Thinking For Herself

After Christmas, Millicent Bulstrode wished her mother could come to see her off from King's Cross, and remembered bitterly all the times she'd begged her to stay at home. Instead, she kissed her father goodbye as they in the car and dragged her trunk and Puss' cat-carrier into the train station by herself so he could drive home to Salisbury as quickly as possible. Her father had promised to write to her regularly so she'd know how her mother was doing.

When she sidled nonchalantly on to Platform 9 3/4, the Weasleys were all looking cheerful, so Millicent guessed their father must be better now. Maybe the large dog she'd seen the previous term had been left at home to keep him company. That was a shame; she'd liked the way it bounced around the platform. The Weasleys' Christmas, at least, had had a happy ending. She was pleased for Ron. She was less pleased for Ginny, whom she'd sometimes caught Blaise staring at over dinner. For all that Blaise said about 'filthy blood traitors', the fact was that Ginny Weasley had eye-catching hair as well as being a pureblood, and Blaise wasn't going to settle for an ordinary-looking witch like Daphne Greengrass or a half-blood like Millicent Bulstrode.

She hadn't planned to stand with her friends on the platform because she wasn't sure she wanted to be surrounded by fuss and noise, but they wouldn't let her stand alone. Pansy waved frantically at her, and Millicent couldn't avoid her without seeming rude, so she went to join Pansy and the Malfoys. Draco's mother was, as ever, gorgeously dressed, with an incredibly delicate silk scarf in pastel grey and silver to keep her neck warm. Pansy had a matching one. It was probably a gift from Draco's parents, Millicent guessed.

"Hello Millicent," Narcissa said. "How is your mother? I hear she's quite ill." Draco's mother looked genuinely concerned, and Millicent was touched. Despite her reputation for snobbishness, Narcissa Malfoy had always been warm towards the Bulstrodes. It was a Malfoy trait rather than a 'Toujours Pur' Black one: no-one else's opinion but theirs mattered to them, so if they thought you were worth knowing, you were, and if they disliked you, all the ancestors and money in the world wouldn't help. Narcissa had decreed Stella Bulstrode acceptable, and that was that. Their friendship had saved Stella in the days of You-Know-Who, and helped Narcissa after his downfall.

"I don't think she's going to get better, Mrs. Malfoy" Millicent replied, and looked at the floor.

Narcissa patted Millicent's arm. "If you need our help..."

"Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy."

Millicent shuffled towards Pansy, who said, "You never told me your mother was unwell." Pansy hated not knowing what was going on.

"I didn't know until I went home for Christmas. She's got tumours."

"Ah," Pansy said. The rest of the group then talked among themselves as if to cover up an awkward subject. Gregory Goyle's Christmas present had been a week with a private Charms tutor, and he was still sore about it. Millicent was glad of the respite. She daydreamed for a bit, occasionally reaching up to her throat where, beneath her Muggle travelling clothes, she was wearing her precious Christmas necklace. She knew she should have packed it safely in her trunk, but she liked to touch it from time to time, remembering her last and happiest holiday with her mother. She didn't like to think of it being locked up in the guard's van with everyone else's belongings. Before she knew it, it was time to board the train. All the others had gone on ahead without her even noticing.

"Millicent! BULSTRODE!" Narcissa raised her voice, bringing Millicent back to reality. "Go on, child, you'll miss the train."

"What? Oh, thanks, Mrs. Malfoy!" In alarm Millicent levitated Puss' carrier to the train. By now Pansy and Draco might have finished their prefects' meeting, she thought, and I can sit in the carriage with them. She started walking up the carriage looking for her friends.

On board, Pansy's voice drifted down the corridor. "...So it sounds as though Millie's mother is dying, and you'd all better bloody well be kind to her or I'll skin you."

"I don't really know Millicent's mother." Crabbe.

"Be kind to Millie, you idiot. Personally, I think Millie will be better off without her, because her father's a Bulstrode and then all her visible relatives will be pureblood. It'll be such an advantage to her."

Shut up, Pansy, Millicent thought, lowering the cat carrier to the floor. Don't talk about my mother like that.

Pansy's wittering continued, "I mean, Millie's been raised properly, not with a Muggle parent like her mother. She's one of us, and we're going to make sure she's okay."

Millicent gave in and sat on the floor, blocking the corridor. Pansy meant well. In her second year, before the truth came out, had someone else's half-blood mother been dying Millicent would have said pretty much the same thing. Last term, when she'd still thought she hated her mother, Millicent would have said without hesitation that she wished she could have a different one. Now she wished she could spend just one more holiday with her. Millicent thought that she'd like to thump Pansy, but she'd like to hit herself more. Pansy had never caused Stella Bulstrode any grief, whereas Millicent had made her unhappy for three years.

A ripping sound made her look down. In her frustration she'd been gripping her robes, and had torn the front, right over her knee. She groaned. Oh, me and my temper - still, better my robes than Pansy's nose. She didn't bother to Reparo it; she just stared out of the windows wishing she had a room to herself at school and hoping all the cats would be brought back this term. Puss yowled, as if to remind her that he was there and he'd like to be let out of his carrier.

When the pupils reached Hogwarts, Pansy's concern for Millicent extended to her giving Professor Snape, of all people, a semi-lecture on Mrs. Bulstrode's condition. She didn't actually know much about it, but she insisted her housemaster would have to be careful with Millicent. Snape called Millicent to his office as he swept down the Great Hall after the feast.

Dreading what Professor Snape would have to say, when Millicent finally slumped along to his dingy office she knocked a little too hard at the door, rattling it.

"Come in, Bulstrode," he called. "Open the door, please, don't batter it down."

While she was easily as tall as Snape, and had a weight advantage over him, the professor still scared Millicent. He could be horribly sarcastic to her, making Pansy's sly digs seem like one of Goyle's feeble attempts at humour. Only the fact that she was in his house had prevented him from being quite as cutting as he would have liked about her clumsy potion making. Millicent had been very surprised when her mother had mentioned Snape had a high opinion of her, and didn't quite believe it. She did her best to edge into the room. Snape's rooms smelled musty, as though a hundred decaying ingredients were combining in the air. Being there was like breathing a potion.

"I understand your mother is ill," he said, looking at her with his strange black eyes than only showed her her own reflection, never his thoughts.

"She's dying. Tumours," Millicent said, keeping a blank face. What would the Head of Slytherin have to say about her half-blood mother?

He nodded, noting that she used the wizards' term for the illness even though Healers could rarely spot cancer in a living patient. He had his suspicions about how Stella Bulstrode had identified her disease, but if she had used Muggle doctors, that was her own affair. "You're taking it well. If you feel that this is affecting your work, or you wish me to talk to the OWL examiners on your behalf..."

"I'll cope," she said, reaching for her necklace without thinking. Snape noticed it instantly.

"That is not on your uniform list, Bulstrode," he told her. "When school starts tomorrow, you will keep it in your trunk or I will keep it in my office until the end of term."

Millicent bowed her head. "Yes, sir."

"It's a pretty thing," he remarked, startling her. He rarely voiced a good opinion of anything. "Tasteful. No flashy family crests or writhing serpents. Did your mother choose it?"

She nodded. "I think so, sir. It was a Christmas gift from both my parents."

"Then you should definitely leave it in your trunk, where it will be safe."

"Yes, sir." Millicent shuffled her feet awkwardly and stared down at the flagstone floor. She wasn't very good at talking about personal matters even with her friends. She certainly didn't want to go over them with her puritanical housemaster.

"You may go," Snape told her, and watched as she turned and lumbered gratefully off. What a strange girl she is, he thought. Over the years he'd watched her cope with the strange situation of being a half-blood Slytherin, loathing herself and (when she would admit it) sometimes detesting those around her for sharing her faith that she was worthless. Draco would move to the Dark Lord's side as easily and lightly as his father had - but if he shared Lucius' serene self-sufficiency, he might not stay there long if he could break free. Crabbe and Goyle would also follow Voldemort, possibly for the fighting and possibly because they were told they ought to. Bulstrode was different. Her empathy for animals and people who needed her protection gave Snape some hope that she would not fall in behind them. Her new friendship with Adrian Pucey, a young man so neutral he ought to have beige blood, comforted Severus Snape.

At the beginning of the academic year Snape had thought long and hard about which fifth-year Slytherin girl should be made prefect. Pansy was extremely popular, but that hadn't been a factor in his decision. Snape didn't care whether adults liked him or approved of what he did, let alone schoolchildren. Pansy liked power, and a prefect's badge was a little nugget of authority, which she had craved. Millicent liked rules and regulations, and while she'd have been better than Pansy at enforcing the school rules, Snape didn't want to give her any authority. The others would have hung on to Millicent more tightly if she'd had something they wanted. Severus Snape hoped that in not giving her the badge, he had given her an escape route instead.

As it was, anyone who had been worrying about Millicent soon found something more important to think about. The news of the break-out of prisoners from Azkaban became known over breakfast at the end of January. Millicent had received a letter from her parents, who'd been shopping in Diagon Alley for what would probably be the last time (her father having mastered a technique for subtly levitating her mother so she didn't tire herself out or hurt from walking). Knowing they'd had an enjoyable day put her in a good mood, which always made her hungry. Millicent was eyeing the last sausage and wondering whether it would be rude to take it while she still had others on her plate, because Goyle was sure to get it if she didn't.

"Oh look, Draco," Pansy said, riffling through the Daily Prophet. "Your aunt's escaped from Azkaban."

Draco looked at her in alarm. "What? Aunt Bellatrix? Did the others escape too?"

"Do you have any other aunts in Azkaban? I don't know who you mean by 'the others', but the Death Eaters are all free. Do you suppose she'll get in touch with your mother?"

"She wouldn't dare. She'd get my mother into trouble," Draco said firmly. "I'm sure she'll go to... someone else."

"Your mother's far too proper to get into trouble," Pansy agreed, and was rewarded with a beaming smile from Draco.

"She'll get Mudbloods into trouble," Goyle laughed nastily. He glared over at the Hufflepuff table, and scowled at Justin Finch-Fletchley.

Crabbe was slow on the uptake. "Why?"

"Because she kills them, you idiot," Draco told him. "That's why they put her away in the first place."

"I thought that she was sent to prison for torturing the Longbottoms into insanity," Pansy remarked. "They were pureblood."

Draco snorted. "You'd hardly know it from what they left behind - their son's not an outstanding example of a wizard. Aunt Bellatrix would've done well to finish him off too. Isn't that right, Millicent? It's what you do with animals, you kill the runts of the litter so they can't breed and create more weaklings?"

Millicent nodded slowly, and let Goyle grab the final sausage. "That's the accepted practice with pedigree animals." It was a practice Millicent had never agreed with, but she didn't bother to add that. She thought of her mother, filmed with sweat and taut around the eyes from the pain of her cancer. She'd never really thought too much about pain until the Christmas holiday. Being a robust sort of girl, the worst she ever got were skinned knees or bruised shins or the occasional easily fixed broken bone. Now the gut-wrenching reality of pain was clearer, and the thought of what Bellatrix Lestrange had done filled Millicent with horror. She also recalled Neville, looking sorrowful, trailing behind his grandmother across the reception area at St. Mungo's. Perhaps he hadn't been there to visit Mr. Weasley after all. "You know, if your aunt does turn up, Draco, you should really turn her in to the Aurors."

"What? Brick, are you mad?" Draco was incredulous. "She's family."

"She tortured and killed people," Millicent said firmly. "That's wrong, no matter who she is."

Pansy patted Millicent's shoulder. "You can be such an old woman sometimes, Millie. We're not going to see Draco's aunt, so why worry?"

Millicent said nothing. If the others didn't understand that killing was wrong, she couldn't make them see it. She didn't really have anything against Muggleborns - she was herself a half-blood, after all. She quite liked Justin Finch-Fletchley, who often made amusing comments in lessons. Millicent's loathing was entirely used up on herself; she didn't have the malice in her to belittle or pick on anyone else. Having been the target of so many nasty comments for most of her life, she hated cruelty in any shape or form. However useless Neville was, the Longbottoms didn't deserve to be tortured for being his parents or anything else.

In their Care of Magical Creatures and Potions lessons, Millicent found herself watching Neville Longbottom. She'd never really thought about him before. Like most students outside Slytherin, she'd never had much reason to talk to him and so he was just there, not really noticed when he was present or missed when he was not. In the past she'd only paid him any attention in Potions because she was grateful that someone else was drawing Snape's ire.

What she saw surprised her. Draco and Blaise still laughed about Neville, but he had changed. Oh, he was still useless at Potions, and Professor Snape still tormented him, but a lot of the fear he'd had of creatures had gone. Out of curiosity, Millicent pushed her way in to working alongside him on the Flobberworms in late January. Flobberworms were nothing to be frightened of, but when he discussed other creatures she sensed a growing confidence in him. As he chatted quietly with a lad named Dean Thomas - they avoided talking to Millicent - the realisation hit her: Longbottom had The Look. It was the one every Slytherin looked for in the first-years before their sorting. The Look was usually a Slytherin sign, although some Gryffindors had it too. She didn't know what driving ambition Neville Longbottom had, but burning inside him was a deep determination, and it was shining out of his eyes. She was sure it hadn't been there at Christmas, not that she'd been close enough to him to scrutinise him.

There's more to you than meets the eye, Neville Longbottom, she thought, pushing the lettuce leaves to the centre of the table where Dean and Neville could reach them easily.

While putting away their Flobberworms, Millicent tripped over a table leg and smacked her knee on a rock. As she sat on the ground wincing, Pansy laughed, "Millie, don't go breaking school stones! What did the rock ever do to you?"

Millicent managed a watery smile, and prepared to push herself to her feet. No one ever came to Millicent's aid.

"Leave her, she's a Slytherin," she heard Dean Thomas say.

Nonetheless, on this occasion a hand was offered to help her up. She accepted it, although did not put her full weight on it. Neville was chubby, but she'd probably pull him over nonetheless. "Are you hurt?" he asked.

"Um, no. I'm always falling over," she laughed with embarrassment.

"Oh, me too," Neville replied. "You get used to it after a while, don't you? Well, not the laughter..."

"No, you never get used to that."

As he smiled and turned to go, Millicent decided that Draco was wrong about Neville Longbottom. He was kind, but not weak. It took a sort of strength to hold out your hand to someone your friends didn't even like, in full view of everyone.

"It's not your day, is it?" Blaise asked. "First you get stuck with the Squib and a Mudblood, then you all but break your leg."

"He's not a Squib," Millicent muttered, but no one paid her any attention. She dropped back so the others walked on ahead of her a little way. She'd been as guilty as any of them for laughing at Neville in their early years at school, just as she'd sneered at the Weasleys' poverty.

Her eye fell on Blaise. His exotic eyes and gleaming cheekbones were still as beautiful as those on a pharaoh's statue, but Millicent realised that while she was attracted to him, she didn't actually like him. What did I ever see in him? He's not a very nice person, she thought to herself, and I'm sure that I haven't been a very nice person either sometimes. What do I do, though? Start spending more time alone?

I've got some hard thinking to do this year, and not just about my OWLs.

***

The letter Millicent Bulstrode had been dreading came on Thursday the twelfth of February, brought by a sombre dark owl. The black border around the edge of the parchment envelope told her all she needed to know. She bit her lip, thinking, I bet mother bought the stationery. She was never one to do things improperly. She probably wrote the letters too, but with a quick-quotes quill so people wouldn't be getting a letter announcing her death written in her own hand. Father probably isn't up to writing anything right now. She didn't even open the letter; she just sat there looking at it.

Professor Snape had received an identical-looking letter at the same time, and shortly walked silently down the hall to the Slytherin table, having to weave his way past Luna Lovegood, who was standing, wearing a vacant expression and a pair of radishes in her ears, in the middle of the gap between the rows of tables. Millicent looked at him. "It's all right, sir," she said, pre-empting any offers of kindness. "I was expecting this."

"You will be excused lessons tomorrow so you may attend the funeral," Snape said curtly. The other students just stared at him and Millicent. How well she bears it, he thought. She's determined not to cry. Most other children would be bawling by now. But then, she's her mother's daughter. She didn't inherit Stella's looks, which is a pity, but looks fade. Stella always achieved her aims, though, right down to becoming a virtual pureblood, and Millicent will too. That determination is possibly the best thing she could have left Millicent.

"Thank you, sir," Millicent replied, pushing her plate away. She didn't feel like any more bacon and eggs, even though she always felt slightly guilty when she wasted food.

Pansy cottoned on immediately. "Oh, Millie, you should ask if you can miss today's lessons too." She glared at Professor Snape for not suggesting this.

"Miss Bulstrode says she is fine," Professor Snape told Pansy, entertained by the girl's spirit. She was better than Draco deserved. "I am not about to call her a liar."

Millicent nodded. "I think I'll go and sort out my quills," she muttered. "Alone." She stood and hurried out of the hall, and no one paid any attention to Luna, who was drifting off in the same direction.

Millicent stopped in the entrance hall and unclenched her fists, taking several deep breaths. She felt dreadful, but no tears would come.

"It's all right to cry, you know," Luna Lovegood said, giving her a start. Luna had an unnerving talent for moving quietly, and Millicent hadn't even realised she was being followed. Luna walked dreamily round her, but her eyes were sharp and scrutinised Millicent carefully. Millicent was reminded unpleasantly of visits to her mother's dressmaker. She clearly passed Luna's inspection, though, for the dreamy Ravenclaw added, "I heard what Professor Snape was saying. I miss my mother too; she died years ago. I don't cry much any more, but I used to."

"Um, thanks," Millicent muttered.

"I met your mother once," Luna said. Millicent was surprised. "I used to have to go to the hospital for check-ups, and there was a lady there discussing paint colours with one of the senior Healers. I told her she should have the ward painted a happy colour, like pink."

Millicent recalled the work her mother had done at St. Mungo's. "And did she?"

Luna blinked. "I don't know, I was never on that ward again. Maybe I will be one day. I'll tell you if it is pink. Are you going to raise money for the hospital like your mother did?"

"I... I've never thought about it," Millicent replied. "It's always been my mother's thing."

"I sometimes do things my mother used to. It makes me feel close to her."

"Thanks." Millicent edged away. Still, Luna had planted an idea in her mind. Millicent knew that her mother had been raising funds to replace the old beds in the ward for patients with long-term spell damage when she became really sick. She could so easily imagine the way her mother would have smiled when the new beds were put on the ward. She looked back at Luna, who was now waving her hands through the motes of dust catching the sunlight in the doorway. This time her thanks were genuine. "That's a brilliant idea, Luna. Thank you very much." Luna nodded, as though brilliant ideas came to her every day. Perhaps they did; she was a Ravenclaw after all.

During the day, Millicent was touched at how many unexpected people came to talk to her. Miles Bletchley patted her awkwardly on the shoulder at lunch and told Millicent his aunt, the Healer Millicent had seen at St Mungo's over Christmas, had always been full of praise for her mother. A pair of Ravenclaws offered their condolences, and a small pureblood Gryffindor came up to her in the library and said how sorry he was to hear about Stella Bulstrode's death.

Even with all the kindness, it was all too much, and Millicent retreated to one of the girls' bathrooms for some peace. She made sure it wasn't Myrtle's usual haunt; the last thing she wanted was a grumbling ghost talking to her about death. Eloise Midgen was there, fussing with some strange beige liquid. She looked around in alarm. "Oh, hi Millicent. Phew, am I glad it's you. I'd have been really embarrassed if someone else saw me doing this."

"What's that?"

"Muggle makeup. It covers things up."

Millicent scrutinised the bottle carefully. It didn't look like much of a potion, more like some sort of skin paint. Eloise continued, "I heard about your mum..."

"Everybody's heard about her. This place is chronic for gossip. I don't feel completely sad yet. It's weird. It's like I knew it would happen and now it's happening and I don't care like I should. I just want to be alone. Sometimes I feel like crying, but I can't."

"That's normal," Eloise said. "Mum always says that when her parents and brother were killed by You-Know-Who, she didn't feel it until she went to the places they should have been. When she went to their house and they weren't there it really hit her."

"I didn't know that - about your family, I mean."

Eloise was normally a bubbly Hufflepuff, with the friendly nature and sunny disposition that characterised most of her house. Even her unhappy moods passed quickly. As she spoke, though, her face was grim. "They were bad times for our family. My parents went to live among the Muggles until I was about a year old - when Harry Potter defeated You-Know-Who. They probably would've been killed if they hadn't. My mum gets nervous still, though. All that guff Harry came out with after Cedric died has turned her into a real wreck. You- you're lucky your family were safe."

Millicent nodded. There was an underlying accusation in Eloise's tone. "My family didn't support him, you know," she said. "They never collaborated with the Death Eaters. But they didn't do much to oppose them either. Mother wanted me to be safe, and being a half-blood she had to be extra cautious."

Eloise nodded. "That's all they all want, I guess. To be safe, to keep their families safe... Look, Millicent, I didn't mean to sound rude about your mother... I know she couldn't be a supporter of those monsters."

"No, this is good." Millicent smiled. "You're the first person, apart from Loony Lovegood, who's really talked about her with me... I didn't like her for a long time, because she was part Muggle."

Eloise levered herself up to perch on the edge of the dry sink. "That's dumb - but I can see you got over it. Go on then: tell me about her. Tell me about the real her."

When everything is falling about your ears, Millicent decided, what you really needed was a Hufflepuff to listen. She took a deep breath and began talking. For the first time in years, she described her mother to a schoolmate with complete pride.

**

On the Friday, Millicent used Floo to travel from Hogsmeade to the Bulstrode house. She found a witch's hat with a heavy black veil fringed with jet on her bed, a matching set of robes and a small note in her mother's hand saying, 'You are a proper witch. Show them just how good we are. Love, Mother.' She put the hat on and gazed at the world through a grey haze, but the veil didn't hide any tears, for they still stubbornly refused to flow. The funeral was done precisely. The music was neither too melodramatically miserable nor too spirit-liftingly jolly. The guests all wore full mourning black. The flowers were white and purple. Everywhere she looked, Millicent saw her mother's hand. Every detail was perfect. Even Stella's wake had been as well-planned as a formal reception for the very best families.

At the wake, Millicent shook hands with her mother's friends. They were wandering around the ground floor of the Bulstrode house, admiring the moving statuettes that Stella had collected and the flowers on display throughout the rooms. Her mother's florist had sent some odd moaning blooms that made an eerie keening sound every so often. They groaned from vases around the rooms. Millicent now knew her mother would have hated them, but they were 'proper', and the fact that they were in vases from a Muggle shop would have amused her. Her father remained largely distant from everyone, simply trailing in his daughter's wake. Millicent kept a close eye on him. He hadn't shaved well, and he looked as though he hadn't slept. His formal pointy hat was askew. As she'd expected, he simply wasn't coping on his own.

One middle-aged lady who'd been a little cool with Millicent in the past seemed very keen to be kind to her on this occasion. Millicent was appreciating the concern, if not the unwanted attention, when Narcissa Malfoy gracefully swooped in and walked Millicent off to an empty part of the room where the moaning flowers would drown out their voices. "Millicent, dear, you don't want to get too close to her," Narcissa cautioned.

Millicent frowned. "They're a good family, and she was being nice, Mrs Malfoy," she explained. "It never hurts to be polite."

"She never liked your mother," Narcissa said vehemently. "She certainly wasn't polite to her."

"Maybe she regrets it now."

Narcissa chuckled. "Oh, she does. You're going to be a very rich young lady, Millicent - your mother was extremely wealthy. That lady has some unappealing unmarried male relatives."

"They'd be a good catch for me," Millicent pointed out, not that she had any intention of going near the woman's eligible relations. "I'm only a half-blood myself."

"There are half-bloods and half-bloods. Whatever your mother's blood status and yours, any children you have will have no Muggle grandparents. For some people, that's good enough. What's more, you're a Bulstrode, with connections to all the best families through your father, and now you have no living Muggle or half-blood relatives. Oh, you'll never land an eldest son, but a second or third is a possibility... Don't sell yourself short."

Millicent looked over to her father, who was staring in dazed abstraction at the waving couple in his wedding photograph. Narcissa was telling her she could have everything she once thought she wanted, including status and social acceptability. She just had to do what everyone said she ought to in order to achieve it. And there was the catch: she'd finally decided that when she married, she would marry for love, be he pureblood, half-blood or even Muggleborn. If she married a pureblood it would be because he loved her, not because he'd be her ticket to the top table. "Thanks for the warning, Mrs Malfoy," Millicent said. " I guess I've never seen myself as a prize catch until now... If you'll excuse me, I'd better see how father's getting on."

She walked over to Mr Bulstrode and looped her arm through his. She looked at the picture with him. "She was so pretty, wasn't she?" Millicent said.

Mr. Bulstrode managed a nod. "She was. Even at the end she had such a lovely smile." His voice trembled. "We all knew she was going, but it still feels unexpected. I'm surprised every time I go into a room and she's not there." Millicent had felt the same. When she'd stepped out of the fireplace into the cloakroom of their house, she'd seen the empty peg where her mother's travelling cloak used to hang, and had truly known Stella was gone, just as Eloise Midgen had said would be the case.

Luna Lovegood's words came back to Millicent. "I was thinking we could finish her plan to buy beds for the long-term spell damage ward. She'd have liked that."

"I don't know, Moose. I don't know anything about fund-raising." He looked again at the photograph. "You're right, though. She was annoyed at not being able to complete the project. I was just going to hand the money she'd managed to collect over to St Mungo's as a lump sum."

"Go on, father," Millicent urged. Her father needed something to keep his mind occupied when he wasn't at work. "We can do it."

"Okay. Yes. We'll do it for her."

Finally, arm in arm, facing away from their guests, they both cried silently together.