To Oleandra's surprise, Tracey was waiting by her door the next morning, just as she stepped out to wash up before the day began. Tracey stared at her feet, hands clasped behind her back, wearing a bashful, almost embarrassed expression on her face.
"Oleandra…" she said, lifting her gaze from the floor. "I…"
"Yes?" Oleandra asked tentatively.
Oleandra already had plans for the day, but if Tracey wanted to make up— and perhaps make out— there was always room in her timetable for that. Still, why was Tracey suddenly so keen to talk, after giving her the cold shoulder for nearly a week? Whatever had brought on this change of heart, it was a welcome one indeed.
"I realised I wasn't being fair to you," Tracey said, shifting from foot to foot, her arms folded tight across her chest. "I should've given you a chance to explain yourself, so…"
Tracey glared over Oleandra's shoulder as Daphne slipped past her sister on her way out of the room. Daphne's eyes were cold as ice. Saying nothing, she swept by them and climbed the stairs to the common room, disappearing from sight.
"Anyway," Tracey sighed, her earlier animosity rapidly ebbing away. "I was wondering if we might have lunch in the Quad instead of the Great Hall— just the two of us. We could have the House-Elves bring us a few sandwiches."
"Yeah," Oleandra said softly. "I'd like that."
Silence fell over the two.
"I—" Oleandra suddenly began.
"I—" Tracey started.
The two girls glanced away at the same moment, neither quite able to meet the other's eye.
"You go first," Tracey blurted out.
Oleandra breathed in deeply. "I just wanted to say that I missed you, Tracey."
The corners of Tracey's mouth rose slightly. "Me too," she said.
An awkward silence fell over them as a gaggle of fourth-years came out of their rooms further down the corridor, freezing in fright at the sight of the two older girls.
"We're blocking the way, we should probably move," Oleandra said jokingly. "Or they'll stay there all day."
"Mhm," Tracey said. "We should probably hurry too, or we'll be late for breakfast."
Tracey had clearly already washed; she smelled nice, her hair was neat, and her cheeks still glowed faintly from a recent scrubbing.
As Oleandra headed down the corridor towards the bathrooms, Tracey called softly after her, "I didn't get the chance to thank you yesterday, so… thank you, Oleandra. See you in class."
And with that, Tracey ran up the stairs to the common room.
"Wait, what?" Oleandra blurted out.
Wasn't today Sunday? Why would there be class?
On her way to the bathroom, Oleandra quickly realised something was amiss. While most Slytherins tended to wear their robes even on weekends, the half‑bloods amongst them often preferred Muggle casual dress when robes weren't required. Yet not a single pair of jeans or a T‑shirt was to be seen on the students hurrying here and there— everyone looked as though it were an ordinary school day.
…
Meanwhile, far away, at a certain campsite that had once hosted the World Cup…
"Remind me why we're bringing her along?" Ron grumbled. "She's just a useless Muggle, and she looks exactly like her. She gives me the creeps."
"Oi," Viviane said, doing her best to look offended. "I resent that!"
Whatever Dumbledore had left Oleandra, Harry was certain it was crucial to his plan for defeating You‑Know‑Who. But the headmaster's untimely death was forcing Harry to grasp at straws, and Oleandra's betrayal had no doubt thrown Dumbledore's perfectly ordered schemes into chaos… whatever those plans were.
At any rate, after learning of Oleandra's visit to the Ministry and failing to find the bequest in her room at the Leaky Cauldron, Harry concluded that the Ministry must have kept Dumbledore's legacy for themselves— an act that only convinced him further it was some kind of weapon.
The (missing) Sword of Gryffindor, the Tales of Beedle the Bard, the Deluminator… the final piece of the puzzle must have used them all… somehow. Perhaps it was a Horcrux detector— or a spell powerful enough to destroy the Death Eaters and Vol— You‑Know‑Who in a single stroke. Maybe it was even one of the Deathly Hallows.
And so, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Sirius had planned to infiltrate the Ministry of Magic on the second of September to recover the missing piece of the puzzle from Rufus Scrimgeour's old office. Unfortunately for them, they discovered that Oleandra had already claimed her inheritance… and, to make matters worse, their timing couldn't have been poorer. A raid by a rebel group had left the Ministry in a state of high alert, and the heightened security ensured they were quickly found out.
"You know why, Ron," Hermione said, exasperated. "Number 12 Grimmauld Place is compromised, so we couldn't very well leave her there for the Death Eaters to find."
Fortunately for Viviane, whose consciousness had awakened in Oleandra's Reflection Doppelganger, it hadn't taken much poking and prodding on our heroes' part to discover that there wasn't even an iota of magic flowing through her veins of glass. For all they could tell, she was simply a poor Muggle girl Oleandra had kidnapped and Transfigured and Obliviated, replacing a few of her memories to use her as a body double.
"So?" Ron said angrily. "I can't stand to look at her bloody traitor face, even if it isn't actually her. Why can't we just dump her somewhere with the rest of her kind?"
Viviane's lip quivered in fright. She was very good at acting.
"Well, it's not as though we've anywhere urgent to be," said Hermione briskly. "Our plans are back to the drawing board, aren't they? Do try to have a little empathy, Ron."
"Oh yeah?" Ron snarled. "And whose fault is it that we can't use Grimmauld Place any more!?"
Harry pressed his hands to his ears, trying to block out the sound of his friends shouting at one another while the terrified Muggle girl shrank into herself nearby. At that moment, he hated every one of them— but, strangely, that girl was the only companion he couldn't bring himself to despise, however much he tried.
Even though she looked exactly like her.
"Maybe if you'd paid a bit more attention in class, you'd do more than criticise," Hermione hissed. "Believe me, I tried everything. I don't know what Oleandra did to her, but I can't undo it. Try to put yourself in her place— imagine how she feels every time she looks in the mirror and sees a face that isn't her own!"
The fate of the British Isles rested on him, Harry thought to himself angrily. Why him!? It wasn't fair, but he had to come up with some kind of plan; if they stayed here any longer, his party would tear itself to shreds before the Death Eaters ever got the chance.
"Enough," said Harry, his voice cutting through the noise. "Stop it, all of you. Sirius, quit flirting with Viviane every chance you get. Hermione, you're frightening her more than helping. And Ron… just shut up, will you?"
Ron, Hermione and Sirius stared at him. He had to come up with something. Now.
"So, er… Ginny's nicked the locket, and Oleandra's got Dumbledore's inheritance," Harry began. "They've both got something in common, don't they?"
"Malfoy's got the Invisibility Cloak," Hermione said, frowning. "No Disillusion Charm I can cast will hold up to the scrutiny of Hogwarts's Secrecy Sensors. I don't think Polyjuice would work, either."
"Don't you get it?" Harry insisted.
He'd been hoping Hermione might come up with something he could later claim as his own, but she only gave him a blank look.
"I could write to Ginny," Ron said hesitantly, and Harry beamed at him.
"Brilliant!" he said, clapping him on the shoulder. "You can do that, while we… er… can…"
His shoulders slumped. The last time he'd felt this hopeless was when he'd tried to get information out of Slughorn— wait. That was it!
"While we brew some Felix Felicis!" he exclaimed.
Unbeknownst to Harry, he was one of the few people in the world on whom Felix Felicis truly worked. As the Chosen One, the undercurrents of fate moved with him; where others had to struggle against those tides for fleeting luck, the potion's golden drops carried him ever closer to his destiny.