The floor seemed wonderfully solid. It was comforting to know I had fallen and could fall no further. 
— Sylvia Plath 

Quondam 
(adj.) belonging to some time long past; once but no longer 

Azalea POV 

"Is it really her?" 

"Looks like it." 

"I can't believe it!" 

"It's her, isn't it?" 

"Impossible! She's honestly the girl from the papers!" 

Harry leads me through the winding corridors, cutting through the occasional secret passageway I would never have found on my own, until the castle opens into a sunlit courtyard. A few students loiter near the arches, but their heads snap towards us as we pass, and I can already hear the hushed whispers building behind me.

Gawking gazes follow Harry and me the entire time it takes him to show me to the Charms classroom.

I catch a few words here and there, snippets of the whispers. It's enough to make me want to crawl into a hole. While I'm not ashamed in the least of my display at the World Cup, I'm also not advocating for having my existence monitored by prying eyes.

Harry glances at me with amusement and something like... pride? Approval? Excitement? I don't know.

I only now realise that none of the articles I've read about in the papers had mentioned my name. I'm still wondering if that's a blessing or a curse when a boy with a Hufflepuff tie steps into our path, practically bouncing with excitement.

"'Scuse me, Harry, don't mind me." Then the boy turns to me. "The Daily Prophet came in and everyone's been wondering if you're the Bulgarian Chaser from the World Cup?"

Harry puffs out his chest and nods in my stead, and yep, that right there is pride and an excuse to gloat. At least I'm not an embarrassment.

"Bloody brilliant! You scored that last goal like it was nothing! I've never seen a move like it!"

Here we go.

●⁍●⁍● 

After dropping me off at Charms class, Harry leaves for Herbology, which the Gryffindors have with Hufflepuff. Charms class is about as pleasant as it can be with Pansy and Daphne flanking me. Pansy tries to test her Bombarda skills on me, which I swiftly dodge by jumping out of the way, causing the spell to crash into Millicent's desk, blowing the whole thing up.

Millicent, with her large, hulky frame and menacing glare, threatens the hell out of Pansy, after which Pansy retreats into herself and doesn't bother saying anything for the rest of the hour.

Daphne takes it upon herself to ignore our antics and concentrates on precisely blasting only the small block of wood on her desk.

Draco and Blaise are on the opposite end of the class, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, their usual bouncers. Neither of them pays me much attention this time, though Blaise does shoot me a vulgar gesture when he enters the classroom and sees me. Draco, pompously smirking, stares the life out of me for the first half of the hour, causing me to more than once accidentally blast things I'm not supposed to blast.

Satisfied that he's made my life harder now with Professor Flitwick eyeing me like I'm an explosive threat, he returns to his own devices.

Blaise sits to Draco's left, but on Draco's right is another boy. With dark hair that I can't tell is brown or black, clear, tanned skin, and a mouth set in a hard, unbothered line, he looks like the picture of undisturbed collectedness. Much like Draco had been that first day in the Top Box, minus the displeasure.

"Who's that?" I ask Daphne, who's distracted by my words and fails miserably in her attempt to blow up the wooden block. She glares at me and tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder, ensuring it whips across my face, before returning to practising.

Ouch. Okay.

"Hey, Parkinson," I hiss. She raises an eyebrow, disdain clearly on her face. Well, that's okay. "Who's that with Malfoy and Zabini?"

Pansy looks over at them, then back at me, smirking. "That is Theodore Nott. Planning on ruining his life next?"

I scowl. I'm not ruining anyone's life. At my expression, Pansy laughs.

I chance another glance at the dark-haired wizard, only to find him already staring at me. Him, and Draco. Draco says something to Theodore, his pale eyes roving over me with a spark as he grins, finding me watching him. Whatever he says to Theodore has both their lips splitting into a slow, terrifying smirk.

My heart lurches.

This is so not good.

The second the bell rings, I shove my textbook and my wand into my bag with the intention of sprinting out of the classroom and out of the Slytherin boys' line of sight. I'd rather not be anywhere within a six-foot radius of them.

With my head buried in my own desire to scram, I don't notice the look Draco sends Pansy, nor do I notice Pansy stealing my quill. When I look under my desk for my quill, Pansy pokes my arm with it.

Her hand, which Knox had shredded earlier this morning, has been healed, I note, though there are still faint red lines that scar the places where the lacerations had been. With that hand, she holds up my quill.

At the moment, it doesn't hit me that she's stalling.

"Looking for this?"

Oh, fuck her. I'll just get another quill. I roll my eyes and sling my satchel over my shoulder. "You can keep it. Clearly, you want it more than I do."

It's a custom quill with my name engraved on it—the first gift I'd given myself, ever—but whatever. I'll just make a new one. Probably with my new, actual name this time.

"Don't be a spoilsport, Potter," she says, dropping the quill into a side pocket of my satchel. Well, would you look at that. Reverse psychology for the win. "We'll walk you to Care of Magical Creatures. We're all in the same class anyway."

I'd rather be plastered to Ron while he babbles right into my ear about how I'm destined to be evil and all that rubbish.

"I'm good, thanks."

I sidestep her to race for the door, but a pale figure blocks my next step. "It's not polite to turn someone down, you know."

Bloody brilliant.

"Lucky for Pansy and me, I'm sure neither of us cares, so how about you try being a little polite and step out of my way."

"And deny myself the pleasure of your company?" Draco slings an arm around my shoulder, pulling me close, mindful of keeping his skin away from the lilies in my hair. "I think not."

My satchel is now squeezed between Draco's body and mine, and I can't open the flap unless Draco relents. What in Merlin's name possessed me to stash my wand in my bag, knowing I'm surrounded by vultures?

At least I can still count on my right hook.

Draco's gaze drops to my clenched fist. "I think you'll want to keep your pretty hands to yourself. One owl from me is all it'll take to remind Crouch of the embarrassment you put him through at the World Cup, and he'll have you arrested for assaulting an officer."

My blood runs cold.

Draco, feeling me stiffen under his arm, smirks. "You're impossibly adorable for someone so venomous."

I try to dislodge his arm, but his grip tightens painfully as he arches an amused brow. Point made.

With his threat still hanging in the air, I decide that goading him isn't the best idea. And just because I'm being forced to endure his company for whatever sick pleasure he gets out of it, it doesn't mean I have to make conversation.

He guides me out of the Charms class, Pansy trailing on his other side, prattling on about some Hufflepuff blood traitor. I tune her out, not in the mood for my head to be filled with her small-minded drivel.

Draco, it appears, does the same.

"You owe me an apple, you know," Draco says, leaning down to whisper in my ear. I pull my head as far away from him as possible, making his breath hit my neck instead.

I don't like this I don't like this I don't like this I don't I don't I don't I don't I— 

My pulse leaps.

"Damn, Malfoy, leave some of her for the rest of us, will you?" Blaise chuckles, his long legs catching up with nothing more than a casual stroll. Theodore Nott accompanies him, assessing me with an unreadable expression, and Crabbe and Goyle trail a few feet behind, sneering at some unfortunate Ravenclaw in their path.

I bristle at his words.

"None of you is having any of me," I say, stepping on Draco's polished black shoes as we walk, leaving behind a muddy imprint. Draco stumbles, shooting me a glare when he rights himself. Beside me, Blaise snickers.

"That's not up for you to decide, darling," Draco says, abandoning the glare and settling back into his apathetic appearance. "We're all curious where Potter's been hiding you all these years. Three years of fun—we've missed out on all of it, so you'll have to make it up to us with triple the fun this year."

I make sure to have an unpleasant look on my face as he tugs me along with him down a sloping lawn.

It hits me then that all I know is that the next class is Care of Magical Creatures outside Hagrid's Hut with Gryffindor. I don't know where it is, or where this platinum-haired bastard is hauling me, for that matter, either. And with a quick glance around, it's just his entourage, so it's not like anyone's going to snitch if he decides to practice Bombarda on me.

"Besides, now we can finally get back on your self-righteous prick of a brother," Blaise says, tugging on a strand of my hair. I note with no small level of satisfaction that he hadn't bothered to go to the Hospital Wing after Knox tore into him, and angry lines of clotted blood mar his dark skin.

"Evidently, being sorted into Slytherin wasn't enough to drive a wedge between you two, so perhaps if we label you ours..."

"I. Am. No one's. Property."

I shove his hand away with more force than necessary, enjoying the dull throb in my wrist that tells me his hand's throbbing as well. Blaise's eyes narrow on me, but Draco blocks whatever he was planning on retaliating with.

What the hell is their obsession with Harry?

I'm starting to feel a lot like collateral damage.

If I didn't know better, which I don't yet think I do, I'd think he and Draco were jealous exes banding together to get back at someone—Harry, in this particular storyline—who broke their heart.

"You've got to learn some manners, Potter, or you'll find that even chivalry has its breaking point," Draco says, shaking his head at me. The hand slung around my shoulders caresses my cheek.

"What the hell?" I shove his hand away, too, not caring about whatever he said about his breaking point. Having his arm around me is enough of a violation, enough of a... warmth-inducing gesture. My teenage hormones will not hold back at any skin-to-skin.

"Feisty," Theodore mumbles, the first I've heard him speak. His voice sounds far too gravelly, far too rough.

"She is, isn't she?" Draco muses, knocking his head against mine. I stumble on air. "Probably some of the other Potter's Gryffindor fire. But that's good. I like a challenge."

I close my eyes and mentally curse them in languages I didn't even know I could speak.

While the three of them—well, mostly Blaise and Draco—continue talking about me in third person, I shut them out and consider how to escape from these uncivilised scoundrels without triggering an owl from Draco to Crouch. I'm plotting a mental table of the pros and cons of jabbing my thumbs into their eye sockets when Draco's fingers poke my cheeks again, rousing me from my thoughts.

"The fuck do you want?" I snap, pulling away from his touch.

Maybe if they hadn't been such wretched arses to me and Harry and would stop insulting him at every possible occasion, I might have enjoyed the attention of these attractive guys. But as it turns out, pretty faces don't equate to civilised mannerism.

"Bothering you is not quite as fun when you don't react, Potter," Blaise says obnoxiously. I'm three seconds away from scratching the cons and eliminating his ability to see.

I smile, wide and not quite fake. So all they want is a reaction from me? Perhaps not giving them one will bore them enough to leave me alone. "Thanks for that scrap of information."

A crowd of students come into sight a few yards away. Finally.

I thought Draco would abandon me once we reached class, but he keeps me glued to him, content with letting me scowl and curse at him as long as he gets to keep me with him, because the look on Harry's face when he spots us makes a devious smile split his lips.

I debate elbowing Draco in the ribs and making a break for it, but Hagrid, the half-giant who's apparently our teacher for this class, steps into our line of sight, blocking Harry, who's with the Gryffindors on the other side, and drops a crate about a foot away from me.

"Blimey! Azalea Potter!" he booms, practically shaking the morning fog from the trees. Several heads whip around at the sound of my last name, like they hadn't already heard it yesterday. Awesome. "I can' believe it! I thought ye— well, I never thought I'd see yeh here. Yer alive!"

A few Slytherins near us exchange bemused glances, and I catch Blaise's brows raising in silent amusement. Draco's expression remains fixed, a cool, calculated interest in his eyes as he watches Hagrid barrel towards us.

Oh, shit.

How hypocritical will it make me if I want to sink into Draco and make him take the attention off me?

"Dumbledore mentioned yeh once, yeh know," Hagrid continues, his deep voice quaking with emotion as he closes the distance. "Mentioned wonderin' what happened to yeh, after yer parents— after that night." He wipes a meaty hand over his beard, struggling with his words. "Never thought I'd see a Potter in Slytherin, though. Yeh've got yer mum's eyes, right enough, but I suppose yeh take after yer—"

He stops, words stuttering as his gaze finally shifts to Draco, Blaise, Theodore, Pansy, Crabbe and Goyle flanking me. The light in his eyes flickers, and I see his face fall, the edges of his wide smile wilting like a trampled flower. He clears his throat, his massive hands flexing at his sides as he tries to find his footing.

"Well, er," he says, voice dropping an octave as his eyes settle on Draco, whose lip has curled with distaste, and then Blaise, who looks like he's one quirked brow away from outright mocking the half-giant. "Right, well... gather round, everyone! Let's get this lesson started, shall we?"

I catch the slight, disappointed shake of his head as he turns away, lumbering back towards the crates at the front of the class. I may not know this man, but from the pacifying look Hermione and Harry send him, I know he's important to my brother.

My brother.

Yep, still surreal.

Damn, wasn't I a lone orphan only ten weeks ago?

Hagrid's reaction makes my heart fall just the slightest bit. I hadn't wanted to crush anyone's hopes.

Draco leans in as we follow the crowd closer to Hagrid, his breath warm against my ear. "It appears you've broken his heart, Potter."

There he goes, leaning into my space and all that invasive stuff. I curse him, loud and clear. Blaise chuckles lowly, his arm brushing against mine. Draco swats his arm away.

I grit my teeth, shoving down the spark of anger that flares in my chest. I'm a person, not an object of revenge. But that doesn't matter to them, because the way they see me, I'm merely a means to an end.

I catch Harry's wide, questioning gaze as he looks at me, squeezed between Draco, Blaise, and now, Theodore, who hasn't said anything since we arrived.

I shake my head, letting him see the desire to be anywhere but here on my face.

Draco notices our exchanging glances, and, with a spark back in his eyes, drops his arm to my waist, pulling me close. I start, ignoring the spike in my pulse, ready to bitch fight him till the end with an obscene amount of hair pulling and face slapping, until he whispers, "I'm sure you don't want to get in trouble with the Ministry." His eyes don't break contact with Harry's as he mumbles the words to me, a smirk dancing on his lips.

I contemplate it, but he did owl his father after the simple incident of irritated skin, and I don't know him well enough to call his bluff.

My fight falters and then fizzes out.

I'm too ashamed to meet Harry's gaze, though I do see the open-mouthed disgust with which Ron eyes me. I don't blame him.

Satisfied with my refusal to fight him, Draco's hand retreats to the small of my back, where his fingers drum impatiently as Hagrid tells us what we'll be dealing with today. Blaise moves to Draco's other side to whisper something about scoring a point, and I decide I'm so done with the day.

Theodore, now taking up the spot Blaise just vacated, looks at me with the same unreadable expression as before, except now, there's an unmistakable glint in his eyes. A shiver crawls up my spine.

I have a feeling this class is about to be more exhausting than I'd anticipated.

●⁍●⁍●

"I'll come with you," Harry says an hour after the Care of Magical Creatures class ends.

I managed to weasel away from the Slytherin boys—and Pansy—when a skrewt exploded in Draco's hand and burnt him towards the end of the class. He threw enough of a tantrum after that, causing enough of a distraction for me to slip away from the Slytherins. Harry sent me a heavy dose of side eye when I begged him to ditch class five minutes early so I wouldn't have to deal with Draco or Blaise or Pansy, but he complied nonetheless.

At least he didn't ask or assume anything regarding my showing up tucked under Draco's arm and flanked by the rest of Slytherin's worst.

I told him what happened.

Hermione gasped.

Ron, still harbouring an intense dislike for me, rolled his eyes and said I probably enjoyed being with them. And then, under his breath, he muttered something about tampering with Draco's lunch.

Harry said that if they bothered me too much, I should tell the Head of my House, to which Ron retaliated with "Yeah, right. I'm sure Snape's just itching to scold his precious Slytherin prince."

Hermione and Ron walked a few feet in front of us as Hermione animatedly told him about her plans for the Society of the Promotion of Elfish Welfare, which he clearly gave zero shits about but listened anyway.

Harry and I abandoned the subject of Draco soon after. He wasn't worth the energy it took to speak. Instead, Harry asked me about my life before magic, before Hogwarts and Durmstrang.

My face fell.

And he noticed it, and quickly changed his question, now asking why I came to Hogwarts. So I told him about Karkaroff's irrational, baseless claims and my subsequent expulsion. And that I'd found a letter in my dorm, from Hogwarts to me. Then I told him about my and Professor McGonagall's correspondence, and here I was.

Professor McGonagall, on cue, spotted us in the Clocktower Courtyard when I'd finished telling Harry about my transfer, and sternly walked towards me, puzzling us both.

"Miss Potter, Professor Snape would like to see you in his office," she said.

Which brings us to now.

Professor Snape. Head of my House.

"It's alright," I tell Harry once McGonagall leaves. "I'm sure I haven't done anything wrong."

He shakes his head. "Snape's... he's not exactly the most understanding professor. He's got a way of making you feel like you've committed a crime just by existing. Are you sure you want to go alone?"

Half-amused, I smile. "I'm a Slytherin, you know. He's supposed to be my Head of House. I doubt he'd throw me to the Dementors."

Still, Harry's expression is firm, the kind of look I imagine he might've given if he'd known he had a sister all those years ago, before Durmstrang and the orphanage and the dark, lonely nights. "That doesn't mean he'll go easy on you. He's got his own way of doing things. Sometimes cruel, even to his own House."

"Alright," I relent when I see Crabbe and Goyle hobbling down the opposite end of the courtyard. "Come along, but only because I don't know where his office even is."

Harry's shoulders relax, just a fraction, and he grins as he tells Hermione and Ron that we've been summoned by Snape, falling into step beside me as he leads us down towards the dungeons.

"Hagrid seemed upset that I'm in Slytherin," I tell Harry as we descend into the dungeons.

Harry's smile is tight and apologetic. "Yes, well, he hasn't been treated very kindly by that lot. But he'll come around once he gets to know you." He knocks his shoulder against mine when I don't respond. "If it helps, the Sorting Hat nearly put me in Slytherin, too. It wanted to, actually. Took a fair bit of pleading to end up in Gryffindor."

That makes me feel marginally better.

The torchlight, eerie as always, flickers as we wind through the shadowed corridor. My earlier confidence that I haven't done anything wrong and most certainly am not in trouble withers with every gloomy step it takes to reach the Potion Master's Office.

Till now, I have seen Snape only once, which was last night at the Grand Feast. Blaise—before he'd turned into an obnoxious tormentor—had pointed Professor Snape out as the Head of our House and our Potions Professor.

Snape had stared the fuck out of me for a brief period after the Sorting, Pansy told me later.

Snape's door creaks open before we can knock, and the man himself stands framed in the doorway, black robes billowing, though I can't feel any wind that might be stirring them. How cinematic. His gaze settles on me first, a dark, scrutinising stare, before flicking to my brother.

"I summoned one Potter, not a surplus," he drawls, eyes narrowing. "Why is there an unnecessary addition here?"

Harry opens his mouth, already halfway to a retort, but Snape cuts him off with a raised hand, his long fingers splayed as if swatting an irritating fly. Which, I suppose, to him, Harry is.

"I have no time for your misguided heroics, Potter. Leave. Now."

I nudge Harry to do exactly that when he doesn't. He still doesn't move, gaze narrowed on Snape.

"I said, out." Snape's tone resembles a freshly sharpened blade. He steps aside, revealing the dark, foreboding interior of his office, the shelves lined with jars containing all manner of grotesque, floating oddities. "Unless, of course, you've developed a sudden interest in detention, Mr. Potter."

After a few more choice words from Snape and some coaxing from my end, Harry relents and storms back down the corridor, retreating upstairs for lunch. Lunch. I will harbour an eternal enmity with this man if he makes me miss lunch.

Snape watches Harry go, his lip curling ever so slightly before his gaze snaps back to me. Joy.

The door swings shut with a flick of his wrist. The dull thud mirrors the sound of my stomach collapsing into the pits of hell. I wonder if he'll notice if I discreetly whip my satchel open and whip out my wand.

I'm a fool. That should have been my first move after dislodging myself from Draco's grasp.

Without another word, Snape sweeps back into his office, his black cloak whipping in the air like bands of shadows poised to strike. Or swallow me whole. Or return my body to dust.

I hesitate on the threshold, but realise I can't exactly disobey direct orders, so I step into the dim space he calls an office, the cold seeping into my bones.

As soon as I do, the doors slam shut behind me.

I resist the urge to flinch.

Snape turns, fixing me with a glare as he gestures for me to sit.

"So," he drawls, his tone as thick as the fumes rising from the half-dozen cauldrons simmering on the far side of the room. "It seems you've made quite the impression on your first day here, Miss Potter."

Well, shit. I'm definitely in trouble.

●⁍●⁍●

The office is a dungeon within a dungeon, colder than the corridor outside, the air thick with the sharp, acrid scent of pickled herbs and preserved creatures. Shadows cling to the corners, and the walls are lined with shelves groaning under the weight of battered, dust-covered tomes and jars filled with unblinking eyes, coiled serpents, and what looks like a shrivelled hand gripping its own severed wrist.

I quickly look away as dread snares me.

I keep my expression blank when I return my gaze to the Head of my House, refusing to flinch under his scrutiny. The dim firelight glints off his sallow skin.

"I've received... complaints."

"Is that so?"

Merlin, I promise I don't have a death wish, please don't have me killed.

Snape's lips curl into a smile that lacks even the pretence of warmth. "Indeed. It seems your pet—" he says the word like it's something filthy, "—has developed a taste for human flesh."

Oh.

This is about Knox.

I grit my teeth at the disrespect with which he speaks about him.

"Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini have both visited the Hospital Wing this morning, each bearing rather severe wounds. Slashed hands, gouged palms. Nasty business." His dark eyes are an absolute menace as they stare into mine. "Care to explain?"

Blaise's hand hadn't looked like he'd visited the Hospital Wing. Whatever.

Harry had described Snape as a cold-hearted, difficult man. I don't think talking back will be the smartest move, but when have I ever been known to be smart.

"They tried to attack me. Knox did what any loyal owl would," I counter.

His thin, hooked nose flares slightly as his stare burrows deeper and deeper into my soul. I'm not sure he's a Potions expert as much as he's a I'm-going-to-stare-the-fuck-out-of-you-until-you-get-scared-and-start-crying expert. "Your owl is a menace, Potter. Hogwarts is not a battlefield for your personal beasts."

I clench my jaw, fighting the urge to snap back that it was his precious Parkinson and Zabini who started it. Instead, I force a shrug. Nope, the casual gesture still comes out accusingly sharp. "Perhaps your students should keep their hands to themselves."

For a moment, the only sound is the gentle bubbling of the cauldrons and the occasional clinking of glass as the potions within them shift and swirl.

Snape's black eyes narrow to slits, and his fingers drum against the arms of his chair. "You have been here for a day, and already, you are testing my patience. I do not tolerate insolence in my house."

Losing my temper will probably give him free rein to provide me with detention, right?

"Knox was only defending me," I say, forcing my tone to remain steady. "I won't apologise for that."

Snape's eyes flash, a flicker of something dark and unreadable passing over his face. He rises slowly, his robes rustling, and paces around his desk, circling me like a predator appraising its prey. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh. Shit. Dying on day two would be horribly tragic. Though maybe it's better than a second expulsion.

"Do not mistake your brother's fame for a shield, Miss Potter," he murmurs, coming to a halt before me, his sallow face looming far above mine. Damn my short arse. My tongue slips.

"Firstly, I know precisely jack and shit about Harry's fame. I didn't even know we were related until yesterday, and I'm still trying to make sense of all this, so no, the only shield I currently have is my owl. Because, secondly, I can't even safely sleep with Parkinson trying to slit my throat, nor can I walk around the castle or attend classes freely without Malfoy and Zabini—and now Nott, who's joined their ranks—trying to wear me down. So, forgive me for not feeling sorry for those tyrants getting what they deserve."

The silence that follows tightens an invisible noose around my neck.

Yep, I'm dead.

He straightens, his robes swirling as he hisses, "Insolence. Will. Not. Be. Tolerated, Miss Potter—unless, of course, you wish to spend the rest of your week cataloguing every last ingredient in my storeroom, down to the very last sprig of wolfsbane. Without magic. Keep your owl in check, or I will have it plucked and skinned. You are dismissed."

My breathing doesn't steady until I've put three turns and a flight of stairs between me and his dungeon lair.

●⁍●⁍●

At night, in bed, with Knox secretly snuggling with me, I stay awake well past midnight, refusing to fall asleep until everyone else in my dorm has. Yet even after I'm the only one still up, sleep doesn't claim me. I can't even toss around or I'll risk waking a cranky Knox.

Instead, I lie there, eyes shut but wide awake. My mind is a storm, each thought crashing into the other, refusing to settle. The events of the past fifty or so hours play on repeat in my head like a broken tape record.

I'm a mess.

Centring my mind on Draco is a special form of self-sabotage, one I want no part in. So instead, I redirect my mind to the headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, and wonder what my life would have been like if I'd known—if he'd told me—I have a brother, known my parents were dead.

Would I be the same person, or someone better... or worse?

But if things had been different, I wouldn't have met my best friend, Cove. I wouldn't have known Viktor or Skylar or even Mrs Krum. Maybe I'd have a different owl, a different wand, a different life. Maybe I wouldn't have grown up in an orphanage or understood the cruelties of life so early on.

Harry had mentioned living with his— living with our cousins. And then I remember—Dumbledore had said that I was supposed to live with them, too. Pondering about earlier in the day, when I had all the life-before-Hogwarts and how-and-why-did-you-transfer-to-Hogwarts conversations with Harry, I'm reminded of how I truly did come here.

That letter, back in my dorm.

And I wonder just why it was addressed to Little Whinging, the place from my nightmares. The place where that inexplicable, discarnate person dragged me those first two years after I'd discovered I had magic. I most certainly did not live in Little Whinging, and I wouldn't have even known it existed had I not been taken there those two summers.

I stroke Knox's sleeping figure, an unconscious gesture that keeps me grounded, keeps me from drifting too far off in my head.

I wonder why it had been addressed to Little Whinging of all places. Little Whinging, where I always saw a young boy. A boy who always looked like he needed a hug.

It's a long while before I finally fall asleep.