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Chapter Text

"Mistress! Mistress! Breakfast! It's ready!"

Winky's high-pitched voice pulls Nadine from sleep, and she groans softly, blinking as her eyes adjust to the morning light streaming through the window. The sky outside is pale, the sun barely rising—too early for her liking.

Something warm shifts near her legs, followed by a quiet, grumbly meow. Nadine glances down to see Brownie, her brown feline, stretching lazily on Nadine's bed, blinking at her with unimpressed golden eyes.

"Morning, you spoiled thing." Nadine mumbles, scratching behind her ear. Brownie purrs but promptly rolls over and buries her face in the blanket, clearly not ready to start the day either.

Nadine wishes she could do the same.

The nerves bubble up again, settling uncomfortably in her stomach. She had argued, begged, and protested, but in the end, Father's word was final. "You'll be safer there." he had said. "It's time you were with family."

Nadine swings her legs over the side of the bed, pushing down the unease. First year at another school. How bad could it be?

Before Nadine can stand, a loud, impatient knock rattles her door.

"Oi, wake up, you slug!" comes Barty's voice, muffled but full of exasperation. Before Nadine can prepare herself, her door swings open with a bang. "We're leaving in two hours, and you still look like a corpse!"

Nadine rolls her eyes. "I look better than you do on a good day, so I wouldn't talk."

Barty's two massive Dobermans, Hades and Ares, come bounding in like a storm, their nails clicking against the floor as they launch themselves at her.

"Oof—!" Nadine barely has time to react before she is knocked back onto the bed, greeted by enthusiastic licks and an overwhelming amount of drool.

"Get off, you beasts!" she laughs, trying to shield her face as Ares noses at her cheek and Hades pins Nadine's legs down with his weight. Brownie, utterly horrified, hisses and leaps onto a desk, her tail puffed up.

Barty leans casually against the doorway, arms crossed, smirking. "I see my boys have done their job. You're up."

"Up? I'm being mauled!" Nadine protests, trying to push Ares off while he wags his tail like this is the best morning of his life.

"That's what you get for sleeping in." Barty says smugly. "Come on, we don't have all day."

Finally managing to shove the dogs off, Nadine escapes to the bathroom. When Nadine steps back out, wiping her face with a towel, Barty looks her over and immediately smirks.

"Merlin's beard, you actually managed to look worse." he announces, clutching his chest in fake horror. "I didn't think that was possible."

Nadine scowls and tosses the towel at his face, but he catches it effortlessly.

"Bugger off, Temy."

"No, really. You look like you got hexed in your sleep." he continues, grinning.

"That's rich coming from someone whose hair looks like he was struck with a thunder." Nadine retorts, crossing her arms.

Barty scoffs, running a hand through his mop of curls as if that would fix anything. "This is effortless, actually. Can't say the same for you."

Nadine marches past him into her wardrobe room, swatting his arm on the way. "Get out, I need to get dressed."

"Right, right. Just don't take all morning—Father will have our heads if we're late."

Nadine rolls her eyes as he finally leaves. After dressing in black tights, a black skirt, and a red jumper, Nadine slips on her knee-length, leather boots, the heels clicking lightly against the floor as she moves. For her hair, Nadine gathers her long brown waves into an elegant half-up, half-down style, securing it with a simple clip.

Satisfied, Nadine grabs her wand and heads downstairs, where Barty is already waiting on the staircase with an impatient look on his face. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the air, and Nadine spots Mother leaning against the kitchen sink, sipping her cup. Her blonde hair glows softly in the early morning light.

"Morning, Maman." Nadine greets her, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

She smiles warmly, her pale blue eyes sparkling. "Good morning, ma chère. Are you ready for the trip?"

Nadine nods, forcing a smile. "As ready as I'll ever be."

She moves towards the table, where Father is sitting with his Daily Prophet spread out in front of him, brows furrowed in concentration. He barely looks up as Nadine sits down across from him.

"Good morning, Father." She says, trying to sound as polite as possible.

He responds without looking up from his paper. "Morning. You've wasted enough time already."

Barty follows behind Nadine, his usual smirk firmly in place, though it falters slightly when he catches Father's gaze.

"You'll be leaving soon, then?" he asks, now looking directly at Nadine.

"Yes, sir." they reply in unison, trying to hide the slight frustration creeping into their tone.

Father studies Nadine for a long moment, his sharp gaze cutting through her like a knife. "I expect you to conduct yourself with dignity at Hogwarts."

Nadine swallows, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. She knows better than to push back too much—he would never tolerate it. She has lived with the pressure of his expectations her entire life, but today, with all that is going on, she can feel the weight of it more than ever.

"I'll behave, sir." She answers, her voice steady, though inside she is seething.

Barty shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his fork tapping against his plate in rhythm with the growing tension. "Can we just have a peaceful breakfast for once?"

But Father isn't having any of it. He sets the paper down slowly and gives both of them a look of utter disappointment, as if his very presence should command respect.

"Peaceful breakfast?" Father repeats, his voice like ice. "The world doesn't wait for your laziness, Bartemius. I raised you to be better than this."

Barty shifts in his chair, barely holding back a snort of frustration. "I'm doing fine, sir."

But Father isn't finished. He turns his attention to Nadine, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You'll have to prove yourself, you know. Transfer students always have something to prove, but you—" His gaze hardens. "You're a Crouch. Do not forget that."

Nadine meets his eyes, anger simmering beneath the surface, but she keeps her expression neutral. "I haven't forgotten."

His stern look doesn't change. Father takes another sip of his coffee, clearly pleased with himself. "Good. I expect you both to keep your heads down and make a good impression. Don't make me regret this decision."

It is always the same. His rules, his expectations. Everything they do is for his approval, but they both know they will never get it. He expects perfection, even though they know it is impossible. Nadine wants to lash out, to scream, but she bites her tongue. Barty and Nadine may not be able to escape his rules, but they will find a way to get through it. Together.

Barty, still tense, finally speaks up, his voice low. "When's the last time you actually noticed what we wanted, Father?"

Father doesn't even flinch, his voice cold as he answers, "You don't get to want things, Bartemius. Not unless they serve the family's interests."

Nadine exchanges a glance with Barty, both of them struggling with the resentment that bubbles up with every word he says.

"Yes, Father." Barty mutters under his breath, knowing better than to argue further.

Mother, still leaning on the sink, sips her coffee in silence, though Nadine can see the faint trace of a frown on her lips. She knows what is going on, but she stays out of it, as always. Barty and Nadine finish their breakfast. They know better than to say anything more. They are used to this by now.

They climb the stairs in silence, the tension still thick in the air. As they reach the top of the stairs, they can hear raised voices coming from the kitchen.

"You don't get it, Lavinda!" Father snaps. "Our children are a reflection of this family. It's for their future!"

"I know what you want, Barty." Mother replies, her voice soft but firm. "But they'll find their own way. Let them be who they are. We've raised them well, they don't need this pressure."

Nadine rolls her eyes at the familiar argument. They have had this fight a thousand times before. She doesn't care to hear it again, so she pushes open her bedroom door with a bit more force than necessary. The loud bang of the door slamming behind her cuts through the air, startling both Barty and the dogs.

"Not today." She mutters under her breath, moving past him. Barty flops on her bed, and she can hear the soft thud of his body landing in the soft covers. Ares and Hades trot over, whining and nuzzling her legs in their usual greeting. They have always been big, slobbery, affectionate creatures, and despite her frustration, Nadine finds herself petting them absentmindedly. Brownie, her mischievous girl, is perched atop the cat tree in the corner of the room, batting at dangling toys with her paws, completely unfazed.

She walks over to her luggage, adding the last of the books and extra clothes she will need for the trip. Her hands are shaking slightly, and she pauses, taking a deep breath before continuing.

Barty watches Nadine for a moment before sitting up. "You're nervous again, aren't you?" he asks, a slight grin tugging at his lips.

Nadine sighs and looks up, meeting his eyes. "I don't know... it's just—what if I don't fit in at Hogwarts University? What if I don't end up in Ravenclaw like Father expects? It's not like I'm exactly perfect like he thinks I should be."

Barty scoffs and lays down, propping himself on his elbows. "Who cares what Father thinks? Besides, if you don't get into Ravenclaw, it'll just make him more pissed, and that's the best part of it all." He raises an eyebrow, the playful smirk returning. "You know, it might even be better if you end up somewhere else. He'll lose his mind."

She can't help but chuckle at the thought of Father's reaction. Barty is right—nothing ever seems to please him. "Yeah, you're probably right." She pauses, glancing out the window at the view of the manicured garden below. "But still, Ravenclaw's where I was supposed to go, right?"

Barty shrugs, jumping to his feet. "Doesn't matter. We're attending Hogwarts University. What House you end up in is just a formality. You're still going to show them all who the real Crouches are."

Nadine smiles at that. Her twin always knows how to make her feel better, even if his methods are sometimes a little over the top.

He heads to his own room to finish packing, leaving her with her thoughts. She sits at the window seat, staring outside, her gaze far away as she tries to distract herself from the nerves clawing at her insides. Nadine can't believe they are already starting first year at University.

She leans her forehead against the cool glass. It feels like a whole new world, and it is hard to shake off the anxiety that still lingers. But as the room falls silent, Nadine's mind drifts to Phina and Cass, the two friends she has known for years, each of them leaving a mark on her.

Seraphina Snape is a force of nature, sharp and calculating. Her talent for magic was apparent from the moment they met during their exchange program at Durmstrang. Seraphina's cunning and ambition are unmatched, but beneath her stoic exterior, there is kindness that only a few ever get to see. When she speaks, you listen. She carries herself with a quiet strength, always thinking three steps ahead. It is no surprise, really, that she is destined for greatness. But what sets Seraphina apart is her fierce loyalty to those she cares about—she would do anything for Nadine, just as Nadine would for her.

Then there is Cassiopeia Black. The youngest daughter of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. At first glance, she might seem cold—reserved, even distant—but beneath that composed exterior is a sharp wit and an ability to read people. She is rich, undeniably so, but she carries that wealth with an elegance that feels effortless, like it is just a part of who she is. Cassiopeia is the kind of person who knows how to hold a room's attention without saying a word, and yet, when she does speak, it is often laced with sarcasm or dry humor. She is fun to be around, but never overbearing. There is an air of mystery about her, knowing things others don't. She keeps her emotions close to the chest, but Nadine knows better than most that she feels deeply. She is fiercely protective of those she loves, even if she won't admit it openly.

Their traits couldn't be more striking. Despite some of their differences, both are incredibly powerful, and both have influenced Nadine in ways she didn't fully understand until now. They are both coming to Hogwarts University, and she can't wait to see them again. Nadine knows that with them by her side, things won't be so intimidating. They will keep her grounded, and she will do the same for them.

But still, a part of her worries. What if they have all changed too much? What if Hogwarts isn't what she expects, or what if the pressure of their families' expectations gets to be too much? Nadine shakes the thoughts from her head. Whatever happens, she knows that Phina and Cass will be there. And that gives Nadine a sense of comfort, even if she doesn't have all the answers.

A deep breath. It is time to stop worrying. She has got this.

Chapter Text

A soft knock at Nadine's door makes her pause, her suitcase gripped in one hand and Brownie curled in her other arm, her tail flicking lazily.

"Come in." Nadine says, already knowing who it is.

Mother steps inside, her expression calm but warm. "Are you ready, darling?"

Nadine nods, though the truth is, she doesn't feel particularly ready. Her gentle reassurance follows—about how exciting this new chapter will be, how she believes in her—but it washes over Nadine without sinking in. She simply nods again, offering a small smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. Mother studies her for a moment but doesn't press. Instead, she kisses Nadine's forehead and brushes a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "You'll do wonderfully." she says softly.

With that, they head downstairs.

Father, unsurprisingly, is already gone for work. No final words of encouragement. No farewell at all. Just silence in his place.

Barty is kneeling beside Ares and Hades, both of whom are whining as if sensing their departure. He scratches behind their ears, murmuring something to them before standing, only for them to immediately lunge at Nadine instead. She stumbles slightly as they press against her, their tails wagging furiously.

"Alright, alright." Nadine chuckles, scratching their heads. "I'll miss you too."

Barty smirks, folding his arms. "They like you more."

"Obviously."

They say their goodbyes to Mother, who holds them both a little longer than usual, her arms wrapped tightly around them. "Take care of each other." she murmurs before stepping back.

Once outside in the garden, the morning air is crisp, carrying the scent of damp grass and autumn leaves. This is where they can safely Apparate.

Barty pulls out his wand. "Are you managing on your own?"

Nadine rolls her eyes. "I'm not a child, Temy."

"Debatable."

Before she can smack him, they both turn on the spot with a sharp crack and vanish into the suffocating pull of Apparition.

When they reappear at King's Cross Station, the usual rush surrounds them. The platform is already teeming with students and their families, trunks stacked, owls hooting in cages. The hum of chatter fills the air, mixing with the occasional burst of laughter or tearful goodbyes.

They step aside to make room for another family arriving, and Nadine adjusts her grip on Brownie, who flicks her ears, unimpressed by the noise.

"Bit different, isn't it?" Barty remarks, scanning the crowd.

"Completely." Nadine admits. She doesn't recognize anyone here, which only makes her more aware of how new this all feels. The unfamiliarity gnaws at her, but she pushes it down, keeping her expression neutral.

"Rosiers!"

Barty's sudden shout nearly startles Brownie out of Nadine's arms. She glares at him, but he is already grinning as two people make their way through the crowd toward them. The boy reaches Barty first, clapping him on the back before pulling him into a quick, brotherly hug. The girl, standing beside him, offers Nadine a warm smile.

"You must be Nadine." she says smoothly. "Barty's told us loads about you."

Nadine arches a brow, shifting her suitcase in one hand. "I can only hope it was good." Then, with a pointed look at her brother, she adds, "But knowing him... probably not."

"Oi!" Barty protests, scowling. "I'm not that awful."

"Yeah, sure." Nadine deadpans.

The girl laughs, while the guy—who Nadine assumes must be Evan—grins, eyes glinting with amusement.

"You must be Pandora and Evan Rosier." Nadine says, offering her hand. "My pleasure to finally meet you."

Pandora shakes it warmly, but Evan takes Nadine's hand with exaggerated flair, lifting it slightly as if contemplating whether to kiss it.

"The pleasure," he says, "is all mine."

Nadine narrows her eyes, unimpressed. "Very smooth, Rosier. How long did you practice that in the mirror?"

"Would you believe me if I said natural talent?" He smirks.

"Not for a second."

Pandora sighs, linking her arm through Evan's. "Ignore him. He thinks he's charming."

"I am charming." Evan corrects, glancing back at Nadine. "You agree, don't you, Nadine?"

"Oh, completely." Nadine says, voice dripping with sarcasm. "In the same way Temy is humble."

Barty snorts. "Hey!"

Evan chuckles. "I like you. You've got bite."

"And you've got an ego the size of the castle." Nadine shoots back.

Pandora laughs again while Barty just shakes his head. "You two are either going to be best friends or kill each other." he mutters.

Before Evan can come up with another remark, the train hoots, signaling it is time to board.

They push through the bustling students and step inside, moving toward the first-class compartments. Most of the younger years scramble for seats elsewhere, while older students settle in more comfortably. Finding an empty table, Barty, Pandora, Evan, and Nadine drop their things into the overhead storage and take their seats.

As Nadine scans the surroundings, a familiar head of dark hair catches her attention.

Cassiopeia.

Without hesitation, Nadine rises from her seat, leaving her things behind as she rushes toward her. Cassiopeia spots her a moment later, and a rare smile breaks across her face as she stands.

"Nadine!"

They embrace tightly, and for the first time all morning, Nadine feels at ease.

"You've no idea how much I've missed you." Nadine says, pulling back slightly.

Cassiopeia's lips twitch in a smirk. "I have some idea. You're heading to Hogwarts University too, after all."

"Tragic, isn't it?" Nadine jokes before her gaze shifts to the person seated beside Cassiopeia.

She straightens slightly, offering her hand. "You must be Regulus. I'm Nadine Crouch."

Regulus doesn't immediately take her hand. Instead, he regards her with a cool, unreadable expression. His posture is impeccable—composed, effortless, regal in that way only the Blacks seem to manage.

After a pause, he shakes her hand briefly, his grip firm but detached. "Pleasure." he says smoothly, though his tone suggests neither pleasure nor displeasure. Just politeness.

Stoic. Detached. Unimpressed. Exactly as she expected.

Cassiopeia leans back against her seat, arms crossed. "Reg is terrible at introductions."

Regulus exhales slightly, as if this conversation is already exhausting him. "I see no point in excessive pleasantries."

Nadine tilts her head. "Ah, so you're just naturally like that."

Cassiopeia chuckles, but Regulus simply raises an eyebrow.

"Right." Nadine says, amused. "Well, I'm thrilled, Black."

Regulus simply hums and returns to gazing out the window.

Nadine rolls her eyes before turning back to Cassiopeia. "Come sit with us."

Cassiopeia glances at Regulus, who gives the slightest nod—permission, Nadine supposes. With that, Cassiopeia stands, and together, they head back toward their table.

Evan raises an eyebrow, glancing toward Regulus, who is still sitting in his quiet corner. "What, Black isn't joining us?"

Barty just sighs dramatically, already standing up. "I'll go collect our lost little prince." Nadine notices a spark in his eyes as he glances at Cassiopeia. Oh, she is going to enjoy teasing him.

Evan follows him, muttering something about 'Black family dramatics' while Nadine turns to Cassiopeia and Pandora.

"Boys." Nadine sighs.

Pandora chuckles as they settle back in, and soon enough, conversation flows. They share stories—Pandora tells them about her latest adventures, and Nadine trades Beauxbatons tales with Cassiopeia.

A few hours pass, and as the train staff comes around taking food orders, Nadine realizes she needs the bathroom.

"I'll be back." She says, standing.

Evan looks up lazily. "Try not to get lost. Would be a shame if we had to search for you."

Nadine rolls her eyes. "Oh, please. You'd enjoy the peace and quiet."

He smirks. "Can't argue with that."

Ignoring him, Nadine makes her way toward the nearest bathroom, but as she passes through the corridor, it hits her—she hasn't searched for Seraphina yet.

With that, she steps past the first-class section and into the bustling compartments of the main train. She glances through the glass as she walks, scanning for a familiar face.

Then, just as she turns a corner, a compartment door swings open, and a group spills out, laughing and talking loudly.

"Excuse me." Nadine mutters absentmindedly, weaving between them.

But then—

"Nadine Crouch? Is that you?"

She freezes. The voice is smug, familiar, and entirely too pleased with itself.

Looking up, she comes face to face with Sirius Black.

Nadine blinks. "Oh. It's you."

Sirius crosses his arms, grinning broadly. "Oh, wow. That was a great greeting. I'm touched."

"Well," Nadine says. "I could try harder, but I'd hate to give you the wrong idea."

Behind him, three other boys step forward, watching the exchange with open amusement.

"Crouch? As in Barty Crouch? Didn't know he had a sister." one of them—glasses, messy hair—remarks, eyeing her curiously.

"That's because I don't go around announcing it to the world, Potter." Nadine replies, recognizing him immediately.

James grins. "Ah, you already know me. That's a good sign."

"Is it?" Nadine muses. "Because I was considering running in the opposite direction."

The third boy—tall, tired-looking, with kind eyes—chuckles. "Well, this is going well."

"And you are?" Nadine asks, tilting her head.

"Remus Lupin."

She frowns slightly. "Lupin? Never heard of that name before."

Sirius claps a hand on Remus's shoulder. "Yeah, he's a bit of a mystery. It adds to the whole brooding thing he's got going on."

Remus sighs. "I am not brooding."

"Sure you aren't." Nadine says, smirking.

The last boy, round-faced with a nervous demeanor, shifts awkwardly. Sirius nudges him forward. "And this here is Peter Pettigrew."

Peter offers a small nod. "Uh—hi."

"Charmed." Nadine says dryly.

James nudges Sirius. "So, is she fun?"

"Depends on your definition of fun." Nadine says before Sirius can open his mouth. "If you mean do I tolerate arrogant boys who think they run the place? Then no, not really."

Sirius clutches his chest dramatically. "Ouch. That was personal."

James grins. "I like her."

"I don't like you." Nadine replies cheerfully.

He smirks. "That'll change. People say I grow on them."

"Like a fungus?"

Peter snorts, Remus chuckles, and Sirius howls with laughter.

James, undeterred, says, "I'm taking that as a compliment."

"You would." Nadine mutters.

Sirius watches her with that same infuriating smirk. "So, what brings you to our lovely end of the train, Crouch? Met with my dear siblings and had to check on me as well?"

She gives him a flat look. "Why yes. I woke up this morning and thought, wow, my day would be incomplete without an encounter with the most insufferable Black."

Sirius gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. "And here I thought you'd give that honor to dear Reggie."

"I would." Nadine says. "But at least Regulus knows when to shut up."

The boys burst into laughter while Sirius dramatically wipes an invisible tear from his eye. "I'm so glad we met. Really. This has been a gift."

Nadine sighs. "As much as I love this conversation, I actually have somewhere to be."

James grins. "Oh, come on, we were just getting started!"

She smirks. "Exactly. And that's my sign to leave."

With that, Nadine turns on her heel, leaving behind a chorus of laughter, wondering how on earth she managed to get caught up with that lot.

She continues looking and reaches the end of the corridor, where another compartment door slides open, and out walks Seraphina. Her eyes widen with recognition before a delighted smile takes over her features.

"Nadine!" she exclaims, and before either of them can think, Nadine already closes the distance, throwing her arms around her. Seraphina hugs her back, laughing softly.

"I was just about to go looking for you." Nadine says as they pull apart.

"I wanted to get us some sweets." Seraphina replies, gesturing toward the trolley further down the corridor.

Nadine peers past her into the compartment, curious about who she is sitting with. A figure sits by the window, his posture straight yet somehow withdrawn. He is dressed in black, from his buttoned-up coat to the simple yet slightly worn trousers tucked into polished shoes. His long, dark hair frames his face, partially obscuring his features as he stares outside, seemingly lost in thought. The dim train light gives his pale skin an almost ghostly quality.

A slow grin creeps onto Nadine's lips. "Is that your brother?" Nadine asks, keeping her voice teasing. "You could introduce us, you know."

Seraphina rolls her eyes but with a smirk that told Nadine she is entertained. With a dramatic sigh, she steps back inside. "Severus." she calls, her voice laced with mock patience.

He doesn't react at first, his gaze still fixed on whatever invisible point existed beyond the window. But after a moment, as if reluctantly pulled back into reality, he turns toward them.

And there he is—his sharp, calculating eyes flicker over Nadine, taking in her presence with measured disinterest. The expression on his face is as neutral as ever, though there was a certain intensity in the way he observes Nadine, as if deciding whether acknowledging her is even worth the effort.

"This is Nadine." Seraphina says, gesturing toward her. "I've mentioned her before."

Nadine tilts her head slightly, offering a charming smile. "Hello, Severus. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

He gives a slow, almost imperceptible nod.

Not a 'hello,' not even an 'I suppose,' just a vague, unimpressed noise.

Nadine leans against the doorway, grinning. "Oh, come on, don't be shy." Nadine teases, tilting her head at him. "I don't bite."

His gaze darkens slightly, lips pressing into a thin line. "I doubt that." he mutters.

Seraphina sighs, shaking her head. "You'll get used to her."

Nadine laughs softly, watching as Severus's expression remained unreadable.

Nadine smirks, glancing at her. "You didn't tell me your brother was this handsome."

Severus's expression barely shifts—just the faintest tightening of his jaw, the slow, deliberate narrowing of his dark eyes. Then, with a sneer, he turns back to the window as if Nadine said nothing at all.

Nadine means it, though. He has a striking sort of presence, even if his entire aura screams disinterest and disdain.

Straightening her posture, Nadine sighs dramatically, shaking her head. "Well, since I'm clearly not very welcome here, I'll leave you to it." Nadine looks at Seraphina with a smirk. "I suppose we'll talk when we arrive. See you then."

She nods, while Severus doesn't even bother to look at Nadine again. Unfazed, Nadine turns on her heel and steps back into the corridor, making her way toward first class.

Just as Nadine is nearing the section where her friends were, two familiar figures appear from the opposite direction, peeking into compartments as they pass.

Nadine narrows her eyes. "What are you two doing?"

Sirius turns, grinning. "Ah, Crouch. Destiny keeps bringing us together."

James smirks beside him. "It's almost poetic, really."

Nadine rolls her eyes, crossing her arms. "I asked you a question."

Sirius lets out a dramatic sigh, placing a hand on his chest as if hurt. "You wound me, truly. Can't a bloke check in on an old friend?"

James nods solemnly. "Just a little visit."

Nadine raises a brow. "Right."

Sirius tuts, shaking his head. "You're no fun, Crouch."

James tilts his head, grinning. "You sure you don't want to join us?"

"Not interested." Nadine says flatly, fixing them both with a sharp look.

"Alright, alright." James lifts his hands in mock surrender, and looks over Nadine's shoulder before walking past her. "Lily, darling!"

Sirius shrugs. "Suit yourself. You're missing out, though."

They finally leave, heading toward their own compartment. Just as Nadine exhales, shaking her head, another figure approaches—Remus.

Nadine lets out an exaggerated groan, rolling her eyes. "What, is this some kind of parade?"

Unlike his friends, Remus gives a small chuckle, his expression much kinder. "I was actually coming to apologize for them."

Nadine raises a brow. "Is that so?"

He nods, offering a polite smile. "They mean well. Mostly."

Nadine studies him for a moment, then sighs, her stance relaxing just a little. "You must be the reasonable one, then."

He smirks slightly. "I do my best."

Nadine hums, glancing back toward where Sirius and James disappeared. "Well, they're lucky to have you keeping them in check."

Remus lets out a soft chuckle. "That's debatable."

For the first time since running into them, Nadine actually smiles. "Well, enjoy the rest of your ride, Lupin."

"You too, Crouch."

With that, Nadine finally continues back toward her compartment, eager to settle in again, but someone else is on her mind.

Chapter Text

The train ride stretches long into the afternoon, the rhythmic clatter of wheels against tracks almost hypnotic. Hours pass in conversation, light laughter, and the occasional drifting into thoughtful silence. The sun begins its descent when they finally change into their uniforms. The deep navy robes are exchanged for the darker, heavier fabric, their weight settling on Nadine's shoulders like an unspoken reminder that she is truly leaving her past behind.

Nadine stands by the compartment's narrow mirror, adjusting her robes as the others follow. Pandora fusses with her hair, Evan smooths out his sleeves, and Barty—unbothered as ever—simply shrugs his on, running a hand through his hair.

When the train finally lurches to a stop, the once-lively chatter is replaced by a new kind of energy. People gather their belongings, voices overlapping in excitement and impatience. Nadine secures Brownie in her arms, her small body pressing against Nadine's chest. The corridor is already packed with students, all pushing toward the exits, dragging trunks and chattering animatedly.

Stepping out onto the platform, the crisp evening air greets them. The sky is painted in hues of deep blue and violet, the last traces of daylight clinging stubbornly to the horizon. Hogwarts looms in the distance, its towering spires lit against the encroaching night, an imposing yet breathtaking sight. The castle is nothing like Beauxbatons—it stands in stark contrast, a fortress of stone, heavy with history and tradition.

"Let's go." Barty announces, his voice cutting through Nadine's thoughts.

She turns to see Cassiopeia walking alongside Regulus, the two of them composed and detached. With one last glance around, Nadine follows Barty, Evan, and Pandora to the waiting carriages. They are unlike anything at Beauxbatons. The sleek, white-winged Abraxans are replaced by Thestrals—creatures she couldn't see.

They settle into one of the carriages, the wooden interior creaking slightly as they take their seats. Nadine leans against the window, her fingers absentmindedly stroking Brownie's soft fur as she takes in the vast, moonlit grounds of her new home. This is it. A fresh start, a new world.

Sensing her unease, Evan leans closer, his voice effortlessly smooth. "Nadine, es-tu nerveuse?" (Nadine, are you nervous?)

She sighs. "Peut-être un peu." (Maybe a little.)

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Ne t'inquiète pas trop. Tu vas régner sur cet endroit en un rien de temps." (Don't worry too much. You'll rule this place in no time.)

Barty reaches over and ruffles her hair, making her swat at him in protest. "She's going to be fine." he assures. "Better than fine. And besides, if anyone gives you trouble, you have me, Ev, and Dora. We'll hex first, ask questions later."

Pandora nods sagely. "It's going to be alright."

Their lightheartedness eases some of Nadine's tension, and as the carriage rolls steadily forward, she allows herself a small smile. This is new, unfamiliar, and nothing like she had imagined—but she is not alone. And maybe, just maybe, this could be the beginning of something worth remembering.

The castle looms ever closer, its towering silhouette casting long shadows against the night sky. The path ahead is uncertain, but one thing is clear—Nadine is here, and there is no turning back now.

The carriage comes to a slow halt in front of the grand entrance to the castle. As they step out, the towering stone structure looms above them, bathed in the golden glow of torchlight. The night air is crisp, carrying the distant hoots of owls and the faint murmur of voices from within.

The path leading up to the entrance is lined with flickering lanterns, casting long shadows across the courtyard. The massive oak doors stand ajar, revealing the warm, inviting glow from within. Students file in, the excitement and nervousness in the air palpable. Nadine's fingers tighten slightly around Brownie's soft fur before she exhales and steps inside.

The Entrance Hall is vast with high, vaulted ceilings. A grand marble staircase dominates the space, leading up to the upper floors. Torches line the stone walls, their flames dancing in iron sconces, illuminating the banners that bear the four house crests—Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff. The chatter of students echoes off the stone, mingling with the occasional flutter of enchanted candles hovering in midair.

At the top of the staircase stands a woman, her robes impeccably pressed, her stern gaze scanning the gathered students. Her silver-rimmed glasses gleam in the flickering light, and her presence commands immediate attention. She steps forward, clearing her throat before speaking.

"Welcome to Hogwarts." she announces, her Scottish accent carrying effortlessly through the hall. "I am the Deputy Headmistress and Professor Minerva McGonagall. For those of you beginning your first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, please follow me for your Sorting Ceremony."

A cluster of tiny eleven-year-olds murmurs amongst themselves, their faces a mixture of nerves and excitement as they step forward. McGonagall's gaze then shifts, her eyes landing on the small group of older students—them.

"For those of you joining Hogwarts University and have not yet been sorted into a House, please follow as well."

Nadine turns to Barty, and he carefully takes Brownie into his arms. The Great Hall unfolds before them as they enter, and the sight is nothing short of breathtaking. The enchanted ceiling mirrors the night sky, scattered with twinkling stars and streaks of wispy clouds. Countless floating candles hover above four long tables, casting a warm, golden glow over the sea of students already seated. The House banners hang proudly, their colors rich and vibrant against the stone walls. At the very front, the High Table sits elevated, where the professors observe the new arrivals with interest.

The Sorting Hat rests upon its stool, and its brim begins to move, opening wide to sing a song:

---

"In days of old, when founders four,
Created Hogwarts' doors,
They sought to teach the magic arts,
To witches, wizards, more.

Gryffindor, the brave of heart,
To valor did he bind,
His house of daring, nerve, and chivalry,
Of courage unconfined.

Fair Ravenclaw, with wisdom bright,
In learning took great pride,
Her eagles soar on wings of thought,
With intellect their guide.

Kind Hufflepuff, so just and true,
In friendship, loyalty,
She gathered those of patient heart,
In steadfast unity.

And cunning Slytherin, so sly,
With ambition keen and grand,
His serpents strive for power and might,
With craft and cunning hand.

So come to me, upon this stool,
And place me on your head,
I'll tell you where your place shall be,
In halls where you will tread.

No need to fear, no need to fret,
My choice is never wrong,
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat,
And I've been here all along."

---

As the Sorting Hat finishes, the hall erupts into applause. McGonagall begins calling out names, one by one, and the little first-years step forward, some with trembling hands, others with eager determination. The Sorting Hat deliberates, its voice echoing throughout the hall as it places each student into their House.

Nadine waits, watching, her fingers tracing absentmindedly along the edge of her robe. The ceremony feels both familiar and foreign—something she has only ever read and heard about, now unfolding before her. The Hogwarts students cheer as their new housemates join them, the room alive with excitement. She glances around and her gaze finds his. Severus remains his unreadable self, his eyes flicking over the scene with quiet calculation. She lets a slow smirk tug at her lips before winking playfully.

His reaction is immediate—a sharp exhale through his nose, followed by the faintest narrowing of his eyes. His lips press into a thin line, as though suppressing irritation. He looks away, as if willing himself not to react further. Satisfied, she turns her attention back to Professor McGonagall.

One by one, the first-years find their place. McGonagall straightens and turns her attention to them. "Now, for those transferring into Hogwarts University. First, Black, Cassiopeia."

Cassiopeia strides forward with her usual elegance, settling onto the stool. The Sorting Hat barely grazes her head before it booms, "Slytherin!"

She glances at Nadine, nodding subtly before making her way to the Slytherin table, a small smirk playing on her lips as she takes a seat beside Regulus. The table erupts into cheers.

"Crouch, Nadine."

Nadine approaches the stool, her expression calm and composed despite the weight of countless eyes on her. The Sorting Hat is placed upon her head, and at once, a voice echoes in her mind.

"Ah, another Crouch. But you... you are different. Loyalty, courage, a sharp mind... quite the mix. I see ambition, yes, but a strong heart as well. Hmm... where to put you?"

She remains silent as the hat contemplated, its murmurs stretching for a few moments longer before it finally spoke, "Better be... Gryffindor!"

Nadine's brows raise slightly, but a smirk tugs at her lips. Pride swells in her chest as she stands, glancing briefly at Barty. His expression is unreadable for a moment before he lets out a small huff, shaking his head with an amused smirk.

As Nadine walks toward the Gryffindor table, she passes Seraphina, and they exchange a subtle nod before she steps forward for her turn.

The Sorting Hat sits atop her head, its brim twitching as it considered. The Great Hall is silent, the tension thick as the seconds stretched into a minute, then longer. Her fingers clench against the stool, eyes focused straight ahead. Finally, the hat's deep voice rings out: "Slytherin!"

She slides off the stool and strides toward the Slytherin table, settling beside Severus, who barely spares her a glance. Nadine watches her for a moment, smirking slightly before her attention is pulled back to the front of the hall.

Dumbledore rises from his grand chair at the staff table, his blue eyes twinkling with warmth as he surveys the students. He lifts his arms slightly, commanding silence before he begins to speak.

"Welcome, welcome to another year at Hogwarts! Whether you are returning or joining us for the first time, know that you have found a home within these walls. Here, you will learn not only magic but the courage to wield it wisely, the wisdom to understand its power, and the friendships that will shape you for years to come. Now, let the feast begin!"

As soon as the words leave his lips, the empty golden plates on the tables fill with a lavish spread—roast meats, steaming vegetables, fragrant bread, and an array of desserts that shimmered under the candlelight. A soft murmur of awe spreads through the hall before everyone eagerly reaches for food.

Nadine takes a bite of roasted chicken when a voice speaks beside her. "Quite the speech, huh? Dumbledore does have a flair for theatrics."

She turns to find Remus.

She scoffs. "Not much different from Madame Maxime's."

Remus chuckles. As they speak, she glances around the hall. James and Sirius are sitting a few seats away, talking loudly and laughing as if they didn't just spent hours on the train together. James has his arm slung around a red-haired girl, who rolls her eyes fondly but makes no move to push him off. A blonde girl beside Sirius huffs in exasperation, clearly unimpressed with whatever joke he had just made.

Shifting her gaze further, Nadine spots Barty at the Ravenclaw table, sitting beside Pandora. The two are deep in conversation, though Barty occasionally casts glances in her direction. Nearby, Cassiopeia is engaged in a hushed discussion with Regulus and Evan, while Seraphina is eating beside Severus, the two of them mirroring each other in their silence.

Just as Nadine is about to return to her food, a familiar voice calls her name.

"Oi, Crouch!"

She turns to see Sirius grinning at her from across the table. "Thought you'd be too posh for us."

Nadine raises a brow, matching his energy. "Oh, trust me, Black. I'm not glad to be in the same House as you. But I suppose I can slum it with your lot for a while."

Laughter erupts around them, James clutching his chest dramatically. "Oh no, she's one of those."

"One of what?" Nadine asks, feigning innocence as she takes another bite.

"A snarky, self-important pain in the—"

"James!" the red-haired girl cuts in, shaking her head.

Nadine smirks. "That's rich coming from you."

The table roars with laughter again, and even Remus shakes his head with a chuckle. He leans in slightly, speaking just for her to hear.

"After the feast, I can walk with you to our Tower. I'm a Prefect, so I can show you the way."

She glances at him, appreciating the gesture. "Yeah, sure. Thanks, Lupin."

He grins. "Call me Remus."

Nadine nods, turning back to her meal. The Great Hall buzzes with energy, and for the first time, she feels like she belonged.

Chapter Text

As the feast came to a close, everyone begins standing, and Nadine turns to Remus. "I'll walk with my brother and friends for a bit." she says, offering a smile.

Remus nods and joins his own group as she makes her way toward Barty, who is in a heated conversation with Evan and Regulus. She joins them, and as they approach the doors, Barty returns Brownie, and Evan smirks.

"Honestly, I'm disappointed you're not in Slytherin. This distance is going to hurt." he says dramatically, his eyes twinkling.

Nadine raises an eyebrow, giving him a sassy grin. "Oh, Rose, don't worry. I'll send you a letter every week. Maybe even a lock of my hair if the longing gets too unbearable."

Evan gasps dramatically. "Now I have a nickname. I like it."

Regulus muttered something to Cassiopeia, clearly unaware that Nadine caught it.

"C'est pitoyable. Une Black ne devrait pas traîner avec des traîtres à leur sang." (It's pathetic. A Black shouldn't be associating with blood traitors.)

She can't help but smirk. He will tolerate her eventually. Cassiopeia rolls her eyes fondly and joins them, relaxed.

"Tell me," she beams, slipping into step beside Nadine. "was it the Hat's idea to separate us, or did you bribe it just to make me suffer?"

Nadine laughs, bumping her shoulder against Cassiopeia's. "Oh, definitely bribed. Practically begged to choose Gryffindor."

Barty, who had turned unusually quiet, glances at Cassiopeia in a way that didn't go unnoticed by Nadine. She nudges him slightly, lowering her voice.

"Try not to look so obvious, Tem."

He stiffens. "Shut up."

She smirks. "I didn't say anything."

Regulus, ever observant, calls for Cassiopeia. "Come."

Cassiopeia arches a brow at him but follows without question. Barty's gaze lingers on her for a second before he scowls, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Nadine glances around as they walk, scanning the sea of students, until she spotted Seraphina. She is walking beside Severus. A slow grin curls on Nadine's lips.

Without hesitation, she makes her way over, slipping seamlessly into their space. "Fancy seeing you two." Nadine muses, her gaze flickering to Severus.

He immediately stiffens but didn't step away. His eyes flicker over her.

"Missed me?" she teases, voice dropping just enough for him to hear. "You know, if you wanted my attention, you could've just said so."

His expression remains impassive, tone cold as ice. "Your arrogance is exhausting."

She leans in slightly. "And yet, here you are, enduring it."

Seraphina gives her a look—one that said, Really?—but she doesn't say anything.

Severus's gaze darkens. "Only because of Seraphina."

Nadine smirks. "Well, I'd hate for you to be bored. Maybe I'll stick around."

His jaw tightens, but before he can respond, they reach the portal.

It looms ahead, an archway shimmering with faint golden light. Beyond it, the university grounds stretch out—tall towers, and endless courtyards. On the other side stood another, smaller portal—the entrance for the younger students.

Nadine glances at Seraphina, her teasing softening for a moment. "Here we go, I suppose." As they step through, the world around them shifts. The warmth fades into the slightly damp air of Hogwarts' vast corridors. The stone walls stretch high above them, lined with flickering torches that cast long shadows along the floor. The ceiling arches like a cathedral, ancient and endless, while the paintings murmur amongst themselves, watching the new arrivals with lazy curiosity.

Nadine looks around in awe, drinking in the sight of the castle's grand staircases, which twist and shift of their own accord. The deep, velvety blue night sky peeks in through the arched windows, reflecting off the glossy black lake in the distance. The torches crackle gently, their golden light illuminating the intricate tapestries lining the stone corridors.

"Nadine!"

She turns at the familiar voice and sees Remus waiting for her near the entrance to the grand staircase, a patient yet expectant look on his face. Before heading to him, she glances back at the Snape siblings.

"Well." she says with a small smile, tilting her head. "We part ways now."

Seraphina nods, offering one of her rare, knowing looks. Severus, however, doesn't respond. He stands still, his eyes fixed on Nadine with an intensity.

She holds his stare for a second longer before softening her expression. "See you around, Prince."

Still, he says nothing, but his fingers twitch at his side. Then, he turns away, glancing at Seraphina to follow. Seraphina and Nadine smile at each other, and the Snape siblings disappear around the corner.

Nadine exhales and turns back toward Remus, who was watching her with mild amusement.

"Ready?" he asks, gesturing toward the grand staircase.

"Lead the way, Prefect." she quips, falling into step beside him.

He huffs a laugh as they climb the winding steps, the castle unfolding around them. The corridors feel alive—suits of armor clank as they adjust their posture, ghosts drift through the air like silent spectators, and the portraits gossip excitedly.

"So," Remus begins conversationally, hands tucked into his robe pockets. "Beauxbatons, eh? You must've liked it there."

Nadine glances at him sideways, catching the subtle curiosity in his tone. "I did." she admits, though she doesn't elaborate.

Remus picks up on it immediately. "And yet, you're here now."

She smiles. He isn't prying, not exactly—just observing.

"Mm." she muses. "But let's just say... circumstances changed."

Remus gives a thoughtful nod. "Fair enough. But I have to say, it must be a bit of a shock, coming to Hogwarts. I imagine the differences are..."

She lets out a soft laugh. "You could say that. Beauxbatons was—" she pauses, choosing her words carefully. "—elegant. Structured. Everything was polished, graceful, refined." she waves a hand around them, where the torches flickered unevenly, the staircases groan as they shift, and a ghost cackles somewhere in the distance. "Hogwarts, on the other hand, feels... alive. A little unpredictable, maybe even chaotic." she turns to him with a smirk. "I think I like it."

Remus grins. "Good. You'll fit right in. Is that your cat?" He inclines his head toward her hands.

"Yes, her name's Brownie. I wouldn't be able to live without her." Nadine murmurs, Brownie's purrs vibrating as Nadine tenderly strokes her fur.

They reach a landing where a group of Ravenclaws break off toward their Tower. According to Remus, their entrance is hidden behind a sleek wooden door, guarded by a bronze eagle-shaped knocker that is currently asking an intricate riddle.

"Imagine being locked out of your dormitory just because you had a long day and your brain isn't functioning properly." Remus murmurs as they passed, shaking his head.

Nadine laughs. "I take it you've never gotten one of their riddles right?"

"Not once." he admits. "Sirius, however, is infuriatingly good at them."

They continue upward, climbing higher into the castle. The Gryffindor Tower is at the very top, and the further they ascend, the warmer the air becomes.

"So," Remus says, glancing at her again. "if you don't mind me asking... why Gryffindor?"

She tilts her head slightly. "You don't think I belong?"

He smiles, shaking his head. "Not what I meant. I just—well, I know your family name."

Ah. There it is.

Nadine exhales lightly, letting the pause stretch between them before answering. "Maybe the Hat saw something different in me." she says finally.

Remus nods. "I see."

At last, they reach the entrance to the Gryffindor common room—a grand portrait of the Fat Lady in a pink silk dress. She eyes them with interest before demanding, "Password?"

"Fortitudo." Remus supplies easily.

The portrait swings open, revealing the warm, inviting glow of the common room. The space is filled with plush red and gold armchairs, a grand fireplace crackling merrily, and tall windows overlooking the castle grounds. The ceiling stretches high, wooden beams crisscrossing like the ribs of some ancient beast.

Nadine steps inside, taking it all in. It isn't polished or pristine like Beauxbatons, but it felt... warm. Lived-in.

Home.

Remus watches her for a moment before offering a small smile. "Welcome to Gryffindor."

She takes a slow step forward, her fingers brushing lightly over the back of the nearest sofa. The fabric is warm from the fire, slightly worn but comfortable. The golden glow from the lanterns reflects off the deep red tapestries, the lion crest standing proudly on the walls. Brownie offers an approving meow.

"Thank you." she says softly, turning back to Remus.

He offers a small smile and gestures toward the spiral staircases. "Boys' dormitories are on the left, girls' on the right." he explains. "The stairs are enchanted—vanishing steps if anyone tries to sneak into the wrong rooms."

"Good to know." she replies.

"Come on, I'll show you the rest."

They move through the common room, past a long wooden table stacked with old textbooks and a chess set mid-game. The air smells of parchment, candle wax, and something sweet.

"Tomorrow morning, you'll get your enrollment papers." Remus continues. "You'll need to go over them and choose your specializations. Professor McGonagall will explain it all."

Nadine nods, absorbing the information. "I assume she's our Head of House?"

He nods. "And one of the best professors here. Strict, but fair. If you need anything, she's the person to go to."

"Not you?" she teases.

He chuckles. "Well, I suppose I can be of help sometimes."

She hums in response, running her fingers over the spines of the books stacked on the nearby table. "Anything else I should know?"

He hesitates for a moment, then glances at her. "If you want, we can go to breakfast together tomorrow. And after my classes, I can show you everything around—properly."

She tilts her head slightly, watching him. There is something about the way he offers it—not out of obligation, but as if he genuinely wants to help.

"That sounds nice." she says. "I'd like that."

Remus nods, a faint flush creeping up his neck. "Alright then."

Before Nadine can say anything else, the portrait hole suddenly slams open, and three figures stumble in.

James is the first to burst through, glasses slightly askew, his black hair even messier. Sirius follows, looking effortlessly smug, while Peter scurries in behind them, slightly out of breath.

"Moony!" James calls dramatically, throwing an arm around Remus's shoulder. Moony? "There you are! We were looking for you everywhere." He pauses, finally noticing Nadine. His eyes glint mischievously. "Oh? Nice to see you here, Crouch."

Sirius steps forward, raking his gaze over her with an appraising smirk. "Ah, Crouch." he muses. "I honestly can't believe you're here."

She crosses her arms. "And what exactly did you expect?"

Sirius grins. "That you'll be with your brother. Or Slytherin."

"You're the one to talk." she replies smoothly. "Or did you forget?"

James lets out a bark of laughter, clapping Sirius on the back. "She's got you there, mate."

Sirius rolls his eyes. "Fair enough."

James then turns his attention to Remus. "You ditched us, mate!"

Remus sighs. "I was helping Nadine settle in."

James nods sagely. "Ah, yes. Ever the responsible one. That's why we love you."

Peter chuckles. "Well, that, and because we need him to keep us out of trouble."

Sirius smirks. "Or, more accurately, to clean up after the trouble we cause."

Nadine crosses her arms. "So, Remus is the one with a brain, and you lot are the mess?"

James gasps dramatically. "Mess? We prefer a different term for us.'"

She snorts. "Right. And how many professors have you already annoyed today?"

"Three." Remus answers before James can even open his mouth.

James groans. "Don't expose us like that."

Sirius chuckles, nudging him toward the stairs. "Alright, let's leave her be before she starts keeping track of our detentions too." He winks at her. "See you around, Crouch."

Once they disappear, Nadine glances at Remus. "Are they always like this?"

He sighs. "Unfortunately, yes."

She chuckles and glances toward the girls' dormitory stairs. "Well, thanks again for everything, Remus. See you in the morning."

He nods, a bit softer now. "Goodnight, Nadine."

With that, she turns and makes her way up to the fourth floor. "It's going to be alright, yeah?" she asks Brownie, who replies with another soft meow, and steps into her new space she is slowly starting to love.

Chapter Text

The next morning arrives, and Nadine wakes up early to get ready. The dormitory is quiet, the only sounds being the soft breathing of her two roommates and the gentle purring of Brownie, curled up at the foot of the bed.

Nadine moves carefully, not wanting to wake them. She has met them briefly the night before—Catherine Holloway and Emily Edgecombe. They are friendly and easygoing, and though they haven't had much time to talk yet, Nadine can tell they will be good company.

Slipping into her uniform, she adjusts the red and gold tie and smoothes out her robes before heading to the vanity. She gathers her hair, dividing two small sections near the front and tying each into a delicate half-up style, securing them with two little red bows that match Gryffindor's colors. They sit neatly on either side of her head, adding a touch of charm without being overly flashy.

As Nadine slings her bag over her shoulder, Brownie stirs, stretching lazily before hopping down from the bed. She lets out a quiet meow, tail flicking as she pads over to Nadine, still looking drowsy but determined to follow.

Descending the stairs, Nadine spots Remus waiting near the fireplace, already dressed and carrying a book under one arm. He glances up as she approaches, his expression softening.

"Good morning." she says, adjusting the strap of her bag.

"Morning." he replies, his gaze shifting to Brownie, who lets out a small yawn as she trots beside Nadine. "She doesn't seem fully awake yet."

Nadine glances down at Brownie, who blinks slowly before rubbing against her leg. "She's still waking up. Unlike you, apparently."

Remus chuckles. "I like the quiet before the castle turns into a madhouse."

She smirks. "Let me guess—they're still asleep?"

He nods with a knowing smile. "James wakes up if it's Quidditch practice. Sirius would sleep through an earthquake if we let him. If it was up to him, classes would start at sunset."

She shakes her head in amusement as they walk toward the portrait hole. "So, you're the only functional one in the mornings?"

Remus sighs, but there is obvious fondness in his voice. "Someone has to keep them from destroying the place before breakfast."

Nadine chuckles as they step into the corridor, the warm glow of morning light filtering through the stained glass windows. Brownie walks slightly ahead, tail flicking as she takes in her new surroundings.

The castle is quieter than usual, with most students still making their way down from their dormitories. Nadine glances at Remus as they walk side by side, Brownie trailing behind, occasionally pausing to sniff at a suit of armor or flick her tail at a curious-looking ghost. "So," she begins, adjusting her bag, "what's your specialization? What are you studying?"

"Magizoology." Remus answers with a small smile, tucking his book under his other arm.

She raises an eyebrow. "Magizoology? That sounds interesting. Why did you choose it—if it's not private to know?"

He exhales, considering the question as they pass a series of portraits, some of which glance at them curiously. "I've always had a fascination with magical creatures." he admits. "The way they adapt to magic, their instincts, their intelligence—it's incredible. And, well..." He hesitates, eyes flickering to her for a moment before looking ahead again. "I've always... related to them in a way. Some of them are misunderstood, feared for what they are rather than who they are. I guess I like the idea of learning more about them, maybe even helping them."

His words carry a quiet weight, and Nadine recognizes there is something personal behind them. She doesn't push, though—she just nods, offering a warm smile. "That actually makes a lot of sense. And it suits you."

He glances at her, a little surprised. "You think so?"

"Of course. You're patient, observant... I can see you working well with creatures most people wouldn't even dare approach."

His lips twitch slightly, as if he is fighting a smile. "That's kind of you to say."

They turn down a corridor where a grand staircase begins shifting just as they reach it. The stone steps grind into place, leading them toward the central hall. Below, few students are already making their way to breakfast, the echoes of their voices bouncing against the high ceilings.

"What about you?" he asks, guiding her toward another hallway that leads past the suits of armor. "What are your plans?"

She hums thoughtfully. "I've had some interest in medicine, so I'll probably choose Healing."

Remus tilts his head slightly, intrigued. "Healing? That's impressive."

"Really?" she glances at him as they step past a series of tall windows, the morning light casting golden streaks across the stone floor. Outside, the Hogwarts grounds stretch into the distance—rolling hills, the shimmering Black Lake, and beyond that, the edge of the Forbidden Forest, its trees dark and dense even in daylight.

"Absolutely." he says. "It's one of the most challenging fields. Healing requires precision, deep knowledge, and—most importantly—compassion. Not everyone has the patience or the heart for it."

Nadine lets his words settle, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Well, I like the idea of being able to help people, to make a difference. Magic is powerful, but without someone to fix the damage it can do, what's the point?"

Remus nods in understanding. "That's a good way to look at it. And I think you'd be brilliant at it."

She glances at him, slightly surprised at the certainty in his voice. "You think so?"

"Yeah." he says, matter-of-factly.

His words warm Nadine more than she expects. "Well, that settles it then. Guess I'll have to become an incredible Healer now."

He chuckles, shaking his head. "No pressure at all."

They continue walking, passing through a hallway lined with statues of famous witches and wizards. A few of them glance in their direction, and one—a rather pompous-looking wizard with a feathered hat—huffs as Brownie brushes against his pedestal.

Remus gestures around, pointing out different doors and their purposes.

"This one leads to the library." he says, nodding toward a set of tall, arched doors. "You'll probably spend a lot of time there." He then points to another. "And this one—well, technically, it's just a storage room, but there's a secret passage inside. If you ever need to avoid Filch or take a shortcut, I can show you sometime."

She smirks, arching her brows curiously. "Oh? And how do you know about those?"

He grins, leading her toward the entrance. "Let's just say spending years with James and Sirius teaches you a thing or two."

She turns to him with a warm smile. "Thanks again for showing me around. I'd probably still be lost somewhere without you."

"Anytime." he replies, giving a small, knowing smile.

Just as Nadine is about to step inside, she feels a presence behind her. A subtle shift in the air. When she glances back, she sees him—Severus.

He walks straight ahead, posture rigid, robes billowing slightly behind him. He doesn't spare a single glance in their direction, his gaze fixed forward, unreadable.

Merlin, he is tall.

The moment passes, and Nadine turns back to Remus, but before she can speak, a familiar voice rings out.

"Nadine!"

She grins before even looking. Seraphina.

She reaches Nadine in a second, and Nadine wraps her arms around her in a tight hug. "There you are." she says, pulling back slightly. "Thought you got lost in the castle."

Seraphina scoffs, smirking. "Please. I know my way around." She gives her a once-over. "Red bows?"

Nadine flicks her hair dramatically. "Adorable, aren't they?"

Seraphina rolls her eyes but nudges her shoulder playfully.

Remus clears his throat lightly. "I'll go inside. See you in a bit."

Nadine nods at him as he steps away, disappearing through the doors.

Before Seraphina and Nadine can continue, the sound of footsteps approaching catches their attention. They turn—and there they are.

Cassiopeia and Regulus.

Nadine grins and rushes toward Cassiopeia, wrapping her arms around her. She laughs, hugging Nadine back just as tightly.

She smirks at Regulus as he exhales through his nose, already looking like he regrets being here. "Woke up on the wrong foot, Black?"

His eyes flick to Nadine, cold and unreadable. "No, just unfortunate enough to cross paths with you before breakfast." His tone is dry, clipped, and dismissive.

Beside Nadine, Seraphina hums, just loud enough for them to hear. "As if we're glad to cross paths with you."

Regulus's gaze snaps to her. He tilts his head slightly, lips curling into something that isn't quite a smirk. "I'd watch what I say if I were you, Snape." he drawls, deliberately emphasizing her last name.

Seraphina holds his stare, unimpressed, but before she can respond, he turns on his heel and strides into the Great Hall without another word.

Cassiopeia huffs out a laugh, shaking her head. "One day, I swear, he's going to roll his eyes so hard he'll get stuck like that."

Nadine grins. "With a stick so far up—"

Seraphina elbows her lightly before Nadine can finish, but she is smirking too.

Cassiopeia links her arm with Nadine's. "Come on, let's eat before I start acting like him."

With that, girls step inside, the smell of breakfast filling the air, and agree to meet later. Nadine walks toward Barty and Pandora, sliding into the seat beside them as Brownie gracefully leaps onto her lap, curling up and purring softly. Barty glances up from his plate, his expression softening slightly. "Settled in well?" he asks, picking up a piece of toast.

Nadine reaches for some fruit, nodding. "More or less. The Tower's nice, though a bit too high up for my taste. And a lot of staircases."

Pandora hums, stirring her tea. "You'll get used to it. Ravenclaw Tower's the same, just more quiet and peaceful."

Barty looks at his twin, his expression serious now. "Your roommates? No one's bothering you? I'm talking about—"

Nadine roll her eyes fondly, taking a bite of her apple. "Yes, I know. The girls seem nice. I can handle myself, Tem."

"Just saying." Barty replies. "You're my little sister."

She scoffs and shoves him playfuly. "You're only three minutes older, shut up."

Pandora laughs, and Barty smirks back.

Before Nadine can say more, the flutter of wings fills the hall, and she instinctively looks up just as an owl soars toward her, dropping a letter onto her plate. The seal on it is unmistakable. She inhales sharply but says nothing, turning it over once before tucking it away into her bag.

Neither Barty nor Pandora comment, though she catches Barty watching her for a second longer than necessary before returning to his food.

They finish breakfast, exchanging a few more sentences, and then part ways. Nadine makes her way toward Professor McGonagall's office, the corridors shifting from bustling with students to quieter, more winding paths.

It is only when she pauses, glancing around, that she realizes something—she has no idea where McGonagall's office actually is.

Nadine lets out a quiet sigh, scanning the hall for any sign of Remus, but he is nowhere to be found. Just her luck. She turns down another corridor, but it is empty, the stone walls stretching endlessly in both directions.

Then she feels it again. A presence.

She turns, and there, standing just a few steps away, is Severus. He stands rigid, his eyes sharp as they settle on her. He doesn't speak—just watches, as if Nadine is a particularly unpleasant sight he is forced to endure. Then, with a barely noticeable scoff, he moves to walk past her.

She smirks, unable to resist. "Now you're following me around, Prince?"

He doesn't so much as slow his stride, but his voice reaches her with ease. "Yes, of course. I can think of no greater use of my time than trailing after insufferable, half-witted Gryffindors."

She raises an eyebrow, matching his pace. "You know, you could just tell me where McGonagall's office is."

Severus finally glances at her, his expression unreadable but for the slight flicker of amusement in his gaze. "And deprive myself of the exquisite entertainment of your struggle? I think not."

Before Nadine can retort, he sweeps around the corner, vanishing from sight as if he was never there.

She lets out a scoff, though her lips twitch into a grin. "Git." she mutters under her breath.

Left on her own again, she glances around, her confidence in finding the office rapidly diminishing. Hogwarts is a bloody maze. She takes a turn, only to realize she has never seen this corridor before in her life. The castle shifts around like it is conspiring to make her look ridiculous.

Nadine groans, rubbing her temples. "I'm going to hex Lupin when I find him."

Chapter Text

Nadine manages to find it just in time, thanks to a group of passing students who pointed her in the right direction. The moment she steps inside, she notices a few other Gryffindors already present, including Catherine and Emily, both of whom glance up briefly before returning to their forms.

Professor McGonagall stands at her desk, her stern expression in place as she hands out the specialization forms. "These will determine your area of study and the courses you will take moving forward." she explains sternly. "Read them carefully before making your selections."

Nadine takes one of the parchments and sits at the second table, scanning the contents.

Ministry Work
- Auror – Dark wizard catcher, part of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
- Hit Wizard – Similar to Aurors but focus on capturing dangerous criminals.
- Unspeakable – Works in the Department of Mysteries, researching unknown magical phenomena.
- Magical Law Enforcement Officer – Handles general law enforcement, similar to a Muggle police officer.
- Curse Breaker – Breaks ancient curses and hexes, often for Gringotts.
- Obliviator – Erases memories of Muggles who have witnessed magic.
- International Magical Relations – Deals with foreign magical governments and international law.
- Improper Use of Magic Officer – Investigates underage magic and unauthorized spell usage.

Healing & Medicine
- Healer – Works at St. Mungo's with specializations such as:
- Spell Damage Healer
- Creature-Induced Injuries Healer
- Potions & Plant Poisoning Specialist
- Artifact Accidents Specialist
- Mediwizard – Emergency field medics who respond to magical accidents.
- Potions Master (Medical) – Specializes in brewing complex healing potions.
- Spell Damage Specialist – Studies and reverses effects of dangerous spells.
- Mind Healer – Specializes in magical psychiatry.

Magical Creatures
- Magizoologist – Studies and protects magical creatures.
- Dragonologist – Works with dragons, handling conservation and breeding.
- Hippogriff Trainer – Specializes in raising and training hippogriffs.
- Magical Creature Conservationist – Protects endangered magical species.
- Werewolf Rehabilitation Specialist – Works with werewolves to manage their condition.

Education & Research
- Professor – Teaches at Hogwarts or another wizarding institution.
- Spell Theorist – Studies the creation and mechanics of spells.
- Librarian – Manages archives and books.

Enchanting & Crafting
- Wandmaker – Crafts and studies the properties of wands.
- Broom Maker – Designs and enchants brooms for flying.
- Spell Inventor – Develops new spells for magical use.
- Enchanter – Creates magical objects, similar to an artificer.
- Runes Expert – Specializes in ancient runes and magical inscriptions.

Dark Arts & Unconventional Magic
- Dark Magic Specialist – Studies dark artifacts and dangerous magic.
- Curse Master – Expert in handling and breaking powerful curses.
- Legilimens & Occlumens Instructor – Teaches the art of mind reading and protection.
- Necromancer – Studies magic related to spirits and the dead.

Quidditch & Sports
- Professional Quidditch Player – Plays for a league team.
- Team Coach – Trains Quidditch teams.
- Broom Racing Champion – Competes in international broom races.
- Referee – Officiates magical sporting events.

Journalism & Writing
- Daily Prophet Journalist – Writes articles on news.
- Magical Historian – Documents and studies history.
- Fiction Author – Writes literature.

Shopkeeping & Commerce
- Shop Owner – Owns a business in Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade.
- Gringotts Curse Breaker – Works for Gringotts retrieving cursed treasures.

Divination & Mysticism
- Seer – Specializes in divination and future sight.
- Astrologist – Studies celestial magic.
- Tarot Reader – Specializes in magical fortune telling.

So many options. Nadine taps her quill against her chin, reading over the Healing section again. Healer, she decides. It is something she has been drawn to, and it feels right.

Once she is done, she walks up to McGonagall's desk and places her form on the growing stack. Professor glances over it briefly, then looks up at the class.

"You will receive your schedules and start tomorrow." she informs them. "Your assigned subjects and practical training sessions will be determined based on your selections. Expect a Prefect to deliver them to you."

With that, she dismisses them, and Nadine steps out into the corridor, already eager to see what her schedule will look like. She walks all the way back to the portal and waits for others in the entrance hall. In few minutes, Rosiers, Blacks and Seraphina join.

The path is slightly damp from last night's rain, and the sky is a lazy shade of blue, the clouds barely making an effort to move. The castle looms behind them, growing smaller with each step, while the Forbidden Forest stretches out on one side, its trees swaying lightly in the wind.

"This," Evan says grandly, gesturing to the Three Broomsticks, "is where we get butterbeer and listen to Madam Rosmerta's stories."

"This," Barty adds, pointing at Zonko's, "is where I make excellent life choices."

Regulus shakes his head lightly, but smirks when those two act like complete clowns.

They joke and laugh as they walk, the cold air nipping at their faces but failing to dampen the mood. Barty and Nadine keep making everyone snort with laughter—mostly at their own expense. At one point, Nadine nearly trips over her own feet, and Barty dramatically pretends to mourn her.

Meanwhile, Brownie weaves between their legs, tail flicking like she owns the entire village. She occasionally stops to glare at strangers.

Pandora wonders aloud about something in a dreamy way. Regulus rolls his eyes but secretly listens.

Brownie suddenly decides she has had enough of walking and leaps onto Evan's shoulder. Evan, mid-sentence, freezes. "No. No. Absolutely not."

Brownie kneads her claws into Evan's cloak like she is making herself comfortable.

Nadine snickers. "Sorry, but you've been chosen."

"I don't want to be chosen." Evan tries to nudge Brownie off, but she is unbothered. She drapes herself over Evan's shoulder like a royal cape, tail flicking his cheek. Evan sighs in defeat, and occassionally strokes her fur gently, earning purrs.

Nadine turns to Seraphina and Cassiopeia, curiosity buzzing in her chest. "What did you choose?"

Cassiopeia flips her hair over her shoulder playfuly, looking smug. "Potioneering."

Seraphina nods. "Sounds good. Severus is Slughorn's assistant, so you'll probably be working with him too."

A slow, mischievous grin spreads across Nadine's face.

Seraphina catches it instantly and arches a brow. "What?"

Nadine waves a dismissive hand. "Nothing."

She doesn't buy it, but continues, "I chose Dragonology and specialized healing."

Nadine lights up, about to tell her how incredible that is, but Regulus—who has been trailing just behind them—makes a dry remark. "If you're able to handle it all."

His voice is smooth, almost casual, but the implication is clear.

Seraphina stops walking. Annoyance flickers across her face. "And you should worry about whether you're capable of your own specialization."

His eyes narrow. "I wouldn't have chosen it if I weren't."

"And I wouldn't have either." Seraphina shoots back, crossing her arms.

Regulus tilts his head slightly, expression unreadable. "Time will tell."

Seraphina lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. If Nadine lets them, they will be at it all day. So she turns to Barty, grabs his shoulders, and shoves him toward Cassiopeia, who is eyeing the shop displays with great interest. He stumbles slightly, shooting Nadine a bewildered look.

"Go." she whispers.

Then she catches Evan and Pandora's eyes and flicks her fingers subtly. They understand immediately.

"Scatter." Nadine murmurs, and with amused grins, they slip away, blending into the crowd.

"Good." she announces to no one in particular. "Now, let's search for what we need."

And before either Regulus or Seraphina can protest, Nadine drapes her arms around theirs, locking them in place.

Regulus tenses slightly, but she ignores it, dragging both him and Seraphina forward with a grin. "Come on, you two. Hogsmeade's far too nice today for you to ruin it with your bickering like an old married couple."

Seraphina huffs but lets Nadine pull her along. Regulus exhales through his nose, looking like he is on the edge. Behind them, Brownie prances after with her tail high.

Regulus moves away slightly, putting space between them as he walks in silence. His posture is composed, hands tucked into the folds of his cloak, gaze flicking across the shops without real interest.

Nadine glances at him. "What did you choose?"

He doesn't answer, just keeps walking as if he hasn't heard her.

She huffs. "Oh, come on, it's not a Ministry secret."

Regulus exhales through his nose, the tiniest flicker of annoyance crossing his face before he finally relents. "Unspeakable."

Seraphina hums thoughtfully. "Interesting choice." she muses and looks at Nadine. "It's not just about secrecy, you know. Unspeakables deal with the most complex and unpredictable aspects—time, death, thought, space, prophecy. It requires a level of discipline, intelligence and control."

Regulus flicks his gaze over his shoulder at her, his steps slowing for half a second. There is a faint furrow between his brows, as if he wasn't expecting her to actually understand what the position entails. He doesn't comment, just turns his attention back to the path ahead.

Nadine grins. "Great. Now you two find what you need."

Regulus narrows his eyes slightly, already suspicious.

"I have something else to do."

Seraphina arches a brow.

"I need to get treats for Brownie."

Before either of them can react, Nadine steps backward, scoops Brownie up into her arms—earning an indignant meow—and spins on her heel, disappearing into the crowd.

First, she stops by 'Tomes and Scrolls', where she picks up few new books—some she needs for classes and a couple just because they look interesting. The shop smells like ink and old paper, and she lingers longer than she should, flipping through the pages before finally paying.

Next, she ducks into 'Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop', where rows of quills glint softly under the lights. She finds a sleek, light pink quill that feels perfect in her hand, so she adds it to her growing collection.

At 'Gladrags Wizardwear', Nadine spots a pair of cute, silver earrings shaped like tiny hearts. They sparkle faintly when they catch the light—completely unnecessary, but she can't resist.

Then, she makes a quick stop at 'Honeydukes', where the smell of sugar and chocolate is nearly overwhelming. She grabs a bag of her favorite sweets for later and a few fizzing whizzbees to share.

Finally, she heads to 'Magical Menagerie'. The air is thick with the sound of squawking owls and purring kneazles. She finds a soft, enchanted toy mouse that twitches its tail and wriggles when you tap it—perfect for Brownie. She also grabs a fresh bag of Brownie's favorite food, because despite her attitude, she deserves to be spoiled.

With her arms full of bags, Nadine steps back out into the busy street. The crowd still swirls around her, laughter and voices filling the air. As she scans the area, she spots Evan, Barty, and Regulus standing together a little ahead, their heads inclined toward each other.

Nadine moves to join them, but just as she reaches their side, she catches Barty saying, "We need to talk about—"

Regulus clears his throat sharply, cutting him off mid-sentence.

Her eyes narrow slightly as she slides in beside them. "Where are the girls?" she asks, keeping her voice casual.

Evan glances at her, and gestures toward the Three Broomsticks in the distance. "There." he says, his tone easy, though there is something unreadable in his expression.

They start walking in that direction, the crowd parting slightly as they make their way through. The closer they get, the easier it is to spot Pandora, Seraphina and Cassiopeia waiting near the entrance. Evan immediately falls into step with Pandora and Seraphina, his voice softer as they start chatting about something that makes them laugh. Regulus, meanwhile, moves toward Cassiopeia, speaking in a low voice while she listens intently.

Nadine takes the opportunity to nudge Barty playfully with her elbow, lowering her voice so the others can't hear. "So," she drawls, grinning at him, "did you ask her out yet?"

Barty snorts softly, shaking his head. "No. Another time." he says, his tone light but oddly dismissive.

Her smile falters slightly as she studies his face. Barty is never shy about things like this. The casual way he brushes it off doesn't sit right. Her brows furrow in quiet confusion. Is it because Cassiopeia is Regulus's sister? Nadine is sure he would approve. Maybe in a decade, but they are best friends of years.

As they leave Hogsmeade and start the familiar path back to the castle, the crisp breeze tugs at her hair. She walks beside Barty, the question still nagging at the back of her mind. Finally, she glances over and asks quietly, "What did you want to talk to Rose and Regulus about?"

Barty's expression doesn't shift much, but there is something guarded behind his usual charm. "Nothing important." he says, a little too quickly, shrugging it off like it is nothing.

Nadine knows him too well to believe that. Barty and Nadine share everything—secrets, jokes, ridiculous plans—so the fact that he is being secretive now twists something in her chest. But then again... maybe it is nothing serious. Maybe it is just some scheme they are working on or some ridiculous plan they know she would call them out for.

Chapter Text

The tables are already filling up as students settle in for lunch. Seraphina, Evan, Regulus, and Cassiopeia drift toward their usual spots, while Pandora and Barty exchange a few words before heading off as well.

Nadine, however, weaves between tables and make her way toward the Gryffindors, spotting Remus deep in conversation with the red-headed girl. She is animated as she speaks, her hands gesturing slightly, but Remus seems to be listening intently, nodding every so often.

Nadine inclines her head slightly as she approaches, not wanting to interrupt. The girl glances up, and her expression shifts—open and polite, with bright green eyes that hold a sharpness to them.

She offers a small smile. "Oh! Hello, we haven't met properly. I'm Lily Evans."

Nadine returns the smile. "Nadine Crouch. Nice to meet you."

Remus shifts slightly beside her, reaching into his bag and pulling out a neatly folded piece of parchment. He slides it toward Nadine with a small, knowing smile. "This is for you."

She blinks, unfolding the parchment to reveal her schedule. Her eyes scan over the list of classes:
- Potions
- Transfiguration
- Defense Against the Dark Arts
- History of Magic
- Magical Anatomy & Physiology
- Basic Healing Spells & Theory
- Herbological Remedies

She nods to herself. "Thanks, Remus."

He just hums, taking another bite of his food as Nadine tucks the schedule away. Her stomach growls, so she turns her attention to the food before her, pushing thoughts of Barty and whatever he is hiding to the back of her mind.

They finish eating, and as Nadine sets her goblet down, Remus stands, still chewing his last bite. He swallows quickly, then looks at her. "Ready?"

Nadine nods, dabbing her lips elegantly with her napkin before placing it neatly on the table. With careful hands, she lifts Brownie from her lap, feeling the soft fur brush against her fingers as Brownie lets out a tiny, contented purr.

As Nadine stands, Sirius—mouth still full—glances up at them. "Where to?" he asks, voice slightly muffled.

Remus tucks his hands into his pockets. "I have to show her where her classes will be."

James and Sirius exchange a glance, grinning like mischievous foxes. "Ohhh." James drawls, leaning forward. "The secret spots too, eh?"

Sirius waggles his brows. "Better not show her all of them, Moony. Some are reserved for—"

Remus scowls, already exasperated. "Shut it."

Lily, who has been watching the exchange with a mixture of amusement and irritation, turns to Nadine. "We should get butterbeer sometime." she says, her tone friendly yet confident.

Nadine meets her gaze, tilting her head slightly as she observes her. There is an openness to her, something honest and unfiltered, but Nadine doesn't miss the way Lily studies her in return—curious, maybe even assessing.

Cool and composed, Nadine inclines her head in a nod. "Sure."

With that, she turns toward the doors, walking beside Remus as they step away from the table. But just as they near the exit, an odd sensation prickles at the back of her neck.

She doesn't react immediately. Instead, she lets her eyes drift, scanning the Great Hall casually. Nothing seems out of place. The usual chatter fills the air, students are still laughing, eating, absorbed in their own conversations. No one is staring.

And yet, the feeling lingers.

Following her instinct, she shifts her focus to her recent interest—Severus.

Their eyes meet.

His gaze is sharp, unreadable, yet weighted with something she can't quite decipher. He doesn't look away, doesn't flinch. There is no awkwardness in the way he holds eye contact, only quiet calculation, as though he is studying her just as much as she is studying him.

A slow smirk tugs at her lips. Without breaking eye contact, she winks.

His expression doesn't change—not outright—but something flickers, the slightest movement in his features before his brows draw together in subtle suspicion.

Nadine turns away, stepping through the doors with Remus, her mind already made up.

Remus leads her through the castle again, showing her classrooms on floors they hadn't walked before. The corridors twist and turn, lined with moving portraits that occasionally murmur as they pass. He points out everything she might need—classrooms, shortcuts, even a few hidden passageways that she mentally notes for later. A map would be useful, but she pays close attention, trying to commit everything to memory.

Finally, Nadine remembere the last place they need to visit.

"The dungeons." she says.

Remus nods, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. "Right. This way."

The air grows cooler as they descend, the torches on the stone walls casting flickering shadows. The smell of damp stone and faint traces of potion ingredients cling to the air.

"That's Professor Slughorn's office." Remus says, pointing to a heavy wooden door with an ornate brass handle. "He likes to keep his favorites close. If you ever get invited to one of his little events, you'll know you're on his good side."

She smirks. "Sounds exclusive."

"Very." He gestures to the next door. "And this is the Potions classroom."

Nadine glances at the door, then back at him. "And where's the Slytherin common room?"

Remus hesitates just a fraction before answering. "Down that corridor." he says, nodding toward the dimly lit passageway at the far end of the hall.

She arches a brow. "And how do you know that?"

He shifts slightly, clearing his throat. "Long story."

She crosses her arms, intrigued. "Suspicious."

He exhales in a sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Look, about earlier—what Sirius and James said—"

She waves a hand dismissively. "All good. I can handle them."

"They can be a bit much. Just ignore them."

She narrows her eyes at him. "Why do they call you Moony?"

Remus falters for a second. "Er—"

She smirks. "Is it a joke? You're obsessed with the moon, or...?"

His jaw tightens slightly, his fingers flexing where they rest at his side. "It's, uh—"

Before he can finish, footsteps echo through the corridor.

They both turn. The moment Nadine recognizes them, her smirk widens. "Carrows." she says, her tone dripping with amusement.

Amycus and Alecto sneer as they approach, their matching expressions twisted with the kind of arrogance that only comes from years of getting away with being insufferable. The torchlight in the dungeon corridor flickers against the damp stone walls, casting long, jagged shadows that stretch behind them.

"Look who it is." Amycus drawls, his beady eyes flicking between Nadine and Remus. His voice is slow, thick with mockery.

Alecto crosses her arms, her lip curling slightly in disdain as her gaze lingers on Nadine's uniform. "Just saw your dear brother." she says smoothly. "Surprised you're not glued to his side." Her eyes narrow slightly. "Or is he finally sick of you?"

Nadine takes a slow, deliberate step forward, looking them up and down with all the judgment she can muster. "Oh, miss me already?" she asks, tilting her head slightly. Her voice is light, taunting. "Didn't get enough of my company last time?"

Amycus lets out a snort. "Don't flatter yourself." he sneers. "We just can't believe you're still walking around with your nose in the air like you belong here."

Nadine arches a brow. "Funny, I was just thinking the same about you. Then again, I suppose you lot don't have much else to do except lurk in corridors and try to sound intelligent." she pauses, giving them a once-over. "Emphasis on 'try.'"

Remus shifts slightly beside her, tense. "Let's go." he mutters under his breath, quiet but firm.

Nadine ignores him.

Amycus's smirk deepens, and his eyes gleam with something mean. "Bet Daddy isn't too proud of his little princess." he says, his voice deceptively sweet. "Slumming it with half-bloods and mudblood lovers. Tsk, tsk. What would he say?"

Her jaw tightens.

Alecto hums, tilting her head. "And your dear brother?" she adds. "Always thought he was a bit off, but maybe it runs in the family. You lot aren't exactly known for being... stable." She flicks a piece of lint off her sleeve, as if dismissing the entire topic as unworthy of her time. "Bet he'll crack first, though."

Something sharp pierces through Nadine's chest, a flash of anger, protectiveness, irritation. It simmers under her skin, coils into something tight and hot in her stomach.

Amycus smirks. "Or maybe you'll beat him to it."

Her fingers curl around her wand before she even realizes she has moved. The smooth wood is cool against her palm, and Nadine slips it discreetly from her robe, her grip firm. There is a hex she has been wanting to try and Amycus might just be the perfect test subject.

"Carrows."

The voice is deep, smooth, laced with an unmistakable command. A chill slithers down her spine. They all turn at once.

Severus stands at the entrance of the corridor, his gaze sharp and unreadable, his presence like a blade drawn in silence. "Inside."

Amycus and Alecto hesitate for a beat, then sneer, clearly irritated at being dismissed. But even they aren't foolish enough to argue. They slink past, whispering under their breath, giggling as they disappear through the dungeon door.

She smirks, already opening her mouth. "Pr—"

But she doesn't get the chance to say it.

Severus moves before the words fully leave her lips, closing the distance between them with that eerie, deliberate stillness of his. He doesn't rush. He doesn't need to.

By the time she realizes how close he is, his presence is already suffocating, intense eyes pinning her to the spot.

"Do not—" his voice darkens slightly, the syllables stretching, deliberate, precise, "use my mother's last name like it means something to you."

Her smirk doesn't falter, but her amusement flickers.

"You don't even know me." Nadine says, voice even, challenging. "So why are you—?"

His gaze sharpens.

"I do not need to know you." His words are smooth, effortless. "And I certainly do not wish to. Your taste in company alone speaks enough." His gaze flickers to Remus who is standing behind Nadine.

Her stomach clenches. His meaning is clear.

His eyes flicker over her. Then, just as effortlessly as he appeared, he steps past her, his robes barely grazing hers.

Nadine can feel the tension in her chest tightening. She shouldn't care. She shouldn't let him affect her this way. But somehow, he does.

The way he stood there, close enough for her to feel the weight of his presence in her bones. It is maddening. The arrogance, the coldness... How bloody attractive he is.

Damn it.

Nadine wants to be angry, to stay angry. She wants to prove him wrong, show him that he won't get rid of her that easily. But at the same time, she can't deny how he pulls something inside of her, how he ignites a fire she never asked for. It is frustrating, and yet... undeniably intoxicating.

Before she can process it any further, Remus snaps her out of her thoughts.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice concerned but gentle.

She shakes her head, trying to push away the lingering tension from the encounter. "Yeah, I'm fine." she lies, offering him a small smile.

They head upstairs, and as they reach the Gryffindor Tower, she makes a split decision. She is not going to dinner. Not tonight. She needs some space to think.

Brownie follows Nadine, her little paws tapping against the stone floor as she weaves between Nadine's legs. She is a distraction, and right now, Nadine needs one.

Entering the common room, it is quiet. Empty, except for a few scattered students who don't seem to notice Nadine as she heads toward the staircase. She walks past the familiar portraits, nodding absentmindedly as she make her way to her room.

The door creaks open, and the familiar scent of lavender and old books greets her. She quickly sheds her robes, feeling the weight of the day lifting off her shoulders, and slips into her pink pajamas. The fabric is soft and comfortable, a loose, short-sleeved shirt with a playful pattern of red hearts, and the shorts match in a light, pastel hue.

Nadine sits at her desk, reaching for her bag, which she had hurriedly thrown onto the chair earlier. She empties it out, her hands skimming over the familiar contents—books, a quill, a few pieces of parchment. But then, her fingers brush against something else.

The letter.

Nadine pauses, staring at the envelope for a moment. The seal is unbroken, embossed with the familiar crest of the LeBlanc family. Her fingers trace over the wax before she finally slips it open, unfolding the letter inside.

The handwriting is unmistakable.

Louis.

Their families have been close for as long as she can remember, and from the moment they met as children, they have always gotten along. He is charming, intelligent, effortlessly polite—a perfect gentleman in every sense of the word. With his white hair and piercing blue eyes, he embodies everything that makes people take notice.

Father has always been fond of him, subtly implying over the years that Louis would be a good match for Nadine, should she ever consider it. But she never has. Not once.

Not because Louis isn't attractive or because he lacks anything—quite the opposite. He is everything that would make sense on paper. They have always existed in this unspoken agreement of friendship, and he has never given any reason to believe otherwise.

Still, Nadine can't ignore the small weight in her chest whenever she thinks about how much Father would prefer someone like Louis over anyone else.

Shaking the thought away, she begins reading the letter:

Nadine,

J'espère que tu vas bien et que tu t'es bien installée. Tu me manques beaucoup, et j'espère que nous pourrons rester en contact malgré la distance. J'ai choisi la même spécialisation que toi la guérison. Une fois diplômés, nous pourrions avoir une belle opportunité de travailler ensemble ici. Passe le bonjour à ton frère.

Louis

(Nadine,

I hope you're doing well and that you've settled in. I miss you dearly, and I hope we can still stay in touch despite the distance. I've chosen healing as well. We could have a great opportunity to work together here once we graduate. Say hi to your brother for me.

Louis)

She sets the letter down, exhaling softly.

The future. The life she has ahead of her—the life Father envisions, one where she makes logical choices, where she aligns herself with the right people, the 'safe' people.

She folds the letter neatly and places it on her bedside table, her fingers lingering over it for a second longer than necessary.

Brownie curls up at the foot of Nadine's bed, watching her with sleepy eyes as Nadine sighs, leaning back.

She has never been drawn to perfection. She craves something else—something darker, sharper, unpredictable. A man who is brilliant and ruthless, with a mind that works in ways she can barely grasp.

And just like that, Severus flashes in her mind.

Dark hair falling over his sharp, serious face. Tall, always composed, a mystery.

Her lips curl into a smirk, her teeth grazing her lower lip.

Severus is nothing like Louis. He is nothing like anyone Father would approve of.

And that only makes Nadine want to know him more.

Chapter Text

A sharp tapping on the window drags Nadine from sleep. She groans, rubbing her eyes, and push herself up slowly, blinking against the early morning light. A familiar owl is perched on the windowsill, feathers ruffled slightly from the journey.

Gizmo. Of course.

Scoffing, Nadine swings her legs over the bed and crosses the room, opening the window to let him in. He flutters onto her desk, talons clicking against the wood as he drops a letter in front of her. Without a second glance, he begins pecking at the biscuits left on the bedside table, utterly unbothered.

Nadine sighs, knowing exactly who the letter is from before she even touches it.

The thick parchment bears the Crouch family crest, the ink of Father's handwriting as sharp and severe as the man himself. She breaks the seal and unfold it, her eyes scanning the words.

Nadine,

I trust that by now, you have settled in. I will not waste time expressing my opinion, as I assume you are already aware of it. I warned you. I warned you about this reckless behavior, about drawing attention where it is not needed.

I expect you to rise above your circumstances and conduct yourself with discipline, intelligence, and restraint. You will not allow your House to influence your principles. You will not associate with those who would tarnish your reputation, or mine. You will remember who you are.

Your studies come first. There is no room for distractions. There is no room for mistakes.

You are being watched, Nadine. I expect a letter confirming that you are prioritizing your education. Do not make me ask twice.

Barty Crouch Senior

Nadine exhales, pressing her lips together. Warnings, reminders, repetition—the usual. Father has always believed that saying something enough times will force it into reality, as if he can mold her will into submission through sheer persistence.

She scoffs and tosses the letter onto her desk, stretching her arms over her head as Gizmo finishes his meal.

It is going to be a long day.

She lets out a small breath before washing her face, brushing her teeth, and freshening up. After carefully braiding her hair into a long, neat plait, she applies a touch of makeup—just enough to enhance her features. Once satisfied, she slips into her uniform, ensuring everything is perfectly in place.

Sitting back down, she grabs a piece of parchment and dips her quill into ink:

Cher Louis,

Tu me manques énormément aussi. J'aimerais beaucoup que nous restions en contact et j'espère que ta famille et toi allez bien. Je me suis bien installée et j'ai commencé mes études, les choses sont différentes ici, mais je m'adapte. J'espère te voir dans un futur proche.

Nadine

(Dear Louis,

I miss you dearly too. I would love to keep in touch and hope you and your family are doing well. I have settled in well and have begun my studies, things are different here, but I am adapting. I hope to see you in the near future.

Nadine)

She lets the ink dry before carefully folding the letter, placing it in her bag alongside her books, quills, parchment, candies, small mirror, handkerchief, and bag of money. She stands, ready to have breakfast.

The morning sun casts soft light over the common room, and Nadine spots Remus moving quickly toward the door. She catches up to him as he steps outside, his quick pace not helping much as she easily falls into step beside him.

"Hey, Remus!" she calls out, a friendly smile on her lips. "Where are you off to in such a rush? You want to grab breakfast together?"

He turns to her, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. He seems distracted, his usual calm self replaced by a tension she can't place.

"Ah, hey." he says with a soft sigh. "I've got a few things to take care of, but we can definitely catch up later." His voice is warm but distant.

She raises an eyebrow. "Alright, if you say so." she replies, her tone light but still curious. "We'll see each other later, then."

He gives a small nod, and as he turns to leave, Nadine notices how he keeps his head down. "See you later." he says quickly, and without another word, he walks away with a hurried step, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

She stands there for a moment, watching him leave. Maybe he is just tired or stressed. She shakes her head, dismissing the thought for now, and continues with Brownie playfully darting around Nadine's feet, her tail flicking eagerly as if she knows they are headed to get food.

Nadine steps into the Great Hall, her eyes scanning the tables as she makes her way to the Slytherins. Barty is sitting with Regulus and Evan, deep in conversation, but they all look up when Nadine approaches. She smiles, sliding into the seat beside Barty. "Good morning." she says, glancing around. Seraphina and Cassiopeia aren't there yet.

She leans in toward Barty. "Got a letter from Father. Guess what he said." she says, half-sighing.

Barty rolls his eyes in response, picking up his goblet. "Me too." he mutters. They exchange an exasperated glance before they both dig into their food.

As Nadine takes a bite, the laughter near her catches her attention. She glances up to see Carrows staring at her, grinning mischieviously. She narrows her eyes, the politeness in her tone not wavering. "Is there a problem?" she asks, her voice calm but with an edge.

She hears someone speak to Barty from the opposite side of the table. "So this is your sister, Crouch?"

Nadine turns toward the voice. Dark hair falls in messy waves around his sharp features, and there is a nasty smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yes." she says coolly, her tone controlled. "And you are?"

He meets her eyes, his smirk widening. "Bruce Mulciber." he says, his voice dripping with pride.

She gives him a polite nod, though the coldness in her eyes remains. "Pleasure." She turns back to her plate, dismissing him with the same ease she would show a fly buzzing around her head.

Nadine hears the laughter again. One of the others, sitting beside Mulciber, smirks as he mocks her. "You hear that? It's a pleasure, Mulciber." he echoes, grinning. The others around them howl with laughter, the sound like nails on a chalkboard, grating and cruel.

She arches an eyebrow at Mulciber. He is still looking at her with that nasty smirk, and then his voice cuts through the air like a knife. "I'm sure it is." he says, his words dripping with mockery. "But, darling, your seat is over there." He inclines his head dismissively toward the Gryffindor table.

Her jaw clenches, irritation rising in her chest, but Nadine forces herself to stay composed. "I'm sitting with my friends." she replies, though the words feel like they are biting at her tongue. "It's not forbidden."

Mulciber's smile only grows wider, his eyes gleaming with a mix of malice and superiority. "You see, we don't accept your kind here." he sneers, his voice dripping with disdain.

"My kind?" she echoes, her voice low, almost a whisper, but there is an edge to it. She leans forward slightly, challenging him with a look. She doesn't know what exactly he means, but she knows it isn't good.

Barty mutters beside her, his voice rough but restrained, "Leave it." he says, but Nadine doesn't listen. His tone doesn't sit well with her; it feels dismissive. But she can't back down. She won't.

Alecto chimes in before Nadine can respond. "Spoiled brat thinks she can do what she wants." she says with a cruel laugh. "You don't belong here."

Amycus lets out a sickening chuckle, and his eyes sparkle with the same venom. The entire exchange feels like it is happening in slow motion, each word like a slap to Nadine's face, each glance colder than the last.

As she glances at Barty, she can see the way his eyes narrow, the intensity in his gaze sharp enough to burn through stone. He is glaring daggers at Mulciber, his jaw clenched, his fists curled under the table, like he is struggling to control himself. But, even with all of that, he doesn't say a word in Nadine's defense. His silence is the loudest thing in the room, and it stings more than anything else.

Her stomach twists with frustration, anger building behind her ribs. Nadine grips the edge of the table, her knuckles turning white, her heart pounding with a sudden surge of indignation. "You don't know who you're dealing with." she snaps, her voice sharp enough to cut through the tension.

She feels her body tense, the heat of anger flushing her skin, but she can't stay here. Not with the way they are looking at her, not with the venom in their words. She stands up abruptly, not caring if it is loud or dramatic.

Nadine glances quickly at Severus, hoping for some sign of support, but his face remains unchanged. His eyes are fixed on his plate, as if she doesn't even exist in his world right now. No sympathy, no interest. Nothing.

She feels a strange mixture of disappointment and determination wash over her. If they want to treat her like this, fine. She won't stick around to let them mock her. Not today.

Without a word, Nadine turns on her heel and leaves, the sound of their laughter fading behind her. She doesn't look back. She doesn't need to.

Brownie meows softly, rubbing against her leg as if sensing the distress. Nadine scoops her up, running her fingers through her fur, her warmth soothing Nadine slightly as she makes her way toward the owlery.

She looks up and nearly bumps into Seraphina and Cassiopeia. They immediately frown, concern flickering across their faces as they take in her expression.

"What happened?" Seraphina asks, glancing back toward the Slytherin table.

Nadine shakes her head, forcing a small smile. "I'll tell you later." she murmurs, brushing past them.

"Nadine!" Cassiopeia calls but Nadine picks up her pace. She doesn't want to explain it right now.

Nadine is slightly out of breath as she hurries up the stairs to the owlery, still stroking Brownie absentmindedly. The cold morning air bites at her skin, but she focuses on reaching the top. As she steps inside, the scent of hay, feathers, and parchment fills her nose. The soft hoots of various owls echo around the circular stone chamber.

She finds the right owl and quickly ties her letter to its leg, before watching it take off into the pale sky.

Then, clutching her bag, Nadine rushes back down the spiraling stairs, hoping she won't be late for Herbological Remedies.

She arrives at the greenhouse, the scent of damp earth and fresh herbs lingering in the air. Brownie meows softly, wiggling out of her arms to explore outside, weaving through the stone paths. The greenhouse is warm, the glass panels fogged from the temperature difference, and Nadine can already smell the distinct, earthy aroma of various plants.

Professor stands at the front, hands on her hips, waiting for the students to settle. Her wild curls are tucked beneath a patched hat, her warm but sharp eyes sweeping over the class.

"Welcome, students. For those of you who don't know me yet, I am Professor Sprout, Head of Hufflepuff and your instructor in Herbological Remedies and Healing Plants."

Nadine glances around the room, noticing students from all four Houses, though she doesn't recognize anyone well enough to sit beside them. With a quiet sigh, she settles in near the front.

"Today, we will begin with one of the most fundamental plants used in healing: Wiggentree bark." Professor Sprout gestures to a cluster of young, silvery trees potted at the front, their bark shimmering slightly under the lights.

Nadine sits up straighter, her interest piqued. Wiggentree bark is known for its powerful protective and healing properties, often used in Wiggenweld Potion and various salves.

"Its sap can be processed into a strong antiseptic, and when infused into potions, it accelerates the healing of wounds. However, harvesting it requires care, as the bark must be stripped properly to maintain the tree's vitality."

She picks up a small cutting knife and demonstrates, carefully peeling a thin strip of bark without damaging the underlying layers.

"Now, let's see. What kind of potions or remedies commonly use Wiggentree bark?"

Nadine raise her hand, and Professor nods at her to speak.

"It's a key ingredient in the Wiggenweld Potion, which is used to awaken unconscious patients and heal minor injuries." she says confidently.

"Excellent!" Sprout beams. "Five points to Gryffindor."

She continues explaining, and a small sense of satisfaction settles in Nadine. At least she is doing something right today. She takes notes diligently, focusing on the lesson.

She hears a few quiet groans of annoyance from some students, but she ignores them. Instead, Nadine focuses on their practical work, carefully handling the Wiggentree bark. Her hands move steadily as she follows Professor Sprout's instructions, determined to do her best.

By the time they finish writing their notes, Professor Sprout claps her hands together. "That's all for today! Remember to revise your notes—we'll be testing your ability to properly extract and store Wiggentree bark next time. Class dismissed!"

Brownie is waiting for Nadine outside, stretched lazily on the ground, tail flicking. She perks up as Nadine approaches and trails after her, her soft paws making no sound against the stone floor. Nadine glances down at her schedule—Basic Healing Spells. Even more interesting.

She navigates through the castle, heading towards the first floor. The classroom is close to the infirmary, which makes sense. The air here feels different—quieter, sterile.

Nadine is the first to arrive, so she leans against the wall, arms crossed, waiting. Her mind drifts back to breakfast.

She didn't expect Regulus to help her out—he barely tolerates people outside his circle, and she is not exactly included in that. But Barty? Rose? Why were they silent? Barty and Nadine are a team. And Rose? Him and Barty are like brothers. Nadine thought they would become close too.

Why was it such a problem that Nadine sat at the Slytherin table? Barty had told her they weren't fond of outsiders, especially not Gryffindors, but she didn't think it would be such a fuss. How come he can sit and she can't?

Well, they won't tell her what to do.

Chapter Text

Professor Aldric Moore, a middle-aged wizard with silver-streaked brown hair and sharp, observant eyes, introduced 'Episkey', a spell used for minor injuries like small cuts and broken noses.

"Healing is delicate," he explained, "not just about waving your wand and hoping for the best. Intent is just as crucial as technique. If your mind wavers, so will the effectiveness of your spell."

They practiced on dummies that develop minor injuries when tapped with their wands. Nadine focused, repeating the incantation carefully, and after a few tries, she managed to close a small wound on her dummy's arm. It was satisfying to see it work, and even more so when Professor Moore nodded approvingly, awarding Gryffindor a few points.

Lunch.

Nadine steps into the Great Hall, weaving through students as she heads straight to the Gryffindor table, not bothering to glance around. She sits beside Remus, who is already eating, his usual tired look present but not as heavy as this morning.

"Hello." Nadine says, setting her plate down. "Did you finish what you had to do?"

He pauses for a second, looking briefly confused before offering a small smile. "Oh—yes, I did."

She nods, relieved. "I'm glad." There is a beat of comfortable silence before she adds, "I wanted to ask you something."

He looks up from his plate, attentive. "Yes?"

Nadine takes a breath. "Could I try to get into the Quidditch team?"

Remus blinks, then smiles. "You should ask the Captain that."

She raises an eyebrow. "And that is..."

Instead of answering, he simply glances down the table at James. Nadine sighs. Of course.

"Potter."

James turns around instantly, grinning as if he is been expecting it. "Ah, Crouch. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"I hear you're the Quidditch Captain." she says, placing a bite of chicken into her mouth.

Sirius, beside him, smirks. "I didn't know you were into Quidditch, Crouch. Trying to impress someone?"

Nadine rolls her eyes. "Will there be tryouts?"

James exchanges a glance with Sirius, then leans forward, mock-serious. "Why? Think you can handle it? It's a dangerous sport, you know. Wouldn't want you crying to your Dad when you get tackled off your broom."

She smiles coldly. "I can handle it, Potter." What a douche.

He grins, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Next week. One of our Chasers graduated, so we're looking for a replacement."

She nods. "Thanks."

Sirius claps James on the shoulder. "Can't wait to see her fly."

Nadine ignores them and finishes eating, pulling out her schedule again. Potions. She smirks to herself.

She heads toward the dungeons, wanting to arrive first. Her wand rests in her hand—just in case. The Slytherins made it clear that Nadine wasn't exactly welcome in their territory, and she doesn't plan on being caught off guard again.

As she reaches the classroom, she extends her hand toward the door—

But before Nadine can grasp the handle, it swings open.

She stops, looking up, and there he is.

Severus stands in the doorway, his sharp features cast in shadow. His eyes meet hers, unreadable as always, but there is a flicker of something beneath them. He seems caught off guard, lips parting slightly as if to speak.

Nadine doesn't give him the chance.

Stepping forward, she closes the distance between them, slipping into the dimly lit classroom. The door shuts behind her with a soft click, leaving only the two of them inside. Nadine doesn't break eye contact. Her smirk lingers, and she takes a slow step forward, forcing him to take one back. Then another.

His brow furrows, but he doesn't stop her.

"Good evening, Prince." Nadine's voice is smooth, teasing.

His lips part again, an immediate retort forming—but she cuts him off before he can speak.

"Don't worry, I'll call you that only when we're alone."

For a moment, there is silence. A muscle ticks in his jaw, and then a slow, sardonic sneer curls on his lips.

"How generous of you." he murmurs, voice low, rich with mocking amusement. His eyes flicker over her. "And what should I call you, then?" His tone is laced with disdain.

Nadine grins, tilting her head slightly. "Whatever you want. I'm into it."

Severus exhales sharply through his nose, his sneer deepening, though there is a flicker of something else in his gaze—something she can't quite place. He shifts his weight, his fingers flexing. Instead, he lifts his chin, looking down at her through dark lashes.

"Of course you are." he drawls, his voice smooth, edged with something sharp.

Nadine takes another step closer, amusement playing on her lips. "Oh, come on, Phina—"

"Would be better off without you as her friend."

His words cut through the air like a blade, and before Nadine can react, he turns smoothly on his heel and strides toward the Professor's desk, his robes billowing behind him. The candlelight catches the angles of his face—sharp cheekbones, the elegant slope of his nose, the dark intensity in his expression.

"You're reckless, arrogant." he continues, his voice steady, measured, as if weighing every word carefully. "The kind of influence she doesn't need."

He stops at the desk, placing his hands flat against its surface. He doesn't look at her immediately, but when he does—his gaze is piercing.

Nadine follows him, the heels of her shoes tapping against the cold stone floor.

"You think I'm a bad influence?" she teases as she stops just beside him.

He turns his head just enough to meet her gaze. "I think you're an unnecessary distraction." he says coolly. "A meddlesome, spoiled brat who doesn't know when to leave well enough alone."

Nadine bites her lower lip. "Hm. You assume the worst." she steps closer, tilting her head slightly. "So how about I change your mind?"

Severus frowns, but before he can reply, she presses on, eyes gleaming. "Go out with me."

There is a moment of silence. Heavy. Charged.

Slowly, Severus straightens, turning fully to face her now, his eyes narrowing, scanning her face as if searching for some sign of deceit, some hidden game. "Is that supposed to be a joke?" His voice is low, measured, almost dangerous. Nadine doesn't miss the way his fingers curl slightly against the desk.

"Not at all."  she says smoothly.

His lips press into a thin line. "And what exactly do you think you're playing at?" he murmurs. "Do you make a habit of throwing yourself at anyone who catches your attention?"

Nadine chuckles. "You wound me, Prince. I just think we'd have fun."

His expression hardens, his sneer deepening as his eyes glint with something colder, something sharper than just irritation. She can almost hear the shift in the air between them, the tension thickening like an oncoming storm.

"I see." he says coldly. "So this is what it's come to? Them sending you to play their little games now? To dangle some ridiculous invitation in front of me and see how far I'll go before I humiliate myself?"

Her smirk falters, confusion settling in the pit of her stomach. "What? Severus, no, I—"

But he doesn't let her finish.

"Save it." he snaps, his voice rising with a venom Nadine doesn't understand. "You think I don't know how this works? That I don't recognize their pathetic attempts to make me their joke?" His lips curl with scorn. "You must have drawn the short straw for this one, or maybe you volunteered. Maybe they thought it would be even funnier coming from you."

Nadine blinks, trying to grasp what he is saying. Her stomach twists, the sting of rejection creeping in, because this isn't just him saying no—this is him mocking the very idea of it. "Prince, I wasn't—"

"Enough. Do not call me that." His breathing is heavier now, his fists clenched as if holding himself back. "It won't work. I'm not some idiot who will fall for cheap tricks. You can go back and tell your friends that I won't be made a fool of."

Nadine stares at him, her confidence slipping, giving way to something raw.

"I don't know what you're talking about." she says, more serious this time, her tone soft as a cloud.

"Of course you don't." Severus scoffs, voice thick with sarcasm. "You'd never associate with me otherwise. What would people say if they saw you with me?"

His words hit like a slap. A slow burn creeps into her chest, a mixture of frustration and something that aches.

Nadine opens her mouth to refute him, to make him understand that this wasn't a joke, but he is already shaking his head, closing himself off.

"It's not going to happen." Severus says, quieter now, but just as firm. "I would never go out with you."

It stings more than she expects. She shouldn't care. She shouldn't let his words sink under her skin, but they do. Maybe because she hadn't expected rejection, at least not like this.

Nadine swallows past the lump in her throat, her pride urging her to say something, but her voice doesn't come.

Seraphina did say he keeps to himself, Nadine reminds herself. There is something more to him.

Her shoulders slump slightly, but she squares them again. Losing cool won't help. She needs to be patient, to be gentle. If she lets his tongue push her away, she will never get the chance to understand him. He can try to shut her out, but she won't give up that easily.

So, without another glance in his direction, Nadine turns on her heel and walks to an empty table, setting her things down as if nothing happened. Her hands are steady, her expression neutral.

The door creaks open, and soon, the classroom fills with students. Nadine glances up just in time to spot Pandora and Barty entering.

Her gaze locks with Barty's.

He takes a step toward her, guilt in his eyes.

But Nadine doesn't wait to see what he has to say. Before he can reach her, she gathers her things and moves toward another table. A Gryffindor settles there alone, idly flipping through his textbook.

"Hi. May I join you?" she says, sliding into the seat beside him.

He turns to her, looking a little surprised before offering a warm smile. His red hair is slightly messy, and there is something easygoing about the way he carries himself.

"Hi, we haven't met." he says. "I'm Bill Weasley."

She returns his smile. "Nadine Crouch."

Before they can say more, the door opens once again, and Professor Slughorn strides in, his large belly bouncing slightly as he makes his way to the front of the room.

"Ah, welcome, welcome, students!" he booms, clapping his hands together. "I trust you've all settled in nicely by now?"

A few murmurs of agreement ripple through the class. Slughorn beams, then gestures to the blackboard with a flick of his wand, where elegant writing begins appearing on its own.

"Now, you'll find that your potion studies will take on a far more advanced and practical nature." he says, pacing slightly. "And today, we begin with something foundational but immensely valuable. Invigoration Draught."

Nadine tilts her head slightly, intrigued. Around her, quills scratch against parchment as students take notes. Slughorn waves his wand again, and a list of ingredients appears below the potion's name.

He claps his hands together. "Well then! Let's get to it. Pairs of two, please!"

Bill turns to her with an easy grin. "Partners?"

Nadine smirks slightly, dipping her quill in ink. "Why not?"

Bill and Nadine focus on their potion, following book's instructions carefully. Slughorn walks around the room, peering into cauldrons, occasionally humming in approval or giving students pointers.

When he reaches their table, he clasps his hands together. "Ah! Miss Crouch and Mr. Weasley!" He beams at them before turning to her more fully. "Now, you wouldn't happen to be related to that Crouch family, would you?"

Nadine hesitates for a second before nodding. "Yes, sir. Bartemius Crouch is my father."

Slughorn's expression flickers with intrigue. "Ahh, of course! The esteemed Ministry man! Quite the ambitious sort, your father. I must say, I wasn't expecting a Crouch to end up in Gryffindor—very interesting indeed!" He chuckles to himself.

She offers a polite smile but doesn't comment, and thankfully, he doesn't press further. He moves on to another pair, still humming in satisfaction.

As Nadine turns back to their potion, she notices Severus moving quietly through the room, hands clasped behind his back as he observes students' progress. As Slughorn's assistant, he is meant to help if needed, but he doesn't say a word to her. He doesn't even look at her.

She knows why.

She doesn't push it. She focuses on her work, ignoring the tension in the air.

The class finishes soon after. Bill and Nadine bottle a small sample of their potion, labeling it before cleaning up their table. Nadine packs her things quickly, eager to get some air.

As she steps out into the corridor, she hears rushed footsteps behind.

Barty falls in step beside her, his voice low but urgent. "Nadine, wait up."

Nadine doesn't stop at first, but his hand brushes her elbow, a silent request. "Please stop."

With a sigh, she turns to face him, arms crossed.

"Look, about this morning—"

"I don't want to be reminded it happened." The words come out sharper than she intended, but she means them.

Barty glances around before gently taking her arm again, leading them away from the main corridor. As others head upstairs, they slip into a quieter part of the dungeons, the torches flickering dimly against the stone walls.

He turns to face her, his expression unreadable but serious. "I know you're angry, but you have to understand—I didn't want to cause more trouble. And I told you to leave it."

Nadine scoffs, shaking her head. "To not cause trouble? You could've—"

"Nadine." Barty sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's not that simple. You're not just some Gryffindor sitting at the Slytherin table. You're a Crouch, and you're my sister. The moment you sat down, it wasn't just about you anymore—it was about me too. If I reacted, it would've been worse."

Nadine stares at him, frustration bubbling under her skin. "Why? You sit there just fine, so why can't I?"

Barty exhales through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. "Because I know them. I know how to handle them. I spent years proving myself to them—you haven't."

"Look, Tem." she says, stepping closer, her voice softer but no less determined. "I understand you have friends. I'm not asking you to pick a side. But I've been here for one day, and I've already been insulted twice. You're the closest person to me here—I need you."

His jaw tightens, but his gaze softens. "I know." Then he frowns. "Wait. Twice? What else happened?"

Nadine glances away, debating whether to tell him. But there is no point in hiding it. "Carrows. When Remus showed me around. They made some comments about our family. About you."

Barty's expression shifts in an instant. His hands clench into fists at his sides, his lips pressing into a thin line.

"Did they do anything?" he asks, voice dangerously quiet.

"No. But honestly, I don't care what they think."

Barty's grip on his robes tightens, his shoulders stiff. He looks away, breathing deeply before meeting my gaze again.

"Tem—"

"No." he cuts her off, his voice edged with something dark. "I don't care what they think of you sitting at that table. But no one—no one—gets to talk about you like that." He places his hands on her shoulders, his grip firm but gentle, his expression serious. His eyes lock onto hers, unwavering.

"You don't need to deal with them. It won't happen again. I promise you that." he says, his voice softer now.

She swallows, watching the way his brows knit together, the tension in his jaw.

"You're the most important person to me, Nadine. I need you to trust me on this."

Her chest tightens at his words. She nods. "Okay."

His hands slide down to her arms before he exhales and shakes his head slightly. "I'm sorry."

Nadine hesitates for only a second before stepping forward and wrapping her arms around him. He doesn't pull away—he holds her just as tightly, his chin resting atop her head.

"You're a pain." he mutters, but there is warmth in his tone.

"I know." she mumbles into his shoulder.

They just stand there for a moment, and—despite everything—this is enough.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall empties out slowly, but Severus and Seraphina leave together, their robes billowing behind them as they make their way toward the dungeons. The flickering torchlight casts long, wavering shadows on the walls, the rhythmic tapping of their footsteps filling the silence between them.

Seraphina notices it almost immediately—the way Severus is too quiet, even for him. His posture is tense, hands shoved into his robes, his expression unreadable. Most people wouldn't notice the shift, but she isn't most people. She knows him too well, understands the weight of every breath, every flicker of his gaze.

She glances at him as they turn a corner. "Alright, what is it?"

Severus doesn't respond at first. He keeps walking, his lips pressing into a thin line. But then, just before they reach the common room entrance, he suddenly stops.

"Seraphina." he says, voice low and measured. "I need to talk to you."

She stops too, raising an eyebrow. Now that is interesting. Severus rarely announces that he needs to talk. Usually, he just says what is on his mind or broods in silence until she drags it out of him.

She crosses her arms. "Of course. What's wrong?"

Severus exhales sharply through his nose. "Your friend. Crouch." His jaw clenches slightly, and his eyes flash with something. "She asked me out."

For a second, Seraphina just blinks at him. Then, she can't stop the soft, amused breath that escapes her lips.

"She what?"

Severus scowls. "You heard me."

Seraphina presses a hand over her mouth for a second, as if trying to suppress a laugh, but the amusement in her eyes betrays her.

Severus's glare sharpens. "Don't." he warns.

She shakes her head, her lips twitching. "I— I'm sorry, but—" She lets out a short breath and composes herself. "I had a feeling, but I didn't think she'd actually do it so soon."

His eyes narrow. "You knew?"

"I suspected." she corrects quickly, holding up her hands. "But she didn't tell me she fancies you. She just—well, I noticed things. I know her."

Severus folds his arms tightly over his chest, his expression dark. "Well, it's ridiculous." His tone is clipped, cold. "And whatever game she's playing, I want no part in it."

Seraphina's amusement fades. "Sev, she's not playing a game."

His scoff is immediate, biting. "Of course she is. Do you honestly expect me to believe that a Gryffindor, a Crouch no less, has suddenly decided she's interested in me? That this isn't some joke at my expense? Please." His lips curl in disdain. "I won't be humiliated again."

And there it is.

Seraphina lets out a slow breath. She knows—of course she knows—what this is really about. It is not just about Nadine. It is about them. The Gryffindors. The years of torment. The way they used to humiliate him in front of everyone, treating him like nothing more than a joke. And, worst of all, it is about Lily.

Lily, who had once been his closest friend. Lily, who he had trusted. Lily, who had walked away.

Seraphina sees the ghosts of all those wounds in the way his fingers twitch against his sleeve, in the rigid way he holds himself. She understands—more than he thinks she does.

"Sev." she says carefully. "Nadine isn't like them."

His laugh is cold and humorless. "You say that as if it makes a difference."

"It does make a difference."

His hands clench at his sides. "You're wrong to trust her. She'll turn out worse than all of them."

Seraphina sighs. "And you're wrong to think that everyone is out to hurt you."

Silence stretches between them. Severus doesn't move, doesn't look at her. His expression is set, his jaw locked. He is still caught in the past, in old wounds that haven't healed.

Seraphina places a hand on his arm. "I'll talk to her." she says quietly. "I'll make sure she understands that you don't want anything to do with this." Her voice is firm but gentle. "But Sev... don't assume the worst of her."

His expression hardens. "You're wasting your time."

She shakes her head, giving his arm a small squeeze before letting go. "I don't think I am."

Severus doesn't respond. He just turns sharply and strides toward the common room, disappearing into the shadows.

Seraphina watches him go, her heart heavy.

She will talk to Nadine. But she also knows her friend well enough to understand—Nadine isn't the type to give up easily. And that is what worries her most.

...

Nadine walks into a spacious, well-lit classroom on the third floor, the air carrying the faint scent of parchment and dried herbs. The walls are lined with anatomical charts of wizards and magical creatures, detailing circulatory systems, spell damage effects, and even the intricate web of magical core pathways. At the front of the room stands Professor Callidora Yaxley, a sharp-eyed woman in her late fifties with dark hair pulled into a tight bun.

"Welcome." Professor Yaxley begins, her voice measured and cool. "Whether you seek to become healers, curse-breakers, or researchers, a solid understanding of magical anatomy is essential. You will learn how magic interacts with the body, how it can heal—or harm."

Nadine listens attentively, scribbling down notes as Yaxley flicks her wand, causing a life-sized diagram of a wizard to hover mid-air.

First Lesson: The Three Magical Systems of the Body

Core Channeling System – How magic is stored and flows through a wizard's body, affecting spellcasting stamina. Neuromagical Receptors – The way magic influences emotions, memory, and cognition (ties into Legilimency and mental health). Arcane Immune Response – How a wizard's body reacts to dark magic, potions, and healing spells.

After a quick stop at the library, Nadine heads to the History of Magic classroom on the second floor, where she spots Bill already at a desk. He looks up and grins.

"Crouch! You survived Yaxley?" he teases as Nadine takes the seat next to him.

"Barely. I think she sees emotions as a weakness."

He chuckles, shaking his head. "You'd think a psychology professor would be more sympathetic."

Their conversation cuts off as Professor Cuthbert Binns glides through the chalkboard, sending a chill through the room as usual.

Lesson Topic: The Global Influence of the International Statute of Secrecy (1689)

Why the wizarding world remains hidden. Early resistance movements. How different countries enforce the Statute (e.g., France vs. the UK). The impact on mixed families and the rise of pure-blood ideologies.

Binns, as expected, drones on monotonously, but Nadine forces herself to focus, knowing this subject is crucial. Bill, however, passes her a folded note halfway through:

If I have to hear the word 'statute' one more time, I'll pass out right here.

She bites her lip to suppress a laugh, shaking her head as she scribbles back: At least we'll know how to argue with bureaucrats.

Once class ends, Nadine and Bill head to the Great Hall for lunch. She piles her plate with roast chicken, bread rolls, and pumpkin juice, eating quickly before suggesting they get some fresh air. Bill agrees instantly, and together, they walk out into the courtyard before wandering toward the lake.

The air is crisp but pleasant, the sunlight reflecting off the water. Brownie trots behind them, tail flicking. They find a bench beneath an old oak tree, overlooking the vast grounds.

Bill studies her for a moment, then says, "You've been kind of lost in thought today."

Nadine hesitates. She just smiles instead, tucking her hands into her sleeves. "It's just the first week. A lot to take in."

Bill nods and bumps her shoulder playfully.

"Well, if it ever gets too much, you've got me. Even if I'm not much help in History."

Nadine laughs, but the words sink in.

This was her first time truly interacting with a Weasley, and the experience was unexpectedly pleasant.

Weasleys are known for being exceptional wizards, but more importantly, they are regarded as genuinely good people. Unlike many pure-blood families, they don't elevate themselves above others, regardless of being a part of The Sacred Twenty-Eight. Their values are grounded in kindness, fairness, and equality, and Bill is no different, embodying these traits effortlessly. He is the epitome of the Weasley spirit.

The Weasleys made a deliberate choice to reject the rigid pure-blood ideologies that often breed elitism and prejudice. As a result, many of their own blood see them as 'blood traitors.' Any Pureblood wizard who welcomes Muggle-borns, and even some Half-Bloods, into their circles faces the same contempt, as others question their loyalty to their own bloodline. Nadine admires them for it.

Cassiopeia and Seraphina approach, returning from their class. Nadine finds herself hoping for a reunion with them sooner rather than later. "Ah! You met Bill!" Seraphina exclaims, a smile tugging at her lips. "Has he succeeded in charming you?"

Cassiopeia raises an eyebrow playfully, her tone teasing. "It seems so!"

"I'm afraid so." Nadine replies, her smile widening. "Mr. Weasley turns out to be a pleasant class partner."

"It's the hair, I swear." Bill jokes, ruffling his own red locks with mock exasperation.

"Bill's training to be a Curse-Breaker." Seraphina continues, her enthusiasm palpable. "We have some classes together. It's all about the dark arts, beyond fascinating!"

Nadine listens, happy to be surrounded by a new sense of friendship.

"My brother Charlie, he's a Dragonologist! Rumors say you kids will get the chance to visit them in Romania, where the dragon sanctuary is. He's a stellar guy with a sharp mind and a huge heart, and of course, a sucker for dragons too, like you!" Bill explains, gently gesturing towards her.

Seraphina practically beams at the idea of getting close to dragons so soon, while Cassiopeia is quick to ask whether only dragon-students can take part.

"You will most likely meet my brother, Regulus, in a similar line of work." Cassiopeia informs. Bill has met young Regulus once or twice; however, the Black family is notorious for their disdain toward the way the Weasleys conduct themselves with their rather 'progressive' bloodline traditions and values. In fact, the Blacks are practically at the top of the list of people dissatisfied with them and other pure-blood families involved in such similar 'open-mindedness' regarding the pure-blood mania.

Bill nods, as his smile tightens a little. He is, however, still enthusiastic and open to collaboration with them if need be.

Nadine, however, quickly realizes that Father will likely disapprove of her newfound friendship with a Weasley, but doesn't care in the slightest. Despite the fact that the Weasleys' father works within the Ministry, Father is likely influenced to share the belief that anyone who rejects pure-blood values is in the wrong, something he tries to instill in her and Barty as well.

After a while, Bill parts ways with them, and the girls carry on, heading toward their next class. Nadine feels the urge to share what happened with them, as they are the only ones who might understand.

"I'm sorry, Mulciber said what?!" Cassiopeia's voice is almost a shout, a rare burst of emotion from her. Her face twists in anger, while Seraphina's contorts with disgust. "THE Mulciber? The one with the Carrow rats trailing behind him like he has cheese falling out of his arse?!"

Seraphina's tone matches Cassiopeia's fury, both of them clearly horrified, eager not only to listen but to throw an insult, and possibly a hex... at the same time. Without thinking, Seraphina flicks out her wand as if preparing for a full-on duel, expecting the villains to jump from the bushes at any moment.

"I know, it's ridiculous." Nadine sighs, shaking her head. "It feels like I set the Slytherin table on fire rather than just sitting at it with Tem!"

The words spill out as she relishes the comfort of sharing without fear of judgment. The girls listen, their expressions darkening.

"If Severus stayed silent while some unhinged demon harasses me, both of them would be in the infirmary yesterday!" Seraphina declares dramatically, flicking her wand with her fingers. Cassiopeia nods in agreement, adding, "Regulus would join them. I can't stand that guy."

Nadine lets out a frustrated breath. "And on top of it all, my Father's furious about my House choice. I can't even discuss it properly with Tem, the Quidditch trials are coming up, and now I feel unprepared and anxious."

"You'll be great, Nadine. I have no doubt you'll be an excellent addition to the team. Definitely better than whoever they have now." Cassiopeia reassures her, unimpressed by Potter or her older brother. "Still, I know what you mean. Let's give it some time." She gives Nadine's hand a gentle squeeze before letting go, her voice soft but firm. "In the meantime, stay close to us. If anything else nasty comes up, we'll have your back."

Chapter Text

Other Slytherins and Gryffindors are already gathering, voices murmuring as they settle into the Defense against Dark Arts classroom. The tension between the two Houses lingers, unspoken yet palpable, a reminder of the deep-rooted rivalry that rarely wavers.

Professor Everard strides in, a tall, imposing wizard with eyes that miss nothing. His dark robes sweep behind him as he stops at the front, scanning the students with a scrutinizing gaze. With a wave of his hand, the murmurs die down.

"Today, we begin practical application." he announces, his voice crisp and authoritative. "Dueling and defensive methods. A wizard's ability to defend themselves is not only a necessity—it is an expectation. We will be covering a range of spells designed to disarm, deflect, and counteract various attacks. You are, of course, expected to practice restraint and precision. This is not about brute force but about control."

Nadine listens attentively, though her focus wavers when she hears a soft, snide whisper in her ear.

"Look at you, Crouch." Alecto murmurs just behind her. "Trying to act like you belong. Do you think you're better than everyone? That you're safe here?"

Nadine keeps her posture straight, choosing to ignore her. It isn't worth it. Alecto thrives on attention, and Nadine won't give her the satisfaction. But Alecto isn't done.

"Or maybe you think your brother will protect you." she sneers, her voice low but cutting. "Except—oh, wait. He won't, will he? He's too much of a coward to even stand up for you."

Nadine feels the heat rise up her neck, her fingers curling into fists. Before she even registers what she is doing, she turns sharply, eyes flashing as she pulls out her wand, voice low but laced with fury.

"You—"

"Ah." Professor Everard interrupts smoothly, his gaze landing on her with unsettling precision. "We have a volunteer. Miss Crouch, is it? Please step out."

Nadine stiffens, swallowing down her frustration. She doesn't want to give Alecto what she wants, but now the entire class is watching. With a steadying breath, she steps forward, schooling her expression into something cool and composed.

Alecto smirks, clearly reveling in the moment. "I'll volunteer as well, Professor."

"Of course you will." Everard says dryly, as if unimpressed by her eagerness. "Very well. Step forward, Miss Carrow. Since you both seem eager, we'll begin with a spell designed to destabilize an opponent's footing while disrupting their concentration—Disrumpo Motus."

The professor flicks his wand in demonstration, causing a ripple in the air that distorts the space in front of him. "When cast correctly, this will create a shockwave beneath your opponent, briefly throwing them off balance. If you fail to counter it properly, you may find yourself flat on your back. The proper defense is Stabilis—a grounding charm to anchor yourself and absorb the impact."

Nadine grips her wand tighter. Alecto's smirk widens.

"You know what to do. On my mark." Professor Everard instructs, his gaze flicking between them with expectation.

Nadine and Alecto nod, stepping forward to bow stiffly before turning their backs to each other, walking the necessary distance to prepare for the duel. The tension between them is thick, a silent battle already raging before either of them raises their wands.

"Three." Everard begins.

Nadine takes a steady breath, rolling her shoulders back.

"Two."

Alecto shifts slightly, fingers twitching around her wand.

"O—"

Before the professor even finishes, Alecto whirls around, her wand slashing through the air as she hisses, "Expulso!" A blast of magic tears through the space between them, aimed straight for Nadine's back.

She pivots sharply, instincts kicking in, and ducks just in time. The spell shoots past her, colliding with the stone wall behind her with a dull boom. Gasps ripple through the classroom, but Nadine barely registers them. Her blood surges hot with fury.

"A little slow, Crouch." Alecto taunts, already flicking her wand for another strike. "Or maybe you just hesitate too much."

Nadine doesn't give her the satisfaction of a response. Instead, she raises her wand, bracing herself as another curse hurtles toward her. Protego! The shield shimmers in front of her, absorbing the force before dispersing into the air.

Alecto's grin turns vicious. "Come on, Nadine." she croons mockingly, sidestepping as she fires another hex. "You're not going to let me win that easily, are you?"

Nadine deflects the spell with a sharp flick of her wand. Her heart pounds, but her focus is razor-sharp. Alecto fights dirty, but Nadine has no intention of playing into her hands.

Alecto sends another hex. Nadine dodges. Then another. Nadine counters, her movements crisp and precise. With each blocked spell, Alecto grows more impatient, more reckless, her attacks becoming wild and uncoordinated.

"You act like you belong," Alecto sneers between spells, "but you don't, do you? You're just another mistake wearing the wrong colors."

That does it.

Nadine tightens her grip on her wand, steps forward, and slashes it through the air with controlled precision. "Disrumpo Motus!"

A shockwave ripples beneath Alecto's feet. She gasps as the ground seems to shift violently beneath her, her balance lost in an instant. She stumbles, arms flailing, but Nadine doesn't give her a chance to recover. Another flick of her wand sharpens the spell's impact, and Alecto crashes onto her back with an undignified thud.

The room falls into stunned silence.

For a moment, Nadine simply stands there, her wand lowered, her breath steady. Then, slowly, she strides forward until she stands directly over Alecto, looking down at her with cold amusement.

"You were saying something?" Nadine murmurs, her tone deceptively sweet. She tilts her head, smirks, and then, as if dismissing Alecto entirely, turns on her heel.

Professor Everard, to his credit, looks neither surprised nor particularly concerned about Alecto's sprawl on the floor. "That was well-executed, Miss Crouch." he remarks, nodding in approval. "You controlled your magic with precision. Now, everyone pair up. We will continue practicing."

Alecto is seething as she scrambles back to her feet, her face blotchy with humiliation. She doesn't look at Nadine but instead stalks toward her brother, whispering furiously under her breath. Amycus glances over with a glare sharp enough to cut stone, his fingers twitching as if barely restraining himself.

Nadine doesn't spare him a second glance.

Instead, she turns toward Cassiopeia and Seraphina, who are grinning like cats who have just watched a mouse get flattened. Cassiopeia inclines her head approvingly, while Seraphina actually claps once, her smirk smug and delighted.

Nadine exhales, her lips twitching into a small but satisfied smile before she moves toward Bill, who is already waiting with an impressed look.

"Remind me never to get on your bad side." he comments, smirking as he raises his wand.

As the lesson comes to an end, students begin filing out of the classroom, conversations picking up in murmurs and laughter. Cassiopeia flashes Nadine a pleased smile before linking arms with Regulus, the two slipping into easy conversation as they make their way toward the dungeons.

Evan lingers behind, grinning as he catches Nadine's eye. "That was impressive." he remarks, his voice carrying its usual lazy amusement, but there is something genuine beneath it. "Didn't know you'd do it like that."

Nadine exhales a soft chuckle, shaking her head. "Neither did Alecto, apparently."

Evan laughs at that before tipping an imaginary hat in her direction. "Remind me not to duel you anytime soon." With one last smirk, he strides off.

Bill, still standing beside her, adjusts his bag over his shoulder. "I'd walk with you two, but I promised to meet a friend." he says, offering her a small grin. "I'll see you later?"

"Yeah." Nadine nods. "See you."

As he leaves, she turns to Seraphina, who is already moving toward the corridor. They fall into step together, the cool air of the stone hallways wrapping around them as they make their way toward the library.

Seraphina, uncharacteristically quiet for a few moments, finally speaks. "I need to tell you something."

Nadine glances at her, caught off guard by the sudden seriousness in her voice. "Me too." she admits, though her mind is already on what she needs to say. She hesitates, then nods. "You first."

Seraphina takes a breath, her fingers brushing over the leather strap of her bag as if gathering her thoughts. Then, with an unreadable look, she says, "Severus told me you asked him out."

Nadine's stomach twists slightly, and her steps falter for just a moment before she forces herself to keep walking. She had known this conversation would come up eventually, but hearing it aloud still makes her face warm with the memory of that moment—the edge of rejection, the sting of disappointment.

"I was going to tell you." she says, exhaling slowly. "I'm a bit embarrassed, but I don't regret trying. I'm sorry for not telling you first."

Seraphina shakes her head, her expression softening. "You don't need to apologize." she says firmly. "It wouldn't be my business even if you had." She hesitates, then adds, "But I know him, and I know you. I don't want anyone getting hurt."

Something about the way she says it makes Nadine's heart beat a little faster. A question lodges itself in her throat, but she pushes past it, focusing instead on what she really wants to know.

"What did he say?" Her voice is quiet, careful. "Is he really angry?"

Seraphina exhales, casting a glance down the hallway before answering. "It's not that he's angry." she says carefully. "It's... complicated." She hesitates again, choosing her words. "Something happened few years ago. Something that upset him. And when you asked, it—" She pauses. "It wasn't just about you."

Nadine listens, her brows knitting together as she absorbs the words. Her mind instantly tries to piece things together, but the picture remains blurred.

Something happened.

Something upset him.

And her timing had been... wrong.

A part of her wants to feel embarrassed again, but another part—the part that cares—feels something else entirely.

Empathy.

Her rejection wasn't just about her.

It was about something bigger. Something heavier.

Seraphina exhales, adjusting the strap of her bag again as they walk. "Look, I don't know every single detail," she begins, her voice careful, "but I know that something happened between him and—" She hesitates, choosing her words. "Someone he was close to. They had a falling out, and it was bad."

Nadine listens intently. A falling out? Severus didn't let people in easily, and if he had, it must have meant everything to him. She wonders what could have possibly gone wrong—what could have been said to break something so important.

Seraphina continues, voice quieter now. "They were arguing. Severus... he said something he shouldn't have."

Nadine frowns, uneasy. "What did he say?" she asks, softer now.

Seraphina presses her lips together, glancing away as if choosing whether to answer. "Something unforgivable." she finally says.

Nadine swallows. Whoever this person was, they must have meant a lot to him.

They reach the library, the grand doors creaking softly as they step inside. The familiar scent of parchment and ink wraps around them, grounding and steady. They weave through the rows of shelves, heading to a quieter corner before settling at an empty table. The moment they take out their books, Seraphina remains lost in thought, her fingers lightly tracing the edge of a worn page, gaze unfocused.

Nadine doesn't say anything right away, waiting. And then, finally, Seraphina speaks.

"I think... She was important to him." she admits, voice barely above a whisper. "Losing her changed something in him. He's been different since it happened—more closed off. Bitter. Angrier."

Nadine frowns slightly, watching Seraphina as she stares down at her book without really seeing it. "You sound like you don't blame him." she notes.

Seraphina sighs. "Because I don't." she murmurs, tapping her fingers against the pages. "She didn't understand him the way she thought she did."

Something about the way she says it makes Nadine tilt her head slightly. "You think she should've forgiven him?"

"It's more complicated than that. There's much you don't know." Seraphina replies, shaking her head. "She saw the worst in him in that moment and decided that was all he'd ever be. And that—" She exhales sharply, looking away. "That isn't fair."

Nadine watches her closely, processing everything. She had never seen Seraphina so conflicted.

Finally, Nadine speaks. "Who was it?"

Seraphina hesitates. She doesn't answer immediately, and for the first time, she actually looks uncertain. "Nadine—" She shifts uncomfortably, lowering her voice. "Sev doesn't trust you. And he'd be furious if he knew I told you any of this."

There is a sting in those words, even if Nadine understands them. "But you trust me." she says quietly.

Seraphina meets her gaze, then nods. "Yeah. I do."

A pause. Then, almost reluctantly, she exhales and says, "Lily."

Nadine blinks. "Lily?" Then, her eyes widen slightly.

"Lily Evans?"

Seraphina nods, looking away. "Yeah."

Seraphina exhales, shaking her head. "He regrets it." she says quietly. "More than anything."

Nadine watches her carefully, noting the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers tighten around the edges of her book.

"I'm not fond of her." Seraphina adds after a moment, her tone firmer now. "Never have been."

Nadine blinks, surprised by the bluntness of the statement. "Why?"

Seraphina hesitates for a second, then simply says, "I have my reasons." She doesn't elaborate, but there is something final in her voice, something that makes it clear she has thought about this for a long time.

Nadine doesn't push. Instead, she lets the silence settle between them, her thoughts swirling, fingers tracing the spine of her book absentmindedly. "I'm sure your reasons are valid." she says, watching Seraphina carefully. "But when I asked him, he thought I was pranking him. And he mentioned my friends—I don't even know who he meant."

Seraphina looks at her as if she does know but remains silent, letting Nadine continue.

"I would never joke about that." Nadine insists, voice steady but laced with frustration. "You know it. I'm a direct person. I wanted to try, and I did. But I didn't expect it to turn out like that."

Seraphina nods slowly, fingers tapping against the table as she considers her words. "Severus... he doesn't let himself believe in good things, not easily. And when he does, he's always expecting them to be taken away. He's spent too much time around people who mock him, people who look down on him. It's why he lashes out, why he assumes the worst before he lets himself hope."

Nadine listens, absorbing the weight of Seraphina's words. It makes sense in a way, but it doesn't make it any easier to accept.

Seraphina sighs, shaking her head. "He probably thought it was a setup. That you'd tell him it was all a joke as soon as he said yes. That's the kind of thing he expects."

Nadine frowns, shifting in her seat. The thought is unsettling, knowing that he truly believed she was cruel enough to humiliate him like that.

"I don't know what to do now." she admits after a moment, looking at Seraphina for guidance.

Seraphina studies her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, she leans back in her chair, exhaling as if weighing her answer carefully.

Chapter Text

The Quidditch pitch hums with anticipation, the afternoon, autumn sun casting long shadows across the field. The Gryffindor hopefuls stand in a loose huddle, gripping their brooms, some with nervous excitement, others with quiet determination. The House banners ripple in the wind, and from the stands, a few students have gathered to watch, some cheering, others whispering about the competition.

At the center of it all, James stands tall, arms crossed over his chest, a confident smirk pulling at his lips. His hazel eyes scan the group like a general assessing his troops. Next to him, Sirius leans against his broom with an air of arrogance and competitiveness, his grey eyes filled with amusement. The Prewett twins stand on the other side, already tossing a Bludger between them, barely containing their excitement with identical grins.

"Right," James begins, clapping his hands together, "this isn't going to be easy. Gryffindor doesn't just take anyone on this team—we take the best. And as much as I'd love to give everyone a fair chance, I won't hesitate to kick you off the pitch if you waste my time." He grins, but there is a challenge in his voice. "You're here to prove you belong. So, let's see what you've got." He is enjoying this way too much.

Sirius straightens up, spinning his broom between his fingers. "And if you're slow, weak, or just plain useless, do us all a favor and leave now. No hard feelings. Actually—" He tilts his head, smirking. "Plenty of hard feelings. You'll embarrass yourselves, and I'll probably laugh."

Some of the hopefuls shift nervously, but Nadine only tightens her grip on her broom, rolling her eyes at their dramatics. James and Sirius are insufferable, but at least they take Quidditch seriously. There is no doubt in her mind—this spot is hers.

James gestures to the pitch. "We're going to start simple—broom control. If you can't fly properly, you're wasting my time, and I don't have time to waste." He mounts his broom with practiced ease. "You'll follow me through an obstacle course. If you can't keep up, don't bother coming back."

With that, James kicks off, shooting into the air with breathtaking speed. The Prewett twins whoop, launching after him, and the rest of the hopefuls scramble to follow.

Nadine takes off smoothly, the rush of wind against her skin familiar and exhilarating, and for a moment, it is just her and the sky. The course James has set is brutal—sharp turns around the goalposts, tight loops through the air, sudden drops that force them to pull up just before hitting the ground. It is designed to test their speed, agility, and reaction time, and James doesn't slow down for anyone.

Marlene keeps pace with ease, her sharp flying skills making it clear why she is already on the team. Some of the other hopefuls struggle, falling behind or losing control on the sharper turns.

When James pulls into a sudden dive, Nadine matches him, the ground rushing toward her before she levels out at the last second.

Sirius, watching from the goalposts, lets out an impressed whistle. "Not bad, Crouch."

James pulls up beside her mid-air, his eyes gleaming with challenge. "Think you can keep that up when there's a Bludger coming at your head?"

Nadine barely has time to react before the first one hurtles toward her. Instinct kicks in, and she jerks her broom sharply to the left. It whizzes past her ear so close she can hear the air ripple around it.

"Not bad." Gideon calls, adjusting his grip on the bat. "Let's see how you do with two!"

Before she can process the warning, Fabian slams his bat against the second Bludger, sending it speeding toward her from below while the first loops back around. Nadine's eyes widen—she is caught in a pincer.

No time to think.

She grips her broom and dives. The first Bludger misses by inches, but the second is still coming. Nadine twists her body sharply, throwing herself into a roll mid-air before righting herself just in time to see the first Bludger heading straight for her again.

"Bloody hell." she hisses, yanking the broom upward in a near-vertical climb. The Bludger grazes the end of her broom tail, but she manages to avoid a full hit. Her muscles scream from the sharp turns and exertion, but she doesn't stop moving. If she does, she is done for.

From the side, James watches with an appraising look.

"Not the smoothest," he comments to Sirius, who is lazily twirling his bat, "but she didn't get knocked off."

Sirius smirks. "Not over yet, mate."

And he is right.

Marlene, who has been playing with Gryffindor for years. Marlene, who is fast, aggressive, and not remotely interested in going easy on anyone.

"Let's go, Crouch." she says, smirking as she tosses the Quaffle into the air and catches it effortlessly. "Try to keep up."

She takes off like a shot, and Nadine grits her teeth before pushing her broom forward, the wind stinging against her face.

Marlene zips through the air, weaving around other players with an ease that makes it seem like she is barely trying. Nadine follows, watching her movements carefully. When Marlene suddenly flicks the Quaffle toward her, Nadine reaches out—only for it to soar just past her fingertips.

"Too slow." Marlene teases, looping back around to snatch it up again.

Annoyance flares in Nadine's chest, but she doesn't let it consume her. Instead, she tightens her grip and focuses. This time, when Marlene sends another pass her way, Nadine adjusts her position and snatches it mid-air, tucking it against her side before veering sharply left.

Marlene is already on her tail. "Good," she calls, "but let's see if you can keep it!"

A sudden gust of wind knocks Nadine slightly off course, and she loses her balance for a fraction of a second. Just enough for Marlene to steal the Quaffle from her hands and shoot forward with a victorious grin.

"Come on, Crouch!" James shouts from above. "Don't let McKinnon wipe the ground with you!"

Nadine exhales sharply, refocusing. She speeds up, weaving through the air with renewed determination. When Marlene tries to pass the Quaffle again, Nadine anticipates the movement, cutting into the path just in time to intercept.

"Nice one!" Fabian calls from the side.

Marlene raises a brow, eyes flicking over Nadine. "Huh." she muses. "You're not as bad as I thought."

Nadine smirks, still catching her breath. "And you're not as fast as I thought."

Marlene lets out a bark of laughter, clearly delighted by the challenge.

But the final test remains.

Scoring against Sirius.

Nadine lands briefly to grab some water, rolling her shoulders to shake off the soreness before heading back up. Sirius is already waiting, leaning lazily against the goalpost.

"You look like you're dying." he comments, eyes glinting with amusement.

"Thanks." Nadine mutters, gripping the Quaffle.

"Don't thank me yet." Sirius straightens, finally taking his position. "Come on, then. Let's see what you've got."

Nadine takes a deep breath, then kicks off hard, shooting toward the goal. She feints right, trying to send Sirius off balance, but he barely moves. She shifts left—nothing.

He is good. Really good.

She tries a high shot, but he blocks it with ease. A low one—still no luck. Each time, Sirius meets her attempts with quick reflexes, knocking the Quaffle away effortlessly.

Nadine's frustration builds. Her arms burn, her chest is heaving, and she knows she only has one shot left before James calls it.

Sirius smirks. "Give up yet?"

Nadine grips the Quaffle tighter. No way.

She speeds up suddenly, heading straight for the left hoop—but at the last second, she shifts her weight entirely and flicks the Quaffle toward the right. Sirius, expecting her to commit to her earlier move, reacts just a second too late.

The Quaffle soars past him.

For a second, there is nothing but silence. Her limbs feel like lead, and she is certain she has never been this exhausted in her life. She leans slightly against her broom, rolling out the stiffness in her shoulders before lifting her chin and smirking at James.

Sirius glares at Nadine, but there is amusement beneath his scowl. "That was lucky."

"That was skill." Nadine corrects, grinning.

James exhales sharply, crossing his arms as he eyes Nadine critically. "Alright, you're on the team—but don't think for a second that was anything special, Crouch."

"If you haven't won the Cup by now," she says, voice deliberately slow, "I'm not sure my presence is going to change anything."

James's smirk instantly vanishes. "Oi!" He zooms toward her, hovering just inches away. "Gryffindor wins. We always win."

"That so?" Nadine lifts a brow, eyes gleaming. "Then—"

"James."

Lily stands nearby, arms crossed, watching them with a bemused expression. She moves closer, pressing against James's side in a way that is both casual and unmistakably possessive.

"Sorry to interrupt whatever this is," Lily says, her gaze flicking between them, "but I wanted to see how tryouts went." She turns to Nadine. "Congratulations."

Nadine tilts her head slightly before smiling. "Oh, thanks. How about that butterbeer this weekend? My treat. To celebrate."

Lily blinks. "Sure."

"Great." Nadine nods, hoisting her broom over her shoulder. "See you then."

Then, without another glance, she turns and strides toward the changing rooms, ignoring the lingering weight of Lily's gaze on her back as she smirks to herself.

Seraphina knows she has to speak to Regulus if she wants to be allowed into Quidditch tryouts. It isn't that she dreads the conversation, it is that she considers it to be an exercise in futility. Regulus is... serious, calm, distant, and above all—unapproachable. His reputation as the mysterious, royal figure of Hogwarts doesn't help.

It is simple: speak to him concisely and properly, or not at all. Regulus doesn't entertain small talk or unnecessary interactions—Seraphina is similar along those lines. He is far too focused on being better than everyone else in everything to bother with trivialities. A thought that makes Seraphina roll her eyes.

Her thoughts drift further as she makes her way to the library, a place she usually seeks for solace and peace. It is one of her favourite spots in the castle, a haven of quiet and knowledge, full of ancient books and some artifacts, sculptures and a gorgeous view over the lake.

She certainly hasn't expected to run into him there, but, as she turns the corner into the reading section, it doesn't surprise her in the least. Of course. Where else will someone like Regulus Black be?

She rolls her eyes, half-exasperated, half-amused. A tinge of excitement bubbles up inside her, unexpectedly. She only has a few seconds before he notices her looking. So, he isn't that bad to look at... Not at all.

In fact, it is the one time she can properly steal a glance without anyone interrupting or misinterpreting. She can savour this secret moment just a bit. It isn't that Seraphina hasn't noticed how utterly handsome he is, it is just that she will never give him the satisfaction of knowing such a private thought.

After all, somebody has to humble these people, and Seraphina takes that challenge personally.
There he is, though, completely absorbed in some parchment, his quill gliding elegantly across the paper, books around him. He looks every bit the untouchable figure he was—elegant, focused, and undeniably... captivating.

She blinks twice and approaches him. "Regulus Black." she speaks softly, but with a firmness that commanded his attention, her voice low enough to avoid disturbing the quiet of the library.
Regulus lifts his quill from the parchment, his sharp eyes locking with hers as he adjusts his jaw. She has his attention.

"Seraphina Snape." he echoes back, his tone steady but carrying an inquisitive trace, as though he is waiting for the reason behind this unexpected interruption. But, strangely enough, he doesn't seem as bothered as he usually does. Maybe it is his good day.

Seraphina will have to royally lie if she has to fight the fluttering sensation that stirs within her. It is impossible to ignore the way her name sounds on his lips. She cringes at herself immediately, putting a stop to such nonsense.
"I was told you were our Quidditch Captain," she continues, her voice unwavering, "and a Seeker, nonetheless." She gestures at the chair in front of him, raising an eyebrow. "May I?"

"Mhm." he responds quietly, gesturing with a flick of his hand for her to sit. "You were told correctly." he adds, not breaking eye contact.
For anyone else, it would have been a bit intimidating to talk to him alone, in private, however Seraphina relishes in her ability to retaliate equally, not breaking the solid eye contact either; she isn't intimidated easily.

"I'll come to the tryouts tomorrow." She speaks. "I was instructed to talk to you first."
"Hm, you were?" he responds lazily, setting his quill aside and closing the book in front of him with a soft thud. "And for what position?"

Seraphina tilts her head, not sure if he is genuinely interested or just playing the polite Captain. "A Seeker, in fact." she smirks, her voice barely betraying her satisfaction. "But of course, someone else has already claimed that spot, so I'll settle for a Chaser position."

Regulus raises an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. He rests his elbows on the table and holds his hands beneath his chin, studying her. "Is that so?" he says, his voice low. "You believe you possess qualities of both roles, and I should consider you for them tomorrow?"

Seraphina doesn't even blink. "Oh, Black." she says, her tone firm, almost playful. "I'm not asking for permission. This is a fact. I'm simply being courteous enough to inform you beforehand. To save you from a snarky remark later, of course."

The challenge in her voice is clear. She sits back in her chair, legs crossed, her arms folded in her lap, daring him to question her further. He sits there, allowing a brief silence to ensue, while continuing to look at her. It is as if they are in a staring competition, none of them faltering.

"Well, Snape," Regulus finally speaks, breaking the thick silence with a voice that is both measured and cool, "everyone needs to prove themselves again, or for the first time, tomorrow. Yourself included." He leans back slightly, his eyes never leaving hers. "If you're capable of handling such a sport."

Regulus has given her the space to claim victory, and though his words are a challenge, there is a trace of something else beneath the surface, perhaps a quiet acknowledgment that she has passed the test.

She pauses, her gaze lingering on him for a brief moment, as if absorbing every detail. She refuses to lie to herself—he has beautiful eyes. His perfectly sculpted features, and the dark curls that fall effortlessly into place draw her in, whether she likes it or not. But Seraphina quickly pushes the thought away, unwilling to let herself be distracted by anything as trivial as attraction. What would Cassie say? she thinks to herself unwillingly.

He isn't rushing her, nor is he eager to leave. There is a quiet stillness about him, as if he is comfortable—or at least intrigued enough by the conversation, or perhaps by her. But Seraphina quickly shuts that line of thinking down. "The matter's settled then." she says softly, her voice steady.

Regulus nods, his gaze never leaving hers. He blinks slowly, offering a brief, almost imperceptible head bow—an unspoken acknowledgment, perhaps, or simply a courtesy. He watches as she prances out of the library, satisfaction evident in her every step, but he says nothing more.

Chapter Text

Rain drizzles steadily from the grey sky, decorating the grass with a shimmer. For most, it isn't the perfect weather for Quidditch tryouts, least of all for those eager to earn a place on the team. Truly, the disappointment lingers among the trainees like a dark cloud hanging over their heads.

Though Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs held their trials the day before under clear skies, the contrast of a sunny day isn't lost on them. Joking amongst themselves, they tease that their tryouts were easy only because the weather played in their favor.

But today is different. Ravenclaws and Slytherins stand on the slick pitch, faces set with determination. The rain beats down, relentless, and the chill of the morning seems to cut right through them. They can't rely on luck, not today at least—this is now a defining skill for each. Each player knows that only the most exceptional earn their spot on the team.

A few familiar faces from each House are present at the tryouts, their mere appearance enough to heighten the nerves of the already anxious trainees. Nadine is one of them, then Bill, both of them keeping their eyes on the field. There is more than just personal curiosity at play; scouting opposing teams is part of the game, a strategy long ingrained in the culture of Quidditch.

Every House, every team, watches the others, assessing potential threats as much as they judge their own. Nadine knows exactly what to look for in the trainees.

Barty is a skilled Quidditch player, and that comes as no surprise. In the Crouch family, excellence is expected in nearly every aspect of life, and Quidditch is no exception. In fact, pure-blood traditions long share such values—values ingrained in competitions amongst themselves to reach new heights in everything they do.

Barty is no different. He isn't just another Ravenclaw hoping for a brief moment in the spotlight; he has the talent and determination to back up his ambition.

As Ravenclaw's tryouts come to a close, it is no surprise when he once again secures his place on the team. His exceptional skill and determination make him a standout, and his spot on the coveted Ravenclaw Quidditch squad is practically guaranteed. His success is expected, and he once again proves why he is one of the team's most reliable players.

Barty takes his place on the stands alongside Nadine and Bill, with Pandora and Cassiopeia soon joining them. Cassiopeia is pleased to hear of his success.

The group settles in, eager to watch the Slytherins kick off their season with a fresh lineup. It is a quieter gathering than usual, as their friends are now down on the pitch, fighting for their spot on Slytherin's team. The stands remain lively still, huddling under umbrellas and rain jackets.

While the Ravenclaws brave the miserable weather during their tryouts, the Slytherins observe with sharp, eagle eyes, carefully noting every strength and weakness for future reference. Among them, Regulus stands out as the star of Slytherin. His reputation is built on years of success, both as a player and a leader. Quick, agile, calm yet brutal, and almost impossible to catch, Regulus's abilities are remarkable.

Evan once again proves why he is a member of the Slytherin Quidditch team. His performance during the tryouts is nothing short of exceptional, leaving a lasting impression on the trainees. Regulus proudly welcomes him back onto the team with a long, courteous nod. Evan beams with excitement and pride, and his friends cheer loudly, but no one louder than sweet Pandora, his biggest supporter.

"Woah, there he goes." Barty says, watching Evan zoom across the pitch. "Hate to say it, but I dread playing against him. He's tough. But you guys have an all-star roster too—Potter, Black, McKinnon, and of course, my dear sister to tie it all together." He teases, flashing a grin.

Nadine laughs, gently shoving him. "Yeah, yeah, sweet-talking me won't make me go easy on you, Tem. You better hope I don't hit you in the head with the ball before Rose does."

The group chuckles, and Cassiopeia mutters under her breath, cursing the weather. "Why can't they postpone the tryouts? This is ridiculous!" she grumbles, her frustration clear.

In the distance, the rest of the Gryffindor team keep their eyes fixed on the Slytherin team. While the others exchange a few teasing comments, Sirius remains focused. The oldest Black brother isn't in the mood for humor today. His mind is already working, calculating the strengths of Regulus's team, forming strategies.

Meanwhile, the selected members of the Slytherin team retreat to the lower heights, waiting for his command. They watch closely, eyes darting back to Regulus, whose gaze never wavers from the remaining trainees, recording their every move. Slytherin isn't known for mercy, and with such fierce competition, they have plenty to prove. Regulus, however, isn't concerned with emotions or pleasantries—he cares only about what leads to victory.

Anything less than excellence is unacceptable.

Seraphina knows exactly what she is up against, and still, she chooses to try. She is fully aware that the odds of making the team are slim, especially under Regulus's intense scrutiny. With a quiet, resolute confidence, she steps into the green Quidditch robes, her head held high, ready.

As she approaches, Evan practically jumps at her with infectious enthusiasm. He is ecstatic to have made it onto the team again, and his excitement immediately puts Seraphina at ease. His pep talk is all she needs to calm her nerves—Evan has a way of making everything seem lighter. He is always so easy to get along with, a genuinely kind soul amidst the competitiveness of Slytherin. Regardless of the outcome, she is glad for him and for the others who have earned their spot. Winning or losing, Seraphina knows that having people like Evan on the team makes it all worth it.

After dismissing two trainees and thanking them for their efforts, Regulus descends to a low height on his broom, his gaze immediately locking onto Seraphina. She is one of the last to attempt the trials. It isn't that he is surprised to see her there—after all, she has mentioned she would try out—but he has expected her to change her mind. He watches her closely, his eyes narrowing slightly, already sizing her up.

"Are you interested in attempting to take over my spot or being a Chaser, after all?" Regulus asks, his voice steady and challenging as he hovers in the rain, completely drenched. His eyes hold a quiet intensity, a few curls in their way, his demeanor equally as cold as he was in the library.

Seraphina grins, unfazed by the rain soaking through her robes. "I'll let you keep your spot." she teases, her tone light and playful. "I'm considerate, you know... And I'll try out for Chaser instead."

Regulus raises an eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth twitches slightly, but he quickly masks it with his cool demeanor. "The audacity." he exhales in a whisper.

His gaze remains steady as he shifts his focus to giving Seraphina tasks that might make her second-guess her decision. He doesn't necessarily mind being challenged, but what he truly relishes is putting someone in their place when he believes they are deserving of it. His eyes narrow, calculating what would push her to reconsider. After all, he isn't about to let anyone claim a spot on the team without proving they have the skill to back it up.

Swiftly pointing at her to come up, he dramatically lifts himself high into the air, waiting for her. She matches his height, steadily holding onto the broom.

Regulus wastes no time. "Let's see how you handle pressure." he says as Seraphina grips the Quaffle. She has to pass it between teammates while dodging Bludgers and defenders, making five successful passes.

The goalposts shift erratically, moving faster with each passing second. Seraphina has five attempts to score three goals while defenders try to block her, and the wind makes the field slippery. Timing is everything as she adjusts to the targets.

The rain helps Seraphina slip through the air, but Regulus doesn't make it easy. Two Bludgers launch directly in her path, timed with Beaters aiming to disrupt her. Her reflexes kick in as she shifts to dodge, but the Bludgers spiral, forcing her to slightly change course. One of the Beaters pushes her off track, sending her into a Bludger that grazes her hip and cloak a bit as she barely avoids the full hit of both. Regulus observes, making a mental note.

Regulus then releases the Golden Snitch. "Don't let it distract you." he warns. Seraphina has to score a goal while keeping her eye on the Snitch and avoiding Regulus. The test challenges her ability to multitask, focus, and score under pressure.

The storm worsens, making it harder for her to navigate, but she successfully manages to pass the test. However, she is unsatisfied with the Bludger maneuvers, a bit annoyed that he is set on failing her and using everything to do it.

Regulus's face remains unreadable as he nods, his voice laced with the slightest hint of approval. "For a Chaser." Seraphina stands there, unsure whether she should feel relieved or not. She has passed the challenges she practiced for, but something in his gaze tells her he isn't done.

"Passed... for a Chaser." he says, his tone cool and detached. "But not even the cloak or half an inch of your hip must be grazed, no matter if there are two or seven on you. Fix it immediately." Seraphina nods through the strictness, exhaling calmly, though her gut churns with anticipation. She doesn't have a second to process or celebrate her acceptance.

Then, Regulus's words cut through the tension. "But let's see how you do as a Seeker."

Seraphina raises an eyebrow. "No need. I got what I came for." Her voice holds a mix of confidence and uncertainty, but Regulus disregards it.

"I didn't." he replies sharply. "Up."

With a flick of his wrist, the Golden Snitch shoots into the air, glinting like a flickering star. This time, it isn't just another passing test. Regulus is her sole opponent now, while the others focus on the Quidditch simulator in the distance, practicing Bludger dodges and Quaffle passes. All of these, however, aim to disrupt and sabotage her.

Seraphina, already aware of Regulus's reputation as one of the best Seekers, steels herself. She researched him—she isn't about to step into a test blindly, especially when she knows who is watching for her to fail. Regulus is notorious for his perfectionist mindset, and he isn't the type to let anyone slide by, especially when challenged.

She needs to give everything she has to try and beat him. Seraphina was a very successful Seeker at Durmstrang, a position she prefers above all others, but this is no ordinary Seeker. Everything needs to be better, faster, sharper.

The Snitch darts into the stormy sky, the wind howling around her, and the rain lashes at her face. She immediately kicks her broom into action, but before she fully adjusts, Regulus shoots past her, a blur of skill and speed.

He is relentless.

The Snitch flits just out of reach, as if teasing her. Every time she adjusts her path to make a grab, Regulus is there, cutting her off, using his superior control of the broom to weave around her, staying just out of arm's reach, forcing her to waste more energy and time.

Seraphina's breath comes quicker, the pressure mounting. He isn't just flying; he is hunting her down, trying to break her focus, her rhythm. Every move she makes seems to be countered with precise, calculated speed. Regulus uses the storm to his advantage—he twists and turns, blending with the gusts of wind, leaving her in a constant battle against the elements as much as against him.

Seraphina's focus is tested at every turn. He blocks her view of the Snitch, dives low to mess with her line of sight, shoots upwards with terrifying speed, and even bumps into her purposefully. He doesn't just want to beat her; he wants to break her concentration, to see how far she will go before giving up.

"No." she mutters to herself, mustering every ounce of confidence. "I'm finishing this."

The Bludgers aren't just aimed at her; they pose a threat to him as well.

Then, she sees her chance. She surges forward, narrowly dodging a Bludger Regulus sends in her path, and lunges for the Snitch. The tension starts to feel comfortable and familiar.

The Bludger curves back, forcing Regulus to adjust his position by just a half-beat. No matter—he shoots right back like a bullet, grazing her shoulder. With a final burst of speed, Seraphina tightens her jaw and touches the Snitch with her open hand, just inches from it escaping, her body nearly slipping off the soaked broom in the process.

Suddenly, his hand pushes hers off, and the Snitch disappears. Seraphina is left without it, readjusting her speed and position, confused and disappointed. He... caught it, she thinks, closing her eyes, the weight of disappointment stinging her heart.

She lands, heart racing. Regulus hovers before landing beside her, his expression unreadable. She watches him, adrenaline still surging. For once, she questions her skill, anticipating more aggression coming. I should've been faster and capable of predicting him better, she repeats to herself in angry defeat. A perfectionist unable to secure a perfect win.

Her eyes stay wide, as if staring into a predator, hands tight on the broom and a fist where a Snitch should have been. But Regulus quickly regains his composure, staring at her with a steady, piercing gaze.

"Hm..." Regulus's voice drifts, eyes scanning her. "Seems you haven't really caught it." His tone is flat, unimpressed.

"Black. I had it." Seraphina says calmly, staring at the open box where all the Quidditch balls sit neatly tucked away, the Snitch included. "You put it back in the box. I didn't see you holding it either." She accuses him, voice steady.

"Questioning your Captain immediately is bad manners." he counters coldly. "Touching the Snitch means nothing without catching it. And you lost a couple of points on speed."

"Do I? You sent two Bludgers and two Beaters to fight me, even though it's not a viable game strategy." she shoots back, equally unimpressed but growing agitated. "And you bumped into me. Pathetic."

"It's a test. If you're going to debate its legitimacy, maybe read into what tests consist of." Regulus retorts sharply. "Be grateful you passed as a Chaser and made the team. Don't tempt me to change my mind." He adds, dismissing her with a flick of his hand as he gestures for the new team to follow him, sending the Quidditch equipment away.

The whole team stays silent, unwilling to stand in his way of conducting team business. The only sounds are the rain and a dispersing crowd after successfully completed tryouts.

"You can go fuck yourself, actually." she whispers to herself in an exhale as she lets them get a few steps ahead of her.

Chapter Text

Nadine sinks into the plush sofa near the common room fireplace, her body heavy with exhaustion but her mind still buzzing from the day's events. The heat from the flames soothes her sore muscles, a welcome contrast to the cool water of the shower that had loosened the tension in her limbs. She stretches out slightly, feeling the deep ache in her shoulders and thighs from the grueling tryouts. It wasn't easy—not at all—but she had done it. She is Gryffindor's new Chaser.

Brownie curls up on her lap, purring contentedly as Nadine absentmindedly strokes her soft fur. The steady vibration is calming, grounding her as she lets her mind wander back to the tryouts. The rush of the wind, the pulse of adrenaline, the thrill of competition—it had been intense, demanding, and at times frustrating, but there was nothing like it. She had missed this.

At Beauxbatons, Quidditch is different. More refined, less aggressive than the fast-paced, borderline chaotic style at Hogwarts. But it is no less thrilling. Nadine had spent hours training, pushing herself to be better, to be faster, to master techniques that set her apart. She wasn't just good; she was a natural. Barty had always said so.

A small smile tugs at her lips as she remembers her brother's voice, always confident, always teasing. They used to practice together around their mansion for hours, racing each other, daring each other to attempt risky plays. He had taught her some of her best tricks—the sharp, last-second feints, the unpredictable spins, the precise goal shots. Their love for the sport was one of the things they had always shared, a bond stronger than words.

Father had never been entirely approving of their obsession with Quidditch. He saw it as a distraction, a reckless pastime that held little real value in the grand scheme of things. "A hobby at best." he had once told her dismissively. But that hadn't stopped him from taking them to professional matches, from watching with a calculating gaze as the best players in the world soared through the air, executing plays with precision and power. She had seen it then—he might not have respected it, but he understood it. And deep down, she had always hoped to make him see its worth, to make him see hers. And no matter what Potter or anyone else had to say, she was going to prove that she deserved it.

Her mind drifts to something far more frustrating—everything Seraphina told her about Severus.

Your friends.

Severus had mentioned it so vaguely, and yet it has become an obsessive whisper in her head. But who did he mean? Bill and Remus? They are kind—too kind to take part in something like that, even if they have their own ways of being mischievous. But they wouldn't lie to her, wouldn't mock her feelings or the attempt she had made.

And then there are James and Sirius.

The more Nadine thinks about it, the clearer it becomes. The smug grins on their faces after every taunt, the way they always have something to say. They are the ones who would do something like this. They are the ones who would twist everything she says or does for their own amusement. After all, she is just another obstacle to James, just another girl who is not bowing to his charm and arrogance. Sirius? He is far too used to seeing people bend to his will, to seeing others submit to his superiority complex.

Her stomach turns at the thought.

But it is more than that. Severus doesn't deserve to be treated that way, and no one, not even James or Sirius, should get away with hurting him.

And Lily.

Her stomach clenches tighter as Lily's name surfaces in her thoughts. How could she just stand by and let them treat him badly? Nadine remembers what Seraphina said about Lily being one of Severus's earliest friends and how things shifted. But from Nadine's perspective, she can't understand it. How can Lily be with James, laughing along with his jokes, when she knows what Severus has been through? Nadine thinks, Why didn't Lily give him a chance to explain himself? She feels a pang of frustration. Maybe Lily doesn't know the full story, but then again, isn't it her responsibility to listen to Severus before making judgments? Why wouldn't she listen?

Lily's silence, her willingness to not try to mend things, feels like a betrayal. Severus deserves at least that much. He deserves someone who will give him the benefit of the doubt, someone who won't turn their back on him.

Nadine's fingers flex around Brownie's soft fur. If Lily truly cared about Severus, she wouldn't be standing by and letting James and Sirius tear him apart. But she is. And that makes Nadine sick.

But now...

Now there is a spark of something inside her. She recalls Seraphina's words, her advice echoing in her ears. Severus is guarded, closed off, and if Nadine wants to get through to him, she can't rush it. Seraphina is right—taking things one step at a time, building trust slowly, is the only way. But still, it is hard to ignore the constant pull in her chest, the way she finds herself thinking of Severus at the most unexpected moments.

There are moments when she catches herself imagining what it would be like to speak to him without all the awkwardness, the distance. If only she could look at him and see a smile, or hear his voice not filled with skepticism. How can he still be so closed off? She thinks to herself. What is it that he's hiding?

Nadine can't quite explain it, but she wants to understand him—truly understand him—and perhaps that is why she can't help but think about him constantly. She is excited to see him again, to try and make sense of all the little things about him that seem so elusive. It is not just about attraction, it is something deeper, something more profound that keeps pulling her toward him.

She is eager for their next conversation, for the chance to take the next step, to show him that she is not like the others. That she is someone who will listen, someone who will give him the space he needs to open up. Be patient. Don't rush him. But it is difficult—especially when her heart beats faster just thinking about him.

Then there is Louis. Nadine bites her lip, her fingers twitching. She hasn't received a response to her letter from him yet, and that sends a pang of worry through her. Why is he taking so long? She thinks, but quickly shakes it off. Maybe he is just busy with his own studies, his own life. She will hear from him soon enough.

Her thoughts linger on Remus for a moment. Today, she didn't see him. He wasn't there to watch, wasn't there to tease her like he usually would. It is strange, not having him around. Nadine knows that he would have been thrilled to hear about her success, but she finds herself wondering why he has been so elusive lately. Maybe he is just busy.

As she glances out the window, her gaze lands on the sky, the pale light of the full moon casting a faint glow over the grounds. She lets out a soft breath, her thoughts swirling around everything and nothing all at once. She stands up, stretching her sore muscles, her body aching. The tryouts had pushed her to her limits, but she feels accomplished.

The scent of fresh toast, eggs, and roasted tomatoes fills the air, but Nadine barely notices as she slides into her seat beside Barty at the Ravenclaw table, reaching for a cup of coffee before even glancing at her plate. She stretches her arms briefly before shaking the ache in her muscles off.

Barty, already digging into his breakfast, gives her a sideways glance. "So, how does it feel to be officially playing for the losing team?" he asks, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Nadine snorts, spreading some jam onto a slice of toast. "You're just jealous that you don't get to see me absolutely destroy the competition." she replies smoothly, taking a bite. "Besides, Gryffindor isn't losing this year."

Barty scoffs, dramatically setting down his fork. "Delusional." Then, with a grin, he leans forward. "Alright, fine. Tell me, how was it?"

Nadine sits back, rolling her shoulders as she recalls the tryouts. "Brutal." she admits. "Potter put us through everything. I was dodging Bludgers, and Black nearly made me regret ever stepping onto the pitch." She rubs the back of her neck, wincing slightly. "I still don't know how I got through all of it."

Barty hums in amusement. "You're a Crouch. It's in your blood."

She snorts at that, shaking her head. "Father wouldn't put it like that. He's probably going to write back with a detailed list of strategies I should be using, critiques, and at least one mention of how I shouldn't be wasting time on a sport when I could be excelling in my studies."

Barty laughs, but it is knowing. "I was actually just about to send him a letter. He wants an update on everything—classes, Quidditch, who I'm spending time with, as if he thinks I'd be corrupted by the wrong people." He rolls his eyes. "I'd say he has more reason to worry about you than me. Hanging around Gryffindors, making questionable decisions—"

"Oh, shut up." Nadine tosses a grape at him, which he lazily dodges. "He'll have nothing to worry about. I'm still the same Nadine, just—" She pauses, thinking.

Barty raises a brow. "Just?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing. Just... things feel different here. At Beauxbatons, we knew exactly where we stood. I had you, Louis, my team—everything was clear. Here, it's—"

"Messy?"

"Yeah."

Barty shrugs. "You'll get used to it. I'll make sure of it."

They lapse into silence for a moment, both focused on their breakfast. Nadine still hasn't spotted Remus, and a flicker of worry presses at her chest. She has barely seen him at all, and she had been hoping he would have at least been at breakfast. Maybe I should check on him later.

Across the hall, Seraphina and Cassiopeia are seated at the Slytherin table, deep in conversation. Nadine catches Seraphina's eye for a brief second, offering her a nod. They exchange a few words later, but she knows they need to meet properly again—just the three of them. It has been a long week, and she could use a moment to breathe, to talk about things outside of school, Quidditch, and everything else consuming her thoughts.

The morning drags on, each lesson blending into the next. Herbological Remedies was tolerable, Basic Healing Spells was intense, and Nadine forced herself to stay focused, jotting down notes even as her thoughts strayed toward her plans for the day.

By the time the last class approaches, she finds herself going over everything Seraphina told her once again, carefully considering how to move forward. If she wants to gain Severus's trust, she has to be careful. She can't push too much, but she also can't stay distant. She needs to be persistent—but subtly. Every move she makes from now on has to be intentional.

When she steps into the dungeons, she realizes she is early. The dim torchlight casts long shadows against the stone walls, the air cooler down here than in the upper levels of the castle. For a moment, she considers going inside, but instead, she leans against the wall and waits, arms crossed.

It is not long before the rest of the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws begin arriving. She spots Bill making his way down the corridor and pushes off the wall to fall into step beside him.

"Wonder what kind of mood Slughorn's in today." he muses. "If we're lucky, he'll spend half the class talking about his old students and forget we're supposed to be brewing anything."

Nadine huffs a quiet laugh. But the moment they step into the classroom, both of them hesitate. It is empty—except for one person.

Severus sits at the front, hunched slightly over his table, long fingers deftly handling a few ingredients as he prepares something. A small cauldron bubbles beside him, the flickering light of the fire casting a glow against the sharp planes of his face. He doesn't look up immediately, his focus entirely on his work, and something about the sight makes warmth stir in Nadine's chest.

She quickly schools her expression, stepping forward with Bill and taking her usual seat. A few more students filter in, murmuring amongst themselves, but Nadine only watches as Severus finally straightens and turns to face the class, eyes sweeping over them with that unreadable intensity.

"Professor Slughorn won't be present today." he states coolly, his voice smooth, measured. "I will be overseeing the lesson in his place."

A few students exchange glances, some intrigued, others wary. But no one questions him.

He flicks his wand, and instructions appear on the blackboard in neat, precise writing. "We're brewing Pepperup Potion." he continues, his tone indifferent. "Follow the instructions carefully. If you can't manage that, at least try not to cause an explosion."

With that, he turns and strides to the side of the room, hands clasped behind his back, watching as they begin their work.

Nadine forces herself to focus, carefully measuring her first ingredients. The steps are detailed, and she keeps her hands steady as she adds crushed ginger root to her cauldron, stirring counterclockwise as instructed.

Severus moves through the classroom in silence, his presence intriguing to her. He doesn't hover unnecessarily or disrupt their concentration, merely observing.

She thinks she is doing well—until she reaches the next step.

She hesitates, eyes flicking between her notes and the salamander blood she is supposed to add. Something feels off. Did she prepare it correctly? She glances at the board again, her brow furrowing.

Before she can second-guess herself further, a voice interrupts her thoughts.

"You're about to ruin it."

She startles slightly, looking up to find Severus standing beside her, arms still behind his back, his expression distinctly unimpressed.

Nadine straightens. "What?"

Severus flicks his gaze to her cauldron. "If you add it now, you'll overheat the mixture. The salamander blood must be added after lowering the flame for precisely ten seconds. Otherwise, it will evaporate into useless steam."

She glances down, noticing now bubbling is slightly too rapid. Heat rises to her face, but she keeps her expression composed.

"Right." she murmurs. "I see. Thank you."

Without another word, she adjusts, lowering the heat and counting silently before adding the ingredient. The potion reacts as expected, shifting to the correct consistency.

Severus watches her for a moment longer, then gives a slight nod. "Better." he mutters before turning away, moving toward another student.

Nadine exhales, steadying herself. His presence had been intense, but not in a way that unsettled her. If anything, it left her... intrigued.

The rest of the lesson goes by smoothly, and soon, they are all finishing up, packing their things as students begin filing out. Nadine moves at a deliberate pace, hands slow as she gathers her belongings and watches the others leave.

Barty, halfway to the door, pauses and glances back at her. "Coming?"

She meets his eyes briefly, then shakes her head. "I'll be right outside."

He gives her a look—one that says he knows she is up to something—but doesn't question it. With a shrug, he turns and exits.

Severus remains at the front of the room, his back turned as he arranges some papers on Slughorn's desk. The room is quiet now, except for the faint bubbling of leftover potions and the distant echoes of footsteps in the corridor.

She is alone with him now.

Nadine hesitates, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag as she takes a slow step forward. She parts her lips, drawing in a breath to speak—

"Crouch, a word."

She freezes mid-step. His voice is low, firm, and he finally turns to face her. There is no hostility in his expression, but there is no warmth either.

She lifts her chin slightly, steeling herself. "Yes?"

"Professor Slughorn asked me to inform you that you're invited to his Slug Club." he says, his tone devoid of any personal investment in the matter. "He'll provide you with further details soon."

Then, just as quickly as he acknowledged her, he turns away, dismissing the conversation before she can react.

Nadine presses her lips together, exhaling slowly. This isn't why she lingered, but now that she is here, she refuses to leave without saying what has been weighing on her.

She takes a deep breath. "I'm truly sorry for my behavior last week." she says, her voice steady despite the nervous energy. "I meant no harm by it. But my offer stands, if you ever wish to consider."

Her fingers tighten slightly around her bag strap. "And... thank you."

She lets the words out, her sincerity clear, and then she waits.

For a moment, Severus remains silent. The tension in the room seems to stretch. Nadine swallows, preparing to leave. She reaches for the handle, pulling it open just a fraction when—

"I accept your apology."

Her breath catches.

"For now." His voice is quiet but firm, lingering in the air between them. There is something almost reluctant in it, something that makes her glance back at him just as he shifts his gaze away.

She doesn't miss the implication. It isn't full forgiveness, not yet—but it is something.

A small, pleased smile tugs at her lips, and she bites it back slightly. "Have a lovely day, Severus."

Chapter Text

"He's..." Seraphina starts, exhaling dramatically while rolling her eyes.

"Complicated?" Cassiopeia offers, a teasing smirk playing on her lips.

"An arse." Seraphina finishes with a huff. "Honestly, I've heard about your family's reputation, but witnessing it? It's another thing entirely."

Cassiopeia chuckles softly. "Trust me, I know. There are days when I can't even stand us. Not that Regulus knows any better. To him, that's just how it's meant to be."

Nadine snorts. "Well, he's the Captain, but honestly, they're insufferable." she shakes her head. "I've never seen either of them so giddy about putting people to the test. It was almost sadistic, I swear."

Cassiopeia raises her eyebrows in disappointment. "They're full of themselves, and you're the fresh meat. Their favourite hobby is tearing into people, especially ones like you who don't just bend to their will."

"I'll show them resistance." Nadine grins wickedly. "Might even knock them off their brooms. Oops! Guess I was just dodging a Bludger!"

The three of them burst into laughter, the tension melting away as they shared the moment.
"I don't mind tough." Seraphina says, her voice tinged with frustration, "I mind unfair. Do you know how brutal teams are at Durmstrang, and I supposedly can't handle Seeking here?"

Cassiopeia raises an eyebrow and smirks. "Guess we'll just have to throw him off his broom too. Deal?"

"Deal!" Nadine answers, grinning ear to ear. She glances over at Seraphina with a small smile. "I apologized to Severus the other day. It went well, I think. It wasn't awkward or anything." she says, her voice a little unsure but hopeful.

Seraphina raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "He didn't say anything about it." she asks, leaning in slightly. "But I'm glad to hear so."

Nadine nods. "No, he didn't say much. But honestly, that's probably a good thing. It means he's not holding a grudge. I think it's a start, at least."

"Aww, Nadine, you fancy Severus, don't you?" Cassiopeia teases, a playful glint in her eyes. "It's cute, really."

Nadine's eyes widen in mock shock, her face going pink. "I do not." she protests, but her voice betrays her as she shoots a quick glance toward Seraphina, who is hiding a smile. "He's just... different."

Cassiopeia smirks, leaning back in her chair. "Uh-huh. Sure. As if I don't know you." She rolls her eyes fondly.

Nadine can't suppress the laughter bubbling in her chest. "You're ridiculous, Cass." she says, nudging her gently. "And what about you, hmm? Shouldn't you be giving Barty a chance? He's all trying to be charming around you."

Cassiopeia's smile falters for a split second before she laughs it off. "Barty? Please. He's also... well, Barty." she says with a dramatic sigh. "And he's far too...energetic for me. Two Crouches are too much."

Nadine grins, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "Oh, but I think you two might just be perfect for each other. He'd probably be less irritating if he had you to keep him in line."

The girls burst into laughter, the sound of it echoing through the corridor. Cassiopeia shakes her head, still chuckling. "You two are impossible."

"And you!" Nadine squeaks, playfully nudging Seraphina now. "Regulus this, Regulus that. Someone might think you have a little crush on him!"

Seraphina looks bewildered, while Cassiopeia makes a disgusted face. "Eww! My own twin?"

Seraphina frowns, crossing her arms. "Really, you two? Are you both trying to ruin my life? I wouldn't touch him with a stick. No offense, Cass." she says, her voice muffled but full of amusement.

"There you are, ladies!" Evan exclaims nearby, spotting the trio from across the corridor. He strides over to them, looking pleased. "You kind of disappeared after tryouts. You missed meeting the other lads on the team." he says, addressing Seraphina.

"I know." Seraphina replies curtly. It isn't that she is upset with Evan, she just isn't interested in entertaining Regulus's attitude right away.

Evan notices the change in her tone and quickly takes her aside. "Hey. You did great." he begins, his voice soft and encouraging as he rubs her shoulder. "If it's any consolation, the whole team agrees you caught the Snitch. But we all know what Regulus's like, so no one really argues." He explains.

"But I'm here for you. You know, a shoulder to cry on and all that..." he adds playfully, his smirk widening.

Seraphina chuckles. "Sure thing, once the tears start, I'll be running straight to you."

Cassiopeia, rolling her eyes, interjects, "Enough of that. I'm starving, and I'm tired of hearing about Quidditch woes when I know a delicious apple pie is waiting for me." She grins, her excitement about the meal evident.

The hallways are growing busier, with Slytherins now joining the other students on their way to breakfast. The sounds of chatting and laughter fill the air, mingling with the clattering of footsteps as everyone hurries to their meals.

"I'll catch you later." Seraphina says politely, excusing herself as she joins her brother. She links her arm with his, striking up a quiet conversation as they walk together.

Severus replies with a low voice, his voice barely audible over the bustling crowd. As they walk, his gaze flicks briefly to Nadine, face unreadable, meeting her eyes for a fleeting moment. He holds eye contact, but she quickly looks away, her attention shifting as Cassiopeia laces their arms together, guiding them toward where Pandora is seated.

Nadine turns once again to look at him, but he disappeared into the crowd with his sister. After the duel with Alecto, Nadine decided it is best to sit at the Gryffindor or Ravenclaw table and enjoy her meal in peace, though, admittedly, peace is a relative term when surrounded by James and his rowdy crew.

Surprisingly, though, James is too engrossed in a conversation with Lily to cause any mischief, while Sirius is explaining the aerodynamics to a baffled Peter, who appears oddly fascinated despite having no interest in Quidditch.

Barty plops down next to her with the energy of someone who has just downed an entire Energizing Potion. "HEY!" he exclaims, making Nadine flinch, her fork halfway to her mouth.

"Oh, sorry. I haven't heard from Father yet. Thank Merlin for small mercies. Not that he ever says anything normal, anyway." he adds with a roll of his eyes, his voice loud and brash as ever.

Nadine shakes her head in amusement, offering a half-smile as they begin chatting about family matters. Barty rambles on, and Nadine feels a sense of comfort in his presence. But as they spoke, her gaze wanders toward the Slytherin table.

There, as expected, is the usual gang—Mulciber, Avery, Carrows, and a few others, including what Seraphina affectionately referred to as Mulciber's 'little rats,' a group of students always following in his shadow.

Her eyes scan the table discreetly, looking for Severus. She finds him quickly, sitting next to Seraphina, their eyes focused on a Potions' book in front of them.

He is explaining something, nodding to her replies and gesturing with his hand in a manner that suggested he is talking about measurements— probably discussing some obscure potion he is perfecting.

He is at ease, and this is the first time Nadine thinks she caught a glimpse of what might actually be his... smile? It can't be, can it? But as he closes the book and stands up with Seraphina, Nadine finds herself standing as well, immediately regretting it.

As Severus walks off, his cloak sweeping dramatically behind him, Nadine watches him until Cassiopeia and Seraphina meet her gaze and smile teasingly. Both have noticed her focus on Severus. Nadine blushes and offers a shy smile, quickly shaking her head as she sinks back into her seat and finishes her pumpkin juice.

She turns her attention back to the Slytherins. Cassiopeia has engaged in conversation with Amycus, and to Nadine's surprise, he seems unusually pleasant toward her. Cassiopeia, however, makes little effort to mask the faint traces of resentment she feels.

Still, she is polite—something Nadine has come to expect from her. Keeping her emotions in check to maintain civil conversation is second nature to Cassiopeia. There is no point in arguing about it, Nadine thinks, it will only cause another scene.

At least Cassiopeia can gain some information over their hostility, before shutting down the conversation. Not far from them, but far enough, Seraphina is reading Severus's book, her attention momentarily flicking to Regulus. The instant their eyes meet, Regulus, sensing her gaze, lifts his head and locks eyes with her, his expression unreadable.

Before either can react further, Avery calls out to Regulus, holding up what appears to be some sort of artifact.

"You'll do great, don't worry about him. We're here to practice and win, but most importantly, have fun. And did I say win?" Nadine chuckles, nudging Seraphina encouragingly.

Seraphina isn't nervous—she is mostly silent, nodding along with a serious, determined look. She doesn't need to be told twice; today is about proving herself on her terms and forming strong connections with the team.

"Correct." she exhales, her words reinforcing the self-assurance rising inside her. She returns to her room and slips into her Slytherin robes and double-checks her broom and gear, tying a little black ribbon bow on the top of her broom, while ensuring everything is ready.

She makes a point of not engaging with Regulus, avoiding his eyes entirely, despite some of his gazes grazing her. The tension from the tryouts is irrelevant now. She is calm, confident, and a little defiant as she sticks with her fellow Chasers, chatting easily with them in good spirit.

She doesn't need to entertain anyone and she isn't interested either way, she is here to work hard, form solid strategies with her team, and win.

By the time they reach the pitch, the sun is already stretching through the clouds, warming the freshly dampened field. It is the perfect morning for Quidditch—unlike the stormy chaos of their tryouts. The air is promising, welcoming the Slytherin team to their first official practice of the season.

Regulus, with his usual cool demeanor, leads the team out, some new faces among the familiar ones. As they huddle up for the introduction to their practice, Seraphina stands at the back with Lucinda Talkalot and Emma Vanity, fellow Chasers. Evan is like a breath of fresh air, easing the tension with his high spirits. Seraphina and him hit it off greatly from the start, so they stick together most of the time.

The team begin their stretches as Seraphina and Lucinda quickly tie their hair up. Seraphina's hair, as dark as night, is one of the most defining features of a Snape, much like her older brother. It contrasts sharply with her pale skin and dark eyes, giving her a striking, almost intimidating presence. As she loops her hair into a tight ponytail, she catches Regulus's gaze for a brief moment. His eyes linger on her hair for a second before moving to other instructions. Seraphina doesn't flinch.

"I do not care how good you are individually. If you cannot work together as a team, you are of no use to me." his voice cuts the silence. "Tryouts were one thing. We're preparing to win. Do not disappoint me." He looks at her, then moves on.

"Sir, yes, sir!" Evan exclaims, grinning up at Regulus, drawing the attention of the team, entertaining them. Regulus's lip curl into the faintest smirk, an eye roll of satisfaction following Evan's enthusiasm before he moves on, dismissing the moment.

"We start on the ground, then we move on to heights." he says firmly, his voice cutting through the air with authority.

Seraphina adjusts her shoulders and neck, waking up her muscles as she stretches, her focus sharpening. Regulus moves among the team, his eyes scanning each player as he corrects or fine-tunes their forms to make sure every exercise is executed to its maximum potential.

"Avery, shoulders back, spine straight, then fold." Regulus instructs, tapping Avery's back with his wand. "You're reaching for your feet, but your back's still rounded. Straighten it first, otherwise, your flexibility is pointless without alignment."
He moves on quickly, stopping next to Evan.

"Rosier, stop being lazy. Your form is decent, but you're not sinking into the lunge deep enough." he scolds, tapping Evan's hips and knees with his wand.

After a brief flick of his wand, Regulus passes Evan, his eyes landing on Seraphina. He pauses, assessing her posture as she holds one knee to her chest, then the other, tightening her abs and core with each stretch.

"Snape." Regulus says, his tone sharp and almost expectant, anticipating a snappy reply. He circles her, tapping her back lightly with his wand. "Straighten."

She doesn't respond, but her back immediately aligns. Regulus lowers his voice, stepping closer to her, and gently taps her abs with the wand. "Engage the core harder. Tighter. Hold it for at least twenty seconds while you're stretching your leg. Focus."

Seraphina silently complies, her form tightening as instructed. Regulus stills for just a moment, his gaze lingering on her before giving her an almost imperceptible nod. He steps back and moves on to the next teammate, his attention now focused elsewhere, though his presence seem to weigh heavily on her even as he walks away.

She exhales sharply, locking eyes with Evan as they share an encouraging, quiet chuckle. The wind rushes through the air as Regulus leads the team into their first in-flight practice, the pitch now alive with the sound of broomsticks and shouting. Regulus, floating high above the rest, calls out instructions as the Chasers dart between the goalposts.

Seraphina, her eyes sharp and her movements fluid, works seamlessly with the team, passing the Quaffle with precision and evading Bludgers with the grace of someone who have mastered flying. Regulus watches from above, his eyes tracing her across the field.

Her defiance rivals his, her unwillingness to bend to his will challenges his need to dominate. As a Captain, his disdain and intolerance for defiance is evident and unyielding, although he seems to not mind it today, as she oddly listens without complaints, completing his orders successfully and confidently.

Every pass, every dodge, every shot is measured and critiqued from his position, and the rest of the team feels the pressure of his watchful eyes. Regulus barks orders to the Beaters, coordinating their movements to ensure the Chasers have as much space as possible.

She is determined not to give him the satisfaction of thinking he had broken her spirit. It fuels her, and so does the desire to win. The rest of the practice went smoothly and Regulus seems satisfied, reading out his corrections between dismissing them, emphasizing their rigorous workout schedule and future matches.

Chapter Text

My dearest daughter,

I trust you have found your place at Hogwarts and that the castle is already beginning to feel like home. It is one of the finest schools of magic in the world, and we are immensely proud of you both.

Gryffindor is a house of bravery, and I have no doubt you will thrive there. Please know you have my full support regardless of the different outcome.

I know your father is complicated. He is proud, but the reputation and pressures of work weigh heavily on him. Yet, his love for our family remains strong, even if it doesn't always show.

Greatness awaits you, and I know you will achieve it. Bartemius Jr. will look after you—stick together. Family comes first, always. Remember what we have taught you, stay true to your values, and be kind. If you need anything, I am always here for my children.

With love,
Mum

As Nadine rereads Mother's letter, her chest tightens with a mix of warmth and frustration.

Mother's words are gentle, supportive—everything she wishes she could hear from Father. We are immensely proud of you. She knows Mother means it. But then there is the mention of him.

Nadine exhales sharply. She knows better than to argue, even in her own thoughts. Mother always tries to smooth things over, to justify the cold distance of Father, but Nadine has long since stopped hoping for something warmer from him. His pride in her is conditional—based on her achievements, her discipline, her adherence to the family's image. Love, if it exists in him at all, is secondary to that.

And yet, she doesn't resent Mother for saying it. She understands why she does. It is the same reason Nadine never pushes back, never questions him too much—because arguing won't change him. Because trying to fight for a different answer will only lead to disappointment.

Still, Mother's support means something. Stay true to your values, and be kind. It reminds her that, despite everything, she doesn't have to be like him. And she won't be.

Dear Mum,

I'm so happy to hear from you. Hogwarts is... different, but I like it. The castle feels enormous, but I'm getting used to it. It isn't like home yet, but I think it could be one day. Tem and I are both doing well. He is already settled in, of course. He fits into Ravenclaw perfectly, but you know how he is. He worries about me more than he lets on.

Gryffindor is... interesting. There are good people here, even if some of them are quick to judge. But I'm determined to prove that where I come from doesn't define me. Being here feels like a chance to shape my own path, and I intend to do just that.

I understand what you're saying about Father, and I won't argue. I know he cares in his own way, even if it is through expectations rather than affection. I won't disappoint him. But I hope he knows that whatever I accomplish, it will be because of me, not for the sake of his reputation.

I miss you. More than I can put into words. I promise to write more often.

All my love,
Nadine

She takes another piece of parchement, and dips her quill into ink.

Dear Father,

I hope this letter finds you well. Two weeks at Hogwarts have been productive. Brother and I are both settling in, and our studies are going well. We have been keeping up with our coursework and ensuring there are no distractions.

I also wanted to inform you that I have made the Quidditch team as a Chaser. The competition was challenging, but I secured my spot. I know you value academic excellence above all, but I assure you this will not interfere with my studies.

Everything is as it should be.

Nadine

As Nadine folds the letter neatly, she presses her lips together, reading over her own words. Everything is as it should be. It is what he wants to hear, what he expects. There is no point in saying more than that. If she wrote about the people she was meeting or the new perspectives she was starting to see, it wouldn't matter to him. As long as she and Barty were excelling and not tarnishing the family name, he would be satisfied.

She doesn't expect warmth or praise in return—just a polite acknowledgment, a reminder to uphold their name, maybe even a comment about how Quidditch is a fine extracurricular for discipline. But nothing more. Nothing less.

The morning air is crisp as Nadine takes her place on the Quidditch pitch, her broom gripped firmly in her hands, with a light pink bow decorating the top of her broom. She can already feel the adrenaline coursing through her veins; it is the first practice of the season, and she is ready.

James hovers at the edge of the pitch, his arms crossed, a smirk playing at his lips as he observes the team. Sirius leans against one of the goalposts, clearly amused by the chaos of the first few minutes of practice. Marlene gives Nadine a quick thumbs-up before getting into position.

"Alright, kids. Let's see what you've got. Don't hold back on me." James shouts, rounding up his team with authority. He is confident and more serious than usual, demonstrating his genuine care for the sport, as it is his specialization.

"Stretches first, lazies. We don't want you pulling a muscle or breaking your neck." Sirius teases, flashing a grin as the team groans, already ready to get on with the action.

After a few more stretches, James claps his hands and looks at his team. "Now, we work as a unit. There's no 'I' in team. I need to see effort, sharp focus, and determination." His tone grows more intense. "None of that cocky self-serving attitude—it's a weakness, and they'll use it against us."

"No cocky attitude? But we'd miss you then!" Nadine shoots back boldly, causing the team to chuckle. "Our team's half attitude, half winning." Marlene adds with a wink toward Nadine.

"Oh, the duo speaks at last. Found your match, McKinnon?" Sirius teases, grinning ear to ear.

"Oh, a match made in heaven we are." Marlene announces, laughing along with Nadine. James raises an eyebrow, his face deadpan, with a slight smirk forming, betraying his intense demeanor.

"Such confidence. Should I pull out the list from tryouts and start working on corrections?" he asks, his tone laced with mock seriousness. The team spreads out across the pitch, each player focused on their specific role.

The Chasers—Nadine, Marlene, and James work on quick, precise passes, practicing how to weave around defenders and take sharp shots at the goalposts. The Beaters stay alert, swinging their bats to hit Bludgers toward the Chasers while also positioning themselves to protect their teammates from any attacks.

Sirius stations in front of the hoops, focused on improving his reflexes, diving and stretching to block Quaffles and coordinating with the Chasers for better defense.

Meanwhile, Phoebe, their Seeker, hovers above, searching like a hawk and rushing for the Golden Snitch as Bludgers went her way as well.

"Crouch, pull that shoulder back in with the hips, it sharpens up the throw. I don't want to see you hesitating—engage into the rotation, feel it in your hips and wings." James corrects her, his voice serious and steady.

"McKinnon, you're slouching. Straighten out your back, you need to throw with your whole being, and you can't do that with a bent back." he adds.

"Firm holds only, Chasers. You can have your back straight, the angle right but if your palm and wrist aren't solid on the Quaffle, it'll be snatched quicker than the Snitch." Sirius adds.

Chasing was one of his specialties, second to Keeping, as he needed to understand it to effectively defend against it. His eyes scan the players, making sure they were paying attention. Their corrections are applied, and the team makes the effort to listen.

As the team moves into position, Nadine takes the Quaffle, her hands steady and sure. She effortlessly weaves through the field, passing and dodging with precision. Her movements are fluid and sharp, each pass and shot executed with the kind of skill that only came with years of practice.

When it came time to take a shot at the goal, Nadine does so with confidence, her eyes locked on the hoop. The Quaffle sails cleanly through, and she grins, proudly. Her love for Quidditch is undeniable, and she feels confident that Gryffindor will be the winner of the Cup this year.

The team feels a sense of accomplishment as they gather their gear and head off the pitch. The first practice has gone well, and they are beginning to form a bond, both individually and as a team. There is still work to do, primarily fine-tuning their dynamics and focusing solely on strategy.

They need to know exactly what to expect from each other during a game, and how to rely on one another in high-pressure situations.

"Well done, everyone. There's hope for you yet." James says. "Remember, Hufflepuff's first, and they have mean Beaters. I don't want your focus lacking—their Chasers are solid, and it's the same team as last year, with a new Keeper. We'll need to find an opening and learn their weaknesses." his voice cuts through, his usual intensity showing.

"Keep up the cardio, some of you are a bit rusty. Step it up—don't embarrass us with your wheezing and side stomach holding." Sirius adds with a grin, earning a few chuckles from the team as they head off to rest.

"My, my, Crouch, how you've changed. And here I thought we'd never get along." James grins, giving Nadine a playful side hug.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Potter. Tolerating you and getting along are two very different things." Nadine shoots back with a grin, swiftly removing his arm from her shoulders.

"James." comes another voice, and this time it is Lily. She glances between them, a soft smile on her face. James immediately shifts his attention to her, his usual teasing expression softening. He leans in and places a quick kiss on her cheek.

"My love." he says with a grin, before walking off toward the hall with her hand in his, the two of them laughing quietly as they exit together.

The rest of the team watch them go, some shaking their heads in amusement. Nadine and Marlene exchange an eye-roll before turning back to the rest of the team, their focus already back to the upcoming practices.

After refreshing herself and changing into a red sweater and long, black skirt, Nadine makes her way to the Great Hall, her muscles sore but satisfied. But it feels good–a sign of the hard work she put in.

"Nadine." A familiar, gentle voice calls to her, breaking her out of her focus.

"Remus!" she replies happily, her face lighting up. "I haven't seen you for days, where have you been?" She stops short as she meets his gaze. He looks exhausted—dark circles under his eyes, a worn, pale face decorated with a few cuts, one in particular lingering on his lip like a piercing. It catches her off guard.

"Hey... What? Are you okay?" she asks softly, stepping closer so only he can hear, her face serious.

He smiles faintly. "I've been sick. Nothing serious, just a chronic illness mixed with some insomnia. It makes me look worse than I feel, I promise."

"Oh. But your face... you're cut!" Nadine's concern grows. Surely insomnia doesn't cause cuts.

"Ah, yeah, that was from the other day." he says, his voice light. "We were examining a Niffler in class, and I fell into some bushes near the Forbidden Forest. It's a bit embarrassing. I told people it was from a potion..." he trails off, chuckling awkwardly.

"The bushes?" Nadine wonders to herself, but she doesn't press him. She can sense there was more to the story but chooses not to pry, out of respect for him. Instead, she brightens and shifts the conversation.

"I got into the team!" she exclaims, unable to hide her excitement. "You missed the practice though."

"Bravo!" Remus grinned. "Well, it's no surprise. We're lucky to have you." His warm words make her smile, the tension lifting as she basks in his encouragement. "And I'm sorry, I promise to be there next time."

"I trust you'll be joining us tomorrow for butterbeer? I mean, you can't say no." she grins.

"It's true, I can't say no to that, you've caught me." he responds softly.

As dinner came to a close, students begin to rise from their tables and head toward the exits. Nadine gathers her things, spotting Remus waiting for her, casually nibbling on a Danish pastry.

"Oi, Crouch!" a bold voice calls before she can make her way out—James. "Still treating us with butterbeer?" He asks with a smile.

His tone is unusually casual, and Nadine sees Lily standing nearby. Ah, Nadine thinks. She offers a faint smile, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Of course, Potter. See you tomorrow." Nadine replies shortly, not wanting to linger longer than necessary.

She smiles faintly at Remus as she raises her wand, aiming at his lips. His eyes widen in surprise, a flicker of concern crossing his face as he asks, "What are you doing?"

"Testing my knowledge." she replies, a playful glint in her eyes. She murmurs a soft incantation, and the cut vanishes as though it had never been there. Nadine gently traces her finger over the area, feeling the smoothness of his skin.

Remus pulls back slightly, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks. "Thank you. Want to join me for some chess match?" he says quietly, his voice thick.

Her heart twinges at how sweet and humble he sounds. She watches him for a moment, then nods with a smile. "You're welcome. Sure. Prepare yourself to lose."

Remus, still rubbing at the spot on his lips, nods and heads down the hall to the Gryffindor Tower. Nadine watches him for a second, before her gaze shifts to the shadows further down the corridor. There, she sees Severus, moving with that quiet precision, just a few steps ahead.

She bites her lip, feeling the pull of curiosity and the strange, persistent feeling to be near him. Without hesitation, she follows him.

Severus walks swiftly toward the dungeons, his cloak trailing behind him as he disappears through the heavy stone door into the Potions classroom. Nadine stops just outside, peeking through the slight gap in the door to watch him.

He is already at the table, sorting through bottles and ingredients with an effortless grace that she admires. His dark hair falls in front of his face, and for a moment, Nadine just stands there, taking in the sight of him. His movements are calculated and confident, each step a quiet demonstration of his mastery over his craft.

Her heart stirs as she traces the way his hands move, how his brow furrows slightly when he focuses, how his eyes darken with intensity. There is something so... beautiful about the way he is so engrossed in what he does, as if the world outside has completely fallen away.

Her thoughts are interrupted as Severus briefly looks up from his work. Nadine freezes, her breath caught in her chest, but he doesn't seem to notice her presence. He is too focused on the task.

Nadine smiles softly, a small warmth blooming in her. She stands there, watching him for a few more moments, her thoughts swirling. She is not sure what it is about him—why he always seems to capture her attention, why her heart beats faster when she is near him. Maybe it is the mystery he holds, the way he seems to hide himself behind layers of coldness. Or maybe it is because, despite everything, there is something about him that feels... real.

Finally, she pulls herself away, quietly closing the door behind her without a sound. As she turns to leave, she nearly bumps into a suit of armor and jumps back in surprise, but it is too late. Severus's gaze flickers toward the door just as she slips away into the shadows of the corridor.

He frowns, brow furrowed, staring at the door for a moment before shaking his head. Had someone been watching him?

He stands still for a few moments, his pulse quickens, but he quickly dismisses the thought, telling himself it was nothing.

Chapter Text

The weather has grown colder, so Nadine lays out a few sweaters and collared shirts before settling on her outfit. She slips into brown straight-leg pants that lead to blood-red square-toed doll shoes, adorned with a small belt across the top. A red knit sweater, worn over a brown collared shirt of the same hue, completes her look.

She smiles, proud to be representing Gryffindor's colors for their first team celebration. Confident, stylish and elegant, a timeless combination perfectly complimenting her, with her hair beautifully braided once more.

Marlene would never have allowed her to wear anything but red for the occasion—they have something to prove, as it is their first appearance together as the freshly-founded collective.

She touches up her makeup, pets Brownie goodbye and heads out to meet her girls and Barty briefly before the celebration.

"Look at you. Stunning." Cassiopeia smiles, pointing at Nadine's outfit. "Hufflepuff, right?" Cassiopeia and Seraphina giggle.

"No, she's obviously with me in Ravenclaw, are you serious?" Barty adds onto the joke. "Let's go."

As they walk towards the path to the train station to Hogsmeade, the crowd is cheerful and chuckling—they were in good spirits. "But how fun would it be, before it gets totally bizarre?" Barty asks rhetorically.

"Oh yes, I'd love to have no choice in the matter whatsoever." Cassiopeia sarcastically responds, as they keep chatting on other potions matters.

Meanwhile, Seraphina loops her arm through Nadine's and flashes a teasing smile. "Something's on your mind, I can tell. Is it the Gryffindors, or... perhaps Severus?"

Nadine blushes slightly, a smile playing at her lips. "I'm not entirely sure how the team meeting will go, but I think it'll be fine. But yes, Severus is on my mind. Honestly, I still can't shake off our conversation." She lowers her voice, just loud enough for Seraphina to hear, careful not to let Barty in on the conversation.

Not that he will mind, still, she will rather not publicly discuss such a private thing on Snapes' and her behalf.

"Mhm. The apology went smoothly, but I can tell something's still on your mind. What is it?" Seraphina asks softly.

"It's just... I'm trying to figure out who he was talking about when he accused me of being like 'them.' I mean, sure, Gryffindors aren't exactly known for being quiet and unnoticeable, but it still feels like there's a piece I'm missing." Nadine's voice lowers even further.

"Ah, Severus... Looks like you got under her skin." Seraphina teases lightly, though her words hold a subtle truth. "Look, I'd tell you if I could, but he doesn't know you well enough yet, and it's not my place. However, you're clever, you'll piece it together soon enough. I won't deny it when you figure it out."

Nadine exhales, a thoughtful frown on her face. "You're a good sister. I just... something about him intrigues me. He's different from everyone else, and I don't want him to think I'm just like 'the others.'"

"I'll put in a few good words for you, I promise." Seraphina assures her, giving her arm a comforting squeeze.

At that moment, Cassiopeia's voice breaks into their private conversation. "Last night, at dinner, Carrow insisted on talking to me. Not exactly my favourite experience."

Barty, who had been quietly listening, shifts slightly, his face unreadable.

"I saw that!" Nadine exclaims. "What in the world could he have talked to you about?"

"Oh, you know, pure-blood values and all that rubbish." Cassiopeia shrugs.

"I noticed. To be fair, I tried to tune him out the moment he started speaking." Seraphina adds, rolling her eyes. "He's such a charmer."

"I'll fill you in later." Cassiopeia says with a knowing grin. "When it's just us girls."

"I AM one of the girls!" Barty adds, playfully.

The group eventually arrives in Hogsmeade. The air is crisp, the streets bustling with the sights and sounds of the charming village.

The Three Broomsticks sits in Hogsmeade as one of the most popular attractions in the town. It is nothing more than a bar, however, it is also a very welcoming, cozy place, where all sorts of celebrations and deals come to fruition.

The exterior is a warm and inviting rustic place, with wooden beams and a large sign featuring a broomstick hanging above the door. It is a small but charming, well-loved pub that blends in the streets.

Right before the entrance, outside, the four stop. "This is it." Nadine says, amused.

"Charming." Cassiopeia and Seraphina say sarcastically at the same time, laughing it off.

"The place to be!" Barty exclaims, obviously a frequent visitor.

"I'll catch you guys in a minute." Seraphina says, gesturing toward the incoming group of Slytherins—her team, including Black, Rosier, Avery, and a few others. With a playful stride, she prances off to join them.

Then, there is three. They make their way inside, and the comforting aroma of butterbeer and fresh pastries immediately fill the air. The interior is equally cozy, with a warm, welcoming atmosphere.

The walls are made of wood, and there are large, sturdy wooden tables and chairs scattered throughout, decorated by lively heads of students, residents of Hogsmeade and even some Professors in the separated area.

The homely inn is always glowing with a fire from a stoney fireplace in the middle of the biggest wall. The bar area is located near the back, where Madam Rosmerta serves drinks. There are shelves decorating the pub, filled with bottles of various beverages and mead.

Nadine spots James, not that it was difficult. "Crouch! Here!" He yells, running up to the front.
James leads the way, confidently weaving through the crowd, with Lily walking beside him.

Sirius flashes a grin at a passing group of students before following. Nadine, flanked by Marlene and Remus, glances around, taking in the atmosphere before they spot an empty table near the window. The Prewetts and Phoebe slide into the seats as well, making it a crowded but comfortable gathering.

Lily settles beside James, naturally leaning into him as he slings an arm over the back of her chair. Sirius drops into the seat next to him, stretching out with an easy smirk. On the other side of the table, Nadine takes a spot between Marlene and Remus.

This is one of the rare occasions when the students are seen outside their school robes, and their outfits reflect their personalities perfectly, each one infused with Gryffindor red pride.

James stands out with his black, slouchy pants and a bold red knit sweater, sleeves rolled up, resembling Nadine's but oversized. His red Converse sneakers complete the look, effortlessly casual.

Marlene, the boldest of the girls, wears combat boots paired with a mid-thigh skirt, and a white shirt beneath a striking bright red leather jacket.

Sirius, rockstar chic-dark grey pants and a white collared shirt, untucked and topped with a black leather jacket, has a Gryffindor tie hanging loosely around his neck and a Gryffindor scarf over his chair.

Remus, in his own quiet way, mirrors Nadine's style with a brown sweater and pants, a white collared shirt peeking out from beneath the sweater. His Gryffindor scarf is draped on his neck, ever-so-subtly concealing the faint scars Nadine had noticed.

The rest of their group follows, each one adding their own flair while still supporting Gryffindor.
When the drinks arrive, Marlene raises her tankard first, grinning as she looks at Nadine. "Alright, Crouch, a proper toast is in order. To our newest Chaser!"

"To Nadine!" the others chime in, clinking their butterbeer mugs together.

Nadine chuckles, lifting her mug. "Alright, alright, if you insist." She takes a sip, savoring the sweet, frothy taste before setting it down.

Phoebe leans forward, her brown eyes glinting with curiosity. "So, you've been at Hogwarts for two weeks now—how's the transition? Are we treating you well enough?"

The others look at Nadine expectantly, and she shrugs with a teasing smirk. "Well enough, I suppose." she muses, then laughs. "No, really—it's different, but not in a bad way. I've settled in."

Gideon grins. "And how does the Quidditch compare?"

"It's more competitive here." Nadine admits, leaning back slightly. "Not just in skill, but in... personality. You lot are a passionate bunch." She glances at James and Sirius pointedly, making the others laugh.

James places a hand on his chest in mock offense. "Us? Passionate? No way!" he jokes. "I'll have you know, we take our jobs very seriously."

Marlene snorts. "You take yourself seriously, Potter."

James only smirks, unfazed. "Exactly."

Remus, who had been listening quietly, tilts his head. "I heard Beauxbatons doesn't focus as much on Quidditch as Hogwarts does. You played there, though?"

"Oh, absolutely." Nadine says with a small smile. "I spent hours practicing together with my brother. He taught me a lot of what I know. Father was always supportive, taking us to professional matches, analyzing plays with us." She glances at the frothy surface of her butterbeer. "Quidditch was a big part of my life before Hogwarts. It's nice to have it again."

Fabian grins. "And you nearly wiped the floor with the rest of us at tryouts."

Nadine raises an eyebrow playfully. "I struggled in the tests, though."

"But you still made it." Sirius says, leaning forward with an easy smirk. "That's what matters."

As the conversation continues, Nadine listens, subtly observing everyone at the table. Her mind drifts back to what she wants to find out. And though she still isn't certain, she has a strong suspicion.

Her gaze flickers toward James, who is laughing at something Sirius said, then to Lily, who is watching him with amusement. They sit close, his hand still draped lazily over the back of her chair, and Nadine wonders—if Lily could forgive James, if she could see something good in him, then was he really capable of what Severus had gone through?

She exhales softly and decides to test the waters.

"How long have you two been together?" she asks casually, her tone light and conversational, looking at the touchy couple.

James straightens slightly, puffing up as if the very topic feeds his ego. "Since the seventh year." he answers, glancing at Lily. "Best decision she's ever made, if I do say so myself."

Lily rolls her eyes but smiles, nudging him lightly.

Nadine smiles, tilting her head. "Well, congratulations. You two seem happy." She lifts her mug in a small toast. "I wish you the best."

Lily's smile remains, but Nadine catches the subtle way her expression shifts—just a flicker of something unreadable before she tilts her head. "That's kind of you."

Sirius snickers. "What, are we making this a whole formal occasion now? Should we all start writing well-wishes for their future wedding?"

James grins. "I'll have my vows ready in a week."

The table bursts into laughter, but Nadine keeps her own amusement measured, still watching Lily and James. Her mind is occupied: Who are the Gryffindors Severus had referred to? She doesn't have enough pieces yet, but she is determined to find them and avoid falling into the same mold.

Remus nudges her elbow slightly, pulling her attention back. "You alright?"

Nadine glances at him and nods. "Yeah. Just thinking."

Sirius takes a long sip of his butterbeer before leaning back in his chair, stretching out in a way that takes up far more space than necessary. "So, Crouch." he says lazily, flicking his gaze toward Nadine with a smirk. "How's it feel to be officially one of us now? Are you regretting your choices yet?"

Nadine arches an eyebrow at him, amused. "You mean, do I regret joining the team? No, not yet. But give it time, I'm sure I'll start questioning my sanity."

Fabian snorts. "That's the right attitude. You're one of us now, which means we get to complain about practice together. And James's ridiculous training schedules."

James rolls his eyes. "I take offense to that. I only do what's necessary for us to win." He defends.

"You take offense to everything." Marlene teases.

James dramatically places a hand over his heart. "I do not."

Sirius smirks. "You do. But don't worry, mate, we still tolerate you."

Nadine chuckles, watching the back-and-forth, but then turns her attention back to Sirius, who is tapping his fingers idly on the table.

A brief silence settles over the table before he abruptly changes the subject.

"Anyway, Crouch, I should be the one asking you about your taste." he says, resting his chin on his hand as he eyes her. "You've been spending a lot of time around the wrong," he dramatically whispers the word, "sort of people."

Nadine frowns, instantly picking up on his meaning. "Define 'wrong.'"

Sirius snorts. "You know exactly what I mean."

James leans in slightly, looking at her more seriously now. "He's right. It isn't smart to be hanging out with that lot." he says, his tone heavy with disapprival. "You know, the Slytherins." He speaks of them as if he is describing dangerous creatures, not just another Hogwarts House.

Nadine doesn't respond immediately, letting her gaze flicker between them. "And why's that?"

James exhales sharply, as if he can't believe she even has to ask. "Because they're not good people, Nadine."

Nadine raises her brows in surprise, her expression a mixture of disapproval and shock. She thought he was referring to the typical House rivarly, but his tone makes it clear this is about something deeper, something far more personal than just a friendly competition. She narrows her eyes. "That's a bold statement. All of them?"

Sirius waves a hand. "Yes. And the ones you've been around? Especially them. Trust me, they're not worth your time."

Nadine crosses her arms, unconvinced. "Interesting. Because from what I've seen, no one has treated me poorly so far."

James scoffs. "Give it time. They will."

Nadine studies him for a moment, noting the firm conviction in his tone. She leans forward slightly, swirling her butterbeer idly in her mug. "What makes you think that?" she asks, keeping her tone casual, but her eyes sharp.

James exhales, setting his mug down with a soft thud. "Because I've seen what they're like." he says simply. "Year after year. They only care about blood status, power, and stepping over whoever they need to in order to get it."

Sirius nods, backing him up. "And they're insufferable."

Nadine tilts her head. "You mean, like you lot?" she challenges, arching a brow.

"That's different." Sirius argues immediately.

"Is it?"

Sirius scoffs. "Obviously."

Nadine doesn't look convinced, but she lets it slide for now. Instead, she lifts her mug, watching Sirius over the rim as she says, "Your siblings are in that House."

The shift in Sirius is immediate. His relaxed posture stiffens, the lighthearted arrogance in his expression slipping just slightly, replaced by something sharper. His grip on his butterbeer tightens, though he keeps his tone light—too light. "So?"

Nadine shrugs, setting her drink down. "You talk like it's black and white. Like being in Slytherin automatically makes someone cruel and power-hungry. But your brother and your sister are in that House, and they're not exactly what you describe, are they?"

Sirius's jaw ticks, and he scoffs again, though this time, it lacks his usual bravado. "You don't know my family, so I suggest not speaking on them."

Nadine watches him, intrigued by the sudden guardedness in his expression. "I know Cassiopeia well enough."

Chapter Text

At that, Sirius narrows his eyes slightly, as if reevaluating something. He doesn't respond immediately, instead taking a long sip of his drink. When he speaks again, his tone is different—more clipped, less performative. "Cassiopeia is... complicated."

Nadine raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate.

Sirius sighs through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, Cassie's always been different. We used to say she's dead center between my brother and I. She's sharp, yeah, but she doesn't buy into the whole 'pure-blood supremacy' nonsense the way our parents do." His lips press into a thin line. "But she's still a Black. She knows how to play the game."

Nadine hums, considering his words. She knows that already, of course. Cassiopeia is clever, careful. She navigates with precision, never revealing more than necessary.

"And Regulus?" Nadine prompts.

Sirius's entire expression shifts again. If he was guarded before, now he is outright closed off. He rolls his shoulders as if shaking off a weight. "Regulus made his choice." he says flatly.

"She has a point." Remus chimes in playfully, as if trying to shatter the tension. He is careful not to pry into Sirius's sorest spot, though, knowing exactly where the line is.

Sirius holds her gaze for a long, silent moment before shaking his head and turning away, muttering, "You're crossing boundaries, Crouch. Enough of this... If you're that invested in learning about my family, I suggest buying me more drinks and having a private conversation." he adds, his voice serious but with a hint of a wink.

Before Nadine can say anything else, however, the door to The Three Broomsticks swings open, and a familiar group enters, diverting everyone's attention from the conversation.

The Slytherin team.

Their presence is immediate. Confident strides, sharp eyes scanning the crowded pub as they make their way in. Some of them are laughing, others exchanging low murmurs. Seraphina, Regulus and Evan are among them, along with several faces Nadine had seen around the castle.

The atmosphere shifts slightly. Not tense, but charged. The rivalry is undeniable, even without words exchanged.

Fabian lets out a low whistle. "Well, speak of the devils."

James straightens slightly but doesn't say anything, merely watching them. Nadine glances at Sirius, who is watching his brother with a carefully neutral expression, diverting his eyes immediatley.

She then meets Seraphina's and Evan's gazes across the pub and waves cheerfully. Seraphina grins, nudging Evan with her elbow before waving back, while Evan smirks slightly, lifting his freshly acquired butterbeer in acknowledgment.

As Nadine turns back to her table, she catches Remus watching with mild curiosity. "Who's that?" he asks, nodding towards Seraphina.

Nadine tilts her head, then, deliberately, she says just a little louder than necessary, "Seraphina Snape."

Seraphina is dressed in her usual style, as if dark clothes are her natural habitat. She is wearing black dress pants paired with chunky black boots underneath, and a tight turtleneck sweater tucked neatly into her waistband, accentuated by a belt. Draped over her shoulders is her signature black coat, adding to her sleek, almost mysterious appearance. Her long hair hangs loosely around her shoulders, completing the look with effortless elegance.

There is a brief but noticeable pause at the table. James, who had just taken a sip of his butterbeer, coughs slightly, almost choking on his drink. "Sniv—", but before he can get the words out, Lily nudges him sharply in the ribs.

James lets out a short grunt of protest, but Lily pointedly ignores him. Instead, she turns to Nadine, her expression composed but her grip on her mug just a bit too tight. "Severus has a sister?" she asks, her voice neutral.

Nadine arches a brow, intrigued by her reaction. "Yes. You know him?"

Lily hesitates—just for a fraction of a second—but it is enough. Nadine watches as she forces an easy smile onto her face. "Of course. We—" she stops, choosing her words carefully, "—we used to be in the same crowd back in school."

Nadine narrows her eyes slightly, noting the phrasing. Interesting.

Lily shifts under the scrutiny but quickly recovers, taking a sip of her butterbeer as if that is the end of the conversation.

But Nadine isn't done yet.

"Well, I'll introduce you then." she says smoothly, pushing back her chair.

Lily's fingers tense slightly around her mug. "Oh—" she starts, but Nadine is already standing.

She doesn't miss the way James glances at Lily, something unreadable flashing between them. Whatever happened between Lily and Severus, James knows. And Lily doesn't want them to say.

Even more interesting.

Nadine suppresses a satisfied smile as she walks across the pub toward Seraphina. The warmth of the fireplace flickers against her skin as she approaches, and Seraphina turns just in time for Nadine to wrap her arms around her in a hug.

"Missed me already?" Seraphina teases, though she hugs Nadine back just as tightly.

Nadine pulls back with a smirk. "Obviously."

Seraphina chuckles, tilting her head. "So, what's this about? You look like you're up to something."

Nadine just grins. "Oh, you know me too well. I want to introduce you to my lot." she says smoothly, linking her arm with Seraphina's.

Seraphina eyes her warily for a moment, but with a resigned sigh, she nods. "Wonderful."

As they walk back to the table, the conversation hushes slightly, eyes flickering toward Seraphina with varying degrees of curiosity. Nadine can practically feel the tension settle in the air, but she ignores it and gestures between them.

"This is Remus Lupin, Marlene McKinnon, Phoebe Dawson, Fabian and Gideon Prewett."

"Hello." Remus says politely, offering a small nod. The others chime in with their own greetings, Marlene offering a friendly grin while the Prewett twins exchange an intrigued glance.

Seraphina surveys them all before giving a slight nod. "Nice to meet you." she says, her voice even, though Nadine doesn't miss the way her fingers twitch slightly at her sides.

Then Nadine gestures to Sirius. "And this is Sirius Black."

Seraphina's lips press together for a moment before she lifts a brow. "Another Black." she murmurs.

Sirius smirks, tilting his head in that insufferable, arrogant way of his. "Ouch, you say that like it's a bad thing."

Seraphina crosses her arms, unimpressed. "Change my mind, then."

James snickers into his butterbeer, but Sirius only leans forward slightly, his smirk deepening. "Such judgement. Maybe you should get to know me first."

Nadine resists the urge to roll her eyes as Seraphina frowns slightly, clearly unamused. "Tempting." she says in a flat tone, sarcastically.

Sirius chuckles, undeterred, but Nadine moves on before he can drag the moment out further.

"And they are James Potter and Lily Evans."

Lily offers a bright, polite smile. "It's nice to meet you."

Seraphina's expression doesn't change. She flicks her gaze toward James for the briefest moment before forcing the smallest, most insincere smile. "Pleasure."

But Nadine sees it. The slight stiffening of her shoulders. The flicker of annoyance that passes through her eyes.

James straightens slightly in his seat, looking at Seraphina with mild confusion, and Nadine doesn't miss the way Lily subtly shifts closer to him, her hand brushing his.

Oh.

Oh.

She watches as Seraphina's jaw tightens before the Slytherin turns away. "As riveting as this was, and believe me, it was," she says with a forced, airy tone, "I should get back to my table."

Nadine nods, watching her walk away, her mind already racing. It is as if he is personally dangling the missing piece of the puzzle in front of her face. Now, she is certain.

Seraphina's reaction was just a little too sharp, a little too controlled. It was hatred—not the casual dislike that most Slytherins had for James, but something personal, something deeper. And the way Lily immediately leaned into James, the way he had looked at Seraphina with momentary confusion...

It all fit.

So.

James Potter.

Nadine leans back in her chair, fingers lightly tapping against the table as faint disgust pulls at her lips. Of course.

This changes things.

At the same time, Cassiopeia and Barty are chatting near the shelves. After witnessing the exchange between the Gryffindors and Nadine about the Slytherins, Cassiopeia rolls her eyes and, with a dramatic sigh, announces to Barty, "As much as I love watching drama, I don't think I'll be sticking around much longer. Too many Blacks in one room." she chuckles.

Barty immediately picks up on her cue, offering a smirk. "Come with me to the Ravenclaw party. Well, it's more of a gathering, really. Food, music, Dora?" he adds casually, trying to sway her.

"It starts soon, and I'm usually fashionably late anyway. This time, at least, I'll have a good excuse." He gives her a knowing smile.

Cassiopeia smiles softly, clearly not completely against the idea. "Sure. I have a free evening anyway, and you're not the worst company."

Barty takes it as a personal victory. The moment Cassiopeia turns to walk out, he can't resist, and yells—whispers toward Nadine, "Sis!"

Nadine turns to see him with his fist raised in the air, a wide grin on his face. She can't help but laugh at his childlike excitement over Cassiopeia.

She gives him a knowing nod, signaling that they will be discussing this later. Meanwhile, the Slytherin table is decorated by the air of mystery and much less rowdiness than the Gryffindor table, celebratory nonetheless.

Regulus is at the center, surrounded by the rest of his team, and Seraphina is directly across him, back turned to the Gryffindors. Evan is next to her, smiling as usual.

"Unbelievable, you forgot the green!" Evan scolds playfully, reaching over to grab his chunky dark green sweater from the back of his chair. He drapes it over Seraphina's empty shoulders, squeezing them lightly, now that her coat is resting on the chair beside her.

"We can't have you not representing us now." he proceeds, chuckling.

"Oh! I must've missed the memo." Seraphina responds, smiling while accepting his sweater, wrapping it around her shoulders and tying it at the front. "Thank you, you're sweet."

Evan smiles as they exchange eye contact.
Regulus tracks the whole interaction with an unreadable face, judging in silence while resting his elbows on the table.

His hands are clasped together in front of his face, his posture poised and composed. He is dressed like a slightly more casual royal; he usually wears impeccably tailored, expensive outfits, always meticulously prepared.

Today, though, his attire is more relaxed, yet still carries an undeniable air of sophistication. The only pop of color is the emerald green accent ring on his finger, next to the Black family legacy ring, a subtle but striking touch against the otherwise neutral tones of his outfit.

Seraphina and Nadine exchange a brief glance, and Seraphina immediately recognizes the look—a silent understanding. Nadine knows something. Finally, Seraphina thinks. Without another word, it is as if they have silently agreed to talk later.

The Room of Requirement has transformed into the perfect Ravenclaw gathering spot. Soft candlelight fills the spacious blue-toned room, casting a warm glow over plush seating and towering bookshelves now adorned with snacks and drinks.

A long table is piled with platters of food: cheese, pastries, fruit, pizza, crispy chicken wings, bowls of punch and butterbeer are scattered throughout. A happy hum of conversation mixed with the gentle music of a small Ravenclaw student band in the corner, adding to the relaxed, cozy vibe.

Cassiopeia and Barty enter, the door clicking softly behind them. She looks around, impressed, while Barty scans the room for familiar faces.

"This isn't bad." he says with a grin, nudging her.

"I figured I wouldn't be disappointed." she teases, slipping into a chair nearby. "Ravenclaw's a wonderful House."

Barty gives a small nod, happy about her compliment, eyes settling on the group near the punch bowl. He leans against a pillar as they are greeted by a few Ravenclaws. The music is soothing, the food plentiful, and the mood laid-back—a perfect escape for the evening.

"I apologize for my abrupt escape from the Three Broomsticks." she begins, her tone calm. "It's not the setting I mind, it's just... a lot of testosterone, and frankly, too much conversation about my family doesn't really inspire me to stay." She chuckles softly, her eyes glinting with amusement.

Barty, all-too-familiar with such feelings, sinks into the dark blue velvet couch and gestures for her to join him. She does, settling beside him comfortably. "I understand more than it seems." he says, his smile a mix of humor and understanding.

"I know Nadine's one of your best friends, and I'm sure you're well aware of our... family." He chuckles, the sarcasm laced with a touch of bitterness.

"Of course." she confirms, her voice quiet but understanding. "I suppose we're in similar situations. It's good to know there's someone else who gets it, outside of the usual pure-blood manic Slytherin group."

Barty shifts, nodding lightly. "I don't mean to sound pitiful, but sometimes, it gets a little too much." His voice carries a hint of stress and even pain, a crack in his usual composure.

Cassiopeia immediately notices, recognizing the familiar weight of the pressure from their pure-blood families—something she knows all too well.

The unspoken expectations are clear: marry well, marry pure-blood, secure the bloodline, the wealth, the status. It is a constant, suffocating reality they both understand, even if they rarely speak of it.

As the third heir of her family, and a woman nonetheless, Cassiopeia is expected to submit to one, meticulously chosen by her family, of the most powerful pure-blood families, specifically one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

While male heirs are typically prioritized, female heirs are seen as exceptionally valuable for forging alliances, serving a role of connecting families, and further securing the necessary influence, power, and wealth.

Her marriage will be more than just a personal choice—it is a contract—a calculated move to strengthen her family's position within the pure-blood hierarchy.

The pressure of these expectations weigh heavily on her, a constant reminder of the role she is meant to play. Not just her, her brothers as well.

Sirius, of course, rejected the expectations placed upon him, choosing to defy the rigid rules of his family. His decision is unforgivable in their eyes, and he was swiftly disowned.

Their cousin Andromeda met the same fate after marrying a Muggle—an act they consider an unfathomable betrayal of the worst proportions.

The Black family's fury is unrestrained, filled with insults, disgust, and pure, unrelenting rage. To them, it is the ultimate transgression, one that severes the bonds forever.

As they bond over the shared family predicaments, Cassiopeia finds herself unexpectedly comfortable. Barty is charming and sweet, despite his usual chaotic demeanor, and he seems interested in Cassiopeia and listens to her without judgement.

After some time, they rejoin the rest of the Ravenclaws, and the mood lightens. The rest of the evening passes smoothly, filled with laughter and good conversation, leaving Cassiopeia feeling a sense of friendship she hasn't expected. It is a pleasant reprieve from the weight of family expectations, and for once, she doesn't feel quite so alone in the world of pure-blood obligations.

Chapter Text

Nadine leans against the stone wall outside the Great Hall as she waits for Cassiopeia and Seraphina to finish with their lunch, her mind already buzzing with plans for the week. When they finally catch up, she greets them with a bright smile.

"I forgot to ask you if you're both invited to the Slug Club meeting?" Nadine asks as they walk toward the portal.

Cassiopeia rolls her eyes. "Of course. Slughorn wouldn't miss a chance to show off his prized students."

Seraphina nods, her tone a bit softer. "Yeah, I got the invitation yesterday."

Nadine grins. "That's great! Who are you going with?"

Cassiopeia scoffs lightly. "You have one guess."

Nadine chuckles. "Right, of course. You two are joined at the hip."

Cassiopeia groans. "I don't even want to go."

"Evan asked me. Barty's going with Pandora. But I'm sure he'll find a way to you, Cass, don't worry." Seraphina teases.

Nadine laughs, while Cassiopeia looks away, though her pale cheeks slightly turn pink.

"I'll ask Remus then. He's a good friend. It'll be fun." Nadine sighs dramatically.

They chat for a bit longer, discussing the upcoming meeting and who else might be attending. The conversation shifts to other topics—homework and Quidditch practices.

Eventually, the bell rings, signaling the end of their break. They exchange goodbyes and head off in their respective directions.

"See you both tomorrow!" Nadine calls out as the Slytherin girls head for Transfiguration.

"Good luck in Potions!" Seraphina replies with a wave and a sly smirk.

Nadine blushes and heads down the familiar path to the dungeons, her heart beating a little faster at the thought of seeing Severus again. The cool, damp air greets her as she descends the steps, and she can't help but feel a hint of excitement.

She walks through the dimly lit corridor, her mind already wondering what today's lesson might be. Suddenly she hears footsteps approaching from the opposite direction. She looks up, her eyes narrowing as she spots Carrows and Mulciber striding toward her, their expressions twisted with cruel amusement.

Nadine's jaw clenches instinctively, and she straightens her posture, refusing to show any hint of fear or hesitation. She keeps her gaze forward, intending to walk past them without a word. But just as she passes Alecto, a jet of red light whizzes past her head, barely missing her and hitting the wall behind her. Startled, Nadine stops and whips around, her wand already in hand.

"What the hell is your problem?" she snaps, heart pounding with a mixture of shock and anger.

Alecto sneers, twirling her wand between her fingers. "What's wrong, Crouch? A bit jumpy today?"

Nadine takes a deliberate step back, her grip tightening around her wand as she glares at Alecto. Before she can retort, Amycus steps forward, raising his wand with a wicked grin. "Maybe you're just losing your touch, Crouch. Too busy cozying up with mudbloods to keep up your skills?"

Alecto snorts. "You think you're better than me, huh?" she taunts, voice dripping with disdain. "Just because you're a Crouch doesn't mean you're anything special."

Nadine scoffs, refusing to back down. "You're the one who needs backup just to feel tough."

Alecto's face contorts with fury, and she flicks her wand. Nadine barely manages to deflect the curse, sending it crashing against the wall. Nadine fires back a nonverbal jinx that nearly catches Alecto off guard. Amycus laughs as Alecto blocks it, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement.

"Feisty like your brother." Amycus jeers.

The hallway pulses with tension, and Mulciber watches with a twisted smile, leaning lazily against the wall. "You're putting on quite the show, Crouch. A bit too cocky for your own good." he drawls, voice low and unsettling.

Nadine doesn't flinch under his gaze, but her muscles tense instinctively. Alecto tries another hex, and Nadine counters with a spell that makes Alecto stumble backward. Amycus, instead of helping his sister, simply grins wider.

Mulciber steps forward then, eyes dark and unsettling as he slowly circles Nadine. "You know, you shouldn't play around so much, darling." he murmurs, his voice dripping with malice. "Accidents happen in places like this. Would be a shame if something unfortunate befell you. Especially when you're all alone."

Nadine swallows down the unease creeping up her spine, holding her ground. "Is that a threat, Mulciber?" she challenges, keeping her voice steady despite the chill prickling her skin.

Mulciber's smile widens, almost too pleased by her reaction. "Just a friendly warning. You ought to learn your place... before someone else teaches it to you."

Nadine suppresses a shiver, keeping her wand at the ready, every muscle poised to defend herself if necessary. She instinctively takes a step back, but before she can react, his hand shoots out, gripping her elbow with a bruising force.

"Going somewhere?" he murmurs, his voice low and sinister. Nadine stiffens, anger flaring in her chest as she tries to pull her arm free.

"Let go." she grits out, her voice sharp but shaky.

Mulciber just chuckles, leaning in slightly, his breath ghosting over her ear. "I won't warn you again. Behave and keep your pretty little mouth shut."

Nadine jerks her arm, but his grip only tightens, his fingers digging into her skin. Alecto snickers from behind him, clearly enjoying Nadine's discomfort.

Nadine's stomach twists, but she doesn't let the fear show. "If you think I'm scared of you, you're delusional." she snaps.

Mulciber smirks, clearly amused by her resistance. "You should be. You're awfully bold for someone who's outnumbered."

Before Nadine can retort, the sound of approaching footsteps echoes through the corridor. Mulciber's grip loosens slightly, and he straightens, looking past her. Nadine turns her head just enough to see Severus appearing from around the corner, his expression unreadable.

"Ah, finally." Mulciber drawls, his voice shifting to something more casual but still dripping with malice. "I've been looking for you, Snape. We need to talk."

Nadine doesn't miss the way Severus's eyes flick briefly to her, then to Mulciber's hand still on her arm. Without a word, she yanks her arm free, sneering at Mulciber as she does.

"Touch me again, and you'll regret it." she spits.

Mulciber just raises a brow, seemingly unbothered, and gives Severus a nod. Nadine storms past him, shoving her shoulder against his as she moves to the classroom door. Alecto and Amycus exchange smirks, clearly pleased with themselves, and begin heading upstairs.

Nadine doesn't look back as she pushes the door open and steps inside, breathing hard as she tries to steady her heart. Severus remains behind with Mulciber, his face carefully blank, though his eyes linger on the spot where Nadine just stood.

She sinks into her seat, her body tense and heart still pounding. She knew she should have expected something after the duel with Alecto, but this... this was different. Mulciber's grip still lingers on her arm, like a ghostly imprint that makes her skin crawl. Her thoughts race, swirling between anger, fear, and frustration.

Her hands clench into fists, her knuckles white as she tries to suppress the tremor coursing through her fingers. She hates feeling powerless, hates how Mulciber's words keep replaying in her mind. She swallows hard, forcing herself to take a deep breath, but it feels like her lungs can't expand properly, constricted by the tight knot in her chest.

Nadine closes her eyes, trying to push the memories away. Her jaw clenches as she fights to regain control of her emotions. She knows showing weakness is exactly what they want. She can't let them win. But no matter how hard she tries to steady herself, the fear lingers just beneath the surface, prickling at the back of her mind.

When the door opens again, Nadine tenses instinctively, but it is just Severus walking in. He doesn't look at her, doesn't acknowledge her presence as he moves toward his usual spot at the front of the classroom. He sets his bag down and begins to prepare for the lesson, his movements precise and controlled, as if nothing unusual just happened. Nadine watches him for a moment, wondering what Mulciber could have wanted from him and whether he saw the way they cornered her.

More footsteps echo in the corridor, and soon the classroom begins to fill with other students. The murmur of voices does little to soothe her nerves, and she keeps her gaze fixed on the desk, tracing patterns on the worn wood with her fingertips.

A familiar presence drops into the seat next to her, and Nadine glances sideways to see Bill flashing her a warm, easy smile. "Hey, you alright?" he asks, clearly picking up on her demeanor.

Nadine forces a small smile, not trusting her voice to sound steady. "Yeah, just... tired." she mumbles, hoping he won't press the issue.

Across the room, Barty enters with Pandora, his usual smirk faltering as his eyes land on Nadine. Something must clue him in, and his brows knit together with mild concern. He shoots her a questioning look, but she just shakes her head, not wanting to get into it right now. Barty hesitates, but takes his seat, still casting wary glances her way.

Nadine pulls her shoulders back, willing herself to appear calm and collected. She can't let them see how much it affected her, can't let it linger on her mind. As Professor Slughorn finally enters the classroom, his jovial voice greeting the students, she tries to focus on the lesson, blocking out everything else. The routine of Potions should be comforting, but today it feels distant, like something happening on the other side of a thick glass wall.

Nadine's hands are still trembling as she measures the powdered asphodel, her mind clouded. She tries to steady herself, focusing on the bubbling cauldron in front of her, but the ingredients blur together, and she almost drops the vial entirely.

Bill glances over, noticing her movements. "Hey, careful." he whispers gently, nudging her hand to keep it steady. Nadine swallows, nodding wordlessly, but as they move on to the next step, she nearly reaches for the crushed belladonna petals instead of the powdered moonstone.

Bill catches her wrist just in time. "That's not right." he murmurs, quickly swapping the ingredients.

Nadine's cheeks flush with embarrassment, and she mutters, "Sorry... I'm just... distracted."

"It's alright." Bill says quietly, offering her a reassuring smile. "We'll get through this. Just take a breath."

Nadine barely nods, her chest tight with frustration. She hates how she is letting them affect her like this. She forces herself to take a slow, deep breath, focusing on the rhythmic stirring. She wants to at least be decent at this—if she can't manage that, Slughorn will never pay her any mind, and she will fall behind.

Just as she adds the next ingredient correctly, she feels a presence by the table. Looking up, she sees Severus standing there, his eyes narrowing slightly as he inspects their potion. He crosses his arms, his expression neutral.

"Sloppy." he mutters sharply, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "I shudder to think how you managed to pass your N.E.W.T.s. If you can't keep your hands steady, you'll end up brewing poison instead of a cure. Try not to waste ingredients." he gestures dismissively at the cauldron.

Nadine's stomach twists, and she lowers her gaze, feeling heat crawl up her neck. She grits her teeth, holding back a retort, too angry at herself to even defend her mistake. "Sorry." she mutters.

Severus sneers, his gaze flicking over her dismissively, before he moves on, his cloak billowing behind him. But Nadine can still feel the sting of his words hanging in the air. Her hands clench into fists, angry at herself for letting him see her like this. She doesn't want to give anyone more ammunition to think she is incapable, least of all Severus, who always seems to notice every mistake. She even oughts to impress him, but this just isn't the day.

Bill nudges her shoulder gently. "Hey, don't let him get to you. You're just having an off day."

Nadine musters a weak smile, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. She murmurs another apology, more to herself than to him, and forces her hands to still as she resumes stirring.

Now Slughorn waddles over, his broad smile beaming at Nadine and Bill. "Ah, Miss Crouch." he says jovially. "I expect you'll join us on Friday?"

Nadine manages a small, polite smile. "Yes, sir." she replies.

"Splendid!" Slughorn claps his hands, clearly satisfied, and moves on to inspect the next table.

Nadine exhales, trying to gather her composure as she reaches for the final ingredient, just wanting to get this potion finished without any more disasters. Her fingers are steadier now—or so she thinks—until the jar slips from her grasp. In a panic, she tries to catch it, but it bounces off the edge of the cauldron. A generous splash of the potion spills over the side, splattering the table and nearly soaking her robes.

Bill reacts quickly, grabbing the cauldron just in time to stop it from toppling over entirely. He steadies it, wiping some spilled liquid from his hand.

"That's it!" Nadine snaps, louder than she intended. A few students at nearby tables turn to stare at her in surprise, and she glares back with such intensity that they quickly pretend to be deeply invested in their own potions.

"Everything alright there?" Bill asks cautiously, holding back a chuckle.

"Perfectly fine." Nadine grumbles, rolling up her sleeves with determination. "Just brilliant. I'm absolutely thrilled." She huffs and grabs a cloth to start wiping down the table, muttering under her breath about potions and their never-ending vendetta against her.

Bill gives her an amused look, offering a sympathetic pat on the back. "We'll survive this, I promise."

The final minutes of class crawl by as Nadine continues to clean the mess, doing her best to ignore the lingering embarrassment. As Slughorn dismisses them, students begin filing out of the classroom in groups.

Barty pauses by the door, leaning against the frame. "I'll wait outside." he calls to Nadine, giving her a quick wave before disappearing into the corridor.

Nadine just waves back half-heartedly, focusing on scrubbing the potion residue off the table. Once the room empties out, she finds herself alone with Severus, the echo of clinking glassware and fading footsteps leaving behind a heavy silence. She sighs, resting her hands on the table for a moment, trying to regain her composure.

Severus glances at the mess and sighs, his voice low and unimpressed. "Leave it before you manage to blow up the entire dungeons."

Nadine hesitates, wiping the last bit of spilled potion. "I didn't mean to, honestly. I'm sorry. I just— I got distracted with the measurements, and then— I thought I had it under control, but clearly, I didn't. I know, I should've paid more attention, and I—"

He cuts her off, his tone sharper now. "You're fortunate Slughorn didn't see your disaster. He expects a higher level of competence. If you keep making a spectacle of yourself, you're just asking for trouble."

Her jaw tightens, but guilt washes over her features. "I know, I was distracted. I didn't think they'd—"

"Spare me the excuses." Severus interrupts coldly. "Distraction in class causes mistakes. You're not in Beauxbatons anymore. This is supposed to be higher education, not a playground. Leave. Now."

Nadine swallows hard, clenching her bag strap, then hesitates before approaching his desk. Her voice is softer, hesitant. "Severus... can I— would it be possible to use the classroom sometimes? To study. Maybe... if you have time, you could teach me? I could really use the help."

He barely spares her a glance, his voice flat. "No."

Nadine persists, shifting her weight. "I'll pay you. For your time. I just... I really want to get better, and I thought—"

Severus scoffs. "Your desperation is pathetic. You think I have time to babysit your incompetence? If you're so determined to waste your effort on something you're clearly not suited for, do it on your own."

Nadine bites her lip, her voice trembling slightly. "Then... do you want something else? I just need—"

His patience snaps, his tone icy and cutting. "What could you possibly offer that I would want? You're out of your depth, Crouch. Your little attempts are laughable. Stop wasting my time."

Her mouth opens as if to argue, but she closes it again, shoulders stiffening. A dull ache settles in her chest, but she nods, forcing herself to sound neutral. "Thank you anyway. Good day." she mutters, her voice barely above a whisper before turning on her heel and leaving the classroom.

As the door swings shut, Severus remains at his desk, his jaw tight. The way she kept pushing despite his dismissals irks him. He doesn't understand why her persistence bothers him so much, but he quickly shakes it off, forcing himself not to dwell on it.

Chapter Text

Nadine yawns, rubbing her eyes as James continues his pep talk, his voice animated despite the early morning chill. Around her, the rest of the team looks just as exhausted—Sirius is leaning against his broom, half-listening while stretching his arms overhead, Marlene is stifling a yawn behind her hand, and Phoebe is nodding off on her feet, blinking rapidly to stay awake. The twins are the only ones looking remotely awake, exchanging a smirk as they nudge each other.

"Alright, everyone." James calls out, clearly trying to sound more enthusiastic than he feels. "We want to crush Hufflepuffs, so we've got to get in shape. Marlene, Nadine, work on those passes. Sirius, keep your eyes sharp. And you two—" He points at the twins. "Less goofing off, more focus."

Sirius scoffs, ruffling his hair. "If you keep yapping, we might all just fall asleep here, Prongs."

Marlene snickers, and Nadine can't help but smile, though the exhaustion weighs on her shoulders. James shoots Sirius a mock glare. "If you drop a Quaffle today, I swear—"

"Yeah, yeah," Sirius interrupts with a lazy grin. "I know. Just make sure your passes don't land somewhere in bloody Scotland."

"Just don't forget to move your lazy arses." Marlene chimes in, adjusting her gloves.

James rolls his eyes, trying to maintain some semblance of authority. "Okay, up we go! Enough whining."

They all mount their brooms and push off from the ground, soaring into the sky where the cold wind immediately makes Nadine shiver. She tries to shake off the sleepiness, gripping her broom tightly as they circle around. Marlene tosses the Quaffle to her, and Nadine catches it, although a bit clumsily. James watches, his brow furrowing.

"Focus, Crouch!" he shouts, guiding the team into formation.

She nods, forcing herself to concentrate. As they pass the Quaffle between each other, Nadine tries to keep her mind on the game, but it is hard. She hadn't told anyone what really happened—not even Barty. He had been persistent, practically interrogating her when he saw her troubled expression after class. She lied, claiming she was just tired and stressed, and though Barty didn't entirely believe her, he eventually let it slide. Still, she could tell he was worried.

"Crouch!"

James's voice snaps her back, and she narrowly avoids colliding with Marlene, who frowns at her. "What's gotten into you?"

"Sorry!" Nadine calls back, forcing a smile. She makes a sharper turn and throws the Quaffle to James, this time more precisely.

From the other end of the pitch, Fabian sends a Bludger spiraling toward Phoebe, who dodges it with a huff.

She shoots him a glare, but there is no real anger behind it. She is too sleepy to muster any real wrath. Sirius yawns loudly as he guards the goalposts, eyes barely tracking the movements. "Can't we do this after breakfast?"

James groans in frustration, though there is a hint of a smile on his face. "Half of you are practically sleepwalking. Just three more times."

Marlene loops around Sirius and scores. Nadine barely avoids one Bludger as it rockets past her shoulder, the force of the wind whipping her hair back. Her heart pounds in her chest, and she can barely keep up with James's relentless pace. The boy is in his element, darting through the air with an almost manic energy, shouting out strategies that Nadine can hardly process.

She grits her teeth and pushes through, catching the Quaffle when Marlene tosses it her way. Her fingers throb from the impact, and she has to fight the urge to drop it. Just as she is about to pass to James, another Bludger comes hurtling her way—this time courtesy of Fabian—and she swerves just in time, narrowly escaping a nasty hit.

"Crouch, keep up!" James yells, already circling back around.

She just nods, feeling her body protest with every movement. Her back is screaming, and her right shoulder aches from nearly colliding with one of the goalposts earlier. Everything is a blur of movement, shouting, and the occasional sound of someone nearly falling off their broom.

Finally, after what felt like hours, James calls it. "Alright, that's enough! Good effort, everyone!"

Nadine breathes out in relief, her muscles quivering as she lands back on the pitch. Her feet hit the ground a bit harder than intended, and she almost stumbles, clutching her broom for support. One glance at the others tells her they are just as exhausted—Marlene is rubbing her neck, Sirius is groaning dramatically about his back, and Phoebe looks ready to pass out.

"James." Sirius grumbles as they trudge toward the changing rooms. "You're a sadist, you know that?"

James just grins, wiping sweat from his forehead. "You'll thank me when we win."

"Or when I'm dead." Sirius mutters.

Nadine manages a weak laugh, but even that makes her ribs ache. Remus appears, the only one who watched them practice, his expression caught between amusement and concern. Brownie weaves between his legs, giving an indignant little meow as if to complain about being neglected.

"Nice moves out there." Remus says, offering Nadine a half-smile.

She shoots him a tired glare and unscrews the cap of her water bottle, gulping down the refreshing liquid. "If Potter makes us do that again before sunrise, I'm quitting the team."

Remus chuckles, reaching down to scratch behind Brownie's ears. "To be fair, you didn't die, so I'd call that a win."

"Speak for yourself." she grumbles, wiping sweat from her forehead. "My back's on fire, and I swear my shoulder's about to fall off."

"Maybe don't aim for the Bludgers next time?" he teases lightly.

She narrows her eyes at him. "They aimed for me. It's not like I put myself into their way."

Remus raises his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes soften as he looks at her. "You sure you're alright? You looked a bit off today."

Nadine shrugs, wincing as the movement pulls at her sore shoulder. "Just tired. I didn't sleep much last night."

He doesn't press further, but his brow furrows in quiet concern. "Maybe rest up after breakfast. You look like you've been hit by the Knight Bus."

"Well, thanks, Remus." she deadpans.

Brownie meows again, pawing at Nadine's leg. She bends down to give the cat a quick pat, and Remus shakes his head fondly. "Your cat was more invested than half the team."

"She's judging me." Nadine mutters, giving Brownie a playful glare. "Traitor."

Remus just laughs. "Come on." he says, nudging her lightly. "Let's get you inside before you collapse."

"Too late." she mumbles, though she follows him with slow, stiff steps. As they walk, Brownie weaves around their ankles, almost tripping her once. Remus reaches out to steady her, and she shoots him a grateful glance, too tired to even joke about it.

"By the way," she says, glancing at him. "I wanted to ask you if you're coming to the Slug Club on Friday."

He raises an eyebrow, looking a bit confused. "No, I'm not invited." he replies with a small shrug, not seeming particularly bothered by it.

Nadine's brows knit together in thought. "Oh. Well, I'm supposed to go... It's the first meeting this year, like a dinner party or something." She hesitates for a moment, her fingers playing with the hem of her Quidditch jersey. "Would you come with me?"

Remus seems taken aback, his eyes widening just a fraction. "Me?"

"Yeah." Nadine gives him a small, encouraging smile. "It could be fun. There will probably be good food."

A small, warm smile pulls at Remus's lips. "Alright, sure. I'll go with you."

Nadine grins back, relieved. "Great! I'll meet you in the common room before it?"

"Sounds good." he agrees, nodding. "See you later."

Remus gives her a gentle pat on the shoulder—careful to avoid the spot she injured—and walks off toward the castle. Nadine watches him go, a fond smile lingering on her face. As he disappears from view, she turns back toward the changing rooms, feeling a bit lighter.

But she can't help feeling a small pang of regret. If she could choose anyone to go with, it would be Severus. Her mind wanders to him almost instinctively these days.

She wonders if he is attending the dinner with someone else, and the thought twists uncomfortably in her stomach. The idea of him with another girl—especially someone like Lily—makes her jaw tighten. But she quickly reminds herself that it won't be Lily.

Still, the uncertainty gnaws at her. Would he really go with someone else? Would some Slytherin girl be hanging on his arm, making him smile? Nadine shakes her head to clear the thought.

She steps into the showers, turning the water as hot as she can bear, letting the steam envelop her and soothe her muscles. As she scrubs away the remnants of the morning's brutal practice, she can't help but wish for a day where she could ask Severus to accompany her—where his answer might actually be yes.

Magical Anatomy and Psychology goes as well as it possibly can with Professor Yaxley. Despite her strict demeanor and tendency to call out anyone who isn't paying full attention, Nadine finds the subject fascinating. Today's lesson focuses on the connection between magic and the human nervous system. Professor Yaxley explains how powerful emotions can surge through a wizard's bloodstream, amplifying their magical output—one reason why emotional control is crucial during spellcasting.

"Understanding the correlation between adrenaline and accidental magic is fundamental." Professor Yaxley lectures, her voice precise. "For instance, heightened emotions can result in bursts of uncontrolled power. This phenomenon is most common in young witches and wizards, as their magical cores are still stabilizing."

Nadine scribbles down notes furiously, occasionally glancing up to make sure she hasn't missed anything. She finds it fascinating how emotions can influence spellwork so drastically—something she has experienced firsthand when spells have gone wrong during duels.

Professor Yaxley walks between the rows, heels clicking rhythmically on the stone floor. "Your assignment is to write a three-foot essay on how emotional triggers differ between spontaneous magic and intentional spellcasting. Due next week."

When the class finally ends, Nadine gathers her notes and stretches her stiff fingers, grateful to have survived another session without being singled out for questioning.

Next comes History of Magic, which, despite its tendency to be a bit dry, is at least familiar and calm. The lesson covers the establishment of the International Confederation of Wizards—a pivotal moment in magical history when various wizarding governments agreed to cooperate and uphold magical secrecy. Professor Binns drones on about the creation of the Statute of Secrecy and the many debates that ensued.

"...and of course, the most contentious point was the jurisdiction of magical creatures and how they fell under wizarding law. Several nations argued that centaurs and merfolk should be granted autonomy, while others insisted they be considered part of the magical community for legislative purposes..."

Nadine writes it all down, trying to keep her notes neat despite her hand starting to cramp. She is not the only one fighting off the urge to doze—Bill's head is practically on his desk.

The lesson eventually wraps up with Professor Binns assigning a reading on the early treaties between European wizarding communities. Nadine packs up her things, stifling a yawn as she stretches.

Finally, lunch break arrives. Nadine feels a wave of relief—she rubs her sore shoulder absentmindedly, hoping the meal will give her a bit of energy for the rest of the day.

She waves with a grin at Cassiopeia and Seraphina, who are sitting beside their brothers, and continues to the Ravenclaw table, where Barty and Pandora are already seated. With a heavy groan, she slumps down next to Barty, dropping her bag at her feet and rubbing her aching shoulder.

Barty immediately notices her discomfort and furrows his brows. "Oi, you alright?" he asks, pushing a plate of roasted chicken toward her.

Nadine grabs a piece, sighing. "Barely. Potter was brutal today. I swear, it felt like a death march. My back's killing me, my shoulder's throbbing... I think I'm going to be one big bruise by tomorrow."

Pandora glances at her with wide eyes. "That bad? You look exhausted."

"Exhausted doesn't even cover it." Nadine mutters, taking a sip of pumpkin juice.

Barty shakes his head, concern evident in his gaze. "You know, you should've stretched properly before practice. It helps. After the last match, I couldn't feel my arms for days. Try this—after you shower, use a heating charm on your back. Works wonders."

Nadine pauses, looking at him with mild surprise. "Seriously? Just... heat it up?"

He nods. "Yeah, just don't overdo it. And if it's really bad, there's this salve in the hospital wing for muscle aches. I used it before. It stinks, but it works."

She huffs out a laugh. "Why didn't you tell me this earlier, Tem? I thought I was going to drop dead out there."

Barty smirks. "You're too stubborn to ask for help. Always acting like you're invincible."

Pandora giggles. "She does have that Gryffindor spirit."

Nadine glares half-heartedly at them both. "Maybe I wouldn't feel like this if Potter didn't have us flying like lunatics. I mean, I get that we have a match coming up, but it's not life or death. Plus, it's in November, for Merlin's sake."

Pandora hums thoughtfully, twirling her hair around her finger. "Maybe you should tell him to tone it down?"

Nadine snorts. "Yeah, like he'd listen. He'd probably just tell me to work harder."

"Then just do the heating charm." Barty says, giving her a pointed look. "And drink plenty of water. You'll feel worse tomorrow if you don't."

She rolls her eyes but nods. "Fine, nurse Temy. I'll take your advice."

"Good. I don't want you passing out mid-match." he mutters, though his tone is teasing.

Nadine smirks, but then her expression turns more serious. "Actually, speaking of suffering, can you help me with Potions after dinner? Just an hour or two. Maybe three. I'm really struggling."

Barty raises an eyebrow. "You? Struggling with Potions? Since when?"

"Well, er—" she looks at her plate, remembering what happened. "I've got a lot of studying and homework to do, and you know it's not on my best side. If I mess up, Slughorn will probably just write me off. I need good grades."

He sighs, pretending to consider it. "Well, since you're already falling apart physically, I guess I can't let you fail academically too. One hour."

"Two." Nadine counters immediately.

He shakes his head, trying to hide a smirk. "You're impossible."

"Come on, it'll be fun. Cass will probably be practicing too." Nadine gives him a sly look. "You wouldn't want to miss a chance to impress her, would you?"

Barty's ears turn slightly pink, and he scoffs, trying to sound indifferent. "I'm not trying to impress anyone."

Pandora giggles behind her hand. "Right, of course not."

Nadine grins wickedly. "Sure, because it's not like you always stand a bit taller or suddenly become twice as clever when she's around."

Barty glares at her, though there is no real malice in it. "You're seeing things, Nadine."

She raises her hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. Just saying, if you want some quality time, Potions is the way to go."

He grumbles under his breath, but finally relents. "Fine. Two hours. But if you start meddling, I'm out."

Nadine just laughs, then turns to Pandora. "You in? We could make it a study session."

Pandora shakes her head with a dreamy smile. "I'd love to, but Xenophilius and I are stargazing tonight. There's a rare constellation that's supposed to be visible."

Nadine raises a brow, an amused glint in her eyes. "Oh? Stargazing, huh? Sounds awfully romantic."

Pandora blushes instantly. "It's just for research!"

Barty snorts. "Right. Research."

Pandora giggles, nudging Barty with her elbow as he shakes his head. "You two are terrible." she murmurs, but there is a happy glow in her expression.

Chapter Text

Nadine enters the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, keeping her gaze straight ahead and avoiding the group of Slytherins lingering by the door—especially the Carrows. Her jaw tightens as she passes them, but she relaxes when she spots Seraphina and Cassiopeia at one of the tables. She quickly makes her way over and sits down next to them, offering a quick smile.

As Professor Everard gives instructions for the day's practical lesson, Nadine pairs up with Seraphina, grateful for a familiar and trustworthy presence. They move to an open space, wands in hand, as the professor outlines a few new defensive spells to practice.

Seraphina leans closer, her voice low but confident. "I've been reading up on some spells that could come in handy."

Nadine nods, interest piqued. "Yeah? What did you find?"

Seraphina demonstrates a subtle, almost fluid wand movement. "It's called Protego Horribilis. It's a bit more advanced than a regular Shield Charm, but it works against dark magic specifically. You have to make sure your wand flicks upward at the end. Like this." She demonstrates, a faint shimmering barrier forming briefly.

Nadine watches carefully, mimicking the movement. Her first attempt fizzles out halfway through, but she huffs and tries again, determined. "Like this?"

"Almost." Seraphina says, adjusting Nadine's grip. "You need to focus more on the intention, like you're pushing the magic away from you."

After a few tries, Nadine finally manages to cast a faint but stable version of the charm. She grins, feeling a surge of pride. "Hey! I did it!"

Seraphina chuckles softly. "Good. Now try it when I cast a hex."

They continue practicing, exchanging light spells and counters. Nadine's confidence builds as she repeats the new moves, grateful for Seraphina's guidance. Seraphina's focus doesn't waver, always precise and composed.

As they practice, Nadine notices Regulus glancing over at Seraphina now and then, his expression unreadable. He is practicing with Cassiopeia, but his attention seems divided. Nadine nudges Seraphina playfully. "Looks like you've got someone's attention."

Seraphina glances over briefly, brushing it off with a smirk. "He's just making sure I'm not teaching you anything he doesn't know."

Nadine laughs softly, but they both keep practicing. The atmosphere in the classroom is relatively calm, despite the occasional hex crackling through the air as other pairs practice. Professor Everard walks around, correcting stances and offering advice.

When the practical part winds down, the professor claps her hands to get their attention. "Good work today! For your next lesson, I want a two-foot essay on the various Shield Charms and their applications in dark magic defense. Due by Friday."

Nadine suppresses a groan at the mention of an essay, but she is still riding the small high of successfully learning a new spell. She exchanges a glance with Seraphina, who merely shrugs as if to say, We'll manage.

She walks alongside her best friends, the bustle of students filling the corridors around them. She stretches her arms above her head.

"So," Nadine starts, glancing at Cassiopeia. She lowers her voice, careful to ensure no one around can hear. "You'll be in the Potions classroom after dinner, right? I just need a bit of help with studying... It's definitely not my best subject."

Cassiopeia smirks knowingly, giving Nadine a sideways glance. "Of course. But... why so eager?"

Seraphina raises an eyebrow, catching on immediately. "Yeah, you sure it's the subject that's got you all flustered?"

Nadine rolls her eyes, trying to sound nonchalant. "It's just... practice, that's all. I need to improve before I become a lost cause."

Cassiopeia gives her a light nudge. "Sure, and it wouldn't have anything to do with a certain dark-haired potions prodigy being around?"

Nadine's cheeks turn a light shade of pink, and she huffs. "Okay, first of all, I don't know if Severus will be there. I just thought—" She pauses, glancing around the corridor to make sure no one is eavesdropping. "Do you know if he will be?"

Seraphina smirks. "If he's not at the library, he's in the dungeons."

Cassiopeia grins. "Maybe spill a potion on yourself and need his... expert assistance."

Nadine just shakes her head, trying to suppress a smile. "You two are impossible."

They reach the corridor where they usually part ways, and Seraphina nudges her with a reassuring grin. "You'll be fine."

With a few quick goodbyes, Seraphina and Cassiopeia head off to their next class, and Nadine makes her way to the library.

Once inside, the familiar scent of parchment and aged wood greets her, and the atmosphere is calm compared to the noisy hallways. She finds an empty table tucked away near the window and settles down, Brownie immediately hopping onto her lap and curling up. Nadine absentmindedly strokes the feline's soft fur as she pulls out her notes and begins working on the essay Professor Yaxley assigned earlier.

Her quill moves almost automatically, but exhaustion seeps into her bones, and her hand slows, the words on the parchment starting to blur. She shifts to a more comfortable position, careful not to disturb Brownie's peaceful purring.

Hours slip by as she works, occasionally mumbling under her breath when she can't recall a specific detail. Brownie shifts but remains content, her tail flicking lazily. Eventually, Nadine leans back, rubbing her eyes and letting out a deep sigh.

"I just want to sleep." she mutters, giving Brownie a gentle scratch behind the ears.

The bell rings, and she jolts slightly, realizing how long she has been there. Packing up her books, she tries not to think about how much she still has left to study. At least dinner will be a small break before the potions session later.

Brownie meows softly, as if sensing her weariness, and Nadine can't help but smile. "Yeah, I know, Brownie. I overdo it sometimes. Let's get some food."

With one last glance at the pile of finished essays, Nadine gathers her things and heads toward the Great Hall...

Nadine clenches her hair in frustration, her fingers practically pulling at the strands as she stares at the bubbling potion in front of her. A stubborn drop of sweat trickles down her forehead, and she grits her teeth, desperately trying to remember the exact order of ingredients Cassiopeia just explained.

Cassiopeia stands by her side, her tone soft and encouraging. "You're almost there, Nadine. Just add a pinch of powdered asphodel next, and then stir counterclockwise."

Barty, on the other hand, crosses his arms, eyebrows furrowing. "Not too much, though, or you'll thicken the whole thing."

Nadine lets out a groan, practically crashing down onto her stool. "Merlin, this is impossible! Why does it have to be so damn complicated?"

Barty huffs, rolling his eyes but still keeping an eye on the cauldron. "It's not complicated, you're just not concentrating. You're mixing up the steps because you keep overthinking it."

Cassiopeia pats Nadine's shoulder gently. "Don't worry, everyone struggles with this one. It's just about finding the right balance between ingredients. Take a deep breath."

Nadine inhales sharply, trying to calm her racing thoughts, but her hands are still shaking slightly. "Balance... right. Sure. Just like balancing on a broom after being tackled by a Bludger. Easy."

Barty raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "You're being dramatic."

"I am not!" Nadine snaps, her voice louder than intended. A few other students studying at the opposite end of the classroom glance over curiously. Nadine shoots them a quick glare, muttering under her breath. "Sorry... just—argh."

Cassiopeia gives Barty a warning look before leaning closer to Nadine. "You're just tired. Maybe we should take a short break, clear your head a bit?"

"No! If I take a break, I'll forget everything you just said." Nadine replies stubbornly, gripping her quill as if it is a lifeline. "Let's just... try again. I'll write down the order this time so I don't mess it up."

She pulls her notebook closer and scribbles down Cassiopeia's instructions, her handwriting barely legible. Barty sits across from her, his expression softening slightly as he watches her struggle.

"Just focus on one step at a time." he says, slightly less strict now. "You're overloading yourself with too much information at once. Start with the asphodel, then we'll go from there."

Nadine sighs, pressing her hands to her face for a moment before looking at the cauldron again. "I just don't want to mess it up. I'm barely keeping up as it is. I don't want to be this incapable."

Cassiopeia offers a kind smile. "You're not incapable. You're just... not perfect at potions yet. But that's why we're here to help."

Nadine mumbles something under her breath but obediently starts preparing the asphodel. "Fine, fine... Merlin, have mercy."

A few minutes pass, and Nadine's hands are still slightly clumsy as she measures the ingredient, almost tipping the container before Cassiopeia steadies her hand. Nadine mutters a sheepish "thanks" and tries again, this time managing to add the asphodel correctly.

She sits back down, writing more notes as Cassiopeia and Barty continue to walk her through the next steps. Though her frustration still simmers beneath the surface, their guidance and presence keep her from completely crashing out.

"This is going to be a long night." she mutters, scribbling down more notes as the potion bubbles softly, seemingly mocking her efforts.

Nadine glances at the clock on the classroom wall, her eyes widening when she notices the time. "It's past eight already." she mutters, rubbing her temples. She turns to Cassiopeia and Barty, offering them a tired but grateful smile. "You two should go and get some rest. Seriously, thank you... it means a lot."

Cassiopeia hesitates, her eyebrows knitting together with concern. "Are you sure? We can stay a bit longer if you need help finishing up."

Nadine shakes her head, giving a small, reassuring smile. "No, really. You've already done so much. I can handle the rest on my own."

Cassiopeia nods slowly, still looking a bit unsure. Nadine turns to Barty, catching his eye and giving him a subtle look, as if saying, Go. Be alone with her. Barty seems to catch on, raising an eyebrow briefly before giving a small nod.

"Alright." he says, his tone reluctant but understanding. "If you're sure... Don't overdo it, okay? And get proper rest."

"I won't." Nadine replies, waving them off. "Promise."

Cassiopeia gives her a soft smile before gathering her things. "Take care, okay? We'll see you tomorrow."

Nadine watches them leave, Barty lingering just a moment longer before finally following Cassiopeia out the door. She can't help but smirk a little, hoping Barty takes the chance to actually talk to her more.

Once they are gone, Nadine lets out a long, weary sigh, looking around the empty classroom. Only one dim light remains above her papers and cauldron, casting long shadows across the stone walls. Brownie, curled up on a nearby stool, lifts her head and gives a soft, comforting purr.

"Just you and me now, huh?" Nadine mutters, reaching over to scratch behind Brownie's ears. The cat nudges her hand, as if sensing her exhaustion.

She carefully finishes the potion, moving slowly to ensure she doesn't spill anything. The liquid finally settles into the correct color, and Nadine allows herself a small, triumphant smile before cleaning up the cauldron with deliberate, gentle movements. Once everything is tidied up and put back in place, she sits down again, stretching her aching back before pulling her parchment closer.

Taking a deep breath, she picks up her quill, determined to make sense of her messy notes. The quiet of the room is comforting, and Brownie's purring helps soothe her nerves. Nadine rubs at her tired eyes, then leans over the desk, her quill scratching softly against the parchment.

A loud thud on the table startles Nadine, causing her to jerk upright with a wince, clutching her back in discomfort. The sharp pain lances through her muscles, making her grit her teeth as she glances up. Severus is standing before her, his eyes narrowed and full of annoyance.

Her eyes widen as she realizes that she had fallen asleep. Her head aches, her body is stiff, and her brain feels like it is moving through molasses. How long was I out? Nadine thinks, heart pounding in her chest.

"Do you know what time is it, Crouch?" he asks.

"No..." she mutters under her breath, but the words die in her throat. He is still glaring at her, unimpressed. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep—just... a lot to do and I didn't notice how late it got, I swear, I was—"

Severus interrupts her, his voice sharp and cold, a scornful edge laced with frustration. "How do you expect to keep up in class if you can't even manage to stay awake while working?"

Nadine's throat tightens, and a lump forms in her chest. His words hit hard, not just because of the sting, but because she deserved them. Tears well up in her eyes, but she tries to blink them away.

"I—I know, I'm sorry, I've just... been so overwhelmed with everything." Nadine stammers, her voice cracking slightly despite her best efforts to stay composed. "The potion, the essays, Quidditch... it's all too much, and I don't... I don't know how to balance it all, Severus. I wanted to do well, really. I just... didn't think I'd fall asleep like that."

Her voice shakes, but she can't stop herself now. She is pouring out everything that has been bottled up inside her. "I'm trying, I swear. I'm just... so tired... and I don't know what to do anymore." She bites her lip, cutting herself off before she can say too much.

Severus watches her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a sharp, dismissive gesture, he shakes his head slightly. "Perhaps you should consider leaving."

Nadine stands shakily, her legs feeling like they are made of jelly, the numbness from sitting too long causing her balance to falter. She stumbles, her body going limp, and she almost falls to the floor when, just in time, Severus's hand grips her arm, steadying her with surprising gentleness.

Nadine's heart skips a beat, her breath catching in her throat. Embarrassment floods her, but there is also something comforting about his touch, as if it anchors her, and she feels like melting under the warmth. His sharp frown deepens as he eyes her.

"What's the matter with you?" His voice is low, but there is a slight edge of confusion beneath the frustration.

Nadine mumbles, wincing as she clutches her shoulder. "Potter..." she mutters, the annoyance in her voice unmistakable. "Had practice this morning... I'll go to Madam Pomfrey. It's fine."

For a brief moment, Severus's jaw tightens, the muscle twitching. He says nothing, but his eyes flash—and it vanishes just as quickly as it came. His grip on her arm loosens, and he turns toward the potions shelf, moving with that same cool, deliberate stride.

Without a word, he pulls a vial off one of the shelves and hands it to her.

"What is it?" Nadine asks, her voice soft and curious, though she is already guessing it might be something to help with her pain.

Severus doesn't answer, his face still a mask of indifference as he turns to his table, and begins to prepare something.

Nadine takes the vial in her hands, gazing at it for a second. Her heart feels like it is about to break open under the weight of all the unsaid things between them. She smiles faintly, a tear slipping down her cheek as she wipes it away quickly.

"Thank you." she says quietly, her voice laced with a sincere affection that she is not even aware she is showing. "Good night."

Severus doesn't look up, still focused on his work, as she slings her bag over her shoulder. Nadine hesitates for a moment, but then she turns, making her way toward the door. Brownie trots to Severus's ankles, meowing loudly and rubbing against them, purring like mad.

Severus doesn't flinch or acknowledge the cat, though his gaze flickers toward it for a brief second before he turns his attention back to his work, dismissing them both without a word. But the moment Brownie runs off to follow Nadine, he watches her exit with a slight narrowing of his eyes.

He takes a breath and stands still for a moment, waiting for the door to close. He then walks over to the table, his movements stiff, and pulls the curtains shut around the desk. With a silent sigh, he begins cleaning up.

Nadine isn't alone as she walks through the halls. Bill has quietly stepped out from a nearby corridor, joining her on the way to Gryffindor Tower. He makes her laugh despite herself, and it feels good to have someone around who isn't expecting anything from her, who just... understands. Her thumb brushes over the glass in her hands, and she smiles softly, thinking of Prince.

Chapter Text

Nadine sent a letter to Mother, carefully choosing her words to sound positive and collected. She wrote about being invited to the Slug Club dinner tonight, mentioning how honored she feels and how much she is looking forward to it. At the end, she adds a soft inquiry about Winky, Hades and Ares. She knows Father will read the letter too, so she makes sure to include that she is studying diligently and practicing Quidditch regularly, reassuring him that everything is going well.

After lunch, Nadine finds herself with a bit of free time. Cassiopeia and Seraphina are with her, and they decide to take a trip to Hogsmeade. The autumn chill nips at their cheeks as they walk down the cobblestone streets, the sky painted in muted shades of grey and soft sunlight peeking through scattered clouds. Shops line the road, their windows displaying everything from colorful sweets at Honeydukes to shimmering potion ingredients at the Apothecary. The air smells faintly of butterbeer and wood smoke, and students mill around, chatting and laughing.

As they pass the Three Broomsticks, Nadine finally decides to tell them what has been eating at her. "...and then Severus came, so I just stormed inside." she finishes, her voice low and tense, recounting the incident.

There is a tense silence before Cassiopeia stops abruptly, her grey eyes narrowing. "Those nasty little rats." she hisses, her hand twitching as if she would like to hex someone right now.

Seraphina's reaction is colder but no less furious. "They crossed a line." she mutters, voice sharp like a blade. "If they think they can just attack you and get away with it, they're gravely mistaken. I'll—"

"No." Nadine interrupts firmly, giving them both a serious look. "Don't even think about it. I don't want this spreading around or escalating. Tem doesn't know, and it's better that way. You know he'll lose it, and I don't want him getting into trouble because of me."

Cassiopeia scoffs. "We will all start a riot over this. Unbelievable."

Seraphina crosses her arms, visibly displeased. "Nadine, they attacked you. That's not something to just brush off."

Nadine takes a breath, rolling her shoulders as if to shake off the tension. "I know, but I'm not scared of them. I can handle myself. The last thing I want is for them to think I'm some helpless princess who needs protection. Besides, if Tem finds out, it'll just make the Slytherins mock me more. 'Can't fight her own battles, has to have her twin do it.'" she mimics in a bitter tone.

Cassiopeia's expression softens, though anger still lingers in her eyes. "You're not helpless, but you shouldn't have to handle everything alone."

Seraphina nods in agreement, her eyes still flickering with a dangerous glint. "I'll teach you a few spells, just in case. Something to give them a surprise if they try anything else."

Nadine smiles, grateful for their support despite her stubborn insistence on independence. "Thanks. I'd really appreciate that."

Cassiopeia gives Nadine a curious look. "Is that why you've been so stressed on Wednesday?"

Nadine sighs, running a hand through her hair. "Not completely... but it definitely added to the pain and the workload. Quidditch, classes, studying, and then dealing with them... It just piled up."

Seraphina's sharp gaze softens a bit. "You could've told us sooner."

"I know, but I really didn't want to make it a big deal." Nadine replies. "Besides, something good did come out of it." She pauses, her cheeks warming slightly. "After practice, I stayed late to study, but I ended up falling asleep. When I woke up, he was there. Severus, I mean. He was angry, obviously, but when I almost fell over, he caught me. When I told him about Quidditch, he went and got me a painkiller potion. It helped perfectly."

Cassiopeia raises an eyebrow, a knowing smirk appearing on her face. "So, he just... helped you out like that?"

Nadine nods, a small smile creeping onto her lips. "Yeah. It was unexpected, but... it was kind of nice. I think I want to give him a small gift as a thank you. Nothing too obvious, just something thoughtful. I was thinking maybe something related to Potions. But I need your help finding the right thing."

Seraphina considers this, her eyes thoughtful. "That's not a bad idea. If it's something useful, he won't be suspicious. I can help you pick something out, maybe a new set of stirring rods or a rare ingredient. I'll make sure it's something he'll actually appreciate."

Cassiopeia grins. "And I'll help you look around Hogsmeade. There's a shop near the apothecary that has interesting potion tools. I bet we'll find something there."

Nadine feels a wave of gratitude for her friends, relieved that they understand without teasing too much. "Thanks. I just... want to show him that I appreciate what he did. I didn't expect him to help me at all."

Seraphina smirks faintly. "He's not as heartless as he wants everyone to think."

Cassiopeia nudges Nadine with a wink. "Or maybe he's just a bit softer when it comes to you."

Nadine rolls her eyes but can't help the blush creeping onto her cheeks. They keep walking, the lively chatter of students around them making the atmosphere feel lighter. As they pass by a small bookshop, Seraphina points out a display of alchemical texts, and they stop to take a look, ideas forming between them as they discuss the perfect gift.

Cassiopeia points out a group of Hufflepuffs excitedly entering Scrivenshaft's, while Seraphina glances at a display of dragonhide gloves in Gladrags, remarking how they would be useful for her studies.

They eventually reach the center of the village, where a few students are gathered around a small stall selling roasted chestnuts. The warmth from the vendor's brazier drifts toward them, and Nadine can't help but smile, the comforting scent making her forget the earlier tension.

Cassiopeia nudges her lightly. "You know we've got your back, right? Even if we don't go starting fights, we're here."

Nadine nods, her heart a bit lighter. "Yeah, I know. And... I really appreciate it."

Nadine carefully selects a few high-quality potion bottles with elegant, dark glass and sturdy corks, along with a small vial of a rare ingredient: moonstone dust, known for its use in calming draughts and sleeping potions. She wraps the items in parchment to protect them and pays the shopkeeper, feeling a sense of accomplishment.

"Alright." she says with a satisfied grin, turning to her friends. "Let's get something to eat."

They head to a cozy little shop near the end of the street, where the aroma of freshly baked pies and warm, spiced pastries fills the air. Nadine insists on buying each of them a treat—pumpkin pasties for Seraphina, chocolate éclairs for Cassiopeia, and a steaming mug of hot cocoa for herself.

As they walk back toward the castle, chatting and nibbling on their snacks, Nadine suddenly stops dead in her tracks, causing Seraphina to nearly bump into her.

"What is it?" Cassiopeia asks, concerned.

Nadine's eyes widen as a realization hits her, and she groans, running a hand through her hair. "He's going to think it's a prank." she blurts out.

Cassiopeia raises an eyebrow. "Who? Severus?"

"Yes!" Nadine exclaims, looking genuinely distressed. "If I just hand it to him, he's going to think I'm up to something or trying to make fun of him. He probably won't even take it. I mean, it's me, why would he?"

Seraphina tilts her head thoughtfully. "You do have a point... He's not exactly trusting, especially when it comes to gifts."

Nadine bites her lip, the idea of Severus rejecting the present making her stomach twist uncomfortably. "I don't know how to make him see it's genuine." she admits, glancing at Seraphina. "Maybe... maybe you could give it to him? You know, just say it's from me. You're his sister. He trusts you."

Seraphina hesitates for a moment but then nods. "Alright. I can give it to him. He'll be less suspicious if it comes from me."

Relief floods Nadine's features. "Thank you. I just... I don't want him to think I'm making fun of him or something."

Seraphina rolls her eyes lightly. "You're overthinking it, but fine. I'll handle it."

Nadine pulls a small piece of parchment from her bag, along with a quill, and quickly writes a simple, neat note:
Thank you for your help the other night. I really appreciate it.
N.C.

She folds the note carefully, slipping it into the small bag. Taking a deep breath, she hands the bag to Seraphina, who tucks it safely into her own satchel.

"Thanks." Nadine mumbles, her cheeks slightly pink. "I owe you one."

Cassiopeia gives her a teasing nudge. "You owe both of us at this point."

They continue walking, the castle looming closer as the sky begins to darken. The chill in the air feels sharper, and the lights from Hogwarts' windows glow warmly against the dusk.

As they approach the entrance, Nadine pulls her cloak tighter, giving her friends grateful smiles. "I'll head to the Tower. You two going to the dungeons?"

Seraphina nods. "Yeah, I'll take care of it. You go rest, alright?"

Nadine nods, feeling more at ease now that the plan is set. As they part ways, she can't help but feel a flutter of nerves, wondering how he will react.

"What do you think?" she asks, showing Brownie the outfits laid out on her bed. Brownie meows lazily, sprawled on the soft covers, clearly uninterested in her fashion dilemma. Nadine groans, rolling her eyes.

"It's just dinner." she mutters, glancing at herself in the mirror. "I'll go with this."

She pulls on a soft, deep red sweater, the fabric cozy yet stylish, paired with a black pleated skirt that sways gently around her thighs. She slips into sheer black tights and finishes the look with classic black leather shoes similar to the Clarks style, with a thick short heel and a strap across the top.

Turning back to the mirror, Nadine takes two small sections of her hair from the front and twists them into neat, small buns on either side of her head, leaving the rest of her long, wavy hair cascading down to her waist. A touch of mascara, a bit of blush, and a light, shimmering lip gloss complete her look.

She grabs her small black bag, adjusting the strap over her shoulder, and gives herself one last glance. Brownie stretches, seemingly approving with a flick of her tail.

"Okay." Nadine says with a determined breath. "Let's do this."

She rushes downstairs, her footsteps light and quick as excitement and a hint of nerves bubble in her chest.

Remus waits near the entrance to the common room, leaning casually against the wall, his hands in the pockets of his trousers. He has chosen a simple yet put-together outfit—a soft gray, cable-knit sweater that fits snugly over his lean frame, paired with dark brown trousers and polished oxford shoes. His hair is slightly tousled, giving him a boyish charm, and his cheeks are a bit flushed, whether from the brisk walk or nerves, it is hard to tell. When Nadine approaches, his hazel eyes widen slightly, a small smile appearing on his lips.

"You look nice." he says softly, giving her an approving nod.

Nadine grins. "Thanks, you too, Remus."

Together, they walk through the halls, the soft glow of lanterns lighting their way. The castle feels quieter than usual, most students either in their common rooms or at dinner. As they approach the Slughorn's office, muffled chatter and laughter can be heard from within.

Entering the room, they find it transformed into a cozy, elegant space. The long dining table is covered with a deep emerald-green tablecloth, lined with candelabras whose flames dance warmly. Plates with golden trim sit at each setting, accompanied by polished silverware. The air is filled with the mouthwatering aroma of roasted meats, seasoned vegetables, and freshly baked bread.

Around the table, students are already seated, chatting animatedly. Seraphina sits next to Evan, her expression cool and composed, while Cassiopeia and Barty are engaged in what looks like a slightly heated but playful debate. Pandora sits next to Evan, Lily is talking animatedly to James, both of them looking rather cozy. Regulus is there too, seated between Cassiopeia and Avery, his gaze flickering across the room with mild disinterest. A few more familiar faces from different Houses complete the group.

Slughorn, dressed in an embroidered velvet waistcoat, beams as Nadine and Remus walk in. "Ah! Miss Crouch and Mr. Lupin! So glad you could join us. Take a seat, take a seat!"

They find two open spots across from Barty and Cassiopeia. As they sit down, Slughorn leans closer with an exaggerated curiosity. "You two make quite the charming pair. Are you—" he gestures vaguely, "—an item, perhaps?"

Nadine and Remus exchange a look, both slightly startled.

"Oh—no." Nadine answers quickly, a bit flustered. "We're just friends."

Remus nods in agreement, his expression calm but his cheeks a touch pink. "Yeah, just friends."

Slughorn chuckles heartily, his belly shaking. "Ah, well! Sometimes the best relationships start that way, you know. Just friends!" He winks, clearly not convinced.

As the food starts to be served, Slughorn begins his usual rounds of conversation, his booming voice drawing attention. "Miss Black!" he calls out, focusing on Cassiopeia. "Any new developments on your research? I hear you've taken quite an interest in experimental potion theory. Fascinating, truly."

Cassiopeia nods politely, her posture poised. "Yes, Professor. I'm currently examining the stability of multi-phase elixirs, particularly those that involve transformation properties. It's still in the early stages, but I'm hopeful."

Slughorn claps his hands in delight. "Brilliant, brilliant! I'm sure innovation runs in your veins."

He turns his attention to Nadine. "And what about you, Miss Crouch? Quidditch going well, I presume? Your father must be proud."

Nadine shifts slightly, managing a polite smile. "Yes, Professor. Practices have been intense, but we're doing well. I'm trying to balance it with my studies."

"Ah, balance, balance!" Slughorn muses. "And with friends like Mr. Lupin here, I'm sure you're in good hands."

Remus gives a polite smile, clearly a bit overwhelmed by the attention.

Slughorn's eyes twinkle as he looks between them again. "You Gryffindors and your spirit! Always a delight."

Nadine glances around the room, noticing the empty chair next to Slughorn. Her heart sinks a little—she was almost certain it was reserved for him. Relief and disappointment swirl in her chest, and she can't help but think that at least he isn't attending with someone else. Still, she can't help but feel a little disheartened not seeing him here.

As the conversation flows around them, Nadine tries to focus, but her mind wanders to the one person missing from the gathering. Slughorn continues to go around the table, asking students about their accomplishments and plans, his hearty laughter and occasional dramatic sighs filling the room. Nadine steals a glance at the empty chair once more, biting her lip thoughtfully.

Slughorn, still beaming, turns his full attention to Seraphina, his eyes twinkling with curiosity.

"Now, Miss Snape," he starts, folding his hands over his stomach, "you and your brother, both exceptionally talented. Does he share his experiments with you? I imagine the two of you working together would be quite the formidable pair."

Seraphina gives a polite smile. "Severus works alone most of the time. He prefers it that way. But occasionally, he shares his ideas when he's particularly stuck or wants a second opinion."

Slughorn nods appreciatively. "Ah, yes, that sounds like him. Brilliant mind, brilliant mind. You must be quite proud of him. And you yourself, Miss Snape, do you find yourself drawn to potion-making in the same way?"

Seraphina shrugs lightly. "I enjoy potions, Professor, but I don't have the same passion for it as Severus. I prefer magical creatures and dark arts."

"Ah, yes! Of course! I suppose you inherited talent from both sides of the family, hmm?" Slughorn chuckles warmly.

Barty, who had been quietly observing, shifts his gaze to Cassiopeia. His eyes soften as he watches her, a small smirk appearing on his lips when she talks with Seraphina.

Across the table, Regulus is chatting quietly with Evan and Pandora. Pandora is describing a magical creature she read about—a Mooncalf that supposedly glows pink during the full moon.

Regulus raises an eyebrow. "I'm fairly certain they're just pale blue, Pandora."

Pandora shakes her head dreamily. "No, no, it's a rare mutation! I read it in 'Magizoological Wonders.' They're supposed to bring good luck if you spot one."

Evan smirks. "Or just blind you in the dark."

Remus, intrigued, leans in slightly. "I read something similar, actually. It's debated among magizoologists whether the pink hue is a result of a dietary anomaly or a rare genetic trait. Either way, it's fascinating."

Pandora's eyes light up. "Exactly! Most people think it's just a myth."

Regulus looks skeptical but doesn't interject, while Evan just rolls his eyes. "It sounds like nonsense."

Pandora shrugs, unbothered. "Magic's full of wonders, even if not everyone believes in them."

Nadine glances around. It is nice to see everyone enjoying themselves, and for a moment, she lets herself relax. But she can't help but imagine him sitting there. Maybe they wouldn't talk much, maybe he would barely acknowledge her, but even a few exchanged words would be enough. She wonders if she could have managed to make him smile, or at least ask him how his day was. Just the thought of it brings a soft, wistful smile to her face.

Chapter Text

Her thoughts are abruptly interrupted when James leans closer, his voice cutting through the hum of conversation. "Hey, practice tomorrow at eight." he announces casually, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Nadine blinks, eyebrows knitting in confusion. "Tomorrow? But it's the weekend. We've practiced enough this week. We're all exhausted."

James scoffs, brushing off her complaint. "Yeah, well, we have a lot of things to fix. Our coordination's off, and we need to tighten our formation. We have to use all our free time if we want to stand a chance."

Her shoulders stiffen, irritation bubbling up. "Potter, people are tired. We need a break before we burn out completely. We have more than a month."

He raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Oh, come on. Don't be dramatic. Everyone already agreed to it. You're the only one with a problem."

Nadine's eyes narrow, heat rising in her chest. "Maybe they agreed because you pressured them into it! You act like we're professionals training for the World Cup. It's just a school match, and we're students, we have other things to do too! You can practice by yourself."

James huffs, his jaw tightening. "It's not just a school match, Crouch. It's Gryffindor's pride on the line. You know how important this is. If you can't keep up, maybe you should rethink your priorities."

Her eyes flash with frustration, voice rising slightly. "Keep up? Unlike you, I actually care about the team's well-being! We've been up at the crack of dawn, running drills until we can barely move. If I didn't get that painkiller from—" She stops herself, realizing she nearly mentioned Severus, and quickly diverts. "If I hadn't managed to deal with the pain, I'd still be barely able to move today. You're not considering the toll it's taking on everyone."

James crosses his arms, glaring. "Maybe you're just not tough enough for it. Everyone else seems to be handling it fine. It's always been like this. I'm not about to lose just because some people are too soft."

Her hands curl into fists, trying to keep her voice steady and low. "I'm not soft, Potter. I just know that pushing people past their limits doesn't make them better players, it just makes them injured or too tired to think straight. You're going to end up with half the team too worn out to even stay on their brooms!"

James's face hardens, eyes flashing with stubborn pride. "I'm the Captain, and it's my call. If you don't like it, maybe you should sit out. We'll see how well Gryffindor does without one of its Chasers. I can replace you."

Nadine grits her teeth, biting back a retort. Instead, she takes a breath, trying to stay calm. "I'm not saying don't practice. I'm saying we should be smarter about it. Two days a week instead of every bloody day. Give people time to recover."

James's glare sharpens, and Nadine doesn't back down, meeting his stubbornness with her own. The tension between them thickens, and neither seems willing to concede.

"You just don't get it, do you?" James scoffs, crossing his arms. "Maybe you're just not as dedicated as you think."

Nadine's jaw clenches, anger flaring in her chest. "Really? You're not used to anyone challenging you, are you? You're so used to people just doing whatever you say because you've always gotten away with it. No one's ever bothered to tell you when you're being pushy and arrogant."

James's eyes widen in disbelief, as if no one has ever dared to speak to him that way. The room falls silent, attention turning to them now as the tension rises. Lily furrows her brows and reaches out to touch James's arm. "James, calm down. You're overreacting."

He shakes her off, his gaze still fixed on Nadine. "No, Lily, I'm not overreacting. I'm just trying to get through to her that Quidditch takes commitment. She's acting like a brat because she doesn't want to put in the work."

Nadine's temper flares even hotter. "A brat? Why you—" Her fingers tighten painfully around her fork. She leans back, tilting her chin up. "Fine. As you wish, Captain."

The room is now fully focused on them, the previous lighthearted conversations forgotten. Remus shifts in his seat, his voice calm but firm. "Nadine, just... take a breath, alright? Let's not make a scene."

But Nadine has had enough. Her cheeks are flushed, and her hands are shaking with frustration. She abruptly stands, the chair scraping the floor loudly, and looks around at the startled faces. "Excuse me." she says, voice tight and controlled. "I need to use the lavatory."

Without waiting for a response, she turns on her heel and walks out, head held high, even though her heart pounds in her chest. As she leaves the room, she can feel every eye on her, the weight of the tension pressing down on her shoulders. The hallway outside feels quieter, calmer, but her mind still races, anger and hurt twisting together in her chest.

Nadine splashes cool water on her face, letting it drip down her cheeks as she leans on the sink, gripping the edges tightly. She stares at her reflection, trying to steady her breathing. She doesn't want to cause a scene or make anyone think she is giving up on Quidditch. It is one of the few things that makes her feel alive and free, but James is pushing too hard. They have already practiced enough for the week, and forcing more when the team is exhausted will only make things worse. Why can't he see that? Why is he always so damn stubborn, like he knows best and no one else's opinion matters?

After a few moments, she finally feels her heartbeat slow. Nadine straightens, fixes her hair and make-up, and takes a deep breath.

At first, she walks toward Slughorn's office, considering returning, but her feet hesitate. Instead, her legs seem to pull her in a different direction, down the familiar path to the classroom. Nadine's heart picks up as she wonders if he is there. She reaches the door, hesitating before pushing it open just a crack.

The room is dimly lit, and she spots him instantly—sitting at his desk, hunched over some parchment, his quill scratching furiously against the paper. A small smile pulls at her lips as she slips inside quietly, careful not to make too much noise. She approaches slowly, not wanting to startle him, and takes a seat at one of the desks near his, folding her hands on the wooden surface.

He doesn't look up immediately, but his posture stiffens, sensing her presence. Finally, he glances up, his eyes narrowing when he sees her. "What do you want?" he mutters, his tone flat and edged with annoyance, before looking back down at his work.

Nadine bites her lip to hide a smile. "I'll leave." she says softly. "I just... needed to come here for a moment."

He doesn't respond, merely scribbling something with more force than necessary, the quill scratching harshly. Nadine watches him, her gaze soft, tracing the familiar lines of his profile. Even irritated, he looks so... calm, in his own way.

"Shouldn't you be at the dinner?" she ventures, hoping to get more than a grunt from him.

He doesn't even glance up. "I have better things to do than waste my time listening to Slughorn's drivel."

Nadine hums in agreement. "Honestly, I wish I didn't go either. It's all just... I don't know. People talking about themselves."

She fidgets with her sleeve, letting the words tumble out without much thought, just needing to speak. "And Potter's being impossible. Like, he doesn't listen to anyone else's opinions. Just because he's the Captain doesn't mean he knows everything. It's exhausting."

Still no response. Nadine sighs, leaning back. "By the way... Are the bottles decent?" She swallows nervously.

He doesn't look at her as he replies bluntly, "I threw them away."

Nadine's eyes widen, her heart seeming to stop for a moment. "What?" she breathes out, disbelief coating her words.

Severus finally puts his quill down, turning to face her fully. His eyes are sharp, almost piercing as they lock onto hers. "I will repeat myself one more time, Crouch." he says, his voice low and firm. "I do not wish nor need anything from you. Your tricks don't work on me, and I would appreciate it if you kept your distance."

Nadine blinks, struggling to process his words, her throat tightening. "But... they weren't tricks. I just wanted to thank you. Phina helped me choose. I didn't mean any harm." she starts, her voice softer than usual, trying to make him understand.

He scoffs, his expression hardening. "You shouldn't involve Seraphina in your schemes. She doesn't need to be dragged into whatever game you're playing."

Nadine's brows knit together, the sadness in her chest shifting to a flicker of frustration. "She's my friend." she states firmly. "She chooses her own friends too. I'm not forcing anyone into anything. I just wanted to thank you because... because your potion helped. A lot. I mean no harm, I swear."

Severus's lips press into a thin line, his jaw tense. "I don't need your money, your gifts, or anything else from you. Nor do I need to owe you anything." he retorts, his tone cold and dismissive.

Nadine shakes her head slowly, trying to keep her voice calm despite the growing ache inside her. "It wasn't about money or owing anything. I just... I owe you. You didn't have to help me, but you did. And I'm sorry if you didn't like the gift."

For a moment, Severus seems caught off guard, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. His fingers flex against the desk, and for a split second, the tension in his shoulders seems to waver. But then he straightens, his expression hardening once more.

"Don't waste your time on pointless sentiments, Crouch." he snaps, but his voice lacks the usual bite. "I have no use for them."

Nadine's shoulders drop slightly, her heart sinking, but she forces a small, sincere smile. "I wasn't trying to trick you or anything. I just wanted to show my gratitude. That's all."

Severus glances away, lips pressed tightly together, as if not trusting himself to respond. Nadine watches him quietly, sadness mingling with something softer—understanding. Despite his harsh words, she knows there is more to him than this cold, guarded front. He is just... not used to being treated with kindness.

Nadine takes a slow breath, noticing the scattered parchment and the cauldron simmering on his desk. She hesitates before speaking again.

"Do you... need help with that? Or with cleaning up?" she offers, her voice gentle and tentative.

Severus's eyes snap back to her, his glare cutting through the air between them. "And allow you to make an even bigger mess? Stay out of my business." he snaps.

Nadine rolls her eyes, unfazed by his hostility, and stands up, stretching her arms above her head. A wince passes over her face as the soreness in her muscles flares up again. "Alright, Prince, I get it. You're the master of organization and efficiency. No one can possibly reach your standards."

"Do not call me that." he says and huffs dismissively, turning his focus back to his notes, but Nadine doesn't leave. Instead, she takes a slow lap around the classroom, rolling her shoulders and trying to shake off the stiffness.

She starts rambling softly, half to herself, half to fill the silence. "Yeah, yeah. You know, I never thought I'd end up in Slughorn's little group. He's got this weird way of bringing people together. I wanted to be a part of it, you know, to show off to my Father and all. And hey, it's not the worst. Remus actually looked like he was enjoying himself. Oh, and Pandora was talking about some creature that, apparently, turns pink and brings luck. I can't decide if that's fascinating or just plain weird."

Severus doesn't respond, but his quill pauses briefly, just the faintest hint that he is listening despite himself. Nadine stretches her arms behind her back, leaning over one of the desks.

"Honestly, I'd rather be here than there. Quidditch practice tomorrow. Again. You'd think we're training for some international tournament. My legs burn when I want to sit down."

She lets out a small laugh, her lips quirking up at the thought, but quickly covers it with a cough.

"I do not care." Severus grumbles.

"Anyway, they were talking about you. Slughorn's interested in Phina's talents, interrogating her about her family and specialization. Cass is focused on some project. She really loves Potioneering. I'm glad she's learning from you."

His quill scratches against the parchment again, faster this time, as if trying to drown out her voice. Nadine doesn't seem to notice, wandering to a shelf and examining a dusty old jar of dried roots. "You're not listening to me at all, are you?"

Severus doesn't bother looking up. "If your intent is to drown me in pointless chatter, you're succeeding." he mutters.

Nadine grins, finally plopping down at a nearby desk, still watching him. "You know, for someone who hates people, you spend a lot of time around them. I guess you're just... drawn to chaos. Must be why you tolerate me being here."

His hand stills, and he gives her a sidelong glare. "I do not tolerate you. You just refuse to leave."

Nadine laughs softly, ignoring the slight sting of his words. "Maybe. Or maybe you just like the company, even if you won't admit it. You don't scare me, Prince. I've seen worse."

Severus shakes his head in irritation. "You're exhausting." he says lowly.

Nadine leans back, stretching her legs out and sighing contentedly. "Good. I'd hate to be boring. I'm quite charming, or so I've been told."

Severus exhales through his nose. "By who? Other delusional Gryffindors?"

Nadine rolls her eyes dramatically, dragging her fingers along the edge of a table. "Actually, a few Slytherins too. But I'll keep their names to myself. Can't have you cursing your own housemates for being fond of me."

He scoffs quietly. Nadine sidles closer, peering over his shoulder. "What's that you're working on? A love letter? Potions masterpiece? A diary?"

Severus tenses, pulling the parchment closer. "None of your concern."

She hums thoughtfully. "So mysterious. You know, Prince, if you're writing a love confession, you could just hand it over."

He shoots her a glare, finally looking up. "Unlike you, I don't waste time on frivolities."

Nadine smirks, leaning a bit closer. "Who says love is frivolous? You just haven't met someone interesting enough to make it worth your time."

He turns back to his work without replying, but Nadine notices his grip on the quill tighten. She leans casually against the desk, glancing at his notes. "You know, you've got really neat handwriting. It suits you. Precise, elegant... intimidating."

Severus glances at her from the corner of his eye, clearly suspicious of her compliment. "Is there a point to your incessant rambling?"

She grins, leaning closer so her shoulder almost brushes his. "Maybe I just like talking to you. You're a good listener, even if you pretend not to be."

He lets out a long, suffering sigh. "You must truly be desperate for attention."

Nadine's response comes quickly, her eyes glinting with playful mischief. "For yours, yes."

Severus freezes for a moment, his hand hovering over the parchment, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. His gaze flickers from the paper to her, as if trying to decipher whether she is joking or if there is some truth behind her words.

"You've got a very strange way of seeking attention." he mutters, his voice low and guarded. His fingers twitch, as though he is willing himself not to react further.

Nadine just smiles, and leans casually on the desk beside him, her voice soft but teasing. "What can I say? You're just... irresistible, Prince."

His jaw clenches as he looks up again, his expression unreadable. "It's Assistant Snape for you. And you'd do well to stop before you make yourself more of a nuisance." His tone is biting, but there is a trace of something else in it—something almost like... amusement?

She tilts her head, studying him with a playful smile that could almost be mistaken for fondness. "Is that a compliment? Because I'm pretty sure you just admitted that I'm irresistible."

Severus scoffs, his gaze turning back to his notes, clearly trying to regain control of the situation. "Hardly."

Nadine giggles, smoothing down her skirt. "You say that now, but I know deep down you appreciate it." She gives him one last lingering look, her smile warm but tinged with mischief.

"Well, I'll leave you to your work, then." she says, her tone suddenly turning sweet but with an underlying sense of finality. "And good night, Prince."

Before he can respond, Nadine spins on her heel and heads for the door, her steps light and carefree as she exits the room. She doesn't bother to meet anyone else as she walks down the hallway, the corners of her lips curving up into a satisfied smile.

Chapter Text

The walls of the dueling practice room hum with residual magic, scarred from years of spellfire, and faint torchlight flickers across polished stone, casting long shadows around the group scattered across the floor. A handful of cushions sit in a pile in the corner, discarded after warmups, and the air is thick with anticipation and the sharp, pleasant scent of magic.

"You sure you don't want me to—" Barty begins from where he leans casually against the wall, arms crossed, his wand lazily twirling between his fingers.

"No." Nadine replies without even turning to look at him, pacing in slow circles.

"Not even a tiny hex?" he pushes, grinning in that way he does when he is already imagining it—something dramatic and mildly illegal.

Nadine spins on her heel, pointing a finger at him. "No, no, and no. It was nothing. Just leave it alone. I don't need a Howler from Father because you decided to go full Crouch-mode, and I especially don't need them messing with you for any reason."

Barty scoffs, standing straighter. "Please. Those clowns wouldn't land a single hit. I could duel him blindfolded. With my left hand."

"With one leg tied behind your back?" Evan asks dryly, perched on a bench, twirling his wand like a knife.

Cassiopeia, lounging elegantly beside him, flips her dark hair off her shoulder and smirks. "He'd still win."

"Well we can land hits." Seraphina cuts in, rising from where she is seated on a bench beside Pandora and Bill. Her green robes shimmer faintly as she stands, wand already in hand. "Frankly, I'd like to turn Potter into a pincushion."

Pandora, her chin resting on her hand, smiles dreamily. "Or a flobberworm. Something squishy and quiet."

Bill snorts. "I vote for a chicken. It's been done, sure, but it never gets old."

Cassiopeia nods with exaggerated elegance. "Seconded. Chicken's classic."

"I said no!" Nadine shouts over them all, raising her hands. "It was just a dramatic argument! A Quidditch disagreement, not a duel to the death. I can handle it. Now can we practice?"

Seraphina raises a brow, but shrugs off her concern with a grin, taking a step toward the dueling ring. "Alright. But I'm starting light." she says, sliding into a practiced stance. "I want to see if you can actually deflect without turning into a pancake."

"Appreciated." Nadine mutters, stepping into place, squaring her shoulders, and giving Barty a pointed glare before lifting her wand.

"I'll rate your form." Evan adds lazily. "Out of ten. If you end up face-first, it's an automatic six."

"That's generous." Cassiopeia murmurs. "I was thinking four."

"Thanks for the support." Nadine deadpans, adjusting her stance. "Let's go, Phina."

Seraphina wastes no time. With a flick of her wrist, a golden bolt of light shoots toward Nadine. She tries to deflect but reacts a split second too late—she ducks instead, the spell sizzling over her head and hitting the stone behind her with a crack.

"Woah!" she yelps, nearly falling to her knees. "Light, huh? That was light?"

"Sweetheart, that was polite." Seraphina replies, already aiming another.

"Protego—!" Nadine starts, but the second bolt clips her shoulder and spins her sideways. She stumbles and ends up crouched like a startled cat, her hair in her face.

"Graceful." Pandora murmurs, sipping from a butterbeer bottle.

"That's a five." Evan calls.

"I'm starting to feel personally attacked." Nadine shouts, shaking her hair out of her face, but she is smiling now.

Seraphina laughs and fires another—but Nadine is ready this time. She blocks it cleanly with a confident swipe of her wand.

"There we go." Bill cheers from the sidelines. "Right in the center."

"She just needed to get mad enough." Cassiopeia observes.

"Oh, don't worry." Nadine mutters, aiming her wand with dramatic flair. "I'm getting there."

The next exchange is chaotic—spells fly back and forth in bursts of color, Nadine leaping and occasionally shrieking with unfiltered panic.

"Seraphina! That was not light!"

"You're crouching again, Nadine." Evan calls out helpfully.

"It's defensive!"

"It's embarrassing!" Cassiopeia counters.

At one point, a spell flies wide and smacks into a cushion pile, setting one aflame. Barty lifts a brow. "Need help now?"

"I SAID NO!"

The duel finally ends with Nadine jumping sideways, squeaking loudly as a blue spark barely misses her ear and sends her toppling into Pandora's lap.

Pandora just pats her head. "You did fine, like a nimble porlock."

"I don't even know what that is."

"They're skittish little creatures. Very elusive."

"Fabulous. That's me now."

Seraphina walks over, offering her a hand. "Alright, Crouchling. Not awful. Let's work on your deflects before we start throwing real spells."

Nadine grabs her hand and hauls herself up, still breathless, cheeks pink, laughing. "Fine. But no more sneak attacks or I will retaliate."

"I'm counting on it." Seraphina says with a wicked grin.

From his spot against the wall, Barty claps slowly. "Bravo. That was entertaining."

Nadine throws a cushion at him. He dodges without moving.

The fire crackles, laughter bubbles around the room, and for a moment, everything feels right again—even if just for now.

They have been practicing for over an hour now, but the atmosphere is far from tense. The floor is a little scorched in spots, a couple stray spark trails still drifting in the air, but everyone is either laughing or catching their breath with flushed cheeks and glowing eyes. The atmosphere is competitive, chaotic, warm—just how Nadine likes it.

She and Barty stand across from each other in one round, wands up. He is cocky as ever, smirking like he is about to destroy her but not truly trying to. She huffs and rolls her eyes. "Go easy."

"No promises, sister."

They duel fast and messy—Nadine's reflexes are sharp, and Barty is impressed when she disarms him once. Evan snorts from the sidelines, then steps in to show her a trickier incantation, one he claims he only teaches people he fancies. She grins.

Later, Seraphina steps forward. "Okay, Nadine. This one's serious." Her tone is playfully dramatic but edged with sincerity. "You only use this if someone's really asking for it. Life-or-death, or if someone hexes your hair off."

Nadine listens carefully, watches her best friend's elegant wand movement, and repeats it with surprising grace. The spell sends a dazzling, twisting burst of light into the far wall. The others whistle. Barty grins with a raised brow. "Didn't know you had that in you."

Nadine mock-curtsies. "You know I'm full of surprises, Tem."

From across the room, Pandora lets out a dreamy sigh and lowers her wand. "I have to go meet Xenophilius." she says gently, brushing ash from her sleeve.

Evan frowns immediately, muttering under his breath to Barty, "Still not sure I trust that freak." Barty smirks, clearly in agreement but too focused on not getting hit by a wayward spell from Nadine to comment.

Pandora glides toward the door, her hand already halfway inside her bag for a scarf. She opens it and pauses with a soft, melodic: "Hello, Reg." Then she vanishes around the corner.

In walk Regulus and Amycus.

It is like the temperature of the room drops three degrees. Amycus's trademark smug smirk spreads instantly as his eyes drag over Nadine's form. She stiffens instinctively. Seraphina shifts beside her, wand still in her palm.

But Amycus doesn't linger. He walks straight to Cassiopeia with a false gallantry in his steps. "Good evening, Cassiopeia. Walk with me?" he says silkily.

Cassiopeia narrows her eyes at him, but nods slowly, as if only to avoid a scene. Barty, meanwhile, looks ready to attack. His jaw is clenched so tightly his molars might crack. His wand hand twitches, but Evan grabs his sleeve tightly and pulls him back just a hair.

"Let's go." Regulus says firmly, eyes moving to the three of them. "Now."

His tone doesn't invite questions. Evan gives Amycus one final glare that could melt bone, then turns, dragging Barty with him. Barty looks over his shoulder as they go, his eyes on Cassiopeia. Pure steel. Disguised emotions.

Regulus pauses just before walking out. His eyes scan the room, cool and unreadable—until they reach Seraphina. His gaze lingers a second too long.

Then he disappears after the others.

"I'll go too. See you, ladies." Bill grabs his jacket and waves before leaving.

Only Nadine and Seraphina remain.

They stare at the door in silence for a few beats, then turn to each other. Seraphina lifts an eyebrow. Nadine gives an exasperated sigh and shrugs.

"Well." Nadine mutters, brushing her hair out of her face. "That escalated."

Seraphina grins, flicks her wand, and lazily levitates a scorched pillow across the room. "Just another normal day with the Slytherin circus."

They burst out laughing.

Nadine throws her bag over her shoulder, eyes still flicking to the door as if she might catch a glimpse of Cassiopeia storming back in. But the hall is quiet. No shouting. No alarms.

She sighs. "I'm worried for Cass."

Seraphina nods as they fall into step, the echo of their boots trailing down the dim hallway. "Me too. But she'll tell us if something's wrong. She always does. You know how she gets when she doesn't."

"That's exactly why I'm worried." Nadine mutters, glancing sideways. "Carrow's a git. I know he can't actually do anything, not with Regulus and Tem breathing down his neck, but still. He always finds some slimy way to make people uncomfortable."

"Yeah. He's a cockroach in human skin."

They share a dry laugh, though it fades quickly. The hallway narrows, walls dripping with condensation, torches flickering low. They reach the split. Nadine slows a little, not quite ready to part ways just yet.

She glances over. "You alright though? You managing everything? Studying, practices... your parents?"

Seraphina hesitates just a beat too long.

Nadine catches it. "Phina?"

Seraphina sighs, her smile faltering as she pulls her robe tighter around her. "It's alright. I mean—it's not good, but it's alright."

Nadine frowns, worried. "Has something else happened?"

They slow their pace, footsteps a bit softer now, as if walking through the weight of the conversation.

Seraphina's voice lowers. "You know the story. She finally left him. I thought it'd feel better when she did. Like we could move on. But it doesn't work like that. What happened—what he did—doesn't just vanish."

Nadine nods, lips pressed tight.

"I can still hear him shouting sometimes." Seraphina continues, eyes ahead but unfocused. "Even here. It's like... the house was sick with it. Mum would cover my ears with her hands and say it was fine, but it wasn't. She had bruises for days, Nadine. Weeks. And now she's alone and... I'm here and I can't do anything."

Nadine reaches out, looping their arms. "You are doing something. You're here. Studying. Training. Building a life without him in it."

Seraphina exhales slowly, like the weight on her chest is too big to carry but lighter when shared.

"I know." she whispers. "I just wish she could do the same. I think... I think she still loves him in some twisted way. Or she's scared to stop."

They walk in silence for a few more steps. Torchlight flickers over the curve of Seraphina's cheek, catching the sheen in her eyes.

"I hate that he made her feel small." Seraphina says suddenly, voice edged now. "She was always so smart, you know? She taught me how to read before I went to school. She used to sing to the radio while she cooked. And then he came home and everything just—shrank."

Nadine squeezes her arm. "She'll grow again. You all will. And he's not here to stop it anymore."

Seraphina nods, and her smile returns, softer now. "You're a good friend, Nadine."

"Don't go getting sappy on me now." Nadine teases with a small smirk. "I still need to kick your arse in the next practice round."

"You wish." Seraphina says, rolling her eyes.

They come to a stop in the middle of the hall, the quiet hum of the castle surrounding them. The dim torchlight flickers around them, casting long shadows against the stone walls as Nadine pauses, her gaze drawn to the floor. Her voice is softer than before, quieter, as she turns to Seraphina.

"Phina, do you think Severus is okay? I mean... with everything that's happened?" Nadine's eyes are filled with a mix of concern and uncertainty, the weight of her question heavy on her tongue.

Seraphina stops too, her footsteps slowing to a halt. She rubs the back of her neck and exhales slowly, considering the question before answering. Her gaze flickers to the stone floor, as though she is weighing whether to say what she knows or hold it back.

"He doesn't talk about it much, you know that. Sev keeps most things to himself." Seraphina starts, her voice almost a whisper as she looks at Nadine. "But from what I've gathered... he doesn't care much about it now. Not about her, not about what happened. He's numb to it, I think."

Nadine listens intently, her heart sinking a little at the thought. Severus is always so hard to read, guarded, careful with what he reveals.

Seraphina's face hardens slightly, her expression darkening. "He says she should've done it sooner. Just... left him earlier. Not dragged all of us through that suffering. And I get it." she says, her eyes meeting Nadine's now, full of understanding, "I mean, he suffered too, right? He suffered more than anyone could ever know. But he's twisted by it. He doesn't feel the way people expect him to feel about it, I guess."

Nadine's brow furrows. She wants to say something, to make it all make sense, but she can't.

"So he thinks she should've just... stopped it all sooner?" Nadine asks, her voice breaking slightly.

"Yes." Seraphina replies, her voice lower now, full of resignation. "He told me once that the only thing she did right was leaving him. And that was a long time coming. Everything else? He doesn't care about that anymore. He's spent too many years in that house, too many years trying to survive it. More than I did. I was home only for summer. Now, he just... doesn't let himself feel the way anyone else thinks he should."

Nadine bites her lip, staring at Seraphina, trying to process what she has just heard. Her heart aches for Severus, in a way that she hadn't quite understood before. He has carried all that pain inside, all that resentment, and for what? To be numb? To feel nothing?

"But how does he really feel? I mean, deep down." Nadine presses, her eyes narrowing slightly, trying to push for more.

Seraphina lets out a long, heavy breath, her expression torn. "I don't think anyone really knows. Severus has built walls so thick around himself that even his closest friends can't figure out what's inside. But I think, deep down... he just wants it to be over. The pain. The anger. He's spent so much of his life trying to prove himself, trying to make up for everything that happened to him, and now that it's all done, he's left with a hollow space where everything used to hurt."

Nadine swallows hard, her chest tightening at the thought. She wants to reach out to him, to break through those walls, but how can she when he won't even let anyone see what is behind them?

"That's awful." Nadine murmurs, her voice thick with empathy. "He doesn't deserve to feel like that. But I get why he would... he's been through so much. You both have."

Seraphina shrugs slightly, her gaze flickering away. "We all have, haven't we? We can't undo the past. We can only try to move on. But Severus? I think he shuts himself off without meaning to. Even from his own thoughts—like he's afraid to see things differently. And as his sister, I remind him. I stand with him. I understand him. Especially when it comes to how he sees Mum."

"But as a woman... as her daughter," she continues, smiling briefly, her voice softer now, edged with something unspoken. "I can't pretend I understand it the same way. I can't imagine how heavy it must have been—how impossible—to live with someone like that."

She doesn't say the name. She never did. Not out of fear, but from a deliberate refusal to dignify it. Tobias is not a father in any meaningful sense of the word.

"Well, he doesn't have to, right? Not if he's not ready." Nadine says softly, stepping closer to Seraphina. She understands very well. "But that doesn't mean I can't help him. We can all help him, in our own way."

Seraphina looks at her, a flicker of something like hope crossing her face, though it is quickly masked by her usual guardedness. "Yeah. I guess you're right."

They stand there for a moment, both lost in their thoughts, before Nadine lets out a sigh. "It's just not fair." she murmurs, almost to herself. "That people get so broken, and it's not their fault. But they still have to deal with it all."

"I know." Seraphina replies softly. "But we don't have to deal with it alone."

Nadine smiles faintly, glancing over at her best friend. "No. We don't."

They share a brief, quiet moment, before Seraphina turns her head toward the end of the hall. "Anyway," she says, shaking her head. "enough of that. We'll figure it out. One day at a time, right?"

"Right." Nadine agrees, offering a genuine smile. "One day at a time."

Chapter Text

Summoned by their Captain, the Slytherin team gathers near the hearth of their common room, the low crackling of fire inviting them in. The timing had been chosen carefully—just late enough that most students have retreated to their dormitories, ensuring minimal interruption.

The Slytherin common room lays deep beneath the Black Lake, cloaked in cool shadows and quiet elegance. Its stone walls are dark and smooth, veined with green and silver, graced with reflections from the lake's watery light through thick, enchanted windows. Lanterns hang low from serpent-shaped sconces, flickering with a soft, warm glow. It is spacious but intimate, with arched ceilings and long, emerald velvet couches arranged around low tables, perfect for private conversations or silent studying.

Bookshelves line the walls in order, holding ancient tomes and worn journals, some locked, some whispering softly when passed. A grand, marble fireplace crackles steadily at the far end of the room, its silver and green flames casting dancing shadows.

"Took you a while. Getting close with the Gryffindors, I see." Avery snarks, leaning back into the couch, one arm crossed while the other idly plays at his lip, eyes flicking between Evan and Seraphina.

"You know—keep your friends close, and your enemies closer... or whatever." Evan replies casually, brushing off the tension with ease. It is the kind of half-answer Avery might tolerate—just enough sarcasm to match the mood.

Seraphina simply sighs, choosing her seat on the opposite side of Regulus, who sits with his back unnaturally straight.

"As I was saying," Regulus begins, voice cool and clipped. "Vanity is absent from this meeting for a reason. She had an accident and will not be participating in training or matches until further notice."

His gaze sweeps the team. Some wear confusion; others annoyance. Evan and Seraphina exchange glances—concerned more for Emma herself than the implications for the team—but they say nothing.

"In her absence, she'll be replaced by Amycus Carrow." Regulus continues, pausing intentionally—waiting for the inevitable protest from the one and only.

"You cannot be serious." Seraphina says sharply, her hands braced against her knees. "That'll be our Chaser? Absolutely not." Her voice is controlled, but the disdain is unmistakable.

"He's..." Evan begins cautiously, choosing his words. "Don't you think he's a bit hard to rely on?"

The team doesn't need reminding of the Carrow twins' volatility—everyone knows their temper is as unstable as their allegiances.

"So he's unpleasant." Avery chimes in, amused. "Doesn't mean he's unreliable."

"It wasn't Regulus's first choice." Lucinda adds gently. "Specializations don't leave much room for most students, and he was present for tryouts. He's... supported the team before." Her tone is diplomatic, carefully neutral—clearly avoiding setting off Seraphina further.

"It's temporary." Regulus adds. "A few weeks. Nothing more. When Vanity returns, he's off."

"A few weeks is unacceptable." Seraphina shoots back. "His temper's unchecked. He picks fights without reason. And as a Prefect, you know—"

"I am aware." Regulus cuts in sharply, meeting her gaze with a cold flicker. He does know. He knows what Carrows did to Crouch. "He also understands Quidditch, and the only reason he wasn't chosen before was because I had someone better and his Ministry internship interfered."

Seraphina stiffens, seething just beneath the surface. "I will not call him a teammate after what he and his deranged sister attempted to do my friend. Don't be ridiculous."

"Ah, conflict of interest!" Avery grins, mockingly triumphant. "Who could've predicted?"

"Avery." Evan snaps, his voice low but firm. "Zip it. Respectfully."

Avery raises his hands in surrender, lips still curled into a smirk. He doesn't have much affection towards the Carrows either, but he is also loyal to Regulus and his decisions.

"No one supports his outburst." Lucinda offers, trying to mediate. "We can't vouch for Alecto. But... our options are limited, and he fits the need—just for now."

"He'll be watched." Evan adds, his hand landing gently on Seraphina's shoulder. His touch is reassuring. "I don't like it either. But if we must..."

"No." Seraphina says, her voice cutting through him. "I'd rather drop dead than play nice with that lunatic. Or we find someone else. That works f—"

But Regulus stands abruptly, and in an unexpected motion, grabs her by the wrist, leading her away into the secluded alcove of the common room's small, stone-walled library.

"Cozy." she mutters, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

"Enough." he whispers, stepping closer though they are already out of earshot. His voice is low, controlled, but carries more heat than usual. "I don't need this tantrum from you right now. It's not productive. And it won't change my decision."

"Tantrum?" she echoes. "I thought we were allowed to disagree. Or are we not pretending this is a team anymore?"

Regulus's eyes narrow. "Must you always defy me? What for? I'm not interested in your defiance, or your bitterness over something unrelated to Quidditch." His jaw is tense, brows furrowed.

"He's a lunatic, Black. He attacked Nadine. This isn't about Quidditch—it's about loyalty." she hisses. "Carrows are bullies, and you know it."

Regulus exhales sharply, brushing a few curls behind his ear. Seraphina follows the motion, a quiet feeling arising in her chest.

"Avery was right." he says, tiredly. "It's a conflict of interest. If you can't control that, you become the problem."

Seraphina scoffs. "Avery was right? What are you, his lapdog now?"

"Enough." he says, chin lifting just slightly, his gaze bearing down on her.

She exhales. "Is this truly the only option?"

"Yes." he answers after a pause. His voice is softer now, lighter version of the commanding tone. "I don't like it. But he'll be watched. Controlled. We all agreed."

Leaning back against the stone, Seraphina sighs. "If there's even the slightest issue," she says, pinching her fingers together to show the tiniest gap, "I'll curse him into oblivion."

Regulus says nothing. But a faint curve—barely there—touches the corner of his mouth before he wipes it away.

"I won't allow foul behavior on this team—from anyone." he adds quietly. "If that's enough to ease your fury, take it."

They stand in silence for a moment, both stealing glances when the other isn't looking.

"You haven't answered me." he says at last.

"Answered what?"

"What is this need to object to everything I do as Captain?"

Seraphina tilts her head, a slow smile forming as she bites her lower lip. "Maybe it's because you're so sweet and approachable. Not at all ruthless or egotistical."

His eyes narrow, not in anger, it is expected. And yet, he says nothing.

Then, with quiet precision, he leans in just slightly—enough that his voice drops into something lower.

"If I were truly ruthless, Snape," he says, gaze fixed on hers. "you would've been benched for insubordination ten minutes ago."

There is no bite in his voice. Only the blunt edge of honesty—controlled, deliberate.

"But I haven't." he adds after a pause, straightening up again, posture resettling into that ever-familiar, composed stance. "Make of that what you will."

Without another word, he turns back toward the common room, the flickering green fire casting long shadows ahead of him.

Seraphina follows, expression unreadable now—but quieter, the fight momentarily paused.

She would be lying if she claims the conversation had left her unmoved. It isn't just about the argument anymore—not entirely. She reprimanded herself for the way she had looked at him, for the flicker of something unfamiliar and unwelcome bubbling beneath the surface. Still, she returns to her seat and folds her hands quietly, masking any trace of the storm within as the meeting continued.

"It's solved." Regulus announces coldly, standing at the center of the group with his usual air of authority.

"If he causes trouble, he's off. That rule applies to everyone. I do not tolerate stupidity, tantrums—and I certainly do not entertain attitudes. If you are unable to control yourself, I do not require your services any longer."

"Tamed the beast, did ya?" Avery grins, eyes flicking to Seraphina as he winks.

Her expression twists into immediate, visible disgust.

Regulus shoots Avery a sharp, warning stare. Then, almost imperceptibly, his gaze flicks back to Seraphina. A nod. Not quite a gesture of alliance. But something close enough to peace.

"Piss off, mate." Evan mutters at Avery, rolling his eyes. "I'll personally make sure Carrow's outbursts are under control."

With that, the meeting comes to an end, finally reaching consensus. Regulus dismisses them all with a simple wave of his hand before heading straight to his dormitory. The others follow suit, conversations low and fragmented as they filter out.

Seraphina, however, lingers. She remains curled on the couch, posture no longer tense, her mind replaying the meeting—though not for the tactics or the team. It is Regulus she keeps circling back to.

Ugh, she thinks, eyes narrowing at the dying green flames. She isn't about to let her thoughts wander further. Not tonight.

Without another word, she finally rises and makes her way to bed.

The Great Hall has been lively, filled with the familiar hum of students and clunks of cutlery, ready to take on a new day. Outside, the sun bathes the grounds in golden light, soon to be scattered with wandering students headed to class or Quidditch practice.

Nadine sits contentedly at the Gryffindor table, nestled between Remus and Bill, her teammates not far off. Even without turning, she can hear James and Sirius wrapped up in one of their usual animated debates—loud, unnecessary, yet somehow always entertaining. Peter jokes and chuckles along with Gideon nearby, while Marlene fusses over a fresh pumpkin juice stain on her robes.

Nadine's hair has been styled with care that morning, like every other—two braids twisted into an elegant updo, secured by an antique pin Mother had gifted her for her birthday. Though Hogwarts uniforms offer little room for flair and personal expression, Nadine added her own touch: a small pink butterfly pin fastened neatly to her robe pocket.

She meant to sit with her girls, but Seraphina and Cassiopeia are caught up in conversation with other Slytherins. Nadine hesitated to approach the Slytherin table so early in the day. It isn't fear—just a desire for convenience and a peaceful breakfast.

One of the unspoken rules both she and Barty have to live by is staying under the radar—quietly overachieving in every aspect of their education and work. Less dramatics, more discipline. It is the only way to avoid the weight of Father's disapproval, or at the very least, to keep his backlash to a minimum.

Still, her spirits remain high. From time to time, her gaze wanders toward Severus, deep in discussion with Seraphina over some obscure potion, her fingers gently stroking Brownie's fur. She recognizes the worn covers of their Potions textbooks and can guess what sort of theoretical argument they are embroiled in. He and Seraphina balance one another—she, calm and light; he, calm and tightly wound. Yin and yang, if there ever is such a pair of siblings.

From this distance, she can afford to admire him in peace, with a sense of privacy. She had often wondered about the differences between them as individuals. Nadine has always been warm, bubbly, cheerful, as Seraphina and Cassiopeia liken her to—yet Severus is the complete contrast. Still, something about that contrast intrigues her. She wonders, if given the chance, how well they might complement one another, like the Eclipse.

Each time she sees him like this, wholly absorbed in his element, she feels a flicker of inspiration.

A gentle voice at her side pulls her from her thoughts.

"You're in a good mood." Remus says, nudging her elbow with a grin.

"I've earned it." she replies brightly. "Marks are solid, Quidditch is exhausting, and I'm surrounded by good people. Plenty to be happy about."

"Ah yes, good people, meaning us, obviously." Bill adds with a wink.

"Of course, who else?" she laughs, though her gaze drifts back toward the Slytherin table.
Severus is now using his and Seraphina's goblets to demonstrate potion measurements, while Seraphina smiles and gestures with a small vial of something orange and mysterious.

Cassiopeia sits nearby in quiet conversation with Regulus, which becomes more animated with Barty's arrival. She has matched Nadine's butterfly pin with a green moth one of her own, her sleek hair tucked neatly behind her ears. Seraphina wears a white dragonfly pin, her long hair down with a single braid woven through, on top.

At last, Nadine rises, excusing herself. She crosses the hall and takes a seat among her friends, catching Severus's eye as she does. He doesn't stop speaking but follows her movement briefly before turning back to his book and sister.

"Good morning to cool people only." Nadine jokes as she reaches for a cherry pastry dusted with powdered sugar.

The others greet her warmly, and soon, she, Cassiopeia, and Seraphina are deep in cheerful conversation. Barty and Evan exchange hushed laughter, while Severus and Regulus sit nearby, listening with quiet interest, chiming in only in a necessary moment.

The flutter of wings overhead mark the arrival of the owls, sweeping through the Great Hall in graceful arcs—mail. Letters and packages drop onto tables with soft thuds, feathers brushing past floating candles as students look up with anticipation—or, in Barty's and Nadine's case—potential dread.

Gizmo lands neatly by Nadine, delivering a three-stack of envelopes sealed with Mother's familiar handwriting, and Father's signature off-white envelope, with an engraved ''M'' symbol—from the Ministry. Of course, he doesn't send it from home, but from work.

She smiles faintly, tucking the letters into her bag. They aren't the types of letters one would casually read at breakfast in front of others. The third letter, however, comes from Louis, with a signature Beauxbaton pastel-blue envelope. As she examines it, before opening, the rest have started examining theirs.

Barty receives a small, tightly wrapped package bound in green twine. He says nothing, only slips it into his robes. The family letters are tightly scrunched and practically shoved into his bag, carelessly.

Nearby, a dark grey owl delivered a scroll to Severus and Seraphina, who exchange a quick glance before he tucks it into his robe for a later read. A separate letter has landed in front of Seraphina, who neatly picks it up and starts examining it. All around them, students murmur over letters from home, some grinning, others furrowing their brows—news from beyond the castle walls.

Nadine unfolds the pale blue parchment and smiles.

Chapter Text

Mon amie Nadine,

J'espère que l'Université de Poudlard te traite bien.

J'ai entendu un truc plutôt excitant — apparemment, y a des rumeurs d'une visite de Beauxbâtons à Poudlard l'année prochaine. Rien de confirmé, mais ça a l'air prometteur. Si ça se fait, je pourrai enfin découvrir ton univers, pas juste l'imaginer à travers tes lettres. J'ai vraiment hâte, et j'espère qu'on aura vite plus d'infos.

Prends soin de toi. Tu me manques.

Ton amie,
Louis

(My friend Nadine,

I hope Hogwarts University is treating you right.

I heard something rather exciting—there's been quiet talk of a Beauxbatons visit to Hogwarts next year. Nothing confirmed, but it sounds promising. If it happens, I'll finally get to see your world, not just hear about it in your letters. I'm really looking forward to it, and hopefully we get more information soon.

Take care of yourself. I miss you.

Your friend,
Louis)

Nadine's smile deepens as she reads, warmth rising in her chest. She holds the letter gently in her hands. Across the table, Severus glances up, his eyes flicking toward her and her letter before returning to Seraphina's closed letter.

"So, who's the lucky guy?" Cassiopeia teases, louder than usual, poking Nadine's letter with a playful grin.

"Oh. It's Louis!" Nadine responds, bringing Seraphina into the conversation and showing them both the letter.

"Supposedly, Beauxbatons might get a chance to visit us next year, but we'll see." she explains, the joy evident in her tone.

"C'est magnifique!" Seraphina exclaims, smiling warmly at them both. "Sounds like someone's got you on their mind, hm?" she teases.

Regulus's gaze flickers briefly toward Seraphina as she speaks French, before returning to his own letter, his focus once again private but listening intently to the conversation around him.

"Ah, he's... Don't get me wrong, he's a great friend, but I have other things on my mind." Nadine smiles shyly, her thoughts briefly drifting to Severus, but she isn't about to mention that just yet.

"Ah, code word for someone." Cassiopeia adds slyly, her voice playful as she giggles with Seraphina, while Nadine blushes and tucks the letter into her bag.

"Il y a beaucoup de charmeurs à Beauxbâtons, je sais de première main!" (There are plenty of charmers at Beauxbatons, I know first-hand!) Evan exclaims cheerfully, winking at the girls. "Hold your ladies tight, mates, if the rumors turn out to be true."

Regulus gives Evan a brief, imperceptible squint, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he processes the comment, while he turns back to his letter, seemingly uninterested.

"Ah, oui, oui... Je suis baguette..." (Ah, yes, yes. I am baguette.) Seraphina adds with a laugh, joining in on the lighthearted moment with Nadine and Cassiopeia who laugh at the sentence.

"C'est un langage incorrect." (This is incorrect language.) Regulus mutters under his breath dramatically, his voice laced with disapproval as he unfolds his newspaper.

"Tu es ennuyeux." (You are annoying.) Seraphina shoots back, her gaze meeting his with a challenge. "That was correct, yes?" She looks at her girls.

"Absolutely." Nadine and Cassiopeia reply in unison, their laughter ringing through the air as Regulus sighs and shakes his head in disappointment.

Still, Seraphina's gaze lingers on him, a faint smile appearing on her lips as she brushes him off. It is the first time she heard him speak French, and though brief, it is enough for her to find it charming.

But despite the laughter, Nadine can't help but notice a slight shift in the twins' demeanor as they exchange quiet glances and looked down at their letters—sealed with the Black family sigil in black wax, a lacey intricacy that speaks of formality.

She knows well the complexities of their family life, having seen it, but she never pried. Nadine understands the burden of growing up under rigid rules and expectations—living in a household that often feels more like a military operation than a home.

The Black family treats their children like royalty, yes, but the pressure to live up to those high standards is undeniable. Sirius is always a good example to it—he left. Nadine respects their privacy, giving Cassiopeia space to share her letters if she chooses to.

After breakfast, everyone has returned to their schedules, hallways bustling with the shuffling of students heading into their classrooms.

Nadine has gone off with Barty, the two slipping away from the crowd to quietly discuss the letters. Barty isn't exactly thrilled and Nadine understands. However, to remain in unity with their families, at least for the most part, they have to deal with such situations. Some things aren't about choice, but they are good at choosing where to show resistance and when to let go.

"It's ridiculous. Unexpected? No. Insane? Always." Barty protests, burning Father's letter as they sit in the empty Potions classroom. They had arrived early, so for at least a little bit, they have privacy. Nadine sighs.

"I won't lie to you, it's extremely unfair. But was that ever new for us?" Nadine asks sympathetically as she steps up to her brother, and gently places her hand on his shoulder.

"I just thought it'd be more normal with you here." Barty explains in a low voice. "He lives as a dictator of this family."

Nadine agrees in silence. She, of course, had read the letter.

To My Only Son,

By now, I expect you have reflected appropriately on the weight of your position and the consequences of deviation. Discipline and foresight must govern your actions from here forward.

It is time to begin the process of selecting a suitable match. One that will strengthen our family's standing, secure our influence, and ensure long-term alignment with the proper bloodlines. This is not a matter of emotion. It is a matter of strategy, of responsibility, and of legacy.

You are to comply without contest. An individual will be selected for you by the end of the academic year, and you will be wed right after graduation, if not earlier. You will accept our choice with the dignity and gratitude befitting your station.

As for Nadine, we are in quiet discussions with several appropriate families and will continue to receive formal proposals. She is expected to act accordingly, and I trust you will support this process without interference.

Other houses have moved ahead in this regard. You are aware of the arrangement between the Malfoy and Black families. Observe and learn.

Do not waste time challenging this. It will not be entertained.

Maintain your academic performance. Represent us with distinction.

Bartemius Crouch Sr.

A pang of sharp disgust forms in her stomach and heart. It is no surprise how harsh Father is, but she had never read a letter addressed to Barty before—rigid, sterile and unyielding. Hers at least has some delicacy—courtesy of Mother of course—however the same feeling lingers upon reading her own letter.

To My Hope

My dearest Nadine,

I hope this letter finds you well and that your semester has been kind to you. I can only imagine the beauty of the castle this time of year. Do send a note when you have time. I miss your light.

By now, I trust you have found your rhythm in your studies. Your pursuit of healing continues to fill me with pride. It is a path of care, strength, and quiet brilliance, just like you.

Your father and I have spoken recently about the years to come. As you near graduation, certain conversations naturally arise. About your future, your place in the world, and yes, the possibility of a partner. It is not a pressure, my love, only a step we wish to prepare for with care.

There are families who have expressed interest. Families with good values, strong legacy, and the kind of stability that brings peace to a mother's heart. But nothing will be decided without your comfort.

That matters more than anything to me. I want you to have both honor and happiness, and I believe, with patience, the right balance can be found. If you would indulge me, please work with us on this. Giving our only daughter away is hard, and we will prepare for it when you graduate.

Write to me when you can. I would love to hear your thoughts, your joys, and even your frustrations. You are not alone in any of this.

With all my love, always,

Maman

"It's like we're dolls to be toyed with. No voice, no choice." Nadine murmurs, sinking into the chair with a sigh, her head cradled in her hands.

"Maybe it's a bit naive, but I always thought of marriage as something organic, it would be... real. Built on love, not bloodlines. On effort, not duty." She explains, tired.

Barty scoffs. "I hate that just having our names means dragging someone else into this... mess." His tone is bitter.

He hesitates, then adds, "I get it now. Why Sirius left. I've had moments like that. The urge to run. Still do."

Nadine meets his gaze, her eyes solemn. "I know, Tem." she says. "I understand more than I'd like to admit. People think having a pure-blood name is only a glorious privilege. I see why, but they don't see the strings. They don't feel the hand turning the gears of your life before you've even chosen who you are."

A silence follows, heavy and knowing. Then, Barty speaks again, quieter this time. "What if we already have someone? Or... someone we're thinking of? What happens then? They'll have to earn approval not for who they are, but what they represent." His voice falters. He doesn't say her name, but Nadine knows.

She gives him a tired smile, though there is little joy in it. "I'll do you one better." she says dryly. "What if they're outside the Sacred Twenty-Eight?" She laughs, bitter and hollow. "They'd burn us alive."

Though half-bloods are often tolerated in most corners of the Wizarding World, there remains those stubborn few—ancient families and archaic minds—who view even that as a stain. A compromise. As though love can be corrupted by lineage.

Nadine knows better. She has lived long enough beneath the weight of such delusions to see them for what they are: fear masquerading as tradition.

Snapes are half-bloods, and by many standards, half-bloods are very accepted in the Wizarding World. However, in other ones, blood supremacists hold the belief that half-blood children are tarnished, forever ruined by their parent's 'poor choices'.

Still, they are considered more welcome, despite others being disgusted by such stances on people's bloodlines.

The door creaks open, and Severus strides in, his robes sweeping behind him like a shadow that refuses to part from its master. He doesn't glance around or acknowledge them, eyes locked on the front of the classroom, his desk, his sanctuary.

Other students begin to file in, their conversations soft and scattered, trailing off as they take their seats. Barty returns wordlessly to his usual spot on the far side of the room, dropping into his chair with his usual nonchalance, legs stretched beneath the desk as if he is claiming the space by sheer presence.

Nadine doesn't look at him. She is already flipping open her annotated copy of Advanced Alchemical Mixtures for Applications. The smell of parchment and potion residue fills the air, warm and familiar.

Today's potion is one Slughorn calls Dulcis Somnia Elixir, a subtle and complex draught intended to induce gentle, controlled dreams—originally developed as a remedy for cursed insomnia.

Bill greets her with a grin and a quiet, "Alright, ready?" She chuckles and nods, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear as she begins to sort the fresh bundles of starlily root and crushed aquamint. Their work is focused, fluid, with only the occasional murmur of "stir clockwise" or "watch the temperature". Bill is steady-handed, precise. She appreciates the way he doesn't hover or correct, just trusts her judgment.

About halfway through the brewing time, Severus makes his first circuit around the classroom. He passes by their cauldron without pausing for long, glancing down just briefly. Nadine feels the shift in air, the stillness in his presence. He says nothing, no sneer, no barked critique. Just walks on.

Her lips tug upward in the faintest smile, and she returns to adjusting the heat under the cauldron with just a bit more pride in her hands.

Moments later, Slughorn waddles up with a jolly sort of chuckle, hands clasped over his belly. "All well, Miss Crouch?" he asks in a low voice, careful not to interrupt the brewing too much. "After the... exit from dinner, I mean."

Nadine flushes a little, but her tone is light. "Yes, Professor. I'm alright. And I'm sorry for leaving like that—it wasn't my intention to disrupt."

Slughorn waves a hand, the gesture almost absurdly grand for the cramped space. "No worry at all, my dear. There will be more dinners—and more drama, I suspect!" He lets out a good-natured laugh before wandering off toward the next pair of students.

Relieved, Nadine lets out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She is grateful he didn't take offense. Grateful she is still here.

And as the elixir begins to shimmer in soft lilac hues, her smile lingers—small, private, and blooming quietly like hope.

Slughorn announces the end of the lesson. The room begins to empty in a gentle flurry—clinks of glass, scraping of chairs, murmurs of "see you later" as students file out into the corridor. Bill gives Nadine a warm smile before disappearing, and Barty lingers for a second near the door.

"You coming?" he asks, one brow arched.

Nadine shakes her head as she closes her notebook. "I'll stay. I want to study a bit longer."

Barty studies her for a moment, then nods once. He slips out, the door clicking shut behind him.

Severus stands at his desk, quietly reorganizing his notes and muttering under his breath about an ink stain on the corner of a parchment. Focused—but not quite relaxed. He is unsettled. Maybe by the potion, maybe by her.

She tries not to watch him for too long but fails. His back is to her, yet she knows the lines of his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch when he is irritated. She remembers, with a sinking tug in her chest, how her future is no longer her own.

How there will be a letter, an arrangement, a name she is expected to smile at. How Louis is probably the current favorite—Father's brilliant, spotless golden boy of choice—but Louis would never accept.

So... why not try more before fate takes the choice from her?

She stands slowly, adjusting the strap of her satchel, smoothing her skirt. Then walks toward Severus's desk with deliberate ease, a sly smirk curling on her lips.

"Changed your mind about my offer?" she says, voice dipped in playful flirtation.

Severus doesn't even look up. "I'm not tutoring you."

She leans against the side of his desk now, close enough to smell parchment and ink. "No, not that." Her smile deepens, eyes locked on him. "The date."

His quill stills mid-stroke. His hand falters—barely—but enough. Then he recovers, continues writing, his expression unchanged.

She tilts her head, teasing, almost daring. "Oh, come on. I'm not asking you to marry me. I'm not dragging you to some hideous tea party. Just one night. It's not like I asked you to Crucio yourself..."

He replies flatly, voice dry as old dust. "I'd rather that option."

She laughs—truly, surprised, amused. "You're impossible."

"I'm uninterested." he says, still not meeting her eyes. "Go back to your table. Or better, go away entirely."

There is steel in his voice. He refuses to look at her.

"You still think I'm messing with you." she says quietly, disappointment creeping in.

He doesn't answer.

"You still think I'm wasting your time. That I've got some hidden motive, some game."

"You flit in and out. I'm not going to be anyone's experiment. Especially for the spoilt brat who thinks she can get anything she wants." he finally mutters.

That stings—but she doesn't let it show.

"Fine." she snaps, straightening. "Then if you won't go out with me, I'll just stay right here." She gestures broadly to the room. "Here. Studying. Breathing your precious air. Existing. Hope that's not too disruptive."

Then she turns and walks back to her table, dropping into her seat with a loud, pointed sigh. She opens her book again and deliberately flips through the pages, scribbling notes with more force than necessary.

He doesn't say a word, but his eyes flick up. He writes something on a new parchment. Then scratches it out. Writes again. Glances at her once more.

She stays to study in silence. He lets her.

Chapter Text

The cool air winds gently around them, clouds scattered thick across the sky like silver dust. Pandora stands near the parapet, her hair swaying with the breeze, arms folded.

"He's not some reckless lunatic, Evan, he just sees the world differently. That doesn't make him dangerous."

Evan crosses his arms, his brow tight. "No, but being naive gets you killed. The world's not made for people who believe everything sparkles if you just look hard enough."

"Not everything has to be dark just because you say so." she mutters, tone sharp.

Evan scoffs and turns toward Barty. "Back me up, will ya?"

But Barty isn't listening.

He leans over the railing, elbows resting on cold stone, his gaze distant—anchored somewhere between memory and ache. The wind lifts the ends of his curls. He barely hears them.

"Mate?" Evan says, noticing. "You alright?"

Barty blinks, slowly turns his head, like surfacing from water. "Sorry. You were saying?"

Pandora moves to his side, quiet and warm, placing a hand lightly on his back. "It's about Cassiopeia, isn't it?"

Barty says nothing for a long beat. Just breathes.

He closes his eyes. Her name rings like a bell in his head—soft and inevitable. The way she walks into a room like she owns the floor beneath her feet. Her wit, sharp and burning. The way she doesn't flinch when he stares too long. Her laugh when she doesn't think anyone is listening.

But she is also a Black. She is also Regulus's twin.

"She's not like them." Pandora says softly, reading him, as if she always can. "She's fire, Barty. But she's kind."

"She's complicated." he mutters.

"She's brilliant." Pandora corrects.

Evan steps beside them with a long sigh, hands stuffed in his pockets, that usual lazy indifference barely concealing something much heavier beneath. He looks over at Barty, then at the distant trees, and mutters under his breath with a crooked half-smirk, "Honestly, mate, you have a thing for the most difficult witches."

Barty snorts, a glint of amusement flickering in his eyes. "What, and you're a bloody expert?"

Evan shrugs. "At least I know when to run the other way."

"Yeah, into walls." Barty quips.

Evan glares. "Low blow, Crouch."

"Low aim, Rosier." Barty retorts, the corners of his mouth twitching despite the struggle in his chest.

She steps closer to Barty, her presence quiet but grounding, her voice softer now. "You're not alone in this, you know. Tell Nadine about your feelings. She'll help you."

Barty doesn't answer. He can't.

But Pandora doesn't press him further, just lets her hand rest gently against his back, her touch featherlight but steady—like she is the only tether left holding him to himself.

Evan exhales again, gaze flicking between the two of them. That usual sharpness in his eyes fades, just a little. Beneath the teasing and the smirks, there is something fierce and loyal in him, something that wants to shield what is left of Barty's heart—even if he knows some things can't be saved.

"I'm still saying you're doomed." Evan mutters, "But... maybe less doomed if you don't keep pushing her away."

And this time, Barty doesn't laugh. Doesn't argue.

Because deep down, he knows—he already is.

"She would surprise you." Pandora says, her tone calm, but certain. "Cassiopeia doesn't fall in line like the rest of her family. You know that."

"I know she's brave." Barty mutters. "I know she's smart. I know she sees through people."

He stares down at the courtyard far below, his voice tight with some internal war. "Which is exactly why she'd never choose me."

Evan scoffs beside him and crosses his arms. "Right, because you're just so unworthy. For Salazar's sake, mate, what are you even thinking?"

Barty flashes him a look, half amused, half cold.

"I'm serious." Evan goes on, shrugging a shoulder. "You act like she's fire and you're ash. But you're not. You're the bloody spark. She'd burn the world down beside you if you just asked."

"And if I asked, I'd owe her something real." Barty says. "I'd want to protect her from everything."

Pandora tilts her head. "Then what's stopping you?"

Barty clenches his jaw. His voice lowers.

"I am everything."

He finally looks at them, something haunted behind his eyes. "My father has plans. And there's worse to come. You both know that."

Evan's expression darkens slightly, but he doesn't speak. Not now.

"You want me to drag her into that?" Barty says, almost angry now—at them, at himself, at the stars still refusing to fall. "Let her love something that's already half-destroyed?"

"She doesn't need your protection." Pandora says softly. "She just needs your honesty."

He looks away. His heart is thudding too fast.

Because truthfully, he has thought about it more than he should. The way her hand might feel in his. The way she would look at him if she ever saw all of him. Not just the clever mask or the arrogance or the smirk he wears like armor—but the broken glass underneath.

And yet...

"She's Regulus's twin. He won't approve." he whispers.

"That doesn't make her his clone. He can't control her either." Evan snaps.

"You do it." Pandora mutters, brows furrowed.

Evan frowns and looks at her, but turns to Barty instead. "It's not his world alone. You get to want things, Barty. You get to choose something different."

The wind catches Pandora's hair, lifting it like ribbons.

"You already chose us, didn't you?" she says quietly. "Then choose her too."

Barty doesn't answer. His throat is too tight. The sky spins above him—endless and indifferent.

But in the space between silence and breath, a single thought burns like a brand in his mind:

What if she would've said yes?

And what if he never asks?

So he turns back to the sky, his heart a quiet storm.

He is not ready.
But Merlin, he wants to be.

Barty grips the railing tighter, the cool metal biting into his palms as if that pain could anchor him—ground him in a truth that doesn't feel like drowning.

He thinks of the worst thing he is hiding from Nadine.

The one thing he can never let her see.

The thing that marks him, quite literally, as something vile—something she should run from.

It burns some nights. Not physically—no, the pain is subtler than that. It is in the way his body remembers the branding, the way his mind won't stop whispering that it is too late. That there is no redemption for people like him.

He lowers his eyes, jaw clenched.

She doesn't know.

No one does. Not even Pandora.

But Evan does.

He glances at his best friend now, something raw flickering across his features, and mutters just loud enough to be heard, "I can't."

Evan doesn't need clarification. He turns his head slowly, his face unreadable, but his blue eyes are sharp.

There is a long pause before he says anything. Everything around them is too still.

Pandora had moved a few steps away, arms folded loosely as she gazes up—giving them space without realizing how much they need it.

Evan's voice is quiet, like a warning wrapped in understanding. "Because of the—"

Barty nods once, barely.

"She'd hate me." he says. "Nadine, Cass... if they found out, they'd never look at me the same. And Regulus—"

He stops, his mouth twisting.

Regulus, who wears the same mark. Regulus, who walks beside darkness as if it is stitched into his blood. Regulus, who doesn't hesitate.

"I don't want to be connected to her." Barty continues, each word sounding like it costs him something. "Not more than I already am. Not when her brother and I carry the same rot."

Evan stays silent for a moment. Then:

"You're not him."

Barty laughs bitterly. "Aren't I?"

Evan looks at him harder now. "No. You're worse."

Barty blinks.

"Because you still feel something about it." Evan goes on, his voice sharper. "You think it's wrong. That's what makes it harder. You signed your soul away, and now you have to live with it."

The words hit hard. Barty flinches, even if he doesn't admit it aloud.

He wants to lash out. Defend himself. Say he had no choice.

But he did.

And he knows it.

He did it willingly.

For recognition, power and belonging. Rebellion.

Evan sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I want you to be happy, mate. I really do. But happiness doesn't come easy for people like us."

Barty looks at him, and the unspoken truth weighs heavier than anything said:

The task.

The one thing Barty hasn't told anyone. The mission Voldemort gave him in a voice like velvet and ice.

It is not for now. Not yet.

But it is coming. He can feel it.

And how can he stand in front of someone like Cassiopeia or Nadine and ever be clean again?

He looks down at his hands—steady, clever hands that once wrote poetry in the margins of textbooks, that now cast curses like second nature.

Evan places a hand on his shoulder, grounding.

"Just think. Talk with Nadine." Evan says softly. "That's all I'm asking. Before she finds out on her own. Before you throw it all away."

Barty nods once, but the silence between them is deafening.

And the thing is?

He already has.

Leaves are descending from trees lazily, beyond the arched, ancient windows of the library, blurring the edges of the grounds outside. Inside, warm firelight flickers across stone and casts long shadows over two figures seated in silence.

Regulus stands upright, leaned against the dark bookshelf, his fingers folded over the thick envelope he has already opened few times. His fingers are stiff, too careful, like someone handling a cursed object. His expression is unreadable, but his jaw is tight—carved from the same cold marble that decorates 12 Grimmauld Place.

Across from him, Cassiopeia hasn't yet opened her letter. It lays untouched in her lap, identical in script and seal to the one her twin holds—black wax stamped with the proud crest of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

"Did you read it?" she asks, staring at the envelope like it might bite.

Regulus doesn't look up. "Of course."

"And?" she presses, even though she already has an idea.

"As expected." He sighs.

"She sends them at breakfast like they're nothing." she murmurs, turning the envelope between her fingers.

"She's impatient."

Cassiopeia sighs. "She's never had patience."

With a resigned flick of her wand, she breaks the seal and unfolds the letter. The elegant, razor-sharp handwriting of their Mother dances across the page like cold fire:

Dearest Regulus and Cassiopeia,

Your presence is expected at 12 Grimmauld Place for Christmas.

There are matters of legacy and future alliances that must be discussed, of great importance to the continued strength and purity of our family line. It is time you both understood the role you are to play.

You are Blacks, and thus, destined for greatness. Do not disappoint us.

With all the grace of the House of Black,
Mother

Cassiopeia lets the parchment fall into her lap and leans back with a huff. "There it is. Short and sweet. Like a curse. As if our lives are little more than chess moves."

Regulus taps a finger against the armrest. "It's what's always been expected."

She turns her gaze to him. "And you're fine with that?"

He hesitates, then says carefully, "I understand the logic of it. We come from power. That power is preserved through control, discipline, bloodline, tradition. It's not... senseless."

She arches her brow. "You sound like her."

His eyes flick to hers, steady but tired. "Because some of what she says isn't wrong, Cassiopeia. Not all blood is the same. Some families rot from the inside. Some lines lose everything that made them magical. There is a strength in keeping certain things intact."

Her lips part, but for a moment, she says nothing.

Then—softly, "But do you believe that? Or are you just afraid of what happens if you don't?"

Silence settles like leaves on the ground.

Regulus looks down at his letter, then back up. "I do believe and... It's complex. Blood means strength. Purity. Power. However, of course, I also wonder further beyond that." He pauses, searching for words.

Cassiopeia gives him a long, searching look. "You're starting to sound like Sirius now."

His mouth twitches at the corner. "Don't tell Mother."

They share a brittle laugh, but it doesn't last long.

"She'll expect you to marry someone with the right name." Cassiopeia says, quieter now. "And me, too. Someone proper. Someone who knows their Latin and agrees that muggle-borns and even half-bloods are a mistake."

"She's probably already picked out names." Regulus replies. "Selwyn, Avery, Rosier, maybe even a Mulciber if she's feeling generous. Narcissa's will be Malfoy."

Cassiopeia curls her legs beneath her. "What if I said I didn't want any of it? The titles. The suitors. The legacy."

Regulus is quiet for a long moment. "Then I'd say you need to be very careful, Cass."

"Why?"

"Because wanting out doesn't free you. It just makes you a threat."

"Does it not exhaust you, Reggie?"

"It does. But such is destiny." His eyes are focused on the sky outside, through the windows.

"Have you thought about marriage at all?" She prods, gently.

Truth-be-told, she never did interrogate him over his views on marriage, mostly as she understands he wouldn't entertain such questions, and would just follow duty. However, the letter came at the opportune time to ask.

"Outside of duty? No." He begins, taking a seat next to her. "I've always seen it as an unavoidable, political arrangement, not questioning further. I suspect she succeeded in making me see it that way." he shrugs.

She looks at him then—not with fear, but with something close to heartbreak. "What if... Do you ever want out?"

Regulus looks into the fire. "I..." He stops. Is it lack of words or lack of admittance? Cassiopeia notices the brief hesitation. "I have to do what is expected of me." He finishes.

She nods slowly. "I feel like I'm standing on a line. One foot on Sirius's side, one on yours. And the longer I stand still, the more it hurts."

He meets her gaze—twin to twin, same eyes, same blood, different hearts. "Then don't stand still."

When they finally leave the library, having picked out books they needed, the conversation of their family dies out. The letters are tucked away, but their contents linger like ghosts. At 12 Grimmauld Place, Walburga is already preparing the stage—names chosen, paths drawn, the future wrapped in silver and shadow.

Regulus will walk through that door, as expected. Cassiopeia isn't sure if she will follow—or if she even could.

Such is the nature of the House of Black.

Chapter Text

"So, what exactly did Louis mean when he mentioned the Beauxbatons visit?" Seraphina asks offhandedly, her voice echoing softly through the corridor as she and Nadine make their way up from the dungeons. Nadine had come to collect her, and together they are heading toward the lake to meet Cassiopeia.

Nadine tilts her head thoughtfully. "I'm not entirely sure. School trips at Beauxbatons are rare—we always had everything we needed within the palace. Unless this is some sort of celebration we weren't told about."

"Durmstrang never made any visits." Seraphina muses. "If there were visits at all, it was always people coming to us. The school has a reputation for being intimidating, yes—but it's more than that, it was respect."

"Barty was nearly sent to Durmstrang, actually." Nadine says with a small smile. "But after Father's promotion, they changed their minds."

"Pity." Seraphina replies, grinning. "We would've had a great time—learning to curse anything that moved."

They both laugh, the tension from their long study sessions melting away for a brief moment as they stroll side by side beneath the flickering torches. The castle walls, usually cold and silent, seem a touch warmer in their company.

But their ease dissolves almost instantly.

From the far end of the corridor, a group emerges like a gathering storm—Mulciber, Carrows, and Wilkes. Their presence alone seems to cast a shadow across the hallway, the air turning thick with the kind of quiet menace only they carry.

Seraphina and Nadine slow instinctively. The chatter between them falls away, replaced by a prickling awareness. Nadine's expression sours as her eyes meet Alecto's for the briefest of seconds—a silent reminder of their last confrontation.

"Not again." Nadine mutters under her breath, tightening her grip on Seraphina's arm as the two of them unconsciously lace elbows, a quiet act of unity.

Seraphina straightens her spine, her eyes narrowing with quiet fire. "No." she says, voice low and steady. "This time, you're not alone."

Their hands hover subtly near their wands, ready, just in case.

Mulciber steps forward, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he has all the time in the world to make others uncomfortable. His dark eyes sweep over the two girls, lingering just a second too long on Nadine, a smirk twisting across his face.

"Well, well." he drawls, stopping just a few feet ahead. The twins flank him; Amycus leering, Alecto glaring—and Wilkes leans casually against the wall, arms folded, as if watching a mildly amusing play.

"Thought I smelled perfume and self-righteousness." Mulciber continues, his voice a poisonous kind of silk. "You two headed outside on this beautiful day?"

Nadine's chin lifts slightly. "Better than hiding out in the corridors like rats, waiting to scare first-years. Sounds familiar?"

Amycus gives a low chuckle, though it is more grunt than laughter. Alecto's fingers twitch near her wand, eyes flicking between Nadine and Seraphina with disdain.

Mulciber tilts his head. "Funny, coming from you, Crouch. Still playing nursemaid knowing your brother's the only heir that matters?"

Nadine's eyes flash, but she doesn't take the bait.

"Silence, rat." Seraphina says coolly, stepping slightly in front of her. Her voice is calm but edged with steel. "Or would you rather see if your wand's as quick as your mouth?"

That wipes the smirk off Amycus's face.

Mulciber's grin only widens. "Snape." he says slowly, as though tasting the name. "You've got your brother's nose for trouble, I'll give you that. But don't make the mistake of thinking you're as clever."

"In any case, that would be twice as clever than you." Seraphina says, wand already half-drawn, her stance solid. The torches along the wall flicker in the sudden drop of temperature between them.

Nadine, without a word, shifts slightly to the side—flanking, not retreating. Though her talent is in healing, she had fought Alecto before, and the tension between them now was crackling. Alecto's fingers brush her wand, her stance mirroring Seraphina's.

"Touch her and I'll break your fingers." Nadine says quietly to Alecto, her voice soft and even—deadly in its certainty.

Wilkes lets out a low whistle. "Such language from the polite Crouch girl. Your parents must be proud."

"Oh, they are." Nadine says, sweet as sugar. "And who are you again?" She smirks.

The corridor falls into a taut silence. Wands aren't drawn fully yet, but it would take only the faintest spark to set them off. Mulciber's smile falters for the first time, and Seraphina catches the way his fingers twitch at his side.

"We'll be seeing you." he says finally, tone clipped. "This place has a way of sorting people like you out."

"And people like you?" Seraphina asks, her voice icy. "It has a way of burying them."

"Time will tell." Mulciber scoffs.

With a flick of his cloak, Mulciber turns on his heel, the others following. But the threat hangs in the air, their footsteps still far too close to rid off the sensation of discomfort.

Seraphina and Nadine turn in silence, shoulders still high with tension, feet carrying them toward the promise of open sky and fresh air by the Black Lake. But Seraphina doesn't relax. Not fully. She knows their kind too well—cowards with a taste for the last word. "Something's off." She warns.

Alecto is exactly that kind. Nadine's instinct twitches.

"Coward." Alecto hisses, low but unmistakable, and then...

A sharp sound: the unmistakable whoosh of a wand being drawn.

Seraphina spins before Nadine can react. Her arm moves in a swift, practiced arc. "Protego!" she casts, just as a blast of red light shoots toward them. "Bitch!" Seraphina yells at her.

The shield charm explodes to life with a resounding crack, catching the oncoming hex mid-air. The impact sends a brief shimmer rippling outward, the force enough to ruffle both their robes.

Before the sparks of the shield has even faded, Seraphina's other hand is already in motion. Her eyes never leave Alecto's.

She doesn't speak the next spell—it simply happens, raw magic spilling from her fingertips through her wand like a surge of ice water; a non-verbal spell.

The hex strikes Alecto square in the chest, blasting her backward into the stone wall with a painful thud. She lets out a sharp cry, wand clattering to the floor as she crumples to her knees, clutching at her arm.

"Snape!" Amycus barks, reaching for his wand—but Nadine steps forward, her own wand now out, steady as a scalpel.

"Don't." she hisses, voice low and full of quiet danger. "Unless you want the same. And I know exactly which ones would be very hard to treat."

Unbeknownst to Nadine, Amycus had already been warned to keep his head down as to avoid jeopardizing the Quidditch season. But even leashed, his presence is no less insidious. Seraphina takes note of it, the meeting still fresh in her memory.

He hovers behind the others, silent and brooding, eyes fixed on Nadine with heavy disdain. He doesn't raise his wand, but the threat in him is palpable, like a storm brewing.

Mulciber holds up a hand to stop Amycus, but his expression has darkened into something cold and calculating. He looks between Seraphina and Alecto, who is struggling to rise, clinging onto Wilkes who has his wand at the ready as well.

"You will regret that, mutt." Mulciber says to Seraphina, voice barely above a whisper—but it is more promise than threat.

Seraphina doesn't flinch. "I will bury you."

"Filthy Half-Blood!" Alecto hisses an obscenity under her breath, as a new presence enters the corridor—measured, elegant, and absolutely impossible to ignore.

Regulus.

His footsteps are quiet but sharp, polished shoes gliding effortlessly over the cold floor. The silver Prefect badge glints on his robes, catching the torchlight as if demanding attention. Everyone goes still.

Alecto's wand is still on the ground, her cloak messy and dusty where she hit the floor. The spell has barely finished echoing when the air shifts again—quieter, heavier, colder. Regulus notices.

"Explain." he says evenly, his tone low and crisp, carrying the sharpness of cut glass. His demeanor is cold, strict, and unyielding.

No one dares move.

"Alecto attacked us from behind." Nadine says, chin raised, voice tight. "We reacted." she adds, willing to share the burden of responsibility.

Mulciber scoffs. "She overreacted."

"She cast a nonverbal hex." Alecto snarls, her pride clearly wounded. "Without warning."

Regulus turns his head just slightly toward her. "Perhaps next time, you'll think before attempting to curse someone's back." The words are soft, almost polite—but they carry a chill that silences even Amycus, who lowers his gaze.

"I suppose the right thing was to announce a curse, so you might get a chance to do something instead of falling on your arse twice in a row now." Nadine spits back as Seraphina chuckles.

He turns to Seraphina last. Their eyes lock.

Her expression is calm, practiced, but her pulse betrays her, a fraction too fast. He notices, and she hates it.

"And you?" he asks, voice like winter. "Did you intend to hospitalize her, or was that simply a moment of poor judgment?"

A pause. Her mouth twitches.

"Would you prefer I let her hex me in the spine?" she asks smoothly, arching a brow. "That'd be the ladylike thing to do, wouldn't it?"

His jaw doesn't move, but something in his eyes—sharp and silver like moonlight—flashes.

"I'd prefer you knew how to use your power without inviting an audience." he replies. "You usually show more restraint than this."

It isn't a reprimand. It is a quiet accusation—and a reluctant compliment.

"It was entirely under control." she says, and for the briefest second, just a flicker of defiance appears under the poise. "If these rabid rats stopped coming at us, I'd feel no obligation to return the favor. Well, not yet, at least." It is a threat in disguise, and Mulciber notices, his lip twitching in disdain.

Regulus looks at her. Then he turns, facing all of them.

"This ends now." he says, louder. "No more duels in the corridors. No ambushes. No vile language. I refuse to deal with your insufferable tempers."

Mulciber opens his mouth.

Regulus waves his hand in dismissal, not even glancing at him. "I'm aware this has been a repeat offense. If you want to explain yourself further, I'm sure Professor Slughorn would be delighted to listen."

Mulciber falls silent. Regulus's name holds weight, even among them.

The Carrows slink off first, with Wilkes following behind, muttering something under his breath. Mulciber lingers a moment longer, glaring at Seraphina like he wants to say more—but Regulus turns to him just slightly, and that is enough.

When the others were gone, silence stretches once more.

Seraphina hasn't moved.

Nadine gives a small exhale, looking between the two of them. "Thank you." she says lightly to Regulus, clearly aware that Cassiopeia's brother had just spared them a world of trouble.

He ignores her.

His eyes haven't left Seraphina.

"You're not untouchable." he says quietly.

"Neither are you." she replies, just as coolly.

Another pause. The tension between them is palpable, humming beneath every word, every breath. Nadine remains silent, lowering her gaze to allow them a moment.

Regulus steps back. "Unacceptable behaviour." He isn't mad, it is almost as if he is amused, but uninterested in the drama.

"Theirs? Definitely." Seraphina murmurs, brushing past him gracefully.

His eyes follow her as she walks away with Nadine, her footsteps soft, steady. She doesn't look back.

Neither does he.

No words chase them down the corridor.

Only the heat of their breathing, fast and tight with adrenaline, and the sound of their boots echoing away from the storm they had left behind.

"I hate being right." Seraphina mutters.

Nadine exhales a breathless laugh.

Meeting Cassiopeia at the lake feels like a healing charm pressed to a fresh bruise. The open air, kissed with the scent of pine and the hush of rippling water, wraps around them like a balm. A breeze stirs the grass, and for the first time that day, their lungs fill without tension.

Cassiopeia greets them with a knowing smile, already leaning against a tree as though she had been waiting for a while.

"I had to tell him to intervene." she admits, brushing a strand from her face. "They're taking it too far."

"We'll take it further if we have to." Seraphina says coolly, spinning her wand between her fingers with a glint in her eye.

"You should've seen Alecto's face." Nadine adds, breaking into laughter. "That's twice now—maybe this time she'll actually learn something."

Cassiopeia snorts. "Alecto? Learn? Please. Some people only grow through failure."

Seraphina launches into a quick retelling of what the Slytherin meeting was about, how the team warned Amycus to behave or risk the wrath of faculty and Quidditch politics.

"That doesn't exactly apply to Alecto, unfortunately." she finishes with a shrug. "But at least he's got a leash now."

"Unbelievable." Nadine mutters. "He gets a spot on the team just for existing, while we had to practically duel for ours."

"Five galleons says he'll try to knock me off my broom at the next match." she adds dryly.

Cassiopeia grins. "Make it ten."

They laugh in peace. The kind that lives only in safe places, between trusted friends.

"Too many Slytherins." Nadine sighs dramatically, tilting her face to the sun.

"Funny," Cassiopeia replies, "coming from one of us."

Suddenly, a subtle shift passes over Nadine's features.

"Hey, Phina?" she says softly, straightening up with a seriousness that hasn't been there moments before. "You didn't take their insults personally, right?" Her voice is gentle, careful—threaded with concern, her brows drawn together in a pleading expression.

Cassiopeia's relaxed posture tenses slightly. "Insults?" she echoes, her voice growing sharper. "What insults?"

Seraphina gives a lazy shrug, though the flick of her wand through her fingers has stilled. "Oh, just the usual—an insult to my bloodline. Nothing new."

Nadine and Cassiopeia exchange a glance, their laughter gone in an instant.

"That's not okay." Nadine says quietly, the words laced with firm conviction. "And I want you to know—we don't see you that way."

"Despite what my family might think," Cassiopeia adds, her voice steady, "I don't believe in any of that. We're all equal. It's something Sirius and I actually agree on, if you can believe it."

Seraphina smiles, a soft curve of the lips that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I know, my darlings." she says with a sigh. "I know better than to let those cockroaches crawl under my skin."

For a moment, silence settles between them again—comfortable, understanding.

But then—

"Does Regulus?"

The question slips from Seraphina like a thought she hasn't meant to voice. Barely louder than a whisper. Guarded. Hesitant. Yet undeniable in its quiet weight. She closes her eyes briefly in disappointment.

Cassiopeia's expression flickers.

Nadine looks between them, brows rising ever so slightly. She doesn't speak—but her eyes say she is listening.

Cassiopeia hesitates. "He's... complicated." she says slowly, choosing each word with care. "His beliefs align with the family's. But..."

She doesn't need to finish. Seraphina has already heard the part that matters. She feels the answer settle into her chest like a splinter.

"But," Cassiopeia continues, realizing too late what her honesty might have revealed, "I honestly think there's more to him than that."

"What's this about?" Nadine asks gently, not prying—just inviting.

Seraphina smiles, soft and evasive. "Oh, it's nothing. I promise."

She leans back against the tree again, eyes half-closed, face tilted toward the breeze. Neither Nadine nor Cassiopeia believe her—but both of them let it go.

And so the three of them sit there a while longer, letting the lake's wind wash over them, the grass cool beneath their palms. The confrontation in the dungeons is behind them—for now—but the aftershocks linger, like ripples in the water.

Some things, after all, have only just begun.

Chapter Text

Eileen Snape is a woman shaped by sharp corners and silent storms.

Once, she had been Eileen Prince—the gifted, fiercely intelligent daughter of a proud pure-blood family. Her time at Hogwarts had marked her as a quiet but formidable presence, known not for charm or beauty, but for a mind that cuts cleanly through potions and spellwork.

Her professors praised her discipline, her classmates learned quickly not to underestimate her. But Eileen never fit the mold of a perfect pure-blood heiress. She is serious, strict, awkward at times, her brilliance folded in on itself like a paper blade.

Then came Tobias Snape, a Muggle.

What possessed her to marry him remains a mystery even to those who claim to know her. Some assumed it was rebellion; others desperation.

By the time Seraphina and Severus were old enough to remember her clearly, Eileen was no longer the sharp-edged, enigmatic witch. She had grown brittle, shadowed, her clothes perpetually worn, her eyes sunken with tiredness that no magic could remedy. There is a terrible, unyielding silence in her that damply hangs in the air of the house.

She loves, in her own way, but it is a love warped by hardship. Her words can be cold, her gaze distant. She is not affectionate. She is not nurturing. But she watches. She notices. And she endures, which, in that house, is a kind of love all its own. Too passive, yet tortured, loving, but from afar. A Prince by blood. A Snape by sacrifice.

And to her children, she is something different to each: to Severus, a complicated figure he half-defends and half-blames; to Seraphina, a cautionary tale cloaked in maternal silence. Nonetheless, their love for one another remains no matter what.

"Ignoring it isn't the solution you think it is." Seraphina says softly, stepping into the dusty Potions cabinet where Severus stands surrounded by shelves of vials and old glass jars.

"I'm not ignoring." Severus replies, calm but clipped, his hands occupied with sorting through the disarray. He tosses out a few spoiled concoctions with precision. "I'm refusing to entertain it."

"She deserves to be heard. At least that much." Seraphina says, settling onto the worn two-seater tucked beside the stash, her voice gentle but firm.

"And we deserved a thing or two as well, don't you think?" he counters, still avoiding her eyes, still keeping his hands busy.

Seraphina sighs. "She doesn't deserve to perish for what she did."

"Not for what she did," he says, tone darkening, "but for what she didn't do."

The silence stretches. She knows that tone too well—final, immovable. Still, she tries again.

"So... you haven't read it at all?" she asks, hand brushing the wrinkled letter that feels like a burning weight in her pocket. She wants to avoid it too, nearly incinerating it.

"I don't intend to." Severus answers, quieter now, though his voice is heavy, too heavy to match the cold mask he tries to maintain.

A faint smirk touches Seraphina's lips before she wipes it away. "Is that why you sign yourself as Prince in every book you own?" she says softly. "You're not half as convincing as you think, brother."

That makes him pause. He stills, closes his eyes, and inhales slowly before finally meeting her gaze.

"It's pride." he says, quiet and hard. "Pride in the only heritage we have left. The one she chose to abandon. Our right. One of the only things we have, and we don't have a lot."

Seraphina nods. "So be proud." she says gently, "But don't deny her her right, either. And we have one another."

Severus scoffs. "She lost that when she made her choice. Leaving him now does nothing. It changes nothing."

"So you read it." Seraphina smiles, but he dismisses it.

"If she stayed, it wasn't enough. If she leaves, it's too late. So no matter what, she can't win." Seraphina says, rising to her feet and stepping toward his table. "But I've decided to let the past be past. Because if I don't—if we don't—it eats through us like acid. And judging by the look of you..." she leans forward, palms pressed lightly on the edge of his workspace, "It already has."

Severus doesn't respond immediately. He simply stands there, unmoving, a tension resting between his shoulders that no amount of reorganizing vials can shake loose.

Seraphina watches him for a moment, her tone softening. "You don't have to forgive her. I'm not asking you to. I can't either. But pretending it didn't happen, pretending she doesn't exist anymore... that's not strength, Sev. That's hiding."

His jaw clenches. "I'm not hiding. I'm surviving."

She nods slowly. "Then survive with me. Not apart from me."

His eyes flick to hers at last; tired, but not cold. Something shifts in the air between them, fragile and human.

"Seraphina, I don't want to be at war with you, too." he murmurs, barely audible.

"You're not." she says, straightening her posture, her tone quiet but sure. "You're never alone in this." she adds, patting her brother's hand briefly, gently.

"I'm... sorry." He murmurs, lowering his gaze to his flasks. "I just need time."

She turns to go, pausing in the doorway. "Me too, Severus."

A calm Friday morning unfolds as Seraphina gathers her things and makes her way to breakfast. Her attention is fixed on the Ancient Runes book in her hands as she eats quickly, not entertaining the chatter as usual. Her hair is styled in two long, neat braids resting on torso, adorned with the faintest decorations, a simple elegance, with two thicker strings of hair at the front, falling upon her face and framing it. The signature white dragonfly pin in her hair—matching those of Nadine and Cassiopeia— allows a subtle yet deliberate personal flair.

The students gather for their The Ancient Runes and Divination lesson. The classroom is located high in the Astronomy Tower, offering a breathtaking view of the grounds and the starry sky above. The room is circular, with large arched windows casting soft, ethereal light. The walls are lined with towering bookshelves filled with ancient tomes and enchanted runic carvings that shimmer faintly, reacting to the students' magical energy.

In the center is a large wooden table, its surface inscribed with glowing runes. A blackboard at the front writes itself with colored light, displaying complex symbols that shift and change. Mysterious scrolls floating to their designated spots on the shelves framing the classroom. At the back, behind velvet curtains, sits a small Divination alcove with a crystal ball, surrounded by flickering candles and incense, giving the room an air of mystery.

The atmosphere is quiet, intense, and filled with the hum of ancient magic. A space that encourages deep focus and contemplation, where students of similar specializations delve into the mysteries of the past, future, balancing logic with intuition in their studies.

Professor Elara Thornwell stands at the helm of the table, happily welcoming her students into her class, parchments in hand.

A highly respected, enigmatic figure with a reputation for delving into the most obscure and dangerous aspects of magic. Professor Thornwell has a calm, almost mystical demeanor, and her expertise in ancient magic is unmatched. Her vast knowledge includes not only the mathematical precision of Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, but also the intuitive, often unsettling aspects of Divination.

Seraphina is one of the first to arrive, as usual, settling into her seat against the far wall by one of the large decorative windows. The seat next to her remains empty—she hasn't questioned it. Her focus is on the book in her hands, but the soft shuffle of footsteps interrupts her concentration.

She glances up to see a familiar figure—Regulus—making his way toward her. Her immediate reaction is to brace for a scolding over the incident with Mulciber and his gang, but to her surprise, he merely nods in her direction and sits down beside her without a word.

Confusion flickers through her, but she remains silent, watching him for any sign of confrontation. Yet, there is nothing—just a cool, unreadable expression. He sits with perfect posture, poised and proper. Professor Thornwell's voice soon fills the room, and Seraphina tries to turn her attention to the task. The long-awaited group project, it seems, is about to begin.

"We'll be assigning partners today." Thornwell announces, handing out the project guidelines.

Seraphina barely registers Professor Thornwell's words until she hears her name. "You two will be working together." the professor says softly, nodding toward her and Regulus as she draws closer. "Since you're a transfer student, Miss Snape, I thought it best to pair you with someone who knows the course inside and out. Mr. Black happens to be the top-performing student in this class, so I trust he'll help you get acquainted with how we do things here." she adds with a warm smile.

Her gaze shoots to Regulus, whose eyes are already on the professor. He seems unfazed, his face as neutral as ever. She can almost feel the weight of the potential collaboration, but she forces herself to look at the task in front of her.

Seraphina can't quite decipher his demeanor, but as the project details are discussed, she realizes she has no choice but to manage this new dynamic with him.

After a few minutes of listening, she shifts subtly in her seat, tilting her body just slightly toward him. "Hey." she whispers, the murmur of student conversation around them giving just enough cover. "I never thanked you. For stepping in yesterday."

Regulus looks at her, his gaze quiet but piercing, measuring her. "Mhm." he hums in reply, before glancing back down at the parchment.

Seraphina waits a beat, then adds, "Well—thank you."

"It's part of the Prefect duties." he replies simply, tone clipped and neutral. But then, almost as an afterthought, he hands her a parchment and adds, "And... a favor to my sister."

"I see." Seraphina nods once, but there is anticipation in her eyes, although she isn't sure what she wants out of this conversation either, yet the feeling lingers under the surface. He notices.

Regulus's tone remains calm, but his posture shifts slightly, more engaged now. "As Captain, I must say—Carrow nearly failed his test in self-control. I assume that's what you were intending to complain about?"

She meets his gaze—his eyes sharp, unblinking—and blinks twice before leaning back, arms crossing loosely.

"No, actually." she says. "I had... other things on my mind." Her words come quieter than she intended, almost vulnerable, before she catches herself and busies her hands with opening her ink bottle, setting her quill just so.

He watches her with a measured glance, the faintest narrowing of his eyes betraying the usual anticipation that she might, at any moment, set something ablaze—metaphorically, of course. It is the sort of look that suggests he is waiting for the inevitable rebellion.

"Detention." he says evenly, his voice smooth and clipped. Seraphina's head tilts slightly, interest piqued. "That was the result of Alecto's... unfortunate act."

"It was overdue." she returns coolly, though her words are more a pronouncement to the room than to him. "Third time. There won't be a fourth."

His exhale is sharp, almost silent. But he offers no rebuttal.

"A few managed to worm out of consequence." he continues, tone clinical, "But Alecto was made an example of. Slughorn, naturally, doesn't appreciate his newest favourite in trouble—particularly not alongside a Crouch." His gaze doesn't waver. It is fixed squarely on her.

"One of the new favourites, is it?" Seraphina quirks a brow, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "Slughorn has good instincts."

"Professor Slughorn," he corrects mildly, "has always had a particular fondness for Snapes. I imagine Severus has something to do with it." He delivers the words like a fact from a textbook—accurate, impersonal, and designed not to flatter.

"Of course." she replies, matching his tone with ease. "Severus and Cassiopeia. The pride of both lines."

At that, something in his expression falters. His brows pull together just slightly, eyes sharp as flint. "Mind yourself." he says, voice low but precise.

Then, he turns back to his parchment, dismissing her attempt to provoke him.

Her mind lingers on what Cassiopeia had said—that the Black family upheld pure-blood values more fiercely than anyone else in the wizarding world. Seraphina knows the reputation. She heard the whispers, seen the signs. And yet... something gnaws at her. She can't quite pinpoint what it is, but it tugs at the edge of her thoughts, unsettled and persistent.

Regulus, on the other hand, finds himself quietly surprised by the calmness between them. He had expected more pushback—attitude, defiance. A confrontation wouldn't have shocked him. But instead, their conversation had been... normal. Civil. Almost easy.

He doesn't let it show, of course, but there is a strange relief in not having to brace for another unnecessary argument. For once, he doesn't have to defend, correct, or control. And though he isn't sure what to make of her yet, he doesn't mind the silence that followed.

It is unfamiliar ground for both of them. But not unwelcome.

The parchment between them details the scope of the project for Magical Lineage & Theoretical Spellcraft—an in-depth analysis of wandlore theory as it relates to inherited magical traits and the historical impact of bloodline on spellcasting efficacy. Symbolic language of wandcraft—how runes carved into wands or ancestral spell scrolls tie into magical bloodlines.

This particular project includes decoding runic inscriptions left behind by early wandmakers, studying how runes enhance spellcasting based on heritage.

It is filled with citations from centuries-old magical texts, diagrams of wand cores, and theoretical models tracing the resonance between spellcraft and ancestral line.

Seraphina scans the first few lines, brow furrowing. "Dense, as expected." she mutters, half to herself, ready for the challenge.

Regulus makes a soft sound, somewhere between a hum and a scoff. "It's meant to be. It's Thornwell."

She glances sideways at him. "You sound like you have a lot of experience in this sort of work."

"I do." He doesn't offer more than that.

She gives a small, dry smile. "Of course you do."

His eyes flick to her, sharp and unreadable, but there is no bite in his voice when he says, "Will you maintain your attitude or do you intend to take offense to everything I say?"

Seraphina blinks, caught off guard—not by the words, but by the way he had said them. Measured. Controlled. Like he is asking an honest question, not trying to provoke her.

She looks down again. "I didn't take offense."

"Could've fooled me."

"I wasn't."

A beat passes. He doesn't press further.

Instead, he taps the top of the parchment with his quill. "We'll need to divide the sections. I'll handle the theoretical framework for wand wood and core pairings—their historical alignment with bloodlines—"

"Of course you will." she cuts in, unable to help herself at the perfect opportunity to tease, her tone is more amused than mocking this time.

Regulus pauses. And then, very faintly, the corner of his mouth twitch.

"You can take lineage theory and the historical fluctuations in spell responsiveness tied to blood status and their runes. It's messier, less defined. More suited to someone with a... flexible perspective."

"Flexible perspective." Seraphina repeats, raising a brow. "That sounds dangerously close to calling me unpredictable, or something else."

He doesn't deny it. "Is that inaccurate?"

She studies him for a long moment. "I don't know yet. I'm deciphering whether I am offended. I'll get back to you on that one."

"Marvellous." he responds sarcastically.

"I doubt you're as hard to read as you pretend to be." she bluntly says, eager to return the jab—or, the maybe-insult jab.

Regulus leans back slightly, folding his arms. "Aren't I?"

"Not entirely."

"Then you don't know me well."

Their eyes hold for a moment longer, and then she clears her throat and dips her quill into the ink.

"I'll start the draft tonight." she says, the shift in her voice sudden but smooth. "I'll have it by morning."

Regulus gives a small nod, already turning his attention back to his notes. "Good."

Chapter Text

As they begin writing in silence, Seraphina had applied effort into actually focusing on work. Despite her usual resistance, he is right, she is unpredictable, but she is proud of her sense of composure and tact, so she doesn't take it as an insult, unbeknownst to him.

Neither of them acknowledge it, but the silence between them is no longer empty.

The lesson draws to a close, the scratch of quills dulled, replaced by the soft rustle of parchment and the muted clatter of ink bottles being tucked away. Seraphina packs her things neatly—her usual lack of interest in lingering conversation warred now with a quiet, insistent curiosity.

Surely by now he has grown used to her presence. Or, at the very least, learned to tolerate it—for the sake of the project, if nothing else.

"Cass mentioned something." she begins carefully, her tone almost reluctant, betraying the weight behind the choice to speak at all. Her eyes flick to him, gauging the tension that immediately crackles in the air between them.

Regulus doesn't look at her. But he does freeze, as if her voice has turned the very air to ice. Slowly, he lifts his gaze to hers, and it is sharp—too sharp. A look that warns without speaking. The family mention alone had been enough.

"Cassiopeia should learn to mind herself." he says, his voice clipped, each word crisp with disdain. It isn't anger—not fully. More the reflexive recoil of someone trained to guard what is not meant for sharing. Especially not with someone like Seraphina.

"She only confirmed a suspicion." Seraphina offers, though even as she says it, she knows she is pressing against a boundary neither of them had agreed to cross. They aren't friends. They aren't even allies, only teammates. And as far as she knows, he has little regard for her kind.

Still... she hopes for something else. Something softer. A sliver of truth. And to achieve that, she lowers her usual sense of defiance towards him.

He finally looks at her—truly looks at her—his posture composed but alert, like a snake testing the air. "And what suspicion might that be?"

She meets his eyes and chooses her words with precision, careful not to lace them with accusation. "The unreasonable disdain for muggleborns—especially from your family." she says plainly, then waits—watching.

His gaze drops briefly to his knees. Just a second. Then, with a breath, his expression resets.

"Correct." he says simply, with the same certainty one might use when stating the time. "Not unreasonable, however. Pure-bloods have their reasons."

There is no bite in his tone, only calculation. He watches her coldly, knowing of the weight of his words.

Seraphina's face twists in disgust, only slightly, but enough for him to catch it. Her distaste doesn't surprise him. She despises values like his, founded in centuries of quiet cruelty and discrimination. But if Cassiopeia had been telling the truth, if there is something beneath all that ice—then maybe Regulus isn't the loyal little soldier he seems to be.

"Let me be very clear—I do not bother myself with what people think of it. There's power in blood, anything else is a delusion." he slaps the words down, removing his eyes from her, now looking forward. "The right ones who know—understand." He is willing to drop the conversation momentarily.

"I know one thing. The only delusion here is this vile discrimination. The false pretense that 'pure' blood is more valuable than anyone's." she retaliates, her voice now serious, hard with disgust. She doesn't intend to start a confrontation—he is right, she usually shows more restraint.

Regulus doesn't flinch. He regards her with the chilling stillness of a winter sky—beautiful, distant, and utterly unmoved.

"It absolutely is." he shoots back, turning to her fully now. His voice has not risen; it doesn't need to. The weight of his conviction is not loud—it is precise, cold, and terribly calm.

"There are things in this world that aren't subject to opinion, Snape." he continues, annoyed—yet oddly proud that he 'has' to explain it to her; tone clipped with the kind of elegance born from a lifetime of recitations at dinner tables lined with silver. "Blood matters. Not because we wish it to—but because it does. Power consolidates where it is oldest. That's not rhetoric, it's reality."

He stands straighter, as if recalling a lesson from a portrait in Grimmauld Place. "The names that endure—like some of your little friends— we're not surviving by accident. There is a reason muggleborns do not found lasting legacies. They flicker, they burn, and they vanish."

Seraphina stares, a flicker of disbelief in her expression, but he doesn't waver. He isn't trying to convince her. He doesn't need to.

"How awfully unfair of you." she whispers, unblinking.

"I don't expect you to agree." he says. "Nor do I seek your approval. What you call discrimination, we call discernment. A necessary filter. The world is not fair—it is ordered."

She moves back, whether in revulsion or restraint, he can't tell.

"It's a poisonous, destructive perspective, Black—and that might just be my 'flexible perspective.'" she spits back with ice.

"You speak of poison." he goes on, eyes sharp like needles, "'Poison' is tradition. Heritage. The architecture of a society that—until recently—knew its place. What we believe is not born from hatred, Snape. It's born from clarity, from duty—to preserve the sacred, ancient, irreplaceable."

A long pause stretches between them, the room chilled by the gravity of his poise. She hasn't expected such—what she views as—foul mania.

"I do not revel in cruelty." he adds, softer now, but no less sure. "But I do not shy from truth. I was not raised to entertain the sentimental delusions of equality. History isn't a matter of feelings, much to your dismay."

She shakes her head, disbelieving. "You sound just like them."

"I am them." he says, as if stating the sky is blue. "You'd do well to remember that."

A silence creeps in, as if the noise is suffocated with a Silencio.

"Half-bloods?" she asks next, quieter, not with venom, but with a bluntness that reveals her restraint. The classroom is empty. The question hangs between them, equal parts challenge and curiosity. To what extent is he willing to participate in such extreme beliefs?

Regulus doesn't answer immediately, composure intact. Instead, he lifts his chin, scanning her face as if reading between the lines of a difficult text. There is no hostility in his expression—only quiet analysis. He understands the weight of her question, and for once, seems to tread with something that almost resembles care.

She is his group partner, after all, and a teammate. It would be dreadfully inefficient to insult her heritage without cause, and potentially sabotage their team collaterally.

Unfortunately for him, he hadn't accounted for silence being interpreted as an answer. He realizes it—the way her shoulders lower, her few rapid blinks in succession, and the sudden aversion to eye contact—she is set on a conclusion. In her mind, he sees her kind as vermin, so she has no business attempting to further her friendship with him. As their Captain, sure, maintaining sportsmanlike behaviour is fine, but that is where it ceases.

"Ruined. Tarnished." he whispers, eyes tracing her face with surgical precision, as if cataloging damage. It is riddled with an unexpected crack in her cold exterior. This is the closest she has ever seen him be pitiful, as if she is hopeless roadkill that once was a beautiful deer. He knows it is mean, however, he justifies it as truth.

"Miskine." he adds, more to himself, barely above a whisper, "Une petite chose pitoyable qui croit encore que le monde est juste."
(Pitiful. A little thing who still believes the world is fair.)

"I see." she quietly utters, not understanding his sentence—a disappointed finality in her voice. She stands up and rapidly grabs her stuff, exiting the classroom in a haste.

He can't quite understand it—her question, the way she had looked at him while asking it. What had she expected him to say? What had made her think he might be different? He is the Black family heir after all—he can't necessarily pinpoint at his own wrongdoings; sure, the overall thought could have dealt damage on its own, but he hadn't gone out of his way to portray it that way.

It lingers with him, the way she had looked disappointed, not in him—but in herself, for hoping otherwise. He had never seen her express anything beyond defiance, sarcasm, and a composed disinterest in everything and everyone around her. She is icy—similarly like him.

Meanwhile, Seraphina moves quickly through the corridor, expression blank, heart uncomfortably tight. She should know better. She does know better.

Bitterness takes over her; the conversation left her with a sour taste in her mouth and an unexpected pang of hurt, which she despises.

She isn't going to mention this to anyone, not until she riddles the emotion, which she will expertly suppress and kill.

The air smells of dust, old incense, and forgotten dreams. It is one of Seraphina's favourite places to be, at least ones with light in them. Filled with magical items, tomes, mysterious grimoires and beautiful stained windows she spends hours looking at. She gravitates towards beautiful architecture and old, dark spaces, just like her brother.

It is late, nearly curfew—she escaped right before Regulus did his Prefect runs so as to not be caught out after curfew. She sits curled on a faded floor cushion near the wide, round window, quill in hand, parchment untouched. Above her, the stars blinked faintly through the foggy glass, and the tower creaked faintly with the wind. She isn't surprised when the door groans open behind her.

"You took your time." she says without turning.

"I nearly didn't come." Severus replied, his voice stripped down to something bare and uncertain.

He steps fully into the room, cloak heavy with the damp of evening. His eyes scan the stacks of mismatched chairs, old tea cups, and lace-draped tables before settling on her.

Seraphina glances over her shoulder and nods toward the cushion beside her. "I know." she says simply. "Me too."

He doesn't sit right away. Just stands, fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt as though it has personally wronged him. "If you think dragging me into this absurd Tower will make it easier to write to her—"

"I don't." Seraphina cuts in softly. "But I hoped the height might help. Something about being far from the ground makes things seem... less heavy."

He raises a brow. "Since when do you believe in Divination?"

"I didn't, until recently." she says with a shrug. "But I believe in quiet places."

Finally, with a sharp sigh, Severus lowers himself beside her. His posture is tight, arms folded, knees pulled up like a wall. She offers him the quill, but he doesn't take it.

"We can keep it brief." she says. "We don't have to say anything we don't mean."

"That's the problem." he mutters. "I don't know what I mean."

Seraphina sets the quill down between them. "Then write that. Write that you don't know. That you're angry. That you're tired. That things should've been different."

He doesn't answer. His fingers play absently with the edge of his sleeve.

After a moment, she reaches into her satchel and pulls out the letter. Eileen's letter. The one that had started it all. It is creased and softened from being read and re-read, even if he hasn't touched it himself.

"I re-read it." she says quietly. "She never says sorry outright. But there's something in her words... some kind of reaching."

"She's always reached." he snaps. "But never far enough."

Seraphina doesn't disagree. She just unfolds the parchment, lays it gently between them, and lets the candlelight cast its long shadow across the words.

"I think this letter is her first apology. The only way she knows how to give one. And I think," she pauses, searching his face. "it'll be the last."

He glances down at it reluctantly. His lips press into a thin line, then soften as his eyes move over the ink. He doesn't touch it, but he doesn't look away either.

"She didn't write to us for years." he says. "She could've left sooner. She could've taken us."

"She could've." Seraphina agrees. "And maybe she wanted to. Maybe she was afraid. Or too tired. Or too trapped. I don't know. But I think she's trying now. And I don't want to carry all of that with me forever."

Severus lets out a breath that sounds like surrender and shakes his head. "You're too forgiving."

"No." she says, picking up the quill and pressing it gently into his hand. "I'm tired of being angry."

He holds it there, loosely. Doesn't lift it yet.

"I'll write the first sentence." she offers. "You can end it."

He says nothing, but he doesn't stop her. She leans over the parchment, her handwriting neat and slow:

Mother,

We received your letter, and admittedly, we couldn't write back immediately. There is much we don't know how to say, and more we may never be able to...

She pauses and hands it to him.

Severus stares at the ink, then at her. Then, with trembling fingers, he adds:

But we are reading. We are listening. And we are

He stops. Looks at her again.

"Trying." Seraphina whispers.

He nods, and lets the quill finish the word.

We miss what could have been, but we will miss it more if we give up entirely

They sign their names—his last, always more reluctant than hers—and sit in silence. They lean on each other. Not quite at peace, not quite resolved. But together.

And for now, that is enough.

"Is there hope for some normalcy for us, for once, in this lifetime?" She asks him, although it sounds more like she is asking the room or the stars.

"We haven't dealt in anything such as hope in years." he admits, a painful smirk forming on his lips.

It is clear they are exhausted—both in school and in life beyond it. Coming from difficult backgrounds, they often found themselves surrounded by peers with powerful families, deep connections, and carefully carved-out futures. It isn't inadequacy they feel, not exactly, but a constant sense that they have to work twice as hard just to earn the most basic things—respect, recognition, stability.

Others around them carry their own burdens, yes, but Seraphina and Severus can't help wondering what it might be like to live without such relentless struggle. What it might feel like to simply belong, without having to fight for every inch of it.

The silence is interrupted by Seraphina.

"Would you like to make Bruise Balm with me? We ran out."

Severus nods. "Quidditch?"

"Yes." She points at her arm with a fading, yet stubborn bruise.

"We'll do it tomorrow. Same time, Potions room?"

"Yes. We should go to bed."

As they part ways, both are quietly grateful—each in their own way—for the rare comfort of having someone in their corner who understands without needing to ask.

Chapter Text

The upcoming week is a whirlwind of intense Quidditch practice and work. As the material began to pile up, students find themselves shifting into their routines, balancing studying with the physical exhaustion of practice for any specialization.

James however, unsurprisingly, decided the team haven't practiced enough, and insisted on the earliest morning practices, just so that he could sneak in an extra hour or two of training. No one was thrilled, but they all obliged, knowing James's commitment to the team. They pushed themselves harder with each passing day leading up to the match.

The team had long accepted James's ambitions, which extended beyond just the Gryffindor team. He had something to prove more than the rest, it is his specialization, after all. "And besides... He just wants us to win." Marlene reassured them on those mornings. "It's in our best interest, really."

Sirius was the most difficult to wake up, often requiring being yanked out of bed or otherwise he would find some excuse to stay under the covers. Smooth talking or pointing a wand up at nothing and mumbling into his pillow—whatever it took to delay the inevitable. Ultimately, he would give in and drag himself out of bed, unhappy.

Nadine, however, willed herself out of bed, despite being tired from studying the nights before. It was a mix of nerves and confidence for her first game of the season. It isn't just a first game—it is the first game at Hogwarts and not Beauxbatons.

Crouches are used to getting up early. Father doesn't tolerate laziness and tardiness, so it is more-so normal for her to be up and about early on. That, and she has a thing of her own to prove. Is it for herself? Yes. It is also for Barty, definitely for Mother and Father, and her House. She is motivated, ready and confident.

The tension since the Slug Club dinner has been tamed; both Nadine and James are more invested into displaying the finest performance as a team, than interested in each other. It is an unspoken rule—despite the argument—training and game days are off-limits for fights. A rule they both begrudgingly agreed on.

Sirius, though in a silent agreement with James, keeps the peace in the team. Despite the irony, it comes natural to him—he has a gift for maintaining tension and high spirits. On another hand, that gift also extends into his ability to instigate chaos. Two sides of the same coin, truly.

"Bite each other's heads off AFTER we win. I couldn't care less otherwise." Sirius mentioned a few times jokingly.

"And if we lose, I'll be the first one to start the fight." Marlene added, giggling with the twins, who were shadow-boxing each other, mimicking Nadine and James.

Breakfast is calm but cheerful, at least for most. The students are excited about the first official match, and both Hufflepuff and Gryffindor teams are laser focused even at breakfast, not exchanging glances, and continuously murmuring about routines and strategy.

"So, like I said, instead of immediately diving, try to—" James starts.

"To feign it first and sharply turn to snipe the Quaffle. Yeah, yeah." Nadine finishes flatly, having heard his strategy ramblings a thousand times before. "A broken record, really." she adds half-jokingly. She isn't too thrilled about having to interact with him regarding Quidditch, or at all, really, after their bickering. Although she is unhappy she had lashed out on him, she made the decision to put it to rest before it spills over into the match.

"Someone hasn't slept well." Sirius teases with a mischievous grin.

"We had to threaten you to get you out of bed, Sirius. Let us be groggy." Marlene chuckles, raising an eyebrow.

"Whatever makes you go faster and win." Sirius shrugs, finishing off his breakfast.

Despite denouncing his family, he has the same Black posture—like Regulus and Cassiopeia, very proper and structurally mannered. James, in the meantime, is contrasting Sirius by devouring his food like it was a speed-eating competition. He claims it is all about maximizing food intake efficiency.

Marlene leans her head on her hand, absentmindedly picking at the last few bits of food left on her plate, with an occasional yawn escaping her. Nadine had already finished her meal. She sits with her elbows on the table, her hands crossed loosely, her plate empty. Brownie meows softly beside her.

"It's not only about speed." James continues, clearly determined to drive home his point. "The main thing is—"

"TECHNIQUE!" the group chimes in, laughing together.

James lets out an exaggerated sigh, playfully throwing up his hands. "Fine, I guess I'll never speak again."

"Oh my, that would be... awful." Nadine adds, grinning.

"We appreciate it, James." Marlene says with a soft smile.

The laughter and light banter gives the team a break from the tension and nervous energy building up. Each member of the team knows what is at stake, confident that they have each other's back.

As the teams dismount their brooms, the Gryffindors erupt in cheers, rushing to congratulate their victorious teammates—this is their first win of the season. Some Hufflepuffs are focused more on preventing their players from bashing their heads against the Quidditch posts in the wake of their loss. The Gryffindors surge onto the field, a loud, stampeding mass rushing with deafening excitement.

To say that James is proud would be a criminal understatement—he is positively glowing, a grin so wide it seems to light up the entire field. Nadine isn't sure whether she finds it endearing or nauseating, but it is clear he is basking in the glory, as is Sirius, who revels in the victory with a smirk, the world's biggest spotlight on the two team stars. Still, in an unexpected show of humility, he gathers the rest of the team into his arms, pulling them into the celebration, and into the rest of the Gryffindors.

Marlene's voice cuts through the noise in a high-pitched shout of triumph that Nadine wouldn't have expected from someone of her smaller stature. "Told you we'd win this year!" she shouts, not even remotely humble, nodding emphatically and raising her hands to stir the crowd even more. Meanwhile, the twins are skipping around the team, Irish-dancing with Phoebe as they sing a triumphant tune.

Nadine can't help but laugh, overwhelmed by the contagious energy. This is the moment she had worked for—the early mornings, the grueling practices, and tolerating James. She understands the feeling, though it has never felt quite like this before. It is new, thrilling, and for the first time, she truly feels part of something. Surrounded by teammates and Gryffindors, some familiar, others not, she feels embraced, accepted. She is home. Or at least, what home should feel like.

The pressure in her wrist begins to throb, a sharp sensation that only increases as swelling slowly appears. She bites her lip and rubs it gently, refusing to acknowledge the injury from her first match, though the occasional wince betrays her effort to hide it. I'll deal with it later, a quick spell will do, she reassures herself.

The spirits are soaring so high that Nadine finds herself comfortable enough to accept a congratulatory hug from James—after Marlene, Phoebe, and the twins, who are distributing hugs as if they are cakes, all in the name of victory. Sirius creeps up behind her, casually slinging an arm around her shoulders.

"Ahh, smell that, our new, freshly baked Chaser?" he says, inhaling deeply as if savoring the air. "That's the smell of victory."

"Victory or your sweat?" Nadine giggles, giving him a playful pat on the back as she disentangles herself from his grasp. "You did well, though. Defending that last one was skill. It really gave us the edge."

Sirius's grin widens, pleased by the compliment. "You weren't too shabby yourself. I was sure that Quaffle was a goner, but you snatched it so fast, I didn't even realize we had it until you scored." He adds with a mischievous smile. "See, this is how it could be if we weren't constantly bickering."

Before Nadine can respond, Marlene interjects. "Exactly. Didn't I tell you? We're this year's winners!" She crosses her arms smugly, nodding toward Nadine.

As Marlene walks away, Sirius approaches quietly, his voice low enough to avoid drawing attention. "You should probably get that checked out." he murmurs, casting a brief glance at her wrist before offering her a mischievous wink.

Of course he noticed.

Before she can protest, the twins scoop her up, hoist her onto their shoulders and charge into the heart of the crowd. "TO OUR NEW GLORIOUS CHASER, NADINE!" one of them yells, and the roar of cheers erupts once more, the clapping so thunderous it almost drowns out everything else. Nadine can't help but grin, overwhelmed by the infectious joy surrounding her. In that moment, she feels an undeniable sense of pride—she earned her place. One thing is certain: she proved herself a competitor to be reckoned with.

As they finally set her down and the crowd began to slowly disperse, still alive with excitement, the Hufflepuff team approaches, their smiles wide as they come forward to offer their congratulations.
Nadine shakes her hand lightly and massages it, pretending to fix her sleeves. Just then, two familiar figures arrive.

"Well, look at you, victorious and all." Remus's voice suddenly breaks through the cheering. Nadine turns to see him, grinning from ear to ear, his arms open wide for a congratulatory hug, which she happily steps into.

"Remus! You watched?" she asks, surprised and pleased by his presence. She releases her hair from her ponytail and briefly brushes it with her fingers.

"Of course." he answers softly, still beaming. "I told you I wouldn't miss it. You were fantastic, genuinely."

Nadine laughs, she was eager to share her success with her friend.

"Beauxbatons fights back, I see." he teases with a wink.

"Ah, you know," Nadine replies with a smirk, "fists and bows."

Lily skips over and wraps her arms around James in a tight embrace.

"Congratulations!" she cheers, as James spins her around with a grin, and kisses her briefly.

"All me, ask them." he jokes, clearly reveling in the glory.

"How are you, after the match?" Lily asks, turning to Nadine with a bright smile.

"I'm great." Nadine replied, beaming. "I have high hopes for us, and we've got the fire to match it."

"She was solid. Both of them were." James says, gesturing to Nadine and Marlene. "Exactly as we practiced." His pride in his team is visible, but it catches Nadine slightly by surprise.

"Pfft, damn right we were solid." Marlene adds, crossing her arms proudly. "Our new Chaser here taught those Hufflepuffs a lesson." Nadine laughs in response.

"The strategy was solid, I have to admit." Nadine nods in approval at James, who grins and nods back, as Lily shifts out of his grasp to congratulate the rest of the team. Nadine always gives credit where credit is due, and she doesn't shy away from honesty.

Despite the tension within the team, it is a collective understanding that it has to be put aside, allowing themselves to recognize the big success.

Across the field, Nadine's gaze drifts to the Slytherin team, who stands apart, their faces devoid of expression, their eyes fixed on the Gryffindor players. To Nadine, they look like predators observing their prey. But the Gryffindors are no sheep. They are lions.

The Slytherins are judging, assessing—meticulously taking note of every move, every strategy the Gryffindor team has executed. Among them, Nadine spots Seraphina, who had just descended from the stands. With a glance, Nadine sees her starting a conversation with someone, though the words are lost in the distance.

Before she can dwell on it, she is quickly surrounded by the Hufflepuff Seeker and Keeper, offering their congratulations and praising her skill, which pulls her thoughts away from the Slytherins.

"Uncontrolled. Loud. Messy." Avery's voice slices through the air, his disdain obvious as he gestures toward the Gryffindors from across the field. "Foul." he adds with a sneer. His posture is relaxed, one foot casually resting on the wall behind him.

"Their Seeker was sloppy on that sharp left turn. Think you can take advantage of that, Black?" his voice cuts through the silence, directed at Regulus, who stands poised and alert, his eyes still locked on the opposing team.

"Certainly." Regulus replies coolly. He doen't see the Hufflepuff Seeker as a threat.

"The pass wasn't clean." Evan chimes in, his tone more serious than usual, cutting through the tension. "Any decent Beater could've sent a Bludger straight at them."

"Yeah, any decent Beater, meaning not anyone from Hufflepuff." Avery adds with a chuckle, clearly enjoying the mockery.

"Sounds like we've got a job to do." Steve murmurs, their laughter echoing through the group as they continue to analyze the performance, already formulating their own strategies.

Seraphina remains silent. She isn't uncomfortable by cruel commentary, but she can't view Nadine as an 'enemy', the way her teammates so readily did. She is, in all honesty, extremely proud of Nadine, and eager to run to her and congratulate her on the victory. Still, she keeps her composure and listens.

"They were good. Great, even." Seraphina finally speaks, her voice calm and measured. "But we need to be better." She shrugs slightly, her eyes drifting over the field.

Before anyone can respond, Regulus's head twitches ever so slightly towards her, his eyes narrowing at her in disapproval. His brows furrow, and Seraphina notices, refusing to indulge him with the unspoken judgment. She doesn't allow it to affect her, keeping her gaze steady and indifferent as she looks back at the other teams.

"We are better!" Evan says, his grin wide and filled with confidence. "Just wait until we get out there and show them what we're made of." He taps Seraphina on her shoulders.

"My, my, compliments to the enemy team? Am I sensing a weakness in you, Snape?" Avery's voice is low, laced with mockery, as he approaches Seraphina, hands casually stuffed into his pant pockets. His posture is smug, the arrogance clear, and he stands just a bit too close for her comfort.

"Any sensible Quidditch player knows that acknowledging the strengths and weaknesses of every team is essential, and denying them is ignorant." Seraphina shoots back evenly, her gaze unwavering as she meets his. She crosses her arms, standing her ground despite the fact that he is taller, his eyes fixed on her with the intent to unsettle. He is trying to provoke a reaction, but she refuses to give him the satisfaction.

"She's right." Evan adds, his tone carrying an air of finality. "It would be foolish not to recognize that. Still, we learn, and we win. That's all there's to it." His words are met with murmurs of agreement from the rest of the team.

Seraphina, undeterred by their scrutiny, flashes a confident smirk. "Excuse me from this eye-opening conversation," she says with a cool indifference, her voice laced with sarcasm as she turns sharply on her heel. "I'm going to congratulate my friend." She begins walking toward the Gryffindors, her steps purposeful.

Chapter Text

"Friend." Regulus's voice cuts through the air, halting the team in their tracks. Seraphina closes her eyes, exhaling slowly before turning to face him. "Excellent hearing, Black." she replies, her tone cold. "A foreign term for you, I gather?" Her words drip with sarcasm as she looks him dead in the eye.

"It's also productive to know the weaknesses of our own team, correct?" Regulus continues smoothly, his tone probing as he takes aim at her previous statement. Seraphina furrows her brow, glancing to the side briefly before returning her gaze to him, preparing herself for his next jab.

"And, of course, as your Captain, I must be aware of all of these weaknesses, yes?" He drags out his words, his presence tense, provocation evident. Seraphina, however, merely extends a hand toward him in mock invitation, daring him to continue.

"Mhm." he murmurs, stepping closer now. "Surely, this adorable friendship of yours won't be a hindrance for us. A conflict of interest, yes?" He towers over her, but she stands her ground, unshaken. It is as if she is standing before a judge in a courtroom, yet she refuses to be intimidated.

"Baseless implications, Black. Unless, of course, they stem from somewhere else." Seraphina shoots back, her voice laced with disdain. "A projection, perhaps? A place you know far too well. A sibling rivalry, I sense?" She takes a step closer to him, her confidence rising. "Surely, that's not a conflict of interest either, yes?" Her words are sharp, defiant, and her eyes gleam with amusement.

The team knows better than to tread into Regulus's family territory, especially when it comes to his brother. It is a sore spot, and Seraphina had just found it and is evidently proud. Regulus's eyes darken, his jaw clenched.

"My brother... is nothing." Regulus spits, his voice cutting with coldness.

Before Seraphina can respond, Evan swiftly moves between them, his hands pushing them apart. "Enough." he says firmly, his voice carrying an edge that makes the team fall silent. "I'm also friends with her, and no, that doesn't change anything. Don't be ridiculous." His gaze sweeps across the group, an unspoken warning in his eyes.

"So unnecessary." Evan adds sharply, his stare piercing as he takes in the tension surrounding them. The atmosphere grows heavy, but Evan's intervention had effectively stopped the escalation.

"Interesting new friendships, it seems." Avery remarks, his voice devoid of any amusement, his face a mask of disapproval. His eyes linger on Seraphina, then Evan, for a moment longer before he adds, "Maybe reconsider your circles." With a final glance, he turns and walks away with Steve and Lucinda.

Regulus looks away from Seraphina, the silence thick between them. She refuses to try and meet his gaze for long, and as the tension simmers, she mentally pushes it aside. Thoughts of Nadine flicker in her mind, and the knot of discomfort loosens.

"Oh, bloody hell." Remus mutters under his breath, watching as Seraphina and the Slytherin team make their way toward them. The shift in atmosphere is immediate—an unsettling tension that makes some Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs gradually slip away from the scene.

Before anyone can utter a word, Seraphina charges forward, as sudden and forceful as thunder, colliding with Nadine and knocking her into a tight embrace.

"You killed it!" Seraphina exclaims, her voice brimming with pride as she pulls back just enough to look Nadine in the eye. Nadine, grinning from ear to ear, laughs in delight. "Thank you! Ah! You saw!" she responds, clearly thrilled to be in the company of one of her best friends, wincing as Seraphina unknowingly made contact with her injured wrist.

Seraphina notices, giving her a knowing look, but refuses to address it in front of others.

The rest of the Slytherin team remains in the background, hanging back with the disinterest of a pack waiting for their lost puppy to rejoin them. But Seraphina pays them no mind. She has no intention of letting them distract her from celebrating with Nadine.

"Of course I saw." Seraphina says, her smirk widening as she winks at Nadine. "Had to check out my new rival."

Nadine raises an eyebrow but is clearly enjoying the playful banter. "Oh really?! That's the only reason? I'm hurt." She laughs.

"Barty and Cassie are over there too, but were eager to miss these dramatics." Seraphina adds with a shrug, as if the whole scene was beneath their attention.

"Fair enough." Remus remarks, stepping forward and giving a knowing smile.

"Hey, Seraphina." His tone is casual, though there is a glint of something deeper in his eyes. Concern, maybe.

"Hi, Lupin." Seraphina's smile is polite, her nod courteous, keeping her composure despite the unspoken tension still lingering in the air. It is as though she had just effortlessly brushed off a storm that hasn't quite passed.

"What an unsettling bunch of creeps lurking behind you." James remarks half-jokingly, pulling Lily closer to him as she stays silent, her eyes flickering between the two teams. Nadine shoots a warning stare at James to halt his criticism right away. Sirius chuckles.

Before Seraphina can fire back a response, Sirius jumps in. "Oh my, had I known you were watching, I would've brushed my hair or something." His grin is pure mischief as he runs a hand through his messy locks, trying to smooth his uniform with mock seriousness.

"That untamed... thing?" Seraphina teases, raising an eyebrow as she gestures toward his wild hair.

"My friend, a charmer, really." James adds with a smirk, clearly enjoying the banter. Nadine rolls her eyes, leaning onto Remus who crosses his arms in anticipation.

Sirius slides closer to Seraphina, casting a spell to make his broom stand upright beside him before leaning against it with his arms crossed. "So, you're next, yes?" His tone is light, but there is an edge of challenge in his voice.

Seraphina can't help but notice the similarity between the way Sirius and Regulus phrased their questions today, but she pushes it from her mind.

"Mhm. Your winning streak finished before it even started, I fear." she replies, her voice dripping with amusement.

"Nah, you think you could pass a Quaffle by me? Cute confidence. I could, however, help you train. Private lessons and all." Sirius says, his grin widening as he winks at her, clearly enjoying the flirty game of words.

The group watches the exchange like spectators at a tennis match. Nadine looks amused, though a bit grossed out, Remus stands with a look of disappointment, fingers pressed against the bridge of his nose, while Marlene stifles a giggle in the back. James merely shakes his head, smiling, as he lets Sirius do his thing.

"Outstanding offer, I'm sure. Breaks my heart to pass, though." Seraphina replies, her face contorting into an exaggerated, pitiful expression that barely conceals her amusement. Sirius steps closer, but Seraphina remains unphased.

"The offer remains, y'know." Sirius says, his voice lower now, as he leans in a bit. "Unless you're too busy in that nasty circle of friends you've got there." He gestures vaguely toward her team, his eyes briefly locking with Regulus, who stands off to the side, visibly disgusted and disapproving.

Seraphina takes a step toward him, fully aware of her team watching her closely, but she doesn't let the tension affect her. "A confident man, surely it's not all talk." She retaliates, reducing her facial expression to a cold, challenging stare. "But I guess we'll see each other on the pitch." She links her arms with Nadine.

"On the pitch, in my dreams... Who knows?" Sirius raises his voice a bit, biting his lip and winking at her, stepping back as others start heading out.

"Now, what do we have here?" Seraphina asks, brushing past Regulus as they walk, her eyes flicking from him to Nadine's wrist.

"Okay, I may have played it off a bit too well." Nadine admits, a mock-sad expression crossing her face as she reveals the swelling. "That Bludger really hit hard. I think I underestimated it."

"Bruise Balm!" they both exclaim in unison, breaking into laughter. "That should do the trick." Seraphina adds with a wink. "Let's get you to the hospital wing."

As they make their way through the hallways, a few students pass by, offering congratulations on the win. Nadine smiles and nods, accepting their praise graciously. When they reach the hospital wing, they spot Severus in deep and hushed conversation with Madam Pomfrey.

Nadine tenses. While she is proud of her victory, she can't help but feel a flutter of anxiety. What if Severus notices? What if he has something to say about it—though she knows, the chances of that are nonexisting. Her usual confidence dips, replaced by a subtle shyness. Seraphina chuckles quietly, noting the change in her demeanor.

"Fancy seeing you here. We've got ourselves in a bit of a situation." Seraphina begins, sparing Nadine the effort of initiating the conversation.

"Not too bad, just a sprain... I think." Nadine murmurs, casting a fleeting glance toward Severus, who turns his attention to her bruised wrist.

"Oh, you children! Quidditch is hard, I always say so. Way too many injuries." Madam Pomfrey comments lightly, her smile bright and maternal. "I've got just the thing for you, my dear." She disappears into the back of the hospital wing, leaving the three of them to wait for a moment.

"So... what are you up to?" Nadine asks awkwardly, her eyes lifting to meet Severus's. His expression is unreadable, his gaze locked on hers.

"None of your concern, is it, Crouch?" he retorts sharply, his voice laced with disdain.

Seraphina rolls her eyes. "Sev, you're rude."

He sighs in annoyance. "I was tasked with making a set of potions for the University. As you can see, I was successful." He gestures toward a table piled with at least twenty different vials, each holding varying potions of different shapes and colors, some in pairs, others single.

"Of course you were! You're brilliant at that." Nadine murmurs, her cheeks flushing. She quickly lowers her gaze.

Seraphina stifles a laugh, finding the awkwardness amusing. To her, it is like watching two kittens unsure how to interact with one another.

Severus raises an eyebrow, clearly unsure how to respond to her sudden display of bashfulness. After a beat, he pushes it aside. "We can't say the same about you, can we?" he says, his tone cool as he points at her swollen wrist with his wand.

"Hey. They won." Seraphina chimes in, stepping in to defend Nadine. Her arms are crossed in a show of solidarity.

Before Nadine can respond, a voice echoes from the hallway. "Phiny! Team meeting, I had to come for you." Evan's voice rings out, and he waves energetically, urging her to come along.

"Ah! My time has fallen short." Seraphina teases, giving Nadine and Severus a sly smile. "I'm sure you two will keep this riveting discussion going." She pats both of them on the back, skipping towards Evan.

"Oh, and Sev, if you could be a darling and give her a few of the Wiggenweld Potions you made for me, I'd be the happiest sister in the world. Love ya." Seraphina adds, not allowing any time for him to protest, before lacing arms with Evan and disappearing.

Severus sneers, his tone dramatic. "I'm but a mere puppet in this circus, it seems." he mutters under his breath before reaching into his coat and pulling out two vials, a potion known for its healing qualities for more common injuries that still need magical assistance.

Nadine watches him quietly, taking in every movement, every flick of his hand. Her heart skips a beat when she recognizes the vials. It is her gift. A smile tugs at her lips, and she feels excitement.

"I thought you destroyed them." Nadine says softly.

Severus huffs through his nose. "I was running low on supply and Seraphina made a good point not to." It is the only explanation he offers, but Nadine is more than okay with that.

"You don't have to." she begins, but Severus cuts her off, his voice laced with irritation.

"Quidditch is a foolish, violent game, and you are a foolish girl for participating in it. If you weren't so clumsy, maybe you'd win without breaking your hands and feet." he says, his criticism biting as always.

Nadine's heart sinks slightly, though she has gotten used to his sharp remarks. She shifts uncomfortably, hiding her wrist again. "It's not a stupid game. Accidents happen all the time. I'm sure you know, potion accidents happen too. Doesn't make it any less or more stupid than what I'm doing."

Severus shoots her a sharp look, swiftly pushing her sleeve up with his wand to examine the swelling. "Drink this." he says curtly, thrusting the potion at her. Nadine hesitates for only a moment before taking the vial. The metallic, sharp taste floods her senses as she drinks it quickly, wincing at the taste that is both medicinal and unpleasant.

"Look at it." Severus instructs, his wand flicking over her wrist. The swelling slowly begins to recede, the pain lessening almost immediately. She marvels at the sight, her face lighting up.

"Thank you. That's incredible." Nadine says sincerely, her smile wide as she looks up at him.

Severus rolls his eyes. "You should know this by now." he replies, his tone flat. "Next time, use the Bruise Balm for efficiency." She nods.

Nadine grins, biting her lip. "Well... thank you again. You didn't have to—"

"Sorry, my dears, I had to pack the Balm into the container—been behind, you see. Already treated a few injured students!" Madam Pomfrey's voice rings out from behind them, and she appears with a cheerful smile, handing Nadine a small tin can of the Bruise Balm.

"Thank you, Madam, but Severus was kind enough to take care of it while you were busy." Nadine smiles at her politely, while Madam Pomfrey beams back.

"Ah, my Severus, such talent! I can always count on you for these emergencies." She waves them off with a smile. "Off you go, my dears."

Severus doesn't respond. He merely nods, his expression calm and impassive, and eager to leave. As another student—a Hufflepuff—enters, Madam Pomfrey excuses herself to tend to the new arrival, leaving Severus and Nadine alone once again.

"Well, I better be going then." Nadine starts, her voice hesitant, hoping to be given a reason to stay.

"Per my sister's request, and only because of that, take this." he says coldly, handing her the second vial.

As Nadine reaches out to take it, their fingers brush, and he quickly withdraws his, turning sharply and walking off with his coat swirling behind him.

Nadine smiles softly to herself, watching him leave before tucking the vial into her pocket and heading back to the dormitories.

Chapter Text

Nadine stands before the mirror, the red dress she wears is striking—not just in color, but in the bold, confident elegance it gives off. A deep crimson satin, off-the-shoulder cut with structured puffed sleeves that taper down just past her elbow. The bodice is fitted, hugging her waist before flaring out into a smooth, dramatic skirt that brushes her ankles.

A thigh-high slit on one side peeks just enough to reveal her vintage black heeled Mary Janes with gold buckles. Around her neck is a delicate gold chain, and small ruby studs gleam in her ears. Her hair is parted to the side and curled into soft waves that tumble over one shoulder like liquid silk. Her makeup is glam yet effortless: winged liner, fluttering lashes, a touch of blush, and bold red lipstick to match the dress.

On her bed, Brownie gives a small, unimpressed meow, her eyes watching Nadine carefully.

"You don't like it?" Nadine laughs softly, scooping her up and spinning once. "Well, I do. We're attending a party after all."

The music is already thumping downstairs—something upbeat, full of bass, with laughter and voices rolling over it like waves. Brownie hops from her arms and pads ahead toward the stairwell as if announcing Nadine's arrival. With a last breath, she squares her shoulders, lifts her chin, and makes her entrance into the common room.

The room has been transformed: glowing fairy lights float lazily through the air, changing from gold to red in a gentle rhythm. Someone has spelled glitter into the rafters, so faint shimmers fall like snow when you step beneath them. The fireplace roars, casting flickering shadows that dance over banners hung in every corner, some even stolen from rival Houses.

A "HAPPY BIRTHDAY SIRIUS" banner stretches above the fireplace, half-covered by a floating Snitch-shaped balloon someone conjured in celebration. A makeshift bar has been set up with pumpkin fizz, firewhisky in stolen crystal flasks, and colorful punch that may or may not be charmed to bubble and smoke.

James is in the center of it all—his hair messier than usual, tie half undone, dancing wildly with Lily, who is laughing too hard to keep up. She is barefoot, holding her heels in one hand and trying to twirl, only to nearly trip into Sirius, who catches her and dramatically dips her instead.

Sirius, dressed in black and gold, grins and keeps one eye on the door like he is waiting for someone. Peter is already three drinks in, cheeks flushed, bouncing in a circle with two third-years trying to keep the rhythm. Fabian is showing off some ridiculous dance move, egged on by Gideon, who snaps his fingers and yells "You've got to commit, mate!" from the couch.

Bill leans against the wall with a drink in hand, watching it all with a slight smirk, occasionally waving to girls who pass by. Marlene and Mary are sitting cross-legged on the floor playing some charmed version of spin-the-bottle with Phoebe, who has got glitter smeared across her cheeks and a cheeky grin as she watches someone crawl across the circle.

Nadine laughs, light and airy, already glowing from the energy of it all. She makes her way across the room, swaying to the music. Her eyes find Remus in the corner, talking with a classmate and looking, predictably, like he would rather be anywhere else.

"Oi, Lupin!" she calls over the music. "Get that broody expression off your face and dance with me!"

Remus blinks, then laughs awkwardly. "Oh, no. I don't dance, thank you."

"Well, you do tonight." She grabs his hand and tugs him toward the center of the floor. "Come on. The least you can do is shuffle a bit."

He chuckles but follows, letting her lead. "You look beautiful. Everyone's staring."

"Good. Let them." She spins under his arm and sways her hips. "Now move, moon boy."

Remus huffs a laugh and does, awkward at first but slowly warming up. Nadine dances like no one is watching—full of life, wild and joyful. Her red dress catches the light every time she twirls, and even Sirius glances over once, eyebrows raised.

Brownie, meanwhile, winds her way between people's legs, occasionally hopping onto a couch for a better view.

Nadine sways confidently, guiding Remus through steps with playful nudges. He laughs under his breath, relaxing, catching onto the beat slowly.

They dance, spinning near the firelight, the whole room glowing like a warm, golden storm. Gryffindor has won the match. Sirius has made it another year older. No worries or duties tonight—only friends, laughter, music, and celebration.

Butterbeer spills over the edges of mugs, record player spinning new tracks with thumps that make the floor tremble. Someone charms the floating candles to swirl like fireflies. At some point, Gideon gathers a truth-or-dare circle that ends with some boy kissing Phoebe's cheek and James accidentally hexing himself to hiccup glitter for ten minutes.

Nadine dances with Marlene, then with Bill, spinning and laughing, flushed and giddy, her cheeks warm and damp with sweat, strands of hair sticking to her temple. Her lipstick is mostly gone, eyeshadow a little smudged, but it only makes her look more alive. Bill is gentler than the others, hands always respectful, his laughter quiet but sincere. They fall into an easy rhythm together, no awkwardness—just two people enjoying the night.

Eventually, they collapse on a couch, breathless. Nadine fans herself with a napkin and laughs into the curve of her hand.

"Merlin." she pants. "I think my lungs have left my body."

Bill chuckles, handing her a butterbeer she accepts gratefully. "That's how you know it was worth it."

Others gather too—James, Sirius, Lily, Remus, Peter, Marlene, and the rest. They sit cross-legged on cushions or the floor, forming a loose circle of warmth and exhaustion. Someone passes sweets around—fudge flies into hands, a few candies land in people's hair.

Sirius leans back against the couch with a lazy stretch, his shirt half untucked, hair wild, cheeks a little pink. He tips his bottle toward Nadine.

"So," he says with a lopsided grin, "how's Cassiopeia these days?"

Nadine raises a brow, grabbing a piece of treacle tart from the table behind her. "Why don't you ask her yourself?" she says coolly, taking a bite. "She is your sister."

Sirius scoffs. "Half the time I forget we're even related."

James snorts beside him. "Honestly, I saw her the other day hanging around with Snape's sister. Can't say I'm surprised."

Peter chuckles at that, mouth full of fudge. "Imagine hanging out with her. Snape with longer hair and a skirt."

Nadine pauses mid-laugh, her smile fading like a snuffed flame. She leans forward slowly, brows lifting, voice calm but sharp. "Something wrong with that?"

The air shifts. Lily looks up quickly, lips parted, but doesn't speak. Remus clears his throat, gaze dropping.

James raises his hands. "Didn't mean anything by it, just saying—I mean, look around. Why waste your time with people like them when you've got all this?" He gestures broadly to the warm, rowdy chaos of Gryffindors laughing, dancing, drinking.

"People like them." Nadine repeats slowly, eyes narrowing. "Again with that, Potter."

"Oh come on." James says, tone edging defensive. "Snivellus's a miserable git, Nads. Always skulking around like someone pissed in his potion."

"And Seraphina..." Sirius mutters, smirking into his bottle. "Honestly, if they stood any closer, they'd melt into one blob. But—" He turns to Nadine, eyes gleaming with that maddening glint of mischief, "—if she looked anything like you in that dress, I might forgive the attitude."

Nadine's lips part in shock, heart beating slightly faster.

James leans back, arms crossed smugly. "I mean, can you imagine the conversations? 'How was your day, Severus?' 'Utterly dreadful, thank you, Seraphina. I hexed three Hufflepuffs and wrote a new insult for Potter.'"

Laughter ripples through a few of them, though Remus visibly winces, and Lily's lips thin. Sirius grins wider, eyes glinting with that mockery he keeps sharp as a blade.

"And really," Sirius drawls with a sneer. "it's like she's trying to be mysterious, but ends up just looking constipated."

Nadine freezes, hand still on her glass. Her knuckles go white.

"That's enough." she says, sharp and cold, her voice cutting through the noise.

James grins, clearly thinking she is joking. "You're not actually defending Snivellus and his creepy little sister, are you?"

"Stop calling him that." Nadine snaps. "He has a name."

Sirius raises a brow. "How romantic."

Nadine's eyes flash. "You lot talk about him like you're saints."

"He's a bloody prat." James says, now irritated. "He walks around like everyone owes him something. Like he's above us."

"And yet you're the one still obsessed with him." Nadine spits back. "Is this how a true Gryffindor acts?"

Sirius leans forward. "You seriously think he's some misunderstood genius? He calls people mudbloods, he sneers at anyone who's not pure enough for his little standards. He's filth, Nadine."

Nadine stands abruptly. Her breath is heavy, her jaw clenched so tight it aches. Her fingers twitch again for her wand. She imagines for a second what it would feel like to hex Sirius square in the chest, to silence James with a flick of her wrist. But no. Not here. Not in front of them all. That is what they want—an outburst. A scene. Something they can laugh about tomorrow morning over pumpkin juice and smug grins.

She swallows it down like poison. Her spine stiffens. Her pride won't allow her to give them that satisfaction.

Instead, she moves her gaze to Lily. So this is your line? This is where your silence settles?

Then to Remus. She meets his eyes for a heartbeat—long enough for him to look away. Coward. She had danced with him not even an hour ago, laughed in his arms, trusted that he was different. That he had a spine. She was wrong.

"Filth?" she growls, returning her focus to Sirius. "I also know what you say, Black. You just polish your words in fancier wrapping. You mock, ridicule, belittle—only difference is, you do it with a grin and people call it charming."

Her voice lifts slightly, just enough to carry over the heads of everyone now watching.

"You think he's that way because of where he comes from. But tell me, what's your excuse?"

That stuns him. Sirius stares at her for a long moment. His jaw is tight, a flicker of something passing through his eyes.

Nadine doesn't wait for him to speak again. She turns sharply, her heels clicking up the stairs as the common room falls awkwardly into murmured silence behind her. Brownie hisses at them and follows quickly.

Her hands shake when she closes the door to her dorm. Her heart is pounding. The smear of makeup under her eyes is worse now, but she doesn't care. She collapses onto her bed, Brownie hopping up beside her and curling into the crook of her arm.

She doesn't cry. Not tonight. But she stares at the ceiling for a long time. Oh, Severus.

The corridor is dim, quiet, the torches lining the dungeon walls casting flickering shadows. Barty leans back against the wall, arms folded, his foot tapping absently against the floor. He waits for Regulus and Evan, but his mind is far from whatever meeting they were supposed to have tonight.

His thoughts circle, relentless—Nadine, letters, studying. But more than that, he is thinking about beautiful Cassiopeia.

The image of her—her hair like ink spilling over her shoulders, her sharp and silver voice, her calm brilliance, her grace.

He shifts, jaw tense. It shouldn't matter. She is off-limit. She shouldn't be in his head. But Merlin help him, she is. He has to talk with Nadine tomorrow.

Footsteps echo down the hallway. Barty straightens, expecting to see his friends.

But instead—

"Just great." he mutters, instantly annoyed as Amycus turns the corner, walking toward him with that same smug swagger that always means trouble. "You're late, Carrow."

Amycus raises an eyebrow. "Didn't know you were keeping my schedule now, Crouch."

Barty scoffs, not even hiding his irritation. "Don't be thick. I was waiting for Regulus and Evan. You're just a bonus disappointment."

Amycus chuckles, the sound low and grating. "Touchy tonight, are we?"

He leans a shoulder against the opposite wall, gaze flicking lazily to Barty. And then—like he can smell blood in the water—he says, far too casually. "Was just talking to Cassiopeia earlier. Lovely thing, isn't she? Sweet, too. Wouldn't think it from the attitude, but when she's alone... well."

Barty's head lifts sharply, eyes narrowing.

Amycus smirks.

"You should've seen her." he continues, his voice low, loaded with implication. "Told me I had clever hands. Got a little closer than usual. Maybe next time, I'll—"

"What did you say?" Barty's voice cuts like ice, low and deadly.

Amycus doesn't stop. "Relax, Crouch. You don't own her. Besides, she looked like she enjoyed herself just fine—"

The sound of flesh hitting stone is loud and sharp as Barty shoves Amycus hard against the wall. He has got a fistful of his robes and his wand pressed under his chin in the same breath.

"Say that again." Barty snarls. "Lie about her again. I dare you."

Amycus chokes slightly, but his grin is defiant even as his feet scramble against the wall. "Struck a nerve, did I?"

"You stay away from her." Barty hisses, voice low but vibrating with fury. "You don't speak to her. You don't look at her. You're not even worth the dirt on her shoes."

And without hesitation, Barty pulls back and flicks his wand—"Locomotor Wibbly."

Amycus crashes to the floor, his legs gone rubbery and useless, and he yells out, stunned. He rolls over, fury twisting his face as he scrambles for his wand.

"You're going to regret that." Amycus spits, wand raised.

But Barty is faster. He stands tall, wand loose in his hand, that smirk curling on his lips.

"You've been dying to say that for years, haven't you?" he says coolly. "Go on, then. Try. You know I could wipe the floor with you any day."

Before either of them can cast again—

"What the bloody hell is going on?" Evan's voice breaks through, firm and sharp.

Barty doesn't move. Doesn't even blink. Evan and Regulus round the corner just as Amycus is pushing himself off the floor, wand still raised, eyes wild.

"Barty." Regulus warns, stepping forward quickly, his brows drawn. "What are you doing?"

"Teaching him how to keep his tongue to himself." Barty mutters.

Evan steps between them, hand on Barty's shoulder, steady but not soft. "Enough. Whatever this is—later. We've got bigger things to deal with."

Amycus wipes blood from his lip, glaring murderously. "You'll regret this, Crouch, I swear it."

Barty turns his head slightly, lips curling in a half-smile. "Then you'll have to get in line."

Regulus eyes him for a beat longer, curious now, calculating.

Amycus glares, still breathless and disheveled, wand trembling in his grip. But his eyes—his eyes lock on Regulus with venom.

"I see how it is." he spits, voice sharp and accusing. "I get detention and now a bloody hex to the ribs, but he—" he jerks his head toward Barty—"he gets to strut off like nothing happened?"

Regulus stands still, impassive. His face is unreadable, lips pressed in a calm, cold line.

Amycus steps forward, voice rising. "You just gonna let him get away with that, Black? What, he's special now? Your golden boy? Or is it just the name that matters?"

Regulus lifts his chin, eyes flashing. "You don't tell me what to do, Carrow." he says flatly. "You want to make noise, do it somewhere else. I don't answer to you."

The weight of his words is heavy, final—authority cold and cutting, delivered not with anger but a deadly precision.

Amycus scoffs, furious, but doesn't speak again. Regulus doesn't even glance back as he turns away and walks off with Evan and Barty.

They walk in silence at first, only the echo of their footsteps in the corridor.

Finally, Regulus asks, voice low, "What happened?"

Barty doesn't answer. His jaw tightens, eyes ahead. Evan exchanges a glance with Regulus, thoughtful but equally quiet.

Regulus sighs, slowing a little. "I have to—" he starts, likely referring to the detention Amycus will report.

"I don't give a shite." Barty snaps, finally speaking, his voice rough. "Let's just go." His fists are still clenched, blood burning. He doesn't even know who he is more furious at—Amycus for talking about Cassiopeia like that, or himself for caring so damn much.

Chapter Text

Nadine yawns into her pumpkin juice, elbow barely keeping her upright. Her lashes flutter tiredly, lips parted in a lazy sigh as she stirs a spoon through her porridge more out of habit than hunger. The candles above flicker faintly in the greyish light, casting soft shadows across her face.

Beside her, Barty watches in silence for a moment, a frown tugging at his lips. His fork lingers over his plate, untouched.

"You alright?" he asks eventually, voice low so no one else hears. His eyes flick over her face, noting the dark circles under her eyes, the slightly smeared liner from not fully removing her makeup the night before.

Nadine stretches her arms above her head, a sheepish smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Yeah. I've just been staying up late to study."

A half-truth. She avoids his gaze slightly as she reaches for a slice of toast.

Barty doesn't push. But something shifts behind his expression. His worry remains, anchored in the silence between them as they eat.

The clinking of cutlery and the occasional burst of laughter from the Gryffindor table fill the hall, but the quiet at their end is almost comforting. Familiar. Until he glances sideways again.

"Can we meet later?" he asks suddenly, keeping his tone casual. "In the courtyard. There's something I want to talk about."

She pauses, swallowing her sip of tea. Her brows knit slightly as she looks at him. "Of course. You okay?"

He nods once, a little too fast.

Before she can ask again, a friendly voice breaks into their quiet bubble.

"Hey, Nadine." Bill says, approaching with a warm grin, pushing his ginger hair out of his face. "Wanna walk to class together?"

Nadine blinks, startled for a moment, then glances at Barty with an apologetic look. She grabs her bag and stands, brushing a hand through her hair. "Yeah, sure." she says to Bill, hoisting her bag onto her shoulder.

She gives Barty a quick smile, then turns toward the door. As she passes the Slytherin table, her eyes lock with Cassiopeia's for a fleeting second. Nadine lifts her fingers in a wave, and Cassiopeia nods back, a flicker of confusion and curiosity in her eyes.

Then Nadine glances farther down, at Seraphina—deep in a quiet conversation with Severus. The memory of what happened sparks a ripple in her chest. She quickly averts her gaze. No. She won't tell Seraphina. Not now. Not yet.

Just as she steps into the corridor with Bill, a voice calls from behind her.

"Nadine—wait!"

Remus.

Her entire body stiffens.

She doesn't even turn around. Her voice is clipped when she mutters to Bill, "Can we speed up?"

"Yeah, of course." Bill says, instantly sensing the shift in her mood.

She walks faster, head held high, though her thoughts are heavy. She hears Remus calling her name again, the shuffle of footsteps behind them.

But she doesn't stop.

The hallways are alive with the usual morning rush—students murmuring, shoes tapping along the stone, books hugged to chests, cloaks swishing with every turn. But to Nadine, it all feels like noise underwater.

Her pulse hammers in her ears.

She keeps her head high, arms folded tightly over her chest as she walks beside Bill, whose tall frame seems to shield her without needing to try. Her throat burns—not from rushing or the cool draft sweeping the corridor—but from holding back too many thoughts. Too much feeling. Too much disappointment.

Why did Remus have to follow her?

"Nadine—please, wait!" he calls again.

She doesn't stop. She doesn't even glance over her shoulder. She stares straight ahead, jaw clenched, walking faster. And when Bill notices, he gently moves a step closer, acting like a barrier between her and the voice behind them.

Remus finally slows. He must have realised she won't stop. That she is angry. That it matters.

She doesn't want to hear excuses. Not from someone like him.

Because if Remus Lupin—kind, quiet, supposedly understanding Remus—can sit there, silent, letting them insult someone, her best friend, Severus, then what even matters anymore? He knows better. He sees more. Doesn't he?

Her stomach twists.

She thought he was different. She thought maybe—

Bill clears his throat softly, a gentle, almost shy sound, like he is testing the weight of his words.

"I didn't hear what happened exactly." he says. "But... I saw your face when you came down from the stairs. And you're ignoring Lupin, which—well, that's not really like you."

She exhales sharply through her nose, biting her cheek. Her hands tremble slightly.

He continues, "I dunno what they said, but if they upset you, I'm sorry. People can be cruel without thinking. Especially when it comes to things they don't understand."

Nadine looks at him then, her eyes still glassy from the fire burning just behind them.

"He didn't say anything." she says softly, like the words are being pulled out of her. "They mock others. Laugh at them. Like they're nothing."

Bill doesn't interrupt. He just listens.

Nadine shakes her head. "They act like they're above it all, like being Gryffindor makes them immune to cruelty. But they're just—bullies."

Bill sighs, pressing his palm against the strap of his bag. "That's not what Gryffindor's supposed to mean. I'm sorry they made you feel that way."

A pause.

Then, kindly—almost hesitant—he adds, "Seraphina's brilliant, you know. Anyone who matters knows that. And... Severus is lucky you care so much."

Nadine blinks, her throat tightening. "You think I care about Severus?"

Bill gives her a small, lopsided smile. "I think you care about people. Even the ones no one else will."

For a moment, she can't speak. The heat behind her eyes softens—not from sadness, but from being seen. Properly.

"Thank you." she whispers.

And she means it.

They round the corner toward the Transfiguration corridor. A bit of laughter echoes from somewhere behind, but it doesn't matter anymore. Not for now.

Nadine takes a breath. Her heart still pounds, but it is steadier now.

Beside her, Bill says nothing more—but offers her a quiet, comfortable presence. And that is exactly what she needs.

The late afternoon sun dips low behind the towers, bleeding gold across the stone courtyard. Long shadows stretch beneath the arches, and the breeze carries the distant scent of grass and warm parchment.

Nadine sits beside Barty on the low stone wall, legs dangling over the edge, arms hugging her knees. Her muscles ache from sitting through endless lectures, and her head feels foggy with too many thoughts—Remus, Severus, Sirius, James and all the tension that is slowly built up like a storm cloud she hasn't yet found shelter from.

Barty sits close—close enough that their arms sometimes brush when they shift, though neither of them speaks. His eyes are on the sky, sharp and unreadable, but she can tell his mind is far from the present.

She opens her mouth to say something, but before she gets a word out—

WHOOSH.

Something flutters sharply through the air above them, and Barty flinches just slightly as a tawny owl dives low, wings outstretched. It circles once, then drops a red envelope straight into his lap like a curse from the heavens.

"Gizmo?" Nadine says, startled.

Barty stares at it.

The envelope vibrates in his hand, twitching and crackling like it is about to combust.

"Oh no." Nadine breathes. "Is that—?"

"Yeah." Barty mutters through clenched teeth, tone dry.

The envelope smokes ominously. He sighs through his nose, then tears it open.

Immediately, it explodes in sound.

"BARTEMIUS CROUCH JUNIOR!"

Brownie squeaks and jumps from the wall, startled. Father's voice is unmistakable—piercing, cold, utterly furious. It echoes around the empty courtyard with such force that a nearby group of Hufflepuffs flinch and speed up their walk inside.

"Detention? Detention again?! With a Carrow no less—what do you think this is, a school for degenerates?! Your behaviour is an embarrassment. Your mother's already sick with worry, and I haven't even told her half of what you've been up to—"

Nadine winces, heart pounding as the Howler screeches on.

"Do you even comprehend what's at stake? Do you?! You were born into responsibility, into duty. Not into brawls over nonsense and girls!"

Barty stiffens beside her, jaw clenched, knuckles white where he grips the envelope. He doesn't meet her gaze.

"You think this world is yours to rebel against? It isn't. It never was. You are the son of a man with purpose—not some sulking boy playing at revolution with those pure-blood idiots you cling to."

The Howler begins to burn at the edges, curling inwards, spitting sparks.

"You are a Crouch. Act like it."

Then it explodes in smoke and ash and silence, leaving the courtyard cold despite the sun.

Barty doesn't move. Doesn't speak.

Nadine blinks rapidly, heart racing, stunned by the sheer venom of it all. She opens her mouth—

"Don't." Barty mutters, voice low and raw. "Please don't say anything."

But Nadine can't help herself. "That was—what the hell, Tem?"

He rubs a hand over his mouth, the muscles in his jaw ticking.

"Every time I don't live up to his favourite fairytale version of me." Barty says bitterly.

Nadine's stomach twists. "I'm sorry." she whispers, sincerely.

Barty shakes his head. "Don't be. It's all his fault."

She reaches over, her hand brushing his. He flinches slightly, not from her touch, but from something else.

Nadine searches his face, all angles and dark shadows, always holding back more than he says. "You're not him, you know."

He huffs, finally looking at her. His eyes are tired, but burning.

"No. But I'm what he made." A pause. "And sometimes I think there's no way out of it."

She squeezes his hand.

"There is." she says, softly. "But you've got to want to take it. We'll do it together."

He stares at her for a long moment. Then—just barely—nods.

And for the first time that day, Nadine lets herself smile.

The silence that follows is heavy, like thick velvet draped around them.

Ash still floats lazily in the air from the burnt remnants of the envelope, and Gizmo flaps off somewhere above the towers, probably returning to deliver more of Father's wrath to whoever else has disappointed him today—which, in the eyes of Bartemius Crouch Sr., is usually everyone.

Nadine sits still beside her twin, watching the lines of tension that harden Barty's shoulders, the way his gaze sharpens and goes distant like he is bracing for another blow that hasn't come yet.

She knows that look. She has worn it herself.

"Tem..." she says softly, nudging her shoulder into his. "What happened?"

His sigh is immediate, drawn from somewhere deep in his chest, weary and weighted.

"Carrow was being a prat." Barty mutters, dragging a hand through his hair, messing it up more than usual. "Said something disgusting about Cass—he's been trying to get close to her."

Nadine stiffens. "Cassiopeia?"

He nods, jaw tightening again.

"I hexed him." Barty adds simply, almost offhand like it is the most natural thing in the world. "Deserved it."

Nadine blinks, her heart skipping—not out of surprise at the hex, no. She has seen Barty do far worse with far less provocation.

"You hexed him because of her?"

Barty groans softly, tipping his head back against the stone wall behind him. "Yes. No. I don't know. Maybe."

That is enough.

Nadine's lips twitch upward into a slow, knowing smile. She leans a bit closer, side-eyeing him.

"You fancy her. Finally you admit it."

Barty groans louder. "Don't say it like that."

"But you do."

He doesn't deny it.

Instead, he presses the heels of his palms against his eyes and exhales sharply. "It's stupid."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is. She probably thinks I'm insane. Or a git. Or both."

Nadine pauses at that. He says it like it is fact. Like there is no room for debate. And a part of her aches because she knows exactly why he thinks that.

His thoughts are spiraling again. She knows this rhythm—how his mind loops around the worst-case scenario like a curse he can't shake.

"She doesn't think that." Nadine says gently. "You're not giving her the chance to decide for herself."

"I hexed someone for her." he says dryly.

"Yes, because he was a creep." Nadine points out. "That's chivalrous, actually."

Barty snorts a little at that, a tired sound. "He lied. Said they did something. He wanted to provoke me. He was trying to... I don't know. Get under my skin."

Nadine's brow furrows. "Did he hurt you?"

He scoffs and sits up straighter, flashing her a crooked, arrogant grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Please. I can beat that bastard any time. I didn't even break a sweat."

She rolls her eyes. "You're such a drama queen."

"And proud of it."

A beat of silence stretches between them again, more comfortable this time. The birds are quieter now. There is a distant clang of someone's cauldron spilling from the direction of the greenhouses. Life at Hogwarts carries on.

But Barty... Barty is still wound tight with something unsaid.

"He gets to talk to her, Nadine." he says suddenly, voice lower. "He gets to stand there and say anything he wants to her. And I can't even... I can't even say hi without fucking thinking she'll look at me like I'm poison."

Nadine turns fully toward him now. "She doesn't think that."

"She's Regulus's sister."

"And Regulus doesn't rule the world, Tem."

He doesn't answer.

Nadine watches him for a moment. There is so much tension in him, like he is been pulled too tight for too long—between Father's expectations, the secrets he is holding, the masks he wears even with their friends. She sees the flicker of vulnerability behind all of it, behind the sharpness and wit and clever hexes. That is the part Cassiopeia might see too, if he just let her.

"You like her." Nadine says again, quieter this time. "It's not stupid. You're not stupid."

He looks at her. Really looks at her.

And for once, he lets the defenses drop a bit.

"I don't know what to do." he admits, voice just barely above a whisper. "She's... beautiful. And clever. And doesn't take shit from anyone. And I—" he falters, "—I don't know how to be around her without feeling like I'm not enough."

Nadine's heart aches for him. This boy who carries the weight of Father's shadow, of the secrets no one else knows. Who still thinks he has to earn softness, that affection must come with conditions.

She reaches out and squeezes his hand.

"Then let her see you. Not the version you think she expects. Just... you. I'll talk with her too."

His thumb brushes over hers in a rare, soft gesture. He doesn't say thank you, but she feels it anyway.

And she means it.

Because Barty, for all his arrogance and temper, is still her twin. And if Cassiopeia Black is smart—and she is—she will see what Nadine sees. The boy who fights for what he cares about. Who never stops thinking. Who, despite everything, wants something more than darkness.

And Nadine is in his corner.

Always.

Chapter Text

The common room is warm with early morning light spilling in through the tall windows, golden rays catching in the dust motes floating lazily through the air. Laughter from a group of second-years echoes faintly from the corner, but Nadine barely hears it. Her boots tap softly against the wooden steps as she descends, wearing a dusky pink knitted sweater, a slightly oversized thing with sleeves that cover half her hands.

Her long skirt falls in gentle pleats to her ankles, pale cream and subtly patterned with little embroidered roses. A pale bow, matching her top, is tied carefully in her hair—her waves cascading down her back with a touch of careful magic to keep them smooth. Brownie, trails behind her, tail swishing as if mirroring her owner's mood.

She is headed outside—toward Cassiopeia and Seraphina, who she promised to meet—but the moment her shoes hit the rug near the hearth, a shadow moves from the armchair.

"Nadine."

Remus.

He rises quickly, tension in his shoulders, as if he has been waiting there for her all morning. His eyes are tired, rimmed faintly red, and his hand is half-raised, uncertain whether to reach for her or stay still.

She doesn't stop walking.

"Nadine, will you please let me explain?" he tries again, voice strained, frustration threading through the cracks. "You've been ignoring me for days."

She doesn't slow. "Because there's nothing you can say that I want to hear."

Remus follows her, stepping into her path gently. "I wasn't trying to hurt you." he says.

"You didn't even try to stop them." she hisses, stopping abruptly now, eyes flashing. "You just sat there, Remus. Like it meant nothing."

His brow furrows, jaw clenching. "It wasn't the right time. Everyone was tense. If I said something—"

"You're a Prefect." she snaps. "Isn't it your job to stop people when they go too far?"

Remus's voice drops, sharp now. "And what? Start a row in the middle of a party? With James and Sirius in that state—"

"Oh, but let me guess," she says, bitter and biting, "it's easier to say nothing when your friends are the ones being cruel, isn't it?"

His expression hardens. "You think it's easy for me?"

"Yes." she growls. "Because you choose them. No matter what they say. No matter who they hurt."

Remus steps forward, face reddening now. "I've spent years keeping them from going too far—"

"And look how well that's working." Nadine cuts in, voice rising. "You let them insult Seraphina. And Severus. Like they're not even people. And you—you—just watched me stand there and get humiliated for defending them."

His mouth opens to speak, but she is not finished.

"You didn't say a single word, Remus. Not to James. Not to Sirius. Not to me." Her voice breaks slightly, fury caught between the cracks of her disappointment. "You just stood there like it was nothing. I defend my friends but I will tell them when they're wrong. That's what real friends do."

"I was trying not to make it worse." he snaps, his temper finally unraveling. "It was a party. I thought you'd want to avoid a scene."

"You thought wrong."

They stare at each other in thick silence. A few younger students glance over, startled by the rising voices. Brownie lets out a soft hiss near Nadine's boot, sensing the tension.

Remus exhales sharply, his face pale beneath the heat rising in his cheeks. "I didn't say anything because I'm tired, Nadine. Of being in the middle. Of always trying to stop fights I never started. I'm tired of—" He cuts himself off, nostrils flaring.

She sees it now. The wildness behind his eyes. The way his hands tremble faintly. Full moon is nearing as well.

For a moment, just a flicker, something inside her softens—but only for a second.

"Don't." she says coldly. "Don't make any excuses. Nothing gives you the right to stay silent when people are being cruel. Not when you know better."

He stares at her, jaw working, wounded.

"You don't understand—"

"No, you don't." she cuts in. "You think they're your family. That you owe them loyalty no matter what. But friendship doesn't mean blind obedience. It means accountability. It means standing up for what's right."

Remus's mouth is a hard line. "And what would you know about right and wrong, Nadine? You've been spending more time with them than your own House."

The words hit like a slap.

She recoils, blinking.

And then she steps forward, voice shaking with fury. "Maybe because they don't pretend to be kind and then turn silent when it counts."

They stare at each other.

And something shatters.

Remus looks away first.

Her throat tight, she shoulders past him, grabbing the strap of her bag. Brownie trots at her side, tail high.

She doesn't look back as she leaves, her heart pounding in her ears. She doesn't see the way Remus turns slowly, sitting back down on the couch like something has been ripped out of him. She doesn't see him bury his face in his hands, trembling now from more than just rage.

Nadine just walks.

Out.

Away from the boy who disappointed her. From the silence that hurt more than words.

She thinks of Cassiopeia and Seraphina waiting for her. She thinks of Severus—alone, quiet, and cold. Because of them.

And she thinks—

She won't forget this.

She won't forgive it.

The three girls walk side by side, comfortable in each other's presence. Seraphina wears a deep forest green turtleneck tucked into a long, high-waisted black skirt that sways at her ankles, paired with scuffed lace-up boots and a vintage silver ring on her middle finger. Her long dark hair is half-pinned back, and her style is effortless, intellectual, and slightly gothic.

Cassiopeia opted for a dark red silk blouse with dramatic sleeves and high-waisted charcoal grey trousers, polished loafers clicking with every step. Her look is tailored, classic, and expensive—accented with gold jewelry.

Their shoes tap rhythmically against the worn floors, following a path they have begun to take more often—across the viaduct bridge, over the courtyard, into the winding gardens behind the greenhouses. They talk about silly things at first—how ridiculous the homework is, how Nadine nearly fell asleep in History of Magic again.

They pause near the courtyard fountain where students usually gather in the mornings.

They all laugh, joking and teasing.

It is light. It is comforting. To be with true friends. No blood status, no House, nothing will change that.

But as they reach the hill near the Black Lake and sprawl out beneath one of the old trees—leaves rustling above in the quiet breeze—the world slows.

Nadine curls up in the grass, pulling her knees close to her chest. Her sweater is slightly stretched, and a blade of grass sticks to her skirt, but she doesn't notice. Her thoughts are scattered—like broken quills across parchment. She hasn't spoken about the party. Not what really happened. Just that it was 'fun' and 'massive' and "Bill might've had too much firewhisky." It was easier to lie a little. Easier than seeing their eyes fill with concern or worse—hurt.

Beside her, Cassiopeia gently strokes Brownie's soft fur, the little feline purring contently against her lap. Cassiopeia's golden rings catch the light as her fingers move, but her expression is distracted. She keeps glancing between her friends, sensing the silence under their laughter. She knows this kind of quiet.

Seraphina lies flat on her back, arms stretched beside her, eyes glued to the drifting clouds. Her long lashes flutter, and her mouth is slightly parted as if waiting to whisper something—then deciding not to. Regulus hovers on the edge of her mind like a ghost she is not ready to name. She doesn't want to talk about him. Not yet. Not when the feelings are so raw and jumbled in a way that frightens her.

Cassiopeia eventually breaks the silence, her tone light but laced with curiosity. "Alright." she says, glancing up. "What's wrong with both of you? You've barely said two real sentences in the last ten minutes."

Nadine looks up, startled from her thoughts. She sits up, brushing some grass from her skirt. "Nothing's wrong." she lies too quickly, her voice a bit too bright.

Seraphina hums. "Same here." she adds, though she doesn't sound convincing either.

Cassiopeia narrows her eyes at both of them. "You're both horrible liars."

Nadine exhales through her nose and stretches her legs out, hands braced behind her. She changes the subject. "Speaking of awful things." she says, shifting tone, "Cass... what's going on with Carrow?"

Cassiopeia's smile immediately drops. She throws her head back in frustration, groaning. "Oh my Merlin, that boy is driving me mad."

Nadine blinks in surprise. "So it's not just me?"

Cassiopeia sits upright, Brownie tumbling from her lap with a confused little squeak. "No, he won't stop. He corners me outside class. He's always saying things like, 'You and I, Black, we'd make a powerful pair.' Like I'm supposed to swoon and hex someone at the same time."

Seraphina lifts her head. "That's his idea of charm?"

"He thinks sneering is seductive." Cassiopeia mutters, crossing her arms. "He keeps talking about 'how strong our bloodlines are' and how he likes a girl who talks back. Like, I'm sorry, am I supposed to be flattered?"

Nadine's expression darkens, wanting to confirm. "Has he touched you?"

"No." Cassiopeia says quickly. "I would've broken his fingers if he did."

Seraphina snorts. "Honestly, he might like that."

All three girls groan.

"He's just—awful." Cassiopeia goes on, shaking her head. "It's like every conversation is a performance. And I know he's trying to get to me because of my name, because of my family. I hate it."

Nadine studies her face, noting the tension around her mouth and the way her fingers twitch like she is barely holding back curses. She knows that look. And it makes her think of Barty. Of how protective he got when her name came up. It brings a flicker of warmth to her chest, despite everything.

Seraphina rolls onto her stomach, propping herself up on her elbows. "What if we hex him together?"

"I like that plan." Nadine grins.

"I'll draw blood." Cassiopeia offers sweetly.

They all laugh again—but it is different now. Realer.

Cassiopeia brushes a few loose strands of hair behind her ear as the wind tousles it, her curls catching glints of the sun where they tumble down her back. The girls are still nestled beneath the tree on the hill, the chatter around them distant now, students passing in and out of the courtyard below. Brownie stretches lazily in the grass, purring softly, and the afternoon warmth wraps around them like a quiet hush between seasons.

Nadine shifts beside her, elbow nudging gently into Cassiopeia's side with a sly little smirk playing on her lips. Her gaze flicks toward Cassiopeia, then forward again, as if pretending to be casual—though the glint in her eyes betrays her.

"So," Nadine says, her tone far too light, "you don't fancy him at all?"

Cassiopeia blinks, startled. "Fancy who?" she asks, lifting her chin, voice half-curious and half-wary.

Nadine only raises her brows, pointed. "Carrow, of course."

Cassiopeia recoils slightly, a full-body grimace overtaking her features. "Are you bloody joking?" she snaps, scandalized. "Absolutely not. I'd rather snog an ugly beast. Not that there is any difference."

Nadine snorts and tries to stifle a laugh, curling forward with the effort. "Just confirming." she says between giggles.

Cassiopeia narrows her eyes. "Confirming what, exactly?"

Nadine grins, tilting her head toward her friend, eyes sparkling now with mischief. "Oh... nothing."

Cassiopeia stares at her, incredulous, her suspicion mounting by the second. "Nadine." she warns, voice pitched low. "You better tell me."

Nadine bites her lip, holding back for just a moment longer like she is savoring the reveal. Then she leans in, conspiratorially close. "Tem."

Cassiopeia goes still.

Just for a heartbeat.

Then the faintest blush creeps up her cheekbones, betraying her carefully held composure. She scoffs immediately, but it is the kind of scoff that comes too quickly, too defensively. "What about him?"

Nadine doesn't let her off so easily. She grins even wider, eyes keen. "He's rather smitten, you know. Doesn't really bother hiding it, not when he's pacing over your name like it's been tattooed behind his eyelids."

Cassiopeia looks away, staring at the lake like it might offer her a dignified exit. She folds her arms and inhales slowly, but her lips twitch, betraying the tiniest smile she tries to bury.

"I don't know." she murmurs, feigning indifference, "He should pull his pants up and talk to me properly then."

Nadine lets out a delighted laugh. "Oh, he will."

Cassiopeia bites her lip now, caught in the very act of not wanting to smile. "He better." she mutters. "I have standards, after all."

Nadine chuckles and tosses a blade of grass at her, her eyes warm and teasing. "So dramatic. Merlin, you two are going to combust at some point."

Cassiopeia leans back against the tree trunk, resting her head there, expression softening now. Her eyes trail across the sky, and she exhales, voice thoughtful. "He's... intense."

Nadine hums in agreement.

"He looks at people like he's trying to figure out what they'll do before they've even thought of it themselves. It's exhausting and fascinating and infuriating. And sometimes he looks at me like—" She stops herself, cheeks reddening more.

"Like what?" Nadine prompts, grinning.

Cassiopeia rolls her eyes. "Like he's trying not to say something reckless."

Nadine places a hand over her chest dramatically. "Oh no, the Black girl might be falling."

"I am not falling." Cassiopeia huffs, but there is laughter behind her words now, light and unsure.

Brownie stretches again between them, curling into Cassiopeia's skirt, her purring loud and even.

Nadine leans back into the grass, content. "Just you wait, Cass. He'll say something. And when he does, you won't be able to run forever."

Cassiopeia glances down, brushing her fingers over Brownie's ears. Her lips curl into a smile—quiet, thoughtful, and maybe, just maybe, a little hopeful.

"We'll see." she whispers.

A breeze stirs the leaves overhead, and the three girls shift slightly beneath the tree. The soft rustle fills the pause between their words, and for a long moment, it feels like the castle has fallen into a hush just for them.

Nadine stretches her legs out in the grass, picking at a loose thread on her skirt. Then she glances toward Seraphina, whose dark hair spills around her like ink, a soft contrast to her pale complexion and the golden sunlight that dapples her arms. Her fingers are absentmindedly twisting a fallen flower stem.

Nadine smiles softly. She knows how Seraphina gets quiet when something is in her heart and mind. And Nadine will wait until she is ready to share, and be there for her, whatever it is.

Nadine leans onto her elbow, glancing between them. "Oh—" she says suddenly, as if remembering, "I forgot to tell you."

Seraphina lifts her head lazily, and Cassiopeia looks up too.

"Sirius asked about you." Nadine says, directing her words toward Cassiopeia. Then, smirking, she adds, "I told him to ask you himself."

Cassiopeia arches a single, unimpressed brow. "How caring of him." she says dryly, but there is a flicker of something else in her eyes. "What did he say, exactly?"

"Just... 'how's Cassiopeia.' In that casual, not-casual way he does." Nadine replies. "All smug. Like he didn't care, but very much did."

Cassiopeia sighs and leans her head back against the bark of the tree, her expression softening into something more complicated. "He's still Sirius." she says quietly.

Seraphina tilts her head. "Did you talk to him?"

Cassiopeia shakes her head. "Not really. But..." She hesitates, brushing her fingers through Brownie's fur. "I left him a birthday gift. When everyone was at the match. Just a small book. He took it. Didn't say anything, of course."

Nadine watches her face closely, and something tightens behind her ribcage at the way Cassiopeia's voice dips softer. "Do you... miss him?" she asks gently.

Cassiopeia's mouth curves into a wistful frown. "Don't tell Regulus." she says quietly, eyes fixed on a distant point in the grass. "But... yeah. I do. I miss my big brother."

The words are barely above a whisper, vulnerable in a way she rarely allows herself to be. Her shoulders, always held so straight, dip just slightly under the weight of it.

Nadine doesn't say anything at first—she just moves toward her, arms open, and without hesitation, pulls her into a hug. Cassiopeia stiffens at first, as she always does when emotions creep too close to the surface, but then she melts into it, hiding her face in Nadine's shoulder.

Seraphina sits up slowly, brushing grass from her skirt, and leans into the embrace too, looping one arm around Cassiopeia's back. Her voice is calm, cool as ever, but warmer now, like a secret only they understand.

"You're allowed to miss him, Cass." she murmurs. "He's your brother. Even if he's an idiot sometimes."

Cassiopeia laughs against their shoulders—a small, breathy sound—but her eyes are glassy. "He's always been an idiot."

Brownie meows as if to second the sentiment, and the they dissolve into soft, quiet laughter, curled in a huddle under the tree.

The sun filters through the branches above, casting shifting patterns of light over them, and for a moment, the rest of the world falls away. No House rivalry. No boys. No expectations. Just three girls, soft and strong and tired, holding each other up in the stillness.

Chapter Text

The following days pass in silence. Not the quiet kind, but the sharp, deliberate silence of people choosing not to speak.

Seraphina had skipped Quidditch practice once. Almost twice. The second time, she was late—only by a few minutes—but enough to earn a tense warning from the Captain. She didn't respond.

Ahead of Slytherin's first official match against Ravenclaw, tensions are rising. She knows. She just doesn't care.

The confrontation with Regulus had shifted something—unsettled a weight she hadn't realized she has been carrying. She no longer feels the need to impress the team, or even belong to it. She focuses instead on herself, on the few people who truly matter. Her world narrowed, and it brought clarity.

In class, she remains at the top, easily outpacing most of their year. She doesn't gloat, it isn't necessary. She moves quietly, efficiently—popping in and out of lectures, meals, brief moments with her girls, guys, and her brother. That is enough.

Severus understands. Always has. They aren't like other people, they have to rip through to get anything in life, and everything they had to let go of had scratch marks on it.

He doesn't ask about Regulus. He doesn't need to. Their conversations bring the return to what they both know best: the comforting art of detachment, the power of discipline. Pain, when tempered, becomes focus. It is survival. It always has been.

The insult hadn't been Regulus's belief in pure-blood superiority. That much was expected, boring even. What stings is the idea that anyone around her—anyone she knows—can quietly, privately, agree with him. Even by a fraction. Even for a second. Nadine, Cassiopeia, Barty, Evan, Pandora, even someone like Bill. It isn't the pain of it, and these aren't silent accusations—just the fatigue of potential disappointment.

Maybe it is Tobias. Maybe Eileen. Maybe watching what Hogwarts did to Severus—how he was used, discarded, still forced to align with those who only tolerate him when it is convenient. Maybe it is all of it.

So she made herself a promise: to not lose herself, no matter the pressure. No matter who tries to define her. That is how she and Severus survive. How they will continue to survive. Together, they found a rare kind of safety, like shadows slipping through the stone halls of Hogwarts, evasive, ambitious, unbothered. That is also how she freed herself—thankful to not be chained to pure-blood mania through family and duty, allowing herself the joy of unlimited choices with her brother by her side.

It makes her smile, and it makes Severus proud—he had done his job. He had done what few could: carved out a place for her in a world that had never made room for either of them.

Evan and Barty had grown concerned—had exchanged glances in the common room, and had attempted to start conversations over whether she is alright. But they know her well enough not to push. She still speaks to them, just not about that. They let her have her space. She doesn't want to bother her girls over it either, instead focusing on deciphering emotions on her own, first.

Still, the excessive cold space between her and Regulus hadn't gone unnoticed. Even Avery is curious but shuts down upon asking. It isn't unusual for them to bicker, but it wasn't there at all, this past week.

And so when they all meet near the pitch one afternoon—sun low, air brisk—there is already tension hanging in the corridor like frost.

Lucinda is strapping on her gloves, chatting lightly with Evan about strategy. Avery and Amycus are adjusting their broom handles. Regulus stands a few paces away, silent, arms crossed, his broom resting against the stone wall beside him.

Then she turns the corner.

Regulus doesn't speak at first. He just watches her, expression unreadable. But when she stops in front of them, arms folded, chin lifted—

"You're late." he says. Crisp. Controlled.

She shrugs, casually.

Lucinda pauses, half-gloved, glancing from one to the other. Evan mutters something under his breath. Amycus watches—half confused, half uninterested.

Regulus doesn't look away. "You're on the roster."

"Perceptive."

A pause. Sharp and brittle.

Regulus's gaze doesn't shift. "We need a full team on time."

She tilts her head. "Tough."

"You're letting personal feelings interfere with commitment." As he speaks, the rest of the team damn near have question marks on their heads instead of faces.

"Dignity interferes with obedience. Don't you know the difference?" Her voice doesn't rise—but it cuts. She speaks as if she expects more of him, looks at him in disgust.

A quiet. Long and taut.

Lucinda opens her mouth. Regulus raises one hand slightly, silencing her without looking.
Then, to Seraphina—flat, final:

"You will be benched unless you alter your tardiness—and attitude."

Seraphina gives a tight nod. "I couldn't care less."

She turns her back to him, walking to Evan, who stands staring at them with uncertainty, but greeting her by offering a half-embrace, other hand holding his broom, as she leans onto his shoulder. He demonstrates loyalty—he is on her side just as much as he is on Regulus's.

Lucinda exhales, Avery shakes his head, Amycus doesn't care in the slightest, Steve just wants it to be over.

Regulus remains still, staring at the corner she brushed him off, disregarding his authority which he finds insufferable.

Then, calmly, he turns back toward the pitch.

"Mount up." he says.

And the wind carries on, cold and unrelenting. The practice is successful, however Seraphina is on auto-pilot, only doing what she has to, not overexerting herself.

She tells Lucinda it is to preserve her strength for the actual match, and Evan, always observant, offers quiet encouragement whenever he can, his words a determined effort to alleviate whatever weight she carries.

As the session draws to a close, they dismount, a few players beginning to unfasten their gear. Seraphina peels off her gloves, looses her hair, and combs through it with her fingers, lost in thought. Nearby, Regulus gathers himself, preparing to deliver the closing words meant to carry them into the match ahead.

"Tomorrow, do exactly as we've practiced. Limited improvisation, no unnecessary risks. Maintain formation, communicate only when essential, and keep your heads clear. The objective is to win, not to impress. Be efficient. That'll be all." He executes the speech with precision.

"Another thing." he casts a glance to the whole team, landing on Seraphina briefly, then returning to address the whole team. "Do not be late."

The moment Regulus utters his final word, Seraphina turns on her heel and leaves without a glance back. The air hangs heavy with the tension she carries, unspoken but palpable. Regulus watches her go, his expression unreadable—eyes sharp, but offering nothing. He doesn't need to say anything else. Evan follows her.

A soft layer of mildew clings to the grass, catching the light in a way that makes the pitch shimmer faintly, like a string of sparkles.

The stands buzz with energy, cloaked in damp scarves and fluttering House colors. Nadine leans forward, eyes sharp beneath her hood, while Cassiopeia sits with her usual poise, arms crossed, analyzing every movement below. Bill stands tall near the edge, hands in his pockets, flanked by the rest of the gang—each of them watching intently, the air between them crackling with anticipation.

Severus reluctantly graces Seraphina with his presence in the stands, sitting still with a book in hand, brows furrowed in displeasure over the rowdy, loud and 'obnoxious' group of people,  according to him. Still, he understands the importance of supporting his sister, though he will never admit as much.

Nadine risks the occasional glance his way, her interest thinly veiled. Cassiopeia grows tired of the silent tension and pulls Severus into conversation. He obliges, if only to avoid Seraphina's disapproval.

Nadine balances her attention between the game and Severus. Bill watches with quiet amusement, smiling to himself as if the pieces of the puzzle finally come together. Cassiopeia is pretending she is only there to support Seraphina and Evan, yet keeps having to peel her eyes off of Barty.

Despite the House rivalry, their friend group cheers for both teams, providing a joyful display of support.

The Slytherin team emerges in unison for their first Quidditch match of the season—against Ravenclaw. The opposition is far from trivial; Ravenclaw had proven themselves formidable, with Barty among their most dangerous assets.

True to his name, victory seems to come effortlessly to him, as if bred into his very blood. For Slytherin, underestimating the eagles isn't an option.

Despite the quiet tension threading through the team, the Slytherins hold an united front—sharp, composed, and unmistakably intimidating as they take their positions. Their presence alone demands respect. Across the pitch, the Ravenclaws watch with equal focus; they aren't making the mistake of underestimating them either.

The match is a flawless display of Slytherin dominance, each player executing their role with unyielding precision. Seraphina's agility on her broom is unmatched, weaving through the air with the grace of a shadow, her focus razor-sharp.

Evan hammers the Bludgers with deadly accuracy, clearing the way for his teammates and sending the Ravenclaws scrambling. His unshakable focus and brutal efficiency keep their opponents on constant defense.

Regulus, in his quiet, determined way, is the heart of their victory. His naturally bred instinct keeps his every move calculated, tracking the Snitch with a singular purpose. He performs a  flawless, decisive dive that secures the win for Slytherin.

Barty played brilliantly, as expected, his moves sharp and his strategy on point. But despite his efforts, losses happen—however he isn't too sour about it. He is happy for his friends, but encourages his team to keep their spirits high.

The stands erupts into cheers, except for the Gryffindor team who watches them carefully, murmuring between themselves, with serious faces. They are next.

Laughter and shouts fill the air as they gather around, high-fiving and exchanging grins of triumph. Regulus stands at the center, his posture straight, the only sign of satisfaction a brief, courteous smile that never quite reaches his eyes.

"Well played, all of you." he says, his voice steady and measured, as if acknowledging a simple task completed. The team swirls around him, determined to get him to celebrate. They succeed in drawing out a wide smile from him, finally having five percent of his composure slip away in the name of victory.

It is the first time Seraphina had seen Regulus underneath his usual cold exterior. She had nearly forgotten he has teeth—given he only shows them when hissing at people, rarely in anything resembling a smile, and only then around Evan, Barty, or some other foolish companions. Does she find it endearing? Perhaps a little bit. She, however, shoots that down harder than Alecto hit the wall the other day.

Despite the win, Seraphina feels a bitter edge. She congratulates the team politely, praises flying between her, Evan and Barty's performances upon their dismount. Both teams display sportsmanship, and for the first time since the victory, a small smile tugs at her lips.

"Snape, Snape, Snape, what a performance. Maybe I underestimated you, but you did well." Avery slurs, clearly drunk on the thrill of victory, his words laced with forced politeness that Seraphina finds all too predictable. He laces his arm with hers.

"You did good, Avery, I'll give you that." she replies, her tone polite, offering him just a hint of encouragement for no real reason at all. She removes his arm instantly, partially in disgust.

"Had to defend you. I'm a gentleman, you see, and those Beaters had an eye out for you, fresh meat and all." he adds with a wink, his bravado only increasing as the adrenaline wears off.

"Tremendously flattered." she rolls eyes at him, smirking.

"What a brilliant match, everyone, incredible, keep at it!" Evan cheers, his voice full of enthusiasm, and without hesitation, he pulls Seraphina into the group hug, her stiff posture the only sign of her reluctance as the rest of the team joins in—crushing them all together. The cheers and laughter echo around them, and despite her internal distance, Seraphina can't help but feel the faintest flicker of connection to the chaos of it all, which results in her grinning—something Barty and Evan cheer on further, before Barty departs with his team.

Seraphina feels Regulus's gaze sweep over the team, given her unintended proximity to him in the group hug before it disbands mere moments later. She meets his stare, silent and unwavering as his smile begins to warp back into his usual composed poker-face.

In response, he gives a small, courteous nod—the closest thing to a compliment she will ever receive from him on her flying. Not that she needs it. She had done her job, as expected, proving to him that picking her for the team had been the right decision. Amycus, after all, was little more than a benchwarmer, there only in case someone needed to sit out.

His hair, usually controlled—as much one can tame curls—is messier from the flight—curls damp and wild, but he remains as elegant and poised as ever. Seraphina glances at him again, then, with a wink, lets her wet hair slide down to her waist before turning away, offering him no further attention, deliberately.

Regulus registers the glance, the wink, the calculated sweep of her hair—but gives no indication of it. His expression remains passive, sculpted from the same ice he applies in arguments and in silence alike. If she wanted a reaction—she got none.

A celebration is inevitable, and the Slytherins are already extending invitations to everyone. Seraphina glances over at her friends in the stands as they make their way down to greet them, but the rain suddenly intensifies. With a brief nod, grin and a gesture toward the shelter inside, they silently agree to reconvene there, escaping the downpour.

Regulus leads the team toward the changing rooms. The team, still buzzing from their victory, follows him in, the sound of their boots echoing off the stone floor. Once inside, he turns to face them, his eyes briefly scanning each of them—his team, his responsibility.

"Well done." he says, his voice cold but measured. "No noticeable mistakes. We won because we stayed focused, stayed precise." He gives a brief nod, acknowledging their hard work without embellishment.

The team stands in silence, the words sinking in as they process the rare praise. Regulus is never one for excessive words, but his approval is clear, if understated.

"You know what's next. The season has just begun. Keep that same focus, and we'll keep winning." He doesn't wait for any response—his gaze moves to the door as he turns to leave. "Get changed. We've earned this moment, but tomorrow we get back to work."

Seraphina, Evan, and Barty rejoin their friends, the atmosphere alive with laughter and celebration. Hugs, cheers and jokes are exchanged freely, the joy of victory hanging in the air like a warm blanket.

Even Barty, despite the sting of defeat, wears a smile and offers his usual support to his friends. Father's disappointment will be guaranteed, if he intends to tell him, but Barty skillfully sweeps the loss under the rug, keeping his composure intact. He is already talking about the future match with Hufflepuff.

Nadine's laughter rings out, light and teasing, as she winks at Seraphina. "Okay, formidable foe. I'll be on the lookout for that speed of yours!" she says, her tone full of mock seriousness.

Seraphina raises an eyebrow, her lips curling into a sly smile. "And I'll be keeping an eye out for that swing of yours, my favourite 'enemy.'" she shoots back, her voice warm with amusement.

Severus approaches his sister with a rare, subtle flicker of pride in his eyes. "Well done." he says, his voice low but unmistakably sincere. There is no dramatic display, no effusive praise, but the quiet approval in his tone says more than he would ever allow in public. "You've earned it."

Seraphina pulls him into a tight hug, and he defiantly obliges and returns the favour.

"Dinner at Hogsmeade, everyone? My treat, considering Slytherin just set the bar." Cassiopeia announces smugly, her grin wide with satisfaction as she surveys her friends.

Evan's smile is as bright as ever, his energy still crackling from the win. "Most definitely, miss Black. But, please excuse me, I must first attend to my loyal subjects before abandoning them so soon after our triumph." He leans in, pressing a quick kiss on each of the girls' cheeks before turning toward the rest of the team.

Seraphina arches an eyebrow, her laughter light. "Ah yes, they'll surely wither without your esteemed presence." she teases, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm. "Go on, we'll meet you later. You were a killer out there." she adds, her smile softening as she gives him a supportive shoulder rub before he disappears into the crowd.

The rest practically skip through the corridors, laughter echoing off the stone walls as their footsteps fade into the distance—a blur of House scarves, wind-tossed hair, and the unmistakable energy of victory still humming in their wake.

Chapter Text

The Slytherin common room is utterly transformed. Green and silver lights shimmer along the stone walls, charmed to flicker like candle light but pulse with a heartbeat-like thrum to the rhythm of the music.

Floating glasses clink gently as they levitate from hand to hand, each filled with a brew that shimmers like liquid emerald. The air is heavy with the scent of expensive perfume, incense, and a definite air of victory and ambition.

It isn't just a celebration. It is a statement. Everyone showed up in their best dressy yet casual attire.

"Did we go overboard a bit? A little. Was it necessary? Absolutely." Cassiopeia reassures them, adding the final touches to her look with quiet satisfaction in their shared dorm.

Seraphina, though less convinced, dabs on a thin layer of reddish-brown lip stain, her expression pinched. Dissatisfied with something, though she doesn't say what.

"Do we have to?" she mutters eventually. "It's not like either of us enjoy parties. Too loud. Too... unnecessary."

Cassiopeia chuckles softly. "I know. But this is different. And I've sat through my fair share of dinners I didn't want to attend. Sometimes, it's just a matter of courtesy—this is one of those times. Less celebration, more diplomacy."

"Suck it up and push through, right?" Seraphina says with a small laugh, meeting Cassiopeia's eyes as she nods.

"It might surprise you." Cassiopeia says, smoothing the hem of her robes. "Could be the end to a truly horrid week. Parties do serve some purpose—maybe you'll enjoy talking to someone other than me for once."

"And where's your someone?" Seraphina asks, turning with a grin as she adjusts her dress. The look she gives Cassiopeia is knowing—teasing—but she doesn't expect an answer. Especially not about Barty.

Cassiopeia only raises a brow in response, her smirk quiet and unreadable.

"You know you can tell us everything, right?" Cassiopeia says lightly, giving Seraphina a knowing look. "We know you haven't exactly been the happiest this past week." She treads carefully, but keeps her distance—just enough for Seraphina to not pull away.

"I know. I'm just still trying to figure it out for myself." Seraphina replies, her gaze thoughtful. "But I've got plenty to share with you two. Just... after the party." She offers an honest smile, something softer. "In the meantime, you look absolutely drop-dead gorgeous, Cassie. Royalty, obviously."

Cassiopeia laughs softly, a quiet giggle escaping her lips. "Me? Why, thank you. But you? You're lethal. Merlin help these poor teammates once they lay their eyes on you."

Seraphina's dress is a whisper of black satin, sleek and fluid, clinging to her figure like it had been poured on. The neckline dips in a soft, subtle cowl, hinting at collarbones and shadows without ever seeming too deliberate. Thin straps trace over her shoulders and down her back, revealing smooth skin and the graceful curve of her spine, decorated by loose waves of her long, pitch-black hair draping over her shoulders and back.

The fabric shimmers with the faintest sheen under the light—more ink than midnight—catching movement like a secret. A single, daring slit climbs to mid-thigh on one side, revealing flashes of leg clad in ornate black lace tights, which vanishes into the polished curve of black Mary Janes with a modest heel and a thin belt. As she walks, each step a measures contrast of elegance and danger. The hem grazes her ankles, swaying softly around her heels.

Cassiopeia's dress is a deep, velvety green—rich and quiet, like shadows under leaves. The fabric drapes elegantly from the shoulders, structured with a gentle puff that gives shape without stiffness. Her sleeves are fitted, silver clasps at the cuffs catching the light as she moves with quiet luxury and certainty.

The collar is open just enough to soften the line of her throat, for balance. The robes flow around her in clean, deliberate lines, swaying with each step, down to her sharp, black heels. Her curls are strategically loose, gracing her shoulders and completing her looks. Graceful, confident, royal, and just out of reach, she carries the Black name like it is stitched into her very bones.

As they make their way toward the common room, the music grows louder, a booming rhythm that seems to vibrate through the very walls. The lights flicker, casting the hallways into a dim, almost suffocating haze.

Seraphina had heard about Slytherin parties—whispers of chaos and the constant hum of laughter and drinking—but she hadn't expected to be dragged into one. She would have much preferred to be curled up in her dorm, a silencing charm keeping the world out, the noise and the people out of sight. But here she is, walking straight into the storm.

Still, they enter the party with smug confidence, shedding any restraint as they move through the chaos. Hand in hand to avoid getting lost in the sea of bodies, they weave strategically through the crowd. Though they are no strangers to this kind of noise and disorder, they seek out a quieter corner, hoping to find Evan—and at least Regulus—so Cassiopeia can congratulate him in person.

As they finally make their way to the far side of the room, Cassiopeia spots Evan at the far end, deep in conversation with a few teammates. Her eyes narrow slightly, but before she can make her move, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

"Amycus." she mutters under her breath, her expression stiffening.

Cassiopeia doesn't need to turn around to know who is behind her, the too-close presence of a Carrow almost pressing against her back. He always had a way of lingering—too close, too persistent. His low chuckle follows them.

"Cassiopeia." he says, his voice oozing with feigned charm. "You look absolutely ravishing tonight. Green never looked so good."

She turns to face him with a cool, unwavering smile. "Thank you, Amycus. But I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me—there are more interesting people to talk to tonight."

Cassiopeia makes a pointed glance toward Evan, but Amycus isn't one to back down so easily. "Oh, I'm sure there are." he replies with a knowing look. "But none nearly as captivating as you."

Before Cassiopeia can respond, Seraphina catches her attention. Regulus had emerged from the shadows, his cold gaze immediately locking with Cassiopeia's from across the room. He is in all black—per usual, his clothes impeccably tailored to fit him as if they are made for no one else.

The fabric of his shirt stretches smoothly over his chest, the top button casually undone, revealing the faintest hint of a sharp jawline and neck beneath. His sleeves are rolled up just enough to reveal a glimpse of his forearms, the movement of his posture adding a touch of nonchalance to the otherwise controlled elegance he exudes.

Seraphina finds it hard not to notice.

The air between them thickens, and Seraphina feels a subtle charge in the atmosphere.

She didn't mean to stare—but something about the way he stands, so perfectly composed... And then, as if he could sense her attention, his eyes flick to hers. The connection is instant, sharp. Cold.

He doesn't move. Doesn't smile. Doesn't offer even the smallest sign of recognition. But his gaze holds steady, unreadable. Reserved, yet... aware.
Is it the victory? Is he in his Captain, Prefect or just Regulus role now?

Seraphina's jaw tightens. She lifts her chin slightly, refusing to look away first.

He blinks once, slow and deliberate, before shifting his gaze elsewhere—as if the moment hadn't happened at all.

She can't decide if she wants to challenge him or run away.

Regulus, however, doesn't make a move toward them. Instead, he exchanges words with a few of the Slytherin elite, his polite yet detached demeanor radiating an air of authority.

Before Seraphina can decipher whether she is still pissed off or cool, Avery—leaning against a wall nearby with a glass of something in his hand—turns his attention toward her. His sharp, snarky grin is unmistakable.

"Didn't expect you to grace us with your presence, Seraphina, after being so evasive all week." Avery remarks, his voice dripping with sarcastic amusement. "But I must say, you look... divine." He stops to look at her reaction.

Seraphina notices he is tipsy, so she lets that obnoxiously straightforward compliment slide.
She raises an eyebrow, her lips curling into a wry smile. "How considerate of you to notice, Avery."

Avery chuckles, taking a casual sip of his drink. "Please. I'm not the one who needs the compliment, love. But you... well, you're certainly not one to fade into the background." His eyes run over her, lingering longer than necessary. "I'd say you're impossible to ignore."

Seraphina smirks, her gaze flicking briefly to the team before settling back on Avery. "Flattery might just get you somewhere, Avery, but not any closer to me."

As the conversation hums around them, the unspoken tension in the room seems to grow thicker—Cassiopeia dodging Amycus's advances, Seraphina caught in the quiet intensity of Regulus's gaze, and Avery's snarky compliments hanging like a challenge in the air. It is going to be a long night.

Cassiopeia finally rejoins Seraphina, subtly brushing off Amycus with a tight-lipped smile and a sidestep that leaves him talking to thin air. She slides next to her friend, immediately catching the tail end of Avery's latest attempt.

"Oh, are we still pretending you're charming?" Cassiopeia asks sweetly, raising a brow at Avery before taking a sip from the glass Evan had slipped into her hand.

Avery only grins, unbothered. "It's not pretending if it works."

Evan chuckles from behind him, slipping an arm loosely around Cassiopeia's shoulders as he greets the group. "Can we pretend, for tonight at least, that we're not all plotting each other's downfalls? Just a little civility?"

"We didn't even win that impressively." Regulus says coolly as he approaches, his voice calm and measured. He hadn't looked at Seraphina since the group formed—but she feels his presence like a shift in gravity. "The other team was slow. Sloppy."

"Still a win." Avery offers with a shrug. "And we looked good doing it."

"Well," Evan adds, giving the girls a once-over with an amused smirk, "some of us look good doing just about anything."

Cassiopeia rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitch upward. "You're lucky I'm in a good mood, Rosier."

Seraphina, meanwhile, can feel Regulus standing just beside her—close enough to sense, not close enough to read. He hadn't addressed her directly, hadn't even acknowledged her presence beyond that brief glance earlier. And yet, in the thick of the noise and chatter, she feels his restraint like a held breath.

"So," Avery says, turning toward her again, "are you planning on actually socializing tonight, or just gracing us with a single smirk and disappearing again?"

Seraphina shrugs lightly, keeping her tone even. "Depends. If you keep talking, I might disappear faster."

That earns a low laugh from Evan.

The conversation picks up, their circle growing tighter as drinks pass hands and the music shifts to something darker, heavier.

"Well," Evan begins, swirling the last of his drink and glancing between the two girls with a teasing glint in his eye, "is any of us going to grace the floor with a dance, or is this night going to be a bust?"

He says it politely, playfully, but with just enough weight that both Cassiopeia and Seraphina know he means them.

Seraphina arches a brow, her lips curling into a sly smile. "Are you asking me, Rosier, or making a general plea to the heavens?"

"Does it matter?" Evan replies smoothly. "I'll take whoever saves this party from the tragic fate of us all standing here, too dignified to actually have fun. And you know what, you both owe me a dance for playing so well." He chuckles. "Who's first?"

Cassiopeia lets out a soft laugh, already handing him her drink. "Fine. Try to keep up."

They disappear into the thrumming crowd, their figures quickly swallowed by flickering lights and pulsing music.

Seraphina watches them go, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips—until she realizes she isn't alone.

Regulus stands beside her again, silent as ever. She hadn't noticed him move closer. He doesn't speak, doesn't offer his hand or a glance. Just stands there, still and unreadable, the tension between them loud in the space Evan and Cassiopeia left behind.

"Epic." she murmurs to herself, reluctant to start a conversation with anyone. Lucinda is dancing with Amycus while Evan demonstrates his finest dance skills. Seraphina watches them and laughs to herself, happy to see them happy.

"Come on, Seraphina. Save me from dying of boredom and bruised ego." Avery exclaims, reaching out for her hand politely.

She hesitates just long enough.

With a smirk, she slides her hand into Avery's, who kisses it gently. "I suppose it's only fair someone gives you attention before you combust."

Avery chuckles as he leads her toward the dance floor, casting one smug glance over his shoulder at Regulus. Seraphina doesn't look back, but she can feel it.

Despite his usual off-putting behavior, Avery turns out to be a surprisingly charming dancer—and a good partner, too. Seraphina manages to ignore the sharp edges of his personality, just for one song, and to her own surprise, actually enjoys herself.

It is easier that way—not thinking about the week, the tension, or the conversations that still hang in the air. Just moving, letting go.

Regulus had slipped into conversation with a small circle of Slytherins nearby, the rest of the team orbiting close enough to stay connected.

As the song ends, Avery gives her a casual bow, and another kiss to the top of her hand, one brow quirked as if to say 'I told you so', before he steps away, merging easily back into a group with Regulus and Amycus. Evan wastes no time, appearing at her side with his signature grin.

"Next one's mine." he says, barely a question.

Seraphina laughs, breathless. "I cannot dance, Evan. Fair warning."

"No need." he replies, already pulling her in. "The way you look in that dress? I doubt anyone's paying attention to how you dance."

She rolls her eyes at him, playfully this time, and lets herself sink into the easy rhythm of their friendship. She hasn't realized how much she needs this.

Chapter Text

Regulus says little as he stands among the others—Amycus is rambling about something half-witted, and Avery had just rejoined them, smug and self-satisfied. Cassiopeia and Lucinda discuss something about dresses. Regulus gives the occasional nod, a polite response when required, but his attention is... elsewhere.
Across the room, Seraphina laughs.

It isn't loud, or showy, but it is real. He can see it in the way her shoulders finally drop from their usual guarded place, the way her eyes crinkle ever so slightly at the corners. Stark contrast from their last conversation. She is dancing, light on her feet despite what she had claimed. Her dress moves with her like smoke, catching the flickering light of the room.

Avery smirks, always fishing. "You know, there's something about her. Her spirit, the way she carries herself. I'm unsure whether I find it attractive or insufferable." He takes another sip of his drink. "But, I like them kind of mean, with a dangerous attitude."

Regulus just furrows his brows upwards with zero amusement—more-so disgust. Avery is drunk.

Avery continues fishing for a reaction, "Half-blood, yes, but I think I'm into this whole 'forbidden fruit' thing."

Regulus's jaw tenses, looking away from the dance floor. They watch Evan twirl Seraphina again—clumsy but soft in a way that can't be faked.

"Mind yourself." Regulus says coldly, his voice quiet but razor-sharp. "I don't want to hear your impure thoughts about them."

Moments later, Seraphina and Evan return, breathless and laughing. Evan passes her a drink, still grinning. "What are you all yapping about, then?"

"Oh, the temptation of half-bloods." Avery drawls, glancing at Seraphina with that same smirk, just to see who he can provoke.

Evan's smile drops instantly. Cassiopeia stiffens beside him, her expression darkening as she exchanges a glance with Seraphina—clearly remembering the conversation by the lake. Regulus doesn't flinch. He doesn't need to escalate—not here, not now.

Seraphina says nothing, but her glare toward Avery is lethal.

"The what?" Cassiopeia steps forward, arms crossed, her tone sharp and dangerous.

"You know, as pure-bloods, we're expected to stay within the line." Avery continues, undeterred. "But sometimes a cute little half-blood thing comes along and makes you think..." He winks at Seraphina, slow and deliberate.

Regulus sighs—deep, controlled. He doesn't oppose him aloud, but neither does he support this brand of careless, public idiocy. Not in front of everyone.

"Avery—I'm only going to say this once, mate." Evan says, stepping between them. "Shut the fuck up about that."

Avery raises his hands in mock surrender, smirking. Seraphina stares at him in pure disgust, her silence more dangerous than words.

And then, Amycus chimes in. Of course he does.

"No, no, I get it." he nods, slurring his words. "Still, the tarnished ones will never be a match for a pure-blood. Like yourself, Cass."

Cassiopeia looks at him like he had tracked manure into her house. "You're absolutely foul. And it's Cassiopeia to you."

Regulus's voice cut in, cold and clear. "Mention my sister like that again—or in any manner—and see what happens."

Amycus just laughs, as if it is all a game. Avery joins in.

But Regulus isn't smiling.

Seraphina takes a slow sip of her drink, eyes never leaving Avery's.

"You're not nearly interesting enough to make this conversation worth a hex." Seraphina says flatly. "Nor would you be able to get a legitimate chance with this half-blood either. Still, keep talking like that and I might just curse you—politely." She offers a tight, unimpressed smile.

"Enough." Evan cuts in, exasperated. "You two need your tongue privileges revoked." he points at Avery and Amycus, who are still grinning like hyenas.

Cassiopeia steps forward, her eyes blazing. "If this is a daily occurrence for you and your team, maybe it's time to change some things, Regulus." Sne snaps at him.

He turns to face her fully, calm and unreadable. "I cannot control everyone, Cassiopeia. You'd do well to remember that before another one of your tantrums."

Cassiopeia scoffs, lips curling into a scowl. "Always silent and cowardly. Nothing new." Regulus stares her down.

"No, Cass." Seraphina says calmly, her voice low but sharp. "He agrees. Didn't I tell you?"

She turns her head just enough to look Regulus dead in the eye, and smiles. Not sweet. Not amused. Just... certain.

Cassiopeia freezes. Her eyes flick between the two of them—Seraphina's steady gaze, Regulus's unreadable expression.

As Cassiopeia yanks Seraphina away, Regulus's voice cuts through the noise of the room, calm but firm.

"Snape." he calls, his tone just sharp enough to command attention, for the first time addressing her this past week.

Seraphina freezes for a moment, his words hanging in the air between them like a threat—too heavy to ignore, too tempting to resist.

Despite his desire to let it all dissolve into the quiet of the night—for the sake of neutrality, of peace—he knows it can't be dismissed. The comments from Avery and Carrow. The shifting dynamics. The way Seraphina acted, always a little too free with her defiance. They aren't just irritations. This is about the House—their future. He knows something she doesn't. All of them do, except for Cassiopeia and Seraphina, of course.

"A moment." Regulus says, motioning for a private word. Seraphina rolls her eyes, but follows.

He steps slightly closer, voice lowered, his posture unchanging. "Must your presence always arrive with disruption and issues?" His tone is even, clinical. His gaze holds hers, steady and unreadable.

They both know how to wield composure like a blade—Seraphina, sharp and performative like Eileen. Regulus, honed and bloodless, like Walburga. Diplomatic, or so it appears.

"What sort of issues?" she asks, feigning amusement. "Seeing me in this dress, fighting with teammates, or playing well despite missing practice?" A smirk tugs at her lips as she toys with a loose wave of her hair.

He tracks the motion for a second before returning to her eyes—expression unshaken, unimpressed.

"The ones where you mistake recklessness for confidence and demand attention like it's owed to you." he says, voice absent of inflection. Not angry. Simply factual.

"The attempts to provoke me were unsuccessful, I might add." she says lightly. "Though they do seem to get away with rather foul language. I might just be doubting your ability to be an unbiased Prefect." She challenges.

He observes her, the corners of his mouth unmoving. "Their detention isn't enough for you, then? The only thing that would have satisfied your intolerable ego would've been me letting you hex them."

Seraphina straightens, clears her throat, and steps forward. "Detention for the attack, not for insulting my bloodline—something you seem to casually agree with." she says with a smile that doesn't touch her eyes.

He hadn't known that detail.

"I never endorsed a lack of discretion." he replies, calm. "What they said was undignified. Not incorrect."

Seraphina is quiet for a moment, analyzing his words.

Then, she begins, "Cornering us was just another lapse in judgment—where you agreed with them, but, oh, it wasn't polite enough to admit?"

"I was unaware of that." he says coldly. And yet, somehow, it doesn't matter. "Nor do I care, frankly."

"You never asked." she says simply, stepping back. "And you shouldn't. It doesn't concern you."

She turns away, walking toward a narrow window overlooking the black water. In the dim light, she looks more like something belonging to the lake's darkness than the House behind her.

"As a Captain and Prefect, it's my duty to—" he begins, measured.

"I'm not interested in your well-rehearsed speech." Seraphina snaps, cutting through his words. "Your titles don't impress me. You're exhausting."

She passes him, sharp and deliberate.

"Silence, Snape. There are consequences to such behaviour." His words slice clean, void of heat.

There is, in truth, a quiet menace, darkness, to Regulus and those who follow him. Other students know it. Seraphina refuses to give them the satisfaction of fear.

"Leash your dogs, Black. Or they'll be dealt with." She adds, dismissing the tension with a flick of her hand.

He doesn't flinch. Doesn't follow. When his voice comes again, it is precise. Stripped bare of warmth.

"Then don't confuse observation with investment, or my presence with concern."

He turns from her, offering nothing further. Not even a glance.

"Final warning, Snape." he says, voice low and steady. "One more Quidditch incident, and you're benched until further notice. Any other disruptions—detention."

He pauses. "And do something about that bruise. It clashes with the dress."

Then he is gone, absorbed by the crowd—without waiting for a reply. He never needs one.

In one of the old Charms classroom, Barty is bent over a desk, sleeves rolled up, wand tucked into his robes. He is scrubbing out ink stains from desks the old-fashioned way—by hand—thanks to a final evening of detention.

Regulus gave it to him, something light, something a first-year could do blindfolded, but Barty still does it with that same intensity in his gaze. He grits his teeth at the memory, his hand clenching the cloth tighter. He doesn't regret the hex—not one bit. He would do it again. But if Regulus knew the reason...

Nadine enters quietly, the door creaking just enough to make him glance up. She stands there, arms folded gently over her chest, her hair braided back, eyes soft but amused. He quickly pulls his sleeves down.

"You could've let me help, you know." she says, stepping forward, her voice warm but slightly scolding.

Barty flicks a glance her way, then back to the stain he has been working at. "No. I have to do it. It's fine." he replies, voice low and even, but his mouth twitches slightly in tired amusement.

She pulls a chair beside him, watching him for a moment before sitting with a sigh. "Are you tired?" she asks.

"No."

"Have you eaten?"

"I have." he says.

She tilts her head, studying him with that sense that always lets her see past the exterior. "Don't be disappointed in yourself." she says gently. "It's a rotten feeling, failing. Not just because of Father. Because of us. Because we're used to achievement like it's the air we breathe. And people expect it from us. It became normal."

Barty doesn't say anything for a moment. His jaw tightens slightly. Then he leans back in the chair and exhales, the scrub rag forgotten on the desk. "Yeah. I know."

"You don't have to always live up to everything. Not all the time. You're allowed to—lose. To mess up. To have days that aren't perfect."

"It wasn't the match." he says eventually, running a hand through his hair. "Losing to Slytherin... it happens. They're good this year. Ev's brutal on the field, and Reg plays like he's already in the bloody League."

Nadine laughs. "Well, we'll still say you were robbed."

"We were absolutely robbed."

A silence settles between them, easy now. Then Nadine raises a brow, smiling faintly. "So, how do we even tell Father?"

Barty stares ahead for a second. "We don't." he says flatly.

She laughs again, shaking her head. "No, really. How will he react?"

"Oh, let's see..." Barty straightens his back, mocking Father's stiff voice: "'Bartemius, you were meant to uphold the honour of this family, and you let some children score from under your broom. Disgraceful. I am very disappointed.'"

Nadine chokes on a laugh, doubling over. "You sound just like him."

"I've had years of practice." Barty mutters dryly, cracking a grin as he tosses the rag onto the desk and finally lets himself relax next to her.

Nadine watches him silently for a moment, her expression soft. Then she shifts slightly and says, voice gentle, "Talk to me, Tem."

He doesn't look at her.

She presses, still calm, still kind. "I know it's still about Cass."

There is a beat of silence. His jaw tenses.

She knows him too well—of course she does. His twin. His mirror. She has always known when something is rotting under the surface. He says nothing, but she waits, and finally, he gives a long sigh through his nose, head dipping low.

"I don't know what's wrong with me." he mutters.

Nadine just listens.

"I've been thinking about her more than I should. Since—Merlin—since September. It's stupid. I didn't mean to. And then Carrow started talking to her, and I—"

His voice falters, bitter. "And I know he didn't—I know he didn't—but the way he said it, like it was real, like she wanted him—"

He cuts himself off, shaking his head, disgusted.

"I couldn't let it go. I didn't even think. I didn't care who saw."

Nadine's brows furrow, but she stays calm. "You reacted because you care."

Barty scoffs quietly, dragging a hand through his hair. His shoulders curl inward slightly.

"I can't stop thinking about her. I want to be close to her."

He pauses. And then, lower: "And I know I can't be."

Nadine turns to him now, truly watching him.

He still doesn't look at her. His voice gets quieter.

"I can't ask her for anything. I can't even talk to her the way I want to. Because I've already chosen... something else. Something she'd hate. You would too."

Nadine doesn't catch that last bit. It passes like a shadow, too fast to grab. But something in the tone sets her heart twisting.

"Tem..."

"She's a Black." he continues, pushing the truth he can share forward. "She probably sees me the way she sees the rest of us—inferior. Like dirt to avoid touching."

"You can't judge her just by her last name. If that was the case, I wouldn't be friends with her. Have you ever even talked to her properly?" Nadine asks, smiling softly.

He sighs. "Not really. Every time I try, I think—what's the point?"

Nadine bumps her shoulder against his.

"Someone like you? You mean someone brilliant, loyal, terrifyingly smart, and secretly the softest person I know?"

Barty snorts, almost laughing. "I'm not soft."

"You are." she insists, smiling. "Cass just hasn't seen that yet. But she will, if you let her. I've told you that."

He glances at her finally, and for a moment, the usual guarded ice in his eyes melts into something more raw. Something lost.

"You think she'd even give me the time of day?"

"I know she would." Nadine says. "But, Tem, you really have to try. Stop standing on the edge of things pretending you don't care. If you like her, let her know. And if she doesn't feel the same—then you move on. But at least you tried. And she'll respect that."

He stares at the wall for a while. Thinking. Fighting something invisible.

Then, quietly: "I hate not being sure."

Nadine softens even more, reaching out to rest her hand on his.

"Then be sure of one thing." she says. "Whatever happens with her, we'll always be close. We've gone through everything together. You think something like this will change that?"

He doesn't answer for a long time. Then he looks down at their hands. His fingers squeeze hers lightly.

"You promise?"

"Of course." she says, as if the question is ridiculous. "What kind of question is that?"

He finally smiles. Small. Quiet. But real.

And even though something heavy still coils in his chest—something he doesn't name, something darker and hidden—right now, with her, he feels like maybe it won't swallow him whole.

Chapter Text

Breakfast buzzes with anticipation as students await the arrival of post—letters from home, gifts, some anxiously, others dreadfuly. Barty falls into the latter camp. Fortunately, his most recent deception has gone unnoticed so far: Father hasn't yet discovered that he had lost his first Quidditch match of the season, unlike Nadine, whose victory is most definitely noticed.

But secrets, especially in the Crouch household, rarely remain secrets for long. Father has a gift for unearthing truth at precisely the worst moments. Barty knows it is only a matter of time before another Howler or a cold, sharply-worded letter arrives—obnoxiously, perfectly cutting. Nadine refrains from asking again. She learned that silence is sometimes the kindest form of understanding. If—or rather, when—the letter comes, she will be there.

Barty sits stiffly, as if bolted to his seat, mind drifting away even as he chats with Regulus and Evan. Across from them, Nadine had joined Pandora, their voices hovering lightly over the table in conversation about Pygmypuffs—absurdly adorable, according to Pandora. A few seats down, Cassiopeia speaks with Seraphina and Severus, the three hunched slightly over a set of small black tins. The siblings brew a new batch of Bruise Balm for the team, to spare players unnecessary trips to the hospital wing.

Seraphina signals to Nadine and catches her eye as she passes her a few of the tins.

"You made these?" Nadine asks, politely curious as she slips them into her bag, casting a glance between Seraphina and Severus.

"It's practical. Saves us from hearing complaints about our war wounds." Seraphina replies with a smile.

"A wiser approach would be to quit playing that idiotic game entirely." Severus mutters, dryly.

"But then we wouldn't have an excuse to brew potions together." Seraphina says, nudging him gently. A hint of a smirk ghosts across his lips.

"Misery loves company." he adds.

"Well, thank you. These'll come in handy." Nadine says with a warm smile, her eyes resting on Severus a moment longer. Seraphina notices, and with a discreet pivot, turns to Cassiopeia. Severus returns the glance briefly, his expression unreadable, as Evan leans in to ask something unimportant, interrupting the moment.

From across the room, occasional glares drift toward Nadine and Seraphina from members of the Gryffindor team. Neither acknowledge them. With exams looming and time constraints, petty grudges have lost their edge and priority.

Then comes the familiar rush of wings—owls flood the Great Hall in a great sweeping hush of feathers and parchment. Letters, parcels, and gifts tumble gently onto plates and laps, sparking delighted chatter and rustling paper.

But a second wave follows—quieter, heavier—and far more curious. Envelopes unlike the rest, deep green with wax seals that shimmer faintly in the hall's candlelight, begin to descend with eerie precision. They don't scatter across the tables as usual. Instead, they land almost exclusively at the Slytherin table—and only in front of certain students. Pure-bloods, mostly. A few half-bloods, like Seraphina and Severus, receive them too. A handful finds their way to Barty and Pandora among them. One, notably, lands in front of Peter—and none, unsurprisingly, for Sirius.

Regulus and Cassiopeia each receive theirs with expected ease, unbothered by the grandeur. Mulciber and his crowd are similarly unmoved. These families often receive such things—royal parchment, enchanted seals, mail that feels more ceremonial than communicative. For Seraphina and Severus, however, the arrival of such a letter is unusual. Neither had expected anything so ornate—and what they hold now in their hands looks less like a message and more like an invitation to something far different than ever before.

The wedding invitation of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black is a statement of ancestral pride and refined excess, more akin to a heirloom than regular parchment. Each is printed on thick, iridescent mooncalf vellum spun under an eclipse—soft to the touch. The edges gleam with a platinum trim, enchanted with delicate runes symbolizing heritage, power, and supremacy.

Centered in raised mithril, the Malfoy crest—a serpent coiled around a crescent moon—glowed with faintly pulsing enchantments, and beneath it, in ancient silver script, is the family motto: Sanctimonia Vincet Semper — Purity Will Always Conquer.

The invitation's ink, enchanted to glow softly according to the reader's bloodline, flows in an ancient calligraphy handwriting. When opened, it releases a whisper of white heather, jasmine, and dragonwood—scents of both bride and ancestral home.

As they slowly unseal their envelopes, the atmosphere shifts. Regulus and Cassiopeia tear their letters open with indifference, though there is a slight sharpness to Regulus's eyes as he reads the elegant script. The Malfoy family has a habit of sending letters this extravagant, but it is clear this one is different. Cassiopeia's lips tighten, but she says nothing, already preparing for the demands the letter likely contains.

Seraphina hesitates before opening hers, eyes narrowing in slight confusion. She isn't expecting anything like this, yet as she reads, a soft gasp escapes her lips. Severus leans in to see her expression, and though his face remains the same, a flicker of surprise passes over his features.

Barty feels his stomach twist as he reads. Nadine quietly scans the people around her. She didn't receive one, and so she sits back, patiently waiting to hear the news, her thoughts lingering on her brother's reaction.

Pandora's eyes gleam with interest as she carefully unfolds the parchment. She has been half-expecting a family matter, but what she finds instead makes her pause.

The Malfoy Family cordially invites you to attend a most distinguished gathering, A Convergence of Pure-blood Legacies to be held at Malfoy Manor on the evening of 27th December.

In the spirit of unity and heritage, your esteemed presence is requested, as the gathering will address matters of vital consequence to the future of our world. This event will serve as a testament to the strength of ancient alliances and newly forged bonds.

Let it be known that this meeting will play a pivotal role in shaping the very fabric of our society, and your participation is deemed not only necessary but a mark of your continued standing among the great families of wizarding kind.

The Winter Solstice marks the dawn of a new era — be present to witness and partake in this historic occasion.

Dress Code:

The attire is of the utmost importance. Guests are expected to wear robes of exquisite craftsmanship, with fabrics of velvet, silk, or satin in midnight blues and blacks, emerald greens, or rich purples. Platinum and gold accessories are strongly encouraged, with jewels of rare provenance to complement the regal nature of the evening. Attendees should present themselves in a befitting manner — elegant, refined, and sophisticated, with no detail overlooked.

This marks the dawn of a new era — be present to witness and partake in this historic occasion.

Yours in power
The Malfoy Family

The crowd is silenced, to say the least. Father's information was correct—the unity of the two most powerful families in Britain's Wizarding World. To say that the event will be the highest luxury would be an understatement. The Slytherin table reacts positively, all of them acknowledging the importance of the event. Seraphina and Severus, however, remain silent, waiting for breakfast to pass to converse about the matters.

Nadine, Cassiopeia and Seraphina exchange glances, and Cassiopeia nods imperceptibly to hint at a conversation they are to have after breakfast. Evan, Regulus and Barty exchange knowing glances as well. They all tuck away their invitations, and proceed to head to class.

Seraphina and Severus step away from the bustling crowd, finding a quiet corner by a window. The distant sounds of chatter fades as they stand in the secluded nook.

"Interesting turn of events." Seraphina murmurs, her eyes scanning the invitation once more. "I didn't know I was expected. I met them once, twice, at best."

Severus, his gaze fixed on the view outside, replies coolly, "We come in pairs, naturally. You're in Slytherin, and you've aligned yourself with their circle. Not entirely unexpected. It's a courtesy—an honor. We must attend, no question."

It is a bit unusual for her, hearing his stable certainty over attendance. He, unlike many people, would often avoid every sort of celebration and event, so this is out of the ordinary.

Seraphina leans against the wall, folding her arms, the letter still in hand. "The dress code, though." she begins, letting the words hang in the air. "A bit... luxurious, don't you think?"

Severus shifts his gaze toward her, his expression unreadable. "Indeed. I suspect we'll need to scrape together every last bit of our fortunes to meet it." he says, his voice tinged with tension. "Our background didn't exactly afford us much room for such extravagance."

Seraphina gives a small, wry laugh. "My travels paid off, for the most part. I suppose we'll have to pool our efforts to make this work."

Severus nods, his mind already working.

"What makes you so certain we should attend?" Seraphina asks, her voice laced with curiosity and suspicion, already knowing the answer.

"It would be foolish not to." Severus answers, his tone cold and certain. "We've worked too hard for this recognition. There is no question of whether we should attend." His gaze softens slightly, and he adds, "Once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Seraphina. This is our chance to make it all count. I'm urging you to treat this as the most important matter of your life."

Seraphina nods slowly. "I will, Severus."

"This is not just a wedding, Seraphina. It's a gathering of the most powerful families in the wizarding world. You know the significance, especially with your friends and Captain involved."

She hesitates, shifting uncomfortably. "I barely know Lucius and Narcissa." she says, her uncertainty clear. "I don't know how much my presence matters to the wealthiest people in the world."

Severus fixes her with a steady gaze. "Your presence matters. Align yourself accordingly, satisfy their curiosity, and present yourself—and us—in the best light possible. I'll do the same. It's not my nature to order you, but think of this as a proposition... and a fair one."

In a quiet corridor, Regulus and Cassiopeia exchange thoughts on the upcoming gathering and the expectations from their families. This is undoubtedly one of the most significant events their families had ever seen.

Their entire families will be present, except for Sirius and Andromeda. Sirius, however, is likely relieved. Though he has no idea what exactly is brewing, he can sense something is afoot. He had always insisted that this union will be the root of all evil, though what he truly means by that remains unclear.

"I suppose Mother will give us a long speech." Cassiopeia muses, her voice laced with a touch of irony. "We know what the expectations are. According to her, this is prime time to find future partners."

Regulus nods in agreement, but his thoughts are already drifting, focused on the duty that looms over him.

"As important as it gets." Regulus adds quietly, his voice tinged with resolve. His mind shifts into gear, contemplating.

"Do you have anyone you wish to go with?" Cassiopeia asks lightly, her gaze searching his face. Regulus shakes his head slowly.

"Not at the moment. You?" he replies, his tone neutral.

Cassiopeia pauses, her eyes flickering momentarily before she answers, "No. Well, maybe. We'll see..." Her voice trails off, a hint of uncertainty in her words.

Regulus raises an eyebrow at her, but she quickly dismisses it with a casual wave of her hand, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.

Barty and Nadine walk in silence toward their class, the comfortable quiet between them. Nadine's patience is endless, especially when it comes to him, though her mind is swirling with questions. What is the difference between them, particularly when it comes to an event like this?

"I can almost hear you assaulting my mind to find more information, sister." Barty jokes, though his face remains serious, betraying none of the humor in his words.

"I think it's your recent alignment with other pure-bloods, half-bloods and... muggle-borns." he continues, "You know, the ones with less... rigorous rules unlike this side."

Nadine's brow furrow. "This side? What side is that? The evil one?" she scoffs, her tone sharp.

Barty shakes his head slightly. "Unironically..." he begins, then pauses. "I doubt there's much to miss, but Father won't be pleased if you skip such an opportunity to... mingle... with future partners." His voice becomes colder. "He'll want reasons, and you might just overshadow my future criticism over a lost match."

Nadine bites her lip, her thoughts swirling.

"I didn't do anything wrong." she says firmly, her voice low but resolute. "I just don't believe in such vile rules, no matter how much Father thinks it's a defect."

"I understand you." Barty replies, then hesitates before adding, "But Black? Potter, Weasley, Lupin..."

"They're just in the same House and team as me." she shoots back. "What was I supposed to do, ignore them completely and run to Slytherin? That's absurd."

Barty nods slowly—he does understand. "You should've chosen Ravenclaw at least, if you wanted to avoid this whole mess."

"Ah yes," Nadine snorts, "let me lie to the Sorting Hat just to please an endlessly dissatisfied individual who happened to be our Father."

Barty gives a half-shrug, not disagreeing.

"And some of your precious Slytherins," she adds sharply, "are very aggressive. I've done nothing wrong to anyone, and yet I still end up with the brunt of it. For what?"

Barty has no answer.

Nadine's mind drifts to Severus and Seraphina. The Black and Rosier families being invited is expected, but those two? They aren't exactly the image of traditional pure-blood prestige. So what changed?

Guilt tinges her curiosity as her thoughts take another turn—one of worry and care. Can they even afford to attend something like this? She knows the answer. Probably not. We'll just help them out. It's no big deal.

The final week of November arrives cloaked in wind and grey skies, the castle settling into its late-autumn hush. The air smells like frost and old parchment, and time seems to fold in on itself—days slipping past with the blur of Quidditch practices, long nights of study, and the heavy, quiet distance that Nadine doesn't speak of aloud. The match against Slytherin looms, and the team is pushing hard: early mornings on the pitch, strategy meetings stretching into the evening, even James and Sirius sharpening up with unusual focus.

But Nadine doesn't talk to them unless she has to.

They don't speak to her either. The air between them is thick with unspoken things, and during team meetings, they only exchange clipped words about formations or defence lines, never looking each other in the eye. Sirius keeps his arms crossed, his jaw tight. James, for once, doesn't try to charm his way through the tension. Nadine doesn't care—at least, that is what she tells herself. She pours all her energy into perfecting her game, perfecting her aim, tightening every move with practiced control. She is sharp and fast and stubborn, just like always.

But Remus—Remus she doesn't see at all.

It is strange at first, how completely he disappears. No quiet glances across the common room. No awkward passings between classes. He used to be everywhere, always near, always lingering in the corners of things. Now, it is like he is nowhere.

He doesn't try to talk to her. And despite the ache she won't admit, Nadine doesn't try either.

Still, she thinks about him. More often than she means to. The argument still clings to her, and though her anger has cooled into something quieter, it is still tangled with confusion, hurt, disappointment. She wonders what he is feeling. If he has even thought about her at all.

It is during Transfiguration with Bill that she finally asks.

They sit near the back, notes spread between them, the candlelight soft on the parchment. Nadine leans in slightly, her voice low enough not to be overheard.

"Hey... have you talked to Remus?"

Bill glances sideways at her, surprised.

"No. Not since last week." he says. "But—I saw him. This morning. Hospital Wing."

Nadine freezes.

She turns toward him more fully. "What? Why?"

Bill shrugs, but his eyes are kind. "No idea. I was just walking past. Didn't look too good, but Pomfrey was with him."

Nadine presses her lips together. Something cold coils tight in her chest.

The moment class ends, she doesn't think—she just moves.

Her notes barely make it into her satchel as she pushes past the rows of desks and out into the hallway. She is walking fast, boots echoing sharply on the stone floor, the hem of her skirt brushing against her knees. Her thoughts race too fast to follow—what could have happened, why he is in there, is he sick, hurt, something worse?

She tells herself it is just to check. Just to see.

That is all.

Chapter Text

Nadine reaches the open door of the Hospital Wing, her steps faltering as she slows down. The corridor is quiet, only the sound of her breathing and the faint clinking of potion bottles from inside reaching her ears. She stops just before the threshold, her heart thudding steadily in her chest.

She doesn't step in—just peers around the carved wooden frame.

Remus stands beside the bed, slipping his sweater over his uniform shirt with sluggish movements, his frame looking worn. Madam Pomfrey hovers beside him, arms folded, brows knit with concern.

"Remus, you need rest." she says sternly. "And a proper meal, and the potion tonight, all of it. Do not try to be clever and skip any of it, I mean it."

"Okay, okay, I will. Promise." Remus mutters, his voice rough, quiet.

Madam Pomfrey sighs, but her hand lingers on his shoulder before she steps aside and nods toward the door.

That is when he turns—and his eyes land right on Nadine.

They both freeze.

They stare at each other across the threshold, unspeaking, held in place by the weight of everything unsaid. The hallway feels suddenly narrow. The torchlight flickers, gold and cold against the stone. Nadine's lips part slightly, but no words come. A tightness claws its way into her chest.

She takes a breath and quickly turns to go.

"Nadine—" Remus calls, his voice echoing low and raw through the corridor.

She walks faster.

"Nadine, please. Please stop."

She halts. Her back is stiff, arms rigid at her sides. He takes a few steps closer.

"Will you just let me explain myself?" he says. His voice cracks a little, like it hurts him to say it. "You don't have to forgive me, or believe me. Just—just let me tell you. So we settle this. However you want after, I swear."

A pause.

Then slowly, she turns around.

There is a storm in her eyes still, but something else too—curiosity, confusion, the ache of something unresolved.

"Fine." she says, clipped. "Five minutes."

They walk together in silence through the corridors, past empty classrooms and shuttered windows. The castle is hushed at this hour, early afternoon classes in full swing, the quiet kind of private. They make their way up a narrow staircase and duck into a half-forgotten tower passage, a place not many know—a small balcony with an arched window carved deep into the stone, overlooking the vast grounds and distant treetops of the Forbidden Forest. Below, the courtyard spreads out like a painting, speckled with students wandering beneath the turning trees.

They sit on the stone ledge. She crosses her arms tightly. He exhales and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

Silence stretches between them for a few long moments, the cold wind brushing through the open arch behind them, ruffling the edges of Nadine's hair and tugging at Remus's threadbare sweater. He looks paler than usual—there is a sickly, sunken quality to the skin beneath his eyes, dark and bruised. His posture is hunched, as if every limb aches, but he holds himself together with quiet stubbornness, like he is holding up a crumbling wall with his bare hands. His hands tremble faintly when he rests them on the stone ledge.

Nadine doesn't notice it at first. She is too busy glaring down at the courtyard like she is hoping the ground will swallow her anger. Her heart drums furiously in her chest. She can't calm down—doesn't want to calm down. Not when this has been gnawing at her for three weeks. And now here he is, offering what?

"So?" she says, voice sharp. "Explain."

Remus flinches like the word itself is a slap.

"I didn't mean to hurt you." he begins quietly. "It's just... it's hard."

"No." she snaps. "It's simple. You're a Prefect. You're supposed to stop that sort of behavior. Especially from your own friends." Her voice cracks with heat and pain. "But you just sat there, Remus."

"I know I did." he mutters, clenching his jaw. "And I hate that I did. But you don't understand—James and Sirius, they don't always mean it the way it comes out."

Nadine whips around to face him, eyes blazing.

"Oh?" she says bitterly. "How do they mean it, then, when they publicly humiliate someone? For being clever? For not being them? And Seraphina—what exactly did she do to deserve being called a freak in front of the whole room?"

Remus closes his eyes, exhaling slowly. His hands tighten into fists.

"They've always had it out for Severus." he says reluctantly. "Since first year. There's... a lot of history."

She scoffs. "History? Like what?"

He hesitates. She glares, demanding.

"There was this time," he says, reluctantly meeting her gaze, "in fourth year. James hexed Severus in the corridor after he made some comment about Lily. Sirius said something first, and Severus reacted, and then it turned into this... fight. It got bad. James hung him upside down in front of everyone."

Her jaw drops. Her stomach twists.

"And you were there?" she asks in disbelief.

"Yes." he admits softly. "I was."

Nadine is still. Her throat feels tight.

"And you're telling me this now like... like what? Like it's normal?"

Remus rubs his hands over his face, then grips the back of his neck. His eyes are bloodshot, hollow, guilty.

"I'm not saying it's right." he says quickly. "It's not. It's not. I don't agree with it. But they've always thought of it as this sort of... rivalry. Like competition. Like fun."

She stares at him, her face stony. "So bullying is fun."

"No—" he breathes. "No. That's not what I meant."

"You keep saying you don't agree, but you didn't do anything." she bites out. "You watch. You look away. You make excuses."

"I don't make excuses." he protests, louder now. "I'm trying to keep peace. I've always been in the middle—"

"And for what?" she cuts him off, heart pounding. "So they like you more? So they don't leave you out? You let them humiliate someone—maybe even multiple people—and you stand by because you're afraid of being alone?"

He doesn't respond.

"I thought you were better than that." she whispers. "I really thought we could be best friends. But you're just—"

Her voice breaks.

"You're just desperate to be part of the boys who treat everyone else like dirt. It's pathetic."

Remus's face crumples, like the words physically strike him. His lips part, but nothing comes out. His cheeks are pale, and his tired eyes shimmer faintly with something unshed.

He looks wrecked. Haunted. Ashamed.

But Nadine is beyond the point of sympathy. Her heart is breaking in a dozen places, but she refuses to let him see it.

"You let them hurt Severus." she says quietly. "Again and again. And you let them mock Seraphina when you knew what that would do to her. You knew."

"I didn't want this to happen—" he tries, but she shakes her head.

"You let it happen."

She stands abruptly. Her fists are clenched at her sides, her lips trembling.

"I didn't want to hate you." she says, voice soft and cracking. "I didn't want to even dislike you. But I won't ignore this. I hope it's worth it, Lupin."

She turns away quickly, so he doesn't see the tears brimming in her eyes.

Remus rises halfway, like he might reach for her—but stops. His fingers twitch, hovering uselessly in the air.

And then Nadine walks away—fast, before he sees her wipe the tears from her cheeks with her sleeve. Before she turns around and forgives him.

Behind her, Remus stands completely still, staring out the window toward the forest, jaw tight, his breath shallow and uneven, the full weight of the night before and the pain of her words pressing into his chest like an iron hand.

He doesn't move for a long time.

The common room is dim and heavy with the crackling of the fire, casting golden shadows across the dark stone walls. Cassiopeia sits stiffly in the corner armchair, her legs crossed neatly, a thick book on ancient runic magic open in her lap. She is not reading anymore. She stares blankly at the same page she has been stuck on for the past thirty minutes, her jaw tight, her patience worn thin.

Amycus lounges much too close on the nearby couch, one arm draped lazily across the backrest, the other twirling his wand idly between his fingers. His voice oozes with the kind of false charm that sets Cassiopeia's teeth on edge.

"I suppose it'll be the event of the year, hmm?" he drawls, puffing himself up with a wide, smug grin. "The wedding. Only the finest will be invited. And of course—" he leans in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing some grand secret, "—I'll be attending. With the most radiant companion on my arm."

Cassiopeia closes her book with a sharp snap, her expression cool and unreadable. She offers a polite, noncommittal smile—the sort she had perfected over years of dealing with unbearable pure-bloods.

"Lovely." she says, her voice like ice under velvet. "I'm sure you'll make quite the spectacle."

Amycus laughs, taking it as a compliment rather than the veiled insult it is.

"Oh, come on, Cass." he says, using the nickname without permission again, and she fights the urge to hex him on the spot. "Don't be modest. You'll be the prettiest girl there. Narcissa will pale in comparison."

She raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "That seems unlikely."

Amycus smirks, undeterred, and continues, "And you'll see, love—we'll be the envy of the night. Everyone's already talking about how well we suit each other. Power, looks, ambition..." He lets the words hang, watching her closely, clearly expecting her to blush or giggle.

Instead, Cassiopeia rises gracefully to her feet, clutching her book to her chest.

"Well, unfortunately, I have a prior engagement." she says sweetly, her voice laced with steel. "Mustn't keep Professor Slughorn waiting."

Amycus frowns, confused. "Slughorn—"

But Cassiopeia is already moving, sweeping toward the door of the common room, every step brisk and determined. She feels his gaze burning into her back like an oily hand.

"Wait, Cass! I'll walk you there!" he calls after her, getting up to follow without waiting for an answer.

Merlin's beard, she thinks grimly, quickening her pace. Her stomach twists with disgust at the thought of spending another moment in his company.

She exits into the cool, damp corridors of the dungeons, her heels clicking sharply against the stone. The shadows pool around her, and the smell of cold stone and moss fills the air. Still, she can hear Amycus trailing behind her, blabbering on about his family's grand estate and the 'future heirs' he jokes they will have.

Cassiopeia's hand tightens around her book so hard that the leather cover squeaks.

She rounds a corner sharply—and collides right into two figures walking in the opposite direction.

"Oh—!" she breathes, stumbling back.

Evan and Barty both catch her instinctively—Evan steadying her by the arm, Barty gripping her shoulder. Cassiopeia lifts her gaze, relief washing through her like warm sunlight.

Their expressions shift quickly—first surprise, then something harder as they both spot Amycus approaching behind her.

Amycus falters for half a second at the sight of them, then plasters on another of his greasy grins.

"Well, well, lads." he says loudly, swaggering closer. "If it isn't Hogwarts' brightest and best."

Cassiopeia tugs herself gently free from Evan and Barty, straightening her spine. She throws them a grateful glance, then turns coldly toward Amycus, lifting her chin with the haughty grace only a Black can muster.

Barty's hand lingers near his wand, subtle but deliberate. Evan crosses his arms, watching Amycus with a look of faint disdain, sharp and assessing.

Amycus, oblivious or choosing to ignore the warning signs, merely smirks again.

Cassiopeia, heart thudding in both fury and gratitude, breathes out slowly.

Thank Salazar for these two, she thinks.

She doesn't say a word yet—waiting, watching, feeling the heavy tension gathering between the four of them like an approaching storm.

And she has no intention of going anywhere with Amycus now.

Barty's fingers twitch by his side as he watches Amycus still swagger toward them, still laughing like he has said something clever. His blood boils at the mere sight of him—pathetic, greasy bastard, Barty thinks, jaw tightening. His eyes flick to Cassiopeia, checking her quickly for any signs of real distress.

He steps closer to her, lowering his voice to a tense mutter.

"Did he do something?" he asks, rough and low, struggling to keep his temper in check.

Cassiopeia tilts her chin, her dark green skirt rippling around her ankles like a wave. She offers a small, composed smile, but her nostrils flare slightly—betraying her irritation.

"No." she says airily. "Except being utterly insufferable."

Barty's shoulders drop a fraction, the tension leaving him just enough to breathe. He grunts in grim satisfaction, ready to hex Amycus into next week if he even tried.

Before Barty can say anything more, Evan claps a heavy hand on Amycus's back, interrupting the moment with a broad, falsely friendly smile.

"Oi, Carrow." Evan says smoothly. "Did you hear? Your dear sister is looking for you."

Amycus blinks. "What—?"

"Come on, mate." Evan cuts him off easily, already steering him down the corridor with a firm shove. "Better not keep her waiting."

Barty and Cassiopeia watch in silence as Amycus stumbles after Evan, protesting, his voice echoing around the stone walls until it fades completely.

And then it is just the two of them. The corridor stretches out wide and empty, lit only by flickering torches along the cold stone. The shadows throw moving gold along Cassiopeia's sleek hair, making her look almost ethereal, untouchable.

Barty shoves his hands deep into his pockets, kicking at an invisible pebble by his boot.
He glances at her, quickly, like he is afraid to linger—but it is impossible not to. She is standing there, arms crossed over her chest, elegant and defensive at the same time.

"You sure you're alright?" he asks, softer now.

Cassiopeia rolls her eyes, but there is a tiny, real smile ghosting her lips. "I can handle myself, Bartemius."

"I know." he mutters, voice rougher than he means it to be. "Doesn't mean I don't want to hex him into a wall anyway."

That makes her huff a small laugh, which twists something low in Barty's chest—something stupid and dangerous that he still refuses to name.

The silence stretches again, thick and almost charged. She shifts on her feet, and for a second, their arms almost brush.

"So," Cassiopeia says, clearing her throat, trying to sound casual. "are you going to the wedding?"

Barty shrugs, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. "Father says I have to. 'Family duty,' all that nonsense."

Cassiopeia hums in agreement. "Same. Mustn't bring shame to the family name."

There is a slight bitterness to her voice, something heavy and resigned. Barty notices it immediately—feels it like a shared secret. His fingers clench and unclench in his pockets.

"You... going with anyone?" he asks, feigning nonchalance, but his heart thuds stupidly hard against his ribs.

Cassiopeia casts him a look from under her lashes, deliberate and infuriatingly graceful.
"Amycus seems to think so." she says lightly, her mouth curling almost wickedly.

Barty's face darkens instantly, his entire body tightening with something sharp and ugly.
He scowls, voice dropping low and possessive before he can stop it.

"You don't have to go with him, you know."

Cassiopeia arches a perfectly shaped brow, amused. "No?"

"No."

It comes out harsher than he means it to, but he doesn't apologize. He steps closer instead, reckless now. His voice softens slightly, almost teasing.

"You could spend some time with me instead." he says, the words hanging between them, heavy and hot.

Cassiopeia looks up at him, her pulse quickening for reasons she refuses to admit. There is something raw and open in Barty's blue eyes, like he is daring her to mock him but hoping she won't.

She tilts her head, letting her hair fall over one shoulder.

"I suppose," she says slowly, drawing it out, enjoying the sudden tension crackling between them. "I could... rearrange my schedule."

Barty lets out a quiet breath, his smile a rare, genuine thing. His thumb brushes over the edge of his pocket as if resisting the urge to reach for her.

"I'll consider myself honored." he says, voice warm, slightly rough.

They stand there a moment longer, the dungeon air doing nothing to cool the heat simmering between them.

Neither moves, neither speaks—like the whole world has narrowed to just this charged, perfect second.

And in his head, Barty is already plotting a dozen ways to keep Amycus Carrow as far away from her as possible.

And Cassiopeia, despite herself, is already thinking of what dress she will wear—one that will make Barty Crouch Jr. look at her exactly like he is looking at her now.

Chapter Text

Nadine rushes into the Great Hall for dinner, but she feels like she hasn't truly sat down to eat in days. There is so much to do, so many lessons, so many essays piling up that her head feels like it might explode.

Trailing just behind her, Brownie trots lightly, tail curled high with pride as she weaves effortlessly between legs and bags, ignoring the occasional gasp from students.

Nadine's fingers twitch as she takes a seat, finding herself between Cassiopeia and Seraphina. Brownie hops up gracefully into her lap, circling once before settling in, eyes half-lidded. Nadine feels the exhaustion settling onto her shoulders as she glances at her girls, wishing for a moment of reprieve. "Hello, darlings."

Cassiopeia glances up from her plate with a smile. "Hey, Nadine." she responds smoothly, her fingers reaching down to give Brownie a soft stroke behind the ears, earning contented purrs.

Seraphina, on the other hand, is halfway through piling a mound of mashed potatoes onto her plate. Her eyes light up when she sees Nadine, and she gives a playful nudge. "Hey, Crouchling. You're late." she says softly.

Nadine chuckles, piling her own plate now. "Yeah, Yaxley held us longer than usual."

Seraphina hums, taking a bite. Nadine leans in a little toward Cassiopeia. "I was wondering—can you help me with Potions later? Just for an hour or two. I'm struggling with the draughts."

Cassiopeia turns to her. "I'm sorry, Nadine." she says, her tone soft and apologetic. "I'm meeting Pandora in the library."

Nadine's face falls slightly, but she masks it quickly with a quick nod. "Ah, okay, no worries." Her eyes flick to Seraphina. "Phina, what about you? Please, I'm desperate."

Seraphina shakes her head, her hair falling in a cascade over her shoulders. "I can't either. I'm doing a project with Regulus—have to make sure we're on the same page for the practical part of it."

Nadine's eyes widen with surprise. "Regulus? You two working together? How's that going?" Her tone is genuine, but there is amusement in it.

Seraphina laughs dryly. "Going? I'll be honest with you, I'd rather eat a boggart than work on it with him. But it's something we have to do."

Nadine groans and takes a large bite, burying her miserty with food.

Cassiopeia and Seraphina share a quick, secretive smile.

Seraphina turns to Severus who is sitting across from them, his eyes focused on a plate in front of him, his expression unreadable.

"Sev," she starts, "do you think you could help Nadine with her Potions later?" Her gaze flickers toward Nadine briefly, and then back to Severus, her attempt at persuasion clearly evident.

Nadine watches the exchange with wide eyes, trying to keep her expression neutral, though her heart skips a beat.

Severus barely reacts, his eyes lifting to meet Seraphina's. His lips press into a thin line, and for a brief moment, Nadine can almost feel the tension in the air between them.

"Why would I help her?" he mutters, voice low and cold, though there is faint of annoyance.

Seraphina sighs, her patience clearly running thin. "Come on, Sev." she pleads, her tone softer now, but still persistent. "You're Slughorn's Assistant. You should be helping anyone who needs it. Just a little bit, after dinner?"

Severus looks at her, then at Nadine, and for a moment, there is silence between them. Nadine doesn't back down. She smiles faintly in his direction, not daring to say anything, but hoping somehow her expression conveys the gratitude she already feels.

"You also owe me." Seraphina presses, a slight smirk tugging at her lips, as though she knows exactly what buttons to push.

Severus exhales sharply through his nose, clearly frustrated. "Fine." he mutters, still not looking fully at either of them.

Nadine's heart lifts, though she tries to keep her excitement under control. She simply nods, keeping her smile small but genuine. "Thank you."

Seraphina leans back in her seat, satisfied that she has won him over, though she doesn't gloat. She turns back to Nadine with a smile of her own, a knowing glint in her eyes.

Nadine continues to sneak glances at Severus as they finish their meal. His posture is tense, and he is not engaging in any conversation. She wonders if he has even noticed her watching him. She hopes he has.

As she takes the last bite, Brownie lifts her head, eyes following the movement across the hall. Nadine sees him rise abruptly, not sparing a glance at anyone, and without a word, he heads toward the doors.

She feels the adrenaline rush, and hastily grabs her bag, stuffing her belongings in a disorganized frenzy before pushing her chair back and rushing to catch up. Brownie leaps gracefully from her lap, landing on the floor before slinking after her.

She can't help but look back over her shoulder at Cassiopeia and Seraphina, who are exchanging a look that is almost mischievous. Cassiopeia lifts a brow, and Seraphina winks. Nadine rolls her eyes fondly at them before she quickly looks forward.

She doesn't expect him to stop so suddenly, and she bumps into his back with a soft thud. She stumbles forward slightly but quickly catches her balance.

Looking up at him, she sees the familiar frown already in place.

"Listen closely, Crouch." Severus spits, voice low and cold, slicing through the thick air between them. His intense gaze pins her in place. "I'm only doing this because Seraphina asked. Not because you deserve it. If you're not serious—if you get distracted, if you think this is some game—I'll throw you out without a second thought."

He leans in slightly, just enough for her to catch the faint scent of parchment, ink, and something darker, more intoxicating. His lips barely move as he finishes, voice dropping even lower, almost a growl: "Understood?"

Brownie lets out an audible meow, tail wrapping protectively around Nadine's leg.

Nadine swallows hard, the last taste of food forgotten. Her throat feels dry and she forces herself to meet his eyes, but for a brief, dangerous moment, her gaze flickers down—tracing the line of his mouth, sharp and unsmiling. She refuses to look away again.

"Understood." she breathes, a small, daring smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Her voice is almost teasing, yet there is a quiet steel behind it that even she hadn't expected.

Severus watches her, his brows knitting together, confusion and irritation flashing across his face. His jaw tenses, the muscle ticking under pale skin, before he turns on his heel.

Nadine stands there for a second, pulse hammering in her ears. She notices everything about the way he moves: the rigid set of his broad shoulders under his uniform, the stiff pride in his back, the way his hair brushes the top of his collar, swaying slightly with each step.

She bites down on her lower lip, feeling a traitorous blush creep along her cheeks and neck. Her heart races faster with every step she takes behind him, her fingers itching with the urge to reach out—to touch, to yank at the fabric of his robe just to see if he would flinch.

Brownie trails silently beside Nadine, staring at the figure ahead as if sensing her owner's feelings.

The chill bites at Nadine's skin as she walks, but she is far too focused to care.

He doesn't glance back—he can hear her lighter steps and the soft clink of her bag shifting with every move.

The classroom is silent except for the sound of their arrival. Nadine moves toward the nearest workstation and sets her things down. She breathes in slowly and starts unpacking—scrolls, ink, a slightly worn leather-bound notebook, and the Potions book.

The desk smells faintly of burnt sage and dragonbile, remnants of previous lessons. Her parchment crackles softly as she unrolls it, ink bottle wobbling slightly as she adjusts her space. Brownie trots toward a corner of the room and curls up, watching everything.

Severus settles at his own desk, opens a drawer without looking and pulls out his own notebook, scribbled full of modifications and margin notes in tiny, perfect handwriting. His glossy hair falls in front of his face in uneven lengths, and when he looks up at her, it swings just slightly.

"Well?" His voice slices through the quiet like a blade, making her spine straighten involuntarily.

Nadine clears her throat, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear and flipping open her book. "Right. I need to master Calming Draughts, Blood-Replenishing Potion, Strengthening Solution, and I'm supposed to know the beginning theory of Antivenins for the next unit."

She glances up. His eyes are on her already—unreadable. He stands without responding, crossing the room with slow, measured steps. She watches the way his boots echo lightly against the stone floor, the way the lighting sharpens the planes of his face—high cheekbones, pale skin, and a constant, restless tightness around his mouth.

"Start with the Strengthening Solutiony." he says sharply.

Nadine raises a brow, lips twitching.

He gestures at her cauldron with a flick of his fingers and steps back, arms folding across his chest. His sleeves ride up slightly, exposing pale, sinewy wrists with faint ink smudges and a few old burns—scars from years of experiments gone wrong.

She works quickly, gathering the ingredients, her hands moving with practiced familiarity. But her nerves are loud. When she hesitates with the ginseng root, unsure of the cutting angle, his voice is suddenly near her.

"Slice, don't chop. Your potion will curdle if the active properties are released too early."

She jumps slightly, blinking up at him. He is close, and she catches his scent again.

"Sorry." she murmurs, adjusting.

"You're brewing for patients, not dinner guests." he says, already stepping back.

She suppresses a grin. "Understood."

The potion begins to bubble with a soft purple shimmer. She leans over slightly to get a better look, then glances at him out of the corner of her eye. He is standing behind her now, arms still crossed, his gaze fixed on the liquid with that stillness only he seems capable of—like the rest of the world ceases to exist when there is work to be done.

"How am I doing?" she asks lightly, dipping her ladle into the cauldron to stir.

"You're not poisoning anyone. Yet." he says dryly. "But you used too much feverfew. Try again. From the start."

Nadine bites back a protest and instead scribbles that note down, lips pursing. "You're terrifying." she says under her breath.

"I aim to educate, not comfort."

Her fingers itch to write that down too. Every little thing about him fascinates her—his precision, his posture, the way he rarely speaks unless it matters. She doesn't even mind his tone.

He walks past again, and her gaze lifts instinctively to the way his shoulders move. She snaps her attention back to the potion, exhaling a shaky breath.

Severus pauses near his desk, flipping through a heavy tome. He doesn't say anything, but when she looks up again, hair falling around her face, eyes bright with concentration and challenge, he looks back for just a second.

"Focus, Crouch." he says, voice quieter this time. "Your cauldron's about to overboil."

Nadine curses softly and leans over, adjusting the flame, stirring quickly. "Thanks."

He returns to his notes. The cauldron simmers softly now, its contents shifting into the correct hue—amber gold with hints of warm steam spiraling upward. Nadine carefully adds a final pinch of crushed valerian root. Her brow furrows with focus, but after a beat of silence, her mouth opens again, unable to help herself.

"You know, at Beauxbatons," she begins, gently stirring counterclockwise, "they make potions feel like poetry. Madame Volance used to say that brewing should be like composing a symphony—timing, rhythm, touch. All très dramatique. She even wore gloves made of powdered unicorn silk."

Severus, hunched over a stack of notes on the edge of his desk, doesn't look up. "I'm not surprised." he mutters dryly. "I suppose your stirring technique involved interpretive dance as well."

Nadine chuckles. "Not quite. But they did play music in the background. Usually violin. Very intense." She glances over at him and adds with mock-seriousness, "And yet here I am. Covered in ash, trying not to poison myself in your favorite place. Must be doing something right."

"That remains to be seen." he replies coldly.

Nadine grins, unfazed. She takes the moment to scribble something in the margins of her notebook—a funny drawing of a cauldron with a speech bubble that says: Help me, I'm bubbling for my life—and then tosses a glance back at him.

"I want to learn all of them." she says with sudden sincerity, voice softening. "Not just the ones in the syllabus. I want to know what you know. How you know when something's going wrong before it even smells wrong. How you make it look so... effortless."

That gets his attention.

He looks up, slowly, eyes narrowing. There is skepticism in his expression.

"Effortless?" he repeats, voice cool. "If you believe any of this is effortless, you don't belong in this class."

"I didn't say it was." she counters, still smiling, still stirring. "I said you make it look effortless. There's a difference, Master Prince." She adds a slight teasing lilt to the title.

He frowns.

"You totally will be." she says quickly, pointing her stirrer at him. "The terrifyingly brilliant Potions Master."

"Do you ever stop talking?"

"Rarely." she beams.

He stares at her for a moment. There is a pause. A breath.

He breaks it. "Check the toxicity levels."

"I don't need to." she says smugly, turning back to the cauldron.

He exhales, muttering something under his breath that sounds like 'insufferable girl', but he moves closer to check her work nonetheless.

Nadine sneaks a glance at the way his jaw tightens when he concentrates, the way a loose strand of his hair falls near his eyes. Her fingers itch to touch it.

She bites her bottom lip again, just a little.

He straightens, frowning again. "Redo it. Start from the root base."

"Again?"

"Unless you'd prefer I grade your incompetence instead of correct it."

"Fine." she groans dramatically. "But only if you stop hovering like a dementor. You're giving the potion a complex."

His eyes flicker to hers again, and for a second—it almost looks like he is fighting back a smirk.

But he says nothing. Only crosses his arms again and steps back, watching.

The dungeons are quiet now, the soft bubbling of cauldrons replaced by the faint echo of footsteps in the corridor. They move around, tidying up after two hours. Their uniforms brush against each other as they pass, a subtle friction that sends a shiver down Nadine's spine.

Brownie begins sniffing around, nosing her way under the worktables, tail swishing with curiosity. A few bottles, empty and corked, sit on a shelf within reach, and she rises up slightly on her hind legs, whiskers twitching as she investigates. The subtle clink of glass draws Severus's attention mid-step.

His voice cuts through the silence like a hex.

"Crouch." he snaps, eyes narrowing as he turns sharply toward the cat. "Control your beast."

Nadine startles slightly and glances over to Brownie, who now sits like a statue by one of the desks, completely unbothered by his tone.

"She's just curious." Nadine says lightly, offering a small smile, trying to soften the edges of his scowl. "She won't break anything."

Severus's jaw tightens as he adjusts the edge of a tray with precise irritation. "Curiosity leads to accidents. I don't care to watch her lick powdered belladonna off the floor."

Nadine raises a brow, the corner of her mouth twitching. "She's not licking anything—"

"Yet." he mutters darkly, returning to his notes, quill scratching sharply against the page.

Brownie blinks at him from her perch and lets out a single, very deliberate meow, as if mocking him.

Nadine bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. "She's got good instincts. She likes dark, broody types. Like me."

She settles back into her seat, her eyes scanning the notes, but her mind drifts.

"There's a festival next week." she says, breaking the silence again. "Tem mentioned it. A winter celebration near Hogsmeade."

Severus doesn't look up from the vial he is labeling.

"Will you be attending?" she turns to face him, her expression curious. "Everyone will probably go."

He finally meets her gaze, his eyes unreadable. "I'm sure you can go with your friends then."

She tilts her head, a slight frown forming. "We have the same friends." Then realization dawns.

Nadine continues, her voice steady. "I'm more than the people I know. More than my name, more than where I come from."

She doesn't look back down at her parchment, but rests her elbow on the table and tilts her face toward him, head cocked slightly, her cheek resting on her knuckles. "I didn't ask about it just to make small talk, you know."

Severus is re-corking a bottle of Armadillo bile.

"I wanted to ask if you'd go with me. With our group." she says, bold but soft. "Not like a date. Well, it can be, I mean. Whatever you want."

Severus finally looks up. "You think I would willingly attend some frivolous festival with you? Parade around like I've lost my mind?" he says flatly, his voice low and edged in disdain. Disbelief. Like the thought of it is offensive.

Nadine exhales, the corner of her lips quirking. "I'd like to spend more time with you. Because despite the fact that you constantly look like you'd rather be hexed than near me, I want to show you I'm more than 'Barty's sister' or 'the stuck-up from Beauxbatons' or a Gryffindor. I'm simply... Nadine."

"I'm not expecting anything, Severus. You don't owe me company or kindness. I just... I like talking to you. Even when you barely talk back. I like the way you correct me. And I'd rather spend that stupid festival talking to you about wolfsbane or bone-mending salves than pretend to care about anything else."

His gaze hardens, but she sees the tiny twitch of his jaw — he presses his lips together.

The heat from the brewing lingers, curling against her skin.

Nadine leans in a little, her voice lower. "Being sorted doesn't define me. It just reflects the parts of me I needed when I arrived. And I don't care where someone's from or what people say about them. I like people for who they are. Not how others see them."

Severus's brows knit faintly. His hand tightens on the glass bottle.

"You don't know me." he says after a long pause.

"I'd like to." she whispers. "If you'd let me."

Another pause. One that stretches just long enough to feel intimate for her.

Severus turns his head slightly, looking away. "You should go." he murmurs, though his voice is slightly strained.

Nadine stands slowly, her fingers grazing the side of the desk.

"Something draws me to you." she says boldly, eyes meeting his one more time. "I want to know what it is." Her expression turns serious. "Thank you for the help. I will repay the favor. Good night."

She smiles at him, sweet and challenging all at once, then picks up her notes and walks out — Brownie at her heels, the echo of their steps the only thing left in the room.

Chapter Text

The classroom is colder—not only by temperature, but by atmosphere.

A damp gray light filters through the arched windows, casting long shadows over the desks. Professor Thornwell moves about at the front of the room, arranging materials and muttering soft incantations over scrolls. Students filter in with subdued energy, their voices hushed, their footsteps lighter than usual. Maybe it is the weather. Maybe it is something else.

Seraphina enters without ceremony. Her robes move like shadows behind her, chunky boots quiet against the floor. She doesn't scan the room. Doesn't greet anyone. She doesn't need to nor does she care.

She crosses the distance to her desk—their desk—with precision, and with a flick of her hand, drops a folded parchment onto Regulus's side of the shared workspace. It lands square in front of him with a soft thap, as subtle as possible.

She sits down beside him wordlessly, the scrape of her chair deliberate and controlled. Her eyes remain fixed forward, unreadable, as though he isn't even there.

Regulus doesn't flinch.

He reaches for the draft calmly, unfolding it with practiced efficiency. His expression is impassive, but there is a tightness in his jaw—faint, controlled.

They don't exchange greetings.

He reads in silence. She lets him. Not out of courtesy, but detachment.

There is no tension in her posture, only dismissal—an elegant, cutting indifference. She had pulled herself back into armor: spine straight, shoulders relaxed, expression made of glass. She doesn't glance at him, not once.

Regulus, equally disciplined, doesn't speak.

Not yet.

He makes a few corrections with his quill—swift and clean—and then sets the parchment aside, perfectly aligned with his notes. He doesn't look at her. Doesn't offer a comment. If he is waiting for her to speak first, he will be waiting until their hair turns silver.

Professor Thornwell's voice breaks the silence at last, gentle and unhurried. "Mr. Black, Miss Snape—excellent work on your draft section. I'll expect the joined conclusion by week's end."

Neither respond. A nod from Regulus. Nothing from Seraphina.

Not even the professor's faint praise can thaw the space between them.

There had once been a thread of something—wary respect, reluctant curiosity—but it had frayed. The divide now is deliberate. Willed.

Where there had once been tension crackling like static between storm fronts, now there is only vacuum. Cold, clean, and absolute.

They don't need to argue.

Their silence is louder.

The rustle of parchment is the only sound between them until Seraphina, with the barest flick of her wand, summons his draft toward her. The pages tear free from the neat stack in front of him and land squarely in her space—precise, unbothered, and unmistakably deliberate.

Regulus's quill freezes mid-sentence.

But his glare is swift—sharp as broken glass, pale eyes cutting across the narrow space between. His expression doesn't shift in any dramatic way, the standard. Displeasure rolls off him quickly, cold and slow and suffocating.

If he is insulted, he doesn't dignify it with words. Nor does she care.

Seraphina, for her part, barely lifts her eyes as she opens the draft in front of her. Her quill scratches against the margin as she makes her first note—without pause, without permission. His eyes squint faintly.

She isn't about to let him hide behind silent assumptions of perfection. Sure, he is always at the top of the class. But, that doesn't mean she shouldn't exercise her peer-review. She refuses to let him believe he is beyond scrutiny.

"Your framework collapses in the third section." she says quietly, just loud enough for him to hear. Her tone is clipped and professional—more surgical than scathing. "Too much theory, not enough evidence. It reads like you're trying to impress Thornwell instead of actually proving your point."

His jaw twitches. Barely. "You're confusing clarity with oversimplification." he mutters, voice low and cool. "But I wouldn't expect you to notice the difference."

"Mm. And I wouldn't expect you to tolerate anyone questioning your logic." she returns, still writing. Another glare. This one longer.

"Your approval is of no value to me."

"A shocker to none." she interrupts smoothly, pen still moving, not even looking up. "But I do think you're far too used to people offering it anyway."

He leans slightly closer, just enough for his next words to land like a blade slid between ribs.
"Intolerable."

Seraphina doesn't look at him, instead, underlines a few of his sentences.

Regulus doesn't respond. Not with words.

He sits back, exhales through his nose, and resumes his notes—pointedly ignoring the parchment she still holds hostage.

But he doesn't summon it back. She doesn't offer it up.

Both of their notes remain between them—annotated in their tight, elegant script, riddled with critique and underlined flaws, like a battlefield marked in ink.

Neither of them concede, nor will they.

Regulus turns a page in his notes. Seraphina dips her quill in ink. They proceed to ignore one another for the rest of the class.

The library is quieter than usual, and slightly darker. Even the lamps above the study alcove flicker lower, dimmed by the hour or maybe the sheer force of repression between its two occupants.

Regulus adjusts his cuffs on the perfectly tailored white shirt before setting a stack of reference texts on the table. They land with a calculated finality. "You're late." he says, without looking up.

Seraphina drops her bag onto the floor beside her chair, unbothered. "I was researching. You should try it sometime."

He doesn't rise to it. But his eyes lift just enough to meet hers. Controlled, precise. "We agreed on seven. It's seven and three minutes."

She pulls a scroll from her bag and unravels it over the edge of his carefully aligned notes, deliberately skewing the symmetry he had spent the last fifteen minutes perfecting. "And yet here I am. Devastating."

He inhales, holds it, then exhales with a level of composure that borders on saintly. "We'll be dissecting the prewar legislation first. I've drafted a comparative outline." He fixes the stack once more.

"I'll be dissecting it." she says, already making a correction in the margin with a flick of her wand. "You'll be resisting the urge to overedit."

He eyes the offending mark with something dangerously close to disdain. "Your annotations are messy."

"Your structure is a mausoleum." she replies, finally meeting his gaze—level, unflinching. "Pretty, polished, and completely dead. Reminds me of someone."

There it is again—that sharp, electric pulse that lives somewhere between fury and fascination.

Regulus doesn't blink. "Your metaphors are tiring."

"Your ego is." She leans forward slightly, elbows braced on the table, voice low. "You hate that I don't treat you like everyone else does."

"I hate that you think that makes you interesting."

"I hate that you think you are interesting."

The silence after that is loud.

A student two rows over clears his throat nervously and promptly packs up, mumbling something about needing a different desk. Seraphina doesn't even glance over. Regulus's posture doesn't shift.

The thing about the Blacks is that they never yield—taught from birth to bend the world to their will, into submission, not the other way around. Either by force or by waiting, the type of waiting a predator displays upon tiring out its prey to exhaustion and starvation.

Still, composed, calculating. The kind that wears you down until surrender feels like your own idea. Regulus embodies that perfectly: composed, relentless, unshakably certain.

Seraphina understands that instinct. She just refuses to bow to it.

Snapes, after all, don't break under pressure either. They endure. They dig in, pushed relentlessly. So what happens when an unstoppable force collides with an immovable object?

Neither of them had learned how to flinch first.

They sit like that for another breath. Two. Her eyes search his face—not soft, never that—but studying. Trying to determine whether the coldness is truly ice.

She follows the line of his profile, the way a few dark curls—unruly and out of place—fall against his face. The only unpolished part of him, and maybe the most honest. The rest of him is a sculpture: pale eyes sharp and clinical, mouth set in its usual stance—somewhere between neutral and vaguely disappointed, as if the world never quite meets his expectations.

Something flickers within. She is silent, yet very disapproving of the feeling once she recognizes it—admiration.

He returns the look. He notices her brief gaze and silence. She suffocates the curl of her lips immediately. His eyebrows raise very faintly. He dismisses it.

Then, almost too casually, he says, "We'll need to present a unified stance by tomorrow."

"We'll manage." she says, not looking away.

"I doubt that."

"I don't." She tilts her head, just a fraction. "We fight well."

"We fight." he corrects.

She smirks—small, sharp, and gone just as quickly. "Same thing, isn't it?"

Regulus says nothing.

But he doesn't argue. Just rolls his eyes.

And when he reaches for her annotated draft again, their fingers brush—brief, cold, and searing. They instantly move their hands.

Seraphina's fingers linger on the parchment a moment more, then, wordlessly, she releases it.

Regulus slides the scroll toward him with practiced detachment, though his jaw had tightened again—almost imperceptibly. He adjusts the angle of the page by a fraction, then begins to read through her additions, his quill tapping in rhythm against the wood. Not a nervous tick, just the one of forced collaboration.

She settles back in her seat, arms crossed loosely as she watches him. "You're not actually going to keep that sentence about policy as identity, are you?"

He doesn't look up. "It's accurate."

"It's dry."

"It's correct."

"It's dull."

He pauses, just slightly, and then begins crossing through the line in his elegant script. "It is not meant to entertain." then, he exhales, "What do you propose instead?"

Seraphina leans forward, uncapping her ink with one hand. "Something with more bite. Sure, talk about policy, the ethics of rune usage, but don't deceive. Say it how it is. It was about fear, control. About cleaning up wizarding lineage like it was something to be sanitized."

His eyes flick to her again—sharp, evaluating. But he doesn't argue. Instead, he nods once, slowly, and begins writing. Not precisely what she had said. But close enough. His version of compromise.

She pretends not to notice the rare courtesy.

They work like that for a while—hours folding into a rhythm. Parchments pass between them, each one returning marked with red ink and curt notes. No compliments. No concessions. Just criticism that cuts too close and edits that sometimes echo each other despite themselves.

Seraphina rewrites three paragraphs. Regulus reorganizes an entire section. At one point, they both reach for the same text—A Study of Pre-War Magical Runes Ethics—and their hands collide again.

This time, she doesn't move first.

His hand brushes hers, fingers grazing knuckles. They both freeze for a split second. She pulls away casually.

"You can take it." he says, voice low, unreadable.

She doesn't answer. Just holds his gaze for a moment, then slowly pulls the book toward her, her fingers curling around the spine. He watches the motion, before returning to his slightly worn parchment.

The silence now isn't as hostile. It is worse. Hyper aware.

Seraphina flips open the book without another word. Regulus turns back to the outline. Their quills scratch the parchment in tandem, like twin blades drawn over the same whetstone.

The conclusion of their argument is finally forming—paragraph by paragraph—refined, sharpened, irrefutable. The kind only they can form.

By the time the library candles began to sputter and the air had chilled to something ghost-like, they were still there.

"I'll start first with the presentation." he begins, not looking at her.

"As expected." she smiles and scoffs, leaning back casually in her chair like she hadn't spent the last few hours pushing and pulling their thesis into coherence with him.

He raises his eyebrows at her, the expression flat and practiced—disapproval worn like a familiar coat. "Defying? Again? How unoriginal." His tone is cold, uninterested.

Seraphina reaches lazily for her bag. "How surprising that you can be civil and collaborate with a half-blood." she says lightly, almost playfully—except there is an edge to it. She is prodding him, testing for that pure-blood reflex, waiting to see if he will bare his teeth or keep up the mask.

"I am always civil." Regulus says, clipped. Controlled. But his eyes flick to hers with a flash of something sharper—warning, perhaps, or a dare.

She smiles, like it doesn't cost her anything. Like she isn't checking if the words actually bother him. "Of course you are."

Then she stands, her boots thudding softly against the old library floor. She slings her bag over one shoulder and turns toward the exit, her voice tossed over her shoulder with casual finality. "Don't be late for the presentation."

I am never late, Regulus thinks to himself, not bothering to say it aloud.

Chapter Text

It begins on the 1st December, just as twilight stains the sky a rich violet and the last golden leaves cling stubbornly to the bare branches along the winding paths that lead from Hogwarts to Hogsmeade. Though snow hasn't yet touched the village, the chill in the air carries the crisp promise of winter. The scent of woodsmoke, roasted sugar, and pine greets every step forward, wafting from the edge of the village where the Winter Festival has come alive like a memory brought back to life.

The festival grounds are set beyond the cobbled streets of Hogsmeade, in a large, cleared meadow between the Shrieking Shack and the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Dozens of tents and wooden stalls form a winding path through the area, twinkling with fairy lights strung between enchanted lampposts that sway slightly, as if dancing to the music that drifts softly through the air.

Wizards and witches from all over Britain attend, wrapped in cloaks of tartan and velvet, with mittens and scarves that shimmer faintly. Children race around with sweets clutched in sticky fingers, laughing breathlessly, while parents trail behind sipping spiced cider from floating mugs that follow obediently at shoulder height.

The festival is not like Muggle fairs—it pulses with low-level enchantment, and every stall, every corner of the space, is alive in some way. Ice sculptures move subtly within their frozen cages, raising delicate hands to wave or bow. A pair of dueling reindeer carved entirely from ice butt heads every few minutes, letting off bursts of frosty air when they do. Lanterns above them shift in hue depending on the laughter or joy in the air around them.

One large tent near the center is dedicated to treats and drinks. There is candied broom twigs dipped in dark chocolate and rolled in crystalized orange peel. Butterbeer is served hot with cinnamon foam. Mulled mead simmers in copper cauldrons, stirred lazily by floating ladles. There is also a controversial Goblin-run stand offering bracing firewhisky-laced cocoa—strictly off-limits to students, though everyone knows Sirius has found a way to sneak two mugs already.

A smaller, but heavily visited stand near the edge of the forest is dedicated to divination trinkets—snow globes that show flashes of possible futures, and mistletoe branches that only fall for soulmates, much to the amusement and embarrassment of groups of giggling students daring one another to walk beneath them.

Closer to the Shrieking Shack is an ice-skating rink, though there is no real ice. Instead, a wide, gleaming sheet of frost has been conjured onto a stretch of grass, held in place by glowing runes carved into stone pillars at each corner. The rink sings softly, like a carol heard from a far-off room, and never seems to crowd, thanks to a clever distortion charm that folds space around it.

Skaters glide, stumble, and twirl. Lily skates backward with a confidence that makes James stare like he has just discovered a new spell. Remus, bundled up in a charcoal-grey scarf, mostly watches from the sidelines with a hot drink, while Peter attempts one-legged spins and ends up face-first in the frost. There are rental skates, of course—but some students, like Marlene, have enchanted their own boots to shift seamlessly from walking to skating with a whispered command.

In the far corner of the festival, there is a towering evergreen tree—not quite a Christmas tree yet, but draped in firefly-like lights and charmed ribbons that shift color depending on who walks beneath them. Nearby, witches and wizards pin hand-written wishes onto floating parchment ornaments that drift upward and nestle gently into the branches. The tree hums softly in response to each one, a living thing collecting whispered hopes.

Music plays everywhere—not from a central source, but from dozens of tiny instruments tucked into the eaves of tents or embedded in stones along the path. They harmonize together, shifting with the mood of the crowd. One moment it is a cheerful waltz, another it is a solemn carol that carries a haunting beauty.

There is a crafts market too, full of handmade trinkets: self-warming gloves, scarves that hum lullabies, journals that whisper encouragement, and tiny vials of bottled starlight. Hogsmeade's local vendors mingle with traveling crafters from as far as Wales and Northern France. Some sell charms, others offer runes carved into smooth stones. One stall, run by an eccentric Romanian witch, sells tiny carved dragons that perch on your shoulder and keep you warm by breathing faint smoke.

A stage sits at the center of it all, low to the ground and surrounded by floating candles. Throughout the month, it hosts performances from musicians, illusionists, and even some students who dare to show off their talents—both magical and mundane. Earlier that evening, a fourth-year Ravenclaw played a harp that glowed with each note.

The whole festival is layered in time-woven tradition—old customs, half-forgotten superstitions, and warm, familiar rituals that stretch back generations.

Even without snow, the festival glows. The grass is frosted silver, the trees creak gently in the wind, and the stars above burn cold and clear.

It is not perfect—but for a while, it feels like something close.

Seraphina stands slightly apart at first, her hair swept into a loose half-braid pinned with tiny silver moths that flutter subtly. She is wearing a deep plum cloak lined with navy velvet, her boots black and sharp with silver lacing. Her scarf—a muted forest green—seems to shimmer faintly in the lamplight, a gift from someone she doesn't mention. She wears little jewelry, only a singular silver ring shaped like a snake biting its own tail, and her expression is thoughtful, slightly distant, as always.

Nadine is the most eye-catching of them all, not because of glamour but because of presence. Her cloak is cream, trimmed with fur the color of warm sand, cinched at the waist with a gold clasp shaped like the sun. Her hair is loosely curled, tumbling down her back and tucked under one ear. Her gloves are ivory, her boots are heeled and there is something sharp in her smile tonight, but something sweet, too—like spiced wine.

Cassiopeia wears charcoal. Not black—too obvious. Her cloak is layered and embroidered with fine silver thread, subtle constellations that flicker as she moves. Her hair is coiled into an elaborate twist at the nape of her neck, held by a black diamond pin. Her boots are knee-high and impeccable, and her eyes—piercing and amused—scan everything, always calculating, always alert. There is a silver brooch at her shoulder in the shape of a dagger.

Regulus is near Cassiopeia, draped in midnight-blue robes lined with fine, silver-stitched fabric, his gloves buttery leather and wand tucked into his boot. His hair is neat and cleanly parted, and there is a slight smirk tugging at his mouth—unreadable, polished, charming.

Evan, of course, is all style and swagger. His cloak is bottle-green, sweeping and dramatic, edged in brushed gold, and he wears no gloves, because cold be damned—he would rather freeze than cover the gold rings on his fingers. His hair is tousled, perfectly undone, and his wand is holstered at his wrist. His grin is sharp and wide when he talks, and tonight, he radiates confidence like perfume.

Pandora is wrapped in whimsy: her cloak is pale lilac, her boots are white and fur-lined, and her earmuffs are shaped like soft pink puffskeins. Her hair is braided with tiny crystals that catch the light like stars. She hums softly as they walk, smiling at everything.

And Barty—wrapped in velvet—is wearing a deep crimson coat under a black cloak that billows when he walks, his hair messier than usual and his eyes bright with mischief. His gloves are dragonhide, and there is a wild gleam in him tonight that promises chaos. He grins sideways at Cassiopeia.

"Snowball booth." he says suddenly, tugging at her sleeve. "Loser buys the next round of butterbeer."

Cassiopeia eyes him coolly, but there is a flicker of a grin on her lips. "You're on, Crouch."

They split off toward the booth, already starting to bicker playfully, Barty taking dramatic aim at the snowballs that hurl themselves from floating baskets while Cassiopeia calculates her throws with surgical precision.

Evan, meanwhile, nudges Nadine with a smirk. "I bet you can't knock over the Goblin's hat at the ring toss."

"I bet you talk a lot when you're nervous." Nadine replies dryly, arching a brow.

"Touché." Evan says, laughing. "Come on then, Princess Beauxbatons."

They dart off in that direction, the chill air carrying the sounds of taunts, snickers, and occasional explosions.

Nadine eventually returns to Seraphina, who is warming her hands with a charmed stone from one of the craft stalls.

"Where's Severus?" Nadine asks lightly, though there is something careful in her tone.

Seraphina glances sideways, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "With Mulciber. Avery. The usual suspects."

"Hm." Nadine's eyes scan the crowd, hopeful despite herself. "I was hoping..."

"I know. He's fine. Forget about him for tonight." Seraphina says softly. Then she nudges her friend with her elbow. "Come on. We're here to have fun. Let's skate."

The girls drift toward the ice rink, the frost glittering under their boots. Nadine is already bouncing on her heels, her breath visible in the air.

"I haven't skated since Beauxbatons." she says excitedly, eyes glowing. "They have a lake for it—frosted lilies, glittering swans..."

Nadine breathes in deeply as she fastens the laces of her skates, the fur-lined cloak around her shoulders fluttering lightly in the wind. She steps onto the ice like she was born for it, her skates slicing through the frost with impossible elegance. She twirls, spins, and stops with a slight curtsy, arms wide.

The rink stretches out before her like a frozen mirror, rippling with the reflection of twinkling lights above. She glances back to see Seraphina hesitating at the edge, arms folded tightly across her chest, skates already on but motionless.

Cassiopeia glides unsteadily onto the rink behind Nadine, wobbling slightly and laughing under her breath. Pandora spins once and nearly topples, arms flailing. "This is like trying to walk on a jellyfish." she says cheerfully.

"I told you." Nadine says with a grin, skating backwards now, smooth and effortless. "You can't think about it too much. Let your body follow the motion. It's all balance and momentum."

Seraphina's eyes narrow slightly. "I've read about the principles of physics behind it. I just don't see how you're making it look that easy."

Nadine circles back to her, extending a gloved hand. "Come on. Trust me. I won't let you fall."

After a moment's pause, Seraphina reaches out. Her fingers grip Nadine's wrist first—tight, unsure—then shift to her hand. Nadine pulls her gently onto the ice.

"There we go." Nadine murmurs. "Okay, bend your knees just a little. Keep your weight in the center. If you lean forward too much, you'll fall on your face. Too far back, and it's your arse."

Cassiopeia giggles. "You sound like Madam Blanchet."

Nadine smirks. "Madam Blanchet wishes she had this kind of grace."

Seraphina stumbles forward slightly, and Nadine steps in, arms around her waist, steadying her. "Just glide. Shift one foot, then the other. Don't lift them too high."

With her hands on Seraphina's hips, Nadine helps her ease into the rhythm. The two girls move slowly together at first, but Seraphina picks it up quickly. Within minutes, they are circling the outer edge, Nadine whispering guidance every few seconds, Seraphina tense but improving.

Pandora gasps. "You look like a snowflake turned human."

Cassiopeia snorts. "Don't encourage her."

"Jealousy's not a good look, Cassie." Nadine winks and skates backward, reaching out. "Come on."

Nadine takes Seraphina's hand again, firm but warm, and they glide together, letting out a breathy laugh as they speed up.

Cassiopeia and Pandora try to follow—until they collide, limbs tangling, shrieking and laughing as they collapse in a heap.

"Ow! Your elbow is made of bone!"

"Yours isn't?"

Nadine doubles over with laughter, her arm still around Seraphina, who is laughing too—real and open, her cheeks flushed with cold and joy.

Nearby, just past the edge of the rink, Severus walks by with his gang, his hands deep in his pockets, boots crunching over the frost-laced grass. His eyes flick up at the sound of laughter.

Mulciber returns from a food stall, juggling two mugs of mead. "Looks like your sister's joined the other side." he sneers, offering one to Severus.

Severus doesn't take it.

"She's not a child." he mutters instead. "She'll do as she pleases."

Mulciber snorts. "She's been spending a lot of time with the blood traitor, hasn't she? If she was related to me, I'd set her straight."

Severus doesn't respond.

He sees Seraphina—sees her laughing, being held by Nadine. Mulciber mutters something about degeneracy. Severus merely slows for half a breath, watching her smile in a way he hasn't seen for months.

She looks free.

His gaze then lingers on Nadine—on the way she is holding Seraphina so carefully, protectively. On the way her hair catches the lantern light like fire.

Pandora nearly crashes into a snowbank, and all three girls erupt into laughter—light, high, alive.

He turns away sharply. "Come on. I want to check the charms booth before it closes."

Mulciber and Avery follow without another word, their boots crunching over the gravel as they leave the rink behind.

Back on the ice, Nadine slows to a stop with Seraphina in tow.

"You're actually getting it." Nadine says, beaming at her. "See? Not so hard."

Seraphina breathes out, cheeks flushed. "It's not the worst thing I've ever done."

"That's the Seraphina version of a rave review." Cassiopeia grins, twirling unsteadily by. "You'll be doing pirouettes next."

"Highly unlikely." Seraphina mutters.

Pandora, now spinning with more control, glides over and bumps her shoulder lightly. "You're doing beautifully. You've got that whole mysterious grace thing going."

They all laugh again, and Nadine, skating backward now, throws her arms out wide.

"This—this is why I love winter. Everything is colder, sure, but the world sparkles more. It's like... it's like even the bad things quiet down."

Seraphina's eyes flicker toward her for a beat too long. "Some things don't quiet down. Not really."

Nadine catches the look but says nothing. Instead, she nods once, solemn, and then offers, "Race you to the end of the rink."

The tension melts.

All four girls push off with varying levels of speed and grace. Laughter trails behind them like a ribbon in the air, echoing into the darkening sky.

And somewhere, standing just out of sight behind a steaming cider stall, Severus hears it.

And frowns.

Chapter Text

The sky over the Quidditch pitch is a rolling sheet of silver-gray, heavy with the kind of cold that bites into bone. A storm hovers somewhere on the horizon—not close enough to cancel the match, but close enough to make the air charged and dangerous.

It is the perfect weather for a war.

And Slytherin versus Gryffindor isn't just a match. It never had been.

The stands are packed, scarves flying, House colors snapping in the wind. The energy isn't electric—it is combustible.

On one side of the field, the Slytherin team stands in formation like an army ready to raze kingdoms. Their emerald robes gleam darkly against the muted light, immaculate and intimidating.

Regulus stands at the front, still as stone. The wind tugs at the ends of his robes, his face unreadable beneath his goggles. Commander. Cold as steel drawn from the forge.

To his left, Seraphina adjusts the fingers of her gloves with methodical precision. Her eyes are narrowed, calculating, and completely unbothered by the roar of the crowd. She rolls her shoulders once and stares across the pitch—not at the goalposts, but directly at James. She doesn't blink and never smiles.

Evan twirls his bat with a deadly kind of casualness, all coiled energy and brutal confidence. Avery and Talkalot share a quiet, nasty grin. Amycus cracks his knuckles and keeps his eyes locked on one target in the skybox above: Nadine. If looks could kill, the match would have been over already.

On the Gryffindor side, they are fire. Pure, burning defiance. Red and gold in motion.

James mounts his broom with the kind of ease that only someone born to fly can manage. Captain, Chaser, and undeniable force of nature. He radiates confidence—it isn't arrogance—it is earned.

Beside him, Sirius adjusts his gloves in slow, deliberate motions. Wall. Traitor-brother turned lionheart. His smirk doesn't reach his eyes today. Not with Regulus across the field.

Nadine stands next to him—tight-lipped, pulse steady, jaw clenched. She doesn't acknowledge Amycus's glare, but her gut warns her.

Marlene bounces lightly on her heels, eyes bright with fire, while Fabian and Gideon share a nod, their grins sharpening in unison, as Phoebe keeps her eyes at Regulus.

The whistle blows.

They explode into the sky like cannonfire.

The first five minutes are a blur of motion, sound, and sheer will.

Slytherin is a storm. Ruthless. Fast. Every pass Seraphina makes is a dagger, slicing through air with impossible control. She moves like she has war in her blood—swift, lethal, and untouchable.

James blocks her once, then twice, but the third time she fakes left and curves the Quaffle right past him to Avery, who scores before Sirius even sees it coming.

Gryffindor retaliates like fire set loose.

James rockets through the air with a kind of joyful ferocity, weaving through Slytherin's formation like a comet. He passes to Nadine, who loops past Amycus and nearly brushing brooms with Seraphina—only pulling back at the last second to whip the Quaffle straight into the far hoop. Sirius whoops behind her. One-one.

High above them all, Regulus hovers like a ghost, eyes tracking the pitch, unmoving. Waiting. Calculating. He isn't hunting the Snitch yet.

Below, the Bludgers scream through the air like curses. Evan sends one screaming toward Gideon, who dodges it with a hair's breath to spare. Avery is targeting Nadine like a cursed bloodhound. His bat arces toward her back as she banks left.

"WATCH IT!" Sirius roars.

Fabian dives between them just in time, taking the hit with a brutal crunch that sends him spinning through the air. He rights himself—barely—and flips Avery off with both hands.

The match turns violent. Fast.

The Quaffle changes possession in seconds. James and Seraphina collide midair once, neither backing down, both refusing to lose altitude—or attitude. She elbows him hard in the ribs in retaliation to his collision. He laughs while rubbing his rib.

"You hit like a Hufflepuff."

"You fly and look like a troll." she shoots back, shoving past him.

Regulus dips lower. Sees the flicker of gold. Brief. Vanished. He doesn't chase. Not yet.

Gryffindor pulls ahead with a brutal goal from Marlene, who corkscrews through two Slytherins and launches the ball in mid-roll. The stands erupt.

Slytherin responds in kind. Evan takes James's attacks on Seraphina personally and slams a Bludger directly into Gideon's shoulder—bone cracks, but Gideon refuses to leave the field. Seraphina takes advantage of it, darts through the gap, and lands another point.

Every pass from her hand is pain. Her broom dips and spins with control, hair whipping in the wind, a silhouette moving like an avenging wraith.

James is the only one who can match her tempo. They collide again. And again. Their rivalry is its own kind of dance—deadly, elegant, unyielding. Sirius, however, still exercises some sort of civility, warning James to play a little cleaner.

Fabian aims a Bludger at Avery in an attempt to incapacitate him from blocking Nadine, but Avery dodges it in the last split-second.

Meanwhile, Amycus is spiraling into madness. His attacks on Nadine grow desperate, vicious. He isn't playing anymore—he is hunting. Nadine turns sharply, avoiding one swing by inches. He misses.

"You'll have to try harder." she spits.

"Don't tempt me, blood traitor filth." Amycus growls and grins.

Seraphina hears it. Freezes.

In the next second, she rockets across the pitch, slams the Quaffle into Amycus's hands, as she snarls, "Try that again and I'll break your jaw."

Even James pauses mid-pass.

Amycus doubles over, smiles but doesn't respond.

Regulus doesn't intervene. He just turns slightly—watching Seraphina with an unreadable expression before his head snaps toward the west end of the pitch.

The Snitch.

It flashes again—barely visible, but there.

And then Regulus moves.

He shoots like a bullet, wind slicing past him, robes snapping behind. The stadium roars. James curses. Phoebe chases, but he is already too far ahead. Regulus knows that pitch.

The match is reaching a fever pitch.

The score is near even, players bloodied, bruised, but unrelenting. Every breath is a gamble. Every second is war.

Nadine dives low, wind howling in her ears as she shoots beneath the chaos, chasing down a rogue Quaffle slipping past the Gryffindor line. Her eyes lock onto it. She is seconds away from intercepting.

Amycus sees her. His smile is of a crazed lunatic bordering on the one from a psychopathic break.

He takes the bat from Avery. And swings.

With everything he has.

The Bludger launches like a cannonball, shrieking through the air with murderous precision. It strikes her square in the gut—hard—the crack of bone echoing loud.

Her scream is cut short as the wind is blasted from her lungs. The Quaffle tumbles from her hands.

And then—she falls.

She slips from her broom like a ragdoll, twisting midair as the shock overtakes her. She is unconscious before she hits the ground.

Gasps tear through the stands. Gryffindor teammates are screaming. James is already spiraling down. Sirius launches from his post, fury carved into every line of his face. Gasps tear through the stands like thunder, but the game doesn't stop. The whistle hasn't blown.

And for a split second—one horrible, paralyzing second—Gryffindor hesitates.

Rush to help her, or keep playing.

If they dive—if they leave their posts—they give the field to Slytherin. They will lose the match. Let Regulus slip through their fingers. Let Seraphina and Lucinda cut through the line like a blade.

But it seems like Nadine isn't moving.

And she is one of theirs.

The Prewetts exchange a split-second look—equal panic and restraint.

Marlene's knuckles go white around her broom.

Even the Slytherin stands fall silent.

When Nadine hit the ground, unmoving, the noise of the match seemed to drop out entirely.

Injuries are common—however she hasn't moved. Everyone is waiting for a whistle.

Cassiopeia shoots up from her seat, face stricken. "Nadine!" she screams, already bolting from the stands, shoving past stunned students in a panic, and so does their entire friend group. Barty's face is twisted in anger, he says nothing, his expression ruthless.

Seraphina sees it all.

She hovers like death in midair, her chest heaving, eyes locked on Nadine's crumpled form below.

Something dark unfurls in her chest.

Her face twists into something unrecognizable—wild, cold, and burning all at once.

Just raw, undiluted rage with adrenaline.

Regulus knows. Evan knows. Even Avery knows. They are waiting on a time bomb.

Her stare is fixed on Amycus, wild and murderous.

Whatever it is that she intends to do, it won't be clean. Not that it will be out of the norm for the Quidditch match between these two teams, both playing dirty and violently.

Her vision tunnels on Amycus, eyes and speed of a predator, her pulse thundering in her ears, drowning out the noise. It is a matter of seconds before the whistle.

The Gryffindor crowd is howling. Booing. Screaming for a red card. Even McGonagall looks shaken—her lips pressed into a white line, eyes flashing. Slughorn's face is appalled.

Regulus doesn't say a word.

He hovers above the chaos, still, silent, and unreadable, disappointment palpable. The muscle ticking in his jaw gives him away. This isn't the strategy.

His calculations, however, take no time. While others are frozen, he moves, eyes locked onto the Snitch.

Every second he draws closer. Closer. A breath away. Rushing against the few seconds it takes for the Quidditch Professor to halt the match.

He reaches.

The Snitch disappears behind a banner. He follows it in a sharp dive, almost vertical. No hesitation.

One second. Two.

The Snitch shimmers in front of him and he catches it.

The whistle blows. The match ends.

Silence.

Then the Slytherin stands erupt.

Regulus doesn't lift the Snitch in triumph. He simply holds it, silent, breath steady, eyes unmoved.

The teams start dismounting.

Seraphina doesn't give warning.

Her broom shoots forward like a missile, and she slams into Amycus like a bullet, with the full force of her weight and rage. He barely has time to register her before the impact—shoulder to chest, her elbow clocking into his jaw, her broom slicing across his like a blade. She nearly attempts hurling her knee at his gut, if they haven't struggled for balance.

Broom to broom, he holds onto her for the sake of both of them. To Seraphina's surprise, he allows it. He is well aware he crossed a line.

Amycus, blood still trickling from one nostril, has the audacity to smirk.

His voice is low, smug, and entirely unbothered.

"Y'know," he drawls, "you're hot when you're mad. We could do this more often if you'd like."

Seraphina freezes—not in shock, but in the kind of disgusted fury that burns hotter than anything else. She releases him, shoving him off from her.

Gryffindor hits the ground hard. James lands and rips his gloves off, jaw clenched, fury restrained by inches. Sirius says nothing, but his eyes follow Regulus across the sky the entire way down.

Nadine lays unconscious on the grass, limbs twisted unnaturally from the fall. Her red and gold robes are streaked with dirt, her broom splintered beside her. Cassiopeia is the first to arrive and kneel by her side, trembling, trying to wake her with a shaking voice. No response.

Gryffindors gather first—James shouting orders, Sirius hovering protectively, Marlene and Phoebe crouched by Nadine's side with panic in their eyes. The Prewetts pace like caged wolves, glancing between Amycus and the professors as if daring someone to say the wrong thing.

Slytherins are slower, more cautious—Avery and Regulus land quietly, still gripping the Snitch, watching it all with a cold, unreadable gaze. Lucinda looks shaken. Evan is tense. Amycus stands off to the side, jaw set, blood crusting under his nose, smirking until McGonagall turns on him with fire in her eyes.

Professors storm the field—robes flying, spells out, Madam Pomfrey already kneeling beside Nadine. Shouts overlap—commands, questions, panic. Brooms are scattered across the grass.

And in the center of it all, Seraphina kneels beside her best friend, unmoving. Her hands are still trembling.

"Back now, Carrow." McGonagall snaps.

Players from both sides stand frozen.

"She's breathing." Barty whispers, choking on it. "But she's out."

Seraphina doesn't speak. She just takes Nadine's hand.

As soon as Nadine is lifted onto the stretcher, the tension snaps.

James lunges first—rage in his eyes, fists clenched, storming toward Amycus with Sirius right behind him. The Prewetts flank them, jaws tight.

Amycus barely has time to sneer before the Slytherin line forms. Evan moves fast, stepping in front of him with his bat still gripped tight. Avery and Lucinda flank him, tense and silent. Regulus doesn't speak, but the look he gives James is ice-cold: try it.

Wands twitch. Brooms drop. Insults are spat—sharp, ugly, and full of fury.

Only the professors between them stop it from erupting into a full-blown brawl. But barely.

It isn't that the Slytherin team necessarily want to defend Amycus's actions, however they are firm on shutting down any further attempts of violence.

Regulus doesn't wait for the fallout.

The moment the whistle blows and the Snitch is secured, he assesses the situation—Nadine unconscious, Gryffindors seeking violence, Seraphina's post-game foul requiring investigation.

He moves immediately.

"Form." he snaps, voice low but razor-sharp.

Evan stops glaring long enough to obey. Avery and Steve hesitate, then follow. Lucinda glances once at the stretcher, face pale, before falling into line. Even Amycus, bloodied and dazed, falls back under Regulus's stare.

No dramatics. No argument.

"Now." Regulus orders, voice quieter but somehow more commanding.

He turns and strides toward the exit gate, not looking back.

The Slytherin team follow him without question—cold, composed, and eerily silent.

The Slytherin locker room is thick with steam and tension.

Regulus stands in front, already changed out of his gear, his robes sharp and spotless as if the match had never happened. The meeting will be brief and harsh.

The rest of the team trickles in, changing in tight silence. Evan throws his bat down a little too hard. Lucinda still looks pale. Avery avoids eye contact. Amycus sits in the corner, dabbing his busted lip with a towel and smirking to himself like none of it matters.

It does.

"Meeting. Now." Regulus says flatly, once the last locker slams shut.

No one argues.

They form a rough circle in the center of the room, the only sound the dripping of water and the soft hum from the lanterns overhead.

"We won." Regulus says, voice even. "But that fight was a disgrace."

Amycus scoffs.

Regulus's eyes cut to him, cold and precise. "Don't."

Amycus leans back against the bench, still smug. "She cracked. That's not on me."

"She wouldn't have cracked if you hadn't crossed the line." Evan mutters. "What is actually wrong with you?"

"She was always going to crack." Amycus snaps back. "She's a Snape. You just had to give her the right reason."

"That right reason is in the hospital wing." Lucinda says, voice quiet but sharp, holding a hand peacefully to Evan in a calming motion, "This was not a move for clean games."

"Incidents happen." Amycus shrugs. "We hit Quaffles and Bludgers, as far as the game goes, I'm innocent." he nonchalantly adds. "They can't prove malice and you all know it."

Regulus doesn't raise his voice.

"We are Slytherins." he says. "We do not lose control. And we don't make mistakes that drag the rest of the team down. Despicable behaviour."

"Crouch had it coming. Her brother would do well to remember that before the inevitable crack of his own." Amycus stands up, smiles, throwing the towel into the bin.

"This isn't over." Regulus adds. "There will be questions. Scrutiny. Possibly hearings. Until then, you keep your mouths shut and your heads down. Exhausting bunch of imbeciles." he hisses.

He turns toward the door. "Carrow, you are benched." he says without looking back. "No one gets in the way of the win. Not even our own."

And with that, he leaves the rest of the team in tense, uneasy silence.

Chapter Text

Seraphina accompanied Madam Pomfrey and the rest of their group to check on Nadine. They carefully lay her on one of the beds, and Madam Pomfrey immediately sets to work, using healing spells and potions with urgency. Cassiopeia, flipping through her Potions book in a desperate search, can't find anything that can help fast enough.

Seraphina stands silently, her gaze locked on Nadine. Despite the fury boiling within her, she forces herself to stay calm, to focus on the healing rather than the rage. Barty remains eerily quiet, his hand gripping Nadine's tightly. He refuses to let anyone near her except Seraphina and Cassiopeia.

Severus sweeps into the room, and hands Madam Pomfrey a box containing vials of a strange liquids. "Professor Slughorn's early batch." he says, his voice low. "The rest will be done in a few days."

Pomfrey sighs in relief, taking the vials and mixing one into a potion for Nadine. "Thank goodness. Essence of Dittany won't do much for her ribs in this state." she mutters, almost to herself, her face lined with concern but moving quickly.

Severus observes Nadine for a moment, his expression unreadable. It isn't that he is unused to seeing injuries—he had seen his fair share—but this time is different. Nadine isn't just any student; she is Seraphina's friend, and that makes it personal.

The silence in the room thickens as Severus looks around. "Too many people are crowding. As an Assistant, I suggest you allow Madam Pomfrey to work without interruption. She will be here for a while."

His command breaks the tension, and Seraphina, Cassiopeia, and Barty reluctantly move away, though they can't help but steal glances at Nadine as they do. Barty's face is still pale, and Seraphina knows he is in shock. Evan is on his way to him, but it isn't enough to shake the unease.

"I'll wait outside, Sev." Seraphina murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. Severus gives her a curt nod.

As they leave, Madam Pomfrey and Severus work in tandem, efficiently administering the needed potions. Severus's eyes flicker back to Nadine more than once.

For the first time, his gaze isn't filled with cynicism or annoyance—it is something close to pity. Maybe it is because of Seraphina. Maybe it is because, despite their differences, Nadine always seemed innocent, despite his original concern.

She is fiery, stubborn, but there is something pure about her, something Severus only now allows himself to notice. Seeing her like this—injured and vulnerable—unsettles him ever-so-slightly. He can't understand why. Maybe it is because he knows just how brutal Amycus's attack had been, and how big of a falling out this can cause.

His thoughts, however, are interrupted before he can analyze them further.

His attention shifts, but he keeps working with Madam Pomfrey in silence, with her occasionally exclaiming how she hates Quidditch.

Half an hour later, Severus steps out of the hospital wing, pulling Seraphina away from the crowd. He grabs her face gently, inspecting it with a calm, calculating gaze. Seraphina exhales, her tension barely contained. He mumbles a spell for a cut on her arm.

"We need to talk." he whispers, his voice low. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, Sev. He just—there's something wrong with him. He's psychotic. Sadistic." Seraphina whispers back, taking a few steps back with him, away from the others. Severus nods, his expression unreadable. Seraphina expected him to dismiss her thoughts, to tell her she is overreacting, but instead, he agrees. That unsettles her more than anything.

"I need you to listen to me very carefully, Seraphina." Severus's voice is sharp, commanding as he hands her another potion and a Bruise Balm, which she eagerly applies to the bruises from James and Amycus. "These people aren't what you think they are. I need you to be smart and stand down—for safety."

Seraphina's brow furrow in confusion. "He aimed it at her, Severus. She did nothing wrong. The game had been clean until then. This isn't about Quidditch anymore, it's about your demonic friends."

Severus's eyes darken, but he remains composed. "If you trust me, you'll listen and stand down. I'm not saying you're wrong, but have you wondered why he didn't hit you back?"

She blinks. No, she hasn't thought about that. "You aren't telling me he's afraid of you, are you?" she asks, trying to lighten the mood, but her smile doesn't reach her eyes.

Severus gives her a knowing look, one that sends a chill down her spine. "No, not of me." he begins. "There's more to this."

They stand in silence for a moment as Severus continues to examine her, his gaze sharp and calculating. "Keep your composure. It will do us better than this." he says softly, his tone uncharacteristically gentle.

Seraphina offers a small smile, nudging him lightly. "If it had been you, I would've done the same."

Severus raises an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "You will be summoned by Slughorn, Black, and you might expect a potential detention or loss of points." he explains, his voice cool and controlled as always.

"I'm okay." she reassures him, her smile fading as she wraps her arms around him in a quick, comforting hug. Then, with a determined breath, she pulls away and turns to leave.

"One more thing." she says, pausing at the door. "Please let me know if she wakes up while you two are helping."

Severus nods, his eyes softening just a fraction. "I will."

And with that, Seraphina leaves the room, her mind still swirling with thoughts of the match and the aftermath, but her composure intact, as her brother advised.

Nadine blinks awake to a muted, sterile light filtering through the white curtains of the hospital wing. Her whole body aches, a dull and thudding pain blooming in her side as she tries to shift. Her breath hitches, sharp and short, and her fingers instinctively curl around the blanket covering her. The air smells of bitter potions and starched linens. For a moment, she can't place where she is—then the pain in her ribs reminds her. Her broom. The match. Am—

She winces, trying to sit up, but an immediate surge of pain steals her breath. "Ow—bloody—" Her voice is hoarse.

Immediately, there is movement—shuffling, gasping.

"Nadine!" Cassiopeia exhales, wide-eyed, and grabs her wrist gently, as if to anchor her back to the present.

Seraphina is already hovering over the bed, her eyes glassy but fierce. "Don't move. You're okay—you're okay."

Barty, seated directly beside her bed with his arms crossed tightly across his chest, lets out a shaky breath. "Finally." he mutters, his voice clipped, controlled—but his jaw is tight and his eyes are red at the corners. "You scared the bloody hell out of me."

Evan is standing near the foot of the bed, arms loosely folded but clearly tense. "About time you woke up, sunshine." he says lightly, though concern still pulls at his voice. "You look like hell."

Pandora steps forward, placing a cup of water on the side table. "Don't listen to him. You look beautiful, even bruised."

Bill gives a small laugh from behind them, eyes flicking to her ribs, then to her face. "She's alive, that's all that matters."

Brownie, curled up at the foot of her bed on top of the blanket, lifts her head and pads slowly up to Nadine's chest, golden eyes locked on hers. The small weight and warmth of her presence makes Nadine's throat tighten.

"What...?" she rasps, looking around slowly. "What happened? I remember the Quaffle and then..." Her brow furrows, her eyes trying to find Barty's. "Did we win?"

Seraphina scoffs and gently adjusts the pillow behind her. "Forget the damn match, Nadine. Amycus hit you with a Bludger—hard—sent you right off your broom. You were barely ten feet off the ground, but you landed wrong."

Cassiopeia nods tightly. "Broke two ribs. Madam Pomfrey fixed most of it, but you were unconscious for a day."

Nadine's face scrunches. "Are you serious?"

"Oh, I'm serious." Seraphina says darkly, folding her arms. "I might've had a... moment with him afterward."

Pandora sighs. "She punched him."

"Twice." Barty adds dryly.

"Hexed his broom, too." Evan says with a smirk. "He was seeing stars before Pomfrey even reached you."

"I told you not to worry about the match," Seraphina adds firmly. "We handled it."

Nadine lets out a faint laugh and then winces, her arm clutching her side. "Remind me not to piss you off."

Barty shifts forward, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead in an uncharacteristically soft motion. "You scared me, Nad. Don't do that again."

"I wasn't exactly trying." she says weakly, giving him a faint smile. "I'm okay, Tem."

He doesn't smile back, but he nods once. "Good."

Before anyone can speak again, the door creaks open, and the tension in the room shifts instantly.

Professor McGonagall steps in first, her robes snapping with each step, her expression taut with worry and authority. "Miss Crouch."

Mother rushes through the doors, and her heels click against the stone floor with barely restrained urgency. She doesn't hesitate—doesn't stop to speak to Madam Pomfrey. Her sharp eyes land on Nadine instantly, and something in her face crumples. She gasps softly, striding past the others who quickly part to make room.

"Oh, Nadine." Her voice catches.

She glides forward, falling to her knees beside the bed, hands moving to gently frame Nadine's face, brushing the hair from her forehead, then ghosting down her arms as if to check for invisible injuries. Her touch is elegant but frantic—desperate in its precision.

McGonagall gently clears her throat. "We'll give you a moment."

"Let's go." Evan mutters to the others, gently ushering them out. Seraphina squeezes Nadine's hand before leaving, and Cassiopeia trails close behind, tears still wet in her eyes. Bill and Pandora follow. Brownie hesitates a moment before jumping off the bed and sitting by the door, keeping a close watch.

Barty doesn't move from the chair beside the bed, arms crossed and jaw clenched tight. He watches Mother with a mixture of guilt and irritation, his eyes flicking toward Nadine as if to silently say, Brace yourself.

Mother is all silk gloves and perfume, warm hands and expensive worry. "How did this happen?" she breathes. "Why wasn't I told? Why didn't the University send for me sooner?" Her voice rises slightly with each word.

"You were in Brussels for the diplomatic conference." Barty says flatly.

"I would have left in a heartbeat!" she snaps, then catches herself. Her eyes return to Nadine, shimmering now. "You're my daughter. My baby girl. You could've been killed."

"I'm not dead, Mum." Nadine murmurs. Her voice is dry, distant.

Barty shifts beside her but doesn't speak. He is stiff, like he is trying not to explode or sigh.

Mother takes Nadine's hand in both of hers, stroking it carefully. "What happened, darling? Who did this to you? I'll speak to the Headmaster myself. There will be consequences."

"It was just a match." Nadine says softly, her voice growing more tired. "An accident."

"Don't you dare brush this off." Mother says sharply. "You were unconscious, Nadine. Barty wrote to me in the middle of the night. Do you know how terrified I was when I stepped off that portkey and he said it was you?"

Nadine's jaw clenches. She doesn't look at Mother, instead choosing to watch the shadows of the lanterns play against the wall. Brownie hops softly back onto the bed and curls beside her shoulder. Nadine finds her comfort in the warmth of her cat—not in Mother's voice.

"Where's Father?" she asks suddenly. Her voice is quiet, careful. Too careful.

Mother goes still.

Barty straightens slowly in his chair, glaring at the wall now like it is the only thing keeping him from cursing.

"He's... he's very busy, darling. With the negotiations." Mother answers after a beat, brushing a hair from Nadine's temple again. "You know how much pressure he's under right now. He can't just—he's on the brink of becoming Minister."

Nadine lets out a small breath, almost a laugh, but there is no humor in it. She finally meets Mother's eyes.

"So?" she says, eyes narrowing. "I could've died, and it still wasn't worth his time?"

Mother's face freezes for a moment. She opens her mouth but closes it again, searching for the right lie, the softest phrasing.

"Don't do that." Nadine says coldly, yanking her hand away. "Don't cover for him. Don't act like it's reasonable that I almost died and he still didn't show up."

Barty's fingers curl tightly on the armrest. "He was never going to come." he mutters under his breath. "We both knew that."

Mother draws in a shaky breath and straightens slightly, folding her hands in her lap, lips tight.

"He's handling delicate matters with the Wizengamot." she tries again, voice clipped. "He's protecting this family. You know how much work he's done to keep the Crouch name—"

"Clean?" Nadine interrupts, bitter. "Flawless? Cold and distant and perfect?"

She turns her face away now, pain swelling—not just in her ribs, but deeper, rooted in her chest.

"I just wanted him to care."

Barty exhales sharply and leans forward, his voice low. "He doesn't. He hasn't, not really. Not for years." His tone isn't cruel—it is honest, and that honesty wounds them both.

Mother's lip trembles, but she forces her spine straight. "You don't understand what's at stake for him. For all of us. You're his children—he does what he does to ensure you have power, influence—"

"I don't want his power." Nadine snaps, eyes shining. "I wanted a Dad, Mum. I wanted him to show up. Just once."

Silence stretches between them.

Brownie presses against her shoulder comfortingly, and Nadine leans into the warmth.

Mother looks down at her lap, her fingers twisting the hem of her sleeve. Her voice drops, softer now. "I came the second I could."

"I know." Nadine says after a long moment, but her tone is distant. Not angry—but not forgiving either. "But you always come alone."

That lands. Mother blinks hard and looks away, her throat tightening visibly.

"I love you." she says, firm again. Desperate to reclaim some connection. "I always will."

"I know." Nadine repeats, but the words hang strangely. Hollowed out.

She doesn't mean to push Mother away completely—but the gap is there, and tonight, she is too exhausted to pretend it isn't.

Barty sits silently at her side, unmoving, unreadable. But when Nadine's breath shudders slightly as she closes her eyes again, he reaches out and wraps his hand gently around hers. Their bond doesn't need words.

Mother slowly stands, smoothing her skirt. Her expression is unreadable.

"I'll return in the morning." she says quietly. "Sleep. Please."

She brushes one last kiss against Nadine's temple and leaves without another word.

The room is still again.

Only the sound of Nadine's soft breathing, the bubbling potion vials in the distance, and Brownie's steady purr remain.

Barty speaks first. "I'll hex Carrow myself if you want."

Nadine exhales, eyes still closed. "Thanks, Tem."

After a pause, he adds, "I hate that it was just Mum again."

"Me too."

Chapter Text

The hospital wing remains dim and quiet, the flicker of lanterns casting golden light across the tall windows and sterile linens. Barty still sits by her bedside, unmoving except for the gentle rise and fall of his chest. He hasn't left once.

Nadine lies stiffly against the pillows, her body aching in a dozen different ways. Her side throbs with each breath, a dull, biting pain that radiates from just beneath her ribs and makes it hard to move—even the pressure of the sheets feels like too much at times. Every inhale sends a reminder of the moment everything went dark.

Her head is foggy, and her limbs feel heavy, but her heart swells with something warmer, steadier, when the doors open again.

Cassiopeia sweeps in first, curls bouncing around her shoulders, her expression determined and a little strained. She carries two small bags in her hands—one looks charmed to stay warm—and her wand is tucked behind her ear like she means business.

Behind her is Evan, quiet as ever, but his face softens when he sees Nadine. In his hands is a bouquet—not wildflowers or dramatic roses, but a thoughtful arrangement of pale yellow lilies, deep blue cornflowers, and small white hellebores, wrapped in parchment and tied with a red ribbon.

Cassiopeia rushes to Nadine's side. "I told you not to die." she says, voice sharp with affection, eyes bright. "You're so dramatic."

Nadine laughs—then winces, clutching her side. "Don't make me laugh. It hurts everywhere."

Evan places the bouquet on the bedside table, careful not to crowd the space. "They reminded me of you." he murmurs. "Bit of a mess, but a nice one."

"Rose." Nadine whispers, touched. "They're beautiful. Thank you."

Cassiopeia sits on the edge of the bed and rummages through one of the bags. "We brought food from the kitchens. Not the bland Pomfrey-approved stuff—real food. Warmed and warded. And some sweets from Hogsmeade."

"I also found that stupid book you wanted to read." Evan says, pulling a leather-bound notebook from his cloak.

Nadine's eyes mist slightly. Her heart squeezes at the sight of them—showing up not with pity, but with familiarity, with care, with warmth.

"You didn't have to bring all this." she murmurs, voice thick.

Cassiopeia gives her a look. "Obviously we did. We'd be horrible friends if we didn't."

Nadine smiles. "Still. You should go rest. You don't need to fuss over me."

"We're not fussing." Evan says simply. "We're just here."

Barty finally speaks from his seat, arms still crossed. "And in case it helps—we've been told the professors are dealing with Amycus directly. Whatever punishment comes, it'll be serious."

"And I'll make sure Alecto doesn't even breathe in your direction." he adds, eyes darkening. "You won't have to lift a finger. I'll be her shadow if I have to."

Nadine looks at him, then at Cassiopeia and Evan. Her eyes well again, but she doesn't let the tears fall. "I don't deserve you lot."

"Yes, you do." Cassiopeia says fiercely. "You'd be here in a heartbeat if it were one of us."

"We'll be back tomorrow." Evan says quietly, taking a step back. "Get some sleep."

Cassiopeia stands too, reluctantly. "Don't you dare die in your sleep. I'll hex you back to life."

They all leave with slow steps and quiet looks, Barty being the last to pause at the door. He gives her a short nod, one only she understands—it means 'I'm here'. Then he follows the others out.

The room is quiet again.

Madam Pomfrey appears shortly after, her brisk footsteps echoing off the stone. Her wand is already drawn, her expression focused.

"How's the pain, Miss Crouch?" she asks gently, placing a tray of salves and vials on the small table beside the bed.

"Manageable." Nadine lies, though she flinches slightly as she shifts.

Pomfrey hums skeptically. "We'll take a look now."

She lifts the blanket and folds it neatly at Nadine's waist. With gentle hands, she unfastens the front of her uniform shirt and carefully lifts the fabric, revealing the angry bruising along Nadine's side.

The skin is mottled with deep purples, dark blues, and faint shades of yellow along the edges. The imprint of the Bludger is still visible, and just beneath her ribs, swelling distorts the natural curve of her torso. A few shallow cuts mark her hip and lower back—likely from the fall.

Nadine bites down on the inside of her cheek. The air feels cold against her skin.

Pomfrey runs her wand slowly over the bruised area, muttering spells under her breath. The tip glows red, then fades into a soft white light.

"Two fractured ribs, possibly a hairline crack in a third." she says quietly. "Soft tissue damage and minor internal bruising. Not the worst I've seen, but painful, I know."

Nadine exhales shakily. "Feels like I got trampled by a hippogriff."

The matron offers a faint smile. "We'll start with a numbing salve and pain relief. The bones will take few hours to begin knitting fully with aid, but you'll still need rest. You'll be sore for a week."

She pours a thick amber salve into her hands and warms it with a charm before gently massaging it into the bruised skin. Nadine hisses and grips the sheets.

"I know, dear. Just breathe. This will help with the inflammation."

Once the salve is spread, Pomfrey carefully wraps a supportive band around Nadine's ribs with a flick of her wand. It tightens gently, holding her steady.

"You'll sleep better tonight." Pomfrey says softly. "And you're not allowed to leave this wing until I say so."

Nadine nods faintly. The ache is still there, but something about the coolness of the salve and the firm embrace of the band eases the sharpest pain. Her limbs feel heavier now, but calmer.

Pomfrey adjusts her pillows, tucks the blankets around her, and dims the lanterns slightly.

"I'll be nearby if you need anything."

When the nurse disappears behind the curtains, Nadine is alone again.

She lies back slowly, breath shallow, staring up at the ceiling. Her ribs pulse with every heartbeat, but it is nothing compared to the weight in her chest.

Still, somewhere between pain and exhaustion, she feels gratitude. She isn't alone.

Even when Father doesn't show, even when the world leaves bruises under her skin—her people come.

And that is enough.

She lies half-upright in bed, beneath the layers of spell-softened bandages and faintly glowing salves that Madam Pomfrey insists must be reapplied three times a day.

Each breath is still a careful act. A shallow inhale keeps the stabbing pain at bay; anything deeper and it feels like something inside her cracks all over again. Bruises paint the side of her torso in bruised violets and sickly greens, slowly fading with time and treatment, but not fast enough for her restless mind. The worst of it isn't even the pain—it is the stillness. The waiting.

She keeps herself busy with what she can manage: mostly reading, her books propped on a stand over her lap, and scribbling notes at odd angles on parchment when her muscles allow. Her hand cramps faster now when writing. But she persists. She has to.

The visits are her lifeline.

Bill comes first that morning—his entrance all quiet smiles and warmth as he steps through the doors with a well-worn satchel over his shoulder and a bundle of notes clutched in one freckled hand. His hair is tied back loosely, red strands catching the morning light, and he walks confidently.

"I figured you wouldn't want to fall behind." he says, placing the stack on her bedside table with a wink. "I copied everything from Defense, Transfiguration, and Potions. Even Binns' droning, Merlin help me."

Nadine gives him a grateful look. "You're a saint, Weasley."

He pulls something else from his bag—a small box wrapped in navy-blue paper that shimmers faintly, topped with a red wax seal shaped like a phoenix. "Recovery gift." he says simply, setting it beside her. "Open it later. Something to keep you entertained when you're sick of staring at ceiling tiles."

She thanks him, meaning it deeply, and watches as he ruffles her hair with brotherly ease before promising to come by again.

Later, Emily arrives with a soft knock—hands full of carefully organized notes for their specialization classes. She is brisk, efficient, and her brows knit with concern as she hands over her work.

"You don't have to rush to catch up." she insists, laying out the parchment beside Nadine's open book. "But I know you. You'd worry either way."

Nadine smiles faintly, touched beyond words. "Thank you, Em."

Emily hesitates for a second, then places a tiny lavender bag on the edge of Nadine's bed. "Let me know if you need anything."

Cassiopeia, Evan, and Pandora come whenever they can, slipping in after lessons or before meals, their faces half-wreathed in scarves, their presence bringing with it the scent of fresh air, parchment, and peppermint.

They don't always talk about what happened. Sometimes, they just sit beside her, Cassiopeia humming softly while fixing her hair, Evan bringing gossip and sweet things swiped from the kitchens, Pandora gently carding her fingers through Nadine's if she looks like she is in pain.

And Barty—he visits the most.

He rarely announces himself. She usually just looks up and finds him there, long legs sprawled in the chair beside her bed, brows drawn tightly together as he reads through a folded page of notes or stares at the half-empty potion vial on her table.

He is less brotherly, more vigilant—asking pointed questions about how she is feeling, whether she is still hurting, if Pomfrey has done anything different. His jaw clenches every time the bruises are mentioned.

"I talked to McGonagall." he says during one visit, voice low and clipped. "Amycus won't be near you again. And Alecto—" his eyes darken, "—if she even tries—"

"I'll hex her before you can." Nadine says wryly, and Barty lets out a short, humorless breath.

He stays even when she pretends to sleep, pacing sometimes, keeping his presence between her and the door like some kind of silent sentry.

Mother comes as well, like she had said.

She arrives cloaked in frost and concern, her usually pristine composure fraying at the edges. Her gloved hands clutch a paper bag full of comfort items—her favorite wool blanket from home, a small jar of sugared almonds, a new book with a velvet bookmark. She stands beside Nadine's bed for too long, brushing back strands of hair and fussing over how pale she looks, how tired.

"You should be at home." Mother says softly. "Resting properly. If it were up to me—"

"Mum, I'm fine." Nadine says, gently pulling her hand away. "Madam Pomfrey has it under control. Really."

Mother hesitates, clearly torn, before finally sighing. "Your father's terribly busy. He asked after you, but the Wizengamot has been meeting near-nightly and he's dealing with Carrows."

Nadine just nods, the words slipping past her like cold water over stone. Of course he isn't here.

When Mother finally leaves, convinced by Nadine's insistence that she is healing well and surrounded by support, Barty stays. He lingers longer, but says nothing.

Later that evening, with the sky outside turning a bruised purple, Nadine lies back against her pillows, the gifted blanket tucked around her and Bill's paperweight glowing softly on her side table. She flips a page in her book with slow fingers, trying to focus on the words instead of the stubborn ache in her side and the sour weight in her chest.

She thinks of the festival.

She thinks of Severus—of his silence, his distance. He hasn't visited. Of course he hasn't. And she doesn't even know if she wants him to. Or if she is just disappointed that she doesn't matter enough for him to show.

Everything feels too loud inside her mind, too still around her body. And yet she keeps reading, tracing each word, letting the simple rhythm of comprehension anchor her.

She will heal. She always does. But some things—some things ache deeper.

Seraphina stands in front of Professor Slughorn's office door a moment longer than necessary.
Behind the heavy oak door, the soft clink of glass and low hum of equipment buzzes faintly—Slughorn, likely preparing one of his evening brews. She exhales.

It isn't the punishment that bothers her. She isn't proud of her outburst, no—but she will do it again if Amycus dares. Maybe that is the most troubling thing of all: how far they are willing to go.

Straightening her posture, she knocks.

"Come in, come in!" comes Slughorn's familiar, booming voice.

The scent of cinnamon, firewood, and something metallic greets her as she steps in. His office, as always, is warm and cluttered—mismatched chairs, softly glowing lamps, and shelves brimming with crystal vials and photographs of past students in illustrious careers.

"Ah, Miss Snape." Slughorn says with a smile, though more subdued than usual. "I was hoping you'd come by sooner rather than later. Sit, sit. Have a drink!"

He pours her pumpkin juice and offers it with a friendly nod. She accepts politely and steps further inside, her uniform slightly disheveled—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, faint bruises masked beneath layers of Bruise Balm. She doesn't sit right away.

"Hello, Professor. Good to see you." she says, calm and polite.

"Seraphina Snape." he beams, "I was delighted when I heard you'd be joining us. Quite the legacy—your mother, your brother... I always say, brilliance runs in the bloodline. Though I confess"—he chuckles as a splash of pumpkin juice hits his desk—"I didn't expect to be discussing detentions with another Snape so soon."

She smiles faintly, then sits. "The match, I assume?"

"Yes... and no." He leans back, folding his hands. "You've caused a bit of a stir. Some of the staff weren't pleased."

She tilts her head. "Neither was I, when Amycus Carrow shattered Nadine's ribs mid-play." Her voice is even, but firm.

Slughorn sighs. "Of course, I don't condone what Carrow did. But lunging at him mid-air... it's dangerous. Sets a precedent for chaos."

"And watching someone hurt my friend is... better?" Her arms cross slowly.

"You should've trusted the staff to act."

"I did. And I watched what happened while we waited." Her jaw tenses. "Severus was told the same about Potter and Black, I vaguely remember."

He studies her, then sighs again—less stern now. "You're your mother's daughter, no doubt. Brilliant, bold... terrifying when riled."

Seraphina looks away, unreadable.

"There'll be a formal warning, perhaps a detention." he continues gently. "But nothing worse."

"And Carrow?"

"That's being... discussed. He's a protected name, I'm afraid." He gives her a look of quiet apology.

She scoffs under her breath. "Of course."

"But," he adds quickly, voice lifting, "your flying was superb. And your Potions work this term—exemplary!" His tone warms again, proud as if he is her grandfather. "And your brother—a marvelous young man."

"I'm proud of him." she says, nodding.

"As I am." he smiles. "As a professor, I hate doling out punishment. But bravery—especially when tied to loyalty—is not lost on me. Keep your head low—for now. Great things lie ahead for both of you."

Seraphina rises. "Thank you, sir. And... I'm sorry for the trouble."

"Oh, don't worry, my dear." he chuckles, waving her off. "Even the best of us land in trouble now and then."

She turns to leave, but pauses at the door.

"Professor?"

"Yes?"

"If something like that happens again..."

He doesn't smile this time. Just nods solemnly. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

She leaves—composed, steady, and quietly surprised.

Her mind lingers, struggling to digest the recent events. But it keeps coming back to Nadine—the hit, the crack, the scream, the fall. The anger. She closes her eyes briefly. The scene replays behind her eyelids like film burned into memory.

No doubt their altercation will have consequences. Especially if what Severus said is true. He has no reason to lie—yet he is clearly withholding something. Still, she is too tired to probe. Not tonight.

Chapter Text

As she walks through the corridors, the castle is beginning to quiet down, students gathering for dinner. The match is still a hot topic, and the last thing the Snapes—or Carrow, or Nadine—need is more attention.

"Seraphina!" a familiar voice calls out—Bill.

Before she can respond, he is already speaking. "We've all been looking for you. Where were you?"

"I was with Slughorn." she says, a little surprised by how relieved she feels. "Went easy on me, actually."

Bill grins. "For what it's worth, I would've done the same."

She tilts her head with a soft smile. "Aren't you a darling?"

"We've all had our turns. She's alone now—go." He pats her shoulders with a soft smile.

Seraphina exhales and heads for the hospital wing.

Nadine is propped up on pillows, looking pale but more alert. Brownie is napping lazily on her lap. Madam Pomfrey moves around her, helping her adjust positions to ease the pressure on her ribs. Nadine is flipping through the last pages of a book when she notices Seraphina—and her whole face lits up.

"Phina! My ride or die!" she beams, only to wince immediately. "Ow..."

"Nadine! Light movements!" Seraphina rushes to her side, leaning over for the gentlest hug she can manage.

"So," Nadine says, pouting dramatically, "how do I look?"

"Stunning. Like you've got all your ribs." Seraphina teases, tucking the blankets in around her. "Sorry I was late. I was in the dog house, waiting for my judgment."

"Oh no—Slughorn. What happened?" Nadine asks, guilt creeping into her voice.

"Written warning. Maybe detention. Allegedly not as bad as I thought." Seraphina says, sitting beside her and fiddling absentmindedly with the edge of the blanket.

"I'm sorry I dragged you into this."

"You didn't drag me into anything. You played clean, you played brilliantly. It was a great match... until he had himself a tantrum." She reaches over and starts gently braiding one side of Nadine's hair. "He's a protected name, actually, according to Professor Slughorn, how fabulous."

Nadine's eyes go wide and the disgust is palpable. "Him? Protected? We'll see about that." Her thoughts drift to her parents immediately. If they want to call upon their last names, Nadine shall, as well. The daughter of the future Minister of Magic and all.

"You were fantastic, the match too—except for the part where I lost a few ribs." Nadine jokes to lighten the mood. "I do remember Potter going rough on you."

"Either he really wanted that win or Lily's got a reason to be suspicious." Seraphina smirks. "He's got a few bruises—courtesy of yours truly." She shows her a few bruises but shrugs them off.

"Balance." Nadine nods. "We did warn him. But he's James."

"Speaking of—they are furious. Not only about the loss, but the incident was blown out of proportion—James doesn't know whom to blame, and of course, some suspect he blames us all."

Nadine exhales, before quietly wincing again. "What a surprise. Potter? Upset about Quidditch? It's not like I went and broke my own ribs, did I?"

Seraphina chuckles in agreement, but grows quiet. "I haven't spoken to my team yet. Black is probably preparing a tirade—points, benching, Salazar knows what. I understand I shouldn't have lost my temper like that, even as I was... but Carrow crossed a line. I warned them."

Nadine nods solemnly. She understands more than most the struggle of restraint—especially when it comes to that particular group. "It's them. There's something seriously wrong with them. Sure, there's something wrong with my team as well, but I mean something really dark is going on within them."

"Severus said something similar." Seraphina replies, moving to braid the other side. "He told me there's more going on. That we should avoid confrontation. But he wouldn't say why."

Nadine pauses, trying to remember something. "Tem said something too, but I didn't catch it. I was too distracted by those ridiculous letters from our parents."

"Why do we keep getting warned about them?" Seraphina asks quietly, mostly to herself.

Nadine has no answer. Neither does Seraphina.

"Severus told me not to ask. Not to act out. So I suppose... we wait. He doesn't say things without reason."

Nadine's thoughts drift to Severus—and without realizing it, she smiles.

Seraphina raises a brow and grins knowingly. "He was here, you know. When you arrived. Helped Madam Pomfrey a lot. Brought potions from Slughorn."

Nadine blinks, startled. "He... was?" She blushes.

"Mhm." Seraphina's grin grows. "Isn't my brother a gentleman?"

Nadine covers her face with a hand, flustered. "Oh no. I'm never living this down. Leave it to me to faint during a match."

"Actually," Seraphina says, voice softening, "he didn't say anything sarcastic. Not once. He just... looked at you. Concerned, I think. He knows something we don't. Something about Carrow."

Nadine's heart flutters. "What... what else did he say?"

He was concerned about me? Nadine thinks, and her heart skips.

"It wasn't what he said." Seraphina ties off the braid gently. "It was how he looked. No scowl, no sneer—just... something between guilt and worry. Like he saw something that disturbed him, but didn't want to show it."

Nadine says nothing. She just smiles absentmindedly, her heart racing just a tad bit faster.

Then, Nadine grins, shaking her head. "But you beating Amycus up good... I would pay a lot to see that."

Seraphina lets out a hearty laugh, nodding a few times before responding. "Sometimes I surprise myself too." she sighs. "He did, however, give a gross compliment mid-fight. What an odd specimen that thing is."

Nadine's face twists in disgust. "Ugh. Please don't tell me it was something like 'you're hot when you're mad.'"

Seraphina blinks. "Exactly that."

Nadine groans into her pillow. "I take it back. You didn't hit him hard enough."

"Don't tempt me. And if he needs some more, he knows where to find me. I've got at least three more unresolved issues with him."

They both laugh—tired, bruised, still rattled—but the sound feels good. Necessary. A reminder they are still themselves, despite everything.

The footsteps echo faintly at first, like the soft tap of a quill against parchment, but in the quiet, they grow louder—measured, deliberate, unmistakable. Both girls turn their heads, and there he is. Brownie wakes and meows.

Severus stands just inside the doorway, tall and pale in the low lamplight, his eyes flicking quickly from one girl to the other. His hands are folded behind his back, posture composed, but there is a subtle tension in his shoulders—like a string pulled taut and never allowed to relax.

"Seraphina." he says, his voice low, steady, with that slightly silken quality that always seems too calm for how sharp it can cut when he wishes it to. "I wish to discuss some matters with you. Privately."

Seraphina doesn't answer right away. She glances down at Nadine, reluctant to go, but nods after a moment. "Alright." she says, soft but clear.

Nadine reaches for her hand as she begins to rise, smirking. "You're not abandoning me forever, right?"

Seraphina smirks. "I'll come as soon as I can."

Severus doesn't react visibly to the teasing, but his eyes flicker briefly to Nadine—unreadable.

Seraphina adjusts her cloak and leans in. "You'll be fine?"

Nadine nods. "I'll try not to faint again while you're gone. No promises."

The two are turning to leave, Seraphina matching her brother's stride, when Nadine calls softly behind them, voice tentative but sincere:

"Severus?"

He stops. Both siblings turn back to face her, surprised by the tone. Nadine's hands are clasped in her lap, and there is a quiet bravery in the way she holds herself, vulnerable but unflinching.

"I just wanted to say... thank you. For everything. For helping. For staying." Her voice falters slightly, but she pushes through, blinking slowly as emotion pools just beneath the surface. "And not just today—I mean it. You and Phina... you didn't have to, and yet you did. And I don't forget things like that. So... whatever you ever need—both of you—I'm here. Always. Even if it's just company. Or bad jokes. Or ice cream. Or crimes, I guess, depending on the day."

Seraphina snorts quietly, glancing sideways at Severus.

Nadine keeps going, a little flustered now, a blush creeping up her neck. "That sounded dramatic. I'm blaming the potions. And the cracked ribs."

Seraphina steps forward, warmth in her expression, and leans in to gently hug Nadine for few moments. "It's okay, Crouchling." she murmurs.

"I mean it, Phina." Nadine whispers back.

Then Seraphina looks at her brother, waiting.

Severus doesn't move at first. The lines around his eyes seem to pull ever so slightly tighter, like something has caught in the gears of his thoughts. He looks at Nadine—dark eyes still and fathomless. There is no immediate reply, no sharp remark or cryptic retort. Just silence.

Then—subtle, almost imperceptible—he nods.

It is not an awkward nod. Nor is it cold. It is something... real. Quiet acknowledgment. But he hears her. And perhaps, more importantly, he lets himself be heard by her.

He turns before she can see any more, and for a moment, he walks as if something weightless and unwelcome has landed.

Their footsteps are barely halfway to the door when another sound joins them—new footsteps, softer, gentler, with the telltale calm stride of someone who doesn't rush unless he must.

Remus appears in the doorway, hands in his pockets, hair a little windblown, eyes instantly falling to Nadine. His gaze is warm, familiar—but when he sees Severus, he pauses mid-step.

"I'll come another time." Remus says smoothly, gesturing with a tilt of his head, already backing off.

Severus's head turns ever so slightly, the sharp edge of his profile catching the light. The expression he wears is hard to name. Not scorn, not contempt, though he is capable of both. It is more... tight-lipped, a flicker of something complicated behind his eyes, too private to expose. He doesn't speak. Doesn't need to.

Seraphina, however, arches a brow. "We're leaving." she says crisply, and though her voice is neutral, there is a protective glint in her eyes as she glances between them.

Remus offers a nod of understanding, and as the Snape siblings pass him, there is no real exchange—only silence, like the faintest pressure between two sides of a memory.

Severus doesn't look back.

Seraphina does.

And then they are gone.

Remus stands there for a moment longer, his hand tightening. Then he steps fully into the room, his presence instantly softening the air. He walks toward Nadine, slowly, carefully, like approaching something delicate—but not fragile.

Nadine, still propped up in bed, watches him come closer. She swallows, heart still strangely unsettled from Severus's reaction.

Something she can't stop turning over in her head.

She shifts slightly, the thin, itchy sheet rustling beneath her as she leans back into the pillows. The ache in her hasn't dulled, not entirely—not even with Madam Pomfrey's strongest potions.

He looks tired. There are purplish smudges under his soft eyes, like bruises of sleepless nights. His hair is messier than usual, his jumper slightly wrinkled and frayed at the edges. His satchel swings at his side as he quietly makes his way to the chair beside her bed.

"Hi." he says gently, as if afraid his voice might hurt her.

She nods once. "Hi."

Remus sits, careful not to knock anything over. From his satchel, he pulls out a bar of Honeydukes chocolate, the wrapper slightly dented from being carried around too long. He places it gently on the bedside table and reaches out to scratch Brownie behind the ears.

"I, um... I brought chocolate." he murmurs. "Not sure if you're allowed sweets in here, but I figured... well, it's you. You'd sneak it anyway."

Her lips tug faintly at the corner, but she doesn't laugh. She looks away instead, her eyes drifting to the window, where sky already turned black.

"I saw your fall." he adds quietly. "It looked bad. Scared the hell out of me, actually."

She still doesn't speak.

"I wanted to come sooner." he continues. "But it's been crowded in here. I wasn't sure if you wanted to see me anyway."

Nadine finally looks at him. "Thanks for coming."

The words are true, but they feel thin. She is tired—physically, emotionally.

Remus hesitates before asking, "Are you... are you still mad at me?"

She exhales slowly. "No. I'm just... tired."

The quiet stretches between them like a drawn-out breath. Remus opens his mouth like he is going to explain himself again, but she lifts a hand weakly and cuts him off.

"I get how it feels." she says. "To feel like you only have a few people. To cling to them because you're afraid if you let go, you'll have no one. I get it, Remus. I do. But that doesn't make what you did okay. I would defend you. But you let me stand alone."

He stares at her, guilt plain in the lines of his face. "You're right." he says softly. "I—I should've said something. I wanted to. I just—James and Sirius, they—" He swallows hard. "It's complicated."

"Fix it." she says, voice sharp despite her exhaustion. "You're better than this. I know you are."

Remus nods slowly. "I'll try. I don't want to be that person, Nadine."

They sit in silence for a few beats. Then, carefully, she shifts and rests her head back again.

"We're okay?" he asks, voice low.

She turns her head to look at him, something softer now in her eyes. "Yeah. We're okay."

He gives her a small, sheepish smile. "There's going to be more drama soon."

She arches a brow. "There's always more drama."

"No, I mean James and Sirius are pissed. About everything. The match. The festival. Snapes. The lot of them."

Nadine tenses slightly. "What are they planning?"

"Don't know. But they're not just going to let it go." Remus warns. "Especially after what Carrow did. You know how it is."

Her jaw tightens, but she keeps her expression unreadable. Inside, her mind is already racing. She has to stay close to them—to Severus, to Seraphina, to Barty. Whatever the teammates are planning, she won't let it escalate. Not without being there.

Remus watches her carefully. "I'll keep an eye on them." he says quietly, standing. "And I'll try to keep them from doing anything stupid."

"Good." she murmurs.

He lingers a moment longer, as if he wants to say something else, but then he just offers her a small nod and turns to leave.

"Remus." she calls softly before he reaches the door.

He turns.

"Thanks for the chocolate."

He smiles at last, warm and just a little sad. "Anytime, Nadine."

Then he slips out of the hospital wing, leaving her with the dimming light and the soft throb in her ribs—and thoughts that refuse to let her sleep.

Chapter Text

It is cold, as always, but it suits them—Slytherins don't need warmth to feel powerful.

Amycus is slouched in one of the chairs, a smug glint in his eye as he toys with a Snitch he had likely stolen. Avery and Steve lean against the stone wall nearby, whispering with subdued amusement. Lucinda sits cross-legged on the arm of the couch, chin perched in her hand, unimpressed. Evan stands by the fire, arms folded.

Regulus sits at the head of the long, low table, posture straight, unreadable as ever. His gaze is fixed on Carrow.

"I don't care how you justify it." Regulus says calmly, though the edge in his tone is unmistakable. "That was reckless."

Amycus scoffs, twirling the Snitch between his fingers. "It was a game. She got in the way. How many times do I have to say it?"

"She has broken ribs." Lucinda mutters. "You call that a game? And gotten in the way of what? The air? She didn't even have a Quaffle in her possession."

"I call that sending a message, Laughalot." Amycus grins. "Majority of the school shows loyalty to pure-bloods. But her? That girl's a Crouch—yet a blood traitor. Barty should be ashamed."

"You hit her with a Bludger off play." Evan snaps. "Even our lot flinched. You made us look bad."

Evan, of course, wants to say more in defense of the Crouches, however there are restraints given his situation.

Footsteps echo down the hall.

The room falls silent as the common room door creaks open and Seraphina steps in, cloak brushing the stone floor behind her. Her expression is unreadable, but her entrance changes the air.

Regulus's gaze flicks to her. "Nice of you to join us."

"I had better things to do." she says evenly, but her tone holds the tension of someone who had been listening before walking in.

He gives her a knowing look, the one she can tell means 'composure.'

She scans the room, eyes landing briefly on Amycus. Her face twists in disgust slightly.

"Is this where we all pretend you're not psychotic?" she asks coolly, casually brushing her wand with her fingers.

Amycus leans back, smirking, "You saying you didn't enjoy it? Thought I saw fire in your eyes when it hit her. Or was it just because you were on me?"

"If you died, I wouldn't flinch."

"Do I look good bloody?" He grins wildly.

"A curse would look better."

"Enough." Regulus says firmly. "Foul behaviour will not be tolerated. We're not here to get into chaos every time someone opens their mouth."

Seraphina's eyes narrow slightly. "Then maybe keep the rabid dogs off the pitch."

Amycus tenses. "You wanna say that again?"

It is like a test—to see whether she will hex him or stay composed. She feels Regulus's gaze on her, she looks back at him. His head twitches to the left just barely, as if casting a hint at her to halt.

"I'd rather not waste the breath." she replies, obliging Regulus subtly, taking a seat near Evan without looking at him.

Regulus runs a hand through his hair, briefly closing his eyes. "We've drawn too much attention. Black mark on our House, and our team. This ends now. Amycus, you're benched. Indefinitely. And Seraphina—"

Amycus shoots up. "Ridiculous. We've been through this. They haven't proven it was out of malice."

"You jeopardized our position." Regulus snaps. "Next time you want to settle a score, take it off the pitch—or I'll settle it for you."

Silence. Only the fire crackles.

"Snape, contain your desire to murder your teammates, or you will share a bench with your favourite person." he proceedes. Seraphina rolls her eyes at him.

Avery shifts. "So... what now?"

"The Gryffindor team is in disarray." Regulus remarks coolly, his voice steady. "Their internal conflicts are visible. It might be advantageous to let them implode on their own."​

Avery raises an eyebrow. "And you suggest we do nothing? Let them self-destruct?"​

Evan meets his gaze unwaveringly. "Not nothing. But sometimes, the best strategy is to wait and watch. Let them make their own mistakes."​

Amycus chuckles darkly, the sound low and irritating.

"Nothing's funny, Carrow." Seraphina snaps, eyes flashing. "We wouldn't be in this mess if you hadn't spazzed out on my friend."

Amycus smirks and winks at her. "There's that good ol' conflict of interest again. Can't a bloke play the game without all this drama?"

Seraphina doesn't flinch. "Careful. That weak jaw of yours might not survive another dislocation."

"Is that a threat?" Amycus shoots back, drawing his wand out.

"Silence." Regulus cuts in coldly, voice like a whipcrack. "Both of you."

The room stills immediately, tension crackling between them like static.

"The semester is nearly done. One more match next year—Hufflepuff—and then it's over, for now." Lucinda says, her voice calm but pointed. "We have to win it. If not, we risk tying with Gryffindor. And I'm not sure we have enough composure for a rematch, with the current state of... things."

She lets the implication settle in, giving the room a pause to think.

"I suggest we focus on that." Steve chimes in, waving his hand vaguely toward the tension still clinging to the air. "Instead of... whatever this has turned into."

Lucinda smirks. "Potter's probably lighting himself on fire over the loss. And Sirius—well, who knows what he's gotten into."

Regulus doesn't flinch at the mention of his brother. No twitch, no reaction—just a long, unreadable stillness. Then, without a word, he rises from his seat, dismisses them with a slight wave of his hand, and walks toward the fireplace.

The flames dance higher for a moment as he passes, their light catching the cold glint in his eyes.

Meeting adjournes.

The group falls into a contemplative silence, each member reflecting on the path ahead, as they disband. The common room, with its greenish glow and shadowed corners, seems to echo with the promise of plans unfolding in the depths of the night.

Seraphina sits still on the couch, her eyes fixed on Regulus as he stares into the fire. He feels her gaze, but doesn't turn.

"Black." she says softly.

A faint "Hm?" is all she receives in return.

"I would normally apologize for scenes like this... not that they happen often." she murmurs. "But—you understand why."

He gives a small nod, just once. "Just try not to make this any harder for us than it already is."

She nods back, keeping her gaze on him just a little longer. He turns his head to her and their eyes meet—fire crackling through the reflection in his pale eyes. She stiffens her lip politely in acknowledgement and leaves for her dorm.

His gaze linger until she is no longer visible—then he disappears as well.

The secluded pub in the shadowed corner of Hogsmeade lies silent, called 'The Crooked Fang', a half-collapsed, barely-warded place nestled between a boarded-up broom repair shop and a crumbling owlery. Its windows are charmed to flicker like candles behind stained, cracked glass, but no real light escapes. There is always a draft, and always a whisper, even when no one is speaking.

No sign hangs above its soot-black door; only those who know the path see the shimmer of the allowing entry. Inside, the air is thick with smoke and secrecy. The wood is dark, the lighting dim, and the few patrons—none daring to glance toward the curtained booth in the back, where the scent of ash and expensive firewhisky coils like a serpent.

In that booth sit six young men. Each bears the subtle markers of privilege and power, though none wear it the same. A hush lingers over the table, the kind that comes before a storm.

Regulus reclines with deliberate elegance, black gloves folded on the scratched tabletop, expression unreadable, eyes colder than frost. Beside him, Severus sits composed and quiet, one long-fingered hand resting against his jaw. His stillness isn't passive—it is watchful, calculating, the way a predator conserves its energy before it strikes.

Across from them are Avery and Mulciber, lounging with far less grace—swagger written into their postures, smugness behind their smirks. Evan sits closest to the edge of the booth, sharp-eyed and silent, his expression difficult to place. Amycus slouches beside him, legs spread, an ugly bruise at the base of his jaw and dirt under his fingernails, the kind that never quite washes off. He takes the outermost seat, aggressive even in posture, his shoulder bumping Evan's as though to claim space.

The tension snaps when the door creaks open.

Boots against stone. Fast steps. Angry.

Barty strides in, his coat billowing behind him like smoke. His pale face is tight with fury, eyes burning beneath his dark lashes, jaw locked as if holding back something venomous.

"You're late." Mulciber says flatly, not bothering to hide his amusement.

Barty doesn't answer. His eyes flick from face to face, then settle—deadly, deliberate—on Amycus.

Amycus straightens slightly, amused. "Was wondering when you'd show. Still carrying your sister's ribs in your pocket, Crouch?"

Barty's hand twitches, ever so slightly, before he forces himself into the booth and sinks down beside Evan with a force that rattles the glasses. "I should kill you for what you did to her."

"Barty." Regulus says, low and smooth, but the warning is clear.

Severus doesn't even turn his head. "Enough."

Amycus smirks, his lip curled like a dog baring its teeth. "Relax, Barty-boy. I didn't know your sister needed babying."

"She doesn't." Barty snaps. "But she isn't ours. And we don't draw attention unless we want it."

Regulus folds his hands together. "As you know, we're here because of the match." he begins, voice level and cold. "Because someone," his gaze drifts, slow and condemning, "thought it wise to aim a Bludger at the daughter of the future Minister of Magic in full view of the entire school."

Amycus scoffs. "What, we're crying over a cracked rib now?"

"You're drawing attention we cannot afford." Evan says, quiet but deadly. "She's a Gryffindor, a blood traitor, but she is also a symbol. And symbols break loudly."

"We were at a match, not a Ministry gala." Amycus mutters, rolling his eyes. "Should I have sent her flowers instead?"

"You should have used your brain, if there is still any of it rattling around in that skull." Severus says, voice quiet but razor-sharp.

Mulciber chuckles darkly, nursing a heavy tumbler of Ogden's. "I'd pay to see Nadine Crouch throw a hex. Bet she's a screamer when cornered—"

Barty moves like lightning—he lunges forward across the table before anyone can blink, and only Evan grabbing his arm stops the spell halfway through being cast. The blue glow dims between his fingers.

"Say that again." Barty hisses, eyes wild, voice low enough to chill bone.

Mulciber raises both hands, but smirks anyway. "Touchy."

"Enough." Regulus says, not raising his voice, but it cuts through them all like glass.

They freeze. Even Barty.

"You've lost control." Regulus continues, eyes flicking to Amycus first, then Barty. "You're letting emotion cost us our edge."

"I'm not emotional." Barty says evenly.

"You are when it comes to your sister."

"She's not involved." he replies immediately, too quickly. "I've warned her."

"She is involved." Evan says finally, breaking his silence. "Seraphina spends every other hour with Nadine. And Nadine's a Crouch. That matters."

"She's a Gryffindor." Mulciber says with a shrug. "She'll fall. They always fall."

"No." Barty snaps, surprising even himself. "She won't. She's—"

He stops. The sentence hangs unfinished, and the air around the booth thickens.

Severus watches him with narrowed eyes.

"She's my sister." Barty growls.

"Then you should understand that she will never join us." Regulus says calmly. "Which means she needs to be distanced."

"And Seraphina?" Avery asks with a lazy smirk. "You planning to keep her leashed, Snape, or is she going to take their side?"

"I handle my sister." Severus says with quiet menace.

"Clearly." Avery murmurs, and laughs under his breath.

"She already walks the line too closely." Regulus adds, eyes narrowing.

"I've warned her." Severus replies smoothly, but his eyes darken just a shade. "Repeatedly."

Avery chuckles. "Warned her, have you? You know, if she weren't your sister, I'd say that girl's too fit to waste on filth. You think she'd bend if pushed hard enough?"

The table erupts again—voices layered over one another, tempers rising. Barty is halfway to his feet. Amycus grins, daring him. Avery throws another jab.

And then Regulus slams his palm on the table, and the silencing charm he casts ripples like a blast wave.

"I said enough."

The room seems to hold its breath.

The other patrons glance over, only briefly, before choosing the very smart option of minding their own business.

Avery knocks back the rest of his drink with a clink, eyes narrowing as another thought surfaces. "And what about Pandora, Rosier?"

Mulciber hums in agreement. "It's beginning to feel like a bloody infiltration."

All eyes shift to Evan.

He lifts his head slowly, the candlelight cutting across his angular features. The drumming of his fingers stops.

"She's not involved." he says coolly, voice even. "Pandora plays with stars and sings to birds. She doesn't concern herself with politics."

Amycus snorts. "So you're saying she's daft?"

"I'm saying she's harmless." Evan replies, sharper now. "She's not like us. She doesn't need to know. That's the entire point. She's a liability if she knows. So I keep her out. She listens to me."

Avery scoffs. "So what's miss Black's excuse?"

Regulus's tone is slow, deliberate. "Cassiopeia isn't stupid. She's forming alliances from within. That's what female heirs do. She knows exactly how to smile and curtsy and slide the knife in behind the ribs. That's not friendship—it's positioning."

Barty says nothing, but his knuckles are white where they rest against the table.

Cassiopeia. Pandora. Seraphina. Nadine.

Daughters. Sisters. Pawns—or players?

Regulus leans in, and when he speaks, his voice is low, dangerous. "He watches us. He tests us. Every word you say, every move you make, ripples. You think he doesn't already see what Nadine Crouch is to you, Barty? You think her existence doesn't interest him?"

Barty goes still.

"He'll ask." Regulus finishes, voice soft. "And what will you say when he does?"

The silence that follows is heavier than the ones before.

Severus finally breaks it. "If we want to survive this war, we need to stop acting like schoolboys playing a war. We are in it now—he watches us. Every move. Every failure. The Ministry is circling. The Aurors are watching. If any of you are too foolish to understand what is at stake, walk out now. We are not children anymore. We are weapons. Tools if we aren't careful."

"And Seraphina?" Evan says quietly, turning his gaze to Snape.

"She will fall in line." he says simply.

But Regulus sees the flicker of conflict in his eyes. A tension behind the stillness.

"We are not some schoolboys or tools." Barty says, but the words ring hollow even to him.

No one replies.

The fire behind them crackles.

Their drinks sit forgotten. The candlelight flickers in their eyes, painting them in gold and shadow. These are the youngest of his followers, yes—but some of the most dangerous. Not because of their power. Because of their hearts. Because hearts break, and when they do, they burn.

Barty doesn't speak anymore. He stares down into the amber liquid in his glass, seething silently. He hates Amycus. He knows—when Nadine finds out what he is, what he chose, what he has done, there will be no middle ground. She will either pull him back into the light...

Or destroy him completely.

Chapter Text

Madam Pomfrey finishes adjusting the last of Nadine's pillows, her hands gentle but firm as she casts a diagnostic charm one final time.

"There. Bruising's coming down nicely. Bone's knitted well, but your ribs aren't soup yet, Miss Crouch." she warns, giving her a pointed look as the wand hovers a moment longer over Nadine's chest. "Still—no sudden movements, and you are not to leave this bed until I say so. One day. No arguments."

Nadine gives her a dazzling, innocent smile. "Madam Pomfrey, would I ever argue with you?"

Pomfrey raises a brow. "Only every other hour since you regained consciousness."

Nadine groans into her pillow as the nurse walks off muttering about stubborn students. When the heavy wooden door swings closed behind her, the hospital wing lapses into its familiar quiet—sunlight crawling in through tall windows, faint scent of dittany still lingering in the air, her breath a little sore when she exhales, but so much better than the first day.

She pulls her notes closer and opens the thick Defense book perched beside her. She skims the chapter titles, trying to refocus—Christmas is soon. She is desperate to return to her routine, her people, her distractions. To focus on the upcoming exams.

Brownie stretches out across the foot of the bed, having claimed her usual place. She lifts her head to blink lazily at Nadine, then curls back up, tail twitching contentedly.

The door opens gently, and in strolls Bill, arms full of parchment and books, hair tied back in his usual careless bun, one quill behind his ear.

"Knock knock." he calls softly, flashing a grin. "Hope I'm not interrupting a thrilling recovery nap."

Nadine beams, propping herself up a little. "Bill! You glorious ginger blessing. Please tell me you brought something scandalous and academic."

He smirks and sets a stack of notes on her bedside table. "Transfiguration. So scandalous it's practically indecent."

She lets out a laugh, wincing slightly, but waves him closer. "Sit. Please."

Brownie lifts her head again, watching Bill with mild judgment before tucking her chin beneath her paws.

He drags the visitor chair over and plops into it.

Nadine leans over and pulls out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper from her nightstand drawer. "Also—treat for the brave. My Mum sent snacks. Care for a slice of treacle tart?"

Bill's eyes light up. "Bless your mother. You know I can't resist treacle tart. It's my weakness."

"Good. Eat. Then I'll actually listen to your notes."

They settle into easy conversation—Bill updating her on the classes, some House drama and how he misses her in Potions.

"I swear, I leave for five days but it feels like a year." Nadine laughs, handing him a second slice of tart.

Before he can finish it, the door creaks open again. This time, quieter. He doesn't need to turn around—Nadine already knows who it is.

Barty steps inside slowly, as though unsure of his welcome. His posture is stiff, shoulders drawn slightly inward, as if he has been bracing against something for days. He doesn't speak right away. His uniform is immaculate, as always—but his face tells another story.

Dark shadows bruise the skin under his eyes, and though his hair is neat, there is a paleness to him that isn't normal. He looks like someone who hasn't slept well in a week.

Bill glances up and catches the vibe instantly. "I should go." he says gently, standing and brushing crumbs from his lap. "You've got your real bodyguard now."

"I'll be your favorite again tomorrow. Thank you." Nadine teases lightly as he squeezes her shoulder goodbye and ducks out with a wink.

Barty slides into the chair Bill vacates, saying nothing for a moment. He stares at her hand, which rests on the edge of the blanket, fingers curled. Brownie perks up again and jumps onto his lap. He scratches behind her ears, earning soft purrs.

Nadine notices how long he just sits there, not moving, not speaking.

"You look like a ghost." she says softly, her voice sincere. "Did something happen with Cass?"

His eyes flick up—sharper now, but weary. "No."

She narrows her gaze. "Then what's—"

"Just—take these." he says, cutting her off gently. He pulls out a few folded sheets from his coat and hands them over. His handwriting, sharp and decisive, fills the pages. "I want you to start practicing these spells. Slowly. Just in your head for now, until Pomfrey clears you. But learn the incantations. The theory. The wand motion's important."

Nadine studies the sheet. "These are... different from the ones I'm learning."

"They'll help you. Trust me."

She looks up at him again. "You're worrying me, Tem."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not." she says gently. "You haven't even smiled."

That strikes something in him. His jaw twitches—but no smile comes. Only an exhale.

"I'm just tired." he mutters finally. "Classes. Training. Quidditch. Everything."

"What about Quidditch?"

He leans back slightly, rubbing a hand over his face. "We've got a match coming up. This Saturday. Hufflepuff. They're better this year—really good coordination. We've been drilling formations for days."

"And you've been sleeping?"

"Barely."

She reaches out and takes his hand—her fingers smaller, but steady. "Tem."

He stills.

"I'm okay. I'll be okay. You don't have to carry me and everything else."

His eyes flick to hers, uncertain. He doesn't reply, but he doesn't pull away either.

After a beat, she says, "Tell me something else. How are your other classes going?"

He huffs a faint breath. "Good. I'm satisfied. We're studying non-verbal counter-hexes, monster tracking, scent mapping, venom transmutation. And ethics. Surprisingly."

"Ethics?"

"In case the monster is the wizard."

Nadine grows quiet. "That... feels close to home."

He nods once. The silence between them is full of things unsaid, but heavy with understanding.

She squeezes his hand.

"I'll learn your spells. You focus on sleeping. And Quidditch."

He nods again, quieter this time. "And you focus on resting. Before you drive Pomfrey into retirement."

They both laugh—soft, tired, but real. It is not everything, but it is a thread. A bridge.

Nadine adjusts the blanket over her lap as Barty sits more comfortably. His hand still lingers close to hers, not touching anymore, but not quite pulling away either. Brownie shifts and places her paw over his forearm. There is something fragile in the way he breathes—as if the space between them is the only part of his day that doesn't require armor.

She flips the spell notes slowly, tracing the fine ink with her finger. "Mum's been sending a lot of letters."

Barty exhales through his nose. "I know. I've read them all. Three times. She sent one to McGonagall too, I think."

"She said she was going to come back yesterday."

"She did." he says, glancing at her. "Told me she was going to barge in again and demand to see for herself that you still had all your bones. I told her you were in capable hands. That you were already arguing with Pomfrey like nothing ever happened."

"That's because Pomfrey wanted me to eat boiled turnips."

"She's doing her job. You're the one making war plans from a sickbed."

Nadine smiles. "I told Mum I've healed fast."

"You left out the part where you almost cracked your spine."

"I landed gracefully."

"You fell, Nadine."

"Well. Falling is just flying with less, er, optimism."

"She's worried." Barty says more softly. "You scared her."

The levity dims just a little. Nadine quiets.

"I know." she says after a pause. "She sent me that whole basket of gingerbread stars and oranges. I could smell the cloves from the corridor."

He gives her a look—but there is affection tucked into the dryness of his voice. "She also asked what you wanted for Christmas."

"Oh Merlin." She groans.

"Already sent me something." he replies, voice low.

"What is it?"

"A pair of black gloves. Same pair Father wears when he sits in Wizengamot sessions."

Nadine blinks. "That's... specific."

"She says it's symbolic. That I'm stepping into legacy."

Nadine stares at him. "You're nineteen."

"I know."

"Tem..."

"She wants me to become something." he says. "And she's afraid you're going to disappear into something else."

"I'm not." Nadine says. "I'm still her daughter. I'm still your twin."

He looks at her finally, expression unreadable.

"We need to buy gifts." she continues. "And we only have two weeks."

"I was thinking something that explodes when opened."

"Touching."

"And I already got something for Mum too." he adds. "She mentioned a book. I found a signed copy."

She stares at him. "You... planned ahead?"

"Shut up."

"I'm impressed."

There is a long pause. Then Nadine looks away. "She asked me about the wedding."

Barty says nothing.

"She knows I'm not going." she continues, "I'll probably be sent to France. I still don't understand why I'm the only one not invited."

He scoffs under his breath. "I already told you. Do you actually want to come?"

Nadine pouts slightly, muttering under her breath, "No, but it feels weird. Father isn't mentioning anything either."

He doesn't answer that. But he shifts closer, resting his arms on the edge of the bed like he is trying to ground her without saying a word.

After a long silence, Nadine nudges the stack of papers beside her.

"So... what are you wearing?"

Barty sighs dramatically. "Mum's making me choose between three velvet jackets. All of them black. One has silver cuffs."

"Ah."

"She said I'll look best in that one."

"Like a vampire who manages estate law."

"I'm going to ignore that."

"And shoes?"

"I didn't ask."

"Will you dance?"

"With who?"

"Regulus?" she teases. "You two have that same brooding rhythm."

He rolls his eyes. "I'll show up. Smile for five minutes. Leave early."

"She won't let you."

"Maybe not. But I'll try."

Nadine grins. "Make sure you pocket some of the cake. You owe me."

"I'll bring you a slice."

"I want two. One chocolate, one spiced pear."

"You're demanding."

"I'm dying." she jokes.

"You're not."

"I could be."

"You're not."

Nadine smiles again—soft this time, knowing. She doesn't speak. She just reaches for the rest of her soup, placed beside Mother's delicious biscuits. But there is something he isn't saying.

And Nadine files it away for later.

The sky is thick and bruised with stormclouds when Amycus ducks beneath the rusted archway behind the crumbling greenhouses. The wind howls low through the slats in the shattered glass panes, whistling like a banshee's song. It is always colder here, shadowed from the castle's warmth, tucked just outside the gardens where few bother to venture—too broken, too quiet, too close to the Forbidden Forest.

But it is perfect for the Carrows.

Alecto is already there, crouched atop the cracked foundation wall, her black boots kicking idly against the stone. Her nails are stained with ink—or blood, it is hard to tell—and she
is chewing absently on a strand of her hair, eyes sharp and heavy-lidded like a watching predator. There is a smear of something dark across her cheek. Mud, perhaps. Or something else. She doesn't care either way.

Amycus tosses his broom to the ground beside her with a grunt, the bristles still stained from the match. He cracks his neck, knuckles popping. He smells faintly of sweat and dust and blood, and there is a gleam in his eye that says he enjoyed the violence more than the game.

Alecto grins at him—narrow, toothy. "You look pleased with yourself."

He shrugs. "Was a good hit."

"She screamed." Alecto says, almost dreamily. "Little Crouch. I heard it all the way from the stands. Pomfrey had to come flying down like a bloody guardian angel." She sneers. "Thought her ribs would poke through her skin, the way she curled."

Amycus chuckles darkly, sliding down the wall beside her. Alecto hums. "Didn't stop Daddy from writing, though. Said there were 'whispers' in the Ministry. About the Crouch girl. About us." She mimics their father's condescending voice, dripping with disdain. "'The daughter of a Department Head is not to be maimed on school grounds unless you plan on marrying her.'"

Amycus snorts. "As if I would even touch that witch. He should be thanking me. Showed them we're not afraid to dirty our hands. And she's hardly a victim. Crouches slither around pretending they're different from the rest of us, but they're just snakes in gold silk."

Alecto narrows her eyes. "They're Sacred Twenty-Eight, same as us. But Daddy said their kind have gotten too close to Muggle sympathies. Too soft. The girl's a Gryffindor, for Salazar's sake. And Barty—"

She spits the name like poison. "—he plays both sides. Smiles too politely. Too close to Dumbledore and the Dark Lord. He thinks no one notices."

Amycus's jaw tenses, just slightly. "He's loyal. More than most."

"More than you?" Alecto taunts, but there is a glint in her eye. She doesn't mean it. Not entirely.

"He's useful." Amycus says, with finality. "But don't mistake usefulness for loyalty. That bloke follows the wind, and right now the Lord is the strongest gust. But if it changes, so will he."

Alecto leans forward, her grin sharpening. "If the Lord asks, I'll say you maimed Nadine Crouch for practice. That you're preparing for war."

Amycus grins, teeth yellow in the dim light. "I am."

They fall into silence for a moment, the air thick with the scent of damp leaves and iron. A single crow caws somewhere in the trees beyond, and Alecto tips her head toward the forest, watching the branches twitch like fingers.

Then her voice cuts the air, slick and sudden. "You were with her again."

Amycus doesn't respond at first. Just flexes his fingers against the stone, eyes trained on the edge of the horizon.

Alecto's lip curls. "Cassiopeia Black."

There is venom in the name.

Amycus turns, slowly. "And?"

"She's a half-shadow of what the Blacks used to be. Walks like her blood's been touched by something common. Arrogant little girl thinks she's untouchable. I saw her looking at you, Amycus. As if she would puke if you kissed her."

He doesn't rise to the insult. Instead, his voice is low, measured, almost thoughtful. "She looks at me like she's already imagining what I'd taste like."

Alecto barks a laugh. "You're deluded."

He leans in, voice colder now. "Careful, Leci. I don't mock your... hobbies."

Alecto's smile fades, just a touch. She leans back again, dragging a cracked fingernail across the wall's mossy surface.

"You think she wants you." she murmurs, tone unreadable. "But she's like all the rest. Black girls burn the world and pretend they built it. She'll use you, laugh at you, step over you if it means better station."

"Maybe." Amycus concedes. "But maybe she wants the dark. Maybe she's tired of pretty masks and polite curses. Maybe she needs something nastier than a boy with manners."

"She's a Black." Alecto repeats, voice hardening. "And you're a Carrow. She'd slit your throat if it earned her a ring from her aunt's will."

Amycus shrugs. "She might try. But I'd like to see her do it."

They exchange a long, twisted look—siblings who understand each other not through affection, but through shared cruelty. There is no love between them, only familiarity, and the deep satisfaction of malice well-fed.

Alecto pulls something from her coat. A folded letter—creased, with the family seal. She tosses it to Amycus.

"Another one from Father. Says the Ministry's been breathing down his neck. That someone caught sight of you laughing after the hit. He says it makes us look unstable."

Amycus smirks. "We are unstable."

"He means politically."

"I don't care what the Ministry thinks."

"You should." Alecto glances sideways. "We might need them one day. If things turn bloody, it's the Ministry's rats who'll decide who lives long enough to be useful."

Amycus scoffs. "If it turns bloody, I'll be at the front of the line."

They fall into silence again, the grey light waning, shadows creeping over the broken glass and dying grass. The wind presses against them like a warning, and for once, Alecto looks thoughtful.

"Barty's close to Him." she mutters. "Too close. And he doesn't trust us."

"He shouldn't." Amycus says darkly.

"But he will need us."

Amycus nods once.

The storm begins to break, a drizzle turning the stone slick and black beneath their boots. They don't move.

Just two cursed children, born into old magic and rot, planning the future like snakes curling tighter around a bone.

Chapter Text

Time seems to blur for Seraphina, each moment bleeding into the next with quiet insistence. Lessons pass in a haze—interrupted only by her routine visits to Nadine, study sessions with Cassiopeia and Pandora, brief interludes with other friends, and a careful avoidance of others.

She had deliberately distanced herself from the team, hoping that time will smooth the jagged edges of lingering tension. Adding her presence to the fray feels unnecessary—dangerous, even—particularly after Amycus had escaped with nothing more than a detention and a deduction of House points. It was a reckless act, and him being the cause of Nadine's fall is predictably overlooked.

Seraphina understands, with the quiet clarity of someone who had learned to read beneath the surface, that space is necessary—for their sake, yes, but more so for her own. For Severus. For all of them.

The incident left a shadow on them all, an unspoken dread none dare to name aloud. To speak of it will give it power, make it real. And so, they cling to a fragile sense of normalcy, even as it slips through their fingers like water. But normalcy, currently, is naive.

The pressure is mounting from all sides: the escalating scrutiny surrounding the Crouch family and Nadine's recovery, the whispered hisses from the Rosier and the Black family demanding strict obedience from their heirs, and even the quiet vigilance of the Snapes, who now linger closer than ever. The castle itself seems to hold its breath.

Some dismiss the tension as the usual strain before term's end, others attribut it to the heated match. But a few—those who watch more closely—recognize the signs. A storm is gathering.

Seraphina retreats into the only semblance of calm she can claim—her routine. She is often found tucked away in the Astronomy Tower, among bubbling cauldrons in the dungeons, or in the smoke-laced hush of the Divination room. But today, it is the library that calls to her—one of her favourites.

She enters quietly, her footsteps muffled by the thick weave of a sprawling Persian carpet, two heavy tomes clutched to her chest and a well-worn notebook tucked under her arm. Her bag hangs at her shoulder, bouncing softly against her hip. Her assignments are already completed, truth be told—today's visit is not one of obligation, but of self-preservation, indulgence. She craves quiet. Stillness. Creativity.

The library is near-empty, much to her relief. She finds a secluded alcove near the fireplace and settles into a velvet-cushioned chair. Around her, the flickering candlelight dances across ancient shelves, casting shadows that flicker like ghostly sentinels along the walls. The fire crackles gently, a soothing backdrop to the hush of turning pages and distant footsteps.

Seraphina exhales slowly, allowing the weight in her shoulders to ease. The tension remains, stubborn and familiar, manifesting in small, unconscious habits: the way her fingers play with the edges of her sleeves, the subtle jitter of her leg, the firm clutch of her books and the fiddling with textures. They aren't merely nervous tics, but means of grounding herself when the world tilts uneasily.

She opens one of her tomes, a richly-bound volume clad in black dragon-hide, its pages filled with illustrations and lore of dragons from across the world. Today, she will sketch. It isn't just a pastime, but an offering to herself—a quiet reprieve, a moment of peace carved from the chaos.

As her quill sweeps gently across the page, Seraphina lets herself become absorbed in the elegant curves of a Welsh Green's wing, the rise and fall of its serpentine spine rendered in delicate ink. She lost track of time, the silence cocooning her in a kind of calm she hasn't felt in days.

Beyond the gentle crackle of the hearth, the faint, rhythmic scratching of a quill on parchment drifts through the air. Seraphina hears it, but chooses not to pay it any mind—at least, not at first. Her breath leaves her in a quiet sigh, her thoughts dulled by fatigue, until movement at the edge of her vision stirrs her. A tall figure, half-swallowed by the low firelight, emerges from the shadows near the bookcase.

Regulus.

He moves with the same quiet deliberation she had come to associate with him, reaching with practiced ease for a book high on the shelf. She hadn't expected him here—not tonight. In truth, she made a quiet habit of avoiding him and their team altogether. Exhaustion weighs heavily on her limbs and spirit alike; she doesn't have the strength for yet another verbal duel—or what they would call a 'debate.' Because a fight implies lack of civility—of course.

Lowering her gaze once more, she leans into her hand, the cool press of her fingers grounding her as she returns to carving the dragon's tail etched before her, determined to ignore him, or avoid making herself known. Her eyelids droop slightly, lulled by the steady rhythm of peace she clings to.

However, from the corner of her eye, she sees him again. Regulus stands still now, examining the book he had taken down, his fingers tracing the spine and worn cover with absentminded grace. Twin rings adorn his pointer fingers—decorated with the Black family crest, of course—glinting dully in the firelight as his fingers move.

Much to her own annoyance, she finds her eyes drawn to him. Despite their frequent quarrels, and despite everything his name and demeanor represent, she can't deny the strange, unsettling pull of his presence. She will never voice such thoughts—not even to herself if she can help it—but there are moments, fleeting and private, when she allows herself to admire him. In class. At meals. Now.

Infuriatingly beautiful, she thinks. And beautifully insufferable.

Still, his presence alarms her just enough to disrupt her peace. Her heartbeat quickens in anticipation of something negative. She knows another altercation is to be expected, and after the party, after the match, it is bound to happen. So she remains alert, although frozen in space, and she suddenly notices the pressure of her wand in her robes like it is on fire. Just in case.

As if sensing her gaze, Regulus pauses. Slowly, deliberately, he lifts his eyes and looks directly at her. His expression, as ever, is an enigma—cool, composed, impossible to read. And yet, something flickers: the slightest narrowing of his brow, a near-invisible crease that suggests he is trying to decipher her. Dissect her.

He, too, had buried himself in his duties of late, though she knows it isn't from obligation alone. Like the rest of them, he is searching for something—solace, perhaps, or merely silence. He believes, as she does, that the team needs time—space to heal, to recalibrate. He granted that space to them all, including himself.

And so here they are. She offers him the faintest of acknowledgements—a smile drained of warmth or invitation—and lowers her eyes to the sketch before her, retreating into it as a shield, preserving both his distance and her own composure.

Yet his gaze doesn't go unnoticed. Her body tenses in quiet response, her breath shallower, heartbeat just a little louder in her ears. She watches him not directly, but from the edge of her vision.

He, on the other hand, stands rooted in deliberation, uncertain whether to close the distance between them—or in what capacity he will do so. As a Captain? A Prefect? Or simply as himself, whatever that now means. He lingers a few moments longer in indecision, until the stillness is broken by the soft tick of the clock. Ten o'clock. Curfew.

As he takes a step forward, Seraphina sits up straighter, a subtle flick of movement placing her hand near her wand. Her eyes widen—reflexive, wary—as if she is prey before a predator yet unsure whether the threat will strike.

He catches the change in her at once. Not just the movement, but the air of sterile vigilance. It isn't the reaction itself that unsettles him—it is that it seems disproportionate. They had managed, after all, to build a fragile truce in the past—collaborating when necessity demands it.

And now, with no provocation, she regards him as though expecting an attack. He halts mid-step, head tilting slightly, appraising whether she truly thinks him capable of violence. He, too, is aware of the weight of his wand tucked beneath his robes, though he has no intention of drawing it.

"Don't." she says, the word cutting through the silence like a blade.

He meets her tone with an arctic coolness. "Don't what, exactly?"

"I warned you about him. And I warned him. You were wrong—you cannot control him. I don't want to hear it."

Regulus exhales, a soft sound barely audible over the quiet hum, he is also tired. He steps forward, his silhouette leaning into the table's edge, eyes fixed on her with unsettling intensity. There is truth in her words, of course—truth he will never willingly grant her. Instead, his gaze drifts downward, away from confrontation, toward the scattered parchment littering the tabletop.

Dragons. Dozens of them, inked in exquisite detail. Their sinewed wings, contoured scales, expressions caught mid-roar or mid-flight—each sketch precise, reverent. Surrounding them are tomes on dragon lore, thick with notes and tabs. A flicker of something stirs in him. Not surprise, but recognition.

Art. Dragons. Obsession rendered through ink and knowledge.

It piques his interest—not merely the subject matter, but the execution. The discipline. The quiet devotion.

Art always runs through the Black family like an undercurrent—an expected elegance, often channeled into music, calligraphy, languages, dance, portraiture... Regulus inherited that legacy too. Seraphina doesn't know his interests, really. She doesn't know he plays the violin, is a brilliant painter, or delved into piano compositions. Their conversations rarely stray beyond cold, verbal sparring.

Ironically, they share more than either of them realize. The same obsessions. But neither ever crossed the chasm of pride and silence that keeps them perpetually at odds.

He lets his fingers ghost over the edge of one parchment, careful not to touch the ink. "Fascinating beasts." he murmurs, eyes scanning the dragons. "You draw them with such intimacy—you understand them, no?"

Then, after a pause, quieter, "They remind you of yourself, don't they?"

She can't decipher what sort of an implication that is.

His eyes meet hers again—measured, unreadable. "Tell me, Snape... Is that why you flinch when someone gets too close? Or is it just me?"

She has a deep inhale, then exhales as she leans back into her chair, crossing one leg over the other, arms draped along the rests with studied ease. Casual. Almost too casual.

"You flatter yourself too much, Black." she calmly says. "No, just a rough week."

He straightens, spine like a blade, hands clasped neatly behind his back—a posture she has come to recognize as one of calculated restraint. One of command.

"Mid-flight ambush." he says coolly, voice low and measured. "Can't say we were indifferent to the mess. You do love the attention, don't you?" he provokes.

She arches a brow, lips curving into a slow, deliberate smirk. "Certainly acquired it, if that was the case. According to you."

His jaw tenses, just slightly, but before he can retort, she presses forward—firm, unyielding.

"Yet, attention or not, I was right. And you were very, very wrong." Her eyes narrow, sharp as obsidian. "Tell me, does it sting? When people don't fall in line the way you expect them to?"

He doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. Instead, a slow, near-imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—one that doesn't reach his eyes, one she never expected from him.

"No." he says, voice smooth as silk and twice as sharp. "It doesn't sting. It interests me. Just a little."

He steps closer, just enough for her to feel the shift in the air between them.

"You're not the first to resist, and you won't be the last to crumble under and submit, either."

Seraphina scoffs and rises from her chair, her hand slipping casually to her wand—not a threat, but a gesture they both understand well enough.

"For someone so intent on control," she says, her voice dripping with challenge, "you certainly let Carrow run unchecked. Was that a lie, or were you just too weak to handle it?" Her smirk is sharp.

Her words land, but do little to provoke the response, per usual. Regulus, however, knows they share a fragile truce—one that holds for Quidditch, at least, or group projects. Carrow's actions, however, hadn't gone unnoticed. Quite the opposite. They both know Amycus had overstepped.

Regulus doesn't flinch, his gaze as composed as ever. "Carrow has been... dealt with, as you already know." he says, his tone even, unbothered. "Still, another meeting is inevitable—regardless of how determined you are to avoid it."

She says nothing. Just stands there, silent.

"Why such a tense reaction, Snape?" he asks, more lightly now, as though brushing off the tension that had moments ago been coiled tight between them. "I've only come to remind you of the curfew."

She exhales, a faint shrug lifting her shoulders. "Figured you'd be on one of your tirades, maybe with a Carrow, who knows." Her eyes drop from the crest on his robes to the parchments scattered across the table again.

Regulus follows her gaze but says nothing for a moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter—measured, but without the sharp edge he usually wields.

"And you were intending to break my jaw too or is that only for Amycus?" He entertains.

She bites her lip to stop a chuckle. Then her face drops again.

"You weren't wrong to expect more." he admits, almost too calmly. "Carrow crossed a line. What he did to Crouch was... excessive."

She doesn't look satisfied. Not with his calm acknowledgment. Not with the control in his voice. And he notices.

"He's benched." Regulus adds, more pointedly this time. "Something you narrowly avoided yourself."

She scoffs. "So bench me. That doesn't change anything." Her voice sharpens. "A line was crossed—severely. It was practically attempted murder. He'd be lucky if we didn't—"

"None of it will be tolerated." Regulus cuts in, voice cool and final. "From any of you."

Her expression twists, the disapproval written clear across her face as she shakes her head, a trace of disgust curling her lip. "Your little cult disgusts me."

That one hits. His brows draw together slightly—just enough to register—but his tone remains composed.

"It's past curfew, Snape."

She gathers her things in a hurried, ungraceful sweep—parchments half-folded, books pressed tightly to her chest. The tension between them still hangs thick in the air, unspoken and unresolved. As she moves to leave, her shoulder clips his—harder than necessary, though she pretends it was accidental.

"Rabotata s drakonite e, che sa smyrtonosni." she drawls quietly before existing. (The thing about dragons is that they're lethal.)

He doesn't react. Not outwardly. But his eyes follow her until she disappears around the corner.

Their thoughts remain behind in the quiet she left.

For Seraphina, it is injustice, confusion and varying levels of fury, all of it boiling just beneath her carefully composed surface. The rules are rigged, the punishments unequal, and the darkness that clings to Regulus and his circle makes her skin crawl. She sees monsters where he sees order. She doesn't understand how he can stand in the middle of it and do nothing.

For Regulus, her defiance is a loose thread—and he never allows loose threads. His mind lingers on her, on Carrows, their plans, everything.

Control. That is what matters. And she is beginning to slip beyond theirs.

His jaw tightens slightly as he stands alone.

Control. Everything has to be controlled—precisely, methodically, with no room for chaos. That is the only way to ensure the Dark Lord's vision doesn't collapse under the weight of personal tempers and careless ambition.

Carrow had already messed up. That kind of recklessness has no place in the future they are working to shape.

Severus and Mulciber understand this better than most. Severus will need to be the one to wrangle Seraphina in. She doesn't trust Regulus, but she loves her brother. It is a narrow opening, and it will have to be enough.

Then there is Cassiopeia. She needs to stay on their side. There is no margin for hesitation, not from her. Not when everything depends on unity. Cassiopeia can't afford softness, not now. Not even toward Nadine, Seraphina, or anyone.

And the others—Nadine, with her fiery independence and sharp judgment; Evan, loyal but volatile; Barty, unpredictable in his hunger for mess; and Pandora... They all need to fall in line.

Chapter Text

Barty won the match with ruthless precision. Ravenclaw celebrates wildly—cheers echo through the Tower as a letter arrive. Mother wrote with great pride; while Father stayed cold, of course, as if victory were simply expected.

Barty doesn't bask in it anyway. Not like the others. He stands just beyond the main hearth, arms crossed. He has been congratulated enough. Touched too much. The noise begins to grate.

Meanwhile, Madam Pomfrey finally releases Nadine. "No strenuous flying. If it pulls, you come back." she says firmly. Nadine nods, hiding the pain as she walks back to her Tower.

"She's back—"

"Did Carrow really hit her on purpose?"

Some of them flinch guiltily—others just stare. Nadine just walks past them, chin high, already preparing for what comes next.

The common room is unusually quiet—no music, no games, no firewhiskey sneaked in. Just six players, in their lounging outfits, waiting.

James paces in front of the fireplace, jaw clenched so tight it looks like his molars might crack. Sirius lounges sideways in one of the armchairs, legs thrown over the armrest, picking at the strings on his broom like it might keep him from exploding. Marlene sits cross-legged on the floor beside the fire, tossing balled up paper between her hands with boredom.

Fabian and Gideon lean against the far wall, matching glares on their freckled faces. Even Phoebe had gone quiet, her usual demeanor dulled under everything that had happened.

James still has bruises, covered in the Bruising Balm, and Fabian is helping Gideon rewrap the bandage around his shoulders for his cracked bone.

"She was warned." James mutters, stopping mid-pace. "She was explicitly warned."

"About Slytherins in general." Sirius says with a drawl, but there is a hard edge beneath the lazy tone. "But Amycus Carrow? That's not just a Slytherin. That's a walking hate crime waiting to happen."

"She still provoked him." James snaps, turning to face the room. "She knew what he's like, and she still started on him. She's got to stop playing hero every time someone breathes the word 'blood traitor.'"

"She is a blood traitor, mate." says Marlene, catching the ball in one hand. "To people like him. That's not something she can just turn off. And it's not an everyday insult either. I don't blame her."

"And what, that makes it smart to pick fights with him before our match?" James's voice rises. "She's lucky she only got broken ribs."

"She fainted mid-air." Gideon says darkly. "If the grounds were frozen..."

The room falls silent for a beat.

Sirius shifts in his chair, suddenly less relaxed. "You're blaming the wrong person, James. Carrow's the one who aimed the Bludger. He didn't even pretend it was for the Quaffle carrier."

"Of course it was." James snaps. "I'm not blaming her, obviously. All I'm saying is—don't mess with the wrong people. And it's not like we didn't warn her. I mean—what was it? Ten times? Fifteen?"

Phoebe lets out a long breath, leaning forward on the edge of the couch. "James, we need to refocus on who the actual villain is here, and who the victim is. You can't blame her. She played the game with everything she had. That Bludger wasn't bad luck—it was sabotage. That was malice. Intentional. The bloke's a menace."

"I know." James says quickly, running a hand through his hair, frustration softening into weariness. "I know. I just keep thinking about how it started. What provoked it. Why was it her."

He exhales slowly, glancing at the fireplace. "She's not at fault. I get that. And I don't want her thinking she is, either. We all played well. We didn't deserve what happened."

"Rivalry's one thing." Fabian adds from where he leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "But this? This was personal. Even they looked thrown."

"Especially Rosier." Gideon mutters. "That git actually hesitated when he saw her drop."

"And Seraphina? I've never seen such an expression on anyone's face before. It was as if she witnessed a murder, or intended to commit one. Hell—it did look like an attempted murder."

James nods absently, shoulders still tense. "That's what worries me."

The Fat Lady's portrait swings open before anyone can respond.

Nadine steps inside, slightly hunched and visibly uncomfortable, her torso still bound under her jumper. Her hair is tied back messily, and she holds a set of folded notes in one hand, and two books pressed against her in the other. She pauses when she sees them all staring, tension coiling instantly in the room.

James's arms fold. "We need to talk."

"Okay." she mutters, giving in as Phoebe and Marlene rise without a word, flanking her.

They guide her gently to the couch, careful not to jostle her too much. Nadine eases into the cushions with a quiet breath, legs tucked beneath her, arms curled protectively around her middle. The healing spells have done their job, and the potions dulled most of the pain—but the wrong step, the wrong breath, still lit something sharp.

"Thanks." she says softly, almost absently, her eyes scanning the room.

The boys remain still—James looking particularly stricken, like he didn't decide whether he should say something or pace a hole into the rug. Gideon and Fabian exchange a glance, then look anywhere but directly at her. Sirius keeps fidgeting with his tie. Tension didn't leave the room; it just shifted into something heavier.

"I'm fine." Nadine adds, sensing the weight in the air. "Just not ready for dueling practice or a broomstick marathon."

James shifts his weight awkwardly, then takes a slow step forward, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, Nadine..." he begins, his voice unusually careful. "I'm glad you're alright. Really. We all are."

She looks at him, waiting. No sarcasm, no bite—just waiting.

He sighs. "But I need to say this, even if you hex me for it—I told you to stay away from them. We all did."

There it is. Not cruel. Not angry. Just tired.

"I'm not blaming you." he adds quickly, holding up his hands. "I'm not. What Carrow did was—was criminal. If I had it my way, he'd be expelled and banned from broomsticks for life. But you can't keep walking into their games thinking you'll beat them on principle. This is not a dick-measuring competition."

His eyes lock with hers. "You don't have to prove anything to them. Not anymore. Especially not at that cost."

Before Nadine can respond, Phoebe steps in, her voice calm but firm.

"Look, there's no doubt it was sabotage." she says. "And it didn't even feel like it was about the match anymore. Quidditch matches don't stop, at least not often—but this one did. You fainted midair. Even Regulus stopped playing." Her brows draw together as she adds, quieter, "I didn't even see when he caught the Snitch. I couldn't take my eyes off you—just lying there on the grass."

"If the grounds had been frozen," Fabian cuts in, his tone edged with restraint, "you'd be dead."

The words hang there like frost. Nadine is speechless.

"It would've been a headline." Gideon says quietly from the corner. "That one would've made the Prophet. The daughter of a prominent Ministry official, taken out mid-match at Hogwarts." His voice isn't accusing—it is matter-of-fact, cold truth delivered with all the emotion he can't say out loud.

"Over what?" James echoes grimly. "A bloodline insult? One more shove from a lunatic who shouldn't even be on a pitch?"

Nadine doesn't look up. Her eyes drop to the parchment in her lap, unfocused, jaw clenched. The sudden spike of pain as she breathes too deeply.

Her fingers curl tighter.

"Okay, guys? Lay off a little, yeah?" Marlene cuts in, sliding onto the couch beside Nadine and throwing a protective glance around the room. "Since when do we lecture the girl who got blindsided by a Bludger and nearly died? How about we stay focused on the psychopath who thought that was acceptable behavior?"

She folds her arms, posture sharp and unapologetic. "We're Gryffindors. We don't eat our own."

Sirius finally sits up straighter, setting his broom aside with an audible clack against the floor. His voice comes low, but clear.

"Marlene's right." he says. "We don't tear each other down. Nadine didn't deserve any of it, whether she did or didn't provoke him."

Then he looks toward James, his expression measured. "But he's not wrong either. None of us are invincible. You can be brave and smart at the same time, Crouch. It's not a weakness."

His gaze flicks to her, steady but not accusing. "People like Carrow... they're looking for excuses. Doesn't matter if you're right. Doesn't matter if you're better. They want to make examples."

He exhales slowly. "You're not the one who should've been punished. But you were, and that's why we're all here acting like we're walking on glass."

A pause.

"We wish you had taken our advice when we told you." James adds, his pressure elevated.

Nadine exhales carefully, but her voice stays steady. "I get it." she says. "I do."

Her gaze sweeps the room before landing on James. "I didn't pick the fight, but I didn't walk away either. That was my choice."

She pauses, fingers tightening slightly around the parchment. "It wasn't about pride—it was about not letting him spit poison and expecting silence. I didn't think he'd go that far."

She glances down, then back up. "But don't paint me as reckless just for standing my ground. I'm not trying to be a hero. I'm just not shrinking to make them feel bigger."

The portrait hole creaks open.

Remus enters, Peter trailing behind. They pause at the heavy silence in the room, eyes flicking to Nadine, then the rest of the team.

"What did we miss?" Remus asks, voice low, casting looks on the familiar faces and landing on Nadine. He feels the tension, and knows it is simmering.

"An intervention." Sirius mutters. "Possibly a coup."

Nadine doesn't look at them.

"But your implication that this is about all Slytherins?" Nadine says, her voice sharpening. "It's misplaced—again. One person. One group. You don't get to generalize an entire House because of Carrow."

James scoffs and starts pacing again. "Sure. But it's a bit convenient, isn't it? That it's always Slytherin. Never a Ravenclaw. Never a Hufflepuff. And, another irony—the one that hangs out with Snivellus, of all people." he mutters, frustration lacing his tone.

Nadine's lips twitch at the mention of the foul nickname. She isn't about to have a repeat of their party discussion.

"You mean Severus?" she cuts in sharply, her voice laced with disbelief. "What does Severus have to do with this now? What's this incessant need to blame everything on him, and treat everyone around him like the plague?"

She shifts, ignoring the flare of pain again. "You know, I'm starting to think you're obsessed with Snapes."

Remus exhales, letting the moment pass. He keeps his thoughts to himself for now, though part of him is genuinely curious about where this is going.

Sirius rolls his eyes, exasperated. "Don't you get it? This is who they are. A foul, obnoxious, evil group of people. These are the types of people I ran from."

Marlene speaks up, her tone thoughtful but not dismissive. "Yes, but they were surprised too. This wasn't their plan. At least, not for us. Unless they're just fantastic actors—and Seraphina's the star of their little drama."

"I mean, if Seraphina's assault on Carrow was an indicator of anything," Gideon adds, shrugging, "it was that they don't stand behind his foul. But I do recall them not exactly letting us jump him, either."

Nadine's eyes flick to Gideon, a faint frown tugging at her lips. "Seraphina wasn't wrong to react the way she did. And don't forget, she's my best friend, not some random Slytherin you can just dismiss." Her tone is firm, but it isn't defensive—it is grounded, protective.

"Oh, come on already!" James snaps, throwing his hands up in frustration. "You with your bloody Slytherin! What are you on about? You nearly got killed! Stop defending them!"

Nadine's temper flares instantly. She shoots up from her seat, her hand twitching toward her wand, barely holding back the impulse to lash out.

"You, you obsessive, ruthless individual—you do not get to lecture me about friendships, about anything!" Her voice is like a whip, sharp and cutting. "Your tirade about Slytherins is going too far, and you know it. This has nothing to do with Severus! Or any of my friends! This is Carrow's decision, and only Carrow's."

Her chest heaves with every breath as she stares him down, her eyes blazing with fury. "I'm not some bloody child who doesn't know where to draw the line. You want to blame every Slytherin for one idiot's actions? Fine, but don't expect me to go along with your damn nonsense. Amycus almost killed me—he did that, not the entire House! And I'm done with you treating everyone around you like they're the problem."

"Yeah, well, it seems that whether we lecture you or don't, you end up getting yourself nearly killed." James spits, his frustration now evident. "Where's the reason? Where's the cleverness? Or did Barty inherit enough for both of you? You're acting like a reckless fool, picking fights just to feel better about yourself."

Nadine's eyes narrow dangerously, her temper nearly at its breaking point. She takes a step forward, her voice low and sharp. "You think I want this? And how dare you mention my brother!" Her wand is drawn, as she holds it next to her thigh.

"Okay, everyone, calm down." Remus interjects, his voice steady but laced with the exhaustion of dealing with this. "There's no need to turn on anyone here. We're trying to solve this matter in a civil manner, and if you can't do it, come back another day."

His gaze flicks between James and Nadine, both of them seething with anger, but it is clear he is done with the shouting. His tired eyes soften slightly as he turns to Nadine. "You're both right in some ways, but this isn't helping anything. Yelling at each other won't fix the problem. We need to focus on what happened, not tear each other apart over it."

James takes a deep breath, still glaring but trying to hold his temper in check, while Nadine stands rigid, eyes flashing, still seething but clearly unwilling to back down.

"If you can't contain yourself, and have to always put yourself—and us—in these situations—you're benched or you're done." James snaps, pointing a finger at her. "You are not going to jeopardize the whole team over your personal issues. This is beyond just you now—we practiced for nothing."

Nadine lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh and rolls her eyes. "Wow, Potter, I can't imagine how hard this game has been on you!"

The sarcasm hits like a slap, and the room falls into thick silence again.

"Because Merlin forbid our little golden boy's record gets stained by my injuries. Must be so hard being perfect all the time."

"We're giving you a choice." Sirius says coldly. "Either get your shit together and stand with us—Gryffindors—or keep running back to their twisted little antics. You wanted to know why we don't trust them? There's your reason. Do whatever you want with it."

"Oh, shut up, Sirius." she exhales and sits back down.

"Nadine... They—They have a point." Phoebe says gently, her voice tentative. "If these incidents keep happening, then maybe create some distance... and the pressure will cease."

Nadine's jaw clenches. She lets out a humorless laugh. "Or maybe, just maybe, I need to create some distance from you freaks." she mutters, pushing herself up from the couch again.

The room falls still.

"You talk about loyalty." she snaps, looking around. "But the second things get hard, suddenly I'm the problem. Not the people throwing Bludgers. Me."

Silence takes over for a long moment.

The meeting started hours ago, and though the initial fire has dulled, its smoke still lingers. The room buzzes softly with leftover tension—disagreements still flickering, conversations looping back on themselves. But beneath it all, there is one thing they share, unspoken yet heavy in the air:

They all want peace.

James exhales heavily, rubbing his temples. "Look... I didn't mean for it to turn into this. I'm pissed because we care. And yeah, I don't trust them."

Sirius crosses his arms, quieter now. "You scared the hell out of us, honestly. And we're trying to be here for you. But it's hard to watch you dive headfirst into fire and act like we're the ones burning you."

Nadine pauses near the stairs, jaw still tense, but something in her eyes flicker. The silence drags for a moment until Phoebe steps forward.

"We don't have to agree on everything." she says softly. "But maybe we stop treating each other like enemies, and just start... listening."

Remus speaks up from the corner. "There's danger either way—distance won't erase that. But if we stick together, we might actually stand a chance."

Nadine looks back at them all, anger still pulsing under her skin—but slowly, it begins to ebb.

"Fine." she mutters. "But don't expect me to stay quiet just to keep the peace."

James gives a small nod and a smirk. "Obviously, me neither."

Chapter Text

It is exactly a week before Christmas Eve, or rather, before everyone is meant to part ways for the holidays. Hogwarts begins to feel a little lighter, a little slower—assignments are handed in, final meetings wrapped up, theoretical and practical exams for each specialization passed, and the halls carry a certain hush, like they are all collectively holding their breath before the great exhale that is the break. The castle is still adorned with its towering trees and floating candles, but the real season lies just beyond its gates: Hogsmeade.

The girls are there early—bundled, bustling, and slightly overdressed.

Nadine walks with a slight but stubborn ease, her blue velvet cloak sweeping behind her, the collar is fur-lined, her gloves dragonhide, and the Gryffindor pin at her shoulder gleams proud and polished. She walks like a storm has passed and she is ready for the next. Still, the other girls hover without hovering, constantly adjusting to her pace without comment.

Cassiopeia flanks her left—icy, elegant, dark hair pinned into a low twist beneath a smart wool beret. Her coat is an opulent green, belted at the waist, and her boots hit the cobblestones with a decisive click. She is the one who teases the most but watches Nadine the closest, eyes flicking to her with each jostle in the crowd.

Seraphina is wrapped in layers of black and storm-grey, her wand tucked into one boot, her expression half-concentrated, half-annoyed as she scans shop windows. She is hunting a dress for the wedding—not just any dress, but one that balances affordability, statement, and the impossible pressure of that kind of guest list. She keeps murmuring to herself: "Not too black, not too lace, not too obvious..."

Pandora drifts more than walks—warm in blush-toned wool and earmuffs to match, her scarf long enough to drag if she doesn't loop it right. She talks the most, as usual, full of warmth and little bursts of wonder. Her cheeks are rosy and her gloves are dotted with embroidered stars. "There was a party in our Tower." she says brightly as they cross in front of Honeydukes. "Someone enchanted the punch. People were speaking French by the end of it."

Cassiopeia smirks. "All brains, no sense."

"Better than Carrow's version of a party." Seraphina mutters, biting off the words. "Charming hospitality."

"I should've hexed his broom mid-air." Cassiopeia replies, gaze sharp and unapologetic. "He's got the flying grace of a drunken thestral. His whole face is a curse."

"Don't tempt me." Nadine laughs softly, holding a paper bag from Honeydukes. "I'd almost risk Pomfrey's wrath to see it."

They walk arm-in-arm sometimes, side-by-side other times, their path winding past Zonko's, The Three Broomsticks, and down to the quieter corners near the bookshop and apothecary. The street smells like roasted chestnuts, warm sugar, and woodsmoke. The sky is bright but pale, and the wind bites a bit more with every hour. The snow hasn't yet fallen—unusual for this time of year—but the air smells like it might arrive overnight.

The girls wrap their cloaks tighter, cheeks flushed, laughter still echoing softly between them as they regroup outside The Three Broomsticks.

Brownie (who had smuggled herself out of Hogwarts beneath Nadine's cloak), now trots dutifully beside them, tail high and nose twitching with interest at every new scent and sound. A few passing students pause to coo at her, but she haughtily ignores them—her priority is clearly her mistress and the girls she has decided to tolerate.

"Alright." Cassiopeia announces, tugging her gloves tighter, "We've got the drinks, the sugar, and enough chocolate to last three heart attacks. Time to shop for the undeserving."

"Boys." Seraphina mutters darkly.

"But only the ones we like." Pandora adds with a smile.

They start with Scrivenshaft's. The warmth inside is immediate and welcome, and the scent of fresh parchment, dragonhide-bound journals, and quills fills the air. The shelves sparkle faintly with protective spells.

For Barty, it is Nadine who leads the way.

She selects a leather-bound planner—not gaudy, but rich, clean, and organized, with reordering pages, a charm to prevent spills, and an enchanted ink well built into the spine. It is clever, utilitarian, and elegant—like Barty himself. "He won't say thank you," she says, brushing a speck of dust from the surface, "but he'll use it every day."

Seraphina gets Barty a dagger made from a fang and goblin steel, that will resist corrosive monster blood and amplify defensive spells—with subtle protective runes.

Cassiopeia, however, chooses something else for him—a limited edition book of Dark spells, banned in most bookstores but hidden here behind a password-locked glass case. "He'll pretend not to be impressed," she murmurs, "but he'll read it cover to cover." Seraphina rolls her eyes and mutters, "You're both unwell."

Pandora, thoughtful and whimsical as ever, picks out a charm that attaches to Barty's broom handle—a wind direction rune, old magic, said to hum when the best current hits. "He flies like a hawk, but this'll make it sharper. He'll love it if he notices it."

For Evan, Seraphina actually shows a rare softness.

She buys a flask—sleek, obsidian-colored, spelled to keep its contents at a perfect temperature. "Not for Firewhisky," she clarifies, "just for the idea of it. He'll laugh. He's vain enough to carry it around just to be seen with it." She grumbles but wraps it carefully in charcoal tissue paper.

Cassiopeia chooses something sharper—a cufflink set made of obsidian and silver, made to change subtly depending on the wearer's mood.

Pandora, meanwhile, surprises everyone by selecting an expensive cologne—deep, musky, forest-heavy. "It's his favourite." she smiles warmly.

For Bill, they buy a shared gift: a deck of wizarding poker cards that reshuffle themselves mid-game, with hidden traps and clever puzzles built in. "Let's be honest," Nadine says, "he'll gamble and cheat and accuse others of sabotage. It'll be the best Christmas he's had."

Pandora adds a small charm for him—something to attach to his cloak pin that glows faintly when there is dark magic nearby. "Just in case." she says softly.

Next is Nadine's list, the longest by far.

For Remus, she selects a thick, soft jumper from Spindlewicks—a forest green wool blend that is charmed to resist stretching and smells faintly of cinnamon. She also adds a packet of tea from Madam Purl's Tea Emporium: soothing brews for winter nights, some even spelled for dreamless sleep.

For James, she finds a customized golden Snitch keychain—just big enough to fidget with and enchanted to dart around when tapped twice. "He'll lose it immediately and then spend a week chasing it down." she laughs.

For Phoebe, Nadine buys an embroidered velvet hair ribbon with a stardust shimmer and a miniature mirror that compliments the wearer in ten different languages.

Marlene gets a pair of high quality gloves—sleek, flameproof, and stylish—with an added protective enchantment. "They're really for punching." Nadine admits, and Cassiopeia snorts in approval.

For the Prewett twins, it is a matched set of prank scrolls from Zonko's—parchments that cast random illusions when opened. "We'll regret this." Pandora mutters. "Deeply."

And for Sirius, Cassiopeia finds something almost too perfect—a black leather wristband etched with tiny silver dog paws. She doesn't say much, just holds it for a while before quietly paying for it and slipping it into her satchel.

As they weave through the village, they pause to eat at a tiny corner café with frosted windows and floating candles over each booth. They sit at the largest table near the back, steaming mugs of cocoa and spiced cider clutched in their hands, scarves loosened and cheeks glowing from the cold. Brownie curls beneath the table, tail twitching sleepily against Nadine's boot.

While they eat, Pandora and Cassiopeia discuss what to get Regulus.

Cassiopeia picks out a polished ring box from a specialty shop nearby. Inside is a silver signet ring, elegant and traditional, engraved with his initials. It is tasteful, dignified, and a clear reminder of who he is. "He'll like it because it comes from me." she says, as if that is enough. It probably is.

Pandora chooses something softer: a thick leather-bound journal with blank pages that only reveal themselves to the writer. "He's quiet these days." she says gently. "He might write more. He deserves privacy." They both nod.

As for Severus, Seraphina spends the longest time searching.

She finally settles on a rare potions text—out of print, complex, and annotated in Latin. She finds it in the back corner of a shadowy bookstore that smells like dust and incense. She doesn't ask what it cost. "He'll read it," she mutters, "and pretend he's not impressed."

By the time they finish, their arms are aching, and their feet are frozen. They are loaded with bags, packages, and the sleepy warmth of a day well-spent. Brownie, still alert, mews gently and hops into Nadine's arms as the sky finally darkens fully.

"Are we done?" Seraphina asks, exasperated but content.

"Not yet." Nadine says with a bright smile. She slows and turns her head with a gleam in her eye. Her fingers gently tug at Cassiopeia's sleeve.

Cassiopeia doesn't need an explanation. She follows Nadine's gaze.

There it is—a new boutique, recently opened for the festival, nestled between the old wandmaker's stall and a coffee shop that smells like burnt toffee. Its window displays are alive with movement: gowns on mannequins twirl slowly, catching the low golden light. Fabrics shimmer with spellwork—silks that ripple like water, velvets so dark they seem bottomless, and gossamer overlays that sparkle like frost. The shop name glows faintly in calligraphy above the window: Chateau d'Étoiles.

Even Pandora gasps softly. "They're exquisite."

Seraphina falters just a step. "We don't have to—"

"We do. I want to check it out." Nadine interrupts gently. Her tone isn't bossy, just firm enough to leave no room for argument.

Inside, it is warm, with chandeliers mimicking floating lanterns and soft classical music playing in the background. The dresses hang in layers of magic and luxury—some corseted, some draped, all glowing with detail. There is not a single item that isn't made for grand entrances.

Cassiopeia leans toward Nadine as they begin weaving through racks. "She won't choose one if she thinks about the price."

"I know." Nadine murmurs. "We'll handle it."

"She must get the one she truly wants. I will get mine tailored anyway." Cassiopeia adds, inspecting a deep emerald gown. "I will send few to her if she doesn't accept."

Nadine nods and smiles softly. "I'll say it's from our Christmas list. It's the least she deserves."

They watch Seraphina pause by a gown tucked into the far side of the shop—dark purple, off the shoulder, with a waterfall of silver embroidery down the skirt like scattered stars. The bodice is fitted and sleek, and the back dips low in a swooping curve that balances elegance and edge.

Seraphina stares at it, fingers gently touching the hem.

"That one?" Nadine asks lightly, approaching her casually.

Seraphina startles. "No point."

"Why?" Nadine's voice is kind. "Just try it on."

"It's probably made to scream at me if I even breathe near it." Seraphina half-jokes, but her tone is defensive. "Let's try another shop. There's one near the post office with a decent rack."

"You love this one." Nadine says, not accusingly but almost dreamily, as if stating something inevitable. "You looked at it the way I look at raspberry tarts after exams. Come on. Just try it. You don't have to pick it."

Seraphina hesitates, clearly torn between pride and longing. "But—"

"No buts." Cassiopeia chimes in, walking over and pretending to fuss with the fabric. "We're just playing dress-up. Humor us."

With an eye-roll and a mutter about 'peer pressure,' Seraphina finally disappears into the changing room.

As soon as the curtain closes, the three girls snap into silent coordination.

Cassiopeia finds the price tag first. Her eyebrows raise just slightly—"It's hand-made."—but she says nothing more, slipping the tag behind the fabric so Seraphina won't see.

"I'll cover half." she says to Nadine.

"No. Split in thirds." Nadine whispers. "We'll tell her it's from all of us. No big presents otherwise—just socks and sweets."

Pandora frowns sweetly. "She'd do the same for us. It's only fair."

When Seraphina finally emerges, the room stills.

The dress fits her like prophecy—flawless, every line exact, every shimmer of starlight embroidery seeming to curve in deference to her body. Her black hair is piled loosely atop her head, cheekbones sharp, eyes dark, shoulders bared like marble and stormclouds.

Nadine's breath catches.

Cassiopeia whistles, low and impressed. "Oh, Seraphina. You look lethal."

"I think the dress is scared of you." Pandora murmurs, awe glowing on her face.

Seraphina tries to keep her face neutral, but her ears flush pink.

"Do you like it?" Nadine asks gently, the only one who dares to step closer.

Seraphina hesitates. "I—yes. But—"

"Then it's yours." Nadine says firmly. "That's your Christmas present. From all of us."

Seraphina blinks. "No. No, no, absolutely not."

"You're not getting anything else." Cassiopeia says, shrugging with false indifference. "So it's this or a Howler of affection. Choose wisely."

"We'll all pitch in." Pandora reassures. "We planned this."

"But it's—"

"Shut up, you look absolutely divine." Nadine says with a sudden burst of laughter, stepping forward to tug her gently by the arm. "You're wearing it to the wedding, and you're going to outshine everyone in the room. Merlin, you are so beautiful."

Seraphina stares at them for a long moment, lips parted slightly.

Then—quietly, awkwardly—she says, "Thanks."

"Don't get sentimental." Cassiopeia says, already moving toward the counter.

Nadine squeezes Seraphina's hand before letting go, their eyes meeting just for a second.

Brownie winds around Seraphina's feet and purrs in approval.

They step into the evening again with the dress carefully boxed and charmed for the journey. The wind has picked up, the stars above twinkling faintly in the growing dark. Brownie trots ahead. Their laughter follows, warm and sharp, rising into the cold air like firelight—fierce, gentle, unspoken proof of something rare and unbreakable.

Chapter Text

Steam hisses from the train as it comes to a final halt, curling around ankles like ghostly ribbons. The air is laced with the sound of trunks scraping against stone, owls hooting from cages, and excited calls from waiting parents.

The doors swing open, and a flood of students step down, some laughing, others bleary-eyed and shivering. Among them are Nadine, her hand gripping the handle of her trunk, Brownie perched proudly atop it. She walks with Barty at her side, their steps in sync, flanked by Evan, Pandora, Regulus, Cassiopeia, Seraphina, and Severus.

Cassiopeia is already adjusting the collar of her white coat while Regulus remains composed and alert beside her. Evan mutters something sarcastic about the cold, and Barty responds with a smirk. Pandora wraps her scarf tighter with mittened hands, eyes soft and smiling. Seraphina walks with her chin up, arms folded neatly across her chest. Severus is quiet but present, hands deep in his coat pockets, sharp eyes tracking the crowd.

Nadine scans the platform before they all begin peeling off toward their families.

"Cass." she says softly, stepping closer and throwing her arms around her.

Cassiopeia startles, then returns the hug—tight, firm, secretive. "Don't let your Father get to your head." she says, lips twitching. "Send me letters whenever you want."

Nadine laughs, "Don't worry about me. No one's like Mother Wal. Take care."

Cassiopeia smirks and turns toward Regulus. Without another word, she falls into step beside him, and they vanish into the thinning crowd like shadows dissipating.

Nadine stands for a second, watching. Her smile fades just slightly, then returns when her gaze lands on another familiar set of faces.

Sirius is just across, grinning as he joins the Potters. James claps him on the back, already talking fast and loud, while Peter trails behind, fumbling with his trunk. But it is Remus who draws Nadine's attention.

He is a little apart from them, shoulders hunched beneath a slightly too-large coat, one hand holding a worn bag, the other adjusting his scarf. There is something distant in his expression—like he is already preparing for a quiet holiday.

Without hesitation, Nadine rushes over, Brownie leaping gracefully from her trunk to follow.

"Oi, Lupin!" she calls, breath forming puffs as she grins. Remus looks up, startled, then softens as she reaches him.

"Nadine." he says, voice warm and a little hoarse from the cold. "Hey."

She throws her arms around him, holding tight. "I wanted to catch you since I didn't see you yesterday. Here."

From her bag, she pulls a neatly wrapped package—glowing faintly, keeping the contents safe and fresh.

"Don't open it until the 25th." she warns. "I'm serious. Or I'll hex you from wherever I am."

Remus chuckles. "You're terrifying. Thank you."

He tucks it carefully into his bag, eyes brighter than before, and pulls out another smaller package. "I have something for you too."

"Thank you. See you in two weeks." Nadine grins, gives him a mock salute, then turns back just as Seraphina steps beside her.

The two share a quick embrace.

"You really don't have to." Seraphina whispers, voice like silk.

"It's between me and him. Thanks again." Nadine murmurs softly, hugging her girl tightly.

"See you next term, Crouchling."

Severus waits a pace behind, silent and watchful. His gaze meets Nadine's—cool but not unkind. She smiles at him, and surprisingly, he nods once.

Then Seraphina joins him, and they melt into the crowd.

"Ready?" Barty says, suddenly beside her again, trunk hovering behind him. Brownie circles Nadine's boots once, then leaps gracefully into her arms, curling against her coat.

She nods, heart warm, eyes tired, cheeks pink.

The carriage rolls to a slow stop outside the wrought-iron gates of the Crouch estate—an imposing manor nestled just beyond the trees of Buckinghamshire, cloaked in gray stone and dignity. It is not the kind of place that boasts spires or gaudy fountains, but it breathes quiet, ancient wealth—precise topiary gardens, tall windows trimmed in iron, and a silence that echoes power.

The gates swing open with a low creak and crunching gravel meets their boots as Nadine and Barty step out. The sky is washed in faded gold and dove-gray, the horizon pale. The air smells of cold stone and damp earth. As soon as their shoes touch the drive, a sharp bark rings out—and then another.

"Ares!" Nadine laughs, just as the sleek forms bound from around the manor's side.

"Hades, you menace—" Barty says, grinning.

The two massive dogs sprint forward, lean and gleaming, tails wagging like weapons. Ares launches up first, placing his paws on Nadine's chest, licking her face shamelessly while she laughs and tries to hold her balance. Hades barrels into Barty's legs, nearly knocking him over. Both dogs are vibrating with excitement, snuffling their clothes, whining with joy. It is clear they have been waiting.

"I missed you too, boys." Nadine murmurs into Ares's warm fur, ruffling behind his ears. Brownie, still curled in her scarf, lifts her head and hisses with disdain.

The front door creaks open, and a soft pop echoes from within.

"Mistress Nadine... Master Bartemius." Winky squeaks, blinking nervously as she bows low at the top of the steps. "Winky is announcing—Madam Crouch, your children is being arrived!"

A flick of silk, and a shadow glides forward from the doorway. Mother appears, dignified and graceful in tailored robes of emerald and midnight blue. Her blonde hair is swept up elegantly, and her sharp cheekbones are warmed by a tender smile.

"My darlings." she says, and her arms open.

Nadine is first up the steps, into Mother's embrace. She hugs her daughter tightly, brushing her hair back with long, graceful fingers. She moves to Barty next, fixing his collar and kissing his cheek even as she inspects him for signs of carelessness or bruises.

"You both look pale." she remarks, but her tone is fond.

"We're fine." Barty says, brushing some fur from his sleeve. "The train was freezing."

"Come in. Leave your trunks in the hall. Winky will take them."

They step into the entry hall—dark wood paneling, lamps, and portraits that murmur greetings or nod as they pass. The warmth of the manor seeps into their bones as the door closes behind them. The scent of cinnamon and parchment lingers in the air, along with faint firewood smoke.

"Your father is in his office." Mother says as she removes her gloves and sets them on a silver dish by the coat stand. "You may go see him before dinner, but don't linger too long—he's in the middle of something important."

Nadine and Barty nod, exchanging a glance, and head upstairs.

The grand staircase curves upward in polished mahogany, the gallery lined with ancestral paintings—watchful-eyed Crouches in stiff collars and elegant robes. Their rooms are just down the corridor.

Brownie wastes no time. As Nadine opens the door, the fluffy creature leaps from her shoulder and immediately curls into her silken bed, letting out a satisfied meow before drifting off.

Nadine drops her coat across the armchair, runs a hand across her familiar desk, her shelves of books. Barty passes by her door and jerks his head—ready.

They walk together down the hall, then take the right turn at the corridor with the thick carpet, the heavy oaken door looming at the end.

Barty knocks once. A voice calls, "Enter."

The office is paneled in even darker wood, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves brimming with legal volumes, law codices, and old tomes in Latin. The fireplace is lit low behind the great oak desk. Behind it sits Father, quill in hand, pristine as always, his thin lips twitching at the corners as he looks up at his children.

Nadine and Barty step in, posture straight, the heavy door shutting behind them with a solid thud.

"One detention." he says flatly, tapping the parchment once. "One for you, Bartemius. And one rather disturbing report regarding your sister. You've both outdone yourselves this term."

Silence lingers a beat too long.

"I expect better." he says finally. His eyes are cold, hawkish, and razor-sharp. "We are not some common thugs. The Ministry already has enough eyes on our family, particularly with your generation making waves. And I am not in the mood to read about my son or daughter being dragged into crude nonsense with the likes of Carrows."

"They're the ones who—" Barty starts, voice tense, but Father raises a single hand.

"I did not ask for excuses." His voice is clipped, precise, unforgiving. "Do you think I didn't receive an owl from their father? Do you think the Ministry corridor hasn't been filled with whispers—'Crouch's children involved in another feud'? I had to walk into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement this week and act as though I wasn't hearing about it from a colleague at every turn."

He leans forward now, steepling his fingers. "Amycus claimed it was a competitive match. That tempers flared. That Nadine happened to be in the way of a Bludger he hit. He, of course, painted your detention as well, Bartemius, as some kind of petty retaliation—"

"It wasn't." Barty cuts in sharply, before he can stop himself.

Nadine glances sideways at her brother, clenching her hands into fists, but says nothing yet. Father narrows his eyes.

"Then what was it?"

Barty swallows hard. "It doesn't matter."

"Oh, it does. Because what I see," Father continues, voice like ice, "is my daughter spending five days in the Hospital Wing, and my son earning a record for confrontation. And what the world sees is House Crouch in some kind of back-alley brawl with the Carrows. That is not the image I've cultivated. That is not the standard I've demanded."

Nadine steps forward now, calm but firm. "Father. We handled it. You don't need to worry."

"I will always worry when I am left in the dark." he replies. "And if there's something going on between you and those two, I suggest you tell me now. Are you being targeted?"

There is a long pause.

"No." Nadine says, quietly. "Not like that."

Barty nods in agreement, but Father isn't convinced. He knows when they are hiding something—yet he also knows when he has hit a wall.

He sighs, adjusts the cuffs of his robes, and stands at last.

"I don't care what old bloodline the Carrows descend from. I don't care how many Sacred Twenty-Eight ancestors their father likes to name-drop in his letters. We do not stoop to that level. Ever. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Father." they answer in unison.

He holds their gazes a beat longer. "If there's a situation I need to know about, I expect full honesty. Otherwise, I expect peace. And discipline."

Another heavy silence. Then, curtly:

"I would like to speak with Bartemius alone. About the wedding."

Nadine lifts a brow but says nothing. "Of course."

She gives her brother a glance and quietly steps back. The door clicks shut behind her as she walks back into the hall.

She descends slowly, her fingers ghosting over the polished banister as Father's lecture echoes in her mind, dull and heavy. Her jaw clenches slightly, her temple pulses, and though she wants to scream, cry, or roll her eyes all at once, she doesn't allow herself the luxury. It is not worth it. Not tonight.

Of course he doesn't understand. He never does, she thinks bitterly, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek as she reaches the marble-tiled floor. He hears the Carrows's side and assumes it ends there. Doesn't ask why Amycus nearly took her head off, or why Barty would get detention over nothing. No—of course not.

She exhales through her nose, forces herself to reset as she passes the lit hallway and steps into the dining room.

It is warm and glowing with soft lights floating near the ceiling. The long table is already set, and Winky is finishing the last touches with a delicate flick of her fingers, placing steaming platters of roasted vegetables, dishes of savory meats, and a golden pot of soup in the center.

Ares and Hades clatter across the floor in a rush, tails pointed, their sleek coats shining in the light. They dive to their silver bowls in the corner where Winky has placed their meals, and Brownie pads in behind them, meowing softly before curling into her velvet-padded basket. After they finish, the dogs paw at the back door and Winky lets them out with a fond wave, murmuring about how excited they are.

Nadine sits down at her usual seat, the one to the left of Mother's, and exhales deeply, rubbing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. She doesn't say anything at first.

Mother, already seated and sipping a fine elderflower tisane, watches her with calm eyes. "Eat, dear." she says gently but firmly, placing her cup down. "You'll need your strength for tomorrow."

Nadine blinks, raising her head slowly. "Tomorrow?"

"We're leaving for Paris in the morning." Mother's voice has that soft lilt of restrained excitement. "To visit Grandmère. She asked for you especially. We'll stay through Christmas Eve, perhaps bit longer, depending on your father's schedule."

At that, Nadine finally allows herself a small, real smile. "Louis will be there?"

"He arrived two days ago." Mother confirms, cutting into a tender piece of roast. "And yes, before you ask—Clémence, Alexandre, and even your great-uncle Sylvain will be there."

Nadine feels her shoulders ease slightly. Paris. Grandmother. Louis. A piece of home she hasn't had in months. She hasn't told him about the incident. Their last letters were light, playful, and affectionate, nothing heavy. She had wanted to keep it that way—clean and untouched.

"Did the things I ordered arrive?" she asks suddenly, remembering.

Mother dabs the corner of her lips with a napkin. "Winky placed them in your room. I assume the large parcel is from Madame Célestine?"

Nadine's eyes flicker just briefly. "Yes. Just... new clothes. For me. And Barty. Some things for Father too."

She keeps her voice smooth, eyes down as she spoons a bit of soup into her bowl, not wanting to linger on the lie.

A moment later, Father and Barty enter. Barty is more relaxed now—hands in pockets, expression softening as he sees the food.

They sit, and the table fills with clinking silver and warm conversation. Father asks about the term in vague tones, avoiding any mention of the Carrows.

Nadine lets it go as well, for now. She talks with Barty about plans for Paris, about the gifts they still need to wrap, about which of their cousins might annoy them first. Brownie shifts in her basket and lets out a soft purr, ears twitching in the glow of the fire.

She rushes to her room, her footsteps soft against the polished floors as she crosses into the secondary room—a converted dressing chamber.

She pushes the door open and exhales when she sees them: carefully stacked boxes, each wrapped with care by Winky under her strict instructions. Gold and silver trims glint under the lamplight, twinkling over the name tags to prevent tampering. She kneels gracefully and unties the ribbon on one package, smiling as the delicate tissue rustles.

The first box holds her gift for Seraphina—a sleek, high-quality leather-bound notebook, fireproof, dragon-scale textured, and self-organizing. Its pages can sort notes by species, terrain, danger level, and even include diagrams and folding maps. There is also a rare scale from a Chinese Fireball, sealed in glass, for inspiration.

The second gift is for Cassiopeia. A sleek potion kit in obsidian and emerald tones—highly exclusive—complete with rare vials, and an imported crystal stirring rod.

Next, she unwraps the soft silver paper for Pandora's gift: a handmade celestial globe, delicate and glassy, which shows star alignments and planetary movements from any date in the past thousand years. The constellations glow in soft lilac and blue, shifting as the globe turns. Nadine adds a little card, "For the stargazer who always sees beyond."

She gently pulls out the present for Louis—a beautiful medallion etched with healing runes from ancient Greece, designed to amplify steady flow during difficult procedures. Alongside it, she packs a tiny jar of soothing balm. He will know it is from her even before he reads the tag.

And then—she pauses. The large box in the corner.

Wrapped in black paper, tied with a slim silver ribbon. The tag has only one name: Severus.

She doesn't touch the ribbon. She only runs a finger across the edge of the box, smiling softly, eyes a little distant. The wrapping is perfectly neat. Inside is something she has been working on for weeks.

"I hope you like it." she whispers, fingertips brushing the lid. "I really hope you do."

She gathers the rest of the presents and moves them to the pile meant for owling—carefully organizing them for early delivery tomorrow. Then she heads into her bedroom, peels off the dress, and changes into her soft cotton pajama set, light pink with lace at the sleeves.

As she lays down, she lets out a long breath, sinking into the mattress. One hand drapes across her stomach and the other rests lightly over her left side. The sheets smell like home. She stares at the ceiling in silence, letting the stillness settle into her body.

She doesn't notice the door creak open at first, but soft footsteps pad across the room.

"Miss Nadine?" comes Winky's gentle voice. "Do you be needing anything else?"

Nadine turns her head and smiles. "No, thank you, Winky. Good night."

Winky nods and vanishes. Mother appears in the doorway, wrapped in her robe, hair swept into an elegant bun. She walks over without a word, brushes a hand over Nadine's forehead, and leans down to kiss her there.

"Good night, ma chère." she whispers.

"Night, Maman." Nadine murmurs.

Then, just as she is drifting toward sleep, the door creaks again and Barty peeks in. He walks over, looks at her for a moment without speaking, then simply says, "You okay?"

She nods. "I'm fine. Just tired."

He doesn't push. "Don't oversleep, slug."

"I won't."

He squeezes her hand once, then walks out, the door clicking shut behind him.

Nadine closes her eyes, her breath slowing. For the first time in weeks, she feels safe enough to let go. Sleep takes her softly.

Chapter Text

The Duvivier residence, where Mother was raised before marrying Father. Though not ostentatious, the townhouse is unmistakably old, refined—four stories high, with ivy-draped limestone walls, lanterns that flicker softly in the dawn mist, and balconies wrought in delicate ironwork blooming with ghostly winter roses.

Inside, it hums with the soft elegance of a lineage that values grace, order, and a quiet kind of power. Floating candles drift lazily near the ceiling, portraits of stern but kind witches and wizards glance up from their books as the Crouches pass. The drawing room is already alive—filled with soft chatter, the tinkling of tea cups, and the crackling of a large fireplace that smells faintly of cinnamon and cedar.

It is Christmas Eve, and the house is full.

Madame Amarante Duvivier, Nadine and Barty's grandmother, is a tall, dignified woman in her late eighties, her white hair swept into a chignon, robes deep maroon embroidered with silver thread. She waves lightly with her wand as she commands the kitchen like a general—pot-roast duck glistening with rosemary and orange peel, root vegetables peeling themselves, and floating trays of hors d'oeuvres weaving between excited children and cousins.

"Pas trop de chocolat avant le dîner!" she scolds one small boy trying to sneak a truffle. (No chocolate before dinner!)

"Oui, Grand-mère." the child mumbles guiltily, hiding the evidence behind his back. (Yes, Grandmother.)

Nadine and Barty are ambushed by a dozen cousins—some older, some still toddling. Nadine bends to hug little Élodie, a four-year-old with bouncing curls and a squeaky laugh, while Barty is dragged into a snowball duel in the courtyard, where snowflakes drift lazily through the air despite the clear skies overhead.

Inside, Lucille, their older cousin, is tuning a piano in the parlor as her father, Oncle Henri, floats in bottles of vin magique and arranges the bar. The aroma of mulled wine, garlic, and sugared almonds wafts through every room. Two toddlers are chasing Brownie, who is remarkably patient, while Ares and Hades trot proudly, occasionally accepting pats from small hands.

The grand dining table is beginning to set itself: long and gleaming under floating candles, laid with white-and-gold plates, hand-painted goblets, and a garland centerpiece of fir branches and golden holly. The name cards flicker with shifting calligraphy, glowing faintly as they settle into their spots.

"Attention! Pas de baguettes à table ce soir, sauf pour les toasts!" Grandmother calls. (No wands at the table tonight, except for toasts!)

Cousins are setting platters, gifts sneak beneath the glowing tree in the corner, and the aroma of duck, sugared pears, and freshly baked bread fills the house. Nadine glances toward Barty, who is helping one of the younger boys levitate a wrapped present onto the pile, a smile softening his features. Mother enters with a tray of tiny pastries, kisses both her children on the cheek, and says softly, "C'est bien d'être ici, non?" (It's good to be here, isn't it?)

Nadine smiles and nods, heart swelling. Yes. It is.

Father, tall and composed in his deep navy formal robes, steps out from the study with Henri, the two of them engaged in a low discussion. Father's voice is clipped, his tone more serious. There is a furrow in his brow Nadine recognizes—it means he is talking politics. Henri nods thoughtfully, gesturing with his glass as they make their way toward the main parlor.

Then the bell rings—clear and chiming through the walls like a spell—and a voice rings out from the kitchen, strong and sure.

"Les LeBlancs sont arrivés!" (The LeBlancs are here!)

The room stirs.

Nadine jolts up, her heart leaping. She brushes invisible dust off her blue dress, and without waiting for anyone else, races to the front of the house, slippers tapping against the warm wood of the hallway floors. Her fingers curl eagerly around the heavy brass door handle, and she flings it open into the cold night.

There they are.

Monsieur and Madame LeBlanc stand tall and smiling, cloaked in fine travel robes of deep hunter green and dark copper, their cheeks pink from the evening air. Behind them, a light keeps their coats dry and their boots clean. They are dignified, warm, and familiar.

"Bonsoir, Nadine." Madame LeBlanc says with a warm smile and open arms.

Nadine hugs them both with genuine affection. "Bienvenue, I'm so glad you're here."

They step aside, and there he is.

Louis.

He is taller—definitely taller—and leaner, his jaw more defined since the summer. His curls are wind-tossed, and his eyes soften immediately when he sees her. Nadine doesn't say anything at first. She simply runs to him, throws her arms around his neck, and he lifts her just slightly off the ground as he hugs her back, burying his face in her shoulder.

She pulls away, eyes narrowing playfully. "I missed you."

"I missed you too." he says.

She blinks, impressed. "You've been practicing."

Louis shrugs modestly, but the faint blush gives him away. "I had to. Means a lot—coming from you."

She nudges his shoulder before guiding him inside, calling out, "Ils sont là !" (They're here!) as they move into the salon. Mother and Father rise to greet them with warm, formal welcomes, while Grandmother swoops in to kiss both of Louis's cheeks.

Louis joins Barty and Nadine near the fireplace. The boys exchange a firm handshake and a half-smile.

Nadine tilts her head. "And Charles?"

Louis leans back a little. "Late, of course. He was in a lab. Something about a case study on blood curses."

Barty grimaces. "Pleasant."

Nadine snorts. "Still obsessed with his theory?"

"He's deep in it now." Louis says, amused. "He says it's to better understand how to heal what the Ministry classifies as 'irreversible.' He's intense."

"Nothing's changed, then." she teases, before her gaze softens. "And you? How's Beauxbatons?"

Louis smiles more earnestly. "Healing's everything I hoped. We've started shadowing at clinics. First years usually just observe, but I got to assist during a burn case. I thought of you."

Her heart swells. "We've started basics too, but Hogwarts is... different. More focused on theory this year."

They lean in close, trading quiet thoughts about their professors, their dormitories, their subjects. It is only when Barty clears his throat that they notice the food arriving at the long dining table. Plates of chapon rôti (roasted capon), pommes dauphinoises (creamy baked potatoes), glazed carrots, roasted chestnuts, and bûche de Noël (Yule log cake) line the table in elegant silver trays.

Nadine slips into her seat beside Barty, who is watching her with a mixture of affection and exasperation. Louis takes the place beside her. Across the table, young cousins chatter in rapid French, candles flicker against glassware, and warmth pulses through the home like something ancient and sacred.

The silverware clinks softly, and laughter weaves in between bites of roasted chestnuts and buttery pommes dauphinoises. Nadine smiles, cheeks glowing slightly from the cozy atmosphere—but she remains vigilant, watching everyone's words, posture, and glances.

Across the table, Madame LeBlanc dabs the corner of her lips with a silk napkin, then leans forward a little, her voice filled with warmth as she speaks carefully.

"Vous deux, comme vous avez grandi."
(You two, how you've grown.)

She smiles between Nadine and Barty, then lets her gaze settle on Nadine.

"Vraiment, Nadine, quel dommage que tu n'aies pas continué à l'université de Beauxbâtons avec Louis. Vous auriez été les meilleurs guérisseurs ensemble."
(Truly, Nadine, what a shame you didn't continue at Beauxbatons University with Louis. You two would have been the best healers together.)

Nadine freezes for a second, the fork hovering above her plate. She knows it is meant kindly, and still her stomach clenches. Next to her, Louis lets out a small awkward laugh, dipping his head.

Before she can respond, Grandmother gives an approving nod.

"Ils vont bien ensemble, non ? Très beaux."
(They go well together, don't they? Very handsome.)

There is a beat of silence—just enough for the words to ring.

Nadine laughs softly, tight and practiced. Her shoulders stiffen, but she pushes out a playful glance toward Louis, who offers her a crooked, sheepish smile.

"Merci, Grandmère. C'est gentil."
(Thank you, Grandmother. That's kind.)

But her voice is lighter than she feels. Her mind stirs with quiet frustration—why must closeness always be assumed to mean romance?

She takes a sip of her wine, letting it linger on her tongue.

Then Monsieur LeBlanc speaks, in a tone so casual it is worse.

"Eh bien, peut-être qu'ils finiront ensemble, n'est-ce pas, Bartemius ?"
(Well, maybe they'll end up together, right, Bartemius?)

Her fork drops softly onto her plate.

Father, with that unnervingly composed smile, replies:

"Je ne dirais pas non."
(I wouldn't say no.)

That does it.

Nadine looks at Father, jaw tightening slightly. They lock eyes—his meaning is clear.

She answers with a tight-lipped smile, sharp and shining like glass.

"Je préfère me concentrer sur mes études."
(I prefer to focus on my studies.)

She lifts her glass delicately and adds, her tone light and innocent:

"But thank you all for the kind ideas about my future."

Louis lets out a breath, almost a laugh, and she kicks his ankle gently under the table, catching his grateful glance.

"Alors, Louis," she turns to him, eyes gleaming, "tu voulais me parler de cette clinique que tu as visitée?"
(So, Louis, you wanted to tell me about that clinic you visited?)

He nods quickly, happy to follow her lead. "Oui, à Bordeaux—ils utilisent une méthode pour le traitement du venin de chimère..."
(Yes, in Bordeaux—they're using a method to treat chimera venom...)

The conversation flows again, diverted like a stream around a stone.

But inside, Nadine simmers quietly. She is used to this: the well-placed words masked as compliments, the way others try to shape her future like glass being blown into form. But she is not glass. She will choose who she stands beside.

And it won't be because someone decided she 'looked good' doing so.

The soft chime of the clock in the hall echoes just as the front door opens again. Snowflakes drift lazily in behind Charles, brushing against his long black coat and the tousled strands of his hair. He is taller than Louis, broader too, with the sort of quiet intensity that makes people move aside when he enters a room.

"Salut tout le monde. Joyeux Noël." (Hello everyone. Merry Christmas.) His voice is smooth and low, but warm.

"Charles!" Nadine grins and crosses the room, wrapping her arms around him in a brief but affectionate hug. "We were wondering if you'd arrive before the presents." she teases.

Charles smirks. "I wouldn't miss it."

He joins the adults at the table for a delayed dinner, while laughter and giggles bubble from the next room as the children run about, trailing ribbons.

In the corner of the parlor, Ares and Hades now wear sparkly pink bows around their collars, entirely unimpressed but too well-trained to move unless commanded. Barty, leaning against the wall with a slice of caramel tart in hand, raises a brow and mutters with an exaggerated drawl, "Excellent. Just what I wanted—my war hounds looking like holiday cupcakes."

Nadine laughs aloud, her voice dancing through the room, as Brownie hides beneath the piano bench, peeking cautiously at a toddler waddling past with a candy cane.

The older cousins have gathered near the fire, playing cards that shimmer when someone wins. Nadine sits cross-legged on a rug, laughing as Louis tries—and fails—to bluff Barty.

Then the inevitable happens.

"On peut ouvrir les cadeaux maintenant ?" (Can we open presents now?) a chorus of small voices pleads.

Nadine looks at the adults; they exchange smiles and nods. "Allez-y." (Go ahead.)

The younger ones tear into bright paper, gasps of delight and little squeals filling the air. Wrapping paper flies. One child runs past with a plush Hippogriff held like a trophy.

Some of the toddlers, tired from sugar and excitement, curl up on laps or sprawl beside the fire, fast asleep. Their parents gather their things quietly, offering kisses and whispered goodnights, and soon the room has thinned to only the older cousins and the few staying behind.

It is near midnight now. The air holds a hush, like something sacred is about to happen.

"Joyeux Noël," Grandmother says softly, lifting a glass. "Il est minuit." (It's midnight.)

Nadine smiles. Barty grins and drags a few boxes forward. "Alright, what have we got?"

Nadine unwraps her presents carefully, fingers peeling away the golden and crimson ribbon from one box first—a thick parcel from Cassiopeia. Inside, nestled in black velvet, is an intricate stasis pouch, designed to keep healing potions preserved and portable even through cursed environments.

"Merlin." Nadine whispers, eyes wide. "She said she'd keep it practical. This is—" She swallows, touched and a little breathless. "—expensive."

From the Rosiers, she unwraps a custom vial set made from polished obsidian and spelled glass, elegantly labeled with her initials in delicate gold script. Each is warded against dark magic—ideal for field work. She is speechless.

From Seraphina, the package is wrapped simply in brown paper and tied with pink ribbon. Inside, a small dragon-shaped brooch, its tail curling protectively around a tiny vial that can be filled with elixirs. It even warms to the touch.

Nadine holds it close, smiling. "Thank you."

Barty opens his gifts, and his grin grows wide while he unwraps. Especially the one from Cassiopeia.

"Brilliant." he mutters, flipping through the journal. "Absolutely brilliant."

Then, Louis hands Nadine a small, square box, the size of a snitch. She raises an eyebrow, gently pulling at the deep burgundy silk.

Inside, nestled in silver satin, lies a necklace. The chain is fine and gold, delicate but strong. The pendant is a lion, simple and elegant, with ruby eyes that flicker faintly with warmth.

She gasps, fingers brushing it.

"For your house," he murmurs softly, "and for your heart."

Her breath catches. She can't speak.

Louis steps closer. "May I?" he says, lifting the necklace gently.

She turns, brushing her hair aside. His fingers are warm as he clasps it behind her neck, the pendant settling against her collarbone like it belongs there.

When she turns to face him, she is smiling—truly, deeply.

"Merci, Louis." she whispers. "C'est magnifique." (Thank you, Louis. It's beautiful.)

He smiles, soft and quiet.

Soon, the LeBlancs gather their things, despite Grandmother's insistence they stay the night.

"Vous êtes les bienvenus ici, toujours." (You're always welcome here.)

"Merci, Madame." Monsieur LeBlanc says warmly. "Mais on ne veut pas déranger." (But we don't want to intrude.)

They exchange hugs and soft goodbyes at the door. Louis lingers, hands in his coat pockets, eyes finding Nadine's.

"Forget what they said." he murmurs. "You know them."

She gives a quiet laugh, nodding.

"See you in the morning?"

She nods again.

And when the door finally closes behind them, Nadine exhales, back pressed against the wood, eyes fluttering closed.

She walks slowly down the quiet corridor, candle in hand, the wax forming pale tears down the brass holder as she turns the doorknob to her old bedroom.

The moment the door creaks open, the scent of her childhood rushes forward—lavender, parchment, and aged cedar. The room is exactly as she left it. Not a curtain out of place.

Her eyes sweep across the space, catching at the soft blue and cream walls, the neatly made bed tucked under a pointed window, and the slightly worn rug where she used to sit cross-legged for hours reading.

There is her first toy dragon, still perched on the bookshelf, its velvet wings half-flopped over from years of love. Her old uniform hangs in the wardrobe, sleeves a little shorter now. On one shelf, a row of books in different languages—spell theory, herbology, poetry, and a tattered copy of 'Les Contes de Beedle le Barde'—waits quietly, as though expecting her to pick it up.

Near the wardrobe, a pair of white figure skates dangles from a golden hook. She used to beg Grandmother to take her to the lake every winter. And propped neatly against the corner is her first broomstick, the handle still scuffed from the time she fell straight into the lilac hedge behind the greenhouse.

She walks across the room slowly, fingertips drifting lightly over each object, as though afraid touching them too hard might make them vanish.

She steps to the window and gently unlatches it, pushing it open with a quiet creak. Cold air kisses her cheeks as she leans out slightly, elbows resting on the sill. The wind rustles her hair, bringing with it the faint scent of pine and frost.

Above her, the sky stretches wide and deep, stars glittering against velvet black. The moon is nearly full, silver and round, casting a glow across the countryside.

Nadine hugs her arms around herself. She wonders what her friends are doing now. If they liked their presents, if he accepted his.

And then, her thoughts drift where they always seem to when things go still.

Severus.

Her hand rises, fingers gently twirling the pendant. But her mind is far away, her heart elsewhere—on dark eyes, on sleek hair, on the way he sometimes looks at her, on the quiet of his voice when it isn't sharp.

She blushes, her skin warm despite the cold. There is no one around to see. Just the stars and her.

She closes her eyes, head resting against the wooden frame. Her lips curl into a small smile.

Softly, barely above a whisper, she murmurs into the night:

"Merry Christmas, Prince."

The wind stirs gently, carrying her words out into the moonlight.

And for a moment, she lets herself believe he hears it.

Chapter Text

Christmas had never instilled much excitement in the Snape household. It arrived each year as a grim formality—an occasion merely endured rather than celebrated. Whatever ideals the holiday is meant to embody—family, festivity, belief, or cheer—stand in stark contrast to the reality known by the Snape siblings.

Their lives are defined by a persistent bleakness: a cycle of sorrow, bitterness, and despair that echo through the cold halls of the house. After all, that was the nature and order ruled by their parents.

For Seraphina and Severus, misery is the norm. It is all they had ever known. School breaks were never a source of joy for them; rather, they marked a reluctant return to the very place both siblings longed so desperately to escape. It was a reminder that, no matter how far they drifted from its grasp, the cold, familiar dread would always await them.

Perhaps that was why, when Seraphina was sent to Durmstrang, it felt like a break out of a cage. A luxury they could never afford—the possibility of freedom.

Severus had understood. She would never have left if he hadn't given his blessing. It took a long while to convince her. There was regret in her departure, of course, but also a space to hope. Severus bore the burden alone, an offering to give his sister a chance at a life untouched by cruelty. Seraphina never forgot the cost.

And then, something changed.

Eileen left Tobias.

It was a departure not from strength, but from exhaustion. And for her children, it is a chance: a change they had once thought impossible.

Seraphina found a modest but warm apartment in a neighborhood far removed from the dark gloom of Spinner's End. It isn't grand, but it is hers, and more importantly, it is far from the ghost of the past. The truth isn't that she disdains the old place—some part of her will always feel tethered to it, painfully so—but rather that she fears she might lose herself entirely if she ever returns for more than a fleeting visit. Madness lingers in those walls like mold in the corners: quiet, insidious, inescapable.

Severus stayed with Seraphina on a few occasions, whenever the suffocating walls became too much to bear. It is something she always offers him without hesitation—a space to breathe, to find solace.

This time, they didn't return to Spinner's End.

For the first time, the Snape family—what remained of it—chose not to gather in the crumbling house. Instead, they came together in Seraphina's apartment. It was an agreement: that if this new beginning is to mean anything at all, it can't begin in the ruins of the old life.

Seraphina's flat, though modest in size, holds a strange and somber charm. The walls are lined with books—old volumes with cracked spines and gold-lettered titles, heavy drapes in deep shades of aubergine soften the outside light, giving the rooms a perpetual twilight.

Various candles flicker from iron sconces and mismatched candelabras, casting shadows across dark wood floors and overstuffed armchairs draped with velvet and knitted blankets.

At the heart of the sitting room stands a small fireplace, its stone hearth chipped but clean, the fire within it crackling softly. It fills the space with warmth, both physical and emotional. The mantle above is simple—adorned with a few dried flowers and an antique clock that ticks faintly, as though counting borrowed time.

There are little signs of her inner world in every corner: a gramophone humming faint classical melodies, dried flowers hanging upside-down from the ceiling beams, crystals on the window sills, a raven-feather quill resting beside a stack of parchment...

In one corner of the room, near the window where what little light filters in can touch her work, lay the signs of Seraphina's passions: a worn easel stained with pigment, jars of paintbrushes and charcoal sticks arranged in delicate chaos, and stacks of thick parchment bearing graphite and ink sketches.

Dragons, in particular, appear again and again in her artwork: some majestic and winged, others serpentine and ancient, coiled in slumber or mid-flight. Thestrals haunt her pages in spectral grace too. Dementors loom in others—drifting across the parchment like shadows torn loose from the void.

It isn't merely fascination; it is familiarity. Seraphina knew darkness her entire life, and in her art, she gives it form—elegant, unsettling, and strangely beautiful.

Scattered about were a few subtle tokens of that fascination: a bronze dragon-shaped candleholder on a shelf, a dragon claw bookmark nestled in a book on symbology, and a delicate scale—iridescent and clearly real—resting inside a glass dome like a relic.

It is, in some strange way, the kind of home none of them had ever known. And for a few days, at least, it is enough.

"Are you ready, Severus?" Seraphina asks quietly.

They stand just outside the building, coats drawn tight against the air. The street is silent, except for the distant hum of the city. Seraphina holds the keys in one gloved hand, poised but unmoving.

Severus hesitates.

He glances at the door, as though its frame marks more than just an entrance—a threshold between what was and what might be. This can go one of two ways: tolerable, or catastrophically wrong. And yet, standing there beneath the streetlamp's flicker, he finds himself clinging—cautiously—to a fragment of hope.

It isn't hatred that sits between them and Eileen. It is the absence of choice, the years of silence, the slow erosion of their childhoods under Tobias's rule while she remained, anchored by something neither of them ever fully understood. They don't fault her for surviving. But they had been forced to survive beside her, with no escape of their own, and that wound runs deep.

Can this be a beginning? A chance at something resembling a proper family?

They aren't sure.

But as Seraphina turns the key, her fingers trembling just slightly, and Severus steps in beside her, they both carry the same quiet yearning they had once whispered beneath blankets as children: not for perfection, but for peace.

The door creaks open slowly, and there she stands.

Eileen. For a long moment, she only looks at them, as though afraid to breathe, her eyes glossy with sorrow and something unfamiliar, even to them. The way she gazes at them now makes the time apart feel like an eternity. She seems smaller than they remember, thinner, but there is a softness in her face, a vulnerability that had never been there before.

Seraphina is the first to break the silence, her gaze softening, her breath steady. "Mum..."

Eileen's lips tremble, and before either of them can say more, she steps forward, her arms opening as if instinctively reaching out for what she had longed for but never thought she would have again. The guilt, lost of time, everything they had carried between them—hang heavy in the space. But in that moment, all of it seems to collapse around them, like dust in the face of something else—something she had always wanted to give, but never knew how.

"I... I've missed you both so much." Eileen whispers, her voice catching on the words as she pulls them close. Her arms wrap around Seraphina first, and then around Severus, her grip tight and almost desperate.

Seraphina stands stiff at first, her own emotions flickering like a flame about to be extinguished, unsure whether to return the embrace. It is a strange thing, to be held by the woman who had once been so absent, so distant. But slowly, she lets the years slip away, closes her eyes and allows herself to feel something she hadn't in so long.

Severus remains still, the moment pressing against him like a physical thing. He had never been one for open displays of affection, and yet, here is his mother, offering him the one thing he had wanted most as a child but had never dared to ask for. Her arms around him are tentative, as if unsure whether she has the right to hold him after everything. He hesitates, and then, feeling the ache of so many unsaid things, he finally allows himself to return her embrace, just slightly.

Eileen's breath shudders against his shoulder as she whispers, "I'm sorry. I am so sorry for everything."

Seraphina's heart twists at the sound, but she doesn't pull away. Neither does Severus.

As they sit together in the dimly lit living room, the conversation flows effortlessly, a rare ease between them. Eileen seems to have a lightness about her now. She asks questions with genuine curiosity, listening intently as they speak of their lives, their struggles, and their triumphs.

She explains the years they had missed, the changes in her life, her own struggles, and the quiet battle of finding herself again. For the first time, it feels as though the woman they remember returned, not just in body, but in spirit—a mother who is truly present with them.

As they continue talking, Eileen's voice softens slightly, as though unsure whether to share this new piece of news. "I... I actually found a job." she says, glancing up at them with a spark of pride. "At the Ministry. In the Department of Magical Education, specifically within the Potions division."

She gives a small, reluctant smile. "It's a good position, one I was lucky to get through a connection with Professor Slughorn. I've been working as an assistant to the Potion Master there, helping with research and developing new potion formulations. It's not glamorous, but it's a stable role, and it's given me more than just financial freedom—it's given me purpose again."

Seraphina and Severus exchange a quiet glance, surprised but pleased. She isn't just making ends meet—she is carving out a future for herself, one she can hold onto with both hands.

"I never thought I'd be in a position to start over," Eileen continues, her voice steady but carrying an emotion that isn't quite joy but something close—gratitude, maybe, or relief, "but it's a step. And it means I can finally do something for you both, something that feels... right." There is a pause as her gaze softens, her eyes meeting theirs. "For the first time in a long while, I feel like I'm moving forward. And... I was finally able to... Buy something for you two. For tomorrow." Her eyes glisten with a layer of tears that doesn't drop.

"I'm... proud of you." Seraphina says softly, her voice sincere. She steps forward, wrapping her arms around Eileen in a warm, unexpected hug. It is the kind of moment she had longed for—hearing the words she had prayed for. For her, understanding her mother is a different experience than it was for Severus. While they both share anger and resentment, Seraphina's connection to Eileen is rooted in a womanly understanding that Severus can't fully grasp.

As they pull apart, Seraphina smiles gently. "I think you've found your strength again."

Eileen blinks back tears, nodding silently, and the space between them feels filled with something new: hope.

Severus breaks the silence, his voice low and measured. "I'm not sure 'pride' is the word I would use." he says, his gaze lingering on his mother. "But... it's a good start." His words are laced with years of neglect, frustration, and unresolved bitterness. But there is something in his tone, small but unmistakable, that softens the edges of his usual cynicism. "I suppose... for now, that's all we can ask for."

The conversation begins to shift as the evening wears on, a new, almost festive energy taking hold. Eileen's voice, light and relaxed, floats over the room as she casually mentions the presents for tomorrow. It is Christmas Eve now, and there is the hum of holiday spirit in the air.

Seraphina begins listing the gifts she had thoughtfully picked out for the people who matter most to her. "Nadine and Cass are getting something special." she muses, her lips curling into a small, private smile. "I've got them something personal." She pauses, then continues, "Evan, Barty and Bill—there's something for each of them. In all honesty, I splurged a bit—I was careful about saving this past year, and who better to spend it on than them?" In reality, the extra galleons she had was the carefully, originally collected amount for their potential wedding attire.

Severus, leaning against the doorframe, listens quietly, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable, though there is a flicker of something in his eyes as she mentions him. He says nothing, but the hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

And for a moment, the holiday seems less like an obligation and more like something they can still embrace—something they can still cherish.

Seraphina carefully selected a stunning, custom-made healer's kit for Nadine, soft, rose-tinted leather, with intricate silver embossing of healing symbols and delicate vine patterns. Inside, it contains rare magical herbs, vials of potent healing potions she and Cassiopeia made, and bandages that are self-cleaning and will rapidly mend cuts and bruises with a touch. Among the vials are a few soft pink potions, each imbued to ease emotional wounds or encourage peaceful sleep for patients.

Nestled beside the crystal is an old, worn spellbook with a soft, velvety cover containing rare, ancient healing techniques, some of which hadn't been used in centuries. The pages are infused to update with new healing spells whenever discoveries are made. Nadine can easily add to the book herself, as it will absorb her own notes and findings over time.

It is a gift set Seraphina had been working on for at least half a semester, carefully piecing it together in between classes and long nights in the library—hoping, above all, to bring Nadine a sense of being seen, supported, and deeply valued in her specialization.

For Cassiopeia, Seraphina put together a sleek, obsidian-toned potioneer's kit, etched with subtle star charts and alchemical symbols that shimmer faintly in silver. Inside are custom-blown potion vials, each tinted with a soft constellation-like pattern that moves gently across the glass. Tucked alongside is a small star map scroll that updates in real time with planetary alignments.

For Pandora, Seraphina gifted a delicate glass sphere, the size of a plum, filled with slow-swirling mist and tiny starlight that drift and shimmer like thoughts. When held, the orb hums faintly, aligning to the bearer's intuition.

She called it a Thoughtcatcher, made with help from an old Divination text and laced with her own spells. A tool, or a toy—Seraphina isn't sure. But she knows Pandora will understand it immediately, and love it just the same.

Seraphina's thoughts drift to Regulus.

First—there is the lingering uncertainty of their relationship. They are in the same group, and he is an exemplary Captain, a brilliant student. Yet, their interactions leave her unsure whether they hate each other's guts or not.

Second—what can she possibly gift him? Someone who has everything and seems unimpressed by most things.

Despite her hesitation, Seraphina couldn't shake the urge to give him something. It will be awkward if she does, and awkward if she doesn't. She eventually decided on a sketchbook, something he can't simply buy—a personal creation. She spent weeks making it herself, filling the pages with detailed drawings: dark arts symbols, complex runes, dark creatures and sketches of shadowy landscapes.

There is only one portrait of him, taken from a quiet observation in class, capturing the sharp angles of his face and the intensity of his gaze. It is raw and unpolished, unlike anything he will typically admire, yet it captures a side of him she never fully understands, but always finds fascinating. In delicate cursive handwriting on the other side of the paper, she wrote the meaning of his name—"Little King."

An addition is a pin she made to accompany the book. It is a small, celestial design—a dark silver pin in the shape of a crescent moon, cradling a small, intricate star.

As she looks at the pin and the book, pride and apprehension fill her. She had poured time and effort into both, wanting to offer him something no one else can, something that acknowledges his unique background. But as much as she wishes to give it to him, Seraphina hesitates. Will he see it as too personal, too forward? The idea of offering it makes her feel vulnerable, and for the first time, she wonders if some things are better left unsaid. The gift is ready, but she can't bring herself to give it.

Christmas morning unfolds quietly, and the apartment, bathed in the soft light, feels different—familiar, yet new. It isn't perfect, but it is real. The air is filled with soft laughter, the crinkling of wrapping paper, and the occasional clink of tea cups.

Seraphina and Severus exchange smiles over the gifts they give one another—both thoughtful, both meaningful.

Severus quietly hands Seraphina a carefully wrapped box. Inside is a rare, limited edition, dark leather tome on dragons and dark magic, with symbols of coiled dragons etched on the cover. As she flips through, she finds the last pages filled with spells he created specifically for her—some of them based on his own work, like Sectumsempra, refined for more controlled use, alongside other dark arts and spells tailored to her skills.

He gives her a hug and a smile, as the gesture speaks for itself.

But it is when Severus stares at Nadine's gift that the room falls silent for a moment. Seraphina knows what it is and watches as he studies it in silence. For a moment, he seems lost in thought, the intensity of his gaze sweeping across the room. Seraphina's chest tightens with a mix of emotions.

Severus sits still, his expression hardening as he glances at it. His fingers twitch, betraying his discomfort as he hesitates, eyeing the neatly wrapped box with a sense of unease.

"I don't want to." he mutters, voice tight, but sterile. He refuses to touch the box as if it is something repulsive. His eyes flick briefly to Seraphina, a defensive edge to his gaze. "I won't accept this."

Seraphina leans forward, her tone soft but firm. "Severus, it's not charity." she says, her voice coaxing him. "It's a gift, something Nadine thought you'd like. At least see what it is."

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, eyes flicking back to the box. "I don't need her pity." he says sharply, his voice colder, more detached. His jaw tightens as he reaches to push the box further aside with his wand.

Seraphina watches him carefully, her gaze gentle but insistent. "It's not about pity, Severus. People give gifts because they want to, because they care. Rejecting it... rejecting the effort... that's not fair."

"I don't need her charity." he repeats, almost to himself.

Seraphina's eyes soften. "You're not weak for accepting a gift. You've accepted other ones!" She stands to open it carefully, revealing a tailored suit inside. Nadine's feelings for him are clear now.

He lets out a sharp breath, tense and unwilling to accept it.

"Sev, you told me this wedding could be one of the most important events of our lives. They were incredibly generous with my dress too!" She continues, attempting to encourage him further. "I don't know if you've suddenly come into a fortune, but I certainly haven't. This is a gift that's beyond our means, by a lot. So, if you want to present us properly, you'll accept it and stop pouting. Otherwise..."

After a long, uncomfortable pause, his gaze flicks briefly to Seraphina—stoic, yet there is something in his eyes that spoke of surrender, of a reluctant acknowledgment. His voice is quieter now, almost inaudible. "I'll accept it. But this doesn't change anything."

Seraphina nods, offering him a reassuring smile. "It doesn't need to change anything. Just... accept it."

The box sits on the far corner of his desk, undisturbed, as though it carries a curse. He knows it doesn't—he checked, twice, wand in hand, lips murmuring the counter-hexes with practice. No tampering. No signature besides a basic preservation charm. Still, he hasn't touched it.

The card remains tucked beneath it, barely visible, but its words echo anyway.

"For the most unreadable man I know. Try to surprise us both and wear it. – N. C."

Severus stands now in front of it, arms folded, the hem of his long black sleeve brushing his palm with each shallow breath. His room is quiet, shadows curling along the walls like silk. He stares at it again.

She gave him this.

A suit.

Not a cheap one, either. It is precisely his size, precisely his color—deep, stormcloud black with subtle emerald threading near the cuffs. The sort of thing Lucius would wear and pretend not to notice everyone noticing.

Why would she give him this?

The question burns like acid.

She isn't close to him. She isn't anything to him, except... there. Like a book you pass by every day but never open. Always smiling and talking.

He sighs, slow and bitter.

He doesn't believe in kindness. Not unearned. Not toward him.

But—

He steps forward.

The paper is thick, the kind used in real wizarding boutiques. His hands—cold, scarred, methodical—untie the ribbon, careful not to tear. The box creaks open with a soft, expensive sound.

It is beautiful.

Elegant. Black with a faint green shimmer in certain light, just enough to hint at Slytherin pride. The buttons are obsidian. The lining is silk. It is—Merlin—it is exactly what he would have chosen, if he dared to imagine himself deserving of anything beyond his worn robes and trousers.

The note is folded beneath it. He picks it up last.

He holds it for a moment. Her handwriting is clean, fluid, not overly neat, but intentional. No perfume. No hearts. No theatrics. Just words. Direct. Honest.

He hesitates for several long seconds, then slowly, almost ritualistically, takes the jacket out of the box. Slides out of his own black clothes. Pulls the sleeves over his arms.

It fits. Perfectly.

He turns to the mirror, startled.

He looks... different.

Still pale, still shadow-eyed, but cleaner. Sharper. There is something almost dangerous about the way the suit hangs off his shoulders. Like he belongs somewhere important. Like he has power he hasn't yet used.

Like someone sees him, maybe even likes what they see.

He scowls at his own reflection, tearing his gaze away, the warmth of the fabric too much.

But he doesn't take it off.

Not right away.

Instead, he moves to his chair, sits down in front of the candlelight, and stares at the dying flame while the suit clings to him like a memory he doesn't want.

Chapter Text

The Number 12 Grimmauld Place on Christmas Eve breathes old, powerful magic.

The ancestral home stands proudly cloaked in enchantments, its tall, dark-bricked exterior partially obscured by the evening fog rolling in from the London streets. Snowflakes spiral lazily from the grey sky, dusting the front steps and wrought-iron railing, collecting on the old gas lamps that flicker dimly in the cold. The doorway glimmers faintly, the ornate silver serpent-shaped knocker glinting beneath the frost.

Inside, the house is steeped in warmth, shadows, and candlelight. The heavy front door creaks open into the hallway, where aged portraits line the walls, whispering softly to one another. Rich mahogany floors groan underfoot, worn from centuries of Black footsteps. Garlands of deep evergreen and silver ribbon are strung along the bannister, glinting subtly as you pass. A massive black-and-gold rug stretches down the corridor, muffling footsteps, though the faint echoes still linger — a house that remembers everything.

The scent of clove, pine, and polished wood clings to every surface. Kreacher, hunched and muttering, is trimming the garlands with tiny silver bells enchanted to ring in perfect harmony when stirred by a breeze.

The drawing room is alight with dozens of candles floating in midair, their golden flames casting dancing shadows on the tall bookcases and velvet drapes. A fire roars in the black marble hearth, crackling loudly as it devours thick logs that give off no smoke, only heat and the soft scent of vanilla and pine. The Christmas tree stands tall in the corner, decorated with dark silver ornaments, glass icicles that never melt, and old family heirlooms: delicate metal charms bearing the Black family crest, tiny moving portraits of long-dead ancestors glaring proudly from their perches on silver branches.

Walburga stands near the tree, perfectly still in her deep emerald robes embroidered with silver thread. Her back is straight, hands clasped before her, her gaze as sharp and unreadable as ever. Her dark hair, streaked with grey at the temples, is twisted into a severe chignon. She watches the room with an expression carved from marble — proud, severe, and silent. Occasionally, her eyes flick to the firelight, but her mouth never softens. Her presence is not festive; it is commanding, the gravity around which the room orbits.

Orion sits in his high-backed armchair near the fireplace, a glass of brandy in one hand, a large book open in the other. He doesn't read it. His eyes lift to glance toward the hallway as footsteps approach, then return to the flames. The light glints off the sharp angles of his face. He is dressed formally, as always — tailored black robes with silver fastenings, polished shoes, and his wand resting beside him on the armrest like a trusted cane. He doesn't speak unless spoken to.

Regulus enters from the corridor. His hair is perfectly in place, curls brushed neatly back, his tailored robes an elegant black trimmed in subtle silver. He walks with quiet assurance, the shadows of the corridor clinging to him like a second skin. His eyes flick across the room — to his mother, to the tree, to the fire. Then, finally, to the doorway behind him.

Cassiopeia follows. She wears deep crimson robes, simple but flattering, her hair worn loose in gentle waves down her back. Her steps are quiet but confident, and as she enters the drawing room, she pauses — takes in the tree, the warmth, the flickering candlelight, the tension, the air thick with memory and silence. Her eyes sweep across the room before settling on the fire, then the tree, then finally the smallest silver ornament nestled near the top — a silver 'C' charm.

Kreacher appears again from behind a set of heavy curtains, bowing low, his voice raspy.
"Tea and spiced biscuits for Mistress and Master... and young Mistress Cassiopeia." he says.

Walburga nods once. Kreacher vanishes again.

The air is hushed — not tense, but not relaxed either. The clock in the hallway chimes seven. Dinner will be soon. No one speaks yet.

The sound of the Floo igniting is sudden and sharp — a flare of green light bursts to life in the drawing room hearth, and from the roaring flames steps Cygnus, tall and stern, his eyes sweeping the room before he offers a polite nod. His robes are midnight blue, lined in silver, impeccably pressed as always.

Behind him, Druella follows, elegant and commanding in dark purple velvet, her gloved hands adjusting her fur-trimmed cloak as she steps out of the fire with practiced grace. Her chin is high, her blond curls pinned into a regal twist that glimmers faintly. Her eyes land on Walburga first, and the two women exchange the kind of look only old pure-blooded matriarchs can share — mutual calculation and understanding, as cold and sharp as cut crystal.

A moment later, another flare of green light — Bellatrix steps through the Floo with a manic gleam already dancing in her eyes, her arm looped lazily through Rodolphus's. Her dark hair spills wildly over her shoulders, her deep maroon robes trimmed with black lace and cinched tight at the waist. Her boots click loudly on the floor as she strides into the room as though she owns it. Rodolphus follows in silence, tall, broad-shouldered, his expression unreadable but intense. His black robes are unadorned, but his ring — the Lestrange crest — glints on his hand as he wraps an arm around Bellatrix's waist.

Narcissa steps through the fire next, as serene and poised as a snowflake. Her pale hair is swept back into a low bun, diamond clips gleaming at her temples. She wears pale blue silk robes embroidered with silver flowers, a vision of elegance, quiet beauty, and absolute control. Lucius follows close behind her, his platinum hair gleaming under the candlelight, robes of forest green tailored to perfection, his cane resting in his left hand though he doesn't lean on it. His eyes — sharp, pale, and always calculating — sweep the room as if appraising it.

Walburga finally speaks, breaking the weighty hush. "Cygnus. Druella. Welcome." Her voice is low, regal. "How pleasant to see the family together."

Druella nods stiffly. "It has been far too long, Walburga."

Cygnus smiles, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "The house is... unchanged."

Regulus, still standing near the fireplace, glances at Cassiopeia, who raises an eyebrow in silent amusement.

"Of course, my dear brother." Walburga replies. "Tradition must be preserved."

Bellatrix cackles under her breath. "Always tradition, isn't it, Mother? I quite like it. Dust and all."

"Mind your tone, Bellatrix." Druella snaps, though without much fire.

"I'm merely admiring the ambiance." Bella replies sweetly, pressing her fingers to her heart. "Isn't that what good daughters do?"

Rodolphus says nothing, but his hand slides to the small of her back, steadying her in the way only he knows she sometimes needs.

Narcissa ignores her sister's dramatics and walks to kiss Walburga on both cheeks. "Merry Christmas, Aunt."

"And to you, Narcissa." Walburga says, her tone warmer for her youngest niece. "You look radiant."

Druella's eyes sweep the room, her voice clipped but proud. "Narcissa and Lucius's wedding is set for the twenty-seventh. A winter ceremony, private, of course."

Lucius nods with a small smile. "The invitations have been sent to all appropriate families."

"Exquisite." Walburga says with satisfaction. "A union worthy of our name."

"Where's Andromeda?" Bellatrix asks suddenly, her smile sharp.

No one answers.

The silence is immediate, and thick.

Druella's jaw tightens. "She is not to be spoken of."

Bellatrix laughs, triumphant, then slinks toward the fire. "Just testing the mood."

"Come, everyone." Walburga says icily. "Dinner is served."

They move through to the grand dining room, a high-ceilinged chamber bathed in warm candlelight. The long mahogany table is dressed in silver and green, set with ornate plates that shimmer across their delicate borders. A centerpiece of ivy and floating silver orbs pulses softly down the middle of the table. Kreacher moves silently among them, refilling goblets, floating dishes of roasted meat, spiced squash, cranberry sauce, and wild mushrooms.

Conversation begins again between bites and toasts.

Lucius lifts his goblet. "To the future — and the strength of our alliances."

"To power." Bellatrix adds, raising hers higher.

"To order." Narcissa says quietly.

"To victory." Rodolphus murmurs.

Druella and Cygnus clink their glasses silently, eyes full of long plans and longer memories.

Regulus watches it all with an expression so carefully blank it could be marble. Cassiopeia sits beside him, fork twirling through mashed pumpkin, her gaze flicking between Bellatrix's animated gestures and Lucius's calm, deliberate smirks.

Walburga turns to the twins suddenly.

"Regulus. Cassiopeia."

Both lift their eyes to her immediately. Her voice is cool, yet expectant.

"You are of age now. As I informed you, it is time we discuss... options. Suitors. Paths worthy of the Black name."

Regulus's expression doesn't shift, but Cassiopeia's eyes harden slightly.

"There is time for that." she says softly.

"There is no time for complacency." Walburga snaps. "Regulus is already considered by more than one appropriate line. You must do the same, Cassiopeia. A Black woman does not linger unmarried."

Druella, uninvited, adds, "Especially not one with your blood. And your looks."

Bellatrix smirks into her goblet. "Yes, do hurry up, Cass. You wouldn't want to be outshone by little cousins, would you?"

Narcissa's glance is sharp, but she says nothing. Lucius is silent as well, his eyes on Walburga.

Regulus finally speaks, his voice low. "Perhaps the dinner is not the time for this discussion, Mother."

"Then when if not when our family is together?" Walburga replies, but her eyes never leave Cassiopeia. "You must consider, my dear, what legacy will you leave behind, if not a name stronger than your own?"

Cassiopeia doesn't answer.

A long, humming silence fills the room as the candles flicker — gold glinting in wine, silver glowing on every fork and cup.

Cassiopeia raises her goblet to her lips, tasting the dry spice of the elderflower wine. Her fingers wrap lightly around the stem, perfectly poised, her posture impeccable — but her mind is adrift beneath the surface of polished manners.

She nods politely as Druella comments on the embroidery of her sleeves, feigns amusement when Bellatrix recounts a story about a particularly disastrous wedding robe fitting, but inwardly, she is elsewhere. Her thoughts flicker, unbidden and frustratingly persistent — to him.

He shouldn't be in her mind at all. He is reckless. Impulsive. Maddeningly clever. Too confident, too bold, too... something. And yet, when Bellatrix laughs — that shrill, sharp laugh like glass on marble — Cassiopeia can't help but remember the last time she heard Bartemius laugh. Not like this. Not cruel or mocking. A real laugh, low and quick, at something she mumbled in frustration.

Druella hums her approval from further down the table, her rings glinting as she lifts her glass. "The Carrows are a strong lineage." she says smoothly. "Their son is quite... enthusiastic in his ambitions."

Cassiopeia folds her hands neatly over the lace napkin in her lap, offering a polite, restrained smile. "Enthusiasm can be dangerous when misdirected, Aunt."

Across the table, Regulus looks up slowly, his eyes briefly meeting hers. His gaze is quiet, watchful, the way it always is when he knows there is more beneath her words. He says nothing.

Walburga glances between them, then interjects, voice practiced and smooth. "The Carrow family is loyal. Ancient. Wealthy. The match would be suitable."

"But not particularly interesting." murmurs Bellatrix, tapping the edge of her teacup, her smirk almost feline. "A Black woman deserves fire, not lukewarm wine."

Cassiopeia says nothing, only twists the stem of her goblet. The silence stretches for a beat too long.

Druella leans slightly toward Walburga. "The Crouch boy, however... now there's potential. With Bartemius's position all but secured—"

"He's young." Walburga offers calmly. "But well-mannered and sharp, I suppose."

Cassiopeia speaks up, her voice even. "Bartemius is tolerable."

Bellatrix's eyebrows lift in amusement. "Tolerable?"

"She means acceptable." Narcissa murmurs behind her teacup, her lips twitching.

"I mean what I said." Cassiopeia replies, and adds lightly, "He knows how to present himself. That's rare enough."

Druella nods. "His temperament can be difficult, but that's the father's doing. The boy's still moldable."

Walburga's attention sharpens slightly. "And would you be willing to mold him, Cassiopeia?"

Cassiopeia smiles, subtle and knowing. "Only if he deserves it."

Regulus's lips twitch, barely.

"Then there's the Rosier heir." Lucius continues, reaching for his wine. "Evan has always held favor among the older families."

Cassiopeia's head tilts slightly. "He's charming."

"Too charming if you ask me." says Bellatrix with a smirk.

"He's focused." Walburga says. "Unapologetic. That can be useful."

"Or exhausting." Cassiopeia murmurs.

"Joseph Avery, then." offers Narcissa, ever the diplomat. "He's quiet, well-read. His family is old."

"His mother's mad, Cissy." Bellatrix adds helpfully.

"Mulciber's son is gaining favor." Druella offers. "Bruce. He's blunt, yes, but disciplined. Controlled."

"Like an executioner." Bellatrix says sweetly.

Lucius shrugs. "There are worse traits in these times."

"And the Selwyns?" Walburga presses, eyes briefly resting on Cassiopeia. "They've inquired."

"They're a cold family." Cassiopeia replies. "Not even the pretense of warmth."

"A match doesn't need warmth." Druella says firmly. "It needs endurance."

"It needs purpose." Cassiopeia corrects, gently but firmly.

There is a brief pause. The conversation has shifted, sharpened, and every woman at the table feels it.

"Perhaps the question isn't who we find suitable." Bellatrix says, smiling. "But who she does."

Lucius smiles faintly. "We all know she'll decide for herself."

Walburga nods once, the faintest approval in her expression. "As long as the name she chooses doesn't disgrace ours."

Cassiopeia lifts her glass once more. "Then I suppose I'll have to choose wisely."

She glances toward Orion then, seated at the head of the table. He has said little tonight, observing with his usual detachment, swirling his wine thoughtfully. His voice cuts through the air with precise weight.

"There is change in the wind." he says. "Our world is shifting. We must think carefully about our allegiances... and our survival."

"Survival?" Rodolphus echoes, amused. "You make it sound as though we're in the middle of a war already."

Lucius leans back in his chair. "Perhaps we are."

Cassiopeia watches him closely. She has heard the whispers, of course. Everyone has. A movement, a cause, a man. Voldemort. But in this room, his name is never said. Not even once. Not in front of her at least.

Bellatrix's mouth curves into something sly and hungry. "Some of us have already chosen our side."

Cassiopeia stills.

Regulus's gaze flickers toward his plate. Rodolphus doesn't speak, but his fingers drum once against the tablecloth. Narcissa shifts ever so slightly closer to Lucius, and Cassiopeia sees it: a shared understanding, like pieces of a puzzle she wasn't invited to complete.

They know something I don't.

She hates that feeling. Being kept in the dark. She is a Black — the daughter of the Noble House, with blood as pure as it comes. And yet, they circle her like she is still the girl playing dress-up in velvet cloaks.

Cassiopeia smiles faintly. "I hope no one is suggesting I'm behind in choosing a side."

Bellatrix tilts her head, eyes glittering. "Aren't you, Cass?"

Orion watches his daughter for a long moment, then says, "She is cautious. As she should be. Let others rush toward fire and shadow. There is wisdom in waiting."

And yet... Cassiopeia's mind drifts again. Back to Bartemius. Not Amycus. Never Amycus. What would he say to this? To the careful arranging of her life at the dinner table like pieces on a chessboard?

Probably something infuriating. Probably something true.

She lets her goblet fall silent to the table. The flickering candlelight reflects in the silverware, in the sharp glint of Lucius's ring, in the golden edge of Bellatrix's bracelet. This room smells of smoke, ambition, old magic, and unsaid truths.

She feels as though the fire is crackling behind her ribs.

It is nearing midnight, and as expected in a home like this, guests begin to take their leave before the stroke of twelve. Cygnus and Druella are first, sweeping out with slow dignity, Druella's perfume lingering faintly in their wake. Bellatrix and Rodolphus follow, murmuring quiet farewells. Narcissa and Lucius offer a graceful exit, Narcissa's arm looped lightly through her fiancé's. Walburga insists on standing by the fireplace, her presence anchoring the farewells with nods and measured remarks, while Orion watches silently, a glass of firewhisky in his hand.

The moment the smoke disappears for the last time that evening, silence drapes over the parlour. Kreacher has slunk away to wherever he lurks at night, and now only the four of them remain.

A stack of wrapped parcels sits between them, glowing faintly in the firelight. Cassiopeia tucks one leg under herself on the settee, hair spilling down her shoulder, looking more relaxed than she had all evening. Her smile blooms fully now, genuine and untouched.

She opens Nadine's gift first, carefully undoing the ribbon like it is made of spun gold. She presses her hand over her heart, grinning. She loves it.

Seraphina's gift is next. Cassiopeia already knows, and yet the excitement doesn't lessen. "This is... stunning." she whispers. "Thank you."

Then there is a small box wrapped in opalescent dark paper with a neatly folded card, inked in neat, elegant script: From the Rosiers. Cassiopeia arches a brow. She lifts the lid to find a long, polished silver hairpin—intricately twisted into the shape of a serpent—and a matching inkwell of ink that shimmers like starlight. The note reads:
"One for beauty, one for brilliance. Use wisely. Don't stab anyone. — P. & E."

She snorts softly, unable to hide her smile. "Of course they would." She rolls her eyes fondly, carefully setting the gifts aside, her lips twitching.

Then Cassiopeia reaches for the smallest box.

She hesitates.

The paper is dark green, the kind that nearly looks black in low light. She undoes it slowly. Inside is a fine chain necklace—delicate and silver—and from it hangs a pendant shaped like a single star, ruby-white, carved from glass. It pulses faintly with warmth.

There is a folded scrap of parchment inside, just his handwriting: "The stars might burn and the moon might glow, but none of them were made to rival you.
You don't just shine, Cassiopeia—you were born to be the sky.."

Cassiopeia stares at it for a moment, completely still.

Her cheeks colour—but not from embarrassment. It is something heavier. She presses her lips together and clasps the necklace carefully in her hand. She doesn't say a word.

She just... holds it.

Meanwhile, Regulus is already halfway into his own pile, unbothered. He unwraps a slim box from Evan first—inside is a chilled crystal bottle of wine with a note that says: "Don't share it with your sister. She'll get dramatic."

Regulus lifts it in triumph. "Too late." he mutters, and Cassiopeia throws a pillow at him.

Then he opens Barty's.

It is a thick journal with shifting ink on the cover and a title that reads: "For All Your Deep Thoughts."

Inside the first page, in Barty's handwriting:
"Also perfect for doodling, plotting murders, and recording how many times Cass tells you to shut up."

Regulus smirks.

Cassiopeia finally looks up from her necklace, still silent, still holding it like a secret she is not ready to name.

The fire crackles. Everything else is still.

Regulus notices the last box only once the room settles into silence again, the rustle of wrapping paper now just a faint memory. It sits slightly apart from the rest—tucked beneath the tree, elegant in its restraint. It is wrapped in a smooth matte black paper, tied not with ribbon but with a strip of silver-dyed velvet. No tag. No name. No seal.

His brows crease slightly, not in confusion but in mild curiosity, that ever-composed mask unshifting. With the tip of a pale finger, he drags the box toward himself, measured and quiet, as if drawing attention to it would break whatever strange energy it holds.

Cassiopeia glances over. "That wasn't from me." she murmurs before he can ask.

"I didn't assume." Regulus says, cool and even, but his fingers hesitate at the edge of the velvet ribbon. He slides it off slowly, methodically, as if revealing a secret rather than a present.

Inside is a carefully bound book—not store-bought, but handmade. The leather is dark, almost black, soft to the touch, worn in a way that tells him someone held it often. Turning it over in his hands, he opens it.

The silence in the room sharpens.

His eyes scan the pages. Sketch after sketch—artistry in the chaos. Someone studied these, lived inside these images long enough to know how they breathe.

And then—he stops.

A portrait. Of him.

Roughly drawn but unmistakable: the curve of his jaw, the tension in his mouth, the sharp stare. It is a version of himself that startles him—not the one he sees in mirrors, but something raw, quiet, vulnerable. Observed. Not worshipped. Not vilified.

On the opposite page, delicate cursive reads:

"Little king."

His fingers hover over the writing, not touching, but close. For a moment, he feels something odd flutter in his chest. Unfamiliar. Unwanted.

Beneath the sketchbook rests something small. A pin. The kind of thing no one would ever dare give him—too intimate, too symbolic.

He clears his throat. "This one... isn't signed." he says at last, voice low, unreadable.

Cassiopeia lifts her head from where she is lounging, robe falling slightly off her shoulder. "That's your secret admirer, Reg."

Regulus looks at her, expression unreadable but gaze sharp. "It's handmade."

"So is half this room." Cassiopeia shrugs with a faint smirk. "Maybe you're more likable than you think."

He says nothing. Just closes the sketchbook gently, not snapping it shut, and sets it back into its box like something fragile. As if too much air might change it.

He doesn't smile. He doesn't ask more. But he places the box beside him—not behind. Not away.

And later that night, when the rest sleep and only the candlelight keeps shadows company, he opens the book again. Just once. Just enough to look at the sketch of himself and wonder for a moment.

Chapter Text

Nadine wakes early, long before the sun has fully risen. The light creeps gently through the floral curtains of her bedroom, painting her ceiling with soft gold and pale blue. For a moment, she stays still under the thick woolen blankets, listening. From downstairs comes the faint clinking of china, the subtle scrape of a wooden spoon against a ceramic bowl, and the unmistakable sizzle of something cooking in a cast iron pan. Then comes the smell—warm, familiar, utterly comforting. Grandmother is making breakfast.

She sighs, stretching slowly before sitting up, brushing her tousled hair from her face. The old house is quiet apart from the distant kitchen sounds, and her breath fogs slightly in the cool morning air. Brownie still sleeps curled up at the foot of the bed, purring faintly, her tail flicking once as Nadine slides her legs out from under the blankets.

She gets dressed slowly, thoughtfully. It is Christmas morning, and although she is not a child anymore, there is still something sacred about it. She chooses a jumper—a soft pink cashmere one with delicate green embroidery around the sleeves and collar, and a matching green wool skirt that falls just past her knees. She buttons the skirt carefully, smooths it down with her palms, and then slips on a pair of tights and her flats. She picks up two boxes from her writing desk, one wrapped in silver and blue paper, the other in gold with a soft red ribbon tied in a perfect bow.

She steps out into the hallway, careful not to let the floorboards creak too much. Brownie stirs slightly in her sleep but doesn't wake. Nadine walks past the family portraits—framed in heavy wood, slumbering or murmuring quietly to one another—and descends the staircase.

At the bottom of the stairs, she sees Barty, his hair sticking up in all directions, dragging his luggage across the floor with one hand while attempting to zip up his traveling cloak with the other. He mutters under his breath, annoyed by the coat's stubborn buttons. Ares and Hades bark excitedly around him, one tugging at the hem of his robe while the other darts in circles.

"You're going to trip." Nadine calls, arching an eyebrow.

"I already did." he mutters. "Twice."

She smirks faintly but continues walking, her shoes clicking softly against the dark wood floors. She walks through the hallway lined with holly and mistletoe, searching for Mother. The scent of breakfast grows stronger—toast, jam, and something buttery—and leads her into the dining room, where the long table is already set with green and red napkins, the family crest embossed in gold on each one.

In the parlor, Nadine finds her. She is standing by the fireplace, adjusting the flowers in the crystal vase—white roses, sprigs of pine, and crimson berries that glow faintly. She wears a deep burgundy velvet dress, her hair swept up in a classic chignon, and she looks effortlessly regal, like someone from a Christmas card in a high-end French boutique.

"Maman." Nadine says gently.

Mother turns, and her face softens at the sight of her daughter. "You're up early."

"I couldn't sleep in. The house smells lovely." Nadine smiles and holds out one of the boxes—the gold one with the red bow. "This is for you."

Mother takes it, fingertips brushing over the ribbon. She already looks touched before even opening it. "Something tells me it's not chocolates."

"It's better." Nadine replies. "Open it later."

Mother nods, lips parting in a knowing smile. "Something I'll love?"

"I hope so."

"Thank you, darling."

Then Nadine glances around. "Where's Father?"

"In the bedroom, probably tying that awful tie again." she says with a sigh.

Nadine doesn't answer—only lifts her chin and walks back toward the staircase, carrying the second box with her. She climbs the stairs slowly this time, each step feeling heavier, more intentional. She reaches the door to her parents' bedroom and knocks twice.

"Enter." Father's voice calls from inside, brisk and clipped.

She pushes the door open. The room is grand and stately, the tall windows framed by heavy cream curtains, the bedspread dark green and perfectly made. He stands near the mirror, adjusting his tie just as Mother predicted. It is a navy one, the same tie he wears when he wants to seem particularly firm or politically sharp. His robe is immaculate, wand tucked neatly into his breast pocket, shoes polished to a near-blinding shine.

"So you're already leaving?" she asks, stepping in and closing the door softly behind her.

He looks at her through the mirror. "Ministry asked me to join the final preparations. The wedding is in two days as well."

Nadine folds her arms. "Yeah."

He turns fully toward her now, smoothing down his robes. "Is there something you need?"

"Just to tell you I'm staying here until the start of next semester." she replies, her voice calm but laced with quiet defiance.

He raises an eyebrow. "We've already discussed—"

"Yes, we have." she cuts in. "But we didn't discuss how you brought up the partner thing again. In front of the LeBlancs. That was humiliating."

His jaw tightens. "It's hardly humiliating to consider your future. They are a respectable family, and—"

"I don't need to be matched like a cursed heirloom." she snaps, voice sharper now. "I'm not a painting to be hung in someone's parlour."

He exhales through his nose, slow and irritated. "Your tone, Nadine."

"My tone is because you made me look like some desperate, unwed daughter at auction. You talk about partners like it's a Ministry appointment—like it's about appearance and politics, not people."

His expression hardens, a storm brewing behind his steel eyes. "You are young and emotional. When you're older, you'll understand."

"I'm not emotional. I'm angry."

"Which is an emotion." he replies coldly.

For a moment, they only look at each other—the same strong jaw, the same intensity in their stare. But hers is more human.

She walks to the edge of the bed and sets the second box down carefully, the silver and blue wrapping catching the light. "This is for you."

He glances at it, but doesn't move to touch it.

Stepping back, she heads toward the door.

"Merry Christmas, Minister." Nadine says, her voice laced with cool formality, and then she leaves, not waiting for his reply.

She closes her eyes, massaging her temples, and exhales in frustration. Footsteps echo from the upper floors, luggage thuds against walls, and the sharp clicks of heels strike against the oak hallway. Ares and Hades bark enthusiastically near the front door, tails wagging like clock pendulums, sensing the commotion.

Mother steps out of the parlor first, pulling on her traveling cloak, its silver clasp glinting under the morning light. Her gloves are tucked neatly beneath one arm, and she is fastening a pearl earring. She turns toward the hallway, her voice light but clipped.

"Maman? Tu viens dire au revoir?" she says, raising her voice slightly so it carries toward the kitchen. (Mom? Are you coming to say goodbye?)

Grandmother appears in the doorway, wiping her hands on a white linen towel. Her apron is dusted with flour, and her spectacles are slightly askew, as though she has been working quickly and forgot to adjust them.

"Tu pars déjà?" she asks, her tone both fond and a little reproachful. (You're leaving already?)

Mother walks toward her and embraces her briefly. "We want to prepare for the wedding. The Malfoys have arranged everything down to the minute." She smiles tightly. Grandmother steps forward and they embrace briefly, the older woman patting her daughter's back.

Father descends the stairs, his presence unmistakable in a sharply cut coat of navy wool. The collar is turned up slightly, the lapels pressed to perfection. His gloved hand extends toward Grandmother.

"You have our thanks for hosting Nadine." he says softly. "We appreciate your hospitality."

Grandmother nods. "She's my granddaughter. This is her home."

Behind them, Barty lugs his last suitcase toward the fireplace where the floo is ready and waiting, flickering with a green glow. He stops beside Nadine on the rug, rolling his eyes as he adjusts his collar.

"See you next week, slug." he mutters.

She leans in and bumps her shoulder lightly against his. "If you survive. Say hi to my girls."

"I will."

Then, just as Mother reaches for the powder dish, there is a knock at the front door—three short raps, confident and even.

Ares and Hades go wild again, scampering toward the door and barking like mad. Mother gives a slight sigh and shoos them aside, opening it with a calm flick of her wand.

Louis stands on the doorstep.

He is wearing a dark grey wool coat with the collar turned up against the chill, a cream scarf tucked around his neck, and gloves in one hand. His curly hair is slightly windswept from the ride, and his cheeks are flushed from the cold.

"Bonjour." he greets with a charming grin. "Am I too early?"

"Not at all, dear." Mother says kindly. "Perfect timing. Come in, come in." She exchanges kisses on the cheeks with him.

Louis steps inside, brushing a bit of snow off his sleeve, and holding his helmet under one arm. His eyes meet Nadine's for just a second—then flick politely to Father.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Crouch."

Father inclines his head politely, his tone cool but formal. "LeBlanc."

Louis holds out his hand and Father shakes it, brief and firm. Barty grins faintly behind them, mouthing something to Nadine that she pointedly ignores.

Finally, Father turns to her. "Study. No dramatics. Stay out of trouble."

"Don't I always?" Nadine says sweetly, knowing the answer in his head is no. "You've raised me well."

He raises an eyebrow.

She leans in and kisses Mother's cheek quickly. "You'll send me photos?"

"Of course, darling."

And then, one by one, her family steps through the green flames and vanishes, leaving only the soft crackle of floo and scent of soot and perfume behind.

The air relaxes.

Nadine exhales and turns to Louis.

"You're brave for showing up before they left."

"I like to live dangerously." he says with a slight smirk. "Shall we?"

She nods, pulls on her beige trench coat with the pink satin lining, and fastens the belt. "Let me just grab—"

She kneels, scooping up Brownie from her curled-up spot by the sun-drenched window.

Brownie meows loudly, indignant. Her ears flick back.

Nadine laughs. "Don't be dramatic. I know you missed Paris."

She kisses the cat's head gently then walks to Grandmother and kisses her on both cheeks. "Je t'aime, Mamie. Merci pour tout." (I love you, Grandma. Thank you for everything.)

"Sois sage. Et ne monte pas sur cette chose sans tenir Louis très fort." Grandmother smiles warmly. (Be good. And don't get on that thing without holding Louis very tight.)

"Je tiens toujours Louis très fort." she smirks. (I always hold Louis very tight.)

Louis coughs delicately.

Nadine chuckles and heads for the door, Louis holding it open. Outside, the air bites with morning chill. Frost curls along the tops of iron railings and the roofs shimmer like sugar glass.

The motorbike is parked just by the gate—sleek and dark green, with elegant modifications humming faintly through the metal. A spare helmet rests on the seat.

"You kept it clean." she says, impressed.

He hands her the helmet, and she fastens it beneath her chin, brushing her hair behind her ear.

She climbs on behind him, settling comfortably. Her arms wrap around his waist, gloved fingers sliding beneath his coat slightly to grip the wool underneath.

"You nervous?" he asks over his shoulder.

"About riding with you or surviving the day?"

"Either."

"Mostly the latter."

"Fair." Louis laughs and kicks the bike into gear. It roars softly, the engine purring like a well-fed beast, and then they are off—wheels gliding over cobblestone and lifting them gently a few inches from the ground, just enough to silence the bump of the old roads.

They weave through the narrow Parisian streets, past shuttered bakeries and cafés just beginning to open, the scent of espresso and fresh bread bleeding into the air. Nadine leans slightly into the turns, her cheek pressed to the back of Louis's coat, her eyes flicking over snow-dusted rooftops and wrought iron balconies.

The city is still waking up, slow and golden and lovely. A woman walks her dog past the Seine. A man lights a cigarette with a trembling hand outside a patisserie. Music from a nearby violin drifts faintly through the misted streets.

He speaks over the wind, laughing into the cold.

She smiles, her breath ghosting in clouds behind them. "Where are we going, exactly?"

"There's a new bookshop I like." he answers. "And they serve strong hot chocolate."

"I won't say no to that."

They vanish deeper into the city, the motorbike humming beneath them, the old stone buildings rising like sleeping sentinels around their path. And for a few perfect minutes it is just winter and the quiet thrill of being young and alive in Paris.

Louis helps Nadine off the motorbike, and she sets Brownie gently into the crook of her arm as they begin their walk down Rue des Écoles. The morning light glimmers off frost-laced windows. Brownie hisses in protest at being disturbed, but curls into her arm anyway, resigned.

They visit a quaint bookstore first—one tucked between a closed flower shop and a music store. The smell of parchment and ink floods Nadine's senses as they step inside. The storekeeper, a bearded wizard with half-moon spectacles, nods to Louis in recognition and greets Nadine warmly. She loses herself in the stacks, running her fingers over spines of old spellbooks and translated Muggle literature. Louis lingers behind her, flipping through a political journal.

She pulls out a copy of 'Anna Karenina,' considering it for a moment before sliding it back with a small frown.

"Too tragic." she mutters.

Louis glances over. "Still avoiding the sad endings?"

"Always." she says, smiling faintly. "If I'm going to spend hours with characters, I want them to be happy at the end."

"You're incurable."

She shrugs, unapologetic. "Hope is a choice."

Next is a boutique where warm emerald gloves and rose-coloured scarves call to Nadine. She chooses a cashmere beret in moss green and a coat with delicate gold buttons stitched in swirling patterns. Louis teases her, saying she looks like someone from a painting. She pretends not to hear, though she is secretly pleased.

Hot chocolate follows—rich, dark, and served in porcelain cups at a café with twinkling chandeliers and waiters in pressed white shirts. Nadine dips her spoon into the thick cream topping and hums contentedly. Brownie is curled at her feet now, dozing in a little shawl under the table.

Then, they go ice-skating. The rink glimmers under a veil of snow, surrounded by twinkling lights strung between lampposts and softly playing French Christmas music. Nadine laces up her skates beside Louis, a confident grin playing on her lips.

As soon as they step onto the ice, they move like they were born for it. Louis glides effortlessly, turning with precise control and pushing off with speed that makes the breeze lift his dark coat behind him. Nadine matches his pace without hesitation—graceful, poised, spinning once with effortless balance that draws admiration from a few passersby.

They weave around slower skaters like water around stones, laughing, eyes bright from the cold and motion. At one point, Louis extends a gloved hand and she takes it, letting him guide her into a fast, thrilling turn, both of them leaning into it perfectly synchronized.

"You're showing off." he says, teasing.

"You started it." she retorts, cheeks flushed.

They skate side by side for a while in perfect rhythm—silent but smiling. Neither stumbles, neither slows. They are not just good at this—they are dazzling. It is clear they have both been raised in worlds where elegance is expected, but here on the ice, it is more than that. It is joy. It is freedom.

Louis suddenly races ahead, challenging her with a look over his shoulder. Nadine laughs and chases him down, hair streaming behind her, heart light.

By late afternoon, they are tucked into a quiet bistro that smells like herbs and garlic butter. Candles flicker on the table between them, and Louis orders without even looking at the menu.

They fall into easy conversation between bites of warm baguette and duck à l'orange. Nadine gazes out the window beside her, her cheek resting on her palm.

A couple stands outside—young, close, bundled against the cold. The girl laughs and wraps her scarf around the boy's neck, and he leans in like he is about to kiss her.

Nadine watches for a moment too long.

Louis, sipping his espresso, glances at her over the rim of his cup. "À quoi tu penses?" he asks gently. (Who are you thinking about?)

Nadine turns toward him quickly, caught off guard. "No one." she says, too fast.

He arches an eyebrow. "Hmm. That's a lie."

She sighs and leans back, twirling the spoon in her hot chocolate. "You don't know him."

"Well then tell me." Louis says, curious. "You've never said anything about anyone before."

She hesitates, then finally, quietly: "His name is Severus. Severus Snape. My best friend's brother. He's two years older than us. He's... brilliant. Beautiful. Dark hair, intense eyes. He's the quiet sort, incredibly smart. He makes me want to be smarter too. Sharp-witted, and... closed off. Like he carries everything alone. I can't stop thinking about him."

Louis nods slowly, listening.

"He's not charming the way most are. But there's something about him that pulls you in. Like... like you want to be the one he lets in." She looks away. "If he gave me the chance... I think I'd love him."

Louis leans forward, folding his arms. "Are you together?"

"No." Nadine says quickly. "No. He doesn't feel the same. Or if he does, he hides it well. He always hides everything."

Louis studies her with a soft expression. "That kind of man either ends up alone or with someone like you, who's brave enough to wait." he says, his tone serious.

She sighs. "That sounds awful."

"I said brave. Not foolish. But if you are willing to see him—really see him—and he can't recognize what that means, that's his loss."

She smiles faintly, eyes still on the falling snow. "It's complicated, Louis. I just... I like happy endings. I want that one day. Not something perfect, but real. Love that chooses you back."

Louis watches her for a moment, then smirks slightly. "So, you're the romantic one after all."

"Always have been." she admits with a quiet laugh.

He shrugs. "Well, whether it's Severus or not... someone is going to be very lucky."

She tilts her head. "And you? What about your love life, Monsieur Leblanc?"

Louis grins. "Now who's changing the subject?"

"I'm curious!" she says.

He gives her a mysterious look and leans back in his chair. "Let's just say... I've had options. But nothing serious. Not yet."

"Keeping your secrets as usual."

"Of course. I have a reputation to hold."

After a beat, she glances out the window again. "What about what our parents say?"

Louis follows her gaze. "What about it?"

"Their... suggestions. The way they talk like it's all planned."

He shrugs, unbothered. "They speak that way because it gives them comfort. But they don't decide for us. They can arrange dinner parties and whisper between themselves, but they can't make us feel anything. We choose. Always."

She nods slowly, thoughtful. "I just hate how they bring it up in front of others. Like I'm supposed to nod along and smile."

"They're old. They still believe in connections more than love. That's their tragedy, not ours."

She smirks. "You're surprisingly poetic today."

Louis grins. "It's the chocolate."

"I really like it. Thank you."

"You should write Severus a letter though." Louis says with mock seriousness. "'Dear Severus, Paris is cold and full of beautiful distractions, but I still think about you. P.S. Come ice skating.'"

She throws a piece of bread at him.

Brownie meows under the table.

"Besides," he adds, nudging her gently, "I think he would absolutely hate me."

"Why?"

"Because you're talking about him with me. And I'm handsome. Obviously."

She rolls her eyes, laughing. "You're insufferable."

They clink their mugs together lightly. Outside, the snow keeps falling.

Chapter Text

Malfoy Manor has always been a house of splendor and shadow, but on this day—the day of the wedding between Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black—it became something else entirely. Not merely a home, not even a palace. No, this is a temple to old magic and unspeakable wealth, restored to a form not worn in centuries: a cathedral of legacy.

From miles away, the spires of the estate gleam through the frost-dimmed countryside like ivory. The grounds are transformed—transfigured, rather—by master spellcrafters brought in from St. Petersburg, Kyoto, Paris, and Carthage. The topiary beasts along the drive are charmed to bow their massive heads in reverence as guests passed. Every tree is bare, and yet not dead—each branch laced with frostfire, a rare blue flame that burns cold and casts elegant light in curling tendrils. No two flames are alike; they whisper in languages no longer spoken.

The gates, wrought from goblin-blackened steel, bear the crest of the Malfoy family—serpent and wand crossed, surrounded by a halo of runes that pulses with protective enchantments so old they predate wandlore itself. Upon opening, they spill guests into a path lined with snow, untouched and ever-falling, though not a single flake dares to settle on cloak or shoulder.

The manor itself is alive with magic.

Its grand façade, usually austere, is wrapped in spellwoven silk that shifts between silver, grey, and palest green. Gargoyles dressed in ceremonial armor watch silently from the corners of the roof. Above them, a dome of sky is conjured—an illusion so precise it mirrors the cosmos of the Black family star chart. It moves slowly, eternally, a soft glimmering night even in daylight.

The entrance hall is cathedral-high, with floors of polished obsidian veined with gold. Above, massive chandeliers made of floating crystal orbs hum in slow revolutions, casting constellations across the walls. Every step guests take echoes with orchestral tones—soft, haunting notes triggered by tiles.

Floral arrangements float mid-air, never wilting, petals of silverthorn and black orchid opening and closing in time with the music. Each arrangement is unique, created by botanists from seven different nations. They give off the scent of memory—each guest smells something different, something beloved and buried.

The great ballroom is entirely restructured through transfiguration. The walls are replaced by glass, clear and humming with anti-chill charms, offering a view of the snow-laced gardens and the star-map sky above. The ballroom floor is turned to a mirror-lake: not water, but a glass surface that shimmers like ice, refracting the gold and emerald lights of the floating orbs above. It is designed so that each guest can see themselves as if through a veil of history, their reflections trailing slightly behind—a glamour meant to remind them of their ancestors and their bloodlines.

At the center stands a massive sculpture of frost and diamond: two serpents, one silver and one onyx, coiled around each other and rising into the air, their mouths open in a frozen kiss. It rotates slowly, endlessly, shedding starlight as it turns. It is charmed to weep liquid light into a shallow pool at its base, where phoenix tears had been added, giving the air around it an aura of cleansing sorrow and immortal beauty.

The library is transformed into the Matchmaking Parlour, where families gather to make their quiet arrangements for courtship, alliance, and bloodline strengthening. There, flames crackle in white-marble hearths under portrait-lined ceilings. The portraits watch, whisper, occasionally voice their opinions aloud. One ancient ancestor mutters, "The Rosier girl has strong bones. Would breed well." The room chuckles, and no one denies it.

The garden, made temporarily accessible through corridors, is buried under a blanket of preserved snow, and yet the entire area pulses with warmth. Here, fire-fairies dances among the hedges, guiding guests toward private groves where courtships might begin in low conversation and lingering glances. In one corner, floating glass baubles hold miniature dioramas of ancient weddings—each one playing on a loop, for those who wish to witness the echoes of bloodlines past.

Every piece of cutlery is hand-forged by goblins from bloodsilver. Every goblet is engraved with charms to prevent poisoning, over-drinking, and indiscretion. The food isn't merely catered but conjured—crafted on demand by specialist culinary alchemists, served on plates that hover elegantly in the air until claimed by hand.

Malfoy Manor isn't hosting a wedding.

It is hosting a ritual—one that reminds every single guest, regardless of wealth or status, that they are in the presence of something older and grander than themselves. That the old ways didn't die. That in this manor, legacy still rules.

It begins with a hush.

Not a silence of awe—though that follows—but a deliberate, tangible stillness, as if the very magic in the air draws a breath. All conversation in the receiving hall falters. Goblets lower. Wands are instinctively stilled. And then comes the sound: not footfall, but presence—a current of power that moves ahead of them, like a shadow long before dusk.

The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black has arrived.

They didn't come in pieces, nor mingle among the other guests. They enter as a single, sovereign procession—undiluted, cohesive, cold as polished obsidian.

At their head are Walburga and Orion.

She moves like a blade in velvet. Her gown, ink-dark and laced with embroidery that shimmers in starlight, whispers against the stone with every step. She wears no visible wand—she doesn't need one. Her stare, sharp as ritual iron, sweeps the hall and seems to see straight through silk, sin, and subterfuge alike. Her hair, raven-black and perfectly coiled, is crowned with a silver circlet forged in the old style—sharp points, serpentine detail, the sort that whispers matriarch, ruler, witch. She wears the ancestral Black crest at her throat, and nothing softens her. She doesn't smile. She doesn't need to.

To her left walk Orion, tall and silent, dressed in rich bottle-green robes cut with military precision, a wand sheathed in dragonhide at his hip. His expression, as ever, is unreadable—but his eyes follow everything. The two of them together are less a married couple and more a force, carved from the same cold, beautiful obsidian.

Then come their children.

Regulus is impossibly composed. His robes are midnight velvet with silver embroidery forming silent runes down the sleeves—messages only other old families might recognize. His curly hair is slicked back—as tamed as it can be, his gaze cool and inward, like he is forever half a step removed from the world around him. And yet he radiates something: royalty, gravity, control wrapped in flawless etiquette. At his side, Cassiopeia is his mirror and his contrast.

Cassiopeia wears her darkness like a flame. Her gown is form-fitted, high-collared, and glittered like crushed onyx. Her lips are blood-red, her jewelry deliberate: obsidian rings, a single heirloom brooch shaped like a falling star. Her expression is cool, but her eyes burn with calculation, already scanning the room—watching who watches her, and more importantly, who pretends not to.

Behind them comes a sweep of close family and distant cousins—young men and women of the Black line from the French branch and the Welsh side, each bearing the family's signature mix of austere beauty and effortless superiority. They don't speak either. Their presence is announcement enough.

One cousin stands out—Bellatrix and Rodolphus with the Lestrange family line, like viciously elegant Dementors.

Bellatrix enters like a shadow laced with fire, trailing behind Walburga—her beauty still striking beneath the sharp angles of obsession, her eyes wide and glittering with barely restrained madness, her hair depicting chaos, in curls. Dressed in black lace that moves like smoke, she walks with the arrogance of a queen and the unpredictability of a storm. Her smile comes too fast, too wide, and lingers just a moment too long, like she knows something terrible and thrilling the rest of the room hasn't yet guessed. Even in silence, she crackles—like a wand on the verge of exploding.

One family considered a distant cousin of the Blacks is the LeBlanc family—similar in lineage, yet almost entirely opposite in spirit.

Édouard LeBlanc carries himself like a man carved from shadow and tradition. In ash-grey robes with silver lining, he moves with quiet authority, his gaunt features and silver-streaked hair giving him the look of a judge.

Geneviève LeBlanc, all blue eyes and knife-blade beauty, is a charm wrapped in steel. Her robes, a haze of lilac and black, drift as if bewitched by memory itself. She smiles like she knows every secret in the room, and speaks like she didn't forget any of them.

Together, they are the kind of couple people bow to, even when they don't mean to.

The LeBlanc brothers arrive with the effortless grace of old continental blood. Charles, charming and razor-sharp in silver-threaded black robes, wears a quiet, frostbitten smile, his gaze calculating beneath immaculately combed hair. Every step is measured, like he knows the floor is watching.

Beside him, Louis is the contrast—midnight blue robes carelessly perfect, his collar slightly askew, eyes gleaming with clever mischief. He smiles too easily, greets ghosts like old friends, and kindly looks at the room like it is of friends—yet never that naive.

They bear the mark of the Black bloodline—elegant, untouchable, and just dangerous enough to matter.

As the Black family and the families of various distant cousins cross the marble floor of the receiving hall, the floating chandeliers overhead dim briefly—instinct, as if even the manor itself bends slightly at the waist to greet them.

A quiet voice—no more than a breath—escapes from a nearby guest:

"They're there."

Black family—regal, unbending, and resplendent in ancestral power. The epitome of purity—Toujours Pur—Always Pure. Narcissa is theirs.

Not just rich in coin. Not merely that. The Black fortune is so vast it has begun to mythologize—hidden vaults in Gringotts beneath codes only blood could unlock, cursed jewels and immortal tomes, secret properties buried beneath enchanted seas. Their power is old. Older than Hogwarts. Older than the Ministry. The other pure-blood families circle them like moons around a black star.

The family remains a monument to legacy: ruthless, proud, and utterly unyielding. To be a Black is to walk in shadow and be worshipped like flame. They know it. They uphold it.

Walburga glances sideways at one of the Carrow women who dares to stare too long. She doesn't speak. But the woman's eyes drop at once.

The Blacks don't pause to greet. They don't offer hands. They pass through the hall like dusk overtaking a garden—beautiful, inevitable, and untouched.

The Malfoy family isn't merely powerful; they are the epitome of wizarding aristocracy—luxurious, influential, and untouchable. Their vast fortune is only rivaled by the Black family and their own ancient lineage, stretching back through centuries of history. Abraxas, a wizard of quiet but immense power, is as refined as the marble columns of Malfoy Manor itself.

His cold, calculating nature ensures that the family's influence in both the Ministry and pure-blood society remains unquestioned. Though less overtly traditional than the Blacks, the Malfoys command reverence in a different way—through wealth, charm, and subtle dominance.

The union between Lucius and Narcissa is the most significant chess move in wizarding history—a perfect marriage of power, blood, and influence. The Blacks, with their ancient, rich bloodline and unwavering dedication to pure-blood supremacy, are the bedrock of wizarding tradition, while the Malfoys stand at the pinnacle of wealth with pragmatism.

Together, they create an alliance that is unstoppable: a union that merges the might of two of the most important families, elevating their combined status to an unparalleled level. The consequences of this union are felt across every pure-blood household, marking the Blacks and the Malfoys as the undisputed elite of their world.

Abraxas is tall and composed, with sharp features and pale, frosty eyes that gleam with cold intellect. His silver-blond hair, perfectly swept back, shimmers in the light, and his robes of midnight black silk mark him as both aristocratic and ruthless. Lycoris, his wife, stunningly beautiful, wears emerald velvet that glows with subtle enchantments. Her long blonde hair is interwoven with silver, and her emerald choker crowns her elegance.

The distant Malfoy relatives are similarly regal but less refined. Tall men with cold eyes and rich black robes, and women draped in dark silks and diamonds, all carry the unmistakable air of immense wealth and old, unshakable power.

The Lestrange family is still murmuring their greetings when the figures of Barty Crouch Jr., the heir of the family, and parents, Lavinda Crouch and Barty Crouch Sr., make their entrance—a sharp contrast in both presence and manner. Barty Sr., tall and severe, walks with the rigid posture of a man who has seen both the heights of power and the depths of compromise.

His robes are a deep, imposing navy, and his cold, calculating eyes sweep the room with a practiced, appraising gaze, always a step ahead. Though his reputation as a strict Ministry official preceds him, it is clear in the way people fall silent that his presence is still one of command.

Lavinda is a woman of rigid poise and brittle grandeur—tall, immaculately dressed in deep forest silks, with a gaze like frost on glass. Her voice is clipped, her opinions immovable, and her presence carries the weight of old expectations and older grudges. To her, reputation is everything—and warmth, entirely optional. Her love for children—unequivocal.

To the world, she is the embodiment of the Crouch name—stern, impeccably composed, and unwavering in her convictions. Draped in dark, dignified elegance, she moves through society like a specter of propriety and unspoken rules. But to her children, she is something entirely different: a quiet pillar of warmth, steady as oak and fiercely protective. In a house of iron expectations, her love is the one thing that never bends.

Beside him, Barty seems almost too relaxed—youthful, wild-eyed, sleek, and radiating a dangerous energy that contrast with Father's disciplined restraint. His hair is slightly disheveled, his robes black and tailored and equally as polished. His grin, wild and untamed, never quite reaches his eyes, which burns with the remnants of something darker, underlying.

As they enter, a brief, almost electric tension seems to follow them, a reminder that Barty is more than just a member of the Crouch family—he is a living, unpredictable storm waiting to be unleashed.

As he scans the room, his gaze catches Cassiopeia, and for a fleeting moment, a spark passes between them—her smile, cool yet inviting, lingers just a moment too long. Walburga, ever-the-eagle-eyed, notices—glancing between them only once.

As the guests start trickling in—no sign yet of Narcissa and Lucius—a few more familiar faces show up in the crowd.

Severus and Seraphina Snape.

The doors to the ballroom creak open once more, the crowd parting just slightly. The siblings glide in with an aura of cold, dangerous elegance that seems to command the very air around them.

Severus is wearing his tailored suit, the fabric so smooth it almost seems to shimmer with an otherworldly sheen. The jacket, cut with sharp, angular lines, fits him like a second skin, buttoned just slightly askew, as if the perfection of his appearance is an afterthought, a subtle defiance to convention.

The long, black silk tie is tied with perfection, and the silver cufflinks at his wrists gleam faintly in the low light. His hair, as dark as ever, falls around his face in waves that frame his pale, calculating features, while his eyes—so often hidden behind a veil of rigidness—now search the room with an unsettling intensity.

Seraphina is a vision in dark purple. Her off-the-shoulder gown shimmers with a celestial quality, as if she stepped from the night sky itself. The bodice, sleek and fitted to her frame, accentuates the curve of her waist, while a cascade of silver embroidery runs down the skirt in a sparkling waterfall of starlight, making her seem like a comet passing through the room.

The back of the dress dips low in a swooping curve, elegant yet daring, balancing the sharp edges of her family's legacy with a softness that draws the eye. Her dark hair, slightly tousled in a way that only adds to her allure, falls over her shoulders in waves, and her unflinching gaze surveyw the crowd with the cool detachment of someone who knows exactly how much power she wields.

Together, they enter like a pair of shadows given form—silent, observant, and utterly unforgettable.

Chapter Text

They feel the weight of every eye in the room, their arrival marking a rare and deliberate moment of tension. Seraphina, with her cool, graceful presence, and Severus, with his unwavering, shadowed demeanor, are among the few chosen half-bloods who earned their place within such an exclusive gathering.

Yet despite their lineage, no one dares to openly question their inclusion—not when the bond between Lucius and Severus is solidified into a firm, unspoken alliance, founded in years of shared secrets and mutual respect. Their friendship, though unconventional, became undeniable—a force that many within the room have come to accept.

Seraphina's presence, however, is just as integral to this delicate balance. As the younger sibling, she stands beside her brother with quiet strength, her gaze unwavering. She isn't just an accessory to Severus, but an embodiment of the unity their family represents. A united front is what Narcissa and Lucius demanded in this world of precarious alliances, and together, Severus and Seraphina stand as a living testament to it.

Regulus's eyes linger for a moment on Seraphina, the way her gown shimmers under the light, the silver embroidery cascading down her skirt like stardust. He notices the elegance of her posture, the sharp curve of her back, the cool confidence she exudes—every detail that somehow turned her into something far more striking than he remembers.

Yet he turns his attention away—he is, according to his rigid mind, uninterested.

Walburga notes how Seraphina's lips curle into a smile, her focus entirely on Cassiopeia, the warmth in her expression in stark contrast to the icy indifference she often wears for others. It is a smile that lingers, a private gesture in a public sea of faces, while the rest of the room seems to fade into the background for her. Cassiopeia returns it, her own smile cool but knowing.

Pandora and Evan are impossibly elegant—Pandora in flowing dark blue satin with silver chains draped across her shoulders like armor, her hair swept into a crown of braids, and Evan in a perfectly tailored onyx suit, his curls artfully tousled, emerald cufflinks catching the light with every movement. The Rosier family, one of the oldest and wealthiest in Europe, wear their legacy like a weapon—lethal, beautiful, and meant to be seen.

As the Snape siblings settle into the flow of the evening, Seraphina breaks away first, her eyes already scanning the crowd for familiar faces before making her way toward the Rosiers. Evan is already moving—meeting her halfway with a grin that splits his face as he immediately loops his arm through hers, kissing her cheek, effortless and familiar. Pandora, regal and sweet, leans in to kiss Seraphina's cheek, her expression softening in her presence. Among the glittering sea of ancient bloodlines and veiled politics, the Rosier twins are her sanctuary—sharp, loyal, and entirely hers.

"To say you look stunning would be an understatement, Pandora. I'm speechless, you're like a fairy!" Seraphina breathes, linking their hands as she takes in the vision before her.

Pandora beams, cheeks flushed with delight. "You're too sweet—and you! That dress—divine. Like a dark angel snucked into the event and stealing everyone's breath."

"You're speechless?" Evan cuts in, eyes gleaming as he gives Seraphina a twirl. "This look? Changed my life. Spectacular. I'll never recover."

"Ah, Evan." Seraphina laughs, the sound bright and genuine. "That charm of yours really does work. My best friend—so handsome, so royal. Pfff."

As the three exchange hushed laughter, Barty approaches with a practiced ease, slipping into their circle like he belonges, his sharp gaze lingering a moment too long on them before greeting the Rosiers and Seraphina with a hug.

"My, my, how mesmerizing we all look tonight. Nadine says hi." Barty drawls with a smirk, his eyes flicking over each of them, clearly pleased to be among such dangerously well-dressed company.

"Look at you, Barty! What a natural stunner, wow!" Seraphina encourages, as she ruffled his hair. His smile is soft and genuine. "I wish she could've joined us." They all agree.

"We look amazing, truly." Pandora chimes in, her voice soft and lilting, eyes half-lidded with delight. "I think we've outdone ourselves."

Evan and Seraphina laugh quietly, shoulders brushing as they exchange a knowing glance.
"Either all out or nothing." Evan adds with a grin, then nudges her gently. "And you, Phiny—you seem to be holding your ground among us bloodhounds."

"Nothing quite like it." she replies with a confident smirk, embroidery catching the light like starlight as she lifts her chin ever so slightly, matching their fire with her own.

"Nervous, yet?" Barty teases, his tone light, but his eyes knowing—fully aware that this room, thick with power and scrutiny, is unlike any other.

"Not really." Seraphina admitts, smoothing the fabric of her gown with a steady hand. "But I'm a big girl. I can handle it."

"Absolutely." Barty says with sincerity, his voice dropping just slightly. "No one here's got a bite like you."

"Oh, we've yet to see that..." Evan absentmindedly says as he gestured with his head, spotting the head of the Crouch family approaching them.

Their conversation is soon interrupted by the arrival of Barty Sr., tall, composed, and watchful; Seraphina recognizes him instantly from Nadine's stories—cold, exacting, impossible to please—and though she doesn't care for him, she greets him with perfect poise, her charm so polished that they give her an approving glance before moving on.

As the group make their way across the ballroom, laughter dulls to murmurs—the Black family stands at the far end like a living monument. Walburga stands flanked by Orion, silent and unreadable, and the rest of the family arrays around them like a court in a painting. The Rosiers approach first, exchanging formal pleasantries with a confidence born of equal status, but as Seraphina steps forward, the atmosphere shifts—just enough to be felt.

She is a half-blood, and though she belongs to the few deemed acceptable enough to enter this rarefied space, it isn't forgotten.

Walburga's eyes sweep over her like a blade—cold, slow, assessing. There is no outright dismissal, but there is no warmth either. "Miss Snape." she says at last, her voice as smooth as polished iron. "We've heard of you." It isn't quite a compliment, but not quite a threat.

Seraphina, poised and unflinching, gives a graceful bow of her head, her voice steady: "It's an honor to meet you, Lady Black, Lord Black." It isn't sincere, but it is flawless—and that is enough. Seraphina feels their intense stare—like a test—refusing to crumble under pressure and look away immediately. Instead, she turns to focus on Cassiopeia moments later.

Cassiopeia, beside her mother, offers a faint, amused smirk, her eyes catching Seraphina's in silent understanding—a flicker of shared rebellion, of games neither of their mothers fully saw. But it is Regulus who holds her gaze the longest, as if challenging her. This is, after all, their most exceptional display.

He stands just next to his mother, composed as always, but his usual aloofness wavers for the briefest moment. The one his mother won't notice. His eyes meet hers—pale yet dark, unreadable. He inclines his head in a deliberate greeting. "Snape."

She nods back, silent but sure, "Black." She scans her eyes over him, and he feels it, keeping his posture ever-so straight. She finds him beautiful, no matter how hard she fights the thought. She won't linger on the words spoken after that—mostly courteous pleasantries—only that his voice, for once, isn't hiding behind distance. And though neither of them will admit it, that moment lingers.

Only then does she truly notice the twins' similarity to their mother—and Sirius's to their father. She wonders, in that moment, what Sirius would have said, but she doubts it would be anything nice.

They all know that approaching the Blacks requires a different language—one spoken in posture, silence, and carefully measured words. Lighthearted conversation has no place here, not under Walburga's watchful gaze. Everything joyous is tucked neatly behind a wall of reputation and status, and none of them challenge it.

Seraphina, Evan, Pandora and Barty—all adapted, unspokenly agreeing to play the part. If only to give Cassiopeia and Regulus the grace of no additional scrutiny, no unnecessary attention. They cam laugh later. Here, they walk the line.

As the evening unfolds, the guests mingle with the kind of quiet sophistication only such a gathering can inspire. Severus makes his rounds, exchanging nods and brief words with various... associates—Mulciber, Rosier, Carrow, Crouch, Avery and others—each interaction marked by the same cold, calculating precision that has earned him his reputation. Evan and others share quiet conversations, their robes swirling as they move through the crowd, their presence a reminder of the power that lays beneath the polished surface.

Lucius stands resplendent, a figure of imperial elegance, cloaked in a robe of frost-silver velvet that catches the light like moonlit snow upon dragon-scale. His blond hair, artfully arranged and gleaming like gilded silk, flows past his shoulders in waves of patrician disdain. Upon his breast, fastened by a serpentine brooch of emerald and obsidian, lays the Malfoy crest wrought in thread of woven gold and warded against all ill will. He moves with the smooth precision of a man who knows the room belonged to him before he even enters it.

By his side, Narcissa is nothing short of celestial. She is wearing a gown of ivory charmeuse that clings and flows with equal grace. The bodice is embroidered with silver-threaded lilies and tiny diamonds nested in their centers winked like dew on moonlit petals. Her hair is arranged in a chignon, studded with pearls harvested from the deepest Gringotts vaults, and an intricate veil trails behind her like morning mist.

Her beauty is austere, almost unearthly—the kind of beauty that can silence a room without lifting a voice, that belongs more in a tapestry than in the flawed world of men. Guests don't speak of them as bride and groom but as icons.

A brief moment later, Severus leads Seraphina toward the newlyweds, where Lucius offers her a cool, calculated smile. "Miss Snape." he greets with a handshake, his voice smooth, "It's a pleasure to finally meet you in person." His eyes flick briefly toward Narcissa, who offers Seraphina a warm, though restrained, smile.

Seraphina returns the greeting with a deep nod and a handshake, her tone respectful. "The pleasure is mine, Mr. Malfoy, Mrs. Malfoy. Congratulations."

Despite the air of formality, the brief exchange holds an unspoken tension—yet Lucius and Narcissa seem much warmer than most, a subtle contrast to the coldness that fills the room. Perhaps it is courtesy, perhaps it is the invisible thread of connection that Severus woven between them, but whatever the reason, their demeanor is surprisingly less guarded than others. It is their field, after all.

The conversation that follows, though lighthearted on the surface, carries an undercurrent of importance. Seraphina can sense it—a measured understanding beneath their words, an acknowledgment of their shared status. As she speaks with them, she finally grasps what Severus had so often drilled into her: this event, these people, the alliances and nuances—they are not just customs, but the very foundation of power. And for all the superficial charm, there is a sharp awareness beneath it all—something she will need to master, if she ever hopes to truly navigate this world.

The evening wears on, the tension of the ceremony slowly giving way to the more relaxed rhythms of the party. The music, still soaring and elegant, shifts as the first notes of a slow waltz fill the air, and the guests begin to move more freely, the sharp edges of formality softened by the intoxicating spell of the celebration.

Seraphina and Evan take to the dance floor, their steps light and fluid as they twirl in sync. The connection between them is effortless, the banter flowing as easily as the movement beneath their feet. Evan leans in close with a smirk. "You know, I think they're all watching us." he teases, his eyes flicking to the crowd. "But it's nothing new for us, is it?"

Seraphina grins, swaying gracefully. "Hardly." she replies with a wink, her gaze sweeping across the room, the crowd now a blur of silk and satin. It is almost easy to forget the politics, the weight of this world they live in, with Evan beside her. She feels a few eyes on her, but she doesn't care to decipher which.

But soon, the music shifts again, and Barty sweeps onto the floor, cutting through the crowd with his usual air of arrogance. His gaze immediately finds Seraphina, who finished her dance with Evan and swaps with Pandora, and with a cocked eyebrow, he offers his hand. "Care for a dance?" His voice is playful.

Without missing a beat, Seraphina accepts, allowing herself to be led by him onto the floor. As they move together, a familiar friendly electricity pulses between them—understanding and support, and most importantly—fun.

Meanwhile, the guests continue to relax, a few of the more serious faces softening in the light of the music and the wine. Laughter bubbles up here and there, and for a few moments, the walls of pure-blood pride seem to fall away, allowing for real human moments to slip through.

In a quieter corner of the room, Selene Greengrass—her presence a little more captivating than usual—makes her way over to Severus. She is poised, elegant, with a hint of something more daring in her gaze as she nears him.

Selene, the enigmatic sister-in-law of Isolde Greengrass, took a different path from the more traditional brother—Isolde's husband. While her brother and Isolde embraced marriage, children, and reputation, Selene chose independence, immersing herself in celestial magic, rune theory, and healing at the Arithmantic College in the Swiss Alps.

Unmarried by choice, she has been labeled 'brilliant and unmanageable' by pure-blood society. Though she rarely attends social events, her high status remains intact, thanks to the age and purity of the Vale line and her significant magical achievements. Known as a 'black sheep,' Selene moves through elite circles not by following the rules, but because she is too valuable to overlook.

"Severus Snape." she purrs, her voice smooth and soft, a little too inviting for the formality of the occasion. Her eyes meet his, and for a moment, there is a flicker of something unspoken. "I must say, you look positively striking tonight."

Severus doesn't flinch, but there is an imperceptible tightening of his jaw. He nods, his eyes cool as always, but with a slight edge beneath them. "Thank you, Miss Greengrass." he replies, his voice quiet, measured.

She takes a step closer, tilting her head slightly as she studies him, the hint of a smile playing at her lips. "Please, just call me Selene. I'm glad you could make it to such a... memorable event." she says, her tone lingering a little longer than necessary. Her fingers brush the sleeve of his jacket casually, a touch that is just enough to feel intentional.

Severus remains unfazed, his posture unchanged, but there is something in the air now—a tension between them that is subtle, but undeniably there. He regards her for a moment, his gaze steady. "I find that events like this are best endured with patience." he says, his words careful. "And restraint."

Selene's smile only deepens, amused by his coolness, as if she finds it a challenge she is more than willing to take on. "Patience and restraint, hm?" she muses, her voice light with a trace of mischief. "You certainly do have a way with words, Severus."

Severus's attention, though outwardly composed, subtly shifts as Selene talks. He offers a polite nod, his demeanor as cold and measured. The exchange between them is casual—nothing more than pleasantries and surface-level banter—but beneath it, Severus feels the weight of the situation, and so does she.

Though he remains uninterested, his mind is already working through the layers. Selene's status is undeniable, the product of both her magical prowess and her untamed reputation. It is a power that could be leveraged, perhaps not immediately, but certainly in the long run. Her brilliance, her reluctance to follow the rigid expectations of pure-blood society—those are qualities that could be both an asset and a complication. Especially for something like him—a half-blood.

As she speaks, her voice light with teasing, Severus's thoughts linger on the opportunity her presence represents. The Greengrass family's influence, even if not entirely conventional, is formidable. Aligning himself with someone like her might carry risks, but it is a potentially great opportunity to gain an advantage in a world where status and connections are everything.

Her eyes linger on him just a little longer than necessary. It is clear she is intrigued—her smile, the way she leans in slightly closer, 'accidentally' brushing his arm. Severus, however, offers just enough to be polite.

Chapter Text

There is a slight tension in the air, as Severus subtly pushes back against her advances with carefully chosen words. His posture remains rigid, his gaze steady but distant, a clear indication that while she might be toying with him, he isn't easily swayed. She seems into it, testing boundaries, him making sure none are crossed. Still, for a moment, his lips quirk in the faintest smirk—a brief, subtle acknowledgment of her attention.

Seraphina notices the exchange between Selene and Severus, at first surprised he even allows it. Then, she understands—it is about the significance of the event and the status of Selene's family, nothing more. Still, disgusted by the interaction, her thoughts turn to Nadine.

As Selene is distracted by a relative, Severus remains still, lost in thought. He can entertain the idea of pursuing someone like her if it serves his needs. Selene is perfectly suitable, a match that can elevate both his and his sister's status, yet there is an emptiness, a missing piece.

If he truly wants someone—it isn't her. His thoughts shift, lingering on his desires, though clarity eludes him. What does he want? He can't say. His reverie is interrupted by Seraphina, who breaks the space between him and Selene, pulling him away from the distraction.

"Cozy, you two, aren't you?" Seraphina teases coldly, her eyes narrowing slightly, not pleased with the closeness between them.

"Hardly." Severus brushes it off, his tone indifferent. "I told you it was about connections."

"Mhm," Seraphina probes, her disapproval evident, "she seemed quite interested in... connecting."

Severus remains silent for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he considers her words.

"All I'm saying is," Seraphina continues, "she's not suited for you. Or, you wouldn't fit her. She's far too complicated and unruly for someone like you. You need—" She pauses, her gaze sharp, "—someone much better. Someone like... I don't know... Random thought... Nadine. A sunshine, but fierce, smart, strong."

Severus stiffens at the mention of Nadine, his expression sharpening for the briefest moment before he masks it. He regards Seraphina, his gaze momentarily flickering with something unreadable.

"You think so highly of her." he says, his voice tight, though he quickly smoothes it out, returning to his detached tone. His thoughts drift to the most recent meeting. Nadine became a target—her standing diminished, her name passed around with disdain and mockery. The consensus is clear: anything tied to her is now a liability. Strictly problematic.

Seraphina smirks, leaning slightly forward. "Not just 'strengths.'" she replies, her tone teasing but pointed. "You know exactly what I mean. She could be... a challenge for you, Sev. But the right one. Not like Selene. She's a complication you'd be better off avoiding."

Severus gives a rare, dry laugh, the edges of his lips curling into something almost cynical. "Complications are hardly something I shy away from." he mutters. His eyes then flick to Selene in the distance, her laughter now lost in the crowd.

Seraphina raises an eyebrow and snaps her fingers in front of his face. "Not when they come with strings attached, like her." she remarks, her voice sharp. "But Nadine... she wouldn't tie you down. She might even pull you up."

Severus glances at her, his lips pressing together in thought. "You speak as if you know exactly what I need." he says, his words quiet but edged with a hint of something deeper. "Maybe you're right. Maybe you're foolish." His gaze lingers on Seraphina, her expression unreadable.

The air between them shifts, tension lacing the moment.

"All I'm saying is opposites attract. And if you stopped being blinded by the past, you might just find yourself with something worth keeping."

Severus quietly scoffs, his voice laced with sarcasm. "How about you then, sister? Weren't you looking for someone, or are they all beneath you?" He muses, a subtle challenge in his tone.

Seraphina's mind flickers to Regulus almost immediately—unfortunately, according to her own thoughts. She can't help it—his image snucks into her thoughts unbidden. But this event, more than anything, has laid bare the distance between them, the insurmountable gap of status, family expectation, and everything that keeps them apart. It highlights all the reasons it wouldn't work. Still, she fights to deny it, unwilling to fully admit to herself that truth.

Her gaze briefly scans the other options available to her, but none of them hold her interest. She knows that, in her position, any match with a pure-blood would be political—to break the glass ceiling, but not one she would ever truly want.

She glances again at Regulus, her eyes lingering for a second too long, before turning to Severus, who catches the shift in her gaze. He knows. She knows he knows. There is no hiding it between them.

With a silent understanding, Severus offers a sympathetic nod to his sister. It isn't one of pity, but of shared comprehension—the kind that only those who know the weight of expectations and untold desires can truly grasp.

Cassiopeia is caught in a polite corner conversation, her fingers wrapped lightly around a glass of something gold, only half-listening to her cousin who is raving about fabrics in Paris.

Barty watches her from across the room.

He doesn't even try to be subtle about it anymore.

He leans against the pillar just enough to look casual, one hand in his pocket, his unbuttoned shirt revealing half of his chest. He has been nursing the same drink for twenty minutes, ignoring nearly every attempt at conversation thrown his way by pure-blood girls with glittering eyes.

Because his eyes keep falling on her.

Unfortunately, Amycus is circling again like a dog sniffing scraps, and Barty has had enough of that.

So he moves. Unhurried, confident, cutting through the lingering warmth and perfume with the kind of charm that is almost dangerous. He knows where she is before he reaches her. Knows the way her shoulders shift when she is losing patience. Knows she won't say no to him. Not tonight.

He slides in just as Amycus starts moving toward her.

"Don't look now," Barty murmurs, low near her ear, "but an idiot is about to approach you."

Cassiopeia turns, brows lifting the tiniest bit. "Carrow?"

He gives a lazy smirk. "The one and only."

"And you swooped in to save me?"

He shrugs, then leans a little closer, voice casual but low. "Couldn't risk him annoying you to death before I got a dance."

Her lips quirk, faintly amused. "And if I say no?"

He grins wider. "Then I stand here and stare until it gets weird for everyone."

A breath of a laugh escapes her. "Fine. One dance."

He offers his hand, mockingly formal, and she takes it with a slight roll of her eyes. But she is smiling, faintly, and he catches it.

They step onto the dance floor just as the next song begins—something slower, smooth and swaying, the kind that lets people lean in close if they want to.

Cassiopeia is excellent at this—no surprise. Her frame is perfect, her posture practiced. But Barty is no slouch either. He leads with ease, his grip firm but respectful, his movements elegant, and relaxed—like he is putting in no effort at all, but still outshining half the room.

"You are lethal, Cassiopeia." he says after a beat, twirling her smoothly, "You don't belong among these people."

"And where do I belong, Bartemius?" she replies dryly.

He smirks, his hand resting low on her back, fingers splayed lightly against the silk of her dress. Just... aware. Of her. Of the moment. Of the electricity between them.

He leans in slightly, his voice quiet, meant for her and no one else. "Definitely not beside Carrow."

A beat.

"Or any other man."

Cassiopeia studies him. Cool, steady. But her breath isn't quite even.

She feels his thumb brush against her spine—barely a graze, but it sends a flicker of something deep and warm down her ribs.

He doesn't look away.

"You don't belong where it's safe," he says, "or easy. You belong where someone notices when you're quiet. Where they don't leave when you're difficult. Where they want to know what you're like when no one's watching."

Her lips part slightly—in surprise, maybe. Maybe not. Her heart stirs. Something dangerous. Something real.

Barty's fingers shift—a subtle adjustment, closer, firmer—not a grab, but a silent confession.

"Other girls..." he begins, then exhales through his nose, frustrated with the comparison even before he finishes. "They let themselves be seen. You make people work for it. And I—"

His gaze dips to her mouth, then lifts again, steady and almost reverent. "I haven't stopped wanting to understand you since the moment I first saw you."

Cassiopeia's throat tightens. She swallows.

Her hand, light on his chest, feels the steady thrum beneath his ribs.

He is nervous. And still—somehow—so annoyingly composed.

"You think you understand me now?" she asks, quieter than before.

He leans in, barely. Enough that she feels the warmth of his breath on her cheek.

"Not even close."
A smile, slow and genuine.
"But I want to."

They are no longer moving to the music. Just swaying now, caught in something neither of them names. The ballroom, the crowd, the expectations—all melting away.

He twirls her one final time and catches her as the last note fades. For a moment they are still, close—too close for a dance that was supposed to be proper.

His hand is still on her waist. Hers lingers on his chest. He leans in just slightly.

"Let's get some air." he says softly. "Before Carrow gets the nerve to cut in and ruin the night."

She tilts her head, feigning consideration. "Maybe I want to get away from you."

He smirks again, offering his arm. "That's the thing, Cass. You don't."

She exhales through her nose, annoyed but smiling, placing her hand in the crook of his elbow. "You're insufferable."

The corridor outside is dim and hushed, the low thrum of music now just a distant vibration through marble walls. Barty walks beside her, his hand brushing the small of her back.

They step through tall glass doors onto a narrow balcony draped in winter ivy. It is cold, but not cruel. The chill clings to the night air, kissed by stars and fog, and Cassiopeia exhales slowly as her hands find the stone railing. A moment. Her spine straightens, but her face is softer in the pale moonlight.

Barty takes off his jacket, gently places it over her shoulders, and leans beside her, elbows resting on the ledge, close enough that his arm nearly brushes hers. But he says nothing.

Then, Cassiopeia breaks the silence, her voice low, almost breathless. "Thank you. But we shouldn't be here."

Barty only smiles, not with mischief, but with quiet certainty. "No," he murmurs, "but here is the only place I want to be."

Cassiopeia smiles. It is easy with him—effortless, like a breath taken after too long underwater.

"Intense, right? My whole family. It's just a lot." she says softly, stepping a little closer. "All these expectations, arranged proposals, everything... I just... I don't think I'm up for it. I don't think I want it." Her gaze drops to the garden below, a flicker of vulnerability slipping through her faultless mask.

Barty steps closer—closer than proper, closer than safe. The air grows still, charged.

"And what do you want?" he asks, his voice smooth as silk, quiet but steady, each word wrapped in curiosity and something deeper. He isn't teasing. He wants to know.

Her mind shifts—suddenly, sharply—to him and him alone. Not a name chosen by her mother, not a polished pure-blood suitor selected for political gain. Just Barty. Barty Jr. Real, sharp-eyed, and strangely comforting in his unpredictability. It isn't arranged, expected, or strategic—it is genuine, which makes it all the more frightening. And though the thought makes her nervous to admit, even to herself, the answer to his question is clear: she wants him.

She lifts her gaze, meeting his eyes with a look that says everything without a single word. It is clear—undeniable—though still unspoken, suspended in the silence between them.

Before she can respond, Barty's eyes flick to the shadows inside—and he sees him.

Amycus.

Lurking just past the doorframe, watching them with barely-contained fury.

Barty meets his gaze, unblinking.

Then, deliberately, he turns back to Cassiopeia, hand sliding up her spine and resting between her shoulder blades. Warm. Confident.

She doesn't speak or move, allowing it.

His other hand rises—fingers brushing the edge of her jaw, his thumb skimming beneath her chin, tilting her face toward his. Slowly. Like he is savoring every second.

He leans in.

And kisses her.

It isn't soft. It isn't hesitant. It is slow, yes—but it is heat, too. Controlled fire. His hand slides along her ribs, steadying her, the other buried briefly in her hair, holding her there like a secret. His body presses against hers—not demanding, but undeniably present. Like gravity. Like he is always meant to stand this close.

Cassiopeia's fingers fist gently into the collar of his shirt, breath catching in her throat. For a moment, all she can feel is him—the heat of his mouth, the steadiness of his hands, the way he tastes.

Barty's eyes open mid-kiss—and he sees Amycus still watching, jaw tight, eyes wild.

He smirks into her mouth.

Amycus storms away.

When they finally pull apart, Cassiopeia blinks up at him—her cheeks flushed, her pulse hammering, her control fraying just a little.

"Bartemius—" she begins, breathless.

But he groans—low and soft, forehead resting against hers. "Don't call me that."

"Why not?" she breathes.

He leans back just slightly, enough to look into her eyes. His voice is warm, teasing, but also sincere—like he is giving her something no one else gets.

"You'll find a name for me."
A smirk curves his mouth again.
"You're clever like that."

And with that, he leans back against the balcony, eyes scanning the empty door where Amycus once stood, one hand still lightly hooked at her waist, like he has no intention of letting go.

The moon catches in her hair. The air smells like frost and old roses. No promises are made. None are needed. For now, this is enough. They rejoin the party as if nothing happened.

Severus and Seraphina are soon joined by Charles and Louis, the meeting smooth and refined, as expected from such families. Seraphina offers a warm greeting—her poise matched by the effortless confidence of the Leblanc brothers. Charles seems particularly drawn to her, his interest evident in the way he leans in slightly as they speak.

With Louis, Seraphina exchanges polite words, mentioning Nadine with a fond smile and sending regards through her, which earns her an easy, genuine grin.

From across the room, the Black family observes—Walburga's stare sharp and unreadable, Cassiopeia quietly curious, and Regulus, most of all, watches a little too long, jaw tight. He doesn't like how charmed Charles looks—or how brightly Seraphina smiles back.

Charles notices the lingering stares—Regulus's in particular. He is simply irritated at the prospect of his teammate adding another reason to be insufferable during Quidditch—mentioning her flirtations with the Leblancs, desperate for attention...

But Charles doesn't acknowledge them. Instead, he smiles coolly, as if unaware, and turns his full attention back to Seraphina. With a fluid grace, he takes her hand and presses a light, deliberate kiss to her knuckles. "Would you grant me the honour of a dance?" he asks, his voice low and smooth. Seraphina smiles—sweet, calm, and entirely in control. "I'd be delighted." she replies, letting him lead her toward the dance floor.

Regulus watches from the edge of the ballroom, his expression unreadable, eyes locked on the pair as she moves gracefully in Charles's arms. At one point, Charles glances deliberately over Seraphina's shoulder—directly at Regulus—and offers the faintest, knowing smile, a quiet provocation masked as charm.

As the night settles down, Regulus finds himself swept into mandatory courtesies—a slow dance with Pandora, Narcissa, and then a few pure-blood girls his age. The final partner is a family friend, one of those girls who seems born into the world of polished smiles and alliances. She is poised, graceful, and far too eager to impress—her laughter a delicate bell as she leans in, holding him closer than proper.

Regulus lets it happen. Under his mother's watchful gaze, resistance isn't an option. He even offers a few smiles throughout the evening—smiles Seraphina had never received.

This girl, he knows without question, is one of the most obvious candidates presented to him—suitable by lineage, polished in every way, and already spoken of in the right circles as a good match. And while she plays her role well, he feels none of the fire he has come to expect from meaningful connection—only the weight of expectation.

From the sidelines, Seraphina watches, her eyes narrowing just slightly as an unexpected pang rose in her chest. She doesn't want to admit it—not even to herself—but seeing him so easily charmed, so perfectly at ease in a world she both envies and resents, stirs something sharp and unsettling within her. With every spin of the dance, she feels the distance grow.

Their conversations had always been laced with friction—ice and embers sparking off stone corridors. But now, she finds herself wishing it had been different. Less adversarial. Something with room to breathe.

As if he senses her watching, Regulus meets her eyes over his partner's shoulder, his arm snaking at her waist gently. The moment is fleeting, the connection silent but charged, before he looks away again—expression unreadable, the distance between them made visible.

Chapter Text

The grand halls still carry the ghost of music from earlier hours—notes fading like memory into the polished wood and silk-papered walls. The chandeliers, though flickering, cast fractured gold across the marble, and faint echoes of laughter drift from the parlours and drawing rooms.

It is late now—past midnight—but for some, the evening is far from over.

In a distant wing of the manor, far from the warmth of hearth fires and the scent of roses wilting in crystal vases, the air takes on a different nature.

Cold. Still. Heavy.

The night deepens, and the boundaries between the world above and the one hidden below begin to blur.

Some guests have departed. Others remain—Seraphina, with her glass of champagne balanced loosely between elegant fingers, still laughing softly at something Pandora has said. Cassiopeia perches near the piano bench, exchanging glances with Narcissa, who hosts with grace despite the exhaustion in her eyes. They are unaware of the tension rippling beneath the polished exterior, of the way shadows stretch toward the edges of the manor, pulling select men and women away from the light and into the darkened spine of the estate.

Severus excuses himself without a word, his voice caught somewhere between weariness and resolve. He doesn't meet his sister's gaze as he turns from the firelit room.

Regulus murmurs something quiet to Cassiopeia—a lie about needing fresh air, perhaps—and disappears down a different corridor, shoulders tight with self-discipline.

Evan is already gone.

So is Barty.

They don't need to signal one another. There is no nod, no whisper. They know the route by heart now—not etched into stone, but into memory. Into obligation.

A sharp left at the library. Behind the tapestry of the Thestral Hunt. Down the narrow, spiraled staircase masked by glamour that warps the air like a heat-haze, though no warmth exists beyond it.

With each step they descend, the cold grows deeper—not just temperature, but something more intimate. Something ancient and untouched by time. The kind of cold that has nothing to do with winter.

No one speaks.

Mulciber walks stiffly beside Avery, his jaw clenched tight. They wear expressions like masks—ugly with the effort to appear unbothered, though the tension in their shoulders betrays them. Goyle and Crabbe come lumbering behind, dull-eyed and thick-necked, their pace slower but no less deliberate.

Rodolphus moves alone, the slight shift of fabric revealing the shape of a wand always at the ready beneath his dark robes. His eyes flick toward every corner, every sound, every breath—calculating, unreadable.

Bellatrix is already there.

She stands at the head of the chamber like an obsidian carving—still, sharp, dangerous. Her eyes gleam with something wild, something zealous, as she watches them gather. She doesn't greet them.

The chamber stretches long, all stone and shadow. There are no windows. No doors once you pass through the hidden entrance. The only light comes from the torches—unusual things, bracketed along the walls, burning not with fire but with eerie, wavering blue. The light they cast is wrong. It doesn't warm. It reflects—ghostlike—off pale skin and steel-gray stone, illuminating only the edges, never the depths.

At the far end of the room is a dais—elevated, but empty. And yet... it hums. Not with sound, but presence. As though the air itself awaits something. Or someone.

They gather in silence, one by one.

Severus and Regulus enter together, moving with the same quiet understanding—young men shaped by expectation and resentment, cloaked now in something colder.

Barty stands beside Evan, already in place, the corners of his mouth twitching faintly in that way he smiles when he is half amused, half electrified by what is to come. His eyes gleam like flint, watching.

Peter slips in through the back, unnoticed by most, hunched and fidgeting. His eyes dart nervously around the room, wide and glistening, a rat caught between loyalty and terror.

The murmurs—quiet as they were—die completely.

Time stretches thin, like breath held too long.

And then—

The torches flicker. Shudder.

Their flames lean downward, bowing toward the stone floor as though drawn by something more commanding than gravity—drawn by reverence. Or fear.

Something shifts in the pressure of the room.

And he arrives.

No sound.
No dramatic entrance.
No flash of spell.
No wand raised.
No warning.

But with presence so sudden and absolute it steals the air from their lungs. The shadows stretch behind him as though eager to follow. His robes don't rustle. His footsteps don't echo. And yet every eye finds him—compelled, bound. The dais, until now empty, seems almost to inhale as he steps upon it.

Tall. Cloaked.
The very air hums around him—thick with magic old and sharp, tasting faintly of metal and blood, and something older still, something that doesn't belong in any human mouth or mind.

He no longer wears the face of Tom Riddle—at least, not entirely. The transformation is underway, incomplete but unmistakable. His skin is pale—unnaturally so, leached of all warmth and pulled tight over sharp bone. The high cheekbones and angular jaw remain, but there is something serpentine now in his stillness. Something cold. Something watching.

His eyes aren't fully red, not yet. But they gleam with that same depthless black that swallows light instead of reflecting it. When they land on you, it is like being flayed open.

He is less man now.
And for it, infinitely more terrifying.

Beside him coils Nagini. Her body winds in an endless loop across the stone, head lazily raised as if only mildly interested. Her scales glisten in the light, and her eyes, bright emerald slits, blink slowly as she surveys the gathering. Her presence is a message: he is never truly alone.

No one bows.

Not yet.

No one dares to move.

The Dark Lord says nothing.

Their silence is worship.

Their stillness is surrender.

And the night, at last, truly begins.

He stands still a moment longer, the room held in perfect suspension. Then—his head turns, ever so slightly, and his eyes lock with a face near the front.

"Lucius."

The name lands softly—but impossibly loud, as if the walls themselves hold their breath to hear it. His voice is barely more than a whisper, and yet it stretches across the stone, curling into every corner like smoke.

Lucius steps forward, composed but taut. His hair gleams like polished silver in the cold light, and his expression is one of perfect courtesy.

He bows low, a deep, practiced motion.

"My Lord. It is an honor—"

Voldemort's lips stretch into something resembling a smile, though it lacks warmth. It distorts his already inhuman face into something coldly amused.

"Congratulations are in order." he murmurs. "Marriage. An ancient rite. Binding blood to blood. How noble." His voice lingers on the last word like a knife idly drawn across glass.

From the periphery, a cane taps once against the floor—sharp and deliberate.

Abraxas speaks next. His voice is dry and rasping, like parchment too long exposed to fire. "We thank you for your presence, my Lord. It is... an honor."

Voldemort turns his gaze toward him. Slowly. With interest.

The room doesn't exhale.

"I remember our time at Hogwarts very well." he says, low and thoughtful. "Always sharp, Abraxas. We debated in the common room, didn't we? You argued for the sanctity of bloodlines while clinging to your father's dog-eared volumes. You were clever—but so very obedient." He tilts his head slightly. "You've aged."

Abraxas straightens, his knuckles white on his cane. "I have aged. But my loyalty has never disappeared."

A pause. Then, a small incline of Voldemort's head—approval, or something like it.

"Indeed. And your son seems to walk the same path."

His eyes return to Lucius, lingering.
"Narcissa Black is a suitable match."

Lucius says nothing. He knows better than to interrupt when the Dark Lord is thinking aloud.

Voldemort begins to move then—not pacing so much as gliding, each step silent. His robes don't rustle. His presence seems to stretch around him like shadow, pushing into the corners of the chamber.

With every step, the room seems to shrink.

"And speaking of blood..." he begins, voice soft but sharp. "Let us not forget its value. Its purity. Its price."

He stops.

His gaze sweeps the room.

One by one, eyes drop.

Bellatrix is the first to move—of course. She drops to her knees with something like devotion, her eyes glittering with ecstasy at his presence. Rodolphus follows immediately, though his gesture is colder, more controlled. One by one, the others begin to kneel—Mulciber and Avery, Goyle and Crabbe. Evan sinks fluidly, unbothered, as if it is simply another step in a dance he has already mastered. Barty does the same, his expression unreadable.

Peter is already on his knees, trembling slightly, as if kneeling is the only way to keep from collapsing altogether.

Severus remains standing for a moment longer than the rest—long enough to be noticed, but not long enough to provoke. Then he lowers himself to one knee, measured and silent, his face a mask carved from restraint.

No one dares to speak.
Even Bellatrix holds her tongue.

The moment stretches taut—nearly unbearable.

And then, at last, he lifts one pale, long-fingered hand.

"Rise."

The word is quiet. But it releases them like a spell.

Cloth shifts. Bodies straighten. Eyes lift—but never fully.

The Dark Lord watches them all.

And for the first time that night...
He smiles.

Then, with the deliberate elegance of a spider tasting vibrations in its web, he lifts his chin, voice low and fluid:

"My friends." he begins, the word spoken like a joke he alone understands. "My followers." A pause. "My family."

It is not a term of affection. It is ownership.

"These are... important times. The Ministry teeters on the edge of collapse. And the Muggle world—" he gives a quiet scoff, "—thrashes blindly in the war, like rats drowning in a barrel."

He begins to pace again, robes whispering against the floor.

"And what do we offer?"

The silence is absolute. No one answers.

He doesn't mind.

"A future." he says, with reverence. "A future made of precision. Of tradition. Of power. One where filth does not walk our sacred halls. One where blood traitors no longer poison our legacies with softness, with mercy."

As he moves, the firelight catches on his pale skin, makes him gleam like bone. His gaze sweeps over the gathering. Mulciber. Avery. Selwyn. The Carrows. Crabbe. Goyle. Even Peter, who trembles near the edge like a shadow hoping not to be noticed.

"So many of you," he murmurs, "descendants of ancient lines. Branches of the old tree. You stand here not because of name alone, but because of choice."

He stops by the fire, hands behind his back.

"Soon, this world will change. And when it does, it is not enough to survive. You must be the architects of its future. You must write the rules. Those who stand with filth—those who defend beasts and half-breeds and mudbloods—they will fall."

He turns then, sharply. "Fall by our hand."

His voice cuts like glass.

"There is a reason I do not open this circle to all. Loyalty is not a word. It is action. It is sacrifice. It is obedience. It is silence, when silence is required."

His gaze snaps to Peter. The rat flinches.

A whisper of amusement curls Voldemort's lip.

"But this room," he continues, voice softer now, "this moment... is history. Our history. When we rise—and we shall rise—it will be because of three things."

He lifts one long, white finger.

"Blood."

A second.

"Magic."

A third.

"Me."

He turns, eyes glowing faintly with inner fire. Then, without warning, he sits. The motion is fluid. Effortless. Like falling into a throne that was always meant to be his. Nagini coils beside him, weaving around the base of his chair like liquid muscle, hissing quietly.

"She," he says with a faint smile, looking down at the serpent, "understands purity better than most of you. She does not lie to herself. She does not forget her instincts. You would do well to remember yours."

His gaze flicks—Rodolphus. Rabastan.

"The Lestranges," he says smoothly, "always a pleasure. Loyal. Disciplined. Focused. Rabastan—your marriage with Yaxley's daughter... it proceeds?"

"It will be sealed soon, my Lord." Rabastan replies.

"I expect strength from your line."

Then, like a cold wind changing direction, his gaze finds a new target.

"Regulus."

Regulus straightens, composed.

"Youngest son of Orion," Voldemort murmurs, "but not the weakest. No, quite opposite. There is a stillness in you I find... promising."

Regulus nods once, elegant and cautious.

"Your sister," Voldemort says, and his voice dips lower. "Cassiopeia. The name suits her. Graceful. Refined. Not unlike your mother, but colder."

Regulus's eyes flicker. Just once.

"Cassiopeia is careful and loyal." he says. "She makes her own judgements."

"As she should be." Voldemort replies. "But loyalty is not always given freely. Sometimes it is... cultivated. Keep her close, Regulus. You never know when someone's potential might outweigh their defiance."

The meaning lingers in the air like perfume.

He turns, and Severus stands in his path.

"Severus." Voldemort says with mild pleasure and interest.

Severus inclines his head, saying nothing.

Voldemort adds, "You understand the value of silence. Of patience. You understand that true power is not always loud."

Then, a pause. A flicker of something sharper.

"And Seraphina."

Severus's shoulders tense.

"She is quiet. Observant. Clever. But soft, I hear. Not yet a weakness... but such things can grow."

Severus speaks, voice smooth and measured. "She is obedient, my Lord. Disciplined. She knows her place."

Voldemort nods. "A woman with discretion has more power than any wand. Any man."

Then—Barty.

The Dark Lord moves again, slow and deliberate, until he stands before him.

"Bartemius." he says, and Barty straightens, proud.

"My Lord, I—"

Voldemort silences him with a glance.

"You burn the brightest." he says softly. "Ambition. Devotion. But... you have a twin."

Barty swallows hard. "Yes, my Lord."

"I hear," Voldemort says, voice dripping disdain, "she was sorted into Gryffindor. A Crouch—among lions."

Chuckles break the tension. Amycus lets out a snort, and Alecto wheezes, murmuring, "Helping mudbloods with their homework, no doubt."

The laughter fades the instant Voldemort lifts his hand.

His gaze drills into Barty.

"Tell me. Does she know who you are?"

"No, my Lord."

"Does she suspect?"

"She wouldn't understand."

Voldemort's voice lowers to something... almost silken. "Is she loyal?"

Barty hesitates.

"She is foolish." he says, eyes flat. "Naive. Soft."

"But is she yours?" Voldemort's voice is sharper now. "Because even fools may be useful. Controlled. Directed."

Barty nods slowly. "She is mine to handle."

"Naivety can be turned. Love, fear, guilt—they are strings. You must learn to pull them."

"I will." Barty says. "She will not be a threat."

Voldemort nods slowly. "For your sake, I hope not."

Then his voice rises, once more for the room.

"The next generation approaches. Sisters. Daughters. Heirs. And I see them squandered—hidden away, married off for comfort or coin. That will not do."

His eyes scan the room again, landing briefly on Bellatrix and Rodolphus, then to Evan, then Mulciber, Avery, Selwyn, Yaxley, Travers—each stiffening beneath the unspoken expectation.

"To rule, you must build a kingdom. You must not marry love. You must marry power."

He sits now—graceful—and the fire reflects strangely in his red eyes.

Nagini circles once around the legs of his chair and settles beside him, her head lifted, tongue flicking.

"My circle must remain pure. And loyal. Anything less... will burn."

The flames rise higher in the hearth, and no one speaks.

Regulus watches, sharp-eyed. Always listening. Always measuring. He wonders—how many more of these meetings until he makes a choice he can't take back?

And Severus... Severus says nothing. But inside, his mind is moving like a clockwork machine. So much to consider. He watches the Dark Lord, and beneath the stillness, something flickers—a question, a hesitation, buried deep.

Barty swallows, adrenaline coiled tight in his gut. This is the man he has devoted his life to—the reason he turned his back on Father, on safety, on reason. He feels alive here. Terrified, too. Not because of Voldemort, but from the slow and sinking guilt in his stomach.

His sister.

His mirror.

His only softness.

And now, she is a weakness.

"And yet..." Voldemort's voice drops lower. "There are always those who linger too long in the warmth of celebration... forgetting the cold truth of what must be done." His smile makes the hairs on every neck rise.

"Some here are young." Voldemort continues, voice curling like smoke around the room. "I see everything. I see what you are all becoming. What you must do."

He stretches out a hand—and fire leaps up in the center of the room.

A mark of things to come.

"To bring about our new world, there must be no doubt. No weakness. And no mercy."

The fire flares brighter, lighting each face in eerie green. This is not a meeting.

It is a consecration.

They are no longer just followers.

They are soldiers.

They are Death Eaters.

Voldemort lifts his wand—barely a flick—and the green flame vanishes. "Prepare." he says simply. "Next year ends in blood."

And just like that, he is gone.

Nagini slithers silently after him.

The torches roar back to life in their blue flames.

And silence remains, thick and final.

No one dares speak first.

They simply rise, and one by one, file out through the darkness.

Back upstairs, music plays softly. Laughter tinkles in a distant hall. Pandora adjusts a flower in a vase. Cassiopeia listens to her brother's steps return.

But none of them know what has just been set into motion in the bowels of the manor.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

Steam rolls off the Hogwarts Express in dense clouds, mixing with the chime of laughter, shouted goodbyes, and the occasional hoot of an owl in protest.

Cassiopeia doesn't rush—her chin is tilted, dark curls tucked into a black beret, her long wool coat brushing neatly over her polished boots. She stands calmly, her trunk beside her, scanning the platform.

Seraphina walks silently, her face cool and unreadable under her hood, like freshly fallen snow no one dares to step on. Her grey scarf is wrapped neatly around her neck, and her eyes flick occasionally toward the clusters of students and parents—cautious, detached.

They have just stepped off the platform and into the crowd when—

"Cass! Phina!"

The familiar voice—all silk and glitter and unapologetic joy—cuts through the air.

Before either of them can react, Nadine bounds into view, a splash of lavender and mink fur, her gloves still half on. Her smile is wide and genuine as she pushes through a gap in the students and hurls herself at them with affection.

"Come on," she breathes, linking her arms through theirs, "we need to run before some second-year with a rat takes the last empty compartment."

Cassiopeia doesn't resist, only exhales a soft laugh and follows, adjusting her grip on her wand just in case. Seraphina sighs, but a ghost of a smile tugs at her mouth as she is tugged along too.

The girls weave through the corridor of the train, dodging trunks and over-eager Prefects. Nadine's curled hair bounces with every determined step, her breath visible in the cold air, still chattering over her shoulder as she scans for a compartment.

"There!"

She throws open a door with an unnecessary flourish and steps aside like she is presenting a treasure chest. The compartment is empty, the window frosted with breath and snow.

"In." Nadine says, already shoving her trunk to the side. "I've been dying to sit down and talk without being interrupted or Tem trying to hide my letters."

The three girls settle in: Nadine by the window, Cassiopeia across, and Seraphina beside her. Brownie meows as soon as she hears the soft shuffle of cloaks and trunks and is promptly released, immediately climbing into Cassiopeia's lap to curl into her warmth with a purr of contentment.

Nadine sighs dramatically and tugs her fur-lined gloves off, tossing them beside her seat.

"I missed you both so much." she says with genuine affection, curling her legs under her. "And before you ask—yes, I'm exhausted, and yes, I've been living off sugar and champagne for the last three days."

Cassiopeia lifts a brow. "You only got back yesterday."

"Exactly." Nadine groans. "I spent every day in Paris before that. Grandmother didn't want me back early—said I should 'enjoy myself while I'm still young and unwed.'"

She makes a face. "So of course, I took that as permission to eat éclairs with Hélène, shop on Rue Montague, and drink mulled wine with every friend I could find from Beauxbatons. Louis and I went ice skating near Jardin des Tuileries."

"But!" Nadine leans forward, voice dropping conspiratorially. "You'll both love this. Louis says he met you at the wedding." she says, nodding to Seraphina.

Seraphina tilts her head slightly, curious. "Really?"

"Yes! He said he didn't speak to Severus though." Nadine waves her hand airily. "Said he looked like he was plotting the fall of civilization. But you—he said you were elegant and fun."

Cassiopeia arches a brow, smiling. "He knows?"

"Yeah, I told him." Nadine answers. "And I also heard Charles is interested in our stunning girl." She smiles mischeviously, glancing sideways at Seraphina.

Seraphina doesn't say anything. But the faintest color creeps into her cheeks. She brushes Brownie's fur with ease, lips twitching almost imperceptibly.

Cassiopeia leans back, watching them both with quiet amusement. The window glows faintly from the grey light outside.

"Anyway," Nadine continues, tossing her coat over her legs like a blanket, "I'll let you tell me about the wedding because I need to know what happened. But first, can we talk about how everyone is expecting us to come back from break full of answers?"

She waves a hand dramatically. "Engagements, internships, family plans... I swear, every adult thinks we went home to become proper little wives instead of recovering from a semester of emotional terrorism."

Cassiopeia hums darkly at that.

Brownie purrs, shifting her head to press into her thigh. By the time the trolley rolls past their compartment, Nadine is already halfway out the door before the others can protest.

"Okay, not a single thing left out." she calls dramatically over her shoulder. "I'm bribing you with sugar. Slytherin hearts crack faster with chocolate."

Cassiopeia gives a faint smile. Seraphina just shakes her head, but her eyes follow Nadine with fondness.

The compartment is quiet again, the faint whistle of the wind and chug of wheels beneath them a comforting rhythm. Brownie shifts from Cassiopeia's lap to Seraphina's now, purring softly as she stretches her tiny paws against the hem of her skirt and curls into a ball, content.

Nadine returns moments later with her arms full: boxes of Cauldron Cakes, Pumpkin Pasties, Chocoballs, and every kind of Fizzing Whizzbee and Jelly Slug the trolley had to offer. She drops the loot onto the bench like a battlefield offering and tosses a bag of Bertie Bott's at Seraphina with a wink.

"Alright." she says, settling into her seat, one leg tucked under the other, tearing open a Chocolate Frog. "Phina, you first."

Seraphina gives a little sigh, shifting slightly. Brownie's ears flick at the movement, but she doesn't budge.

And so Seraphina speaks. Quietly, clearly, and—as always—with sharp memory and no unnecessary flourish. She goes through everything that happened as soon as she stepped inside the Manor. Her observations, the conversations. The tension—the eyes that followed. The strange, electric kind of energy that passed between people who said nothing aloud but understood too much in silence.

She doesn't mention her own feelings. Her tone remains neutral. Controlled. But Nadine listens like she is devouring a mystery novel, wide-eyed and sucking powdered sugar from her fingertips.

"I should've came." Nadine groans once Seraphina finishes. "Somehow sneak in and see it all myself."

But Cassiopeia doesn't answer. Her gaze is fixed on the frost trailing down the window, fingers idly playing with her rings. She looks far away—not in thought exactly, but stuck in one. A loop. Her lower lip is drawn slightly between her teeth.

Nadine notices immediately. She leans slightly forward.

"Cass?"

No response.

Seraphina turns her head. "You're awfully quiet. You alright?"

Cassiopeia blinks once, slowly, then finally looks away from the window. Her voice is so soft when she speaks, it is almost lost beneath the rumble of the train.

"...Bartemius kissed me."

A pause.

Nadine chokes—violently—on a piece of Fudge Floss. "I'm sorry, what?" she coughs, practically leaping off her seat. Her wide eyes lock on Cassiopeia like she has sprouted an extra head.

Seraphina's jaw hangs open in a rare moment of genuine shock. "Who—? Barty? Nadine's Barty?"

"Tem?" Nadine exclaims, standing now with one hand on the luggage rack like she is preparing for impact. "Bartemius Crouch Jr kissed you?" She clutches a box of Chocolate Frogs to her chest like a holy object.

Cassiopeia doesn't meet their eyes. She just nods, once. Brownie purrs louder as if trying to offer moral support.

"When?" Nadine demands. "Where? How?!"

"At the wedding." Cassiopeia mutters. "Later... on the balcony."

"Holy—" Nadine plops back into her seat, staring like she is witnessing an eclipse. "And you didn't tell me immediately?"

Seraphina blinks rapidly, shaking her head as if trying to realign the stars. "What did he say? Was it just—?"

Cassiopeia brushes a hand over Brownie's soft fur and shakes her head slowly. "We didn't talk much after. It just... happened. Then nothing. We haven't spoken since."

"Wait, wait, wait." Nadine sits up straighter, eyes gleaming. "No letters? Not even a look? Nothing at all?"

"Not a word."

Nadine scowls. "That imbecile."

Cassiopeia finally glances up. Her voice is flat, but there is a note of unspoken vulnerability buried in it. "We didn't put a name to anything. It wasn't planned."

"So let me get this straight." Nadine snaps, her curls bouncing as she gestures wildly. "He kisses you. You, Cassiopeia Black, on a balcony and then vanishes into silence like some kind of Byronic ghost?"

Cassiopeia shrugs one shoulder. "I suppose. I did the same."

Nadine throws her head back against the cushion. "You know, I should've strangled him when I had the chance."

Seraphina gives her a dry look. "I think it's best if you don't murder your twin over romantic miscommunication."

"You're not helping."

"And you are?"

But Nadine isn't listening anymore. She is now staring at Cassiopeia with an unreadable expression—half amazement, half absolute disgust that she now has to think of Barty as a potential romantic lead in anyone's story.

"Oh my—" she says under her breath. "Tell me one thing, Cass. Was it... good?"

Cassiopeia says nothing. But the way she lifts her eyes and the faint pink that climbs into her cheeks says everything.

Brownie meows again, nosing into Cassiopeia's hand like she, too, understands the gravity of this revelation.

Nadine groans. "Disgusting. Absolutely vile. I hope your lips are okay after kissing the same mouth that bit my arm when we were six."

"He was six."

"He's still a toad."

"So, what now?"

Cassiopeia shrugs again.

"What do you mean...?" Nadine asks, mimicking her movement.

Cassiopeia sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I'll figure it out. I promise we will talk about this."

"Fine." Nadine grumbles, but her grin says otherwise. Beneath the teasing, the dramatics, and the mock horror, she is thrilled. She practically glows.

Nadine stretches her legs with a satisfied sigh and flops her head back lazily against the seat.

"By the way—" she begins, her voice more casual now, soft and grateful, "thank you both again for the presents. I was spoiled this year and I know it."

Cassiopeia gives a small smile. "You're impossible to shop for, so I consider that a victory."

"And you," Nadine turns, pointing at Seraphina, "made me cry. Everything's perfect, the book—Merlin. But I have to know..." Her eyes sparkle. "Did he wear it?"

Seraphina nods, slowly at first. "Yes. He did."

Nadine's grin blooms instantly, like sunlight cracking through clouds. She leans forward eagerly, kicking her slippered foot against Seraphina's boot. "Tell me he looked dangerous and better than anyone else in the room."

Seraphina opens her mouth—then hesitates.

Just for a second.

Her eyes lower slightly, lashes brushing the top of her cheek. Her hand stills on Brownie's back.

Nadine's grin falters.

Seraphina lifts her gaze again, carefully neutral. "I have to tell you something else that happened."

Cassiopeia, already attuned to the shift in tone, sits up straighter. Nadine tilts her head, smile fading.

"What is it?"

There is a pause. The train rattles gently beneath them.

Seraphina folds her hands in her lap. Her voice is quiet, but even. "Selene Greengrass flirted with him."

Silence.

A beat.

Nadine blinks.

Once. Twice.

Seraphina watches her closely.

Cassiopeia shifts, lips parting to speak, but Nadine holds up a hand before she can. She is still.

She doesn't explode. Doesn't curse or laugh or toss her head dramatically like she normally might.

She just sits there. Staring at the carpeted floor.

Inside her chest, something tightens.

She hears Seraphina's voice, but it becomes something distant. Muted.

Selene Greengrass flirted with him.

It lodges like glass in her chest.

A picture forms in her head—fast, vivid, merciless. She sees Severus standing still in that suit, tall and intimidating and just slightly rumpled in a way that makes him look devastatingly real.

Only... in her mind, it isn't Seraphina standing near him. Or her.

It is Selene.

Selene Greengrass—dark-haired and statuesque, always draped in emeralds and entitlement. Whispering something with a sweet, high laugh and a flick of her hand. Standing too close. Tilting her head just right.

Nadine imagines her fingers brushing his sleeve. His eyes glancing down. His lips twitching—even slightly.

The way she never made him react.

The thought shreds something inside her.

He wore the suit. The one she imagined him in more times than she dares admit. The one she thought he would wear and maybe—just maybe— she would be the one to tell him how striking he looked. How handsome he was.

She wanted to see him in it.

She wanted him to know she saw him.

But it wasn't her. Another girl got to stand in front of him. Another girl got to laugh and talk while he stayed, didn't leave, didn't scoff or shut down. He let her speak.

And Nadine—Nadine had been imagining what it might feel like just to brush his hand.

How pathetic.

Jealousy coils like smoke around her throat. Possessive. Cold. Furious at herself for even thinking of crying. Furious at him for being so damn still, for never making it easy. For never making it clear. For being hers and not hers at the same time.

She looks out the window, the blur of white and grey beyond the glass matching the color of her mood. Her fists clench just slightly in her lap. She doesn't let her girls see it.

Cassiopeia's hand touches her wrist.

"Nadine." Seraphina says, her voice softer than it has been all day. "He didn't flirt back. He didn't even smile. I don't think he knew what to do. He was polite, but not encouraging. You know him. If he were interested, it'd be obvious."

Nadine swallows hard. Her throat feels tight.

Cassiopeia squeezes her wrist gently. "Maybe he's still trying to figure out how to talk to you properly."

Nadine gives a small, bitter laugh. "Cass, please."

Brownie lifts her head, mews softly, as if sensing the tension.

Seraphina looks pained. "I wouldn't have told you if I didn't think you deserved to know. I didn't want you to find out some other way. But Nadine, he's not interested in her. I could see it. He was just being... polite."

But the word 'polite' stings. Nadine can't help it.

Maybe that is true. And maybe it isn't.

But it doesn't matter.

The idea of Severus Snape letting anyone close but her makes Nadine feel like the floor has been yanked out from under her.

Not just jealous.
Wounded.
Displaced.
Rejected again—without him even doing it out loud.

And maybe that is the cruelest part.

She swallows. She inhales once, carefully. Then again.

And then she stands.

The motion is abrupt, but graceful. She brushes off her skirt, smooths a hand down her thigh, and plasters on a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. Her voice comes out lighter than she feels.

"I'm fine."

She doesn't believe it, and she is sure they don't either.

Cassiopeia rises slightly, uncertain. "Nadine..."

"I'm fine, I promise." she says again. "I just— I need to use the loo." She gestures vaguely toward the corridor. "All the sweets, you know?" Her voice tilts into an almost-joke, too bright to be real. "Back in a tick."

She doesn't wait for them to respond.

The door clicks softly behind her as she slips into the corridor, back straight, expression unreadable.

The train hums around her. The breath she holds shudders loose.

And for the first time in weeks, Nadine wishes she hadn't gifted him that suit.

Because now it doesn't belong to her fantasy anymore.

It belongs to a moment she wasn't part of.

The tap creaks as Nadine turns it off with a shaky hand. The cold water clings to her skin, droplets trailing down her cheeks and dripping from her jaw onto her collarbone.

She leans over the tiny porcelain sink, both hands gripping the sides, knuckles white. Her reflection in the cracked mirror stares back—flushed, puffy-eyed, her mascara smudging just beneath the lower lashes. But she doesn't care. Not really.

What is she even doing?

She lowers her head, letting her damp curls fall around her face like a curtain, biting her lip hard to keep the tears back.

What is wrong with her? Is she ugly? Is she too much? Too loud? Too present?

Why is she wasting herself on someone who never—never—looks at her the way she wants?

She presses a hand over her mouth as a single, silent sob escapes.

But then she breathes in. Deep. Once, twice.

Straightens her spine. Fixes her hair. Dabs her face dry with the edge of her sleeve. Dabs the corners of her eyes where tears have made trails.

And then, Nadine Crouch lifts her chin.

She opens the door with calm, controlled fingers, and steps back into the corridor.

Voices drift through closed compartment doors, laughter and footsteps and the steady clatter of the wheels turning over tracks. She walks steadily, her posture straight, her eyes forward.

And then—

A flash of black.

On the other side of the corridor. A shape she knows. A silhouette she has memorised without meaning to.

Severus.

Standing half-turned, his expression unreadable.

But this time?

Nadine walks right past.

Not a glance.

Not a flicker of recognition.

Just air between them.

She keeps her gaze ahead, even as she feels the faintest shift—him glancing toward her as she passes, sensing her presence but not receiving it. For once, she gives him nothing.

And he watches.

Just for a second.

But he doesn't speak. Doesn't follow.
And she keeps going.

She turns the next corner, a low buzz of conversation guiding her toward one of the more crowded compartments. Through the glass, she sees familiar flashes of red hair, soft blond waves, messy curls, and freckles.

She slides the door open.

"Finally!" Phoebe shouts, flinging herself out of her seat and wrapping Nadine into a tight, squealing hug.

Nadine laughs, instantly softened. "Phoebs! Missed you."

Bill stands with a warm grin. "You look good, Nad."

She hugs him too, arms looping easily around his taller frame. "Thank you. All good?"

Bill nods. Marlene gives her a cheeky smirk, pulling her into a firm side-hug with one arm and tossing a chocolate frog at her with the other. "Oi, are we the last ones you came to see?"

"No, no, I had to—handle something." Nadine says with a dismissive little wave, but her smile falters just for a beat.

The Prewetts raise their hands in greeting, identical grins already starting trouble.

"Don't believe her." Fabian says. "She was off snogging someone suspicious."

"I was not!" Nadine groans.

"Which is exactly what someone who was would say. Don't worry, we don't judge." Gideon adds, popping a Bertie Bott's bean into his mouth and promptly regretting it. "Ugh—onion."

As the group laughs, the door slides open again, and Remus appears in the threshold—hair a little messy, scarf half undone, looking tired but soft-eyed as always.

Nadine brightens immediately. "Remus!"

She wraps her arms around him, tight and genuine, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. He returns it with a quiet smile and a steady, grounding squeeze.

"I missed you." she murmurs.

"I missed you too." he says softly, voice scratchy.

She pulls back, beaming. "How was your Christmas?"

Remus moves to sit near the window as they adjust to fit him in. "It was quiet. But good. My mum made way too many biscuits. And Sirius kept trying to charm the tree so the tinsel would hang in a spiral."

Marlene laughs. "And let me guess—it ended in flames?"

"Not flames." Remus says mildly. "Just some mild electrocuting."

Fabian leans in, grinning. "We must do better this year. We need to host something ridiculous—end-of-January masquerade, anyone?"

"Oh, yes!" Phoebe claps. "Something dramatic. I want feathers. Capes. Velvet."

Nadine soaks in the comfort of her friends. Their presence wraps around her like a favorite jumper—soft, familiar, safe.

But after a while, her thoughts start drifting again, trailing away from jokes and masquerade plans. Her gaze lingers out the window longer than it should, watching the trees blur by.

She clears her throat softly, then carefully rises, giving Phoebe's knee a small squeeze on her way out.

"I have to go. See you when we arrive."

"Okay, see you! We have to catch up." Marlene calls.

Nadine smiles faintly, slipping out of the group. Her boots click softly as she walks, weaving through students and floating snack wrappers. And then, finally, she reaches the end where she left them.

She opens the door gently.

Cassiopeia is curled in the corner seat, one hand lazily flipping through a book, the other absentmindedly stroking Brownie's fur. Seraphina looks up first. Her gaze scans Nadine quickly, subtly, reading every crease in her brow, every ounce of tension she didn't quite shake off.

"You alright?" she asks quietly.

Nadine nods. "Yeah." she says, voice soft but sure. "I'm fine."

And neither of them press.

Not because they don't care—but because they do.

Cassiopeia scoots a bit, patting the seat beside her.

Seraphina nudges her book away, opening the blanket they brought and draping it a little more toward the center.

Brownie hops back into Nadine's lap the moment she sits down again.

And nothing needs to be said.

They don't ask what happened. They don't ask if she is sure. They simply stay—solid, present, loving her without needing answers.

And because of them, Nadine doesn't feel like she is trying to be wanted.
She just is.

And she is grateful.

Chapter Text

The new term settles like a thick wool cloak—comfortable, expected, and yet heavy with the weight of everything to come. Timetables are handed out, students cluster in groups comparing notes, and snow flutters lazily outside the tall windows of the university wing.

Nadine unfolds her new schedule with careful fingers, eyes scanning quickly. The second term is always heavier, more specialized, and this time, it feels real—like she is walking steadily toward what she will one day become.

Her parchment reads:

Transfiguration II
Defense Against the Dark Arts II
Magical Anatomy & Psychology II
Restorative Charms & Applications
Pathological Magic (new)
Herbological Remedies II
Potions II

She tucks the parchment into her bag, already mentally organizing her days, her notebooks, her ink colors. Her hair is pinned back in a wide velvet clip today, and her robes are perfectly pressed, but there is an unmistakable tension behind her practiced smile—a restlessness in her fingers.

Tuesday begins with Defense Against the Dark Arts II, held mid-morning in the spellcasting amphitheater on the west wing. The vaulted windows spill golden light over the floor, and Nadine settles at her usual spot near the front—quill already poised. This term, the subject is focused on advanced counter-curses and magical resistance theory. The room buzzes with quiet anticipation, the mixed group a combination of Gryffindors and Ravenclaws.

Nadine shares the class with Barty, Pandora and a few other familiar faces from Ravenclaw—calm, studious, a bit too precise. They pair off for practicals and Nadine ends up partnered with a boy named Alden Goldsworth, who clearly prefers theory to action. She does most of the spellwork while he gives her quiet, overly detailed instructions. Still, her charmwork is clean, the spells strong. Her shield deflects with an elegant flash.

The classroom door swings shut behind them with a soft thud as the last murmurs of Professor Merrythought's lesson fade into the distant corridors. Nadine breathes in deeply, trying to push the lingering swirl of thoughts out of her mind. But there is something else gnawing at her—something she can no longer let go.

Without a word, she grabs Barty's arm firmly just as he begins to step away toward the crowded hall.

"Tem, wait."

He turns, eyebrows raised, a small smile tugging at his lips. "What's up, slug?"

She pulls him gently but insistently down the hallway, ignoring the curious glances from passing students. "We need to talk. Now. Before you disappear again."

His smile fades to a look of mild confusion. "Disappear? I'm just heading to the common room."

"We can do it there." Nadine shakes her head. "No. Somewhere private."

Barty shrugs but doesn't protest as she guides him through winding corridors, away from the chatter and the bustle of students. They reach a quiet nook near the astronomy tower, where the stone walls are cool and the light slants in through the tall, narrow windows.

Nadine finally stops, turning sharply to face Barty. Her arms fold tightly across her chest, brows furrowed, eyes sharp with a mixture of frustration and worry. "Alright, spill. Why didn't you tell me?"

Barty blinks, genuinely puzzled. "Tell you what?"

"Tem," she says quietly at first, voice low but steady, "why didn't you tell me you kissed Cass?"

He blinks, clearly caught off guard by the sudden question. Then he shrugs casually, the familiar ease in his manner belying the seriousness of the topic. "Did I have to?" His voice is almost teasing, but there is a hint of something softer underneath.

"Yes! You did." Nadine snaps, a flicker of sharpness breaking through her calm. "I'm supposed to be the first person you tell, especially about something like this. And yet, you just kept it to yourself, like it was no big deal. Are you an idiot?"

Barty shifts his weight, his hand running through his hair as if trying to think of the best way to answer. "It wasn't meant to be a big deal." he says carefully. "It was just a moment, Nads. One kiss. Cass and I—we haven't put a label on it, haven't made any promises or plans. We're just... figuring things out."

Nadine's jaw tightens. "Figuring things out? You're lucky I didn't choke on my brownie when she told me. You're an idiot for not doing anything after. Cass isn't just any girl, Tem. You don't just kiss her and then pretend it didn't happen."

He meets her gaze steadily, a trace of frustration flashing in his eyes. "Look, I'm not pretending. But you know as well as I do that it's complicated. Cassiopeia Black—her family is... well, you know what. It's not as simple as just dating someone from a rival family."

"Complicated or not, you can't just stand still." Nadine insists, her voice softer now but still firm. "You want her to be happy, right? You fancy her, Tem. I know that. But if you don't do something, if you don't try, then you're just setting her up to get hurt."

Barty exhales slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. "I do want her to be happy. More than anything. But you can't rush these things. It's not like flipping a switch. I have to be careful."

"And what if your careful is too little, too late?" Nadine presses, her gaze unwavering. "If you keep waiting because of the Blacks, because of the Crouches, you'll lose her. And that would hurt more than any family feud ever could."

He sighs, his expression softening as he looks at her—the sister who knows him better than anyone. "I'm not giving up on her." he promises. "It's just... I don't want to mess it up. Not with her. Not with any of it."

Nadine's posture relaxes slightly, her eyes searching his face. "Good. Because Cass deserves someone who fights for her, even if it's messy. Even if it's hard."

Barty smirks faintly. "Messy is kind of our family specialty anyway."

A small smile tugs at Nadine's lips despite herself. "Yeah, well, maybe this time it'll be a good kind of messy."

They share a brief, knowing look—equal parts challenge and reassurance.

"Just promise me," Nadine says quietly, "that you won't just stand there and watch things slip away. You owe her that much."

He nods firmly. "I promise."

They both know one thing: neither is willing to let the other down.

Wednesday opens with Herbological Remedies II. Held in the greenhouse behind the castle, it is full of bright winter sunlight filtered through warming charms. Professor Sprout greets them with bright cheeks and a crooked grin, sleeves rolled to her elbows. Nadine shares this class with Emily, which makes everything a bit more enjoyable.

Today, they work with pulsevines—temperamental little plants that react to output. Nadine charms hers into blooming quickly, its blue-tipped leaves glowing in her hands.

"You're so good at this." Emily says sincerely, smiling.

Nadine grins. "So are you."

They share tea from a thermos after, feet propped up on the edge of the planting tables.

Thursday is for Anatomy & Magical Psychology II—an intense double held in the Healing Wing. Today's topic is trauma and its neurological echoes. Nadine finds herself completely immersed, scribbling notes with glowing ink and asking a dozen questions.

In the afternoon, she takes Restorative Charms & Applications, working on minor burn reversal and pain-numbing charms. She practices on dummies and volunteers for her classmates, which earns her a sweet little thank-you note from a shy boy named Lyle.

And then there is Potions II.

The dungeons are as cool and dim as ever, the scent of mugwort and belladonna drifting thick in the air. The benches are already half-filled when Nadine enters, clutching her kit.

Her eyes flicker—out of habit—toward the front.

No Severus.

Only Professor Slughorn today, bustling behind his desk with parchment in hand and a bubbling cauldron off to one side. Nadine stiffens, then immediately chastises herself for noticing. But there is no denying the small flutter in her stomach, that tangled feeling of relief and disappointment all at once.

She doesn't have to see him yet—not with everything still aching a little inside her chest—but she also kind of... wanted to.

Just a glance.

Just to know if he would have looked at her first.

She shakes it off and crosses the room, sliding into the seat next to Bill. His red hair is slightly wind-blown, a light smudge of ink on his cheek.

"Well, guess we're back, Healer Crouch." he grins, elbowing her gently.

"Don't call me that, Bill." she laughs, rolling up her sleeves. "I'm not licensed yet."

They dive into the day's brew—The Fortifying Elixir, designed to reinforce stamina. Nadine's fingers are steady, her movements practiced. Bill chats easily beside her about his brother Charlie's latest obsession with dragons and how his brother Arthur wrote to him.

Still, she finds herself looking up once more, eyes flicking toward the empty chair at the corner table where Severus usually sits, half-shadowed. Just to check.

Nothing.

And she isn't sure whether her chest feels lighter for it—or just emptier.

As soon as Nadine corks their completed potion—a deep violet mixture with silver wisps curling at the surface—she turns slightly toward Bill as he starts tidying up their workstation.

"Hey." she says quietly, watching him with a thoughtful expression. "Are you free after class? I wanted to talk... just for a bit."

Bill pauses, glances at her, then offers a small, steady smile. "Yeah, of course. You alright?"

She nods quickly. "Yeah, I just... wanted to ask you something."

There is a flicker of concern in his eyes, but he doesn't push. "Alright." he says again.

They clean up the last of their supplies, return the borrowed ingredients to Slughorn's desk, and make their way out as the classroom begins to empty. The moment they reach the first staircase, light floods in from a high arched window above the landing, casting long golden streaks across the stone.

They don't speak much as they walk—Nadine wraps her arms around herself, her robe flowing softly with each step. Bill walks beside her, hands in his pockets, expression neutral but attentive.

They pass a few students in the hall. The chatter from nearby classrooms filters through the stone, echoing faintly. Nadine leads them upward, past the first and second floors, beyond the busy flow of students. She doesn't stop until they reach one of the quieter towers—an abandoned corridor with thick tapestries, dusty windows, and a high vaulted ceiling. At the end is a little alcove with an old stone bench, partly hidden behind a suit of armor and a crooked portrait of a sleeping monk.

"Here." she says softly.

They sit side by side. The castle murmurs around them—distant footsteps, a rumble of wind through a half-open window. For a while, neither speaks.

Nadine's fingers pick at the hem of her sleeve. Her jaw tenses, eyes focused on a patch of light stretching across the floor. Bill waits patiently, gaze out the window.

"I just want to hear your advice." she says at last, her voice quiet but steady. "Your thoughts on something."

Bill shifts slightly, glancing at her with an encouraging nod.

"It's about a guy." she murmurs.

He grins just a little, but there is nothing mocking about it. "Snape?"

She turns her head, startled. "What?"

"Just confirming." he replies calmly. "I won't tell anyone."

There is a long pause. "Is it that obvious?"

"Not really." he says. "Only if you're paying attention. But I am. We've been working together all term. You get this look whenever he walks into the room. Like you're trying not to have a look."

Nadine lets out a soft, breathy laugh, tucking her knees up on the bench. "I don't know what to do." she admits. "He's so closed off. I even asked him on a date once, and he rejected me. But then another girl flirted with him—and Phina said he didn't seem interested—but when I flirt, he looks... annoyed. Like it's a problem."

Bill listens quietly, nodding. "That sounds frustrating."

"I just don't get it." she sighs. "I know I'm loud. And I talk a lot. And I'm not subtle about how I feel. But I don't think I've done anything wrong, I just—he never gives me anything. I mean, maybe I should lay off but why doesn't he give me a chance?" She frowns, eyes bright. "Why does he let others close but shuts me out?"

Bill leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. "It's not about you doing anything wrong, Nadine."

She looks at him, searching his face.

"I've known a few people like him." Bill says. "They're... guarded. Not used to people like you—warm, open, direct. It probably terrifies him."

"Terrifies him?" she repeats, incredulous. "He terrifies me sometimes."

Bill chuckles gently. "Yeah, I get that. But still. When someone's been hurt or pushed around—when they've learned to survive by keeping everything locked up—they're suspicious of anyone who seems too good to be true. Or too kind. Or too bold."

"But I'm not trying to trick him." she says softly. "I just want him to see that he doesn't have to be so... alone. Maybe it would be great. If not, then nothing, we can act as if nothing happened."

"I know." Bill replies. "But he doesn't know how to believe that. Not yet."

Nadine falls quiet again. Her fingers twitch on her knee, her thoughts running in endless loops.

"I feel stupid." she admits. "Like I'm trying to chase someone who doesn't even look back. And I don't know why I'm still holding onto this. I'm not even sure I fancy him anymore—I just..."

"You do fancy him." Bill says gently. "You wouldn't be this upset if you didn't. And maybe part of you is holding onto the hope that he'll come around. That he'll finally see you for who you are."

She blinks a few times. Her chest feels tight.

Bill glances over again. "If you want my advice—I think you need to decide what you need. Do you want to keep waiting for him to open up, not knowing if he ever will? Or do you want to take that part of yourself you keep offering him, and save it for someone who'll give you just as much back?"

Nadine nods slowly, looking down at her lap.

"I'm not saying give up on him. But don't lose yourself trying to unlock someone else's door."

A silence lingers between them—not heavy, just thoughtful.

Finally, Nadine turns to him, a little smile tugging at her lips. "You're annoyingly wise, you know that?"

He smirks. "I've got some knowledge."

She lets out a genuine laugh then, brushing a hand over her eyes. "Thanks, Bill. Really."

"Anytime." he says. "Just... don't let a bloke like Snape make you feel like you're too much. You're brilliant, Nadine. He's the fool if he doesn't see it."

They sit together for a few more minutes in silence, the daylight shifting on the floor as the castle sighs around them. Nadine feels a little steadier. Like maybe she doesn't have all the answers—but she is not alone in the asking.

Chapter Text

The morning sun glows faintly behind a gauze of pale winter clouds, casting a delicate shimmer over the frost-slicked castle grounds. A soft hush hangs in the air—thick scarves, steaming mugs, and laughter weaving through the Great Hall as students trickle in and out after breakfast.

Nadine waits just outside the grand doors of the Entrance Hall, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her red coat lined with fine velvet, hair tucked beneath a yellow knitted hat. Her boots crunch faintly on a patch of frost-covered stone. The wind nips at her cheeks, but she doesn't notice. Her focus is on the heavy oak doors behind her, watching for her girls.

She rocks on her heels a little, exhaling slowly as the doors finally creak open.

Seraphina steps out first, bundled in a black wool coat, hair tied back in a silk ribbon, parchment rolled under one arm. Cassiopeia follows, always effortlessly elegant—long, midnight-blue cloak trailing behind her like a curtain of stardust, silver pins in her dark hair catching the light.

"There you are." Nadine says brightly, though her voice carries that signature Nadine impatience.

Cassiopeia gives her a small smile. "You look like you're about to summon us with a horn."

"Maybe I should've. Took you both long enough." Nadine straightens and clasps her hands together. "Anyway—I had an idea. Since it's still the first weekend back and the real studying horror show hasn't begun yet, I thought we could go to Hogsmeade. One last breath of freedom before books take over our lives."

Cassiopeia tilts her head thoughtfully. "Tempting."

But Seraphina sighs softly. "I can't today. Sorry."

Nadine blinks. "Why not?"

"I'm—well, I'm putting together a small party."

"A party?" Nadine echoes curiously. "What for?"

Seraphina smiles gently, her gloved fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. "It's Sev's birthday."

Silence.

Nadine's expression doesn't change at first. But her shoulders tense, and her voice—when it comes—is flat.

"Oh. Really."

Cassiopeia shifts slightly beside her, as if sensing the change in air pressure.

"You didn't tell me." Nadine says softly, looking directly at Seraphina now. "You didn't think I'd want to know?"

Seraphina's expression falters. "It's not a big celebration. Just something small, quiet."

"Well, it doesn't matter." Nadine says coolly, her mouth tightening. "If his eyes are wandering to someone else like that, then I really don't care."

Seraphina frowns. "Nadine—"

"No." Nadine cuts in, voice sharper now. "Don't defend him. You saw it. Selene was practically perched on his shoulder that day, and he let her."

"They didn't do anything." Seraphina says gently. "They just talked."

Nadine scoffs, folding her arms tightly across her chest. Cassiopeia gives her a quiet, knowing look. She says nothing, simply standing close, her presence grounding.

"It was an event." Seraphina says carefully. "Everyone was pretending to be a shinier version of themselves. You know how it is."

Nadine's lips twitch downward. Her voice drops, almost tired. "Yeah."

There is a beat of silence between them.

Seraphina reaches out, placing a hand gently on Nadine's arm. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I should have."

Nadine exhales through her nose, the cold air puffing like smoke from a dragon's snout. "Ugh, fine."

Cassiopeia finally speaks, voice soft. "You don't have to come, Nadine. We can go to Hogsmeade another day."

But Nadine shakes her head, forcing a grin that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "No. You're not doing this without me. You'll probably pick ugly pastries or forget tea entirely. I'll help."

Seraphina smiles in gratitude. Cassiopeia nudges Nadine's arm gently, a look of shared strength passing between them.

They don't say much more as they head back inside together, coats sweeping behind them, boots tapping against the grand staircase.

Severus walks alone.

He avoids the Great Hall entirely, brushing past a group of third-years loitering by the staircases. His boots click sharply on the stone floor, echoing up the stairwell as he heads toward the dungeons. His cloak is buttoned to the throat, collar turned up, shadows slipping over the hollows of his face.

He hates birthdays. He doesn't celebrate them. He hasn't since he was a child.

But of course, they remember.

He turns the corner and hears the low murmur of voices before he sees them. Mulciber is leaning against the wall near the entrance to their common room, twirling a cigarette between his long fingers. Avery is slouched on the bench nearby, arms crossed, boots muddy from a morning trip to the greenhouses.

"Well, look who decided to turn twenty-two." Mulciber drawls without looking up.

"Spectacular." Severus mutters, but his voice is more resigned than irritated.

Avery grins. "We're getting old, mate. You got a grey hair yet?"

Severus rolls his eyes, but the corner of his lips twitches in a smirk.

"I see few." Mulciber says with a snort, patting him on the back. "Happy birthday."

They push off the wall and start walking with him. Their pace is relaxed, mocking. Severus doesn't ask where they are going—he simply follows, because he knows the rhythm of this day. These boys are not friends in the conventional sense, but they are something. Consistency. Familiarity. A shared language built of silence, loyalty, and darker things.

They make their way out of the castle and into the crisp air. The snow is old and thin on the grass now, crunching beneath their boots. The sky hangs heavy and grey above them, pale light cutting through the trees.

They head for a small, hidden spot behind the shriveled hedge maze near the edge of the grounds—forgotten by most students, known well to those who need privacy. Someone—Avery, likely—has already set out a few crates to sit on, and a flask appears from Mulciber's cloak.

"Firewhisky. For your old bones." he smirks, handing it to Severus.

Severus accepts it. He takes a long, slow drink. It burns going down, heat blooming in his chest.

"See?" Avery grins, taking a swig himself and coughing slightly. "And a bit of pine needles."

They settle in. It is a small thing, but comfortable in its own way. Evan and Wilkes join them not long after, Evan with a box under his arm—pastries stolen from the kitchens—and Wilkes with a fresh pack of cigarettes.

"Happy birthday, you moody sod." Evan says, tossing Severus a wrapped cigar. "Don't say I never gave you anything."

Severus gives a sardonic little nod. "My gratitude is eternal."

They sit. They drink. Smoke coils into the air like whispers, and conversation drifts like slow-burning parchment.

"Twenty-two." Wilkes mutters eventually, blowing out smoke. "One step closer to mid-life mediocrity."

"Speak for yourself." Evan retorts. "Some of us are destined for infamy."

"And some of us for Ministry desks and moral decay." Mulciber drawls, stretching his legs.

Avery smirks. "And then there's Severus. The enigma. Tragic genius. Future potioneer with a house full of cats."

"I can't wait." Severus says calmly.

Evan grins.

It is easy, in a way. Easier than it used to be. They are older now—not children whispering in dark corners about power and blood, but men who know the weight of their choices. Some wear it proudly. Others, more quietly.

They talk of little things—pathetic essays from younger students, rumors of a new professor coming in spring, the state of the Quidditch team.

The light fades slowly as the afternoon wears on. The sky bruises with early dusk, and laughter softens into silence. The boys stretch, shift, fall quiet. Evan pulls out a deck of cards and teaches them a new game, one that involves a little fire and a lot of lies. Mulciber cheats. Avery catches him. A brief wrestling match ensues that ends in both of them groaning on the ground.

Severus, for once, lets his guard down enough to smirk.

"I should've stayed in the castle." he says under his breath.

"You'd be miserable anywhere." Evan grins.

"And that's why we like you." Wilkes adds.

As the cold deepens and the sun slips further down, Severus stays seated, arms folded, watching them. They argue. They throw crumbs at one another. They exist.

And maybe, for once, he doesn't feel like an outsider among them.

Not completely.

Not today.

He leans back against a half-rotten log, fingers laced around the neck of the flask, only half-listening to Wilkes bickering with Evan over whether firewhisky freezes faster than pumpkin juice. The faintest headache lingers behind his eyes—not from the alcohol, but from the murmur of voices, from the pressure of existing too long in the company of others.

So when a familiar voice cuts through the trees, sharp and breathless, his posture straightens.

"Severus!"

He turns slowly, eyes narrowing. Seraphina.

She is flushed from the cold and slightly winded, her thick hair tucked into a deep green hood, a slight flush in her pale cheeks. Her wand-hand twitches at her side, as if she has been sprinting all over the castle. She looks impatient.

"There you are." she exhales, marching right up to him. "Come on."

He blinks. "Why?"

"I have to show you something. It's important."

Avery whistles low behind him. "Careful, Snape, she looks serious."

"Is this a kidnapping?" Wilkes mutters.

"Better go willingly." Evan grins, standing up. "Or we'll drag you."

Seraphina ignores them entirely, tugging at Severus's sleeve. "Come on, I'm not asking."

He stands slowly, brushing the back of his cloak off. "If you've dragged me out here for one of your experiments again—"

"It's not." she huffs, glancing behind her quickly. "I'm not telling you, just follow me."

"Don't worry, you'll like it." Evan smirks, following them.

Behind them, the boys snicker. Avery calls after her, "Can't be fun without us!"

She flicks her hand over her shoulder—no wand needed. A faint crackle of static fizzes near Avery's boots, startling him into a stumble. More laughter erupts, but she is already dragging Severus down the hill.

They walk quickly. Her boots crunch against the frost-bitten stone, his footfalls softer, but just as steady. She says nothing, and he doesn't ask again.

But when they reach the castle's rear entrance, she glances over her shoulder.

"I had to check half the forest before I found you." she murmurs. "You weren't supposed to be that far."

He arches a brow, but says nothing. They slip through a side door, the stone archway swallowing them into the bowels of the castle. She leads him through winding passages, old servants' stairwells, and an unused hallway lit only by weak wall sconces. Finally, they stop before a forgotten iron door nearly overtaken by moss and cobwebs.

He blinks.

"The old prep room?" he says quietly. "This hasn't been used in years."

"I know." she replies, then opens the door.

The scent of something warm hits him first—cardamom, cloves, and a hint of almond. It isn't overpowering, but subtle, comforting, like old spellbooks and tea.

Inside, the room glows with soft, floating candlelight. The torches have been enchanted with a dim, amber hue, casting no harsh shadows. Small floating lanterns sway gently above.

There is a table in the corner—wooden, uneven, clearly dragged from storage—but covered now in a deep green tablecloth. On top: a perfectly arranged spread of dark chocolate tarts, shortbread, a delicate cinnamon apple crumble, slices of sticky treacle tart, and a modest bottle of redcurrant rum. A second table holds mismatched mugs, a pot of steaming tea, and a pitcher of cold pumpkin juice.

The chairs—seven of them—are gathered in a loose semicircle around a makeshift hearth she has conjured. The fire crackles with a strange, soft blue flame. No smoke, just warmth. No noise, just glow.

Soft instrumental music—barely audible—floats from a gramophone in the corner. No lyrics, no overwhelming strings. Just quiet piano. He recognizes one of the melodies—a slow waltz variation of Greensleeves.

There is a banner pinned above the hearth. Hand-painted, not garish, not glittered. Just elegant calligraphy on dark parchment:

Happy Birthday, Severus.

And there they are.

Cassiopeia sits closest to the fire, curled gracefully in a heavy black velvet cloak, her boots tucked beneath her and her hands resting delicately on her lap. Regulus lounges beside her, one leg crossed over the other, fingers tapping idly on his knee. Nadine sits beside Barty on a cushion near the hearth, her cloak open over her red Gryffindor jumper, cheeks warm with the firelight and hair swaying slightly when she turns to look up at him.

"Surprise." Seraphina says softly behind him.

Barty lifts a mug of tea. "About time you showed up."

"Happy birthday." Cassiopeia says, voice even, eyes bright.

"Happy birthday." Regulus adds, smirking. "Don't get used to the attention."

Nadine glances over her shoulder briefly, her tone quiet, measured. "Hope you've had a good day."

Severus freezes in the doorway, caught for a moment.

It is small. Quiet. Dimly lit. The way he prefers things. The music is soft, the room is warm, and the food isn't store-bought or too sweet. There is no shouting, no cake thrown in his face. Just... this. Just people. Familiar ones. A few of them even close.

He doesn't speak for a long moment.

Seraphina walks ahead of him, shedding her cloak and hanging it on a chair. "You're allowed to blink, you know."

"I..." he trails off.

Barty tosses a crumb at him. "Snape, it's your party. Try not to look like you've walked into a crime scene."

"I'm... processing." Severus says flatly, stepping inside.

Nadine stands to make space. "Sit here." she offers softly.

He nods once and takes the seat she gestures to—low to the floor, near the fire. The warmth soaks into his bones almost immediately.

"I thought you hated birthdays." Regulus says.

"I do." Severus mutters.

Cassiopeia offers a half-smile. "Then we've done it right."

They settle in. Cassiopeia pours the tea, Barty lights another candle with a flick of his wand, and Seraphina cuts up one of the tarts and pushes a plate toward Severus without a word.

No speeches. No fuss. Just quiet conversation, stolen bites of dessert, and the kind of comfortable silence that only certain people allow.

Severus listens more than he talks. He watches Nadine's hands as she waves them animatedly, her rings catching the firelight. He watches Cassiopeia lean into Regulus's shoulder and Seraphina snap her fingers to adjust the flame.

Eventually, Barty raises his cup. "To the most insufferable Slytherin I know. Somehow still tolerable."

"And somehow still in black." Evan adds.

Cassiopeia lifts her cup too. "To Severus."

The others echo it softly. Cups clink.

And Severus, quiet, unreadable Severus, allows the corners of his mouth to twitch—just slightly.

Not a smile.

But close enough.

Chapter Text

Cassiopeia and Regulus argue playfully over a half-burnt chessboard someone brought, while Barty spins tales with Evan about an unfortunate second-year who had managed to charm his own tongue into a snake. Laughter ripples between them, light and easy.

Nadine smiles faintly at something Cassiopeia says, her legs tucked beneath her as she sits between Barty and the wall. She speaks here and there—soft, warm jokes with Barty, an observation to Regulus—but her eyes never wander to the other side of the room. Where Severus sits.

He notices, though. She hasn't looked at him once since he arrived.

And it isn't like her.

At one point, she rises slowly, brushing nonexistent dust from her skirt, and announces, "I'm just going to get a few more drinks. We're low on cider." She says it to the room in general, not meeting anyone's eye.

She walks to the long wooden table they had set up in the corner. On it are half-eaten tarts, butterbeer, a few carefully wrapped gifts, and a little stack of lemon sweets. Nadine begins quietly uncorking a bottle, reaching for the goblets.

Seraphina leans toward Severus, speaking in a low voice. "You know, she helped with everything." she murmurs. "She bought some of the snacks and a gift."

Severus frowns slightly, not looking at her. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because," Seraphina sighs, "you've barely said thank you."

She doesn't wait for a response, only glances toward Nadine's back as she arranges glasses in a neat row.

Severus stands reluctantly, pushing his chair back with a soft scrape. He walks to the table.

Nadine hears the footsteps, but she doesn't turn.

"Need help?" he says, voice low, awkward.

She shrugs a shoulder slightly. "If you want."

They stand side by side in silence for a moment, the only sound the gentle slosh of cider being poured into pewter cups. His sleeve brushes hers once, and she carefully moves to the side.

Severus clears his throat. "I heard... you helped with all this."

She places another glass down. "Just a little."

"You didn't have to."

"I know."

He exhales, glancing toward her. "You didn't need to get me anything, either. I'm not a charity work."

She finally turns her head to look at him, and it is calm, but distant. "I don't do charity."

"I didn't ask for a suit." he says tightly.

"I don't expect anything in return." she says, voice low, still kind, but firm. "I saw it and thought of you. Thought maybe you'd like it."

"I didn't ask you to think of me."

"No," she says softly, "that's the point."

She steps back a bit to give him room, brushing crumbs off the table, her expression calm but her eyes a little brighter.

There is a pause, heavy between them. Then Nadine speaks again, voice quiet.

"I'm sure whatever Selene got you is better anyway."

Severus's head snaps up, eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"

Nadine lifts her gaze, calm but sharp. "I just meant," she says with a clipped shrug, "she seems... appropriate. For you. Polished. Ambitious. Beautiful."

He straightens slightly, jaw tight. "Not that it's any of your business. But yes. Selene is a respected member of that particular society."

Nadine lets out a short, humorless laugh, almost amused. "Of course she is."

"We talked." Severus says coldly. "And? Last time I checked, there is free will and no need to justify myself."

Nadine lifts her gaze, meets his now. "Ah, I see only some people are allowed to converse with you, while others just irritate you. How picky of you."

He doesn't answer for a moment, staring. Then, "Everyone irritates me. Some more, some less. Consider yourself one of the less." He makes a mental note—she went out of her way for this and Selene hit a nerve.

She watches him for a second longer, then turns to the corner of the table where a small box rests—carefully wrapped in black and silver with a deep green ribbon. She picks it up and holds it out.

"I got you something else." she says, tone still composed. "It's not... extravagant. Just something I saw in a little shop and thought you might like."

He stares at it.

"You don't have to take it." she adds. "But I won't return it either. So... it's yours. Do what you want with it."

He reaches out, slowly, takes it from her hand.

His fingers graze hers for a second.

She nods once, then picks up the tray of drinks and turns, calling across the room, "Drinks!"

Her voice is warm again, brighter, for everyone else.

She walks back, leaving Severus standing there by the table, box in hand, unsure what the hell just happened.

Cassiopeia rises with graceful ease, slipping seamlessly into the place Severus had vacated. She begins stacking the next round of drinks onto a silver tray, her movements practiced, her mind elsewhere. Nadine, already juggling too much, offers a grateful glance.

Turning, Cassiopeia nearly collides with Barty, who had approached unnoticed.

"Oh," she murmurs, startled but composed, her hands busying themselves with the tray. "Sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry for." His voice is low, shaded with seriousness. As if to deflect attention, he begins idly arranging a few hors d'oeuvres onto plates.

She follows his lead, placing the tray down gently. "We can talk." she says, her tone measured. She joins him in the pretense of casualness.

"I don't regret what happened." Barty begins, eyes fixed on his hands. "I'm sorry if it seemed otherwise—my silence, my absence. It wasn't avoidance. Not truly."

Cassiopeia's lips press together. She glances at him, fleeting and thoughtful.

"I assumed as much. I don't regret it either. But pretending it's anything less than complicated would be foolish." Her voice is quiet but certain. "Which is why I... withdrew too."

Barty nods slightly. "It's not that I want to stop... any of it. I'm just—honestly—afraid. There are complications..."

He falters. Words claw at the back of his throat—thoughts about secrets and shadows, about Regulus, Evan, himself... But what has been shared? Nadine remains blissfully unaware, for now. Cassiopeia doesn't pry. Seraphina only knows fragments, whispered warnings from Severus.

"Bartemius," Cassiopeia interrupts gently, "I understand. There are family forces at play, and many things out of our control. For now, let's not rush and make promises we can't keep. But that doesn't mean I care any less. Quite the opposite."

He brushes his fingers lightly against hers. "Cassiopeia, I don't want this to stop."

Her breath catches—barely—but she holds herself steady. Only the faintest flush betrays her composure. "Neither do I. We just—"

"Hello, drink bearers!" Evan's voice rings out across the hall, loud and cheerful. "Are we getting the rest of those drinks next Christmas?"

Cassiopeia pulls back smoothly, the moment shelved for later. "Fine, fine." she replies, lifting the tray once more, while Barty follows with his selection of snacks.

"Now," she says brightly, the smile slipping back into place, "we haven't had the chance but—How did everyone like their presents for Christmas?" Cassiopeia's voice shifts into a more lighthearted, chipper self.

"Yes!" Nadine beams. "We poured blood, sweat, and tears into choosing the perfect ones."

"Gross." Barty laughs, placing his tray down. "Please tell me you washed them off first."

"This year's were brilliant." Evan agrees, still grinning. "And I hope you liked ours."

Severus says nothing, though his eyes flick briefly toward Nadine, careful not to alert her of his gaze. Her gift—absurdly expensive and generous—still sits heavy in his thoughts. He appreciates it, but loathes the idea of being pitied. He isn't a charity case, as he reminds himself, and he refuses to be treated like one. Still, he is thankful.

"I must say," Seraphina says with a slow smirk, lifting her glass, "our taste was excellent."

"And," Cassiopeia adds mischievously, "if you all missed the gossip—Regulus appears to have a secret admirer. One of his gifts was... rather personal."

Seraphina stills, the words freezing her mid-movement. She says nothing, instead examining her pastry with sudden fascination, as if it is the most interesting thing in the whole entire world. A long blink, a small bite, and silence.

Severus catches her glance—just for a heartbeat. He knows. She hadn't wanted to give the gift. And yet, she had.

Regulus, too, says nothing, his expression unreadable as he stares into his drink like it might whisper ancient truths. He shoots Cassiopeia a pointed look.

"Not that it's unusual." Barty chimes in. "This particular Captain's never lacked admirers. What was it—poetry? Perfume?"

"A portrait, actually." Cassiopeia replies, all innocent mischief. "Rather flattering, I might add. Not at all accurate. He's much uglier in reality."

"Lovely." Regulus says dryly. "As your twin, I can only assume it's why I, by default, allegedly look less charming. You must've transferred some of your lack of appeal onto me."

"Thank Merlin." Seraphina cuts in with a smirk. "I was worried you lacked humility."

Regulus looks at her, eyes narrowing with a familiar chill. "Thank Merlin indeed."

"Hold on." Evan says, raising a brow. "We're not just skipping past this, are we? No guesses on the mystery artist?"

Regulus shrugs. Seraphina feigns disinterest. Still, the thought lingers—who else would send such a gift?

Regulus gives no visible reaction at the mention of the portrait. He neither confirms nor denies anything. He isn't going to be complementary of it of course. It is well done, he admits to himself—technically impressive, artistically thoughtful in its detail. Too thoughtful. The artist had captured more than just his likeness; they had seen something further. His essence.

He just drops a glance into his drink, slow and deliberate, as if weighing the worth of a response.

"It had a pin, too." Cassiopeia adds offhandedly, powdered sugar frosting her fingers.

"Selwyn, maybe?" Barty muses. "She paints. Or was she the one who played the piano at the wedding—one of the ones you danced with?"

"Viola." Regulus corrects, quiet but firm.

Seraphina bristles. She doesn't like that he remembers such detail. Of course he does. She doesn't understand why it irritates her so much—the correction, the sign of familiarity with someone else. But it does. If she could roll her eyes in secret, she would.

A pang of regret rings in her chest ever-so-slightly. As a result, she attempts to drown in her drink moments after. Cassiopeia notices.

"What about Greengrass?" Evan continues, turning to Severus with a grin. "She seemed interested in our birthday boy."

Nadine's posture stiffens just slightly, her jaw tensing, along with her fingers on her glass. She says nothing, but she listens, gaze shifting between Evan and Severus.

Severus's expression shifts too, only slightly, at the mention of Selene. He sets his glass down with precision, then speaks—calmly, but with a note of unmistakable detachment.

"She's... persistent." he says, choosing the word like a pin from a row of surgical tools. "Well-mannered. Proper. Comes from the right sort of lineage, if that's what one values."

His tone is neutral, but his eyes say otherwise.

"She's spoken to me a number of times at the wedding. More than I'd prefer, if I'm being honest." He doesn't look at anyone as he speaks, but the air around him has grown subtly colder.

"There's something off, however. Not that I'm interested in finding out."

And with that, Severus reaches for a pastry—detached as ever—as though the subject has already exhausted its relevance.

Nadine keeps her expression neutral, but Severus's words settle deep.

Persistent. Valuable. Proper. More than he would prefer.

He hasn't said much—but he has said enough. He seems uninterested in Selene, maybe not even flattered by her attention. That alone sends a quiet flicker of relief through Nadine's chest.

But it doesn't stop there.

If charm and polish don't interest him, what does? Why does he tolerate such conversation with Selene and not with her? He hasn't sounded annoyed though—just... detached. As if affection, in any form, is something to be endured rather than welcomed. As if he is polite just for the sake of the formality.

Her gaze flicks to him, briefly. He meets her gaze, before proceeding to swirl the drink in his glass, looking away, lost in thought.

It isn't about Selene.

It is the wall he keeps up with everyone.

She takes a slow sip of her drink, unsure if she feels reassured—or more uncertain than ever.

Hours have passed, and as laughter rippled through the group, Barty stretches theatrically and yawns. "Alright, it's getting late, and unless we disperse, you'll all have to carry me to bed." he quips, slinging an arm lazily around Evan for support.

Nadine giggles, Seraphina rolls her eyes, and Cassiopeia begins collecting empty glasses with the grace of someone who had hosted one too many gatherings.

Severus lingers near the edge of the room, his hands tucked deep into his pockets. The warm buzz of conversation has begun to taper off, but something itches at the back of his mind—a quiet, insistent tug.

He hasn't said anything.

Not really.

The thought unsettles him.

The party—the effort, the gifts—none of it had been required. And yet they had done it anyway. For him. It is foreign. Uncomfortable. Worse still—it matters.

He clears his throat softly, as if testing his own voice. Then, glancing toward Cassiopeia, Nadine, Seraphina, he speaks—measured, dry, but sincere beneath the layers.

"...I'm aware you all went to... considerable trouble." he says, eyes flicking briefly between them. "I don't say these things often. But—thank you." His eyes land on Nadine for a moment too long.

There is a small beat of silence—perhaps surprise, perhaps understanding—before Barty gives a mock bow. "Merlin's beard, he can be polite."

Cassiopeia smiles, more warmly than usual. "Well, now I feel justified in the hours spent on food prep."

Then, something nobody expected of him: he jokes, "Never do that again, how embarrassing." A smirk plays on his face, a rare sight for everyone who knows him.

Evan gasps playfully, "Merlin, we've done it!"

Nadine doesn't say anything right away. She just looks at Severus with soft, knowing eyes. A smile touches the corner of her lips—gentle, private.

He holds her gaze for a heartbeat longer than he meant to, then turns away briskly, muttering something about curfews.

But the sentiment hangs there, between them, unspoken yet understood.

Seraphina gives a flick of her wand, murmuring a few quiet spells under her breath. One by one, crumbs vanish, glasses float to the sink, and stray decorations tuck themselves neatly away. Within moments, the room looks untouched—polished and pristine, as if the evening had never happened.

Cassiopeia laughs as a glass slips from her fingers mid-air. "Well, I was helping." she says with a smirk.

Regulus watches Seraphina work, his expression unreadable, though his gaze lingers a moment longer than necessary. She doesn't acknowledge it—not directly—but as she moves past him, her shoulder brushes his just slightly.

He doesn't step away.

Cassiopeia, catching the brief exchange, glances between them with quiet curiosity, though she says nothing.

Seraphina turns back once more to make sure everything is in place. Her eyes meet Regulus's for a second time—before moving on quickly.

With the room restored, they each turn toward the corridor, the energy between them still humming, unresolved but unspoken.

Together, they drift back toward their dormitories—tired, quieter now, the glow of the evening trailing behind like the last trace of candlelight before a door is closed.

Chapter Text

The Pathological Magic classroom sits nestled behind a long, arched hallway on the second floor—past the glass-doored dispensary, near the corridor that hums faintly from residual magic. The door bears no plaque, only a burnished crest of the University, as if the subject itself is secretive by nature.

Inside, the room is coldly lit by orbs that hover above high-beamed ceilings, flickering blue and white like starbursts. The walls are lined with ancient anatomical charts of the wizarding body—both healthy and corrupted. A shriveled hand suspended in a glass jar floats ominously on a back shelf, next to a full-scale diagram of a person infected by a 'blackblood hex.'

Nadine sits near the front, her leather-bound notebook already open, her quill sharp. She taps her inkpot as she scans the parchment Professor Wensley passed out before beginning.

Professor Clytemnestra Wensley—a tall, elegant witch with white hair coiled into a strict bun and amber eyes that cut like scalpels—glides into the room with her silent gait. She wears deep navy robes, and carries a long black wand with bone inlay.

"Good morning." she says crisply, not waiting for replies. "Today, we begin our exploration of curse pathology—particularly the transdermal transfer of malevolent magic, commonly known as curse seeding."

Nadine straightens up in her seat, pen already gliding. Her brows furrow in quiet fascination as Professor Wensley taps her wand against a tall jar, and a smoky figure begins to form above it—an illusory animation of an injury festering from beneath the skin, tracking veins like spilled ink.

"This is an example of residual dark matter. You will need to recognize the symptoms early: discoloration, heat pulse, resistance. Left untreated, this would begin to affect both memory and motor function. Now, watch."

The smoky image jerks with a flicker. Veins blacken. A gasping hush stirs across the students as Wensley lifts her wand and says:
"Percutio Pulsum Obscura."

The image flinches and clears. Nadine can't help the way she leans forward slightly—there is something satisfying about the precise structure of curse unraveling. It is sharp and clinical, and yet there is empathy in it—restoration.

She is scribbling notes—formulas, wand movements, symptom timelines—when a quiet voice to her left cuts through the concentration.

"Efficient handwriting. I'd expect nothing less from a Crouch."

Nadine's head turns, surprised.

Behind her, a tall Ravenclaw sits with his arms folded on his desk, one eyebrow lifted with mild curiosity. He has thick, dark brown hair that flops slightly over his forehead, and his eyes are a striking shade of grey-green. His posture is relaxed, but he holds his quill like he knows exactly what he is doing.

She recognizes him vaguely from Quidditch matches—he is on the Ravenclaw team, one of the newer additions who plays with Barty. Beyond that, she has never spoken to him.

"Sorry." he says softly, offering a brief half-smile. "That was meant to be a compliment. Didn't mean to interrupt your obsession with curse lesions."

Nadine blinks at him, a bit amused despite herself. "You didn't. And they're fascinating, actually."

He tilts his head in mock gravity. "Absolutely. Nothing says 'good morning' like systemic necrosis."

She huffs a quiet laugh through her nose, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. "And who do I owe that poetic line to?"

He leans in slightly, not obnoxiously close—just enough that she knows he is cheeky by nature.
"Caelum Greystone." he says, then gestures vaguely at himself.

She is just opening her mouth to introduce herself when he cuts in with another smile. "I know. Nadine Crouch. Pleasure to meet you officially. You're sort of hard to miss."

She raises a brow. "Am I?"

He shrugs, tone polite but clear with an undertone. "Gryffindor. Chaser. Daughter of that Crouch. Sister to that Crouch. Top marks in half our theory classes. And, well..."

His gaze lingers just a moment longer than polite. "You look like you belong on the cover of a journal."

She scoffs under her breath but doesn't hide the small smile. "I'll pretend that wasn't completely rehearsed."

"I never rehearse." Caelum replies, deadpan. "It's arrogance."

Nadine shakes her head, returning to her notes with a soft expression. "You're doing a great job of it."

"Thank you. I try." He doesn't push more conversation, just offers her a slight grin before looking back at the chalkboard.

She doesn't mind the interruption.

Professor Wensley continues pacing, calling up a student to perform a simulated curse treatment. Nadine remains focused, pen moving in rhythm—but she feels Caelum's occasional glances, and it doesn't feel invasive. Just... curious.

She lets it happen.

For now.

The moment Professor Wensley dismisses them with a clipped, "Review the curse strain table before Monday," the tension in the room exhales all at once. Chairs scrape. Scrolls rustle. Conversations resume. A soft murmur of relief settles across the class.

Nadine closes her notebook, slipping her quill into its worn leather loop. She ties the strap across the cover and begins to gather her parchment without rush. Her bag is already half-packed before Caelum speaks again, his voice drifting over from beside her.

"You heading to lunch?" His tone is light, casual, but his eyes are still quietly studying her.

Nadine glances at him. "Yeah. Was planning to."

Caelum slings his satchel over his shoulder. "Want to go together?"

There is no hesitation in his voice, no smugness either—just calm, grounded interest. That alone makes her pause. She could have offered an excuse, pretended she had somewhere else to be. But she doesn't.

"Sure." she replies, smiling.

They fall into step side by side, weaving through the now-emptying classroom. The corridor outside is quiet this time of day. Light filters through tall, arched windows, casting pale reflections across the black stone floors.

For a minute or so, they walk in silence, the only sound their boots echoing off the polished flagstone and the soft creak of Caelum's satchel shifting against his robes.

"You always this quiet after class?" he asks eventually, glancing sideways.

"I like quiet." Nadine says, with a soft shrug. "Gives me time to recharge after all the noise."

"Reasonable." he nods. "I usually get hungry."

They reach the curve of the corridor and turn down toward the wide marble stairwell, descending toward the second landing. As they pass the mounted portrait of Healer Quintus—the one who constantly fakes fainting spells—Caelum speaks again.

"Your notes are a little terrifying."

She lifts an eyebrow. "You were watching my notes?"

"I noticed a table in three ink colors and annotations."

Nadine allows herself an exhale of amusement. "So you're observant."

"I try to be." A pause. "It's hard not to be around you."

She blinks at him once and then turns her gaze back ahead. "You're either very bold or very curious."

"Probably both. Does it bother you?"

"No." she says simply. "I've met worse."

That earns a small grin from him.

They walk along the broad corridor leading to the grand staircase, the walls lined with moving portraits and tapestries. Light filters in through narrow windows, casting soft beams onto the flagstones.

"I'm not usually like that." he adds after a moment. "I mean—I enjoy conversation. But I don't go around pestering people. I just... think you're interesting."

"Because I'm a Crouch?"

"Partially." he says, not ashamed. "Also because you keep to yourself and hang out with the same people."

She hums thoughtfully.

Caelum continues, "I like to know what makes someone tick. Especially the quiet ones."

"Maybe I'm just tired."

"Then I hope the lunch is restorative." He says it sincerely.

They step through the final archway before the great spiral staircase. The floors are busier now—students from other classes filtering out, a few ghosts drifting lazily.

"So," Caelum says, "you transferred from Beauxbatons, right?"

"Technically, yes. I studied there until final year, then moved back."

"Do you miss it?"

She doesn't answer immediately. Her eyes wander as they pass a sunlit corridor filled with stained glass. "Sometimes." she finally says. "It's different there. Everything's more formal—intense, even—but also artistic. There's more... discipline in magic, but more emotion, too. At least in how it's taught."

Caelum listens like he is collecting each word. "And you liked that?"

"I did." She glances sideways. "There's something... grounded in structure. That is, when it's not suffocating."

They descend the staircase, footsteps echoing lightly beneath the arching ceiling.

"I'll admit," he says, "you don't exactly seem like someone who misses suffocating structure."

She smiles. "I miss my family and friends. And the lake."

He raises an eyebrow. "The lake?"

"Ice skating." she says finally. "Every winter it would freeze. We'd spend hours there. I love it."

"You skate?"

"Yes. I can do pirouettes."

"I'd fall."

She smirks. "Then we're very different types of people."

"I'd watch you skate, though. That part I could do. From a safe distance."

That earns him a curious, amused glance from her.

They pass the last archway leading into the Entrance Hall, and Caelum pauses just before the portal. "Want to sit with me?"

Nadine looks at him fully for the first time since class. There is nothing loaded in his tone. No arrogance. Just a calm offer.

She nods. "Alright."

They move through the arch, crossing the stone corridor that connects into the Great Hall. The clatter of cutlery and the smell of roasted meats, warm rolls, and fruit preserves greets them like an old friend. Tables are half-filled, and the ceiling mirrors a pale, snowy sky with soft flurries drifting overhead.

"Let me guess." he says as they slow. "You study a lot. You take notes for fun. You probably color-code."

"Yes, no, and sometimes." she says evenly. "You?"

"Absolutely. I've been told my organizational system is disturbing."

"By who?"

"My own mother."

They step into the Great Hall together. As they walk together toward the Ravenclaw table, eyes begin to turn.

Barty glances up mid-sentence. He is seated near Pandora, halfway through a comment, but his voice trails off as he watches Nadine walk calmly beside Caelum. His expression flickers—confused, curious, not quite concerned, but alert.

Nadine sits across from Caelum, their plates steaming faintly between them. She isn't particularly talkative today, but she is present, attentive, watching him as he speaks.

"I'm actually surprised you said yes." Caelum admits, lightly pushing his spoon through a pool of thick soup. "To lunch. With me, I mean."

She raises an eyebrow. "Why?"

He tilts his head. "I didn't know if I'd be worthy of your company."

Her brows furrow. "I'm not that kind of person."

He smiles, leaning slightly forward. "Fair enough. It's not a bad thing. Just an observation. I'm used to people being... louder about who they are."

She takes a sip of pumpkin juice, then says, "I usually am. But there's more than one way to be heard."

That earns a real smile from him—warm, a little surprised. "You're sharp."

"I never said I wasn't."

Caelum laughs under his breath, resting his elbow against the table and watching her. They eat in silence for a bit, the clinking of cutlery filling the space.

"I've seen you play." he says, voice a little softer now. "You're brilliant. You don't miss. It's unnerving."

She lets out a soft laugh. "Thank you."

Caelum grins again.

A pause. Then she adds, "You're great too. I've watched you play against Slytherin."

"Yeah. Reserve my first few years, now regular. I'm fast, but I still study plays obsessively to keep up."

"Same." she says, then glances sideways at him. "Though I'd rather not admit it."

"I'm weirdly relieved you're just as obsessive."

"What else is your thing?" she asks curiously.

Caelum leans back a little, thoughtful. "Studying. Spell reconstruction. Curse theory. I like fixing things—understanding how something breaks, and putting it back together. Properly. Magic isn't clean. People think it is, but it's not."

She nods, slow. "I agree. Intent leaves residue. Sometimes worse than the spell itself."

He looks mildly impressed. "You've thought about this."

"A bit."

He leans in again, smiling slightly. "You're better company than I expected."

Nadine glances back at him, voice kind. "Likewise."

"Would you sit with me again?" he asks.

She takes a breath, thoughtful, considering.

"I might." she answers.

He grins again.

It is quiet in the library, the kind of silence that stretches over old wood and parchment like a second skin. The sun has dipped below the windows, casting faint blue light across the rows of ancient shelves. The torches have been lit, their golden glow soft and flickering in high sconces, making shadows dance across the long study tables.

Nadine sits tucked into a far corner—her favorite spot: the window alcove with a view of the Black Lake and a slightly crooked wall sconce that always flickers unevenly, as if blinking in rhythm with thought. She is surrounded by a fortress of open books, scrolls, and neat ink pots. Her quill has slowed to a halt, abandoned mid-sentence, a small smudge of ink dried on her finger.

On her lap is Brownie—curled into a contented loaf, purring like a cauldron, vibrating faintly with every breath. One paw twitches occasionally in sleep. Nadine absentmindedly strokes behind her ears with her free hand, her eyes scanning over the last few lines of her Transfiguration essay.

She leans back, stretching her arms overhead, a soft groan escaping as her spine cracks faintly. "Finally." she murmurs to herself, voice hoarse from disuse.

Parchments stacked, ink capped, books closed with care. Satisfied, she exhales and pulls her notebook toward her—the one she never lets anyone flip through, the one with half-finished diagrams and spells. Her mind drifts to Severus and what he had said about Selene.

"Since when are you talking with Caelum?" says a voice beside her.

Nadine gasps and jerks violently that Brownie meows in protest and bolts off her lap in a streak of warm fur. She spins to find Pandora standing there, grinning like she has just spotted a unicorn.

"Dora!" Nadine hisses, cheeks flushing. "Merlin's sake—you scared me."

Pandora flops unbothered into the empty seat beside her, all dreamy eyes and too-long cardigan sleeves. "Sorry. I was studying with Xeno—he was explaining how Moon Frogs migrate when the moon's gibbous, but then I looked over and saw you."

Nadine looks suspiciously around. "Saw me what?"

Pandora points at the notebook still protectively under Nadine's arm, then wiggles her eyebrows with maddening gentleness. "Looking like a girl in love."

"Shhh!" Nadine panics, glancing around as if someone will leap from the shadows. "Keep your voice down."

"No one's listening." Pandora hums, but lowers her tone anyway. "Well, except for the ghosts. But they don't tell secrets."

"You don't know that."

Pandora blinks thoughtfully. "Fair point."

Nadine sighs deeply, rubbing her forehead. "Dora..."

Pandora leans forward, placing her elbows gently on the table, chin in her palms. "So... you fancy Caelum?"

"What? No."

Pandora just stares at her, dreamy and patient. "You do, though. You were thinking about him." she sings softly.

"Not him." Nadine sighs.

"Then who?"

Nadine closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them and says quietly, "Severus."

Pandora beams and folds her hands, glancing left and right in a very exaggerated, sneaky fashion. "Secret is safe with me."

Brownie creeps back toward them with a cautious flick of her tail, leaping into Nadine's lap again with a little huff like she is offended.

For a few heartbeats, neither of them says anything—the lamps flicker in their quiet corner, and distant whispers drift in from the other side of the library.

Then, softly, Nadine says, "So... you and Xenophilius are finally together?"

Pandora's face brightens like moonlight catching crystal. She blinks as if the question was a surprise, even though Nadine sees the blush rise on her cheeks. "Oh," she says delicately, "well... yes."

A beat. Then, beaming even wider, she leans closer and adds, "But it's a secret."

Nadine raises a brow. "Why?"

Pandora tilts her head. "Well, mostly because I told him I didn't want it to be real until it felt like it was real, you know? And Evan still dislikes him."

Nadine makes a face. "No."

Pandora giggles. "It's hard to explain. It's lovely, though. We talk a lot about everything. We know all the same stars. He's never mean, even when he's confused. And... he makes tea exactly the way I like."

A quiet laugh escapes Nadine, and she rests her chin on her hand, watching her. "That's perfect."

Pandora shrugs, dreamy and content. "It is."

Nadine hesitates, her fingers stilling completely against Brownie's back. She keeps her eyes on her friend, voice dropping to something a little more hesitant. "Can I... ask you something?"

Pandora's pale eyes slide toward her, gentle and attentive. "Of course."

Nadine lowers her gaze to her hands. Her nails are ink-stained, and she starts to pick at the edge of one. "About Severus."

Pandora doesn't interrupt, just waits.

"I just..." Nadine starts, then stops, biting the inside of her cheek. "I didn't plan on it. It's not even like that. It's just—something about him. I know it's not easy to be him. And I know he pushes people away for a reason. But still... I feel like I see him."

Pandora hums thoughtfully, tilting her head like a bird.

"And he doesn't make it easy. One moment, I think—maybe he trusts me. Maybe we're something. Then the next, it's like he slams every door in my face. And it's exhausting." Nadine admits quietly. "He doesn't want anything from me, but I still wish to try."

Pandora taps her fingers on the table, then leans forward. "You know what I think?"

Nadine lifts a brow. "Do tell."

Pandora's voice goes calm and clear. "I think... some people wear all their feeling right out where everyone can see it. And others keep it buried so deep they forget where they put it."

Nadine doesn't speak, just listens.

"I think Severus is the second one."

Nadine blinks slowly, her throat tightening.

"That doesn't mean he doesn't care," Pandora adds, "just that maybe he doesn't know how to."

"Then what am I supposed to do?" Nadine asks, trying to keep her voice level. "Keep waiting? For scraps of kindness?"

"No." Pandora says gently. "You're not supposed to wait. That's not love. Love's not a waiting room where you sit until someone's ready to see you."

Nadine frowns slightly. "Then what?"

"You just... be." Pandora's gaze softens. "You be brave and kind and you live your life. You don't dim yourself down just because he hasn't figured it out. If he does, and he's ready—he'll have to come to you. But don't you ever go to him on your knees."

There is a silence. Nadine's eyes are glossy, but she quickly blinks it away and gives a little laugh. "Merlin. You're so wise. Thank you."

Pandora smiles, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I talk to the stars."

Nadine laughs again, shaking her head, and rests her forehead lightly against her hand. "You're mad."

"Always."

"But right."

Pandora leans over and bumps their shoulders gently. "Just don't give him the parts of you he hasn't earned."

Nadine lets the words settle for a while. Brownie yawns. The shadows shift along the floor. In the vast, breathing stillness of the library, everything feels just a little lighter.

Chapter Text

The first Friday of February arrives wrapped in silver-gray skies and thin, drifting snow that softens the edges of the grounds. It is bitterly cold, the kind of day where everyone moves a little faster in the corridors, cloaks drawn tight, hands stuffed deep into pockets. By noon, a pale sun filters faintly through the ceiling of the Great Hall, illuminating the four long tables and the warm, bustling chatter of students gathering for lunch.

Nadine enters with Seraphina and Cassiopeia, brushing snowflakes from her scarf and tucking her gloves into the sleeve of her robe. Brownie, curled safely in her pouch, occasionally lets out soft, indignant meows at the cold. The castle is all stone and drafty corners, and Nadine can still feel the sting of wind in her cheeks.

The Gryffindor table is already half full. Plates steam with roasted chicken, buttery rolls, and boiled potatoes; pitchers of pumpkin juice and mulled cider float lazily down the center. Nadine spots Remus seated alone near the end of the bench, just beside the towering bay window that overlooks the courtyard.

She offers the girls a soft "I'll see you soon." and slips onto the bench beside him.

"Hi." she says gently, unwrapping her scarf and shaking snow from her hair.

Remus looks up slowly. His eyes are dull today—not lifeless, but tired. He has that drawn, pale look he wears once a month, though Nadine doesn't know to name it that. His hands wrap tightly around a ceramic mug, the steam from his tea curling around his fingers. His uniform is a little askew—collar limp, tie hanging too loose—and there is a subtle tremble in his fingers when he lifts his spoon.

"You okay?" Nadine asks, tilting her head to look at him more closely.

He blinks as if pulling himself from somewhere distant. Then comes the usual quiet smile. "Yeah. Just tired. Long week. How was your day?"

"Good. I'm tired too." She doesn't pry. Remus is soft-spoken, private, and despite being surrounded by a circle of the loudest boys, there is always something a little distant about him. Still, she likes his company. She helps herself to some vegetables and bread, passing him the gravy boat without needing to ask. They eat in easy silence for a few minutes, Nadine occasionally slipping bits of chicken to Brownie, who peeks her head out with wide eyes.

And then—it happens.

The wind shifts. The ceiling flickers slightly with the arrival of dozens of owls. They soar in through the open rafters, feathers falling like confetti, some graceful and quick, others clearly struggling under parcels or thick bundles. Nadine instinctively ducks as a particularly clumsy eagle owl swoops low over the Gryffindor table.

But this time, it is similar to when Slytherins received theirs.

One by one, thick ivory envelopes drop along the table—mostly in front of the older Gryffindors. James, Sirius, Peter, Lily, Marlene, and Mary all receive one. So do a few Hufflepuffs seated nearby.

The envelopes are beautiful—sealed with a pressed rose wax stamp, the parchment flecked with soft gold. James rips his open immediately, Sirius leaning so far over him that their heads nearly knock together.

"Oh bloody hell, it's about time!" Sirius exclaims.

James laughs. "They're getting married!"

Lily, reading hers with a delighted smile, nods. "This summer. August. In Devon, by the looks of it."

"Who's getting married now?" Nadine chuckles, sipping pumpkin juice.

"Frank and Alice." Marlene replies, already pulling out a quill to scribble the date into her planner. "I always thought they'd end up married."

Sirius groans dramatically. "Do we have to bring gifts? Because I swear if I have to go into another bloody gift shop—"

"You're not even going to remember the gift. You'll be four firewhiskeys in before the ceremony ends." Peter mutters.

Laughter bubbles up and down the table as the envelope makes its way around for everyone to see.

Nadine watches with mild curiosity. She leans slightly toward Remus, who opened his own invitation, and it lies on the table beside his mug. "Frank and Alice?" she asks.

He finally looks up, blinking slowly. "Frank Longbottom and Alice Fortesque. He was our Prefect. Both Gryffindor."

Nadine nods. "How much older?"

"Three, maybe four years." he replies, rubbing the back of his neck. "They were both brilliant. Alice nearly rewrote the Herbology curriculum with Professor Sprout, and Frank—well, everyone wanted to duel him. He was fast."

"Were they together back then?"

Remus nods faintly. "Since school, yeah. They joined the Auror program together after graduation."

Nadine smiles, her fingers circling the rim of her goblet. "That's sweet."

Remus turns toward her a little more, his expression thoughtful. There is a flicker of hesitation—and then, as if deciding in the moment:

"You want to come with me?"

She blinks. "What?"

He gestures toward the invitation. "To the wedding."

Her brows lift. "Oh. No, I mean— they don't know me. I'd feel... out of place."

He shrugs, a quiet sort of charm in his understatement. "They'll know you soon enough. I'm allowed to bring a plus one."

She looks at him. He isn't trying to flatter, not trying to make it a big deal.

She tilts her head slightly, suppressing a smile. "Alright," she says, voice light. "I'd love to. I'll let you know for sure though. I don't know if my parents have any plans after the end of semester."

Remus smiles—and it is the first real one he has worn all day, tired as it is. It reaches his eyes, softens the sharpness in his face. The air between them settles into something light, familiar.

"Great." he says, sipping his tea again.

Sirius, halfway down the bench, shouts something about dress robes and tartan, and James nearly chokes on his cider laughing.

Nadine gathers the last bites, scooping up mashed potatoes with her fork as James, who is leaning across the table, raises his voice over the general din.

"Alright, team meeting tonight. Common room. After dinner. Be there or lose your position."

There is a chorus of groans and chuckles from the team, but Nadine lifts her eyes and nods, popping the last piece of roasted carrot into her mouth.

She wraps her scarf once more around her neck as she and Bill rise from the table. "Potions next." he says, stretching his arms. "A good chance to smell like swamp water for the rest of the day."

Nadine laughs, adjusting the strap of her satchel. "Lovely."

They make their way down to the dungeons. The air cools with every step, stone walls growing damper, darker. Their boots echo against the worn floors, and by the time they reach the classroom, the warm flicker of cauldron flames offers a stark contrast to the chill outside. Slughorn isn't in the room yet, but the hearth crackles and the ingredients are already laid out on the supply table.

Only one other student is present—Severus, seated at his usual table near the front. He doesn't glance up when they walk in, hunched over a collection of dried beetle wings and measures of knotgrass, his long fingers moving with quiet precision.

Nadine swallows. Ever since his birthday, he has been... elusive. She sees him only in class—even then, only in this one—and occasionally during meals. They haven't exchanged more than the bare minimum.

Bill and Nadine settle into their station and begin unpacking. Today's board reads: Draught of Peace – base variant, with substitutions of lunar blossom and powdered moonstone. An intermediate-level calming potion, known to ease anxiety and restlessness—useful, particularly in colder months when nerves and exams loom.

Bill pulls a face. "This thing takes forever to stir."

"That's probably the point." Nadine mutters, already measuring out her ingredients.

A few moments pass in silence, the classroom now filling with a soft bubbling hum as cauldrons are lit. Then, casually, as he adjusts the heat under their cauldron, Bill leans sideways and calls out:

"Assistant Snape," he says with exaggerated politeness, "do you mind giving us a hand with the infusion? Think we've hit a snag."

Nadine's head snaps to him. Her eyes widen just slightly. Oh no.

Severus looks up at them, slow and expressionless. His eyes flicker to Bill, then to Nadine, lingering a second longer on her.

He stands silently and crosses the room in two swift strides. His presence always changes the air around him—heavier, more focused, and magnetic.

He leans over their cauldron without a word, his long fingers taking the ladle to stir in a counterclockwise motion. Nadine's breath catches. His shoulder brushes hers faintly. He smells of crushed thyme and parchment, of something dark and clean. The firelight plays against his sharp cheekbones and pale skin.

"You added too much lavender essence." he says quietly, voice low, his gaze fixed on the potion.

"Oh, tragic." Bill says flatly, clearly amused.

Severus ignores him. His next words are directed toward Nadine: "You'll want to correct it before it curdles."

She nods, focused. "Thanks... I didn't realize."

He adjusts the heat slightly. "Precision is the difference between a calming draught and a paralytic."

"Noted." she murmurs, her eyes on his profile.

He straightens, passes the ladle back without looking at Bill, and returns to his seat.

Nadine exhales slowly. She hadn't realized she had been holding her breath.

Bill grins at her. "You're welcome."

She shoots him a glare. "You did that on purpose. Just because I told you who I fancy, doesn't mean you can be obvious about it."

His smile widens, impish. "He'll be obsessed with you. Just needs a nudge."

Before she can answer, Severus glances over his shoulder. "If the two of you are finished whispering, I suggest you complete the stirring sequence before the entire classroom smells of burnt ashroot."

Nadine bites her lip and ducks her head, cheeks flushing. "Sorry." she mumbles, stirring once again.

The class passes in a haze of silvery steam and low murmurs, interrupted occasionally by Slughorn's booming voice as he wanders in halfway through and offers excessive praise to anyone who manages not to set their robes on fire.

As they clean up, Nadine moves with care, repacking her satchel and wiping down her station. The room empties steadily, and when she turns to leave, a voice cuts through the quiet.

"Crouch."

Nadine blinks and turns. Severus remains at his table, his station already immaculate. His expression is unreadable, as always, but there is a sliver of something sharper in his voice.

"Yes?"

He stands, walks over with slow, measured steps, stopping just before her. His hands are folded behind his back. "Perhaps in future, you might limit your interludes with Weasley to after class hours. The fumes do not mix well with adolescent yearning."

Nadine stares at him, momentarily too stunned to reply. Then a laugh escapes her before she can stop it. "It wasn't— I wasn't—" She clears her throat. "You're mistaken."

He lifts an eyebrow, still deadpan.

She meets his gaze, voice softer this time. "Only one person is on my mind in this classroom. And I promise, it's not Bill. You know that."

His composure falters. Barely. A blink, a subtle shift in his posture, as if caught slightly off guard.

She watches him a moment longer, smile playing at her lips. "Anything else, Assistant Snape?"

That earns a flicker of dry amusement. "Slughorn asked me to remind you that there's a Slug Club gathering next Thursday evening. Seven sharp."

"Oh." Nadine says, nodding. "Thank you."

She turns to leave, but pauses in the doorway and looks over her shoulder, "Don't worry. I'll keep my adolescent yearning far, far away from your cauldron." she says with a crooked smile.

He doesn't look up from reorganizing his parchments. "Much appreciated."

His tone is dismissive, and his face remains impassive—but Nadine swears there is the slightest flick of his eye that follows her as she steps out into the hall. Nothing more. Nothing obvious.

The common room glows in shades of gold and red, embers crackling quietly in the fireplace as the team gathers in a loose circle around a table piled with parchments and diagrams. The hour is late—dinner long behind them—and the castle has slipped into its usual hush, wind whistling faintly beyond the tower windows. Gryffindor banners sway slightly overhead, casting flickering shadows across the space.

Nadine steps in, brushing off the chill from the corridor, her satchel slung over one shoulder and her hair tossed. She spots the team instantly—James seated backwards on a chair with his arms crossed, Sirius slouched against the arm of the couch like a statue, Marlene perched on the floor beside the fire, and Gideon and Fabian lazily tossing a chocolate frog between them. Phoebe twirls her wand absently through her braid.

Brownie trots after Nadine with a soft meow, immediately curling up near the fire.

James glances up as she enters. There is a flicker of something shadowy in his gaze. They hadn't spoken properly since the holidays, and every time someone mentioned Slytherin or—Merlin forbid—Severus Snape, things got brittle and sharp around the edges.

"Look who finally showed." James mutters under his breath.

"I'm not late." Nadine answers coolly, brushing past and settling into a vacant chair.

"Not early either." Sirius smirks, stretching like a lounging cat. "But what else is new?"

James wastes no time. "We've got a match against Ravenclaw in four weeks. We're not losing to them again, not when their Beaters play like bloody trolls with bats."

"They do play rough." Phoebe agrees.

Fabian flips the frog box in his hand. "Which is why we're training harder. Wednesday evenings. Saturday mornings. Every week until the match."

"Even if it snows." Gideon adds cheerfully.

"Especially if it snows." James says. "Ravenclaws don't slack, and we're not giving them an inch."

He looks pointedly at Nadine. "You in?"

She nods once. "Of course."

Sirius exchanges a glance with James. "Just making sure. Wouldn't want any personal conflicts getting in the way."

Nadine tilts her head. "What are you on about now?"

"Oh, you know." Sirius says lazily. "Just making sure your... loyalties don't get the better of you."

"Right." James cuts in sharply, voice rising. "Like last time, when your dear friend Rosier nearly took Phoebe off her broom and you're acting like you'd forgotten what team you play for."

Nadine stiffens, pulse quickening. "That's not what happened and you bloody well know it."

"Is it not?" James snaps.

"Tem plays rough, yeah. I know his strategies and we'll practice to win." she snaps.

"You've been soft every time it's a Slytherin on the other side of the pitch." Sirius adds.

Her jaw tightens.

"I'm not soft." she says through gritted teeth. "I've taken hits harder than any of you."

"Snape, Crouch, Carrow—how many more do you have to excuse before we figure out where you actually stand?" James throws his arms up.

"That's rich, coming from you." she snaps. "Maybe they wouldn't be the way they are if you and Sirius didn't act like bloody kings of Hogwarts."

There is a pause. A deadly silence.

James stands. "You wanna go there?"

"Already did."

"You think you're untouchable?" James steps forward, anger simmering just beneath his voice. "You think you can throw that back in my face and still wear red and gold like you're one of us?"

"I am one of you." Nadine says coldly, standing too. "Just because I don't blindly hate everyone you tell me to doesn't make me less Gryffindor."

"You defend them too easily."

"And you hate too easily."

James doesn't move. Then:

"I can pull you off the team."

There it is.

The room goes completely still. Even the twins look up, blinking in surprise. Marlene's eyes widen slightly. Phoebe looks between them, speechless.

Nadine's eyes don't flinch.

"Do it."

James falters.

"I dare you."

They stare at each other—Captain and Chaser, Gryffindor and Gryffindor, both furious, both proud, both standing with years of stubbornness built into their bones.

"I don't play for you." Nadine says, voice soft and razor-sharp. "I play for Gryffindor. For the team. For the sport. And if that's not enough for you, then maybe you don't belong here."

Sirius lets out a low whistle. "Merlin's beard. That's a new one."

"Shut up." she snaps.

He shrugs, unfazed. "Just saying."

James clenches his jaw, then looks away, breathing through his nose. "This is bigger than you think. We're not messing around anymore. We've got targets on our backs, and you're defending the people who insult you behind closed doors."

"I'm not defending them." she hisses. "I'm saying maybe you should stop treating me like a threat just because I haven't burned every bridge."

"You don't have to burn them." James mutters. "But you don't get to walk both sides either."

A long silence follows.

Sirius murmurs something under his breath to James—low and clipped. James nods stiffly.

"We should go." Sirius says aloud. "Now."

They leave without another word. The portrait hole closes behind them with a final thud, and the warmth of the common room suddenly feels suffocating.

Nadine sits slowly. No one speaks. Even Brownie doesn't meow, only stares at her with wide eyes.

Gideon is the one who finally breaks the silence, tossing his frog in the air again. "Well, that was festive."

Phoebe lets out a breath. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Nadine lies.

And then—quietly, bitterly—she says, "Let him kick me off. I'd rather that than let them control what I think."

She looks into the fire, flames flickering across her features, and for a long time, she says nothing else at all.