The two walls of fire that had been closing in on each other froze in place; the flames dimmed, then vanished into nothing.
Hermione, who had been covering Lynn's eyes, exhaled in secret relief. Thank goodness—thank goodness Lynn hadn't killed anyone. She didn't dare imagine the uproar it would cause at Hogwarts.
Headmaster Dumbledore would certainly investigate personally; by then Lynn might well be found out.
She couldn't bear the thought of Lynn being locked away in Azkaban. "All right, let's get out of here."
Hermione leaned to Lynn's ear and whispered the words in the barest breath. Then she released the hand over Lynn's eyes, caught her hand, and hurried them both down the corridor.
At first in the Great Hall she'd watched Lynn leave, assuming she'd simply finished supper and was heading back to the Dormitory or to the Library.
But when she turned back to her own dinner, her mind flickered like a zoetrope, replaying the image of Lynn walking out.
The memory now looping in Hermione's head clearly showed that just before Lynn had left the Great Hall, Draco Malfoy had stepped out as well.
In that instant Hermione connected it to Malfoy's insults earlier that day. Without a second thought she jumped up, ignored Harry and Ron's questions, and dashed out.
If her suspicion was right, she had to catch up with Lynn—fast.
She couldn't let Lynn kill because of her, especially when it would be so easy to trace.
Hermione would not let Lynn be sent to Azkaban because of her.
Thank Merlin she'd arrived in time. Glancing at the silent girl beside her, head bowed as they walked, Hermione felt nothing but gratitude.
Behind them, the walls, floor, and ceiling—blackened by fire—slowly reverted to pristine stone.
The stray magic in the air was drawn into the surrounding walls, as though the Castle itself were breathing it in.
If, earlier in the Great Hall, one could still identify the spell Lynn had used to blow up the Slytherin table—only failing to pinpoint the caster—
then here in this corridor even the spell itself was untraceable, let alone the person who had cast it.
And still the Castle was not finished. Beneath the unconscious bodies of Malfoy, Goyle, and Crabbe, a wide hole suddenly yawned.
All three dropped through together; three muffled thuds later they lay neatly sprawled inside the Slytherin common room.
The hole sealed overhead, floorboards sliding back into place. Apart from the burns on Malfoy, Goyle, and Crabbe, no shred of evidence remained.
Everything had been swallowed by the Castle's own instinct for concealment.
Hermione led her all the way back to the Dormitory before Lynn finally looked up, fixing her gaze on Hermione.
Was she about to scold her? Punish her for failing to protect her properly?
She ought to have followed the inequality's result to the letter—yet she had fallen short.
But instead of rebuke—or even a slap—Lynn found herself pulled into a warm, fierce hug.
"Were you angry? Because Malfoy called me names, so you got angry and wanted to kill them?"
Hermione studied the side of Lynn's face, hoping to hear yes—because that would mean Lynn had learned how to be angry.
Lynn shook her head, expression unchanged. "No. I don't get angry."
"He posed a threat to Hermione; therefore the threat had to be removed."
Hermione pressed her lips together, refusing to feel disappointed. Ice three feet thick is not frozen in a day; coaxing Lynn back to humanity would take time.
But that was all right—she had patience in abundance where Lynn was concerned.
"What about you?" Hermione let go, gently stroking Lynn's cheek. "Did you consider that killing Malfoy at Hogwarts would likely be discovered by the Professors—or even Headmaster Dumbledore?"
"Then you could end up in Azkaban."
Lynn met her eyes: desolate, depthless, calmly mechanical.
"According to the inequality, the value of Hermione's life exceeds the value of my life."
"Therefore Hermione's life takes priority over mine."
"If my life or freedom can remove a danger to Hermione, the exchange is cost-effective; it satisfies the inequality's conclusion."
Hermione's head rang after that recitation.
Had she heard right? What inequality? When had their two lives been entered into an equation?
And her own life judged the greater, given precedence, so that Lynn deemed it "worthwhile" to sacrifice herself to eliminate a threat against Hermione?
Once the shock passed, Hermione gripped Lynn's shoulders, mouth working soundlessly.
"May I ask what—what wretched—sorry—what inequality is comparing our lives?"
Lynn nodded matter-of-factly. "By the equation: Hermione's life is valued by Aunt and Uncle."
"If harm comes to Hermione, Aunt and Uncle will worry; worry feels bad."
"Under identical conditions, if I come to harm, Mum and Dad will not worry, so no one feels bad."
"Hence, placing Hermione and me on opposite sides of the inequality: Hermione > me."
The world tilted; Hermione had never before heard lives weighed like arithmetic.
She wanted simultaneously to laugh and to cry—cry because Lynn so dismissed her own existence,
laugh because this girl, who scarcely understood emotion, had tasted worry once, found it unbearable, and spared her parents the same.
So stupid—so kind.
"Lynn, listen," Hermione cupped the girl's face. "Lives can't be compared, understand? Their weight makes them impossible to balance on scales."
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