Elenore Dear

by sofiblack

Summary:

While trying to solve the prophecy from the Department of Mysteries, which led to an unfortunate accident, Elenore leaves her position in the Ministry to teach Astronomy at Hogwarts. How unfortunate that her former classmate and ex-Death Eater, Regulus Black, is teaching DADA here.

Notes:

I got an idea for this work last winter, but I got the full vision of what I would like to write only after playing Hogwarts Legacy this summer (there will be a lot of description of the places from the game and references to the characters as well). While exploring the Highlands, the Bainburgh Manor caught my attention, and I started to wonder what could have happened there. Since August, I have been working on every detail and a plot twist that came to my mind, and now, finally, I have some chapters ready.

The story will unfold in kind of two parts - first in Hogwarts, where Regulus and Elenore are teachers. And the second part will be built around the Bainburgh prophecy. I was also thinking that those two parts could have been written as two separate works, but I decided that it would be more interesting to keep them in one.

Ladies, I hope you will enjoy this work, and I would like to remind that it is my first work, English is not my first language, and I am writing my bachelor's diploma this year, so I would like to apologise in advance in case if I will disappear for some time.

I also want to dedicate this work to everyone who might have ever felt the same way as Elenore did. And ladies, I promise that when the time is right and the stars align, all of us will find our Regulus in a world full of Merricks.

Chapter 1: Prologue

Notes:

Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/525RPa5WyzaBNryPgbn0dk

I will rearrange songs in the course of the story. For now, September 1st ends on "1979".
updt: Spotify list updated until Chapter 25 (December 24) - ends on "Dancing in the Dark".

1984 January

 

The moon was barely visible behind the clouds, spilling only the faintest silver over the snow-covered ground. Elenor despised how merciless the winter cold could be. 

She was standing near the entrance of the Fox & Firking Inn, waiting for her older brother to grace her with his presence. It was infuriating how effortlessly William can make everyone wait without feeling the slightest bit of guilt. Tonight was no exception. He had told her he would be ''right back'' nearly twenty minutes ago.

Even Elenore’s beloved navy-blue coat was not adapted to the Feldcroft region’s harsh weather, turning her cheeks crimson. The wind was playing and tangling the strands of her hair into a wild mess, which she tried to straighten the whole time.

Elenore, as ever in her thoughts, looked around at the hills that roll into the small valleys and at the settlement itself. She studied the cobblestone paths connecting the cottages with steep snow-covered roofs and smoke puffing crooked chimneys.

Lanterns glowed faintly from iron brackets on doorposts, casting a dim golden light on the street. The iron railings and fences scattered through the hamlet gave it a harsher edge than other wizarding villages, and though Elenore saw a certain type of beauty in its simplicity. To her, Irondale was both haunting for its history and enchanting for the way the hills cradled the hamlet and its past like a secret.

She wondered who had walked these paths centuries ago, who might have stood where she was standing now. How time reshaped the world again and again, carrying on long after those who dreamed beneath its sky centuries ago.

Her reverie was suddenly interrupted. 

''Come ooon, Ellie, we can’t stay here any longer.''

She scoffed and turned to see William standing right in front of her, with the look on his face as if it was he who was standing outside the cold and waiting.

''Finally… Took your time, did you?'' she said as they began to make their way out of the hamlet. 

'' Don’t be dramatic, it wasn’t so long,'' William replied, pulling his freshly polished wand from his coat with a smug smile. ''Besides, I spoke with the innkeeper. Locals saw a suspicious group of wizards heading toward the Moonstone Garden. Which, conveniently, is where we’re going.'' He turned on his heel, walking backwards ahead of her with a grin. ''Oh, and remind me what was in the prophecy?''

''When lantern-light bleeds through the stars of silver, the dead shall stir, and one shall rise from the sea or from the grave. Only blood that has ended blood may still the Reliquary, Or else its light shall drown the world in silence.''  Elenor recited, catching his sleeve and tugging him forward to walk properly. ''Although I don’t think the relic is here. It will be too easy and obvious if the artefact that connected to the celestials could be found literary in a garden that practically wears the night sky as its name.''

'' Perhaps, but we still have to check. It’s our job to keep the ancient relics and thieves intact,'' he said, unfazed, almost bored, ''Haven’t you thought about that a couple of years ago when enrolling to the Department of Mysteries?'' 

Elenore sighed heavily and threw her head back. '' Please don’t start, you know it was not my choice''.

They walked to the path leading down the hill where the Garden should be, the light of the hamlet shrinking to a faint glow behind them. Beyond stretched only darkness, one wrong step could mean tumbling into nothing. The use of Lumos was unnegotiable as its glow could betray their presence from half a mile away.

Elenore tried to push those thoughts of accidentally falling from the mountain out of her mind. She tightened her hold on William’s arm as they started to walk down the path. Her breath clouded white in the air, her mind filled with the prophecy’s words. When lantern-light bleeds through the stars of silver.

What if the Moonstone Garden itself was the prophecy’s lantern? What if they were walking straight into the teeth of fate, and her belief that the relic couldn’t be here is wrong? Better think of something else for now.

Elenore broke the silence first, ''How’s Merrick? Haven’t heard from him in a while.''

William gave a short, humourless laugh that formed a pale cloud in the air. ''Why on earth are you thinking about Merrick now? Miss him much?'' Will furrowed his brows in confusion, then continued, his voice edged with amusement, ''Well…Merrick is… Merrick. You know how he is. In the last letter I had from him, he said he’s in Hogsmeade…Almost as always. Started to visit  Hog’s Head, of all places, says it gives him a ‘perfect vantage point’ for overhearing things no one else notices.''

Elenor’s lips curved into a faint smile. ''That sounds like him.''

The crunch of their boots on snow filled the pause that followed. Elenor pictured Merrick leaning back in a rickety Hog’s Head chair, parchment and quills scattered across a table sticky with spilt ale, looking far too pleased with himself. Reckless and infuriating as always. Her thoughts strayed to Merrick’s grin, that strange mix of daring and foolishness that had always irritated and endeared her at the same time. She wondered if he had changed, if he still wore his muggle rockstar-inspired haircut. Or if…

A branch cracked somewhere down the path, sharper than before. Both siblings froze, eyes locking, eyebrows raised, lips parted in identical shock.

Before Elenor could react, in an instant, William covered her mouth with one arm and dragged her into the nearest thick bushes, the branches snagging at their coats as they sank into the shadows.

''Ouch, where are those gentlemanly manners father taught you?'' she whispered, her voice muffled as she rubbed her back from the hard fall.

''Shh,'' he hissed back. ''Not now. Just stay still.''

For a heartbeat, all was still, and they saw a Moonstone garden before them. Even in the pale, cloud-filtered moonlight, it was impossible not to notice how strange and otherworldly the place seemed. The garden stretched in irregular terraces, cobblestone paths twisting between the willow trees surrounding the place and the sealed cave.

Frost clung to every leaf, every stone, giving the garden a silvery glow that made the entire space feel suspended between night and dream. At the centre right in front of the cave stood a stone pillar. Ellie heard that it was called the Scholars' Stone. When illuminated under the correct star alignment, it could summon a group of Mooncalves to perform their legendary dance. She had long dreamed of seeing them dance, their pale forms twirling and hopping in unison beneath the moon. Although she never heard a word about the cave, was it some kind of a vault? Or…

Then the soft crunch of snow returned Ellie back from her dreams. Someone—or something—was moving toward the path, deliberate, careful, and far too aware of their presence. Elenor’s heart pounded in her chest. She grabbed William’s sleeve with her icy fingers.

William leaned closer to Ellie and whispered, '' I will distract them. And you, don’t you even dare to move from this spot until I lead them away from the garden. Search for the relic and apparate as soon as you can. Understood?'' 

''But what about y…''

''Shhh,'' he cut her off sharply, '' you’ve heard what I said.''

Elenore stayed silent and just nodded, trying to keep herself intact.  She swallowed her fear, forcing herself to breathe evenly and remain precise, even as her pulse raced and panic threatened to rise.

A rasping voice rang out through the stillness, getting closer to them, ''Hey! Who’s there!''

Without second thought, William stood and walked back onto the path, trying to shield Ellie from the man’s view.

He froze for a heartbeat, then took another step closer to the thief.

''Seems like you got me,'' William deadpanned, raising his hands into the air with exaggerated innocence, his expression perfectly rehearsed and unreadable.

Elenor pressed herself deeper into the bushes, her wand trembling in her hand as the group of dark-robed figures stepped into view. Their faces were hidden beneath heavy hoods. She could see the glint of wands in their hands, aimed not at her, but at William, who had stepped forward into their direction with his usual confidence.

''Evening, friends,'' he said smoothly, trying to sound casual. ''Searching for something in here?''

The figures paused, and for a heartbeat, it seemed as if they might engage in conversation. And one of them did.

'' Could ask the same of you, were you spying on us? Ministry rat,'' he spat the last words and pierced William with his gaze as if he could actually kill with it.

Before William could utter a word, one of the robed wizards at the back muttered an incantation that made the air itself crackle with unfamiliar energy. The spell hit William squarely in the chest.

He staggered as a wave of violet light knocked him backwards. He hit the ground with a dull thud, unmoving.

''No!'' Elenor whispered, clutching her chest, frozen in terror. The world constricted, her breath catching in her throat as if the air had vanished. She couldn’t feel the cold or the tears sliding down her cheeks. She could only sit, silent and invisible, while her brother lay helpless out of her reach.

You're a Coward, Elenor, was the only thought on her mind.

The intruders glanced at her hiding spot but, seeing nothing, shrugged and moved on. 

Everything became a blur—fragments of voices and shapes, the crunch of their footsteps on the snow—but she could focus on nothing but the sight of William lying there.

''We could have pulled some information from him,'' one voice murmured.

''We can’t afford witnesses. Boy’s fate is sealed,'' another replied.

''Whatever. Let’s get out of here. Leave the boy. Even if he wakes, he won’t find anything. The relic is not here.''

The figures melted into the trees, their footsteps gradually fading into silence. They were leaving, that was all that mattered.

Elenor stayed hidden, silently crying, her body shaking as adrenaline battled with fear. The cold bit at her cheeks, but she barely noticed, her mind was consumed with panic and dread. Minutes stretched impossibly long before she dared to move.

Finally, when the last sound of retreating footsteps faded. She exhaled shakily, creeping from the bushes to where William lay unconscious, curly hair covering half of his pale face. His wand lay a few inches from his outstretched hand.

Elenor ran to him as fast as she could. She grabbed William with her shaking hands and apparated them both away.

In an instant, the garden vanished, replaced by the familiar warmth and safety of her parents’ study. Elenor collapsed beside William, her shallow, uneven breaths filling the quiet room. She cradled his head in her lap, tears slipping freely, as she whispered, ''Please… just breathe…''

''MOTHEEEER!!!…..MOOOOM!'' She screamed as loud as her lungs allowed, voice cracking with panic and fear, until Juliet Fawley appeared in the doorframe, her face etched with unspoken shock and fear.

The same instant their mother knelt beside them, Elenor felt her strength betray her entirely, sinking to the floor. For the first time that night, she allowed herself to feel the full weight of terror, helplessness and relief pressing down upon her.

''Call Ingram, that’s an emergency!'' Juliet commanded the maid, her eyes never leaving the children. She reached for William, checking his pulse. ''Elenor… what in Merlin’s beard happened!?''

The last thing Elenor heard before losing her consciousness was her mother’s composed voice, directing the maid to immediately summon their father from the Ministry. Then she heard and felt nothing. The world faded, leaving her in the void of nothingness.

 

Notes:

can't believe William was Slytherin and not Gryffindor, but still. From now on we are moving back to Hogwarts.

Chapter 2: Chapter 1

1984 September 1

Eight months had flown past like the flick of the wand. Elenore was standing on the Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, holding her luggage in one hand and squishing her fluffy brown cat Noel in the other. Somewhere on the station clock struck ten, her breath misting in the cool morning air. She wasn’t sure what to feel — anticipation, dread, or that hollow ache of uncertainty.

She remembered standing on this very platform five years ago, waiting for her last train ride to Hogwarts, thinking about her dreams, plans and hopes for an unknown future. From the moment she had first crossed the castle’s threshold, she had wanted nothing more than to return here again and again, hoping she would never have to leave it. 

Now, all that remained were memories, vivid as if carved into her soul. sneaking through the secret passages with Pandora, trying not to laugh at Nathaniel’s jokes in the middle of lectures, sprinting through the endless corridors in a chase to catch Daedalian Keys.

The dearest of all were tied to the Ravenclaw common room’s roof terrace, where she and Pandora used to spend their whole free time, regardless of the hour or weather. 

By day, they would sprawl across with their books, quills scratching. Or pretend to portray Peeves himself.

''Look, I am Peeves! The smuggest ghost in this castle!'' Mocked Elenore dramatically tossing her head back and pressing a hand to her forehead.

''Scoundrels! Give me those gobstones!'' Protested Pandora in reply, her voice wobbling with laughter.

By night, they would simply lie beneath the endless sprawl of stars, dreaming about their future and how things might be, about all the impossible, wondrous things. 

Since Elenore was twelve, she had dreamt of becoming Hogwarts’ Astronomy professor. The thought had taken root during her second year, on a bitterly cold night atop the Astronomy Tower. While her classmates complained about frostbitten fingers and sleep-heavy eyes, Elenore had tilted her head back to the stars and felt some unexplainable feeling stirring within her. The castle below, the endless sky above. She wanted to stay there forever.

In her notebooks, she scrawled lesson plans no one would read, diagrams of constellations annotated not only with their names but with stories, riddles, and half-formed theories. She imagined herself at twenty, forty, seventy, standing in this same spot surrounded by students, passing down her knowledge of the night sky to them.

What a shame her parents had other plans for Elenore.

''But, Mum, I don’t see myself working for the Ministry. I’m not the perfect candidate to be an Auror!''

Juliet Fawley’s expression was composed, her voice firm but never unkind.''Elenore, you must find a worthy post. Since you refuse to marry — and we won’t press you on that matter — you must be able to support yourself. Work at the Ministry is the natural path for a Fawley. Look at your father or uncle Stanley. Even William! You are not less capable than they are.''

''I don’t want their path,'' Elenore pressed, her voice sharp with a rare defiance.

Her mother’s eyes softened, but her tone did not.''Think of it from the bright side. You may still work with your precious stars. The Department of Mysteries has the Planet Room where you can continue your research, perhaps even make discoveries no one else has dreamt of.''

''But, Mother, what if—''

''No buts, no maybes.'' Juliet’s words fell like stone. ''You will not close yourself away at Hogwarts. You cannot spend your life hiding within its walls. You are young — the Ministry will give you more opportunities and influential acquaintances. This discussion is closed.''

Elenore lowered her gaze, swallowing the protests that rose in her throat. '' I understood you, Mother.''

The work at the Ministry itself was not bad, and as it turned out, was quite fascinating. At first, the endless corridors and the hushed tone of the Department of Mysteries had felt suffocating.

Soon, she found herself drawn into the Planet Room — a vast chamber where enchanted spheres of planets drifted in silence, their light casting shadows that moved like tides across the marble floor.

One of her other responsibilities was to work in the Hall of Prophecy. Through working on magical cosmology and Astronomy, she researched how planetary alignments and unspeakables affect magic, time, and prophecies.

At first, she learned to tolerate her job. Then, somehow, she even began to like it. The work was demanding, fascinating in its way. Yet the truth was always there, her choice had been taken from her. And Hogwarts remained just a ghost behind her back.

 Elenore folded the dream away, locking it beneath the years of obedience. And though she was quite pleased with her work in the Ministry, every time she stepped into the Planet Room she thought, with a dull ache, that it was not it.

Years passed, and for a time, everything was great. And then William was injured. The shock of it shattered Elenore, and the previous disdain she once felt for her Ministry work came crashing back with the violence of a tidal wave. All the purpose she had carefully stitched into her days was torn away.

Now she was going back to Hogwarts. Exactly as she wanted. But at what cost? Perhaps under different circumstances, she would have been overjoyed to finally walk the castle halls again, to remain there not as a student but as someone who could stay there for longer. The price of her return was too high. 

Why hasn’t she run faster? Why hasn’t she hexed the thieves herself? What if she waited for to long and it was already too late to help William’s condition?

Those questions gnawed at her every day. She couldn’t stop herself from wondering what if and how things could have been if she had acted differently.

Her parents finally agreed to allow Elenore to pursue her dream, just for the sake of distracting her from her suspended state of nothingness. They feared what would become of her otherwise. Anything was better than watching their daughter drift like a ghost through the corridors, living without purpose and blaming herself for all the miseries she brought on her family.

After the accident, Elenore spent a month in rehabilitation at St Mungo’s. The rest of the time, she spent in her parents' house, moving aimlessly through hallways and staring out the window, thinking how it would have been better if the spell had hit her instead of William. 

Elenore couldn’t even imagine what she would do if they gonna lose Will. The perfect son, with beliefs that always aligned with the family ones. Always the centre of attention and adored by people. In everything he did, he effortlessly succeeded. Merlin knows how.

And then, there was Elenore, the complete opposite. Always overshadowed by her immaculate brother. She was not blaming William for that, no,  she had got used to being the family’s disappointment. Always stuck in her mind, never knows what she wants, and fails easily.

She was not even allowed to visit William.

The curse that struck him remained unknown even among the most skilled healers.  No one could predict what effect it may have.

Eight months have passed, and William was still there in St Mungo's.

Elenore got better with time, and she started to go out for walks more often. Although she still hasn’t returned to her social life. She still hasn’t replied to any of the letters Pandora sent her. For now, no one had to know what happened , better to keep it like that. Why burden others with the weight she could barely carry herself?

The sound of the train horn welcoming passengers on board brought Ellie back to the present. She looked around at the kids running before each other, and the first years saying goodbye to their parents, and just for a moment, Ellie thought that everything would be fine, although she never liked or believed in this saying. What if nothing will be fine? 

She turned her gaze to Noel, who was snorting with his head on Ellie's shoulder, ''Are you excited, Moonbeam?'' she said while taking her trunk from the ground.

The cat opened his blue eyes and yawned in response. 

Elenore chose an empty compartment near the back, sliding the door shut behind her before sinking into the worn teal seat. The fabric smelled faintly of dust and peppermint that brought back the memories of her, Nathaniel and Pandora trying to catch the peppermint toads that were leaping around the whole space.

Noel leapt onto the seat opposite her, curling his tail neatly around himself. Elenore rested her temple against the cool glass of the window and sighed.

''I miss her, Moonbeam.''

The train lurched forward with its familiar, rhythmic shudder, and Elenore felt her stomach tighten when, unexpectedly, she got distracted by someone storming into her compartment. Speak of the Devil herself.

Elenore turned her head abruptly to see Pandora, standing in front of her.

Noel gave a startled flick of his tail at the noise, but Elenore barely noticed. She blinked once, twice, as if her mind refused to believe what her eyes were showing her. Pandora, with her blonde, wild from the wind hair, eyes glinting with their old mischief, was very real and stood there in the doorway.

''MORGANA’S TITS ELLIE YOU’RE ALIVE'' squeaked Pandora, half-laughing, half-crying.

Before Elenore could gather her thoughts, Pandora had already flung herself across the compartment, laughter bubbling out of her like she had been holding it in for months. She wrapped Elenore in a hug so tight that she couldn’t breathe for a brief moment. 

''Pennie…'' Elenore breathed, her voice thin, breaking on the name and letting herself melt into the embrace. ''I’m alive,'' Elenore echoed faintly, as though she were reminding herself of the same truth. Her throat tightened, and for the first time in months, she felt tears prick at her eyes.

Pandora pulled back only enough to look at her, cheeks flushed, eyes searching Elenore’s pale face. ''You absolute wretch! Do you know how many letters I’ve sent you? Do you know how worried I’ve been? You haven’t even answered the Birthday card I’ve sent you. I’ve made it myself, by the way. Cats, mooncalves and glitter, everything in our best traditions.''

Elenore tried to smile, but it came out lopsided and fragile. ''I… I didn’t know what to say.''

Pandora huffed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, then sat down beside her, still clutching her arm as if afraid Elenore might vanish if she let go.

''Well, you’re going to tell me everything, now!'' she declared with mock severity, though her voice wavered. ''Every single thing.''

Noel, unimpressed with the dramatics of their reunion, padded back into Elenore’s lap, purring in an attempt to calm both witches at once.

''Pennie, there is nothing interesting to tell,'' Elenore murmured, stroking Noel’s fur, trying to dismiss the question and switch the theme. '' Better tell me what you’ve been up to?' '

Pandora’s expression softened, but her voice stayed steady, ''Ellie, I know about William, you can tell me.''

Elenore opened her mouth in disbelieving shock, ''But…How did you….?''

''That’s what I’ve been up to.'' Pandora lifted both hands in a little flourish. ''I work at St Mungo’s now. Tadaa.''

''Then what are you doing on the train to Hogwarts?''

''Actually,'' Pandora leaned closer with a grin, ''I have the same question for you, honey. But let me finish first. They’ve sent me here for an apprenticeship —to help Madam Pomfrey in the hospital wing and brew a few potions meanwhile. That’s the story.''  She tipped her chin, suddenly serious again. ''Now, tell me what happened.''

Elenore let out a long breath, her shoulders slumping. ''Well, if you already know… then there’s nothing new I can tell you. Only that—'' she hesitated, lips curving faintly in something that wasn’t quite a smile, ''—I’ll be the new Astronomy professor.''

She lifted one hand in a half-hearted flourish. ''Tadaa.''

Pandora squealed, throwing her arms around Elenore. ''You don’t have to tell me everything now, if you don’t want to.''

''Thank you, Pennie,'' Elenore whispered, hugging her friend back.

Pandora moved away from Elenore a little and placed both her hands on Ellie’s shoulders, trying to make her voice as serious as possible, ''Ellie! We’re back at Hogwarts… together! Do you know what this means?'' 

Ellie squinted at Pandora, mouse twitching in a half smile.

Pandora couldn’t wait for her answer anymore, said the word herself, ''Stargazing whenever we like. Sneaking to the kitchen for midnight snacks. We’re going to drive the prefects mad all over again.''

Elenore laughed so hard she nearly startled Noel off her lap. ''Merlin’s beard, Pennie, we’re twenty three now. Professors and healers.''

''Doesn’t mean we have to act like it,'' Pandora shot back with a wicked grin.

The two dissolved into laughter, the weight of months apart melting into something nostalgic and familiar.

They watched as London blurred into fields, and fields blurred into forests. Each mile carried them closer to the castle that had once been their whole world.

Children’s laughter and the clatter of the sweet trolley drifted down the corridor, reminding them of their childhood time.

For a fleeting moment, Elenore closed her eyes and let the rhythm of the train wash over her, as if it could carry her not only to Hogwarts but also back to a time when everything was still fine.

 

Notes:

September 1 will be divided into 3 chapters) I will also add spotify playlist soon, just have to rearrange it first. So here we go, ladies. Enjoy!

Chapter 3: Chapter 2

The first sight of the castle broke something open in Elenore’s chest. Hogwarts rose against the night sky, its towers etched in silver, illuminated by the moon, stars gleaming in the sky like small diamonds. The sight was so achingly familiar that for one dizzying second, Elenor could almost believe she was eleven again, suitcase in hand, ready to explore every secret this castle prepared for her.

But she wasn’t eleven. She wasn’t even a student anymore. She was here as a Professor Fawley, the new Astronomy teacher. Isn’t it what she wanted?

Her fingers tightened on the worn handle of her trunk as the carriages clattered up the slope. A part of her wanted to leap down and run the rest of the way like she used to, heart racing with anticipation. Instead, she forced herself to sit still, every breath a reminder that this was not the return she had imagined for herself all those years ago.

Pandora sat behind her like in good old times. She leaned forward from her seat, chin resting on Elenore’s shoulder as if no years had passed at all. ''You’re doing that thing again,'' she whispered.

Ellie blinked. ''What thing?''

''The dramatic stare. Like you’re the heroine of some ballad, gazing at the castle that stole her heart.'' Pandora smirked, eyes twinkling. ''Honestly, Ellie, you look like you’re about to start reciting poetry about the knights and towers.''

Elenore huffed, though a smile tugged at her lips. ''It’s called reverence, Pennie. You might try it sometime, if you could manage to be serious for longer than a breath.''

Pandora laughed, giving her shoulder a playful nudge. ''Serious? You? Please. Don’t think I’ve forgotten how much of a troublemaker you were under all that starry-eyed Ravenclaw business. Running around hexing portraits or sneaking me into the library after curfew.''

Ellie let out a soft laugh. The memory of late nights in the library, of laughter echoing in hidden corridors, of secrets whispered between them, washed over her. ''Merlin, we were ridiculous.''

''And brilliant,'' Pandora added firmly. ''Don’t forget brilliant.''

The carriage jolted as it crossed the bridge, and the castle loomed larger. Elenore’s chest swelled with a confusing rush of emotions — pride, longing, fear. This was her place. Her dream. And yet, stepping into it as Professor Fawley made her feel anxious.

The castle gates creaked open before them, and for the first time since she boarded the train, Elenore let herself breathe freely.

Inside the castle, the smell of polished wood and old stone wrapped around her like a half-forgotten lullaby. She climbed the spiralling staircases, nodding politely at portraits that whispered among themselves, trying not to break under the weight of her memories.

When Elenore finally reached her headquarters, she felt utterly exhausted. She had already forgotten how many stairs this castle had. And it was just a third half of the stairs she will have to climb this evening. 

Her room was perched in the astronomy tower, not far from her classroom or the peak of the tower itself. Tucked on the left side of the grand hall, which sat between the charms classroom and the staircase leading up to the astronomy room. 

On the right side of the hall, just before the stairs, was a round area crowned with a dome and arcs of dark blue stained glass. Beneath it sprawled a cosy lounge for students: piles of books teetered on tables, cats snorting on chairs and couches, chalkboards leaned casually against the walls, and globes with telescopes were scattered across the space. The moonlight spilled through the half-round window, painting the lounge with silvery beams that traced the sun, moon, and stars embedded in the glass.

The door creaked on its hinges as Elenore pushed it open, and the warm scent of burning wood from the fireplace greeted her. Two sage-green armchairs puffed invitingly in front of the hearth, one of them angled toward a telescope pointing out the window. 

The cold stone floor was softened by a collection of whimsical rugs, one painted a miniature night sky, another a chaotic swirl of purple and muted colours.

Walking further into the room Elenore saw a spacious four-poster bed resting against the far wall, draped with quilts and cushions. To the left, a desk overflowed with papers, magnifying glasses, and a small collection of curious trinkets. A little bit further into the room stood a chalkboard, a wardrobe, a couple of shelves, and a door that led to the bathroom. 

With a dramatic thud, Elenore sank into the bed, exhaling a long sigh. She glanced down at Noel and murmured, ''Well, at least you’ll have some company while I’m gone.''

Her eyes flicked toward the door ''Did you see that pretty grey Scottish Fold padding up to the astronomy tower?''

Noel just glanced at her and got back to his quest of sniffing around the new room.

After unpacking her clothes and setting the space for Noel, Elenore quickly changed her clothes to something more appropriate for the dinner and the sorting ceremony in the Great Hall. 

She slipped into a crisp white V-neck blouse, cinched at the waist with a row of neat black buttons. Over it, she draped her favourite checkered skirt. An ankle-length, swaying plaid in muted greys and browns. 

Navy blue heels clicked against the stone floor as she walked across her room in attempt to find her second stoking.

''No… it can’t be,'' she grumbled, rifling through corners and peeking beneath her trunk. ''There is no way Peeves has already found a way in here and I haven't noticed.''

She bent down to search under the bed next, just to see Noel lounging smugly beneath the bed with her missing stocking clenched between his teeth, chewing it with unbothered expression.

''Oh, Moonbeam…'' Elenore sighed, reaching out to reclaim it.

The cat swatted her hand away with surprising ferocity, tail flicking in disdain as if to say, mine now.

''Moonbeam, I know it’s delicious,'' she pleaded, ''but please…give it back. I swear I’ll return it later, cross my heart!''

Noel blinked at her slowly, then—just to prove his point—gave the stocking another chew.

Elenore lunged for him again, but he was quicker. With a flick of his tail, Noel darted out from under the bed, streaking across the room like a tiny shadow.

Elenore snapped, grabbing her wand from the bed, ''Oh, for Merlin’s sake—Accio stocking!''.

The stocking did fly towards her—but so did other pairs from the wardrobe.

''Wait, wait, WAIT—!'' she yelped, dodging under her bed.

 The right stocking smacked against her shoulder, damp with cat teeth marks, while others just scattered all around the room.

Noel sat smugly on the windowsill, tail curled neatly around his paws, clearly proud of the chaos he’d caused.

Elenore shook the stocking out, muttering, ''You’re impossible''

She slipped it on at last and went to glance at herself in the mirror near the entrance to the room.

With a flick of her wand, she murmured, ''Crinus Muto,'' and at once her ash-brown hair softened into delicate curls that fell around her shoulders.

She fastened on her Pearl earrings that glimmered faintly in the warm light.

Before leaving, she reached for the glass atomiser on the table beneath the mirror, the one she had carried everywhere since her sixth year. She pressed it softly and felt the smell of something familiar.  A layered perfume of crushed violet leaves, warm vanilla, and the faintest trace of smoke. It smelled like midnight gardens after rain, like books left too long in cedar-lined drawers—something grounding, something uniquely her.

With a final look at Noel, who was already grooming himself as though nothing had happened, she pointed a finger at him. ''Try not to redecorate the room while I’m gone, Moonbeam,'' she said, pushing open the door.

The corridors of Hogwarts were just as she remembered them—drafty, alive with whispers, and slightly too eager to trip her if she wasn’t paying attention. 

Elenore’s heels clicked steadily against the marble floor as she thought about the quickest path to reach the Great Hall. She had just reached the base of the Defence Against the Dark Arts tower and was about to step onto the Suspension Bridge when a voice called her from behind.

''Oh ho! If it isn’t little Fawley, all grown up!''

She flinched, then turned with narrowed eyes to find the translucent form of young Richard Jackdaw drifting toward her, his trademark grin firmly in place.

''Jackdaw,'' she exhaled, a half-smile tugging at her lips. ''I’m surprised you’re still haunting these halls. I remember you going on about exploring the world.''

''Haunting? Please. I call it brightening the place,'' he declared, swooping low and flickering straight through the hem of her skirt. ''Besides, unfinished business and all that. Keeps a ghost young.''

Elenore rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a laugh.

''Merlin’s beard, Ellie, you’ve grown so fast,'' Jackdaw went on with mock solemnity. ''Never thought I’d live—er, die—to see the day. I still remember dragging you and Pandora to see the Mooncalves when you were fifteen. Time flies—though not as well as I do.'' He spun a lazy loop in the air for emphasis.

''Speaking of,'' Elenore said with a small smile, ''Pandora’s here too. She’ll be helping Madam Pomfrey.''

''Is she now? Well, good. Someone around here needs to keep the infirmary interesting.'' He waggled his brows. ''And what about you? Come to cause trouble again?''

''I’m a professor now,'' she admitted, almost sheepishly. ''Can you imagine that?''

Jackdaw let out a bark of laughter that rattled in the rafters. ''Professor Fawley! Stars help us all. So you’ll be the one pretending to be respectable while still sneaking about after hours. Fitting promotion, if you ask me.''

Elenore shook her head, though the familiar banter loosened the tension in her shoulders. ''You’re incorrigible.''

''And you’re almost late,'' he shot back, darting ahead through the nearest wall. ''Go on, Professor Fawley, the Sorting’s about to begin. Don’t keep the Headmaster waiting.''

''But you’re late as well! And unlike you, I can’t walk through walls to make up for it.''

''True,'' Jackdaw’s voice echoed smugly from the stones ahead. ''But I won’t be the one stuck at the teachers’ table.''

A laugh broke from her chest before she could stop it. Jackdaw hadn’t changed at all—and somehow, that made Hogwarts feel like home again.

The walk to the Great Hall hadn’t seemed nearly so long with Jackdaw’s laughter trailing beside her. But the moment she stepped inside, the sight stole Elenore’s breath. The enchanted ceiling glittered with a star-speckled night, so achingly like the one she had studied for years in the Astronomy Tower. Floating candles bathed the hall in golden light, shadows flickering across the polished benches. At the long tables, first-years buzzed with nervous excitement, while the older students exchanged weary glances that spoke of OWLs, NEWTs, and too little sleep.

Jackdaw drifted off to join a cluster of his ghostly Headless Hunt fellows, when Elenore suddenly heard her name shouted across the hall. Pandora was barreling toward her, cloak streaming behind her like a banner.

''Ellie! Where is your cloak?'' she demanded, grabbing Elenore’s hand before she could answer and tugging her toward the right side of he hall.

''Fates unholy, Pennie, I forgot!'' Elenore squeaked, panic rising like a tide. ''What should I do? My first appearance… How could I—ugh!'' She buried her face in her free hand with a dramatic sigh.

''I have an idea,'' Pandora announced as someone who had already decided for her. She dragged them both toward a small antechamber tucked beside the staff dais, skirts swishing as they ran, squatting behind the columns so no-one could see them.

Elenore was halfway through a whispered complaint when her gaze snagged on a figure standing just beyond the teacher’s table. She froze mid-step, eyes narrowing.

''What the—'' she murmured under her breath.

Dark curls. Sharp cheekbones. An unmistakable profile.

The tall young man was speaking quietly with Professor Flitwick, the flicker of candlelight cutting across his face. Elenore’s chest tightened as Pandora shoved her through the door and shut it quickly behind them. Firelight spilled all over the room, warming their flushed faces.

Elenore turned to Pandora and asked in disbelief, ''Is that… Regulus Black?'' Chills and fear crawled down her spine.

''I’ll explain later,'' Pandora said briskly, holding out one hand while fishing her wand from her pocket with the other. ''Now, give me something to work with.''

Elenore glanced down helplessly. She hadn’t brought anything but the clothes on her back. ''But I…wait.'' She kicked off her left heel, wobbling dangerously before yanking at her stocking. She nearly toppled over as she managed to tug it free and shoved it into Pandora’s waiting hand. ''Take this.''

Pandora blinked at the offering. ''Ellie… why is there a hole in—never mind.'' She shook her head, already muttering under her breath as her wand flicked in a precise arc. The stocking shimmered, lengthened, and softened, transforming into a velvet cloak of midnight blue.

''Now hurry,'' Pandora said, thrusting it at her with a triumphant little smirk. ''Ceremony starts in five minutes.''

They stepped out of the antechamber as if nothing had happened, gliding across the hall with practised composure. Elenore kept her chin high, as if she was not strolling through the Great Hall with only one stocking on. The amount of things happening in a span of five minutes clouded her mind, and Elenore forgot to take off the remaining stocking, besides, the skirt should cover the absence of the other one. At least she hoped that it did.

As they walked closer, Elenore's mind was reeling. 

Don’t look. Do not turn your head. There is absolutely nothing suspicious about an ex–Death Eater standing right here on your right. Absolutely nothing. He almost killed you once. So what? 

She glanced slightly to her right purely out of curiosity, just to lock her eyes with Regulus’.

Merlin’s beard, Elenore. Why would you—

''Professor Dumbledore,'' she greeted quickly, pulling her attention forward and offering the Headmaster a polite incline of her head. ''My apologies for being late. It’s an honour to be here.''

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles. ''No need to apologise, Miss Fawley—you are right on time. We were about to begin. You may take the seat behind Professor Black.''

Her brain nearly short-circuited. Professor Black? What in Merlin’s name? He can’t be serious.

Elenore flicked her gaze toward Pandora, who was slipping into place beside Madam Pomfrey at the table on the left side of the Hall. Pandora’s expression was calm, but her eyes widened just slightly when Elenore met them—an unspoken don’t panic.

With no choice, Elenore strode forward, offering polite nods as she passed the professors at her table.

 At the high table’s centre, McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout, and Slughorn sat poised, awaiting Dumbledore to begin. The air felt heavy with expectation.

At last, she reached her place. Regulus was on her right, his profile sharp in the candlelight, unreadable as stone. 

She offered a half nod in greeting, '' Mr Black,'' as she sat in her seat.

'' Miss Fawley,'' Regulus answered in return. His blueish grey eyes travelling from the table to Elenore. 

On her left sat Elizabeth Cartwright, the young Arithmancy professor. Her light green robes tailored sharply, a silver chain glinting at her collar. She greeted Elenore with a warm smile, emerald eyes bright with the kind of friendliness that instantly soothed nerves. Barely thirty, Mrs Cartwright was adored by her students for her sharp wit and for her habit of sneaking peppermint drops into the pockets of the particularly anxious ones before the exams.

“First nights are always the most nerve-wracking,” Mrs Cartwright whispered kindly to Elenore. “Don’t worry—you’ll do splendidly.”

Elenore managed a faint smile, though her thoughts were already beginning to spin away from her.

As Professor Dumbledore approached the Owl Lectern and cleared his throat, the chatter across the Great Hall stilled almost instantly, replaced by a reverent hush. Hundreds of candles floated above, their flames flickering in the silence, as every eye turned toward him.

''Welcome, students,'' Dumbledore began, his voice warm yet commanding. ''Another year stretches before us, filled with lessons to be learned, friendships to be forged, and challenges to be overcome. Some of you may already know the comforts of these halls, while others are seeing them for the very first time. To each of you I say: you belong here, for it is not the walls of this castle that make Hogwarts home, but the people within it.''

He paused, his gaze sweeping the room, a smile playing on his lips. ''So let us embrace another year of discovery, not only of magic, but of ourselves.''

A soft murmur of approval rustled through the students, the older ones smiling knowingly, the younger ones wide-eyed.

''Before we proceed with the Sorting Ceremony,'' Dumbledore went on, ''I have the pleasure of introducing a new member of our faculty.''

He gestured toward Elenore.

Her pulse spiked as she rose gracefully, clasping her hands before her. A ripple of whispers swept across the hall—speculation, curiosity, awe.

''Professor Fawley will be joining us this year as our Astronomy teacher,'' Dumbledore announced. ''She has dedicated many years to the study of the stars and their influence upon magic, and I have no doubt you will find her lessons fascinating.''

Dozens of heads turned toward her, some first-years craning their necks, some older students whispering guesses about her age, her past, her subject. Elenore inclined her head, offering a polite smile. ''Thank you, Headmaster,'' she said, her voice steady though her heart thumped wildly.

She sat back down, catching Pandora’s wink from across the hall. For a fleeting moment, the tension melted away. But then—out of the corner of her eye—she noticed Regulus. He was watching her with cool detachment, there was something unreadable beneath the surface. Not disdain, not approval. Just… 

And then their eyes met again, he looked away as though nothing had happened.

Dumbledore’s voice rang again: ''And now, without further delay, we shall begin the Sorting Ceremony.''

Professor McGonagall stepped forward with the Sorting Hat, placing it atop the heads of first-years one by one. The Hat’s folds shifted and whispered, the names of Houses as nervous children walked to their tables, the older students cheering, clapping, and teasing in equal measure.

Elenore allowed herself to watch, her heart fluttering with fondness. The Sorting Hat had always fascinated her—the way it saw more than most people did, the way it listened and…

Then, breaking through her thoughts, came a composed voice from her right.

''Curious fashion choice, Miss Fawley.''

Her head snapped toward Regulus. ''Excuse me?''

''One stocking,'' he said smoothly, his lips curving just faintly at the corner. ''Is that what passes for the latest fashion in London now?''

Heat rose to her cheeks as she tried to suppress any emotion from showing on her face. ''No, Mr. Black. Unfortunately, London hasn’t grown quite so bold.'' She leaned slightly toward him, lowering her voice. ''But should you wish to start a trend, I’m certain you’d wear it with… conviction.''

Regulus’s eyes flickered briefly with amusement before his expression smoothed into polite neutrality again. ''I’ll keep that in mind,'' he murmured, turning his attention back to the Sorting. 

So did Elenore, her eyes widened in shock as she glanced back at the students.

Why of all people it was Regulus who noticed? They had never been friends—just classmates. Nothing more. But why did Regulus suddenly acknowledge her presence? 

Elenore’s family was one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and perhaps it was the reason she was never a target of Slytherin’s teasing. But Regulus never showed any interest in Elenore before, and nor did she. 

They knew about each other's existence and even worked together during classes when it was needed. She had even beaten him once during the Defence Against the Dark Arts duel when they were thirteen—a fact that, judging by the set of his jaw that day, he would never forgive nor forget.

 There was never anything more to that. Just silent academic rivalry and disdain for one another’s families. Elenore never understood how Regulus, with such a brilliant mind, could have ended up shackled to Voldemort’s cause. And Regulus had never understood how a family like the Fawleys, with their proud bloodline and influence in the Ministry, could waste themselves supporting integration with Muggles. Such a waste of potential, they both thought.

After school, they met only once. And it was not the sweet reunion of old classmates reminiscing about their youth.

It happened in early August 1979, just a month after the final exams. Elenore had been walking down Whitehall, ready to begin her shift, when suddenly—Death Eaters appeared. The green light of unforgivable flew right past her.

Everything turned into a blur. She never remembered quite how she managed to slip behind a telephone booth unnoticed. Her hands clamped over her mouth so tightly she could barely breathe, tears spilling freely as the chaos unfolded before her eyes.

Aurors were already there, casting counter-curses in a storm of sparks and shouts. But all she saw around her was blood. Lifeless bodies. Muggle and wizard alike—strewn across the street. The Death Eaters hadn’t cared. They slaughtered indiscriminately, throats cut, curses tearing through stone and flesh.

Some of the buildings were consumed by fire in counted seconds.

And then—she saw him.

Regulus.

He had taken off his mask, speaking low to one of his comrades who was busy blasting bricks off from a building. Regulus pointed toward something in the distance, his face sharp in the fire-lit mess. Then, in a breath, they were gone—black smoke slicing the sky.

She never saw him again.

Not until now.

The Department of Mysteries was dismissed for the day in the aftermath, but the horror lingered. 

The massacre made it to the Daily Prophet by morning:

Attack on the Ministry.
Thirty-two victims.
Four Death Eaters among the dead.
A bold attempt to sabotage and destabilise the Ministry itself.

 

She thought about what had become of the boy she used to work with in classes. What kind of monster he chose to be. 

She was afraid of him.

 Terrified. 

Frightened of they boy she once happened to win in a duel. 

The ceremony went on, the Hat announcing name after name, until the last nervous first-year was sent off to join their table, the applause of their new housemates echoing in the hall. With a clap of Dumbledore’s hands, the golden plates filled with food. A feast worthy of Hogwarts spread across the tables—roast meats steaming, bowls of roasted potatoes glistening in butter, platters of vegetables, gravy boats, and enough pumpkin juice to drown half the Hufflepuff table.

Elenore reached automatically for the roast chicken, letting the rhythm of the feast carry her along. The chatter around her grew louder, the excitement of new beginnings buzzing like electricity. Mrs. Cartwright beside her chattered kindly about Arithmancy electives and schedules, filling the silence Elenore hadn’t realised she was desperate to keep.

Regulus, however, was quiet. Almost too quiet. He ate with immaculate precision, every movement refined, his posture so straight it looked carved from stone. The candlelight caught the sharp lines of his face and a strands of curls falling down his face. His robes were elegant—black trimmed subtly with silver, cut to perfection, as though even in something so simple, presentation mattered. He spoke only when addressed, his replies soft and clipped, never offering more than necessary.

Unreadable villain of a man!

Not once did he turn to her again. And though she told herself it was better that way, she couldn’t help but feel his silence pressing against her louder than his earlier quip had.

She was still afraid of him, but somehow convinced herself that he will cause no harm by himself.

At last, when the puddings vanished and Dumbledore rose once more to dismiss the students to their dormitories, the hall erupted in the usual chaos of scraping benches and cheerful chatter. Professors lingered only briefly before making their way toward their own quarters.

Elenore stood and started to move toward the entrance when a familiar arm looped through hers. 

Pandora, cloak askew, a conspiratorial grin on her lips.

''Don’t even think you’re spending your first night here alone,'' she declared, tugging Elenore gently with her. ''I’ll stay with you. It’ll be like old times—minus curfews and detentions.''

Elenore blinked at her, relief loosening the knot she hadn’t admitted was there. ''Pennie, you don’t have to—''

''I want to,'' Pandora interrupted softly, her grin fading into something gentler. ''New beginnings are always easier with company. Although we have some gossips that are begging to be spilled right now. Oh! And, have you brought that carrot-ginger tea from Diagon Alley’s teashop?''

And with that, Elenore allowed herself a smile at last. Hogwarts didn’t feel quite so daunting anymore.

Notes:

I love how chaotic Pennie and Ellie could be!

Chapter 4: Chapter 3

The Astronomy Hall lounge beneath the dome glowed in pale blue light, moonlight pouring through the stained glass and scattering into patterns of stars across the wood floor. A lazy ginger cat snorted on the armchair beside the window. 

Pandora flopped onto a couch with her usual dramatics, tugging Elenore down beside her.

''Careful, Pennie—I have tea,'' Elenore warned, stretching out one of the mugs toward her.

''Thank you. I don’t even know where to start, Ellie,'' Pandora sighed, pulling her legs up and covering them with her pale blue robe.

''Tell me about your apprenticeship. I knew you wanted to be a healer, but who’ll stay with Luna? I thought Xenophilius was busy with the publishing?'' Elenore asked, taking a sip of her own tea.

Pandora leaned back on her hands, eyes half-lidded. ''He found a way to work from home and didn’t want to cage me, so he’s with Luna now. I’ll still visit them when I can, and after the apprenticeship, I’ll come back. These months of brewing, healing, and mopping up catastrophes in the hospital wing will fly by.''

''You’ll love it,'' Elenore said softly. ''You always liked experimenting and fixing people.''

''Fixing things, maybe.'' Pandora tilted her head, a faint smile playing on her lips. ''People are more complicated. That’s why I love Xeno. He’s not like others, yes, but he’s not a riddle I have to fix or solve.'' Her tone brightened as she took another sip. ''Still, I miss them already. Luna’s three years old now—already naming every constellation she sees, even the ones she invents.'' A laugh escaped her. ''She’s so full of wonder, Ellie.''

Elenore’s chest tightened at the tenderness in Pandora’s voice. ''She sounds more like you every day. That curiosity and wild way of seeing what the rest of us would never even think of.''

Pandora smiled into her mug, making another sip, then ''Well, that is really worth more than all the potions in st Mungo.''

''Speaking off…'' Elenore’s voice became more cautious. '' Have you seen William? How’s he?''

Pandora sighed. ''He’s the same. Stable, but no progress. The healers are still calling it stasis, like they’re trying to sound clever when what they really mean is: we don’t know anything.''

Elenore’s fingers curled against her robe. ''Eight months, Pennie. Eight months and they still don’t know what hex it was. It’s like he’s… gone, but not.'' Her voice cracked on the last word, and she pressed her palms together to still them.

Pandora reached out and squeezed her hand. ''He’ll come back, Ellie. He has to. You know how stubborn he is. Remember the time he spent three weeks trying to teach you to fly a broom properly? If he can survive that, he can survive this too.''

Elenore let out a soft, breathless laugh. ''I nearly killed him with that crash into the hedge.''

''There you go,'' Pandora said firmly. ''Proof.''

Elenore’s laugh came out thin, but it was real. She leaned back, her curls brushing the velvet cushions.

They sat in silence for a while, watching moonlight crawl across the telescopes. The hush was comfortable until Elenore, still staring at the glass dome above them, said quietly, ''I thought it was over, Pennie. The Order won. The Dark Lord was defeated. Everyone knows he was. So why—'' She turned her head, eyes sharp, searching Pandora’s. ''Why is Regulus Black here? Sitting at the staff table like nothing ever happened?''

Pandora bit her lip, hesitation flickering across her face. ''That,'' she said carefully, ''is a very good question.''

Elenore went on, her voice low but insistent. ''He was a Death Eater, he killed people, Pennie. He was brilliant, yes, but then he chose that path. And now he’s Professor Black? If Regulus turned out to be here, then where is Evan?'' The tone of her voice was filled with unfairness. 

Pandora chewed her lip then gave a small, pleading shrug. ''Please, Ellie—don’t bring Evan into this.'' Her voice cracked, and she sighed heavily, trying to keep the tears down.

''I was as shocked as you. Madam Pomfrey told me Regulus had been working with Dumbledore all this time—that’s why he was allowed to stay. She also said he isn’t the same Regulus we remember…''

''I still don’t trust him,'' interrupted Elenore.

'' Listen, Ellie, something happened, though no one knows what exactly. Things that never made it into the Prophet, unlike those endless speculations about his death. I believed them too—until I saw him at the ceremony.'' She faltered, her voice dropping to a whisper. ''And for a fleeting moment… I thought maybe Evan might be here as well.''

''I’m sorry, Pennie,'' Elenore murmured, setting her mug gently on the floor before wrapping her arms around Pandora.

Evan Rosier had vanished four years ago. Loyal follower, proud son. Pandora still remembered the hollow disbelief when she learned that her twin had joined the Death Eaters. She knew that their parents were extremely proud of Evan’s choice. But Evan had never told her of his intentions. They had always been inseparable, no secrets, no judgments. Or so she thought.

But in the autumn of their seventh year, Evan made his choice.

Why? Why? Why?

That night, Pandora had cried her heart out in Elenore’s arms. She couldn’t fathom how her reckless and infuriatingly kind brother had been so stupid—so blind—to follow their parents’ beliefs. Or how easily his Slytherin friends had lured him into Voldemort’s shadow. She despised them all. Hated them. Cursed them for dragging Evan into that mess.

When she confronted him, desperate for some explanation, all Evan said was: It’ll be better this way—for all of us.

They haven’t spoken since, even during the classes, even while passing the corridors.

When the year ended, so did whatever tether that had remained. 

Pandora married Xenophilius Lovegood, cutting herself off from her family for good. She swore she would never speak to them again, never forgive them for celebrating Evan’s fall.

Afterwards, she saw her brother only in ink. Articles in the Prophet—rumours, names tied to raids, masked shadows. Until, in 1980, the headline that turned her blood to ice:

Evan Rosier Missing After the raid on Gringots.

She had stared at the page until the words blurred, her heart clawing for hope that he was not dead, just…missing. That year, the Order was at its fiercest—whispers of dark magic being destroyed and of Voldemort being cornered. Could it be the end?

A year later, the war ended. Voldemort defeated. The Order victorious. They hunted down all the Horcruxes as it later turned out. No-one ever said when or how they found out about them, nor how they were destroyed. Ministry was never brought into that. Order didn’t want to risk any leaks. 

The wizarding world celebrated. But Pandora still waited.

She despised what Evan had become, yes, but he was her twin. Her other half. And she missed him every day.

Her parents never reached out. Traitor, they had called her. She learned of Evan’s “funeral” from another column in the Prophet.

She did attend it, cloaked and careful, not to be caught by her parents’ eyes. 

The tomb, however, was empty.

Their parents gave up on Evan, they had no hope of their son coming back. They declared him lost. Perhaps killed by Voldemort himself.

And when Pandora cradled Luna for the first time, the ache sharpened. She missed her brother more than ever—because now, every time she looked at her daughter, she thought of all the wonders Evan would never see. 

The silence stretched, heavy as stone. Only the faint ticking of an old brass orrery in the corner filled the room, its planets turning lazily in the moonlight.

Pandora shifted, drawing her robe tighter around her shoulders. Then, almost abruptly, she spoke.

''You know,'' she began, her voice softer, steadier, ''when we were little, Evan and I used to sneak out into the garden at night. We weren’t supposed to, of course. Our parents thought it undignified for children of Rosier blood to be caught with muddy shoes.'' A faint smile tugged at her lips. ''But Evan—he’d always take my hand and whisper, come on, Pennie, we have to find those pixies. And we’d run around searching for those tiny creatures, checking every willow tree.''

Elenore listened quietly, her chest loosening as the memory painted Evan not as a Death Eater, but as a boy, just as Pandora’s brother.

''He was the one to show me pixies for the first time,'' Pandora went on, sipping her tea as though savouring the warmth along with the recollection. She glanced sideways at Elenore, the smile still there, bittersweet but real.

Elenore curled her legs beneath her, mug balanced loosely in her hands. ''I’ve also just remembered,'' she said after a beat. ''Second year—when Evan tried to charm all the suits of armour to march in step behind you?''

Pandora’s mouth quirked into a grin. ''He thought it’d be hilarious to make me the ‘general of the Ravenclaw army.’ Of course, he lost control halfway through, and the whole corridor turned into chaos. I ended up sprinting for my life with a dozen clanking tin soldiers after me.''

Elenore smirked. ''I do remember walking out of the library and seeing the spectacle. You, red-faced and gasping, pelting down the hall while Evan doubled over, laughed so hard he couldn’t breathe.''

Pandora laughed, the sound bright and fleeting. ''He got detention for a week… and still claimed it was worth it.''

''Filch was so furious,'' Elenore added with a grin. ''I swear he nearly banned both of you from walking the corridors altogether.''

Pandora leaned back against the couch, her smile softening, fading into something more fragile. ''I still remember his laugh,'' she whispered. ''Like the whole world was a joke, he couldn’t wait to share with you.'' She shook her head, and silence stretched between them—gentler this time, cushioned by memory rather than grief.

Shadows from the stained glass window shifted across the lounge. For the first time in months, Elenore let herself sink back, her mug warm in her hands. She was glad that Pandora decided to stay with her tonight.

''Tomorrow will be chaos,'' Elenore murmured, half-smiling.

''Then tonight,'' Pandora said softly, standing from the couch and marching toward Elenore’s room, ''we rest.''

And with the moonlight spilling over them, Elenore followed Pennie into her room, grateful not to face the night alone.

Notes:

Ladies, I am sorry, but I forgot about Felix Rosier. But I guess for the sake of the story, it would be better not to include him here. I can't imagine how Pandora would handle the fact that she would have to leave her small brother with their parents and the disappearance of Evan, all at once.

Chapter 5: Chapter 4

1984 September 3

 

The night sky was sharp and clear, stars gleaming high above, as fourth-years huddled over telescopes with their parchment and quills, shivering from the chill of an evening.

Elenore stood at the edge of the Astronomy Tower, helping Daisy Haywood to focus her telescope before they can start their work.

Her long, light-grey coat swept down nearly to her boots, its hem catching faintly in the night breeze. Dark embroidery traced the lapels and cuffs. Beneath it, a dark grey cardigan peeked through, neatly buttoned, with just the faintest glimpse of a white blouse at the collar.

The plaid of her black skirt shifted like waves with every step she took across the floor. Grey stockings peeked up from lace-up boots and skirt.

The students watched her with the faint awe reserved for someone who seemed, in that moment, to belong entirely to the night sky.

Elenore moved to the centre of the tower, where the huge enchanted orrery was mirroring the rotation of the real planets.

''As we already discussed today,'' she began, her voice steady yet carrying an almost lyrical quality, ''the moon influences magic much as it influences tides, seasons, and human behaviour in the real world. You might have noticed its subtle pull in charms, divination, even in duelling. And of course, we have reviewed the differences between its phases. If you find yourselves uncertain, you may refresh your memory by studying the stained-glass windows of the lunar cycle in the classroom below.''

She raised her hand toward the orrery, and the miniature moon brightened, its pale light brushing across the faces of the students.

''For the practical part of tonight’s lesson,'' she continued, ''you will each chart how the current phase of the moon influences the accuracy of your star-maps. You will compare tonight’s readings to those you recorded at the end of a last year. Precision is everything—note the shifts in brightness, angle, and clarity.''

Quills scratched eagerly against parchment as the students prepared their charts.

''And,'' Elenore added, her tone firm but not unkind, “as our next class will take place under the full moon, we will study in greater depth how lunar magic affects creatures, spells, and potions. Consider this your advance warning. Over the next fortnight, you are to write an essay explaining how the moon influences potions. You may choose whichever potion you wish—be it Wolfsbane, Dreamless Sleep, or even something as deceptively simple as a Forgetfulness Draught. The choice is yours, but your reasoning must be precise.''

She let her gaze wander over the students, their faces caught between the faint glow of the lanterns and the silver of the moonlight. 

''And,'' she added with the faintest smile, ''I will have a word with Professor Slughorn—this essay may earn you additional credit in Potions as well. Now go on. Don’t be afraid to ask for help.''

There was a small shuffle of excitement before the students moved toward the ring of telescopes lining the edges of the tower. Brass fixtures gleamed as they adjusted lenses, parchment rustling as star maps were spread out and pinned beneath small glass paperweights. One or two students muttered charms to steady their instruments against the chill breeze sweeping in from the open arches.

Elenore drifted among them, her grey coat brushing lightly against the floor. She paused here and there, leaning over a shoulder to check an angle or correct a measurement, offering quiet encouragement with a word or the faintest tilt of her hand toward a more accurate alignment.

When the students grew absorbed in their work, she stepped closer to the railing and just allowed herself to simply breathe in the night and watch the stars. 

The sky above glittered in sharp clarity, constellations spread wide like an old, familiar map. Watching her students bent earnestly over their telescopes, Elenore felt the rare, quiet certainty that she was exactly where she was meant to be.

She was also right that these first couple of days would be chaos. 

The Sorting Ceremony had taken place on Saturday, and while Elenore had tried to prepare her lessons in peace, she often caught sight of students wandering the halls of the Astronomy Tower. 

First-years were especially eager to explore every hidden staircase and passage, their voices carrying through the stone corridors in a constant rush of laughter and chatter. The castle seemed to vibrate with their energy, the halls erupting in a symphony of noise that only Hogwarts could produce.

And that was only the first day. Some of the older students had wisely decided to take one last nap before the year’s work swallowed them whole.

As for today, Elenore had already conducted her introductory lessons with the first-years—simple theoretical classes about the constellations and their names. She had no intention of dragging them out to the astronomy tower just yet. Better to let them settle first, to learn their stars in the warmth and comfort of the classroom, than risk someone tripping over a telescope or toppling asleep near the railing.

 Astronomy was taught past midnight, after all, and more than one student in Hogwarts history had dozed off mid-lecture or let their quill slip from their hands onto the stone floor.

A faint tap on Elenore's elbow drew her attention. One of the fourth-years, a wiry, dirty blond, Ravenclaw boy with ink smudges on his hands, stood before her, clutching a blank sheet of parchment.

For a second, she thought that it was Nathaniel standing in front of her. 

How was he? She really should write to him after the lecture.

''Professor Fawley?'' Boy asked hesitantly. ''My star map—the stars just… disappeared. I’ve just ended redrawing my Leo Constellation, and… and it’s just… it’s gone. Completely blank.'' He held out the parchment as proof, bewildered eyes darting up to meet hers.

Elenore took it gently, her gaze flicking to the night sky before returning to the boy. ''The stars don’t simply vanish,'' she said softly. '' Sometimes it’s your charm that slips, not the stars themselves.''

She tapped her wand lightly against the parchment, and faint silvery lines shimmered back into being— Regulus star shining brighter than all the others in the constellation.

Drat.

The boy’s face lit up in relief. ''Thank you, Professor!'' He hurried back to his telescope, clutching his quill in his hand.

Elenore’s eyes lingered on the restored map in the boy’s hands a moment longer. Regulus - one of the brightest in the whole night sky. Her lips pressed together faintly. Funny how even in the heavens, his name could not be avoided.

She exhaled, returning her gaze to the sky.

The hour slipped by. Quills scratching, telescopes shifting, the quiet murmur of students comparing their maps. Every so often, a hand shot up, and Elenore moved between them, correcting a shaky line here, adjusting a lens there.

The enchanted clock chimed softly, marking the end of the lesson. 

''That will do for tonight,'' Elenore announced, ''Roll up your charts carefully—ink smudges are the bane of every stargazer. Next week, remember, we meet under the full moon. And I expect at least the beginnings of your potion essays in two weeks.''

A chorus of groans mixed with laughter rippled through the group, the sound bouncing off the stone walls of the tower. One by one, the students packed away their things, chatter rising as they made for the spiral staircase.

Elenore lingered a moment longer at the railing, watching the students vanish into shadow. The tower was quiet again. She drew in a slow breath of the cool night air.

Then, tugging her coat tighter, she turned toward the stairs. “Well, Noel,” she murmured under her breath, picturing the smug cat waiting for her, “first midnight class survived.”

She made her way down the seemingly endless staircase, groaning in exhaustion. Poor kids, she thought, they have even longer walks to their dorms if they don’t have floo powder.

Merlin,  she has to order some and not torture herself. 

Should add it to the list of what to order from Diagon Alley.

At last, she passed the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy—the wizard who had once foolishly attempted to train trolls for ballet. When she was younger, she and Pandora used to collapse into fits of laughter at the sight of trolls awkwardly pirouetting in pink tutus.

 Now, the tapestry only served as a comforting landmark - two flights of stairs left.

Finally, she reached the hall outside her room. The door creaked open, and she was immediately greeted by the familiar scent of burning wood and a faint trace of her own perfume.

Noel meowed and stretched luxuriously across her bed, tail flicking in greeting. 

''Ah, there you are, you little pompous thing,'' she said with a tired smile, kneeling to scratch behind his ears. ''Did you miss me while I was being heroic up those stairs?''

Noel responded with a soft, approving purr. Elenore laughed softly, brushing a stray tuft of brown fur from his head. 

Rising, she wandered to her desk, loosening her coat. Candles flickered gently, casting warm pools of light across scattered papers and magnifying glasses. 

She slipped on her silver-rimmed round glasses—the pair she reserved only for reading and writing. Four years spent in the Ministry’s dim offices, bent over telescopes and endless stacks of parchment, had left their quiet mark on her vision.

She pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and her quill, dipping it carefully into the inkwell.

''Dear Nathaniel,'' she whispered to herself as the quill scratched across the page, ''I hope this letter finds you well…''

Dear Nathaniel,

I hope this letter finds you well. 

Sorry if I haven’t answered any of your letters, had some tough matters to cover. Nevertheless, I have some great news. I am an Astronomy professor at Hogwarts now. Can you believe it? And Pandora is also here, but I bet you already know that. 

During my lecture today, there was a student who reminded me of you. I couldn’t help but wonder how you’ve been. I do remember in your last letter you mentioned that you opened a bakery together with Alan. How’s he by the way? And Norwich overall?

You know we thought to visit you together with Pandora, just say the date and we will try to floo as soon as possible. 

Best wishes from Hogwarts,

Professor Elenore Fawley.

Ps: Sounds respectable, right? Just kidding.

Miss you Nattie,

Ellie.

Noel leapt onto the windowsill, watching the moon spill silver light across the rugs. Elenore folded the letter, then signed it. Her hand moving almost as if guided by the stars themselves, the room was quiet except for the occasional purr or scratch of quill on parchment.

She turned her head to Noel, '' I’ll send it in the morning,'' she said while stretching her hands over her head. '' Now, let's sleep, Moonbeam.''

Notes:

I just came back home from my small trip and couldn't wait until next week to share new chapters, so here we are. This chapter is relatively small, so I will upload the next one as well (tbh it's one of my favourites).

Chapter 6: Chapter 5

1984 September 13

 

Elenore sat curled in a deep light green armchair by the library’s fireplace, its flames throwing long golden flickers across the high shelves. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, mingling with the glow of  the firelight.

Behind her, students bent studiously over their books at the long tables scattered across the first floor. 

On the second floor, the portrait of an old librarian was busy shooing a group of first-years, whose laughter echoed down to the ground level.

Adjusting her glasses, Elenore reached for another essay from the small stack beside her.

Today she only had one midnight lecture and decided to spent her day checking  second year’s essays describing how to write a correct star chart.

 She was wearing a gauzy blueish plum dress, its layers of folds spilling around her. The sheer sleeves, loose and thin, shimmered as she turned the page and wrote some remarks. 

The black vest over the flowing dress gave her a composed edge. Around her throat, the black ribbon scarf was knotted neatly, its long ends cascading like ink strokes against her bodice, swaying gently whenever she moved. 

Black flats, peeked from beneath the draping hem, one heel hooked lightly against the leg of the chair. 

She leaned back and closed her eyes for a moment. It was so peaceful here she could spend all day and nigh here, without any excuses.

When she opened them again, her gaze drifted up to the second floor, memories rushing back. 

She remembered herself and William years ago, hunched over a book studying, or rather her trying to study while William annoyed her.

 William sloped into the chair beside her with a mischief already gleaming in his eyes.

She had been trying to study constellations. All her brother did was purposely whispering wrong names in her ear, he had nearly driven Elenore mad.

Bastard.

''See? That’s Pegasus,'' she had said firmly, jabbing at the page with her finger.

''Pretty sure it’s a Big Scrawny Goat,'' William countered in mock seriousness.

She could still hear their voices as though it had happened yesterday.

''Face it, Ellie. I’m two years older and wiser than you.''

''If wisdom is measured in detentions, then yes, you’re a genius.''

In the end, she had snapped and hurled an ink bottle at him. 

Madam Pince was furious, almost forbid them to ever cross the threshold of the library. Elenore and Will spend a couple of hours cleaning the stain out of the carpet. 

A soft laugh escaped her at the memory. Merlin, how she missed his smug smile and idiotic jokes.

Elenore shook her head and lowered her eyes to the essay in her lap. The fire crackled, students murmured, and the enchanted pages drifted lazily overhead.

What could possibly go wrong? - She thought the second before she heard a loud clattering of the porcelain behind her back. 

The enchanted bad-tempered teapot, was in one of its moods. Or someone enchanted it to act like that.

Elenore peered over the rim of her glasses just in time to see Madam Pince and a red-faced Gryffindor boy chasing the shrieking pot around the hall. 

Hilarious view, someone decided to sneak the tea into the library while the rules strictly forbade this. Even worse, someone decided to prank the owner and make their day a bit more harder than it could have been.

It bounced along the table, shrieking whenever someone tried to catch it, sending streams of scalding tea splashing dangerously close to the books on the table.

Gryffindor chased after it with his wand, giggling and cursing under his nose, while Madam Pince muttered a spell sharp enough to pin it to the ground.

Elenore bit back a laugh, sitting in her chair near the fire, her quill poised mid-mark on parchment. 

But then—she froze. Her eyebrows darting high in shock.

More teapots began to pop into existence. One. Two. Five. Ten.

 Whoever casted the spell undoubtedly misspelt it with Geminio.

Within seconds, chaos swallowed the library. Students shrieked, scrambling to rescue their belongings as dozens of possessed teapots stormed the tables like a clattering cavalry.

And then—they came straight for her, spilling the tea on their way.

Elenore snatched the essays from the side table and scrambled onto the armchair, tugging frantically at her wand tangled in the folds of her dress.

''Careful, Professor,'' came a voice she’d prayed not to hear tonight. Smooth. Cutting through the noise like a blade. ''It’ll bite.''

Her stomach dropped.

She thought that it might be just Friday 13. 

 But no, it was Thursday 13. 

Then it was probably her twisted luck playing tricks on her. 

What could have made this situation even worse?

Regulus Black stood at her shoulder, utterly composed amidst the madness. A mere flick of his wand, and the swarm of pots skidded to a halt and stopped in front of Elenore.

Around them, chaos still reigned—Madam Pince now stood on a chair, duelling the pots, her hair wild and her expression murderous. Students scattered in every direction.

Elenore just stared at him. Her heart gave a sharp, traitorous twist, though her face stayed cool.

His eyes lingered on hers, unflinching. He looked at her with unnerving stillness.

They stayed like that for a beat. As if the two of them stood alone in the room. For one unbearable moment, she thought he might actually smile.

She blinked hard, breaking the spell. Turning her head, she frowned.

''Won’t you do something with that?'' Still standing atop of an armchair, Elenore shouted frantically over the noise, nodding at the chaos all around.

Regulus tilted his head slightly, as if she were an experiment he’d yet to unravel. ''Just a second, Miss Fawley''

With a lazy flick of his wand, the teapots froze mid-leap. 

Another precise twist of his wrist, and they stacked themselves neatly into two pyramids on the long tables. The shrieking cut off at once, leaving behind only the ragged breathing of students and Madam Pince’s outrage.

The silence that followed was deafening. Even the portraits on the walls leaned forward, wide-eyed.

Regulus lowered his wand with elegance, as though what he had just performed was nothing more than a trivial charm. His expression gave nothing away, perhaps, the faintest glimmer of smug amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She wanted to scowl, wanted to turn away, but the weight of his gaze pinned her in place. 

Elenore sat back slowly, pulse hammering. Why was she still afraid of him? 

Dumbledore trusts him. 

The War was over. Everything should be fine. 

She thought that perhaps one day, she could forgive and forget him for his past. 

But she will never let it go. 

She will always remember the day of the attack. 

And she will always remember how terrified William was when he found her still sitting behind the booth, clutching her legs in scratched tights covered in blood, still sobbing an hour after everything ended.

She told herself she hated him. She absolutely did. And she should, but what if he really changed?

Elenore tried to get back to work. She dipped her quill into ink, forcing her gaze down, scrawling comments on a second-year’s essay. She had managed to write a full paragraph before a low voice drifted near her.

Regulus stood at the bookshelf on Elenore’s left, evidently searching for a book.

Elenore was determined not to look at him.

''Didn’t know you wear glasses, Professor.''

Heat crept to her cheeks before she could stop it. Her quill stilled. Slowly, Elenore lifted her gaze. 

Elenore held his stare longer than she should have. He didn’t smirk, didn’t soften—just regarded her with that unreadable calm that made her feel oddly transparent. She dropped her eyes back to her parchment.

''Is that… a crime, Professor Black?''

His grey eyes flicked to her parchment, then back to her. Unsmiling. Calm. Infuriatingly so.

''Merely an observation.''

''Your observations are unrequested.''

''As you prefer, Professor.''

Then, with exquisite coolness, he turned back to his search for a book as if she no longer existed. Even his silence seemed sharp-edged.

Merion Lewis, in her portrait above the fireplace, coughed into her sleeve, clearly suppressing a smile, but she said nothing.

When the long-awaited silence returned, Elenore bent over her parchment again, trying to steady her hand, but her quill kept slipping, ink blotting on the corner of the essay she was marking. The faint rustle of enchanted pages in the rafters was drowned out by the whisper of paint on canvas—portraits that were never as discreet as they thought.

Merion leaned conspiratorially toward her neighbour, an elderly wizard with a powdered wig in a gilt frame.

''Well, well. Haven’t seen sparks like that since Professor Moon and her Beauxbatons paramour.''

The wigged wizard gave a dry chuckle. ''Oh yes. Though I daresay Black’s stare could scorch parchment. Poor girl.''

On Merion’s right, another painting—a cluster of stern-faced witches seated around a painted tea table—tilted their heads together.

''Who could have imagined,'' one whispered, eyes gleaming, ''the coldest of Blacks staring like that at Fawley. That is a bad omen!''

''Or something else,'' another witch added with a wicked grin.

Elenore gritted her teeth, lifted her chin, and looked around. Luckily, Black was nowhere around to hear that absurd. Then she forced her attention back to the essays.

If only portraits could be silenced as easily as teapots.

Notes:

Ladies, for now, I can say that the chapters until March would be kinda romecomish and fun. Then we will see🫠

As for now, Ladies, what do you think about the plot and characters? I am curious to read every thought you might have about this story) See you soon🫶🏻

Chapter 7: Chapter 6

1984 September 15

 

On her way to the Hospital Wing, Elenore crossed the Quad courtyard, one of her favourites since school times.

Merlin, she forgot to order floo powder. Again. 

Although the walk from her quarters to the Infirmary was not so dreadful, she thought it would be nice to have a walk around, perhaps she would even greet the talking gargoyle - Nigel. If he was not having a nap already.

The courtyard opened before her in neat paving, the stones smoothed and worn by centuries. At its heart stood the fountain—a sculpture of a serpent, water spilling in thin, glittering sheets from its fangs into the basin below.

A ripple of laughter drifted across the quad. Not from students, though, it was from the translucent forms cavorting under the arches. 

She saw a pair of ghosts waltzing around the place, their gowns and coats billowing as if caught by a phantom breeze.

Elenore slowed, watching with something between wonder and unease. The ghosts’ pale waltz brushed against the edges of music she could almost hear—a tune carried from nowhere, light as cobwebs and just as fleeting. She pulled her robe tighter, slipping past them not to disturb such a tender moment. 

When she got to the infirmary, it greeted her with the smell of herbs and clean linens. Lamps glowed gently along the walls, huge windows stretching from the floor to the arched ceiling. Blue curtains divided the beds, muffling the quiet breathing of the few patients resting there: a small Hufflepuff boy curled up with a bandaged arm, a Slytherin girl dozing with a steaming potion still clutched in her hand, and a third-year Gryffindor already asleep, a soft snore escaping beneath the covers.

Madam Pomfrey was bent over a cupboard of potions at the room entrance, and then, taking a light-purple glimmering potion, went to her office. 

Pandora, in a pale blue apprentice’s robe, sat at a side table at the far end of the room. A neat stack of jars and a brass kettle steaming beside her. She looked up at once, her smile bright.

"Ellie! Perfect timing—I just brewed a pot."

Elenore dropped into the chair opposite with a sigh. "If it’s not possessed, I’ll take it."

Pandora arched a brow. "Tea trauma?"

"You have no idea. Someone brought a teapot into the library. Why would you do that when it’s strictly forbidden?" Elenore groaned, rubbing her temple. "And that wasn’t the end. Someone enchanted it—and then miscast Geminio. On a teapot. The library nearly drowned in duplicates. Madam Pince looked ready to hex half the school."

Pandora laughed so hard she nearly spilt her own cup. "I would’ve paid galleons to see that. Please tell me it was a Gryffindor."

"Judging by the chaos and the Gryffindor boy chasing after them? Absolutely." Elenore reached for the teapot—and in her tiredness, sloshed half of it across the table. She hissed, flicking her wand to clean the mess. "The pack of pots even tried to attack me."

"And what did you do? Hex them to oblivion?" Pandora chuckled.

"Regulus appeared from thin air and decided to play knight-saving-the-lady or whatever that was supposed to be. I could have done it myself. Just needed a bit more time to draw my wand."

"You know a couple of seconds can change everything, Ellie. You were lucky he was there. Who knows what those pots could’ve done—you might have ended up here with burns or worse." Pandora’s tone turned more serious. "Of course, I’m glad to see you, but not with that excuse."

Elenore made a face, swirling her spoon in the cup as if the tea itself were to blame.

"Oh, please, Pandora, don’t go all healer on me. A few angry teapots aren’t the end of the world. I’ve survived worse. And I don’t need Regulus Black swooping in like some gallant knight. He just… enjoys proving people incapable."

She sipped, scalded her tongue, and winced. "Besides, I had everything under control. My wand was practically in my hand. He just—" She flicked her fingers dismissively. "—wanted to make a show of it."

Pandora tilted her head, eyes twinkling. "A show, hm?"

"Yes," Elenore snapped a scone in two, far too forcefully. "Theatrical. He froze the whole room in seconds, of course, then walked off like nothing happened. I half expected him to bow." She gave a dry laugh, taking a piece of scone to her mouth. "Maybe next time I’ll applaud."

Pandora covered her mouth, failing to hide a grin. "Ellie…"

"What?" Elenore arched a brow, feigning innocence, though her cheeks were a little too warm. "I’m only saying he’s insufferable. Efficient, yes, but insufferable."

Pandora lowered her cup, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Efficient and insufferable… Funny how you keep bringing him up, though. You noticed quite a lot for someone who supposedly had it all under control."

Elenore froze mid-sip, heat prickling at the back of her neck. "I only noticed because he was… standing right in front of me. The whole time. Staring. Like some—" She broke off, catching herself.

"Like some what?" Pandora prompted, far too innocently.

"Like some… portrait," Elenore muttered. Then, before she could stop herself, she added, "They wouldn’t shut up about it, by the way. The blasted portraits. Whispering and chuckling as if it were some spectacle for their amusement."

Pandora nearly choked on her tea. "The portraits were gossiping about you? Merlin, I wish I’d been there."

"Don’t you dare to laugh," Elenore warned with a mock offence. "They were unbearable—Merion above the fireplace kept nudging her neighbour as if I were caught in some… scene. Honestly, they just need new material to speak about."

Pandora leaned back, eyes glittering. "Oh, Ellie. If even the portraits are gossiping, you might be in more trouble than a library full of teapots."

Elenore groaned, dropping her face into her hands. "Why would you say that."

Pandora’s smirk softened into something far more mischievous and mocking. She knew that would annoy Ellie, and she wanted to tease her so badly. She cradled her teacup like it held secrets of its own. "You do realise portraits don’t chatter about nothing, don’t you? They only ever stir when there’s… oh, I don’t know—something worth gossiping about."

Elenore peeked at her through her fingers. "Or perhaps they’re just bored after two hundred years stuck on the same wall."

 "Mm. " Pandora tilted her head, clearly unconvinced. "Funny how they weren’t gossiping last week about Abbott falling asleep and drooling all over his parchment. Or when Clearwater tripped and sent an entire inkpot flying over her neighbour. But this— " she set her cup down with a little clink, "this, apparently, was worthy of whispers."

Elenore groaned again, muffled by her hands. "You’re enjoying this far too much."

 "Of course I am. " Pandora grinned, eyes gleaming with mischief. "It’s not every day you get Regulus Black stopping teapot armies at your feet while portraits provide commentary. That’s practically a ballad that's just waiting to be sung."

Elenore lifted her head, arching a brow. "If you will ever try to rhyme my name with a teapot, Pennie,  I swear, I’ll hex you."

Pandora only laughed quietly, not to wake up the kids. "By the way, Jackdaw dropped by earlier, you know. He was telling me about the latest Headless Hunt disaster. Apparently, they tried to play polo with a troll’s club. Half the armour in the north corridor is in pieces."

Elenore raised a brow, lips twitching. "Of course they did. That sounds even worse than what happened in the library."

Pandora grinned into her cup. "Worse, but far less dangerous for you. At least armour doesn’t scald."

 "Depends, " Elenore murmured, taking a sip. "I once saw a suit of armour swing its halberd at a Ravenclaw who tried to nick its gauntlet. Poor boy nearly lost his ear."

Pandora snorted, then reached for the kettle to refill her cup. The steam curled between them, warm and soothing. "Still, you should be grateful the ghosts only wreak havoc on stone and steel. Music keeps them distracted, I’ve noticed. One of the portraits was humming last week, and Sir Patrick and his lot drifted away mid-prank just to follow the sound."

That made Elenore’s smile falter for a heartbeat—though not unhappily. "Music does settle chaos, doesn’t it? " Her gaze drifted past Pandora, unfocused. "Do you remember when you came to visit me on the summer holidays in Hogsmead? And Merrick dragged in that old gramophone he’d nicked from his uncle? William swore the thing would explode before the record even began to spin."

Pandora laughed at the memory, eyes bright. "And yet, it played. Crackling and scratchy, but it played."

 "First time I ever heard music fill the room without any magic. " Elenore’s voice softened, her fingers tracing idle patterns against her cup. "William danced like an idiot, of course. And Merrick asked me to dance with him to that… mmm… what was the name of that song? The slow one."

 "Like a classic? Or…?" Pandora tilted her head.

 "No, one of Merrick’s favourite Muggle bands. If I recall correctly, he bought their record while he was in New York."

 "I’ve no idea, Ellie… The Hollies?" Pandora guessed.

 "No, not them. Ugh, give me a second." Elenore frowned, determined.

Pandora eyed her with mock suspicion.

 "Oh—it was Orleans. That was it. The record was Orleans. " Elenore’s face lit as the memory came back. "Dance with Me—that was the song."

Pandora nearly snorted into her tea. "Honestly, Ellie, do you hear yourself? He literally asked you to dance to a song called Dance with Me. That’s not as romantic as your delusions dictate you, that’s… ridiculously on the nose."

Elenore arched a brow, unimpressed. "Says the girl whose future husband once serenaded her with a butterbeer cork necklace in hand. We don’t all get man from the ballads, Pennie."

Pandora burst out laughing, shaking her head. "Touché. But you have to admit, it was charming in its own ridiculous way."

 "Mmm. You know this conversation reminded me of something, " Elenore hummed, her expression softening as a memory stirred. "I think I still have my old gramophone tucked away in my grandparents’ attic. If you’d like, we could bring it here tomorrow. It might make the infirmary a little less… boring. " She took a sip of tea before adding lightly, "Besides, I’ve heard Jackdaw say that music helps with healing and all that."

Pandora tilted her head, intrigued. "Jackdaw has a point—music does help."

 "Tomorrow’s Sunday, isn’t it? " Elenore mused. "My grandparents should be at home."

 "Perfect, " Pandora said, her eyes brightening at once. "And remind me to pick up more caramel cobwebs and cauldron cakes at Honeydukes. "

"I bet that we won’t leave my grandparents' house bare-handed."

"No doubt, Ellie, we are taking the gramophone with us. I’m glad I’ll have something to play in here while I sort these endless jars. I swear Madam Pomfrey thinks I’m a house-elf with a healer’s license."

Elenore smirked. "I’ve ment some sweets. We’ll see if the gramophone still works. But if it does, and the Headless Hunt shows up to dance, I’m leaving you to it."

Pandora chuckled softly. "Then I’ll just bring it to your dorm, Ellie."

The two girls shared a look, the kind of look stitched together with years of laughter, secrets, and unspoken promises. Outside, the night pressed gently against the windows, and the quiet hum of the infirmary wrapped around them like a blanket.

 

 

Notes:

I can't listen to "Dance with me" normally after that🥲 Ladies, I am having so much fun writing about Merrick knowing that I don't care about that person anymore. Grand spill the tea will be next week in Chapter 9 🥳

Chapter 8: Chapter 7

1984 September 27

 

On the Sunday after the library fiasco, Elenore and Pandora made their short trip to Hogsmeade to retrieve the old gramophone from her mother’s parents—the Ashmeres. 

The gramophone was dusty but still worked, it was carefully tucked away beneath a sheet in the attic. Elenore carried it down the creaking stairs, praying not to trip over. 

Her grandparents insisted they stay for supper before sending the girls back to Hogwarts with a tin of honey-cinnamon biscuits still warm from the oven. Over the meal, they mentioned their upcoming plans to travel to London to visit the Fawleys, Elenore’s father’s side of the family. It wasn’t an unusual event—both families enjoyed visiting one another, and Elenore always felt there was something comforting in the way the Ashmeres and the Fawleys blended together during those gatherings.

Teresa and Nicolas Ashmere, parents of Juliet and Maximilian, had been the anchors of Elenore’s childhood summers. She and William had spent nearly every holiday under their roof in Hogsmeade, except when their parents took them to the Fawley summer cottage in Dover. 

Teresa worked for the Owl Post, forever smelling faintly of parchment and feathers, while Nicolas brewed some of the finest potions for J. Pippins’. 

Nicolas had his own quirks—most notably his love of fishing in a muggle way, though he approached it more as a meditation, a hobby he shared with Vincent Fawley.

One summer when the entire Fawley family visited the Ashmeres, they all went for a picnic at the lake south of Hogsmeade. Grandmothers Lydia and Teresa had filled the baskets with cottage pie and pumpkin pasties, still steaming from the oven, while the two grandfathers spent almost an hour teaching Elenore and William the “proper” way to fish without the aid of summoning charms.

Disaster struck that day. William, impatient as always, leaned too far over the dock and toppled headfirst into the lake, dragging half of Ellie’s fishing line with him. She tried to pull him back but ended up slipping on the wet boards and falling into the lake right after her brother.  By the time Vincent and Nicolas hauled them both out, Will’s hair was plastered to his forehead and Ellie was shrieking about a flobberworm-like weed clinging to her shoe. The grandparents laughed so hard they scared the fish, while Lydia and Teresa scolded good-naturedly as they dried the children with a few quick flicks of their wands.

The Ashmere home itself stood on the lower street of Hogsmeade Square, not far from Flutes & Lutes, where Lucy worked. It always smelled faintly of woodsmoke and cinnamon, the kind of house where every corner seemed to hold a memory. 

Juliet Ashmere had long since moved to London with her beloved Ingram Fawley, however, her younger brother Maximilian, never felt the pull to leave. He stayed in Hogsmeade, working as a local officer, and married Lucy Witherlow. Together, they now had a daughter.

Although Aunt Lucy wasn’t blood-related to Elenore, she always felt closer to her than to some of her actual relatives. Lucy had a way of listening without judgment, of keeping secrets tucked safely away. For all the things Elenore hesitated to confess to her parents—worries that might disappoint them, missteps that might make them anxious—she could tell Lucy everything. It made Lucy as dear to her as Pandora, a kind of confidante she knew she could trust with even the messiest corners of her heart.

The evening when Pandora and Elenore brought the gramophone to the Hospital Wing its crackle filled the infirmary for the first time, Pandora declared that the ward felt “a little more alive.” It also lifted the spirits of the students who were happy that their time in the infirmary would not be so monotonous anymore. Madam Pomfrey also approved the idea of having a gramophone here, she even brought some of her favourite records she kept in her office as souvenirs. 

The days that followed unfolded in a comfortably usual rhythm. Elenore split her time between lessons, quiet hours in the library, and evenings with Pandora, who always had something new to recount from her apprenticeship with Madam Pomfrey and gossip from students. 

Today, Elenore had to check the star maps her students had charted over the past two weeks. The catch was that those maps revealed their accuracy only under moonlight. So she wrapped herself in her wool navy coat and hurried toward the Astronomy Tower, determined to finish before the clouds swallowed the sky.

She walked up the spiral stairs, her thoughts half on her students’ work and half wandering elsewhere. She wondered if the kids just guessed the right position of the stars or if, for once, they had truly looked, truly seen. 

The moment she crossed the threshold to the tower, she saw a tall, lean figure standing by the railing, papers in hand, moonlight catching the sharp edge of his profile. Black.

Elenore swore under her breath and twirled to leave, but the clouds were already gathering, and she had promised the results to her students tomorrow. 

She could not let his presence ruin that. 

There was plenty of space in the Astronomy Tower. They would not even need to acknowledge each other.

She squared her shoulders and walked closer to the opposite railing, maps clutched in her hand. 

Still, walking in silence felt too much like sneaking. She should at least make her presence known.

"Out here counting stars, Professor?"

Regulus leaned on one hand on the edge of the railing, clutching the papers in the other one.

He didn’t need to look up to know who was standing behind him.

"Unlike you, Miss Fawley, some of us prefer daylight," he replied, keeping his tone light.

Elenore straightened, expression unreadable. "Ah. So that’s why the stars vanish when you’re looking at them." Said Elenore while rising one of the maps into the air. Her eyes squinting behind the spectacles.

His lips twitched into the faintest, reluctant smirk. "That was a terrible metaphor, Miss Fawley."

Her retort came quick, cool. "Well, I am not a poet, Mr Black, and neither will I pretend to be one."

That earned the smallest pause from him, as though he were weighing whether to continue. "All of us pretend, Miss Fawley. Isn’t it the easiest way to live? Just… pretend."

"Well, yes… But…" now it was her turn to think if it was worth continuing this theme. "Better not to pretend at all, Mr Black. Pretence has a way of cracking when it matters most."

"Yet none of us will ever listen to that advice."

Elenore wondered how he saw right through her. 

How he said exactly what she was doing all this time.

Yes, it was a worthy recommendation, Aunt Lucy once said this to her. 

But coaches don’t play, that’s what Elenore thought about this advice.

She had already learn to pretend. And any other way of living hasn’t felt quite right to her anymore.

Her facade cracked only after William was hexed. Although she only showed this flaw to her parents.

Who else will accept her for who she truly is? A broken coward.

So she got back to her way of pretending. 

That everything is fine.

That she is fine.

That she doesn’t care.

That it doesn’t matter.

Why would she even complain about her life when someone had it way worse? 

But deep down, it gnawed at her, this silent suppression.

 Now, of course, it felt and was easier just to ignore the feelings when they threatened to feel more and more overwhelming. 

Oh.

She lowered the map and turned to look at Regulus.

Now she understood.

Perhaps he just felt the same way as her, though she was not sure. How could she know what others feel? She could only suppose that it was for the same reason as hers.

Her jaw tightened. She lifted her chin, eyes narrowing. "I see you keep a record of my so-called ‘offences.’ Charming. Shall I remind you of yours? I imagine the list would be much longer."

The words were sharper than intended, memory stinging—the blur of Whitehall, the screams, the blood, the sight of him unmasked beneath the smoke. 

For a moment, she was back behind that telephone booth, her lungs burning with the effort of holding back a sob. The cold certainty that she would die.

Regulus’ gaze flickered, focusing on Elenore, heartbeat quickening for a bit, before settling into that unnerving stillness of his. His voice came quiet, almost flat. "You don’t know the half of it. The things I’ve seen… The things that happened."

The words tasted bitter on his tongue.

Those years he wasted serving the Dark Lord.

A single, crucial mistake.

How could he have been so blind?

This need to make his parents proud…

And what had it given him?

What had it made of him?

The night of the Ministry attack replayed in his mind with cruel clarity.

He had seen her then.

 Elenore.

Her face pale, terrified, she pressed behind the booth.

Something in him cracked when he caught that image. She didn’t belong in that terror. None of them did. 

And yet—Mulciber had been a step away from finding her. 

A step.

If Regulus hadn’t called him aside, diverted him with some errand in Knockturn Alley, Mulciber’s wand might have turned in Elenore’s direction.

That image haunted him. Followed him into sleep.

And then—Kreacher.

Voldemort had sent the elf to the cave, had nearly killed him without a thought. 

That was the last straw. Whatever loyalty Regulus had proudly clung to was splintered. This was not the noble cause he had once convinced himself it was. It was just a cruelty for cruelty’s sake.

He asked Kreacher to show him the cave. 

To leave him there as he tried to reach the water after drinking the potion. 

To let him die.

He had begged him—begged his elf to give the locket to Sirius, to let the Order decide what to do with it. 

He didn’t deserve to live, not after the things he had done.

But Kreacher hadn’t obeyed.

Even when ordered. 

Even when Regulus pleaded and was an inch close from being dragged under the water by inferi.

The elf could not bring himself to abandon his master. Kreacher grabbed Regulus by his ankle and apparated them both back to the Grimuald place.

The memory of the potion still burned in his mind—the fire in his throat, the hallucinations blurring his mind. He had felt death closing its claws around him.

And when it did not come, when he opened his eyes again to see Kreacher crying beside his bed, he knew there was no turning back.

He went to the Order himself.

It had taken all his patience, all his pride swallowed, to stand before Sirius again. 

To demand an audience with Dumbledore. 

To tell them everything.

Everything he had seen.

Everything he had learned about Horcruxes.

The locket he brought from the cave.

Two years.

It took two years of staying in shadows, ignoring the Order’s suspicions, enduring their mistrust, and working tirelessly beside them to prove that he could change—that they were fighting for the same cause.

Two years of hunting down the fragments of soul the Dark Lord had scattered in the darkest corners of the world.

Two years of atonement that would never suffice for what he had done.

Two years of clawing his way back from the pit he had chosen.

And still—he carried the weight of it all. It seems to him that his past will never leave him. 

No matter what. 

No matter what he does, he will still bear the weight of what he was once responsible for.

Elenore’s words tonight had only reminded him of the truth. That he was still, in so many eyes, a monster.

Of course, she was right. She had seen him in Whitehall, unmasked among the blood and smoke.

 Why should she see him as anything else? The monster everyone thought him to be, except Dumbledore.

When Voldemort fell, Regulus had already been working in secret with the Order. Few outside that circle ever knew. He proved himself again and again, though none of it ever reached the Prophet’s front pages.

It was easier to work from the shadows, especially when you are presumed dead by the whole world.

Regulus couldn’t risk being discovered by the Death Eaters, so it is no wonder that order never showed nor told anyone what they were doing. 

The whole Wizarding Britain would have gone crazy if they had found out the way in which the war ended and who stood behind it.

And when Dumbledore asked Regulus to stay at Hogwarts as a Defence against the Dark Arts professor, he could not refuse the offer.

Where else would he go?

He was supposed to be dead after all.

 Orion Black died the same year Regulus might have drowned. Walburga couldn’t bear the loss of her precious son, and her husband descended into madness. The most skilled healers were not able to help her state. She died the following year.

Sirius inherited Grimmauld Place then, and it became a hidden Order’s headquarters. 

Staying at Hogwarts didn’t sound so dreadful.

It was only after the war’s end and Dumbledore's offer that his presence became known again. When it was safe to bring attention back to him.

One morning, the Daily Prophet carried a short column—tucked halfway down the page, beneath larger headlines about captured Death Eaters and Ministry reform.

REGULUS BLACK RETURNS AFTER YEARS IN HIDING

Long presumed dead, Regulus Arcturus Black has resurfaced under the supervision of Albus Dumbledore. The Headmaster confirmed that Black has provided valuable assistance in recent efforts and will remain under close watch. “He has knowledge of the Dark Arts no one else possesses,” Dumbledore said. “It is my belief that knowledge, used rightly, may serve the light.” 

The article only stirred whispers. Wizarding Britain was already drowning in stories of loss, reforms, and rebuilding. Compared to the fall of the Dark Lord himself, the reappearance of one Black heir seemed like a footnote. 

Some muttered that Dumbledore had gone mad to trust him. Others said it was better to keep such a man under the Headmaster’s eye than roaming free. 

Within weeks, the whispers had dulled into silence.

No wonder Elenore never heard about Regulus’ return, half of Britain probably didn’t know about it either. 

And then, when Dumbledore announced that Regulus Black would serve as Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, there was little left to protest. Hogwarts was his domain, and the Ministry did not dare cross him so soon after the war. Officially, it was framed as a pragmatic choice: who better to teach Defence than one who knew the Dark Arts from within?

Elenor’s fingers clenched around the map in her hands, nails digging into the parchment. 

She stepped closer in an attempt to search his gaze across the dimness. Her voice was low, clipped, sharp. 

"I’ve seen enough."

For a moment, his composure cracked—so subtly that most would have missed it. 

His gaze held hers, steady but darker, as if she had just twisted a knife he had long ago buried in his own chest. 

He moved. One deliberate step.

"You’ve seen…" His voice dropped, but it was still sharp as shattered glass. "You saw one night, Fawley. One night out of years. You think you know the rest?"

Another step.

Elenore’s breath caught, but she held her ground. She had nothing to throw back at him, no words sharp enough to wound. So she said nothing, standing rigid while he closed the distance.

The silence stretched, taut, unbearable.

He shifted closer still. His jaw was tight, his words cutting through the air with a brutal honesty.

"You think it was a choice? Yes—it was. And it was the wrong one." His tone was raw, stripped of pretence, the sound of a man flayed open by his own mistakes. "And I will carry the weight of that choice until my last breath."

Elenore’s fingers loosened on the maps, the paper crumpling faintly. She swallowed hard, anger and pity warring inside her. Brown eyes gleaming in the dim light, "And yet you are still here."

His expression flickered again—guilt, pride, grief all colliding before vanishing behind the familiar stillness. 

They stood face to face, Regulus one head taller than Elenore. He leaned in slightly, eyes shadowed. "Don’t look at me as if you’ve never pretended your hands are clean." 

Elenore’s breath caught, her jaw tightening. He pressed on, his tone softer now but still merciless. "You play the part of the dutiful professor, the girl who smiles and pretends she’s untouched by it all. But what are you doing here, Fawley? Was work at the Ministry so dreadful? Or was there something else?"

Heat rose in Elenore’s chest—anger, shame, the sting of being seen too clearly.

How did he know about what happened? No—he couldn’t. He couldn’t possibly know.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Both stood rooted in the half-light, masks slipping, old wounds laid bare.

Elenore tried to steady herself. 

No. Regulus cannot drag me into this. I can’t come undone. Not now. Not in front of him. 

She straightened her spine, forcing her expression back into something unreadable.

And then, as if the night itself conspired to test her, a stray gust of wind swept through the tower’s arches. The student's maps tore from her hands, flying loose in the air. Some slapped against the stone floor, others fluttered dangerously close to the railing.

Her heart lurched. She groaned and turned away, trying to fish her wand from the coat.

Morganas’ tits. WHY ?

Without a word, Regulus flicked his wand. The maps stilled mid-air, frozen in an eerie grace, before drifting neatly back into a stack. He crossed the narrow space between them and extended the bundle toward her.

Oh, for Merlin’s sake, not Regulus playing the knight again!

For the briefest moment, his fingers brushed hers—lightly, unintentionally, but it was enough to make Elenore’s heart do a flip.

Elenore froze, eyes wide. The contact was nothing, a passing accident, yet it sent a shiver down her spine. 

His touch was colder than she expected, steady, almost deliberate despite its brevity.

She didn’t move to take the maps at once. Neither did he withdraw his hand. Their gazes locked again, silence filling the space.

Finally, she snatched the parchments from him, her throat tight. “Thank you, Professor,” she muttered, clipped, as if the words had cut her tongue on the way out.

Regulus’ expression gave nothing away, but his eyes lingered on her a moment longer than necessary, as if he was searching for something in that silence that she never meant to give away.

Elenore turned sharply on her heel and moved toward the exit. No need to stay here any longer—the clouds had already swallowed the moon. Her students would have to wait a little longer.

"Good night, Miss Fawley." His voice followed her, low and unexpectedly soft, almost reverent.

She froze at the threshold, hand brushing the cold stone of the stairwell wall. Slowly, she glanced back over her shoulder.

"Good night, Mr Black."

Notes:

This is one of my favourite chapters as well) Hope you'll enjoy it, Ladies🫶🏻

Chapter 9: Chapter 8

1984 October 6

 

Elenore woke to the damp, ticklish sensation of Noel’s tongue on her nose. She groaned, cracking one eye open to find the cat sprawled smugly across her pillow, purring like he owned the place.

"Noel…" she mumbled, dragging the blankets over her head. "It’s Saturday. Let me sleep."

Moonbeam’s answer was to tangle a paw in her hair, tugging at a strand as if he was determined to restyle it himself.

"Noel.." She tried to make her tone as serious as possible in her half-sleepy state. 

The cat only made a strangled little sound around the curl of her hair he was attempting to lick.

She would never win this battle.

With a sigh, she pushed herself upright, rubbing at her eyes. The room was dim, heavy with the silver-grey light of a rainy morning. Outside, she could hear it drumming steadily against the windows, wind sighing through the tower stones. The fire in the grate had long since burned down, leaving the air cool enough for Elenore to pull her sleeping gown tighter around her shoulders.

She shuffled to the window, Noel padding at her heels.  She watched the rain sliding in rivulets down the glass, blurring the lake and grounds into a haze of mist. A morning for hiding in the library, she thought. Or for pretending one had nowhere to be at all.

The memory of the Astronomy Tower that refused to leave her be, replayed itself in fragments whenever she caught herself drifting in her thoughts. 

She rubbed at her temples, the echo of that night clinging to her: Regulus’ voice, low and unflinching.

Don’t look at me as if you’ve never pretended your hands are clean.

The words slid through her again, unwanted. She had tried, in vain, to push them away, yet they echoed still.

Was work at the Ministry so dreadful? Or was there something else?

Her jaw tightened.

Noel leapt onto the sill and pressed his head against her hand, breaking the thought. Elenore managed the faintest smile and stroked behind his ear. "Fine. Breakfast it is. But only because you insist."

In the bathroom, she scrubbed the taste of sleep from her mouth and raked a comb through the wild tangle of her hair, forcing it into some order with a claw. She opened her wardrobe and chose wide-leg dark blue jeans and a simple black turtleneck—comfort over formality today, nothing more, nothing less.

Pulling her black cloak from the back of the chair, she fastened it at her throat and glanced at Noel waiting by the door. "Let’s go, Moonbeam."

Together, they stepped out into the hall, the sound of the storm following them down the stairs.

By the time she made her way down the Defence Against the Dark Arts Tower’s staircases, the corridors were hushed. Most students decided to stay in bed on this stormy Saturday. The castle smelled faintly of damp stone and wood smoke from the hearths. She slowed her pace near a window, watching the sheets of rain blur the mountains into ghostly shapes. A flicker of movement in the glass caught her eye—her own reflection, but thinner, shadowed. For the briefest instant, she thought she saw another figure at her shoulder, dark-haired, tall. 

She blinked. 

Empty.

You think it was a choice? 

She tore her gaze from the window and forced herself on, each step toward the Great Hall heavier than the last. 

She hasn’t seen Regulus since that night.

 Why was she still thinking about that?

Why can't her thoughts just shut up for a little bit?

The Hall was quieter than usual, the storm muting even the laughter of the few students scattered at the tables. She slipped into her place at the staff table, Noel winding shamelessly around her ankles before curling beneath her chair.

A steaming cup of tea appeared at her elbow. She wrapped her hands around it, barely noticing the heat soaking into her fingers as she lifted it to her lips.

Her plate filled a moment later—eggs, sausages, toast—but Elenore’s first action was to slide a few pieces of broccoli and a slice of chicken steak onto a smaller plate. Noel had developed a fondness for broccoli years ago, when he’d once stolen a stalk from her dish during a family dinner at their cottage in Dover. She smiled faintly at the memory as she lowered the plate to the floor. Noel tucked in at once with purring approval.

She turned back to her own breakfast, forcing herself to pick up the fork. She hadn’t felt hunger for a long time—but she knew she had to eat. Forkful by forkful, she worked her way through the meal, chewing slowly, mechanically, her mind half elsewhere. By the time her tea had cooled, half her portion was gone. That was enough. It was always enough, although the portions here were enormous for Elenore’s standards. 

A familiar whisper of doubt coiled in her chest: if she ate less, maybe she’d look less… heavy. Softer at the edges. She pressed her lips together. The thought had lived in her head so long it felt like truth, even if others told her otherwise.

In an attempt to silence her thoughts while eating, her mind decided to jump back to what Regulus said to her.

What are you doing here, Fawley?

What was she actually doing here? What was she doing at the ministry all those years? Why is it her that should exist in this world?

That made her remember their quarrel with her mother. Not long after the first attempt to convince Juliet that the ministry was not for Elenore. She tried to approach her mother about her poor life choices again, just in case if this time something would change. It didn’t, of course. The conversation ended up in scandal, her eternally composed mother finally snapped.

"You are not doing Enough, Elenore!"

Elenore had nothing to say, her stomach dropped, it was the worst her mother could have said to her. Tears threatening to spill, Elenore’s emotions haven’t found a better way rather than snap at her mother as well.  Fun how even at her best, she was still not good enough.

"Oh yes!? Then perhaps I can just throw myself under a car!?"

That was a fatal mistake to say those words, but Elenore realised it too late.

"What car, Elenore!? You won’t even die from that, you will just injure yourself and then lie in torture from pain. And don’t say such stupid things!? What’s so hard in your life that you want to end it? Working in the ministry is not the end of the world!"

" Well, I haven’t even asked to be brought into this world!"

"Well then, I am sorry for that, but you are already here! And you are not treating your future seriously. Haven’t you thought that it might be the time to finally think about your life?"

"Go ask William about that!" Elenore turned on her heels and stormed out of the room, choking on her tears.

"Oh, yes, go cry! And when you bring yourself together, we can speak again!"

After spending the whole night crying and brainstorming about the possible options that would also satisfy her parents' points. Elenore had her future outlined in her head by the morning. She found no better option than to really work at the ministry, at least her stars would be with her in the planetarium. This perfect future of the auror.

Ugh.

 At least with William, their parents had no problems like that. Always on the same page with them, what parents tortured out of Elenore William did willingly and even enjoyed. No need to waste more nerves on him if they could be reserved for Elenore.

She knew her parents loved her, and did that only with good intentions, out of pure care. Did she believe in that? She tried to. She wanted to believe that all of this was not for nothing.

When she tried to approach her mother again after that and ask why, she said that she was not enough. Juliet only responded that if she won’t remind her of that, then Elenore will stop doing anything and phrases like that would motivate her.

Yes, that motivated her, although that rather felt like a kick in the ass and not a proper way to motivate. At least Juliet was honest about it.

Elenore always thought that the Ministry was not for her. But was Hogwarts for her? 

What are you doing here, Fawley?

The sudden rush of wings broke the spell and stillness of the hall.

Owls swept down through the enchanted ceiling, feathers damp, their hoots and flutters mingling with the hiss of the storm outside. They dropped letters one after another, parchment and parcels thudding softly against tables. A small stack landed neatly before Elenore, along with four carefully wrapped packages.

Ziggy, her owl, had perched on the corner of the staff table—shaking rain from his feathers and looking pleased with himself. She had named him after Ziggy Stardust from Bowie’s album. Merrick suggested naming him like that, they thought it would be fun if their owls’ names were Iggy and Ziggy.

Her orders from Diagon Alley had finally arrived. She set her fork down and pulled the topmost parchment closer.

The first was a simple invoice:

Floo-Pow — Floo Powder, 5 scoops — 10 Sickles

Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment — Globe of the Moon, 13 Galleons; Crystal Phials, 7 Galleons; Binoculars, 5 Galleons

Belcher's Bottled Beers — 5 Honey Beers, 7 Galleons; 5 Honey-Ginger Beers, 9 Galleons; 5 Goldie-Blondie, 5 Galleons

Madam Primpernelle’s Beautifying Potions — Slender Silhouette Drops — 12 Galleons

Elenore exhaled through her nose, half amused, half resigned. She’d been buying those Drops for almost five years now. They helped to keep her weight intact. Not like she needed them, Elenore was slim, but not enough. Always not enough. For these five years, she has already found a perfect amount of drops that will satisfy her vision of herself.  

She glanced at Ziggy. "Fly up to my dorm in thirty minutes. I’ll have your pouch of money ready," she murmured. The owl bobbed his head, eyes sharp.

She stacked the letters, sorting through them quietly:

"Aunt Lucy," she muttered, tucking that one at the bottom.

"From Mum and Dad…"

"From Nathaniel."

Her brow furrowed at the next seal. "The Magic Lantern? I don’t remember ordering anything from them."

Then she reached for the last one—and her heart stuttered.

"Merrick Fenrow."

OH MERLIN

The name left her lips on a breathless laugh, the parchment slipping from her fingers onto the table. Her hand flew to cover her mouth, brows arched high in disbelief.

Merrick had written her.

Her thoughts spun at once, half-coherent, glittering with delusion.

What if he was finally reaching out? What if he remembered Festival at Hogsmead, the summer evenings, and wanted to talk about it? What if he wrote just to ask how she was? Or what if he wanted to see her, to come to Hogwarts, to visit? The possibilities cascaded so wildly she nearly laughed aloud.

Elenore pressed the letter flat against the table, fingertips tingling. A smile broke, quick and unguarded, before she caught herself and glanced around to be sure no one had seen.

Gathering the parcels and letters, she rose so quickly her chair scraped faintly against the stone floor. Noel darted from beneath the table to trail after her.

"Noel," she whispered, clutching the stack to her chest, "let’s go. We’ve got some very important letters to answer."

And without another glance at the storm-lashed Hall, she strode for the doors.

Elenore nearly flew up the staircases, ignoring the portraits that muttered irritably at her brisk pace. By the time she reached her quarters, her heart was beating so fast as if she had run a race. 

She pushed the door shut behind her, dropped the parcels onto the nearest table, and tugged her glasses from the pocket of her cloak. She perched them on her nose before collapsing into the armchair in front of the fireplace.

With a quick swipe, "Incendio."

The hearth roared to life. Noel leapt onto the armrest and settled against her shoulder, tail flicking lazily.

For a moment, she just stared at the letter, lips pressed together, nerves and anticipation tangling into a knot in her stomach. 

Then she heard Ziggy knocking on the window with his beak. She turned her head and stood abruptly, snatching the pouch with money from her nightstand. 

She opened the window and laced the pouch to the owl’s leg.

" Thank you, Ziggy." She murmured as the owl flew from her windowsill.

Elenore flopped back into the armchair and tore the letter open. The sight of his slanted, familiar scrawl made her throat tighten. She steadied the parchment, eyes devouring every word.

 

Ellie,

I’ve made up my mind—New York isn’t my home, and my parents can’t keep me here. A couple of months per year are enough, more than enough. They can play at their high circles without me. This country is not for me.

I’m coming back to Hogsmeade. By next week, if all goes well.

I heard about William only recently. I wrote to him, and Juliet replied… Ellie, I am so sorry. You know words often fail me, but here they fail me even more. I am sorry.

New York was loud and quick. I worked with a contact at MACUSA—consulting, they called it. They paid me for tricks and half-truths. It wasn’t worth staying.

You’re still at Hogwarts, aren’t you? Your mother wrote that you no longer work at the Ministry. Save me a butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks. Or don’t—let me buy it.

Tell me you haven’t gone respectable on me. You were never good at playing saint, Ellie. Too sharp around the edges for that.

—M.

 

Her vision blurred as she read the lines again, heart beating so loudly she thought Noel might hear it. 

He was coming back.

 He had thought of her. 

He remembered William. 

He’d teased her, of course—he always did—but beneath it was something else, wasn’t it?

 Save me a butterbeer. 

Tell me you haven’t gone respectable. 

That was more than just courtesy. 

Right?

That was him reaching out for her, wasn’t it?

She pressed the letter to her chest, closing her eyes for a moment. The sound of the rain against the windows deepened the stillness around her, and she let herself smile—wide, unguarded, a grin that almost hurt her cheeks. For a moment, she had a feeling that she would beat the air to the bruises if she had started to kick her legs.

Noel head-butted her chin, purring insistently. She laughed, brushing him off gently. "He wrote, Moonbeam. Merrick wrote. And he’s coming back."

She shot up from the armchair and began pacing around her room, letter still clutched in one hand. 

"Pandora. I have to tell Pandora—"

With a flick of her wand, parchment and quill soared from her desk and hovered at her side, following her restless steps.

"Write this," she commanded. The quill obeyed, scratching across the page as she dictated breathlessly:

Pandora,
Emergency. We need to meet tomorrow in Hogsmeade as soon as possible. Don’t ask in writing. Just come to The Steepley and Sons. I’ll be waiting.
—Ellie

She snatched the parchment from the air, folded it twice with fumbling fingers, and bent to Noel. "To Pandora. Quickly."

Noel chirped softly, took the note in his mouth, and went to the door.

Elenore stood there, heart racing, as she flicked her wand to open the door for Noel. The fire crackled, and she pressed the parchment to her chest before sinking into the chair by her desk.

She adjusted her glasses, steadying her breath, and with a sharp motion summoned the rest of the letters with an Accio. They landed in an untidy pile on the table before her.

She would not answer Merrick. There was no need—he was coming back, and they could speak in person. That was always how it went, wasn’t it? He ignored her letters, left them unanswered for weeks or months. It was a normal Merrick behaviour. He would not mind if she did the same.

She slipped out of her cloak, draping it over the back of her chair, warmth already pooling in the room. Her eyes moved over the stack. Hmm… which one first?

"Mm, let it be… The Magic Lantern."

She tore open the letter and read.

Good Evening, Miss Fawley,
Unfortunately, we could not find any information regarding your request for a lantern whose light bleeds through stars of silver. Nor do we currently hold such an item in our possession.

Should you have further questions or inquiries, please do not hesitate to contact us again.

Sincerely,
Marius Lumier

"Oh." Her lips parted. Now she remembered. That desperate letter—written long ago, back when she and William still worked in the Ministry, chasing hints of the prophecy, searching for anything that might destroy the artefact they barely knew anything about. 

It was no longer her concern. Elenore set the letter aside at the corner of her desk, her throat tightening briefly at the thought of William, before forcing her eyes down to the next envelope.

"Aunt Lucy."

She unfolded the parchment, Lucy’s cheerful scrawl spilling across the page.

Ellie,
Teresa told me you’d visited them recently. And you didn’t even stop by to say hello? 

I’m teasing, darling—I’m not angry. You know I was never truly angry with you, not even when you forgot about my birthday.

Still, we’ve all been worried. If you find a spare moment, you’re always welcome for tea and good gossip.

Take care,
Lucy

A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. She made a mental note to visit Lucy tomorrow, if only to prove she wasn’t as lost as everyone seemed to think.

The next envelope bore Nathaniel’s handwriting. Elenore smoothed it flat, her chest loosening at the sight of it.

Dear Ellie,
Your letter nearly knocked me off my feet—Professor of Astronomy! I always told you the stars would claim you, though I thought it might be in some crumbling observatory by the sea, not Hogwarts itself. I know you always wanted to stay there, but still.

Allan is beside me as I write this—he insists I tell you the bakery is thriving, and that you’d better come sample his honey tarts before he eats them all by himself. Norwich has been as it always been. Nothing changes in here. Small, quiet, ordinary - everything as we like.

Don’t apologise for silence. I know how life tangles. I’m just glad to hear from you again, even if it’s in ink. And yes, please—visit. You and Pandora both. Allan will fuss over you until you’re sick of him, and I’ll make sure the kettle never cools.

Take care of yourself, Ellie. You deserve to.

Cheers,
Nathaniel

Elenore let out a shaky breath, smiling despite herself. She set his letter atop Lucy’s.

Only one letter remained.

From parents. 

She broke the seal carefully, almost reluctantly. Her mother’s elegant handwriting unfurled across the page.

 

Dear Ellie,

We hope this letter finds you safe and well. You’ve been much on our minds these past weeks. Your silence has worried us—though, of course, we understand. You’ve endured more than most should ever bear. Still, we are your parents, and we worry about you.

We are managing as best as we can. Your father has been spending long hours at the Ministry, though he never fails to stop by St. Mungo’s each evening and ask the healers about William. 

William remains in their care. There are days when he seems stronger, when the healers believe progress is possible. And there are other days… when we are not so certain. But we hold hope, and we know you do too, even from afar.

Tell us, how are you, truly? We want to hear of your life at Hogwarts—your work, your colleagues, even the smallest details of your days. Do not hide from us, Ellie. You’ve always carried burdens quietly, but you needn’t carry them alone.

And how is your little companion, Noel? Nicolas told us he’s grown spoiled beyond reason. Does he still insist on broccoli at supper?

Please write soon. We love you more than any words can say.

All our love,
Mum & Dad

 

Elenore swallowed hard, the familiar ache rising in her throat. She pressed her knuckles to her lips for a moment before pulling fresh parchment toward her.

 

Dear Mum and Dad,

Thank you for your letter. I am sorry for not writing to you sooner. Sometimes words feel heavier than I can lift, and the longer I wait to write, the harder it becomes. I wanted to write to you a couple of times already, but couldn’t find the right words. But please know that I think of you both.

It feels strange to sit at the staff table rather than the student benches, stranger still to lecture when only yesterday I was the one furiously scribbling notes. The castle is the same, but now it feels different in here.

I am relieved to hear William has good days, even if they are uneven.

As for me… I am managing. Some days are easier than others, but work keeps my mind busy, and Pandora keeps me company. I also think of visiting Aunt Lucy tomorrow.

As for Noel, he insists on being part of every waking hour, though he has not outgrown his taste for broccoli. He woke me this morning by sitting on my hair, so perhaps granddad was right—he is spoiled. But he makes the empty spaces less unbearable.

Please don’t worry too much. I promise to write more often.

With all my love,
Ellie

Elenore leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms above her head. She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding and turned toward the hearth.

"Noel," she murmured, "would you like to go visit Nathaniel in Norwich with us—"

Her voice trailed off.

Wait.

She froze, her eyes darting around the room. 

Noel wasn’t there.

A prickling unease slid down her spine. Her gaze snapped to the clock on the mantel. 

Three hours. 

He had left three hours ago, when she had sent him with Pandora’s note.

 He hadn’t come back.

Elenore stood so abruptly that her chair scraped the floor. She pulled the door open, half-expecting to see him sitting there smugly in the corridor. But he was not there.

Her pulse spiked. Noel wasn’t the sort of cat to disappear into the castle for hours. He preferred comfort—the rug by the fire, her lap, the safety of their shared space. Wandering wasn’t in his nature. He wasn’t… like William’s cats had been, those born hunters who could vanish for days.

"Noel?" her voice echoed thinly in the corridor, lost to the rain hammering at the high windows.

She searched.

For hours, she combed the castle. The storm outside pressed against the glass, thunder muffling her calls. 

She checked the Great Hall, the staircases, and even slipped past a handful of curious students who turned their heads as she hurried by. 

Panic rose with each passing corridor, tightening her chest. Her wand-light quivered against the stone as she descended into the dungeons, then climbed back up to the library.

By the time she pushed open the doors back to the Defence against the Dark Arts Tower and made her way up a couple of flights of stairs, she was breathless, and her voice was hoarse.

"Noel Endymion Fawley, I swear—if you don’t—"

Her words cut off.

There he was.

Noel was perched smugly in the arms of Regulus, tail swishing, his blue eyes gleaming in the half-light as if he’d orchestrated this meeting himself.

Regulus held Noel’s collar between two fingers, turning it slightly so the inscription caught the light.

Noel Endymion Fawley.

"Looks like this one belongs to you," Regulus said quietly, his tone carrying no judgment, only that strange, unreadable weight. His gaze flicked from the collar back to her. "He’s been following me for the better part of the day. Persistent little spy. I thought it would be better to bring him back to the owner."

Noel, unbothered, gave a satisfied little meow and leapt from Regulus’ arms into Elenore’s, burrowing against her chest as if nothing had happened.

Her cheeks flamed, her grip tightening around the cat. "I—thank you," she managed, breathless, her voice pitched too high. "He doesn’t usually… wander." She faltered, then forced a faint smile. "I suppose he thought you needed… company."

Regulus arched a brow, just slightly, his mouth tugging at the corners in a smile. "Company?" he echoed, his voice soft but lingering.

"He’s just curious," she blurted, far too quickly. "That’s all. Don’t—don’t read into it."

They looked at each other, his silence pressed on her like a weight, eyes steady in a way that made her skin prickle. Finally, he spoke, "Perhaps. Or perhaps he sees more than you’d like him to."

Her breath caught, a sharp flutter in her chest. She adjusted Noel in her arms, using him as a shield. "It’s late. I should get him back before he decides to spy on anyone else."

She turned sharply, "Thank you again, Mr Black" 

But even as she went up the stairs and through the corridors, she could feel it—the echo of his gaze, the way his eyes lingered on her and the way he refused to look away. 

Elenore pointed one finger at Noel as they almost made their way to their room " Don’t do that again. I trusted you." She dropped her finger and scored, " Why would you even spy on Regulus?"

Noel just meowed and brushed Elenore’s cheek with his head.

Elenore hasn’t seen Regulus since that night at the tower. But something changed. She could not quite name what it was. But something felt different. 

Notes:

I would do anything to successfully avoid preparing for my HRM midterm, so I decided to edit and post one of the chapters today. Enjoy Ladies! ( And for someone who tried to reset my password - Wtf?)

Chapter 10: Chapter 9

1984 October 7

 

The morning storm had washed Hogsmeade clean, and now the square glowed beneath a rare burst of autumn sunlight. The cobblestones, still damp, sparkled as though dusted with silver, and the air carried the sweet scent of woodsmoke and wet leaves.

The terrace of Steepley & Sons was lively as usual, its tables filled with villagers and students savouring the last weeks of warmth before winter returned.

Elenore sat waiting, already settled into her seat with a clear view of the square, the golden light spilling across her table. A delicate curl of steam rose from the teacup before her. 

She wore a flowing burgundy dress patterned with dusky florals, softened by a tailored brown wool blazer. Around her throat, a dark chocolate scarf shifted in the breeze, its ends fluttering like ribbons of smoke. Her finger traced the rim of her cup idly as her gaze wandered across the square.

She had come to Hogsmeade earlier that morning to meet Aunt Lucy at Flutes and Lutes, the little shop her family had kept for generations. It smelled of polished wood, old music composition notebooks. This place always hummed with its own soft music from enchanted instruments. Lucy, sleeves rolled to her elbows, had been finishing a Sunday piano lesson for two excitable young witches when Elenore arrived.

They had slipped into the back room afterwards, where Elenore set a bottle of Goldie-Blondie beer on the counter with a sly smile. Lucy’s eyes lit at once.

"You remembered," Lucy had said, laughter warm as a chord struck true. "We used to smuggle these under your mother’s nose, didn’t we? Merlin, Ellie, you were the worst influence."

Elenore smiled faintly, a shadow tugging at her features. "You were the one sneaking me out of the house. Don’t shift the blame, Auntie."

They talked for a while, Lucy weaving in harmless gossip about neighbours and old acquaintances, her tone light but her eyes studied Elenore more closely than her words suggested. She didn’t ask directly how Ellie was, but her hand lingered a moment longer than usual when they parted.

Now, sitting alone on the terrace, Elenore let her eyes wander over the life of the square. 

A group of young wizards darted beneath the crooked tree at the centre of the square near the statue, chasing each other with enchanted paper bats that squealed whenever caught. This statue is of Hufflepuff Hengist of Woodcroft, believed to be the founder of the village of Hogsmeade after having been driven from his home by Muggle persecutors.

 The garlands strung from the tree to the surrounding shopfronts. They swayed gently in the breeze, their charmed lanterns blinking drowsily even in daylight. At night, they would shimmer with starlight colours, transforming the square into something out of a fairytale.

To Elenore’s right rose the pink-and-teal facade of Honeydukes, where a Gryffindor six-year chased a chocolate frog across the steps as it leapt from his grasp. 

To her left stood the Owl Post, its purple-roofed niches crowded with owls of every size and feather, preening and hooting like an impatient choir. 

After it, the twin fronts of Gladrags Wizardwear gleamed, the two buildings connected by a stone arch bridge where enchanted banners shifted their colours to advertise winter cloaks and starry socks.

It was through that arch that Pandora appeared. Older witches on the terrace turned to watch her—whether out of admiration or disapproval, it was impossible to tell. But Pandora, as always, didn’t seem to notice or care. 

Pandora strode confidently as the sun struck the sheen of her sharp, tailored golden velvet jacket. Beneath it was a lavender silk blouse with a soft bow at the throat, and the matching velvet waistcoat. Her high-waisted grey trousers with mauve and silver stripes caught the sunlight with each step. Blond curls styled in a messy bun.

Pandora slipped into the seat opposite Elenore, tugging off her lavender gloves with the ease of someone who always belonged in the centre of things. She leaned back, lips curving faintly.

"What happened, Ellie?" she asked at once.

Elenore’s lips tugged into a smile as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the motion betraying more excitement than she intended. "I received a letter from Merrick yesterday."

"For Merlin’s sake…"

"And from Nathaniel as well—and then Noel got lost."

"No, no, no—you’re not changing the subject that fast. What about Merrick? He’s not exactly one for writing. What did he want?"

"He’s coming back to Hogsmeade," Elenore said, her voice bright with excitement.

Pandora rolled her eyes. Remembering Merrick and talking about him was one thing—but staying friends with him after the way he had behaved toward Elenore? That she couldn’t understand.

"He also wrote that he can’t stand New York any longer—he’s sick of it. And he worked at MACUSA while he was there. And—Pennie—he asked me to go for a butterbeer with him. Can you imagine? Merrick wants to meet with me."

"Ellie, he’s your friend. Although I still don’t understand how you can… But I can assure you there’s no romantic intent in that. How long has it been—eight years? You’ve liked this guy for eight years and he still hasn’t noticed?"

"I mean, as you said, we’re friends. I don’t even know if he’s still with that Millicent. I haven’t seen him in three years—I’m just curious how he is."

"You’re far too excited for just a casual meeting with an old friend, Elenore. He is not the one." Pandora squinted her eyes. 

"Pennie, stop. He’s different with me. Whatever mask he wears for the rest of the world doesn’t exist when we’re together. I still like him—I can’t help that." Elenore’s voice sounded more and more desperate with each sentence.

"So even after eight years, if he asked you, you’d still say yes?" Pandora lowered her cup of tea and glanced at Elenore as if she would strangle her right now.  

"Yes, Pennie."

"Ellie… if he wanted, he would’ve asked you already."

"You’re right, Pandora. I know he’s not perfect. But he’s special to me."

Pandora gave a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking her head as she reached for her tea. "Special? Ellie, you’re romanticising crumbs. He’s had years to see you for what you are—and if he hasn’t by now, he never will. People don’t just… change like that. Especially not Merrick"

Elenore’s smile faltered, but she held Pandora’s gaze, stubborn. She believed that people can change. Merrick is not an exception. He can change. "You don’t know him like I do."

"No," Pandora said flatly, "and I thank the stars for it. But I do know you, Ellie. And I hate watching you pin your hopes on a man who doesn’t deserve them. You could have someone who sees you right away, without needing eight years and a map."

She softened only slightly, sighing as she tapped her fingers against the rim of her cup. "But if you’re determined to go—fine. Just promise me you won’t let him toy with your feelings again. And you won’t let your delusions take control over you."

" I will try Pennie. Oh, I also brought you Crystal Phials you asked to order," she took the packaging from her handbag hanging on the chair " 7 Galleons. I am counting," said Elenore with mock seriousness.

Pandora nearly choked on her tea from laughing. " Thank you, Ellie."

Elenore was fifteen that summer when she first met Merrick. She had come to stay with her grandparents in Hogsmead. His grandparents lived next door, though she had never noticed him before.

One evening, a knock sounded at the Ashmeres’ door. Teresa, her grandmother, opened it to find a woman with familiar eyes. "Charlotte?" Teresa gasped, startled into a smile.

Charlotte smiled back, warm and a little apologetic. "Teresa—I wouldn’t intrude if it weren’t an emergency. Do you happen to have any stamps? I’ve misplaced mine, and the post is closing."

"Of course," Teresa said, beckoning her inside. "Elenore, darling, would you fetch some from the drawers upstairs?"

Elenore obeyed, padding up to the second floor. When she returned, stamps in hand, Charlotte was laughing with Teresa in the sitting room. She turned when Elenore entered, her eyes lighting with a fondness Elenore did not expect.

"So this is your granddaughter? She looks like Juliet. You’ll have to come for tea at Steepley & Sons with me sometime, my treat."

Elenore smiled shyly. She liked Charlotte instantly—the easy way she spoke, the warmth in her tone.

It was then she saw him. Striding through the open door, tall, dirty blond and sharp-eyed.

"Mom, Lesley tried to eat the curtain a—" He stopped abruptly when he realised they weren’t alone.

"Teresa, Elenore," Charlotte said, a note of pride slipping into her voice. "That’s my son, Merrick."

"Nice to meet you, dear," Teresa offered.

His gaze collided with Elenore’s. Neither spoke. They only stared.

Elenore couldn’t answer. She only looked, heat creeping up her cheeks, and Merrick said nothing either—his expression unreadable, caught somewhere between curiosity and restraint. He was one year older than Elenore.

The moment was shattered when William tripped on the staircase, nearly falling to the ground. "Grandma, when’s dinner? I’m starving."

"In a moment, Will," Teresa said, shaking her head fondly. Then, turning back to Charlotte, "Would you and Merrick stay and eat with us?"

Charlotte accepted with gratitude, and soon the dining room was full. They also called Merrick’s grandparents—Edgar and Helena Whitford. Teresa and Nicolas sat at either end, Charlotte at Teresa’s side, and beside her, Edgar and Helena, silver-haired and soft-spoken. William slouched next to Elenore, across from Merrick.

The meal was simple—roast chicken with rosemary, boiled potatoes, and peas from the garden. Helena and Teresa reminisced about their childhoods on the same street, Edgar exchanged stories about his time in the Ministry, and William filled every pause with questions.

Merrick spoke little to Elenore, though once she caught him watching her when he thought she wasn’t looking. His voice came alive only when William asked about Quidditch.

"You play?" Merrick asked.

"Of course," Will said proudly. "I am in the Slytherin team."

Merrick smirked faintly. "Ambitious. What position?"

"Chaser."

"You’ll need a stronger arm, then," Merrick teased, and William flushed, half-indignant, half-inspired.

Elenore listened quietly, feeling strangely invisible and yet too visible all at once.

After dinner, Charlotte and the Whitfords stood, thanking Teresa and Nicolas before heading back home. But Merrick lingered, his hands shoved into his pockets.

"Could I stay a bit longer?" he asked, his tone casual but his glance flicking toward Elenore before settling on William.

Teresa raised a brow but smiled. "Of course, dear. You’re welcome here anytime."

And just like that, he stayed.

The evening air carried a faint chill as the three of them climbed the stairs to the open balcony. The street beyond was dark, fireflies flickering faintly over the hedges. Elenore curled into a thick shawl on the old wooden couch, pulling her knees close. William immediately claimed the chair opposite her, leaving Merrick with no choice but to settle beside her on the couch.

Traitor, she thought, shooting William a look. He only grinned, already plotting.

They talked at first of harmless things: William’s endless complaints about chores, Merrick’s stories about his kitten Lesley, Elenore’s awkward attempts to join in. William teased Merrick about Quidditch, and Merrick returned the favour by laughing at William’s hopeless broom skills. Elenore found herself smiling more than speaking, listening as the voices tangled easily together in the quiet night.

At last, William pushed back his chair with dramatic flair. "I’ll make us tea. Unless either of you plans to volunteer?"

Neither moved. Merrick gave a lopsided grin. "Looks like it’s you, mate."

William rolled his eyes and disappeared inside, muttering about lazy company.

For a moment, silence stretched between Elenore and Merrick. She felt him shift beside her, the couch dipping slightly. When she turned, she caught the slight tremor in his shoulders.

"You’re freezing," she said before she could stop herself. Her voice came out softer than intended.

"I’m fine," he muttered, though his breath puffed faintly in the cool air.

Elenore hesitated, then tugged at the edge of her shawl. "Here— take a half."

He looked at her, as if weighing pride against comfort, then accepted with a small nod. The wool settled around them both, their shoulders brushing, and suddenly the night seemed louder—every creak of the wood, every rustle of leaves.

When William returned, balancing three mugs, he nearly dropped them at the sight. "Well, well," he sing-songed, smirking as he set the tray down. "Ellie sharing her precious shawl? Mark the date."

Elenore’s cheeks burned. "Shut up, Will."

But Merrick only smirked faintly, ducking his head as he wrapped his hands around the steaming mug.

The warmth of the tea, the rhythm of their laughter, the steady beat of the crickets—it all blurred until Merrick’s movements grew slower, his words fading into silence. Elenore froze as she felt the weight of his head ease gently against her shoulder.

Her heart stuttered. She didn’t move, didn’t breathe, afraid the moment would vanish if she acknowledged it. William shot her a wide-eyed grin over the rim of his cup, mouthing something she ignored entirely.

And it was there—beneath the shawl, with Merrick asleep against her—that Elenore realised, with sudden, terrifying clarity, that she liked him. Maybe a little too much, even.

It turned out Merrick lived in New York with his parents and only visited his grandparents in Hogsmeade from time to time. That was why Elenore had never seen him before. 

The Fenrows had moved to the States when Merrick was only three, so he’d studied at Ilvermorny instead of Hogwarts. As much as he disliked America, he couldn’t exactly leave his parents behind. Still, he began visiting Hogsmeade more often, squeezing in trips whenever he could.

From that night onward, Elenore kept her crush tucked away like a fragile secret. He was her friend. 

Just her friend.

Right?

Once, when Merrick visited London, Elenore had suggested they go ice-skating. He’d agreed readily enough, but never showed up. Elenore spent the whole afternoon circling the rink alone, half-worrying, half-wondering if she had done something wrong. When she returned home around five, a letter was waiting. In it, Merrick explained that he had been sick all morning and had only just woken up. He’d even tucked in a little Polaroid of his Christmas tree he brought with him.

Elenore wasn’t mad at him. Perhaps he truly had been ill. She told herself it wasn’t his fault.

A couple of months later, when her grandparents visited, Teresa mentioned in passing that Helene said that Merrick had a girlfriend—Millicent.

Elenore had simply stared blankly at those words. What? Finding out from her grandmother, not Merrick himself, stung more than she admitted.

The following year, when Merrick returned for the holidays, he spoke vaguely about how difficult long-distance relationships could be—how Millicent had moved to another state. Elenore said nothing, only nodded, her heart folding in on itself.

She kept writing to him for a while after that—letters about London, about the weather, about nothing at all—asking after New York, after Lesley, after him. Answers never came. Not to her, at least. William still received replies, though not always promptly. Eventually, Elenore stopped writing altogether.

And then, almost a year later, she stumbled into him unexpectedly in Tomes and Scrolls. They ended up having tea, slipping easily into conversation. Merrick never mentioned Millicent once. Instead, he spoke about how much he regretted returning to America, how suffocating it felt every time. Perhaps they had broken up, Elenore thought. But she didn’t ask. She couldn’t.

Though Merrick had always been closer to William, that encounter had left Elenore buoyed with hope, fragile though it was. And even when her letters went unanswered again, she was never angry with him. She told herself it was simply the way he was—mercurial, distracted, hard to pin down. That was Merrick. That was it.

And so, when his unexpected letter arrived now, years later, her feelings surged back as though no time had passed at all. The thrill of it was sharp, dangerous, impossible to deny.

Though Merrick was visiting Hogsmead from time to time in recent years, Elenore wasn’t. She spent most of her time in the Ministry and only knew how Merrick was from William.

Pandora had heard it all before. Every version of Merrick’s name that slipped from Elenore’s lips at some point. The stories of the ice rink, the tree, the silence, the tea after Tomes and Scrolls.

At first, Pandora had listened with patient curiosity. Then with weary indulgence. Eventually, with exasperation. But no matter how many times Elenore circled the same delusions, Pandora never walked away. After all, Ellie was her best friend. And if best friends weren’t meant to carry the weight of one another’s obsessions, who was?

The square hummed with gentle chatter around them, sunlight gleaming across porcelain cups and glass windows. A violinist started to play somewhere down the cobbled street, his music weaving faintly through the air.

"So what about Noel and Nathaniel?" Pandora asked, sipping from her cup, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly in curiosity.

Elenore smiled faintly, lowering her gaze to the steaming tea. "Nathaniel first, I suppose."

Pandora set her cup down. "Go on then. Has he answered?"

"Yes. And in the loveliest way." Elenore tugged a folded parchment from her handbag and, smoothing it with her hand, began to read Nathaniel’s letter aloud:

Dear Ellie,
Your letter nearly knocked me off my feet—Professor of Astronomy! I always told you the stars would claim you, though I thought it might be in some crumbling observatory by the sea, not Hogwarts itself. I know you always wanted to stay there, but still.

Allan is beside me as I write this—he insists I tell you the bakery is thriving, and that you’d better come sample his honey tarts before he eats them all by himself. Norwich has been as always. Nothing changes in here. Small, quiet, ordinary—everything as we like.

Don’t apologise for silence. I know how life tangles. I’m just glad to hear from you again, even if it’s in ink. And yes, please—visit. You and Pandora both. Allan will fuss over you until you’re sick of him, and I’ll make sure the kettle never cools.

Take care of yourself, Ellie. You deserve to.
Cheers, Nathaniel

When she finished, Pandora tilted her head. "Well, that settles it then. If he’s bribing us with honey tarts, we’d better decide when to floo."

Elenore’s lips curved. "Next Saturday? I’ve no lessons to cover then, and if we leave after breakfast, we’ll be there by noon. We can’t floo from Hogwarts, so when we get to Hogsmead, timing should be fine."

"Perfect." Pandora tapped her spoon against the rim of her cup. " I will ask Madam Pomfrey for a day off then. Allan can fuss, Nathaniel can boil the kettle, and we can eat everything in their bakery. Done. I’ll write Nathaniel that we’ll visit."

Elenore laughed softly, tucking the letter away again.

Pandora leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "And Noel?"

The laughter faded from Elenore’s face. “He didn’t come back after delivering your note last evening. At first, I thought he was just sulking or prowling the corridors. I searched the castle from the library to the dungeons, through the courtyards—everywhere.” Her voice wavered, and she pressed her hand against her teacup as if for steadiness. “I thought—Merlin, I thought something had happened to him.”

Pandora’s brows knit. "And?"

Elenore’s eyes darted down. "I finally found him. In Regulus’ arms. He’d been following him this whole time. Regulus knew exactly who he belonged to—he showed me Noel’s collar." She gave a shaky laugh. "And Noel, of course, just leapt into my arms as if nothing had happened. As if I hadn’t been searching for him for hours."

Pandora’s lips curved slowly into a smirk. "Well. At least Noel has good taste. Honestly, Ellie—even an ex–Death Eater with a face carved from ice looks like a better option than Merrick."

"Pennie!" Elenore flushed scarlet. "It’s not like that."

Pandora only shrugged, utterly unbothered. "I’m just saying. Between the one who always ignores you and the one who hands your cat back on the rainy day like some tragic Byronic hero—my vote’s obvious."

Elenore pressed her hand to her face, groaning. "You’re impossible. I will never stop saying that."

"Yes," Pandora said serenely, lifting her cup again. "But I’m also right. You’ll see."

Elenore groaned into her palms while Pandora sipped her tea, as though the matter were already decided. Around them, the square seemed to swell with laughter and chatter, sunlight glinting off the garlands above the crooked tree.

For a moment, Elenore let herself breathe it all in—the warmth, the music, the taste of tea still lingering on her tongue. Merrick’s letter, Nathaniel’s invitation, Noel’s wandering, Regulus’ unreadable eyes. All of it tangled in her chest like threads knotted too tightly to unravel in one sitting.

"Next Saturday then," Pandora said, her tone final. "Norwich, Nathaniel and Honey tarts. A change of scenery will do you good."

Elenore managed a smile. "Next Saturday," she echoed softly.

They clinked their teacups together, porcelain ringing bright in the autumn air.

The violinist’s song swelled, bittersweet and lingering. Somewhere in the square, a clock chimed the hour. The day, bright and ordinary, moved forward. 

Notes:

Ladies, all I want to say is that Merrick's character was inspired by a real person. My beloved schizuationship, who still manages to torture me even after I found the strength to let him go. Also want to add that some of the situations and dialogues in this story were also taken from the real things this person said or did. I am laughing each time I write about him now as I realised how stupid and ridiculous all of this was. Nevertheless, enjoy, Ladies! ( Cloudflare scared the shit out of me today, but we are still here!)

Chapter 11: Chapter 10

1984 October 12

 

Elenore spent the whole evening checking homework in the Library. She wanted to finish as much as possible before their visit to Nathaniel tomorrow.

Overall, the whole week had passed in routine. She hadn’t heard from Merrick. He had written that he would be back by the end of the week, but still no word on whether he had actually made it to Hogsmeade. Whatever. He could do as he pleased. Elenore tried to convince herself she didn’t care that much.

All those years of back and forth. Sometimes it felt easier—she would almost believe he no longer mattered. But then there were times, like tonight, when no matter how she tried, she couldn’t push him out of her mind.

The clock struck eight, and Elenore turned to see the last students slipping out. The Library was closing. Madam Pince was walking toward her, expression stern but not unkind.

"Miss Fawley, I’ll need you to wrap up for the night," she said, voice gentler than usual.

"Of course, Madam Pince." She smiled faintly.

Gathering her things, Elenore adjusted her glasses and headed out into the dim corridors. She still had papers to mark, but she wasn’t ready to go back to her dormitory. Perhaps to the Music Room in the Bell Tower Wing. The enchanted instruments always played there—work felt less monotonous with music drifting around.

She used to go there often, even after curfew, slipping inside to sit alone and just listen. It was her secret refuge. 

By the time she arrived, it would be close to nine—perfect.

As she neared the room, she caught the sound of music already threading through the corridor—piano, clear and soothing, weaving like invisible silk. It made her pause. The Music Room always seemed to breathe at night, the melodies giving it a heartbeat of its own.

Inside, the chandelier glowed softly, spilling gold over the wooden amphitheatre and polished rails. Shadows gathered in the corners, while the tall stained-glass windows glimmered faintly with moonlight, their deep blues and greens like muted jewels. The enchanted violins had joined the piano, their voices hovering faintly in the background. Even the portraits on the wall seemed to hum along under their breath.

But then—she froze. Someone was sitting at the piano.

That was not supposed to happen. At this hour, the Music Room was always hers. She leaned against the archway, hesitating. Straight like a string back and dark curls. 

Of course.

Regulus.

For a moment, she couldn’t decide whether to leave quietly or stay. She lingered for a moment just listening. His playing was exquisite—measured, melancholic, almost too beautiful to break. 

She sighed softly, almost resigned, and shifted, ready to turn back.

But before she could, his voice carried across the music, low and smooth. He missed a note and stopped. "I see from whom Noel got that habit now, Miss Fawley."

Elenore stiffened, heat rushing to her face. She stepped into the light, her expression caught with embarrassment."How—how did you know I was here?"

Still playing, Regulus tilted his head, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. "Your perfume gave you away. A trace of it lingers wherever you go."

Regulus remembered how her perfume smelled? Odd. Perhaps he was truly not so dangerous anymore. Sitting there, only playing.

Maybe he had changed. Maybe he truly regretted all of it, and now he was different. Elenore thought of how difficult it must have been—to watch your’s beliefs collapse into ash, to realise your whole life had been built upon lies, and still choosing the right thing after years of serving the darkness.

Elenore felt her cheeks warm. "Perfume? That is absurd. You must simply have heard me."

Regulus’s expression did not shift, though the faintest note of amusement coloured his tone. His fingers started to move over the keys again, each chord resonant in the chamber.

"I recognise the sound of careless footsteps well enough. But no—this was different. A trace of perfume betrayed you."

She folded her arms, torn between indignation and embarrassment. "I was not lurking. I was… considering whether to interrupt."

"By standing motionless in an archway?" His reply was almost lazy, though not unkind.

Elenore exhaled softly, conceding the point. "Very well. Caught. But—may I stay for a little bit? If it does not distract you, of course."

At that, Regulus lifted his gaze from the keys. His eyes held hers for a moment, unreadable, though there was no reproach in them. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, measured. "You will not distract me."

Her pulse quickened despite herself. She inclined her head, clutched her parchments tighter, and went down the amphitheatre’s steps to a seat midway down. The polished oak was cool beneath her palms as she settled, adjusting her glasses before spreading the papers before her.

The music wrapped around the room like a veil—steady, unyielding, yet strangely soothing. It was not grand or ostentatious, but thoughtful, deliberate, carrying a tune that seemed to fill every corner of the room without overwhelming it. 

She realised she liked how he played. It made her feel… safe and comfortable, in a way she hadn’t expected. 

Her quill traced across the parchment in rhythm with the rise and fall of the piano. More than once, she found her attention straying, listening too closely to the subtle shifts of his playing. 

The stained-glass windows glimmered faintly with moonlight, portraits along the walls hummed almost inaudibly in approval, and in the quiet heart of the chamber, Elenore worked, and Regulus played.

It was not at all the evening she had imagined—yet, curiously, she found herself grateful for it.

It also seemed that Elenore was not the only one listening. The portraits along the walls, half-hidden in the candlelight, had begun to stir. One witch in a stiff Elizabethan ruff whispered behind her hand, "Well, isn’t this something—Miss Fawley and Mr Black."

Her neighbour, a scholarly-looking wizard with an ink stain on his sleeve, gave a little chuckle. "Oh, Merion would like to hear about that. Imagine what tales will drift to the library now."

Elenore’s cheeks heated, though she pretended not to hear. She adjusted her glasses and bent lower over her parchments, as if redoubling her focus might drown out the conspiratorial murmurs.

By the time she finished her last page, the room had fallen into a hushed rhythm of notes and whispers. She gathered her papers, stood, and went up the stairs quietly.

"It was…" She paused, searching for the right words, her voice softer than she intended. "It was wonderful, really. Thank you."

Regulus looked up at her, his fingers lingering on the final chord. Their eyes met across the golden hush of the chamber. His reply was quiet, "Thank you for the company, Miss Fawley."

And then, just briefly, his mouth curved into a smile. Not mocking, not cold, an almost human smile.

The sight caught her off guard, tightening something in her chest. She turned quickly, murmuring a last "Goodnight," and made her way to the door.

Walking briskly through the empty halls, Elenore found herself replaying that fleeting smile in her mind—wondering what it meant, and why it unsettled her so much.

She walked swiftly, her parchments clutched too tightly to her chest.

 It was nothing, she told herself. Just a polite smile. But Regulus never smiles. But he just did. It was just a simple exchange of words. He was being civil, nothing more. It meant nothing. People smile. Not Regulus, though. Never seen Regulus smiling. But you just saw…

From being consumed in her thoughts, Elenore hadn’t noticed Jackdaw appearing right in front of her. If he had been flesh and bone rather than spirit, she would have collided headlong into him. Instead, she passed straight through his transparent form. A chill raced across her skin, and she gasped, almost screamed, clutching her chest with one hand.

"Oh Merlin—Richard! I am so sorry!"

The ghost of Richard Jackdaw grinned down at her. His blond hair fell into his eyes with the same rakish ease it must have had in life, and his tunic fluttered faintly as though caught in a breeze only he could feel.

"Don’t apologise, Elenore. I rather enjoy being noticed," he said lightly, voice tinged with mischief.

Elenore’s pulse slowly calmed, though her cheeks burned slightly. 

She’d first met him years ago with Pandora during their fourth year. They had been wandering through the bell tower corridor after curfew—Pandora, with her usual recklessness, wanted to show Elenore the Bells—when Jackdaw appeared suddenly through a wall. 

He’d greeted them with a flourish, calling them "ladies of the night" with a grin so dazzling Elenore nearly forgot to breathe.

From that evening, he seemed to take a peculiar liking to them, often appearing in unexpected corners of the castle with tidbits of gossip or daring them to sneak into forbidden places. 

 Pandora treated him like a mischievous older brother, unafraid of his theatrics, while Elenore… well, she had once harboured the most inconvenient schoolgirl crush. He was everything she thought was dazzling then—handsome, untouchable, just a little bit dangerous, and entirely unreachable. He had died centuries ago, after all.

Crush on Jackdaw switched to Merrick and never faltered since.

Now, as Richard hovered in the torchlit corridor, his grin was still unbearably charming.

"You nearly gave me a heart attack," she managed, her voice unsteady.

"Don’t be dramatic," Jackdaw chuckled, circling her lazily, his transparent form glowing faintly in the candlelight. "What’s really got you so distracted, hm? You didn’t even see me coming—and that never happens."

Elenore tightened her hold on her parchments, forcing her gaze away. She was not about to admit that the reason she had walked straight through him was because she’d been replaying Regulus Black’s smile in her mind like a cursed refrain.

"Nothing," she said quickly. "Just tired."

Jackdaw’s grin widened knowingly. "Oh, I don’t believe that for a second, Fawley. I won’t tell anyone you know that. You remember how we sneaked to watch the mooncalves? If anyone found out, I could have—"

"Fine," she interrupted, cutting him off.

He winked, and Elenore rolled her eyes, trying to mask the heat returning to her cheeks.

She still remembered that night vividly: the crisp Highland air brushing their faces, the quiet thrill of sneaking out past curfew, and Jackdaw leading her and Pandora through the shadows. The three of them crouched low in a patch of brambles, the moonlight spilling across the hills. Pandora’s curls caught the silver glow as she whispered in awe, pointing toward a den where the mooncalves huddled together, their luminous bodies faintly shimmering under the starlit sky.

Elenore leaned closer to the bushes, careful not to make a sound, and felt a rush of excitement. The creatures were delicate and strange, gentle beings that moved with a dreamlike grace, and girls couldn’t help but hold their breath as they watched. The night was quiet except for the soft rustle of grass and the occasional sigh from Pandora as she stifled a squeak of delight.

Yes, it had been reckless—being fifth-years wandering the Highlands at night with a ghost guiding them—but the girls had never considered the danger. Nothing mattered in that moment except the magic of the mooncalves, and the laughter they stifled as they watched the little creatures shimmer in the silvered night. They had fun and were ethereally grateful that they happened to find a friend like Jackdaw.

Elenore tightened her grip on her parchments as she walked down the dimly lit corridor, Jackdaw trailing a few steps behind. He had that knowing grin again, and she could feel it probing, teasing at her.

"So?" he asked, curiosity dancing in his tone. 

Elenore hesitated, although she had already agreed to tell him, but words felt clumsy on her tongue. "It’s… nothing, really," she began, then sighed. "It’s about Regulus Black."

Jackdaw’s grin widened, eyes alight with mischievous expectation. "Ah. That explains it. Spill."

She took a deep breath. "I went to the music room to finish checking homework. Regulus was there, practising… he didn’t seem to mind me staying. Then I said that everything was wonderful, and that I’d go now."

Jackdaw tilted his head. "And?"

"And… he thanked me for the company. And he smiled." Her voice dropped, almost a whisper. "He smiled at me, Jackdaw. He never smiles."

Jackdaw whistled softly. "Oh. I’ve never seen a Black smiling. His brother doesn’t count. I thought it was a family trait not to share any emotions."

Elenore rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the faint flutter in her chest. "That’s all it was. I swear. But I… I can’t stop thinking about it. That smile, the way his gaze lingered for a moment—it felt like he was… looking for something in me that I wasn’t even aware I’d left out there. Why does he even… Wait"

Elenore turned her head back to Richard and squinted her eyes in question, " you said a family trait. You knew Blacks?"

"Yes, actually, I’ve stolen and sold their family ring."

"You never mentioned that it was Black’s heirloom."

"It was Apollonia’s."

"Oh, now it makes sense."

Richard Jackdaw had always been a figure of contradictions—handsome, reckless, clever, and endlessly troublesome. During his years at Hogwarts, he was as well known for breaking hearts as he was for chasing mischief. He once attempted to woo Apollonia Black, though she wanted nothing to do with him. Still, Jackdaw persisted, his charm barely dented by her sharp refusals.

At some point, he stumbled across a handful of yellowed map fragments Peeves had left behind after one of his infamous library riots. Where Apollonia dismissed the scraps as worthless, Jackdaw saw opportunity. He thought the fragments might lead to something that could impress her. At the same time, he dangled the promise of the same adventure before another girl, Anne Thisbe, weaving riddles and puzzles into a courtship meant to dazzle.

His life followed that same pattern—bright, audacious, and ruinous. For a time, he even served as an assistant at Ollivanders in Hogsmeade, only to flee after stealing the family’s heirloom wand. Discovering later that the wand was special only in sentiment, he had every intention of returning it. Death, however, intervened his plans.

Jackdaw met his end in a cave near Upper Hogsfield. He never saw what killed him—only remembered a sudden breeze, then an eerie lightness before realising he had been decapitated. With no body and no evidence, blame fell on Anne Thisbe. Apollonia Black, vindictive and well-connected to the Ministry, offered testimony that sealed Anne’s fate. She was sentenced to Azkaban, while Jackdaw’s ghost drifted free, still grinning as though none of it mattered. Later, his headless form was eagerly recruited into the infamous Headless Hunt.

Apollonia herself did not escape unscathed. By the end of her life, she had descended into madness. Mistaking belladonna for elderberries, she drank her own poison, ignoring her elf Scrope’s desperate warnings. Thus, the proud Black heiress perished, her end was as bitter as her temperament.

Elenore remembered all of this—how Jackdaw had once told her and Pandora about Apollonia’s haughty, cutting manner, and how impossible she had been to please. At the time, Elenore had only half listened, too preoccupied with her girlish admiration for Richard’s grin and swagger. But now, with Regulus’ fleeting smile still burning in her thoughts, she could not help but wonder.

She turned back to the ghost, her voice low, hesitant.

"Do you think… Regulus could be different? From the rest of them, I mean."

Jackdaw tilted his head, his grin already tugging wider. But before he could speak, Elenore cut in quickly, her tone firm despite the heat rising in her cheeks.

"It is a serious question, Richard. Please."

For a moment, the corridor stilled. The playful sparkle in his eyes softened, and when he spoke, his voice carried an unfamiliar weight.

"I’ve watched him, you know. More than once. He walks around this castle like it’s half-prison, half-sanctuary. Never stays long, never lingers where he isn’t needed. But he listens. A Black who listens instead of speaking—it’s not nothing. And when he teaches…" Jackdaw’s gaze drifted briefly, as though recalling something beyond the present. "He is patient. Stern, yes, but he was never cruel to his students. A boy raised in the shadow of arrogance who now refuses to wear it. That is different."

Elenore blinked, surprised at the steadiness of his answer. Something warm, reluctant, tugged at her chest. She opened her mouth to respond, but Jackdaw was already smirking again, the solemnity vanishing like mist in the wind.

"Of course," he drawled, "if you’d like me to write you a ballad about the virtues of Mister Black, I’ll need at least three more smiles of his to work with. Perhaps a swoon or two from you as well, just for material."

"Richard!" Elenore’s indignation came too fast, too defensive, and she hated how it sounded. Perhaps she still had a chance with Merrick. She would wait a little longer, just in case.

Jackdaw’s chuckle echoed through the stone corridor, bright and merciless. "By the way, Elenore—what are you doing on Halloween?"

"It’s on Wednesday, right?"

"Yes," he said, floating backwards as if reclining mid-air, hands folded behind his head. "And Sir Nicholas invited me to his Deathday Party. I thought perhaps you could keep me company?"

"But I am not a ghost, Richard."

He rolled his eyes. "Details, details. Sir Nicholas won’t mind—he adores when the living turn up. Says it brings a little warmth to the occasion. And honestly, Ellie, do you know how dull it is to spend an evening surrounded by moaning ghouls and headless show-offs? I’ll need at least one sensible companion."

"Me? Sensible?" She muttered, shaking her head.

"Perfectly sensible. And," he added slyly, "you’ll finally have the pleasure of dining on rotten fish and maggoty cheese. A delicacy."

"Richard!" She wrinkled her nose, but his grin was too bright, too hopeful.

"Come now, Elenore. A lecture ends, a feast begins. You’ll be free by then, won’t you? I promise, I’ll even give you the grand tour. Consider it—an evening of history, culture, and questionable cuisine."

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Fine. I just have lectures until seven. After that…I can join you."

Jackdaw’s grin widened into a triumphant beam. "Splendid! That settles it then. Elenore Fawley—my most honoured guest."

"Don’t make me regret this," she muttered under her breath.

"You won’t," he sang back, already drifting down the corridor with a satisfied hum.

"Richard!" Elenore called after him, her voice chasing his fading silhouette down the corridor. "Should I bring Sir Nicholas a present?"

"Oh, only if you wish to outshine the Bloody Baron. I’d recommend something dramatic—candles that drip blood, perhaps. But don’t trouble yourself, he’ll be delighted just to see you."

His laughter echoed faintly as he drifted away, leaving Elenore shaking her head with a smile.

By the time she reached her dormitory, the corridors had grown quiet, shadows deepening across the wooden floors. 

Inside her room, she set her parchments aside and went straight to the wardrobe. Noel padded along at her heels, his tail flicking like a metronome, as though keeping pace with her thoughts.

 Tomorrow meant Norwich, meant Nathaniel and Allan, meant stepping into a city where Muggles filled the streets and wizard robes would draw stares. She tapped her chin, considering, then finally pulled together an outfit: dark blue wide-leg jeans, a crisp white golf, and her long, velvet black coat with billowy sleeves that swayed dramatically when she moved. Practical enough, but still elegant.

Noel leapt onto the bed, curling himself into a neat circle atop the folded coat as if to declare his approval.

Elenore exhaled, a smile tugging faintly at her lips. Now she can sleep peacefully, everything was settled. 

Notes:

Love all of you, Ladies! If you have any questions or if you would like to share your opinion or story about your situationships, I am always here to listen and help with everything I can. Enjoy🫶🏻

Chapter 12: Chapter 11

Notes:

Ladies, this chapter was co-written with my dear friend tunkva_moony. Together we are also working on an original story - "Intimacy of The Tragedy", where I am mostly responsible for editing, some technical parts and sometimes writing. Annie is the Boss and the mastermind behind the whole story. I am also immeasurably grateful to her as she was the one who brought me into writing, inspired and supported me all this time.

In this chapter, there will be references to the "Intimacy of The Tragedy", so, Ladies, you are more than welcome to check out this story. Enjoy the read🫶🏻

1984 October 13

 

Sunlight spilt over the cobbled streets of Hogsmeade, warming the thatched roofs and setting the shop windows aglow. The village, still stirring into life, smelled of buttered scones and chimney smoke. 

Elenore and Pandora walked side by side, one of the Scrivenshaft cats trotting dutifully behind them with his tail raised high, as though he too had business in Norwich. 

Their destination was the Three Broomsticks. Inside, the pub carried its usual morning hum—students sneaking butterbeer, a pair of wizards debating the finer points of Quidditch scores, and Madam Rosmerta herself bustling behind the bar, her golden hair gleaming in the light.

"Morning, ladies," Rosmerta greeted, arching a brow. "Off somewhere exciting?"

"If it wouldn’t be too much of a trouble," Elenore said politely, "may we use your Floo system?"

"Of course, dear. Fireplace is just there—though mind the ash, I haven’t swept it yet."

Pandora shot Elenore a look of mixed anticipation and nerves as they approached the hearth. Elenore went first, smoothing her coat, and took a pinch of powder from the jar. She stepped firmly into the grate, lifted her chin, and spoke clearly. "Bixley apartment, third floor, Hook’s Walk, Norwich."

Green fire roared up around her, swallowing her whole, and with a rush of air and a twist of magic, she was gone.

Pandora clutched her hands to her chest and sighed. "Merlin help me if she lands on her face again," she muttered, before stepping into the flames herself.

Elenore landed in Nathaniel’s apartment, Pandora right after her, tripping over the carpet in front of the fireplace and tugging Elenore right after her. 

Nathaniel was sitting in the armchair near the bookshelf, reading the gazette. He turned his head to see his school friends lying on the floor.

"You can’t make an appearance without making any noise." He folded the gazette and stood up to help them stand up "As always."

Elenore brushed ash from her billowy sleeves, still half-laughing as Pandora disentangled herself from the carpet. Nathaniel reached them in a few strides, extending a hand to Elenore, shaking his head with mock exasperation.

"Still as graceful as a herd of hippogriffs," he remarked, though the corner of his mouth betrayed a smile.

"Don’t pretend you missed us any less," Pandora shot back, grinning as she accepted his hand and hauled herself upright.

Elenore rose next, smoothing her velvet coat into place. She caught Nathaniel’s gaze, and for a heartbeat, it was as if the years had fallen away.

"It’s been too long," she said softly.

"Far too long," Nathaniel agreed, his tone warmer than his words. He glanced between the two of them, his eyes brightening with something unspoken—relief, perhaps, or simple joy at seeing faces he once saw every day. "Merlin, it feels like Hogwarts was yesterday."

Pandora laughed, brushing soot from her curls. "Yesterday with a bit more dust and sore knees, maybe."

The three of them shared a look threaded with the kind of history that made words almost unnecessary.

Their sweet reunion was suddenly interrupted by a voice from downstairs.

"Who is that?" Pandora whispered quickly, leaning toward Nathaniel.

"My landlord," he murmured back. "She’s a Muggle, so don’t make any more noise for now."

Miss Slumbry was slightly concerned by the noise from upstairs and had decided to ask and make sure that  Nathaiel didn’t trip over one of her numerous cats, though she wasn’t sure who she was more worried about, the cat or the victim of this furry tail. 

She was a grand dame, always surrounded by no fewer than twenty cats, each proudly bearing the name of a Greek god—a testament to an old obsession she’d had in her twenties. Her days were filled with quiet pleasures: the gentle stirring of pots on the hearth, the rhythmic clack of knitting needles in her parlour, and the faint humming of half-remembered tunes. Her house, cluttered with velvet cushions and perfumed with cinnamon and thyme, had long since become a sanctuary of her own making.

"Nathaniel, dear, is everything all right?" she called, her voice carrying up the stairs.

"Yes, Madam Slumbry—just dropped a book by accident," Nathaniel shouted back, his tone reassuring.

Miss Slumbry shrugged, concerned and called one of her cats back, "Athena!! Come back down, stop disturbing Nathaniel!" The cat firmly, elegantly wagged her tail and ran downstairs back to her owner.

Nathaniel exhaled, shoulders relaxing. He and Allan had been renting the whole third floor of her house ever since opening the shop. They had wanted a place of their own, a step toward independence from their families, and Madam Slumbry’s lodgings had been the perfect compromise. Not quite a full separation, but she was not nosy and rarely interrupted. For now, it was comfortable enough, even if it was only a temporary accommodation.

"Better you floo to the bakery," Nathaniel said under his breath, already moving toward the door. "Allan’s there—I’ll join you in fifteen minutes. Madam Slumbry mustn’t see you."

Elenore and Pandora exchanged a glance, then hurried back to the fireplace. Green flames swallowed them, and a moment later, they stumbled out of the hearth in the bakery’s back room.

 It smelled faintly of flour and cinnamon, and stacks of flour sacks and trays of cooling tins lined the narrow space.

When they pushed through the curtain, warmth and light flooded over them. The bakery stood on Orford Street—a bustling lane of Norwich. 

The shopfront had tall windows filled with golden pastries, breads dusted with flour, and jars of honey glinting in the sun. A painted sign above the door read Bixley & Rowe’s Bakery, the letters picked out in soft blue enamel. The air was thick with the scent of yeast, butter, and sugar.

It was a striking contrast to Hook’s Walk Street, where Nathaniel and Allan rented their apartment. That narrow lane wound through a quieter part of town, lined with crooked brick houses and iron railings, with ivy spilling from upper windows. Miss Slumbry’s home was one of those: a tall, dignified townhouse softened by age, with lace curtains and cats often perched like sentinels on the sills. Hook’s Walk carried the hush of an older Norwich, while Ordford Street thrummed with daily life.

"Allan!" Elenore called, brushing soot from her attire.

A man emerged from behind the counter—broad-shouldered, flour dusting his apron, a streak across his cheek where he had absentmindedly wiped with the back of his hand. His face lit up as he saw them.

"So these are the famous friends," he said warmly, his voice carrying both cheer and curiosity. "Nathaniel’s told me so much, I feel like I know you already."

He came around the counter, wiping his hands on a cloth before offering each of them a firm, flour-scented handshake. "I’m Allan. It’s a pleasure to meet you both."

Pandora grinned, already eyeing the trays of glazed tarts. "Pleasure’s ours. And I’d say the stories about you missed one detail—you bake dangerously well, I see. No wonder Nathaniel had fallen for you."

Allan laughed, shaking his head. "Nathaniel exaggerates. But if you’ve come all this way, you’ll not leave without trying something. He’d scold me if I didn’t offer you a degustation."

"Nathaniel promised us your famous honey tarts", declared Elenore.

The girls exchanged a smile, warmed by his genuine welcome. There was no magic in him—Allan was a Muggle through and through—but in that moment, with the scent of fresh bread curling through the air and the brightness of his smile, the bakery felt like its own kind of enchanted place. 

The entrance door shifted, and the bell rang as Nathaniel’s presence filled the room. His tall figure was towering over the others. "Already stealing my pastry?" The corner of his mouth raised as he reached out to grab one of the so well-promised honey tarts. Nathaniel offered a bite to Pandora. "Thought you should be the first one blessed to try, we are still trying different recipes for it."

Pandora bit the tart with a smile on her face, "It is as good as you said, true to the word."

A few moments later, after Nathaniel gave out sweet treats to everyone, they were already heading out to rock the city. Norwich should definitely beware of them today. Besides, the bakery could wait until tomorrow. 

They lingered by the door while Allan fumbled with the lock. The sun slanted across the crooked rows of old brick houses, gilding the uneven cobblestones beneath their feet. The air smelled faintly of hops and chimney smoke.

Just then, a boy—no older than nine, with dark, dishevelled hair and the reckless speed of a child who believed the world existed only for him—came tearing down the street. He darted past, laughing loudly, and nearly knocked Pandora into the wall.

"Oi!" she gasped, but before she could gather a word of proper complaint, another voice sliced through the air.

"Nathaniel, behave yourself. Apologise to this lady."

It was a woman’s voice, sharp and commanding.

The boy skidded to a halt, laughter dying at once. He shuffled back toward Pandora, shoulders squared but head bowed, his eyes fixed on the cobblestones "Sorry, ma’am," he said, the mischief drained clean out of him.

He returned to his mother’s side, still staring at the ground. "I am sorry, Mother. I won’t disappoint you again."

For a moment, Pandora’s indignation softened into something else. Merlin, she thought, why would anyone snatch the joy of childhood from their own child? She could never do that to Luna.

Elenore raised a brow, glancing sidelong at Nathaniel, her voice pitched just loud enough for her friends to hear."Tell me—is almost everyone in this city named Nathaniel, or is it simply a coincidence?"

Nathaniel gave her a look that was half-resigned, half-amused. "Very funny. I’ll have you know the name carries a certain dignity here. Don’t blame me if Norwich mothers have impeccable taste."

Allan laughed, shaking his head as he finally managed to turn the key in the lock. "If you’re going to tease him all day, we’ll never make it past this street."

The four of them set off, leaving the bakery behind. The town was alive with the hum of midday.

Allan slipped easily into the role of a guide. He gestured animatedly toward the festival square, still decorated with faded bunting from summer fairs, and the crooked trees.

As they walked through the city, Allan exclaimed, "And there," he added with a small pride in his voice, "is the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist."

The soaring spires rose pale against the sky, while gargoyles weathered by centuries of rain glared down, their faces softened by a mossy crown of green. 

Just beyond lay the Plantation Garden, a tucked-away sanctuary where the hum of the city dimmed. Elenore paused to admire its shaded walks and blossoming borders, though Nathaniel only smirked, nudging Allan.

"Tell them what you saw here."

Allan flushed faintly. "Nathaniel once dragged me here, claiming he’d found something extraordinary. I thought he meant flowers. Instead, he led me to a nest of… well."

"Nifflers," Nathaniel said casually, hands in his pockets.

Elenore blinked. Pandora nearly dropped the parasol she carried just in case.

Nathaniel’s lips twitched. "Don’t worry—hidden from Muggle eyes. Allan never saw them. He just thought it was odd how every other garden bench seemed to have coins scattered beneath it."

Allan chuckled despite himself. "I still do. Thought Norwich folk had the strangest habits."

On their walk back toward the city centre, Nathaniel naturally could not resist undermining Allan’s earnest commentary.

"This is the clock tower," Allan said cheerfully, waving at the crooked structure.

"Or as the locals call it," Nathaniel interrupted with dry amusement, "the most useless timepiece in Britain. It hasn’t struck the right hour since 1842," he added thoughtfully.

They carried on, passing Norwich Castle—its white stone walls perched high on the mound, stark against the blue of the sky.

"Built by the Normans," Allan explained, his voice lowering into the cadence of a practised storyteller. "It’s seen its fair share of sieges and prisoners. People think it haunted, of course— they saw ghostly lights in the dungeons and eerie shrieks at night."

Pandora leaned closer, intrigued. "And is it?"

"Not quite." Allan grinned. "Turns out, a few centuries back, a group of young wizards testing early versions of Lumos decided the castle basement was the perfect laboratory. They never cleaned up their spells properly. Every now and then, the walls still glow. That’s what Nathaniel’s grandma once told me."

Nathaniel snorted. "A local legend born out of magical laziness. Typical."

Pandora laughed, looping her arm through Elenore’s. "I like it here already. Feels alive—like every street has a story to tell."

Elenore smiled faintly, her eyes lingering on the crooked lines of rooftops against the pale autumn sky. She had to admit, there was something charming about Norwich. Quaint, yes, but full of hidden corners—like a city that guarded its secrets.

They wandered next through Tombland, where the old merchants’ houses leaned at odd angles and narrow lanes spilt toward the riverbank.

"Allan’s sister’s in a play tonight at the theatre," Nathaniel mentioned casually, glancing at the girls. "If you’ve nothing else planned, we could go. It’s not exactly the Globe, but Allan swears she’s brilliant."

"I do," Allan confirmed, beaming. "She is fantastic."

"Then we have to go!" Elenore turned to Pandora, who was already shaking her head in agreement.

As they walked, Allan filled the silence with peculiar tales about Tombland—how a tavern here once stood on ground so uneven that drinks slid from one end of the table to the other, or how a ghostly horse was said to haunt a stable, though it was more likely just a drunken coachman’s imagination. Pandora clapped her hands, delighting in the strangeness of it all.

Nathaniel was just about to steer them toward his favourite bookshop when Elenore slowed. Her gaze had snagged on a smaller shop opposite.

 A lantern-maker’s - Hipkin’s Light. Its window was glowing even in the light of a setting sun. Stained glass lanterns swayed in the light breeze outside, but only one in particular caught her attention. 

Silver with dark blue stained glass hung with its panes dusted with patterns of constellations like stars suspended in glass.

Elenore stopped abruptly. "Sorry, give me a moment," she murmured, her eyes caught by the shifting play of light in the window. "I just… I have to ask something."

It can’t be.

No, that was impossible.

It can’t be that lantern—the very one she and William had spent months hunting, the cursed thing that had led him to St. Mungo’s ward.

What would such a thing be doing here, gleaming innocently in a Muggle shop window in the middle of Norwich?

Nonsense.

And yet—her pulse quickened. She had to ask.

Elenore crossed the narrow street and pushed open the door. A bell jingled overhead.

"Hello? Is there anyone in here?"

The shop smelled of wax and brass polish. Shelves lined every wall, stacked high with lanterns of every imaginable sort—iron ones etched with floral curls, copper ones glowing faintly with hidden candles, coloured glass pieces that scattered shards of ruby and emerald light across the floor. The ceiling was hung with larger lanterns, their chains creaking gently whenever the door stirred the air.

An old man emerged from the staff room behind the counter, white-bearded, shoulders slightly stooped, but his eyes keen. His voice was soft.

"Is there anything I can help you with, miss?"

Elenore swallowed, steadying herself. No suspicious questions. Just ask.

"The silver lantern with night sky on it," she gestured to the window facing the street. "Have you made it ?"

The old man’s face warmed with recognition. "Yes. My own hands, though it is only an interpretation."

"Could you please tell me a little bit more about it?" Elenore’s voice sounded desperate.

He leaned his elbows on the counter, lowering his voice as if sharing something private. "I had a dream once, years ago. Strange, but I couldn’t get it out of my head. I saw a girl with pearl-white hair holding a lantern much like that one during a funeral procession. In another turn of the dream, I saw the same lantern carried by villagers during a fair—a remembrance of a family long perished. Then, last of all, the village itself stood empty, destroyed and abandoned, only a lantern left swinging in the ruins."

"You don’t know what happened to the lantern after that? Perhaps you tried to find where it was?"

"No, dear, I don’t think it was something more than just a play of my imagination."

Elenore’s heart thudded in her chest.

A dream. A procession. A girl with white hair. Destroyed and abandoned.

Just a dream.

Dead End.

Again. 

"Well, thank you then."

The old man gave a small, kindly smile, though there was a shadow of curiosity in his eyes.

"Of course, miss. Dreams have a way of clinging, don’t they? Sometimes it helps to let them out into the world, give them shape. That’s all this lantern is—a dream given glass and silver. Nothing more. But… thank you for asking. Not many notice it."

Elenore forced a faint nod, her throat tight. "Yes… Thank you again."

She turned quickly, the bell above the door chiming as she stepped back into the cool Norwich air. 

Across the street, she saw Nathaniel, Allan, and Pandora waiting—Nathaniel with one eyebrow cocked in sharp curiosity, Allan leaning lightly on a lamppost, Pandora smiling with open patience.

Elenore straightened her coat, pushing a strand of hair from her face, and crossed back to them.

"Everything alright?" Pandora asked softly, slipping her arm through Elenore’s the moment she reached them.

"Yes," Elenore said, perhaps too quickly. "Just… something caught my eye."

Nathaniel tilted his head, his mouth twitching with the beginnings of a remark, but Allan shot him a warning glance that kept him silent—for now.

"Right then," Allan said cheerfully, clapping his hands together. "Shall we? The actors won’t wait."

Pandora laughed, and the moment seemed to ease, though Elenore felt the phantom weight of this Merlinforsaken lantern still burning in her mind. 

They made their way down the river, across the bridge to the other side, where the theatre was.

They had barely settled into their seats when the lights dimmed, and a hush swept across the theatre. 

The curtains parted, revealing a stage dressed in shadows and flickering with the glow of lanterns—strangely reminiscent of the ones Elenore had just seen at Hipkin’s.

A woman in pale robes entered first. Her hair shimmered silver under the stage lights, and her voice carried with it the weight of inevitability.

"I am Ananke," she intoned, her tone rich with authority, "the necessity none may break. And he—" she gestured toward a cloaked figure that emerged behind her, tall and grave, "—is Chronos, keeper of Time."

Their movements twined together, serpentine and deliberate, as though coils unseen encircled the very stage she continued, " twined in our embrace, shattered the primal egg of creation, breaking it into earth, heaven, and sea. From our choice, the ordered world was born. And ever since, the cosmos was encircled, driving the stars across the sky, ensuring that time does not falter and that fate does not yield."

Pandora leaned forward, eyes wide, while Allan whispered with quiet pride, "That’s my sister. She’s playing Ananke." His voice brimmed with warmth, but he hushed himself quickly as the scene unfolded.

Ananke lifted her arms, voice echoing like a verdict, "This tale has roots sunk deep in the forgotten earth. A ritual born of shadows, whispered by priests who served only me, believing that certain souls are bound to one another—bound beyond death, beyond time itself. A covenant none may sunder, a stitch in the very fabric of the heavens."

The story unfurled in tableaux—two lovers, Lena and Elias, stumbling into a fate older than memory.

The Recognition came first. Lena awoke from a dream, speaking of memories that had never been hers: dancing beneath eclipsed skies, standing on storm-torn cliffs at Elias’ side, bleeding from wounds she had never borne. Elias faltered, then confessed to his own visions—the same shadows, the same phantom histories. Their voices overlapped, trembling yet certain, as if invisible hands had already begun weaving their souls together.

Nathaniel’s mouth curved faintly. "Recognition," he murmured, savouring the word.

Elenore didn’t look at him—her eyes were riveted, unblinking, on the stage.

Then came the Sealing.

A silver bowl was carried onstage. The lovers each drew a blade across their palms, crimson mingling as their joined hands hovered above the vessel. Droplets of blood pattered into the bowl, rippling across its surface like threads of destiny spun anew. 

The final Choice was the last step of the ritual.

Ananke’s voice returned, rolling like a storm through the rafters.

"This is the moment of truth. Accept the bond, and your fates are one—you will find each other across lifetimes. Deny it, and one shall fall: to death, to madness, or to the void of time itself."

The stage darkened, save for a single pale beam of celestial light. Lena clutched Elias’ hand, her voice breaking with desperation. "If you refuse, I will be lost to the ruin of time. We both will."

But Elias turned away, anguish carved across his face. "Love must be chosen—not shackled by gods or fate. If I accept, I will surrender my freedom. And if I refuse—" His voice caught, choking, as thunder rolled overhead, the stage splitting with storm-light.

Ananke appeared once more, veiled in shadows. "Doubt is your undoing, and the price shall be paid!"

Pandora pressed a hand to her mouth, whispering, "Merlin’s beard…" Allan sat taut with pride and nerves, sneaking glances at his friends to catch their reactions. Nathaniel, however, was uncharacteristically silent, watching with the grim poise of someone who already knew what fate would decree.

The celestial clock struck, and the actors froze—caught between eternal devotion and unbearable loss. The choice was left hanging, unresolved.

The audience was silent for a moment, and then erupted in applause.

The curtains swept closed, and after a pause, the actors returned to bow. Elenore leaned to catch Nathaniel and Allan’s expressions. "Merlin—I didn’t know Muggles could do something like that."

Allan chuckled, his face glowing. "And they’re just students."

Nathaniel rose as they gathered their things, his tone dry but edged with a faint admiration. "It’s their obligatory play at university. The script changes every year—apparently it’s a tradition. They’re required to shift the fate in different ways each time, as though testing the boundaries of inevitability."

As they moved toward the exit, Pandora’s voice rang with a teasing amusement. "Merlin, I never thought Muggles would take myth and love so seriously."

Nathaniel inclined his head. "The ritual itself wasn’t just about love— it's about fate, obsession, and the power of  storytelling."

Allan added eagerly, "And if the bond is denied, the balance of the cosmos falters. Chaos breaks loose. And chaos, they say, is one of the only forces even Ananke herself cannot master."

The theatre doors opened onto the cool dusk. The streets of Norwich glimmered with lanterns and the hush of evening, and the four of them walked in silence at first, the weight of the play clinging to their thoughts like mist.

Pandora was the first to break it. "I swear, I’ll dream of Ananke’s voice tonight. I don’t think even Banshees sound that commanding."

Nathaniel laughed. "Relax, Pennie—they’re just actors. Ananke won’t haunt you in your sleep."

"How do you know that, Nattie?" Pandora shot back in mock offence.

That made girls think, is it really that magic only exists in their world and muggles have their own way of creating something so full of inner darkness and emotion control that twists your chest with fear or longing, crazy to think that the story that sends shivers down your spine is just a play, and the characters are just actors, so maybe theatre is a way to create their own parallel reality with their own rules and their own magic.

Elenore smiled. For a fleeting moment, it felt like Hogwarts again, like the evenings they used to spend teasing each other in the common room. Still, the image of the silver lantern from the shop lingered in her mind like a shadow. She pulled her coat tighter, as if to chase the thought away.

By the time they reached the bakery, the streets were nearly empty. Allan unlocked the door, ushering them inside where the air smelled of flour and cinnamon once more.

"Wait here," Allan said, disappearing briefly into the kitchen.

"He is amazing, Nathaniel," Elenore remarked.

"Yeah, Nattie, don’t lose him," Pandora chimed in.

"I won’t, Pennie," Nathaniel said with mock solemnity.

"Good. Otherwise, who else would be patient enough to deal with your temper? You’re perfect for each other," Pandora teased, her grin wicked.

Allan returned then with two neatly wrapped paper packets, the warmth of baked tarts seeping through. "For the road. Can’t have you leaving Norwich on an empty stomach."

"Or at least," Nathaniel added with a lazy grin, "not without a reminder of your favourite bakers."

The girls laughed, accepting the parcels with thanks.

"It was lovely to meet you, Allan," Elenore said warmly, leaning in to hug him.

Allan flushed a little, smiling as he returned the embrace. "And you. Nathaniel’s told me so much about you both—I was starting to think you were half-imaginary. Now I know you’re worse in person." His eyes twinkled. "Come back anytime. The bakery’s doors will always be open for you."

"If Nathaniel ever offends you, don’t hesitate to write," Pandora added slyly, shooting a look at Nathaniel. "We’ll deal with him."

Nathaniel rolled his eyes, but his smile betrayed him.

At last, Elenore and Pandora made their way to the fireplace in the back room. Pandora went first, vanishing in a whirl of green. Elenore lingered for a moment, casting one last glance at Nathaniel and Allan before stepping into the flames herself.

"Three Broomsticks," she called, and the fire swallowed her whole.

The girls stumbled out into the familiar, warm-smelling air of the inn, the murmur of chatter and clink of glasses wrapping around them like a blanket. 

Their hands still clutched the tarts. They bit into them as they made their way through the darkening streets back to Hogwarts, crumbs and laughter trailing behind them.

Chapter 13: Chapter 12

1984 October 31

 

The weeks after the visit to Norwich passed in a familiar rhythm. The lantern in the shop window still haunted Elenore’s mind from time to time, but Hogwarts had a way of keeping her too busy to linger on such mysteries for too long.

Her days blurred into the blur of lessons, parchments, and quills. She rose after dawn most mornings, had breakfast and sometimes walked the Astronomy Tower with her scarf pulled tight against the chill, checking the calibration of the telescopes. 

By day, she lectured her younger students, drilling the third-years on lunar phases and correcting the fourth-years’ messy charts of Mars’ retrograde. 

By evening, she sat in the library or in the Astronomy Tower Hall, bent over piles of essays that smelled faintly of ink and candle wax, sighing at the second year’s spelling of “Sirius” star as Serious.

In quieter hours, she wrote notes for her advanced class in her careful handwriting. The shelves in the Astronomy Classroom grew steadily more cluttered—rolls of star maps, boxes of enchanted chalk, and occasionally, a steaming mug of tea left forgotten when she became absorbed in a particularly intricate celestial chart.

The days flew by. October chilled the castle, setting draughts creeping along the corridors and coaxing the students to huddle near the fireplaces or enchant their uniforms with warming spells.

 The Halloween Feast was already being prepared in the Great Hall, pumpkins the size of armchairs were carved into grinning faces, their glow reaching every corner of the hall as the students were still working on the bat decorations.

Elenore had other plans for tonight. After her theoretical lecture with the seventh years, she had promised Jackdaw that she would accompany him to Sir Nicholas’ Deathday Party in the dungeons.

Her seventh years, a small but remarkably sharp group that was preparing for their N.E.W.T.s in Advanced Astronomy gathered quietly in the classroom.

Elenore stood in the centre of the room, framed by two half-round tables facing each other, forming a crescent shape. Above her, a grand brass chandelier spun slowly in the air—an intricate construction of interlocking rings, moving like an orrery in motion. Tiny enchanted orbs drifted along its arcs, mimicking the orbits of planets. 

Around them, the tall arched windows shimmered in shades of sapphire and silver, each depicting a phase of the moon—new, waxing, full, waning. The light from them bathed the classroom in a cool, dreamlike glow.

Tonight’s topic was the one Elenore knew too well.

How the Stars Influence Prophecies.

As the last students settled into their seats, she brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her expression distant for a moment. 

This subject always carried a certain ache for her. Especially after spending four years in the Ministry, working almost the whole time on that theme.

She could still remember those long nights surrounded by spinning orbs of light—prophecies whispering in glass—tryingto decode how cosmic alignments could alter destinies. Too many of those records had ended in tragedy: prophecies unfulfilled, misunderstood, or twisted beyond recognition. There was power in prediction, but never mercy.

The one she had worked on with William had been among the most obnoxious ones.

It was recorded by a Seer named Lady Grey sometime in the 1700s—never addressed to anyone, which made it peculiar from the start—and had sat in the Ministry archives since the 1750s. 

Everything about that prophecy was wrong from the beginning. It had remained dormant for nearly three centuries, refusing to reveal its message until July of 1983.

At first, the Ministry dismissed it entirely, deeming it obsolete—a relic without relevance. That only made Elenore more suspicious. It was William who, after weeks of persistence, convinced the Minister himself to authorise further study. Yet no one alive knew its origin. The records that should have existed—witness reports, transcriptions, star charts—had all vanished. Gone. Or perhaps, she often feared, never written at all.

 Only records from 1983 remained.

Elenore exhaled softly, drawing her focus back to her students.

"All right," she began, her voice calm but weighted with quiet authority. "Let’s start with something simple. Who can tell me what a prophecy truly is—not the Ministry’s definition, but your own understanding?"

A few hands lifted.

"An echo of the future?" one student offered.

"A possibility seen through time," added another.

Elenore nodded approvingly. "Both are fair. But remember—prophecy is not fate itself. It’s a reflection, a celestial imprint."

She paused, pacing between the two crescent-shaped tables.

"When a prophecy is made, there are no formal procedures, no spells or rituals to guide it. The art of prophecy cannot be taught or practised like Arithmancy or Charms. In most cases, a Seer begins to recite it involuntarily, entering a trance-like state. When the trance passes, they are left exhausted—often with no memory of what they’ve said. And when it happens, it’s almost always because certain constellations have aligned to open a door in time, allowing the Seer to glimpse beyond the veil.The stars don’t decide what will happen,” she continued, her tone softening, "they merely reveal what could happen."

Lizzy Creswell, a Ravenclaw girl with ink-stained fingertips, raised her hand. "Professor, are you saying that every prophecy is written in the stars?"

"Not written," Elenore corrected gently, "echoed. The stars act as mirrors. Each alignment magnifies a particular energy—conflict, birth, union, or death. When a Seer receives a vision, it’s the stars that amplify that resonance. That’s why the most accurate prophecies often occur under eclipses, planetary convergences, or the passing of a comet."

Her voice softened, almost wistful. "In the Department of Mysteries, we used to chart those moments—track which prophecies arose beneath which alignments. And you’d be surprised," she smiled faintly, "how predictable the unpredictable can become when you understand the heavens."

"Our task wasn’t only to record prophecies, but to understand why some came true and others didn’t. The stars don’t dictate the future—they frame it. They set the stage. A prophecy whispered under Mars in ascension will often carry conflict. Under Venus, it may bind itself to love or unity. Jupiter lends strength and law. Saturn," her voice dropped slightly, "brings inevitability… endings. And we’ll study more about each of these in the coming weeks."

The students scribbled furiously, the rhythmic scratching of quills filling the room while above them the chandelier’s enchanted orbs continued circling patiently overhead.

Daniel Wordsworth, one of the most inquisitive of her students—and one who had already confessed his dream of working in the Department of Mysteries—raised his hand.

"Professor, can prophecies ever cause harm if they’re misinterpreted?"

"Yes,"Elenore said quietly, meeting his gaze. "They can cause great harm—but not because of the stars, or even the Seer’s vision. The danger lies in human reaction. If someone believes they are the subject of a prophecy, they may go to great lengths to make it come true—or, conversely, to avoid it. Either way, they can warp the future through fear or pride. Innocent lives are often caught in the ripple. And sometimes…" her expression darkened briefly, "they were never the true subject of the prophecy at all."

Muriel Sparks, twirling her quill between her fingers, frowned. "Professor, are all the prophecies in the Ministry actually studied? I heard there are thousands of them."

"Not all," Elenore replied, shaking her head. "Some have never revealed themselves. That’s another mystery we’ll explore later—the way certain prophecies wait for their appointed time, or for a specific event, before they allow anyone to hear their message."

A hand rose again—bright-eyed Richard Blethen, ever the boldest.

"So technically," he said, "prophecies can be predicted just by watching the sky—without a Seer?"

Elenore smiled faintly. "Not predicted, Mr Blethen. Anticipated. The stars tell us the rhythm of fate, not the words. Think of them as the melody to which prophecy dances."

She began pacing slowly again, the hem of her robes shuffling over the floor. "The most dangerous prophecies are those spoken under rare alignments—when both lunar and solar energies intertwine. That’s why, in November, we’ll study them more closely. On the eighth, during the full moon lunar eclipse, we’ll observe the influence of shadow and reflection. And on the twenty-second, during the new moon solar eclipse, we’ll examine renewal and concealment."

A knowing smile tugged at her lips. "Both will be practical classes—on the tower, under open skies. I promise you, it will be more than theory. And not as dreadful as you may think."

The class buzzed softly with anticipation as quills scratched faster, the chandelier’s glow shifting subtly.

As the last notes of her lecture faded, the steady hum of quills softened into silence. Elenore glanced up at the enchanted orrery above, its glowing orbs tracing quiet, unending paths.

"That will be all for tonight," she said, closing the ledger on her desk. "Review your charts for the next class, and remember—prophecies are only as dangerous as the minds that interpret them."

The seventh-years began packing their notes, chairs scraping softly against the floor as they drifted toward the door in clusters of quiet conversation. A few lingered, their eyes still lifted toward the rotating chandelier, reluctant to leave the enchantment of the moment behind.

Elenore waited until the last of the parchment rustles subsided. Only Richard Blethen remained, his brow furrowed with thought.

"Professor?" he began hesitantly.

She smiled. "Yes, Mr Blethen?"

"I was wondering… do you think Seers choose to see what they do? Or is it forced upon them—like fate demands it?"

Elenore paused, considering him carefully. "As I said earlier, the Seer enters a trance-like state. And when it passes, they often have no memory of what they said. That’s why Seer does not choose the vision, Richard. But they choose what to do with it. That choice, not the vision itself, is what defines destiny. Without them, we would not have any records and no prophecies at all."

He nodded slowly, visibly mulling over her words before offering a polite "Goodnight, Professor."

When the door closed behind him, the room fell into silence—only the faint ticking of celestial magic remained.

Elenore exhaled, then lifted her wand with a small, fluid motion. Her teaching robes shimmered, threads of silver light weaving through the fabric as it transformed into an elegant gown of deep midnight-blue velvet. The soft material caught the moonlight that filtered through the stained glass, the shimmering embroidered sleeves glinting faintly with starlit tones.

With a final glance toward the now-dark classroom, Elenore descended the spiral staircase, her footsteps echoing softly against the cold stone. When she reached the astronomy tower’s floo flame, she took a small satchel of Floo Powder from her velvet pocket, her voice low and composed as she whispered, "Entrance to the dungeons."

The emerald fire flared, swallowing her silhouette in its shimmer.

Moments later, Elenore stepped gracefully out of the grate at the base of the dungeon stairs, brushing soot from her gown’s hem. The air down here was cooler, tinged with damp stone and the faint, familiar scent of old magic.

Laughter drifted down the corridor. Rounding the corner, she spotted small clusters of students—Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws mingling with Slytherins—slipping toward the direction of the Slytherin common room. Their whispers blended with muffled music and the rich scent of pumpkin spice, butterbeer, and toasted nuts.

A secret Halloween party, no doubt.

A soft smile curved her lips. A great Hogwarts party almost never hurt anybody, she mused. Let them have their fun. The world would sober them soon enough.

For a fleeting moment, the sound of laughter pulled her back in time—back to her own seventh year, when she, Pandora, and Nathaniel had been invited to a Gryffindor Halloween party.

The memory glowed warmly behind her eyes: Nathaniel mixing stolen pumpkin fizz with something stronger, Pandora arguing animatedly about Divination with a prefect dressed as Sir Cadogan—who, according to him, had been friends with Merlin himself and sworn as a Knight of the Round Table. He’d been going on about his glorious defeat of the Wyvern of Wye, and even then, Pandora was debating whether dragons and wyverns shared the same astrological sign.

At that moment, a group of Hufflepuffs had snuck in what they proudly called "the best weed in the castle." Within an hour, the common room was a haze of smoke and laughter. Elenore and Pandora were sprawled on a couch in the corner, giggling uncontrollably. Pandora was halfway through an elaborate plan to build a castle on the moon when she lost her train of thought entirely and dissolved into helpless laughter.

Nathaniel, meanwhile, stood nearby trying to balance three butterbeer bottles on his head, loudly declaring himself "the King of the Huff-le-lands!" Even though he wasn’t from Hufflepuff. It didn’t bother him at that moment.

When the bottles clattered to the floor, he shrieked, "AAAAAA—NARGLES ARE HERE!"

Pandora leapt from the couch, eyes wide. "WHEEERE?"

Nathaniel just grinned, earning a sharp flick on the shoulder from her.

Elenore was already collapsed in laughter, clutching her stomach, tears streaming down her cheeks. The whole common room buzzed with joy until sunrise, most of them ending up sprawled across the floor—red-eyed, giddy, and dizzy from sugar and smoke.

Elenore’s smile lingered—bittersweet and wistful—before fading as the air around her grew colder. The torches thinned, their flames dimming to a ghostly blue-white as she descended toward the Deathday chamber.

A soft echo of ghostly laughter reached her before the sight did. Sir Nicholas’ unmistakable pride floated through the gloom.

The corridor opened into a vast, ballroom gilded in silver light that should never have reached so deep underground. The marble floor gleamed faintly beneath her steps. Chandeliers of aged crystal hung low, their light pale and wavering, as though caught between this world and the other.

Dozens of ghosts drifted across the room, their translucent forms gliding through a waltz of haunting grace. Ladies in opalescent gowns shimmered like mist while gentlemen in brocade waistcoats bowed courtly. The music—a lonely violin, thin and otherworldly—played from nowhere, its melody suspended in the still, enchanted air.

Elenore paused at the threshold, her presence stirring faint ripples in the ethereal dance. The ghosts moved past her in delicate silence, their gowns brushing against her legs. She searched the room for Jackdaw’s familiar shape, but the chamber was filled with too many drifting silhouettes to tell one from another.

"Professor Fawley!"

The voice was airy and exuberant, and before she could turn, Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington swept toward her, his ruff shimmering faintly in the candlelight. His nearly severed head wobbled precariously as he offered a courteous bow.

"My dear lady, you did come!" he declared, beaming. "How splendid to see a living guest among us again! One grows frightfully tired of the same old crowd, you understand."

Elenore inclined her head politely, her tone warm but measured. "It’s a pleasure, Sir Nicholas. Happy Deathday. I promised Jackdaw I would attend—and I am rarely one to break a promise."

"Ah, young Jackdaw," Nick said with a fond sigh. "Always darting about—spirited boy, even in death. He mentioned he’d be escorting a ‘most luminous professor." He gave her a conspiratorial grin. "I daresay you fit the description."

Elenore chuckled softly. "I imagine he exaggerates."

"Nonsense!" Sir Nicholas said, his voice booming enough to make a few ghosts glance their way. "You bring life to our humble gathering—and a hint of starlight, if I may say so. Quite literally glowing, you are."

Elenore smiled faintly, looking around the room where dozens of translucent figures now floated above the tables. The feast laid out for the dead gleamed darkly—rotting fish, mouldy cheese, and grey cakes that oozed with an unpleasant dampness.

So that’s the notorious cuisine Jackdaw was talking about. 

"It’s… quite the celebration," she murmured politely, doing her best not to cover her nose in front of the host.

"Oh yes, three centuries of the same menu!" Nicholas said cheerfully, oblivious to the chill. "Consistency is so comforting in eternity."

Elenore’s eyes found Jackdaw across the room, his spectral form animated in conversation with a cluster of ghosts. He noticed her and grinned, giving a small, courtly bow before gliding toward her through the drifting crowd.

"Elenore," he greeted, his voice soft as wind through leaves. "I was beginning to think you’d abandoned me to the gloom."

"I wouldn’t dare," she replied, smiling faintly.

"Sir Nicholas," Jackdaw called over his shoulder with a mischievous spark in his translucent eyes, "may I steal Professor Fawley?"

Sir Nicholas, resplendent in his ruffled collar and half-detached head, waved a benevolent hand. "By all means, dear boy. Just don’t let her step on your toes—what’s left of them, at least."

Elenore laughed quietly as Jackdaw extended an insubstantial hand. She hesitated for a heartbeat, then lifted her own. Her fingers passed through his like cool mist—but when he began to move, she followed.

It wasn’t quite dancing, not in the physical sense. The living could not truly touch the dead. Yet, under the pale glow of the chandeliers, their movements found a rhythm all the same—her steps mirroring his glides, her gown swirling through the silvered air as his ghostly form drifted beside her. It was an illusion of a waltz, an echo of something long lost, but in that moment, it felt real enough.

Jackdaw leaned in conspiratorially as they turned. "See the lady with the feathered hat near the punch bowl?"

Elenore tilted her head slightly, not to look too suspicious "I do. What about her?"

"This is Mistress Blodwyn. Better avoid her. She’ll insist on offering you her special casserole. The one she poisoned her husband with"

Elenore’s brows rose, and just as she wanted to protest, the last sentence already answered all of her questions, and she just  asked, "Do ghosts even need casserole?"

"Need? Absolutely not. It just became Blodwyn’s signature dish, she sometimes tries to feed everyone with."

They spun closer to a pair of elderly spirits muttering by a cracked portrait frame. "And those two—Bartholomew Crake and Sybil Nettles. Engaged since life, recently, Sybil found him haunting a different corridor as if he wanted to avoid her.Scandalous, really. They’ve been quarrelling for three centuries about everything already. It’s practically tradition."

Elenore stole a glance at them, fascinated. "Why do they even come to the same parties if they can’t stand each other?"

"Oh Dear, they still love each other," Jackdaw replied. "It’s just that Bartholomew loves to intentionally play on Sybil’s nerves when he is bored”

"For Merlin’s sake. How she still tolerates him."

Richard laughed, "Out of pure love, my Dear."

Elenore nearly stumbled after that as they rotated past a pompous-looking ghost in elaborate robes.

Out of pure love. She thought bitterly. Even if Bartholomew annoyed his wife on purpose, he still loved her in life and in death. She smiled to herself at the thought. Three centuries together, that’s the type of love she would like for herself. Loving someone and being loved by someone so dearly that no time or death could ever interfere with those feelings.

The music swelled, slow and haunting. Around them, couples twirled soundlessly, their laughter like whispers. Elenore glanced upward, to the dim chandeliers and the ghostly light refracting through their crystal shards, and for the briefest instant, she forgot the cold.

Jackdaw’s smile dimmed into something thoughtful. "You know," he began, tone almost wistful, "I think I might finally do it."

Elenore turned to him, her brow faintly arched. "Do what, exactly?"

He looked away, as if toward a horizon only he could see. "Go on a Highland adventure. I’ve been thinking about it for—Merlin, ten years now, I suppose. But tonight, standing here… I realised something. I don’t even know where my body lies. My spirit isn’t tethered to any place anymore. So why stay? The world’s much bigger than Hogwarts, isn’t it? I don’t want to spend my every Deathday in here, I want to see more of that world, the parts of it I haven’t explored in life."

Elenore smiled, though there was a softness behind her eyes. "I am happy for you, truly," she said. "You deserve to see a bit more of it."

Jackdaw bowed again, this time with a hint of solemnity. "Then it’s decided. I’ll leave before dawn—or whatever dawn means to the dead. Thank you, Elenore. When you came back here, your presence reminded me that the world isn’t just corridors and portraits and endless chatter about house points."

She inclined her head, voice gentle. "You’ll send word if you find adventure, I hope?"

He laughed, the sound light as frost. "If I do, you’ll know."

Elenore laughed, she was glad Richard finally decided to change a scene, he was always the one to seek an adventure.

Moments later, Elenore stood still, her breath visible in the cold that followed. The exhaustion from the day settling in little by little. The music continued, though softer now, distant and blurred. She turned her gaze toward the ghostly dancers once more, then to the unseen sky above the stone ceiling, where stars burned somewhere far beyond.

"Thank you for the evening, Richard. I think I should go," she said, her voice light.

Jackdaw inclined his head, his smile returning. "Of course, Ellie. Be safe… and don’t forget about me until I return."

"I won’t," she murmured, a faint smile on her lips.

With that, she turned toward the exit, the music fading behind her as the cold corridor embraced her once more.

Notes:

Ladies, honestly, November at uni hits hard, and I don't feel like I have any inspiration or strength to write now. I have written 22 chapters for now, and I will try to end writing December chapters. Good news are that I will post all of those chapters, perhaps even all at once as the winter holidays are almost there and December chapters are pretty much have this winter wonderland atmosphere. However, I feel like I will have to disappear for some time after that. I won't abandon this work, just need some time to process everything that is going on. xoxo

Chapter 14: Chapter 13

1984 November 1

 

 

The morning after the Deathday Party arrived in pale silver light—the kind that made the castle seem half-asleep itself. A faint chill hung in the corridors, carrying the lingering scent of wax, dust, and cold stone.

Elenore stirred only when Noel batted insistently at her cheek with a paw.

"All right, all right…" she mumbled, her voice still heavy with dreams. She blinked at the enchanted clock beside her bed—nearly eleven. Breakfast had ended hours ago.

"Well, Noel," she said, stretching and pulling her shawl around her shoulders, "looks like we’ll have to hunt for our food today."

Noel purred approvingly, leaping from the bed and trotting toward the door with the confidence of a cat who knew exactly where the treats were hidden.

Elenore tugged her shawl tighter and gathered Noel into her arms before stepping toward the Floo flame.

"Lower Grand Staircase," she murmured, tossing in a pinch of powder.

The castle was quiet as she descended. Students were already in class, their voices just distant echoes in the upper halls. Her slippers clicked against the stone, as a few ghosts drifted past—one still humming the waltz from the night before. 

Elenore smiled faintly. Her head still ached from too little sleep and too much spectral company.

She slipped through the portrait that led to the kitchens, tickling the painted pear until it giggled and swung open. At once, a wave of warmth and the scent of sugar, spice, and something slightly burnt welcomed her.

The kitchen, as always, was alive. Steam curled from a great cauldron in the corner, spoons stirred themselves mid-air; and elves bustled between long, polished tables stacked with gleaming pots and trays.

"Miss Fawley!" piped a delighted voice. A small elf in a teapot-patterned tunic popped out from behind a pile of bread rolls. "Beanie is most happy to see you!"

Elenore laughed softly. "Beanie, my dearest confectionery conspirator," she greeted, kneeling to hug the elf. "Please tell me there’s a slice of that carrot cake left from the Halloween feast?"

Beanie’s eyes sparkled like dewdrops. "For Miss Fawley, Beanie always saves something sweet!"

Back in their student days, Elenore and Pandora had been notorious among the elves. Not for mischief of the cruel sort — but for their near-nightly escapades through Hogwarts’ hidden passages, guided by the thrill of discovery and the rumble of midnight hunger.

It had all started one stormy night in their third year, when Pandora insisted she’d "heard from a very reliable ghost" that the portraits guarding the kitchens were ticklish. 

Elenore, equally sceptical and hungry, followed her down to the kitchen barefoot, their laughter echoing in the empty halls.

After several failed attempts at charming the portrait, Pandora finally found the right pear to tickle. The painting swung open, and the smell of cinnamon, butter, and roasted chestnuts rolled out like a spell. 

Inside, a dozen elves froze mid-motion — one even dropped a ladle with a clatter.

It was Beanie who stepped forward first, her large eyes blinking curiously.

"Students aren’t meant to be here," she had said, voice soft and curious.

Pandora grinned. "Neither are cravings for treacle tart at midnight, could we have one? Pleaseee."

Beanie had stared at her for a heartbeat — and then laughed, high and delighted. 

That was the start of a friendship sealed with crumbs and giggles. From then on, Beanie would “accidentally” leave out plates of pastries near the far table whenever she suspected the two girls might appear.

"Beanie," Elenore had said once, brushing powdered sugar from her sleeve, "if you ever get tired of this kitchen, we know someone who can take you to their future bakery."

To which Beanie replied proudly, "Hogwarts is Beanie’s bakery."

Elenore found her favourite spot at the far end of the kitchen, near the House-Elf Living Quarters. Large wooden barrels had been cleverly transformed into cosy homes—each with a round door and small, paned windows, like miniature cottages. A wooden ladder led up to a second and third level of stacked barrels, and above them, laundry lines swayed gently, hung with freshly washed cloths.

Almost at once, a flurry of activity stirred around her. The elves turned toward Elenore, chattering with excitement—some eager to gossip, others to show off their latest culinary triumphs.

Linty sat in the far corner, polishing a silver platter until it shone like a mirror. 

Quinny darted past Elenore’s ankles, nearly tripping over Noel, who hissed in dignified disapproval.

"Sorry, sorry, Mister Cat!" Quinny squeaked, giggling nervously before scurrying off to fetch a plate.

Tunk stood nearby, kneading dough with strong, flour-dusted hands and muttering under his breath. But Elenore noticed the ball of blue yarn tucked beside him on the bench—a half-finished scarf, no doubt meant for one of his friends.

"Morning, Professor," he grumbled without looking up. "You’re lookin’ a bit peaky. Didn’t catch much sleep?"

"Deathday parties and night lectures aren’t exactly restful affairs," Elenore replied dryly, earning a soft chuckle from Mimsy at the ovens.

"You should’ve seen the mess after the feast!" Mimsy sang, sliding a tray of biscuits into the heat. "Pumpkin pudding and jelly everywhere! Oh, and Droplet hasn’t stopped scrubbing teacups since!"

At the sink, tiny Droplet squeaked indignantly, polishing a cup so fiercely it gleamed like a gemstone.

Elenore smiled. Here, surrounded by the hum of work and the comforting rhythm of Hogwarts’ hidden heart, she felt the familiar peace that only the kitchens—and a slice of carrot cake—could bring.

Meanwhile, Nindle—mischievous as ever—was trying to sneak an extra pastry into Elenore’s napkin when Figsy, the old and wise one, smacked him lightly on the head with a wooden spoon.

"Not until she finishes her breakfast, Nindle!"

Elenore hid her smile behind her hand.

Moments later, Beanie returned triumphantly, balancing a generous slice of carrot cake on a silver plate. "From the very heart of the Halloween table," she announced proudly. "Still fresh!"

"Oh, Beanie, you’re marvellous," Elenore said, accepting it. Noel immediately leapt onto her lap, hopeful eyes fixed on the plate.

"Could I also ask for some broccoli? Noel adores them."

Beanie turned at once, shouting across the kitchen, "Lopsy! Some broccoli for Miss Fawley’s cat, please! And make it the greenest batch you find!"

Across the room, Lopsy—quiet and kind, busy folding napkins into swans—nodded briskly. "Right away, Beanie!"

Wibber bounced nearby, ears dusted in flour. "Would Miss like some tea? Or maybe treacle tart from Talla’s tray?"

Before Elenore could reply, a warm voice floated over from the back. "Let the Professor eat, Wibber. She looks like she’s had a long night," said Talla, bustling forward with her usual smile.

"I might never recover from the smell of that party," Elenore admitted between bites, laughing quietly. "Every corner reeked of mouldy pudding and cheese."

That earned a chorus of giggles from the elves. Even Tunk cracked a smile from where he was kneading dough.

By the time the clock struck noon, Elenore had finished her cake and tea and found herself listening to Bibbity, Bobbity, and Boo’s enthusiastic retelling of the Halloween feast’s mishaps.

"And you should’ve seen Professor Black!" Bibbity began, eyes wide.

"Some of the sixth-years tried to charm the jelly bats to spell rude words—" Bobbity said.

"—and they did but flew away, and started attacking the teachers!" Boo finished, giggling so hard her voice squeaked.

Elenore blinked, a bit confused. "Attacking?"

"Oh, yes, Miss!" Bibbity nodded eagerly. "One even got tangled in Mrs Cartwright’s hair—"

"—and she was shrieking fit, almost woke up Professor Binns—" Bobbity added breathlessly.

"—and then Professor Black tried to untangle it!" Boo finished with a delighted squeal.

Elenore pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh. "Oh no…"

"He looked so serious," Bibbity went on.

"Very calm, like he was defusing a curse—" said Bobbity.

"—and then the bat flew right into his sleeve!" Boo concluded, giggling.

Elenore laughed. "Poor Mr Black."

A fresh round of laughter bubbled up among the elves. Bibbity, Bobbity, and Boo weren’t finished yet.

"They flew everywhere, Miss!" said Bibbity.

"Even hit a ghost—" said Bobbity.

"Right through him—splat!" finished Boo, nearly falling from the bench.

"I thought all ghosts were invited to the Deathday Party," Elenore mused, amused.

Beanie leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Oh, not all of them, Miss. Some ghosts have… ah… disagreements with Sir Nicholas. Beanie hears they still argue over last year’s choir performance!"

Elenore, quite amused with the elves’ stories, said. "Seems like I missed quite the show yesterday."

"Oh, you surely did, Miss!" piped up Mimsy from the oven, still humming as she pulled out a tray of steaming biscuits. "The Great Bat Battle of the Great Hall, they’re calling it now!"

"That’s what Tunk said!" Quinny squeaked, darting past again with a tray of clean plates. "And Professor Black didn’t even flinch when the bat went for him—very brave!"

From the far side of the kitchen, Figsy gave a wise little sniff. "Brave, perhaps, but not immune to embarrassment. I heard he smelled of treacle and pumpkin jelly for hours after."

That sent another wave of giggles through the kitchen.

Beanie leaned closer to Elenore, lowering her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "Beanie also heard something from Merion the portrait… about Miss Elenore and Mister Regulus," she said, her ears twitching with mischief.

Elenore nearly choked on the last sip of her tea. "Beanie!" she gasped, half-laughing, half-blushing.

"Oh, Beanie only repeats what Beanie hears!" the elf said quickly, clasping her hands innocently. "And the portraits do gossip."

Elenore froze mid-sip. "Rumours travel faster than brooms in this castle," she said lightly, though her cheeks warmed. "There’s nothing to them, Beanie. You know how portraits love their stories"

The elves exchanged knowing looks but said nothing.

Merlin, she hoped the rumours wouldn’t spread beyond the portraits and the kitchen.

There was really nothing going on between them.

Elenore came to the conclusion that Regulus can be quite tolerable. Besides. They don’t see each other most of the time. Everyone is concerned with their own routine. 

With a sigh, Elenore brushed the crumbs from her skirt and stood. "I have to go. Lecture at fourteen—I should at least pretend to prepare for it."

As she gathered her things, Noel twining around her ankles, Beanie tugged gently at her sleeve. "Beanie will save some moon-dust doughnuts for later. In case Miss has another late night."

Years later, not much had changed — except that Elenore now wore the title of Professor. Yet, every so often, the pull of old habits led her back to the kitchen.

When she spent too many hours in the Astronomy Tower — parchment scattered, telescope humming softly under starlight — she would catch herself yawning and muttering, "If I don’t eat something soon, I’ll see constellations in my dreams."

That was always when she’d pack up, light a dim wand-tip, and steal her way down to the kitchens. 

The corridors at that hour were quiet, dusted with moonlight. The portraits pretended not to see her.

Beanie never failed to appear. Sometimes half-asleep, sometimes humming, but always ready with a fresh plate of moon-dust doughnuts — her invention, sugar-dusted pastries filled with soft lavender cream that shimmered faintly under light.

"Still your favourite?" Beanie would ask knowingly.

"They taste like heaven," Elenore would reply, smiling. "And besides, I can’t work on an empty stomach."

So she’d sit at the same far table she and Pandora once claimed, the hum of the ovens surrounding her. Outside, the night rolled endlessly above Hogwarts — but in that cosy little corner, it felt like time had folded in on itself, letting the past and present quietly meet over tea and sugar. Or she would take them with her to the Tower when there was still somework to do. 

About her figure, she would think later.

Elenore’s expression softened. "You’re too good to me, Beanie."

"Just the right amount of good," the elf said proudly.

Elenore stepped back into the quiet corridor—napkin of treacle tarts in hand, Noel padding beside her.

 She scooped up Noel and headed toward the Floo flame, warmth and laughter still clinging to her memory like sugar dust.

Notes:

Shout out to the person on Reddit who suggested naming the elves Bibbity, Bobbity and Boo.

Chapter 15: Chapter 14

1984 November 9

 

Regulus was standing in the cave, the cavern’s air slick with damp. 

The water didn’t move, it stay still as if never disturbed. The fake locket weighed against his chest, heavy as a curse, while the bowl of green potion shimmered faintly in the eerie light before him.

He gripped the edges of the basin in an attempt to restrain his hands from trembling, fingers ghostly pale in the dim light.

"No matter what, Kreacher, I have to drink it all, I will do it myself, or you will forcefully pour it. I do not care. You heard me?"

"Yes, Master," the elf muttered bitterly.

The first sip of the potion felt like swallowing smoke. It clawed down his throat, scraping at his lungs until the air itself seemed to vanish. He tried to breathe—and failed.

 The second sip felt like swallowing fire itself. Like it was not already enough. It burned through his whole body, burned through his veins making his muscles seize and convulse.

By the third, he could hear his own heartbeat turning against him, pounding in his ears like war drums. 

He fell to the ground. 

The taste of iron and salt filled his mouth, burning his throat raw.

Kreacher’s trembling hand poured more of the potion into his master’s mouth as Regulus lay half-conscious, gulping at the air that wasn’t there.

"Just a bit more, Master…"

"L…locket…" Regulus gasped, his voice shredded.

The walls seemed to close in on Regulus, the air thick with oppressive, suffocating darkness. Regulus’ mind started to drift into hallucination. Like physical pain was not already enough. He screamed, clutching his head with both hands, tugging on his hair.

The cave flickered. The stone walls shifted like wet paper, bleeding into the shape of Grimmauld Place — its black curtains and suffocating silence. He tried to blink it away, but the darkness only deepened, pulling him back into a painful memory.

His mother stood before him — her wand raised, her lips a pale gash against her face. She made Regulus watch. 

"How dare you?!," Walburga hissed, voice cutting through the roar in his skull. "A disgrace to the House of Black."

And then Sirius screamed.

Regulus turned — his brother was there, forced to his knees, his arms bound by invisible cords of magic. The curse struck him — a streak of red that carved through the air like lightning — and Sirius’s body arched, his face twisted in a soundless cry that split Regulus’s chest open from the inside.

"Mother Stop—" Regulus' voice cracked, raw and hoarse. He tried to pull  Walburga’s sleeve now, "STOP!"

Her hand came down, sharp and cold, a slap that stung more than the potion itself. "Behave!," she spat.

Sirius left the next day.

But the potion was burning again — clawing its way up his throat, burning his insides. His muscles convulsed violently, gasping. Every nerve in his body spasmed.

He could taste blood now, metallic and hot. He wondered, briefly, if this was how it would all end. Just him choking on his own blood in the dark.

 Lovely. You deserved that, Regulus.

"Kreacher… leave me… go!" he rasped.

Water — he needed water. He needed to end it. Anything to end it.

He tried to reach the lake.

In the blur of agony, Sirius’s image flickered — replaced by Elenore at the Whitehall, just a couple of weeks ago. The image of Mulciber grabbing her and pressing the wand to her throat. She screamed, the sound piercing through the street. She screamed, still her voice breaking and mixing with desperate sobs, pleading to spare her life as Mulciber just slashed her throat. Blood spilt across the cobblestones as she choked on her own blood, her body falling lifeless to the ground.

The echoes of her cries still echoed in Regulus’ ears. And he just stood there. Stood and haven’t even moved to save her. She did not deserve this.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

"IT’S NOT TRUE! IT’S NOT—!"

He clawed at the stone, his body rebelling, the potion burning through every nerve like molten iron. The world shuddered—cave, drawing room, Whitehall—all collapsing in on each other until he didn’t know what was memory and what was reality that drove him to madness.

Kreacher snatched the locket from his neck, replacing it with the Horcrux in the basin. He held it in his tiny hand as he tried to come closer to his master.

Regulus screamed in agony, his voice breaking, throat raw with desperation. He tried to crawl to the water.

 He needed water.

"Leave me here, Kreacher! LEAVE ME!" Regulus screamed. The effort tore through him like broken glass—his throat constricted, his vocal cords shredding under the strain.

"No, Master," Kreacher whimpered, his tears falling. "Kreacher will never—"

"LET ME DIE! Let Sirius… think what to do with it…" The words scraped out of him like the last remnants of air. His voice cracked, then broke entirely, a sound more pain than speech.

Silence.

He was almost there, the water was so close. He could almost feel it cooling his fingertips.

Beneath the surface, pale faces shifted—the Inferi patiently waiting for one more move.

 Kreacher grabbed Regulus by his ankle and apparated them both back to the Grimuald place. They couldn't stay here any longer. Kreacher had to act.

Regulus tried to scream, but no sound came. The world convulsed — collapsing inward and pulling him down. The last thing he saw before the light shattered was Elenore’s face, looking down at him with a grief that wasn’t real.

Regulus woke with a jolt.

His body was slick with sweat, his throat raw as if he’d truly screamed. The sheets tangled around his legs. For a few seconds, he couldn’t tell whether he was in the cave or his bed. The fire in his chest was gone — replaced by the hollow, sick ache.

He pressed a trembling hand to his face. His pulse erratic.

"Not real," he whispered, though the words felt false in the silence.

The candle beside his bed had burned out. The only light came from the dying embers in the hearth, casting dull red shadows across the walls.

It was still dark outside, Hogwarts slept.

Regulus couldn’t shake the echo of his mother’s voice — nor the phantom pain that still rippled through his arms and throat.

He drew his knees up and buried his face against them, forcing his breathing to slow. But the taste of the potion lingered still — bitter, metallic, and far too real as for a nightmare that still haunts him after all those years.

The nightmare left a tremor in his hands that refused to fade.

Why had the potion twisted the Whitehall raid into his dream? It hadn’t happened. And yet he could still see Elenore’s face—grieving, disappointed.

"Elenore," he whispered bitterly, as if thinking what to do with her after all.

He tried not to think of her in moments like this, when his pulse still trembled, and his body shook with the ghosts of pain. But his mind betrayed him anyway, returning to the softest details — the kind no one ever notice nor remember.

The way she furrowed her brow when she was shocked or tried to concentrate. Faint crease forming just above the bridge of her nose. 

How she twisted the quill between her fingers when deep in thought. The quiet hum she sometimes made when reading — half absent, entirely unguarded. 

The way she adjusted her glasses with her pinky finger. Regulus noticed this one not so long ago at the library.

It was maddening, how easily those fragments lived in his head, vivid and clear.

Sometimes, while crossing the courtyard or standing in the hall, his eyes would catch on her silhouette — the familiar tilt of her head, the light glinting off her hair, the calm precision and smile with which she spoke.

He remembered her laughter from their school days, echoing through the halls every time she and Pandora were in near distance.

He’d pretended indifference back then. But he was curious what it was that they always laughed about. Why can't they be serious at least for a minute? Although he saw some similarities in Pandora and Evan, of course, that made sense — they were twins after all. 

But Elenore?

One day, she was concentrated, cold, indifferent face and eyes squinting in judgment or perhaps accusation. The next, annoying as she can be, won’t stop whispering and giggling with Pandora, without paying attention to anything.

What was going on with her?

And now, when she came back to Hogwarts, it unsettled him more than he’d admit. It was one thing to bury a memory — another to see it walking through the corridors, breathing, speaking, smiling at others.

He told himself it was simple curiosity that made his gaze follow her sometimes. That it was a habit, the instinct to observe, to measure. 

But the truth gnawed at him beneath the excuses. He watched because her presence felt like a living proof that something gentle had survived in this wicked world he personally set the stage for.

But that day — the day in Whitehall  — had tangled her image with something darker. In his nightmare, she had screamed. Her throat had been cut. He could still hear it. He could still see the blood that never spilt. 

He knew that never happened, but the image still haunted him till this day. 

Still reminded him that Elenore might have died if he hadn’t interfered. 

Elenore, that disarmed him in the duel.

The girl who saw this word differently and looked at it with eternal curiosity.

Elenore, that made his heart ache every time she looked just a little too long into his eyes. 

His mind was cruel to him, he thought. Well deserved nevertheless.

It twisted grief and desire until they were indistinguishable. And now, each time after the nightmares when he closed his eyes, Elenore’s imagined death blurred with Sirius’s torture, Walburga’s curses, and the fire that still burned in his veins.

Regulus pressed a hand to his temple, jaw tight.

Shame Kreacher had chosen to save him.

Regulus rose from the bed and lit the nearest candle with a flick of his wand. The small flame shuddered, throwing long, unsteady shadows across the walls of his room.

 He paced—slow, deliberate steps, the floorboards creaking faintly under his bare feet.

His reflection in the dark window looked like a stranger. Hollow eyes, hair damp against his temples, ‘exemplary teacher’. 

He pressed his head to the glass, half-expecting it to be as cold as the water in the cave. It wasn’t. But the ghost of that chill lived somewhere under his skin, threatening to never leave him.

"It happened again," he murmured—to the room, or perhaps to himself.

The nightmare stopped a month ago. He hadn’t had it since and thought it was finally gone. 

Until tonight.

The bottle of Dreamless Sleep sat on his nightstand, its contents nearly gone. 

He’d doubled the dose since last month. Hadn’t helped for long.

He turned away and crossed to his desk, where parchment and quill lay among scattered notes and diagrams. 

He sat, dipped the quill, and wrote.

 

Sirius,

It happened again.

Tell McKinnon that her Dreamless Sleep doesn’t work anymore. I’ll need something stronger. If we can’t find it in Britain, I’ll reach to Montmorencies myself.

The dream—or whatever it’s become over the years. I don’t know how much longer I can handle it.

You told me once that guilt can rot you from the inside if you let it.

I didn’t believe you then. I do now.

I know what you’ll say—that I should come back to Grimmauld Place, or talk to someone about it.

But you know I can’t.

Just—don’t worry.

I’ll manage.

P.S. How’s your business with Remus?

—Regulus.

 

He read it twice. The ink had smudged where his hand trembled. He folded it carefully, pressed it flat, and slid it beneath a small stack of unfinished work. He will give it to his owl at breakfast. 

The candle burned low, hissing faintly. The clock struck four.

Regulus leaned back in his chair, staring into the darkness until his vision blurred. The air was still, heavy with the faint scent of wax and ash. He thought of Sirius—the way his laughter used to fill a room when their mother wasn’t around.

He wondered what his brother would say now.

Probably something infuriatingly simple.

Something like, You’re not alone, Reggie.

Regulus exhaled slowly. “Liar,” he whispered into the quiet.

Then, at last, he let the candle burn out and lay down again—not to sleep, but to wait for morning.

He thought of his brother now. Of how Sirius had left after yet another one of their mother’s attempts at nurturing her children in her best sadistic imitation of discipline. Sirius left at night and hasn’t even come to say goodbye. As always too dramatic, too impulsive when his emotions neared boiling. 

Regulus still remembered the morning after. 

He just woke up and was lying motionless in his bed, the events of last evening replaying in his head. 

MOTHER STOP.

Sirius’ screams echoed as if they were still real.

And afterwards… after Walburga’s heels retreated down the hall and the door slammed, leaving only silence and Sirius lying half-conscious on the carpet.

 Regulus had crept closer, stomach twisting, panic rising like cold water up his throat, though he tried desperately to appear composed — because somehow, composure felt like the only thing he can control.

He knelt beside his brother, shaking his shoulders gently.

"Wake up, Sirius. Come on — wake up." His voice quivered despite every effort to steady it. He was terrified that Sirius was hurt worse than it looked — terrified because he had no idea what to do if he was.

"Sirius—"

Sirius’ eyes snapped open. He blinked hard, disoriented, then pushed himself up. His gaze landed on Regulus — sharp, wounded. He shrugged off Regulus’s hands as if they burned him and staggered upright so quickly he almost fainted.

 He was too furious to think straight.

 Still dazed, he marched toward the staircase, muttering something under his breath.

"Sirius—" Regulus tried again, softer this time. 

Sirius stopped, sighing through clenched teeth, and turned back. "What?" His voice cracked with rage. "She’ll do it again, you know. Again, and again, and again, until we’ve gone mad. I’m sick of it."

"You know she wouldn’t do it without her reason…" Regulus began quietly, "just— try not being so honest with your beliefs next ti—"

Sirius wheeled on him. "Merlin, do you even hear yourself, Regulus? She won’t change. And her ways are sick." He jabbed a finger toward his own chest, furious. "The problem is not in us. And I refuse to suffer — especially when I’ve done nothing wrong. She is insane, Regulus."

Regulus swallowed. "Sirius, I know, but she is still our mother—"

"No,no, no. No. I don’t want to hear that. That is not an excuse for how she treats us!" Sirius’s voice was shaking now, but louder, "Have you ever thought that our lives could have been different without her? Without all of them?"

Regulus flinched. The idea was unthinkable. Treasonous. He just stared for a second.

"We can’t just make them disappear, Sirius," he said weakly. "They’re—"

Sirius cut across him, quieter now. "We could just leave Reggie. Just leave this rotten place and never look back. There are other houses. Other names." His voice dropped. "There are people who would take us in."

Regulus froze.

Leave the House of Black?

Leave the legacy they’d been raised to worship? To uphold?

"Don’t be ridiculous," Regulus forced out. "I would never abandon our legacy. And you shouldn’t either." He searched Sirius’s face. "Sirius, please — don’t put that idea in your head."

But Sirius’s mind was already miles away.

"I won’t rot in here," he whispered, more to himself than to Regulus.

Then he stormed up the staircase, boots punching against each step, and slammed his door.

Now the morning was grey and tiring even though Regulus still hadn’t got out of bed. He stared at the wall as suddenly he heard his parents’ voices from downstairs.

"Gone? What do you mean, gone?" It was Dad, he was back from his morning meeting at the ministry.

"Exactly what you heard, Orion!" Walburga’s voice was sharp enough to cut. "Gone. He, his clothes, his shoes — everything! What did Alphard do to him? I knew his twisted ideas would cost us!"

Oh, yes, sure as if the problem was always only in Uncle Alphard.

He got to his feet, padding closer to his bedroom door, pulse throbbing in his throat. He pressed an ear to the wood.

"Oh, he did nothing that you didn’t let him do, Walburga!" Orion shot back.

"ME?"

"YES,YOU!" Orion’s voice boomed.

Regulus felt very heavy all of a sudden. Had Sirius really left? So the things he said yesterday were not hypothetical and he really meant them. He already had the plan and just left. 

Walburga shrieked again, voice rising like steam from a cracked cauldron. "We are disgraced! Do you hear me, Orion? Disgraced! The neighbours will talk — the entire circle will talk—"

"So let them!" Orion snapped back. "We won’t get him back after that! He’s on his own now!"

Regulus slid down the door until he hit the floor, knees pulled up, heart hammering.

Sirius was gone.

Really gone.

Not a tantrum, not hiding in the orchard, not sulking in the corridor.

He was gone gone.

The argument escalated below — accusations, furious retorts, breaking glass, unmistakable crash of porcelain. Their voices ricocheted up the stairwell.

"What will Greengrasses think?"

"Does it matter what the Greengrasses think?"

"You don’t understand! He ruined our reputation—"

Regulus pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes.

How had it come to this?

He thought of Sirius’s face — angry, exhausted and hopeless.

He thought of the idea of leaving and shivered.

And he sat there on the cold floorboards, back against the door, listening to his parents tear each other apart over the brother he had just lost. Walburga wasn’t even concerned about how, where Sirius was. The only thing that mattered was reputation.

Frustration clawed at Regulus’ chest, thick and suffocating. He wanted to scream. He wanted to run. He wanted to go after Sirius — to drag him back or leave with him, he didn’t even know.

Instead, he just breathed.

In.

Out.

Trying to keep emotions from swallowing him whole. 

Downstairs, Walburga’s voice rose again, shrill and furious."This is YOUR fault!"

Something shattered — a vase, maybe. Or something more fragile.

Regulus curled further in, forehead resting against his knees.

He also thought about how they met for the first time after Sirius had left home. He’d seen him briefly at school during Sirius’s last year—then nothing. Until that night at the Order’s headquarters years after.

Regulus still remembered the look in his brother’s eyes when he walked in. Sirius had stared at him like a Muggle seeing a ghost—confusion warring with fury, relief tangled with disappointment. He looked as though he wanted to hug him and hit him all at once.

Sirius had believed his brother long dead. For years, the thought of Regulus had festered like a wound he refused to touch—his cowardly, obedient little brother who had bowed to their mother’s madness and the Dark Lord’s cause. And then, suddenly, Regulus walked into the Order’s meeting room.

Alive.

Paler than before but alive.

The first thing Sirius managed to say was, "You’re supposed to be dead."

Regulus’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile. "I was. Once. But as you see…" He opened his arms in a smooth, emotionless gesture, his voice was calm but empty.

He had almost died in that cave. The potion had burned through him like liquid fire, every breath scraping his throat raw, his body convulsing until the world went dark. He remembered the moment he stopped struggling—the eerie calm that came when he accepted the fact that it was over. But Kreacher hadn’t. 

Regulus remembered waking days later—his skin burning, his mind fragmented. Kreacher had tended to him, forcing water and potions down his throat until the fever broke. For a long time, he drifted between worlds—alive, but barely. Kreacher saved him. 

Back in the Order meeting, Sirius had sighed, muttered something sharp under his breath, and left the room. Remus followed him silently soon after.

That will be a long road, Regulus had thought.

They worked together because Dumbledore said they must, but the air between them was brittle—thick with unspoken words neither could bring themselves to say. Sometimes Sirius would glance at him across the table, searching for the boy who used to sneak into his room with stolen books and whispered questions. And sometimes Regulus would look back and see the brother who had left him behind to face Walburga alone.

It was in the Gaunt shack that the silence finally broke.

The shack had been abandoned for decades, reeking of decay and old magic, the air still thrumming with Voldemort’s presence. That was where Regulus and Sirius went to search for a Horcrux. It made sense—it was the place of Tom Riddle’s heritage, and his vanity always drew him back to his roots.

The night was cold, the air damp with rot. Sirius was crouched by the door, muttering counter-curses. Regulus stood beside him, watching the faint shimmer of enchantments in the dark.

"Careful," Regulus warned quietly. "It’s blood magic."

"Yeah, I can see that," Sirius snapped, jaw tight. "You think I’ve forgotten how our charming relatives used the same tricks?"

The curse flared—a flash of sickly green light. Sirius twisted aside, a line of blood searing across his arm. He hissed, then straightened as though nothing had happened.

At least he managed to open the door.

Stepping into the cottage was like stepping into an abandoned mortuary.

The air was heavy and cold, thick with the scent of damp wood and decay. Wallpaper had long rotted off the walls, leaving streaks of mildew and dark stains. A broken chair lay overturned near the fireplace, its legs gnawed through by time. The hearth itself was blackened and cold, yet traces of enchantments still shimmered faintly beneath the grime—Tom’s work, unmistakable in its precision and cruelty.

Their boots sank into dust thick as ash. Each step stirred it into the air, a haze that clung to their lungs.

"Want to split up?" Regulus asked, scanning the narrow, shadowed corridor. His tone was casual, but he held his wand so hard that his knuckles turned white.

Sirius nodded. "Check the cellar. I’ll try upstairs."

Regulus opened his mouth to reply, but the words died in his throat. The instant Sirius stepped onto the third stair, the air rippled—a low hum of dark energy. The curse struck like lightning.

Sirius flew backwards, crashing into the wall with a sound that made Regulus’s blood turn to ice. The air filled with the acrid stench of burned fabric and blood.

Regulus didn’t hesitate. He was at his brother’s side in seconds, wand moving in a precise arc. The counter-curse slipped from his lips like a prayer. Then he pressed his sleeve to the wound, the smell of ash and iron rising between them.

"You’re reckless," Regulus said tightly, voice trembling despite himself.

Sirius gave a short, breathless laugh. "You sound like her."

Regulus froze. His grip faltered, and for a heartbeat, the world tilted. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. "Don’t say that."

Silence settled thickly around them. The only sound was the wind flowing through the cracks of the shack and the faint hiss of magic dissipating from the air.

After a long moment, Sirius said quietly, "I thought you died. That he killed you."

Regulus looked up. The faint glow of light from his wand caught in his eyes. Bright, bitter, and broken. "I almost did," he admitted. "I thought I would." He swallowed, his breath unsteady. "I changed my mind too late."

Something in Sirius’s face shifted then—cracked open. The anger, the guilt, the years of silence all seemed to bleed out at once. He reached out, hesitant, then rested a shaking hand on Regulus’s shoulder.

"Too late’s still better than never," he said softly.

That was the first time they smiled together again.

They found the ring under the floorboards, buried in a golden box that burned cold to the touch. The moment Regulus lifted it, the air screamed—magic unravelling in violent waves. The curse exploded outward like a storm, searing through their veins. For a moment, Regulus thought it would kill them both.

But it didn’t. They survived. Barely. Crawling from the ruins with the box sealed and faintly glowing in Regulus’s trembling hand.

When they stumbled outside, they collapsed onto the grass, the cold air biting at their skin. Regulus with his free hand touched his torso just to see blood seeping through his clothes. Nothing fatal but scars were guaranteed. Sirius reached into his coat, pulled out a dented silver flask, and handed it over.

"To us," he said quietly.

Regulus took it, fingers brushing his brother’s—and for the first time in years, he didn’t pull away.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore. It was soft.

Understanding.

Regulus told him everything. About the cave. About the potion. About the hallucination that blurred with memory. About Kreacher dragging him from death’s grip. About the way guilt had clung to him since. And about Elenore and her image still haunting the corners of his mind.

Sirius didn’t interrupt. Didn’t laugh. He just listened.

When Regulus finally fell silent, Sirius reached for the flask again and murmured, "Then you’ve already done more than enough, Reggie."

Regulus looked away, his jaw tightening. "Not yet."

Sirius’s voice softened. "Then I’ll stay by your side until the end."

And for the first time, Regulus almost believed him.

Notes:

Chapter from Regulus' perspective🥳 I know that Regulus and drowning is canon in every universe, but please let our boy escape this fate at least in one of them. I've read him drowning so much times already that I am no longer sure that my heart will handle it one more time.

Chapter 16: Chapter 15

1984 November 9

 

When Regulus opened his eyes again, the room was dim with morning light.

Grey and thin, it leaked through the curtains like mist. He must have dozed off for an hour or two at most. His head felt heavy, his neck stiff from the awkward position in which he had fallen asleep.

He sat up slowly, pressing his fingers to his temples. The faint throb behind his eyes pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat — dull and persistent.

The remnants of the nightmare clung to him like cobwebs. His shirt was still damp with sweat, his throat sore as if he’d swallowed smoke.

With a low exhale, he swung his legs off the bed and rose.

Routine. That was the only way to make the day tolerable — to act as though nothing had happened.

The shower was brief and scalding. The heat loosened the tension in his shoulders, though not the one lodged somewhere deep in his chest. He braced his hands against the tiles, letting the water burn against the back of his neck until his skin flushed pink. For a fleeting moment, he almost imagined it could wash away the dream — the echoes, the screams, the taste of metal — but when he turned off the tap, they lingered still.

He stood before the fogged mirror, tracing the outline of his reflection through the mist. For a moment, the blurred face staring back almost looked like his father’s. He turned away before the thought could linger.

He dressed in his usual neat layers — charcoal vest, crisp shirt, tie knotted perfectly. By the time he fastened his cufflinks, the clock on his desk read half past seven.

He picked up the letter to Sirius from beneath the stack of papers, smoothing the fold once more before tucking it into an envelope.

His owl — a silent, ash-feathered creature named Morrigan — was already waiting by the window, shifting her talons impatiently on the perch.

"You know where to take it," Regulus murmured, tying the letter to her leg.

The owl clicked her beak softly in response.

"Don’t let him keep you waiting for a reply this time."

Morrigan blinked once, then spread her wings and slipped out into the pale morning sky. Regulus lingered by the window, watching her become a dark speck against the clouds. Then he turned away, ran a hand through his hair, and left his chambers — a few stairflights below the Charms classroom.

The corridors were quiet at this hour, only a few portraits awake, whispering among themselves. One old wizard muttered about mislaid spectacles, while a group of nuns in a gilded frame sighed dramatically about the “state of discipline these days.”

Regulus caught snippets as he passed — fragments of laughter, reprimands, and gossip about Peeves’ latest disaster in the dungeons.

As he descended toward the Great Hall, he encountered Professor Kettleburn arguing with a floating set of cages, feathers and sparks escaping from within.

"Morning, Black," Kettleburn called, his hair as wild as his creatures. "If you see any nifflers on your way down, send them back, will you?"

"I’ll keep an eye out," Regulus replied evenly, lips barely twitching into what might pass for a smile.

At the entrance to the hall, a handful of early students sat scattered at their tables — yawning, reading, half-asleep over cups of tea. The scent of toast and pumpkin juice filled the air.

No signs of Elenore.

Too early for her, she will probably appear fifteen minutes before the end of breakfast. As always.

Regulus made his way to the staff table, nodding briefly to Professor Sprout, who was already fussing over a basket of seedlings she’d brought with her.

"Rough night, dear?" she asked kindly, peering over her spectacles.

"Something like that," he said.

She patted his arm with a knowing hum before turning back to her plants.

Regulus sat and stared into the steaming cup of tea before him. He just sat there for a moment, quiet, waiting for the day to begin — pretending he wasn’t already exhausted before it had even started.

Breakfast passed in slow, deliberate motions. Regulus sipped his tea, let the warmth settle in his chest, and forced himself to eat a few spoonfuls of porridge — enough to appear normal if anyone happened to glance his way.

Conversation from the staff table drifted around him: Sprout was arguing that the new batch of mandrakes was “too moody for repotting,” while Flitwick animatedly insisted that charm stabilisation theory might soon allow enchanted objects to self-correct errors after students cast a spell the wrong way. McGonagall murmured something sceptical in response, and Flitwick countered with a delighted “Just wait until next term!”

Regulus gave the occasional nod, a faint murmur of agreement, but his thoughts were elsewhere — still replaying the echo of the dream, the scream, the pain.

When his cup was empty, he set it down, wiped his hands on a napkin, and rose. The noise of the hall followed him only as far as the doorway before dissolving into the steady silence of the corridor.

The Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom was still dim when he entered. Morning golden light caught dust motes floating through the air. His footsteps echoed as he crossed the room. He drew his wand, and with a flick, the torches along the walls flared to life.

His adjoining office was small but impeccably orderly. Shelves of ancient spellbooks lined the walls, interspersed with notes, sketches of hex diagrams, and glass jars filled with defensive artefacts. His desk bore the evidence of another sleepless night — open volumes on counter-curses and a chipped mug half-full of cold tea.

Regulus removed his cloak, folded it neatly, and began preparing for his first class with the fifth-years. Today, they would discuss the theory and application of defensive charms — twenty-one core spells recognised by the Ministry, each with its own purpose and weakness.

He arranged parchment notes into clean stacks, flicked his wand toward the blackboard. Silver script unfurled across its surface: Fidelius, Salvio Hexia, Protego Totalum…

A knock interrupted him.

Two Ravenclaws stood in the doorway — fourth years clutching notebooks, eyes darting nervously between each other.

"Professor Black?" one of them began. "Could we — er — ask you about yesterday’s assignment? We couldn’t get the Repelling Charm to stabilise after the second counter-hex."

Regulus gestured them in with a tired flick of his hand. "Show me."

They stepped forward and raised their wands. Sparks burst unevenly from the tips, the air humming faintly before the magic fizzled and collapsed halfway through the formation of the shield.

"Your focus wavers before the incantation ends," he said quietly. "You’re thinking of the outcome, not the intention."

The girl frowned. "The intention?"

"Every defensive spell is a mirror," he said, drawing his own wand. "It reflects your state of mind. You must mean protection — not simply hope for it."

He flicked his wrist, and a clean, steady wave of translucent light bloomed before him — bright and unwavering, humming softly in the still air.

The students watched, spellbound.

"Try again."

They did. This time, the shield held, thin but intact. Regulus inclined his head — the smallest trace of approval softening his expression. "Better. Practise until it’s instinct. Magic obeys conviction."

As they left, whispering excitedly, Regulus rubbed his temple. The candlelight along the shelves flickered — and for a moment, he thought he saw his mother’s silhouette reflected in the glass of a cabinet: wand raised, eyes cold and proud. He blinked, and it was gone.

He drew in a slow breath, then turned back to the blackboard. The lesson on defensive charms was taking shape — the theory notes neatly arranged, the list of incantations chalked across the board.

His quill scratched softly as he annotated a few margin notes about intention and emotional focus — the subtler aspects students rarely grasped, but that made all the difference between survival and failure.

By the time the next class started, the sunlight filtered through high, arched windows. He replaced the parchments on his desk with a glass case containing a small, faintly glowing shape. The door creaked open, and chatter spilt in as the third years began to file inside — laughter, the scrape of chairs, the shuffle of books.

Regulus straightened, letting composure settle over him like armour.

"Good morning," he said, his voice calm yet carrying easily over the noise.

The room stilled almost instantly.

"Today, we’ll be discussing Hinkypunks. Has anyone here ever heard of them — or perhaps seen one?"

A few hands rose hesitantly. Regulus began pacing slowly between the rows, his steps deliberate, gaze sharp.

"They are deceptively harmless in appearance — small, one-legged creatures made of wisps of smoke. Yet what they lack in size, they make up for in danger. They delight in luring travellers from their paths, pretending to be helpful guides with their little lanterns… until you find yourself knee-deep in a swamp."

He paused beside the desk and gestured toward the glass box.

Inside, the Hinkypunk stirred — a tiny, translucent being of silvery smoke, wobbling slightly on its single leg as though the air itself were its tether. It raised its glowing lantern, emitting a faint, mournful hiss.

"They appear frail," Regulus continued, tone even but edged with caution, "but don’t be deceived. Their lanterns can conjure fire — and they are known to hurl those flames when cornered."

The students leaned forward, captivated. One of them gasped as the Hinkypunk emitted a hollow grunting sound and pressed its smoky limb against the glass, leaving a faint smear of mist

"Professor," a boy near the front asked, voice cautious, "what are we supposed to do if we actually meet one? I mean… out there?"

Regulus glanced at him, then at the faintly glowing creature inside the box. "You don’t panic," he said simply. "You assess."

He moved closer to the desk, tone steady but firm. "First — create distance. The Hinkypunk’s fire doesn’t travel far, so step back. Second — trap it if you can. Corners, narrow paths, or stone walls work best. Then use Lumos Duo to solidify it. Once it’s dazed, cast the Knockback Jinx three or four times. It will disperse. Quickly."

A hand shot up. "Sir, could you show us?"

Regulus’s eyes flicked to the small glass box, where the Hinkypunk was still wobbling faintly, its lamp dimming like a dying ember.

"No, unfortunately," he said after a pause, tone quiet but decisive. "This one belongs to Professor Kettleburn, and I’d rather return it in one piece."

A few students chuckled softly, tension breaking. Regulus allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch — the closest thing to amusement they’d ever see from him.

Just as he turned back to the blackboard, the classroom door opened.

Professor McGonagall stood in the doorway, her sharp eyes scanning the room before settling on him.

"Professor Black," she said briskly, though there was a glint of something almost kind in her tone, "might I borrow you for a moment?"

Regulus inclined his head and gestured for the students to continue their notes. "Review the defensive procedure I just explained. I’ll be back shortly."

He followed McGonagall to his adjoining office, the soft click of her heels echoing against the floor. Once the door closed, her expression gentled.

"Albus and I would like to see you and Miss Fawley tomorrow," she began, folding her hands neatly. "At the Three Broomsticks."

Regulus frowned slightly. "Tomorrow? During the students’ Hogsmeade visit?"

"Yes," McGonagall said with a nod. "You’ll be accompanying the third-year Slytherins on their first trip, if I recall correctly?"

"I am," he confirmed slowly. "And Miss Fawley with the Ravenclaws, I assume."

"Precisely," she said, eyes twinkling just faintly. "You’ll both meet us there. As for the reason…" She tilted her head, lips curving in a secretive smile. "I’m afraid I don’t know yet, dear. But please let Miss Fawley know that we’ll be expecting you both."

This conversation made Regulus a little bit concerned about what they could possibly want from them.

Why do they have to meet them tomorrow together with Elenore?

Especially together with Elenore.

Regulus can barely predict Elenore’s reaction when he will tell her that Dumbledoor and McGonnagle are waiting for them. Most likely, she will just stare in confusion with her eyes squinting and lips slightly parted. Perhaps something worse. He can only guess.

Regulus arched a brow. "You don’t know, or you’re not telling me?"

McGonagall gave a soft hum of amusement as she turned toward the door. "Let’s say a bit of both."

They re-entered the classroom together, the students instantly straightening in their seats under McGonagall’s watchful eye. She gave Regulus a parting look that might almost have been conspiratorial before sweeping out of the room with the faintest grin.

As the door clicked shut behind her, a ripple of whispers followed. Regulus set his papers down, expression unreadable.

"Well," he said evenly, glancing over his class. "It seems Professor McGonagall has assigned me an additional task."

The students looked at him expectantly.

"I’ll offer ten house points," he said, tone deceptively casual, "to anyone who happens to find Miss Fawley in Hogsmeade tomorrow before I do."

Laughter spread through the rows, eager murmurs sparking. Regulus allowed himself the faintest smirk before returning to the desk.

"Now," he said, tapping his wand against the blackboard, "let’s continue."

The classroom fell silent again — though for the rest of the lesson, more than a few curious glances drifted toward their enigmatic professor, as if wondering what exactly tomorrow might bring.

Notes:

Merry Crisis to Elenore🥸

Chapter 17: Chapter 16

1984 November 10

 

The air had that sharp November bite that nipped at the skin and painted every exhale in pale clouds of white. Frost clung to the edges of the windows, and the cobbled streets of Hogsmead were covered with brittle leaves that cracked underfoot. The students’ chatter echoed through the crisp morning, a mixture of excitement and awe. It was their first Hogsmeade visit, and the whole village seemed to hum with the same energy.

Elenore stood near the statue of Hengist of Woodcroft, and a group of students scattered around her. Some of them already looking around and thinking of where to go.

Elenore tugged her gloves tighter and adjusted the collar of her coat. The heavy wool fell nearly to her boots, the belt cinched a long skirt at her waist. Her whole outfit was black today except for the striped blouse that was peeking faintly under the knitted scarf. Her hair caught a few stray snowflakes as she exhaled, watching her breath swirl and disappear.

"Alright, everyone," she said, her voice cutting cleanly through the noise. "Listen before you scatter yourselves across the village like pixies after too much sugar."

The third-year Ravenclaws gathered closer, scarves fluttering in the wind. A few Slytherins lingered nearby — their professor, she noted, was probably somewhere around.

Pity. She was not in the mood for any kind of interactions with Black. As if the weather was not gloomy enough to add to this day.

Elenore folded her hands neatly behind her back. "This is your first official Hogsmeade visit," she began as if to warn them."Which means two things. One: you’re not to leave the village. No wandering off into the woods, and under no circumstances are you to go anywhere near the Shrieking Shack. I know some of you are already thinking about it," she added, eyeing a pair of boys who immediately looked down, "but I promise you, you’ll regret it if you try."

A few students chuckled nervously.

"Two," she continued, "today you have time until five o’clock. Then we meet here near the statue before heading back. That’s only one time I will accommodate you, so you won’t get lost on the way to the castle. Any weekend after that, you can visit the village for as long as you want, just remember to return before the curfew at ten. I’ll be around if you need me — probably near Flutes and Lutes or Steepley and Sons."

Elenore allowed herself a faint smile.

A girl raised her hand hesitantly. "Professor Fawley, are we allowed to visit Madam Puddifoot’s?"

Elenore’s eyebrows arched, and for a moment, her expression was unreadable. What type of question was that? "You can visit any shop you like, there are no restrictions. Except for Shrieking Shack," she pointed her finger in warning.

The students giggled. Someone else asked if Zonko’s was still closed. Another wanted to know if it was true that the tea in the Three Broomsticks could cure heartbreak. 

"Only if you drink enough of it," she said, lips curving faintly.

A gust of wind swept through the group, tugging at scarves and cloaks. The sunlight, weak and pale, spilt over the streets. The village itself shimmered faintly — roofs dusted with frost, chimneys breathing out soft plumes of smoke, the faint scent of cinnamon and chocolate wafting from Honeydukes.

Elenore looked at her students — bright-eyed, buzzing with the thrill of freedom. There was something tender in the sight, something that reminded her of what it had felt like to be one of them.

She clapped her hands once. "Alright, off you go," she said. "Try not to die, or worse — make me file a report because of that."

They scattered in an instant — like a flock of blue and silver birds taking off all at once. Their laughter faded into the hum of the village, leaving Elenore standing under the tree and pulling her scarf tighter around her neck. She exhaled slowly, shoulders softening as the last of the students disappeared in Honeydukes.

Her gloved fingers brushed the cold fabric of her coat as she turned toward the lower street between Honeydukes and Steepley and Sons. The wind tugged at her hem, carrying the scent of fresh parchment and roasted nuts. Hogsmeade was already waking properly now — shopkeepers sweeping frost off doorsteps, enchanted signs flickering to life.

Her boots clicked softly against the cobbled steps as the cold bit at her cheeks. There, tucked a little below the main street and the cluster of living cottages, was the ivy-covered shop she knew by heart. From within drifted the low hum of a cello, mingling with the faint murmur of an enchanted piano. Even outside, the sound seemed to breathe warmth into the frosty morning.

Elenore pushed open the main entrance beneath the stone archway. There was another doorway, one that led directly to the sitting area — her favourite part of the shop — but habit drew her through the front. The familiar scent of dried lavender and polished wood greeted her instantly, mingling with the faint trace of parchment and tea.

"Lucy," she said warmly, brushing frost from her sleeves as she stepped inside.

The main room was as inviting as ever — its hazel-green wallpaper patterned with climbing vines, a few mismatched rugs thrown carelessly across the wooden floor, and an enchanted piano placed squarely before the entrance. To its left stood a tall harp, both instruments surrounded by humming portraits, softly keeping the rhythm.

Two smaller rooms branched off on either side of the entrance, their doorways draped with curtains. Neither was closed — which meant Lucy was here. Somewhere.

Elenore’s gaze flicked toward the right-hand room first. It was painted rose-pink, a huge puffy sofa sprawling across one wall with tea tables before it. The warmth of the fireplace filled the room with the scent of burned wood, mixing with a brass polish. The cello in that room played itself today, bow swaying gently as if guided by invisible hands.

She turned left instead — toward the workroom. The air there was tinged with varnish and the metallic tang of tuning charms. Shelves lined the walls, filled with instruments in various states of repair, and a single table stood in the centre beneath a lamp.

"Lucy, you won’t believe what I saw on my wa—" Elenore began, but the words caught in her throat. She froze mid-step, mouth falling slightly open before snapping shut again. Her eyes darted between her aunt and the man standing beside her, holding a set of piano strings in one hand.

"Mr Black," she said finally, bowing her head in polite surprise. "I wasn’t expecting to see you here."

Regulus straightened, his expression unreadable except for a glint of quiet amusement at the corners of his mouth.

"Miss Fawley," he replied evenly. "How convenient to find you here. There is a matter that requires your attendance."

Elenore blinked, still trying to catch up. "Which is?" she asked, glancing at her aunt as though searching for assistance. Lucy, of course, merely stood between them, eyes darting with barely disguised curiosity.

"Professor McGonagall asked me to inform you," Regulus continued, "that she and Professor Dumbledore are expecting us at the Three Broomsticks today."

To say Elenore was confused was an understatement. She had no idea what was going on — or how this day had managed to get worse.

Dumbledore and McGonagall want to talk?

Fine.

Dumbledore and McGonagall want to talk with her?

Alarming.

But Dumbledore and McGonagall want to talk with her and Regulus Black?

That felt like the universe’s idea of a cruel joke.

Her confusion must have been painfully obvious. Her brows drew together, her lips parted slightly in disbelief, and the corners of her eyes creased in the same way they did whenever she tried to piece together a riddle that didn’t quite fit.

"Don’t worry, Miss Fawley," said Regulus, almost gently. "I only found out about it yesterday. But I suppose it would be the right time to pay them a visit."

Elenore crossed her arms, exhaling sharply through her nose. "And I’m only finding out about this now? Brilliant." Her tone was clipped, though the exasperation in her eyes softened into reluctant resignation. "Alright, fine. We’ll go — just give me two minutes."

"Of course, Miss," Regulus said with a nod, and then, turning toward Lucy, added, "Mrs Ashmere, thank you again for your help."

"You’re welcome, Mr Black," Lucy replied cheerfully. "Come again if the piano gives you any more trouble."

Regulus inclined his head, the faintest flicker of a smile passing his face before he left the workroom. "Miss Fawley, I’ll wait outside," he said as he passed her.

"Sure," Elenore muttered, watching his figure disappear through the doorway before spinning abruptly toward her aunt. "He has a piano? Since when does he have a piano? And what’s wrong with it?"

Lucy raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching with mischief. "Elenore, does it matter? Better tell me what that was all about."

"What do you mean?" Elenore frowned.

"You saw the way he was looking at you."

"No?" she said, genuinely confused. "How was he looking at me?"

Lucy smirked, folding her arms. "Like you were the only sound in the room. As though he was afraid that if he blinked, you’d vanish."

Elenore huffed out a small laugh, more defensive than amused. "We’re just colleagues, Lucy. There’s nothing going on. And besides, I didn’t come here to talk about Regulus."

"Then what brought you here, dear?"

That made Elenore think about the purpose of her visit for a moment. Nothing special actually just to see her precious auntie. Was that a crime?

"Nothing. I just wanted to see you. And," she added, lifting her chin, "I’m supervising the third years on their first Hogsmeade visit today."

"And Regulus too, I suppose," Lucy said with a knowing look.

Elenore groaned and tilted her head back toward the ceiling as if appealing to the heavens for patience.

Lucy chuckled. "Go on then. Don’t make Regulus or the Professors wait. You can come back after the meeting and tell me what they wanted from you."

Elenore’s expression softened into one of reluctant protest, her lips pressing together as though she might argue, then waver into something almost childlike — the look of someone halfway between laughter and tears.

"Fineee," she said, dragging out the word dramatically as she turned on her heel. "But I’m coming back."

Lucy smiled, watching her niece disappear through the curtain, the faint echo of boots clicking again against the wooden floor — fading slowly beneath the melody of the cello, which had begun to play something softer, almost wistful.

Elenore stepped out of Flutes and Lutes. The frosty November air met her immediately — sharp and clean, carrying the faint scent of chimney smoke from the cottages below. The roofs glistened faintly with melting frost, and the distant mountains stood cloaked in pale mist.

Regulus was waiting a few steps away, leaning slightly against a lamppost, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. The soft grey of the daylight caught in his dark hair, and when he turned his head toward her, it was with that composed calm of his — like someone who had already prepared for whatever conversation might come.

"Ready?" he asked.

"As I’ll ever be," Elenore replied, pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders. "Still have no idea what this meeting’s about?"

He shook his head. "None. Though I’d wager it’s something that Dumbledore finds amusing."

"That could mean anything," she muttered, falling into step beside him.

They walked down the narrow lane that led toward the street in the heart of Hogsmead, where the Three Broomsticks was located. On either side, the cottages leaned close together as though conspiring against the cold — their crooked chimneys puffing out ribbons of smoke, windows glowing faintly gold behind frosted panes. Somewhere nearby, a group of third years chattered excitedly about butterbeer, one of them nearly slipping on the icy pavement.

They walked in companionable quiet for a while, the sound of their boots against stone blending with the occasional burst of student laughter or a distant bark of a dog. Elenore kept glancing sideways at him, half curious, half unsettled by how effortlessly he carried silence — as though words were optional, and presence was enough.

"So," she said at last, "what’s wrong with the piano?"

He blinked, mildly surprised by the question. "One of the bass strings snapped. It hasn’t been tuned properly in years."

"You have a piano?"

"No," he said after a pause. "That’s for the one in the Bell Tower."

Elenore smiled faintly. "Oh, I do remember, the one above the amphitheatre."

"The one and only," Regulus smirked.

"I used to play too when I was little. It was a violin, but it didn’t end well."

"What happened?"

"I tried to charm it to play itself while I studied," she said dryly. "It threw the bow at me. I took that as a sign."

A small sound escaped Regulus — not quite laughter, but close enough. His lips twitched into a smile.

That. Again.

He smiled.

Suspicious. Any more surprises for today? She thought and sighed heavily.

The street opened up ahead of them where the Three Broomsticks stood — its sign swaying gently in the breeze, frosted windows glowing amber from the warmth inside. The muffled hum of voices and clinking mugs carried even through the door, and the smell of spiced mead and roasted chestnuts reached them before they entered.

Inside, the tavern was crowded with students and villagers escaping the cold. Candles floated lazily near the ceiling, their light reflecting off brass fixtures and dark wooden beams. Madam Rosmerta was behind the bar, smiling as always, her curls escaping from beneath her scarf.

"Good morning, you two," she greeted when they approached. "Don’t tell me you’re here to supervise students — I’ve already got two professors hiding in corners pretending not to."

"Not this time," Elenore said with a quick grin. "We’re actually looking for Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall. Have they been in?"

Rosmerta tilted her head toward the back hallway. "Private room, as always. And I’d bring tea, not firewhisky."

"Noted," Regulus murmured, and they made their way to the back.

The private room was quieter, tucked away behind heavy oak doors. When Elenore and Regulus entered, Dumbledore was already seated near the window, light falling across his silver beard like threads of spun frost. McGonagall sat beside him, her posture straight, hands folded neatly around a steaming teacup.

"Ah, there you are," Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling. "Please, sit. We didn’t mean to summon you so mysteriously."

Elenore exchanged a wary glance with Regulus before taking the chair opposite them.

"I assume," Regulus began, "there’s a reason for this meeting beyond casual pleasantries."

"Indeed," said Dumbledore cheerfully. "Though pleasantries are always welcome. Now, let's get straight to the point. As you both know, the Christmas Ball is fast approaching."

Elenore blinked. "Yes…?"

OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE NOT SURPRISES LIKE THAT

"I’ve decided," Dumbledore continued, ignoring her cautious tone, "that the two of you will oversee its organisation this year as well as decorate the Great Hall for the holidays."

There was a brief silence in which Elenore was fairly certain she had forgotten how to breathe and comprehend the information.

"I beg your pardon?" she said, a little too sharply.

Dumbledore’s smile deepened. "You and Professor Black will be responsible for the decorations, the event, music, and overall coordination. Professor McGonagall will, of course, handle the students’ dance instruction."

McGonagall inclined her head slightly, her expression somewhere between stern and amused. "Try not to panic, Miss Fawley. It’s far less dreadful than it sounds — unless you make it dreadful."

Elenore swallowed hard. "But… why us?"

"Because," Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling even brighter, "you are both talented, efficient, and, if I may say so, rather in need of a shared project."

Across the table, Regulus remained utterly composed, though his fingers tightened faintly around the handle of his teacup.

Elenore forced a polite smile. "That’s… very flattering, Headmaster."

"I’m delighted to hear it," Dumbledore said, clearly knowing it wasn’t. "You’ll have full access to the Great Hall during preparations. I’d like the event to be memorable — elegant but with character. I trust your combined judgment."

Elenore nodded mechanically, still trying to process. Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced at Regulus — but his expression was unreadable, calm as ever, giving nothing away.

McGonagall rose, smoothing her robes. "Well then, I believe that concludes our meeting. You may both start planning whenever you see fit — preferably before students depart for holidays."

Elenore stood too, still dazed. "Of course, Professor."

Dumbledore gave them one last benevolent smile. "Ah, the joy of collaboration. I look forward to seeing what you two create."

As they stepped back into the main tavern, the noise and warmth hit them like a wave. Elenore exhaled, half a laugh, half a sigh.

"Out of all the people in this castle," she said, "he chose us?"

Regulus adjusted his gloves, looking maddeningly unbothered. "Apparently so."

"This is going to be a disaster," she muttered.

"Probably," he agreed. Then, after a pause, "But at least it will be an organised one."

Elenore couldn’t help the small laugh of disbelief that escaped her then. "You’re insufferable mr Black."

"I’ve been told Miss Fawley."

Just as they were about to leave the Inn, a voice called from behind, "Professor Black," It was Flitwik running after them, "Could I have a word?"

"Sure," he turned back.

"See you then, Professor," Elenore said lightly, her hand already on the door handle.

Regulus turned halfway back toward her, a faint gleam of amusement in his eyes despite the interruption. "Try not to plan a disaster without me, Miss Fawley."

She tilted her head, smiling despite herself. "Wouldn’t dream of it, Mr Black."

Then she slipped outside, the door shutting behind her with a soft thud.

The cold air bit sharper now, as if the world outside the Three Broomsticks had grown quieter, more thoughtful. The chatter and warmth she left behind felt distant — a world apart from the stillness waiting on the cobbled street. Elenore tugged her scarf closer around her throat, her boots crunching softly through the thin frost as she made her way back toward Flutes and Lutes.

Her thoughts tangled with every step.

Decorate the hall. For a Christmas Ball. With Regulus Black.

Dumbledore’s words still echoed in her ears like an unwanted refrain.

Why them?

Surely there were dozens of professors better suited for that kind of task — people who actually enjoyed spending time together, who didn’t get flustered every time he so much as looked at them.

And yet, there she was, her pulse still uncomfortably aware of the faint smirk he’d worn when she’d called him insufferable.

She could almost hear Lucy teasing her.

By the time she reached the shop, the streets were beginning to empty, the frost drove everyone into the shops. The windows of Flutes and Lutes glowed warmly, and the faint melody of the self-playing cello seeped through the cracks in the door. Elenore pushed it open and stepped inside.

"Lucy," she called, brushing frost from her hair, "now you really won’t believe what happened."

Lucy looked up from the sofa in the pink room where she was polishing a brass flute, her brow arching with immediate interest. "Oh, I can tell by your face that I’ll want tea for this."

Elenore dropped into the armchair near the fire. "Apparently I’m organising the Christmas Ball."

Lucy’s lips curved into a slow grin. "You? The Christmas Ball? That’s marvellous!"

"Marvellous?" Elenore huffed. "It’s absurd. And—" she rubbed her temples, "—I’m supposed to do it with Regulus."

Lucy froze mid-pour, the teapot hovering in the air.

"Oh, Elenore, darling," Lucy said, setting the pot down and leaning forward with a wicked smile, "then you’ll need a dress."

"A dress?" Elenore blinked. "We haven’t even started planning, and you’re already—"

"Obviously," Lucy interrupted. "You can’t plan a ball and not look like you belong in it. Come by next Saturday, and we’ll go to Bingle & Blatch together. Mrs Bingle owes me a favour or two — she’ll have a gown ready in no time."

Elenore gave a faint, defeated laugh. "Fine. Next Saturday. But if she starts talking about full sequins again, I’m leaving."

Lucy only smirked, clearly unconvinced.

Lucy poured her niece a cup and passed it over, the fragrant steam curling in the air. For a while, neither spoke — the soft hum of the chello and the quiet ticking of the wall clock filling the silence.

Elenore wrapped her hands around the teacup, letting the warmth seep into her fingers as she let her gaze drift to the frost-rimmed glass. Outside, the first snow began to fall slowly, sparse flakes catching in the air like drifting starlight. And for a moment, Elenore simply watched.

The Christmas Ball was just another school event, perhaps. But as the snow thickened beyond the window, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this winter would change everything.

 

Notes:

Was thinking of posting those chapters yesterday but got to invested into writing Sestina for my Poetry Elective.

Enjoy Ladies🫶🏻

Chapter 18: Chapter 17

1984 November 17

 

The week passed in a blur of parchment, candlelight, and far too little sleep. As in the previous two months. Perhaps she should order a Wideye Potion to not fall asleep in the corridor on her way to breakfast.

Elenore had fallen into a rhythm that was half discipline, half exhaustion — late nights at the Astronomy Tower, finishing her grading by the dim shimmer of starlight, and early mornings spent corralling half-awake first years who couldn’t yet tell a constellation from a comet trail. 

The November chill had settled deep into the castle, seeping through its stone corridors and making the air crisp and sharp, but even that couldn’t quite shake her drowsiness.

By Thursday, her eyes stung from reading essays about planetary retrogrades, and her hair had taken on that faint scent of ink and midnight tea that came from staying up too long. She’d meant to rest that evening. Really, she had. But she promised Pandora that she would visit her.

So Elenore had gone.

The Hospital Wing was quiet when she arrived, the kind of sterile calm that smelled faintly of antiseptic potions and mint leaves. Pandora was perched on one of the empty beds, still wearing her trainee healer’s robe, her curls half-pinned, and her sleeves rolled up.

"Ellie!" Pandora exclaimed, hopping off the bed to give her a quick hug. "Merlin’s beard, you look like you’ve wrestled a Boggart and lost."

"I just feel tired," Elenore said with a laugh, dropping onto the chair beside the bed. "If I see another essay about Saturn’s influence on Prophesies, I might throw myself off the Astronomy Tower."

"Please don’t," Pandora said. "They’d probably make me patch you up, and I’ve already had enough with Professor Kettleburn today."

Elenore’s lips twitched. "Creature bite again?"

Pandora groaned. "Fourth one this week! Poppy says she’ll start charging him rent. He came in this morning with his arm completely bandaged and cheerfully announced it was just a ‘minor misunderstanding’ with a Blast-Ended Skrewt."

"That man has a death wish," Elenore murmured, shaking her head.

"He has a bed reserved for him, Ellie. Poppy calls him her ‘frequent flyer.’" Pandora sighed, then grinned. "But enough about Kettleburn. What about you? I can tell something’s on your mind."

Elenore hesitated for a moment, then leaned in slightly. "You’ll laugh."

"I’ll try not to," Pandora said, which meant she definitely would.

"Dumbledore and McGonagall called Regulus and me into a meeting last weekend," Elenore said, lowering her voice, "and apparently we’re in charge of organising the Christmas Ball."

Pandora blinked once. Twice. Then, slowly, a grin spread across her face. "You’re joking."

"I wish I was."

A delighted laugh escaped Pandora’s lips. "Oh, this is marvellous! Elenore, the woman who once said she’d rather fall into a well than plan a school event, is now working with Regulus of all people? The gods truly have a sense of humour."

Elenore buried her face in her hands. "I’ve already told you that you’re enjoying this far too much."

"I absolutely am." Pandora leaned forward, eyes sparkling. "Remember when I told you I thought Black was a better option than Merrick?"

Elenore peeked at her through her fingers. "Yes, and I told you that you are impossible."

"I’m just saying," Pandora said lightly, "I still stand by it. Merrick’s a charming disaster. Regulus, at least, has a sense of … Structure."

Pandora’s eyes softened. "I know, darling. You’ve loved Merrick for ages. But maybe… It’s time you let someone else surprise you for once."

Elenore groaned. "And you’re insufferable too."

"I take that as a compliment," Pandora said sweetly. "And I still think I’m right."

Elenore sighed, defeated. "You always think you’re right."

"And I usually am," Pandora said. Then her tone softened, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Honestly, though, Ellie — he’s not the same boy we remember. You could do worse than to be stuck with someone who actually knows how to hold a conversation without making a mess of it."

"I’ll believe that when I see it," Elenore said, though there was no bite in her tone.

They talked a while longer — about the chaos in the Hospital Wing, about the students’ excitement for Hogsmeade weekend, about how cold the castle felt this time of year. Eventually, Pandora had to run off, called back by Pomfrey to help brew more Skele-Gro for Kettleburn’s latest accident, and Elenore returned to her quarters, the weight of the week pressing against her shoulders.

By the time Saturday rolled around, she was equal parts exhausted and relieved. She had also thought about how to decorate the hall for the ball.

Perhaps to make the lights a bit dim, and add a starry sky to the ceiling with snowflakes that glimmer in the light. But not much of them, just a bit, perhaps it would even be convenient to regulate the body temperature during dancing. 

Will have to discuss it with Regulus. 

When Elenore arrived at Flutes & Lutes after noon, her aunt was already waiting with a basket of scones and a sparkle in her eyes.

Pandora couldn’t make it today. Elenore came to her before going to Hogsmead to ask if she would like to go with her, when suddenly they heard a clatter from the far end of the room. 

Both turned to see Professor Kettleburn hopping on one foot, clutching his shin, while Madam Pomfrey scolded him like someone who’d done this nineteen times before.

"Was that—?" Elenore began. " Wasn't he here just on Thursday?"

"Yes," Pandora said, already sighing. "That’s gonna be his twentieth visit this month. He told me the next day after you left that he considers the Hospital Wing his ‘home away from home.’ It was just a couple of days ago." She covered her face with her palms.

Elenore laughed, shaking her head. "So you have your hands full then."

"You’ve no idea," Pandora muttered. "Sorry, Ellie, please tell me afterwards which one you chose."

They talked a while longer — about small things, comforting things — before Elenore finally made her way out of the infirmary, promising to visit again.

"Ready, darling?" Lucy asked, looping her arm through Elenore’s as they stepped out into the crisp air.

"As ready as I’ll ever be," Elenore said, tugging her cloak tighter around her. The frost had thickened overnight, painting the shopfronts in delicate white lace. The streets were quiet still — just the occasional sound of an owl winging overhead or the faint hum of a fireplace charm from nearby cottages.

They walked in silence for a bit, the sound of their footsteps mingling with the distant chime of shop bells. Then, almost without thinking, Elenore asked, "Have you seen Merrick lately?"

Lucy’s head turned slightly, her expression unreadable for a moment. "Hmm… not in the past couple of weeks. Last I saw him, he was hovering around the post office, pretending to be busy."

Elenore’s brows lifted faintly. "Pretending?"

Lucy smiled wryly. "You know him, sweetheart. Always somewhere but never quite there. Perhaps he’s already gone back to London. Or wherever it is he vanishes to when he tires of small-town charm."

Elenore tried to sound casual. "Right."

It seems like Merrick grew quite tired of any town he stayed in for more than one month.

Lucy’s eyes softened. "You’re not still waiting on him to write, are you?"

"No," Elenore said too quickly. "He said he’d be in Hogsmeade in October. I just thought…" She trailed off, shrugging. "Never mind."

Lucy reached over, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. "Men like Merrick have a knack for appearing the moment you stop thinking about them. And until then, you’ve got better things to occupy your mind — like decorating a ballroom without combusting it."

Elenore laughed despite herself. "Peeves would find it entertaining, though."

"Exactly," Lucy said with a wink.

Elenore laughed, though she couldn’t shake the thought now — Merrick’s easy smile, the way he used to linger by her desk with questions that weren’t really questions. But that was a long time ago now. 

Perhaps it was really a good time to try to let it go again. Or until she sees him again. 

Fuck.

Merrick, get out of my head. I did such a good job not thinking about you for a month, why would the thought of him appear again? Perhaps it was because of the street their grandparents are living on that they are passing with Lucy now.

Focus Elenore.

 Think about the dress. Ball. Black. 

What will Regulus wear to the Ball?

She immediately scolded herself for even thinking it.

NOOOOO. 

No.

NO.

No

Not that way. 

Back to dress. 

Dress. Hmmmmm. 

Something….

Something dark blue, silvery, perhaps chiffon. 

The walk to Bingle & Blatch wasn’t long — just a couple of cottages down from Flutes and Lutes.

From the outside, the place looked deceptively ordinary: a polished wooden sign, three doors under a curling awning.

But the magic began at the threshold.

Depending on which door a customer entered, Bingle & Blatch would reveal a completely different shop. The central entrance led to the clothing shop, with racks of floating fabric and mannequins that adjusted themselves with a sniff. The right door opened into a bookshop, its shelves whispering as titles rearranged themselves for curious readers. And the left door — always faintly warm and smelling of herbs — led to the cauldron shop, where bubbling potions lined the walls with glass bottles.

"Central door today," Lucy said confidently.

Elenore smirked. "Agreed."

They stepped through — and immediately, the scent of lilac silk and polished oak filled the air. The shop shimmered with light.

The shop was small but warm in every sense of the word. Pale blue wooden panels covered the walls. A wide window let in the light, spilling over bolts of fabric, spools of thread, and a sewing table cluttered with ribbons, scissors, and a steaming cup of tea. 

Against one wall stood a soft blue sofa, a woollen blanket and a couple of unfinished garments tossed across the arm. Above it, shelves held boxes of fabrics, colourful ribbons, and jars of buttons in every imaginable shade.

On the opposite side, dress forms stood in half-finished gowns, others bare. A tall mirror with an ornate frame leaned against the wall beside a curtained fitting area. In the corner, a stone fireplace added a welcoming glow to the room, its warmth seeping into the air.

At the far end of the room, Mrs Bingle herself stood on a small step stool, pinning lace onto a gown that seemed to shift between purple and silver. Her husband, Mr Blatch, was likely in the potion section beyond the second door — Elenore could hear the faint sound of bubbling and the smell of peppermint potion drifting through. Their daughter, Clara, worked in the adjoining bookshop, her laughter sometimes echoing faintly through the walls.

"Lucy!" Mrs Bingle exclaimed, spotting them and clapping her hands together. "And Miss Fawley! Oh, what an honour! You’re just in time — I’ve been dying to use that new enchanted taffeta from Milan!"

Lucy grinned, her tone teasing. "We’ll think about it. But we came for something special today, something for the Christmas Ball."

Mrs Bingle’s eyes immediately lit up with delighted mischief. "Ah, so you’re the one they’ve roped into that madness! Then I guess I won’t even show you what I have already. We will make something exquisite then!"

Mrs Bingle chuckled. "Elenore — let’s get you measured. Take that coat off already, we’ve no time to waste before the good light fades."

Elenore sighed softly, slipping off her heavy wool coat and hanging it neatly by the door. The moment she turned, an enchanted cup floated over to Lucy, steam curling gently from its rim. Lucy sank gracefully into a velvet sofa, her hands folding around the teacup as she watched her niece with that mischievous twinkle only an aunt could master.

"Go on, darling," Lucy said with a grin.

Elenore rolled her eyes but obeyed, stepping toward the tall, gilded mirror that stood in the centre of the fitting room. The mirror shimmered faintly, enchanted to adjust its reflection to the ideal lighting for dress fittings — soft, flattering, and just a touch too honest.

Mrs Bingle bustled around her with professional enthusiasm, summoning a few floating measuring tapes and a small chalk pencil that scribbled notes on its own. "Arms out, please, dear. Shoulders back. Chin up, yes — just like that. You’ve such a fine posture, Miss Fawley. Hogwarts must be feeding you something new these days?"

Elenore smiled faintly. "Mostly exhaustion and tea, I’m afraid."

"Oh, nonsense." Mrs Bingle hummed, looping a ribbon around her waist and muttering to herself. "Still, you look a bit too slim for your height, dear — are you eating properly? You look almost sickly pale."

Slim. That’s great. Slender Drops never failed her.

Elenore blinked, half amused, half embarrassed. "I’m fine, really. Just long nights, that’s all."

"Hmm," Mrs Bingle said, clearly unconvinced but too polite to press further. "We’ll fix that illusion with the right colour and cut — can’t have you fading into the Christmas decorations, can we?"

Elenore stood as still as she could, feeling acutely aware of every inch being measured — the soft tape gliding across her collarbones, down her arms, around her waist. The mirror reflected a tall young woman trying desperately to look composed, though her shoulders betrayed the faintest tension. She was never quite comfortable being fussed over. Something about the precision and the closeness always made her feel like she was being studied.

Mrs Bingle noticed. "Relax, dear," she said gently. "You’d think I was about to duel you, not make a dress."

That earned a small, reluctant smile from Elenore.

"Do you have something in mind?" Mrs Bingle asked, stepping back and tapping the air with her wand. A few swatches of fabric floated up before them, glimmering in the light.

Elenore tilted her head thoughtfully. "Something dark, maybe. Midnight blue — or silver. Perhaps chiffon?"

Mrs Bingle pursed her lips, considering. "Hmm… dark blue would be elegant, but it can make you look even paler, dear. And silver, we could add some touches of it."

She disappeared behind a shimmering curtain of fabric and returned a few moments later, carrying an armful of light blue tulle that gleamed like frosty morning sky.

"Now this," Mrs Bingle declared, letting the material cascade through her fingers, "has a potential. It catches the light beautifully, see? It will fit the cool tone of your hair and will make your eyes look brighter. The colour will add a touch of life to those sleepless nights of yours."

Elenore eyed the fabric dubiously. "It’s… lighter than I imagined."

"Exactly!" Mrs Bingle said triumphantly. "You have a quiet sort of beauty, Miss Fawley — but you hide it under too much restraint. This fabric will let it breathe. It’s soft, elegant, but it has a bit of rebellion in the shimmer."

Lucy let out a soft, knowing laugh from her corner. "She’s right, Ellie."

Elenore gave her aunt a helpless look. "You’re both conspiring against me, I see."

"She’s a professional, Ellie," Lucy said cheerfully, sipping her tea.

With a sigh and a reluctant smile tugging at her lips, Elenore ran her fingers through the chiffon. It was light as air, cool to the touch, and when she moved it slightly, it shimmered in pale gradients — the colour of sky over snow. Against her skin, it caught the light in ways that made her reflection look almost dreamlike.

"Fine," she said finally, a faint blush colouring her cheeks. "We’ll try it. But I wanted something reminding of the night sky or stars, maybe."

Mrs Bingle beamed as though she’d won a lifelong battle. "Excellent choice, dear! We can still add those details. I have a vision!"

Mrs Bingle stood back with a length of pale tulle between her hands, holding it up to the light that streamed through the shop window. The soft fabric shimmered faintly, almost like mist catching the morning sun. Her eyes went distant for a moment — the sort of look that meant she wasn’t quite seeing the fabric anymore but rather what it could become.

"Oh, I’ve got it," she breathed suddenly, almost startling Elenore and Lucy. "Don’t move, either of you. I can see it already."

Lucy arched a brow, amused. "What do you see?"

"Yes, yes, exactly that!" Mrs Bingle said rather to herself, her voice lilting with excitement. She spread the tulle across the cutting table, letting it spill like water over the edges. "We’ll let it fall light and unstructured. And here—" she traced the air above the fabric with her wand, "—tiny embroidered stars, not too neat, not in any proper constellation, just scattered, glimmering, as if they’ve just been brushed from the sky."

Elenore leaned in, watching the way the light caught on the faint silver threads already resting in a tray nearby. The image began to take shape in her mind — the way the fabric would brush her ankles, how it would shimmer under candlelight at the Ball. It felt like something out of a dream, something halfway between starlight and snowfall. Mrs Bingle is a professional ,truly.

Mrs Bingle grinned, eyes twinkling. "You see it too, don’t you, dear? We’ll make the embroidery soft gold and pale silver — not too heavy. It’ll  concentrate lightly around the bodice and then fade down the skirt, creating the illusion of stars falling from the heavens." She said eagerly.

Lucy chuckled softly. "Sounds great, what do you think, Elenore?"

Mrs Bingle winked. 

Elenore smiled faintly, fingers brushing the airy fabric. It was impossible not to be swept along by Mrs Bingle’s enthusiasm — the woman’s every word stitched a little more wonder into the air. 

"Can’t wait to see it! Mrs Bingle, I trust you with this vision."

"Perfect, Dear, I'll let you know when it's ready!"

For the first time that week, the weight of exhaustion in Elenore’s shoulders lightened, replaced by something softer, warmer. She could almost imagine herself wearing that gown beneath the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, stars shimmering and snowflakes falling above.

Chapter 19: Chapter 18

1984 November 21

 

The smell of toast and pumpkin juice lingered in the air of the Great Hall. Sunlight pressed against the enchanted ceiling in pale November streaks. Most students still looked half-asleep, their spoons and forks scraping lazily.

Elenore was halfway through her second cup of coffee when a blur of grey swooped between the floating candles and dropped a small box right into her bowl of porridge.

The splash drew a few curious glances from the Ravenclaw table, but she ignored them. 

Ziggy gave Elenore a particularly judgmental look — hooted once, as if in disapproval of her life choices, and flew away.

The box bore the neat pink seal of Madam Primpernelle’s Beautifying Potions in Diagon Alley. She ordered an express delivery this time.

Elenore set down her spoon and lifted the parcel. Her name, written in the elegant looping hand, was followed by a small folded note stuck under the string. She untied it carefully, flattening the parchment against the table.

 

Dear Miss Fawley,

As per your recent order, enclosed you will find one vial of Wideye Potion (recommended for fatigue and concentration) and one bottle of Slender Drops (formulated for metabolic refinement).

However, we strongly advise against combining the effects of those potions. The stimulants in the former, when merged with the metabolic enhancers in the latter, may lead to mild interference in nervous system stability. And can lead to side effects such as dizziness, tremors, temporary faintness, or — in rare cases — a brief loss of magical coordination.

 Kindly be reminded that Madam Primpernelle’s Beautifying Potions bears no responsibility for any consequences arising from self-administered mixtures.

With admiration for your continued loyalty,

Marigold Pimpleton.

 

Elenore muttered, under her breath, "Well, shit."

She reread the warning twice. Mild interference in nervous system stability — which was, in potion-maker language, a polite way of saying it might try to kill you, but only a little.

Still, she was tired. The kind of tired that no coffee or charm could cure. She even stopped drinking tea in the morning and switched to coffee in the hope that it would help. 

Mornings had been brutal lately — waking at eight to make it in the last fifteen minutes of breakfast, grading essays, tutoring the hopeless. 

She needed the Wideye Potion to function. But the Slender Drops helped too — it wasn’t vanity, not really, but something about looking a little sharper made her feel like she could hold the chaos together.

Her logic felt sound enough in the early morning fog of coffee and parchment. Besides, who had ever actually fainted from a bit of potion overlap?

Elenore glanced at the Great Hall — full of chatter, laughter, clinking cutlery, "How bad could it possibly be?" she muttered. 

She slipped both vials into her pocket, finished her coffee, and told herself it would be fine. It was a lie she’d told herself often — and like most of her lies, it sounded almost convincing

She’d drink the Wideye now and the Slender Drops later in the afternoon. A balance, of sorts.

The day wore on with its usual rhythm — papers, spells, the occasional first-year meltdown. By early afternoon, she was restless. The Wideye Potion had hit harder than she expected — her mind was sharp, too sharp, the world around her a little too vivid. So, she decided to do something impulsive.

Spy on Regulus.

Well, observe him, she corrected mentally, because spy sounded unprofessional. But she wanted to see what kind of professor he was before being tied to him for the Christmas Ball preparations. It was better to know what kind of man you were about to suffer alongside for weeks.

Elenore leaned her hands against the doorframe and searched the room with her gaze. Through the half-open door, she caught sight of him.

He stood by the desk, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, speaking to a group of sixth-years with that unnerving calm of his. His tone was low but firm — the kind that made students straighten instinctively, afraid to miss a word. 

The students respected him. They were focused, almost reverent, which was rare, usually.

When a student failed a counter-curse, he didn’t sneer or sigh — merely stepped closer, corrected his grip, and demonstrated the movement again.

Whatever it was, it worked. The next spell came clean and precise, earning a small nod of approval.

Huh. He wasn’t half bad.

She’d expected the notorious Black temper or something more sinister, but instead, he looked almost… patient. Measured. Like a man who’d rebuilt himself out of something broken and learned to hold the cracks together.

"Interesting," she murmured.

The armour in the corridor beside her sneezed loudly.

 Elenore jumped.

Regulus’ gaze flicked to the doorway immediately.

Fuck.

Their eyes met for the briefest second before she plastered herself to the wall and inaudibly muttered to the armour, "Traitor!"

When the class ended, students spilled out into the corridor in a rustle of robes and relieved chatter. Elenore waited a few moments before stepping out of the shadows.

Regulus was tidying the desk, setting papers into neat stacks with infuriating exactness.

"Now I see the resemblance to the cat, Miss Fawley ." His voice was low, smooth, but laced with that edge of mockery. "Spying on me?"

Elenore turned, arms folded. "I prefer to call it… reconnaissance. I wanted to see what kind of chaos I’ll be dealing with when the Ball begins."

Regulus’ mouth twitched — not quite a smile. "And? Did I meet expectations?"

"You didn’t hex anyone,” she said, arching an eyebrow. "So yes, I suppose that’s progress."

He exhaled slowly, the faintest hint of amusement ghosting across his face. "High praise from you."

He set the papers down and finally met her gaze. "So to what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Fawley? Surely not only curiosity."

Elenore hesitated. Her heart was still unreasonably fast from watching him work — and maybe from the Wideye Potion pulsing in her veins. "I thought we should discuss the Ball preparations," she said at last. "Since apparently we’re both doomed to organise it."

"Doomed," he repeated, with the faintest hint of amusement. "Strong word."

"Fitting word," she countered. "Anyway, I suppose we can start in ten days. For now, we might think of ideas separately and then compare. Divide the misery, let's say."

"Ten days?" Regulus repeated, brow furrowing slightly. "Why the delay?"

"I have classes, lesson plans, grading, and…" She hesitated. "A few… other obligations."

"Then yes, that seems reasonable. I do have the same obligations as well." His voice was cool and even.

"Wonderful," she said briskly. "Then I’ll leave you to your—"

Her sentence faltered. The room tilted slightly. Not enough to fall — but enough for her to blink hard, once, twice, trying to steady the spinning edges of her vision.

His eyes flicked to her, searching. "You look pale."

"I’m fine," she said, a little too quickly. "It’s just… the lighting in here makes everyone look like a ghost."

His gaze lingered for a moment longer than necessary, as if he didn’t believe her. Then he nodded once. "Very well then. Ten days."

She nodded back, forcing a small smile. The room spun slightly.

Regulus noticed. Of course he did. The knight in shining armour.

"You should sit," he said quietly.

"Don’t be ridiculous. I—"

The room swayed. For a terrifying second, the torches blurred into streaks of gold, and the floor tilted beneath her, just enough for her to grip the edge of the table.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

The world steadied, though her pulse still hammered in her ears.

Regulus was beside her in an instant — not touching her, but close enough that she could feel the faint pull of his presence. His eyes flicked over her, sharp and assessing.

"You were saying?" he asked softly.

Elenore forced a breath. "That I’m fine." Her voice came out thinner than she intended. She straightened, trying to ignore the tremor in her hand as she smoothed her sleeve. "Just the weather."

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, with a quiet exhale that sounded almost like resignation, he nodded once. "If you faint, I’m not carrying you to Pomfrey."

"Not like I will ask you to," she murmured, managing a ghost of a smile. 

"Not like you will be able to," his voice was a bit irritated and mocking.

Bastard.

 Of course, he was right. How can she ask if she will be unconscious?

"Well then. I will see you in ten days, Mr Black." She said, trying to make her tone as formal as possible.

The tremor in her fingers hadn’t fully gone, but she let go of the table and started to walk out of the class, ignoring the way his gaze lingered on her.

"Can’t wait, Miss Fawley."

She hasn’t even turned to look at him. Just walked straight out of the classroom.

By the time she reached her quarters, her hands had stopped shaking, but her head still throbbed faintly — as if her thoughts were a step out of sync with her body. She sat at her desk and pulled the parchment from her bag, sketching notes for the Christmas Ball.

Ideas, scattered and half-coherent, filled the page:

- Enchanted snowflakes?

- Blue and silver lights

- Students' choir singing Something slightly less depressing than "God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs".

"Noel, do you think it is better to avoid mistletoe near Slytherin tables?"

Noel only blinked and kept on grooming his paw.

Her quill hesitated halfway through a line. The ink spread, blurring into a dark blot. She watched it quietly, feeling that same strange detachment — as though her body was functioning on borrowed time.

Elenore leaned back, closed her eyes, and exhaled.

"Fuck it," she whispered, this time softer. The first dose always felt strange. It would pass. It always did. 

She pressed her fingers against her temple, half smiling despite the exhaustion.

Outside, the castle windows glowed with evening light — that deep, gold-dust hue of late November that made everything feel both beautiful and unbearably temporary.

Notes:

Small spoiler, choir won’t sing "God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs" unfortunately, but I do recommend to check it out🫡

Chapter 20: Chapter 19

1984 December 1

 

 

It was late — long past curfew — when Elenore decided to write to her parents. The castle was silent save for the distant hum of wind pressing against the old stone.

Noel was casually grooming his paws in front of the fireplace as Ziggy flew through the window and nestled in one of the armchairs.

 Elenore swished her wand to close the window and sat at her desk, a mug of half-finished tea cooling beside her. The letter began the way it always did: Dear Mum, dear Dad — I hope this finds you both well.

She hesitated, then continued: It’s already cold in Hogwarts. The lake froze overnight, and the snow can start falling any minute. I’m all right, really — though a bit overworked. Professor McGonagall has tasked me with co-organising the Christmas Ball this year. Together with Regulus Black.

Her quill lingered.

My former classmate, now a Defence professor. You might remember him. The one I won in the duel.

She smiled faintly, half-amused by the memory. She was bragging about this duel to her parents for week, if not longer. She won’t add the former Death Eater part, her parents might remember this one, if they haven’t seen the news of Dumbledoor recruiting him, of course. 

It’s strange seeing people my age as professors. Even stranger, being one myself, but it might be just my opinion. 

I’ll send you the pictures of the decorations once everything’s ready. Don’t worry — I’m not freezing to death yet.

The ink glistened dark in the firelight. She signed it quickly — Love, Ellie — sealed it, and gave it to Ziggy, who was already sitting at the windowsill.

The snow had come during the night. Soft and relentless, it cowered the highlands. By morning, Hogwarts stood wrapped in white and silver, its towers glinting under the light as if they were carved from ice and shadows.

Elenore was already halfway down the marble staircase as the castle clock chimed ten. She’d been awake since dawn — not that she felt it. The Wideye Potion did its job, cutting through fatigue like a lumos through the night. Her pulse thrummed a little too fast, her hands just a bit too steady.

She drew her cloak tighter as she stepped outside and approached the gates, regretting almost every decision that had led her here.

Regulus was already there. 

Of course he was — she might have known he’d be early. He stood like something out of an old portrait: immaculate posture, hair neatly combed despite the wind, arms folded behind his back, dark coat buttoned to the throat, every line of him composed. When he noticed her, he only inclined his head.

She didn’t know why that irritated her, but it did. The man was punctual and mostly unreadable to the point of insult. Does he always act like that? 

"Punctual as ever, Mr Black," she said, her tone caught somewhere between teasing and tired.

"Unlike some, Miss Fawley," he replied smoothly, eyes flicking over her cloak and satchel. "You came prepared for a siege, I see."

 He gave her a look that might’ve been a smirk, or might’ve been his usual irritation — impossible to tell. Then he turned and started toward the path leading down to Hogsmeade. Elenore followed, boots crunching on the thin crust of frost that had formed overnight.

"I find it best to be prepared for everything," she said. "Especially when collaborating with you, Mr Black."

A faint quirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "How encouraging."

She adjusted the strap of her satchel. "I hope you brought your sense of humour. You’ll need it."

"Unlikely," he replied smoothly. "I left it in my other cloak."

Elenore huffed a quiet laugh, he actually just tried to make a joke. It was a bad one. Was he joking, though? Was it a joke, or was he just already sick of her? Merlin, if this was actually a joke, something would happen. Regulus was acting not as, well, Regulus. 

The air was sharp, crystalline, carrying the faint scent of pine and woodsmoke from the distant cottages. Elenore’s cheeks burned pink from the cold, and she couldn’t feel her nose.

 Regulus, however, looked, infuriatingly, untouched by it.

How is he doing that? Is that the cold blood of his that blends with this weather?

"So," she began, "before we’re swallowed alive by this scenic postcard, let’s establish priorities. We will start from decorations, music, refreshments, and keeping the students from setting themselves and conifer trees on fire."

"I thought that last one fell under your jurisdiction," he said mildly.

"I thought it was under yours," she sighed.

"We can divide if you want," he deadpanned.

"Alright, alright." She smirked. "Let’s just think about it later. We still don’t even have the trees in the Hall."

There was that almost-smile again, ghosting over his features — the kind that wasn’t visible unless you were looking for it. She didn’t know why she was.

"Do you have any theme in mind?" Regulus said as his gaze moved from the road to Elenore.

Their eyes met. Geez, now she saw what Lucy was talking about.

"I was thinking something classical," she said, not breaking eye contact and counting on her fingers. "Winter’s waltz. Starlight ceiling and enchanted snowflakes, garlands and candlelights. Something elegant, minimal and soft — not too garish." She moved her gaze back at the road, she didn’t want to trip. Especially in front of Regulus. "So what’s your concept?"

"Something traditional," he said, nodding once. "Respectable. And less likely to cause structural damage."

Merlin, what could that mean? Decorate the Hall as the ministry of magic? Where is the fun of the celebration?

Elenore shot him a sidelong glance. "I’m starting to think you were born eighty years old, Black. What are you planning? Decorating the Great Hall like the Ministry atrium?"

Shit, why can’t she just shut up sometimes? 

He ignored that, which was somehow even more infuriating. "Then I suppose we could merge both of our visions and make them work together. Yours for the aesthetic and mine for the practical part."

Thanks, Merlin, they won’t have to fight because of that at least.

They walked a few more paces "You’ll handle the enchantments, then?" she added, almost absently, "So there will be no structural damage, of course."

"Sure, I’ll handle the enchantments then," he confirmed.

"And I’ll handle the aesthetic."

"Of course you will."

They walked in silence for a while — not unpleasant, but taut in that particular way shared by two people who didn’t dislike each other but refused to admit otherwise.

They followed the winding road as it curved along the edge of the Forbidden Forest, the distant line of the mountains fading under low clouds. Hogsmeade appeared gradually — chimney smoke, the faint sound of chatter, the glitter of frost on rooftops.

Regulus was the first to speak. "Have you seen Jackdaw? It seems that Headless Hunt became more restless since he disappeared."

Elenore shrugged. "They’re ghosts. Restlessness is their nature. Although I can’t imagine how Richard’s departure could have affected them."

"Departure?" he echoed, sceptical.

She nodded, lips twitching in amusement. "Oh, well, he left for an adventure across the Highlands. Although I don’t know how — apparently, since he doesn’t know where he died and isn’t bound to any particular spot, he decided that he might as well explore the world."

Regulus gave her a long look. "Not a good sign for Highlands then."

Elenore made a face. "Oh come on, at least Richard is not as obnoxious as Bloody Byron. He will do no actual harm."

Regulus glanced at her, mildly intrigued. "You sure? You knew that Richard stole our family heirloom and then sold it?"

"Oh, absolutely, I did, and then he ended up beheaded and very dead. But it’s not like he killed anyone," she said, warming to her own irritation. "Besides, I doubt that the disappearance of one ring affected your family's wealth in any meaningful way."

Elenore, what are you saying? She thought,It is logical  that if he was beheaded that he was dead.

Shit.

Regulus signed heavily. Merlin give him strength, he haven’t though that Elenore could make such a great job of annoying him by just undermining any of his arguments. There was no sense in arguing with her because of that. Besides, it happened a century ago, it doesn’t matter now.

"Alright," he said finally, the word edged with amusement. "But what exactly has the Bloody Byron done to offend your sensibilities this time?"

"Nothing directly," she said, tugging her scarf tighter against the wind. "He’s just… insufferable. Self-absorbed. Eternally brooding, but not in the poetic way he seems to think. He killed Helena, and then he killed himself, and somehow the legend paints it as romance." Her tone became more mocking. "How dramatic, how tortured, how self-important. I hope his poor ego was not damaged too severely."

Regulus’s mouth curved, barely perceptible. "You disapprove."

"I don’t disapprove," she said dryly. "I just have little patience for men who can kill their beloved without any reason and then turn it into a tragedy about themselves. Poor Helena — imagine spending eternity with the ghost of the man who murdered you. I’d haunt the dungeons out of sheer protest."

"Remind me never to cross you, then." He gave her a sidelong glance as if duel haven’t taught him anything.

She smiled faintly, brushing wrinkles from her sleeve. "I’d make a charming ghost, you must admit."

"Charming," he repeated, his tone unreadable. He looked at her — truly looked — and for a heartbeat something flickered behind his eyes, some strange mix of curiosity and caution.

This woman never failed to confuse him with whatever she had on her mind and usually decided to share with others. Who would ever imagine themselves as a ghost?

How was she even qualified to be a professor? Despite the time when she took control over her mind and actions, Elenore was just a walking chaos of look what I am going to pull off now.

She turned to glance at him, arching a brow. "What? You don’t think so?"

"I’m just trying to decide whether that was a threat or an aspiration."

"It was hypothetical," she said primly.

"Coming from you, that’s never reassuring."

She gave him a sideways look, lips quirking. "Wait — does that mean you’ve planned to kill me, then?"

He glanced at her with studied indifference. "Not yet."

Her jaw dropped slightly, caught somewhere between shock and indignation. "Not yet?"

"As a matter of fact," he said, infuriatingly calm, "I’ve considered it already."

Elenore narrowed her eyes. "Well, I’m not even surprised."

"Good," he said smoothly, "then you’ll die well-prepared."

She snorted. "Oh, if you ever try, I will hunt your classroom. Every lesson. Every lecture. I’ll rearrange your parchments, whisper wrong incantations, maybe even grade your essays. You will never get rid of me, and you will regret it Professor.”

Regulus haven’t answered, just looked at her. Enough of this idiocy. Why was he even playing along to this verbal what-if? And why were they acting as if they were still at school? More importantly, why was Elenore acting as if she was not afraid of him just a couple of months before? Something was wrong.

Their eyes met briefly, both refusing to let the faint amusement reach their lips. The air between them hung sharp and thin.

It seems that Elenore has also got back to her senses. Her eyes darted from the trees and back to the sides of the road. Back and forth as if she was processing the nonsense they both had just said.

By the time they reached the outskirts of Hogsmeade, the snow began to fall again — flakes drifting slowly from the sky. Elenore tilted her head back for a moment, watching them catch in her lashes. The Wideye Potion still buzzed faintly in her veins.

Smoke curled from chimneys, wreaths hung from every lamppost, and the faint notes of a violinist playing spilt through the street.

They paused near the gate to the village, surveying the street.

"All right," Elenore said briskly. "Shopping list: charms for snowflakes and candles, invitations, fabric to wrap around the pillars, ornaments, garlands and mistletoe—"

"No mistletoe," Regulus interrupted.

She smirked. "Scared, Black?"

"Practical," he said flatly. "You don’t want to explain to Dumbledore why half the school got hexed under decorative flora."

"How long have you known about Nargles?" Elenore was surprised that he knew. The wizarding community generally considered nargles to be extinct or mythical.

He gave her a dry, pointed look — that expression of his that somehow managed to say I haven’t, but I’m not about to risk it either.

"Let’s just say," he said evenly, "that I’ve learned to respect the chaos students are capable of — magical creatures included."

"Wise of you," she said, smiling faintly. "You’re finally adapting."

His eyes flicked to her. "And you’re finally listening"

"Oh, I wouldn’t go that far."

"Could you remind me what is wrong with the floating candles in the hall?" Regulus asked. "Why do you want to enchant them?"

"I just thought to change their colour, make them a bit more glimmery," Elenore replied, adjusting her scarf again, the wind couldn't leave it in peace. "Their usual golden glow is getting old." She glanced down at the list in her hand. "So, back to the list, it seems like that’s all for decorations."

She hummed as she voiced aloud her mental notes for the outline of their plan. "Then we have… music — we can discuss that later — and for refreshments, we’ll have to speak with the elves. Hagrid will bring the Christmas trees."

She stopped abruptly and tucked the paper in her pocket. "All right, let’s start from Tomes and Scrolls then."

"Alright, but have you thought about the layout for the tables?" Regulus asked.

"No. Perhaps you would be a better fit for that."

Uh. The one and only thing she forgot to include and it was the first thing absence of which he noticed.

Breathe in. Breathe out, Elenore. You still have to work with him for almost a month and not kill each other. Calm down!

They split the errands between them. Regulus handled the logistics — enchantments and all things that required precision. Elenore drifted toward aesthetics, not like she couldn’t handle the logistics herself, it's just that Regulus was, for some reason, here and also had to do something. So Elenore agreed to take care of colours, fabrics, and the sort of details that made Regulus sigh under his breath.

The first place on their way was Tomes and Scrolls — a bookshop that also stocked spelcrafts. Exactly what they needed for artificial snowfall that neither candles nor heating charms would affect.

Elenore pushed the door open, Regulus close behind. A little brass bell chimed overhead. Warm, dusty air greeted them. She brushed snow from her cloak, careful not to track slush onto the old carpets.

"Good morning, Tobby," she greeted with a small wave.

Tobby straightened from behind the counter, blinking sleep from his eyes. Being the youngest son of the owner,Elenore remembered him when he was small, wobbling between shelves while Miss Scrolls read quietly in the corner. Apparently, he had inherited the family post.

"Morning, Elenore," Tobby said politely, though his tone dipped half a note lower with the second name. "Professor Black."

"Potions aisle moved again?" Elenore asked, surveying the shelves.

"Left side now. He trailed off, eyes darting between them before adding awkwardly, "Searching for some recipes?"

"No, not today, Tobby," Regulus murmured. "Do you have by any chance spelcrafts for snow?"

Elenore added quickly, "Not the cold ones, though, some delicate flakes that would drift lazily, shimmer, and vanish before hitting the ground."

Regulus glanced at her sideways. As if to say — does it matter? It’s just snow.

Elenore nudged him with an elbow — lightly, just enough to get him walking — and followed Tobby down the aisle.

"You’re right on time!" Tobby said over his shoulder. "New stock came in yesterday. And we’ve got some new seasonal charms too — snow, frost-lace, iced ribbons—"

"Oh, that’s perfect!" Elenore clasped her hands excitedly.

Tobby led them to a small corner section between towering bookshelves, where a table was piled high with spelcraft slips and tiny rune-marked discs. He gestured broadly. "Here you go — snow, ice, crystals, whatever type you need."

"Can we test them?" Elenore asked. "Just to be sure which one suits best?"

"Sure. If you need anything, I’ll be upstairs," Tobby replied, already halfway up the stairs to the second floor.

Snowflake spelcrafts came in various types: drifting, slow flakes that faded into smoke, crystalline flakes, icy ones that sparkled brighter under candlelight, flakes that dissolved into faint chimes, swirling blizzards. The more elaborate ones hummed faintly when held.

They looked through the whole pile of them before choosing some for examination.

"All right," Elenore said, picking up two. "Let’s cast them and compare. We should see how fast they drop." She came closer to show Regulus the instructions on both papers.

Regulus flicked his wand. The first charm produced heavy flakes, falling too quickly — gathering thickly near the floor like slush.

"No," she said immediately, returning the paper to the table.

He cast a counter-spell, then tried another. This one drifted dreamily, almost too slowly, as if it were suspended in winter air.

"Pretty," Elenore admitted, "but no."

"Care to explain why?" Deadpanned Regulus.

Oh, he was annoyed, and they were only in shop one.

"Imagine two hundred teenagers running through that. They’ll inhale it."

Regulus sighted heavily and then cast a counter-spell.

Next charm — flakes that chimed on contact with surfaces. Elenore winced.

"No sound-based ones. Peeves will get ideas."

Regulus’ expression tightened. The mere thought seemed to injure him.

They tested another set — swirling snow that glittered and vanished mid-air. A few flakes landed on their shoulder and shimmered into nothing.

Perfect!

"That one," Elenore declared. "It’s elegant, and no one will choke on it. Most of it will dissolve even before landing on students’ heads!"

"Makes sense," Regulus replied, squinting his eyes.

They moved on to examine the smaller details of these flakes — their size, whether they responded to heat, and how long they would dance before fading. Elenore leaned close to observe how a flake dissolved on her hand.

"This works," she said, glancing at Regulus.

Regulus nodded, flicked his wand again, testing density. Watching him cast, she noticed how stiff his left hand was. Unlike the right one — it was fine — deliberate, elegant. Two fingers on the left were crooked, their joints set at odd angles, as if once broken and poorly mended. She wondered how many hexes it took to make a hand look like that. Besides, she noticed that he switched his wand from right to left and back again while casting.

Interesting. Does it hurt?

He caught her looking.

"You do realise no one will notice the enchantment details except us, right?" he said, voice smooth.

"That’s the point," she replied lightly. "We’ll know."

He studied her for a second, then pocketed his wand turn and gave her that faint, knowing glance. Something between approval and annoyance.

Elenore suppressed a smirk.

The moment broke when Tobby reappeared at the end of the aisle. "Found what you needed?"

"For now," Elenore answered, passing back to the counter.

"And more visits later," Regulus muttered under his breath.

"You say that like you’re suffering," she whispered as Tobby packed the spellcraft. "Merlin forbid aesthetic pleasure touches your heart."

He exhaled — close to a laugh, but held back. Always held back.

As they stood at the counter, another spelcraft on display caught her attention — delicate snowflakes that shifted colours depending on the music playing. She paused, fingers hovering.

Regulus followed her gaze. "Tempting, but too unpredictable. If someone plays Celestina Warbeck, the whole hall will turn magenta."

"And that would be bad because…?"

He gave her a flat, cold stare.

Elenore sighed. "Fine."

They paid, stepping back out into the crisp air. Snow drifted lazily, and students chattered in distant clusters. Wreaths hung crookedly on lampposts, jingling faintly with the wind.

Regulus adjusted his gloves. "Next?"

"Yes," she said, tightening her cloak. "Scribbulus Writing Implements, it’s right by the corner. The students will need invitations."

Regulus glanced around the street, brows knitting slightly. "You navigate this village as you live here."

"Do I look like a local?" There was no offence in her question, just pure curiosity.

"No, it’s just interesting how you seem to know everyone and everything here."

Elenore shrugged lightly. "My mother’s parents live not far away from Flutes & Lutes. So I used to spend a lot of time here during the summer, that’s why."

His expression shifted for a fraction of a second — something like recognition, maybe jealousy, maybe ache — then back to neutral again.

"Must’ve been… quieter than London," he said finally.

"Quieter," she agreed. "And nicer."

They approached the shop. The bell above the door chimed gently as they entered Scribbulus Writing Implements — cramped, warm, scented faintly of parchment dust and lilac ink.  Tall shelves were stacked tall with scrolls, quills, wax seals, and enchanted stationery that always whispered something incoherent.

Elenore drifted toward a display of invitation papers — gold-trimmed vellum, deep navy cardstock that shimmered under candlelight, silver-flecked parchment.

Regulus examined fonts with the same severity as people used on battle maps.

"We don’t need anything with animated lettering," he muttered.

"Why not? Floating swirls of names could be charming."

"And distracting," he replied dryly. "And expensive."

"Not like we are paying for that and not Dumbledore," She rolled her eyes and lifted two samples. "Gold or silver lettering?"

"Silver," he said instantly.

"Because?"

"Gold is gaudy. Silver looks cleaner."

"Gaudy," she repeated, amused. "Right. Merlin forbid we commit elegance."

He ignored that — or pretended to.

They tested wax seal colours next — frost blue or deep forest green. They debated envelope texture, spacing, script style, and flourishes.

At one point, their fingers brushed over the same sample.

Neither moved for a heartbeat.

Then Regulus withdrew sharply, clearing his throat, expression unreadable except for that barely-there flicker in his eyes — like a memory he hated.

In the end, after far too many samples debated and discarded, they settled on a deep midnight–blue cardstock. Silver lettering curled elegantly across the surface, subtle starlight flecks charmed into the background. The Hogwarts crest was embossed in platinum wax on the envelope.

Elenore slid a thumb across the sample. "Perfect."

Regulus nodded once. "Acceptable."

Which, from him, was practically glowing praise.

After writing down every detail about the order, the shop owner returned his gaze back to Elenore and Regulus. "Custom order like this will take a week," he warned, adjusting his spectacles, "Possibly eight days."

"We’ll have our students pick them up," Regulus said immediately.

Elenore elbowed him. "No. We’ll come ourselves. We’re responsible for this."

"Astounding remark, Miss Fawley," Regulus muttered.

She shot him a look.

The owner cleared his throat delicately. "When it’s ready, we will send Owl to the castle."

They stepped back outside. Snow dusted lazily through the air.

Elenore led the way, turning left past Zonko’s until the plum–coloured door came into view. Ornate, framed by a massive faceted amethyst crystal that hovered inches above the wood, rotating slowly. The windows were crowded with hanging ornaments that changed colours, garlands that braided themselves, and lanterns that emitted snow–shaped light.

A bell chimed as they entered.

Inside, the shop looked endless. Shelves overflowed with glass baubles, floating star clusters, icicles, enchanted ribbons that tied themselves, wreaths that sang seasonal melodies, frost–leaf garlands that sprouted miniature diamonds, sculpted ice roses that never melted, silver branches threaded with flowers, enchanted confetti, chocolate fountains, shimmering ornaments, lanterns, and candles.

The amount of decor in this shop hurt the eyes. Gloriously.

"This," Elenore sighed, "is heaven."

Regulis just stared,  it seems like he was not a big fan of places like this.

They walked down opposite aisles. Regulus gravitated toward symmetrical, monochromatic decor, whereas Elenore was drawn toward anything that glimmered in the light.

At one point, he reached for a string of frost–lace garland and noticed that it was suspiciously quiet.

Complete silence.

Elenore was gone.

Regulus straightened, spine tightening. He turned once, then twice, scanning corners. He was still examining the garlands when he felt something poked between his shoulder blades from behind.

"Surrender!"

He turned to see Elenore standing with a crystal decorative wand in her hand. He only sighed and turned back to the shelf.

"What’s with constant vigilance, Professor?" Elenore sang. "Haven’t you been working with Moody?"

Regulus inhaled — sharply, offended more by the remark than the sneak attack. The only reply he considered relevant was "Your stealth is admirable. Questionable, but admirable Miss Fawley."

Elenore grinned, then handed him two boxes from the nearest table as if nothing had happened.

They settled on a star–shaped baubles in muted silver, soft gold, deep midnight purple, and a frost-blue. Some were matte with traced constellations, some looked as if they were made from lace, and others just shimmered faintly.

For the walls, they chose strings of enchanted starlight globes — tiny orbs of pale luminescence, hovering on nearly invisible threads.

"And no singing wreaths?" Regulus said firmly, clearly with intent to mock her.

Now it was Elenore’s turn to sigh. "Not like you will approve one."

By the time they reached the counter, their arms were full.

"Well," Elenore murmured, assessing her satchel, "we will have to make it fit."

She tapped her wand. "Reducio." Then added, turning to Regulus, "You can cast as well."

The boxes shrank obediently to matchbox size.

Regulus cleared his throat. "Thank you for reminding me, but I do know the same basic spells as you, Fawley. We studied together, in case you’ve forgotten."

"Considering how often you pretend otherwise," she said sweetly, dropping the miniaturised boxes inside, "I’m never sure."

Once everything was paid for and pocketed, they stepped back into the cold again, their breaths curled white in the air.

Next, they stopped by Gladrags Wizardwear, where Elenore spent an inordinate amount of time comparing lengths of enchanted fabric to wrap around the pillars.

"They’re identical," Regulus said, arms crossed.

"They’re not," she replied, holding the fabric up to the light. "This one has silver undertones. That one leans to cerulean."

"I see." He didn’t.

"You don’t," she said dryly as if provoking him. "But I’ll pretend you do."

They bickered over colours, textures until the tailor politely suggested they "take a step back and look from a distance.”

Finally, Elenore held the last two fabrics up, squinting.

"Those are identical as well," Regulus remarked dryly.

"They are not. Why do I have to explain every time?" She said, scandalised. "This one shimmers blue under candlelight, and that one turns violet. Subtlety matters, Professor."

He folded his arms, clearly unconvinced. "If you say so."

"I do say so." She dropped the fabric back on the table. "You’re lucky I’m here. Otherwise, this ball would look like a funeral."

He arched a brow. "And you think your taste guarantees otherwise?"

"Obviously."

His sigh was soft but genuine, the kind that almost sounded like affection — if he was capable of that sort of thing.

Elenore held the roll with a victorious grin.

Regulus merely inclined his head.

Outside again, Regulus insisted on carrying Elenore’s satchel as it was now full of small but still heavy decorations. By late afternoon, the snow had thickened, blanketing the street in white. Lanterns flickered to life along the rooftops, painting the streets with a soft gold glow.

Elenore scribbled notes on a small parchment as they were walking down the central square now. The road beneath them was slick. She nearly slipped once, but caught herself — barely — with Regulus’s hand braced against her arm before she could fall.

She froze for a moment, pulse stuttering. His hand was gloved but steady, his expression unreadable as ever.

"Careful," he said simply, releasing her.

"Thank you, Mr Black," she muttered, brushing snow from her sleeve.

The silence that followed wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either.

Elenore caught herself glancing sideways once, then again. The dark fabric of his coat brushed hers when they walked too close, neither stepped away.

They passed the post office, where owls blinked drowsily behind frost-covered glass, and stopped briefly by Honeydukes, where the window displays gleamed with chocolate frogs and new Christmas fuzzing candies.

Neither spoke. The crunch of snow and the faint whisper of wind filled the silence between them.

Then, as if her thoughts slipped out before she could catch them, Elenore murmured, "I didn’t expect this to go… well."

Regulus gave her a sidelong glance. "It’s going well?"

As if they weren’t scolding, sighing and bickering the whole day.

"Relatively," she said. "You haven’t hexed me yet."

"Tempting though it’s been."

She sniffed, pleased despite herself. "I will pretend I haven’t heard that and would like to say that we deserved some reward for tolerating each other for that long. What would you say about going to the Three Broomsticks, Mr Black? We can summarise the day and strategise further… without freezing here."

His hesitation was brief. Too brief for denial to fully form.

"Fine," he declared.

I was the longest she had ever spent with Regulus in her whole life. She was surprised they hadn’t killed each other by now. Her pulse still felt too quick, but she told herself it was just the cold. The Wideye potion and drops drummed faintly through her veins, sharpening her clarity into something almost feverish, an echo of an echo she knew too well.

They turned toward the downhill path. Snowflakes drifted lazily, catching in her lashes.

"Elenore?" a voice called, cutting through the air.

Both froze. They turned.

"Oh," she breathed.

Regulus glanced up in the same direction Elenore looked. "What is it?"

She didn’t answer immediately. She was watching the approaching silhouette of a tall figure shaking snow from his hair, scarf hanging loose around his neck.

Merrick.

Of course.

He looked infuriatingly the same. That sort of clean, easy handsomeness that made people trust him instantly, and a smile that said he’d never once in his life felt uncomfortable in his own skin. He spotted her instantly. His grin widened as though he’d been expecting her all along.

"Ellie," he called warmly, striding closer as though it hadn’t been years. And as though he hadn’t sent those damn letters months ago.

Regulus’s head snapped toward her at the nickname.

"Merrick," Elenore said, trying very hard to sound composed and failing halfway through. "Merlin, I haven’t— when did you—"

He stopped near Elenore, leaning to kiss her cheek in greeting. "Just got back from London two days ago," he said. "I meant to write, but things got—" he made a vague circling motion with his hand, "—complicated."

"Complicated," she repeated, eyes narrowing.

Regulus stayed very still beside her, posture straight, hands folded behind his back. He didn’t interrupt — but the air around him tightened, as if something invisible had shifted.

Merrick glanced toward him, finally, still smiling. "And you are— Ellie's boyfriend?"

Elenore’s breath snagged. Her heart plunged. Heat flashed up her neck. Her eyes widened, hands lifting slightly in startled denial.

"No, no," she said quickly. "He’s my colleague! That’s Regulus Black."

"Pleasure," Merrick said, extending a hand.

Regulus accepted it, expression unreadable. "Likewise."

For a few beats, the silence between the three of them stretched tight as wire.

Then Merrick, as if oblivious, leaned back and grinned. "So tell me, Ellie — you’re what now, twenty-one?"

"Twenty-three, actually," she snapped before she could soften it.

For Merlin’s sake. Did he care so little that he doesn’t even remember how old she is?

Elenore’s pulse was still racing, her potion-sharpened energy now edged with something entirely different — nerves, excitement, confusion. She’d half-thought she’d imagined him.

"What brings you back?" she asked, trying to sound casual.

"Work," he said. "And boredom. London’s beautiful but dreadfully dull when you’re alone. Still better then New-York, though" He smiled again, that easy grin that had once made her laugh out loud in spite of herself. "Besides, I missed the snow here."

Snow. Right. Convenient.

Elenore tried to distract herself. "And for how long are you planning to stay?"

"A few weeks, maybe more," he said. "Depends on how long they need me at the office here. Temporary work while I sort things out."

"That’s— that’s good," she said, too quickly.

"Is it?" His grin turned teasing. "You look terrified."

"I’m not terrified," she said, though she absolutely was. "Just surprised."

"You always were terrible at hiding your expressions." He laughed — an easy, rolling sound that made her want to slap him and hug him in equal measure.

"And after that?" she asked, stalling her own heartbeat. "More… travelling?"

"You know me so well, Ellie. I’ve thought about the northern hamlets. You’d love it. Quiet skies, clean air, no expectations."

"Sounds idyllic," she said dryly. "Especially the no expectations part."

Regulus, still silent, observed them with that detached curiosity that was somehow worse than judgment.

"Have any plans yourself, Ellie?"

"Well, at this moment," she said carefully, "we were on our way to the Three Broomsticks."

"You used to prefer mead, didn’t you? Still brewing your own?" Merrick remarked.

She smiled faintly and nodded in confirmation.

"Good. You were always good at it." He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping into that familiar, lazy drawl.

Enough. She can’t handle those types of remarks from him anymore. The one suggesting that he might still care for her. She didn’t know why, but it felt surreal and broke her heart to know that he didn’t care, but still deep down hoped that everything was still possible.

Elenore turned to Regulus with an expression suggesting that they should leave, and he had to do something about it.

Not like she didn’t want to chat with Merrick a bit longer. She wanted truly just not now.

Regulus understood her without further hints. The sort of wordless understanding that happens only after spending too much time together and pretending it means nothing.

He stepped forward and started politely, "Sorry to interrupt, but we have a reservation," he lied smoothly. "Limited seating hours after the evening. Didn’t want to risk."

Merrick snapped upright. "Ah — of course." He straightened his scarf. "Then I’ll let you go. I’ve errands anyway." He winked — infuriatingly, like everything between them was uncomplicated. "Good evening, Ellie."

He turned, boots crunching away down the street, nigh swallowing his silhouette.

Only once he vanished did Elenore exhale.

"Well," she said, after a long silence. "That was… catastrophic."

"Could’ve been worse," Regulus murmured. "He could’ve proposed."

She let out a surprised, sharp laugh. "I don’t think he is capable of doing something like that."

After a while, Elenore spoke softly. "For the record, I didn’t… expect to see him."

"I gathered," Regulus said. "You’re remarkably poor at hiding shock."

She didn’t argue. Couldn’t. He was right after all.

Ahead, warm light spilt from the Three Broomsticks’ windows. Student chatter leaked through the door in muffled bursts as the smell of spiced butterbeer drifted through the street outside.

Notes:

Finally, the chapter aligns with the actual date, though I can't promise it about the next ones.

Chapter 21: Chapter 20

They pushed through the door, warmth and chatter spilling out around them. It smelled of firewood, butterbeer, and a faint trace of cinnamon in here. The inn was warm, golden, and packed with students and villagers escaping the cold.

They wove through the crowd toward a small table tucked at the back, where the light was low and the noise only half-overwhelming.

Elenore slid into her chair with a soft groan, then started unbuttoning her cloak. Regulus shrugged off a bit of snow from his sleeves before hanging his cloak at the back of the chair.

"I’ll order," he said, already turning toward the bar. "Firewhisky?"

She hesitated for a moment, remembering the insistent buzz from the potions humming under her skin, then lifted two fingers. "Redcurrant rum."

Regulus paused, looked back and nodded.

He disappeared into the crowd. Elenore folded her arms on the table and pressed her forehead against her sleeve, letting the noise settle around her. Her thoughts fractured restlessly, replaying Merrick’s grin, his voice, his damned casualness.

You look terrified.

She did. She hated that she did. And especially she hated that he caught her off guard and had such an influence on her. 

Why now? Why always like that?

You used to prefer mead. Still brewing your own? 

So he remembered that and still couldn’t remember how old she was? Merlin, she’s just one year younger. Is it such hard information to remember? Especially when you know each other for EIGHT YEARS?

Northern hamlets. You’d love it! She mocked his voice in her own head. Merlin, why can’t she forget him? What feelings still hold to him so dearly? 

He thought about me liking and willing to go with him to the northern hamlets.

How ridiculous, she could never have thought that Merrick could have actually thought about what she would like or approve. 

The thought of him thinking of her made Elenore’s heart squeeze.

 Perhaps it was not the end? Perhaps he really likes her? Perhaps the same way she likes him? Perhaps one day he will confess? Perhaps she has to wait just a bit more time? Perhaps it can still work out?

She exhaled sharply and straightened, rolling her neck.

When Regulus returned, the tray held two drinks and—unexpectedly—two small dishes of something steaming.

"What’s this?" she asked, sitting up.

"Asking questions ruins surprises," he said primly, sliding the rum toward her.

She blinked. "Did you just…Are those Cornish Pasties?" She pointed her finger at the plates.

Regulus just nodded and sat in his chair opposite Elenore’s.

"Right," Elenore said, taking one pastie from the plate. "To business."

"Are you sure about that?" His tone dipped just enough to sharpen the air around them. "You look too dazed to discuss anything important."

Elenore stiffened. "…Excuse me?"

"That man," Regulus clarified. "Merrick." He said the name like he was testing it for poison. "You wanted to leave very quickly."

Her jaw tightened. "So?"

"You don’t have to tell me," he said, voice smoothing. "But you were rattled. Why?"

Why would he care?

She inhaled heavily and looked at Regulus.

Why would she even discuss it with him? Why would he care? And who is he to be actually concerned about this?

She scanned his face, eyes tracing over his features. At this moment, it seemed to her that he was actually interested in what happened. More than that, he looked at her as if he cared, as if all she would say actually mattered.

Fuck it. Elenore was not the one to keep her mouth shut, especially if someone was genuinely interested in what she had to say. And strangely, she didn’t even want to pretend to be any other version of herself now. Just Elenore.Curious, chaotic, delusional, honest, emotional. He already saw half of it during the day, yes, it was odd that she was about to lay her hear bare to the person that might have been the end of her. It also felt to her that she can’t resent him for the whole life. Yes, she will remember what happened, but she already saw a positive switch in his character and convinced herself that Regulus won’t actually hurt her despite the amount of times he joked otherwise. At the moment, she didn’t care what Black would think of her, she just wanted to be herself for the evening. Even more strange, she felt like she could show this Elenore to Regulus without being judged or perceived in the wrong way. Besides, they already did too much of preparation as for one day, perhaps it was time to just enjoy the evening, even if it was in the company of Regulus Black. Perhaps it might even be a great start for a friendship.

"Fine," she said, taking the sip. "Merrick is… an old friend."

"Didn’t look like it," he murmured.

She shot him a glare. "Are you always like this?"

"Yes. Continue."

Infuriating man. Oh, Merlin, has she already regretted thinking that it would be a great idea to share with him? Yes. And it was just the beginning. 

"All right." She inhaled slowly. "We met when I was fifteen and I… loved him ever since, Merlin knows why."

Regulus’s fingers paused on his glass. "And does he know that?"

"NO! And he doesn’t have to…" Her gaze dropped to the rim of her drink. "For now."

"Is there a reason for that, Miss Fawley?" He said her name with a softness that unsettled her. "Does the story… Have further explanation?"

Elenore placed her glass down too carefully.

"If you insist, Mr Black."

She leaned back, eyes drifting toward the ceiling.

"His mother came to ask my grandma if she had any stamps. It was in the summer and I had never seen him before until he came to visit his grandparents this year. They live next door and knew my family, our mothers grew up together. Then he stayed over and fell asleep on my shoulder."

Regulus blinked twice, slowly. "Charming."

She shot him a dry look.

"Turned out he was living in New York, but after that summer, he tried to visit Hogsmead more often. After that, he kept being in contact with my brother, William, you might remember him."

"I do," Regulus said quietly. "He was a Slytherin Quidditch team captain, and I even played with him." He paused. "So what happened next?"

Elenore  nodded in approval as she sipped her rum, double shot, slowly making her finally relax after a long week. Perhaps that’s why now she had no problems sharing this story with Regulus.

"He kept ignoring me from time to time, then acted as if it never happened, and he might actually care for me, sometimes, he appeared, then disappeared. He was closer to Willian rather than me. I still thought that maybe he cared. But after some time, I found out from my grandmother that he had a girlfriend all this time."

"That is ridiculous," Regulus leaned back, jaw tightened, brows furrowed. 

"Yes, it is. He never mentioned her. Never spoke about her. I had no idea she existed," she exhaled, rubbing her thumb over the glass. "We met a couple of times after that, and I haven’t seen him since I started my work at the Ministry. Until…… I received a letter from him two months ago where he wrote that he was coming back to Hogsmead and would like to meet me, after which he disappeared again. Until today."

"And today he acted as if nothing happened," Regulus said as a matter of fact. It seems that he also noticed how casual Merrick was and started to connect the pieces of the story.

"Yes. But also, I don’t know? Maybe nothing really happened? I don’t understand him sometimes," She exhaled, her shoulders dropping helplessly.

There was a thing about Elenore, she can make herself love the things even if she hates them. As much as she despised something, she could always gaslight herself into believing otherwise if it was required. That’s why work at the ministry hasn’t felt as bad after all. That’s why she was still forgiving Merrick again and again. She hated how he acted sometimes, but still, she couldn’t let go of him so easily. She hated how blindly and hopelessly she was still believing and holding on to this man. She hated how she couldn’t find the strength to leave him and still did nothing about it, still believing that this person had potential. 

"Don’t understand but still afraid to let go of the possibility," Regulus whispered as he carefully studied her, perhaps even too gently for a man who claimed to feel nothing. 

But Elenore saw it, saw him smiling, mocking her, saw him confused, heard of him helping others, and he even kind of saved her a couple of times already. She just couldn’t believe that a man sitting in front of her, who did an exceptional job of annoying her the whole day and now genuinely listened to her, could actually feel nothing. There was just no way.

And now looking at him, she saw in his eyes that he cared. That he is still capable of feeling after all those years of showing otherwise.

"I understand that I am just being delusional and stupid, but I can’t just let it go. There has to be something." She took the second pastie and waved it as if to emphasise her point before taking a bite of it. " I don’t know if you understand what I mean, Mr Black—"

"I do understand."

She blinked. "You do?"

His mouth twitched.

"I liked a girl once," he said slowly. " And I think I still do…"

"And what’s with that girl?" Elenore leaned on the table with her elbows and twirled the glass in her hands after taking a sip. "Does the story have further explanation, Mr Black?"

Elenore smiled, now she was interested. She couldn’t believe that Regulus Black just confessed to her that he is capable of loving. One more point to support her theory that this man actually has feelings.

"She almost died." Regulus deadpanned. 

Elenore almost choked on her rum, her breat stopped, her smile faltered, her stomach dropped, and it seems like her head started spinning. 

"Well, almost died sounds worse than what I’ve just described. But how’s she now?" Elenore tried to sound as composed as she could after hearing that someone Regulus supposedly liked had almost died. 

"I don’t know, I haven’t seen her since August 79." His voice was dry, stripped of warmth as if even remembering this caused him harm. "So yes, Miss Fawley, I do know how you feel." He said as he finished his glass and put it back on the table.

Their eyes met—unintentionally. No one daring to break the moment.

"I am sorry," she whispered.

"You don’t have to be."

For a moment, the pub’s noise faded entirely. Students’ laughter blurred. Glasses clinked far away. Snow tapped at the window.

They stayed silent for a bit until  Regulus cleared his throat and stood. "The same for you?"

Elenore rose too quickly, glass nearly tipping. "No, no—this round is on me."

He raised an eyebrow. "Don’t bother, Miss Fawley. Drinks are on me."

She froze, then sat slowly as he disappeared into the crowd again. The rum warmed her bloodstream, her two potions humming along with her nerves and exhaustion. She wasn’t drunk—just slightly unguarded. Dangerous state in her case.

She stared at the grain lines of the table, thinking of Merrick, the years wasted, the hope she fed herself with like a creature in a cage.

Merlin, she did this to herself.

Why would she do this to herself?

It was the problem all this time only for her and made solely by her. She had a hard time imagining that Merrick might have struggled with his feelings the same way she did.

And perhaps that was a reason why she was alone all this time. Because loving the idea of Merrick was always safer and easier. She wouldn’t have to let anyone close enough to wound her, close enough to say that she is not enough and point to her flaws that she already knew about without the help of others. And she knew that, Merlin, she knew that, she was sick of her own self. She analysed her every flaw so eloquently, forgetting in the process that knowing why? haven’t meant that she was healing and doing anything for that in the process. She wore her self-awareness as another shield, building an identity around being broken — not to manipulate others, but because fixing herself would mean losing the version of her that learned to survive. 

Somewhere along the way, her brain decided that hurt equals meaning. That if something hurts enough, it must matter. So all this time she was chasing the high of heartbreak, failure, isolation — because feeling something deeply, even if it’s suffering, is the only time she believed that she’s real.

And Merlin, she was scared that the healed version of her might be… boring. 

Or worse.

Nothing.

She is a disaster, she believes herself to be not only because the world made her one. But also because deep down, she kind of enjoys the chaos. Perhaps that is why the idea of unreachable and cold Merrick was so appealing to Elenore all this time. Because it hurt enough to make her feel anything again.

When Regulus returned, sliding another glass across the wood, she exhaled long, shaky breath.

"You know," she said, staring into the red liquid, "as I am thinking about it now, I was looking for something in my life. And I wanted it so badly that I made myself believe that it was it," she said as if finally accepting the truth.

He lowered himself into his seat. "Wanting to believe in something isn't the same as something being real, I’ve learned it the hard way, you know that."

" I know," she smiled bitterly, "and we can do nothing about it," she shrugged and gulped half the glass at once. " I don’t know how you deal with it, but I got used to it…Got used to failing my own and others' expectations, got used to being a disappointment and got used to acting as if it doesn’t matter until it actually feels like it."

Well, that was a confession, perhaps Elenore should stop drinking. But definitely not today.

Regulus set his glass down, fingers tapping against the wood. Nervous? As if he hesitated to ask.

"You said you got used to being a disappointment," he said evenly. "Why would you say that?"

She didn’t answer at first. He caught her off guard with this question. In Elenore’s state, it was risky to answer just to not overshare too much. For a moment, she just stared at the rim of her glass, tracing condensation with her fingertip, pretending she hadn’t heard.

His voice was unexpectedly firm, "Haven’t thought that being a top student and securing a position in the ministry makes a disappointment of you."

That pulled her head up.

He really said that?

Regulus Black — of all people — didn’t think she was a disappointment?

She stared at him, startled, then shrugged weakly. 

Regulus?

 Just said?

 That he doesn’t think she is a disappointment? 

Just to confirm. 

Has she heard it right? 

Then what was this buzz in her head saying her otherwise all those years? 

Her chest tightened. Years of self-doubt and the echo of her parents’ disapproval clashed against that one simple statement. 

When she finally decided to speak, her voice came out a little raw.

" My brother…" she tried to find the right words for this and had a hard time with it. "I… Our parents and some of the relatives….They used to compare us."

Regulus’s expression didn’t change, but something softened around his eyes. "Sounds like a usual practice if you have a sibling." His voice carried the weight of someone who knew exactly how that felt.

Elenore exhaled, her shoulders dropping slightly. "Perhaps, I just… They were always saying — "Elenore, why are you not doing things like William, why don’t you want to try doing something like William, why don’t you have the same vision as William, why don’t you have the same plans as William…" She made a sip, "I don’t blame William for that, he is brilliant, but I am not him, I am not this brilliant achiever son who never fails nor disappoints."

"And yet," he said finally, "you’ve made it here. Teaching at Hogwarts after working at the Ministry. Now organising a ball. Drinking Redcurrant Rum instead of crying about it." The faintest ghost of a smirk touched his lips. "Hardly disappointing, Fawley."

She huffed a laugh, small and brittle. "That’s debatable."

"Then give me an example." Regulus tilted his head as if to say — Then debate me. He studied her in silence — the kind of silence that asked for more without demanding it. His thumb brushed the rim of his glass absently.

Her hand fidgeted with the glass. "Alright then, for instance," she looked around and said, her tone suddenly lighter. "Since we’re in the Three Broomsticks, have you ever heard of the Trine of Hogsmeade or the Starlight Draught?"

Regulus raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "No. Should I have?"

She smirked faintly. "No wonder. Non-locals rarely know of it. The Trine of Hogsmeade refers to the Three Trials Under the Moon — a summer solstice tradition. The first trial is the Starlit Draught." Her voice shifted to an almost dreamy one. "Supposedly dates back to the seventeenth century, when Rosmerta’s ancestor created it as both a tavern challenge and a magical test of your character. Then it became the first trial of the Trine."

Regulus leaned slightly forward, chin resting on his hand. "Go on."

"To pass it, you’re given a tankard with a glowing liquid. It changes for each contestant," she said, lifting her finger to count "honey-sweet for some, bitter as seawater for others, or fiery enough to scorch the throat."

He gave a small, sceptical hum. "Doesn’t sound too bad. What’s the catch?"

"The catch," she continued, smiling faintly, "is that you have to finish it without faltering. No choking, no spilling, no magical mishaps. And once you drink it, it triggers a vision. Your head may start spinning, you might hear whispers, you may see your relatives, fears, future, past, everything possible and impossible."

"So it’s like a prophecy?" He asked.

"Not exactly, some visions might be, but not all of them." She sipped her rum, gaze drifting unfocused for a second. "They could be funny, tragic, mysterious." Another sip, and everything around her started to swing slightly. "Some said that their visions were true and actually happened after the competition."

"And then?" Regulus looked at Elenore from the rim of his glass before making a sip.

"Then you leave the tavern and begin your journey under the draught’s influence. Meaning that whatever emotions or hallucinations it awakens, you must  carry with you into Round Two, which is a Moors’ Run." She leaned back, one arm draped loosely over the chair. "Under the moonlit sky, contestants must fly on their brooms through the misty, bewitched moors on the way to Upper Hogsfield. And someone who drank and saw sorrow might see the moors twist into graves, someone who saw joy might be distracted by laughing figures, everyone sees different things. And you can’t actually tell what’s real and what’s not. To succeed, you must keep to the course despite the visions and mist."

"That," he said, after a beat, "sounds unbearable."

"It’s supposed to be," she murmured, swirling her drink. "The last trial’s called the Midnight Bell, basically, the first person to overcome the second round and enter the chapel where the bell hangs is the winner. There is nothing special in this one, you are still under the draught effect, then light a candle and search for a cracked silver bell. Then a champion hears the bell toll clear and bright, echoing across the moors, and is crowned the victor of the Trine. Tadaaa,» she lifted her hands in a little flourish.

He arched a brow. "And the grand prize for all that torture?"

"Honestly, most of the people do this for fun," Elenore let out a low laugh. "But the prize is a silver token shaped like a star, charmed to give luck and warmth in cold weather."

 Regulus stared at her blankly for a moment, then snorted. "All that for a glorified trinket?"

Elenore almost rolled her eyes. "Yes, ridiculous, all that for the token and the sake of local traditions."

"Sounds like someone doesn’t have it," Regulus said, a mocking half-smirk forming on his lips.

She shot him a glare, suggesting that she, in fact, didn't have it. "My point is," she began, setting her glass down with a small thud, "I fainted three times during the first round. I couldn’t even handle the Starlit Draught. Three times, Black. And William—" her tone cracked slightly, "he won the token on his first attempt. I spent three years failing the first trial, and he made it through all three in one go. You see my point?"

Regulus tilted his head slightly. "Not exactly. How does that make you a disappointment?"

"Because I couldn’t even win once in a drinking competition," she said, frustrated, almost laughing at herself. "I’m not even talking about the other two trials. Every single time, right after the vision, I blacked out. And William…He did it all at once! How can I not be a disappointment when even something as trivial as this proves that I can’t succeed in the simplest things?"

Regulus gave a low exhale, almost scoffing. "Failing a drinking contest doesn’t make a disappointment of you, Fawley."

"Yes, it does."

 "Perhaps for the competition, yes," he said evenly, leaning forward, "but that doesn’t make it true. This one situation doesn’t define you. And I don’t think it was your fault that you lost consciousness and couldn’t make it to the end. It’s not like you intentionally did that or tried your beast and still failed."

"I…" she was too stunned to speak. He did have a point. 

And William had said to her almost the same thing before. But Will was her brother, of course, he would try to cheer her.  And of course, it was easier for Will to say something like that, he was not the one failing three times. 

Regulus looked at her for a long time. He only reached for his glass again. "You’re not a disappointment, Fawley," he said quietly, like it wasn’t up for debate. "You just stopped expecting things from people who never saw you properly."

Her throat tightened. She wanted to say something — anything —, but the words refused to come out. Has he really said this?

"Well," she said finally in an attempt to switch the theme, forcing a small laugh to cut through the quiet, "You still haven’t heard what those visions were."

He arched a brow. "Should I be concerned?"

"Depends," she said, lips curving faintly. "The first one was mysterious, I would say, I had a feeling that I was snatched under the water, although I was sitting here at the bar. But it felt as if I started to choke on water, and then I don’t remember, I felt unconscious. But as you see, I am still here, so perhaps it was not a prediction of my future."

Regulus frowned slightly. "And the next one?"

"It was a tragic one, I blacked out almost instantly, I just remember this feeling of dread, despair as if I was deceived…" by a close person. She considered for a moment, it was not something she thought was true, and neither will it happen, so perhaps she won’t even mention it. 

Regulus studied her in silence. There was a glint in his eyes she couldn’t read — not pity, but something heavier. Recognition, perhaps.

" Let me guess, the third one was the funny one?"

That drew out a small, reluctant smile from her. "Oh, that one was ridiculous. I saw myself as a leprechaun before passing out."

Regulus blinked. "A leprechaun?"

"Mm-hm." She smirked. "Complete with the hat and the accent, I think."

"That doesn’t make any sense," he said flatly. "If the first two could happen, that one doesn’t stand a chance."

"I know, but I think it would be actually fun to be a leprechaun."

"You are joking."

"No?" She was serious now. "You never had an intense yearning to move to Ireland and become a leprechaun?"

Regulus stared in disbelief, although he was not surprised.

"What? Not even though that it would be fun to go to the forest, find one and then have a Guinness drinking competition with him?"

"NO?" he said, sounding genuinely appalled.

"Huh," she said, looking deeply disappointed. "Shame."

He raised a brow. "And you have thought of it?"

"Obviously," she said, leaning back in her chair. "It’s on my summer to-do list."

Regulus let out a quiet, incredulous laugh. Of course it was. After she had declared earlier this day that she’d make a charming ghost, he shouldn’t have been surprised that this same woman had seriously considered having a drinking contest with a leprechaun — or becoming one.

Elenore leaned forward slightly, studying him. "You know," she said, voice lower now, "for someone who doesn’t talk much, you’re oddly good at getting people to."

He gave a faint shrug. "You just needed someone to listen."

Her chest tightened again, this time for a different reason. She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Instead, she lifted her glass again, finishing what little was left. For a moment, it felt like the world outside the tavern didn’t exist.

Her pulse thrummed against her wrist. The hum of potion and alcohol blurred at the edges of her senses, but it didn’t feel unpleasant — just honest. She was tired, a little dizzy, but her thoughts had never been clearer.

Elenore leaned forward to make another remark, but a sudden wave of dizziness rolled through her. The edges of her vision blurred. She blinked rapidly, pressing a hand to her temple. "Sorry," she murmured, voice faint. "I just— need a moment."

 His gaze flicked toward her glass — the slight tremor in her hand, the flush creeping into her cheeks.

She stood, but the floor tilted beneath her feet. Her knee hit the corner of the table, and her hand shot out to steady herself. The room spun again.

"You alright?" Regulus asked sharply, already half out of his chair. He reached out instinctively, one hand hovering near her arm.

"I’m— fine," she managed, forcing a weak smile.

But the words barely left her mouth before her body went limp. The world went black in a heartbeat.

Regulus caught her before she hit the floor.

"Fawley?" His voice dropped low, firm. He eased her back into the chair, tapping her cheek lightly. No response. Her head lolled to the side, eyes shut, breath shallow. He could still feel the faint pulse under her jaw. Relief flickered across his features, quickly replaced by concern.

Rosmerta appeared from behind the counter, alarmed. "What happened?"

"She fainted," Regulus said curtly. He stood, gathering Elenore carefully into his arms. "Could we use the floo?"

"What type of question is that?" Rosmerta said quickly, pointing toward the hearth. "Of course! Go immediately!"

Regulus didn’t waste another word. He carried her through the tavern — her head resting lightly against his shoulder, her hair brushing his collar. For once, his composure cracked just slightly.

The flickering green flames reflected in his eyes as he stepped into the Floo.

"Dumbledore’s office," he said clearly — and with a flash, they vanished.

He stepped out into Dumbledore’s office, the faint scent of ash and lemon lingering in the air. Fawley’s limp weight in his arms suddenly felt heavier.

Dumbledore looked up from his desk, quill hovering mid-stroke. His expression shifted instantly — from mild surprise to sharp concern.

"Mr Black," he said, rising. "What happened?"

"Fainted," Regulus replied shortly. His voice was calm, but his heart wasn’t. "Mix of some long-lasting potion and alcohol, I suspect."

What else could have had this effect, and during the day, he already noticed that there was something wrong in how she behaved. She must have drunk something.

Dumbledore’s eyes flickered to Elenore — her hair tangled against her pale cheek.

"Take her to the infirmary," he said softly. "Madam Pomfrey will be waiting."

As if he was planning to bring her somewhere else. Bringing Fawley to the infirmary was his primary plan.

Regulus only nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak more than that.

As he walked the quiet corridors, Elenore’s head rested against his shoulder, one arm hanging down and swinging lightly. Every step echoed through the stone halls, mingling with the distant hum of the castle settling into the night. Her breath brushed his collarbone — shallow but still here.

Alive.

Merlin, that word had never felt heavier.

What had she done? What had she been thinking? What had he been thinking, letting her have another glass when she already looked pale? But she had laughed then, bright and reckless, and he had let his guard down. Just for a moment.

Fawley had that effect on people. On him specifically.

He glanced down at her, strands of ash-brown hair falling across her face. Elenore Fawley — all edges and contradictions. Too intriguing to be ignored.

He should have known better.

And yet, somehow, she’d been lodged in his mind since they were thirteen. She was always there — in the corner of the library, behind a parchment, at the edge of his thoughts. At the DADA classroom, this memory was clear as a day in his mind.

The desks had been pushed aside, leaving a wide space in the middle of the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. Professor Viridian stood at the front, his robes brushing the flagstones as he surveyed the room.

"Today," he announced, "we’re practising controlled duelling — controlled, meaning no broken bones or dramatic fainting, if you please. Mr Black, Miss Fawley — you’re first."

A collective murmur swept through the class. Elenore arched an eyebrow, a small, crooked smile appearing on her lips as she stepped forward. Regulus followed, shoulders squared, expression unreadable. They bowed curtly to each other.

"Try not to embarrass yourself," Regulus said smoothly, his wand already in hand.

"Oh, I won’t," Elenore replied, voice deceptively sweet. "I’m sure you’ll do that for both of us."

Viridian clapped his hands. "Begin!"

Regulus moved first — Expelliarmus! — sharp and precise, a red beam cutting through the air. Elenore twisted aside with surprising agility, her hair brushing against her cheek as she countered with Protego! and sent a hex of her own — Rictusempra!

He blocked it easily, his lips curving into that slight, superior smirk. "Predictable."

She shot him a glare without saying anything, feinting left and then flicking her wand. "Locomotor mortis!"

Regulus barely dodged, his shoe scraped against the floor. For a heartbeat, their eyes met — and that was when she struck.

Expelliarmus!

His wand flew from his hand, clattering against the wall with a sharp echo. The class gasped, and for a moment, the air stilled.

Elenore stood with her wand still raised, chest rising and falling, the faintest grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Predictable, was it?" she asked softly.

Regulus blinked, processing what had just happened. A muscle in his jaw tightened. "Beginner’s luck," he said finally, though his tone lacked conviction.

"Of course," Elenore said, lowering her wand. "You can keep telling yourself that."

The class erupted into murmurs and muffled laughter. Even Viridian seemed mildly impressed as he retrieved Regulus’s wand with a flick of his own. "Well done, Miss Fawley. Excellent use of timing — and perhaps a reminder, Mr Black, that underestimating your opponent rarely pays off."

Regulus accepted his wand back with a stiff nod, but his eyes lingered on Elenore. She was talking with Pandora now, brushing a strand of hair from her face, still smiling with satisfaction.

Something twisted in his chest. Annoyance, yes. But also… something else.

That was the day Regulus learned two things. First, that Elenore Fawley was far cleverer than she pretended to be. And second, that nothing unsettled him quite like the glint in her eyes when she was right.

As much as he tried not to think about her, tried not to search her silhouette on the streets, and almost made up his mind that this crush has no future and he should stop being an idiot and just leave Elenore alone, even if it was just in his head. 

Just as he made up his mind, Whitehall happened with the wreckage it left behind. After that, she started to hunt his nightmares — pale face in the dark, eyes filled with something he couldn’t name and was eternally sorry for. 

How can he forget her when she hunts his worst nightmares? And then miraculously, she appeared in Hogwarts to become a teacher.

That must have been a joke from the universe.

The girl who lived rent-free in his head was now walking the same corridors with him again.

He knew precisely what she thought of him, what monster she thought him to be. And he wanted to prove her wrong. Would it have been any other person, he wouldn’t even care.

But it was Elenore.

And he felt like he needed to do everything to change her mind, as if he was personally guilty for all of her misfortunes and it was his duty to make something.

It wasn’t his duty, of course, have it made him want to distance himself from Elenore and try to forget her again? 

No.

On the contrary, he wanted to be around her. Around the girl he liked and couldn’t get out of his mind for a decade.

He’d told her that night, "I haven’t seen her since August ’79."

Oh, how he wanted to add until just a couple of months ago. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t let that slip. What difference will it make to her? 

Like that, he can still be close to her. Even when she had this Merrick. 

Idiot, he had no other way to describe Merrick, how such an oblivious and nonchalant person could still be adored by Elenore?

What is so special about him that she still believes in his potential? How, once when he fell asleep on her shoulder under her shawl, could he have left such an imprint in her mind?

Ridiculous.

It was ridiculous, how less it cost Merrick to make her fall in love with him so desperately and how not much it took Elenore to fall for him. 

Fall asleep on her shoulder? That’s it? 

So easy? 

Ignore her to oblivion and then remember about her only when it suits him? 

Ridiculous how Elenore allowed and kept tolerating how he acted towards her. 

Is this a proper guide to how to get the girl?

Nonsense. Ridiculous. Disrespectful toward Elenore, but still none of his business. She would probably scold him for even saying something about it. Responding in a manner like Why would you care how I feel about him? So the only option was just to listen to her and accept everything she considered appropriate for herself.

Whatever, he never hoped that she would ever feel anything for him. They could just be friends, and it will be fine with him. 

Now looking at her unconscious in his arms, he just had a feeling that someone had to take care of her, or she would be the end of herself. 

No doubt she would claim that she can do everything by herself and that she is fine and she needs no help because she could handle everything alone, as she always did. Thought carrying the weight of everything by yourself all the time rarely ended well. And Regulus knew that. One day, you just have to surrender to your own prejudices, feelings and just accept the fact that you need help and that’s normal. 

As Regulus did by going to the Order, it took all his strength to finally accept the fact that he needed help. His pure ego struggled, but it was definitely worth it.  

Merlin, it was hilarious as he thought about the headlines:

Elenore Fawley— survived the war but died by driving herself to madness.

Ridiculous.

He just wanted to be around her. Elenore’s ego would definitely survive this one. 

And by just being around and being there for her, he was afraid that it would mean allowing her to see him. His true self, the one he had been hiding for almost his whole life from the whole world.

Didn’t matter. He can be around and still act as a person she already knows, just a bit better. Not the person she saw at Whitehall, but the better version he made of himself since that time.

He tightened his hold on her slightly as he turned another corner. She hasn’t even stirred.

When he finally reached the infirmary doors. They swung open silently, as if sensing urgency.

Pandora was the first to appear — hair tied messily, a potion vial in one hand. Her eyes widened.

"What the hell happened?"

Merlin, if he’ll have to explain that to someone one more time…

"She fainted," Regulus said, again, his tone clipped. "And the rest you tell me." He didn’t mean to sound defensive, but the words came out sharper than he intended.

Pandora was Elenore’s friend since forever, she for sure should know what happened with her.

Pandora blinked, taking in the sight — Regulus Black, immaculate as ever, even after drinking, carrying Elenore like something fragile. "I have no idea?" she scoffed, incredulous. "Yet!"

He ignored the remark, lowering Elenore gently onto one of the beds. Her hair fanned over the pillow like a spill of ink. He brushed a stray lock away, then drew his hand back quickly — almost as if the contact had burned, and he was not supposed to do that.

Madam Pomfrey bustled in moments later, wand already drawn. "Let me see."

Regulus stepped aside, silent as she ran diagnostic charms. The blue light pulsed over Elenore’s skin, revealing nothing fatal. Just exhaustion. Potion imbalance. Dehydration.

"Wideye Potion," Pandora muttered disapprovingly. She couldn’t believe Elenore hadn’t consulted with her before taking it with Slender drops. She knew about them, but that she mixed all up together shocked her.

"Mix that with alcohol, and you’re asking for trouble." Madam Pomfrey added.

"She’ll recover?" Regulus asked, voice low.

Pomfrey gave him a brief look — equal parts reassurance and scolding. "Yes, she will. A few hours of rest. And some Wiggenweld Potion will do miracles."

Regulus exhaled slowly, tension uncoiling from his shoulders.

Pandora lingered nearby, still watching him. "She’s lucky you were there," she said after a pause. "Thank you."

Lucky. He’d never been good with luck.

"I wasn’t going to risk it," he replied quietly.

Pandora’s brows rose. "Right. Of course not." She hesitated, then smirked faintly. "You want to stay, aren’t you?"

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t move either.

When they finally left him alone with her, the infirmary dimmed into soft candlelight. Outside, snow was still falling, whispering against the windows.

He pulled a chair closer to the bedside and sat, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on her sleeping face.

Her breathing was steady now. Peaceful. Unaware. The lines around her mouth had softened. 

He should leave. He knew that. But his body refused to move. 

Instead, his thoughts kept looping back to the evening — her laughter, her confessions, that look in her eyes when she’d said "I got used to failing my own expectations." He’d seen himself there. The same quiet war no one else noticed.

He leaned back, exhaling through his nose.

Maybe that was the thing about Elenore — she’d always been running from herself. She’d rather imagine being a ghost or a leprechaun than face what haunted her.

 But then again… 

So did he.

There was something familiar, painfully familiar, in the way she twisted herself into versions that would please everyone else. He saw that the ways they presented themselves around people were identical. How could they always change the way to behave and show various versions of themselves? There was always a difference in how they could present themselves in front of parents, siblings, other relatives, close friends, acquaintances, someone they couldn’t care less, someone they couldn’t care more.

They both learned that love could be conditional, that truth was not always the best option, that approval was a currency you earned, not received.

He remembered her voice earlier — "They used to compare us. Why aren’t you like William?"

He’d told her it was a usual practice if you had a sibling. He hadn’t meant it lightly. He knew that pain too well.

Because in his own house, it had always been Sirius.

Sirius, the rebel. Sirius, the disappointment.

And when his brother left, the spotlight turned to him.

Every failure, every doubt was his now.

So maybe their stories weren’t identical, but the echo was there.

"Failing a drinking contest doesn’t make a disappointment of you," he’d told her, almost scoffing.

Merlin, he still couldn’t believe that was her reason — not the wars, not the broken promises, but losing a drinking contest.

She had no idea how absurdly human that sounded. How endearing, almost.

How… painfully normal.

"Regulus," Pandora whispered from behind him, careful not to wake other patients. "It’s almost two in the morning. She’ll be fine."

Regulus lingered beside the infirmary bed longer than he meant to. Elenore lay still, her breath soft and steady now, her hair fanned clumsily over the pillow as she had dropped into sleep mid-argument. Despite all  the mess this night was, she still managed to look almost peaceful.

He nodded, but didn’t stand up immediately. His hand hovered for a second — a useless, fleeting impulse to do something ridiculous — before he curled his fingers into his palm and forced himself back.

"Right," he murmured. His voice sounded rougher than he expected. " I think I will go."

Pandora gave him a searching look but said nothing, only nodded.

Regulus slipped out of the infirmary, the door closing softly behind him, leaving him alone in the dim corridor with his own thoughts.

Too intriguing to be ignored.

And Merlin help him, he knew that wasn’t going to change anytime soon.

Notes:

Not sure about Regulus, but I did considered finding a leprechaun and having a drinking competition with it. Nonetheless, hope you enjoy the story, Ladies🫶🏻

Chapter 22: Chapter 21

1984 December 2

 

Elenore woke to the soft, too-clean smell of antiseptic herbs and the faint clinking of glass vials. Disoriented for a moment, she genuinely wondered if she’d died.

Then the dull ache behind her eyes pulsed, and she groaned.

No, not dead.

Ugh. 

Infirmary.

Well. Fantastic.

She blinked against the light, trying to piece together the tail-end of the night. She remembered The Three Broomsticks — the warmth, the low light, the rum — Regulus sitting across from her, listening so intently she’d almost forgotten who sat in front of her. 

And then…

Nothing. Just a blank. A clean, sharp cut to black.

Elenore sighed heavily and pushed herself upright, though her limbs felt like they were stuffed with wet sand. Her head throbbed in slowly. Her mouth tasted faintly metallic, as though she’d swallowed an entire cauldron.

She rubbed her temples and let her gaze sweep the quiet room. The infirmary was empty save for one snoring second-year who seemed to have sprouted antlers and an older Hufflepuff wrapped like a cocoon in bandages. 

The curtains around Elenore’s bed had been drawn halfway, giving the impression of privacy without actually providing any.

Brilliant.

She pressed a hand to her forehead, steadying herself as memory began to seep back.

Talking to Regulus.

Drinking.

Talking more than she probably should’ve.

Rum hitting harder than expected.

And then she fainted.

In front of him.

Perfect.

Elenore groaned into her hands. She didn’t even need a vision to predict her future humiliation. She had done all of that. 

And yet, absurdly, she only now realised that she hadn’t thought about Merrick once for the better part of the evening.

Not once after they switched the theme.

Not his stupid grin, not his stories, not the way he’d left and reappeared as if she was a thrift store he visited for fun. 

Nothing.

Her brain had shifted, inexplicably, to Regulus — the way he leaned forward when he listened, his voice, the unexpected warmth beneath the sharp edges. The way his eyes softened at the moment.

And now he had probably carried her here.

He promised he wouldn’t. 

Fantastic.

Footsteps padded softly across the floor.

"Ah," Pandora’s voice murmured, appearing around the curtain with a tiny glass vial in her hand. "Sleeping Beauty finally awake."

Elenore scowled. "Don’t."

Pandora ignored that entirely. She reached for a measuring spoon on the nearby stand and poured a bright green liquid — Wiggenweld Potion, unmistakable in its swamp-like glow — into it. Then she uncorked a small bottle of glittering silver drops, gave it a sharp shake, and mixed the two together.

As she stirred, her mouth tightened.

"Elenore, you’re an idiot," she protested, looking up at her friend. "Since when do you drink Wideye Potion mixed with Slender Drops?"

Elenore’s wince was immediate. "I wasn’t— I didn’t— It wasn’t on purpose."

"Oh, of course not," Pandora said, tone dripping with sarcasm. "Because accidentally combining two stimulant potions with alcohol is a perfectly normal evening activity. Not even saying that you shouldn’t have mixed those potions to begin with."

"It wasn’t—" Elenore groaned again and slumped further into the pillows. "Pandora, please. I already feel like a corpse."

"Good," Pandora said simply, offering her the cup. "Drink."

Elenore took the cup, sniffed it, then wrinkled her nose. 

Elenore swallowed it in two gulps, gagging violently. "Oh, drat— why would anyone create this horror?" Elenore let her head fall back dramatically against the pillow.

"To prevent idiots like you from dying," Pandora replied. "We already gave you one portion yesterday when Regulus brought you." Pandora crossed her arms.

Elenore shot upright so quickly she almost fainted again. "He what—"

Pandora raised a brow. "You didn’t think Madam Pomfrey found you collapsed in an alley, did you? He flooed you straight from The Three Broomsticks to Dumbledore’s office. He looked… well. Concerned."

Elenore sank back, covering her face with her hands. "No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes, Elenore." Pandora’s voice softened, just a fraction. "He was genuinely worried."

Her stomach twisted — not unpleasantly, which made everything worse. She was mortified.

Elenore groaned, dragging her hands down her face. "Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."

"He was thinking of staying here the whole night," Pandora said thoughtfully. 

"Staying here?" Elenore started.

"Yes," Pandora replied, leaning her hip against the bedside table. "It seems that he actually cares for his colleagues." Smile spreading on her face, teasing Elenore was her favourite hobby. "Or rather one specific colleague."

Elenore glared, mouth half-opened in protest. "Well, if he actually claims that he changed, then it is obvious that he will care for a colleague he is planning the Ball with. We still haven’t started decorating, so yes, perhaps it’s better for him that I will be in one piece."

"Yes, say it more often, then it might become truth," Pandora said lightly. "You know." She tilted her head. "Regulus is not the worst person to faint in front of."

"Oh for Merlin’s sake Pennie—"

"Fine!" Pandora smoothed the blanket around her legs. "Now tell me — how do you feel?"

"Like death."

"I meant emotionally."

"Also like death."

Pandora gave her a long, slow look. "Elenore."

Elenore exhaled, her gaze drifting to the ceiling again. "I don’t know. It was a long day. A bizarre one. We met Merrick, and then he said things, and I said thing,s and then I passed out like an idiot."

"You saw Merrick?" Pandora’s brows flew up.

Elenore blinked.

Paused.

Shit. Right.

"Yes, he came back from London, doesn't know for how long, and then plans to travel around hamlets. As always." She tried to make her voice as casual as she could, as if meeting Merrick was not worse than fainting in front of Regulus. 

Pandora only scoffed, as if it was nothing new, and the ending of all this was always doomed, regardless of what happens between them.

"…What?"

"That answers my question," Pandora said smugly.

Elenore groaned. "Oh, shut up."

Pandora only smiled. "Well. If you’re strong enough to be annoyed, you’re strong enough to sit up. Madam Pomfrey wants you to stay another hour, just to monitor the potion levels."

Elenore nodded weakly. Then pressed a hand to her forehead. "I need a drink," she muttered.

Pandora snorted. "Absolutely not."

"Fine," Elenore grumbled. "Can I have water then?"

"That," Pandora said, patting her shoulder, "you can actually have."

Elenore settled back into the pillows once more. The infirmary felt warm and quiet, the kind of stillness that made thoughts louder.

Her thoughts drifted back to Regulus.

His voice.

The way he stared at her — like he was trying to understand her, not judge her. 

He carried me here. And wanted to stay?

It was stupid. Too much. She was reading into nothing. He was being decent — responsible, maybe. Polite. Anyone would have done the same.

And yet…

It made her think that perhaps he was more tolerable than she could have ever thought him to be.

A moment later, Pandora returned with a glass of water and held it for her with all the caution of someone feeding a very stupid baby bird.

"Slowly," Pandora warned. 

Elenore sipped obediently. Her throat relaxed at the coolness.

Pandora crossed her arms. "And now the important part. You can’t take Wide-Eye Potion and  Slender Drops at the same time. They push your system in opposite directions. You’ll overload your magical receptors."

Drat, will have to improvise, Pimpernelle’s assistant warned about the side effects.

Elenore blinked. "I thought mixing them would… balance things out."

Pandora stared at her like she’d just suggested drinking bleach. "No. Absolutely not. Ever. You need to pick one."

Elenore sighed. "Slender Drops."

"Not surprising," Pandora muttered.

Elenore let her head fall back against the pillows again, feeling strangely small — like she had shrunken inside herself. Sometimes the world pressed too hard, and she felt like she was slipping sideways out of her own life.

But not tonight.

Not entirely.

She reran the evening in her mind, the parts she remembered. And every memory had Regulus threaded through it — his dry humour, the flicker of concern that he would absolutely deny having, the way he seemed almost… patient with her.

She hadn’t thought about Merrick once.

Not once.

And if that didn’t tell her something, she didn’t know what would.

Pandora’s voice pulled her back. "Oh, you have a visitor." She jerked her chin toward the door.

A fifth-year Gryffindor hovered shyly before stepping forward.

"Miss Fawley," he said nervously, "um — glad you’re alright." He thrust an envelope at her as if it was cursed. "I was asked to deliver this."

Then he bolted like a frightened rabbit. How did he end up in Gryffindor?

Was she that scary looking after a night in the infirmary?

Elenore frowned, flipping the envelope over.

Her name was written in elegant handwriting.

Elenore tore it open.

Miss Fawley,
I trust you are recovering. Madam Pomfrey assures me the incident was caused by potion interference. If you are well enough later today, I will be in the library. We still have matters to discuss regarding the preparations.
R. Black

Her stomach did a strange, light twist.

Pandora leaned over. "Is that from—"

Elenore snapped the letter closed. "No."

Pandora smirked. "It is. I can tell from your face."

"I do not have a face."

"You do, love. A very obvious one." Pandora grinned like a cat.

Elenore huffed and shoved the letter under her pillow, where Pandora couldn’t snatch it.

The next hour crawled by — a round of monitoring spells ensuring that the potion levels had stabilised, and one last swallow of potion before Madam Pomfrey gave her a lecture she absolutely deserved.

Finally, Elenore was released with strict orders to rest.

She stepped into the cool corridor, the silence swallowing her whole as she made her way back to her quarters. She wasn’t weak anymore — just worn out, like her magic had been scrubbed raw.

When she pushed open her door, a blur of brown fur shot straight for her ankles.

"Noel," she breathed, dropping to her knees.

Her fluffy, round-eyed cat meowed aggressively, as if scolding her for daring to be unconscious somewhere without him.

"I know, darling. I’m sorry." Elenore scooped him into her arms. "I didn’t come back last night."

Noel pressed his face against her cheek, purring loudly, then head-butted her chin. 

"I know, I know," Elenore murmured into his fur. "I worried you."

After settling Noel with a snack, she headed into the bathroom. The shower washed away the hospital smell clinging to her skin, replacing it with lavender steam. 

She dressed slowly in a white, billowy short-sleeve blouse with soft ruffles and an ankle-length, black skirt. Then she threw on her grey cardigan over her shoulders.

The outfit made her feel like herself again — or at least a version of herself she recognised.

She gathered her notes for the Ball, slipped her glasses into place, and exhaled slowly. Her head still felt a little foggy, but at least she was conscious. Noel was still perched on the bed, tail curled around his paws.

"I will come back this time, Moonbeam," she promised, leaning down to scratch between his ears.

Noel blinked at her and watched her like a disapproving parent.

She stepped out of her quarters. Moving through the hallway felt strange  — as if the air was thinner, softer, touched with something she couldn’t name. Probably the lingering effects of the potions still clouded her mind.

Or the lingering effects of Regulus Black carrying her like she weighed nothing.

Absolutely not.

She was not thinking about that.

She walked faster, down the corridor toward the Floo Network. 

She grabbed a handful of Floo Powder and tossed it into the grate. Green flames burst around her.

A heartbeat later, she stumbled out just a few feet from the library entrance, brushing soot from her skirt.

Just as she stepped inside, the smell of paper, dust and old magic wrapped around her. It was warm here, far warmer than the corridors had been. The lamps glowed gold. Shadows pooled softly in corners. And the shelves stretched upward endlessly.

She walked slowly down the central aisle, clutching her notes. Regulus hadn’t mentioned where exactly he’d be — of course, he hadn’t — making this feel like some ridiculous scavenger hunt.

Brilliant. Great quest. Find the emotionally constipated Slytherin in his natural habitat.

She scanned the rows. A few students were scattered at tables, whispering over textbooks. A pair of Ravenclaws by the window. Two Hufflepuffs comparing footnotes. No Regulus.

She took a few more steps.

And there.

Near the fireplace.

He sat in one of the deep armchairs, long legs crossed, book balanced neatly in his lap. Firelight traced the line of his jaw, flickering across his dark hair.  The strands fell loose near his cheek. He looked unusually… handsome. Elegant. Peaceful.

Until he sensed her.

Regulus lifted his head, eyes sharp and assessing for a moment — then softening, subtly, like he’d been expecting her and was relieved to be right.

"Miss Fawley," he said, looking her from head to toe, voice low and composed, "I see you survived."

She raised an eyebrow and said lightly. "Try not to sound so surprised. It’s unbecoming of a gentleman."

His mouth twitched in an almost-smile, quickly suppressed.

"Sit," he said, nodding to the chair opposite him. "We have work to finish."

She crossed the space and sank into the chair. The fire warmed her legs instantly, and for a brief moment, she let herself enjoy it.

Regulus watched her with quiet curiosity as if she were the only thing that existed in this room, and he couldn’t switch his attention to anything else.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

"Better than dead," she answered.

"Not a high bar."

"Still counts."

He exhaled through his nose, barely amused. Then his tone softened, "I’m glad you’re alright."

The words hit her unexpectedly. Something in her chest tightened.

"Earlier," she said slowly, "you told me you wouldn’t carry me to the infirmary."

"Yes."

"And yet, magically, I ended up in the infirmary. Care to explain that contradiction?"

Regulus blinked once, almost offended. "And what do you suggest I was supposed to do? Leave you unconscious on the floor of the Three Broomsticks?"

Elenore lifted her brows. "Well, when you put it that way…"

He returned to his book — or pretended to — but she caught it. That fleeting, reluctant smile.

Perhaps…

No.

No perhaps. 

No ifs.

No buts.

No maybes.

She opened her notes, smoothing the pages. No wandering off into fantasy territory where she allowed herself to think that he might care for her and where she might actually like Re—

No.

"Alright," she said, steadying her voice. "Let’s get back to work then."

He hummed in agreement, closing his book with a soft thud. "Good. We still need to discuss the layout."

"Of course we do," she muttered, pulling out a quill. "But I think we should start with decorating the Christmas trees and changing the colour of the candles."

They worked.

And strangely… peacefully.

Comfortably.

For once, sitting across from him, warmed by firelight and quiet, Elenore didn’t feel the strange emptiness that usually lurked under her ribs. She felt present. Focused. Here.

With him.

Dangerous feeling. 

Unusual for her.

They went over details for another hour — the illusionary snowfall, music, refreshments, safety charms, and possible stage arrangements.

"The choir could sing…" She thought for a moment. "Maybe Aurum Nox?"

Regulus shook his head. "No need to torture the choir, let them also have fun. We can take enchanted instruments from the music room."

She snorted. "So you’re suggesting we spare the children?"

"Precisely."

"But could we at least torture some of them to help us with decorations, perhaps? Just for ornaments and small things like that?"

"We can ask students if they would like to help us," he leaned his head on the palm of his hand, "if they agree, then yes, why not?"

She scribbled that down. "Fine. But after that… do you think we can find a band to play? After the formal part?"

They spent the next twenty minutes going through a list of wizarding bands — most of them awful.

"What about The Cauldron Caps?" Elenore offered.

"They sound like someone cursed a bagpipe."

"Alright, fair."

She tapped her quill. "Or The Bouncing Banshees. They’re good."

Regulus gave her a sharp, unimpressed look. "Their lead singer sets fire to things when excited."

"Adds character."

"Absolutely not."

They eventually settled on a band from Hogsmeade with limited pyrotechnic tendencies and only one questionable incident in their history.

It was a win.

They moved on to refreshments next — tables, arrangements, elf coordination, allergy considerations, how to prevent the pumpkin pasties from exploding like they did when they were students and had a Ball.

Regulus pointed to one of her diagrams. "This one could work."

"You’re not disagreeing with me?" she asked, mock-suspicious. "You feeling all right?"

"I reserve my objections for matters of importance."

She laughed softly, returning her gaze to her notes. 

Then décor.

"No," Regulus said immediately, "you will not turn the Great Hall into a Ravenclaw common room."

"What!? I am just suggesting!" She rolled her eyes so hard she saw stars.

The more they talked, the easier it felt. Natural. Comfortable. And that was the part that frightened her.

Every so often, her mind slipped sideways — breath catching, vision narrowing for a second. Occasionally, Elenore caught herself gesturing too broadly, speaking too quickly, her mind felt a fraction ahead of her body.

Regulus noticed, she was sure of it, though he said nothing — only watched with that unnervingly calm gaze, commenting on nothing.

It made her feel seen.

And that was worse than anything.

By the time they finished, the library was nearly empty, the fire reduced to low crackles and faint embers. Outside the tall windows, snow was falling again — heavier now, flakes drifting slowly like feathers.

"So," she said, breaking the quiet as they gathered their things, "next week we start on the hall setup. You handle charms and coordination. I’ll manage décor."

Regulus nodded, adjusting his sleeves. "And coordination means—?"

"Convincing students to hang garlands and ornaments instead of each other."

"That will be an educational experience," he said mildly.

She narrowed her eyes. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.

As they stepped out of the library, the doors closing with a soft thud behind them, the air in the corridor felt cooler. Lanterns floated at half-light, casting soft gold crescents on the stone floor.

Regulus adjusted the strap of his satchel across his shoulder."Your quarters are in the DADA Tower as well, aren’t they?" he asked, tone casual. Almost too casual.

"Yes," Elenore said, hugging her notes to her chest. "Why?"

"I’m heading that way," he said with an unbothered shrug. "Would you like to have a walk?"

Oh.

She didn’t know what to say and wanted to get to her quarters as fast as possible. She was too tired, too warm from the fire, too full of the strange quiet that still lingered between them. 

"Thank you, Mr Black, but I thought of using the floo network," she said as her gaze drifted to the floor, where she pocked the stone lightly with her heel. "Maybe next time," she glanced back at him.

"As you wish," he nodded slightly "Goodnight, Miss Fawley," he said finally and turned toward the stairs.

Elenore stood still as if petrified before unintentionally making one step in his direction before leaving. "Thank you… for the help," she said after a moment, the words sounding too heavy and too light at once.

Regulus glanced over, surprised — the quiet kind of surprise he never showed on his face, only in his eyes."You were unwell," he replied simply. "It would have been irresponsible to leave you alone."

"Still," she murmured. "Thank you."

He didn’t smile, not fully, but something softened in the line of his mouth before he bowed, and his footsteps echoed softly down the corridor.

Elenore stood there a moment longer, listening to the slowing beat of her own pulse as she watched him walk down the hall.

They could be friends for sure.

Friends, she told herself.

Just… friends.

She exhaled quietly and stepped toward the Floo network, the emerald flames rising around her before depositing her back near her quarters. The familiar hallway felt warmer than before — or maybe she was just exhausted enough to imagine it.

Her door creaked open, and at once Noel sprang up from the bed, tail flicking like a scolding grandmother.

"There you are." Elenore sighed, bending down as the cat trotted over and meowed pointedly before nudging his head against her leg. She scooped him up, burying her face in his soft fur for a long moment.

"I missed you too," she whispered, stroking between his ears.

The room was dim, lit only by the glow of the enchanted lamps humming softly along the walls. 

The window beckoned — her favourite place when she needed to think, or breathe, or simply exist without anyone asking anything of her. She crossed the room, Noel tucked comfortably in her arms, and climbed onto the wide stone sill.

Snow drifted just beyond the glass, lazy and delicate, each flake catching the moonlight as it spiralled downward. Hogwarts looked softer like this. Less ancient and imposing, and more like a dream she could almost touch.

Elenore leaned her forehead lightly against the cool windowpane. Her thoughts swirled — the Three Broomsticks, the infirmary, Pandora fussing, Regulus carrying her, waiting, suggesting to walk back as if it were the most natural thing in the world. 

It was… a lot.

Noel purred warmly against her ribs. She wasn’t sure how much time they spent sitting like that.

She let her eyes fall shut for a moment, feeling Noel’s steady purrs and the quiet hush of snowfall. The exhaustion hit her all at once.

"Alright," she murmured, smoothing a hand along his back and standing in the process. "Time to rest Moonbeam."

She sat Noel on her bed as she made her way toward the closet and changed into her nightgown.

She couldn’t wait to collapse into her bed — to stretch out, wrap herself in blankets, and finally, finally rest after the chaos of the last twenty-four hours.

Notes:

Elenore doesn't do ifs, buts or maybes, she only does absolutes. (Ladies, I hope you got the reference😭)
By the way, just saw my Spotify Wrapped, didn't know I listened to She Wants Revenge like that much. Still Slay though, I am happy with what I got.

Chapter 23: Chapter 22

1984 December 8

 

 

The Great Hall was already humming with noise when Elenore and Regulus arrived after lunch, trailed by their little troupe of volunteers. The enchanted ceiling glowed greyish-white with winter light. The smell of pine drifted in from the giant conifers Hagrid had hauled inside earlier that morning, snow still clinging to the branches in glittering clumps. 

Now came the real chaos. All the tables were filled with boxes of various decorations they bought at Hogsmeade last week, as well as the crates of ornaments from last year's Hagrid brought from one of the many storage rooms Hogwarts had. There were different kinds of stars, ribbons, candles, icicles, and bells. Luckily, some of the students came for help willingly enough.

Some of Elenore’s seventh years came for help. Lizzy Creswell, a bright-eyed Ravenclaw who treated everything like a puzzle she couldn’t wait to solve. Daniel Wordsworth also came for help for his all-time favourite teacher. The group, of course, couldn’t have been completed without Richard Blethen, who came here only because Muriel Sparks decided to help with preparations.

"Right," Elenore clapped her hands once, sharply. "You’ll help us with decorating trees, ornaments, garlands, and—Bill, where is Bill—baubles."

Bill Weasley lifted his hand from behind an enormous crate of ornaments, looking simultaneously eager and exhausted.

Bill was in his third year and, for reasons no one quite understood, had taken all five elective subjects. All five. Unbelievable. And he still was here right now, helping with preparations.

"Right here, Professor!" Bill said, shifting the crate. He also brought two of his friends—Riley McDougall, a tall boy whose jumper was perpetually crooked, and Felicity Pike, tiny, owl-like, disturbingly competent Slytherin.

Elenore nodded approvingly. "You can decorate with everything you find in the crates and boxes and try not to injure yourselves or anyone else."

Regulus, beside her, simply added, "Please," but with the tone of someone who did not expect his request to be honoured.

Bill and everyone else nodded back solemnly. "Of course."

Students started to spread out around the towering trees and murmur excitedly about the upcoming holiday break. There was a kind of thrill in the air, a hum of anticipation. The Great Hall needed to look like a memory students would cling to all winter.

The holiday break will start in almost two weeks. Students would board the train on the 21st, visiting their families until early January. Which meant the Christmas Ball would take place on the 20th, the final night before the Hogwarts Express whisked everyone home.

Lizzy charmed strings of silver beads to wind perfectly through the branches while Daniel tested star toppers by holding them against the light like a jeweller assessing gems. Bill was already perched halfway up a tree, muttering about branches and sparkles, while Felicity shouted at him not to lean too far.

Meanwhile, Richard was leaning too far — but toward Muriel.

"Need help with that ribbon?" he asked, voice dripping with what he hoped sounded charming.

Muriel flicked her wand. The ribbon wrapped itself neatly around the tree."No," she said politely.

Richard watched the ribbon. "Right. Beautiful work." He took one ornament and did absolutely nothing with it.

"Thank you."

"I meant—"

"I know what you meant," Muriel replied, turning away with a smile that was not unkind — just tired. "Richard, dear, if you want to hang that bauble, you’ll need to pick a branch. Any branch. There are thousands."

Elenore hid a grin behind her hand. She had so much fun looking at how students interacted with each other. Oh, to be seventeen and convinced one ribbon-charming compliment could secure a future.

Elenore zoned in on the floating candles, squinting at them like they’d personally offended her. "Mr Black," she said, surveying the hall, "I will take care of candles."

Regulus turned slowly. "Miss Fawley, surely you don’t mean—"

"Yes," she said, already dragging a tall ladder toward the centre of the room.

"No."

"Yes." She blinked at him as if confused.

"You do not need to climb that."

"I absolutely do. I can’t see the colour change properly from the floor."

"That’s what magic is for."

"Magic can’t fix my sight, Mr Black."

"You have glasses."

"That is not the point," she said, brushing past him to pull the ladder closer.  

Regulus exhaled slowly, like a man preparing for a psychological horror. "Miss Fawley—"

"I’m climbing the ladder," she declared, stepping onto the first rung.

Up she went.

Elenore climbed gracefully, well, mostly gracefully. Her wide-leg trousers swished with each step, leather pointy-nose boots peeking out from the fabric.

She wore her practical outfit — the one she insisted was elegant and comfortable enough. 

A white button-down shirt, slightly wrinkled, over it, a black structured jacket with rows of decorative silver buttons running down both sides of the front and on the cuffs.

Regulus stood nearby, resigned, unpacking the box of invitations they’d collected earlier from Scribbulus Writing Implements.

Regulus opened the box carefully, checking for quality. 

The invitations were stunning. Deep midnight-blue cardstock with silver lettering, curling in elegant loops. Starlight flecks charmed into the surface, shifting when held to the light. Each envelope sealed with wax, embossed with the Hogwarts crest.

The two of them had picked them up right after breakfast, before meeting the Hogsmeade band — Silver Kettles — who agreed to play the ball’s afterparty set. They now had a week to finalise what songs they wanted. Elenore and Regulus had no limitations for them, so they had the freedom to choose whichever songs they wanted to play.

Now Regulus neatly stacked the invitations on the nearest table, glancing up every few seconds to ensure Elenore was still alive.

She was halfway up the ladder, squinting hard at the floating candles.

"Miss Fawley," he called, "I maintain this is unnecessary."

"Mr Black," she called back, "I maintain I have eyes and they do not work from the floor."

She dug her glasses out of her pocket, balancing them on her nose with her pinky finger as she raised her wand with the other hand.

"Alright," she murmured, "Colovaria."

The candles flickered.

Only slightly.

Barely. She saw no changes. 

She frowned. "Mr Black? Report from the ground?"

He looked up. "No visible difference."

"Huh. Again then."

She cast it again. And again. And again.

Regulus watched her patiently but with a bit of judgment.

Richard, meanwhile, was charmed anew by Muriel lifting a box of tinsel with surprising strength for a girl. He even tried making increasingly desperate attempts at charm. At one point, he attempted a levitation spell so showy it sent an ornament flying directly into Regulus’s shoulder.

Regulus did not react outwardly, but the air temperature around him dropped one full degree.

Lizzy was levitating ornaments, each one floating gracefully to the branches. Bill almost dropped an ornament on Riley, and Felicity yanked Bill’s robes before he toppled out of his tree perch. Daniel floated three stars at once.

Elenore changed the candle colours five times. Each time the colour changed, but only slightly. Blue leaning a bit lilac. Gold leaning a bit towards champagne. Silver leaning a bit moonlit.

Finally — finally — she hit the perfect soft glimmer she’d imagined. The candles shimmered with the perfect mix of glimmer, glow, and softness.

"There!" She exclaimed triumphantly. "Finally, the right tone!"

And that was precisely when Peeves exploded out of the nearest wall like a shrieking confetti bomb.

He shot through the air upside-down at top speed, wobbling and spinning and wearing the wicked grin of something carved out of pure chaos.

"BOO!"

Elenore, standing with her back to him, jolted so violently her glasses nearly flew off her face. Her foot slipped. The ladder shuddered under her weight. For one awful heartbeat, she felt weightless—caught between air and gravity.

"PEEVES!" she cried, arms windmilling, her wand flew somewhere.

The Great Hall was in chaos. Ladders, floating boxes of ornaments, and enchanted icicles dangling from the tree Lizzy was decorating. Just as Elenore flew right off the ladder, the Hall froze.

Lizzy halted mid-incantation, a garland of silver beads suspended between her hands. Daniel dropped the box of ornaments he’d been levitating, and it shattered into clinks and clatters on the floor. Richard grabbed Muriel by her hand as if to comfort her, but she only yanked her hand back with a scoff. Bill and Riley grabbed the legs of their own ladders, bracing as though they might decide to flee right off under them. Felicity turned her face in shock.

Elenore closed her eyes and prepared to break her spine when she suddenly felt that she was not falling anymore.

A pair of arms caught her midair, halting her inches above the stone floor. Her breath left her in a sharp gasp—not just from the fall, but from the surprise of being pulled so decisively into safety.

She opened her eyes to see Regulus cradling her against his chest as if he’d done it a hundred times. His robes were cool against her cheek, scented faintly of cedar and something else —ink? parchment? He always smelled a little like winter and library dust.

His expression was unreadable, though the faintest crease of concern pulled between his brows.

For a moment, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. Her heart pounded so loudly she could barely make out the world around her.

She was actually hyperaware of everything. The fact that Peeves almost killed her. The steady rise and fall of Regulus’ chest, the firm grip of his hands beneath her shoulders and knees, the brush of his thumb where he adjusted his hold, the way his heartbeat, infuriatingly calm, pulsed through his chest. The fact that he was again like a knight saving her.

Had it annoyed her how she always found adventures on her ass exactly when Regulus was around, and each time had a reason to play a knight?

Yes.

Perhaps

"Really, Fawley," he said softly—too softly—though his voice was tight in a way she’d never heard. "You will kill yourself one day."

The words hit her harder than the fall would have.

Elenore swallowed, heat flooding her face. Every sensible thought in her head scattered like loose feathers.

Oh no.

 I am in his arms. I am actually in his—

Stop. Stop this. Stop thinking like an idiot.

PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER! 

She forced a scowl, trying to gather the shards of her dignity. "I had it under control before Peeves appeared."

Regulus’ eyes flicked to her face, lingering just a second too long.

"Clearly," he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching as if fighting a smile.

He set her gently on her feet. His hands left her shoulders slowly, almost reluctantly. She felt the absence of warmth like a cold breeze.

Above them, Peeves whooped triumphantly. "CAUGHT YOU, CAUGHT YOU, JUST LIKE A KNIGHT! HE HE HEEEEEEEEE!"

Elenore’s cheeks went scarlet. 

Regulus tilted his head, unimpressed but undeniably amused.

"Mr Black," she muttered under her breath, brushing dust from her trousers, "you could have warned me."

"I did. Several times." He paused, eyes narrowing slightly.

Drat. Not about the ladder. About bloody Peeves! But he still had a point, so she didn’t even correct him on this.

Her stomach flipped. "I—I lost balance!"

"Mhm." His voice was infuriatingly mild. "Of course."

Peeves swooped overhead again, cackling, before vanishing behind a wall.

Elenore pressed her lips together, trying to quiet the thundering of her own pulse. She marched toward the pile of decorations as if stomping could physically crush her embarrassment.

Around them, the students resumed working—slowly at first, still shocked from what they’ve seen. Muriel was re-tying ribbons, pretending not to stare at Elenore every ten seconds. Richard, predictably, was telling everyone that he would’ve caught her too. Lizzy floated more icicles on the tree, and Daniel was picking up ornaments from the floor one by one, muttering, "Every damn year. Peeves. Every. Damn. Year," under his breath.

"Miss Fawley," Regulus called lightly, "when you’re done trying to murder yourself, we still have garlands for the archways and fabrics to wrap around the pillars."

Of course, he was fine.

Of course, Mr Composure Personified sounded like he hadn’t just caught a falling woman out of the air.

She didn’t trust herself to look at him.

Not yet.

"Yes, right," she managed, forcing her voice into something resembling normal. "Mr Black—could you please summon my wand? It flew somewhere around here." She gestured vaguely to the airspace of the entire hall. "I… lost track."

He approached her, his footsteps were measured, and undeniably confident. Too confident.

She could feel his presence before she saw him.

Regulus only hummed, infuriatingly pleased, and flicked his wand.

"Accio Fawley’s wand."

Something clattered several meters away behind a pile of chairs. Her wand shot toward Regulus. He caught it effortlessly with his non-dominant hand, because of course he did.

He held it out to her.

"Try not to throw it again," he said dryly.

She snatched it from him before her brain could process the shivers that travelled up her arm at the brief brush of his fingers.

Stop that.

No more falling.

 No more being caught. 

No more… thinking.

Shut up Elenore!

"Thank you," she muttered, then promptly turned on her heel and nearly tripped over a garland box.

FUCK!

Regulus did not comment. But she felt his stare burning between her shoulder blades.

A few of the students approached tentatively as Elenore flicked her wand to levitate the fabric to wrap it around the pillars.

"Professor Fawley?" Bill ventured, looking genuinely worried. "Are you… all right?"

"Oh, marvellous," she said, voice overly bright. "Just a bit startled, that’s all."

Lizzy nodded vigorously. "You fell from… really high."

"Thank you for that unnecessary detail." She smiled.

Daniel awkwardly patted her arm. "We’re glad you’re okay."

She smiled at them, softer this time. "Truly, I’m fine. But thank you."

Her pulse still hadn’t settled, but she wasn’t about to admit that. With a steadying breath, she turned to the nearest pillar, raising her wand.

"Alright," she murmured. "Magic it is. No more ladders."

Regulus’ voice drifted from behind her. "A revolutionary decision."

She ignored him. Why did she even speak to herself aloud?

With a smooth flick, lengths of shimmering icy-blue fabric rose into the air, unfurling like enchanted waterfalls. They wrapped themselves around the marble pillars in elegant spirals.

Elenore guided the cloth carefully, watching it drape just so.

Magic hummed through her fingers, warm and familiar.

Regulus swooped up garlands right next to her. They twisted around the upper arches like vines made of moonlight.

Riley whistled. "Looks incredible, Professor."

"Thank you, Riley."

Bill stepped back from the tree he, Muriel, and Lizzy were decorating. "Er—Professor Fawley? Professor Black? Do you want the silver baubles evenly spaced or like… artistically random?"

Regulus didn’t look up from the list hovering in front of him. "Even spacing."

"Artistic spacing," Elenore corrected at the same time.

They turned to stare at each other.

"No," Regulus said, tone flat. "Even."

"Black, this is Christmas, let them have fun!"

The students watched like spectators at a Quidditch match.

Finally, Lizzy whispered, "Maybe… alternating sections?"

A beat.

Regulus nodded. "Acceptable."

Elenore sighed. "Fine."

The students sprang to work before another argument could start. It was so entertaining to look at how students interacted with each other.

Two hours passed in a blur of colour, ribbons, floating ornaments, and Daniel shouting, "RICHARD, IF YOU FLIRT ONE MORE TIME I WILL USE YOU AS A TREE."

Finally—mercifully—Muriel took pity on Richard and agreed to hold the ribbon for him. He nearly fainted.

By afternoon, the Great Hall had transformed completely.

Icicles glittered above the doorways. Ribbons trailed softly on branches. The giant trees Hagrid had brought earlier now shimmered with hundreds of tiny charmed lights, twinkling between the ornaments. And the most important - candles shimmered perfectly to accompany the whole picture.

Elenore stepped back, wand still warm in her hand.

Her breath caught.

"It’s…" she whispered.

Beautiful. Breathtaking. Whimsical and exactly what she’d pictured.

She turned her head.

Regulus stood beside her. Firelight reflected in his eyes—turning grey to something closer to silver.

"It will do," he said calmly.

She nudged him with her elbow. "Mr Black, you can admit it looks wonderful."

A long pause.

"It looks…" he hesitated, then exhaled sharply as if annoyed at himself, "appropriate."

"High praise," she muttered. But she was smiling.

Regulus glanced at her, and something in his expression softened—barely, but undeniably.

"It’s five-fifty," he said. "Dinner starts in ten minutes."

"Right." She tucked her wand behind her ear, wiping nonexistent dust from her trousers just to keep her hands busy. "Students, gather your things. Thank you all for the help. Truly."

They scattered around the hall, preparing to eat, several glancing between her and Regulus like they’d witnessed… something.

She ignored that too. She’d had enough mortification for the next decade.

Elenore walked slowly to the centre of the hall, turning once, taking everything in.

The garlands. The candles. The fabrics. The trees. The way magic made the winter air feel warm.

Her heart, finally, began to settle.

"You’re pleased," Regulus observed behind her.

She didn’t look back. "Of course I am. Aren’t you?"

Another pause.

Then, quietly. "Yes."

She blinked.

He rarely admitted things so plainly. It felt strange to hear Regulus Black admitting something, more than that, agreeing with her. It was like catching sight of a shooting star that made her wonder if she’d imagined it for a brief moment.

Elenore inhaled, letting the winter-magic settle in her chest. She could almost see her mother’s hands decorating their sitting room back home, hear her father humming carols as he worked the garlands into place. Winter holidays and Christmas always meant something special to her. Something cosy and magical, even though the magic was always present in their home, this specific holiday magic was Elenore’s favourite since childhood.

Christmas at the Fawleys was always a family holiday, although they visited the balls of other families sometimes, they never had a ball at their home and preferred to spend the day with the family. 

Elenore’s favourite part was baking and decorating the house. Once when Elenore and Juliet were baking gingerbreads and Ingram, together with William, were decorating the house, Will accidentally sat on Elenore’s cat, Noel.

'White Christmas' vinyl played from the gramophone, music humming through the house that already smelled of butter and ginger. Gingerbreads scattered on every surface, cooling on racks William always stole from. Their mother would scold him lightly, but the corners of her mouth always betrayed fondness.

And the laughter — it had a sound nothing else ever managed to recreate.

Flour was everywhere, cinnamon in Elenore’s hair, while Ingram and William decorated the house with tinsel and star-charms. It had been chaos from the start.

William, not looking where he was stepping, sat directly on Noel. Noel clawed him so badly that he walked around with scratches on his arm for weeks.

Elenore, nine years old and utterly unsympathetic, had crossed her arms and declared, "You deserved it, Willykins."

William, nursing his pride and a bloodied sleeve, had glared at her. "I swear your demon cat has it out for me."

Elenore only shrugged, patting Noel like a hero returning from a mission. "He learned from the best!" From her specifically.

The memory warmed her now — gingerbread, childhood bickering softened by the kind of love that lingered even in the empty spaces. And standing now in the Great Hall, she felt for one breath — one single, fragile breath — like she’d stepped back into that warmth again.

This year will be different.

William was in St. Mungo's now.  What Christmas will it be without him? 

And Elenore will most likely stay at Hogwarts, parents will understand…

They should.

And standing there, surrounded by all she’d helped to create, without those bittersweet memories clouding her mind, she felt…. Strange. Even more strange, after everything that happened today— after almost falling, after being caught, after the way Regulus’ hands had held her as if she were something breakable but worth saving.

Her heart fluttered once — irritated at itself — and she shut the feeling down like snapping a book closed.

"Joining for dinner?" Regulus asked, already turning slightly toward the teachers’ table. The question was casual, almost indifferent, but something in his voice — a soft lilt, a shadow of concern — tugged at her.

She looked at the hall again, letting her gaze travel up the new candlelight, across the soft silver of the garlands, the fabrics twisting around the pillars like ribbons of winter wind. She’d poured her whole afternoon into this — into controlling every small detail so the chaos of the world wouldn’t seep in.

"No," she said finally. "I… I don’t feel hungry…"

Not a lie. But it was not the whole truth either. There was a weight in her chest she didn’t know how to name. A heaviness she needed solitude to untangle before getting back to work tomorrow.

"And thank you," she said softly. "For catching me."

His gaze held hers. "Try not to fall tomorrow."

"I make no promises."

Regulus paused. "As you wish," he said quietly. "We’ll meet tomorrow morning? To test the snow-charms and finish the table layouts."

"After breakfast I suppose?" she offered.

"Sure." he agreed, dipping his head in something like a polite bow.

Elenore gathered her jacket over her arm and stepped toward the door. Her boots echoed faintly against the stone as she made her way through the hall. Every candle flicker seemed to follow her, tugging gently at the threads of her thoughts.

Tomorrow would be busy. Tables, snow-charms, elves, last touches. So much to manage.

But tonight… tonight she just wanted to rest.

And as she walked toward the door that led to the corridor, she couldn’t help one final glance backward — at the hall glowing soft gold behind her, and at the figure still standing where she left him.

Regulus didn’t move until she stepped out the Hall. As if making sure she won’t trip and break her neck on her way out. Something that seemed to be quiet nature for her after today’s. He turned slowly, decorations shimmering around as the scent of roasted herbs filled the space and more students appeared for Dinner.

Chapter 24: Chapter 23

1984 December 9 

 

 

Elenore had not woken up in time for breakfast. She hadn’t even come close.

This time, Noel didn’t bother checking on her, nor did he demand food with his usual early-morning theatrics. Even her alarm charm had gone off three times, jingling in that annoyingly cheerful tone she’d set months ago, and each time she’d muttered something obscene and just rolled deeper into her blankets.

Now that she wasn’t drinking Wideye Potion, sleep was very dear to her and thoroughly deserved.

When she finally stumbled awake—with her hair pointing in seventeen directions and her left sock somehow missing—she checked the clock on her bedside table and groaned.

Ten-thirty. Brilliant. 

She dragged herself out of bed with a groan that might have suggested that it was already time for her retirement. She washed her face then with cold water until she felt vaguely human, and tugged on clothes without looking at their state of wrinkle. Halfway through buttoning her shirt, she froze.

What time did they have to meet? After breakfast? No precise time. Though after breakfast could very easily mean directly after breakfast — which, considering Hogwarts’ schedule, was around eight-thirty.

Oooof…

Well… agreeing after breakfast didn’t mean that she would actually go to breakfast, nor come straight after it.

She had only just begun to believe Regulus wouldn’t hex her or quietly rearrange her organs when provoked… but now? Now she couldn’t be so sure. 

Noel, curled on her pillow like a small tyrannical monarch, blinked at her slowly.

"Oh, don’t start," she muttered, pulling on her boots. "Some of us need sleep to function, you know."

Noel yawned in response as if saying Don’t bother me, woman, go do your things.

She lifted her wand, charmed her hair into something less tragic, grabbed her notebook and Polaroid before hurrying toward the Floo.

The Great Hall had never looked emptier than now. All the decorations remained in place — garlands curled around pillars, enchanted baubles glinting on pine branches.  But the centre of the room was bare. Tables were pushed to the sides, benches stacked neatly, and the enchanted candles floating overhead reflected the glow of the glittering ornaments on the Christmas trees.

Regulus was already there. 

Of course he was. 

Of course, he had likely done half the work while she was asleep.

He was leaning against one of the tables, reading a parchment with the same intensity that other people reserved for duelling. He looked up at the sound of her steps.

"You’re late, Miss Fawley," he said simply.

"Good morning to you too, Mr Black," she replied, brushing snow from her shoulders that wasn’t actually there. "And for the record, agreeing to meet after breakfast doesn’t mean I have to attend breakfast." She looked at him and tried to stay composed, who knew what he would say, she had already prepared herself for a lecture in his tone, he uses for dissecting excuses. But the more she looked at him, the more she noticed that there was no annoyance in his features, nor did he seem to look angry at her.

Regulus just blinked once. He was composed and definitely not surprised. He turned slightly and reached for something on the table behind him. 

What was it? A plate? 

He held it out to her, there was a cinnamon bun from breakfast on it, and it was still warm.

Elenore took it and just stared at it in disbelief. Then at him.

"You… saved this for me?"

He shrugged, a gesture so small she almost missed it. "You weren’t there. I assumed you’d overslept."

She took it delicately, like it was a rare artefact. "Thank you," she murmured before taking a bite.

"It’s just a bun, Miss Fawley." Regulus’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes flickered slightly with something softer.

Elenore didn’t respond. She couldn’t, the bun was delicious. She nodded instead, quick and awkward, then turned away before she could embarrass herself by smiling too much.

After finishing the bun like a starving dragon, Elenore set down her notebook and took several pictures of the hall from various angles before testing the snow charm they bought earlier in Tomes and scrolls. She promised her parents some pictures from the preparations, and the scene was totally worth remembering.  She can imagine herself sitting at her house by the fireplace, sipping wine and rewatching pictures from the moments of her life. Making pictures was also useful for planning. And because she liked the way it made her feel like she was running a real event instead of, well, her chaotic life.

"Ready?" Regulus asked.

She nodded, stepping backwards to give him space.

He lifted his wand and murmured a spell. Instantly, snow burst from the ceiling, not the heavy kind that soaked your robes, but delicate flakes that spiralled down almost like dust. They sparkled as they fell, dissolving just before reaching the middle of the hall.

Elenore watched, entranced. A few flakes landed on her shoulder before vanishing with a faint shimmer.

It was… beautiful. And not messy—thank Merlin.

She hadn’t thought she’d ever say it—not out loud, not even internally—but…

It was a good idea to have Regulus here.

He was, annoyingly…

Useful. 

Unbelievable.

They moved on to the finishing touches then. Elenore walked back toward the tables where Hagrid had left a large wooden crate filled with miniature star-shaped ornaments that glimmered even more than the previous ones. Perhaps that was the reason why Elenore wanted to add them to the trees as well.

"Right," Elenore said, closing her camera and leaving it at the table. "Let’s finish with the last ornaments, and then I’ll take another picture. For before-and-after comparison."

She hefted the box into her arms. Regulus followed, carrying another box toward the nearest tree.

"At least these are light," he murmured mostly to himself. 

"Speak for yourself, those boxes are anything but light."

They reached the first tree, and Regulus set his crate down with a soft thud.

"Let’s get this done before you decide we need another set of ornaments," he added, tone deceptively calm.

"Oh, don’t be dramatic," she retorted. "Just a touch more sparkle."

"Yes," he said, lifting a brow. "Because that’s exactly what the Great Hall needed. More sparkle. Sparkling candles are definitely not enough."

Oh, bastard knew exactly what he was saying.

Elenore shot him a flat stare over her shoulder. "It was an accident!"

But despite the comment, they started working. They moved from tree to tree — Elenore stretching on her toes to hang the smallest stars, Regulus using careful wandwork to make each ornament hover into place. The mini-stars glimmered softly, catching every drifting snowflake.

"That was the last one," Regulus announced, brushing a stray silver fleck off his sleeve.

"Perfect," she said. "Now I’ll take—"

Before Elenore could fire back, a low, slithering cackle rippled through the hall — the kind of sound that, after yesterday's, made her spine stiffen instinctively.

Perfect. Of course, he would show up now. Not a single day without this translucent disaster.

She shifted the box of excess ornaments in her arms, weaving her way between the tables. Elenore was trying to ignore Peeves as much as she could.

"STAR–RY WITCH AND SHA–DOW KNIGHT!" trilled a voice from nowhere and everywhere at once. "CAAAATCH HER CLOSE OR CAGE HER TIGHT—"

Elenore froze mid-step, No she can’t ignore this."Oh, no—"

Too late.

The box slipped from her hands, landing hard on the edge of the nearest table before toppling over and crashing directly onto her right hand, pinning it to the bench. Elenore collapsed with it, breath knocked out of her.

The pain shot up her wrist like fire.She hissed and bit down a curse.

Perfect.

Double trouble wrapped in one single moment! Peeves’ mouth and her own clumsiness.

Absolutely perfect.

Before she could even fully straighten, the poltergeist swooped into view like a colourful, sneering comet.

"ROMANCE BREWING EVERY NIGHT!" Peeves crowed, spinning in circles. "STARRY ELLIE CAUGHT IN PLIGHT! SHADOW REGGIE HOLDING TIGHT!"

Her jaw dropped.

She could not—would not—deal with this right now.

"PEEVES!" she shouted, waving her hands in the protest, she even forgot for a moment that she might end up with a bruise on her hand. "YOU HAVE NOTHING TO DO SINCE JACKDAW LEFT?!"

Peeves gasped dramatically as if question itself offended him. He floated upside down to stare at her with wide, mocking eyes. "ELLIE-NELLIE FAWLEY-SPOT! HOT AS KETTLE COLD AS POT!" He shrieked with laughter, spiralling away. "HE HEEEEEEE HEE!"

Regulus sighed like a man resigned to suffering. "Ignore him."

Exactly what she was planning to do with Peeves’ and Regulus’ comments at one. She just pressed her eyes shut briefly. Did he just? Has he just rhymed her name with a teapot? If Elenore had ever feared Pandora might do it, clearly she should’ve been terrified of someone else entirely. 

"Bloody Merion," she muttered and walked to take her camera from the table to make new pictures.

She squinted, trying to refocus, and snatched the camera into her left arm, since her right hand throbbed with every heartbeat. "If he rhymes about me one more time, I will hex him."

"You can’t hex the ghost," Regulus reminded her.

"Watch me."

Regulus’s mouth twitched as he asked her the question of the whole evening. "Intend to shoot with your left hand?" His voice maddeningly calm.

"I am left-handed," she lied without hesitation. Honestly, she had no idea why her brain chose that excuse. Maybe she was still in shock from Peeves. Maybe the pain was messing with her ability to function like a normal human.

Regulus didn’t even blink. "Miss Fawley," he said evenly, "we’ve been studying together for seven years. You are not left-handed."

She opened her mouth. Closed it.“Fine,” she muttered. "Maybe I’m feeling ambidextrous today."

He raised a brow — just one — the kind of raised brow that asked exactly ten silent questions she had no intention of answering.

Instead, she pivoted toward the nearest table, remembering that they still had to discuss this as well.

The snow—still lingering in the air from their earlier testing—glittered softly as it curled and vanished, each flake collapsing into a burst of silver dust before fading entirely. It left the hall shimmering, a half-winter dream in motion.

Regulus stepped lightly beside her, gaze tracing the layout too, though he pretended otherwise.

"So," she said, clearing her throat, "let’s talk about layouts."

"Gladly," he replied.

They walked the length of the hall, stopping every few paces to consider angles, spacing, symmetry. Regulus adjusted one bench with a lazy flick of his wand. Elenore conjured a floating outline of circular tables, testing the distance between each.

Elenore winced when she moved her right hand in the wrong direction. The pain flared sharply and quickly. How stupid it was, she tried very hard to act like it didn’t happen.

Regulus’s eyes, traitorous and observant as ever, flicked down to the movement.

Absolutely not. She wasn’t giving him that satisfaction. She straightened her posture, lifted her chin an inch, and forced the casual tone that never fooled him but always made her feel slightly more in control. She hoped he hadn’t noticed her accidentally dropping a box.

"I’m thinking three rows," she said, gesturing with her left hand toward the empty centre of the hall. "Curving slightly inward toward the tree. It draws attention to the stage."

Regulus stepped beside her, arms folded, gaze sweeping over the space as if he had already been reorganising the layout in his head since dawn.

He nodded once. "And the snow will fall primarily in the centre? We don’t want it drifting into the food."

"Right. I can tether it."

"You’ll tether it poorly with a crippled wrist."

She rounded on him immediately. "It’s not crippled."

His expression didn’t move a muscle. "I saw you drop the box."

Oh. So he did see it. Of course he did.

"Focus on the tables, Mr Black!" 

He hummed—a maddeningly smug sound. Which meant that he was right, and he knew it, and he was choosing mercy by not pressing further.

Infuriating as ever.

But she allowed the tension to fade as they continued arranging the imagined tables. Regulus adjusted one outline with a flick of his wand. Elenore did the same, shifting the tables two inches to the right until the spacing felt balanced.

It was strange, she thought, how easily they worked together when neither of them was trying to one-up the other. It made her uneasy. Comfortable things always did.

After several trial layouts, they finally landed on a configuration that made sense: three curved rows, open toward the stage and the enchanted snowfall, leaving enough space for the orchestra and the dance floor.

"Good," Regulus said simply.

She nodded. "It’ll photograph."

"Of course, that’s your priority."

"Well, yes. If we’re making something beautiful, I’d like to have a proof."

Regulus didn’t roll his eyes, but he wanted to. She could feel it.

But the afternoon was nearly gone, and the dinner hour forced them to return to the tables to prepare the hall for the evening meal. They worked in near-silence, shifting long wooden tables back into neat lines. 

By the time students began trickling in for dinner, the entire hall had transformed once more. The ceiling shimmered in its evening dusk, streaked with soft lavender clouds. Platters of roast chicken and pumpkin pasties, and buttered potatoes hovered into place. Steam curled from tureens of spiced soup.

Noise swelled—footsteps, chatter, laughter, the clatter of cutlery.

Regulus tipped his head toward the staff table. "We might as well eat first. Then the elves can meet us."

"They’re already waiting," Elenore said, because she knew Beanie would never allow herself to be late to something even tangentially related to her. "She said she would find us after dinner."

"Fine."

They took their seats—close enough to speak, far enough to pretend it was a coincidence—and Elenore forced herself to eat with her left hand. Regulus noticed. She felt him noticing. But he didn’t say a word, and the quiet consideration of it sent a strange, soft ripple through her chest.

After dinner, when the hall began emptying, and the noise dropped to a comfortable hum, a small figure popped into existence beside Elenore with a sound halfway between a squeak and a crack.

"Miss Fawley!” Beanie announced, wide-eyed and beaming. "Beanie is here, Miss Ellie, ma’am!"

Elenore smiled instantly. "Hi, Beanie."

Regulus inclined his head. "Beanie."

"Master Regulus, sir!" The tiny elf bowed so hard her hat nearly fell off. "Beanie is bringing ideas for the refreshments, as Miss Ellie asked!"

"Oh, perfect," Elenore said, moving toward one of the tables with Beanie trotting behind her. Regulus followed at a measured pace, arms crossed again. He always looked like he was silently evaluating everything in the room—including himself.

Beanie hopped onto the bench with ease. "So! Beanie is thinking that for the Christmas Ball, students must have warm things and sweet things and sparkling things—"

"Define sparkling," Regulus said.

Beanie grinned mischievously. "Drinks that make the nose tickle, sir."

"Not alcohol, Beanie," Elenore warned gently.

"Of course not, Miss Ellie! Just magic bubbles that pop like tiny sparks in your mouth. Beanie tested on herself. Very delicious!"

Regulus blinked. Elenore looked at his expression, it seemed like he was not a big fan of things like this. Elenore pressed her lips together to keep from laughing.

"All right," she said, returning her gaze to Beanie. "Bubble drinks. Approved."

Beanie clapped twice, looking absolutely thrilled. "And there is gingerbread! Beanie made a test batch. Gingerbread stars, gingerbread owls, gingerbread llamas—Beanie is trying new shapes."

Regulus actually stopped. "Llamas?"

"Llamas, sir!"

Elenore patted Beanie’s shoulder. "I trust your artistic vision."

"There must also be little pies," the elf continued, pulling out a long scroll of parchment that unrolled across the entire table. "And biscuits shaped like holly! And sugar snowflakes! And puddings! And tiny custards in tiny cups!"

Elenore leaned over the list with growing delight. The sheer enthusiasm radiating off Beanie could have powered the whole castle.

Regulus studied the scroll too, thoughtfully. "We need to avoid anything too sticky," he said. "Messes will be difficult to clean on enchanted flooring."

"Oh! Beanie can make them soft on the inside but not sticky on the fingers!"

"Good."

"And what about savoury options?" Elenore asked.

Beanie flipped the page. "Little pasties, Miss Ellie. Bite-sized. And cheese tarts. And rolls with herbs. And tiny sandwiches—"

"Tiny sandwiches," Elenore repeated fondly. "Excellent."

Beanie beamed at them both. "And of course—hot chocolate!"

"With cinnamon," Elenore added.

"And nutmeg," Regulus said.

They both paused, realising they’d spoken at the same time.

Beanie clapped in excitement. "Beanie will make both!"

Elenore felt warmth stir in her chest. Christmas always did that to her. The scents, the lights, the traditions—they tugged at home. She hadn’t realised until now how much she missed it.

Regulus’s voice drew her back. "We’ll need to coordinate the timing with the elves. Warm food delivered in stages."

"Yes." Elenore nodded. "Beanie, will you work out the schedule?"

Beanie saluted dramatically. "Beanie will have everything ready!"

"Thank you, Beanie," Elenore said warmly.

The elf vanished with a bright pop.

The hall was quieter now. A handful of students lingered over dessert, the candles burned lower, and the enchanted ceiling had shifted into a navy sky dotted with winter stars.

Elenore let out a slow breath. "Tomorrow’s going to be chaos."

"As on every Monday," Regulus agreed without missing a beat.

"And today was… productive." She hesitated—only for a second, but enough for him to notice. "Thanks. For helping."

Regulus studied her, his gaze sharp but not unkind, the candlelight catching in the dark of his eyes. "You don’t have to thank me. This is our project."

It shouldn’t have made her heart warm. It did anyway. Infuriatingly.

"Still," she said, a small smile tugging at her lips, "I appreciate it."

He inclined his head—a gesture that, from him, felt almost like a smile in a language only he spoke.

They walked out of the Hall together, the lingering enchanted snowfall drifting gently above them. It dissolved into a trail of silver dust as they passed, settling over empty plates and gleaming garlands as though blessing their hard work.

For the first time since the whole Christmas Ball ordeal began, Elenore felt… steadied.

Tired, yes. Her hand throbbed with each heartbeat, absolutely.

But steadied.

Regulus slowed his steps as they reached the corridor, glancing down at her right wrist with the kind of scrutiny that made her feel transparent. "You should have that looked at."

"It’s nothing," she lied with the confidence of someone who has lied about injuries many times before.

His lips twitched—just barely. "Be that as it may, you should visit the infirmary. Pandora won’t appreciate you turning a minor injury into a major one."

Elenore blinked. "You know Pandora well enough to anticipate her lectures?"

"I know of her," Regulus corrected, lifting his chin. "And I know she won’t tolerate you ignoring an injury."

"Merlin’s beard, am I that transparent?"

"Yes." He didn’t soften it. "You’re also pale and compensating for the pain in your posture."

"You analysed my posture?"

He huffed, the closest he ever came to sighing dramatically. "I analysed your ability to function as my co-lead on this project."

"That is extremely sweet of you, Mr Black," she said dryly, "which is unsettling, I must admit."

He looked skyward, as though begging the ceiling for patience. "Go to the infirmary, Miss Fawley."

She paused, tilting her head at him. "Are you ordering me?"

"No," he replied, "I’m stating the logical course of action. If I were ordering you, you’d know."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Is that supposed to be threatening?"

"Informative," he corrected again.

The faintest laugh escaped her—soft and tired. "Fine. I was thinking of visiting Pandora regardless of this." She made a vague circling motion with her hand as if to support her point.

Regulus regarded her for a long moment, as though ensuring she wasn’t lying again, then gave a short, satisfied nod.

"Good. I’ll review the layout draft tonight."

"Don’t stay up too late," she said before she could stop herself.

His eyes flicked over her face—something unreadable passing through them. "I’ll manage."

They stood there, the corridor quiet around them except for the distant hum of students drifting toward their common rooms. For a breath, the air felt strangely suspended and warm.

"Good night, Mr Black," she said softly.

"Good night, Miss Fawley."

She walked away before she could talk herself into reading more into that moment than she should.

The second she rounded the corner, the bravery evaporated, and she cradled her wrist to her chest, hissing through her teeth as the pain flared. Stars danced at the edges of her vision. Brilliant.

Absolutely brilliant.

By the time she reached the staircase, she realised she hadn’t even needed to think about where she was heading. Her feet simply knew: down two flights, past the old tapestry, and straight into the corridor that smelled faintly of lavender oil and disinfecting charms.

The infirmary door stood half-open, warm light spilling through the crack.

"Pennie?" she called softly, nudging it further with her elbow. "You here?"

Pandora looked up from a stack of patient vials, blond curls escaping her braid. Her eyes widened the moment she saw Elenore’s wrist with a fresh bruise on it.

"Oh, stars above, Ellie, what did you do now?"

Elenore attempted a casual shrug and failed because pain shot up her arm. "Fell off a ladder yesterday. But very gracefully."

Pandora sighed. "No, I mean with a hand." She said it as if falling from the ladder part hadn’t surprised her at all. "Sit. Now."

Elenore obeyed, sinking onto the nearest bed. "Oh, you meant that. I dropped the box with ornaments, and it pinned my hand to the bench. And all of that because of Peeves. Who, I must say the same reason I felt of the ladder yesterday!"

Pandora hummed, examining the wrist from multiple angles. "Nothing too terrible, you’ll have a bruise though."

Elenore sagged in relief. "Good."

"But," Pandora continued, "if you keep waving it around dramatically as you talk — which you do — you’ll make it worse."

Elenore made a face. "I do not wave dramatically."

Pandora simply gave her a look.

"Fine," she muttered. "Maybe a little dramatically."

Pandora smiled, warm and knowing. "Hold still."

Cool magic washed through her wrist as Pandora murmured a healing charm. The throbbing dulled instantly, replaced by a soothing, tingling warmth. Pandora wrapped the wrist with a bandage that shimmered faintly — self-tightening and charmed to numb pain without fully immobilising.

"You should avoid ladders," Pandora said gently as she secured the bandage. "And heavy boxes. And chaotic poltergeists."

"I’ll add them to my list."

Pandora raised an eyebrow. "Do you want me to tell Regulus you’re injured?"

Elenore nearly choked. "NO— absolutely not. Besides, he already knows that and thinks I’m incapable of basic motor skills."

Pandora laughed softly, tying the final knot. "He doesn’t think that."

"He absolutely thinks that."

"Well," Pandora said, patting her hand lightly, "from what I’ve overheard, he also thinks highly of you. More than you realise."

Elenore stilled — suddenly very aware of her heartbeat.

But Pandora only stepped back with her usual quiet serenity.

"Your wrist will heal in two days," she said. "Come to me again if it worsens."

"Thank you," Elenore said, sliding off the bed carefully.

"Go rest," Pandora added. "And please—stay away from Peeves."

"No promises, he usually finds me."

Pandora sighed — the same exact way Regulus had.

Elenore left the infirmary with her bandaged wrist and her thoughts spinning just a little too loud for comfort.

She stared at the ceiling as she leaned against the wall of the corridor.

Maybe she was more transparent than she wanted to be.

And maybe… maybe Regulus wasn’t as unreadable as he pretended.