A young man walks briskly down the murky alleyway, his head down and his shoulders hunched. A street lamp nearby flickers ominously before fading out, and the passage is plunged into darkness; the man is visibly unruffled, but his pace quickens slightly as the first feathery drops of rain begin to fall.

Suddenly, a bodiless voice penetrates the blackness.

“Ah, Evander! We meet again.�

The man spins around; another figure has appeared. The silhouette appears to be twirling a wand absentmindedly between its fingers, and its demeanour seems smug.

“You!� Evander shouts in surprise and takes a startled step backwards, plunging his hand into his robes and withdrawing his own wand. The other person laughs - a terrible hollow cackling that chills Evander to the core.

“Me,� it agrees, its silky voice almost cordial, but thick with implications. With an abrupt flick of its wand, Evander is suddenly bound in ropes, his eyes bulging grotesquely as he struggles against the unyielding cords. Something cracks. The horrific laughter echoes around the alley again, before Evander’s tormenter focuses once more, its pale face contorted with hate and what seems to be a twisted sort of exhilaration.

“Crucio.�

Unimaginable, unfathomable pain shoots through Evander, but with an immense effort he keeps his lips pressed firmly together. Never before has being silent been so difficult; he is being scorched with white-hot pokers in every inch of his agonised body, but still no sound escapes him…

Finally, after what seems an eternity of torture, as black spots begin to erupt in front of Evander’s blurred vision, the ill-defined shape bends closer.

“I’ve been waiting for this for so long, you know,� it whispers conspiratorially, as though it is letting Evander in on a delicious secret. “Avada Kedavra, old friend.�

The burst of green light is the last thing that Evander sees, before death crashes down on him.

***

The weather was a shallow mockery of the bleak occasion; almost cruel, I thought, as I forced myself to place one foot in front of the other. In truth, it was a beautiful day, now coming to a close; swelteringly hot but for a pleasant breeze playing among the trees, the carefree twittering of birds constant in my ears. The sun was shining in all its splendour, spilling warm golden light over the neatly shorn clearing, and clouds were perched, fat and fluffy, in the pastel blue sky. However, for me, this day would forever be tainted by the loss that had removed something, inexplicably, from deep inside of me.

My mother, cloaked and veiled in black as I was, her long red-blonde hair - identical to mine - pinned up in a simple but severe bun, sniffed almost inaudibly beside me. On my other side stood my impassive father, whose stiff white collar just touched his chin, and to his left was my older and rather unpleasant brother Silvanus - though now his face was a mask of carefully concealed grief. My mother was towing my six-year-old sister, Druella, by the hand.

“Go on, Ysabelle,� my father ordered, giving me a small but firm push. I flinched at the sound of my name, but after a reassuring glance from the former, I took a deep breath and led the way through the tall, foreboding black doors into the sparsely populated chapel.

The five of us filed, heads bowed, into the first pew from the altar. Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed my father giving a stiff nod to the priest, who began to recite meaningless memoirs. After a while, they drifted into the background - my concentration was now fixed on the gleaming mahogany coffin that lay, too still, in front of the priest. I wondered how he would feel, trapped inside that restrictive box; he had always been so energetic, so spirited… so alive. I dropped my gaze as tears streaked, unbidden, down my cheeks.

The face of my brother Evander - my favourite brother, although I tried to pretend differently - swam before my eyes. He would be leaving many broken hearts behind in life; he had always been handsome, with wide, piercing blue eyes, broad shoulders, a mop of silky corn-coloured hair, and an endearingly lopsided smile. His winning personality had also earned him many friends and admirers. Evander had been one of the first Gryffindors in the Rosier bloodline - we mainly kept to Ravenclaw and, more specifically, Slytherin (my own house), as we were a typical pureblood family. I was resigned to the fact that after sixteen years, any word that I said against our “distinguished� family would reward me with a fierce slap, either from Silvanus or my father. Evander, however, had understood. Evander, who, I had to admit, I would be completely lost without.

More tears slid down my nose, and I reprimanded myself for my self-pity, slapping myself feebly on the wrist. Beside me, Mother caught my hand and squeezed it. I snatched a fleeting look at her, and saw that she was deathly pale, with dark rings encircling her watery eyes and black stains tinting her cheeks from her cosmetics. The sight scared me. This was my mother, the carefully emotionless wife of a Ministry official - and these silent tears were almost as bad as an outburst in her case. When I chanced a look at my father, on the other hand, his face was perfectly composed apart from the blazing of his black irises - the only betrayal of emotion. Druella’s expression was also detached when I looked at her… bored, even. I supposed she was too young to understand, but it still riled me, and my fingers itched to give her a swift slap. And Silvanus - he was almost as cold as Father, with just a few cracks in the sheen of his self-control. I realised, belatedly that he was now the man of the family, so to say. The thought was nearly unbearable. How I ached for Evander’s warm grin.

The sermon came to an unimpressive end, and the priest, with a grave flick of his wand, set the coffin and its contents alight. I closed my eyes against the furious blaze, too numb with grief to react more satisfactorily; it lasted only a moment, however, and in its place appeared a single black rose. A flower - all that was left of my beloved brother. I glowered, puerile, at it, feeling horribly and childishly cheated.

My mother stifled a sob beside me and I patted her awkwardly on the shoulder, as Father stood up abruptly. He wordlessly summoned the rest of us to his side; Mother made as if to snatch up the rose, but her husband’s iron-clad grip on her forearm reined her in. Like an animal, I thought bitterly. Something that can’t think for itself.
Sometimes I hated my father.

We walked the short way back to our Gloucester manor in silence, only pausing to spend a respectful minute around the bleak grey headstone that, although my brother’s name was inscribed on its smooth surface, seemed so unreal to me. Any Muggles that we passed in the street gave us a wide berth; whether out of reverence for our obvious mourning, or the hateful glares that my father and Silvanus were shooting them, I didn’t know. I preferred to believe the former, but was fairly sure that the latter was more likely.

Night had fallen by the time we reached our concealed home, the house elves - Pokey and Irma - were standing deferentially in the hallway, hands clasped behind their tea-towel clad backs. Two large tears were sliding down Irma’s paunchy face and Pokey’s eyes were shining, but when Father shot them a look of disgust they immediately restrained themselves. Irma curtseyed and hurried to Druella’s side, removing her coat and tightly laced shoes. She handed them to Pokey who then began to brush them down.

“I… I think I might sit down,� my mother declared tremulously, sinking into a moth-eaten green armchair near the door, shutting her eyes as the chair creaked gloomily. We may have been rich once, but Father’s inheritance had long since dispensed, leaving us little in the way of replenished furniture. I knew for a fact that he could barely pay for our various tax expenses, let alone for building extensions.

Now he disappeared into the drawing room without a word, presumably to pour himself a brandy or six. I merely looked around despondently, thinking of how little colour the world held for me now, whilst Druella placed herself delicately on the first step of our ‘grand’ staircase. Silvanus tapped his foot absently, gazing at the once luxurious upholstery that, I supposed he thought, would soon be his.

“Silvanus, Ysabelle, Druella… it would be wise for you to get to bed now.� If I hadn’t seen her lips move, I wouldn’t have thought that it was Mother speaking - her voice was lifeless, somehow, as if that had died along with her eldest child. I hastened to obey, craving the solitude of my bed - none of us were particularly hungry, so dinner wasn’t important – I bundled Druella along with me, but Silvanus stood stock-still, a murderous expression on his face.

“I’m eighteen, Mother,� he sneered, derisive. “And besides, I don’t take orders from you.�

“Just do it, Silvanus,� she replied with more conviction, as she pinched the bridge of her nose. A look of astonishment, closely followed by anger, flitted across my brother’s face, and without warning he strode forwards and slapped Mother hard across the face. I gasped, my horrified gaze on the raw red handprint emblazoned on her right cheek, but she didn’t react other than to plead weakly again.

“Please…�

With a snort, Silvanus turned away and swept out of the front door. It shut with a painful snap.

I regained my senses swiftly and continued to drag Druella upstairs with so much force that she tripped and banged her shins on the stone steps.

“Sorry,� I muttered, but didn’t pause. I was too lost in my appalled thoughts.

***

Later on - it must have been midnight, at least, long after an unabashed Silvanus had returned - when my pillowcase was soaked through with my tears, I heard raised voices downstairs. I tried not to listen, but this proved fruitless. I was now morbidly fascinated by whatever my drunken father had to say to my grief-stricken mother.

“Please, Altair…� My mother was pleading. I hated how she turned into a timid wreck in the presence of her own husband.

“How many times must I tell you, Lyra?� Father was making no attempt to keep his voice down and was now roaring at my mother, his words slurring slightly. “No investigation!� I heard something crack, and was sure that he had hit her.

“But-� Mother’s voice had dissolved into sobs.

“Quiet! Do you want to draw attention to our son’s murder? Our social status would be ruined, you idiotic wench!�

Wait… murder? I had been told that Evander had lost his life in a tragic accident… we all had, and I had had no reason to question this theory…

But what if there had been something suspicious about his death, something that had been dismissed? For instance, the fact that we weren’t allowed to see his body - even Silvanus had been deprived this ‘right’, something that had earned many days of angst - or the absence of details, such as how exactly Evander had died. I had automatically assumed that Mother had simply wanted to spare our feelings, but now the circumstances seemed different. I strained my ears, hungry for more information.

My bedroom door creaked suddenly, making me jump. The voices had now been lowered, but in the doorway stood Druella, looking lost and frightened in her oversized nightdress.

“Druella, go back to bed!� I hissed, still listening diligently.

“But I can’t sleep…� She looked upset.

With a sigh, I beckoned her over to me. She perched herself on the edge of my bed and I started absentmindedly playing with her long raven hair. It struck me how much Druella resembled Father and Silvanus; they all shared liquid onyx eyes, alabaster skin and sharp features. Mother and I (and Evander), however, were starkly different, with curly strawberry blonde hair, pale grey-blue eyes and wide heart-shaped faces. It had to be said that, as a family, we were all rather beautiful, if diverse.

The voices had now all but faded, but as I looked back on my parents’ row, I decided that I didn’t need to know any more. Rage swept through me like deadly venom, poisoning my every thought and tinting my vision red. One thing that I was absolutely sure of was that my brother had been murdered; another was that I was going to discover who had killed him, and get my revenge.

The next few days found my mother in the lowest levels of despondency. She cried often, much to the disgust of my father and Silvanus - the former of the two spending increasingly alarming amounts of time with his brandy - and the distress of me. I was returning to Hogwarts alone (Silvanus had left last year) in just under a week, and I was torn between relief and worry. Leaving Mother under the lax supervision of Druella and Silvanus seemed quite reckless, especially since she had of late taken to hovering around the top of the staircase as if trying to decide whether to throw herself down it or not.

For all my sensible exterior, I was also coping badly with my brother’s death. The news that he had been murdered had shaken me to my very core - and had also instilled in me a passionate hatred so potent that it worried me. I spent many sleepless nights glowering at the ceiling, all of my tears long since cried, plotting the discovery and avengement of Evander’s killer.

Of course, in the soothing light of day, I told myself that it was silly to believe that I, a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl, could single-handedly bring down the person that had taken Evander from me. Surely, I insisted, if they were capable of slaying one person, another would be almost nothing. But I now feared that I would never be free of this terrible abhorrence if I just sat back and let my father have his way.

On the fourth day before my departure to Hogwarts, Father sprung some news upon the family.

“We will be attending a small gathering at Malfoy Manor tonight,� he announced flatly, undoubtedly missing the brandy from which he had only just torn himself. “I want you two� - he pointed two fingers at Mother and me with a slight frown - “to buck up your ideas. I can’t have you moping around when you’re meant to be socialising… upholding the family reputation. Alright?�

I nodded slowly, and saw my mother do the same in my peripheral vision. Father’s comment had riled me; I had been making a conscious effort to be no less than the perfect daughter since I had heard my parents arguing. And, I reminded myself, it wasn’t as though he had been all that lively over the past few days himself.

“Oh, I’ll make sure that they do.� Silvanus addressed Father with a slight smirk. I glared at him; contrarily, he had been irritatingly joyful since the funeral. I could only assume that he was too elated to having been passed heirship to our minimal fortune to care about the loss of Evander. It was an almighty effort to restrain from snapping at Silvanus, jogging his memory of the enormous debts that he and Father had to pay off.

Father simply grunted in reply and retired to the drawing room once again. I felt a small, soft hand find mine, and realised that Irma was tugging me gently back up to my bedroom to prepare for the ‘small gathering’. I snorted quietly to myself. No doubt this gathering would, in fact, be a huge party held especially for social climbers like my father, filled to the brim with arrogant purebloods. Of course they weren’t all bad; many were engaging and most were at least civil, but there were always the self-absorbed elitists that leered unpleasantly at me over the rims of their goblets. And - I groaned internally - Hyperion would be there.

By now, Irma had dragged me to my dressing table and had begun to brush my hair. I was too lost in my dismal thoughts to really notice. Hyperion Malfoy was a vindictive fellow Slytherin, also sixteen, who had ‘taken to me’ in our first year. Yes, I liked him well enough - he was smart, he was handsome, he could be entertaining - but I was in no mood to fend off his misguided advances tonight. Impatiently brushing away the small but insistent hands now teasing my hair into some intricate and totally unnecessary style, I stood up abruptly.

“I’m old enough to do that on my own, Irma,� I snapped, shooing her away. She gave a gracious curtsey, hiding her face, but I didn’t miss her hurt expression. “Sorry,� I added in a softer tone, and she scuttled out of the room looking marginally happier. As soon as she had left, however, I turned back to my reflection and glared at it, pulling the various accessories from my hair and letting it cascade freely down my back. I much preferred it like this, framing my face. Next I pulled off my dull blue jumper and buttoned-up blouse, closely followed by my skirt, and slipped into an emerald green dress that didn’t bear glancing at. We
weren’t leaving for at least another half-hour, but I dabbed some makeup on anyway, lightly dusting a sparkling eye shadow over my lids. Then I settled down to stare aimlessly at a book, trying to ignore my churning emotions.

***

We reached Malfoy Manor uncomfortably, by side-along apparition. Father and Silvanus were in spotless black suits, Mother in a pretty cream dress and Druella in one that matched mine almost exactly. As I had suspected, Hyperion met us at the door; he, too, was wearing a suit and I grudgingly admitted to myself that he looked rather handsome. In turn, his grey eyes raked me up and down almost hungrily, and I retaliated with a light slap to his shoulder. He only laughed and took me by the hand, wrenching me into the ballroom.

The Malfoys had outdone themselves. I had been here before, but the room had been completely transformed: magically enlarged, I assumed, and glittering with thousands of live fairies arranged in a delicate web that encased the grand dance floor. It was as though I had entered another world - my eyes couldn’t seem to take everything in at once. Colours whirled past me as people danced, and I found myself snorting, once again, at my father christening this huge event a ‘small gathering’.

“It’s good, isn’t it?� Hyperion was gazing down at me, a smile playing about his mouth. I nodded speechlessly, and he laughed again. “Want to dance?�

I considered his outstretched hand for a moment. If I accepted, would he interpret it wrongly and think that we were involved in some way? No, I decided after a second of deliberation. One dance couldn’t plant such an idea in his head.

With a smile, I nodded, and he led me to the floor. As a so-called wizarding aristocrat, I had learned to dance early, tottering around the house with a stack of books on my head to improve my balance and posture. Now it felt natural, even with Hyperion.

As we twirled around, every inch the elegant couple, I imagined the thoughts that might spring to Father’s mind if he saw us. He had always liked Hyperion, whom he considered would be a worthy son-in-law, and I knew that my father not-so-secretly hoped to marry me off to him. I was resisting well so far. I had made it my mission to drop casual criticisms about Hyperion as much as I could around Father, hoping that he would take the hint. However, a nagging sensation at the back of my mind told me that he probably wouldn’t take my opinion into consideration anyway.

Hyperion was frowning at me as we revolved on the spot.

“Are you alright? You seem a little… subdued.�

I gave a bitter laugh. “Well, my brother died a month ago, but other than that…�

“Sorry. That’s not what I meant.� Hyperion looked abashed. I allowed him a vague half-smile before pulling away from him.

“I’m just going to get a drink,� I explained when his face fell. Unfortunately, instead of giving me the relief I wanted, he insisted on fetching it himself. Sighing, I sat down on one of the many elegantly crafted chairs that framed the giant hall.

I had barely been alone for a minute before I sensed someone standing over me. Startled, I looked up.

“Ysabelle,� Silvanus hissed, his face thunderous, “why aren’t you socialising like Father told you to? You look like a misery over here on your own… where’s Hyperion?�

I sighed again
.
“He’s gone to get me a drink. And besides, what’s it to you?�

Silvanus raised one eyebrow. “You think I haven’t noticed? He’s fond of you, Ysabelle - I wouldn’t be surprised if you two ended up married in a few years’ time.�

My brother’s insinuation incensed me; I was suddenly on my feet. This didn’t make much odds, he was still over a head taller than me.

“I’ll thank you to mind your own business, Silvanus,� I spat, trying to put as much energy as possible into my scowl. Silvanus exhaled sharply, his eyes flashing. He grabbed my forearm in a vice-like grip and dragged me into the more secluded entrance hall, where, I supposed, less people would be able to witness what would follow.

However, as soon as we had entered the room, Silvanus stopped short. Without a word, he pulled me into a shadowed corner and clamped his hand over my mouth, apparently listening intently. I struggled for a while against his grip - which, if anything, only tightened - before falling limp as I heard something that sparked my interest.

“Lyra wishes to enlist the help of the Aurors-�

“Preposterous!�

“Oh, I quite agree, Marcus, I quite agree…�

Marcus - Hyperion’s father. It didn’t take me long to realise what Father and his friend were talking about, huddled discreetly in another corner - Evander’s murder, no doubt - but it struck me as odd that the former would risk letting such a sordid family secret out; one that he wouldn’t even share with his children.

“Well, the boy wasn’t exactly a blessing - Gryffindor, indeed - bad blood, that’s what it is, Altair.� Marcus Malfoy’s silky voice, so like his son’s, had a politely patronising air about it. I could tell by my father’s barely audible intake of breath that at that moment he wanted to hex Marcus as much as I did. For the first time in my conscious memory, I could sympathise with Father.

“I understand that, Marcus,� Father now sounded cold rather than conspiratorial, “but Lyra is growing… restless. I fear that she might do something - that is to say - stupid.�

I glanced up at Silvanus, whose hand was still tightly covering my mouth. His face was deathly pale even beneath the shroud of the shadows. He was staring, seemingly horrified, in the direction of Father and Malfoy, his lips soundlessly tracing the word ‘Aurors’.

“Ah. Now, that is a problem. Does she want to alert the authorities without your permission, or…?�

“I meant more of a personal nature, Marcus.�

Comprehension hit me with considerable force, leaving me strangely hollow. Mother was… suicidal? The thought seemed odd; it didn’t gel with my mental image of my mother - although she had been, as Father had said, restless of late. I unwillingly imagined my life devoid of Mother, and panic started choking me. With a Herculean effort, I fought it back, still straining my ears for further information.

“Oh.� Malfoy now sounded slightly embarrassed. “So I suppose you want me to…�

“No, no… I can deal with Lyra. It just seems that perhaps it might… ease her mind… to know who the murderer is.�

Confusion was now added to the fear. Father was talking as if he knew who had killed Evander - but he couldn’t possibly…

“No! Altair, we can’t afford any more people knowing!�

“But surely…�

“What could be more important than the upkeep of family secrets? Lyra would surely blow the whole thing out of proportion; if she’s on the brink of breakdown as it is…� Malfoy trailed off, presumably at the expression that I envisaged upon Father’s face.

“I would advise you to stop insulting my wife, Marcus,� Father said in a soft but somehow lethal-sounding voice. He paused, apparently composing himself, before continuing. “But fine. I shan’t tell her. You do, after all, know what’s best for me and my family.�

I heard the quiet swish of Father’s cloak, closely followed by brisk footsteps. A moment later, Malfoy departed from the entrance hall in the opposite direction, muttering mutinously under his breath. The minutes slid by, and eventually Silvanus unpeeled his hand from my mouth, allowing me to speak.

“Did you hear that?� Although I was whispering, my voice conveyed the utmost fury. “Did you hear - Father - he knows who the murderer is!�

Silvanus was still chalk white, but he managed a half-hearted sneer.

“I doubt very much that our father and Mr Malfoy have any inkling of who the murderer is,� he said, disdain thick in his tone. Before I could fully process his words, however, a fleeting expression of uncertainty crossed his pallid face, closely followed by one of accusation. Silvanus fixed his fathomless black eyes on me, and I met them, jutting out my chin in defiance.

“How do you know that Evander was murdered?� he asked, still reproving.

“I could ask you the same question.� I narrowed my eyes, boring my gaze into my brothers. In his expression I saw anger, disapproval and… fear?

We stayed like that for a moment, before a horribly false smirk appeared on Silvanus’ face.

“Touché, little sister,� he murmured. Only pausing for a second to be amazed at my brother’s subdued reaction, I launched into my churning thoughts, muttering furiously and only vaguely aware of Silvanus’ presence.

“So they know who the murderer is - probably - but why won’t they go to the authorities? And Mr Malfoy, he was very suspicious… not to mention Father, with all that keeping secrets within the family, but not telling Mother… But then why would he tell Malfoy about it? Oh, it’s all so confusing…�

Silvanus was watching me with a mildly amused expression. I glared up at him, indicating that he should share his undoubtedly superior views on the matter.

“Well, firstly, it seems extremely unlikely that Father and Malfoy know who the murderer is. Also, being fairly influential wizards, I can’t really fathom why they wouldn’t alert the Aurors if they did. So,� he paused, a knowing smile spreading across his face, before delivering his conclusion, “I would guess that they’re being blackmailed.�

I considered this possibility. It indeed made sense, but I couldn’t escape the feeling that Silvanus knew more than he was letting on. I had enough sense not to press the matter, but made a mental note to try and squeeze further ideas from my brother in future.

Nevertheless, as I made my way back to the ballroom to greet a disgruntled and impatient Hyperion, I felt a triumphant smile spread across my face. I was convinced that I could get to the bottom of Evander’s murder - a pinprick of light was suddenly visible at the end of the tunnel.

Rain whispered against the windows of the huge scarlet engine as it pulled out of King’s Cross. For once, the weather mirrored my mood; it had been three days, and I was no closer to figuring out the meaning of Father and Malfoy’s whispered conversation at the party. Silvanus had been aggravatingly unhelpful, as every time I approached him on the matter he abruptly turned vague and snappish. In fact, his parting words to me had been “don’t go sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, Ysabelle.� Despite the fact that I was distantly afraid of my brother, I had retained the intention of doing just that.

Pulling myself back to the present, I gave my dutifully assembled family a half-hearted wave before following Hyperion down to the prefects’ carriage. It had always seemed slightly uncanny to me that both of us had been made Slytherin prefects in our fifth year, but then again, Professor Fortescue had always favoured the influential purebloods. Of course it was trivial, but I secretly had the feeling that the whole world was against my wish for Hyperion and I to remain only friends.

As I submerged myself in my bitter thoughts, another surfaced. I was - and not without reason - desperately anxious about Mother’s wellbeing, though I was sure that Father and Silvanus would do their best to console or at least scare her into her senses. I ground my teeth as I walked; I was well aware that this was only because they didn’t want to have gossip spread about us.

“Er - Ysabelle? Are you even listening to me?�

I looked up, startled, to find that I had caught up with Hyperion outside the prefects’ carriage, and that he was talking to me. I blinked once, pasting a false smile on my face.

“Sorry. I was miles away.�

“Obviously.� Hyperion looked faintly annoyed, but he nevertheless held open the door to the carriage for me and graciously let me pass.

The compartment was an airy, luxurious place with a carpeted floor and large windows, and I automatically wondered what prefects had done to deserve such glamour. However, I was a Slytherin, and I wasn’t exactly going to complain.

I scanned the spacious room for faces that I recognised. It was easy to guess which House each group were in, even in Muggle clothing: in one corner were the Hufflepuffs, talking animatedly among themselves about some obsequious nonsense; close to them were the Gryffindors, who were sprawled arrogantly across their seats, each mirroring the others’ positions. I immediately felt a surge of grief as I took in their swaggering manner. Of course, Evander had never swaggered, but the eager, overconfident looks on their faces reminded me irresistibly of his.

One of them - a boy who I recognised to be in my year but didn’t know the name of - looked up, and I realised that I was staring. I met his eyes almost defiantly, although I felt a blush creep into my cheeks. His lazily mocking smile was irritating, but as I looked away, I couldn’t help noticing how the boy’s icy blue eyes were oddly captivating. I hastily pushed that thought from my mind and went to sit with my fellow Slytherins, who were grouped close to the Ravenclaws. I noticed with some derision that the latter were playing a solemn game of wizard’s chess.

I sat down and crossed one leg neatly over the other, fiddling with a strand of red-blonde hair. Irma had, once again, attempted to style it, but I had put my foot down, insisting that as we were only travelling, who would I want to impress?

“So, Ysabelle,� Hyperion said, trying to drape an arm inconspicuously around my shoulders. Elissa Flint, a lifeless sort of girl who the Headmaster had apparently seen fit to make a prefect this year, glared balefully at me from the seat opposite. “Excited about school?�

“You sound like a professor… or Silvanus,� I remarked acidly, forcefully removing his arm. “I think Elissa is going to start spouting steam from her ears if you carry on like that, by the way,� I added as a cruel afterthought. Elissa flushed, but I was in too much of an ill mood to care very much.

Evidently awkward, Hyperion had a brave stab at starting a conversation.

“So… who’s Head Girl and Head Boy this year?� he asked no one in particular. I shrugged, but another fifth-year prefect - a dark-haired, sharp-featured boy I vaguely recognised from breakfast - spoke up in a bored voice.

“Both Gryffindors, I’m afraid,� he said dolefully, pointing out a honey-haired girl and dark-haired boy, both of whom were staring intensely into the other’s eyes, apparently oblivious to anything but each other. His opinion was clearly one of distaste.

“Don’t be harsh, Gryffindors are all right,� I replied. I knew that there was only really one Gryffindor that I had in mind, as I thought this the memory of the blue-eyed boy resurfaced. Once again, I tried to thrust his face from my mind, but to no avail.

The dark-haired boy snorted, and Hyperion looked at me disbelievingly. Elissa simply examined her nails, pale eyebrows raised slightly.

“Gryffindors, not that bad?� The previously bored boy now appeared positively enthused at the chance to verbally abuse the Gryffindors. “They’re nothing but blood traitors and Mudbloods!� He raised his voice slightly as he said the word ‘Mudblood’. Hyperion shifted uncomfortably beside me as I glowered at the boy, a cutting comeback poised on the tip of my tongue.

Luckily for him, just as I opened my mouth to retort, the Head Girl spoke up, having torn herself from her male equivalent.

“Right, listen up, people! We need to sort out a patrol schedule, so gather round…�

I watched the Ravenclaws pack away their chess set before finding a seat nearer to the Head Boy and Girl, and I followed suit. The Hufflepuffs instantly moved up to make space for us; I rolled my eyes, and one of them shot me a faintly dirty look. With a haughty sniff, I settled myself as far from them as possible and half-listened to what the Head Girl was saying.

“So, I thought we’d try something new this year - a bit of inter-House communing… the Headmaster specifically asked it of me.�

This was met with loud groans from every group. I sighed and shifted my position slightly, now grudgingly paying full attention.

“I’ve compiled a list,� the Head Girl continued, unruffled, “of your surnames in alphabetical order. Where two people of the same House have been placed together, I’ve swapped a couple of names around. Are we clear?� Without waiting for an answer, she flicked her wand once and a few sheets of parchment soared through the air and into her lap, forming a meticulous pile.

“Not exactly,� drawled the Gryffindor-hater, his eyes fixed maliciously on his victims. “Are you two� - he glanced briefly at the Head Boy - “patrolling together?�

The Head Girl looked up, confused. “Of course, we’re Head Boy and Girl, aren’t we?�

“Right… patrolling,� the Gryffindor-hating boy said, raising his eyebrows. The Head Girl instantly turned a delicate shade of pink as Hyperion crowed loudly.

“Shut it, Pierce,� the Head Boy spoke up, an expression of perfect calm on his face. “Unless you want detention the first evening back, that is.�

The boy named Pierce lapsed into a sullen silence, muttering something about Mudbloods.

“Anyway,� the Head Girl proceeded with a grateful smile in her compatriot’s direction, “the list. Right. No swapping or complaining unless you have a genuine problem with your patrol partner, understand? Alright: Laurel, you’re with Ingrid…�

I tuned out, waiting for my name to be called. This was an inconvenience, to be sure; inter-House mingling wasn’t preferable for Slytherins, who mainly kept to themselves. The Ravenclaws could be all right, if a little boring, but other than that we were widely disliked.

“Malfoy, you’re with Flavia,� I heard the Head Girl announce - smugly, I thought, and I knew that she was getting back at Hyperion for laughing at Pierce’s snide comment. Flavia was a pretty Hufflepuff girl who looked at least as disgruntled as her new partner did. I choked back a cruel laugh as I imagined the pair patrolling the corridors together.

I noticed, despite myself, that the blue-eyed boy had yet to be acknowledged by the Head Girl. He was drumming a tattoo on his heavily patched trousers with his fingers, occasionally running his other hand through his already tousled mop of burnished blonde hair. I had to admit that he was handsome; rather more so than Hyperion, in fact. Belatedly, I realised what I was thinking and, mildly horrified with myself, banished the incriminating thought from my mind.

“Ysabelle Rosier?� My head snapped up at the sound of my name. “Oh, there you are. You’re with… oh, right, Will Roberts.�

Somehow, I knew that it would be him; the corners of my mouth twitched, betraying me, as his icy eyes met mine. But even as Will Roberts returned my reluctant smile with a quizzical one, I felt, rather than saw, Hyperion leap to his feet next to me. I reached out to catch his arm, but it was too late-

“You’re putting Ysabelle with that Mudblood? You must be joking!�

Almost the entire carriage gasped in unison. It would have almost been comical if I hadn’t known what consequences this would bring.

“Hyperion!� I hissed, tugging more insistently on his sleeve. I met Will’s eyes again and tried to convey an apology in my gaze, but his eyes were fixed on Hyperion, all traces of a grin gone. I noticed that he had gone scarlet.

“Right, Malfoy,� the Head Boy said, his cool exterior only slightly marred. “Detention, tomorrow night, I think. No need for language like that.�

“It’s worth it if I get to protect Ysabelle from that scum,� Hyperion spat, his eyes blazing. Incensed beyond belief, I stood up, cursing my diminutive stature.

“You won’t be protecting anyone, Hyperion,� I said angrily, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks as I noted that every eye in the compartment was on me. Nevertheless, I continued, now looking more at Will than Hyperion. “I’ll patrol with Will- I mean, Roberts. It’s no skin off of my back.�

But instead of the grateful reaction I had expected from the former, his expression remained stony. This struck me as rather rude; I had just defended his honour, hadn’t I? Hyperion, on the other hand, looked thunderstruck. He sank back into his seat, his bewildered gaze trained on me. I thought that I recognised a flicker of hurt in his pale grey eyes.

As I sat back down promptly, an awkward silence settled in the compartment. The Head Girl, her face flushed, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and shuffled her sheaf of parchment.

“So… er, Isis, you’re with Eleanor. And… well, that concludes our first meeting of the year.� She attempted a bracing smile that looked more like a grimace. “Laurel, Ingrid - I want you to patrol the train corridors first, please.�

With that, the Head Girl handed out the timetables that she had constructed beforehand as fast as she could and swept from the room, closely followed by the Head Boy. A low hum of chatter started up. I noticed that many of the other students, Gryffindors especially, were shooting Hyperion decidedly menacing looks. The boy named Pierce, however, was smirking at him with an expression that was a mixture of admiration and pity. Elissa was once again staring at her fingernails, but there was now a tiny crease in her forehead.

Unable to take the tension between Hyperion and me, I stood up abruptly, motioning for him to follow. He did so, but grudgingly; I heard his small sigh as he followed me out into the corridor.

“Hyperion,� I began stiffly, once we were out of earshot of the compartment, but he cut me off.

“Ysabelle… I know you don’t exactly… share my… feelings,� he said slowly, his voice resigned. I tensed immediately. Part of me - one that I was slightly ashamed of - was glad that he had picked up on this, but another part was worried; had I been so obvious that I had hurt him inadvertently? I relaxed, however, when a grin unfurled across Hyperion’s face, even though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But I can win you over. In fact, I will.�
I sighed at this, but couldn’t help smiling slightly at his doggedness. “Hyperion, if you haven’t managed it after five years-�

“You’ll see,� he cut across me once again, earning himself a scowl. “I’ll bet you that by the end of this year, you’ll be mine.� He grinned again, this time with more conviction. I, however, was annoyed.

“I’ll be yours? What am I, a possession?�

“Er…� Hyperion looked uncomfortable again, and hastily changed the subject. “Anyway, I can get you out of patrol duty with that Mudblood Roberts. Fortescue owes my father a favour.�

I frowned. “Don’t call him that.�

“Who?�

“Roberts,� I replied, careful to use his surname only. “Don’t call him a Mudblood.�

Hyperion’s expression changed in an instant, flickering from confusion to understanding to… anger?

“Well, Ysabelle,� he said finally, his voice now cold. “I never had you down for a Mudblood lover, but I suppose that looks can be deceiving.�

It took a moment for me to take in his harsh words.

“I don’t like Roberts, if that’s what you mean,� I said, hurt.

“Then why did you defend him? Why are you defending him now?�

“Because - well - you shouldn’t go around calling people Mudbloods, Hyperion!�

“That’s what they are!� Hyperion cried, exasperation clear on his face. “You never used to mind the term!�

“Muggle-borns are wizards too,� I replied quietly, breathing heavily and struggling to keep calm. My fingers twitched, itching to withdraw my wand from the pocket of my jacket.

“You’ve changed, Ysabelle,� said Hyperion after a pause, a curt edge to his voice. “Ever since Evander died… I don’t know what’s got into you.�

This stung. Wasn’t I allowed to mourn?

“It’s been almost two months now,� Hyperion said more gently, as if he had read my mind. “He’s not coming back.�

I felt angry tears well up in my eyes, and my hand hastened towards my wand. Hyperion looked positively alarmed as I pointed it directly at his throat.

“I know that,� I hissed, so venomously that Hyperion took an involuntary step backwards. “Do you really think that I’m naïve enough to think that he’s somehow going to come back from the dead?� He shook his head mutely, still looking startled. I scowled at him one last time before lowering my wand, but not loosening my grip on it.

“And that’s why I’m avenging him,� I muttered quietly.

Nevertheless, Hyperion’s unusually sharp ears seemed to pick this up, at least judging by the blankly shocked expression on his pale face.

“What did you say?�

“Nothing.�

“Not nothing - it was something about avenging him…�

Hyperion looked at me wonderingly. “But Evander died in an accident… didn’t he?�

I gave a non-committal grimace, and hastily stowed my wand back in my pocket to avoid meeting his gaze.

“Unless…� Hyperion frowned. He was guessing too much for my liking.

“We should go and put our robes on, you know.� I bustled past him and marched back into the prefects’ carriage, leaving him to his puzzlement. Even as I closed the compartment door with a subtle snap, I could feel Hyperion’s questioning gaze fixed on the back of my head, boring into my darkest secrets.