Chapter 55 - Rising to the Surface

"I didn't expect it. When I thought about who I should talk to about these things, you were the only person who came to mind. Even though you're a Slytherin. Even though we're not that close."

Hermione Granger's eyes were faintly red, her expression pained.

Praeris shook her head. "Granger, you can talk to me. And everything we say here stays locked in my heart."

She said softly, "Miss, do you know what is the strongest and most fragile thing in the world? The softest and the sharpest?"

"What?" Hermione looked at her.

Praeris's voice was gentle, but the words were firm. "Emotion. When a person is willing to give their true heart, emotion is soft, and indestructible. When a person is determined to take it back, emotion is more fragile than a glass bottle, and sharper than broken glass."

"Thankfully, our acquaintance didn't begin with even a shred of that. We built our relationship on each other's ability. We exchange knowledge, and perhaps someday we'll exchange favors, but we won't talk about feelings. As long as we still have our own clever brains, what's between us will be indestructible."

The wind off the terrace made Hermione shiver. "That sounds terribly cold."

Praeris drew a handkerchief from her pocket and held it out, smiling gently. "But at least it won't make you sad. Right?"

She waited until Hermione had composed herself before she spoke again. "So. What's troubling you, Miss Granger?"

"A lot. About Harry. About Ron."

Praeris nodded. "You can't share your feelings with them, because they're exactly the ones making you unhappy."

"It's more than that. I have other Gryffindor friends, but Parvati and Lavender can't understand certain things. I mean, they're lovely, but it's complicated."

"Let's hear it, then." Praeris smiled. "Don't tell me Crookshanks actually bit Scabbers? If so, you'd better move fast — let me brew something strong before that rat drops dead."

Hermione shook her head quickly. "It's not that, though that matters too. I really do think something is very wrong with Scabbers. The shopkeeper at the Magical Menagerie said rats don't live past three years. That rat was inherited by Ron from Percy, and he has definitely lived longer than three years."

Praeris turned it over and began to work through it. "There are several possibilities. First: he's some kind of magical creature. There is indeed a magical creature that resembles a rat — the Niffler — but a Niffler has a long snout. Oh. Your expression just gave me the answer. He doesn't."

"Exactly. I've considered that." Hermione picked up the thread. "And he doesn't have any magical abilities to speak of."

Talking with someone clever was something else entirely. They could follow each other's thinking without needing to stop and explain.

"Then, second: he drank some kind of life-extending potion that strengthened his body. It wouldn't be the liquid produced by the Philosopher's Stone — that doesn't last without regular replenishment, and the effect wouldn't simply fortify his constitution like that. Oh. That's not it either, apparently."

Hermione nodded. "He looks very weak."

"Then we're left with the last possibility: he's not a rat at all. Have you considered it? An Animagus." Praeris's tone edged toward sharp. "I heard you barely got through that lesson because Professor McGonagall had to comfort Potter's fragile heart after the prophecy."

Hermione said miserably, "Don't. He's been having a hard time. Tell me about the Animagus — what's your thinking? How could someone pretend to be a rat for so many years? It's just too unbelievable!"

"It's an extraordinarily advanced form of Transfiguration, allowing a witch or wizard to take animal form. It sounds like you've already worked that out." Praeris paused. "But, Miss, can you think of any other possibility? When every other possibility has been ruled out, what remains is the only truth."

Hermione went quiet. She still couldn't seem to accept it.

"That's all right." Praeris said. "All you need is to keep a seed of doubt. That will make you the clear-headed one among them, the one who can warn them in time. Besides, even if we're right, there's no way to force him back into his original form. The magic required to compel a reversion demands far more power than either of us has. Now. The other problem?"

"This stays between us, doesn't it? The same way I'm keeping the truth about that letter." Hermione held her gaze.

Praeris met her eyes without hesitation and nodded.

Hermione sighed, chose the parts she could say, and told Praeris about the Firebolt.

"I believe completely that what I did was right," she said. "But Harry was furious. He'd lost his Nimbus 2000, and the Firebolt was such an enormous surprise for him."

Praeris nodded. "You were sharp. Sirius Black is the only person with both the means and the motive to do something like that. He may still feel guilt over James Potter, and be trying to settle his conscience this way."

She continued, "You were right. So there's nothing to be upset about. Sometimes the right thing isn't understood by most people. If we can see nine, most people can only see seven."

"So those people will question us. That isn't their fault. It isn't ours either. There's simply a two-step gap between them and us. Harry will understand you someday. A broomstick is not worth more than his life."

Hermione hesitated. "Do you think Sirius Black really did betray Harry's parents?"

Praeris shook her head. "I reserve judgment. But Peter Pettigrew really did end up with only one finger. Unless Peter Pettigrew is still alive and it was he who betrayed Potter's parents, Sirius Black can only be the sole culprit."

"I've never heard anyone reason it that way." Hermione looked at her with something like surprise.

"The path to that possibility is complicated to explain. But once you arrive there, it somehow doesn't seem strange at all."

The terrace was getting very cold. Hermione stamped her feet.

"You're a very unusual Slytherin," she said. "Different from every Slytherin I've met. They seem... very arrogant. And very stupid. Sorry."

Praeris smiled. "You're a very unusual Gryffindor. Different from every Gryffindor I've met. They seem very reckless, always acting before thinking, which makes you genuinely wonder if their brains are ninety percent brand new."

Hermione looked at that smile and laughed.

In all of Slytherin, Praeris was the only one who had stayed for the new year. The school was hollow and empty. She picked up her research materials again and planted herself in the Potions classroom, determined to grow some results out of the silence.

It was a good opportunity. No one needed the classroom. She could sit in front of a cauldron from morning till night without anyone asking questions.

The experiment crept forward. Going from zero to one had never been hard for Praeris, she only needed to get her hands moving. But going from ninety to one hundred was a different world.

Before, she'd been able to test the effects through simulation, and Professor Snape would judge whether she was on the right track.

Now every tiny difference was enormous. That rough-and-ready method, the one that reliably earned her a scolding, wouldn't do anymore. So she made a bold move: she knocked on Professor Lupin's door.

When Lupin opened it, he found that black-haired, black-eyed Slytherin girl. Her left hand held up a round-bottomed flask. "Professor, would you be willing to help me with something?"

Not having class, Lupin wasn't particularly particular about his appearance these days, but being seen in such a disheveled state by a student still made him flush with embarrassment. He'd thought it was a fellow teacher at the door.

His embarrassment didn't last long. It gave way to shock. Complete, unparalleled shock.

He had too many questions.

How does she know I'm a werewolf, Snape never told me!

She's actually researching the Wolfsbane Potion, Snape never told me that either!

She wants to use me as a test subject, Snape, did you know about this?!

Praeris met his stare calmly. "Rest assured, Professor Lupin. It's quite safe. My earlier version has already been reviewed by the professor. Professor Snape, I mean. He thought there wasn't much of a problem with it."

Lupin's expression collapsed into pure resignation. "All right, all right, Prince. You're an extraordinarily gifted girl in Potions, I'll give you that. But you certainly didn't tell him you were planning to come to me, did you? Because he would absolutely have put a stop to it."

"Oh, that. No, I didn't." Praeris was utterly unconcerned. "But the full moon is still a long way off, isn't it, Professor?"

Lupin could not find a single reason to send her away. He let her in with a long-suffering look and frowned at her.

"Here's what I propose, child." Lupin said. "Your professor has evidently approved your level of work, and I'll cooperate with your experiment. But in return, you must tell me how you figured out I was a werewolf."

Praeris blinked at him. "Hm? That's quite simple. You're full of holes."

Lupin went still. The words rang in his head, over and over.

You're full of holes.

About 18 years ago, someone had said those exact words to him: "Prefect, it's really far too simple. You're full of holes."

Lupin had become Gryffindor prefect in his fifth year. Anyone who had watched Percy struggle with his younger brothers and little Harry could imagine exactly how difficult those days had been for Lupin.

Dumbledore had held high hopes for him, believing he could manage everything. But James and Sirius were not so easy to keep in line.

He'd been run completely ragged back then, simultaneously managing the wild Gryffindor lions, enduring his good friends who insisted on joining him through the full moon nights (he was truly, deeply grateful for that), and putting up with Snape, who would not leave him alone.

But before Snape, someone else had discovered his secret. Sylvia Prince, a third-year Gryffindor student. An unremarkable girl.

Sylvia was a clever witch. Lupin had never understood why she'd stayed so invisible before, or why she'd had no interest in his secret until that particular year, only to walk right up and expose it.

Fortunately, Sylvia was a Gryffindor, and she was very tolerant of biodiversity. Those were her exact words.

Sylvia had said cheerfully, "Dear Prefect, compared to those barbaric brothers of yours, you're a decent sort. Of course I can keep this little furry secret. But you should know, taking leave every few days around the full moon is, to a certain pitch-black fluttering moth, as obvious as a lamp in the dark."

Prince. Prince...

But this didn't add up. Lupin couldn't work it out. First, Praeris didn't look like Sylvia. She was far prettier than Sylvia had been at school. The only explanation was that she took more after her father. Second, her surname was Prince. If Sylvia had married, British tradition meant her daughter would carry the father's name.

So Lupin asked carefully, "Perhaps this is a presumptuous question, but it's somewhat necessary for me. May I ask who your parents are?"

Praeris frowned. "Oh, right, you came late, so you wouldn't know. I don't hold that against you. The Headmaster, Professor McGonagall, Madam Sprout, and Professor Snape all know, I believe. It stopped needing to be hidden a long time ago." She paused. "I'm an orphan. I don't know who my parents are."

"I'm so sorry." Lupin felt the guilt of it immediately. "I agree to your experiment. And I hope very much that you can develop an affordable Wolfsbane Potion. It would make life considerably easier for werewolves who can't afford the current price."

Afterward, Lupin planned to write a letter to Sylvia Prince's closest friend from their school days, Winnie Brown of Ravenclaw.

Professor Lupin's cooperation was a gift. Praeris's progress accelerated sharply. She was certain she could produce a qualified Wolfsbane Potion before the new term began.

No. 12, Darkmoon Alley.

Winnie did indeed receive Lupin's letter. She also thought Remus Lupin had lost his mind. Who exactly was the novelist here, her, Winnie, or him?

About two years ago, Dumbledore had come to her, hoping she could help keep an eye on a Slytherin girl.

Winnie refused without thinking twice. Never mind that she had absolutely no desire to look after a child, in the past 20 or 30 years, she had barely met a handful of Slytherins she could even marginally tolerate. Lucius Malfoy and his snobbery deserved a slap, and her former employer Voldemort deserved 18 slaps in a row.

But Dumbledore had been genuinely sincere, and he told her about his conversation with that Slytherin girl in front of the portrait of Muggle Talia.

Unhurriedly, Dumbledore said, "Winnie, she stands at a turning point. She has extraordinary intelligence and tremendous talent, and yet there is no one to guide her, no parents to show her the way. That will shape the person she becomes. Whether she grows a kind and compassionate heart, or, "

"You always make sense!" Winnie wrapped herself in a blanket and rolled back and forth on the sofa, shouting impatiently. "Fine, just leave the whole mess of raising a child to me, you sweet, sticky, terrible old man! What's her name, and where do I find her!"

➤ Next: Winnie's Memories — Tears Unshed