the daughter of house black

by nolongeerhuman

Summary:

Estheri Malfoy has always known the rules: speak softly, study hard, never ask too many questions. She has never had a problem with those rules, until Sirius Black escaped from Azkaban.

Chapter 1: prologue

Her mother’s hands were cold but gentle, as always. Cool fingertips wove through her thick curls with practiced ease, coaxing them into waves fit for a Malfoy. Esther sat still before the tall mirror in her bedroom, her posture perfect, her hands on her knees. She watched Narcissa through the glass as though watching a stranger touch her reflection.

It was early. A pale autumn light filtered through the high windows of Malfoy Manor, gilding the edges of the room in silver. Outside, the mist hadn’t yet lifted from the hedges. The manor was quiet – it always was at this hour – but something was different.

Esther noticed it in the silence between Narcissa’s clipped instructions to the house elf, in the absence of Lucius’s voice echoing through the corridors, and in the way Draco had barely looked at her that morning. She noticed it in the way her mother’s hand hovered a second too long over her parting, fingers faltering for the briefest instant.

Her eyes lingered on her mother’s face in the mirror, calm as always and only the tightness of her mouth betrayed the tension that Esther could feel.

Her dark curls – thick and untamable, – never quite obeyed the comb or the potions Narcissa applied to them. And yet, every year before the train to Hogwarts, the same routine repeated itself: her mother would seat her in the silver-backed chair in front of the mirror and smooth her hair into neat, gleaming waves.

A lady of a noble house should always keep appearances, after all. She had heard those words in a hundred different forms over the years. A lady does not raise her voice. A lady keeps her posture. A lady chooses her words with care. A lady does not let her hair frizz and curl like a hedgewitch.

For some reason her mother didn’t like her natural hair. Narcissa had never said it aloud, but Esther had noticed it anyway. She had noticed the way her lips tightened when Lucius commented that her wild curls made her look like some street child. She had noticed how Narcissa never corrected him. How she always doubled her efforts to smooth the unruly strands after.

"You’ve grown since last summer," Narcissa said softly, but her voice lacked conviction. "Your cheekbones are more defined."

Esther didn’t respond. She blinked slowly, watching her own face in the mirror. Pale. Composed. Her eyes were gray, same as always.

"You’ll behave this year," Narcissa said, her tone lighter than it should have been. Measured. "No sneaking out after curfew. No trouble."

Esther turned her head slightly, meeting her mother’s eyes in the reflection. There was something fragile in them today, something cautious. She frowned.

Estheri Malfoy was the perfect child of the Malfoy family – everyone knew that. All she did in school was her lessons and spending time with Daphne or Draco. Her mother was aware of that. Draco was most likely to sneak around in the night – like that one time during their first year – but never Esther.

“Mother?" she asked eventually, when the silence grew too heavy, too deliberate. Her voice was quiet but even. “Is something the matter?”

Narcissa’s hands paused for a second, then resumed their work.

"Of course not," she said. "Why would there be?"

Esther knew better. She had grown up in a house of things unsaid. She knew what silence looked like when it was hiding something.

"You seem tense," Esther continued, her voice careful, neutral.

Her mother straightened the collar of Esther’s traveling cloak. "I expect this year to be difficult," she said, smoothing the fabric with a firm hand. "Best to keep to yourself. Stay close to your friends."

"I always do," Esther said, still frowning slightly.

Narcissa looked at her for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in her expression, and then placed a soft kiss on her forehead. She immediately leaned closer, enjoying the rare moment of her mother’s open affection.

Draco appeared in the doorway, impatient in his polished school robes. "Are you ready yet?"

"Almost," Esther said. She rose to her feet, glancing one last time in the mirror.

Her hair lay in elegant waves now, disciplined and shining. Nothing like the way it looked when she let it loose and wild.

Her brother sighed impatiently. "We’re going to be late."

"Mother wanted to fix my hair," she said evenly.

Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t comment further. He turned toward the door, but Esther lingered.

Narcissa pressed a kiss to his temple and murmured something Esther couldn’t hear, and then head down.

Downstairs, the manor was pristine, as always, cold silence clinging to the walls. No signs of life except for the soft clicking of Narcissa’s heels and the occasional rustle of a house elf scurrying past.

"Draco," Esther said quietly.

"What?"

"Is something happening?"

His brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I don’t know. Mother has been… strange this morning."

Draco didn’t answer for a moment. "It’s the start of term. She’s always like this."

Esther tilted her head slightly, watching him. Draco held her gaze for a moment, then looked away.

"Don’t worry about it," he added.

Which meant something was definitely wrong.

Near the grand hallway, the morning post lay unopened on a silver tray. As they passed, Esther caught sight of the Daily Prophet, its bold headline flashing and curling like a serpent:

“SIRIUS BLACK ESCAPES AZKABAN”

Esther stared at it for half a second, something twisting faintly in her stomach.

"That’s the one everyone’s talking about, isn’t it?" she asked casually.

Narcissa pressed her lips tighter, her eyes hardening.

"Yes," she said. "Best forget his name."

Esther raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.

She stepped into the carriage, after her mother gave her final hug, holding her a bit tighter then usually. The door shut behind her with a soft click.

As the manor faded behind them, Esther leaned her head against the window and watched the fog curl against the glass. She did not know it yet, but this would be the last time she would leave Malfoy Manor without questioning who she was.

Notes:

okay, so. this story has lived in my mind since i was like, twelve, and i’ve finally decided to write and post it properl. this is like, purely for my entertainment, based on my favourite headcanons.
this story is mix of both books and movies - depending what works the best for me,
also, i think i should mention this: i am not the biggest fan of draco malfoy. like, at all. i kinda hate him lol. but he is one of the most important characthers to oc, so i need to suck it up lol. he is not gonna be super evil villian or something like that, i think i managed to make him just like he is in canon.
another one of my biggest fears is to make my oc very mary sure, and i really hope that didn't happen.
yeah, that's it for now, thanks for reading, and i hope you will stick with me >///<

Chapter 2: there is a monster in the train

The morning air was crisp and tinged with the final breath of summer as they arrived at King’s Cross Station. Even with the soft mist curling above the cobblestones, the atmosphere was bustling, charged with a familiar kind of excitement. It was September first, and the Platform 9 ¾ was alive with students, trunks and the shrill cries of owls. Esther’s own cat – half-kneazle Phobos – was pressed closely to her chest. He had a nasty habit of wandering around when they are out of Malfoy Manor, and she didn’t want to risk losing him in the crowd of people.

She left Draco with his friends and went to find Daphne. It didn’t take her long – her friend was already looking for her as well.

“Hi,” she breathed, when Daphne threw her hands around her neck. The familiar, faint scent of roses made her shoulders relax, and Esther closed her eyes for a moment, hugging her best friend in return.

“Hi,” quickly replied Daphne, still holding her close. Between them Phobos let out a squeak, which made her to move away, lips twitching in smile, and run her fingers through the cat’s black fur. “Let’s go, I found us a place to sit.”

Her friendship with Daphne started since they were five years old. She approached Esther during a formal celebration held at Greengrass Manor for her mother’s birthday, and softly complimented her dress. Esther had murmured a thank you, smiling politely, just like she had been taught, and complimented her hair in return. It was just formalities but for some reason, Daphne took an unexpected liking to her. She sat beside her the whole evening and offered her a piece of the honeyed peach tart she'd stolen from a passing tray.

They had barely exchanged ten full sentences that evening, but Daphne had declared – without any sense of ceremony – that they were friends now. Esther didn’t say anything – the only friend she had was Draco. She wasn’t sure what was expected from her, so she just nodded and forget about it the next day, going back to her routine. But to her surprise, the other girl didn’t.

Esther couldn’t hide her bemusement when the next week her mother informed her about the letter from Daphne Greengrass. She had sent her an owl – a ridiculous, fat brown thing that got feathers everywhere –  with a note written in deliberately neat, oversized cursive.

Dear Esther,

I hope this letter finds you well. Mother says I may write to you myself this time, and I am very pleased because I have so much to say. Would you like to come visit Greengrass Manor again soon? I should like it very much if you did.  I’ve already told Astoria about you – she is my sister and terribly curious about things. The manor is very quiet lately, and I should like to have someone here who speaks nicely and doesn’t chew biscuits too loudly. (That is meant kindly. Most children do.)

I also want to show you the new painted ceiling in the sitting room – it has stars and planets. Father says it’s too grand for children but I don’t mind. I will let you lie on the rug and look at it as long as you want.

Your friend,

Daphne.

Lucius, surprisingly encouraged their friendship, but Esther was more surprised that her mother didn’t. She had a feeling that Narcissa didn’t like Daphne’s family, especially her mother, but she never understood why – aunt Daria was one of the nicest persons she had ever known. Even Lucius liked to be around her but her mother face would twist in displeasure every time her name would brought up.

“Where is Astoria?” she asked, when they reached to compartment where Daphne already put her things. Phobos started to squirm in her arms, so she put him down before he made her regret not wearing her gloves.

“She was supposed to sit with us but she run off to her friends,” answered Daphne, closing the door behind her. She huffed then, clearly annoyed. “At least she is not after your brother.”

Esther couldn’t hold back the smile. Astoria developed a strong fascination with Draco over the summer that annoyed Daphne to death and never failed to amuse Esther. It was sweet really – Astoria was the sweetest little girl, if not a little spoiled, – but her brother was enjoying it way too much which bothered her friend a lot.

“Don’t be so cruel. It’s a harmless crush.”

Daphne shot her a dry look. “You haven’t had to sit through an entire breakfast listening to her wax poetic about the way he brushes his hair back.” She mimicked her sister in a dreamy tone, “He looks like a prince from my books, Daphne.”

Esther laughed properly this time, unable to stop herself from teasing her best friend. “I think it’s sweet.”

“It’s horrifying.”

The cool hum of the train carriage vibrated through Esther's bones, but her focus was elsewhere.

“Did your parents say anything about the Azkaban break?”

Daphne blinked, not expecting her question.

“I heard them talking,” she said, carefully, “Father thinks someone helped Black to break out. Why do you ask?”

Esther just shrugged, looking out the window for a moment, where rain streaked down in lazy arcs.

“Mother was acting strange this morning,” she answered shortly. Daphne, bless her heart, didn’t ask further. Instead, she reached for a Chocolate Frog from the small pile of snacks they'd gathered – well aware of Esther’s sweet tooth, – as if offering something tangible in exchange for an answer she knew she wouldn’t get.

She took it wordlessly, then shifted her legs. The familiar warm pressure at her ankles was gone.

Her eyes narrowed. “Where’s Phobos?”

Daphne sat up at once. “Don’t tell me – he was right here!”

The space beneath their bench was empty. No black fur, no flicking tail, no glint of eye watching the corridor with mild disdain.

“That stupid cat,” she murmured while Daphne sighed, already reaching for the door handle.

 “You would think he learned not to wander off after the Ravenclaw prefect threatened to hex him into a handbag.”

“Apparently not,” Esther said, rising and grabbing her wand. “He’s probably trying to eat someone’s owl.”

“To be fair, he’s very goal-oriented,” Daphne offered with a sniff, stepping into the corridor. “You have to respect that in a creature.”

“I don’t,” Esther said. “Especially not when I’m the one who has to write apology letters after.”

 “You know,” Daphne added as they began to walk, “if we’re lucky, maybe he’s only terrorizing a Hufflepuff.”

Esther smirked, as a pair of giggling second-years froze for a moment before passing them.

“Should we split up?” Daphne asked.

Esther shook her head. “No. If he ran, he’ll be circling somewhere near.”

They walked side by side down the corridor, weaving between students, careful to avoid being noticed by anyone particularly annoying – like Parkinson or any of Draco’s tagalongs. Esther kept her chin up, footsteps confident, but inside she was muttering curses at Phobos.

No sign of her stupid, slippery half-kneazle.

“He’s not in the fifth carriage either,” Daphne said after a moment, sighing. “He’s going to get himself thrown off this train one day.”

Esther was about to agree – more irritated than worried – when the train gave a sudden lurch beneath their feet. The hum of movement cut into silence, too sharp, too sudden. The lights above flickered once.

“That can’t be right,” Daphne murmured, frowning. “We're not there yet, are we?”

“No,” Esther said, slowly. “It’s too early.”

There was a silence that followed – snot just quiet, but a sudden, unnatural stillness. The kind that made her skin crawl. Even the low chatter from behind the compartment doors had gone quiet, like the entire train was holding its breath.

Then the lights above flickered again.

And again.

And then–

Darkness.

Esther flinched, stepping closer to the window. Daphne’s hand moved instinctively toward her wand, her eyes narrowed.

“What is going on?” she whispered, barely audible.

Esther didn’t answer, feeling the crawling cold seeping in from nowhere. Her heart skipped a beat for a moment, and she couldn’t explain why.

And then the compartment door behind them slid open with a low screech.

Esther turned sharply, wand raised just enough to be ready – only to froze in front of Potter.

His green eyes were wide in the gloom, a faint crease between his brows. He looked just as surprised to see them as they were to see him.

For a breathless second, none of them moved. Esther registered the faint outline of his face in the darkness, illuminated for a blink by the flickering carriage lights—dark hair tousled, lightning-shaped scar half-obscured by his fringe, and those sharp, startling eyes.

Potter blinked once, eyes meeting hers, then flicking to Daphne.

 “Get in,” he said, voice taut and low. “Now.”

There wasn’t time to question. Esther nudged Daphne forward and followed her into the compartment, just as the lights went out entirely.

The door slid shut just as the temperature dropped another degree, and the corridor behind them was swallowed by silence.

Inside, it was cramped and tense. Esther barely had time to glance around before another jolt hit the train, and the temperature dropped. Cold pressed in through her robes, prickling along her skin. She felt Potter shift beside her, and it occurred to her distantly how close they stood – shoulder nearly brushing shoulder.

She heard Daphne’s quiet lumos and the tip of her wand lit up. In the brief halo of light, Esther saw Granger and Weasley sitting opposite, both staring at them like they'd grown second heads. There was another person, leaning on the window, fast asleep.

"Lovely," Daphne said under her breath, keeping her wand up.

Weasley, predictably, was the first to speak. "What are they doing here?"

"Ron," Granger warned, her voice tight. Rain outside was just getting stronger.

Esther didn’t bother answering. She was too cold, and too on edge, to waste words. The compartment was dim and narrow, and the air had grown unnaturally still.

Daphne spared Weasley a cold glance.

Esther felt Potter shift again, just slightly, and realized he was angling himself toward the door, between the corridor and the rest of them – as if he thought he could do something about whatever was coming. His jaw was tight. That same crease between his brows was deeper now.

“I don’t like this,” Granger murmured, inching closer to the window. “I’m going to ask the driver what’s going on.”

Esther’s stomach clenched. Not that she cared about Granger, but the thought of someone walking through the corridors alone sent chills down her spine. She wrapped her fingers tighter around her wand and shifted a step closer to Daphne, who said nothing but raised her chin in that stubborn, steady way she always did when she didn’t want anyone to see she was afraid.

And then, quite suddenly, the temperature plunged.

The light from Daphne’s wand flickered.

Everyone froze. A chill crept through the air, unnatural and pulsing. Esther shivered, her breath forming visible clouds. She could hear the other students’ breathing – ragged, fast. Her own heart was going crazy in her chest.

The door to the compartment creaked slowly open, making everyone flinch.

Esther turned, missing the moment when Potter put his hand in front of her, pushing her back to the sit.

Something began to glide through the entrance – tall, cloaked, and faceless. It moved without a sound, like smoke and cold air had taken shape.

Suddenly, the air froze in her lungs. She was five again, in the dark, dark room Lucius had locked her in, sitting on the floor, her knees pressed to her chest. Her breathing was too loud in her ears, but she was too focused on Lucius’s footsteps outside.

She could smell the damp stone, feel the cold seep into her bones.

Esther closed her eyes, gripping the edge of the seat. She could feel rough hands around her wrist, squeezing it a little too hard, nails digging painfully into her flesh. Her mother’s cold fingers on her face and the way she avoided her eyes, Draco’s small frame pressed to her and disappointment written on his face, and she is alone in the dark, dark room and she is so hungry –

Esther blinked and everything stopped. It took her a moment to calm down, her breathing heavy in her ears. She felt Daphne’s trembling hand on her own, and looked at her, taking in her pale face and frightened eyes.

The warmth returned as suddenly as it had gone.

“Es, are you alright?”

“Harry!” she flinched at Granger’s loud voice and looked at her. “Harry! Are you alright?”

“What?” Potter muttered as he pushed his glasses back onto his nose while his friends helped him sit up, and helped him back onto the seat next to her. He looked pale, sweat clinging to his brow.

“Are you alright?” Weasley asked, concern clear on his face. His hand was surprisingly steady on Potter’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Potter replied, running his fingers through his hair. Esther felt Daphne shifting closer to her. “What happened? Where’s that… what was that thing? Who screamed?”

Her heart stopped as dread filled her for a moment. She hoped it wasn’t her.

“What was that thing?” Potter asked again, voice still hoarse.

Esther turned her head slowly, eyes catching on the man across from them – the one who had, until moments ago, looked half-dead in his seat. Now he stood by the window, thin fingers breaking a bar of chocolate into small pieces. The silver wrapper rustled faintly.

He didn’t look particularly impressive. His robes were patched, his face drawn and weathered, like someone used to long shadows and colder places. But his presence shifted the room.

“That,” he said, his voice even and low, “was a dementor.”

The word curled in the air like mist.

“They’re the guards of Azkaban,” he continued, handing Potter a piece of chocolate. “They were searching the train.”

“For Sirius Black,” Weasley muttered darkly.

The man’s gaze flicked toward him. “Yes.”

Esther accepted the chocolate silently, her fingers still unsteady. The warmth helped. A little.

“And you–” Daphne’s voice cut through the silence, careful but cold. “Who are you?”

Granger, predictably, jumped in. “That’s–”

“I asked him,” Daphne said sharply, not taking her eyes off the man. Not hostile, but sharp enough to make the point. Esther felt something inside her loosen – her friend’s calmness made her slowly relax as well.

Weasley scoffed, muttering something under his nose, but Daphne ignored him, clenching her jaw. The man only smiled faintly, his eyes surprisingly warm.

“Quite understandable,” he said mildly, as if understanding Daphne’s hostility. “Professor Lupin. I’ll be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts this year.”

He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze resting longest on Potter and her.

She met his eyes for a moment. It was unsettling, the way he looked at her. As if looking at her face made him physically ill. She would have been offended if she didn’t feel shaken still.

“I heard a scream,” Potter said quietly on her side. “A woman. I thought…”

“No one screamed, Harry,” Granger said, gentler now, exchanging a worried look with Weasley.

“But I heard it.”

Lupin’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly. “Dementors affect us all differently. They bring out the worst in us. The worst memories. The things we try not to remember.”

Potter didn’t respond. Esther shivered again, reaching for Daphne’s hand. She took it without hesitating, her grip firm, still watching the man carefully as if he might vanish if she blinked.

Lupin gave a small nod toward the chocolate.

“Eat. It’ll help,” he said, his voice softer now. Then he turned to leave, adding only, “I’ll speak with the driver.”

And then he was gone, leaving their group alone.

Esther stared at the door for a moment longer, the cold still lingering in her chest. She took a slow bite of the chocolate, the sweetness grounding her, even if just a little. She didn’t say a word.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, each lost in the cold echo of what had just happened.

Weasley finally broke the quiet.

“I thought we were going to freeze to death,” his voice was thin, a little shaken despite the forced levity.

“I couldn’t move,” Granger whispered. “I’ve never felt anything like that before. Like everything just… drained out of me.”

Daphne hummed in response, her eyes still fixed on the door. Weasley gave her a look but didn’t say anything. Color was finally coming back to his face.

Beside Esther, Potter sat unmoving, hands loosely curled in his lap. Not until his eyes flicked to the place where Daphne still held Esther’s hand, squeezing too tightly.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice low, almost hesitant.

Esther startled slightly, looking at him. She hadn’t expected the question. There was no mockery in his tone, just quiet concern.

“Fine,” she said quickly, though it was clear she wasn’t. Her voice wasn’t quite steady.

Phobos padded into the compartment just then, tail high and nonchalant, as if nothing had happened.

“Look who decided to come back,” Daphne said dryly, the corners of her mouth twitching with tired relief.

Esther reached down, grateful for the distraction. She let her fingers sink into the soft fur behind his ears. “You’ve got the worst timing.”

Phobos huffed and curled on her chest, unbothered, like he hadn’t been missing at all.

Daphne stood, smoothing her robes and casting a glance at the window, where the rain still clung in heavy drops. “We should get back, Es, I want to find Astoria.”

Esther nodded slowly. She glanced once at Potter before following Daphne out. He met her eyes, just for a second, still dazed and confused.

Phobos mewed softly, tucking his head under her chin.

She tried not to shiver.

---

When they reached the castle, the rain had turned fine and silvery, catching in the torchlight above the stone steps. Professor Snape and professor McGonagall stood waiting beneath the arch of the main entrance, Madam Pomfrey a pace ahead of them, her expression set in practiced concern.

"Miss Malfoy, Miss Greengrass. A word," Snape called out before they could even join the stream of students filing into the Entrance Hall.

Esther and Daphne exchanged a look and quietly stepped out of line.

Astoria clung to Daphne’s sleeve before she could fully move away. "Do you have to? What if it’s because of the Dementor?"

Daphne gave her younger sister a reassuring squeeze on the hand. "It’s alright, Astoria. Just go ahead, I’ll find you inside."

Astoria still looked nervous, but after a nudge from her friend, she allowed herself to be led away, casting glances over her shoulder until the crowd swallowed her up.

Madam Pomfrey wasted no time stepping closer the moment the girls approached.

“Dear Merlin,” she muttered, eyes scanning them. "I should take you to the Hospital Wing immediately."

"There is no need, ma’am," Daphne said, exchanging a glance with her. Her voice was steady, but her cheeks were still unusually pale.

"We’re alright," Esther added quickly. "Professor Lupin gave us chocolate. It helped."

Her eyebrows rose. "Did he now?"

"Yes," Daphne said again, nodding.

Madam Pomfrey gave a surprised huff. "Well, good for him. About time we had a Defense teacher who knows what he’s doing."

Snape’s eyes flicked sideways, and McGonagall muttered under her breath, "Honestly, Albus, how could we have let this happen?"

The healer turned sharply toward her. "Letting dementors around children – it’s madness! Exposure like that can leave lasting trauma. What were they thinking, giving them free roam of the train?"

"It wasn’t our decision," professor Snape said, tone clipped. "The Ministry insisted."

"Insisted or not, they weren’t meant to be inside the carriages," madam Pomfrey snapped. "They should be kept off school grounds entirely."

Professor McGonagall shook her head. "I’ll be bringing this up with the Headmaster directly."

Snape gave Esther and Daphne a hard look – measuring, but not unkind. "You’re both certain you’re alright?"

"Yes, sir," they answered almost in unison.

Snape gave a short nod.

“Winky,” he called and a small house-elf appeared, with a tray holding two mugs of steaming hot drink. "Drink," Snape instructed. "Then join your House tables."

Madam Pomfrey crossed her arms. "And I want you both in the Hospital Wing tomorrow morning. These things leave marks we don’t always see."

Esther nodded. As they accepted the mugs and turned toward the Great Hall, she sneaked a glance at Daphne. Her friend was sipping carefully, her other hand pressed to her stomach as though grounding herself. The color hadn’t yet returned to her cheeks.

By the time they entered the Great Hall, Esther felt the weight of the day settle in her bones. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the stormy sky above, low clouds rolling like restless thoughts. Candles floated gently overhead, casting golden pools of light across the long house tables.

She followed Daphne to the Slytherin table, the familiar green and silver banners offering a thin comfort. They slid into their usual seats near the center. Esther didn’t look toward the Gryffindor table, but she could feel it at the corner of her awareness.

Students chatted animatedly all around them, eager to share their summer stories or whisper about Sirius Black, who had already become something of a ghost story. A few glances were thrown their way – hers and Daphne’s – but nothing more.

Until Draco appeared.

He dropped onto the bench across from them with a practiced, lazy grace and immediately leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. Esther absently though how it would displease their mother.

"Is it true?" he asked, voice pitched just low enough not to draw attention from the rest of the table. "That you were with Potter on the train?"

Esther didn’t look at him. "Perhaps."

"I thought maybe you hit your head," Draco continued. "Only explanation for seeking out the company of the Golden Boy."

"Maybe I wanted to see what all the fuss was about," she said coolly, finally meeting his gaze.

Across from her, Pansy Parkinson made a soft, sharp sound.

"Be careful, Esther," she said with false sweetness. "They might think you’re turning."

Daphne rolled her eyes. "Not everyone’s obsessed with house lines, Parkinson."

"No," Esther said dryly, "just with Potter."

Draco opened his mouth to respond but Daphne interjected without looking at him, voice mild. "Honestly, your obsession with Potter is truly beginning to worry me."

Esther smirked softly, lowering her fork.

"Is there something you want to tell us, Draco?" Daphne added, now looking directly at her brother with innocent curiosity that masked her teasing.

Draco flushed, his darkening. Before he had a chance to talk, he was interrupted by the sudden dimming of the enchanted ceiling and the quiet hush that fell across the hall as the doors opened. The first years were entering.

Esther folded her hands neatly in her lap, expression smooth once more, but tension lingered in the line of her shoulders. She listened as names were called and students sorted.

But her thoughts wandered – to the cold that had sunk into her skin on the train, to Lupin's eyes as they met hers, and to Harry Potter's voice, taut and certain when he’d told her to get inside.

She wasn't used to people placing themselves in front of her like that. Not without expecting something in return. She couldn’t hold back a scoff. How very Gryffendor of him, really.

Esther watched the Sorting with polite detachment. She remembered her own Sorting well enough: the hushed whispers, the weight of the hat pressing over her ears, the feeling of dread in her stomach when the stupid hat started talking about courage of heart. Luckily for her, she was sorted in Slytherin, even though there was a single moment she doubted that she will.

She didn’t look up again until the last student was Sorted and Dumbledore rose from his golden chair.

"Welcome," he said, arms spread, voice carrying easily over the crowd. "To another year at Hogwarts. Before we enjoy our feast, a few announcements."

The usual reminders followed – the Forbidden Forest was, as ever, forbidden. Filch had added a few new items to his ever-growing list of banned objects. Peeves had already flooded a corridor.

"And," Dumbledore continued, "we are pleased to welcome Professor Remus Lupin, who will be taking over Defense Against the Dark Arts this year."

Polite applause scattered around the room.

Professor Lupin was seated to the left of Dumbledore. He looked even more tired than he did on the train, hid expression was kind but distant. Esther tilted her head slightly, observing him with the kind of mild curiosity she reserved for books she hadn't decided whether or not to read.

"And finally," Dumbledore said, his tone dropping just slightly in gravity, "as you are all no doubt aware, the Ministry has stationed dementors around the school in response to the escape of Sirius Black."

A ripple of unease spread across the tables. Esther felt, rather than saw, a subtle shift beside her. She turned slightly, just in time to see Draco’s shoulders stiffen and his fingers clench briefly on the table. He glanced her way, and when he saw her looking, quickly looked away.

Daphne, who had been absently running circles over the ring of her mug, caught the same exchange. Her hand brushed Esther’s under the table.

The feast appeared magically a moment later, filling the tables with platters of roast beef, bowls of potatoes, jugs of pumpkin juice, and freshly baked rolls. Students erupted into excited chatter.

Esther just turned back to her plate. Her appetite had dulled.

 

Chapter 3: it is always good to be back at hogwarts

The first weeks of term passed in the familiar, oddly comforting blur of Hogwarts routine.

It always took a few days for the castle to settle, for students to fall back into the rhythm of classes, moving staircases, and parchment-strewn common rooms. But for Esther, the transition was seamless. Hogwarts—with its high ceilings and enchanted windows, its steaming meals and late library hours—was safer than home in a way that still surprised her.

The weight that had curled tight in her chest since the train had lessened, if only slightly. 

She and Daphne had long ago made their choices for third-year electives, and they had made them properly. In the end of May, just days before the term ended, they had approached Professor Snape with their course lists in hand, not wanting to waste time on unnecessary things. He had one look at their lists and nodded with approval, which was enough for them. 

Now, a week into the new term, she was glad for their choices. Ancient Runes was more straightforward than she’d expected—structured and meticulous. It made sense to her in a way that was almost calming. The translations were like puzzles, and she liked puzzles.

Arithmancy was harder. The kind of class that gave you a headache if you didn’t sleep well the night before. The equations had a way of sliding out of focus if you didn’t pay close attention, and even Granger—the perfect know-it-all—had frowned more than once at her notes. But she never complained. There was a satisfaction in learning something difficult and getting it right.

Most of Slytherin seemed to follow their lead. Their year had become unusually crowded in both electives—Esther had noticed more familiar green-and-silver ties in Arithmancy than she’d expected, and even more in Runes. It wasn’t really surprising – students of their house usually consulted with professor Snape about things like that. He was surprisingly thoughtful about it.

From what Esther had overheard in the corridors, Divination was already becoming a joke. Granger had already rolled her eyes about it more than once in Esther’s hearing, and even the Ravenclaws looked unimpressed.

She couldn’t help but feel a little smug.

But nothing could beat Potions.

Esther loved the class more than she was willing to admit. It wasn’t just about following instructions or memorizing ingredients — it was the precision, the quiet focus, the slow bloom of colors in the cauldron that made it feel more like art than science. There was something deeply calming about brewing — something that made the noise in her head go still.

She sat in her usual spot beside Daphne during their Friday double Potions with the Ravenclaws. Snape strode into the dungeon, robes billowing behind him, and gave them the assignment — a Strengthening Solution, relatively simple but requiring careful timing.

As always, Esther’s notes were immaculate. Her ingredients were pre-measured, her flame just right. Daphne, on the other hand, was already sighing as she chopped gingerroot too casually, muttering, “I still think this entire class smells like a musty apothecary.”

They were the first to finish — well, Esther was. Daphne was close enough, though mostly because Esther had quietly nudged her toward the right steps when she started to veer off track. Snape passed by their table, glanced into Esther’s cauldron, and gave a single approving nod.

“Ten points to Slytherin,” he said.

Esther sat a little straighter. Daphne smirked at her, which made her narrow her eyes.

“Shut up,” she muttered under her nose, and then raised her hand to catch Snape’s attention.

“Yes, miss Malfoy?”

“I have a few questions, sir. I did some additional reading over the summer, and… I was hoping to ask about a few things that weren’t covered in the textbook. Would this be a good time?”

Snape studied her for a long moment. Then his gaze dropped to the parchment in front of her.

“How many questions?”

Esther glanced down at her notes. “Twelve, Professor.”

Snape’s eyebrow rose, almost imperceptibly. “And the assigned readings weren’t enough for you, miss Malfoy?”

She felt heat creeping up her face, and really, really hoped that it wasn’t visible. 

“Summer was long, sir.”

He looked at her for a long moment, and Esther curled her fingers on her skirt to stop herself from fidgeting.

“Leave them on my desk,” he said finally. “I will look at them after class.”

Esther nodded quickly and murmured a quiet, “Thank you, sir,” before ducking her head and returning to her notes. Daphne shot her a look but didn’t say anything.

She was really glad to be back at Hogwarts. The castle was a home to her in a way Malfoy Manor had never been. But, of course, something was supposed to happen. Things were never easy here.

She and Daphne hadn’t been able to take Care of Magical Creatures—not with Arithmancy scheduled at the same hour. It had taken them weeks to make the decision, weighing the usefulness of each subject like it were a matter of life and death, but in the end, Arithmancy had won. They both were quite upset about it, but their first Arithmancy lesson made them feel better, especially after they learned what happened during the Care of Magical Creatures.

The news had spread fast.

By dinner, half the castle knew what had happened in the clearing near Hagrid’s hut: how the new professor had brought in Hippogriff, how Potter had ridden it, and how Draco—of course—had managed to insult the creature and ended up in the Hospital Wing with a wounded arm and the perfect excuse to complain for days.

Esther hadn’t even been surprised.

She and Daphne were sitting toward the end of the Slytherin table at Great Hall, textbooks and parchment spread in front of them, half-finished Arithmancy homework between them.

Daphne’s quill hovered above her notes. 

“He’s still going on about it,” she muttered without looking up.

Esther didn’t need to ask who.

Across the table, her brother was surrounded by a sympathetic cluster of third- and fourth-years, dramatically cradling his bandaged arm as he regaled them—again—with the story of how he had nearly lost a limb.

“Madam Pomfrey said it might never heal properly,” he was saying, voice just loud enough to carry. “Father’s already written to the Ministry. That idiot won’t last the month.”

Daphne rolled her eyes and looked at Esther pointedly. “I thought you said he only had a scratch.”

“He did.” Esther didn’t bother lowering her voice. “He milked it for three hours before Madam Pomfrey made him leave.”

“Of course he did,” Daphne said, flicking her eyes toward her friend. “Merlin, someone should have hexed him into silence by now.”

Esther didn’t answer. She just tapped the end of her quill against her parchment and tried not to sigh. The truth was, she’d been worried at first—Draco’s pain had looked real, the blood was real—but now, watching him dramatically shift his bandages for the third time in ten minutes, she found herself wishing he’d lose his voice before his arm.

There had always been tension between Daphne and Draco. It hadn’t faded with age.

Esther had grown used to walking the line between them—defending Draco when she had to, staying quiet when she couldn’t. But lately, it was harder. Lately, it felt like the more she tried to keep the peace, the more she ended up feeling like a bystander in her own house. Draco didn’t really care that much about Daphne. There wasn’t really anything he could do to her, no matter how much influence Lucius had. But her best friend hated her brother with the cold fury that just became stronger with each year. Defending Draco was getting harder and harder. Daphne was born into the family that cherished grace and elegance. For her Draco is nothing but a spoiled brat, which isn’t really wrong but still. He was Esther’s brother. He was her closest friend before Daphne, and he had always been her only solace at Malfoy Manor. She didn’t know how to explain it to Daphne.

A flurry of movement across the hall caught Esther’s attention.

Seamus Finnegan came charging through the entrance with a piece of parchment clutched in one hand. 

“He’s here!” he shouted. “He’s here! He’s here!”

A hush rippled through the room, heads turning, necks craning. Esther’s stomach tightened.

“What’s he on about now?” Daphne asked, sitting straighter.

Chris Tennent—a fifth-year Slytherin slid into the bench near them, dropping a copy of the Daily Prophet with a loud slap onto the table.

“Dufftown,” he said, tapping the headline with one finger. “Sirius Black was spotted there.”

Esther’s eyes flicked down to the grainy moving photo of a shadowy figure vanishing between buildings. Then, instinctively, she looked up and across the table—to where Draco had gone oddly quiet. He wasn’t looking at the paper.

He was looking at her. 

Only for a moment. Then he blinked and looked away, rearranging his sleeve like it mattered more than the story unfurling in front of them.

Esther turned back to the parchment, her heart suddenly beating faster for reasons she couldn’t name.

 

The corridor outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom buzzed with low chatter. Esther walked a step behind Daphne, her bag slung across one shoulder, watching the flicker of torchlight on the walls as they turned the corner.

Draco was already there, leaning against the wall with the familiar indolence of someone pretending not to care. Parkinson stood a little too close, that lovesick look on her face, telling him something her brother clearly wasn’t interested enough to listen. 

Blaise Zabini gave Esther a nod in passing, then took up position a few paces away, starting conversation with Daphne. Those two were friends even longer then her and Esther, which was telling. She hesitated for a moment. Then, without looking at Daphne, she stepped forward.

“Draco.”

His eyes flicked toward her, cool and unreadable. Her stomach twitched unpleasantly but she ignored it, just like she ignored Parkinson who shot an annoyed look at her. 

As if she needed permission to talk to her own brother.

She kept her voice quiet. “How’s your arm?”

Draco shifted slightly, the sleeve of his robes tugging as he crossed his arms. “Better.”

“You sure?” she asked gently, glancing down at his wrist. “You’ve been… quieter than usual.”

He finally met her eyes, grey just like hers. That was the only similar trait that they shared. 

“I’m fine.”

It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t even rude. But the words closed the door between them just the same.

Esther stood there for a moment longer, unsure if she should push. He hadn’t looked angry. Just tired. She could feel the air vibrating with tension between them and she hated it. Her and Draco had always been close. They had their differences and they had their silent arguments. Draco was insufferable sometimes and Esther – too stubborn, but there was never the distance between them like the one that she started to notice since the beginning of the summer. 

“I only asked because—” she began, but he was already glancing away.

“You don’t have to, Esther,” he said, almost too softly to be heard. “Really.”

And that was the end of it.

She returned to Daphne’s side in silence, her face neutral, but her fingers curled tighter around the strap of her bag. Daphne didn’t say anything but she clearly picked up her mood – her gaze followed Draco for a moment too long before she turned away.

The classroom door opened with a low creak, and Professor Lupin waved them inside.

He was… odd, Professor Lupin. The older students were very satisfied with his lessons – even ones for her House, which was very telling. She heard Eleanor Davis saying that he is the best professor of Defense they’ve ever had, and, well, she couldn’t disagree.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted them with a small, lopsided smile. “Would you please put all your books back in your bags. Today will be a practical lesson. You will need only your wants.”

His classroom smelled faintly of wood polish and old parchment. It was warmer than most rooms in the castle, with soft sunlight streaming through tall, grimy windows that Lupin—unlike most professors—left open whenever the weather allowed.

His robes were a little frayed at the sleeves, and he always looked slightly tired, but there was something steady and kind in the way he moved. His face was always open and his smile was welcoming.

Esther liked him more than she’d expected to. Maybe more than she should have.

He didn’t treat them like they were breakable, but he didn’t underestimate them either. His lessons were practical, his explanations clear, and his manner strangely… human. He talked with them very simple. That was the word. Snape was brilliant, but he always seemed like he was speaking to his own thoughts more than to anyone else. Esther didn’t mind, she never had trouble following him, but she knows that others – even from her House – sometimes were struggling.

Professor Lupin clapped his hands lightly to get their attention.

“Can anyone tell me what a Boggart is?”

Several hands shot up immediately but Esther wasn’t one of them. She had no intention of drawing attention to herself today. Her gaze had drifted to the tall, narrow wardrobe standing at the back of the room — the one that rattled faintly as though something inside was waiting.

And then she made the mistake of looking up.

Lupin’s eyes met hers — calm, expectant — and she realized, a second too late, that he had chosen her.

Esther’s lips parted, her voice coming more naturally than she expected. “A Boggart is a shape-shifter. It takes the form of whatever scares you most.”

“Excellent, Estheri,” Lupin said with an encouraging nod. She flinched slightly. The only person who called her Esterhi was Lucius. “And where do Boggarts like to live?” She relaxed when he finally turned away from her. “Parvati?”

“Oh…er… dark, enclosed spaces?” She answered nervously and Professor Lupin nodded.

“Exactly! Yes, they love to live in places like wardrobes, under beds, cupboards – I once met one that had lodged itself in a grandfather clock,” she heard Daphne humming softly under her nose. “ This one moved in yesterday afternoon, and I asked the headmaster if the staff would leave it to give my third years some practice,” Lupin continued. “So we know where a Boggart likes to live, and what it is! We currently have a huge advantage over the boggart before we begin. Have you spotted what it is, Harry?” He asked, turning to Potter.

“Er- there are a lot of people, so It doesn’t know what shape to take. So it gets confused?”

“Precisely!” Professor Lupin said proudly. “And who knows what can finish a boggart?”

“Laughter,” answered Daphne quickly before Granger could have a chance to rise her hand. “Laughter can defeat a boggart.” 

“Very good, miss Greengrass,” Lupin said, smiling. That was another curious thing about him, she noticed. He called most of the student by their names, mostly kids from Gryffindor, but he referred to Teo as “Mr. Nott”. She would think it was a prejudice against their House, but she knew that he referred some students in Ravenclaw by their last names as well. She is not sure what made him think she was okay to be referred by her name. (Even though he was right.)

He stepped closer to the rattling wardrobe. The sound had grown louder now, steady and scraping like nails against wood.

“Now,” he continued, “the charm that repels a Boggart is simple, but it requires concentration. The word is Riddikulus. Repeat after me: Riddikulus.”

A chorus of voices echoed around the room.

“ Riddikulus.”

“Again.”

“ Riddikulus!”

She mouthed the word silently.

“Good, very good! But that is the easy part, I’m afraid. You see, the word alone is not enough, and that is where you come in Neville,” he said, looking at Longbottom. The boy in question flinched, the color draining from his face.

“M-me, sir?”

“Yes, Neville.” Lupin’s voice was kind, but firm. “Come here, please. Just stand over by me.”

He obeyed, though he looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. He clutched his wand like a lifeline.

“Now, Neville,” Lupin said gently, “can you tell me what frightens you most?” Longbottom mumbles something softly, his eyes on the floor. “Didn’t catch that, Neville, sorry.”

“Professor Snape,” he said, this time loud enough for everyone to hear. The room immediately filled with laughter.

“Yeah, I imagine he would,” said Daphne, but it wasn’t cruel. Esther nodded - the hatred that the Head of their House had for the boy made uneasy even some in Slytherin.

“Hmm, yes, he frightens all,” Professor Lupin said with a teasing note in his voice that drew scattered laughter. Even Esther allowed herself a small smile.

She watched Longbottom closely as Lupin turned to him. His round face was pale, and he looked like he wanted to sink through the floor.

“Neville, I believe you live with your grandmother?”

“I don’t want the Boggart to turn into her either!” he burst out.

Daphne snorted softly beside her. “Now that would be a sight,” she murmured under her breath, earning a nudge from Esther.

Lupin held up a calming hand. “It won’t,” he said, “but I want you to picture her clothes—only her clothes—very clearly in your mind. Can you do that?”

The boy gave a shaky nod. “She carries a red handbag—”

“We don’t need to hear it,” Lupin said kindly. “If you see it, we will.”

Esther’s fingers curled tighter around her wand. Her eyes drifted toward the wardrobe again, the door rattling faintly, the sound like breath caught behind wood.

“Now,” Lupin continued, leaning down slightly so only Longbottom could hear, “when I open this wardrobe, here’s what I want you to do…”

Whatever he said next was lost to the class. Longbottom nodded again, still visibly nervous, but this time with something that looked like determination beneath the fear.

“You can do this, Neville,” Lupin said warmly, stepping back. “Wand at the ready!”

With a flick of Lupin’s wand, the wardrobe door burst open—and Professor Snape strode out, all black robes and menacing glare. He looked truly terrifying.

The Boggart Snape stalked forward.

Longbottom’s wand trembled in his hand.

“Think, Neville, think!” Lupin called out.

“R-r-riddikulus!” he stammered.

The boggart stumbled backwards, his robes melting into a hideous green dress that hung all the way to the floor. A large, feathered hat perched on his head—was that a stuffed vulture?—and a bright red handbag swung from one arm.

There was a beat of stunned silence… and then the class exploded with laughter.

Esther pressed her hand to her mouth, surprised by her own laugh bubbling up. She caught Daphne shaking her head with a crooked smile, eyes sparkling.

Lupin gave a flick of his wand, and suddenly, a cheerful, jazzy tune filled the room, bouncing off the stone walls like sunlight.

“I want everyone to form a line!” he called out, raising his voice over the sound of laughter and music.

There was a scramble—books thudded to the floor, elbows jostled ribs, and shoes scuffed loudly as students rushed to comply. Weasley tried to retreat further into the crowd but ended up right at the front of the line.

“Ron! Forward!” Lupin said brightly, gesturing for him to step up.

Esther stood near the back, wand in hand, her fingers warm where they curled around the handle. The air in the room still buzzed faintly with the last burst of jazz from Lupin’s spell. A few students were still chuckling, but the closer it got to her, the more distant the noise felt.

She wasn’t nervous, not really. Just… unsure.

What would it become, when it was her turn?

She glanced sideways at Daphne. Her friend’s expression was smooth as ever, poised and calm — but Esther had known her long enough to recognize the tension in her spine. She wasn’t afraid of many things — at least not things she admitted — but Esther remembered a summer years ago, when they were both nine, wandering along the grounds of Greengrass Manor while the adults were inside.

They’d heard screaming.

High, desperate, and unmistakably Astoria’s.

Esther remembered the rush of it — how Daphne had sprinted ahead, hair streaming behind her, how they found Astoria thrashing in the deep bend of the stream that cut through the edge of the garden. One foot tangled in weeds, the current pulling her under, her face barely breaking the surface.

Daphne had turned white — not pale, but white , as if the blood had vanished from her entirely. And yet she didn’t freeze. She and Esther had dragged Astoria out together, their shoes soaked, arms burning, hands trembling. Astoria coughed and sobbed and clung to them both.

They never talked about it afterward. But Esther still remembered the way Daphne had stared at the water for the rest of the day, as if it might rise up and steal something else from her.

She wondered, briefly, what Draco’s would be.

Esther knew that he didn’t fear failure the way others did — he feared being humiliated. Being seen as weak. But she can’t be sure. No matter how close they were they didn’t talk about feelings.

There was also her mother. She didn’t like the sight of blood. Esther learned this when she was ten and she felt down the stairs –not badly, just enough to skin her knee. But her mother flinched when she saw it and she hugged Esther longer than usual after it.

Her hand twitched on her wand.

What about her?

The first thing that came to mind — almost automatically — was flying. Her stomach clenched at the thought. The instability, the blur of motion, the sickening weightlessness. Brooms had never felt like freedom to her.

But was that really the worst of it?

Her eyes fell to the floor. The stones were warm with light, but the heat didn’t reach her skin.

Then, unbidden, a sharper thought crept in — not an image, but a sensation.

A gaze. Cold and calculating. The slight narrowing of pale eyes above a smirk that never reached the mouth. The exact timbre of a voice saying her name like it was a leash.

“Estheri.”

She flinched.

Not him. She didn’t want the Boggart to become him.

She hadn’t noticed how close she’d gotten to the front until she looked up.

“Harry!” Lupin called, gesturing him forward.

Esther glanced sideways as Potter stepped up, laughter still present on his face. It was gone the moment boggart focused on him.

A chill swept over the classroom so sudden that Esther felt it deep in her chest, as if the warmth had been snuffed out from inside her. She knew the feeling.

Tall, cloaked, faceless figure stood in front of them. There was no mistaking what it was.

She heard Daphne’s sharp inhale behind her and felt her finger curling on her arm.

Potter’s back stiffened, his hands clenched at his sides.

The Dementor drifted toward him, impossibly silent. The air around it thickened.

But then, with sharp swiftness, Lupin stepped forward. He moved between them and raised his wand without hesitation.

“Riddikulus!”

There was a sudden, loud crack. The Dementor vanished in a twist of smoke — replaced by a silvery white orb hovering midair, spinning and letting out a soft, high whistle like escaping steam.

Esther blinked, confused.

Lupin’s voice carried again: “Right, that’s enough for today!”

She took a deep breath, leaning back to Daphne, noises around her slowly fading.

She wasn’t sure whether she was glad she didn’t get to face the boggart or not.

 

To no one’s surprise, Defense Against the Dark Arts had become the most talked-about class in the castle. Even among Slytherins — who usually preferred their opinions tightly kept — there were muttered compliments passed around with a kind of careful neutrality, as if saying anything too enthusiastic might cost them points.

Esther spent most of her time with quill in hand.

Arithmancy had a way of sinking its hooks into her — dense enough to demand her full attention, exacting enough to be worth the effort. Daphne, surprisingly, had taken to it too.

One evening in the common room, parchment scattered across the low table between them, Esther exhaled sharply and nudged Daphne’s ink bottle with her wand.

“This subject makes me feel like my brain’s trying to fold in on itself,” she muttered.

Her friend didn’t look up. “That’s because you keep skipping the formulas.”

“No, it’s because you keep copying them like you’re writing scripture.” Esther leaned back in her chair. “If I go cross-eyed, I’m blaming you.”

Daphne smirked faintly and underlined another equation. “I’ll make sure your epitaph includes all your miscalculations.”

“You’re hilarious,” she answered, but her heart swelled inside her chest. She liked this routine they had. She cherished every moment with Daphne and here, at Hogwarts she felt it even more.

She had also started giving more attention to Herbology than she usually did — not because she liked the plants, exactly, but because she was gonna need it in the future. The difference between a successful potion and a ruined one sometimes came down to knowing how a leaf should feel before it’s brewed. She wasn’t going to waste points on something she could fix with a little focus and clean gloves.

The castle itself had begun to settle into the familiar cadence of autumn. The fireplaces were lit earlier now, the common room quieter in the evenings, and even the staircases seemed to creak a little slower.

It was peaceful. The familiarity of it made her feel at ease in a way the walls at Malfoy Manor could never.

Then the Hogsmeade announcement came — and within an hour, no one was talking about anything else.

The morning of the trip was loud and messy, air vibrating with excitement.

Esther stood at the edge of the path, her breath visible in the morning chill, watching as students lined up for the short walk down to the village. Their boots crunched against frost-dusted ground, and a ripple of chatter moved through the crowd like wind through leaves.

She pulled her cloak tighter, her fingers catching briefly on the silver clasp near her collarbone. Daphne stood in front of her, linking arms with Blaise. They had decided to spent a few hours with the boys and then met up somewhere for the rest of the trip. So here she was waiting patiently for her brother to be done with Potter – as always – so they could go.

“Are you done?” Esther asked, her tone flat but laced with just enough irritation to make a point.

Draco appeared beside her hands in his pockets, the wind tugging at the hem of his cloak. His cheeks were pink from the cold, and his expression still held the smugness of whatever he’d just said to Potter.

“For now,” he replied coolly. “Until next time.”

Esther rolled her eyes and finally looked at him. “You know, you could go one day without obsessing over him. Just once. As an experiment.”

“That wouldn’t be any fun,” he scoffed but there was no real bite to his voice. He tilted his head slightly toward the path ahead. “Shall we?”

She fell into step beside him, their cloaks brushing together in the breeze. The rest of the students were already flowing down the hill in twos and threes, laughter spilling out behind them as the village came into view below — rooftops dusted with leaves, windows glowing softly with golden light, and curls of smoke rising from distant chimneys.

She couldn’t wait to come back her in winter.

They walked in silence for a while, their boots crunching over frozen ground. It wasn’t an awkward silence — not really. Just the kind they had grown into.

“So,” Draco said at last, glancing at her sideways. “Honeydukes first, or should we look for Mother’s present?”

Esther smirked. “Sweets first. Then jewelry. You promised.”

Draco made a dramatic sigh and rolled his eyes. “Right. The things I endure.”

“You endure nothing,” Esther said, bumping his shoulder lightly. There was something heavy under her ribs, making her to slip her hand in his, cuddle close to him. But she knew better. Draco wasn’t affectionate like that.

Honeydukes was packed, as expected.

Warm air rushed over Esther as she stepped inside, brushing the cold from her cheeks and filling her nose with the scent of sugar and cocoa. The shop was crowded with students, voices overlapping, cloaks tugged out of the way as hands reached for jars, boxes, and sweets on high shelves.

It was too crowded for her liking but she was wiling to tolerate it just today.

Esther weaved through the line of people, pausing here and there to glance at a label or quietly admire a particularly artful display of truffles. She wasn’t in a hurry. She rarely was when it came to chocolate.

Her fingers hovered over a narrow box near the back — dark cherry cordials, just out for the colder season. Her favorite. She was reaching for it when a hand passed beside her and plucked it first.

She turned, ready to frown, but Draco was already holding out a paper bag toward her.

“I already got them,” he said simply.

She blinked. “You didn’t have to.”

“It was nothing.”

She took the bag. It was warm from his hand.

“I was only gone a minute,” she said, more to herself than to him.

Draco shrugged. “Figured you’d go straight for the cherries.”

Esther looked at him for a moment. There was no teasing in his face. It was unusually open and his eyes were soft. She felt her heart swell inside her chest.

“Thanks,” she said, slipping the bag into her cloak pocket.

“Mm.” He glanced around the shop. “It’s getting loud in here.”

She nodded in agreement, falling into step beside him as they moved back toward the door. Outside, the cold greeted them like a splash of water.

“Jewelry next?” she asked.

Draco gave her a look. “Is this the part where you make me help you pick something sparkly?”

“No,” she said. “This is the part where we choose something for mother. Together.”

He didn’t argue. Just tipped his chin toward the main road. “Lead the way, then.”

The shop that Clara – a girl in their sixth year – told her about sat tucked between a bookshop and an old tea room, its display windows fogged slightly from the warmth inside. Soft candlelight glowed through the glass, catching on gold and silver pieces laid out like fragments of stars. 

No one else was inside but a shopkeeper in a high-collared vest who gave them a polite nod and returned to his ledger.

Esther wandered past a case of brooches, her eyes skimming over emeralds and pearl-inlaid pins. Most of it wasn’t to her taste — too decorative, too delicate — but it was beautiful all the same.

Near the far wall, a set of simple hair clips caught her eye. Small, decorative, polished silver. The kind of thing Narcissa would never wear — and neither would she.

Still, she plucked one up and tucked it lightly into her hair with an almost exaggerated gesture. Then turned to Draco with a raised brow.

“Well?” she asked, voice flat with mock seriousness. “What do you think?”

Draco didn’t even blink. His gaze was steady, unmoved by her tone.

“You always look beautiful,” he said, like it wasn’t even a question.

She blinked, not expecting his honest answer, even though this wasn’t the first time Draco complimented her.

“Alright,” she murmured, her lips twitching upward. “Let’s find something for mother.”

They moved toward the front display, where a set of silver necklaces was arranged on dark velvet. Esther leaned in, more serious now, scanning with a thoughtful eye.

“She won’t wear anything too bold,” Draco said.

“I know. I’m thinking… maybe something with grey pearl. Or moonstone.”

He nodded once. “That works.”

Draco was surprisingly attentive about things like that. He knew what kind of jewellery she and their mother preferred, which sort of tea Lucius liked the best. One won’t expect it but he was very good at knowing small things about their family.

After a few minutes, they settled on a narrow silver chain with a smoky quartz pendant — elegant, understated, expensive enough without looking it.

Draco signaled the clerk with a nod, and while the necklace was wrapped, he leaned in just slightly.

“I’d already picked father’s present, but maybe we should get him some sweets as well. Licorice maybe.”

Esther smiled. Lucius hated licorice.

“Sure.”

 

Chapter 4: they really let a werewolf into the school

Notes:

i wanted this chapter to be longer but the next part kinda change the whole vibe of this chapter, so i had to compromise🥲
next chapter is where plot is starting, i promise!

Esther woke to a strange stillness in the dormitory. No rustling, no chatter, not even Parkinson's annoying voice. Just filtered light from the lake outside and Phobos' soft purring.

Daphne was already by the mirror, brushing her hair, a thoughtful furrow between her brows. Her face lightened up when she saw she is awake.

"Morning," she said, putting aside the brush.

"Morning," Esther replied, running her fingers through her cat's black fur. "Where are the others?"

"They were already gone when I woke up," Daphne said. "I think something happened at night? They were pretty agitated."

Esther frowned and shivered slightly when her bare feet touched the floor. She had no desire to leave her warm bed and she certainly didn't want to do her hair. She hated that morning routine of hers, but her mother really didn't like when they were loose, so Esther always woke up early to do her hair.

They made their way into the common room where the usual early-morning stillness was missing. Instead small clusters of students sat near the hearth, talking in low voices.

Blaise and Theo were waiting near the entrance. Both looked as well put together as ever, though there was a spark of interest in their eyes that hadn't been there the night before.

"What's going on?" Esther asked, joining them.

Theo was the one who answered. "Apparently, Black got into the castle."

Esther blinked. "What?"

"Last night," Blaise added, voice quieter than usual. "He went after Gryffindor Tower. Fat Lady wouldn't let him in, so he – well – slashed her portrait. Tore the canvas clean."

"She's still refusing to come back out," Theo added, tilting his head. "They had to bring in one of the old portraits from storage. Poor stand-in, apparently."

Esther stared at them. "And no one saw him?"

"Not even a glimpse," Blaise said, his brow lifting slightly. "Which is impressive. Considering the number of wards on this place."

Daphne folded her arms. "How did he even got in? Past the Dementors, again..."

Theo glanced sideways at her. "Makes you wonder what else he could do, doesn't it?"

"They made the Gryffindors sleep in the Great Hall," Blaise said, almost like a side note.

 Esther frowned. "All of them?"

 He nodded. "Whole House. Just in case."

 As they started walking toward breakfast, the four of them kept close together, moving with the crowd filtering through the lower corridors. Students buzzed with half-confirmed details and rumors, voices low and eager.

They passed a few Ravenclaws near the marble staircase — one of them was whispering about Azkaban, her face pale and scared.

Theo exhaled slowly. "Everyone knows he's after Potter."

"Expect for Potter, apparently," said Blaise. "What I heard from Draco, he has no idea."

Esther glanced down the corridor ahead, while Daphne arched a brow. 

"And how does Draco know that?"

"No idea," he shrugged.

"Well, Potter's always in the middle of something," Theo muttered.

"Even he is not stupid enough to go after a murderer," said Esther, though she wasn't really sure. It's not like she knew Potter but it was a common sense.

The Great Hall was already filled with student when they stepped inside. She was halfway to the Slytherin table when Draco stepped out from nowhere.

"Are you alright?" he asked sharply.

She blinked. "Yes?"

He looked her over quickly, as if checking for something only he could see. "Nothing happened last night?"

"No," Esther said slowly. "What was supposed to happen?"

Draco didn't answer immediately. He just glanced behind her — at Daphne, maybe, or at the rest of the students pouring in.

"Good. Stay close to Greengrass today."

Esther frowned. "What—?"

But he was already turning away, walking briskly toward his usual spot like the conversation hadn't even happened.

Daphne looked just as confused as she did.

"What was that?"

"I have no idea," Esther said, feeling uneasy all of the sudden.

---

They arrived outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom just before the bell rang.

Esther expected to see Lupin's slightly rumpled figure leaning in the doorway or adjusting the sleeves of his robes — but instead, a darker silhouette stood waiting.

Professor Snape.

He didn't look at them as they approached, only turned and stalked into the classroom with his usual billow of robes. The Slytherins — well-trained by now — murmured a collective, "Good morning, Professor," as they followed him inside. No one questioned his presence.

Esther exchanged a quick glance with Daphne, who shrugged almost imperceptibly. It was odd, yes, but not unheard of. Professors fell ill. Even Lupin.

The Gryffindors began trickling in behind them, faces a mix of confusion and suspicion.

They had barely pulled out their notes when the door banged open. Potter stepped in, hair windblown and robes half-buttoned inside. 

"Sorry I'm late, Professor Lupin, I–“

"This lesson began ten minutes ago, Potter, so I think we'll make it ten points from Gryffindor. Sit down."

Potter didn't move.

"Where's Professor Lupin?" he said. Professor Snape's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"He says he is feeling too ill to teach today," he said with a twisted smile. "I believe I told you to sit down?"

But Potter stayed where he was.

"What's wrong with him?" 

Esther's eyes widened in disbelief. Perhaps her previous observation about him was wrong, and Potter, indeed, was that stupid.

"Nothing life-threatening," Snape said, looking as though he wished it was. "Five more points from Gryffindor, and if I have to ask you to sit down again, it will be fifty."

Potter finally shut up and walked slowly to his seat.

"As I was saying before Potter interrupted, Professor Lupin is unable to teach today," he said. "He has left no lesson plan. Fortunately, I am more than capable of filling in."

He paused.

"Open your books to page 394."

Esther flipped hers open. Her fingers paused over the heading: Werewolves.

"This subject was not scheduled until after the winter break," Snape said with disdain. "Clearly, your current instructor sees little value in proper structure."

Granger raised her hand almost immediately. Snape didn't acknowledge it.

"We will begin," he said coldly, "by discussing the distinction between a werewolf and an Animagus. Can anyone explain?"

Granger's hand rose higher.

Snape's eyes swept the room — and landed, predictably, on the Slytherins. He met Esther's gaze.

She raised her hand, and he gave her a nod.

"An Animagus transforms by choice," she said clearly. "It's a learned magical transformation — they keep their awareness. Werewolves transform involuntarily during the full moon. They lose control and become dangerous, even to people they know.“

Snape paced slowly in front of the blackboard. "And the potion used to mitigate that danger?" 

He didn't name anyone — just turned, expectantly.

Esther answered again, without waiting.

"Wolfsbane Potion," she said. "It doesn't cure lycanthropy, but if taken in time, it lets the person stay in their right mind during the transformation. It keeps them lucid, aware of their surroundings."

She hesitated.

The head of their House was watching her closely. He clearly wanted something from her.

"And?" he said.

Esther's mouth opened — and paused.

Wolfsbane. The timing. Lupin's sudden absence. Her own words still hanging in the air. 

The boggart. 

Oh.

She blinked. Snape's expression didn't change — but she saw the glint in his eyes. He knew she understood. And he was satisfied.

She swallowed once and added, "It's difficult to brew. One error can make it useless or toxic."

"Huh," Daphne said softly on her side, coming to the same conclusion that she did.

She heard Granger inhaling sharply behind.

Snape nodded once. "Ten points to Slytherin."

And then, with no pause: "And detention, Miss Malfoy. For reading ahead of the assigned material."

Esther stared at him.

"Excuse me?"

Everyone turned to look at her in disbelief. Estheri Malfoy never got a detention. She couldn't afford it, not with her family name looming over her.

"I expect students to follow the pace of the curriculum," Snape said, turning away. "Reading ahead shows a lack of respect for instructional order."

"But sir—" she started.

Daphne nudged her under the table, looking sharply at her, even though her brows were frowning. Let it go. 

Esther closed her mouth. Her face felt hot, but her voice stayed even.

"Yes, Professor."

Snape continued the lesson as if nothing had happened. Esther wrote the date at the top of her parchment in clean, sharp strokes — darker than usual, pressed too hard.

Daphne leaned closer and whispered, "He's clearly in a mood. Take the points. Let the detention go."

Esther didn't respond, anger still boiling inside her. 

Detention. Her. For reading the material ahead. What the bloody hell was wrong with him?! She did it all the time in Potion! Snape had never once said a word about it before. If anything, he encouraged it. Just last week, she'd slipped him two extra feet of parchment — notes and annotated questions about the Draught of Peace, a fifth-year-level potion they wouldn't cover for a while. She'd found a cross-reference in an old Herbology book and thought the contrast in sopophorous bean preparations was worth noting.

Snape had glanced over it, raised a single eyebrow, and handed it back with all the answers she needed. No comment. And certainly no detention.

So why now?

"You will each write an essay, to be handed in to me, on the ways you recognize and kill werewolves. I want two rolls of parchment on the subject, and I want them by Monday morning. It is time somebody took this class in hand. Miss Malfoy, stay behind, we need to arrange your detention.”

Just great.

The bell rang, and the students began to rise, shoving notes and books into their bags with varying levels of enthusiasm and grumbling.

Daphne paused beside her, glancing uncertainly between them.

Esther straightened slowly, watching her classmates trickle out. Potter shot her a confused glance as he passed. Granger looked like she might stay to eavesdrop, but one look from Snape sent her scuttling after Weasley.

Only once the room was empty did he speak again.

"You will report to my office at six this evening," he said, voice even but clipped. "I expect punctuality."

Esther blinked. "Yes, Professor. What exactly—?"

"You will assist me with reordering the Potions storeroom. There are ingredients that need to be logged, labeled, and returned to their proper places." He didn't look up as he pulled a ledger from his drawer. "Nothing particularly difficult. But it will require your full attention."

She hesitated. It wasn't... much of a punishment. In fact, it sounded like something she might enjoy if she weren't being made to do it under the title of detention.

Snape glanced at her finally. His expression was unreadable. 

"Do you understand your instructions?"

"Yes, sir."

He nodded once. 

"That will be all."

Esther turned and left, feeling the weight of his stare between her shoulder blades all the way to the corridor.

Daphne was waiting just outside the door. 

"Well?" she asked.

"He's making me help with ingredient sorting in the storeroom."

"That's it?" Daphne's brow furrowed.

"Apparently," Esther shrugged, confused just like her. 

"Well," she said, still uncertain. "It could've been worse. You would definitely enjoy doing it."

"Sure, if I didn't need to explain to Lucius why did I get a detention."

---

She would never admit it, but Esther could be really petty when she wanted to.

Like now — walking a little too loudly down the corridor, her shoes tapping pointedly against the stone just to remind the whole castle that yes, she had served her detention and no, she still didn't understand what for.

Her hair was still a little windswept from leaning over potion jars for over an hour. Her fingertips smelled like powdered sopophorous beans. And her mood was sour enough to curdle milk.

She rounded the corner near the staircase — and stopped short. 

Professor Lupin was there, halfway through locking the door to his office, a faint stack of parchment under one arm. He looked up at the sound of her footsteps, and his expression shifted at once from distracted to gentle.

"Ah, Estheri," he said. "Good evening."

She hesitated for a moment, before answering. "Good evening, Professor."

She wasn't sure how to act with him, especially now when she figured out his secret. It's not like she can just approach him with hey, Professor, just wanted to say that I know about your moony problem because, for some reasons, the Head of my House really doesn't like you.

“You are out late," he said, sending a quick glance at his watch.

"I just finished my detention," Esther answered, her sour mood coming back.

"Ah," he gave her a sympathetic look, which annoyed her even more. "I heard, yes. I wish I could cancel your detention but I'm afraid Professor Snape is the one who's handling it."

"It's alright, sir," she answered politely. There really wasn't anything anyone could have done, not with Snape. And it wasn't that bad really—she even got the chance to look at some of the ingredients she had only read about. 

Professor Lupin adjusted the stack of parchment under his arm and nodded toward the corridor. "Walk with me?" 

Esther blinked in surprise, but after a second, she nodded and fell into step beside him. They walked in a silence for a few paces, their footsteps echoing faintly on the stone floor. She felt uncomfortable, not sure what to do, fighting the urge to tap her fingers on her hip. It was one of her nervous habits that she tried really hard to get rid of because they immediately gave away her mood and she couldn't afford it. 

"You are doing quite well in Defense," he said after a while. "Your essays are very thorough."

She felt a small bloom of pride, even though the awkwardness remained inside. "Thank you, sir," and because she was taught to be polite and had learned how to please since a very young age, she added. "You are the most competent teacher we had so far. I think it has something to do with that."

"I'm sure it wasn't that bad," he answered, his eyes twinkling mischievously, making him look much younger. She shrugged. It was the truth—their previous experience with Defense teachers were horrible. It was a miracle how some of them even passed the exams.

"Are you feeling better now, Professor?" she asked, after a moment of hesitation. She and Daphne didn't get a chance to discuss the fact that their professor is a werewolf, and she wasn't sure how to feel about it. What was Dumbledore even thinking letting someone like that into the school full of kids? 

She shifted uncomfortably because that sounded too much like Lucius for her liking.

"I am well, thank you," Lupin answered just as politely, the spark in his eyes dimmed a little. But his smile was still there. Warm and welcoming. His brown eyes were looking at Esther with such fondness she felt bad for her own thoughts.  

When she figured that they were heading towards the dungeons the guilt only increased.

"I hope Professor Snape wasn't too harsh," Lupin said, after a moment of silence.

Esther hesitated. "It was fine," she said with careful neutrality. "Nothing difficult, really."

They reached the familiar stretch of cold stone outside the Slytherin common room — just a few feet from the entrance.

"I suppose this is your stop," Lupin said, offering her a soft smile. He was staring at her strangely—this was not the first time she noticed that. He tried to avoid looking at her face for some reason, but his gaze would flick to her eyes all the time. 

"Yes," Esther replied. She hesitated, her voice soft. "Thank you for walking me."

"It was a pleasure," he said gently. "Sleep well, Estheri."

Before she could respond, footsteps echoed from behind. A second later, Draco appeared at the entrance of their common room, eyes narrowing as they landed on her and Lupin.

He approached calmly — but there was tension in his shoulders, coiled and sharp like a drawn bowstring.

"Professor," he said with a polite nod, his voice cold.

"Mr. Malfoy," Lupin returned the nod. His voice was calm, matching her brother's but smile was still present on his face. For some reason, she immediately felt awkward, standing between the two of them.

Professor Lupin glanced back at Esther once, his expression still gentle — but more guarded now.

"Good night," he said simply, then turned and strode down the corridor, his footsteps fading into the quiet.

As soon as he disappeared from view, Draco rounded on her.

"What were you doing with him?"

Esther turned slowly, her expression flat. "I was coming back from my detention, and he kindly walked me here because it was late."

Draco's eyes narrowed. "That's it?"

"No, Draco," she said dryly. "We were plotting to overthrow the Ministry. Honestly."

He scowled. "Be more serious, Esther."

"There is nothing wrong with professor walking the student to her dorm, Draco. I don't understand why you are so upset."

His jaw clenched. "I'm not upset, I'm just saying — he's not—" He stopped himself.

"Not what?" Esther challenged, voice sharp. 

Draco went quiet. For a second, his expression betrayed something — a flicker of shame, maybe. Or worry.

Esther felt a hot wave of anger crashing over her. 

"What is going on, Draco? You've been acting weird since the beginning of the summer." 

He met her eyes, his face blank. "Nothing's going on. You should just be more careful about who you're associating with."

Her eyes flashed. "And you should remember mother's lessons about the manners."

Before he could respond, she turned sharply and walked toward the common room entrance. The wall opened at her command, revealing the dim, green-lit space beyond. She didn't look back.

Draco followed after a moment, his footsteps slower — but he said nothing more.

---

Time really flied fast here. Esther blinked, and suddenly, December was approaching.

The castle had begun to shift with the season. Frost traced the windowpanes, and the air in the dungeons felt colder in a way that no charm could quite fix. Students wrapped their cloaks tighter in the corridors, and the scent of roasted chestnuts drifted from the Great Hall. The buzz of exam stress hadn't yet arrived, but the anticipation of winter break was beginning to ripple through the common room.

That evening, the boys had joined them by their usual corner — the low table by the fire, their parchment spread in uneven stacks. Blaise had taken one of the armchairs nearby, lazily thumbing through a book, while Theo sat on the floor, legs crossed, muttering charms under his breath as he flipped through his notes.

Astoria was perched between Esther and Daphne, her second-year textbook open in her lap and a frustrated crease between her brows.

"Try it again," Daphne said gently, adjusting the angle of Astoria's wand. "And make sure to flick, not jab. You're not dueling it into shape."

Astoria rolled her eyes but tried again, more carefully this time. The feather in front of her twitched once, then floated a few inches off the table before tumbling back down.

"There," Daphne said with a small nod. "Better."

"It's always the wand work," Astoria grumbled. "Charms should be easy. It's just words."

"If you keep thinking like that you will never do it right," Blaise said without looking up. "And you also need concentration. Which you clearly lack."

Astoria made a face at him.

Esther smiled slightly, but her gaze wandered toward the fire. She liked these moments — the quiet, unhurried ones where they didn't need to be polite or composed. Just themselves.

They had known each other since childhood, due to their social circle. Blaise and Daphne's mothers' were close friends, so it was no surprise that he joined them often at Greengrass Manor. He was the one to introduce Teo to their little group, which was nice because Esther genuinely liked Theodore Nott. 

It was nice to have her own circle and not tag along with her brother. Sure, both Blaise and Teo were friends with Draco as well, but dynamic of their little group was different.

"Did you hear what happened?" Theo said casually, flipping a page. "Potter fell off his broom during the Hufflepuff match.”

Daphne eyes widened. "He what?"

"Yeah, his broom is all destroyed I heard," Blaise added, tucking Astoria's hair behind one ear. She smiled brightly at him. "They said he almost cracked his head open. The Dementors came too close to the pitch again."

"He really can't catch a break, can he," Daphne said, not unkindly. 

She and Esther wasn't really interested in Quiddich, so they weren't present at the match, unlike the boys and Astoria. At first she was into the game because of Draco but, surprisingly, she became very invested in it, much to her father's delight.

"Why are those things  even allowed to be here," Astoria said softly, curling into herself. She was very wary of Dementors after hearing what happened at the train with Daphne and Esther.

"Mom said Dumbledore argued with the Ministry for weeks," Blaise replied. "Apparently, it got heated. But Fudge insisted they stay."

"They're horrible," Astoria said, hugging her knees. "The way they make you feel—like everything's gone cold. Like you'll never be happy again."

Daphne run her fingers through her sister's dark hair. 

"Don't worry about them. Just try to stay inside the castle."

"How is your detention going, Esther?" asked Theo, after a moment of silence.

"It is over actually," she shrugged. 

Blaise looked up. "Really? No more Friday evenings with Snape?"

"Yeah," Esther nodded. "He made me finish sorting the entire top shelf of the ingredients cabinet. Labeled everything twice. He didn't even say anything half the time, just watched me like a hawk."

"That is unsettling," Theo said, wrinkling his nose. "Did you at least find out why he really gave it to you?"

"No," Esther said flatly. "He didn't say anything and I didn't want to risk asking."

Astoria, who had been quiet for a moment, looked up from her wand. "Do you think Professor Snape is really... angry with you?"

Esther blinked at her. Well, the truth is Snape didn't like her. It wasn't as loud as his hatred for Potter or Longbottom, but it was noticeable if you were paying close attention to him. It wasn't like he hated her. But he always avoided looking directly into her yes, which was the opposite of what he usually did – he would scare everyone with his glare. And when he did look at her his face went all blank and he looked like he wanted to be anywhere but near her.

"No," she said after a moment. "He is just being difficult."

Astoria nodded slowly, though she looked puzzled.

They drifted into a comfortable silence, parchment shuffling as Theo swore under his breath at a tricky transfiguration diagram. Esther fought back a smile.

"So," Blaise said eventually, "what's everyone doing for the holidays?"

"Same as always," Theo said with a sigh. "Me, father and lots of relatives."

Blaise hummed. "Mother and I are visiting Paris. She says she needs a change of scenery."

Astoria perked up. "Are you going to stay for the rest of the break with us, Esther?"

She nodded, amused by her enthusiasm. "That's the plan, yes."

"Wonderful!" Astoria beamed, her entire face lighting up. "We can bake those vanilla stars again—the ones with the sugared almonds on top—and maybe decorate the drawing room with real evergreens. Oh! And we can go flying, if it snows. Well, I will, you can watch me!"

Daphne gave Esther a knowing glance over Astoria's head. "Do you remember how it ended last time, Astoria?"

"Ugh, it was one time," Astoria said, brushing her off. Last time she almost fell off her broom because she got distracted while trying to catch the snowflakes. Luckily, Daphne and Esther—who avoided the brooms most of their lives—were able to catch her.

Blaise said something that made Astoria to huff in annoyance, but Esther didn't hear it, slowly focusing on her own thoughts. Her smile faded, just slightly, and she looked toward the flames.

She dreaded the days she would have to spend at Malfoy Manor before joining them at Greengrass Manor. 

She hated going back home. This was one of many differences between her and Draco—her brother walked through the corridors, knowing that he owned that place, while she was forcing herself not to shrink from the weight of the cold walls that surrounded her.  It felt suffocating to be there especially after the warm familiarity of Hogwarts. 

She was dreading going back to the parties or the relatives. 

And Lucius. Always Lucius.

She missed her mother, in a quiet, inconvenient sort of way. But not enough. Not enough to truly want to go back.

The thought curled tightly in her chest, guilt knotted like thread.

Esther had spent years learning how to move through the world like a Malfoy: with grace, elegance, silence. But lately it had started to feel like wearing a dress stitched too tight. Like every breath came with the threat of tearing a seam.

She blinked and tried to focus again on the conversation. She caught Theo's eyes, and smiled, letting him know that she was okay. He kept looking at her for o moment, then nodded. On her side, Astoria was half in Daphne's lap now, poking at the feather again with renewed determination.

Esther let herself sin into the warmth. Into the comfort of borrowed peace.

Let it last, she thought. Just a little longer.

 

Chapter 5: who is vesta black?

Notes:

i am so excited for this chapter!! i think it turned out pretty good? and plot is finally starting lol
i was SO excited to write harry's pov, i hope i did him justice >.< and hey, he and esther finally interacted...
and yes, esther's name is not really estheri haha. i hope this won't be too confusing in the future.
i hope you enjoy this chapter as much, as i enjoyed writing it.

Harry had always liked Fred and George Weasley, but right now, those two were his most favorite people in the world.

The map they'd handed him still felt warm in his pocket, as though some trace of its magic — or mischief — lingered in the parchment. He couldn’t stop checking over his shoulder as he crept up through the passage, half-expecting it to vanish or seal itself shut. Sneaking out of a magically fortified castle while a supposed mass murderer was after him probably wasn’t the wisest idea he'd ever had… but then again, Harry had never been especially famous for self-preservation. What he was known for, it seemed, was running headfirst into trouble and surviving just long enough to do it all over again.

And so, minutes later, his boots hit the packed snow of Hogsmeade, and the cold wind slapped him across the face in greeting. For a moment, Harry just stood there, blinking at the snow-dusted roofs and flickering lights of the village. It looked like a postcard. Quiet, enchanted, unreal.

He ducked into Honeydukes before his sense of guilt could catch up to him — if it had been trying at all. The moment he stepped inside, warmth and the scent of syrup and melted chocolate wrapped around him like a blanket. The place was packed — students huddled around barrels of sweets, chatter rising over the chime of the door. He pushed past a knot of sixth-years, making for the back of the shop, and there they were.

Ron and Hermione were standing under a hanging sign that read Unusual Tastes, bickering over some particularly horrible-looking sweets.

“Urgh, no, Harry won’t want one of those, they’re for vampires, I expect,” Hermione said, pulling a tray of blood-flavoured lollipops away from Ron.

“How about these?” Ron said, shoving a jar of Cockroach Clusters in her face.

“Definitely not,” Harry said, grinning.

Ron nearly dropped the jar.

“Harry!” Hermione squeaked, nearly elbowing Ron in the ribs. “What are you—how did you—?”

“Wow!” Ron looked like Harry had grown wings. “You’ve learned to Apparate!”

“Course I haven’t,” Harry muttered, glancing around. The sixth-years didn’t seem to be paying attention, but still, he dropped his voice and told them everything — the parchment, the passageway, the way Fred and George had just handed it over like it was nothing.

Ron’s jaw dropped. “How come they never gave it to me? I’m their brother!”

“But Harry’s not going to keep it,” Hermione said sharply, her arms crossed before Harry could even get the words out. “You’re going to hand it in, right? To Professor McGonagall?”

“No, I’m not,” said Harry.

“Are you mad?” Ron said. “Hand in something that good?”

“If I hand it in, I’ll have to explain where I got it. Filch will know it was Fred and George. I’m not doing that.”

“But what about—” Hermione leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper. “—Sirius Black?”

Harry’s spine stiffened. The name hung in the air like a sudden drop in temperature.

“He could be using one of those passages to get in! You’ve seen how detailed that map is—”

“He can’t be,” Harry said quickly. “There are seven secret tunnels on the map. Four are probably already known to Filch. One’s caved in. One has a massive homicidal tree growing over the exit. And the one I used… unless he already knew where the trapdoor was, there’s no way.”

But his voice wavered, just slightly. The thought had occurred to him, too.

Ron cleared his throat and pointed toward the shop door, where a parchment had been tacked crookedly behind the glass:

BY ORDER OF THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC
Dementors will patrol the streets of Hogsmeade nightly until Sirius Black is recaptured.
Complete your shopping before sundown. Merry Christmas!

“See?” Ron said. “Like Black could break into Honeydukes with Dementors everywhere. Plus, the owners live upstairs. They’d hear him.”

“Yes, but—” Hermione still didn’t look convinced. “Harry shouldn’t even be here. If anyone finds out—if Black turns up—what if something happens?”

Harry felt her eyes on him, sharp and worried. He felt a wave of affection towards her, even though part of him was a little uncomfortable at how openly Hermione showed that she cared.

“It’s Christmas,” Ron said. “He deserves a break.”

Hermione bit her lip, visibly torn.

“Are you going to report me?” Harry asked, grinning.

“Of course not—but honestly, Harry—”

“Seen the Fizzing Whizzbees?” Ron cut in, grabbing Harry by the sleeve and tugging him toward a display. “Or the Jelly Slugs? Fred gave me an Acid Pop when I was seven. Burned a hole clean through my tongue. Mum beat him with a broomstick.”

Harry laughed, letting himself drift through the warm haze of Honeydukes for a moment longer. But the laughter didn’t quite reach his stomach.

Eventually, the three of them stepped back into the snowstorm. Hogsmeade looked like it belonged in a snow globe, the cottages glowing under blankets of white, wreaths on every door. The wind stung Harry’s face — he’d left his cloak back at school — but it didn’t matter. Not when the Three Broomsticks was glowing in the distance, promising heat and Butterbeer.

Inside was packed. Warm, loud, and golden-lit.  A curvy sort of woman with a pretty face was at the bar, her smile bright even as she dealt with a table of raucous warlocks. Ron said her name was Madam Rosmerta.

“I’ll get the drinks,” he said quickly, his ears going pink.

Harry and Hermione found a small table near the window, tucked between the fire and a Christmas tree. It felt too nice to be real. Too far from the castle and everything waiting for him there.

Ron returned minutes later, cheeks red from the cold, Butterbeer foaming over his tankard.

“Happy Christmas,” he said, lifting it.

Harry took a long sip. Warmth spread through him, soft and slow — like safety in a bottle. He felt good, sitting here with two most important people of his life, celebrating Christmas. Those moments were everything.

And then, a sudden breeze ruffled his hair.

Snow swept in. So did Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, and Hagrid — followed by a man in a lime green bowler and pinstriped cloak.

Harry’s stomach dropped.

Cornelius Fudge.

Before he could think, Ron and Hermione had shoved him under the table, Butterbeer dripping from his sleeves as he crouched out of sight.

He barely breathed.

And above him, the footsteps grew louder — and started moving toward their table.

Harry kept perfectly still, barely breathing.

Somewhere above him, Hermione whispered, “Mobiliarbus!”

The Christmas tree beside their table floated into the air, shifted sideways, and settled with a soft thump directly in front of them, its thick lower branches hiding them from view. Through the green tangle of pine needles, Harry could make out the legs of chairs being dragged back and the rustle of heavy cloaks. The teachers had chosen the table right beside theirs.

A pair of glittering turquoise heels appeared next. “A small Gillywater—”

“Mine,” came Professor McGonagall’s crisp voice.

“Four pints of mulled mead—”

“Ta, Rosmerta,” rumbled Hagrid.

“A cherry syrup and soda with ice and umbrella—”

“Mmm!” squeaked Flitwick.

“So you’ll be the redcurrant rum, Minister.”

“Thank you, Rosmerta, m’dear,” said Cornelius Fudge, unmistakably. “Lovely to see you again. Have one yourself, won’t you? Come and join us…”

“Well, thank you very much, Minister.”

The glittering heels marched off, then back again. Harry’s heart was hammering behind his ribs, far louder than the ambient chatter. Of course the teachers would be here — it was the last weekend before break. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

Hermione’s leg twitched beside him. Ron’s hand was still on his head, pinning him low.

“So, what brings you to this neck of the woods, Minister?” came Rosmerta’s voice.

Harry heard the faint shift of Fudge turning, lowering his voice. “What else, m’dear, but Sirius Black? I daresay you heard what happened up at the school on Hallowe’en?”

There was a low murmur, then Rosmerta replied, “I did hear a rumour…”

“Did you tell the whole pub, Hagrid?” McGonagall sighed.

Harry felt the heat of Ron’s elbow when he stifled a laugh.

“Do you think Black’s still in the area, Minister?” asked Rosmerta.

“I’m sure of it,” said Fudge.

Rosmerta sounded sharper now. “You know the Dementors have searched my pub twice? Scared my customers away. Terrible for business.”

“Rosmerta, I don’t like them either,” Fudge said uncomfortably. “But a necessary precaution. I’ve just spoken to some of them. They’re livid with Dumbledore for keeping them off the grounds.”

“I should think so,” McGonagall muttered. “How are we to teach with those things hovering?”

“Hear, hear!” Flitwick chimed in.

There was a pause. Then Fudge said, “All the same… they’re here to protect us from something far worse. We all know what Black is capable of.”

Rosmerta spoke softly, thoughtful now. “I still have trouble believing it. Of all people to go over to the Dark side—Sirius Black? I remember him here, laughing with that Potter boy. They were inseparable.”

Harry’s grip tightened around the empty tankard. His knuckles hurt.

“Precisely,” said McGonagall. “Black and Potter. Clever as anything, the both of them. But reckless. Prone to trouble.”

“Fred and George Weasley could give them a run for their money,” said Hagrid.

“You’d think they were brothers,” Flitwick added.

“And trusted like one,” said Fudge. “Potter named him godfather. The boy has no idea, of course. Imagine what that must feel like…”

He felt something cold seep through his chest, like the wind had gotten in

Godfather.

The word echoed in Harry’s skull. A godfather. He had a godfather.

It made his chest tighten in a strange way — not just grief, but some jagged intersection of rage and longing. Someone else who might have looked after him. Someone his parents had chosen.

Then he had turned them in.

“Because he turned out to be working with You-Know-Who?” Rosmerta whispered.

“Worse than that,” Fudge murmured. “He betrayed them. He was their Secret Keeper.”

Flitwick began explaining the Fidelius Charm, going off in a quiet but excited explanation. Harry heard none of it. His ears were ringing. His eyes burned.

Every word after that felt like a slow blow to the chest. How Black had come to Godric’s Hollow. How he’d asked Hagrid to hand Harry over. How Hagrid had refused.

Harry’s stomach turned. Hagrid unknowingly saved his life.

Madam Rosmerta let out a long sigh.

“Is it true he’s mad, Minister?”

“I wish I could say that he was,” said Fudge slowly. “I certainly believe his master’s defeat unhinged him for a while. The murder of Pettigrew and all those Muggles was the action of a cornered and desperate man – cruel… pointless. Yet I met Black on my last inspection of Azkaban. You know, most of the prisoners in there sit muttering to themselves in the dark, there’s no sense in them… but I was shocked at how normal Black seemed. He spoke quite rationally to me. It was unnerving. You’d have thought he was merely bored – asked if I’d finished with my newspaper, cool as you please, said he missed doing the crossword. Yes, I was astounded at how little effect the Dementors seemed to be having on him – and he was one of the most heavily guarded in the place, you know. Dementors outside his door, day and night.”

“But what do you think he’s broken out to do?” said Madam Rosmerta. “Good gracious, Minister, he isn’t trying to rejoin You-Know-Who, is he?”

“I daresay that is his – er – eventual plan,” said Fudge evasively. “But we hope to catch Black long before that. I must say, You-Know-Who alone and friendless is one thing… but give him back his most devoted servant, and I shudder to think how quickly he’ll rise again…”

There was a small chink of glass on wood. Someone had set down their drink.

And then—

“No wonder he snapped,” Madam Rosmerta spoked again, softly. “After what happened with poor Marlene…”

Harry blinked. Marlene?

He shifted slightly, heart thudding against his ribs again — but Ron and Hermione stayed frozen. Judging by the way Hermione’s brows furrowed, she didn’t recognize the name either.

Another voice — lower, more regretful — murmured, “And their poor daughter…”

For a full second, everything inside Harry just… stopped.

Their daughter?

He barely registered Ron’s sharp inhale beside him or Hermione’s hand tightening on his sleeve.

A daughter.

Sirius Black — the man who had betrayed his parents, who had murdered Pettigrew and laughed in the ruins — had a daughter.

Harry stared through the pine branches of the tree, as if he could somehow see through them, past the table legs, through the floorboards, into the past itself. His mind had started moving in loops.

His daughter. Sirius Black had a daughter.

He felt his thoughts screech to a halt, spinning on the spot.

The betrayer, the murderer, the traitor — had a child?

Something in his chest twisted sharply. He wasn’t even sure what the feeling was — revulsion? confusion? A bitter stab of familiarity?

Because what kind of girl had to grow up with a story like that hanging over her?

And then came Fudge’s voice again, cheerful and proud.

“Good thing Lucius stepped in,” he said. “Made sure the girl is raised properly.”

McGonagall scoffed.

 “You disagree, Professor?” Fudge asked curiously.

There was a short silence, and then McGonagall said coolly, “I’m not certain it was appropriate to place her with the Malfoys, given what happened to her mother.”

Fudge gave a dismissive sort of laugh. “Lucius is a respectable man, Minerva. And I’ve met the girl — bright, clever thing. Clearly raised well. Besides, Narcissa is a Black herself. Who better to care for one of their own?”

“There were other options. Other relatives.”

“Ah, but Andromeda Tonks was disowned, was she not?” said Fudge briskly. “Besides, Lucius offered stability. A child needs that more than sentiment.”

Harry barely heard the last of it.

His ears were ringing, like he’d stayed underwater too long and just broken the surface. But it wasn’t water in his lungs, it was air. Air full of words. Heavy words. And they were dragging him down.

The daughter… with the Malfoys.

Something cold and leaden began to crawl into his chest.

It couldn’t be—no. It couldn’t be—

Malfoy?

The thought landed like a stone.

Estheri Malfoy?

The girl who sat with the Slytherins — always a little apart from them, but never alone. Who was always with Greengrass. The one who’d answered Snape’s questions in that quiet, clipped voice like she already knew the answers two years ago. The one who moved like she wasn’t watching the world, but waiting for it to notice her.

Harry remembered the first time they met. That summer before first year, in Madame Malkin’s. She had stepped in just behind her brother, told him their mother was waiting, then looked Harry up and down with unreadable, disinterested eyes.

She hadn’t said a word to him. She wasn’t cruel, not like Draco, but she was so cold, it irked him the first time he met her. She looked at him like she’d already made up her mind: not worth her time.

Malfoy. Estheri Malfoy.

Everything felt too loud and too quiet all at once. His chest was full of that same familiar pressure — the one he had felt in front of the Mirror of Erised, or the night he had heard his mother scream.

Something old and hollow and not entirely his own.

The clink of glasses. Chairs scraping.

“You know, Cornelius,” McGonagall said lightly, “if you’re dining with the Headmaster, we’d better head back up to the castle.”

Harry didn’t move. Not even when the flurry of footsteps faded into the snowstorm beyond the door.

He was still staring at nothing at all.

---

Harry didn’t have a very clear idea of how he had managed to get back into the Honeydukes cellar, through the tunnel, and into the castle once more. All he knew was that the return trip seemed to take no time at all, and that he hardly noticed what he was doing — because his head was still pounding with the conversation he had just heard.

Sirius Black had been his parents’ best friend. He had been their Secret Keeper. He had betrayed them.

He had a daughter.

The words felt strange and unreal, like a story told to someone else. He kept turning them over in his mind, expecting something to break open, something to change. But all he felt was a low, quiet burn. Like grief had been quietly lit from underneath.

Dinner in the Great Hall passed in a blur.

Ron and Hermione sat close on either side of him, too quiet, too careful. They were trying not to stare, but Harry could feel their eyes flick toward him every so often — Hermione twisting her fork in her peas, Ron barely touching his potatoes. Neither said a word about Hogsmeade. Percy was seated nearby, and that alone was enough to make them act natural.

Harry picked at his food. He wasn’t hungry. He didn’t think he could eat even if he tried.

His eyes kept drifting — across the length of the hall, past the golden plates and floating candles, toward the Slytherin table.

There she was.

Estheri Malfoy sat across from her brother, angled slightly toward Greengrass, her lips barely parting as she spoke. The candlelight glinted against the curve of her cheek. Her hair, dark and impossibly straight, caught a warm sheen as she tucked it behind her ear. She looked like she always did — neat, composed, untouchable.

Harry didn’t know what he was expecting. Some shadow, some weight, some mark that said: my father is the man who betrayed yours. But there was nothing. No trace of any of it.

She pressed her lips together, slicing her roast into elegant bites. Then, almost absently, she glanced up.

Their eyes met and Harry went still.

For a heartbeat, their eyes locked.

Malfoy tilted her head, brows faintly drawn together — confused, but not startled. As though trying to puzzle something out. A slow, subtle frown formed between her brows, and then — ever so slightly — she raised one of them.

What are you looking at?

Harry didn’t look away.

He wasn’t even sure he could.

A moment passed. Then she turned, cool and unreadable, back to her conversation with Greengrass — as though he hadn’t been there at all.

But for Harry, the moment lodged deep in his chest.

She didn’t look like Black — not the Black on the Prophet covers, wild-eyed and skeletal. But… maybe she did. A little. Now that he knew what to look for. There was a shape to her mouth, a curve of the brow, something about the stillness in her face — all echoes of the man in that photograph, the one who had stood beside his parents like family.

His stomach turned.

After dinner, the walk back to Gryffindor Tower felt longer than usual. Ron walked beside him in silence, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Hermione kept glancing at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. They reached the common room just as Fred and George were setting off Dungbombs in celebration of the last weekend before break.

Harry didn’t even pause.

He slipped away while the laughter rose behind him, heading straight for the dormitory. He needed quiet. He needed something to make sense.

The room was dark and empty. He knelt beside his trunk and pulled it open with cold, stiff fingers. Beneath old robes and scattered Chocolate Frog cards, he found it — the photo album Hagrid had given him in first year.

He sat on the bed and drew the curtains shut. The familiar rustle of the hangings muffled the world.

He flipped past the photos of his mother brushing snow from her hair, his father grinning from atop a broomstick.

And then — there.

Their wedding.

His father’s hair was even messier than Harry’s. His mother’s eyes were full of light. They looked so… alive.

And beside them — Sirius Black.

If Harry hadn’t known, he wouldn’t have recognized him.

This version of Black was nothing like the man in the Prophet. His face was fuller, more open. He was laughing — a real, unguarded laugh, the kind that came from deep in the chest. His hand was on his dad’s shoulder.

Looking at him like this, it wasn’t so hard to picture him as someone’s father.

The likeness was undeniable.

The same mouth, the same cheekbones, the same heavy, elegant lashes around striking grey eyes. Malfoy’s face mirrored his almost perfectly — down to the lift of the brow and the slight tilt of her chin.

The only thing missing was softness.

She never looked like this. Harry had seen her smile — once, maybe twice — with her brother or Greengrass. But it was always brief, restrained, like it might be taken away. He had never seen her smile the way Black did in this photo: openly, carelessly, as if the whole world could fall and he’d laugh anyway.

She looked like him — but she never looked like this.

Harry stared at the image. The three of them — James, Lily, and Black — standing close, wrapped in the kind of joy that didn’t have words.

Had he already made his decision by then? Had he already chosen Voldemort?

What about his daughter? Did Black think about her when he decided to betray his parents?

Harry’s fingers tightened around the album. His throat ached. He didn’t even know what emotion it was anymore. Grief? Anger? Some strange, quiet sense of loss for something he had never been allowed to keep?

He pressed the album shut.

The room felt too quiet. His own heartbeat was louder than anything else.

---

When he finally came down to meet his friends, common room had thinned out, but it wasn’t empty. A handful of students still lingered — fourth-years finishing essays by the fire, a pair of sixth-years whispering near the stairs, someone fast asleep in an armchair with a book sliding off their chest.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had taken the corner farthest from the hearth, where the shadows stretched long and the furniture didn’t match. A squashy armchair and an old sofa crammed close to the wall, muffling their voices beneath the occasional pop of the fire and the creak of wind outside the tower windows.

The conversation from the Three Broomsticks had filled Harry’s head like smoke, curling into every thought.

 “I don’t understand,” Hermione said quietly. “How could no one hear about this?”

Ron scratched the back of his neck. “Well, it’s not something people talk about, you know? I’m not saying it’s some big secret or anything, just… it’s not something people bother with. Everyone’s always sort of known she was adopted. I mean, she’s the same year as Malfoy, born the same month. Can’t exactly have twins that way.”

Harry’s eyes flicked to Ron. “So it’s just… known?”

Ron shrugged. “Fred and George told me ages ago. They heard it from dad. I dunno. It’s not like anyone hides it, but it’s not something people talk about either. It’s Malfoys, after all. No one wants their name in mouth. And honestly, I never cared to ask more.”

Harry didn’t speak. His eyes were on the map on his lap, but he wasn’t really seeing it.

“Does she even know?” asked Hermione softly, the frown between her brows deepening. Her fingers started to twitch nervously.

“Dunno,” said Ron. “But if she does, she is a bloody good actress. Black’s name has been at every corners for past mounts, and she hadn’t reacted once,” he paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. “I won’t be surprise if she knows. She’s in Slytherin. That’s half the training.”

“Or she just doesn’t know,” Hermione murmured, shooting him a glance.

Harry didn’t answer. He kept his gaze low, letting the map rest limply on his knees. His mind was slipping again—back to a memory from only a week ago.

Not dinner.

The library.

Late afternoon. Pale winter light slanting through the tall windows. He’d gone in to find Hermione, only to spot Esther already seated at one of the far tables with Greengrass and Nott. Books stacked beside her, a quill in hand, her expression unreadable. She hadn’t noticed him then. Her posture had been perfect, her handwriting even and precise. She moved like someone always aware of eyes, even when none were on her.

She looked so composed. So… closed off. She always had.

But now—now that Harry had seen Black’s photograph again, really looked—he saw it. The same cheekbones. The curve of her mouth. Her eyes—different in expression, but not in shape or color.

His stomach twisted.

He looked down again, scanning the map without really thinking. His eyes found the Slytherin dormitories almost instantly. The common room was mostly empty — a few names hovered near the entrance. One moved toward the girl’s staircase.

And then he froze.

Right beside Greengrass.

“Vesta Black.”

The name hit him like cold air through a broken window.

“Look,” he said, voice tighter than he meant.

Hermione leaned in. “What?”

“There,” Harry pointed. “Next to Greengrass.”

Ron frowned, leaning over. “Vesta Black?”

Hermione’s breath caught.

“She doesn’t even go by her real name?” she whispered.

The map glowed faintly under their eyes, but none of them moved.

Vesta.

The name felt strange on Harry’s tongue. Definitely not the name of the girl he’d been watching for three years without really seeing her.

“I dunno, guys,” said Ron after a moment of pause. His hand went to his hair, massing his red curls. “So, she has a different name. She is still Malfoy. And her brother is still complete twat.”

“She is not her brother, Ron,” said Hermione, frowning disapprovingly.

“Yeah, sure. But they are attached to hip. And she was raised by those people. I mean, what are we gonna do? We can’t just approach her and said “hey, Malfoy, you know the madman that’s walking around, trying to kill Harry? He is your dad! By the way, did your family ever told you that?” 

Hermione didn’t answer right away. Her eyes were still on the map, brows pinched, lips pressed together like she was holding something back.

“I’m not saying we just walk up to her and drop it like that,” she said finally. “But if she doesn’t know, then she deserves to. And if she does… then someone needs to ask why she’s hiding it.”

Ron let out a breath, his tone sharpening. “You think she’s just going to admit it? “Oh, hello, yes, by the way, I’m the daughter of the man who betrayed your parents and murdered a dozen people. Fancy a cup of tea?’”

Hermione glared at him. “Don’t be stupid. That’s not what I meant.”

Harry stayed quiet.

He was still staring at the name on the map.

Vesta Black.

It was like finding a hidden room in a house he’d lived in his whole life. The door had always been there—he just hadn’t looked closely enough.

And now that it was open, he didn’t know what he was supposed to do with it.

The longer he looked at the name, the tighter his chest felt. Like something inside him was trying to claw its way out—grief, maybe. Or rage.

“I just want to know the truth,” Hermione said, softer now. “Before someone else gets hurt.”

Ron grumbled under his breath, but didn’t argue.

Harry closed the map with a slow hand.

He didn’t say it aloud—but the truth was, he wasn’t sure what scared him more.

That she knew.

Or that she didn’t.

---

Harry hadn’t meant to watch her this much. But ever since the night in the common room—the name on the map, the conversation that followed—he couldn’t stop.

He kept thinking about everything they had learnt.

It was there when he woke up. When he walked down the corridors. When he sat in lessons. A name that didn’t belong to her—or maybe it did, and everything else had been a lie. The thought wouldn’t leave him alone.

Harry had known Esther Malfoy existed, obviously. Everyone did. She wasn’t invisible. But until now, she’d been more of a shadow than a presence—Malfoy’s twin, quiet and cold and entirely uninterested in anyone outside her own circle. She’d never insulted Hermione. Most of the the time she ignored him and Ron. Never once engaged. She simply passed him by.

But now, Harry couldn’t stop seeing her.

She sat across the Great Hall with the other Slytherins, as always, buttering toast with calm precision. Tucking dark hair behind her ear. Smiling at something Greengrass said. Everything about her looked practiced—polite, elegant, a little distant. She never looked toward the Gryffindor table.

But he was watching.

Sometimes Hermione and Ron were watching too, though they were more careful about it. Hermione had taken to glancing up over her parchment in lessons, pretending to jot notes while sneaking looks. Ron just scowled when he caught sight of her. Harry, though, didn’t pretend anymore. He just looked.

It probably wasn’t okay, but he couldn’t stop searching for the man that was supposed to be his godfather but instead betrayed his parents in her face.

He searched for it—the resemblance. And sometimes, in flashes, it was there. A shape of the jaw. The set of her brow. The stillness, as if she were always bracing herself against the world.

But it was like watching someone behind a frosted window. He couldn’t read her.

It made him feel strange. As if some invisible line had shifted beneath their feet and he hadn’t noticed until now.

The Astronomy lesson didn’t help.

It had been a quiet night—freezing cold, their breath visible even inside their cloaks. Professor Sinistra’s voice was steady and low, the kind of voice meant not to wake the sky itself, as she gestured overhead with her wand.

"And that," she said, pointing toward the northeast horizon, "is Vesta. One of the largest asteroids in the asteroid belt. It’s the brightest one visible from Earth—occasionally mistaken for a star."

The name hit Harry like a knock to the ribs. He wasn’t the only one.

Hermione’s quill froze above her parchment. Ron flinched so hard he smudged ink across his star chart.

But Malfoy didn’t react.

She was sitting beside Greengrass and Nott, hunched slightly over her own notes, writing with her usual elegant, fluid hand. Calm. Focused.

Like she hadn’t heard a thing.

But then—perhaps she felt the weight of eyes on her—she turned.

Her gaze swept across the class, her brows furrowed in confusion. She caught sight of them watching. And her posture changed, subtly but unmistakably—shoulders squaring, expression shuttering. Defensive. Guarded.

Beside her, Greengrass noticed too. Her eyes narrowed as she followed her friend’s line of sight directly to the Gryffindors. She didn’t say anything—just stared, long enough for Harry to look away first.

It was maddening. This whole thing was driving him mad, filling his thoughts, making him restless. He wasn’t even sure what it was that he wanted, but not knowing, not having answers was slowly eating him alive.

One morning in Charms, Hermione tried something.

Professor Flitwick had just assigned them a paired incantation exercise—some complicated bit of wandwork that Harry barely followed. Across the aisle, Malfoy and Greengrass were working together, as usual, murmuring in low, fluid voices.

Hermione leaned forward slightly and said, quietly but clearly:

"Vesta?"

Harry stiffened. Ron looked at her as if she was mad.

No reaction. Estheri didn’t even flinch.

Hermione waited a second. Then tried again, louder:

"Vesta!"

Still nothing. But this time, Greengrass turned slightly, her brow furrowing for a moment as she glanced behind her—half confused, half annoyed. Her eyes scanned the room, as if trying to find the source of the noise but she quickly turned back.

Hermione paused, then casually added, "Estheri?"

That did it.

Both girls turned. Not sharply—just in that measured, feline way that made Harry feel suddenly transparent. Greengrass looked from Hermione to Malfoy and back again. Malfoy’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

Hermione, unbothered, asked, “What’s the incantation for the counter-flip charm again?”

She blinked, confusion slipping through her façade for a moment. Greengrass raised her brow, her whole face screaming how unimpressed she was.

 “It’s Contraverto,” Malfoy answer after a moment, her tone calm and polite. “You have to flick, not swish.”

“Thanks,” Hermione said.

But she had already turned back to Greengrass, continuing their work as if nothing had happened.

Hermione sat back in her chair. She didn’t look triumphant. Just thoughtful.

“Well?” Ron whispered from Harry’s other side. “What d’you reckon?”

Hermione shook her head. “Nothing. Either she didn’t hear, or…”

“She doesn’t know,” Harry finished.

But even as he said it, he wasn’t sure he believed it. Malfoy—Black—wasn’t just silent. She was sealed. Like a locked door you could knock on forever without an answer.

And something in him—some quiet, uneasy part—kept whispering that she might be listening on the other side of that door the whole time.

Watching them back.

---

The next few days passed in blur.

They’d been watching her for two days now. Harry had memorised the way she held her quill, the exact point in the corridor where her stride slowed before double Potions, the slight tilt of her head when she spoke to Greengrass in hushed tones. He hadn’t realised how much of a ghost she’d been in his peripheral vision until now. She’d always been there—Malfoy’s sister, some distant fixture of Slytherin—but she might as well have been background noise.

Now, every movement she made felt significant.

“She’s always like that?” he found himself asking as they lingered outside Potions, waiting.

Hermione glanced at him. “Like what?”

“So... quiet.”

Hermione didn’t answer right away. Then: “I’ve never seen her raise her voice. But she listens to everything. You can tell.”

Ron snorted. “Creepy.”

Hermione gave him a look, then smoothed down the sleeve of her jumper. Her hand was trembling slightly.

She spotted Greengrass stepping out of the classroom. Hermione squared her shoulders. “Come on.”

Harry and Ron followed instinctively, though Ron muttered, “Do we have to?”

Greengrass noticed them instantly but before they could reach her, she turned and walked away.

Hermione didn’t wait. She moved fast, catching up with her. “Daphne—hi. Sorry—do you have a moment?”

Greengrass stopped, brows raised. Her expression wasn’t annoyed, exactly. Just puzzled. She clearly didn’t expect them to approach her.

“What for?”

Hermione tried for steady. “It’s about... Esther.”

Her eyes sharpened.

“What about her?”

There was a pause. Hermione glanced back at Harry clearly nervous, then forward again. “We just—well—we were wondering something. About her family.”

A silence bloomed.

Greengrass didn’t blink. “What about her family?”

“Well, um,” Hermione said, faltering just slightly, “We wanted to ask you something about her father.”

The frown between her brows deepened, confusion clear on her face.

“What do you want to know about Lucius Malfoy?” she asked, her tone betraying how she though the whole situation was absurd.

“No, not Lucius Malfoy,” Hermione paused, pressing her lips uncertainly. “I mean... her biological father.”

There it was. That subtle recoil.

Harry felt it from where he stood. The air between them went colder.

Greengrass’ lips curled just slightly at the edge. Not a smile. Something sharper. Her tone didn’t change. But her voice went brittle.

“And here I thought,” she said softly, “You three had far more thrilling things to poke your noses into. Or has that changed since the last two years?”

Ron shifted beside him, his fists clenched. Harry felt a flicker of heat rise to his throat. Hermione, to her credit, stayed rooted. But he could see how her jaw clench tightly.

Greengrass looked back at her once more.

And then, with deliberate finality: “I don’t know what the three of you are doing now, but Esther’s family is none of your business.”

She turned, robes swaying behind her, and walked off without a glance back.

They stood in the hallway for a moment after she disappeared, the echo of her steps still clinging to the stone.

“Well,” Ron muttered, “that went brilliantly.”

Hermione blew out a breath, shoulders stiff. “I wasn’t trying to interrogate her.”

“You just asked her about her best friend’s father,” Ron said. “Who they clearly don’t talk about. At all.”

Hermione took a deep breath. “Well, this was pointless. We have to talk to Estheri directly.”

 “Yeah?” Ron said. “And how do you suggest we do that, without her throwing a hex at us?”

Neither Hermione, nor Harry had an answer for that.

---

It didn’t take Malfoy long to learned about their conversation with Greengrass.

Harry barely had time to reach the next corridor when her voice cut through the air — cold, even, unmistakably hers.

“Should I be flattered by your attention, Potter?”

He turned at once. So did Ron and Hermione, caught mid-step.

She stood just a few feet away, posture straight, arms folded, her expression unreadable — but her eyes burned. Cold and silver-dark, they fixed on him probably the first time since they had known each other.

It was only the second time Harry had seen her this close. The first had been on the train, during the Dementor attack — everything had been dark and chaotic, and he hadn’t really looked at her. Not like this.

Now he did.

Harry felt his hand curl at his side.

Hermione stepped forward, clearing her throat. “Look, we didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean what?” Malfoy’s gaze didn’t move from Harry. “Didn’t mean to ask my friends questions behind my back? Or didn’t mean to follow me around the castle like I’m some sort of criminal?”

Her voice wasn’t raised, but it was sharp enough to slice through bone.

Harry felt his temper spike. “We weren’t following you.”

“No?” Her eyebrows lifted. “You just happened to be staring at me every chance you get, yeah?”

 “Well, we did have our reasons,” he answered, his own eyes narrowing dangerously. “Considering you’ve been lying about some things.”

 The voice in the corner of his mind – sounding suspiciously like Hermione – was screaming at him to shut up, but Harry was so, so tired of boiling everything inside. His head was so heavy for last few days, and he was so sick of thinking about Black and bloody Malfoy all the time. As if he didn’t have anything better to do.

She tilted her head slightly. “About what, exactly?”

“You know what,” he snapped. His heart was pounding now. Loud and fast.

“I don’t,” she said coolly. “But I’m very used to people assuming things when they don’t like what they see.”

Ron stepped in, flushed. “You’ve been pretending to be someone you’re not!”

That got her attention. Her gaze flicked to Ron, just briefly, then back to Harry — like she didn’t think Ron was worth much more.

“And who, exactly,” she asked, “do you think I am?”

Harry took a breath, but it hitched in his chest. His hands were shaking. He didn’t understand why it felt so personal — so raw — but it did.

Her eyes. Her voice. Her name.

And suddenly it was all too much.

“Your father got my parents killed.”

The words tumbled out, cracked and furious.

Esther flinched.

Just a fraction — a blink, a flicker — but it was real. Her eyes widened, her mouth parting slightly as if he’d struck her.

And then it was gone. Just like that. The mask slid back into place. Polished. Cold.

“I don’t know what you think you know, Potter,” she said quietly, evenly, “but my father, Lucius Malfoy, has nothing to do with you or your parents.”

Harry’s pulse thudded in his ears. For a moment, everything else disappeared — the corridor, Ron, Hermione. All he could see was her. All he could hear was the echo of what he’d just said.

She turned to go. And then, almost as an afterthought, she looked over her shoulder.

“And I hope you’re not stupid enough to go around asking about my brother next,” she said. “Because people will get the wrong idea.”

Then she was gone.

Harry didn’t move.

He could still feel the heat of his own words in his mouth. His chest was tight, his face burning.

“I don’t think she knows, Harry,” Hermione whispered, behind him.

The corridor felt colder in her absence.

Harry just stood there, heart thudding, her words ringing in his head.

My father, Lucius Malfoy…

He wasn’t sure what was worse — that she believed it, or that she didn’t seem to know the difference.

---

Rage was still fresh inside her but Esther did her best to look composed. She couldn’t afford being moody, not when she was on train, going back home.

She sat in the same compartment as always—Daphne beside her, Astoria curled in the corner with a book too big for her hands, Theo and Blaise were talking in low voices. Draco lounged across from them, absently watching the window, his arms folded and jaw tight, like he was already halfway home.

No one said anything about her mood. They noticed, of course. All of them did. Daphne kept glancing at her, brief and searching, but said nothing. Theo, who was surprisingly the most attentive between them, tried to make her talk a few times. Astoria offered her a Liquorice Wand at one point. Esther didn’t take it.

Instead, she held Phobos.

He was curled in her lap, his thick black fur warm against her palms. His ears flicked every now and then at the sound of the whistle or the hum of the rails, but otherwise he was still. Quiet. A familiar weight in her lap.

Her fingers threaded through his fur, slow and steady. Again. And again.

She didn’t know why she was so angry.

Or—no. That wasn’t right. She did know. She just couldn’t untangle it. Couldn’t name where one thread of it ended and the next began. Harry Potter’s face flashed in her head again—angry, accusing. That look in his eyes.

Your father got my parents killed.

The words kept rising like bile, uninvited.

And it wasn’t just that he’d said it. It was that she hadn’t had anything to throw back. That for one, breathless second, she’d frozen. Because—

Because she didn’t know.

She didn’t know who her father was. Not really. Not beyond the name she’d been given. Lucius Malfoy was not the kind of man to answer questions, especially not those ones. And the few times she had asked, he hadn’t just refused—he’d punished. Words like filthy blood still echoed in the back of her skull. Sometimes spat. Sometimes muttered with disdain. Always at her. Never at Draco.

And there had been that time—years ago, barely more than a child—when she’d wondered aloud if maybe her mother had been Muggle-born.

She’d never made that mistake again.

Phobos stretched, digging his claws slightly into her knee through the fabric. Esther didn’t flinch. She just kept petting him.

The train began to slow. Steam curled past the window, fogging the glass. King’s Cross was ahead, and Esther’s distress just increased.

They stepped off onto the platform in a blur of noise and bodies. Somewhere nearby, a child was crying.

Narcissa and Lucius were already waiting. Draco immediately headed towards them, after nodding to others, but she stayed behind.

Daphne pulled her aside for a moment before the crowd swallowed them.

“Don’t let him get under your skin,” she said quietly. Her eyes flicked toward the direction of the Gryffindors. “He doesn’t know anything. If he did, he wouldn’t be asking.”

Esther didn’t answer.

Daphne added, “We’ll see each other soon, yeah? Write me if you want to leave early.”

That made Esther pause. She looked at her. Just looked.

And then she nodded once.

Daphne gave her a last look, then turned back to her family.

Esther tightened her grip on Phobos’s basket and walked toward her parents.

Lucius didn’t speak as she approached. He didn’t have to. One look from him was enough—cool, unreadable, and just a shade too sharp. Her mother offered a faint smile and short hug, which softened her anger slightly.

Esther fell into step beside them without a word.

---

The Manor appeared out of the darkness like a memory. Tall, silent, and frostbitten at the edges. The sky above was a hard slate grey, pressing down over the bare fields that stretched behind the wrought-iron gates. The windows gleamed faintly in the evening gloom.

The front doors creaked open before they reached them—house-elves waiting in the foyer, their heads bowed.

Phobos meowed from his basket.

She didn’t speak. Not even when they crossed the marble threshold and the cold bit into her skin again like it always did. The manor was warm in temperature, but never in feeling. The air smelled of polish and lavender. It was a strong contrast to Hogwarts warmth.

“Take their trunks upstairs,” Lucius said to one of the elves, barely sparing a glance. “Come, Draco. There are some things we need to discuss before dinner.”

Her brother squeezed her hand briefly, before following him. His grip was tight, his nails biting her palm—a warning or solidarity, she couldn’t tell.

Esther smiled at her mother and politely excuse herself.

Her bedroom hadn’t changed.

The same carved wardrobe. The same tall windows with their heavy emerald drapes. The same cold fireplace that hadn’t been lit in years unless her mother visited. Even the books on her shelves were in the same precise order she’d left them in.

Phobos leapt out of the basket and immediately padded beneath the bed. A moment later, he reappeared with the toy mouse she’d left behind in September.

Esther stared at it.

Then sat down slowly at the edge of the bed and curled her fingers into the duvet.

Upstairs, the silence had a different weight. Not the hush of snowfall or sleep—but the stillness before something broke.

She didn’t take off her cloak.

Didn’t move.

Just sat there.

Potter’s voice echoed again in her skull like something shouted through a tunnel:

Your father got my parents killed.

And the part that made her feel cold wasn’t even the accusation. It was the fact that—for the first time—she couldn’t tell whether it was a lie.

When the time for dinner came the dread in her stomach hadn’t disappear.

They ate in silence, as always. The clink of silverware against porcelain echoed across the long table, sharp and hollow in the cavernous room. The chandelier overhead glowed dimly. The fire burned low. Esther sat straight in her seat, her shoulders pulled back just enough to avoid being corrected, hands folded precisely in her lap when not reaching for her goblet. Her posture was immaculate—but her jaw was tight.

Across from her, Draco was silent, pushing food across his plate with disinterest. Her mother dabbed at her mouth with a linen napkin between bites, her gaze low, distant. Lucius sat at the head of the table like a statue carved in ivory—composed, self-satisfied, and untouchable.

The silence dragged.

Esther’s nails pressed into her palms under the table, unseen. She counted the seconds between each scrape of a fork, each breath that barely moved her chest. Her appetite had vanished somewhere between the train and the Manor gates.

Then Lucius spoke, his voice as casual as if commenting on the weather.

“I received word from Severus,” he said. “He mentioned you’ve earned yourself a detention.”

Esther’s fork paused midway to her mouth. Her fingers clenched around it ever so slightly before she set it back down, the sound almost too soft to hear.

“I served it,” she said, calmly. “Though I still don’t quite understand why I received one in the first place. It felt… unnecessary.”

Lucius didn’t even blink. “It is not your place to determine what is necessary. That judgment belongs to your professor.”

His tone didn’t rise, but it landed like a blow. Esther sat a little straighter.

“Yes, father,” she said, polite and subdued.

She reached for her goblet, took a sip only to give her hands something to do. The glass clicked faintly against her teeth. She hated that.

Her leg bounced once beneath the table before she stilled it. She took a deep breath, bracing herself.

“May I ask a question?”

Lucius raised one eyebrow.

“You may.”

Draco turned his head slightly. Narcissa’s knife hovered above the meat on her plate, suspended.

Esther’s throat was dry. She smoothed her palm against the edge of her napkin.

“It’s about my biological father.”

The silence that followed landed like a hex.

Draco’s hand tensed around his fork. Her mother went very still. And Lucius—Lucius fixed his eyes on her like a hawk watching prey take one step too far.

The room chilled. The flames in the hearth suddenly seemed too small.

Esther forced her voice to stay level.

“Someone said something,” she continued. “Something that implied—”

Lucius’s eyes narrowed, slicing across her like a scalpel.

“Who?” he said.

She faltered. “A student.”

“Which student.”

The words hit harder than they should have. The tightness in her chest flared. Her heart thudded once—loud, too loud—in her ears.

She opened her mouth, but before she could speak—

“Was it Lupin?” Lucius said sharply. His lip curled with distaste. “Did that half-blood mongrel put some nonsense into your head?”

Esther blinked, stunned.

“What—?” she began, confused. “No, I—”

“I should have known,” Lucius continued coldly, as though she hadn’t spoken. “Dumbledore’s filthy little projects never know when to keep their mouths shut.”

Esther stared at him, genuinely lost. Lupin? Why would he—

But Lucius was already moving on, gaze hard and glittering with disdain.

“The company you keep at Hogwarts grows more impressive by the year.”

Esther’s spine locked. Her hand tightened around the napkin until the fabric strained.

“I didn’t ask to start anything,” she said. “I only wanted to understand. I’ve never been told anything about him.”

“And for good reason,” Lucius snapped. “That subject is closed.”

It landed like a door slamming shut in her face. Mother shifted beside him, but didn’t look up.

Still—Potter’s voice wouldn’t leave her alone.

Your father got my parents killed.

She pressed forward again, quieter now. “But —I just want to—”

Lucius’s hand came down on the table. Not loud, not violent, but final.

“You will not question me at this table, Estheri.”

She swallowed the rising heat in her chest.

“I only thought—”

“I took you in out of duty,” Lucius said, voice sharpening with every word. “I’ve given you a home. A name. A place in this family. And this is what I receive? Defiance? Petulance? You forget yourself.”

There it was. That twist in her stomach. That nauseating familiarity. Esther's tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, suddenly parched.

Her mother tried again, gently, “Lucius, please—”

But he didn’t stop.

“You are lucky, Estheri, that your blood—however diluted—still ties you to this house. If not…”

He let the sentence trail off, leaving only cold suggestion.

Esther felt her breath catch. Her fingers itched for her wand—always her wand. She wanted to grip it, just to feel something solid in her hand. Something hers.

Lucius stood.

“I believe it’s time you retire to your room,” he said. “It seems your time at school has made you forget your manners.”

Then, more pointedly, more cruelly:

“Perhaps some solitude will remind you. You may rejoin us at the Christmas gathering. Not before.”

Esther stood immediately.

“Yes, Father,” she said.

Her voice didn’t tremble, but her knuckles had gone white.

She turned to go, heart in her throat—

“Your wand,” he said.

She froze.

Of course. She should have known.

Her hand went instinctively to her robes, curled around the familiar length of wood.

He wouldn’t use it. He never did.

But taking it from her always made her feel as though she were five again, helpless and stripped bare.

She walked back across the room. Slowly. Carefully.

And placed the wand in his waiting palm.

Lucius took it without looking at her. It looked absurdly small in Lucius' pale hands. Like a twig snapped from a dead tree

Esther bowed her head and turned away, her pulse roaring in her ears.

She should’ve just keep her mouth shut.

---

There was a soft knock at her door.

Not the kind that demanded entry—but the kind only used by someone who already knew the room well.

Esther sat up from where she’d curled on her bed, the sleeves of her shirt wrinkled beneath her elbows. Phobos lifted his head from her pillow but didn’t move.

“Come in,” she said quietly.

The door creaked open, and Draco slipped inside, holding something wrapped in a napkin.

“I thought you might be hungry.”

She blinked.

He didn’t meet her eyes as he crossed the room. Just set the bundle down on her nightstand. Bread. A slice of roast. Some fruit. Not much, but enough.

Esther stared at it. Then at him.

“Thanks.”

He nodded once and sat down on the edge of her bed. His back was to her, his hands clasped between his knees. The fire cast a low, orange glow on the far wall.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Then he muttered, “You shouldn’t have asked him.”

Esther didn’t answer right away. Her hands moved automatically, stroking Phobos’s fur, back and forth. Her fingers trembled slightly.

Draco turned his head just enough to glance at her.

“Why does it even matter?” he said. “You’re here. You’re a Malfoy. You have everything.”

Esther looked down at her hands. “That’s not the same as knowing who I am.”

“You do know who you are,” Draco said. His voice was firmer now, but not unkind. “You're my sister.”

Her mouth pressed into a line. “Then why is it such a big secret?”

He flinched at that. Just barely. But she caught it.

She leaned forward, voice low.

“Why did father think Lupin told me anything?” she asked quietly. “What was he supposed to tell me?”

Draco shifted. He sighed and ran a hand through his perfectly neat hair.

“I don’t know,” he answered softly.

Her heart pounded faster. She couldn’t keep still—her hand slid up to her collarbone, fingertips pressing there like she could ground herself.

Draco looked away again.

She took a slow breath.

“Do you know something?”

His whole body stilled.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Draco, please. Do you?”

He didn’t answer at first.

She leaned closer, searching his face in the dim light. His eyes were guarded, his jaw tight, but not cruel. Never cruel.

He looked like he wanted to say something—but didn’t know how.

Esther felt the ache build behind her ribs.

“You can tell me,” she said. “If you do. I won’t—I just want the truth.”

Draco finally met her gaze.

And said, carefully: “I don’t know anything.”

The pause was too long.

She heard the words, but they didn’t quite settle.

His eyes held something else—something withheld.

But still…

She nodded.

And for the first time that night, she let her head rest against his shoulder.

Draco didn’t move for a second.

Then, slowly, he reached up and put his arm around her.

They sat like that in silence. The fire flickered softly. Phobos stretched and yawned, moving closer to her side.

“I’ll bring you more food tomorrow,” Draco said.

Esther closed her eyes.

“Okay.”

She didn’t believe him. She could read him like an open book, and she could recognize easily when he was hiding something. But Draco, as frustrating as he could be, was her brother. She chose to trust him like she always did.

She believed in him.

And that, for now, was enough.

Chapter 6: people you trust the most cut you the deepest

The morning light crept pale and soft across the bedroom walls, catching on the frost that veiled the tall windows. Esther stirred slowly beneath the heavy duvet, the fabric cool against her skin. For a moment she stayed still, half hoping she might fall asleep again.

But the bed beside her was empty.

She blinked.

Phobos was gone.

That wasn’t unusual at Hogwarts—he liked to roam—but here, at the Manor, he rarely left her side. Especially not when she’d just returned from punishment. He usually curled against her ribs, warm and purring. Now the silence felt sharper without him.

Her gaze drifted toward the high-backed chair near the window.

A neat stack of gifts sat waiting.

She rose, shrugging on her robe, and crossed the cold floor with bare feet. Her fingers hesitated for a moment before reaching for the first parcel.

Daphne’s was wrapped in soft plum paper with ivy-green ribbon. Her handwriting on the tag was rounded and neat.

“Thought of you when I saw it. Hope it makes you feel more like yourself again. Love, Daphne.”

Inside was a pair of supple leather gloves—deep green, lined with fleece, with rune-stitching around the cuffs. Not flashy, but beautiful in a quiet, purposeful way. They fit her hands exactly.

Esther inhaled through her nose and held them for a moment longer than she meant to.

The next gift—Theo’s—was a narrow box tied in silver twine, paper slightly creased, like he’d rewrapped it twice.

“So you stop nicking my copies. And don’t pretend you won’t.”

She smiled despite herself as she pulled out the book — “Advanced Volatility in Potionwork”. The exact edition she'd pointed out weeks ago in the library. Of course he’d remembered. Of course he’d mocked her for it.

She’d get him back somehow.

Astoria’s was more chaotic. The box had slightly caved on one side, and the wrapping was covered in dancing fairies that flitted around the paper with twinkling lights. Inside: a pile of sweets—chocolate frogs, sugar quills, licorice bats—and a tiny handmade bracelet, crooked but strung with tiny green and black stones. A charm of a cat dangled in the middle.

Inside was a note written in bright green ink:

“Don’t share with anyone. Especially Draco. Yours, Tori.”

Esther fought back a smirk. Astoria’s fascination with her brother slowly faded after the incident with Hippogriff. Now she shared her sister distaste, wrinkling her nose every time she spotted him. It was kind of funny, and Daphne especially was enjoying it.

Blaise had sent her a silver comb engraved with a constellation pattern. A charm hummed beneath the surface—it adjusted to remove tangles without a single pull. It was beautiful. Elegant. Blaise to the core.

She set it aside and reached for Draco’s.

This box was heavier. When she opened it, the smell of dried ingredients hit her instantly—faint but familiar. Inside were rare vials: hellebore powder, crushed scarab beetle, a vial of thestral hair she hadn’t been able to get her hands on last year. All freshly packed, all labeled in Draco’s neatest script.

“Don’t explode your dorm. And you owe me two favors.”

Esther had her own little set for Potion that she got during her second year. She practiced during summer holidays at Manor or even in Slytherin’s dorms when she had time. It helped her to calm down and cool her head. Her friends often got her ingredients she mentioned or needed for her collection, so she can practice.

She snorted softly. Of course her brother would send the expensive stuff with blackmail attached.

She touched the last box. The one with her mother’s elegant handwriting.

Inside was a delicate tin of rose-petal truffles and bergamot tea—her favorite. There was no note. Just a single folded napkin embroidered with the Malfoy crest and a silver spoon nestled beside the sweets.

That, more than anything, told her Narcissa had chosen the gift herself.

She let herself sit with that thought for a moment, feeling her chest tighten. The wave of guilt crashed over her. She didn’t think what would her mother think if she started asking questions about her biological parents. Esther didn’t want to seem ungrateful or hurt her with her ignorance.

She fought back a sight. She leaned back slightly against the bedpost, holding the gloves Daphne gave her. Her fingers traced the runes, absently, as her mind drifted.

She’d spent days preparing gifts for all of them.

She and Draco had chosen their mother’s neckless together in Hogsmeade: they also got her a silk scarf embroidered with night-blooming flowers that Narcissa used to grow in the winter gardens. For Daphne, she’d found a leather journal lined in velvet, with a charmed clasp that locked at her voice. Theo got enchanted bookmarks that glowed when he left them too long in his piles. She’d made Astoria a music box charmed to play different lullabies when opened at night. Blaise got a lapel pin shaped like a serpent curled around a crescent moon—he liked subtle flair.

For her brother she got a sleek, enchanted leather kit containing high-grade broom polish, a wand-friendly bristle brush, and silver-plated detailing tools, monogrammed with his initials. It’s meant to keep his broom — and gloves — pristine before matches. She might not be interested that much in Quidditch but she was very attentive of Draco’s needs.

Each present was a small act of knowing. Of recognition. It felt nice to share this kind of connection with others.

But receiving these—one by one—had shifted something inside her. Just slightly.

A low meow echoed by the door, making her blink.

Phobos stood there, his fur dusted faintly with something — ashes? soot? — and a small, unmarked parcel dangling from the loose grip of his teeth. He padded forward with slow dignity, tail flicking, and dropped the package gently at her feet.

“Phobos,” she murmured, voice rough from disuse. “Where’ve you been?”

He sat back on his haunches, licking his paw like he hadn’t just snuck past a dozen wards.

She looked down at the package, then back at him.

“What is this?”

He flicked his ear but didn’t answer.

Esther sighed, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “Fine. I’m opening it. But if this is another one of your dead mice—”

She stopped.

Because it wasn’t a mouse. Or anything like it.

The parcel was wrapped in plain brown paper. No ribbon. No note. But as her fingers brushed the surface, something in her chest gave a strange twist.

She stared at it for a moment longer, then looked down at Phobos, who was still sitting very still, tail curled neatly around his paws.

He blinked at her—slow, unbothered—and then stood, padded closer, and butted his head gently against her knee. She felt the warmth of him even through the thick wool of her robes. A second later, he rose up on his hind legs, pressing one paw against her thigh, and licked the side of her hand—delicate and warm, the way he always did when she was crying, or sick, or scared.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly tight.

Phobos simply circled once, then curled beside her where the folds of her robe pooled, watching her with steady, patient eyes.

Esther turned her attention back to the box. She unwrapped it slowly, folding the paper as she went—a childhood habit, one Narcissa had once praised as “neat and civilized.” Her hands trembled only slightly.

Inside was a velvet pouch. She recognized the texture: real velvet, dark with age and use, the drawstring softened from wear. This wasn’t something new.

She opened it carefully.

The necklace lay nestled in the folds like a secret.

A fine silver chain glinted faintly in the light from the frost-covered window. Hanging from it was a small, five-pointed star, its shape graceful and slightly asymmetrical, like it had been made by hand. At its center was a single blue stone—deep and clear, like a drop of seawater caught in moonlight.

It wasn’t flashy. Not expensive-looking. But it was beautiful.

Esther felt the world shift under her slightly.

She touched the star with her fingertips. The metal was cool, and something about the weight of it—small, but certain—made her chest ache.

“Where did you get this?” she asked softly.

She looked again at Phobos. He met her gaze, still quiet, and leaned forward to rest his chin on her shin.

Esther pressed her lips together. Her heart was moving too fast, too loud, and she didn’t know why—only that this necklace was important, that it meant something. That someone, somewhere, had meant it for her.

She held it to her chest for a long moment, her fingers curled protectively around the star.

Then she looked down at Phobos and whispered, “Thank you.”

He didn’t respond, but she thought his purr was louder than usual.

They stayed like that for a while—girl and cat, gift unopened until now, and winter light stretching slowly across the floor. Esther had never liked mornings. But for once, she didn’t mind the quiet.

---

The letter came on the second morning of the holidays.

Short, spare, and stamped with the Malfoy seal. Esther’s handwriting was neater than usual — almost rehearsed. Daphne knew at once it wasn’t good news.

Daphne,

I won’t be able to visit over the break. It’s been decided. Give Astoria my apologies. I hope you have a good Christmas.

Esther.

That was it. No excuse. No complaint. Just the cold finality of a line drawn in ink.

Daphne sat at the breakfast table in the Greengrass manor, the parchment still clutched in her hand, as the scent of cinnamon and orange peel drifted from the tea her mother had just poured.

Astoria had burst into tears the moment she read over her shoulder.

“But she always spent holidays here,” her sister said, pushing her plate away. “She said we’d—”

“I know,” Daphne said quietly, folding the letter once, then again.

Her parents glance each other, something passing between them, that only made the feeling of dread in her stomach get stronger.

The rest of the holidays passed in a kind of slow, simmering quiet. Their house was calm as always — fires crackling, garlands hung over the doors, soft music playing in the evenings — but something in Daphne buzzed. A current beneath her skin she couldn’t shake.

It was her mother who noticed.

“You’re too tense,” Daria Greengrass murmured one evening, brushing a curl from her daughter’s temple. “It’s Christmas, my darling. Try to be here.”

Daphne tried. She helped decorate, baked sugared almonds with her mother, talked about the latest Transfiguration paper she read with her father, even let Astoria drag her out into the snow twice. And she was glad to be home — truly. She always missed them when she was away. Being around her family softened her heart, filing it with the warmth she could never find in the walls of Hogwarts – no matter how much she loved being there.

But still, something gnawed at her. Every time the fire crackled too loud, every time she caught herself reaching for parchment again.

Esther hadn’t written once after that first note. Her absence was a gnawing wound in the back of her mind. Daphne couldn’t stop worrying. She knew how things were at Malfoy Manor. They never talked about it because it clearly made Esther uncomfortable but she wasn’t blind. She saw the bruises on her wrists and sometimes on her arms, as if someone grab her too tightly. She noticed how Esther flinched when people came too close to her or touch her suddenly. Sometimes she would just stare at nowhere, deep in her thoughts, her face blank and unreadable.

Daphne’s heart bleed for her each time.

She wasn’t ignorant – Daphne came from a privileged family and she knew it. It wasn’t just about their money or status – her parents were loving, fair people. Both her and Astoria were spoiled but they also were taught grace and dignity. She and her sister grew up with unshakable belief that no matter what they would always have their parents love and support.

She couldn’t understand. How could someone hurt their own child? Daphne knew that Lucius Malfoy was not a pleasant man – her own father was never silence about it, and even though her mother never said anything loud, Daphne didn’t miss the way she winkled her nose in displeasure whenever he was mentioned. Still, she couldn’t understand how could he hurt someone like Esther?

Daphne had known Esther for her whole life. Yes, she was reserved and it was hard for her to show affection but she was so genuine in her attempt to please her family it was devastating to watch. Daphne never needed to do anything to receive her parent’s love. And that was the other thing that bothered her: Esther never expected her family’s love. All she did was for their acceptance. The last few years it was about them just leaving her alone. Study hard, speak when asked, hold yourself like a young girl of Malfoy family should. Those were the rules Esther build her whole life around.

She couldn’t understand the concept of love – Daphne saw how uncomfortable and confuse she was at first around Daphne’s parents. They welcome her warmly and treated her as their own because Esther was her friend, and that was what parents were supposed to do.

That was why she was so harsh with Draco. He lived in that house. He saw what that man was doing to her. He knew better than anyone, and yet, he walked around throwing words like “my father would hear about this”, worshiping him as if he wasn’t the most disgusting human being that kept hurting his bloody daughter. And for what?!

Daphne brushed her fingers over leather journal that Es got her for Christmas.

She was good, Esther. She was the kind of child that parents couldn’t help but feel proud. Her grads were excellent; her manners were perfect. She was funny – even though only people close to her had a privilege to see that side of her. She was a good friend.

Maybe it was her older sister instinct but Daphne couldn’t help but feel strong protectiveness over her. That’s how their friendship started – Esther looked so small and so lost in that big room during her mother’s birthday party, she didn’t have a choice but to approach her. 

“Dove,” her father called, looking into her room. “Time for dinner.”

“Coming, dad,” she said, putting aside Esther’s gift.

The tight knot in her stomach didn’t loosen the whole night.

---

She was able to breath more freely when it was time to go back to Hogwarts.

King’s Cross was loud with echoing footsteps and children’s voices. Daphne scanned the platform, already half-expecting what she would see — or wouldn’t.

She spotted them before she spotted Esther.

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy stood a short distance from the train, surrounded by steam and shadows. They looked as they always did — untouched by the cold, elegant in posture, like they belonged in a painting rather than a crowd.

Lucius held himself rigid, gloved hands clasped behind his back, his expression carved in stone. Narcissa stood half a step behind, her fur collar brushing her chin, gaze cool as winter glass. Between them stood Draco, saying something she couldn’t hear, his mouth a flat line.

And then — there.

Esther stepped out from behind her mother’s shoulder. Trunk floating obediently behind her. She looked… wrong.

Too pale. Too thin. Her coat seemed to swallow her, and though her chin was lifted, her hands were busy holding Phobos close to her chest.

Daphne’s breath caught. She felt her stomach spasm uncomfortably. She didn’t move at first. Just observed.

Something had happened.

And then Esther turned. Saw her. Relief filled her blank face for a second, but it quickly disappeared. She turned towards her parents again, and Daphne caught Narcissa Malfoy looking at her, her eyes cold and face unreadable. It wasn’t a secret that Miss Malfoy didn’t like her family, especially her mother. Apparently, her mom was supposed to marry Lucius Malfoy, but instead she ran away with her dad. Served him right. She couldn’t imagine being part of that twisted family. The said man was still fond of her mother, it seemed even though he never showed it openly – their family was blood traitors, after all. Narcissa Malfoy never get over it, it seems.

Well, it didn’t bother Daphne if she liked her or not. That woman let her husband hurt her daughter and never did anything. She couldn’t care less what Narcissa Malfoy thought of her.

Daphne raised her chin and held the older woman’s gaze, her own eyes cold and unwelcoming. Narcissa scoffed in disgust and turned towards her children, her face perfectly blank again.

She waited impatiently while she hugged Draco first, placing kiss to his cheek, and then Esther, holding her a bit longer.

When they finally broke apart, and Esther moved towards them, Daphne met her partway, careful not to rush. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she answered softly, accepting her tight hug. Phobos meowed in protest between them, and Daphne pulled away slightly to scratch him behind his ear. That won him over because the cat gave her affectionate lick.

She looked back at her friend, scanning her over closely. Her skin looked drawn. Her eyes bruised. “I’ll take your trunk.”

“I’ve got it,” Esther replied. She didn’t quite meet her eyes.

They walked a few paces in silence before Daphne tried, carefully, “Are you alright?”

Esther’s gaze slid to her, and for a heartbeat — one sharp, vulnerable moment — something flickered.

“I’m fine.”

A lie. So paper-thin it nearly tore.

But Daphne only nodded. “Alright.”

They didn’t have time for more. A flash of green cloak and flying curls darted through the crowd.

“Esther!”

Astoria flung herself at her waist, arms thrown wide. Esther jolted — Daphne saw it clearly — a wince, a hesitation, not quite a flinch but close. But Astoria didn’t notice. She only buried her face in Esther’s coat and squeezed tighter.

“I missed you so much—did you get my bracelet? Do you like it? Daphne helped me charm it but I picked the beads—”

Esther’s voice, when it came, was smooth but much warmer. “It’s perfect, Astoria.”

She reached to tuck a strand of hair behind the girl’s ear. The motion was gentle, practiced.

As the whistle shrieked in the distance, signaling five minutes to departure, a familiar voice rose behind them.

“There she is.”

Daphne turned to see her parents emerging through the mist and crowd. Her mom moved with her usual fluid grace, a soft scarf wrapped elegantly around her shoulders. Her dad was beside her, his hand found Astoria’s back when she bounced back to him.

“Esther, dear,” mom said warmly, her eyes softening as she reached them.

Esther stood still for a beat, Phobos still nestled in her arms. Her shoulders tightened, but only briefly.

Then she stepped forward.

Her mom didn’t hesitate. She folded Esther into a hug — warm, real, and without performance. Esther returned it, a little stiff at first, but then let herself rest into it just for a moment. Her cheek brushed against her shoulder.

Daphne’s heart swelled in her chest. She hated the fact that this wasn’t normal for her friend.

“I missed you,” her mom murmured. “You didn’t write.”

Esther exhaled. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“No apologies, darling.” she pulled back and looked her over, brushing a bit of hair from Esther’s face with a touch so light it felt like silk. “Just remember I always want to hear from you.”

Esther nodded.

Her dad stepped in next, a quiet smile tugging at his mouth.

“Hello, uncle Adrian,” she greeted.

“Look at you,” he said softly. “Thinner than I like.”

“It’s nothing,” she murmured, but didn’t pull away when he leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

“I know what fine means when it comes from you,” he said gently, giving her shoulder a soft squeeze. “Eat something warm tonight. Please.”

“I will.”

“You better,” he said, and tapped her chin lightly. “Otherwise I’ll send a howler with Daria’s voice next time. I’m not above it.”

That earned a flicker of a smile from her — quick, but real.

Phobos meowed softly, sensing the quiet warmth and lifting his head toward her dad, who scratched behind his ear like he always did.

Her mum pressed a small box into her hands — wrapped in lavender parchment with neat silver twine.

“Your present, dear. I wanted to give it to you personally.”

“Thank you,” Esther said, this time without hesitation.

Daphne watched the way her mother smiled, brushing a hand briefly against Esther’s cheek — no different than how she might’ve touched Daphne or Astoria. There was nothing stiff or overly polite in her tone. No distance.

Just care.

It hadn’t always been that easy, Daphne knew. Esther used to tense at even the kindest gestures, her body tight with the instinct to recoil, like affection was something she had to brace herself against. But now she accepted things like this more easily — not because she expected them, but because she’d slowly, quietly learned they were real.

Esther had spent the last few weeks planning gifts for everyone. Daphne remembered the care she’d taken choosing her mother’s present — the moonstone earrings she’d picked in Hogsmeade, nestled in velvet the color of wildflower honey. And for her father, a hand-bound copy of The Lore of Old Charms, annotated with spells she’d marked for him in the margins. Daphne had seen the look on her dad’s face when he opened it. It was the same look he wore now, standing a step behind her mother, eyes soft on the girl he very clearly considered family.

Esther didn’t ask for anything in return. She never had. But she noticed things. She remembered. And she gave with such quiet precision it made Daphne’s chest ache sometimes.

This wasn’t her house, and these weren’t her parents — but she’d still tried to love them the best way she knew how.

And they loved her back. She could only hope it was enough to warm the ice that Malfoys left.

“Oi, Greengrass,” came a familiar voice behind them, light and teasing. “You lot already claiming the platform?”

Theo appeared through the steam, dragging his trunk behind him with one hand and adjusting his coat with the other. He looked well-rested and windblown, cheeks slightly pink from the cold. Daphne was glad – she was worried he would have a hard time with his father alone, but he looked good.

He moved toward them with his usual swagger — but the moment his eyes landed on Esther, the mischief faltered.

He greeted her parents warmly, exchanging brief hugs like he’d done a dozen times before — Theo was always welcomed in their house as one of her friend. Then he turned to Daphne, gave her a quick smile, and glanced back at Esther.

He didn't say anything — not at first. Just looked. Esther didn’t quite look back.

Theo’s brow furrowed. The warmth in his expression cooled into concern. Daphne felt him glance at her, questioning.

She gave a small shake of her head. Not now.

He understood immediately. His shoulders tensed the way they did when he wanted to say something but knew better. Instead, he stepped forward and gave Esther a quick, one-armed hug. It was brief and wordless — but careful. Careful in the way one was when they knew someone might be hurting.

“Good to see you,” he said simply, sending a quick glance at Daphne.

Esther murmured something too quiet to catch. But she didn’t flinch, hugging him in return. That was enough.

Then came the next voice, silkier and amused. “Honestly, I can’t leave you alone for a minute without you forming your own welcome committee.”

Blaise strolled into view, hands in the pockets of his sharply tailored coat, his mother gliding beside him like the winter wind.

“Daphne,” aunt Marcella greeted first, stepping forward to kiss her cheek. “You’ve grown again, haven’t you?”

Daria let out a warm laugh. “Don’t flatter her — she’ll start towering over us all.”

“Impossible,” Daphne said, smiling. “I’m very dignified about my five-foot-three.”

“You’re barely five-two,” Esther muttered without thinking.

Blaise raised a brow. “Oh? So she does speak.”

Esther blinked, startled. Then — just faintly — her lips curved.

Blaise’s mum turned next to Esther and cupped her face gently. “Esther, sweetheart. I’m glad to see you.”

“Hello, aunt Marcella,” Esther said, voice soft but clear. She didn’t back away from the touch, though her posture was still too straight. Tense.

“You look far too serious,” she told her. “It’s a new year. Try to let yourself enjoy it.”

Esther nodded, almost shyly. “I’ll try.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” she said, before releasing her with a last pat on the cheek and moving off to speak with her mother.

Blaise gave a lazy nod to the rest of them and turned to Esther. “I see you bring little monster out,” he said casually.

Phobos blinked at him from Esther’s arms, while she rolled her eyes, letting him pat the cat.

The whistle blew again — longer this time.

“Boarding!” someone called in the distance.

They all turned toward the train, the noise of trunks clattering and owls hooting beginning to rise.

Daphne looked once more at Esther — the way her hand had tightened slightly around Phobos, the way her shoulders squared automatically when she knew people were watching. The mask was nearly perfect now. Nearly.

Daphne didn’t say anything. She only shifted a little closer, brushing her shoulder against Esther’s in a silent promise:

She wasn’t alone.

And they would talk. When it was time.

---

The Welcoming Feast after the holidays was always quieter than the one in September—fewer students, less fanfare, but no less magical. Candles hovered in the air, their flames gently swaying with the warm draft from the floating platters. Conversation buzzed low and lazy through the Great Hall.

Harry didn’t feel much like talking.

He kept his head down, absently pushing food around his plate, until his gaze drifted—almost automatically—toward the Slytherin table.

She was there. Of course she was.

Malfoy sat toward the center, shoulders straight and back perfectly aligned, but there was something brittle about her stillness. She wasn’t talking to anyone—not Greengrass, who sat beside her as usual, nor Nott, who was speaking on her other side. Her hands were folded in her lap. Her face looked paler than he remembered, almost waxen under the golden candlelight, and there were bluish shadows beneath her eyes like she hadn’t slept properly in days.

Her plate was nearly untouched.

Greengrass nudged a spoonful of mashed potatoes toward her and murmured something, not smiling, just watching her with a quiet sort of insistence. Malfoy didn’t look up. She just nodded slightly and adjusted her fork—but didn’t eat.

It struck Harry then, the strange contrast between how composed she looked and how clearly unwell she seemed. Like she’d been polished up for display. Like someone had gone through the effort of making her appear fine when everything in her posture said otherwise.

And then—she looked up.

Their eyes met.

It only lasted a second. But it was enough.

Harry froze. Her expression didn’t shift—didn’t tighten or scowl—but there was something bare in her face in that brief instant. Something startled. And then she flinched, actually flinched, and looked away so fast it made his chest ache.

Like looking at him had hurt.

His stomach twisted.

Why did that make him feel guilty?

You don’t get to feel sorry for her, he told himself firmly, stabbing his fork into his dinner. Her father got yours killed. Her father was a traitor.

Still, he couldn’t shake it.

The way she looked tonight. The flinch. The hollowness in her eyes.

She barely spoke with someone during the dinner. He would think it was here usual coldness but she looked like life was sucked out of her.

He didn’t eat much.

The last few weeks had been heavy with other worries. Lupin had started teaching him how to conjure a Patronus—properly this time. It was harder than he’d expected. Each time he cast it, the air around him grew cold, and memories surged up from the darkest corners of his mind—his mum’s voice, pleading, screaming, the green flash of light.

But he was improving. Slowly. The silvery wisp of a form had started to take shape. Lupin said he was close.

What had surprised Harry more than anything, though, was Lupin himself. After their first lesson, Harry had asked—hesitantly—about his dad. And Lupin had smiled, gently, like someone reopening a long-locked drawer. He hadn’t said much, only that James had been one of the most loyal people he’d ever known.

There’d been a moment, after their third lesson, when Harry almost asked about Black. Not Sirius—he couldn’t say the name yet without that jolt of cold rage—but about Black’s daughter. About Estheri. Or Vesta. Or whatever her name is.

The question sat on his tongue.

Do you know about her? Did you know?

But he hadn’t asked. He didn’t know why. Maybe he wasn’t ready to know the answer. Maybe he was afraid of what it would mean if Lupin did know about her and had said nothing.

So he let it go.

Sort of.

At least Ron and Hermione’s feud over Crookshanks and Scabbers had been a decent distraction. The cat had grown bolder lately, cornering the rat at every opportunity, and Ron was convinced Hermione was enabling him on purpose. Hermione, for her part, said Ron was being dramatic and unfair. Their arguments had become near daily by now, and Harry was growing tired of having to pick sides or pretend not to hear them.

He just wanted things to go back to normal.

But they never really did, did they?

That night, sleep came late.

The dormitory had quieted — Ron’s mutterings faded into soft breathing, the wind sighed against the glass. Harry lay awake beneath his blankets, eyes on the velvet canopy above. His thoughts drifted like mist: Patronuses, his father, Lupin’s voice in the empty classroom, the sharp glance Malfoy had given him across the Hall.

Everything felt strange and off-kilter, like the world had tilted a few degrees while he wasn’t looking.

Eventually, somewhere between the sound of Neville’s snores and the chill creeping in through the stone, he began to drift.

But sleep never held for long these days.

It was the kind of restless doze that made dreams feel real — half-formed shapes in the dark, impressions more than memories. He felt like he was back in Hogsmeade, or maybe in the corridor with Snape, or—

“He was here—!”

The scream tore through the room like a lightning bolt.

Harry jolted upright, heart slamming against his ribs. For a second, he had no idea where he was. Then Ron’s voice hit again, loud and panicked.

“Black—he was here! He was standing over me!”

Harry grabbed his glasses, shoved the blankets off, and stumbled from bed. Around him, the dormitory erupted. Dean swore. Neville fell over his trunk. Seamus let out a sharp, startled noise, like someone had hit him.

Ron stood near his bed, wide-eyed and shaking, pointing a trembling finger at the shadows. “He had a knife—I saw him—I saw him!”

And suddenly, it didn’t matter that Harry had been nearly asleep. He was wide awake now.

The rest of the night shattered like glass.

Within minutes, the entire Gryffindor Tower was awake. Professors McGonagall and Flitwick were called. Percy tried and failed to restore order, and the Fat Lady was examined again — still furious, still torn. Sir Cadogan stood guard now, reckless and absurd in his armor, but no one was laughing.

They were herded down into the common room, where blankets were passed around and prefects attempted to settle the younger years. Candles flickered low. No one really slept.

Harry sat between Ron and Hermione on one of the old couches, his knees drawn up, heart still ticking unevenly. Ron kept replaying it all in fragments — “He was right there—standing over me—I woke up, and he was there—” — while McGonagall whispered with Dumbledore by the fire. The Headmaster’s expression was unreadable.

Hermione had been quiet for most of it. Still. Too still.

Harry noticed her grip tighten around her blanket. Then, all at once, she turned to him.

“We have to tell her.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Estheri,” she said in a low voice, barely above a whisper. “We have to warn her.”

Ron shifted beside them. “Do we really? Last time didn’t end well.”

“Yes, we do,” Hermione said sharply. “That man has access to Hogwarts and managed to sneak her twice, and no one saw a thing! What if the next time he will go straight to her? Harry, at least knows that he is after him, but she has no idea!”

Harry looked at her. Really looked.

And for a second, all he could see was that moment in the Great Hall — the way Malfoy had looked at him and flinched. The hollowness around her eyes. The food she hadn’t touched. The way Greengrass had kept placing things on her plate like she didn’t trust her to do it herself.

“She won’t want to hear it,” Ron muttered, clearly still sour.

“I don’t care,” Hermione said, steel in her voice. “We can’t wait around any longer.”

Harry nodded slowly, the weight of it all settling in.

The idea of Black slinking through the halls, standing over someone’s bed, standing over Ron’s bed—

And what if next time it wasn’t Ron?

What if it was her?

Harry’s hands curled into fists. Hermione was right.

They couldn’t stay silent. Not anymore.

---

Hermione hadn’t planned on seeking her out again. After the last attempt — the sharp looks, the cold brush-offs — she’d told herself it wasn’t worth it. If Daphne Greengrass wanted to pretend nothing was wrong, that was her business.

But Ron’s scream the night before hadn’t left Hermione’s head. Neither had the way Estheri Malfoy looked during the Feast — pale, glassy-eyed, barely eating, as though she hadn’t been properly human in days. And most of all, the name they kept circling back to.

Black.

She didn’t care how closed-off or perfectly poised those two Slytherins were — they didn’t know. Not really. If they did, they wouldn’t be sitting around pretending it was just paranoia.

And if they weren’t going to listen to reason… well. Hermione had to try again.

She found Daphne in the library.

It was early afternoon, the windows fogged over with frost. She sat alone by the high-arched window, her ink bottle half-capped and her parchment crisp, unmarked. She wasn’t working, not really. Her quill lay untouched beside her, and her fingers were idle against the spine of an open book. She wasn’t reading either.

Hermione hesitated by the bookshelf for only a second before stepping out from behind it and crossing to her table.

Daphne looked up sharply.

Her expression didn’t change when she saw who it was. Not surprised. Not particularly pleased either.

“Granger,” she said flatly.

“Can we talk?” Hermione asked. “I’m not here to start a fight.”

A beat passed. Daphne’s fingers tightened minutely on the edge of the page — almost too small to see.

Then, she pushed out the chair across from her with the edge of her boot.

Hermione sat.

The silence stretched between them, close and brittle.

Finally, Hermione spoke again, choosing her words carefully. “I’m not trying to get involved in something that isn’t mine. But this is serious.”

Daphne arched a brow. “Everything’s serious with you.”

Hermione ignored the jab. “It’s about your friend.”

Daphne’s mouth pressed into a line.

Hermione leaned forward slightly. “We think there’s something she doesn’t know. Something important. And we’ve tried going to her directly, but she won’t listen. I was hoping maybe… you could help.”

“And what exactly do you think she doesn’t know?” Daphne asked coolly.

Hermione took a breath. “We have very good reason to believe she’s connected to Sirius Black.”

That landed.

Not obviously — but Daphne blinked. Once. Slowly. Her posture shifted — a fraction less poised. Her hand moved, like she might reach for her wand, then thought better of it.

“Excuse me?” she said, voice low.

“We think she might be related to him,” Hermione continued, more quietly now. “And if that’s true — and if she doesn’t know — then she has no idea she’s in danger. Black has gotten into the castle. He’s already been in Gryffindor Tower. And the next time—”

“You think he’s coming for her?” Daphne cut in, sounding halfway between disbelief and fury. “That’s your big theory?”

“It’s not a theory,” Hermione said, trying — failing — to keep the edge from her voice. “It’s a possibility. And we’re not accusing her of anything, we’re not trying to dig up her past. We just want her to know.”

Daphne was staring at her, eyes sharp as glass. “You’re not trying to dig? Then why were you lurking around with Potter and Weasley, whispering and pointing at her like she’s some secret to solve?”

Hermione flushed. “That wasn’t— We were trying to figure out how she fits into this. And maybe that was the wrong way to go about it, I’ll admit that. But that doesn’t change the fact that Black has been inside this castle, and she might be more involved than she knows.”

Daphne folded her arms. Her voice was flat again. “Esther’s not involved in anything.”

“She’s already in it,” Hermione said, heat rising in her throat. “She just doesn’t know it yet.”

A pause. Daphne looked away, out the frost-clouded window, jaw clenched.

Hermione’s voice softened. “Look… you care about her. I know you do. And I get it — you don’t trust me. You don’t want to trust any of us. But I’m not doing this to feel clever. I’m doing it because my best friend is being hunted, and yours might be, too.”

Daphne’s gaze snapped back. There was something more uncertain in it now — a fracture behind the mask.

Hermione went on, quieter. “It’s awful, isn’t it? When someone you care about is always in danger. When you feel like you can’t protect them from the one thing that matters.”

Daphne didn’t answer. But her eyes flicked — just once — to the leather journal laying on the table.

Hermione drew in a breath. “Please. Just… talk to her. Let her hear us out.”

Another long pause. Then:

“I’ll think about it,” Daphne said tightly.

Hermione nodded. She stood. “Thank you.”

As she turned to go, Daphne’s voice came behind her — quieter this time.

“If this is some twisted way to use her—”

“It’s not,” Hermione said, already walking. “I promise.”

---

Daphne left the library with her bag slung over one shoulder and a knot of unease twisting in her chest. The conversation with Granger wouldn’t leave her alone — the urgency in her voice, the way her hands had clenched against the edge of the table, her insistence that it wasn’t about gossip. It felt real. Too real to ignore.

She took the long corridor down to the Slytherin common room, her shoes quiet against the stone. Theo and Esther had planned to work on Theo’s Potions essay after lunch — she'd assumed they’d still be there.

But the common room was half-empty, quiet save for the crackle of the fireplace and the murmur of a few second-years trading Chocolate Frog cards. Millicent Bulstrode was curled in one of the armchairs, a book open in her lap and her legs tucked under her like a cat.

Daphne crossed over. “Hey. Have you seen Esther?”

Millicent glanced up. “She and Nott were working in here a bit ago. They finished maybe ten minutes back. He left for dinner, I think. Esther said she was heading to the dorm.”

Daphne gave a short nod of thanks and turned, heart already picking up speed.

The girls’ dormitory was warm and dim when she pushed through the door. The windows, spelled to reflect the lake’s filtered light, glimmered in shifting green. Esther sat cross-legged on her bed, hunched over her own small brass cauldron, wand in one hand, and an open book in the other. Phobos dozed at the edge of the covers, his long tail flicking gently now and then. Something herbal-sweet hung in the air — wormwood, maybe.

Daphne stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her.

There was something comforting about the scene: the steady rhythm of Esther’s stirring, the soft bubbling sound, the quiet flicker of potion-light on her face. It was familiar — grounding. And it made what she was about to say feel even heavier.

Esther glanced up. “Hey. You’re back.”

“Yeah,” Daphne said, stepping in and dropping her bag onto her bed. “Supposed to help Theo, weren’t you?”

“I did. He didn’t need much.” Esther adjusted the flame under the cauldron with a flick of her wand. “I figured I’d start on my own work. I have ingredients that’ll go off if I leave them too long.”

“Of course you do,” Daphne said quietly, and tried to smile — but it didn’t quite reach.

She sat down on the edge of her own bed, close but not too close. Esther didn’t look up this time, but her shoulders stiffened slightly. She felt it. Knew something was off.

“You’re being weird,” Esther said after a pause. “What is it?”

Daphne hesitated. “Granger talked to me. Just now. In the library.”

Esther stopped stirring.

She didn’t move for a beat — just stared down into the mixture. Then she placed her wand carefully beside the cauldron and leaned back against her pillows. “Again?”

“Yeah.”

“What did she want now?”

“She said she didn’t want to fight,” Daphne answered. “She just… she wanted me to talk to you. To ask you to hear them out.”

Esther scoffed, tilting her head back against the wall. “Of course she did.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Daphne said, more gently this time. “She was really worried.”

That finally made Esther look at her. A slow, wary turn of the head.

“Worried?”

“She thinks you’re in danger,” Daphne said quietly. “She thinks… she’s convinced that there are things you don’t know. About your biological father.”

Esther went very still. Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“I don’t know why she and her friends are so obsessed with that,” she muttered. “What does it matter who he was?”

“I don’t know,” Daphne said. “But apparently… apparently it has something to do with Sirius Black.”

The name landed like a stone in the room.

Esther didn’t react at first. Just blinked — once, twice — as if trying to make sense of what she’d heard.

Then: “What?”

“Yeah,” she said quietly, seeing that Esther came to the same conclusion that she did.

“No.”

“Es…”

“No,” she repeated, her eyes turning colder, shoulder becoming very stiff. “No, it can’t be.”

“She said they have strong reasons to believe you’re related to him,” Daphne said carefully. “And if that’s true… and you don’t know it… and if he really does have a way into the castle—”

“That’s insane,” Esther’s voice rose, sharp with disbelief. “That’s completely—”

“Esther,” Daphne cut in, but her voice was calm. “I think we should hear them out.”

Esther’s mouth opened, then closed again. Her jaw was tight. Her breath shook when it came out.

“I don’t want to talk to them.”

“I know,” Daphne said. “But maybe we should. Just once. Just to see what they know. And if it’s nothing — fine. We’ll walk away.”

Silence fell again.

Phobos shifted, curling tighter into himself.

Esther leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Her hands were clenched. When she finally looked at her there was no shield behind her eyes — just confusion, weariness, and something else underneath.

Fear.

“All right,” she said. Barely a whisper. “Fine.”

Daphne exhaled.

“Tomorrow morning,” she said gently. “We’ll find them. Together.”

Esther nodded. Then looked down at her potion, no longer bubbling.

“…I’ll have to start over,” she muttered.

Daphne gave a weak smile. “It’s all right. I’ll help.”

And for a little while, they sat in the dormitory together — two girls on the edge of something neither of them could name yet.

---

They’d just finished breakfast when it happened.

Harry was pushing his eggs around the plate, not really tasting anything, Ron muttering about homework and Hermione scanning her Transfiguration notes, when someone stopped in front of their table.

“Granger,” said a quiet, even voice.

Hermione looked up, surprised—and so did Harry.

Daphne Greengrass stood there, expression unreadable, arms folded neatly over her green-trimmed robes. She looked, as always, like she didn’t care what anyone thought. But her gaze flicked quickly—urgently—to Hermione.

“A moment,” she said.

Hermione froze. Harry’s eyes darted past Greengrass—and there she was.

Malfoy.

She stood just behind her friend, half-shadowed by the high windowlight. Her hands were at her sides, clenched tight, her uniform immaculate as always—but her face looked pale, drawn, the circles beneath her eyes darker than he remembered.

Harry felt something twist in his chest. The guilt he’d tried to push away the night before hadn’t disappeared. If anything, it had only grown heavier with the light of morning. Every time he thought of her name glowing on the map, of the blank expression that crossed her face when she turned away from him at the feast, he felt it again.

Hermione stood at once. “Of course,” she said, shutting her book with a snap and nudging Harry and Ron. “Come on.”

Ron groaned. “What, now?”

Hermione ignored him and was already halfway to the door.

A few younger students stared as the group passed—the unusual combination of Slytherins and Gryffindors was hard to ignore. Even the portraits seemed to whisper as they climbed the nearest staircase and ducked into an empty classroom on the second floor.

They walked in silence.

Greengrass led them away from the Great Hall, her expression unreadable, shoulders squared like armor. Behind her, Malfoy followed—silent, pale, not quite glaring but certainly daring anyone to speak first. She looked like a girl who had already guessed the shape of what she was about to hear and wanted nothing to do with it.

Hermione was tense beside Harry, wringing her hands. Ron dragged his feet with visible reluctance. Harry just kept his eyes on her.

He couldn’t stop.

They stopped outside an unused classroom near the Charms corridor. Greengrass pushed open the door without a word. Dust floated in the sunlight slicing through half-closed shutters. No one else was there.

Esther stepped inside and turned slowly to face them.

“Well,” she said, her voice like polished glass. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

Hermione cleared her throat. “We—well, we overheard something in Hogsmeade, and—”

Esther cut in sharply. “This is about my father, isn’t it?” She was perfectly still. “You’re about to tell me that man is my father.”

Hermione faltered, her breath catching. “Yeah.”

Harry’s throat went dry suddenly. Here it was.

“We were at the Three Broomsticks,” Hermione continued quickly. “The Minister was there. Professor McGonagall and Flitwick, too. They didn’t see us—we overheard them talking about Sirius Black. About how… he had a daughter. A child who survived. And that child was sent to live with the Malfoys.”

She didn’t respond right away.

She stood frozen in place, mouth drawn tight. Her eyes flicked to Greengrass, who said nothing—only watched her, silently, as if trying to hold something steady inside herself.

Harry could feel it building—something tight in his chest. He didn’t speak. Just looked at Malfoy, watching the way she held herself, how tense her jaw had become.

Finally, Estheri scoffed—shaky but sharp. “They must be mistaken.”

Hermione stepped forward. “They weren’t. They were very clear, Estheri–”

“Does the name “Marlene” mean anything to you?”

Harry didn’t even register that it was him who spoke. He blinked, feeling his friends’ eyes on him but his focus was on Malfoy’s face

She frowned. “No. Why would it?”

“That’s your mother,” she flinched slightly but he kept talking. He couldn’t help but think of his own mother, how he carried a hole in his chest because of her absence. He wondered if she felt the same way or Narcissa Malfoy’s face was the one she pictured when she longed for home. “Something happened to her and it was horrible enough for people think that it was the reason Sirius Black went mad,” he paused. “And whatever happened to her made McGonagall think it was not appropriate to send you to Malfoys.”

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t move, didn’t blink. But Harry could see her throat tense as she swallowed. Her eyes weren’t focused on anything anymore—just somewhere in the middle distance, like she’d stepped out of the room entirely.

The silence stretched too long.

Hermione opened her mouth to speak again, but Harry raised a hand—gently. His eyes never left Esther’s face.

“There’s more,” he said quietly. “Estheri Malfoy isn’t your real name.”

She blinked. Greengrass’ face mirrored her confusion.

Ron shifted uncomfortably behind him. “Harry, maybe we shouldn’t—”

But Harry had already reached into his robes. He pulled out the parchment with steady fingers and unfolded it, the corners still creased from last night.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

The ink curled to life.

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath. Ron groaned. “Mate—are you serious? You’re showing them that?”

But Harry didn’t answer. He turned the map toward her, stepped closer, and held it out.

“Look.”

Daphne leaned forward first. “What is this?”

“A map,” Harry said, quietly. “A special one. Shows everyone in the castle.”

He tapped the name glowing faintly near his own, the one that he memorized like the back of his hand.

“Vesta Black.”

Her face didn’t shift, not even slightly—but Harry saw it.

The way her fingers curled in just a little. The way her shoulders drew inward, infinitesimally. Like the air had gone thin.

“Is that supposed to be me?” she asked. Her voice was low. Controlled.

“Yes,” said Harry. “That’s your name. Your real name.”

Greengrass took in a sharp breath beside her, her usual calmness gone.

Malfoy’s eyes dropped to the map again. She was still staring at it like she couldn’t quite read the letters properly, like she was trying to find a mistake in the ink.

She didn’t speak.

“Estheri,” Hermione said gently. “Do you remember anything? Anyone telling you about your parents?”

A flicker—just a flicker—of something behind her eyes. “No,” she said. “The matter of my biological parents wasn’t something we discussed. I’m not allowed to ask.”

Harry could hear it—the effort in her voice to keep it even. It was too flat. Too precise. Like she was trying not to fall apart.

Greengrass moved again, reached out toward her, but she pulled her arm back ever so slightly—not sharply, just enough. Enough to make it clear.

Not now.

Not here.

Harry didn’t say anything.

He just watched her. The quiet panic. The white-knuckled stillness. How she kept breathing through her nose like she was keeping herself tethered.

He knew what it looked like—shock that didn’t scream, didn’t cry. Just froze.

The way her face changed next—it was terrifying. Everything in her expression flattened, locked, went blank like a wall slammed down behind her eyes.

She folded the map, slow and deliberate, and handed it back to Harry without a word.

Then she turned.

“Excuse me,” she said softly. “I need to find my brother.”

Greengrass’ voice cracked. “Esther—”

But she was already halfway to the door.

She turned once more, and Harry caught it—the eyes. Something wild and wounded in them. But steady. Burning.

And suddenly, he saw it.

That was Sirius Black’s face. It was his eyes, the ones that looked at him from the Propet – dark silver, burning with rage and hollowness at the same time.

“I’m quite sure,” Esther said, voice like ice, “that he already knew. And I intend to ask him exactly how long.”

Then she was gone, leaving the four of them standing in the silence.

---

She didn’t remember leaving the classroom.

Didn’t remember the corridors she passed or the sound of Daphne calling after her. The only thing she knew was movement—the pounding of her shoes against stone, the stitch of fury in her ribs, and the taste of blood in her mouth from biting down too hard on silence.

Her chest felt too tight to breathe.

She needed to find him. Now.

The betrayal burned hotter than anything she’d ever felt. It wasn’t even the revelation—wasn’t Black, or her mother, or the bloody name.

It was him.

The one person she’d chosen to trust. The only one she’d let in, time and time again. The only one who had ever been hers.

And he had lied.

She caught sight of him just outside the clocktower courtyard—Draco, walking briskly with Parkinson and two fifth-years from their house. Laughing at something. His hair catching the late-morning light.

She didn’t think. She didn’t slow.

“Draco.”

He looked up.

The smile fell from his face the moment he saw her. And everyone else went quiet too.

Esther didn’t care.

She stopped in front of him, hands shaking, throat raw. “I thought I could trust you.”

The courtyard hushed. All four students nearby blinked, startled.

Draco stepped forward immediately, eyes narrowing in concern. “What are you—Es, what’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” Her voice cracked, cold and sharp. “How long did you know?”

He blinked, frowning. “What are you talking about?”

“Sirius Black,” she snapped. “How long have you known that he’s my father?”

The words dropped like a stone in the courtyard.

Someone gasped. Someone else muttered, “What?”

Draco went white.

He didn’t answer.

He looked around—at his friends, at the people gathered a bit further from them—and his posture shifted, closed off, guarded. “Esther,” he said slowly, “I don’t know what you think you heard, but—”

“Don’t lie to me.” Her voice broke. “Don’t. I asked how long.”

He hesitated just a beat too long.

“Since this summer,” he said finally, barely above a whisper.

The breath left her body.

It hit harder than she expected. She’d known—she’d known—but hearing it out loud made it real. Too real.

Her hands clenched at her sides. Her vision blurred.

“I thought you had my back.”

“I do.” he said, stepping toward her, but she took a step back.

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“It matters to me!” she shouted.

Her voice rang across the courtyard. More heads turned from the entrance hall. She didn’t care.

“I asked you,” she said, voice shaking now. “I asked you if you knew anything, and you lied. To my face. You lied, and I chose to believe you, because that’s what we do, isn’t it? We believe each other. We trust each other.”

Draco looked stricken. “You still can—”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it doesn’t change anything!” he snapped. “What does it matter that he’s your father? You’re you. You are still Malfoy—”

“I am not!” she hissed, her hands shaking.

That shut him up.

“I’ve never been one,” she went on, eyes brimming. “And you know that.”

Draco opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“You were supposed to have my back,” she whispered. “It was us against everyone else. And you lied.”

“I was trying to protect you,” he said, helpless.

She laughed, but it sounded like glass. “By letting me walk around with no idea who I am?”

He flinched.

“You don’t get it,” he said. “He’s dangerous, Esther. He killed people. You didn’t need to know—”

“Because gather said so?”

The word dropped like poison.

Draco’s jaw tightened. “Our father—”

“Your father,” she cut in. “That man has hated me every single day of my life. He would gladly get rid of me the moment the opportunity would come. And you know it.”

“Esther—”

“No,” she said. “I shouldn’t be surprised, really. It’s father, after all. He can do no wrong, right, Draco?”

His face twisted. “It’s not like that—”

She stepped back.

People were staring openly now. Whispering.

She didn’t care.

“I hope you’re proud,” she said, voice sharp through the tears she didn’t want to shed. Her lips twitched in cold smile. “You are just like your father, dear brother. That’s what you always wanted.”

She didn’t wait for his answer.

She turned and walked away, her spine straight, her eyes burning. The murmurs followed her down the corridor.

But she didn’t look back. Not once.

She didn’t have it in her to look at him again.

Chapter 7: mother, eat me and give birth to me again

The news had spread faster than fire.

By the time the sun had begun to set, it was no longer a whisper but a roar—Sirius Black had a daughter. And that daughter was Esther Malfoy.

Not one of the older students could say where it had started. Some blamed the argument in the corridor; others swore they heard it from a Gryffindor who overheard a Ravenclaw who overheard a Hufflepuff. It didn’t matter. The truth was out.

And the castle was devouring it.

In the Slytherin common room, the air was thick and brittle. Words floated like smoke, soft and sharp and unavoidable. Esther sat in the corner, spine straight, hands folded in her lap like glass. Around her, the sound of her name passed from mouth to mouth—some curious, some amused, and some sharp enough to draw blood.

“Black’s daughter—can you imagine?”

“No wonder she’s always so—cold.”

“I heard Malfoy raised her to keep it quiet. Probably embarrassed—”

“Shut your mouth, Parkinson,” Blaise said flatly from the far end of the sofa. His voice didn’t rise, but the venom in it was enough to silence the entire conversation.

Across the room, Daphne sat with her legs tucked beneath her on a green velvet armchair, head bowed over a book she wasn’t reading. Her eyes flicked up every few minutes—not to glare, but to observe. She was still. Watchful. If anyone so much as looked at Esther the wrong way, she would see.

Theo was seated beside Esther, close but not touching. He hadn’t said much. But the moment someone snorted the word “orphan,” his gaze had lifted like a blade. The room had gone silent after that.

Esther heard all of it. Every word. Every breath.

She said nothing.

Her uniform was perfect. Her posture didn’t waver. But inside—something had split open and hadn’t stopped bleeding since.

She didn’t remember the last time she had cried. Not like that. Not in front of people.

She’d always prided herself on control, on knowing the shape of her world even when she didn’t like it. But the last twenty-four hours had peeled something raw and red beneath her skin. She’d yelled. She’d cried. She’d said things she couldn’t take back—and now, the whole school knew.

Now, they all knew.

Not just that she was adopted. That was old news. A footnote. A curiosity that had once sparked whispers in first year and died off by second. But this—this was different.

This wasn’t just gossip. This was bloody disaster.

Sirius Black. Her father. The name clung to her like smoke and she couldn’t breathe.

She hadn’t eaten dinner. She couldn’t bear the Great Hall, with its flickering candles and stares from every table. The thought of sitting under the enchanted ceiling, feeling eyes crawling down her back—it made her stomach churn. So she had turned and walked, one foot in front of the other, until she found herself somewhere high and cold and silent.

Somewhere no one would follow. Somewhere she could think. Or scream. Or do nothing at all.

That’s how she found herself in Astronomy Tower.

The wind was colder up here. Sharper, thinner. It pressed against Esther’s skin as if trying to scrape her down to the bone.

She stood near the edge of the parapet, arms folded across her chest, staring out over the shadowed grounds. Below, the Forbidden Forest loomed black and endless. Somewhere far off, the lake reflected a sliver of moonlight.

Esther didn’t know how long she’d been standing there.

The stones beneath her shoes were damp with frost. The air bit through her robes, but she barely felt it. Everything in her felt dulled, stunned, too full and too hollow at the same time. And yet, shame was burning inside her chest. It was her fault, really. What was she thinking – not only talking about it in front of other people – in front of Parkinson, Merlin – but also breaking down in tears.

She clenched her jaw. Her fingers curled tighter into the sleeves of her jumper.

She hated this. The silence, the weight, the heat behind her eyes she couldn’t scrub away. The way her name had traveled through the halls that evening like spilled ink. Her name now was tied with a mass murderer who, apparently, went mad and now was trying to kill his friends’ son.

Her name was spoken along with Sirius Black. Her father.

Sirius Black was her biological father, and she had no idea what to do with this information.

The world father tasted sour in her mouth. It hovered in her head like a foreign language she couldn’t speak, couldn’t translate. There were no memories to reach for, no voice to recall. Just… a void.

A shape outlined by everyone else's recognition.

And what did it matter, really?

A murderer. A traitor. The man who’d supposedly lost his mind and gone after the son of his best friends. That was who he was. That was who people said he was.

So why did it ache so much?

Why did it feel like her insides had been hollowed out with a jagged knife?

She shut her eyes, breathing in slowly through her nose.

She wasn’t supposed to feel like this. She didn’t deserve to feel like this.

That was what made the rage inside her so unbearable—because she knew she had no right to be angry. Not at the Malfoys.

They had given her everything. A home. A name. A place at the table.

And she had known—even as a child—that the arrangement was conditional. Spoken or unspoken, the message was clear: be grateful. Be good. Be silent.

She had never dared to want more.

So how dare she feel betrayed now?

Her betrayal wasn’t real. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t allowed.

She had grown up in the same house where the rules of affection were written in frost and silence. Lucius had never been her a father. She called him one but both of them knew it was an empty word. He made her doubt every time she spoke. He made her feel less for wanting to understand. He punished her with disappointment and disgust, with coldness that never thawed. And she had learned, early, that affection was a performance she had to earn.

Narcissa was different. Softer. But even her care came wrapped in caution, like a favor that could be withdrawn.

Esther had survived by being perfect. Quiet. Useful.

She had never imagined she was allowed to ask for anything more.

But with Draco, things were different. He had always treated her like an equal. Even when they disagreed with each other, they had each other’s back. That was what they had been doing their whole life.

And then Draco looked her in the eye and lied to her.

She’d believed she was allowed to expect honesty from him. She had let herself believe he would never lie. That they were the same—us against everyone else—and that he’d always have her back.

And he hadn’t.

Esther hid her face in her palms, frustrated at herself and at the world, and at the bloody Potter with his stupid need to poke his nose where it doesn’t belong.

She breathed out slowly through her fingers, the cold air slicing past her skin.

She hated Potter—his messy hair, his haunted eyes, the way he’d looked at her like he understood. As if her grief was something they shared. He’d looked at her like he understood something.

And she hated that most of all.

Because she didn’t want to be understood. Not by him. Not by anyone.

She wanted silence. A single, clean moment where her name was still her own. Where no one looked at her and thought oh, that explains it.

As if she was something to be explained.

A soft shift of fabric behind her made her head lift.

She turned slightly, shoulders tensing—but it wasn’t Draco.

It wasn’t anyone she expected.

Albus Dumbledore stood in the archway, outlined by torchlight, his hands folded neatly in front of him.

For a long moment, neither of them said a word.

The wind moved between them like something alive. Esther stayed where she was, stiff and motionless, half-turned toward him, half-defiant.

Dumbledore simply looked at her.

Then, after what felt like minutes, he took a step forward.

“You know,” he said, voice mild, “I’ve always found this tower most agreeable for... untangling complicated thoughts.”

Esther blinked at him.

He wasn’t smiling, not exactly, but his eyes were bright behind his half-moon spectacles—watchful, unreadable.

She said nothing.

He walked a few steps closer, the echo of his boots soft against stone, and came to stand beside her, just far enough not to crowd her. He didn’t look at her. He looked out over the grounds.

Together, in silence, they stared at the darkness below.

“It's a strange thing,” Dumbledore said gently, “how quickly the truth can feel like a lie, simply because we didn’t hear it soon enough.”

Esther looked away again, jaw clenched. “What does that even mean?”

His eyes twinkled faintly. “Exactly what it sounds like.”

Silence fell again, long and frayed.

Finally, her voice came, thin and cold. “Did you know?”

Dumbledore didn’t pretend not to understand.

“Yes,” he said. “I did.”

Esther didn’t move. Her heart beat harder.

She didn’t know what answer she’d wanted. Maybe none.

“Did everyone?” she asked quietly.

There was no accusation in her voice. Just… fatigue.

Dumbledore tilted his head. “Not everyone. But those of us who knew your parents… we were aware.”

She flinched slightly at the words your parents.

A pause. Then, softly: “I am very sorry, Miss Malfoy. That it came to you like this.”

Esther scoffed quietly. “There was no other way.”

“No?” he said.

She didn’t answer. She was staring out again, eyes fixed on the silver sliver of lake through the trees.

“I mean—what could any of you have said?” she added, voice low. “It’s not like someone could’ve just pulled me aside in the corridor and said, ‘Oh, by the way, your real father’s the lunatic who tried to murder Potter.’”

Dumbledore didn’t flinch. He nodded slightly, almost sadly.

“No,” he said. “I suppose not.”

She curled her fingers tighter into her sleeves, jaw clenched.

For a moment, she thought Dumbledore would speak again. But he didn’t. He simply stood beside her, quiet and still, as if the silence between them mattered more than anything he might say.

She didn’t look at him.

Then—softly, before she could stop herself – “What am I supposed to do now?”

The words were thin, half-formed. Not quite a question, not quite a confession. Just… something cracked loose in the quiet.

Dumbledore did not move. His voice, when it came, was slow and even. “Well,” he said gently, “that is the question, isn’t it?”

Esther didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her throat felt thick.

“I would like to give you something clear,” he went on, “something simple and useful. But I have found that the truth does not lend itself well to instruction manuals.”

Her lip twitched—not in amusement, exactly. Just recognition.

“What you do now,” he said, “is not something anyone else can decide for you. But it will not be something you do all at once.”

“That’s not helpful,” she muttered, and this time her voice was steady.

“No,” he said, “it isn’t meant to be.”

Esther turned her face away. Her hands had crept up toward her collarbone without her noticing—fingers brushing against the delicate chain at her throat. She pinched the pendant between her thumb and forefinger: the small, dark stone that Phobos had delivered days earlier. The velvet pouch was long gone, but she could still feel its softness in memory.

The necklace felt heavier now. As if it knew something she didn’t.

She held onto it a little tighter. Her hands were cold.

“Sometimes it takes a long time to recognize which parts of it are yours, and which were handed to you by someone else,” he said after a moment of pause. “It can be frustrating. You are allowed to be angry about it.”

Esther didn’t respond. Her thumb moved back and forth over the pendant’s smooth surface.

“I’m not angry,” she said stiffly.

Dumbledore arched an eyebrow, but his voice remained soft. “No?”

She exhaled slowly through her nose.

“I’m—” she began, then stopped. She wasn’t even sure what she was.

Dumbledore watched her for a long moment. “There is no shame in feeling lost,” he said. “Only in pretending you’re not.”

Esther didn’t look at him. But her grip on the necklace tightened.

“And for what it’s worth,” he added, “you are not alone, Esther. Even when it feels like you are.”

She didn’t answer.

But something loosened behind her eyes. Not tears. Not yet. Just the weight of something too big to name, shifting slightly.

Dumbledore reached into his robes and placed a small wrapped square on the ledge beside her.

Cherry-filled chocolate.

Her favorite.

She stared at him.

Lucius hated this man. Draco hated him, too. Even Narcissa, who was usually indifferent and close off though that he was a foolish man. Powerful but foolish. Esther herself never had any opinion about him. She never spoke a word with the man, and when her family hated him for his love towards muggle-borns and muggles, she couldn’t really do the same. Not when deep down she doubts in her own blood’s purity.

Esther was a lot of things. Hypocrite was not one of them.

She looked at the chocolate again, ignoring the burning behind her eyes.

Then, very slowly, she unwrapped it.

---

Unfortunately, the next day wasn’t better.

The sky was still dark when Esther slipped out of the castle.

She hadn’t slept. Not really. Her limbs were heavy, her head thick, but something in her refused to stay still. She couldn’t lie there any longer—couldn’t bear the ceiling of the dormitory pressing down, or the weight of Daphne’s silent worry beside her. So she moved through the corridors like a ghost, unseen and unnoticed, until the chill of the grounds met her skin like a slap.

She hadn’t even bothered brushing her hair. The wind caught at it now—loose, curling, wild—and she let it. Let the cold sting her cheeks. Let the silence settle in her chest like snow.

She walked until her legs ached. Past the greenhouses, along the edge of the lawn, all the way down to the Black Lake. She found a tree near the water, its branches skeletal and bare, and sank beneath it, legs crossed, back braced against the trunk. She had brought her Potions textbook with her out of habit more than intent—it lay unopened in her lap, her fingers resting numbly against its spine.

Everything felt wrong.

The world had tilted, and no amount of stillness could set it right again.

For a long while, she sat in silence, watching mist curl above the lake’s surface. Somewhere across the water, the forest loomed—dark and heavy and unmoving.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t even blink.

She just… existed. Hollowed out and watching.

Something brushed her leg.

She glanced down.

Phobos had appeared, soft and black as shadow, rubbing his head gently against her knee.

Esther blinked again, slower this time. “You’re up early,” she murmured, her voice hoarse. “Did I worry you?”

Phobos flicked his tail, unimpressed, and leapt up onto her lap, circling twice before settling like a stone. His warmth was grounding. She let her hand fall onto his back, fingers moving slowly through fur. It was one of the only things in her life that hadn’t changed overnight.

And yet—everything had. Including her name.

Vesta Black.

She turned the name over in her mind again now, searching for something—anything. A memory. A feeling. A trace of who that girl had been, or who she was meant to be.

But there was nothing. Just the hollow echo of the name in her head. Vesta Black. Vesta.

It might as well have belonged to a stranger.

There was no story in it. No warmth. No voice saying it with fondness. No letters in a birthday card. No mother’s hand stroking her hair while whispering, Vesta, my darling.

Nothing.

The name floated in her like a ghost with no shape.

And wasn’t that the worst part?

She didn’t feel like Vesta. But she didn’t know if she felt like Esther anymore either.

She was stuck between two names that didn’t belong to her. One that had been forced onto her. One that had been stolen away.

No wonder she couldn’t sleep.

She curled tighter into herself, resting her forehead against her knees, fingers curled in Phobos’s fur like a lifeline.

“What am I supposed to do now?” she said under her breath.

Phobos made a quiet sound in response—but it wasn’t just him. A second cat padded into view.

Esther frowned.

She stared as Granger’s cat trotted over, wide-eyed and purposeful, and sat neatly beside Phobos. Phobos, for once, didn’t hiss. He didn’t move away. He just gave a slow blink and turned his head toward the trees.

A shape emerged from the tree line.

At first, it looked like a shadow. Then a dog. A very large, very quiet dog.

Her body tensed instinctively—but the animal didn’t move closer. It stood still, halfway between trees and shoreline, almost uncertain.

She should’ve been alarmed, but the dog looked more scared that her.

And more importantly, Phobos wasn’t alarmed.

In fact, the cat gave a soft, annoyed meow and sat down squarely between Esther and the lake, as if waiting.

The dog approached with caution. Each step slow, hesitant. His eyes were pale, almost grey, and fixed on her as if he wasn’t sure whether to trust her or bolt.

Esther didn’t move. She felt Granger’s cat settling against her hip.

The dog stopped a few feet away.

For a moment, all three for of them were still—girl, two cats, and creature.

She tilted her head.

“Hello,” she said softly, her voice rough with disuse.

She could’ve sworn the dog flinched.

Phobos stood, tail flicking, and meowed once—sharp and expectant. The dog flinched again. Then, slowly, he took another step. And another.

Esther, without really thinking, extended her hand—palm up, fingers relaxed.

The dog hesitated.

And then… melted.

He pressed his snout into her hand like he’d been waiting a lifetime for permission. A low, almost inaudible whine escaped his throat as he nudged at her fingers, his tail giving a single, tentative wag.

Esther’s throat tightened.

He licked her hand once, rough and warm, and she almost laughed at the absurdity of it. She let her other hand rest on the side of his neck, her touch light but certain.

“Alright,” she whispered. “You’re alright.”

The dog made a small, muffled sound at the back of his throat—something between a sigh and a whimper—and leaned into her touch so hard she nearly lost her balance.

“Hey,” she murmured, shifting. “Careful.”

But he didn’t pull back. He inched even closer, pressing his side fully against her legs, curling into the space beside her like a shadow that had been chasing her for years and had finally come to rest. His coat was rough and cold in places, but he radiated a quiet, desperate heat.

Esther blinked down at him, startled by the intensity.

He was trembling, just barely. She hadn’t noticed it at first, but now that he was close, she could feel the slight vibration under his ribs—like something holding back a storm.

“Well, aren’t you clingy,” she muttered.

The words were dry, but not unkind.

He lifted his head again, eyes locked on hers—so steady, so searching—and nudged her shoulder, not roughly but with unmistakable intent.

Then again, more insistently, this time with the tip of his nose pressing into the crook between her collarbone and neck. She tensed.

“You’re a bit much,” she whispered.

But she didn’t move away.

Her fingers returned to his scruff, brushing through fur that was matted in places. He shifted under her hand, exhaling heavily, as though even her touch was a relief.

Esther turned her face slightly, letting her gaze drift down—to the pendant resting just beneath her collarbone.

She touched it.

A small silver star dangling from a chain just long enough to dip past her collar. It had been too big for her when it arrived, and it still was—always slipping to the side, sliding lower than it should have.

Now she toyed with it absently, fingers curling around the star.

She didn’t even know why she was wearing it today. Maybe because it was the only thing she had that felt secret, untouched by the people around her. The only thing that had come to her quietly.

She gripped the pendant harder. The edges bit into her skin, cool and sharp. As if she could carve meaning out of it by force.

Vesta Black, Vesta Black, Vesta Black.

The dog nudged her again, firmer this time, as if he sensed the spiral. His head landed in her lap with a soft thump, his eyes never leaving hers. They were so dark, so knowing—she had to look away.

“Alright,” she murmured, more to herself now.

She let the pendant fall back against her chest and rested her hand on the dog’s head, feeling the way he leaned into her palm like he’d never been touched before.

The lake stayed silent. The cats were gone now, vanished back into the trees, but the weight against her side remained—warm and real and insistent.

A low crack of twigs behind made the dog jerked upright, ears twitching.

Esther barely had time to blink before he bolted, disappearing into the trees like mist. One moment, his weight was against her leg; the next, it was gone. The cold rushed in behind him.

“Wait—” she breathed, but it was already too late. He was gone.

The silence returned, heavier now. The warmth he'd left behind faded quickly.

She stared at the spot where he’d vanished. Her hand hovered over her lap, fingers still curled slightly in reflex.

Phobos darted after him with a sharp, offended meow, like a sentry startled off duty. Granger’s cat didn’t react much. He just stretched lazily and wandered back toward the castle, as if nothing strange had happened at all.

And then, out of the trees, came someone else.

A massive shape lumbering through the clearing. Esther tensed—but then the shape resolved into something familiar.

“Oh—there yeh are,” Rubeus Hagrid said, sounding almost relieved. “Could see summat movin’ from the hut,” he added, nodding toward the trees. “Didn’t think any o’ the students’d be up this early.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she answered. Her fingers curled tighter around the Potions book still sitting on her lap.

“I s’pose yeh needed a bit o’ quiet, eh?”

Her stomach turned inside after his words. Another reminder that her name now was passing from one mount to another. Still, she nodded, feeling slightly out of place. From the look on the man’s face he was just as uncomfortable, but for some reason he didn’t move. Just kept looking at her with big, warm eyes.

Esther shifted slightly, shrinking into herself a little.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “it’s a cold mornin’, and yeh look like yeh could use a warm cuppa. An’ I’ve still got a few of those treacle biscuits yeh lot seem to like.”

She blinked.

He nodded toward the path. “Come on, now. I’ve just put the kettle on.”

Esther hesitated.

This was the man Lucius sneered at across Ministry meetings. The man Draco had laughed about under his breath, called half-breed and oaf and worse. Even Narcissa, who rarely said anything at all, had once remarked with a curl of her lip that Hogwarts’ gamekeeper was a sentimental creature, “too fond of beasts for his own good.”

And yet here he was. Not sentimental. Not foolish.

Just… kind.

Gentle.

And expecting nothing from her.

She reached for the pendant again, her fingers brushing the star at her chest—just for a moment—and then she pushed herself to her feet.

They began walking slowly up toward his, and Esther did something that surprise even her.

“I’m sorry, Professor,” she said quietly. “About your hippogriff. I wish… I wish there was something we could do but...”

He blinked. “Oh—blimey, no, that ain’t yer fault.” His voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat. “I know who made that call. Weren’t right. But it weren’t you.”

They reached the edge of the clearing in silence, the grass damp beneath their shoes, the world still shrouded in a grey hush.

“I’ll get the tea on then,” he said, nudging open the door of the hut. He paused with his hand still on the latch and glanced back over his shoulder. “An’—er—if yeh want, I mean—jus’ sayin’—you can call me Hagrid. If yeh like.”

Esther stopped just short of the doorway. The thought was absolutely wild. What would her parents think if they see her right now? Her brother?

But then again, it didn’t really matter what they would think. Not now, when she was still holding onto her anger.

She looked up at him, surprised by how tall he really was. How solid. How completely different he was from the picture painted over so many years.

“All right,” she said, her voice low. “Hagrid.”

He beamed, his whole face lightening up with the smile, and it was like watching a mountain soften. Then he ducked inside, calling over his shoulder about tea leaves and how Fang had eaten half the sugar last week.

Esther lingered just outside the door for a second longer.

This wasn’t where she was supposed to be.

She didn’t belong in a half-warm hut with Hogwarts’ gamekeeper and mismatched chairs and chipped mugs and a kettle that probably screamed instead of whistling. She belonged somewhere else. With polished floors and cold silver, behind locked doors and quiet rules.

At least, she had.

And yet…

There was something strangely soothing in Hagrid’s presence. Something that asked for nothing. Not answers. Not obedience. Not decorum. He didn’t look at her like she was a question he wanted solved.

He just looked at her like he meant it when he offered a warm cuppa.

She stepped inside.

The door clicked shut behind her.

And as the fire cracked into life and Hagrid fussed with mugs, Esther sat very still on the edge of a wooden bench, her fingers toying with the silver star that dangled a little too long on her chest.

The pendant felt warm against her skin. Familiar, but not quite hers.

Just like everything else.

The strangeness of the moment clung to her—sitting in the home of the man she’d been raised to mock, the man her family insulted was offering her tea.

The ache inside her—deep and dull, constant as bone—didn’t fade.

But for a moment, it stopped roaring.

Daphne, Blaise, Theo—they were good. They had been good to her, fiercely so. But right now, they were too loud, too certain, too full of questions and worry and the kind of loyalty that overwhelmed her when she didn’t even know who she was.

Here, in this mismatched little hut, with the kettle rumbling and the scent of something slightly burned in the air—no one asked anything of her.

And for now, that was enough.

---

She didn’t know how long she stayed there.

The minutes passed quietly, marked only by the soft clink of mugs and the occasional grunt from Fang as he rolled against the hearthrug. Esther remained still on the edge of the wooden bench, her fingers resting on the spine of her Potions textbook, which she’d eventually opened more out of instinct than interest.

She read a little. Or tried to. A section on tincture stabilizers. Something about powdered bezoar ratios. But the words didn’t matter as much as the silence around them — the peace of not being watched, or questioned, or asked to explain what she was feeling.

Hagrid didn’t say much either. He moved around his kitchen with an easy rhythm, humming low under his breath, occasionally offering her another biscuit or nudging a mug closer when hers ran cold. It wasn’t as awkward as she thought it would be.

But it probably was time for her to go.

Esther closed her textbook and stood slowly, letting the warmth of the fire fall from her shoulders like a borrowed coat.

“I should… go,” she said quietly, adjusting the book under her arm.

Hagrid looked up from where he was coaxing the fire back to life.

“Oh, ’course,” he said. “Yeh need anything—well, yeh know where I am.”

She hesitated, then gave him a small, tight nod. “Thank you. For… everything.”

He beamed at her, beard twitching around his grin. “Ain’t no trouble at all.”

Esther turned toward the door. Her fingers brushed the latch.

Then the door opened from the other side.

Esther froze, blinking against the sudden glare of morning light.

Three figures stood on the threshold. Potter. Granger. Weasley.

Of course.

Their faces mirrored the same stunned expression, though in different shades — Granger looked utterly confused, Weasley mildly horrified, and Potter—

Potter just stared.

Esther didn’t move. She hadn’t expected anyone — least of all them. Which was stupid because everyone knew that the three of them spend her more time than in castle.

Behind her, Hagrid rustled with the kettle, oblivious.

She turned slightly, keeping her eyes forward. “Thank you for the tea, Hagrid,” she said, voice smooth and clipped.

Then, without meeting anyone’s gaze, she stepped past the doorway and brushed between them. Granger flinched slightly as she passed — not out of fear, but confusion — as if she were still trying to put the scene together.

Malfoy. At Hagrid’s. Saying thank you.

Yeah, she couldn’t believe it was real, as well.

Esther was already halfway down the path when it came.

“Malfoy.”

Potter’s voice.

She paused mid-step, one foot still forward, her shoulders tight. Her spine stiffened, and she felt a ripple of nausea curl up her throat. She didn’t turn. Didn’t breathe.

Not yet.

“Malfoy,” Harry said again, quieter this time. “Wait.”

Slowly, Esther turned. Her hair was windblown from earlier, her sleeves tugged over her hands, and her eyes sharp despite the hollowness in her chest.

Potter had stepped forward slightly, putting a little space between himself and the other two. Weasley shifted on his feet behind him, clearly uncomfortable, while Granger was staring at Esther like she’d grown a second head.

Esther’s voice came out cool and automatic. “What?”

Potter looked tense — not in the arrogant, puffed-up way she was used to seeing, but like someone who didn’t trust himself to speak too loudly. His arms were crossed, but not with confidence. His fingers clenched faintly at his elbows, knuckles pale.

He hesitated.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally. “That it turned out like this.”

Esther blinked, then scoffed sharply. “Really. That’s what you’ve got?”

His jaw shifted.

“I’m serious,” he said. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.”

She stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “Knowing your history,” she said, voice low and sharp, “you’re always doing something to make sure your name ends up in everyone’s mouth.”

A flicker of heat crossed his face. His hands dropped slightly from his chest like he might argue, but he caught himself. Behind him, Weasley muttered something under his breath, but Granger nudged him — not harshly, just enough to make him stop.

Potter met Esther’s eyes again.

“I was angry,” he said. The words were quiet, like they surprised even him.

Esther’s breath caught.

“I was angry at him.” His voice didn’t rise. “And I didn’t know what to do with it. So I… I put some of it on you.”

The air felt colder suddenly. Or maybe it was just her skin.

“I know that’s not fair,” he went on, his brow drawn tight. “You didn’t ask for any of this. I just—”

He broke off, glancing down. Then, more slowly:

“I know what it feels like. When people keep things from you. When they lie, or just… let you walk around not knowing who you are. I hate it. I thought maybe you’d hate it too.”

Esther’s fingers curled inside her sleeves.

The wind moved between them, light but cutting. The ground felt uneven beneath her feet, as if the frost was cracking just below the surface.

She stared at him.

And he didn’t look away.

The look in his eyes made her shiver slightly. There was something raw there, in the depths of the emerald ocean, burning so brightly, it was impossible to look away. She wanted to scoff, to sneer at him for assuming that he thought he could understand even for a second—

But well. That was the thing, wasn’t it? He could. Who if not the boy who was famous in the wizarding world because his parents got killed by dark wizard but he survived? Whose fame was rooted into his parentage, whose name was in everyone’s mouth and yet, he hid from the world with his two closest friends.

Potter, she supposed, could understand.

Granger was still watching closely. Weasley kept darting glances between them like he was waiting for something to explode. Hagrid stood in the doorway now, blinking slowly, sensing tension but not interfering.

Esther didn’t say anything. Her throat was thick again — not with anger this time, but with the ache of not knowing what to do.

So she turned.

And walked away.

Not quickly. Not out of spite.

Just because she couldn’t stand still any longer.

---

By the time the sun began to dip past its peak, the grass near the lake had dried into pale, crisp threads underfoot. Esther sat close to the water’s edge, knees drawn loosely to her chest, her arms wrapped around them in a posture that looked casual from a distance—but wasn't.

She’d come here again. Not to hide, not like before. Just to be still.

The shore wasn’t secluded this time. A few students passed along the path behind her—laughing, walking in pairs, their voices half-swallowed by distance and wind. No one stopped. No one came close. She wasn’t invisible, but she might as well have been.

That suited her just fine.

The lake was calm today. The kind of calm that didn’t soothe, exactly, but quieted things inside her that had been screaming since yesterday. The surface shimmered slightly in the breeze, a broad black mirror reflecting nothing but sky. Esther’s eyes tracked a ripple out toward the center, unfocused.

She didn’t cry.

She hadn’t, since that first night.

But something under her skin still felt raw. Bruised, like she’d been hit by something massive and was only now noticing the ache.

A soft crunch of footsteps broke the rhythm of the wind.

She didn’t turn. Not right away.

“I thought I might find you here,” said a voice—low, familiar, and somehow both careful and worn.

Esther glanced sideways.

Professor Lupin stood a few paces away, his hands tucked in the pockets of his shabby coat, the sun catching faint lines at the corners of his tired eyes. His expression was unreadable, but not unkind.

He gestured vaguely over his shoulder. “Your friends are looking for you. They seem… pretty worried.”

Esther blinked once and looked away.

Of course they were. She’d disappeared from the castle early that morning, brushed off every voice that tried to stop her in the corridor, and hadn’t gone back.

A flicker of guilt stirred in her stomach, dull and immediate.

She didn’t answer.

Lupin didn’t press her. He just walked forward a little and lowered himself onto the grass beside her with a quiet sigh, stretching out his legs toward the lake. They sat there in silence, facing the same dark water, the wind picking softly at the edges of their robes.

For a while, nothing passed between them.

Then—without looking at her—he reached into his coat and held something out.

A piece of chocolate.

Esther blinked.

She stared at it for a second too long, then let out the faintest huff of air. It wasn’t quite a laugh—just a small, involuntary sound that barely reached her throat.

“Is that your answer to everything?” she asked, dryly.

Lupin glanced at her, one corner of his mouth twitching. “More often than not.”

She took the chocolate.

It sat in her hand like something ridiculous. She didn’t eat it. Just turned it over once between her fingers.

A beat passed.

Then, still staring at the water, she asked, “Why did Lucius think you knew something about my father?”

The question came out flat. Not angry. Not curious. Just… tired.

Lupin was quiet for a long moment.

Then he said, “Because I was friends with him.”

Esther turned sharply to look at him.

He didn’t elaborate.

“And Harry’s father,” he added, after a pause.

She didn’t know what she’d expected him to say—but it wasn’t that.

“So you know?” she asked, her voice low, almost flat. “You know who I am?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

Then, gently, “You look a lot like him.”

The words landed like a punch.

Esther flinched hard, eyes dropping to the water again. Her throat tightened.

She didn’t know what to do with that. She didn’t feel like Sirius Black’s daughter. She didn’t feel like anyone’s daughter. The idea of resembling a man she’d only known through newspaper headlines and whispered curses—it felt absurd.

Or worse—empty.

For all she knew, the resemblance was just some cruel cosmic joke. Another thing to explain away her presence. Another reason for people to stare.

And even if it was true, what did it mean? That she looked like a murderer? That she shared a face with someone who'd destroyed everything?

“Why didn’t you tell me anything?” she asked, sharper now, but not loud.

The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them. Not because they weren’t true—but because she already knew the answer. She’d known it when Dumbledore spoke to her. She knew it the moment the world tilted on its side.

Of course no one told her.

She’d been Malfoy’s ward. A showpiece. A political maneuver wrapped in quiet silk and silver rules.

What could Lupin have done?

Still—

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “You’re right to ask. But the truth is… I was a coward.”

She turned to him again, startled.

His expression didn’t shift. He wasn’t trying to soften the word.

“With both you and Harry,” Lupin said, voice low and heavy, “I kept telling myself it wasn’t my place. That it would make things worse. That I wasn’t the right person to say anything. But really—” He paused. “I was afraid. Afraid of seeing the ghosts of my friends. In your faces.”

Esther said nothing.

The wind moved past them, stirring the lake’s surface. A few students’ voices echoed faintly behind the trees, and then faded.

Lupin was quiet again.

Then he said, “I also was friends with your mother.”

Esther’s stomach twisted.

She flinched again—but it was different this time. Not the same cold, disoriented panic as before. Something more complex. More fragile.

Because when he said “mother,” the face that rose in her mind wasn’t one she didn’t know. It was Narcissa’s.

The elegant curve of her hand brushing back a strand of hair. The cool, measured voice asking if Esther had done her homework. The quiet pressure of a hand on her shoulder when she was sick, too weak to move. Always distant. Always restrained. But real. Present. Hers.

Even when she’d questioned everything—her blood, her family, her name—Narcissa had been there.

She didn’t know what to do with that.

Didn’t know how to make space for someone else.

So she said nothing.

And Lupin didn’t push.

Instead, he went on, softer now. “Her name was Marlene. Marlene McKinnon.”

Esther said nothing, but her fingers curled slightly into the hem of her sleeve.

“She was… an amazing young woman,” he said, his face softening. “People tended to look after her every time she entered the room. And she was brave. Even when it cost her something.”

He gave a small, uneven smile. “Had a temper, too. Never lasted long, but when it hit—well. You didn’t want to be standing in her way.”

Esther let the words sit.

She didn’t know what to feel. It was like being told the plot of a story she’d never read. The names didn’t match anything inside her. The emotion felt secondhand. Like a memory someone else was trying to give her.

But for a moment, something flickered in her.

She wanted to ask what her voice sounded like. What she laughed at. Whether she liked tea or coffee. Whether she—

But the questions were dangerous. Too close. Too exposing.

Esther didn’t press him. Didn’t let it show. She just nodded once, more to herself than him, and said nothing.

The silence returned, but it wasn’t heavy now. Just… there.

A bird called somewhere across the trees.

Then—quietly—she asked, “Is it true I have a different name?”

Lupin looked at her again, and something in his eyes shifted. Not pity. Not surprise.

Something almost tender.

“Yes,” he said. “You do.”

He paused, just long enough to make her heart thump once harder than it should.

“You see… Sirius hated his family,” Lupin said, his voice softer now. “They were cruel people. Cold. Obsessed with blood and legacy. And unfortunately… he and his brother never really escaped that cruelty themselves.”

Esther blinked. His brother? He has a brother?

But she didn’t ask. And Lupin went on.

“He resented everything about them. Their rules, their control, their pride. The whole Black family had this tradition—naming their children after stars and constellations. It was a way to show off their supposed purity.”

He gave a faint, almost bitter smile.

“But as much as Sirius hated the traditions… he loved astronomy. Genuinely. Always had.”

Esther listened, still and silent, something shifting faintly behind her ribs.

“So when you were born, he couldn’t help himself,” Lupin said. “He didn’t name you after a star. He chose something different. A little rebellious, even then.”

He looked back toward the lake, a far-off glint in his eyes.

“He named you after the brightest asteroid visible from Earth. Vesta.”

Esther’s breath caught. Just slightly.

“Your mother loved it,” he added. “Said it suited you, even before you were born.”

She sat very still, the breeze catching a loose strand of hair across her cheek.

Vesta.

She turned the name over again in her mind. It didn’t feel closer now. It still hovered like something fragile and far away. But this time, there was an image with it.

Not of herself. Not of who she was supposed to be.

But of someone else.

A man—tired, rebellious, maybe angry—looking up at the sky and picking a name not because it sounded powerful, or pure, or worthy of a Black—but because he liked it. Because it was bright. Because he thought it might suit a child he hadn’t even held yet.

The thought made something shift low in her chest. A pressure she didn’t have words for.

Because she knew Sirius Black. Well, she knew of him.

The papers painted him with blood and madness. The Ministry named him a traitor. Even Lucius had spat his name like poison, calling him disgrace, filth, embarrassment to the family.

He was a monster. A murderer. The man who'd betrayed his friends. That was the story she'd been given.

But this—

This wasn’t that man.

This was someone else. Someone who looked at a star map and circled a name. Someone who picked a light in the dark and said, This one. For her.

She clenched her fingers tighter around her sleeve.

It didn’t make sense. None of it did. She didn’t want it to make sense.

But the pieces had started to move in her mind, all the same. Slowly. Unwillingly.

That man had been her father. That man had named her. That man—

She exhaled sharply and looked away from Lupin, as if the thoughts were visible on her face.

Her stomach twisted. There was something unbearable about it. The idea that a stranger—someone she had only known as a warning, as a shadow—had once looked toward a future that included her.

She didn't know how to hold that truth. Didn’t know if she wanted to.

But she couldn’t let it go, either.

She looked back down at the lake. The water lapped softly at the edge, as if it didn’t care what names she carried, or where they came from.

And for the first time, the name didn’t feel like a lie.

It didn’t feel like hers—not yet.

But it didn’t feel like a stranger’s either.

---

By the time she reached the dungeons, the castle had begun to feel hollow.

The torches flickered low in their sconces, casting long, unsteady shadows that shifted as she moved. The corridors weren’t empty, but they may as well have been. Every voice she passed seemed to quiet as she neared, like air being sucked out of a room.

She didn’t meet their eyes.

She walked steadily, her book tucked under her arm, her jaw set. But her stomach twisted tighter with every step toward the common room.

Not because of the whispers.

Because of the chance that she might see him.

Draco.

She didn’t know what she’d do if she did. Didn’t know what she’d say, or if she’d say anything at all. She hadn’t seen him since yesterday—since everything came undone. And even though the thought of him made something curl up inside her, she couldn’t bear to see that look again. The one he’d given her in the corridor, before everything spilled.

So when she stepped through the Slytherin entrance and scanned the room—and didn’t see him—her lungs loosened.

Just a little.

There were a few students by the fireplace. A cluster near the far window. She felt them glance up as she passed. Heard her name—or something like it—hiss low and sharp from the corner.

She kept walking.

Down the stone hallway, past the green velvet curtains, toward the dorm she shared with Daphne.

Her hand was cold when it touched the door.

It creaked open.

And there—lit by the soft green light of the enchanted windows—stood Daphne Greengrass, facing the mirror with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She turned the instant Esther stepped inside.

There was no hesitation.

She crossed the room in three long strides.

“Where have you been?” she said, and her voice wasn’t soft. It wasn’t controlled. It trembled at the edges with something like panic.

Esther couldn’t answer. The words wouldn’t come.

Daphne’s eyes scanned her—messy hair, red-ringed eyes, dirt on her hem. “Do you even realize how worried I was? I thought—” She broke off, swallowing hard. “You can’t just vanish, not with a madman out there—”

And then she stopped.

Because Esther’s face broke.

No warning. No sound. Just that terrible, breathless collapse—the kind that only happens when you’ve been holding it in too long.

Her lips parted like she might try to say something.

But she didn’t.

Her body shook once, and that was it.

The rest fell.

Daphne didn’t ask questions.

She just stepped forward and caught her. Arms around her. Hands firm at her back. She didn’t say it’s okay, or I’m here. She didn’t need to.

Esther clung to her—fingers twisted in the fabric of her shirt like if she let go, she might disappear again.

The tears came hard. Ugly. Too many and too fast.

There were so many feelings inside her she didn’t know how to name. Grief. Shame. Anger. Emptiness. And all of it made worse by how quiet it had been for hours. Even the truth—what little she’d learned—had only deepened the ache.

Daphne didn’t flinch.

Esther cried like she was trying to empty herself.

And when the sobs finally slowed, when her chest began to still and her shoulders stopped shaking, she stayed there.

Just breathing.

Just letting herself be held.

Because everything still hurt. Nothing was fixed.

But for the first time all day, she didn’t feel like she had to hold it alone.

Chapter 8: black meets black

Notes:

this chapter - more specifically the scene in the shrieking shack and esther's last words to sirius, are the sole reason this fic exist. i was very exited to write this, and i can't believe we are here.

Life didn’t stop after she learned the truth, unsurprisingly.

It was already the end of spring. The air had grown heavier, more expectant — the kind of stillness before storm or exams. The sky outside was stretched pale and wide, all soft clouds and dust-yellow light. Esther barely noticed.

The letter still lay in her drawer.

She hadn’t opened it. Hadn’t touched it, really — not since it arrived, with that too-familiar handwriting, too carefully written. It wasn’t from Narcissa. She knew her mother’s style like she knew the tone of her voice when she was pleased, or when she was disappointed, or when she was pretending not to be furious. This letter wasn’t pretending anything.

Lucius knew. That was clear.

He must have known the moment she refused to come home for Easter. That was when everything shifted. Narcissa hadn’t pressed, not exactly, but Esther had caught the note of strain in the owl’s return. And then the silence — and then this. The unopened letter. Heavy, humming under her robes like a curse.

She hadn’t thrown it away. She couldn’t.

She had meant to open it. She hadn’t.

Instead, she did what she was supposed to do: went to class, sat beside Daphne, tried not to let her hands shake when she picked up a quill. She pretended the stares didn’t bother her. She ignored the whispers. People were still talking — of course they were — but no one dared say anything to her face. Not with Daphne sitting beside her like a shadow. Not with Theo hexing a sixth-year for laughing too loudly behind her back. Even Blaise had told someone off last week in his slow, deliberate way that meant trouble.

She had incredible friends.

Draco didn’t say anything. Just watched her sometimes — long glances from across the common room, unreadable and cold. He hadn’t even tried to talk to her. And that, more than anything, had made something in her go still.

Maybe she had expected… something. A conversation. A confrontation. Anything. But there was nothing. Just quiet. Just distance. And she hated how little it hurt.

Coward, she thought, more than once. But she didn’t know if she meant him or herself.

What surprised her more was how quickly she fell back into rhythm with Daphne. She had worried, at first — after the breakdown, after everything — that Daphne would treat her like glass. But she didn’t. She was just… there. She handed Esther toast in the morning. Rolled her eyes at the boys when they were being annoying. Shoved her notes across the table during study sessions without comment. Never once asked about the tears. Never once pitied her.

That was the thing with Daphne — she had a way of showing care without making it feel like a debt.

They had a routine now. They walked together, sat together, kept each other anchored. Esther had never been good at letting people in, but Daphne didn’t ask for space — she just carved it quietly and stood guard.

She had written to her parents the moment the truth came out. Esther had seen the ink on her fingers, the set of her jaw. Whatever reply came back hadn’t satisfied her. Daphne had been furious. Esther understood the anger, though hers felt different. Older. Tired.

“It’s not like they could’ve done anything,” Esther had said one evening. “It was already decided.”

“I’m still mad at them for not telling me,” Daphne muttered, and that was the end of it.

---

Potions had always been Esther’s favorite time of day — especially now, when no matter how much chaos brewed outside, Snape would never let it touch his dungeon.

The chill of the stone walls, the steady bubbling of cauldrons, the scratch of quills against parchment — it was grounding. Predictable. Controlled. Snape was a tyrant about silence, precision, order — and lately, that suited her just fine.

She kept her head low over her notes, her wand steady, her answers concise. She didn’t speak unless called on, and even then, her voice came quieter than usual. Still sharp, still correct — but with something dulled around the edges.

Snape noticed. Of course he did.

“Miss Malfoy,” he drawled, pausing just behind her shoulder. “I trust your sudden vow of silence does not indicate a decline in ability?”

Esther blinked once, glanced up at him with the blandest expression she could manage, and gave a cool, perfect answer that left no room for correction.

Snape gave a small sniff and turned away. “Five points to Slytherin.”

Daphne leaned in once he passed. “I bet he just missed your voice.”

Esther allowed herself a brief smirk.

They moved through the rest of the lesson with practiced ease. Esther’s hands were steadier now, but she still felt the knot of tension deep in her ribs — a knot that tightened again when she caught movement across the room.

Potter. Watching her.

He looked away the moment their eyes met, quickly, as if burned. Esther stared at the nose of her textbook for a second longer than necessary.

Daphne didn’t miss it. “Honestly, you can’t hex his eyes out,” she murmured, voice dry. “I’m pretty sure he’s terrified of you.”

Esther didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure what to say.

They packed up their things and made their way to the Great Hall. Esther kept her eyes on the floor. But near the entrance, she caught movement again — and this time, all three of them were there. Potter, Granger, and Weasley. Standing awkwardly, mid-conversation, as if unsure whether to stay or go.

Potter looked like he might say something.

Daphne, without missing a beat, nudged Esther gently forward. “We’re not stopping,” she said under her breath, and that was that.

But just before they passed, Daphne glanced toward Granger and gave the smallest of nods. It was enough to make her blink — visibly surprised, as if she wasn’t entirely sure she’d imagined it. Still, she looked between the two girls, her expression unreadable, but not unkind. And then she nodded back.

Esther understood her surprise. Really, she did. It wasn’t every day that two girls from Slytherin — one of them related to her biggest bully — acted civil toward her in the middle of the corridor.

But then again, the whole thing was absurd.

It had started when Esther began visiting Hagrid. She hadn’t planned to — not really. But after that morning by the lake, something in her had tugged her back.

She didn’t go every day. But maybe once or twice a week, she’d slip away — usually after classes, sometimes before dinner. At first, she made sure to avoid the Golden Trio. But word must’ve gotten around, because one afternoon Daphne simply looked up from her Arithmancy notes and said, “You’re going again, aren’t you?” And then, without waiting for an answer, added, “Fine. I’m coming with you.”

Hagrid had been startled to see her the first time — Esther could tell by the way he dropped a bucket and muttered something about needing to clean up — but he hadn’t asked questions. He had just smiled and brought out a plate of treacle fudge. Daphne was suspicious of it, of course, but she’d eaten two pieces by the end of their visit.

After that, it became a routine.

Daphne liked Hagrid in the way she liked very old trees and cats with missing ears — things that didn’t ask too much of her, but stayed. They started helping him with Buckbeak’s case. Not that they had any hope of winning, not really. But they read the Ministry’s procedures, combed through laws, and even copied a few entries by hand. It was tedious. And useless. But Hagrid had looked at them with such sad, grateful eyes that they kept showing up.

And then, one afternoon, Granger had arrived.

She stopped dead in the doorway when she saw them, books clutched to her chest. Her mouth opened like she was about to say something — maybe a question, maybe an insult — but she said nothing. Just stood there, blinking.

Eventually, Hagrid muttered, “Go on, then,” and she did. The three of them sat in awkward silence for a good twenty minutes before Daphne sighed and said, “You missed a regulation clause,” and shoved a paper toward her.

After that, it got easier. Still awkward. Still quiet. But less brittle.

Esther wouldn’t dare to call them friends. But they did move from being background characters for each other into… something.

Daphne tugged at her hand and she followed, avoiding Potter’s eyes.

She didn’t turn around. But she felt something settle in the air behind them — not exactly warm, but not cold either.

---

Lupin’s office was quiet when she stepped inside. The fire had been put out—if it had ever been lit at all—and the light through the high windows was soft and gold, filtered through spring-green leaves. It smelled faintly of parchment, wood polish, and something a little herbal. Familiar by now.

Esther didn’t knock anymore. She only waited until she heard Lupin say, “Come in,” and slipped through the door with her bag slung over one shoulder. He looked up from a stack of essays and gave her that tired, kind smile she was beginning to associate more with him than any title.

“Morning, Esther” he said, voice warm. “

“Good morning, Professor,” she answered, slipping his bag on the chair nearby.

They lapsed into a comfortable quiet. Esther let her gaze drift to the shelves behind him—books on curses, magical creatures, old dark arts compendiums. She didn’t need anything from him today. Not really. But she'd started coming here sometimes, the same way she went to Hagrid’s: like brushing against some fragile idea of normalcy, of grounding.

It wasn’t like her, really, to go out of her way to talk to people. But Lupin never pressed, never watched her like she was supposed to mean something. And that, more than anything, made her stay.

“Professor Snape seems concerned about my silence,” she said eventually, tone clipped but amused.

Lupin glanced up, quirking a brow. “Oh?”

“He made a remark in class today. Something about uncharacteristic quietness and how it affects learning. Then proceeded to quiz me in front of the entire room.”

“And you answered perfectly,” Lupin said, smiling a little.

“Obviously.” Esther picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. “Daphne thinks he just missed my voice.”

“Of course.”

He said it so easily, so dryly, that Esther actually smiled. Not big, not long, but real.

She never brought up the fact that she knew he was a werewolf. She was pretty sure Lupin didn’t know that she figured it out. Honestly, she didn’t even know if she was supposed to talk with him about it. It seems a bit pointless because, well, she clearly didn’t care and it obviously didn’t affect his teaching or anything else. And she couldn’t really imagine any possible scenario where she would just casually bring it up.

They sat like that for a bit, letting the quiet settle again. Then Esther tilted her head, thoughtful.

“When do we start learning non-verbal spells?” she asked, almost casually.

“Not until sixth year, formally,” Lupin said. “Though some students begin experimenting earlier. Why do you ask?”

“Aunt Daria is really good at them. She showed us a few things last summer,” Esther said. “I would like to learn more.”

“Ah, yes, Daria had always been quite good with spells,” Lupin said, smile tugging at his lips. Esther blinked. He clearly knew Daphne’s mom. “Non-verbal casting requires intense focus and intent. It’s less about power and more about clarity. The wand doesn’t care how loud you are—it listens to purpose.”

Esther nodded slowly, absorbing that. “Makes sense.”

And then: a knock at the door. Professor Lupin stood to open it, and Potter stepped inside—awkward, wind-tousled, and blinking like he wasn’t expecting anyone else.

“Right on time,” Lupin said gently. “Come in, Harry.”

Esther was already standing, slipping her bag back over her shoulder.

“I should go,” she said, avoiding Potter’s eyes. “I need to meet Daphne.”

They reached the doorway at the same time. For a moment, both hesitated, and in the shuffle of trying to step aside, they nearly blocked each other entirely.

“Sorry,” he said, voice stiff.

“It’s fine,” Esther muttered, not looking at him.

And then she was gone.

---

Summer approached quickly.

Exams were finally over, and the usual tension that came with them — the frantic scribbling, the sleep-deprived muttering in hallways, the smell of burnt parchment and spilled ink — had given way to a kind of exhausted hush. Even the Great Hall was quieter now, voices softer, laughter a little more tentative, as if no one quite knew what to do with the leftover stillness.

Esther hadn’t spoken to Draco once.

He didn’t try, either. His silence had hardened into something colder — not wounded now, just sharp-edged. She caught him looking at her once during a break between exams, and the look wasn’t confused or curious. It was furious.

It only made her angrier. He looked at her like she was the one who’d betrayed him.

Coward, she thought, even when it hurt her to think of her brother like that.

And now, with the year slipping out from under her — with June sun warming the stones and the Hogwarts Express only a week away — Esther had no idea what she was going to do. Going back to Malfoy Manor felt like walking into an execution she hadn’t been sentenced for.

She hadn’t said that out loud. Not to Daphne. Not to anyone. But it sat heavy in her chest.

They were walking the path down to Hagrid’s hut now, past the pumpkin patch and the edge of the forest. The grass was wild this time of year — longer, messier, yellow around the tips — and a few butterflies stirred as they passed. Daphne was quiet beside her, arms crossed loosely, eyes narrowed against the light.

“I still think we should’ve gone yesterday,” Esther said, breaking the silence.

“We were literally taking our last exam.”

“Still. I had a bad feeling.”

Daphne glanced over. “You always have a bad feeling.”

Esther kicked at a rock. “Yeah, well. This time I might’ve been right.”

They hadn’t heard from Hagrid all day. Rumor was Buckbeak’s appeal had been denied. Granger had passed them in the corridor earlier, red-eyed and tense. She didn’t say anything, just gave a tiny nod. Daphne had nodded back.

“You think she went to the execution?” Esther asked after a while.

“Granger?” Daphne shrugged. “Wouldn’t surprise me. She’s got more guts than sense.”

“I think she’s got both.”

Daphne gave her a look, like she wasn’t sure whether to agree or tease. “You’re still not going soft on her, are you?”

“Please. I’ve seen her notes. That girl’s a monster.” Esther paused. “Still. She really cares. And Hagrid likes her.”

“Hagrid likes everyone,” Daphne said. Then, after a moment: “Although I’m pretty sure he likes me best.”

Esther gave her a look. “You mean after he finished choking on his own surprise the first time you showed up?”

Daphne smirked. “He got over it.”

It was really weird how this was their new normal. Maybe not as much for Daphne but Esther grew about listening how her family mocked people like Hagrid and openly hated people like Granger.

They were nearing the clearing around Hagrid’s hut when Phobos came tearing down the slope toward them — a blur of black fur and bristled tail.

Esther blinked. “What—?”

Her cat was mewling loudly, darting back and forth in front of them. His eyes were wide, tail puffed to twice its usual size, and he kept circling Esther’s legs like he was trying to herd her away.

“Phobos,” she said, crouching down. “What’s wrong?”

He clawed at her shoe — not hard enough to hurt, but sharp and desperate. Then he darted a few steps ahead, stopped, looked back, and let out another insistent yowl.

Daphne frowned. “That’s not normal.”

“He’s never done this before.”

Esther stood. Phobos darted forward again, clearly expecting them to follow.

“Maybe something’s happened,” she said, already moving.

Daphne didn’t argue. She just fell into step beside her, eyes alert.

The hut and its heavy silence faded behind them as they veered off the path and into something unknown.

They followed without thinking at first — down the slope, through the tall grass, across the uneven ground that sloped just behind Hagrid’s hut. Phobos darted ahead, tail a frantic question mark, stopping only to glance back with impatient yowls that made the hair on Esther’s arms prickle.

“Phobos, slow down—” she called, breath catching as they jogged past the edge of the trees.

And then Daphne stopped.

Esther nearly ran into her.

“What—?”

But Daphne had gone still, her hand darting out to catch Esther’s wrist in a tight grip. “Esther. Look.”

Esther turned her head — and froze.

The Whomping Willow loomed ahead of them, towering and gnarled, its branches twisted like limbs caught mid-swing. But the tree wasn’t thrashing. It wasn’t moving at all.

It stood perfectly still, too still, like a painting rather than something real.

Phobos sat at its base, tail wrapped neatly around his paws, as if nothing were remotely unusual.

“Oh, brilliant,” Daphne muttered under her breath. “It’s the bloody Willow.”

Esther stared. “That’s not—no, that’s not where we’re going.”

“He ran straight here,” Daphne hissed. “Esther, this is the Whomping Willow.”

“I know what it is!”

They both stood still for a beat, caught between instinct and confusion. Everyone knew the stories. First-years were practically traumatized with them. The Whomping Willow didn’t let people near — not unless you wanted your bones cracked like twigs.

But there it stood, calm as anything.

Esther blinked, her voice quieter now. “Why isn’t it moving?”

Phobos gave another impatient mewl and swiped at the dirt with a paw.

“This is mad,” Daphne whispered.

“Completely mad.”

A long silence passed between them — just the soft rush of wind through distant trees and the steady pounding of Esther’s heart.

Then Daphne let out a breath and adjusted her grip on her wand. “You know what? Fine. Let’s just walk straight into one of the most violent trees on school grounds. Great plan.”

Esther gave her a look. “You’re the one who followed me.”

“And I’m already regretting this”

But she stepped forward.

They both did.

The tree remained still. Not a single branch twitched.

“I swear,” Daphne muttered as they neared the base, “if we die here because your cat decided to chase a bloody squirrel into the jaws of death—”

But she didn’t finish. Because Phobos moved again — not toward the trunk, but around it, toward a small hollow in the roots.

A knot.

Esther blinked. “Is that—?”

Phobos swiped at it.

There was a faint shudder in the ground. A click.

And then, to their complete disbelief, a portion of the roots shifted — revealing a narrow, moss-darkened tunnel sloping underground.

Daphne stared. “Oh Merlin.”

Esther looked down at Phobos, who was now watching her with wide, expectant eyes.

“Don’t give me that look,” she said. “You’re a cat.”

“Es,” Daphne said, voice tight, “this feels very much like a terrible idea.”

Esther swallowed. Her hands were cold.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “But he led us here for a reason.”

And without another word, she crouched, ducked into the tunnel — and disappeared into the dark.

Daphne swore under her breath and followed.

The passage was low and musty, just wide enough to crawl through at first, but it widened gradually into a tunnel lined with soil and roots. It smelled like mildew and damp stone. Their footsteps echoed softly as they walked. Phobos was just ahead, barely visible in the wandlight, pausing only to meow sharply and glance back.

Daphne walked ahead, keeping pace with him. Esther trailed behind, feeling the walls press in close. The air was growing colder.

Eventually, brick replaced dirt. The scent of rot thickened — old wood and something animal, like fur left too long in the rain.

Esther looked up.

The floor above creaked.

And then she realized.

“We’re in the Shrieking Shack,” she whispered.

“Oh, brilliant,” Daphne whispered ahead, brushing her blond hair from her face.

Phobos gave another sharp mewl and darted up the stairs.

“Phobos—” Daphne hissed, following quickly, already halfway up.

Esther moved to follow — but then came the voices.

Not just one. Several. Shouting.

“I’ve waited for twelve years!”

The sound hit Esther like a crack across the chest — unfamiliar, furious, raw.

Another voice followed — steadier, strained. Trying to reason.

Then a third — sharp, younger.

Potter.

Esther froze.

But Daphne was already ahead, just near the top of the staircase, crouching low by the wall.

“Daphne?” Esther whispered.

No answer.

“Daphne, what is it?”

Still no reply.

Esther stepped forward.

That’s when Daphne turned.

Her face was bloodless. Her lips parted like she meant to say something, but no sound came.

Esther’s heart skipped. “Daphne?”

Still nothing.

Daphne was staring past the cracked door at the top of the stairs — unmoving, barely breathing.

Esther took another step, trying to see what she saw. “What’s wrong?”

As she moved to push past her, Daphne reached back and shoved her firmly behind her.

Startled, Esther stumbled. “Hey—!”

“Don’t,” Daphne said. Her voice was quiet, but her tone left no room.

“Why?” Esther whispered, heart hammering.

Daphne didn’t answer right away. She just stood there, eyes fixed on something inside.

And then, very softly, she said, “I think it’s him.”

Esther blinked.

Daphne finally looked at her — wide-eyed, pale, something almost frightened in her face.

“Sirius Black,” she whispered.

And suddenly, everything stopped.

---

It was hard to believe this had all started with a trip to say goodbye to a hippogriff.

Harry's lungs still felt tight, like he hadn’t taken a full breath since they'd left Hagrid’s hut. Buckbeak was gone — or so he’d thought. Executed. That sound… that awful thud still echoed somewhere in his chest, even now.

And then everything blurred.

The dog — that dog — had come out of nowhere, lunged from the shadows, grabbed Ron and dragged him, howling, through a hole beneath the Whomping Willow. And of course Harry and Hermione had followed, heart hammering, limbs scraped raw from crawling through that dirt tunnel, only to find… this.

The Shrieking Shack.

Sirius Black.

His father’s best friend. His parents’ betrayer.

And now Lupin — Professor Lupin — standing beside him, talking like a friend. Believing him. Believing him.

Harry stood stiffly near the wall, between the broken bedframe and a pile of dust-covered trunks. Hermione hovered by Ron, who was propped against a sagging settee, his face pale and contorted in pain, one arm clutched to his chest. Scabbers, still twitching — was locked in the corner, trembling. Black hadn’t taken his eyes off him.

The worst part was that it all made sense.

That was what made Harry's skin crawl. The pieces fit.

The dog was an Animagus. Black.

The rat was an Animagus. Pettigrew.

Lupin had seen Pettigrew’s name on the Marauder’s Map.

They had all known each other. Four boys, four names — Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs. Lupin, Pettigrew, Black, and… Dad.

Harry's throat burned.

He wanted to scream. To believe none of this was real.

They had stunned Snape. All three of them — Harry, Hermione, and Ron — after he burst in shouting like a man possessed. He hadn’t listened, hadn’t wanted to listen. Just pointed his wand at Lupin and shouted threats until something snapped in Harry’s head. It would have made him happy how in sync the three of them were, if not for the whole situation.

Now Snape was unconscious on the floor, and Black stood there with hollowed cheeks and wild eyes, looking less like a murderer than a man who’d survived the worst night of his life.

And Harry hated him.

Not just for what he had done — or what he might not have done — but for what he had been. His father’s friend. His mother’s friend. And still, not enough to save them.

He didn’t look at Black. Couldn’t.

He didn’t want to see the pleading in his face. He didn’t want to see the resemblance — the curve of his jaw that he memorized by now, the way his dark eyes burned.

This man had torn apart everything Harry thought he knew. And now, he stood here calmly, trying to explain himself, as though a few quiet words could unmake twelve years of grief and fury.

“You’re both mad,” Harry muttered, his voice low and cracking. “You think I’m just going to believe you? After everything?”

Black took a breath — sharp, ragged. His shoulders rose like he was going to shout, but then paused. Harry saw the way Lupin’s hand twitched at his side, barely restrained.

“Wait, Sirius,” Lupin said softly. “Just wait. It’s a lot to take.”

“I’ve waited twelve years!” Black exploded. “In Azkaban.”

The words rang through the broken timbers of the shack like a curse. Harry flinched. Even Ron stirred beside him, wide-eyed.

“And do you know what kept me sane there?” Black shouted, his voice cracked and full of something rawer than rage — something bottomless. “The thought that my daughter is safe.”

Harry flinched again — deeper this time. He had been waiting for this. Somewhere beneath the confusion, the fury, the disbelief, he had been waiting to hear what Black would say about her. His fingers twitched at his sides. He looked quickly at Hermione, whose face was pinched, as if she, too, had braced for this moment. Ron stared, silent.

“So imagine my surprise,” Black snarled, and now his tone turned sharp as ice, curling with something cruel and wounded, “when I got out, and the first thing I learned was that she is not with Andy or you, but with Lucius fucking Malfoy.”

His face twisted. The words came like venom, but the pain beneath them was unmistakable.

“My daughter. Marlene’s little girl!”

Harry didn’t know why those words landed like a blow, but they did. Something about the way he said her name — Marlene — with so much reverence, so much grief, it made Harry’s stomach turn. He could feel the weight of it in the air. A memory Harry never had, but Black could never forget.

“After her family was slaughtered by Death Eaters,” Black continued, voice shaking, “they sent our daughter to a convicted Death Eater! How the bloody hell did that even happen?!”

There was silence. Even the rat had stopped twitching.

Harry’s ears rang. He turned and looked at Ron, whose brow was furrowed like he’d just been punched in the gut. Hermione's eyes were wide, shining. She shook her head faintly, like trying to make sense of something that refused to fit.

Harry felt cold. They sent her to the Malfoys. After… after all of that. After her mother — Marlene — had been murdered by Death Eaters.

His eyes stung suddenly.

“I saw her,” Black said, and this time his voice was barely above a whisper. It cracked on the last word.

Harry looked at him. Really looked.

The wildness in his eyes hadn’t vanished, but now there was something else there too — devastation. Exhaustion. He looked like a man on the edge of breaking open entirely.

“She has grown up,” Black rasped. “I don’t know what she likes, or what she doesn’t. What kind of person she is. My baby is not a baby anymore… and I missed it all.”

Harry’s breath caught.

Black wasn’t looking at him. He wasn’t looking at anyone. It was like the words were being torn out of him, and he couldn’t stop.

“She is a good girl, Sirius,” Lupin said quietly. His voice sounded tight, like it hurt to speak.

“Well,” Black said, his voice rasping like gravel. “I wasn’t there, was I? I wasn’t there for any of it.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Harry didn’t move. Couldn’t. His fists clenched at his sides, his throat thick with something that wasn’t just anger anymore. He still wanted to be angry. Desperately. He needed to be angry — to keep hold of it like a shield. But something cracked inside him, quietly.

Because the orphaned child in him — the one who still grieved his parents in silence, who still longed to know them, still dreamed of what might have been — couldn’t help but resonate with the father who stood before him now. A father who was grieving his daughter.

Everything was spinning again. The floor, the walls, the story. The way Lupin wouldn’t meet his eyes. The way Black looked like he was drowning in air. The way Ron was staring blankly at the floor and Hermione kept biting the inside of her cheek.

Then — a sound.

A sharp, high-pitched meow.

All of them froze.

Harry turned toward the doorway just as a sleek black cat slinked into the room, its tail flicking, paws light on the dusty wood. It padded straight toward Black, who had gone rigid — unmoving, unreadable — his eyes fixed beyond the cat’s approach, on the doorway behind it.

It was as if he’d seen a ghost.

The cat brushed against Black’s legs once, twice, in a low circle — almost as if trying to comfort him.

Harry blinked.

That was Malfoy’s cat.

He’d seen it before — curled beside Hermione’s ginger one in the classrooms’ shadows. But what was it doing—

A sharp inhale beside him.

Hermione.

Harry glanced toward her and found her staring, wide-eyed, at the doorway. Following her gaze, he turned—

—and saw them.

Greengrass and Malfoy.

Greengrass stood ahead, hand half-raised as if she meant to block the space in front of her. Her stance was tense, protective — almost instinctive. Her other hand was behind her, bracing the girl who stood just behind her shoulder, barely visible—

Malfoy.

She looked pale as bone, her eyes wide, glittering, her whole body trembling. There was something lost in her face, like she hadn’t quite caught up with the moment — or had simply been swept under by it.

Black’s lips parted.

“You’re so big,” he said, barely a whisper.

And then — the grief split through him.

His shoulders shuddered. His breath caught and crumpled. Tears spilled silently down his face.

“I missed it all.”

Harry felt it — physically. A punch to the ribs, the gut, the hollow place where his own grief lived.

And then he looked at her.

She hadn’t made a sound. Not one.

But her face was soaked with tears — silent, unrelenting. Her shoulders were shaking, barely, like she was trying to stay still but couldn’t stop the trembling. Her eyes were wide, fixed on Black, and Harry realized she hadn’t blinked once since the door opened.

She looked like someone had cracked her in half without touching her. Like something inside her had split open and didn’t know how to close again.

He wanted to look away. He couldn’t.

There was something unbearable in her grief — something raw and wordless, mirroring his own storm inside. It made his chest tighten until he could barely breathe.

This was the moment when Harry saw them — truly saw them — father and daughter, standing on opposite sides of a wound neither of them knew how to close. And he couldn’t tell which one of them looked more lost.

Malfoy’s cat pressed against Black’s legs again, curling around him as if to bridge the distance.

Harry blinked slowly, realization creeping in: That cat knew him. Had come looking for him.

Black took a hesitant step forward, as if drawn by some thread between them.

But Greengrass moved instantly.

She stepped in front of Malfoy, solid and sharp-eyed, her arm raised protectively across the younger girl’s body. Her wand was at her side, but she didn’t lift it — just planted herself like a shield.

“You three,” she said tightly, her voice low, trembling, “better have a bloody good explanation for this.”

Harry didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

His eyes were still locked on— Malfoy — Black? — and whatever this moment between them had just become.

---

She couldn’t breathe.

She couldn’t breathe.

It was too much — too loud and too quiet all at once. Somewhere behind her eyes, everything pulsed like it might split open. She could feel Daphne’s presence in front of her, the faint pressure of her friend’s hand still slightly raised as if to shield her, but it was distant — underwater. Her throat burned. Her eyes, already raw, refused to stop. And Sirius Black — no, Black, no, her father — was crying too.

She didn’t know how to feel about that.

No, that wasn’t true. She felt everything.

Grief, confusion, fury — and this strange, dangerous longing. She wanted to scream. She wanted to vanish. She wanted to take every name — Vesta, Esther, Malfoy, Black — and throw them all into the fire.

He said she was Marlene’s girl.

The thought kept repeating in her head, over and over like it might anchor her, like it might mean something. Marlene’s girl. Her mother’s daughter.

But she didn’t know what that meant.

Sirius had called her his daughter. Again and again, like a chant, like a wound. He was shaking when he spoke, voice laced with that same trembling rage she’d always heard in her own — only now it was about her. Because of her.

Daphne moved a little, shifting her stance just enough that Esther could see the men again. Lupin, visibly aged in the last five minutes, stood beside Black — Sirius — her father — like his grief had nowhere to go but into the lines of his face.

And Peter Pettigrew — Scabbers, the rat — was no longer a rat.

Esther barely registered the shift. One moment there had been something trembling and twitching in a corner, the next a man: balding, pale, watery-eyed. And small. So terribly, pitifully small.

“You sold Lily and James to Voldemort,” Black – her father? –  said, his voice low and dangerous, almost trembling with restrained violence. “Do you deny it?”

Pettigrew burst into tears. Huge, wet sobs shook his narrow shoulders. He looked more like a sick, aging child than anyone capable of betrayal.

“Sirius—Sirius, what could I have done?” he wept, writhing. “The Dark Lord… he has weapons you can’t imagine… I was scared, Sirius, I was never brave like you and Remus and James. I never meant it to happen—He Who Must Not Be Named forced me—”

“Don’t lie!” Black bellowed. The sound cracked through the room like a curse. “You’d been passing information to him for a year before Lily and James died!” His face twitched, as if he was punched in the gut. “You got her killed! She trusted you! She loved you and you got her killed!”

Esther froze. Her skin went cold. Her legs felt shaky, like they might give way. Each time he mentioned her mother, she felt something raw bleed inside her chest.

The words didn’t feel real.

Pettigrew clawed at the air. “He—he was taking over everywhere! What was there to be gained by refusing him?”

“What was there to be gained by fighting the most evil wizard who has ever existed?” spat Black. His voice turned savage. “Only innocent lives, Peter!”

She watched, numb and shaking. Daphne stirred in front of her.

“You don’t understand!” Pettigrew screamed, frantic. “He would’ve killed me, Sirius! What would you have done? What would you have done?!”

“I would have died!” Black roared. “I would have died rather than betray my friend!”

And then Black—her father—turned his wand toward Pettigrew, Lupin stepping up beside him, just as cold and still and ready.

“You should have realized,” Lupin said, quiet and lethal, “if Voldemort didn’t kill you—we would. Goodbye, Peter.”

They raised their wands.

“Wait!”

The voice wasn’t hers alone. It collided with another — Potter’s — just as desperate, just as sharp. Both of them shouted at once.

Everyone froze.

Esther was breathing too fast. Her eyes burned. Her voice dropped, quieter now, but still steady:

“We—we need him,” she said. “As evidence. For the Ministry. The Dementors. Or whatever.”

It came out colder than she intended — not because she wasn’t still reeling, but because it was the only way to keep herself from unraveling. Esther was dazed, but she was still herself. Her mother’s daughter. Malfoy or not. Black or not.

Her father didn’t speak. He just kept looking at her.

And then his gaze flickered — just briefly — to the chain around her neck.

“You wear the necklace,” he said suddenly, his voice softer now — shocked and aching. “You wear it.”

Esther blinked. Her hand had moved on its own, fingers curling around the silver star at her collarbone — the little pendant she had worn every day since Christmas.

“What?” she asked, guarded.

“I was the one who gave it to your cat,” he said, his voice low and thick. “He’s clever thing. Knew how to find you.”

Phobos — quiet until now — padded toward Black and rubbed against his legs, as if confirming it.

Esther stared.

“I couldn’t get near you,” Sirius said hoarsely. “Not around Malfoy Manor. And you were never alone. Always with your friend — or that Malfoy boy.”

He said it with such disdain that it nearly startled her into laughing. Nearly.

She didn’t. She just kept staring.

“It was your mother’s,” he said, nodding toward the charm. “Her brother gave it to her when she got her Hogwarts letter. She wore it every day.”

Esther blinked fast, the words catching somewhere in her throat.

The room blurred.

Her voice was quieter when she spoke again. “The dog.”

He flinched slightly — just enough for her to notice. But when he looked at her, it was with that same expression he’d worn since the moment she stepped into the room — like she was everything. Like she was his whole world.

“The dog,” she repeated. “That was you.”

“I saw you,” he said. “By the lake. You were finally alone.”

A pause. His voice broke again.

“I wanted to wait. To deal with Peter first. But… how could I not? How could I not come to you when I had the chance?”

Esther didn’t speak.

She just stared at him. The man who was her father. The man who had cried for her. Who named her Vesta.

And in the silence that followed, she realized her hands were still shaking.

---

Esther though her meetings with Hagrid and Lupin were weird but nothing could have prepared her to the company that she had found herself with right now.

The tunnel was too narrow.

It wasn’t, not really — the others walked just fine, even Weasley with his limp — but to Esther, every step felt like the walls were closing in. The air pressed against her like wool soaked in water. Her legs moved, but she didn’t remember telling them to. Daphne walked beside her, their arms close enough to brush, yet she hadn’t said a word since they’d entered the passage.

Esther didn’t mind the silence. She wasn’t sure she could survive the sound of anyone else’s voice just now.

Ahead, Black and Potter helped Weasley along, his foot dragging slightly with every step. Granger stayed close, occasionally whispering something — to Potter, maybe, or to herself. Esther couldn’t focus long enough to make out the words. Somewhere between the shack and here, her brain had begun to hum like a broken charm, low and vibrating, shaking loose everything she’d thought was hers.

Her father walked just ahead of her, and he kept looking back. Not at the others. Just her.

Every time he did, Esther felt her throat close up again. He looked like he wanted to speak — no, like he ached to — but didn’t know how. That made it worse somehow. Because even now, with everything unraveling around her, she could see it plainly in his face.

He loved her.

He loved her like he couldn’t help it.

And Esther didn’t know what to do with that.

She didn’t feel nothing — she felt everything — but none of it made sense. How could she ache so much for someone she didn’t know? How could she look at this man and feel like she wanted to run away and fall into his arms in the same breath?

He looked at her like she was everything.

And all she could feel was confusion. And guilt.

Because part of her — a shameful, scared part — didn’t feel like she deserved it. That kind of look. That kind of love.

“I…” Sirius slowed for a moment, just enough to glance back at her more directly. “You alright?”

Esther startled. She hadn’t expected him to speak. His voice was hoarse. Careful.

She didn’t answer.

He nodded like he understood, and turned back.

But the next moment, he called her name. Her real name.

“Vesta...”

She flinched.

Daphne’s hand brushed hers.

“I’m sorry,” Sirius said quickly. His voice was soft — not the shout from before, not the growl he’d used with Pettigrew, but something broken. “I know that’s… not what you’re used to. But that’s your name. You are not Estheri,” he said that name with so much disdain, she almost flinched. “You are Vesta. Vesta Marlene Black.”

There was a pause, and then his voice broke again — low, uncertain, almost quiet enough to be imagined.

“Did they ever… did they ever tell you anything?” he asked.

Esther didn’t answer right away. Her throat felt raw.

He didn’t say who. He didn’t need to. She knew what he meant.

About where she came from. About him.

She swallowed. “Not really.”

Sirius nodded once, tightly.

Esther hesitated. “Just that my father was related to Narcissa.”

Her voice was flat — too flat. She’d carefully avoided saying mother. She didn’t want to see his face when she did.

And maybe he knew that too. Because his mouth twisted slightly, and he didn’t push.

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

The tunnel widened as they neared the exit, and the faintest glow of moonlight shimmered ahead, blurring the edges of the dark. Sirius slowed again. Then stopped.

“Wait,” he said, glancing back at Potter. “Just—wait a second. Can I talk to you two?”

Esther blinked. Potter looked confused, maybe even a little nervous.

Daphne’s hand brushed her arm. She turned — Daphne was frowning, worried — but gave a small nod.

So Esther stepped aside, just slightly, following Potter toward where Sirius stood.

The air outside was cool and smelled like soil and frost. She didn’t realize how much she’d been sweating until the wind touched her neck.

Sirius turned to Potter first.

“I don’t know if you know,” he said slowly, “but your parents… they made me your godfather.”

Potter nodded. “I know.”

Sirius looked like he’d been holding his breath. “So, I… I thought maybe—after all this—once I’m cleared… if you wanted… you could come live with me.”

Potter stared. “What?”

“I mean, if you want,” Sirius rushed on, suddenly unsure. “I know I have no right to ask, I know it’s sudden, I just thought—if you’d prefer—it might be better than—”

“Are you mad?” Potter said. “Of course I want to! Do you have a house? When can I move in?”

Her father went still. Then he gave a short, shaky breath that might have been a laugh.

And then… he looked at her.

Esther stood a little apart. Not far, not near. Her arms were tight around herself, fists curled in her sleeves like she could keep herself from falling apart if she just held on hard enough.

“I know I have no right to ask you anything,” he said, voice soft now — too soft. “I missed twelve years of your life. I can’t get those back.”

She didn’t move.

“You look at me like I’m a stranger,” he said, and there was no anger in it — only devastation. “And I am. But I don’t want to be.”

Esther looked down. Her nails dug into her palm.

“I don’t know what the Malfoys told you, or what they didn’t. But I know enough to guess it wasn’t… it wasn’t good. That house, that name—it’s not yours. It’s not.”

She said nothing. Her chest hurt.

“I’m not asking you to pretend. I’m not even asking you to forgive me. I just…” His voice caught. “You’re my daughter. You’re my girl. And if—if you want, if you’re willing—your place is with me.”

Esther opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

She hated that.

She hated that this was what silence felt like — not cold, not blank, but loud. Full. Brimming with everything she didn’t know how to say. It felt like drowning.

She nodded.

Her dad didn’t say anything. Just looked at her like she’d given him the sun.

She felt herself burn.

---

The tunnel spat them into the open with no warning — one breath it was dirt and stone, the next it was cool grass and moonlight, sharp against the edges of her skin. Esther squinted, blinking against the sudden brightness. Her legs ached. Her hands were trembling. She didn’t remember letting go of her sleeves.

Daphne was beside her. Potter just ahead. Granger still holding Weasley steady, her hand braced awkwardly against his shoulder.

The forest rustled in the distance, dark and silent.

Then Granger's voice cut through the quiet.

“Harry?”

It was barely more than a whisper — unsure, almost dazed — but it carried.

Esther turned.

Lupin had stopped walking.

He stood about ten feet from them, unmoving — not looking at anyone, not saying anything — just… staring up.

Up.

Esther followed his gaze.

The full moon hung directly above them now. High and pale and pitiless. The clouds had finally cleared.

No.

No, no, no—

“No,” she breathed, and then louder, “He didn’t take it—he didn’t take his potion, did he?”

Granger froze. Her eyes flew wide.

“You—” she breathed. “You know?”

“This isn’t the time, Granger!” Daphne snapped, already pulling Esther backwards. “We need to move.”

But Esther’s feet locked to the ground.

Lupin’s back arched in a violent, sickening spasm. His fingers curled into the dirt. His face — the familiar, worn face that had met hers with quiet compassion only days ago — began to twist. Hair spread like cracks in glass across his jaw and hands. His breath became a growl.

Her dad moved.

Without a word, he shifted — bones cracking, body folding in on itself until the huge black dog stood in his place, muscles tense, eyes locked on Lupin’s monstrous form.

But Esther wasn’t watching anymore. Something in her gut pulled — hard.

Peter Pettigrew had turned his head.

He saw her.

For one breathless moment, they locked eyes. And then, with a wet crack, he was gone — fur and limbs twisting until the rat skittered over stone, aiming for the mouth of the tunnel.

“No!” Esther screamed.

She bolted forward.

Everything blurred — her legs, the tunnel, the chaos behind her. She dove, hands outstretched, and caught him — barely — her fingers closing tight around the wriggling, matted body.

“Got you,” she hissed.

But the rat thrashed.

He bit.

A flash of white-hot pain tore across her wrist — then her palm — and then her cheek as she tried to pin him down. Blood smeared across her skin, hot and fast. She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper.

Still, she held on.

Tighter. Desperate.

Because this—this thing, this writhing animal in her hands—was her only way home.

Her only chance.

The only hope she had of walking out of this madness and into a life where someone actually wanted her. Where her name wasn’t a burden. Where she had a father — a real one — who looked at her like she mattered.

She held on like she could squeeze fate itself.

But the pain—

He sank his teeth in deeper, squirming, twisting, his spine almost snapping in her grip.

And she—she couldn’t—

“Stop—” she gasped. “Stop—please—”

Her hands slipped.

And Pettigrew was gone.

He darted into the shadows before she could blink, vanishing down the tunnel like a nightmare fleeing dawn.

“No—!”

The scream tore from her chest.

She fell hard, catching herself on her elbows. Her arms shook. Her vision went sideways.

“Esther!”

Daphne’s voice broke like thunder.

Esther turned, dazed. Daphne’s face swam in front of her — wild, pale, her hands reaching.

But everything was wrong.

Too loud. Too bright.

Her cheek throbbed. Blood pooled in her palm.

The edges of the world curled inward.

And then there was nothing.

---

The world came back in pieces.

Smell first — antiseptic potions, bitter tinctures, and the sharp metallic tang of blood.

Then weight. The weight of her body, like stone under wet wool. Then light. Dim, golden. Lanterns, not sun.

She blinked.

“My dad,” Esther whispered. It wasn’t even a thought, just breath shaped into sound. The words were dry, cracked at the edges, barely more than a whisper — but they scraped their way out of her throat like they’d been waiting there all along. Her eyes blinked open against the dim, slanting torchlight. Stone ceiling. Cold floor. A low murmur of voices nearby.

Then pain.

Her hands throbbed. Sharp, biting pain along her fingers, her palms, the side of her face — where Pettigrew had—

She jolted upright, or tried to, but a firm hand caught her shoulder.

“Easy,” said a voice. Daphne, leaning forward. Her voice was too soft, too still, but her face was pale and drawn. “Merlin, Es, you scared me to death.”

Esther stared at her. Then past her.

Granger stood by Potter’s bed, fists clenched at her sides. Potter was on his feet, red in the face, talking too fast to make sense.

“– he escaped when Professor Lupin turned — you have to believe us —”

The door to the Hospital Wing clicked shut, and Esther turned toward the sound just in time to see Dumbledore enter.

The room fell still.

“Professor—” Potter started.

“My dad is innocent,” Esther rasped. She missed the moment when the words my dad started to slip so casually from her mouth. “He didn’t do it. It was Pettigrew. You have to do something—”

“There is not a shred of proof to support Black’s story,” Dumbledore said gently, raising a hand. “Except your word.” He looked around the room — at Potter, at Granger, at Esther, even at Daphne. “And the word of four thirteen-year-olds will not convince anyone at the Ministry.”

“But he didn’t kill anyone!” Potter snapped. “It was the rat — Pettigrew cut off his own finger and faked his death—”

“Professor Lupin can back us up,” Hermione insisted. “He was there.”

Dumbledore’s eyes softened, but his voice remained calm. “Professor Lupin is, as we speak, deep in the Forbidden Forest — transformed. By the time he becomes human again, it will be too late. His testimony will mean little even then, I’m afraid. The prejudice against werewolves…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “And his old friendship with Sirius will not help the matter.”

“I don’t care about the Ministry,” Esther said, voice shaking. “You know he didn’t do it. That should be enough.”

“I do believe you,” Dumbledore said, and for a moment, the pain in Esther’s chest eased. But then he added, softly, “I do not, however, have the power to make others believe what they refuse to see. Not without evidence.”

Beside her, Daphne was quiet. Watching. Thinking.

“You mean we’ve lost?” Harry’s voice cracked. “That’s it?”

For the first time, Dumbledore turned fully to him. His pale eyes, usually twinkling, were grave. “What we need,” he said slowly, “is more time.”

Granger’s head snapped up. “What—?”

And then she froze. Her eyes widened.

“Oh.”

Esther frowned. “What?”

But Dumbledore was already moving, speaking in a low voice meant only for them. “Sirius is locked in the topmost cell of the Dark Tower.” His gaze flicked to Granger. “You know the rules, Miss Granger. You must not be seen.”

He turned to Daphne. “Miss Greengrass, I trust your sense of caution is… intact.”

Daphne blinked, clearly confused. “Of course, sir.”

“And you, Miss Black.”

Esther felt her stomach twist.

“Time,” Dumbledore said softly, “is dangerous when bent. But it can also be mended. You must not be seen. Not by anyone. Understand me?”

She nodded, even though she had no idea what was going on.

Dumbledore turned to the door. “It’s nearly midnight. Three turns should do it.” He paused, then added, as if it were nothing at all: “If you succeed, more than one innocent life may be spared tonight.”

He walked to the doors, but turned back one last time. “When in doubt, I find retracing my steps to be a wise place to begin. Good luck.”

The doors shut behind him with a soft click.

There was a long moment of silence.

Then:

“Bloody hell,” Weasley croaked from his bed. “What was all that about?”

Granger didn’t answer. Instead, she reached beneath her collar and drew out a long, delicate gold chain.

Daphne’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a Time-Turner?”

Again, she didn’t respond. She just looped the chain around her neck and then around Potter’s.

“Sorry, Ron,” she said, trying for gentle, but brisk all the same. “You’re injured, and we can’t afford to risk it.”

She held the Time-Turner out, hesitated — then looped it around Esther and Daphne as well.

Four of them.

Esther blinked.

“What are we doing?” she whispered.

“Saving your dad,” Granger said and turned the hourglass over three times,

And the world began to spin.

There was no crack, no sudden lurch — but something deeper, older. A shift beneath her ribs, like the very axis of her body had realigned. Light blurred, then reversed — shadows pulling backward like spilled ink being dragged into a bottle.

Esther gasped. The breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat, and for one dizzying second, she thought she might be sick.

And then the world stilled.

They stood in the middle of the Hospital Wing. Empty. Silent.

The lanterns glowed faintly in the corners, and the beds were all made, untouched. It was exactly as it had been before everything — and yet not. Outside the windows, the sun still shone, golden and low in the sky. Afternoon, not midnight.

She reeled slightly. Her hands — still bandaged — ached dully. A phantom throb reminded her of what had happened. What she’d lost.

Pettigrew.

Her father.

Her chance.

Her stomach curled with it. Grief, rage, longing — all coiled tight under her ribs like a second heartbeat.

Hermione was already pulling the Time Turner back beneath her robes. “Seven-thirty,” she muttered, glancing toward the window. “We’ve gone back three hours. We should be on our way to Hagrid’s right now.”

Potter stared around the empty room. “What— What just happened?”

“We’ve gone back in time,” Granger said breathlessly, already tucking the Time Turner back beneath her robes.

“We what?” he blinked at her. “How—?”

“It’s called a Time Turner,” she said, lowering her voice even though they were alone. “McGonagall gave it to me so I could attend multiple classes at once. I’ve been using it all year.”

Esther turned to look at her, genuinely stunned.

“For classes?” Daphne echoed flatly. “Merlin, only you, Granger.”

Hermione flushed. “It was authorized!”

“We’re saving lives now,” Daphne muttered, “but sure, let’s hear it for advanced Arithmancy.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Hermione snapped. “We’re not supposed to be seen. If we get caught—”

“We change nothing,” Esther said hollowly, her voice like glass. “We can’t be seen. We just save dad.”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

Potter glanced at her, his expression unreadable. Maybe worried.

Maybe something else.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s go.”

The four of them slipped through the empty corridors, every footstep a cannon blast in Esther’s ears. The castle was bathed in quiet golden light, warm and surreal — a lie wrapped in honey. She kept close to the others, but not too close. Her body still ached, a reminder of everything she’d failed to do.

They moved in silence until they neared the courtyard. Then Potter whispered, “So... we’re just going to hide and wait?”

“No,” Granger said. “Not yet. First we need to make sure Buckbeak gets out safely. He’s tied behind Hagrid’s pumpkin patch — just out of sight of the executioner.” She glanced back at them. “We can’t be seen. Especially not by ourselves.”

That phrase — by ourselves — made Esther’s stomach turn over. Somewhere out there, she and Daphne were already walking toward the Shrieking Shack. Her dad was out there.

The thought made her throat tighten.

They reached the edge of the courtyard and ducked behind the tall hedges, crouching beneath the windows of Hagrid’s hut. Through the smudged glass, Esther could just make out the figures inside — herself and the others, clustered around the table. She didn’t dare look too long.

“Wait until Dumbledore and Fudge come out,” Granger whispered. “They’re still inside. We have to time it right. The moment they step out, we run to the back and untie Buckbeak.”

Daphne gave a tight nod. “I’ll do the rope.”

Esther found herself nodding too, even as her pulse thundered in her ears. Her hands still stung, bandaged and stiff, but that wasn’t why she was shaking.

She felt Potter glance sideways at her. She didn’t look back.

“Why Buckbeak?” she whispered. “Why save him?”

“Dumbledore said more than one innocent life may be spared tonight, remember?” Granger answered, watching the door. “They’re going to execute him. We need him free.”

Esther said nothing. She didn’t trust her voice.

There was a noise from inside — chairs scraping. Then voices. Footsteps.

“They’re coming,” Daphne breathed.

And then the door creaked open. Fudge – she had met the man a few times with Lucius – stepped out first, followed by Dumbledore, who held the door for the executioner.

“Now,” Granger hissed.

They dashed around the back of the hut, crouching low through the thick grass. Buckbeak was tied near the edge of the pumpkin patch, wings half-open in irritation. He let out a low, restless snort as they approached.

Daphne was already on her knees at the rope. “Keep an eye out,” she snapped, fingers moving fast. “And stay quiet.”

Esther stood watch, barely breathing. She could hear voices still — Hagrid sobbing inside, Dumbledore trying to delay, Fudge pretending not to notice. It was unbearable.

Then — snap. The rope came free.

Buckbeak tossed his head and let out a low screech.

“Shh, shh—” Potter approached him slowly, trying to calm him. “It’s alright, we’re getting you out—”

Daphne and Granger helped guide Buckbeak to the treeline, just as the back door of the hut opened again and the execution party stepped outside.

From the cover of the trees, Esther saw the axe fall — but on nothing. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until it escaped in a ragged gasp.

They’d done it. Buckbeak was safe.

But the knot in her chest didn’t loosen. Because it wasn’t over. Not yet.

They crouched low in the tall grass just beyond the edge of the Forbidden Forest. From here, they had a clear view of the Whomping Willow — and the narrow tunnel beneath it.

The sun had almost dipped below the horizon. Shadows stretched long across the lawn, and the air buzzed faintly with the sounds of distant birds and crickets. Somewhere far behind them, the castle loomed, golden in the dying light.

Esther’s heart beat high in her throat. They were so close now. Somewhere down in that tunnel, her father was still helping Potter and Weasley limp their way toward the surface. Somewhere down there, Pettigrew still hadn’t run.

But he would.

She wrapped her arms around her knees, fingers clenched tight over the bandages. Her hands still hurt. They probably would for days.

Beside her, Potter shifted slightly. He hadn’t said much since they’d saved Buckbeak. Just followed Granger’s instructions, jaw clenched, eyes too wide.

Now, though, he let out a quiet breath.

“I saw him,” he said.

Granger turned. “What?”

Potter hesitated. He glanced toward Esther. Then Daphne. Especially Daphne — maybe expecting a scoff, a sharp comment.

She didn’t say anything.

“I saw my dad,” Potter said again, lower this time. “By the lake. When the Dementors came… he was across the water. He conjured a Patronus and saved us. Me and Sirius.”

Esther blinked. This was not what she expected him to say. She missed the moment when it happened – too busy trying to catch the stupid rat – and Daphne run right after her, so both of them didn’t know what actually happened at the lake.

Granger’s voice was careful. “But Harry… your father is—”

“Dead. I know.” His voice didn’t waver, but it was quiet. “I know what I saw.”

There was a pause.

Then Daphne spoke.

“That kind of grief… it doesn’t care what makes sense,” she said, not looking at him. “Sometimes it just… wraps itself in hope and pretends it found a way back.”

Potter turned, startled.

So did Granger.

Esther didn’t.

Because it was just so very Daphne — the way she’d said it, calm and matter-of-fact, but still full of something softer, something aching. No need to draw attention to it. Just… quietly giving him something to hold on to.

Esther’s chest swelled — a fierce, aching warmth — and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep it from spilling out. That’s her Daphne.

Harry didn’t say anything. But he gave the smallest nod.

And they waited.

The wind picked up, stirring the leaves. Somewhere far below, the tunnel would soon open. They didn’t have long.

Esther pulled her knees closer, folding into herself, eyes trained on the distant slope. Her fingers were still trembling — not with fear, not exactly, but with something knotted and restless. She couldn’t stop thinking about the way the rat had vanished. How close it had been. How stupid she’d been to hope—

“There,” Potter whispered suddenly, cutting through the silence. He leaned forward, eyes narrowed at the shadowy figures beginning to emerge from the Whomping Willow tunnel. “It’s us.”

Her head snapped immediately, following his gaze.

There they were — Potter, supporting Weasley with Granger close behind. Her own past form emerged next, flanked by Daphne and her dad, who hovered close, his attention locked on the injured boy.

Esther’s chest clenched.

Her breath came sharp and shallow. Watching herself walk past — watching her father walk beside her — it didn’t feel real. She didn’t look like someone who had just been shattered. Just tired. Hollow. And he looked…

Alive.

Still broken, still rough at the edges — but alive. There was something in his face, even then, that made her want to weep.

And then, too quick to process, the werewolf howls cracked through the air.

All four of them jolted, ducking instinctively — even though they knew what came next.

Past Sirius was already turning, running toward the howl.

Lupin had changed.

 “Shh,” Granger whispered, nudging Potter when he jolted in his place. “We have to let it play out exactly the same.”

Then Esther stiffened.

A flicker at the base of the hill. Something small. Pale. Darting in the grass.

Her breath hitched.

Pettigrew.

There he was — scurrying in zigzags across the field, still in Animagus form, unnoticed by the past selves too busy shouting and panicking. She saw her past self running after him.

Esther started to move.

But a hand caught hers. Tight.

Potter.

“Stop,” he hissed. “You can’t.”

She froze.

Her heart was beating so fast it might burst.

“He’s right there,” she said, too loud, too broken. “He’s going to get away again—!”

Granger whipped around, wide-eyed. “No—Esther—no! You can’t change it—”

Esther tried to pull forward, just an inch, just something—

“You don’t get it!” she burst out. “It was my fault! I had him—I had him in my hands—”

The last word came out as a sob.

Daphne reached for her then. No panic, no scolding — just calm, quiet steadiness.

“I know,” she said.

Esther looked up. Her eyes were shining. Angry.

“I had him,” she whispered. “I had him. I lost him. That was my chance—my only chance—”

“You don’t know that,” Daphne said gently. “And even if it was, we can’t screw this up. You know we can’t.”

Esther shook her head. “You don’t—he’s my dad, Daphne—”

“I do understand,” she said, voice firm but never harsh. “I get it, Esther. But you know how dangerous this is. We can screw things up even more if we change anything, and we can’t afford it.”

Silence that followed was too loud in her ears. Then she crumpled slightly — not physically, but inwards, like all the air had gone out of her.

She didn’t say anything else.

Potter hadn’t let go of her hand. His grip was firm and warm.

---

Harry didn’t remember dropping to his knees.

But he must have, because he was kneeling now — breath coming fast, the ground cool beneath his palms, heart thundering in his chest like it was trying to catch up to what he’d just done.

It hadn’t been his dad.

But it had been his dad.

The stag — his Patronus — had charged from him in a burst of light, scattering the Dementors like dead leaves in wind. He’d thought it was James Potter at first, back from the dead, impossibly returned. But it was him. His own magic. His own strength. And yet… the stag hadn’t come from nowhere. That was his dad’s form. Prongs. It was in him still — not just blood, not just legacy — but something deeper. Something that remembered. That still carried his father with him, even now.

A laugh bubbled up in his throat. Shaky, stunned. He felt light, like his whole body had come unmoored from gravity.

He’d done it. He had cast a proper, full-bodied Patronus.

“I saw my dad,” he whispered — not because he believed it anymore, but because he had. For a moment. Before. “But it wasn’t him. It was me.”

He sat back on his heels, breath misting in the cold air.

“I knew I could do it this time,” he said quietly. “Because I’d already done it.”

There was a pause.

“That… makes no sense,” said Malfoy’s flatly.

Harry turned.

She stood a little off to the side, her arms still wrapped tightly around herself — though whether from the cold or everything else, he couldn’t tell. But her face… her face looked like she didn’t know what to feel. Still wide-eyed from the Dementors, from the time-travel, from the night unraveling around them. But she hadn’t looked away when he said it.

He felt the smile twitch at his mouth anyway. “Doesn’t have to. It worked.”

Greengrass cleared her throat behind them. “Granger. How much time do we have left?”

Hermione blinked — she looked just as shaken, but recovered quickly. She checked the slim watch on her wrist. “Forty-five minutes until midnight. That’s when Dumbledore said we had to be back.”

She gave a curt nod, frowning slightly. “That’s enough.”

Harry turned to look at her — just in time to see the way her eyes flicked to Malfoy, steady and serious.

“You two should go.”

“What?” Harry said. Hermione echoed the same word a second later.

She ignored them. “He’s locked in the Dark Tower. That means they’ve probably reinforced the place with more than a standard wards, so simply Alohamora won’t be enough. If we want to get him out in time you’ll have to blast it.”

“Blast it?” Malfoy said, startled.

“Blast it,” she nodded, confidently. Harry saw her hands shaking slightly.

He opened his mouth to protest but Hermione was already catching on.

“She’s right,” Hermione said quickly. “You can fly, Harry. And Buckbeak trusts you. If you can get him there in time…”

“But—”

Hermione gave him a firm look. “Go. I’ll stay with Daphne. We’ll meet you at the fountains after.”

Harry turned to Malfoy again.

She looked nervous. Pale. Her eyes were flicking up toward the sky.

“You okay?” he asked, already stepping toward Buckbeak.

“I’m not exactly fond of heights,” she muttered, then frowned. “And you’ve flown this thing before?”

“A bit,” he said, reaching for the hippogriff’s reins. “Just hang on.”

“Oh yeah, sounds easy,” she muttered — but she stepped closer.

He swung one leg over Buckbeak’s back and reached down.

Malfoy hesitated. Then took his hand.

The second she was astride, her arms went tight around his waist — tighter than he expected. He felt her chest press to his back, her breath short and fast.

“Ready?” he asked again.

“Don’t talk to me until we’re on the ground again,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Noted.”

He gave Hermione and Greengrass one last look and nudged Buckbeak forward — and the creature launched with a screech, wings battering the air.

The world dropped away.

Malfoy let out a choked curse and buried her face against his shoulder. He felt her hands twist in his robes.

“Still alive?” he called over the wind.

“Shut up!” she shouted back — though her voice cracked somewhere between panic and fury.

But she didn’t let go.

In fact, her grip only tightened, and Harry could feel her forehead pressed briefly against his shoulder, like grounding herself was the only way not to fall apart. He didn’t push it. Just leaned slightly into her hold, guiding Buckbeak down as the Dark Tower finally came into view — jagged and monolithic against the darkening sky.

“Look,” Malfoy said suddenly, her voice closer to his ear now, steadier but still thin with adrenaline. She pointed past his shoulder. “That one. Thirteenth window from the right.”

Harry followed her gaze. There — a narrow ledge, torchlight flickering behind iron bars. A shadow moved inside.

“That’s got to be him,” he said. “Hang on.”

She muttered something under her breath that sounded like I’m going to kill Daphne if I survive this, but didn’t argue.

They descended fast, wind slicing past them as Buckbeak circled once, then leveled out. Harry braced himself as the ledge approached — too narrow, too high — but there was no time for second thoughts.

Buckbeak steadied just enough for Malfoy to swing one leg over and drop onto the ledge, landing with a scrape of boot against stone. Harry followed a second later. The window was barred — thick, old metal — and behind it, just barely visible in the dim torchlight, was Sirius.

He looked up in alarm. Then recognition dawned, slow and stunned.

Harry didn’t give him time to speak. He turned to Malfoy — no, Esther — who was already raising her wand.

“Bombarda.”

The explosion wasn’t huge, but it was loud. The lock burst apart with a bang that echoed across the tower. For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then Sirius was rushing to the window, eyes wide. “What—? How did you—?”

“No time,” Harry said quickly. “Come on!”

Sirius stared between the two of them, then at Buckbeak — then climbed out with the kind of agility that only came from twelve years in a prison cell. Malfoy reached for his arm to steady him as he swung one leg over the creature’s back. He gave her a look — something full of stunned gratitude and awe.

“You came back for me,” he said, barely audible over the wind.

Malfoy looked away. Her hands tightened on Buckbeak’s reins.

“Hold on,” Harry called. “All of you.”

And with that, Buckbeak launched again — three bodies on his back this time, cutting through the clouds like a streak of shadow.

They didn’t speak on the flight back.

Harry could feel her behind him, still pressed tight to his back, but not out of fear now. It felt steadier. Like she’d found some kind of anchor in all this madness. Sirius rode behind them, one arm wrapped around Malfoy’s waist for balance, his eyes never leaving the sky ahead. Harry could feel the weight of what they’d just done — not just the adrenaline, but the enormity of it.

They had done the impossible.

They’d changed time.

They were going to save him.

And maybe, just maybe, that meant something could change for them too.

---

Buckbeak landed hard, claws scraping stone, wings folding tight to his sides with a snap that echoed across the empty courtyard. The ride hadn’t been long, but it had felt like eternity — the wind biting, Esther clinging tight to Potter’s back, and Sirius just behind them, arms steady, anchoring them all.

Now they were here.

Daphne and Granger stood near the fountains, breathless, silhouetted in moonlight. The moment they caught sight of the hippogriff, they both broke into motion — Daphne quick and composed, Hermione wide-eyed and blinking fast.

Esther slid off first, her knees unsteady from adrenaline and fear and something else she didn’t want to name. Potter was just behind her, and her dad — dad moved slower, more careful, as if the weight of freedom hadn’t settled into his limbs yet.

“You made it,” Hermione breathed.

“You’re okay,” Daphne added, her eyes flicking between all three of them — Harry, Esther, and the ragged man they’d just broken out of a prison tower. She moved closer to Esther, reaching for her hand, and she gladly took it.

Her dad turned to them both, nodding with a small smile. “Thanks to you.”

 “Can I come with you?” Potter said, the words spilling out fast, like they’d been building the whole flight.

“No,” he said, gentle but firm. “It’s too dangerous. You need to stay here, where it’s safe. Where you’re meant to be.”

Potter’s face fell and she felt his disappointment in her bones.

Her dad reached out and set both hands on Potter’s shoulders. Then he touched his cheeks lightly, almost absentmindedly, and said, “I know you’re probably tired of hearing this, but you look so much like your father.” His voice turned rougher. “Except your eyes. You have—”

“My mother’s eyes,” Potter said, with a crooked smile.

He laughed softly, like it hurt. “Yeah,” he whispered. “You do.”

He lingered for a second longer, searching his godson’s face like he wanted to memorize it. Then he said, voice low and quiet and aching, “It’s so cruel that I got to spend so much time with James and Lily… and you, so little. But remember…” He placed one hand over his heart. “The ones who really love us never truly leave us. You can always find them in here.”

Potter didn’t answer — just nodded, tightly, swallowing hard.

But Esther—

Esther took a breath that didn’t make it all the way down. Her chest hitched. She blinked against the burn in her eyes and when she opened them. Her dad was already looking at her.

Their eyes met.

He took a step forward.

“I thought you would look like her,” he said, oh so softly, she felt the aching in the deepest part of her heart. “But you are all me.”

The others faded — not really, not physically — but in Esther’s world, they were gone. The air buzzed in her ears. Her throat closed up. Her palms stung beneath the bandages, and her heart clawed its way up into her throat.

“I…” she started. Then faltered. Then tried again.

“I have a sweet tooth,” she said, abruptly. He blinked, clearly not expecting her to say that. “Really bad. I love chocolate. And cherries. And I’m pretty good at Potions. I like Transfiguration even if I could’ve been better at it.”

She laughed — shakily, brokenly.

“I like being near water. Lakes. Streams. I like cold weather, and I’m useless in the heat. Summers are the worst.” Her words tumbled over themselves now. “I can’t wake up early to save my life. I really, really hate small places. And I’m scared of heights. I saw my brother fall off his broom once and I’ve never gotten over it.”

Her voice cracked on the next line.

“I don’t know what kind of person you wanted me to be. I’ m not even sure what kind of person I am, not really. But—”

She stopped. Tears clung to her lashes, and her heart was so, so full, it was choking her. The wave of grief was so strong, it nearly knocked the little air that she had out of her lungs.

Her dad moved.

He stepped forward and reached out to cup her face, gently, with both hands. His thumbs brushed beneath her eyes. His palms were warm and big. His hands were shaking.

And Esther froze.

She hadn’t been touched like that — not in love, not ever. Her eyes widened, breath shallow, as her father – this man who was a stranger to her not long time ago – looked at her with a kind of wonder.

“You,” he said softly, “are perfect. You are just… perfect.”

Something inside her broke cleanly down the middle.

She wanted to move. To fall into him. To hug him, to hold on with everything she had — but she couldn’t. Her limbs locked. Her heart screamed.

So she did the only thing she could. She smiled. Through her tears, through the ache, she smiled at him and said, “You should go.”

He stared at her for one long second.

Then he nodded.

He stepped back and climbed onto Buckbeak. Looked once more at the group — at all of them.

“Thank you,” he said. “All of you.”

And then, with a beat of wings and a rush of air, he was gone.

Chapter 9: new beginnings

The world didn’t stop spinning, though Esther wished it would.

June pressed against Hogwarts like a held breath, all honeyed light and warm stone, but it felt like a lie—a golden veil draped over a wound that refused to close. Her dad was gone, a streak of shadow on Buckbeak’s wings, swallowed by the night. Yet he lingered, heavier than the silver star at her collarbone, its edges worn smooth from her constant touch. Her fingers brushed it now, a reflex, as she sat on the edge of her four-poster in the Slytherin dormitory, the lake’s green glow rippling across the ceiling like a memory she couldn’t shake.

Her dad.

The word was sharp, foreign, a spell she hadn’t mastered. Vesta, he’d called her, his voice breaking like glass across the Shrieking Shack’s dusty floor. Not Esther. Not Malfoy. And now, with the Hogwarts Express only days away, she didn’t know who she was supposed to be.

She pushed the thoughts aside and sat up, stretching slowly. Her school robes hung neatly over the trunk at the end of her bed, but she didn’t reach for them right away.

Phobos gave a soft yowl from the windowsill.

Esther turned her head and smiled. He looked almost bored — one leg tucked beneath him, eyes half-lidded in the morning sun. When she stood, he hopped down to the desk like he’d been waiting for her.

“You’re such a clever little thing,” she murmured, brushing her fingers lightly along his beak. “Aren’t you?”

He nipped gently at her knuckle in response.

Esther smiled again — tired, but real. The bond between them felt different now. Not just pet and witch. Something deeper. Something her dad had seen. Trusted.

The dormitory was quiet, the other girls already gone to breakfast or scattered across the castle, savoring the last days of term. Esther’s gaze drifted to the nightstand, where her brush lay, its bristles worn from years of taming her curls into something Lucius would approve of—sleek, orderly, a Malfoy’s polished mask. Order, Estheri. His voice echoed, cold and unyielding, from a thousand mornings at the Manor.

She reached for the brush. Her fingers closed around it, then stilled.

Something shifted inside her, small but seismic, like a crack in stone. She thought of her dad—his wild eyes, his reckless grin, the way his hair fell in untamed waves even after twelve years in Azkaban. She thought of the way he’d looked at her, like she was everything, like she was his.

The brush fell back to the nightstand with a soft clatter.

Esther stood, her legs unsteady, and crossed to the dormitory’s dim mirror. Her reflection stared back—not the neat, controlled girl she’d been for years, but someone else. She tugged the pins from her hair, letting her curls spill free, wild and dark, framing her face like a storm. They bounced against her shoulders, catching the lake’s green light, and for the first time, she saw him—Sirius—in the sharp angle of her jaw, the high cheekbones, the spark in her eyes that no Malfoy could claim.

Not Estheri Malfoy. Not quite Vesta Black. But someone raw, someone new.

She didn’t smooth them back.

Her heart thudded as she left the dormitory, her robes swishing against the stone floor. The Slytherin common room was a haze of green light and low voices, the lake’s ripples casting shadows like secrets across the walls. Daphne sat by the fire, a book open but unread, her blonde hair catching the glow. Theo and Blaise sprawled across a leather sofa, Theo muttering something in low voice, making Blaise smirk slightly.

They all stopped when Esther stepped into the room.

Daphne’s eyes flicked up, her eyebrow rising in that familiar, dry way, but a smile tugged at her lips. Theo’s smirk froze, his gaze lingering on her curls. Blaise tilted his head, his calm facade cracking just enough to show curiosity.

“Are we making a statement?” Daphne said, her blue eyes shimmering with amusement.

Esther’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Perhaps.”

Theo leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Well, you certainly look like you are going to start a rebellion,” he said, glancing at Daphne, who gave him a sharp look.

Blaise’s smirk widened. “Or join one.”

Esther felt the weight of their stares, but it didn’t burn like it used to. She’d spent years hiding behind a polished mask, blending into the Malfoy mold. But today, with her curls loose and her heart raw, she felt… free. Not fearless—her stomach still twisted at the thought of Draco, of Lucius, of the summer ahead—but lighter, like she’d shed a skin that never fit.

“Let’s go,” she said, turning toward the door.

The corridor outside was a blur of movement—students rushing to breakfast, their voices a low hum under the castle’s vaulted ceiling. Heads turned as Esther passed, their whispers sharp and quick. A Ravenclaw girl froze mid-step, staring. A Hufflepuff dropped his quill, scrambling to pick it up as Esther walked by. Even a Gryffindor—Lavender Brown, maybe—gaped openly, her eyes wide.

They saw it too. The resemblance. The Black in her blood.

Esther kept walking, her shoulders straight, her curls bouncing with every step. The whispers didn’t sting—they felt like air, like light, like something she could carry. Daphne fell into step beside her, her silence a steady presence, and Esther let herself lean into it, just a little.

The Great Hall was a roar of voices and clattering plates, the enchanted ceiling a pale gold under the morning sun. Esther’s gaze drifted to the Gryffindor table, where Potter sat with Weasley and Granger, his head bent over a plate of eggs. He didn’t look up, and she was glad—he didn’t need to see her like this, not yet.

“You’re enjoying this,” Daphne murmured, sliding into a seat beside her.

“Am I?” Esther’s voice was soft, but there was a spark in it, something new. She reached for a piece of toast, her fingers brushing the silver star at her throat.

Daphne snorted, piling bacon onto her plate. “You’re practically glowing.”

Esther allowed herself a small smile, her curls falling into her face as she leaned forward. For the first time in days, maybe weeks, she felt like she could breathe. Not easily, not fully—but enough.

---

The news reached Esther like a whisper in a storm, sharp and fleeting but impossible to ignore. Lupin was leaving. Fired, they said, because of what he was—a werewolf, a secret spilled like ink across the castle. She’d heard the murmurs in the Great Hall, but it was Daphne’s quiet confirmation that sent her moving, abandoning her breakfast, her curls bouncing as she wove through Hogwarts’ corridors, the silver star at her throat glinting in the late June light.

His office door was ajar, the scent of parchment and herbal tea spilling into the hall. Boxes lined the floor, half-packed, books and quills stacked in uneven piles. The golden light through the high windows caught dust motes, turning them to sparks, but the room felt heavy, like it was holding its breath. Lupin stood at his desk, folding a worn cloak, his shoulders slumped in a way Esther hadn’t seen before.

She didn’t knock. Her footsteps were soft, but he looked up, startled, his tired eyes softening as they took her in—her wild curls, her unpolished defiance.

“Esther,” he said, his voice warm, a little hoarse. “You look… very nice.”

Her cheeks warmed, and she ducked her head, her curls falling into her face. She pushed them back, a shy reflex, but her voice was steady when she spoke. “I heard you’re leaving.”

Lupin’s smile faltered, and he set the cloak down, his hands resting on the desk. “Not everyone is happy with someone like me being a teacher,” he said quietly, small smile on his face. “Well, it was about to happen sooner or later.”

“No one here care about that,” she said, too quickly, her hands twisting in her lap as she stepped closer. She knew he was right, but a small childish part of her was clinging to the only person that could tie her to her parents. “You’re the best teacher we’ve had. It’s not fair.”

He chuckled, a soft, sad sound, and gestured to the chair across from him. She sank into it, her robes pooling around her, the silver star catching the light. The silence was gentle, but it carried the weight of everything unsaid—Sirius’s escape, her mother’s ghost, the life she’d never known.

Lupin’s eyes were kind, but there was a shadow in them, one Esther recognized. Loss. “I’m sorry you’re upset,” he said, leaning forward. “But I’ll be all right. I always am.”

She didn’t believe him, not entirely, but his voice was steady, and it eased the knot in her chest, just a little. She took a breath, her fingers brushing the pendant at her throat.

“I… I know you said it wasn’t your place to tell me about her,” she began, her voice low, trembling at the edges. “But I need to know. About my mum. I don’t know when I’ll see him again—Sirius. And I can’t keep wondering.”

Lupin froze, his hands stilling on the desk. His gaze flickered to the window, then back to her, and she saw the pain there, old and deep, like a wound that had never healed.

“What happened to her?” Esther pressed, her voice breaking. “I heard my dad, in the Shack. He said... I want to know. I deserve to know.”

The silence stretched, heavy and taut, like a thread about to snap. Lupin’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, his eyes fixed on a point beyond the walls, beyond the castle.

“Your mother’s family,” he said finally, his voice low, distant, “the McKinnons… they were one of the first pureblood families targeted by Voldemort. It was a statement. He wasn’t afraid to spill blood, no matter how “sacred”. He wouldn’t stop,” he paused, his fingers curling into fists. “They slaughtered everyone. Your uncles, your grandparents, even your little cousin. She was only seven.”

Esther’s blood ran cold, her breath catching in her throat. The words landed like stones, each one heavier than the last. Cousin. She had a cousin. She was seven when she was killed.

Her hands trembled, and she pressed them against her lap, trying to anchor herself.

Lupin’s gaze returned to her, softer now, but still pained. He hesitated, and Esther saw it—the way his eyes skipped over something, the way he wasn’t saying her mother’s name. She leaned forward, her curls falling into her face, her voice a plea. “And my mum?”

He stared ahead, his hands gripping the edge of the desk. “Your mother fought hard,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “She was fierce. It took three of them before she…” He stopped, swallowing, then met her eyes. “I found you, Esther. Hidden in the closet of her room, with a silencing charm. She fought for you, till the very end.”

Esther’s throat closed, her eyes burning. She saw it—Marlene, her mother, standing between her and death, casting a charm to keep her quiet, to keep her safe. The closet, dark and small, but a shield. Her fingers tightened around the silver star, and she felt it, sharp and real, grounding her against the ache in her chest.

“Marley was one of the bravest people I knew,” Lupin said, his voice wavering. She noticed the nickname but didn’t comment, listening every word, her heart in her throat. “There was nothing she wouldn’t do for people she cared about. And you… She loved you more than life itself.”

Esther nodded, unable to speak. The room was too small, the air too thick, but Lupin’s presence was steady, like a hand on her shoulder. She blinked back tears, her curls falling into her face, and for once, she didn’t push them away.

They sat in silence, the golden light fading as the sun dipped lower. Finally, Lupin stood, his smile small but warm. “You’ll be all right, Esther,” he said. “You’re stronger than you know.”

She didn’t feel strong, not yet. But as she left his office, the weight of her mother’s sacrifice settled in her bones, heavy but not crushing. It was something to carry, something to hold.

---

Her mind was still lingering on Lupin’s voice when she headed to Great Hall to meet with others.

She tried to imagine what it would have been like to have this conversation with her dad. Perhaps it really would be better for her to lean the truth from him but she couldn’t wait. She had no idea where he was. She didn’t even know if she would ever see him again.

The thought sent a shiver down her spine, and she did her best to brush it off.

Her bag strap cut into her shoulder, but she barely noticed, her mind still tangled in the truth of her mother’s sacrifice, when a sharp voice cut through her thoughts.

“Esther.”

Draco stood in the corridor, his pale eyes like chips of ice, his arms crossed tightly over his pristine robes. A few Hufflepuffs lingered nearby, their chatter dying as they sensed the tension, but Draco didn’t seem to care. His gaze raked over her, lingering on her curls, her unpolished rebellion.

“What’s with the hair?” he said, his voice low, edged with something sharp. “Trying to look like that traitor?”

Seriously? This is what he was going to say after ignoring her for months?

Esther’s stomach twisted, but she didn’t look away. Her curls fell into her face, and she let them stay, her voice cool as she met his stare. “Maybe I am. Got a problem with it?”

Draco’s lip curled, but there was a flicker in his eyes—something raw, buried under the sneer. “You’re making a fool of yourself,” he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping so the passing students wouldn’t hear. “Parading around like some… fugitive. You think that’s who you are now?”

“Well, I am fugitive’s daughter,” she said, her voice quieter but firm, her fingers tightening on her bag. “And you’ve known it. You’ve known it and said nothing.”

He stiffened, his jaw clenching. The corridor felt smaller, the air thick with their words, the distant hum of students fading to nothing. Esther’s heart pounded, but she held her ground, her curls framing her face like a shield. She’d spent years following Draco’s lead, matching his steps, his silences. But not anymore.

“Did you know about my mother?” she asked, the words slipping out, sharp and unsteady, before she could stop them.

Draco froze, his eyes narrowing, but the coldness didn’t waver. He leaned in, his voice a harsh snap. “Your mother is waiting for your return at Malfoy Manor, and you keep hurting her over again.”

The words hit like a slap, and Esther’s breath caught. Narcissa’s face flashed in her mind—her tight smiles, her careful hands braiding Esther’s hair, the hurt in her letters after Esther refused to come home for Easter. Guilt surged, hot and sharp, twisting in her chest. But it wasn’t enough—not compared to the truth Lupin had given her, the closet, the silencing charm, Marlene’s fight to keep her alive.

Esther stepped forward, her voice low, trembling with something fiercer than anger. “What about the woman who died for me to live?”

She fought for you, till the very end.

“She died for me, and I never knew. There was no one to honor her sacrifice.”

Draco flinched, his pale face draining of what little color it had. His hands dropped to his sides, fingers curling into fists, and for a moment, she thought he might break—might shout, might cry, might say something real. But he didn’t. His eyes burned, cold and furious, and his voice was barely a whisper. “You think you’re honoring her? By turning your back on us? On everything we gave you?”

Esther’s throat tightened, her eyes stinging. “Stop painting it as if it was some noble sacrifice,” she said, her voice shaking but clear. “There were other people who was supposed to have me! People that my parents trusted with me. My mother gave me everything—her blood, her fight, her life. And you let me grow up thinking she was nothing.”

Draco’s mouth opened, then closed, his face a mask of fury and something softer, something like hurt. The corridor was quiet now, the last students gone, leaving only the echo of their breathing. “You’re choosing him,” he said, his voice low, bitter. “A criminal. Over us.”

“I’m choosing me,” Esther said, and the words felt like a spell, fragile but true. “For the first time.”

He stared at her, his eyes searching, but the coldness won out. “You’re no sister of mine,” he said, the words cutting deeper than she’d expected. He turned, his robes snapping, and strode away, his footsteps sharp against the stone.

Esther stood frozen, her breath shallow, her curls falling into her face. The silver star at her throat felt heavier now, a tether to Marlene, to Sirius, to a life she was only beginning to understand. She wanted to call after him, to say something to bridge the gap, but her voice wouldn’t come.

Daphne appeared beside her, silent as ever, her hand brushing Esther’s arm. “He’s a prat,” she muttered, but her voice was soft, steady. “You all right?”

Esther swallowed, her eyes still on the empty corridor where Draco had disappeared. “Not really,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I will be.”

Daphne’s hand squeezed her arm, a quiet anchor, and they turned toward the staircase, the light catching Esther’s curls like a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep.

---

The sting of Draco’s words—you’re no sister of mine—clung to Esther like damp mist, sharp and cold, as she lingered in the corridor outside the Great Hall. Daphne’s hand rested on her arm, steady and warm, her presence a silent shield after finding Esther trembling in the wake of Draco’s anger.

“You don’t have to go in,” Daphne said, her voice low, her blonde hair glinting as she tilted her head toward the Great Hall’s heavy doors.

Esther shook her head, her curls bouncing. “I’m fine,” she said, though her voice quavered, betraying her. She took a breath, squaring her shoulders. “Let’s go.”

Daphne’s lips twitched, a flicker of a smile, and she pushed the doors open, stepping into the Hall with Esther at her side. The air thrummed with voices, the clatter of plates, the restless buzz of students savoring the last days of term. The enchanted ceiling glowed gold, bathing the long tables in a haze of summer light, like honey spilled across stone.

The Slytherin table was a familiar refuge, tucked near the far wall, where Theo and Blaise lounged in their usual seats. Phobos, her most beloved companion, perched on the table’s edge, his green eyes glinting as he spotted her. A low mew greeted her, soft and warm, and she managed a small smile, her fingers brushing his fur as she slid onto the bench beside Daphne. Theo picked at a plate of roast potatoes, his dark hair falling into his eyes, while Blaise scratched lazily at a parchment, his quill dancing.

“You look like you’ve been hexed,” Theo said, glancing up, his smirk sharp but tinged with concern. “What’s Malfoy done now?”

Esther’s smile faded, her hands stilling on Phobos’s back. “Just… Draco,” she muttered, her voice nearly lost in the Hall’s din.

Daphne shot Theo a look, her eyes narrowing. “Drop it,” she said, her tone firm but gentle, nudging a goblet of pumpkin juice toward Esther. “Eat something. You’re scaring Phobos.”

Blaise snorted, his quill pausing. “She’s scaring me. Gonna admit, the new look serves you right, Esther.”

Esther’s lips twitched, a spark of warmth cutting through the ache in her chest. “Good,” she said, softer now, steadied by their familiar banter. She reached for a slice of bread, her fingers trembling just enough to betray her.

A shadow swept overhead, and a sleek barn owl swooped into the Great Hall, its wings slicing through the golden light. It circled once, then dropped two parchment-wrapped packages—one onto the Slytherin table before Esther, the other onto the Gryffindor table before Potter, who, as always, sat with Weasley and Granger. Phobos hissed softly, backing away, as students turned, their voices rising in curiosity.

Esther’s breath caught. The handwriting on her package was sharp, slanted, achingly familiar—Sirius’s. Her eyes flicked to Potter, whose fingers hovered over his own parcel, his green eyes wide behind his glasses. Their gazes met for a fleeting moment, a shared spark of recognition, like a thread stretched taut between them.

Her fingers trembled as she untied the string, the parchment falling away to reveal a worn leather sketchbook, its edges soft from years of touch. Sketches and notes spilled across the table—stars, trees, a quick doodle of a laughing dog, enchanted photos that shimmered with movement. Her heart pounded as she opened the first page, and the world seemed to shrink to a pinprick.

An enchanted photo stared back. A man—unmistakably Sirius, younger, his grin reckless and bright—held a laughing baby with dark curls, his eyes fixed on her, not the camera, soft with a love that made Esther’s chest ache. Beside him, a beautiful woman with blonde, curly hair cradled the same baby, her smile soft but fierce, like she’d tear the stars from the sky to keep that moment safe. The baby—it was her, tiny and giggling—waved her small hands, caught between them, her laughter a silent song.

Esther’s throat tightened. She didn’t know the woman’s face, but her heart whispered her name. Marlene.

Tucked into the page was a letter, sealed with a wax star, addressed in a different hand: To Vesta. Her mother’s hand. Esther’s fingers hovered over it, too heavy to open, too precious to set aside.

“You okay?” Daphne’s voice was soft, her hand brushing Esther’s arm, grounding her.

Esther nodded, her eyes locked on the photo, the baby’s laugh echoing in her mind. “It’s them,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “My… my parents.”

Theo leaned over, his smirk gone, eyes wide as he took in the sketchbook. “Bloody hell,” he said, his voice low. “That’s your dad?”

Blaise glanced at the photo, his usual calm softening. “That’s heavy, Esther.”

Her gaze lifted, drawn to the Gryffindor table. Potter had torn into his package, revealing a sleek, gleaming Firebolt, its polished wood catching the light like a captured star. His face was alight, not just with joy but with something deeper—relief, maybe, or hope, his green eyes bright behind his glasses, his messy hair falling into his face as he clutched the broom. The Gryffindor table erupted in gasps, Weasley’s loud “Bloody hell!” cutting through the noise, while Granger muttered, her arms crossed, but there was a soft smile present on her face.

Esther’s heart stuttered. Potter’s eyes met hers again, and the Hall seemed to fade, the chatter dimming to a hum. His smile was small, almost shy, but it carried the weight of everything they’d shared—the Shrieking Shack, the Time-Turner, the wild flight on Buckbeak’s wings. It was a smile that said he’s ours, a thread of connection woven through loss and hope, a promise of something yet to come. She saw Sirius in him—not just the eyes, but the way he held himself, like he was carrying something too big for his shoulders.

Without thinking, she smiled back, small but real, her curls falling into her face, the sketchbook warm under her fingers. For a moment, it was just them—two kids bound by a man who’d given them everything, even in his absence.

“What the hell was that?” Theo’s voice sliced through, sharp and disbelieving, his fork clattering onto his plate.

Esther froze, her smile fading. Blaise’s eyebrow shot up, his smirk returning but laced with confusion. “Yeah, Esther. Smiling at Potter? What’s next, joining Gryffindor at their table?”

Daphne’s head snapped up, her eyes meeting Esther’s in a silent exchange. A beat passed, then Daphne nodded, her jaw set.

“There’s something you guys should know,” Esther said, her voice low, steady despite the tremor in her hands. She clutched the sketchbook, the photo of Sirius and Marlene anchoring her, a promise she wasn’t ready to break.

---

The King’s Cross platform thrummed with life, a chaotic weave of students’ shouts, trunks scraping cobbles, and owls’ sharp hoots, all bathed in the late June sun. Steam curled from the Hogwarts Express, its scarlet bulk looming like a fading dream.

Harry stood with the Weasleys, the Firebolt slung over his shoulder, its polished wood warm against his robes, a gift from Sirius that felt like a heartbeat in his hands. Ron leaned on his mother’s arm, still wincing from his leg, while Hermione clutched her books, muttering about St. Mungo’s. Mrs. Weasley adjusted Ron’s bandages, her voice sharp with worry, while Fred and George whispered mischief, their grins sparking Ginny’s giggle. Harry’s stomach churned, his eyes scanning for the Dursleys’ pinched faces, their arrival a shadow creeping closer.

Then he saw her.

Esther stood across the platform, her dark curls spilling like ink over her shoulders, catching the sunlight in a cascade of soft, wild waves. The silver star at her throat glinted, a tiny beacon against her pale skin, swaying as she shifted her weight. She was with Greengrass, whose blonde hair shone like polished gold, and two Slytherin boys—Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini, their faces tight, eyes wary. A younger girl, maybe eleven, with Greengrass’ sharp features but softer eyes—Astoria, Harry guessed—tugged at her sister’s sleeve. Two adults—the girls’ parents, Harry guessed—stood nearby, their elegant robes crisp, their gazes curious but reserved.

But Esther was different today. Her usual guarded edge, the Malfoy polish, had softened, like ice melting under spring’s touch. Her eyes, dark and sharp like Sirius’s, flickered with uncertainty, yet there was a warmth in them, a fragile hope that danced like sunlight on water. Her fingers twisted the pendant, her lips parting in a quiet laugh at something Astoria said, and her curls bounced, framing her face like a storm caught in a frame.

Harry’s breath hitched, his cheeks flushing, the Firebolt suddenly heavy in his grip. She was pretty—Merlin, she was really pretty—not just a passing thought he’d buried under rivalry or guilt, but a truth that settled in his chest, warm and unguarded. For the first time, he didn’t push it away. She was Sirius’s Vesta, but also just… Esther, standing there, soft and uncertain, yet somehow brighter than the platform’s chaos.

His heart raced, a wild thud against his ribs, and his feet moved before his brain caught up, carrying him across the platform. The Firebolt jostled against his shoulder, his fingers tightening around it, slick with nervous sweat.

Ron’s head snapped up, his mouth gaping. “Bloody hell, mate, what’re you doing?”

“Ronald, hush,” Hermione hissed, her eyes darting to Esther, then back to Harry, wide with shock.

Mrs. Weasley paused, her hands stilling, her brow creasing. Fred and George exchanged a glance, their grins sharper, while Ginny watched, her eyes bright with curiosity.

Greengrass noticed him first, her eyebrow arching in a silent really, Potter? But her lips twitched, and she nudged Esther’s arm, stepping back to give her space. The boys froze, their astonishment raw—Zabini’s smirk gone, Nott’s jaw tight, both staring at Greengrass, then Esther, as if they’d missed a spell’s incantation.

The Greengrass parents watched, their curiosity a quiet hum. Harry caught Mrs. Greengrass’s eyes, expecting a cold stare, but she smiled—a soft, unexpected curve that warmed her face, catching him off guard. His cheeks burned hotter, and he looked away, focusing on Esther.

Astoria tugged at her sister sleeve, her voice high. “What’s going on?”

Esther looked up, her curls shifting as her eyes met Harry’s. Surprise flickered across her face, her lips parting, but her gaze softened, the silver star glinting like a shared secret. Her fingers stilled on the pendant, and she tilted her head, her curls catching the breeze, a faint flush creeping up her cheeks.

“Crazy year, huh?” Harry said, his voice cracking slightly, his hand fidgeting with the Firebolt’s handle. His heart pounded, louder than the platform’s din, and he felt the heat in his face, a flush he couldn’t hide.

Esther blinked, her curls swaying, and a small smile curved her lips, sharp but playful. “Yeah,” she said, her voice light, teasing. “Can’t imagine doing it all every year.”

Harry’s grin broke free, real and unguarded, surprising him. Her jab was pure Esther—witty, a little biting, but warm, like Sirius’s spark lived in her voice. Her smile widened, her eyes bright with mischief, and he noticed the way her fingers brushed her curls back, a nervous gesture that made her seem smaller, softer, yet fiercely herself.

They stood there, the platform’s chaos fading to a low hum. Harry shifted, his weight rocking on his heels, his gaze catching the way her curls caught the light, the way her eyes held a shadow of Sirius’s defiance but also something gentler, something that was just her. “You’re… staying with them?” he asked, nodding toward the Greengrasses, his voice quieter now.

Esther’s smile faltered, her eyes flicking to her friend’s family, then back to him. “Yeah,” she said, her voice softer, shaking just enough for him to catch it. “I can’t imagine staying with the Malfoys. I… I don’t think I can.”

Her shoulders hunched, her curls falling into her face, and Harry saw it—the tremor in her voice, the way her fingers tightened on the pendant, like it was anchoring her against a storm. He knew that feeling, the dread of a place that wasn’t home, the weight of the Dursleys’ cold house pressing on his own shoulders. His heart gave a sharp twist, not just for Sirius, but for her—for the girl who’d hidden in a closet, who carried a name that wasn’t hers, who stood here now, softer but stronger than he’d ever realized.

“I get it,” he said, his voice low, his eyes holding hers. “The Dursleys… they’re not family either.”

She looked at him, really looked, and something passed between them—a thread of understanding, woven through Sirius, through loss, through the sketchbook and Firebolt that bound them. Her curls moved as she nodded, her fingers brushing the pendant, and Harry felt it again—hundred snitches buzzing in his stomach, heat flooding his face, his hands fidgeting with the Firebolt.

She was pretty, and he let the thought linger, no guilt, no shame, just a quiet truth.

Ron coughed loudly, muttering, “Mate, come on.” Hermione shushed him, her voice sharper.

Greengrass’ eyebrow stayed raised, but her nudge was gentle, urging Esther closer. Her younger sister whispered to their mother, her eyes wide, while Nott and Zabini shot identical glares, their confusion a silent shout.

Esther shifted, her curls catching the light, and Harry sensed her pulling back, ready to leave. Before he could stop himself, the words spilled out. “Can I write to you during this summer?” His voice rushed on, his cheeks burning. “You know, about Sirius and stuff. If it’s okay.”

Esther froze, her eyes widening, her curls framing a face caught between surprise and warmth. Then a smile broke across her lips—genuine, bright, lighting her eyes like stars against a night sky. “Yeah, sure,” she said, her voice warm, then playful, a spark of mischief dancing in her tone. “Who knows, maybe you will receive an answer.”

Harry grinned, the heat in his face fading, replaced by something steady, something real. “Yeah, okay,” he said, his voice soft but sure.

“Have a nice summer, Potter,” she said, her smile lingering as she turned toward the Greengrasses, her curls bouncing, the silver star glinting like a promise.

“You too,” he called, watching her blend into the crowd, her figure a flicker of light against the platform’s chaos, a thread of hope he hadn’t expected to find.

Notes:

oh wow, i can't believe this but we are officially wrapping up poa. wow. honestly i didn't believe i will write this far. but well, this was just the beginning. there are still lots of things for un in the future.

Chapter 10: vesta marlene black

The Greengrass estate glowed under the late June sun, its ivy-clad walls woven with light, the air thick with the scent of jasmine and sun-warmed roses. Esther sat on a cushioned bench by her open window, her dark curls spilling like a cascade of ink flecked with starlight, each strand catching the breeze as if daring the world to hold it still. The silver star pendant at her throat glimmered, a quiet pulse against her pale skin, a tether to a name she was only beginning to claim—Vesta. Her fingers brushed the worn leather of the sketchbook in her lap, her dad’s gift, its pages heavy with doodles and enchanted photos that flickered like memories caught in amber. Tucked inside was Marlene’s letter, its wax star seal unbroken, addressed to Vesta Black in a bold, slanted hand. She traced the seal, her heart thudding, but pulled back, the weight of her mother’s words a tide she wasn’t ready to face.

Her first week with the Greengrasses had been a soft unraveling, a world apart from the cold marble of Malfoy Manor, where every smile was a calculation and every silence a blade. Her fourteenth birthday on June nineteen had been a revelation, warmer than any memory she could summon. Daphne had woken her with a grin, her blonde hair catching the dawn as she tugged Esther downstairs to a breakfast table laden with pastries, fresh berries, and a small cake adorned with silver stars that shimmered faintly with magic. Astoria had bounced in her seat, her eyes bright as she slid a clumsily wrapped gift across the table—a charmed bracelet that hummed with warmth, its beads glinting like tiny moons. “I chose it myself,” Astoria had said, her voice proud, her smile a spark that lit the room. Uncle Adrian and Aunt Daria had watched with soft eyes, their laughter weaving through the air like a spell. The day had settled in Esther’s chest, a warmth that felt like home, a word she hadn’t dared speak before.

No letters had come from Malfoy Manor. Not a single owl, not a trace of Narcissa’s elegant script or Lucius’s sharp commands. The silence was a relief, sharp and clean, but it carried a shadow of unease. At dinner, Uncle Adrian had spoken in hushed tones about Ministry whispers—Lucius was furious, which didn’t surprise her at all. Esther had listened, her fork still, her curls falling into her eyes, and felt a flicker of guilt for Narcissa, quickly drowned by Draco’s voice echoing in her mind: you’re no sister of mine. The Malfoys were a past she was learning to leave behind, their silence a door she wasn’t sure she wanted to reopen.

Potter’s letter was another matter. It had arrived three days ago, its parchment creased, addressed to “Malfoy” in his messy scrawl, then scratched out, rewritten as “Black,” scratched again, and finally settled on “Esther.” She’d read it that night, her heart racing under the flicker of candlelight. His words were halting, awkward—talk of Sirius, the Firebolt, a summer trapped with the Dursleys—but warm, like a hand reaching across the platform at King’s Cross. She hadn’t answered, not yet. The letter sat on her desk, its edges curling, a quiet challenge she wasn’t sure how to meet. Writing back meant stepping into the thread they’d spun, and she wasn’t ready to name what it held.

Marlene’s letter was heavier, its wax seal a star that burned in her mind. She’d carried it for a week, tracing the handwriting each night—bold, fierce, unmistakably her mother’s—but hadn’t broken the seal. What could Marlene say to a daughter she’d never known? What could Vesta say back? Her fingers hovered over the sketchbook now, her breath catching, but she set it aside, her curls falling into her face as she turned to the window, the jasmine breeze a soft question against her skin.

A gentle knock broke her reverie. Aunt Daria stood in the doorway, a parchment clutched in her hand, her blonde hair swept into a loose bun, her eyes warm but searching, like she could see the storm behind Esther’s calm. She crossed the room, her steps soft on the polished wood, and sat beside Esther, her hand resting gently on Esther’s, her touch a warm anchor against the tide of her thoughts.

“Esther, dear,” Daria said, her voice soft as the breeze, “Remember the letter Andromeda sent to you? She would like to visit today if you are ready.”

Esther’s heart lurched, a wild thud against her ribs, her fingers tightening on the sketchbook. Andromeda. A Black, like Sirius, like her. The silver star pendant pulsed at her throat, a beacon calling her forward. Daria’s hand lingered on hers, warm and steady, and then, with a gentle smile, she reached out, tucking a stray curl behind Esther’s ear, her fingers brushing lightly against her cheek.

“I… I’d like that,” Esther said, her voice soft but sure, her curls shifting as she nodded.

Daria’s smile deepened, a sunrise in her eyes. “Good,” she said, her hand squeezing Esther’s gently before sliding to her arm, a soft, grounding touch. “It never made sense to me, the stories about Sirius.” Her voice grew distant, as if peering into a Hogwarts long past. “I was a few years older, but even I knew about James Potter and Sirius Black. Inseparable, they were—always laughing, always in some mad scheme, but loyal to the bone. I’d see them in the Great Hall. Betraying James and Lily Potter… it never fit. Not the Sirius Black I saw.”

Esther’s breath caught, her curls falling back into her face as she looked down at the sketchbook, Sirius’s doodles vivid in her mind. Daria’s words wove a thread of truth, solidifying her father’s innocence.

“Did you know my mother, as well?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper, the pendant warm against her skin.

Daria’s eyes softened, a flicker of memory in their depths. “Marlene McKinnon,” she said, her voice warm, almost reverent. “She was something, your mother. Best Chaser in her year, her and Potter were a force. I didn’t know her well, but I remember her in the corridors; people followed her everywhere she went.”

Esther’s throat tightened, her fingers tracing the sketchbook’s edge. She thought of the whispers at Hogwarts, the truths Daria must have heard but never spoken. There was no grudge in her heart, no bitterness—how could there be? Aunt Daria had been bound by the same shadows that hid Sirius’s innocence, the same secrets that kept Marlene’s letter sealed. Esther understood, her heart steady despite the ache, grateful for the warmth of Daria’s hand, the truth she offered now.

Daria’s hand brushed Esther’s arm again, her smile soft but sure. “I want you to know, that there is always a place for you here,” she said, her voice a quiet promise, the sunlight catching Esther’s pendant like a star waking from a long sleep. “You always belong here, understood?”

“Yes, aunt Daria,” she said, her voice hoarse. She let the older woman to pull her into tight hug and closed her eyes, trying to imagine it was her mother hugging her.

---

Andromeda Tonks was a living echo of her dad—hair the color of deep chestnut, streaked with silver, was swept into a precise knot, her sharp cheekbones and deep, stormy eyes echoing Sirius’s features, yet softened by a warmth that Narcissa’s cold elegance could never hold. Her robes, deep green and tailored, moved with her like a whisper, and her posture was composed, every gesture deliberate, as if she carried the Black family’s dignity but had polished away its cruelty. Esther’s heart thudded, her fingers twisting the charmed bracelet from Astoria, its beads humming faintly, a nervous counterpoint to Andromeda’s calm. The silver star pendant at her throat felt heavy, a tether to the woman before her, whose eyes met hers with a warmth that was both inviting and measured.

“Vesta,” Andromeda said, her voice low and clear, the name falling with a natural ease, like a note perfectly struck.

Esther didn’t flinch. The name settled over her, fitting like a glove she was learning to wear, and she felt a small spark of courage. “Hello,” she said, her voice soft, her gaze flickering from Andromeda’s face to her hands, then back again.

“I’m sorry,” her aunt said suddenly, a note of concern in her voice. “You go by another name, right? Estheri?”

“It's fine,” she answered quickly. “Vesta is... fine.”

Aunt Daria entered, her blonde hair catching the hearth’s glow as she set down a tray of porcelain teacups, their floral patterns delicate, steam rising from a pot of jasmine tea. “I’ll leave you to talk,” she said, her smile gentle, her hand brushing Esther’s shoulder before she slipped out, the door closing with a quiet click. The parlor shrank to just the two of them, the faint crackle of the fire a thin thread in the silence.

Esther’s fingers tightened on the pendant, her stomach knotting with awkwardness. She didn’t know how to begin, how to bridge the gap to this woman who carried her father’s features and a past she’d only glimpsed in fragments. The teacup before her sat untouched, its steam curling like a question she couldn’t form. Andromeda, though, was perfectly composed, her hands folding neatly as she lifted her cup, her movements precise yet warm, like a dance she’d mastered long ago.

“You look just like your father,” Andromeda said, her tone warm but measured, her eyes tracing Esther’s face with a quiet intensity. “Those eyes, that spark—it’s Sirius, through and through. Except your nose; it's your mother's.”

Esther’s breath hitched, the mention of her mother sparking a familiar ache, a hunger she couldn’t quell. “Did you know my mother?” she asked, the words tumbling out, her voice trembling with a need to grasp any piece of Marlene she could.

Andromeda’s smile softened, a flicker of regret in her eyes. “Not well, I’m afraid,” she said, setting her teacup down with a gentle clink. “I was years ahead of them at Hogwarts—graduated when Sirius and Marlene were in their second year. We met only once. Sirius was completely taken with her. He used to joke he’d stay single forever, you know—always playing the rogue. But with her…” She paused, her gaze distant, voice softening. “He loved her deeply, Vesta. It was rare, to see him so devoted. Such a tragedy, what happened to her, to her family.”

Esther’s throat tightened, her fingers twisting the bracelet, its beads warm against her skin. Andromeda’s words were a gift, small but heavy, a fragment of her mother she could hold. She wanted more—Marlene’s laugh, her fire—but this was enough for now, a spark to carry.

“Professor Lupin mentioned my dad has a brother,” she said, her voice hesitant.

Andromeda’s gaze flickered, a shadow passing over her composed features. “Had,” she corrected, her voice quieter, a touch sharper, as if the word carried a weight she didn’t want to linger on. “Regulus died young. Far too young.” She set her teacup down with a gentle clink, her hands folding again, and Esther sensed a door closing, a story Andromeda wasn’t ready to share. She didn’t press, her eyes dropping to the bracelet, its beads warm against her wrist.

Andromeda leaned forward slightly, her composure returning, her voice warm again. “Your father, though… he was something else at Hogwarts. Always in trouble, always laughing. He and James Potter were inseparable—charming portraits to sing, sneaking out to the kitchens, racking up detentions like badges.” A faint chuckle escaped her, her eyes glinting with memory. “But he was loyal, Vesta. He’d have done anything for James.”

Esther’s lips parted, a question forming, spurred by Lupin's stories. “Is it true he… ran away from home?” she asked, her voice half-disbelieving, her eyes wide.

Andromeda’s posture stiffened, a subtle shift—her shoulders squaring, her fingers tightening briefly on her teacup, her tone sharpening just enough to hint at a shared wound.

“He did,” she said, her voice steady but laced with something deeper, like a memory she’d lived herself. “At sixteen. Our family was… unforgiving. Obsessed with blood purity, with control. Sirius couldn’t bear it. He went to the Potters, found a home there.” Her eyes met Esther’s, and for a moment, they held a flicker of experience, of a Black who’d walked a similar path.

Esther’s heart thudded, her fingers still on the pendant. She saw the change in Andromeda, the way her words carried a quiet echo of her own rebellion. Andromeda Tonks, disowned for marrying a muggle-born - she knew this. Her name was never mentioned in Malfoy Manor, especially not around Narcissa but Draco learned about it from somewhere and shared with her.

Esther wanted to ask, to know more, but politeness held her back, the question feeling too raw, too intimate for this fragile moment. She looked down, her curls falling into her face, and let the silence settle.

Andromeda’s voice softened, her composure seamless again. “He was brave, Vesta. Braver than most.” She sipped her tea, her movements graceful, and the conversation shifted, lighter now, as she asked about Esther’s Hogwarts days, her classes, her friends. Esther answered haltingly, her awkwardness easing with each of Andromeda’s measured smiles, each gentle question. She liked Andromeda—more than she’d expected. Her warmth was genuine but controlled, her elegance a quiet strength, like Narcissa’s but without the frost, a hearth where Narcissa was a locked gate. Andromeda’s composure, her grace, felt like a promise of family, a new beginning Esther could almost touch.

Andromeda set her teacup down, her expression softening, though her posture remained impeccable. “You know, Vesta, I wanted to take you, after… everything. I tried, when you were a baby. But I was politely pushed aside.” Her voice held a trace of steel, quickly smoothed. “Lucius Malfoy took you under his wing, and my sister—Narcissa—made it clear I wasn’t welcome. Lupin and I tried to reach you, later, but we were shut down every time.”

Esther’s breath caught, Narcissa’s name a shard of ice in her chest. “Why?” she asked, her voice barely audible, her fingers tightening on the pendant.

Andromeda’s smile was sad, her eyes distant, yet her composure held firm. “Your father wasn’t the only one disowned. I left the Black family long ago—chose love over their rules. Married Ted, a muggle-born. They cut me out, just like they did Sirius.” She leaned forward, her voice warm but resolute. “But you’re here now, Vesta. And I’m here, if you’ll have me.”

Esther’s throat tightened, her eyes stinging. Andromeda’s warmth, her elegant strength, was a balm, a family she’d never known. She nodded, her voice lost, but her heart steady, the pendant warm against her skin as the hearth’s glow cast their shadows together, a quiet promise in the flickering light.

She would cling to any scrap if it brought her closer to her father.

---

Esther sat cross-legged on her bed, the Greengrass estate hushed under a velvet night, moonlight spilling through the window to pool across the quilt. A single candle flickered on her bedside table, its glow dancing over the sketchbook in her lap, its leather cover worn soft and heavy. Her dark curls fell into her eyes, her fingers brushing them back, the silver star pendant at her throat glinting like a quiet vow. The sketchbook felt alive, enchanted, its pages thick and endless, a world waiting to unfold. Her heart thudded, a tangle of awe and fear, her fingers hovering over the cover. She’d carried it for weeks, traced its edges, but hadn’t dared dive in, nervous of the truths it held, afraid of the love she might find.

She opened it slowly, the spine creaking like a whispered invitation. The first page held a sketch, Marlene’s hand bold and fluid—a laughing Sirius, his hair wild, eyes sparking with mischief, a note in his scrawl: Marley, you make me look too handsome. Esther’s lips twitched, her fingers trembling as she turned the page, her breath catching at an enchanted photo. Her dad stood grinning, arm slung around a man unmistakably James Potter—he looked just like his son, with messy black hair that defied gravity, glasses slipping down his nose, and a grin that promised trouble. They held a giggling baby - Potter, she realized - a toy broom, its bristles wobbling as he zoomed in circles, their laughter frozen in motion. A caption in Marlene’s slanted script read, Jamie and Sirius, teaching Harry to fly (Lily’s not thrilled). Esther’s chest ached, her fingers brushing the photo, James’s joy a mirror to Potter's she’d seen at Hogwarts.

Another page revealed a photo of Marlene and a woman with fiery red hair, her green eyes bright and fierce—Lily Potter, unmistakable from the stories and her son’s gaze. There was another photo of Marlene cradling a baby - Potter again, - her lips moving in a silent lullaby, his tiny face peaceful. A note beside it read, Oh, i'm his favourite. Esther’s throat tightened, her eyes stinging as she turned to a sketch of herself as a baby, her own chubby face sleeping against Sirius’s chest. His expression was soft, unguarded, a note in Marlene’s hand: My own heart. Esther’s fingers lingered, tracing her father’s face, her mother’s words, a love that felt sharp and real.

She moved slowly, each page a revelation. An enchanted photo showed Lily Potter kissing Esther's younger self's cheeks, her laughter bubbling through the frame. Another captured a young man, slight and nervous, with mousy hair and a shy smile—Peter Pettigrew, younger than Esther knew him, holding her with awkward care, his eyes warm qnd gentle. A note read, Wormtail’s first babysitting gig—survived! Esther’s lips quirked, though a shadow crossed her heart, knowing Pettegrew's later betrayal. She quickly moved on, not wanting to linger on cld anger and sharp gilt that was eating her alive.

Another photo showed a tall, lanky man with sandy hair and scars—Professor Lupin, unmistakable even young, his kind eyes crinkling as he and her dad tossed little Potter into the air, little Esther giggling in Marlene’s arms nearby. A caption: Moony and Padfoot, Harry’s favorite game.

A photo, clearly taken by a muggle photograph, caught her eye—young Marlene, maybe nine, soaked and laughing, perched on James Potter’s back, both dripping from some misadventure. The caption read, Jamie and me, post-river fiasco—don’t tell Mum!

Another page held a sketch of a bold-faced girl with a wide grin—Esther didn't recognize her. She had her hands around another girl's shoulder - with dark skin, her black hair braided, she was a bit taller.

Marlene’s art was stunning, her sketches bold yet delicate, her notes sharp and funny, a voice leaping from the page. Esther lingered on a photo of her dad and mom, their foreheads touching, his hand cupping her face, an enchanted kiss moving in soft loops. A note in his dad's hand read, Got the girl.

She paused, feeling how grief was choking her. Here was the evidence of the life she could have had. Her parents were clearly in love, they were surrounded by their friends and they obviously loved her so, so much, openly and deeply. She couldn't quite understand it, couldn't wrap her mind around it but of her parents were lound in their love and oh so generous.

Malfoys were not like this. Lucius and Narcissa weren't like this.

But well, she wasn't Malfoy.

She was Black.

Deep within, she found the letter, its wax star seal unbroken, addressed to Vesta Black. She ignored it all this time, too afraid to open it.

Her hands shook as she broke the seal, unfolding the parchment, her breath hitching:

My dear Vesta,

If you’re reading this, I’m probably not around. And knowing your father, he’s either somewhere trying to fix that or already getting himself into trouble trying to fix something. Hopefully not his hair.

This letter is a strange thing to write. I’ve tried starting it about ten different ways, and they all sounded like I was trying to be wise or poetic or both — which isn’t very me. So instead, I’ll just say this: I love you. So much. Even if I never got to tell you that out loud, I need you to know it. You are wanted. You are loved. You were loved before you were even born, and you’ll be loved long after I’m gone.

I wish I could be there for all of it — your Sorting, your first friend, your first heartbreak, your favorite subject, the first time you try to sneak out past curfew and definitely get caught (you’d better). But since I can’t be there in person, I’m leaving you everything I can fit into this parchment and that sketchbook of mine — bits of magic and memory, stories and sketches and maybe even a few embarrassing things your dad wished I’d left out. Sorry, love. Too good not to save.

You’re probably wondering who I am, or what kind of person your mother really was, beyond whatever stories people give you. Truth is, I am a bit of a whirlwind. I talk too fast, got into too many arguments, and I am dead certain I am always right (your father would agree — with the second part, not the first). But I also love fiercely. I stand up for what mattered. And when I love someone, I never let go. You, my little star, are the last and fiercest love of mine.

I hope you find your people, Vesta. The ones who feel like home. The ones you can be loud with, quiet with, foolish with. I have mine — Lily, for her cleverness and stubborn heart; Mary, for always calling me out on my dramatics; Remus, who keeps us all from setting fire to the castle (most days); and Jamie, who has ego bigger than his head but also a heart size of the lake. And Peter, who surprises us all, often in good ways. And your dad… well. Sirius was my first, not everything, but a lot of thing. Not first kiss. But first real relationship. First love. He was magnetic and impossible and kind in ways most people didn’t expect — and a complete menace when bored. If you’ve got even half of his mischief in you, I’m so sorry to your professors.

Now, about the other kind of love.

Your first crush might feel ridiculous. That’s normal. You might roll your eyes at yourself. You might not even like that you like someone. Or you might daydream about them for weeks and then realize they were completely wrong for you. That’s also normal.

Love is strange and warm and often very stupid — in the best way. Don’t let anyone tell you how it’s supposed to happen. You’ll know it’s real not when it’s perfect, but when it makes you feel like more of yourself, not less.

Maybe you already have someone like that. (If it’s Harry, tell your dad I told him so. Jamie claimed you as his daughter the moment you were born. Said we were practically raising our children to be childhood sweethearts. I laughed, and Sirius threatened to hex him.) But seriously — whoever it is, whenever it happens, take your time. You don’t owe your heart to anyone just because they ask. But when you do give it, give it bravely.

And dreams. What do you want, Vesta? What makes your heart race and your eyes go wide? I wish I could ask you in person — see the way you light up when you talk about it. Maybe you want to play Quidditch, or work with magical creatures, or be a Curse-Breaker in some faraway land. Whatever it is, I hope you run toward it with everything you’ve got. And if you don’t know yet — that’s alright, too. The world’s big. Take your time finding your place in it.

Your dad and I used to talk about what you might become. He said he wanted you to be free. That’s all. Free to be wild and curious and loud and wrong sometimes. Free to laugh too much. To fall in love. To break rules. To make your own. And I… I just wanted you to be safe. Safe and stubborn and kind and unapologetically you.

So be brave, Vesta. I know. I know it’s the hardest thing, especially when the world feels like it’s waiting for you to fall. But be brave anyway. You are mine and your father’s. And if there’s one thing we were always known for — aside from good hair and terrible timing — it’s courage.

You are so loved, sweetheart.

And you are not alone.

With all my love,

Mom.

The letter trembled in her hands.

Not because of the weight of the parchment, or even the ache in her fingers from gripping it too tightly. But because every word on the page had pierced something in her — something she hadn’t realized was still soft.

Be brave, Vesta.

She was crying. Again. Quiet, relentless tears — the kind that didn’t ask permission. They slipped over her cheeks, one after another, until her vision blurred and she couldn’t make out the letters anymore. She didn't want to blink them away. Didn’t want to pretend she was fine. Not this time.

The grief wasn’t fresh. It had never been fresh. It had always been buried deep, like a thing she’d inherited alongside her hair and her temper. But now, for the first time, it was real. Real because this wasn’t just loss. This was love.

She had been loved.

So fully, so fiercely — by a woman who would never see her grow up, never know which house she’d been sorted into, never meet Daphne, or Theo, or Blaise, or Potter. But she had imagined it all. Every step. Every heartbreak. Every laugh. Every fight. She’d written it out as though she believed in it — in her.

Esther had tried to tell herself before that her mother must have loved her. It was easier to think in absolutes, to accept it in theory. But this — the snarky comments about her dad, the soft wondering about her first kiss, the hopes for her future, the quiet pride — this wasn’t theory. This was her mother. Alive in ink and margin scribbles.

And now she felt split down the middle.

One half still tethered to the girl Narcissa had raised, the one called Estheri Malfoy, always too quiet or too different from them, always trying to be something for someone. And the other half — this new self, rising from the ashes — Vesta Black. Marlene’s daughter. Sirius’s child.

A name like a star. A name that felt like both an ending and a beginning.

Her throat hurt. Not from crying — from holding it all in.

She reached for the sketchbook again with unsteady fingers, flipping carefully through pages she hadn’t dared to look at earlier. Her father — smiling, messy, throwing an arm around James Potter. Her mother dancing barefoot in the Gryffindor common room. Lily Potter levitating apples for her son. Pettegrew caught mid-laugh, eyes bright. Professor Lupin, sprawled across the couch with a book, her dad draped upside down beside him, clearly talking too much. It all blurred and sharpened and blurred again.

This was the life she was born into. Not the cold corridors of Malfoy Manor, not the clipped tones and shadowed silences. But this — sunlight, chaos, friendship, love.

Esther wiped at her cheeks, sniffling. A quiet breath trembled out of her, more relief than pain. She didn’t feel fixed. She didn’t feel whole. But she didn’t feel alone.

The sketchbook lay open beside her, pages splayed like wings mid-flight, and her mother’s words still echoed softly in the room—warm, teasing, utterly alive. Outside, the last light of the day had vanished, and moonlight now spilled across the floor, silvering the rug, catching on the edge of the teacup she hadn’t touched. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed the hour—late enough that the world felt gentled, hushed, waiting.

A knock came—soft, hesitant. Before she could speak, the door cracked open.

Daphne stood in the glow of the hallway sconces, dressed in pale sleep robes, her hair loose around her shoulders, a bit mussed from braiding and then undoing it again. She hesitated at the threshold, one hand braced lightly on the doorframe.

“I came to say goodnight,” she said. Her voice was quiet, and there was something else in it, something careful. She saw Esther’s red-rimmed eyes, the open sketchbook, the half-curled position on the window seat—and softened without a word.

Esther blinked at her, surprised at the lump rising in her throat all over again.

“You can come in,” she managed, her voice a little hoarse.

Daphne did, closing the door behind her with a gentle click. She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t make a show of peering over her shoulder or prying into what lay on the floor and on the page. She just crossed the room with her usual quiet grace and lowered herself onto the carpet beside the bench, folding her legs like it was the most natural thing in the world to sit there, at Esther’s side.

A few moments passed like that. No words. Just the soft breathing of two girls suspended in a strange, aching calm.

“She was funny,” she said at last. Her voice still trembled slightly. “And nosy.  And she loved me. So much.”

“I know,” Daphne said softly. She reached out and took the sketchbook, closing it gently and resting her palm on its cover like a gesture of respect. “She couldn’t not to.”

Esther’s gaze drifted to the pendant at her throat. The star glinted faintly, catching the lamplight. Her fingers curled around it, anchoring herself to its quiet warmth.

She hesitated. The thought had been circling for a while now— since meeting Andromeda, since the letter, since her mother’s voice spilled into her heart like spilled ink on a page—and now it rose, steady and sure.

“Do you think…” she swallowed. “Do you think it would be all right, if you called me Vesta?”

Daphne blinked. Just once. Surprise flickered across her face—not shock, not judgment, just surprise. And then she smiled. Not the polished, social kind, but the soft one, the one reserved for truth. She reached out and linked their fingers, her thumb brushing over her knuckles with quiet certainty.

“I think that name suits you just fine,” she said.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. It wasn’t a grand moment. It didn’t need to be. It was quiet and soft and real—like a door gently swinging open.

Neither of them moved for a long while after that.

Eventually, Daphne shifted. “I was going to head back to my room,” she said, half-heartedly. “But…”

“You can stay,” she offered, her voice quiet. “If you want.”

Daphne didn’t answer right away. She just climbed up onto the bed, scooting over until they were shoulder to shoulder, their legs stretched out like they used to be back at Hogwarts, passing books and sweets between them on long, sleepless nights.

“I’ll stay,” she said. And then, after a beat, “Goodnight, Vesta.”

She closed her eyes. The name didn’t feel heavy. It didn’t feel foreign.

It felt like hers.

“Goodnight,” she whispered back.

---

Potter’s letter was short, his scrawl messy, ink smudged as if he’d hesitated over every word. The address was a tangle of indecision: Malfoy scratched out, then Black, scratched again, and finally Esther, settled in a hurried hand.

Malfoy

Black

Dear Esther,

Er, hi. Summer’s pretty awful here. The Dursleys—my relatives­—are charming as always. Got a letter from Sirius, says he’s safe, which is a relief. I think he’ll write to you soon, if he didn’t already. Been thinking about King’s Cross, you know, you being there. It’s weird, writing to you. I could have never imagined that this would happen but well.

What’s your summer like? Doing anything fun? The Firebolt’s still ace—fastest broom I’ve ever flown. Anyway, hope you’re okay.

Harry.

Her lips twitched, a flicker of warmth cutting through her surprise. Harry Potter—Draco’s school rival, the boy who’d always been a shadow in her brother’s sneering stories—had written to her, his words awkward, stumbling, like he was testing unfamiliar ground. It was strange, this thread between them, spun from a fleeting moment at King’s Cross, from Sirius’s name tying their lives like a knot she couldn’t quite untangle. She’d read the letter days ago, its creased parchment a quiet challenge on her desk, but hadn’t answered, unsure what to say to a boy who was both stranger and ally, an echo of her father’s world.

Now, with her mother’s love anchoring her heart, with her name settling in her bones, she felt ready to reach back.

She dipped her quill, the scratch of nib on parchment loud in the quiet room, her hand steady despite the flutter in her chest. Her curls fell forward again, catching the candlelight, and she wrote:

Dear Harry,

Your letter caught me off guard, but I’m glad you wrote. I’m at the Greengrasses’—they’re kind, not like what I’m used to. My birthday was last week, fourteen, with cake and awkward songs, but it was nice. Thank you for letting me know about dad—I haven’t received his letter yet, so I’ll wait.

Your summer sounds tough—hope it gets better. What’s it like, flying that Firebolt? It sounds absolutely horrifying, but well I have learnt that you are the type to enjoy those kind of things.

Thanks for reaching out. It’s strange, us talking, but I’m glad too.

Vesta.

 

Chapter 11: how not to get kidnapped by death eaters

The summer at the Greengrass estate unfolded like a soft spell, each day weaving Vesta deeper into the name she now claimed. July cloaked the manor in golden light, the gardens humming with bees, the air heavy with lavender and the promise of a life she was only beginning to know.

Vesta lingered at her bedroom window, her dark curls spilling over her shoulders, catching the breeze as she bent over a parchment, its ink glistening under the quill’s careful dance. The name that once felt like a stranger’s cloak, heavy with the weight of a past she barely grasped, now draped over her like a charm spoken in her mom’s fierce voice, her dad’s warm laugh. She’d braced for doubt, for the name to feel like a lie, but it didn’t. It was as if mom and dad had always called her Vesta, their love a melody threading through the years she’d lost, a song she was learning to sing.

The Greengrasses made it feel true. That first evening, after her hesitant question—Could you, please, call me Vesta fro now on?— aunt Daria had paused, her hands cradling a pot of chamomile tea, and smiled, her eyes soft as moonlight. “Vesta’s a beautiful name, dear,” she’d said, as if it were the simplest truth. Uncle Adrian, his booming voice unusually gentle, had nodded. “Vesta, eh? Sounds like a name for someone destined for greatness.” Astoria, her blonde curls bouncing, had giggled and declared, “I like it! It suits you so much!" Their ease, their unquestioning embrace, caught Vesta off guard, a warmth blooming in her chest like a flower unfurling. She’d spent years under Lucius’s cold scrutiny, Narcissa’s measured affection, where every step was weighed, every name a chain. But here, in this manor of laughter and light, she was Vesta—seen, whole, her mom’s star, her dad’s girl. She’d blinked back tears that night, her heart full, marveling at how a name could feel like a home she’d always longed for.

Her dad’s letters were her compass, arriving in unpredictable flickers, like stars piercing a clouded sky. Short, scrawled in his bold, hurried hand, they carried a love that made her throat tighten. Vesta, one began, I’m safe, don't worry about me. Caught a fish yesterday—named it Moony, poor thing. Tell me about yourself, how are you, my love? How are Greengrasses treating you? Another, barely a week later, read, Thought of your mum today, laughing at me for burning toast again. I miss you every single second, Vesta. Stay strong, baby. He signed them Dad, and the word was a gift, a vow she held close. She missed him with an ache that burned, a longing for his wild hair, his reckless grin, the father she’d only glimpsed in photos and dreams. But his letters—brief, warm, alive—were her everything, proof he was out there, thinking of her.

She wrote back, her quill trembling, spilling slivers of her world: the Greengrass roses blooming in defiant reds, Astoria’s off-key acapella rehearsals echoing through the halls, the quiet hope she nursed of seeing him someday. Dad, I’m doing fine here, she’d written in her last, but I miss you terribly. I wish I was with you. Each letter was a thread, weaving them closer, mending the years stolen by war and betrayal.

Potter’s letters arrived more often now, his messy scrawl softening into something almost familiar, like a voice she’d heard in passing but now knew by heart. They’d started awkward, halting but grew into a rhythm, a conversation unfolding over parchment. He wrote of his Muggle cousin’s tantrums, the stray dog he fed behind his aunt’s back, the Firebolt’s speed that made him feel untethered. Vesta replied with stories of the Greengrass library, its shelves heavy with forgotten spells, or about her mom's little nots about her dad. She tried to ignore the familiarity when Potter wrote about her relatives, shakng the imigies of Lucius standing tall in front if her, or his fingers squeezing her shoulder hard enough to leave a bruises.

She’d noticed a shift in his letters, subtle but sure—her name, Vesta, written without pause, no scratched-out Malfoy or Black. Vesta, what’s the Greengrass place like? he’d asked once. Bet it’s better than Privet Drive. The ease of it startled her, his acceptance of her true name a quiet, unexpected gift. She’d expected hesitation, perhaps a question, but Potter just called her Vesta, as if he’d always known her that way. It warmed her, a mix of surprise and validation, like a door opening to a friend she hadn’t meant to find. She held his letters closer now, their shared losses and her dad’s love a bridge she was learning to cross.

On the night of July 30, Vesta slipped into her room and opened Mom’s sketchbook, its pages whispering with enchanted photos. Her fingers lingered on three: James and Lily, beaming as their son wobbled on a toy broom, their joy a living thing; Mom, singing softly to a sleeping Potter, her eyes bright with love; and her dad, grinning wide as he held a giggling boy aloft, his face unguarded, free. She’d sent them to Potter, her heart pounding, a piece of her mom and dad shared across the miles.

The next day he send her a package of chocolate with a simple note saying Thank you. It hit her like a wave, warm and overwhelming, and she’d written back, Happy birthday, Potter. I’m glad you have them. The exchange felt like a vow, their shared history and her dad’s love tying them closer, a friendship she hadn’t sought but couldn’t imagine losing.

The friendship between Daphne and Granger began with a spark, unexpected and bright, like a charm cast by mistake. Daphne had burst into Vesta’s room one muggy afternoon, a letter clutched in her hand, her hazel eyes wide with amusement. “Granger, of all people,” she’d said, laughing, “writing to me about Charms!” Vesta had blinked, surprised at the girl's boldness. Her friend, after all was a pureblood Slytherin, no matter how supportive her family was of muggles.

Daphne though, raised with a quiet openness to Muggle culture, thanks to Daria’s curiosity and Adrian’s Ministry friends, had shrugged and penned a reply, muttering about needing Transfiguration help. “She’s brilliant at it, you know,” Daphne admitted, her quill scratching.

Vesta, shaped by the Malfoys’ cold disdain for Muggles, found the idea jarring, a world of books and ideas she’d never touched. Lucius had sneered at Muggle anything, Narcissa had dismissed it as beneath them, but here was Daphne, unbothered, trading notes with a Muggle-born as if it were nothing.

To her great surprise, Granger’s next letter asked about Vesta—How’s she settling in? —and Vesta, half-annoyed, half-curious, had said, “If Granger wants to know about me, she can write to me herself.” The words were bolder than she felt, but they worked. Granger’s first letter arrived, addressed to Vesta Black in neat, precise script, asking about Moste Potente Potions and whether Vesta had tried its trickier brews. Vesta had, and her reply came easier than expected, a spark of connection she hadn’t anticipated.

Their letters grew into a rhythm, a quiet magic weaving between Vesta, Daphne, and Granger. One day, Granger’s letter veered from Charms to something new: Have you ever read Muggle books? There’s one called The Secret Garden—about a girl finding her place. I think you’d like it. Daphne, already familiar with Muggle stories from Daria’s eclectic library, had grinned. “Why not? I read Treasure Island once—pirates and all.” Vesta, hesitant, had taken the book Granger sent, its worn cover strange in her hands, a world the Malfoys would’ve scorned. But she read it, drawn into Mary Lennox’s stubborn hope, and her next letter to Granger spilled with questions, a new door opening.

They read Anne of Green Gables next, Granger’s suggestion again, and their letters brimmed with thoughts on Anne’s wild imagination, her fierce heart. Vesta found herself lost in the story, its Muggle world alien yet vivid, a contrast to the Malfoys’ rigid purity. Daphne, more at ease, shared anecdotes of Muggle films Daria had shown her, her openness a quiet challenge to Vesta’s past. One evening, Astoria sprawled across Vesta’s bed, her blonde curls splayed over the quilt, snatching Anne from Daphne’s hands. “You’re all so serious about these books,” she teased, flipping through the pages. “Anne’s like me—always talking!” Vesta laughed, the sound startling her, and Daphne tossed a pillow at her sister, her smirk softening. “You’d drive Anne mad, Tori,” Daphne said, but her eyes were warm. Astoria made a face at her, and went to her room, launching into an acapella rendition of a song she’d been practicing, her voice earnest but wobbly, a mix of charm and torture that echoed through the room. “She’s been at it all week,” Daphne whispered, wincing. Vesta smiled, her heart lifting at Astoria’s passion, the way she threw herself into every note, oblivious to the off-key warble. It was messy, but it was hers, and Vesta loved her for it.

Astoria’s twelfth birthday set the summer ablaze. Uncle Adrian, his grin wide as the sky, presented her with tickets to the Quidditch World Cup—seats near the Top Box, a prize for his Quidditch-mad daughter. Astoria squealed, throwing her arms around him, her excitement a fire that lit the manor. “Ireland versus Bulgaria!” she cried, waving the shimmering tickets. “Krum’s going to be there!” Vesta and Daphne exchanged a glance, their indifference to Quidditch a silent pact, but they nodded, caught in Astoria’s joy.

Vesta smiled at girl's excitement despite the knot in her stomach. The thought of crowds, of Lucius or Draco’s cold eyes finding her, made her heart race, but she pushed it down.

She’d written to Potter about the World Cup, and he’d replied, That's great, Vesta! Maybe we can meet after. His use of her name, so natural, sent a flutter through her—surprise, warmth, a sense of being known.

This was the strangest summer of her life, but it was so, so good.

---

The morning of August 18, broke over Dartmoor like a spell, the air sharp with mist and the scent of heather, the horizon aglow with the promise of the Quidditch World Cup. Vesta felt the Portkey’s pull—a dented tin kettle, clutched tightly in Uncle Adrian’s hand—yank her through a whirl of color and wind, her stomach lurching as the Greengrass estate vanished. She landed hard, her knees grazing the damp earth, her dark curls whipping free of her hood as she steadied herself against Daphne’s arm. Astoria, undaunted, sprang upright, her Ireland scarf fluttering like a green flame, the diamond tickets glinting in her small hands like captured stars.

“It’s here!” she gasped, her dark curls bouncing, eyes wide at the sea of tents sprawling across the hillside, their colors a riot of green and scarlet against the dawn.

Uncle Adrian laughed, a booming sound that rivaled the distant cheers, ruffling Astoria’s hair, while Aunt Daria smoothed her cloak, her smile warm but shadowed with the weariness of early travel. The campsite pulsed with life—shamrock tents for Ireland, crimson banners for Bulgaria, wizards chattering in a dozen tongues, their voices mingling with the crackle of campfires and the faint hum of magic. Ministry officials wove through, their wands flicking Memory Charms at bewildered Muggle farmers, whose puzzled gazes lingered like ghosts on the edge of Vesta’s vision.

Vesta tugged her hood lower, her curls fighting to escape, her breath shallow as she scanned the crowd. The Malfoys would be here—she knew it in her bones. Lucius’s influence ensured seats in the Top Box, Draco’s sneer a shadow she could almost feel, as sharp as the cold gaze she’d met at King’s Cross. Her heart thudded, a quiet drum of fear, but her dad’s letters—Stay strong, my love—and Potter’s easy Vesta in his scrawl steadied her, threads of courage woven through her summer. She’d promised Potter they’d meet after the match, perhaps near the campsite, and the thought sent a flutter through her, equal parts anticipation and dread.

“Stay close,” Daphne murmured, her hazel eyes sharp, catching Vesta’s unease like a spell. Astoria, oblivious, tugged them toward the stadium, her voice a bright stream of facts about Viktor Krum’s Wronski Feint, her Ireland scarf a banner of joy. Vesta forced a smile, her fingers tightening on her wand, Astoria’s light a beacon that held her fears at bay, if only for a moment.

The stadium rose like a golden cathedral, its spires shimmering with Muggle-Repelling Charms, a monument to magic that seated a hundred thousand souls in a roar of color and sound. Their diamond tickets led them to seats just below the Top Box—close enough to see the players’ sweat-glistened faces, but low enough to blend into the sea of green and scarlet.

Vesta sank into her seat, her hood still up, her curls tucked tightly beneath it, her eyes darting for platinum-blond hair among the crowd. Lucius’s presence loomed in her mind, a specter of cold authority. She pressed her hands together, her pulse quickening, but Astoria’s voice broke through, bright and relentless.

“Look at the pitch!” she cried, pointing to the emerald field below, her scarf waving like a flag. “Krum’s going to fly circles around them!”

Daphne leaned close, her smirk teasing but fond. “Astoria, you’ll lose your voice before the Snitch is spotted.”

Vesta’s lips twitched, her tension easing. She was so grateful for Daphne.

The crowd surged, banners clashing, as Ludo Bagman’s voice boomed, amplified by magic, filling the stadium like a tide. “Welcome to the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!”

The air crackled, alive with anticipation, and Vesta felt it hum through her, despite her indifference to the sport. Ireland’s leprechauns took the field first, soaring in a glittering shamrock that showered vanishing gold coins, sparking gasps and cheers. Astoria squealed, catching a handful, her laughter a bright spark that lit the stands. “They’re brilliant!” she shouted, her voice already hoarse, her curls bouncing as she leaned forward. Bulgaria’s Veela followed, their silver hair and unearthly beauty weaving a spell over the crowd, their dance a hypnotic swirl of light and shadow. Vesta felt their pull, a haze clouding her mind, but she blinked it away, gripping her seat, her wand a steady weight in her pocket. The Veela’s grace turned fierce, their faces sharpening into cruel beaks when the leprechauns taunted them, sparking a brief scuffle that had Astoria cheering louder, her scarf a green blur in her hands.

The match erupted, a whirlwind of brooms and raw power that stole even Vesta’s breath. Ireland’s Chasers wove through the air like threads in a tapestry, scoring ten-point goals with a precision that drew roars from the stands. Viktor Krum, a shadow on his broom, hunted the Snitch with hawk-like focus, his dives sharp and daring.

Astoria narrated every play, her voice cracking with excitement, her eyes locked on Krum. “He’s going for it!” she shouted as he plummeted, the crowd gasping as one. Ireland led 130–10, then 160–40, their Chasers relentless, but Krum’s speed was a force of its own. When he caught the Snitch in a heart-stopping dive, the stadium erupted, only to fall silent as the score flashed: Ireland 170, Bulgaria 160. A rare upset, a victory for Astoria’s team, and she leapt from her seat, chanting “Ireland! Ireland!” her curls bouncing, her scarf waving like a victory flag.

Vesta clapped, caught in her joy, while Daphne rolled her eyes, her smile soft. “She’s going to be unbearable now,” Daphne whispered, and Vesta’s laugh, small but real, surprised her, a flicker of lightness in the crowd’s roar.

As the stadium emptied, a river of green and scarlet flooding the campsite, Uncle Adrian and Aunt Daria took Astoria to meet her friends. Astoria bounded ahead, her scarf trailing, her excitement undimmed, and Vesta watched her go, her heart lifting at the girl’s boundless energy.

Daphne stayed behind, but her eyes fixed on her sister. “I’m not letting you out of my sight, not with this crowd.”

She felt her heart swell with affection.

Vesta walked beside Daphne, their steps crunching on the dew-damp grass, the Greengrass tent a distant silhouette under the starlit sky. The crowd had thinned, the stadium’s golden glow fading behind them, but her eyes darted to every shadow, every pale-haired figure, the specter of Lucius a weight she couldn’t shake.

Daphne nudged her, her blue eyes glinting with a teasing smirk. “You’re jumpier than a Bludger, Vesta. Astoria’s probably reciting Quidditch stats to half the campsite by now.”

Vesta’s lips twitched, a small laugh breaking free, but it faltered as a breeze carried a sharp whiff of smoke, too acrid, too wild for a campfire. She slowed, her gaze flicking to the horizon, where the warm glow of fires flared brighter, jagged and wrong. “Daphne,” she murmured, her voice tight, “do you smell that?”

A scream tore through the night, raw and piercing, like a spell gone wrong. Vesta’s heart lurched, her wand raised as figures in black robes and bone-white masks emerged from the shadows, their wands glinting like knives under the moonlight.

She froze, her curls slipping free as her hood fell back, her breath shallow.

Masked men—drunken pranksters, perhaps, or some cruel World Cup jest? The thought flickered, fragile, but the air grew heavy, screams multiplying as tents burst into flames, their canvas curling to ash. Above a burning tent, the Muggle campsite managers hung suspended, their bodies twisting in the air, their cries cutting through the chaos like broken glass.

Vesta’s stomach churned, confusion tangling with dread. “What are they doing?” she whispered, her voice trembling, her eyes locked on the masked figures.

Daphne’s hand gripped hers, tight and cold, her face pale. “I don’t know,” she hissed, “but we need to move.”

The crowd surged, a tide of panic crashing through the campsite, tearing Vesta from Daphne’s grasp.

“Daphne!” she shouted, her voice swallowed by the roar of screams and crackling flames, her curls whipping as she spun, alone in the sea of chaos. Her heart pounded, wand clutched tight, its wood warm against her trembling fingers. The air was thick with smoke and fear, and she stumbled through the wreckage, her eyes scanning for Daphne, for safety, for anything but the masked men weaving through the flames like specters.

Two masked figures loomed ahead, their skull-like masks glinting like bone. “Hey, isn’t this Lucius’s brat?” one said, his voice sharp as a blade, and Vesta flinched, the words a lash—Lucius’s brat, a lie that burned hotter than the fires around her.

The other sneered, his wand twitching. “Leave her. We don’t have time for this.”

But the first stepped closer, his mask’s hollow eyes boring into her. “Lucius said she’s trouble. Maybe we should take her to him—let him deal with her.”

Vesta’s heart seized, her mind a whirl of terror and defiance. Lucius—his cold eyes, his iron grip, the suffocating weight of Malfoy Manor—loomed like a nightmare she’d escaped. She wouldn’t go back, not to that prison of whispers and fear, where her name was a chain, her every move a performance for his approval.

Her confusion twisted tighter, the chaos of burning tents and Muggle screams blurring into a fog of dread. She didn’t know who they were—pranksters, criminals, or something worse—but the thought of Lucius’s hands on her again, his voice claiming her as his, made her stomach lurch, her resolve harden. Never again, she thought, her dad’s letters—Stay strong, my love—a lifeline in her chest, her mom’s courage a spark she could almost feel.

Her wand trembled, her voice a desperate gasp. “Bombarda!”

The spell erupted, a blast of light and force that shattered the ground beneath their feet, dirt and sparks flying like a storm. The masked men stumbled, their curses sharp as they fell back, and Vesta’s knees scraped bloody through her robes as she hit the earth, pain flaring like a curse. She scrambled up, ignoring the sting, her curls streaming as she bolted for the forest, the campsite’s chaos a fading roar. Her heart pounded, her thoughts a tangle of fear—I can't go back, I can't go back, I can't go back—a fierce vow: she’d die before she let them take her to Lucius.

The forest swallowed her, its branches clawing at her cloak, the air sharp with pine and shadow. She tripped on a root, collapsing against a gnarled trunk, her breath ragged, her wand glowing faintly in the gloom. Her knees throbbed, blood seeping through her torn robes, but she pushed the pain aside, her ears straining for pursuit, for the masked men’s footsteps. Her mind churned, replaying their words—Lucius’s brat, take her to him—each syllable a chain threatening to pull her back to Malfoy Manor, to the cold halls where she’d been Esther, a shadow under Lucius’s gaze.

She clutched her wand tighter, her curls damp with sweat, her heart a drum of fear and defiance.

She clutched her wand, her heart a drum of fear and resolve, her breath catching as she scanned the shadows. I’m not his, she thought, the words a mantra, her fear of Lucius’s world a weight she’d never carry again. She was Vesta Black, and she’d fight to stay that way.

Footsteps crunched, slow and heavy, and Vesta tensed, wand raised, her heart hammering. Figures emerged from the trees and she recognized the Weasleys. The twins, their red hair glinting, faces hard; Percy Weasley, his glasses glinting, posture stiff; their younger sister, her small frame tense, wand steady; and a broad-shouldered man with scars, unfamiliar, his eyes sharp in the moonlight.

“Malfoy?” Ginny Weasley said, her voice sharp with surprise, her wand twitching.

Vesta’s heart sank, the name a stab. “It’s Black,” she snapped, voice hoarse, cracking at the edges.

She blinked, startled, her eyes flicking to Vesta’s torn robes, scratched hands, and bleeding knees. “Merlin, what happened to you?” she asked, her tone softening, concern edging out suspicion.

Vesta’s breath caught, her usual sarcasm faltering under the weight of fear. “Just a bad night,” she muttered, brushing it off, but her hands shook, the masked men’s threat echoing in her mind.

One of the twins stepped forward, his voice edged with hostility. “A bad night? Your father’s probably out there with those masked goons, isn’t he? This whole mess reeks of Malfoy.”

Vesta’s confusion spiked, her heart lurching as she realized they meant Lucius. “He’s not my father,” she snapped, her voice sharp, raw. “I’m not with them—.”

Her mind reeled, their suspicion a mirror to the masked men’s words, Lucius’s shadow clinging to her despite everything—her new name, her new home, her dad’s letters. Why did everyone see her as his?

A rustle broke the tension, and Daphne stumbled into the clearing, her face pale, her blue eyes wide with fear.

“Vesta!” she gasped, lunging into an embrace, her arms wrapping around Vesta, her breath hitching. Vesta clung back, trembling, her curls tangling with Daphne’s, relief flooding her like a tide.

“What the hell happened to you?” Daphne asked, pulling back, her voice sharp with concern as she scanned Vesta’s scratched hands, torn robes, bleeding knees.

Vesta shook her head, her throat tight. “It’s nothing,” she muttered, but Daphne’s eyes narrowed, her tone firm.

“Don’t do that,” she said, her voice low, insistent. “Tell me.”

Vesta’s resolve crumbled, her voice a whisper. “They… they were going to take me to Lucius,” she said, the name heavy with dread. “I couldn’t go back, Daphne. I can’t.”

Daphne’s face tightened, her eyes flashing with understanding, knowing what Lucius meant—the cold manor, the weight of a name Vesta had shed. “You won’t,” she said softly, her hand gripping Vesta’s, her voice steady despite her fear. “You’re with us.”

The hush that followed was jagged, broken only by the rustle of leaves and the distant crackle of burning tents. Vesta stayed close to Daphne, their hands still linked, her wand forgotten at her side. The sting in her knees was starting to pulse now, a dull throb beneath the scratches, but she barely noticed.

“Someone’s coming,” the unknown Wealsey said, his voice low, tense. The group turned, wands rising in a ripple of movement. Vesta’s fingers tightened around hers, but Daphne’s grip didn’t loosen.

Out of the trees came a man, tall, red-haired, his face creased with concern and streaked with sweat. His cloak was half-burnt, his wand raised, but the moment he caught sight of the group, his shoulders dropped with relief.

“Thank Merlin,” he said, his voice worn but kind. “Are you all alright?”

“Dad,” Ginny Weasley said, stepping toward him, her voice catching just slightly.

Of course. Arthur Weasley. Vesta had never seen him in person before, but now that she knew, she could see it—the lines around his eyes, the warmth that seemed to soften his tired features even as tension held his spine taut. She dropped her gaze quickly, unsure what expression she wore.

“They found me in the woods,” Vesta muttered, the words too loud in her ears.

Mr. Weasley’s gaze shifted to her. “You’re… Malfoy’s girl?”

“It’s Black,” she said quietly, jaw tightening.

“She’s not with them,” Daphne added quickly, her voice clipped. She stepped forward, subtly shielding Vesta with her shoulder. “We got separated during the attack. She was nearly—” her voice faltered for just a breath, “—taken.”

His brows drew together. He looked between them, reading the soot-streaked faces, the torn robes, the way Vesta clung to Daphne like an anchor.

“Well,” he said, voice gentler now, “you’re safe with us. Come on—this isn’t over. We’re moving everyone toward the woods for now, until the Ministry gets it under control.”

“Is it under control?” Percy Weasley asked stiffly from the back.

The man sighed. “Not yet. But they’re trying.”

Vesta hesitated. Her legs felt like water. The forest around them was no longer quiet—shouts echoed in the distance, too far to be clear, but sharp enough to keep fear scraping at her ribs.

“Let’s go then,” she said, trying to sound stronger than she felt.

“Not so fast,” Daphne replied, slipping an arm around her waist, her tone brooking no argument. “You’ll lean on me, and you’ll let me help you.”

Vesta managed a weak scoff, but it cracked into something closer to a whimper. Her head bowed for just a moment. She didn’t have it in her to argue.

Mr. Weasley nodded, gesturing ahead. “Stay close, all of you. No splitting up.”

They began walking, slowly. Daphne kept an arm firm around Vesta’s waist, and Ginny Weasley moved just a little closer to their other side. The man that Vesta didn’t recognize, broad and quiet, kept watch near the front, his eyes flicking around them like a hawk. PercyWeasley followed stiffly, his expression unreadable. The twins stayed behind—Vesta could feel their gazes on her back like a weight.

“You sure about her?” one of them muttered. She didn’t know which. It didn’t matter.

“She blew up a patch of forest trying to get away from her Death Eaters fan club,” Daphne snapped. “I think that earns her some benefit of the doubt.”

“Just checking,” came the muttered reply.

Arthur Weasley gave the twins a look. “Enough. We help anyone who needs it tonight.”

“Even Malfoys?” one of them asked, but more softly now, the fight draining.

“Merlin, it’s not Malfoy, it’s Black!”

There was silence after that. Everyone stared at her but she held her chin high.

They walked in a loose cluster, Daphne steady beside her, Ginny Weasley offering a hand when the ground got uneven. The trees pressed close, shadows thick between them, but Mr. Weasley’s wand lit the path ahead, a warm, flickering beacon.

Her knees throbbed, her chest ached, but Daphne’s presence kept her upright, and the youngest Weasley’s quiet glances—concerned, not accusing—chipped away at the icy weight in her chest.

She was still shaking when they reached to Weasleys’ tent.  

Mr. Weasley told them to stay there and said that she would inform Greengrasses that they were here, before stepping out again.

The tent was dim and cramped, lit only by a flickering lantern hung near the center pole. Vesta sat on one of the camp beds with her knees drawn up, a scratch bleeding sluggishly down her shin, her palms stinging with dirt and gravel. Daphne was beside her, still holding her hand, fingers twined like a tether. Across from them, the Weasleys lingered in a loose, wary half-circle—red hair and suspicion, bristling in the candlelight.

The youngest Weasley moved, her steps cautious, eyes flicking to Vesta like she wasn’t sure if she’d bite or bolt. She fetched a tin flask of water and a clean cloth from a side table, kneeling beside them. “Here,” she said, her voice quieter now, still uncertain. “For your hands. And your face, maybe.”

Vesta blinked, touching her cheek, feeling the sting of a scratch she hadn’t noticed. She took the cloth, the water warm against her split knuckles, the scent of smoke still clinging to her skin. “Thanks, Weasley,” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. Daphne murmured her thanks, more composed, her grip on Vesta’s hand steady.

The silence crept back, heavier now, thick with glances. Vesta felt it—the Weasleys watching her, like she was a strange creature dragged from the forest. She would have been annoyed if she wasn't still in shock after blasting two grown man.

Minutes stretched, the tent’s warmth suffocating under their stares. She clung to Daphne to anchor herself.

The tent flap shifted, and Arthur Weasley stepped inside again, his face pale but firm, followed by three figures. Vesta’s body went rigid before she looked up. Granger entered first, her bushy hair haloed by the lantern light, her eyes darting to Daphne with relief, then softening at Vesta. Weasley—Ron—followed, his face scrunching in confusion, then mild irritation. But it was Potter who froze, his green eyes wide, his hair longer, messier, curling at his neck, his face sharper, older, not quite the boy from her letters but unmistakably him.

“What happened to you?” he said, his voice low, startled, his gaze locking on Vesta’s torn robes, bleeding shin, scratched hands. “You look awful.”

Vesta snorted softly, her lips twitching. “Well, aren’t you the charmer, Potter,” she quipped, her voice shaky but sharp, her sarcasm a reflex despite her fear.

A flicker of something passed over his face—sheepish, almost, but warm, his eyes holding hers like he’d been carrying her name for weeks. Their letters had built something, not friendship but a fragile trust, a thread that held in this flickering tent. Everyone was staring, their curiosity a weight—she could see youngest Wealsey frowning.

Daphne’s fingers brushed Vesta’s wrist, her eyebrow raised teasingly at Potter, a smirk playing on her lips, amused and maybe a little impressed. Potter hovered, wanting to step closer but unsure, his hands fidgeting.

Vesta’s heart steadied, her eyes tracing his changed appearance—his hair longer, his sleeves too short, like he’d grown and hadn’t noticed, his cheekbones sharper, his eyes carrying a weight she hadn’t read in his letters. He’d changed, like she had, the summer stretching them both.

Vesta was embarrassed to admit, that she was actually looking forward to seeing him again. Just not like this.

She wanted to say something, to bridge the gap, but her throat tightened, the masked men’s threat still choking her. The tent’s air felt charged, a fluttering vibe between them that the others noticed.

Granger broke the moment, stepping forward with a small vial, its sharp, herbal scent cutting through the air. “Here,” she said, kneeling beside Vesta, her voice gentle. “For the cuts. It's—”

“Essence of Dittany,” Vesta murmured, nostrils flaring as the scent hit her. Granger blinked. "I recognize the smell,” she added, her voice quieter, thinking of her mother’s potions, then stopping herself. She took the vial, dabbing it on her shin, the sting fading. Granger’s smile widened, and Vesta returned a slow, hesitant one.

Daphne leaned in, murmuring, “Thank's, Hermione,” her use of the girl's name a warm note of their friendship, softer than Vesta’s guarded “Granger.”

Weasley—Ron—groaned. “Seriously?" No one looked at him. Potter ignored him, his gaze fixed on Vesta, stepping closer, his voice quieter, more serious. “What happened out there?” he asked, his concern raw, his eyes searching hers.

Vesta’s lips quirked, a teasing edge cutting through her fear. “Lost a round with some masked idiots,” she said, her voice light, playful.

Potter’s mouth twitched, a slow, real smile reaching his eyes, their letter-based ease flickering despite the chaos.

The tent flap burst open. “Daphne!” Astoria’s voice shrieked, a flash of brown curls barreling in, followed by aunt Daria and uncle Adrian, both pale with panic, their eyes raking over the girls.

Aunt Daria didn’t hesitate, folding Vesta and Daphne into a breathless, bone-crushing hug, her hands shaking against Vesta’s back. Daphne clung to her mother with quiet intensity, while Vesta stood stiffly, then leaned into it, her chest tight with relief. Uncle Adrian hovered, his face carved from worry and thunderclouds, his eyes landing on Vesta’s bleeding shin, torn robes, scratched hands.

“What in Merlin’s name happened?” he demanded, his voice low, edged with anger.

Daphne’s voice was steady but tight. "They tried to take Vesta back to the Malfoys.”

Uncle Adrian’s jaw clenched, a storm passing over his features, but he stepped forward, brushing a wild curl behind Vesta’s ear, his touch gentle, natural.

“They won’t,” he said simply, his voice firm. “Not while you’re with us.”

Aunt Daria’s arms tightened, her warmth a shield.

Vesta forgot how to breathe for a heartbeat, the silence in the tent shifting as the others watched—Granger thoughtful, Weasley’s brow furrowed, Potter’s gaze steady, like he’d just figured something out.

Mr. Weasley cleared his throat, and the adults moved closer to him, discussing something in hushed tone.

Potter approached again, his voice low, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “When I said I was looking forward to seeing you, this… wasn’t what I meant.”

Vesta let out a soft huff of laughter, surprised by it. “No?” she said, glancing up at him, her tone playful. “I’m sure it isn’t, Potter. But we’ll see each other a lot at Hogwarts, at least.”

 

Chapter 12: of cupboards and dark rooms

The train had barely left the station when Harry felt it again—a sudden, stabbing pain in his scar.

He pressed a hand to his forehead, trying not to wince. The familiar burn flared behind his eyes, sharp and fast, then vanished as quickly as it came.

Hermione noticed. “Is it hurting again?” she asked quietly, closing her book with a soft snap.

Harry nodded once, then leaned his head back against the window, the cool glass pressing into his temple. “It’s not as bad as before. Just—uncomfortable.”

Hermione’s brows knit with concern. “You should tell Dumbledore when we arrive. Or write to Sirius, at least.”

“Yeah,” Harry murmured, not looking at her. “I will.”

He really didn’t want to talk about it. And he certainly didn’t want to bother Sirius who was in hiding himself.

Ron shifted across from him, looking uneasy. “You think it’s… y’know. Him?”

Harry didn’t answer. The voice from his nightmares or visions, or whatever they were was hunting him the whole summer, but he really didn’t want to think about it.

Outside, the countryside flew past in a blur of green and gray. Inside, the compartment was quiet in a way that made Harry’s skin crawl. A few months ago, he’d watched people in masks burn tents and laugh while others screamed. Now everything was just—normal. Almost. The kind of normal that never quite fits back the way it used to.

He shut his eyes for a moment.

The silence was broken, not by Hermione, but by Ron.

“Alright, but can we talk about how we’re pretending Malfoy’s evil twin is just… cool now?”

Harry cracked one eye open.

Hermione sighed. “Ron.”

“No, seriously. Are we just gonna ignore the fact that she spent the first thirteen years of her life being raised by Death Eaters?”

“She didn’t choose that,” Hermione said, folding her arms. “And she’s not a Malfoy anymore.”

“She’s still in Slytherin,” Ron muttered.

“So what?” Hermione snapped. “Being in Slytherin doesn’t automatically make her evil. We have been talking this summer, I will let you know that she was pretty nice.”

Harry blinked at her, startled. “Wait. You’ve been writing to her?”

Hermione looked slightly pink. “Yes. To her and to Daphne. They’re… well, they’re not what I expected. We’ve been talking about books, mostly. Daphne's actually very good at Charms.”

Ron groaned and dropped his head back. “This is it. We’ve lost you.”

Hermione ignored him. “Vesta—she’s a bit distant. Sharp-tongued, maybe, but… thoughtful. Honest, in her own way. Honestly, Ronald, you’d like her if you got past the last name.”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded, because Hermione was actually right. “She is kind of funny. I think you would like her.”

It was strange. Just a few months ago, she’d been Esther Malfoy, flinching away from Sirius’s name, guarding herself like someone expecting to be burned.

Now she was Vesta Black. Sirius’s daughter. The girl who Harry had been writing whole summer, maybe even more then Hermione – one of his best friends.

“Black suits her,” he said softly, almost to himself.

Hermione glanced up, surprised. “Yes,” she said, smiling. “It really does.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Look, all I’m saying is if she hexes me, I get to say I told you so.”

“She won’t,” Harry said with quiet certainty. “Not unless you deserve it.”

Ron snorted. “Brilliant.”

The train rattled on, the lull of wheels against track slowly easing them into a sense of movement and routine. Ron started to dozed off with his mouth open, and Hermione was back to her book, though he could tell she wasn’t really reading. Her eyes kept flicking back to him.

Harry, meanwhile, stared at the floor, wondering if this year would be different—or just more of the same with new, shinier horrors.

Then something thumped against the compartment door.

Hermione looked up. “What was—?”

Before she could finish, the door slid open of its own accord, pushed by a small black blur that darted into the compartment like a streak of ink.

The sleek black cat hopped onto the seat beside Ron, sniffed him disdainfully, then leapt into Harry’s lap with a loud mrrr. Harry flinched as the claws scraped his thigh through his jeans.

Ron startled awake. “Wha—?! Is that a cat?!”

“It’s Vesta’s cat,” Hermione said, her eyes lit up, a smile tugging at her lips.

Harry looked down at the familiar green-eyes menace, who was now purring with self-satisfaction as though he owned the train. “Figures,” he muttered. “He’s got great timing.”

There was a beat of silence. He scratched awkwardly behind the cat’s ears.

“I’ll, um, go return him,” he said, lifting Phobos from his lap.

“Better you than me,” Ron muttered, eyeing the cat like it might bite him again.

Harry stepped into the corridor, Phobos squirming in his arms. The train swayed, its scarlet frame groaning against the rain-lashed tracks, the air thick with the chatter of students and the clink of coins at the sweets trolley ahead. Harry’s glasses fogged slightly, the corridor’s flickering lamps casting shadows on the worn paneling. He adjusted his grip on Phobos, the cat’s claws pricking through his sweater, and muttered, “She wasn’t joking about you always wandering around, was she?”

Phobos mewed, unrepentant, as if proud of his chaos.

The trolley witch’s voice cut through the noise, haggling with a gaggle of second-years. Harry’s heart lurched as he spotted Cho Chang, her dark hair shimmering under the lamps, her laugh soft as she leaned toward Marietta Edgecombe, her curly-haired friend. Cho’s Ravenclaw scarf hung loosely, her smile bright, and Harry’s cheeks warmed, his throat tightening with the familiar flutter of his crush. He slowed, trying to look casual, but Phobos had other plans, wriggling free and darting toward Cho’s feet, his tail a black streak.

“Hey!” Harry lunged, snatching the cat just before he reached her, his face burning as he stumbled into the trolley’s edge, rattling a stack of Cauldron Cakes.

Cho turned, her eyes widening, then softening into a smile that made his stomach flip. “Oh, Harry! Hi!”

Harry froze. “Hi.”

Brilliant. Just hi, like an idiot.

Then Cho’s eyes dropped to his arms. “Is that your cat?”

“What? Oh—no,” he said quickly, glancing down. “No, he’s, um... not mine.”

The cat blinked slowly, then gave a loud, judgmental mrrp, as if to correct him.

Cho smiled. “Looks like he disagrees.”

Her friend was watching with polite curiosity. Harry laughed nervously, brushing a bit of fur off his sleeve.

“He belongs to someone else,” he said. “I was just returning him.”

“Right,” she said, still smiling. “Well, he seems to like you.”

Harry was opening his mouth to say something, anything—but then—

“Oi. Phobos!”

Vesta’s voice cut through the corridor like a crack of thunder. She appeared a few feet away, striding toward them. Her dark curls spilled loose over her shoulders, wild and unstyled, a stark contrast to the sleek braids she’d once favored. They framed her sharp features, catching the lamplight, and Harry’s breath caught—she looked so much like Sirius. The unruly curls, the bold tilt of her chin, the defiant spark in her eyes echoed his godfather’s reckless grin. There was something unfamiliar about her silhouette. Something that made his chest tighten for no clear reason.

He wondered if this is how people felt when they kept telling him he looks like his dad.

“He ran into our compartment,” Harry said holding Phobos out, his voice tripping as Vesta’s gaze shifted to him. Her tight smile softened, her posture easing as a soft glint sparked in her eyes. “I was going to find you to return him.”

Vesta stepped closer, her smile growing, warm and teasing, her voice lighter now. “You little terror,” she murmured to Phobos, taking him, her fingers brushing Harry’s, the cat nuzzling her chin with a loud purr. “Thanks, Potter. Didn’t know you were on cat-chasing duty.”

Her tone was warm, like their letters come to life, and Harry’s heart skipped, caught by the shift—from reserved politeness to this playful ease, like she’d let down a guard just for him.

He grinned, scratching his neck, clumsy. “Yeah, well, he’s a handful. I’m pretty sure he was aiming for Ron’s sweets.”

He could feel Cho and Marietta watching them closely. Vesta’s eyes flicked briefly to them, her expression blank, then back to Harry.

She gave a small shrug. “Sounds like him.”

Marietta tilted her head slightly, as if trying to figure something out.

He felt suddenly aware of everything—his messy hair, the smudge on his glasses, the weird tension in the air. Vesta glanced toward the compartment behind him.

“Well,” she said, already turning, “thanks for babysitting.”

“Wait—” Harry blurted, and instantly regretted how loud that came out. “I mean—uh—do you want to sit with us?”

His face burned, the question absurd, and the corridor seemed to hush. Cho’s brows lifted, Marietta’s mouth twitched, and Vesta’s eyes widened, surprise flashing across her face.

He felt like an idiot. Again.

She stared for a heartbeat, then her expression softened, her smile—not a smirk, but a real, gentle smile—lighting her grey eyes.

Harry’s heart did something stupid.

“Daphne’s waiting,” she said, her voice soft, almost tender. “Maybe next time, Potter.”

She held his gaze, her smile lingering, softening her whole face, then turned, Phobos tucked close, her steps steady as she slipped through the crowd.

Harry watched her go, and felt a pulling at something deep in his chest—a longing for his godfather, for the family he barely knew.

Cho’s voice broke through, soft and curious, pulling him back. “I didn’t know you were friends with Esteri Malfoy.”

Harry flinched, the name jarring, like a spell gone wrong. It had been a while since he’d thought of Vesta that way, her old name a shadow she’d cast off, like a cloak that never fit.

“It’s Black,” he said, sharper than he meant, his voice cutting through the corridor’s hum. Cho’s eyes widened, Marietta’s whisper pausing, and Harry softened, his tone gentler, almost apologetic. “She goes by Black now.”

Cho blinked, her confusion clear, her smile faltering as she glanced at Marietta, who frowned, clearly puzzled. “Oh,” she said, her voice hesitant. “I didn’t know.”

Harry nodded, his thoughts elsewhere, Vesta’s loose curls and warm smile filling his mind.

Was he friends with her?

It hadn’t felt like a question until now. But standing here, holding a ghost of a conversation with Cho Chang—of all people—he realized he hadn’t hesitated when she asked. It had felt like the truth.

“Yeah,” he said, voice quieter now. “We’re friends.”

Cho nodded, polite and still a little puzzled. But Harry wasn’t paying attention anymore.

His eyes had drifted back down the corridor where Vesta had gone.

---

There’s something about the way Hogwarts smells in September — like damp stone and candle wax and the last breath of summer. As Harry steps out of the carriage and looks up at the towering silhouette of the castle, a strange tightness eases in his chest. He hadn’t even realized it was there.

This place — this battered, looming, enchanted place — feels more like home than Privet Drive ever did.

He breathes in deep.

“Move it, Harry,” Ron muttered, wrestling his trunk from the rack, crumbs still clinging to his sweater from Phobos’s Chocolate Frog heist. “Unless you fancy swimming to the castle.”

Harry smirked, hauling his own trunk. “What, miss your chance to drown in style, Ron? Thought you’d love a heroic slog through the mud.” His tone was dry, his green eyes glinting with mischief, the weight of his scar easing in the familiar banter.

Hermione rolled her eyes, her bushy hair frizzing in the damp air as she zipped her bag. “Honestly, you two. It’s just rain. Let’s not make it a tragedy.”

They walked across the grounds, Ron and Hermione bickering, and Harry let their voices blur into the background. He watched the lanterns flickering in the windows, the path winding toward the front steps, the shadows moving around them. He always forgot how much he misses this until he’s back.

The entrance hall was packed. He ducked past a cluster of third-years when he heared someone mutter, "Did you hear about Malfoy? She run away from home!"

Harry turned before he could think.

“She goes by Black now,” he said, sharper than he meant to. "And what she does it not really your buisness."

The boy — a Gryffindor, younger — blinked at him. “Oh. Uh, okay.”

Ron raised a brow. “Didn’t know you were on name-policing duty.”

Harry shrugs. Maybe it was unreasonable, but he knew how much she didn't want to be associated with Malfoys.

Hermione said nothing at first, just watching him closely. Then, gently, “It’s good of you to say something.”

Harry glanced at her, then away again. “Just seemed… wrong, that’s all.”

But it wasn’t just that. It was the way Vesta looked when she boarded the train — like someone walking through fog. It was how she smiles differently now. How her hair falls looser, how her voice was softer with him in a way he could never imagine was possible. It was the way something shifts in his chest when she spoke to him like he was the only one in the room. The understanding they both have about Sirius.

It was a lot of things.

The Great Hall was a blaze of warmth, its enchanted ceiling roiling with storm clouds, candles floating above tables piled with golden plates. Harry slid onto the Gryffindor bench, Ron and Hermione beside him, the buzz of chatter wrapping around him like a cloak. Home, he thought again, a quiet gratitude for the castle’s magic, its chaos so different from Privet Drive’s sterile prison.

The Sorting Hat’s song rang out, welcoming new students, and Harry’s eyes wandered to the Slytherin table, finding Vesta with Greengrass sisters, her loose curls catching the candlelight.

Dumbledore rose, his silver beard glinting, his eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles. The hall fell silent, all eyes on him.

“Welcome to another year at Hogwarts!” he said, his voice warm but commanding. “I have the pleasure of announcing that this year, Hogwarts will host the Triwizard Tournament, a contest of magical prowess between three schools—Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. The Quidditch season is canceled to accommodate this event, and entry is restricted to students aged seventeen or older, due to the tournament’s dangers.”

Groans erupted, Ron’s the loudest. “No Quidditch? That’s mental!” he hissed, his face a mix of outrage and betrayal.

Hermione shushed him, but her lips twitched, her eyes on the staff table. Harry’s gaze drifted, catching Vesta’s across the hall, her grey eyes locking onto his, steady and bright. A smile tugged at his lips and Vesta’s lips curved, a faint echo of his smile, and Harry’s heart lifted, their friendship a quiet warmth.

Seamus raised an eyebrow, Parvati turned and whispered something to Lavender, their curios eyes heavy on him. Vesta broke the gaze, turning to Daphne, but her smile lingered, a thread tying her to Harry.

---

The fire in the Slytherin common room crackled low, casting greenish shadows across the stone walls. It was quieter than usual for a first night — as if the entire room was holding its breath.

Vesta walked in with Daphne, Astoria, Blaise, and Theo just behind her. Their conversation, light and easy moments ago, trailed off the second they stepped inside.

Something shifted.

The chatter dulled. Heads turned. The silence wasn’t total — someone coughed, a page turned in a book — but Vesta felt the weight of every glance like a physical pressure against her spine.

She straightened her posture, chin up.

So, this was it.

She had expected something. The whispers at the feast. The looks on the train. She ignored all of them just fine. Of course, words had spread around of her situation. She knew this was gonna happen the moment she asked aunt Daria to write a letter to Dumbledore about her desire to go by her real name.

 She had grown up knowing how powerful names could be, and how dangerous it was to walk away from the one expected of you. To call herself Black in this house was not a quiet act. It was a declaration. A rebellion.

She quite literally threw an insult at Malfoys’ face.

And everyone in this room knew it.

Her steps didn’t falter. She glided across the stone floor with a kind of icy grace, flanked by Daphne’s cool calm and Blaise’s nonchalance. But she felt her pulse in her throat. Saw the way older Slytherins watched her with narrowed eyes — not all hostile, but assessing. Calculating. Dangerous.

She had grown up with people like this. She knew exactly how their minds worked.

And then—

“Well, well.”

Pansy Parkinson’s voice rang out like a cracked bell. Loud enough to silence the remaining murmur in the room.

Vesta turned, slowly.

Parkinson was lounging on one of the green velvet armchairs by the hearth, her legs crossed, her lips curled in a smirk too smug for her own good. Melissenta sat nearby, stiff-backed and silent.

“Look who finally decided to come home,” Pansy said sweetly. “Welcome back, Estheri. Oh, wait. It is Black now, was it?”

Vesta didn’t answer. She only tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable.

Parkinson rose from her chair, slowly, as if this were all very casual. As if she hadn’t been waiting for this moment for years.

A few first years looked around, clearly confused but the older students were watching closely.

“You know,” she went on, circling slightly closer, “I always wondered why you acted like you were better than the rest of us. Cold little orphan with her Malfoy name and her perfect clothes, never talking unless it was to hex someone.”

And well, that was the problem, wasn’t it. She never liked Parkinson and all her attempts to try and befriend her were met with Vesta’s cold disinterest. The other girl clearly couldn’t take rejection well, and the tension between them was building for years now. She couldn’t say anything because Draco would immediately shut down anyone who’d dare to even look at her funnily. And Pansy really, really cared what Draco though, so she was forced to keep her mouth shut.

Not anymore, though.  

“What’s going on?” one of the first years muttered, uncertain.

Pansy smiled without warmth. “Oh, let me speed you up to things. This is Vesta Black,” she said her name with so much venom, it made her brows twitch in frown, but she immediately relaxed her face, keeping it blank. “Previously known as Estheri Malfoy. She, apparently, had run away from home like an ungrateful brat, when her biological father escaped from Azkaban,” she kept looking at her, her eyes full of resentment. “You know, Sirius Black. The madman that was after Potter last year. And escaped. Again.”

Daphne took half a step forward, but Vesta touched her arm lightly. Her eyes never left Parkinson’s.

The tension buzzed in the room like static.

“Oh, come on,” she said. “Don’t give me that look. You can’t expect people not to talk. Not after you declared that you are now going by the name you madman of father gave you.”

There it was.

Vesta’s fingers curled, but her voice, when it came, was cool and steady. “I didn’t realize you cared so much about my family.”

Parkinson gave a theatrical shrug. “I don’t. But the rest of us don’t get to swap names like robes when it suits us. One minute you’re a Malfoy, next you’re a Black. Next week, what? We calling you Potter?”

Someone snorted.

Vesta felt the hot wave of anger crash over her. It was so strong, she was forced to dig her nails into the flesh of her palms, to ground her.

Fucking bitch.

She stepped forward, just once, closing the distance between her and Parkinson with quiet, deliberate menace.

“You know, Parkinson,” she said, her voice low and clear. “I would be more careful if I were you. After all, we do share a dorm.”

Parkinson blinked.

Vesta’s mouth twitched in cruel, taunting smile that showed her teeth, but her eyes remined cold and sharp.

“And after all,” she added softly, “I am a murderer’s daughter.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Vesta let it hang there, letting the words soak into the stone.

The truth was, it made her stomach twist to say it — to throw his dad’s name around like a threat. It wasn’t right. It felt so, so wrong to use it like this, especially when she knew how much agony it brought to him when people thought he was capable of betraying his best friends. How hot his anger and hatred were when his name was associated with Dark Lord’s.

But she couldn’t help it. Not here. Not surrounded by wolves pretending to be civilized. She imagined what he’d say if he saw her now, how he might flinch, or laugh bitterly, or turn away. How disappointed he would be. How he would realize that in the end she was a girl raised by Malfoys, and she couldn’t escape from it.

But she had no choice. She had to survive this.

“And I thought you’d be thrilled,” she said, voice like ice. She stepped back, throwing a quick glance towards other students. “After all, my father killed twelve Muggles in broad daylight. Isn’t that the kind of legacy half your parents toast to at dinner?”

A few of the younger students flinched.

Vesta’s words hung in the air like smoke, poisonous and deliberate.

Daphne stepped forward again, her voice cool as ice. “I would also like to remind you that she is under Greengrass family’s protection,” she said, loud enough for the room to hear. “So, unless you’d like to explain to my parents why you’re bothering her — I’d suggest you stop talking.”

Astoria gave Parkinson a look full of disgust. “Honestly, this is just embarrassing.”

And that was the end of it.

For now.

But as the crowd dispersed, and the others turned back to their conversations, Vesta felt it — a chill at the base of her neck. She turned her head just slightly, just enough to catch the gaze watching her from the far side of the room.

Draco.

He was sitting in one of the leather chairs, untouched by the noise, unreadable as ever. His face was blank. Not angry. Not amused. Just… cold. Detached.

Like she was nothing at all.

And that — that stung more than she wanted it to.

But Vesta didn’t look away.

She lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders, and let the flicker of a smirk curl at the corner of her mouth — not for him, but for herself.

She turned her back on Pansy as if she were nothing at all and walked toward the staircase to the girls’ dormitory, her steps measured, controlled.

The room parted for her like water around a blade.

---

The walk down to the Great Hall felt... off.

At first, Harry couldn’t quite place it. Maybe it was just the usual post-summer shuffle, that strange feeling of being dropped back into a life you’d half-forgotten — the stone corridors colder than they should be, the smell of wax and damp stone settling into his bones. But this was something else. Something in the air.

Students were quieter than usual. Not silent, exactly, but... watchful. Tight-knit. Groups kept closer together, eyes flicking more often to other houses. A hush that wasn’t about nerves or homesickness, but something heavier. Tense.

Harry didn’t notice it until they neared the doors of the Great Hall and he caught sight of the Slytherin table.

Or rather, who wasn’t there.

Greengrass was seated with her usual poise, her head bowed slightly as she buttered toast with meticulous focus. Beside her, her sister looked up, her gaze flicking once to the entrance.

But there was no Vesta.

Harry’s brows pinched together as he walked in, glancing back once toward the entrance, then shrugging it off. Maybe she was late. Maybe she wasn’t feeling well. Maybe—he didn’t know why he cared so much, really. Except he did.

He slid into his usual seat beside Ron and Hermione, reaching for a pitcher of pumpkin juice. Ron immediately began piling eggs onto his plate like he was preparing for hibernation.

“Finally,” Ron muttered around a mouthful of toast. “If I had to wait one more second I was going to collapse.”

Hermione huffed but said nothing, her fingers tapping restlessly against the tablecloth. Harry poured his juice slowly, glancing at her sideways. Her fork was untouched. Her eyes kept flicking across the hall.

“Hermione?” he asked under his breath.

She startled a bit, then waved him off. “It’s probably nothing.”

But something was clearly bothering her. She sat up straighter and glanced again toward the Slytherin table. This time her eyes narrowed.

Harry followed her gaze. Greengrass was still there. Still alone.

“Where is she?” Hermione said quietly, not addressing anyone.

“Who?” Ron asked, through another bite of toast.

She didn’t answer. She was still staring, her brow furrowed, her fingers tightening slightly around her glass of water.

“Something’s off,” she muttered.

Before Harry could respond, he saw it—Greengrass rising from the Slytherin bench with calm deliberation, her back straight, her plate barely touched. She crossed the hall in smooth, careful strides, her expression unreadable.

And then, to Harry’s astonishment, Hermione stood up as well.

The scrape of her chair was loud in the relative hush of the Great Hall.

Ron choked on his eggs. “Oi—Hermione, what—”

But she was already moving, weaving through the rows of Gryffindor benches with that same sense of purpose, head held high, eyes locked on Greengrass.

Students turned to stare. The buzz of conversation quieted.

Even the teachers paused. Professor McGonagall’s sharp gaze flicked between them. Flitwick looked mildly alarmed. Snape arched one disdainful brow.

Dumbledore, however, simply watched, a faint, knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth, like he’d been waiting for this to happen.

Harry’s heart thudded as he watched them meet halfway between the two tables. Two girls. A Gryffindor and a Slytherin. This was one wild picture. He couldn’t blame everyone for staring so openly.

They exchanged words in low voices — too low for him to hear — but he saw Hermione’s expression shift almost immediately. Her spine stiffened, her lips parting. Concern etched into her features like ink in parchment.

Whatever Greengrass was saying, it wasn’t good.

Hermione leaned in slightly, asked something. Greengrass replied, then turned briefly to glance at the Gryffindor table. Her eyes found Harry, steady and sharp. She gave him a small, polite nod. Then she turned and walked back to Slytherin without another word.

Hermione returned to her seat in silence.

The stares followed her like owls to a letter. Seamus looked genuinely scandalized.

“What the bloody hell was that?” he asked.

Lavender leaned in. “Did you really just talk with Greengrass? What happened? Are you okay, Hermione? Did she threaten you?”

Hermione sat down calmly, brushing a curl behind her ear. “She just needed to talk to me.”

“You’re mad,” said Ron, staring. “You just got up and met a Slytherin in the middle of the Great Hall like it’s some kind of summit?”

“Stop it, Ron, you know we have been talking the whole summer,” Hermione snapped, clearly annoyed. “I told you, we just needed to talk.”

Harry leaned in. “What did she say?”

Hermione hesitated. Her gaze flicked sideways, as if checking who might be listening. She lowered her voice.

“There was an incident in the Slytherin common room last night. With Vesta.”

Harry’s stomach tightened.

“What kind of incident?”

“She didn’t go into detail. Just said some of the other students tried to cause trouble, and Vesta... handled it.” Hermione paused. “I think it got intense.”

Harry’s fingers tightened around his spoon. “Is she alright?”

“Daphne said she’s fine. But, well. She’s not at breakfast.”

Now that she mentioned it, he could see it — the Slytherin table was buzzing with the kind of whispery tension that came after something scandalous. Students leaned in too close, eyes darting toward Greengrass and her sister, who both seemed content to ignore it all.

Harry looked at Greengrass again. Her mask was flawless — serene, disinterested. But there was something hard around the edges. Something steely.

“She said Vesta’s alright, and she just didn’t want to be around people,” Hermione added. “But... I don’t know. It sounded like more than that.”

Harry nodded once, slowly.

The rest of the table returned to their chatter. Ron offered him some sausages. Someone laughed across the hall. The clink of cutlery and low buzz of conversation returned — but Harry wasn’t really listening.

His mind was elsewhere.

“Greengrass say where she went?”

Hermione’s eyes softened. “Daphne said she needed space, Harry. I don’t think going after her is a good idea.”

Harry ignored it, his mind racing. The fork in his hand trembled slightly, his worry sharp. She’s out there alone. He pushed his plate away, his decision made.

“I’m going for a walk,” he muttered, standing before Ron could protest.

Hermione’s knowing glance followed, but she didn’t stop him. “Be careful, Harry.”

He slipped from the hall, dodging Filch’s scowl and Mrs. Norris’s yellow eyes, and ducked into an empty corridor, his heart thudding. He pulled the Marauder’s Map from his robes, his voice a whisper. I solemnly swear I am up to no good. Ink bloomed across the parchment, corridors and names swirling, and there—Vesta Black, a lone dot by the Black Lake. Got you.

---

The grass around the Black Lake was still wet with morning dew, glinting faintly in the early light. Clouds hung low and heavy over the water, muting everything — the rustle of the trees, the murmur of distant voices, the world itself.

Harry spotted her before she noticed him. She was sitting cross-legged near the edge of the lake, her back to the castle, the hem of her robes damp where they brushed the grass. Her shoulders were tense, hunched against the chill, and beside her were crumpled pieces of parchment scattered across the grass, some flattened, others balled up in frustration. One had blown a little way off, and as Harry passed it, he caught a glimpse of a single word scratched in her writing:

Sorry.

He knew, instantly, who the letter was meant for.

She turned slightly, finally noticing him. Her eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, dark circles beneath them like bruises. Her face was pale, guarded.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

“I noticed you weren’t at breakfast.” He raised the small paper-wrapped parcel in his hands. “Figured you might be hungry.”

She blinked. Then, slowly, she took it, fingers brushing his as she pulled it into her lap. Her hands were cold.

“Thanks,” she murmured, not quite looking at him.

Harry sat down beside her without asking. The grass was damp and chilled his legs through the fabric, but he didn’t move. For a long moment, they sat in silence, the only sound the ripple of the lake and the distant calls of birds echoing off the water.

“You know,” he said eventually, his voice quiet, “whatever it is… I’m sure he wouldn’t be angry with you.”

Vesta froze. Her shoulders went stiff, and her head turned toward him, her face drawn.

“You don’t even know what I did,” she said. Her voice was sharp, but it wasn’t anger. It was something closer to shame.

Harry didn’t flinch. “I don’t need to. It’s Sirius. He loves you. I don’t think there’s anything you could do that’d change that.”

Something in her face cracked.

She looked away quickly, but he caught the flicker — the sudden tremble in her mouth, the pinch of her brow, the sheen in her eyes that she didn’t want him to see. She swallowed hard. For a moment, Harry thought she might cry, but instead, she inhaled deeply and forced the emotion down like it was poison.

She swallowed hard. “I used his name,” she said, barely above a whisper. “To scare someone. To… prove something. I used it like a weapon. Like they would.”

Her voice broke around the last word, and Harry turned to look at her properly. Her face was angled away, but her profile was sharp and strained, lips pressed together like she was holding everything in by force. There was shame in her voice, deep and gnawing.

“I feel sick just thinking about it,” she added. “He spent half his life with people thinking he was a murderer. And I—I threw that name around like it meant nothing.”

Harry was quiet. He let her words settle between them like stones dropped into still water.

“I don’t think it’s as bad as you think,” he said softly. “And I don’t think Sirius would mind. Honestly… I think he’d be proud of you.”

She laughed—if it could even be called that. A short, bitter sound. “Proud of me for threatening people?”

“For standing up for yourself,” Harry replied. “For surviving.”

Vesta looked at him then, really looked at him, as if trying to decide whether to believe him.

And so he added, a little awkwardly, “If it makes you feel better… I did the same thing.”

That made her blink. “What?”

He scratched the back of his neck, half-smiling. “Yeah. I threatened my aunt and uncle once. Told them I had a deranged godfather who’d escaped prison, and if they hurt me, he’d come for them.”

A beat passed. Then another.

“You’re joking,” she said, stunned.

He looked at her sidelong, grinning faintly. “Nope.”

Vesta shook her head. “That’s—what the hell, Potter?”

“I needed them to leave me alone,” he said with a shrug. “And it worked.”

He grinned a little, but it faded when he caught the look in her eyes — a strange mix of disbelief, realization, and something else, something unspoken.

“I didn’t think…” she said slowly. “I mean, I didn’t know it was that bad. With them.”

Harry shrugged again, but this time it was tighter. Less casual. This wasn’t the topic he was comfortable talking about, not even with Ron, even when he saw how they are. For some reason, he always felt deeply ashamed, so he tried to avoid it as much as possible. Which wasn’t really that hard, because his friends knew not to bother him with it, and other people didn’t really care or already had their assumptions. Either way, it was fine with him.

Vesta watched his face closely, then looked down at her hands again. There was something raw in her face, and Harry felt a tugging under his ribs, so strong he almost flinched.

“When I was five, I overheard some of the older relatives talking. Malfoy relatives. About me.”

Her tone changed—flat now, like she was trying to separate herself from the memory.

“I didn’t understand what they meant at first. Just that I wasn’t one of them. That I was… different. So, I started asking questions. At dinner. In front of the guests.”

Harry watched her, something cold curling in his stomach.

“Lucius was furious,” she went on. “That night, he locked me in the cellar room. Small, no windows. No lights. I was there for a week. He let the elves bring me food once a day, but… that was it,” she wet her lips, her eyes shifting to the lake. “He thought fear would teach me obedience.”

She paused, then added, even quieter, “He was right.”

The words settled like frost in the space between them, but Harry barely registered the silence. Because suddenly, without warning, her voice had opened something in him—a door he hadn’t even realized was still locked.

He was back in the cupboard under the stairs.

He could feel the scratch of the old carpet against his knees, the stale smell of dust and cleaning fluid in the air. He could hear the slow, rhythmic creak of the steps above his head whenever someone walked past. The way light would slant under the door when the kitchen lamp was on, and how it would disappear when they shut it off—deliberately, so he’d know they hadn't forgotten he was in there. That they just didn’t care.

The memory came too fast, too close. Like something sharp lodged just beneath his skin.

He blinked hard and forced himself to breathe.

It had been years—years—since he’d even thought about the cupboard in that way. Since he’d let himself remember what it felt like to be small and wrong and invisible. Most of the time, he carried those years like a box sealed shut. He joked about the Dursleys. About the way Dudley used to chase him with fists and taunts, about Aunt Petunia’s screeching or Vernon’s shouting. He joked because it was easier that way. Easier to talk about it like it didn’t hurt anymore.

But it had. Merlin, it had.

And now here was Vesta, speaking in that same too-flat voice, naming the same kind of pain with different walls and different shadows.

And Harry could feel it like it was his own.

Not pity. Not sympathy. Something deeper. Like her story echoed inside the hollows of his own. Like her words had reached inside and struck something that had been left untouched for far too long.

A week in a locked room. No lights. No escape.

He swallowed hard. His hands were cold in his lap.

“I used to count spiders,” he said suddenly, and his voice surprised even him—quiet and raw and low. “I knew their names. Fred, the big one, lived in the back corner near the shoe rack.”

Vesta turned her head toward him, brows faintly drawn in confusion.

Harry smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s stupid, I know. But they were the only ones who didn’t yell at me. Or ignore me.”

He couldn’t meet her gaze. Instead, he stared out at the lake again, watched the wind ruffle the water’s surface. His heart was beating too loudly. He hadn’t meant to say any of that. He hadn’t meant to remember any of it.

But it was out now, rising like steam from a sealed pot cracked open.

“The cupboard was dark, too. No lights unless they forgot and left the kitchen on. I remember… I remember once I screamed. Just—screamed. Because I was so scared, and I thought maybe someone would come get me. But they didn’t. They just… turned off the lamp.”

He let out a slow, shaky breath. “I was eight.”

The lake was silent.

He felt her looking at him. He didn’t turn to meet her eyes.

“You ever think,” he asked softly, “that maybe some part of you never really leaves that room? That even when you’re out, you still feel like you’re there?”

There was a pause.

Then, very quietly, “All the time.”

Harry finally looked at her.

The morning light had shifted, softening across the grass, catching on the edges of her hair where it curled loose around her shoulders. Her face was still and pale, expression unreadable, but her eyes — grey and sharp and tired — held something raw behind them. Not just grief, or guilt, or anger. Something older. Something he recognized.

He watched her for a moment longer.

It was strange — he could see her now in a way he hadn’t before. Not as Sirius’s daughter. Not as Malfoy’s sister. Not even as a Slytherin girl with secrets and sharp eyes.

Just Vesta.

And suddenly, without meaning to, he found himself trying to picture her at five years old. Small. Scared. Asking questions she didn’t understand in a house that didn’t want her to speak. Locked in a room for daring to be curious. He tried to imagine what she would’ve looked like then — thinner, maybe. Quieter.

His chest tightened.

He had never thought of her like that before.

Harry felt… not uncomfortable but raw. Like he is opening up his own flesh. He waits for the awkwardness to come, for his defensiveness to rise but he was surprisingly calm inside him.

When he did speak, his voice was softer than before.

“I’m sorry you had to grow up with those people.”

He was. Because it was wrong, because she was supposed to be with Sirius and her mother, and he was supposed to be with his parents. They were supposed to grow up together, and who knows, maybe they would have been best friends.

Vesta didn’t respond right away. Her gaze had drifted back to the lake, where the surface shimmered in the wind, grey and endless. For a moment, Harry thought she wasn’t going to answer at all.

Then she said, very softly, “I’m sorry you have to go back to your relatives.”

The sun had broken through a crack in the clouds, catching on the curve of her cheek, the arch of her brow.

Harry felt strangely at peace. He hoped she felt that, too.

---

They walked back towards the castle in silence.

The lake glinting behind them in the soft morning sun. A breeze ruffled the edge of Vesta’s sleeves — dark green, slightly too long for her arms — and Harry noticed how she folded them down again, fingers curling into the fabric like she was anchoring herself.

He didn’t blame her. His own stomach still felt a little twisted, like the conversation they’d had had shaken something loose inside him.

As they reached the stone steps up to the castle, he noticed something else: people staring.

A group of Ravenclaw girls on the path ahead slowed down deliberately. A pair of Hufflepuff second-years paused their conversation to watch them walk past. Even a couple of older Slytherin boys turned to glance — not with open hostility, but something colder. Curious.

Harry felt it too late to stop it — the tension that came from walking next to someone who didn’t belong. Or maybe who no one knew where to place anymore.

He glanced sideways. Vesta’s face was blank again, carefully arranged in the kind of cool detachment that probably worked like armor. But her shoulders were stiff. Tense.

Harry felt the urge to say something — anything — but the words got stuck somewhere in his throat. Instead, he just kept walking, letting the castle doors swing open ahead of them.

Inside the Entrance Hall, the hum of conversation grew louder. Some students were coming down from the dormitories, others heading toward their first classes. A few glanced their way. Whispers followed.

And then, just ahead — Greengrass.

She was standing at the bottom of the marble staircase, arms crossed, half-listening to a girl with dark hair in Slytherin robes. But the moment she spotted them, her expression changed. She excused herself smoothly and moved toward them without hesitation.

“Vesta,” she said, calm and composed, as if nothing about this was unusual. “There you are.”

Harry slowed slightly as Vesta stepped forward to meet her. Their conversation was quiet, clipped — something about schedules or class lists — but it was the casual way they stood together that struck him. A kind of quiet solidarity.

“Potter,” Daphne said with a nod when she turned to him. “Thanks for walking her back.”

Harry blinked. “Uh—yeah. No problem.”

They started walking again, all three of them this time. Up the staircase, toward the Transfiguration corridor. And just ahead — Ron and Hermione.

Ron was mid-sentence when he spotted them. His eyebrows rose so fast they nearly disappeared into his fringe. “Er—Harry?”

Hermione blinked too, her expression flickering in surprise as her gaze landed on the three of them walking together. But she recovered almost immediately — in that very Hermione way, composed and purposeful — and stepped forward with something clutched in her hands.

“Hi,” she said, giving Harry a quick look before her eyes went to Vesta. “Actually—here.”

She reached into her bag and pulled out a folded napkin, which she gently unwrapped to reveal a small pile of toast, two pieces of fruit, and what looked like a warm cheese roll wrapped in parchment. “I thought you would be hungry,” she added quickly, offering it with a kind of nervous determination.

Vesta stared at the bundle. For a second, she didn’t move.

Behind her, Greengrass blinked — a tiny flicker of surprise that slipped through her usual polished calm. Her brows lifted, just a fraction, before she looked back at Hermione with something close to... fondness.

Vesta’s voice, when it came, was quieter than usual. “Thanks,” she murmured. “Potter already brought me something, but—this is really kind.”

Hermione’s eyes flicked to Harry, visibly surprised. “You did?”

Harry nodded, a bit awkwardly. “Yeah. She missed breakfast, so…”

Now it was Greengrass turn to glance at him — this time thoughtfully, with a strange, assessing look that didn’t quite match the easy way she said, “That was nice of you.”

An awkward pause settled between the five of them. Ron looked like he’d just walked into a conversation in a completely different language.

And then Hermione, in her usual determined way of smoothing over discomfort, said, “Are you heading to Defense now? We’re going too.”

She turned slightly to Vesta, hesitating — just enough time to signal that it was a real invitation, not an obligation. “You could partner with us, if you want.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Ron looked at her like she had just grown another head.

“What?” she asked him sharply under her breath.

Ron didn’t respond, just gave her a deeply scandalized side-eye that clearly said Seriously, Hermione? before falling into step behind them.

Vesta opened her mouth — maybe to refuse, maybe to deflect — but her friend answered first, casual and even somehow exited. “That would be fine. Come on.”

She slipped her arm through Vesta’s, steering her gently forward, and just like that, the five of them began walking down the corridor together. Not side by side — not quite yet — but together nonetheless.

The effect was immediate.

People stared. A pair of Hufflepuffs nearly walked into a wall trying to catch a better look. A group of Slytherins paused mid-conversation, eyes narrowing.

And yet, none of them said a word.

Daphne was talking softly to Vesta now, and Hermione had leaned in toward Harry, whispering, “That was really kind, what you did. With the food. She looked like she hadn’t slept.”

Harry shrugged. “She hadn’t.”

Hermione’s eyes softened. “You’re good with her, you know.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

As they turned the corner toward the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, Ron finally found his voice.

“I mean,” he muttered, not quite under his breath, “we’re just collecting Slytherins now, are we?”

Hermione elbowed him. “Oh, get over yourself.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Ron.”

He sighed dramatically and slouched a little farther behind them. “Right, okay. Fine.”

They walked into the classroom together — an odd little group that somehow made sense. No one commented on it anymore. The others might’ve still stared, but Vesta didn’t seem to care, and Greengrass certainly didn’t. They made their way to the front and claimed two rows near the center, the quiet shuffle of chairs echoing off stone walls.

Harry dropped into his seat beside Ron and Hermione. Vesta and Greengrass slid in behind Hermione, neat and composed, her bag placed with quiet precision. It still felt strange, this slow shift in the air, but not bad. Just... different.

They took out their copies of The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection and waited, unusually quiet.

Soon they heard Moody’s distinctive clunking footsteps coming down the corridor, and he entered the room, looking as strange and frightening as ever. They could just see his clawed, wooden foot protruding from underneath his robes.

“You can put those away,” he growled, stumping over to his desk and sitting down, “those books. You won’t need them.”

They returned the books to their bags, Ron looking excited. Moody took out a register, shook his long mane of grizzled gray hair out of his twisted and scarred face, and began to call out names, his normal eye moving steadily down the list while his magical eye swiveled around, fixing upon each student as he or she answered.

“Black, Vesta.”

“Here,” she said shortly.

Moody’s magical eye lingered on her for a beat longer than usual. “You’re McKinnon’s daughter, aren’t you?”

Vesta went very still.

She didn’t flinch. Not exactly. But Harry saw the moment settle into her shoulders, tightening her spine like a drawn bowstring. Her fingers curled just slightly around the edge of her desk.

“That’s right, sir,” she said, her voice hoarse. Students around them started to whisper.

Moody made a vague grunt and continued on.

But Harry kept looking at her. Vesta had never spoken about her mother. Not once. Not even in her letters. But he remembered the photograph she’d sent on his birthday — Marlene McKinnon, all sunlight and laughter, cradling him in her arms and singing something soft, something lost.

His godmother. A woman he would never meet.

Just like Vesta had never truly known her either.

It was a strange kind of grief — the kind you inherited, like a name.

“Right then,” Moody said, when the last person had declared themselves present, “I’ve had a letter from Professor Lupin about this class. Seems you’ve had a pretty thorough grounding in tackling Dark creatures — you’ve covered boggarts, Red Caps, hinkypunks, grindylows, Kappas, and werewolves, is that right?”

There was a general murmur of assent.

“But you’re behind — very behind — on dealing with curses,” said Moody. “So I’m here to bring you up to scratch on what wizards can do to each other. I’ve got one year to teach you how to deal with Dark—”

“What, aren’t you staying?” Ron blurted out.

Moody’s magical eye spun around to stare at Ron; Ron looked extremely apprehensive, but after a moment Moody smiled — the first time Harry had seen him do so. The effect was to make his heavily scarred face look more twisted and contorted than ever, but it was nevertheless good to know that he ever did anything as friendly as smile. Ron looked deeply relieved.

“You’ll be Arthur Weasley’s son, eh?” Moody said. “Your father got me out of a very tight corner a few days ago… Yeah, I’m staying just the one year. Special favor to Dumbledore…One year, and then back to my quiet retirement.”

He gave a harsh laugh, and then clapped his gnarled hands together.

“So — straight into it. Curses. They come in many strengths and forms. Now, according to the Ministry of Magic, I’m supposed to teach you countercurses and leave it at that. I’m not supposed to show you what illegal Dark curses look like until you’re in the sixth year. You’re not supposed to be old enough to deal with it till then.

He made a short pause.

“But Professor Dumbledore’s got a higher opinion of your nerves. He reckons you can cope, and I say — the sooner you know what you’re up against, the better. How are you supposed to defend yourself against something you’ve never seen? A wizard who’s about to put an illegal curse on you isn’t going to tell you what he’s about to do. He’s not going to do it nice and polite to your face. You need to be prepared. You need to be alert and watchful. You need to put that away, Miss Brown, when I’m talking.”

Lavender jumped and blushed. She had been showing Parvati her completed horoscope under the desk. Apparently, Moody’s magical eye could see through solid wood, as well as out of the back of his head.

“So… do any of you know which curses are most heavily punished by wizarding law?”

Several hands rose tentatively into the air, including Ron’s and Hermione’s.

Moody pointed at Ron, though his magical eye was still fixed on Lavender.

“Er,” said Ron tentatively, “my dad told me about one… Is it called the Imperius Curse, or something?”

“Ah, yes,” said Moody appreciatively. “Your father would know that one. Gave the Ministry a lot of trouble at one time, the Imperius Curse.”

Moody got heavily to his mismatched feet, opened his desk drawer, and took out a glass jar. Three large black spiders were scuttling around inside it.

Harry felt Ron recoil slightly next to him — Ron hated spiders.

Moody reached into the jar, caught one of the spiders, and held it in the palm of his hand so that they could all see it. He then pointed his wand at it and muttered, “Imperio!”

The spider leapt from Moody’s hand on a fine thread of silk and began to swing backward and forward as though on a trapeze. It stretched out its legs rigidly, then did a back flip, breaking the thread and landing on the desk, where it began to cartwheel in circles. Moody jerked his wand, and the spider rose onto two of its hind legs and went into what was unmistakably a tap dance.

Everyone was laughing — everyone except Moody.

“Think it’s funny, do you?” he growled. “You’d like it, would you, if I did it to you?”

The laughter died away almost instantly.

“Total control,” said Moody quietly as the spider balled itself up and began to roll over and over. “I could make it jump out of the window, drown itself, throw itself down one of your throats…”

Ron gave an involuntary shudder.

“Years back, there were a lot of witches and wizards being controlled by the Imperius Curse,” said Moody, and Harry knew he was talking about the days in which Voldemort had been all-powerful. “Some job for the Ministry, trying to sort out who was being forced to act, and who was acting of their own free will.

“The Imperius Curse can be fought, and I’ll be teaching you how, but it takes real strength of character, and not everyone’s got it. Better avoid being hit with it if you can. Constant vigilance!” he barked, and everyone jumped.

Moody picked up the somersaulting spider and threw it back into the jar.

“Anyone else know one? Another illegal curse?”

Hermione’s hand flew into the air again and so, to Harry’s slight surprise, did Neville’s. The only class in which Neville usually volunteered information was Herbology, which was easily his best subject. Neville looked surprised at his own daring.

“Yes?” said Moody, his magical eye rolling right over to fix on Neville.

“There’s one — the Cruciatus Curse,” said Neville in a small but distinct voice.

Moody was looking very intently at Neville, this time with both eyes.

“Your name’s Longbottom?” he said, his magical eye swooping down to check the register again.

Neville nodded nervously, but Moody made no further inquiries. Turning back to the class at large, he reached into the jar for the next spider and placed it upon the desktop, where it remained motionless, apparently too scared to move.

“The Cruciatus Curse,” said Moody. “Needs to be a bit bigger for you to get the idea,” he said, pointing his wand at the spider. “Engorgio!”

The spider swelled. It was now larger than a tarantula.

Abandoning all pretense, Ron pushed his chair backward, as far away from Moody’s desk as possible.

Moody raised his wand again, pointed it at the spider, and muttered, “Crucio!”

At once, the spider’s legs bent in upon its body; it rolled over and began to twitch horribly, rocking from side to side. No sound came from it, but Harry was sure that if it could have given voice, it would have been screaming.

Moody did not remove his wand, and the spider started to shudder and jerk more violently —

“Stop it!” Hermione said shrilly.

Harry looked around at her. She was looking, not at the spider, but at Neville, and Harry, following her gaze, saw that Neville’s hands were clenched upon the desk in front of him, his knuckles white, his eyes wide and horrified.

Vesta had turned her face slightly toward Greengrass — not speaking, just watching with narrowed eyes, the hard line of her jaw unmoving. Both of them looked pale and slightly shaken.

Moody raised his wand. The spider’s legs relaxed, but it continued to twitch.

“Reducio,” Moody muttered, and the spider shrank back to its proper size. He put it back into the jar.

“Pain,” said Moody softly. “You don’t need thumbscrews or knives to torture someone if you can perform the Cruciatus Curse… That one was very popular once too.”

“Right . . . anyone know any others?”

Hermione’s hand shook slightly as, for the third time, she raised it into the air.

“Yes?” said Moody, looking at her.

“Avada Kedavra,” Hermione whispered.

Several people looked uneasily around at her, including Ron.

“Ah,” said Moody, another slight smile twisting his lopsided mouth. “Yes, the last and worst. Avada Kedavra . . . the Killing Curse.”

He put his hand into the glass jar, and almost as though it knew what was coming, the third spider scuttled frantically around the bottom of the jar, trying to evade Moody’s fingers, but he trapped it, and placed it upon the desktop. It started to scuttle frantically across the wooden surface.

Moody raised his wand, and Harry felt a sudden thrill of foreboding.

“Avada Kedavra!” Moody roared.

There was a flash of blinding green light and a rushing sound — a noise that seemed to slice through the air like a blade. The spider rolled onto its back, lifeless. No blood. No wounds. Just silence and the finality of death.

And suddenly Harry couldn’t breathe.

It slammed into him — the sound, the light, the knowledge of what he had just seen. The classroom felt too small, too bright, too loud, though no one was speaking. His lungs caught on something invisible and cold. He dug his nails into the edge of the desk, but it didn’t ground him.

That was it. That was how it had happened.

That was what had stolen them.

A flash of green, a rush of air, and then nothing. No screams. No fight. No chance.

He could imagine it all again, as if someone had drawn back the curtain of time. His father, wand raised, standing between death and his family. His mother, her last words a plea. And then him — a baby — too young to understand that the world was ending.

And Vesta — her mother, too. The same flash. The same death. Another name, another curse, and another child left behind.

He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut for a second but forced them open. He wanted to get out. Just for a moment. To move, to be anywhere but here.

But he couldn’t. His legs wouldn’t move, and the rest of the classroom hadn’t noticed — or was pretending not to. They were watching him, and no matter how many times he was in situations like this, it never got easier.

The only thing anchoring him was Hermione’s quiet breath beside him, steady and focused.

Moody swept the dead spider off the desk onto the floor.

“Not nice,” he said calmly. “Not pleasant. And there’s no countercurse. There’s no blocking it. Only one known person has ever survived it, and he’s sitting right in front of me.”

Harry felt his face flush, but not from embarrassment. The heat was wrong — it was tight and clawing in his throat, in his chest. He stared at the blackboard. Not because he cared what was on it. Because it was the only thing he could look at without falling apart.

So that was how his parents had died.

Exactly like that spider.

Unmarked. Instant. As if they had never been there at all.

“Avada Kedavra’s a curse that needs a powerful bit of magic behind it — you could all get your wands out now and point them at me and say the words, and I doubt I’d get so much as a nosebleed. But that doesn’t matter. I’m not here to teach you how to do it.”

Moody was speaking again, from a great distance, it seemed to Harry. With a massive effort, he pulled himself back to the present and listened to what he was saying.

“Now, if there’s no countercurse, why am I showing you? Because you’ve got to know. You’ve got to appreciate what the worst is. You don’t want to find yourself in a situation where you’re facing it. Constant vigilance!” he roared, and the whole class jumped again.

“Now . . . those three curses — Avada Kedavra, Imperius, and Cruciatus — are known as the Unforgivable Curses. The use of any one of them on a fellow human being is enough to earn a life sentence in Azkaban. That’s what you’re up against. That’s what I’ve got to teach you to fight. You need preparing. You need arming. But most of all, you need to practice constant, never-ceasing vigilance. Get out your quills…Copy this down...”

They spent the rest of the lesson taking notes on each of the Unforgivable Curses.

Harry spent entire class feeling sick to his stomach.

Chapter 13: how to befriend the enemy house

Dear Sirius,
I reckon I just imagined my scar hurting, I was half asleep when I wrote to you last time. There’s no point coming back, everything’s fine here. Don’t worry about me, my head feels completely normal.
Harry.

Harry had read that letter three times before ending it, and the more he thought of it, it just sounded worse.

He’d scribbled it in a rush, heart pounding after receiving Sirius’s reply. It had been brief—just a few sharp lines on crumpled parchment—but the words might as well have been Howlers:

I’m flying north immediately.

And just like that, everything inside Harry twisted.

He’d wanted to tell Sirius because it felt right—because Hermione was right, as usual, and because it had scared him. But he hadn’t expected that. Not Sirius packing up and coming back. Not him risking everything, again, just to make sure Harry was safe.

He’d felt angry, almost. Not at Sirius, not really. At himself. For saying anything. For making it sound like something was wrong. For forgetting, just for a moment, what Sirius coming back could mean.

Az— no, not again. He couldn’t get caught. Harry couldn’t be the reason Vesta lost him too.

That was the other thing—he hadn’t brought it up with her. He’d meant to. Meant to ask if she’d gotten a letter too. Meant to check, to say something, but the right moment never came. And the longer he waited, the harder it felt to bring up.

The days since had blurred into something quieter.

Moody had taught their first proper Defense class, and Harry had been one of the few to throw off the Imperius Curse. That strange, floating feeling—the weightless surrender, like dreaming with your eyes open—had shaken something loose in him. He hadn’t told anyone, but afterward, he’d stood in the hallway too long, just staring at his own hands.

Things were shifting in other ways too.

Somehow, without anyone officially deciding it, the five of them—Harry, Ron, Hermione, Vesta, and Daphne—had started showing up to everything together. Lessons, study breaks in the common areas. Meals. Even Ron had stopped complaining about the “snake duo,” though Harry had caught him narrowing his eyes more than once when Daphne corrected a question in class or when Vesta walked into the room.

Hermione seemed the happiest about it. Most of the time, she was so absorbed in her conversations with the girls, she forgot the rest of them were there.

Daphne was surprisingly likeable. Harry learned that her polite and haughty façade was mostly for people she didn’t communicate much. She seemed genuinely interested in muggle’s culture every time Hermione and sometimes him would bring it up. He learned that it was because of her mother—the woman he met at King’s Cross last year. Daria Greengrass, apparently, used to work as liaison between wizards and muggles back during the First War. He knew that Greengrasses were like openly supportive of muggles but he didn’t realize how supportive.

She quickly asked to call her just Daphne, and Harry again was baffled by how straightforward she was. After a while, he realized that there was something similar about her and Hermione, but he couldn’t point what it was. Well, she was pretty patient about Hermione’s house-elves obsession, which Harry was grateful for.

He also got a chance to spent time with Vesta, like he’d wanted. She was just like in her letters—mostly quiet, with her dry humor but he saw her smile more in those few days then the entire three years he knew her.

After their conversation at Black Lake, Harry learned where to look, so he also noticed where she would stare at her hands, and how during those moments Daphne would talk a bit louder, leaning closer to her. He learned the frown of her brows when she is annoyed, the look of fondness in her eyes that was mostly directly to her friend. She was a bit careful around them, but never shied away from sharing her thoughts, or throwing light jabs at Ron.

She was surprisingly gentle with Hermione. Maybe Vesta felt guilty about the way Draco treated her. Harry knew now, that she had a habit of feeling guilty over things that were out of control.

The five of them sat at the far end of the Gryffindor table. Ron and Daphne were halfway through a game of wizard’s chess. Vesta behind Hermione, arms crossed and chin tilted in thought, occasionally offering murmured advice or snorting when Daphne made a smug move.

Harry watched them from across the board, trying not to seem distracted.

“Here,” Vesta had said a few minutes ago, as she slid into the seat beside him and casually dropped the parchment in front of his plate. “He sent one for me. Yours came with it.”

Harry had known the handwriting immediately — jagged, familiar, sharp. He’d opened it with fingers just slightly too tight.

Nice try, Harry.
I’m back in the country and well hidden. I want you to keep me posted on everything that’s going on at Hogwarts. Don’t use Hedwig, keep changing owls, and don’t worry about me, just watch out for yourself. Don’t forget what I said about your scar.
Sirius.

The words hadn’t surprised him, not really. But they’d still left something heavy in his chest.

“You’re quiet,” Vesta said beside him, eyes on him, while he passed the not to Hermione.

“I told him not to come,” Harry muttered.

“I figured you did.” She didn’t sound surprised. “He wasn’t going to listen.”

Harry looked at her then. “Aren’t you—worried?”

She shrugged. “Of course, I’m worried. But it’s dad. He made up his mind the second he read your first letter.”

A pause. Then softer: “If he wants to do something, he does it. There is nothing you could do.”

Before he could respond, Ron let out a triumphant “Ha!” across from them, smacking a knight into one of Daphne’s bishops. “Take that!”

Daphne narrowed her eyes, unimpressed. “You’re surprisingly smug for someone who spent ten minutes trying to find his queen.”

“That was a strategy, thank you very much.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. “Oh? What kind?”

Ron didn’t answer, just grinned wider.

“It has been days, you’d think they would get over it,” Vesta muttered under her breath, nodding slightly toward the Slytherin table across the room.

Harry followed her gaze. A pair of older students — sixth-years, maybe — were shooting narrowed glances in their direction. One of them whispered something, lips curling in distaste. Another girl gave Vesta a long, disdainful look.

Daphne didn’t even bother to whisper. “What, never seen five-headed Gryffindoryn before?”

Ron snorted. “We’re practically a new specie.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but smiled. Vesta’s smirk was brief but real.

“Why d’you have to keep changing owls?” Ron asked in a lower voice, pulling Harry back.

“Hedwig’ll attract too much attention,” Hermione said at once. “She stands out. A snowy owl that keeps returning to wherever he’s hiding… I mean, they’re not native birds, are they?”

Harry nodded, but didn’t say anything. The letter was still tucked in his pocket, the words echoing quietly. He didn’t feel less worried. But he didn’t feel entirely alone, either.

Vesta nudged his arm lightly under the table, as if to say, you okay?

Harry gave a tiny nod.

Professor McGonagall’s sharp voice cut through the din of the Great Hall like a spell.

“There you are,” she said, eyeing the group of five with narrowed eyes. “Off you go now — bags to your dormitories, cloaks on. The visitors will be arriving shortly. Honestly, you’d think I’d been talking to the wall.”

She swept away in a flurry of tartan and disapproval.

Ron made a face. “What was that about being a wall?”

“You,” Hermione muttered, nudging him. “Come on.”

They split up briefly—long enough to dash up to Gryffindor Tower and, in Vesta and Daphne’s case, toward the dungeons. When they regrouped in the entrance hall ten minutes later, it was with wind-ruffled hair, wool cloaks, and a buzz of anticipation trailing behind them.

Astoria had joined them, quiet and neatly bundled, her hand tucked into Daphne’s sleeve. She didn’t say much, but her wide eyes scanned the high walls of the hall like she was trying to memorize everything.

“First years in front, no pushing—Miss Patil, please, take that thing out of your hair—”

They followed McGonagall outside in tidy rows, the crisp air biting at their fingers and the moon already gleaming above the forest. The line shuffled and formed with a kind of hushed excitement, boots crunching softly against the gravel. Harry stood between Ron and Hermione again, but Vesta and Daphne were only a step behind, murmuring something about the sky.

“Nearly six,” Ron muttered, checking his watch. “How d’you reckon they’re coming? The train?”

“I doubt it,” Hermione said.

Daphne tilted her head. “Probably something overly dramatic. If I were leading a foreign school, I’d make sure our arrival is memorable.”

Vesta smirked. “Of course, you would.”

Harry turned slightly to catch the way Daphne rolled her eyes, and Astoria’s quiet giggle at her sister’s expense.

Then, Dumbledore’s voice rang across the courtyard.

“Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!” Dumbledore called from the back row.

The courtyard stirred at once. Heads turned, voices rose in excitement.

“There!” someone shouted, pointing over the forest.

A massive shadow loomed against the deep blue sky, growing larger and larger.

“It’s a dragon!” a first year yelped.

“Don’t be stupid, it’s a flying house,” Dennis Creevey countered with wide eyes.

It was neither. The powder-blue carriage came into view—soaring, regal, almost absurd in its size—and a collective gasp rose as it descended, pulled by a dozen massive, winged palominos. Hooves the size of dinner plates thundered against the ground, and the carriage itself bounced once with a deafening crash that made Astoria squeak and dart behind her sister.

Daphne placed a hand lightly on her back. “They’re horses, Tori. Not giants.”

Astoria didn’t look convinced.

Harry watched the door open. A boy in pale blue jumped out, fiddled with something, and unfolded golden steps. Then a shoe—massive, polished, black—appeared, followed by a figure nearly as tall as Hagrid himself.

Vesta leaned slightly toward Daphne. “You were saying something about theatre?”

Daphne’s eyes stayed fixed on Maxime, but her mouth twitched. “Point taken.”

The woman shimmered in black satin, rings glittering like frost, her steps heavy and graceful at once. When Dumbledore stepped forward to greet her, the Hogwarts students burst into applause—some craning their necks to see over the heads of taller students.

“Are they all that tall in France?” Ron asked, squinting past Harry.

“No,” said Daphne dryly. “But I can see why they’d want to send someone memorable.”

Behind Madame Maxime, the Beauxbatons students filed out—dozen or so teens, shivering in silk robes and too-thin scarves. One girl sneezed, and another was visibly trembling as she took in the castle.

Vesta muttered, “Should’ve packed thicker cloaks.”

Astoria blinked. “Their uniforms are pretty,” she whispered, almost to herself.

“Very fashion-forward,” Daphne agreed, giving her little sister a look that said don’t even think about it. Then smirked and whispered, “I can’t wait to see Hagrid wrangle those beasts.”

Vesta added, “Let’s hope he doesn’t feed them skrewts.”

Ron choked on a laugh. “That’s not funny. They probably eat better than us.”

“Single-malt whiskey,” Hermione said, shaking her head. “I’m still not over that.”

As Maxime led her students up the stone steps, the Hogwarts crowd parted, murmuring and restless.

“How big d’you reckon Durmstrang’s lot will be?” Seamus asked nearby.

“Probably show up in a flaming tent,” Ron said. “Or a flying iceberg.”

But before anyone could top that, a low, strange rumble echoed through the air. It wasn’t coming from above—it was drifting from below.

Harry turned. “The lake,” he said.

Waves lapped over the banks. Bubbles erupted in the middle. A whirlpool formed like someone had pulled the stopper on a sink, and then—a mast.

“It’s a ship,” Hermione breathed.

“A ship?” Ron blinked. “How does that even—”

“It’s enchanted,” Astoria said quickly. Her eyes were shining with excitement.

The ship rose like a phantom from the depths, glistening and skeletal, its lights like eyes in the mist. When it anchored near the shore, a plank thudded down. Figures moved past portholes. They were tall—broad-shouldered and heavy—but their size turned out to be fur-lined cloaks, not muscle.

Leading them was a man with sharp silver hair, smiling with his mouth but not his eyes.

“That’s Karkaroff,” Daphne said under her breath. Harry looked at her, and her face was black again. “My dad met him a few times. He doesn’t like him that much.”

Harry watched the man greet Dumbledore with exaggerated delight.

“Dear old Hogwarts,” he was saying, “how good it is to be here…”

But then Karkaroff turned and beckoned someone forward.

“Viktor, come along into the warmth—”

The name landed like a thunderclap.

A hunched figure stepped into the light, his nose unmistakably hooked, his brow heavy. His walk was slow, precise.

Harry had barely registered the shape of his face when two voices gasped at once.

“Viktor Krum!” said Ron and Astoria in perfect unison.

Vesta blinked.

Daphne’s eyes snapped to her sister. “Oh, Merlin”

“I knew it!” Ron was practically bouncing. “I knew it was him! I had no idea he was still in school!”

Astoria, cheeks flushed with excitement, clutched Daphne’s arm. “Daphne, that’s really him!”

“Yes, Astoria, I can see it,” Daphne said flatly.

Astoria ignored her; eyes locked on Krum like he was made of gold.

“I mean,” Ron stammered, grinning madly, “he’s one of the best Seekers in the world, isn’t he?”

“Only a Quidditch player,” Hermione said with a sigh, though the corner of her mouth twitched.

“Only a—

“Hermione—!”

“Merlin’s sake,” Vesta muttered, and Harry looked at her in amusement. “We’ve lost two of them.”

Daphne raised an eyebrow at her sister and Ron, looking mildly alarmed. “Should we be worried about their heart rates?”

Vesta smirked. “We might need to take them to Madam Pomfrey.”

“Stop it,” Astoria muttered, her voice high with both joy and mortification.

Ron didn’t even notice the teasing — he was still staring as Krum disappeared into the entrance hall.

“Unbelievable,” he breathed. “Viktor Krum… at Hogwarts…”

“And two of our own absolutely starstruck,” Daphne added dryly, folding her arms. “This year just keeps getting stranger.”

The Great Hall glowed with soft golden light when they returned. Long tables had been restored to their usual places, House banners fluttered gently overhead, as if nothing monumental had just happened outside. But the air felt different—more charged, filled with quiet speculation and lingering awe.

The five of them split at the entrance without speaking about it.

Harry drifted toward the Gryffindor table with Ron and Hermione, while the girls veered off toward the Slytherin end—Daphne and Vesta flanking Astoria protectively as they weaved through the crowd.

He caught a final glimpse of Vesta over his shoulder before sitting down, her cloak shifting behind her, a faint smudge of wind still in her hair.

They settled near the middle of the Gryffindor table, joining Seamus, Dean, and Neville. Everyone was talking about the carriage and the ship, voices overlapping in bursts of excitement.

“Did you see the size of those horses?” Seamus was saying. “I swear one of them looked me in the eye.”

“And Krum,” Ron added, still breathless. “In our castle. Can you believe it? Viktor bloody Krum.”

Harry grinned a little, half amused, half trying not to let his thoughts drift.

Cho was sitting a few tables away, near the Ravenclaws. Her dark hair shimmered under the enchanted ceiling lights, catching like silk in the candlelight. She was laughing at something one of her friends had said—head tilted, eyes crinkling, her hand brushing lightly over her sleeve.

Harry felt his heart lift in that strange, uninvited way it always did when he looked at her for too long.

Then Ron, with the subtlety of a bludger, leaned in and muttered reverently, “They don’t make them like that at Hogwarts.”

Harry blinked, glanced toward Cho again—and then, without really meaning to, he turned his head and looked toward the Slytherin table.

“I don’t know,” he said under his breath. “They make them just fine at Hogwarts.”

Vesta was talking to Theodore Nott.

She had leaned forward slightly, her elbows on the table, eyes focused on something he was saying. Her mouth curled up at the corners in a smile that Harry had only seen a handful of times—careful, genuine, a little crooked. Not the dry, half-smirks she usually wore like armor, but something warmer. Softer.

Her hair had half-fallen out of its braid. One curl was tucked behind her ear; the other swayed as she laughed quietly at whatever Nott had said.

Harry looked away before he could decide how he felt about it.

Still, something twisted low in his stomach, and he stared down at his plate until Dumbledore stood and raised a hand for silence.

“Now that our guests have arrived,” the headmaster said, his voice echoing over the clatter of silverware, “I would like to say a few words about the Triwizard Tournament…”

---

The feast had gone on for what felt like hours.

Now, with their stomachs full and heads still buzzing from the arrival of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, the students were slowly spilling out of the Great Hall, talking in loud clusters as they made their way toward the staircases. Cloaks were slung lazily over shoulders, and the echoes of scraping benches and soft footsteps mingled with bursts of laughter and chatter.

Harry stayed near Ron and Hermione, the three of them half-listening as Seamus argued with Dean about whether the Durmstrang ship could actually be enchanted to sail underwater.

“I’m telling you, it has to be some sort of protective bubble—”

“Why would they need bubbles, they’re wizards,” Dean shot back. “They could just… I don’t know, dry themselves off.”

Neville trailed behind them, clearly still overwhelmed, his eyes wide as he whispered, “I’ve never seen horses that big.”

“I still can’t believe Krum is here,” Ron said for the seventh time since dessert. “At Hogwarts. Just walking around like it’s normal.”

“I know,” Neville agreed, dazed. “Did you see his broom? That was a Firebolt, wasn’t it?”

They were halfway across the Entrance Hall when Harry noticed movement to their left.

Daphne was approaching, her robes straight and unwrinkled despite the long dinner, her walk composed, as if she weren’t cutting across a sea of unfamiliar faces and house tables. Beside her, Vesta’s stride was slower, her hair slightly mussed from the wind, her sleeves pushed up.

Between them was a familiar figure — Astoria, cheeks still flushed with excitement, holding something carefully in both hands.

“Ron!” She called, surprising both Harry and his friend. She smiled widely, and tugged at her sister hand.

“What?” Ron answered carefully as they came closer. Others were looking at the girls weirdly again, still not used to them being around. “What’s this?”

“Peace offering,” Daphne answered. She held out a folded napkin. “For you.”

Ron blinked at her. Then blinked at the napkin.

He unfolded it slowly. In the corner, scrawled in thick, blunt handwriting, was:

—V. Krum.

“What—how—” he sputtered.

“Little sister wanted one,” Daphne said. “I suggested she ask for two.”

“You’re—serious?”

Astoria gave him a quick nod, clearly proud of herself.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You actually approached him?”

“He was polite,” Daphne replied. “Surprisingly soft-spoken.”

Ron was still staring at the autograph like he wasn’t sure it was real. “Thanks,” he mumbled, almost shyly. “That’s actually—er—thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Weasley,” Daphne said, and if her voice was smug, it was at least kindly smug.

They started walking again together, the group folding in around each other without much thought. Dean and Seamus veered off toward their dorm, still mid-argument about magical boat mechanics. Astoria said a quiet goodnight and slipped back her friends, leaving Daphne and Vesta trailing slightly behind the others as they climbed the stairs.

“Hey,” came a small voice from behind them.

They all turned.

A girl in pale blue robes was hovering near the wall, her blonde hair frizzed slightly from the wind, a nervous twist to her mouth. She clutched a little beaded bag and looked around helplessly.

“Excuse me,” she said in heavily accented English. “Could… you tell me where… euh… the bathroom?”

Hermione opened her mouth—but before she could speak, Daphne stepped forward with an easy, “Bien sûr. Vous continuez par ce couloir, puis tournez à droite à la première porte.”

Vesta added, “Juste en face de l’escalier. La porte est un peu coincée, il faut pousser fort.”

The girl’s face brightened at once. “Merci, merci beaucoup!”

“Pas de problème,” said Daphne, with a small nod.

The girl disappeared down the hallway, her footsteps light and relieved.

Hermione turned, blinking. “I didn’t know you speak French.”

Daphne shrugged. “My mother is half French. I have lots of relatives from that side.”

“Malfoys have French roots,” Vesta spoke when they look at her. “It was kind of mandatory to leant it.”

“I need to brush up on mine,” Hermione admitted. Harry had no idea she knew French. “I’ve only got reading proficiency.”

“Practice with us, if you like,” Daphne offered, casually. “It’s good to have someone to bounce off.”

Hermione beamed. “I’d love that!”

Harry watched the exchange, not sure why it made him feel oddly warm.

Ron, who’d watched the whole thing in vaguely confused silence, muttered, “Did everyone get lessons in French except me?”

Vesta arched a brow. “I’m sure Potter didn’t either.”

“I didn’t.”

They reached the top of the staircase, and as they split to their respective towers, Daphne turned to Ron and said, “Keep that autograph somewhere safe. You’ll thank me when you’re ancient and sentimental.”

Ron gave her a bashful half-smile. “Yeah. I will.”

---

The dungeons always felt colder on days like this—quiet, expectant, like the castle itself was waiting to exhale.

Harry tugged his sleeves down as he made his way to the Potions classroom, clutching his bag tighter than usual. The morning had been oddly light on classes, which everyone assumed was to keep them rested before the Goblet ceremony tonight. He hadn’t said it aloud, but part of him had been dreading this moment all day. Not because of the tournament. Because of Potions.

He slowed as he stepped into the classroom and saw the seating chart Snape had scribbled across the board. Daphne was already seated beside Neville—Neville, of all people—looking suspiciously serene. He, on the other hand, looked like he was about to pass out. He was blinking furiously at the instructions on the board, his fingers trembling around a mortar. But Daphne didn’t seem bothered. If anything, she looked… calm. Amused, even. She said something too quiet for Harry to hear, and Neville nodded quickly, almost gratefully.

Which left Vesta. Harry blinked. She was pulling ingredients toward the middle of their table with a practiced hand, her sleeves rolled up, hair tied back with a thin black ribbon. She looked surprisingly at home here.

“Looks like it’s us today,” she said without looking up.

“Right,” Harry muttered, dropping his bag beside the cauldron and taking the seat next to her. “That’s rare.”

“It is.” Vesta glanced sideways at him. “You’re usually glued to Weasley. I’m usually glued to Daphne.”

Harry gave a half-smile. “Maybe Snape’s trying to break us up.”

“He would, wouldn’t he?” she deadpanned.

He chuckled under his breath, already feeling some of the tension bleed out of him. Harry leaned forward to help weigh the crushed peppermint, but his scale shifted and some spills.

“Sorry,” he muttered, trying to scoop it back.

“Here,” Vesta said softly, reaching across to steady the brass with one hand. Her fingers brushed his briefly. “You need to balance it first. Like this.”

He watched the way she adjusted the small weights—quick, practiced, unbothered—and realized he was staring just a second too long.

They started measuring ingredients in silence, Vesta moving with calm precision. Her hands never hesitated—steady, clean, confident. Harry tried not to fumble in comparison.

After a few minutes, she glanced sideways. “You’re better at this than I thought.”

Harry blinked. “What, stirring?”

“No,” she said, amused. “You actually have decent timing. No offense, but I expected you to be... worse.”

“Thanks,” Harry said dryly.

But then, after a second, he added under his breath, “I used to be excited about Potions.”

She paused in the middle of slicing valerian root, tilting her head toward him. “Really?”

Harry nodded slowly. “Yeah. I mean—back before Hogwarts. It was the first textbook I brought with Hagrid. I couldn’t stop flipping through it. It just... felt like magic, y’know? All these strange ingredients and instructions, like a potion could do anything if you got it right.”

He didn’t know why he was saying all this, not really. Maybe it was because she was listening the way no one usually did.

“I wasn’t allowed to read much, back at the Dursleys,” he went on. “But I managed to sneak the books into my cupboard. ‘One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi.’ I kept it under the loose floorboard. I remember itching to try brewing something, even if it blew up in my face.”

Vesta didn’t say anything for a moment. Just looked at him like she understood something deeper than his words. Then she said softly, “That’s very you.”

Before Harry could respond, Snape’s voice cracked across the dungeon like a whip.

“Miss Malfoy.”

Vesta didn’t flinch.

“Ah—of course. How could I forget. It’s Miss Black.” He let the word curl with venom. “If your conversation is quite finished?”

“It is,” she said evenly. “Apologies, Professor.”

“Make sure it is,” Snape sneered. “I do not tolerate distractions, no matter what name you use this week.”

Harry opened his mouth, about to say something—anything—but Vesta shot him a look and calmly turned back to their potion.

“Ignore him,” Harry muttered under his breath.

“I always do,” she said. Her voice had cooled again, clipped and efficient. “He can’t say anything if the potion’s perfect. And it will be.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You’re that confident?”

“Yes.” She dropped the sliced root into the cauldron with a soft hiss. “I have never received anything but Outstanding from him and I don’t plan to. Especially if it shuts him up.”

There was something oddly fierce about her in this light—the way her brow furrowed in focus, the slight tension in her shoulders, the determined set of her mouth. Harry suddenly remembered her feverish rumble back when they helped Sirius escape.

“I didn’t think you were the perfectionist type,” he said. Okay, that was a lie. He didn’t think about her before all of this, but from outside she seemed exactly the type.

“I’m not,” Vesta replied, without looking at him. “I just don’t want to give him reason to pick on me. I really like Potion.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. So he just nodded, and kept stirring.

A few minutes passed, their hands working in unison now. Harry added powdered asphodel while Vesta adjusted the heat beneath the cauldron. They moved with strange, quiet synchronicity. He could almost forget they were at school, forget Snape, forget the Goblet. It was just this—clean motions, sharp smells, the gentle simmer of something well-made.

Then, from the corner of his eye, Harry noticed movement.

Nott.

He was at the far table, pretending to crush something with his mortar, but his eyes kept flicking toward them. Or more accurately, toward Vesta.

Harry saw the shift in Nott’s expression when she leaned in to inspect the potion, one gloved hand steadying the cauldron, her face lit faintly by the glow. For a moment, his face was open—fond, maybe—but then he noticed Harry watching, and the mask slammed back into place. His eyes narrowed.

Vesta didn’t notice. Or if she did, she ignored it.

Harry said nothing. Just kept stirring, the rhythm steady, his thoughts not quite as calm.

---

The Great Hall buzzed with the lazy chatter of a Saturday evening, firelight flickering across golden plates, casting warm reflections across the enchanted ceiling. Above them, stars blinked behind drifting clouds, and the smell of roasted pumpkin and cinnamon lingered even after the desserts had been cleared.

Harry sat wedged between Ron and Hermione, the three of them halfway through a conversation about the Potion class when a loud yelp cut through the hum of conversation.

“Oi! You lot—you’ll miss it!” Fred’s voice rang from somewhere down the Gryffindor table, loud enough to draw heads. “Angelina just put her name in the Goblet!”

Ron perked up at once. “What—seriously?”

Harry sat between Ron and Hermione, his knee bouncing under the table. The oak bench felt harder than usual. Fred and George had tried earlier that day, as expected—used an Aging Potion and crossed the age line together, hand in hand like a pair of overgrown toddlers. It had gone about as well as anyone could have predicted.

Fred still had the white streak in his hair to prove it.

“Bit of a dramatic rejection,” Vesta had said dryly as they passed earlier that evening.

Fred had looked up, a little surprised. “What do you say, Black? Considering your rebellious streak—care to join the ranks of the tragically disqualified?”

She’d blinked at him—clearly not expecting to be addressed—and then, with an arch of one brow, replied, “Tempting. But I prefer to stay subtle.”

George had looked delighted. “A connoisseur. I like it.”

Harry grinned, feeling the familiar curl of amusement tug at his mouth. It was strange—how quickly this had become…normal. Or at least, something like it.

The Goblet, resting atop its carved pedestal in the center of the Hall, flickered with cold blue flames. It had drawn more attention than any of the food or decorations—students from all Houses kept glancing at it, as if it might do something unexpected at any moment. The age line Dumbledore had cast shimmered faintly, a perfect golden ring around the Goblet’s base.

“I still don’t get how it chooses,” Ron muttered, eyes fixed on the flames. “Like, is it reading our minds or something?”

“It’s more like weighing magical ability and intent,” Hermione said. “It’s enchanted to recognize exceptional skill and courage.”

“That’s mad,” said Seamus, who had leaned over to listen. “What if it picks the wrong person?”

Hermione looked like she had several long answers to that, but before she could open her mouth, Dumbledore stood.

The Great Hall quieted at once.

The headmaster raised his arms slightly, robes sweeping behind him. The candles dimmed overhead, and the fire in the Goblet surged suddenly brighter, casting long blue shadows across the stone floor.

“The moment has arrived,” Dumbledore said, his voice calm and deep, reverberating off the high rafters. “The Goblet of Fire is ready to make its decision.”

Harry’s stomach tensed.

He wasn’t sure why. He hadn’t entered. He couldn’t have. He was underage—by a year—and nowhere near the pedestal when others had snuck in their names. He hadn’t thought about it much at all, not beyond the usual curiosity. But now, watching the Goblet burn with sudden fury, he felt something clench in his chest.

Dumbledore stepped aside, leaving the path to the Goblet clear.

A beat.

Then the flames turned red.

A long, thin parchment shot from the mouth of the fire, curling through the air like a leaf on the wind.

Dumbledore caught it easily.

“The champion for Durmstrang,” he read, “is Viktor Krum.”

The Hall erupted.

Astoria let out a small, high-pitched squeak from across the table. Ron made a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a cheer, eyes wide with admiration.

Harry clapped along with the others, watching as Krum stood—expression unreadable—and strode forward to polite applause and scattered whispers.

Next, the Goblet flared red again.

“The champion for Beauxbatons,” Dumbledore read, “is Fleur Delacour.”

More applause. A few wolf-whistles. The girl who stepped forward glowed as if she were made of crystal, her silver-blonde hair catching every light.

And then—

The flame turned red a third time.

“The champion for Hogwarts,” Dumbledore announced, “is Cedric Diggory.”

This time, the applause was loud and whole-hearted. Even the Slytherins clapped politely. Cedric looked stunned but pleased as he moved through the Hall, clapping a few friends on the shoulder as he passed.

Dumbledore beamed. “These are your champions,” he said. “Chosen by the Goblet of Fire, they will—”

The flames flared red again.

The room fell silent.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

Another parchment shot into the air, twisting in a perfect spiral.

Dumbledore caught it.

He paused.

He read it once.

Then again.

Harry didn’t breathe.

“Harry Potter.”

It was like the entire world had exhaled at once.

And then stopped breathing entirely.

He stared at Dumbledore, uncomprehending.

The name echoed inside him, hollow and wrong. Harry Potter. That wasn’t possible. That couldn’t be right. He hadn’t—

“Harry,” Hermione whispered, voice paper-thin. “Go on.”

“I didn’t—” he managed. “I didn’t put my name in.”

But everyone was looking now.

Ron had frozen. Beside him, Hermione’s hand hovered, as if she meant to reach for his arm and then thought better of it. He stood up slowly, legs moving without permission, his heart thundering against his ribs.

He kept walking.

One step.

Then another.

He passed the Gryffindor table, his eyes catching movement.

At the Slytherin end, a pale face turned toward him.

Vesta.

Her mouth was slightly open, eyes wide—not with suspicion, but something closer to fear. Her hands were curled around the edge of the bench, knuckles white. She looked as lost as he felt.

And then he was at the front of the Hall.

He heard nothing.

Not Dumbledore.

Not the students.

Not even the Goblet behind him, burning with cold fire.

Just the sound of his own heartbeat, loud and echoing, as he passed through the doors and disappeared into the darkness beyond.

Chapter 14: what to do when life slaps you in the face

It was still early when Vesta woke up.

The light in the dungeons was always soft and grey at this hour, barely creeping past the enchanted windows that pretended at a sky. For a moment, she wasn’t sure why her chest felt tight, or why her hands stayed curled beneath the sheets like she was bracing herself. Then she remembered.

The Goblet. Potter’s name.

She sat up slowly, trying not to wake Daphne, but her best friend was already watching her through half-lidded eyes.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” she asked, voice low to avoid waking Pansy or Millicent.

Vesta nodded once, pulling on her uniform. She hadn’t slept much. Not really. Not after seeing his face last night — the way it had frozen in that split second, stunned and small, like someone had pulled the ground from under him. That was not the face of someone who’d been scheming.

“We shouldn’t have left him alone,” Vesta murmured. “I should have—”

“You would’ve made it worse,” Daphne said gently. “Hermione was right to say we wait until morning.”

“I know,” Vesta muttered, tugging at the sleeve of her shirt. “Doesn’t mean I liked it.”

“Let’s get breakfast,” Daphne said, her tone practical but warm. “Before the vultures descend.”

They walked together to the Great Hall in silence. Most of the castle was still sleeping, and the corridors echoed with every footstep. The morning air felt heavy, like it was holding its breath with the rest of the school. Everyone had seen it. Everyone had heard it. Harry Potter, fourth champion. And no one believed it was an accident.

When they stepped into the Hall, there were only a few clusters of students awake — mostly Ravenclaws and a few straggling Hufflepuffs. The Slytherin table was nearly empty, except for a few seventh years, and Blaise and Theo who were sitting together halfway down, talking in low voices over toast and pumpkin juice.

Blaise spotted them first and raised an eyebrow.

“Morning,” he said lazily. “Didn’t think we’d see the two of you surface before noon, considering the drama.”

Vesta sat across from them, Daphne beside her. She didn’t answer immediately, busying herself with pouring tea. The warmth of the mug soothed her fingers.

“Wild, though,” he continued, nodding toward the staff table. “Potter really outdid himself this time. Think he’s hoping to die young and famous?”

“Don’t be an arse,” Daphne said mildly, though her tone was sharper than usual.

Blaise blinked, but it was Theo’s quiet gaze that lingered. He wasn’t smirking like Blaise. He was watching Vesta closely, like he already knew what she was about to say.

Vesta set her mug down a little too hard.

“He didn’t do it,” she said, flatly.

The boys stilled. Blaise raised an eyebrow again, this time in real surprise.

“Oh?”

“Did you even look at his face last night?” she said. “Who would fake that kind of reaction?”

“You think someone else put his name in?” Theo asked, tone unreadable.

“Yes,” Vesta snapped, before catching herself. She exhaled. “Or something else is going on. Whoever did it clearly wanted him in that tournament. And they clearly didn’t ask him first.”

There was a pause.

Then Blaise muttered, “Touchy this morning.”

Vesta didn’t respond. Across the table, Theo’s eyes hadn’t left her. She felt it — the way he studied her now, quieter than usual, like he was fitting a piece of something into place.

Daphne changed the subject smoothly, asking if they’d heard when the first task would be announced. Blaise answered, but Vesta didn’t hear most of it. Her mind was still fixed on what Potter had looked like — wide-eyed, shell-shocked, and alone.

He hadn’t even looked at her properly. She’d barely gotten to speak to him.

Across the Hall, Granger stood up from the Gryffindor table. Her shoulders were stiff. Vesta stood too.

“I’m going to talk to her,” she said quietly.

Daphne pushed her plate aside. “I’ll come too.”

They crossed the Hall together, boots tapping softly over the flagstones, and caught Hermione just as she was stepping into the corridor.

“Granger,” Vesta said.

She turned; eyes tired but alert. She looked surprised — maybe not that they’d come, but that it was Vesta speaking.

“We wanted to know how he is,” Vesta added. “If… he’s all right.”

Granger hesitated, then sighed. “He was still asleep when I was there. We didn’t get a chance to talk properly yesterday,” she pursed her lips for a moment. “Others cornered him, kept asking how he did it, and he kept saying he didn’t put his name, but well… I’m just gonna go, check on him.”

Daphne frowned. “Is Weasley coming?”

“No,” Hermione said, voice tighter now. “He’s—” She glanced between the two of them, then exhaled. “He’s not speaking to Harry. He thinks he put his own name in.”

Vesta’s jaw clenched. There was a weird anger bubbling inside her. “Seriously? He’s supposed to be his best friend.”

“Well,” Daphne said gently, “sometimes it’s easier to be angry than scared.”

Vesta looked at her. “You’re taking Weasley’s side now?”

“I’m not taking anyone’s side,” Daphne said calmly. “I’m saying this is overwhelming. For everyone. Maybe Weasley just—”

“He should’ve trusted him,” Vesta said quietly, cutting her off.

There was a pause. Granger watched the two of them with a strange expression — somewhere between curiosity and gratitude.

Then Daphne touched Vesta’s sleeve. “Come on. Let’s go with Hermione, we will wait for them outside. You can yell at Weasley if you want when he walks past.”

Vesta huffed out a half-laugh.

Together, the three of them turned and started toward the Gryffindor common room. As they walked, Vesta glanced sideways at Granger. The girl looked tired — worried, even — but not entirely hopeless.

She was holding Potter up, it seemed. At least someone was.

Vesta tucked her hands into her sleeves.

And if he was still asleep… well. She could wait.

She would wait.

---

The portraits lining the corridor continued to whisper.

Vesta stood still beneath their gaze, arms folded over her chest, pretending not to notice the way their painted eyes tracked her every breath. Daphne leaned casually against the stone wall beside her, flipping through a copy of Ars Alchemica with only half her attention. From within the frame behind them, a matronly witch in plum-colored robes whispered sharply to a man with a crooked nose, and he turned to squint disapprovingly down at Vesta and Daphne.

“Do you think they think we’re here to hex him?” Vesta murmured under her breath.

Daphne didn’t look up from the magazine. “No,” she said mildly. “They think we’re here to seduce him.”

Vesta snorted, then fell silent again. The stone corridor was too quiet for this early in the morning. Normally, the air would buzz with students coming down from the towers, groaning about homework and trading Pumpkin Pasties in hopes of snagging a second cup of pumpkin juice. But today… no one was out yet. Or maybe everyone was just avoiding the boy whose name had come out of the Goblet of Fire.

The boy who shouldn’t have been entered in the first place.

The boy she couldn’t stop thinking about.

“I still can’t believe Weasley’s not speaking to him,” Vesta said suddenly, more to herself than to Daphne. “I mean, it’s his best friend. And he just—what? Throws him to the wolves?”

Daphne finally looked up. “It’s not that simple.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.” Daphne shut the magazine with a quiet snap. “Jealousy is never simple. You of all people should know that.”

Vesta didn’t answer. She glanced down at her boots instead, biting the inside of her cheek. Of course she did. Vesta grew up in her brother’s shadow, watching him getting the recognition she craved. Of course she knew that.

Still, it made her stomach twist. The way Potter had looked like he’d been shoved underwater and forgotten how to breathe. There was something about the shock on his face when Dumbledore had said his name that Vesta couldn’t unsee. She’d seen people lie before—she’d lied plenty herself—but that wasn’t what lying looked like.

He looked like someone who had been thrown into something terrifying. And for some reason, the thought of him facing it alone made her feel sick.

The Fat Lady’s portrait creaked open, and Granger stepped out, looking tired but determined.

“There you are,” Vesta said before she could stop herself, pushing off the wall. “Is he coming?”

Hermione nodded and turned, holding the portrait open. “Harry—come on.”

Potter emerged slowly, rubbing the heel of his hand against one eye. His hair was even messier than usual, and there were deep shadows under his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all.

He stopped short when he saw them. “Oh,” he said. “Um. Hi.”

“We were waiting,” Vesta said quietly.

Potter blinked. “Why?”

“To talk to you,” Daphne answered simply, folding her arms. “Not hex you. Calm down.”

He managed a weak, crooked smile. “Right.”

He looked like he was about to say something else, but then the words tumbled out all at once: “I didn’t put my name in the Goblet. I swear.”

“We know,” Vesta said immediately, stepping forward. “We believe you.”

Harry looked between them, surprised. “You do?”

Vesta hesitated. Then nodded, once. “Of course, we do.”

She wasn’t sure what made her say it with so much certainty. Maybe it was how tired he looked. Maybe it was the way his voice had cracked just a little. Maybe it was the strange, tight feeling in her chest that hadn’t gone away since last night.

It didn’t matter.

“I mean,” she added, looking away for a second, “whoever put your name in clearly wanted something to happen to you. That’s the point, isn’t it? They want you in danger.”

Potter stared at her. For a second, she wondered if she’d said too much. But he just nodded slowly, like someone who had finally heard a sentence that made sense.

“We need to tell someone,” Granger said urgently. “Harry, you need to write to Sirius.”

His head whipped around. “No.”

Granger raised her eyebrows. “Harry—”

“He’ll come back,” Potter said quickly. “He’s only just gotten here because of the scar thing, and if I tell him this, he’ll—I dunno, he’ll turn up at the castle and get himself caught.”

Vesta opened her mouth—and to her own surprise, found herself saying, “You should still write to him.”

Potter blinked at her.

“I mean it,” she said, softer now. “He’s going to find out anyway. Better it comes from you than from some half-true rumour.”

Potter frowned. “But—”

“Trust me,” Vesta said, and something in her voice made even Granger and Daphne look over. “If something happened to you, he’d… he’ wouldn’t take it well. You know it.”

He looked at her properly now, really looked, and for a second Vesta had to force herself not to look away.

“Look, I understand why you don’t want to write him,” she added, shrugging. “But this is kind of big, Potter. Soon, everyone is gonna talk about this, and it would be better to tell him, so he won’t be blindsided.”

The words felt strange in her mouth. She wasn’t used to speaking about dad out loud—at least, not like this. But she meant it.

Because if she imagined her dad finding out some other way—finding out too late—her stomach turned.

“Alright,” Potter said quietly after a long pause. “I’ll write to him.”

Vesta nodded, and something in her shoulders relaxed.

“I was gonna write to him too. Just give me your letter when it’s done. Phobos is faster than any owl.”

Granger, watching the two of them, didn’t say anything. But she did shoot Daphne a look, one eyebrow raised. Daphne gave the tiniest shrug and went back to pretending to check her nails.

---

Her brother was a bloody idiot.

Granger had been taken to the hospital wing not long after his spell hit her — her front teeth growing long and uneven until they curled past her chin. Potter had nearly lost it then, the way his face had gone tight with fury, wand clenched in his fist, even as Granger tried to mumble something like “I’m fine.” Madam Pomfrey had fixed her up quickly enough. There hadn’t been permanent damage, she’d said, just another piece of childish cruelty for the pile.

But it had all left a weight on Vesta’s chest, one she couldn’t shake.

After that, most of the day felt like a daze. Classes passed, but Vesta barely remembered them. She kept hearing Draco’s voice in the back of her mind — not from today, not even from last week, but from all the years before. From when he still looked at her like she was his, like she was an extension of him, like he believed they were the same.

She wasn’t sure what had changed first. Maybe it had always been broken. Maybe she was the one who cracked it open.

By mid-afternoon, she found herself standing just outside the Arithmancy corridor, rereading the letter she’d written before slipping it into the envelope. Her handwriting looked neater than usual. She’d taken care this time.

Dad,
I’m sending Potter’s letter too. Please don’t panic.
He’s safe — well, he’s mostly safe, though I can’t promise he won’t do something stupid tomorrow.
I don’t know how much the Prophet will say, but yes, his name came out of the Goblet. No, he didn’t enter it himself.
Please don’t do anything reckless. Don’t try to come. Just… write back soon.
Love,
Vesta.

Vesta folded the letter one last time.

The parchment crackled softly as she smoothed it between her palms, eyes scanning the ink again even though she already knew every word. She had rewritten it twice. Tried not to sound panicked. Tried not to sound angry. But still — how did you explain to your father that the boy he’d risked everything to protect had been forced into a tournament that could kill him?

She tucked the second letter — Potter’s — underneath her own, slipped both into the small pouch Phobos wore around his neck.

Her half-kneazle blinked at her, green eyes sharp and knowing. He didn’t need direction. He’d find him.

“Go,” she whispered, brushing her fingers over the sleek black fur. “And don’t get spotted.”

Phobos gave a faint flick of his tail and leapt off the windowsill, vanishing into the shadows like smoke.

Daphne, waiting a few feet away near the base of the staircase, didn’t say anything. She’d seen the letters, and just gave her a space that she needed. She wasn’t going to press into this. Instead, she just raised an eyebrow at the sound of laughter echoing from the other side of the corridor.

It was Blaise.

A few Slytherins had clustered near the notice board, snickering at the latest round of “Potter Stinks” badges and singed parchment someone had charmed to float through the air like confetti. One had drifted near Vesta’s foot, and she kicked it aside without thinking. She clenched her jaw in annoyance.

Daphne’s eyes narrowed. With a flick of her wand, the nearest parchment shriveled and popped into iridescent soap bubbles, drifting harmlessly up toward the ceiling.

The laughter cut off.

“What the hell—” one boy muttered, brushing a bubble from his sleeve.

“What in Merlin’s name do you think you’re doing, Daphne?” Blaise’s voice was sharp now, more incredulous than angry.

Daphne tilted her head, smiling sweetly. “Cleaning up the mess.”

Parkinson turned from the group, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Of course. The great Greengrass moral compass. Honestly, this is low even for you. Are you seriously tailing after Potter now?”

Her eyes flicked to Vesta, deliberately cruel. “Oh, of course, how silly of me. You can think for yourself without your little friend over here. What’s the matter, Black — planning on switching houses too? And for Potter, of all people.”

The words didn’t sting — they scraped. Not because they were clever, but because they came with that familiar venom, the kind Vesta had grown up swallowing with breakfast.

She stepped forward before she could stop herself.

“That’s funny, Parkinson,” she said calmly. “Coming from someone who’s been obsessed with Draco for four years and still hasn’t managed to get past holding his books.”

The group around them snickered — the kind of laugh that could turn on anyone in a heartbeat.

Parkinson went red.

But it wasn’t her voice that cut in next.

“I must have missed something,” Draco said smoothly, stepping out from behind the others. “When did we start defending Potter in public? Are you part of his fan club now, Esther? Or should I expect a wedding invitation next?”

The name hit her out of nowhere.

“It’s Vesta,” she said, voice cold. “Funny you mentioned his fan club, considering you’ve been obsessed with him since first year. What’s wrong, jealous he is not paying enough attention to you?”

The corridor went still.

Even Blaise blinked.

There was a flicker in Draco’s face — not just embarrassment, but something sharper. Something wounded.

He scoffed, too loud, too fast. “That was weak, even for you, Esther,” he sneered — but it cracked at the edges. “Well, I suppose I can’t fault you for your fascination with broken strays. Some people just like collecting damaged things.”

She froze.

It wasn’t just a jab at Potter. That one had teeth. That one was for her.

A muscle in her jaw twitched. Her wand hand curled slightly, but she didn’t lift it.

Vesta’s breath caught.

There it was. That low, vicious tone he used when he was trying to win.

But this wasn’t a duel. This was something older. Something uglier.

“I’m not the one who sits at the feet of a man who wouldn’t even flinch if you were the one dropped into that pit last night,” she said softly.

For a second — just one — she saw the boy who used to tug her hand through crowded rooms, who used to sneak her sweets from the kitchens, who used to promise he’d never leave her behind.

Then his mouth tightened. “You don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Of course,” she said, smiling coldly. “How would I know what he’s like.”

He blinked — and Vesta saw it. That old shame. The fear. The knowledge that Lucius’s love was a currency Draco had spent too many years trying to earn.

She wanted to stop. She didn’t.

If you wanted to hurt Draco, you brought up Lucius. Always, Lucius.

Funny how that man had the same hold on both of them for absolutely different reason.

Vesta had spent her whole life being afraid of him. Everything about her was about Lucius in reality. She never was able to get the man’s approval, not once, so her goal was not to anger him.

Draco, on the other hand worshiped the ground he walked. He knew Lucius had his faults and didn’t like the way he treated Vesta, but at the same time the man had his undying loyalty in a way Vesta could only dream. Unlike with her, Lucius didn’t shy away from showing Draco his approval and even affection, but it was a fickle thing, so her brother had always been very careful.

There was another thing.

She was still so, so angry at him. Draco had abandoned her. He just forgot her because it was convenient. He hadn’t stood beside her when everything changed. He could laugh with the others now, as if their blood had always meant more than their history.

He chose Lucius over her again, like the coward that he was.

She thought she put it aside. She really thought it didn’t matter anymore but Vesta was still angry and it hurt. Draco was the very first person she ever loved. Even after Daphne, he was Vesta’s strongest feeling.

He was a good brother to her. He comforted her when she needed it, he shared with her everything. He sneaked her chocolate, knowing about her sweet tooth.

But he also never said anything when Lucius punished her. And it was fine¸ she didn’t expect him to. Didn’t want to. But he kept making excuses for him. He even agreed with some of the things. You shouldn’t talk like that, Es, and yet he couldn’t look at her wrist where bruises formed because Lucius grab her too tight.

He loved her when it was easy. And Vesta, who now had a taste of love that was so strong, so full, didn’t know any boundaries, wasn’t going shut down her anger.

Draco’s gaze darted to Daphne next, almost like a lifeline. “And what about you? You just let her run around defending him now? Don’t tell me the Greengrass name is up for sale too.”

Daphne looked at him like he was dirt on her shoes.

“I think it’s sad,” she said, evenly. “How desperate you are to make her hurt. Like it proves something.”

That landed too.

His posture stiffened, shoulders pulled taut. And just for a moment, his eyes darted back to Vesta — but this time not in challenge. In something like guilt.

But Blaise stepped forward — too quickly, as if to distract from the rising heat. “Alright, maybe this went too far—”

Daphne didn’t even look at him. “I thought you were better than this,” she said, her voice lower now. Not sharp — disappointed. “But maybe that was my mistake.”

The silence that followed hung heavy, suffocating.

And then — a voice, like a blade drawn from ice.

“Enough.”

Snape’s arrival was sudden, his voice slicing through the corridor. His robes billowed like smoke behind him, black and cold as his glare.

“I suppose I should be flattered,” he said, “that my students find time for playground dramatics in between avoiding actual study.”

He stopped just short of them, surveying the group.

“Miss Black, Miss Greengrass — get to class. Mr. Zabini, Miss Parkinson, I suggest you do the same, unless you’re eager to explain to Professor Vector how badges qualify as scholarly engagement.”

His gaze slid to Draco — and Vesta waited for it. The favor, the dismissal, the usual shielding.

But instead, Snape hesitated. He looked at her first.

It wasn’t a long look. Barely a second. But it froze Vesta where she stood.

Because whatever he’d been about to say — whatever snide remark or warning — died in his throat.

For the first time, she saw something else in his eyes. Not anger. Not disappointment.

Something haunted.

He was looking at her just like Professor Lupin looked at her the first time they met.

Snape blinked and looked away.

“Mr. Malfoy,” he said coolly. “Five points from Slytherin. Another five if you don’t walk away right now.”

Draco flinched. His mouth opened like he might protest — then shut again. He turned on his heel and stormed down the corridor without another word.

Vesta didn’t watch him go. She couldn’t.

Her hands were trembling.

Daphne stepped beside her, not saying anything. Just there.

Snape gave her one more glance — sharper now, conflicted — then pivoted and swept away down the stairs without another word.

The tension left with him.

Only after his footsteps vanished did Vesta exhale.

“Let’s go,” she murmured.

Her heart still hurt like something had cracked open and would never quite shut again.

---

Harry

I can’t say everything I would like to in a letter, it’s too risky in case the owl is intercepted — we need to talk face-to-face. Can you ensure that you are alone by the fire in Gryffindor Tower at one o’clock in the morning on the 22nd of November? I know better than anyone that you can look after yourself and while you’re around Dumbledore and Moody I don’t think anyone will be able to hurt you. However, someone seems to be having a good try. Entering you in that tournament would have been very risky, especially right under Dumbledore’s nose. Be on the watch, Harry. I still want to hear about anything unusual. Let me know about the 22nd of November as quickly as you can.

Sirius.

He’d reread the letter three times. It was reckless. Of course it was reckless.

But somehow it still made Harry feel better — not just because Sirius had written back, but because of the way the words looked on the page. Like he was already halfway here, pacing and plotting and somehow certain that Harry would find a way to sneak another student into his common room just because he said so.

Of course he would. It was Sirius.

He hadn’t seen Vesta at dinner. Or breakfast, come to think of it. Daphne wasn’t around either, and Hermione was still in the hospital wing, which meant his only option was to catch her the next day.

But that night — after the Great Hall had emptied and the corridors had gone dim — he’d tucked the letter under his pillow and stared up at the canopy of his four-poster bed, when a wild thought crossed his mind.

The idea wasn’t just impulsive. It was, pretty much against the rules. But it sat in the back of his mind and he couldn’t shake it off. He would just use his dad cloak and sneak Vesta in Gryffindor’s common room. Sirius would be happy to see her.

It was… weirdly comforting. He wasn’t going to have to do this alone. He wasn’t the only one Sirius cared about. And he knew — he knew — Vesta would want to see him too. She just… wouldn’t ask.

So the next day, when the lunch bell rang and the corridors started to fill, Harry didn’t bother heading straight for class. He turned instead down the long west hallway toward the library, scanning the shadows between the bookshelves until he spotted her near the back corner — exactly where Hermione liked to sit when she wanted to go undisturbed.

Vesta was bent over a parchment, quill in one hand, her long dark hair draped down one shoulder. Daphne sat beside her, flipping through an Arithmancy text, and Nott was slouched in the seat opposite them, one ankle crossed over the other, arms folded as he watched Vesta’s hand move.

It was strangely domestic. It made Harry hesitate.

But then he stepped forward.

“Hi,” he said quietly.

All three of them looked up.

“Can I talk to you?” he asked, looking at Vesta.

She opened her mouth to answer, but before she could speak, Nott cut in.

“We’re kind of busy, Potter,” he said coolly, not even bothering to look up from his seat. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”

Harry’s eyes snapped to him. It was the first time he’d really looked at Nott up close — dark hair, sharp angles, the kind of face that always looked slightly amused or slightly annoyed, or maybe both. His tone wasn’t loud, but it had teeth. Like he wanted Harry to know exactly what he thought of him.

And Harry… was too tired to play nice.

“This is important,” he said, meeting Nott’s gaze with a calm, cold tone. “I’ll only take a minute.”

Something tense flickered between them, a quiet stand-off that made the air feel heavier than it had a second ago.

But then Vesta stood, quick and graceful, her chair scraping softly against the stone floor.

“It’s fine, Theo,” she said, brushing invisible dust from her sleeve. “We’re almost done anyway. You don’t need me.”

He scoffed but didn’t argue.

Vesta gave a nod toward their table. “If anything, Daphne can help you. Besides,” she added, turning to Harry, “I wanted to talk to him too.”

Harry didn’t miss the way Daphne raised an eyebrow at that — nor the flicker of something unreadable that crossed Nott’s face as Vesta stepped away from the table.

She didn’t look back.

They walked down the corridor in silence for a moment, the distance between them narrowing with each step, until the sounds of the library faded behind them.

“Sorry,” she said, glancing sideways. “He gets… prickly.”

“It’s fine,” Harry muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wasn’t exactly expecting a warm welcome.”

She didn’t smile, but her mouth twitched like she almost wanted to.

Harry dug into the pocket of his robes, fingers curling around the familiar fold of parchment.

“I got a letter,” he said finally.

She glanced at him.

“From Sirius.”

He offered it wordlessly, already softened at the edges from how many times he’d read it. Vesta hesitated — just a second — then took it. Her fingers brushed his.

As her eyes moved across the page, something in her posture changed. Not much, but enough for Harry to notice. Her shoulders didn’t quite drop, but they shifted. The tightness in her brow eased — not all the way, but a little. And when she got to the part about the 22nd of November, her breath caught.

“I know,” Harry said. “It’s reckless.”

He leaned against the wall as she read it again, slower this time. Her thumb ran over Sirius’s name at the bottom like she needed to feel it.

“But I thought—” He paused, then pushed on. “You might want to come.”

Her head snapped up.

“To Gryffindor Tower?” she asked, incredulous. “In case you’ve forgotten, that’s not exactly allowed.”

“Since when do we care about allowed?” Harry said, managing a crooked smile. “I’ve got the Invisibility Cloak. You can sneak in. You’d be gone before sunrise. No one would know.”

She stared at him. For a moment, Harry thought she might laugh. But instead she looked down at the letter again, blinking hard.

“I didn’t think—” she started, then stopped. Swallowed. “I didn’t think I’d get to see him so soon.”

Her voice was very quiet.

Harry shifted slightly, the sudden softness in her expression leaving him oddly breathless. There was something raw in the way she clutched the letter — not desperate, but delicate. Like it meant more than she could say.

“I thought you should,” he said.

When she finally looked up again, her eyes were brighter. Not teary — not quite — but changed.

“Thank you,” she said, and this time her voice didn’t waver. “Really.”

Chapter 15: how not to get eaten by a bloody dragon

Dragons.

His heart pounded so hard he could hear it echo in his ears. Dragons — the first task was bloody dragons.

He moved like he was underwater, every step heavy, breath caught somewhere between his chest and throat. Hagrid had shown him — not even like it was a secret. Just, look, Harry, aren’t they beautiful? And Harry had stood there, staring at a creature with blackened scales and eyes like coals, thinking of his name in a flaming goblet and his body in pieces by Christmas.

Now he was sneaking through the castle, cloaked in his father’s invisibility, feet silent on the cold flagstones as he slipped down toward the dungeons where Vesta was waiting for him.

She was already by the entrance, her cloak fastened up to her chin, Phobos perched lazily by her boots. She looked up as he approached, her arms crossed, but her posture softened the second she saw his face.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

Harry pulled the cloak off his head. “Dragons.”

“What?”

“The first task. It’s dragons.”

She stared at him for a second, and then her eyes narrowed. “Are you joking?”

He shook his head. “Saw them with my own eyes. Hagrid showed me.”

There was a long silence. Phobos let out a low, displeased growl, like even he understood the implications.

“Bloody hell,” Vesta whispered.

“Yeah.”

She bent, brushed the half‑Kneazle between the ears. “Guard,” she murmured. Phobos twitched his tail, slid off her boot, and vanished down a side passage the way only cats and shadows manage. Then she reached out and tugged the cloak from his hand.

“Come on,” she said quietly. “Let’s not get caught before we even get there.”

Under the cloak, the corridor felt smaller, quieter. Their arms brushed as they walked. The castle slept around them, but Harry couldn’t feel any of that peace. His nerves were wound so tightly they made his hands cold, and even Vesta’s steady presence wasn’t enough to fully calm him.

Still, she stayed close. Just close enough to feel real.

When they finally reached the Fat Lady’s portrait, Harry gave the password, and the portrait swung open without complaint. The common room was dim and golden, quiet save for the soft crackle of the dying fire and the rustle of discarded parchment. The room still smelled like warm wool and ink and ash.

And there, on the table, sat another badge: Potter Really Stinks.

Harry’s stomach twisted. He grabbed the badge and chucked it hard into the fire.

It hissed. Crackled. Burned.

And then—

“Potter,” Vesta said, voice sharp and low. “Look.”

He followed her gaze.

Sirius’s head sat in the fire.

Harry’s heart stuttered. If he hadn’t already seen Amos Diggory’s head floating in a grate over the summer, he might’ve screamed. But instead, a warmth rose in his chest — something just short of a smile — and he dropped down to his knees in front of the hearth.

“Sirius,” he breathed, dropping to his knees by the hearth. “How’re you—?”

Sirius blinked hard, taking Harry in with a lightning scan, and then his gaze jerked past him and locked on the figure at his shoulder.

To Vesta.

The fire cracked softly. Sirius went still.

“…Vesta?”

She didn’t answer, not right away. Her lips parted like she might, but nothing came out.

Sirius’s face had changed since the last time Harry had seen him. His hair was shorter, cleaner; the gauntness had softened just slightly in his cheeks. But his eyes were the same. Haunted, but still bright when they landed on her.

“You snuck her in here,” Sirius said, voice rough but fond. “You two are going to be the death of me.”

“Don’t say that,” Vesta said suddenly — and her voice broke a little.

Sirius froze again. His face softened.

“Come sit,” Harry said quickly, clearing space in front of the hearth. He tried to sound normal. Calm. Not like his heart was about to fall out of his chest.

Vesta dropped beside him without a word, her arms pulled tightly around her knees. She didn’t look away from Sirius.

“Hi,” she murmured finally.

“Hi, baby,” he said, just as quiet. Her eyes were wet, and Harry could see the way her fingers dug into her sleeves.

Harry felt his heart squeeze in his chest. He glanced sideways, caught in the warmth between them. It felt… strange. Like he was intruding. Like he was watching something fragile unfold — something not meant for anyone else.

But at the same time… he wanted to see it. He needed to see it. Because it made Sirius more real. It made her more real.

It made all of this mean something.

Sirius exhaled.

“Never mind me,” he said, more serious now. “Harry. How are you?”

Harry opened his mouth. For a second, he tried to say “fine.”

But the word didn’t come.

And then, before he could stop himself, it all came spilling out — the Tournament, the whispers, the badges, Ron’s silence, Rita Skeeter and her stupid article, the dragons, the fear, the bloody dragons — and by the end of it, his throat ached and he couldn’t even look up.

Sirius let him talk. Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t flinch. Just listened.

“Dragons,” Harry finished miserably. “And I’m a goner.”

Sirius’s brow furrowed. The look in his eyes was all concern, all weight — but something steadier too.

“Dragons we can deal with,” he said. “But I haven’t got long. I need to warn you.”

He talked fast — about Karkaroff, about the night Moody was attacked, about the Death Eaters and Bertha Jorkins and Albania — and Harry could barely keep up, his brain struggling to latch on to everything at once.

Beside him, Vesta sat utterly still. But Harry saw her eyes — sharp, bright, watching Sirius with a gaze so full of something Harry couldn’t name it. Love, maybe. Fear. All tangled together.

And something else. Something that echoed through him when their shoulders brushed.

They only had a few more minutes, and Sirius rushed through the last of it — spells Harry could try, tactics, warnings, names. He was mid-sentence when Harry froze.

“Go,” Harry hissed, turning sharply toward the spiral stairs. “Someone’s coming.”

Sirius vanished with a faint pop, the fire suddenly empty. Vesta slipped the cloak over her head just as Ron stepped into view, blinking blearily at the scene in front of him. His eyes scanned the common room. His jaw clenched.

“Who were you talking to?” he said.

“What’s it to you?” Harry snapped.

He was tired. Raw. Ron’s face — his voice — it just made it worse.

Ron flushed. “Nothing. Just — whatever.”

Harry grabbed the nearest badge and flung it hard. It hit Ron in the forehead with a sharp thunk.

“There,” he said. “Something for you to wear on Tuesday.”

Harry felt his anger spike, hot and fast.

“Go back to bed,” he muttered, brushing past him.

Ron didn’t follow.

Vesta was still invisible. He waited in the dark hallway until he heard her soft footsteps.

They moved through the halls like ghosts.

The castle was silent now, all the torches dimmed to coals, the portraits asleep or pretending to be. The hush was thick enough to muffle their footsteps, even without the Invisibility Cloak. Still, Harry held it tightly around them both, his fingers gripping the fabric near her shoulder as they slipped past a corridor he knew Filch liked to patrol.

Vesta didn’t speak. She walked beside him easily, her hand occasionally brushing his arm under the cloak as they turned corners. The narrowness of the halls made it hard not to walk close — not that she seemed to mind.

At one point, a light flared down the hallway — distant, but sharp. Harry instinctively reached out, pulling her just a little tighter against his side. They both froze under the cloak. For a moment, they didn’t even breathe.

The light passed.

He felt her look up at him. Didn’t say anything, but he caught the flicker of a smirk before she turned forward again.

They slipped two staircases down from Gryffindor Tower before Harry slowed in the shadow of a rattling suit of armor that marked the shortcut landing toward the lower floors. His voice was quiet when he spoke.

“Hermione thinks I should talk to him.”

Vesta didn’t respond at first.

“Ron,” he added. “She thinks I miss him.”

That was when he saw it — the way her jaw tightened, the sharp inhale through her nose as she tucked her hair behind one ear.

For a second, she was completely still.

Then she said, “You probably do. But I don’t think you should.”

He blinked, surprised.

“Not now,” she continued, softer but firm. “You’ve got too much on your mind. You didn’t do anything wrong. He’ll come around when he’s ready. You don’t need to be the one to fix this.”

Harry stared at her, something cold and heavy easing slightly in his chest. He hadn’t even realized how much he’d needed someone to say that — not suggest a compromise, not tell him to make the first move — just that he wasn’t wrong. That it was okay to be hurt. That someone understood.

A wave of gratitude hit him, sharp and sudden.

Vesta wasn’t trying to make it better. She wasn’t asking him to see Ron’s side. She was just here. She got it.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

She shrugged one shoulder. “It’s nothing.”

---

The library was cloaked in its usual late-autumn hush — golden lamplight dripped from floating candles overhead, pooling gently across the spines of forgotten books and the deep-polished table where the four of them sat.

Harry’s hand was cramping. He hadn’t realized he’d been gripping his quill too tight until he saw the ink smudges staining the side of his hand. He flexed his fingers slowly, glancing down at the open book in front of him. Ancient Defensive Magic: Practical Applications and Common Misfires. The title alone felt exhausting.

Hermione was muttering to herself beside him, lips moving faster than her quill. She had three books open at once — one on magical creatures, another on elemental resistance charms, and a third propped upright for easy scanning. Daphne sat across from her, flipping through a Hungarian translation of something that looked like a dragon-hunting manual, eyebrows slightly furrowed in thought.

Vesta was to his right. Her elbows rested on the table, fingers poised mid-air as she turned a page. Her mouth moved soundlessly as she read, eyes darting between paragraphs like she was cataloguing every word. There was a faint crease between her brows, but otherwise, she looked calm.

None of them had said much for a while. Just the scratch of quills. The rustle of pages. A shared breath of tension so thick it made the air feel tight in his lungs.

Then Hermione spoke — low, practical. “If it’s dragons, then it’s not just about defense. It’s about endurance. Fire protection, aerial maneuvering, maybe even transfiguration…”

Harry blinked hard. “Fire protection,” he echoed numbly. “Right.”

“I read about a modified Flame-Freezing Charm,” Daphne offered, tucking a strand of pale hair behind her ear. “It was used during the Goblin Rebellions. Could help, but it’s tricky to cast under pressure.”

“I can learn it,” Harry said automatically. His voice was too flat, too fast.

Hermione paused, looking up at him. “Harry, you don’t have to learn everything by yourself. That’s not the point of this.”

“I know,” he muttered, glancing away. “I just— I need to be ready.”

Across the table, Vesta leaned forward. Her voice was soft but certain.

“You will be.”

He looked at her. She didn’t say it like it was encouragement. She said it like it was fact.

Still, the words sat strange in his chest.

He shifted in his seat, eyes dragging to the nearest window. The glass reflected the candlelight. Beyond that — darkness.

He thought of Ron.

It hit him in strange moments, like this — in the middle of silence, surrounded by people, but still feeling alone. Ron would’ve said something stupid by now. Would’ve made a joke. Would’ve kicked his leg under the table when he was frowning too hard.

He missed him. Merlin, he missed him.

But every time he thought about walking up to him — every time he imagined trying — he saw the way Ron looked at him in the common room. The badge in his hand. The accusation in his eyes.

And something inside Harry shrank back.

He wasn’t going to beg. He hadn’t done anything wrong. That should’ve mattered.

The page in front of him blurred slightly.

“Look at this,” Hermione said suddenly, tapping her quill against a block of text. “It says here that some dragons have weaker underbellies — thinner scale coverage. If you could distract it long enough to get it to rear up—”

“—You might be able to hit that spot with a high-impact jinx,” Daphne finished, reading over her shoulder. “But you’d have to be really fast.”

Hermione nodded. “Faster than human reflexes, probably. Unless—”

“You fly,” Vesta said. Her voice was soft, but steady. “Get above it. Use speed and height to your advantage.”

Harry blinked at her.

“You’re good on a broom,” she said, still looking at her page.

Hermione looked up. “The Firebolt would give you the edge.”

Harry felt his stomach twist. “Yeah. If they let me use it.”

“Even if you aren’t allowed to bring your broom, you have your wand,” Daphne said simply.

“Summoning Charm,” Hermione said brightly, already flipping a page. “Yes, that will work.”

“I saw a few notes in Standard Book of Spells, Grade Four,” Vesta said, reaching for a thinner, battered volume in the stack.

Harry rubbed his eyes. Everything was starting to blur together — incantations, diagrams, strategy. It all felt useful and useless at the same time.

“You okay?” Hermione asked, her voice gentler now.

He nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.”

---

The corridor beyond the library was quiet, save for the faint squeak of shoes on stone and the rustle of parchment. Harry walked slightly behind the girls, his thoughts still tangled in the last hour — Summoning Charms, dragon underbellies, broom tactics. His mind was buzzing, but unfocused. He barely heard Hermione mutter something about needing to check Fantastic Beasts again.

Then he saw them — a flash of familiar robes and a burst of quiet laughter from up ahead.

Cedric Diggory. Surrounded by a few of his friends, one of whom was still fiddling with the badge on his robes. Potter Stinks, it read, in shimmering red letters.

Harry stopped.

“Go on ahead,” he told the girls suddenly. “I’ll catch up.”

Hermione blinked. “Why—?”

“Just go. Please.”

She gave him a long look, then nodded. Daphne and Vesta didn’t question it — they just followed Hermione, their footsteps fading into the other hallway.

He followed Cedric at a distance and realize he was heading towards the Charms corridor. Harry really wasn’t in the mood to deal with his friends—he remembered one of them quoting that stupid article­—so he pulled out his wand, and mumbled a quiet Diffindo.

Cedric’s bag split; parchment, books and quills spilled out of it onto the floor.

“Don’t bother,” he said in an exasperated voice as his friends bent down to help him. “Just tell Flitwick I’m coming…”

Harry waited until Cedric’s friend had disappeared into their classroom, and approached him.

“Hi,” he said when he noticed Harry. “My bag just split…brand-new and all…”

“Cedric,” Harry said quickly, before he could overthink it. “The first task is dragons.”

He looked up, blinking. “What?”

“Dragons,” Harry repeated, lowering his voice. “They’ve got four. One for each of us. We’ve got to get past them.”

There was a beat of silence. Cedric stared at him like he hadn’t heard right. Then something flickered across his face — a flicker of fear, disbelief, maybe something more.

“Are you sure?” he asked, quiet now.

“Dead sure,” Harry said. “I’ve seen them.”

Cedric’s expression changed, his jaw tightening, books clutched tighter against his chest.

“But how did you find out?” he said. “We’re not supposed to know—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry cut in quickly. He wasn’t about to explain Hagrid. “But I’m not the only one. Fleur and Krum — their Heads saw the dragons too. I reckon they’ve already told them.”

Cedric shifted, straightening up as his bag slipped down his shoulder. His arms were still full of books and parchment, but his eyes had narrowed — not unfriendly, but questioning. Suspicious, maybe.

“Why are you telling me?” he asked.

Harry hesitated.

Because it’s fair, he wanted to say. Because we’re not enemies. Because I know what it’s like to walk in blind, and I wouldn’t wish that kind of fear on anyone — not even you.

Instead, he said, “It’s just… fair, isn’t it? We all know now. We’re on even footing.”

Cedric stared at him a moment longer. Then gave a single nod.

Harry turned to go — and that’s when he heard the voice that made his stomach immediately twist.

“There he is,” someone called — smooth and obnoxious. “Look, it’s our favorite champion.”

He turned — slowly.

Malfoy was leaning against the stone wall a few meters away, arms crossed, flanked as always by Crabbe and Goyle. His smirk was razor-edged, his pale hair catching the light like a blade. And in that moment, Harry felt something in him bristle — something raw and old and always just under the surface.

He was tired. Bone-deep tired. And he didn’t have the patience for this.

Harry said nothing. Just stared at him, chest rising and falling, his heartbeat loud in his ears.

Malfoy pushed away from the wall, the smirk widening.

“You know, Potter, me and my father had a bet,” he said idly. “He thinks you won’t last ten minutes.”

The world tilted. Just slightly — but enough.

He thought fear would teach me obedience.

Images flashed behind his eyes before he could stop them: Vesta, in the shadows by the Black Lake, telling him how Lucius locked her in the dark when she was five. The way her voice went too quiet when she talked about her childhood.

He was right.

Harry’s hands clenched. His blood thundered.

That man is vile and cruel, he thought. He made her small. He made her believe it was normal.

Suddenly, he was back in the cupboard, and it was too dark and dusty. Uncle Vernon’s hand was heavy on his head, his fingers tugging roughly at his hair, making his scalp itch.

And you—

Harry took a step forward.

“You think I care what your father thinks?” he said, his voice low and sharp.

Malfoy blinked, surprised at the sudden shift.

“I don’t,” Harry went on, stepping in closer. “I don’t care about your stupid bet. I don’t care about him.”

He leaned in — not shouting, but his voice felt like it might splinter anyway.

“Your father is vile. And cruel. And you—”

His eyes locked on Malfoy’s.

“You’re just pathetic.”

There was a beat of stunned silence. Crabbe shifted uncomfortably. Goyle blinked slowly.

And then, quieter — just for Malfoy — Harry added:

“Where were you when he did all of that to her?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t want one.

He turned and walked.

Behind him, he heard Malfoy’s sharp inhale — the sound of a wand being drawn — but before anything could happen, another voice growled behind them:

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to pull your wand on someone with their back turned?”

Harry whipped his head around to see Moody limping toward them, wand raised.

Malfoy froze, wand in his hand. He probably didn’t forget his last encounter with Moody.

“Get out of here,” the man snapped, and the three of them immediately followed, after Malfoy threw a cold glance at him.

“Professor,” said Harry, trying — and failing — not to smile.

Moody’s magical eye rolled wildly, and then fixed on him.

“Well done holding your temper, Potter,” he said gruffly. “Just about, anyway.”

Harry blinked. “I— yeah. Thanks.”

Moody looked him over, and then gave him a long, assessing stare.

“You know what you’re doing with that dragon yet?”

Harry swallowed.

Dragons. Bloody dragons.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve got an idea.”

Moody’s mouth twisted into something like a grin.

“Good. Then work on your strength.”

“I will,” Harry said, feeling more confident now. “That’s exactly what I’m gonna do, sir.”

---

He’d barely shaken the damp greenhouse air out of his robes when Hermione frog-marched him straight to the library. “No time,” she’d said, wiping dragon dung compost off her sleeve. Daphne trailed after them carrying half the Herbology notes for all of Fourth Year, and Vesta walked backwards the whole way so she could finish a Honeydukes bar without getting mud on the pages she was reading. By the time Madam Pince finished glaring them into silence, they’d claimed a table in the back corner and stacked it with more books than should legally be balanced on wood that old.

“Right,” Hermione said, rolling up her sleeves. “Summoning Charms. If you can’t get your broom, the rest doesn’t matter.”

Harry aimed at a quill she’d set at the far edge of the table. Sweat still tickled the back of his neck from the greenhouses.

“Accio.”

Nothing.

“It helps if you actually want it,” Vesta said dryly around a square of chocolate. She snapped a square off a bar of dark chocolate—candied orange peel glittered along the edge—and popped it in her mouth before finishing, “Right now you sound like you’re scolding it.”

“I do want it,” Harry muttered.

“Want it like it’s the last bit of treacle tart at dinner,” Daphne advised. “With the Weasley twins on either side.”

“That’s cruel,” Harry said—but he felt his mouth twitch.

Hermione leaned in, nudged his wrist a fraction. “Not so stiff. Quick flick. Clear intent. Accio.”

He tried again. The quill shivered, skidded forward half an inch, and stopped like it had hit glue.

“Progress!” Hermione said at once.

“Microscopic,” Vesta said, though she reached across and nudged the quill back to its starting mark with one fingertip—neat, exact.

Daphne slid something into Harry’s peripheral vision. “Fuel.” A square of the same chocolate Vesta was eating. It smelled faintly of orange peel.

Harry blinked. “Where’d you get this?”

“She smuggles my sweets like some people smuggle cursed daggers,” Vesta said.

“Oh, hush. I’ll get you more later,” Daphne replied primly.

Harry ate it. It was really sweet. For one ridiculous second, the tight band behind his ribs loosened.

“Again,” Vesta said.

He lifted his wand. “Accio quill.”

It hopped. A whole inch this time. Daphne smiled, clearly pleased. “See? Bribery works.”

Hermione was already riffling through Standard Book of Spells, Grade Four. “Verbal focus first. We’ll worry about nonverbal later. Build distance gradually.”

“Or,” Daphne said, “we skip the quill and move straight to objects that weigh as much as a Firebolt. Like Hermione.”

Hermione gave her a look. “Try saying that again when I’ve got my wand pointed at you.”

Vesta snorted, chocolate melting at the corner of her mouth. She wiped it with her thumb, then absentmindedly set a new target: one of the heavier dragon tomes. “All right, hero. Impress us. Accio Dragons of Eurasia.”

Harry laughed before he could stop himself. “If I break Madam Pince’s book she’ll feed me to an actual dragon.”

“Then you will need to be very careful,” Daphne said.

He didn’t try for the tome yet; he went back to the quill, then a bottle of ink (which sloshed but didn’t move), then one of Hermione’s stacked parchment rolls (which rolled off the table and thumped Vesta’s knee; Vesta arched a brow like really?). Each failure came with commentary:

“Too much arm.”

“You are too stiff.”

“You don’t have to shout; it’s not deaf.”

Hermione corrected his grip; Daphne made tiny betting noises under her breath (“two sickles says it twitches”), and Vesta broke off chocolate and flicked the wrapper at Daphne when she lost.

It should have been maddening. Instead, Harry felt himself settling into the rhythm of it—the pull, the intent, the ridiculous little noises Daphne made when something almost worked, the way Hermione muttered theory under her breath like an engine turning over, the soft snap of Vesta’s chocolate bar whenever she broke another square.

Ron would have had a field day with this, he thought suddenly. He’d have ranked them: “Least useless helper—Hermione. Most likely to hex the quill—Slytherin #2. Most likely to eat the homework—Slytherin #1.” Harry swallowed. The thought hurt and helped at the same time.

“Where’d you just go?” Hermione asked without looking up.

“Nowhere,” he said quickly.

Vesta glanced sideways but didn’t push. Instead: “Try the quill from farther. I’ll count.”

“Why are you counting?” Daphne asked.

“Because we are officially in training,” Vesta said. “Three…two…one…”

“Accio quill!”

The quill zipped across the table and smacked Harry in the palm.

He jolted. “Ha!”

Hermione grinned so wide her eyes crinkled. “Yes! See? You can do this!”

Daphne applauded—quiet, but sincere. “I knew you had it in you.”

Vesta, expression mostly neutral but eyes bright, held out the dragon tome again. “All right. Upgrade.”

Harry eyed the heavy book. “You’re joking.”

“Nope,” she said, popping another square of chocolate. “Imagine it’s your broom. Imagine a dragon is about to fry you. Which, incidentally, it is.”

He swallowed, squared his shoulders, and aimed.

“Accio—”

The book rattled, rose maybe two inches, and dropped with a bang that made all four of them flinch and shush each other at once.

“Okay,” Hermione whispered, breathless with suppressed laughter. “Maybe…smaller upgrades.”

“Or stronger wrists,” Daphne murmured.

Harry rubbed his face, but he was smiling now. Properly smiling. It felt strange and needed.

They cycled through more objects: ink bottle (success), parchment stack (success-ish), Hermione’s battered copy of Fantastic Beasts (hover, wobble, catch). Each time Harry got it even halfway right, Hermione scribbled a tick on a scrap of parchment she declared a “progress chart,” Daphne announced his “champion stats,” and Vesta shoved another square of chocolate his way like she was dosing him for stamina.

“You realize you’re training me like I’m a racing Kneazle,” Harry said.

Vesta didn’t look up. “Eat your sugar and shut up.”

“You will get it,” Hermione added, softer.

“I am getting it,” Harry said—and was startled to realize it was true.

They worked until Madam Pince started doing her end-of-evening sweep, candles dipping lower one by one like the library itself was telling them to clear out. Hermione stacked their reference pile with ruthless speed; Daphne levitated two towers of books at once and made it look graceful; Harry corralled loose parchment; Vesta flicked her wand and sent escaped quills marching back into their tin like obedient beetles.

“Sleep,” Hermione ordered, shouldering her bag. “Your brain has to remember half of this in the morning.”

“Carb-load,” Daphne added solemnly. “Preferably treacle tart. Champions need proper sugar ratios.”

“I thought that was what all this was,” Harry said, eyeing the dwindled chocolate supply.

Vesta pretended not to hear. She slid the last unopened square across the table and—before he could refuse—tucked it into the pocket of his robes herself. “For luck,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes.

He swallowed. “Thanks.”

They started gathering the smaller targets from their drill—corks, parchment rolls, the battered matchbox Hermione had conjured as a “manageable mass.” Vesta tapped that matchbox back to its starting point, then pushed it toward Harry with one fingertip, gaze sharp again.

“Right,” she said. “We’ve seen it hop. We’ve seen it wobble. Tomorrow you’re going to make it fly.”

Harry felt the grin pull before he could stop it. “Deal.”

---

Vesta woke with sugar grit stuck to her back molars and half a Honeydukes Sugar Violet wrapper plastered to her cheek. Perfect. She peeled it away, rolled the sweet back over her tongue for the last of the syrup, and stared at the hangings above her bed while her stomach did odd, empty flips. Her body knew before her brain remembered: today.

Across the aisle Daphne was already up, tie done, hair in a braid that would still look deliberate in a gale. “Up,” she said without turning, a wand flick ironing the front of Vesta’s robes in absentminded arcs. “Food before dragon smoke. You already look dead on your feet.”

“I’m fine, I just woke up,” Vesta said automatically, which was ridiculous because her hands were buzzing and she’d slept badly enough that Phobos had abandoned her pillow for Daphne’s trunk sometime in the night. She checked his neck pouch — empty: the letters to her dad and back successfully delivered, but no reply yet. She told herself no reply was good; no reply meant safe; no reply meant he was somewhere he couldn’t risk sending anything yet. She swallowed the thought and dressed.

The corridors on the way to breakfast had the electric feel Hogwarts got before a Quidditch final: voices stacked too high, nervous laughter ricocheting off stone, a few people already sporting house ribbons (yellow for Diggory everywhere, of course), and more than a handful of “Potter Really Stinks” badges pulsing smugly in green-silver rows. Vesta wanted to hex every one she saw into moth pupae. Daphne, as if sensing the impulse, hooked two fingers in the back of Vesta’s sleeve and gave the smallest warning tug: not worth it.

Potter sat midway down the Gryffindor table under an avalanche of Weasley twins’ commentary, head bowed over porridge he wasn’t eating. Granger anchored his right flank; the space on his left where Weasley usually sprawled remained stubbornly empty except for a jug of pumpkin juice. When Potter lifted his head, searching the hall the way she had, Vesta raised two fingers off her teacup — here. He saw. The flicker of recognition settled something low in her ribs.

He made himself eat; she pretended to. The smells of toast and kippers and scorched porridge crust were washed under by the sharp tang of nerves rolling off hundreds of students at once.

After breakfast the school flowed in color bands across the frosted lawns toward the temporary stadium raised against the forest. The structure itself looked like a siege engine had married a Quidditch stand: steep timber seating, ropes, banners snapped in crosswinds; magical reinforcement humming faintly under Vesta’s boots whenever she stepped. From beyond the high barriers came a deep, metallic clang — chain links the size of Hagrid’s forearm — and a muffled whoomph that shook dust from the rail. Several first-years squeaked. A seventh-year Slytherin made a show of yawning; his face was grey.

They climbed. Granger argued the entire way in a rapid undertone — last-minute theory: “Remember, if they’ve charmed the eggs to react to proximity you may need a range test before— no, listen, listen, Bagman can overrule if—” Daphne countered with calmer logistics: “Line-of-sight matters more, you have altitude, ignore bait flame—” Vesta mostly chewed another sugared violet so she wouldn’t snap at them that talking about it now helped exactly no one. Potter listened, jaw tight, answering in monosyllables.

Their seats were mid-tier, rail front. Excellent view of the arena bowl: sand floor broken by boulder mounds and smoking craters, handlers’ alleys walled in iron, flags for each school draped at the four compass points. Durmstrang red and Beauxbatons blue spilled down opposite stands; Hufflepuff yellow pooled like sunshine; Gryffindor red jostled behind them; Slytherin green further round, Draco a pale knot amid dark robes.

Vesta planted herself deliberately between Daphne and Granger before the later could wedge in closer to Potter; strategic, yes, but also because she knew Granger would funnel nervous energy into words and Daphne would absorb it and Vesta needed both hands free to throttle something if this went badly. The rail was cold under her forearms; wind tasted of smoke.

Down on the floor, McGonagall shepherded the champions into a striped tent. Only shoulders were visible: Krum hunched, Fleur a pale blur, Diggory waving at someone in the stands, Potter last, hand jammed deep in his robes where she knew his wand — and the scrap of chocolate she’d insisted he pocket — sat.

Bagman’s voice boomed magically, cheerier than anyone had a right to be. “Now our champions will each select—!”

Miniature dragons spun up over the tent as each draw happened. A powder-blue Swedish Short-Snout flapped first — Diggory’s. A mossy Welsh Green — Fleur’s. A scarlet Chinese Fireball — Krum’s. The last tiny figure shot up black as burned iron, wings serrated, tail bristling with spikes that glittered even at model scale.

Hungarian Horntail.

Of course.

The air changed; the crowd noise dipped to a shiver. Vesta’s fingers went straight for Daphne’s on instinct and laced them hard. Daphne’s hand tightened back, no questions. On Vesta’s other side Granger made a strangled sound, scooted closer for a better view, and without warning clamped Vesta’s free hand in both of hers. Vesta jolted — she rarely let anyone but Daphne grab her — but Granger’s palm was shaking and hot and real and Vesta found she couldn’t yank away. She allowed it. Wedged between the two of them, she felt oddly braced, like bolting a door at both ends.

Gates clanged. Diggory went first. The Swedish Short-Snout burst out in a gout of blue flame, chain sparking. He transfigured a rock into an animated dog that galloped and barked and drew the dragon’s head; dove for the nest; rolled through a lick of fire that scorched his sleeve black; snatched his golden egg and sprinted. The stands roared. Vesta blew out a breath she hadn’t meant to hold.

Fleur faced the Welsh Green next; she layered something glittering — soporific dust? — over the enclosure, graceful even when the dragon’s tail clipped her hip and spun her sideways. She recovered fast, slid under the arc of a wing, and flicked a charm that sealed the beast’s eyelids long enough to swipe her egg. Half the Beauxbatons contingent burst into tears from relief; Madame Maxime dabbed at one eye like she’d meant to.

Krum bowed to the Chinese Fireball because of course he did, then snapped a Conjunctivitis Curse so clean the Fireball reared blind and sprayed flame in a sloppy fan that cooked three real eggs to ash. Effective, brutal, losing him points for collateral, Granger muttered. Vesta agreed.

Then the handlers cleared the wreckage from the central pen. The heavy wards around the far gate bloomed brighter; heat shimmer bled through the slats. The Horntail hit the barrier once and the impact vibrated the rail under Vesta’s elbows.

Potter walked out.

He looked very small on the sand. The Horntail did not. Black scales, metal-sharp; tail like a barbed chain whip; eyes a pair of furnace coals that tracked movement. It tasted the air, hissed, fanned its wings, dragged a chain three body lengths long that screamed against anchor rings. Even at this distance Vesta smelled singed iron and musk.

Bagman’s whistle shrilled.

Potter pivoted, wand slashing toward the far castle towers. Vesta couldn’t hear his voice over the Horntail’s roar but she felt the shape of the word in her own mouth, because they’d said it a hundred times over quills and inkpots and library tables:

Accio.

Wind bucked through the arena. For a blink nothing happened and Vesta’s pulse misfired — then a black streak lanced out of the northern sky, arrowing straight toward the bowl. The Firebolt slammed into Potter’s palm; he swung astride in one uncompromising motion and shot upward, flame licking the soles of his boots.

The stands detonated. Granger was on her feet without realizing it, crushing Vesta’s fingers hard enough to grind the bones; Daphne yelled something wordless in her other ear; the world narrowed to broom line and dragon lunges.

Potter climbed high, dove low, skimmed the Horntail’s muzzle; baited it left, juked right; drew it up and over the rock pile. Each pass shaved feet off that spiked tail. Vesta’s heart banged a sick, hot rhythm against her ribs. She heard herself, from last night in the library, teasing when he managed to yank the practice quill all the way across the table: Good. Make it move. I want to see it fly.

Stupid, stupid.

The Horntail committed — whole body coiling, head thrust high for a full blast. Its underside flashed pale, seams between scales a vulnerable lattice. Potter dropped like he’d been cut loose, flattened along the broom, ripped the golden egg off the nest as he tore past, then rocketed vertical before the flame could catch him. The dragon slammed back down, chains flaring, handlers hammering containment charms into place.

For a full second Vesta didn’t breathe. Then the roar rippled out from the Gryffindor section and slammed through the entire stadium; sound hit her like a wave; air rushed back into her lungs so fast she coughed. Relief flooded everything — hot, dizzy, almost nauseating in its intensity. Her knees went watery. She pressed both palms flat to the rail to anchor herself.

“He did it!” Granger shrieked, and without warning flung half her weight sideways, wrapping her arms round Vesta’s shoulders in a fierce, joyful crush. Vesta froze by reflex and then, because Granger was shaking and because the noise made her ears ring and because Potter was circling overhead with the egg tucked to his stomach and he was whole, she let herself lean just enough that Granger’s hair tickled her cheek. Daphne thumped her back hard enough to jar her teeth. Vesta huffed something that might have been a laugh.

Across the stadium Weasley was up on the bench, clapping before he caught himself. He dropped his hands, face red, but Vesta saw. Good, she thought savagely. Look at him.

Scores went up in floating numerals: high marks from most of the judges; Karkaroff stingy and booed loudly for it. Even with the lowball Potter landed near the top — easily good enough to keep him in range for the Cup. Granger shouted “Cheating berk!” at the Durmstrang Headmaster, and Daphne suggested that his eyesight be examined.

Getting down from the stands was a scrape of elbows and boots but Granger weaponized her Prefect-in-training tone (“Excuse me, champion’s friends, let us through—”) and they slid along the rails until an overworked official gave up and waved them toward the medical tent.

Inside smelled of singed wool, potion steam, and reptile musk. Diggory sat on a camp bed with a charred sleeve; Fleur had a healer sealing a welt along her ribs; Krum glowered at a scorched eyebrow. Madam Pomfrey dabbed pearl salve along a red stripe on Potter’s forearm while he clutched the golden egg like he didn’t trust the universe not to reclaim it.

He spotted them and sat up straighter. “You see that?” he said, hoarse and grinning and a little wild.

Granger launched first and crushed him in a hug. “You were brilliant,” she said into his shoulder.

“Air,” he wheezed, laughing, and patted her back a bit awkwardly.

Daphne, composed but pink-cheeked from yelling, folded her arms and delivered: “Acceptably dramatic. Next time maybe fewer near-death spirals.”

His grin went crooked. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

Vesta, who had planned something dry and came up empty, dug into her sleeve and produced a wrapped square of honey-caramel she hadn’t entirely meant to share. “For shock,” she said. “Or bribery. Whatever.” She held it out.

He took it like it mattered. “For luck,” he said, and their fingers bumped; stupid how that jolt of contact made the last of the adrenaline unspool.

Movement at the flap drew her eye: a knot of Slytherins being ushered past. Draco led — immaculate, chin high. His gaze snagged on the cluster Potter made with her and Daphne and Granger. For a beat his expression flickered —resentment and something harder — and then he shuttered it and angled his shoulders away, saying something sharp to Parkinson that made Blaise roll his eyes. Fine. Let him look. She hadn’t room in her chest for that argument now.

Madam Pomfrey clucked and flapped and sent them out before they tripped over sling charms. Outside, Bagman’s magically magnified voice still rolled over the stands as the rest of the school poured into the chilly afternoon, everyone talking at once, smoke drifting like torn banners above the arena.

Vesta unwrapped another Sugar Violet and popped it in her mouth because her hands still shook and sugar helped.

They had only gone twenty paces when the crowd ahead hiccupped and opened. A tall splash of Weasley red.

He stopped dead when he saw them.

Silence fell in their little pocket. Noise raged everywhere else.

“Harry,” he said, very seriously, “whoever put your name in that goblet — I — I reckon they’re trying to do you in!”

“Caught on, have you?” said Potter coldly. “Took you long enough.”

Granger stood nervously between them, looking from one to the other. Vesta and Daphne both watched them in silence.

“It’s okay,” he said, before Weasley could say anything else. “Forget it.”

“No,” said Weasley answered, “I shouldn’t’ve —”

“Forget it,” Potter said, grin tugging at his lips. Weasley grinned back nervously.

They went for a handshake and missed it, collided forearms, then did that sideways shoulder bash boys deploy when hugging is too obvious. It was a mess.

Granger exploded. No warning; just a strangled sound and then she was crying — full-on, great wet tears — before she even made contact.

“What— Hermione?” Potter yelped, arms splaying because of the egg.

“Oi, don’t— what’s wrong?” Weasley blurted at the same time, panicked.

“What’s wrong?” she sobbed, and hurled herself at both of them. “You absolute idiots— I’ve been— and the dragon— and you wouldn’t talk—” Everything blurred under the tears. Potter staggered; the golden egg nearly went flying until Daphne swooped in, grabbed it, and rolled her eyes so hard Vesta heard it.

“You boys are spectacularly stupid,” Daphne informed them with chilly affection, steadying Granger with one arm while keeping the egg tucked like a Quidditch Chaser. “Next time try words before mortal peril.”

Granger’s elbow caught Vesta in the ribs as she tried to include everyone. Vesta locked up on reflex — she always did when touch arrived like spellfire — then forced herself to loosen.

Granger was shaking; Vesta lifted a hand and patted between her shoulder blades, awkward at first, then less so when she leaned into it.

“Breathe,” Daphne said.

“I am breathing!” Granger hiccupped, snorting a laugh through tears.

“You are not.” Daphne handed her a handkerchief.

Weasley muttered something about “girls” that did not survive both of their glare.

The current of bodies started dragging them toward the castle; they let it, cluster intact, Potter and Weasley now orbiting each other automatically, like always, and Granger blotchy but beaming through damp lashes.

Vesta crunching the melted center of the violet and letting the sugar burn the back of her throat because relief tasted sweet and chemical and dizzying.

They had not gone far when a voice like lacquered honey sliced across the corridor.

“Harry! Harry— just a quick word for my readers—”

Rita Skeeter. Acid-green robes; beetle-bright spectacles; Quick-Quotes Quill bobbing like a predatory insect. She flowed out from between two Durmstrang boys with the professional grace of a shark cutting water. A photographer tottered behind her under a tripod.

Vesta wrinkled her nose. She had heard about this woman and she read her article about Potter with Daphne. Vesta, usually reversed about most of the people, genuinely disliked her. Daphne, on the other hand, openly hated her with passion.

“Congratulations, Harry!” Skeeter cooed, already angling to trap him against the stone. “The wizarding world is thrilling over your performance — a spectacular upset! Tell us, how does it feel to triumph under such controversy? And—” her eyes flicked across the group, talon-sharp, landing on Vesta and lighting up — “and who do we have here? Estheri Malfoy, fraternizing? Oh, or is it Black, now? Hogwarts unity at last! Is this your special—”

Vesta met her gaze and gave her nothing. Just a flat, cold look that said closed door in any language.

Potter stepped in front of Vesta so smoothly it startled her, one hand swinging back to catch her sleeve and draw her half behind his shoulder. Skeeter’s quill quivered, drunk on implication. Potter’s scarred forearm was squarely between the woman and Vesta now, protective as a shield.

“Yeah,” he said. “You can have a word.”

Skeeter’s painted mouth widened. The quill dipped, ready.

“Goodbye,” Potter finished.

He pivoted, tugging Vesta with him before Skeeter’s laughter could rearrange itself into insistence. Daphne dropped back a stride to block the photographer’s line of sight with the egg, which made a hollow croak; Weasley planted his lanky frame square in Skeeter’s path and said loudly, “No interviews, tournament rules,” even though he wasn’t certain, and Granger (recovered enough to weaponize righteous outrage) snapped, “Unauthorized press contact violates delegation protocol, write that down!” which caused three Ravenclaws nearby to gasp and pull away from them as if scandal were contagious.

Potter didn’t release Vesta’s sleeve until they were clear of the crush. When he did, heat ghosted where his fingers had clenched the fabric.

“You alright?” he asked, still a little breathless.

“I’m fine,” she said automatically — then, because pretending seemed insulting after dragons and reconciliations and Skeeter’s talons, added, “Thanks.”

He shrugged; eyes tired but bright. “Anytime.”

Chapter 16: the yule ball

Notes:

for some reason this chapter took me longer to write. it was so fun at first, but on the end i just started to hate it, so im posting it unsatisfied. It's so hard to write romance, especially teenage romance lol.

It never failed to amaze Harry how quickly people changed their minds.

Two weeks ago, half the school had been side-eyeing him like he was a fame-hungry fraud. Now, first-years were whispering in awe every time he passed, as though he might breathe fire if he opened his mouth too wide.

He pushed a piece of toast across his plate and watched the trail of crumbs it left on the tablecloth. His fingers still ached if he moved them too fast, and his shoulders were stiff from clutching his broom during the First Task. The bruises were yellowing now, spreading beneath the skin like thunderclouds — but he didn’t mind them. They were earned.

What was worse was the egg.

That damned golden egg still sat in his trunk like a cursed object, shrieking every time he opened it. He hadn’t slept well the night after the task — not from fear, but from the sound. That horrible, grinding scream had echoed in his skull long after he’d slammed the lid shut. He didn’t know what it meant. None of them did.

And then, as if fighting a dragon weren’t humiliating enough, Professor McGonagall had announced in her usual clipped tone that there would be a Yule Ball. Mandatory, for champions.

He sighed and picked up his pumpkin juice. The Hall buzzed with breakfast chatter, drifting ghosts, and the scent of cinnamon and warm bread. A few second-years at the end of the Gryffindor table were pointing at him again, giggling.

“Right,” he muttered. “Back to being a celebrity.”

He was about to force the toast into his mouth out of pure stubbornness when—

“Move, Potter.”

He blinked.

Vesta had appeared beside him, her dark hair slightly wind-tousled and one side of her Slytherin robes sitting unevenly, like she’d dressed in a hurry. She looked half-distracted, like her brain was still mid-thought, eyes bright with some inner spark.

Harry shifted to make room as she slid onto the bench beside him, parchment already clutched in her fingers.

“I think I figured something out,” she said, voice low but urgent. She reached into her pocket again and pulled out a small vial. “Kind of.”

Harry straightened instinctively. “About the egg?”

Vesta nodded once. “Sort of. I haven’t tested it yet — obviously, I don’t have the egg — but I’ve been researching the acoustic properties of magical resonance. There’s a theory that certain sounds can be manipulated through infusions—”

“Sorry, borrowing your champion,” a smooth voice interrupted from behind.

Daphne appeared like a well-dressed diplomat at Vesta’s shoulder, flashing a polite, almost amused smile at the Gryffindors. “Just for a moment,” she added, eyes flicking to Ron with practiced charm. “We promise to return him in one piece.”

Ron just blinked.

Daphne turned to Hermione next, tipping her head slightly. “Hermione, if you’re not busy saving the world, we could use your brilliance too.”

Hermione looked startled for half a second — then beamed, clearly pleased. “Of course. I’m not busy.”

Vesta barely paused. She spread the parchment between her hands, letting Hermione lean in beside her. “Like I was saying,” she continued, “there’s a branch of magical theory that studies sound-layering in potion infusion. I found a spell that isolates tonal residue in magical reactions. It’s used mostly in experimental brewing — kind of obscure, but—”

“Wait,” Hermione said, already scanning the notes, “you mean to filter the resonance? Like extract it from the surrounding magical noise?”

“Exactly,” Vesta said, her voice quickening slightly. “I haven’t brewed a proper resonator potion — too time-consuming — but I did attempt a filtering elixir based on the same principles.”

She held out the vial, the faint shimmer of amber liquid catching the light.

“I’m not sure it’ll work,” she said, looking at Harry now. “But if you try it while opening the egg — see if anything changes. It might dull the upper frequencies enough to isolate the message underneath. If there is one.”

Harry took the vial carefully, fingers brushing hers. “You brewed this just… for the egg?”

“Well,” she said, flushing slightly, “I didn’t exactly have another magical screaming object lying around.”

Hermione laughed, short and bright. “You might be on to something.”

“Thank you,” he said, a little quieter than before, feeling something warm uncurl in his chest. “Really. You didn’t have to.”

She shrugged one shoulder like it was nothing, but her ears went faintly pink. “It’s not a big deal.”

Hermione was already scribbling something on a nearby serviette, murmuring about cross-referencing magical sound-muting runes, but Harry wasn’t looking at her anymore. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Daphne watching him.

She wasn’t smiling — not exactly. Just tilting her head slightly, eyes flicking from him to Vesta, then back again, as if considering something privately. A moment later, she looked away.

Harry blinked, unsure why that made him feel suddenly self-conscious.

From down the bench, Fred and George’s voices burst into the moment like fireworks.

“George,” said Fred loudly, “do you see what I see?”

“I do, Fred,” George replied, equally dramatic. “It’s Slytherins. At our table.”

“Unprecedented.”

“Historically unsound.”

“Blasphemous,” Fred said gravely. “They’ve even brought parchment.”

George gasped. “And vials. Actual potion vials. Are we being poisoned?”

“Merlin, I hope so. I’ve always wanted to go out dramatically.”

Daphne arched an unimpressed brow. “You’re both already dramatic.”

“That’s just our charm,” Fred said.

“Or lack of shame,” George added.

“I vote lack of shame,” said Vesta, her face blank.

Hermione snorted, flipping to a fresh corner of parchment.

Fred leaned closer to Harry, stage-whispering, “You’ll want to watch them, mate. These two have ‘insidious brilliance’ written all over them.”

“Don’t you worry, Weasley, we plot potential deaths only on Tuesdays,” said Daphne. Her eyes suddenly found Neville and she gave him a polite nod, which surprise both him and Harry.

“Right, well,” George said, standing. “We’re off to do… Gryffindor things.”

“Mischief. Mayhem. Prom robes.”

“Don’t forget snacks.”

“Never forget snacks.”

They disappeared down the table, still bickering. Hermione rolled her eyes and returned to her notes.

But Harry wasn’t paying attention anymore. He was still holding the vial, feeling something warm uncurl under his ribs. He glanced sideways again — just in time to catch Daphne glancing at him. Their eyes met for a heartbeat. She didn’t say anything, but there was something in her eyes that made him sift uncomfortably.

He cleared his throat and looked down quickly.

A minute later, the girls stood to leave. Daphne tugged her gloves back on, then looked to Hermione.

“We’ll meet you later?”

“After lunch,” Hermione said brightly. “I’ll bring the diagrams.”

“Perfect,” said Vesta.

They turned to go, but just before they stepped away, Vesta looked back over her shoulder.

“Try it after class,” she said. “Let me know if it works.”

“I will.”

There was a beat — just a breath — and then she turned and walked off with Daphne. The hall felt oddly quiet behind them.

Ron stared after them, toast halfway to his mouth.

“I’ll never get used to that,” he muttered.

A few seats down, Lavender leaned toward Hermione.

“You’re meeting them?” she asked, half-whisper, half-curious.

“Like… willingly?” Parvati added, blinking.

Hermione frowned slightly. “Yes. Why?”

“I mean…” Lavender hesitated. “They’re just—Slytherins.”

Hermione sat up straighter. “They’re perfectly nice. Actually, they’re very helpful.”

Harry nodded, still watching the space where they’d walked away. “They’re alright,” he said. “People should stop acting like Slytherin’s a disease.”

Parvati flushed and glanced away.

Hermione gave him a rare smile — warm, grateful, and just a little triumphant.

Fred’s voice drifted back from somewhere near the doors. “Keep making friends like that, Harry, and you’ll end up on a watchlist.”

“Or in Slytherin robes,” George added.

“Perish the thought.”

Harry only smiled, the potion warm in his hand.

---

Hermione sat alone at the far end of the library, sunlight streaking through the high windows and glinting off the spines of untouched books. Her fingers rested lightly on the parchment in front of her, but she wasn’t reading. Not really. She’d been turning the same page for the last five minutes, too distracted by the gentle warmth blooming behind her ribs — an odd, fizzy sort of contentment that she hadn’t quite managed to name.

It wasn’t just the afterglow of the First Task, or the giddy relief of watching Harry walk away from a dragon in one piece. It was something else. Something smaller. Softer.

She’d never had this before.

Not just friendship — she’d always had Ron and Harry, and she loved them, deeply. Fiercely. But this was different. This was—

She glanced down at the parchment again and smiled to herself.

This was sitting in the library and waiting for girls who actually wanted to meet her. Not for help with homework or to borrow her notes, but to talk. To share things. To laugh with her. It still felt unfamiliar — strange in the way sunlight felt when it spilled through curtains on the first day of summer — but she liked it.

She’d never quite managed to fit with the other girls in Gryffindor. It wasn’t for lack of trying. She’d offered to braid hair, join in on games, even asked Lavender once — in what she thought was a friendly tone — what lip balm she used. But something always went wrong. She’d come off too blunt, or too eager, or said something that sounded like judgment when she hadn’t meant it that way at all. They’d giggle and look at each other, and Hermione would shrink back into the safety of her books.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to giggle, too. It just… never came naturally.

But with Vesta and Daphne — especially in these quiet corners of the castle where no one was watching — it felt easy. Like she wasn’t too much. Like she didn’t have to apologize for knowing things or asking questions or being excited about obscure magical theories. They didn’t make her feel like she had to shrink herself just to belong. They just… let her be.

And that, she realized, was the dream. One she hadn’t even known she’d been carrying.

She sat up a little straighter, folding her hands together just as the door opened.

Daphne emerged between the rows of shelves, her robe hem swishing as she approached. Her braid was half-loosened, her cheeks slightly pink — but her posture, as ever, was perfectly poised.

Hermione looked behind her instinctively, expecting to see Vesta in tow. But there was no one else.

“She’ll be here in a minute,” Daphne said easily, dropping her bag onto the seat beside Hermione. “She ran into Theo outside Transfiguration. Looked like he’d ambushed her with a question he couldn’t let go of.”

Hermione blinked. “Nott? Again?”

Daphne gave her a dry, amused look. “Yes. Again.”

She began pulling out parchment, a half-folded chart, and an ink bottle, but Hermione didn’t move. Her curiosity caught against something — a quiet hum she hadn’t yet put into words.

Now that she thought about it, it wasn’t the first time she’d seen them together.

Vesta and Nott.

At first, it had just been glimpses — in passing between lessons, or crossing the courtyard. But lately it had been more. Study corners claimed in tandem. Shared glances in Potions. The easy rhythm of conversation that didn’t require explanation. And it wasn’t just Nott, of course — there was always Zabini nearby, and Daphne herself. The four of them moved like a loose constellation. But somehow, when Vesta wasn’t with Daphne, she was usually with Nott.

There was something about the way she looked at him — not infatuated. Just... familiar. At ease. It made Hermione wonder.

She tapped her finger gently on the table. “Are they close?”

Daphne’s lips curved, not quite into a smile, but something knowing. “They’ve known each other since they were children. Pure-blood family circles.” Her tone carried the faintest edge of mockery, like she didn’t particularly miss those years.

Hermione tilted her head. “Like you and Vesta, then?”

Daphne shrugged. “Sort of. But it’s different with them. You know my parents had never been biggest fans of Malfoys. But Lucius and Theo’s father have always been in the same circle.” She smoothed out the folds of her parchment, not looking up right away. “Vesta’s always been a bit… wary of people. It took a while for her to get use to me and my family. But she had always been more at ease with Theo. I think it’s because they are a bit similar. He can be mean sometimes, but other than that he is pretty composed.”

Hermione absorbed that quietly, watching the way Daphne lined her quill alongside her notes.

“I wouldn’t call it romantic,” Daphne added, a little lighter. “Not now, anyway. But there was a time. Around second year, I think. They used to write notes to each other during History of Magic, and Vesta kept this horrid little pin Theo gave her. A tiny brass dragon. She still has it, last I checked.”

Hermione’s eyebrows lifted. “Really?”

“Don’t tell her I told you.” Daphne’s voice was light, but her smile was real. “She’d hex me.”

Hermione grinned, but the warmth in her chest swelled into something deeper — a strange kind of fondness. For all of them. The quiet stories folded into their friendship like pressed flowers.

Maybe that’s why she was a bit more comfortable with Harry. At first, she didn’t think that they were similar—Vesta was too reserved most of the time, while Harry was wearing his emotions on his sleeve, even when he tried to hide it. But lately she came to realization that she might be wrong. The way Harry talked sometimes about her made Hermione feel that he was talking more about his own experience that Vesta’s.

He never talked about his relatives but both her and Ron know how awful those people were. Judging by the way Daphne’s eyes went cold when she talked about Malfoys, perhaps Vesta and Harry really were similar after all.

Hermione didn’t want to press either of them, but she noticed how the two of them were getting closer with each day. Something happened the day when Harry went to find her after the fight in Slytherin’s common room. She was pretty sure Daphne noticed it too.

The door creaked again.

Vesta slipped into the room, loose strands of hair falling around her temples, a small ink smudge on the edge of her hand. She didn’t seem flustered, just mildly annoyed.

“Sorry,” she said, sliding into the seat across from them. “He wouldn’t stop talking about the comparative charms of Romanian versus Scandinavian wandwork. I told him to write his bloody essay.”

Hermione tried not to smile. “Did you help him?”

“Maybe,” Vesta muttered, eyes flicking toward Daphne. “A little.”

Daphne raised an eyebrow. “Was that before or after you corrected his definition of wand core resonance?”

“Shut up.”

They’d been working in comfortable silence for some time — the scratch of quills, the soft rustle of parchment, the occasional sigh when a particularly stubborn sentence refused to resolve itself.

Hermione had just jotted a note in the margin of her Arithmancy chart when Daphne spoke, almost absently.

“Did your dad send a reply yet?”

Vesta didn’t look up right away. “Huh?”

“Sirius,” Daphne clarified, as though it were obvious. “You wrote him after the First Task, didn’t you?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Vesta reached into her bag, fishing around between books and spare parchment. “He did, actually. Just this morning.”

There was a pause — a beat that caught Hermione’s attention more than anything.

She glanced up, trying not to look too obvious about it. She had read his letter to Harry earlier but she didn’t want to pry.

Vesta pulled out the folded parchment and laid it beside her notes. Her fingers hovered over it for a second before she said, more lightly than necessary, “It’s nothing, really. You can read it if you want.”

Hermione blinked. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Vesta didn’t meet her eyes, but the corner of her mouth tugged upward. “It’s just… dad.”

Daphne leaned in first, already familiar, already grinning.

Hermione hesitated for half a second longer, then carefully shifted her chair closer. She didn’t touch the parchment — just leaned forward enough to read it from where it lay, the familiar loopy scrawl spilling down the page in ink just a little too bold.

Vesta,
I’ve got Harry’s letter, don’t worry. Good job, kiddos, I’m sure he did it with your help. Thank you for looking out for him, if he is anything like James—which I’m sure, he is—troubles are gonna follow him everywhere.

I’ve heard about the Yule Ball. Anyone asked you yet? I’m not sure if I want to know the answer honestly, but tell me anyway so I could convince you to ditch your date. Tell me everything.

Don’t worry about me, baby, I am being careful. Stay safe.

Love,
Dad

Hermione felt something tighten in her throat — not sadness, exactly, but a strange ache she couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was the casual tenderness in his voice. Or maybe it was the way Vesta pretended not to watch them reading it, like she wasn’t sure what it meant to let them see it.

“Honestly,” Daphne said, shaking her head with a fond sort of smirk.

Vesta smiled. “Yeah.”

Hermione smiled, still half-reading the last line again. Her heart was breaking for all three of them—Harry, Vesta and Sirius.

“Thanks for sharing it,” she said quietly.

Vesta glanced up, surprised. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It kind of is,” Hermione said, voice gentle.

Vesta didn’t reply, but she gave a small, crooked smile and pulled the parchment back toward her, folding it with surprising care.

Daphne was still smiling when she leaned back in her chair, arms loosely folded. “So,” she said, with the kind of faux-casual air that usually preceded something pointed, “what are you going to write back? You know. About the Yule Ball.”

Vesta gave her a sideways look. “What about it?”

“He asked if you had a date,” Daphne said sweetly. “You going to tell him how many blokes have tried and failed?”

Vesta rolled her eyes. “It’s not that big of a thing.”

“Oh, it is,” Daphne replied with relish. “I’ve seen them. That seventh-year from Ravenclaw nearly fell down the stairs trying to get to you before lunch.”

Hermione bit back a grin, watching as Vesta pushed a hand through her hair, looking unbothered but also… not exactly denying it.

She shrugged. “I’ll probably wait for Theo to ask me. Or I’ll ask him. I don’t know.”

That surprised Hermione — not the Nott part, necessarily, but the way she said it. Light, offhand, like it wasn’t a big deal. But her fingers tapped once against her ink bottle, just once, like the thought carried more weight than she was letting on.

Daphne arched a brow. “So that’s your grand plan?”

“It’s just a ball,” Vesta said flatly. “It’s already exhausting. Better to go with someone I’m comfortable with.”

“Fair.” Daphne tilted her head. “Still—tell Sirius. He’ll want to know. Probably so he can send a howler to your date.”

Vesta smiled faintly. “Probably.”

Hermione’s quill hovered above her notes.

“What about you?” she said, turning to Daphne. “Are you going with anyone?”

Daphne gave her a small, mysterious smile. “I’m going with Blaise.”

Vesta blinked. “Wait, really?”

Daphne lifted a shoulder. “He asked the moment they announced it. Figured I might as well say yes.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “But I thought—weren’t you upset with him?”

“I forgave him weeks ago,” Daphne said breezily, twirling her quill. “I was just letting him suffer a bit. Builds character.”

Vesta snorted. “You’re horrible.”

“He deserved it,” Daphne replied with a shrug. “Anyway, there wasn’t anyone else I’d want to go with.”

There was something oddly sweet about the way she said it, and for a moment Hermione felt like she was watching something quiet and private unfold between old friends. She liked that. How honest and open they were with each other. It made her chest feel light again, like there was something blooming just beneath her sternum.

Before she could say anything more, the door creaked open.

Viktor Krum entered the library with the kind of gravity that made the air shift. His fan club — five or six girls from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff — trailed behind him like enchanted ducks, whispering behind their hands, shooting glances in every direction except the bookshelves.

All three girls groaned at once.

“For Merlin’s sake,” Vesta muttered.

“This is worse than Lockhart,” Daphne said, scandalized.

Hermione didn't join in. She watched as Viktor drifted toward the far end of the reading room, then paused, scanning the space. He didn’t look at the girls trailing behind him — didn’t even seem to notice them, honestly. His gaze landed on their table for just a moment before he moved to a quieter shelf nearby, back turned.

Hermione felt her face warm.

It wasn’t that she disliked him. He was polite — actually quite nice the few times they’d spoken, which had mostly been while she waited with Vesta and Daphne outside the common room. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, it was in this calm, measured way that reminded her a bit of Cedric.

But the fan club? Absolutely insufferable.

“They’re going to start squealing again,” Vesta said under her breath. “Last time I was here, one of them actually asked to borrow my perfume because she was hoping he’d walk past her.”

Daphne groaned. “They’ll shatter every ink bottle in this place if he so much as blinks in our direction.”

Hermione laughed — but it felt oddly nice to hear them say it. To realize she wasn’t the only one driven slightly mad by the nonsense. The way the girls tripped over themselves. The shrieking. The shameless spying. She’d started to think she was being overly critical.

Daphne looked at her pointedly. “You know he’s coming here for you, right?”

Hermione choked on her breath. “What?”

“Oh, come on,” Daphne said. “He’s been lurking near our table for a week. Always at the same time. Always looking at you.”

Vesta looked genuinely surprised. “Wait, really?”

“Yes, really,” Daphne said, exasperated. “Honestly, I expected this from you,” she nodded toward Vesta, “but not from Hermione.”

Hermione flushed. “He’s not—he’s not coming here for me.”

“Of course not,” Daphne said with heavy sarcasm. “He just happens to like watching you take notes on rune convergence.”

Hermione tried to focus on her parchment, but the words blurred slightly. “It’s not like that.”

But then Vesta chimed in, not teasing — just thoughtful. “Well, you are smart and pretty. It’s not exactly shocking.”

Hermione blinked. She glanced up, uncertain, but neither of them looked like they were joking.

It was strange. She was used to being called clever, or brilliant, or terrifying with a wand — but not that. Not pretty. Especially not from girls she admired.

Something twisted inside her, warm and delicate. A soft ache of recognition.

“Thanks,” she said, voice quieter than she meant it to be.

The moment passed, and they returned to their notes. For the next hour, the three of them worked in practiced rhythm — Vesta flipping through old Defense volumes and scribbling spell variations on a spare bit of parchment for Harry to try later, while Daphne and Hermione scoured historical accounts of the Triwizard Tournament, trying to find any hint of a pattern for the next task.

Hermione found herself drifting in and out of focus — her thoughts trailing between historical events and the fact that Krum had not yet left the library.

He was still by the far shelves when he finally moved.

She felt him approaching before she saw him. The hush that followed. The sound of several disappointed girls packing up their things in protest.

“Excuse me,” Viktor said, in his low, careful voice. He was looking right at her. “May I speak with you?”

Her heart did something stupid in her chest.

She looked at Vesta and Daphne, then back at him, and nodded.

They walked a few paces away, just out of earshot. She stood straighter than usual. Tried to pretend her palms weren’t damp.

“I vas vondering,” he said, “if you vould go to ze ball… vith me.”

Hermione stared at him for a moment too long.

“Oh,” she said. “I—yes. I mean, yes. I’d love to.”

Viktor smiled — just a little — and gave a polite nod. “Thank you.”

He left with the same quiet grace he always had.

Hermione returned to the table like she’d forgotten how to walk properly.

Both girls looked up at her with expectant expressions.

“Well?” Daphne asked.

Hermione dropped into her chair, face hot. “He asked me.”

Vesta beamed. Daphne grinned like she’d won a bet.

“Oh, shut up,” Hermione muttered, but she couldn’t stop smiling either.

It was strange, how something as simple as this — laughter shared across a table, two girls leaning in with wide eyes and teasing grins — could make her feel so full.

For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was watching other people live their lives. She was in it. Here. Present.

And it felt wonderful.

---

Harry was late.

Not really late — just five minutes, maybe — but still. He hurried up the corridor toward the library, one hand still damp from the ink he'd smudged while finishing his Charms notes. Ron had stayed behind with Seamus after Charms — something about Exploding Snap and a forgotten bet — which meant Harry would be meeting Vesta alone this afternoon.

They’d started dividing things up lately. He practiced spells with Ron and Vesta. Hermione and Daphne took over the research — maps, books, obscure magical theory Hermione seemed to read in her sleep. It worked, this odd patchwork system they’d built together. Harry didn’t quite understand how it had happened, but… he didn’t mind it.

He rounded the corner toward the library and slowed down when he saw her.

Vesta stood at the mouth of the corridor, halfway between the library doors and the statue of Urquhart the Unready. She hadn’t seen him yet. Her robes were slightly uneven at the hem, and she was rifling through her bag with one hand, her other holding a book to her chest like it was some kind of shield.

And she wasn’t alone.

Two Durmstrang boys were walking toward her — tall, broad-shouldered, the kind who looked like they bench-pressed trolls for fun. One of them said something Harry couldn’t hear, and Vesta’s expression flickered — something quick and unmistakably uncomfortable. Her shoulders tensed. She glanced around.

Then her eyes found Harry.

A second later, she crossed the space between them in four quick strides. “There you are,” she said, grabbing his hand without hesitation. Her fingers wrapped tightly around his, warm and slightly calloused. “Come on.”

Harry barely had time to blink before she tugged him back down the corridor, her hand still wrapped in his. Her grip wasn’t gentle — it was purposeful. Familiar, almost. But it was also the first time she’d ever touched him like this.

The contact made something lurch sideways in his chest.

They turned the corner and ducked into a side alcove near the empty tapestry stairwell. She let go of him immediately and leaned back against the stone, exhaling through her nose.

“What was that?” he asked, breath catching.

“Sorry,” she muttered, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Didn’t want to talk to them. I’ve had enough invitations to last me a lifetime this week.”

Harry blinked. “Invitations?”

Vesta crossed her arms, not meeting his eye. “To the ball.”

“Oh,” he said. Then, stupidly: “So… you’re already going with someone?”

She looked at him, face blank. “No. I’m waiting for Theo to ask me.”

Something cold and prickly crawled under Harry’s collar.

It wasn’t the answer he expected, and it made him feel — not angry, exactly, just… odd. Off-balance.

“You’re that sure he will?” he said, and hated how flat it came out.

Vesta shrugged. “Probably. If not, I’ll ask him.”

There was a beat of silence. A book cart creaked in the distance.

Vesta kicked lightly at the floor with the toe of her shoe. “I mean, the chaos around this ball’s already exhausting. Better to go with someone I know, right? Someone who’s not gonna make the whole thing even more uncomfortable.”

Harry nodded, but something was twisting inside him — slowly, quietly, like a string pulled too tight.

He thought of Cho — how his heart had pounded every time she’d smiled at him, how he’d imagined dancing with her and felt like he might combust. But he also remembered how his throat had closed up every time he got close to asking. How the idea of dancing in front of the whole school had made him want to vanish under the floorboards.

With Vesta, things were… different.

She made fun of his handwriting. She showed up with ink on her fingers and half-formed spells in her pocket. She always had something useful to say, even when she pretended it was nothing. She was calm, sharp, funny in this dry, sideways way. And lately she would look at him differently, like her whole focus was on him, like she was present. It made his heart swell in his chest.

He swallowed. The words were out before he could stop them.

“Well… would you want to go with me?”

Vesta blinked. “What?”

“I mean, to the ball,” he said quickly. “With me.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Her gray eyes searched his face — not harshly, just trying to read him. He saw the exact moment surprise softened into something else, something curious.

“You want to go with me?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Harry said, then immediately felt the heat crawl up his neck. “I mean — you said you wanted to go with someone you’re comfortable with, right?”

Vesta’s lips quirked, but not quite into a smile. “You’re not just asking because I brewed that potion for the egg, are you?”

“No,” he said, a little too fast. Then, recovering: “I mean, maybe partially, but also because… I thought we were getting on pretty well. And we’re friends, right?”

She tilted her head, considering him. Her eyes were lighter in the shadows here, more silver than gray.

“Yeah,” she said after a moment. “We are.”

There was a pause.

Then she added, “Alright. Sure. I’ll go with you.”

Harry felt something uncoil in his stomach — a kind of relief that surprised him. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.

“Cool,” he said, too casually. “Great.”

Vesta shifted her bag on her shoulder. “Do you even know how to dance?”

“…No.”

“Well then,” she said, straightening. “We’ll teach you.”

And with that, she turned and headed toward the library like nothing unusual had happened at all.

Harry stared after her for a second, then looked down at his hand — the one she’d grabbed — and flexed it slightly, like the warmth hadn’t quite faded.

---

It was hard not to find the whole thing a little ridiculous.

Potter was standing stiffly in the middle of the cleared classroom, looking like someone had just dared him to walk a tightrope blindfolded. His shoulders were hunched, arms hovering awkwardly at his sides like he wasn’t sure if this was supposed to be a dance or a duel. Hermione was already giggling. Loudly.

Vesta, of course, looked entirely unfazed. She stood across from him with one eyebrow slightly raised, calm and poised as ever, her arms loosely folded behind her back. Daphne watched from where she sat on the edge of a desk, legs crossed at the ankle, absently tapping her quill against her knee. She hadn’t planned to stay. But once Hermione had dragged Vesta into showing Potter how not to humiliate himself at the Ball, curiosity got the better of her. And honestly, it was more entertaining than she’d expected.

Potter looked miserable. His tie was crooked. His hair, already hopeless, had managed to stand even more on end, as if bracing itself for impact. The moment Vesta told him to take her hand, he hesitated like it was a cursed object.

“I really can’t dance,” he muttered, half under his breath.

“You can learn,” Vesta said simply, and extended her hand with the kind of no-nonsense authority that made most people shut up and do what they were told.

Hermione practically bounced in place, delight plastered all over her face. “Go on, Harry, it’s just us!”

Daphne had to admit: he really was spectacularly awkward. In a funny way. Not pathetic — not exactly — but entertaining. He kept glancing at his feet, as if they were plotting against him, and the moment he tried to place his hand at Vesta’s waist, he flinched like he’d brushed a live wire.

She didn’t even blink.

“Here,” Vesta said, shifting slightly and guiding his hand into place. “Relax your shoulders. You look like you’re about to cast a Shield Charm.”

Hermione burst into laughter again, and Harry let out a groan so heartfelt that Daphne couldn’t help the small, amused smile tugging at her mouth. The whole thing was ridiculous, yes. But it was also strangely endearing.

She wouldn’t have guessed it, a year ago — even a few months ago — that she’d ever find herself quietly enjoying Harry Potter’s company. Let alone watching him bumble through a waltz with her best friend. But things had shifted lately. The wariness she’d once felt around him had ebbed, gradually, without her even noticing. It helped, she supposed, to see him up close — not across the Hall, not as a name in the Prophet, but as a person. Just a boy, really. A slightly anxious, slightly too-sincere boy who made a great deal of eye contact and never seemed to know what to do with his hands.

And then there was the matter of the Yule Ball.

When Vesta had told her — with her usual maddening composure — that she was going with Potter, Daphne was surprised. Not because she disapproved. She didn’t. But because it genuinely hadn’t occurred to her that he’d ask. She’d been fairly certain he had his heart set on Chang. That crush had been no secret — everyone from Slytherin to Ravenclaw had picked up on it by now. And yet here he was, dancing with Vesta. Or trying to.

Vesta stepped forward now, correcting his stance again with a firm tug on his sleeve. “Your elbow is too high.”

“I feel like a chicken,” Harry muttered.

“You look like one,” Hermione offered helpfully.

“You’re both very supportive,” he deadpanned.

It was easy, the way they all spoke. Comfortable. Even Harry, who had arrived stiff and uncertain, was loosening bit by bit — not in his feet, which were still a hazard, but in his voice, his shoulders, the way he was beginning to respond without hesitation. Vesta wasn’t laughing, exactly, but she was smiling. That small, private smile Daphne had come to recognize — the one that slipped out before Vesta remembered to hold it back.

Daphne tilted her head slightly, studying them with idle interest. Vesta had never been easy to read, even for her, and she knew how to keep things sealed tight when she wanted to. But still — something about the rhythm between them had changed lately. There was a weight to it. A different kind of stillness. A small but noticeable shift in the way they occupied space near each other.

She was still thinking about that when Vesta spoke again.

“Try again,” she said, and Harry grimaced. “No, seriously, you’re doing better.”

He squinted at her. “Are you lying to make me feel better, or…?”

“If I wanted to lie,” Vesta replied, cool as anything, “I’d say you were graceful.”

Daphne snorted before she could help herself. So did Hermione.

And then, without really thinking about it, Daphne glanced up again — and caught something.

A flicker.

It wasn’t a long moment, and it wasn’t particularly charged. But something about the way Vesta looked at him — just then, just in passing — made Daphne pause. It wasn’t the look itself that did it. It was what came before. The tone of her voice. The ease of the teasing. The way Harry looked back at her with this open, unguarded expression, eyebrows drawn together in quiet amusement like he didn’t quite understand how he’d ended up here but was oddly glad he had.

Daphne’s eyes lingered a second too long.

Something about the air between them had changed. She couldn’t say how she knew. Her friendship with Harry was a new thing, but she had been Vesta’s best friend her whole life.

She watched Vesta’s fingers adjust slightly where they rested at Harry’s wrist. Watched Harry look down at the space between them. And then Vesta said something under her breath that made him laugh, properly this time — a surprised little huff that pulled at the corners of her own mouth in response.

Daphne blinked.

Oh.

Her lips curved, just slightly, and she looked back down at her parchment, though she wasn’t really reading. The realization didn’t bring any kind of sting — just a quiet, wry awareness that made her chest feel unexpectedly full.

Oh, dear.

---

The bathroom wasn’t grand by Hogwarts standards, but it was quiet, and that counted for something. The sconces above the mirror glowed with a soft, flickering charm, and someone had cast a subtle warming spell that gave the tiled space the hush of a sitting room rather than the usual chill of stone. An assortment of half-open makeup palettes and potion vials were clustered on the counter like offerings.

Vesta stood near the mirror, wand tucked behind her ear and a dozen hairpins clutched between her fingers. The air smelled faintly of citrus, perfume, and whatever sleek spell Astoria had used on her curls. Across from her, Granger was perched on a stool, trying very hard to look calm and failing.

“Vesta,” she said, her voice already rising, “are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“About your hair?” Vesta raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Granger. I do know how to work with curly hair. I used to do mine for years.”

Granger wrung her hands in her lap. “It’s just—well, it’s never behaved before. It frizzes or it flattens or somehow both, and frankly I think it has a personal vendetta—”

“It doesn’t,” Vesta said mildly, leaning in. Her fingers were sure and careful as she parted another section. “It’s wild. Like mine. You just have to coax it.”

She didn’t say it aloud, but there was something familiar in the motion — the feel of curls beneath her fingers, the quiet hush of the moment. It made something shift in her chest, slow and uncertain. She’d practiced her own hair earlier that evening, standing alone in the mirror and twisting and unpinning until it felt right.

The memory was soft around the edges — a photograph, sun-bleached from being opened too many times. Lily and James Potter’s wedding. Her mother in the middle of them, laughing.

Marlene’s hair had been swept up in a soft braid, curls pinned and shaped like something half undone. Vesta had tried to mimic it, though her own hair was finer and darker. The tendrils that framed her face didn’t fall quite the same. But it was close. Close enough.

She touched the necklace at her throat — silver, delicate, the blue stone catching the light like water. Her mom was wearing it in the picture as well.

Across the room, Astoria spun in a blur of lilac, the skirt of her dress lifting as she twirled again. “Do you think I look all right?” she asked no one in particular.

“You look like a fairy who’s about to bankrupt a duke,” Daphne said, utterly straight-faced. She was standing in front of a handheld mirror, adjusting the angle of a gold pin in her smooth, pinned-back curls. Her emerald dress shimmered slightly as she moved — clean lines, sharp shoulders. She looked breathtaking.

Her own dress was a deep, smoky midnight blue with silver-threaded stitching so fine it caught in the light like frost. Aunt Daria had insisted on it. And on buying it, too.

It had been a quiet row, that one. Apparently, her dad had asked Andromeda to send her the key to a vault in Gringotts — one she hadn’t even known existed. Her parents’ vault. Hers, now. Vesta had stared at the gleaming metal key for a full minute before it sank in. She was — apparently — rich.

But aunt Daria was absolutely livid, and refused her to used it. They chose her robes alongside with Daphne’s and Astoria’s — the four of them spent entire day just on that. So the robes had come from Greengrass money, and Vesta had burned the discomfort and shame deep down, and let herself be grateful.

Granger let out a breath as Vesta’s fingers stilled. Her hair had been coaxed into soft, lifted curls, swept back into a bun that looked effortless but held its shape. “I can’t believe you did that,” she whispered. “It looks…”

“Like you,” Vesta said simply. “You look beautiful.”

And she did. Her robes were a soft, periwinkle blue — nothing too flashy, but delicate and airy, almost floaty as she moved. The sleeves were sheer, the skirt full without being frilly, and now her curls framed her face instead of fighting it. She looked — as Astoria had whispered earlier with wide eyes — like a fairy tale.

Daphne turned then, eyes catching Vesta’s reflection in the mirror — and for a moment, she paused. Her gaze caught on the updo, on the delicate silver necklace, on something unspoken.

“You look different,” she said.

Vesta glanced at her. “Good different?”

Daphne’s mouth curved, just slightly. “Good different.”

That earned a noise from Astoria — half laugh, half sigh — as she reached for the lip balm balanced on the sink. “You’re all going to look like witches from a painting,” she muttered. “And I’ll look twelve.”

“You are twelve,” Daphne said, without looking up.

“Thirteen, thank you very much.” Astoria stuck out her tongue before continuing, “And I’ll have you know, Liam Langdon asked me to the Ball. And he’s in fourth year.”

“Ah, Ravenclaw Liam,” Daphne said with a nod. “The one with the horrid handwriting and slightly unfortunate fringe?”

“He’s nice!” Astoria defended, cheeks pink. “And he’s funny.”

Daphne smirked, clearly enjoying her reaction.

“I’m going to trip,” Granger said suddenly, looking down at her shoes. “I just know it.”

“You’re not,” Daphne said, calm as ever.

“I will. I’ll trip down the stairs and take Viktor Krum with me and we’ll both die in front of the whole school.”

“That would be memorable,” Vesta offered dryly.

Astoria snorted.

Granger groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I’m serious. I’ve never been to anything like this. I have no idea how to dance, I can’t breathe in this bodice, and this is the stupidest idea I’ve ever agreed to—”

“Hermione,” Daphne said gently, “you’re going to be fine.”

She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t try to shush or fix anything. That was the thing about Daphne — she had a way of stepping in without ever seeming to interrupt.

Vesta had seen it happen a dozen times. In the common room when first years cried and she, the older sister that she was, couldn’t let them alone. In the hallway when Blaise lost his temper and said something he didn’t mean. Daphne never flinched. Never pulled away from emotion. She didn’t shame it. She just… steadied it.

It was one of the first things Vesta had clung to about her.

“You’re smarter than most boys in this castle,” Daphne was saying. “You survived a troll in your first year, and basilisk in your second. I think you can handle one overexcited Bulgarian in formal robes.

That earned a breath of laughter from Granger — a soft, grateful thing.

“Besides,” Vesta added, reaching out to brush a curl off her shoulder, “if you’re that worried about tripping, just drag Krum down with you. And I’ll trip Potter. That way the four of us can be humiliated together. Solidarity.”

Granger stared at her. Then giggled. “That’s very… considering of you.”

“I do try,” Vesta said.

Astoria clapped once, the sound bright as glass. “We look fantastic,” she announced. “Absolutely beautiful.”

“If you say so,” Daphne said, clearly amused. She glanced at the clock. “We should go soon. The entrance queue will be horrible if we’re late.” Then she turned toward her bag, rummaging through its contents with a flick of her wand. “Astoria — stand there, by the mirror. I promised Mum I’d get a photo before we left.”

Astoria groaned but obeyed, smoothing the skirt of her lilac dress and tossing her hair back. “Tell her I smiled,” she said with mock gravity. “And that I was the prettiest girl in the room.”

“Of course,” Daphne answered, lifting the slim silver camera.

The device shimmered faintly in the low light — elegant, polished wood with a delicate golden inscription along the edge. Vesta recognized it as one of the newer wizarding models: still photographs unless charmed otherwise, subtle enchantments woven in.

“Mother’s camera,” Daphne murmured, checking the frame. “She uses it mostly for blackmail.”

The flash glowed soft white. Astoria preened.

And then, before the moment slipped away, Vesta heard herself say, “Do you think you could take one of me too?”

Daphne blinked.

“Really?” Her voice was gentle, but genuinely surprised. “You usually hate photos.”

“I know,” Vesta said, too quickly. She cleared her throat. “I just… thought maybe—”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, she stepped toward the wall beside the mirror, where the light fell soft over the tile and her shadow blurred at her feet.

She felt ridiculous.

What even was this? Taking a picture of herself all dressed up? To send to her father, trying to look like her dead mother looked at his closest friends weeding?

She stood still anyway.

One hand rose unconsciously to the silver necklace at her throat. Her thumb brushed over the blue stone. It steadied her.

She felt stupid — and exposed — and a little vain. But the ache in her chest didn’t care. She looked at her hair in the mirror. The way it curled and swept, not quite like Marlene’s but close. As close as she could get.

Her dad sent her a potion kit in black leather — old but lovingly cleaned, with compartments that still smelled faintly of dried monkshood and dragonsblood. Vesta was so touched that he remembered what she needed. She just set there, numb, fingers squeezing it tightly, trying to catch the ghost of her father’s touch.

She just wanted to get him something in return.

Her throat tightened. She missed him so much she felt it in her spine. Every morning. Every bloody morning she woke up with his name already half-formed in her chest.

Maybe this wasn’t about the photo at all. Maybe it was about reaching out across the hollow space between them and saying, I’m still here. You didn’t lose everything.

She tried to look natural. Not too posed. Just—still. 

The flash clicked.

“Is that for Sirius?” Hermione asked, voice soft.

Vesta nodded. She didn’t trust herself to say anything else.

No one said anything for a beat. Then Astoria clapped her hands, as if to scatter the moment, and announced, “Right! Off to glory and gossip.”

The girls laughed. Gathered their cloaks. And moved for the door.

Vesta looked back just once. At the mirror. The soft lighting. The ghost of herself still lingering in the frame.

Then she followed the others into the night.

---

The marble floor was too shiny. That was the first thing Harry noticed as he stood awkwardly by the staircase, trying not to fidget. His shoes felt too tight, and his dress robes — green with silver edging, at McGonagall’s firm suggestion — kept slipping off one shoulder no matter how many times he adjusted them.

He tugged at the collar again. Pointless.

People were already gathering. He spotted Cedric and Cho nearby, talking with a cluster of Beauxbatons students. She laughed at something Cedric said, and Harry looked away quickly, heart dipping for just a second.

Of course she was here with him. He’d known that. It didn’t make it easier to watch.

He exhaled slowly and turned his attention to the stairs.

At first, there was only noise. The usual murmurs, the occasional camera flash, some distant laughter. Then — something shifted. The way people do when something beautiful walks into the room.

He looked up.

And there she was.

Hermione descended first, stunning in her pale blue gown. Her hair was twisted into elegant curls, soft and sleek, nothing like the frizz she usually fought with. She looked radiant.

And behind her —

Vesta.

His heart skipped a bit.

She moved with a calm grace that didn’t quite belong to someone their age. Her robes were ink-dark blue, a rich shade that shimmered faintly when she turned. The neckline was modest, but the cut was elegant — fitted at the waist, floating as she walked. Her hair was styled in an intricate braid crown, curled tendrils spilling down to frame her face, and around her throat hung that familiar silver necklace, the blue stone catching the light like moonlight through glass.

Harry felt like the floor had vanished beneath him.

He’d always thought she was pretty. But this was different. She looked— well, grown. Older, somehow. Like someone he should’ve been afraid to talk to. Like someone who belonged in a photograph.

And she was looking at him.

His heart thudded awkwardly.

She joined the others at the foot of the stairs, expression unreadable as ever. Daphne and Astoria flanked her — the former elegant in emerald green, the latter beaming in pale lilac. They made a picture together. One that didn’t quite seem real.

Vesta glanced toward him, eyes catching on his, and something in Harry’s chest twisted.

He tried to say something. Anything.

“Er— hi.”

Vesta tilted her head. “Hi.”

A pause. He fumbled. “You look— really nice.”

Her lips curved, just slightly. “You sound shocked.”

“I’m not!” he said quickly — too quickly — then winced. “I mean— not in a bad way. I just— yeah. You look… really nice.”

“Thanks, Potter.” She reached out her hand, light and deliberate, like she wasn’t remotely nervous. “Shall we?”

He took it — careful, because his palms were suddenly too warm and his fingers slightly shaky. Her hand was cool, smooth, the pressure steady.

People were watching. He could feel it.

But Harry hardly noticed. Because right now, Vesta was looking at him with that small, amused smile — like she knew exactly what she was doing and didn’t mind letting him squirm — and he couldn’t quite think straight.

They stepped into the Great Hall, and it was like stepping into another world.

The walls glittered with frost-spelled garlands and floating stars, and the ceiling reflected a black winter sky, heavy with low-hanging clouds and soft, artificial snow. Everything glowed — candles, chandeliers, glassy floors — like the whole place had been dipped in moonlight.

Harry barely saw any of it.

He was too busy trying not to trip over his own feet, and trying not to stare. Or— no, he was staring. He just hoped she didn’t notice.

Vesta moved beside him with the kind of grace that didn’t come from luck. It was practiced. Her back was straight, her steps smooth, her expression perfectly composed — the kind of composure Harry associated with Malfoy or Fleur Delacour or portraits of very stern-looking witches with blood-red lips. Only… this was different. Like she didn’t care what people saw, only what she chose to show.

He realized — distantly — that she probably had done this before. Dozens of times. In Malfoy drawing rooms, at pure-blood events with waltzes and champagne. This wasn’t new to her. It was her world.

And yet, she was here with him.

“You looked like you’ve done this a thousand times,” he muttered as they slowed near the edge of the dance floor, trying not to sound as winded as he felt.

Vesta gave a small shrug, one corner of her mouth lifting. “More than once.” Then, after a beat, “It’s sort of expected, when you grow up around people who think dancing is a core virtue.”

He huffed a laugh. “Doesn’t sound like fun.”

“It wasn’t,” she said. Her eyes drifted upward to the enchanted ceiling before flicking back to him. “This is better.”

Harry caught the flicker of something softer in her face — a warmth she rarely let past her armor. And just like that, the knot of nerves in his chest unraveled a little more.

Around them, people were beginning to stare. Not just in passing, but stare. He saw it in the corner of his eye — Durmstrang girls whispering behind gloved hands, Hufflepuff boys nudging each other.

But Vesta didn’t flinch under the attention.

Harry’s gaze tracked briefly across the floor — and there, by the far wall, stood Draco Malfoy.

He wasn’t saying anything. Just watching. Pale and stony-eyed, arms crossed. His face was unreadable, but his posture spoke for him — the kind of stillness that wasn’t passive at all. Cold fury wrapped in polished silence.

Harry looked away.

“I think I’m the only one panicking,” he admitted, glancing back at Vesta.

“You’re not that bad,” she said, amused. “You’ve only tripped once.”

“Yet.”

She smiled again — brighter this time — and something in Harry’s chest twisted, warm and a little dizzying.

Her cheeks were flushed from the lights, or the moment, or maybe just him noticing too much. And when their eyes met again, her gaze didn’t shift away as quickly this time. It lingered.

He forgot what he was nervous about.

“Alright,” she said, gently tugging his hand. “Come on, Potter. Just follow my lead. You won’t disgrace Gryffindor. Probably.”

He laughed, breathless — and let her pull him toward the center of the floor.

The music swelled.

Harry’s breath caught as Vesta stepped in closer, one gloved hand finding his shoulder with an ease that made his chest tighten. Her other hand slid into his, the silk of her glove brushing against the calluses on his fingers — and it hit him, quite suddenly, how close they were. How real this was.

He could smell her. Not perfume, exactly, but something quiet and clean — like crushed mint and apple peel, sharp with rain-soaked earth. Something green. Something living. It clung to her hair, to the air between them, and it made his head swim.

She met his eyes — grey-grey, so pale and piercing it startled him, like looking through frostbitten glass and finding warmth on the other side.

And for a moment, neither of them moved.

His hand hovered just a bit too long before settling at her waist. She didn’t flinch. Her breath was slow and even. And yet… there was something in her gaze.

The music guided them forward, a gentle waltz, and Harry—miraculously—remembered what to do.

Sort of.

Their first few steps were a little stilted. He was too aware of her, of how she moved like water over stone, how her robes swayed with the music and how her hair gleamed under the floating candles. He was trying not to step on her toes, trying not to trip, trying not to stare too much — and failing miserably at all of it.

But Vesta just smiled at him. Not the teasing one from earlier. Not the amused, distant one she used when she didn’t want people too close. This one was smaller. Quieter. Like maybe she was a little surprised too.

“You’re doing fine,” she murmured, low enough that only he could hear.

“I’m not crushing your feet?”

“Not yet.”

He huffed a laugh. His hand tightened just slightly at her waist, and her eyes flicked to his again — holding. Lingering.

Something passed between them. He didn’t know what. Something that pulled the air tight between them and made it hard to swallow.

She didn’t look away.

Neither did he.

And though the world kept moving — students twirling past in silks and satin, laughter rising like sparks from the candles — Harry barely noticed any of it. Because she was still looking at him like that. Because she hadn’t stepped away.

He wondered if she felt it too — this hum beneath his skin, the sharp awareness of her hand in his, of their knees brushing occasionally as they moved. He wondered if she heard her own heart pounding like his was.

Maybe she did. Maybe that was why she stayed so close.

And maybe he imagined it — but when the song slowed, when the waltz wound to a graceful close and the world seemed to exhale around them — she didn’t drop his hand right away.

They just stood there.

Still close. Still quiet. Her expression unreadable.

He opened his mouth to say something — he didn’t even know what — when another voice cut through the space between them.

“Excuse me.”

Harry turned — and instantly bristled.

Theodore Nott stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, posture all ease and smooth confidence. He wore simple dark dress robes that suited him unfairly well, his hazel eyes steady under dark lashes. Calm. Polished.

Too polished.

“Mind if I steal her?” he said, gaze flicking to Vesta like Harry wasn’t really there. “She promised me a dance.”

Vesta blinked. “Did I?”

Nott smiled, the corners of his mouth sharp. “You did. As an apology, remember? For not going with me tonight.”

“Well, maybe you should’ve asked me before someone else did.”

“Mm. Maybe,” his voice was soft, but there was something needling in it, something cool and private, not meant for Harry.

Vesta raised an eyebrow, but Harry caught the amused twitch at the corner of her lips.

 “Where’s your date? Won’t she mind you ditching her?”

“Tracey’s off with her friends,” Nott said, dismissive. “And she knows I saved this one for you.”

Vesta gave a low hum. “Your memory’s very convenient.”

Nott didn’t deny it. He just held out a hand.

And Harry — still holding hers — felt his fingers go cold.

He didn’t want to let go.

He didn’t know why it bothered him so much. It wasn’t like she was his. It wasn’t like this was anything.

But still—

Vesta glanced at him. Her grey eyes lingered.

Harry shrugged, trying not to show what he felt. “Go ahead.”

She hesitated a second longer — not enough to be rude, but enough to sting. Then she slipped her hand from his, smooth as silk, and turned toward Nott.

And Harry stood there, fists clenched at his sides, watching Nott guide her to the floor like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They fit.

They moved like they’d done it a hundred times before. Maybe they had. As far as he knew, they were around each other since childhood. And then Nott leaned in and said something he couldn’t hear, and her cheeks flushed.

Harry didn’t have to guess what he’d said.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t clumsy or stammered. It didn’t get tangled on the way out.

It was probably something like, You look beautiful tonight.

And it probably sounded effortless.

Harry turned away, jaw tight, throat hot. He didn’t want to watch this anymore.

---

The music changed again — slower now, still waltzy, but softer — and before she could think too hard about it, Vesta was already in step with Theo.

Of course she was. They always danced together. It was what they did.

His hand settled at her waist, his other holding hers steady, and her body moved almost on autopilot. Step, turn, step. It should’ve felt easy.

Except it didn’t.

Her palms were a little too warm, her chest felt tight for no good reason, and there were — apparently — a thousand stupid fluttery things going off in her stomach. Not nerves. She wasn’t nervous. She didn’t get nervous dancing with Theo.

“Alright, what is going on with you?” Theo muttered under his breath.

She blinked. “What?”

“You’re all stiff. You never dance stiff.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’m fine.”

He gave her a look. “You say that like it’s gonna make it true.”

“I am fine.”

“You just almost stepped on me.”

“I didn’t!”

“You almost did,” he said, drawing the word out just to be annoying. “That’s not like you.”

Vesta tried to roll her eyes, but it didn’t land. She was too… off. Too warm. Too aware of everything. Of the music, and the heat under her collarbones, and Theo’s hand, and—

Potter.

God, what was that?

He’d looked at her like he didn’t know what to do with his face. Like she’d grown a second head.

She could still feel the shape of his hands on her waist. Still see that stupid, awkward, wide-eyed look in his face. Still remember the way he’d laughed — all soft and unsure, like he wasn’t used to smiling that much.

It made her stomach flip, which was stupid. She’d danced with loads of people. Okay, not loads. But enough. She wasn’t new to this.

Still, she didn’t usually come away feeling like she couldn’t breathe right.

“You’re doing it again,” Theo said.

“Doing what?”

“The weird distant staring thing.”

“I wasn’t—” She shut her mouth. “Whatever.”

“Are you getting sick?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not, you’re just—” he made a vague hand gesture, “—being weird.”

Vesta narrowed her eyes. “Can you stop watching me like I’m going to fall over?”

“Well,” he said, grinning now, “you might.”

She smiled — actually smiled — she really couldn’t help it. Theo had always been like this. Sharp when he wanted to be, but soft when it counted. There wasn’t much about him that surprised her.

Except right now, it felt like he was looking through her a bit.

She didn’t like that.

To distract herself, she glanced sideways — and there he was again. Potter. Near the drinks table with Weasley. His hair was still a mess, and he looked a little lost, tugging at his collar like he wanted to disappear into it.

He looked up and their eyes caught.

Neither of them looked away. Not immediately, at least.

It was maybe two seconds. But it felt longer than that. And when she finally turned her head, it was too fast — like she was trying to erase something.

She shook her head a little, tried to blink it off.

“So…” Theo said after a pause, “wanna tell me what that was?”

She scowled. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything. I’m just dancing. Like we do. Every time.”

“Then focus on the dance.”

Vesta let her eyes fall to the floor for a second. Her head felt weird. Her chest did, too. Not in a bad way — just… unsettled.

The music started to slow again.

Theo shifted, lowering his hand just slightly so they could finish clean. She followed his lead, automatic now, just muscle memory.

“Still weird,” he said as they came to a stop. “But less likely to faint.”

She rolled her eyes again. “Thanks.”

He gave a little bow, dramatic as ever, and she dipped into a small curtsy, already halfway out of it.

Then, as she moved to step away, she paused — just long enough to lean up and press a kiss to his cheek.

He laughed. “You’re such a freak.”

“Shut up.”

She was already walking away, tossing the words over her shoulder.

“Go get a drink, V,” he called after her.

“I am!”

The crowd was thicker near the tables, and the chatter louder, but her mind was still somewhere else.

She shook her head again, muttering under her breath.

“Get a grip.”

Because whatever that had been — with Potter — it wasn’t anything.

She just felt weird. That was all.

The stupid pixies in her stomach didn't mean anything.

Chapter 17: how do you breathe underwater

Notes:

i don't know why it took me so long to finish this chapter, omg. surprisingly i had some trouble with it, especially in the beginning.
but hey, here it is.

Harry pushed a piece of toast across his plate, barely registering the trail of crumbs it left on the tablecloth. The noise of the Great Hall swelled around him—the usual hum of morning chatter, owls overhead, cutlery scraping—but it all seemed strangely muffled, like he was underwater. He hadn't touched the golden egg in days. It was still buried in the bottom of his trunk, tucked beneath spare socks and last month’s Charms essay, as if hiding it might quiet the sound.

It didn’t.

Sometimes at night, even when it was shut, he swore he could still hear that awful scream echoing through his skull—high, wailing, inhuman. He knew he had to figure it out. Cedric had even given him a clue, hadn’t he? Told him to take a bath with it.

Harry hadn’t followed that advice. He didn’t want to. Not because it was a bad idea—Cedric probably knew something—but because the very thought of doing anything Cedric told him to made something twist inside his chest. Cedric, with his perfect smile and quiet confidence. Cedric, who Cho had looked at the way no one had ever looked at Harry. Who she’d gone to the Ball with.

Harry stabbed his fork into the toast.

Ron was beside him, buttering a crumpet with more force than necessary. They hadn’t said much this morning, but it wasn’t tense like it had been before. Since the Yule Ball, they’d sort of… reset. Harry had expected a full-on explosion between Ron and Hermione after everything — after that scene in the common room, after Hermione walked off furious and Ron pretended not to care. But surprisingly, they were still on speaking terms. Friendly, even, in the most awkward, avoid-everything kind of way. They hadn’t mentioned the Ball again, and Harry was fairly certain they’d both made some silent agreement never to bring it up.

Hermione wasn’t at the table yet, but Harry wasn’t worried. She’d been spending more time with Vesta and Daphne lately—more than usual, even. The three of them had been close for a while, especially in the past month, but now they were almost inseparable. It was odd, noticing the absence of someone who used to be everywhere. But Hermione looked happy. Calmer. And that was enough for him.

Harry’s eyes flicked toward the doors just as the three girls entered the Hall. His chest did this stupid, slow thump, and he dropped his gaze quickly to his plate, annoyed at himself. It had been like this since the Ball—since she’d walked down the stairs in that soft grey dress, hair pinned back like something out of a photograph. And the dance… Merlin, the stupid dance. He didn’t know what was worse: how nervous he’d felt the whole time, or the fact that Vesta had barely looked fazed.

He glanced back up. Vesta was saying something to Hermione, her mouth curling in a faint smile. She looked over the room briefly—calm, unreadable—and then her gaze moved right past Malfoy without the slightest flicker of acknowledgment.

Harry did a double take.

Malfoy, sitting further down the Slytherin table, was staring daggers at her. His whole expression was carved out of ice, pale and furious. And then, suddenly he looked at him. When their eyes met, Malfoy looked even more enrage.

Harry frown. What bite his ass this morning?

Before he could get lost in that thought, a loud rustle of feathers made him jump. A tawny owl had dropped a rolled-up copy of the Daily Prophet directly onto his plate, splattering crumbs.

He reached for it slowly.

DUMBLEDORE’S GIANT MISTAKE.
Exclusive by Rita Skeeter

His mouth went dry. He scanned the column, heart thudding harder with every word. It wasn’t just about Hagrid—it was an all-out character assassination. Calling him reckless, irresponsible, unstable. Quoting unnamed “sources” who were “concerned” about his love of dangerous creatures. And then—

“It should come as no surprise that Hogwarts has become a haven for scandal — after all, the Boy Who Lived himself seems quite comfortable cozying up to the daughter of a convicted murderer. Vesta Black, previously known as Estheri Malfoy, has now found comfort at the Gryffindor table — and perhaps in Potter’s arms, if the Yule Ball is any indication.

How tragic. A girl torn between two names. A boy whose parents died at the hands of hers. One wonders what Sirius Black — mass-murderer, Azkaban escapee— would think of such a match.”

Harry stared. The words blurred slightly, but the burn in his face didn’t go away.

Seems like he found out what bite Malfoy’s ass.

He slammed the paper shut just as footsteps approached.

“Already read that garbage?” came Vesta’s voice—level, like she was asking about the weather.

He didn’t look at her right away.

“Did you—have you seen what she wrote—?”

“We’ve all seen it,” said Hermione, her voice sharp and furious. “That horrible woman!”

Daphne huffed. “She managed to twist literally everything. Again. I swear, one day I’m going to find out how she does it.”

“She—she mentioned me and you,” Harry said, still feeling oddly lightheaded. “Doesn’t it, uh, bother you?”

Daphne raised an eyebrow. “Oh yes, she was very subtle, wasn’t she?”

Harry’s ears turned red. Vesta, meanwhile, only rolled her eyes.

“You’re used to people talking about things they don’t understand, aren’t you?” she said lightly, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. “I am.”

That didn’t help. If anything, Harry’s stomach churned harder. How could she just sit there like it didn’t bother her? Did it really not?

Ron had grabbed the paper now, flipping through it with mounting disbelief. “But—how did she even know? When Hagrid talked about this, it was just us there. How did she know?”

Hermione leaned forward, expression pinched. “That’s what I’m wondering too. There’s no way Skeeter could’ve known unless someone—unless she was there.”

Daphne’s expression shifted—from amusement to unease.

“Anyway,” Hermione said tightly, “we need to find Hagrid.”

“I haven’t seen him in two days,” Daphne added, quieter now. “He’s not in the Hall. Not at breakfast, not lunch… Nothing.”

Harry nodded. “We’ll go check his cabin after class. All of us.”

Vesta glanced at the paper again, then away. “He’ll need a friend today.”

Harry looked at her and suddenly felt that familiar lurch in his chest again. The one he couldn’t explain. The one he didn’t want to name.

---

The sleet stung Harry’s face as they trudged away from Hagrid’s silent cabin, the curtains still drawn, Fang’s barks fading into the wind. Hermione had knocked until her knuckles were red, muttering about how Hagrid couldn’t just hide forever, but there’d been no answer. Just that heavy, stubborn quiet. Now, they were headed to Hogsmeade, hoping to clear their heads, though Harry’s mood was as grey as the sky.

The Three Broomsticks was a warm blur of noise and light, packed with students escaping the cold. The air smelled of butterbeer and wood smoke, and Harry squeezed onto a bench between Ron and Vesta, his elbow brushing hers as he tried to find space. He mumbled an apology, but she just gave him a quick glance — those grey eyes steady, unreadable — and went back to stirring her butterbeer. His stomach did that stupid flip again.

He dragged his eyes away, focusing on Hermione instead. She was leaning across the table, locked in a heated debate with Daphne about goblin rights, her brows knitted in that fierce way that meant she’d already won the argument in her head. Daphne, to her credit, looked very invested, even though she was frowning slightly in, what Harry had learnt was annoyance.

“They’re not treated fairly,” Hermione was saying, jabbing her spoon for emphasis. “No representation in wand legislation, no say in the Ministry’s creature regulations—”

“Merlin, Hermione, are we back to Binns?” Daphne groaned, plucking a sugar cube from the dish and popping it into her mouth. “The man could make a dragon attack sound like a knitting tutorial.”

Harry snorted, and even Vesta’s lips twitched, her eyes catching his for a split second. She looked relaxed in a way Harry rarely seen her. It was a nice look on her.

He looked down at his butterbeer, pretending to study the foam.

“Goblins don’t need your pity,” Hermione pressed on. “They’ve got their own systems, their own rebellions—”

“S.P.U.G.,” Ron cut in, grinning. “Society for the Protection of Ugly Goblins. You starting that next?”

Harry choked on his drink, coughing into his sleeve. Daphne laughed, a pretty, bright sound, and Vesta’s smile widened enough to soften her whole face, her fingers pausing on her mug. Harry noticed how her thumb traced the handle, slow and deliberate, like she was thinking about something else entirely.

“They’re not like house-elves,” Hermione said, ignoring Ron’s jab. “Elves don’t even stand up for themselves—”

“Uh-oh,” Ron muttered, his grin vanishing.

Harry followed his gaze and felt his stomach clench. Rita Skeeter had just swept into the pub, her banana-yellow robes garish against the warm wood. Her crimson nails gleamed like talons, and that crocodile grin was already fixed on her face. Bozo, her photographer, trailed behind, lugging his camera and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“They’re coming this way,” Vesta said under her breath, her voice low but calm.

“Don’t look at her,” Hermione hissed, ducking her head.

But Harry couldn’t help it. The memory of Hagrid’s empty cabin, of Rita’s stupid, stupid article lit a fire in his chest. He sat up straighter, his jaw tight, as Rita’s voice cut through the pub’s chatter, loud and syrupy.

Harry was on his feet before he realized it, his chair scraping loudly. “Trying to ruin someone else’s life?”

Every head in the pub turned. Madam Rosmerta froze behind the bar, her pitcher of mead dripping onto the counter. Even the goblins in the corner paused, their sharp eyes flicking toward the scene.

Skeeter stopped mid-step, her smile sharpening. “Harry,” she said brightly. “How lovely. Why don’t you come and join—?”

“I wouldn’t come near you with a ten-foot broomstick,” Harry snapped, his voice carrying further than he meant. “What did you do that to Hagrid for, eh?”

“Potter,” Vesta’s voice was quiet, almost a warning, but there was something else in it too. Something steadying. He felt her shift beside him, her shoulder just inches from his, and it grounded him, even as his pulse hammered.

“Our readers have a right to the truth, Harry,” Rita said sweetly, her acid-green quill scribbling furiously over her notepad. “I’m merely doing my—”

“Who cares if he’s half-giant?” Harry’s voice rose, cutting her off. “There’s nothing wrong with him!”

The silence was suffocating now.

“How about giving me an interview about the real Hagrid?” Rita pressed, her voice dripping with mock sincerity. “The man behind the muscles. Your unlikely friendship. The reasons behind it. Would you call him a father substitute?”

Harry’s mouth opened, but Hermione was already on her feet, her butterbeer sloshing in her shaking hand. “You horrible woman,” she said, voice trembling with fury. “You don’t care, do you? Anything for a story. Anyone will do — even Ludo Bagman—”

“Sit down, you silly little girl, and don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” Rita snapped, her sweetness gone like a snuffed candle. “I know things about Bagman that would make your hair curl… not that it needs it.”

Daphne leaned back in her chair, her eyes cold. “You really like to talk, don’t you?”

Hermione didn’t flinch. Her eyes were blazing, and Harry could practically see the gears turning in her head. “Let’s go,” she said, turning to him. “C’mon, guys, let’s go.”

But Harry hesitated, his gaze catching Vesta’s for a split second. She was still standing close, her expression cool but her eyes sharp, like she was studying Rita the way she’d study a tricky rune. And then, just for a moment, her fingers brushed his wrist — light, accidental, as she adjusted her cloak. It was nothing, really, but Harry’s skin tingled where she’d touched him, and he forgot how to breathe for a second.

Rita’s quill scribbled faster. “Interesting,” she murmured, her eyes glinting as they darted between Harry and Vesta. “Very interesting.”

Vesta didn’t react, but Harry saw the slightest tightening of her jaw, the way her fingers curled into her palm. She didn’t say anything, just turned toward the door, her movements smooth but deliberate.

“Come on,” she said quietly, and the group moved with her — Ron grabbing his coat, Hermione stomping ahead, her hand clutching Daphne’s.

Outside, the wind was brutal, slicing through Harry’s scarf. The sleet had turned to proper snow now, dusting the cobblestones and catching in Vesta’s hair as they walked. He couldn’t help but notice — small flakes clinging to her dark curls, melting almost instantly. She didn’t seem to care, her eyes fixed on the path ahead, but there was something about the way she walked, steady and unhurried, that made Harry’s thoughts snag again.

“She’ll be after you next,” Ron said to Hermione, his voice low. “I’m serious. You can’t just tell off reporters like that.”

“Let her try,” Hermione snapped, her scarf flapping wildly. “She’s not going to scare me into hiding.”

“First Hagrid, now Bagman,” Daphne said, her tone dry as she kicked a clump of snow. “Wonder if she’s got a list. Alphabetized, probably.”

“Next week: Potter again,” Vesta said, her voice so quiet it almost got lost in the wind.

Harry let out a huff, almost a laugh. “Yeah, probably.”

Their boots crunched through the snow, the village lights fading behind them. As they passed a low stone wall, Harry felt it again — that faint brush of Vesta’s hand against his, her knuckles grazing his as she adjusted her scarf. She didn’t look at him, didn’t say anything, but she didn’t pull away either.

The contact was fleeting, gone in a second, but it left Harry’s pulse uneven, his thoughts a jumble.

They reached to Hagrid’s alarmingly fast. Hermione surged ahead, her boots crunching as she reached the door.

“Hagrid!” she shouted, banging her fist against the wood so hard the frame shook. “Hagrid, that’s enough! We know you’re in there! Nobody cares if your mum was a giantess! You can’t let that foul Skeeter woman do this to you! Hagrid—!”

Harry winced at the force of her knocks, his own frustration bubbling up. He hated this — Hagrid hiding, shutting them out like they didn’t matter. Hagrid, who’d always been there, who’d never cared about Harry’s scar or his fame or any of it. The thought of him sitting alone in there, hurt by Skeeter’s lies, made something in his gut squeeze. He wanted to do something, say something, but his words felt stuck, like they always did when it mattered most.

The door creaked open, slow and reluctant.

It wasn’t Hagrid.

Dumbledore stood there, his deep blue robes shimmering faintly in the firelight spilling from inside. His eyes were gentle but heavy, like he knew exactly what they were all feeling. “Good afternoon,” he said mildly. “Why don’t you come in?”

They shuffled into the hut, the air warm and thick with the smell of woodsmoke and damp dog. The hearth crackled softly, casting long shadows across the cluttered room — pots and pans glinting on the walls, a lumpy quilt tossed over the bed. Fang lifted his head, gave a single, sluggish thump of his tail, and flopped back down with a grunt. Hagrid sat in his massive chair, turned half-away, his shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear. His hands clutched a crumpled handkerchief, and a chipped mug sat untouched on the table, its contents long cold.

Harry’s chest tightened at the sight. Hagrid looked… broken. Smaller, somehow, despite his size. It wasn’t right. Hagrid was supposed to be loud, cheerful, unshakable. Seeing him like this felt like the world tilting wrong. Harry’s mind flashed to the times Hagrid had been there for him — bringing him a birthday cake in that stormy shack, telling him about Hogwarts, standing by him when the whole school thought he was a liar. And now, because of Skeeter’s poison pen, Hagrid was hiding from them. It made Harry want to hex something, anything, to fix it.

Hermione stepped forward, her voice softer now but still fierce. “Hagrid… we don’t care. Truly. No one cares about what Rita wrote.”

Hagrid didn’t turn. “I do,” he said, his voice low and raw, like it had been scraped hollow.

Harry’s throat closed up. He glanced at Ron, who was shifting awkwardly, his eyes flicking between Hagrid and the floor. Daphne stood near the door, her hands tucked into her sleeves, her usual sharpness softened by a faint frown. And Vesta was by the window, her arms crossed tightly, her gaze fixed on Hagrid. Her jaw was tight, her lips pressed thin, like she was wrestling with something she didn’t know how to say. Harry recognized that look — he’d seen it before, when she was trying to figure out how to navigate a moment that felt too big. It made him want to reach out, to say something to ease that tension, but he didn’t know how.

Hagrid let out a heavy breath, his voice barely audible. “Easy for you lot. You’re not… you’re not half-giant, are yeh?”

The words hit Harry like a punch. He knew that feeling — the weight of being different, of carrying something you didn’t choose. The scar on his forehead burned in his mind, a reminder of the whispers, the stares, the way people saw “The Boy Who Lived” instead of him. He wanted to tell Hagrid he got it, that he knew what it was like to be judged for something you couldn’t change, but his tongue felt heavy.

Vesta shifted, her boots scuffing softly against the floor. She uncrossed her arms, her hands fidgeting for a moment before falling still. She looked uncomfortable, her shoulders stiff, her eyes darting to the fire like she was searching for the right words. He could tell that whatever was on her mind was bothering her. But then her gaze settled on Hagrid, and something in her softened, her posture easing like she’d found her footing.

“Hagrid,” she said, her voice quiet but clear, “I’m a murderer’s daughter.”

The room went still. Harry’s breath caught; his eyes locked on her. She stepped forward, just enough for the firelight to catch her face, highlighting the sharp line of her jaw, the faint tension in her brow. Her voice was steady, but there was a raw edge to it, like she was pulling the words from somewhere deep.

“Last year, when everyone found out about my dad…” she paused, swallowing, her eyes fixed on Hagrid. “You remember how everyone was. I couldn’t step outside the dorms without people whispering. Some even thought I was helping dad to sneak into castle.”

Hagrid’s head lifted slightly, his red-rimmed eyes meeting hers.

“I didn’t want to be around anyone, even Daphne,” she smiled kindly, and Harry had never seen her smile like that. “But you found me by the lake and took me into your house for tea. You didn’t care who my dad was, you just wanted to cheer me up because I was sad.”

She paused, looking straight at him, and even tough her finger were twitching nervously, her gaze didn’t waver.

“I don’t see how this is different,” Vesta said, her words simple, almost blunt.

Her voice didn’t carry the usual eloquence of Hermione’s speeches or Daphne’s sharp wit. It was plain, direct, and maybe that’s why it landed so hard.

Vesta was clearly uncomfortable talking this much, but she still did that for Hagrid. Harry felt the wave of fondness wash over him, and when he looked at Daphne, she had the look of open affection on her face.

Hagrid rubbed at his eyes with the back of one massive hand, his voice thick. “Yeh lot,” he muttered. “Always runnin’ after me like I’m some overgrown Flobberworm.”

Harry let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through him. “We’d run through worse,” he said, his voice quieter than he meant. “For you.”

Hermione’s eyes were bright, her voice soft but firm. “We would. You’ve always been there for us, Hagrid. Always.”

Daphne, leaning against the table now, gave a small smirk, though her eyes were warm. “Yeah, and someone’s got to save us from those rock cakes of yours.”

Hagrid snorted, a wet, trembling sound, and finally looked up. “Yeh’re a cheeky one, Daphne Greengrass.”

“That I am,” she said, her smirk widening.

Ron, still hovering near Fang, scratched the dog’s ears and mumbled, “Skeeter’s full of it, Hagrid. You’re worth hundreds of her.”

Hagrid’s lip quivered, and he buried his face in his handkerchief, letting out a muffled sob. Fang whined, nudging his knee with a wet nose.

Dumbledore rose from his chair, his robes rustling softly. “Hagrid, tea would be lovely, but I fear my presence is needed elsewhere. These fine students will keep you company, if you’ll allow it.”

Hagrid nodded, still sniffing. “Aye, Professor.”

As Dumbledore moved toward the door, he paused beside Vesta, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “Well said, Miss Black,” he murmured.

Vesta’s cheeks flushed faintly, and she ducked her head, a small, awkward gesture.

Hermione bustled toward the kettle, muttering about “proper cups” as she rummaged through Hagrid’s mismatched dishes. Daphne moved closer to Hagrid, resting her hand on his arm, patting it gently.

Harry stayed quiet, his gaze drifting back to Vesta. She met his eyes and smiled back when he did.

---

He hated this stupid Tournament, stupid tasks and the stupid bloody egg.

For the next two days, the library became their prison. Towers of books on aquatic magic, sonorous charms, and Merpeople linguistics teetered precariously on their usual table.

“…and to recover what we took,” Hermione read aloud, her finger tracing the translated text on a piece of parchment. She looked up, her face pale. “They’ve taken something. Someone’s going to be at the bottom of that lake.”

“They’re seriously expecting you to dive into that freezing black pit with merpeople guarding something,” Ron muttered, glaring at the parchment. “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

Daphne, who had been unusually quiet, shifted in her seat. She’d been tracing the grain of the wooden table with her finger, her focus intense. “An hour is too long,” she said, her voice low. She didn’t look up. “For any charm. For any standard potion. The lake… it’s black in the middle. You can’t see anything down there.” There was a tightness in her words that Harry didn’t understand, a tension in her posture that seemed like more than just general concern.

“There’s the Bubble-Head Charm,” she added, finally glancing up, her expression carefully neutral again. “It’s NEWT-level. The oxygen transference has to be perfectly calibrated or you’ll suffocate on your own carbon dioxide.”

“Cheerful,” Ron mumbled into his copy of Enchantment in Extremis.

“There are gill-growing potions,” Hermione said, chewing on the end of her quill. “But they take six weeks to brew properly and require powdered Griffin claw, which is notoriously unstable.”

“So, nothing,” Harry said, the word flat and heavy. He let his head thump onto the cool wood of the table. “Brilliant.”

It was in this state of despair that Vesta found them. She marched between the bookshelves, a look of fierce concentration on her face.

She didn’t bother with a greeting. She slapped the parchments in her hands down in the middle of the table, making all of them jump.

“I think I’ve got it,” she announced, her grey eyes bright.

“Got what?” Harry asked, lifting his head, his heart giving a stupid little lurch at the determined look on her face.

“How you’re going to breathe underwater.”

She unrolled the main parchment. It was covered in complex potion diagrams and notes about respiratory transfiguration. Harry couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose. Scribbled in the margins, in Snape’s unmistakable, acidic handwriting, were corrections and additions.

“I remembered something,” Vesta said, her finger darting to a specific note. “Last month, I was cross-referencing ingredients that affect pulmonary function versus those that induce gill-based respiration. I had a theory about a hybrid approach, but my calculations on the dosage were off. I… asked for clarification.”

Harry had no idea what she any of that means but Hermione looked intrigued.

Ron leaned forward, his eyes wide. “You asked Snape?”

“There isn’t any other Potion master in Hogwarts,” she answered, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, I phrased it as a theoretical question about the limitations of the Animagus transformation in aquatic environments,” Vesta said, as if this were a perfectly normal thing to do. “He wrote back.” She pointed to the margin. There, next to her crossed-out equation, Snape had written: Your hypothesis is as subtle as a troll’s club. The pulmonary-gill transition is not a matter of dosage but of catalyst. Consider the role of Gillyweed.

“Gillyweed?” Ron read, frowning. “What’s that?”

“It’s an aquatic plant,” Vesta said, a hint of excitement breaking through her usual reserve. “When consumed, it causes gills to develop on the neck and webbing between the fingers and toes, allowing the consumer to breathe underwater for a limited time.”

Harry stared at her, hope flaring in his chest for the first time in days. “For an hour?”

“Give or take,” Vesta said, meeting his gaze. Her certainty was a lifeline. He held her look for a second too long, and she was the first to glance away, focusing on smoothing the parchment.

“But where do we get it?” Hermione asked, already thinking practically. “It’s not in the standard student stores. It must be incredibly rare.”

“That’s the problem,” Vesta admitted, her shoulders slumping slightly. “I’ve never seen it in the greenhouses. I don’t even know what it looks like.”

There was a moment of disappointed silence.

Then, Daphne spoke up. She’d been quiet again, her arms crossed tightly. “We could ask Longbottom. He is pretty good in Herbology.”

All eyes turned to her. Ron looked baffled. “Since when do you know what Neville is good at?”

Daphne’s gaze didn't waver, though a faint blush touched her cheeks. “Since Snape started pairing us in Potions this year,” she said, her tone deliberately casual. “He’s useless at the brewing part, but he knows more about the properties of ingredients than anyone else in our year. Well, expect you to, I supposed,” she waved her hand at Vesta and Hermione. “If anyone would know about a rare water-plant, or where to find one, it’s him.”

Hermione’s face lit up. “That’s right! He’s always helping Professor Sprout with the trickier specimens.”

Harry felt a grin spreading across his face. The solution, which had seemed impossible minutes ago, now had a path. A difficult, uncertain path, but a path nonetheless. He looked from Vesta’s determined face to Daphne’s composed one, then to Hermione and Ron’s hopeful expressions.

“Alright then,” Harry said, pushing back his chair. “Let’s go find Neville.”

Luckily, it didn’t take them long.

It was Vesta who spotted him. She nudged Harry with her elbow and nodded down a dimly lit corridor leading to the Charms classrooms. Neville was walking towards them, his robes slightly dusty with soil and a thick, plant-filled book tucked under his arm. He looked up, saw the three of them seemingly lying-in wait, and slowed his pace, a familiar look of apprehension on his round face.

“Alright, Harry?” he asked cautiously, his eyes flicking between Vesta, and Daphne with clear confusion.

“We need your help, Neville,” Harry said, keeping his voice low. “It’s about the next task.”

Neville’s eyes widened. “Me? Um… I’m not sure how can I help?”

“We just need to ask you something about a specific plant,” Hermione said.

This seemed to calm Neville slightly. Plants were his territory. “Oh. Okay. Which one?”

“It’s called Gillyweed,” Vesta said, stepping forward. “Do you know it?”

To Harry’s surprise and immense relief, Neville’s anxious expression melted into one of recognition. “Oh! Gillyweed! Yes, actually.” He hefted the book under his arm. “Professor Moody lent me this. Magical Water Plants of the Highland Lochs. It’s in here.” He flipped through the pages with a confidence Harry had rarely seen in him, finally stopping on a page showing a tangled, slimy-looking grey-green plant. “See? It says here that when ingested, it grants the consumer gills and webbing for temporary underwater respiration.”

“For a full hour?” Harry asked, his heart in his throat.

“Well, it said “approximately”,’” Neville said, reading the text carefully. “But yeah, an hour should be manageable. Maybe a bit more.”

“And you know what it looks like? Where to get it?” Hermione pressed, her eyes shining.

“Yeah, I think so,” Neville said, nodding. “It’s not in the greenhouses, but I know it grows in the lake itself, on the deeper rocks near the eastern shore. I could probably find some.”

The group let out a collective sigh of relief. It was really going to work.

It was then that Daphne spoke. Her voice was different. Softer, but strained. It lacked its usual cool, polished edge.

“Neville.”

The use of his first name, so plain and direct, made everyone, including Neville, look at her in surprise. She never called him just ‘Neville’. It was always ‘Longbottom’, if she addressed him at all.

“Are you sure?” she asked, taking a small step forward. Her knuckles were white where she was gripping her elbows. “This will hold for an hour? You’re positive?”

Neville blinked, looking confused by the intensity of the question coming from her. “Well… yeah. That’s what the book says. It’s very clear—”

“You’re sure it’s safe?” she interrupted, her voice tightening. Her focus was entirely on Neville, as if the rest of them had vanished. “There’s no margin for error? No chance it could… wear off too soon?”

Harry was baffled. This was more emotion than he’d ever seen from Daphne Greengrass, and it was about the safety specifications of a plant.

Neville stared at her, and something in her desperate tone seemed to get through to him. His own nervousness faded, replaced by a quiet, surprising steadiness. He looked right at her, his expression earnest and firm.

“I’m sure,” he said, his voice low but clear. “The text is definitive. It’s a powerful magical plant, but it’s reliable. It will work. I’ll… I’ll make sure we get a good specimen.”

It was the ‘I’ll make sure’ that did it. It was a promise, not just a fact.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Vesta’s face change. Her slight frown of confusion smoothed into a look of sudden, deep understanding. Her eyes flickered from Daphne’s tense posture to Neville’s determined face, and something softened in her gaze. She shifted closer to Daphne, her hand moving almost imperceptibly to gently brush against her friend’s wrist in a silent show of solidarity. Daphne didn’t seem to notice; she was still holding Neville’s gaze, but some of the tension visibly drained from her shoulders.

“Right,” Harry said, breaking the strange, charged silence that had fallen over them. “Okay. That’s… that’s brilliant, Neville. Thank you.”

Neville flushed, the moment of confidence receding. “Yeah. ‘Course. I’ll, uh, I’ll go look for it tomorrow morning, before breakfast.”

“We’ll come with you,” Hermione said brightly, clearly also trying to reset the mood to something less intense.

As they turned to leave, planning the next day’s mission, Harry glanced back. Daphne was still standing there for a second longer, and she gave Neville a small, almost imperceptible nod before turning to follow them. Neville watched her go, a thoughtful, slightly dazed look on his face.

Harry didn’t understand what had just happened, but he knew it was important.

They walked in silence for a moment, the only sound the echo of their footsteps on the stone floor. The planned excitement of having a solution was now tempered by the weird intensity of the last few minutes. Ron and Hermione were whispering ahead, already strategizing about the best time to search the lake shore. Vesta had fallen into step beside Daphne, their shoulders almost touching, a silent, supportive presence.

Harry hung back slightly, his eyes on Daphne. Her composure was back, her face a smooth, unreadable mask, but he could still see the ghost of that earlier tension in the set of her jaw.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low so the others wouldn’t overhear. “Are you alright?”

Daphne didn’t look at him, keeping her gaze fixed straight ahead. “Of course,” she said, her tone light and dismissive, the way she always did when she wanted to deflect. “Why wouldn’t I be? We have a plan. Longbottom seems confident.”

Harry just looked at her, one eyebrow raised. He didn’t say anything. He’d learned that sometimes silence was a better question than words.

She lasted about ten more steps before she caved. Her shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly. She slowed her pace, letting a larger gap open between them and Ron and Hermione. Vesta glanced back, gave a tiny, understanding nod, and subtly sped up to engage Hermione in conversation about the properties of lakeweed, giving them a semblance of privacy.

“It’s stupid,” Daphne muttered, finally looking at him. Her eyes weren’t cold now; they were just tired. “Astoria almost drowned when we were little. In a stream on our property.”

The confession was blunt, and it caught Harry off guard. He’d expected something, but not that.

“She got her foot tangled in weeds. The current was stronger than it looked,” Daphne continued, her voice low and factual, as if she were reciting something she’d rehearsed in her head a thousand times but never said out loud. “We got her out. She was fine. Coughing and crying, but fine.”

She fell silent for a moment, and Harry could almost see the memory playing behind her eyes. The image of a young, terrified Daphne was a strange and sobering one.

“I just…” she shook her head, a flicker of frustration crossing her features, aimed at herself. “I don’t like it. The lake is dark and deep and full of things I can’t name. And you have to just… dive in. For an hour.” She finally looked at him, and the mask was completely gone. There was just genuine, stark worry. “It gives me a scare, that’s all.”

Harry stared at her, truly touched. He was used to Hermione’s frantic worrying and Ron’s grumbling concern. But this was different. This was Daphne Greengrass, who prized control and composure above almost all else, admitting to a deep-seated fear because she was worried about him.

“I’ll be careful,” he said, and it sounded inadequate even to his own ears. “Neville’s sure about the plant. And… thank you. For telling me.”

Daphne seemed to realize how much she’d revealed. She straightened up, the mask slipping back into place, though it was a little less perfect than before. “Don’t mention it. Really. To anyone,” she added, with a pointed look that promised hexes if he did.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry said, a small smile tugging at his lips.

She smiled in return—small, tired thing—and they sped up to rejoin the others. But the atmosphere had shifted. Harry looked at Daphne—really looked at her—and saw more than the sharp, composed Slytherin he’d first met. He saw a fiercely protective sister and, he realized with a start, a friend.

---

The February air was a physical presence, a sharp, metallic cold that seeped through layers of wool. Vesta stood rigid on the Slytherin stands, a knot of anxiety tightening in her stomach.

Beside her, Daphne was a live wire of barely contained fury. “This is insanity,” she muttered, her voice low and venomous, meant only for Vesta. “They’ve actually put them in the lake. They’ve stolen people and used them as bait. What in Salazar’s name are they thinking?”

“I’m sure they have safety measures,” Vesta said, the words feeling hollow even as she said them. She was trying to project calm, for Daphne’s sake, but the sight of the black, choppy water made her own blood run cold.

“Safety measures?” Daphne’s laugh was a sharp, brittle sound. “In a lake full of Grindylows and Merpeople who clearly don’t want them there? Don’t be naïve, Vesta.”

A simpering voice cut through from behind them. “Problem, Greengrass? You seem awfully worried. Scared for your little… friends over there?”

Parkinson was leaning forward, a nasty smirk plastered on her face. Her cronies, Millicent Bulstrode and a few others, tittered on cue.

Daphne went perfectly still. The anxious energy around her crystallized into something cold and deadly. She turned her head slowly, and the look she fixed on Parkinson was so full of icy contempt that the girl’s smirk faltered.

“The only thing that frightens me, Parkinson,” Daphne said, her voice dropping to a whisper that carried further than a shout, “is the staggering lack of intellect required to find this spectacle entertaining rather than grotesque. But then, I suppose that’s always been your specialty. Now, do shut up. The adults are talking here.”

The silence that fell around them was absolute. Parkinson’s face flushed an ugly puce colour. She opened her mouth, found no retort, and snapped it shut again, shrinking back under the weight of Daphne’s scorn.

Vesta stared at her best friend. Daphne never snapped. She eviscerated with precision, with polite, cutting remarks, never with raw, public anger. She knew how much the incident with Astoria scared her. It wasn’t just a memory; it was a ghost that had just been violently summoned.

Maybe it was for better that the girl was in laying with a fever in their dorms. Her presence probably would make Daphne even more nervous.

Vesta moved closer, her shoulder pressing against Daphne’s again, a silent message: I’m here. I understand. Daphne took a deep breath and reached for her hand. She let her intertwin their fingers together and gave them a gentle squeeze.

The minutes dripped by like ice water. The crowd’s initial excitement faded into a nervous, chattering silence, punctuated by the grim slap of waves against the shore. Every ripple, every bubble, made Vesta’s heart stutter. Was that them? Was that a sign?

She caught a flash of pale hair and haughty disdain in the stands opposite. Draco was talking with his tagalongs that stupid smirk of his on his face.

A fresh wave of anger, hot and familiar, washed over Vesta. He was probably hoping Potter wouldn’t come back up.

The first disturbance was Diggory, emerging with Chang. The Hufflepuff section erupted in relieved cheers. Vesta’s nails dug into her palms. One down.

Then, nothing. More agonizing waiting.

Panic erupted from the Beauxbatons carriage. Fleur had not surfaced. Her shrieks of despair echoed across the water. Madame Maxime was on her feet, bellowing in furious French.

Daphne made a small, choked sound. “Something’s wrong.”

Vesta’s throat tightened.

When the merchief surfaced and spoke to Dumbledore in that screeching, awful language, the truth became a nightmare. Fleur had failed. She’d been driven off. Potter was still down there.

The world narrowed to the dark, swirling water. Time was almost up and there was no sign of him.

Vesta couldn’t breathe. Merlin, what if Gillyweed had failed? What if it wasn’t enough? She hoped she didn’t accidently killed Potter with her suggestion.

She flinched when Krum surfaced with Granger.

Vesta and Daphne moved as one, a shared breath of relief caught in their throats. They watched as Granger was helped onto the dock, shivering violently, her usually bushy hair plastered dark and dripping to her skull. She looked small and fragile wrapped in the thick blanket, her eyes wide with the residual shock of the ordeal.

Without a word, Daphne turned and began pushing her way through the crowd on the stands, her focus absolute. Vesta was right on her heels, their earlier confrontation with Parkinson forgotten in the face of a more pressing need.

They reached the edge of the student area just as Granger was being checked over by a fussing Madam Pomfrey. The moment the matron stepped back to berate Krum for taking unnecessary risks, Daphne didn’t hesitate.

“Hermione,” she said, her voice tight.

She looked up, her teeth chattering. She managed a weak smile. “I’m alright, really, it was just—”

She didn’t get to finish. Daphne stepped forward and, in a move that shocked both Granger and Vesta, pulled her into a brief, fierce hug. It was over almost as soon as it began, Daphne releasing her just as quickly and taking a half-step back, as if surprised by her own actions. Her cheeks were faintly pink, but her gaze was steady.

“People here really did lose their minds,” Daphne said, her tone attempting its usual sharpness but failing miserably, cracking at the edges. “Students as hostages, honestly.”

Granger stared at her, utterly speechless. Then her expression softened, understanding dawning. She reached out and squeezed Daphne’s hand. “It’s okay. I’m fine. It was… actually quite fascinating, magically speaking.”

Vesta felt a wave of fondness for both of them—for Granger’s immediate retreat into intellectual analysis to diffuse the tension, and for Daphne’s uncharacteristic display of fear-turned-affection. She moved to Granger’s other side, giving her arm a gentle, reassuring pat.

“You gave us a scare,” Vesta said simply, and her eyes flicked to hers, full of gratitude.

Her brow furrowed as she scanned the dock, the officials, the champions who had returned. “Harry didn’t come out yet?”

“No,” Daphne answered, shivering slightly.

The three of them turned as one back toward the black water, their brief moment of safety vaporized. The anxiety that returned was tenfold, a physical weight pressing down on them. The cheers for Diggory’s and the fuss over Krum faded into a dull roar, meaningless against the terrifying silence from the lake.

Daphne’s hand found hers, her grip so tight it was painful, but Vesta barely felt it. She was aware of Granger making a small, devastated sound beside her, of the frantic arguing breaking out among the judges. But it all felt distant, like watching a play through a thick pane of glass. Her entire being was focused on that one spot of water where Potter had disappeared, willing it to break, begging for a sign.

The silence stretched, thin and taut, ready to snap.

And then it did.

The water erupted.

Weasley surfaced first, gasping and spluttering, his red hair a stark banner against the grey water. He was dragging someone—a small figure with long, silvery hair.

A collective gasp ripped through the crowd.

But where was—?

Then he emerged.

Potter broke the surface right behind them, choking and heaving for air.

The air left Vesta’s lungs in a rush so violent it made her lightheaded. The relief was a physical blow, leaving her weak-kneed and trembling. The glass pane between her and the world shattered, and sound rushed back in—the deafening roar of the crowd, her own heart hammering against her ribs, and Daphne’s sharp, shuddering exhale beside her.

For a moment, they just stood there, frozen in the aftershock of adrenaline, watching as the officials swarmed the dock, pulling Weasley, the little girl, and finally, Potter from the freezing water. Blankets were thrust upon them.

The three of them on the stand didn’t wait for permission. A single, shared look was all it took. They were moving as one, pushing through the crowd, down the steps, and onto the chaotic dock, their previous fear now channeled into a desperate need to see, to confirm, to touch that they were really alright.

“Gerroff, Percy!” said Weasley to his brother who was dragging him back to the bank. “I’m alright—oof!”

Daphne had descended upon him. She didn’t hug him, but she started furiously tucking the blanket the official had abandoned around his shoulders, her movements sharp and anxious. “You’re half-frozen, don’t just sit there, you idiot—”

Weasley looked utterly bewildered by the onslaught of concern from her of all people. He blinked up at her, his brows shot up in surprise. Then, something in her distressed, pale face must have registered. He reached up, not to push her away, but to gently, clumsily, pat her hand where it was fumbling with the wool. “’M alright, Greengrass. Really. We’re fine.”

Daphne stilled, her breath catching. She looked from Weasley’s reassuring, if confused, face to Potter’s, who looked as lost as his friend, and some of the frantic energy left her. She gave a stiff nod and took a small step back, her composure slowly rebuilding itself brick by brick.

Vesta’s eyes found Potter. He was shivering violently, his glasses speckled with water, his hair plastered to his forehead. There were angry red marks and faint, darkening bruises around his neck. Her chest tightened. He looked exhausted, pale, and yet… Merlin, he was alive.

He looked up and his green eyes, bright behind his wet lenses, locked onto hers.

To cover the sudden, overwhelming rush of feeling that sight caused—the weird flutter in her stomach, the frantic beat of her heart—she forced her voice into a tone of dry amusement as she stepped closer.

“Nice job, Potter,” she said, the words coming out more gently than she’d intended. “Couldn’t just come out first, could you? Had to make a whole production of it.”

Potter gave a weak, shivering shrug, a ghost of a grin touching his lips. “’S’not my fault,” he mumbled, his teeth chattering. “Fleur was out. Couldn’t just leave her.” He looked past her shoulder towards the judges’ stand, a flicker of anxiety in his exhausted eyes. “I came out last anyway.”

He said it like it was a genuine distress, and something in Vesta softened. Without thinking, she closed the final bit of distance between them, entering his space. The sounds of the crowd seemed to fade.

“Well, you’re in one piece,” she murmured, her voice low and meant only for him. “That’s enough for me, at least.”

Her eyes were drawn again to the brutal-looking bruises on his neck. A protective impulse, sharp and sudden, overrode her usual caution. Acting on an instinct she didn’t understand, her hand came up. Her fingers, cold themselves, brushed lightly, almost reverently, against the discoloured skin on his throat.

He jolted at the contact, his breath hitching. His shivering stilled for a second. She could feel the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath her fingertips.

“Remind me to give you something for this,” she said absently, her focus entirely on the injury.

She looked up then and found him staring at her, his eyes wide with sheer, unguarded surprise. The world rushed back in—the noise, the cold, the people. And she realized what she was doing. Where she was. Who was watching.

She snatched her hand back as if burned, her own cheeks flooding with heat. She took a quick, stumbling step back, putting a safe, respectable distance between them, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

“Sorry,” she stammered, mortified, and quickly turned to busy herself with straightening Granger’s blanket, avoiding his gaze, avoiding everyone’s gaze, desperately trying to pretend the last ten seconds hadn’t happened.

Notes:

if anyone is interested, recently i started to post on my tumblr.
you are very welcome to join!!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of of who we are