Hogwarts: A House Divided - Civil War Looms Ahead (IC|Open)

[CoraSpia]

Marcellus

Marcellus' eyes got dizzy with rolling as Dominique's speech only continued on and on. If there were people who weren't sure where Dominique's loyalties lay, listening to this wonderful speech would give them enough pause for thought; the fact that he was so insistant about the amount of evidence that would be required if a student suspected another of being an order member.
"Can I just tell you one thing?" he asked the younger man, a smile creeping across his face. "The headmasters office is home to a pensieve. There might be students here who have some memories that might prove interesting."

Headmasters Office

It was time. All that needed to be said had been said, and it was time for her to deliver her verdict.
"Professor Patel," she began, eyes narrowing just a touch. "Although I commend your dedication to the safety of muggleborn students, I must agree with Professor Mcmoran here. If indeed muggle-borns are being targeted by this 'order,' they are far safer in a school populated by witches and wizards...some of whom are highly skilled...than they would be in houses with their families. I have a duty to keep my students safe, and I shall do it here; I will however speak with the ministry about increasing our security measures in light of this situation.

As for hysteria...this is all over the daily prophet, Professor Patel. The students have all seen it; if I was to climb aboard the Hogwarts express at this moment I would imagine I'd hear very few other topics of conversation. At this point there is nothing to be gained by minimising the threat, and a lot of potential risk from doing so. I will make a response, both to the students, and if the editorial board is willing in tomorrows edition of the daily prophet."

[Purgatio]

Prefects' Carriage, Hogwarts Express
Sunday, 24 April 2039, 11:35 AM
Dominique Jean Rosier

"Yes, of course..." Dominique looked even more nervous than before now, gulping a little as Marcellus's underlying meaning was clear, and while his prior comments were a clear threat in their own right, it was impossible to interpret Marcellus's present words as anything other than a veiled threat. Dominique's nervousness and anxiety did not come from nowhere, his memories instantly flashing involuntarily as he tried and failed to restrain his fear, his emotions - in mid-2037, Dominique and Marcellus had both been jointly inducted into the Order, the organisation's first two underage acolytes, a moment which began as one of immense pride for their parents and families, a moment of immense personal pride for Dominique as well, who still had a distinct memory of his parents embracing him, overcome and overjoyed, when it was over, one he was unlikely to forget soon; however, one big thing cast a massive shadow over that otherwise-joyous memory - the betrayal of Marcellus Travers, which devastated his parents and was a cause of immense anxiety and hand-wringing in Dominique and, more pertinently, the Order's founders. It was a storied incident which Dominique was not likely to forget soon, and what made it all the more upsetting in his eyes was that, by all accounts, it ought to have been a moment of immense pride and triumph. After all, Dominique had performed the entire initiation ritual perfectly, he'd been a model of rectitude, passed with flying colours, that test of magical skill, commitment, unquestioning obedience, and loyalty, and like all new members, it had involved a series of advanced and difficult spells which Dominique had assiduously applied himself in the months before, just to be able to master both competently and reliably - the new Caracterem Gaunt enchantment which all 15 members of the High Council had worked together to create (which conjured up a huge life-like symbol of the House of Gaunt's emblem on the floor), the Flagrante curse on a marble tile, that Muggle vagrant taken out of the basement by the Order's founders ("an antisocial transient type who will not be missed, even in the Muggle world", his mummy had explained at the time when Dominique expressed confusion, to the uproarious laughter of the other founders on the High Council) and placed on the tile screaming and writhing, the Conjunctivitis curse into his reddening eyes, followed by the Cruciatus Curse, then the Reducto Curse on his arms and legs incinerating and blasting them away, the infliction of Transmogrifian torture on the tramp, then the Sectumsempra spell, lacerating and eviscerating his abdomen, then the final cherry on top, and the hardest and most difficult of them all, the Killing Curse, magnificent flying green sparks which brought the ornate ritual to a successful close. None of the spells were simple, it was advanced magic which had required a significant amount of strenuous, dedicated training and practice to even begin to get right, especially the Killing Curse, which (to put it mildly) required far more than just saying Avada Kedavra and a little flick of a wand to actually produce the desired effect, but total consistent concentration and the right mindset and the right thoughts even as one performed it, and the significance of it had certainly not been lost on the young boy at the time as his successful initiation had been enough of a sight to send his typically dignified and 'prim and proper' parents into an impassioned frenzy, rushing up to him and embracing him roughly, tightly, and on the spot, in the middle of everyone.

Whatever triumph and pride Dominique felt at the time very quickly became tainted with Marcellus's public disgrace of his family and his parents, his angry petulant rant at the Travers, at Dominique's own parents, at everyone present, his aggressive storming-off from the premises which left everyone in shock and his parents traumatised, whom Marcellus had cursed at the loudest and most aggressively - ironic too, since if it had not been for the influence of his parents Albert Travers and Roberta Emilian who were founding members and on the High Council, there is no way Marcellus would not have been ordered dead by now for all he knew - all of which ended in Marcellus's de facto banishment and excommunication from the elite, old-money, elegant world which had been Marcellus's world too (at the time) for the last 15 years of his life. But that experience meant Marcellus had some knowledge, not unlimited certainly, but at least with respect to Dominique's initiation, it was clearly knowledge that posed a very real danger and peril to Dominique, and now, listening to his words in the prefects' compartment, the sinister edge to Marcellus's veiled threat was clear - I just might share that memory with the Headmistress and the Ministry; and certainly, it was not the type of memory he, or the Order's leadership, would have wanted to get out into the world, the amount of danger Marcellus was threatening to put him in, his parents, his whole family, Marcellus's own parents, was enough to drive the young, inexperienced teenager mad with anger, fear, anxiety, and it took a significant amount of self-restraint for the 15-year-old to not respond by shouting or screaming there and then, because in addition to the personal danger being threatened here, Marcellus was lording over his head a very real and pertinent threat to seriously hurt and harm not just him, but his parents and his family as well, and the thought of them being endangered and imperilled in that way - and the infuriating sight of Marcellus taking such glee in that fact - was extremely difficult for the kid to stand or bear.

Trying to calm down, Dominique forced a nervous smile as he spoke, "It's a great magical artefact. I'm sure it can record a lot of interesting memories indeed. But since you mention the Pensieve, that reminds me, you missed out on this ever since your little, ahem, 'falling out' with your parents, but at the Selwyns' Christmas party last year, Ms. Isabella Selwyn had been telling us all a rather hilarious anecdote about all the difficulties her Department had been facing of late, from false memories conjured up from the cloth, inserted by criminals into trials and investigation, it's proved to be quite a departmental headache, she told her friends, but also provided them a fair bit of entertainment. She told us that ever-since the 'false memory spell' had been performed so successfully on the famous Harry Potter, more than 40 years ago, even Ms. Selwyn said she was surprised at the extent of the advancements of late, how the most outlandish of memories are created and fabricated, often so lifelike that trying to tell the difference between the two could stump and prove impossible even for her and her most senior experienced colleagues. And some of the false memories she shared with us, the crazy things that these suspects and defendants had tried to pass off as the real thing, they were quite amusing, honestly it'd have been better for you to have heard it in person from her, but you wouldn't believe the outlandish things that these criminals come up with for the attention". At this point, Dominique knew he had to extricate himself from the situation or else he'd lose whatever little self-restraint he had left in him, and the crushing and paralysing emotional weight of Marcellus's endless threatening of him and his family was becoming far too much for the teenager to handle, so he got up, adjusted his robes and outer gown as he spoke, "Well, it sounds like you are done with your briefing, I think it's best for the prefects to return to our patrols of the hallways then. Nice seeing you again, Marcellus, à tout à l'heure, mon ami".

As he exited the carriage, Dominique felt his pulse racing, his heart beating so aggressively and forcefully in his chest it felt like it would pop out at any second, his body tensing with a mixture of anger, rage, fear, panic, so overwhelming he felt dizzy, like he would faint if he had to endure Marcellus's threats for a second longer. He rushed over to the nearest bathroom, performing the Colloportus spell behind him on instinct, and once he was alone in front of a shiny ornate-looking vanity, Dominique allowed himself to finally keel over, hyperventilating, as his mind raced with a million thoughts, head swimming with the image of him and his family being attacked, hurt, harmed by Marcellus, over and over again, the threatening and menacing edge to his comments, what he knew, what he saw, and what he remembered. Dominique felt his eyes glisten with moisture, dripping as he cursed himself inwardly for his 'weakness', wondering in panic how an inexperienced 15-year-old like him was supposed to process and deal with the threat and fear of such a severe nature hanging over his head, constantly, 24/7, and the feelings of helplessness and complete vulnerability it filled him with, a sense of powerlessness in the wake of his situation which dawned on him and made him feel small and helpless in a way he absolutely hated and loathed. He was still a kid, a boy, and now that the Order had announced its existence to the world, now that it had struck and drawn first blood, the reality of his situation dawned on him, how trapped he really was, in a situation he could not begin to understand, with implications and repercussions far too grave and far too serious for his young mind to fully grasp or process, certainly not with any calm or composure.

Dominique did not know how long it took for him to calm his nerves and regain his bearings, but once he was in a more fit state of some self-control, he re-adjusted his robes, glancing and gazing into the shimmering vanity as he re-adjusted the tousled locks on his hair, wordlessly, shot up a Hot Air Charm to dry up the moistened tears in his eyelids and his cheeks, sighing loudly as he stared back at his glimmering reflection in the mirror. Now that he was calmer and less distressed, Dominique realised that he had handled the situation badly, he was able to look back on recent events with a composed eye and cursed himself inwardly for allowing Marcellus's threats of exposure, in that arrogantly contemptuous but veiledly menacing tone of his, get under his skin so badly. It was extremely hard for a teenage boy not to get unnerved and seriously distressed at the thoughts of exposure, imprisonment, serious harm or hurt being inflicted on him and his parents whom he adored and cared for more than anything and anyone in the world, a 15-year-old like him was not even close to being emotionally or psychologically equipped to handle or deal with any of this, with maturity, with experience, but still, Dominique felt inwardly that it was wrong for him to get upset, it was wrong for him to lose control, and get panicked and nervous and defensive, and if he'd only been better, more experienced, more like his parents, he'd have been able to handle the situation gracefully, elegantly, in a more polished way. They'd have known what to do. Mummy and daddy would have handled that much better, Dominique thought to himself with a note of self-loathing, rubbing his reddened eyes as he cursed at his reflection, performing the Episkey charm on his eyes so that the reddened vessels would heal-up and all traces of his breakdown, his pathetic weakness he displayed in this room, would be snuffed-up and made to disappear, as he thought to himself, they would have controlled their emotions, they would not have become so scared, so afraid, so panicked and nervous like that, would not have become so defensive, so desperate to prove themselves in the moment. Dominique's hands balled up into fists, before he took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down, all this self-hatred about his reaction was useless, it was done, it happened, and he could not change the past. All he could do now was cast the memory of Marcellus's threats from his mind, so that it would not unnerve him further as he began his Spring Term at Hogwarts, focus his mind on more calming memories like holidaying in Chantilly over the easter break. After all, he had O.W.L.s to study for, on top of everything else which he was dealing with and the immense weight on his shoulders from all the Order's recent activities and Marcellus's threats, and he could not tackle his problems while he was this distressed and unnerved.

As he forced himself to regain composure, forced himself to think of happier memories like being with his friends at school, or being doted-on by his mummy and daddy at home, Dominique re-opened the door to the water closet and exited the bathroom, walking along the hallways silently as he did, nearly running into the aged trolley witch, who looked up at him and grinned, "Anything from the trolley, dear?" There was something about this simple interaction which gave Dominique a reassuring sense of normalcy, as he sighed loudly, nodding, "Honeydukes, please...a bag of them, if you please, ma'am. Thank you." He handed over his Sickles and Knuts and grabbed the small bag, taking a few in his palm and placing the rest in the corner pocket of his inner robes as he glided along the hallways wordlessly, popping one of the sweets in his mouth as he allowed the delectable taste to distract him and calm his racing thoughts, slowly, gradually, as the scenic British countryside rolled by on his sides.

***

Headmistress Office, Hogwarts Castle
Sunday, 24 April 2039, 2:05 PM
Supriya Patel

Professor Patel nodded, attempting to conceal the disappointment on her face as she heard the Headmistress's reply, bowing as she did, "Of course, Headmistress, I understand what you mean, ma'am, and will trust your experienced judgment when it comes to what approach would be most effective in calming down and reassuring the children. With your permission, ma'am, I would respectfully make one more request..." Professor Patel paused, inclining her head and straightening her back against her chair, "Would it be possible, perhaps, in your speech, to provide that reassurance in both directions, so that all of the Hogwarts students are reassured in this crisis, and all fears of harm that any students may be anxious about suffering because of these recent developments may be allayed, completely. What I mean by this is, well..." Professor Patel paused again, before adding in a more circumspect tone, "One of the advantages of the House system, Headmistress, is that Heads of Houses can bear in mind the specialised or unique problems confronting the students in their particular House, and the idiosyncratic challenges these differing demographic compositions may pose, from a pedagogical standpoint, and those concerns can be raised to the Headmaster or Headmistress from that unique and special vantage, and it would appear that this is one of those cases. As Heads of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff Houses, with many Muggle-born students proudly within their ranks, it is only natural and right that the Heads of those Houses raise their concerns about the fear that our Muggle-born students are likely to be feeling right now, because of this rather threatening note published in the Prophet this morning. As a House which, unfortunately, has comparatively not been graced with the wonderfully diverse and culturally enriching presence of these magical students of a unique and unorthodox upbringing such as these, the concerns which weigh most heavily on my mind, as Head of Slytherin House, are, naturally, focussed on a different set of our student body."

Professor Patel let out a heavy sigh, "Forgive me, Headmistress, I should be clearer, I apologise, I am attempting to put forward my worries with some degree of precision and tact. What I mean is, plainly, that I'm rather worried about the pure-blood students in our school at this time, especially the ones hailing from more distinguished ancestries and descents, the older and more prominent wizarding families, and with the overwhelming majority of those students being in my House, with some few exceptions, I feel a sense of concern and responsibility for their well-being, Headmistress, and naturally it is their treatment and their mental and emotional state which weighs most heavily on my mind at this time. I can't imagine what these children must be going through right now. Many of them will fear reprisals and retaliations from the student body, many of them will worry about suffering harassment on the basis of their immutable heritage and blood-status being weaponised against them by others in this school, as grounds for suspicion for being in this organisation, and as a basis to retaliate against them for whatever heinous acts or crimes this organisation has committed and may come to commit in the coming weeks. I would be very much in support, ma'am, of you providing to that segment of the student body adequate assurance and comfort that they will not suffer retaliation and reprisal on the basis of their blood-status and parentage, in light of recent events, and similar to the assurance and comfort which the Headmistress no doubt intends to afford to the Muggle-born students in our midst in her speech, that they will be protected from attacks by this organisation and its supporters on the basis of their blood-status, I think it would be most helpful if you provided that same assurance and comfort to the pure-blood students of our school, especially the ones hailing from some of the more esteemed and prestigious wizarding families, that they will likewise be protected from harassment and bullying on the basis of their blood-status as well. Would that perhaps be possible, Headmistress, if it's not too much of a bother, of course?"

[Meretica]

Headmistress's Office, Hogwarts Castle
Sunday, 24 April 2039, 2:05 PM
Sinestra narrowed her eyes at Professor Patel, some degree of anger rising in her belly as she noticed the very blatant, obviously intentional lack of mentioning the House of Ravenclaw. It made her face burn, though it was hardly noticeable; most assumed her to be a tense person as it was, and few knew how hot her temper could run, especially compared to Madam Pince. But her anger burned nonetheless because this was something she could easily take personally.

Sinestra knew nothing of her heritage. On the day she was born, she had been abandoned and then taken in by two American No-Majs (there were several terms that she had adopted the American word for, and this was one such word; Muggles seemed to make less sense). After a series of unfortunate events, she had found herself in Boston before she had been found by Apollo Cartington, a British wizard that took her in as his own. He had attempted to determine her heritage (as had she during her years at the Daily Prophet), but there was nothing to be found. There were bigots in Ravenclaw-- this Sinestra knew well, remembering at the Battle of Hogwarts how the Houses had not been so black and white...

The Battle of Hogwarts

Severus Snape hissed, “Now then… if anyone here has any knowledge of Mr. Potter’s movements this evening, I would like them to step forward… now.”

Sinestra stood beside the other Auror members, waiting for the signal from Kingsley to intervene. Like him and Lupin, her ear was against the door, taking in every word, every sound, waiting for the right moment to charge through the door and take the fight to the Death Eaters.

Footsteps sounded, and then gasps filled the Great Hall that they heard through the doors. Kingsley gave the signal and they pushed the door open just as Harry Potter began to speak. “It seems, despite your exhaustive defensive strategies, you still have a bit of a security problem, Headmaster.” Sinestra entered with the rest of the Order of the Phoenix, briefing locking eyes with Minerva McGonagall before turning her head to Harry. “How dare you stand where he stood?” Potter demanded. “Tell them how it happened that night– tell them how you looked him in the eye, a man who trusted you– and killed him? Tell them!”

Snape drew his wand and McGonagall leaped into action, moving in front of Harry as Sinestra and the rest of the Order raised their wands in answer. The students gasped again and quickly moved away from what was quickly turning into a potentially deadly duel. Snape faltered for a moment, but then kept his wand steady as McGonagall held her wand straight at him. A burst of flame rushed out of her wand, only to be defeated with a shield charm, followed by another, and another, and another. Two blasts of red light took down the Death Eaters standing at Snape’s side before he whisked away in a black cloud of mist, breaking through the window as he fled.

“COWARD!” McGonagall cried as the students cheered and the lights around the Great Hall were lit once more. The celebration did not last long, however, as the Hall dimmed again and Voldemort’s voice filled the room after several screams.

“I know that many of you will want to fight… some of you may even think that to fight is wise, but this is folly… Give me Harry Potter. Do this, and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave Hogwarts untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you will be rewarded. You have one hour.”

“What are you waiting for?” a Slytherin growled after a moment. “Someone grab him!”

Slowly, students, staff, and Order members alike began– Sinestra included– crowded Potter as a precaution when Filch suddenly appeared, crying, “Students out of bed! Students out of bed! Students in the corridor!”

“They are supposed to be out of bed, you blithering idiot!” McGonagall snapped.

“Oh. Sorry, ma’am,” the ancient caretaker said, holding his devilish cat close.

“As it so happens, Mr. Filch, your arrival is most opportune. If you would, I would like you to lead Ms. Parkinson and the rest of Slytherin House from the Hall.”

“Exactly where is it I’ll be leading them to, ma’am?”

“The dungeons would do,” McGonagall answered, which was followed by cheers– and a smile from Sinesta, who beamed at her former teacher. As Filch obeyed her, McGonagall and Potter approached each other, with Sinestra and others moving to be near them both. “I assume you have a reason for returning, Potter. What is it you need?”

“Time, Professor, as much as you can get me,” he hastily replied.

“Do what you have to do– I’ll secure the castle.” Just before he left, she added, “Potter? It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too, Professor.”

Sinestra smiled and moved to Professor McGonagall’s side. They locked eyes again for a moment before the Deputy Headmistress said, “It’s good to see you here as well, Sinestra.” Before the younger witch could reply, McGonagall whipped around and began issuing orders. “Students! Students, listen to me, please! Our evacuation shall be overseen by Firenze, Madam Hooch, and Madam Pomfrey. Prefects, when I give the word, you will organize your House and take your charges, in an orderly fashion, to the Room of Requirement. If you are of age, you may stay and fight. There is no time to collect possessions– the important thing is to get the younger students out of here safely.”

With that, McGonagall turned to Kingsley, Mr. Weasley, and Remus as Professors Slughorn, Sprout, and Flitwick hurried over. “Filius, you’ll follow me– you, too, Horace,” the Deputy Headmistress said. “Arthur, Kingsley, take Pomona and small groups up to the Astronomy Tower but send her group to Ravenclaw Tower. We’ll divide the defenders between the towers and the grounds. Arthur, have Fred and George find a few students to protect the passageways. Questions? No? Good– dismissed.”

Without anyone else being able to put in a word edgewise, McGonagall began to head towards the Great Hall’s entrance, little Flitwick and hefty Slughorn following behind her, the latter wearing his emerald green pajamas. Sinestra followed her, along with Molly Weasley and a few students. A few additional professors and older students followed while others rushed to their assigned positions.

Along the way, McGonagall briefly explained to them that the students– one named Neville Longbottom, the other named Seamus Finnegan– would be tasked with destroying the wooden bridge should the need arise.

“Let me get this straight, Professor,” Longbottom said as though he had been hit with the Confundus Charm, “you’re giving us permission to do this?”

“That is correct, Longbottom,” she answered as they hurried into the Courtyard.

“To blow it up? Boom?”

“Boom!”

“Wicked! How on earth are we gonna do that?”

“Why don’t you confer with Mr. Finnegan?” she answered. “As I recall, he has a particular proclivity for pyrotechnics.”

“I can bring it down,” the other student agreed.

“That’s the spirit, now away you go,” McGonagall said, withdrawing her wand. Sinestra lingered nearby, watching as Slughorn downed a bottle of Felix Felicis while Flitwick and Mrs. Weasley stayed with the Deputy Headmistress.

“You do realize, of course, that we can’t hold off You-Know-Who indefinitely?” the small teacher asked.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t delay him,” answered the feisty Gryffindor. “And his name is Voldemort, Filius, you might as well use it– he is going to try to kill you either way.” With Sinestra and the other two watching, McGonagall turned around, raised her wand, and uttered, “Piertotum Locomotor!”

Statues began to leap from the upper levels onto the floor of the castle, fully alive, raising their heads after they hit the ground kneeling. They then stood and began to assemble themselves, marching forward.

“Hogwarts is threatened!” McGonagall yelled. “Man the boundaries! Protect us! Do your duty to our school!” As Sinestra and Mrs. Weasley watched them march, practically stunned, the Deputy Headmistress giggled for the first time in Sinestra’s memory. “I’ve always wanted to use that spell!”

Sinestra shook her head and then raised her wand, remembering the many spells that Professors like Flitwick and her seven DADA teachers had taught her– and spells that Lupin and others had taught her since. “Protego Maxima,” she began before going down the list, adding to the already strong barriers that naturally protected the castle from attack. It was not five minutes after they finished, however, that streams of magic began to hit the shields placed around the castle, bombardments of Dark spells cast by Death Eaters some ways off. Sinestra moved closer to Professor McGonagall.

“Will this be the end?” she asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” the Scottish witch answered after a dreary moment, never looking away from the sky. “Do you expect we’ll survive the night? Your instincts were always right on in class.”

“I don’t know, either,” Sinestra answered. “But there’s hope. And even if we died tonight, there’s still hope that someone else will take up the battle cry– Apollo’s in America as we speak, consulting with some people he knows there. Maybe they’ll take on Voldemort. Maybe they’ll try to stop him from spreading elsewhere, or maybe they’ll defeat him completely… who’s to say? But one day, he will be defeated.”

McGonagall offered Sinestra a small, sad smile. “I pray that you’re right.” Together, they stood side by side and watched as a few small groups moved about the courtyard and Flitwick precautionarily cast a few extra spells to strengthen parts of the mighty barrier. After some time, however, a mighty flash of blue light struck out like a lightning bolt at the barrier, and it broke like a fishbowl, falling in on itself. Sinestra’s heart sank, praying that Harry Potter had found– well, whatever he was looking for.

Death Eaters flooded the ground like rats in a sewer, flying through the air or running as fast as they could onto the main grounds. Sinestra raised her wand and shouted “Protego Maxima!” well McGonagall ordered some of the stragglers inside as a precautionary measure.

“Get inside!” she cried. “Take cover!”

A Death Eater landed on the ground near them both and attempted to fire a spell at McGonagall. “Incarcerous,” Sinestra hissed before adding, “Petrificus Totalus!” With the Death Eater defeated, she moved to McGonagall’s side, placing a hand on the professor’s shoulder. “Follow your advice– get inside.”

McGonagall shook her head and recomposed herself, wand at the ready. She flicked her wand at a Death Eater flying through the air, a flash of red light chasing him around the sky until he fell off of his broomstick into the courtyard below. Meanwhile, Sinestra stood to McGonagall’s back, dueling a Death Eater she recognized as Falcon Strix, who had been the Head Boy her first year at Hogwarts– a die-hard Slytherin and pure-blood. Her eyes locked with his as they made battle, flashes of green, yellow, red, white, and blue dashing around them as they fought.

After they had gone back and forth for about a minute, a flash of red light struck Strix in the chest– not cast by McGonagall, but Matilda Sweetleaf, a Hufflepuff that had served as a Prefect years ago. “Never again, Falcon! Never again!” And thus Sinestra and Matilda rejoined the fray.

Stray calls of “Crucio” and “Avada Kedavra” could be heard in every direction as they– the defenders of Hogwarts and their enemies– made battle, a battle akin to none that had taken place since the days of Merlin when the Wizarding World was still free to move about and able to perform such feats without restraint. Light, shouts, and people covered Hogwarts like ants, each working to kill another whatever the cost, eager to take life rather than spare it. Sinestra was no exception as she and McGonagall fought side by side like Gryffindor’s lions against the serpents of Slytherin’s ancient House. The birds of Ravenclaw and badgers of Hufflepuff were in the fray as well. But that was an unfair statement, to say the least: some badgers, lions, and ravens betrayed their kind, while the serpents betrayed their own. Daniel Weaver, a Ravenclaw and former Auror, dueled his brother Clyde, a Slytherin resident of Hogsmeade that had fathered three Squibs. Slughorn made battle with Rodolphus Lestrange. Professors Sprout and Flitwick battled the Michaelson twins– one a Ravenclaw, the other a Slytherin– that had been known pure-blood supremacists during their school years. All of these and more Sinestra recognized as the Battle of Hogwarts waged on.

She did not know how long they had been fighting. An hour, maybe two, but already, Sinestra was beginning to feel exhausted. Her magic was not spent, but it was certainly waning as she, Sweetleaf, and Clyde Weaver attempted to restrain a giant that had made its way past the other defenders. “Expulso!” the three had screamed, attempting to bring it down, but it was to no avail. At last, fearing no other way was possible, Sinestra screeched, “Locomotor Wibbly!”

The giant’s legs began to shake, and suddenly it began to fall, legs collapsing as it wildly flailed its arms around. Wands held to the giant, the three worked together to use Sectumsempra on it repeatedly until it lay day in the courtyard. Each heaved a breath of relief before turning back to the fray. Sweetleaf and Clyde began to move back toward the castle as three acromantulas began to make their way through the defenders, but she stood her ground, face hardened as she cried, “Arania Exumai!” The spiders were hit with blue light, being blasted backward. She uttered another curse– “Reducto”– at each. But more came, forcing her to retreat alongside her allies.

As they made their way into the castle, the spiders followed. Sinestra briefly saw Kingsley dueling with a masked Death Eater while Flitwick battled Yaxley. Harry, Ron, and Hermione then whisked by, the latter sending a spell at Fenrir Greyback as he slumped over the body of a student. Before he could stand again, the crazed Professor Trelawney hurled a crystal ball at his head, and he did not move again.

“I have more!” the bugged-eyed woman shrieked. “More for any who want them! Here!” And like a tennis server, she sent them flying at Death Eaters and spiders alike, quickly using her wand to ensure they hit their marks. As more of the spiders made their way inside, defenders and attackers alike turned their wands upon them, screaming with horror at the sight of the beasts. Someone– Hagrid– was screaming “Don’t hurt’em, don’t hurt’em!” In reply, Harry shouted, “HAGRID, NO!” and “HAGRID, COME BACK!”

It was then that Sinestra turned again, Sweetleaf and Clyde at her side, to see the Dementors incoming. Sinestra steadied herself and raised her wand, thinking, thinking of something, something that had to be happy–

Dionysus. He wasn’t here. He was safe, elsewhere. And elsewhere was better than here.

And with that, she breathed, “Expecto patronum.” A silver phoenix erupted from the end of her wand just as a terrier, a hare, and a boar did the same for others. A stag, an otter, and a terrier soon joined them, followed by a lynx, a goat, and several Patronuses that took no full form. The Dementors began to flee, repelled by a few happy thoughts amid all the gloom. But it was not to last: a red jet of light hit Sinestra’s head, and she heard and saw no more.

***

When she awoke, McGonagall was sitting beside her, holding her hand. “Oh, thank Merlin!” the old professor choked, holding back tears. She glanced up and added, “She’s alright. Sinestra’s alright.” McGonagall smiled down at Sinestra and after a moment, the tears freely flowed. “One more survivor– that’s all we can ask for is just one more.”

Sinestra weakly blinked up at the witch. “My… my friends… Matilda… Clyde?”

“I’m here,” Matilda said gently. Sinestra turned to see the witch was on her other side. “I’m a bit bruised, but I’m okay. I’m alive.” Sinestra turned back to the Deputy Headmistress. She was no longer smiling, and that was all Sinestra needed to know. “Bellatrix– Killing Curse. It was quick and painless, Sinny.”

Sinestra held back her grief long enough to ask, “What about Voldemort? Did we win?”

“It’s– not over yet,” McGonagall answered uncertainly. “He gave us an armistice lasting an hour unless Potter turned himself in… it’s nearly dawn… I fear the worst…” The old professor trailed off, unable to bring more words to life.

And thus, it was left to Matilda Sweetleaf to tell of the rest of the battle– how Kingsley had helped her bring Sinestra into the Great Hall and then returned to the fray. So many they knew had family, and much more they did not, Death Eater and Hogwartian alike. Remus Lupin, the man that had led her to join the Order, had been killed by Antonin Dolohov; she would be sure to take her revenge if she came across him. Likewise, his wife, Tonks, had been killed by her aunt Bellatrix. Tonks had not been a close friend, but they had always been kind to one another and enjoyed each other’s company. Madam Pince had been badly injured, as had Madam Malkin; worst of all, Amos Hammond, who had been Sinestra’s Prefect during her early years at Hogwarts, had been killed by Pius Thicknesse in the fighting and then decapitated for sport. Hammond had been a well-known Muggleborn but a talented student nonetheless.

It was in their honor– Remus, Tonks, Amos, Clyde, and all the others– that Sinestra urged herself to stand, weary as she was, and pull herself together. The tears were still flowing down her face as she took a deep breath, hugged McGonagall and Matilda, and then took to caring for the wounded as well. She did what she could, offering to heal wounds that others could not or summoning food and drink for those that had not yet had any. It was not until it was very plainly morning that they did anything else, for then a student warned them that the Death Eaters were returning.

Sinestra’s face hardened as she held her wand at the ready, but McGonagall stayed her anger. “Let’s see if they will say anything first,” the Deputy Headmistress said. “If not, we will fight; we will fight, and we will die where we stand. And the annals of history will remember us for it.”

Sinestra nodded and gave the older professor one last hug before she, Kingsley, and Mr. Weasley at her side, led the survivors outside. Sinestra recognized an injured student from the night before, Neville Longbottom, as one of the few left standing in the courtyard as Voldemort led his forces across the bridge onto the grounds. Hagrid held a figure in his arms, and Sinestra felt her heart drop as she– along with all present– began to realize one by one who Hagrid carried.

“NO!”

The first wail belonged to Minerva McGonagall– whose tears sprang to life once more, despite fearing the worst, expecting the worst to be true. Sinestra had never dreamed that she could ever utter such a sound, but some echoed it across the courtyard. Sinestra kept her silence, try as she might, waiting to see what would happen next.

“Silence!” Voldemort hissed at them. A bang followed by a flash of bright white light came from his wand, and they were all silenced. “It is over! Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet where he belongs!” Hagrid obeyed, great teardrops streaming through his beard onto his limp body of Harry. “You see? Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!”

“He beat you!” Ron Weasley yelled, breaking the charm Voldemort had cast. Sinestra joined in their shouts of denial, of disapproval now, but a second, more powerful bang silenced them. Sinestra realized now that they had not been frightened by the silence, but had been forced to be silent– and they were all trying to get through.

“He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds,” the Dark Lord continued, eager to lie– for Sinestra could tell it as a lie; as a rule, she did not trust snakes. “Killed while trying to save himself–” But Voldemort was silent again as Longbottom charged at Voldemort before disarming him, using magic to throw him to the ground. “And who is this? Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?”

“It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord!” Bellatrix Lestrange cackled delightedly. “The boy who has given the Carrows so much trouble! The son of the Aurors, remember?”

“Ah, yes, I remember,” Voldemort said, almost thoughtfully. Almost. “But you are pureblood, aren’t you, my brave boy?”

“So what if I am?” Neville spat back.

“You show spirit and bravery, and you come of noble stock. You will make a valuable Death Eater. We need your kind, Neville Longbottom.”

“I’ll join you when hell freezes over!” Neville answered. “Dumbledore’s Army!” The charm broke again, and all of them, Sinestra, Professor Flitwick, McGonagall, Filch, the students– all of them were cheering on Neville’s behalf.

“Very well,” Voldemort hissed. “If that is your choice, Longbottom, we revert to the original plan. On your head… so be it.” With horror in her heart, Sinestra watched as the Sorting Hat, looking like a misshapen bird, flew out of a window of the castle and landed in Voldemort’s hand. “There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts. The emblem, shield, and colors of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone. Won’t they, Neville Longbottom?”

Neville grew rigid and stiff as the Dark Lord spoke. He placed the hat on Neville’s head. Sinestra and a few others raised their wands and began to move forward, but all stopped when Voldemort and his Death Eaters did the same.

“Neville here is going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to oppose me,” Voldemort said, setting the hat ablaze– leading many things to happen at once.

First, a giant appeared, giving a battle cry of “HAGGER!” He fought the remaining two giants that stood with the Dark Lord, joined by a pack of centaurs that seemed to be following him. Meanwhile, Harry stood up and covered himself with a cloak before promptly disappearing into thin air. Neville broke free of the curse, tore the hat off his head, withdrew a silver sword within it, and killed the giant snake at Voldemort’s side. Hagrid began yelling about where Harry was, desperate to find the Boy Who Lived– nay, the Man that Could Not Die! Hope renewed in Sinestra’s heart, fire entering her veins once more as thestrals led by a Hippogriff thundered through the sky to aid the smaller giant attacking the larger pair. At once, a battle cry erupted from her lungs. But she was not able to charge forward, instead of being pulled back by McGonagall and Matilda into the Great Hall.

It was here that another Weasley, Charlie, appeared with aged Professor Slughorn. They had appeared in the halls, fresh faces following them, as though every witch and wizard in Britain that still opposed Voldemort was there to end the Second Wizarding War once and for all. The Honeydukes were there, and Madam Rosmerta, and more. The centaurs galloped into the castle with a clatter of hooves, while an arming of house-elves entered from another passage, led by an ancient, gangly, dropping one with a long bent nose, beating his chest like a gorilla as a locket dangled from his chest.

Sinestra was suddenly released as she was separated from her two friends, but that was fine– her hope was renewed, her faith in victory was restored– they again had a chance to win the battle and finish the war once and for all. She leaped into action, throwing away her morals for the first time in her life, dueling to kill and only to kill. She faced Dolohov first, locking eyes with him, deciding very quickly that he would be her prey– but then he was joined by Avery, and then Macnair. Three on one. A similar scene was forming one the other end of the Great Hall as McGonagall– to Sinestra’s horror– began to duel Voldemort, though not alone. Kingsley and Slughorn were at her side. Meanwhile, three students– Hermione Granger, Ginny Weasley, and a blonde-haired girl in Ravenclaw robes– began to fight Bellatrix Lestrange.

Sinestra steadied herself where she stood as onlookers began to gather around. She could take them, she knew it, and it was proved as they each shot a spell at her but were unable to break her Shield Charm. She fired back at each before slicing through the air to knock down Dolohov if she could. Their duel was interrupted when Hagrid appeared, charging Macnair and throwing him across the hall. So much for three on one. At least two were easier to handle.

“Expulso!” Sinestra hissed, resulting in Dolohov being flung back into the wall. She turned on Avery, casting Sectumsempra at him and then repeating it at Dolohov, ending them once and for all. The onlookers cheered (well, some booed) and then turned to watch as Molly Weasley very suddenly finished off Bellatrix.

Voldemort unleashed a cry and sent his enemies flying back. McGonagall landed on her back, and Sinestra rushed to her aid immediately, not paying attention to the Dark Lord any longer.

“He’s alive, Sinestra,” the Deputy Headmistress weakly groaned. “Harry’s alive.”

“Shh, it’s alright… I saw him, Professor, I saw him… How are you feeling?”

“I dueled Voldemort and survived,” she wheezed. “I feel younger than I have in years.”

Cheers sounded behind me, and we both moved to see what had happened, and tears of joy began to stream down my face at the sight of Voldemort dead.

Sinestra shook the memory from her mind and then began to speak once more.

"We cannot pretend that bigotry is limited to any House. Each House has its share of the blame to take on. We must work, all of us, to oppose this bigotry. I propose that we allow staff to take a minimum of, say, twenty points away from any student found to be actively discriminating against someone based on their blood status. It won't be perfect, but it will stop many students from experiencing such things." She paused for a moment and then added, "I have been discriminated against-- not because of my blood status, but my lack thereof. Others in this room have been fortunate enough not to deal with such things. But the fact remains that we can stop such things early, and we should. I personally would not force that on any professor or staff member, but I personally will adopt the system."

[South Olpen]

Headmistress' Office, Hogwarts Castle
"I agree with SInestra, but she is not going far enough," he said, quite upset he couldn't send Order members away. "House points mean, ultimately, nothing, and many students, about 50 percent of the body know this. They are punishment true, but 5th, 6th, and 7thyears, at least, know this. We need real punitive action to prevent blood bias. I say detention on the first offense, with, suspension of Hogsmeade on the second, and perhaps in-school suspension with any more," he paused. "These are still minor punishments in what will, likely, become a conflict, but they are punitive, and students are much less likely to act this way if there are real, non-symbolic punishments put on them," he paused, thinking of Patel's, frankly, dumb statement. He ignored Patel's statement, not giving it light.

Prefects Carriage
Like Marcellus, Andromeda too should have feared she had unscrewed her eyes from the number of roles they did. She did not know, of course, the true nature of Dominique's crimes, but had an impression he was inducted into the order, if not the manner of the ceremony. She had her simple pleasure, though, of seeing a clearly nervous, downright terrified Dominque snivel himself to the bathroom.

She left the Prefects Carriage and found the Trolley Witch, buying Sugar Mice from her. While exchanging her nuts, she considered the discussion of memories. She knew there must be something dark, but she still had not imagined the sniveling, crying boy who continues saying Mummy in public would ever have had the capability to commit multiple Unforgivable Curses.

[Meretica]

Headmistress's Office, Hogwarts Castle
"I disagree," Sinestra stated very plainly. "That would only invite trouble. Younger students care about their points. Reformism and rehabilitation are the only true ways to bring about change. Punitive action invites reaction. However, as I said, each staff member ought to have their own way of doing things rather than a standardized system."

[CoraSpia]

Headmistresses Office

Mcmoran listened very patiently to both Supriya and Sinestra speak, before deciding to put his own ore in.
"So let me tell you a story, and it might interest you Sinestra because it's about your own students," he began, "And I bet that unless one of you gets a case of the walkies on some lonely Saturday night you've never heard a thing about it.
So I tend to be on duty patrolling the corridors on Saturdays, no classes the next day and as long as our dear headmistress," he grinned at Ollivander, "Thinks we still need someone wandering the halls every night then it's the best one, so I snag it 6 months in advance. Ravenclaw tower is always one of the quieter parts of the castle, those kids are usually the most studious and so...I imagine you'd all agree from your own patrols...we don't really see much trouble with students out of bed at ungodly hours. Well...nor did I, before this year; before the current crop of seventh years got their apparition lessons."
He retrieved a slim little cigarillo from a case in the pockets of his robes and began to smoke it, flicks of his wand sending the smoke in areas that wouldn't trouble any of the rest of the people in the room. His craggy old face became more relaxed as he did, and he continued his tale in a somewhat more jovial voice.
"Since then, I've been seeing a strange thing happening in the entrance to Ravenclaw tower. Every night, as sure as clockwork, we get the scrawny bod of Marlon Tarrick rushing around the corner in his muggle clothes, rucksack clinking like it's full of glass bottles...which obviously we all know it is. Having a noisy bag isn't really a crime, it's not something I can search a student for is it? You might disagree Supriya and call me an old fool who doesn't care about discipline, god knows I know you think it.
But Marlon Tarrick gives me this cheeky little grin, answers the question on the first go and marches upstairs with whatever's in his bag."
"Is there a reason for this riveting tale, Donald?" Ollivander looked less than patient at the long monologue, her eyes for the first time flitting to her clock. "We should really be making plans to welc…"
"Just hold on a few more moments Martina," Donald cut across her without any fear that she'd really do much about it. "Anyway; there aren't any idiots in this room and I imagine that Sinestra now knows why a lot of her sixth and seventh years are not their usual cheery selves on Sundays. Marlon goes out with his large amount of muggle money from rich muggle daddy, buys a load of alcohol and funds the weekly ravenclaw Saturday funtimes; and since I've never caught him doing the act of buying it or sneaking out myself there's nothing I can do.
That's the point here. I'm not going to go around punishing students for things I don't know they've done, or things that quite frankly I'm not sure are even against the rules.
Sinestra, though I accept what you're saying, if every Saturday night I removed points from your house because of what your students like to get up to, would you be happy with me? I imagine not...we've all been to Hogwarts, we all know what pride our students take from winning the house cup. Even I..."
At this point he grinned, removing a picture of a grinning Hufflepuff girl snatching the snitch from just below Marlon Tarrick's grasping hand. "...I am very happy when my house achieves something.
Instead I second Professor Misks' suggestion. We need an individual response to an individual crime. And no...no the revolving door to my office with detention slips won't be a successful one if the reason for detention was attacks on muggle-born students.
Students enjoy their lunch breaks, their free time, their Hogsmeade breaks. Take them away and it becomes very clear to them that we don't plan on tolerating this kind of behaviour."

"Thank you Donald," Martina tried again to wrestle control of the meeting back from the stream of Scottish-accented English. "If that is all..."
"You know it's not!" he replied, "Good god Martina you know me now well enough, if it was all I'd have shut up already. Supriya...I really do understand your concerns, I get them. The only problem is, and I'm really sorry yes so, so sorry if you can't understand thedifference...but usually we find that, you know, attacks by muggle-born students are pretty rare. Odd I know, the gangs of snooty purebloods we get roaming the corridors suffer so few violent attacks; in fact, if you can believe it, they commit more than they face! Fucking amazing, so strange, I can't think why it happens.
So no, I'm not going to be warning my students to protect the poor slytherins, and I'm again reminded to wonder why on earth we still reserve a house in this school for students who the collective wisdom of the founders think might be evil. Handy for segregation purposes I guess, but anyway...when the alliance starts killing people in their homes, come back to me okay?"

Martina had finally had enough and clapped her hands for silence.
"Donald please!" she shouted, "We don't need to start an argument here. I think we can all agree that violence at Hogwarts, whether it's political in nature or not, is unacceptable. When I warn the students I will make no mention of the sort of violence I don't want to see, but remind everyone in no uncertain terms that violence of all forms is unacceptable. It is however not our place to police speech and so..."
"You're going to let these wanabe death eaters shout their murderous rubbish all over the castle?" Mcmoran snapped.
"And so," Martina continued like she'd not heard him, "I will not be asking you to police what students say to each other. By all means, feel free to look out for conspiracies if you want...I couldn't stop you Donald since you see them several times a week...but when it comes to a few students chatting in a common room, I'm not docking points for that. Does anyone have any more questions?"

[Dogutrakya]

Joseph A. Stuyvesant
Hogwarts Express, somwehere in the English countryside

---

Joseph watched the scene unfold with great interest. Marcellus and Dominique obviously had bery bad history, though whatever event that could have transpired behind the scenes, in their private lives, he could little imagine. The power plays and intrigues of Britain's wizarding upper class were always so confusing for him, although circumstances had him to study this society, and participate when he was required. After all, good business needs good connections. The American drive to seek greener pastures, trade, and compete was not lost on his father, and as a dutiful heir he was expected to follow. He did not like that term, though. British society was much more rigid than their home back in the Ozarks. No snobby upper-class lords and ladies that seemed to despise anyone that is not their family, and honestly, Joseph saw the great debate on blood purity as nothing more than folly. Different cultures, he thought, in America there was no difference between Muggle - No-Maj born, or wizards from the time of Twelve Aurors. Even Ilvermorny's founders consisted of a No-Maj.

Dominique was now withdrawn, his expressions seemed to Joseph a mix of anxiety, horror, and anger. Silently, he followed the other boy as he made his way through the carriage. Hella weird, he pondered. "Thought these Slytherins are all of a kind. Snobby assholes, the bunch of them. What could Marcellus had ever done?

"Morning," he greeted Dominique. Joseph expected a startled response, so he tried to approach him as gently as he can. "Honeydukes, eh? Always a good partner on the road." Sitting on the couch, Joseph pulled out a bar of chocolate from his sleeve. He had before applied Glacius towards the item. "Back in the 'states there was this Muggle company who made very good sweets," he said. "It's called Mars. Here, Milky Way, it's the brand. Wizards found out about the thing, think it tasted damn good, and thought, 'we oughta make our own version of this'. So they portkeyed to the company's headquarters, stole all the important documents, and made their own factory." He smiled. "Fuckin' smart, the lot of 'em. And the guys that did that weren't even No-Majs- sorry, Muggles, or muggle-borns." He opened the bar. "Or, you know, the other term I heard y'all Slytherins like to say..."

It's probably discomforting. "Ha, I'm just joking. Don't think too much about it," he continued. "Speaking of which, the briefing. There must be... significant suspections by now, if Marcellus were to proclaim there's clearly an Order member lurking in the school." Joseph spoke calmly, watching Dominique's expression with every word. "He's really fixin' to uncover an impostor," he continued. "Though, the suggestion of a pensieve? That's a drastic move, without proper evidence first, or somethin' real terrible happening..."

[Arlye Austros]

Rutherford Conyer-Fawley

He continued to sip though the coffee on that degradable plastic cup as his eyes fell upon the text he held with his spare hand. Rutherford didn’t seem to mind holding a hot cup and his luggage in one hand, causing his fingers to grasp them both in a rather uncomfortable position.

He loved muggle coffee, despite his predilection for “Giant Brew” tea. He liked breaking the monotony every now and then, and so he spent half an hour in a line, waiting for his turn in a coffee shop in Aberdeen. Absolutely worth it. He read in the meantime the letter that Thomas sent him that morning. One front of text, but he spent the entire afternoon reading it as he passed through some villages on his way to the Hogwarts Grounds.

Thomas seemed worried about his son. And given what he narrated, it was warranted. He halted somewhere not too far from the Great Lake, and sat on a log to quickly write on the back of the piece of paper that his friend’s husband had sent him. After a while he finished, and folded it several times before putting the letter in his pocket. He would send it later.

But now… Hogwarts. The castle was in front of him, and he imagined his tardiness was going to be noted by the Headmistress. Better to speed up the pace.

Soon the man was going up the stairs and breaching into the castle itself, sipping through the cold coffee. Rutherford stopped before the Great Hall. He saw some elves running between the tables, but barely letting themselves to be visible to him. What was the best way to go? He made up his mind and took a path towards the left. After a few minutes he was in front of the Eagle that marked the seldom-visited Headmaster’s office. No doubt many had already arrived.

James

His brother was more somber than usual. Was he still thinking about last night? James paid him a last look back before heading into the restroom with his luggage and get changed. They had spent the first tract of the rail to Hogwarts talking. Well. He talked. Frank was quite and listening. After his elder brother got changed he decided to do the same and move about to find his friends.

“Do you think I could get a notice of this year’s application to the team?” He asked with a smile. Frank seemed to break his eye contact with something in the distance across the hall.
“Huh? What?”
“When do you think they will do try-outs?”
“Oh!” He scratched his head. “Sure… Huh. I believe next week, at least. But I will let you know.”

There wasn’t much to say, really. He just gave him a last look and closed the door, then headed to the nearest restroom and waited for it to be freed.
Having the Hogwarts uniform on again was strange. A reminder time was moving. Like the train. Strange. When he got out he noticed Frank looking into the same spot across the hallway between the curtains. James realized he was looking into the prefect’s compartment. What was he thinking? But his brother noticed him and the curtains shut almost immediately.

He walked across the train, pulling his luggage and looking into every carriage for his Gryffindor friends. Harry wasn’t anywhere to be seen. The boy was the easiest to spot amongst the group, with a Weasley-worthy hair. But he was starting to get frustrated thinking he should have gone the other way from his and Frank’s compartment.

James came across an odd vision through the window to one carriage. There was a one-eyed… being. Child. He couldn’t quite describe it. Except it gave him the creeps and made him gasp aloud. And it was pouring tea for other two who seemed to talk. When he recoiled back he made a small commotion by stepping in the way a couple of Ravenclaw girls who protested. And he apologized in a nervous chuckle.
“Sorry… there is a…”
“Yes. But we are here. Mind it, Longbottom!”

[Purgatio]

West Tower, Hogwarts Castle
Sunday, 24 April 2039, 2:05 PM
Supriya Patel

Professor Patel had made it a habit of tuning out Professor McMoran's lengthy rants, or letting it wash over her - not a difficult task, his extremely strong Scottish accent made much of what he said rather incomprehensible unless she put in very active effort, having grown up in Central London all her life meant that Supriya was rather ill-equipped to readily understand any British accents stemming from the Midlands or even further north from that region, and the more north the more incomprehensible in her experience - but the man's quirky demeanour and peculiarly aggressive way of talking to everyone (including the Headmistress) always managed to involuntarily wrest her attention back to him. She heard his rant about how Ravenclaw students drink alcohol on the regular (not surprising, since these students could not hold their liquer or conceal a hangover in class in the least bit, and ever-the-disciplinarian, she would have done something by now if not for the Headmistress's naïve rule about students getting to 'appeal' their punishments to another teacher coupled with Donald's handy habit of leniently erasing student's detentions even for major reasons, which made for a terrible combination), then restrained herself from rolling her eyes when he spoke so dismissively about the risk of Slytherin students or pure-blood students from prominent families facing any harassment or disturbance for their parentage or heritage (when she knew for a fact, of course, that Professor McMoran and his loyal little acolytes in the school were more than guilty of precisely that), before he ended his extremely lengthy rant saying he agreed with individual punishments for individual crimes, a message Supriya agreed with but she could not help but find this particular messenger more than a little ironic, of course.

Professor Patel was finally grateful for the Headmistress's interruption - if not for her no doubt they'd be here for hours listening to Donald go on and on about whatever concern or matter bothered him so - and as she heard her reply, a genuine smile spread on her face as she nodded gratefully in turn. It was not 100% what Professor Patel had recommended, but under the circumstances it was undoubtedly the best she was going to get, a firm commitment to free speech which would go a long way to protect her students from the type of harsh retaliation they might face for some of the more, ahem, politically incorrect remarks some of them are far too eager to make in the hallways at other students, "This is an academic institution, Professor McMoran, how could you believe it is acceptable to stifle free speech, or the ability of our students to express their conscientious views on current events, with spirit and vigour? Should we not be encouraging precisely that diversity of opinion in our student body?" She shot Donald a quick look, before turning to the Headmistress, nodding genially and gratefully, "I think the Headmistress has exactly the right idea, all violence, political or non-political, targeted against whatsoever group, is abhorrent and needs to be condemned and punished, whereas speech, especially speech on recent social and political issues, is the catalyst for critical thinking, and needs to be as free and unrestricted as possible so our students can feel free to formulate their views and learn from one another. I can't speak for my colleagues, Headmistress, but certainly I have no further questions on my end, and I do think this is a rather wise approach for our school to take."

***

Students' Carriages, Hogwarts Express
Sunday, 24 April 2039, 11:45 AM
Dominique Jean Rosier

Dominique was rather lost in his thoughts when he heard a morning greeting from somewhere to his left, which captured his attention immediately, as he turned to face a boy who looked to be around his age, whom he recognised as one of the Gryffindor prefects who had been in the prefects' carriage earlier, when his 'argument' with Marcellus unfolded earlier. At this, he could not help but feel a little abashed, it was a little embarassing to speak to someone he knew for a fact had witnessed the earlier interaction, but he cleared his throat and forced a friendly smile, because inwardly he appreciated the boy coming over to check on him and it certainly was not his fault that Dominique felt embarassed over the earlier occasion, "Morning, yes, honeydukes, it's always been my favourite snack to get on here, or a sweet treat to grab on Hogsmeade weekends. You mentioned 'the States', ah I see, so that would mean your family is from America, that's rather interesting, yes I suppose the entrepreneurial spirit is rather more alive in our American cousins these days, although don't quote me on that, if I ever dared whisper such a thing during one of mummy's soireés her friends would no doubt be scandalised. I'm glad it tastes good - " Dominique gestured at the Milky Way bar in the boy's hands, "And rather impressive a feat too, considering its of Muggle origin, how curious that is."

Dominique then decided to address Joseph's later remarks, his tone getting more serious, more contemplative, "I am sorry you had to see that rather...undignified and unbecoming verbal tussle between Marcellus and myself, earlier. Truthfully, the two of us, we don't exactly have the best personal history...we used to be rather close, actually, I'd see him around at the different parties and dinners mummy and daddy liked to drag us all to, but after a while, we sort of had a rather serious falling-out between us, and ever since then, well, things have been more than a little bit awkward between us. I suppose I should be used to him going after me like this by now, he's done it for years because of our, well, our personal issues in our past which I shall not bore you with, but sometimes, he really knows how to upset me and get under my skin using personal matters, things from our history which he likes to dreg up even in company, and, well, I sort of lost myself back there. I apologise, of course. I really could have comported myself better and kept my emotions under better control."

Dominique waved off the idea, then extended his hand to the new boy, "Anyways, I don't believe we've been introduced to each other before. I'm Dominique. Dominique Rosier. And how might I address you in future?"

[Meretica]

Sinestra Hopkins-Jones

Sinestra's eyes flashed at Misks, McMoran, Patel, and finally at the Headmistress. Deciding that the fight she so desperately wanted to put up was not with it, she took in a deep breath and calmed her mind. Sinestra then tightened her grip on her cane, the one relic indicating her true age, aside from her slowly graying smoky hair. Her sea grey eyes flicked around the room, momentarily lingering on the empty portrait of Professor McGonagall and the also-empty portrait of Dexter Fortescue, who had been Headmaster 150 years ago, give or take a decade or so. Neither of them was there to give her the advice that she sought and though her eyes flicked momentarily to the portrait of haughty Rowena Ravenclaw, she turned her head away from the founder of her House. Only once before had she sought advice from the woman, and never would she do so again.

"I shall make for the Great Hall," she suddenly said in a very decisive manner. "Our students will be awaiting us very soon. I shall see you all at supper."

And with that, she exited alone, marching carefully down the spiral staircase and into the halls and passageways of Hogwarts. As she entered the Great Hall, she paused momentarily at the door, smiling at a small dent that had never been quite fixed-- a dent made by the body of one Antonin Dolohov. With that thought in her head, she made her way to the front of the Hall and took her seat to the far left, nearest to the door behind the dais. That was always her place; often, she liked to slip away early after eating enough to stay alive, slinking back to her precious library and its vast shelves of knowledge. She likely wouldn't tonight as it was only the first night back, but it would definitely begin again after breakfast-- unless, of course, a student smuggled food to her and placed it in front of her. That was one thing she had changed she had never told Madam Pince: food and drink were allowed in the library, so long as students cleaned their messes. It had been a popular decision among students and staff alike, and many a Ravenclaw had been reminded that they needed to eat thanks to good friends bringing them snacks from the kitchens or Great Hall at mealtimes.

Amos Fleming

Amos sat alone in a compartment, as was his custom whenever he returned to Hogwarts. Always, he was surrounded by more books than was healthy for anyone to have-- not at all helped with the enchanted trunk that his mother had given him for his eleventh birthday. The trunk had been enchanted with an Extension Charm and a seriously powerful one at that. It was his favorite spell and one that he had learned secretly and privately as the Ministry was strict in how it handled the spell. Regardless, it was worth it to him.

He held a copy of Hogwarts: A History Revised, which had been written by Diana Lee Cartington. He had, unlike so many others, worked out that the true author was the Hogwarts librarian, Sinestra Hopkins-Jones. He had recognized that in Roman mythology, the sister to Apollo was "Diana" and that "Cartington" had been the name of her adopted father. It was hardly difficult to put that together, and she had been honest with him when he asked. He had been less fond of The Esterton Chronicles, a collection of short stories about an American Squib family during the Grindelwald era, but her skill with the pen was nonetheless obvious, even if it was not common knowledge or widely shared. Likewise, he knew that her skill with speaking those words was also not to be questioned, remembering how harsh-tongued she could be one moment before being positively cheery the next. If nothing else, she was a master of self-control.

Amos turned the page and paused as he reached the Battle of Hogwarts, already knowing that he was reaching the climax of the school's history. He had, of course, rooted for Harry Potter and growing up (and still did) despite his beliefs regarding blood; most, however, found that to be extremely confusing. But others understood. A few knew that he liked the ideology (mostly), not the methods or actions by which the Dark Lord attempted to achieve that ideology. Had he-- for example-- been elected Minister of Magic and convinced the Wizarding World he was correct, he could've gone on to do great things in a very different manner. But it was no matter: the Dark Lord was gone, and he had been replaced by the Order. He sympathized with them. He understood what they were doing and why. But he very firmly believed they were going about it the wrong way, leading him to believe that they were either led by a Slytherin that was attempting to follow in the Dark Lord's footsteps or an unintelligent Ravenclaw. Either was unacceptable.

[Danceria]

Rutherford Conyer-Fawley
James

His brother was more somber than usual. Was he still thinking about last night? James paid him a last look back before heading into the restroom with his luggage and get changed. They had spent the first tract of the rail to Hogwarts talking. Well. He talked. Frank was quite and listening. After his elder brother got changed he decided to do the same and move about to find his friends.

“Do you think I could get a notice of this year’s application to the team?” He asked with a smile. Frank seemed to break his eye contact with something in the distance across the hall.
“Huh? What?”
“When do you think they will do try-outs?”
“Oh!” He scratched his head. “Sure… Huh. I believe next week, at least. But I will let you know.”

There wasn’t much to say, really. He just gave him a last look and closed the door, then headed to the nearest restroom and waited for it to be freed.
Having the Hogwarts uniform on again was strange. A reminder time was moving. Like the train. Strange. When he got out he noticed Frank looking into the same spot across the hallway between the curtains. James realized he was looking into the prefect’s compartment. What was he thinking? But his brother noticed him and the curtains shut almost immediately.

He walked across the train, pulling his luggage and looking into every carriage for his Gryffindor friends. Harry wasn’t anywhere to be seen. The boy was the easiest to spot amongst the group, with a Weasley-worthy hair. But he was starting to get frustrated thinking he should have gone the other way from his and Frank’s compartment.

James came across an odd vision through the window to one carriage. There was a one-eyed… being. Child. He couldn’t quite describe it. Except it gave him the creeps and made him gasp aloud. And it was pouring tea for other two who seemed to talk. When he recoiled back he made a small commotion by stepping in the way a couple of Ravenclaw girls who protested. And he apologized in a nervous chuckle.
“Sorry… there is a…”
“Yes. But we are here. Mind it, Longbottom!”

The conversation had been interrupted-firstly by Ranjit jumping nearly out of his skin, which caused Osahiro to jump, which in turn caused the monocular midget to sigh, open the door, and reveal the rather humorous situation. After a brief pause and a chuckle, Osahiro turned to the portly young Slytherin. "Just something to think about." He would answer to the young Slytherin. "If ever you need job at the papers, don't hesitate to call."
"I'll think about it." Came the response from Ranjit, before an exchange of "Until we meet again", and a far more subdued "excuse me's" and squeezing past both the Ravenclaw girls and the Longbottom. Speaking of, the thing that had startled the newcomer was in full display-complete with the reactions from the Ravenclaw girls-or lack thereof, not that Chata-tan cared one whit either way.

Osahiro meekly asked. "Are...are you lost, or are we in your spot?"

[South Olpen]

Andromeda Edwards
Compartment 19, Hogwarts Express, English Countryside

---

Andromeda thought. She took in the velvet couches, dotted with deep red dots. She looked to her left-hand side, examining the quickly moving countryside of Great Britain, awaiting her arrival at the magnificent castle known as Hogwarts. She thought and thought, considering her possible actions or inactions. When she had made up her mind, she would stand up, letting her magnificent silk robes as dark and black as the grim flow around her as she searched for her brown, dragon engraved wand.
She pointed her wand, upright with its black ivory handle visible, and put it to the lower part of her white, unblemished chin. She recited the bravery charm, as she knew her window of opportunity, where her crush, Quinn Adamshawl, would be available, and before she would have second thoughts. As she completed the incantation, she lost her thoughts of fear and worry, being replaced with readiness and a truck-load of adrenaline.
She worked through the compartment with beautiful haste. She began turning heads of the students, wondering where and to who she is marching through the oak-divided windows. She continued dashing, slowing only to see the carriage numbers on brass plates until she finally saw her Quinn. The brown-haired, grey-eyed, freckled boy through the oak dividers. She, still rushing with adrenaline and now on her instincts, opened the door, revealing the compartment with Quinn, his brother, and his friend.
"Hey," she said to Quinn, before acknowledging the other two with polite nods. "Could you two give us a moment, please?" she asked. Although it was impossible that a charm of that strength could be wearing off so quickly, she was beginning to feel her nerves crumple to ask as she got closer to the task at hand. As the other two filed out, certainly holding in their snickers and giggles by only a hair, she knew she would sprint away from the carriage if she didn't blurt out her question this instant. "I... I love you, Quinn," she said, tearing up nearly.
"Yeah. I love you too," he said awkwardly, knowing the true meaning of her question, but forcing his mind to transfigure it into a friendly love. Although Andromeda's face lit up, her mind too quickly understood from Quinn's tone his meaning by responding. Adamshawl's eyes danced around the compartment, from chocolate frog cards to labels on packages as he avoided eye contact with the quickly misting up Andromeda Edwards.
"No, you don't understand. I love you, I want to be with you forever," she said, regaining her outer composure while contemplating if Aveda Kedavra a be used on oneself on the inside. "I love you, Quinn Middleton Adamshawl. I love you," she said, once again tearing up as she waited for what felt like decades for him to respond.
"I... I don't think I like you like that," he said, reproachfully, almost as sad as Andromeda in front of him. "I wish I did, but I can't. I'm sorry. If you want to Obliviate me so we can stay friends, you can, I guess," he said, fully hoping she would and that the Ravenclaw and the Slytherin could once again be platonic best friends. But more than that, he wished he did love her because he did, but he couldn't honestly say it was the same attraction.
"No, no that's okay. But, I do love you, Quinn. I'm always here," she said, fully crying at this point as she gazed into the eyes of the boy in front of her. She wanted to use the Obliviate charm as well, but she couldn't bear herself to harm her love in any way. Her next thought was a love potion, but even at her most desperate point couldn't bring herself to force a false love.
Andromeda left, quietly crying, walking mournfully and slowly away from her former friend. The depressing velvet of the walls did nothing to aid her worries as she walked back to her still empty compartment. The dark-oak floor molding going up to her waist was dragging upon her as she no longer had the effort to center herself in the middle. She reached her compartment, still in tears. She sat down for a good while, letting her thoughts get the better of her staring into nothingness. When she was eventually emotionally stabilized, she decided it would be best for her to lay down. As she drifted to sleep, she managed to wake up, deciding it was too risky and that she might miss Hogwarts. She opened her DADA textbook, reviewing last year's charms, curses, and spells.


Professor Misks
Headmistress' Castle, Hogwarts Castle, Scottish Fields

---

"I can not speak for Vincent, Supriya, but I too support free speech," he said with a controlled anger. "However we can not allow terroristic ideals to be built in this school. You are right, Patel, that this is an educational institute, it is our job to produce well-rounded witches and wizards, and in that goal, we would be doing a serious misdeed to our community if we fostered the next generation of Death Eaters and Voldemort's. And this, of course, Miss Headmaster as well, is not to mention the verbal crimes that could occur against muggle-borns. It is clear to me that we could be dealing with a generation of damaged muggle-borns, afraid to step into our community, due to 7 years of verbal bullying, which undoubtedly we can not wholly police. We need, Miss Patel and Miss Headmaster, to stop these ideas before they can begin," he finished, having gotten louder by the syllable. "But of course, Headmistress, it is your decision on how to police these terrorists."
Following his manifesto, he left the teacher's dormitories to finish his syllabus and begin his detention schedule. He knew, whatever the Headmistress said, that it was his duty to give detentions to anyone who might spiral to the order. He finished brewing his most recent batch of Felix Felicius, which he kept on him ever since a nasty encounter with a fleeing Death Eaters from his OoTP days.
WIth his syllabus completed, he began writing his dissertation to the Daily Prophet on the Order and other neo-Death Eater groups. He would write the first draft but soon would realize that one thing was missing. He had forgotten the nature of children. He knew that he could not begin his Potions class without the gossip, of the blogger's murder, and of the Order, running amuck. He drew up his speech, and it was satisfactory if not perfect quality.

[Hochster Stern der Morgenrote]

Hogwarts Express, Sunday, April 24, 2039, In the railway heading to Hogsmead Station.

"You were born for this, you were prepared for this, for this unique, honorable destiny, to serve body and soul as the receptacle of our lord Voldemort's desires."
Leonora made her way slowly through the Clan Rosenthal ceremonial hall, each step aching, mentally, and physically. To her left and right people in white robes pointed their wands at her, chanting a vile black magic, created and kept secret by the Ministry since the fall of the Unspeakable; in front of her, seated on a purple cushion, a skeletal figure with bandaged eyes sits in leadership position. She, the head of the clan, carries with her the price of having created such a nefarious spell.

"Perfecta Tenebris." They chant in unison, striking Leonora with bolts of pure darkness, causing her to fall to the cold granite floor, her skin burning unbearably, her vision increasingly blurry, her heart increasingly heavy

"That damn dream again." Leonora opens her eyes as the last light of twilight streams through the Hogwarts Express window, bathing her face in a beautiful shade of crimson.
"Same thing night after night, when will it end." She says, sighing as she contemplates a locket with her mother's photo, the smile and the gentle movements of the photo soothe her heart as it has always been since her escape from the Rosenthal Clan, yet her soul remains wounded, she fears she will have the same fate than your mother.
Shaking her head, she then chases those thoughts away; there were more important things to think about at the moment, after more than five years, she has returned to the land where she was born; the land where her worst enemies, her family, live.

"Elizabeth said that things at the Institute and Hogwarts are completely different, I hope it's not a problem." She whispers, remembering warmly the friend who had welcomed her, holding up the transfer letter, the paper is clear and smooth, unlike the Durmstrang documents. But truth be told, the rigidity of her old academy wasn't a complete problem; the discipline helped her stay focused on her goals and forget about the clouds that surrounded it.

Tired of thinking, Leonora stared at the front seat and sighed with disdain at the scene; she saw, a girl sleeping, comfortably sprawled on the seat. Her beautiful and curly red hair covered her face leaving only her freckles visible between the locks and her pink lips that drooled. Still sleepy, the girl's eyes slowly open until they find Leonora's staring at her. Startled by the sharp stare, the young red-haired girl collapses from the bench towards the floor of the train.
"Wingardium Leviosa." With an elegant wave of her wand, Leonora stops the girl millimeters off the ground, sending her back to the train seat.

"Th-thanks, I think." Said the girl with a country accent.
"Nice to meet you. I’m Emily McCarthy."
"Leonora."
"Nice name, and your last name?"
"You do not need to know."

“O-ok, sorry, just wanted to bring up a conversation. Hm, have you read the papers?”
"Of course, who doesn't? Well, nothing to worry about, just fools who care more about their blood than their magic; they themselves are their own undoing." Said Leonora, supporting her chin with her hand and looking out the window at the plains landscape.
"Eleven demands, how ridiculous. I hope this doesn't get out of hand. If the clan gets involved in this, spells as terrible as the Three Unforgivable Spells could inflict a lot of damage." That thought echoed in her mind as she brought her hand to her chest.
In the distance, adorned by the reddish sky, the silhouette of an old castle was becoming more and more imposing.

[Hanovereich]

Professor Hermes Lynch

Professor Lynch looked around his classroom. It had been his for three years now; three years as a Muggle Studies Professor. But those three years had been easy, peaceful years. No pure-blood order to rock the boat. No threat of terror attacks on the wizarding world.

On his desk were piles of papers. Some of them were newspapers (inevitably with headlines on The Order), others were notes on lessons he would have to start soon. The Easter break would usually have been time for Lynch to plan lessons for that term; however, it had been dominated by the threat of an attack from The Order, as a blood traitor. He had been laying low for the break. Now he had returned to Hogwarts, and naturally he had had to change the curriculum- now it was about Muggle-borns who contributed to the wizarding world.

Lynch sighed, picked up his wand, and left his classroom. He still had to finish the seventh-year curriculum, but that could wait. He brushed his suit, and went into the Great Hall.

"Hello, Sinestra." he called, noticing a fellow Ravenclaw in the Hall. "Looking forwards to be back?"

[Meretica]

Amos Fleming - Student, 5th Year Slytherin
Hogwarts Express

He didn't entirely understand what made him leave his compartment (frankly, he didn't want to understand it), but nonetheless, as soon as Amos came across the lonely Slytherin girl reading a DADA textbook, something seemed to pop into place. He gently rapped his knuckles against the window and then stepped inside, not waiting for her to have the opportunity to ignore him. "I don't think I've seen you before," Amos said immediately, sitting down across from her.

---

Sinestra Hopkins-Jones - Librarian, Head of Ravenclaw
Hogwarts Express

Sinestra sighed as she glanced at Professor Lynch, merely replying, "I hear Jerusalem bells a-ringing, Roman cavalry choirs are singing. Be my mirror, my sword and shield, my missionaries in a foreign field. For some reason, I can't explain I know Saint Peter won't call my name. Never an honest word-- but that was when I ruled the world."

That is to say, she did not answer at all. In fact, she had no way to verify that he understood the reference to the band that she had quoted, herself having fallen in love with and memorized the song years ago. And even if he understood the reference, there was no way that he would understand it and what it meant to her. Of course, she knew many of the various meanings typically thrown around, but to her, it was particularly special.

After a moment, having decided that a proper answer-- well. She didn't exactly give a proper answer. She merely said, "I would be in a better mood had the Headmistress acknowledged that despite her age, some people have a better understanding of some things than she does."

And that was that.

[South Olpen]

Andromeda Edwards
Compartment 19, Hogwarts Express, English Country Side

---

Andromeda sat, before being overcome with a sense of great loneliness. She had not had to contend with the sense of dread brought along with not having Quinn at her side, having napped or read the entire time. But when she did, she cried, quietly, but from the heart. She cried for a long time, before being able to make a fragile, raw, and thin peace. She decided again to read and numb herself, so after she used a Hot-Air Charm, she turned to Ch. 1, "Defense Against the Dark Arts: Overview and Legality."
Just as Andromeda turned the page to Ch. 19, "Dark Creatures Sec. 1," at that she closed the book, as this was a curriculum she was unlikely to encounter. She looked at the rapidly moving countryside, wondering how the name Hogwarts decided, one of the many random questions she often ponders, but just then she heard a young boy, about her age rasping upon the glass windows of the compartment.
He was a small and forgettable lad, but Andromeda remembered him as one of the fifth years from her house. She considered ignoring him, as she had been doing for the last 5 years, but that became impossible once he took it upon himself to enter, sit down, and speak. She was rather shocked that he had not waited for her approval, but as she just considered ignoring him, the 5th Year couldn't be faulted for trying to get her attention. She put the book away and put on her game face before responding.
"No, not really. I'm Andromeda, and who might you be?" she said. She felt good about her response. but was still worried that she came off as too aggressive. She liked being an -epic troll,- but did not want to spoil what could be a friendship before he said his name. She tried to smile more, and she moved her hands onto the table as a sign of trust as she waited for the Slytherin to answer. As she looked at the boy, she started remembering the previously undefined features of the boy from the common room, such as his blue eyes or undone brown hair.
In the brief silence, she experienced great feelings. She felt guilty for 'cheating' on Quinn moments after she declared her love, but also felt angry at her young love for making her choose another. She listened to the humming of the fast-moving train, with her mind interpreting it as a scornful voice, angry at her for ruining her relationship. But she managed to drown it out once the white boy in front of her talked again.


Professor Misks
Misk's Office & Dormitory, Hogwarts Castle, Scottish Fields

---

Professor Misks had just finished dictating his Editorial for the Daily Prophet. The long, multi-scroll dissertation contained the facts of the matter, the likelihood of the matter, and his own opinion. The handwriting was pristine, and he had checked it over five times in proofreading before sending it to the Daily Prophet Headquarters. Where it promptly gets rejected.
As he was a Hogwarts Professor and an influential lobbyist for the Wizarding Alliance for Equality and Diversity, he supposed, they read it over quickly. He knew from the period before the Battle of the Department of Mysteries that the Prophet was biased, but then again he had never supposed an article by the Head of the Noble House of Gryffindor and ranking member of the Alliance would be so flat out rejected. However, he still knew that he could use the resources of his honorable Alliance to spread the word of his valuable opinions.
He pulled out a large, unwieldy document signed by his friend. Sienna Ashbridge. Looking at the born document brought him near to tears as he thought of the terrible, terrible murder that she was subjected to, but that intense fire also gave him the strength. Replicating the spells and movements of Ashbridge's delivery system, he was able to get not only the article but of the Daily Prophets flat-out rejection, which still angered him, practically all Alliance members and many more who purchased the blog only to scorn her work and discredit her noble cause. For good measure, he also put his manifesto on the wall using a Sticking Charm, as well as considering putting it in the common room, although ultimately not bothering with the common room of his house.

[Meretica]

Amos Fleming - Student, 5th Year Slytherin
Hogwarts Express

"Fleming," he answered. "Amos Fleming."

The name might mean something, at the very least. The surname, that is. Some students were familiar with his uncle, the Auror Dionysus Fleming that had worked as a champion of "equality" within the magical world. Dionysus was, to be it simply, a cracked nut that didn't understand that things were fine as they were. Dionysus had championed house elves, the most pathetic of magical creatures. Centaurs, merfolk, goblins? To some degree, it made sense-- he even acknowledged that a former Charms teacher, Prof. Flitwick, had been half-goblin-- but it was too far to give a house elf a wand, or even suggest it.

Dionysus, to put it simply disagreed, continuing on his "crusade" in search of "justice." Besides, Amos had another idea that came to mind with his surname: blood-traitor. And it was all his granduncle's fault.

[Dogutrakya]

Joseph A. Stuyvesant
Hogwarts Express, somwehere in the English countryside

---

"I probably would do the same were I'm in your place," Joseph replied. He glanced again to the aisle and noticed nobody was there "You'd probably think he's a bully, and I wouldn't disagree." Joseph said quetly. Not that he truly considered that of Marcellus; he just wanted to see Dominique's response. Their debate was quite a spectacle, and it intrigued him to learn more of this dynamic. "I'm Joseph... Joseph Stuyvesant. Joe would be fine. Though you probably haven't heard of my surname, because we're rather recent here. Famlily moved over across the pond when I'm seven," he mused. "Rosier... a pure-blooded family, indeed? One of the famous "sacred twenty-eight" families in Britain. Might've known Scorpius Malfoy? Him and his father were valuable clients to our company. Always the thirst for goods made in America."

He continued. "Frankly, and I'd hope you forgive me. And 'cause none of the kids in Gryffindor had this perspective. I'm a bit curious about the obsession of y'all marrying pure-bloods. Back home we don't really have such a concept. People were fixin' to marry No-Majs, that's what Muggles are called, for money or opportunity, and other people don't seem to care. But it's true that names are still important. We Stuyvesants have a long history of fortune and politics, which we cherish, from the Gilded Age. Guess that's the most striking difference between the countries - what folks value the most.

[South Olpen]

Andromeda Edwards
Compartment 19, Hogwarts Express, English Countryside

---

Andromeda sat, listening to the young boy. She listened to his decleration, still sure she would- nay already had-forgotten his last name. She only remembered his first name slightly, having likely failed to remember if it was even a syllable longer. But, nevertheless, it was impolite to ask him again, and so she felt she would continue the conversation. Naturally, she asked his year first.
"Oh yes," she asked, even though she hadn't had but the slightest clue who he was, apart from his house and a vague recollection that he was her junior. "I've seen you in the common room. You're a fifth year, right?" She also thought this was slightly rude to admit she knows not his age, but it was a necessity to become friends.
"Correct," he answered dutifully. "And you... fourth year?" he asked, a hint of uncertainty in his still undeveloped voice. Andromeda smiled, as he was incorrect, but she had often been mistaken for a younger student, for reasons she could not tell. Andromeda responded once, but it seemed for some reason a loud bump had occurred, so she repeated her statement.
" No, I'm a sixth," she answered immediately, blushing lightly for a short second. "A Prefect actually. So, what classes are you taking?" she inquisited, attempting to continue this pleasant conversation in an inoffensive manner. He paused for a moment. He must've momentarily confused her with a younger student...
"I've Taken Care of Magical Creatures, Divination, and Magical Theory as my additional classes," he answered. Andromeda had forgotten the fourth year had to take Core Curriculum as if it had been decades ago. "Really prefer Divination out of all of them. You?" as her mother had taught her, she said nothing as she had choice words for people who liked it, much less believed in Divination, she said nothing to answer his like of divination and interpreted the question in the other manner
"Me, I take DADA, Potions, love Misks, Charms, Transfiguration, Alchemy, and Muggle Studies," she said before she continued with the natural evolution of their subjects matter, their desired profession. "If it wasn't obvious, I plan to be an Auror."
Recognizing the slight shift, Amos Fleming continued the chat. "I want to teach. I love the core classes and all, but teaching-- and learning-- has been my passion," he stated. "I nearly became a Ravenclaw because of it, and I've heard they've got as many books as Hopkins-Jones has stowed away in the library. It almost makes me wish I was a Ravenclaw."
Andromeda thought. She had heard- and experienced with Quinn even- that Ravenclaw had the best relationship, both with students and in values, with Slytherin, but had never stopped to think how the two House's core values, of ambition and cunning and of intelligence and wit, had been two sides of the same coin. However, she stopped her introspection to ask a real question that rarely comes up for future professors. Fascinating, I suppose new Professors are always needed!" she said, with a laugh that went on a bit too loud and a bit too long for her subpar joke. "But what are you going to do to get the experience to become a Professor?"
"Ministry work, most likely," he answered truthfully. "Divination is easy enough with practice, but dangerous plants? Magical creatures? The Ministry is the place to go." he added, with an authority, similar to the way a child speaks.
"Yep, definitely," she declared. On account of Amos not having passed back a question, she had to make another one off the top of her head. "So, do you want to become a Prefect next year?" she asked, remembering the young lad's year at the perfect time.
"I've considered it, but ultimately don't think I'm the right person for it," he delineated "Why did you accept the post?" he questioned with true interest and curiosity.
"Oh well, you don't really have a choice in the matter," she explained. "You just get the badge, and you can either accept it or skirt your responsibilities, I'm not one to skirt responsibility. But, anyway, I suppose I wanted to rehabilitate the House. I think we get a bad rap, judged by our worst members and not our best," he announced to her new friend.
"I agree," Amos concurred. "Largely, the House has lost the meaning it was meant to have, yeah? Ambition? Cunning? Now it's pure parentage," he lamented. "Which I s'pose can be an issue in some cases rather than others... but generally, it isn't. Or shouldn't."
Andromeda wished to respond, but soon she noticed an abrupt slowing in the train's momentum. She wished to continue the conversation on the modern values of Slytherin, but even more, she wanted to eat, having forgotten her galleons AND lunch, so she packed up her bag with her various textbooks, magazines, and notes. She exchanged goodbyes with her friend, and encouraged him to pack his suitcase.


Professor Misks
Misks Office & Dormitory, Hogwarts Castle, Scottish Fields

---

Misks sat, still disgruntled from the Prophets rejection of his editorial piece, but also slightly vindicated as he spreads his essay to the Alliance and more. Now, he is in his bedroom, getting ready for the Start-of-Term Feast.
He wore his best dress robes, a blue-purple number engraved on the top-left with the Hogwarts Emblem. Tying his waist is a black string, and crowning his head is a cap of the same color. He would comb his graying hair to the left, put on his shoes, and make his way to the Great Hall. ahead of time, like the two other professors who beat him. He greets Sinestra, and apologizes for the his rising temper at the Headmistress' Office, while acknowledging it was mainly Prof. Patel.

[Hochster Stern der Morgenrote]

Hogwarts Express, Sunday, April 24, 2039, In the railway heading to Hogsmead Station.
Leonora Rosenthal

The country girl was already lying awkwardly on the bench again, and Leonora's seat was full of books and papers which she had diligently prepared for two weeks before boarding the train. The notes were separated into several piles of considerable thickness, sorted by: importance, frequently asked questions, etc. Of course, many Muggle psychiatrists would vehemently assert that such a degree of organization stems from psychopathy (almost all in fact), but the truth was that this method was simply comfortable in Leonora's eyes, efficiency was necessary to prepare for the OWLs, particularly considering the curricular difference between Hogwarts and Durmstrang. Fortunately this year she wouldn't have to deal with the complexity of the Dark Arts, though, grudgingly, that's where her greatest talent resides.

With everything overhauled and the arrival at Hosmead Station approaching, Leonora reattached her wand to her belt and carefully collected her papers, placing them in a special blue pouch prepared with an Undetectable Extension Charm.

After everything was in its proper places, feeling her legs numb from the time sitting, she decided to go out to the train aisle, finding the Trolley Witch along the passage, she then buys a can of Bubble Brew, to finally lean against the walls of the train wagon and enjoy the drink, demonstrably better than those found in the East.
Despite the strange girl who had passed crying, the hallway was quite calm, despite being full of children and teenagers. In the compartments, however, there was the sound of laughter and conversation, occasionally a fight but nothing too serious.

Covered by the cloak of her solitude, she begins to ramble on: “Although I appreciate the Institute's ship, I must say that this train has a strange beauty. I wish Elizabeth were here to see him, I hope they didn't take her.”

Noticing the empty can and not seeing any trash or anyone nearby, Leonora grabs the wand from her belt and casts the spell: "Deletrius" transforming the can into a powder that soon vanishes into the air.

The can remind her of her goal and all she'd been through so far. "Soon, soon this can will be your fate."

Sighing deeply, she contemplated her wand, a family heirloom. Although the vast majority of wands choose their owner based on personality, this one respected the will of its first master, being passed from firstborn to firstborn.
As an ancient piece, it certainly stood out, especially for its thestral hair core, which had already caused countless deaths, erasing some branches of the clan. Its hexagonal shape and silvertip gave it a certain atmosphere of rigidity, as did its alabaster grip and the serpents carved into the blackthorn wood.

"That must be the Slytherin pride I hear about, I think," she said in a low voice.
Setting her wand in her belt, she once again wondered how much longer it would take to arrive.

[Arlye Austros]

James Martin Boyd Longbottom.

The Hogwarts Express.


James was seemingly confused at what he had seen and the fact nobody else seemed to have noticed it. He looked at the two figures still remaining in the carriage. Confirming his vision after blinking.

“No… Sorry. I am just looking for somebody.” He babbled. “Didn’t mean to startle anybody. Just looking for the other Gryffindor…” At this he interrupted his words and checked on the being with one eye for a third time and turned to the stranger. “What is that… that?” He asked, unable to articulate proper manners.

[Purgatio]

Students' Carriages, Hogwarts Express
Sunday, 24 April 2039, 11:55 AM
Dominique Jean Rosier

Dominique extended a polite smile when the boy introduced himself as 'Joe', and listened to his response intently, inclining his head to the side as he leaned against the side of the nearest student carriage, nodding along to what Joseph Stuyvesant said, inwardly noting to himself that he had to be exceedingly careful and cautious here, as Joe's questions about the culture and 'values' of pure-blooded families like his and the way he phrased his inquiry (with words like "obsession" and "frankly") seemed to suggest that he regarded that cultural emphasis on blood-status and lineage as strange, unusual, peculiar, perhaps even prejudiced, and Dominique made a silent mental note that he would have to tread carefully in his reply. When Joe mentioned Scorpius Malfoy, Dominique could not help but tense up and give off an uncomfortable little shiver, which he tried to suppress somewhat, as the once-hallowed and esteemed name of 'Malfoy', once so prominent and revered in the elite rarefied high-society milieu in which his family traversed, had fallen in esteem, honour, and reputation to a very significant extent since, with that particular family name now often perceived by the esteemed and cloistered circle of friends that his mummy and daddy both kept as having fallen into disgrace since, largely owing to the actions of Narcissa Malfoy and Draco Malfoy during the Second Wizarding War (at the Battle of Hogwarts), and especially the actions of Scorpius Malfoy (the very same one mentioned by Joe on his part) in his time in Hogwarts. Dominique, for his own part, knew very little about the Malfoys' family history himself, but had heard its members spoken of with varying degrees of disgrace and contempt at the insularly gilded high-society events he'd attended in abundance (only because his family dragged him along to nearly every one), and he recalled to himself how at one of the Selwyns' many private afternoon brunches, during winter break of last year, Margaret Nott had cryptically called Scorpius Malfoy an "indecorously shameless blood-traitor" for his actions in "thwarting the revival of a more traditional time", Alexander J. Greengrass had nodded and added rather equivocally that his actions had "portended the decline of esteemed company in wizarding society, in collusion with that Potter boy no less, to add insult to injury", and Emily Yaxley added that "that disgracefully self-hating turncloak" had been responsible for "orchestrating the invaluable loss of that last refined legacy of Gaunt". As with many of the veiled and circumspect conversations which took place at such closed but prestigious society events, Dominique had picked up through such conversations which families were worthy of respect and esteem, and which were to be regarded with shame and contempt, although he did not always understand why, especially when (as in the case with the Malfoys) the adults present spoke vaguely in riddles and did not appear eager to dish out to the children the specific details of whatever it was they were speaking about. Nevertheless, Dominique picked up on these social cues over time, piece by piece, and so he had discerned that, for whatever reason, the actions of the Malfoy family, including this Scorpius Malfoy fellow that Joe now spoke of, were highly inimical and damaging in some way, and were regarded by his family and their rather tight-knit respectable social circle as something shameful, disgraceful, and wrong, and so he suppressed a mini bodily shiver which had been involuntarily induced when Joe mentioned that name now.

After paying close attention to what Joe told him, everything that he had said, and the matters he was apparently curious abqout, Dominique now gave him a polite smile and nod, as he responded at once, "Well, you are right, I suppose it is a cultural matter, Joseph - apologies, I mean, Joe, pardon me - and I'm not particularly surprised that our American cousins have inculcated and cultivated a rather, hmm, a rather divergent social attitude as such. Our histories differ so much, in so many ways, after all. I suppose, as you say, it is ultimately a matter of perspective. My family, the Burkes and Rosiers," Dominique reflexively pronounced 'Rosier' in the Francophone manner (like 'Hor-Zee-Yier'), the same way that daddy and his extended relations so often did, "They can be rather more traditional about such affairs and sensitive matters such as these. And I suppose, well, excuse me, I suppose that one must attempt to view it from the vantage point of a more established wizarding household, with a magical ancestry rooted in the wizarding world spanning centuries, going back nine, ten, eleven, twelve generations and more. It does serve to cultivate a rather more different type of family culture and household heritage, don't you think, Joe? You mention, for instance, the American Gilded Age. Yes, I suppose that historical period does serve to rather illustrate our American cousins', well, greater willingness to unreservedly embrace the new, the nouveau riche, the arriviste, in all their varied ways and modes of being. You are absolutely correct, of course, and I agree with you, Joe, when you remark that it is a difference in what our respective wizarding cultures value the most, it is a rather remarkable and notable difference of perspective, I suppose."

"But at the end of the day, well," Dominique added carefully, pursuing his lips as he spoke, in a rather steady tone, "I do think that if you look at it from the perspective of a very old and very established wizarding family, with a rather unique culture and heritage cultivated and nurtured over centuries, generation after generation, well, I suppose that would inculcate a sense of ownership and responsibility to preserve and protect that heritage and legacy, one left behind by those who came before, a sense of responsibility that would, maybe, cause one to value one's ancestry, culture, and upbringing, in a certain unique way, and a desire to protect that legacy and associate with similar families, with a similar mindset and mentality, and, perhaps, a certain finer and more relatable background and respectable upbringing. Of course, I understand not everyone feels the same way, as you yourself said, Joe, and I'm very open to that, truly, but since you asked, well, I would say that this is simply how I was raised, and how mummy and daddy were brought up as well. Its a healthy difference in culture and one's own family history and heritage, no more, no less. Well, that is how I see it, anyways." Dominique added, with a simple smile and resolute nod which carried a note of some finality.

[Arlye Austros]

Frank Elphias Boyd Longbottom.
The Hogwarts Express.

After James was well outside view Frank took out his copy of the Daily Prophet and read the Order’s manifesto for a fourth time. He felt as though he was holding a piece of history. And that intruding thought made him disgusted. He wasn’t one to like the Order and what they represent, but he wondered if there wasn’t something under those lines that could be salvaged from bigotry and hatred. Maybe some of those things that they demanded didn’t seem so crazy. But to Frank, it was something he could somewhat feel but couldn’t quite explain. Every time he delved into those words he felt disgust, but every time he found himself to have stopped, he was compelled to continue.

He was reading the Cessation of Teaching of History of the Wizarding World after a third halt when he glimpsed at the carriage at the end of his line of sight. The prefects seemed to have gone out to do their rounds. And sure enough, he heard the voice of the Gryffindor prefect very close by. So he folded the paper once more and pushed it into his bags. He didn't know how the prefects would react to the recent news, and who knew what Joe's stance on it would be. He also heard a voice he struggled with, until he assigned it to Rosier.

“But at the end of the day, well…” He distinguished the muffled voice and after some hesitation, he slid the door a bit to listen better. He realised the two were talking mere steps away.
"… Of course, I understand not everyone feels the same way, as you yourself said, Joe, and I'm very open to that, truly, but since you asked, well, I would say that this is simply how I was raised, and how mummy and daddy were brought up as well. Its a healthy difference in culture and one's own family history and heritage, no more, no less. Well, that is how I see it, anyways."
<<Healthy…>> He almost chuckled at that. But then. He was somewhat right. How do you fight the weight of family? He would know. Frank’s mind went back to Uncle Neville, and his screams the night before.

[Audunia]

Cyrus Young, Sixth Year Hufflepuff
Sunday, 24 April 2039
Home, Guildford

Waking up was easy for Cyrus, especially on days like today, the last day of holiday. Most regular teenagers would sulk on the last day of the holiday, but not Cyrus, he loved his school, aided by the fact that he was not most regular teenagers, nor was his school regular by a longshot. He was a wizard and his school, by extension, was a school for wizards. He remembered his first day there, a cherished memory, a validation to his many years of bullying as he grew up in muggle schools. Sure, it wasn't perfect, some of the students there could be down right nightmarish, but by and large it was great. The fact it was all hosted in a castle made him love it more.

He sprung from his bed, his room as messy as any teenaged boy, a smattering of posters (some peeling off the wall) and clothes that scattered across the floor, the only neat thing were his packed trunks, though even then some were still open. He'd put packing off a bit late and fell asleep before he'd even finished the job. He shrugged internally, throwing a few items that he'd left laying out into the trunk and closing it firmly. He swapped out of his pyjamas, putting on a pair of jeans and a put on a garish yellow Watford FC shirt. He always found it funny that his favourite team matched the colours of his own house, so he took to wearing the shirt often in public. A secret declaration, of sorts.

He carried the two trunks out of his room, bringing them downstairs. The house was small and empty, not surprisng as his mum was often at work at the time in the morning, it's half-white half-pink walls held a number of photos that showed the two of them. He saw one of the table and smiled. A wooden frame with his mum and him at the Watford game two nights ago, smiling happily. She must've saved up for a while for that night of fun, because she treated him to a rare dinner after the game at one of those fancier restuarants. He towered over his mum, 5'10 and still growing, while their features couldn't be more distinct from one another. Her face thin, almost fragile, and big blue eyes that seemed to explode with emotion. The only thing they had in common were large eyebrows and dark brown hair, though you could barely tell since Cyrus often kept his close to his scalp. He saw a sticky note attached to the back of the frame and read it;

Show them how it's done
Love, Mum

He smiled, folding the note and pocketing it. It had always been them, even when they were alone in York and outcasted as the loony family, believing in magic and secret world of wizards. She'd often say 'Show them how it's done' when he went to the muggle school, as even then he was a bright boy and frequently did well on tests, putting to shame those that whispered gossip amongst each other about them. He never cared for it, but once a boy had insuinated his father had left them because of how loony his mum was and was scared he'd be the same, and that had set him off. That expulsion turned out to be timed quite luckily, as his letter to Hogwarts arrived days after, though it did caution him about responding with violence. His cheeks warmed slightly, embarrased that their first impression of him was a violent, unruly child. Well, that wasn't entirely untrue.

Regardless, he opened the smaller trunk and put the photo inside of it, zipping it back closed and making himself some breakfast. Some beans, toasts, and some homemade sausages from his uncle. Still slightly hungry afterwards, he fixed a small bowl of cereal and hoovered it down. He glanced at his watch, about three hours before the Hogwart's Express departed King's Cross. He placed his dishes in the sink, left a quick note saying goodbye to his mum (Sorry about the dishes!) and left his home, locking the door and throwing the key in the flowerbed, the agreed hiding place when he left for Hogwarts. He walked to the train station, enjoying the warmth that the spring offered him, letting it raise his spirits more, wondering what the rest of the term had in store. Of course, he'd been revising in the holiday, revising was practically his only connection to the wizarding world when he was away from Hogwarts, aside from a small number of Daily Prophets he managed to acquire and letters from his friends, but he was otherwise severed, so revision became his reminder that it existed.

A number of stops later, he arrived at King's Cross, the sun still shining and making him wish he had remembered to bring a hat with him rather than pack it away. He could see that the panic rush had started, dozens of nervous first years milling about nervously with their families as they made their way to the hidden passage to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, and those second-years that still weren't quite as confident in the whole Hogwarts business yet. Though, something felt off about the whole situation. The faces of parents were concerned. Not unexpected for first years, but for the parents of people he recognised certainly threw him off. Everyone seemed slightly dour about the whole thing, confusing him. It wasn't until he'd boarded the train that the answer became clear to him.

He entered one of the cabins he spotted his friends in, their faces mometarily clouded in deep conversation until he entered and they lit up, welcoming him back with cheers. On one of their laps lay the Daily Prophet, and the headline clued Cyrus as to what was going on. "May I?" He asked his friend, Actaeon, a squat boy with a sharp face that sported hair tempting the school's regulation of hair length. Actaeon's eyes widened, nodding and handing him the paper.

"Awful stuff, absolutely awful" Actaeon muttered, shaking his head "You'd think these days were beyong us, wouldn't you"

"You'd think so" replied Callimachia, who toyed with her curly hair anxiously "I mean, I knew some pure-bloods still looked backwards, but I never thought they'd go this far, not after what happened last time" Cyrus glanced up from the paper, the unpleasant details of Sienna Ashbridge's death playing in his imagination. He could undersatnd Cali's shock at it, she was an Avery on her father's side and thus one of the Sacred 28, and though she tried to distance herself from the whole nasty business, it inevitably found its way back to her.

"Maybe we'll have to deal with it the same way as last time" Actaon suggested, Cyrus's eyebrow raising slightly.

"We?"

"Well, you know, us. The Alliance, whatever's left of the Order of the Pheonix" Actaeon answered, though he was somewhat sheepish in his reply.

Cali shot a look of surprise at Actaeon "You're a member of the Alliance?" she asked, Cyrus unsure if she was being serious or sarcastic.

"Well, no..." Actaeon admitted, his face reddening slightly "But they mentioned Hogwarts plenty of times in their demands, I reckon they'd make a move against us"

"I hadn't realised children were so dangerous to their cause" Cali intoned, this time it was much clearer she was being sarcastic. Though he could see her point, Cyrus couldn't blame Actaeon's thinking, seeing all this certainly made his blood boil and he felt some part of him wanting to take part, do something about it. But his mum had refused to let him join the Alliance, so he was excluded, once again.

He read further down, getting to the list of demands. He found their naming ridiculous, anyone who paid attention in History of Magic knew the Gaunts were pathetic wretches long since extinct, before the rise of Voldemort himself, but something else bugged at him. He chuckled to himself when he saw the demand to make a Ministry responsible for tracking family trees. Maybe that'd help find out who his dad was. "What does Hermetic mean?" he asked, folding the newspaper when he'd finished the article, uninterested in the rest of its contents.

Cali and Actaeon looked slightly taken aback by his question, seeming at odds with the previous conversation with the barestest of connections. "It's like a combination of alchemy and astrology, my uncle mentioned it occaisionally" she paused, realising her accidental accusation "Not that I'd think he'd be part of it, most of the other Avery's can't stand him, they always ask why father still associates with him". Cyrus nodded, the answer hardly satisfied his question as to why they had chosen to name themselves Hermetic, since it didn't seem at all related to whatever the Gaunts had dealt with.

"Does anyone have anything to do with alchemy in your family?" he asked her, though she only shook her head.

"I doubt it, most of them think it's unbecoming. Then again, they think anyone that isn't just born with money is unbecoming" she replied, a small laugh coming from the compartment. Cali was generally uncomfortable speaking about her family, but from what she'd told Cyrus and Actaeon over the previous six years, it certainly made them appear unpleasant to associate with.

They quickly shifted the conversation, the dreary mood that clouded the rest of the train disappated when they did so, soon they found themselves laughing and chatting excitedly about things they'd gotten up to during the Easter break. They were particularly interested in his trip to the football match, even though he had described it and the rules frequently to them, they always found it fascinating. It, of course, paled in comparison to their holidays, though the two of them seemed to hold them equally as excitable. Cali had returned from an excursion in the States, enjoying the wild detailed by Newt Scamander's books, though she was disheartened that she ran out of time before she could reach Arizona and spot a thunderbird. Actaeon had visited family that remained in Greece, he mentioned excitedly the skill and speed that the Greek Quidditch team displayed and his joy that he had been allowed into a training session with them (Unsurprising as Actaeon did lead the Hufflepuff team in points scored), proudly proclaiming they were going to win the next World Cup.

He smiled as he spoke with them, he'd be happy if he spent the entire term like this, but as he leaned backwards after a particularly raunchous joke made by Actaeon, he heard muffled whispers. He could a refined voice that sent a shiver down his spine, frowning. "What's wrong?" Cali asked, noticing his frown. He held a finger too his lips as he strained to listen.

Yes, it was unmistakeably Dominque, that blasted prick from Slytherin, chatting with an unexpectedadly American voice in the corrider. His felt his teeth grind as he got on to the topic of blood lines until he felt it impossible to resist interceding rudely. Cali and Actaeon seemed to notice this as well as they moved to stop him, but fell just short before he slid the compartment door open, finding the two boys within arms reach from his compartment.

"Listen, boys" he said, his tone much gruffer and unrefined compared to Dominque's words "Use fancy words to dodge outright saying you support those creeps, but when you're done, can you shift? Don't fancy having to hear whatever bullshit perspective one needs to support murderers".

[Dogutrakya]

Students' Carriages, Hogwarts Express
Sunday, 24 April 2039, 11:55 AM
Dominique Jean Rosier

"But at the end of the day, well," Dominique added carefully, pursuing his lips as he spoke, in a rather steady tone, "I do think that if you look at it from the perspective of a very old and very established wizarding family, with a rather unique culture and heritage cultivated and nurtured over centuries, generation after generation, well, I suppose that would inculcate a sense of ownership and responsibility to preserve and protect that heritage and legacy, one left behind by those who came before, a sense of responsibility that would, maybe, cause one to value one's ancestry, culture, and upbringing, in a certain unique way, and a desire to protect that legacy and associate with similar families, with a similar mindset and mentality, and, perhaps, a certain finer and more relatable background and respectable upbringing. Of course, I understand not everyone feels the same way, as you yourself said, Joe, and I'm very open to that, truly, but since you asked, well, I would say that this is simply how I was raised, and how mummy and daddy were brought up as well. Its a healthy difference in culture and one's own family history and heritage, no more, no less. Well, that is how I see it, anyways." Dominique added, with a simple smile and resolute nod which carried a note of some finality.

Joseph A. Stuyvesant
Hogwarts Express, somwehere in the English countryside

---

"Hmm," he replied, stroking his chin. "Although thing's been somewhat, uh... curious for me, I can see your point." Joseph privately wondered, then, what caused pure-bloods such as the Weasleys and Malfoys, both of whom he knew members of, do not embrace this view - most of all the Malfoys, whose late patriarch Lucius he'd known for being a lieutenant of dark lord Voldemort. For him - his family, at least, and the majority of American wizards, the goal has been always embracing prosperity, the so-called American Dream, which applied to wizards as it does No-Majs. It would therefore, he hoped, be seen as normal if he as an outsider to this mess of British wizarding intrigue, not understand the radical obsession of ancient British families on maintaining purity of bloodline. I mean, come on, the Gaunts died poor in this place, and a founder of Ilvermorny doesn't even want to pass her line. The Stuyvesants, on the other hand, are rich enough as recent immigrants they were able to afford a Muggle manor, which Joseph's father turned into a prairie-style ranch. But for now he'd stick closer to Dominique's good graces just to take a peek on this world of high culture. "While I'm not so sure about the perspective of Americans readily embracing noveau riche - flexing, as we call it, brings attention both wanted and unwanted - indeed though prosperity has always been a cornerstone of our values. It's a free country after all."

Joseph continued, "Say, Dominique, or do you have a nickname? I understand the animosity between our houses, but... it'd be, interesting, and uh, would you consider beneficial for us to patrol together. Head Boy might've left a sour taste after all." He tried to arrange words that can sound similar to the way Dominique was talking. Merlin's balls, even his rants were courteous. "I do want to... get acquainted better with-"

"Listen, boys" he said, his tone much gruffer and unrefined compared to Dominque's words "Use fancy words to dodge outright saying you support those creeps, but when you're done, can you shift? Don't fancy having to hear whatever bullshit perspective one needs to support murderers".

A sudden loud and brash voice interrupted him. Joseph was alerted for a second, before annoyance took over. He shouted back with a hint of anger. "The hell? We barely even know each other." Suddenly, he realized that he was still sitting in front of Dominique. "I mean, Merlin's beard, y'all calm down. Have a seat or something." He studied the Hufflepuff boy and two other kids who were trailing him. "Dude, you're prolly not fixin' to make a scene with prefects, aren't you?"