll give the orders, and you will follow them like servants.’ She stamped her foot once more, for certainty. Lorelei and Gabriela exchanged glances. ‘You do not belong to the main branch of the family,’ Lorelei said quietly. ‘What is going on?’ asked Gabriela, her face drawn in a frown. ‘I don’t understand.’ ‘And we shall not follow your commands.’ ‘My name is Gabriela, and she is Lorelei, by the way.’ Lorelei cast a glance at her roommate, with a touch of doubt. Her voice held no certainty – not the kind Lorelei had grown used to from children of old blood. Becoming an informal leader, collecting followers or companions like trinkets, was practically a game to certain particularly troublesome girls. It was expected to form circles, mimic one’s parents in company, and bear a lesser role beneath a louder surname just to gain something – as simple as not being shunned, mocked, or wounded. Lorelei had endured all three, and she had no wish to repeat the experience here, in Hogwarts, in Slytherin. Caution was due. Cleverness. Lorelei furrowed her brow, laced her fingers before her. Gentleness. She would have to think her steps ahead. Miss Bulstrode, it was clear, did not enjoy being resisted. She pursed her lips, narrowed her eyes, and declared: ‘Then I –! I! I declare you as my enemies!’ As swiftly as she had arrived, Miss Bulstrode fled the room before a single reply could form. ‘I had hoped to find friends on my first day, not enemies,’ said Miss Vernham. ‘You were sorted into Slytherin,’ Lorelei said firmly. ‘You will need to get used to it.’ Gabriela took on the mood with a touch of care. She gave a nod. Took a step or two in Lorelei’s direction, and tried to smile. ‘At least we could be friends,’ she said. ‘We could,’ Lorelei answered low. But she had doubts they will. She still did not know her roommate’s blood – both parents schooled at Hogwarts, so not a muggle-born – nor her manners, nor the strength of her magic. Looking at her, Lorelei knew – here, among the daughters of old houses and finer names, girls like them would need to prove they belonged with the finest, shared the chambers of the finest, bore the finest crest. And it would be simpler done alone, than with someone lost in the ways, risking it all by holding someone else’s weight, or trusting them to carry hers. If things turned bitter, she would need to be distant from Mr Nott, too – for his sake. A tie to her might soil his clean name, a name that mattered, one that opened doors Lorelei could never reach alone, only through much effort and work. Thoughts like that left her heavy, but she had lived with them. She told herself often that sorrow and stillness had been her companions too long to leave now, or to shame herself for their presence. She was in mourning, after all. Still, Miss Vernham could be rather bright at times. She had gasped at the bathroom – tiled in dull, dark green, its sheen long faded, yet tended still. A broad black tub stood carved with winding snakes, its veins streaked with emerald. The basin looked a shrine, with stones set in green and twisted columns flanking it. To the side stood a narrow table with delicate legs, a great mirror above it, and a velvet chair set near. ‘Wow!’ Gabriela said. Lorelei looked around the room as she followed, meeting a sight that felt nearly familiar. She wasn’t surprised, but glad enough to know she would share a bathroom with only one girl, not every other girl in the House like those Gryffindor savages did. ‘Why is there a chair in the loo?’ her roommate asked, pointing at the strange decoration. ‘To ease the ritual of bathing,’ Lorelei said, her voice smooth and unreadable. ‘Look at the basin. Just look. It’s beautiful.’ ‘It’s a basin.’ ‘Just look!’ Then Miss Vernham was struck by how soft the bed linen felt. Lorelei changed into her nightgown, while she watched Gabriela toss her clothes over the back of a chair, without folding them as was proper, and dress herself in a wildly unfitting outfit of shirt and trousers – a thing she called pajamas. When Lorelei dimmed the room entirely with her wand and both girls had settled in, Lorelei lay on her back, trying to quiet her mind and sleep. The first day of lessons was no small matter – she would need proper rest. But restless thoughts plagued not only Lorelei – Gabriela chose to make it a shared concern. ‘I never thought I’d end up in Slytherin!’ she said into the dark. Lorelei glanced at her, surprised. No one could see her face, which freed her from keeping it in check. Still, it had been some time, and her face was out of practice; her eyes did most of the speaking now. ‘Everyone says Slytherin’s full of bad sorts and dark wizards! But why should people throw everyone into one pile, right? I think it’s not as dreadful as they say. Surely there were good witches and wizards here, too. Like… Merlin! He was clever and kind! Though He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was here too… Actually, many said that he did. I'm not sure... Did you see Harry Potter? I caught a glimpse when we rose from the feast, but his hair fell over his brow, and I couldn’t spot the scar… Do you think it’s really shaped like lightning?’ ‘It must be,’ Lorelei answered into the dark. ‘Poor boy, really. People are bound to keep asking him about that night, the scar, and all, and surely he hates remembering it. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named killed his parents, didn’t he? I wonder if he remembers? The duel, I mean. Though he was very little, and my mother said it’s better if he doesn’t remember a thing. What do you think, does he remember?’ ‘I believe I’ve said. I doubt it.’ ‘Yes, yes. And my mum told me that Harry Potter’s parents were heroes too, and fought bravely against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Just like my mum. As soon as she became an Auror, she went after wicked wizards who did wrong. What about your parents? What do they do?’ ‘They are dead.’ ‘Oh.’ A hush fell over the room. Lorelei glanced toward her roommate’s bed, but all she could see were shifting shadows from the black lake beyond the window. ‘How?’ Gabriela asked, soft and unsure. ‘The Dark Lord killed them,’ Lorelei said, her voice dull. ‘Who?’ ‘He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.’ ‘Himself?’ ‘Himself.’ ‘When?’ ‘The same day Mr Potter’s parents died.’ Lorelei heard a creak. She guessed Gabriela had sat up in bed, though she couldn’t see. Talking about her parents was bitter, but still better than hearing fine lords and ladies speak of them with contempt. ‘Did he try to kill you too?’ ‘No.’ ‘If he had? Would you be Harry Potter?’ ‘I doubt I would have changed my name.’ ‘Right…’ Another creak. Gabriela had laid back down. ‘Do you remember He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?’ ‘No.’ ‘Do you remember your mum and dad?’ Lorelei did not answer right away. She folded her fingers before her, gently brushing them against each other; it soothed her. Then she said, calmly: ‘No.’ ‘And who do you live with?’ ‘With the Malfoy family.’ ‘Are they your kin?’ ‘No.’ ‘You don’t like sweets at all?’ ‘No.’ ‘Not even chocolate?’ ‘No.’ ‘I love sweets. My mum taught me to make a few desserts, and when she gets off work and walks by the pastry shop, she always...’ The questions went on, growing senseless and dull, like the stories tied to them. At last, when the chatter had swept her thoughts clean away, Lorelei grew quiet, and Gabriela, seeing this – or perhaps just done talking – said one last thing: ‘Good night, Lorelei.’ After a pause, Lorelei whispered: ‘Good night.’ And she slept. A good memory – that was one thing Lorelei held dear in herself. There were one hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts, nearly three hundred corridors, including the dungeons and the towers, nearly one hundred doors, twenty-three classrooms and lecture halls, and nearly sixty other rooms of administrative use, including the great Great Hall where pupils had breakfast, dinner, and supper, and sometimes spent the breaks between lessons. Some staircases were broad and spacious, others – narrow and shaky. There were stairs that on Wednesday led nowhere near where they had on Tuesday. There were stairs where several steps would vanish just as someone tried to climb or descend. The doors, too, played tricks – some opened only with the help of magic, some led to abandoned spaces, and some to a bare stone wall. And in the first week of classes Lorelei had not once, not even once, been late for a single lesson, gliding through the hallways with ease and knowing precisely which door led to which room. All because on her first day, she had asked the prefect, Miss Farley, to tell her where each class was, and nearly every evening, just before curfew, she wandered the castle, tracing the stairs, corridors, and doors. All alone. She told herself it was better this way. Told herself so every time, though not quite convincingly. She had not seen Mr Nott alone even once; he spent his hours with other boys, and Lorelei did not dare draw attention to herself or become a nuisance. In the first week, she had ample time to explore the castle and its nearest surroundings, for the lessons for first-years had started with the simplest and most familiar magical practices. In the greenhouses behind the castle, where a short and round lady – Professor Sprout – taught herbology, the study of ordinary, healing, and openly magical plants, Lorelei saw many she had read about in books, plants that, dried or sliced, or even pickled, were used in potion-making. Answering a question about the dangers of Venomous Tentacula, she earned one point for Slytherin. On Tuesday at midnight, the Slytherin first-years had astronomy, climbing the roof of one of the taller towers and setting up their telescopes to watch the sky. So far, they were only expected to learn the names of stars and how planets moved, and in their very first lesson, Lorelei, along with Theodore Nott, earned two points for their house for correctly answering rather simple questions about constellations. It may have been the most wearisome and hollow hour of all – History of Magic, held by Professor Binns, the sole ghost among the teaching staff. Lorelei had seen ghosts before, but never held conversation with one, and neither did she manage to now. Twice she had raised a question about Emeric the Evil, who, according to whispers, had once held the Elder Wand – that curious artefact, the most powerful wand ever exist (if it is), in which few believed (for it belonged to the tale of the Deathly Hallows, and who believes in fairy tales?). But Professor Binns, it seemed, did not hear her. The lesson passed in his dull murmur, laden with dates and details of Emeric the Evil’s life, but he said not a single word of the wand. Lorelei had not expected much from Defence Against the Dark Arts, yet even the faint interest she had carried crumbled into dust. The subject was taught by Professor Quirrell, a nervous young man who wore a violet turban, which he claimed was a gift from some African prince. It was rumoured, though, that he had faced a vampire during the summer, and now he stammered, twitched, kept glancing about, and stuffed his turban with garlic, even in sleep. Whether through fright or foolishness, he hardly taught at all, leaving the class to dry theory. ‘And they say Salazar Slytherin was wrong, proposing to teach the Dark Arts instead of defending against them?’ Lorelei said to Theodore as they stepped from the classroom, which, needless to say, stank of garlic. He nodded. It was their first exchange in a week. Theodore had broken free from Mr Zabini and Draco for a breath, and Lorelei noticed. ‘But the Dark Arts are dangerous,’ Gabriela said. Lorelei turned on her heel and replied, ‘So is the Fire-Making Charm we’re learning this year, but the outrage only begins when someone studies what’s labelled beyond the "edge" of the Dark Arts.’ ‘Yes, but surely not without cause,’ Gabriela said. In Charms class, Professor Flitwick, a wizard so tiny he had to climb onto a stack of books for the students to see him over the desk, awarded Lorelei Thurkell three full points for her demonstration of the Wand-Lighting Charm, and Mr Nott one point for excellent theoretical knowledge. The Ravenclaws, who shared the class with them, were biting their lips in frustration as the coveted points slipped right past them, and even the fact that Professor Flitwick was their Head of House did them no favours. The Gryffindors, on the other hand, reaped the benefits of Professor McGonagall being theirs. Their first Transfiguration class fell to the Slytherin first-years on Thursday, and right after a strict speech demanding discipline, she gave them a demonstration that sent a hush across the room – she turned her desk into a pig and then back again. Everyone was deeply stunned and longed for their turn. Lorelei, who knew that transfiguring a living creature into an object and back took great magical strength and experience, was not surprised by the first task. The professor made them memorize the incantation, then handed each student a matchstick, saying they were to turn it into a needle. By the end of the lesson, only a few, among them Lorelei, Theodore, Draco and Blaise Zabini, had nearly succeeded. Draco and Mr Zabini had silver matchsticks with barely pointed tips, Mr Nott’s had two sharper ends, and Lorelei’s had turned into a nearly perfect needle, the faint wooden texture still clinging to it. ‘A fine piece of work. Yours is even slightly better than Miss Granger’s, Miss Thurkell,’ said Professor McGonagall, examining her result. Her mouth almost twitched – perhaps a smile. ‘But I believe you can do better.’ She gave no point to Slytherin, and Lorelei found that downright unfair. When she told Miss Farley the short version of what had happened, the reply was: ‘Hardly a shock. In the last few years, Slytherin’s been fighting mostly with Gryffindor or Ravenclaw for the House Cup. The Hufflepuffs don’t seem to be in it at all. The Ravenclaws try to win fair and square – and boring. The Gryffindors, though? They find other ways. Sometimes they trip their rivals. And then they call us cunning.’ Long story short, everything was clear to Lorelei. Miss Granger, her fellow student from Gryffindor, had stood out more than once. In less than a week, she had caught the attention of several teachers, earned a few points for her house, and shown a rather solid base of knowledge. This wasn’t the first time, and not the first professor, who had compared Lorelei’s success to hers – for she seemed to be aiming at the title of best student among their year, though she was a mudblood. There was something wrong in that, Lorelei thought. ‘Fancy that! You’re just a bit better than a mudblood,’ sneered Pansy Parkinson from the back row. Her unpleasant face became even more unpleasant. Lorelei cast a meaningful glance at her matchstick, which hadn’t changed at all after an hour’s work, and chose to stay silent. Saying, ‘The Mudblood is better than you,’ to a pure-blood witch – and the Parkinsons' bloodline was not to be questioned – might have consequences Lorelei was not ready for. No sense in stirring things up. She wasn’t looking for trouble. ‘That’s a bad word, Pansy,’ said Miss Vernham beside her. She always sat next to Lorelei, without fail – ever since that first morning, when she followed Lorelei from the dormitory until lunch. Lorelei supposed it was so she wouldn’t lose her way. ‘Don’t use it.’ Pansy narrowed her eyes. ‘Of course. Another mudblood telling me what to say,’ she hissed. Gabriela was quiet for a moment – shocked, perhaps, by the coldness and lack of grace from Miss Parkinson. Really, what poor breeding for such an old family. Then again – three hundred years? What was that, next to... The silence she left behind was drowned by rustling, soft laughter, a hum of voices. It meant nothing. ‘You’re horrid,’ she said, when she found her voice. ‘Both of you, hush,’ said Lorelei. The professor stood far enough not to catch the slur, not spoken aloud in civil company, but close enough to hear the storm brewing. The last thing Slytherin needed was lost points over foolishness. ‘And who made you the –’ Miss Parkinson began, but the words died in her throat when she met the killing look in Lorelei Thurkell’s eyes. That stare had been perfected over centuries – passed down to shape the heirs of the most noble and immaculate line – a gaze strong enough to quiet children and shame men. And of course, it silenced Pansy Parkinson. ‘What is a point in being such a bully?’ Gabriela asked, as the class ended and they left the room. The students split into groups. Lorelei found herself walking beside her, and noticed Pansy had paired with Millicent Bulstrode and Tracey Davis (Daphne was feeling unwell that day and had not left the dormitory). Pansy was speaking fast and sharply, and all of them were casting glances their way – the kind of glances that left no doubt. They were speaking of them, of the scene just past. A creeping worry gripped Lorelei’s chest: what if someone believed she didn’t despise muggles and all their kind? A whisper like that would spread through Slytherin like a forest fire. Faced with the risk of disgrace, Lorelei listened dully to her housemate’s trembling talk, catching only the heart of it, and the last words: ‘...saying that awful word!’ ‘And what is wrong with the word?’ asked Lorelei, coolly. They were on their way to the Great Hall. It was nearly time for luncheon, and no lessons followed afterward. ‘It’s bad,’ Gabriela said. ‘And why is that?’ ‘Because...’ the girl faltered. ‘Because it’s hurtful!’ ‘Truth is not hurtful,’ said Lorelei. Gabriela stopped. Lorelei did too. They stood before the tall windows that looked down on the castle’s inner garden, the great trees and winding paths where other students moved to and from in haste. ‘There’s no truth in that word!’ ‘Mudbloods are those born outside magical lines, in whose veins flows the blood of muggles. The very ones who for centuries hunted witches and wizards, burned them at stakes and drowned them in rivers, coveting what they could not have. I find it foul even to speak of them, or to think of them – for they are mud, and from mud can only come more mud. Mudbloods.’ She spoke it aloud, shaped the thought in full, and felt lighter for it. The fear and the wavering vanished, and in their place rose what she had been taught all her life – a truth that lived in her blood, that fed her magic, her very nature. ‘How can you say such cruel things?’ asked Gabriela, stunned. Her face held sorrow, and Lorelei could not understand the reason. ‘Those were different muggles, from another time. These are not the same. And Hermione is muggle-born too. And she is our friend.’ ‘Since when?’ asked Lorelei, sharply. ‘We spoke with her just two days ago, didn’t we? And yesterday too, when she told us she was afraid of flying lessons, after lunch?’ Gabriela threw her hands up. ‘She is very kind, so why should we not be friends?’ That was true – in recent days, between classes and after lunch, they had met Miss Granger outside the Great Hall, and she had even started speaking to them. But both times, Lorelei had not taken part in conversation, but while Hermione confessed her fear of flying, she had only thought: no wonder. Who knew if a broom would carry a mudblood? But the thought had made her furious with herself. How careless she’d been! Twice, she had stood and spoken with a mudblood. She had sunk so low. ‘Miss Granger is not my friend,’ Lorelei said, cold as stone. ‘And no mudblood ever will be.’ ‘So you’re just like them, then?’ said Miss Vernham, her brows drawn close. ‘Like who?’ ‘Bullies!’ ‘I call it clear-minded.’ Her roommate set her hands on her hips, looking angry now. ‘Then I’m not your friend either. If you’re going to be this rude and heartless.’ Lorelei’s face stayed still. ‘Fine,’ she said. Then she turned and made for the Great Hall. She never once looked behind to see if Miss Vernham followed. All in all, it even served her well. Now no one could say she kept company with a lover of muggles. She ate her lunch and noticed Miss Vernham had followed her, though she sat far away and stared with hurt in her eyes, biting into little pickles. Then she walked in the quiet courtyard, sat on a bench, turned the pages of her Transfiguration book. Still, the result she had got was poor. Lorelei didn’t have enough practice. Transfiguration was the branch she’d studied the least and obviously was her weakness. Spells in the halls were not allowed, so Lorelei hurried back to her room. She reached the Slytherin common room, slipped past the older students – she didn’t want to draw their notice – and went straight up. Not finding Miss Vernham there, she started her work. Without a match, she tried turning a quill into a key. Again, it all changed – except the texture. The key still had feathers and little grooves. After her sixth try, Lorelei knew the trouble was not the words, not the wand, but her own mind. She couldn’t see in her head how wood became iron, how feathers became metal. She knew it was real, but not the way. And that lack was eating her up. The magic she cast would not forgive the gap. There was little time before the curfew, so she went to the library. Between the rows and the students rushing to return or borrow books – mostly Ravenclaws – Lorelei found a book called "Matter and Magic: Basics of Transfiguration" and signed for it with the tall woman behind the desk – Madam Pince, with her thin face and proper air – and took it to her room. On the stairs down to the dungeons, she met Gabriela, who was heading up. They both paused for a second, unsure what to say. Then Lorelei walked down without a word, and the sound of steps behind her showed Miss Vernham was following. Back in their room, she sat down to write a letter to her mother. She told Lorelei this as if it mattered. Lorelei opened the book and started searching for what she needed. The transfiguration of objects, which implies a complete alteration of their physical nature and substance, is carried out in three successive stages: the destruction of the original structure, the recombination of elements, and the formation of new matter. In the first stage, a deep unraveling of the initial matter occurs. Magical energy is directed at destabilizing the internal structure of the object, breaking apart the bonds that hold its shape and qualities. As a result, an amorphous, transitional substance is created, often described as pure magical mass. At this stage, a considerable amount of energy is released, part of which is used to support the following phases of transformation. After the collapse comes the restoration – not of the same, but of a wholly new composition. The power of transfiguration either draws in the necessary elements from the surrounding space or triggers a magical reworking of the existing ones, changing their inward essence. This makes it possible to create a substance with entirely different properties, in line with the target object. A proper tuning of the spell is crucial here: any deviation may cause unstable forms or a return to the previous state. The final stage is the formation and fixing of the new structure. The matter is arranged into a stable lattice, acquiring desired traits: density, weight, surface, colour, firmness, and so on. Only once the structure is fully stabilized can the object be considered properly transfigured and safe to use. Lorelei turned a few more pages, wholly absorbed in the reading. To achieve a steady transfiguration from one object to another, the practitioner must not only visualize the desired shape but also work through the full cycle of the change: the breakdown, the recombination, and the stabilization. It is advised to mentally "disassemble" the original object to its amorphous state beforehand, then – with firm concentration – direct one’s will toward the recreation of new matter with the intended properties. While speaking the incantation, the image of the final object must be held not only in the eyes but in the hands – its weight, its cold, the grain of its skin. The deeper and clearer the grasp of the final form’s qualities, the greater the chance of a complete transformation, leaving no trace of what it once was. She tried once more. This time the key was without feathers; the grooves remained. Another attempt – her mind wrapped in the chill of steel, her lips held its imagined taste, her nose caught its scent. And on the table lay a perfect key, touched in places by rust. ‘You managed it,’ said Gabriela, her voice caught halfway through her writing. ‘Of course,’ said Lorelei Thurkell. ‘On the second try?’ A second to think. ‘Exactly.’ ‘Even Hermione can’t do it yet.’ ‘That’s no wonder.’ There was no need to explain; Gabriela, looking at her with a question, recalled their last talk, grew cross and went back to scratching her quill against the parchment with fresh temper. They did not speak, only now and then throwing glances at one another, for the rest of the day. After washing, putting on their nightgowns, and putting out the light (still done by Lorelei, who wondered if her roommate even knew how to use a wand), they slipped under the blankets – it was cold in the dungeons – and sank into darkness and unfamiliar silence. All nights had always been full of talk, mostly from Miss Vernham, who spoke of her family, her favorite things, her favorite books, her fears, or the foods she liked best. Now, after holding silence for nearly ten minutes, she said: ‘Just so you know, I'm not speaking to you!’ ‘At last I’ll be able to enjoy some quiet,’ said Lorelei. In truth, the quiet, her friend for many months, now made her restless. Perhaps that was why she spoke? ‘Are you saying I talk too much?’ ‘I’m saying some people take time to think before they speak, and you’re very good at saving that time.’ The silence before the storm. ‘And you… you think so long you forget to say anything at all!’ ‘That is certainly better than wasting words on nothing!’ ‘Well that's better than treating everyone like they’re beneath you!’ ‘Not my fault they are.’ ‘You’re so full of yourself!’ ‘You’re all talk!’ ‘You’re a snob!’ ‘You’re a shame!’ ‘I don’t want to sleep in one room with you anymore!’ ‘Then sleep in the bath.’ ‘And I will!’ But she didn’t. Shifting in her bed, she remained awake for a while. Lorelei lay still, and must have drifted off later. Morning came grey and heavy. Neither girl was rested. Breakfast, and the waiting outside the Potions room, passed without color or taste. Whispers did little to brighten the day, especially as they circled around the Slytherin first-years: ‘Is that really Harry Potter? ‘Are you sure it’s him?’ ‘Did you see his scar?’ The dungeon walls – for it was there that Professor Snape’s chambers lay – echoed the voices, making them impossible to ignore. ‘What do you feel when you look at him?’ asked Theodore, who had approached Lorelei for the second time that week. She gave him a questioning glance. He explained, ‘You could have been in his place. The object of admiration. If the Dark Lord had left you with a lightning-shaped scar instead of the Dark Mark...’ ‘Don’t speak nonsense,’ said Lorelei sharply. She, too, looked at the boy who had lived – who seemed no different from other children, except that he wore round glasses and had no habit of brushing his hair – dark strands sticking out in every direction, thick and wild against his thin frame. The door flew open. Professor Snape, glancing at the assembled students, let them into the classroom. Along every wall stood glass jars, each filled with creatures and plants suspended in potion. Lorelei looked around with interest and took a seat near the professor’s desk. Each table was meant for two. Theodore did not join her but sat at the next one, beside Mr Zabini. Gabriela, seemingly forgetting herself, took the seat next to Lorelei. When she realized, it was already too late. Professor Snape cast a stern look upon the students, causing them to fall silent at once. Opening his register, he began to call names, raising his eyes briefly to each hand raised in reply. He paused at the name Potter. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said quietly. ‘Harry Potter. Our new celebrity.’ Laughter spread through the classroom – likely Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle. Lorelei noted the other Slytherins: either smirking or, more strikingly, scowling. Had Mr Potter already offended someone, done something, or was it simply that he did not meet the hopes of the pure-blood circle? ‘Lorelei Thurkell,’ said Mr Snape. He did not even raise his eyes from the register before reading the next name. Lorelei lowered her hand, bitterness rising on her tongue. After finishing the roll call, Snape cast a slow, precise gaze around the room. His eyes were just as Lorelei remembered – black, deep, and cold. ‘You are here to learn the science of potion-making. A precise and delicate science,’ he said softly, but his voice filled the room like smoke. ‘There will be no silly wand-waving here and most of you cannot grasp that my subject is a cornerstone of magic. I doubt any of you understand the beauty of a cauldron as it simmers low, sending out the finest scents or the quiet might of potions that slip through veins, wrapping the mind, stealing the senses. I could teach you to bottle fame, to brew triumph, even to cork death itself – if you are anything other than the usual pack of dunderheads I am forced to instruct.’ The silence after this was total. Inside Lorelei, a thrill of delight stirred. She even felt lighter. So he had not looked at her earlier – so what? When she performed the potion, when she answered, when she rose above them all – he would have to see her. He would have no other option. But now Professor Snape’s gaze was fixed elsewhere – and Lorelei was not the target. ‘Potter!’ he called. ‘What do you get when you mix powdered root of asphodel with wormwood infusion?’ ‘Draught of Living Death,’ Lorelei thought on instinct, her eyes seeking Potter. He didn’t look like he had a clue, and that made her smirk a little. Hermione Granger, though, certainly knew, her hand flashing upward. Lorelei, unwilling to lag behind, raised hers too. Mr Snape did not look at either of them. ‘So. Fame isn’t everything, is it? Let’s try again, Potter. If I asked you to fetch a bezoar, where would you look?’ ‘Inside a goat,’ she thought, again ignored. ‘I don’t know, sir,’ Potter admitted. A few Slytherins laughed silently. ‘Evidently, reading your books before term did not occur to you, Potter?’ In "Magical Drafts and Potions", there was a recipe for the Draught of Living Death, as well as a description of the bezoar, used as an antidote to most common poisons, so the question had been perfectly reasonable. And the fact that Mr Potter could not answer a single one of the questions – not even that – spoke volumes about his attitude toward learning. ‘Very well, Potter, what is the difference between wolfsbane and monkshood?’ ‘None. They are the same thing.’ There was a loud knock. Miss Granger had nearly leapt upon her desk to be noticed. As expected – rude and uncouth. ‘I do not know,’ said Mr Potter quietly. ‘But I believe Hermione does. Why not ask her?’ There was laughter – but this time it came from the Gryffindors. Of course. Who else would cheer for ignorance and ill manners, if not the house of shame and disgrace? Lorelei cast Mr Potter an irritated glance, and just as he turned to the others, searching for approval for his insolence, their eyes met. Lorelei turned away without hurry. ‘Sit down!’ barked Professor Snape at Miss Granger. ‘And you, Potter, take note: the powdered root of asphodel mixed with an infusion of wormwood creates a sleeping draught so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat, and it serves as an antidote to most poisons. And wolfsbane and monkshood are the same plant, also known as aconite. Understood? Now, all of you, write that down!’ Quills scratched hastily against parchment. Lorelei had no need to do so – she already knew it all – but she chose not to draw attention to herself. The professor was not in a good temper. ‘And for your cheek, Potter, I am deducting one point from Gryffindor,’ he said. Still, there was some satisfaction in it. The very first assignment for first-years was to brew the boil-curing potion. Nothing could have been easier! All the needed ingredients, as well as the measuring scales and a cauldron with fire already lit below it, were already on the table. One simply had to add the proper ingredients in the right order, in the correct amounts, stir it properly, and remove it from the heat at the exact right time. Nothing should have gone wrong. But it did. There was one cauldron between the two of them. Lorelei didn’t tell Gabriela that she intended to do it all herself – her actions made it plain enough. She weighed the dried nettle leaves and dropped them into the cauldron. During the forty seconds needed for the water to take on a yellowish-green shade, she ground six snake fangs to powder with the pestle. Gabriela had started doing the same beside her, but Lorelei assumed she was just practicing. She added one fourth of her powder (one quarter every twenty seconds, until the mixture turned red), and didn’t expect Gabriela to pour all of hers in right after. ‘What are you doing?’ Lorelei hissed, still holding her own three-quarters of powder, now made useless. ‘Adding the powder,’ Miss Vernham snapped. ‘I can see that. But why? I already crushed mine,’ Lorelei said, lifting her bowl. ‘So what?’ said Gabriela, snatching it from her. ‘We’ll use yours too.’ And she emptied it into the cauldron. Lorelei’s heart sank. Her breath caught in her throat. She seemed to be one step from fainting. ‘Whoa, your face actually moves,’ Gabriela muttered. Lorelei close her mouth at once, though her eyes stayed round with shock. Gabriela, as if nothing had happened, reached again for the snake fangs, grabbed another six, and dropped them in the bowl. Lorelei, not bothering to be polite, caught her hand just in time. ‘What are you doing?’ Lorelei’s anger was sharp, but her voice barely rose above a whisper. ‘You ruined the potion!’ ‘I did not! The recipe says four measures of powder!’ ‘Four measures of powder from six fangs!’ Gabriela picked up the book, flipped through and her face lit up. ‘Ahhhh,’ she said, her frown turning to cheer. Then panic. ‘Oh no.’ Both of them sprang up and leaned in, their necks stretched toward the cauldron. What they saw was terrible – the potion had turned black instead of red. ‘What do we do?’ Gabriela asked quietly. Staring into the dark liquid and its reflection, Lorelei murmured, ‘We need to neutralize the effect of the snake fangs…’ ‘Neutralize?’ her partner echoed. It became clear that without a thorough explanation, Miss Vernham might not understand and could make things worse. Lorelei, regaining her composure and calm expression, nodded. ‘Every ingredient is added to the potion for a reason, bearing magical properties both on its own and in combination. The quantity, the kind, the condition, its heating, the sequence of mixing – each part has a precise meaning. If we’ve gone astray, we must find a way to return to the correct point, to reduce the effect of the excess ingredient using another one.’ Lorelei glanced toward the walls. In one of the little bottles, the answer to her riddle was waiting. ‘The power of serpent’s teeth lies in cleansing the body of illness: it burns out the pus and thickened masses of sickness, ending its rise at the root. If the measure is too great, it may scorch and weaken healthy flesh. And to ease the effect...’ Grey eyes slipped over jars and vials, and in her thoughts – down the winding lines of old pages. The guess struck like lightning, and Lorelei Thurkell caught it before it vanished. ‘Powder of white willow bark!’ The bark, dusky-grey and brown, was found in a heartbeat; Lorelei had marked it – fourth row, second from the end. To stand, walk the floor, and return would be improper. To lift her hand – to distract, to declare their potion, a potion so simple, was close to collapse – Lorelei did not allow it. Instead, she drew her wand, cool and firm, and pointed it. ‘Akcio white willow bark, fourth row, second from the end.’ She had to be exact, lest she summon every bit of bark in reach and cause disorder. Catching the glass mid-air, as if it had always meant to fall into her hand, she glanced around. Professor Snape moved slow between the desks, eyes narrow on every cauldron. He did not notice her. That served her purpose. ‘I’ll do it,’ she said. One spoon – not more, not less. Lorelei crushed it fast, dropped it in, and waited. The potion began to shift color at once, and at that very moment, the long shadow of Professor Snape fell over them. Up close, he looked ill – like he’d only read about sunlight, not seen it himself. ‘What is going on here?’ he asked, sharp as flint. He looked at Lorelei. ‘Can’t you read, Miss Thurkell?’ She had to swallow the heavy lump and reply: ‘I can, sir.’ ‘Then why stray from the potion’s recipe?’ Lorelei glanced at Gabriela. The girl had frozen; it seemed Professor Snape unsettled her. ‘A regrettable mistake occurred, sir. Too much powdered serpent fang was added, and to correct it, I used white willow bark...’ ‘I cannot say what is more lamentable – to err in the making of so simple a potion, or to waste additional components without permission to mask such a glaring mistake... Be attentive, Miss Thurkell, and from now on do not improvise, do not stray from the recipe, and do not dare wave your wand in my classroom.’ With a rustle of black robes, Professor Snape turned sharply away to frighten other students. Lorelei stood still for a few seconds, wrestling with herself, with the thought that he was right and that he had been unjust, not noticing... Inhale. Exhale. She looked into the cauldron. Gabriela confirmed softly, as though afraid to disturb the silence. ‘It turned red. As it should.’ With a single movement of her hand, Lorelei added the horned slugs to the cauldron. After exactly twenty seconds, the potion turned green. The precision in time showed that the white willow bark had worked. Lorelei took the cauldron off the fire. She added the first portion of porcupine quills. A hissing sound came from the side. Lorelei, familiar with the noise – she had dealt with cauldrons and potions before – grabbed her wand at once, reacting immediately to the green liquid already beginning to spill over the edges of the cauldron, which, upon touching the open flame beneath, would have caused trouble. ‘Extinguere Ignis!’ she said firmly, without haste. Not her first time either. The fire went out, the mixture hissed, and sank back to the bottom. Lorelei looked at her friend with sharp eyes. ‘Theodore?’ she said, after a breath. ‘Did you add the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?’ A helpful reminder – turning back to her table, Lorelei tossed in the second round of quills. Just one more to go, and the potion would be finished. ‘It wasn’t me,’ Theodore said, when she turned to him again, ‘it was Blaise.’ The boy next to him – short hair, a quiet face, skin the color of old amber – was a stranger, though she knew the name Zabini well. He said nothing. Only looked as if he’d rather walk out than stay. ‘I guess we both had bad luck with partners,’ Lorelei said, turning and adding the last bit of quills. Professor Snape stood before the table, watching her with a still, quiet anger. ‘To spoil a most basic potion, to use my ingredients without asking, and to defy my direct order not to use a wand in this room... You have broken more rules in one class than even the Gryffindors, Miss Thurkell. You will serve detention. Saturday.’ Lorelei wished to say why the wand had returned to her hand, but Professor Snape gave her no chance. He leaned closer, his eyes like stone, and said: ‘Do not try my patience. I treat you no different than the rest, and you will not be spared. And as a student of Slytherin, I expect you to act with sense and honour. Regrettably, you show neither today.’ He turned sharply from the table, did not glance at the potion, nor at Mr. Nott’s ruined brew, and went to stand beside Draco’s desk, where the potion gleamed. Lorelei, her fingers trembling, added the final quills, then looked their way – saw Draco glowing with pride, and heard how kindly Professor Snape spoke of his gift. Her eyes had gone glassy, but her face remained unchanged, which meant Lorelei had not been defeated. A moment passed, and the dungeon was suddenly filled with sharp green smoke and loud hissing. Someone from Gryffindor – who else – had managed to melt their cauldron, and it was spreading across the floor. Likely, they’d not only added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the flame, but had done it by the handful. ‘Idiot!’ Snape roared, appearing before the student who had caused it, sweeping the spilled potion into the corner with one firm motion of his hand. ‘Am I right in guessing you added the porcupine quills before removing the cauldron from the fire?’ The round-faced boy – most likely Mr Longbottom, the one who ran to his table without taking off the Sorting Hat – winced and burst into tears. Lorelei frowned at the open display of emotion. The professor ordered him sent to the hospital wing and at once found the real culprit in the situation. ‘Potter! Why didn’t you tell him he shouldn’t add porcupine quills to the potion? Or did you think that if he made a mistake, you would look better than him? Because of you, I’m marking another penalty point against Gryffindor.’ ‘Could have gone worse,’ Gabriela said softly, as they left the room. ‘No, it could not,’ Lorelei cut in sharply, coldly. Her head was heavy with thoughts, and only later did she wonder why her partner was speaking to her again. Not only had Professor Snape failed to witness her skill and demonstration of potion-making knowledge, but he now seemed to believe she was hopeless in the subject (to fail at such an elementary potion!) and considered her nothing more than a rude troublemaker. And compared her to whom? To Gryffindors! What shame! ‘But at least you didn’t lose any points like Potter did,’ Gabriela said, with a shrug. Lorelei stopped, looked straight at her. ‘I got detention, and now my name is forever stained!’ she declared. Detention was for Gryffindors and the rest of the rabble, and she had been thrown in among them. What disgrace! Her head throbbed with too many feelings. ‘And it’s your fault!’ ‘The recipe was written in a complicated way!’ Gabriela frowned, her dark-auburn brows drawn together. ‘I simply made a mistake!’ ‘Then you should have taken the blame in front of Professor Snape!’ ‘And get detention? No, thank you.’ Lorelei narrowed her eyes a fraction. ‘And really, it was your fault,’ said Miss Vernham out of nowhere. ‘If you had told me what to do, and we had worked together, we would have succeeded.’ ‘I must remind you, you’re not speaking to me,’ Lorelei said with irritation. Her neighbour’s face showed confusion, then cleared. Had she truly forgotten? ‘Yes,’ Gabriela said with a nod. ‘Then do keep it up with more effort,’ Lorelei said, and walked off alone. After barely eating a bite of fish – Lorelei never had much appetite, and after all that had happened, she could not enjoy her meal at all – she began to explore the corridors of the school. Found where all the exits from the castle were, memorized which corridors and staircases led to them, saw Mr Potter and Mr Weasley through the window of the corridor, as they walked across the green lawn toward the hut at the edge of the forest – likely the Forbidden one, where, by rumour, the gamekeeper lived, the same half-giant who had greeted the first-years at the train. Lorelei imagined how many curious materials for potions and spellwork could be found in the forest and reminded herself that students were strictly forbidden from going there. Sadly. She peeked into the Trophy Room, and the library, picked up a few books, not too hard – "The Potion Book", "Practice on Unstable Blends", and "A Catalogue of Rare Elements and Their Behavior in Potions" – to read that evening and through the night. Lorelei told herself she had grown too careless, forgetting her midnight studies, and was determined to return to old patterns. Of course, the light might disturb her roommate, but the girl could close the curtain. She returned to the common room rather late, said the password, and waited for the opening in the wall to appear, expecting to see a half-empty common room, where students spoke quietly in small groups, where the fire would crackle and the greenish light, shifting in lovely shades across the walls, would soothe the eyes for a brief moment – Lorelei had never stayed long in the common room. But the instant the door had begun to open, she understood – something had happened. The common room was far too crowded, and she heard a boy’s voice, still young, yet heavy with grown-up scorn and arrogance, broken phrases that nearly always meant trouble for her: ‘...but in Slytherin that doesn’t happen! Here, everyone knows their place. But he forgot. Seems you did too.’ Lorelei stepped in, slowly, like a cat, drawing nearer, passing by students whose gazes were fixed on the center of the room. There, near the fireplace and the large chairs, beneath the green glow, stood a tall young man – Mr Rosier Jr, somewhat handsome, far too proud. Beside him was another upperclassman, shorter, or seeming shorter from the way he hunched and folded into himself, terribly thin. Lorelei’s gaze couldn’t help noting how disheveled he looked, his robe wrinkled – and she at once linked it to his blood – half-blood, or worse. Was Mr Rosier speaking to him, or about him? ‘And you?’ said a voice. A girl’s voice. Soft, but steady. Lorelei felt her breath catch. She knew that voice. ‘Do you think you’re better than others just because you were born to a wizard family?’ Someone laughed, someone muttered something bitter to their neighbor. Lorelei stopped dead, the whole scene clear before her: the two older boys, and facing them, a tiny first-year girl – her roommate, Gabriela Vernham. She saw Miss Vernham drawing danger to herself, the scorn of the house she’d have to live with for the next seven years, for Slytherin was home to those who believed themselves superior simply for being born to wizarding blood – pure blood. Miss Vernham was drawing shame upon herself, a shame no act or apology could ever wash clean, and Lorelei did not know how to stop her, or if she should. And all for what? A mudblood? Why did she do it? What good did it bring? ‘It isn’t fair...’ Gabriela murmured, lowering her auburn head. Theodore appeared beside Lorelei, having noticed her from across the room and made his way over. ‘Did you see what your roommate did?’ he asked at once. He liked knowing things Lorelei didn’t. That’s why he shared so eagerly, savoring each word: ‘The one beside Reginald is Evan Brown, a half-blood. Reginald kicked him out of their dormitory, didn’t want to share a room with someone like that, so now he’s been sleeping in a chair in the common room. And your roommate decided to play hero and help him get back into the dormitory. Reginald, of course, wasn’t pleased.’ ‘Stop saying “your roommate.” I’m not responsible for her doings,’ said Lorelei sharply. But already, she felt sideward glances upon her. Even her silence, her inaction had its price. Lorelei – they hadn’t liked her much to begin with – might find herself struck down for nothing, simply for sharing a room with the one who, in front of them all, had made a mistake, had bruised the tender pride of the pure-blood heirs with careless word and deed. Lorelei gripped the books tighter, so tightly her fingers turned pale, and with a face like stone, stared down the Slytherins, casting a glance at Mr Rosier. A sense of injustice washed over her again, and against better judgement, her anger was not directed at Miss Vernham. ‘Someone tell her how the world works,’ Mr Rosier said with a half-laugh, casting his glance over the crowd. He clearly liked being watched. He turned back to Gabriela, his voice now edged with chill: ‘He is nothing. If he wants pity, he can leave and stop dragging down our house. And you – stay out of it, or you’ll be on the ground beside him.’ Among the watchers and the ones who laughed was Amelia Yaxley. Standing close, front row in this scene, she kept tossing quiet jokes to the girls behind her, though some of her lines – full of sweetness, sugar-thick and twisted with laughter – were heard by nearly all. And Lorelei’s hand itched for her wand by itself. ‘Look, she’s going to cry,’ Miss Yaxley giggled, pointing at Miss Vernham. And indeed, Gabriela was glancing around with eyelids heavy from unshed tears, looking at the others, perhaps searching for support or at least the absence of scorn, and her lower lip was trembling, and Lorelei thought bitterly that the worst thing she could do now was to show weakness, to burst into tears in front of them all. Inhale. Exhale. ‘Why are you...’ she began, her voice breaking, low and barely heard. ‘Why are you like this?..’ Lorelei gave a small shrug, as though the question were strange, even a little childish. Surely, Miss Vernham could not truly fail to understand how things worked in pure-blood society? Was she really that far removed from it all? Theodore beside her gave a short laugh. ‘We are simply keeping order. It has always been this way,’ said Mr Rosier, calm, almost lazy. ‘When you enter another’s house, isn’t it wiser to learn how things are done here? It may be unpleasant. For you. But the rules do not change for passing guests.’ A pause. Silence, thick as smoke. ‘So, if you are not with us – you are with him. And if you are with him, then you are... the blot upon our House. Upon us. And I assure you, no one will simply let that stand.’ “The blot” – Lorelei felt her breath cut short. Every part of her tensed, like she expected someone to strike her, with wand or fist. That word – her old name, what they used to call her, to drag her low, to lift themselves higher in a world where bloodline and riches were weighed the same. No wonder the moment he said it, some faces turned, those who had used that name before, scanning the room until they found her – and smiled. Now it was certain – Lorelei was a target. Maybe not now, but for future. Merlin, how she had longed to prove herself, to show that even without perfect blood, she had the same strength, the same knowledge, the same skill. But in the end? Mr Snape, her uncle, thought her a fool and a troublemaker, and the quiet she had clung to in Slytherin – her quiet bargain – was near breaking, because she was the only one who ever tried to forget that she was the pheasant they liked to hunt when no real game could be found. With a heavy heart, Lorelei accepted her fate. And in a strange way, the weighty choice eased the burden on her shoulders. She had no intention of losing face, of forgetting her manners and upbringing as some in the common room allowed themselves to, but she had no intention either of continuing her former policy. ‘I will never be like you!’ cried Gabriela with resolve, stepping back. Lorelei thought she might flee – but no, she remained still. She showed a kind of strength Lorelei had not seen even in every pure-blood child. And Lorelei appreciated that strength. For the first time, her roommate came across as not merely amusing, but actually intriguing. But she needed someone to step forward for her – someone who held the right to do so. Not knowing the rules of the game, she could not defend herself with dignity. Lorelei, even without absolutely pure blood, knew those rules well. Mr Rosier sneered with malice. A few students followed his lead. The crowd thickened, and it seemed the common room itself had grown smaller, the air heavier. The green light shimmered across faces like a curtain before thunder. Lorelei fixed her eyes on Reginald Rosier and held her gaze, though she had to summon all her strength to keep it steady. She already knew her next move. If this wasn't stopped now, she would be next. And the best defense, as they say, is attack. So she waited for the strike – and Mr Rosier was kind enough to offer it. ‘So you’ve passed judgment on yourself,’ he said, his voice dripping poison. He stepped toward Gabriela, and again, closing the space between them. She drew back, shrank in on herself. Mr Brown, the older boy who had caused all this, sat in silence, though he dared to raise his head. ‘You are not worthy of studying in Slytherin. You do not belong here. You have no place among us. Not in the dormitory. Not in the common room. Nowhere.’ ‘And who said that?’ came a cold voice. Everyone turned toward Lorelei – not just those who had known, who had seen her shame in rich halls and glittering rooms, but all the rest of the House. Some looked surprised, some displeased. Gabriela blinked in astonishment. Mr Rosier’s expression twisted, but he held on to his confidence. Good. Anything less would have looked pathetic. Lorelei stepped forward, passed the students, and came to the focal point of tension. She placed her books on the small table beside the armchair where, perhaps, Mr Brown had been sleeping. ‘I am,’ said Mr Rosier with steel in his voice. ‘And I believe any true Slytherin would say the same.’ ‘And what standing do you have to make such a declaration?’ Lorelei asked softly, with a voice like night air. ‘Who are you?’ Of course she knew. But it mattered that he knew she didn’t care. Without pause, and yet with grace, Lorelei stepped between him and Gabriela, shielding the girl behind her. It was always more honourable to defend someone else. The strategy made her feel strong. That thought alone gave her poise enough to face the scorn in his look, the silence before the line: ‘I am Reginald Rosier, heir and descendant of the purest and most noble House of Rosier,’ the boy spread his arms wide, ‘and who else but I should know how to fight the filth that’s crept even into our House?’ Lorelei did not look impressed. She hardly looked like it held any weight at all. Her face, blank before, darkened just a little. Perhaps it was the way shadows fell across it – or the thought she voiced moments later: ‘Purest and noblest…’ she repeated slowly, eyeing him from head to foot. Then, doubting, she added, ‘Rosier?’ Now everyone looked at Mr Rosier. Not to answer such a thing – or to do so without the proper gravity – was to insult his own name. And though he could not lash out at her in ignorance – Lorelei was still a ward of the Malfoy family, a connection the Rosiers would not risk – it would not stop him from pointing out her own bloodline, and reminding her that the daughter of a half-blood had no right to judge the honour of his House. ‘Miss Thurkell,’ he began – but Lorelei cut him off with a speech she had already rehearsed. ‘A descendant of a wizard who found no shame in mixing with women from Muggle-born families – or Muggles themselves – and ended up pathetically murdered by the father of one? That is your pride? Edric Rosier, your great-grandfather, shamed his name so deeply it became a word for disgrace. And now you cannot even bear the presence of a half-blood in your room for a few hours. Is this overcompensation?’ Some whispers and light laughter reached her ears. The Rosier family had those who stood by them, but like any house of old blood, there were also enemies. And now they were all gathered here, under the same roof, simmering like ingredients in a cauldron, impossible to tell when or how they would react – or what end this potion would have, a brew that seemed bound to boil until the end of time. Mr Rosier likely did not feel nervous, though the public mention of his great-grandfather’s disgrace was far from flattering and did his name no favours. He licked his lips and took a deep breath before answering. Lorelei certainly liked the role of the one attacking. It was far more pleasant when the burden of answering was not hers. ‘It does not take wit or courage to spread vile and foolish lies, Mrs Thurkell,’ Mr Rosier said, the words nearly spat. ‘But there is one truth – the Rosiers are among the “Sacred Twenty-Eight,” which erases any doubts about the honour of my family.’ ‘My words are confirmed by newspaper clippings from 1912, as well as the memoirs of Bathilda Bagshot from those same years,’ said Lorelei Thurkell with a small shrug. ‘But of course, you needn’t trouble yourself with reading such materials – it’s merely a piece of your family’s history, which barely stretches across nine generations.’ She let her gaze linger, unbothered. ‘And surely, it must be enough for you to know that your family was mentioned in the directory of pure-blooded wizards…’ ‘Mind yourself, Mrs Thurkell! And mind your place,’ Mr Rosier snapped, and Lorelei swallowed it down. ‘We weren’t simply mentioned! The Rosier family has a full chapter!’ ‘Forgive me, of course,’ she said. Then went on, smooth as silk, keeping her voice steady: ‘Next to the Blacks – truly noble and pure – the Rosiers too received a chapter. All thanks to your grandfather’s efforts to polish the family name. The Blacks got nearly fifty pages, for their tree, their tales, their ways. And the Rosiers?’ She squinted slightly, as if calling it up from memory. ‘Three pages?’ she asked, gently turning the question back on Mr Rosier. He said nothing, but the look he gave her now was not just annoyed – it was bitter. Still, the venom came from another mouth. ‘Well, well. The Thurkell family wasn’t mentioned in that book at all,’ came the mocking voice of Miss Yaxley from the side. Lorelei barely spared her a glance. She answered while staring directly at Mr Rosier, as if the words had come from him. Naturally they had lingered on his tongue as well. ‘Most likely, my family did not bargain with the author, who wished to remain unnamed. Curious, isn’t it?’ – a short smile, then Lorelei returned to her usual nothing. She said coldly: ‘I understand, Mr Rosier, it must truly be unpleasant for you to share company with a half-blood wizard. And perhaps you were offended that Mr Brown bears the same name – Evan – as your untimely uncle. But both he and Miss Vernham came to Slytherin because the Sorting Hat, which Salazar Slytherin himself helped to enchant, considered them worthy to study in this House. So I shall ask again: who are you to declare whether they belong here or not?’ ‘I shall repeat once again,’ – emphasising each word, calmly but with a clear trace of irritation, Lorelei said. – ‘Salazar Slytherin, the founder of our House, took personal part in the enchanting of that Hat. Are you truly doubting the work of his hands?’ Everyone fell silent. With his reply, Mr Rosier was not merely risking an unpleasant loss in a verbal duel with a first-year, he was now challenging the holiest of all sacred things, and everyone understood it. “Check,” Lorelei thought, seeing how, with nothing to say, Mr Rosier drilled her with a wrathful gaze. And before he could open his mouth and say something – Lorelei had no doubt it would be bloated and perhaps terribly foolish – she warned him: ‘Careful, Mr Rosier. Mind yourself. And mind your place. It is certainly not beside Slytherin, no matter what illusion the pure-blood register may have led you to believe.’ “Checkmate,” Lorelei smiled to herself. ‘You…’ began Mr Rosier, his hand sliding inside his robe. Lorelei instinctively reached for the inner pocket of her own – for her wand. Could it be that, having lost in words, he would turn to curses? Her breath caught, not from fear, but from the thrill of a first magical duel. She had a handful of spells in her mind, ones she had never dared to use, never managed to. And perhaps, her moment had come. ‘What’s going on here?’ came an irritated boyish voice. Everyone turned to the sound of the voice – it was the prefect entering the common room. Mr Rookwood looked at them all, passed by the crowd of students, and stopped beside Lorelei, who still stood in front of Mrs Vernham, now calmer but still looking as though she’d been struck. The prefect’s gaze fell on Mr Rosier, and from the first glance, Lorelei understood – the older students did not get along. No one spoke, unwilling to explain the cause or offer speeches. Quietly, almost unnoticed, Mr Nott appeared beside Lorelei. After exchanging a brief glance with him, she fixed her gaze on the prefect again. ‘Because of Mr Rosier, Mr Brown sleeps in the common room,’ Gabriela said softly. Glancing at her, Lorelei gave Mr Rookwood a faint smile. ‘Mrs Vernham has a gentle nature. She couldn’t walk past such injustice.’ Mr Rookwood, barely reacting to her words, turned to Mr Rosier. Asked shortly: ‘You’re at it again?’ Mr Rosier gave no answer. Mr Rookwood swiftly addressed the half-blood: ‘Evan, go to the dormitory.’ Then turned again to Mr Rosier: ‘If this happens again, I will report everything, Reginald – everything – to Professor Snape. I will not allow such stunts in this house.’ Evan Brown, casting a wary glance at Mr Rosier, swayed a little and walked toward the staircase that led to the dormitories. Mr Rosier, pressing his lips together, threw one last furious look at Lorelei, and left as well, but toward the exit of the common room. It was already curfew; walking the corridors at such an hour was permitted only to prefects, but he didn’t seem to care. The others did not move, and Mr Rookwood, glancing around, commanded: ‘Move along, it’s over!’ And so they did. Lorelei watched for a few seconds as the students began to leave the common room, returning to the dorms, nodded to Gabriela – who now seemed fully calm – and headed for the staircase too. She picked up the books from the small table, and with the thought that now, having defended Miss Vernham in front of everyone, there was no turning back for her, her mind filled with a strange certainty, perhaps even enthusiasm. Was she now seen as a protector too, after standing up for Gabriela? It was even pleasant. As if she were important enough to shield someone from trouble. ‘That was cool,’ said Gabriela, grinning from ear to ear, as they were still walking to the dorm. Around them, behind or ahead, other Slytherin girls passed, eyeing them with suspicious squints or even with disgust. Lorelei didn’t answer them, but looked at Gabriela without coldness. ‘Thank you.’ ‘How did you know what his great-grandfather was famous for?’ ‘I know many things.’ ‘Cool,’ Gabriela repeated. In the dormitory, Gabriela asked her to show her “The Sacred Twenty-Eight”; it turned out she had never seen it. Lorelei, like every self-respecting child raised by pure-blood standards, had a copy with her, and they spent the whole evening flipping through the book together. Lorelei enjoyed telling her about the history of the Black family and its traditions, a bit about the Malfoys, the Notts. Gabriela was amazed and delighted by Lorelei’s memory, able to remember several dynasties, certain Black traditions, for instance, the “first letter” ritual, when a young Black had to write a letter to their future self and seal it, and the family kept it in a family box until their coming of age or marriage, which charmed her. Lorelei did not remind her of their quarrel, and after a few hours it was forgotten. Lying down to sleep, Gabriela started talking again, this time about the traditions of her own family, which included celebrating Christmas and birthdays. There was little special in that, but Lorelei did not interrupt her. ‘I’m going to read all night,’ she said, not turning off the light. ‘Read what?’ ‘“A Practicum on Unstable Mixtures.”’ ‘Sounds hard.’ ‘It’s not for beginners.’ Gabriela thought for a moment. ‘All right,’ she said at last. ‘Good night, Lorelei.’ Lorelei opened her book. ‘Good night.’ And she spent most of the night reading, only now and then wondering how the incident with Mr Rosier would affect their lives from now on. Whatever it was, she wasn’t alone anymore.