After docking her phone into its solar charging cradle on her dormitories window sill - tucked stealthily between pot plants - Sariah made her way up for a late dinner. She sat down, the bench warm from its previous inhabitant, and dished a selection of leafy greens onto her plate. If the London Incident had been addressed at all, Sariah saw no evidence of it. The great hall was loud and vibrant; candles bobbed carelessly overhead as if floating on an invisible tide. The discord between what she'd seen on the internet, and the padded version the Daily Prophet had presented left her immensely perturbed. Even the Professors finishing their meals at the front of the hall seemed surreally complacent. She nudged the beetroot around in pink circles on her plate. In accordance with tradition, Peeves burst through the hall periodically, blowing immature raspberries, launching pickled salamander hearts at Valentines couples, or lobbing them into the serving platters that ran the length of each of the tables.

A suspicious red blob rested on the salad platter in front of her. Sariah gave her plate a scrutinizing stare before declaring it salamander free. She glanced idly across the hall, and spotted Scorpius attacking his mashed potatoes as if they had mortally wronged him. He caught her gaze and scowled. The disdain in his icy blue eyes shocked her, stinging a thousand times worse than fending off Rachel's spells. What had she done to him? She noticed with shock that one of Peeves' gifts had made it onto her plate after all. Feeling uncharacteristically not hungry, she left her plate stacked with food, and retreated to the common room.

Inside, the fire burnt heartily and candles flickered on each of the study tables that were nestled around the edges of the common room. She was reminded again of Bilbo Baggins' burrow, definable by comfort. There were a few new couples too, sprawled out on beanbags by the fireplace. Sariah resolved to catch up on the exponentially growing mountains of homework that had crept up on her during past two days. Noticing an empty desk tucked in the corner, she slung her jacket over the plush armchair and rushed to get her bag. The chair settled around her as she sat down and opened her books.

She stared at the yellowed pages of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Five, willing herself to absorb the incantations and wand complex wand movements. When the words swam uselessly above the page, she took a break, re-knotting her dreads off her face and watching the ivy that stretched out over the walls, its leaves fluttering in a nonexistent breeze. Hour of study later, she was still hunched over the desk, black ink splattered the bottom of her left hand, evidence of her efforts. The common room had gradually quietened down, the fire burnt down to red embers. She rubbed her eyes, and reclined in the arm chair. It was so comfortable that she was tempted to nod off right there. Out of nowhere, someone tapped her on the shoulder. Sariah flinched. She spun around.

But it wasn't a ghost, monster, or demon, like the panicked thoughts that had initially flooded her mind (maybe she was a bit too invested in Supernatural). It was her silent dorm-mate and prefect, Morgan. Sariah wondered briefly when exactly she had returned from her extended break. They hadn't so much as run into each other in their shared bathroom. Morgan raised a thin eyebrow and passed her a small scroll of paper, before slipping back into the shadows.

Hesitant, Sariah unrolled the scroll, but it was only a reminder for her Careers Advice session with Professor Weatherby. Her stomach flipped. She'd cast it entirely from her mind. The idea of meeting with the head of Hufflepuff house outside of the only class she was genuinely good at was daunting. Don't be ridiculous, she thought. He was obviously aware of her fundamentally undesirable performance. He was the one who'd sent the warning letters to her parents, after all. But what career could he offer her with grades like hers? The meeting was scheduled tomorrow, during potions. That was a small miracle. She looked down at her book, and realized that if she tried to absorb any more information that evening, she'd end up feeding it to the fire in a rage. She rolled up the half-finished scroll she was working on, neatly tagged her homework scroll, and slumped off to the dormitory.

She caught another glimpse of Morgan tying her sleek black hair into a low ponytail as she prepared for bed. As a prefect, chaser, and Gobstones champion, Morgan spent hardly any time in their dormitory. The only evidence of her existence at all were her four-poster bed's curtains, which seemed to draw themselves in the evenings, and occasionally her glasses when they were left on her bedside table. With the Hufflepuff vs. Slytherin game coming up, her quidditch practises had doubled. Sariah didn't follow the game at all. It seemed preposterous to leave everything up to one tiny gold ball and a seeker, but Morgan's wall was plastered with Japan's National Team, the players speeding through a sky inundated with cherry blossoms.

Britta jumped up as Sariah closed the door after her, the rabbits on her pajamas hopping about in excitement. "James Potter asked you out?" she squealed. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Sariah almost choked in surprise. "I'm sorry, what?"

"That's where you got your Valentine's chocolates from! You sneaky minx; Morgan was just telling us. Now you don't have to spend your weekends hiding away with him all to yourself."

She couldn't shake her head fast enough, and tried not to glare at Morgan. She hadn't seen her anywhere that morning. Slim and petite, Morgan was like a shadow, the fact that she charmed her shoes with 'Silencio' fortnightly might have had something to do with it too. 

"You're being ridiculous." Sariah protested."I just happened to run into him, that's all. Besides, he had enough chocolate to feed half the castle." She saw the glow in Britta's cheeks and realized more evasive action was needed. Sariah sighed. She quite liked being left alone, and this Valentine's business was doing her head in. She thought she was pretty boring to them already, but boring people didn't get asked questions or dragged into unwarranted drama. Besides, it was Scorpius, not her, who was acting all rude and frigid. Thank goodness it would all be done with by tomorrow. "They were pity chocolates, I'm certain," she asserted, blowing out the candles around their room.

*

Early the next morning, she scratched out a quick letter to her parents, and rushed across the chilly courtyard to the owlery. If they weren't willing to tie a portable sander to an owl, maybe they'd consider sending her copies of The London Times? She wanted to keep an eye on the events unravelling in London, by any means possible. While others at Hogwarts might look down on the ''Muggle News', she trusted it much more than the Prophet's alternative. Even if it meant reading the papers one day late. As dawn teased itself over the Horizon, it caught on the flashing gold of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, hard at work. Sariah hurried back to the castle, her fingers stuffed in her pockets.

In Muggle Studies on Friday, they discussed an old dystopian trilogy, The Hunger Games. Sariah hadn't even opened the book this time, but she'd consulted SparkNotes briefly yesterday evening, before the internet had its tantrum. The classes consensus on muggle books was generally the same: it would've been better with brooms and magic, or occasionally the worse opinion: there wouldn't be a problem, much less a plot, if everyone had owned a wand.

Professor Weatherby was not amused. "Come on class, I assign you these books so you can really imagine yourselves in their shoes. Technology is a muggle's best alternative to magic. Can you imagine living in a world where only some wizards were allowed wands and rights, and others were denied them?"

There was a moment of utter silence. Sariah realized that to the rest of her class, their wands didn't feel awkward and bulky, but were very much part of who they were as witches and wizards. It was ingrained into them from the youngest of ages. Losing their wands meant losing part of themselves. She shuddered, reflecting on what it would be like to have her phone forcefully, and permanently taken from her.

"That's what the premise of the second wizarding war was about," a Ravenclaw piped up, surprising her. "Blood status determining the worth of a witch or wizard. Mordern Warfare in British Wizardry speculates that if the war had not been won, a similar situation could have emerged within wizarding Britain."

"Bagnold, don't compare us to the density of muggles, it's demeaning," drawled a stocky Slytherin to Scorpius' left. "Besides, I don't want a mudblood as a slave. House elves are far superior." He elbowed Scorpius, who inclined his chin in silent agreement. Sariah flushed, and stared daggers into their backs, glad she was at the back of the class. She wished she had the skill to charm their shoelaces together as they descended the staircase to their next class. That would teach them.

"That's not in the spirit of Muggle Studies, Mr Bulstrode." Professor Weatherby chastised, his eyebrows pulling together like furry caterpillars. "You're here to gain insight on a culture different to yours, please do so respectfully. And do not use that language again. Five points to Ravenclaw, for an insightful thought, Mr Bagnold. You're correct in saying that-"

There was nothing, not a lick of information about London, except when that thick lump Bulstrode suggested that dragons would have been more effective in sieging the Capitol, with a nasty smirk to his voice. Frustrated and growing bored, Sariah took to tracing a Wi-Fi signal onto the window, racing water droplets down the cold pane.

After lunch, normally she'd be trailing down to the dungeons. But today, she climbed the grand staircase up to Professor Weatherby's office, determined to get not only her diminishing career prospects out of the way, but also some clear answers about damage the Hungarian Horntails had actually caused. She'd borrowed Sabriel's copy of the Prophet during lunch, and found it unbelievably devoid of facts. Pausing outside his door,  she felt her palms tingling with anxiety. What if she really was past all help, doomed to be segregated from the wizarding world because of it? She imagined Professor Weatherby signing her up to be a house elf's apprentice. Bulstrode's words rang nastily in her head. House elves are far superior. She shook her head, and knocked hesitantly on the door.