Chapter 120 - Enlightenment — Words Unspoken

Time raced by, drifting away as silently as passing clouds, never to return.

The holidays were over, yet plenty of people were still savoring the last traces of Christmas.

"Every time I see a candy cane," Pansy said mournfully, "I think about my dearly departed holiday."

Using "departed" for a holiday. That one word captured the full depth of Pansy's grief.

Praeris leaned closer to Millicent. "Would you like some honey water?"

Millicent shook her head, slow and wooden. "No."

A trace of worry crept into Praeris's gaze. "You're not very happy."

Millicent forced herself to rally. "Maybe it's — post-holiday syndrome? Pansy has it too."

Millicent's situation and Pansy's looked nothing alike.

But Praeris said nothing, considerately leaving Millicent space to work through whatever she was feeling.

Every break, without fail, Millicent came back like this. A stretch of quiet unhappiness, worn like a second skin.

Other people were unhappy mourning the end of their holiday. Millicent couldn't wait for it to be over.

She and her mother, Mrs. Bulstrode, always had so many irreconcilable disagreements.

Mrs. Bulstrode felt she had given birth to this daughter for nothing. Millicent wasn't clever enough. Wasn't devoted enough to the Dark Lord. Wasn't pure enough.

Millicent thought her mother had something wrong with her brain. She didn't think there was anything wrong with herself, and she had no interest in chasing wisdom beyond her own abilities. As for championing the Dark Lord's cause, she had no desire for that either.

Compared to the Dark Lord's grand ambitions and superhuman intellect, Millicent would rather spend her time with friends. Become an ordinary Quidditch commentator. Something simple. Something hers.

"I think, before I'm her daughter, I'm still myself," Millicent had once confided in Praeris. "I've suffered enough torment because of her. I resisted coming to Slytherin. I didn't want to become the next her. But I... I'm her daughter, in the end. She gave birth to me. That's what I owe her."

The Sorting Hat had wanted to put her in Gryffindor, Millicent said. But she had begged it to make her a Slytherin.

"From the moment I was born, I carried the debt I owe her, simply because she is my mother," Millicent said, voice strained. "The Sorting Hat said I had a spirit of defiance. But I don't think I do. If I did, I wouldn't have become a Slytherin."

"You won't tell anyone, will you?" Millicent said. "The Sorting Hat said it respected my wishes. And I don't regret coming here. Not when I have a friend like you."

Now that the Dark Lord had returned... Praeris thought, Mrs. Bulstrode must be falling over herself to serve as his foot soldier.

Praeris sighed. She didn't know how to help Millicent.

As long as Mrs. Bulstrode was alive, this was a problem with no solution. Millicent couldn't bring herself to betray her mother. Couldn't bring herself to obey her either.

If Mrs. Bulstrode had been wholly, simply evil, maybe Millicent wouldn't suffer so much.

But Mrs. Bulstrode sometimes genuinely believed she was acting in Millicent's best interest. Believed that following Voldemort was a path toward a brighter future.

"Be smarter, Millicent," Mrs. Bulstrode liked to say. "If you stay this dull, how will you grow stronger? How will you gain the master's favor? How will you become better?"

Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.

"Can you guarantee a Weasley won't suddenly appear on your end?" Praeris asked through the two-way mirror.

"I can't guarantee it," Hermione said, helpless. "But I don't have a better place to go."

She couldn't exactly run off to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom too, could she? The two of them would get caught by Umbridge together.

Hermione gave a quick rundown of what had happened over the Christmas holidays: Arthur Weasley, from the attack to his rescue. Harry's scar and the broken dreamcatcher. Sirius's self-imposed seclusion. And the Occlumency lessons scheduled to begin that very evening.

"A dreamcatcher?" Praeris said, surprised. "That thing actually works?"

"It does," Hermione said. "The effect is modest, but it's pulled Harry out of nightmares more than once."

Praeris shook her head. "Pity I don't have more raw materials. Otherwise I'd make Potter eight or ten of them."

"What!" Hermione's mouth fell open. "You can make dreamcatchers?"

"Hermione," Praeris said, perfectly matter-of-fact. "I'm the one who made it."

Hermione stared. "No, I mean, why did you give Harry a dreamcatcher in the first place?"

"Ron Weasley being wary of me is perfectly normal," Praeris said, unfazed. "I'm the one who told Professor Snape about you raising a Norwegian Ridgeback."

"Huh?" Hermione went completely still.

"Raising a dragon would have burned Hogwarts down," Praeris said seriously. "And I still want to go to school."

Hermione lowered her head. "I tried to advise Hagrid —"

"But he never changes." Praeris shrugged. "I'm always demanding Draco do something productive, and it never does much good either. Anyway, I was very naive in first year. Some simple ideas, some simple guilt. Hence the dreamcatcher."

"Could you —" Hermione's eyes lit up. "Could you make more?"

"The materials are mistletoe, elder wood, and Occamy feathers," Praeris said. "The first two are easy enough. But where exactly would one find Occamy feathers?"

"Besides," Praeris narrowed her eyes, "based on what you've described, the dreamcatcher is already barely useful. The connection between the Dark Lord and Potter is growing tighter. A crude dreamcatcher can't block that. Rather than relying on outside help, he should focus on actually learning Occlumency."

"Harry is very resistant to Professor Snape's teaching —" Hermione said, dejected.

Praeris cut her off. "Hermione. In this life we resist plenty of things. Feeling resistant doesn't mean we get to avoid doing them."

She gave a cold laugh. "Frankly, I'm resistant to being in the same camp as Weasley and Potter."

"I resist Weasley's endless suspicion. But I tell myself, he's a Gryffindor. His uncle died at the hands of Death Eaters. He hates Slytherin. There's nothing to be done about that."

"I resist Potter's endless soft-heartedness, his hesitation, his temper. But I tell myself his situation is genuinely difficult. Everyone hits a point where their endurance runs out. The helplessness of reality and the Dark Lord pressing into his mind, that would make anyone miserable."

"Even you, Hermione." Praeris paused. "There are things I'd rather not explain, like right now. But I have to. For the sake of our cooperation. For the sake of what we're working toward."

Hermione opened her mouth. "I didn't realize —"

She hadn't realized Praeris carried so many grievances about the three of them.

But Hermione wasn't the type to get mired in feelings. If Praeris's reasoning held, she could accept it.

"Praeris, I understand," Hermione said. "It's raining. To stay dry, I can hold an umbrella. I can shelter under the eaves. But I can't demand the sky stop raining."

The only thing one could change was oneself. Harry either accepted that he had to learn Occlumency from Snape, or he accepted the Dark Lord using his mind like a back garden.

The latter was not an option.

"I'll try to convince Harry," Hermione said, the words coming out with effort. "At least make it easier for him to accept."

"As for Sirius..." She sighed. "Before, he had Professor Brown at headquarters to 'do time' with him. They couldn't stand each other, argued constantly, but at least it was lively."

"Now it's just Sirius there alone," Hermione said. "His mood is never good."

"In first year," Praeris said evenly, "when Millicent found out there were people in Gryffindor who had taken even longer than her to learn the Levitation Charm, she was thrilled. A cellmate is always better than being alone."

"How did you brush it off last time?" Praeris asked.

"Am I not allowed to accept a gift from a pen pal?" Hermione said, with an edge to her voice. "The most ridiculous part is that Ron actually thought I was talking to Viktor."

"He likes you," Praeris said. The shortest sentence. The most explosive content.

Hermione shook her head, something bitter in her expression. "I don't think he has romantic feelings for me. Maybe he just thinks I shouldn't like anyone else."

"Possessiveness is also a form of liking," Praeris said. "Or do you prefer Krum?"

"Huh?" Hermione blinked. "We're just pen pals. We exchange academic topics, local customs, things like that."

"The desire to share is also a form of liking." A smile touched the corner of Praeris's mouth. "Draco chatters on and on to me about his life constantly. Sometimes he's noisier than a Cornish Pixie."

"Hermione, do you remember what Professor Victor used to say?" Praeris's voice softened. "If we want to live without regrets, we have to respect the rules of the game called life. To feel, to experience, to let things happen."

Hermione blinked. "You mean,"

"Winnie and the others always said life is a journey, and love is the stranger you meet along the way." Praeris's tone turned light, almost cheerful. "Hermione, don't be stingy about having a romance on this trip. Whether it's Weasley or Krum, if you're willing, go for it. Feel what it's like to love and to be loved."

"I actually think there's nothing wrong with Krum," Praeris added, with just a hint of partiality. "He has good taste, rather like me. He noticed your excellence before you ever tried to put yourself on display."

Hermione laughed despite herself. "Are you praising Viktor or praising yourself?"

"Miss Granger," Praeris said, without the slightest reserve. "I'm praising you."

After the conversation, Hermione's mood was noticeably better. She tucked away the two-way mirror and went to find Harry.

The next morning's breakfast was a Welsh specialty: laverbread oat pancakes.

Praeris walked over and sat beside Millicent. "Are today's pancakes not good?"

Millicent's face was pale. She handed Praeris a newspaper, her smile stiff and forced. "Look."

Draco leaned in from nearby, caught the headline at a glance, and flicked the paper with one finger. "What wonderful news," he said, looking pleased. "Isn't it?"

Praeris focused on keeping her breathing steady. Not one tremble. Not one crack.

10 high-security prisoners had escaped from Azkaban. All Death Eaters.

Even though Sirius had been exonerated, the Ministry wasted no time pinning the blame on him.

The Ministry's theory: Peter Pettigrew's earlier escape had very likely been orchestrated by Sirius to clear his own name.

Pettigrew had fled before standing trial. Sirius was not, in the truest sense, innocent.

Sirius was very likely the Dark Lord's servant all along. Poor Pettigrew had probably died in some forgotten corner, unable to tell anyone the truth.

And this breakout? Almost certainly Sirius, coordinating from outside to receive his cousin Bellatrix Lestrange.

To shift the blame, the Ministry and Fudge had thrown every trick they had at the wall. Someone who didn't know better might think Rita Skeeter had possessed the lot of them.

They had completely forgotten that Bellatrix Lestrange was also Narcissa Malfoy's own sister.

Praeris set down the newspaper and turned her attention back to her laverbread oat pancake. Calm. Steady. As if nothing had happened.

But everyone knew. Everything had changed.

Voldemort's loyal followers were free. The Death Eater forces were resurging. The Order of the Phoenix would find the road ahead harder with every passing day.

After the diary, there was the diadem. After the diadem, what came next? If the Horcruxes were without end, how could this war ever be won? When would it stop?

Praeris had no answers. Neither did Dumbledore, when she had asked him where the far shore of victory lay.

He only told her to believe in the power of love.

Did she not love her family enough?

And what had love changed?

All she could see was her happiness receding, piece by piece. Winnie. Ms. Pulley. Professor Snape.

Reason told her that Horcruxes were soul magic, and a soul could not be split without limit.

Emotion answered back: and what exactly is that limit?

1, 2, 3, 4, 5 is a limit. 100, 1,000, those are limits too. Aren't they?

What Praeris swallowed felt nothing like a laverbread oat pancake. It felt like a solid block of ice.

Cold spread through her chest, down her throat, through her stomach, into her bones. She couldn't quite stop the shiver.

Behind her, Draco was talking excitedly to Crabbe about something.

People's joys and sorrows don't reach each other. But this was the path she had chosen. No matter how much it cost her, she would carry it alone.

"I saw it!" Hermione's voice came urgent through the two-way mirror. "I saw the reports, what's wrong with you?"

"Unhappy," Praeris said, perfectly calm. "Everyone has unhappy moments, Miss Granger."

"Your unhappy face is something special," Hermione said. "I thought you'd just come back from killing someone."

"Let's keep the commentary to a minimum," Praeris said, cool and flat.

"Listen, Praeris, there's no time for this!" Hermione's voice sharpened with something that sounded almost like confidence. "Like you said, everything that happens can become a tool we use. The Ministry has just played a spectacularly terrible hand."

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