Chapter 1: ~His Legacy~
Chapter Text
*Eva's POV*
Paris, France – Early Autumn, 1994
The air smells like rain and warm bread.
From the open window, the muted sounds of the city drift in — the clatter of carriages, the buzz of voices, the occasional clink of café cups against saucers. Paris hums quietly below us, alive but distant, like a dream I am still deciding to trust.
I sit curled in a worn velvet armchair by the window, watching thin trails of steam rise from the rooftops as the afternoon drizzle fades. A book lies open in my lap, pages fluttering as the breeze dances through the room.
Footsteps pad softly across the wooden floorboards.
"Evan," I say without looking up.
His name tastes like a charm against my tongue, light and familiar.
He chuckles under his breath — that same low, easy sound that always precedes mischief — and sets a cup of tea on the side table beside me.
"For you, chère madame," he says in mock ceremony, bowing dramatically.
I smile despite myself. "Merci, monsieur," I reply dryly, raising an eyebrow as I take the cup.
The tea is rich and dark, laced with a sweetness that reminds me faintly of honeysuckle
The tea is rich and dark, laced with a sweetness that reminds me faintly of honeysuckle. I breathe it in, letting the warmth settle my bones.
Outside, the sky clears just a little. A sliver of gold cuts through the clouds, bathing the tiled roofs in a muted, melancholy glow.
The war is over. Long over.
Or so we tell ourselves.
There are whispers, of course — murmurs in shadowed alleys. Some of his followers are still devoted. Whispers of old allegiances breathing again in hidden corners of the world.
But here, in this little forgotten slice of Paris, those whispers feel oceans away.
Safe.
For now.
I sip my tea, letting my eyes slip closed for a moment, just to hold the illusion tighter.
Behind my lids, memory stirs — a broken castle, a ruined night, a promise made in blood and fire.
And the child I carry.
No— not a child anymore.
A daughter.
My daughter.
When we fled, there was no other choice. Disappearing wasn't a decision—it was survival.
I had to sever everything. Every thread, every name, every past version of myself.
Even Narcissa. Especially Narcissa. Not because I didn't trust her—but because I couldn't risk what would happen if I did. To her, her little Draco and to me.
The Imperius Curse became our alibi. The blanket excuse for those who wore darkness but claimed innocence. A lie, passed hand to hand like a secret we all agreed to believe.
But I knew the truth. So did others. But the ministry, in one way or another, had no other choice.
I am sure Tom still had some of his deatheaters there.
Some of Tom's followers came looking. Hoping to find me. Hoping I'd lead them somewhere—to him, or to purpose. Or worse... hoping I'd lead them at all and continue the work of my dead husband.
Had I stayed in England, I would never have known peace.
Not a moment. Not a breath. Not even for her.
They don't know she exists. And they shall never know.
She is his legacy.
So I ran.
And I never looked back.
She stirs even now in the next room, her laughter spilling like bright ribbons down the hall, chasing Evan's low, indulgent chuckle.
She's growing.
She knows who her father was. I thought of keeping it from her, but this would not be fair to her, or even him. I loved him. And he? He loved me.
The past belongs to another life — one buried in stone and storm.
I left it behind the night I ran.
I have built this life carefully, lovingly, out of the wreckage of what once was.
I alone and broken. Evan helped me to flee the country and we married out of.. convinience.
I needed a new Name for my daughter. And he gave it to me.
Evan snaps his fingers in front of me.
"Am I speaking to a ghost again, chère sorcière, or are you merely perfecting your dramatic stare into the void?"
I blink, startled from my thoughts.
"What? No—" I laugh under my breath, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "Just thinking."
He gives me a look
He gives me a look. That smug, knowing look he always wears when he's caught me drifting.
"You know what that means," he says, lifting his wand like a conductor preparing to cue an orchestra
"You know what that means," he says, lifting his wand like a conductor preparing to cue an orchestra.
"Don't," I warn, laughing again.
But he's already turned toward the hallway, voice echoing theatrically through the flat.
"Seraphina Rosier!" he bellows. "You are late again, madam! And your audience awaits! Approche, s'il te plaît."
There's a beat of silence.
Then the sound of hurried footsteps — light, eager, like a secret barely held back — comes skimming down the hall.
And just like that, the room is full of something brighter than magic.
A girl with wild curls and clever eyes bursts through the door, her laughter a spell all its own.
Chapter 2: ~A piece of the past~ 🐍
Chapter Text
*Eva's POV*
Evan hums as he charms streamers to dance along the ceiling. They twirl above our heads like lazy comets — deep green and gold, Seraphina’s favorite colors. The cake floats mid-air, its frosting pristine, untouched by gravity or time.
And there she is.
Seraphina bursts into the room like the turning of a page, her hair still damp from the morning rain, cheeks flushed, eyes brighter than the candles she’s about to blow out.
"Sixteen," I murmur to Evan, watching her as she tosses her scarf on the chair and spins once, just for the joy of it. "How did that happen?"
"Time cheats," he says, already pouring tea. "You blink and they’re taller than you, sassier than ever, and begging for dragons as pets."
She grins, flopping into the seat between us. “No dragons this year, promise.”
“We were just discussing that,” Evan says smoothly, raising his eyebrows. “What gift could possibly satisfy the most mysterious, dramatic sixteen-year-old sorcière in all of France?”
Seraphina's smile widens — but there’s a flicker behind it. A little glint I know too well.
She draws herself up straighter, as if she's been waiting for this exact moment. Then:
“Well... actually... I do want something.”
Evan leans in, mock conspiratorial. “It’s dragons, isn’t it? I knew it.”
She laughs, rolling her eyes. “No. It’s… something else.” A beat. Then, quieter:
“I want to go to Hogwarts.”
I feel it. A stillness in my chest, like breath caught mid-motion.
Her eyes light up. “There’s going to be a Winter Ball. Because of the Triwizard Tournament. Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students get to attend, but only some — and I was selected. I can actually go, Mama. To Hogwarts. For a few weeks. Isn’t that—”
“Extraordinary,” Evan says quickly, his tone light, even though he shoots me a glance across the table.
She doesn’t notice. She’s glowing now, words spilling faster. “I’ll get to see it — the real Hogwarts! Not just pictures from old textbooks. The castle, the magic. All of it. And the Ball! It’ll be snowing, and everything will be lit with floating lights and—” She stops herself, catching her breath. “It’ll be the best birthday gift ever. Please say yes mum.”
Her eyes are wide and open, and she’s still smiling, but I see it now — the undercurrent.
She’s not asking for a trip.
She’s asking for a piece of her past back.
And I don’t know yet if I can give it to her.
But she is sixteen today.
And her father would have said yes. Her father.. he would have let her attend Hogwarts.
He would call her the heir of slytherin. Which.. she is. But I couldn't risk it.
What if anyone finds out who she is? Officially... She is Evan's daugther.
A Rosier.
Not a Riddle.
Not the daughter of the dark lord.
At hogwarts she would.. meet his past. My past. The child who lived..
Tom.. Without noticing I smile a little. He would have made it snow for her.
If only he knew. He's gone for so long despite telling me "I'll never die".
Yeah.. we saw that my love.
It's always on her birthday when I get a little sad.
I don’t answer her right away.
Instead, I reach across the table and brush a crumb off her cheek, the way I used to when she was five and still couldn’t eat cake without wearing it. She grins like she doesn’t notice the silence that follows.
“I’ll think about it,” I say softly.
It’s not a no. But it isn’t a yes either.
Her face flickers—hopeful, but uncertain—and she nods, understanding me better than I sometimes understand myself.
“Alright.” She rises, hugging me around the shoulders, her voice barely a whisper. “I know it’s a lot. But... thank you for considering it.” And with a final kiss to my cheek, she disappears down the hall, her footsteps light, her excitement still buzzing in the walls she leaves behind.
I watch the doorway long after she’s gone.
The quiet that follows is too heavy, too familiar.
“She looks just like you when she’s nervous,” Evan murmurs, settling beside me with a fresh cup of tea. “Tries to hide it with a smile. But she is stubborn, a Rosier trait, clearly.”
I don’t laugh. I don’t smile. I just stare into the flicker of candlelight.
“She doesn’t understand what it means to go there,” I whisper. “She doesn’t know what that castle carries. What it took. What it gave. What it—buried.”
“She knows more than you think, you made sure she understand the importance of her roots,” he replies, his voice calm but sure. “And what she doesn’t know, she’s old enough now to learn.”
I shake my head. “What if someone sees her and knows? What if they feel it? Her magic—it’s not subtle, Evan. She's—” I lower my voice, even here, even now. “She's his daughter. Not yours. Not really.”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and for once his usual levity fades.
“Eva. We have been married for over a decade. Her last name is Rosier. Her records, her blood status, her wand registration—everything traces to me. No one will question it. She is my daughter in every way the world can prove. And more importantly, in every way that matters.”
“But her eyes—” I murmur. “They’re his. If Dumbledore sees her—if Snape—”
“They won’t,” he says gently. “They won’t look for her in the face of a girl they think was never born. As far as they know, Tom Riddle died childless, alone. You made sure of that.”
I say nothing.
Because he’s right.
Because the lie I spun to keep her safe is the only reason she gets to dream of snow and candles and floating lanterns instead of dark marks and war trials.
“She deserves to stand in that castle,” Evan says, softer now. “Not as a ghost of her father’s shadow. But as herself. As Seraphina Rosier.”
His words settle like dust in the space between us.
I sip my tea. It’s gone cold.
Outside, the sky is darkening — a deep, violet bruise along the Paris skyline.
And in the distance, I hear her humming again.
A girl on the edge of her becoming.
A girl who has no idea that Hogwarts was never just a school for me.
It was the beginning of everything.
And the end of it all.
Do I really have a choice? I wouldn't be a good mother if I forever keep trying to protect her from everything. She is old enough. Her father is gone, but the school is not.
She's a smart girl, won't give away who she is.
But Albus is smart too.. and that is what worries me most.
Chapter 3: ~Hogwarts~
Chapter Text
*Seraphina's POV*
I lie awake long after the candles have burned low.
The stars outside my window are faint — dimmed by the lights of the city, veiled by mist — but I stare at them anyway, imagining what they must look like over the Black Lake. Clear. Wild. Free.
Hogwarts.
The word sits heavy in my chest, glowing like a charm I'm afraid to say aloud too often. Like it might vanish if I do.
I know she's afraid.
Mama never says it outright, but I see it in the way her mouth tightens when I mention Britain.
I feel it in the way her eyes follow me a little too long when she thinks I'm not looking. And I know she still keeps that tiny bag of emergency portkeys hidden under the floorboard, just in case we have to run.
She doesn't talk about it. About the past. About him..
I don't blame her. I love her more than anyone in this world. But she's afraid of ghosts that I've never met.
And I?
I want to walk where they once did.
I want to climb the Astronomy Tower. To touch the stones he once walked, whoever he really was. I want to know the truth — not the stories, not the Ministry's half-truths whispered in French classrooms — the truth of who my parents were.
Because I've heard the name Voldemort. I've heard it hissed like poison through clenched teeth. Still does.
And I know it's him.
My father.
But I've also seen the way Mama's eyes soften when she talks about the past— and sometimes, though she doesn't realize it, she smiles when she says his name. Tom.
How could both things be true?
And how could I not want to understand them?
The Triwizard Tournament is my chance. My invitation. My key.
I reach for the notebook beside my bed, the one I keep hidden beneath a stashed floorboard. It's full of notes, questions, sketches of things I've only read about — thestrals, enchanted armor, the carved stone entrance to the Great Hall.
And at the center: a rough sketch of the family tree I've never seen.
I trace a line down to where I've drawn myself. Just a name.
Seraphina Rosier
I bite my lip.
That name has protected me.
But it's not the whole story.
The way spells come too easily to my tongue, the way charms respond to me even without my wand.
It scares me, sometimes. The moments when I whisper a spell under my breath — only to realize I never said it aloud at all.
I haven't told Mama. Or Evan. I pretend it's just... intuition. A talent for magic. But I think it's more than that.
Once, I made the glass in my dormitory window shatter — with nothing but a feeling.
I wasn't even angry.
Just... awake.
I don't know what it is.
I don't know when it started.
But I feel I can learn more. With each spell. Each secret I keep. Each question I ask about the father whose legacy I wear like a second skin, even if the world doesn't see it.
I close the journal.
One day, I'll understand what's it is. Why the wind stills when I step into a room.
Why light flickers when I speak.
Why power answers — even when I don't ask.
Maybe... Hogwarts will tell me what I need to know.
Chapter 4: ~Mon Rayon~
Chapter Text
*Evan's POV*
Eva is standing by the window, the city glows soft behind her, gold threaded through fog, but she looks somewhere beyond it.
Her arms are folded tightly across her chest — not cold, not exactly. Guarded.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed.
“She’s not asleep,” I say gently. “Neither are you.”
Eva doesn’t turn. “She dreams of that place.”
“Hogwarts?” I smile faintly. “Don’t all children?”
“No,” she says, voice flat. “Not like this. She dreams of it like it’s calling her.”
I step closer, laying a hand on her back. She’s tense. Coiled like a wand about to snap.
“She wants the truth,” I murmur. “You knew this day would come.”
Eva’s silence speaks louder than any argument.
“She deserves it, Eva.”
“She deserves safety,” she snaps. “Peace. A life that’s hers, not... his.”
I pause, letting her breathe. Letting the ghosts pass.
“She’s already more powerful than you admit,” I say quietly. “You’ve seen it. Magic moves for her — before she even asks.”
She closes her eyes. “I know.”
“She’s going to find answers one way or another. Let her find them where there are still people who might guide her. Albus. McGonagall..”
Eva turns then, eyes blazing. “People who knew him. People who fought him.”
I raise both hands, calm. “Then we go with her. Just the first day. We see it for ourselves. We walk her through the gates — as her parents. As the Rosier family.”
Her shoulders sink. “And if someone sees her for who she is?”
I smile gently. “They won’t. Because she’s not who he was. She’s brighter. Kinder. And stubborn as hell — just like her mother.”
Eva huffs softly, a reluctant smirk tugging at her mouth.
I step closer, sliding my hand from her back to her waist. “There she is,” I murmur.
She tilts her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “There who is?”
“The woman who still smirks when she knows I’m right.”
“Arrogant,” she mutters — but she doesn’t pull away.
Her body softens beneath my touch, shoulders sinking like a breath she’s finally willing to release. The window glows pale behind her, casting gold into the curve of her jaw, the hollow of her throat.
I brush a strand of hair behind her ear. “She’s ready,” I say quietly. “And you raised her to be.”
Her lips part — but whatever argument she meant to make dies on her tongue.
Instead, she leans in and I meet her halfway.
The kiss is slow. Familiar. Not a clash of heat or desperation — but something quieter. Deeper. A promise passed from mouth to mouth, breath to breath.
My hand slides up her back, anchoring her against me.
And for one moment, everything outside the window — the war, the secrets, the ghosts — fades.
It’s just us.
When we part, her eyes are glassy, but dry.
“I hate when you’re right,” she murmurs.
“You love it,” I say.
She snorts, shaking her head — but she presses her forehead to mine, and lets herself stay there.
Letting me hold her.
Letting herself believe we can let her go.
—
Later, I find Seraphina still sitting cross-legged on her bed, a book forgotten in her lap.
She looks up sharply when I knock gently and poke my head in.
“Am I in trouble?” she asks immediately.
I grin. “You? Always.”
She throws a pillow at me with her wand. I catch it easily.
“But not tonight,” I say. “You’re getting your wish.”
Her mouth drops. “Wait—”
“You can go,” I say before she explodes. “To Hogwarts. For the tournament. For the ball.”
She bolts upright. “You’re serious?!”
“But,” I raise a finger, “your mother and I are escorting you. First day. We see it with our own eyes, and then we vanish back into the fog like good little parental shadows.”
She lunges forward and throws her arms around me. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”
“Don’t thank me yet,” I mutter into her hair. “You’re going to owe me a very fancy chocolate frog souvenir.”
She laughs, bright and breathless.
“I’ll bring you ten.” She says excited and runs to hug me.
It’s funny — she was never much of a hugger as a child. Fiercely independent. Wild. Sharp edges even back then. But moments like this… they remind me she’s still young, still looking for something steady to lean against.
I ease her down to sit beside me on the bed.
Her face is still glowing from excitement, but behind the flush of joy, something else lingers. Something older. Heavier.
Her fingers twist the edge of her sleeve.
“Can I ask you something?”
Her voice is softer now. Careful.
I nod, already knowing where this is going.
“It’s about… him.”
I wait.
She doesn’t say the name. Doesn’t need to.
“My father,” she says finally. “Tom.”
A pause.
“I know you knew him.”
I meet her eyes, and for a moment, she looks so much like Eva that it aches.
“I did,” I say.
“What was he like?” she asks. “Not the stories. Not the monster. Just… the man.”
I draw in a breath.
How do you explain a man like Tom Riddle to his daughter?
“He was brilliant,” I begin slowly. “Terrifyingly so. The kind of person who made the room colder or sharper just by walking into it. He saw everything. And he missed nothing.”
Her brows furrow. “But was he ever… good?”
I hesitate.
“He wasn’t born cruel,” I say. “But he learned power fast — and he learned the world would never give it to him unless he took it.”
She nods slowly, like she expected that.
“But he loved her,” she says, and it isn’t a question.
“Yes,” I answer quietly. “More than anything.”
There’s a long silence. She’s trying to piece it together — the myth, the man, the fragments of truth Eva was too afraid to share.
Then, carefully:
“Does anyone else know? About me?”
I shake my head. “No one. Not even the people who would die for you.”
“And if they did?”
I look at her seriously now. The air changes between us.
“If anyone finds out,” I say, “you won’t be safe. Not in England. Not anywhere.”
Her throat bobs.
“They would hunt you, Seraphina. Not because of who you are, but because of what you represent. A legacy the world thinks it buried. And trust me — the people who think they saved the world don’t want reminders that the story isn’t finished.”
She nods, slowly. “So I can’t tell anyone.”
“Not even friends. Not Dumbledore. Especially not him.” I say strictly.
Her jaw tightens. “Did my father know? About me?”
I don't answer that. Some truths don't belong in her hands yet.
Instead, I reach out and take her hand in mine.
“You are more than his shadow, Mon Rayon. You are our light. And everything you do from now on — every choice — will shape what kind of story you tell.”
Her fingers squeeze mine.
And for a second, I see it in her eyes — not fear.
Resolve.
She’s ready.
But I pray, silently, that the world will be ready for her.
Because power like hers… it never stays quiet forever.
Chapter 5: ~Welcome to Hogwarts~
Chapter Text
*Seraphina's POV*
1994, Portkey Site, South of Lyon
The morning air bites.
Cool, dry, laced with woodsmoke and lavender — the kind of chill that sneaks under your coat and makes you feel awake in your bones.
I stand still in the open clearing as the other Beauxbatons students gather near the worn stone archway that marks the Portkey site. Everyone's talking, adjusting cloaks, arguing over forgotten gloves or charmed boots that won't sit right.
But I barely hear them.
My fingers are tight around the strap of my satchel. My wand hums faintly from the inside pocket. And my heart—well, it hasn't decided if it's excited or terrified yet.
"Mama says your boots are cursed," Léonie chirps beside me, all pink cheeks and flying blonde curls.
I blink. "What?"
"They keep squeaking like a dying toad." She grins. "Enchanté, Madame Toadfoot."
I roll my eyes, but smile. "You're lucky I'm too nervous to hex you."
She shrugs, looping her arm through mine. "Nervous is good. Means something's about to happen."
That's the part I can't stop thinking about.
Something's about to happen.
Not just a Ball. Not just a Tournament. But something bigger. I feel it in the pit of my stomach — like a storm waiting behind a curtain.
A hand rests gently on my shoulder.
I turn, heart lifting a little at the sight of Evan — tall, calm, dressed like he's going to a wedding. He always does that. His scarf is crooked, and Mama fusses with it behind him, muttering in half-formed French.
"You're going to miss the Portkey window," Evan says. "And I'll have to tell your professors it's because you were busy glowering at trees."
I smirk. "I wasn't glowering."
"Brooding?"
"Thinking."
He leans closer, his voice soft. "Same thing."
Before I can answer, Mama appears at my other side, lips pursed, eyes scanning the crowd. She's dressed in travel robes that don't quite hide her anxiety.
"You remember what you tell people, yes?"
"Yes, Mama," I recite, like I've done a dozen times. "I am Seraphina Rosier. Daughter of Evan Rosier. My mother is Eva Rosier."
"And?"
"I've never lived in England. I've never heard of Tom Riddle. I think 'Voldemort' sounds like a stomach condition."
Evan chuckles beside me. Mama glares at both of us, but a flicker of relief crosses her face.
"Good," she murmurs. "Stay close during the jump. Don't let go until you've landed."
"And after?"
Her eyes soften, just for a second. " We will meet you when the tournament starts. Be who you are, Feenie."
Who I am ... The part I'm still figuring out.
A bell chimes low and long.
Madame Delacour lifts her wand. "Gather round, mes élèves. Now is the moment."
The Portkey shimmers — a twisted silver flute hovering above the carved stone slab.
I take a breath.
Léonie grabs one side. A boy I don't know takes the other.
I reach for it — and Evan's hand finds mine, just for a second.
"You've got this, mon rayon," he whispers.
And Mama—she doesn't say anything. She just cups my cheek for the briefest moment, then nods.
I touch the flute.
The world yanks sideways.
Spinning—blinding—wind howling like time itself is tearing open—
And then:
We land.
Hard.
I hit the ground in a heap of limbs and laughter, my satchel sliding off my shoulder.
The moment I look up, I forget to breathe.
Because there it is.
Hogwarts.
Looming beyond the hill, its towers shrouded in low-hanging mist
Looming beyond the hill, its towers shrouded in low-hanging mist. The lake glinting. Lanterns glowing along the outer wall like fireflies trapped in stone.
And something inside me—something old, something not entirely mine—stirs.
Like the castle knows I'm here.
And it's been waiting.
We gather to enter the boat.
When we take off, it rock gently beneath our feet, bobbing in rhythm with the current as they drift across the inky-black surface of the lake. The night air is cooler here, sharper, carrying the scent of pine and mist. The castle towers rise ahead like a half-remembered dream—lit from within, golden windows gleaming through the fog like constellations.
No matter how many illustrations I'd studied, how many whispered stories passed through dorm rooms at Beauxbatons, none of it compares to this. To the quiet hum of magic that clings to the air. To the weight of history pressing against your skin.
Beside me, Léonie grips the edge of the boat with white knuckles.
"This is insane," she whispers. "It looks like it grew out of the cliffs."
"Maybe it did," I murmur back, unable to tear my eyes away.
I feel it again—that strange pull deep in my chest. The same one I felt on my birthday, and the night I found the broken glass hovering in my room. Magic moves differently here. It's older. Hungrier.
Alive.
And I can feel it watching me.
Our boat touches shore. Students file out ahead of us, laughing, adjusting robes, peering up at the turrets and stone arches. I move slowly, every step toward the castle a strange sort of homecoming I never expected.
I reach the edge of the stone steps leading into the Entrance Hall and pause.
For a second, the world is quiet.
I am where he once stood.
If he could only see me now..
If he could only see me now
Warm light floods out in gold and amber, spilling across the stone like molten magic
Warm light floods out in gold and amber, spilling across the stone like molten magic. Inside, the Entrance Hall rises taller than any I've ever seen, full of echoes and torchlight, the smell of candle wax and old paper and something older still—like memory itself.
We file through in silence, hushed by awe. Even Léonie, who never stops talking, walks open-mouthed beside me, clutching my sleeve like she might float away.
And then, the doors to the Great Hall open.
It hits me like a spell.
The sky.
It isn't just a ceiling—it's the night itself, suspended above our heads. Stars shine through a veil of wispy clouds, just like they must outside. Lanterns hover in rows, glowing soft gold, flickering like they're breathing. Four long tables stretch out before us, filled with students in deep-colored robes. House banners hang proudly: crimson, green, blue, and yellow.
House banners hang proudly: crimson, green, blue, and yellow
But it's the table at the front that draws me in.
The staff.
A man stands behind the podium. He's tall, lean, dressed in a grey suit. His hair is silver, but neat. His eyes—striking, bright, far younger than I imagined.
Albus Dumbledore.
He looks like a force.
"Welcome!" he calls out, his voice echoing through the hall, warm and commanding all at once
"Welcome!" he calls out, his voice echoing through the hall, warm and commanding all at once. "To Hogwarts, to all who come from near and far. We are honored to share our home with you."
A smattering of applause follows. Some students clap politely, some more enthusiastically.
Dumbledore lifts a hand.
"Tonight, we welcome our friends from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. You will feast with us, learn with us, and celebrate this rare moment of unity between our schools. A tradition older than many realize."
He glances around the room.
"But more than that, you will compete."
A low ripple of excitement runs through the students.
"The Triwizard Tournament is not merely a test of skill," Dumbledore continues. "It is a test of character. Of courage. Of wit. And, perhaps most importantly, of who you are when the world is watching."
The Goblet of Fire stands beside him, flickering with blue flames that snap and twist like impatient fingers.
I can barely take it all in.
There, beside him—is that Nicolas Flamel's ghost? I recognize him from a portrait once hidden in Beauxbatons' old wing. He sits quietly, eyes closed, sipping what I assume is hot chocolate. Or a potion. It's hard to say.
And further down—another figure, older than the rest, skin parchment-thin but glowing with magic. That must be Bathilda Bagshot. The historian. I thought she'd vanished.
Léonie nudges me sharply. "You're staring."
"So are you," I whisper back.
She grins. "Yeah. Worth it."
The feast appears with a sudden shimmer. Platters of roast, stews laced with French spices in honor of our school, baskets of warm bread, and dishes that glow faintly purple. Butterbeer steams in silver pitchers beside goblets that refill before your hand reaches them.
It is too much. It is perfect.
And yet...
Somewhere, beyond all this beauty, I feel something. Like a ripple in the air. A thread pulling.
Magic here breathes differently.
It remembers.
And I wonder—
Does it remember him? Does it know who I am?
Chapter 6: ~Champions~
Chapter Text
*Seraphina's POV*
The feast stretches into the night like a spell no one wants to break.
Laughter spills through the Great Hall, students from all three schools mingling across the long tables, trading food and stories in a blend of accents and bright-eyed curiosity. Platters refill themselves in glittering swirls of light, and the enchanted ceiling reflects a soft snow now, delicate flakes drifting slowly above us, never quite touching the tables.
I should be eating. I should be listening to the girl next to me talk about the dragon she saw once at a reserve near the Pyrenees. I should be excited.
But my eyes keep drifting.
Not to the professors, not to the Goblet of Fire, still burning blue with lazy, curling flames. Not even to the curious glances some Hogwarts students throw our way.
But to the shadows. The still places between the torches.
The pulse of something old in the stones.
There's too much to take in — the floating candles, the moving ceiling above us where clouds drift across stars, the tables heavy with food and centuries of house pride. Every inch of this place hums with history, with presence.
And then—
A shoulder brushes mine, not hard but fast — enough to jolt my attention back to the present.
"Sorry," a voice says — quick, low, and a little breathless.
I look up.
A boy. Tall, a little awkward, weaving through the crowd between tables. His robes are slightly crooked, as if he pulled them on too fast. He doesn't slow, but as he passes, his head turns just enough—
Green eyes. Dark hair that's forever in his face.
He doesn't meet my eyes
He doesn't meet my eyes. Doesn't stop. He's gone, swallowed by the sea of students heading toward the Gryffindor table.
I blink.
Léonie nudges me. "You good?" she asks, waving a buttered roll in my direction.
I nod slowly, brushing off my sleeve like nothing happened.
I glance toward the Gryffindors, but the boy is nowhere in sight.
"Yeah.. what did you say about dragons?" I eye her again.
I know I was rude not to listen, but my mind is all over the place.
~The Next Day~
I'm done with my classes, the castle feels quieter after the rush of the morning.
Fleur and I descend the west staircase together, the stone steps wide and curving beneath our feet. We aren't talking, but there's a shared calm between us. A knowing. We aren't enemies despite both of us trying to be the triwizarding tournament champion.
We barely ever talked so how could I not like her - she is beautiful, talented and kind.
We barely ever talked so how could I not like her - she is beautiful, talented and kind
We walk in peace until it shatters.
Fleur slips.
It happens fast—a sudden twist of her ankle, her heel catching oddly against the stone. She tumbles hard, landing in a heap three steps down.
"Fleur!" I rush to her side, kneeling. Her eyes are wide, stunned with pain.
She tries to sit up, but winces sharply, clutching her leg.
I fumble for my wand, shaking. "Help! Somebody—help!"
A door slams open above us.
Footsteps echo.
A professor appears, his black robes billowing like thunderclouds.
He stops two steps above us, scowling down as if the very act of existing has offended him.
"What in Merlin's name happened here?" he drawls.
I stand quickly. "She slipped. She fell—her ankle, I think it's broken."
He eyes me. Not kindly. "And you are?"
"Seraphina.. Beauxbatons."
I catch the faintest twitch in his jaw before he turns his wand over Fleur, muttering a diagnostic charm under his breath. His face darkens slightly.
"She'll need the infirmary. Go back to your classes."
I nod.
But as he lifts Fleur with a wave of his wand and floats her upward, I catch him looking at me again.
Longer this time.
~Later that day~
The sky is heavy with mist when we slip outside.
Léonie is practically vibrating beside me, her arm looped through mine.
"You're doing it, you have to! Now that Fleur is hurt, we don't have anyone attempting to win," she says, tugging me toward the courtyard where students are already crowding around the Goblet of Fire.
"I never said that. And what happened to her is- very strange, don't you think Leo?"
And what happened to her is- very strange, don't you think Leo?"
"You didn't have to. I know that look. It's the same one you had the night you transfigured Estelle's bed into a hippogriff for calling your hair too dark. So yes Fee, what happened to Fleur is strange, isn't?"
I snort. "That was an accident. - And I had nothing to do with Fleur falling!"
"Mmhm." She grins.
The Goblet burns brighter in the morning air, surrounded by a low stone circle. Students step forward one at a time, dropping their names in parchment slips, eyes wide with hope.
I feel my heart start to race.
Léonie nudges me.
My hand trembles as I draw a small square of parchment from my cloak. I write my name.
Seraphina Rosier.
The letters blur for a moment. My magic pulses against the paper.
I step forward. The crowd fades.
The fire draws me in, blue and alive, and I drop the name.
A beat.
Then the flames snap upward. And I swear they lean toward me.
I step back, heart pounding.
Mama will be angry if I get chosen. But I have to try, I am gifted and Evan always says I should use my gift..
~In the Evening~
I tried to hide all day from the glances some of the other students give me.
They think I had something to do with Fleurs accident, which obviously, I did not.
As the night sets in, Leonie and I leave our dormitory.
The Great Hall is quieter tonight.
Not silent — there's the usual clink of goblets and the hum of conversation — but a tension coils in the air, thick and electric. Everyone's eyes are on the Goblet of Fire, blue flames licking the dark as if tasting names from the parchment pile resting inside.
I sit near the front with the rest of the Beauxbatons students, Léonie beside me, nearly bouncing in her seat.
Madame Maxime rises with regal calm, nodding toward Dumbledore, who steps forward, silver robes catching the flicker of torchlight. His presence is commanding, though softer than I expected.His eyes sharp, ageless, and strange. And Igor Karkaroff, I read about him, a former follower of my father, betraying him after he died. I narrow my eyes at him before Professor Dumbledore draws back my attention as he speaks.
I narrow my eyes at him before Professor Dumbledore draws back my attention as he speaks
"It is time," he says, voice warm and clear
"It is time," he says, voice warm and clear. "The Goblet has decided. Let's see who our Champions are!"
The flames shudder once.
Then a burst of red fire erupts upward — and a charred slip of parchment flutters out.
Dumbledore catches it, peering over his half-moon glasses.
"Viktor Krum!" he announces.
The Durmstrang table erupts with applause. Students pound their fists against the wood as Krum stands slowly, nodding once in stoic acceptance. Good looking though.. without a doubt.
I glance at Léonie, who rolls her eyes
I glance at Léonie, who rolls her eyes.
The fire flares again.
A second name.
"Cedric Diggory!"
This time the Hogwarts table bursts into cheers. A tall boy with ash-blond hair rises, his smile modest, proud. He makes his way to the antechamber with confident steps.
He makes his way to the antechamber with confident steps
And then—
Another flare.
My stomach tightens.
Dumbledore reaches for the third slip.
"Seraphina Rosier."
The world stops.
For one heartbeat, everything goes still. No cheers. No gasps. Just a hundred heads slowly turning. I could swear I can see some Gryffindors whispering.
Léonie grabs my arm. "You—you did it. You—"
I stand on legs that don't feel like mine.
Every step to the front is a blur. The Goblet hisses behind me as I pass it. As if it's still watching.
Dumbledore offers me a nod. Not surprised. Not disturbed. Just... curious.
I step through the heavy wooden door into the side chamber
I step through the heavy wooden door into the side chamber.
Krum glances at me. Cedric gives me a warm smile.
I barely have time to breathe before—
Another eruption.
Louder. Angrier.
The flames rise violently, turning white for a split second.
A final slip spits out.
Dumbledore catches it, frowning.
"Harry Potter." - "HARRY POTTER!"
The moment his name is spoken, the Great Hall unravels into noise.
Gasps. Protests. Whispers like knives.
I hear someone shout, "He can't be competing!" and another, "That's against the rules!" But all I can think is:
Him.
The boy who barely brushed my shoulder. The one whose eyes didn't quite meet mine.
It was Harry Potter.
He steps forward, slow and reluctant, like his legs might give out beneath him. There's a flush in his cheeks and confusion written in every line of his face — not fear, not exactly. But something older. Something tight with dread.
He disappears through the doors.
The professors follow like wolves drawn to an open wound.
I'm frozen.
Krum and Cedric exchange a look, both of them clearly just as baffled, but there's something else in Krum's eyes. A flash of calculation. Like he's seeing something dangerous just beneath the surface.
Dumbledore's voice echoes down the hallway behind the door, low and sharp.
"Did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?"
I turn toward the sound instinctively. My mothers gift.. my hearing is quite excellent.
There's something off in the air. The castle feels different. Like the magic under the floorboards has gone rigid, bracing itself.
"Seraphina?" Cedric's voice is kind. "You alright?"
I nod, though my mouth is dry. "Yes. Just... surprised."
Which is a lie.
Not about Harry. About how it felt the second his name left the Goblet.
Like something ancient blinked awake.
Like fate sat up straighter.
The door swings open wider, and the chaos behind it sharpens.
I can hear Dumbledore now. Less calm than before.
"Did you ask an older student to do it for you?"
"No! I didn't! I swear!" Harry's voice — panicked and certain all at once.
The room inside hums with tension.
Karkaroff is speaking now. Sharp. Cutting.
"This is highly irregular! Someone must have tricked the Goblet. You saw it yourself, Albus — it spit out four names."
And then Madam Maxime: "We 'ave rules for a reason. This cannot stand."
More voices. More accusations.
But I don't move. I don't speak.
Because I can feel it again — that strange, low pull beneath my ribs. Magic brushing my bones like a warning.
Something isn't right.
And for the first time, I wonder if putting my name in the Goblet was more than ambition.
Maybe it was fate answering fate.
He is the boy that.. lived. The boy my father..
The door slams again, interrupting my thoughts.
Silence.
Krum crosses his arms. Cedric shifts uncomfortably.
Then Dumbledore steps back into the antechamber. He looks... tired. There's no anger now, no warmth either. Just thought.
His eyes fall on me.
They stay there longer than they should.
Then:
"We'll speak in the morning," he says simply, and his gaze slides from me to Harry.
"All of you. For now—rest."
But I catch it. The faint narrowing of his eyes.
He knows something. Or suspects something.
And for a man like Dumbledore... that's enough to unravel an empire.
Outside the great hall, Harry slumps onto a bench, head in his hands, like the weight of his name just got heavier.
I sit beside him — not close, but not far.
We don't speak.
But when our eyes meet briefly, I see it.
Recognition.
Not of me.
But of something shared.
Like we're both standing at the edge of something enormous — and the ground beneath us just cracked.
The difference is that he has no idea who I am, but I know exactly who he is..
Chapter 7: ~Lineage~
Chapter Text
*Seraphina's POV*
The next morning, the castle breathes fog.
It clings to the windows and curls beneath the arches like something alive, softening stone and muting every footstep. Hogwarts looks like it hasn't quite woken up yet.
But I have.
I didn't sleep.
I sat awake listening to the castle whisper.
Even now, the walls feel like they're murmuring secrets just beyond my hearing.
I head down the corridor, satchel swinging at my side, mind still tangled in the night before—Dumbledore's eyes, the way the Goblet flared when it chose me. And him. Harry Potter.
Up ahead, I hear voices. Sharp. Angry.
"You're lying!" A boy with red hair shouts, bitter and loud. "You could've told me the truth!"
Then Potter's reply, tired and tight, "I didn't put my name in! You think I wanted this Ron?"
They push past me, neither of them noticing me standing near the edge of the corridor. Ron storms ahead, jaw clenched, and Harry lingers just a second longer before turning away. That tension is thick. Bruising.
My fingers twitch at my side. Something is unraveling.
And I'm not sure it started with me—but it definitely accelerated last night.
I take the long hallway towards the greenhouses, thinking of Madam Maxime's class and how behind I already am.
But I don't make it there.
A figure steps out from behind one of the tapestries.
I startle—slightly—.
Professor Moody, I have seen him the night I arrvied. I even know how he lost his eye.. Evan did it. Moody attacked him when my father fell, since he was a deatheater, Evan fought and eventually made the ministry believe he was under the imperio curse. Not sure if Moody ever truly believed it.
If they meet.. it could get very interesting.
Moody is leaning heavily on a gnarled cane, his magical eye rolling wildly in its socket while the other one pins me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.
"Miss Rosier," he rasps.
I stop. "Yes, sir?"
He grins, but there's no warmth in it. "Come with me. Just a moment of your time."
"Am I in trouble?"
"Not yet," he says.
Not exactly comforting.
I follow him. Down a flight of steps, past a locked classroom door, through a hall I don't think is on the official map. The torches here burn low. The air smells like iron and old parchment.
Moody doesn't speak.
Finally, we reach a small alcove. The door shuts behind me on its own.
He turns.
"You're quite the enigma," he mutters, watching me with both eyes now, one whirring eerily. "Name pops out of the Goblet, Fleur Delacoure tripping just before getting a chance dropping her name in the goblet. No one knows you."
"I'm from Beauxbatons, and I had nothing to do with her fall" I say, steady.
"Mmm. And yet... you don't feel like Beauxbatons."
My pulse skips. "Excuse me?"
"You are different," he continues, stepping forward. "Wilder. And the Goblet? It flinched when it took your name."
I say nothing. How can he know that. He wasn't even around.. at least I thought so.
He crouches slightly, leaning in. His breath smells of smoke and something sharp.
"You feel it, don't you? This place watching you? The castle remembering something it shouldn't?"
I try not to move.
"Tell me something, Miss Rosier," he says slowly. "What do you dream about, hmm?"
The question slithers under my skin.
His magical eye whirls, watching me from angles I can't see.
"Careful who you trust here," he adds. "And not just students. Even old war heroes wear masks."
He turns without waiting for my reply, opening the door with a flick of his cane.
"That'll be all. For now."
And just like that, he's gone.
The corridor feels colder when he leaves. As if his presence took some of the light with it.
I press a hand to the wall to steady myself. For all his madness, one thing's true:
Something is watching me.
And I'm not sure I want to know what it wants.
But that has to wait, I have to go to the flying lessons, otherwise Madam Hooch might hit me with my own broom.
The wind over the training grounds stings, but I like it. It keeps me sharp. Awake. The kind of air that whispers through your teeth when you breathe and carries magic like dust.
Flying class.
I'm not terrible at it. Not brilliant either. But I know how to keep balance, how to grip the broom with confidence even when the wind tries to shake it loose. Control has always come easy to me—when I want it to.
Madame Hooch barks instructions from the far end of the field. Beauxbatons students are paired with Hogwarts students today. Unfamiliar faces, stiff introductions, polite smiles that don't quite reach the eyes.
"Rosier?" a voice calls.
I turn.
A boy steps toward me, pale as moonlight with platinum blond hair and an expression carved out of smug marble.
"Draco Malfoy," he says, holding out a gloved hand. "We are distant cousins. Sort of. Through the Rosier line."
His smile is tight, rehearsed. He expects recognition. Reverence, maybe.
I shake his hand, my grip firmer than necessary. Little does he know who my real father is.. good. "Seraphina."
He smirks
He smirks. "Obviously. Father said Evan Rosier had a daughter, but I didn't expect you to look so..."
He doesn't finish. Just lets the words dangle.
"So what?" I ask, eyebrow raised.
He shrugs, mounting his broom. "French."
I roll my eyes, mounting mine beside him. "Is that meant to be an insult or a compliment?"
"Neither," he replies airily. "Just an observation. We Malfoys are good at those."
I kick off from the ground.
Draco keeps pace beside me as we rise, the castle stretching long beneath us, the towers catching light like polished bone.
"You fly well," he says eventually.
"You don't," I answer without thinking.
He actually laughs and it surprises both of us.
We dip and turn in practiced spirals. Other students peel off across the field, and for a moment, it's just the two of us coasting in silence above the pitch.
Then I see a man standing near the edge of the grounds, dressed like he stepped out of another century. His cane gleams. His posture is faultless. Eyes like knives behind that polished veneer.
He's speaking with a professor—I can't see who. Likely Dumbledore, judging by the shape of the cloak.
But it's not the conversation that stops me mid-flight.
It's the way he looks up.
Right at me. His gaze locks.
And something flickers.
Recognition. Unease.
I wobble slightly in the air. Catch myself.
Draco follows my gaze.
"Ah. Father," he says casually. "Don't mind him. He believes you can read lineage in the eyes. It's a thing he does."
My stomach turns. He surely can't read my lineage.. and if he can he's really good.
Draco's father cocks his head, studying me like a riddle he's heard before but can't quite place.
I look away first.
Madame Hooch blows her whistle, signaling the end of class. I descend quickly, broom crunching into the grass as I land. Draco lands next to me with far too much flair.
Draco's father is already making his way across the lawn.
"Seraphina, was it?" he asks when he reaches us.
His voice is like glass. Smooth. Cold. Reflective.
I guess he did some research.
"Yes, sir." I say, lower than intendet.
He studies me a moment too long
He studies me a moment too long.
"And you are?" I shoot out, to his surprise.
He rises an eyebrow at me, lifting his chin before answering,
"Lucius Malfoy," he says smoothly. "I see you've made acquaintance with my son. It's wise to be discerning about the company you keep at Hogwarts... though I can already tell you recognize the right sort of people."
Ah. Something I have heard before. I guess professor Moody and Mr. Malfoy grew up together.
I smirk at my own thought, not reacting to his comment, which cleary was about purity.
His eyes linger too long — enough to make something coil in my stomach.
Power recognizes power.
Did he know my father? If so I need to know more about him.
I meet his gaze without flinching, folding my hands calmly in front of me.
"It must be convenient," I say evenly, "to assume one's blood is always enough."
Draco stiffens beside me. But Lucius? Lucius smiles — thin and sharp, like the edge of a silver dagger.
"And yet, Miss Rosier..." he murmurs, stepping just a little closer, "here you are. A Rosier by name, and something else entirely behind the eyes it seems."
It's not a threat. Not a compliment either.
A challenge. I smile nodding once.
"Your face is familiar. You've never been to Wiltshire, have you?" He asks.
"No Mr. Malfoy, maybe one day."
Lucius nods. "Mm. Curious. You have a... distinct look."
"So do you," I reply.
His expression doesn't change. But something behind his eyes sharpens.
"Take care, Miss Rosier," he murmurs. "Not all eyes here are kind."
He turns.
Draco exhales. "He likes you. That's rare."
"That wasn't liking," I say.
Draco glances sideways. "You have no idea."
We walk back in silence.
I just met him but something tells me that he doesn't have the best relationship with his father even though he acts as if.
Despite my dislike for them, I have a mission: to learn about my father. This infiltration is my opportunity, and I intend to seize it.
All that while winning the championship, starting tomorrow.
Chapter 8: ~Sides~
Chapter Text
*Severus' POV*
The dungeons of Hogwarts are quieter than most places in the castle.
Not silent—never silent. The walls murmur in their own way, old stone always remembering. There's a chill that doesn't lift, no matter how many torches flicker to life. It suits me.
I like places that remember.
I'm halfway through grading third-year essays when I hear the click of polished shoes against flagstone.
The rhythm is deliberate. Confident. Lucius Malfoy does not sneak. He wouldn't be able to even if he tried.
I don't look up.
"It's early," I say.
"Is it?" he replies smoothly, the word echoing with amusement.
"Forgive me. The hour felt appropriate."
He closes the door behind him without asking. The lock turns with a soft snap.
Now I look up.
Lucius is immaculate, of course. Always is. Cane in hand, silver clasp at his collar, hair pulled back like a blade sheathed in silk. He's hiding something behind his ridiculous polished and arrogant appearance.
"I assume you're not here to discuss potions," I murmur.
"No," he says, and there's a rare flicker of something in his voice. Not fear. Something colder.
"He's stirring, Severus."
I go still.
"Peter nearly has it," Lucius adds, stepping closer. "The last ingredient. It won't be long. Weeks, more or less."
Peter. The cowardly rat. I'd assumed he would fail. Or vanish.
But if Lucius is here, speaking plainly—
"Dumbledore suspects something," I say.
"Let him suspect. That man has played his hand. He's no longer feared, Severus."
Lucius sets his cane aside, gloved fingers smoothing the edges of his robes.
"You've stayed in his good graces," he continues.
"Useful. Loyal. Even trusted. But when the Dark Lord returns, he will want proof."
"He always does."
Lucius studies me for a long moment.
"There are gatherings," he says slowly. "Not in Britain. Not yet. But you know the signs."
I do.
Old names resurfacing. Cursed vaults being reopened. Unregistered werewolves going missing. Magic deeper than law or reason.
And worse than all of it—rumors of what came with power last time.
"They're building again," Lucius says softly. "The old circles. With new toys."
"I've heard," I say.
"Not what you've heard. What you've forgotten. You haven't shown up ever since he disappeared."
He leans in.
"They have brothels now, Severus. Polyjuice-bonded. Consent spelled away in contracts no one reads. Breeding rings in the north, masked auctions in the old manors."
I say nothing.
He straightens. "They think it's freedom. The return of power."
"It's depravity," I murmur.
Lucius only smiles. "It always was."
There's silence for a long moment.
Then, almost offhandedly:
"Your student. Rosier."
My jaw tightens.
"What of her?"
"She has... potential."
I don't move.
"She flies like a predator. Speaks like she's already a known powerfull witch.
Her magic bends toward her like it wants to stay."
"That doesn't mean anything."
Lucius' eyes narrow slightly. "Hm. We will see. Her and Draco might be a good aliance."
I stare at the fire. Aliance. Really. There is another war coming and all he thinks about is the continuation of his bloodline.
Lucius doesn't speak again, but he watches me.
Then, finally, he says:
"He'll want her too."
The words fall like ash.
He takes up his cane and walks to the door.
"Think on that, Severus. Before she chooses a side. A side which you chose long ago, don't forget that." He lifts his chin, "When He rises again, will you stand beside power, or behind it?"
And with that, he's gone.
The door clicks shut, and the silence closes in like water.
I stay where I am. The parchment in front of me — Rosier's essay, fittingly — is just ink and blur.
Because Lucius isn't wrong about everything.
There were gatherings.
There were brothels. Not like the ones whispered now, twisted and systemic. No — ours were improvised. Behind spell-sealed doors. In cellars. Forest clearings. Velvet rooms with iron rules.
We thought ourselves above law and conscience. Pure. Powerful.
What we were... were monsters.
I remember one girl. Young. Stolen. A muggle. Polyjuiced to look like a dead witch none of us had the nerve to touch when she was alive. I remember not stopping it. Not turning away. Just watching. Silent.
I wasn't one of the worst.
But I was close enough to hear them laugh.
And yet — I stood among them.
Chose to.
It started with anger Then fear. Then purpose. Then... nothing. No feeling at all.
And now?
Now I pretend again.
I wear this mask — for Dumbledore.
For the Order. For her son.
For what's left of me that might still be worth sparing.
Lucius thinks I still belong to that world.
But I remember it too well to ever go back.
They will drag Draco into this, and I will have to protect him too.
And if Seraphina is his — then it's not enough to keep her safe.
I have to keep her from becoming what we were.
What he made us.
My hand drifts over my mouth, pressing hard enough to leave a bruise if I let it.
I sit in the quiet long enough for the candles to burn low.
But quiet is dangerous.
Because it lets memory knock.
And I know better than to open that door.
But it opens anyway.
Severus' Memory
The White Hart, Knockturn Alley – 1978
The place reeked of mildew, firewhiskey, and stale spells.
I was nineteen. Broke. Bitter. Smarter than everyone in the room and angrier than I'd ever admit.
I'd just Obliviated the bartender for the third time that week — simple charm, clean sweep — all to get another round for free.
He blinked stupidly, asked for my age again, poured me another.
Pathetic.
I remember thinking the whole world was a rigged game, and I'd been dealt nothing but filth.
Then he walked in.
Tom Riddle.
But no one called him that anymore.
He didn't look like a tyrant. Not yet.
He looked... perfect. Charming.
Sharp coat, high collar, dark curls brushed back like old money charm. He didn't sit — he hovered. Like gravity itself bent politely around him.
He slid onto the barstool beside me without asking.
Glanced once at the bartender — who froze mid-pour — and then at me.
"You're wasting your gift," he said, voice silk on broken glass.
I turned. "Excuse me?"
He smiled.
And I swear to this day, it was the most terrifyingly kind thing I'd ever seen.
"Memory magic," he said, nodding to the bartender still caught in a blank daze.
"You don't just use it. You feel it. That's rare."
I didn't answer. He didn't need me to.
"Severus Snape," he said. "Half-blood. Slum-bred. Brilliant. Angry. Drunk. And utterly unremarkable... unless someone shows you what you are."
I should have walked away.
I should have hexed him through the wall.
But I didn't.
Because in that moment — with that voice, that face, that twisted little grin —
he didn't just see me.
He unmade me.
"You want power?" he asked.
Driven by anger I nodded before I even realized it.
Back to Present
The Dungeon, Hogwarts
I drag in a breath like drowning.
There are nights when I still hear his voice. When I still feel the hook he planted in my spine the moment I said yes.
Because I did.
I said yes to power. Yes to purpose. Yes to him.
And now?
Now I teach children to stir cauldrons.
Now I grade essays while waiting for old ghosts to claw their way back to the surface.
Now I watch a girl walk these halls — a girl that might have his magic burning behind her eyes — and I wonder:
If she has a choice.
Or if fate already made it for her.
Chapter 9: ~The Heir~
Chapter Text
*Eva's POV*
Paris – The Rosier House
The envelope sits on the table like it knows what it's done.
Smooth parchment. Elegant handwriting. Her handwriting.
I don't touch it right away. I just stare at it — steam rising from the untouched tea beside it, my fingers curling tighter around the mug until the ceramic threatens to crack.
Evan watches me from the kitchen, silent.
The wax seal bears the crest of Beauxbatons. But the ink inside, I know, bleeds Hogwarts.
Finally, I break it open. The parchment unfolds like wings.
Mama, Papa— I have the most wonderful news...
Mama, Papa— I have the most wonderful news
I skim. Fast. Words leaping off the page in jagged flashes.
—chosen by the Goblet of Fire...
—one of the champions...
—the Great Hall is like nothing I've ever seen...
—I feel like I've always belonged here...
I stop reading. My hands tremble.
Always belonged. At Hogwarts.
That cursed castle. That cradle of ghosts. That monument to everything I tore apart to keep her safe. At the same time the monument where I met my love.
And now she thinks it's home?
"She's proud," Evan says gently behind me. "You should read the rest—"
"I don't need to," I snap.
My voice slices sharper than I mean it to, but it's too late to take it back.
He walks over quietly, takes the letter from my hand, and reads it aloud anyway.
He walks over quietly, takes the letter from my hand, and reads it aloud anyway
They announced the champions tonight. People clapped, Mama. They clapped for me. The magic here — it doesn't feel dangerous. It feels like it recognizes me. I don't know how to explain it. It's like... the castle remembers me. Like I've always been meant to walk these halls.
Don't worry. I'm being careful. I've told no one. But I wanted you to know — for once, I don't feel like I'm hiding.
I look away.
Hiding is exactly what she should be doing.
"She's sixteen," I say, voice low. "Sixteen and she's already standing under torches with her name in the sky. What happens when someone looks at her too long, Evan? When someone smart — someone old — remembers what her father's eyes looked like? Dumbledore-"
"She's smarter than we were at her age," Evan replies, wrapping an arm around my waist. "You made sure of that."
"That doesn't mean they won't figure it out," I hiss. "The Goblet chose her. Do you know what that means? It doesn't choose by mistake. It saw something in her. It saw him."
"It saw a champion," he says simply.
I let out a bitter laugh. "It saw power. The kind you can't hide."
Evan turns me gently to face him.
"Eva," he says quietly, "you have to stop expecting the worst every time she shines. She's not a weapon. She's a girl — our girl. And she's becoming who she's meant to be."
I shake my head, my jaw clenched. " You saw what they did to people. People with too much magic and or the wrong name. They know you were his follower. Even if they would believe it was the imperius curse fault. They'll tear her apart before they even know what they're looking at if she somewhat becomes a threat to them."
His thumb brushes my cheek, calming in a way only he grew to know how.
"She is not him."
I flinch.
He doesn't pull away.
"She's not you either," he adds. "She's better. Kinder. She wrote this letter because she trusts you. Because she believes her mother is proud of her."
I close my eyes.
Damn him for being right.
Damn her for being exactly what I wanted and more than I know how to protect.
"We'll be there tomorrow," Evan reminds me softly. "Just like we said we would."
The words taste heavier now. Like prophecy I can't rewrite.
Hogwarts.
Back to that place.
I nod once, silent.
He kisses the top of my head and folds the letter carefully, sliding it into the pocket of his coat.
I watch the fire as it dances in the hearth.
And for the first time in sixteen years, I am more afraid of being seen than I am of being found.
Because she is right where she was always meant to be.
She is the heir. Not only Tom's, but the Slytherin heir. And unlike her, Hogwarts knows that.
"I just wonder if I should change my appearance there." I muter low.
Evan shakes his head, "Don't. We are married Eva. Officially. There is no reason for them to believe this child isn't mine. It's been long enough."
I sigh. I know he's right. But something just won't sit right with me.
I spent years keeping the world from finding her. But I never once stopped to ask — what happens when the world starts following her instead?
Chapter 10: ~Duel~
Chapter Text
*Seraphina's POV *
– Later that Afternoon, Hogwarts Grounds
The wind still tugs at my robes as we file back into the castle after flying. The adrenaline hasn't worn off, not entirely — my pulse still races beneath my collar.
Lucius Malfoy's eyes are harder to shake than the chill.
"Hey," Léonie bumps my arm, "you're really quiet. That bad?"
I shake my head
I shake my head. "Just thinking."
Thinking too much.
The corridor echoes with chatter, boots tapping stone as students return from their various electives. We're halfway to the Great Hall when the announcement hits.
"ALL FOURTH YEARS AND CHAMPIONS, TO THE DUELING CHAMBER. NOW."
Professor Moody's voice — magically projected — slices through the air like a spell. Students freeze. Look at each other.
I look at Léonie.
"Dueling chamber?" she echoes.
"They must want a demonstration," I mutter
"They must want a demonstration," I mutter. "Triwizard tradition, maybe."
But I don't really think it is a tradition..
We follow the flow of students to a long, arched room off the Transfiguration wing. Stone floors. High torches. A dueling platform raised at the center like a stage.
Moody limps across the room, cloak whipping behind him like a storm.
Professor Snape stands at the far end — still, composed, arms folded like a blade waiting to be drawn.
"Well then," Moody growls, "we've got two champions in the room, and not enough understanding of how not to die in a duel."
Students laugh nervously.
"So," he continues, "what better way to test reflexes than a demonstration?"
Moody's cane clicks as he limps toward the platform.
"Let's see what Beauxbatons brought us," he growls. "Rosier — up. Any volunteer?"
Several hands shoot up. A Slytherin boy — tall, lean, full of misplaced confidence — is called first. "Blaise Zabini."
The duel lasts six seconds.
Moody smirks. "Again."
A Ravenclaw girl next. She lasts longer — eight seconds. Sharp spells. Quick thinking. But she hesitates, and I don't.
Another falls. Then another.
Whispers start circling the edges of the room. Moody's expression darkens into something unreadable — not disappointment. Fascination.
Then he looks to Harry. "Potter. You're up."
There's a shift in the air. Not loud. Just... off.
But I step forward.
Harry does too, looking just as unsure. He gives me the faintest nod.
We stand on the platform, facing each other.
Our wands raise and we bow.
And then—
A snap in the air. Like tension pulled too tight.
Harry flinches — just a flicker. My wand burns against my fingers for half a second, heat rushing up my arm like backlash. Something beneath the floor shifts. Like the castle itself holds its breath.
"Wands down," Snape's voice cuts across the room — sharp, unmistakable.
Moody turns, amused. "Bit early to be calling foul, Severus."
"If this is meant to teach control, don't pit unstable variables against each other," Snape says. "I'll take the Beauxbatons girl."
I narrow my eyes. A professor wants to duel me?
What do they think we learn at Beauxbatons —
I know how to fight. Evan made sure of it. So did Mama.
But they don't know that?
Professor Snape shrugs off his robe with deliberate precision, folding it once, neatly, and draping it over the nearest chair.
As he passes Harry, his eyes flick downward in cold disdain.
"If none of these managed to land a spell, a Gryffindor certainly won't."
The room stills as Snape ascends the platform. Professor Moody doesn't seem happy about the duel-partner change.
The air between us turns colder — like something coiling beneath the stone. Every step he takes is calculated, every movement designed to provoke silence. It works. The crowd fades into background noise, barely breathing.
He stops a few paces from me.
I study him.
Not just the robes, or the sneer that always seems to hover just behind his lips. No — I watch his posture. His stance. The way his wand hand stays low, relaxed, almost careless.
A duelist's stance.
He doesn't underestimate me. That much is clear.
We bow
We bow.
No flourish. No kindness. Just the bare formality, like tradition held by a thread.
"Wands at the ready," Moody barks. "On my count—"
I don't wait for the count.
Neither does he.
He moves first — a fast flick, testing — something harmless. A charm, just shy of offensive. I block it on instinct, wand snapping up, countering with a deflecting ripple that turns the air silver.
His eyes narrow.
Good.
Another spell. Faster.
This time, I don't block. I sidestep — spin low and fire back, a stunner aimed sharp and tight to his left side.
He parries it like it's nothing.
"Improvised," he murmurs under his breath. "But not sloppy like Potter."
Is that a compliment?
He casts again — this one harder, less forgiving. I twist, the force of the hex clipping my shoulder, heat blooming just beneath the skin. I roll into it, absorb it, and answer with a sharp arc of light that nearly connects.
A murmur ripples through the watching students.
Léonie's gasp rings louder than most.
I ignore them.
It's just him and me now.
Our wands cross again — not physically, not yet — but in sheer force. His spell ricochets just inches from my ribs, burning violet and twisting midair. I dodge, fast, drop low to one knee, and—
"Enough," he says suddenly.
Not shouted. Not forced.
Just... firm.
Authoritative.
The kind of voice that ends things before anyone questions why.
I hold my stance, heart racing, wand still at the ready.
"Again," he says. "But this time — no flourishes. Just control."
My lips twitch. He wants precision. Restraint.
My magic answers faster than my thoughts now.
Another incantation curls off my tongue like instinct — fast, clean, meant to disarm.
Snape flicks it away like dust. His wrist never tightens. His breath never shifts. He's not trying to win. He's trying to measure me.
Until he casts something different.
Not a curse. Not exactly.
His next spell comes without warning. Not a lunge, not a curse that cracks — but a coil of magic so subtle I almost don't see it. A whisper, not a shout.
It brushes past my shield — subtle, clever, layered beneath the surface of a hex I don't recognize. Something cold floods my limbs, not like ice, but like silence. It burrows deeper.
My balance shifts.
Something claws at my mind — a memory, not mine, not fresh. A flash of heat. Screaming. A hand grabbing my wrist. Mama, maybe. Or—
No.
The floor tilts.
My wand drops before I realize my grip has failed.
Pain erupts across my shoulder as I hit the stone hard, the impact slamming the breath from my lungs. Gasps ripple through the chamber. I try to move, but something in my head pulses too loud, too wrong.
What was that?
Did he just—?
Above me, Snape's boots stop short of my line of sight. He doesn't kneel. He doesn't speak. He just watches.
Like he's waiting to see what I'll do next.
I roll to my side slowly, teeth clenched, vision swimming.
"I didn't miss my footing," I manage to whisper, low enough only he can hear.
He raises an eyebrow, "It's no shame, Miss Rosier."
And with that he disappears in the crowd.
Leaving me with the noise, the pain in my spine.
I know I didn't miss it - did I?
This is so emberassing.
From the edge of the room, Moody's eye spins wildly — but the rest of him is too still. Like a man watching a patient bleed just enough.
I stagger to my feet, slow but upright, jaw tight, heart hammering. The room applauds softly — polite, impressed.
To my surprise it's Harry who helps me get on my feet and for a second I hesitate taking his hand, what would my father say... but he isn't here. He never was. So I take it.
His grip is warm, solid, and he pulls me upright with more care than I expect.
"Thanks," I mutter, the word tight between clenched teeth as pain flares sharp across my ribs.
"You alright?" he asks, brow furrowed, voice too honest for a boy raised in prophecy.
I nod — once. "I'll live."
He doesn't push.
Doesn't try to smile, or make a joke. Just stays near enough in case I fall again, but far enough not to embarrass me in front of the still-whispering crowd.
It's oddly considerate.
Léonie pushes through next, eyes wide, wild. "Merlin's breath, Fee—what the hell was that?"
"I slipped," I lie.
Snape disappears down the hall, robes trailing behind him like a closing curtain
Snape disappears down the hall, robes trailing behind him like a closing curtain. Moody lingers longer, his magical eye still trained on me long after his real one looks away.
I breathe in.
The crowd thins. Laughter swells behind me but never quite touches me. Léonie stays close until she spots one of the Beauxbatons professors sweeping toward the hallway — robes billowing, eyes scanning.
"Oh, damn," she hisses. "Madame's going to roast me alive — I wasn't supposed to leave the dorm without my translator scrolls." She grabs my sleeve. "You alright though?"
I nod. "I'm fine."
"You're lying." Her eyes soften, and she squeezes my hand. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
She vanishes up the corridor, long curls bouncing behind her like she's chasing a crime.
And then it's quiet.
Well — almost.
Harry's still standing beside me. Hands in his pockets. Not awkward, exactly. Just... uncertain.
I shift my weight, the ache in my side flaring again. He notices.
"You should go to the Hospital Wing," he says. "That fall wasn't nothing."
I shrug. "I've had worse."
He watches me a second. "Was it him?"
"Who?"
"Snape. He used a curse."
I glance up at him. His brow is furrowed again — not suspicious, just... curious. Concerned.
"It's fine," I say. "It just got in my head."
Well.. quite literally.
"Yeah," he mutters. "He does that."
I smirk. "Is this the part where you warn me he's secretly a bat in disguise?"
Well my mum is a half vampire and I have her genes so I wouldn't even be surprised anymore at this point. But I won't tell you that because you kind of unintentionally killed my father as he wanted to kill you when you were just a baby. I mean hey let's be friends huh?
Harry doesn't laugh.
Instead, he leans back against the stone wall, eyes still on me.
He hesitates — then lowers his voice, quieter, just for me.
"Back on the platform... when we raised our wands. Did you feel that?"
I stiffen. So he noticed too.
"That pressure?" he adds. "Like something... cracked under the floor."
I nod, just barely. "I thought it was just me."
"No," he says. "It was like... something didn't want us to fight."
I chew the inside of my cheek.
He's right.
"You know," he says carefully, "you're really good."
I snort lightly. "You're surprised?"
"No," he says quickly, and there's that awkward flush of honesty again.
"Just... most people don't take on Snape and walk away upright."
I glance at him. "You call this walking away?"
That earns a smile. A real one this time — crooked and short-lived, but it's there.
I study him for a second.
The boy who lived. My father's destroyer.
And yet... he's standing here. Not gloating. Not assuming. Just offering me a piece of quiet like it's something he does all the time.
"Thanks," I say again. This time softer. Real.
He nods.
Then his gaze drifts upward, to the stained glass windows at the end of the corridor. The light hits his face in a way that makes him look tired.
"You don't really want to be in this tournament, do you?" I ask.
He shrugs, but there's no real deflection.
"I didn't ask for it."
A pause.
"And you?" he asks. "Did you?"
"Yes," I say.
And I don't apologize for it.
He doesn't judge me. Just nods once — and somehow, that says more than anything else he could've offered.
We both look away at the same time. But then his voice returns — quieter now. Meant only for me.
"By the way... Snape." He says the name like a warning in itself.
I glance at him again, curious.
"He used to be a Death Eater," Harry murmurs. "Before you know who fell. Everyone knows, sort of. Dumbledore trusts him completely. But that might explain.." he gestures. I guess he means the curse. He doesn't believe Snape truly changed sides.
But this also means.. professor snape knew my father.
There's something in his tone — not disbelief, not exactly. Just... weariness.
"You're telling me this because?" I ask carefully.
Harry meets my eyes. No drama. No agenda. Just this calm, brutal honesty I'm beginning to understand is the most Gryffindor thing about him.
"Because I've seen the way he looks at people," he says. "That wasn't just a duel. He was trying to read you."
I nod slowly.
"Thanks." I say — for the third time. "What else do you know about him?"I ask bluntly. I need more informations about everyone here.. It seems like no one is who he seems to be in this place.
He hesitates — not because he doesn't know, but because he's not sure how much to give away.
"That he used to be a Death Eater," Harry finally says.
After a pause he continues, "He hates me. Always has. Hates my dad too — used to go to school with him."
"Rivalry?"
Harry huffs a humorless laugh. "More like a war.. And he was always hanging around with the worst kinds. Slytherins. The ones who ended up marked."
I nod slowly, filing it away. Marked..
Can't be too hard to find my fathers friends.
"He's good at what he does," Harry admits, almost grudgingly. "But that doesn't mean he's good. Despite what Dumbledore thinks."
I glance back toward the corridor where Snape disappeared. The silence he left in his wake still hums in my bones.
"Do you think he's dangerous?" I ask.
Harry shrugs, but there's weight in it.
"I think he knows how to hurt people," he says finally. "And I think he knows how to make it look like teaching."
I don't speak. Just listen.
He kicks lightly at a crack in the stone floor, then glances up again.
"Just... be careful around him."
It's not a warning. It's not fear.
"I always am," I say.
That's not true but well..
He nods, and after a beat, walks off toward the Great Hall. His silhouette vanishes into the torchlit arches, leaving the corridor hollow and humming.
I remain still for another breath, eyes fixed where he stood.
Snape. A man of secrets.
Harry. A boy of prophecy.
And me? The daughter of a shadow no one dares name out loud.
I straighten my spine, and start walking.
If Hogwarts is a chessboard, it's time I learn how to play better than the ones who think they know the game.
Because I'm not just here to survive this tournament.
I'm here to find the truth. And I will write the rules new.
And if I have to bleed for it — I will.
Chapter 11: ~Won't loose~
Chapter Text
*Seraphina's POV*
— Night, The Dueling Room
The castle sleeps in hushed breath and low-burning sconces. But I don't.
The dueling room is colder at night. The torches flicker, too soft to chase the shadows off the walls in the dungeon. I don't mind. I like the dark. It doesn't stare.
My boots echo against stone as I cross to the center.
I conjure a target dummy with a flick of my wand. It solidifies, straw and canvas stitched together by spellwork and silence. It bows stiffly. I don't bow back.
I don't bow back
I just start.
One curse. Then another. Then three in a row. Spells snap from my wand like muscle memory. Clean. Precise. Each one connects, burns, carves a mark. The dummy holds its shape.
But it's not enough. Not after what happened.
I shouldn't have dropped my wand. I shouldn't have hit the floor. I should have blocked it. Anticipated it. Twisted away. Something. Anything.
I don't fail.
I fire off a hex hard enough to split the dummy in two.
I fire off a hex hard enough to split the dummy in two
Smoke curls up from the center. It smells like scorched rope and embarrassment.
I lower my wand. My hand shakes.
That spell—whatever Snape did—it wasn't standard. Wasn't taught. It wasn't just about winning. It was about control. Memory. Identity. He peeled something back and looked.
And I let him.
I clench my jaw.
My father wouldn't have.
I kneel and repair the dummy with a rough flick. Back on its feet. Ready to be destroyed again.
This time, I cast faster. Sharper. Crueler.
Every strike lands.
But the echo of the fall still rings in my bones.
I don't know how long I train. Long enough to sweat. Long enough to ache. Long enough that the dummy starts to look less like straw and more like something else. Someone else.
I close my eyes and exhale slowly.
"Again."
The air ripples — not with sound, but presence. Like a stone dropped in a still pond. Like breath drawn in behind the veil of magic.
A figure forms at the edge of the platform.
Not summoned. Not conjured. Just... appearing.
It has no face. No voice. Only motion. It mirrors my stance with eerie precision — wand in hand, chin lifted, body coiled to strike. I guess this is Hogwarts way of helping..
I guess this is Hogwarts way of helping
I don't ask questions. I don't flinch.
I attack.
Spell after spell tears from my wand. The figure blocks most, absorbs the rest. It casts back — hard, fast, as if it knows me.
No. As if it is me.
We move like dancers trained by war.
I duck low. It mirrors. I twist into a roundhouse, slamming my heel into its side. It staggers. I spin, cast, punch, cast again.
My shoulder throbs. My lungs burn. Sweat drips into my eyes. But I keep going.
Pain sharpens. Magic thickens. The line between wandwork and hand-to-hand starts to blur — until every spell is followed by a strike, every dodge paired with a hit.
I lose time. I lose everything except the drive to win.
"You were almost there."
The voice cuts clean through the dark.
I freeze mid-swing.
The figure vanishes like mist scattered by wind.
I whirl, wand raised, breath ragged.
Professor Moody.
He stands in the shadows just beyond the torches, cane still, eye quiet for once.
My heartbeat slams in my throat. I expect detention. A deduction.
A walk to the Headmaster's office.
But he doesn't move.
He steps closer, slowly.
"No reprimand?" I ask, voice tight. "No curfew speech?"
He tilts his head. "Why would I stop you?"
I frown. "Because I'm not supposed to be here."
He smiles — barely.
"You're closer than you think. That instinct? That push? That refusal to lose?"
He nods toward the center of the platform.
"That's what separates the ordinary from the powerful. Champions and loosers."
His words land too easy. Too practiced.
My wand lowers — only slightly.
"You think strength is obsession," I murmur.
"No," he says. "I think it's survival."
My jaw tightens.
"I'm done losing," I breathe.
"Then don't."
Simple. Cold.
He takes a step forward. "I've seen students play at greatness. Show off. But not you. You're driven. And pain..." — his gaze drops to the scrape at my elbow — "...pain's just proof you're still in the fight."
I don't know what's keeping me on my feet.
Not magic. Not will. Just something raw and bitter and hungry inside me.
He sees it and seems to approve.
"I could help you," he says. "You're not soft. Not bound by schoolbook ethics. You're built for more."
My pulse thunders.
He leans in slightly.
"You're not like the others either, are you?"
I blink. My vision blurs. The ache in my chest reaches something deeper than bruises.
He tilts his head again. Watching me unravel.
And then—
Black.
My knees hit the floor.
Everything tilts.
His boots are the last thing I see. Still. Waiting.
Then — silence.
Darkness.
And the stone rises up to meet me.
Chapter 12: ~ Source of injuries ~
Chapter Text
*Seraphina's POV*
— Morning, Beauxbatons Dormitory, Hogwarts
Pain wakes me before light.
It spreads slow and deep — shoulder, ribs, spine — like every muscle remembers last night and resents me for it. My sheets are damp with sweat. My wand lies on the floor beside the bed like it gave up on me halfway through the night.
I blink at the ceiling. Grey stone. Arched wood beams. Hogwarts still.
It wasn't a dream.
The duel. The figure. Him.
He didn't bring me to the infirmary. No one questioned. Which means... professor Moody left me here quietly.
I sit up. Slowly. Every joint protests. My hands tremble, but not from fear.
Determination has weight too.
I dress without thinking. Braids up. Robes straight. Face calm. Pain is just noise. I've learned to tune it out.
I've learned to tune it out
Today's the first task. Whatever Hogwarts has in store, it won't wait for me to heal.
But I need to be sharp. Fast. Every fraction of strength counts. So — I go where I know I'll get what I need.
The dungeons.
There I will get pain relive and maybe some answers about my father.
The air down here is colder. It bites deeper than the upper floors, like it wants to test your resolve.
Professor Snape's door looms ahead. Closed, but not locked.
I knock once, and don't wait.
He looks up from his desk, robes dark, quill in hand, already frowning.
He looks up from his desk, robes dark, quill in hand, already frowning
"You're not due here."
I walk in anyway, spine straight despite the throb in my ribs.
"I need a healing draught," I say plainly.
His brow lifts. "Fell out of bed, did we?"
I meet his eyes evenly, crossing my arms. "No. I'm still sore from our duel, professor."
His mouth twitches — not a smile
His mouth twitches — not a smile. Not quite.
"You held your own," he says, tone unreadable. "Until you didn't."
"I'd prefer not to limp through the first task," I say. "Unless that was your plan. But given that you do not seem to be fond of Harry Potter, I would say it wasn't."
He studies me for a moment too long. As if looking for a lie.
A lie that is there. Hidden.
Then, with a sharp turn, he steps to the shelf behind him. Glass clinks. He sets down a vial — smoky blue, viscous, potent.
"For bruising. And nerve damage," he says.
I take it without flinching. Swirl it once, then drink.
The warmth hits fast — dulling the sharp edges, loosening the worst knots.
I breathe easier.
"Thank you Sir," I say.
He doesn't reply right away.
"Most students don't come back to the source of their injuries to treat them."
I smile faintly. "I'm not most students."
His gaze lingers, narrowed. Calculating.
I cap the empty vial and set it gently on the edge of his desk.
"Potent blend," I say. "Not standard-issue, I assume."
His eyes flick to mine. "No."
"A custom recipe then," I add, watching him. "You've been doing this a long time."
"Long enough. Not all of us had the luxury of being born into a place," he says dismissive.
I lean back slightly, as if casual, ignoring his comment about pure bloods.
"You must've seen a lot of duels."
His jaw ticks. "More than I care to remember."
"But you remember anyway, isn't?"
He doesn't answer.
A silence settles between us — not hostile, but tight.
I press gently. "You knew a lot of powerful wizards, didn't you?"
A pause.
Then, low: "I was taught by some. Opposed others. The line blurs."
I nod like I'm just making conversation.
"I suggest," he says slowly, "you focus on surviving today's task."
I want to ask so many questions.. but I offer a quiet nod instead,
"Thank you for the potion, Professor."
There will be enough time to find out why you followed my father, despite hating purebloods.
He doesn't reply as I leave.
I step into the corridor, the vial's warmth still blooming low in my chest like a second heartbeat. The stone underfoot feels steadier now. My ribs still ache, but pain is background noise. It always is.
Behind me, the dungeon door clicks shut — quiet, but not soft. No goodbyes. No answers.
Just the quiet certainty that Professor Snape is a vault I'll need to break open — eventually.
But not today.
Today, I have to survive.
Footsteps echo ahead — a familiar glide, too confident for a fourth-year. Draco Malfoy rounds the corner, his hands tucked into his sleeves like he's bored of existing.
He slows when he sees me. His eyes flick briefly to my posture — maybe the way I'm favoring my left side — then to my face.
"You look like hell," he offers. It's almost admiring. Almost.
"Good morning to you too, Malfoy."
He tilts his head. "Snape chew you up? Or did Potter finally try to play hero and trip over his wand?"
"Neither," I say coolly. "But thanks for your concern."
Draco smirks, then nods toward the stairwell leading up to the pitch. "You're not going to want to be late. Word is the first task's brutal." His voice drops half a note.
I keep walking.
He falls in step beside me for just long enough to ask, "You planning to win this thing, Rosier?"
I glance at him. "I didn't come here to lose Draco."
He watches me a second longer than necessary, then peels off down another corridor with a muttered, "Better you than Potter."
I let the silence stretch as I climb the stairs alone.
Snape. My father. Harry. The tournament.
Everything's a thread. I just haven't seen the pattern yet.
Right now I am just curious if my mother is here and if so, how angry is she...
Maybe I won't even need to worry about the task, maybe she will be the end of me.
Chapter 13: ~Unburied~
Chapter Text
*Eva's POV *
— Morning, Arrival at Hogwarts
There's a weight to the air the moment we cross the wards.
Hogwarts looms above the rolling mist like something alive. Its towers cut the grey sky, its windows glint with watchful silence. Beside me, Evan adjusts his cuffs, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. He hasn't said a word since we Apparated to the outer gates.
Neither have I.
The other parents filter in slowly behind us. Cloaks brushing wet stone. Quiet excitement buzzing under breath. I spot Amos Diggory among them, arm hooked with his wife's, a proud smile tugging at his face.
As we approach the castle, the doors swing open with a deep, resonant groan.
Inside, the Entrance Hall is all golden light and old magic.
I stop.
The staff stand waiting on the steps leading up to the Great Hall. Dumbledore, tall and unreadable as ever, his expression a mix of curiosity and caution. To his left—
Alastor Moody.
Older now, scarred and stiff. But I know the way his hand twitches toward his wand.
I know the eye that whirls a fraction too fast.
Evan's grip tightens around the handle of his cane, just once.
I touch his sleeve. Don't.
Moody doesn't speak. Just stares. That's all he needs.
And then—
My gaze lands on the third figure.
Snape.
Alive
Alive. Still here. Not in Azkaban. Still dressed in black like mourning is a permanent state. Slightly older but not too much, he was really young back then..
The years haven't softened him. He looks exactly as I remember. Except the eyes. There's more behind them now. Or maybe just less he tries to hide.
Before I can move further into the room, a shoulder brushes mine.
"Pardon me," I say instinctively, stepping aside. I even perfectioned my french accent.
The man doesn't answer. Just keeps walking.
And then I see her.
Narcissa.
She's walking past me, pale as candlelight, her eyes scanning the room with that same calculating elegance I used to envy. Her gaze flicks over the crowd—and stops.
On me.
Neither of us speaks.
For a heartbeat, we are younger again. Merlins, I'm not even sure if I remember our last conversation.. I think I was holding little Draco.
Then her lips part, just slightly. Not a smile. Not yet. But recognition. And something else.
The task hasn't begun. And already, the past is breathing down our necks.
I straighten my spine.
Let it. Don't..
"Eva
"Eva." Her voice is smooth as always. Cold honey.
Narcissa Malfoy stands just beyond the stair, cloaked in pale grey, her hair pinned like a sculpture, not a strand out of place. The years haven't touched her, only refined the lines she's always known how to sharpen. Her eyes rake over me, a flicker of disbelief masked as poise.
"Cissa," I say, measured. "You look... unchanged."
She tilts her head with that perfect blend of grace and calculation. "I could say the same."
For a heartbeat, we just stand there.
We were younger when we last stood this close. Girls with rings on our fingers and bloodlines wrapped around our throats. She knows the silence between us isn't empty. It's loaded.
Then, behind her, a tall figure pauses mid-stride.
"Eva?"
Lucius.
His voice is a blade dipped in silk. He steps closer, pale eyes narrowing with slow realization.
"It is you."
I brace myself
I brace myself.
"You haven't aged a bit," he says. It's meant as charm. It's never just that.
They know well enough that I don't age.
"You look quite... preserved yourself."
His smile flickers.
Narcissa watches him, then me. There's something unreadable behind her lashes.
"I am surprises to see you here." she says.
And then, as if summoned—
Evan appears beside me, quiet but unmistakable, wrapping a hand around me.
Lucius's eyes narrow. "Evan Rosier. I admit, I thought you were dead."
"So did a lot of people," Evan says calmly. "Disappointment's a curious thing, isn't it?"
"Disappointment's a curious thing, isn't it?"
Lucius chuckles, but there's no humor in it. Narcissa's eyes never leave mine.
"You married," she says softly. Not surprise. Just confirmation.
"We did," I say.
And before Lucius can offer another polished insult disguised as civility—
"Mother. Father."
Draco.
He approaches like a boy trained to command attention.
Impeccable robes, chin slightly raised, eyes sharp.
He glances once at me, then Evan, and back to his parents. "We're expected at the box seats. We have the best seats of course."
He sounds like his father.
Narcissa hesitates, just a second, then steps toward her son.
Lucius offers a faint bow of his head. "Until later."
They walk. But my past doesn't leave with them.
Because the moment they turn—
I see him again.
Severus. And this time he sees me too.
Standing in the shadows just past the hall. Half-concealed. But watching.
My steps falter. Everything inside me stills.
He hasn't moved. Neither do I.
Until now, I wasn't sure if he was real. Or if seeing him again would be a curse, or a key.
But his presence floods through me like a memory unburied.
His eyes find mine. And for a second, I swear I see the same question in them I've been asking myself for years. I see the night I left this castle because of his command. How he actually, saved my life. And without knowing, Seraphina's. The difference is that at this night I didn't know he lost Lily too. He didn't mention it, everything happened so fast..
The way he stands — reserved, watching, cloaked in that same deliberate quiet — pulls the breath from my lungs like a ghost brushing past skin. I knew I couldn't outrun my past. But re-entering it like this, here in these halls again, feels like stepping into a room I locked shut years ago and finding it still warm.
Tom.
I loved him. I still do, in the way a wound remembers the knife. There are days I convince myself he would've been proud of Seraphina. That he would have seen the fire in her eyes and called it strength, not disobedience. I hold tight to that version of him — the man he was to me before the world demanded he become something else. Because the other version, the one they whisper about in corners and history books... I can't bear to believe he'd look at our daughter and see anything but legacy.
When he disappeared, I waited. For years.
I wore black like a promise. Kept the house cold. Left his books untouched. Even after Evan moved in to help protect us — even then, I slept alone. Different rooms. Different beds. For four years we lived as allies. Co-parents. Ghosts orbiting the same silence.
Because what if Tom came back?
What if he stepped through the door and I had let someone else warm his side?
I couldn't allow that mistake.
But he didn't come.
And Evan... stayed.
Not as a placeholder. Not as a shadow. But as himself.
Quietly, patiently, he became my friend. The first man who made me laugh again. The only one who could cut through my grief without disrespecting it. He was never afraid of my sharp edges. He just learned how to hold them without cutting himself.
He's clever. Infuriatingly so. Quick with words, quicker with wandwork, and handsome in that way that sneaks up on you when you least expect it. But more than any of that — he was a father to Seraphina before she ever called him one.
He didn't flinch when she showed signs of power far too early.
He didn't hesitate when threats whispered from the corners of our past.
He protected us both — not with rage, but with planning. With sacrifice. With patience.
And somewhere along the line, the rooms stopped being separate. The grief softened. The promise I wore in black finally folded itself into a drawer.
What we have now isn't a replacement. It's something forged — carefully, honestly, over time.
We're not perfect. But we are whole.
A whisper in my ear and a slight touch on my waist bring me back to reality, "You have to great him mon cheri.." I glance at Evan and slowly look back towards Severus.
He's right.
But what do I say?
Chapter 14: ~Under one roof~
Chapter Text
*Severus's POV*
She doesn't move at first. Neither do I.
It's not surprise. It's recognition. A name pulled from the rubble of the past and standing — impossibly — in the center of my present.
Eva.
She hasn't aged. Not in the way most do. There's still something untouched about her. Untouchable. The kind of beauty that isn't softness but structure. Blade, not bloom.
Her eyes lock with mine. And for one cursed heartbeat, I forget how to breathe.
Behind her, Rosier lingers like a shadow someone forgot to bury. He sees me — of course he does. There's something smug in the curve of his stance, protective in a way that makes my fingers itch for my wand.
She steps closer. Cautious. Calculated. As if she's unsure whether I'll cast a curse or turn to smoke.
"Severus," she says.
I nod once. "Eva."
I should ask why she's here. I should turn and walk away. I don't do either.
If she is here for his return I will know soon enough.
"You're still here," she murmurs.
"And you came back."
It's not a question. It's not even a judgment. Just a truth dropped between us like a warded line neither of us dares cross.
She glances back at Rosier — who says something low and steps aside. How generous.
I look at her — really look.
She's no longer the frightened girl who ran. She's something else now. Tempered. Cold-forged. I can see it in the way she holds her silence like a weapon.
"You shouldn't have come back." I say without emotion.
"I'm—" she begins but doesn't finsih.
A voice cuts through the air. Familiar.
"Mama! Papa!"
Eva flinches.
Not just startled — she recoils, subtly. Her spine straightens, but the panic in her eyes flares unmistakably.
She turns. Slowly.
And I see her.
The girl.
The Beauxbatons champion.
Seraphina Rosier..
Power coils off her like smoke from a hex not fully cast. She moves like she knows the world is watching. Not craving attention. She is smiling. Beautiful no doubt, jost like her mother.
"Papa," she says again, this time pressing into Rosier's side
"Papa," she says again, this time pressing into Rosier's side.
He drapes an arm around her like it's instinct. Too fluid. Too natural.
But I'm not watching them. I'm watching Eva.
She's too still. Masked, but not well enough.
Because I know what guilt looks like when it forgets it's being watched.
That girl...
I look again. At the cut of her jaw. The chill behind her fire. Her restraint — taught, not bred.
And I remember the night Eva left. The silence. The disappearance.
The way Eva's breath caught when I stepped into view.
The way she didn't lie — but didn't speak.
Then I feel it.
Not recognition. Instinct.
Something old.
Something familiar.
Something his.
No.
It's unthinkable.
And yet — it fits.
The silence. The timing.
Her.
She sees it dawn in my face, and for a moment — just a flicker — her lips part.
To deny?
To explain?
To beg?
She does neither.
She just watches me.
And that, more than anything, confirms it.
Rosier shifts. Blocking the girl's line of sight. Too smoothly. Too practiced.
He's known all along.
A daughter.
Not his.
His.
And suddenly, the air in the castle is colder than anything the dungeons ever offered.
I fold my arms across my chest, every inch of me coiled in restraint.
I will not indulge their rehearsed excuses. I will not dignify the farce of their return with patience.
If they've come to bask in the shadow of his resurrection, they'll do it without me.
Not this time.
My voice is low, clipped.
"You have a champion to shepherd. I suggest you tend to her."
And I turn on my heel, robes slicing through the air behind me like a curtain falling on the past.
I walk away — not quickly. Not like a man fleeing. I walk like the silence I leave behind is deliberate.
I don't look back.
The girl's voice fades behind me, replaced by the low murmur of conversation, the scrape of boots on stone. All of it dull. Muffled.
Because I'm thinking.
Because I can't stop.
The shape of her cheekbones. The way she held her wand. The fact that she bowed, but did not bend. Her hatred for failure.
She could be his.
I feel it again — that twisting weight in my gut that used to come every time he looked at someone like they were a tool, not a person. And now there's a child.
Of course.
I know Eva. Or I did. She was never careless. Never loud. I suspected her pregnant when she left,
I just - did not want to believe it. Ignored it. Told no one. But it's true.
And he — he would have seen the child as a prophecy. Not a person.
A vessel. A future. A continuation of what he couldn't finish.
I stop at the top of the corridor, hidden by the turn. My hand curls around the balustrade like a vice. My jaw clenches until I taste metal.
The Dark Lord had many followers. But only one ever refused to kneel the way she did — quietly, absolutely.
And if she bore him a daughter... then what the hell is she doing here?
Why now? What does she want? Is she here for his return? Does she bring her daughter to her father?
I close my eyes, just for a second.
I see a girl, wrapped in fire and questions.
I see a mother, silent beneath the weight of everything she won't say.
And I see myself — caught between the past and the monster I once called master.
If the girl is his...
Then Hogwarts is not safe.
Not for her.
And not for any of us.
Not with her and Potter under one roof.
Chapter 15: ~ Championship to win ~
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
*Seraphina's POV*
~Hogwarts Grounds – Just Before the First Task~
The grass is slick with dew. The crowd hasn't settled yet. Flags flutter, students chatter. I stand just far enough from the main tent to breathe.
"Too early for bloodsport," I mutter.
From behind, I hear him before I see him. That soft, sarcastic drawl.
"You say that like you weren't raised in a house where chess was played with curses."
I turn. Evan.
His coat flaps in the breeze, a little too elegant for a spectator, but that's him. Always dressed like he's about to walk into a duel — or a dinner party. Or a dinner party that will turn into a duel.
He's always ready.
"I'm glad you came," I say, and I mean it.
"Of course we came." He approaches, one brow raised. "What sort of stand-in father would I be if I let you get nearly killed without applause?"
I smirk, trying to hide how tightly my stomach is wound.
He steps closer. "You ready?"
"No." I pause. "Yes. I don't know. I feel like I could explode."
"Then you're exactly where you should be
"Then you're exactly where you should be."
I blink at him. "You're not going to tell me to be careful?"
"No." He leans in slightly. "You're not careful. You're brilliant. And dangerous. You'll win this Mon Rayon."
He says it like it's fact. Like the world already knows it and is just waiting for me to prove it.
"...Thanks," I murmur.
Evan's smile softens — not smug now. Just proud.
And then—
I hear her steps.
Sharper. Heavier.
Mama..
Her cloak flares as she strides up, and for once, she doesn't look like ice. She looks like fire pressed thin under skin. Controlled. Barely.
"What were you thinking?" she says.
I don't answer.
Her jaw tightens. "You entered a tournament designed to kill you. And you did it without telling me."
"I didn't have a choice," I say. "The Goblet—"
"You always have a choice."
"Do I?" I shoot back, eyes narrowing. "Do you?"
Her face stills. The wind lifts her hair. Behind her, the lake gleams — waiting.
"You are not like the others," she says low. "You cannot afford to be reckless."
"I'm not—"
"You are Rosier," she says, a little too loud. Then quieter, biting each word. "But that's not all. And if anyone finds out who you really are—"
"I know," I cut her off. "I know."
She stares at me for a beat. Then her tone shifts, softer but still guarded.
"You are powerful, Seraphina. But power attracts fear. And fear becomes hate. You know what that means."
She places a hand on my shoulder — light, but firm.
"I'm proud of you," she says. "But do not tell anyone. Hide it."
I nod once.
And then a voice calls from the pitch. "Champions, to the starting line!"
It's time.
Evan pulls me in without a word.
His arms wrap tight around me — one of those hugs that doesn't ask permission. It just happens. Steady, warm, real. I don't realize how badly I need it until I'm in it.
He leans down, his voice a breath against my hair.
"You've got this, Mon Rayon. Let the world see what you can do."
I nod into his shoulder, my throat too tight to speak.
Then Mama. She hesitates — just for a second — before she places her hands on both sides of my face and kisses my forehead.
"You survive. You understand me?" she murmurs. "Win, if you can. But survive. Don't you dare coming back to me undead."
"I will," I whisper. "I promise."
And then I run.
The ground thunders beneath my boots as I sprint toward the arena. The stands are packed now — students waving flags, professors murmuring into one another's ears, Ministerial officials sitting stiff and judgmental in their polished rows.
I barely see them.
The stone steps narrow and then open into the clearing by the lake. That's when I see it.
A long, jagged platform stretches over the water like the spine of some great drowned creature. Each champion stands at a marked line — four in total. Cedric. Krum. Harry, Me.
Just the lake. Black, silent, and still. Too still.
Dumbledore's voice cuts across the roar of the crowd, amplified by magic.
"This task will test not only your strength — but your restraint. The object of value lies below. In the deep. Retrieve it. But be warned... what waits beneath does not care who you are — only who you fear to be."
And with that — the horn sounds.
And with that — the horn sounds
I don't hesitate.
I sprint toward the edge of the platform and dive.
Cold.
It hits like a curse — freezing, swallowing, absolute. Water rushes past my ears and suddenly the cheers are gone. It's just me. And the dark.
I cast the spell to see in the depths — Oculus Abyssi — and the world blooms faintly in hues of blue and silver. The lake isn't empty. Far from it.
Shapes drift around me. Statues at first glance, but too fluid. Too slow.
Inferi.
Dozens.
They drift like memories, white-eyed and waterlogged, waiting. Watching. I grip my wand tighter and kick down.
The object — a small obsidian box bound in rune-script — lies far below, caught between two crumbling pillars.
I swim faster. My heartbeat pounds in my ears.
Closer. Closer.
I reach out—
And the instant my fingers brush the box, my wand goes dead.
A jolt rips through me. The runes glow red-hot, then go dark.
No magic.
I glance up.
The Inferi are moving.
Not drifting.
Hunting.
They twist in the water, their heads snapping toward me in eerie unison. Arms stretch like shadows. I shove the box into the leather strap around my waist and swim.
But the water is colder now. Thicker. Like it's fighting me. One of the creatures grabs my ankle — cold, iron fingers.
I spin in the water, kicking hard, teeth bared. My wand is useless. My fists aren't.
I punch the thing square in the jaw. Its head snaps back. Another one's coming. And another.
Think, Seraphina.
You can't fight. You can't cast. But you can burn.
You can burn even without flame.
I flip upright in the water, eyes wide open, and scream — not with sound, but with thought.
Let go.
The lake around me shudders.
It's not a spell. It's not even a curse. It's a surge — the wild, raw force that's always lived in me, waiting for its moment. And now it finds the cracks. I'm not sure how I do this, but I know I can.. I can bend things.
The Inferi jolt back like puppets cut from strings.
...I swim. My lungs scream. My arms ache.
Just ahead, I catch a flicker of movement.
Harry.
He's farther out — almost too far. Fighting three Inferi at once, dragging something behind him. Cedric.
His wand is dead too. He's punching, kicking, but he's not going to make it.
Dammit, Potter.
I hesitate for half a second.
Just one.
Then I turn and cut through the water toward them.
The Inferi close in — one already has Harry by the robes, another clutching at Cedric's arm. I don't think. I strike.
My foot slams into the ribcage of the nearest Inferius. It reels backward in the water, and I grab Cedric by the collar, yanking him free. Harry gasps, eyes wide, and I jerk my head toward the surface.
"Go." I mouth. "Now."
He hesitates. Tries to say something.
I flash him a grin — fast, razor-edged.
"Sorry, Potter. I've got a championship to win."
And with that, I turn, kicking hard. The current's against me, like the lake itself wants to keep me here. But I don't stop. I won't stop.
I burst from the surface with a gasp just as the platform rises to meet me. The crowd erupts — sound crashing back into me like a wave.
I slam the box down on the pedestal and fall to my knees.
Breathless. Shaking. Alive.
The judges are shouting. Someone's cheering my name. But I'm not listening.
I'm searching.
There — beyond the ropes.
Mama. And Evan.
And...
A figure in black, still as stone. Watching from the shadows.
Snape.
His eyes meet mine.
And for a moment, I swear he knows.
Knows what I can do.
Knows who I might be.
The cheers blur
The cheers blur. The air tastes like iron. My heart's still galloping from the depths as I press my hand flat against the stone pedestal, trying to anchor myself in something solid. I'm alive. I did it.
And then—
"Hey."
A voice. Not sharp, not accusing. But wary.
I look up.
Harry Potter stands a few feet away, dripping wet, arms crossed, brows drawn together like a puzzle he's already halfway solved. His glasses are fogged, his expression unreadable — but his eyes, those impossible green eyes, are fixed on me.
"I saw what you did."
I don't reply. My breath's still coming in ragged bursts, and anyway — what is there to say?
He takes a step closer. Not aggressive. Careful.
"You helped me," he says. "That blast — whatever that was — it bought me time. Got Cedric loose." A beat. "But that wasn't a spell."
It's not a question.
I stay still.
He doesn't flinch under my silence. Doesn't accuse. Just watches.
"I've seen magic go wrong before. I've seen it used to destroy. But that—" He shakes his head once. "That didn't feel wrong. It felt like... you didn't even need your wand."
I clench my jaw. "And?"
"And people are going to notice," he says simply. "They already are. Maybe not today, maybe not out loud. But they will."
The wind whips water off his robe
The wind whips water off his robe. He pushes wet hair back from his forehead, revealing the scar. That lightning bolt. That history.
He looks at me like he knows what it means to be something people whisper about.
"I've been where you are," he says. "People watching. Judging. Wondering what you are. Hoping you're something you're not."
Something in my chest tightens. Does he feel who I am?
He glances around, voice lowering. "Just... be careful who you trust with whatever that was."
He doesn't wait for a reply. Just nods once — not at me, to me — and walks away toward the others, toward his friends and glory and the chaos waiting to crown or curse us all.
I stare after him.
And only then do I realize my hands are still trembling.
Notes:
Sorry for the delay of chapters- been on vacation :)
But now I'm BACK with loooooooooooots of .... drama..... byeeee
Chapter 16: ~Watch me ~
Chapter Text
*Seraphina's POV*
The cold creeps in second.
Now that the noise is fading, the adrenaline thinning from my veins, I feel it. The way my clothes cling, soaked and heavy. My hair hangs in ropes against my back, my skin stinging where the lake left its mark.
Scratches. Dozens of them.
Down my arms, across my thighs — thin, raised lines like the Inferi tried to write their names into my skin before I broke away. I didn't even feel them when it happened.
Now I feel everything.
A shiver rolls through me.
I blink, drag my gaze to the crowd, to the rope line.
There — Mama. Her posture perfect, but her eyes — her eyes give her away. Wide. Locked on me like she's waiting for me to disappear again. And beside her, Evan, jaw set, clapping once with slow, deliberate pride. He's not cheering. He doesn't need to.
But the third shadow — the one that was watching — is gone.
Snape. He's no longer there. I search the perimeter twice, quick and sharp. Gone.
Like he was never there at all.
Before I can dwell on it, a cloak wraps around my shoulders — warm, thick wool, the Hogwarts crest stitched into the collar. I turn, startled.
It's Madam Maxime.
She doesn't say anything at first. Just drapes the cloak over me with a stern tenderness only she can pull off, then nods once, firmly. "Venez, Mademoiselle Rosier."
"Did I win?" I ask — breathless, hoarse.
"Yes and you survived," she says. "That matters more."
I don't argue.
She leads me through the back of the arena, down the stone steps slick with mist. Students are cheering, though I barely register who. Faces blur. Voices blend. It's like I'm underwater again — only this time, the cold isn't physical. It's in my ribs. My spine. My thoughts.
What was that power? Where did it come from?
And why did it feel like it had been waiting for me?
The moment I screamed in the lake — it wasn't just instinct. It was something deeper. Ancient. Something that wanted out. I always had those moments of strange magic, but I always thought it's because well, my mother is a half vampire and my father is the most feared wizard in our world. But this? It feels, different.
I walk in silence, the cloak heavy on my shoulders, blood drying under my sleeves. A warmth builds behind my sternum — not fire, but fear. A kind that lingers after the monsters are gone.
It's not the Inferi that haunt me now. It's what I did to them. What if I can't control whatever this is?
What else might I be able to do.
My boots scrape the stone. Wet socks. Scratched skin. Bruised ribs. The cloak weighs down my shoulders like a second body, and I'm barely keeping my balance.
I'm not in a rush.
Until I hear it — the distinct tap of polished shoes behind me. Measured. Confident. Then the unmistakable drawl of someone pretending he wasn't already walking this way.
"You're not easy to impress, are you?"
I stop. Turn.
Draco Malfoy.
He's peeled away from his parents — I see Lucius walking on, not even glancing back. Narcissa, further behind, watches everything with hawk-quiet precision. But Draco's here. Alone. In front of me.
His hair is damp from lake spray. A little windblown. There's a scratch across his neck that's already fading, but no blood. He must've been close enough to the platform to catch the show.
I arch a brow. "Were you trying to impress me?"
His lips twitch, like I caught him off guard. "No. But I know a performance when I see one."
"Then you should know I wasn't performing," I say, voice flat. "I was winning."
He nods, slowly. "That's the difference, isn't it? Some of them went in to prove something. You went in like it was a war."
I don't answer that.
He glances at the bandage forming on my left forearm where the scratches shine red beneath the wool. His eyes linger, not in pity — just... analysis. He's always watching, this one. Always weighing.
"You're bleeding," he says, quietly.
"Not enough to matter."
His mouth curves again. A subtle smile — not mocking, not quite friendly either. Just curious.
"They're saying you broke the lake," he murmurs. "That you did something wandless."
"I heard they say a lot about you, too," I reply coolly. "Most of it ridiculous."
That earns a full grin. It changes him. Softens the sharpness around his mouth.
"Touché."
We stand there for a moment — not quite facing, not quite turning away.
I finally ask, "Why did you come talk to me?"
He shrugs. "Because I wanted to."
I narrow my eyes. "You look like you schedule your insults two days in advance."
He steps closer — not into my space, but just near enough that his voice dips lower, smooth like silver.
"I'm not. But I recognize power when I see it. And I'm not foolish enough to ignore. It's who we surround ourselves with that sets us apart. That's the difference between us and them."
He says it like a compliment. Maybe it is. In his weird way, it is.
Pureblood ideologist. No wonder our fathers were friends.
A few seconds pass. Then:
"You should rest," he says. "The press will swarm in an hour. You'll want to look less like you just crawled out of the underworld. You should impress them."
I lift my chin. "Trust me, I impress people by much less than my looks."
Draco's smile widens — slow, impressed. Then he nods once, turns on his heel, and walks off — back toward the crowd, back toward the castle.
I watch him go.
Not like I care. Not like that.
But there's something in the way he speaks to me — not cautious, not cruel. Just... open. And in a place like this, in a story like mine, that's rare enough to notice.
And despite being surrounded by pretty much everyone, I suddenly feel alone. Not just in this hallways. But in general.
Never have I felt like this before. And yet — I think I've never felt more real.
~Beauxbatons Dorms – Late Afternoon~
The castle is quieter now. Students whisper when they pass me, some stare a second too long before turning away.
I ignore them.
The Beauxbatons wing is tucked high in the west tower. Pale blue stone, wide windows, magic-soft lighting that shifts with the time of day. It smells faintly of lavender and parchment. I pass two girls from my school on the stairs. One starts to say something — a congratulation, maybe — but I don't stop walking.
The door to my dorm creaks shut behind me.
And only then do I let the cloak drop.
It hits the floor in a wet heap. My boots follow. My wand rolls from my sleeve and clatters onto the stone.
I step into the shower without ceremony. The water scalds. I let it.
Steam rises in thick clouds, curling against the mirrors. I scrub until the scratches sting, until the lake is gone from my skin and my heartbeat finally slows. Still, a flicker of it stays with me — in the tightness of my chest, the way the world felt when I let go.
It felt like something waking up.
Once I'm clean, I wrap a towel tight around myself and catch my reflection.
There's blood beneath my fingernails. I rinse them again.
Then I look.
My hair's already drying in heavy waves. My face is pale from the cold, lips still a little blue. But my eyes —
They flash red for half a second.
Not glowing. Not bright. Just a flicker. A pulse behind the green.
I blink.
Gone.
I stare harder. There's nothing there now. Just my eyes — green-gold and sharp like my mother's.
I reach for my brush. The handle bends slightly under my grip, and I realize I'm still tense. My jaw, clenched. My teeth grinding quietly in rhythm. I didn't even notice.
I take a breath. Steady myself.
Then I dress — not in anything flashy. A high-collared black dress, shoes polished to a dark sheen. My hair up, not stylish. Not girlish.
Commanding.
I know what they'll want from me when I go downstairs. Appearances. Answers. A Smile.
And I will give them exactly what they want — just not all at once.
In the mirror, I straighten my spine. The air in the room feels heavier now, like it's watching me.
The air in the room feels heavier now, like it's watching me
By the time I arrive, the press is already circling.
Quills hover mid-air. Flashing cameras spark like hexes. Tables groan under the weight of parchment and politeness. There's no silence here — just strategy disguised as curiosity.
Madame Maxime gives me a nod as I enter, and I return it. Minimal, but enough.
I stand at the long table beside the other champions. Cedric — still pale but smiling. Krum — brooding. Harry — silent, glancing at me like he's trying to decipher a spell he's seen before but never cast.
And me?
I fold my hands neatly in front of me. Straighten my shoulders. Watch them watching me.
The Ministry official steps up to introduce us. Something long-winded and formal about courage and tradition. I stop listening halfway through. My mind's already scanning for the first threat.
It comes in the form of a woman from The Daily Prophet. Rita Skeeter isn't here — thank the stars — but her kind always is.
The reporter leans forward, red lips curled in delight. "Miss Rosier, your performance today was... unforgettable. Tell us — how did you manage such a powerful reaction from the Inferi? There was no spell cast."
I smile. Slight. Controlled.
"I swam fast," I say. "And kicked harder."
A few laughs rise. Shallow, but they take the edge off. The reporter's smile falters.
"But there was something else, wasn't there?" she presses. "Even Dumbledore looked surprised."
I glance at the head table.
He's watching me now. Hands steepled. Eyes unreadable. But focused.
"Yes," I say coolly. "That's what happens when you underestimate a girl. Guess the inferi did too."
That silences her. Good.
Another question. This time from a French journalist — thankfully less hostile. She asks about Beauxbatons' training methods, and I answer easily, letting my voice dip into something confident, composed.
It goes on like that. A dozen versions of the same question — all trying to corner me. None of them getting what they want.
But when it ends, and the crowd begins to clear, I feel it — that presence again.
Watching.
I turn. And there he is.
Snape.
Just inside the doorway. Black robes, arms crossed, face sharp as ever. But he isn't staring in disgust.
He's studying me.
Our eyes meet.
He nods, almost imperceptibly, then turns away — disappears down the hall like a shadow remembering it has somewhere to be.
I don't follow.
But someone else does.
"Miss Rosier," Dumbledore says gently from my left. I hadn't even seen him approach.
His voice is calm — but never casual.
"You handled yourself well."
"Thank you," I reply, carefully. "Though I suppose next time I'll try not to shatter a few dozen corpses."
He smiles faintly
He smiles faintly. "Well you didn't know. No one did."
I shrug and my eyes narrow on him, there is something he wants to say and he doesn't.
"Professor,.." I hesitate, "I wanted to ask.. what would I have to do if I wanted to transfer to Hogwarts, let's say.. next year?"
Seemingly surprised he nods once, "Honored you are thinking about coming to hogwarts, miss Rosier. I would say the first step would be to talk to your parents about it." He smiles softly.
My parents. Well - Mother will not allow me to stay.
I just know.
I cross my arms, "Okay.." Sucks.
"Have you felt anything like that before, Miss Rosier?" he asks gently. "Such power emerging suddenly, without warning?"
He saw. He knows. Of course he does.
I pause, choosing my words carefully. "Not like this. It felt... different."
He glances briefly toward the doorway where Snape vanished. "Magic leaves marks, Miss Rosier. Some visible, many invisible. But all of them real."
"Do you know what this is..? Is it dangerous?" My voice drops to something quieter, almost a confession.
"All power is dangerous," Dumbledore replies calmly. "Especially the power we don't yet understand. But dangerous does not mean evil. That distinction," he says, looking directly into my eyes, "is always ours to make."
I swallow hard. Something in his gaze feels like an invitation, a quiet urging to trust him.
Before I can respond, a familiar step sounds behind me. Mama approaches, her posture perfectly controlled, her expression neutral—but her eyes hold unspoken worry.
"Albus..," she greets politely, inclining her head.
"Madame Rosier," Dumbledore responds warmly. "Your daughter has had quite the day."
"Indeed," Mama agrees softly, turning her attention fully to me. "Seraphina, it's late. You should rest."
"Yes, Mama," I say, understanding the quiet finality in her tone.
She exchanges a nod with Dumbledore, then guides me gently but firmly toward the hall. Her hand rests briefly on my shoulder—steadying, grounding me.
We walk quietly through the halls, our footsteps echoing softly against stone walls. She doesn't speak until we're safely in a quiet alcove near the stairs leading to my dorm.
Chapter 17: ~Because of him~
Chapter Text
*Eva's POV*
Rosier Estate – Late Evening
The fire crackles low. Shadows stretch across the room, long and flickering. Evan stands by the hearth, one arm braced against the mantle, the other swirling a glass of firewhisky. He's been smiling for hours. I've barely said a word.
"She was brilliant," he says for the third time tonight.
I nod from the armchair. "She was reckless."
"She was herself," he replies, turning toward me
"She was herself," he replies, turning toward me. "Finally."
His voice is bright — proud in a way that stings
His voice is bright — proud in a way that stings. I stare at the glass in my hand, untouched, chilled in my fingers.
"She could've died."
"But she didn't."
"That's not the point."
He frowns. "Then what is?"
I set the glass down, harder than necessary
I set the glass down, harder than necessary. "The point is, she's not ready for this. Not for the world. Not for who she really is. You saw what happened down there"
You saw what happened down there"
He watches me closely. "So? She's even more powerful than we ever imagined. She didn't just survive that task — she changed it! They'll remember this one. Years from now, they'll still talk about it."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
His smile falters. "Eva."
I stand, the cloak slipping off my lap. "You don't get it. You never did. It's not just about protecting her life — it's about protecting her future. Her identity. The moment anyone finds out, it's over. She's not going to be admired. She's going to be hunted."
"You're always waiting for a fight," he says. "Maybe for once, it's not coming."
I stare at him like I don't recognize him. "You think the war is over? It never ended. It just went quiet."
He exhales through his nose, jaw clenched
He exhales through his nose, jaw clenched. "She's not a child anymore, Eva. And she's not just your daughter."
I freeze. The room goes cold.
He regrets it the second it's out of his mouth, but the words sit between us, heavy and sharp.
"She is my daughter," I say quietly, my eyes shapeshifting reptilian yellow. "In every way that matters. And if I have to tear down every castle stone by stone to keep her safe, I will."
He steps forward
He steps forward. "I don't want to fight."
"Then don't."
"Eva—"
"You don't know what it's like to feel something dark in your blood," I whisper
"You don't know what it's like to feel something dark in your blood," I whisper.
"To feel it stirring in hers."
He stops short. The fire hisses low. Silence floods the room.
Evan moves — slow, deliberate — until he's standing behind me.
"Is it him?" he asks quietly. "Is it always going to be because of him?"
I close my eyes. We never talked a lot about my past with Tom, Evan knows, he was there, we both were. But I know the topic stings him.
He doesn't say the name. He never does. But it's in the room like smoke. Like rot.
"I stayed when he didn't, when you were all alone." Evan says. "I built a life from nothing — for her, for you. But if your heart is somewhere else, I can't be angry at you for it. I just can't pretend I'm not breaking, either."
I turn to face him, and he's standing there — not cruel, not cold
I turn to face him, and he's standing there — not cruel, not cold. Just wounded in a way that makes me want to fall apart. And maybe I do.
I had loved Tom, with all his bad and good things. I know that most people wouldn't understand that, and they do not have to.
I reach for Evan and he reaches for me.
Maybe out of guilt. Maybe out of love. Maybe because we don't know what else to do.
His hands find my waist, and then my face. He kisses me like it's the last time. Like he doesn't want to let go.
We don't speak.
We fall into each other like old habits. Not urgent.
Not rough. Just aching. We are all we got.
His mouth finds mine again, deeper this time
His mouth finds mine again, deeper this time. Like he wants to breathe me in, fill every hollow space that's cracked between us. His hands are no longer gentle — they're sure. Mapping skin like he's afraid I'll vanish if he doesn't memorize every inch.
And maybe I will.
Maybe I want to.
The air is heavy with smoke and old want. My back hits the desk with a muffled sound, and I let it. His coat falls somewhere to the floor, and my fingers are already pulling at the buttons of his shirt — fast, frantic, not because I need him, but because I miss him. And there's a difference.
His name slips past my lips — not like a question
His name slips past my lips — not like a question. Like a tether. Like an apology.
He groans into my mouth, low and wrecked.
"Eva."
The way he says it makes something snap behind my ribs.
We move like we've done this a hundred times. We have. But tonight it feels different — like we're trying to stitch something back together with our mouths, our bodies, our heat. Like we're burning the very last of what we have left.
He lifts me like it's nothing. I wrap around him like it's everything.
My fingertips trace on his shoulder, down his arms and back up.
And when it's over, I lie beside him. Staring at the ceiling. Listening to the rain start on the windows.
Chapter 18: ~Guidance~
Chapter Text
*Eva's POV*
~Rosier Estate – The Next Morning~
The fire's gone cold. The rain hasn't stopped.
Evan is still asleep beside me, one arm thrown across my waist, his breath warm against my shoulder. I watch the gray light crawl across the ceiling and wonder how many more mornings will end like this. How many more we'll pretend we're still whole.
I slip from beneath the sheets without waking him. It takes care. I know how he sleeps when we've fought — light, like he's listening for a door to close that won't reopen.
I don't shut the door behind me.
By midday, a letter arrives. I don't need to open it to know who it's from. The parchment hums with magic too old, too precise, too familiar. The handwriting alone — that steady, elegant scrawl — unravels something deep in my spine.
Albus Dumbledore requests a meeting.
No place listed. Just: "You'll know where to go."
Of course I do.
Hogwarts – The Astronomy Tower
Twilight bleeds into the horizon as I step onto the stone platform. The wind carries the scent of damp stone and pine, and the castle looms behind me like a living thing — unchanged. Watching.
He's already there. Of course he is.
Dumbledore stands with his back to me, hands folded neatly behind him, robes whispering against the floor. When he turns, the light hits his eyes — and I realize, for the first time in years, that he looks tired. Not old. Just tired in a way only people who've lost too much ever look.
"Eva."
His voice hasn't changed. That same gentle thunder. Kind. Terrible.
"Albus."
We say nothing for a while. I lean against the battlement, letting the wind claw at my coat.
"It's been some time," he says.
"Not long enough, apparently."
He smiles. It doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Still sharp, I see."
"I've had to be."
Another silence. Then, softly:
"She's remarkable."
"I made my choice a long time ago," I say. "I walked away. I buried who I was. Who she could've been."
"And yet here you are."
"I didn't come back for you. Seraphina-"
"I didn't expect you to," he cuts me off, with a softness that cuts deeper than judgment.
The wind lifts the hem of my robe, cold against my skin.
I cross my arms, keeping my it close, "Evan thinks she was wonderful yesterday. I think she was reckless. What can I say, daughter like father."
I narrow my eyes in the far, I am aware that he could suspect something. But for now I believe the lies we tell everyone, and I hope Albus does too.
"And when I look at her," Dumbledore says, "I see you."
That silences me.
"You know, she would like to attend Hogwarts next year." He says quietly, a slight smirk playing on his lips.
"You know," he continue, eyes on the horizon, "I've taught many children with remarkable talent
"You know," he continue, eyes on the horizon, "I've taught many children with remarkable talent. But few whose magic bends before command, instead of after it."
He pauses. Then, "She would do well here."
He doesn't look at me when he adds,
"And Hogwarts has always had a way of welcoming... even the most complicated legacies."
I don't answer right away
I don't answer right away.
The wind bites a little harder this high up, but I don't flinch. Let it sting. Let it remind me I'm still made of something solid.
"Legacies," I echo, voice flat. "Is that what we're calling them now?"
He doesn't blink. Doesn't smile either. Just studies the horizon like it has the answers I won't give.
"She's not ready," I say quietly.
"She is," he replies, just as soft. "She may not know it yet, but she is."
My fingers tighten around the edge of the stone. "You don't understand what you're asking."
"I do," he says, turning to look at me fully. "More than you think."
For a heartbeat, I almost believe him. But he didn't live with it — with her. He didn't feel the way the room shifted when she cried as an infant, the way glass fractured when she was angry, the way shadows clung to her feet as she walked before she ever held a wand.
He didn't wake in the middle of the night wondering whether it was blood or fate that bound her to something monstrous.
"She's my daughter," I whisper. "Not a prophecy. Not a tool. And certainly not a legacy."
Dumbledore inclines his head. "I never said otherwise."
"No," I murmur, turning away, "but you thought it loud enough."
The silence sits heavy between us. Below, the lake reflects the last violet sliver of sunset, and for a moment I see her there — Seraphina, running along the edge of the water, laughing before she ever learned to hide her teeth.
I exhale. "If she comes here, it won't be to play student. She won't be safe."
"Then she'll learn to make herself safe," he says. "With guidance. Not chains."
I don't reply. I can't. Because part of me knows he's right. And the other part — the part still curled around her like a shield — is ready to burn this whole place down if he's wrong.
"She'll make her own decision," I finally say.
He nods once. "That's all I ask."
And for the first time, he looks tired again — but not from age. From restraint. From holding back the question he doesn't need to ask aloud.
I step back from the edge.
And before I leave, I add — just loud enough for the wind to carry:
"If she comes, you'll treat her like any other student."
A pause. Then a laugh.
I cross my arms as he talks, "Did I ever threat any student like the other?"Then his voice, smooth and deliberate, cuts the air like a blade wrapped in velvet
I cross my arms as he talks, "Did I ever threat any student like the other?"
Then his voice, smooth and deliberate, cuts the air like a blade wrapped in velvet.
"Come back, Eva."
I turn, brows low. "To Hogwarts?"
"To your post."
My laugh is short. Dry. "You mean the one I abandoned when I disappeared in the middle of the night and half the Ministry looking for my throat? Me? The widow of the dark lord? Even if my last name is different now, the childrens parents they-"
His expression doesn't shift. "I mean the work you were always meant for. History of Magic was never just dates and dusty scrolls in your hands. You made it a living thing. You reminded students what power really costs and how powerful minor things can be. And their parents won't be an issue, you were under the imperius curse."
"The thing is Albus, I wasn't." I lift my eyebrow as I approach him, "I failed. The mission you gave me? I failed. They died. HE died." I squeeze my eyes, "And you want me to teach their son? The son who- my husband tried to kill? Don't think I did not see him."
"I understand your concerns," he gestures with one hand, his movements smooth and soft in their own way, "But what if you did not fail? What if you changed his fate anyway?"
I narrow my eyes. "He became Voldemort. And died. If you think this is a good way of changing someones fate then I don't know who of you two is good."
Crossing my arms I continue, "Besides that - I can't just stay here again."
He sees it — the flicker. That old suspicion, the one I wore like a second skin when I first joined the faculty.
"I have a job," I say. "One that doesn't involve children and castles and—" I gesture vaguely at the battlements, "—whatever this place has become."
"You sell curse-breaker consultation reports and ghostwrite dark artifact evaluations. Impressive, yes. Essential? Perhaps. But not what you're capable of."
My jaw tightens. "I don't need you to define my capability."
"Of course not," he says, calm as ever
"Of course not," he says, calm as ever. "But maybe Seraphina does."
That lands.
He doesn't push further — doesn't have to. Dumbledore knows the game better than any of us. He plants a seed and lets the soil worry about the rest.
"I'm not a teacher anymore," I murmur.
He steps closer, just enough that the air brushes my skin, "Then be something more. Be what she needs. And what this school might need again."
I stare at the lake. At the soft churn of moonlight across the surface. At the castle reflected in ripples.
And then I look at him.
The man who once stood across from Tom and did not flinch. The man who accepts the name I hide behind when mine became too dangerous to speak. And the man who probably knows exactly who Seraphina is, he doesn't even need to say it.
And I know.
He doesn't just want me close for her. He wants me close because he knows something.
He's always known things.
"I'll think about it," I say at last, turning away.
He turns to leave, but pauses at the top of the stairwell. "She needs guidance, Eva — not protection, not denial — guidance... I hope you'll trust me again."
I clench my jaw. "So what now? You'll let her stay, under watch? Under your thumb?"
"I'll let her live," he says simply. "And I'll give her every tool to make the right decisions. When the moment comes — when she must choose between what is easy, and what is right — will she know which voice is hers? That is what this is all about."
He looks at me not like a headmaster, or a manipulator, or a man who once sent children to die in the name of hope.
He looks at me like a father.
And it breaks something open.
His robes vanish into the dark, and I'm alone again.
Except I'm not. Because I feel it — that ripple in the air, that old presence I haven't sensed in years.
I turn my head.
And across the tower, cloaked in shadow, stands Severus Snape. Watching.
But he doesn't step forward. Doesn't speak.
Just waits.
Like he always does.
He doesn't stop me as I descend the stairs.
He doesn't need to.
The offer follows me all the way down.
Chapter 19: ~ Ze champions ~
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
*Seraphina's POV*
~Great Hall~
The chandeliers are too bright. The music too cheerful. And the smell of nervous sweat and overused hair potion is enough to kill.
"Why are we doing this again?" I mutter, tugging at the cuff of my dress. "This is a tournament, not a bloody cotillion."
Madam Maxime glides past, all perfume and authority. "Ze champions must learn to be elegant. Ze opening dance is tradition."
I grind my teeth. Tradition. Right.
The Great Hall has been transfigured into a ballroom for the afternoon. Silk banners drape the walls, the tables replaced with long open space. Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, Durmstrang — all lined up in awkward pairs, limbs too stiff, hands too clammy, trying not to step on each other's feet.
I scan the room and immediately spot him. Draco. Standing with that signature slouch like he owns the bloody floor, lips curled in amusement at some joke Blaise whispered in his ear.
I head toward him.
It's not even a question in my mind. He's smart. He's graceful. He can actually dance. And more than that — besides Leonie, he's pretty much the only one I talked to since I'm here.
I'm halfway there when it happens.
A Slytherin girl - all sugar smile and venom — slinks in from the side and curls her hand into the crook of Draco's arm like it's already hers.
He doesn't protest.
He doesn't even see me.
Not until I'm a few feet away. By then, it's too late. His eyes meet mine, unreadable. Not apologetic. Not smug either. Just... unreadable.
She smirks like she's won something.
I stop. My chest tightens — not because I care about him. Not like that. But because being left standing alone is the most humiliation I can imagine.
"That's Astoria Greengrace." Leonie whispers.
" Leonie whispers
I roll my eyes and turn, jaw clenched, looking for an escape
I roll my eyes and turn, jaw clenched, looking for an escape.
Before I can take a single step, a voice snaps through the hall.
"Mademoiselle Rosier."
Madam Maxime. Her eyes sweep the floor, narrowing like twin blades.
"You 'ave no partner?" she says, eyebrows arching like it's some kind of insult.
"I did," I mutter. "Briefly."
She doesn't blink. Just jerks her chin toward the edge of the hall.
I blink. "Absolutely not."
Maxime doesn't care.
He is standing alone. Arms folded. Robes blacker than the floor. Face carved from granite.
Snape.
"You will dance," she says in that unmovable way of hers. "You will do it well. And if you trip, you will not blame the shoes."
She all but shoves me forward.
And like some ridiculous nightmare, I find myself walking toward Professor Severus Snape in front of half the bloody school.
He doesn't move. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't care.
Just stares as I stop in front of him, my hands balled at my sides, spine locked straight.
"This is stupid," I say.
"More so for me than you," he replies dryly.
I hate that his voice is calm. Hate that he doesn't even look uncomfortable.
His hand lifts — pale, long fingers — like this is some kind of duel instead of a dance.
"Shall we?" he says, and there's the faintest edge of sarcasm to it.
I slap my hand into his. Not gently.
His fingers curl around mine, firm and cold.
We step into the first pose — my left hand on his shoulder, his right hand on my waist.
We step into the first pose — my left hand on his shoulder, his right hand on my waist
The music begins and we move.
To my surprise — and horror — he's graceful. Effortless. His steps are precise, controlled, and I'm too stubborn to falter, too proud to lose my footing.
"Did you always hate students this much?" I hiss under my breath.
"I tolerate those with discipline," he murmurs. "You are... a challenge."
"I am more disciplined than you may think, Sir."
"No need to try to impress me."
He spins me — sharp, sudden — and I catch myself with a breath just short of a gasp.
"I know you're watching me," I say quietly.
His jaw twitches. "You have no idea what I'm doing."
I glance up at him, trying to read his face, but it's sealed shut. Impenetrable.
He was close to my father. I need to know what he knows about him.
"You're not subtle," I say.
"And you're not cautious." he replies, glancing down at me tiptoeing on his shoes.
He steps in closer for the turn. I feel the heat of him now — all that tightly leashed control, every movement wrapped in restraint.
It's infuriating. It's magnetic.
"Just don't drop me," I mutter.
He leans down — voice low, barely audible. "Not unless you deserve it."
My breath stutters and the dance ends
My breath stutters and the dance ends.
I yank my hands back before the last note fades.
We stand there, inches apart.
No one says anything. Then I tilt my head, smile sharp and sweet.
"Well, Professor," I say. "That was enlightening."
He doesn't answer. Just walks away — robes billowing behind him like smoke.
I stand there for a moment, heart thudding, unsure of what just happened.
I have to figure out his secrets. And I know they will be darker than his robes.
Across the floor, Draco is still talking to Astoria.
But he doesn't laugh this time.
He just... watches me.
I wonder what he's thinking, wonder what his father thought him about mine.
Notes:
Sorry guys!! I have been on vacation for 4 weeks and wasn't able to post -
fully back now and continuing to post as usual! <3
Thanks for sticking aroundxoxo riddlewith.thestories A.R
Chapter 20: ~Recognition~
Chapter Text
*Seraphina's POV*
I’m still staring at Draco—who’s still watching me—when Leonie appears at my elbow, eyes wide, lips twisted into a mischievous grin.
"Well?" she whispers eagerly, practically vibrating beside me. "How was it?"
I blink, forcing my gaze away from Draco and Astoria, feigning boredom.
"It was exactly how you think dancing with a professor would be."
She nudges me with her shoulder. "Oh, come on. Not every professor looks like they stepped out of a Gothic romance novel."
I give her a flat look. "You read too much Leo."
She laughs, looping her arm through mine. "Seriously, though—Snape? I thought he hated students. Especially us."
I shrug, playing indifferent even as my heartbeat still hasn't calmed. "He does. Believe me."
But Leonie's eyes are sharp. She leans in, voice softer. "Didn't look like hate from here. Looked like... something else."
I roll my eyes, "You're delusional."
She shakes her head, eyes twinkling mischievously. "At least you danced with someone interesting. I was stuck with a Hufflepuff boy who barely looked up from his shoes."
I offer her a distracted smile. "You can have Snape next time."
"No thanks," Leonie says dramatically. "I'd rather face a dragon."
I glance once more toward the spot where Snape disappeared into the shadows, curiosity burning in my chest like an ember refusing to die.
"I’m tired. If Madame Maxime asks, I left early." I murmur, lower than intended.
Leonie grins knowingly. "Where are you going?"
"Bed," I lie smoothly.
She narrows her eyes. "You’re a terrible liar."
I smile, already stepping away. "And you’re annoyingly perceptive."
I move swiftly through the crowded hall, slipping out before she can press further. The corridors are quiet now, moonlight spilling through stained glass windows, illuminating my path as I hurry toward the library. Every shadow feels sharper, every step echoes louder.
I have no time for hesitation.
I slip inside unnoticed, making my way past towering shelves and dusty tomes, tracing fingers along cracked leather spines. I'm not even certain what I'm looking for. But professor Snape—there must be something.
A yearbook, perhaps? A record of past Hogwarts students?
My hand pauses on a thick volume, aged leather and embossed gold letters:
"Hogwarts Annual Records: 1968-1978"
I carefully pull it free, the leather crackling as I open it on a secluded table.
The pages whisper as I turn them—student lists, prefects, Quidditch captains. Then—
"Severus Tobias Snape," I murmur quietly, tracing his name listed neatly under Slytherin house, 1971. There's a small note:
"President of the Potions Club. Slug Club member. Outstanding achievements in potions and dark arts."
Interesting, but predictable. I flip ahead, hoping for something less expected.
A single photograph catches my eye: a group of students smiling awkwardly at the camera, Slughorn proudly behind them. Severus Snape is there, half-hidden at the edge of the frame, expression solemn, eyes dark even then.
Standing close beside him is a pretty red-haired girl—vivid green eyes and a gentle smile, looking at the camera rather than Snape, whose gaze is subtly fixed upon her.
I study the photograph, curiosity stirring deeper. Who was she? And what had made Snape’s eyes linger that way? Could it be something to do with the sadness he seems to carry beneath his carefully maintained composure?
"You're awfully interested in the past, Rosier," a smooth voice says suddenly, breaking the silence.
My heart jumps, and I snap the book shut, spinning around.
Draco Malfoy stands leaning against a nearby bookshelf, arms crossed, watching me with a small smirk.
"Curiosity," I say lightly, quickly recovering my poise. "Nothing more."
"About Snape?" he asks, lifting an eyebrow. "Brave."
"Know something I don't?" I challenge softly, stepping closer.
He hesitates—only for a heartbeat—before giving a small shrug. "Only that he's not the sort of wizard whose secrets you want to dig too deep into."
I lift my chin slightly. "I'm not afraid of secrets."
"No," Draco says, almost gently, his eyes holding mine, "I didn't think you were."
He nods once, then pushes away from the shelf, walking past me. He pauses briefly at the doorway.
"Just don't get caught," he advises quietly. "The past isn't kind to everyone."
Then he's gone, leaving me alone in the silent library with nothing but questions.
Hmm.. I should check his father too... and my mother.
I stare after him, heart still beating a bit faster than I’d admit. He's right—the past isn't kind.
But I have to know everything that involves my father.
I open the book again, flipping back through the pages with determination, searching for the name that has lingered at the edge of my curiosity since the day I set foot in this school and Draco just reminded me:
Lucius Malfoy.
I find him quickly. Of course I do. His photo stands out as if it demands recognition: sleek platinum hair, posture impeccable, eyes cold even in his youth. He gazes at the camera as if daring it to look away first.
"Lucius Abraxas Malfoy—Slytherin, Prefect, Head Boy. Known for excellence in charms, politics, and dueling."
And beneath it, almost hidden:
"Noted association with exclusive circles; suspected influence in darker student factions."
I trace the words lightly, wondering how much darker those factions got. How close he'd come to my own father, or what influence he might have had on Draco. His secrets—like Snape's—feel like threads connecting the past to the present. Tying them to me.
I pause, my fingers restless against the page, then turn back farther, searching again.
My mother's name wasn't Rosier when she taught here. She'd told me that much—but I knew her birth name: Eva Orlov.
The pages rustle urgently beneath my fingertips until—
There she is.
The photo nearly takes my breath away. It's like staring into a mirror set decades earlier. Her hair falls elegantly around her shoulders, eyes fierce, proud, and challenging. She stands slightly apart from her colleagues in the group photo, looking as though she refused to belong to anyone or anything, even then. Oh .. and Snape is there too.. I wonder how close they were.
"Eva Orlov—History of Magic Professor. Known for revolutionary teaching methods, remarkable command of historical nuance, and formidable temperament. Departed abruptly under unclear circumstances."
The words blur as my pulse quickens.
Formidable temperament.
That, at least, hasn't changed. Neither has the sense that my mother has always been surrounded by secrets she refuses to share. And I'm beginning to understand why—she isn't just protecting herself, she's protecting me.
But from what, exactly? The ministry? Hogwarts?
Death eaters..?
I let the silence settle, aware of the shadows stretching around me, the ancient magic of Hogwarts pressing gently against my skin. Then I carefully shut the book, returning it to the shelf.
If professor Snape knew my father — if he was close to him — then maybe he saw what he became. Maybe he knows what that kind of power does to a person. And maybe, just maybe, he sees a glimmer of that in me. Or maybe, he is just like him.
The question is wether that's good or bad.
That’s what I can’t stop thinking about.
It wasn’t disdain in his eyes tonight. Or surprise. It might have been something worse.
Recognition.
I pull my cloak tighter around me and slip back through the corridors.
I just need answers..
Chapter 21: ~Classes~
Chapter Text
*Seraphina's POV*
~Potion classroom - Hogwarts ~
The dungeons are colder than I imagined. A damp chill seeps from the walls, curling around the cauldrons and the neat rows of ingredients waiting patiently to be chosen. There's something oddly comforting about it. A stark simplicity, a place where order reigns supreme. A place where no one else really wants to be. Well except for one person.
It's still strange to me to attend classes in hogwarts but it gives me a feeling of how it will be, once I enroll here. That, if mum allows it. Though she'd probably rather I get dragon pox. I roll my eyes at the thought, then hiss as Leonie jabs my elbow.
"Ouch! Leonie!" I glare at her as she points towards the old wooden door that is opening.
Professor Snape enters silently, robes whispering against the stone floor. Conversations cease immediately, an instinctive response to his presence. He surveys us with barely concealed disdain, eyes dark and unreadable.
"Today's lesson," he drawls, voice low and deliberate, "requires precision. Something I doubt many of you possess."
I don't miss the way his eyes pause briefly on me. A silent challenge.
"You will brew Amortentia," Snape continues, tone laden with thinly veiled disgust. "The strongest love potion in existence. A potion as dangerous as it is powerful."
A ripple of whispers passes through the class. Snape silences it with a single glance.
"Begin."
I move quietly, gathering my ingredients with careful precision. Leonie pairs with me, casting a quick glance before whispering, "Why a love potion?" I smirk, "No idea. But something tells me you wouldn't mind trying it on Professor Snape." I smile as her cheeks flush scarlet. "What? No!" she protests, but her flustered gestures only confirm the truth.
Still amused I methodically begin the delicate dance of brewing. My fingers glide confidently over roots and petals, precise and deliberate. If I want anything from Snape, it won't be through charm the way Leonie tries. I'll have to impress him another way.
Halfway through, I sense eyes on me. I lift my gaze briefly and find Viktor Krum watching intently from the next station. His dark gaze is unreadable, curious, quietly intrigued. When our eyes meet, his mouth curves into the faintest, crooked smile.
Interesting.
Without thinking, I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and return to my work, pulse quickening just slightly.
But before I can dwell on Krum's quiet attention, Draco's voice rises from across the aisle.
"Professor, what happens if someone accidentally drinks it?" he drawls, a sly smirk tugging at his lips. "Hypothetically."
Snape doesn't look up from his notes. "They'd make a complete fool of themselves. You should know something about that, Mr. Malfoy."
Draco's smirk falters just slightly. I suppress a smile, stirring carefully, watching my potion shift from silver to pearlescent pink. The steam rises slowly, and the familiar scent swirls gently into my senses—smoke and leather-bound books, hints of fresh pine, and strangely, something colder, sharper, almost like rain on stone.
"Very impressive, Miss Rosier," Snape's voice interrupts my thoughts. He's standing beside our cauldron, peering critically at the shimmering liquid. I hold my breath.
"Do take care," he murmurs coolly, though his eyes glitter with reluctant approval, "precision without caution can be... volatile."
He moves on, and I exhale slowly, tension fading from my shoulders.
Leonie looks at me disappointed, it doesn't sit right with her that Snape didn't even glance at her.
Across the classroom, Draco watches, eyes narrowed slightly—interest, suspicion, maybe even envy behind his careful mask. He turns abruptly back to his potion, jaw tightening as he does so.
When class ends, I'm cleaning up slowly, taking my time. A shadow falls across my workspace.
"Your technique is exceptional," Viktor says quietly, accent thick but gentle.
I look up, startled. Viktor Krum is closer than I'd expected, eyes dark and searching, as if trying to decipher a puzzle.
"I'm a quick learner," I reply lightly, holding his gaze. My mind scrambles—say something, Seraphina, don't be strange. "But... thank you. It's flattering."
He nods once, eyes flickering to my potion, then back to me.
"I'd expect nothing less from a champion."
I feel my cheeks warm slightly, surprising myself. "Then we have something in common."
He smiles again, small but genuine, a spark of intrigue deepening in his eyes before he steps away, disappearing into the crowd.
I turn back to my cauldron, feeling a slight sense of victory.
As I glance toward Draco, he's already gone—so is Leonie. But across the room, Snape is still there, watching me. His gaze is guarded, unreadable... yet softer than before.
I meet his stare, lifting my chin—careful, deliberate, precise.
This is only the beginning. If he's impressed now, what will he think once I show him what I'm truly capable of?
The classroom empties slowly—footsteps fading, murmurs retreating down the corridor. I linger, wiping down my station with deliberate slowness. Everyone is already gone before I notice.
Snape remains at his desk, quill scratching against parchment, back to the room like I've ceased to exist.
I take a quiet breath. Then cross the space between us. If not now, then when?
"Professor."
He doesn't look up. "The classroom is closed, Miss Rosier."
"I know." I pause. "But I wanted to ask..." My voice is steady. I make sure of it. "If there are even harder potion to make than this one. It wasn't really a challenge for me."
Now he lifts his eyes. Cold, dark, unreadable.
"Confidence," he says at last, voice low and smooth, "is useful in potion-making. Arrogance..." His eyes narrow just slightly. "...is fatal."
"I wasn't being arrogant," I reply evenly, careful to keep my tone measured. "I was being honest."
A flicker—so faint I almost miss it—crosses his expression. It could be irritation. It could be interest.
He leans back in his chair, studying me the way one might study a volatile substance. "You found Amortentia simple?"
"Yes." I don't flinch.
There's a long silence, heavy with unsaid things.
Finally, he stands. The movement is quiet, deliberate, and somehow more unnerving than if he'd slammed his chair back. He circles his desk, stopping a few feet from me.
"Potions beyond the curriculum require... skill. Patience. Discretion." His voice drops lower. "Do you possess all three, Miss Rosier?"
I meet his gaze. "I wouldn't be asking if I didn't."
The faintest trace of something—approval? amusement?—ghosts at the corner of his mouth before it's gone.
"Very well," he says softly. "If you're so eager for a challenge... I will consider it."
"Consider it?" I press, tilting my head.
His eyes sharpen like a blade catching the light. "Opportunities are given when they serve a purpose. Not before."
There's a beat of silence where neither of us moves.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, "You may regret your persistence, Miss Rosier."
I smile, just faintly. "I doubt it, Professor."
Another flicker—this one unmistakably intrigued—before his mask falls back into place.
"Dismissed," he says again, voice clipped.
But as I turn to leave, I feel his eyes on me still.
~Great Hall~
The Great Hall is loud the way only dinner can make it—clattering plates, bursts of laughter, voices echoing high into the enchanted ceiling. The smell of roast chicken and warm bread drifts down the table, but I'm barely paying attention as I drop onto the bench beside Leonie.
She doesn't even glance at me.
I raise a brow, nudging her plate with my fork. "What's wrong with you? You left without a word."
She stabs a piece of potato like it's personally offended her. "Nothing."
"Uh-huh." I lean in, lowering my voice. "Is this about Snape?"
Her cheeks flush instantly, which is all the answer I need.
I smirk. "Oh, Merlin. You're actually jealous, aren't you?"
Leonie spins to face me, glaring. "I am not jealous. I just—" She stops, then waves her fork like it's a wand. "—you get all the attention! He barely looked at me today. And you didn't even try! It's like you just... exist and he notices."
I can't help the laugh that slips out. "Leo, you do realize you're talking about Professor Snape, right?"
Her glare deepens. "You don't see it? The tall, brooding, mysterious thing? He's young, good looking.. always alone. You're practically living in a gothic romance novel and you don't even appreciate it!"
I cover my mouth with my hand, trying not to laugh harder. "You need to stop reading those ridiculous books before bed. Next you'll be telling me he's a cursed prince who just needs the right girl to break the spell."
She huffs. "You're impossible."
I lean back, grinning. "Trust me, Leonie, you can have him. All of him. I promise you I have zero competition in that department."
Leonie eyes me suspiciously. "You're sure?"
I raise a brow. "He's a professor. Our professor. For now." I wave vaguely at the staff table. "He's also about as warm as the dungeons. I don't know how to make this any clearer—he's all yours."
She narrows her eyes like she's not fully convinced, but finally sighs, shoving another forkful of food into her mouth.
I reach for my goblet, glancing up toward the staff table. Snape is there, as unreadable as ever, speaking quietly with Dumbledore. His gaze doesn't stray toward the students. Certainly not toward me.
Still, a small smile tugs at my lips.
If Leonie thinks I'm getting "attention," she'd hate to know that I'm just getting started.
Leonie is halfway through glaring at me about Snape when a shadow falls over the table.
I glance up, expecting another Beauxbatons student looking for dessert.
It's not.
It's Viktor Krum.
He slides onto the bench across from me like it's the most natural thing in the world, his presence pulling the air tight around us. His gaze sweeps briefly to Leonie, then settles on me.
He leans slightly forward, elbows on the table, still watching me with that unreadable intensity. "I have been thinking, about earlier and I have to correct myself. Flattering is not what I meant. You are... focused. Determined. It is good for the tournament. You will do well."
Leonie's mouth is hanging open now.
I suppress a smirk. "I'll take that as a compliment."
Krum gives a single, deliberate nod, then pushes back from the bench, his attention lingering for just a second longer before he stands. "I will see you in the next class." he says simply, before walking back toward the Durmstrang table.
As soon as he's gone, Leonie practically slams her hands on the table.
"What. Was. That?"
I stab a piece of bread with my knife, keeping my tone maddeningly calm. "A conversation."
"That was not just a conversation! That was Krum—" she gestures dramatically toward the Durmstrang table—"Krum! Sitting here. Talking to you. Looking at you like—"
I cut her off with a sharp look. "Leo. You're reading into things again."
She narrows her eyes. "You say that now, but I'm starting to think you're living in two gothic novels at once. Meanwhile I am just - invisible."
I roll my eyes. "If that's the case, I'd like to request a refund." I wish I was invisible, that would make my research much easier and calm my mother down.
She mutters something under her breath about "Two champions in love - future scandal" but lets it drop quickly as I give her a look.
Chapter 22: ~ A Feeling ~
Chapter Text
*Harry's POV*
~Hogwarts Library - Late Evening~
The library is nearly silent, save for the scratch of quills and the occasional creak of a chair. It's almost peaceful, which is rare for Hogwarts — no one hexing anyone in the corridors, no Filch breathing down my neck, no Rita Skeeter lying in the Prophet.
I'm supposed to be researching for Moody's essay on defensive spells, but my eyes keep straying toward the darker, quieter rows in the back.
And that's when I see her.
Seraphina Rosier.
She's sitting at a table tucked half into the shadows, hair falling across her face, completely absorbed in whatever she's reading.
At first, I think it's just another history book — she's from Beauxbatons, after all. But then I spot the title when she turns a page.
The Rise and Fall of Tom Riddle - a lesson for the Wizarding World.
My stomach tightens.
I hesitate for half a second before walking toward her table.
She doesn't notice me until I'm right there, and when she does, she looks up calmly — not startled, not guilty. Not as if she just reads in Voldemorts past.
"Harry Potter," she says lightly, like she's been expecting me.
"Seraphina," I answer, eyes flicking to the book. "That's... interesting reading material."
Her lips quirk faintly. "History of Magic. I like to be thorough."
"Tom Riddle isn't exactly standard reading for History of Magic."
"No," she says smoothly, "but neither is Durmstrang's curriculum on Gellert Grindelwald, and I'd like to read that as well."
She says it so easily, so casually, it almost disarms me. Almost.
I pull out the chair opposite her and sit. "Why?"
Her expression doesn't shift. "Because history repeats itself. Grindelwald. Riddle. There's a pattern in how powerful wizards rise and fall. If I'm competing in a tournament like this, I'd be a fool not to study power.. and how to yield it without getting .. I would call it, possessed?"
It's a good answer. Too good.
I lean back, watching her. "Sounds like you've thought about this a lot."
She tilts her head, eyes sharp, but her voice stays light. "I'm a champion, Harry. Thinking ahead is part of the job, isn't it?"
She closes the book neatly, sliding a ribbon between the pages. "Besides, Durmstrang's library is rumored to have entire sections Hogwarts doesn't dare keep. If I were interested in dangerous history, that's where I'd go next.."
I can't tell if she's joking.
Before I can say anything else, she stands, gathering her books. "Good luck with your essay," she says, as if this was just an ordinary conversation.
And then she's gone, her footsteps soft against the stone floor.
I sit there a moment longer, staring at the space she left behind.
That's when it happens.
A sharp, sudden twinge in my scar.
It's quick — there and gone in seconds — but it leaves my stomach unsettled.
I glance toward the doors, where Seraphina just vanished into the corridor.
I tell myself it's nothing. Just the stress of the tournament.
But somehow, I don't believe it. She seems so normal, yet there is something about her. Something familiar. I know she is a Rosier, a death eater family. Draco's cousin.
Yet, she has always been nice to me or any other Gryffindor.
I will keep an eye on her, just to be sure.
Chapter 23: ~School Girl Problems~
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Seraphina's POV
~Defence Against the Dark Arts Classroom - Hogwarts~
The air in Moody's classroom is always electric—thick with tension, like a storm about to break. Confidence here isn't a strength, it's a trap. A fatal mistake.
I've learned that the hard way. Those late-night training sessions before the first task of the tournament taught me that Professor Moody doesn't care if you're running on empty. He'll push you until you've got nothing left... and then he'll push harder.
Strangely, I like it. There's a certain power in reaching rock bottom, in realizing you can still keep moving, still fight. Ambition runs deep in me—I can feel it in my bones. Maybe that's no surprise. Salazar Slytherin is in my blood, after all. And it shows.
The desks are pushed back today, leaving the floor clear. Students from hogwarts, durmstrang and Beauxbatons circle the edges, wands in hand, all watching as Moody stomps to the center. His magical eye spins, scanning everyone.
"Today—" his voice is a growl "—we're working on speed casting under pressure.
Real dueling, not this half-step dancing you lot call defense."
He's already scanning us like he's picking prey. I can feel the tension ripple down the line of Beauxbatons students, the Durmstrang boys are too proud to falter. Leonie shifts closer to me.
"Rosier," Moody barks.
Of course. Why not torturing me more?
I step forward, my wand loose but ready in my hand. "Sir."
He smirks—though on him, it looks more like a twitch. "You think quick, you've got power. But do you have control?" His magical eye whirs. "Dead witch walking if not."
He doesn't give me time to answer. His wand snaps up—
"Expelliarmus!"
My arm jerks but my grip holds. I throw up a shield so fast it cracks the air, countering with a sharp "Confringo!" The blast forces him to sidestep. His grin grows wider.
The students murmur, leaning in.
Moody doesn't stop. Hex after hex comes at me—fast, harder than anything he's thrown at the others. I dodge, block, deflect. Heat builds behind my ribs.
This isn't testing. This is targeting.
A heavy curse slams into my shield, making my knees buckle. I straighten, jaw tight.
"Something wrong, Rosier?" His voice is mocking now. "Too much for a Beauxbatons champion?"
I grit my teeth. "Not yet."
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement—Viktor Krum, standing a little too stiff, his dark gaze fixed on me. His hand tightens on his wand, like he's ready to step in. Little does he know I don't need help.
Moody fires another hex. I twist, send it back at him, my wand arm steady despite my pulse hammering.
Finally—finally—Moody lowers his wand. The room exhales.
"Good," he growls. "Better than most. But still sloppy."
Leonie mutters under her breath beside me, "If that was sloppy, I want to see perfect."
I smirk faintly, but my lungs are still tight.
"Everyone get ready for the next class. Dismissed," Moody barks towards the class.
Chairs scrape, chatter rises. Students start filing out, relieved to be free of the tension.
"Not you, Rosier."
I freeze.
"She's fine," Krum's voice cuts in—his deep accent curling over the words as he steps closer. His brow furrows as his dark eyes meet mine. "You are fine, da?" His accent draws my attention more than I wish.
I force a small smile, straightening my robes. "I'm fine, Viktor." My voice is even. "Go."
He hesitates a fraction longer than he should, his gaze sliding to Moody before he turns to leave with the others.
The door shuts. The room is silent.
Moody's magical eye swivels toward me while the other narrows.
"You've got bite, Rosier. I like bite. But bite without discipline?" His wand taps against his desk like a warning. "It'll eat you alive. We have to continue where we stopped."
I cross my arms, holding his stare. "Is this the part where you tell me to work harder, Professor?" Because I think I have proven that I am more than capable."
He leans in, the scarred corner of his mouth twitching. "No. This is the part where I make you work harder."
His wand points to the far side of the room where the practice dummies are lined up.
"Again. Every shield you know. You're not leaving until you can block without thinking. It has to be instinct."
I don't move. "That could take hours. Even.. weeks."
"That's the point."
His magical eye whirs, locking onto me like a hawk sighting prey.
I pick up my wand again, heat curling low in my stomach—not fear.
The thought of having to stay here for days creeps on me, even though I know he can't do that.
Something feels dangerous about him.
I square off toward the practice dummies. My wand feels heavier now—not from exhaustion, but from the weight of his stare.
Moody circles me like a wolf sizing up prey. "Shield up. Again." I feel his breath against my neck as he passes.
Protego. The magic hums. Another hex comes hard and fast—I block, spin, and counter, my movements sharp enough to slice the air.
"Again," he growls.
The third hex whistles past my shoulder. Too close. I whip around, wand ready, pulse pounding.
"You're holding back!" he says, voice dropping low. "That'll get you killed."
"I'm not holding back," I snap.
His magical eye whirs, and for a second I swear there's something sharper than criticism there. Something like... curiosity.
Before he can speak again—
The door creaks open.
I freeze mid-step.
Professor McGonagall stands in the doorway, sharp as a blade. Her eyes flick from me—alone, wand in hand—to Moody. Her mouth tightens.
"Alastor," she says in that clipped tone that makes even full-grown wizards straighten.
"Care to explain why one of the visiting champions is still in your classroom after hours?"
Moody's expression doesn't shift. "Extra work. She needs it."
McGonagall's gaze narrows like she's looking straight through him. Then her eyes land on me, softer but still pointed.
"Miss Rosier, do you require extra work?"
I glance at Moody. His good eye locks on mine like a silent warning.
I force a smooth smile. "It was my idea, Professor. I asked to stay."
Her brows lift slightly, but she doesn't press. "Very well. But you'll remember that your safety is our priority—yours and the other champions'. You'll return to your common room."
"Yes, Professor," I say quickly.
Her eyes linger another beat, then she turns and leaves, her footsteps echoing down the hall.
The door shuts.
Moody's gaze slides back to me, a crooked grin tugging at his scarred mouth.
"Looks like you've got friends in high places."
I exhale slowly, lowering my wand.
"Looks like some people are watching more closely than you think."
Something dangerous flickers in his eye—something that makes the hair at the back of my neck stand on end.
"Good," he says at last. "Let's keep them entertained."
And just like that, he waves me toward the door. "Go on. We'll continue another time."
The heavy oak door shuts behind me with a dull thud.
The hallway is dim—torches flickering, shadows stretching long across the stone. My shoulders are still tense, my wand hand faintly tingling from the repeated spells. Moody's voice echoes faintly in my head: Holding back will get you killed.
I push the thought away.
And that's when I see him.
Viktor Krum is leaning against the wall opposite the classroom door, arms folded, one boot braced against the stone. His dark eyes flick up immediately when I step out, scanning my face like he's looking for bruises.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, raising a brow.
"Passing by," he says. It's a terrible lie—his accent turns the words into something almost believable, but I still catch the edge of worry in his voice.
I smirk. "You're a bad liar."
His mouth curves—just barely. "Maybe. Or maybe I wanted to see if you are... alright."
I tilt my head, keeping my expression neutral. "I'm fine."
His eyes narrow slightly, as if testing the truth of that, but he doesn't press. Instead, he straightens from the wall, stepping a little closer, his voice dropping low.
"There is Yule Ball soon."
I blink. "And?"
He hesitates for a beat—just long enough for me to notice the faintest crack in his usually unshakable demeanor.
"And I would like to take you," he says simply.
I study him for a moment. His face is as unreadable as ever, but there's something there—steady, solid, like he doesn't make this kind of offer lightly.
The silence stretches. My mind flickers briefly to Moody's strange attention, to Snape's calculating stares, to Draco's unreadable glances across the Great Hall. And now—Krum.
I let a faint smile tug at my lips. "You don't waste time, do you?"
He shrugs, unbothered. "Time is... short. I think you know this."
I consider him for another long moment. Then—"I'll think about it."
His dark eyes soften, just a fraction, and he nods once. "Good. I will see you around. Goodnight, Seraphina."
He doesn't press further, just steps back, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth as he turns to head down the corridor.
And I'm left standing there—still feeling the weight of Moody's stare from moments ago, but now with another question burning in my mind:
Do I say yes?
He's handsome, strong, loyal. His accent rounds it up.
Everything a woman wants.
Oh Merlin, I can already hear Leonies voice "SeE I tolD yOu So" -
And Rita - "Two champions attending the ball"
Ugh -
Who would have thought I would have normal school girl problems... in addition to my little project..
Notes:
What do you think...?? xoxo
Chapter 24: ~Go to Azkaban~
Chapter Text
*Seraphina's POV*
~Courtyard~
The cold settles over the courtyard like frost on glass. Students cluster in corners, chattering about partners for the Yule Ball. Every word is about dates, dresses, and who's asking whom.
I have never been interested in things like this.. but Viktor sparked my interest.
And he finds me just as I'm escaping Leonie's latest speculations.
"Seraphina."
His voice is low, steady. There's something about the way he says my name that makes the noise around us fade.
I turn, masking my surprise with a small smile. "Viktor."
His dark eyes hold mine. "Will you come to the ball with me?"
It's direct. No hesitation. Exactly how I expected Viktor Krum to do anything. And I like it.. he doesn't waste time.
It's simple. Easy. Everyone would expect it. Everyone would be excited.
But there's something I have to do. Something that doesn't include simple or easy.
I take a breath. "Viktor... I can't."
The silence between us sharpens. I can tell by his looks that he didn't expect that answer and neither did I.
"I—" I shake my head before he can speak. "It's not about you. You've been... more than kind. And you are.." I pause- shut up Seraphina he knows how he looks- "But I have something I need to do that night. Something personal."
He studies me, unreadable. Then he nods once. "If it is personal, I will not push."
I offer him a faint smile, relief and regret tangled together.
"I hope you'll still dance with me. Later."
The faintest ghost of a smile curves his lips. "I would like that."
And just like that, he's gone.
A man who can take a rejection.
Was it a mistake to say no?
Before I can walk away Leonie pulls my arm, "Did Viktor Krum just- Did you just--"
I sigh, a smirk playing on my lips, "Leonie breathe-"
She gestures wildly with her hand, "BUT THAT - You can't just say no to Viktor Krum. That's - You should go to Azkaban for that.
Suddenly Snape stops right beside us.
His eyes flick to me, then Leonie, his expression unreadable in that way that somehow is a readable expression: You're both insufferable.
Leonie freezes like a rabbit under a hawk's shadow.
I press my lips together to keep from laughing.
"Azkaban," Snape says at last, his voice low and silken, "would be an improvement on the inane conversations I overhear in these corridors."
Leonie looks like she might faint—whether from shame or sheer romantic delirium, I can't tell.
Snape's gaze lingers on us a moment longer, sharp as a blade, before he sweeps past, his robes trailing behind him like the ending punctuation on a particularly cruel sentence.
Leonie exhales in a shaky whisper.
"That... was... perfect."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Leonie, you have a problem."
She doesn't deny it.
~Great Hall - Same Day~
As I walk in the great hall I can see Harry Potter at the Gryffindor table, hunched over a half-eaten treacle tart. Ron is talking at him about something—Hermione, Krum, I can't tell.
I walk straight up, leaning against the table until Harry notices me.
"Hi Harry."
His head jerks up, eyes wide. "Uh... Seraphina? Is everything okay?"
"You have a date for the Yule Ball?"
Ron chokes on his pumpkin juice. Harry glances at him, then back at me. "Uh—no?"
I grin. "Good. You do now."
Harry blinks. "Wait—what?"
"I'll meet you in the Entrance Hall before the ball." I straighten, smirk tugging at my lips. "Try not to be late. I hate waiting."
And before either of them can say another word, I turn on my heel and walk away, biting back a laugh at Ron's baffled expression.
Chapter 25: ~Swimming in Gallons~
Chapter Text
*Seraphina's POV*
The castle sleeps.
Or at least it pretends to. I can feel the low hum of magic in the stones, the way it shifts and sighs after hours. My breath clouds in the cold as I follow the flicker of professor Moody's wandlight through a deserted corridor. As he walks down the hallway with his walking stick by his side he doesn't look back to see if I'm keeping up.
We stop at a heavy oak door, half-rotted at the bottom. Moody jerks his head at it. "In."
The room beyond is bare except for a few battered desks shoved to the side. It smells like dust, iron, and something faintly acrid. He shuts the door behind us and throws a bolt, the sound echoing in the emptiness.
"Wands away," he says.
I blink. "What?"
"You heard me, Rosier. Wand. Away."
I slip mine into my sleeve but keep my hand near it. "Why?"
His magical eye whirls until it's locked on me. "Because if you lose it in the next task, you'll be dead before you can blink. I've got a source whisperin' it might involve no magic at all."
I frown. "No magic? In a wizard tournament? That doesn't make any sense."
He gives a harsh laugh. "Degrading, isn't it? That's why we're going to make sure you're the best bare-handed fighter in the room."
Before I can respond, his wand lifts. "You're not training in that skirt," he growls, flicking the tip toward me.
The air ripples around my body, warm for a heartbeat and then cool against my skin. My clothes shrink, stretch, and shift in a rush of fabric and leather. When I glance down, my dress robes are gone — replaced by fitted black trousers that move like a second skin, soft-soled boots, and a sleeveless leather vest over a close-cut shirt. There are no frills, no unnecessary weight — every inch of it designed for speed and silence.
I run a hand over the material. "What is this?"
"Combat gear," Moody says, one corner of his mouth twitching. "Flexible, quiet, no nonsense. You'll thank me when you're not tripping over your hem."
I catch my reflection in a cracked pane of glass against the wall. It feels strange. New..
Moody's real eye narrows. "Don't just stand there admirin' yourself. You're about to learn how to fight like your life depends on it — because it just might."
He stomps toward me, rolling his shoulders, his real eye narrowed. "Attack me."
"What?"
"You're not deaf, girl. Come on."
I hesitate, then lunge. He sidesteps so fast I almost crash into the wall. Before I can turn, his arm hooks my waist and sweeps my feet out from under me. I hit the floor with a thud that rattles my teeth.
"Lesson one," he growls — and suddenly smacks his walking stick against my side. The sting is sharp and immediate, forcing me to roll away and scramble upright before he can swing again.
"The ground's not your friend," he barks. "You fall, you get up. Not thinking. Moving."
The next hour is a blur of impact and breathless frustration. He teaches me how to shift my weight, how to twist an opponent's arm until they drop whatever they're holding, how to slam the heel of my hand into the base of a nose hard enough to make someone forget their own name. My palms sting. My knees are raw from hitting the floor.
And every time I start to anticipate him, he changes the rhythm.
"You're thinking like a witch," he says, circling me. "Expecting patterns. Waiting for spells. Muggles don't play that way. They fight to end it fast. And so will you."
I feint left, then drive my elbow into where I think he'll be. This time, I catch him in the ribs.
He grunts, half a laugh and half approval. "Better. You're learnin' to cheat. Keep it up."
By the time he calls it, my hair is plastered to my neck and sweat burns in my eyes. He hands me a waterskin that tastes faintly metallic.
"Don't tell anyone I'm teachin' you this," he says, his voice low.
"Surprise is worth more than all the magic in the world."
I nod, still catching my breath. "And if I win the task because of this?"
His mouth twists in something that might be a smile. "Then you'll owe me."
The bolt slides back on the door. He limps out without another word, leaving me in the dusty room with aching muscles and the sharp, heady knowledge that I could drop half the people in the Great Hall if I wanted to.
And for some reason... that feels better than magic.
No wizard would ever think of fighting like this.. We have wands. We have spells and yet - something about dueling like this makes me feel strong.
~The next day~
The day crawls by in a haze of aching muscles and bruises hidden beneath my uniform. Every step is a quiet reminder of Moody's stick slamming against my ribs, of being dragged to my feet over and over until my lungs burned.
By the time the final bell rings, I'm more than ready to escape the castle. Leonie is waiting at the gates, wrapped in a cream scarf, cheeks pink from the cold.
"Took you long enough," she says, linking her arm through mine before I can protest. "I thought you'd vanished again."
I force a small smile. "Just... busy."
Her eyes narrow. "Busy doing what? You weren't in the common room last night. I checked."
I glance away, letting the winter wind sting my cheeks so she doesn't see too much in my expression. "Astronomy Tower," I lie smoothly. "Needed some air. Couldn't sleep."
Leonie's eyes light up like a girl halfway through a scandalous chapter. "The Astronomy Tower? At midnight? Merlin's beard, Sera—are you hiding a lover from me?"
I roll my eyes, but her grin only widens. "It's nothing like that."
"Sure," she says, drawing out the word in a way that tells me she absolutely doesn't believe me. "One day I'll catch you up there, and you'll have to confess everything."
We step into the snowy lane of Hogsmeade, the shopfronts glowing against the grey sky. The dressmaker's is warm and perfumed with lavender, and bolts of fabric line the walls in jewel-bright colors.
"Ah, Miss Rosier," the witch behind the counter says, her sharp eyes flicking from me to Leonie. "Your orders are ready."
Leonie dives for hers immediately, the soft blue silk catching the light like water. Mine is lighter —beige that shimmers to gold when I move, the neckline cut daringly low, the skirt light enough to move as if it has its own thoughts. I run my fingers over the fabric, the smooth weight of it sinking into my skin. It feels good, but very different compared to last night.
"I think I'm in love," Leonie whispers, hugging her gown to her chest.
The shop door opens, letting in a gust of cold — and Lucius Malfoy.
He's immaculate, of course: black fur-lined cloak, silver serpent-headed cane, pale hair perfectly in place. His gaze sweeps the shop, sharp as a blade, and settles on me.
"Miss Rosier," he says smoothly, voice a practiced purr. "How fortunate to find you here."
My grip tightens on the dress bag
My grip tightens on the dress bag. "Mister Malfoy."
I glance behind him, looking for Draco but he is nowhere to be seen.
Leonie blinks between us, curiosity written all over her face.
Lucius's lips curl faintly, as if he's amused by something unspoken.
"I trust Hogwarts is... treating you well?"
"As well as can be expected," I say evenly.
His eyes flick briefly to Leonie, then back to me
His eyes flick briefly to Leonie, then back to me. "Good. Enjoy the Yule Ball. Greet your parents from me." His tone makes it sound like a warning. But then, everything he says sounds like that.
I can see why Draco doesn't talk a lot about his parents. I can't believe my mum and Evan were their friends. They are so stiff and rude-
Before I can answer, he inclines his head and sweeps out into the snow, leaving the faintest trace of cologne in the air.
Leonie exhales and leans toward me, lowering her voice to a whisper as if speaking any louder might summon him back. "Isn't he... your uncle?"
Well — no one knows Evan is not my father, so I just shrug, nodding.
"Distant, yes."
~~
By the time we're back inside Hogwarts, Leonie is still glowing like she's swallowed a dozen fairy lights. She keeps sneaking sideways glances at me, the corner of her mouth twitching.
"What?" I finally ask as we climb the stairs toward the dormitory.
"Oh, nothing," she says airily, hugging her dress bag close. "Just wondering how many secrets one girl can possibly keep. Astronomy Tower lovers... mysterious uncles..." She leans in with mock seriousness. "Honestly, Sera, you don't even need school. Just marry into the Malfoy fortune and live out your days swimming in Galleons."
I snort. "Pass."
She gasps in mock horror. "Pass? You'd pass on Lucius Malfoy's vaults?"
"Definitely. Money doesn't buy freedom," I say, and immediately regret letting that little truth slip.
Leonie studies me for a heartbeat too long, but then the moment is gone, replaced by her signature grin
Leonie studies me for a heartbeat too long, but then the moment is gone, replaced by her signature grin. "Fine, fine. Be mysterious. Just remember—one day, I'll catch you up in that tower and all your little secrets will spill out."
The dormitory is warm and bright, the air thick with perfume, candlelight flickering against the frost-silvered windows. Girls are everywhere—curling hair, adjusting straps, powdering cheeks.
Leonie drops her bag on her bed and starts unfastening the garment cover with reverence. "Come on, let's make you dangerous."
She pulls me down onto the stool in front of the mirror and starts fussing with my hair. The brush drags a little too hard, and I flinch.
"Sorry," she says, though there's a hint of something else in her tone. "You just... never let me do this. It's like you don't want anyone close."
I meet her eyes in the mirror. "It's not that."
"Then what?"
"Some things just... feel safer kept to myself."
For a moment, the only sound is the soft scrape of the brush through my hair. Then she exhales, a small smile creeping back. "Fine. But at least let me make you look like trouble tonight."
She pins the last curl into place, dusts a faint shimmer along my collarbone, and steps back with a satisfied nod. "Perfect. Your Astronomy Tower lover will faint on sight."
I roll my eyes, but the girl in the mirror—dressed in beige silk that drinks the light, hair swept into waves, eyes sharper than I remember—doesn't look like she needs saving.
A knock at the door.
I half-expect Harry's voice again, but when I open it, Evan is standing there, tall and polished in black robes that set off the warm bouquet in his hands.
"I'm not letting you go to your first ball," he says, "without flowers."
"
I blink, caught off guard, and then smile as he steps inside, holding out the bouquet. Pale cream roses, tiny golden blooms, and sprigs of greenery. The scent is light, not overwhelming.
"And," he adds, producing a small box from inside his robe, "this."
Inside is a delicate bracelet, gold links fine as spider silk, set with a single emerald charm that catches the candlelight when I tilt it.
I laugh under my breath, fastening it around my wrist. "You didn't have to—"
"Of course I did," he says, tone mock-offended. "What kind of father lets his daughter face a room full of teenage boys without proper armor?"
I give him a wry look. "So that's what this is. You're just here to scare them away."
"Obviously," he says, deadpan
"Obviously," he says, deadpan. "It's a father's duty."
I shake my head, but the warmth in my chest doesn't fade. "Where's Mum?"
"She'll be at the Ball," he says, a little sparkle in his eye. "It's tradition, remember? Parents get one dance with their child before the night is truly theirs. And I wouldn't dream of denying her the sight of you like this."
Leonie, already in her gown, is pretending not to eavesdrop, but her wide grin in the mirror gives her away.
I smooth the skirt of my own dress — soft beige silk that shifts toward gold in the light, the bodice heavy with intricate beadwork and embroidery that catches every flicker of the candles. The capped sleeves glimmer faintly with tiny stitched crystals, and the fabric drapes like water when I move.
"You look perfect," he says simply.
I glance down at the bracelet, the green charm winking back at me, and manage a small, almost shy smile. "Thank you."
Another knock at the door, this one lighter, more tentative
Another knock at the door, this one lighter, more tentative.
Leonie shoots me a knowing look and flutters over to open it.
Harry stands there in the exact outfit I remember seeing in the Daily Prophet photographs from the Triwizard coverage — deep dress robes of bottle-green with a subtle sheen, crisp white shirt beneath, and just a hint of awkwardness in how he carries it. His hair, of course, refuses to stay tamed. Caleb is beside him, tall and lean in midnight-blue robes, hair falling into his face until he pushes it back with a quick, easy smile.
"You're early," Leonie teases, stepping into the hall with Caleb already offering her his arm.
But Evan doesn't move. He's frozen mid-step, eyes fixed on Harry like he's just been presented with a curse he wasn't expecting. His gaze flicks to me, sharp and assessing. The boy who lived. The boy your father tried to kill.
My stomach twists, but I hold his stare.
Harry's gaze finally meets mine, tentative but steady. "You ready?"
"Ready," I say, slipping past Evan. He leans in just enough for only me to hear, his voice low: "Your mother is going to kill you."
I give him the faintest smirk. "She'll have to catch me first."
Evan's mouth twitches like he's not sure whether to scold me or laugh, but he lets me go, pretending to busy himself with the flowers on my nightstand.
Leonie and Caleb are already halfway down the corridor, voices bright with laughter. Harry offers his arm, a touch hesitant, and I take it, the silk of my skirts brushing against his sleeve.
The corridor hums with sound — distant music, bursts of laughter from students making their way toward the Great Hall. We pass clusters of them, glittering in every shade of silk and velvet, the air thick with perfume and anticipation.
The marble staircase gleams under enchanted lights, and as we descend, the first strains of the orchestra spill upward, warm and alive. The Great Hall doors are thrown open, revealing a room transformed — the walls draped in frost-kissed garlands, enchanted snow drifting from the ceiling only to vanish before it touches the floor. Tables are set with crystal and silver, the polished floor wide and waiting for the first dance.
My gaze skims over the glittering crowd — and finds her.
Mum stands near the edge of the dance floor with Evan, white gown that catches the candlelight. Her hair is swept back with jeweled combs, her posture perfect, her eyes locked on me the moment I enter. There's no smile, not even the polite one she gives strangers — only that unreadable, steady look that feels like a question I can't answer.
And just a bit further together with the other professors there is Snape. His black eyes flick from me to Harry, then back again, his expression as impassive as ever... but I know him well enough now to see the spark of calculation beneath it. His gaze lingers a fraction too long, like he's adding another piece to a puzzle he isn't ready to show anyone. Good. I caught him off guard with this. Everyone knows he dislikes Harry Potter and I will find out why and if his past is still true to him.
Everyone knows he dislikes Harry Potter and I will find out why and if his past is still true to him
Chapter 26: ~Cold, Brooding, Devastating~
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
*Seraphina’s POV*
Harry’s arm is stiff beneath my hand as we step fully into the Great Hall. The swell of music greets us like a wave, glittering chandeliers blazing with enchanted fire, garlands dripping frost and jewels.
But the warmth that should come with it doesn’t reach me. Not when Mum’s eyes track my every step. Not when Snape tilts his head almost imperceptibly, gaze narrowing like he’s testing a theory against the sight of me on Harry’s arm.
The press of whispers begins immediately. Names on lips. A few gasps. A dozen curious glances bouncing between me, Harry, and the professors’ table. I keep my chin high, pretending not to hear.
Leonie glides past with Caleb, already laughing, her blue gown swirling like water. She mouths something at me — Astronomy Tower — before vanishing into the crowd.
The orchestra changes key. The hum in the air sharpens, anticipatory. Dumbledore rises from his seat at the head table, hands raised for quiet.
“The Yule Ball,” he announces, voice carrying easily over the hall, “is a tradition of the Triwizard Tournament. And it begins, as it always has, with the champions’ first dance.”
The floor clears, space opening like a spotlight. Cedric is already moving with Cho, Krum with Hermione Granger in a pink dress. And then, all eyes slide to me.
Harry clears his throat. “Guess that’s us.”
I let my lips curve in the faintest of smiles. “Try not to step on my hem.”
He swallows, offers his hand, and we step into the circle of light. The music swells, strings and flutes entwined, and I move — silk whispering against marble, my body remembering rhythm even as my mind churns.
I feel the weight of every gaze: Mum’s, sharp and steady. Snape’s, unreadable but calculating. Lucius Malfoy’s absence like a shadow that lingers anyway. And Evan — somewhere behind me, no doubt watching every step I take with the boy my father failed to kill.
For a heartbeat, it almost feels like a duel.
And I intend to win.
Harry’s hand is warm in mine, too warm, the kind of nervous heat that seeps through fabric. His other hand hovers uncertainly at my waist until I catch his wrist and place it properly.
“Relax,” I murmur, letting the corners of my mouth twitch upward. “You look like you’re about to duel the floor.”
His ears flush pink. “I’m not much of a dancer.”
“Good thing I am,” I counter, letting him steer — or at least, letting him think he is.
We move with the music, the world narrowing to the polished marble under our feet and the weight of a hundred eyes pressing in from all sides. And then, for just a flicker, I catch it: his hand lifting, fingers brushing across his forehead. The scar. Quick, almost unconscious.
Something twists low in my chest. A tic? Or something else?
“Headache?” I ask softly, watching him too closely for him to dodge the question.
He blinks at me, startled. “No. Just… nerves.”
But it doesn’t sound like nerves. It sounds like the kind of lie I’ve told a hundred times, quick and practiced, meant to end the subject.
Before I can push further, a bright flash catches the edge of my vision. I turn my head just slightly — and there it is. A pair of enchanted cameras hovering near the edge of the floor, charmed to follow the champions. Their lenses blink with bursts of light, capturing every smile, every step, every glance.
Harry groans under his breath. “Great. Tomorrow it’ll be all over the Prophet.”
I arch a brow, letting my smile sharpen.
His eyes dart to mine, half-annoyed, half-amused despite himself. “You don’t care?”
“About gossip?” I shake my head. “Let them write what they like.”
His grip steadies just slightly, his steps falling into rhythm with mine at last. But the cameras keep flashing, the music keeps rising, and I can still feel my mother’s eyes from the edge of the floor — sharp, assessing, as though every movement is a test.
The orchestra swells, guiding our steps in wide, graceful arcs. Harry’s grip has steadied now, less stiff, though I can still feel the tension in his shoulders. His eyes dart away from mine, then back, like he’s chasing a thought he can’t decide whether to voice.
Finally, he does.
“Why… me?” His voice is quiet, almost swallowed by the orchestra, but I catch the flicker in his eyes — the doubt. The weight of knowing I’d already refused someone else.
Krum.
He doesn’t say the name, but it’s there, unspoken. Everyone knows Viktor asked me. Everyone knows I said no.
My first instinct is silence. To let the music drown it out, to laugh and deflect like Leonie would. But Harry’s hand is warm at my waist, his gaze steady, and something about it makes the truth press sharp against my tongue.
Because you’d draw Snape’s eyes. Because he can’t ignore you. Because through you, I’d see more of him.
But I don’t say it. Not all of it.
Instead, I let my lips curve. “Because everyone expected me to say yes to him.”
Harry’s brow furrows, but I see the faintest ghost of relief cross his face, quickly hidden. “So you just… like surprising people?”
“Maybe.” My smile sharpens. “Or maybe I thought you’d be more interesting. I mean you are the boy whos survived..”
Harry’s brow furrows, and for a second I think he’ll laugh it off like the rest of them always do. But he doesn’t.
His grip tightens on my hand, steady but not harsh, and his voice is low enough that even the enchanted cameras can’t catch it.
“Surviving isn’t the same as living,” he says. “Everyone forgets that part.”
The words catch me off guard — sharper than I expect, truer than I want them to be. For a heartbeat, I forget the music, the lights, the eyes. I just stare at him, searching, wondering if he realizes how close he’s come to touching a truth I bury under a hundred careful masks.
And then he looks away, almost shy, as though he’s said too much.
I feel something tighten in my chest. Dangerous, that kind of honesty. Dangerous, and magnetic.
The music swells again, the other couples spinning around us in a blur of silk and light, and I force my lips into a smile. But the question lingers in the air between us, unanswered: if surviving isn’t living… then what is?
I arch a brow, refusing to let the silence swallow it. “Then what’s the difference? You’re here, aren’t you? Breathing. Dancing. That looks like living to me. He isn't-”
I stop myself - I got too close, calm down Seraphina.
Harry’s mouth twists, not quite a smile. “Breathing isn’t living either. Not when everyone’s waiting for you to fail. People think I'm special, just because I'm still here. But I'm just Harry.”
The answer hits like a stone dropped in still water, ripples spreading through me before I can stop them. I recognize it — that bone-deep weariness of being watched, measured, judged. Of being seen as a symbol instead of a person. I guess this is what my mother is trying to protect me from..
I lean closer, my voice barely a whisper. “Maybe that’s why I asked you. Just Harry."
The orchestra shifts, bright and lilting, and the floor bursts into life as the other couples join in. Leonie sweeps past with Caleb, her blue skirts catching the light like water. Cedric and Cho move as if born for this, and even Krum stomps stiffly beside Hermione, his scowl deepening as the photographers snap enchanted flashes.
The cameras turn to us again, bright bursts of light burning spots into my vision. Harry mutters under his breath, “Tomorrow it’ll be in the Prophet. Two champions together at the Ball.”
I smirk. “Scandalous.”
His laugh is quieter this time, but it reaches his eyes.
The song drifts to its final swell, the last steps carrying us across the floor in one smooth arc. Harry releases me with visible relief, running a hand through his hopeless hair, and I can’t help the faint laugh that slips out. He grins sheepishly in return, and for a fleeting moment the tension between us feels lighter.
But then I see him. Draco, standing stiff in pale-grey robes beside a girl with sleek dark hair — Astoria Greengrass. She looks up at him with a kind of shy certainty, as though she knows she belongs at his side. He catches me watching, and for an instant, something flickers across his face. Not pride. Not smugness. Something sharper.
“Rosier,” he says when we brush close in the crowd. His tone is cool, but his eyes don’t leave mine.
“Malfoy,” I answer with equal poise, inclining my head faintly toward Astoria. “You’ve chosen well.”
His smirk doesn’t reach his eyes. “Unlike you.” His gaze flicks — not at me, but at Harry. Then his mother sweeps in, Narcissa Malfoy as regal as frost, laying a hand on Draco’s arm and steering him toward the floor. His jaw tightens, but he goes without a word.
Before I can think on it further, a familiar presence steps forward. Evan.
“May I?” he asks, offering his hand. It isn’t a request.
I glance at Harry and let Evan lead me back into the circle as the orchestra strikes a new tune. His grip is steady, practiced, and the way he looks at me makes it clear this is no ordinary father-daughter moment. It’s a warning wrapped in courtesy. I may have pushed too far.
“You’re making quite the impression,” he murmurs, gaze flicking once toward Harry before settling back on me. “What about staying low was so hard to understand.”
“It's not my fault I'm quite a sight.” I say quietly, smiling to keep the fasade of the normal family.
“Mon rayon, your mother is doing her best to protect you. You are risking everything. If people know who you are—” His voice is so low it barely stirs the air, but his grip at my waist tightens, firm enough to make me stiffen. Not bruising. Just enough to remind me that this isn’t only worry — it’s fear. Fear for me, or fear of what happens if the truth slips? I can’t tell.
“I’ve put Floo powder into your bracelet,” he adds, almost seamlessly, as though it’s part of the dance itself. “In case you need to leave. Quickly. Just in case.”
I nod slightly, forcing a smile as we spin beneath the enchanted lights. Evan. He is a good father, maybe better than my real one would have been. But the choice — the truth of who I am — has never been mine.
As the music winds toward its close, he releases me with practiced grace, and that’s when I see him: Lucius Malfoy, leaning on his silver serpent cane, pale hair gleaming in the candlelight. His lips curve into the faintest of smirks, cool and deliberate, like he knows a secret I don’t.
Does he suspect? Has he guessed already? Or is he only savoring the sight of Evan playing the dutiful father to a girl who isn’t really his?
The uncertainty coils tight in my chest — because with Lucius, any of those answers could be true.
I whisper low, "You know each other, isn't? From the past."
My words are barely more than a whisper, meant only for Evan’s ear, but his reaction is telling. His eyes flick briefly toward Lucius, following my gaze, and for the first time tonight, his practiced calm fractures. A flicker of something dark passes across his face — recognition, maybe even regret. Then it’s gone, shuttered beneath that careful mask of his.
“Careful, mon rayon,” he murmurs, spinning me gracefully just as the music swells, so that anyone watching would see nothing but a dutiful father leading his daughter. “There are questions best left unasked in public.”
Which is not a denial.
I keep my smile fixed, porcelain perfect, though inside my thoughts tangle. Lucius Malfoy still watching us from across the room, lips curved in that smug, knowing way. Evan’s grip firm at my waist, more protective now — or more possessive.
“Then answer me later,” I press under my breath, not letting my eyes leave Lucius.
Evan leans closer, close enough that his words are warm against my ear. “Perhaps. If later ever comes.”
It’s meant to be light, teasing, but I catch the edge beneath it. He’s warning me again. About what? About who?
Before I can push him further, the music fades into applause. Couples change, partners shift. Evan releases me with a final squeeze of my hand, his expression soft again, like he’s never said anything at all. But my chest is tight, my mind racing.
Because Lucius Malfoy isn’t just watching anymore. He raises his glass faintly, like a silent toast — to me, or to Evan, I can’t tell. And in that gesture, I feel it: the weight of a game I don’t yet know the rules to, but one I’ve just been pulled deeper into.
The applause fades, couples breaking apart, laughter rippling across the hall as the orchestra slides into a brighter tune. I step back, ready to vanish into the crowd—maybe reclaim Harry before Rita Skeeter can pounce with her Quick-Quotes quill—when a shadow looms at my side.
Madame Maxime.
“Ah, mademoiselle Rosier,” she says with a smile that is far too pleased with itself. “Professor Snape is without a partner. You will oblige, non?”
I blink. “I—what?”
Before I can protest, her enormous hand steers me forward like I’m a misplaced chair, depositing me right in front of a very stiff, very displeased Severus Snape.
His eyes cut down to me, black and glinting. “No.”
“Yes,” Maxime counters smoothly from behind, already drifting away to find another victim.
For one sharp second, Snape looks like he’d rather vanish in a puff of smoke. His jaw ticks, his robes swish, and then, with the reluctant precision of a man condemned, he offers me his hand.
“Miss Rosier,” he drawls, low enough for only me to hear, “do not smirk.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I lie, sliding my hand into his.
The orchestra swells again, and suddenly I am dancing with Severus Snape. The effect is… bizarre. His movements are sharp, exacting, every step measured as if precision alone might spare him humiliation. His expression is thunder carved into marble.
“You look thrilled,” I whisper.
“Contain yourself,” he hisses. “This was not my choice.”
“Oh, I know. That’s what makes it funny.”
His grip tightens on my hand—just enough to remind me he could hex me into next week if he chose. But there’s no real venom in it. Only deep, simmering irritation.
We turn in time to Leonie spinning past with Caleb, her face alight with laughter. Then her eyes land on me—and widen with sheer delight. She mouths Snape! so dramatically I almost trip.
Oh no.
I know that look. That’s the look she gets when a plot in her favorite romance novels takes a delicious twist. And just like that, my fate is sealed.
Snape follows my glance, sees Leonie’s grin, and his face goes from storm to apocalypse.
“This is intolerable,” he mutters.
I can’t help it—I laugh. Quietly, but enough.
And in one swift, merciless motion, I twist us on the floor and angle him… right toward Leonie.
She gasps when he’s practically handed to her, Caleb blinking in confusion as Snape finds himself face-to-face with her.
“Professor,” Leonie says breathlessly, seizing his hand before he can vanish. “An honor.”
Snape’s face does something I’ve never seen before: a full-body freeze. He looks like a man staring down a Dementor without a wand.
I retreat fast, skirts brushing marble, biting down on my laughter as Leonie practically glows with triumph. Poor Snape, trapped by a girl who thinks she’s living in a love story.
If he hexes me later, I’ll deserve it.
I retreat into the edge of the floor, pressing a hand to my lips to hide the laugh bubbling up.
Leonie is radiant. Absolutely radiant. She’s looking up at Snape like he’s a Byronic hero swept straight out of her novels, while he looks down at her like she’s a Blast-Ended Skrewt that’s latched onto his robes.
“Professor,” Leonie says, her voice pitched low and dreamy, “your leading is impeccable.”
Snape blinks once, very slowly. His expression could curdle milk. “I assure you, Miss—”
“Beaumont,” she supplies eagerly. “Leonie Beaumont. You may call me Leonie.”
His jaw tightens. “Miss Beaumont. This is hardly—”
But she twirls under his arm before he can finish, giggling as though she’s been whisked into some sweeping romance. The movement forces him to turn with her or risk looking like a tree trunk in human clothing.
I nearly choke on my laugh.
Students are starting to notice. A few snickers ripple through the crowd, then spread like wildfire. By the time Leonie beams up at him again, practically glowing, half the floor is whispering.
“Professor Snape dancing,” someone mutters in awe.
“With a student!” another gasps.
Snape hears them. His eyes flash dangerously as he pivots with soldier-like precision, clearly calculating an escape. Leonie only clings tighter, absolutely oblivious, her cheeks flushed with excitement.
For a terrifying second I think he’s going to hex me across the room when his gaze cuts to me.
I raise my glass from a passing tray and give him my sweetest smile. Enjoy yourself, Professor.
The orchestra finishes the phrase, and I swear I’ve never seen a man drop a partner faster in my life. Leonie looks both flushed and triumphant, as though she’s won a prize.
“That was… magnificent,” she sighs, clasping her hands to her chest as Snape stalks off, his robes billowing furiously behind him.
I lose the battle with my laughter then, shaking my head as Leonie twirls back toward me.
“He dances like a fallen angel,” she declares dramatically, eyes sparkling. “Cold, brooding, devastating—oh, Sera, you should have seen him up close—”
“Oh, I did,” I say dryly. “And I thought he was going to faint.”
She only laughs, hugging her own arms, lost in her own little fantasy. Poor Snape. He’ll never recover from this.
Notes:
I love Leonie lmao
Chapter 27: ~Embrace what I am~
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
*Eva's POV*
The laughter ripples like wildfire across the hall.
Leonie Beaumont is radiant, flushed with triumph, she was clinging to Severus like a heroine in one of her dreadful novels. Poor man looked like he'd rather melt through the floor. His eyes were sharp, black, seething — cut toward me for the briefest second, as they passed me.
Leonie finally twirls away with my daughter and her friends, flushed and triumphant, leaving Severus standing stiff as a statue in the middle of the floor. His robes swish as he turns sharply, clearly intending to vanish before anyone else can inflict further humiliation.
That's when I rise.
The gown moves with me, white silk laced with subtle silver thread, the kind of dress that makes mortals forget to breathe.
Snape exhales, the faintest breath, as I place my hand into his. "Professor," I murmur. "A dance?"
His lips thin into a line, but he doesn't refuse. He cannot. It would draw unwanted attention.
We move into the music, his steps precise, almost brittle
We move into the music, his steps precise, almost brittle. Mine fluid, deliberate. To the crowd, we are nothing unusual — a professor obliged by a champion's mother.
To us... another story entirely.
"It has been years," I say softly, letting the music cover my words.
His jaw tightens. "Not long enough."
I smile — sharp, knowing. "And yet here you are. Still guarding secrets like precious wine, still hiding behind that mask of disdain. I have to admit, not even I know what is real and what is you making others believe."
His eyes flash, but he does not look away. "Some of us don't have the luxury of parading in silk and pretending there was no war."
"Sometimes you have to let go of the past, Severus. Or it will eat you alive." My voice is low, no one else would be able to hear us.
"This—" He gestures with the tilt of his head toward the glittering hall, the champagne, the enchanted snow "—is nothing but distraction. You and I both know the real war has never ended. There are still two sides."
For a heartbeat, I falter. The faintest stumble, immediately corrected, but I think he felt it. My hand is cool against his, his gaze burning with the weight of old memory.
"You haven't changed," he says finally, his voice almost a whisper. "Not at all."
"And you have," I return smoothly. "For better or worse, I can't yet tell."
The music dips, preparing to shift. I lean in just enough for only him to hear, my breath against his ear, I can even hear his heartbeat quiten even just so slightly.
"Strange, isn't it? The world forgets whose wife I was. Because you let them. I suppose I should thank you, Severus... though gratitude has never been my strong suit. I believe it is best to bury the past and live in the now. For our sake, and for the sake of my daughter."
Before he can answer, I release him with perfect grace, leaving him rooted on the floor as though the shadows themselves cling to his robes.
I glide away, silk whispering over marble, and let my eyes find him.
Lucius Malfoy.
Leaning on that serpent cane as though it were a throne in miniature. His gaze on me is steady, unblinking. Narcissa is still enjoying the dance with her son Draco. How big he has got.. yet he has no idea I once held him..
Good.
I let my lips curl — not a smile, but a baring of teeth dressed up as charm. And then I cross the floor, slow and deliberate, every step a claim.
The crowd parts without realizing why, without realizing they are prey obeying instinct.
The crowd parts without realizing why, without realizing they are prey obeying instinct
"Lucius," I purr as I reach him, letting the syllables linger like smoke. "A dance. Now."
His pale eyes widen just slightly — surprise, intrigue, something sharper. But he offers his hand. He has no choice.
Lucius's hand is cool, steady, as he leads me onto the floor. To onlookers, it is a simple courtesy. To us, it is a collision — history, venom, intrigue, all wrapped in velvet gloves.
His grip is firmer than it needs to be. His eyes never leave mine, pale as cut glass, calculating every flicker of expression. He does not waste time with pleasantries.
"I never thought I'd see you return to these halls," he murmurs, his voice silk draped over steel. "And yet here you are. Gliding across the floor as though the world has forgotten."
I tilt my head, smile sharp enough to draw blood. "The world forgets what it's told to forget. A talent you and I both share, Lucius."
His lips twitch — the faintest shadow of a smirk. "Ah, but some things cannot be buried, can they?" His eyes drop, deliberately, to the hollow of my throat.
The necklace.
A simple chain, delicate, but from it hangs two charms — one emerald drop, the other older, darker. A ring, stripped of its finger, gleaming dully in the candlelight. My wedding ring.
Tom's.
The weight of it presses against my skin as though he is still there, whispering from beyond the grave. Especially since Seraphina came to hogwarts, the memories surface and sometimes I let them. I can feel my heart heavier, so heavy.. I didn't feel it this way in a very long time.
Lucius's thumb brushes faintly over my hand as we turn with the music. "Some would call it... sentimental. Keeping such a relic. Others might call it dangerous."
I laugh, low and velvet, though it tastes like iron in my mouth.
"And you, Lucius? Which do you call it?"
His gaze lingers on my throat before rising to meet mine again, steady, unflinching.
"I call it a reminder. Of who you were. Of who you might still be."
My smile does not falter, though my pulse thrums cold.
"Careful, Lucius. Reminders can be dangerous things. They can cut both ways."
We turn, the hall spinning in gilded light around us, but the space between us is its own battlefield. His smirk is subtle, serpentine.
"And tell me," he says softly, leaning in as though to whisper a lover's secret, "does Evan know you still wear his master's ring?"
The words slip into me like a blade. Sharp. Precise. Poisoned.
But I do not flinch. I bare my teeth in a smile that makes his eyes flash, just for a heartbeat, with something that could be admiration — or fear.
"Of course he does. Evan knows better than anyone that the past is not so easily erased."
Lucius's smirk deepens, but his eyes glint, calculating. "No. Some pasts refuse to stay buried."
For a heartbeat, the music fades around us.
Just the two of us, circling, each testing the other's armor.
I let the smile linger on my lips, but tilt my head just enough for the candlelight to catch in my eyes — too bright, too sharp, a flicker of what I am beneath the silk.
His fingers tense faintly on my hand.
I lean in, a whisper meant only for him. "Look at my family the way you did again, Lucius... and you'll regret it."
For an instant, his mask slips — the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, his grip tightening fractionally, as if he's reminding himself not to let go
Then the smirk returns, polished and cold. But I see it. The fracture. And that is enough.
Notes:
I honestly missed Eva lol.
Chapter 28: ~Polite Smiles~
Chapter Text
*Seraphinas POV*
Mama peels away from Lucius like a blade sliding back into its sheath. The smirk on his mouth stays, but his eyes look a shade colder than before. I file that away.
Mum only smiles like that when she's just fed someone their own teeth.
"Thought you might need rescuing," Harry says, appearing at my elbow with two butterbeers and a look that's half brave, half terrified. "From Skeeter."
Too late. Rita Skeeter materializes like mold, Quick-Quotes Quill hovering.
"Two champions together at the Ball," she coos, eyes glittering behind beetle-bright frames. "How very... newsworthy. Tell me, Miss Rosier—are you and Mr. Potter simply dancing, or dancing around a secret?"
I give her my most polite smile. "Whichever sells more papers."
The quill waggles, delighted
The quill waggles, delighted. Harry chokes on a laugh. Then a wooden thump cuts through the music—Moody's stick, planting itself between Skeeter's shoes and our toes.
"Off you go," he growls. "Find your scandal somewhere else."
Rita's mouth thins. The quill scribbles furiously anyway. Another flash pops from the cameras—white, hot, greedy.
"Seraphina," Mum says softly at my shoulder, as if she's been there the whole time, "it's my turn." She offers her hand, and something gentles in Harry's face; he takes a step back like he's been excused from a duel he didn't train for.
I let Mum lead me into the light. Her palm is cool against mine, steadying, the way it always is when the ground feels like it might slip.
"You look dangerous," she murmurs. "Good."
"Is that approval or a warning?"
"Both." A hint of a smile. "You move like someone who intends to survive, but you also move like someone who sneaks around in places you shouldn't be at."
I huff a breath that might be a laugh. "Guess it's in my DNA."
We turn, skirts whispering. Over her shoulder, I catch Snape stalking along the edge of the floor like a storm cloud looking for a place to break. Leonie is telling Caleb—hands, eyes, air—everything that just happened, and he appears both terrified and in love. And on the other side there is Draco with Astoria, he doesn't seem like he is enjoying any of this.
Mum's gaze flicks past my face toward the crowd, then returns, reading me the way only she can. "Harry Potter, really? Out of everyone. I would have understood Draco but-"
"Just Harry," I say, and hear how soft that sounds. "And I think I can choose whoever I want to."
"You. ," she says, very low now, squeezing my hand a little. "You should stay away from this boy as far as you can. You can not be his friend. And you can not be his enemy."
"Wasn't planning to," I answer, matching her tone. "I just like to see trouble unfold sometimes."
"You are just like your father." she says so low only I can hear it. Which father I wonder. My real one or the one who raised me?
The music climbs, then floats. We draw closer, a mother and daughter silhouette among a hundred glittering pairs.
"Evan told you about the bracelet?" she asks, as though it's nothing more than a compliment on my hair.
I tilt my wrist so the emerald charm winks under candlelight. "He did."
"If something feels wrong, twist the stone and think of home," she says. "Don't hesitate."
"Home?" I repeat. "Where's that, exactly?"
Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "With me."
A beat of silence. I decide not to mention the way Lucius was staring earlier. I don't have to. Her eyes slide, catlike, to the edge of the hall where he stands—serpent cane, colder gaze—and then back to me with a glimmer that says I noticed. I handled it.
"Professor Snape will survive Leonie," she adds, lighter now. "Eventually."
"Will he, though?" I murmur. "She thinks she's the heroine and he's the dark, brooding duke waiting for her to save him."
"Mm." Mum's mouth curves—wicked. "He does brood professionally."
We both almost laugh. Almost.
The music begins to fall like snow, notes softening into the last measures. Across the room, Evan watches us with that carved calm. Harry's hands are in his pockets, but his eyes keep finding his friends, they seem distressed.
"We will be on our way now." Mum says, easing me toward the edge of the floor as the applause swells. "Be smart about what you do. Don't trust your secret to anyone. And I will think about your move from Beauxbatons to Hogwarts by the end of this year. That - if you proof me you can handle the past without getting too curious. I do understand your curiousity and I am aware I can't stop it. You have a right to find your own way. And if hogwarts is that way, I won't be standing in it."
"I will proof you that I am the perfect student"
My smile is wide as I step away, the silk of my dress whispering over marble. Cameras lift. The enchanted snow glows.
Did I just dream this? What made mum change her mind about Hogwarts?
~a few hours later~
The hall is emptier, the once remaining are dancing slow and calm.
I almost feel sweaty because of all the dancing Leonie made me do it, I think the truth is that I really needed this normal evening.
I flinch, Hermione's voice cuts through the Great Hall — sharp, breaking — and then she's gone, skirts flashing toward the doors. Ron stomping after her, Harry close on his heels. The storm of it leaves the floor echoing with laughter. I wonder what happened.. Altrough I can imagine. She really doesn't see the redheads jealousy. I almost giggle to myself.
I glance through the hall and find Leonie still swooning over Snape to Caleb.
All the parents have left a long time ago. It would be funny to think they went to their own little party. Maybe they did.
Meanwhile I'm left alone.
For a moment, I stand still in the hush, the snow-glow settling over my shoulders like frost. The dance floor is crowded, yet I feel the space around me like an empty circle.
That's when I feel it - eyes on me.
I turn, Viktor Krum. The cause of a fight.
I smirk slightly as his broad frame cuts the light, dark robes catching the glitter of chandeliers, his gaze fixed — unblinking — on me.
Slowly, deliberately, he moves through the thinning crowd until he stops just before me. His presence hums — the kind that makes others instinctively step aside.
"You told me no," he says. His voice is low, that Bulgarian rasp curling around every syllable. "But you say yes to Potter."
It's not accusation, not quite. More like a challenge.
I lift my chin, meeting his eyes. "Ask me to dance."
A muscle in his jaw ticks. Then — with a sharp precision that belongs more to a duel than to a dance — he offers his hand.
The orchestra swells as if the castle itself wants to know my answer.
Viktor is — steady, heavy, a storm disguised as a man.
I place my hand in his.
The world narrows. His palm is calloused, his grip sure, and when he draws me into the circle of light, I feel the strength behind every step. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't fumble. He leads as if command is in his bones. It makes me feel like I can just follow. For once.
"You fight like soldier," he murmurs, eyes never leaving mine. "You dance the same."
The words catch at something low in my chest. He saw me in the dueling hall, and now here. He's right — every step, every breath is a blade disguised as silk.
"And you," I say, lips curving, "look like you're used to winning and cheering girls."
His mouth tilts, just barely. "Maybe." His hand presses firmer at my back, close enough that the space between us feels dangerous. "But you... you are not easy victory."
We turn with the music, slow, deliberate. The cameras flash again at the edge of the floor, eager vultures catching light on skin, silk, shadow. But all I see are his eyes, dark and sharp, searching like he's trying to name something in me he shouldn't.
"Why do you look at me like that?" I ask before I can stop myself.
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he turns me — a clean, sharp spin that ends with my breath caught in my throat, his hand steadying me as though I might fall.
Finally, he leans closer, voice a rasp meant only for me.
"Because you are different."
The words are simple. But they weigh more than they should.
If only he knew how different.
The music crescendos, pulling us tighter, closer — too close. His grip is steady, grounding, and for a flicker I wonder if he already senses it, the truth in my blood.
And then I do it — I make the mistake.
I look at his mouth.
It's instinct more than thought when he leans in, his breath warm against my cheek. But the decision — the reckless, reckless decision — is mine. I close the distance.
The kiss is sharp, sudden, almost violent in its honesty. Heat against cold air, a clash of want and defiance. His hand is at my waist, mine tangled in his collar, pulling him closer because I don't want to think, I don't want to remember, I just want to burn.
Then—
"Ahem."
The sound slices the night clean in two.
We break apart. My heart lurches. Standing in the archway, shadowed by torchlight, is Snape.
His face is carved from stone, unreadable except for the glint in his eyes—black, sharp, unforgiving. He doesn't speak. He doesn't have to.
Heat floods my cheeks, but I force myself to meet his gaze, chin high. Viktor shifts beside me, tense, shoulders squaring like he's preparing for a duel. But Snape only stares for a long, suffocating moment—then turns, robes snapping behind him as he vanishes back into the castle.
The silence he leaves is heavier than any scolding.
"I should go," I whisper, breath uneven.
Viktor's jaw tightens, but he only nods once.
"I will see you at the tournament."
Oh his accent is to die for ... FOCUS Seraphine - leave before you do something stupid.
Maybe professor Snape just saved me from a mistake, another scandal. Ugh-
I rush outside, leaving Leonie behind, knowing she will be just fine with Caleb, he seems to be nice and puts up with her love for Snape.
I smirk slightly as I walk down the cold hallway, rubbing my hands against my arms.
My skirts whispering against stone, as I climb the steps back toward the castle.
My chest is still tight, my lips tingling, when I nearly collide with someone rounding the corner.
"Uh-" I breath out, looking up.
Draco.
Astoria is nowhere to be seen. His pale hair catches the torchlight, his expression unreadable until his eyes drop—taking in my flushed cheeks and the faintest smear of lipstick at the corner of my mouth.
His lips curl, not quite a smirk. "Bit late for playing the innocent, Rosier."
I stiffen. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He brushes past me so close our shoulders nearly touch
He brushes past me so close our shoulders nearly touch.
His breath ghosts my ear as he leans in just enough to murmur:
"See you around, Rosier."
And then he's gone, footsteps echoing against the stone corridor, leaving me standing alone with my pulse racing and Viktor's taste still on my lips.
Chapter 29: ~2nd Task~
Chapter Text
*Seraphina's POV*
The sun glares down so hard it makes the steel edges of the arena blaze.
From the stands, a thousand eyes pin us in place — students, professors, the foreign delegations. The noise swells, restless, half excitement, half disbelief.
Dumbledore’s voice cuts through it all, calm as if he’s announcing dinner.
“Today’s task will be different. No wands. No spells. You will reach the relic at the arena’s center by your strength, your wit, your instinct. There were times when magic was not always with us. Today, you will prove you can survive without it.”
For a moment, silence presses down heavier than thunder. Even the banners ripple uneasily.
Harry mutters under his breath, “How’s this supposed to prove anything if we can’t use magic?”
Cedric swallows, jaw tight. Viktor only cracks his knuckles, like he’s been waiting for this.
And me? I only feel the tug of leather at my shoulders, the whisper of black fabric hugging my skin. The clothes Moody forced on me in training — stripped, reshaped, until they felt like a second skin. Black trousers, boots that swallow sound, a sleeveless vest built for speed. It feels wrong to wear it here, under the sun, in front of all these eyes.
And yet it feels… perfect.
It feels like myself.
Lost in my thoughts I flinch slightly as the horn blares.
The world explodes.
Bridges tilt and twist like they’re alive, cracking underfoot. Chains swing low, their edges spiked. Platforms grind and shift above yawning chasms. And then the guardians wake.
Suits of armor, taller than men, tear free from their perches, eyes blazing blue fire. Stone golems heave themselves from the ground, fists the size of anvils. Steel and stone and spellcraft twisted into muscle — not alive, not killable, especially not without magic. They are just made to crush us.
Viktor barrels forward like a bull, shoulders down, brute force smashing a path. Cedric darts sideways, thin and quick, memorizing patterns no one else sees. Harry falters at the first gap, hand twitching for a wand that isn’t there.
And me?
I move.
Low. Sharp. Fast.
The first armor swings. I duck beneath, roll, feel the air split above me. My hand snatches a chain as it whistles past and I use it like a whip, hooking it around the next platform. The iron bites into my palm until skin splits, blood slicking the grip, but I don’t let go.
Gasps ripple from the stands as I swing, legs flying, and slam hard onto the platform. My knees scream, my ribs flare with pain. But I am upright.
Moody’s voice burns in my skull: You fall, you get up. Don’t think. Move.
So I don’t think.
Another suit of armor blocks the way. I rip a jagged stone from the ground and jam it into its knee joint. The thing buckles with a metallic groan, and I slip past before it recovers.
The next guardian lifts its blade. I don’t see it — I hear it. The grind of the joint, the whisper of air splitting before the blade even moves. My body reacts before I think, rolling, faster than I should be able to. For a heartbeat, I freeze.
That wasn’t me.
But there’s no time to question it. The crowd roars. The horn still blares in my memory. I keep moving.
Harry scrambles behind me, copying my movements. He catches my eye, wide, almost awestruck.
“Don’t watch!” I snap. “Move!”
He moves.
Every step is blood and pain. The sun burns. The guardians close in. My palms are raw, my calves cut by falling shards of stone. But sometimes — just sometimes — the world sharpens into unnatural clarity. The creak of a chain warns me before it swings. The hiss of stone shifting tells me where to dodge. My senses scream warnings no one else can hear.
By the time I reach the center, my legs tremble, my lip is split, blood streaks my arm in hot lines. I stagger up the final platform, chest heaving, and slam my hand onto the relic — a heavy iron ring mounted on a pedestal.
The sound rings out like a bell.
The horn blares.
I’ve won.
The crowd erupts, stamping and screaming, a wave of noise crashing into me. But I barely hear it. My ears are still ringing with that strange hum — alive, awake, waiting — in my bones.
Harry, Cedric, and Viktor arrive seconds later, battered but alive. None of us speak. None of us smile. This didn’t feel like a school task.
I glance toward the judges’ table. Dumbledore is grave. Karkaroff’s mouth is thin. Madam Maxime whispers behind her hand.
But it’s Moody I find.
Stick planted, magical eye whirring. Watching me. Not with pride. Not relief.
With satisfaction. Too much satisfaction.
Something twists in my gut.
This felt like war.
And Moody? He seems like I just confirmed something he thought he knew..
and if that is the case.. I better get the hell away...
If he tells everyone who I am? I am doomed..
They will hate me, they will torture me, they will do everything to get me.
And my mum? My mum would have been right all along.
We shouldn't have come here.
It's a place too close to the truth.
The horn still echoes in my bones, the roar of the crowd a tidal wave I can’t seem to keep above. My chest heaves, blood burning through every vein, ears ringing with a strange hum that doesn’t belong to me.
Too much.
The world tilts sideways. Heat climbs, a cruel rush to my ears.
“Uhh—” My hand shoots out blindly, searching for balance that isn’t there.
The ground surges up to meet me—
—but I don’t hit it.
Strong arms close around me. Viktor. His chest is slick with sweat, heartbeat thundering under my ear. “I have you,” he mutters, thick accent roughened by strain. His grip is firm, steady, but my body still shakes against him.
Gasps ripple through the stands. Whispers flare like fire. Rosier—collapsed—too much—
And then Evan is there. In a blur. He takes me from Viktor with a precision that feels like possession, not gratitude. “Enough,” he growls, voice low and lethal. His arm around me is iron, his other hand already at my wrist as though checking a pulse he doesn’t trust anyone else with.
Viktor’s jaw flexes, but he steps back without a word.
The last thing I see before darkness wins is Snape’s eyes on me from the judges’ table, narrowed, sharp as blades. Calculating.
~
I wake to white sheets and the bitter sting of antiseptic potions. The Hospital Wing. The air hums faintly, every sound slicing sharper than it should — footsteps, quills scratching, heartbeats. My head pounds with it.
Behind the curtain, voices.
“…told you she shouldn’t be here.” Evan. His voice is low, furious, threaded with something like fear.
“You were the one pushing for it! And now she proved she could handle herself,” Mum counters. “She won.”
“At what cost? Do you want the whole school whispering about her before the year is even done?”
Silence. The silence of wounds pressed too deep to touch.
My pulse quickens. They’re fighting over me. Again. Always.
And then—another voice, further away, softer but cutting clean through. I turn my head, straining to catch it.
“…there is too much power in her for it to be chance,” Snape murmurs, his voice a silken thread laced with acid. “You saw how she moved. Too sure of herself. Too certain. Arrogance dressed as instinct. Dangerous,” he adds, the faintest curl of disdain on the word, “and clever enough to make it look effortless.”
Dumbledore’s reply is lower, harder to catch, but I make out enough: “…secrets have a way of surfacing, Severus.." A caugh is interupting, NOT NOW..!
"...will be felt by us all. But...”
Then I can't hear anything anymoe.
My stomach twists. My fists clench under the sheets.
So they know. Or at least, they suspect?
The curtain shifts. Mum slips in, her cool hand brushing hair from my forehead, masking the storm behind her eyes with practiced calm. “You’re awake,” she murmurs. “Good.”
Chapter 30: ~ Applauding a storm~ (18+🌶🌶🌶)
Chapter Text
*Snape’s POV*
Dumbledore lingeres by the window, gazing out as though the patterns of frost on the glass might deliver answers. I remain where I belong — in the shadows, watching, weighing.
“She fought beyond her limits,” the Headmaster murmurs, almost to himself.
“She performed beyond her limits,” I corrected, voice low and clipped. “Children grow tired. Children falter. They do not move like that. Too assured. Too instinctive.” My mouth curled faintly. “This was not training alone.”
Dumbledore’s gaze flicked back, mild, infuriating. “You believe she is… what, Severus? Gifted?”
I let the silence linger.
Then: “Dangerous. And clever enough to make it appear effortless. Considering who her mother is, it is no surprise.”
The Headmaster’s sigh was soft. “What are you trying to say, Severus? Everyone has the right to be in hogwarts, especially those who seek for help.”
I watch the girl stir faintly in her sleep, jaw tightening at the sight. Power humming under her skin like static. Wrong. Unnatural. Familiar in ways I refused to believe.
Too much of her mother’s silence.
And maybe too much of her father’s fire?
Dumbledore can not be such a fool not to know. Yet we both stay in silence about the obvious.
Naming it is too dangerous.
It would unravel. All of it. And when it does, the fallout will bury us.
~
The castle breathes differently at night. Cold stone exhales through the halls, carrying whispers too soft for the day. I walk them as I always do — silent, watchful, ensuring foolish children don’t wander where they shouldn’t.
And yet, it is not the children who gnaw at my thoughts.
The Hospital Wing still clings to me. Rosier’s collapse. The way her body moved before it gave out. It was not exhaustion alone. It was… precision. Instinct. Power.
Too much of her father in her. Too much of her mother, too.
Dumbledore’s platitudes echo like stale smoke. Rubbish. Someone who seeks help doesn't move like that girl did.
The Astronomy Tower looms ahead, a predictable haunt for romantic fools and troublemakers alike.
And trouble, inevitably, I found.
“Merlin’s beard,” I muttered under my breath as the sound of nervous giggles floated down the stairwell. Leonie Beaumont, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, clutching a book of dreadful poetry as though it were holy scripture.
She nearly dropped it when she spotted me, frozen in the moonlight like a rabbit cornered by a wolf.
“P-professor Snape!” she stammers, eyes darting as though caught committing treason.
My lip curl. “Miss Beaumont. Astronomy Tower. Midnight. I can only imagine what scandalous rendezvous you’ve concocted in that absurd head of yours.”
Her face blazed crimson. “I—I thought Seraphina was up here! She-”
“Indeed,” I drawl, crossing my arms, “because nothing screams ‘romantic intrigue’ quite like frostbite and a broken curfew.”
She bites her lip, muttering something about “the dark, brooding hero in the tower,” and I decide, firmly, that patience is a finite resource.
“I will speak to your headmaster, Miss Beaumont” I snap. “And if I find you lurking about this hour again, you will wish your novels had prepared you for reality.”
She sighs — dreamily, absurdly — as I sweep past, as though I’d step directly off one of her cursed pages.
I ground my teeth.
Fools. All of them.
And somewhere in the middle of it: Seraphina Rosier, asleep in the Hospital Wing, dragging old ghosts back into the light with every step she takes. Bringing back memories I long thought forgotten.
I leave the tower behind, Leonie Beaumont’s lovesick sighs still grating in my ears. Irritating child. If she knew what darkness really was, she would not chase it so eagerly. No one would.
This is a lesson the two of them will learn soon enough.
But it is not Leonie who lingers in my mind.
It is Seraphina Rosier.
The way her eyes sharpened in the arena, seeing things others couldn’t. The way her body seemed to know before her mind did. It was more than training. More than instinct.
It was survival — honed, ancient, and wrong.
I know that look. I’ve seen it before, on the edge of another war. On the face of a man who thought himself invincible. On the face of a woman who walked away the night he fell.
Eva.
And now her daughter moves with the same… inevitability.
I stop in the corridor, shadows pooling at my feet. My hand curls around the edge of my sleeve, a nervous habit I despise myself for.
Coincidence? Dumbledore would say so.
But I don’t believe in coincidence. Not with this family.
She's not Rosiers daughter, that much is clear.
But her collapse was not weakness. It was the opposite. Too much power bleeding through, straining the body that holds it. Power that should not exist...
And if I am right — if she truly is what I suspect — then the fools cheering in the stands have no idea what they are applauding.
They are applauding a storm. A storm Dumbledore knows nothing of.
The torches flicker. Somewhere far below, laughter spills from the common rooms, warm and oblivious.
I turn away, cloak sweeping, the thought heavy and unwelcome.
I finally reach my chambers, meeting the silence that surrounds me.
The dungeon torch sputters back into focus. My breath fogs the glass of the vial before me.
Leonie's eyes flash in my mind — innocent eyes.
I have seen them. I lived it. I reveled in it.
And I remember the girls who bent themselves into fantasies for men like us. Potions warping their skin, their eyes, their laughter. All to please monsters who did not even grant them names.
No, Leonie is not one of them. She is not prey.
But she reminds me of the past. And that thought chills me more than the dungeon air ever could.
One night, long ago flashes in front of my eyes as I turn the firewhiskey between my fingers.
~
The tavern had been our starting ground — dark corners, cheap drink, women who leaned too eagerly into the serpent tattoos inked on our arms. Some were witches who wanted the thrill of power, others were tavern girls who thought bedding a Death Eater might earn them protection when the Dark Lord rose.
They laughed too loud. They pressed too close. Some begged for another drink, another vial of whatever potion Lucius slipped them for fun. They weren’t dragged — they came running. And we let them.
But the brothel was different.
Hidden behind wards, masked under innocuous charms, it stank of smoke, potion sludge, and cheap perfume. The women weren’t just tavern strays — they were stock. Mulciber’s stock. Kept pliant with draughts, shifted into whatever shape was desired. Faces melted and reformed with each vial of Polyjuice: classmates, idols, famous beauties, even the long-dead, reborn only for a night.
And running the books, ensuring the potions were brewed, ensuring the coin was collected, was Evan Rosier.
Not swaggering, not preening. Efficient. He wore it like a business. As if the screams behind closed doors and the laughter in the main hall were simply transactions. He dealt the vials, he counted the coins, he smoothed over disputes with a charm that was as much a mask as the girls’ faces.
“Evan keeps the wheels turning,” Lucius said once, smirking as he raised a glass. “Mulciber supplies the filth. Rosier makes it respectable.”
I hated that word. Respectable.
Because what I saw wasn’t respect. It was rot disguised as power. Evan Rosier with his ledgers neat and his robes pressed, smiling as though he weren’t selling bodies like commodities.
I remember the night I walked past him — his hand on a girl’s arm as she staggered, potion-heavy, into another room. He met my eyes for a fraction of a second. Not shame. Not pride. Just… detachment. Like it was nothing more than duty. And it probably was.
Some of us had no choice. But some of us chose.
And I went on. Because I was no better. Because I didn’t stop. Because I chose, and I took, and I used, and I left, same as the rest.
That was why the Dark Lord trusted us.
Because cruelty came in flavors: Lucius’s indulgent, Mulciber’s filthy, Evan’s precise, my own detached. Four shades of rot. Each useful. Each loyal in the only way that mattered.
“You’re the precise one,” Lucius said once, as I leaned in to a girl whose face flickered through a dozen shapes before settling on something familiar. “Not indulgent like the rest of us. You take it like it’s an experiment. And that, Severus, is why He trusts you.”
And it was true.
I didn’t need the simpering, eager witches who flocked to our table in the tavern, laughing at every cruel word. I didn’t need the drunken giggles or the empty flattery. I took the Polyjuice-broken ones, the ones who shifted into whatever face was asked of them. And I made them stay that way.
The girl at my side trembled as her features resolved into someone I knew — too close to a memory I should have buried. Someone I’d once wanted.
Her eyes, though, were still her own. Wide, dark, afraid. And I kissed her anyway. Not with tenderness. Not with care. With hunger. With cruelty. With the precision Lucius had named.
I gave her another vial when she began to falter, and she drank because she had no choice. Her face flickered into something darker. Something closer to desire and rage bound together. And I let it.
Lucius laughed, clinking his glass against Mulciber’s. “See? He doesn’t need love. Doesn’t need softness. He turns them into exactly what he wants — and they break for him.”
And I did.
And I hated it.
And I did it again anyway.
Because I knew, no matter what I would have to do in these nights, it won't be worse than any of the other death eaters would do to them.
And so they began to like me. Thought I would save them.
I never did.
I learned in those rooms how to cut away weakness, how to take what was given and use it until it was gone.
I remember the brothel always stank worse on nights when he came.
The Dark Lord. Not yet bound to Eva, not yet softened by the pretence of loyality. This was the man who wore hunger like a crown and saw no one as equal.
We felt him before we saw him — air tightening, whispers cutting short, girls stiffening under the potions in their veins as though some old instinct screamed predator. Lucius smoothed his hair, Evan straightened his books, Mulciber grinned stupidly with pride.
And then he entered.
The tavern girls dropped to their knees without thinking. The Polyjuice-drugged women lowered their heads as if they’d been taught the gesture in their bones.
He moved through us without looking, without needing to. Every step carried weight enough to silence. He stopped before Lucius first, pale eyes narrowing faintly at the smear of lipstick on his collar. Then Mulciber, reeking of sweat and draught fumes. Then Evan, holding his ledger like a shield, his bow crisp, respectful, calculated.
And finally me.
I stood empty-handed. No glass of Firewhisky, no perfume-stained robes, no excuses. Just the truth of what I was: detached, precise, unrepentant.
“Lucius indulges,” he said softly, almost with amusement. “Mulciber wallows. Rosier organizes.”
His eyes locked with mine. Red. Unblinking. Endless.
“And Severus?”
The silence stretched, thick as a noose.
“Severus does not waste himself,” he decided at last. “He learns. He observes. He takes only what he needs, and discards the rest. A weapon does not need velvet. It only needs to cut.”
His hand brushed my shoulder as he passed. Not affectionate. Not kind. Recognition.
That was the night I understood why he trusted me more than the rest. Not because I was more loyal, or more indulgent, but because I was less. Less attached. Less distracted. Less… human.
The brothel was nothing to me but another classroom. A place to test, to watch, to strip the world bare and find the mechanics beneath the filth. Lucius played at lordship, Mulciber at cruelty, Evan at civility. But I was the one who treated it like work. Like magic itself.
I would experiment with posions which were later used by Mulicber for the brothel.
And the dark lord saw it.
Saw me.
That night, when he left, the girls whispered like they’d survived a storm. Lucius was preening, Mulciber drunk, Evan still tallying. But I knew.
I was the one he would come to when indulgence, filth, and civility failed him.
Because cruelty wielded with precision is not a vice.
It’s a tool.
And sometimes, when I look at Seraphina Rosier now — the way she moves, the way she hides teeth behind silk — I wonder if she has learned it too, without ever setting foot in such places.
Maybe she doesn’t need to.
Maybe it’s already in her blood.
I wonder if Eva and her would still be around Evan Rosier if they knew what he was.
On the other hand..... they would have stayed around the dark lord himself.
And so would I… if that night had not taught me what loyalty costs.
That much I know.
Chapter 31: ~Princess~
Chapter Text
*Seraphina's POV*
I'm supposed to be resting. Pomfrey said three more days, at least. But the Hospital Wing reeks of potions and pity, and I'd rather bleed than sit there drowning in whispers.
The corridors are quiet, torchlight flickering gold over stone. My steps echo too loud, nerves coiled tight beneath my ribs. I can still hear the roar of the crowd, the slam of the relic under my hand, the way my body collapsed under its own weight.
Embarrassing.
I turn the corner—and freeze. Professor Moody?
He's leaning against the wall, back half-turned, a flask at his lips. I've seen him drink from it a hundred times, but this time... it's different. His hand shakes. His eye—his real one—flickers shut. His shoulders curl inward like he's holding something back.
And then I see it.
The skin ripples.
For a heartbeat, just a heartbeat, the scarred, weathered face isn't Moody's at all. It melts, flickers, reshapes into something younger, sharper, wild with exhaustion and obsession. A man I've never seen before—but I know.
Polyjuice.
My breath catches. Too loud. His head snaps toward me, that unnatural magical eye locking on me. The other—the real one—is wide.
For the first time since I've known him, "Moody" looks startled.
I don't move.
Neither does he.
Then he smiles. Not Moody's crooked, growling smirk. This smile is wrong.
Hungry.
"Well," he rasps, voice curling in a way that doesn't fit the body.
"Looks like the little Rosier saw something she shouldn't."
My pulse hammers. "You're not—"
"—who you think I am?" He finishes for me, stepping closer, staff tapping slow against stone.
His eye—his real one—glints with something too sharp to be madness, too deliberate.
"Clever girl."
I back up one step, chin lifting. "Who are you?"
He tilts his head, studying me like a riddle he's already solved.
"You moved in that arena like fire wearing skin. Impressive."
"What are you talking about?" I snap, though the edge in my voice betrays me.
"You're out past curfew, Rosier. Ten points from Beauxbatons."
He laughs—low, broken, but deliberate.
Looking at him now, his clothes are way to big, his real body is skinny, young with madness in it.
Looking at him now, his clothes are way to big, his real body is skinny, young with madness in it
For a moment I don't move.
He doesn't move.
Just that damn eye ticking, whirring, watching me like prey.
"I asked you a question," I say, sharper now, though my voice wavers at the edges.
"Who are you?"
He doesn't answer. He just drinks again, his throat bobbing, the Polyjuice masking what I know I saw. When he lowers the flask, it's Moody's scarred mouth that sneers back at me.
But I've already seen too much. Will he kill me? Is this how it ends?
My mind scrapes through the pages of my mother's old warnings, the whispers of names passed like poison in my family's halls.
The face I glimpsed—sharp, pale, desperate—
I know it..
"Barty Crouch Junior," I breathe.
His smile fades.
The staff halts mid-step.
For the first time, he looks at me like I'm not a student, not a child. He looks at me like an opponent who's just drawn blood.
"Clever little girl," he says, voice low now, curling with something almost amused, almost dangerous. "You do know your history."
I don't flinch. "You were one of them."
"Them?" His tone drips mockery, but his eyes burn. "Say it properly, I mean your mother was one of us.. well she was the queen."
I swallow, but my chin lifts higher. "A Death Eater." I cross my arms, "and she was under the imperius curse." I try to say as convincing as I can, knowing it's utter bullshit.
The word cracks in the air like a spell, too loud in the empty corridor.
For a moment, silence presses heavy.
Then he steps closer, slow, deliberate, until I can smell the potion on his breath again.
"The imperius curse? And I turly am Aleisther. Please girl. Do not try to fool me. And you," he says softly, "are a curious little thing. Too curious. Do you think it's wise, Rosier, to corner a Death Eater in the dark?"
Every instinct in me screams to back away, but I don't. I hold his gaze. Maybe it's stupidity. Maybe it's pride. Maybe it's that voice in my blood, whispering that I'm not afraid of monsters because I was born from one.
"I want answers," I snap.
He chuckles darkly, leaning close enough that his scarred face blurs in my vision.
"And you'll choke on them if you're not careful. Curiosity," he murmurs, brushing past me, "is what gets little girls killed."
The staff thumps against the stone as he limps away, but the words linger like a curse.
I should let him go.
I should run straight back to the Hospital Wing, bury my questions under blankets and potions and silence.
But I don't.
Because for the first time in my life, I saw someone who knows. Someone who, in theory, has no choice but to tell me everything I want to know if he wants me to keep his secret.
But why is he even here? Does he know who I am...? It can't be.. we were careful, always careful.
My curiousity wins.
"You have no choice you know?!" I hiss after him, he stopps apruptly, slowly tilting his head towards me.
"Is that so?"
Rising my eyebrow I nod, "Aha. If you want to stay in hogwarts for whatever reason, you should tell me everything I want to know. And in return.. I keep your secret save locked in my head."
He chuckles approaching me slowly, "Or ... How about I just Obliviate you?"
I take a step back drawing my wand. "You could try. And fail. And then I will tell my mother what you did and she will take revenge."
For a beat, the corridor is nothing but torchlight and breath
For a beat, the corridor is nothing but torchlight and breath.
My wand trembles in my grip, though I keep my chin high. His magical eye ticks once, twice, like it's measuring the exact second it'll take to strike.
Then he laughs. Not loud. Not wild. Just a low rasp, curling like smoke around my throat.
"Princess, you've got bite," he says, closing the last of the space between us. The flask dangles loose at his side now, potion sloshing. His real eye burns into mine, fever-bright. "But bite doesn't mean you can survive the wolf."
"You're the one hiding in another man's skin," I retort, my voice sharper than I feel.
"So tell me, which of us is really prey?"
That lands. His smile falters—just for a heartbeat—before it twists into something darker.
"You think because you said my name, you hold a leash on me?" He leans in so close I feel the heat of his breath against my ear. "Names don't save you, girl. Not in this game. They only paint a bigger target."
I force myself not to flinch. "Then maybe I'll paint one on you."
His laugh comes sharper this time, edged with something like approval.
"Dangerous words from a half-blood."
The bottom drops in my stomach. My fingers tighten on my wand. He knows something. Not everything—he'd be shouting it otherwise—but enough to slice close.
I steady my voice. "Last time I checked, it was a half blood you followed so eagerly."
His grin flashes, too white in Moody's ruined face. "What do you want to know, since you already have your answers?"
His hand twitches toward his wand, then stops. Deliberate. A warning. "Here's my answer, girl. You want truths? Earn them. Prove you can keep your pretty mouth shut when it matters. Maybe I'll give you a piece. Maybe."
"And if I don't?" I push, because I can't help it. This feels like a game and I enjoy it.
His head tilts, that eye whirring like a predator catching the scent of blood.
"Then one day you'll wake up not remembering you ever asked."
The silence stretches, too tight, too sharp. My heart hammers in my ears. And then—just like that—he steps back, downs another gulp of Polyjuice, and the face ripples back into Moody's ruin.
The staff thumps against stone again, steady as a drumbeat, carrying him away.
I stand frozen, wand still raised, the smell of potion and threat lingering in the corridor.
He didn't deny me. He didn't kill me.
He left the door open.
And that is worse.
Because I know myself.
I'll go back.
I'll push again.
I'll get my answers.
All of them.
~Days of research pass
~
Days of research pass. I read everything I could about Barty Crouch Jr.
His own father threw him into Azkaban... His childhood was probably horrible.
I wonder if I would have had his fate if my father was still alive..
And the second task? It didn't feel like a tournament.
I was avoiding Harry ever since the ball. And Viktor? I didn't invest enough time recently but I promised him a meeting this evening.
"Miss Rosier." Professor Snape voice cuts through my thoughts.
"Am I interrupting your process of trying to think? He looks down at me, lifting an eyebrow.
"Am I interrupting your process of trying to think? He looks down at me, lifting an eyebrow
Yes you do. I want to say. But I remember I have to stay low and nice, I might still need his knowledge too... Two death eaters in one school. Coincidence? I doubt so... What are they up to?
"I apologize professor Snape. I will see it does not happen again."
I eye him as I speak. It seems to work, he walks away.
I feel Leonies elbow and smirk slightly
I feel Leonies elbow and smirk slightly. I know exacty what she is thinking.
Will she ever stop fantasicing?
~
After class, Snape's voice snaps like a whip:
"Miss Rosier. Stay."
The classroom empties, students hurrying past with curious glances. I keep my face blank, my pulse steady, even as his shadow lengthens across the flagstones.
"You've been distracted," he says, folding his arms. "Eyes elsewhere. Mind elsewhere."
"I assure you, Professor, I'm perfectly focused."
His eyebrow arches, slow, cutting. "On what, I wonder? Because you wanted to learn more and now you lost your interest."
I meet his stare, forcing steel into my voice. "I want to learn more. What we do in class, we had it already in my school, professor."
I wonder if he knows about Barty.. Two death eaters at my reach...
The silence stretches — heavy, suffocating. His gaze is sharp enough to strip me bare.
His sneer lingers, curling like smoke. He turns as if to dismiss me, then pauses.
"I told you once," he says softly, "that there are lessons this classroom cannot teach. I meant it. But you—" His gaze sharpens, pinning me in place. "You have been... careless."
My throat goes dry. "Careless?"
"You may fool your peers with half-answers and borrowed confidence. You will not fool me. Not here." He leans forward just enough that the candlelight casts his face in harsh relief. "You wanted knowledge. Now I wonder if you wanted only the performance. You should go back to Beauxbatons."
I clench my jaw. "That's not true."
"Dismissed miss Or- Rosier," he snaps, sudden and sharp.
The word cracks like a whip, echoing against stone. He thinks I didn't hear it? That I wouldn't notice? I notice everything.
Or..lov.. my mother. So they do have history.
So they do have history
The silence after is unbearable
The silence after is unbearable.
"Professor -" I try to break it but he smashed a book against the wall, causing me to flinch.
"OUT" One word, sharp, cold, infinite.
I turn to leave, I shouldn't push further.. but...
"I am not my mother, professor. Whatever is there between you two, is exactly that. Between you the two of you."
He looks at me as if he wants to kill me. His dark eyes bore into mine.
"Do not insult me with assumptions, miss Rosier. Now leave before I hex you and you wish you did."
Chapter 32: ~Forbidden meetings~
Chapter Text
*Seraphina's POV*
The castle feels too loud. Too bright. Too normal.Students still whisper about the Ball in corridors, laughter bubbling when they talk about who kissed who, who tripped, who got caught sneaking butterbeer into the punch. Leonie won't shut up about it — her voice rings like bells in my ears.
"Viktor was staring at you the whole time," she teases. "I think he was really worried about you."I force a smile. Let her think that's what lingers with me — the Ball, the dresses, Viktor's hand on mine.But it isn't.It's him.The ripple of skin. The wrong smile. The truth hiding in plain sight.
Professor Moody isn't Moody.And now I'm the only one who knows. At least that's what I think.Maybe professor Snape knows more then he lets on. Or maybe he is innocent indeed.I can't risk it.
The thought claws at me in lessons. My quill scratches notes I don't hear. Leonie whispers and I don't answer. Viktor catches me after class, his brow furrowed, his hand brushing my arm with concern — I glance at him.
"I'm fine, really. Just a little tired. Tomorrow night we can go to hogsmeade, I promise."
"Okay. I will pick you up at 7." I smile slightly, kissing him on the cheek before I leave swiftly.
I don't even know what he expects of me. It was a kiss.. a nice kiss. And he is very good looking as well as kind. But right now I'm all over my head. I don't have time for this..
~At night, I can't stop seeing it. His real face. His voice.I can't take it anymore.
~The corridors are near empty when I hear the tap of his staff echoing ahead. My breath stutters, but my feet move anyway, fast and quiet until the shadow of him fills the turn.
"Professor." My voice doesn't shake. It can't.He stops, head tilting just slightly. The magical eye spins, ticking once, twice, then stills. The flask gleams in his hand.
"You're not very subtle, little Rosier," he rasps. Not Moody's gravel.
I take a step closer, chin high. "Why are you here?"He smirks, lifting the flask, letting the liquid coat his mouth before he answers. "To teach.""Liar."That earns me a laugh — low, delighted, wrong.
"Clever girl. But not clever enough. You think this story is about you?"
He leans down just slightly, the ruined face close enough to make my skin crawl.
"Not every move on the board is yours to play."
"You're hiding. Inside a teacher. In this school." I keep my voice sharp, steady. "That doesn't sound like someone with control of the board."For a moment, his real eye glints — dangerous, almost admiring.
"You've got your mother's tongue. Sharp enough to cut yourself."I flinch, just slightly. He sees it. He enjoys it.
"I want answers," I press. "Why Hogwarts? Why now? What do you get out of it?"
The smirk returns, curling slow. "Like I already said, you'll choke on answers, Princess."
I tilt my head, "Really? Because how I see it, you can't tell me. Why?" I take one step closer, why am I doing this again? Ugh I can't help myself.
"Is it because of my mother? Dumbledore? ...Harry? Why are you here?"
His pause is small. Too small.
But I catch it.
Harry.
The corner of Barty's mouth twitches, the ruined Moody face pulling into something slyer than the real man ever wore. He tips his head, flask dangling between his fingers. "Smart little bird. Always pecking at the soft spots."
My heart pounds, but I don't let my expression change. "So? What do you want with him?"
He takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving mine. When he lowers the flask, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, deliberate, almost lazy. "You think I'd waste a secret on someone who can't even keep control of herself? You are slipping, princess."
"I can." I snap. Too fast. Too defensive.
The magical eye ticks, the real one glinting with fever-bright amusement. "No. Your curiousity is getting the best out of you."
I take another step forward. He doesn't move back. The air feels thinner between us, the corridor shrinking. "If you don't want me telling anyone, you'll give me something."
That earns me a grin, slow and wrong. "Oh, Princess. You're negotiating with a wolf while you're still a puppy."
"I'm not afraid of you," I lie.
He leans in until I can smell the Polyjuice, bitter and sharp. "You should be." His voice lowers, threading smoke through my ear. "Do you know what your problem is? You want to know. And that hunger? It'll eat you alive before I ever have to lift a wand. If you continue like this all you loose is the lever over me. Because now I know well enough that you would do anything to know more about your mother and why I am here. Go and ask your mother how these games are plaid."
The words hit harder than I want them to. Because he's right. I do want it. The truth. The danger. The parts of my family everyone whispers about but never says aloud. My mum wouldn't tell me anything. Not really.. not the full truth about my father. Not how he really was... But Barty? He knows...
I swallow, forcing steel into my voice. "Then give me something to chew on before I choke."
His laughter is soft this time, almost approving. He studies me for a long moment, as if deciding just how much rope to give me before I hang myself. Finally, he speaks.
"Why Hogwarts? Because the world is shifting. The old bones are rattling. And your precious Headmaster—" his lip curls, "—he thinks a tournament will distract children from the smell of war in the air."
I blink, pulse skittering. War.
He taps the flask against his lips, tilts his head like he's savoring the taste of my silence. "But you want more than riddles, don't you, little Rosier? You want names. You want to know more about your mothers dark past. "
The corridor spins, just a fraction. My mouth goes dry.
I want Tom Riddle. Voldemort. My father.
"I don't—" I start, but the words falter.
His smirk sharpens. He knows I want it. He thinks he can smell it on me.
I hold his stare. I don't blink.
"Names," I say. "Not riddles."
He drags a thumb along the rim of the flask, considering. "Fine. A name, then." His eye flicks past me down the corridor, as if he's listening for footsteps that aren't there. "Start with Karkaroff. Watch how he sweats when no one calls his name. Men who have bartered their souls are terrified of stocktaking."
"That's not an answer," I bite back. "Why you. Why now."
Barty's mouth curves—slow, pleased that I won't settle. He steps close enough for my shoulder to brush the rough wool of Moody's sleeve; I force myself not to move.
"Because the board needs pieces," he murmurs. "And Hogwarts breeds them by the dozen." His voice drops, intimate as a hand at my throat. "You asked what I want with Potter? Here's your crumb: not every champion is meant to win."
My skin prickles. "What?"
He clicks his tongue. "You haven't earned that yet."
I swallow the urge to curse him. "What do you want for it?"
"Better." He smiles like a knife unsheathed. "You're learning."
The magical eye ticks. The real one warms—fever-bright, appraising. "Price depends on the question," he says. "Some truths cost a whisper. Some cost a sin."
"And which costs what?" I ask, though my pulse is already answering for me.
"For why I'm here?" He leans until I feel the Polyjuice heat against my cheek. "Bring me proof you can keep your mouth shut." His breath skims my ear. "Skip your little date, Princess. Hogsmeade is for children. Meet me instead. Classroom B-3, third sublevel. Alone."
Viktor's name flares in my chest like a struck match. I hear myself say, "You think I'd waste a secret on your schedule?"
He laughs, delighted. "You already are."
I hate that he's right.
"What do I get?" I say.
He lifts the flask—but pauses, savoring the moment. "A second name and a map," he says. "The name you want for your mother... and where to look when you grow tired of fairytales about Imperius." His voice strokes the word like a bruise. "She wasn't dragged. She danced. And oh she danced beautifully."
The world tilts a fraction. I keep my face still.
"And Harry? What- what does he have to do with any of this?" I force out.
A beat. He studies me, decides to be generous—just enough. "Watch the Cup." he says softly. "When everyone stares at the surroundings, look at the prize." His mouth tilts. "Useful girls learn where the trap is sprung."
My fingers tighten around my wand. "You said a map."
"B-3." he reminds, stepping back. "Wear quiet shoes." A gleam of humor.
"And if you plan to bargain for more..." His gaze drops, shameless, then returns to my eyes.
"Bring a better currency than threats. The truth you want?" His smile is wicked, hungry.
"That won't be cheap."
I should slap him. I don't. I hate that I don't.
He tips the flask. The skin ripples; Moody's ruin seals over the young man beneath.
The staff thumps once, twice, and he's moving—away, into shadow, leaving the smell of potion and the shape of a choice pressed like fingerprints into my skin.
I stand there until the torches gutter.
Hogsmeade. Viktor's easy smile, his careful hands. Leonie's bells for a voice. Classes. Notes. Normal.
I turn the other way.
~~~
The library should feel safe. But even here, with candlelight dancing on parchment and Leonie whispering spells beside me, my mind strays.
Not to Viktor. Who's been very suportive and understanding.
Not to the Ball. Which should be every girls dream.
To him. The secret I wasn't meant to know.
The wrong smile. The ripple of skin.
The way he said Princess.
I don't realize I've drifted until Leonie nudges me.
"You've read the same line five times."
"I'm just tired," I lie, gathering my books too quickly. "I'll... see you later okay?"
She frowns, but doesn't press. Caleb finds her in the corridor, and I slip away unnoticed.
~
The corridors are empty by the time I find him. Not Moody. Barty is sitting in shadow, flask dangling from his hand, his face caught between one ripple and the next. For a heartbeat, I see both men at once—the scarred Auror and the pale-eyed boy beneath—and my pulse stutters.
His appearance changes to his real face.
He doesn't look surprised to see me.
"Curious little bird," he murmurs, voice curling low. "Couldn't stay away."
I set my jaw. "You told me to come. Now answer my questions."
His smile crooks, wrong, amused. "Which question? You have so many."
"Why are you here?"
He tilts his head, studying me like a puzzle. "To teach you restraint."
I snort. "You couldn't restrain yourself if you tried."
That earns me a laugh, sharp and delighted. He leans forward, too close, flask forgotten at his side. "And you couldn't either. Look at you. Already slipping. Late to class, snapping at your friends, sneaking into shadows to meet a man you should fear but for some twisted reason.. you don't."
My cheeks burn, though not with shame. He's right, and I hate him for it.
"I'm not afraid of you."
"No?" His real eye glints fever-bright. "Then prove it."
I open my mouth, some retort on my tongue, but the words tangle when he rises—fluid, deliberate, closing the space between us. His hand brushes my jaw, rough, calloused, holding me still without force.
The corridor tilts. My breath hitches.
And then his mouth is on mine.
It isn't gentle. It isn't sweet. It's sharp, claiming, like a match striking tinder. My fingers twitch around my wand, but instead of pushing him back, I clutch his coat, pulling him closer.
Heat flares low in my stomach. My heart pounds like it wants out of my chest.
This is wrong.
This is dangerous.
What am I doing?
When he pulls back, it's only far enough to let his lips ghost against mine as he whispers:
"That's the price of truth, Princess. Every answer costs."
I swallow hard, pulse still racing. "Then start talking."
His hand brushes my jaw again, softer this time. "I knew her. Watched her walk through fire and never burn. She didn't serve because she was forced, Princess. She chose. And every man in that circle knew she was untouchable because he—" his mouth twists into a smile that isn't really a smile "—favored her above the rest. There was no imperius. It was choice."
He.
I know who he means, even if he doesn't say the name.
My father..
My breath sticks in my throat. "Voldemort?"
The word trembles out of me, small but electric.
His grin widens, surprised I say his name out loud. "Tom Riddle. Lord Voldemort. The Dark Lord." He savors the names, each one a prayer and a curse. "I met him when I was young. Younger than you. He didn't look at me, not at first. He didn't need to. But when he did—" his eyes go distant, fever-bright, "—you understood. Every inch of him was power. You wanted to kneel, to follow, to belong. And your mother? She didn't kneel. She stood beside him. That was her power."
My stomach twists, sharp and heavy. My mother, not kneeling. My mother, choosing. My mother, standing beside my father. She told me some things.. but I'm quite sure she left out some details..
And just like that, he steps back, leaving me raw, shaken, wanting. The staff thumps against stone as he disappears into shadow.
I press my fingers to my mouth, breath ragged.
I should tell someone.
I should run.
But I know I won't. I can't.
Because I'll come back.
~
Day's pass, calsses, chitchat with the girls, flying lessons. Hogsmeade.
And then him.
~
The room is dim, shutters drawn tight against the night. I don't know if it's his or just one of the forgotten corners of the castle he's claimed, but it smells of smoke and Polyjuice and something sharp beneath it.
Barty. His real face again, pale and sharp, eyes too bright in the low light.
"You came back," he says, like he doubted it. Like he wanted me to prove him wrong.
I fold my arms. "You knew I would."
He smirks, slow, hungry. "Curiosity always drags the moth to the flame."
I step closer anyway, ignoring the way my chest tightens. "You told me about my mother. That she stood beside him. That she chose." My voice wavers but I force it steady. "So tell me about him."
Something shifts in his face. The smirk falters, the fever-bright light in his eyes narrowing into something sharper, colder.
"Why?" One word, low and dangerous.
My pulse spikes. Heat creeps up the back of my neck. I shouldn't have asked. Not like that.
Think, Seraphina. He can't know.
I tilt my head, feigning carelessness. "Because you said it yourself — she was beside him. If I'm supposed to believe she chose that, I want to know what kind of man makes people choose him."
The tension lingers. His gaze cuts into me, searching, dissecting. My heart hammers so loud I'm sure he hears it.
Then, finally — he laughs. Quiet, rasping, edged with something wild. "Clever girl. Careful with that tongue. One day it'll slip far enough to hang you."
I breathe again, slow, shaky, trying not to show it.
Barty leans back, but his eyes don't leave mine. "You want to know what made me follow him?" His smile sharpens, not kind. "Because he saw me. That's all. No one else did. My father saw a name. My mother saw a burden. But he saw me. Every flaw, every hunger, every inch of madness—and he said it had purpose."
His voice lowers, almost reverent. "He didn't promise safety. He promised war. And when you follow someone like that... you don't think about why. You just burn."
The words settle heavy, electric. My chest tightens again, but this time it isn't fear. It's something closer to recognition.
I whisper before I can stop myself: "And my mother?"
He smirks again, leaning forward, so close I can feel his breath ghost across my lips. "She didn't burn. She lit the fire."
The air between us hums, sharp and hot. My heart skips, stutters, then races, and I know I should step back.
I don't.
"Did she support his cause..?" The question slips out before I can waste a second thought.
He rises an eyebrow, "No. That is why people disliked her in our rows. But she had fire... Fascinating."
The air between us hums, sharp and hot. My pulse pounds in my throat, too fast, too loud. I should step back. I should run. But his words linger, clinging like smoke: She had fire.
Barty tilts his head, studying me like he's trying to decide whether to strike or to laugh. His eyes fever-bright, measuring me down to the heartbeat.
I whisper before I can stop myself. "And you..."
Before I can finish my sentence, the space collapses in a breath. His mouth crashes against mine—hard, urgent, tasting of smoke and potion. My back hits the cold stone, his hand braced just above my shoulder, the other tangled at my jaw as if he's daring me to pull away.
But I don't.
I kiss him back, sharp and reckless, my fingers fisting in his shirt. It's too much, too fast, too wrong—and it sends a shiver down my spine that I can't shake.
When he finally breaks away, he lingers close enough that his lips still graze mine when he whispers:
"Careful, Princess. You play with fire long enough... you start to enjoy the burn."
My breath trembles out, uneven. My heart feels like it might claw its way free from my ribs.
And the worst part? He's right.
~
I don't remember how I made it back to my room. My lips still sting, my pulse still pounds. Every time I close my eyes, I feel the press of stone at my back, the heat of his mouth, the way he whispered like he'd set me alight.
I should hate it.
I don't.
And that terrifies me.
~
The days after blur.
In class, Leonie nudges me with quills and books, whispering little jokes meant to draw me out. Normally, I'd roll my eyes, tease her back. Now, I just... nod. Pretend.
Viktor corners me in the courtyard one afternoon, concern heavy in his accent. "You are... distant." His fingers brush mine, gentle. I pull back too quickly. "Just tired," I lie. The way his jaw tightens tells me he doesn't believe me.
Flying lessons come. I don't show. Leonie covers for me, though she doesn't understand why. Potions pass in a haze. My notes blur. Snape's eyes linger longer than they should, cold and cutting.
Every step away from them feels like a step closer to the answers and with this, with my father.
Chapter 33: ~I am the heir now~
Chapter Text
*Seraphina's POV*
~Meeting with Barty Crouch Jr. / forbidden forest~
The kiss still lingers, bitter potion on his mouth, heat on mine. I should leave. I don't.
Instead I step closer, forcing my voice steady.
"You've told me pieces. About my mother. About him. But what about you, Barty? Azkaban."
His smirk falters — not gone, but thinner, like a mask pulled taut.
"You want to know what it takes to survive in that hole?" His voice dips, dark and low. "It's not strength. Not magic. It's devotion. When the Dementors eat everything else, all you have left is what you worship."
He leans in, the flask dangling at his side. His eyes burn, fever-bright.
"Others broke. I didn't. Because even in that place, I had him. His voice. His promise. I'd rot a thousand years if it meant he'd rise again."
My pulse trips. The air between us feels too tight, too sharp. He is insane, that much is clear...
My father is dead.. and no devotion can change that.
"So you stayed loyal," I say quietly. "Even when everyone else turned."
His mouth twitches, not a smile exactly — something rawer.
"That's why I'm here. Why I'll always be here."
For a moment, silence stretches. My heart thunders. I don't know if it's fear or recognition. Maybe both.
I lift my chin, refusing to let him see the storm in me. "That's what devotion looks like? Dreaming over a dead person?"
Barty's gaze drops — my mouth, my throat — then back to my eyes.
"Devotion is giving everything you are to something greater. Even when it destroys you. Even when it's gone."
The words scrape against something in me I don't dare name. Tom Riddle. Father. Legacy. Blood.
My lips part — but before I can speak, he tilts his head, almost amused, almost cruel
My lips part — but before I can speak, he tilts his head, almost amused, almost cruel.
"Careful, Princess. Curiosity pulls you closer every time. One day, you'll be too close to step back."
I should retreat. I don't. Instead, I whisper, "Maybe I don't want to. Maybe I want to study people like you. I can't wrap my head around it. You don't really care for muggles isn't? You are just - a blind follower because you have nothing else to believe in."
The silence that follows is alive, humming, dangerous. His grin returns, slow and dark, and the space between us collapses into another kiss — deeper this time, hotter, like he's feeding the fire he just lit in me.
When I finally tear away, breathless, my hands shake. Not from fear. From wanting more.
"Stop-" I hiss, taking a step back. "My mother.. she doesn't- hate muggles. She never did she didn't care for Voldemorts plans. But she cared for the man, isn't? So there must have been something good in him.."
For a heartbeat, I think I've broken him.
The smirk is gone. His eyes sharpen, cutting into me like blades.
"You think you can strip him down to something... good?" His laugh is low, bitter, nothing like amusement. "Your mother didn't stay because of goodness. She stayed because of power. Because she wanted to touch it, taste it, claim it before anyone else could."
My throat tightens. I want to say he's wrong. I want to say Eva Rosier doesn't worship power — she raised me on tenderness, not tyranny. But the words clog, heavy, because I don't know. Not really. She never told me why she loved him.
"You're lying," I force out.
Barty tilts his head, like I'm some fascinating insect writhing on a pin. "Am I? Or is that just the story she fed you? The curse she wrapped you in to keep you quiet, safe, obedient?"
The words cut too close. They feel true in ways I don't want them to.
"I don't believe you," I whisper, but even I hear the wobble in my voice.
Barty steps forward — too close, always too close — until my back almost brushes bark. His voice softens, curling like smoke. "You want answers? Stop pretending you don't. You want to know who he was, what he was. You want to know why your mother stayed. And I just told you why."
My pulse slams in my ears. "This can't be the only reason."
His grin twists, dangerous and knowing. "The world is much simpler than you think, princess." His gaze dips, slow, deliberate, to my mouth, then back up again. "Truth is hunger, Princess. And hunger eats."
I should run. I should hex him and bolt back to the castle, bury myself in lies until I forget the taste of him. But my feet don't move. My breath is shallow. My blood burns.
I whisper, "Then feed me."
His laugh is quiet, sharp, and then his mouth claims mine again — rougher this time, teeth grazing, hands braced against the tree at either side of me. It isn't tender. It isn't safe. It's fire and smoke and ruin, and I hate how much I want it.
When we break apart, his lips are red, mine tingling. He leans close, breath hot against my ear.
"You want to know why people followed him?" he murmurs. "Because he was the only one who truly sees them. Not a name. Not a family. Them. Him. The only living heir of slytherin. And that is more dangerous than power, more binding than love. That's devotion."
He pulls back, smirk curling. "Think on that, Princess. Think about whether your mother was seen. Or if she was just another shadow in his crown."
And then he's gone, melting into the dark with flask in hand, leaving me shaking, lips raw, mind spinning like I've swallowed poison disguised as truth.
I never thought about it.. The heir of slytherin..
I guess..
I am the heir now.
I am the heir now
Chapter 34: ~Same Abyss~
Chapter Text
*Eva's POV*
Something is wrong with my daughter.
I can feel it in the way she avoids my eyes, in the clipped answers she gives when I ask about her lessons, in the restless way she moves when she thinks no one is looking. A mother notices these things. Especially a mother like me.
She thinks I don't see. That I won't notice.
What are you hiding,...
Evan doesn't see it when we meet her. Or worse, he pretends not to. He still believes she is a girl he can shield with charms and bracelets and careful smiles. But I know better. She has Tom's blood in her, whether she accepts it or not. His hunger, his curiosity, his taste for fire.
And it terrifies me.
I thought I had buried that part of my life so deep it could never reach her..
And yet — here it is. Stirring in her movements. Flashing in her eyes. He is in her...
And as much as I loved him, I can't help but dislike it in my daughter. She's my little girl.
Dumbledore watches her, but he doesn't know her the way I do. Snape watches her, too I'm certain — in that sharp, dissecting way of his — but he is too busy clawing at his own ghosts to truly see her. They are both too wrapped in their games of light and dark to see the girl balanced on the knife's edge between. The boy who lived is more important than the girl who lives in the shadow of her father.
No — it falls to me. Always me.
But here's the truth I can't speak aloud:
I don't know if I can stop her. Or if I even should.. No one was able to stop me.
When she looks at me, sometimes I see the child I raised — stubborn, clever, loving in her own crooked way. And sometimes... sometimes I see him. The man I married. The man who called himself Lord Voldemort in the end.
And I can't decide which frightens me more.
Perhaps I should go to Severus.He might recognize the signs I am too afraid to name. But Severus and I share wounds that bleed when touched. To bare them now, even for her sake, feels like a danger of its own, now that there is piece.
Yet what choice do I have?
If I do nothing, she walks blind into fire and truths she can't handle. She believes her father was a good person, which.. sometimes he was. He had his own shadows to fight and I strongly believe if only we had more time.. Things would have been different. But they weren't. So..
If I act, I risk pushing her straight into the arms of the very shadows I would shield her from.
I pour a glass of wine. My hand trembles, just slightly, and I hate it. I never used to tremble.
"Mon rayon," I whisper to the empty room, as if she can hear me. "What are you doing in the dark?"
The fire crackles. The silence answers nothing.
But I know this: I cannot wait much longer. Severus will hate me for dragging him back into it. Perhaps I will hate myself, too. But I would rather see her hate me and live, than watch her vanish into the same abyss that stole him from me.
~
The next evening, I can't bear the silence any longer.
I find him where I always knew he would be: in the dungeons, candlelight hissing against damp stone, the smell of potion smoke clinging to the air.
He doesn't look up when I step inside. Of course not. Severus Snape never gives anyone the satisfaction of acknowledgment. His quill scratches, his hand steady, until he finally sets it aside with a deliberation that makes it clear he has known I was here all along.
"Eva." My name on his tongue is not a greeting. It's a verdict.
I draw my shawl tighter around me
I draw my shawl tighter around me. "We need to talk."
His mouth curls — not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. "At last. I wondered how long you would play at silence while your daughter plays at secrets."
My pulse stutters, but I hold his gaze. "You've noticed, then."
"I notice everything," he replies smoothly, folding his hands in front of him. His eyes glint in the candlelight, black and sharp. "She's distracted. Restless. Slipping." He leans back in his chair, studying me like a hawk over prey. "Like her mother once did."
I flinch. The words cut, even now.
"This is not about me."
"Oh, but it always is," he says softly, almost with relish
"Oh, but it always is," he says softly, almost with relish. "Children inherit more than names. You should know that better than anyone."
I step closer, anger sparking low in my chest. "She is not his."
Silence stretches, taut as wire.
At last, Severus tilts his head. "No. But she is you. And I wonder which is worse."
My hand trembles against the edge of the desk, and I force it flat. "If you know something, tell me. Don't sit there and—"
"Tell you?" His voice sharpens, lashes out like a whip. "You want me to remind you of the man you followed? The man you loved?"
The words slam into me, dragging ghosts with them. I see Tom's face, triumphant, terrifying. I see Severus, younger, .. the night I walked away. I swallow hard, steadying myself.
"I'm not here to dig up graves, Severus. I'm here because she is slipping from me. And if she falls into the same abyss we did—" My voice cracks despite me. "I will not lose her."
His eyes search mine, too sharp, too knowing. For a flicker, the sneer falters, replaced by something colder. Something like pity.
"You already are," he murmurs.
The words knock the air from my lungs. I want to strike him, to scream that he's wrong, but I can't. Because I know, deep down, he isn't.
"I came to you for help," I say finally, my voice a whisper edged with steel. "So help her. Help me. Or do you mean to stand by and watch history repeat itself?"
The silence that follows is unbearable. The fire pops, the shadows shift, and Severus leans forward, his eyes cutting through me like blades.
"I am always watching, you should know that by now." he says low.
I draw in a breath, fury and fear tangling in my chest.
He moves like a shadow through the room, robes whispering, until he reaches a drawer in the corner. For a moment, he only stares at it, as if opening it might wound him. Then he pulls it open, slow, deliberate, and draws something out.
A photograph.
He places it on the desk with such precision it feels like a threat.
I pause as I see it. I can feel my heart skip a beat.
Tom. Handsome, alive with that impossible charm. The man who could seduce a room with nothing more than a smile and a glance.
Then Severus turns, pulls another slip from the pocket of his robes. My stomach lurches before I even see it. A photograph taken only days ago — Seraphina, standing in the courtyard, her chin lifted, eyes like coals.
He sets it beside Tom.
The silence between the two faces screams louder than words.
"You think the similarities aren't evident, Eva?" Severus's voice is low, cutting, the kind of quiet that can flay flesh from bone. "Do you take me for a fool?"
My breath stutters, but I force it even, steady. "She looks like me."
"Does she?" His dark eyes flash as he leans closer, finger tapping the photograph. Tom's smile. Seraphina's glare. Both wearing defiance like a crown. "This is not Rosier's child. She never was. The night you left this castle, Eva. You were pregnant."
The torchlight flickers, throwing sharp lines across his face. He isn't shouting, but his words feel like thunder in the small space.
I want to deny it. I want to wrap myself in lies the way I always have. But he knows. He has always known, even when he refused to speak it aloud.
"You probably swore she would never carry his name," Severus murmurs, softer now, but it cuts deeper. "Yet you brought her here. To this castle. To me."
My throat burns. My hands curl into fists in my lap. "I gave her life, Severus. And I'll give her a chance. If-."
His laugh is bitter, hollow. "A chance? You've given her a curse."
"She is his," Severus hisses, dragging his finger across the two photos. "And no matter how you twist it, no matter how much you hide her behind Rosier's name, she will end as he did. Alone. Ruined. Dark."
I rise, my chair scraping the stone, fire searing my chest. "Not if I can help it."
He meets my gaze — that black, fathomless stare — and for the first time in years, I think I see fear in him. Not for himself. For her.
The silence thickens, heavy as a shroud
The silence thickens, heavy as a shroud. Between us, Tom and Seraphina stare up from the desk — father and daughter, shadow and flame.
And Severus whispers, almost broken,
"God help us all. You couldn't save him Eva. And you won't be able to save her either."
"You think you can smother the fire you lit with silk and silence?" His tone curls, cruel and intimate all at once. "You of all people should know—it always finds air. It always burns."
LoveAlways_Ash on Chapter 1 Sat 17 May 2025 01:37PM UTC
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