Hogwarts got its noise back in a single afternoon.
Not gradually.
Not politely.
That morning, I could still walk the entire second-floor corridor and encounter one ghost, two portraits, and Filch, who apparently considered an empty castle a personal reward for years of suffering.
By afternoon, someone was running up the stairs.
Someone else was shouting that they had lost their toad.
Two Ravenclaw girls were arguing about a trunk blocking the passage.
Peeves was singing something about the return of the "little monsters."
And Malfoy was talking.
A lot.
"Mother said this scarf is definitely far too plain."
I looked at him.
He had only just come back.
It had not even been five minutes.
"Nice to see you too."
Malfoy stopped.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Blaise, standing beside him with a bag slung over one shoulder, looked at my scarf.
The same one he had given me for Christmas.
"You're wearing it."
"I noticed."
"That wasn't a question."
"Even better."
The corner of his mouth twitched.
Malfoy looked lower.
At the tie pin on my tie.
He froze.
Then lifted his chin by about two centimeters.
"You put it on."
"Is that an accusation?"
"You're wearing it."
"Circumstantial evidence."
Blaise sighed.
"I really missed this."
"Don't lie," I said.
"Not you. Watching you."
Crabbe and Goyle were just coming through the entrance with their trunks.
Malfoy adjusted his sleeve.
"At least now you look slightly more presentable."
"If you keep being this nice, I'll take it off."
"Don't you dare."
I looked at him.
He looked at me.
Blaise shook his head.
"This is going to be a long term."
He was right.
Unfortunately.
Hermione came back the next morning.
I knew before I saw her.
Ron was sitting at the Gryffindor table with the expression of someone who had just been reminded that homework still existed.
Harry looked a little better.
Not completely.
But no longer like someone who spent every free second thinking about an empty room and a large mirror.
Good.
Hermione appeared a few minutes later with a bag full of books.
Of course.
She stopped beside Harry and Ron.
Said something.
Ron immediately started defending himself.
Everything was back to normal.
I returned to my breakfast.
It did not last long.
"Oliver."
I looked up.
Hermione was standing beside me.
"Good morning."
"Good morning."
She looked at the gloves lying beside my plate.
Then at my wand.
Then back at the gloves.
They were dry.
Apparently that was enough.
"Did you use the spell from that book?"
"No."
"I saw you."
"Then why are you asking?"
She closed her mouth.
Blaise, sitting opposite me, set down his cup.
He clearly had no intention of missing any of this.
Hermione narrowed her eyes.
"Did you like it?"
"It was useful."
Silence.
Too long.
Hermione blinked.
Blaise looked at me.
Then at her.
"Was that a thank-you?" she asked.
"Let's not exaggerate."
She smiled.
"Fine."
She did not leave.
Of course.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Hermione."
"Oliver."
Blaise leaned back in his chair.
"First names again."
"Don't start," we said at the same time.
I looked at Hermione.
She looked at me.
Blaise smiled wider.
"That was disturbing."
Hermione ignored him.
"Harry and Ron told me what they figured out."
Oh.
Right.
The Stone.
Christmas really was over.
"Congratulations."
"You're not going to ask what?"
"I assume that if you wanted to keep it secret, you wouldn't have opened with that sentence."
Her expression hardened.
"It's about the Philosopher's Stone."
Malfoy, two seats away, lifted his head.
Hermione looked at him.
Then at me.
"Not here."
"Sensible."
Blaise looked deeply disappointed.
They cornered me after Charms.
All three of them.
Cornered was the correct word.
Hermione stood in front of me.
Harry to her left.
Ron to her right.
"The corridor still has some space left," I said.
"Nicolas Flamel created the Philosopher's Stone," Hermione began.
"I know."
Ron exhaled through his nose.
"He knew."
"I told you the name was familiar."
"That's a little more than familiar," Harry said.
"An alchemist who created the only known Philosopher's Stone is not particularly easy to confuse with someone else."
Ron looked at Hermione.
"We could've asked him from the beginning."
"I did."
"Badly."
Hermione turned her head.
"Ron."
"What?"
I could not help myself.
"He has a point."
Hermione turned to me.
"Don't help him."
"That is becoming a very popular sentence in your vocabulary."
Harry snorted.
Hermione waited a second.
Then lowered her voice.
"The Stone produces the Elixir of Life and turns metals into gold."
"Mhm."
"It's extremely valuable."
"I noticed that too."
Ron leaned closer.
"And someone is trying to steal it."
And here we are.
I looked at Harry.
His expression immediately became serious.
"Snape," he said.
"No."
Three faces turned toward me.
Damn.
That came out faster than I intended.
Ron was the first to find his voice.
"What do you mean, 'no'?"
"Usually a negation."
Hermione refused to be distracted.
"You're saying Snape isn't trying to steal the Stone?"
"I didn't say that."
"Then what did you say?"
"That no."
"That is exactly what you said."
"Glad we agree."
"Oliver."
I sighed.
This was one of those situations where every new sentence made the previous one worse.
Harry spoke more quietly.
"During the match, he was casting a spell on me."
"No."
This time I said it deliberately.
Harry frowned.
"I saw him."
"You saw his lips moving."
"He was staring straight at me."
"Half the stadium was staring straight at you."
Ron folded his arms.
"He was trying to knock Harry off his broom."
"Snape can be an arse and still not be trying to throw Potter from several dozen meters in the air. Those things are not mutually exclusive."
Ron looked almost offended.
"Are you defending Snape?"
"Don't insult me."
Harry almost smiled, but stopped quickly.
Hermione was looking at me differently.
Too carefully.
"How do you know?"
Exactly.
I knew from the books.
I also knew from what I had seen during the match.
One of those answers was impossible.
The other was not much better.
"I was watching."
"Snape?"
"The teachers."
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
She remembered.
Of course she remembered.
"Just like then."
"I was at the same match, Granger."
"That's not what I mean."
"I know."
Ron looked between us.
"What's going on?"
"Nothing," I said.
Hermione said at the same time:
"I don't know."
Ron looked even more confused.
Harry did not.
Harry was watching me.
"If it wasn't Snape..."
Don't finish that.
"...then who was it?"
Of course.
I looked over his shoulder.
Students were passing through the corridor.
A few second-years.
One Ravenclaw.
No one important.
"I don't know," I said.
Hermione immediately replied:
"You're lying."
"That's becoming increasingly impolite."
"How do you know Snape didn't do it if you don't know who did?"
"I can know one answer is wrong without knowing the correct one."
Technically true.
Very technically.
Hermione pressed her lips together.
Harry kept watching me.
Ron, meanwhile, shook his head.
"Snape had a bloody leg after someone tried to get past Fluffy."
Fluffy.
Wonderful.
"That still doesn't prove he cursed the broom."
"He wants the Stone."
"Possibly."
"So?"
"So you suspect a man you dislike of everything that has happened in this castle since September."
Ron opened his mouth.
Thought about it.
"Because he does suspicious things."
"I can't take that away from him."
Hermione sighed.
"You're not going to tell us anything, are you?"
"You're beginning to understand me."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"I'll survive."
I started walking.
After two steps, Hermione stopped me.
"Oliver."
I turned.
"What?"
Her gaze paused on my eyes for a moment.
Only a moment.
"If you know something that could be dangerous for Harry..."
She did not finish.
Harry looked at her.
Then at me.
I did not answer immediately.
Because this was no longer a question about Flamel.
Or even about Snape.
I knew how this year ended.
At least one version of it.
Harry would go through the trapdoor.
Quirrell would be waiting.
Voldemort too.
He would survive.
He should.
I liked that last thought less.
"If I know something you need to know," I said at last, "I'll tell you."
Hermione did not look satisfied.
"That leaves an awful lot of room for interpretation."
"Deliberately."
Ron groaned.
I walked away.
This time, they did not stop me.
The first Charms lesson after Christmas was boring.
That was a compliment.
Flitwick was trying to teach us a simple spell meant to move small objects across a flat surface without lifting them.
After Leviosa, it did not sound impressive.
In practice, half the class sent wooden discs in random directions.
One shot between the desks and struck Neville in the ankle.
Flitwick immediately stopped smiling.
"Control, gentlemen! Not force!"
Malfoy tried again.
His disc moved perhaps a foot.
"Too weak," he muttered.
"It's not a competition."
"Everything is a competition if someone is good enough."
"You sound like your father."
He looked at me.
"How do you know what my father sounds like?"
"Shot in the dark."
He scoffed.
The Ravenclaw boy at the station beside us cast the spell.
The disc twitched.
And before I had time to think, I looked deeper.
The silvery structure of the spell unfolded beneath the surface of the movement.
Thin.
Simple.
One part held the object.
The other directed it.
The tension at the end was unnecessarily strong.
If you shifted...
"Excellent, Mr. Corner!"
I blinked.
The spell vanished.
I looked at Flitwick.
Then back at the disc.
I had not decided to look.
I simply had.
Hm.
"What?" Malfoy asked.
"Nothing."
"You're doing that thing again."
I looked at him.
"What thing?"
"You stare at something and stop hearing people."
"Maybe people are the problem."
"Ha."
Flitwick clapped his hands.
"Mr. Peverell and Mr. Malfoy, since your conversation is clearly so fascinating, I'm sure you both already have the spell mastered."
Malfoy straightened.
"Yes, Professor."
He did not.
Neither did I.
A few minutes later, I did.
Without looking deeper.
Deliberately.
The disc slid across the tabletop and stopped exactly at the edge.
Flitwick praised me.
Malfoy managed the same thing on his third attempt.
The lesson continued.
I did not return to that moment.
Not immediately.
That evening, the common room was full.
Really full.
After the silence of Christmas, it almost irritated me.
Almost.
Someone sat on the floor beside the fireplace.
Two older students were playing cards.
Millicent Bulstrode was arguing with a second-year girl about some place on the sofa.
Blaise was reading.
Malfoy was talking.
Of course.
"I have no idea why Father tolerates such poor school brooms. They should be replaced at least..."
I reached for my quill.
It was gone.
I looked.
Blaise was writing something in the margin of his own parchment with it.
"Give it back."
"It was lying there."
"Beside my hand."
"Then it was poorly secured."
I held out my hand.
Blaise did not react.
"Blaise."
"One moment."
For a second, I saw a table.
Cups.
Someone's hand taking food from my plate.
A blurred face.
It disappeared before I could properly think.
"Blaise."
"What?"
"Give me the quill."
He looked at me.
Then at the quill.
"Here you are."
I took it.
Malfoy was still talking about brooms.
I did not know when I had stopped hearing him.
"What?" I asked.
He stopped.
"You weren't listening."
"I was."
"What did I say?"
I looked at Blaise.
Blaise did not lift his eyes from his book.
Traitor.
"That something wasn't good enough."
Malfoy narrowed his eyes.
"That could have been anything."
"Exactly why it was a safe answer."
Blaise snorted.
Malfoy threw a crumpled piece of parchment at me.
I knocked it aside with one hand.
And that was that.
A few days later, Harry sat beside me in the library.
Alone.
That was unusual.
I looked behind him.
"Lose Weasley?"
"Detention."
"Hermione?"
"Helping Neville with Transfiguration."
"My condolences to Neville."
Harry smiled faintly.
Then sat down.
He did not open a book.
That was even more suspicious.
I kept reading.
A minute passed.
Then another.
"Oliver."
"Mhm?"
"Have you ever..."
He stopped.
I looked up.
Harry was staring at the table.
"...seen something and then kept thinking about seeing it again?"
I did not move.
The mirror.
Of course.
I closed the book with one finger between the pages.
"Yes."
Harry looked at me.
Waited.
I waited.
After a few seconds, he frowned.
"And?"
"And what?"
"What did you do?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"The thing."
He stared at me.
"You're terrible at advice."
"I don't charge for it."
He smiled despite himself.
"Seriously."
I sighed.
I did not want to talk about the mirror.
Especially not with Harry.
Not because he would not understand.
Quite the opposite.
"If you're asking whether wanting to see something again means you should..."
I thought about the empty place where the Mirror had stood.
"...probably not."
Harry watched me for longer.
"Dumbledore said something similar."
"Of course."
"How did you know this was about Dumbledore?"
Damn.
"I didn't."
"You said 'of course.'"
"He has an opinion about everything."
Harry snorted.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then:
"He said people had wasted their lives in front of something like that."
"Sounds like people."
"Aren't you curious what it was?"
Very.
"No."
I lied better than he did.
Harry looked suspicious.
"You're always curious."
That was unpleasantly accurate.
"I'm developing character."
"I don't believe you."
"Sensible."
This time, he laughed.
I returned to my book.
Harry stayed a little longer.
He did not ask anything else.
Neither did I.
January became February without asking permission.
Snow still covered the grounds, though near the main paths it had turned into gray slush. The castle returned to its usual rhythm.
Lessons.
Homework.
Peeves.
Filch.
Snape taking points from Gryffindor for things other teachers probably would not even have noticed.
Hermione still tried to get more out of me about the match.
Not every day.
That would have been easier.
She did it when I least expected it.
At the library exit:
"Snape really wasn't casting that curse?"
"You're really still asking that?"
"Yes."
On the stairs:
"Did you see who cast it?"
"Watch out, the step is moving."
"Oliver."
In Potions:
"Was Quirrell sitting near Snape then?"
I nearly dropped the asphodel root.
Nearly.
I looked at her.
Hermione stirred her potion as if she had said nothing.
"He was at the teachers' table," I replied.
"I know."
"Then why are you asking?"
"I wanted to see your reaction."
"You're becoming irritating."
"Becoming?"
I looked at her.
She smiled at her cauldron.
I did not answer.
News of the next match spread during breakfast.
Gryffindor against Hufflepuff.
There was nothing remarkable about that.
Until someone said who would be refereeing.
"Snape."
Ron said it as if he had just read his own death sentence.
I was sitting several places away because Malfoy had decided it was necessary to come over to the Gryffindor table purely to deliver the news to Harry in person.
"Professor Snape has agreed to referee," he said with obvious satisfaction.
Harry went pale.
Hermione looked at him.
Then at Malfoy.
"What are you doing here?"
"Delivering good news."
Ron jerked his head up.
"Good for who?"
"Sensible people."
"Go back to your own table."
Malfoy smiled.
"Potter, I hope you hold on tightly to your broom."
Harry clenched his jaw.
"Malfoy," I said.
He looked at me.
"What?"
"Subtlety."
"What about it?"
"Nothing. I only wanted to check whether you knew the word."
Ron snorted.
Malfoy shot me a look.
"You're on the wrong side of the table."
"Geography was never my strongest subject."
"Get up."
"I'm eating."
"At the Gryffindor table."
"The food tastes the same."
"It shouldn't."
I looked at the piece of toast in my hand.
"Report it to the kitchens."
Malfoy walked away, muttering something about betrayal of the house.
Ron watched him go.
"Do you actually like him?"
"That's a strong word."
Harry was not listening.
He was looking at the teachers' table.
Snape was eating breakfast.
He looked exactly the same as always.
Meaning like a man who could referee a funeral and still consider the atmosphere too cheerful.
"He'll do it on purpose," Ron said.
"Do what?" I asked.
"Something to Harry."
"No."
Ron turned toward me.
"Again?"
"We're starting a tradition."
Hermione studied me.
"How do you know?"
"I don't."
"You just said..."
"I know Snape isn't going to murder Potter during an official match in front of the entire school."
Ron narrowed his eyes.
"Is that supposed to be reassuring?"
"I'm trying."
Harry was still looking at Snape.
"I don't want to play."
Ron immediately said:
"You have to."
Hermione:
"You don't have to."
Ron looked at her.
"He's the Seeker."
"His life matters more than Quidditch."
Ron looked like he needed a moment to process that controversial opinion.
Harry sighed.
"Wood will kill me if I quit."
"That solves the Snape problem," I said.
Hermione kicked me under the table.
"Ow."
"You're not helping."
"Evidently."
I looked back at the teachers' table.
Quirrell sat several seats away from Snape.
Turban.
Pale face.
Nervous movements.
Just as always.
I remembered this match.
Snape was going to referee because he wanted to stay close to Harry.
Dumbledore would appear in the stands.
Quirrell would not try anything.
Harry would catch the Snitch absurdly quickly.
The end.
Short.
Calm.
No cursed broom.
No active curse.
No Voldemort trying to throw an eleven-year-old boy from several dozen meters in the air.
Nothing interesting should happen.
Quirrell looked up.
For one second, our eyes met across the entire length of the Great Hall.
My left eye stung.
Only slightly.
I looked away.
I really should have stopped thinking things like that.