The east wing corridor of the fourth floor was, at nine PM, the kind of dark that has a presence.
It was not truly devoid of people.
This was not, strictly speaking, the kind of cathedral dark one sees at midnight, populated by presences that are not necessarily watching, but simply existent and persistent in the air, having lived there long enough to give the atmosphere a form.
Cael knew that.
And also that he had, a few minutes ago, missed curfew.
Which would have been, in and of itself, not tragic.
Filch had yet to reach even the second floor and may be swearing at his beloved cat or, possibly, a banister that he bore some sort of personal vendetta against – Filch’s personal feelings toward a particular staircase segment was, at times, debatable and hard to distinguish.
Portraits were generally asleep.
The corridors were long – Cael’s favorite type, in fact, interspersed with stone segments and occasional alcoves, with a window every twenty feet that, right then, was pouring thin grey moonlight.
He had been using the evening to practice inverting Lumos variations in an empty classroom on the third floor.
He was finding this practice significantly more effective than his attempts in the courtyard over the weekend, mainly because he had done it in an enclosed environment and did not run the risk of observation by, for example, all of the fifth-year Quidditch team players.
He had written three pages worth of notes in the notebook.
And lost track of time.
By the time he noticed that the clock was ticking in the wrong direction, it was already too late.
He had cast Lumos and was walking silently.
Calibration work – he was trying to control the sphere and make it follow his lead, like a dog with a short leash would.
His sphere was following him, three feet ahead, absorbing all the dim moonlight directly in front of it in a mobile sphere of light.
That sphere walked straight into Pansy Parkinson.
He did not recognize who Pansy Parkinson was.
All he could see when the sphere reached her was the outline of a girl – slim build, robes, and a small green-and-silver glint of a Slytherin prefect badge – and hear a surprised, yet unsurprised inhalation of breath.
He quickly canceled the casting.
And the sphere folded and disappeared instantly.
Pansy was standing perfectly still in front of him, holding her wand and keeping it at a precise, defensive angle, but not aggressive.
It took him a moment to realize that she had prepared herself for combat.
The wand in her hands had settled in a manner that suggested she was ready for everything without having the intention to attack – a posture of preparedness.
He stopped right in front of her.
“I’m sorry.” She did not lower her wand.
“I lost track of time.” She still did not lower it.
“Actually, I meant the sphere – I should have aimed differently.
Didn’t see you.” Now he saw her – in moonlight.
She seemed about his age – dark hair, cut sharp and short on both sides of her face.
Prefect badge.
He couldn’t remember her name.
Nine days had passed since he started attending Hogwarts, and he still hadn’t managed to learn names of two-thirds of his own House, let alone of the Slytherins.
She lowered her wand just a little bit.
“That was Lumos.”, “Yes.” “That was *not* Lumos.” “Yes.” She tilted her head just a tiny bit.
Cael felt with some assurance – and he found out that he was, in fact, quite accurate about these things – that she was filing something.
Not the way he was, and not the way other people in the library used to.
She simply filed information away to refer to later, as a file.
“Lumos,” she asked slowly, “on purpose?” He considered this.
She truly wanted to know what this was all about, not mock or challenge him.
She was asking a genuine question and expected a reply.
He did not understand why he felt compelled to provide her with one.
Possibly, because she had asked.
Possibly, because she was the first person in nine days to ask questions the right way.
“On purpose,” she asked, “as in… You wanted darkness.
As in, you cast a spell knowing that it will do the complete opposite of what its name says.
As in… you’ve discovered something about yourself, and you’re out here at — ” she looked past him, estimating time, “— twenty past nine, walking in a corridor and doing it on purpose.” “Twenty-one past.” “Twenty-one past.” “But I wouldn’t say wrong.” “What would you say.” “Cleanly.
As far as I can tell, the wand isn’t the issue.
Tried it with three other wands.
Got mine on Saturday.
It’s fine.” He realized that he had said too much.
He couldn’t explain why he said it.
But he had said it anyway.
He stopped talking.
She regarded him for another beat or two.
“Pansy Parkinson.” “Slytherin.” “Cass Mourne, Gryffindor.” “The one who fell.” “The one who fell.” “Hmm.” She put her wand back in her sleeve and turned to leave the corridor.
Cael, considering for another half second if the “Hmm” was a dismissal or a we’ll-see, turned the opposite way and resumed his walk.
They passed each other, and he left without ever looking back, feeling with absolute certainty that she was aware he was not looking back, and registering this fact somewhere in the depths of her mind.
He walked the remainder of the corridor in moonlight.
He did not try casting Lumos again.
He pondered about “Define on purpose,” and “Inverted” slowly in the dark, and about how he would record this encounter in the notebook.
He recorded it when he returned to the dormitories.
He wrote down, in careful handwriting: *Lumos test 5, fourth-floor corridor, 21:21.
Caught a Slytherin prefect.
Range — approx three feet from caster.
Witness uninjured.
Witness — observed.
Filed.* Not writing her name, for the reason that he did not know it.
Did not know her House first name yet.
Underlining “observed.” For reasons he could not name at the moment, he couldn’t tell if it was about her or about himself.
He went to bed.
On the green velvet couch in Slytherin common room, Pansy Parkinson pondered about a dog-like darkness sphere running through a corridor.
She thought about “Define on purpose” and “Inverted” slowly in the dark.
She did not take any notes of it.
She was not yet thirteen years old to write things down.
She would learn.