ANANKE

The question keeps her awake for several nights, and among the boys' frantic searching for Flamel, she starts looking up the theory of the Disillusionment Charm.

It's a NEWT level spell, so a lot of the lingo is beyond her understanding, but she's been reading dark magic texts in Medieval English since she was four. She manages to glean that, yes, it is theoretically possible to cast a 100% effective Disillusionment Charm, but it's never been done before. There is no way to detect one, save for a Hominus Revelio spell, at OWL level, which is not much better.

She knows it has to stop when she finds herself brewing dungbombs in the empty girls' dorm, theorising that their magical stink component could counteract the clean base component of the Charm. 

Eventually, she forces herself to forget about the problem before she drives herself mad over it, and it finds its place in the paranoid part of her brain, the one that obsesses over finding a way to counteract Polyjuice, sees enemies in greenhouse shrubs and keeps antidotes for love potions in her robe pockets.

Christmas break passes and the days start to blend together. She's no longer sure whether it's Tuesday or Saturday.

Harry and Ron have scampered off to Hagrid's in matching Weasley jumpers to try and wheedle more about Nicolas Flamel out of him. Ananke's starting to get sick of that name, and somewhere in her brain, dots have connected. She doesn't know why, but she finds herself sitting on a rock in the middle of the grounds, watching Percy Weasley scold Fred and George Weasley for enchanting snowballs to fly at Professor Quirrell.

Some indefinite amount of time passes before she hears the crunching of snow behind her. Ron and Harry are back.

"Of all the people in Hogwarts, why are you stalking these three?" Ron asks.

Ananke ignores this. "Any luck with Hagrid?"

Harry draws his eyebrows together in frustration. "No. He didn't even want to let us inside at first. Said we made him say stuff he shouldn't be saying."

"Right," she mumbles, in what she hopes is a sympathetic tone.

"Seriously, why?" Ron says, at the same time Harry starts speaking.

"Ananke, come on. Help us look. Without you, we're never going to find out who Nicolas Flamel is, at least not from the library," Harry whispers, voice lowered though no-one else is within fifty metres of them. Then again, if someone casted a 100% effective Disillusionment Charm... "We didn't even know it had a section on Divination until you showed us."

"I mean," says Ron. "In fairness to us, it is a pretty useless section."

"True," she replies, but she's getting sick of this metaphorical game of keep-away, so she points at Percy Weasley, who is now chasing his brothers, yelling something about a Prefect badge. "If you really want to know, just ask him."

In unison, their heads swivel towards the other Weasleys. "Sorry?" says Harry.

She tells him, "I bet an older student would know who he is. Like one of Ron's brothers."

"No!" says Ron. "I am not asking any of my brothers anything."

"Then Harry's on the Quidditch team with them," she continues. "He could do it."

But Harry is suddenly quiet. He stares out at the lake in an empty sort of way, wrestling with something in him. Ananke waits patiently for a minute or so, but he doesn't move.

She peels herself off the rock. "Okay then. I'll do it. Look after my bag, will you?"

The brothers are by the lake, Quirrell still with them, and as she drags her shoes through inch deep snow, she goes over what she wants to say in her head, like an actor reviewing a script.

"I apologise for my brothers, Professor," Percy is saying, in the kind of voice that children use when they want to sound grown up, except a lot more exaggerated. Every consonant is pronounced. He doesn't sound anything like Ron. "I suspect they were dropped off a broom as babies, but that is no excuse for their behaviour."

The twins are standing on either side of him, doing their very best to look contrite and desperately pathetic, only it's not going very well. They keep snickering every time Quirrell opens his mouth to mutter reassurances.

"I-it's qu-quite all right, M-mister Weasley. N-no ha-harm d-do-done." His stammer is even worse than usual, and his pallor is almost as bad as hers, which is saying something. As he hasn't been practising dark magic in the bowels of the castle (right?), she assumes he's one snowball away from getting a heart attack and keeling over dead at their feet out of fright.

"Can I talk with you?" Ananke inserts herself in the (very one-sided) conversation. It's not the smoothest way she's ever interrupted someone, but she's not very good at the whole other people thing yet, so she thinks she deserves to be cut some slack.

Percy turns in surprise. "Miss…" He peers at her.

"Ananke Black," twin #1 finishes, which surprises her. She hadn't thought they'd known her name, but she supposes they must've been keeping an eye on all their potential pranking victims.

Quirrell excuses himself, looking mortally terrified to be within ten feet of her, which - honestly? She might be a little peeved about all those lectures on the irredeemable nature of vampires and the way basilisks are born without souls, but she's not going to curse him in broad daylight.

Percy keeps an iron grip on the twins' robes. Ananke thinks they could leave if they really wanted to, but they're facing her curiously, wondering why the infamous Black recluse wants to talk to their brother.

"I was doing some supplemental reading for History of Magic," she says, fingers twitching. Where are her hands supposed to go? Clasped in the back? Wrapped around her front? She resists the urge to rub her chest. In the end, she leaves them hanging at her sides like dead things. "I came across the name Nicolas Flamel, and I was wondering who he was." 

She breathes in. Out. "I would normally find out on my own, but I couldn't find him anywhere in the library. Do you know? Because you're a Perfect, so I thought you would." She stops herself.

The twins continue to stare at her face. She wonders if she's making the - what had Harry called it? - dead vulture eyes at them. 

Percy nods, looking faintly bemused. "Yes, well, you were right to come to me. You're friends with Ron, aren't you?" He barrels on before she can reply. "Nicolas Flamel is a famous alchemist from the 14th century. He's credited with the creation of the Philosopher's Stone, which is able to turn any metal into gold with a minimum of 94.2% purity."

"You just… know that, off the top of your head," says twin #2. It is not a question.

"Shut up, George. It also produces the legendary Elixir of Life. As long as it is drunk once a day, the drinker will be immortal for the rest of their life. Of course, there are other factors involved in the process, but I won't bore you with -"

"That's a first," mutters twin #1, who, if the other one is George, must be Fred.

"Mmm. Can you believe he can just recite all that?" asks George.

"Probably memorised some entire alchemy book," sniggers Fred.

"Actually, yes, I did. Most Notable Alchemic Breakthroughs of the Last Millennium, if you're interested." Percy shakes the twins' robes. "And - you two now have detention with Professor McGonagall as soon as term starts back up!"

"For what?" squawks Fred.

"For - for assaulting a member of staff and then stealing my Prefect badge!"

"Now, Percy, don't you think you're exaggerating?" George asks in a reasonable tone.

"I will be writing to Mum about this, I'll have you know -"

"Thank you," Ananke interrupts.

"What?" says Percy, looking surprised she's still there.

"Thank you," she repeats, making an effort to make her voice louder. "For the information."

They peer at her with sharp brown eyes. The three of them look similar now, more like brothers. Red hair, red blood, red hearts.

"Oh. Well, you're welcome," Percy tells her. His glasses glint as light reflects off the snow. "Feel free to ask me anything you need."

"Creepy, but polite," Fred contributes. 

George nods. "We officially approve of your friendship with Ronniekins."

They look like they fit together, they all do, like a family does, falling into all their allotted roles easily and habitually, but there is still a depth to the way they interact, an undercurrent of something that can only be sibling love. The twins especially, two halves of a whole. Watching them makes something sharp press against her lungs; Ananke has no other half.

She decides to give the twins' her dungbombs. She doesn't know why - it's asking for trouble - but she knows it'll soothe the ache in her bones. And besides, it'll help her get on their good side.

***

Parvati and Lavender arrive back at school one day before Hermione.

Once they drag their trunks through the door, they huddle in the bathroom, door shut, while Ananke reads on her bed. They're trying to gossip in whispers, only it's not really working because their voices aren't very quiet and Ananke can hear everything they're saying.

"- believe I was afraid we'd come back and there'd be elf heads hanging on the walls?" Lavender finishes. 

"Like their ancestral home, you mean?" Parvati asks.

"Mmm. My auntie was invited there once. She said they were mounted all down the corridor to the parlour. On actual plaques, 'Vati!"

"Blacks," says Parvati. "All mad."

Well, she thinks, insulting but true. Though they no longer have the house-elf heads on the wall. Father said they made the place depressing - well, more depressing - but Kreacher started crying when he tried to get rid of them, so now the headboards sit in the attic, where the aged house-elf sobs over them every Sunday and Thursday, after he serves dinner.

The other two girls exit the bathroom. Politely, Ananke pretends she has not heard a word they've said.

"What's that smell?" asks Lavender.

The dungbomb mixture must not be gone yet. Honestly, Ananke's become so used to it that the stink hasn't registered for a few days. She thinks she might be immune now, which is good if the twins ever decide to prank her.

"Probably fumes from the kitchen," she tells Lavender. "The ventilation system in this castle is terrible."

Lavender turns her head to look at the window, which is opened so wide that a passing bird could crash into it. "Right."

When Hermione does arrive, she asks about the smell. The four of them (them including Harry and Ron, not Lavender and Parvati) are huddled around a table in the common room with a tablecloth so red it would look like a dragon had bled out on it if not for the ornate gold trim on its edges.

FriendshipHonesty Some unnameable thing compels Ananke to say, "I was brewing dungbombs." She instantly regrets it.

When Hermione is done scolding her about hygiene - really, I thought more of you people were supposed to have manners! - and Ron is done laughing, they finally get to talking about Nicolas Flamel.

Hermione is delighted to realise they have found out who he is.

"The Philosopher's Stone, of course," she gasps. "I knew that name was familiar."

Harry nods his head enthusiastically. "Infinite gold and immortality. No wonder Snape wants it!"

Even Ananke found it hard to disagree with that, though she couldn't help but wonder what her father would say - immortality was a touchy subject. "There's more on his work in that book you checked out before the holidays, Hermione," she says absently, a million miles away. "It mentions the Philosopher's Stone in chapter seven, I think."

Hermione nods, then frowns, then hesitates. "I'll -" she begins. "I'll go get it now. It's in my trunk."

She darts her eyes toward Harry, apparently trying to beam her thoughts into his head using Legilimency. It doesn't work. (That's not what Legilimency does.) Harry does look thoughtful, though, so maybe something has happened. Honestly, Ananke wouldn't put it past Hermione to invent an entirely new branch of the mental arts, but she'd have thought her friend would be a bit older before making any magical breakthroughs.

As Hermione twists her way through the common room, Ron nudges his chair closer to Ananke. "Hey, what did you end up doing with those dungbombs you made?" He pauses. "Also, how do you know how to make dungbombs? Sorry, but you've never - really seemed like someone who - who'd know," he finishes lamely.

"I gave them to your brothers," she says, watching as he pales dramatically. "And I got the recipe out of a library book."

"You didn't… give the book to them, right? Right?" he repeats.

"Of course not," she tells him, not quite rolling her eyes, not quite smiling.

Ron looks endlessly relieved, which is funny, but he tries to play it off. "Well, it wouldn't matter if you did. Judging from the number of times Mum's complained about their grades, I don't think they know where the library is. I'm not even sure that they can read."

"They must be able to read," Ananke replies.

He rolls his eyes. "Yes, obviously. It was a joke."

"Yes, obviously," she repeats, changing the inflection of her voice to make it a little more forceful, purposeful. Taking the question that would usually be there out. "I was joking too."

Ron blinks. "I didn't know you could. Like maybe you were one of those Muggle things Dad's always banging on about - what are they called? Lobots?"

"Robots, Ronald," Hermione says, a book about the thickness of her head in her hands. She walks awkwardly under its weight, clutching it hard to her chest, but the book still manages to look as if it belongs in her arms.

She sets it down heavily on the table. "I never thought to look here," she says, but her voice is missing the excitement that's usually present at the prospect of research. The void is filled by a strange mix of emotion. There's hesitation and - Ananke's not completely sure - nervousness? 

"I checked it out ages ago for a bit of light reading -"

"If that's the case, then I'd hate to see what you call heavy reading," Ron interrupts.

His voice prompts a wave of annoyance from Hermione, and she shoots him a glare, which is the most normal thing she's done in the past five minutes. She flicks efficiently through the pages until chapter seven. She turns a few more, nods to herself, still oddly apprehensive, and motions for them to gather round.

Ananke is sure they make quite a scene, all huddled around the table like a gang of thieves inspecting recently stolen jewels, but luckily they're firsties, which means they have the luxury of being viewed by the rest of the school as too unimportant to look at for very long. No-one has bothered them during the other vaguely suspicious things they've done, and no-one bothers them now.

The book is open on a page filled with trivia about the Philosopher's Stone. Most of it is, as Percy said, mind-numbingly boring stuff about the extra potency of the Elixir of Life when drinking it after eating a barrel full of eel heads. Ananke doesn't want to know the name of the person who found that out, or why someone spontaneously decided to eat a barrel full of eels, but she does wonder if Nicolas Flamel does it as well.

The rest is nothing they didn't already know, save for Flamel's age ("Six-hundred and sixty-five years old!" exclaims Harry.), the name of his wife - and the fact that he had one, and where he lived, Devon.

("I can't believe they just put that up there for anyone to read. "Especially if he has a Stone that can make people immortal!

"Yeah, but the thing is that no-one but intellectual nutters like you read this stuff, Hermione, so I reckon his secret's safe.")

Harry's eyes rove over the page. "It must've been in the package in Gringotts," he says thoughtfully. "And when he heard it was about to be stolen, he must've asked Dumbledore to keep it safe for him."

Ananke frowns at that, because things aren't adding up. "But," she says slowly, trying to arrange the runaway train of her thoughts into something resembling a sentence, "if the Elixir it produces has to be drunk once a day, then why has he entrusted it to someone else?"

Harry thinks it over. "He's probably, like, harvested it over time, and now he has a massive store."

Ananke scans the book. It doesn't say that's how the Stone works, but then again it doesn't say it's not. It doesn't say anything about the process of making the Elixir, actually, which is probably best for security reasons, or something.

"I suppose," she replies. "But wouldn't he run out eventually, and then he'd just be normal and -" she checks the book - "six-hundred and sixty-five, which can't be good for your health. And then he'd have to arrange for the Stone to be brought, like, out of its protection, which probably wouldn't be very safe." She swallows back the croak in her throat. There's more she wants to say, a lot more, like about how she doesn't think Snape has the means to rob Gringotts when the Dark Lord couldn't manage at the height of his power, but the words are running away from her again and she can't quite figure out how to shape them.

"It just doesn't seem very practical is all," she finishes, then reconsiders. "But then again, wizards aren't very practical or logical, so I guess what you're saying does make sense after all."

Harry blinks. "Er, okay then -"

"How did you know?" asks Hermione abruptly. Harry's head swings toward her. She's been quiet, fidgeting, eyes fixed onto the stitching of the tablecloth for a while, but now she lifts her head to stare hard at Ananke.

Ananke is rarely startled - the fog in her head is too thick, too heavy, she's too numb for that - but the question confuses her. Largely due to its suddenness, but also Hermione's sharp tone.

"How did you know," Hermione says, more to herself than anyone else, like she's working through a Transfiguration equation, "that chapter seven of my book discussed Nicolas Flamel?" Wheels turn in her head. "You must've read it before Christmas, because it's been locked in my trunk since I've arrived back, and you didn't say anything."

Ananke's chest itches. "I must have forgotten. Like you did."

"I did," Hermione replies, brow creased, eyes narrowed. "And you could've as well, but you knew it was chapter seven. Specifically chapter seven, which tells me the name registered, you knew, and you didn't tell anyone."

To summarise the next ten minutes, they argue - quietly. Hermione is upset about all the needless research time she refuses to admit she has enjoyed, and Harry is angry that she kept this information to herself - as if they really are part of the aforementioned gang of thieves and she's conveniently not mentioned the bomb strapped to their getaway broom - and says some rude things about liars.

Ananke argues back, and says some equally rude but equally true things about people with hero-complexes. "I didn't know he made the Philosopher's Stone," she says, and her voice is a little too strained to be considered even, but she can't catch her breath long enough to fix it. "Just that he's an alchemist."

"But why wouldn't you say that?" demands Harry. Ron keeps quiet.

To be honest, she's not really sure why she didn't. She just knows that she didn't like the look in Harry's eye, or Hermione's or Ron's even, and that she really didn't want to be involved, but she had to be, because now they talk - now they're friends - she's socially obliged to help them. And also… sometimes it just felt like too much effort to open her mouth.

She tells them so - the first thing, that is, not the last. "Because I didn't want you to find out. Because it's not our job to uncover secret dark wizards in the school. It's the Professors' and the Headmaster's, because they're the adults, and they have experience, and they've lived through a war."

All perfectly good points, Ananke thinks to herself, but they don't seem to want to listen. Harry, hot-headed, storms off to somewhere else, and Hermione leaves too, except with less fuss. "I sort of -" she stops and takes a deep breath. "Can we talk, later in the dorm, after I've had time to think?"

Ananke nods and agrees because what else can she do? She does appreciate how Hermione has expressed a desire to talk more. It's very mature of her.

Ron stays, which surprises her; she'd thought he'd have already gone off to follow Harry. She'd also have thought he'd have been more vocal in the argument. Or said anything at all, really. Maybe he's going to scold her now.

He doesn't. Instead, he adopts a grave expression, like the rest of their thieving gang has been killed and now they're the only ones left.

"I get it, you know," he says. "I get what you mean. Well, sort of. I don't think even you completely understand yourself, but I get it."

"Get what?" Ananke asks. Her throat is dry but not hoarse because they've argued in whispers, which she is thankful for. It keeps her voice clear. But not steady, not yet.

"Harry and Hermione aren't like us," Ron begins. "Because they grew up Muggle. It doesn't make a difference with magic, but it does with… with…" He struggles for the right wording.

"It does with culture," she finishes.

"Exactly. They don't really understand the way the world works yet, so it's like we have to help them. And yeah, it's frustrating sometimes," he admits, "but they've got to learn eventually, themselves. The hard way, like how I was bitten by a boomslang when I was six. It was painful and I almost died, which was - y'know, not fun, but I did learn not to poke brightly-coloured reptiles with sticks."

Ananke thinks that, reading between the lines, she knows what Ron is saying. For Harry and Hermione, Harry especially, the rose-tinted glasses, the innocence, the belief in magic haven't quite gone away yet. They find themselves in a magical world of their dreams and think they can be heroes. Except they can't, because the world is cruel and dark and Dark, but they don't know that and they think they can solve adult problems with meagre first-year magic.

The Wizarding World isn't perfect. In fact, it's so imperfect that it makes the Siberian tundra look like a child's playground, not that Ananke's ever been to Siberia. So, they have to learn that the hard way - because not even the eleven year war had clued them into the fact Wizarding Britain was a horrible place - preferably not by getting attacked by a venomous snake, but needs must when the Devil drives. Or whatever the saying is.

***

Hermione forgives her, sort of, but Ananke can tell she hasn't forgotten. Harry doesn't, but it's not as if he completely stops talking to her, he's just... distant.

In the next few weeks, Ananke spends a lot more time with Ron. They have a lot in common, she finds. Well, really only three things: they're both Purebloods, they both suck at Transfiguration, and they both actually know how to play Chess.

They are currently sitting at their table, the one in the far corner of the library, with a black and white chessboard spread out between them. Around then, the library is still, not even a slight breeze wafting through the stacks, and silence presses down on her like a warm blanket, broken only by the occasional piece of advice from a bishop. It's bad advice, too.

Ron wins, as always, and it is only then, as he's packing up the set, that Ananke speaks. "You should join the chess club. I'd bet you could outplay even some of the seventh-years."

"There isn't one," he tells her, looking glum. "Shame - chess is about the only thing I'm good at."

He seems to be looking for reassurance, but Ananke is not a very comforting person - she's just not good at emitting nice person vibes, and the words that's not true, you're good at a lot of things make her feel a little queasy.

She says, "You could make one. Right here, in the library. Play against the older students. Maybe you could get Fred and George to run a betting ring. You'd make a ton of galleons."

Ron shakes his head, but he looks thoughtful. Ananke drops the subject.

It's not quite curfew yet, but it's not so far away from it either, so Ron turns in. She stays behind, because she has a foot-long Transfiguration essay due tomorrow that she hasn't done yet. When she puts her quill to paper, her mind goes blank, and she spends the better part of an hour digging through shelves to find a study to steal lines from.

When she's done tweaking the wording so it doesn't look so obviously plagiarised, she leaves.

It's there she bumps into Neville. Literally. He's running - more like stumbling, really - through the corridor, and trips over his own feet, barrelling into her.

("Bellatrix Lestrange is related to half the Wizarding World. I'd have to be a special kind of hateful to blame you for being her cousin.")

The first thing she thinks to do is ask who's chasing you, Grindelwald or the Dark Lord? But then it occurs to her that the question might be a little insensitive, and she should probably ask if he's alright before any of that, and help him up, which she does.

Neville fills her in before she has to ask anything, which is nice. "Thank you," he gasps. "Malfoy - it's Malfoy - he was going to use the Leg-Locker Curse on me!"

The sentence bounces around a bit on her head before it settles. It's been weird hanging around with the Gryffindors and hearing them refer to her cousin as Malfoy. She and Father have always called him Draco, which is why her first reaction is to wonder why Lucius is at Hogwarts and why he's chasing random eleven-year-olds before common sense kicks in.

"That's terrible," Ananke replies. She was going to say more, she really was, and her next sentence would sound a bit more sympathetic, but then Draco hurtles around the corner, wand drawn and raised, a predatory gleam in his eyes. Instinctively, she moves back into the corner of the corridor, in the shadow of a suit of armour. Neville follows her like a puppet on a string.

"Longbottom," he says, half-singing, "where are you?"

Back pressed against the wall, face white, Neville does not move.

"I was only trying to practise with you. Morgana knows you could use it," he mutters.

There's silence for a moment, but then Draco starts to move towards their little corner. Neville starts to shake. Ananke steps out to face her cousin.

He starts back once he sees her. Awkwardness hangs heavy in the air. It's the first time they've been so close since - since Halloween, maybe. Wow. Has it really been so long?

"Oh," he says. "It's just you."

"Yes," she returns. "Me."

Silence.

"Where are your vassals?" she asks him. They're nowhere in sight, which she finds strange - ever since the year has started, he hasn't spent a moment apart from them.

"Why do you care?" he sneers, wand hanging at his side but not stowed away.

"I don't," she says honestly.

"You should," he snaps. "And you could at least learn their names."

Okay, that's fair. Even Harry and Ron know their names. Ananke recalls something to do with crabs and gargoyles, but it just takes less energy to call them vassals than to actually dredge up memories of their names.

She nods, though, and resolves to make the effort. Then she says, "Why are you hunting Neville Longbottom through the castle?"

His hand - not the one holding the wand - twitches. "Why should I justify myself to you when you'll just take his side?"

"What?" she asks. She feels like it's too passive a question, but why say more when you've already gotten your point across?

"You heard me," Draco says with flintstone eyes. "Don't you remember - at the Quidditch match - you fired a Stinging Hex at me."

"Yes," she agrees, because that undeniably happened. "So? We do that all the time at home."

"So?" he repeats. "You took their side! You - you befriended them when it was the one thing I asked you not to -" he cuts himself off.

There is no need to clarify who them is.

"You didn't actually ask me to do anything."

"It was implied!"

"Regardless, you should not be chasing people, Gryffindor or not, through the castle," Ananke says.

"What, are you friends with him now, too?" Draco says incredulously.

Ananke's not entirely sure what she's supposed to say to that, so she just shrugs.

"For the love of Merlin -" Draco begins. "You know what, you can't actually tell me what to do. I can see Longbottom hiding there - yes, there, behind that suit of armour - so you better move out of the way, or we won't be coming for family dinner over the Summer."

That's funny. "Your mother would never allow you to skip," she says. "Neither would my father."

"Move," says Draco. "Or I'll make you."

It's both more and less amusing. More because Draco's trying to sound menacing, like his father does when trying to make her let him into some of the locked rooms at Grimmauld, but it's not working because a) he's eleven, and b) he's just naturally not scary. Less because now he's raising his wand, resolution set on his face, and if they duel out here, in the middle of some random corridor, someone will definitely find them.

She draws her own wand, which is taped up her sleeve for easy access, and jumps back for distance. "Neville, go."

Scuffling. "Are you - are you sure?"

"Yes," she says, a bit more harshly than she meant to.

"Oh. Okay," Neville replies, sounding immensely relieved.

He does. Ananke waits for the sound of his footsteps to fade before speaking again.

"No," she tells him. "We'll get in trouble." She hopes he can read between the lines.

Draco's eyes never leave hers. "For what, cousin?" He laughs, a solitary puff of air escaping his mouth. "The wards are down."

He means the wards to detect dark magic. They don't work in the dungeons because the ground is so saturated with it down there that no-one notices a little bit extra being done. It's like pouring a bucketful of water into the ocean.

But they do work everywhere else in the castle. At least they did, before Christmas, because now they're turned off. It must've been for the mirror, she thinks. Dumbledore brought them down so the mirror could stay in the castle.

Ananke had felt it. A subtle lessening of pressure on her spine. Apparently Draco had, too. She'd been hoping he hadn't.

"Lanio," he whispers. Vein-Rupturing Curse. A jet of violet light shoots from his wand, and the duel begins.

***

In the aftermath, so about twenty minutes later, both of them are panting and exhausted; they've been at it a long time for first-years, and as neither of them have the magical output to muster shield spells yet, that's twenty minutes they've spent wildly jumping out of the way of each other's spells. 

Draco's mainly stuck to Rupturers, which, in terms of all the dark magic he could've used, is pretty low-level; he doesn't actually want to hurt her all that much. He's only hit her once, with a Lacero that tore through her robes on her left arm. The cut is shallow and bleeding only lightly, but it stings every time she moves.

Draco is similarly unscathed, though judging by the way his hand keeps twitching towards it, his ear is affected by the Adoria pain curse that clipped him. It is, like Lanio, one of the tamer curses Ananke could have chosen - she knows, from a lot of miscasts when she was learning it, that Adoria only causes mild throbbing which fades within a couple hours.

Expression dramatically contorted, the drama queen, Draco, still gulping in lungfuls of air, raises his wand with a trembling arm.

"No," sighs Ananke. "We both know you couldn't manage anything more taxing than a Lumos."

Grumbling, Draco concedes. He seems less full of pent-up anger now.

Ananke does not allow the silence to stretch for very long. "We should clean up now."

Draco says, "Yes, your robes are covered in blood -"

"No. I meant the corridor," she interrupts, and points to the wall behind him where a tapestry hangs, half-burned from one of her stray fire spells. Whoops.

Behind her, she knows that the suit of armour now has a rather nasty black mark across its chest plate. Curse residue.

Ananke thanks Morgana that no Professor's walked by this corridor, because if they did both she and her cousin would be half-way to Azkaban by now. Unless it was Snape. Probably.

"Oh," says Draco.

"Yes," she agrees.

"Alright then," he starts, lurching to his feet. "All the Professors are on the first floor right now. I think the Weasley Terrors released a bunch of dungbombs everywhere." His face turns pinched. "They're even smellier than usual."

Ananke's lips twitch upwards, not enough for Draco to notice, but enough for her to feel before she controls her expression.

"Anyway, we don't have long," he continues. "I'll Scourgify the - everything. You clean the tapestry."

She blinks once. Twice. Deliberately. "There's a gaping hole in the middle of it. How, exactly, am I supposed to clean it?"

"I don't know!" he snaps.

For a few seconds, Ananke thinks hard. "Burn the rest," she decides.

While Draco does whatever, she just breathes out, "Incendio," and watches as flames spread from the bottom of the tapestry to the top until it is nothing but a pile of ash. A quick Scourgify later and there is no evidence that it ever existed.

Draco pats down his robes, eyes flicking to her sleeve, which is now stained alarmingly red. "You should get that looked at," he says, which is the closest thing to an apology he'll ever offer.

In response, Ananke looks at him. "It's shallow. I'll just use a Ferula."

He nods and turns to go, but something suddenly urges Ananke to say something, anything more.

"Draco," she tells him before he leaves. "They may be my friends, but you are my cousin. Family." Her chest itches. "Friends come and go, but family doesn't -" She breathes in. Out. "Family doesn't."

Their eyes meet across the corridor. Black and grey. Onyx and stone. Gryffindor and Slytherin. Ananke and Draco.

"Yes," he says. "I know that." His eyes flicker to the side. "See you."

"Yes."

He hurries away.

***

Harry's warming up to her again. She hadn't really been keeping much from him, anyway, just that Nicolas Flamel was an alchemist. There was more information about him on Dumbledore's chocolate frog card, as they soon discover. Or at least, that's how she imagined he sees it.

Besides, he has bigger things to worry about. Like the fact Snape's refereeing the upcoming Gryffindor-Hufflepuff Quidditch match.

"Say you're ill," Hermione insists.

Ron takes a more drastic approach and spends half of Transfiguration trying to convince Harry to break his own leg before McGonagall shuts him up with a look.

"I can't get out of it," Harry says at last. "Gryffindor doesn't have a reserve Seeker. If I don't play, none of us can."

Ananke's still not convinced it's Snape they have to worry about, but she's not completely sure it isn't and hey, better safe than sorry, right? She tells him not to worry. "He can't very well curse you in the middle of the match. I've heard Dumbledore's going to watch it."

This seems to cheer Harry up.

Ananke knows she's forgiven when in the next lesson, Defense, Harry asks her what she'd do with a Philosopher's Stone if she could take the Elixir or make gold.

Ron says he'd buy a Quidditch team of his own and immediately launches into a lecture about the net worth of the Chudley Cannons, which is unsurprisingly very low.

"I'd take the Elixir," admits Hermione. "Think of everything I could learn if I had an eternity." Her eyes turn misty.

"Right," says Ananke. "Well -" she halts and actually thinks about what she wants to answer. She taps her fingers on the desk. Once. Twice. The bandage on her arm creases.

"I'd use it to make some gold," she settles on, "and buy a cabin in the mountains, where nobody could ever bother me. Then I'd bury it in the ground."

Hermione smiles, fondly. "That does sound like something you'd do. But you really don't want to live forever?"

Ananke shrugs. She preferred the sound of eternal peace.

On the day of the Quidditch match, Harry is a bundle of nerves. But Dumbledore is there as expected, and all the fuss turns out to be for nothing though, as it is apparent the Gryffindor Quidditch team is in danger of nothing but a few unsolicited penalties.

Draco catches her eye in the stands, his vassals - no, Crabbe and Goyle on either side of him. He makes a rude gesture Narcissa would smack him for and then points at Harry. Ananke sticks up her middle finger right back at him.

The Hufflepuff section cheers as Snape awards their team another penalty for no reason. Lee Jordan yells his outrage into the speaker before McGonagall chastises him for foul language. Ananke mainly thinks it's funny to see Snape perched on a broom. He looks so out of place it's ridiculous. 

"Let's hope it ends soon," Hermione says anxiously. "Before Snape can do anything."

Neville, who has for some reason tagged along, shoots her a perturbed glance.

The match ends about a minute later when Harry dives to the ground, robes flapping behind him. His trajectory takes him to Snape, missing the Professor by inches, past the stands, dive growing steeper until it's almost vertical -

He catches the Snitch.

"Poor Professor Snape," Ananke says blandly, amongst the roaring crowd. "He keeps getting attacked at Gryffindor Quidditch matches. First set on fire, then dive-bombed." Ron snorts. "Something really terrible must be going to happen to him during the next."

"Let's hope it does," says Ron. "Miserable cheating git."

They make their way down to the pitch to congratulate Harry, who looks flushed with pleasure, green eyes emerald bright.

After the match, however, Harry is nowhere to be found. The three of them spend about five seconds looking around the pitch before they collectively decide to wait for him in their warm common room, away from the February chill.

The eleven-year-old of the hour comes bounding in when the after-party is in full swing, looking equal parts excited and pensive. Ananke recognises the look in his eye. This has something to do with Flamel.

"We were right!" he hisses as soon as he sits down. Then he stops. "Let's go somewhere private."

He ushers them into the boys' dorm. Ananke, Hermione and Ron all plop themselves down on Neville's bed while Harry paces the length of the room.

"I just overheard Snape threatening Quirrell!" he says without preamble.

"Why?" says Hermione.

"When?" says Ron.

"How?" asks Ananke.

"I'm getting to that!"

Right. So.

The Philosopher's Stone really is being stashed in the school, Snape wants Quirrell to help him get it, and he needs to know how to get past Fluffy.

"I reckon all the Professors did a bunch of enchantments on the Stone," Harry theorises, "and Quirrell probably would've done some anti-Dark spell."

Ananke decides to ignore the fact there is no such thing as an anti-Dark spell.

Alarmed, Hermione says, "So the Stone's safe so long as Quirrell stands up to Snape?" 

"That's what it looks like," Harry sighs.

Well, this is pretty damning, but Ananke's still not convinced it's Snape who's after the Stone. Maybe she's blind, but it doesn't feel right; Snape's acerbic, not malicious.

"Have you ever heard of confirmation bias?" she asks suddenly.

"What?" says Harry.

"Just checking," she mumbles.

The conversation devolves into a bit of a freak-out session, in which murder is discussed more than once but telling an adult is never mentioned. Deep in her heart, Ananke sighs, knowing that, as the only one in the quartet with common sense, she'll have to stay at Hogwarts again over Easter.