LANCASTER / H. POTTER

THIRTEEN

When she arrived, Dumbledore's kind blue eyes stared at the chain of Grindlewald's Time Turner tucked into her shirt. Copeland kept her gaze focused on her loafers.

"Have you made any progress with your mission, Copeland?" He asked inquisitively, likely already knowing the answer to his own question.

"I'm afraid not, sir," Copeland choked out sheepishly. Snape tsked, looking at Copeland in a disgusted way that made her slightly uncomfortable. Dumbledore had no such reaction.

"I thought as much. So, I have taken the liberty of making this for your journey," He replied in an impossibly grating tone, sliding a black bound journal forward on the desk.

On the front of the book, etched in gold writing was her name.

Copeland Lancaster

"This book is given to you with the intention that it will aide you on your journey. It's enchanted in two fashions. The first is that it self-records on its pages whatever happens to you while you wield it, and the second is that it is only to be read by those whose names grace the cover," He explained pensively.

"Now Copeland, I couldn't help but notice you have yet to enlist help for your journey. While this is all fine and well, I could not in good conscious allow you to leave without advising you to carefully assess your options before moving forward," Dumbledore reminded her. Snape took an aggressive step towards her.

"You have been dismissed from your first and second class of the day, and I trust you will use it wisely. However, if you are late to my classes, may Merlin have mercy on your soul," He hissed. Copeland just stared at Snape unphased. After encountering what she had in the past couple of months, she was sure she could tolerate Snape's passive aggressive tendencies. She knew that for the most part his attitude was all an act.

For the most part that is.

She was dismissed shortly after. The only sound ringing in the silent halls was the clacking of her shoes against the tile as she started towards her destination: the library where her three friends were studying.

The large room smelled of the must of old books and fresh ink for quills to be dipped in. Copeland dropped the journal in her bag, not wanting to risk anymore suspicion from Harry (of whom she was sure was on to her). Hermione visibly brightened when she spotted Copeland approaching their table, books covering it's surface. Harry was preoccupied reading Quidditch Through The Ages with a mortified look on his face. It was with a groan that Copeland realized she would be due on the field as first rotation Seeker in only two days. She suddenly felt nauseous. Harry finally looked up at her with a smile.

"Hi, how are you feeling?" He asked, a knowing look in his eyes. Copeland grimaced.

"Quite sick now that I realized our first match is in less than forty-eight hours and I've barely practiced," Copeland whimpered, resting her head on the wooden table. She then looked up abruptly and realized what was actually happening.

"Wait, since when were you lot friends?"

Hermione, Ron and Harry looked sheepishly at each other and Harry slammed his book closed, setting it on the table. "That's what I have to tell you!"

Oh, Merlin, Copeland thought.

After an equally nauseating story about a three-headed dog that united them as friends in the Third Corridor, the package he and Hagrid picked up at Gringotts, and the failed robbery at the bank only a few days later, Copeland realized she was missing everything important. She would never object her dearest friends to the burden of her secret, but spending her time with them made her feel as if she wasn't totally isolated within herself.

Harry had troubles too, clearly. Her mother was a lovely woman, but she was a cynic, an Auror. She had raised her daughter on the same ideals of suspicion and vigilance, of assuming the worst so you can be prepared to give your best. Copeland had known that Harry's resurface into the Wizarding World would awaken something dark. The bank breach, the three headed beast guarding the third corridor. It all sounded awfully suspicious and whether Harry's presence had been the catalyst or not, he was placing himself in the middle of it. Maybe Copeland wasn't the only one who attracted trouble.

Their conversation was abruptly interrupted by the rapid approach of Malfoy. He obnoxiously slammed his hands on the small wood oak table. The librarian glared at him, but said nothing.

"Done any troll-hunting lately Lancaster? Say, in the Quidditch Pitch after curfew?"

Harry stood up as well, quickly getting aggressive.

"Leave her alone! It was my idea to practice in the pitch, so if you're going to hassle someone about it might as well be me!"

"Get your panties out of a twist, Potter. I'm not going to tattle," Draco spat out. He glanced briefly at a bewildered Copeland before resuming his tirade. "Consider us even, Lancaster. But if you're that worried about the match, you should let Potter play instead. I'd love to knock him off his broom."

She ignored the Oliver's looming threat of her being benched plaguing the back of her mind.

"You're so wholly unpleasant, Draco," Copeland told him blankly, not having the mental energy to deal with his tantrums. "We're going to study, you're welcome to join-"

Ron kicked her shins under the table, giving her a pointed look. Copeland rolled her eyes at him before looking directly at Draco.

"-but we'd prefer if you didn't."

Oh, she thought he just looked so utterly beside himself. As he silently stalked away, Copeland knew she preferred if Malfoy would have sat down with him. She had questions. How was he raised? What was his childhood like? How did he become this way? Why was he this way and then that way and then no way at all?

Most of all, Copeland wondered why Draco Malfoy pretended to be so cruel when he truly, truly wasn't.