Lorelei Thurkell and the Philosopher's Stone

Nearly ten years had passed since the Malfoys had taken the orphaned child into their care, and since then, Malfoy Manor had been transformed by a series of changes and novelties, most of which had little to do with the presence of an supernumerary child in the house. Lorelei believed so. In the three principal halls, where guests were received for much grand jubilation – honoring both real and fabricated occasions, and convened to fortify the ties among pure-blooded families, ties which, as Mr. Malfoy often lamented, grew ever more tenuous with each passing year due to the foolish and reckless policies of the Ministry of Magic, determined as it was to admit into high circles those whose lineage bore the stain of mudblood – there had appeared new paintings, new wallpaper, new tables for feasting and card games, and even a piano. In the guest chambers, Mrs. Malfoy had refreshed the furnishings according to her own impeccable taste; and in the backyard, where ample space had recently been cleared to her advantage, she had planted decorative trees and prepared a lawn that could, at a moment’s notice, be arranged by house-elves for outdoor celebrations. And so it was this morning that the elves were busy at work upon the lawn, preparing for the birthday of the Malfoy heir, the sole offspring of the family. Draco was turning eleven. On such a grand day, Lorelei, naturally, was not granted a little more rest. Spriggan, the house-elf – her thin, wiry frame wrapped neatly in a piece of cloth cut from Lorelei’s old pillowcase, worn but always clean (Spriggan was an impeccably tidy creature) – drew back the curtains, flooding the room with brilliant sunlight. The sound of small feet scurrying about reached Lorelei’s ears. She opened her eyes, already expecting to see the elf’s round face, wide eyes, and long ears peering down at her – and, foreseeing the inevitable conversation, spoke first: ‘I’m not wearing anything but black.’ No emotion touched her waxen features; only the vacant drift of her gaze and her voice – like the hush of wind slipping through the corridors of the manor, faint and trembling – betrayed her fatigue. ‘This is unacceptable!’ Spriggan cried out. She was ready to fight – and so was Lorelei and also she had the upper hand, though: she'd won the last twenty-seven times. The elf had her arguments: ‘You will upset the mistress!’ Lorelei gave half-hearted responses, each one a phrase learned by heart, part of the same tired script that had played out before and would play out again. ‘My absence would upset her even more.’ ‘It is inappropriate and improper to wear black to such a celebration!’ ‘It would be far more inappropriate and improper, given my circumstances, to appear in any other color.’ ‘You can't spend your whole life wearing black!’ ‘I can. And I will. And I’ll be in black even in afterlife.’ ‘You won’t get to choose what you wear when you'll be buried!’ Now and then, Spriggan managed to annoy Lorelei – but she simply didn’t have the strength or the heart to reprimand her for an unnecessary word or gesture. She fell silent, pondering, and Spriggan quickly took advantage of her distraction to help the young lady with her morning bath and get her ready for the feast. Spriggan liked to talk while she worked, and today was no exception. Her favorite topics usually included the dark circles under Lorelei’s eyes – was the young lady not sleeping well at night? Were nightmares troubling her? If so, Spriggan would be happy to bring her tea with a calming potion – and, of course, Lorelei’s hair: dark chestnut, fine, brittle, and stubbornly unmanageable since the day she was born – good for nothing but being scraped back into a tight bun if it was to look presentable and survive more than an hour or two of revels. For the most part, Lorelei found this convenient – after all, elaborate hairstyles were hardly fitting for someone in mourning. But today, Mrs. Malfoy had insisted not only on a dress of a color other than black but also on a proper hairstyle. When she entered the room, Lorelei was still in her undergarments – narrow-shouldered, upright, her posture unnaturally straight – while Mrs. Malfoy was already shining in a beautiful velvet-red gown, adorned with strands of white pearls, her skin glowing and the sweet scent of her perfume trailing behind her. Lorelei caught sight of her in the mirror behind herself and, for a moment, wished she could ever be as beautiful as Mrs. Malfoy – a tall, slender blonde, graceful in every movement, capable of producing a smile so convincing it could be mistaken for genuine, and, at times, smiling without pretense at all. Most often, that smile appeared in response to her son’s successes – achievements that, in Lorelei’s quiet opinion, were hardly extraordinary. Lorelei pushed the thought away, for it was hardly proper to indulge in such vain regrets while in lamentation, and mentally braced herself for the battle ahead. Spriggan had been just the practice round; Mrs. Malfoy was the real challenge. ‘Today is a celebration, Lorelei,’ Narcissa Malfoy said warmly. ‘Save your stubbornness for another day and do not dampen the guests' spirits today. Put on something festive. Elegant. Something like this...’ She gave the slightest snap of her fingers, and Spriggan darted to the wardrobe. In the blink of an eye, a voluminous, multi-layered gown with bows on the sleeves and glittering embroidery on the corset floated into view. ‘It's... pink,’ Lorelei whispered, allowing herself the rare indulgence of a grimace. It was the first shift in her expression that day – and the unfamiliar motion gave a faint prick of pain in her forehead. ‘You don’t like pink anymore?’ Narcissa Malfoy asked. ‘It’s far too striking. Peach and lilac – those would be acceptable for lady my age. But I wear nothing but black, so the matter of preference is irrelevant,’ Lorelei replied without a waver in her voice or breath. Mrs. Malfoy gestured for the dress to be put back into the wardrobe and approached Lorelei, sitting down beside her, her back to the mirror. Looking down at her, she softened her voice as much as a woman raised in one of the purest wizarding families and married into another – though slightly less so – could manage. ‘For a young lady, to be clad entirely in black is most unseemly, Lorelei. And you cannot stay in mourning forever. One day, it will end.’ ‘No, it won't. I will keep it until the day I die.’ ‘Don't speak nonsense. You need to dress beautifully, go out into society. That’s what young ladies are meant to do. And one day, you’ll marry.’ ‘I won't have time.‘ ‘Don't talk nonsense,’ reapeted Mrs. Malfoy, her tone unusually light. The sun was shining outside, the wind was still – and perhaps the fine weather had put her in such good spirits, knowing nothing would spoil the outdoor celebration. Maybe that same good mood would spare her disappointment at Lorelei’s black dress? ‘We could do this: today you wear a colored dress – not pink, if it displeases you so much – and tomorrow you can go back to black.’ ‘Is it allowed?’ Lorelei asked quietly. ‘To abandon grief and suffering for a few fleeting hours of idle pleasures and empty chatter, only to pick them up again the next morning?’ Narcissa paused, a flicker of confusion briefly disturbing her perfectly composed face. ‘Yes. It happens. Will you wear the dress I've picked?’ ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs. Malfoy, but no,’ Lorelei answered, her voice steady. She could not allow herself to forget her manners. Not with Mrs. Malfoy. Good manners were not something to dry between the pages of forgotten books; they were a weapon, the only weapon she had. At least until she had her own wand. Mrs. Malfoy had threatened to punish Spriggan for Lorelei’s behavior, but Lorelei didn’t waver. She kept a few healing salves tucked away in her nightstand – and it wouldn’t be the first time she'd handed them over to Spriggan, offering silent apology for the elf’s injuries suffered in her defense. Mrs. Malfoy had also threatened Lorelei with punishment, but Lorelei knew she had little to fear. Mrs. Malfoy didn’t favor whippings like Mrs. Wyndham did. A few hours of forced hunger, a few days locked away without books and company – Lorelei could endure that easily enough. Even being forced to stand with some humiliating sign hung around her neck – proclaiming her awful stubbornness and how it did not befit a young lady – wouldn't have been so bad. She already wore such a sign, invisible but always present. And the judgment that came with it – that was something she had long since learned to bear. In the end, she was forced to accept a compromise. Lorelei was used to such bargains – it kept Mrs. Malfoy satisfied, convinced she had imposed her will in some small way, and ensured her mood remained bright until the evening. Lorelei’s price was simple: to endure. She wore black, as she wished, but it was trimmed with white lace collars and gray ribbons and the sleeves were short; Spriggan, nimble and quiet, tied black ribbons around Lorelei’s forearms, covering the hateful Dark mark. Such a thing was never to be illuminated in polite society. And as she tied, Spriggan– the same Spriggan who had spent the morning arguing for a colorful dress – tried to offer comfort.       ‘It’s been six months, Miss Thurkell. You could move on to half-mourning now.’ ‘Half-mourning is worthless,‘ Lorelei said coldly. ‘One either mourns properly or admits defeat and shame.‘ Spriggan shook her head gently. ‘Sometimes,’ she murmured, ‘it’s harder to take off mourning clothes than to put them on. You’ll understand one day.’ ‘You're talking rubbish, Spriggan.’ The elf nodded obediently as she tied the last ribbon. ‘Yes, yes, I’m a very foolish elf, young lady, you're right’ she said – and Lorelei knew that Spriggan, in her heart, thought no such thing. It was irritating, but she had neither the strength nor the desire to punish the elf. ‘She’s wearing black,’ was the first thing Lucius Malfoy said to his wife when Lorelei stepped out onto the porch. The guests had not yet arrived. The elves were finishing the preparations: white tablecloths, silver and crystal on the table and singing fountains appearing by magic in different spots, showering the surroundings with fine drops of water–too small to soak anyone, yet enough to cover the green lawn with shimmering pearls and rainbows that clearly held more than seven colors. The celebration looked to be lively, even dazzling. Still Lorelei had no desire to take part in the joy – but she also had no wish to disturb it. That would have been improper – and she was not here to misstep. Mr. Malfoy was seated, noble-bred, obedient dogs nestled at his feet. Lorelei, feeling neither obedient nor docile, torn between pride in her small victory and the dread of the whispered conversation soon to come, approached him. She noticed Mrs. Malfoy standing to one side of her husband; on the other stood their son, Draco. Father and son Malfoy resembled one another as much as fathers and sons possibly could: straight platinum-blond hair, pale skin, and fine-boned features that bore the unmistakable trace of aristocracy and pureblood lineage. Both were dressed in formal dark green suits made of cashmere and silk, which emphasized their stately figures. Lorelei stepped before Mr. Malfoy and delivered a flawless curtsy. ‘Good morning, Mr. Malfoy,’ she said in a low voice. Then she turned to his son. ‘Good morning, Draco. Happy birthday.’ ‘Is it really necessary for you to spoil everything?’ Draco's features twisted with displeasure and a pompous sort of irritation. He drew out his words in the manner of his father, and Lorelei thought it looked, at best, ridiculous – though many seemed to find it charming or amusing. Many, but not Lorelei. ‘Everyone’s supposed to be happy today, and you bring gloom with your very presence!’ ‘Draco.’ His father’s voice silenced him at once. ‘Remember your manners.’ ‘Yes, Father,’ Draco said, lowering his head slightly. He added, ‘May Lorelei and I take a short walk before the guests arrive?’ ‘Just don’t wander off too far,’ Mrs. Malfoy replied before her husband could speak. Lorelei had a feeling she wanted a word with him alone. It turned out Draco wanted to do the same. They hadn’t walked twenty steps before he asked, ‘Do you have a present for me?’ Even when they were alone, he kept up his father's mannerisms. Now, he put on an air of condescension – but Lorelei knew exactly what answer he was hoping for. Her expression didn’t shift. ‘Spriggan,’ she said calmly. ‘Bring the gift prepared for Mr. Malfoy.’ It was hard not to notice boy's sudden interest – and harder still when the house-elf appeared with a pop, holding a small parcel in her hands, which she handed to Lorelei. ‘What is it?’ Draco craned his neck. ‘Patience,’ Lorelei said, cutting him off. She unwrapped the package. Inside was a pair of gloves that, at first glance, appeared perfectly ordinary. Lorelei held them out to Draco. ‘Try them on.’ His curiosity overrode any suspicion. The gloves slipped onto his hands – a perfect fit. He turned them over, examining them, then looked to Lorelei, waiting. She nodded toward the breakfast table. ‘Pick something small, reach for it – and it will come to you.’ Draco’s disbelief was unmistakable – it was written across his face more boldly than anything else. But curiosity won again. He fixed his eyes on something on the table and reached out. And nothing happened. Draco was just beginning to turn toward her with a mocking smile when a silver fork, engraved with the family crest, lifted neatly into the air and flew straight into his hand. He froze, stunned. Lorelei’s face remained calm, though her insides – clenched tight with anxious anticipation – finally loosened, letting her breathe for the first time that morning. ‘This... this is...’ Draco stared at his gloved hands in disbelief. Then he caught himself, straightened his shoulders, and returned to his usual drawl. ‘Quite impressive.’ ‘I'm glad,’ Lorelei said, letting the corner of her mouth twitch ever so slightly. She’d have to stretch it into a proper polite smile before the guests arrived. ‘Where did you get these?’ ‘I enchanted them myself,’ she replied, as if it were nothing. ‘How? When?’ ‘Does it matter?’ Draco frowned. ‘Happy birthday,’ Lorelei repeated, while he continued to examine his gift. They resumed their walk. Draco, still absorbed in his new toy – a magical artifact incapable of summoning even a quarter the weight that a proper Akcio could manage, but impressive enough at first glance – fell slightly behind, lost in thought. And surely it would have been poor form to keep walking without him, so Lorelei stopped as well. She turned to face him. ‘I don’t think you spoil everything,’ Draco said suddenly. ‘It’s just… My father says... You’re different now. Ever since…’ He was cut off by a sharp pop. Lorelei felt quietly relieved. A house-elf had appeared for only a second, just long enough to announce that the guests had begun to arrive. They had all come – the Goyles, the Crabbes, the Parkinsons, the Greengrasses, the Notts, the Rosiers…Representatives of every respectable and noble pure-blood family living in magical Britain. It wasn’t the celebration that brought them together, but the shared instinct to close ranks. Lorelei had only ever heard of those beyond this narrow circle – wizards who didn’t cling to ancient laws, who questioned tradition and order, who believed magic didn’t need to be chained to bloodlines and who sought to simplify and diminish the full scope of magic. And then there were the mudbloods – those born to non-magical families, whose names, many felt, ought not to be spoken at all, as if doing so invited something unclean – said to bring with them the chaos and coarseness of the world they came from. Only through unity could the pure-blood families resist the Ministry’s dangerous inclination toward modern ideas. Lucius Malfoy often visited the Minister in person, raising matters of magical consequence. And it was at gatherings like these – behind the polite chatter – that serious discussions always found their way into conversation. Once, Lorelei had wandered among the guests eagerly, catching fragments of talk, listening in on important matters firsthand. But now… now that no longer concerned her. Especially after she donned black – it was as if every spiteful tongue had turned on her with twice the fervor. ‘Was there truly nothing more suitable she could’ve worn? Skin and bones, hair like grease, and dressed in something so pale it might as well be mourning linen,’ Mrs. Parkinson announced loudly – just as Lorelei, having followed Narcissa Malfoy to greet the guests, was beginning to move away. She knew perfectly well Lorelei had heard her. Perhaps that had been the intention. As was Mrs. Crabbe’s remark: ‘Now, now, Katerina – she’s dressed for her place, isn’t she? She's not the mistress of the house – just a charity case with good posture. But she’d do well to smile more, and learn how to conduct herself. No one’s will keep her by their side if she keeps wafting around with that ever-so-pleasant corpse face.’ ‘I doubt she’ll stay in our company once she’s of age,’ Parkinson added with a girlish giggle. ‘The Malfoys may be kind, but even kindness has limits. After that – back to wherever she came from.’ The sound of that laugh clung to Lorelei like perfume – sharp, persistent. It followed her through her practiced curtsy to Mr. and Mrs. Rosier, through their polished well-wishes for Draco’s magical future, and into the brief moment of reprieve with Mrs. Malfoy – where even the Rosiers, unbothered by discretion, murmured to one another that she had grown… but not into beauty. It was like that with nearly every guest – nearly every honorable figure of magical society. Lorelei knew Narcissa Malfoy’s ears caught whispers better than most wizards caught spells. And she knew nothing would be said or done to stop them. As long as Lorelei displayed the proper virtues – loyalty to the Malfoy name, faultless manners, the illusion of spotless upbringing – she could expect civility. Insults would stay soft, whispered. Her presence would be endured. Her background, never quite forgotten, would be politely glossed over – for now. And later? What then? She didn’t know. After the formalities of greetings and a delicate breakfast beneath the garden awning, the guests drifted into conversational clusters like petals on water. The usual subjects bloomed in their wake – politics, prospective marriages, family lines twisted like ivy – and soon, as if by unspoken tradition, a match of magical croquet took form upon the lawn. It was a spectacle both absurd and elegant, befitting the tone of the day: mallets that corrected a player’s grip with a self-important hum; hoops that shimmered and shifted just slightly, forcing hesitation; and balls with personalities of their own – one in particular, clearly offended by a previous blow, let out indignant little shrieks and dodged each new attempt with the offended pride of a wronged cat. Lorelei stood at the edge of the lawn, a polite observer cloaked in composure, watching as Mrs. Goyle – weighed down by a red gown so garish it seemed to glare at the sun – struggled to land a single strike. That was even interesting for the first time. After it become annoying. Lorelei looked to the other people. Elsewhere, some guests lingered over pastries and cool drinks, while others took to the shade of garden canopies, discussing names, fortunes, and upcoming ceremonies with the languid sharpness of those who never needed to raise their voices. The ladies smiled behind fluttering fans and exchanged whispers that curled like smoke – delicate, scented, and deliberately unintelligible. Lorelei didn’t understand their words, but she recognized the look in their eyes, the rehearsed cadence of laughter. And she knew: she could never join none of them. She could not take part in the croquet match. She could not approach the groups of elegantly bored wives or, without invitation, join the children running across the grass with enchanted ribbon snakes that sparked in the air. She would have belonged nowhere. She knew it. So she remained a ghost at the border of it all, silent and observing. She read faces like she had been taught to read books – with care, with suspicion, with hunger. She noted every misstep in etiquette, every moment too loud or too wild that went unpunished. ‘Disgusting’, she through but never said. Had she shouted like those children, besmirch her hem, laughed too freely, or ignored a warning glance, she knew what would have followed: discipline, swift and unsparing. There was no injustice in it. Only order. She had learned, early and well, that mistakes were excused if one possessed status, influence – or stood beneath the protection of someone who did. Lorelei possessed nothing but her manners. And, however, she wasn’t the only one, who had chosen not to take part in the general merriment. After the midday meal, when Mrs. Malfoy was thoroughly occupied with her conversation with Mrs. Greengrass – and with overseeing the elves, who were scurrying to clear away the dishes and collapse the tables – Lorelei allowed herself to slip away. Quietly, she followed a narrow path that wound into the forest, still within the bounds of the Malfoy estate. With each step, the hum of voices and bursts of laughter faded further behind her, until she stepped into silence – a silence broken only by birdsong and the low murmur of running water. Ahead was a small stone bridge arching over a shallow river, and it was there, halfway across the balustrade, that she realized she wasn’t the only one who had fled the festivities. A boy stood at the center of the bridge, tall for his age, with dark, slightly curling hair and blue eyes – almost the same shade as Lorelei’s, though hers were lighter, or perhaps just more faded. There were moments when he could have passed for her brother, or some distant cousin – though, unusually for pure-blood families in Britain, he wasn’t related to her by blood at all. He hadn’t noticed her yet. Standing, facing the water, visibly frustrated, glaring at his wand as though it had betrayed him. Twice, with a sharp motion, he struck the balustrade with it – not hard enough to break it, but hard enough to make a sound that didn’t belong in the stillness. ‘You ought to know that’s not how wands are meant to be used, Mr. Nott,’ she said, raising her voice just enough to make her presence known. He responded with a look sharp enough to cut glass. ‘Of course. You couldn’t possibly miss the chance to join in, could you? Especially when I’m already in a foul mood.’ ‘What can I say? I have a talent for knowing exactly when to appear.’ He didn’t answer, but the gloom around him seemed to loosen – just slightly. That was good for beginning. Lorelei stepped closer. ‘What happened, Theodore?’, she asked, her voice soft. The boy was pacing the stone path with his head down, lips tight, brows drawn into a storm. It didn’t take even a flicker of Lorelei’s usual attentiveness to see it: a personal catastrophe had occurred – the kind that demanded solitude, an audience of none, and a centuries-old bridge. She allowed herself to believe she didn’t count as ‘none’. ‘Theodore?’ ‘You’ll laugh at me,’ he snapped. ‘When have I ever?’ ‘Don’t you remember? When I messed up the potion – the Invigoration Draught – and melted my cauldron.’ ‘I thought that was a joke.’ ‘I burned my hands.’ She blinked. ‘Then the joke got out of hand.’ He lingered a few more seconds, restless. Lorelei stepped slowly to the edge of the bridge and looked down at the river, in the water’s surface, she caught her reflection – a solitary figure, hair slicked back into a tight bun. Her features were blurred, smudged by the movement of the current, made strange, made softer. Kept watching, quietly calmed by something she couldn’t name – whether it was the water, or the way it made her unrecognizable. A second figure appeared beside hers – no taller, but with better hair. Theodore spoke. ‘I failed the spell. In front of my father.’ Lorelei knew that Mr. Nott believed a young wizard ought to master his spells and studies before the age of eleven – before setting foot in the school. He found a master artisan who didst fashion a bespoke wand for his son's instruction. As for Mr. and Missy Malfoy, they deemed it beneath them to trouble their heads with such concerns. They preferred courtesy, posture, names and bloodlines – magic came second, twice a week. Especially as Mrs. Malfoy had heard tell that the use of practice wands in childhood did, in some mysterious fashion, bear upon one’s magical aptitude in later years. Mr. Nott taught his son himself. And tested him himself. ‘What spell?’ she asked. It mattered to know the damage before tending the wound. ‘Aguamenti,’ he said. Charm that conjured a jet of clean, drinkable water from the tip of the caster's wand. It was a moderately difficult spell – strange that it was this one that gave Nott trouble. Lorelei could’ve sworn he’d shown her charms more complex than this before. Theodore seemed bothered by it too. He glanced down at the wand in his hand – a training wand, capable of only a fraction of what a real wizard’s wand could manage. Still, Lorelei silently envied him She didn’t have a wand to call her own – only the one that belonged to Mrs. Malfoy, which she was allowed to use occasionally. Perhaps finding fault in the wand itself, Theodore scowled. ‘It’s this ridiculous stick,‘ he muttered. ‘It can’t handle proper spells.‘ Lorelei eyed the smooth dark wood, barely nine inches long. ‘May I?‘ she asked quietly. Nott raised an eyebrow, then offered it to her with a crooked, sarcastic smile. Lorelei accepted the wand with a grateful, almost theatrical bow, and took a few deliberate steps away. The wood was smooth and faintly warm to the touch – Theodore had left his heat behind. She positioned herself just so: far enough that, if the spell succeeded, the water would fall cleanly into the river, avoiding both the bridge and Mr. Nott. She had just enough time – enough space – to feel the weight of what she was about to do. Her thoughts flickered: she’d done this before, had the control, had the poise. But not the same hours of training he’d had. That truth pressed in on her lips and coiled inside her lungs, but her face stayed still. Not even a tremor crossed her expression as she raised the wand to the proper angle, her left hand sketching the soft, sweeping motion of a wave, and her voice, clear and unwavering, pronounced: ‘Aguamenti.’ A jet of water burst from the wand – clean, immediate, obedient. Water surged forward, crisp and crystalline, a textbook-perfect stream. And Lorelei felt that in her bones; her fingers lit up with pins-and-needles; her forearm buzzed; the wand – warm now, as though remembering its real master – pulsed faintly in her grip. Mr. Nott, clearly, had underestimated her. But to her credit, Lorelei had the clarity of thought to acknowledge that he hadn’t miscalculated by much. Her eyes, unblinking, recorded his posture: wounded pride in real time. Then she ended the spell. Her left hand kept tingling – as did something in her chest. Lorelei loved casting magic. She returned the wand with the words: ‘It seems you’re lacking practice.’ A barely visible shadow of mockery appeared on her face, though not a single muscle twitched. Perhaps it was all in the piercing cold of her grey eyes. Nott flinched. ‘And you ought to tone down your arrogance for someone in mourning,’ he said. He thought for a second, frowned deeper, and added: ‘Not bad. You have talent.’ One might say he did apologize for his bluntness. Silent and still, Lorelei approached the bridge’s edge. She was certain that it wasn’t talent at all, but the effort she had put in. Talent in magic was passed down by blood – pure blood – and Lorelei, however unfortunate it was, did not possess it in full. No one except the Malfoys knew the real reason Lorelei dressed in black – and planned to do so for the rest of her days. No one, except the Malfoys… and Theodore Nott. Lorelei could agree – there was no one she felt closer to than him. ‘How long has it been?’ he asked. ‘Five months and nineteen days,’ she answered without hesitation. ‘A few more months left.’ ‘A whole life.’ ‘That sign around your neck wasn’t lying,’ Nott said with a crooked smile. ‘You really are impossibly stubborn.’ ‘At least I can cast Aguamenti.’ ‘Spells can be learned. But that kind of defiance? That’s in your blood.’ ‘Big words. You’ll need evidence to back them up.’ He stepped back a few paces, lifted his wand with unnecessary flair, drew a half-circle through the air like he meant it, and said – too loud, too sure of himself: ‘Next time we meet, Lorelei Thurkell, I’ll cast something so brilliant you’ll be struck speechless.’ She didn’t rise to it. Just turned, slow and precise, back to the water. ‘Next time… will be your Christmas holidays. When you’re back from Hogwarts.’ He heard her – every word. Came closer. Exhaled – almost gently. She didn’t let herself sigh. ‘Shame you’re not starting your education this year,’ he said. ‘Shame,’ she echoed. They walked back into the celebration together, and Lorelei never quite managed to return to her solitude after that. By the time twilight slipped over the lawn like a silk shawl, Theodore was still beside her, talking quickly – saying he already knew the entire first-year curriculum by heart, and all that was left was to earn points and make Slytherin proud. ‘Points?’ asked Pansy. She and Draco had appeared with Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle in tow, still flushed from playing with the birthday gloves. ‘Each house – Slytherin, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and the witless Hufflepuffs – earns points throughout the year for their efforts,’ Theodore explained, voice a little too loud, a little too eager. ‘And being in Slytherin, the best house – the one founded by our ancestor, the guardian of pure blood – I plan to win the House Cup for us this year.’ ‘Cup?’ asked Pansy again, a wrinkle between her brows. ‘At the end of every school year,’ Theodore continued, ‘the house with the most points receives the–’ He was cut off by a voice behind. They all turned – and so Lorelei – to see a tall boy with chestnut hair, the Rosier heir. She remembered his name: Reginald. ‘For the last six years, Slytherin has won the Cup,’ he said with quiet pride. ‘I trust none of you will shame your families, and will join us in upholding that tradition.’ Lorelei said nothing. Didn’t nod. Didn’t flinch. But something inside her narrowed, sharpened. She would win that Cup! Every year. Without exception. And of course she will be in Slytherin. She would never belong anywhere else. Not Ravenclaw, not Hufflepuff , and Merlin forbid – never Gryffindor . When evening came, the guests were invited indoors, into the drawing room. Narcissa seated Lorelei at the piano, instructing her to entertain the crowd with a few pieces. And so she did – playing to the edge of her skill, choosing pieces that weren’t difficult but sounded like they were. Enough to impress. Enough to earn that delicate, breathless silence – the kind of silence that, to Lorelei, was the only true compliment from them. After that, the music shifted – soft flutes and string spells filled the air, taking over and Lorelei wandered through the room. Theodore stood beside his father, who was deep in conversation with Mr. Malfoy, but Lorelei wasn’t left on her own. First came Daphne Greengrass and her younger sister, Astoria. Using a perfume bottle as an example, Lorelei showed Daphne how to pour potion into glass without spilling a drop. Then their mother arrived – offered Lorelei a few soft words about her hair, eyes and attitude and a smile like a charm. The assembled ladies and gentlemen regarded her with a curious blend of interest and disdain. Mrs. Greengrass, not being counted among their own, perhaps found in Lorelei a kindred soul. Lorelei thanked her, curtsied, and within seconds found herself swept up again by Narcissa Malfoy, who kept her close until the night was over, leading her through each conversation, each polite exchange. It wasn’t about speaking – it was about listening. About responding just right. An empty expression had to be patched with words like ‘How fascinating,’ ‘Incredible,’ and ‘What a shame.’ It was already past midnight by the time the last guest disappeared. Declaring that Lorelei had behaved admirably – despite the earlier dress defiance – Narcissa summoned Spriggan and instructed her to prepare the young lady for bed. An evening bath. A cleansing. Of course, the nightly reading in French – this time, Lorelei chose the book herself and read a few pages on the effects of longevity draughts. When Lorelei was finally tucked under the blanket, Spriggan rushed to extinguish the candles and, wishing her mistress a good night, left for her own sleep. But sleep had never been part of Lorelei’s plan. When enough time had passed, Lorelei slipped out of bed, like a shadow already halfway to somewhere else. She put on her black morning gown, soft and heavy around her ankles, picked up the night candle Spriggan always left by the door – just in case – and lit it with her flint. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail with practiced ease, took her Memoranda Book. Her body moved the way memory does: fluid, automatic, untouched by thought. Every gesture had already been tested by the weight of nights before this one. She opened the door. Slowly. Everyone should’ve already been asleep, tucked into their silks and silences, and if she made no sound, no one would ever know she had left. Lorelei knew how to tame the world around her – how to hush the click of her heel, how to open doors like she was made of mist, how not to flinch at the flare of curtains caught in a breeze, or at the shadows of trees stretching themselves across the tall manor windows like they had chosen to follow her. To become her. For some months now, Lorelei Thurkell had made a quiet habit of disappearing into the Malfoy library long after midnight. She was curious about everything – from magical history to the mechanics of curses, from herbology to numerology, from the known to the forbidden. Each new fragment of knowledge cracked her open wider – and in the hush between the bookshelves, with no one watching, no one speaking, she never felt like a misfit, never felt out of place. Quite the opposite. Nowhere did she feel more belonged than in the detailed reports of magical experiments, the manuscripts about spell-making, the bestiaries filled with creatures no one dared name aloud anymore. Even a whole life wouldn’t be enough to learn it all. Her Memoranda Book – bloated, battered, spilling its pages like secrets – carried everything she'd gathered since the day she learned to read. She was four then. The first book she opened was an introduction to the Dark Arts, and from the very first page, she understood how enchantingly vast and exquisitely limitless the potential of magic was, often called dark (in truth, Lorelei does not remember, but she hopes it was exactly like that). Unfortunately, she possessed an endless wealth of theory, yet whenever it came to practice, things grew difficult. When she had access to a wand – a true one, enchanted and proper – she had been able to attempt spells and curses, to test them in reality; now, however, all that remained to her was to imitate the movements with a quill and to imagine what this or that charm might have looked like, had it truly come to life beneath her hand. As for potion-making, a subject she had grown quite fond of of late – though already she had made her way through several dozen books concerning magical ingredients and their properties, and the potions into which they might be incorporated – she, too, studied it only from textbooks, with but a single opportunity each week to practice the brewing of the simplest draughts, such as a basic Cough Potion. Even the gift she had prepared for Draco had only been possible due to the fortunate circumstance that she had managed, for several quiet hours, to ‘borrow’ Mrs. Malfoy’s wand – the lady, blessedly, did not make frequent use of it and had not noticed its absence. Perhaps she ought to learn how to ‘borrow’ it more often? Had she done so, Lorelei’s progress might have become more apparent to others. And in a year’s time – with true preparation and the means to perform magic, not merely dream of it – she might not only have caught up to Theodore in both knowledge and skill, but indeed surpassed him beyond all doubt. She stayed buried in her books and notes for hours, until her lamp was no longer the only light in the room, and the sky beyond the great round windows had begun to pale. Rising quietly, she put everything back in its place – what belonged to the library, and what belonged to her. Then, just for a moment, she stood at the window, letting the hush of morning soak into her skin: not yet sunlight, but the promise of it. Not yet warmth, but stillness. Then she left library. In a few hours, Spriggan would come to wake her.