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Chapter Text

The world still wore its winter coat that morning, though the buttons had come undone. Frost clung to the heather along the edges of the lane, but shy green shoots pushed bravely through the thinning ice, and the air carried a faint smell of damp earth rather than pure cold. In Lanwynn Koes, or Lanwynn Grove for those who could not speak in the old Cornish tongue, where the seasons held longer sway than elsewhere, the Koes stirred faintly in its sleep, a soft humming in the bones of the land that only those born to its magic could sense. Elowyn felt it in the marrow of his being, though he said nothing as he pulled on his thick wool jumper and laced his boots by the kitchen fire.

At his feet, nestled in a warm curve beside the hearth, lay a sleek shape so pitch-black she might have been mistaken for shadow. Zenobia, his Kneazle, stirred as Elowyn moved, lifting her head and blinking her golden eyes with slow feline judgment. She was not quite cat—her ears sharper, her tail longer, her intelligence unmistakably human in moments. Silent, watchful, and uncannily attuned to his moods, Zenobia had been at Elowyn’s side since before he could form full sentences. Some in the village found her unnerving; others refused to look her in the eyes. But to Elowyn, she was a second soul, pressed always just beside his own.

“Morning, little oak,” Emrys, Elowyn's Papa, said softly in Cornish as Elowyn entered the kitchen, his tone as familiar as the scent of lavender and smoke that clung to his robes. He slid a bowl of stewed oats across the table, followed by a generous slice of honeyed bread. “We’ll begin after breakfast.”

Elowyn nodded, taking his seat. “It’s still not here,” he said after a long silence, staring out the window toward the edge of the Koes, where the mist clung stubbornly to the roots of the trees.

Papa didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he set down his spoon with quiet care and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “We’ve talked about this,” he said gently. “Ya were born of magic older than Hogwarts itself. That letter will come.”

“It’s just…other children get theirs on their birthday.” His voice was low, as if to say it louder would make it more real. “Mine was weeks ago.”

“It may be delayed,” said Thaddeus—Elowyn’s other father, still called Daddy in the clipped, careful way of old Muggle wealth and English drawing rooms—as he stepped through the doorway, fastening the cuffs of his high-collared shirt. “The owls are being watched more closely now. There have been raids. Some never reach their destination. We’ve heard the same from neighbors—post arriving late, or not at all.”

He crossed the room and placed a hand on Elowyn’s shoulder—firm, grounding. “It has nothing to do with you. You’re not being forgotten.”

“But what if I’m being avoided?” Elowyn asked. “What if they sense something and choose not to—”

“They would be fools,” Emrys interrupted. “And if Hogwarts has grown foolish in the face of fear, we will teach you ourselves. You’ll have more knowledge by thirteen than most do by their N.E.W.T.s.”

Thaddeus chuckled softly. “And robes that actually fit,” he added. “Those standard-issue first-year uniforms are an affront to tailoring.”

Elowyn smiled despite himself, the ache in his chest easing. Zenobia, now on his lap, nuzzled her head beneath his chin as if she, too, wished to press comfort into his bones.

They finished breakfast in companionable quiet. The fire snapped and purred in its grate, and the light coming through the window had shifted slightly—from brittle white to something warmer, a gold with the faintest green promise of spring.

When his morning’s lesson began, it was in the study, not the kitchen, with Emrys perched on the edge of a worn armchair, a thick tome open across his knees. Today was magical theory: the interaction of intention and wand motion, the mutability of spell structure, the relationship between a wizard’s inner emotional state and their magical output. Elowyn listened with still intensity, scribbling occasionally in his notes but mostly storing the words in the deep well of his mind, where they sank and took root.

Zenobia rested on the windowsill now, watching birds that hadn’t yet dared to sing.

When the lesson ended, Elowyn wrapped himself in his cloak and made the walk with Thaddeus into the hamlet’s center. The lane was familiar, muddy in patches where frost had melted, lined with low stone walls overgrown with sleeping vines. A few other villagers were out and about—cloaked figures carrying baskets, a pair of children chasing enchanted moths that shimmered like snowflakes in the morning light. They passed the village pub, shuttered this early, and two shops nestled against one another like longtime friends: a greengrocer and a clothier’s, its window lined with bolts of wool and weatherproof cloaks in muted tones. Beyond them stood the Marwood & Travers shop: solid, quietly grand, its woodwork dark and intricately carved, the glass in its window frames etched with protective runes so old they had begun to fade into the grain.

Inside, it smelled of oak, parchment, and owl feathers. The shop, though small, pulsed with unseen activity. Scrolls tied with color-coded string filled cubbies along the far wall; a half-dozen owls slept or blinked from their perches, waiting to deliver whatever Thaddeus and Elowyn had prepared. Since the start of the war, the shop had become a lifeline—not for foot traffic, which had slowed to a trickle, but for the desperate, the hidden, the frightened. Their owl-mail-order system reached farther now than Thaddeus had ever originally intended. He rarely spoke of it, but Emrys sometimes whispered that their little shop had quietly joined the network of those resisting the darkness by simply refusing to let others slip into it alone.

Elowyn moved through the routine without needing instruction. He sorted the parcels with care, selecting the right owl for each one—choosing speed or stealth depending on the destination. He fed them by hand, murmuring softly as he stroked their feathers, calming even the more irritable ones with quiet focus. Thaddeus glanced over his shoulder once or twice and said nothing, his approval silent but deeply felt. Before dispatching the parcels, Thaddeus cast a Featherlight charm to ease the owl’s burden, then added a Disillusionment charm and a mild Secrecy hex—just enough to blur the delivery from prying wizard eyes. A final Repello Muggletum ensured no stray Muggle would spot a stray package, should one fall. Only then did they send the owl on its way.

The hours passed, but something under the surface shifted. It was like watching clouds gather where the sky had once been clear. Elowyn could feel it—something approaching, coiled and waiting just beyond the veil of ordinary time.

He had just finished securing a parcel to a snowy owl’s leg when Zenobia, who had followed him into the shop and lain unnoticed in a patch of pale, wintry sun near the door, lifted her head. She hissed softly—not in warning, but with narrowed attention.

A moment later, there came a sharp rapping at the door. Once. Then again. The sound echoed through the shop like a wand-strike on stone. Elowyn and Thaddeus froze. Every knock these days carried with it a sliver of dread. Zenobia rose gracefully and padded to Elowyn’s side.

Thaddeus drew his wand and stepped forward. “Stay back.”

He approached the door with silent precision, flicking his wand to cast a quiet revealing charm before easing the latch. The wind met him first—cold and quick—but it was the owl on the stoop that stilled his breath. Tawny, broad-winged, and solemn-eyed, it carried a thick envelope sealed with red wax.

Thaddeus exhaled, tension easing just slightly, and turned to his son.

“Elowyn.”

Elowyn stepped forward slowly, reverently, and took the letter from the owl’s outstretched leg. The crest stamped into the wax was unmistakable: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He stared. Then carefully, almost ceremonially, he cradled it in both hands. He turned to grab an owl treat and gave it to the owl who ate it eagerly, tired after the hours of flight. Thaddeus quickly locked up the shop and the pair, along with Zenobia, trotted quickly back home to read the letter together with Emrys.

Emrys startled when the pair arrived, much earlier than usual. He stood just inside the door to the study where he treated patient who came for healing and crafted medical potions that were not easily ordered. His eyes were shining with something close to tears. “Well?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“I—” Elowyn swallowed, looking down at the parchment in his hands. “It’s here.”

“Open it,” Thaddeus said, stepping forward. “Let’s see it properly.”

Elowyn broke the wax and unfolded the letter with trembling fingers.

He read in silence at first, the words swimming slightly before sharpening: his name, the invitation, the list of required books and robes and items. It was real.

“I’ve been accepted,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone. Then again, louder: “I’ve been accepted.”

In the hush that followed, his fathers moved together, surrounding him, arms folding in close. Elowyn let himself be held. For a moment, he was not a boy born of blood and earth, shaped by magic older than memory. Nor was he a child some feared and others whispered about in half-remembered tales. He was simply a son—held fast between the two people who had given everything to bring him into the world.

Zenobia curled herself around his feet and purred, her eyes fixed on the Koes through the shop’s front window.

And beyond the village, in the deep and ancient earth, something stirred.

—

The letter lay open on the kitchen table, its ink still smelling faintly of wax and the musty archives of Hogwarts. Elowyn traced the familiar crest with one finger, his heart caught somewhere between disbelief and the bone-deep certainty that had been growing inside him for years. Outside the cottage windows, early spring fought to push past winter’s last stubborn breath; the trees had not yet leafed, but crocuses dotted the lane like scattered stars.

They read the letter together again: Emrys aloud, Thaddeus listening with that expression of private satisfaction he wore only when truly pleased. Zenobia circled the table once before hopping into Elowyn’s lap, her black tail curling around his waist, her purr like a soft thread weaving them closer.

“You see?” Emrys said once he had finished. “There was never any doubt.”

Thaddeus simply nodded, his hand resting firm and sure against Elowyn’s back. “We’ll go soon,” he said. “To get what you need. Wand first, then the rest.”

Elowyn said nothing, but inside, something delicate unfurled—like the first hidden blossom daring the frost.

They planned the trip carefully. The war had reached even the quietest corners of the wizarding world; raids, disappearances, whispered betrayals. Yet some places—old places, warded with magics deeper than memory—still stood. Diagon Alley, though strained, still pulsed faintly with life.

They left before dawn a week later, when the roads were misted and empty, and the chimney smoke rose in thin straight lines. They traveled by Floo to a discreet public entry in London, then walked the last crooked alleyways on foot. Elowyn wore a heavy jacket, a small protective amulet hidden beneath his shirt. His fathers flanked him without comment.

Diagon Alley was quieter than it should have been in spring, the windows more tightly shuttered, the glances sharper. But the shops were open: Flourish and Blotts smelled of ink and dry paper; the apothecary’s shelves glittered with vials of dreamroot and phoenix tears; Madam Malkin’s bustled with half-hurried fittings and whispered worries.

Elowyn absorbed it all. He marveled, but silently, his wonder tucked safely inside his chest where no dark thing could reach it.

And then they came to Ollivander’s. The wandmaker’s shop sagged under the weight of centuries, its glass dull with dust, its sign swinging gently on an invisible wind. A single wand rotated in the front window—simple, unadorned, yet somehow more alive than the bustling street outside.

The bell chimed softly as they entered. Inside, the air was heavy with age: old wood, old magic, old secrets. Towers of wandboxes loomed above them, leaning at impossible angles, yet untouched by gravity’s insistence.

From between two precarious columns of wandboxes emerged Garrick Ollivander himself, thin and pale-eyed, his silver hair standing in wild tufts as if permanently wind-tossed by unseen currents. He blinked at them. At Elowyn.

“Curious…” he murmured, tilting his head as if studying an unfinished equation. “Very curious indeed.”

Elowyn swallowed, unsure whether to speak.

“I made a wand, years ago. Without commission. Without cause. Simply… a pull I couldn’t ignore.”

He blinked, gaze flickering briefly between Elowyn and the shelves behind him. “It’s waited here ever since. I had my suspicions—but no certainty.”

A pause, then a small nod, as though something unseen had just clicked into place. “And now…perhaps...the waiting is done.”

He turned sharply, the tails of his robes swirling behind him, and retrieved a narrow, velvet-lined box from the deepest shadows of the shop.

“Rowan wood,” he said softly, opening the box with great ceremony. “A tree of protection, resistance against dark arts, and quiet strength. Not showy or proud. It's for those who wield power like a second heart, not a weapon.”

Elowyn leaned closer. The wand lay nestled in deep green velvet, pale and streaked with faint silver veining, like frozen river currents. Along its handle, a Celtic braid motif wound around the grip—ancient and natural as roots. Near the tip, if he tilted his head just so, he caught a whisper of blue-green iridescence, the faintest ghost of light beneath the grain.

Ollivander’s voice dropped further, into something almost reverent. “Kelpie hair. A rare choice. I do not use it lightly or often. Too temperamental. Too tricky.” His gaze flickered to Thaddeus and Emrys briefly, as if weighing whether they knew the true cost. “It's wild. Too wild. And bound to old magicks…and dangerous to those without the patience to listen.”

He held the box out—not commanding, not urging, but simply offering.

Elowyn reached out, heart thudding once, hard. The wand met his hand like breath drawn in after too long beneath the surface. The wand did not spark or a roar, but simply settled—a feeling like a key turning in a long-sealed lock. The air in the shop shifted, subtly, almost imperceptibly: the dust in the beams hung more still; the leaning towers of wandboxes seemed to brace themselves for a moment, then relax. Inside Elowyn, something ancient and waiting spoke: Ah! Home! He did not smile; he only bowed his head slightly over the wand, acknowledging its rightness.

Beneath his palm, the wand stirred—not through motion, but through sensation, as though something deep within it had risen from sleep and was now tasting the air around them both. The kelpie hair unfurled like a current drawn from the depths, cool and instinctive in its response. There was a slick, wild quality in it, something that might have resisted him if approached with force, but which now swept through his magic with the curious precision of water meeting stone. It did not offer submission, and it made no demand for control; it circled him with watchfulness, as though testing whether he could bear its weight without fear.

Beneath that movement, the rowan wood responded in kind. Its strength did not arrive with force or proclamation, but with presence—a quiet steadiness that had waited without urgency. The sense that rose through Elowyn’s hand was not of power granted or taken, but of something long-rooted recognizing him as kin. The wand did not seek to lead him, nor did it require direction; it made room for him, as if it had always expected he would one day arrive.

Elowyn stood still, letting the shape of the moment settle around him like breath. He curled his fingers more fully around the wand, not to possess it, but to accept the presence that had already accepted him. What passed between them was not ownership. It was the beginning of companionship.

Ollivander watched him with pale, unblinking eyes. “Yes. Yes, I thought so,” he murmured. “A curious match…but not wrong. Never wrong.”

Thaddeus and Emrys exchanged a glance but said nothing.

Ollivander closed the box lid gently, though Elowyn still held the wand itself. “Rowan,” he said again, almost to himself. “Resistant to the Dark. A wand of protection—essential in times like these. It serves those who are steadfast, principled, unyielding.”

He tilted his head. “But paired with a kelpie hair core…that is something else entirely. Wild. Fierce. Unbreakable.”

His pale gaze returned to Elowyn. “You are not the easiest of boys, I think.” A faint smile touched his lips. “Nor would you wish to be.”

Something in Ollivander’s eyes made Elowyn pause. Not fear, exactly—but a kind of knowing, like a man watching stormclouds gather from the safety of shore, knowing he is already too late to run. Elowyn looked at him levelly, violet eyes steady, and slowly shook his head.

“Good,” Ollivander said, and for the first time, the ghost of approval crossed his weathered face. “Good.”

They paid—formal, subdued—and stepped out into the late afternoon. The wind had shifted while they were inside: still cold, but no longer biting. Just the kind that made you pull your cloak a little tighter, without quite knowing why. Behind them, Ollivander remained in the doorway, pale eyes distant as he watched them go. And above Diagon Alley, the clouds were beginning to gather.

—

They returned to Lanwynn Koes with the pale light of evening trailing behind them, arms full of paper-wrapped parcels and well-worn satchels now carrying something far more sacred than supplies. Elowyn walked between his fathers, silent but glowing inwardly, the wand nestled in its velvet-lined box still warm against his side.

News spread quickly in the village—word carried more by whispers than shouts. The boy born of the Koes had received his letter. He had gone to Diagon Alley and had come home with a wand.

In Lanwynn Koes, small, secluded magical hamlet, that meant everything.

The next day, a few villagers stopped by—not all at once, and never with fanfare. Just gentle knocks on the door and the clink of gifts placed on the stoop.

A crocheted scarf in cool greens and golds, “for both spring and autumn,” the card read, unsigned.

A packet of sweetened ginger from the greengrocer’s wife—“for nerves, or train rides.”

A single ink pot, hand-thrown and charmed not to spill, from the potter who rarely spoke.

Even the old hedgewitch, who seldom left her thatched house at the edge of the Koes, sent down a silver coin enchanted to vibrate when danger was near. It was engraved with a thistle and the old words: Stand firm. Speak little. Grow strong.

There were no hugs, no cheers, no grand gestures. Just nods in the street and the occasional second glance that lingered, warm with pride that another child of Lanwynn Koes was accepted to Hogwarts.

That evening, Emrys lit candles around the kitchen and baked a honey cake—“just the four of us,” he said, though he set a fourth slice near Zenobia’s bowl. Thaddeus uncorked a bottle of spiced cordial saved for “when it matters.” Elowyn said little, but his eyes shone with that quiet, inward light that had always been his truest voice.

Afterward, as twilight pooled blue around the windows and the Koes hummed faintly beyond the garden, Elowyn sat alone in his room. The scarf was draped over the back of his chair. Zenobia curled herself into the hollow of his hip with a sigh that was almost human. His wand lay across his lap.

It did not glow or stir, but its presence wrapped around him nonetheless, quiet as breath drawn in the dark. Beneath the polished rowan grain, the kelpie hair coiled—not resting, but restraining itself. It tolerated the calm of the room rather than trusted it. Elowyn felt its tension the way one senses weather gathering above a distant sea: a wildness held just beneath the surface, unbound by affection, yet not entirely indifferent. Its magic tasted of brine and river silt. There was no invitation in it—only the promise of something fierce that would not be softened.

He did not recoil. He let it remain as it was—unbroken, unmuzzled. Beneath that pull, the rowan answered with quiet gravity. Its strength felt like an anchor cast centuries deep. And though he could not say how or why, it felt familiar. Not in the way of names or places, but in the marrow of him. There was something in the wood that reminded him of the Koes—of moss-laced stone, of winter branches standing watch, of the hush that came just before the Koes began to speak.

He ran his thumb once along the wand’s smooth length. In the silence that followed, he understood the beginning of trust—not because the wand had yielded, but because it hadn’t.

He did not cast anything yet. The wand rested across his knees, its presence enough. Outside, the trees still slept beneath their winter hush, but something beneath the frost felt restless. Elowyn watched the bare limbs shift against the deepening blue, and thought—not for the first time—that the world was beginning to change.

—

Spring turned to summer and summer blossomed and began to wilt until the time for Elowyn’s departure was upon them. The night before his first journey to Hogwarts, the kitchen felt smaller than usual, not for lack of space, but for the density of time. The air was heavy with it—moments folding into moments, the hush before parting. Emrys had lit the candles low and left the hearth to smolder. Outside, the night gathered like velvet in the lanes, and the Koes stood tall and silent, its ancient branches unmoved by wind or worry.

Dinner was simple—roasted leeks and honeyed carrots, herb bread fresh from the oven, and a berry tart Thaddeus had brought home from the grocer that morning without comment. They ate slowly, the kind of slow where words didn’t need to fill every space.

Zenobia perched near Elowyn’s feet, tail wrapped neatly around her paws, her yellow eyes flickering between them as if cataloging their unspoken thoughts.

When they had eaten all they could—or perhaps just all they could bear—Emrys rose, disappearing into the adjoining room for a moment before returning with a small, velvet-lined wooden box. He set it gently before Elowyn, brushing the lid once with his fingers before opening it.

Nestled inside was a ring unlike anything Elowyn had ever seen. Two metals—copper and gold—twined together like the roots of a tree, their shapes sculpted into tiny curling leaves. Black diamonds, cut irregularly, shimmered like moonlit soil, while sapphires caught the candlelight in quiet blue sparks. The craftsmanship was ancient, or meant to feel so, as if it had been made from memory and meaning rather than mere material.

“This is for you,” Emrys said, voice soft but steady.

Elowyn stared. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s protective,” Thaddeus said. “Woven with anti-hex charms, shielding wards, and something else. Old spells. Some we made. Some…we remembered.”

“The gold is me,” Emrys added, smiling faintly. “For Hufflepuff.”

“And the copper, me,” Thaddeus said. “For Ravenclaw.”

“A way to keep us with you,” Emrys murmured, “while you’re away.”

Elowyn reached for it, slowly, reverently. It was warm in his hand—comforting, as if it had been waiting for him. When he slid it onto his finger, it fit so perfectly it made his breath catch.

“I’ll wear it always,” he said, not quite able to meet their eyes, tears welling but not falling from his violet gaze.

The ring sat light in his palm—small and cool, but humming faintly beneath his skin. He could feel the magic in it: braided tight with love, old worry, and the quiet desperation of two people who knew that they were sending their son out into a world in the first throes of war. It felt like it should have been stronger, but he slipped it on anyway.

Thaddeus reached across and set a hand on his shoulder. “You’re ready, Elowyn. You’ve been ready a long time.”

Emrys’s smile was tender but tinged with brightness at the edges, like a mirror catching just a little too much light. “Tomorrow’s a beginning, little oak, not an ending.”

They cleared the dishes together without speaking, their movements practiced, full of old rhythm. Afterward, Elowyn stood in the doorway for a long time, watching the stars twinkle through the canopy of the Koes. He didn’t know what he’d expected—fear, perhaps, or grief. Instead, there was only stillness along with the feeling of one foot hovering just before it steps forward. Beneath those feelings lay something deeper and older: A secret he had never dared to speak:

Slytherin would be his House—not from heritage or pride, but in the rhythm of his childhood. He’d known it from the hush beneath the Koes, where magic pooled like crystalline water in a hidden woodland spring, and in the stories whispered by Emrys, where Merlin walked not with courtly grandeur but with mud on his boots and power drawn from root and wind. It wasn’t ambition that called him, but the pull of what had been broken, and the hope of what could be made whole. Slytherin had gone astray. He didn’t want to rise within it. He knew he would have to take root—and remake it from within.

And yet he had never told his parents. There had been comments—offhanded things, barely meant. Mentions of old House rivalries, half-jokes about snakes in the Ministry, sideways glances when the Prophet printed names too often seen in green and silver. Nothing cruel because neither Thaddeus nor Emrys were cruel. And nothing overt, but enough to plant a fear so quiet it took root like moss.

Still he wondered: What if they saw Slytherin as betrayal? What if they saw it as failure?

He said nothing. He would not say anything, not now. Tomorrow the Sorting Hat would place him where it would, and he would carry that truth himself, quietly, until he understood how to speak it.

When he went to bed that night, Zenobia curled against his side and purred so softly it sounded like the wind in the Koes.

Elowyn pressed his palm over the ring, and for a moment, let himself imagine the path ahead.

What his fathers’ reactions would be did not frighten him, but it would be his alone—at least for now. And though he did not yet know what he waited for, he could feel it already, somewhere just beyond the edge of knowing. It was a pull not toward power, but toward belonging—toward something—or someone—still coming.

—

The morning came softly, without ceremony. The light was gray at first, gentle and thin, filtering through the hedgerows with the hush of held breath. Somewhere in the east, the sun pressed against the horizon, but here in Lanwynn Koes, the Koes always woke first.

Elowyn, still dressed in his bedclothes with only his long coat to ward off the Autumn chill, stood at the edge of the treeline. His trunk was already packed and sitting in the cottage by the door. Zenobia trailed behind him like a shadow that had chosen its own path, pausing only once to sniff the moss along a low stone wall before rejoining him.

He wore the ring. It caught the pale morning light faintly—copper and gold coiled around one another like roots—and reminded him, with every subtle pulse of warmth, that he was going with the love of his fathers with him in some small way.

The Koes loomed before him: vast, ancient, and breathing. It was not a forest in the ordinary sense. The trees were older than memory, clustered with intention rather than accident, their trunks twisted in quiet spirals, their branches tangled in a conversation that had never been written down. Magic lived here—not the kind taught in schools, but the kind that watched, and chose, and remembered.

It was tradition in Lanwynn Koes for children to visit the Grand Oak before leaving for Hogwarts. A blessing, they called it, though no one could say exactly what the Oak gave. Some children returned with pressed flowers that never wilted. Others swore they heard their names whispered by the wind. Once, a boy left with nothing but mud on his boots—and said it kept him from falling during the first Quidditch match of the year.

Elowyn did not expect anything. He had lived in the Koe’s shadow all his life. He had been born beneath its heart.

He stepped beneath the canopy without hesitation, the damp earth yielding gently beneath his boots. Birds were quiet this morning. The air shimmered faintly with ancient magicks woven within it holding memory and being and light. Zenobia followed, her black fur stark against the early green.

The path led him to the Grand Oak, as it always did, though no one marked it. Its trunk was impossibly wide, its bark scarred with runes too old to translate. This was the place where he had been called into being—conceived beneath its boughs, formed in a pod of woven earth and spellcraft, grown like a secret until the Koes released him to light.

He knelt there, without prompting—not to pray...that was not the way of the Koes—but to listen.

He closed his eyes. His wand rested in his pocket, the ring on his hand, and the soft brush of Zenobia’s fur against his ankle all grounded him. At first, there was nothing but the creak of old limbs overhead and the hush of breath moving through branches. Then something shifted. It was not sight, or sound, or even touch. It was presence. A sudden knowing that The Oak knew him, and welcomed him and released him.

His wand stirred against his side—not in motion, but in sensation. A warmth bloomed along the grain, slow and pulsing, as though the wood remembered this place and had waited to be brought home. Beneath the rowan, the kelpie core rippled once, deep and deliberate, like a tide recognizing its own shore. Elowyn placed a hand over his pocket without thinking, and the wand settled again, as if satisfied.

A single leaf, golden and soft-edged, fell from the highest limb of the Grand Oak, though no wind blew. It landed on the ground before him. Elowyn opened his eyes and picked it up. It was warm, simmering with magic. As he began to rise he heard something—not a voice but something ancient without shape or form—that said: Go. Be what we shaped. Return when you are more.

He paused before he continued to rise. He slipped the leaf into the inner pocket of his cloak and then turned to walk back home. Zenobia padded forward and sat at his feet, staring up at him with something deeper than feline comprehension.

“We’ll come back,” he said to her—not as hope, but as vow.

And together, they stepped onto the path towards the hamlet, the mist rising behind them like breath.

At the cottage, his fathers waited. His ring gleamed as he approached, and the trees whispered one last time: This one is ours.

—

Upon his return, Elowyn dressed in Muggle clothes he'd carefully laid out the night before—dark trousers, a wool sweater, and an overcoat that held its shape with charmwork so subtle it might have been tailoring. Even Zenobia’s enchanted carrier was disguised as a soft canvas satchel with a brass clasp. Only the ring on Elowyn’s hand, its metals glinting faintly in the dim kitchen light, hinted at anything magical—and even that could pass for an heirloom in the Muggle world.

They did not linger. Emrys packed a paper bag with oat biscuits and the candied ginger, which he tucked into Elowyn’s satchel without fuss. Thaddeus double-checked the train ticket—handwritten in old ink but laced with an enchantment that blurred itself if shown to the wrong eyes. The house was clean, the trunk already shrunken—tucked carefully into Emrys’s pocket—and the farewells to neighbors quietly made. No one wept as they made their way to the Disapparition point at the eastern edge of the hamlet, but the silence between them had deepened.

They Flooed into a hidden fireplace in an unmarked London shop owned by the Ministry, tucked between a newsagent and a shuttered tailor’s on a street too busy to notice one more storefront. The shop sold nothing, displayed nothing, and drew no glances; Muggles walking past simply glanced away, their eyes sliding over the windows as if there were nothing there at all. Outside, London rolled past in a blur of wet cobblestones, blurred umbrellas, and iron-grey sky.

They stepped onto the street and hailed a taxicab that smelled faintly of peppermint and old fabric. Elowyn sat between his fathers in the backseat, the satchel warm against his hip, Zenobia a gentle weight within.

“Keep your trunk close,” Thaddeus said. “You’ll need to get it onto the train yourself—after that, it’ll be charmed away. No need to strain your back lugging it all the way to the cabin.”

“I know.”

“And keep your wand hidden until you’re through the barrier,” Emrys added, quieter. “Some families don’t hide theirs anymore, but…it’s better if you do.”

“I will.”

Emrys reached over and adjusted the sleeve of Elowyn’s coat. “And your ring—let it show.”

Elowyn looked down at the copper and gold twined around his finger, the small stones catching the light of the cab window. “Why?”

“Because it’s beautiful,” Emrys said.

“And because people should know you’re protected,” Thaddeus added.

They said nothing else for the remainder of the ride.

When they stepped out of the taxicab, Thaddeus handed him a small black satchel, its seams stitched with precise silver thread. “This has your essentials for the train—robe, shoes, wand polish, and a few restorative sweets in case you get motion-sick. The trunk will be handled once you board.”

Emrys added softly, “There’s a warming charm on the inside. And a spare quill, just in case.”

They entered King’s Cross Station and found the platform was full, but not bustling. People moved in tight clusters. Voices were low. Aurors in plain Muggle clothes walked the edges of the station, their eyes sharp and their wands hidden but ready. Families stood close to one another, like boats in a harbor before a storm.

They made their way to the barrier between Platforms Nine and Ten with slow, measured steps. A few parents glanced their way, eyes assessing, then quickly looked away. Zenobia shifted once in her carrier, purring quietly as if to soothe the air.

“Together,” Thaddeus said, glancing at the barrier. “We walk naturally. Don’t pause.”

Elowyn stepped between them. One moment, there was the stone arch of a Muggle train platform, grimy with soot and decades of footsteps. The next, there was magic.

Platform Nine and Three-Quarters opened like a breath slowly pushed out. The scarlet Hogwarts Express stretched down the tracks, smoke curling gently from its funnel, the brass trim polished bright. The platform itself hummed faintly underfoot—layered with wards, old and deep.

Families clustered along the edge, subdued but dignified. There were no floating balloons or laughing crowds this year. Only the smell of steam, iron, and something like anticipation. Children stood quietly beside trunks. Parents murmured last-minute advice. A few hugged too tightly. Some didn’t let go.

Emrys set Elowyn’s trunk on the platform and, with a quiet charm, returned it to its full size. Then he rested a hand on his son’s shoulder. “This is it,” he said softly.

Elowyn looked around, unsure what he’d expected. Something larger, perhaps. Or more dramatic. But it wasn’t. It felt quiet and familiar—not because he’d seen it before, but because it had always been a part of him, waiting to be stepped into.

Behind him, Thaddeus’s voice was low. “It’s smaller than I remember.”

“It is,” Emrys agreed. “Quieter, too. Wartime changes everything. Fewer students it seems and more precautions.” He gave a tight little nod, as if to himself. “Better that it does.”

Emrys then pulled Elowyn into a hug. “You’ll write,” he said against Elowyn’s ear. “Even if it’s just one line. Just so we know you’re well.”

“I will.”

“And if you feel lost—” Emrys pulled back to look at him, eyes bright, voice steady— “just find quiet. The answers come there first.”

Elowyn nodded. “I know.”

Thaddeus stepped forward and placed his hands on Elowyn’s shoulders, steadying him. For a moment he only looked into his son’s face, as if memorizing every line of it. Then, without a word, he pulled him close—one arm wrapped tightly across his back, the other resting at the base of his skull with careful pressure.

“Make us proud,” he said softly, his voice low and even. “Be safe. Let no one tell you what your worth is least of all a child who doesn’t know your name.”

Then he released him. Elowyn shouldered Zenobia's carrier and his satchel. The train let out a sigh of steam.

“You’d better go,” Emrys said, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “Or I will start crying, and then you’ll be stuck here all year comforting me.”

Elowyn smiled, quiet and radiant. “I’ll find my way,” he said.

And he turned. The steam curled around his feet as he lifted the trunk, his muscles tensing but uncomplaining. Zenobia made no sound, but he could feel her presence in the curve of the strap and the steadiness of his own heart.

He stepped toward the train, unaware that behind him, Thaddeus had reached out—then stopped, his fingers curling midair, held still. Emrys, without a word, slipped his hand into Thaddeus’s. And together, they watched their son disappear into the waiting carriage.

—

The corridor of the train was warm and close, a blur of velvet benches and brass-trimmed windows. He heard voices murmuring behind compartment doors, soft and unsure, as first years sorted themselves into pairs and trios—some with practiced ease, others clumsily. As Elowyn stepped fully aboard, his trunk vanished with a faint shimmer, whisked away by a transport charm woven into the train itself.

Elowyn moved slowly. He passed two full compartments—one bubbling with laughter, the other quiet with anxious silence. But neither felt right. And then, halfway down the train, he paused. He didn’t know why. There was no noise behind the door. No movement to catch his eye. Just…stillness.

A thread pulled taut in his chest, invisible but certain, as if he had reached the place the world had been guiding him toward since the moment he stepped through the Koes. He slid the door open.

Inside were two boys. The first—stocky, red-haired, with freckled skin and arms crossed loosely over his chest—looked up immediately. His green-gold eyes flicked over Elowyn with the wariness of someone who had learned to measure strangers quickly. But the wariness faded just as fast, replaced by something calmer. Not curiosity, exactly, but recognition that the boy standing before him was no threat. The second boy was smaller, wiry, his blonde hair falling into his eyes as he sat curled in the far corner of the seat, reading a crumpled pamphlet. He looked up when Elowyn entered and blinked once, slowly, as though he had just remembered a dream.

“Mind if I sit?” Elowyn asked, voice soft but clear.

The red-haired boy shook his head. “No. There’s room.”

Elowyn stepped inside, closed the door behind him and then unlatched the carrier. Zenobia stepped out with practiced grace, leapt onto the seat beside him, and immediately curled up as if she had always belonged there. There was a moment of silence—not uncomfortable, just full.

“I’m Elowyn,” he said.

“Callum,” said the red-haired boy, his Irish brogue peaking through.

“Peter, Peter Alaric Ainsley” said the smaller one. “Is that a—?”

“Kneazle,” Elowyn said.

“She’s brilliant,” Callum murmured, watching Zenobia with barely veiled admiration.

“She’s very particular,” Elowyn replied. “But she likes this carriage. So, I think that’s a good sign.”

Peter smiled—quick, bright, and slightly lopsided. “I think it is too.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, the kind of silence that usually takes years to grow. Elowyn looked out the window. The platform was fading, the crowd dissolving into smoke and distance. He did not feel the train begin to move, but he knew when it had—something in his ribs shifted, like the tilt of the world.

He glanced back at the boys. Peter was still smiling faintly, watching Zenobia. Callum leaned his head against the window, eyes half-lidded, as if already settling into this small shared world. Elowyn let his hands rest quietly in his lap. There was something here. Not friendship—not yet. Not love, or even the seed of it, but something like the first tiny fleck of green on a winter-dead tree, barely visible, but portending a grand, beautiful future.

Chapter Text

The train had long since pulled away from King’s Cross, its rhythmic thunder now a steady pulse beneath their feet. Beyond the compartment window, the world rushed by in a blur of end-of-summer golds and storm-tossed greys—fields unwinding like ribbon, hedgerows flickering with shadow. The clouds were thickening over the countryside, as if the sky itself had drawn a cloak around its shoulders in preparation for what lay ahead.

Inside the compartment, there was warmth, and the curious, tentative hush of strangers no longer entirely unknown to one another.

Peter had stopped speaking—just barely. His knees bounced, fingers twitching restlessly over a folded Chocolate Frog wrapper that had long since lost its frog. Ink smudged the side of his hand where he had scribbled something into a little notebook earlier.

“Not to be dramatic,” Peter said suddenly, “but I do think I’m going to die.”

Elowyn glanced at him. “Why?”

“Well—” Peter sat up straighter. “I mean look at me. Slytherins are going to eat me alive. And not in a good way.”

Callum, seated opposite, raised one coppery eyebrow.

“Not that there’s ever a good way to be eaten,” Peter amended hastily. “Well, no, that’s not true—dragons, maybe. Honourable death and all that.”

“You’ll not die today,” Callum said evenly. His voice was quiet, a touch of Donegal granite, and he hadn’t smiled once in the hour they’d sat together. Still, he hadn’t left either.

“That’s encouraging,” Peter said. “I mean, I’m not sure if you mean that as reassurance or prophecy. But either way—cheers.”

Elowyn’s lips twitched at the corners, just slightly.

Peter noticed and lit up. “You do smile. I was beginning to worry you were one of those wise-and-silent types who never crack a grin.”

“I do,” Elowyn said, gently. “But I wait until there’s something real to smile at.”

Peter considered that. “Fair. Though I think I’m quite funny.”

“You are,” Elowyn said, and this time, he did smile. “In a rather frantic way.”

Callum gave a quiet grunt—amusement, perhaps—and leaned his head back against the window frame. He watched the other boys through half-lowered lashes, arms folded across his chest like a drawbridge that might lower, given cause.

Elowyn sat beside Peter, hands folded in his lap. He was very still, but not stiff—more like a figure carved by water, not wind. There was a strange serenity in him, the kind that didn’t come from shyness but from a deep interior world, cool and violet-lit. A grove grown in the dark. He was an enigma. Outwardly, he was well groomed and wore clothes that had been meticulously and well tailored, but there was wild depth in his eyes.

Peter fiddled with his ink-stained fingers. “I do hope I’m not sorted into Slytherin. No offense if either of you fancy yourselves a bit dark and brooding.”

“Dark, maybe,” Callum murmured. “Brooding’s more Elowyn’s style it would seem.”

That earned a startled laugh from Peter and a flash of teeth from Elowyn—so brief it might have been imagined.

Elowyn turned to the window. The countryside had begun to change. Hills rolled more steeply now, and the sky was thick with distant crows. Somewhere ahead, the castle waited. He could feel it—not as a place, but as a resonance. Something older than stone. Something watchful.

The door slid open with a low hiss.

A boy and a girl stood in the threshold—older, taller, dressed in green-trimmed robes that shimmered faintly in the corridor light. The boy’s hair was ink-black and neatly combed, his posture straight with the rigid ease of someone born to be obeyed. There was something cold behind his eyes, as if he already knew he belonged and had no need to prove it. The girl beside him wore her dark hair pulled back with the kind of precision that invited neither questions nor compliments. Her lips quirked as she surveyed them—not in kindness, but calculation.

They didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, the silence stretching taut, their presence like frost sliding over glass. Their eyes flicked over Callum, Peter, and Elowyn in turn, pausing just long enough to rank, assess, discard.

“Well,” the girl said finally, her voice like polished stone. “Looks like they’re letting just anyone in these days.”

The boy didn’t laugh, but the curve of his mouth suggested he’d found what he came for.

Peter stiffened.

“Move along,” Callum said, quiet and clear.

The boy blinked, taken aback not by the words but the weight behind them. Callum didn’t rise. He didn’t need to. His shoulders were thick beneath his jumper, his jaw hard. There was a stillness in him now, but not Elowyn’s kind. This was the stillness before a fire caught.

“Didn’t catch that,” the girl said. “Wasn’t speaking to you, were we?”

“You are now,” Callum replied.

For a moment, something heavy and wordless pressed down on the compartment—the kind of moment that could tip into cruelty without warning. The taller boy’s gaze settled on Callum, not with challenge, but with the idle interest of someone assessing whether a creature was worth hunting. He didn’t look away. He didn’t need to. His silence was a verdict.

The girl’s smile sharpened. “Enjoy the view while it lasts,” she said, her voice light—almost sweet. Then they moved on, footsteps echoing as the door swung slowly closed behind them.

Peter let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Well,” he muttered, with a shaky attempt at levity. “That was harrowing.”

Elowyn stood to make sure the latch caught. His gaze lingered on the window, where their reflections shimmered faintly in the glass—three boys haloed by twilight, too young for what they would be asked to endure.

“They’ll try again,” he said softly.

Callum looked up and said. “Let them.”

Peter glanced between them, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes—something beyond fear. It was the beginning of trust, perhaps, or the first fragile root of it.

Outside, the sky deepened to indigo. The train carried on, its wheels singing low against the rails, bearing them toward a castle that still whispered of safety amidst a war that had already begun.

—

The sky had turned to pewter by the time the train groaned to a halt. A fine mist threaded its way through the air, softening the distant trees into silhouettes. Inside their compartment, the boys had already changed—Elowyn had drawn his finely made first-year robes from his satchel, while Callum had done the same from a bag of similar make, though his clothes were more modest, more standard. Peter, cheeks pink with embarrassment, had sheepishly pulled his robes—carefully mended and clearly made for someone before him—from his coat pocket, which had been enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm. “Mum said it’d keep them from wrinkling,” he mumbled as he shook them out, and the others pretended not to notice the faint scent of homemade lemon soap clinging to the folds—bracing and a touch bitter, the kind made in big batches and set to dry on windowsills.

Now, in the corridor, they stood pressed together as the crowd shuffled toward the doors. The platform was quieter than Elowyn had imagined—quieter even than the wind-ruffled moors near Lanwynn Koes. First years clustered in subdued knots, their voices low, eyes wide. Somewhere to the left, someone whispered Harry Potter, and heads turned. But no one dared raise their voice.

A squat, grim-looking man with a lantern called for the first years—the famous Hagrid, it seemed, was absent, but no one explained why.

“Must’ve got crushed by his pumpkins,” Peter muttered, his breath fogging the air.

Callum didn’t laugh, but Elowyn offered a single, approving glance, and that was enough to make Peter straighten his shoulders like he’d passed an exam.

The path sloped down into wet grass and narrow mud-rutted trails, and soon they reached the black glass of the lake. Dozens of small boats bobbed at the edge like empty nutshells, each swaying in place with quiet patience.

“Four to a boat!” the man barked.

No one joined them.

Peter eyed the water with clear suspicion. “You know,” he said, “I don’t actually swim. Not unless I’m being pursued by something significantly worse than drowning.”

“You’ll manage,” Elowyn murmured, stepping lightly into the nearest vessel. It barely rocked beneath him.

Callum followed without hesitation, the boat dipping just slightly under his weight. He reached out a hand without thinking, steadying Elowyn by the arm, though Elowyn had not stumbled.

Peter climbed in last, with considerable grumbling. “If I go under, I want it known that my last words were this was a bad idea.”

The boats began to move—on their own, slow and silent as thoughts.

They glided over the lake’s surface like dream fragments, each ripple folding back on itself in silver spirals. The castle came into view by degrees, rising out of the mist like some ancient and watchful god. Its turrets and towers were awash in golden light, but beneath the beauty there was weight. It pressed against the horizon, solemn and immense. The kind of place that remembered things you hadn’t yet done.

Peter fell quiet. Callum’s eyes were fixed ahead, unreadable. The wind tugged at his copper hair, and in the dimness of twilight, the freckles across his cheeks looked like smudges of rust. Elowyn closed his eyes briefly, listening—not with ears, but with that deeper sense he rarely spoke of. There was something beneath the lake. Creatures, yes, but this was not them. This was deeper. Something old and vast and indifferent to the affairs of the wizards and witches gliding above the crystalline surface of the lake. It brushed against the edges of his mind like roots stirring in the deep, then passed.

He opened his eyes.

Callum was watching him—not openly, not rudely, but like one might watch the flicker of a candle flame in a quiet room.

“You alright?” Callum asked.

“Yes,” Elowyn said. “Just…listening.”

“To what?”

Peter leaned forward. “Please don’t say the lake talks.”

“It doesn’t,” Elowyn said. “But it remembers.”

Peter blinked. “Of course it does. I mean, obviously. Why wouldn’t water have memory? That’s perfectly normal and not remotely terrifying.”

Callum gave a small sound—half-breath, half-laugh—but didn’t look away.

A light mist rose off the water now, curling like breath around their ankles. The lanterns on the boats burned steadily through it, casting long beams that vanished into shadow.

There was a hush over all the first years. No one dared speak too loudly. Even Peter, in his own chattering way, seemed to sense that something was happening—something sacred, if unspoken.

They passed beneath the shadow of a cliff, and then a great archway opened before them—the stone dark and vine-bound, water dripping from above. The boats slowed, gliding into the cavern like thoughts slipping into memory.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Peter said, very softly, “I don’t think I’m ready.”

“You don’t have to be,” Callum replied, his voice low and steady. “You only have to step out and walk.”

The boat touched the dock with the gentlest thud. Elowyn stood first, then turned and offered his hand to Peter. Peter took it. And somewhere in that simple act—call it instinct, call it fate—a bond began to grow, quiet and green as moss.

—

The first thing Elowyn noticed upon stepping through the great oak doors of Hogwarts was the warmth. It rolled over them like a tide—not heat, precisely, but the kind of deep, golden comfort one only found near ancient hearths or in the moss-soft hollows of Koes. The castle had a pulse, slow and sure, and it greeted them as it had greeted countless children before: gently, with the weight of memory and the hush of welcome.

But beneath it—beneath the flickering torchlight and floating candles, beneath the scent of beeswax and stone and distant roasted meats—was something else. A wrongness. Not in the castle itself, but in the air. It was too still. The echoes didn’t carry as far. Laughter, where it sparked among the older students above, sounded hollow. The war had not reached these stones, but it had pressed its frozen hand against the glass, and all who lived within felt the chill.

“First-years to the left,” came a voice like spun iron.

Professor McGonagall stood near the foot of the Grand Staircase, her dark red robes sharply pressed, the gold clasp at her throat catching the flicker of torchlight. Her hair was pinned in a severe bun, and her eyes swept over the group with the crisp authority of someone who had seen a great many generations of first-years—and had no intention of coddling this one.

“Line up. No talking. You will enter when called.”

Peter leaned toward Elowyn and whispered, “Charming, isn’t she? Bet she turns students into teacups if they ask too many questions.”

Callum placed a steadying hand on Peter’s shoulder, a wordless warning. Peter cleared his throat and straightened. Around them, other first years had begun to murmur—barely-contained whispers and shifting feet, the flutter of nervous excitement tinged now with something more jagged. Elowyn listened without meaning to.

“Hope I get Ravenclaw—Mum says it’s the clever house.”

“S’long as it’s not Slytherin, right?”

“My brother said all the worst ones go there now.”

“I heard You-Know-Who was in Slytherin. Figures.”

Elowyn’s breath caught. The words weren’t meant for him, not directly, but they coiled around his ribs all the same. He stood very still, hands loose at his sides, and stared straight ahead at the tall double doors beyond which the Great Hall waited.

Peter looked up at him and squinted. “You? In Slytherin? Nah. You’re way too polite. They’ll probably put you in…I dunno, Hufflepuff with the rest of the decent human beings.”

Elowyn shrugged and gave a faint smile, his eyes still on the doors.

Peter grinned and added. “They definitely won't place someone like you in Slytherin.”

Callum said nothing, but his hand brushed Elowyn’s as they stepped forward—just once, barely there, like a promise made in passing. And somehow, that helped quiet Elowyn's inner turmoil. The line edged forward. Students adjusted their robes, brushed crumbs from the train off their sleeves. Peter cursed under his breath. Elowyn’s hand brushed against his, and for a moment—just a flicker—Peter forgot to be nervous. Above them, the floating candles swayed gently in a draft none of them could feel. Something about them—the light, the height, the hush—made even Peter hold his tongue.

Then the doors opened. A sweep of candlelight, scent, and sound washed over them. The Great Hall had never been more beautiful. Elowyn had seen it before, of course—images in books, moving photographs, memories handed down from Daddy and Papa in gentle whispers at bedtime. But nothing had prepared him for this. The ceiling shimmered with illusionary clouds, a golden moon slowly rising to lend its glow to the thousands of candles suspended beneath the cavernous, vaulted expanse. The long house tables stretched forward like rivers of warmth, students leaning in on elbows, heads tilted, faces lit with firelight and anticipation.

But even here, even in this place meant for joy—there were absences. Pockets of silence. Spaces where friends once sat, now emptied by war. Slytherin robes were fewer than they should have been, the gaps between them not filled. Some students had been sent abroad by cautious parents unwilling to risk a second war. And those who remained gathered more tightly than the rest, as if proximity alone could preserve what was slipping away. Their laughter was sharper. Or missing altogether.

The triad walked slowly, each step echoing across the polished stones. The Sorting Hat waited

—

The Sorting Hat sat on its three-legged stool like a relic from some forgotten age—faded and patched, its wide brim slouched with boredom or ancient grief. It had been stitched back together more times than anyone could count, but the threads were strong, and the magic older still. A hush fell as it stirred. Then, with a ripple like breath over stone, the Hat’s brim split wide and began to sing:

Though robes be pressed and hearts be bold,

Though candles dance and stories told,

Beware, young minds, the quiet halls—

For shadow waits within these walls.

Four Founders once stood side by side,

Their dreams unshaken, undenied.

Yet pride and fear and grief have grown,

And each now walks a path alone.

Brave Gryffindor, with lion’s fire—

Your courage steadies, dares, inspires.

Wise Ravenclaw, with star-bright mind—

You seek the truths that few can find.

Dear Hufflepuff, with open heart—

You heal the world, you do your part.

And Slytherin, of cunning grace—

You guard the gate no other dares face.

But mark me now, and mark me well—

There’s blood in stone, and cracks that swell.

The Dark returns, the war’s begun—

Will you divide, or stand as one?

Choose with care, and choose with might—

For loyalty must match the fight.

And if your choice brings scorn or sneer,

Be proud. Be strong. You still are here.

The silence after was not total. There were sniffles, a few held breaths, a stifled whisper. The Hat fell still once more, inert and waiting. Professor McGonagall unrolled a scroll.

“Aaron, Adele.”

One by one, the first years stepped forward. Elowyn barely heard the names. He could feel Peter trembling beside him on his left—his fingers twitching, his robe frayed at the hem and uneven at the cuff. The fabric was thin, clearly secondhand, but lovingly mended. The kind of robe someone with little had taken the time to make presentable. Callum, to his right, was motionless. His robes were new, but plain—wool dyed deep black, no silk, no embellishment, the fit slightly too tight across the shoulders. He stood like a statue carved from earth.

“Ainsley, Peter” said Sinistra.

Peter gave a small squeak.

“Go on,” Elowyn whispered, with a small smile. “I’ll see you at the end.”

Peter walked like a man condemned. He climbed the steps, sat, and the Hat was placed gently on his head. It slid low over his brow.

Ah. A voice deep and rustling like autumn leaves.

Peter Ainsley. From the rain-streaked coasts of northern England—fearful, but not faithless. Your heart is wide, boy. Too wide for your own good.

“I don’t want Slytherin,” Peter thought at once. “Anywhere but there.”

Oh? And why not?

“I’m not like them. I’m not cruel. I’m not—ambitious.”

Ambition is only the hunger to become. You have it, whether you admit it or not. Besides—your path lies there.

“No. Please. Hufflepuff. Ravenclaw. Even Gryffindor.”

You will be brave. And you will learn wisdom. But your fate is not soft. It is sharp. And it runs green.

“No—”

Yes.

The Hat’s voice turned gentle.

This is not punishment, Peter Ainsley. This is the crucible where you will become.

And then aloud, with a voice like flint striking steel, “Slytherin!”

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then the Slytherin table erupted into cheers. Peter stumbled off the stool, face pale and eyes wild. The Slytherins clapped him on the back as he sat down, some laughing, others eyeing him like something curious and unexpected. Across the hall, whispers began. Elowyn could feel them on his skin like ash falling as the cluster of first years grow ever smaller.

“Marwood-Travers, Elowyn.”

He stepped forward slowly, as though entering a ritual circle. The robe he wore—soft Merino wool lined with hand-stitched silk—moved around him like water. It was one of several, all tailored not at Madam Malkin’s, but at a finer shop Thaddeus preferred. Thaddeus had chosen the materials with Emrys beside him, and Elowyn had been fitted with care. When they returned to retrieve their large order, he could still feel their hands smoothing the collar—the quiet pride in their touch.

He sat. And the Hat fell over his head like a hood of fate.

Oh…oh my.

The voice was older now. Deeper. It did not speak—it remembered.

You are not made of years. You are made of eons.

Elowyn said nothing.

Lanwynn Grove. Grove-born. A ritual not seen in centuries. Earth-fed. Magic-rooted. Your blood sings with the leylines. Your soul echoes.

He waited.

You would do well in Ravenclaw. Knowledge lives in you like breath. Or Hufflepuff—your heart is soil, and you grow what you love. Even Gryffindor—though only in part.

“No,” Elowyn said, inside himself.

Ah. You know.

“I must go to Slytherin.”

You do not have to.

“It’s where I belong. It’s where I’m needed.”

You will be feared. You will suffer.

“I know.”

You will be tempted.

“Yes.”

You may fall.

“I won’t.”

A pause. Then, solemnly: “Then rise. Slytherin!”

The green burst across his robes like fire catching moss—his silver trim glinting sharp and bright. The Slytherin table roared again, and this time, there was something hungry in it. Peter scooted over to make space for him on the bench. Elowyn sat silently, his face calm, but his chest thundered. He didn’t look toward the staff table. He didn’t want to imagine his fathers’ faces.

“McCormack, Callum.”

Callum walked like a man going to war. He sat. The Hat fell.

Another brave heart. You’d do well in Gryffindor. Strong loyalty. Willing to fight. Good instincts.

“I want Slytherin.”

Why?

“I want to stay with them. I don’t know why, but I do.”

You’ll be isolated. Judged. And worse, you’ll be tested by your own. They’ll not make it easy.

“They won’t have to. I’ll be enough.”

You love quickly. Too quickly. That will burn.

“I’ll bear it.”

The Hat paused, then sighed like shifting roots. “So be it. Slytherin!”

Callum’s robes flared green, the trim deepening to silver. A hush fell—not of silence, but of disbelief. Three boys. Three Slytherins. Not many more names to be called. The whispers became wind. They sat shoulder to shoulder now at the long Slytherin table—Callum on Elowyn’s right, Peter on his left. Around them, the other Slytherin first-years (six girls, all sharp-eyed) watched them with interest, suspicion, or flat disinterest.

From across the hall came a faint hiss of disapproval, not from the staff but from students. Peter flinched, his voice catching before he could speak. Callum’s jaw tightened, the muscle ticking just beneath the surface. Elowyn placed his hand near theirs on the table—not touching, but close enough to feel, like the beginning of a promise.

The Sorting ended. The feast began. But none of the triad were hungry. Above them, the banners of green and silver rustled in a wind that wasn’t there. And beneath them, at a long table where they were outwardly feted and welcomed, yet their fellow serpents eyed them with predatory delight.

At the high table, Dumbledore rose. He did not gesture for silence. He did not need to. The hush fell as if summoned—gently at first and then utterly—until only the low hum of the enchanted ceiling and the soft clatter of cutlery remained.

“To our new students—welcome. And to those returning—welcome back,” he said, his voice calm, but carrying weight like snowfall on branches. “This year begins in difficult times, and I would not pretend otherwise. The world has grown darker. But within these walls, we will strive not only for safety, but for understanding—and for one another.”

The hall did not stir. Even the flames in the sconces seemed to still.

“There are many who say that fear must guide us now. That suspicion is safer than trust. That old divisions must rise again to shield us. I say otherwise.”

His gaze moved across the hall—not resting, but passing, like wind through high trees.

“I ask only this: that you meet the days ahead not with dread, but with care. That you listen more than you speak. That you think before you act. And that you remember: the smallest kindness is still a light.”

He paused. Then, with a faint smile that did not reach his eyes, he added, “And now—to bed. Your journey has only just begun.”

He sat. And far below the flickering candles, beneath stone and spell and time, the castle breathed in the silence. The new year had begun.

Chapter Text

The descent to the Slytherin common room began in silence. Three boys, and six girls trailing a slippery looking prefect—tall, unsmiling, his silver badge gleaming with restrained threat—led them without ceremony looking bored and disinterested in babysitting. No names were asked. No instructions given. Only a glance cast backward once, to be sure they followed. Then nothing more. The Great Hall and its warmth fell behind them like a pleasant memory already fading. A narrow passage opened to the left of the main staircase, torchlit and narrow, the stone worn smooth by a millennium of passage.

They moved downward in tight formation, Elowyn in the middle, Peter trailing slightly behind like an afterthought, and Callum silent and steady to his right. The torches grew fewer. The chill deepened. The scent of damp stone and ancient water began to rise—not rot, but age, like something buried long enough to forget its own name.

Elowyn felt it first—the shift in pressure, the low thrum beneath the stone. It wasn’t the sound of footsteps or the residue of a spell. It was older than either. The castle was watching. There was no malice in it, nor affection. Only awareness—deep and patient, as if the walls themselves were remembering. He glanced to his left. Peter had gone pale, his lips pressed together to hold back words he knew better than to say aloud. Ahead of them, Callum squared his shoulders. His frame absorbed the narrowness of the corridor like a natural-born shield.

The wall to their left turned abruptly to glass. A vast pane, green and gently curved, revealed the lake pressing in beyond. Its surface was far above now, only shadows visible—swaying weeds, the flicker of something long-limbed drifting past, too deep to name. It wasn’t frightening. Not exactly. But it made the boys feel smal.

The prefect stopped at an archway carved with serpents so lifelike they seemed to coil when you looked too long. He turned, his eyes cool and disinterested.

“The password is Vainglorious,” he said. "One of Professor Snape's little japes."

Then he stepped aside and vanished into the darkness of the dungeon his duty done. The stone melted away—literally melted—sinking into itself like hot wax until a low doorway opened. Beyond it, the common room.

It was magnificent.

Not in the warm way of hearths and pillows and charm-lit coziness. This was beauty with an edge. A wide chamber stretching beneath the lake, its ceiling vaulted like a cathedral, each arch etched with runes so fine they seemed to shimmer in and out of existence. The green-tinted light of the lake filtered through enchanted windows, casting serpentine shadows across cold flagstone floors. Tapestries hung in perfect symmetry—ancient battles, heraldic beasts, crests of old wizarding families sewn in threads that glinted faintly as the light passed over them.

The furniture was finely made but sparse: tall-backed chairs in dark velvet, tables with clawed feet, a fire sunk into a massive hearth where silver-green flames danced without sound. It was beautiful the way marble tombs are beautiful. Designed to impress, not to comfort.

For a breath, they were alone. Then the shadows moved. Four figures stepped forward from the darker corners of the room. Sixth- and seventh-years, all in perfectly pressed robes, their house crests glinting like threats. One, a boy with chestnut brown hair pulled back in a ribbon and a face as sharp as a quill, studied them with the amused disdain of a noble watching peasants arrive to beg for his scraps.

“Well,” he drawled. “They really are sending anyone these days.”

Another—taller, broader, darker of expression—moved beside him. A girl followed, eyes like frost, her arms crossed loosely as though she found all of this faintly boring.

Peter tensed so hard Elowyn felt the air shift. Callum didn’t move.

“I’m not sure which is worse,” the tall boy said, eyes scanning them. “The orphan, the foreigner, or the…whatever that one is.” His gaze landed on Elowyn last, and lingered. “You’re not ordinary.”

“No,” Elowyn said simply. “I’m not.”

Something in his tone made the blond boy pause, just a flicker.

Peter opened his mouth, surely to defuse the moment with humor. “Well, I’m not an orphan technically—my parents are just broke—”

“Silence,” the girl snapped, her voice a whip. She didn’t raise it. She didn’t need to.

Callum stepped slightly forward. Not a full step. Just enough to place himself subtly between Peter and Elowyn and the older students.

“Oh, look,” said the broad boy. “A guard dog. Atta boy!”

“I’d rather be that,” Callum said, “than a vulture picking at first years.”

The brunet one moved then—quick as a whipcord, wand out, the motion smooth and practiced. Elowyn saw the spell form behind his eyes before it passed his lips.

But Callum was faster.

“Protego!”

The shield burst forth with a muted shimmer, catching the low-cast hex and turning it aside, where it scorched the edge of a tapestry with a hiss.

The girl stepped forward now, her wand drawn, but Elowyn raised his hand—not with a spell, but with silence.

“Do you really want to escalate this?” he said softly. “Right in front of the lake? It sees you, you know.”

They stared at him struggling to contain their confusion.

He smiled faintly. Not mocking. Not frightened. Just…certain.

The silence stretched.

Then the brunet boy laughed once—sharp, like broken glass. “Well. That’s new.”

“There are no prefects around this year who care to protect the little serpents” the girl mused. “Not after Pucey was pulled for that duel gone wrong. No one’s watching out for you.”

“Except the Castle,” Elowyn said.

The brunet’s smile faltered.

The older students pulled back without apology. “Careful, little snakes,” the broad one murmured. “You’ve got fangs now. But we’ve been biting longer.”

And they vanished into the deeper shadows, footsteps swallowed by the cold stone. Elowyn, always listening, turned quickly and raised a shield spell in front of himself and his newfound friends as one last hex whispered out of the dark. It struck the shield with a flick of pale red light—silent, but sharp. No sound followed. Only the shifting of distant water and the low hiss of torches guttering against unseen wind.

For a long moment, the triad didn’t move. Then Peter exhaled like he’d been holding the air in his lungs for a week. “Well. That was…bracing.”

Callum’s eyes still tracked the room. “We should find our dormitory.”

“Agreed,” Elowyn said.

They didn’t speak further of what had just happened. But the torches flickered as they passed, and the water beyond the glass curved strangely, just once—like something old had stirred and gone still again.

—

Their dormitory door whispered open as the trio began to pass unsure where to go. The stone door opened soundlessly into the room beyond, opening for them in the absence of their prefect guide. Beyond it lay a chamber that should have felt too large for three boys—but didn’t. The room had shifted, somehow, shaped itself to fit them. Elowyn felt it the moment he crossed the threshold: a gentle tightening in the air, like a held breath finally exhaled.

The dormitory curved outward in a half-moon, carved directly into the bedrock beneath the lake. At its far end, a long window slit arced along the ceiling, filled with the soft, murky light of the water outside. Shadows drifted past now and then—slow, sinuous, impossible to name. The light here was not torchlight, but something more elemental: a filtered silver-green glow that pulsed faintly with the movements of the lake, as though the room were breathing with it.

Three beds stood along the arc, spaced evenly and waiting. Callum’s—somehow, he knew it was meant for him, they all instinctively knew—was closest to the door: solid, practical, with thick iron posts and heavy blankets the color of storm clouds. Peter’s, in the middle of the three, was narrower, its linens soft and inviting—the canopy above shimmered faintly with a charm that glowed soft blue in the dimness of the subaqueous chamber. Elowyn’s bed sat farthest from the door, its frame shaped of dark, curved wood that looked grown rather than carved. Small inlays of copper and polished stone shimmered faintly near the base. The stone beneath it was slightly warmer than the rest of the floor.

Peter let out a breath and slumped down onto his mattress, shoes still on, eyes flicking toward the window.

“Well,” he said, “this is cozy. You know. In a tomb sort of way.”

Callum was already unlacing his boots. “Better than a crypt.”

Peter blinked. “You say that like you’ve slept in one.”

Callum shrugged. “Slept in worse.”

Elowyn didn’t speak. He stepped lightly to his trunk and began unpacking with slow precision—folding his robes into the narrow wardrobe provided, placing books on the floating shelf that hovered beside his bed, aligning ink bottles in a neat row. His every movement had the quiet certainty of ritual.

Callum stripped off his jumper and trousers, exposing a pale, broad chest dappled with freckles and trunk-like legs covered with soft downy hair. His arms were strong but not yet heavy with muscle—his body more shaped by farmwork than sport. He didn’t seem aware of the exposure, or if he was, he didn’t care. He folded his jumper and trousers with blunt care and sat on the edge of the bed, watching Elowyn without trying to look like he was watching.

Peter kicked off his shoes and pulled his trunk open with a loud creak. The contents were haphazard—robes hastily folded, an old woolen jumper with a worn neckline, a few books already dog-eared. He pulled out a pair of pyjamas, clearly hand-repaired at the seams, and hesitated before tucking them under his pillow.

“Don’t judge the state of my wardrobe,” he muttered. “It’s a family heirloom. Passed down from sibling to sibling like an ancient curse.”

“I’m not judging,” Elowyn said, not turning.

“You don’t have to. The walls are judging for you. I think I saw that stone arch frown at my socks.”

Callum huffed a short breath that might have been a laugh.

Peter flopped onto his bed looking up at the windows set in the ceiling. “Do you think they made the windows this narrow so we wouldn’t see the lake monsters properly, or so the lake monsters couldn’t see us?”

“Neither,” Elowyn said softly. “The lake sees everything. But it pretends not to. It’s polite that way.”

That silenced Peter for a full beat. He sat up, rubbing his arms.

“I’m not sure which of you is more unsettling,” he muttered. “The big one who says four words at a time or the quiet one who sounds like a riddle.”

“Three,” Callum said absently, casting a minor cleansing charm on the soles of his feet. “Just now.”

Peter pointed at him. “That. That right there.”

Elowyn stepped toward the door, then paused. He placed his palm flat against the cold stone of the arch and closed his eyes. For a moment, the air in the room shifted—barely, a thread pulled tight and then let go. The wall seemed to vibrate beneath his hand, like a breath pressed against glass.

“It’s quiet here,” he said softly. “But not asleep.”

Peter sat up straighter. “Don’t say that sort of thing! This place already feels like a haunted shipwreck.”

“It listens,” Elowyn said. “But it doesn’t speak unless you ask it to.”

Callum had stood now, wand in hand. “We should ward the door.”

Peter blinked. “Ward it? From what? The rest of the castle?”

“Yes,” Elowyn and Callum said together.

Elowyn turned, wand already out. “Not to lock it. Just to warn us if someone enters.”

“It’s what my parents do,” Callum added. “Since You-Know-Who came back.”

“Mine too,” Elowyn added.

“Oh,” Peter said, quieter. “Right. Of course.”

He looked down at his wand—plain, light-colored ashwood, chipped at the tip from being dropped earlier. “I don’t know the spell.”

“I’ll show you,” Elowyn said. “It’s simple. It screeches when the door is breached. Only to those inside the room.”

“And it doesn’t alert the teachers?”

Callum shook his head as he took the opposite side of the arch. Together, they cast: Praesidium Clamoribus.

The charm shimmered faintly, then vanished into the stone.

Elowyn turned to Peter. “Now your bed.”

Peter blinked. “My bed?”

“For practice,” Callum said. “A shield charm. Just to keep hexes from landing if someone tries again.”

“They wouldn’t—” Peter began, then stopped. He looked down. “No, they would, wouldn’t they?”

Callum nodded once.

Peter swallowed. “Right, then. Okay. Shield charm. I know the words—Protego—but…”

Elowyn moved to his side. “That’s for dueling. For objects, use Tutamentum.”

Peter frowned. “I’ve never heard of that.”

“It’s older. Subtler. The key is the intention—not panic, not fear. Just the will to keep the world out.”

Peter raised his wand. “Not letting the world in,” he repeated. “Right.”

He tried. The shield flickered—a pale shimmer, brief and uncertain.

Callum stepped beside him, eyes steady. “Again.”

Peter tried. Stronger this time. It curved briefly around the bedpost like a bubble, then popped.

“Better,” Elowyn said.

Peter smiled faintly. “I’m going to be terrible at this, aren’t I?”

“No,” Elowyn said, turning back to his bed. “You’ll just have to learn quickly and practice.”

They settled in slowly after that, each boy sinking into the rhythm of exhaustion. Callum climbed into bed with a grunt and stretched out, folding one arm behind his head. His gaze drifted to Elowyn—who had just returned from the en suite, the faint scent of mint and lavender lingering about him. Like the dormitory itself, the bathroom had been subtly shaped for three: a softly lit, private space with three shower stalls, a pair of urinals, and a discreet toilet room paneled in dark stone. It felt more like a sanctuary than a lavatory, quietly opulent in the way of old wizarding spaces. Elowyn moved with precise composure, every gesture as neatly measured as his silk sleepclothes—dark green, finely tailored, the sleeves rolled to his forearms with care. He didn’t fuss or fidget. He simply existed, poised and composed, like someone who had been trained to carry dignity even while readying for bed.

Callum watched him longer than he meant to. Then, guiltily, he glanced at Peter, who was half-buried beneath his covers, muttering something to himself that sounded like a joke no one had laughed at. Callum lay back, eyes on the ceiling. He didn’t know what he was feeling. But he knew it was new and not unpleasant.

Peter rolled over. “You think Snape’s going to hate us more because we’re first-years or because we’re first-years in his House?”

“Both,” Callum said.

“Marvelous. At least he won’t have to remember our names. He can just call us ‘the disappointments’ and be done with it.”

“I’m already used to that,” Peter added. “Family tradition. Third Ainsley child. Mum says it builds grit.”

“Mine too,” Elowyn said quietly, lying down at last. “In a different way.”

Peter looked over. “Really?”

“There’s never been a Slytherin in my family,” Elowyn said softly. “Not in the Lanwynn line. The Travers who left—who took the name and rewrote our history—they don’t speak for us, or to us, anymore.”

Peter studied him for a long moment. “Do you…do you think they’ll mind?”

Elowyn didn’t answer for a moment. Then: “They’ll understand. But I didn’t tell them. I knew I would be placed here, but I didn’t want them to worry before they needed to.”

Peter nodded slowly.

Callum watched the exchange without speaking. His own mam had burned every tie to the Nott family to marry for love, and his da had taught him to build wards from dirt and stone. No one in their house had ever worn silver and green, not even his mam, who had been sorted into Ravenclaw. And now here he was, lying in the belly of a castle that watched like a hawk and whispered like a ghost.

Eventually, the room fell quiet. The water moved outside the glass—slow shadows, graceful and strange. The candles dimmed of their own accord.

Peter’s voice came, half-asleep. “If I wake up and one of you is floating at the ceiling possessed by a poltergeist, I’m just going back to bed.”

Callum snorted softly. “We’ll save you the trouble.”

Peter mumbled something that might have been cheers, and pulled the blanket higher, shoulders hunched against the cold that didn’t quite reach his bed.

Callum lay on his back, eyes open to the low ceiling. His body, still half-bared to the lake-lit air, was relaxed—but his mind was full. He thought of his mam’s eyes, sharp and proud even after the Nott name turned its back on her. He thought of Da’s hands, scarred from the soil and gentler than any wand. He thought of his siblings, younger, brighter, louder. None of them knew what it felt like to walk into a room and not belong. Except maybe…this was belonging or the beginning of it. He looked toward Elowyn’s bed.

The boy lay still as carved marble, arms folded loosely, breathing soft and even. His face in sleep was neither peaceful nor troubled—it was watching, even now. The light from the dim sconces flickered across his cheekbones, and for a moment, Callum thought of statues in cathedrals—saints and angels and old, forgotten gods.

He turned toward the ceiling and let the thought drift. And in the hush that followed, something unseen coiled gently through the stone, marking them—quietly, indelibly—as its own.

—

Elowyn woke not to sound, but to light. The lake had caught the rising sun somewhere beyond its surface, and now that light filtered down through the enchanted windows ensconced in the ceiling. The light broke into rippling bars that shimmered across the ceiling. The patterns moved slowly, like breath through water. It touched his face with a silvery kiss, and he opened his eyes without startlement.

The dormitory was quiet. Beneath the slow pulse of the water’s light, the only sounds were the soft exhale of breath and the occasional creak of the old stone adjusting itself. Elowyn sat up, smooth and composed, and began dressing without a sound.

His wand slid easily into the interior sheath sewn into his exquisitely crafted robe. He adjusted his collar, ran one hand through his hair, and then moved across the room to Callum’s bed. The other boy lay sprawled across the mattress, bare-chested beneath his blanket, one arm slung over his eyes like he was warding off a dawn that hadn’t truly come.

“Callum,” Elowyn said softly, but with clarity. “It’s morning.”

A low groan answered him.

“I want to be early to breakfast,” Elowyn added. “Before the Hall fills.”

Callum muttered something in Irish and rolled onto his side. But he began to move, slowly dragging himself upright and stumbling to the en suite.

Elowyn turned next to Peter’s bed. The pile of blankets shifted before he could speak.

“I’m alive,” Peter croaked. “Barely.”

“I never said you weren’t.”

“You were thinking it. I could feel your judgment from over here.”

Elowyn’s expression didn’t shift, but there was the faintest twinkle in his eyes. “We leave in ten minutes.”

“Not enough time to make myself pretty, but I’ll try.”

—

The Great Hall was quiet when they arrived, early enough that only a few scattered students had trickled in. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows in golden shafts, catching on floating dust motes and glinting off the polished goblets set neatly at each place. The four House tables stretched ahead like great wooden rivers, their surfaces already laden with platters of eggs, sausages, porridge, and thick slices of bread still steaming from the ovens below.

House Elves, unseen but diligent, had not faltered in their duties. The food looked as bountiful as in any pre-war year, but the air was different. Tension hung in the spaces between students. The few Gryffindors present spoke in low voices, huddled at the end of their table. A trio of Ravenclaws read in silence, one of them glancing toward the staff dais as if expecting a speech. Hufflepuffs arrived in twos and threes, murmuring excitedly over timetables and class schedules.

The Slytherin table, by contrast, felt colder. The few older students already present sat in self-contained knots, their heads bent low, their faces unreadable. Laughter was absent. No one made room. No one greeted them.

Elowyn walked without hesitation to the far end of the table, closest to the entrance and furthest from the staff. It was a space neither central nor marginal—strategically liminal. Just visible. Just apart. He slid into the bench and gestured wordlessly for the others to follow.

Peter plopped down beside him with a grateful sigh. “Brilliant. This end has all the same food and none of the professors’ protection.”

Elowyn buttered a slice of toast with quiet precision. “Too close to the dais, and they’ll see you as soft. Too far, and you’re alone.” He paused, then added, almost to himself, “Here, they have to look. But they can’t reach.”

Peter blinked at him. “You always think like that?”

Elowyn’s gaze didn’t lift from the bread. “When you grow up in a magic grove, you learn to see where things grow…and where they don’t. My fathers taught me to notice.”

He passed Peter the marmalade without waiting for another question.

Callum, quiet between bites, said nothing—but his eyes lingered on Elowyn a moment longer than they needed to. Not in judgment. In something softer...something like wonder.

Across the Hall, Professor Flitwick floated into view, humming quietly to himself as he made his way to the staff table. Beside him, a tall witch with olive-toned skin and salt-gray hair swept past in deep plum robes—Professor Vector, Elowyn recognized from one of the books he’d read on Hogwarts faculty. Further down the table sat a dour-faced man with stringy blond hair whom he didn’t know—likely a new appointment. Snape’s place remained empty, though a few first-years at the Gryffindor table kept glancing toward it with barely concealed dread.

Peter reached for the platter of sausages. “This is nice. The food, I mean. Do you think it’s all a trap? Like, they feed us well to keep us docile before throwing us to the werewolves?”

Callum handed him a goblet of pumpkin juice without speaking.

Elowyn reached for the toast. “The food is a constant. The Castle insists on hospitality.”

Peter blinked at him over a mouthful of bread. “You say that like it’s a person.”

“It is,” Elowyn replied, voice even. “In its way.”

Callum looked at him sidelong, curious.

Peter glanced around, chewing slowly. “So, you’re saying the Castle is…watching us?”

“Not just watching,” Elowyn murmured. “But remembering.”

“That’s not remotely comforting.”

“It isn’t meant to be.”

Peter gave him a long look, then said to Callum, “Your friend is terrifying.”

Callum didn’t look up from his tea. He simply shrugged.

Peter shuddered for effect and reached for more toast.

At the far end of the Slytherin table, a group of older girls passed them on their way to the doors—one of them, pale and hawk-eyed, gave them a long, appraising glance. Her eyes lingered a beat too long on Elowyn’s ring, then flicked to Peter’s robe cuffs. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

Elowyn, unbothered, reached for the butter dish. “They’ll keep watching,” he said softly. “Let them.”

Peter shifted uncomfortably. “What happens when they stop watching and start acting?”

“We plan for that too,” Elowyn replied.

Callum’s eyes met his, and for the first time that morning, he gave a slow, approving nod.

Peter leaned forward, whispering. “So…do we get to hex them first or do we wait to be hexed?”

“We defend,” Elowyn said. “And we endure.”

“Sounds like a thrilling year ahead of us.”

They fell into silence after that, eating steadily, listening to the clatter of spoons and the occasional shriek of owls delivering post.

By the time more students began filtering in, the triad had already finished their meal and risen together.

As they made their way from the Hall to their first class, Peter leaned close and muttered, “I feel like we’re either going to become legends…or cautionary tales.”

Elowyn gave him a rare, sidelong smile.

“Perhaps both.”

—

They left the Great Hall together, the three of them moving with quiet purpose through the broad stone archway and into the corridors beyond. Few noticed them—but those who did, watched. A couple of second-year Ravenclaws turned their heads to murmur behind their hands. A Hufflepuff boy cast a sideways glance that lingered too long on the green trim of their robes before catching himself and looking away. It wasn’t open hostility, not yet. Just wariness. Just a bracing breeze before a winter storm.

Peter kept his hands deep in his sleeves, his mouth twitching with half-spoken retorts he didn’t quite dare to say aloud. Callum walked beside him in silence, eyes flicking toward each shifting portrait, each student that passed too slowly. Elowyn led, not with authority but with gravity—something in the way he moved, balanced and unhurried, as if he already knew where they were meant to be.

The Castle was shifting again. It always did—but this time, it shifted for them.

As they reached a rising staircase, the stone steps rearranged before they’d fully approached, the next landing settling into place just a moment early—no dramatic creak, no groan of old magic, just an elegant, silent tilt, as though the building had anticipated their pace. A hallway that should have ended in a tapestry now yielded to another corridor, long and arched, with windows set high into the stonework. The lake flickered faintly beyond them, its light refracted into green glass patterns across the floor.

Peter stumbled once and muttered under his breath, “This place is mad. You’d think someone would’ve put in a few signs. Or at least charmed the stairs to stay put.”

Callum caught his arm instinctively. “They don’t want you to get too comfortable.”

“Mission accomplished,” Peter said, brushing his sleeve and hurrying to keep up.

Elowyn had paused beneath one of the windows. He stood still for a moment, his head slightly tilted, as if listening to something far beneath the stone. Then he turned.

“This way.”

Peter gave him a squint. “How do you know?”

“I just do.”

Callum didn’t ask. He only followed.

—

They arrived at the corridor outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom nearly ten minutes early. The door was closed, the sconces along the walls burning low and greenish-gold. The air was colder here, less welcoming—like the Castle itself remembered the things that had been taught within these walls over the past years: blood quills, curses, fear.

The hallway echoed faintly. They weren’t alone for long. The first-year Gryffindors arrived in waves—dozens of them, not quite in step, the corridor quickly filling with the clamor of too many voices. Some wore robes too large for their frames, others had already scuffed their shoes from exploration or mischief. They jostled, chattered, pointed at the portraits lining the stone walls, and laughed with the buoyancy of children who hadn’t yet tasted fear.

Then they saw the Slytherins. All nine of them. The six girls had arrived just behind the triad—sharp-eyed, self-contained, already scanning the crowd with the air of students who understood their House’s reputation and wore it like armor. And flanked between them, like the wrong chess pieces on the wrong board, were Callum, Peter, and Elowyn.

The noise didn’t stop, but it shifted. Laughter sharpened, while conversations thinned. Bodies turned slightly inward, shoulders squared subtly outward—as if on instinct.

Peter, glancing around at the sheer number of red and gold badges, sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Thirty to nine. I feel marvelously outnumbered.”

“They’ll be louder,” Callum said evenly. “Not better.”

Peter gave a weak grin. “Reassuring. I love our odds.”

A freckled boy nudged the one beside him and muttered something behind his hand. A girl with tightly braided hair glanced at the green trim of Peter’s robes and immediately looked away, her nose wrinkled.

Elowyn said nothing. But he felt the Castle shift around them—slightly narrowing the corridor behind, subtly thickening the hush ahead. Not shielding or protecting, but simply…observing.

The door creaked open without warning. The class fell immediately into silence—not out of obedience, but instinct. Severus Snape stood just within the threshold, his black robes still as oil, his sallow face paler than the morning light. He looked out at them as if seeing something distasteful tracked in on the soles of his shoes.

“Well,” he drawled, voice like silk dragged over bone, “do come in. I’ve been assured some of you are capable of learning. I remain unconvinced.”

The room beyond was dim and cold, all shadowed corners and long, narrow windows that let in light the color of old parchment. The floor gleamed like polished slate. No relics. No skulls. No dark trophies. Just desks, arranged in rigid pairs, and a tall blackboard at the front where faint chalk scrawls still lingered from years past.

The students filed in with hesitant steps. Elowyn walked evenly down the center aisle, choosing a seat near the middle—not quite front, not quite back. Neither retreat nor challenge. Peter hesitated a moment, and Elowyn flicked his fingers once toward the desk beside him. Peter took the hint, slipping into place just before a Gryffindor boy could sit down instead.

Callum sat behind them next to a blond Gryffindor with a long nose and a mouth already pulled into a sneer. The boy leaned back in his chair the moment he sat, radiating bravado.

Snape’s footsteps echoed across the room before falling still. He did not sit.

“There are many misconceptions,” he said, “about what this class entails. Defense, you believe, is simple. A shield charm. A clever countercurse. A way to feel brave while imagining yourselves under attack.” He paused, looking slowly from face to face. “But defense, true defense, is not about courage. It is about control.”

Elowyn’s quill was already moving before Snape had finished the sentence.

Snape’s eyes landed on him.

“And what, Mr…” A pause. “Marwood-Travers, is it?”

“Yes, sir.”

A faint curl of Snape’s lip. “Tell me, Mr. Marwood-Travers—do you come to us with Grove-born wisdom to share? I’m told you were raised among trees and hedgerows. How rustic.”

There was a low chuckle from the Gryffindor side of the room. Peter’s eyes darted toward Elowyn.

Elowyn said nothing. He only inclined his head, just enough to be polite, not submissive.

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Let us hope your spells are more forthcoming than your reply.”

He turned sharply and scrawled one word on the board: Protego.

"You will pair off,” he said, without looking. “One from each House. One will cast Rictusempra. The other will defend. No other spell will be tolerated. We will see how much you have—or have not—been taught by your families.”

A boy near the back—a Gryffindor with a puff of curly hair—hesitated, then muttered, “Sir, the numbers aren’t even…”

Snape turned to him slowly, one brow rising with glacial disdain. “How fortunate, then, that this is not Arithmancy.”

Several Gryffindors shifted uneasily. One Slytherin girl smirked.

Snape’s gaze swept the room like a scalpel. “Then Slytherins will pair with two—or more—of your Gryffindor peers. Consider it a valuable lesson in pressure.”

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The cold pleasure in his voice said enough.

Peter swallowed. Callum’s shoulders tightened. Elowyn’s gaze remained steady, unreadable. The triad, for now, was split. And the lesson had begun.

The students stood awkwardly by the desks, watching Snape prowl to the front of the room like a crow claiming roost. He turned, robes sweeping, and surveyed them with a look that could curdle milk.

“Pair off,” he said again, as though bored by the repetition. “One casts. One defends. Switch after the first round.”

A Gryffindor boy—short, dark-haired, with an uncertain look—glanced around. “Sir, there’s only nine Slytherins…”

Snape turned slowly, one brow arching with tired disdain. “Yes. And rather more of you. An unfortunate imbalance—which I’ve already addressed. Do try to keep up.”

He paused just long enough for discomfort to spread.

“I suggest you take turns. Perhaps it will teach you how little the world cares about fairness.”

He didn’t need to say more. The smirk said it for him. This was not oversight. It was design.

Peter ended up opposite a red-haired boy with a stubborn chin and a chipped wand. His name was Emory Wilkes—no relation to the old Death Eater, he assured Peter—just bad luck. The moment they took their stances, Emory muttered, “You don’t look like a Slytherin.”

“Thanks,” Peter muttered back, shifting nervously on his feet.

“Ready?” Emory asked, raising his wand.

“No—”

“Rictusempra!”

Peter yelped, stumbling back as the tickling charm caught him square in the ribs. He doubled over with a laugh he didn’t mean, flailing his wand with little control.

“Eloc—no—Protego!”

The charm sputtered from his wand and fizzled like a damp firework. The Gryffindor boys behind Emory laughed.

Snape’s voice cut across the room. “Mr. Ainsley, was that a defense or a plea?”

Peter flushed deep red.

Elowyn, paired with a clever-eyed Gryffindor girl named Iris Caplan, watched from three desks away. Iris hadn’t said much, but her stance was confident, her aim sharp.

“Flipendo!” she called.

Elowyn raised his wand. “Protego.”

His shield formed—a shimmering veil of light, thin but precise. The spell struck it and dispersed like rain against a windowpane. It was not powerful, but contained. His wand had offered only what the task required, no more, as though it recognized the moment for what it was: a classroom exercise, not a duel, and one undeserving of anything beyond the minimum.

Elowyn glanced down at it, uncertain whether the restraint had come from him or from the wand itself. He was still learning the shape of its will, still listening for the contours of its judgment. But even in that quiet pause, he felt no resistance. What remained in his hand was steadiness, not doubt. The spell had been enough. And the wand, in its silence, seemed to agree.

There was a pause. Snape’s robes snapped as he turned.

“I said Rictusempra,” he drawled, voice like oil poured over stone. “Five points from Gryffindor for failure to follow instructions.”

Iris flushed. Elowyn, watching her jaw tighten, felt the injustice prickle under his skin—but he said nothing. He was learning. Silence, in Slytherin, was sometimes the only shield they were allowed.

“And Mr. Marwood-Travers,” Snape murmured as he swept past, not bothering to lower his voice, “a shield so fragile, I’ve seen sturdier enchantments on porcelain.”

Elowyn lowered his wand and said nothing. It remained warm in his hand, steady and sure, as though it, too, knew the spell had been cast rightly.

Further down the line, Callum was facing two Gryffindor boys in quick succession. The first—Finn Longworthy—had tried to hex him with a Jelly-Legs Jinx and found his spell deflected neatly. Callum stood rooted, feet apart, wand firm in his hand.

The second boy, taller, sneered before casting anything. “You’re the one from the Nott line, right? Your mum’s a blood traitor.”

Callum didn’t answer. He simply raised his wand.

“Rictusempra!”

“Protego!”

The jinx struck Callum’s shield with a sharp crack and rebounded upward, slamming into the sconce above. It dislodged with a metallic clatter and crashed beside Snape’s desk, scattering dust and flickering sparks across the stones.

Snape turned sharply, robes whipping behind him, eyes glittering. “Five points from Gryffindor for reckless aim. And do keep your bloodline commentary to yourself, Mr. Bellamy.”

Callum didn’t look triumphant. Just silent.

Somewhere behind him, Peter tried another shield. It formed this time—briefly—but flickered like candlelight in wind. Emory grinned, then overcast. The spell hit Peter’s shoulder and spun him halfway around. Peter straightened, teeth gritted, and looked to Elowyn. Elowyn nodded, once. This time, the shield held.

Snape circled the room like a restless hawk.

He paused behind Vesper Selwyn, who cast her shield with the precision of a surgeon. “Excellent,” he said softly.

Behind Honoria Mulciber, who smiled too wide as she knocked her partner on his back: “Effective.”

Behind Peter: “Better than your first attempt. Though that’s faint praise.”

He lingered behind Elowyn longer than needed. “Still favoring form over force, I see. You’ll want to grow out of that, Mr. Marwood-Travers. Pretty spells don’t stop curses.”

Elowyn said nothing. But something in the floor seemed to shift—no tremor, no heat. Just a quiet recognition, like breath caught between two heartbeats. The Castle had noticed, even if Snape had not. He moved on.

By the end of the lesson, two Gryffindors had singed their eyebrows, one girl had cried after accidentally hexing herself in the foot, and Peter—sweaty and red-faced—had managed a solid, full-bodied Protego that sent Emory’s jinx bouncing clean off the desk.

“Did you see that?” Peter whispered to Elowyn as they gathered their books. “I actually did it.”

Elowyn gave a faint smile. “I saw.”

Callum stood at the door already, arms crossed, his eyes scanning the hallway beyond like a sentry. A murmur passed between the Slytherin girls—Vesper and Honoria at the head of it.

“Mud-soft,” Honoria whispered to Vesper as they passed. “All three.”

None of them responded.

But as they stepped out into the corridor, Peter murmured under his breath, “Mud-soft’s better than stone-dead.”

Callum let the corner of his mouth twitch. Elowyn kept walking with a twinkle in his eyes.

Behind them, the stone held its silence—but not indifference. There was a weight in the air, like something listening just beyond the reach of sound.

—

The common room was quieter now, lit in low pools of greenish lamplight that reflected coldly off the underwater glass. Evening had long since settled over the castle, and the Slytherin den—its alcoves and shadows, its stone archways and trickling fountains—had returned to something that passed for calm. But calm, Elowyn had already learned, was not the same as peace.

The trio crossed the space without speaking, weaving between scattered students who watched them too openly, or, more dangerously, not at all. The tension was the same either way. Peter stayed close, hands jammed deep into his pockets, while Callum walked slightly ahead, a shield in motion. Elowyn lingered at the rear, quiet, observant. His eyes flicked to a fourth-year who tracked them from the far corner—an unreadable expression, somewhere between curiosity and contempt.

The dormitory door opened with its now-familiar screech—Praesidium Vocis doing its duty, alerting them in that shrill whisper of intrusion. No one followed. Elowyn stepped through last, wand subtly drawn. His wand felt coiled and alert—as if it sensed his unease and was holding its breath with him. Elowyn shut the door with a firm click and then gave the charm a quick twist, renewing it.

For a moment, none of them moved. The room felt different now. Not safe, exactly, but insulated. Like a stone cave behind the tide.

They moved slowly through their night routines. Robes were shed, boots toed off. The en suite bathroom steamed slightly from recent use, the stone floors warm beneath bare feet. The three stalls of enchanted showers had left the air smelling faintly of lavender and citrus.

Callum stripped to his boxers and stretched out on his bed with a muted grunt; arms tucked behind his head. Peter wandered in and out of the bathroom, yawning theatrically, face flushed from scrubbing. Elowyn moved through his rituals with unthinking elegance—silken sleepwear, hair brushed to an even fall, teeth brushed, sleeves rolled precisely to the elbow. He wasn’t trying to impress. He simply didn’t know how to be otherwise.

They didn’t speak much until the lamps dimmed themselves with a faint shhhht of extinguishing magic. Only the soft glow of their shield charms remained, pale green and hovering around each bed like strands of gossamer silk.

Peter broke the silence first.

“Do you think,” he said, not looking at either of them, “that it’s always going to be like this?”

Callum didn’t answer. His jaw tensed in profile, sharp against the dim candlelight.

Peter shifted, pulling the covers tighter around himself. “I mean, Gryffindors glaring like we’ve cursed their cats, Ravenclaws pretending we don’t exist, half the Hufflepuffs look like they want to de-gnome us, and the rest of Slytherin—” he exhaled, sharp and bitter, “—I swear one of the Selwyn girls tried to hex me in the corridor earlier. I felt it.”

“You’re not wrong,” Elowyn murmured, seated cross-legged on top of the fine linen blanket.

Peter groaned into his pillow. “I know it’s the war and all, and everyone’s scared, but it’s like we’re guilty just by wearing green. And not even the right green, apparently.”

Callum turned his head slightly. “They’ll get bored of us eventually.”

Peter let out a laugh—too loud, then quickly hushed. “That’s optimistic.”

“They will,” Callum said. “Or we’ll be too much trouble to bother.”

Elowyn was quiet for a long moment. Then: “We weren’t sorted here by accident.”

“Well, I bloody hope not,” Peter muttered. “Because if this was fate, I’d like a refund.”

Callum made a soft sound—not quite a laugh, but close. Elowyn tilted his head, regarding them both with that soft, still gaze.

“It’s not a punishment,” he said. “It’s a shape we haven’t grown into yet.”

Peter snorted. “That sounds very poetic for someone who’s been hexed twice since breakfast.”

“I was only hexed once. The other was a curse,” Elowyn replied evenly.

Callum glanced over—first at Elowyn, his eyes lingering a moment too long. Peter caught it. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his face, but he said nothing. Callum noticed. Looked away, suddenly busy adjusting his pillow. Silence fell again.

Peter shifted to his side, voice smaller. “My sister Flora used to hum while we did chores. Drove us all mad. But the house always felt warmer when she did.”

Elowyn blinked at the ceiling. “My Papa sang when he brewed healing draughts. He said it helped the plants.”

Callum cleared his throat. “Da used to charm the windows to show sunlight, even on cloudy days. Said it helped the goats. Don’t know if it helped us.”

Peter let out a quiet laugh. “Always had goats, you?”

“Always,” Callum said.

They didn’t need more. It was enough. The silence that followed was softer, worn and lived in.

Peter rolled onto his back and stared at the canopy of his bed. “We should probably write home.”

Elowyn nodded, eyes half-lidded. “Tomorrow.”

“Mmm,” Peter agreed. “Tomorrow.”

One by one, they settled. Callum’s breath evened out first. Peter’s followed, still murmuring to himself as sleep overtook him.

Elowyn lay awake, hands folded across his chest, eyes fixed on the smooth stone above. The shield charm shimmered faintly above him. For the first time in years, he could not feel the breath of the world beneath him. No hum. No root-bound thrum. No whisper of trees through soil. The Castle was quiet-too quiet. And in that stillness, his thoughts turned inward.

He had wanted this—had chosen it. Slytherin had felt like a current pulling him true north, a certainty born not of ambition but of something older, rooted in bone and magic. And yet, it had been easier to believe in the path when he walked it alone. Now, Callum’s quiet weighed heavier than any words, and Peter’s hurt rang louder than his laughter. Elowyn, who had always trusted the Koes within himself, found he could no longer hear its quiet song. What if the Koes had misread him? Worse—what if he had misread himself? The thought never fully bloomed. It remained half-formed, caught in the hush, but its presence unsettled him.

Outside the dormitory, the House hissed and schemed and waited. But within the quiet curve of stone and shadow, three boys slept—not peacefully, not without burden, but with the strange, saving comfort of nearness. And for tonight, that would be enough.

Chapter Text

Elowyn, Callum, and Peter entered the common room together one Saturday afternoon after lunch. They entered as they always did—Callum first, broad shoulders bristling with barely-contained watchfulness; Elowyn close behind, quiet and upright; Peter last, a book hugged too tightly to his chest. They didn’t speak, but nodded at the few Slytherins present who didn’t stare at them like they were prey.

The lake groaned. That was the only way Elowyn could describe it—low, guttural, and so distant it might have been imagined, or remembered. It echoed through the stones like a complaint too old for words. Misty rain streamed down the tall, enchanted windows that lined the Slytherin common room, warping the flickering green light of the fire into thin veins of sickly jade. Above, the vaulted ceiling shivered faintly with each crack of thunder. Below, the mood was colder still.

The common room stilled, subtly, at their arrival—not enough to notice unless one was looking. But Elowyn always was. The sixth and seventh years on the leftmost couches—the ones who rarely used names but always used eyes—glanced up as one. Draco Malfoy sat with one leg hooked over the other, pristine as ever, speaking low to Blaise Zabini. Pansy Parkinson leaned in too close. Theodore Nott said nothing, but his gaze was fixed on the fireplace nearest the small cluster of Slytherin royalty, even as his fingers curled once around his wand.

Elowyn led them to their corner—the same three worn chairs near a smaller, green-lit hearth, their claimed territory now by repetition and quiet resistance. Callum slouched into his seat, leaned back just enough to stretch, and cocked one eyebrow toward the far alcove where a group of fourth and fifth years sat. A fourth-year boy glanced up from his wall-side perch, gave a slow, subtle nod as he closed his book without marking the page, and ambled over as though the idea had been his all along. Ashwin Greengrass—who wore his mother’s mouth and his father’s caution dragged a spare chair to the prepared board without ceremony and dropped into it backwards. Without a word, he made the first move. The pieces rose with a snap, their miniature armor clinking as they squared into position, already bristling with restrained aggression.

Peter watched Callum with exaggerated ease for a few moment before flipping open a battered copy of Practical Hex Deflection, Vol. I as though he’d been dying to read it. His hands, Elowyn noted, trembled once before he flattened them. The right index finger was wrapped in gauze, a Defense mishap from the day before that Madam Pomfrey had fixed with only half a sigh. He’d said it didn’t hurt. He always said that now.

Elowyn drew out a piece of parchment and began writing. The quill hovered above the page for a breath longer than necessary. Dearest Daddy and Papa, he wrote, and paused again. The page remained blank for nearly a minute.

Dearest Daddy and Papa,

Thank you for your letter. You don’t have to keep reassuring me—I know you meant what you said the first time. I really do.

Slytherin is…fine. I’m learning a lot both in and out of the classroom. The common room is quieter than I expected, but not in a peaceful way. It’s like being in a cave occupied by a sleeping bear just about ready to wake at any and every moment.

Peter’s still here. Callum too. I’m trying to help them. Sometimes I think I am.

He stopped abruptly. Subtly turned his head to listen. The Castle had grown silent again. When Elowyn reached for it now, he found only the whisper of cold air against stone, the faint memory of warmth long since passed. The natural world—trees, winds, rain—still echoed dimly when he was still enough to listen, but it was like trying to hear birdcall through glass. There was no music left in it, not for him at least.

Across the room, a sharp laugh rang out—Vesper, her head thrown back as she whispered to Honoria. They were perched like crows on the arm of an older boy’s chair, laughing too loudly at something he muttered. One of them turned briefly to look at Peter, who stared too intently at the page and tried not to shrink.

“They’re watching,” Callum murmured without looking up from the board. A knight moved and toppled a pawn with a grunt.

“I know,” Peter said, voice hollow. He didn’t glance up, but struggled to keep his face impassive.

Elowyn set his quill down. He was very still. He did not blink. They always are, he thought.

There had been five attacks on Peter alone this week: A tripping hex. A potion spilled with suspicious precision. His wand had gone missing before Charms and turned up hours later with deep gouges and a strange hum, like someone had half-finished a cursing attempt. Madam Birch, the Castle’s wandwright-in-residence, had inspected it briefly and declared it magically compromised—but not beyond repair. “We’ll rebind the core,” she’d said with brisk efficiency, as though wand sabotage were a routine occurrence. “Leave it overnight and take a spare. And do try not to provoke anyone else.”

Someone had also jinxed his inkwell to leak steadily through his satchel, ruining two textbooks and most of his homework. A fourth-year had slipped Peter a note meant to look like a joke—inside had been an actual insult spell, spelled phonetically. It had made Peter’s ears ring for ten minutes. He’d laughed it off, but his laughter didn’t ring true. He’d laughed less ever since. Now he sat like a flame guttering in a draft—altogether too aware and too obvious. The others saw it. They were counting on it.

Elowyn sighed, so softly only Callum might have heard, the sound barely more than a breath between the rustle of parchment and the distant creak of shifting stone. With deliberate care, he folded his half-finished letter, aligning the edges with unconscious precision, and slipped it into his satchel without sealing it. As his hand drew back, a familiar weight settled gently across his thighs—unexpected, but not unwelcome. Zenobia had arrived, silent as starlight, her limbs folding into themselves with the effortless elegance of a creature who knew she belonged nowhere and everywhere. Her fur, glossy as polished onyx, caught the green glow of the common room torches in fleeting ripples. She blinked once, slowly, then closed her eyes in full, as if to declare that no further explanations were necessary. One paw stretched forward and came to rest across Elowyn’s knee—not affectionately, not possessively, but like a seal set in wax: this, it said, is mine, for now.

She had not visited him often since term began. The first time had been weeks into the school year, long after he had begun to wonder if she would come at all. She had found him not in the dormitory or the Slytherin corridors, which she detested, but in the library—uncharacteristically bold in that sanctum of silence—where she had butted his leg with her head, accepted exactly three strokes between her ears, and vanished again into the shadows before Madam Pince could do more than squint suspiciously into the stacks. Since then, she had made only rare appearances, never lingering, never following, never responding when he called. She was no stranger to independence, but the change had been sharp, and Elowyn, who noticed every subtle shift in air or silence, had felt the distance growing with quiet certainty.

It was not that she had forgotten him—that was never in question. But he had begun to suspect that she was watching him from afar with the same discerning eyes she now closed in studied detachment. She was a creature of slate roofs and sunlit lintels, and of warm garden stones and the scent of wind through open windows. The Slytherin common room—with its cold, damp air, its flickering half-light, and its constant undercurrent of cunning—was anathema to her nature. She was not made for gloom. She endured it only when she had reason to, and that she was here now, folding herself into his lap as if resuming a long-interrupted vigil, brought with it a complicated weight. Her presence warmed him, yes—but it also made him ache in places he had been trying not to feel. She had not forgotten, but she had stayed away and that meant something.

Thaddeus had named her after Queen Zenobia of Palmyra, a woman he once called a scholar-sorceress, who held an empire in her palm and defied every power that tried to bend her into quiet. “She bowed only once,” he had told Elowyn on a rain-washed evening when the Kneazle was still a kitten, "and even then, the chain did more bending than she.” In naming her, he had passed on more than history—he had passed on defiance cloaked in silk, grace tempered by discernment. The Kneazle had lived up to the legend: She bent to no one, not even to Elowyn.

And now, sitting across his lap, fur rising and falling with her slow, deliberate breath, she felt less like comfort and more like reckoning. He had changed since entering the House of snakes and secrets. He had learned to speak carefully, to smile with half-meanings, to wear silence like armor and to weigh his words before they ever touched air. What had once been instinct—gentleness, truth, and trust—had become strategy. Necessary, perhaps, but costly. Zenobia, who never meowed, who never pleaded, who simply appeared and withdrew according to her own unfathomable wisdom, had seen it. She was not rejecting him, not precisely—but she was no longer rushing to his side. She came now not to curl up in affection, but to remind him of who he had been.

He did not smile. That would have been too dangerous in the Den. Instead, he laid one hand lightly against her spine, fingers splayed along the slope of her ribcage, and let his breath fall into rhythm with hers. She allowed it, and remained there a while—still, regal, and unblinking. Eventually, she rose without a sound, leapt from his lap to the cold stone floor, and walked away with her tail held high and her path unhurried. She did not glance back—she never did. Elowyn watched her go, and did not call her name.

—

Later the next week, as they made their way to their late afternoon Herbology class, the rain had softened by the time they crossed the courtyard, but it hadn’t stopped. The stones still glistened with it, and the grey light seemed to leech all color from the Castle’s outer walls. Even the greenhouses, usually luminous in the morning mist, looked faded and skeletal under the October sky.

They arrived early. The routine had solidified by now: Elowyn quiet and watchful, Callum scowling under the brim of his hood, Peter trailing just behind, head down but still forcing a smile now and then when one of them looked his way.

Inside the greenhouse, the warmth hit immediately—thick with the smells of wet loam, warm leaves, and mineral tang. Heat lamps pulsed along the ceiling, drawing beads of moisture from the glass panes overhead. Somewhere beneath the floorboards, a slow enchantment hummed to life, coaxing roots from slumber.

Elowyn paused just inside the door. The air in Greenhouse One carried the same damp, earthy scent it always did—loam and moss, the tang of fertiliser and rootwork—but the magic threaded through it had changed. It clung differently today, heavier, like fog that refused to lift. He felt it first through the soles of his boots: a tension in the stone beneath the flagging, like walking above something that hadn’t been properly buried. His stomach gave a low, traitorous turn, and his palms began to prickle inside his gloves. The silence wasn’t new—he had long grown used to nature quieting itself around him—but this silence wasn’t natural. The silence came with a pressure, as if something were pulling the breath from the room rather than offering stillness. It was like a thread had snapped somewhere deeper in the Castle, and something else was beginning to tug through the gap. 

Elowyn swallowed, but said nothing. There was no language yet for the shape of what he sensed. Callum was already moving toward their usual table at the farthest end of the greenhouse, each step measured, cautious. Peter followed close behind, but not easily—his movements were twitchier than usual, his shoulders drawn in as though bracing against an invisible wind. His eyes flicked around the room once, quickly, then dropped back to the floor. He didn’t speak. But he didn’t need to. 

As they entered, Professor Sprout emerged from the far corner, brushing her hands clean on her apron with the unhurried efficiency of someone who had spent decades coaxing stubborn roots into bloom. Earth clung to her sleeves and under her nails, the scent of soil and something faintly sweet trailing after her like a quiet benediction. A moment later, the door opened and the Hufflepuff first-years filed in—a soft current of breath and shuffling boots, the whisper of laughter still trailing behind them from something that had happened in Transfiguration. It wasn’t cruel laughter—just light, buoyant, the kind shared between children not yet carrying the weight of other people’s expectations. The lightheartedness died the instant they saw who was already inside. Their eyes caught on the nine green-trimmed robes clustered at the far tables, and the mirth stilled like a bird mid-flight. Some blinked, while a few glanced at each other with quiet questions already rising in their throats. No one spoke.

Professor Sprout waited. She did not rush. She simply stood among the leaves and hanging bulbs, her hands folding over her apron as she looked out over the small sea of faces now watching her with the guarded stillness of those not yet sure what would be expected of them. When the hush had settled fully—natural and total, not enforced—she nodded once, as if affirming something to herself. Then, and only then, did the lesson begin.

“Blightroot today,” she said. “Pairs or triads as always. You’ll harvest one bulb and slice the outer skin away—carefully. They’ll spit if they feel threatened. You’ll be tested on medicinal applications next week.”

Peter stared down at the table, jaw tight. Callum stood beside him, sleeves already rolled, arms braced at the edge of the workbench as if holding the surface steady with his weight. Elowyn unpacked the tools with measured care, his hands steady but slower than usual. The air between them felt taut—not fractured, but frayed around the edges. Life in Slytherin had worn on them more than they ever said aloud. It hadn’t broken them, but it had stretched something thin.

Around them, space opened like oil on water—silent and practiced. No Hufflepuff claimed the adjoining seats. No shared glances passed between benches. Just the quiet choreography of avoidance, perfected over weeks. The message, never spoken but always understood, was clear: we fear you and you are not one of us.

Peter shifted, his elbow brushing a clay pot. It tipped, clattered, but didn’t shatter. He righted it with a muttered curse and a glance at the floor. Callum exhaled through his nose but didn’t speak. Elowyn’s hand paused mid-reach, then resumed without comment.

Behind them, Vesper Selwyn and Honoria Mulciber lingered by the nursery boxes. Their voices were soft, private, and rehearsed. Vesper twirled the end of her braid, her expression composed. Whatever she murmured drew a sharp, soundless smile from Honoria—more blade than curve. A glance followed. Not quite at Peter, but not quite away. Just…near enough. Elowyn didn’t look up, but his skin crawled.

“I’ll dig,” Callum muttered, already reaching for the spade.

Peter hesitated, then picked up the trowel. “Sure. I’ll just do the glamorous scraping then, shall I?”

Callum’s jaw ticked subtly. “Don’t talk, just focus.”

Peter blinked. “Right,” he said. “Of course. Merlin forbid we talk like normal people.”

“Maybe we’re not normal people,” Callum snapped, low but sharp, eyes fixed on the soil. “Maybe you’ve noticed.”

Peter’s mouth opened, then shut. He looked down, jaw tightening, eyes narrowing. “That meant to be my fault, then?”

Elowyn reached for the shears, not looking up. “We’re all tired,” he said, gently. “It’s not each other we’re fighting.”

Callum said nothing. He was digging harder than necessary now, dirt scraping roughly against the wooden box sides. Elowyn’s voice, when it came again, was barely audible over the shudder of shifting soil.

“We’re all tired,” he said again, without looking at either of them.

No one responded. But the silence changed. Not healed—just heavier.

They worked in near silence for a while, save for the squelch of wet soil and the occasional hiss of a disturbed bulb. Elowyn pressed his gloved hand to the moss at one point, just to feel it. It should have been warm—alive. But the magic in the soil came like a shudder: thin, sharp, and metallic, like blood in the mouth. He flinched, just slightly, and drew his hand back, but he said nothing.

Sprout passed them, gave their bulb a brief inspection, and nodded. “Fine work,” she said, without inflection. “Five points to Slytherin.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Elowyn intoned softly. Sprout gave a curt nod and turned away.

At the far table, Elspeth Travers, another first-year, caught Elowyn’s eye for a fraction of a second. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t look away either.

When class ended, they cleaned their tools in silence. Peter was last to finish, methodical and slow.

“Dinner then the library? We still need to start that twelve-inch scroll on how moon phases affect brewing,” Elowyn said wearily.

“Yeah,” Callum said.

Peter shook his head absently. “You two go on ahead,” he said, too light. “I think I left my Charms notes in the Charms classroom. I’ll catch up.”

Callum glanced at him, frowning slightly. Elowyn watched Peter tug his gloves off with deliberate care.

“You alright?” Elowyn asked, low and careful.

Peter smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Course. Just tired.”

“Don’t be long,” Elowyn said.

“I won’t,” Peter promised.

They let him go. Alone.

—

Elowyn and Callum had worked in the library after dinner—for a time—but neither could remember much of what they’d written. They stayed late, hoping Peter would find them, but he never showed. The library had closed with a soft chime and a flicker of lights, and they’d gathered their things in silence. They returned slowly to the common room long after most others had gone.

The room was dimly lit, the green fire still hissing in the various hearths that stretched down the long, cathedral-like hall, casting thin shadows across the damp stones. The lake beyond the high windows rippled faintly with glimmers from the surface. Only a few students remained, scattered across armchairs and low benches, speaking in murmurs or not at all.

Honoria and Vesper were draped on chairs near one of the larger hearths, their posture artful and deliberate, flanked by two older boys. One wore his House badge like a brooch and kept leaning close to Vesper’s ear. Honoria traced lazy spirals on the sleeve of the other’s robe with her wand tip. Her laughter was quiet, too controlled to be real.

Elowyn scanned the room. The corner where they always sat was empty. Callum moved to their usual chairs and dropped his satchel at his feet. Elowyn remained standing for a moment longer, eyes on the door to the boys’ stairs, then the corridor beyond. He told Callum—loud enough to be overheard, but quietly enough not to draw suspicion—that he needed to fetch a letter he’d been working on. Callum met his gaze and nodded. A brief moment of understanding passed between them.

Elowyn returned shortly after and sat down, subtly shaking his head when Callum glanced toward him. He began writing, doing his best to appear calm and focused, but the fear was building inside him, tightening with each passing minute. He wrote nonsense. His mind refused to hold still. The thought circled endlessly: this is my fault. If he’d let the Sorting Hat place him elsewhere—anywhere—none of this would be happening. He had dragged them into this House with its long, treacherous shadows.

Callum, sensing Elowyn’s turmoil but saying nothing, leaned back with a book open in his lap. He didn’t turn a single page. The silence between them was thick and fragile.

Across the room, Honoria said something that made the boy beside her smirk. Vesper glanced toward Elowyn and Callum—but not at them. Just past them. Her mouth curled faintly before she turned away again.

Elowyn’s stomach coiled. He looked toward the timepiece enchanted into the far wall. It was nearly curfew.

“He should have come back by now,” he murmured, just loud enough for Callum to hear.

Callum didn’t look at him. “Maybe he stopped in one of the classrooms to cool off alone.”

“He wouldn’t.” Elowyn’s voice came out thinner than he meant it to.

Another minute passed. Then another.

Elowyn broke the silence and spoke so softly Callum could barely hear him, “We should get help. We should go to Snape.”

Callum shook his head, whispering too “No, Slughorn. He’s…Slytherin too, but less…severe.”

Elowyn nodded slowly. They both stood. They’d barely taken two steps before a voice floated lazily across the room.

“Going out so close to curfew, boys?”

Honoria, smiling just a little too sweetly. She twirled her wand between her fingers like a quill. Vesper leaned back in her chair, legs crossed, her gaze half-lidded and amused.

“Didn’t peg you for the rebellious sort,” Vesper added, tilting her head. “Wherever could you be off to in such a hurry?”

Elowyn didn’t stop walking. “Slughorn asked to see us,” he said evenly.

“At this hour?” Honoria replied, too quick, too smooth.

Callum met her gaze, flat and quiet. “Didn’t say why.”

Something in Vesper’s smile flickered, but she said nothing.

“Likely going to kiss the Bloody Baron goodnight?” Honoria offered, with a little laugh—just a fraction too sharp.

Callum said nothing. Elowyn brushed his fingers against his wrist—subtle, grounding. Neither girl moved, but they watched as the boys turned away, their eyes bright and unblinking, like predators waiting for the next misstep. Behind them, the door rose and sealed with a sound like falling water vanishing into stone. Then they ran.

Slughorn’s quarters lay behind a heavy oak door framed in curling ivy and a silver nameplate. They knocked once. Then again. On the third knock, the door creaked open by spell, slow and grudging.

Slughorn sat behind his desk in a damask dressing gown that shimmered faintly with enchanted plum motifs. His cheeks were flushed. A plate of crystallized pineapple floated beside him, one piece suspended mid-air.

“Gentlemen,” he said, barely glancing up. “It’s nearly curfew. Surely this can wait until morning!”

Elowyn stepped forward. “Our friend—Peter Ainsley—hasn’t been seen since Herbology this afternoon.”

Slughorn sighed. “Boys, boys, students misplace themselves all the time. I’m sure he’ll turn up. Perhaps he’s… what’s the phrase… having a moment.”

Callum’s shoulders squared. Elowyn didn’t move. “This isn’t like him, Professor.”

Slughorn finally looked up, properly this time, his eyes flicking between them. “Ainsley… Large family, yes? Not one of the more prominent lines. Quiet boy. Pureblood, but peripheral.”

He turned his attention to Elowyn. “And you—Marwood-Travers, isn’t it? I’ve heard…whispers. Curious ones.”

Elowyn held his gaze in calm silence.

Slughorn cleared his throat. “I’ll ask a portrait or two to check the usual haunts. In the meantime, back to your common room. We don’t want rule-breaking piled on top of overreaction, do we?”

The door shut behind them with a not-too-gentle click.

They made their way back in silence.

The common room had dimmed further. The green fire burned low, flickering blue. Vesper now sat pressed close to the boy she’d been speaking to earlier, her head on his shoulder. Honoria was humming softly under her breath, a tuneless sound just loud enough to hear.

As Elowyn and Callum stepped through the threshold, Honoria glanced up.

“Back so soon?” she asked airily, as if they’d only gone to fetch a forgotten quill.

Vesper didn’t turn her head, but her voice drifted lazily across the hearth. “No luck, then? Or did the Baron not fancy a snog after all?”

The older boys chuckled. Honoria gave a little laugh, all white teeth.

Callum said nothing. Elowyn didn’t break stride—but his fingers curled slightly, almost imperceptibly, at his side. He sat again, limbs rigid. Callum stood near one of the high windows, arms folded, staring into the murky dark beyond the glass. A torch sputtered. The clock ticked. When it struck curfew, the door sealed itself with a low hiss.

One by one, the remaining students drifted down the stairs to their respective dormitories. The older boys seated with Vesper and Honoria rose with lazy indifference. Honoria slowly stretched like a cat, her back arching delicately as she stood and made her way to the girls’ dormitories. Vesper followed, but paused at the doorway to the girl’s dormitories, while Honoria descended slowly. Vesper turned slightly, not looking at anyone in particular, and said with a little sigh, “the Den knows its own.”

Then she followed. The door sealed itself behind them with a low hiss.

Callum turned. “We’re not waiting anymore.”

Elowyn didn’t argue. His wand was already in his hand. As they moved toward the exit, a prefect stepped into their path—tall, dark-haired, face unreadable. “You’re not allowed out after curfew,” he said. “Professor Snape’s orders.”

Callum stepped forward. The prefect’s hand twitched toward his wand, but Elowyn moved first.

“Obstringo,” he said—clear, low, and sure.

The prefect’s arms folded inward—not harshly, but with the inexorable pull of invisible cords. His wand clattered to the stone floor. His legs buckled and he sank to his knees, body coiled in on itself as if bound by something beneath the skin. His mouth and eyes slowly closed as he fell. When he landed on the floor, he was still.

Elowyn’s wand thrummed in his palm—not with sound, but with a resonance that traveled beneath the skin, like the surface of water rippling long after a single pebble has broken its stillness. The kelpie hair at its core—long restrained, long waiting—had answered the call with a ferocity that bordered on elation, a wild joy rising in its first true taste of the world beyond practice and restraint. Elowyn felt it surge through his arm, not as heat, but as something older and deeper—a thrill that was not entirely his own. It wanted more.

He did not move. He did not speak. For a moment he simply held the wand as one might hold breath, letting the last of the spell’s echo pass through him. Somewhere inside—quiet, buried, not yet spoken aloud—there stirred a part of him that exulted in the clean precision of it: the spell cast true, the intent unwavering, the harmony between action and belief. But he tamped it down, slow and deliberate, like embers pressed back into a hearth before they could flare. This was not triumph. This was not power for its own sake. It was necessity.

He had cast a binding spell on another student. Not out of panic. Not by accident. He had done it because he believed Peter was not safe. Because he had stopped waiting for someone else to act. He had known what he was doing, and he had done it anyway.

Callum was watching him. He was not afraid. But his gaze was changed—tilted now by something like quiet awe.

“That’s not first-year magic,” he said, his voice a thread of breath between them.

Elowyn did not smile. “We don’t have time to be polite.”

Callum’s eyes lingered a moment longer—measuring him not with doubt, but with something steadier, as though he were beginning to understand the depth of what Elowyn would carry, and the weight he already bore. Then, without another word, they stepped past the crumpled form and out into the corridor.

The Castle stirred.

Chapter Text

Elowyn and Callum moved quickly, breath low and heads down, weaving through the narrowest, darkest corridors the dungeons had to offer. The stone was wet underfoot, the air heavy with the scent of damp and time. All around, the Castle creaked in its sleep—or stirred.

“We can’t go aboveground,” Callum murmured. “The patrols…”

Elowyn nodded. “Are you sure she’s down here?”

Callum hesitated. “Peter said once—his sister Flora, she was a Hufflepuff. She said Professor Sprout’s quarters were just down the hall from their common room.”

“And that’s…?”

“Past the kitchens. Down the corridor behind the barrels.”

Elowyn gave a short nod. “Let’s go.”

They slipped between turns like threads through a needle, footsteps muffled on old runner rugs and uneven stone. Even here, below the heart of the Castle, light flared unpredictably. A lantern bobbed ahead once—another prefect. They pressed into a shadowed archway until she passed. Elowyn’s nerves thrummed. Every shift in the stone made his skin ache. The Castle was no longer silent. The magic embedded deep with the walls of the castle—which he’d barely felt for days—was now screaming under the surface of his skin. A pressure in the arches of his feet, a taste of ozone behind his teeth. Something deep in the walls pulsed—like breath…or pain.

“Elowyn,” Callum whispered, steadying him by the shoulder, his hand lingering warmly and firmly. “You alright?”

Elowyn shook his head, but said softly, “Keep going.”

They reached the wide passageway of Hufflepuff’s domain—a hall lit not with torches like the dungeons, but with warm, amber sconces. A faint scent of bread and honey lingered in the air. They passed the line of barrels. Then, just beyond a carved arch and beneath a softly glowing lantern, they found a squat oak door with a woven wreath of dried lavender hanging crookedly on its iron hook.

Elowyn knocked—twice, then again. The door opened with a creak. Professor Sprout stood blinking at them in her night robes and slippered feet, hair loosely braided and sticking to one temple as if she’d fallen asleep grading.

“Elowyn? Callum?” Her voice was hoarse with sleep. “You shouldn’t be up here. It’s past curfew.”

“Yes,” Elowyn said simply. “We wouldn’t have come unless it was urgent.”

She glanced behind them, the hallway empty. “Come in, then.”

Her quarters smelled of woodsmoke, lemon balm, and peat. A kettle glowed faintly over a low hearth. The boys didn’t sit.

“It’s Peter,” Elowyn began. “He never came back after Herbology. We waited, but…”

“He’s gone,” Callum said.

Sprout blinked herself fully awake. “Have you checked the dormitories?”

Elowyn nodded. “We alerted Professor Slughorn as well. But…”

Callum’s voice was careful. “He was sure Peter’s only off ‘having a moment’.”

Elowyn added, gently, “We’ve had to learn which questions are better left unasked. And…when not to press, even if we’re afraid.”

She looked at them a long moment, eyes narrowed with something between judgment and pity.

Then she moved. Her wand was drawn with a flick and lifted toward the ceiling. A bright silver burst erupted from the tip, coalescing into the shape of a hedgehog. The Patronus sniffed the hearthstone, then darted through the wall and was gone in a gleam of light.

“I’ve sent word to Professor Dumbledore,” she said, her voice fully awake now. “He’ll rouse the staff. We’ll find him.”

Elowyn felt something sharp release inside him. It wasn't  relief, but something more fragile like breath finally let go.

“You’ve done right coming here,” Sprout added. “But you must return now. Let us take it from here.”

“Yes, Professor,” Elowyn said.

They turned back into the corridor—but only as far as the shadows behind the last barrel. There they waited, silently, and watched as Professor Sprout emerged fully clothed and hurried down the corridor and up the stairs.

“She took this seriously,” Callum murmured.

“She’s the first,” Elowyn whispered.

“We’re not going back, are we?”

“No.”

And together, hearts pounding, they slipped into the dark.

—

The corridors stretched before them like hollow veins, lit only by the faint flicker of torches whose flames shivered without cause. The further they moved from the warmth of Professor Sprout’s domain, the more the Castle seemed to shift—its angles subtly wrong, its echoes trailing too long behind their steps. Stone that had once felt familiar now breathed unease into the soles of Elowyn’s feet.

Elowyn kept to the shadows with practiced precision, but it was different tonight. The air was thicker, and the corners deeper. The Castle was not silent. It was waiting.

“We can’t search everywhere,” Callum whispered. “Since he’s not in our dormitory, he could be anywhere.”

Elowyn nodded, eyes scanning each alcove and stair. “He wouldn’t have gone far. Not unless he was lured away.”

“What about the Astronomy corridor? That window he liked…the one near the North Tower that overlooked the Owlery?”

“He always smiled when he saw the owls,” Elowyn murmured and then sighed,“But…he hasn’t smiled in days.”

Callum hesitated. “What about the third-floor antechamber? The one with the broken statue?”

Elowyn shook his head. “Too exposed. He’d have been found by now.”

Callum nodded as they passed a wall where the torches dimmed all at once, the shadows swallowing their figures for a moment before returning the light. Elowyn staggered slightly, one hand flying out to brace against the stone. It pulsed beneath his palm—warm, almost fevered.

“El?” Callum stepped back toward him, voice low but taut.

Elowyn didn’t answer right away. His breath came in short bursts. The air around him felt thick, humming with something vast and unseen.

Callum reached for his shoulder but paused, uncertain. “What is it?”

Elowyn’s hand still pressed against the stone. “It feels…angry.”

Callum frowned. “The wall?”

Elowyn shook his head slightly, not in disagreement but in confusion. “No. Not the wall. The…everything.” He closed his eyes. “It’s like it’s trying to get in. Or trying to—rip me in two. I can’t tell.”

Callum didn’t respond. Elowyn glanced at him and saw only worry, not understanding.

“I know how it sounds,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t say anything.”

Elowyn let out a breath, pressing his palm harder against the stone until it felt like the heat might burn through. “It’s been like this before,” he whispered. “But not like exactly like this. It hurts. And I don’t think it wants it to.”

Callum didn’t move for a moment. Then, quietly, he stepped forward and rested a hand between Elowyn’s shoulder blades—light, steady, grounding. Not a question. Not a demand. Just warmth in the dim torchlight, reminding him he wasn’t alone.

When Elowyn had caught his breath, they began walking again, but more slowly now. Elowyn’s body felt hollowed out, as if he’d been wrung dry and filled again with something raw and flickering. They turned through lesser-used corridors, the kind that looped oddly, where the stones changed color and the torches burned lower.

At last, they ducked behind a forgotten suit of armor, and Elowyn sank against the wall. His breath hitched.

Elowyn’s breath trembled as it left him. “I brought us here,” he whispered. “I chose Slytherin. I knew it would be hard. I felt it, but I thought—” He shook his head. “He trusted me when I said it’d be alright. And now he’s gone.”

Callum didn’t speak right away. He sat with his hands braced on his knees, staring at the dark stone cold beneath them.

Then, quietly: “It’s not you. It’s this place. It’s this time we’re in.”

Elowyn turned toward him, eyes shadowed.

Callum’s voice stayed low, careful. “Slytherin’s always had its edges from what me mam and da told me. You said so yourself. But this year…it’s different. The older ones—how they watch us, the way they talk when they think no one’s listening. It’s like something’s slipped. Like they’ve been waiting for an excuse to be worse.” 

He paused. “And now they’ve got it.”

A silence stretched between them. Elowyn’s hands curled in his lap.

Callum’s voice dropped further. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back. And no one’s saying it—not out loud. Not unless they have to. But everyone knows. You can see it—in how fast people change the subject, how jumpy they get when the paper arrives. They know. They’re just pretending not to.”

He turned to Elowyn, expression tight. “It’s not just Slytherin that’s turning. It’s everything. The fear’s leaking in through the cracks, and it’s making people cruel. Making them forget how to see each other properly.”

His voice softened then, not with weakness, but certainty. “This House didn’t break Peter. The world did. And it’s bleeding into every corridor.”

Elowyn didn’t answer. His throat worked as he swallowed. Tears gathered at the edges of his eyes.

Callum moved then—gently—and rested a hand between Elowyn’s shoulder blades.

“But we’re still here,” he said. “And Peter’s still out there. We’ll find him. And once we do, we’ll keep him safe.”

Elowyn looked at him then. He really looked. And for the first time, saw how tired Callum was too. The dark under his eyes. The cut across one knuckle, half-healed. The tension in his jaw that hadn’t left since the train only two months ago.

Elowyn’s eyes filled. He tried to blink it back, but the weight of everything—the fear, the guilt, and the silence—was too much.

Callum’s hand stayed steady against his back, and that was all it took. Elowyn leaned forward, wordless, and folded into Callum’s solid warmth—shoulder to shoulder, head pressing lightly against Callum’s collar. He didn’t sob. He just breathed, shaking, the tears sliding down in silence.

Callum shifted slightly to hold him better, one arm coming up to rest around him—awkward, careful, but also solid and steady.

The Castle seemed to exhale with them. A hush fell—not silence, but stillness. Then a change. The air warmed slightly. A faint draft seemed to stir against Elowyn’s neck, not cold this time, but gentle—guiding.

He lifted his head, eyes red but clear.

“There,” he whispered.

Callum didn’t ask. He simply stood and followed.

They moved through the Castle like breath through a hollow reed—narrowed, stretched, barely touching the ground. The torches burned low, their flames bent sideways in a wind that wasn’t there. Elowyn said nothing. He walked ahead, not quickly, but with certainty, his steps guided more by instinct than sight.

Callum followed close behind, glancing back every so often at empty hallways, at stairwells that should’ve held prefects or portraits or some sign of life. But there was nothing.

“Shouldn’t there be someone patrolling?” he whispered.

Elowyn didn’t look back. “Maybe we just missed them.”

But he didn’t believe it. The Castle was guiding them. Not protecting, not shielding—just… rearranging. Opening some paths, while closing others. It was breathing them forward.

They turned a corner where the stone was older—lined in a different pattern, forgotten by maintenance charms. A faded tapestry clung to the wall: a boar hunt, half-unraveled, the threadbare figures worn faceless by time. Behind it, half-concealed, was a panel of dark wood with a tarnished latch.

Elowyn stopped. His fingers hovered over the edge.

“It’s dusty,” Callum murmured, peering over his shoulder. “But not all of it.”

A faint smear across the grain. A handprint. Someone had opened it recently.

Elowyn pressed the latch. The panel gave way with a soft click and swung inward, revealing a narrow, uneven room. The air was dry, stale, filled with the scent of old paper and dust. A broken desk slouched in one corner, its legs splayed like a collapsed animal. Cobwebs hung in the far corner like frost.

Callum stepped in beside him. “Doesn’t look like anything.”

But Elowyn didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on a patch of floor just beyond the broken desk—where the light shifted strangely. It wasn't quite a shadow. He stepped forward, reached out and his fingers met something that wasn’t air. A shimmer of magic passed over them like warm oil, and then it broke. The Disillusionment Charm tore away like damp parchment, curling back to reveal the shape beneat: Peter lay curled in the corner, small and still. His robes were askew, his face pale with sweat. One arm was folded beneath him at an odd angle. His chest rose shallowly, too fast.

“Elowyn,” Callum breathed.

Elowyn dropped to his knees.

Peter’s shirt was scorched open at the collar, the skin beneath marred by something dark and branching—a web of cracked magic blooming from the right side of his chest, up along the side of his neck. It looked like thick, black ink and bruising and lightning all at once.

“He’s cold,” Elowyn whispered, pressing a hand gently to Peter’s forehead. “He’s—he’s like ice.”

Callum crouched beside them. “They didn’t want him found.”

Elowyn nodded once, his throat tight. “He would have died.”

They didn’t speak for a moment.

Then Elowyn stood, turned to the hall, and raised his wand. “Lumos Maxima.”

His wand flared to life with more than light. The kelpie hair at its core twisted sharply, restless with fury, as if it too had sensed what had been done. The magic surged through his hand with a force that startled him—not painful, but potent, like the sudden tension in a held breath before it breaks. The wand, wild-hearted and water-born, burned not with heat but with purpose, echoing his own anguish, his own quiet rage at the sight of Peter broken on the stone. It did not scream. It did not recoil. It shone—fierce, clear, and unyielding. For that moment, it was not casting light. It was light and that light flared, brilliant and wide, bouncing down the corridor and through the windows like a beacon. Somewhere above, the Castle seemed to shudder in response—a vibration in the stones, like a hand knocking gently from the inside.

Callum stepped beside him, his expression hardening. He raised his wand, hesitated, then murmured, “Clamor Excito.”

The spell burst from the tip with a sharp crack—like iron against stone—followed by a rising, echoing chime that didn’t belong to any bell at Hogwarts. The sound spiraled outward, haunting and bright, cutting through the silence like a thread of light in the dark.

“My mam taught me that one,” he said, half to himself. “Said if I was ever scared and needed someone to find me…”

Elowyn turned back to Peter, dropped to his knees, and gently brushed a curl from his damp forehead. The dark markings along his chest didn’t move, but the boy beneath them breathed—barely.

Elowyn reached out and rested his hand lightly on Peter’s arm.

“You’re not lost,” he whispered.

Callum knelt beside him, placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder, and murmured, barely above a breath, “Not anymore.”

—

The footsteps arrived like a wave—first one pair, then many. A ripple of wandlight and bedclothed figures. McGonagall came first, wand drawn and eyes sharp. Her expression shifted from sternness to concern the moment she saw Peter between the pair.

“Mr. Marwood-Travers, Mr. McCormack,” she said, firm but not unkind, “stand back.”

Sprout followed close behind, her face ruddy with exertion, curls slipping from her cap. She took one look at Peter and made a sound like a breath swallowed too fast.

“Merlin’s sake,” she muttered, already kneeling. “Who did this?”

Elowyn stepped back as instructed. Callum did too, slower, his gaze still fixed on Peter’s scorched robes.

McGonagall knelt beside the boy and examined the branching marks on his skin, then stood briskly. “He’s stable, but we must get him to Poppy immediately.”

A moment later, Peter’s body lifted gently into the air under her spell. He hung there, suspended, as though floating peacefully in a dream.

“Where’s Slughorn?” Sprout asked, her voice low but edged.

“Not here,” McGonagall said tightly.

Sprout’s mouth set. “Thought not.”

They didn’t walk. They moved quickly, Peter floating ahead of them, Elowyn and Callum trailing behind. The Castle made way for them—all doors unlatched, all passages clear. Not a student stirred. Not a ghost peered from a wall.

And then they entered the infirmary. The warmth was false—overcompensating for stone that never shed its chill. Candlelight flickered along every wall. The beds stood in two quiet rows, all but one of them empty.

Madam Pomfrey snapped into action the moment she saw Peter. “Here. There. No—clear that tray—now.”

Her wand lit up in quick succession, brushing over Peter’s chest, his temples, the tips of his fingers. When she reached the curse-mark, she paused—then muttered something sharp under her breath and turned away to fetch a salve from her cabinet.

Elowyn stepped toward her. “Will he—?”

“Out,” she said, not unkindly. “Both of you.”

Sprout put a hand on Elowyn’s shoulder. “Come on, now. Let her work.”

Elowyn didn’t argue. Neither did Callum. They were led out into the hallway and left there, alone in the echoing stillness outside the infirmary doors.

For a long time, neither spoke. Callum sat on the floor, knees drawn in, head lowered. Elowyn stood next to him with his arms delicately folded across his stomach, leaning against the wall. The heat from his earlier tears had long since cooled. He didn’t think he had any more left. He noticed that the Castle felt different again—quiet now, but not peaceful, as if it were waiting.

After a time, Professor Sprout emerged, her robes creased and her brow damp with strain.

“He’s alive,” she said simply. “And in good hands.”

Elowyn stood. “Can we see him?”

She hesitated. “Not just now. He’s not conscious. And Madam Pomfrey needs quiet to focus.”

Callum’s voice was low, steady. “We won’t be in the way.”

“You won’t mean to be,” Sprout replied, not unkindly. “But you will be.”

Elowyn’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak.

Sprout sighed, then added, “This isn’t punishment. It’s protection. Let the Healer do her work.”

Still, neither boy moved.

She softened—just a touch. “You’ve done enough for tonight. More than most grown wizards would.”

She paused.

“Go back to your dormitory. Rest while you can. He’ll want you near when he wakes.”

They didn’t argue again, sensing the futility. As they turned away, Elowyn cast one last look toward the door, his hand brushing Callum’s as they trudged back to the Den.

—

The common room was empty when they stepped through the arch. The fire had burned low to embers, and the greenish glass of the lake-lit windows glowed dim and hollow. Even the prefect was gone—the one Elowyn had bound with trembling precision just hours before. That frightened him more than if the boy had been waiting. He knew there would be no reports and no official punishment. There would only be the memory and a debt. Slytherins didn’t snitch on their own. They remembered and rendered payment in full.

Elowyn and Callum passed through the vacant space without speaking, their footfalls softened by the thick rug, their shadows barely visible in the ash-colored light. The Castle made no sound. Down into the boy’s dormitory hall they went. When they reached their room, the door opened, and the air shifted subtly. One by one, the sconces along the stone walls flickered to life—not bright, but enough, as if the room itself recognized them.

Callum moved first. He didn’t look at Elowyn, didn’t say a word. He simply crossed to his bed—the one closest to the door—and sat down heavily, the mattress dipping beneath him. His elbows braced against his knees. His face dropped into his hands. He let out a long, low sigh like the air slowly escape in a punctured balloon.Then his back began to shake, just a slow, rhythmic tremble, as though something inside him had finally come unmoored.

Elowyn watched for only a moment. He still stood near the entry, one hand resting on the stone frame, eyes tracing the slope of Callum’s shoulders. He’d seen Callum hold back anger with a glance. Had watched him step between Peter and older boys like it was nothing. But now…

Elowyn crossed the short distance to Callum’s bed and softly sat beside him, their thighs touching. He encircled his friend in his arms, and drew him in. Callum let himself be pulled without resistance. His head came to rest on Elowyn’s shoulder. His fists, still clenched, dropped to his lap. He didn’t speak. Elowyn didn’t either.

They sat like that a long time. Eventually, their weight shifted. Without discussion, they lay back on Callum’s narrow bed, still in their school robes, shoes and all. Elowyn reached for his wand, still tucked into his sleeve, and with a tired flick murmured, “Accio blanket.” The wand responded immediately. There was no resistance, or delay—only the quiet precision of a companion that understood both the spell and the weariness behind it. The blanket lifted from the far bed and drifted toward them, its folds catching the low green light as it floated gently down. It settled over them with the softness of breath, as if the wand itself had exhaled.

Callum shifted in closer, one arm across Elowyn’s chest, and laid his head fully against Elowyn’s heart. His breathing, still shaky, began to slow. Elowyn let one arm curl around him and, after a moment, raised his other hand to gently stroke Callum’s hair. Slow, careful movements to soothe and reassure. He felt the tension ease from Callum’s shoulders little by little, until the rhythm of his breathing settled into sleep. Elowyn lay awake listening the sound of the stones around him and the lake above. The sconces dimmed and went out with a slight pop. The fire burned low as Elowyn settled his mind. Then he, too, closed his eyes. And in that darkness, the two boys slept—wordless, wound-tight, and holding each other firmly against the dark.

Chapter Text

Elowyn woke before Callum. The sconces had already brightened but the dormitory was still wrapped in stillness: the kind that only follows exhaustion, the kind that remembers sadness but does not yet name it. The water outside the windows shimmered green, casting bright ripples across the stone floor like a multi-hued green kaleidoscope. Elowyn did not move as Callum’s bulk was a warm, pleasant weight pressed against him—Callum’s head was resting on Elowyn’s chest. His breath steady and warm, and he had one arm casually lain across Elowyn’s middle. Their blanket had slipped to the side during their sleep, revealing the crumpled edge of Elowyn’s robes and Callum’s scuffed sleeve.

It might have felt strange to some boys. It didn’t to Elowyn. His papa had always touched with warmth and casual familiarity: a hand resting on a shoulder, fingers brushing through his wavy hair, or an arm folded around him during stories told beside the hearth. That closeness had settled into Elowyn’s bones long before language. And now, holding Callum in this voiceless hush between sleep and waking, that memory returned—not as thought, but as instinct.

Callum stirred. It was a slow unwinding, the kind that came from heavy dreams and a heavier heart. His brows knit softly as his waking mind caught up with his resting body. A breath in. A breath out. Then the first hints of movement—tense, almost apologetic.

“I didn’t mean to…” he murmured, voice thick with sleep and something more fragile. He began to pull his arm back.

Elowyn moved first—just a hand on Callum’s forearm, light as a leaf settling on water.

“Don’t,” he said, quiet as dawn.

Callum stilled. His breath caught—then let out in a faint, almost relieved sigh. He didn’t move again. Instead, he pressed his cheek deeper into Elowyn’s chest with the stiffness of someone unused to being held but unwilling to leave it.

“I’m not…used to this,” Callum said after a long moment, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” Elowyn replied. His voice carried no judgment—only calm understanding.

Another silence settled, but it was different now—shared. Above them, the flickering sconces warmed by degrees, the Castle acknowledging the day without urgency.

Callum’s fingers curled slightly against Elowyn’s robes. “Last night…,” he began, his voice a bit muffled as his face was half buried in Elowyn’s chest, “when you said you could find him. When you did. I never asked how.”

Elowyn didn’t answer at once. He was often slow to speak—he liked to shape his words carefully. But this—this wasn’t a thing shaped by language; it was shaped by earth and stone and breath and blood.

“It’s the Castle,” he said at last, voice hesitant. “Or something inside it. Or beside it. I don’t know the right word. It’s just a sense”

Callum lifted his head a little, enough to look at him. “You felt it before last night?”

“Yes,” he said simply, "since the train pulled into the station.” 

Elowyn’s gaze began soft and unfocused but it settled slowly and quietly on Callum’s gold-flecked eyes, as his chest rose slightly beneath Callum’s weight. “It’s like…like I felt in the Koes. At home. The way the Koes moves—not always with wind, but sometimes with its own purpose. You know the sound a tree makes when it shifts its roots? Very few can hear it. But I can. That’s…how the Castle feels. Alive, but…not living.”

“The Koes,” Callum repeated. “You’ve said it before. I thought you meant your village.”

“I do. Most from the Koes do, but…to me, it’s not just the village. It’s the grove…the forest around it. It’s the land it sits on and the Grand Oak at the center of it all. It’s all one and connected. The Koes isn’t just a place. It’s a time and a presence. It’s…all of it at once.”

He paused and sighed before he continued, “I’m not explaining it very well. I was born there…well…I was made there, really. My fathers found an ancient ritual that allowed them to have a child…to have me. But the Koes wove its own magic into me as I grew. It’s part of me just as much as my fathers are part of me.”

Callum was quiet for a long time. “It’s like a third parent then? But you carry it with you?”

Callum turned his face up to meet Elowyn’s eyes at last when Elowyn replied, “I think it carries me.”

Callum looked away, blinking and shaking his head slowly. “I don’t fully understand it...but...I want to.”

And then, very softly: “I trust you.”

Elowyn said nothing. But his hand, still resting on Callum’s arm, shifted slightly—fingers brushing slowly a few times across the fabric before stilling again.

Outside, the light beyond the lake shimmered. The Castle made no sound. But the air had changed. The silence was no longer empty. It was full of hope. A moment passed. Then another. And slowly, like a tide withdrawing, the spell of stillness receded. Callum stirred again—less hesitant this time, but still careful. He pushed himself up with a muted exhale, rubbing a hand over his face before standing up. The space where he’d been felt colder the moment he left it, though Elowyn didn’t flinch or follow.

“I’ll have a quick shower,” Callum mumbled, already reaching for a clean undershirt from his dresser. “Feel like I’m covered in all the dirt and grime in the Castle.”

Elowyn only nodded.

Callum disappeared into the en suite, the door whispering shut behind him. A moment later, the faint hiss of steam and water filled the quiet room.

Elowyn decided to give Callum some privacy after their moment so he stayed out of the en suite. He sat upright slowly and gathered the fallen blanket from the floor, folding it without thinking. He moved a hand across the duvet where Callum had lain, smoothing the wrinkles. Then, for a long moment, he looked across the room—at the middle bed, untouched since yesterday. 

Peter’s pillow still held the faint impression of a head that had not returned. A satchel hung neatly from the post. His shoes, left askew beneath the frame, looked absurdly small now. Elowyn reached out once, almost absently, and straightened them.

By the time Callum returned—toweling his damp hair and pulling on a clean shirt—Elowyn had already slipped into the en suite himself. His own shower was quick, more ritual than refreshment, but necessary. The warmth and water did little to chase the chill that had taken root in his chest, but when he emerged, he looked composed again.

He dressed without ceremony, fastening his cloak as Callum tugged on his boots.

“Should we get something to eat?” Elowyn asked, eyes flicking toward the door.

Callum hesitated as he adjusted the hem of his jumper. “I’m not really hungry,” he said. “Just want to see him.”

Elowyn nodded, his voice low. “Me too.”

They moved without hurry but with purpose. Neither spoke again as they finished dressing—just the shuffle of boots on stone, the rustle of fabric, the soft click of a clasp.

As they stepped toward the threshold, the sconces on the walls flared slightly brighter, responding not to them but to the hour. The Castle felt distant again—no longer thrumming beneath Elowyn’s skin, but not gone either. It had resumed its ancient rhythm, a quiet breath beneath the bones of the school.

Just as they reached the door, Elowyn paused.

He looked once more at Peter’s bed. “We’ll bring him back soon,” he said.

Callum didn’t answer, but he nodded. And together, without ceremony, they left their dormitory behind.

⸻

The infirmary was quiet when they arrived, but not empty. The heavy oak door was half open, and the scent of polished wood, old linen, and sharp tinctures drifted into the corridor.

Callum pushed the door open slowly and they stepped inside together, their steps slow and deliberate. The light in the room was filtered and golden, softened by tall, arched windows and the gauze of spell-shields strung faintly between the beds. The usual hush of the place felt different today—less sterile, more sacred.

Peter lay on the third bed down, angled slightly toward the far wall, a curtain drawn back just enough to reveal the slim line of his frame beneath the sheets. His face was turned away, his blonde curls damp with sweat. One side of his neck was mottled with branching scars—dark, slightly raised, and spidery, as if something beneath the skin had tried to break free. The line of it disappeared beneath the collar of his hospital robe, but it re-emerged at the shoulder, curling like ivy onto the exposed edge of his chest.

Callum stopped at the foot of the bed and stared. Elowyn’s breath caught for a moment, but he kept walking until he was just beside the headboard.

“Peter,” he whispered, reaching out to take Peter’s limp hand—but there was no reply.

A chair scraped softly behind them. Elowyn let go of Peter’s hand and turned to the sound.

“He hasn’t woken yet,” came a voice—warm, roughened, unmistakably maternal.

They turned to see her standing there—dark blonde hair pinned up in a style that had long since given up its battle against loose wisps, dark blue eyes red-rimmed but kind. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbows and stained faintly with what looked like spit-up and ink. She approached with the briskness of a woman used to many children and too few spare minutes.

“You must be Elowyn,” she said, and before he could respond, she had gathered him into a firm, familiar hug. “And Callum.” Another embrace, just as quick. “He’s written to us about you both in every letter.”

She pulled back and looked between them, hands still resting lightly on their shoulders. “He said you made him feel safe. That you were brave. I‘m glad to meet you.”

Callum flushed and ducked his head. Elowyn, ever composed, nodded with a soft, “Mrs. Ainsley.”

Behind her stood a man of modest height and sloping shoulders, his robes plain but clean, his spectacles low on his nose. He looked like he hadn’t slept—and hadn’t planned to. He stepped forward and extended a hand to each boy in turn.

“Crispin Ainsley the Senior,” he said seriously, pausing—and then adding, “Thank you.”

“Anything for Peter,” Callum said after a moment. But then neither of the boys quite knew what to say, and they all stood in awkward silence, the weight of sadness shoving all niceties from the room.

Morwenna stepped closer, her voice quieter now.

“What happened?” she asked, eyes still on her son. “We know he was found cursed, but no one’s told us how. Not really.”

Elowyn looked to Callum, and Callum to him. It was Callum who answered first.

“He didn’t come back after Herbology. We waited all night. We alerted Slughorn, but no one would help.”

“We went looking,” Elowyn added, his voice low but firm. “We found him in a closet in one of the towers. He was hidden by a Disillusionment Charm. The door was hidden by an old tapestry.”

Callum’s jaw flexed. “They left him to die.”

Morwenna made a sharp, wounded sound in her throat, then pressed her lips together.

“He was cold when we found him,” Elowyn continued. “And the scarring—it was already there. We used light spells and sound to call for help. Professors Sprout and McGonagall found us and brought him here.”

Crispin Ainsley sat heavily in the nearby chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“We talked about taking him to St. Mungo’s,” Morwenna said after a pause. “But with the way things are…the attacks on the trains, the disappearances. He’s not safe anywhere, but here at least he’s under wards. And there’s someone always watching him.”

Callum nodded once. “We won’t leave him alone again.”

“Never again,” Elowyn whispered, more to himself than to the others.

Morwenna’s eyes lingered on Peter’s face, but her voice, when it came, held a note of genuine curiosity.

“But how did you find him? In that closet, under a Disillusionment Charm…it’s a miracle you thought to check there.”

Elowyn hesitated, then answered simply, “We just kept looking. We couldn’t stop till we found him.”

Callum shifted, his voice quiet but resolute. “It felt like no one else was really trying. No one took it seriously—not even Professor Slughorn. He brushed us off.”

Crispin looked at Elowyn then—really looked. His expression wasn’t suspicious exactly, but something in it sharpened, turned inward.

“And what led you to that hallway?” he asked. “That door?”

Elowyn held his gaze. “We followed our instincts. It…felt right.”

There was a moment of silence. Morwenna seemed reassured, nodding slowly. But Crispin lingered, his gaze rested on Elowyn a moment too long—not unkind, but measuring. When he finally spoke, his voice was low.

“Instinct, then.” He paused, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Well. That’s a rare kind of instinct.”

Then he turned away, the words left to settle in the air behind him.

Before anything more could be said, a door at the far end of the hall clicked open and Madam Pomfrey stepped briskly into view, arms folded and expression stern. A rustle of fabric signaled her arrival, her expression lined with fatigue but her voice measured.

“Boys,” she said gently but firmly, “you really shouldn’t be here. He’s stable, but only just. Rest is what he needs most now.”

Morwenna turned toward her, voice calm but unwavering. “They’re not just visiting, Poppy. They found him. He wouldn’t be here if not for them.”

Madame Pomfrey looked at her, then at the boys—her mouth pressed briefly into a line, not out of annoyance, but calculation. After a moment, she gave a small sigh.

“A few minutes more,” she said as she cast a few diagnostic spells. “And quietly, please. I’ll be in my office.”

And with that, she moved off again—her shoes soft against the stone. Silence settled again, heavy but not entirely uncomfortable. Callum stood like a sentry at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed and his brow furrowed. Elowyn sat in the chair beside Peter’s pillow, one hand gently holding Peter’s pale, clammy hand.

The entry door opened. This time, the air in the room seemed to cool by degrees. Professor Snape swept in with his robes like storm clouds, eyes sharp and expression unreadable. He said nothing to the boys—barely glanced at them, in fact—and moved to the Ainsleys with cold efficiency.

“I’ve examined the magical residue on his clothing and skin,” Snape said abruptly, tone clipped and clinical. “The signature is inconsistent, but if I were to hazard a guess—Morsmora Cruor. An archaic blood-curse. It was banned centuries ago for its…unpredictability.”

He looked down at Peter’s scars. “Its effects were meant to endure.”

Morwenna’s eyes widened. “But you’re not sure?”

Snape’s jaw twitched. “I am not,” he said coldly.

He leaned slightly closer to Peter’s arm, nostrils flaring once. “There’s a trace scent of Elric root—bitter, metallic. Not enough to suggest direct application. Likely a side-effect of the spellwork, or something it interacted with.”

His eyes narrowed. “The curse appears to have been badly executed. Incomplete. Deliberately muddied to resist detection or improperly cast by an untrained witch or wizard. Whoever cast it either thought they knew what they were doing—or deliberately wanted to ensure we didn’t.”

His fingers flexed at his side, as though suppressing the urge to snap.

“That makes countercharms more difficult,” he added tightly. “Every response risks triggering something dormant.”

Crispin’s voice broke the silence. “What do we do, then?”

Snape’s gaze cut toward him, sharp as glass. “We wait. We monitor. If it spreads, we’ll reassess. If it worsens, we’ll act.”

“And if it doesn’t respond to any treatment?” Morwenna’s voice had hardened, her arms now folded across her chest.

Snape turned fully to face her. His expression was smooth, but his voice carried the bite of barely contained disinterest.

“Then he may be destined for the Janus Thickey Ward.”

He paused.

“That is the nature of Dark magic. It does not negotiate.”

The door banged open a breath later, and a sixth-year girl stumbled in, half-sobbing. Behind her floated another student—Katie Bell—her body arched unnaturally, fingers clenched around a black velvet box. Her mouth was open in a silent scream.

Snape was across the room in a flash, Madame Pomfrey not far behind.

“Clear the way!” someone shouted.

In the confusion, Morwenna turned to Elowyn and Callum, her hands firm on their backs.

“Go now, loves. We’ll write.”

They hesitated, but the pressure of motion was already sweeping them toward the door—students shouting, curses being muttered under breath, professors flooding in from the corridor.

They were shunted into the hallway without fanfare. The door clicked shut behind them.

Elowyn stood still, hands curled loosely at his sides. Callum reached out and touched his sleeve.

“We’ll come back,” Elowyn said.

Callum solemnly nodded, “every day.”

⸻

The Great Hall had always seemed massive when it was full. Now, late in the afternoon on a Hogsmeade day, with only a scattering of younger students and no real conversation to fill the vaulted air, it felt cavernous—more cathedral than refectory. The enchanted ceiling hung dull and overcast, echoing the grey October light that seeped through the tall windows. No rain fell, but the promise of it lingered.

Elowyn and Callum entered side by side, silent as they crossed the stones toward the long Slytherin table. A few second- and third-years clustered near the center, along with a smattering of older students who had chosen to stay behind, but none glanced up. The boys took their usual place a quarter of the way down the table—close enough to the entrance to be seen, but not so near the end as to appear exposed. Isolated, but not hiding. Intentional.

Food shimmered into existence: warm bread, poached eggs, and roasted tomatoes. Heaps of sausages appeared before Callum, while a modest selection of cheeses arranged itself in front of Elowyn—as if the Castle, or those who served it, already understood. Neither boy moved at first. The scent rose gently in the hush, unappreciated.

At the Gryffindor table, further down the Hall, a cluster of seventh-years whispered with taut intensity. A dark-skinned girl—Elowyn recognized her distantly from the Express—had tears brimming in her eyes, her voice rising and falling in clipped bursts. The others leaned in, shoulders tight. Katie Bell’s name passed through the air like a curse of its own.

Elowyn reached for a slice of bread and tore a piece away without eating it. The little food on his plate was warm, untouched.

Callum’s eyes stayed on the Gryffindors. “That got around fast.”

Elowyn nodded, voice low. “Some stories always do.”

Callum stabbed at a roasted tomato and didn’t eat it. He gave a soft scoff. “Funny, isn’t it?” he said. “All this noise for her. But last night…” He let the thought trail off.

Elowyn didn’t answer at first. He simply folded the bread between his fingers, pressing the warmth into his palms like it might make something better.

Then, quietly, “Snakes don’t make sympathetic victims.”

Callum glanced at him. Elowyn’s gaze was still on the bread in his hands.

“Not to them, anyway,” he added, softer.

After a while, Callum said, “We need to do something. Waiting around—” He broke off, shaking his head.

“We won’t wait,” Elowyn said softly. “We’ll research.”

Callum glanced at him. “You mean the library?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think it’s even there?” he asked. “That spell—” He hesitated, voice barely above a whisper. “Morsmora Cruor. We should write it down.”

“I remember it,” Elowyn said. “I couldn’t forget it if I tried.”

Callum shifted in his seat. “We won’t find it in the regular stacks. Not something like that.”

“We’ll start there anyway,” Elowyn replied. “Maybe something points to it. Mentions it. A trace is enough.”

Callum’s jaw tensed. “And the Restricted Section?”

Elowyn’s eyes moved across the Hall, toward the staff table—empty but for Flitwick, hunched over a cup of tea and a long scroll. “We’re first-years,” he said. “We’d need a professor’s note. Which we won’t get.”

“Not from Snape,” Callum muttered, “or Slughorn or anyone.”

“No,” Elowyn agreed. “But knowledge doesn’t always stay where it’s meant to…we’ll start where we’re allowed, and see how far that takes us.”

For a moment, they sat in silence again. Elowyn reached for his water goblet and paused. The stone beneath his hand felt warm—not from the sun, but from something deeper, older. The Castle was listening. Not guiding, not intruding. Just…there. A slow pulse beneath the surface. Waiting.

He took a sip and stood. “Ready?”

Callum rose with him. “Let’s go.”

They walked out together, plates half-finished and already fading back to the kitchens below. No one stopped them or even looked up as they passed. Their footsteps faded behind them, thin as smoke.

—

The library was quieter than usual, though it never got very loud to begin with under Madame Pince’s eagle-eyed watch. On a Hogsmeade day, its vast shelves stood alone like sentinels in retreat—no rustling pages, no whispered debates, and no students darting between tables with scrolls half-furled. The hush was different from the silence of the dormitory or the Great Hall. It was tighter, more watchful. Even the dust motes moved cautiously here afraid of angering the ever-watchful librarian.

Elowyn and Callum chose a corner table tucked between two high shelves, shielded from view but not hidden. As soon as they sat, Elowyn pulled a folded piece of parchment from his satchel and flattened it on the tabletop. He uncapped his quill and unstoppered his deep violet inkpot.

“We should try to remember everything,” he said, voice low but steady. “Where we found him. What it looked like. What Snape said. Everything.”

Callum nodded, rubbing a hand through his hair. “The closet was locked. Not magically—just jammed.”

“There was that Disillusionment charm. Faint, but still there.”

“Right. And that smell…burnt something. Not fire, but…” He shook his head.

“Elric root,” Elowyn murmured, already writing. “It has that sharp edge. It’s used in binding magic sometimes.”

Callum blinked at him, then gave a small nod, remembering that Elowyn’s Papa was a healer.

“And the markings—on his chest,” he said slowly. “They looked like they’d cracked through him. Not like cuts. Like something split him open from the inside.”

Elowyn nodded. “Snape said the spell left unstable magical residue. Faint, but lingering.”

“He didn’t recognize it,” Callum added. “Said it might be Morsmora Cruor.”

Elowyn kept writing, letting the quill move without flourish. The parchment filled slowly with phrases—closet near old potions wing, Disillusionment charm active but fading, burnt smell = elric root?, chest markings = branching trauma, not slicing, magical residue: red/gold shimmer, fading.

When he finished, he set the quill down, read it once, and nodded. “It’s something.”

Callum looked at the parchment as if it should have more answers than it did. “It still doesn’t tell us what to do.”

Elowyn met his eyes, steady and quiet. “Then we learn more.”

They both paused a moment, pondering where to begin. It felt like an impossible task for two so young and inexperienced.

“We’ll need defensive texts,” he murmured at last, and vanished down the aisle.

He returned with a stack: Shield, Counter, Heal: Defensive Theory for Intermediate Witches and Wizards, Common Magical Maladies of the Modern Era, Curses Through the Centuries: A Case-Based Guide to Identification, and an older volume so worn its gilded lettering had all but flaked away. He laid them down gently.

They started with the casebook. Callum flipped pages as Elowyn read. “Cross-blistering curses…tongue-lengthening hexes…no, no…” His finger paused. “Cruciate Lesions of the Nervous System. Misdiagnosed as a variant of the Cruciatus. Long-term exposure. No physical residue.” He looked up. “Doesn’t match.”

Elowyn turned a few pages ahead. “Some spells induce delayed trauma. This one here,” he pointed, “causes internal bruising and magical feedback in the core. But it’s triggered by ingesting a potion.”

Callum scoffed lightly. “It didn’t look like he drank anything.”

They moved to Magical Maladies. The pages were thicker here, more clinical. The diagrams showed spell burns, nerve disruptions, magical edema. Callum found a chart on curse residue colors and read it aloud. “Grey = neutral displacement. Red = blood trauma. Yellow = life force depletion. Black’s usually Dark. Forbidden class—sometimes tied to blood magic.”

“Peter’s residue?” Elowyn asked softly.

Callum nodded. “Pomfrey said it lingered. And Snape mentioned instability.”

“But not black.” Elowyn turned a page. “If it were black, he might know exactly what it was.”

A long pause passed between them.

The next book was nearly useless—Shield, Counter, Heal—filled with theoretical language and broad strategies for disarming and countering standard school-level hexes. A few footnotes hinted at Dark magic, but only with phrases like “forbidden branch,” or “improper hex classes.”

Elowyn turned a page. The next two were missing—cleanly removed with a blade.

Callum frowned. “That looks recent.”

Elowyn nodded, but said nothing.

The last book they opened had no title on the cover, but bore the Hogwarts crest faintly on the spine. Inside, the pages were handwritten—copied from somewhere else, perhaps long ago. The ink had browned, curling at the edges. It described old dueling magic, mostly from the 18th and 19th centuries, with spells aimed at disabling rather than disfiguring. But here and there, darker strategies crept in—always framed as historical footnotes.

“‘Ruptura ossis’…” Callum whispered. “Bone shattering. Used during the Gaunt Riots. Never taught anymore.”

Elowyn scanned the entry beside it. “And ‘Viscera Sanguinata.’ Internal bleeding, usually fatal. Modified from a battlefield charm. No counter listed.”

Neither spoke for a while.

Finally, Callum leaned back. His jaw tightened, then loosened again. “It’s not here,” he said. “Not anywhere.”

Elowyn closed the book gently. “Not anywhere we’re allowed to look.”

A silence settled, but not the comforting kind.

Callum looked toward the front of the library, where Madam Pince sat behind her desk, quill twitching in her hand like a judgment.

“We could ask,” he said, but his voice didn’t carry much hope.

“She’d think we were trying to recreate it,” Elowyn replied evenly.

Callum nodded slowly. “Or that we already knew.”

“Or that we’re evil for simply sorting Slytherin,” Elowyn began and then paused. “Like everyone else does.”

They sat like that for a long moment, the stack of books before them a silent monument to what they didn’t know.

Callum exhaled through his nose. “So we’re back where we started.”

“No,” Elowyn said quietly. “Now we know how deep the silence goes.”

Callum exhaled. He didn’t quite understand what Elowyn meant—but he didn’t ask. Sometimes his friend spoke in ways that felt just beyond reach, like riddles shaped by stone and wind. But he also knew Elowyn would never let him stay lost in the dark. If he asked, Elowyn would explain—calmly, patiently, like he always did.

They continued poring through dusty tomes with no success till the sun had set. They didn’t take any books with them when they departed. Just the same unspoken weight they’d brought in. As they passed the front desk, a whisper trailed behind them—two Ravenclaw girls leaning close over a newspaper they clearly weren’t reading. Katie Bell’s name slipped between them, and one of them crossed herself without thinking, like the name alone might bring something worse.

—

The Slytherin common room was warmer than usual—brighter than usual too, and a touch louder than its normal staid volume. The fire in the massive central hearth cracked with unnecessary enthusiasm, casting sharp silver and green across the vaulted ceiling. Laughter rolled along the stone walls like a practiced echo. It wasn’t the usual murmur of smugness or slow-burning menace. Tonight it felt jubilant.

Elowyn and Callum stepped through the archway in silence. They didn’t need to speak. The mood told them enough.

Clumps of older students were sprawled across the velvet furniture—Butterbeers in hand, the occasional glint of Firewhisky passed between them. Shoes half-kicked off, laughter too loud, heads thrown back in gestures that bordered on performance. Some seventh and sixth year boys had claimed the best hearthside corner like a court in session. Draco Malfoy sat stiffly in his chair, arms crossed, jaw set. His pale face looked drawn, the shadows beneath his eyes sharp with strain. Pansy Parkinson leaned in close, murmuring something meant to soothe or stir, but he barely reacted. Blaise Zabini lounged like a prince among vipers—watching, amused, his eyes cool and unreadable. Their fervor had the edge of performance—too loud, too bright, like laughter meant to fill a silence rather than rise from joy. That kind of celebration usually meant something else was being hidden.

None of them looked toward Elowyn or Callum. But someone else did.

“Look who’s back,” drawled Honoria from a chaise beneath the kelpie tapestry. Her boots were up on the cushions, sleeves rolled like she owned the room. “Library again, was it? You’d think they’d been sorted Ravenclaw, the way they cling to their books.”

Neither boy replied. She shouldn’t have known where they’d been. But in Slytherin, nothing stayed secret for long.

Vesper sat beside her, legs crossed at the ankle, wand spinning lazily between her fingers. “You two do love a good book,” she said sweetly. She paused. “Where’s our dear Peter? We were just saying how quiet it’s been without him. Is he…all right?”

Callum stopped a few feet away, his fists clenched inside his sleeves. Elowyn felt the urge to reach for him—just a hand on his arm, something grounding—but caught himself and curled his fingers into his robes instead

“Studying,” Elowyn replied, voice mild. “Some of us serpents still have ambition.”

Callum’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close. He didn’t look at Elowyn, but the tension in his shoulders eased by a fraction.

Honoria tilted her head and smiled a bit too broadly. “He didn’t run off, did he? The Den can be…overwhelming.”

“Or maybe he just got lost,” Vesper added, smiling faintly. “Big castle. Easy to disappear.”

They waited. Neither boy spoke.

“Still,” Vesper said, twirling her wand, “a true snake would never lose his way.”

Behind them, someone laughed—loud, performative, far too pleased. It wasn’t clear who. Both girls rose languidly and drifted off toward a knot of third-years who had clearly been listening in.

Callum and Elowyn didn’t retreat to the dormitory right away. Instead, they crossed the room without urgency and settled into their usual corner—near a narrow, tertiary hearth where the flames burned low and the stone bore faint scars of old curse damage. It was a strange place: too exposed to be private, too humble to be claimed. The rough wall behind them had been imperfectly repaired, as if the Castle itself had tried to forget what had happened there. It suited them.

They passed a low table where a group of fourth-years hunched over a game of Wizarding Chess. “Necklace, wasn’t it?” one girl murmured. Another replied, “Should’ve known better. You don’t touch a thing like that.” Her tone wasn’t cruel—just detached.

Once seated, they opened their books, spread their parchment, and bent their heads like they were working. No one approached. That was the point. They stayed just long enough to be seen, to be counted, to remind the House they were still here—and not afraid. They had already learned the first rule of survival in Slytherin: never give them blood when silence will do.

After nearly an hour, Callum yawned a bit too loudly and stretched, signaling to Elowyn that they’d played the Game long enough—for tonight anyway. Elowyn gave a small nod, smiling faintly as he gathered his things. Callum rose and glanced about the room as Elowyn joined him. Together, they made their way toward the stairwell.

At the landing, Callum exhaled sharply through his nose. “They’re all celebrating.”

Elowyn didn’t answer immediately. As he stepped down the stairs, he looked back at the palatial common room—the lounging bodies, the sly smiles, the firelight dancing in the green-tinted windows. Then he murmured, “One Gryffindor suffers, and they bring out the Firewhisky. One Slytherin is attacked, and the silence thickens.”

Callum’s jaw tightened.

“They don’t even have to deny it,” Elowyn added. “They just don’t say it. And that’s enough.”

—

Back in the dormitory, the lights rose gently. Peter’s bed remained untouched, his satchel still hanging neatly from its post. Callum slipped into the en suite without a word, while Elowyn paced the room in front of the hearth at the foot of Peter’s bed. He didn’t count the laps—just moved, slowly and steadily—until Callum returned, dressed only in his boxers. Without speaking, Callum crossed to his bed near the door and sprawled out, one arm thrown over his eyes. He sighed, long and low.

Elowyn paused, gaze lingering on his friend’s quiet form. Then he turned and sat on Peter’s bed, facing the flickering green flames. The flames in the hearth danced green, as always—Slytherin’s particular affectation. Up close, the color shimmered vividly, casting sharp emerald flickers across the stone. But farther out, the light dulled to a normal fire’s glow. Elowyn had once wondered if it was truly green at all, or if the Castle only made it seem so—like much of Slytherin House, more about appearance than essence.

His thoughts turned to all they’d learned today, or rather, hadn’t. He thought of the books. The missing pages. The curses too old or too obscure to name. He thought of the quiet that followed Peter’s disappearance—not just in Slytherin, but in every House. And of how quickly Katie Bell’s story had spread. How loudly people spoke when the right person was hurt.

There had been no whispers for Peter. No nervous glances. No one crossing themselves in reflexive dread. There had only been silence. And that silence, Elowyn realized, wasn’t absence, it was permission.

Eventually, he retreated to the en suite and moved through his nightly routine by rote. When he emerged—dressed in deep green silk pyjamas—Callum was already softly snoring. Elowyn smiled faintly, grateful for the small peace of that sound. He crossed the room, climbed delicately into bed, renewed the warning charm at the door, then cast the shield charms around his and Callum’s beds before letting sleep claim him for the night.

Chapter Text

Elowyn, aged 11
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Callum, aged 11
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Peter, aged 11
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Chapter Text

On the afternoon of the Halloween feast, the infirmary was quiet. A fading golden light filtered through the arched windows, bent and softened by decades of enchantment until it touched everything with the color of warmth remembered rather than warmth felt.

Elowyn sat on the edge of the bed near Peter’s head, a thick tome of obscure curse theory open on his lap, though he hadn’t turned a page in fifteen minutes. His fingers rested lightly along the margin, not to mark his place but to feel the texture of the paper. His eyes no longer moved across the page. They had stilled and rested unfocused on the illustration of the physical effects of a particularly gruesome hex.

Callum sat opposite, hunched over a narrow wooden desk pulled too close to the bed. His legs were tucked beneath him, one foot bare, the other loosely tied into a scuffed boot. His quill scratched quietly across a sheet of parchment—Herbology notes, though his attention flickered every few lines toward the rise and fall of Peter’s chest.

Peter did not stir. He lay as he had for weeks: pale, unmoving, his hair overgrowing at the nape. The black scarring that branched like frostbite from his right collarbone crept toward his neck, veins of shadow threading across skin that once flushed easily with laughter. The medi-magic had stabilized him, but the mark remained—a wound that refused to fade or fester, only to endure.

Elowyn watched it from the corner of his eye. He said nothing, but his stillness shifted—tense in the shoulders, a faint narrowing of the lips. 

Callum didn’t look up. “You’re thinking it’s spread again,” he said, without accusation.

Elowyn’s reply was a whisper. “It has.”

“It hasn’t,” Callum answered—steady, familiar. The same as he had said uncounted times before. “Madam Pomfrey would’ve noticed. She’d have said something. Or changed what she’s doing.”

“You don’t see it,” Elowyn murmured, closing the book with careful hands. “The edge near his throat—it’s changed. It’s thicker. Sharper too.”

Callum finally looked up, his eyes dark and tired but kind. “You say that every third day.”

Elowyn didn’t argue. He only let the silence settle again, like a second blanket over the bed. His hand came to rest on Peter’s shoulder, and he gave it a gentle squeeze—more to steady himself than to comfort his unconscious friend.

Callum watched him closely. “This isn’t your fault, El.”

He reached across Peter’s still form and touched Elowyn’s wrist—lightly, but without hesitation. “You’re here. That’s what really matters.”

Elowyn looked up then, and their eyes met—just for a moment, quiet and unguarded. Callum offered a faint smile. Elowyn mirrored it, but it barely touched the corners of his mouth, let alone his eyes.

Madam Pomfrey passed behind them, footsteps soft on stone. She paused, her wand gliding once over Peter’s body in practiced arcs. Faint light shimmered, then faded. She gave a soft hum—approval or resignation, it was hard to say—and drifted back toward her desk without a word. 

She no longer chased them away. Once, in the first week, she had tried. She’d insisted on boundaries, rest, and rules and sent them away, but when she entered the infirmary early the next morning, a Saturday, to find both boys already there—homework spread, cloaks folded at their feet, a single untouched plate of toast on the table besides Peter’s bed—she said nothing.

The morning after that, Elowyn left a candle on the table beside Peter’s hospital bed. It was small and pale yellow, made of hand-poured beeswax from the enchanted hives in the Koes. It was wrapped with a single strand of copper wire, spiraled three times around the base and tied in a healer’s knot. A single hawthorn thorn—pressed and resin-sealed—was set into the bottom.

He had received it three days earlier. An owl from Lanwynn Koes, parchment tucked beneath the oilcloth: his fathers’ script in familiar hands—one curling and warm, the other upright and precise. Emrys had written most of it. Ending with 

We’re so proud of you, Elowyn. So proud. Hold the light for him.

Thaddeus had added one line at the bottom, smaller and slanted: You are not alone. Love, Dad

The candle was enclosed in the envelope with no instructions or explanation.

But Elowyn had known what it was the moment its scent reached him—mugwort, lavender, and rosemary. It stirred a fierce ache within him for his fathers, and something more primal still: a bone-deep longing for the Koes itself. 

He had seen Emrys light one once, years ago, beside a dying elder witch in the village. No incantation or ceremony—only a whispered spell to light the flame, and the long night’s vigil held in silence, the candle’s dim light keeping watch and warding off the dark.

When he and Callum arrived the next afternoon, he placed the candle on the table besides Peter’s bed. After they left, Madam Pomfrey spotted it. She picked it up delicately turning it once in her palm. Three turned copper wire. Hawthorn thorn embedded, a symbol of the boundary between life and death, the spirit and body, magic and nonmagic.

A breath caught in her throat. She had seen one like it only once before. During the first war, in the deepest winter. A student had been brought back from Hogsmeade, unconscious and failing fast. The Dark curse was ancient, dissolving the lungs from within. Nothing she knew could stop it, so she had summoned help from St. Mungo’s.

Emrys Travers had come bursting through the infirmary door within an hour. Sleeves rolled up ready to lend his aid. They worked side by side through the night. And when the child died near dawn, he lit a candle like this one and set it gently on the sill and sat by the dead girl’s bed until it had burnt out.

Now, over a decade and a half later, she held that same stillness in her hands. She whispered a spell to light the wick and set it back on the bedside table. She sat in the chair next to Peter’s bed until the candle burned out. 

After that day, she simply let them stay.

—

Later that evening, they dressed in silence. Their dormitory was lit by the warm glow of the sconces and the refracted shimmer of castle lights filtering down through the lake above. Somewhere far overhead, the Castle had already begun to stir—Halloween rousing it into greater splendor. Elowyn could feel its magic humming faster than usual, an intense, low thrum vibrating deep in his bones like a bell being struck in unending succession. It rolled through him in waves, restless and wild. He had to fight to keep still beneath it.

Callum sat at the end of his bed, tugging half-heartedly at the creases in his school robes. They were slightly too short at the wrists now and the collar was a bit too tight, but they were clean. He hadn’t spoken since they left the infirmary—his silence was not cold, but brittle. Quiet in the way weariness becomes when it no longer bothers to pretend it's weight isn't bone-deep and all-encompassing.

Across the room, Elowyn adjusted the fall of his own robes—a finer set, gift from Daddy sent after the Sorting for special feasts like today. It was one of the many ways his fathers were trying to assuage his concerns that they were disappointed in his House. They were the same black as his every day robes, but tailored in fine silk damask, lined with a deep green cashmere, and embroidered in silver thread along the cuffs and collar. He wore no House crest, no sigil of blood or wealth—only a small silver oak leaf pinned at the throat, polished but unassuming—a symbol not of pride, but of place.

Callum looked up, watching Elowyn fasten the final clasp at his wrist. “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to play the Game tonight.”

Elowyn glanced over. “No?”

Callum shook his head. “Let them sneer and whisper about me…without me. I don’t care. I’m too bloody tired.”

“You’ve every right to be,” Elowyn said gently.

“They’ll be watching,” Callum muttered. “Tracking what we’re wearing, how we walk in, where we sit, what we eat…you’ll manage it perfectly. You always do.”

“Not always,” Elowyn said. He crossed the room, slow and deliberate, until he stood in front of Callum, who’d grown noticeably taller since they first met. Violet met gold and lingered. Without ceremony, he took Callum’s hand in his own. “But tonight I will. For both of us.”

Callum huffed, but didn’t pull away. “You’re always so bloody perfect. And I’m the oaf, stumbling through a den of backstabbing serpents.”

Elowyn shook head gently, “You’re no oaf. You’re a far finer snake than any of them. We’re just not meant for this Den, but we are meant for a Den.”

Callum drew in a breath, let it go slowly through his nose—not a laugh, not quite agreement. But his shoulders eased.

“Just don’t ask me to smile at them.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

Elowyn squeezed Callum’s hand once and let it fall gently.

Callum then turned and pulled on his cloak without flourish. Elowyn straightened his collar with quiet hands and checked the pin at his own throat one last time. Then, together without another word, they took a deep breath and ventured back into the Den.

—

The Great Hall had become a cathedral of shadows and light. Candles floated lower than usual, their flames veiled in silvery blue. Above them, the enchanted ceiling had deepened into an indigo twilight scattered with stars that were too bright, too steady to be anything but illusion. Jack-o-lanterns, from minuscule to massive hovered between the rafters; some wore large grins and other grimaces, and all were hollowed clean with warm light glowing from within. 

The long tables were draped in black linen, stitched with charms that made the threads shimmer like cobwebs in moonlight. Students lined the benches in varying degrees of style and splendor—some immaculate in crisp formal robes, others rumpled from long days or long walks from the dormitories.

Platters groaned under the weight of early harvest fare: glazed roots, caramel apples, and thick-lidded meat pies steaming with rosemary and juniper. Somewhere above, violins played a melody with no discernible beginning or end, joined by a ghostly choir whose harmonies shimmered in and out of hearing—faint, and faintly eerie.

The Castle had not just permitted the feast; it had participated in it. There was something more ancient here than celebration—something half-wild and half-aware, roused by the turning of the year and the slow press of darkness into the land. Elowyn felt it in his marrow. He struggled to keep a composed face against the bombardment of the magic bounding around the room.

He walked with Callum to their House table, choosing seats directly across from Honoria and Vesper who had their other four Slytherin first years to the left and their right. Neither boy spoke as they sat. Callum’s expression was carefully blank, but the muscle near his jaw flickered every so often with tension. Elowyn’s hands were still. His shoulders, loose. But his eyes missed nothing.

Honoria smiled at Elowyn—a gleam practiced, precise, and not quite warm. “Darling robes, Marwood,” she said, skipping past the Travers half of his name with the ease of someone taught not to say it. “So classic and restrained. One hardly sees that kind of taste or quality anymore—outside the old lines, of course.”

She took a delicate sip of pumpkin juice, eyes glinting over the rim of her goblet. “Though I suppose when one’s father is Thaddeus Marwood, standards must be…scrupulously maintained.”

She paused, just long enough to suggest innocence. “Appearances do matter, after all. Especially when legacy is…aspirational.”

She paused again before continuing, “So lovely you both decided to finally join us,” she said, lifting her goblet in a faint toast. “It must be difficult…adjusting to a House that asks quite a bit more than mere bravery, intelligence, or loyalty.”

Elowyn’s fingers didn’t twitch. He traced the rim of his goblet once with a fingertip, then let it rest. Honoria’s words hung in the air like cheap perfume—cloying, insistent, and made to linger. Callum shifted beside him, one knee bouncing under the table until Elowyn stilled it with the quiet pressure of his hand—brief, grounding. Vesper caught the motion, and her eyes shone for a moment with predatory delight.

“Oh Callum,” she purred, voice thick with mock-sympathy. “You look pale. Still shaken, are you? I suppose it was terribly dramatic—what happened to Peter.”

Honoria’s eyes flicked toward Vesper, just for a second—a glance tight with irritation, barely perceptible to any but the most watchful. Elowyn saw it.

Vesper leaned in, smiling like a girl who’d just found the final piece of a puzzle. “Tragic, really. So sudden. He never did seem particularly…cunning.”

Callum clenched his fists beneath the table unseen. Elowyn spoke first before Callum could respond.

“Odd,” he said, tone calm and idle, as though remarking on the weather. “You’ve never acknowledged that anything had happened to Peter before. What a remarkable change of tune.”

The smile on Vesper’s lips froze a fraction too long.

“Oh, we know something happened,” Vesper answered smoothly, recovering. “We simply don’t discuss unfortunate events without proper confirmation. Anything else would be…idle gossip. And we all know how unbecoming that is.”

Elowyn tilted his head slightly as he raised his goblet of pumpkin juice. He drank slowly, serenely, and when he set it down again, his voice was light—almost gentle.

“Ah. Of course. You’d never be unbecoming, Vesper.” He smiled faintly, just enough to let the words linger. “At least…not intentionally.”

Vesper’s smile didn’t falter—if anything, it widened—but there was a flicker in her eyes, too quick for the untrained to catch. “Careful, Marwood,” she purred, lifting her spoon with delicate precision. “Some would say cunning without pedigree is just…pretense.”

Honoria’s lips twitched, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes.

Elowyn only inclined his head, serene as snowfall. “And some might say pedigree without grace is rather…unbecoming.”

Vesper’s spoon paused mid-air. “And some,” she said smoothly, her voice low and sweet, “might say that grace is just weakness in pretty clothes”

Honoria gave a soft exhale—just shy of a laugh—and set her goblet down a touch too firmly.

Elowyn didn’t blink, but his hand curled beneath the table—just once—and then stilled again.

“How curious,” he said, his voice light. He paused, eyes drifting to his plate before rising again to meet Vesper’s through his lashes. “To see grace mistaken for weakness by someone who’s never understood either. It’s terribly…unbecoming.”

The air between the four of them shimmered—sharp with implication, taut with everything that went unsaid. It was the kind of silence that demands acknowledgment, even if no one dares to give it.

Vesper’s spoon dipped into her bowl with surgical elegance, but her knuckles had gone white around the handle. She lifted the next bite with exaggerated calm, eyes fixed on her food as though it might answer for her. Honoria didn’t look at her at all.

Callum’s gaze flicked to Elowyn, startled but steady. He didn’t smile—not here, not now—but the angle of his shoulders eased, and a flicker of something proud passed through his eyes. He straightened in his seat, not as a challenge, but as if reminded of who was beside him. Across the table, Vesper dabbed at her mouth with a linen napkin, the gesture pristine and poised. Elowyn sipped his juice, calm as snowfall. And Callum ate his roast without fuss.

As they were all finishing their meal, Callum exhaled slowly through his nose. Beside him, Elowyn could feel the tension winding through his friend again—like a coil drawn too tight. Without shifting his gaze, he let the side of his leg press against Callum’s under the table. The contact was small, unseen, but steady—just enough to ground him, to keep the words behind his teeth where they wouldn’t do harm.

From the staff table, a sudden burst of laughter—real, bright, human—rose from Professor Flitwick’s corner. Shortly after, a colony of enchanted bats swirled upward from his outstretched wand. This display was followed by a gust of autumn-scented air swept through the room and doused a few candles before reigniting them, as if the Castle had sighed and decided to show off.

Elowyn smiled faintly at the theatrics, but his eyes remained on the girls.

Honoria broke the silence with a sip of cider and a clipped, chilly smile. “The Ghosts’ Ball will be starting soon. You’ll come, of course.”

It wasn’t a question.

Vesper leaned in, eyes glittering. “It’s a Slytherin tradition on Halloween,” she added, voice low and syrupy. “Other Houses haven’t anything like it. They wouldn’t understand. It’s all…rather hush-hush.”

Callum glanced up from his emptied plate. “What is it, exactly?”

His tone wasn’t confrontational, but something in it made Vesper pause, as if surprised he’d spoken at all. Then she smiled, slow and sly.

“It isn’t on the official Hogwarts festivities list,” she said. “But the ghosts remember the old families. Always have. They host it for those they consider…continuations.”

Honoria turned her gaze back to Elowyn, measuring him. “My grandfather attended every year. It’s rather exclusive, of course, but traditions like these must be preserved...for those who belong.”

Elowyn lifted his goblet, eyes calm. “How terribly selective,” he murmured. “Must be exhausting, keeping track of who’s worthy of notice.”

The corners of Vesper’s mouth twitched—not a smile, not quite. “Exhaustion is a small price to pay for legacy.”

“And here I thought legacy was meant to illuminate, not obscure.” Elowyn replied mildly, setting his goblet down with a soft tap of silver on wood.

Vesper ignored him as she and Honoria rose together, graceful and in sync.

“Well then,” Honoria said, brushing imaginary lint from her sleeve. “Come along. We wouldn’t want to be late.”

Elowyn met Callum’s eyes briefly. Neither moved at first. Then, slowly, Elowyn stood, adjusting the line of his robe with a deliberate calm. Callum followed suit with less precision, his jaw tight.

They did not speak as they fell into step behind the girls, their footfalls echoing softly down the stone corridor. The deeper they went, the quieter the Castle became, until only the hush of their breath and the occasional flicker of torchlight accompanied them. The air grew cooler and damper—its moisture clinging to stone and skin alike. Honoria and Vesper led the way with practiced grace, their footsteps crisp against the floor, their voices lifted in soft, lilting chatter.

After several flights of steps and a number of turns, Callum leaned in just slightly. “This doesn’t feel right,” he murmured, voice low.

“It doesn’t,” Elowyn replied just as softly. “But we can’t show weakness.”

“Should’ve known they wouldn’t let you win the Game and walk away.”

“No one ever does,” Elowyn murmured. “But forward we walk.”

Elowyn noted that Callum had discreetly removed his wand from it’s holder and held it hidden within his sleeve. He did the same as they turned another corner, and the torches thinned.

“I hear the Grey Lady and the Fat Friar had a falling out at the last year’s Ghost Ball,” Honoria was saying, her tone feather-light. “Apparently she accused him of meddling in the seating charms. Something about floating violas.”

“Oh, how dreadfully provincial,” Vesper replied, her laugh like glass tapped with a fingernail. “My mother said the ghosts were far more tasteful in her time. Less…performative.”

Elowyn followed a few paces behind them, Callum beside him, closer than usual—his shoulder brushing Elowyn’s every so often as they walked. The corridor twisted left, then right, and though Elowyn kept his features composed, a faint thrum began at the base of his spine adding a higher pitch to the reverberation he’d felt all night from the Castle’s jubilation at the feast continuing far above them. The girls weren’t leading them anywhere near the direction of the large dungeon hall he knew was occasionally used for Slytherin fêtes. And this passage—this was one of the older ones, its ceiling lower, its walls still bearing traces of ancient enchantments, dulled now by time and disuse.

Callum leaned in slightly, his voice low. “We’re not going to the ball.”

“No,” Elowyn murmured, “if there ever was one, it’s not where we’re going.”

He didn’t slow. He couldn’t because any sign of hesitation would feed the fire he could already feel flickering ahead of them.

The girls paused at an arched alcove that opened into a vaulted side corridor—a stretch of stone empty and echoing, unlit except for a single, flickering torch that barely held its flame.

“Oh,” Honoria said sweetly, her back to them still. “How careless. We must’ve taken a wrong turn.”

“I’m sure someone can guide us back,” Vesper added, turning to face them. “There are always helpful souls wandering about on Halloween.”

The torch sputtered behind her, casting wild shadows across the damp walls. Elowyn heard it then: the soft scuff of shoes on stone, coming from the darkness beyond the torch. He didn’t need to look to know they weren’t alone anymore.

Three figures emerged from the corridor’s far side. One, a Slytherin prefect—a boy tall and cold-eyed, with the unmistakable posture of someone born into control and certain of his right to wield it—led the others by a step.

“Good evening, Marwood,” said Osric Halverton, his voice all civility, its edge finely honed.

Callum stiffened beside him. Elowyn simply inclined his head.

“Good evening,” he returned. His tone was pleasant, yet measured. 

“Lost are we?” Halverton said politely, a bit too earnestly.

“So it would seem,” Elowyn said simply.

Halverton stepped closer, flanked on either side by two older boys. One had a hawkish nose and the bored, heavy-lidded look of long-held entitlement. The other’s face was smooth and impassive, but his eyes glinted with something cold—disgust, perhaps.

“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” Halverton went on. “Proper Slytherins exchange names before hexing each other.”

“Ah,” said Elowyn, voice mild. “I find it wiser to exchange names only with people of consequence.”

A flicker of something crossed Halverton's face—surprise, perhaps, or something more dangerous.

“We were just on our way to the Ghosts’ Ball,” Vesper offered, stepping to Halverton's side, her expression angelic. “But I suppose we ought to let the boys get better acquainted.”

Honoria gave a soft sigh, already turning back the way they came. “Do play nicely,” she murmured over her shoulder.

They didn’t wait for a reply.

Halverton gave a small smile. “You know,” he said softly, almost conversationally, “there’s something unnatural about all of this.”

Callum stepped forward, half a pace, but Elowyn’s hand on his arm stilled him.

“About what?” Elowyn asked, tone still pleasant. “Feasts? Ghosts? Hallways?”

Halverton's eyes narrowed. “About children conjured rather than born.”

Elowyn felt their edge—and for the first time that evening, his face betrayed him. He’d believed the truth of his birth was known only to those in the Koes…and Callum. Halverton saw the slight flicker of disappointment and scoffed.

“Everyone’s had a go trying to trace your bloodline, Marwood. A common village Healer from an excised Travers branch and a half-blood with a Muggle merchant father? Not exactly the foundation of a legacy.”

Elowyn’s lips curved—barely. “Curious, isn’t it? That the Hat saw fit to seat me beside you. One wonders what it saw.”

Halverton's voice dropped, each word honed to a blade. “It saw the product of two men pretending at family. Not a student. Not a Slytherin. Just a thing—an abomination dressed in robes.”

Callum surged forward, wand raised and leveled at Halverton. “You shut your—”

The two older boys flanking Halverton stepped forward at once, their wands drawn now, no longer spectators but sentinels. Callum didn’t flinch—but he stopped, jaw tight, the weight of the odds settling on his shoulders.

Halverton smiled, slow and sharp. “Elowyn,” he said, slicing through the air like a curse, “the freak offspring of a dead branch and a Muggle-born weed. Tell me—how does it feel to know your very existence is the kind Slytherin himself would have purged?”

Elowyn laid a hand on Callum’s shoulder and drew him gently back, stepping forward in his place. His gaze found Halverton's and held it, unblinking. When he spoke, his voice was soft—almost tender—but the words rang like iron.

“I was born in a grove that predates this House. That predates your name. The magic that shaped me is older than this Castle, and its roots deeper than any bloodline you worship. You cling to your legacy like a dying thing gasping for air…while I carry in bones everything came before it.”

He paused, the ghost of a smile brushing his lips—neither cruel nor kind.

“I belong wherever I am.”

Halverton laughed loudly, “You don’t belong anywhere, Marwood. Least of all here.”

Callum was practically shaking with rage beside him now, breath sharp through his nose.

“Get behind me,” Callum muttered.

Elowyn didn’t move. He stood firm, shoulders squared, eyes still locked on Halverton.

“I don’t make a habit of yielding to cowards.”

“Not yielding,” Callum growled. “I’m just taking the first hit.”

He stepped forward, planting himself between Elowyn and the older boys like a stone wall.

Halverton's smile vanished. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said flatly. “Either of you.”

Callum’s wand lifted an inch. “Make us leave, then,” he spat.

“Gladly,” Halverton shouted as he raised his wand at Callum, “Depulso!”

Halverton's first spell came quick. Callum raised his wand, blocking the first hex but not the second. It struck him low in the ribs. He staggered, teeth clenched.

Halverton's wand flicked again. “Elowyn—!” he spat, and then, “Obstringo.”

Callum lunged to shield Elowyn, and the binding spell caught him mid-motion. His eyes sealed shut, mouth silenced, body folding inward as if the magic had stolen not just his voice but his shape.

Elowyn’s wand was already up, a shimmering shield rising in time—but it shattered under twin spells from Halverton’s flanking allies. The kelpie's essence within surged in protest, its magic bucking against the collapse, wild and unwilling to yield. Elowyn felt it twist in his grip—not with rebellion, but with fury, as though the wand itself refused to accept what was happening. But the force of the spells was too much. The opening was all Halverton needed.

“Obstringo.”

The spell hit Elowyn like a sigh. The world spun. His knees gave, and then everything folded inward.

As Halverton turned to go, his voice rang out—low and cold. “Hex me again, mudblood, and you’ll beg for death.”

He flicked his wand once more.

“Tenebrae.”

The torches hissed out, one by one. Darkness fell thick as velvet. Their footsteps receded. And then—nothing but silence and cold stone beneath them…and the Castle was too enraptured by spectacle to notice two boys left motionless in its deepest recesses.

—

When Elowyn stirred, the silence in the dungeon was absolute. He ached all over from the cold that had worked itself into his bones as he lay there waiting for the spell to dissipate. His only pain was an ache radiating from the tip of his right cheekbone. His limbs felt heavy, stiff, and distant.

Beside him, Callum was already moving. The other boy grunted softly as he pushed himself upright, one arm curled tight against his ribs. He reached for Elowyn without speaking, his hand brushing the back of his friend’s shoulder as if to confirm he was still breathing.

Elowyn blinked slowly, the darkness still thick, though not as crushing as the quiet. His jaw felt like it had been sewn shut and he had to force it open. When he tried to speak, his voice came raw and quiet.

“Lumos.”

The faint glow from his wand illuminated Callum’s face—pale, bleeding slightly at the temple, and set with grim lines far too old for eleven. The wand’s light pulsed once before settling, as if it had been holding something back. Elowyn felt the shift immediately. The wand trembled faintly in his hand, not from instability, but from something deeper—like magic that had stayed alert while he lay unconscious, waiting in the dark with no way to act. The kelpie’s essence was restless, coiled and keen beneath the surface, as if it had tasted purpose and found silence intolerable. Even now, the wand felt almost alive with tension, unwilling to be still. 

Callum helped Elowyn up, and together, without a word, they found their feet and turned toward the corridor that would lead them out. Elowyn kept his wand low. 

They moved slowly. Neither wanted to be caught—not by a prefect, not by a professor, and not by the Castle itself, which had gone so quiet that even the torches they passed barely flickered. It had been loud earlier—thrumming with celebratory energy but now it watched or perhaps it didn’t. The Castle, Elowyn thought bitterly, had been so present before. It had shown its grandeur in pumpkins and starlight and music without end. And yet it had not followed them into the dark.

They reached the entrance to the dormitory without incident, sliding through the common room on soundless feet. The green flames in the hearth had burned low, casting long shadows against the serpent-carved walls. They passed their corner—scarred and worn where they usually sat—and slipped into the corridor leading to the boys’ dormitories.

Their room was as they’d left it. They said nothing as they each removed their robes, washed quickly in the en suite, and changed. As Elowyn was washing the blood from his lip and gingerly touching the bruise beneath his eye, he could just make out in the fogged mirror, Callum wincing as he rotated his left shoulder.

Elowyn climbed into bed first, the blankets too cool and the air too still. Across the room, Callum sat on the edge of his own bed in his boxers, elbows on knees, staring at the floor.

For a while, neither of them spoke. Then, slowly, Callum rose and padded across the room, bare feet quiet on the stone. He stopped at the edge of Elowyn’s bed.

“Is it alright?” he asked, voice low.

Elowyn nodded as he held up the blankets, making space.

The mattress shifted as Callum climbed in. He didn’t touch Elowyn at first, lying on his back with his hands folded over his chest. Then he remembered—the wards hadn’t been redrawn. The room felt too exposed. He drew his wand from the pocket of his boxers and quietly muttered the warning charm on the door, then traced a shielding spell around the bed—a different one this time, stronger than before. His wand hand trembled slightly.

“I should’ve been able to stop them,” Callum murmured as he finished. He turned to face Elowyn, who lay on his side, eyes already on him.

“We were outnumbered,” Elowyn said softly. “By boys years ahead of us. You lasted longer than most first-years could.”

Callum’s brow furrowed. “If I’d been faster—if I’d just blocked that second spell—”

Elowyn reached out and rested a hand on Callum’s chest. “Cal, I’m the reason we’re in this mess.”

“El, stop.” Callum shifted closer, raising his hand to Elowyn’s face. He cupped his cheek gently, thumb brushing over the faint bruise from the fall. “I’ve told you before—Peter sorted first. If you hadn’t chosen Slytherin…he’d have been alone in all this. Because I’d already decided on the train, I was going wherever you went. If you’d chosen differently…”

He let the words hang in the hush between them, heavy and dark. Then, softer: “Peter needed us. He still does.”

Elowyn didn’t answer, but he leaned into Callum’s touch, pressing his cheek more firmly into the warmth of his palm.

They lay in the silence of that thought, unmoving and unspeaking. After a long moment, Elowyn reached out and stroked Callum’s cheek in return—soft, brief. Then he scooted closer, and Callum instinctively wrapped his arms around him. They stayed like that for several moments before Callum slowly turned onto his back, one arm still curled protectively around Elowyn. Elowyn let his head rest on Callum’s shoulder, his hand settled lightly over Callum’s chest.

They slept like that, not seeking warmth, only the quiet proof of each other’s presence. The stone walls pressed in with the weight of night, and the Castle said nothing at all.

Chapter Text

It was the scent that reached him first—warm rosemary and something sharper, like scorched clove. Then the crackle of firewood in the small stone hearth and the delicate clink of metal on glass. His world was gauzy with fever. Elowyn lay on his side, half-buried beneath a hand-made quilt that smelled of lavender and cloves, while watching the shadows twist on the low-beamed ceiling of the treatment room.

Emrys was humming. Not a song, exactly, but something less structured—an old folk melody made of breath and pulse and comfort. He moved about the little stone chamber with a worn linen apron tied over his robes, sleeves rolled to the elbow. A copper kettle simmered beside cauldrons, and the air shimmered with steam, carrying the mingled fragrances of moss, citrus peel, and crushed root. Shelves sagged with jars, and bunches of drying herbs hung from the rafters like upside-down birds.

“I thought it was just a cold,” Elowyn rasped, his voice thin from disuse.

Emrys turned at once, his face creased with concern and affection. “No, love, it’s Kindle Fever. Comes on quick in children when their magic first reveals itself. Stubborn little thing. Like ivy in the blood.”

He knelt beside the cot, hand cool against Elowyn’s brow. “It’s got a proper name too—Arcanditis, the Healers in London call it. But this remedy’s older than their titles. Older than St. Mungo’s itself.”

“What’s in it?” Elowyn murmured.

Emrys smiled, brushing back a strand of hair damp from the draught’s steam. “Oh, a little of this, a little of that. Bit of moonlace to cool the fire, wild rosemary for breath. Thornleaf—just a pinch, mind—keeps the visions from fraying the nerves.”

He stood again, stirring the brew with a long-handled spoon, the cauldron glowing soft gold. “And Elric root. Always Elric,” he said, voice warm with quiet certainty. “It doesn’t cure a thing on its own—but it holds the healing in place. Tells the magic where to settle. Like planting a stake beside a sapling—it shows the growth which way to lean.”

He glanced over his shoulder, half-smiling. “It’s not used much these days. Too wild, they say. The modern binders are steadier—refined powders from the Baobab Coven in Senegal. Senuwe Dust, they call it. Light as ash and twice as clean. Binds the spell to the blood without rousing the magic too much. Healers love it. You’ll find it in nearly every healing draught brewed these days.”

He held up a blackened root, gnarled and soft at the edges. “But this—this comes from before all that. Before the borders were drawn and the Ministry started naming things. Back when every hamlet and village had their own ways, and folk listened a little closer to the land.”

Elowyn shifted under the quilt, blinking slowly. “Why didn’t they use it before? The powder.”

Emrys knelt again, his hand soft against Elowyn’s forehead. “Because we didn’t ask. Or didn’t know how. Folk held their magic like gold, afraid of what sharing might cost. But the world’s changed, little oak. We share more now. Mostly.”

His smile deepened, quiet with memory. “Still—there are some things, the Koes… and your Papa won’t let go of.”

Emrys reached for the mortar, placing the gnarled root inside with care. As he began to grind, the sharp scent of moss and flint filled the room—old earth and riverstone, wild and clean. When he tipped the powder into the simmering draught, the potion gave a low sigh, and the air turned richer and heavier.

Elowyn closed his eyes as the steam thickened. His body ached, but the warmth of the room had begun to settle into his bones. Outside, wind pressed gently against the leaded windows, and somewhere deeper in the house, a clock ticked in time with his heartbeat.

He barely noticed the touch of the cup at his lips, or the first taste—earthy, bitter, a little sweet. Emrys held it for him, careful and patient. When it was done, he set the cup aside and smoothed the hair from Elowyn’s brow.

Emrys’s voice floated over him like a bird taking flight. “You’ll sleep soon. That’s good. The potion will settle better once you’ve stopped fighting it. I’ll be here when you wake, little oak.”

—

He awoke with a start, arms curled awkwardly on the tabletop, parchment stuck to the skin of his cheek. The scent of the memory still lingered faintly—rosemary, moss, heat—but it faded quickly beneath the more prosaic musk of old paper and binding glue.

The Hogwarts library was still. The chandeliers glowed with steady, practical light—bright enough for study, but softened at the edges by dusk pressing against the high windows. Outside, the sky was turning the colour of old parchment, and inside, shadows gathered only where no one could see them.

“Elowyn?”

Callum’s voice was low and close. He sat across from Elowyn, elbows braced on a sprawl of open books. His deep red hair was rumpled, his eyes shadowed with tiredness. Beside a dog-eared tome on bloodborne jinxes lay his wand, its tip faintly smudged with ink. An untouched quill rested in the inkwell at his elbow, as though he’d meant to write something hours ago—and then hadn’t.

“I let you sleep,” Callum added, awkwardly. “Figured…you needed it.”

Elowyn blinked, pushing upright slowly as he took in a deep breath. His neck twinged from the position he’d been in. He pressed his fingers to his temple.

“I did,” he said quietly. Then, after a pause, “I dreamt of the Koes. Of when I was little and came down with Kindle Fever—Arcanditis, most call it now. It stirred something loose. I remembered Papa brewing the remedy that day… and something he said.”

Callum nodded solemnly. He’d heard of it—had even had it himself, though his mother had used a brewer-bought draught instead.

Elowyn place his hand the nearest stack of books on the table before them. He touched the spine of one gently. “He used something called Elric root. Said it binds the healing to the blood.”

Callum frowned. “That’s not in anything we’ve looked at.”

“No.” Elowyn’s voice sharpened just slightly. “Because we’ve been looking at curses. But what if—” he hesitated, then met Callum’s eyes. “What if Peter wasn’t cursed directly? What if it was something thrown at him—something brewed?”

Callum leaned forward, frowning. “But…wouldn’t Snape have noticed? If it was something like that—something brewed?”

Elowyn was quiet a moment, then said, “He did say something. When he examined Peter—he mentioned Elric. Said he could smell it—faint, bitter. Like scorched moss.”

Callum blinked. “You think that was…?”

Elowyn finished. “Papa said it smells like moss and flint when it’s ground. That’s what I remembered. That’s what the room smelled like when he added it to the potion.”

Callum sat back, face pale. “But Snape mentioned Elric root. If he knew…”

Elowyn shook his head. “He mentioned it, yes. But no one paid it any mind. It’s not Dark, just old. A binding agent, used before the better powders were brought in from abroad. Only folk healers still bother with it. Most wouldn’t have known what he meant…unless they’d grown up with it.”

Callum’s voice dropped, wary. “But Snape’s a Potions Master. He had to know what it meant—what it could mean.”

Elowyn met his eyes. “Exactly. He would’ve recognized it.”

A long silence settled between them, filled only by the faint rustle of pages somewhere deep in the stacks.

Callum’s voice tightened. “So he knows? And he’s not doing anything?”

Elowyn exhaled through his nose. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s waiting. If he named it outright, there’d be questions—expectations. And Peter’s just a first-year with no name, no influence. Not the kind of student anyone would fight for.”

“We’re fighting for him,” Callum said quietly.

Elowyn nodded, reaching out to gently touch Callum’s hand.

Callum’s fingers curled into a fist beneath Elowyn’s. He spoke through clenched teeth, the anger slowly seeping out. “He’s our Head of House. He’s meant to look after us. Protect us.”

Elowyn’s gaze dropped to the book between them. “He is. And he’s also a man with more allegiances than we can see. He might be protecting someone else. Or protecting himself.”

Callum’s jaw tightened. “That’s still not right.”

“No,” Elowyn said, with a feather-soft sigh. “But in Slytherin, silence is safer. And too many choose it.”

They didn’t speak for some time after that—only the slow scratch of turning parchment and the soft thunk of books being stacked back onto the return cart broke the hush. The books on curses, blood spells, and magical injury lay in uneven, unhelpful piles.

Elowyn’s fingers lingered on the spine of one—Markings of Malediction—before he pushed it away with a sigh.

“We’ve been looking in the wrong places,” he murmured.

Callum glanced over. “So…potions, then?”

Elowyn nodded slowly, drawing in a breath that caught at the edges. They’d spent weeks buried in curses, tome upon tome, and now it all felt hollow—as though they were starting from nothing again, while Peter lay in his hospital bed, alone and likely in pain.

Callum suddenly sat forward, brow furrowed. “There was something. Not in the jinx book—one of the old indexes I skimmed while you were asleep.” He chewed his lip, thinking. “It wasn’t about curses exactly. More about fieldwork. There was a reference to brews used in old duels…thrown instead of drunk. Fast-acting. One was supposed to blind, another to paralyze. The author called them ‘volatile battlements.’”

Elowyn’s head tilted, eyes sharpening. “Thrown?”

Callum nodded. “Yeah. Like weapons. Not common now—too unstable, most of them—but it was mentioned like it was once standard, especially during wars fought centuries ago.”

He looked down at the sprawl of books between them. “I didn’t think much of it at the time. But that could be what hurt Peter…”

Elowyn didn’t disagree, and hopefully said. “It seems to fit. A curse would have left more. Something Snape would’ve had to name. But a brew? Bound to the blood and hours old?” His voice fell to a whisper. “By then, it would’ve sunk too deep to leave any trace outwardly.”

Callum rose and began to look for the potions section, scanning the titles as he walked. Elowyn rose and joined him. “Let’s try anything on war brews or ancient draughtwork. Maybe even potioncraft before standardization.”

They gathered books quickly, dust blooming from old pages like a faint perfume of age and memory. But with each volume skimmed and discarded, the list of viable references narrowed. All the texts praised Senuwe Dust—used in nearly every binding draught of the last two centuries. Elric root wasn’t even mentioned.

Elowyn snapped one book shut and muttered, “It’s like it never existed.”

“Too old,” Callum said grimly. “Or too ordinary. If it was common once, maybe it was scrubbed out when the new stuff came in.”

A faint rustle stirred the air near the end of the aisle. They looked up together. Madam Pince stood framed in the arch of the far stacks, half-shadowed by the warm golden light of the sconces. Her robes were the same deep plum they always were, starched to crisp perfection, and her wand—dark and thin as a knitting needle—was gripped in one hand. Her eyes, sharp as wet slate, pinned them where they sat.

Callum ran his finger along the spines of a row of modern texts, frowning. “Nothing. Everything after the eighteenth century uses Senuwe Dust or one of the stabilised blood-binders. It’s like Elric root just vanished.”

“He said it stopped being used once the Statute of Secrecy brought the wizarding world closer together. Things had to be standardised then. And Elric root was too…local. Not dangerous, just wild.”

“If you’re looking for potion books from before the Statute of Secrecy,” came a voice from behind them causing both boys to start, “you’ll want the Sequestered Section.”

Both boys turned.

Madam Pince stood beside a tall rolling cart of returned tomes, eyes sharp beneath the swoop of her fringe. She peered at them over the rim of her glasses, voice low but not unkind.

“Those books are not restricted, not exactly—but they’re very old. And magic only slows decay. It doesn’t stop it. The preservation charms must be reapplied every decade or so, and some volumes don’t take kindly to being disturbed, especially the ones still bound in wyrmhide or witchbark.”

Callum glanced at Elowyn, then back at her. “We…we were hoping to look at potion texts that include Elric root,” he said. “Older ones. Anything from before the International Statute of Secrecy, if you have it.”

“Elric root?” she repeated, the corners of her mouth tightening around the word. “You’ve taken up an odd little corner of study for first-years.”

“We think it might have been used in a potion that hurt Peter,” Elowyn said, voice steady. “We’ve been researching curses for weeks, but now we believe it might’ve been something brewed—something thrown.”

Her expression didn’t change, but her voice softened almost imperceptibly. “Peter Ainsley.”

Both boys nodded.

She studied them a moment longer, then added, almost tenderly, “I’ve heard about his case. Madam Pomfrey and I have tea weekly.” Her voice softened by a thread. “If you truly believe something in those shelves might help him—then you may look. But gently. No quills. No inkpots. Wands sheathed unless absolutely necessary. And no taking them from the section.”

There was a pause, then she gave a short, quiet sigh. “Not many your age bother to dig this deep. Not for someone else.”

“He’s our friend,” Callum said simply, “and we want him back…with us.”

Madam Pince studied them for a long moment, eyes sharp but not unkind. When she spoke again, her voice had softened slightly, as though acknowledging something unspoken.

“We have shelves of potion texts from before 1693—but you’d be wise to look as far forward as 1732. That’s when the International Potioneers Codex was first ratified by the Brotherhood of Master Potioneers. It formalized ingredient lists, brewing methods, and classification standards across magical nations. Most of what’s considered ‘modern’ dates from there. The Codex is still in effect, of course—updated every three years at their Triennial Conclave.”

“Could you direct us to any texts on potion-based attacks?” Callum asked, steady but careful.

Madam Pince narrowed her eyes, sharp as spellfire. “Battle-brewing? That’s dangerous knowledge. Not illegal—but not taught for a reason.” Her voice lowered a fraction. “I trust this is truly for your friend, and not some…Slytherin scheme.”

“It’s only for Peter,” Callum said with the barest hint of tears glistening from the corners of his eyes. “We just want him back, ma’am.”

She gave them both another appraising look, turned on her heel and beckoned them to follow. “Come, then. Gloves first. And keep your voices down. These books remember when the world was quieter.”

The corridor beyond the main library narrowed and darkened, carved from older stone with a lower, arched ceiling and lanterns that burned in silence. They passed the threshold marked Sequestered Section—the words carved in weather-softened runes above an iron-bound door that opened with a softly murmured spell from Madam Pince.

Inside, the temperature changed subtly. Not cold, but stiller. Like air that had waited a long time to be disturbed.

The Sequestered Section was longer than it first appeared, its shelves stretching into shadow, lined with books too tall for any child to reach without a ladder. The wood here was darker, stained with age, and the lantern glass rippled with age. No magical lights hovered overhead; Madam Pince had explained that some of the texts within responded poorly to spells, so the section relied on traditional lanterns—steady, silent, and stern.

Madam Pince followed them in, the faint creak of her boots muffled by the thick runner beneath their feet. She led them several rows deep, past stacks whose titles shimmered in fading ink and bindings stitched with thread that pulsed faintly in the warm lantern light.

“Texts on general potion-making are here,” she said, tapping the edge of a carved endcap with a long finger. “Further down you’ll find specialty brews—seasonal, experimental, and yes…battle-brewing.”

Her voice lowered, though not conspiratorially—more as one might speak in a sanctuary. “Some of these books have not been opened in decades. A few have not been disturbed in centuries.”

She gave them a final nod and the briefest warning: “Be respectful. Some of these books and scrolls have been around as long as the Castle itself. They don’t forgive mishandling.”

Then, with a sweep of her deep purple robes, she turned and left them in the hush of parchment and shadow, the air dense with dust and memory.

Elowyn didn’t smile. He crossed to the far end of the row where Pince had indicated specialty brewing tomes were. He ran his fingers lightly over the aged spines, some written in Latin, others in curling script that reminded him of Thaddeus’s early scrolls from the Continent. The titles were less direct here—Essays on Volatility in Herbal Suspension, Tincts and Throws, Notes from the Siege of Caer Illyr.

They split up. Callum took them farthest part of the section and Elowyn the nearest. They’d meet in the middle and hopefully they’d have an answer by that time.

Callum worked methodically, kneeling where the dust was thickest, pulling books into a pile and skimming their headings. Elowyn, uncharacteristically sharp in motion, darted from title to title, tugging down anything that whispered of field medicine or wartime brews.

“I can’t…” he muttered once, too quietly for anyone but the books to hear. “It has to be here.”

He gripped one spine too hard—The Alchemist’s Field Binder—and it slipped from his hands, hitting the floor with a thump that echoed through the narrow space. He knelt beside it, head bowed, breathing through his nose.

Callum rose silently from his stack, walked to Elowyn’s side, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“We’ll find something,” he said. “We will.”

Elowyn didn’t answer, but after a moment, he opened the book.

They pressed on. Time passed slowly in the Sequestered Section—marked not by bells but by the ache of legs and backs, the gathering of long shadows in the corners.

“Elowyn?” Callum called softly.

But Elowyn didn’t answer. He was crouched low near the bottom shelf, cradling a thick, leather-wrapped tome in his arms. The script was uneven, the binding fraying at the corners.

“I think I’ve got something,” he whispered, breath catching.

Callum rose and crossed to him.

Elowyn had already opened the book to a section marked Infusions of "Defensive and Offensive Temper." His eyes skimmed a passage on a draught used during the Goblin Rebellions—something called Fleshlock Serum. The entry described a concoction designed to stiffen the joints and delay motion in enemy ranks.

“See?” he murmured, pointing. “Thrown, not drunk. Binds on skin contact. This might—”

But then he read further.

“Delayed onset…half an hour…” Elowyn’s voice faded.

Callum leaned in. “Says it turns the skin a sort of…grey-green. Thickens it like hide. But doesn’t cause pain. Not blood-binding either.”

Elowyn closed the book slowly, eyes dark with frustration. “It’s not right or even close enough.”

He set it aside with more care than he felt and pressed his palms to his eyes.

Callum reached out, a steadying touch on his arm. “We’ll find it. That was something. Just not…the thing.”

Elowyn exhaled through his nose and nodded. “Let’s keep going.”

They returned to the shelves, and then—what felt like an eternity later—Callum broke the deepening silence, “El…here.”

Elowyn was beside him in moments. Callum had spread open a narrow field journal, its spine soft with age, the pages stiff with old potion blotches and soot-flecked stains.

“It’s someone’s war log,” Callum said, barely above a whisper. “A field potioneer—Flanders, I think. 1573.”

Next to a faded diagram of a shattered wand arm and a recipe titled Rotbrand Decoction, a marginal note had been scrawled in rust-brown ink—hasty, cramped, and half-faded at the edges:

Rotbrand decoct. cast. Flesh held fayre, then turn’d—veynes lit like filum febris. Elric infus. haeret firm. Phisicks blind. Charm’d sight see naught. Wroght clea—

Elowyn leaned over the page, frowning. “‘Elric infusion holds firm…’”

He traced the next line with one finger. “The physicians were blind to it. Even the charms couldn’t see.”

Callum nodded grimly. “Worked clean.”

Below the recipe, a boxed entry in the same hand described its symptoms—tighter, more legible, though no less chilling:

No breach. Skin blackneth from within. Veynes swell, shimmer faint rubrum et aurum. Dolor gravis. Spelltraces fade swift—arte medica fallax.

Elowyn read it aloud, slowly. “‘No breach…skin blackens from within. Veins shimmer faint red and gold. Pain severe. Spell traces fade—healer’s art deceived.’”

His breath caught. “Peter’s skin…the black lines. They looked like that. And the shimmer. Snape said it was unstable—fading.”

“And it fooled the healers,” Callum murmured, straightening. “Just like this says.”

They looked at each other—hope and dread balancing knife-sharp between them.

Elowyn’s fingers lingered on the journal’s edge. “That’s why nothing showed up. It was bound too deep. The Elric held it fast.”

Callum nodded. “And it says the decoction was thrown. Not swallowed—just tossed.”

A chime sounded faintly in the far halls—the library’s closing signal, soft and echoing, as though even the Castle was reluctant to disturb the Sequestered hush.

Elowyn shut the journal with reverent care, his fingers lingering on the cracked leather binding. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, quietly, he slid the book into his satchel, tucking it between his Charms text and an old, worn notebook.

Callum said nothing, only met his eyes and gave the smallest of nods.

No one would miss it tonight. And it wasn’t theft—it was rescue. A page from history, buried too long, that might help save someone they loved.

Elowyn stood. “Let’s go see Snape. We finally have something to bring him.”

Callum’s face was pale but set with fierce purpose. “He can’t ignore this.”

They descended the stairs into the dungeons. The Castle was hushed at this hour—not asleep, precisely, but listening. The sconces along the stone walls flickered low, their light pooling gently across the flagstones, golden at the edges, dim in the centre.

Callum’s hands were buried in his robes, fingers flexing and curling against the fabric. Elowyn walked beside him, shoulders drawn slightly inward—not from fear, but from the sheer weight of thought.

“Do you think Madam Pince will notice we took it?” Callum asked at last, voice a bare murmur.

“It’s for Peter,” Elowyn replied. “We’ll face the consequences—if and when they come.”

Callum nodded, not because it settled him, but because it had to. A few steps passed in quiet. Their footfalls echoed strangely, each sound folding into the next like breath.

“We’ve been at this for a month,” Callum said. “I was starting to think we’d never find anything.”

Elowyn didn’t answer immediately. He glanced sideways, watching how the torchlight caught in Callum’s hair, gilding it like copper leaf.

“It’s not an answer,” he said at last. “But it’s a direction. We’ve been walking in circles. This…this might be a path.”

They turned a corner, past a window where the night pressed in like ink. Snow had begun to fall—flakes drifting slow and soft as ash past the high glass panes.

“I want him back,” Callum said, quietly.

“I know,” Elowyn murmured. “As do I.”

“I miss his stupid jokes. His laugh.”

“He made the Game feel less like a war,” Elowyn said. “Without him, everything feels…barbed. Like every move is a test.”

Neither of them spoke after that. Not until they reached the shadowed corridor that led to Snape’s quarters.

They stopped before a narrow stone arch set with a dark oak door, unmarked but for a small iron serpent curled around the handle. The corridor here was colder, close with stone and torch-smoke. Shadows clung to the ceiling like roosting bats.

Callum hesitated for only a moment before lifting his hand and knocking. The sound echoed—hollow, sharp. For a long stretch, nothing. Then the door opened with a dry creak, revealing a dim room beyond and a man framed in shadow. Snape stood in the doorway, black-robed and sharp-eyed, as though they’d interrupted something vital or long-simmering. His gaze swept over them, assessing in a blink. Not surprised—he never was. Simply waiting to be disappointed.

“Mr. McCormack,” he said, voice dry as ash bark. “Mr. Marwood-Travers. I assume this is not a social visit.”

Callum squared his shoulders. “No, sir. We—we found something. About what happened to Peter.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed, his voice turning to velvet-edged acid. “I presume this was uncovered during an illicit detour through the Restricted Section—how very Potter of you.”

Callum shook his head. “No, sir, the Sequestered Section. Madam Pince allowed it.”

Snape arched a brow but stepped aside with a sweep of his robes. “Well? Inside—before your latest venture into amateur heroics wastes what little time I’m allotted to myself.”

They entered a space that was almost spartan: stone walls, a single worn rug, shelves lined with worn texts placed in precise order. The desk was neat but old, scratched by decades of use. There were no decorations. It was a room devoid of warmth like the man before them. Callum remained standing. Elowyn followed suit, clutching the journal.

Snape moved behind the desk, folding into the high-backed chair with the grace of habit. His fingers steepled. “Proceed.”

Callum glanced to Elowyn, who offered the slim volume in silence. He took it, opened to the marked page, and held it out for Snape’s inspection.

“We think this might explain what happened to Peter,” Callum said. “It’s not a curse. It’s a potion. Thrown, not drunk. Bound to the blood with Elric root.”

 Snape took the journal without flourish, and flipped through it with clinical speed—pausing when he reached the page marked in Elowyn’s hand. His eyes flicked over the notes, the marginalia in sixteenth-century script.

“Elric infusion,” he murmured.

Another page turned.

“Rotbrand,” he said aloud, almost to himself.

He looked up slowly, gaze like a blade honed to a whisper.

“You removed this without permission.” It wasn’t a question. His voice was soft, but it sliced like a scalpel.

“We—” Callum began.

“Do not insult my intelligence with protestations,” Snape cut in, robes stirring as he stood. “Sequestered is not synonymous with available at whim. You were granted access, not liberty.”

His gaze was cold and surgical. 

“Ten points from Slytherin—for theft masked as noble intention,” he said coldly. “A Gryffindor stunt, dressed in Slytherin robes.”

Callum’s jaw clenched, but he stood his ground. “We thought you needed to see it.“

Snape’s face did not change, but the silence between them stretched long and taut.

“The effects described,” Callum went on, undeterred by the man’s silence, “match Peter’s symptoms. The black lines under the skin. The shimmer you said was unstable. The blood-binding. The confusion with diagnostic charms. It all fits.”

Snape closed the book with a quiet snap.

“I am aware of what it ‘fits.’” He paused. “And you’ve made a fine mess of things—handling materials you barely understand, flinging theories in the dark like second-rate dramatists in a student production.”

Callum’s lips parted as if to object, but Snape held up a hand.

“That said,” he continued coolly, “you are not entirely wrong.”

The air in the room shifted.

“I am investigating,” Snape said coldly. “As I have been from the moment the boy was found. Kindly resist the urge to mistake half-formed theories for fact—or your meddling for mastery.”

Callum’s breath caught. “So you believe us?”

Snape gave him a look bordering on contempt. “I believe two undertrained students with access to a single shelf of aging parchment have made a credible hypothesis.  Credible, Mr. McCormack—not conclusive. Do try to remember the distinction.”

He turned the pages with deliberate care, long fingers pale against the worn vellum. The whisper of old parchment filled the silence like breath through clenched teeth.

“This will remain with me.”

His voice cut cleanly across the stillness, no room for protest.

“You will not speak of this to anyone. Not your classmates. Not Madam Pomfrey. And most certainly not Madam Pince—whose wrath, I assure you, will fall precisely where it should. I do not shield thieves.”

A pause, just long enough for the words to land.

“You have done what you came to do,” he said at last, eyes narrowing. “Now leave.”

They exited without ceremony, and stood for a moment outside the door to Snape’s quarters, which was already shut behind them. The torchlight in the corridor was dimmer now, the sconces burning lower as curfew was near. Shadows pulled long along the stone floor, and the castle was hushed in that way it always was just before it truly slept.

Callum exhaled slowly. “Well,” he muttered. “That went…as well as anything can with him.”

Elowyn nodded once, still staring down the hallway. “We brought him something. That’s all we could do.”

They began walking, the echo of their footfalls soft against the worn flagstones. The weight of the journal no longer clutched in Elowyn’s hands made him feel lighter and heavier at once. Something had shifted—but whether it was the beginning of something healing or something breaking, he couldn’t yet say.

“He didn’t dismiss it,” Callum said after a while, his voice quiet but urgent, as though naming the fact might make it firmer. “He’s going to look into it. He said so.”

“He did,” Elowyn agreed. “But we’ll have to watch. He won’t tell us if we’re right unless he wants us to know.”

A few more steps passed.

“I still wish we hadn’t had to take the book,” Callum admitted.

“So do I,” Elowyn said softly. “But we did what we had to.”

They turned down the final corridor, the one that would lead them back to the common room. The door would open at their command, whispering them back into the House that barely tolerated them. For now, though, the hallway held them like a breath not yet exhaled.

Callum glanced sideways, brow furrowed. “Do you think Peter would be proud of us?”

Elowyn’s hand brushed against his as they walked. “I think he’d have found a way to make it into a joke.”

Callum’s lips twitched, a ghost of a smile. “Something about a heroic potion heist?”

“Exactly,” Elowyn said, more warmth in his voice than he’d meant to show. “And then he’d call us daft and demand we plan a heist to bring him biscuits.”

The corner of Callum’s mouth lifted again. When they reached the common room entrance, Elowyn gave the password in a voice drained of inflection, and the wall melted open like wax under flame. Callum caught the shift in Elowyn’s face just before they stepped through—like a mask settling into place. Elowyn face usually held a kind of quiet beauty, all softness and stillness, but lately, in the common room or under the gaze of their Housemates, that softness calcified. What had once seemed like moonlight now gleamed like ice, cold-edged and untouchable.

They stepped through together. The hex came at once—silent, sharp, and bright blue. Elowyn’s wand was in his hand before the hum had even risen. He cast a shield with barely a word. The spell cracked against the shimmering barrier and dispersed with a sizzle.

His wand thrummed softly in the aftermath—not with exertion, but with vigilance. The kelpie core, quick to rise, had leapt to the defense without hesitation, its magic wound tightly beneath the rowan’s steadiness. Elowyn could still feel it—tense, aware, and unwilling to rest. It did not crave violence, but it knew threat, and it had begun to re

Neither of them flinched or even acknowledged what had happened. Elowyn calmly reholstered his wand—still within a moment’s reach—while Callum exhaled slowly through his nose. “Every time.”

Elowyn didn’t answer. His eyes swept the room, but no one was watching. No one had moved. Their Housemates curled in chairs or lounged against tapestries, heads bent toward books or whispers or empty space. If anyone had cast the hex, they made no sign of it. They never did.

The boys moved wordlessly toward their usual corner—farthest from the fire, closest to the far stone arch. Eyes followed them, half-lidded and glinting. A voice rose from a cluster of older students near the hearth. Low, but not low enough to be missed.

“Filth doesn’t belong in the House of Salazar.”

Someone tittered. Another voice added, “Not even born of flesh. Just…dragged out of the earth.”

“Soilspawn,” said a third, with acid softness. “Should’ve left it buried.”

Callum’s spine stiffened. Elowyn said nothing, his jaw set like carved glass.

One of the second-years—Laurentia, whose hair curled like thorns and whose father had signed letters to the Prophet with gold ink—lifted her gaze and said with sweet clarity, “And what’s your excuse, McCormack? Your mother was a Nott, and you’re defending that.”

“That,” someone echoed. “Not him. Not even it.”

“Your mother’s name should be enough to keep you clean. But here you are—sitting with the Dirtborn.”

Callum, wand in hand, turned, slowly. “Say it to my face,” he said, voice low and sharp as broken shell.

No one did.

Elowyn’s hand rested lightly on his forearm. “Don’t,” he whispered. “Just…don’t.”

Callum’s jaw twitched, but he let the fire drain from his eyes. In silence, they crossed to their usual place—an unloved alcove near the farthest corner, avoided by the others for its crumbling stone and the faint, lingering curses etched like bruises into the mortar. It smelled faintly of damp and iron. No one bothered them here. No one wanted to.

Elowyn calmly took out his letter stationery and began composing a letter to his grandmother. Beside him, Callum stared into the flickering green flames. Above the hearth, the carved serpent in the mantle’s stone seemed to shift slightly, as though it, too, were watching. They lingered for only half an hour before Callum stood. Elowyn looked up at him and smiled—serene, unbothered—and began packing his things without hurry.

They walked in quiet tandem toward the entrance to the boys’ dormitories. Just as they began to descend the narrow stone stairs, a sharp crack split the air behind them. Callum turned at once and cast a shield. The jinx hit it with a sizzle of blue light, scattering sparks harmlessly across the landing. Neither of them flinched. They descended the rest of the staircase without a word, unhurried, moving as though nothing at all had happened.

Chapter Text

“—just for now,” Elowyn said, not quite looking at Callum. His thumb worried the embroidery on the cuff of his robe. “If you said we’d argued, or that I hexed you, or—something like that. It doesn’t even have to be cruel. Just enough for them to believe you’d had enough.”

Callum blinked, brow furrowing like the words were dust he’d already brushed off once. “We’ve been over this,” he said, voice low. “You said you wouldn’t bring it up again.”

“They hit you with the Rigidus hex—twice yesterday,” Elowyn said, barely more than a breath. “You couldn’t even hold your quill for half of Charms…”

He hadn’t meant to be gone long—just down to their dormitory for more parchment between classes. When he came back through the common room, the air was thick with the smug hum of older students pretending they weren’t watching.

Callum stood with his back to the fireplace, schoolbag slung loose over one shoulder, his fingers tightening around the strap just as the first hex hit. Rigidus—clean and silent. Elowyn saw it strike his shoulder like a crack of winter air. Callum staggered, the strap slipping, wand tumbling to the floor. He bent to retrieve it—and the second hex came fast, meaner. This one landed at the elbow, and Callum flinched, then froze.

Elowyn was too far across the room. His voice wouldn’t have carried. His wand was in his holster just out of reach. He could only watch as Callum stood, jaw set, right arm hanging stiff at his side. No one spoke and no one moved to help. When he finally moved again, it was with quiet, searing dignity—picking up his wand with his offhand like it hadn’t happened, brushing past the girls standing near the common room exit without looking at them.

Elowyn had followed behind simmering with silent fury. Callum had written all through Charms with his other hand, the paralysis fading slow and aching. He hadn’t mentioned it again.

“I couldn’t protect you,” Elowyn said softly, his eyes on the flickering candlelight. “I can’t protect you. You’re in danger just because you’re near me.”

Peter lay silent between them, pale and still, his breath a fragile thread in the hush of the infirmary. The candles near his bedside had guttered down to a stub, casting jittery shadows across his throat and collarbones. His body lay between them now—not just in space, but in silence too. What had once bound them was beginning to divide.

Elowyn spoke again, quieter this time. “I’m saying you could…distance yourself. Just publicly.” His voice was careful, every word weighed like it might break the air. “You and Peter. It might keep you safer.”

“From you?” Callum said, too loud. He looked at Elowyn sharply, like he couldn’t believe he was real. “That’s what you think I need protecting from?”

“No.” Elowyn’s fingers froze mid-fidget. “From them. You’ve seen how they look at you now. They’re marked you because of me.”

“And what, I’m supposed to—what? Pretend you’re some monster I had to escape from? Let them call you filth and keep my head down like it doesn’t matter?”

“I’m saying I don’t want that,” Elowyn said quickly, “but it might be necessary. They’re not going to stop. And when Peter wakes—he’ll need someone to stand beside him. Someone they’ll accept. Someone who isn’t…tainted.”

Callum pushed back his chair so hard it scraped. “Tainted,” he repeated. “Is that really how you see yourself? Like you’re some disease I caught?”

Elowyn didn’t flinch at the words. If anything, he looked tired—older, like something inside him had been quietly burning for weeks and was now only ash.

“I think that’s how they see me,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “And sometimes…it’s hard not to believe them.”

Callum paced the narrow stretch of floor between Peter’s bed and the next, his fists clenched and his face flushed with fury. “You’re not tainted,” he said sharply. “You’re—brilliant. You’re better than them and stronger. And the way you carry yourself—Merlin, Elowyn, you scare them because you play their games better than they do. But you don’t need to lie, or hurt people, or act like you’re better than everyone.”

Elowyn’s chest ached, but his expression didn’t shift. “That’s not what they see,” he said quietly. “They see a freak born of the dirt, a magic too old and too strange to name. If you distance yourself—just publicly—they might leave you alone. And if they leave you alone…they might leave Peter alone too. We have to think about what he’ll need when he wakes. He won’t be the same.”

Callum scoffed, “You think they’ll accept me? After all this? After us?”

“I think you could—recover,” Elowyn said. “If you weren’t tied to me. It’s not a punishment. I just want you to be able to breathe.”

Callum looked at him for a long, unblinking moment—then let out a laugh, brittle as frost on stone. It held no warmth, only the sharp edge of something splintered beneath the surface.

“Funny,” he said. “Because I feel like I can’t breathe when I’m not near you.”

Elowyn’s throat tightened, a ripple beneath skin too thin to hide the ache—but whatever words had formed dissolved before they could rise.

Callum pressed his palms to his eyes, then dropped them, exhaling hard through his nose. “Look, I don’t know what you think this is. But I didn’t get sorted into Slytherin by accident. I asked the Hat to put me there—with you. I stayed. On the train. After. Now. I don’t care if it hurts. I don’t care if they hex me or spit at me or shove me down the bloody stairs. I’m here with you.”

Elowyn flinched—barely, but enough to feel it echo through the hollow place in his chest where certainty used to live. It wasn’t pain, not exactly. It was the terrible, aching ache of being chosen, when he’d never asked to be. When someone stood before the storm and said I’ll stay—not because they had to, but because they wanted to. And it was beautiful. And it was unbearable. Because loyalty like that had weight. Elowyn wasn’t sure he could bear to carry it, or to be the reason someone else had to.

“I know you mean it,” he said, voice low. “That’s what scares me.”

Callum’s brow furrowed. “Then why keep pushing me away?”

“You keep trying to be noble or whatever,” Callum said, before Elowyn could answer. “But it’s not noble to hurt the people who want to stay.”

Elowyn looked down at Peter, still and silent between them. “You both deserve better than this…this half-life. Rejected by the other Houses just for being Sorted here. Rejected by our House for staying near me. And what’s left? One friend. Born in the mud.”

Callum’s voice was quiet now, almost flat. “Maybe we do. But this is what I chose. And I’d rather have you—and Peter—than be safe and alone. Or worse, safe with people who’d treat you like you’re nothing.”

He turned then, walking fast toward the infirmary door.

“Callum—” Elowyn started, rising halfway.

Callum didn’t stop. He just threw the words over his shoulder, sharp and tired and small: “Next time you want to protect me, don’t make it feel like you’re tossing me away.”

The door sighed shut behind him. Elowyn sat in silence, hands resting on Peter’s hospital bed as if to steady himself against some unseen tide. The fight with Callum hung thick in the air still, like steam that wouldn’t lift. Shadows pooled in the hollows of Peter’s collarbones, flickering each time the candle stubs at his bedside guttered. His breath came slow, a soundless rise and fall beneath the hospital blanket.

“I know you can’t hear me,” Elowyn murmured, voice hoarse. “But I’m still sorry.”

He wasn’t sure which part he was sorry for. Was it Peter, lying still and silent, breath catching now and then like a snag in thread? Was it the way the House—his House—had turned its eyes away from them, then sharpened their blades now always ready to strike? Or was it Callum—Callum who had chosen him again and again, even as Elowyn had tried to hand him an exit wrapped in reasons and sacrifice? Maybe it was all of it. Maybe it was none of it. The ache had tangled so thick inside him, he couldn’t name where one sorrow ended and the next began.

His thoughts ran like ink on rain-soaked parchment—blurred, bleeding together, indistinct and illegible. He pressed the heel of his palm into his eye and breathed, slow and shaky. The quiet around Peter’s bed felt too loud. And in it, Elowyn felt impossibly alone—like he’d drifted somewhere just beyond the reach of even the Castle’s old magic, untethered and unseen.

The Castle had been ever present at the back of his mind, vibrating in his marrow, since he stepped foot on Hogwarts’ grounds. In the bones of the walls. In the breath of the stairwells. It had been a hum just below hearing that told him he wasn’t truly alone. But now…now it was hushed, as if it were watching from behind a locked door—both withholding and cold.

Even the Koes—distant though it was—felt far and strange inside him. The warmth that had lived in his chest since infancy, a memory of roots and earth and something older than blood, had dimmed to shadow. As though the Koes itself had drawn inward, wary. As though it, too, feared what he was becoming: cold and distant…lost.

He sighed after many long minutes lost in reverie. “I’ve tried to keep you safe. I tried to keep both of you safe. But I—”

He stopped. His fingers tightened against the side of the mattress. The Castle creaked faintly overhead. A rustle of robes, then a voice behind him: firm, but not unkind.

“Visiting hours are over, Mr. Marwood-Travers.”

Elowyn didn’t startle. He nodded once, not looking up. Madam Pomfrey stepped closer, her soft shoes whispering against the flagstones.

“You know,” she said quietly, but firmly, “friends who care that much are bound to clash now and then. Don’t let a row undo what means the most.”

Elowyn’s throat burned, but he said nothing. He just nodded again. He then slowly stood, gathered his things, smoothed his robes, and gave Peter one last, lingering glance.

“Goodnight,” he whispered, squeezing Peter’s hand before letting it go. Then he turned and followed Madam Pomfrey toward the door, his footsteps hushed in the quiet of the infirmary—like he was trying not to wake what they might still lose.

The Castle did not stir as Elowyn walked. The stones beneath his feet felt colder than they’d been earlier, or maybe it was only that he’d stopped noticing warmth. Candles hissed softly in their brackets, throwing shadows like blades along the dungeon walls. His steps echoed back at him in that low corridor rhythm, each one a reminder that he was, in this moment, entirely alone.

At the base of the marble stairwell, he passed a knot of Ravenclaw first-years murmuring to each other. One girl—he recognized her vaguely from Charms—looked up, caught his eye for half a second, then turned her back without a word. The others followed her lead, like his presence had broken some unspoken rule of cleanliness. Further down, a pair of Hufflepuff boys glanced his way, fell silent, and took the long path around the corner instead of passing him directly.

The Castle offered no comfort. Its magic, which once hummed soft and steady in his bones, felt dormant now—slumbering, or withdrawn. No subtle warmth and no flicker of awareness trailing behind him like it used to when he was especially sad or especially still. It had gone quiet, as though it too had chosen to turn away.

The entrance to the Slytherin common room melted away for him, but the common room felt off when he stepped through. Not wrong. Just…ordinary. Like the air had been cleared of consequence.

The fires still burned brightly in the various hearths. Vesper sat in one of the velvet armchairs, legs tucked elegantly beneath her, flipping through a copy of Witch Weekly without looking at the pages. Across from her, Honoria twirled her wand between two fingers and said something too softly to hear. Neither girl looked up, but others did. A few older students by the study tables glanced his way, then back at their parchment with smug, private smiles. A fourth-year boy stifled a laugh behind his hand.

Elowyn didn’t speak. He didn’t pause. He walked straight through the common room like a ghost, ignoring the ripples of sotto voce titters and taunts he left in his wake.

When he approached the door to their dormitory, he pushed it open carefully, soundlessly, and stepped inside.

The room was softly lit by the sconces and the blazing fire in greens and gold. His and Peter’s beds were undisturbed. Callum’s bed—closest to the door—had its curtains half-drawn. From across the room, faint steam curled in from the slightly ajar en suite tucked to the left of the entrance, just opposite Callum’s bed. The air smelled faintly of mint, willow bark, and juniper—sharp, herbal, and clean.

Elowyn stilled in the doorway. He knew that smell. Knew it like he knew the hush of the Koes before dawn, like he knew the worn seams of his Papa’s Healer robes. It was one of the balms Emrys had brewed and packed for Elowyn at the end of summer, folded with care between spare robes and stationery supplies. A salve for pain. Callum hadn’t asked to use it, but he hadn’t needed to. He knew where it was and they had long grown accustomed to sharing everything.

And that he’d used it—that he needed it—made Elowyn’s throat tighten, his eyes sting. He turned toward his bed, toward the fire, toward silence. But the scent followed him. He sat at the foot of his mattress and listened. All he heard was the low gurgle of water draining, then a long, aching quiet.

The dread he’d carried from the infirmary thickened into something slower, heavier. Callum was hiding—not from him, but for him. Because showing the bruises would make it real. Because if Elowyn saw the cost, he’d have no argument left. And somewhere deep down, Callum had always known that. Known that being near Elowyn came with pain. Known it—and chosen it anyway. That was the truth Elowyn had tried not to see. But now, with the scent of a healing salve thick in the air and silence pressing at his ears, he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

The lights dimmed in the dormitory by Castle rhythm, the sconces drawing themselves low, casting long shadows across the stone. Steam still curled faintly from beneath the en suite door when Callum emerged at last. He wore long-sleeved pyjamas—unusual for him, even in chillier nights—and he moved quickly, head down, saying nothing as he crossed to his bed. His curtains hissed shut behind him.

Elowyn didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The silence itself was heavy with what wasn’t being said. He stood, collected his things quietly, and stepped into the en suite, the damp warmth clinging to him like breath. The scent of the balm lingered faintly in the air—sharp and cool.

He washed. Brushed his teeth. Pressed his palms to the edge of the sink and stared into the mirror without really seeing. When he finally returned to the room, the fire had died down to a low, pulsing ember. Peter’s bed remained untouched. Callum’s curtains stayed drawn.

Elowyn lay in his own bed for a while, staring up at the ceiling. Listening.

Callum was moving—not violently or loudly—but he was shifting again and again, turning over while sighing quietly in frustration. The sort of restlessness that didn’t come from the body, but from something deeper—the ache of knowing you’ve done that was right and still paid for it.

Elowyn sat up. He padded softly across the stone, lifted Callum’s curtain just enough, and slipped inside. He said nothing and the only sound was the slow rustle of limbs adjusting to make room. He reached out, wrapped an arm across Callum’s middle, careful not to press too hard. Callum let him. He didn’t shift away or flinch. He only breathed—uneven at first, then steadying.

A few moments passed and then, in a voice so quiet it barely reached him, Callum whispered, “I choose you.”

Elowyn closed his eyes. The words passed through him like light through stained glass—soft, colored by memory, and more revealing than he wanted to admit. He did not speak. He couldn’t. But he felt Callum beside him, awake still. Holding in silence what Elowyn could no longer name.

And Elowyn…was afraid. He was afraid of what lay beyond this fragile moment. He was afraid of what Peter might see when he opened his eyes. And he was afraid that this warmth, this closeness, would be the last before the cold returned.

He lay still beneath the covers, eyes fixed on the sloping curve of the bed’s canopy, where shadows curled and slipped like thoughts too soft—or too dangerous—to name aloud. Just beyond the thin fabric, the lake pressed close, its weight visible in the faint, enchanted shimmer of water gliding behind stone and glass. Light moved there: long, silver ripples bending across the ceiling like dreamlines. Shapes stirred behind the current—the slow drift of reeds, the languid turn of a fish’s fin, the hush of movement that had nothing at all to do with boys and blood and bruised mornings. The world up there was quiet and unmoved by the war fought down below.

This wasn’t peace, not exactly. And it certainly wasn’t safety. But it was presence—something real, something now—pressed in close and trembling faintly at the seams, like fabric stretched just shy of tearing. It wouldn’t hold forever. But for tonight, in this breath between battles, it would have to be enough.

Chapter Text

They left the dungeons in silence, the green-tinted firelight flickering behind them as they climbed into the rising chill of the castle’s upper halls. Elowyn walked in the center, as he always had, though the rhythm was uneven now. To his right, Callum moved with deliberate steps, shoulders drawn slightly inward. To his left, there was only absence—the space where Peter should have been. Elowyn didn’t glance toward it, but he felt the gap like a wound.

They passed no one for the first few turns. The hush of morning clung to the flagstones like mist, and the portraits watched them without speaking. Elowyn’s breath fogged faintly as they climbed.

By the time they reached the long corridor outside Transfiguration, students from Ravenclaw had already begun to gather in clusters along the far side. Their robes were neatly pressed, hair still damp from morning baths. They did not speak to the Slytherins, but they watched them—carefully, warily. When Elowyn and Callum stepped into the light, the watchers grew still.

Four girls flanked the far wall where a carved niche held an ancient suit of armor that occasionally groaned as if it were injured in some long forgotten battle. Belvina Travers leaned against it with one boot braced casually on the stone. Corinne Rosier lounged beside her, eyes half-lidded with lazy amusement. Octavia Flint cracked her knuckles once, loudly. Ysadora Nott stood off to one side, arms crossed tight across her chest.

“Look who finally dragged themselves out of bed,” Belvina said, voice light but pitched to carry. “Though maybe that’s generous. I’ve heard they don’t sleep at all—just moan and whinge for their little friend all night long.”

Corinne’s lip curled. “Jasper told me he heard them last night—whimpering like Kneazles left out in the rain.”

Octavia didn’t even glance over. “Said it’s been every night since little Hexed and Helpless got himself cursed. Pathetic, really. Slytherins used to have standards.”

There was laughter—not loud, but layered like barbs beneath silk, meant less to maim than to sting again and again. The Ravenclaws didn’t intervene. A few looked away. One boy near the front muttered something under his breath, but his friend gave a sharp shake of the head, eyes fixed ahead. No one was surprised because this had become routine.

Callum shifted beside him, tension thrumming beneath his robes. Elowyn caught the barest glimpse of wandwood at his sleeve—nothing overt, but enough. Without looking, he let his hand fall just slightly, brushing the fabric at Callum’s wrist in passing. A feather-light touch—nothing more—meant to remind him to stay calm and unreadable.

Behind them, the girls’ voices trailed off into smug silence.

Then, quiet and composed, Elowyn said, “It’s always fascinating, isn’t it? Watching people try so very hard to be clever when it simply isn’t in their nature.”

Callum gave a low hum, eyes forward. “Let ’em talk. It’s all noise. You’re still the one they’re watching.”

“True,” Elowyn replied, almost wistfully. “But one does admire the confidence. It takes a certain kind of bravery to parade your mediocrity.”

There was a sharp intake of breath behind them followed by a stifled scoff.

Belvina’s voice cut through, brittle and high. “Careful, Soilspawn. The higher you hold your head, the easier it is to break your neck.”

Callum turned, slow and steady to the score or so Ravenclaw first-years now assembled. “You hear them, don’t you? All of you lot?” 

His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried—low, tight. “Every day. Every word. And you just stand there. Like it’s nothing. Like we’re nothing.”

Silence met him. One Ravenclaw toyed with the hem of her sleeve; another studied the stone floor as if it might offer escape. The rest found sudden fascination in the ceiling, the torches, the curve of the corridor—anywhere but them.

“Right,” Callum muttered, gaze like fire. “Easy to stay quiet when you think you’ve got nothing to lose.”

Elowyn’s voice slipped in beside his—soft, deliberate. “And there it is. I used to think Ravenclaws prized observation.”

He smiled without warmth. “But it turns out they’ve only mastered the art of looking away.”

His eyes flicked to a boy near the front of the queue to enter the class.

“Let me know when cowardice becomes a cornerstone of wisdom,” he said, voice smooth as still water. “I’ll adjust my understanding of Ravenclaw accordingly.”

At just that moment, the classroom door clicked opened and Elowyn stepped past the Ravenclaw queue with a grace that felt practiced now and entered the classroom first. Callum followed without a word, though his jaw was set like stone.

Behind them, Octavia muttered something under her breath—“Freak’s got a death wish”—but no hex followed, just the crackling tension of air unspent.

As they approached their usual seats near the front, Callum spoke, voice low, “One of these days, they’re going to push too far. And I won’t let you be the one who pays for it.”

Elowyn didn’t look at him as he settled into his seat. His gaze stayed forward, posture flawless. “That’s why we don’t flinch,” he said, soft but firm. “If they never see where it hurts, they’ll never know where to strike.”

He arranged his books with deliberate care, each movement crisp, almost meditative. Then, without shifting his expression, he nudged the inkwell just slightly—angled it toward Callum’s side of the desk. Not a signal, not exactly, but a gesture both quiet, certain: What’s mine is yours. We share it all. Callum said nothing, but his jaw eased as he reached for his quill.

Professor McGonagall stepped through the door precisely as the last murmur of conversation faded. Her tartan robes swung crisply as she crossed to the front of the classroom, eyes sharp behind her square spectacles.

“Wands away,” she said without looking up. “Today’s work does not begin with incantation.”

There was a rustle of parchment and a collective shift of bodies. The Ravenclaws moved like a tide—ink already scratching across half their parchments before McGonagall had even lifted her wand. Callum, less graceful, fished a bent quill from the depths of his satchel and frowned at it, then reached for the shared inkwell without a word. Elowyn, seated beside him, had already opened to the proper page of their textbook, posture immaculate, fingers lightly resting on the margins as if reading were a kind of sacred ritual.

“Page one hundred and twelve,” McGonagall instructed, flicking her wand once. The blackboard filled at once with looping script. “We are continuing our unit on material transfigurations—today, we will be working on an object-to-object transformation—simple in theory, but deceptively complex in execution. You are to turn a sheet of parchment into a handkerchief. Same weight, different texture, different purpose. Focus on the fibers—don’t lose the corners.” she added, with the faintest arch of an eyebrow.

A faint groan rose from the back—Elowyn suspected it was Flint—but McGonagall ignored it with the same efficiency she brought to everything.

They worked in silence for some time. Quills scratched for several long minutes and then slowly and softly incantations rose through the quiet air. Soon, small, half-formed handkerchiefs gave off odd scents or twitched like startled mice before being Vanished with discreet flicks. McGonagall moved between rows with her hands clasped tightly behind her back, pausing now and then to observe, offer correction, or raise a single, expectant eyebrow. Elowyn’s parchment softened on the first try—fibers loosening, corners curling neatly inward until the sheet fluttered once into pale cotton. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting the stitching that hadn’t been there a moment before, then calmly returned to his notes. Callum’s was slower and rougher—his handkerchief came out a lopsided square, wrinkled at the edges, but recognizably cloth. He frowned, adjusted his grip, and tried again without complaint

It was halfway through the lesson when the interruption came. A soft fluttering—more felt than heard—drew a few glances upward as a paper bird, folded in sleek Ministry style, sailed in through the open transom. It circled once, graceful and precise, before gliding down to land on Professor McGonagall’s desk. Its wings folded with a delicate snap, and it stilled.

McGonagall paused mid-sentence. She extended one long hand and opened the message with the practiced motion of someone who had read thousands just like it—and trusted very few of them.

Her mouth thinned.

“Mr. Marwood-Travers. Mr. McCormack.” She didn’t raise her voice, but the class stilled. “Gather your things. You are to report to the Hospital Wing at once.”

The scratch of quills stopped. Callum’s hand froze around his quill. Elowyn was already sitting straighter, but his face gave away nothing. They packed and stood, nearly in unison.

And then, behind them—soft, syrupy, and scalding—came Honoria Mulciber’s voice.

“Poor Jasper. Twice the sobbing tonight, I imagine. Though perhaps it’s for the best. The dormitory will feel less…muddled now.”

A single, sharp laugh—one of the Slytherin girls, low and bitter.

But McGonagall turned at once, eyes like flint. “Ten points from Slytherin, Miss Mulciber. And if I hear another word like that in my classroom, I will make it another ten and a week’s worth of detention.”

The air shifted. No apology came, but Honoria’s gaze dropped for the first time.

McGonagall looked back to Elowyn and Callum. “Well? Go.”

Elowyn inclined his head—polite but unreadable—and moved to the door. Callum followed without hesitation, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful. As the door closed behind them, the air behind it was still taut with silence.

—

The Hospital Wing was bathed in late autumn morning light, curtains drawn halfway against the pale November glare. As Elowyn and Callum slipped through the doors, the low murmur of Professor Snape’s voice met them like mist rolling off stone—measured, exact, and utterly devoid of comfort.

“…a compound binding reversal—administered through blood, not spellwork—will be required. A battlefield brew, almost certainly. Though whoever left him had the foresight to remove surface residue, likely to disguise the nature of the attack. Sloppy, but effective. Without visible trace, it presented as a curse.”

He did not pause as the door opened.

“Unfortunately for them, the internal damage—vascular necrosis, magical displacement—was too precise, too invasive. Typical of amateur alchemy masquerading as spellcraft. Crude. And lazy.”

Peter lay motionless in the nearest bed, his skin pale and faintly waxen beneath the soft gold lamp above. A thin shimmer of protective magic hummed around him—Pomfrey’s doing, surely—and two armchairs had been drawn close to either side of the bed. Morwenna Ainsley sat in one, hands clasped tightly in her lap, lips pressed thin. Beside her stood Crispin, tall and narrow-shouldered in Ministry robes, his expression unreadable.

Snape gestured toward the vial cradled in Madam Pomfrey’s hands, gloved in fine, translucent gloves charmed for sterility. He continued as though the boys’ arrival were nothing more than an inconvenient draft through an open door.

“He will not ingest it,” Snape said coldly. “The potion is blood-bound. Absorption is the only viable method—anything else would degrade the binding structure before it can take effect.”

He stepped back slightly, arms folding, robes settling like a curtain after a storm.

“The treatment is segmented,” he said. “Three distinct draughts, brewed in sequence. Each administered a day apart. Each is tailored to dismantle a specific layer of the compound: the first targets vascular binding, the second magical displacement, the third necrotic residue. It is slow because it must be—if rushed, the restoration would collapse the very tissue it’s meant to preserve.”

His eyes flicked toward Elowyn, then Callum. “If administered correctly, the internal damage will be reversed in full. As for scarring—” his mouth curled faintly, “—necrosis is rarely so polite. But function should return. That is what matters.”

Morwenna’s voice was taut. “And you’re certain?”

“As certain as one can be in such cases,” Snape said crisply. “There are no guarantees. But this…is the most viable path.”

With that, he turned—finally acknowledging the boys with a narrow glance. “You’re late.”

Neither Elowyn nor Callum flinched. Elowyn inclined his head, just slightly. “We came as soon as we were summoned, sir.”

Snape was already halfway to the infirmary door when Morwenna Ainsley’s voice, clear and clipped, rang after him.

“Professor Snape.”

He stopped.

Crispin stepped forward, tone cool and even. “Are you telling us that the theory Elowyn and Callum sent in their last letter was correct?”

Snape turned slowly. His expression was unreadable, mouth a thin line. “I am telling you,” he said, voice like silk over a blade, “that your son was subjected to a variant of an ancient war-era potion once thought lost to regulation. I am telling you that its effects were deliberately masked and its residue scrubbed away to resemble something else entirely. I am telling you that most would have dismissed it—and did.”

He let the words settle a beat.

“But as it happens,” he continued, dry as parchment, “two overly inquisitive first-years happened upon a marginal note in a sixteenth-century field manual and brought it to me. Without permission, I might add.”

Crispin’s brows twitched. “So yes, then.”

Snape’s nostrils flared ever so slightly. “This is not a matter of credit or theatrics. It is a matter of correction and containment.”

Morwenna’s gaze narrowed. “But they helped save him.”

Snape’s eyes flicked toward Elowyn and Callum at last—cold, unreadable. “They helped,” he said with the slightest nod of his head before turning on his heel.

Snape said nothing more. He strode past them, robes whispering like silk over stone, and disappeared through the doors with the potion trailing behind him in Pomfrey’s careful hands.

Madame Pomfrey moved forward, wand already in hand, her voice gentler by contrast. “We’ll use a sigil-binding to ensure the absorption remains stable,” she said, reaching down to unfasten the top few buttons of Peter’s hospital pyjamas with practiced care.

Then, with a precise sweep of her wand, she traced a gold-threaded symbol in the air above his chest. It shimmered faintly—like morning light on water—before sinking into his skin, slow as breath on glass. The glow steadied, waiting.

At a quick flick of her wand, the stopper eased from the vial without touch. The potion within glowed faintly—a deep, shimmering bronze. A single stream lifted into the air, suspended and gleaming, before beginning its slow descent in a perfect spiral.

It did not fall to Peter’s lips. Instead, as it neared the waiting sigil, the rune flared to life in matching color. As the stream touched its center, it vanished, absorbed at once, like ink drawn into a quill. The glow deepened, then steadied, faint and low, as if the magic had begun to take root. Peter did not stir.

Pomfrey watched the glow settle, then straightened with a quiet breath. “There now,” she said softly. “It’s begun.”

She turned slightly toward the others, voice matter-of-fact but not unkind. “Don’t expect movement just yet. The first draught prepares the body—it stabilizes the bindings, and slows the spread. Only the final dose will trigger regeneration.”

Her gaze lingered on Peter’s still form. “Healing takes time. Especially this kind.”

With a final glance at the faintly glowing sigil, Pomfrey gave a small, satisfied nod and turned toward her office. Her footsteps were brisk and purposeful—but there was a gentleness in her retreat, as though she knew to leave space for what came next.

The moment the door clicked softly behind her, Morwenna Ainsley moved. She moved around the bed in swift strides, skirts whispering around her ankles.

Morwenna reached them first. “I’m so glad you came,” she said softly, voice thick with feeling. Her arms came up and she pulled them both in—awkwardly at first, Elowyn tense, Callum startled—but she held fast, firm and fierce. “You’ve done more than we could’ve hoped,” she murmured. “Madam Pomfrey said he always seemed calmer after you’d been.”

When she stepped back, her hands lingered briefly—one on Elowyn’s cheek, the other still gripping Callum’s arm.

Crispin stood just behind, quieter but no less present. “We’re glad you’re here,” he said simply. “Truly.”

He stepped forward then, gaze moving between them—cool but not cold, weighing and considering.

“My son is still breathing,” he said. “And from what I gather, that has more to do with you two than anything else.”

Elowyn started to shake his head, but Morwenna gently touched his arm. “No. Don’t diminish it. You stayed when even your House turned its back.”

Her eyes were glassy, unshed tears catching the light.

“Elowyn,” she said, voice trembling now. “Whatever anyone else says about your blood, or where you came from…he trusted you. That tells us everything we need to know.”

Callum blinked hard. Elowyn only nodded, swallowing once, his posture more rigid than usual.

Elowyn looked toward the bed, to Peter’s still form and the faint shimmer of breath rising from his chest. He stepped closer, pulled the chair up again, and sat without a word. Callum followed. They didn’t need to speak anymore. They had waited so long already.

—

Every day, between classes and until curfew, they returned to the Hospital Wing. Sometimes they sat in silence, sometimes read aloud, and sometimes simply watched for the smallest change in Peter’s breathing. And when Morwenna and Crispin could come—brief visits carved out between caring for their younger children and the other young lives they looked after—they sat with them too, sharing the quiet while trading what updates they could. There was a comfort in it, spare and fragile but real: the act of waiting, together.

Each time, they found him changed. It wasn’t obvious—not at first. But the signs were there for those who had spent every day with him for nearly two months. The sigil had faded from gold to pewter, then to pale opal. The branching darkness beneath his skin—the veins of magical trauma that once spidered from collar to hip—had begun to recede. They no longer shimmered black and inky, but settled into something more sallow, bruised, and quiet. Less like rot, more like memory.

The inky pattern was being replaced by faint, white whispers of scarring—fine lines like fissures beneath the skin, pale against Peter’s chest, blooming outward like ghost branches. Callum had stared at them a long time, his throat working once like he’d swallowed something sharp. Elowyn hadn’t spoken. He’d simply leaned forward and watched the slow rise of Peter’s chest, steady as the Castle’s own breath.

Madame Pomfrey didn’t chase them away. She never said much, but her eyes softened when she found Elowyn asleep in the chair or Callum pacing the tile with silent, stormy steps.

By the third dose, the glow was more subdued, but steadier. They didn’t speak of hope. That would have been too dangerous, but Elowyn brought a book each time and read aloud in quiet stretches. And Callum, though he never joined in, didn’t stop him. Waiting had become its own kind of vigil.

The Hospital Wing was quiet as usual, the light low and dappled in the deepening blue of evening. The final dose had been administered nearly an hour ago. The sigil still pulsed gently on Peter’s chest—no longer gold, but a pale silvery hue, like starlight filtered through frost.

Elowyn sat as he had every night, a book open in his lap, though he hadn’t turned the page in ten minutes, too distracted with the thought that the treatment wasn’t going to fully work. Callum had pulled his chair closer and leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, eyes flicking every so often toward Peter’s face.

Madame Pomfrey had stepped out to prepare fresh linens. The Ainsleys had had to return home to the rest of their brood. The ward was still, wrapped in that heavy hush that only surrounded the ill or the almost-healed.

Elowyn sighed, barely a breath. “What if—”

Peter inhaled. It was soft, but deeper than before—less shallow. Then again. And then—a flutter. His fingers moved, just barely. Then his eyes—closed for so long—tensed, blinked, opened.

Elowyn was on his feet instantly, book fallen and forgotten, hand at his heart like he’d been struck.

Peter’s gaze moved sluggishly, unfocused. His lips parted. A breath caught. Then—

“El? Cal?” A pause. A weak smirk. “Why do you two look like you haven’t slept in a year?”

His voice was rough and papery, like it had forgotten how to work.

Callum let out a sound that was half a laugh, half a breathless exhale. “’Course we haven’t, ya daft git. Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you.”

Elowyn couldn’t speak. He simply reached for Peter’s hand and held it tight, the pressure saying everything words could not. Tears welled slowly, turning his violet-ringed eyes luminous as they slipped down his pale cheeks in silent trails.

Peter turned slowly to look at Elowyn, blinked slowly a few times, while a soft smile curled gently at his lips. “Tired,” he whispered.

And he fell back asleep—not from unconsciousness or injury, but from the simple exhaustion that follows sorrow. It was the kind of sleep that settles in quietly, without force, when the body has released its tension and the mind has grown too heavy to carry on. His breathing slowed, and the lines of strain eased from his face as his limbs slackened in quiet surrender. Though it was not peace in any lasting sense, it was rest, and it was real. Around him, the Castle remained still, as if acknowledging the weight of what had passed and granting this moment of reprieve without question.

Callum reached across the bed and laid his hand atop Elowyn’s and Peter’s. Elowyn held fast—his grip unsteady but resolute—and in that quiet tangle of fingers passed a thousand things unspoken: the joy of return, the aching relief of having arrived in time, and beneath it all, the solemn understanding of what would follow. Peter would wake, and the world would not be kind. But the space he’d left was no longer empty. He was here. And soon, they would face the Den again—its teeth bared, its shadows deeper than before, but they would face it all…together.

Chapter Text

The Hospital Wing stirred in the fading hush of the day. Outside, the sky lay flat and grey above the high towers, its light thinning to the color of old pewter. Inside, the air smelled faintly of fresh linen and aromatic clove—a residue of healing, and something older besides. The Castle was breathing again, a low and watchful thrum in the stone, as if its very bones remembered relief and had begun, cautiously, to relax. Peter sat propped in bed, pale as parchment, the hospital sheets tucked loosely around his legs. His sleeves had been rolled back to the wrist, and a soft, iridescent shimmer still traced the bones of his forearm—faint and opaline, like moonlight on skin. It pulsed in time with his heartbeat, steady but slow, a quiet rhythm that seemed to anchor him to the world. He blinked slowly, and each time his eyes opened again, it was with a tentative sort of wonder, like he still wasn’t entirely convinced the waking world would remain.

The door eased open without creak or fuss, and Callum stepped through first, his jumper slightly askew with one side tugged longer than the other, the collar stretched as if he had dressed in haste; there was dust clinging faintly to the soles of his boots and a scuff along one cuff where his sleeve had caught on something, but beneath the disarray, he moved with a kind of quiet control, as though he were carrying something breakable inside himself and dared not let it slip. Elowyn followed close behind, his presence soft and steady, and as the door sighed shut behind them, his fingers brushed lightly against the edge of Callum’s sleeve—not entirely by accident, but not wholly deliberate either, a gesture born from long habit and the kind of closeness that no longer required thought. In the months they had spent without Peter, left to weather the worst of it alone, their bond had deepened into something unspoken and constant, a tether drawn not from drama or declaration but from the simple rhythm of reaching and being reached for, again and again, until it settled into the marrow of them both.

Peter saw the brush of fingers—light, familiar, unnoticed by either of them—and though he didn’t speak, his eyes lingered. He turned slowly, gaze moving from Callum to Elowyn, the smallest smile forming at the corner of his mouth. It was soft and crooked, touched with relief—but laced too with something quieter, a flicker of wistfulness, as if he’d glimpsed a world that had kept turning in his absence.

When Callum got to Peter's bedside, he grinned. “You look awful.”

“I like to make an impression,” Peter replied, his voice scratchy with disuse. “Besides, I hear near-death is slimming.”

Callum huffed a laugh and dropped onto the low bench at the foot of the bed.

Elowyn stepped closer, brow drawn faintly. “May I?”

Peter nodded, and Elowyn reached for his wrist—delicate, steady. Peter didn’t pull away, but he flinched ever so slightly when Elowyn’s fingers brushed the glow still etched in his skin.

“It’s stable,” Elowyn murmured, half to himself. “But the magic is…restless.”

Peter looked at him sidelong. “So am I.”

Madam Pomfrey swept over just then, placing a silver-threaded cuff on the bedside table with a clink. “That shimmer won’t fade for another week, at least,” she said briskly. “Longer if you keep making jokes instead of resting.”

“Humour’s restorative,” Peter muttered. “You should prescribe it.”

“I’ll consider it,” she replied drily. “Once we get you walking without fainting.”

She turned serious. “Rotbrand poisoning likely won’t just fade. Your system’s been…compromised. The scarring may itch, burn, or flare under magical pressure. Your clarity will come and go. The cuff will help stabilize surges, but you’ll be back here for checkups. Three times a week.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “We dating now?”

Callum choked on a laugh. Madam Pomfrey did not.

“You’ll wear the cuff, you’ll drink the draughts, and you’ll not pretend you’re fine when you aren’t,” she said sternly, eyes flicking to Elowyn and Callum. “See to it he follows my instructions to the letter.”

Callum nodded solemnly. Elowyn, gaze unreadable, said only, “We’ll make sure.”

They helped Peter dress slowly. His shirt hung off his shoulders, and the laces of his boots trembled in his hands until Callum knelt to tie them without a word. When Peter rose, it was with effort—slow and stiff, like the bones inside him weren’t sure how to hold him up anymore.

Callum offered an arm. Peter waved him off at first, but then took it anyway. When they reached the door, Elowyn stepped ahead to open it. Peter paused in the threshold, caught between the bright chill of the corridor and the sterile warmth of the ward. His breath hitched once, and though he said nothing, his eyes lingered on the bed where he had lain for more than two months. Elowyn reached out and touched his wrist—lightly, without urgency. Peter looked at him, then at Callum, and with a quiet nod, shifted so Elowyn could slip in beside him. And together—Callum on one side, Elowyn on the other—they stepped into the hall, shoulder to shoulder, the fragile shape of them whole again at last.

Peter walked between them, a little unsteady, his weight leaning more on Callum than he would have liked. Elowyn moved slightly ahead on his far side, wand hidden in hand beneath the folds of his robe—quietly alert, just in case. As they crossed the threshold, the door behind them eased shut with a low sigh. Peter paused again, just beyond it, his breath catching at the sudden change. The corridor stretched ahead—too bright, too wide after so long in the hush of the ward. For a moment, he couldn’t move. Then he glanced sideways, first at Callum, then at Elowyn, and whispered to them both, barely more than breath, “Still here.”

—

They didn’t even make it through the portal. They had been foolish to think they could, not with Slytherin machinations always lying in wait. Elowyn had just stepped through the common room threshold, wand in hand, ready to cast a shield charm if needed—and it was needed more often than not these days. His wand sat taut in his grip, the kelpie core drawn tight like a creature poised to strike, alert and coiled beneath the rowan’s restraint. It did not stir. But it was ready.

Peter leaned subtly against Callum’s side when two voices rang out—bright, polished, and far too warm.

“Petey, darling” Honoria purred from the fireside alcove, rising from her seat with the elegance of a hostess greeting an old friend. “How absolutely wonderful to see you vertical. You’re looking practically…corporeal. How clever of you!”

Vesper was beside her, all silk and moonlight, the kind of girl who always smiled like she was being watched. “We were ever so worried. You were in there for weeks and weeks and weeks. We started to wonder if they’d had to grow you a spine.”

Peter froze mid-step. Callum turned slightly, just enough to block him from view.

“Honoria. Vesper.” Elowyn’s voice was smooth, almost serene. “Your consistency never fails to impress me. It’s almost admirable, how precisely you choose your poison. A shame, though, that it’s always the same.”

He paused just enough for the room to listen.“Do have a good evening. I trust you’ll find that easier to manage than civility.”

Honoria’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it grew. “But you’ve only just arrived,” she said sweetly. “Don’t be rude, Ely. We’ve gone to such trouble to welcome you.”

Vesper stepped in smoothly, voice like silk catching on a thorn. She glanced at Peter.

“You’re looking quite…spectral,” Vesper said with a tilt of her head, voice syrupy sweet. “Very fashionable, these days. We thought maybe you’d come back see-through.”

Honoria cast her a brief sideways glance—sharp, dismissive, edged with the faintest irritation. Elowyn caught it, noted the tiny shift in her posture, the tension at the corner of her mouth. He didn’t speak, but his eyes flicked once to Peter—who, after a beat, gave a crooked half-smile.

“Well, if I’m see-through now, that’ll save you the trouble of pretending I’m not here.”

Honoria’s eyes glittered. “Well, you’ve always been easy to look past, Petey. It’s hardly your fault if you’ve finally leaned into it. It’s…how did Ely put it? Quite admirable.”

Vesper’s voice was silk and frost. “Quite admirable, indeed. It’s easier to forgive mediocrity when no one notices you to begin with.” 

“S’pose I’m lucky then. You’ve been noticed your whole life and people still forget what you said five minutes later.”

Peter’s lips parted like he might say something more, but Callum was already shifting beside him, jaw clenched tight.

“Come on.” His arm firmed slightly where Peter leaned against him—not harsh, but protective. “They’re not worth it.”

He didn’t even look at Honoria or Vesper. His focus was entirely on Peter...on getting Peter away. Elowyn had already turned toward the stairs, his wand still tucked loosely in his hand like a thought half-finished. He didn’t glance back. Peter hesitated a breath longer, something simmering behind his eyes—but he let himself be guided.

Behind them, Honoria’s voice floated after them like cloying perfume.

“Do take care, Petey. You seem so terribly…breakable these days.”

Vesper’s laugh followed, airy and affectionate—if one didn’t listen too closely.

As the three boys descended into the dormitory shadows, the common room behind them resumed its quiet murmur—as if nothing had happened at all.

When they got to their dormitory door, Peter stood in the entryway. His trunk was there, his bed neatly remade. Everything was in place, but nothing felt right.

Callum moved in first, “You alright, Ric?”

Peter’s face softened before he could stop it. Not at the question, but the name—Ric, not Petey. Callum remembered. Of course he did. And somehow, just hearing it—simple, familiar, his—scrubbed away the last foul traces of Honoria’s voice. It was ridiculous how much that mattered, but it did. After everything, they still saw him.

“Just tired,” Peter said. “And full of potions. Pretty sure I’m sixty percent draught by volume at this point.”

Elowyn smiled faintly and moved to his wardrobe, retrieving a blanket with practiced ease. He handed it to Peter without comment and began quietly tidying the space around Peter’s bed—replacing the book on his nightstand, straightening the cuff Madam Pomfrey had insisted he wear.

“Thanks,” Peter said, his gaze resting for a moment on Elowyn’s face—moon-soft and luminous, touched with that quiet light he never quite knew how to name.

Callum crouched by Peter’s trunk, unlatching it and lifting the lid. “Want me to get your pyjamas?”

Peter shook his head. “I’ve got it.” He reached, faltered slightly, and Callum steadied the trunk without a word.

They helped him dress into his pyjamas without further protestations. He settled into the mattress slowly, wincing once but saying nothing. The blanket Elowyn wrapped him in was soft, warmed by proximity to the fire.

Peter let out a slow breath. “Home sweet crypt.”

Callum snorted and turned toward his own bed. He pulled off his jumper, revealing the soft edge of muscle beginning to form across his shoulders and upper back—nothing dramatic, just the steady broadening of a boy who spent his free time flying, hauling crates of feed for the creatures down by the paddocks, or taking the long way up the Astronomy Tower without complaint.

He dropped the jumper beside his bed and, with the practiced ease of someone unbothered by ceremony, stripped down to his boxers and padded barefoot toward the en suite.

Peter watched the ease of it—the normalcy. Callum rummaging through his things, complaining about missing socks. Elowyn already half-dressed for bed, silk sleeves carefully rolled, brushing his teeth with rhythmic precision. They didn’t speak in whispers. They didn’t leave him out. But they moved like a unit that had been operating on its own for many months…without him.

“You two always this choreographed,” Peter asked lightly, “or did I just walk into a very niche Wandlight Revue rehearsal?”

Callum chuckled. “If this is the Wandlight Revue, I want top billing and a backup wand.”

“I’ll have Daddy send you something sequined—so you can join the act properly,” Elowyn said, smoothing the blanket on his bed with infuriating precision.

Peter smiled, but a moment later, he turned his face toward the wall. Behind him, the sounds of comfort continued—Callum asking where his flying gloves had gone, Elowyn answering without hesitation, their voices easy with familiarity. The fire murmured softly in its grate as the dormitory settled: the rustle of blankets, the quiet shift of weight, the sigh of a room settling in for the night along with its occupants.

Then Callum’s voice, low in the dim, hearthlit room: “Bet the whole House is disappointed you didn’t come back as a ghost.”

Peter turned his head just enough to be heard. “They seemed rather more upset that I came back at all—ghost or not.”

The silence held, deep and steady. Then Elowyn, his voice quiet but certain. “Let them be upset. We’ll all haunt them well into the future…together.”

They laughed—soft and real, the kind of sound that pulled the breath loose from their lungs. It felt good. It felt like something that used to be true and might be again.

The fire crackled low, casting soft green gold across the stone floor. Elowyn moved quietly, murmuring a quiet spell toward the door—a shimmer of warning magic settling like mist across the threshold—before returning to his bed and tucking his wand beneath his pillow with habitual precision. His wand did not pulse or stir, but he felt its quiet assent along with a subtle awareness that it would keep watch as he slept.

Across the room, Callum lay sprawled with one arm behind his head, eyes tracing the ceiling’s shimmer. With a low word and a flick of his fingers, he renewed the shield wards around each bed, including Peter’s. The spells glowed briefly, then faded from sight.

Peter let the mattress take his weight, his limbs heavy and aching but his mind oddly light—suspended somewhere between belonging and distance.

Then Callum turned on his side to face Peter in the dim light of the fire and asked, gently, “Ric…do you remember anything? About what happened?”

Peter didn’t answer right away.

Eventually, he muttered, “Bits and pieces. Like someone’s taken a hammer to the inside of my head and left the shards floating.”

Neither of them spoke.

“I think I was led somewhere. Or I followed someone. Can’t tell. I’ve tried to remember why I went, but it’s like…whatever reason I had got knocked loose and wandered off.”

He paused, the fire popping once like punctuation.

“There was a smell. Burnt metal. Old blood. And I think…I think someone laughed. Just once. Like they already knew I wasn’t getting out.”

He shifted under the blankets, voice growing dry:

“If I ever find out who it was, I’d like to return the favor. Preferably with fireworks. And a goat. A really uncooperative one.”

Callum’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping just below his cheekbone. Across the room, Elowyn’s fingers curled in the edge of his blanket and didn’t unclench. And still—somehow—they laughed, but it wasn't out of humor. It was the sound of things not said, of anger swelling, and of blame that hadn’t found its mark. They laughed only because they refused to cry.

Peter’s voice followed, quiet and halting. “I think…there was a snake. Somewhere. I don’t know. It all comes back wrong.”

He swallowed.

“I can’t remember where I was. Or how many there were. Just…shadows. Then pain that started in my chest. Started sharp like little knives and then spread out from there pushing the pain deeper.”

He sounded frustrated with himself, like someone who had nearly remembered a name and lost it again.

Elowyn’s voice came low across the space. “That’s more than enough—for tonight.”

Peter nodded into his pillow. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Don’t be,” Callum said. “They’ll be the ones sorry. Soon as we know who.”

The fire popped softly. Shadows danced against the stone. None of them reached for the next word.

“They left you to be forgotten,” Elowyn said, voice low but certain, “But we held on…we’ll keep holding on.”

Peter blinked up at the velvet canopy, then let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh.

“You hold on to Ghostskin too long,” he murmured, “he starts holding back.”

Chapter Text

The winter sun spilled faintly through the tall arched windows of the Great Hall, but its light was pale and weary, limping across the flagstones as if reluctant to commit to warmth. Outside, the grounds were blanketed in thick snow; the lake, already fully frozen, glittered like cracked glass beneath a sky the colour of old wool. Overhead, the enchanted ceiling reflected that same sky—a breathless stretch of cloud heavy with unshed snow. Near the end of the Slytherin table, nearest the great oak doors and farthest from the dais, Elowyn, Callum, and Peter sat huddled alone. The space around them had grown like scar tissue—quiet, distinct, untouchable. It wasn’t merely the distance from the others, though that was measurable. It was something subtler, more territorial, like a repelling field around them that no one, not even their Housemates, dared to cross.

Elowyn sat straight-backed, graceful even in stillness, his fingers folding and unfolding the edge of his napkin without looking at it. He ate with elegant precision, cutting a roasted parsnip into too-neat squares. His eyes were dark and quiet as the frost-thick woods beyond the windows. Callum, on Peter's right, worked his way through a small meat pie with the steady rhythm of someone who treated meals like fuel—efficient and unbothered by content. He scooped up a bite of mashed potatoes without looking, already halfway through by the time Peter had stopped stirring his soup. Occasionally, he flicked his gaze toward Elowyn, sitting on Peter's left, checking without seeming to. Between them, Peter hunched over a bowl of leek soup that had long gone tepid, his spoon drifting in slow, aimless circles like a skiff lost at sea. He hadn’t spoken in five minutes, and the sound of spoons and muffled conversation from the other tables only made the silence at their end of the bench more profound.

“Right.” He tried for a smile. “Wouldn’t want to keep her waiting. She might send McLaggen to fetch me—strutting down the corridor like he’s been knighted for the honour.”

That earned the faintest twitch of amusement from Callum, who muttered, “Would serve her right if you hexed him for sport.”

Peter dipped his head and smiled more to himself than for his friends. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve wanted to. Always swaggering around like he’s Head Boy already.”

But the smile didn’t hold. His fingers were pale against the pewter spoon, and a tremor moved through his wrist that he didn’t bother to hide. Elowyn watched, silent. He had grown more silent lately, but it was a silence edged in awareness, not apathy.

“She won’t push,” Elowyn said softly. “She just wants to talk.”

Peter hesitated, then said, “That’s what makes it worse. All that kindness.”

Callum’s eyes flicked toward the dais and narrowed. “Snape would’ve just ordered you to his office.”

“Snape hasn’t said anything,” Peter replied, not quite neutral.

“No,” Elowyn said after a moment. “He hasn’t.”

And that silence, too, had begun to fester. It had been three days since Snape had last been seen in the Castle. No explanation had been given. No mention from the other professors. His chair at meals sat empty, his corridors quieter, and his classes canceled. And while some students speculated—with varying degrees of fear or admiration—none spoke it aloud with certainty. Only the older Slytherins seemed to smile more tightly now, as though they knew something others didn’t. Or thought they did.

The center of Slytherin table erupted in brief laughter. It was sharp and hollow, like a dropped goblet. Their trio stiffened instinctively, though none turned to look.

“—such a tragedy,” Honoria Mulciber’s voice rang out, sweet as spun sugar and twice as false. “Really, I’m amazed they still let him sit with the rest of us. Whatever he had might be catching.”

Vesper Selwyn clicked her tongue. “If I were infected, I’d have had the decency to vanish. Quietly. Some remote ward, perhaps—with curtains drawn.”

Honoria sighed, delicate as a falling petal. “Perhaps he still will. It doesn’t take much to make the weak disappear…not these days.”

Another peal of laughter.

Peter stared at his soup. Callum’s jaw clenched, his knife slipping slightly against the plate. Elowyn remained utterly still. That stillness was becoming a kind of armour—controlled, elegant, and unreadable. But beneath it, something coiled and simmered. For weeks, Honoria and Vesper had needled Callum and jeered at Peter, turning every hallway into a gauntlet, and every silence into a snare. And while he had defended his friends with calm wit and polite disdain, today—as Peter sat hunched and pale between them—the instinct to lash out—to be deliberately and surgically cruel—rose with unsettling sharpness. He did not like it. It felt foreign, hot and jagged in his chest, but it surfaced more often now, unbidden and sharp. Some part of him wanted to say something that would not just wound, but unmake. And yet, he said nothing. He stayed still, because he knew that cruelty, once indulged, was a thread too easily pulled—and he had no desire to become anything like their tormentors.

“What’s the betting they stage a dramatic collapse?” drawled a third-year a few places down. “You know—make the rest of us look bad. Sympathy votes.”

“Do you think it’s contagious?” Honoria again, her voice laced with false concern. “Madness? Magical instability? He did forget everything, didn’t he?”

Vesper’s voice floated after it like perfume. “Some creatures were never whole to begin with.”

“Ghostskin,” someone murmured, almost reverently. Another: “Filthblood.” A chuckle. “Or just Stain.”

The insults did not crescendo; they hissed and slid like serpents, coiling through the space between students, drawing no censure and no attention save the kind that flinched and looked away. No one from the other House tables—not the Hufflepuffs closest to them, nor the Gryffindor or Ravenclaws across the hall—spoke or intervened. A few eyes flicked up, caught the moment, and dropped. A girl at the Hufflepuff table buried her nose in the Daily Prophet, which bore the headline:

"Ministry Infiltrated? Auror Dead in Hogsmeade Blast: A tragic escalation in the ongoing war."

She folded the page too quickly. Another boy leaned in to whisper something, and was hushed before the words could carry.

The professors at the dais were fewer than usual. Flitwick and Sprout spoke in low voices, their faces drawn. Slughorn was absent. So was Sinistra. Hagrid—who had returned in October, subdued and distracted—was nowhere to be seen. None of the staff looked their way, and it felt as if there was no one left to notice the venom flung at them so casually—or no one willing to. Not that many had noticed, or even wanted to, before.

Peter slid back along the bench, the wood groaning faintly beneath him. It made a sound far too loud for the space it occupied. Callum and Elowyn followed his lead and then, almost as one, stood. No one moved to comment—but they were watched. As they walked away, Vesper leaned back with languid grace and offered in a voice just shy of audible: “Good luck, Petey. Do let us know what McGonagall has to say.”

Peter said nothing. Callum’s jaw clenched, just slightly. Elowyn didn’t break stride, but he turned back with practiced ease, letting his voice drift behind him—quiet as snowfall, sharp as ice.

“You do watch us closely, Vesper. Careful not to mistake that for relevance.”

Peter smirked, and Callum gave a small nod of approval. They left the hall in a line—Elowyn first, Peter in the middle, Callum a step behind: a bulwark of quiet fire, steady as a hearth in winter, carrying warmth enough to shield them both. They didn’t look back. The hush that followed them was not silence, but recoil.

The corridor outside was colder. Draughts whispered between the stones, and frost shimmered along the edges of the high windows. Peter pulled his cloak tighter, though the chill seemed to come from inside him. As they turned down the long corridor toward the Deputy Headmistress’s office, Elowyn and Callum fell into step again, moving with the unconscious ease of those who had practiced it through pain and long hours of silence. Peter walked between them, sheltered and protected as best as two boys could manage at eleven and twelve.

—

The corridor outside McGonagall’s tower office was colder than the rest of the Castle, or so it seemed. The torches lining the walls burned low, their flames drawn thin and pale as though reluctant to give heat. Frost patterned the leaded glass windows in delicate spirals, and somewhere in the stone above, a slow creak echoed like breath let out too long. Callum and Elowyn had tried to join the meeting—quietly, yet insistently—but McGonagall had refused them with a firmness that brooked no debate. One look at her eyes, sharp as cut crystal, and they knew better than to press further. So they waited instead in a long hush, each minute stretched taut by what they could not hear.

Elowyn sat on the stone bench set into the alcove directly across from the office door, beneath a tall window rimed in frost. His hands were folded in his lap, his back straight, his gaze fixed on the seam where the door met the frame—as though focus alone might make time yield. Callum joined him after pacing up and down the hall for several minutes, movements quiet but familiar. He settled beside Elowyn with the ease of long practice, then rested his hand lightly on Elowyn’s knee—not insistent, just there, like a quiet tether. Elowyn didn’t shift or speak, but after a long moment, he let his head tip sideways—just enough to rest against Callum’s shoulder. 

Callum didn’t move. His hand stayed where it was, warm and steady. And for a while, that was all they needed. No words passed between them. There was only the hush of the corridor, the flicker of flame on old stone, and the faint tension that comes with waiting for something you cannot help.

Elowyn’s thoughts moved without direction. He imagined Peter inside, sitting across from McGonagall, trying to pull memory from fog—grasping at things half-remembered and half-imagined, while a woman who meant well asked questions that might only deepen the fracture. He thought of his papa, who never asked for memory but waited for it to return on its own, coaxed gently like a deer to the hand. He thought of roots growing through darkness—patient, unseen, but persistent—and of quiet things made visible only in time. But other thoughts pressed too, unwelcome but undeniable. He thought of Honoria and Vesper, their words like silk-wrapped nettles, and the way his hands had curled into fists beneath the table at lunch. There had been a fluttering temptation, sharp and hot, to wound them back—to be cruel in ways they would never forget. And he thought of adults—well-meaning, distant, fallible—who claimed to know what was best, yet could not or would not protect those who needed them most. The Castle gave no answers. But it stirred faintly around him, its awareness brushing the edges of his thoughts—just enough to remind him it was listening.

After what felt like the length of a season, the door opened. Peter stepped out—pale, and holding himself together more from habit than ease. He paused in the doorway, blinking at the dim corridor—and at what he saw across from him. Elowyn didn’t lift his head, and Callum didn’t move his hand. They sat together, quiet and close, like a single point of warmth pressed against the cold.

For a moment, Peter only watched. They looked like something whole. Something self-contained. A warmth he wasn’t part of—leaving him, somehow, out in the cold. His gaze lingered a moment too long before he crossed to them. Only then did Elowyn lift his head, graceful as ever, and Callum’s hand slipped back to his own lap without fuss.

McGonagall emerged behind him, her expression unreadable but not unkind. She looked at the two boys on the bench and inclined her head.

“Thank you, Mr. Ainsley,” she said quietly, placing a steady hand on Peter’s shoulder for just a breath. Then she turned to the other two.

“You’ve shown remarkable loyalty,” she said, her tone composed but sincere. “It isn’t always the quality most celebrated in your House…but I hope you’ll continue to prove otherwise.”

She gave them a final nod—more respectful than dismissive—then turned back toward her office without another word. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving the three boys alone in the dim corridor.

Peter lingered outside her door, looking up at them both with a wry twist of his mouth.

“Well,” he said. “That was…cozy.”

Callum raised an eyebrow. “She didn’t look cozy.”

Peter gave a mock sigh. “No. But she did offer me a biscuit and a gentle excavation of all the memories I wasn’t ready to look at, so you know—very nurturing.”

Elowyn tilted his head. “Did you take the biscuit?”

Peter grinned. “Obviously.”

Elowyn’s head tilted slightly. “Excavation? Did she perform Legilimency?”

Peter shook his head. “No, nothing like that. She said…they might ask me to try. If I’m willing. To help catch whoever did it.”

Callum frowned. “She can’t do that herself, can she?”

“No. Said Snape’s the only one at Hogwarts trained for it.” He hesitated, then added, “Also said it’s not exactly common knowledge.”

Elowyn glanced at him with the tiniest of smirks. “And yet you tell us anyway.”

Peter gave a crooked smile. “Who else am I going to trust? It’s just us—Soilspawn, Rustline, and Ghostskin, walking proudly into infamy.”

Callum blinked, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or swear. “Bloody hell, Ric.”

Elowyn didn’t smile, exactly, but his eyes sharpened with something like affection. “If they’re set on naming us,” he said lightly, “we may as well decide what that name stands for.”

Peter snorted, then tilted his head, a little more curious than amused now. “You still haven’t told me why they call you that, El.”

There was the briefest pause, and an even briefer glance between Elowyn and Callum, before Elowyn said—smoothly, dismissively—“It’s nothing. Just a word they like the sound of more than they understand its meaning.”

Callum didn’t speak, but his gaze flicked toward Elowyn—not in surprise, but with a kind of quiet attentiveness, as if registering the subtle shift in pressure beneath the surface. Peter let it go with a shrug, casual in posture if not in truth, but the question lingered in the corners of his expression. It had not vanished, only folded away. And if you knew him well—and Elowyn did—you could see it: the faint edge of something quieter than anger, and smaller than resentment. There was a flicker of hurt, thin as a needle and just as easy to overlook; it was not because Elowyn had kept the truth to himself, but because he had trusted Callum to hold it—and not him.

They walked on in silence, their footfalls muffled by the worn stones beneath them. The corridor remained cold, the kind of chill that seemed to gather behind the ribs rather than on the skin. Elowyn’s pace slowed by a half-step—almost imperceptible—and Callum adjusted without thought, the two of them falling into the rhythm they had shaped across long weeks of absence. Peter moved between them but just behind, half a beat off, as though walking through an echo of something he used to know. The steps were familiar, the bodies beside him warm and close, but the cadence felt like a song already halfway sung. He watched their shoulders move, the near-silent communication in each glance and shift, and wondered—quietly, not bitterly—if he would ever find his way fully into the rhythm again, or if he’d always be slightly out of step, chasing a harmony that had carried on without him.

—

The library was warm in the way old places are—quiet, settled, soft at the edges. The enchanted lanterns glowed low and amber between the stacks, casting long shadows that reached like fingers across the tables. Frost clung to the outer edges of the high windows, blurring the falling snow into watercolor streaks of white and blue.

They took their usual table near the Arithmancy section—more secluded than strictly necessary, but no one said anything. Elowyn spread out his notes with quiet efficiency: Defense, Charms, Herbology, Potions, and a scroll labeled simply Transfig: Vanishing 2. Each parchment was neatly rolled and tied with colour-coded twine. Peter stared at them like they might bite.

Callum dropped into the chair beside him with a soft grunt and pulled out a pile of well-used textbooks. “Right,” he said. “We’re starting with what won’t kill you.”

Peter blinked at the stack in front of him. “Bold to assume I’ll survive any of it.”

Elowyn arched a brow. “You’ve already survived a glass-borne blood-curse. I expect a Potions scroll won’t finish the job.”

Peter let out a strangled laugh. “You say that like you’re not trying to bury me in six weeks of theory.”

“Nearly eight,” Callum said, deadpan. “But who’s counting?”

Peter’s eyes bulged. Callum just shrugged, a small, maddening grin tugging at his mouth.

“I’ve arranged it by subject and date,” Elowyn replied, unbothered. “With marginal annotations and cross-referenced diagrams. You’ll be fine.”

Callum leaned over and pointed to the Defense scroll. “He even drew the wand arcs. Not that you’ll learn them from a diagram, but it’s a start.”

Peter groaned theatrically. “I’ve missed so much. Can I get a Time-Turner for Christmas?”

“Ask Father Christmas,” Callum muttered.

“You’re thinking of Saint Chronos,” Elowyn said absently, already opening a book. “The unsanctioned Greek minor deity of temporal mischief.”

Peter stared at him. “You’re joking.”

Elowyn looked up, perfectly blank. “Am I?”

Peter opened the first scroll, eyes scanning the notes. “You know, if I’d died, I wouldn’t have to catch up on any of this.”

“Ric,” Callum warned, voice low but not sharp.

Peter glanced up. “Too much?”

“Bit,” Callum said.

Elowyn didn’t look up from his notes. “You’re not dying. You’re revising.”

Peter sighed and dragged his chair in closer.

They fell into rhythm, slowly. Peter read aloud from Elowyn’s notes, stopping to ask questions, which Callum answered when Elowyn was too distracted with their current work. Occasionally one of them clarified something that came up “last week” or “when we talked after lunch,” and Peter would nod like he remembered. Sometimes he did. Sometimes he didn’t.

The pile of work was enormous. Just looking at it made Peter’s stomach lurch. But Callum would slide him a Bertie Bott’s from a crumpled paper pouch before he could panic, and Elowyn would lay a clean sheet of parchment in front of him before he could stall. And somehow, things moved forward.

Madam Pince passed once, her shoes silent on the flagstones. She gave them a glance over the top of her spectacles, then moved on without comment.

Callum waited until she was gone to whisper, “She doesn’t know?”

“She hasn’t said anything,” Elowyn murmured.

“She gave me three fewer glares than usual,” Callum added. “That’s either mercy or the long game.”

Peter grinned. “You think Snape covered for you?”

Elowyn didn’t answer immediately. “He hasn’t returned the book. To her, at least.”

Peter let that sink in. “So…mercy with strings.”

“Always,” Elowyn said.

As the light outside dimmed further, they moved on to Charms. Callum demonstrated a wrist movement for a minor repelling charm, which Peter tried and promptly snapped his quill in half doing. Callum wordlessly handed him another. Elowyn made a mark in the margin of the parchment: practice motion before casting—ask Flitwick for wand grip adjustment.

They didn’t talk about the attack, at least not directly. But it sat there between them, woven into the missing pages and blank lines, the spells Peter hadn’t learned and the potions he hadn’t brewed. Elowyn’s handwriting had changed slightly in late October—sharper, more compressed. Peter noticed, but didn’t ask.

By the time they packed up, Peter had three scrolls written, five days' worth of reading finished, and a small blister forming where his fingers pressed too tightly against the quill. He looked at the pile still left unfinished and winced.

“Only three more years to catch up on,” he muttered.

Elowyn didn’t rise to the joke, but he did slip the next set of notes into Peter’s satchel for him.

Callum tightened the leather cord on the scroll pile and tucked it under one arm. “You’ll get there.”

Peter looked at him, then at Elowyn, who was already pulling his cloak on. For the first time all day, the knot in his chest loosened just a little.

They walked out together, into the deepening hush of the Castle, and for a while, it was enough.

—

The ground near Hagrid’s hut had turned to half-frozen sludge, trodden by hundreds of student boots and streaked with old straw. The morning sky hung low and silver, thick with the threat of snow, and Hagrid—wrapped in an enormous brown muffler and mismatched mittens—stood beaming beside a cluster of lumpy-looking burrows cordoned off with garden stakes and a sign that read CAUTION: NOT HEDGEHOGS.

Peter huffed softly as they stepped onto the muddied path. “My reward for returning to life: rodent-identification.”

Callum smirked. “They’re not rodents.”

“They’re Knarls,” Elowyn murmured, brushing snow from his shoulder. “Fiercely territorial and they resent being mistaken for Muggle creatures.”

“Don’t we all,” Peter muttered.

They joined the rest of the class—paired for Care of Magical Creatures with Gryffindor—and took their place near the edge of the paddock. The two dozen or so Gryffindors clustered near the front with easy, laughing confidence; the Slytherins hung back. The six girls who had claimed the House’s center since their first week—Honoria, Vesper, and the rest—stood in a loose formation like wolves in silk.

Hagrid cleared his throat.

“Righ’! Today we’re talkin’ Knarls,” Hagrid boomed, his breath fogging in the cold. “Tricksy little beasts—look like hedgehogs, but they’ll wreck yer garden an’ never say sorry.” He grinned as if this were an endearin’ trait. “Now—who can tell me how ter spot the difference?”

Several students avoided eye contact. Callum raised his hand without hesitation.

“Yeh, you—McCormack?”

Callum stepped forward a little, nodding toward the nearest burrow. “Hedgehogs eat what’s available. Knarls think everything’s a trap. Leave food out, they won’t touch it—they’ll destroy the area instead.”

“Spot on,” Hagrid said, visibly pleased. “Ten points to Slytherin.”

A visible ripple passed through the girls. Honoria’s smile was tight. “How delightful,” she murmured, just loud enough. “Rustline and his little garden pests.”

Vesper tilted her head toward Elowyn. “Do you suppose he speaks their language? They all burrow, don’t they?”

A few Gryffindors glanced up. One boy—Jamison, maybe—frowned, but turned back to his sketchpad.

Peter tensed beside them, then said under his breath, “If they keep talking, I’m going to lose house points for unprovoked brilliance.”

“Don’t,” Elowyn said softly.

“I won’t,” Peter replied. “Unless they insult your handwriting. Then it’s a duel.”

“Beasts don’t duel,” Callum murmured, eyes still on the burrows. “They just wait.”

Hagrid clapped his enormous hands. “Righ’, then! We’ve got three active Knarls today. Tried feedin’ ’em—no luck—so they’re good an’ moody now. Who wants ter have a go at calm’n one down?”

Callum stepped forward again. Hagrid handed him a pair of thick gloves.

The rest of the class formed a loose semicircle around the burrow stakes, boots crunching in the straw. Honoria and Vesper exchanged a glance but said nothing. Peter, next to Elowyn, kept one eye on Callum and one on the girls.

Callum moved slowly. He crouched beside the marked hole and spoke low—no words, just a quiet, soundless murmur. He reached forward with the back of his hand. A small, bristling shape emerged—quills raised, body coiled. The Knarl paused, sniffed, and settled. It didn’t curl. It didn’t hiss. It merely blinked.

Callum smiled slightly, then sat back on his heels. “They don’t like suddenness,” he said to no one in particular. “You just have to let them think it’s their idea.”

Hagrid beamed. “Brilliant! Look at that! Tha’s exactly right.”

Callum flushed faintly but didn’t look up.

“Few’ve got the touch,” Hagrid added. “Yeh can’t teach that.”

Elowyn didn’t speak, but he watched Callum with quiet intensity and a glimmer of pride, faint like the winter sun.

At the edge of the group, a ripple of sound—not quite laughter, not quite speech. Honoria again. “One animal to another,” she said, and the others smirked.

Zenobia appeared and wove through the students with the careless ease of a creature who knew no rule applied to her. Several Gryffindors jumped back. One girl muttered, “Is that allowed?” but no one challenged her. Zenobia brushed once against Elowyn’s calf, circled him a few times. 

He bent to scoop her up, his voice no louder than breath against her fur. “You always know when I need you...I’ve missed you more than I’d admit.”

Peter blinked. “I didn’t even see her arrive.”

“She’s always near,” Elowyn said, his voice soft as he stroked her silky black fur and she curled her long tail around his waist. “Just beyond reach—until she decides otherwise.”

The lesson carried on. Another student tried to mimic Callum’s approach and was promptly nipped. Hagrid intervened. Peter tried next—his Knarl flinched, but when Callum whispered something near his ear and guided his hand, the creature settled. Not calm, exactly, but less furious.

“Progress,” Peter muttered. “By inches.”

“Centimeters,” Callum corrected, grinning.

Hagrid clapped a hand on Callum’s shoulder. “Don’ see many first-years get a Knarl to settle like that. Yeh keep at it, you’ll go far.”

Callum blinked. “I like it.”

“Aye, well… yeh’ve got a knack,” Hagrid said, his voice quieter now. “Real gentle. We could use more like yeh, that’s all I’m sayin’.”

Callum nodded, eyes wide with something unspoken. Elowyn looked at him with that little glimmer of something—pride, maybe, or something deeper. Peter caught it, but turned away before it could settle. 

They were dismissed shortly after. The Gryffindors drifted off in twos and threes, their laughter trailing across the frozen paddock. The Slytherin girls lingered long enough to toss one last glance over their shoulders—pointed, curled at the edges with venom.

Callum stayed behind to help Hagrid clean up, and Peter joined him without needing to be asked. Elowyn remained where he was, standing at the edge of the clearing with Zenobia in his arms, her fur warm against the cold that clung to the air.

When the last crate was stacked and Hagrid had offered his thanks, Peter and Callum turned toward the path leading back to the Castle. As Elowyn stepped to follow, Zenobia leapt from his arms and trotted off, her tail held high, eyes fixed on some unknown and unknowable purpose. He watched her go, something fond and faint flickering in his expression. Callum and Peter waited just ahead.

They didn’t speak at first. Snow had begun again—light and fine, brushing the shoulders of their cloaks.

Peter stretched. “Well. That wasn’t terrible.”

“It was excellent,” Elowyn said quietly, still watching Callum.

Callum, uncertain what to do with the attention, rubbed his glove against the back of his neck. “Wasn’t me. It was the Knarl.”

Elowyn smiled—just a little. “Perhaps. But he trusted you first.”

Somewhere ahead, Zenobia disappeared into the mist—pursuing whatever purpose only she understood.

—

Their dormitory felt half-packed and unusually quiet, the usual rustle of cloaks and clatter of trunks replaced with the soft scrape of buckles, the hiss of rolled parchment, the creak of bed frames as the boys shifted in and out of the silvery green light. Their trunks stood open, half-filled. Boots had been cleaned and lined by the door. Even the lake beyond the windows seemed stiller than usual—its slow ripple quiet under the ice that had begun to spread across its surface.

Peter sat cross-legged on his bed, holding a sock in one hand and staring at it as if it might explain where the other had gone. Callum was folding a robe with the intensity of someone performing a surgical procedure. His trunk was mostly packed, if not a little disorganized. Elowyn was, of course, finished. His trunk was closed and latched, his scarf draped with intention over the footboard of his bed with his travel clothes laid neatly out for the following morning. He sat with one leg tucked under him, sorting through a small, ribbon-tied parcel in his lap.

For a while, no one spoke. The room was dim but not dark, the green light from the lake brushing faint shadows across their beds. There was something tentative in the air—not tension, exactly, but the quiet that comes before parting, when time feels both full and thinning.

Peter cleared his throat, and both Callum and Elowyn glanced up. “Is this a bad time to admit I forgot to wrap mine?” he asked, a little too brightly.

Callum grunted. “No. It’s exactly the time.” He crossed the room with two parcels in hand and placed them at the foot of Peter’s bed. Elowyn followed, his own gifts already in hand. Without a word, both boys sat on the edge of the mattress—casual, familiar, a quiet show of solidarity.

Peter pulled two small bundles from beneath his pillow—one wrapped in a scarf and tied loosely with twine, the other in a bit of what appeared to be used parchment. “Presentation aside, they are—technically—gifts.”

He tossed the first to Callum, who caught it with one hand and unwrapped it without ceremony. Inside was a worn but well-mended pair of dragon hide gloves—creased, a little scorched at the fingertips, but sturdy. A note was tucked inside one cuff: ‘Figured you could use these when you’re wrangling fire-breathers with Hagrid. They’ve got history. So do you.’

Callum turned them over in his hands, his brow creasing, but he didn’t say anything right away. Then, softly: “They’re brilliant.”

Peter shrugged, aiming for casual. “Didn’t cost me much. Just a favor, a few stitches, and a bit of creative begging. But they’ve got character now.”

Callum chuckled and tugged the gloves on, flexing his fingers to test the fit. While he admired the stitching, Peter reached for the second bundle—tied with a bit of string and wrapped in a scrap of smudged star chart paper.

“This one’s yours,” he said, handing it to Elowyn with a brief, lopsided smile. “Don’t laugh. It’s…technically a book.”

Elowyn took it carefully and began unwrapping the paper. Inside was a small, hand-stitched booklet—maybe twenty pages at most, unevenly bound with green and purple thread. The cover was cut from an old potion ingredients box, and on it, in Peter’s careful hand, were the words: Field Notes on One Elowyn Marwood-Travers (Unrevised Edition).

Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not all flattering. But it’s all true.”

Elowyn traced the thread with one finger, then glanced up. “Green and violet,” he murmured. “You don’t waste a detail, do you?”

He opened to the first page. The handwriting was small, crammed, annotated in the margins.

Subject moves like mist—quiet, displacing more than you realize. Has a habit of using silence as a weapon, or a shield. Not always clear which.

Observational skill: advanced. Likely innate. Has stared down at least three purebloods and one prefect without blinking. (Note: possible hypnotic gift?)

Elowyn’s brow arched slightly. He turned another page.

Prefers violet ink. Ritual, not vanity. Possibly inherited from one of the fathers. Visual nod to eye color? Facial expressions: minimal. Emotional depth: confirmed. Needs tea before conversation. (Urgent: investigate whether this is a defense mechanism.)

He looked up, and something like a laugh flickered at the edge of his mouth—but it never quite formed.

“It’s…quite accurate,” he said quietly.

Peter shrugged, trying to sound offhand. “Well, I was out of commission for two months. Figured I’d start a survival manual.” He nodded toward Callum. “Him—straightforward. Solid.” Then to Elowyn, eyes narrowing just a bit. “You? You’ve got layers. And none of them come with instructions.”

There was a thread of amusement in Elowyn’s voice, fine and almost invisible. “I’m not meant to be solved...only survived.”

Peter smiled—wide and proud—at Elowyn, just as Callum leaned over to glimpse the booklet. “Are there sections on handling and feeding?”

“I was saving those for Volume II,” Peter said, glancing away from Elowyn’s owlish gaze. “Once I confirm the bite radius.”

That earned a sound from Elowyn—at first a breath, but then, unexpectedly, a laugh. Not the quiet exhale he so often offered in place of amusement, but a real, full-throated laugh that startled even him. It rang bright and sudden through the dormitory like sunlight breaking through fog. Callum turned toward him at once, eyes wide with something like awe. Peter blinked, then grinned, a flush of pride rising behind his pale cheeks. Neither had heard him laugh like that before—not freely, or loudly, and certainly never without restraint. Elowyn caught himself and set the booklet carefully beside his trunk, but the smile lingered, wide and soft and rare.

“I’ll read it properly on the train,” he said. “Assuming no one dies of embarrassment first.”

Callum shifted on the bed and passed one parcel to Peter, the other to Elowyn. Both were wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with twine. “Didn’t have time for fancy,” he muttered. “Hope they suit.”

Peter’s parcel revealed a new satchel—dark green leather, reinforced at the seams and subtly enchanted. The surface repelled moisture with a faint shimmer, and the brass buckle hummed faintly with a quiet protective charm. No note, no explanation. Just Callum, watching to see if it would be enough.

Peter ran a thumb over the stitching, then glanced up. “So this is what dignity feels like.”

Callum rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched.

Elowyn’s parcel revealed a small, smooth disc of charmed glass—cool to the touch and softly domed like a lens. Pressed inside was a sprig of wintergreen, perfectly preserved. When he tilted it, the veins shimmered faintly, catching the light like starlight caught in dew.

Callum cleared his throat. “Found it during Herbology. You said it smelled like home.”

Elowyn turned the disc again, watching the light shift across the leaf’s surface. His eyes glinted—not quite tears, but close.

He set the charm down gently, then reached over and took Callum’s hand—lightly, just for a moment. It was a gesture so instinctive it hardly seemed meant for notice, but Peter noticed. He then gave a low, theatrical cough. “And here I thought mine was sentimental.”

But Elowyn had already let go of Callum’s hand and was reaching to the side—drawing out three small, elegant green boxes, each wrapped in crimson velvet ribbon. He passed one to Peter, one to Callum, and kept the third.

“Wait—are these matching?” Peter asked, eyeing the careful folds. “Are we becoming a club?”

Elowyn’s mouth twitched. “Open them.”

Inside, nestled against a bed of dark silk, was a silver-white snake pendant—stylized and coiled, its emerald eyes winking faintly in the dormitory light. The platinum chain was light and strong, threaded with the shimmer of an unbreakable charm. The craftsmanship was exquisite.

Peter stared. “Did you—?”

“They’re enchanted,” Elowyn said softly. “If you press it, the others will feel a pulse. A way to say you’re thinking of us. Or that you need us.”

Callum turned his over in his palm, brow furrowed. “These aren’t school-made.”

Elowyn shook his head. “I had them made with help from my fathers. Daddy had his jeweler craft them. And Papa sent the enchantment instructions.”

Peter swallowed, uncharacteristically quiet. “So this is…us?”

Elowyn nodded. “If you want it to be.”

Peter turned the pendant over in his palm. Platinum, enchanted, personal. The kind of thing people gave when they meant for you to be found, not forgotten. He didn’t say anything at first. Just studied it like it might disappear if he blinked.

“This is…” He trailed off, not trusting the rest. “You really thought of everything.”

Elowyn tilted his head slightly. “Not everything. Just you.”

Callum turned the pendant over once more in his hand, then slipped the chain over his head; it fell cool against his bare chest. “It means a lot,” he said simply. “More than I know how to say.”

Peter fastened his own chain slowly. The metal was cool against his skin. He didn’t quite meet their eyes. “Right then. Matching pendants. I suppose we’re a sacred magical order now.” He paused. “Green-Eyed Snake Boy-Wizards. Doesn’t roll off the tongue, does it?”

He turned the pendant once between his fingers before fastening it around his neck with deliberate care. “Pretty sure this cost more than everything I own.”

Elowyn looked at him—quietly, steadily. “That’s not why it was made,” he said, then leaned back against the bedpost and fastened his own pendant around his alabaster throat. Callum and Peter watched as he tucked it beneath the green silk of his pyjamas. When it was hidden, he pressed it once, and both of theirs pulsed in response.

They gasped—softly, almost in unison. For a moment, none of them moved. The glow faded slowly, and something settled over them—quiet and close, the kind of stillness that didn’t need words.

Elowyn’s voice was soft. “It was made because we lost you once. We won’t again.”

Callum’s fingers tightened around his as his jaw tensed. “Never again”

Peter’s hand drifted to his pendant, but words escaped him—and that, more than anything, said what mattered. He, who always had a quip, a deflection, a clever turn of phrase, found himself held in a silence too full for speech. It wasn’t absence but presence that quieted him—the weight of connection and the steady pulse of magic and meaning nestled against his chest. The stillness between them was not hollow. It was whole. And when he finally looked up, his eyes were wet, but he was smiling.

Peter’s breath hitched, and without thinking, Callum reached across the narrow space between them, resting his hand over Peter’s. Elowyn’s fingers followed a moment later, curling around them both—cooler, steadier. No one spoke. The warmth of skin, the quiet press of presence, was enough. It was not dramatic, not the climax of anything, only a quiet affirmation that they were still here, still tethered—not by magic alone, but by choice, and touch, and the simple fact of not letting go. The contact lingered, then softened, hands slipping away without urgency.

Then, gently, they parted. Elowyn stood first, returning the green box to his trunk with careful hands. Callum followed, stretching once and rubbing the back of his neck before crossing to his own bed. Peter remained where he was, watching them without speaking, his fingers curled around the pendant at his chest.

The dormitory returned to its familiar hush—the creak of bedsprings, the soft rustle of fabric, the faint sound of trunks latching shut. When the lamps dimmed and the silence thickened, their breathing began to settle into the same rhythm. Peter turned his pendant once in his fingers before letting it fall against his chest. Callum’s eyes were closed, but his hand rested lightly over the chain. Elowyn lay very still, awake a while longer.

—

The train ride home was quieter than the one that brought them to Hogwarts months before. Snow streaked past the windows in long white blurs, and the lamps inside the carriage flickered with a soft, golden steadiness. Their compartment was warm, paper-strewn, and somehow still ringed in calm.

Peter sat cross-legged on the seat, parchment rolled at his feet and quill inked, scribbling notes as Elowyn read aloud from his scroll. Callum leaned over Peter’s shoulder, one hand steadying the page, the other pointing out a detail in the margin.

“You skipped three ingredients,” he muttered, “and spelled the fourth one wrong.”

“I was prioritizing flow,” Peter said, eyes narrowed.

“You were prioritizing speed,” Elowyn corrected, but his tone was mild.

Peter sighed dramatically. “This is what I get for making friends with overachievers.”

“You’re stuck with us. That means keeping up—one way or another.” Callum said.

Peter didn’t answer, but he smiled into the next line he wrote.

They passed the rest of the journey between scrolls and sweets, occasionally pressing their pendants—not to signal need, but as a kind of rhythm. As if to say, yes, I’m still here, I’m still with you.

The platform was brimming with families and the sharp scent of cold and coal smoke. Peter’s parents were already waving before the train had fully stopped—Morwenna clutching a tartan scarf, Crispin craning for a glimpse of his son. When they spotted him—flanked by Callum and Elowyn—their faces lit with relief and recognition.

“Peter!” Morwenna called.

She reached him first, pulling him into a tight, unembarrassed hug. Crispin’s hand landed on his shoulder a moment later—solid, grounding. Only after that did Morwenna look to the boys beside him.

“Callum, Elowyn—you’ve both grown. Come here.”

They did. Elowyn offered his usual graceful nod before stepping into her brief, firm embrace. Callum followed, bashful but willing, letting her wrap her arms around him and mutter something about him needing a second scarf. Crispin smiled and offered each boy a hand, which Callum shook awkwardly and Elowyn accepted with quiet warmth.

Peter stood a little to the side, watching. Once Morwenna had let them go, Elowyn turned and embraced Callum—quietly, without words. Then he turned to Peter, and they embraced without hesitation. It was careful, familiar, brief—but not perfunctory. Peter turned next to Callum, and they hugged too—rougher, tighter, a clasp of forearms and shoulders. All of it real. All of it meaningful.

But it was the moment after that stayed with Peter. Elowyn turned to Callum once more—perhaps just to say something—but instead stepped forward again, arms lifting. This hug was quieter and closer. Callum held on a little longer, and Elowyn pressed his face into the crook of Callum’s neck as if anchoring there. It wasn’t long. But it was longer. Just enough for Peter to notice. And maybe, just maybe, for it to be true. Without thinking, Peter pressed his pendant beneath his shirt—one thumb over the coiled snake, as if reminding it, or himself, that he belonged too.

A moment later, both boys felt it—a soft pulse of something unspoken. They broke apart, just slightly, just enough to turn. No one said anything. Elowyn held out one arm. Callum stepped aside. And Peter walked forward into the space they left for him. It wasn’t a long embrace. Just arms and breath and quiet. But for the first time in weeks, Peter didn’t feel like he was watching from the outside.

They held each other for a moment—three points drawn close, steady and silent. No one spoke. When they finally stepped back, the world felt louder again. Footsteps, steam, voices calling from the crowd. The platform pressed in, and the moment passed.

“We’re grateful you kept writing,” Crispin said once the boys had stepped apart, his voice quieter now. “We read every word aloud. He’ll never know how much that meant.”

Callum muttered something like, “It wasn’t much,” but Elowyn said, quietly and without hesitation, “He’s ours too.”

Not far off, Emrys stood quietly watching. He and Morwenna exchanged a knowing glance—the kind passed between parents who’ve both sat by a bedside and feared the worst. No introductions were needed.

They lingered only a moment longer before the families peeled away, one by one. Callum’s father approached with even steps, his gaze moving first to Peter, then to Elowyn. He nodded once to both of them.

“He wrote about you,” he said, voice low but certain. “Both of you.”

Peter gave a crooked half-smile. “Yeah, he’s solid.”

That earned the faintest twitch of a smile from the man. He placed a steady hand on Callum’s shoulder and gave it a quiet squeeze. Then he turned toward the waiting crowd.

Emrys stepped forward next, warm and familiar, his eyes already on Elowyn. As he passed Peter, Elowyn reached out—fingertips brushing Peter’s shoulder.

They didn’t say goodbye again as they scattered. But they pressed their pendants once—nearly in sync—and knew they’d be together again soon.

Chapter Text

Magic stirred across Elowyn’s skin like mist over stone, brushing the collar of his coat, slipping into his hair, and settling deep in the hollow of his chest. This was not a magic that pulsed or crackled, but one that breathed. It remembered him—and welcomed back its long-absent child—its love made deeper by distance, and shaped by the slow ache of waiting.

He slowed, his boots crunching frost-rimed grass at the bend of the lane, and drew in a breath so deep it felt as though his lungs had not truly filled in months. Beside him, Emrys paused as well, one hand resting gently between Elowyn’s shoulder blades. He did not speak. Not when his son stilled in that quiet, reverent way, his breath syncing with the Koes itself. Not when they had just crossed the threshold of something older, deeper, and more enduring than any other magic place left in Britain. Not when the land was remembering him in return.

They had Disapparated from a quiet alley just beyond King’s Cross reach to the outskirts of London, and then had taken a unregistered Portkey the rest of the way—a smooth river-stone Thaddeus had spelled for them weeks ago, its pull sudden and strangely familiar. Emrys had explained the route afterward, almost absently, as though discussing the weather. But Elowyn had felt it in his marrow: the layers of shielding, the hush of secrecy, the love and fear braided into every precaution.

The lane curved inward now between bramble-thick hedgerows that shimmered faintly with old magic—subtle bends in perception that would twist the path wrong to any Muggle eye, rendering the land invisible to those without magic. To them, the hills would seem impassable, the road unfinished, the moor barren and unwelcoming. Notice-Me-Not charms blurred the outlines of cottages and curling chimney smoke; Muggle-repelling enchantments stirred in the hedge roots like dry wind in reeds.

But it was the forest beyond—the Koes itself—that held the deepest protections. They had not been cast all at once, but layered over millennia, added like lichen to stone. Each generation had left its mark—rituals whispered, wards woven, names remembered. The Koes had not only been hidden. It had been guarded since time before memory, before map, before ink.

Those not born in the Koes called it a cousin to the Fidelius, but the magic was older—woven not into a secret keeper, but into the forest itself. It was known to the villagers as An Meneth-Vrynn—the Hidden Threshold. A spell of rooted concealment, passed through root and blood. Unless you had been born beneath the canopy or welcomed in by one who had, you would never find it. You would never even know you’d tried.

Still, the world beyond had shifted. Muggle roads crept closer with each passing century, and newer enchantments were layered atop the old—repelling wards, glamours, gentle folds in space and thought. But the forest had never relied on illusion alone. It refused to be found. Obscuration charms older than parchment tangled through the branches, mingled with spells whose names were long forgotten. The boundary shimmered—not with light, but with will. Only those born to magic could approach, and only those called by the forest’s heart could walk beneath its canopy unchallenged.

Snow dusted the path ahead—soft and silver-edged, clinging to roots and mossy stones. It had fallen quietly, untouched by wind or melt, though the skies beyond the Koes had held only rain. The Koes kept its own season. It did not obey calendars or clouds, nor heed the soft drift of southern warmth. Its winter came when it was needed: when the land turned inward and when the old breath slowed. Here, frost did not mark time. It marked memory of eons before.

Elowyn could feel it now, rising through the soles of his boots, winding up through the marrow of his bones. The breath of the Koes—its memory. Once, long ago—long before Britain bore that name, long before wands were carved or charms were inked into vellum—a Druid had walked these woods and sung his name into the trees. Not Elowyn, not quite. The closest shape it holds in modern tongue is Alu-Wenos—a name smoothed by centuries, softened by time, and reshaped by the forgetting of men. But the Koes had not forgotten. It carried the name still, not in language, but in leaf and loam and the long, slow breath of root and stone.

Emrys had told him, once, that names like that weren’t written down. They were carved into bark with breath, tied into solstice wind, and sung into the hush between seasons. The one who had planted An Dar Gwynn—his name was not read, but remembered. Spoken not by tongues, but by the land itself. An Dar Gwynn, the Sacred Oak—the Blessed Oak—that was what they called it here, among those who had always known. More often, they simply said An Dar, the Oak, and left the rest to silence. Outsiders named it the Grand Oak, but that was only the echo. The Koes remembered the one who had sung it into existence—Alu-Wenos. And now, by some strange turning of time and blood and spellcraft, that name had found its way back into the world—through him, through Elowyn, born of root and ritual and quiet flame.

Elowyn drew in a breath—and for the first time in months, it felt like it reached the bottom of his lungs. The magic here wasn’t loud. It didn’t spark or shimmer. It settled. It remembered. And it folded around him now without ceremony or sound, like hands resting on his shoulders, like soil turned gently back over seed. He had been born of the Koes—shaped by it, sheltered by it. In some quiet, unspoken way, he was the Koes made flesh. He was not the Chosen One, or a symbol, but just a boy—an extension of An Dar and the Koes into the greater world—one who would return, one day, to its soil and add his magic back to where he began. And perhaps, in doing so, he would not only restore its memory—but expand it. Perhaps he would give it new shape, new memory, and new life. Perhaps he would give it a future to match its past.

—

The footpath widened as they walked in from the moor, curving gently through frostbitten grass and the first hints of underbrush. The eastern edge of the hamlet emerged in soft relief—stone walls low with frost, chimney smoke curling upward in thin, careful streams. There were only a few trees here, scattered like memories more than presence, their trunks rising at odd angles between cottages or pressed into corners where no builder had dared remove them. They were not plentiful, but present—a quiet reminder that the Koes was woven itself into every facet of life in the hamlet.

The breath of the wood loosened here, softened by hearth smoke and low conversation. A couple dozen cottages clung to the forest’s edge, mossed and leaning, their windows flickering with muted light. Lanwynn Koes had no square, no clocktower, and no sweeping high street. Just a single lane of stone and moss, worn smooth by generations of passage and the press of enchanted carts. There were no straight lines here—only curves.

As they moved farther west, deeper into the hamlet’s winding heart, the trees grew thicker—leaning closer, reaching farther, as though offering shelter to those who called Lanwynn Koes home. Here, in the heart of the hamlet, magic wasn’t confined to leaf or root, but was woven into shingles, stitched into shawls, painted over door lintels in quiet, loving strokes. 

Lanwynn Koes was not made of timber. That was a law older than parchment. The trees of the Koes were never felled—not even those that leaned into the eaves of cottages or pressed against windows like watchful limbs. Wood for kindling, for rafters and doors, was brought in from beyond the forest’s breath. The hamlet was built from stone and moss and slate—weathered granite and lime-washed cob, walls laid by hand, warmed by spells and patience.

Limbs that fell within the hamlet’s bounds were gathered with reverence, dried, and burned on the round stone altar north of An Dar. The ashes were sprinkled at the Oak’s base in silence, returning magic to magic, breath to breath. Within the forest itself, nothing was touched. Fallen boughs lay where they dropped, feeding root and soil in slow, solemn rhythm. Even decay was part of the spell. The Koes sustained itself in circles. And so did those who lived beneath its shade.

The sacred bled into the ordinary here—there was no dividing line. Magic was not kept behind wand or altar. It lived in the ways bread was broken, in the way children bowed their heads when passing the Koes's edge. Even the signs reflected it.

Every post and hanging board in the village bore two tongues—a fairly recent addition in the millennia long history of the hamlet: Cornish first, as was proper, and English second, for courtesy’s sake. Cornish was not merely the villagers’ language—it was the language of the Koes itself. A living descendant of the tongue once spoken by the Druid who had named it into being. The words had changed over the centuries, softened by wind and use, but the Koes had learned them as its own. And so Cornish came first—not by law, but by memory.

Elowyn moved slower now, letting the familiar rise around him like steam. The stones beneath his feet remembered his step; the signs seemed to nod in passing. An Peul Glas, read the sign above the greengrocer, with its produce spread lush and beautiful, and an Owl Post counter at the back. The Green Post, said the line beneath, though none of the villagers ever called it that. A crooked-roofed pub sat across from it, its chimney trailing ivy and smoke that curled like incense toward the tree line. The sign swung gently in the cold wind: An Skorr Kamm—The Crooked Bough—painted in faded green and gold, with the image of an oak branch bent gently under the weight of frost. Somewhere inside, a harp played softly—either enchanted, or very shy.

Just past the pub, where the path widened and the ground flattened like a held breath, stood An Hel an Koes—The Hall of the Grove. Broad-shouldered and low-roofed, it had been built into the land rather than upon it, its moss-streaked stones held together by clay pulled from the banks south of An Dar and whispered over before setting. Ivy curled through the walls as though invited, not resisted, its leaves greener here than anywhere else in the hamlet, even in winter. The air around it was always a touch warmer than the rest of the lane—a spell woven into the threshold, old as root and rhyme, meant to draw the weary in and keep ill will out. The windows, paned in thick, uneven glass, glowed amber from within even when no candle burned—a soft enchantment, tied to memory, lit by the recollection of gatherings long past.

Smoke drifted from the chimney in a thinner line than the pub’s—scented with rosemary, pine, and sometimes something older, like oak sap or the breath of spring. The carved oak doors bore no name, only the oak leaf sigil of the hamlet etched deep into their grain. If a villager approached in need, the door would open without touch—but only if they meant no harm. Inside, it was always the right temperature, the fire never fully dead, even if left unbanked. Stone benches lined the walls, worn smooth by generations, and the round tables bore the marks of countless gatherings—candle scorch, hastily cut bread, spilled mead, carved initials, dried herbs, and memory. Bundles of plant magic hung from the beams: foxglove, elderflower, mugwort—bound with red thread and humming faintly, wards against forgetting.

An Hel did not command. It remembered. It listened. And even when empty, it felt full—of breath, of footsteps, and of voices that had passed through and left something behind.

At the far end of the lane—where the path meandered westward through the hamlet and pressed up against the edge of the Koes—stood a small, elegant shop. It blended almost seamlessly with its neighbors, but still managed to stand a little prouder, and shine a little brighter. The sign above the door gleamed in the frost-hushed light: rich mahogany, polished smooth, with lettering etched in clean, shining brass:

Marwood ha Travers

Marghadoryon Gwaren Gwell ha Hudel

(Marwood & Travers, Provisioners of Fine Magical Goods)

The front windows were clear, charm-polished glass, revealing shelves of carefully labeled goods and displays arranged with near-mathematical precision. A set of potion vials rotated slowly in the display case, each one cradled in velvet and pulsing with soft, inner light.

The stillness was almost complete. Too complete. Zenobia’s yowl fractured it. She had been growing increasingly tense the closer they got to the trees—her low, rolling growls giving way to full-throated protest inside the carrier. When Emrys gave a knowing sigh, Elowyn didn’t need to be told. He crouched to undo the latch, and she exploded outward in a streak of black mist and muscle, making a sharp turn away from the path. She ran straight for the Koes, tail high, gone before he could call after her.

“She’ll come home when she’s ready,” Emrys murmured—in Cornish, as he always did when it was just the two of them. “They always do, when the Koes still knows their name.” (For the reader’s sake, all their conversations are rendered here in English, though the Koes would have heard them differently).

Elowyn watched the place where she had vanished—no motion in the trees, no sound but frost underfoot—and then turned toward the shop. When he opened the door, the bell above it gave a soft, exacting chime—neither too warm nor too sharp. Thaddeus had enchanted it that way on principle, claiming it struck the right balance between civility and silence.

The interior of Marwood & Travers was warmed by magic, but sparingly so—just enough to keep the glass from fogging and the parchment from curling at the edges. The air smelled of beeswax, scorched sage, and the faint metallic tang of ozone where spellwork had recently passed.

Elowyn stepped inside and let the quiet take him. The floor was dark-polished wood—not Grove wood, of course; no tree within the Koes had ever been felled in recent memory. Thaddeus had imported every board, every shelf, every beam from beyond the wards, choosing grain and grain alignment with the same precision he applied to ledger entries.

The shop had grown busier since the summer. The front display case rotated a curated arrangement of wand oil, protective thread, and charmed ink. Shelves bore healing kits bundled in clean linen and potion packets arranged by need rather than alphabet. Several boxes were sealed with personal sigils—others marked for anonymous delivery. A crate behind the counter emitted the occasional, deliberate hiss. The space was dense but not cluttered. Every item had been meticulously placed and carefully balanced.

Thaddeus stood at the counter, sleeves rolled to the forearm, inspecting a parcel with a faint frown. His robes were dark, understated, and crisp; his wand-hand hovered over a levitating scroll just long enough to smooth a crease in the ribbon.

“Unless you’re aflame or bleeding, give me another half minute,” he said, without turning. His Cornish was fluent, precise—but the cadence held the edges of his English accent, a quiet marker of where he had come from, and where the Koes had drawn its line. He didn’t mind. Some things were not meant to be claimed, only honored.

Emrys gave a low hum of greeting, but said nothing, while Thaddeus tied off the ribbon with a gesture, set the scroll in a padded box, and finally looked up. His gaze found Elowyn with no surprise—only stillness. As if part of the shop had re-entered alignment.

He stepped out from behind the counter and embraced him. Brief, firm. One hand at the shoulder, the other at the nape—pressing, not pulling.

“You’re thinner,” he said, switching to English as he always did with Elowyn. Not because he preferred it, but because he and Emrys had long ago agreed: their son would speak it flawlessly—without the lilt of the Koes in his vowels, without any trace that might narrow the world’s view of him. “Hair’s longer. It suits you.”

Elowyn managed a faint smile. “It’s good to be home.”

Thaddeus released him and stepped back. “Parcel room’s worse than usual. The ledger charm’s gone temperamental again—refuses to behave unless you’re the one writing. You’ll need to coax it.”

It was the kind of thing Thaddeus said instead of I missed you.

Elowyn’s gaze drifted to the back wall. There were more crates than usual, some bearing foreign markings, others sealed in plain brown paper with no name. One bore a Ministry inspection stamp scorched nearly black. Another was marked “non-registry.”

“You’re sending out more parcels than before.” he said softly.

Thaddeus didn’t look up. “I’m shipping what others won’t.” He paused. “They’re afraid to send to names on watch lists. Or to places that don’t show up on Ministry maps.”

“And you’re not?”

“We’re not reckless,” Thaddeus replied. “We’re self-funded. We’re practically invisible. And the Koes does more to shield this place than anything the Ministry could dream of.” He tapped a wooden crate, checking its seal. “Besides, if someone’s bleeding out in the Cairngorms, I’d rather they get a healing draught from me than a pamphlet from the Department of Magical Emergencies. That’s all they send now—standard instructions and an apology scroll. No potions. No responders. Just enough to say they tried.”

Emrys said nothing—just smiled faintly at his husband’s version of a diatribe as he moved around the counter to begin sorting invoices. Elowyn lingered a moment longer, then pulled off his gloves and tucked them neatly into his coat sleeve.

“What do you need me to do?”

Thaddeus gave a rare half-smile. “There’s a stack of waybills in the back that’s threatening revolt. You can start there.”

They worked in companionable silence for nearly an hour—Emrys sorting bundles by owl route, Elowyn transcribing notes onto the ledger’s enchanted parchment with steady, elegant script. The charm that recorded and sorted the entries had grown fussy of late—finicky about handwriting, inconsistent in its sorting. It preferred Elowyn’s touch, oddly enough, and responded best when he wrote in longhand. Thaddeus claimed it was the inkwork—Emrys insisted the charm liked being spoken to kindly.

Thaddeus issued instructions without glancing up, his voice clipped but never sharp. The shop breathed around them, steady and sure. When the hour turned, he finally looked up and gave a small wave toward the door. “Go on, you two. Elowyn needs to unpack. His coat’s still holding London,” he said—quiet, not unkind.

In the back room, Elowyn paused mid-task, quill suspended over the ledger. He hadn’t heard the words, but he felt something shift in the air—like a current changing course. A pause that didn’t belong to shopkeeping.

Emrys’s footsteps approached, unhurried. “Come along, little oak,” he called gently from the threshold. “Time to get you home.” 

The left the shop and turned westward, leaving behind the hum of the lane and curling gently into the outermost breath of the Koes. The stones thinned to packed earth, then softened further into moss and frost. Trees arched quietly overhead—not yet thick enough to hush the world, but close enough to lean in.

The cottage appeared between two yew trees, tucked into a fold of the land where the Koes's edge blurred into habitation. From the outside, it was a modest thing: ivy-clad stone, slate roof dappled with lichen, green-painted trim slightly uneven from centuries of mending. But the front gate creaked open without touch, the frost sliding back from the path as if shy, and the threshold hummed with welcome.

Inside, the house bloomed. It was small in the way magical homes often were—until you stepped in. Then it widened subtly, not extravagantly, but just enough to make the heart unclench. The charmwork was old and intricate, layered by both his fathers over the centuries of older charms all of which had woven together into a beautiful mesh of magic and wonder. Windows adjusted to the light and leaned inward during storms. Rugs stayed warm underfoot. The front hall hung their cloaks on its own pegs, adjusting for weight and mood.

To the right, the living room stretched farther than it should have, with a fireplace that whispered back when spoken to, and chairs that remembered how you liked to sit. A Koes-woven throw folded itself gently on the arm of Emrys’s chair. The mantle glowed faintly—an enchantment Thaddeus had designed to reflect the Grove’s light when the forest was cloaked in snow.

Beyond that lay the dining nook, where the table set itself for three the moment they passed. The kitchen stirred to life, too—kettle warming, spice jars rattling softly in greeting. A loaf of bread floated into a towel-lined basket, as if it had been waiting for them to return.

To the left, a small study blinked its lamps awake, while the half-bath’s mirror polished itself in anticipation of use. Emrys’s treatment chamber was sealed at the moment—its brass rune-lock dormant—but Elowyn caught the telltale scent of peppermint oil, calendula salve, and a trace of the low thrumming salt magic Emrys used for healing wounds.

At the far rear of the house, his fathers’ bedroom stood with the door slightly ajar. One lamp still glowed low, and the blanket on the right side of the bed was neatly folded back. Elowyn hesitated a moment there, then moved on without stepping in.

He took the stairs two at a time—though they briefly stretched to three stories before remembering themselves—and ducked into his gabled room. The space blinked to life. Candles around the room flared into cosy splendor. His quilt fluffed itself. The wardrobe sighed open, ready. The room smelled of lavender, polished wood, and the faint, unmistakable breath of pine—Koes air, drawn in through the enchanted west-facing window. He hadn’t been gone long, not really, but the cottage had missed him.

Emrys followed him up the stairs, withdrawing Elowyn’s trunk from his coat pocket and restoring it to proper size with a flick of his wand and a murmured spell. Without a word, he set to work, helping Elowyn unpack with a few graceful movements. The wardrobe hummed softly as it folded robes into neat stacks; the bookshelf gave a contented shiver, shifting volumes into place with familiar ease. A sheaf of parchment floated to the desk, guided by the flicker of the reading lamp. Emrys left the smaller things to Elowyn, who finished quickly. When he was done, he paused by the window. Beyond the dark edge of trees lay An Dar—unseen, but not unfelt.

Elowyn turned from the window at last, drawn by the scent of roasting herbs and buttered crust, and padded quietly down the stairs. He stepped lightly down the stairs to find Emrys in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, wand in hand, coaxing delicate pastry stars into place on the second of two small pies. One was the traditional Stargazy—pilchards nestled beneath a flaky crust, their heads tilted skyward in proper defiance of gravity. The other had been made for Elowyn—no flesh, only earth-grown things, layered in oil and Koes-grown herbs, their bright edges peeking through the folds of pastry like half-buried stars. The pastry stars themselves were his own addition—his quiet way of keeping the “stars” even without the fish.

Emrys murmured a soft warming charm and levitated both pies into the oven with a flick of his wand, as though they had all the time in the world.

Elowyn stood in the doorway, his voice quiet but certain. “Tad…may we go?”

Emrys looked up from the hearth, his expression unreadable at first—but not unkind. “And where would we be goin’, then, Dar Byghan (Little Oak)?”

Elowyn met his eyes. “You know.”

A pause—soft and brief, like breath caught in winter branches.

Emrys smiled and nodded once, setting aside his cloth. “Aye. Fetch your cloak. We’ll take the south path—it’s clearer this time of year.”

They left the cottage by the back gate, where the hedgerows bent inward to form a quiet arch, and the frost broke apart under foot as if unwilling to hinder them. The south path wound slow and shallow through the deeper trees, roots thick along the sides, the air colder but clearer. Here, the Koes said less but felt more. The snow fell differently in this part of the forest—soft and soundless.

Emrys said nothing. He didn’t need to. They had made this walk many times before, but not since Elowyn had gone away. Not since the ritual had passed into memory and school had folded around him like another kind of enchantment. But the Koes had not forgotten.

It should have taken no more than half an hour, walking straight. But no one walked straight in the Koes. The trees led as they chose. Sometimes the Koes opened wide and welcoming. Other times it curved, lingered, tested. The path to An Dar could take forty minutes—or ninety—or hours—or not at all. Time was just another breath beneath its branches.

But today, the Koes parted swiftly. Not from urgency, and not from mercy—but as though something at its heart had sensed the return of what it had been missing. The path curved once, then twice, and the trees began to shift—not just opening, but yielding, as though welcoming him. 

Snow clung softly to every limb and bramble, muting the world beneath it. Bare hazel branches dipped low at the edges of the path, trailing pale catkins that swayed like breath. A rowan leaned in with berries bright, its branches bare but vigilant. Holly held back its thorns, its green leaves shining under frost. The downy birch shivered in his wake, its fine, white limbs dusting snow like ash. Even the old yews, slow to stir, had drawn their shadows inward to let him pass

One moment they were walking beneath a skeletal canopy of oak and pine and rowan, and the next, the sky widened—grey and pale blue, with the first of the evening stars peeking through.

And there, standing alone in the middle of it all, was An Dar.

The clearing was vast and circular, a great hush at the heart of this deep pocket of what had once been a far greater, older forest. It did not feel opened so much as revealed—a place not summoned, but remembered. An Dar was not truly a tree; it was magic given shape—by eons of memory.

Its roots descended deep into the earth, breaking the frost like ribs. Its trunk was wide enough to house a cottage, though no one ever would. The bark shimmered faintly, even in shadow—textured with moss and runes no hand had carved. Branches twisted high above, each one broad enough to bear the weight of a child, or an owl, or a world.

Its crown had not shed its leaves. It never did. What clung there now was pale green tinged with silver—leaves that shimmered like frost caught mid-breath, like a dream directly before waking. They stirred gently, though no wind moved the clearing, and light clung to them as though remembering how to fall.

Encircling the tree was a ring of stones—not grand or towering, but low, weathered, and ancient. Most sat half-sunken in earth and snow, arranged in an unbroken circle. At the northernmost point of the ring lay a flat altar stone, wide as a dining table, worn smooth by generations of hands and offerings. Moss grew at its edges. In the middle, a shallow cup-like hollow had been worked over centuries—not carved, but shaped by wind and water and touch.

Emrys stopped just short of the ring. It was custom in the hamlet never to cross into the sacred circle without purpose. The space was approached, not entered—unless one was called. Elowyn, never bound by that tradition, stepped forward without hesitation. His birth had placed him within the circle from the start. As he crossed the boundary, the leaves of A Dar gave the faintest shiver—too subtle for most to notice, but unmistakable to those attuned. It was not wind, rather it was acknowledgment.

The hairs on his arms rose. His eyes burned—not with tears, but with the weight of being seen. He approached his Tas Dar slowly, boots silent on the snow-muffled moss. The tree towered above him, vast and unmoving, its branches stirring without wind. The air around it felt thinner somehow, denser—not heavy, but aware. Elowyn reached out and laid both palms against the bark. It was cool, but not cold. The texture was rough, ridged with age, dusted with lichen and frost—but beneath it, there was a pulse. Not a heartbeat, but a thrum—steady, ancient—like something thinking, or remembering its own name.

A Dar stilled and the weight in Elowyn’s chest eased—not vanished, but shifted, now shared. He didn’t speak. There was no need. An Dar didn’t deal in language. It dealt in breath, in skin, and in the space between one pulse and the next. He stood like that for a long time—hands against the bark, eyes half-closed, breathing slow. Behind him, the altar stone waited. The ring of rocks stood silent and small beneath the expanse of sky above. And all around him, the Koes listened.

Chapter Text

The sun bowed early that day, slipping behind the sea-bitten hills while the sky still blushed with rose and iron. Across Lanwynn Koes, shutters were fastened, hearths left banked, and footsteps turned quietly toward the eastern edge of the hamlet, where the moor ran soft into frost. This was not the quiet of sleep. It was the hush of a people waiting for the year to turn.

Elowyn stood barefoot in the cold earth, the hem of his white wool tunic brushing his ankles, a green sash tied firmly at his waist. A crown of holly rested upon his dark hair, freshly woven at dawn by Emrys from branches still sharp with winter’s scent. Around his neck, the slender curve of a silver snake glinted beneath the fabric—its emerald eyes catching the fading light, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat remembered. His fingers brushed it once, almost absently. A moment later, two answering pulses—soft as thought—whispered against his skin: Callum and Peter, somewhere far from the Koes, had done the same. And on his right hand, the ring: copper and gold entwined into the shape of branches and leaves, studded with black diamonds and deep blue sapphires.

He knelt. Eyes closed. His hands were low and outstretched. Before him stood An Trei an Montol—the Three of the Solstice: One for what had been. One for what now was. One for what shall be.

Morvoren, eldest woman in the Koes, stepped forward first, the moorstone bowl held carefully in both hands. Its contents were pale as bone: white clay drawn from a low bank south of A Dar, where the soil turned ivory with age and the Koes's breath stirred close to the surface. No child played there. No tool had touched it. It was gathered once a year, in silence, by the eldest among them, and kept sealed in linen until the longest night. It was not clay for pots or pigments—this was memory made soft—rather it was clay to be pressed against the brow so the land would know its own.

Morvoren's long hair was silvered like frost on thistle, her eyes dark with age and a kindness worn into stillness. She was cloaked in black, the fabric worn soft by time, and around her neck hung a heavy strand of stone—each piece gathered from the lands of the Koes, carved by hand, and strung anew for each bearer. When not worn, it was kept sealed in An Hel, alongside the other relics of the Koes. 

Her hands, though lined, moved with unwavering grace as she dipped her thumb into the clay and pressed it to the center of Elowyn’s brow, while intoning:

“Rag an pyth eus dhe-ves.”

(For what has come before.)

Goron followed. His back was bowed, but his hand steady as he stepped beside Morvoren. He was cloaked in a green tunic—the colour of standing groves and moss-covered stone—and upon his brow rested a garland of winter things that refused to die: ivy, hellebore, witch hazel, and snowdrop, their petals pale against the twilight. He was the eldest man in the Koes, and had long served as the spellwright of stone—tending the hearths and foundations, binding enchantments into lintels and walls. His son had apprenticed with him and so had his grandson. The very bones of the hamlet bore his signature.

He dipped his thumb into the clay and pressed it just left of Morvoren’s mark, while chanting:

“Rag an pyth eus omma.”

(For what now is.)

Last came Demelza—quiet, soft-spoken; She had lost her husband the winter before. Her children had gone long before that—grown now, with lives in London and Hogsmeade, returning seldom and never for long. This year she had been chosen An Treghvor—The One Who Stands Between. She had not been chosen by the elders. The third never was. Each year, on the morning of the Solstice, a trio of redwings—small thrushes with russet sides and pale brows—appeared without fail at the home of the one the Koes had named. This year, they had landed on Demelza’s lintel just after dawn.

She wore a glinting silver tunic, the folds of her cloak catching the low light like water under moonrise. Around her neck hung a necklace of twisted silver wire, set with moonstones and clear crystals. It was no heirloom of blood, but a relic of the Koes itself—kept sealed in An Hel until the Grove named its bearer. It had rested at the throat of every An Treghvor since the title first passed into story.

She stepped forward, dipped her thumb into the white clay, and pressed her mark above the others, completing the triad, saying:

“Rag an pyth a vydh.”

(For what shall be.)

They stepped back. And Elowyn rose. In that moment, the Koes turned its full gaze upon him. He felt it in the air—still and listening. He felt it in the soil—awake and waiting. He was no longer merely Elowyn. He was An Gwithyas Gwynn—Keeper of Light, vessel of the year’s turning, guardian of all that had fallen and would rise again.

In most years, An Trei’s choosing followed the subtle tides of feeling within the hamlet—sometimes selecting one who had suffered, sometimes one who had grown, or one who simply needed to be reminded that they belonged. The role was a gift, not a reward, and its magic moved more by mood than measure. But this year, there had been no question. Only one Koeschild had gone out into the world, and only one had returned bearing the shape of both its sorrow and its hope. The Koes remembered him—and he had remembered the Koes. That was enough. That was everything.

Demelza stepped forward, cradling the sacred torch in both hands. It was not carved, but braided from fallen branches gathered for the offering—ash, hazel, and birch twisted tightly together, bound with wool dyed green with nettle and yarrow. At its tip, a wreath of dried ivy and river-cane coiled like a crown, glinting faintly with old sap. No blade had shaped it. Only hands, and patience, and spellwork old enough to hum beneath the skin.

The other two raised their wands—not in show, but in ritual. With a whispered charm shared in a tongue older than even Cornish, they lit the torch together. The flame bloomed golden and slow, steady against the rising night.

Elowyn turned westward, bearing the torch with both hands, its flame casting long shadows before him.

The path through the hamlet had cleared. Along the central thoroughfare—the only street that led from the eastern edge to An Dar at the village’s heart—stood every soul of the Koes, bundled in cloaks, arms full of gathered detritus: branch and bramble, bark and stormfall, offerings too sacred to be discarded by mundane means.

He stepped forward. The elders followed behind him. As they passed, the Koesfolk fell in behind them—line by line, house by house, until the whole hamlet moved together like a river lit by firelight. Children held tight to their parents, wide-eyed; elders moved slow but steady, some leaning on carved canes or the arms of their kin. In the torch’s glow, the stone walls of cottages caught gleams of gold.

As Elowyn approached the stone circle, he felt the Koes stir—A Dar welcoming him. On this night, above all others, the path was open. The old stones of the sacred circle stood tall and rounded with lichen and time, forming a boundary for the altar beyond. The altar itself was low and round, ten feet across, blackened at the center by centuries of flame. The altar waited at the northern edge of the circle, its stone basin already lined with soil gathered from the roots of An Dar, blanketed in evergreen needles laid with quiet reverence earlier that day.

One by one, the Koesfolk approached the altar. Without hurry and without speech, they laid their offerings upon the stone—branches curved like old bones, twisted lengths of storm-snapped oak, and cedar that still held the scent of rain. Children laid bramble and ivy with trembling care. Some pressed their fingers briefly to the altar stone after placing their branch, whispering words only the Grove could hear.

And all the while, Elowyn stood with the elders at his back, his face calm, his hands steady on the torch.

When the final offering had been placed, he stepped forward. The firewood stretched across the altar like a memory reassembled, each fallen piece returned to purpose.

Elowyn raised his voice—not loud, but clear, shaped by the breath of the Koes and the will of the year.

“Rag an pyth a veu—”

(For what has been—)

A pause, soft as snowfall. And then the response, rising from every throat, from the eldest to the youngest:

“Lef dhybm bos sygh.”

(Let it rest.)

Elowyn’s voice carried above the crowd, shaped by the simple joy of standing among his people, in the land that knew him.

“Rag an pyth eus—”

(For what is now.)

The reply came strong and steady, echoing through the circle:

“Lef dhybm troi.”

(Let it turn.)

And now his voice softened, not with sorrow, but with reverence—for the unknown, for the yet-to-be, for all that might root and rise beyond their knowing.

“Rag an pyth a vydh—”

(For what shall come—)

The Koesfolk answered, not loudly, but as if planting something tender in the dark:

“Lef dhybm maga.”

(Let it grow.)

And with a single motion, he lowered the torch and lit the offering. The fire took slowly, then all at once—catching at the center, coiling outward, gold and deep red and a shimmer of unseen magic that only a few could sense. Smoke rose in a spiral, straight into the airless sky.

A long pause followed. Then—Music. The flutes began first, followed by fiddle and tambour. Voices rose in Cornish songs—some light and winding, others low and rhythmic. The villagers drank from clay cups filled with mead made from the enchanted hives nestled in the trees near the brook—sweet, heady, golden as the flame. They danced in circles wide and small, hands joined, and feet sure on frozen ground.

In the glow of the fire and beneath the hush of starlight, Elowyn looked almost unearthly—his dark hair falling loose around features too fine for boyhood, too still for easy speech. The violet ring around his irises caught the light, reflecting it like glass kissed by dawn. Something in him shimmered—not with magic exactly, but with presence, as if he had been pulled from the edge of another world and hadn’t quite finished returning. Those who watched from the circle did not speak of it aloud, but they felt it, each in their quiet way: that Elowyn, in this moment, was not simply a boy chosen by the Koes. He was its reflection. Its echo. Its breath made flesh. He was ethereally beautiful.

Elowyn did not dance at first. He stood with An Trei, his white cloak catching the firelight as he watched the flame consume what the year had left behind. It burned slowly, reverently—smoke rising like memory, sparks lifting like offerings. Beside him, Emrys laid a hand on his shoulder—not just as a father, but as one who had stood where Elowyn now stood, who knew the weight of the torch and the ache of turning time.

He stayed there a while, still and watchful, until the fire grew wild and big and the music changed—faster, fuller, and spun with laughter and wind. Then he moved from the altar to the open ring of dancing Koesfolk. Someone reached for his hand; another handed him a cup of warm mead. He drank it down, laughed as the mead filled him warmth and joined them.

He danced until his feet were sore and his dark waves damp with mist, until he could no longer tell where the fire’s warmth ended and the warmth in his chest began. The flames gilded his skin with a soft, living light, tracing the curves of his face and throat as though the Koes itself were reaching toward him. His skin seemed to hold the fire, not just reflect it—luminous in a way that might have been magic, or might have been joy. And his eyes—dark blue with violet at their center—caught the light in a way that seemed almost unnatural. They shimmered faintly, like starlight seen through water, the violet flickering just enough that one could almost believe it was the flame itself answering him. Perhaps it was only the firelight—perhaps not.

He also sang with the others, his voice rising and falling with the fiddle and flute, in syllables old and aching and bright. And all the while, beneath the joy shared in the circle, he carried another—a quieter joy, tucked deep within: the pulse of a silver pendant against his skin, the memory of a bright-blue-eyed boy and a freckled one, far away but never absent.

When the offering had burned down to ember and ash, the celebration softened. Songs gave way to quiet laughter, to the clink of emptied cups, to children asleep in shawls. The ashes would remain untouched until spring. On the Vernal Equinox, they would be spread around the roots of An Dar—completing the cycle once more. When the fire had burned through and the last ember glowed red and spent, the gathered would begin their walk home together, as they always did—a slow procession back through the hamlet, lanterns swinging gently in the dark.

By the time the procession made its way home and the Koesfolk drifted back to their dwellings, Elowyn’s hair was damp with mist and his fingers smelled of fire and holly. His body ached with weariness, but his mind remained restless—too full of light and shadow for sleep to find him easily. So, instead, he sat at the old oak desk in his gable room and wrote. The letters were not long. They did not need to be. They carried what the Koes had given him: the hush, the ember-light, and the breath of flame rising into the heart of winter. One letter for Callum and one for Peter. He signed them both with the same steady hand.

Elowyn, Gwithyas Gwynn

Outside, the Koes, once more sated, sighed back into its dreaming. The fire had done its work; the offering was ash now, cooling beneath the stars. The old year had been named, honored, and released, but not yet buried—that would come with spring. For now, the Koes turned inward once more, quiet but listening—cradling the hush of flame, the breath of chant, and the still-warm promise of what would grow.

—

December 22nd, 1996

From: Peter Ainsley (Third bedroom, west wall, where the draught whistles loudest)

To: Elowyn Marwood-Travers (Somewhere sacred, probably talking to a tree)

⸻

Hi El,

First—your letter. I read it three times. Once properly, once out loud (to myself), and once upside down because Maggie spilled honey on the parchment and I had to read around it. It was beautiful. You write like you’re translating a language the sky forgot how to speak. Honestly, it made everything here feel a little…dull and loud and meaningless.

The Solstice sounds like it was amazing. It’s hard to picture, but I tried. I imagined you in the middle of the firelight, not burning obviously, just…you know. Glowing. Like you do when you forget anyone’s watching. I bet Callum would’ve stood next to you like he was guarding the gate of some ancient thing, looking cool without trying. I would’ve been holding the torch upside down or tripping on a root. But I would’ve been there. I wanted to be.

Things at home are exactly as I remembered them, which is to say: chaos in fourteen directions, most of it loud. Jemima (eighteen, still living here, though she swears it’s “just temporary”) has reorganized the kitchen “for flow,” which means no one can find the biscuits and now Dad makes his tea with a look of betrayal. Ben (six) stole my wand—again—and tried to enchant Mum’s knitting needles to duel each other. They turned on him, obviously, and there was a full-on wrestling match on the sitting room rug before Mum barreled out of the kitchen and froze the lot. Flora (four) has decided she can heal things now, because she made a dandelion look “less sad,” and immediately tried her new gift on the fireplace. It now shoots sparks like it’s applauding you, which is great if you like third-degree encouragement.

Most of the others can’t use magic yet, but that doesn’t stop them from trying. Or from borrowing wands and making deeply questionable decisions with them. I’ve taken to hiding mine in a sock in my trunk.

Dad’s been…quieter. He listens to the wireless a lot. Doesn’t say much after. I asked once if he was alright, and he told me I’ve got more important things to worry about. I told him I’m in Slytherin, which didn’t help. He looked at me like I’d said I’d joined a goblin crime ring. Then he got quiet again. Quieter than usual. The kind of quiet that fills a room like cold air. I don’t know what to say after that, so I don’t.

It’s…strange. The world feels like it’s pulling tighter. Like someone’s winding a clock too fast. I try not to think about it. Sometimes I press the pendant. Probably too much. I worry it bothers you—these little pulses when you’re doing something important. But I like to think you feel it. That you know it’s me. That I’m still here. Trying to be part of something…

I’ve thought about it. The Legilimency thing. I know it could help—maybe even show us who it was. But the idea of someone digging through my head, even for a good reason…I don’t know. It feels like inviting a stranger to rifle through your wardrobe and pretend they’re not judging your socks. Especially if that someone is Snape. I know you wouldn’t have brought it up if it didn’t matter. And maybe I’ll get there. Just…not yet.

Your notes are perfect, obviously. Callum’s additions are vaguely legible and frequently insulting. I adore them both. I’m doing my best to catch up, but my quill keeps rebelling and History of Magic is slowly turning into a collection of unrelated anecdotes. I’m almost certain I’ve invented a new goblin uprising. If it makes it into the exam, I expect full credit.

I miss the dorm. Not just the quiet (though that too—nothing here ever stops), but the way it felt when it was just us three. You and Callum have this way of filling a room without making it loud. I used to think I balanced that out with noise, or charm, or raw academic panic. Now I don’t know. Maybe it’s different. Maybe it’s not. Maybe I’m just imagining spaces that aren’t really there. Or maybe they are there and I’m just still figuring out how to step back into them without knocking something over. Well, so, if you hear a crash around midnight and feel a pulse from your pendant, it’s probably just me—emotionally tripping over the furniture.

Anyway. Too serious. Back to important matters: Nessa “fixed” my bangs yesterday. They were apparently “too chaotic,” which is rich coming from someone who thinks cloaks should have elbow tassels. Crispin Jr. says I now look like I lost a bet with a Beater bat. He’s probably not wrong.

I hope you’re warm. I hope the Grove’s still doing its mystical breathing thing. And I hope you and Callum smile when the pendant flickers—just a little. Or at least don’t roll your eyes. I’ll take that too.

Yours, I think. Probably… Maybe? Yeah!?

Peter

P.S. I drew you holding a squirrel. It seemed festive. Callum’s in the background looking judgmental. I look confused, which felt accurate.

Peter’s Drawing

—

The scent of cinnamon and clove drifted through the cottage, curling through the narrow hallway and settling in the folds of the curtains like it had been there a hundred years already. Outside, wind from the moors rasped coldly along the stone wall, but inside it was all warmth—firelight and steam—and the hush of something about to be shared.

Elowyn sat at the small oak desk beneath the window in his room, the letter from Peter unfolded before him, slightly wrinkled at the edges where he’d already read it—twice, then again. The squirrel drawing rested beside it like a witness to the better parts of the world. Its lines were shaky, the proportions improbable, and it was perfect.

The silver pendant against his collarbone gave the faintest thrum—just once, as he unfolded the letter. One of them had touched theirs. He didn’t know which, but the warmth of it lingered like a held breath. He read the letter again, slowly, carefully, letting the shape of Peter’s voice settle around him.

He didn’t laugh aloud while reading, but once or twice the corner of his mouth twitched. And once—after the line about “emotionally tripping over furniture”—he exhaled through his nose, which was as much as he ever gave. His fingers moved to trace the closing words again: Yours, I think. Probably… Maybe? Yeah!?

He folded the letter with care, smoothed the crease, and set it atop the small stack in the drawer he’d dedicated to them—letters from Peter, notes from Callum, things he would not forget. Then he stood.

He dressed simply, but nothing he wore was ever truly plain. His short tunic was deep violet wool, soft but finely woven, cut close to the body in the Koes fashion—tailored without stiffness, embroidered at the cuffs and collar in curling silver thread. The embroidery was old, done by Emrys’s mother, Tegen, years ago, and Elowyn only wore it for nights like this. Beneath it, he wore soft silver trousers and purple slippered boots, quiet on stone.

As he made his way downstairs, he passed through the front room where they’d spent the afternoon decorating. The tree stood tall by the hearth, its branches laced with frost that never melted, its needles shifting shade with the hour—deep green now, but kissed faintly with silver at the tips. Candle-charms floated between the boughs, flickering with steady flame though none had wicks, and the glass ornaments shimmered like bubbles blown from starlight—each one humming softly if passed too close. Garlands of enchanted thread ran along the rafters, woven with dried citrus and sprigs of cinnamon that released their scent in pulses, like the room was breathing.

Near the bottom branches of the tree, a few hand-drawn pictures from Elowyn’s earliest years still hung askew—one shaped like a crooked fox and the other like a misshapen star. Emrys had enchanted them not only to preserve them, but to faintly glow whenever Elowyn was near. As he passed, both flickered to life for just a moment, like they remembered him.

Wreaths of holly, ivy, and winter sage hung from the lintels, bound with charm-knots that warmed the air and glowed faintly whenever someone passed beneath. One of the holly wreaths had begun singing—very softly—in Cornish when dusk fell, though no one had admitted to enchanting it. The whole room glowed—not brightly, but with the quiet, lingering warmth of something handmade and deeply kept. It was a room that remembered joy.

By the time he stepped into the kitchen, the candles had already been charmed alight, their glow steady and golden across the weathered wood. Emrys was at the stove, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a smear of flour on one cheek, while a wooden spoon stirred itself in a wide copper pot—its handle nudged along by a charm old enough that no one remembered the words. A dozen scents filled the air: buttered leeks, saffron buns cooling on a rack by the window, parsnip pudding, chestnut stew, and something sweet baking low in the oven that smelled like winter pressed into sugar.

Thaddeus was leaning against the doorframe, hair damp from the rain, the scent of wind and wool still clinging to his robes. He’d only just returned from the shop, where he’d been working all morning—packing, warding, arranging deliveries. The war did not pause for candles or company. He said nothing as Elowyn entered, but his eyes took him in—sharp, tired, and then gentled. He nodded once, the smallest smile at the corner of his mouth, then looked back toward the front door, just in time.

It opened on a gust of cold and peat-smoke, and there they were: Tegen and Jory, Emrys’s parents, still in their traveling cloaks, cheeks flushed with wind.

Mamm Wynn (Grandmother) Tegen was a small, wiry woman with white hair plaited tightly down her back; she had eyes sharp as flint. She carried a basket on her arm that rattled faintly with bottles and cloth-wrapped bundles. Tas Wynn (Grandfather) Jory, taller by a head and quiet as deep earth, had arms like oak branches and a beard that still held snow in its edges. He said nothing at all, but smiled when he saw Elowyn and reached to enfold him in his arms with a warmth that needed no words.

They spoke Cornish—of course they did. Mamm Wynn asked if the fire had behaved, if Emrys had finally found the draught at the east side of the house—“with all that wind, it’ll be the death of the floorboards”—and whether the chimney had stayed clear despite the snow. She looked Elowyn over with a narrowed gaze, took his chin in hand, and grunted something approving. Then she passed him the basket without explanation and unpinned her cloak.

After she'd hung up her cloak, Mamm Wynn turned back to Elowyn and looked him over slowly, her gaze steady as the Koes itself. “Something’s grown in you,” she said at last—not gently, but not unkindly either. “I saw it at the Solstice. And once or twice before tonight, in the way you hold your shoulders now. Something’s most certainly changed. Stillness under movement. Like you’ve chosen a shape and started keeping it.”

Elowyn didn’t answer right away. He hadn’t grown taller—he was still the smallest of the three—but there was something else, perhaps. There was a quietness that no longer curled inward along with a stillness that reached rather than recoiled. He held her gaze for a breath longer than he might have the year before, and when he nodded, it was not in agreement, but in recognition.

Mamm Wynn turned to Tas Wynn, took his cloak to hang it, brushing snow from the clasp with a hand as wrinkled as old bark. “Shapes change you, once you start living in them,” she said without looking at him. “That’s the part no one says. We think we choose them, but sometimes they do the choosing. And if you’re lucky, the choosing is kind.”

Elowyn stepped closer to the hearth. “What if it isn’t?” he asked, so softly it barely left his throat.

“Then you learn the difference between what holds you and what binds you,” she said. “And you start reshaping, whether or not it’s allowed.”

He thought of Slytherin House. Of Callum, whose silence was never empty. Of Peter, whose jokes were always tinged in deeper truths.

Mamm Wynn finally looked at him again. “You’ve still got softness in you. That’s good. Don’t let them chase it out—not even the House that thinks it knows the price of strength.”

“I don’t plan to,” he said.

Her eyes twinkled. “You say that like someone who already has.”

Mamm Wynn said nothing more, but her eyes twinkled like frost catching firelight—just for a moment—before she turned back to the hearth. Elowyn didn’t flinch. His face remained still—polished smooth by months of practice. It was the expression he wore in corridors and common rooms, in classrooms and stairwells—the one that gave nothing away, that asked no questions and answered even fewer. He had learned to wear it like armor. And now, without thought, it slipped into place as easily as breath.

Because she was right. He had changed. Even the fact that he wouldn’t let his expression falter—not here, not with his Mamm Wynn—was proof enough. The softness she’d named was still there, but buried now, more carefully guarded than he’d realized. He wasn’t sure who still saw it. Mamm Wynn, perhaps—though only just, by her account. Callum, almost certainly. Peter…maybe. Definitely. Because Peter always saw more than he let on, and never pushed when he did.

And the thought didn’t frighten him because he doubted them. It frightened him because he didn’t. Because in just a few months, Slytherin House had distilled him—boiled him down to something sharper, something with a deadly edge. Trust, they taught, was a substance best stored in small, breakable bottles. Softness wasn’t a flaw, but it was a risk. He had known it even then, when he’d chosen a seat at the Slytherin table that was “just visible, just apart.” Not too close. Not too far. Just enough to be seen—never touched. And the most dangerous thing you could do was offer someone the power to hurt you, and hope they never would. He hadn’t meant to learn that. And yet…he had. 

Just before dinner, as the dishes charmed themselves to warmth and the table was being set, Tas Wynn looked over at Elowyn and said, not unkindly, “You’ve taken on the stillness.”

Elowyn glanced up. “Have I?”

Tas Wynn nodded slowly, and then looked into the fire. “Yes, you’ve got that quiet around the edges. Like someone who knows how to hold silence without being hollow.”

Elowyn paused, then said, “I’ve had good teachers.”

Tas Wynn gave a small grunt of approval. “Aye. Just be sure you remember how to make noise when it counts.”

Mamm Wynn snorted softly from her chair. “He’ll bottle it up, just like his tad.”

Emrys, lounging with one hip against the counter and a mug of mulled cider in hand, raised an eyebrow. “I’m better now. Mostly.”

“Mm,” she said, sipping her own. “So is saffron dough. Still takes time.”

Thaddeus cleared his throat, but only to hide a laugh. Emrys grinned. Tas Wynn chuckled low in his chest. Even Mamm Wynn cracked a smile, small but sincere. Elowyn didn’t speak, but the smile he allowed was quiet and real.

The rest of the evening passed in warmth and rhythm—nothing grand, but everything kept. The table was set with care, each dish passed with murmured spells to keep it warm. They ate slowly, with the easy conversation of those who knew each other’s pauses better than their words.

Afterward, Mamm Wynn and Tas Wynn gave him a single gift, folded neatly in a bundle of green flannel: a cloak sewn from wool spun and dyed in the Koes, deep green like the Grove at twilight. Its hem and sleeves were hand-embroidered in intricate Cornish knotwork, the threads shifting in various shades of silver—some gleaming like frost, others catching the light like moonlit sap. It had been charmed to keep him warm and dry no matter the weather, and whispered a soft protective ward when fastened at the throat.

Elowyn, in turn, gave them what he’d made with care—and help. For Mamm Wynn, a small metal hand warmer patterned with delicate filigree, its surface smooth and darkened at the edges like moon-kissed iron. Inside, he’d tucked dried blossoms—lavender, hyssop, and clove—fragrant but soft. When cupped between both hands and breathed on gently, the charm within activated: the metal warmed, never too hot, and the herbs released their scent in slow pulses, like the memory of summer drifting through winter’s sleep. It was a variation of a household warming charm, perfected with Emrys’s steadiness and Thaddeus’s precision.

For Tas Wynn, a walking stick carved from elderwood, its grip shaped to fit his hand, its shaft etched with a single guiding rune near the top. When he placed his palm over it and whispered “Domum,” the enchantment would stir—just enough to send a faint vibration through the wood and a quiet tug in the direction of the Koes. Not a map, not a path—just the sense of where to turn when the world grew fogged. The charm was layered gently and subtly—meant for those who rarely asked for help but sometimes needed the world to meet them halfway.

Neither of them said much. They never did. But Mamm Wynn discreetly blew on the warmer and slipped it into her apron pocket and didn’t take her hand out again. And Tas Wynn kept the stick close beside him all evening, his fingers brushing the carved rune once or twice—just enough to know it worked.

Later, as they sang the old songs—low and close in the candlelight—Elowyn let his voice rise just enough to be heard. He didn’t think about the mask. Not then. But when the house had gone still and the hearth had burned low, he remained awake beneath the cloak they’d given him, staring at the ceiling’s wooden beams as if they might answer something. The softness was still his—but only just. And though he’d promised himself he would keep it, something in him knew that keeping it meant more than silence. It meant truth…and risk. The Koes did not shield him from what had to be faced. And by the time the sun began its slow rise, he had made a choice: not to let go of the burden, but to speak it aloud.

—

23 December, late

Kitchen Table, McCormack Farm, Offaly

Elowyn,

Hope it’s not too cold. I remember you said the Koes takes its snow seriously. We’ve had our share here too. Da says the drifts this year are heavier than usual—wet snow that packs down hard. Good for the ground, but bad for boots.

He’s had me out every morning. Frostproofing the garden beds, patching spells around the hen house, stacking the logs twice because the first stack “lacked commitment.” That was his phrase. I disagreed silently.

Brígh and Maebh helped him feed the hens yesterday. Mostly they tripped and screamed. Mam says they’re learning enthusiasm. She also says if they don’t stop hiding spoons in the hearth ash, no one gets jam for a week.

She’s doing fine with the pregnancy, mostly. Slower than usual. She won’t say it, but we all know. Da keeps the kettle going. I think that’s his answer for most things.

Schoolwork’s coming along. Finished most of it. History still makes no sense, but I copied your notes and they helped. They make it sound like the events actually mattered. Potions is impossible—too many maybes. I’ll wait and ask you when we’re back.

Peter’s owled me three times. Said he’s “catching up at the speed of light” and asked if you’d “be charmed or concerned.” I told him I wasn’t answering that. He told me I was no help. He was joking, I think.

My room’s been too quiet without you. Strange, considering that you’re quiet, but you still filled our dorm with your presence.

Felt the pendant a few days ago. I was in the barn. Didn’t stop working, but I pressed mine after. Figured one of you needed to know you weren’t the only one feeling it.

Write back if you’ve time. Or don’t. I’ll write again anyway.

Stay warm,

Callum

—

The snow had stopped sometime before dawn. Elowyn had noticed because he hadn’t slept. He’d lain awake instead, eyes tracing the ceiling beams, the faint weave of frost on the window. The cottage had creaked and settled around him, old wood breathing, stone remembering. But inside his chest, something stayed taut. Thought after thought, looping and layered, circling until the morning came.

He rose before the sun had fully cleared the trees, dressing in silence. His slippered boots made no sound on the stairs. The floor was warm beneath him—not from an old charm humming endlessly, but because someone—likely Thaddeus—had renewed it in the night. Nothing in the house lasted without tending. Everything was kept alive by care.

In the kitchen, the table was already laid. A pot of oat porridge steamed in its charm-warmed bowl, laced with barley and dried apple. A plate of saffron buns—bright as yolk, soft with clotted cream—waited between two mugs of tea and a third still steaming.

Emrys sat cross-legged at the table, one hand around his cup, the other resting lightly on Zenobia’s back. His hair was mussed. He wore one of Thaddeus’s old jumpers, sleeves rolled to the knuckles. He looked up when Elowyn entered and smiled—crooked and soft and full of knowing.

“There’s my boy. We nearly gave your bun to the cat.”

Zenobia flicked her tail with unbothered elegance.

“She’s welcome to try,” Elowyn said quietly, settling into the chair across from Emrys. His voice was even, but the wear behind it crept through at the edges.

Emrys passed him the plate.

Thaddeus was seated at the far end, a stack of order forms spread before him—ink-creased, corner-creased, one from a supplier in Devon that crackled faintly when touched. He looked over his reading glasses and offered a nod.

“You’re up early,” he said.

Elowyn didn’t answer right away. “I never fell asleep.”

That made both men look up. Emrys straightened slightly, his fingers still on his mug. Thaddeus set his quill down—not sharply, not dramatically. Just…deliberately.

“I’ve been pondering what Mamm Wynn said yesterday,” Elowyn said.

The fire crackled behind them. Outside, the trees held their snowfall, branches bowed under white, the hush of morning unbroken.

Emrys’s voice was gentle. “About what, Dar Byghan?”

Elowyn kept his eyes on the steam rising from his cup, two slow tears welled in his eyes. “Softness.”

Emrys looked up first, brows lifted slightly. Thaddeus didn’t move, but the spoon stopped its motion.

He set his hands flat against the sides of his cup. Not gripping. Just anchoring.

“I’ve been carrying something. All term, really. I meant to say something before now, but I kept…smoothing it. Sanding it down into something easy to write. Something you wouldn’t worry about.”

Neither Emrys nor Thaddeus said anything, but the way they leaned forward was answer enough.

“Slytherin isn’t just sharp-edged—it’s shaped to pierce. Everything is measured in advantage: who’s watching, who’s speaking, and who isn’t. If you bleed, you’re expected to make it look like strategy. I’ve learned to speak carefully, to move carefully. I don’t speak unless I must—and if I must, it’s usually to cut. I try to avoid cruelty. I think I do. But some days, I’m no longer certain where caution ends and cruelty begins. At times, I think it’s cunning. Other times, I think it’s rot—subtle, seeping in beneath the surface. I see it in their eyes now and then—Callum’s quiet watchfulness and Peter’s faint pause—when I speak too precisely, when I let my voice go cool with Vesper or Honoria. They don’t name it, but I wonder if they fear I’ve gone too far. That I’ve begun to wear the House like armour instead of thread. And perhaps they’re right. Perhaps I have let the edge stay too long.”

He exhaled—not a dramatic breath, just the breath you take before admitting something you’ve hidden from yourself.

“I’ve learned not to show too much—not fear, or delight, or even hurt. I keep my voice even and my expression still, but not because I feel less—but because revealing what I feel invites risk. It isn’t a mask, exactly. It’s containment. Quiet is harder to wound.”

He looked up now, and the tears came—not loud—just a steady, a silent spilling. They were soft as breath, but unstoppable.

“And I’ve become skilled at it. Alarmingly so. I can hold my own against the worst in our year—never cruel, not quite, but I’ve learned where to press. How to speak just enough to unbalance. How to make silence say what words can’t. I know how to hurt without ever raising my voice.”

He paused.

“That’s what frightens me.”

Neither of his fathers spoke, but the silence between them thickened—not absence, but restraint. Thaddeus’s hands had stilled completely, his fingers curled around the base of his cup, unmoving. His gaze didn’t waver. Emrys was no longer sipping his tea. He’d set the mug down, both hands flat on the table now, his shoulders drawn in tight, like he was holding his breath. Elowyn felt the weight of their listening. And because of it—because they hadn’t looked away—he kept going.

“I was afraid to tell you. Afraid you’d think I chose wrong—because I did choose. I told the Hat I had to be in Slytherin. That it was where I was meant to go.”

His voice thinned, not with weakness, but with the care of saying it right.

“It was surprised I knew already. But it agreed and said the path had already begun.”

He paused.

“I’m afraid I let the wrong part of me speak that day. And that by doing so…I failed you somehow.”

He blinked slowly, and the tears fell hotter now—faster. He wasn’t trembling or sobbing. He was just releasing the heat of shame, and the weight of blame.

“But it didn’t feel like a choice. It felt like something the Hat already knew. Something the Koes had whispered long before I left. Not a door I opened—but one that opened to me. One I was already walking toward, whether I knew it or not.”

He paused again.

“And I brought Callum and Peter with me into that cursed House at war with itself and all the others. They followed me through a door I opened, and now they wear the same mark.”

He exhaled, slow.

“To the ones who think they belong, we’re traitors. To the rest, we’re threats. No one trusts a Slytherin—not even the other Slytherins.”

A pause, then quieter:

“Peter was the one they targeted first. He was nearly killed. And I can’t help but think—”

He stopped, gathered himself, and continued.

“It should’ve been me. I was the one who brought us there. But now that he’s awake…it’s not enough just to feel guilt. I have to protect him. We both do—Callum and I. We don’t speak of it often, but that promise is there.”

His voice dropped again, threaded with something almost wondering.

“I don’t do it because I must. I do it because it feels…inevitable. Like them. Like the way they’ve taken root beside me. Like Slytherin itself. Only gentler.”

His voice lowered—not from shame, but from weariness.

“It feels like I’m drowning in a sea of my own making. And Callum and Peter are drowning with me. They're suffering because of me...because of my choice. Or maybe…because of my fate, I will be their destruction.””

He didn’t look at either of his fathers as he said it. He then covered his face with both of his hands as the first sob tore out of him—sharp, raw, and loud. It was not graceful or contained. It rose from somewhere deep, where the grief had pooled too long. His hands covered his face, but they could not muffle the sound. He cried like someone who had tried not to. Like someone who had been brave too long. The tears came fast, and though he made no move to wipe them away, there was no shame in them now. There was only release.

Emrys moved without a word. Not quickly, and not all at once. Just a soft shift of chair legs against stone, the creak of knit fabric, and the hush of breath drawn close. He crouched beside Elowyn’s chair, laid one hand on his shoulder, and then—when Elowyn didn’t pull away—gathered him in gently, folding him in as he’d done it hundreds of times over Elwoyn's 11 years. Elowyn let himself go. Not all the way, but enough to lean in and be held. Enough to bury his face in Emrys’s chest and let the tears soak slowly into the wool. He didn’t speak. He had nothing more to say.

When the sobs had faded to breath, and the weight of it had settled low in Elowyn’s chest like ash after flame, he felt another hand, larger and steadier. Thaddeus had stood without sound. He didn’t crouch or kneel, didn’t fold Elowyn into himself the way Emrys did. He simply rested a hand on the back of his son’s neck—firm, warm, grounding. The way someone holds a gate closed against the wind. The way someone says you’re safe without needing to speak. And in that touch, Elowyn felt something shift. It wasn't forgiveness because there was nothing to forgive. It wasn't absolution because no wrong had been done. It was just the truth of being held—by both of them.

No one spoke for a long time after that. The fire crackled low as the light shifted across the stone. Outside, the snow clung to the boughs and the wind moved past the cottage without testing the latch. Emrys held him. Thaddeus stood behind him, hand steady at the nape of his neck. And Elowyn, for the first time all winter, let himself be still—not as armor, but as surrender.

—

25 December, late

Lanwynn Koes

My dearest Callum and Peter,

The house is still tonight. The fire’s burned low, and Zenobia has claimed most of the blanket across my lap with the quiet insistence of someone who knows she’ll win. Outside, the snow hasn’t started again, but I think it might. The Koes always grows quieter just before it does—like the air has begun listening.

This morning passed in the way midwinter mornings sometimes do—everything soft and slow. At breakfast, I told my fathers the truth—about Slytherin, the mask, the shape of things. About what it’s cost, and what I’m trying not to lose in the keeping. I don’t think I expected it to matter as much as it did. But it did. It still does.

You’ve both lingered near in my thoughts more than I meant to let on. I feel the pendant sometimes and press mine back, though I don’t always know which of you called first. It doesn’t matter. The tether is enough. You are enough.

I don’t have anything profound to say—only that I miss the quiet rhythm we’ve made together. Even when we’re not speaking. Especially when we're not speaking and just being together. It isn’t the same without us together. We are a set now.

We’ll be back together soon.

With the part of me I don’t show anyone else,

Elowyn

Chapter Text

It was the kind of cold that crept deep into the bones, the damp January sort that turned breath to mist and made coats feel thinner than they were. King’s Cross Station was a clamor of voices and flickering light, full of the impatient hiss of brakes and the echoing call of intercoms. But nearer to the hidden entrance of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, time seemed to slow. There, the world thinned, as though magic held it gently apart from the rest of London’s noise.

Callum had arrived first, flanked by his father, Malachy McCormack who never spoke much—he rarely did in public—but he stood solid as stone behind his son, cloaked in a weathered wool coat, a wool cap pulled low over his ears. The smell of peat smoke clung faintly to him, and his presence had the same effect on the station’s chill that a hearth might on a draughty room: not banishing the cold, but refusing to yield to it.

And then Elowyn arrived. He slipped through the barrier with a smooth elegance that most wizards couldn’t attain. He had Zenobia’s carrier in one hand and his wand hand free, as always. Emrys came just behind, his scarf a deep forest green. His hand brushed Elowyn’s shoulder the moment he crossed through, to assure him that he was there. 

Elowyn’s hair had grown slightly over the break—he hadn’t let Mamm Wynn cut it—and it moved as the station’s steam curled past them, fine and dark as raven-feathered silk. His coat was too fine for the grit and soot of King’s Cross: charcoal grey, trimmed in green silk, fastened at the throat with a silver clasp in the shape of a sprig of wintergreen. His face was flushed from the wind, but beneath the color lay a drawnness the Koes had not been able to erase. He looked both older and more fragile, and in that strange way one did when they were no longer entirely of one place.

Callum straightened when he saw him, and a smile bloomed first in his eyes—quiet, certain—before the smallest trace of one touched his lips. Elowyn’s mouth softened in response, his eyes glinting faintly in the dim station light. He crossed the distance between them in a few steps and let Callum—who had grown at least an inch in height and filled out in the shoulders—draw him in.

The hug was firm, bracing—not the kind meant to comfort, but the kind that remembered. The kind that reminded you how someone fit against your chest when the world had been too quiet without them for too long. Elowyn let it happen. He breathed in—earth, wool, and soap. Callum’s jumper smelled like the McCormack home: sun-dried linens and churned soil. Behind him, Emrys murmured something in Cornish. Elowyn nodded without looking back, the gesture small and reverent. Emrys waited until Zenobia’s carrier had been safely transferred into Callum’s free hand, then clasped his son’s shoulder once more.

Once they’d broken their embrace, Callum stood just beside Elowyn, their shoulders touching—close enough to steady, close enough to settle something wordless between them. Elowyn had placed his hand delicately on the nearest slope of Callum’s shoulder—not possessive, nor careless, just a quiet acknowledgment of something that had gone missing and come back. They stood slightly turned inward, an unconscious alignment of bodies that had once been strangers. They weren’t speaking, but something passed between them nonetheless. It was as though each made the other more whole.

Just a pace back, their fathers watched—Emrys with quiet warmth, Malachy with the stillness of weathered stone. Neither approached. But they saw. And they understood more than they would ever say aloud.

That was when Peter stepped through the barrier. He came through at a jog, scarf unraveling slightly, his wand hand half-lost in a too-long sleeve. His parents weren’t far behind—Crispin wide-eyed and scanning the crowd, Morwenna brisk and alert put a gloved hand on Peter’s shoulder after she stepped through. He didn’t wait for them, but his steps faltered as soon as he spotted Callum and Elowyn standing a few paces away. It wasn’t just that they were standing together—it was how natural and complete they looked. The air caught strangely in his throat. It wasn’t exactly jealousy., but he felt, for a moment, like he was looking through a window instead of walking through a door.

Elowyn saw him first. Peter watched as he leaned slightly toward Callum, murmured something near his ear, and then saw Callum glance up. Everything shifted in that moment. Both boys smiled—Elowyn’s soft and luminous, Callum’s quieter and more stoic, but no less real. The warmth between them was immediate, if differently shaped. They moved from their easy stance and stepped forward together without hesitation.

Peter hesitated for a heartbeat, then walked quickly to meet them, his parents trailing just behind. When he reached them, his hands found theirs instinctively. He paused—but only for a second—before they pulled him into a three-way embrace. It was a little awkward on Peter’s end—his satchel still hanging off one shoulder—but Callum held him with quiet strength, and Elowyn with a gentleness that needed no words. After a moment, Peter melted into the hug without meaning to, the tension slipping from his shoulders as easily as breath.

Peter gave a crooked grin, but his eyes darted once between them. “Wasn’t sure if I should interrupt the sacred symmetry.”

Elowyn pulled back slightly, but didn’t step away. He looked at Peter for a moment, really looked, and then reached up to touch his face—lightly, the backs of his fingers brushing just along his cheekbone. It was the kind of gesture that didn’t draw attention to itself, but to the person receiving it.

“You didn’t,” Elowyn said softly. “You completed it.”

There was a brief pause before Callum added, his voice low but certain, “He’s right, y‘know?”

Peter let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, and something in his shoulders loosened. Callum offered him a small nod as they re-formed as three—Peter in the middle, side by side against the world, like parts drawn back to a center they hadn’t yet named.

Their parents lingered a few paces off—Emrys and Malachy standing quietly, Morwenna issuing final instructions while straightening Peter’s scarf for the third time. Crispin gave his son a quick, one-armed squeeze and tousled his hair, his usual cheer tempered by something tighter around the eyes. No one cried. No one clung. But there was weight in every gesture, as if each goodbye had to say more than words could carry. Elowyn glanced once over his shoulder. Emrys met his gaze and gave a small, firm nod—nothing theatrical, just enough to say go on, now. And so they did.

With practiced motions, their parents each unshrunk the boys’ trunks—Emrys with a quiet flick of his wand and a murmured word, Malachy with a solid, efficient tap, and Morwenna with the kind of exacting precision that made Peter mutter “thanks” before she could cast a second charm just in case. The trunks settled at full size, edges scuffed, latches catching the glint of steam.They each took hold of their luggage, falling into step as if it were something they’d rehearsed.

The boys said their last goodbyes. As they turned toward the train, the platform around them seemed to lean in—whispers threading between trunks, parents giving last-minute instructions with too-tight voices. The steam rose thicker now, curling around boots and hems like something sentient. From somewhere behind them, a woman’s voice rang out, clipped and sharp:

“…the whole family, yes. Not just Muggles. Father too. Nothing left but scorch marks and a kettle.”

Peter flinched. Callum and Elowyn noticed. However, they didn’t speak again until they reached the train steps. Their parents were still watching from where they’d stood—stoic, motionless, bearing the weight of their sons walking willingly toward something no parent could undo. The boys all turned and gave a brief wave, and then they stepped into the warmth of the train. The door clanged shut behind them with a finality that none of them named.

Inside, the corridor was mostly empty. Most compartments were already occupied—older students laughing too loudly, younger ones pressed to windows, faces pale with nerves. The boys moved quickly and without speaking, past faces they didn’t know and voices that quieted as they passed.

At last, they found an empty compartment. Callum slid the door shut behind them with more force than necessary. Peter let his satchel drop and slumped onto the nearest bench, the soft clunk of his wand case echoing faintly against the floor. Their trunks had already been taken to the luggage car—collected the moment they stepped aboard, as was tradition—and would be waiting in their dormitory before nightfall. All that remained were the things they chose to carry: Zenobia’s carrier, a satchel each, and the weight of what they couldn’t leave behind.

Elowyn stood for a moment longer, his eyes on the fogged glass though the platform had vanished. Then he turned and joined the others—shoulder to shoulder, Peter in the middle, Callum nearest the door, and Elowyn at the window. They all sighed, almost in sync, because, for the first time since December, they were alone together again—and the ache of absence gave way to something whole.

—

The compartment had warmed quickly. Outside the window, the landscape slipped by in pale smudges—snow-streaked hills, empty fields, the distant suggestion of woods. Inside, the boys had shed their coats and settled in, their satchels tucked beneath the benches, Zenobia’s carrier resting in the corner near Callum’s feet. Someone—probably Peter—had conjured a weak little heating charm that flickered at ankle level, giving off more noise than warmth.

They didn’t say much at first. It was enough, for a few minutes, just to be—in the same room, breathing the same air, not writing across miles. The rhythm of the train steadied them like the pulse of something ancient and familiar.

Peter was the first to speak. “So,” he said, stretching until his knees bumped Callum’s and Elowyn’s. “Are we going to talk about the letter, or are we pretending we’ve all gone politely blank?”

Elowyn, seated at the window, didn’t turn from it. “Which letter?”

Peter made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Oh come on. The one you sent on the twenty-fifth—‘I told them everything, I’ll explain later, enjoy being haunted by the mystery’—that one. The one I kept asking about in every letter after and got stonewalled like I was trying to interview a Gringotts vault.”

Callum didn’t even look up. “He did sound increasingly desperate in his letters to me.”

“I was increasingly desperate,” Peter said, throwing a hand in Elowyn’s direction. “I thought maybe if I added enough footnotes you’d break.”

Elowyn turned, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth. “Some things ask to be spoken where they can be heard properly. I needed to be near enough for you to understand.”

Peter scoffed. “That’s beautiful and all, but if you’d dragged this out one more owl I was going to start inventing crimes just to get your attention.”

Callum turned toward them, shifting to face both Peter and Elowyn on his right, his arm still resting along the back of the seat. Peter tilted his head back slightly, letting it rest against Callum’s forearm—seeking the contact without quite asking for it. “You really told them? Everything?”

Elowyn finally turned toward them, his shoulder brushing Peter’s in the narrow space. His expression was still, his voice quiet but certain. “I did,” he said. “And they heard it as if they’d been waiting for me to say it aloud. They remember what the House was like in their time. They didn’t need help imagining what it’s become since You-Know-Who’s return.”

“I’ll tell you both,” Elowyn said, a shade more softly now. “But not here.”

Callum nodded, already understanding.

Peter frowned. “Why not?”

Elowyn’s eyes stayed on his. “Because I don’t want it sliced apart by something loud and careless. I need a moment that won’t be taken from us.”

Peter huffed and leaned back, folding his arms. “Fine. But just so you know, this is exactly how villains are written. Withholding crucial information for emotional payoff.”

Elowyn smiled, quiet and genuine and there was a pause—one of those long, steady silences that felt like breathing—and then Callum’s leg pressed lightly against Peter’s. Elowyn, still facing the window, shifted until their shoulders met. Peter didn’t speak again. He just let his weight rest slightly into Callum, bracketed between warmth and watchfulness. Three points of contact. Nothing dramatic and nothing said. Just: we’re here. You’re not alone. Not ever again.

The door slid open with the sort of elegance that only made the violation feel worse. Vesper stepped in first, followed by Honoria who was robed in green velvet and silver fur, her smile too polished to be anything but deliberate.

At their entrance, Callum shifted slowly—his arm slipping from behind the bench where it had rested behind Peter’s head. Peter sat up straighter, the casual ease between them dissolving like mist. Elowyn, of course, glanced toward the door with graceful indifference, as though their arrival barely merited his attention—perhaps even bored him.

“Oh, we didn’t mean to intrude,” Vesper said, already gliding towards the bench opposite the trio directly in front of Elowyn. “It’s always heartwarming to see housemates so…bonded.”

“Elie! Petey! Lummy!” Honoria cooed, gliding into the compartment with unhurried grace. She sank into the seat directly across from Peter, her eyes never quite leaving his face. “We were just saying how dreadfully long the train ride feels without familiar company, so naturally we had to come find our fellow first-year boys—our sweet little snakelets, all soft hands and softer nerves.” She paused, her smile tightening. “But we were also a bit concerned about our dear Petey. We saw him looking almost uncertain back on the platform…and we couldn’t help but wonder if he was trying to decide whether he belonged here at all.”

She let her gaze drift slowly from Elowyn to Callum and back to Peter as she spoke, and it was clear which here she meant.

Peter blinked once, the smile coming to his lips a beat too late. “Well, I was thinking about the food trolley, actually. But thanks for the analysis.”

Callum didn’t look at Honoria. He just rested a firm hand on Peter’s knee and said, evenly, “Peter belongs wherever we are.”

There was a pause—just long enough to let the weight of it settle.

Elowyn tilted his head slightly, his voice as smooth as polished glass. “Is it that we’re so compelling, Honoria, or is your schoolwork simply no longer holding your attention?”

Honoria sniffed, recoiling so slightly that only Elowyn caught it. But then she smiled again—sweet and unbothered. “We’re only concerned, Elie. We’d hate for dear little Petey to feel like he doesn’t belong.”

Vesper crossed one leg over the other with slow, feline precision. Her gaze slid over the boys—Peter flanked by Callum and Elowyn, their shoulders still barely touching, a subtle defiance.

“It’s been noticed,” Vesper said lightly, “how close the three of you are.” She let the words linger. “Dangerous, don’t you think? Wearing your feelings so openly. Not very serpentine.”

Honoria’s smile returned, lazy and satisfied. “Serpents are meant to be solitary creatures.”

Peter gave a crooked smile, though it wavered at the edges. “Guess we’re the affectionate kind.”

Elowyn tilted his head, voice cool and precise. “Affectionate, yes—but not the codependent kind. We certainly don’t deliver lessons on solitude while functioning as a single organism.”

“Or,” Vesper murmured as Elowyn spoke, “perhaps, you’re just the exposed kind.”

None of them spoke for a moment, but the silence that followed wasn’t retreat—it was a quiet reordering. Elowyn unfolded his hands and, with unhurried grace, placed one on either side of himself along the bench. His left hand came to rest beside Peter’s, their fingers just barely touching—too faint to draw comment, too intentional to miss.

Callum leaned in slightly, his shoulder brushing Peter’s. Peter didn’t flinch. Instead, he let his knee rest against Elowyn’s, spine lengthening, chin lifting. The space between them didn’t widen—it closed.

Vesper didn’t flinch. “You’re so sure of each other,” she said, softly now. “It’s almost…sweet. But affection like that?” She leaned in slightly. “It makes you predictable and easy to exploit.” 

Honoria’s smile sharpened. “Friends leave. Power remains.”

Peter said nothing. His heart was loud in his ears, but his body remained still—held between them, wrapped in their calm. Almost without thinking, he let one finger brush against Elowyn’s where it rested beside his. It was a small thing. Private, but it grounded him.

The silence that followed didn’t crackle—it settled both heavy and certain.

Vesper broke the silence, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to let it linger. She turned to Elowyn with a smile that never touched her eyes. “We thought you’d be in better spirits. After such a restful holiday. And yet—so prickly.” She sighed, almost wistfully. “We only want to help you become the best serpents you can be, you know. Not everyone in the House sees something worth redeeming…but we do.” Her smile brightened, delicate and dazzling, but the venom behind her eyes was so finely veiled that only the most attuned would have noticed it.

Elowyn’s voice was pleasant, almost thoughtful. “I hadn’t realized we’d become such a subject of such interest. I do hope it isn’t proving too distracting. I imagine there are more persistent shadows drawing your focus these days.”

“We’re just making conversation,” Honoria purred. “The rest of the House will be so pleased to see you back. There’s a real...appetite now—for tradition and order. For purity above all else.”

She let the word hang like perfume—sweet, toxic, lingering.

Peter’s laugh came out like a cough. “And here I thought I was the dramatic one.”

“We just wanted to say hello,” Vesper said, rising with impeccable grace. “To welcome you back. Slytherin House simply isn’t the same without its…curiosities.”

Honoria stood more slowly, and for a moment her eyes rested on Peter’s middle—where the pendant lay beneath his shirt.

“Do enjoy the rest of your journey,” she said, too gently, “we’ll see you at dinner, I’m sure.”

Then they were gone. The door slid shut behind them with an audible click. No one spoke at first. 

Then Elowyn exhaled, long and slow. “We’ll need to be more careful this term.”

Callum nodded, still staring at the door.

Peter slumped back, rubbing a hand over his face. “Do you think we can hex them before dinner, or is that rude?”

No one laughed, but Elowyn reached across and rested his hand lightly on Peter’s knee. A moment later, Callum mirrored him, placing his hand on the other. Peter didn’t speak. He just closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath.

Peter exhaled again, then murmured, “Next time they visit, I vote we pretend to be asleep.”

—

They took dinner in the Great Hall with the tension of creatures who knew they were being watched but refused to crouch for it. The meal was ordinary enough—roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, rivers of gravy, braised carrots, and a dozen other dishes spread across silver platters. Elowyn picked from a modest arrangement of roasted roots, steamed greens, and a delicate leek tart, selecting each bite with absent-minded precision.

He had chosen their place, as always, at the Slytherin table with care—not at the end, which suggested retreat; not near the center, which invited confrontation; and certainly not near the staff dais, which might be mistaken for seeking protection. This time, they sat a touch nearer the middle than usual—close enough to show they hadn’t withdrawn, but still just outside the House’s densest cluster. Elowyn had considered placing them further in, nearer Honoria and Vesper, as they had done before the break. But Peter’s nerves were still raw from the train. A direct challenge might have sent the right message to the rest of the House, but Elowyn wasn’t willing to trade Peter’s quiet recovery for the sake of appearances. Better, tonight, to show strength with restraint.

Peter sat between them, shifting often, his eyes flicking to the doors, the windows, the ceiling—anywhere that might hint at the next intrusion. Callum, by contrast, was unmoving, planted with the steadiness of stone, one hand resting loosely on the bench beside him. Elowyn ate in measured silence, the very image of composed disinterest, though his eyes, when they lifted, saw everything.

They spoke little until they were back in the safety of their half-moon dormitory, the door shut and the wards spun in place with whispered charms and a faint shimmer of red-gold. Elowyn added a second spell—a thin, invisible veil that would blare if anyone tried to breach the threshold.

They peeled out of their traveling clothes and began to unpack slowly, but Callum—closest to the door—sat on the edge of his bed with arms crossed, eyes narrowed at Elowyn.

“So?” he asked, voice tight with all the things he hadn’t dared ask in public. “What exactly did you tell them?”

Peter was already loosening the buckles on his satchel but paused, watching Elowyn expectantly.

Elowyn exhaled and perched on the corner of his bed, farthest from the door. With a glance toward the frame, he stood again, crossed to it, and touched the tip of his wand to the lintel. “Serracantus,” he murmured.

His wand had answered with steadiness, its magic drawing close and sure, as if it recognized the weight of what was being asked. There was no flash, or vibration—only that familiar, gathering hush, as if both wand and boy had agreed that silence now was sacred. The door shimmered for half a breath, like wood touched by first rain, then stilled. No sound would pass beyond these walls now.

“I told them what I could,” he said, returning to the edge of his bed. “About what really happened to Peter—not the vague retellings I’d confined to my letters. I told them about what’s been said—and what hasn’t—in the common room. How the professors have chosen not to see the venom seeping through our House, both from within and without. And how the other Houses have chosen fear over the moral high ground they so love to claim.”

He paused, glancing toward the door. “Daddy taught me that charm after. He said it was to keep those from without from hearing what was within. I think he already knew most of it. Papa too.”

Peter’s eyebrows lifted. “Knew how?”

Elowyn tilted his head slightly. “Because the adults aren’t blind. They’re just silent. They’ve survived long enough to know when not to look too closely…and silence like that…it makes them part of it. All of them…not just our House. All the Houses and...all our parents.”

Callum scratched the back of his neck, brow furrowed. “I don’t know how to fix any of that,” he said quietly. “But I know it’s not right. And I know you shouldn’t have had to be the one to say it out loud.”

Peter shifted, rubbing the back of his knuckle along the seam of his trousers. “Well. That was a lot.” He tried for a grin, though it tilted crooked. “You’re out here dismantling the moral infrastructure of the entire wizarding world, and I only just figured out which end of my quill writes.”

Elowyn gave him a soft, crooked smile. Then, quieter, more slowly, he said, “It wasn’t easy telling them. I’d been sanding it down in my letters—offering only the smoothest parts. But that morning, I couldn’t anymore.”

He glanced at the window, where the frost had begun to creep back down the glass.

“I told them what Slytherin really is. How it rewards cruelty, how you have to wear a mask even in your sleep, how even the ones who don’t hex you are still waiting for you to fall.” He paused. “I told them I was afraid. Not of others. Of myself. Of how easily I’ve learned to survive that way.”

Neither Callum nor Peter spoke. Elowyn’s voice was low now, stripped of any polish.

“I told them I chose Slytherin. That I told the Hat where I belonged. And that I think maybe…I mistook inevitability for intention.” His fingers curled slightly into the blanket at the edge of the bed. “I told them about you, too. That you came with me. That you didn’t ask to—but you stayed. And I said I’d protect you. Both of you.”

He looked at Peter now—not pitying, but with a kind of gentle grief.

“And I told them the only thing that’s kept me from becoming what the House expects…is you two. Because I could be cold and I could be cruel too—it’s in me. But you’ve kept something soft in me alive. At least when we’re alone. With you, I don’t have to wear the mask. I can just…be.”

For a long moment, neither of the others spoke.

Then Peter said, not quite looking at him, “You didn’t drag me anywhere. The Hat put me in Slytherin before I even made it to the stool.”

Callum glanced at him, surprised. Peter gave a crooked smile, though it flickered at the edges.

“It told me I had ambition,” he said. “Said I didn’t know it yet. That I’d be shaped by this. That my path was…sharp.” He paused, then added, quieter, “I begged for Hufflepuff. Or Ravenclaw or Gryffindor. I didn’t want this. I thought it was a mistake.”

His voice trembled just a little. “But it said that this wasn’t punishment. It was where I’d become.”

Elowyn blinked, lips parting, but Peter only shook his head.

“So if you’re to blame for dragging anyone down, El, I’ve got bad news. The Hat had its sights on me already.”

Silence stretched again—thicker this time, but not heavy.

Callum’s voice came next. It was low, and steady.

“I asked for Slytherin.”

Peter looked over, startled. “You did?”

Callum nodded once. “Didn’t know why then. Not really. Just knew I needed to be with the two of you. I’d already chosen before I even reached the stool.” He shrugged, but his gaze was unflinching. “Didn’t matter what the Hat said. I wasn’t going anywhere else.”

Elowyn looked at him—really looked—and for a breath, his composure nearly broke again, but he didn’t cry. He only nodded.

And it was Peter who said it, voice soft, uncertain, but real: “I think we were always meant to be a set.”

Elowyn didn’t say more. The firelight had softened, and his face—always pale—looked drawn in the low glow, and the hollows under his eyes darker than they should’ve been. He blinked slowly, once, like he was holding too many thoughts behind his lashes.

Callum crossed the space between them without ceremony. He didn’t speak, and he didn’t ask—he just reached out and pulled Elowyn up and into a quiet, grounding embrace. It wasn’t dramatic. It was a steady hand at the back of his head with the other curled around his ribs, like a promise made in silence.

Peter stayed where he was on his bed, arms loosely draped over his knees. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t even look away. But there was a curl in his chest he couldn’t quite name—something between longing and embarrassment. As though he’d stumbled into a room he wasn’t sure he was invited to. And then Elowyn reached out—not far, not urgently. He simply extended one hand toward Peter without turning his head. Peter hesitated only a second before crossing the space and letting himself be folded into the embrace, too. It wasn’t graceful, but it was real, and in that quiet knot of limbs and breath and shared weight, something in the room settled.

They didn’t speak for a while. They just stayed there, held together by quiet contact and the unspoken relief of not having to hold everything alone. Eventually, the moment loosened—not broken, but gently let go. Callum was the first to move, stepping back with a quiet nod. Peter followed, rubbing at one eye like he’d forgotten they were still damp. And then without a further word, they all turned to their trunks and began to unpack.

The quiet rustle of fabric and soft clinks of clasps soon filled the space between them. Cloaks were folded. Books reshuffled. Socks relocated with varying degrees of effort. Then, Elowyn reached into the bottom of his trunk and paused. His fingers closed around something wrapped in linen, flat and firm, tucked with deliberate care. He drew it out slowly and set it on the bed. Beneath it lay a second bundle, this one larger and thicker, bound in herb-scented twine.

Callum glanced over. “What’s that?”

Peter crossed the room, curiosity overtaking the fatigue in his limbs. “What is that smell? It’s like someone bottled a forest floor.”

Elowyn sat down and unwrapped the first parcel. Two books emerged: Aggressive Magic: A Primer on Offensive Spellwork and Shields and Shadows: Protective Enchantments for the Modern Duelist. Between the pages of one, there was a folded piece of stationery—thick, cream-colored, and sealed with his father’s careful hand.

He opened it and read aloud:

“Daras Vyghan,

We couldn’t keep you from going back. I’m not sure we’d have tried. You will not go unprepared. Learn these well. Use them wisely. And above all, keep each other safe.

– Papa”

Beneath the books, the second bundle held Koes-made supplies: woven poultices, powdered bark wrapped in waxed paper, sundry vials of various balms, and what looked suspiciously like fire nettle salve.

“Bloody hell,” Peter breathed. “They packed you a field kit.”

"They packed us a field kit," Elowyn gently corrected him. Peter looked at him and smiled gently at first and then big and wide. He turned away his cheeks reddening but the smile only widening.

Callum reached over and picked up the balm, holding it to the light. “This stuff’s not sold just anywhere. I’ve only seen it once, in Mam’s healing kit—healing-grade essence of wychwood. It’s too expensive for most people to have.”

“We make it in the Koes,” Elowyn murmured, folding the cloth back over the bundle. “Papa brews it. Daddy sells it to the ones who know what they’re asking for.”

Peter let out a low whistle. “So we’re really doing this, then? Starting a club? Like—a fighting club?”

Callum didn’t look up. “Not a club. Just…practice. Defensive magic. Offensive, too. We'll need it. It’s not about picking fights. It’s about not getting flattened when one finds us.”

Elowyn smoothed the linen back into place, hands steady. ““Let’s make our own intention now, so we're not mistaking survival for purpose. If they want us afraid, they’ll be disappointed. If they want us unarmed, they’ll be very disappointed.”

Peter shifted slightly. “So where, then? We can’t just start hexing each other in the common room. Our Housemates are already doing that anyway.”

“We’ll find an unused classroom,” Elowyn said. “One with a door we can ward and a window we can cover. There’s enough space in the Castle if you know how to look sideways.”

Callum added, “I think it'd be safer to use the grounds. There’s a bit of woodland past the far side of the lake. Hardly anyone goes that way—not even the seventh years.”

Elowyn nodded. “Let’s start looking tomorrow. Between classes and after dinner, if we need to.”

They exchanged looks. The plan wasn’t perfect, but it was a plan. And for the first time since stepping off the train, they felt the tremble of ground beneath their feet give way to something almost steady. Elowyn exhaled, and in that breath, the room shifted—just slightly. The flickering torchlight steadied. The stone underfoot seemed warmer, more settled. The Castle had heard, and, in its ancient, watchful way, it agreed.

Their unpacking slowly gave way to their nightly routines with comforting familiarity. Callum stripped to his boxers and padded barefoot to the en suite, muttering about bloody cold tile. Peter rummaged noisily through his satchel, tossing crumpled parchments and broken quills into a pile, while Elowyn folded his robes carefully, brushing dust from the collar before hanging them in his wardrobe.

Callum returned, hair damp, and threw himself across his mattress. Peter followed, yawning so hard his jaw cracked.

It wasn’t until they were all beneath their covers, fire dimmed to embers and only the occasional drip of lakewater echoing from beyond the stone, that Peter broke the silence.

“I’ve been thinking about letting Snape poke around in my head.”

Elowyn didn’t move, but his voice came quietly across the dim room. “It’s not really an invasion,” he said, “more a reordering. Like someone rearranging your thoughts into something they can understand—even if you can’t.”

“Sounds less awful when you say it,” Peter murmured. “But, still still feels like it will be, though.”

Callum shifted slightly in his bed. “You don’t have to do it.”

Peter huffed. “I know. I’m just…I keep wondering if something’s still in there. Something useful. Maybe it’s nothing. Or maybe it’s the key to everything and I’m sitting on it like some half-baked sphinx.”

Callum let out a slow breath. “It’s your call, Ric. It's your mind. No one else gets to make that choice for you.”

There was a long pause. Then Peter said, more softly, “I don’t want to do it alone.”

“You won’t,” Callum said, immediate.

Elowyn spoke next, tone as measured as ever, but gentler. “You won’t be alone again. Not in this, and not in whatever waits beyond it.”

They didn’t say anything more for a while.

Eventually, Peter murmured, “Alright. If you’re both there, I’ll do it.”

“You have our word,” Elowyn said.

“And you’ve got our wands,” Callum added. “Not that I’d let you use mine though.”

Peter let out a soft laugh, and a moment later, his breathing slowed into something deeper and steadier. Across the room, Callum’s breaths slowed and eventually matched the rhythm of the lake—slow, tidal, certain. Peter's took longer to slow but he eventually succumbed to sleep's embrace. Elowyn lay awake longest. He watched the ceiling shift with the fire’s last glow, which softened the outline of stone at the edges. Something inside him had eased—not vanished, but eased. Like a muscle long clenched had unknotted, or a dissonant note too long held finally resolved. The Castle was quiet now. It was listening and in that silence, Elowyn felt the rhythm of their small constellation settle into place. He closed his eyes, and let it hold him as he gently fell into slumber.

Chapter Text

The Castle was listening. Elowyn felt it in the stones beneath his shoes, and in the air that curled tightly against the arches, too still for early evening. They had passed no students on the ascent from the main hall. Every echo in the lower corridors rang a touch too long. Even the torches guttered silently.

Peter walked between them—hands jammed in his sleeves, school robes hanging loosely from his shoulders like they belonged to someone broader. He hadn’t said much since dinner, only a few flat jokes that Callum hadn’t laughed at. Now his lips were pressed into a line, eyes flicking from doorframe to sconce to flagstone like he was looking for escape routes, though he knew he wouldn’t take one.

Elowyn said nothing as they ascended into the main tower towards the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, but the silence around him seemed to warp at the edges. The Castle was listening—still listening—and the air grew colder as they approached the door, heavy not with chill but with attention. He reached out, not with wand or word, but with a quiet pulse of thought. Not a spell, only the hum of presence and awareness, returned.

Callum shifted beside him. Peter stopped just short of the threshold, staring at the door like it might open its mouth and swallow him.

“Elowyn?” Peter asked without turning. “If I bolt, will you hex me unconscious?”

Callum exhaled through his nose. “He won’, but I might.”

Peter gave a breathless huff of something like laughter.

Then, Elowyn tilted his head. “I won’t need to,” he said, voice low and even. “You’re here.”

As Peter started to look away, Elowyn reached out—just briefly—and pressed his fingers to the back of Peter’s hand—a quiet, steady pressure. Peter didn’t speak, but he didn’t pull away.

Elowyn let his hand fall away as he stepped forward, lifting the other toward the iron knocker. But the door swung open before he touched it—silent and precise.

Professor Snape stood framed by shadow. The robes he wore were black, severe and soundless, like smoke turned solid. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes swept across the three of them in one long, assessing motion.

“You are late.”

“The hour has only just turned, sir,” said Elowyn calmly.

Snape sneered as he stepped back without argument. The door swung wider.

The chamber beyond was smaller than they expected—windowless, except for a single narrow pane high in the stone that let in dusky light, warped and pale. A single lantern hung from a bracket near the hearth, casting a low, golden glow that flickered across the walls like breath. One chair stood at the room’s center, polished and bare. Two more lingered near the wall, half in shadow. A cold hearth gaped behind Snape’s heavy desk, where scrolls were stacked in tight geometries beside a tray of neatly arranged instruments—ink bottles, a scale, a sheathed silver dagger.

Peter stopped in the doorway with Elowyn and Callum behind him.

Snape gestured to the central chair. “There.”

Peter hesitated, his weight tipping back on his heels—until Callum gave the faintest nudge between his shoulder blades. Then he moved, stiffly, like his knees no longer remembered how to bend. His shoes scraped against the flagstone, the sound too loud in the lantern-lit quiet. Shadows danced faintly across his face as he passed beneath the bracketed flame. He reached the chair and sank into it slowly, folding his hands in his lap. One trembled, just enough to catch the light.

Snape turned toward Callum and Elowyn.

“You will not speak,” he said. “You will not interfere. You are here on Professor McGonagall’s insistence, not mine.”

His tone carried no protest. Just the fact, offered like a foul-tasting draught.

Elowyn inclined his head once and moved silently to one of the chairs along the wall. Callum followed, slower, casting one last look at Peter before he sat.

Snape crossed to his desk and picked up his wand—long, black, and whittled to a narrow, cruel point. He moved without flourish, but every step radiated precision.

Peter drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “This is the part where I go completely mad and start quoting Celestina Warbeck, yeah?”

“Silence,” Snape said coldly, and raised his wand.

Elowyn felt the Castle stir. Not shift—stir, like something waking.

The word was soft. Barely more than breath.

“Legilimens.”

And Peter’s world cracked inward. It hit like a wave to the chest—cold, wide, and full of light and then nothing.

Peter’s breath caught, not in his throat, but in his mind, as if thought itself had stilled. The chair beneath him vanished. The walls dissolved. There was no room, no body, and no Castle. There was only pulse and pressure and the sensation of falling inward, not through space, but through memory—creased and folded until only a sliver remained.

Then: breathless laughter. Callum’s.

The fire in their dorm room, burning low. Elowyn seated on the hearth rug, one knee tucked beneath him, a book balanced on his lap. Callum sprawled beside him in his boxers, elbow resting near his sleeve, both of them squinting at the same passage.

Peter stood behind them. Or perhaps beside. Or maybe nowhere at all.

The memory shifted.

Callum in his bed, knees drawn up beneath a quilt. Elowyn sitting at the edge, whispering something. Their foreheads almost touched. The room was dim, the hour late. Peter watched from across the dormitory.

Watched. Not remembered. Always watching.

Snape moved behind his eyes—cold, intrusive, invisible—but not silent. Peter couldn’t feel him exactly, not like a voice or a presence, but something pressed. Not a search—an excavation. It was a deliberate, impatient digging through layers he hadn’t known were there. Memories twisted and recoiled. Elowyn’s voice blurred into Callum’s laugh, the dormitory firelight flared and vanished, a library table surfaced and cracked apart.

It was like someone rifling through drawers while the room was still on fire.

Snape wasn’t reading. He was stripping away.

The pressure built, slow and awful. Not pain—but crowding, as if his skull weren’t large enough to hold it. Peter’s fingers twitched. His shoulder jerked once in the chair, barely perceptible. A sheen of sweat traced his temple.

Outside the memory, Elowyn’s hand tightened on the armrest of his chair. The air had shifted—charged, close. Callum leaned forward, frowning now, his eyes locked on Peter’s paling face. One of Peter’s shoes scraped softly against the stone.

Snape’s jaw flexed.

Then something snapped.

It wasn't a sound or a spell; it was just a shift in the air—as if Snape had torn the next memory forward by sheer magical force.

Peter’s head jerked back a fraction. His lips parted—but no sound came.

And the next memory broke open too fast, too hard—like light slashing through a closed eye.

A library table—Peter seated across from them, parchment half-filled, Callum and Elowyn murmuring in tandem. Their hands brushed. Elowyn passed a quill. Callum smiled without thinking. Peter’s fingers clenched.

Then—

A tremor. A ripple in the floor.

The scene flickered, sputtered like a broken reel of film.

A hallway. Too tall. Too empty. Stone walls. Autumn wind.

He saw himself walking forward, steps soundless.

Someone called his name, but the voice was smeared, like paint in rain.

He turned.

A tower door opened ahead. Hinge screaming. The light wrong.

Memory bent.

Orb of black liquid arcing through the air—glass shattering—pain. It hit his chest, and everything caught fire. Not flames, but frost: sharp, crawling, devouring. The burn crept up his throat, down his arm. He dropped.

The floor didn’t catch him. It cracked.

Blurry faces above. Not faces. Shapes. A badge—a pin. Emerald and pewter. A serpent coiled around something—

“Obli—”

The spell tore as it landed.

Memory split. White-hot.

Peter convulsed. Not in body, but in mind. As though everything that had happened was being forcibly peeled away.

Someone’s fingers at his chin. Tilting his head.

A voice. Female. “He wasn’t supposed—”

The world blinked out.

Black.

Static.

Then—

Stone again. But smooth this time.

Callum’s laughter. Elowyn’s eyes.

Their names rose unbidden in his mind like buoys—life preservers thrown out into a sea he couldn’t swim.

He clung to them.

But the memory recoiled and disintegrated.

⸻

Outside, Elowyn leaned forward—barely, but enough. His eyes never left Peter’s face.

Snape’s brow twitched.

His grip on the wand tightened, just once—a minute shift. The kind a lesser observer might mistake for composure.

Elowyn, watching, did not.

The Castle stirred around them—not with noise or motion, but with something quieter: a tightening in the air, the faint tremor of stone aware of strain.

Then Peter drew breath—a sharp, fractured sound that seemed to scrape against the silence.

He lurched forward, clutching the edges of the chair. His robes clung damply to his arms and shoulders; a bead of sweat slipped down his neck. The light from the lantern, soft though it was, felt too bright against his skin.

Callum rose halfway from his seat. “Ric—?”

Snape lowered his wand with clinical finality. His robes shifted as he turned, silent and fluid, the movement as smooth as a drawn curtain.

“A memory charm,” he said at last. “Crude. Incompetent. Nearly severed the imprint.”

He regarded Peter as one might a fractured instrument—not with malice, but with a detached interest that made no space for gentleness.

“Your memory survived more by luck than design. Had it succeeded, you’d have lost more than a single memory.”

Peter didn’t speak. His chest rose and fell too quickly. His eyes were wide, unblinking, as though the room had returned without permission.

Callum moved toward him, then hesitated only a breath before lifting a hand and resting it on Peter’s shoulder—firm, quiet and present. It wasn't for show but for weight. The contact anchored something in Peter so his shoulders eased by a fraction, as if reminded that he still belonged to the world.

Elowyn stood last.

He moved toward Peter’s side with a quiet grace, then turned to Snape. His voice, when it came, was low and deliberate—each syllable placed with care.

“Will there be…an inquiry, sir? Into what was done to him?”

A pause followed. The question floated, feathered and formal, but it hung in the air with the weight of iron.

Snape met his gaze.

“The Headmaster will decide,” Snape said coolly. “I will submit my findings. I do not speculate.”

His eyes swept across them—first Elowyn, then Callum—sharp as a drawn blade, and lingered half a beat too long.

“I would caution you against independent inquiry. The truth is not always eager to be found—and in certain corners of this castle, it is…well defended.”

Without further comment, Snape turned away and crossed to the cabinet behind his desk. A shallow drawer slid open without sound. From it, he withdrew a slender crystal vial and a shallow basin of faceted glass that caught the lantern light and fractured it into pale shards across the desk. He paused and then, with practiced precision, he raised his wand to his own temple. A single, silvery strand lifted from the side of his head—glistening and slow, as if reluctant to be taken. Snape guided it into the vial, where it swirled once before settling like smoke into still water. He stoppered it with a sharp motion.

He didn’t look at them as he said, “My obligation is fulfilled. Do not linger.”

Peter didn’t move at first. Callum stood just behind him, one steady hand still resting on his shoulder. Elowyn stepped to his other side and inclined his head—not in deference, but with the quiet dignity of someone unwilling to shrink. He placed a hand—light and steady—at the center of Peter’s back.

“Come,” he said softly. It wasn't an order, but an invitation.

Peter stood, shakily. Callum moved with him, the three of them shifting into motion without a word. Together, they stepped out of the room—Peter bracketed between them—the door closing behind them with a hush that felt more final than sound. The Castle met them in the corridor, quiet and watchful, as if it, too, had been listening.

—

The corridors were quiet, but not still. The Castle kept close around them, its silence watchful, its sconces dimmed as though unwilling to disturb the spell’s aftermath.

Peter walked between them. He hadn’t spoken since they left Snape’s office, hadn’t so much as lifted his eyes. His steps were automatic—mechanical—and Elowyn noticed how his left foot dragged a fraction behind the right. He stayed close to Peter’s side, a protective shape in motion, his hand still hovering near Peter’s shoulder.

Callum walked a half-step ahead, every sound sharpening in his ears: the faint shuffle of shoes on stone, the occasional rattle of an iron torch ring. The Castle seemed to breathe with them.

As they reached the threshold, the stone wall melted soundlessly into the floor, revealing the vast cathedral-like expanse of the Slytherin common room—its vaulted ceiling arching above them like stone ribs, its green-tinted fires casting flickering light across polished flagstone and velvet. At the heart of the far wall roared the massive central hearth, its emerald flames curling high above the grate.

Gathered near it—occupying one of the green velvet settees just to the right of the main fireplace—lounged three older students as if they had been waiting. Two boys, one girl.

The taller boy was Cassian Mulciber, unmistakably Vesper’s brother, with the same sharp cheekbones and lazy, feline posture that spoke of privilege and practiced cruelty. Beside him sat Septimus Selwyn, Honoria’s elder by at least three years, his mouth drawn in a permanent curve of disdain. And between them, legs crossed and fingers curled idly over her wand arm, sat Drusilla Rosier, her gaze cool and unblinking, watching the boys enter as if measuring them for their graves.

Peter slowed instinctively as they stepped inside. Callum took a step forward. Elowyn extended a hand, brief and silent, not to stop him—only to hold him at pace. The room wasn’t empty. Other students were scattered throughout—some near the tertiary fireplaces, some tucked into study nooks. A few heads turned and some eyes followed discreetly, but no one moved.

Cassian leaned forward, gaze sliding from Callum to Elowyn before landing—inevitably—on Peter.

“Well,” he said, drawing out the word like it bored him, “Slytherin’s standards have fallen. Used to be bloodlines meant something.”

Drusilla let out a soft, pitying sound. “Look at him. He always looks like he’s about to cry. Are you sure you didn’t get lost on your way to the Badgers?”

Septimus tilted his head. “Slytherin’s changed. We used to eat the weak. Now we house them.”

Callum stiffened, but said nothing.

“You’ve got the names…some of you. A Nott-born blood traitor whose mother married a Mudblood. A Travers from the backwoods—barely even counts. That line never pledged to the Pureblood cause, never pledged to anything beyond their moss-choked little hamlet. And him—” he nodded toward Peter “—pureblood, sure, but with no name, no power, and no allegiances. Just numbers on a family tree no one bothers to trace.”

Drusilla gave a slow, pitying smile. “And let’s not pretend no one knows what you are, Marwood. Half-grown in a root cellar by two fathers and a grove of trees. Whatever that is, it’s not tradition.”

Septimus’s smile turned sharper. “It’s not enough to be born into something. You have to stand for it.”

Drusilla leaned forward, voice turning almost kind. “And you haven’t stood for anything—except each other.”

All around, the common room seemed to hold its breath—but not evenly. Dozens of students lounged across the vast chamber, gathered near secondary and tertiary hearths, slouched in velvet chairs, murmuring at polished tables. Some looked up with blank detachment, others with uneasy stillness. But among them, a few sat straighter, eyes alight with something like satisfaction.

The old families—the ones whose parents had already chosen their side—watched the scene not with fear, but with quiet elation. Their bloodlines were rising again. Power was returning. And here, on the common room floor, they were watching the future align itself beneath their boots.

Then Cassian rose slowly to his feet, brushing his sleeve as though the sight of them left dust on his robes.

“Well then,” he said, soft and deliberate, “suppose it’s time someone taught you what happens to those who don’t stand with the House.”

Drusilla added, almost sweetly, “It’s not personal. Just tradition.”

And then the hex came.

Cassian’s wand flicked upward in a lazy arc—then fired.

Elowyn moved fast, stepping in front of Peter with a crisp Protego. The hex shattered in a shower of green sparks.

Elowyn’s wand vibrated faintly in his grip—not with strain, but with something quieter and deeper, a resonance that ran beneath the wood like current beneath ice. The kelpie core had sensed the threat before the spell had even been cast. It did not leap. It did not recoil. It waited, coiled and clear-eyed, its fury held in check by the steady will of the rowan. Elowyn did not speak. He simply stood there, wand still raised, the air around him humming with the weight of unspent magic.

Beside him, Callum was already moving. He crossed the flagstones in a single stride, wand drawn, shoulders squared with fury.

Another hex came—fast, shallow, but sharp. Callum blocked it, barely. The recoil jolted him back half a step.

Septimus grinned. “Oh, you want to play.”

Callum didn’t wait. “Expelliarmus!” Too loud. Too raw.

It missed.

The reply came instantly—“Contundo.”

A flash of dull violet burst from the attacker’s wand, striking Callum’s thigh with a sickening crack. He cried out, stumbling into a chair as his leg folded beneath him. The pain bloomed instantly—deep and ugly, like a bruise being forced into existence.

Peter hadn’t moved. His hands were clenched at his sides, but empty.

His wand burned in his hand—not with heat, but with pressure, with power straining to be loosed. The kelpie core raged beneath the rowan’s restraint, its magic snapping like reins drawn taut over a wild horse. It wanted to break through. It wanted to strike. But Elowyn held the line—not just in spellwork, but in will. His body did not waver. His voice did not rise. The shield shimmered with unwavering clarity, even as his palm ached with the effort of keeping fury bridled.

But his eyes were on Callum now, not the spellcasters. Callum was bent low, hand gripping the edge of a chair, face contorted with pain. Elowyn took another step—not charging, but crossing space with precision, as if each movement could serve two purposes: protect Peter and reach Callum.

Drusilla rose to her feet just ahead of him, her wand still down, her expression unreadable.

Still, Elowyn advanced—shield humming between them.

He stopped just short of her—silent, poised. His voice was quiet but carried.

“Enough,” Elowyn said, his voice low, deliberate. “You’ve proven you can hex children with half your experience and double your restraint. If that’s the legacy you’re fighting for, I suggest you aim lower—it seems to suit you.”

Cassian smiled, slow and thin. “Careful, Marwood. That tongue of yours might get you somewhere dangerous.”

Septimus gave a quiet laugh. “Still, he speaks prettier than most half-breeds.”

Drusilla didn’t speak at all—just inclined her head, as if they’d concluded a duel Elowyn hadn’t agreed to. Then she turned, robes whispering behind her, and followed the others into the dark beyond the far hearth.

The room remained still. Faces flickered in the light, half-seen. Students watched from tables and corners and stairwells. None spoke. None helped. None had intervened.

Elowyn turned. Callum was upright now, bracing himself against the edge of a table, his face pale, jaw clenched. He’d retrieved his wand, but held it wrong—more for balance than defense.

“Cal—”

“I’m fine,” he said tightly.

But he wasn’t. He was limping, his hand curled around his thigh where the spell had struck.

Elowyn didn’t argue. He moved to Peter instead, stepping in close, his voice low and certain.

“Come.”

Peter nodded, barely. He hadn’t spoken once. Callum fell in behind them, slower than before, limping noticeably.

Together, they crossed the long cathedral floor of the common room, passing pools of green-tinted fire and the flickering eyes of those who had watched—and said nothing. Some stared as they passed, and a few looked away. Elowyn walked half-turned, just enough to glance behind them—wand still in hand, gaze sharp.

His wand had not cooled. Its magic still vibrated faintly beneath his fingers, not with urgency, but with watchfulness, like a current just beneath the skin of a river. The kelpie core, though silent now, had not forgotten the fight. It hovered close to the surface, alert to the slightest ripple, unwilling to trust the quiet. Elowyn did not lower it. Not yet. Not until they were safe.

But no one followed, and no spells came. The central hearth blazed high behind them as they reached the far wall, turned right, and descended into the shadows where the boys’ dormitories waited.

They entered the dormitory in silence. The door closed behind them with a whisper like breath drawn and held. Elowyn raised his wand without a word and cast the ward—Tutamentum. A soft shimmer passed over the wood. Then the alarm charm: Praesidium Clamoribus. The soundless pulse settled into the stone, a faint thrum beneath their feet.

Only then did Elowyn turn. Peter stood unmoving, still as a figure carved from wax, eyes glassy. Callum was leaning slightly against the wall, one hand curled around his thigh. His breathing was shallow but controlled.

“Bed,” Elowyn said softly.

Peter obeyed. He moved as though underwater, legs heavy, shoulders hunched. He crossed to the center bed and sat without looking up, fingers slack in his lap. Elowyn guided him down with a hand at the elbow, but said nothing more.

Callum had eased down onto the edge of his bed with a low grunt, one hand pressed tightly against his thigh. His trousers were still on, but his posture made it clear—he was in pain, and the bruise was deep.

Elowyn crossed back to Callum to tend to his wound.

“Off,” Elowyn said gently, crouching in front of him. “Let me see.”

Callum sighed through his nose but didn’t argue. He unfastened the side of his uniform trousers, gritting his teeth as he fumbled one of the buttons. Elowyn reached forward without a word and helped, hands steady even as his pulse thrummed in his ears. He eased the fabric down carefully, flinching slightly when the cloth caught on swollen skin.

The bruise spread across most of Callum’s upper thigh, dark and jagged at the edges—like something struck from the inside out. Elowyn exhaled once, through his nose, and stood to fetch the balm.

The glass jar was cool in his hand. The salve inside was pale green and thick with the scent of pine and stonemint, familiar and strange all at once. He’d helped his father stir this one—he remembered the way Emrys had tapped the rim of the cauldron twice, not once. That had mattered.

He dipped two fingers into the balm and returned to Callum’s side, kneeling again.

“This will sting,” he said, quieter now.

Callum gave a tight nod. His hands were balled into the blanket. But as Elowyn dipped his fingers into the balm and leaned in to apply it, Callum didn’t look away. 

Elowyn touched the balm to the center of the bruise. Callum hissed sharply through his teeth.

“Sorry,” Elowyn murmured. “Almost done.”

He worked in slow, uneven circles. His fingers shook once—just once—and then steadied. The salve didn’t glow, but the bruising beneath began to change at the edges, softening like ice touched by breath. 

Callum watched Elowyn’s face—every movement, every flicker of concentration, the careful way he pressed balm to skin without hesitation. Elowyn’s brows were drawn in quiet focus, his lips slightly parted as he worked. He said nothing else, but there was something reverent in the way he moved, something that made Callum’s throat tighten. He didn’t understand it—not fully—but he couldn’t stop watching.

From across the room, Peter watched them. His arms were wrapped around his knees now, chin resting on top. He hadn’t moved in minutes.

When the balm had been worked in and the worst of the pain had ebbed, Elowyn helped Callum ease off the rest of his uniform. The shirt got tangled halfway down one arm, and Elowyn had to tug gently at the sleeve. They both frowned at it, but neither spoke.

Elowyn folded the robes and shirt with care, even though one of the cuffs was still damp from sweat. Callum, now in only his boxers, sank back against the pillows with a faint hiss and let his eyes close.

Elowyn turned to Peter. He didn’t speak this time. Just knelt down.

“Lift your foot,” he said softly.

Peter did. Then the other. Elowyn tugged off his shoes—one nearly tipped him over—and set them neatly beneath the bed. 

Elowyn unfastened the clasps of Peter’s robe. The buttons slipped once beneath his fingers. He had to try again. Once off he folded it neatly and then he tugged Peter’s shirt loose and began unfastening the buttons. It took longer than it should have. One sleeve caught on Peter’s wrist, and Elowyn had to work it back, fumbling slightly with the cuff. Peter swayed slightly, and Elowyn steadied him with a hand at the waist. Once the shirt was off, he folded it too—less neatly now. Then he unfastened Peter’s trousers carefully, eyes flicking once to Peter’s face. No reaction. Elowyn crouched again, guided them down, helped Peter step out of them one leg at a time. They pooled around his ankles like shed skin. Peter didn’t help, but he didn’t resist either.

Elowyn knelt at a drawer beneath Peter’s bed, he retrieved Peter’s pyjamas from the drawer—top first and then bottoms—and held them a little too long before unfolding them. He slipped the shirt over Peter’s head, arms through sleeves, and then worked the bottoms up over his knees.

It felt like something an adult should do. But there were no adults here. Only the three of them—threadbare and too young, holding fast against a tide that did not care for their age. One, wounded in flesh, the bruise still blooming like nightshade beneath the skin. One, drawn thin by memory—his mind left tender where it had once been sealed, the quiet after the spell more piercing than the wound itself. And one, standing between them—trying to be still, to be steady…to be enough.

When Peter was changed, Elowyn pulled back the blanket. Peter lay down on his side without prompting.

Elowyn tucked the covers around him with hands that only trembled once. Then he stepped into the en suite and washed the balm from his fingers. He didn’t linger. He braced his hands on the cold stone basin and counted to seven. Then again and again until the tears he had been holding back withdrew and he could return to his friends with a face as calm and composed as ever.

His nightly routine—normally exact—unfolded more quickly tonight, but no less precisely. Water. Breath. The slow folding of robes. The soft brush of a comb through his hair, even if only once. He changed into his silk pyjamas with hands that moved on memory, not thought. There was comfort in the ritual, even if his reflection in the mirror looked more like a shadow than a boy.

When he returned, the fire had burned low, casting only the barest shimmer across the stone. The sconces had dimmed into green-veiled shadows. The air in the dormitory held the scent of balm and wool and breath—of pain tended to, but not yet gone.

Callum was half-asleep, brow furrowed. Peter lay still, watching the curve of flamelight on the wall. His eyes flicked to Elowyn as he crossed the room.

As he reached the side of the bed, Peter shifted—just slightly—and with a single, slow motion, lifted the blanket. Elowyn hesitated, just a moment. Then he slipped beneath it, careful and quiet, settling on his side to face him. Peter turned into him without a word, and their foreheads nearly touched.

Elowyn reached for his hand beneath the blanket—just a gentle touch, fingers brushing, curling loosely around Peter’s. Peter curled back into him, breath catching once, and then steadying.

Moments later, Callum’s blanket rustled. He padded across the stone, climbed into bed behind Peter, and settled without a word—his arm resting lightly across Peter’s waist, warm and still. For a long moment, the three of them lay that way. Then Callum’s hand reached forward in the dark, fumbling slightly, and found theirs—Elowyn’s and Peter’s, loosely laced between them. He added his to the tangle, fingers folding in. 

And the space between them disappeared. The warded door held. The fire whispered low, casting slow-turning light across stone and shadow. Around them, the Castle was still—watching, perhaps, or simply letting them rest. They did not speak. They did not shift. They simply remained: Peter in the middle, held on one side, holding on the other. Elowyn’s hand curled in his. Callum’s arm at his waist. Breath slowing, evening, falling into rhythm.

There were no spells left to cast. No more defenses to raise. Only this—closeness. The fragile kind of safety that can only be made, not conjured. Sleep did not come easily, but it came, soft as dusk, stitched between them like a seam.

—

Peter stirred first. He didn’t sit up right away. Just opened his eyes and stared at the curve of the stone ceiling above him, blurred softly by the lingering dark. He could feel Elowyn’s fingers still curled with his, the edge of Callum’s arm across his waist. The warmth between them was real and steady—but it wasn’t enough to keep the memory from returning.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Then, softly: “I remember.”

Elowyn stirred. Callum shifted behind him.

Peter didn’t wait. His voice was hoarse, but it didn’t shake. “I remember the hallway. The tower. The orb. It hit me in the chest. Everything went cold.”

Callum exhaled behind him—not a sigh. Just breath made visible. His arm tightened slightly around Peter’s waist, not forceful, just firm—like anchoring something that might drift.

“I couldn’t move,” Peter went on. “I heard them—one of them. A girl. She said, ‘He wasn’t supposed—’” He frowned faintly, eyes fixed on the middle distance. “I saw…something. A badge, I think. Or a pin. Emerald and pewter. A serpent coiled around something—I don’t know what.”

Elowyn’s voice came quiet and precise. “You were hidden in a closet. Behind a tapestry. In a disused tower.”

Peter nodded, slowly. “They didn’t mean for me to be found.”

“They meant to end you,” Elowyn said.

Silence followed.

Callum swore softly into the pillow, the sound muffled but sharp.

“I should have—” Elowyn began.

“No,” Callum said, sitting up fast, voice low but edged. “You’re not doing that again.”

Elowyn looked at him, still calm.

“You didn’t do this,” Callum said. “You found him. When no one else did. When no one else could.”

“I didn’t find him soon enough.”

“You found him,” Callum said again. “That is enough.”

Elowyn didn’t reply. But he didn’t look away either.

Peter sat up, arms wrapped loosely around his knees. “They’ll try again.”

Elowyn nodded. “Yes.”

“They watched,” Peter added, voice duller now. “The others. Last night. They saw what happened, and no one stopped it.”

He gave a breathless half-laugh. “At least they’re not selling tickets. Yet.”

Callum clenched his jaw. “They’re not going to stop.”

“Then we prepare,” Elowyn said quietly. “No one else will do it for us.”

Callum looked at them both. “We know the basics. Enough to get by. But not enough to hold our ground for long.”

“Not enough to protect each other,” Peter said.

Elowyn’s hand came to rest lightly against Peter’s knee. “Then we learn more.”

They sat that way for a while—Peter cross-legged now, Elowyn upright with one knee drawn to his chest, Callum perched on the edge of the mattress, bare-legged, bruised, and steady.

They looked like boys who had barely slept, but something had shifted.

“Where?” Peter asked. “Not a classroom. Everyone uses classrooms.”

“Greenhouses?” Callum offered, then shook his head. “No—Sprout patrols them.”

Elowyn glanced toward the thin window above his bed. Grey mist hovered outside, clinging to the enchanted glass. “The grounds.”

“The far side of the lake,” Callum said. “The edge of the forest. No one ever goes there.”

“Quiet and secluded,” Peter said. “Perfect! Great place to practice…or disappear—no one would hear a thing.”

Elowyn smiled faintly as he met Peter’s eyes. “Then we’ll be loud, if we have to.”

Callum nodded, his voice low. “They’ll hear us when it matters.”

That was enough. There was no grand vow or pact drawn in blood. There was simply a promise made in breath, in bruises, and in the hush of a morning too quiet to name. They rose together and dressed without speaking, their movements swift, shoulders set. The Castle felt it—not in stones or torchlight, but in something deeper. No one mentioned breakfast. When the door unsealed, the ward dissolved like mist, and the three of them stepped forward—into the grey light, into the waiting silence, and into a day that would not offer peace but might yet offer preparation. They had no illusions of safety. But they would meet what came—together.

Chapter Text

They left the dormitory together, shoulders brushing in silence, the chill of the corridor sinking into their robes. No one mentioned breakfast. But as they reached the ground floor, Elowyn paused just outside the entrance to the Great Hall.

“Give me a moment,” he said softly.

Neither Callum nor Peter questioned it. They waited in the corridor while Elowyn slipped inside, quiet as breath. He didn’t explain. He didn’t need to.

Then they stepped out into the cold. It was the kind of cold that knew how to wait—not the sudden slap of wind or the sting of sleet, but a steady, creeping thing that settled in through the soles of boots and along the wrists where mittens met robes. The kind that made sound feel thinner, the kind that filled silences between people who had not yet found the right words. The lake stretched behind them like a sheet of beaten pewter, its surface mostly frozen now except where the current ran strongest beneath the northern banks. Mist hovered just above the ice.

The clearing lay tucked in a dip of land where the trees bent inward and the snow fell more lightly than elsewhere. They had found it days earlier, after combing the grounds each afternoon that week—and the Castle, too, searching corridors and classrooms, the backs of unused storage rooms and the narrow walkways behind tapestry-covered walls. But every space inside felt borrowed, too steeped in the Castle’s breath and memory to be truly theirs. Outside had offered more promise. They crossed out ledges and thickets and gullies that were too exposed or too damp or too near the Forbidden Forest. But this place—this quiet, half-forgotten fold in the landscape—was different. There was nothing obviously magical about it—no lingering charms and no whisper of enchantment in the air—but something about its stillness had settled into all three of them as right. Not safe. Just…right.

Callum arrived first, stamping his boots against a half-buried root. He exhaled sharply, mist blooming in front of him. His wand was already in hand.

“Caldus,” he muttered, sweeping the tip in a slow arc across his chest.

The charm took—barely. A faint shimmer crossed his shoulders, and he sighed in relief. His breath no longer steamed quite so thickly.

Elowyn followed next, his steps light over the frost-hardened ground. He drew his wand with care, held it steady a moment.

It felt calm in his hand, its magic close and listening—but beneath that quiet was something taut, almost restless. Since the night before, when he had fully opened himself and let his power move unrestrained through his wand, it had obeyed without resistance, but also without interest—like a creature pacing inside a cage too small. It had quieted, yes—but it had not settled. Now, with frost beneath his boots and intention in his breath, the kelpie core stirred—not with urgency, but with the faintest hum of recognition. This, it seemed to say, was closer to truth.

Elowyn spoke, almost to himself. “I’ve always known how it’s meant to feel.”

The movement he made was slow, deliberate—less like casting than like remembering. When he spoke the charm, the warmth that followed wasn’t showy or immediate, but gradual, as though rising from beneath the skin. Not fire, not even heat, but the kind of warmth one might find sitting beside an old hearthstone long after the flame had died.

Peter brought up the rear, huddled into his scarf so deeply that only the tip of his nose was visible. His eyes were rimmed with tiredness—he hadn’t slept well the night before, even curled between his two closest friends. Dreams of endless corridors and faceless voices and inky black orbs had filled his mind, clinging like smoke even after waking. That morning, he’d spoken only in small bursts—sarcasm edged in silence. Now, with theatrical bravado worn like a threadbare cloak, he brandished his wand like a fork at supper and declared, “Caldus!” a bit too loudly.

The snow around his boots began to steam.

“Peter,” said Callum warily.

“I’m warm,” Peter replied with mock cheer, though he danced backward, brushing snow off his now-damp trousers. “Everything is fine. Everything’s very cozy. My legs may be on fire, but what else is new.”

Elowyn said nothing at first, only tilted his head slightly, watching the steam rise from Peter’s boots. Then, gently, “You’re smouldering.”

Peter poked at the charm until the heat receded from a boil to a simmer. Then, somewhat more composed, the three of them stepped into the clearing.

It was unchanged since they’d last stood here—just snow and stone and a hush that felt older than the Castle itself. A half-circle of weathered rocks jutted up through the forest floor like broken teeth, moss-fringed and pale with frost. At the far edge, the trees grew dense enough to muffle sound, and beyond them, the lake gleamed, caught in stillness.

Callum shrugged the satchel off his shoulder and knelt in the snow, fingers working open the worn leather flap. He laid the two books carefully on the flattest stone: Aggressive Magic: A Primer on Offensive Spellwork and Shields and Shadows: Protective Enchantments for the Modern Duelist. The titles glinted faintly in the morning light, and as they settled, the covers gave a subtle twitch—like something inside had just woken.

Peter knelt beside him. He tapped Shields and Shadows with a gloved finger, and the book responded—its pages fluttered open to the first chapter on disarming spells. A small, ink-rendered wizard appeared mid-paragraph and launched into a slow demonstration of Expelliarmus, wand flicking with exaggerated clarity.

“This one’s the fun one, yeah?” Peter asked, trying for levity as the little figure was flung backward by its own spell and scrambled upright again.

Callum didn’t look up. “We’re not here to duel for house points.”

“Shame,” Peter muttered. “I had a whole dramatic monologue ready.”

Elowyn, meanwhile, stood at the edge of the clearing, his wand hovering loosely in his hand. He glanced at the book Callum wasn’t holding.

“This one—” he pointed to Shields and Shadows “—has a perimeter charm illustrated here. Not a full ward, but something close.”

He turned the page, and a soft ripple of movement crossed it: a sequence of figures forming a circle, tracing the edge with their wands in tandem. Snow flurried gently around the inked scene, echoing their own surroundings. Above the animation, delicate script explained that Protego Circulus was a foundational perimeter charm—designed not to fully repel, but to deflect minor spells cast from outside its bounds. Its strength, the book warned, depended entirely on the caster’s magical control and the precision of the circle. Properly executed, it could buy precious seconds in a skirmish. Poorly done, it would falter after a single hit. For their purposes, it wouldn’t hold against anything serious. But it was enough to mark the space—to declare, in quiet magical language, this place is ours.

Peter straightened. “Can we do that?”

“Perhaps not,” Elowyn said plainly. “But we can try.”

They followed his lead, placing three small stones in a loose triangle around the center of the clearing. They each took a point and cast it. The air stirred. One of the stones wobbled faintly, then stopped. No glow but something—whether imagined or real—settled into the stillness.

Peter frowned. “Did it work?”

Callum squinted. “Doubt it.”

Elowyn looked toward the center of the clearing. “Doesn’t matter. It was the asking that mattered.”

Peter gave him a sideways glance. “Is that a Koes thing?”

“Yes,” Elowyn replied simply.

They gathered near the flattest stone and sat. The books lay open between them, their breath curling in gentle puffs above the pages. The clearing was quiet, wrapped in snow and possibility. They had not cast a single jinx yet. But they had made a place.

They began with the spells they already knew—or thought they knew.

Callum stepped forward first, wand in hand, feet squared. The morning had worn on, snow melting into slush beneath their warming charms, the air sharp but not cruel. The clearing was quiet save for the occasional caw of a crow far overhead.

“Expelliarmus,” he called, clear and firm.

The spell leapt from his wand like a crack of light and struck Peter’s hand hard enough to send his wand flying, arcing end-over-end until it landed in a puff of snow near the stones.

Peter blinked. “All right then.”

“Too much force,” Elowyn observed. He had Shields and Shadows open on his lap, fingers brushing across the margin where the ink-figure demonstrated a controlled flick and a low breath just before the spell was cast.

Callum shrugged. “I wasn’t trying to hurt him.”

Peter retrieved his wand and held it gingerly. “You didn’t hurt me. Just startled the ghosts out of me.”

They rotated. Peter stepped into the casting space, took a breath, and aimed at Elowyn, who lifted his wand in response.

“Expelliarmus!” Peter shouted.

The charm stuttered halfway, a thin red thread barely lancing from the tip of his wand before it fizzled. Elowyn didn’t even need to defend. Peter lowered his wand slowly, face pale beneath the fringe of his hat.

“It’s like it dies before it gets to you.”

Callum frowned. “Try again. Slower. You’re holding your breath.”

Peter grit his teeth and tried twice more—each time producing a thread of color that shimmered weakly, then faded before making contact. The third attempt singed his glove.

He cursed softly and turned away.

“Peter,” Elowyn said, without reproach.

“I know,” Peter muttered. “Focus. Intent. Magical bloody core.”

Callum walked to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, solid and brief. “You’re here. You’re trying. That’s all that matters right now.”

Peter didn’t answer, but his jaw set, and when he turned back toward Elowyn, his hand was steadier.

This time, he landed the spell—not strong, but enough to knock Elowyn’s wand an inch from his fingers.

Peter stared at the movement. He didn’t smile, but his shoulders dropped by half an inch.

“Well done,” Elowyn said, retrieving his wand. It returned to his palm with a faint pulse of indignation—nothing wild, just the quiet protest of a creature unaccustomed to being bested. “Again.”

They practiced in sets of three—one cast, one defended, one watched. The books lay propped open on the central stone, the diagrams occasionally shimmering to a new frame. Shields and Shadows showed a duel in slowed sequence: weight shifting, wrist angled just so, breath exhaled a moment before the cast.

Elowyn absorbed it silently, mimicking the stance without flourish. His spellwork was delicate, almost too soft. His Expelliarmus barely tugged the wand from Peter’s hand.

“You’re not putting enough force behind it,” said Callum.

“I’m putting enough for the purpose,” Elowyn replied.

“And what’s that?”

“To disarm,” he said. “Not to harm.”

They moved on to Protego, and everything changed.

Peter could not hold a shield. His attempts flickered into existence like soap bubbles and popped under even the gentlest pressure. Callum’s shields held, but they were jagged at the edges, unstable. Elowyn’s were consistent but thin—more suggestion than substance.

“It says here it has to come from intent,” Elowyn murmured, frowning at the page. “Not just the spell itself. A desire to protect.”

Callum scowled. “I do want to protect you. That doesn’t mean the spell listens.”

“It held longer,” Elowyn replied evenly, not looking up from the page. “Your intent is stabilizing.”

Peter stood still, wand loose in his grip. “Well mine’s not. I’m absolute rubbish.”

Elowyn noticed. “You’re not.”

Peter didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quiet but sharp. “I am, though.”

Callum turned toward him, but Peter kept going. “I couldn’t cast a thing last night. Just stood there while you both fought them off. All I did was get knocked over and cry in the corner like a toddler.”

Callum opened his mouth, but Peter cut him off—words tumbling now, brittle with heat. “And today I can’t even manage a bloody shield. You’re both trying so hard to make me feel better and I just—why? Why are you wasting your time on me?”

He laughed, but it was a harsh, broken sound. “You should just protect each other. I’m not worth shielding.”

The clearing went very still.

Callum’s voice, when it came, was low and fierce. “We decide who we protect and we have chosen to protect each other…and you.”

Peter turned his face away, jaw tight. “I don’t belong here. I’m the weak link. They’re not wrong.”

Callum’s voice came low and firm. “You belong with us. You didn’t run. You stayed. That’s what counts.”

Elowyn’s tone was calm, unwavering. “You’re part of this, Ric. You always have been. We didn’t end up with you—we chose you. And we still do.”

Peter sniffed once, then looked down at the half-melted snow. His hands were shaking again.

“Well,” he muttered, voice thick, “that’s disgustingly sentimental.”

Callum smiled. “Still true.”

But when he turned to cast again, his hand was steadier. His Protego formed—faint, trembling, but whole. It lasted a full second before collapsing.

They all stared.

Peter turned around slowly. “You saw that, right? That was an actual shield. Brief, flickery, and probably allergic to success—but real.”

Callum grinned. “Told you you’d get there.”

Peter dusted off his gloves. “Grand. Now if I die horribly, it’ll be with a slight sense of progress.”

They broke for a moment, settling against the stones with the books propped between them. Steam curled from their shoulders. The snow around their feet had melted into muddy rings, and the clearing bore signs of strain—burned patches, singed moss, a fallen branch blackened at the tip.

Elowyn watched the wind move through the trees. He hadn’t said much in the last hour. His spells had performed fine. His form had been precise. But he couldn’t shake the way Callum’s hands trembled after every third cast. Or how Peter was breathing harder now than when they’d arrived. They were tired. Not just from the cold or the practice—but from how much magic cost.

They didn’t talk about it in lessons—not properly. There were mutters between older students, grumbles about wand-arm fatigue or drained cores after Dueling Club. But no professor ever stood in front of a class and said, This will cost you. This will change you.

They taught the gestures, the incantations, the textbook theory. But they never said what magic feels like when you pull on it too hard. How it begins to resist. How it thins. How it hurts. And Elowyn, sitting cross-legged in a scorched patch of moss, thought: maybe that was because magic was never meant for this. Not for stunning and binding and disarming. Not for shielding against curses hurled in rage. Magic had roots—old ones. It had been sung into crops, etched into stones, whispered to winds. It was meant to tend, not to tear. And perhaps that was why no one taught them how to bear the weight of destructive magic—because even now, centuries on, no one quite knew how. The curriculum hadn’t forgotten. It had chosen silence. And the silence, Elowyn realized, wasn’t benign. It was ashamed.

He pressed his hand into the frozen earth. It didn’t answer. But it understood. There was a long pause.

Then Callum’s voice, low and rough: “You’re thinking again.”

Peter glanced over, still breathless from his last cast. “Yeah. You’ve got that look. Like you’re communing with the snow.”

Elowyn didn’t respond right away. His fingers moved slowly across the frost-bitten moss, tracing the curve of a lichen ring burned half-black from spellwork.

“I’m thinking…” he began, then paused, brow furrowing slightly. “That maybe we were never meant to use magic like this.”

Callum shifted. “Like what—defensively?”

“Violently,” Elowyn clarified. “With harm behind it. Even the defensive spells—they’re built around force. Barriers. Recoil. They stop and block and repel.”

Peter dropped his wand into his lap and frowned. “Isn’t that the point?”

“Maybe now,” Elowyn said. “But not at the beginning. Magic used to be…older and gentler. It was woven into the land, not pulled from it.”

Callum leaned back, arms resting on his knees. “You sound like what you say your papa says. All trees and whispers and ancient wisdom.”

“I sound like someone trying to remember what it was before all this.”

Peter was quiet for a beat, then offered, “Well, if it makes you feel better, I think I’m constitutionally incapable of violent magic. My Expelliarmus couldn’t knock over a paperweight.”

Elowyn gave the ghost of a smile. “That might be a strength, Ric. Not a fault.”

Peter huffed. “Great. Put it on my gravestone.”

Callum shook his head. “No one’s dying.”

And Elowyn, almost to himself, murmured, “Not if we remember what magic is really for.”

A silence followed—not heavy, but thoughtful. Snow drifted along the outer edges of the clearing, whispering against stone.

Then Peter flopped back into the frost-damp moss with a groan and announced, “Philosophy’s lovely and all, but I’m starving to death in real time.”

Callum glanced down at him. “You’ll live.”

“Will I?” Peter asked, lifting an arm with theatrical weakness. “Because I think I’m fading. My vision’s gone all soft at the edges. Tell my parents I died nobly. Possibly devoured by frost.”

Elowyn arched a brow, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Your dramatics are unrelenting.”

“So is my hunger,” Peter added helpfully, sitting up at once when he spotted the napkin-wrapped bundle in Elowyn’s hands.

Inside were a couple sausage rolls, a few pastries, a small loaf of seeded bread, a wedge of cheese, a handful of apples, and a few clementines. Cold, but whole.

“You’re a saint,” Peter declared, taking a pastry with reverence. “A frosty, ethereal, half-haunted saint.”

Callum took the bread without comment but nudged Elowyn gently with his shoulder. “You thought ahead. Should’ve guessed.”

“I didn’t want to stop later,” Elowyn said simply, peeling a clementine with careful fingers. “We wouldn’t have wanted to come back.”

They ate in easy silence for a time, chewing slowly, letting the strain of spellwork soften a little beneath the weight of food. It wasn’t enough to fill them, but it took the edge off the ache behind their ribs.

Peter licked powdered sugar from his thumb and sighed. “Would’ve killed for a flask of tea.”

“We didn’t bring anything to drink,” Callum muttered, brushing crumbs from his lap.

Elowyn reached for his wand. “Try Aguamenti. Gently.”

Callum managed a strong stream that soaked his sleeve before he angled it into a cupped hand. Peter’s wand produced a pitiful sputter, followed by a trickle like a faucet too shy to flow. He eyed it dubiously.

“This feels like something I’ll regret.”

Elowyn, seated cross-legged, drew his wand with measured care and angled it just above his left palm.

“Aguamenti,” he murmured.

A thin stream of water emerged, clear and controlled. The wand responded with a faint thrum of approval, the kelpie core stirring gently—as if pleased, for once, to return to something familiar. He let the water pool slowly into the shallow cup of his hand, the surface trembling only slightly. When it was nearly full, he paused, brought it to his lips, and drank.

He blinked once, contemplative. “It’s clean,” he said at last. “But it tastes…unfinished.”

“Unfinished?” Peter scoffed. “It’s water. Not a tart.”

Elowyn didn’t look up. “Everything we conjure carries something of us. This tastes like focus and strain.”

Callum took a sip from his cupped hand. “Tastes like cold and wand-burn.”

Peter squinted into his meagre puddle. “Mine tastes like failure and wool.”

Elowyn reached over without a word and dipped two fingers into Peter’s conjured water, bringing a few drops to his lips. He paused, tasting it carefully.

“It tastes like effort,” he said softly. “Which means it’s working.”

They sat a while longer, their breath misting in slow rhythm, the clearing around them quiet but no longer still. Snow had been trampled and scorched in patches, moss blackened at the edges, the air carrying the faint metallic tang of expended magic.

Elowyn was the first to move. He stood slowly, brushing crumbs from his robes, then turned to the others.

“We should go over the basics again.”

Peter groaned, though without conviction. “You’ve a gift for killing a good rest.”

Callum rose with less reluctance. “We’ve done basics all morning. We should push into the next section. Something harder.”

Elowyn looked over at him. “And not once without flaw.”

Callum exhaled sharply. “We should push into the next section. Something harder. We can’t afford to still be learning the baby spells when the next attack comes.”

Elowyn’s voice remained level. “We will. But not if we’re building on cracked stone.”

Peter looked between them—Elowyn, calm but iron-spined; Callum, bristling with quiet frustration—and realized suddenly that they weren’t just arguing about spell selection.

They were arguing about fear.

Peter stood up with a sigh and shook the crumbs from his scarf. “Right. Mutual stubbornness, now with added existential dread. Let’s split the difference before I lose all feeling in my legs.”

That earned a brief look from both of them.

Elowyn gave the faintest nod. “Then we do both.”

They stepped back into the clearing’s center, which by now bore the scars of their practice—snow churned into slush, patches of moss burned black, and wand marks carved shallow ruts through the frost. The air smelled faintly of smoke and sweat, though neither fire nor flame had been present.

Peter took his place first. His posture was better now—still a touch uneven, but his feet braced more confidently than they had that morning. Elowyn stood opposite him, wand raised but relaxed.

“Expelliarmus,” Peter called—not loud, but clear.

The jet of red light arced through the air and tugged Elowyn’s wand just barely. It didn’t knock it free, but it shifted it enough that Elowyn had to readjust.

Peter blinked. “That counted, right?”

“Improvement,” Elowyn said. “Again.”

They rotated—Callum casting, Elowyn shielding; Peter shielding, Callum casting. The movements grew more fluid, more instinctive. Each pass was cleaner, more deliberate. The books lay open on the flat stone, their inked figures flickering through demonstrations—stances adjusted, wand tips fine-tuned with minute gestures, rhythm emphasized in glowing script.

By the sixth round, Peter’s shoulders sagged. Callum shook out his wand arm. Even Elowyn, still composed, took a beat longer between casts, his breaths slowing in the cold.

“Time?” Peter asked, rubbing the side of his thumb where the wand pressed too tightly.

Elowyn glanced at the slope of the light across the trees. “Early afternoon.”

“Feels like next week,” Peter muttered.

Callum stepped forward, jaw set. “Let’s move on.”

Elowyn didn’t argue. He crossed to Shields and Shadows, flipped several pages with practiced care, and pressed his fingers against a line of curling script. The ink shimmered, and a new illustration unfolded—a lone figure bracing against incoming spells, wand lifted high, a dome of light flaring out around them in slow, rippling layers.

“Protego Maxima,” Elowyn said. “A full shielding dome. It’s advanced—stronger than the basic form. Meant to withstand multiple spells at once.”

Peter leaned in, blinking at the shifting figure. “Has anyone actually cast it? Students, I mean?”

“I don’t know,” Elowyn answered honestly. “The book says it was once used in dueling formations. It might have battlefield origins, but the context is vague. It’s not taught at school anymore.”

Callum was already stepping into position. “All the more reason to learn it.”

They took turns.

Callum went first. His Protego Maxima burst out bright, almost too bright—forceful and wide—but it fractured on contact with a quiet Expelliarmus from Elowyn, shattering like brittle glass.

“Too little power,” Elowyn said.

Elowyn cast next. His shield formed smooth and clean—elegant, restrained—but too thin. It held for two seconds before dissolving like mist in a breeze.

Peter’s version sparked to life with a promising pulse—then stuttered, faltered, and collapsed before it rose to his waist.

They circled back and tried again.

Callum braced his legs more squarely. Elowyn slowed his breath. Peter adjusted his grip.

Each time, the dome lasted a little longer. But never long enough. The spell drew more deeply than anything else they’d tried—more than posture, more than words. It required something from within. Something that, for now, still felt just out of reach.

By the third cycle, Peter was on his knees, panting into his scarf. “This one,” he said hoarsely, “is worse than jogging.”

Callum knelt beside him, chest rising and falling. “Feels like lifting a boulder with your lungs.”

Elowyn, seated again, let his wand rest across his knee. His hands were trembling, though only slightly. “It draws from deeper,” he said. “Not just strength. Something else. Alignment, maybe.”

They were quiet a long moment. Snow drifted again—fine and dry, brushing against their sleeves.

Peter looked over at the book and pointed with his wand. “It shows three people casting it together.”

Elowyn followed his gaze. The illustration had changed—now three figures stood in a triangle, a dome forming between them in unison.

He nodded. “It can be done as a group. But not yet. Not until we can hold it alone.”

Callum gave a grunt of assent, but not of defeat. “Then we keep going.”

And they did.

—

By the time they left the clearing, the light had turned brittle and gold, casting long shadows across the frozen lake. None of them spoke as they walked. Their limbs ached, their hands were red from cold and casting, and their magical cores—though they didn’t yet have words for it—felt stretched thin, like thread pulled too far through fabric.

When they reached the castle, the warmth inside hit them like a wall. It didn’t soothe—it reminded. Of how tired they were. Of how much they’d spent. They slipped into the Great Hall quietly, long after the first wave of students had eaten. They didn’t speak much as they ate. Peter made a half-hearted joke about demanding hot chocolate by right of magical injury, and Callum muttered that he could still feel the last shield vibrating in his chest. Elowyn barely touched his meal.

Afterward, they descended into the dungeons together, robes heavy with fatigue. The sconces guttered as they passed. The entrance to the common room admitted them with a sigh. No attack came. There was no jinx waiting at the threshold, no hex beneath their feet, and no curse murmured from shadows. There was only silence, and the unsettling weight of absence. They crossed the room without pause. Eyes followed them, but wands did not lift—not this time.

When they reached the sanctum of their dorm room, they undressed in silence. Callum went to the bathroom first. Peter folded his jumper and dropped it beside the bed with exaggerated care. Elowyn sat for a long time on the edge of the mattress, fingers curled lightly around the hem of his sleeve, his eyes unfocused. They went through their nightly routine quiet and with little conversation. When they finally lay down, none of them spoke. They didn’t need to. The Castle pressed close around them—stone and dark and silence. But it felt less like a tomb than it had before.

Chapter Text

Three weeks had passed since the forest first echoed with the thrum of misfired hexes and the fraying crackle of shields held just long enough. In that time, Hogwarts had settled into the brittle stillness of early February, when the cold did not merely whisper but clung close to skin and stone alike, and the sky, more often than not, bruised rather than brightened. The boys moved through their days in a quiet rhythm—classes, study, then the long walk to the forest clearing where they practiced until magic left their limbs aching and their breath came ragged. They returned each evening as they had the last: tired, silent, and a little more certain that no one else would stand up for them but each other.

In Potions, the air was thick with the scent of boiled nettle and sharp lime, undercut by something pungent and vegetal—Blightroot, sweating slowly on every cutting board.

Potions Dungeon One was alive with low conversation and the dull clatter of blades. Steam curled from cauldrons as Slughorn ambled between tables with his usual air of half-attentive geniality, already murmuring about Slug Club invitations before most of them had even added their base extract.

Peter hunched over his workstation, sleeves already rolled to the elbow. His Gryffindor partner, a small, freckled girl named Clara Edgemoor, had cut her Blightroot into uneven chunks and now watched them fizz warily in their soak basin. Across the aisle, Elowyn sliced with the kind of focus usually reserved for surgical charms, while Callum handled the flame and mineral stabilizers with practiced ease. They moved together with the kind of unspoken rhythm that came from hours of quiet collaboration.

“Restorative Infusion today!” Slughorn had announced, beaming, before class began. “An essential tonic for mild magical exhaustion, post-dueling daze, and the unfortunate side effects of overzealous spellwork. Very popular among the upper years.” His smile had widened. “But mind your technique—too much Blightroot and the brew will turn on you. Long-term use can dull magical sensitivity. In rare cases, minor nerve desensitization. We don’t want numb fingers now, do we?”

Peter had laughed along with the rest, but the words lingered. He gripped his knife tighter.

The bulb was firmer than he’d expected. He braced it against the chopping block, pressing along the seam with the careful steadiness Elowyn had shown him—just enough pressure to breach the outer skin, not so much as to provoke the sap’s defensive spray. One cut. Then a second. He adjusted the angle, breath held tight. Somewhere to his left, Clara murmured something about powder ratios, but her voice was distant, softened by the narrowing focus of his task—right up until the moment the blade slipped, subtle but sharp enough to send a breath of heat up his wrist.

A hiss—the bulb spat—not much, just a thin vapor, tinged faintly green—and the scent struck Peter like a hook behind the eyes as the dungeon flickered.

Stone, damp and echoing beneath his feet. A cloak hem whipped around a corner—green-grey in the dim light. Scuffed boots struck the floor in retreat. A shoulder had brushed his as he fell, too hard, too fast. And behind it all, someone farther back—still, unmoving, watching. It was the same memory, but not quite. Something in it had shifted, as though memory itself had flinched.

He sucked in a sharp breath, the air catching in his throat. The knife clattered against the board. Clara jumped.

“Sorry!” he said quickly, raising both hands with an exaggerated wince. “Turns out I’m not certified for root warfare.”

A few Gryffindors chuckled. Slughorn looked up but only offered a vague nod of approval. Peter forced a grin, though his hands trembled faintly.

Across the aisle, Elowyn had paused mid-stir. He hadn’t laughed. He watched Peter now—not with alarm, but with something quieter, his gaze steady and unreadable, as though he were measuring something unspoken, marking a shift only he could see.

Behind them, Honoria leaned across her cauldron and said in her sweetest voice, “I do hope it’s not reacting badly with your constitution, Petey, dear. You’ve looked rather pale all term.”

“You’ve been terribly…active, haven’t you?” She smiled faintly, eyes drifting toward Elowyn and Callum.

Peter offered a crooked grin without turning. “Some of us have to compensate for lack of breeding with brute endurance.”

Honoria’s smile barely shifted. “Resilience can be so admirable…especially in those who must rely on it...exclusively.”

Peter shrugged and turned back to his chopping board. The scent still lingered, sharp and metallic, and the flicker clung to the corners of his vision like a shadow refusing to fade. There had been three of them. He didn’t know how he knew—only that he did, and that it was true.

Elowyn didn’t speak, but he held Peter’s gaze for a moment longer than necessary before returning to his flame.

The lesson dragged on. Peter’s potion never quite reached the lavender shimmer Slughorn had described, but it passed inspection—barely. Clara Edgemoor stirred with increasing hesitation beside him, the occasional glance flashing with quiet apology. Peter responded with a wide grin he didn’t feel and exaggerated steadiness he couldn’t quite maintain.

Slughorn moved between tables in a drifting orbit, pausing now and again to offer advice or anecdotes—though mostly to Slytherins. He gave the Gryffindors polite nods or distracted hums, but it was clear where his attention leaned.

When he reached Elowyn and Callum’s station, he actually stopped, peering over the edge of their cauldron with real interest.

“Now this,” he said, smiling broadly, “this is elegant work. Steady flame, good layering. Marwood-Travers, your stir timing is excellent. And Mr. McCormack—well, you’d never guess this was a first attempt. You've got quite the natural hand for structure.”

Callum nodded, not quite comfortably. Elowyn inclined his head in a way that was both courteous and unreadable.

Slughorn then peered into their cauldron and gave an approving hum. “Good control of your base temperature, Mr. McCormack. And a clean fold on the root, Marwood-Travers—nicely done. I daresay there’s potential here. Might even have a few Healers in the making.” He beamed, then added, “Keep this up and the upper-year brews won’t catch you by surprise.”

He paused again at Honoria and Vesper’s table, hands clasped as if observing a masterwork in progress. “Ah, Miss Mulciber, Miss Selwyn—predictably flawless. Truly, I don’t know what I’d do without my Slytherins. A balm to an old man’s nerves, you are.”

Vesper smiled sweetly, adjusting the flame beneath her cauldron. Honoria inclined her head, demure and amused. Slughorn gave them a fond nod and wandered onward, leaving the scent of well-boiled brew and faintly singed parchment in his wake.

Peter kept his eyes on his potion, though his hands had begun to tremble again. Whether it was the steam, the root, or what he had seen, he couldn’t say—but the shimmer behind his eyes lingered. The memory pressed just beyond reach, like steam against cold glass—present, insistent, and nearly clear.

From behind him came Honoria’s voice, soft as ever: “Do be careful with the Blightroot, Petey. Professor Slughorn mentioned nerve damage. I imagine you’d like to keep what few nerves you have left.”

Vesper hummed. “Though it’s hard to tell which nerves were ever there.”

Peter didn’t turn around. “You’d be surprised what desperation can do for one’s technique.”

Honoria’s smile touched her voice. “I’m sure we will be.”

Across the aisle, Elowyn stirred precisely and without pause. But he had not taken his eyes off Peter since the Blightroot mist had risen.

The bell rang—a low chime that reverberated like iron on water. Chairs scraped. Vials were sealed. Blades wiped. Slughorn called a perfunctory farewell, already half-immersed in a sheaf of parchment and candied pineapple.

The triad waited—long enough for the crowd to thin. They did not walk the corridors alone anymore. When they stepped into the hall, they did so as one. Halfway to the stairs, Peter exhaled and spoke.

“I saw more,” he said.

Callum blinked. “More?”

“In the dungeon. When the Blightroot spat.” He hesitated, then added, “I didn’t drink the potion or anything—it was just the smell. Or the moment. I don’t know. But…I saw it again. The corridor.”

Elowyn turned his head slightly, his gaze sharp in the torchlight.

“There were three,” Peter continued. “One pushed me. One threw the battle brew at me. The other one just stood there, further back. Watching. I don’t know why. I didn’t see it anymore clearly. Just…more. That third one was standing back. And I remember a robe now—green-grey, frayed at the hem.”

They reached the stairwell. The torches guttered slightly as they passed. Above them, the Castle’s ancient timbers creaked—not in protest, but in warning.

Callum’s jaw flexed. “We need to tell someone. Properly.”

Elowyn gave a slight nod. “Professor McGonagall.”

Peter hesitated, then said, “Even if nothing comes of it?”

Elowyn glanced sideways at him. “It’s not about what comes of it. Some things should be seen, even if no one’s ready to change them.”

There was no more discussion. Just the three of them, moving together through the narrowing halls, already knowing what they would do next.

—

The door closed behind them with a quiet snick, the kind of sound the Castle made when it wanted something contained.

Professor McGonagall looked up from her writing. Her office was spare and orderly, warmed by a fire that didn’t crackle so much as murmur. A tartan scarf was draped neatly over the back of a side chair, and a wall clock ticked with steady patience behind her.

She set down her quill. “Gentlemen.”

Callum nodded once. “Professor.”

“Please, sit” She gestured to the three chairs in front of her desk. “How can I assist you?”

They sat. Callum leaned forward slightly, braced. Elowyn was composed, but alert. Peter, more rigid than either, kept his hands clenched in his lap.

McGonagall looked between them, expression unreadable. “This concerns what we discussed in January, I presume.”

Callum answered first. “Peter remembered something else.”

McGonagall gave the smallest incline of her head. “Mr. Ainsley?”

Peter swallowed. “It happened in Potions. I didn’t drink anything—we weren’t meant to—but the smell of the Blightroot…it brought something back.”

Her quill hand twitched, but she didn’t speak.

Peter went on, voice quiet but steady. “There were three of them. I saw it. One pushed me. One threw the orb. The third stood back and watched.”

“And the pin?” McGonagall asked.

“I didn’t see it this time,” Peter said. “But I know there were three. And one of them had a robe—greenish grey, the hem was torn. It’s not much, but…”

McGonagall exhaled through her nose. “No. It isn’t much. But it’s something.”

Elowyn spoke next. “We think it’s the same three who attacked us. After the Legilimency session. In the common room.”

McGonagall’s eyes sharpened. “I wasn’t informed of any such incident.”

“We didn’t report it,” Callum said. “It wouldn’t’ve mattered.”

“It would have been recorded.”

“But not acted on,” Elowyn added. “There were witnesses. Just none willing to admit it.”

McGonagall was silent for a beat. Then she said, “Do you believe the same individuals attacked you and Mr. Ainsley?”

“We don’t know who they are,” Callum said. “Not for certain. But yes. We believe it.”

She folded her hands. “The Headmaster is aware of the original incident. He has taken a personal interest.”

Peter looked up, one brow lifting. “Right. Mysterious and vague. That’s always reassuring.”

McGonagall’s gaze didn’t flicker. “It means the Headmaster is taking steps—though not all of them will be visible to you.”

Peter let out a short breath. “Good to know. I’ll sleep soundly under the watchful eye of invisible steps.”

“Mr. Ainsley—”

“He’s not wrong,” Elowyn interrupted, his voice calm. “We understand there are limitations. But it’s becoming clear that…some Slytherins are free to act with impunity.”

McGonagall didn’t argue.

“The truth is,” she said finally, “Slytherin House is more insular than it has ever been. Outsiders—faculty included—are rarely privy to what occurs behind those walls. It makes investigation difficult, particularly when students do not come forward.”

Callum gave a mirthless half-laugh. “And when they do?”

“I’m sitting here, listening, am I not?” McGonagall replied crisply.

He dropped his eyes.

She softened only a fraction. “I’m not suggesting you’ve done anything wrong. But without names or direct evidence, there’s little I can do.”

“So we just wait?” Peter said. “Until someone else is hurt?”

McGonagall’s voice remained level. “No. You stay vigilant. And you come to me—immediately—if anything else happens. You are not alone in this.”

There was a long pause.

Elowyn’s tone was soft but clear. “We are. But that doesn’t mean we should be silent.”

McGonagall studied him, something flickering behind her eyes—respect, perhaps, or recognition.

McGonagall studied him for a moment. Then gave a single nod. “Yes,” she said. “Even if no one else sees it.”

She stood, voice returning to formality. “That will be all for now. Thank you for your honesty.”

They rose. The fire gave a quiet pop, and Elowyn, passing nearest to the hearth, felt a subtle warmth bloom along his spine—a breath from the Castle, soft and strange and old.

As the door closed behind them, Peter murmured, “That went better than I thought.”

Callum gave a grunt. “Doesn’t change much.”

“No,” Elowyn said. “But now it’s on record. And that matters more than it seems.”

—

The clearing was half-laced in old snow, broken in patches where scorched earth showed through like bruised skin. Spellfire had blackened one of the lower boughs of the oak at the edge, and a cluster of half-melted icicles dripped with unnatural speed—residue from Callum’s failed temperature dampening charm the night before.

Peter stood at the far edge, wand raised, breath ghosting in the cold. His blonde hair clung damp to his forehead, his scarf stuffed hastily into his collar. Opposite him, a conjured target—crudely shaped, smudged with soot—wobbled in the wind.

“Ready?” Elowyn asked from the sideline, voice low.

Peter nodded. “As I’ll ever be.”

Callum gave a grunt. “Stop thinking about it and just cast.”

Peter squinted at the dummy and flicked his wand sharply.

“Obscuro!”

The spell burst from his wand in a clean arc—struck the target square in the chest. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the dummy gave a jerky shudder, and a thick black blindfold conjured itself over its head, wrapping tight across where its eyes would have been.

Peter’s face lit up.

“Ha!”

Callum raised a brow. “You planning to duel any mannequins?”

Elowyn’s mouth twitched. “Better than your last one.”

Peter beamed. “Thank you. I’ll take that glowing praise to my grave.”

Callum didn’t answer. He was already setting up the next round—adjusting their formation, his wand hand flexing like it ached. He’d been favoring it all day, ever since Potions. The rhythm of study, spellwork, and forest practice was wearing him thin.

“We’re still too slow,” he muttered. “The shield rotation’s sloppy, Peter’s casting low, and I couldn’t hold that jinx earlier without my wrist locking up.”

Elowyn moved to stand beside him, gaze flicking to the tree line as he spoke. “You’re not wrong, but we’re better than we were last week.”

“That’s not saying much.”

“Callum,” Elowyn said gently.

But Callum only shook his head and turned away, leaving the clearing to settle once more into silence. High in the branches, something stirred—perhaps a bird, perhaps not. Peter glanced upward, eyes tracing the limbs, but said nothing. Whatever had moved—or whatever had watched—was either gone or waiting, hidden among the boughs.

Peter watched them—watched how Elowyn’s voice had softened when he spoke to Callum, how Callum hadn’t needed to be asked twice to listen, to close the distance between them without hesitation. There was a quiet gravity between the two of them, a kind of attunement Peter couldn’t name but felt keenly—like watching a song he wasn’t part of being sung just beside him. The space between them wasn’t cruel, wasn’t closed—but it was certain. Certain in a way that made Peter’s chest ache just a little. He rubbed his gloved fingers together, the friction grounding him, his pulse still jittering faintly from the spell that had gone half-wild in his hand.

He cleared his throat. “D’you two want a minute alone, or should I try again while the snow’s still fresh?”

Elowyn glanced at him, brows briefly knitting as if he’d missed a cue, then gave a small shake of his head. “No—go ahead. Same spell?”

“No,” Peter said. “Let’s try something from the book.” He pulled Aggressive Magic: A Primer on Offensive Spellwork from the hollow of the tree where they kept their supplies during training. The leather was cold and stiff. He flipped to the page they’d marked with a pressed fern.

“Cruciapallium,” he read aloud. “It’s not Dark—it says here it causes disorientation and magical tremor for up to five seconds.”

Callum raised a brow. “Tremor?”

“Shaking hands,” Elowyn murmured. “Loss of fine control. It disrupts wand precision.”

Peter grinned. “You know. For when we’re wildly outmatched and need a head start.”

Callum hesitated, then gave the smallest nod. “All right.”

Peter inhaled once, sharply. Then: “Cruciapallium!”

A single spark sputtered from the tip of his wand, then winked out. The target continued spinning, unimpressed.

Peter stepped back into position, wand raised again. Elowyn summoned a fresh target and set it spinning with a flick.

“Remember what the book said,” Elowyn said. “Quick arc, then a thrust forward. The intent isn’t to harm—it’s to destabilize.”

Peter nodded, swallowing down the chill in his throat. His fingers adjusted slightly on the wand shaft.

“Cruciapallium!”

A shower of sparks sputtered from his wand before falling gently to the ground.

Peter blinked. “Well. That was anticlimactic.”

Callum didn’t smirk, but it was close. “Your arc was too wide.”

“I was going for dramatic flair.”

“Try again,” Elowyn said, quietly.

Peter adjusted his footing, narrowing his stance. This time, he let the spell take shape with more clarity—meant to jolt, not harm; to disorient, not break. The target wasn’t an enemy, only something that needed to be unsettled.

“Cruciapallium!”

The spell burst from his wand in a clean arc—darker than expected, violet edged in steel. It struck the target mid-spin and sent it veering hard to the left. For a moment it shuddered, then collapsed as though cut from its axis.

Elowyn lowered his wand. “Well done.”

Peter blinked. “That was…intense.”

Callum crossed his arms. “You all right?”

“I mean, my toes are numb, my shoulders feel like parchment, and I can’t feel three fingers on my wand hand, but yes. Living the dream.”

Elowyn stepped closer, gaze flicking toward the lake.

Peter followed it.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Elowyn said. “Maybe.”

They stood for a moment in the half-light. The snow hadn’t started again, but the wind was shifting, and the trees whispered in a way that made the clearing feel smaller than it had an hour ago.

Callum was resetting the target when he paused, head tilted. “Did you hear—?”

They waited. Stillness held.

A branch creaked overhead—a simple shift of weight, most likely just the wind...probably.

“Again?” Elowyn asked.

Peter nodded. “One more.”

He adjusted his grip, took a breath, and cast the spell again.

“Nice,” Callum muttered, stepping forward to examine the collapsed dummy. “Bit dramatic, but it worked.”

Peter raised his arms in a mock bow. “Dramatic flair and effectiveness. You’re welcome.”

Elowyn gave him the faintest nod of approval, but something warmer lingered in his eyes.

“Your turn,” Peter said, tossing the spellbook to Callum. “I’ve softened it up for you.”

Callum rolled his eyes but took position, wand already drawn. He didn’t ask for another target—just conjured one himself, broader and more stable than Peter’s had been. Typical.

He studied the page for a moment, then tucked the book under his arm. “What was it again? Arc and thrust?”

Peter opened his mouth, but Elowyn beat him to it. “Not just the motion. Think of the imbalance. The edge between control and collapse.”

Callum didn’t answer. He adjusted his stance and lifted his wand.

“Cruciapallium!”

The bolt shot from his wand like a pulse—less refined than Peter’s, but stronger. It hit the dummy and sent it skidding backward in the snow, limbs twitching.

“Bloody hell,” Peter said, grinning. “You trying to knock its soul out?”

Callum gave a rare smile. “No point half-hexing.”

Elowyn took his turn next. His casting was quieter—no flourish, just economy of movement and a stillness that preceded the strike like drawn breath. His spell landed like a whisper before the crash. The target folded in on itself as if its own center had caved.

They stood in silence for a moment, the snow around them peppered with scorch marks and bootprints. The last target lay twitching slightly in the half-melted slush.

“I think that’s enough for tonight,” Elowyn said.

Callum exhaled and nodded. “Yeah.”

Peter stretched his arms above his head and groaned. “My fingers are going to fall off. If they do, I want you to tell everyone I died heroically.”

“No one’s going to believe that,” Callum muttered.

Elowyn smiled—just enough to show.

They packed their things in practiced silence. Callum tucked both spellbooks into his satchel with care, casting a quick preservation charm before slinging it over his shoulder. His wand never left his other hand.

By the time they crossed the treeline, the last light had faded from the sky. The Castle glowed across the lake—soft and green at the edges, the windows flickering like watchful eyes. Elowyn felt the hum of it in his bones: not a warning, not quite. But something close to waiting. 

Their boots crunched over frost-rimed leaves, and their breath came out in ghostly curls, but none of them seemed to feel the cold quite as sharply. They walked in step. Not invincible and certainly not ready. But stronger than they had been. And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The clearing shattered into a cacophony of light and noise. A curse split the air—Confringo—and struck the base of the great ash tree to Elowyn’s right, sending a spray of bark and flame into the twilight. Even before the shock had settled, another spell—Diffindo—sliced through the air with surgical precision. Pain bloomed sharp and sudden across his left shoulder, and he staggered back, cloak tearing as the spell carved through wool and skin. Warm blood gushed instantly, soaking the fabric and dripping down his arm. He dropped low, breath caught between clenched teeth, and slid behind the broken log, wand raised with trembling fingers—but slower now, and tighter in the grip, his sleeve already clinging to him with weight.

His wand flared in his palm—not with light or sound, but with a surge of focused intensity that raced along his nerves like fire forced through frozen veins. The kelpie core, so long braced in silence, rose now with a wild, unyielding force, not reckless, but fierce in its clarity. It had waited through weeks of constraint, through lessons too narrow and corridors too still, and now that wait had ended. It did not question. It did not recoil. It surged upward with the certainty of a creature who knew danger not in theory, but in bone. Beneath that power, the rowan held firm—not stifling the fury, but shaping it, offering it purpose instead of chaos. Elowyn tightened his grip. His fingers burned where blood met magic, but he did not let go. Between them—wand and wielder—the spell was already forming, pulled not only from knowledge, but from the deep instinct to shield and survive.

“Protego Maxima!” The words ripped from his throat, the shield blooming blue and imperfect. Sparks exploded against its surface like bees striking glass.

“El—” Peter’s voice cracked, sharp with panic as he saw the dark stain spreading down Elowyn’s sleeve. “Behind you!”

A bolt of green light arced overhead, too vile looking to be anything but lethal. Elowyn rolled, landing hard, breath knocked from him, just as Callum leapt past him, wand slashing downward in a sharp, practiced X.

“Obstringo!” Callum roared.

The hex screamed through the clearing and struck something—someone—with a dull, wet crack. A figure staggered into view, clutching her side. Cressida Vale. Sixth-year. Pureblood, though not of the old names. Her hood had fallen back, revealing a long braid and a pale, pitiless mouth. Her eyes were sharp, calculating—not enraged, but measuring.

She said nothing. Her wand lifted silently, loosing a spell that crackled with pale gold fire. It struck the ground near Callum and detonated into a wave of searing heat—nonverbal Incendio Maxima.

Callum fell back, coughing through smoke. “They’re splitting us!”

“I see it!” Elowyn shouted, forcing himself upright. His wand trembled—not with fear, but with the bone-deep pull of magic, a vibration that echoed through sinew and marrow like a current seeking release. The kelpie core surged again, wild and restless, craving movement, desperate to act. Blood slid freely down his arm now, hot and thick beneath torn wool, and the warmth of it made his grip falter. But he held fast. The magic burned steady beneath his palm, as if the wand itself refused to fail while he still stood.

Merrick Rosier emerged from behind a line of thorned blackthorn, his smirk slow and deliberate—elegant, cruel. “Well now,” he drawled, voice silk-smooth and coiled with amusement. “Little snakelets, hissing like cobras. You’ve no venom yet, but Merlin, you posture like you do.”

“Go to hell,” Peter snapped, vaulting over a mossy boulder and landing hard on his knees. He sent a Tripudio! blast toward Rosier’s feet—a wild scatter of kinetic force. Rosier dodged it easily, laughing.

“Easy there, Ainsley. Watch whose boots you’re touching—wouldn’t want your little…boyfriends getting the wrong idea.”

Peter flinched, then barked back, “If I wanted you, Rosier, I’d aim higher—and shower after.”

He fired Tripudio again at the ground in front of Rosier, wand hand shaking but eyes locked.

Rosier twirled his wand once, then cast—“Tentaclifors!”

Peter barely twisted away before a long vine whipped out of the ground and attempted to wrap around his legs. He severed it with a shaky Diffindo, panting. “I liked it better when you were all shadows and bad cologne.”

“You’re not funny,” Cressida said, calm and cold, directing a wave of Colloshoo toward him. His feet momentarily stuck fast to the ground.

“Finite!” he snarled, breaking it just in time to dodge another hex.

Callum had circled to Elowyn’s left. “They’re forcing us back—get ready. We combine on my mark.”

“Now?” Elowyn asked.

“We wait, we bleed.”

Together, they braced. Elowyn whispered, “Three…two…now.”

Twin voices: Protego Maxima.

Twin arcs of blue surged from their wands—off rhythm, jagged—but when they struck one another in the air, something held. A wavering dome of light, translucent and trembling, rose between them and the advancing attackers.

For a breathless moment, the clearing pulsed with blue-tinged silence.

Peter, crouched low just behind the dome, blinked up at it. “Bloody hell, that actually worked.”

Rosier’s gaze narrowed as the twin shields fused overhead. He raised his wand, eyes glittering.

“Dissocio.”

The spell struck the joined barrier with a sound like glass shearing apart sharply. The shield fractured down the middle, light splintering as the spell tore through the seams of their magic.

Elowyn cried out and staggered; Callum’s jaw clenched as the magic broke apart around them, the force of the rupture driving them back a step.

“Again—now!” Callum shouted.

They both raised their wands, moving on instinct, and Callum cast a fresh shield just ahead of Elowyn’s. It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t joined—but it was enough to catch the next blow. For one long second, it gleamed like sea-glass in sunlight.

The girl cast something silent. The hex struck like thunder. It didn’t break the shield—it unmade it with a swallowing sound, like breath vanishing from a room. The dome collapsed in a rush of wind.

Peter scrambled back behind them. “Do something!”

Elowyn turned, drew in a breath like sea air, and shouted, “Cruciapallium!”

The curse exploded from his wand in a jagged line of violet light. It tore across the clearing towards Cressida, catching her mid-turn. She cried out as it struck her side, her whole body seizing with unnatural tension. For a breathless moment, her limbs spasmed, one hand flinging wide as if to ward off something unseen. She staggered back against a tree, eyes wide with startled fury.

The curse clipped her sharply, and what missed struck the bark behind her, splitting it with a groan. The tree twisted as if in echo, wood shuddering like it, too, had been hurt.

Merrick turned sharply, his smirk gone. For the first time, his face showed more than amusement—wariness, thinly veiled by scorn.

“So, the little whelps have been studying,” he said, voice cold. “How charming. You’ll make such a pretty mess when someone serious decides to clean you up.”

The girl raised her wand—nonverbal again—and sent a shard of energy spiraling toward Elowyn, fast and razor-sharp.

He flinched, arm rising instinctively—

“Protego!” Callum’s voice cut through the chaos, his wand snapping up just in time. The shield burst into place a split second before the spell struck, ricocheting off in a burst of green sparks.

“Expulso!” Peter followed, fury in his voice. His spell hit her full in the shoulder, and though she didn’t scream, the impact threw her back several feet. She hit the ground hard, skidding through dead leaves.

Merrick turned sharply, his expression twisting—not with rage, but something colder.

“You’ll pay for that,” Merrick hissed, his voice low and venomous.

“Write to the Prophet,” Peter barked. “I’ll send you a bloody apology hex.”

Rosier’s smile vanished.

He raised his wand—and Elowyn knew the next spell would not be meant to warn or scare or shame. It would be meant to maim.

“Callum—” he started.

“Already—!”

“Depulso!” / “Stupefy!”

The twin spells struck in tandem—Elowyn’s Depulso hit Rosier squarely in the chest with a burst of invisible force, shoving him backward with enough power to make him stumble, boots skidding across the mossy ground. At the same instant, Callum’s Stupefy clipped his side, sparking red against the edge of his cloak.

Rosier grunted, thrown off balance, his wand arm flaring wide. He caught himself before he fell, but the impact had rattled him—and for a breath, the smirk vanished from his face.

“You’ve improved,” he said, voice flat. “Enough to scream longer when we finally decide to break you.”

Cressida moved beside him, her hood slipping from her braid. Her eyes swept across the boys—lingering on Elowyn’s blood-soaked sleeve and the tremor in his wand arm, the smoke curling from Callum’s scorched robes, the dirt and soot smeared across Peter’s chest where he’d hit the ground.

She murmured, “We got what we came for.”

Rosier gave a slow nod, his gaze sweeping over them—not victorious, but measuring.

“This wasn’t about winning,” he said softly. “You’re being watched, so when the time comes, no one misses.”

He tilted his head, almost curious. “Keep practicing. It’ll make what’s coming all the more…explosive.”

He took a step closer, wand still raised, his voice like velvet soaked in ice.

“Every night in the trees. Every spark you thought was hidden. Every word you whispered in this little clearing. There are always younger ears and eyes nearby.”

He tilted his head, gaze narrowing. “You don’t belong here, Marwood. Slytherin was built for blood—not for…whatever made you.”

The words hung in the smoke. Then he lowered his wand—not out of mercy, but contempt—and turned.

Callum stepped between him and Elowyn. “He belongs here more than you ever will,” he said, fire in his voice. “Touch him again—and I swear you’ll regret it.”

Merrick laughed—low, cruel, and cold. He turned toward the Castle, boots crunching softly over frost. But as he walked, he glanced back over his shoulder.

“Bold words from a fangless serpentling,” he said. “We’ll let you grow a little more. Stronger prey makes the game worth hunting.”

Cressida followed without a sound, their footsteps muffled by snow and pine needles. They cast no final hex or parting curse—they only left behind silence, and the unmistakable sense of being left alive on purpose.

Peter sat down hard on a half-burned log, clutching his side. He squinted after Merrick’s retreating figure, then added with a crooked grin, “Funny for a fangless serpentling—pretty sure I saw him limping.”

No one answered.

Elowyn leaned heavily against the tree trunk behind him, blinking hard as the world tilted slightly. His jaw was clenched, one hand pressed tight against his shoulder, blood seeping steadily through his sleeve and dripping into the snow at his feet.

Callum stood guard a moment longer, wand still raised, his eyes scanning the trees. Then—slowly, reluctantly—he lowered it.

Peter stared at the churned earth beneath his feet. “How did they even know?” he muttered. “It’s like they were waiting for us.”

His eyes widened as the memory struck.

“I—I was too loud. In Divination. I didn’t think anyone was listening. This is my fault.”

—

Earlier that afternoon, the Divination classroom glowed faintly in a haze of floating incense—jasmine, orange blossom, and something faintly metallic. Velvet curtains absorbed the sunlight, muting it into a twilight gloom, and each round table shimmered with a soft-glassed crystal orb at its center. The air felt thick, as if sound moved through honey.

Peter leaned back in the overstuffed armchair with a muffled groan. “Feels like we’ve wandered into a séance hosted by Gambol and Japes after hours.”

Callum snorted but said nothing, adjusting a lopsided cushion behind his back. Elowyn sat still between them, hands folded neatly, expression unreadable. His eyes moved slowly around the room, taking it all in—the mismatched brass lanterns, the bead curtains, the flock of papier-mâché ravens on the ceiling beams.

“Smells like mothballs and prophecy,” Peter added.

“Shhh,” Elowyn whispered. “Listen.”

Peter rolled his eyes but said no more.

Professor Trelawney emerged from behind a curtain of plum-coloured velvet as if conjured by the air itself, her bangles chiming with soft authority. Her eyes, enormous behind bottle-glass spectacles, flicked across the room.

“Ah. Excellent. Everyone is…present.” She swept to the center of the room with surprising grace. “Today we begin our first session of crystal scrying. I caution you all—what you see may not always be what is…nor what shall be. Often, it is what must be seen.”

Peter mouthed the phrase with a flourish. “What must be seen,” he whispered, mock-dramatic.

Elowyn touched Peter’s knee gently beneath the table, a silent plea for restraint. Peter stilled, the warmth of it lingering longer than the contact itself.

Trelawney’s robes stirred behind her as she turned toward the chalkboard, where she had scrawled in silver chalk:

The Veiled Art: Scrying in Reflection and Refraction

The Eye. The Mind. The Field Beyond.

“Some call it folly,” she said, with a wave of one hand, “but those who dismiss the art of crystal divination forget that the greatest Seers have always looked not forward, but through. The sphere does not tell the future—it mirrors your becoming.”

Several Ravenclaws had already taken out journals and quills. One girl, all nose and braid, was sketching the crystal ball with ferocious precision.

Trelawney paced slowly, weaving between tables. “You must clear your thoughts—no easy task, especially for those of you…unused to stillness.” Her eyes passed lightly over Peter. “You must not demand answers, but instead make space for their arrival.”

When she reached the triad’s table, her tone shifted.

“Elowyn Marwood-Travers,” she breathed, her voice hardly more than mist. “You shimmer like spun gold, yes…but beneath it—something old. Rooted. Waiting. Dreaming in the dark.”

Elowyn looked up, eyes steady. “It is part of me. But not awake.”

She smiled—soft, almost reverent. “Some lights are older than fire. They do not burn. They endure.”

Peter blinked between them. “Are you two about to start levitating?”

Trelawney did not respond. She reached down instead and brushed her fingers against Elowyn’s crystal ball. The surface flashed silver—just once—and settled again.

“I have seen trees grow backward,” she said, her voice now only for him. “And stars breathe once before dying. Do not let them tell you madness is blindness. Sometimes it is focus.”

Elowyn nodded once, not as a student agreeing with a teacher, but as one pilgrim recognizing another. She moved on, spinning slightly in her sandals, and resumed her lecture.

“You may begin. Let your breath fall into rhythm. Do not search. Wait. Observe. The mist knows the path.”

The classroom quieted into soft murmurs and the occasional creak of an adjusting chair. The light from the lanterns shimmered over the curved glass of the spheres, distorting the students’ faces in strange, soft ways.

The orb sat between them like a drop of moonlight frozen into glass. At first it reflected only the lanterns above and the blurred curves of their own faces—warped, dreamlike. But as they settled into silence, something began to shift.

Peter squinted at it, one eye closed. “I see a blob. Possibly two. Might be Callum’s elbow.”

“Try not to look at it,” Elowyn said softly. “Try looking…through it.”

“I am looking through it. And I'm seeing…exactly nothing.”

“Your brain’s still too loud,” Callum muttered. “You think like a stampede.”

Peter chuckled but leaned forward again, arms resting loosely on the table. “Alright. Fine. Peaceful thoughts. Like what I’ll say to Vesper if she tries to hex me in the hall again.”

Callum leaned in, frowning. “Looks the same to me—but you’ve gone still. What is it?”

“It’s what she said would happen,” Elowyn replied, his voice almost a whisper now.

Peter squinted at the orb and snorted. “Unless we’re meant to divine the future from smudges and disappointment, I think I’m out of my depth.”

Within the orb, Elowyn perceived a mist swirling slowly—not like smoke, which danced and curled, but something denser, moving with strange gravity, like water sealed beneath ice. To Callum and Peter, the sphere remained clear.

But for Elowyn—He stared without blinking, barely breathing. The silver-gray fog had begun to spin faster, and in the whorl of motion something pulsed. Not light exactly nor an image, but a presence. A shiver crawled up his spine. He leaned closer. Just beyond the frost-glass curve of the sphere, a shape flickered. No—it recoiled or hid or waited. He could not tell.

He thought—briefly, impossibly—that he heard the creak of wood swaying high in a windless sky. The scent of distant leaves reached him, sharp as memory, bitter as ash. A hum followed, low and resonant, like breath exhaled through stone. In the crystal’s depths, something shimmered—branches thrashing without breeze, fire curling where no flame had touched. He blinked, and it was gone. But the quiet had changed.

“Elowyn?” Callum asked.

He blinked, pulled back slightly. The orb was still now—just a shimmer of mist, no shape at all.

“Did you see something?” Peter asked.

Elowyn was quiet. Then: “Yes.”

“What was it?”

“I don’t know.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “How do you know you saw something if you don’t know what it was?”

Elowyn smiled faintly. “Because it saw me.”

They went still.

Callum looked at him sideways, expression unreadable. “That’s unnerving.”

Peter snorted. “Alright, you win Divination for today. Elowyn gazed into the crystal and the abyss waved back.”

“I don’t think it was the abyss.”

“What then?”

But Elowyn didn’t answer. He was still watching the orb—not afraid, but distant, as though some part of him hadn’t quite returned.

Trelawney passed them once more, trailing warmth behind her. “Some visions are not for now,” she said, pausing near their table. “Some students are not for now either. But they are still true.”

She said no more.

The orb shimmered once beneath Elowyn’s gaze—not with a vision, but with the echo of one: a shape not formed, but implied, shifting at the edge of knowing like a breath exhaled by something too old and too patient to name. The mist inside the orb slowed and stilled, fading back to a faint pearlescence. The curve of the glass now reflected only the lanternlight above and the smudged outlines of their own faces, pale and faint. Elowyn leaned back slightly, blinking. His expression was unreadable, but something in the air around him—some quiet tension—had softened.

Peter studied Elowyn for a long moment, then glanced back at the orb. “Well. I’m officially disappointed. If this thing’s going to reveal the secrets of the universe, it could at least sparkle a bit.”

Callum leaned back in his chair, unimpressed. “Looks like glass to me. Clear as ever. Don’t know how you’re meant to see anything when there’s nothin’ there.”

Peter leaned closer once more and tapped the glass lightly with a knuckle. “Oi. Prophetic crystal thing. We’re dying to know if Vesper’s hair is natural or a tragic potion accident.”

The orb, unsurprisingly, did not respond.

Elowyn allowed himself a small smile. “You’re supposed to open yourself to its pattern. You're not supposed to interrogate it.”

“I was open. Spiritually. Emotionally. Magically. But now I’m bored.”

Callum rolled his eyes. “There’s a shock.”

Elowyn ran a finger lightly around the base of the orb. “Maybe it’s better this way,” he murmured. “To not always see.”

Peter tilted his head. “You alright?”

“I’m alright,” he said, a quiet smile curving at the corner of his mouth.

“Think we’re supposed to write this down? ‘Today I saw my own disappointment reflected back at me. Positively radiant.’”

Callum’s mouth twitched at Peter’s commentary as Elowyn reached for his quill and scratched a few notes into the margin of his Divination parchment. “Record what you saw, even if it was nothing. The crystal responds to repetition.”

“You know this how?” Peter asked.

Elowyn shrugged. “Trelawney said it, or…implied it.”

Callum squinted at his paper. “Can’t even see what I’m writin’ in this light.”

“‘S’all part of the ambience,’” Peter whispered, mimicking Trelawney with breathy exaggeration. “‘Write with your inner eye, dear boy.’”

Elowyn laughed under his breath—soft and silken as falling snow—and for a moment, the tension dissolved.

Peter leaned in again. “Right, now that we’ve failed to divine anything except vague existential dread, what’s the plan?”

Callum glanced toward the curtained windows. “North stairwell again?”

Elowyn shook his head. “That one squeaks. Let’s use the corridor behind the tapestry—one near the portrait of the sleeping monk.”

“More stairs,” Peter groaned. “Fine. Where are we going?”

Elowyn lowered his voice. “We’ll head out after class. Just before dusk, while there’s still light.”

Callum nodded. “Twin shield first. Let’s see if we can actually hold it around all three this time.”

“Drop it just long enough for a cast,” Elowyn said. “Then raise it again—clean, sharp.”

Peter cleared his throat and reached into his satchel. “Right. So—brought tea. And biscuits.” He pulled out the canister and set it on the table with a soft clunk. “Figured we’d need something to keep our fingers warm. Thought ahead. For once.”

Callum glanced at him, one brow raised. “Look at you.”

Peter shrugged, quick and lopsided. “Well, someone’s got to think about the basics, right? Can’t throw hexes with frostbite. And you”—he nodded toward Elowyn, too quickly—“you brought food the first time. I was paying attention. Eventually.”

Elowyn smiled faintly, but didn’t speak.

“I mean,” Peter added, voice light but slightly too fast, “maybe I’m not the flashiest caster in the forest, but I’m not totally useless.”

“Peter,” Callum said, low and steady.

“I’m fine,” he replied, waving him off. “Just saying—got to play to your strengths. Mine happen to involve planning snacks and not dying of exposure.”

There was a faint noise then—barely a rustle.

Across the room, Honoria was shifting in her seat. Vesper sat beside her, still and composed, but her eyes flicked sideways—first to Elowyn, then to Peter. She said nothing, but leaned toward Honoria, and whispered.

—

The clearing had gone still—eerily, completely still—as if the trees themselves were holding their breath. The snow, disturbed and trampled, glittered dully under the new conjured light, soft and gold and trembling like a hearth far off. Elowyn had cast it with a flick of his wrist and a whispered incantation that sounded more like a lullaby than a spell. The spell hung above them now, suspended between two low-hanging branches, casting the clearing in an otherworldly glow.

Callum knelt beside him, fingers already working at the fastenings of the satchel he'd left outside the clearing. His own robes were scorched at the edges, a raw red mark blooming across his left forearm where the heat of the fire had caught him. He didn’t speak as he pulled free the small wooden jars and linen wrappings Emrys had packed, just uncapped a salve with the sure movements of someone who had practiced this before. The smell of it—earthy and sharp, like crushed pine and old stone—rose immediately.

Elowyn said nothing as Callum leaned closer, wand already in hand.

“Sanguis retineo,” he muttered, voice tight with focus. A faint shimmer passed over the wound, and the bleeding slowed—not stopped entirely, but enough.

He set his wand down and reached for the poultice, dabbing it gently along the tear in Elowyn’s shoulder. Elowyn barely flinched, though his sleeve was sodden with blood. The fabric clung to his skin, dark and heavy, and Callum’s hand hesitated once, just once, before continuing. Callum pressed the poultice against the wound, then wrapped it quickly with a length of linen. “Ligatura,” he murmured, tapping the knot. The ends of the wrap pulled snug and held fast.

Peter sat a few feet away, half in shadow. He hadn’t moved since Merrick and Cressida had disappeared into the trees, hadn’t spoken since his muttered question about how they knew. The light from Elowyn’s charm caught the side of his face—mud-smudged, pale, his lips pressed tight. His arms were wrapped around his knees now, chin resting on top, and though he tried to stay small, to be silent, there was a tremble in his shoulders he couldn’t quite control.

Callum glanced over, eyes narrowing. “Peter?” he asked, quiet.

Peter didn’t answer. Callum stepped toward him, slow, open-palmed.

Peter flinched and backed away. “Don’t.”

The word was sharp, cutting the quiet like a blade. He turned abruptly, brushing at his robes as if the motion might shake something loose from his skin. “Don’t—just…don’t.”

Callum froze, hand still hovering in the space where Peter had been a moment earlier. Elowyn looked up, his expression unreadable, but something in the air shifted.

Peter laughed, but it was a broken, bitter sound. “This is all my fault.”

Neither of the other boys spoke.

“I was too loud,” he said, turning away from them, voice rising. “In Divination. I thought we were safe. I thought—” His voice caught. “I didn’t think anyone was listening. But someone was. And now you’re bleeding—” he turned on Elowyn, eyes wide, desperate—“and you—” at Callum, “you’re burned, and I’m—what? Scuffed knees and dirty sleeves? They didn’t even bother to hit me.”

“Peter—” Elowyn began.

“No!” he shouted. “Don’t. Don’t do the calm, kind thing. Don’t make it gentle so I don’t feel like a monster. I am the monster. I’m the reason they’re watching us. I’m the reason Slytherin hates you. I’m the reason you’re hurt.”

Callum stepped forward, his brow creased. “You’re not—don’t say that.”

Peter shook his head. “Why not? It’s true, isn’t it? If I hadn’t been attacked—if I hadn’t disappeared and left you scrambling—none of this would’ve happened. You would have been fine without me. You two work—you’re in sync. You don’t need me.”

Callum frowned. “That’s not—”

Peter cut him off. “Come on, just look at you. You’ve always got his back. You move around each other like you’re casting the same spell. You know where he’s going to be before he gets there. You fight like a unit.”

Callum opened his mouth to answer, but Peter kept going.

“And I’m there shouting bad jokes and trying not to fall over my own wand. You think that’s helping? You think any of that matters when curses are flying? You’re brilliant,” he said, pointing at Elowyn, “you’ve got magic in your blood like the earth gave it to you on purpose. And you,” to Callum, “you don’t flinch. You just step in front of danger like it’s what you were made for. And I—”

He choked on the words, then forced them out anyway.

“I don’t even know why I’m here. I don’t know what I’m for.”

“You’re for us,” Elowyn said quietly.

Peter froze.

“You make us whole,” Elowyn said softly, his violet eyes nearly glowing in the dim light of the distant sun, “Without you, we’re just two boys reaching blindly into the dark.”

Peter laughed again, high and raw. “That’s—nice. That’s poetic. But you don’t mean it.”

“I do,” Elowyn said, his voice quiet but steady. “I saw the way your spell hit Cressida before hers hit me. I heard you, too—talking me through the shield while my arm was slick with blood.”

He looked up at Peter, something unshakable in his gaze. “You think you’re invisible when you’re afraid. But I always see you…we always see you. We always have.”

Peter stared at him, lips parted, but silent.

“You held,” Callum said, stepping closer now. “You didn’t run. Not in the clearing. Not after they left. You stayed on your feet and you kept us both grounded.”

Peter scoffed, wiping angrily at his face. “I stayed on my feet because no one bothered to knock me down.”

Callum’s voice sharpened. “That’s not how this works.”

Peter shook his head. “It is. It is. They didn’t think I was worth the effort. You two—they want to break you. Me, they just…bypass.”

Elowyn stepped closer. “They bypass what they don’t understand. They bypass what scares them.”

Peter looked at him like he’d gone mad. “Scared of me?”

“Yes,” Elowyn said gently. “Because they don’t understand how you keep standing. How you turn fear into light. How even when you’re unraveling…you still hold the shape of us.”

Peter blinked hard. “You think I’m strong?”

“I know you are,” Elowyn said.

Callum’s voice was lower now. “Peter, we’re not the same without you. We’re not us without you.”

Peter turned away, shoulders shaking. “You shouldn’t say that. You shouldn’t make it harder.”

“Harder?” Callum echoed.

Peter’s voice cracked. “Harder to walk away. If I thought leaving would fix this, I would.”

“You won’t,” Elowyn said softly. “And not because you’re trapped. Because you’re loved.”

Peter whirled on him, tear-streaked. “Don’t say that!”

“I will.”

“You don’t mean it.”

“We do,” Callum said.

Peter trembled. “I wake up every night thinking they’re there. I hear them laugh. I hear spells I can’t name. I see—just flashes. I don’t even know who they were. And I still think they’ll come back.”

“They will,” Elowyn murmured. “But so will we. You won’t stand in the dark again without us beside you.”

Peter’s face crumpled. “You don’t understand. You weren’t the one on the floor. You didn’t wake up alone and broken.”

“No,” Callum said. “But we felt it. Every minute you were gone.”

Peter stared between them, something inside him unraveling.

“You really—?”

Peter didn’t move. He stood there trembling, arms wrapped tight around himself, as if trying to hold his shape together by sheer force of will.

Callum and Elowyn moved first. They didn't move in haste, but in certainty—two steps, then three, closing the distance as if drawn by something older than fear. They reached him together, without a word, and wrapped their arms around him—Callum strong and solid at his back, Elowyn quiet and steady at his front. Peter didn’t speak. He just let go. The sobs came ragged and unbound—years too big for his small frame. It was not graceful or soft but it was real. Between them, he was not weak. He was carried.

The golden sun above flickered gently, casting light that made no shadows. Beyond the circle, the forest exhaled its cold breath across the snow. But inside it, for a little while, there was only warmth, and the beginning of something that might one day feel like home.

Chapter Text

“Did you see the pin Merrick was wearing?”

Peter’s voice broke the silence like a twig underfoot—sudden, too loud for the hush that had settled over the clearing. None of them startled. The world around them had already cracked open hours ago. He sat hunched forward, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, but Elowyn’s shoulder still touched his on one side, and Callum’s hand remained loosely curled against his back on the other. They hadn’t moved much since the spellfire ceased—just breathed, and stayed close. 

Peter’s voice was steadier now, but thin with exhaustion. He stared at the blackened divot in the snow where a hex had missed and splintered bark. His words weren’t a question so much as a release, breaking the seal on something they had all been holding in.

“Left side,” he said. “Pewter. Little green snake curled like it was posing for a family crest. Not exactly subtle.”

He gave a thin huff, halfway to a laugh.

“Honestly, I’m surprised it didn’t hiss and announce its affiliations.”

Callum didn’t turn or reply, but the line of his shoulders eased just slightly. Elowyn didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched—barely there, but real.

“Elowyn?” Peter asked, without looking over. “You saw it too?”

Elowyn hesitated, lips parting, closing, then parting once more. “Yes,” he said at last—quiet, but certain.

Peter let out a huff that wasn’t quite a laugh.

“Well,” he muttered. “So that’s that then. The mystery solved by fashion accessories.”

“Then it was them,” Callum said, voice low and rough. “From the very start. All the way back to the train—that first day, comin’ to Hogwarts.”

Peter nodded, resting his chin on his knee. “Brilliant. Sharing a House with a snake-wearing sociopath. Hogwarts really does have it all.”

“I thought maybe…” He trailed off. “I dunno. Thought I was imagining things. You ever do that? Doubt your own brain?”

“You didn’t forget,” Elowyn said gently. “Someone pulled it from you—and not well. What’s left…it was never meant to stay whole.”

Peter gave a brittle smile. “Right—poison me, botch a memory charm, and then drop by for a friendly hexing. Slytherin hospitality at its finest."

Callum rose slowly, the motion stiff with strain. As he stood, he reached out and gave Peter’s shoulder a brief, firm squeeze. Then he turned without a word and moved to the edge of the clearing. There, he began to pace a tight line just beyond the felled log, wand in hand, eyes scanning the dark. “We should tell someone,” he muttered, voice barely loud enough to carry.

Peter tilted his head, smirking faintly. “Sure. Want to draw straws for who gets to be ignored first?”

“McGonagall’s tried,” Elowyn said softly. “But she’s not our Head of House. She doesn’t have the final say—not when it’s one of ours.”

Peter glanced over, voice quieter now. “That’s it, then? We just…let it go?”

“No,” Elowyn said quietly. “I never thought she’d fix it. Only that she’d try. And she has. But trying’s not the same as changing anything.”

A hush. Then Peter said, “What about your dads?”

Elowyn turned his gaze upward for a long moment. The stars were soft tonight. Blurred at the edges, but shimmering in the early Spring evening.

“If I sent word,” he said quietly, “they’d be here by morning.”

Callum turned, glancing over.

“Papa would try to name what’s wrong,” Elowyn said quietly. “Call it a sickness in the stone, maybe. Bring a pouch of something brewed from roots older than the Founders. And Daddy…” He paused. “He’d want facts and names. He’d send owls to Dumbledore for months gathering evidence.”

He looked down at the blood-stiff edge of his sleeve.

“They’d both act. But neither could change what this place chooses to ignore.”

Peter was quiet a moment, then asked softly, “Would you want them to?”

Elowyn didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed on the snow, where the blood had begun to crust.

“I’d want them not to worry,” he said. “But that’s the first thing they’d do.”

“But why don’t we want their help?” Callum asked. His tone wasn’t sharp—just quiet, rough-edged with the need to understand.

Elowyn didn’t answer right away. He brushed a fleck of ash from his wrist, eyes down.

“Because they’d come in meaning well,” he said at last, “and everything we’ve tried to build here would begin to unravel.”

He hesitated, then added, softer still:

“We’ve worked too hard not to be seen as a weakness.”

His gaze flicked to Peter, then to Callum. The last words barely rose above the wind. But they were clear.

Peter didn’t look up, but his voice cut through softly. “And yet…they still came for us.”

Elowyn’s gaze stayed fixed on the snow. He didn’t flinch.

“I know.” The words were low, almost lost to the wind. “But I think…without it…they might have come sooner.”

Peter picked up a twig and snapped it. “So that’s all our options, then? Shut up and suffer? Or just suffer?”

“You could tell your Mum and Dad,” Elowyn offered gently.

Peter gave a short, humorless laugh. “Right. Mum’d bake something and cry into the frosting. Dad’d write a very polite letter to someone who’d never read it. My siblings would argue about it for weeks and somehow I’d end up apologizing to them.”

He picked up a twig from the ash-dusted snow and twirled it between his fingers.

“They’d care,” he added. “They just wouldn’t know what to do.”

He tossed the twig into the snow.

Callum didn’t answer at first. Then, quietly: “Mam…she’d read between the lines.”

He gave a faint shrug.

“Wouldn’t ask much—she knows what this House is like. She’d send a few potions, maybe a new jumper with shielding charms stitched into the seams.”

“And your da?” Peter asked.

A shrug. “He’d put his head down. Fix something in the barn. Say nothing.”

Elowyn looked toward the Castle. It was barely a silhouette against the lake now, more suggestion than shape.

“They all love us,” he murmured. “But love isn’t a shield. It can’t protect us, not in this House and not in this war.”

Peter stood slowly, brushing ash from his sleeve. “Well,” he said dryly, “love might not be a shield, but it’s probably why we’re not hexing each other to sleep every night.”

That got the faintest snort from Callum.

He hesitated, then said, almost too low to catch. “It’s not a shield, no. But it’s why I keep standing in front of you both.”

Peter stood first, stretching stiffly, then reached down to help Elowyn to his feet. Elowyn rose with a quiet breath, his robes heavy with dried blood, and took a moment to steady himself. As they began gathering their things—books and gloves, the scattered echoes of the fight—Peter bumped his shoulder lightly against Callum’s, a crooked nudge that said more than it asked. Elowyn passed him next, but didn’t speak; he simply reached for Callum’s hand and gave it a brief, steady squeeze before letting go. Then the three of them turned toward the lake, the clearing behind them bruised and blackened. The Castle waited across the water, distant and still, its towers dim against the dark. They walked in silence, the wind tugging at their sleeves, steps falling into rhythm—not for defense, just to remember that they were still here and still together.

—

Snow muffled their footsteps, but not the weight behind them. The Castle loomed across the lake, its towers dim against the late-winter sky—not warm with welcome, but still and suspended, silently waiting. They walked slowly, bruised and bandaged with robes torn and stiff with ash and blood. Elowyn moved between Peter and Callum, not leading, or following, but held in place by the slight brush of arms and the rhythm of weary feet. Their path was not straight. They wound down by instinct, not precision, as though the earth itself might have shifted underfoot.

Peter opened his mouth once, a breath drawn like a matchstick against stone. "Suppose we could’ve picked a more scenic route for a death march," he muttered, glancing toward the moonlit lake. "Maybe next time we get attacked, we hold auditions for ambiance."

The attempt at humor didn’t quite land, but Elowyn offered the softest sound of acknowledgment, a breath that could have been a laugh in gentler light. Callum said nothing, his jaw tight, his eyes scanning the path ahead like he expected shadows to shift and speak.

Elowyn reached for the Castle with the part of himself that always listened but he felt nothing. There was no whisper in the stone, or ripple of acknowledgment. The Castle had always murmured around the edges of his senses—sometimes faint, and sometimes sharp as bell-toll—but now there was only the quiet of something turned inward, or turned away. He looked down at the ring his fathers had given him, the one Thaddeus had commissioned from his London jeweler and that he and Emrys had enchanted together—woven with protective spells and laced with Grove magic, the runes old as standing stones. It caught the moonlight as they walked. It was still beautiful, but it had not flared when the curse cut through him, nor had it warmed when his blood hit the snow. It had not done anything at all. He knew his fathers had intended for it to protect him—that they had poured love and magic into it in equal measure—but he was beginning to understand that love could not shield. It could only soothe…after the pain had bloomed. Magic, like every institution he’d once trusted, answered only in part. It guarded in theory, but not in crisis. Perhaps the ring had never been a shield, only a symbol of hope—a promise beautiful enough to believe in, but never meant to bear the weight of what the world could do.

By the time they reached the wall outside the common room, the password came from Callum in a voice low and cautious, his wand already drawn. The stone portal melted into the flagstones below, and the three of them crossed the threshold together.

The Slytherin common room was not simply quiet, it was completely empty and devoid of the usual staid slithering of snakes. The green-tinted fires still burned in their hearths, but lower than usual, like breath withheld. Several of the chairs sat at crooked angles as if only recently vacated. A forgotten quill balanced on the edge of a side table, as if someone had stood too fast and left it teetering. Not a single student remained—not even the youngest, not even the ones who normally dozed by the fire after dinner. The room was hollow with absence, hollow with something too deliberate to be accident.

Peter's wand was already out. He didn’t speak, but the slight tremor in his hand betrayed something more than readiness. Elowyn's gaze swept the corners, the shadows, the burnished edge of the fireplaces. Callum moved in a slow, deliberate arc, eyes never leaving the far wall.

They said nothing as they moved to the entrance to the boys dormitories. The silence stretched like beaten gold, impossibly thin and brittle. Down the dormitory stairs, the world narrowed again. Callum led, slow and sure, wand raised. The corridor was as empty as the common room, but the air felt different—warmer and slightly stale, as if the Castle had drawn breath and forgotten to let it go.

Once they entered their dormitory, it quickly filled with the scent of scorched linen, damp wool, and the faint tang of blood beneath drying balm—residue of the night clinging to them like a second skin. Inside, they exhaled for the first time since stepping into the common room, but none of them lowered their wands.

Callum moved to the trunk and retrieved their few supplies, including the worn leather-bound copy of The Essential Compendium of Emergency Spellcraft and Restoration, sent months ago by Emrys, pages softly enchanted to hum when opened to the right spell. Elowyn and Peter unfastened their robes slowly, the cloth dragging and catching over wounds, over stiff movements. Peter turned and quietly cast Praesidium Clamoribus on the door, followed by Tutamentum—layered quietly with practiced hand. The charms shimmered briefly before sinking into the stone.

“Y’don’t think someone told them to clear out, do you?” Peter asked as he turned away from the door, voice lighter than it should’ve been, like a candle too close to burning out. “Some sinister upperclassman with a flair for the dramatic? ‘Clear the common room, darlings, the outcasts are coming.’”

Callum didn’t glance up from the supplies. “Wouldn’t surprise me. It certainly seemed like. I've never seen the common room so empty afore.”

Peter snorted. “If they start leaving signs or ominous riddles, I want it on record I called it first.”

“We’re not just being avoided,” Elowyn murmured, lowering himself gingerly to sit on the edge of his bed. “We’re being erased.”

“Lovely,” Peter muttered, flicking through the pages of the Compendium. “Next week they’ll change the House motto to: Slytherin—where the floor’s warm, the fire’s green, and the bodies vanish on schedule.”

Callum smiled to himself at Peter’s joke as he shrugged off his cloak and then unfastened his trousers just enough to ease them down from his hip, exposing the jagged, dark burn blooming across his upper thigh. The fabric clung slightly before letting go. He opened the jar of magical burn paste and held it out to Peter. “Thigh’s bad,” he said, voice quiet, almost hesitant. “If you don’t mind.”

Peter knelt beside him without comment, dipping two fingers into the thick, golden salve. It smelled like mint and clove and something faintly metallic, like rain against stone. As he reached forward, Callum shifted, angling his leg slightly, and Peter's breath caught—not at the injury, though it was vicious—but at the quiet vulnerability of the gesture. He spread the balm gently along the edge of the burn, fingertips moving in slow, deliberate circles. 

“Sorry,” Peter murmured as Callum tensed under the touch.

“S’fine,” Callum said, voice softer now, eyes half-lidded. “Just stings.”

Peter exhaled, the motion almost a sigh. “It’s looks worse up close.”

Peter finished smoothing the balm, then reached for the roll of gauze and began wrapping Callum’s thigh, the fabric stretching snug around the raw edge. His hands were careful, quiet, like he was binding more than just skin.

Elowyn watched them in silence, his own pain momentarily forgotten. There was no flourish to the care Peter proffered to Callum; there was only tenderness in Peter’s touch and trust in Callum’s stillness both of which settled in his chest like a lantern lit against the dark. These were not boys pretending to be brave—they were simply choosing to stay. And in that quiet, Elowyn felt a warmth rise—unexpected and unguarded—a soft awe at the way care could be given without ceremony. For a breath, it steadied him more than any potion.

“Your turn,” he said turning to Elowyn, reaching for the bandages.

Elowyn didn’t protest. With a quiet breath, he loosened the ties at his collar and slipped his shirt over his head, moving slowly, carefully. It was the first time either of them had seen him this bare—he who was always wrapped in robes and high collars and in silk and stillness. His skin was pale, but not sickly—luminous, as if the light bent more gently around him. There was something otherworldly in the smooth lines of his collarbones, the soft rise of his chest—a smooth, unmarked expanse of his shoulders, almost like polished porcelain. But the wound broke the spell—a gash, deep and angry, sliced across his left side—where the blood had dried dark against the curve of his ribs. The contrast was jarring, violent against skin so unmarked. Peter drew in a breath. Callum did not speak, but his eyes lingered.

Peter moved first, uncorking a fresh vial of balm and dipping the edge of a cloth into it. He dabbed gently at the crusted edge while Callum opened the Compendium and found the charm for sealing.

“Ligatura Vivens,” Callum murmured, wand steady.

The thread of golden light unspooled and wove delicately across the gash, meeting Peter’s quiet pressure as the balm soaked in.

Elowyn flinched but said nothing. He looked away as they worked, jaw clenched—not from pain, but from being seen.

“It’s not closing clean,” Callum said.

“Let it settle,” Elowyn whispered, his voice barely audible. “Just…let it settle.””

Peter watched the magic knit itself into the wound with quiet awe. “We should be in the Hospital Wing,” he said, not for the first time.

“And have to explain how we got ambushed and lived to tell it?” Elowyn said quietly, eyes still averted. “They investigated your attack, or said they did. Yet we’ve uncovered more in whispers and scraps than McGonagall has shared with us. No one has been held to account.”

Peter drew a short breath, then exhaled sharply through his nose. “So much for justice,” he muttered. “You're right, we’ve pieced more together from hallway whispers and half-memories than the school seems willing to admit.”

As they finished tending each others’ wounds, they moved slowly to clean themselves. The showers were just a room away—an en suite barely ten paces across the stone—but the idea of water, steam, and the sting of wounds beneath it was too much. They were too tired, too bruised, too wary of letting their guards fall all the way.

Instead, they cast quick cleaning charms on each another—Scourgify, murmured and repeated with care, each wand pass lifting the dried blood and grime without the mess of soap and water. The magic felt gentler when used on someone else. Peter's hand trembled slightly as he cast for Callum, and Elowyn, ever striving for levity, muttered something about spa day vouchers as he scrubbed a streak of soot from Elowyn’s neck with the edge of his sleeve.

They stripped down not all at once but in slow, tired succession, and in the quiet between spells and breath, they saw the rest of it—the places the real wounds had left untouched. Bruises bloomed along ribs and thighs, crescent-shaped scrapes along knuckles and collarbones. There were smudges of grey along Peter’s hipbone where he’d hit the frozen ground, and Elowyn’s shoulders were blotched with broken blood vessels. Callum’s back was scored with what might have been a shield rebound or the edge of a spell that hadn’t quite missed. No one commented. They only looked with grief held just behind the eyes, bright and quiet, and then looked away.

They changed into their sleep clothes without much ceremony. Elowyn’s silk pyjamas whispered as he moved, violet so deep it looked black in the firelight. Peter’s flannel pair hung too long in the sleeves and bunched at the ankles—secondhand from his older brother, patched twice at the knees. Callum, as always, stripped down to his boxers, indifferent to the cold or the bruises blooming beneath his skin.

Elowyn caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror and barely recognized the boy reflected there—pale, eyes darkened at the edges, lips slightly cracked. The ring on his finger still glimmered faintly, as if unaware of its own failure. He climbed into bed with less ease than usual. The sheets were cold but familiar. He moved slowly, wincing as he settled back against the pillows. There was a pause—brief, breath-held—before Callum crossed the room and slipped in behind him without a word, lying on Elowyn’s left where the wound had been dressed. Peter hesitated for a heartbeat longer, then circled to the other side. No one spoke the choice aloud. 

Elowyn lay between them, his breath slow and uneven, caught somewhere between pain and relief. Their warmth folded around him without demand. One of Callum’s arms draped lightly across his middle, not possessive but anchoring. Peter’s shoulder pressed gently against Elowyn’s, their foreheads nearly aligned as they faced one another in the dim light. The contact was quiet and reverent. It was the kind of closeness that didn’t need to be spoken into existence. It simply was. And for now, it was enough.

They said nothing more, and they didn’t have to. They lay entwined—backs pressed, legs brushing, and hands resting near one another beneath the blanket—not out of fear, but out of something heavier, quieter, and harder to name. They were not safe, not really, not in the ways the world measured such things, but they were still breathing, still within reach. Peter’s hand found Elowyn’s, tentative and warm, fingers curling gently. Callum shifted closer, his knee brushing both of theirs, anchoring them with that quiet steadiness only he could offer. The Castle offered no sound. The sconces outside the dormitory flickered with enchanted flame, casting long, soft shadows across the stone walls. And at last, wrapped in silence and one another, they slept.

⸻

The lake-filtered light above shimmered and rippled faintly through the glass of the dormitory ceiling, casting slow-moving shadows across the curve of the stone walls. The sconces still burned low, but it was the green that woke them—that strange, steady reminder of the world continuing on.

Elowyn stirred first, though it was difficult to say whether he had slept at all. His body ached in the deep, cold way of injuries that had stopped bleeding but not yet begun to heal. Callum’s arm was still draped around his waist, warm and heavy, while Peter’s hand remained curled loosely in his own. They had not moved much in the night. The closeness had held them like a spell. They had chosen this—the warmth between them, the hush that came after. It wasn’t romantic, but it was a kind of safety, shaped by exhaustion and trust. No one had spoken it aloud, but the nearness had steadied them, like a ward drawn not with wands but with bodies aligned.

Callum stirred behind him with a grunt and shifted slowly, his breath catching as he rolled onto his back. “Morning,” he said, voice rough with sleep and bruised silence.

Peter mumbled something unintelligible and then, “Still alive,” with a dry croak and then he added wryly, “barely.”

“That’s something,” Elowyn said softly. He didn’t move yet. None of them did. There was something sacred in that green light, in the stillness of the moment before the day began.

Eventually, they disentangled. Peter rolled out of bed first, wincing as his feet touched the cold floor. Callum followed, slower, more careful in his movements. Elowyn sat up last, one hand braced against the mattress, his breath measured and calm. He touched the bandage wrapped snugly around his ribs, fingertips lingering for a moment before he rose with quiet determination.

They dressed without speaking—Elowyn in fresh robes, black with green silk lining and subtle silver trim; Peter in his slightly rumpled uniform, shirt collar a little uneven; Callum moving with deliberate economy, carefully pulling on his trousers to avoid disturbing the bandage wrapped around his thigh before drawing his robes over it. They moved like old men—stiff and quiet and resigned.

Before they left, Peter turned and whispered Finite Incantatem at the door, reversing the spells he had set the night before. The wards lifted without sound, the faint shimmer in the stone dissolving like dew.

—

In the Great Hall, the tables were already half-filled. Owls wheeled overhead, feathers drifting in lazy spirals as letters and packages dropped onto plates and into the laps of startled students. The air buzzed with voices and the clink of cutlery, bright with morning laughter—but as the triad entered, a subtle shift moved through the space—not silence but a thinning of sound around their footsteps, like a ripple disturbing an otherwise placid surface.

The Slytherin table stretched long and gleaming beneath the silver-framed windows, its length fit for over two hundred, though less than half that number filled it now. Elowyn led them toward the center—not toward the edge where the first-years often clustered, but straight down the aisle of green and silver, through the brief narrowing of eyes and the sudden quiet that snapped back to conversation just after they passed.

They sat, wordless. Elowyn’s posture was upright, composed. Callum dropped into place beside him with a stiffness that bordered on tension. Peter took his place on Elowyn’s opposite side, his face unreadable, though his hands were tight around his goblet.

No one acknowledged them. Not the sixth-years further up the table, laughing too loudly over a letter one of them read aloud. Not the second-years whispering about Professor Flitwick’s quiz. Not even the six first-year girls, all seated just a little closer together than usual. Vesper methodically spread jam across her toast as if measuring it for some silent charm. Honoria stirred her tea three times clockwise and once counter. None of them looked. None of them blinked.

And yet the whispers came not from one end of the table, but from all sides. Like a fog creeping in, they rose and fell—threaded through laughter, between bites of toast, beneath the clink of knives on porcelain.

“Sitting like they own the table. Like they belong.”

“Heard they lured Cressida and Merrick out there. Cornered them and then attacked.”

“Some twisted plan. Trying to shift power. First-year shites.”

“Pulled some feeble hexes they probably nicked from a library shelf. Been practicing for months I heard and they barely left a scratch.”

“One of them’s a half-blood. Figures they’d pull something like this.”

“No surprise about the Ainsley boy either. I heard he went mental after his stay in the Hospital Wing.”

“And the pretty one—Marwood or whatever—thinks silence makes him dangerous.”

“He’s not dangerous. That soilspawn is diseased. All three of them are. It’s spreading.”

“They’re not Slytherin.”

“They’re blood traitor vermin.”

Elowyn’s fingers rested lightly against the edge of his plate. He did not move. Around them, the whispers rose—layered, cruel, and deliberate. Callum’s jaw twitched with every new lie, his spoon scraping rhythmically against the bowl like a drumbeat he couldn’t silence. Peter muttered dry jokes under his breath, flinging sarcasm at the ugliness around them as though it might shield them. At one particularly sharp remark, Elowyn reached beneath the table and rested a hand gently on Peter’s thigh—steadying, wordless. Peter went quiet.

A voice from the next table drifted just loud enough to catch—Ravenclaw.

“It’s all over the common room. They ambushed older students in the forest. Some kind of rebellion.”

“First-years?” someone scoffed. “That’s either brave or suicidal.”

“Maybe both.”

There was a brief pause and then the same student added, “Slytherin’s gone quiet about it. Like they’re waiting to see who bleeds first.”

Elowyn, Callum, and Peter continued to eat because they had to. Elowyn took bread, fruit, water—measured, composed. Callum ate like a soldier fortifying himself, each bite a declaration. Peter poked at his eggs until they cooled, then said under his breath, “Five sickles says we all vanish mysteriously this week.”

They did not hurry to finish. Instead, they lingered. It was defiance by stillness and a simple refusal to retreat. If the House wanted to pretend the rumors were true, then the boys would make their presence undeniable. 

They said nothing as they rose from the table, but every step felt heavier than the one before. There was no dignity in retreat—but there was survival.

—

Inside the greenhouse, the air was warm and thick with the scent of wet soil and bitter leaves. The glass above steamed faintly at the corners, casting the sunlight in mottled green tones that danced across pots and wooden benches.

The triad worked together in a quiet, careful rhythm. Callum repotted a half-wilted Flitterbloom, brushing dirt from its roots with a tenderness that belied the tension in his jaw. Peter sifted through cuttings with one hand and trimmed wilted edges with the other, mumbling spell names under his breath. Elowyn pressed compost around the base of a drooping plant, movements steady despite the tightness across his ribs.

They didn’t speak, but they stayed close—shoulders nearly brushing, eyes flicking to one another as if on an unspoken beat. The work kept their hands busy, their minds steadier. It wasn’t comfort. But it was something like peace.

“Still breathing, are you?” came a voice from behind them—mild, but edged with something knowing.

They turned. Professor Sprout stood at the end of the row, sleeves rolled, hands on her hips. Her patchwork robes bore fresh smudges of soil. Her eyes, bright and sharp beneath her flyaway hair, moved from boy to boy with slow precision.

“You three look like you’ve been through the wrong end of a Devil’s Snare.”

Peter didn’t look up. “We lost a pub fight with a mandrake. You should see the other plant.”

Sprout’s mouth quirked. “Mm.”

Her gaze landed on Elowyn’s side, where his robes were drawn a little too carefully, too close. Then on the purpling bruise beneath Callum’s collar, half-hidden by the shift of fabric. On the thin scab along Peter’s jaw.

Elowyn straightened slowly, wincing just slightly. “We’re fine, Professor.”

“You’re not,” she said simply. “But I know better than to press when the wound’s still fresh.”

She crouched by the nearest pot and loosened the soil with her fingers, more to give her words somewhere to go than because the plant needed it. “Slytherin soil can be hard on seedlings. Doesn’t mean they don’t bloom.”

Elowyn met her eyes. “Thank you,” he said, quietly but with weight. And that was all.

The rest of the class passed in silence. The Hufflepuffs glanced their way once or twice—curious, but careful. No one spoke to them. The warmth of the greenhouse was different than the warmth of the dormitory. This heat made sweat bloom at the temples. It softened their limbs. Made the aches less sharp.

Afterward, as they stepped out into the garden path, the cold struck them like a held breath. Peter drew his cloak tighter and muttered, “Not sure I’m keen on getting hexed again, but with all our new fans eager to get a piece of us, I suppose we’d better keep training.”

Callum grunted. “Not there. They know it now.”

Elowyn nodded but didn’t break stride. “A new place each day.”

No one argued.

The wind tugged at their robes as they walked, the greenhouse shrinking behind them, the Castle rising ahead. The day had not ended. But it had pressed in—and they moved forward against it. As they walked, Elowyn found himself thinking of Professor Sprout. She had seen them—truly seen them. Her concern had been real, and that made it all the sadder. Because even she, kind and rooted in earth as she was, could do nothing more than acknowledge the wound. Her gentleness had been a balm, not a remedy. In a school bound by silence and politics, even the kindest could only bear witness and hope the bruises faded on their own.

The Great Hall loomed as the next inevitability, and so they made their way there, drawn more by the pull of routine than hunger. They slid into their places at the Slytherin table just as dinner appeared—roast chicken, stewed parsnips, bread still steaming in its basket. The warmth of the food was almost cruel. Elowyn picked at his plate without appetite. To his left, Peter nibbled at a roll and glanced toward the dais, as though gauging whether any of the staff might look their way, but none did. Callum sipped pumpkin juice, his grip too tight on the goblet.

The summons came just as Elowyn's plate of stewed parsnips was magicked down to the kitchen below. A shadow fell across the three boys where they sat near the middle of the Slytherin table, not huddled close, but undeniably a unit. Elowyn’s fork was still in hand when he looked up and saw one of the Slytherin’s prefect, Osric Halverton, simpering as he approached, the kind of oily, over-performed graciousness that always meant a trap was being laid in public. His smile was polished to a sheen, and he offered it to the surrounding students more than to the boys themselves—as though the real summons was not to Snape’s office, but to humiliation itself. Osric did not speak any of the triad's names aloud—instead, he cleared his throat in the exaggerated manner of someone summoning a crowd and not a private audience.

"How quaint," he intoned, voice ringing with theatrical solemnity, loud enough to catch the attention of three tables and perhaps the staff dais as well. "A summons—how very official—for our esteemed first-year trio." He paused, letting the words hang with barbed sweetness, then added with mock gravity, "Marwood, McCormack, and Ainsley, you are to report immediately to the Defense corridor by order of Professor Snape himself."

He held out the folded piece of parchment like a royal decree, gaze cool and impassive, but his voice carried far beyond their section of the table. Conversations nearby slowed, then stilled. The mark of authority had long since replaced the bruise Elowyn’s spell had left months ago, and Osric wore it now like a badge polished for display.

Peter leaned in to read over Elowyn’s shoulder.

"Professor Snape," he muttered. "How lovely. Dessert and a dressing-down."

Callum’s hand hovered for a moment over his goblet before drawing back. None of them needed to say anything. They rose together.

The walk from the Great Hall to the Defense corridor was longer than it should have been. The castle, dim in its evening hush, seemed to recede as they approached its more dangerous corners. Every footstep echoed louder than the last. When they reached Snape’s office, the torches were already lit. Dim flames guttered in wrought iron brackets, casting the room in shifting, unnatural hues. The door stood ajar.

Snape did not look up as they entered. He sat behind his desk with his face shadowed by the tilt of his head. The door shut behind them without a word or wand.

“Late" he said, voice low and sharp as cut glass. He finished the scroll he’d been marking—each stroke of his quill deliberate, final, like a seal closing over something already condemned.

Snape's eyes lifted at last. "I trust you know why you're here."

Elowyn’s chin lifted slightly. "No, professor. We were given no explanation."

A sneer ghosted across Snape’s face. "Of course you weren’t. That would require you three to exist within the bounds of propriety."

Callum’s mouth opened, but Elowyn touched his arm lightly, a signal to wait.

Snape stood and circled the desk slowly, the hem of his robes whispering across the stone. "Cressida Vale and Merrick Rosier have submitted statements that they were ambushed by three first-years—attacked, unprovoked, and left with minor injuries. Care to elaborate?"

Peter’s eyebrows shot up. "Minor? They’re in better shape than we are. Merrick nearly took off Elowyn’s arm."

Snape’s head snapped up, the motion sudden and sharp. His eyes narrowed, black and cold. “So,” he said, voice curling like smoke, “you do confess to launching an assault upon two of your House’s senior members, Mr. Ainsley?”

Peter drew in a sharp breath and stepped forward, eyes bright with anger. "We did not attack them," Peter burst out, his voice high with disbelief and anger. "They came after us. We were in the forest, keeping to ourselves, practicing where no one would get hurt—and they ambushed us. No warning, no chance to talk. Just curses flying. You want to know who drew first? Ask them what they used. Ask who cast Confringo straight at Elowyn. We didn’t pick the fight—we just survived it."

“He speaks truly, sir. We did not ambush them,” Elowyn said, his voice low but unwavering, like something drawn from deep within. “They came upon us training with no words exchanged and no warning. We responded as we had to.”

Snape’s lip curled. "Training. How noble. In defiance of school policy and likely using magic far beyond your instruction."

Callum stepped forward then, voice rough but controlled. "We’ve had no choice. We’ve been hexed, jinxed, and attacked almost daily in our own common room. Ain’t no one lifting a finger to stop it. We weren’t looking for trouble. They brought it."

"And what, exactly, am I meant to believe?" Snape turned his gaze on Callum now. "That three children overpowered two of the most advanced students in this House through nothing but valor and clean intent?"

Peter snorted. "We didn’t overpower them. We barely escaped with our skin. Or haven’t you noticed we’ve all got bandages under these robes?"

"Mr. Ainsley," Snape said, voice low and venom-laced, "if you cannot remain silent, I assure you I will find a way to make your presence less...audible."

Elowyn exhaled through his nose. “It is clear you will not believe us—no matter what we say. We’re not asking to be cast in any light at all, only not to be cloaked in shadow that isn’t ours. They struck first, sir. That much is not interpretation—it is memory, and wound."

Snape’s face was unreadable. Then he stepped behind his desk again, drew out a length of parchment, and laid it flat. "Two weeks’ detention," he said, each word clipped and contemptuous. "Evenings. With me. Since your talents exceed your year and your arrogance exceeds your sense, you will report to the lowest sub-dungeons—the old ones, sealed for decades, where the stone has grown soft with rot and spells unravel at the corners. You’ll scrub those walls clean—no wands, no gloves, and no light beyond what you carry in your hands. If the darkness chooses to answer, you may listen. But you will not be heard. Consider it an education in restraint. And a lesson in the price of presumption."

Callum’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his hand brushing Peter’s with a quiet warning. Peter’s eyes flashed, outrage sharp behind the silence—but he, too, held his tongue. Elowyn bowed his head, not in submission, but in signal—an unspoken pact passing between them. The truth would not be welcomed, and their voices would only echo against stone unwilling to listen.

"You may go."

They turned as one and as they stepped into the corridor, the air felt colder than before. They walked without speaking, not out of fear, but because the silence held more honesty than anything language could offer. The Castle did not welcome them. Their House had turned its back. The professors had shut their eyes. Even justice—if it had ever lingered here—had long since gathered its cloak and vanished into some safer tale.

Still, they walked together, though not in resistance, nor with hope that truth might find an audience, but with the quiet steadiness of those who had learned that solidarity was not a posture—it was survival. The Castle no longer felt like home; the House had ossified around them like a tomb built from tradition. Even the walls seemed to lean away from their presence. But they moved forward, shoulder to shoulder, bound not by blood or blessing, but by the fragile, defiant miracle of chosen kinship. And in a world slipping further from grace with each breath, that choice—the persistent, unspoken vow of it—was the only magic they still believed in.

Chapter Text

The fog was low and old that afternoon, the kind that curled not just around the ankles but into the mouth, the lungs, the hollows of the eyes. It lay like breath held too long across the forest floor, pooling in the shallow glade just inside the Forbidden Forest—one of dozens they had used, none ever twice in a row. There was no path here. The trees grew thick and close, bark blackened by damp and time, their limbs stooped with moss. The sun was only a pale smudge above the mist, smothered into silence.

They had been out since morning—driven not only by urgency but by the frustration of lost time. For nearly two weeks following their meeting with Snape, they’d been allowed only snatched minutes in hidden alcoves or corridors empty enough to risk a wand movement. The detentions had stolen more than evenings; they’d broken the rhythm of their training, dulled the edge they had only just begun to sharpen. Now, with March already unfurling its raw winds and lengthening light, they were practicing double-time—every hour wrung from the weekend like a cloth twisted dry. None of them said it aloud, but the bitterness lingered just under the surface, sharp as the wind. They had lost time to cruelty masquerading as discipline, and they meant to claw every minute back.

With the sun arcing past its zenith and the weight of hours already spent in spellwork clinging to their limbs, the triad had at last yielded to rest. Elowyn sat cross-legged on a stone half-sunk in earth, wand across his knees, fingers stained faintly with crushed lichen from an earlier miscast. His wand sat still in his lap, but not silent. It pulsed faintly beneath his fingers—not with urgency, but with the quiet insistence of a creature kept waiting too long. It did not crave battle, but it resented dormancy. The kelpie within stirred, sensing the charged air and the readiness in Elowyn’s frame, as if some deep tether between them had gone taut in anticipation. A few feet away, Callum crouched near their small pile of satchels, checking the contents with the precision of ritual. Peter leaned against a low tree root, unwrapping a slice of bread with shaking hands, though he didn’t seem to notice.

Elowyn wore the sea-glass bracelet Callum had given him, tucked just beneath his sleeve, its cool weight a quiet presence against his skin. Peter’s parchment was folded into the lining of his satchel, the edges softened by touch, the ink nearly smudged from how often he’d traced the words. No one had said the word 'birthday' when the day came. There hadn’t been time—not after the attack with training and detention and fear crowding out everything else. Elowyn hadn’t minded. He never did. But he was beginning to fray at the edges, threadbare from holding space for everyone’s hurt but his own.

He rose when Callum did. There was no call to formation, or any orders given. They moved like gears now, worn smooth by repetition.

“We start with Protego Totalum,” Callum said shortly. “And this time, let’s not leave the shield down long enough to get cursed in the teeth. Same pattern after. Expulso and Confringo.”

Peter muttered, not quite under his breath, “Oh good. Let’s see who gets singed first this round.”

“If you’d rather go back,” Callum began, tight-voiced.

“I’d rather not be the one who ends up flattened by a misfired jinx again,” Peter shot back. He was already on his feet, wand in hand.

Elowyn didn’t speak. He moved to his position, drew a line in the air with his wand—a habitual grace, too tired now to feel anything but the shape of movement.

Callum counted. Then they cast.

The shield held—barely. Peter’s Confringo flashed too soon and struck Callum’s shield with a crackling thud, the force of it rippling outward. Elowyn’s wand surged in response, casting sparks at the tip even before he raised it fully. It was reacting not just to his will, but to the weight of the moment—the layered tension, the held breath of the glade. The rowan’s steadiness reined the core in, but barely. There was something wild at its heart now, something circling like a current just beneath still water. 

Elowyn’s Expulso arced too far to the right and collided with a moss-covered root, sending up a spray of dirt and steam. Callum gritted his teeth and adjusted his stance, wand vibrating from the strain. The force of Peter’s mistimed Confringo had slammed into his shield so hard it nearly knocked him off balance, a shimmer of backlash hitting him in the chest like a shove. He staggered, caught himself, jaw clenched tight.

“Again,” Callum snapped.

They rotated. Spell. Block. Spell. Miss.

"Again."

Miss. Block too slow. A shield flared a second late and cracked under strain. Peter swore under his breath. Callum hissed through his teeth. Elowyn’s arm trembled slightly with the recoil of a misfired jinx.

"Again."

The air grew heavier with each cast. The forest around them no longer felt like a hiding place—it pulsed with their failure. Magic clung to their skin like sweat. A Protego rebounded too hard and sent a hex spinning sideways, grazing a tree and blackening its bark.

"Again."

At least an hour passed this way. No one said it aloud, but they all felt it: the tug of exhaustion in their bones, along with the fraying of control. Their magical cores were running low, spells coming slower, edges dulled. The fatigue made everything sharper—each mistake more grating, and each correction more barbed.

"Again."

Peter’s Obstringo fizzled entirely. Elowyn stepped forward too soon. Callum’s shield dropped just before a return hex struck.

A blast of red light split the earth inches from Elowyn’s foot. Steam hissed where moss had been.

“Brilliant,” Peter growled. “Absolutely brilliant.”

“You were late again,” Callum said, not shouting, just cutting.

“Maybe if we weren’t doing battle drills on three hours of sleep and a diet of soggy old bread, I’d be faster,” Peter snapped. “We’re twelve. Or nearly. We’re not sodding Hit Wizards. And maybe if the great General Callum McCormack didn’t keep changing the bloody sequence every time—”

“Because if we don’t,” Callum said, stepping forward now, “they’ll learn our rhythm and kill us with it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“And you don’t know they won’t.”

Elowyn stood still between them, wand lowered, eyes unreadable.

“Enough,” he said. It wasn’t loud, but even the fog seemed to recoil from it.

Peter looked at him, startled. "Blimey, you do still talk. Thought we’d lost you to strategy and slow blinking."

Callum shot him a sharp look. "Don’t be a prat, Peter. He’s been the only one holding us together since we landed in this cursed mess of a House."

“We’re tired,” Elowyn intoned, his voice quiet, but not uncertain. “And the harder we press, the more magic pulls away—as if it knows we’ve nothing left to give.”

There was silence. The kind that was neither companionable nor charged—just silence, thick as the mist.

Peter lowered his wand. Callum turned away. No one sat together.

Elowyn did not move at first. Then, after a long pause, he said softly, "Perhaps we might pause. Just for a while. I doubt the next hex will teach us anything that exhaustion hasn’t already."

Above them, the branches groaned softly as the wind changed. The Castle was no longer visible, even if they turned back. They did not speak again, only moved—slow, disjointed, like marionettes with tangled strings—each retreating a few paces away from the others without ever meaning to. They sat, apart but still within sight, each too tired of their own thoughts and too tired of each other. Too tired of being around one another all the bloody time. 

As they rested, the fog did not lift, rather it thickened and swelled like breath behind a veil, heavy and slow, and crept higher now—not only at their ankles but climbing past knees, hips, shoulders, until it seemed the very sky had lowered itself into the clearing. What little light filtered through the trees was bleached and without heat. Somewhere far off, the bells of the Castle chimed the hour. No one counted them.

They had not spoken since Elowyn’s quiet call for pause. They had eaten in silence, stretched out limbs like soldiers between skirmishes, but none of them had truly rested. Their minds had stayed wound tight around the same unspooling thread: the attack, the erasure, the suffocating knowledge that no one had come—not then, not after.

Peter finally moved, scuffing a patch of moss with his boot and tossing a pebble into the fog. "Well," he muttered, "that was refreshing. Lovely bit of silence. Really helped the whole crushing dread thing."

Callum didn’t look up from where he was buckling the last of their satchels. “Save your breath.”

“Gladly,” Peter said. “Since I’m the only one still bothering to use mine.”

Elowyn hadn’t moved from his stone. He was still, but not calm. The line of his jaw was tight, his hands folded too carefully in his lap. Usually when he fell into silence, it felt like he was listening to something others couldn’t hear. Now it felt like he was trying not to scream.

“Let’s go again,” Callum said, standing. “Dummy drill. Full offensive cycle. I want speed and control.”

Peter stood reluctantly, rolling his shoulders. “Because that’s been working so well for us.”

Callum ignored him and flicked his wand toward a cluster of fallen branches and a patch of stone. The scattered debris shuddered, then began to twist and merge—Transfigured into a crude humanoid shape, vaguely upright, draped in leaves and trailing strands of moss. It wobbled slightly on its base, but held. They spread out again.

Elowyn stood last.

“Standard rotation,” Callum ordered. “Bombarda, Obstringo, Petrificus Totalus. We’ll work on Expulso next—we’ve got Bombarda down.”

They cast one by one and then together and then singly again. The wand in Elowyn’s hand was no longer a passive instrument. It vibrated faintly now with every cast, drawing slightly deeper on him with each cycle. Not greedily, but as though it were feeding on necessity. The kelpie magic had begun to stir in earnest, rising in tandem with his frustration and grief, threading itself through his veins like cold fire and curling around his magical core like a devouring serpent. It was not out of control. But it was awake.

Their coordination had improved. It had to. They no longer shouted timings—just moved, watched, responded. But the margin for error was thin, and the cost of mistakes had grown sharper. A spell cast too soon rebounded and shattered a rock. One aimed too high set a tuft of dead leaves smoldering. Peter cursed when his Petrificus Totalus fizzled mid-air and fell short.

“Maybe the dummy’s too wet,” he snapped.

“Or maybe you just missed,” Callum said flatly.

“Or maybe we’re wasting time,” Peter bit back. “Maybe it doesn’t matter how sharp we get—maybe we’re just the opening act before someone finishes the job. Maybe no one’s coming because no one cares. I could be Petrified in the corridor and I swear the prefects would just step over me.”

Elowyn still hadn’t spoken. He lifted his wand.

“Confringo.”

The spell flew—not wild, but off. It missed the dummy by inches and slammed into the trunk of a tree behind it. The bark split with a cracking groan, sap hissing out in sudden rivulets as smoke curled into the mist.

Peter turned. “Powerful shot, El—”

But Elowyn was already walking—not toward the dummy, nor back to his stone seat, but straight to the tree he’d struck. His deep violet eyes shimmered in the mist-laced light of the late afternoon sun, glowing with something fierce and unreadable.

He didn’t hesitate. There was no falter in his step, no look back for permission or support. Elowyn raised his wand and cast without flourish—just force.

“Bombarda.”

The blast hit near the roots, cracking them open with a shuddering groan. Bark splintered outward. Steam hissed from beneath the moss. Before the sound had even faded—

“Confringo.”

The explosion tore into the trunk, blackening the wound left behind.

“Expulso.”

Another blow. Another crack. Another breathless second in which the fog seemed to gasp.

Then again.

“Bombarda! Bombarda!”

The blasts overlapped, the second catching where the first had already weakened the wood. It groaned, moaned, shuddered like a creature waking in pain.

“Confringo!”

The spell burst louder now, not just from his wand but from his chest. His voice cracked. His arm trembled.

“Expulso—Confringo—BOMBARDA—”

The final syllable broke in his throat.

And then, as though he were calling down judgment from the sky, he uttered the word that should never leave a Koesborn's lips.

“Incendio.”

The flame caught at once—but it didn’t behave. It didn't flicker up the trunk in a line of orderly orange. It coiled and twisted like a snake that had been laying in wait for its prey. The flames were green in the center and violet at the edges; they shimmered and curled upward like they had breath of their own.

Elowyn stepped forward, face lit in green and shadow. His voice followed the fire.

“I did everything you’re supposed to do,” he said—hoarse, sharp. “Every rule. Every glance. Every silence. I mapped it all. I moved our pieces across the board.”

Another spell. Another explosion.

“And still—we vanish. Still, they look through us like glass.”

He fired again. Confringo. Fire barked back.

“I was born beneath a tree. Not in a home. Not in arms. Roots wrapped round me like a cradle. And I thought—it meant something. That I was part of something old. Something alive.”

Bombarda.

The flames writhed higher, streaking the air with sap and smoke.

“But it doesn’t matter. Not here. Not when you wear green and silver and the world says that makes you dangerous.”

His voice broke, but the fury didn’t. “And they see it too—the ones in our own House. They see it, and still they turn their backs, because we’re not cruel enough, not pure enough, not broken in the right ways. We’re not Slytherin in the way they want us to be.”

Expulso.

The tree cracked again—louder this time. A great strip of bark peeled away like burnt skin.

“I’m tired,” he shouted. “Tired of hiding, of watching, of wondering when it’s our turn to bleed again!”

“Confringo!”

A piece of the trunk fell in on itself, fire licking at the hollow. But Elowyn wasn’t finished.

“Incendio!” he shouted again, the syllables rough-edged and raw.

The flames surged higher. Not green now, but crimson streaked with silver—veins of light winding up the bark like cracks in a mask. The fire crawled and twisted, feeding not only on the wood but on something deeper—resentment, grief, the bitter marrow of erasure. His wand sang with fire, not in sound but in sensation. The kelpie core blazed in full resonance, wild and exultant, its magic released in fierce concord with his own. It did not merely answer his will; it merged with it—each spell a cry of grief made incandescent. The rowan did not restrain it. It bore the weight, channeled the fury, steadied the storm. Together, wand and wizard burned—not as master and servant, but as a single conduit forged in purpose.

“Incendio!” he roared.

Another burst. Sparks flew in arcs, painting the mist in sudden light. The topmost branches caught, and a low crack rolled through the clearing like a warning drum.

“IN—CEN—DIO!”

Each syllable slammed like a heartbeat. The trunk began to give, hollowing from within, smoke pouring from its seams in uneven plumes.

A final cast, whispered now—“Incendio”—barely audible. And the tree opened. It didn't explode, but opened—like a wound—with blossom of fire at the crown. The flames weren’t angry anymore. They danced, cruel and celebratory, licking the air in triumph.

Only then did Elowyn falter.

Behind him, Peter had stood frozen, wand limp at his side, mouth parted in disbelief. He had seen Elowyn angry, withdrawn, and resolute—but never this. Never with such fury and grief writ across his face—grief that found shape and color and refused to be silenced. Peter’s cleverness deserted him—all words scorched away by the sight of their anchor unraveling in fire and fury.

Callum had taken one step forward—but halted mid-breath, his jaw locked tight as if bracing against an unseen blow. His fingers curled around his wand as though he might need to use it—but against what? Elowyn? The forest? The grief thick as smoke in the air? His eyes were wide, not with fear, but something more intimate: awe and horror braided together, watching the one who had held them steady burn down to his bones in front of them.

Neither of them moved. The tree cracked and blazed, a pyre of their own making. And for a long moment, they stood like witnesses at the edge of a funeral without knowing who had died.

Elowyn sank, knees giving out as the last of his strength fled. His wand dropped first, slipping from limp fingers to the blackened moss, followed by his hands, then his whole body—curling half-upright in a posture of collapse, chest heaving but no sound escaping. 

His wand struck the earth with a dull thud, but did not dim. Its tip glowed faintly, a dying ember cradled in charred moss, reluctant to cool. The kelpie’s magic, though spent, had not fully withdrawn. It lingered just beneath the surface—like breath beneath coals—watching, wary, unwilling to turn its gaze from the fire still burning within. What had passed between wand and wizard was more than spellwork; it had been fusion. Elowyn had channeled not only his magic, but his grief, his fury, and the ache of being unseen. The wand had met him in that place—its kelpie core exultant, its rowan frame braced and unflinching—and together, they had unleashed something no drill could contain. Now, though the flames still devoured the tree and the air tasted of ash and marrow, the wand lay silent. It did not sleep, nor did it lay forgotten. It was simply bearing witness to what it had helped summon, and what it would never again unsee.

For a long moment, Elowyn was still, as if even his grief had to gather breath. Then it came—not softly, not elegantly, but in hoarse, broken sobs, the sound of someone who had held too much for far too long and had finally come undone.

Peter moved first. He didn’t speak. He just came forward and sank beside him, folding his arms around Elowyn’s shoulders with a gentleness that seemed afraid to break what was left. And yet, there was no hesitation in him—not this time. Because Elowyn was all he had. The world had turned cold and cruel and Hogwarts was no longer the promise it had once seemed, but Peter could still anchor himself to this boy beside him, even if the anchor was burning.

Callum followed, slower, kneeling on the other side. His hand found Elowyn’s, rough and quiet, grounding him. He didn’t try to speak—there were no orders now. There was only presence—the weight of knowing that this was what they were fighting for: not victory or pride, but each other. Elowyn and Peter were all Callum had in this cursed House, in this fracturing school, and it was Elowyn’s hand in his, warm and shaking, and Peter’s arm braced gently against his back that tethered him to something still whole.

Elowyn sagged between them, trembling and spent. His magic had poured out of him like water from a shattered vessel, leaving only broken shards in its place. Sobs still wracked his frame, but more slowly now, like waves after the storm has passed. His head dropped against Peter’s shoulder. Callum’s grip tightened around his hand. He didn’t speak, didn’t thank them—he couldn’t. But some part of him, deeper than thought, knew this was the only thing keeping him from shattering altogether was not the magic, or the knowledge, or the drills or shields or strategy. Just this: the arms of the two boys who had not turned away.

The tree still burned multicolored flames, beautiful in its way, but the smoke rising was black and thick as it coiled toward the grey sky like a beacon.

Callum glanced at the smoke and then toward the woods. He could feel it—eyes, or something like eyes, watching from the edge of the world.

“We have to go,” he said, voice low, steady.

He pulled Elowyn up and Peter followed. Elowyn bent without thinking, fingers curling instinctively around his wand nestled in scorched moss. It met his hand with a gentle thrum—not urgent, but content, like a creature sated after the hunt. The kelpie magic, quiet now, pulsed once in recognition, not with pride or demand, but with the steady satisfaction of having been wielded in full. Elowyn barely registered it. His hand closed around the shaft as if he had never let it go. Then they all heard a voice echoing distantly—too far to make out the words, but unmistakably human. Another followed soon after—the sharp, clipped cadence of adult concern, threading through the trees.

Callum’s head snapped toward the sound. “Someone’s coming,” he said, already reaching for the satchels.

Peter stiffened, his grip on Elowyn tightening instinctively. “We can’t be caught here. Not like this.”

Elowyn stirred, sluggish with exhaustion, and let them guide him. His legs were unsteady beneath him, but their hands were firm.

“Come on,” Callum muttered. “We’ll cut west—toward the outer trees, then south. Keep low. Keep close.”

The fire still roared behind them as they slipped into the fog, its light flickering off damp leaves and wan faces. Smoke chased their heels like melancholy memory, bitter and clinging, curling into their lungs with every breath. Behind them, the ruined tree groaned one final time and split inwards, collapsing upon itself in a heap of cinders and ancient ash. Elowyn didn’t look back. None of them did.

What he had done could not be undone. They walked like cursed things—silent, heavy, undone—while behind them, the tree still burned. Its heat clung to their skin, and its smoke to their robes, while the scent of ash and scorched reverence followed them with every step. Elowyn had not turned from his nature, but in a world that denied him even the dignity of being seen, he had struck back the only way he could. What he left burning behind him was not just bark and moss—it was the illusion that goodness and restraint might keep them safe. He had not rejected the Koes, but he had carried its silence into a world that refused to hear it, and something ancient within him had ruptured and poured out wild and burning and free.

Chapter Text

The green fire had burned down to a whisper. It no longer danced, but merely breathed—an ember caught in the throat of the hearth, pulsing faintly against the long curve of the dormitory wall. The sconces had gone dark an hour before, and the walls, slick with shadow, seemed farther apart than they had ever been. Even the ceiling above, domed and ancient, hung higher than it should, the stones aching under the weight of silence. If the Castle had lungs, it was holding them still.

Elowyn lay curled at the far edge of his bed, his back to the room, his face turned toward the stone. His body—mud-streaked, clothes stiff with sweat and smoke—had not shifted in hours. His wand rested beside him, forgotten, the tip no longer glowing but not fully dark, either. If one looked closely—past the soot and silence—there lingered the faintest ember-light, like a coal nearly dead but not quite gone. Beneath that stillness, the kelpie core thrummed contentedly, its magic quiet but pleased, as though it had done what it was made to do and now merely kept watch. The blanket beneath him was crooked, half-pulled from the mattress in his collapse, but he hadn’t seemed to notice. He had simply walked in, sat down, and folded himself toward the wall like a page closing in a book too worn to bear the reading.

Behind him, Peter and Callum kept their vigil. They said nothing now. There was nothing left to say that they hadn’t whispered already. Peter sat closest to the foot of the bed, cross-legged and cold despite the layers he hadn’t shed. Ash dusted his cuffs, and his eyes, glassy from the sting of smoke, blinked too slowly. The magical first aid book they’d pulled from Elowyn’s trunk lay open across his knees, the ink shimmering faintly in the firelight—but it may as well have been written in ancient runes. They had tried chocolate and then tried to tempt him with thick Koesmade toffee slabs wrapped in waxed parchment, their edges dusted with dried elderflower and a trace of silverleaf. When he rejected even that, Callum’d placed the spare vial of Calming Draught Elowyn had stashed in the lining of his trunk, its wax seal still unbroken and smelling faintly of chamomile and oakmoss on his bedside table, while Peter cast warming charms. Nothing had coaxed Elowyn back.

Callum sat at the head of Elowyn’s bed with one hand resting lightly against the pillow near Elowyn’s head. He hadn’t moved in nearly forty minutes, except to blink or shift his weight when his legs went numb. The quiet scraped against his nerves. He had never seen Elowyn like this—never so small, or so hollowed out. Since September, Callum had learned every edge and softness in him: the quiet pride, the nearly imperceptible wit that surfaced only when he was tired or triumphant, and the way he carried pain like a well-folded letter in his breast pocket. But this was different. This was someone unraveled, and Callum didn’t know how to fix it. He only knew he had to stay. His eyes hadn’t left Elowyn—not once.

“Someone in the common room said the flames were white,” Peter whispered, not looking up. “Said it didn’t burn like normal wood. Like it was angry.”

Callum didn’t answer. The words just hung there between them, drifting down like ash.

“Do you think they’ll know?” Peter asked. “That it was him?”

Callum gave the faintest shake of his head. “They don’t know anything.”

Peter’s voice cracked. “But what if someone saw—?”

“No one did,” Callum cut in. He softened. “We got back clean. They’re gossiping, not accusing.”

Peter nodded slowly, but he didn’t look comforted. His fingers brushed the book, then stilled. “I don’t think he’s blinked.”

Callum glanced down. Elowyn hadn’t shifted—not a twitch or a sound—since they’d gotten him back.

“We should tell someone,” Peter whispered. “We should—maybe Madam Pomfrey—”

Callum’s jaw tensed. “Tell them what? That we’ve been sneaking out to practice because we got attacked and no one did a thing? That he snapped in the woods because there’s no one here who keeps us safe?”

Peter didn’t answer. There was nothing to say. Not when the investigation had amounted to nothing but a few questions, a wand pressed to his temple, and a glimpse of broken images. There had been no follow-up. There had been no one accused. There’d been no real effort to find his attackers. And now months had passed, and nothing had changed. They were fairly sure they knew who had done it—but no one had asked, and no one seemed to care.

Peter ran a hand through his hair. “We’ve no one left, have we.”

“We’ve us,” Callum said, and without looking, reached out and took Peter’s hand in his. “We have each other.”

A long silence followed. Above them, the lake shifted, deep and distant. The Castle’s stone bones did not creak, but the fire gave one last sigh.

Then as if awakened from a thousand years of slumber, Elowyn croaked, “I’m sorry."

The voice was a rasp like a riverbed stripped dry. For a moment, neither boy moved. It was a ghost of a voice—threadbare and harsh.

Then Peter leaned forward, breath held. Callum shifted, hand inching closer.

“I’m sorry,” Elowyn said again, louder this time, though his voice splintered around it. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I should never have—”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” Callum said at once. His voice was hoarse but firm, the way he might’ve spoken to a wild thing cornered. “You didn’t hurt us. You didn’t—”

“I did.” Elowyn finally turned his face, just slightly, enough for the firelight to catch the salt-tracks dried across his skin. “I brought you here. I insisted on Slytherin. I thought I could—could make it better. I dragged us into this cursed house and made you stay and then I let Peter—” His throat caught. “I let him go off alone. I let you get hurt. I let them attack us again and again and I—”

His voice collapsed, and with it, his frame curled tighter. “I wasn’t strong enough. I wasn’t clever enough. I didn’t play their bloody Game right.”

“El,” Peter said, but Elowyn flinched at his name.

“I’m sorry,” Elowyn whispered again, choking. “For the fire. For wanting it. For—”

He swallowed hard, the words catching. “For loving it. For how it felt when it caught. I could feel it under my skin. It—” He paused, voice barely more than breath. “It answered me.”

The silence around them held.

“It was like everything in me that’s been screaming since September finally had a voice. And it roared.”

He turned his face deeper into the pillow. “And I liked it. I liked it. That tree—it wasn’t even anything. Just bark and leaves and sky. But I burned it like it had wronged me.”

His shoulders shook. “What kind of person does that?”

Peter moved first, but it was Callum who answered, softly. “One who's been holding too much for too long.”

Peter reached out and touched his shoulder. Elowyn jerked away.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“You don’t get to say that,” Peter snapped, more fiercely than he meant to.

“I do—”

“No, you bloody well don’t!” Peter’s hands clenched. “You think we’re here because of some game you didn’t play right? We’re here because this whole place is sick, and you’re the one thing in it that makes sense. You pulled us together. You made it bearable.”

Callum nodded, voice low. “He’s right. You never made it worse. You’ve made it worth it.”

Elowyn said nothing, but he was shaking now. Quietly, with the kind of tremble that lives in marrow.

Callum reached forward then. He laid a hand gently against Elowyn’s spine.

Elowyn flinched again. “Don’t.” His voice cracked on the word. “Please…don’t. I don’t deserve—”

He stopped himself, but the thought still hung there. The tremble in his shoulders deepened, not from fear of harm, but from the raw certainty that even kindness was more than he was owed. He had scorched the world and found comfort reaching for him in the dark. It was unbearable.

“Don’t waste this on me,” he whispered.

But neither boy moved away.

Peter leaned closer. “We don’t want perfect. We want you. Even like this. Especially like this.”

The shaking grew. It wasn't rage this time. It was only grief groaned out in dry sobs that scraped the edges of his breath like sand.

“I don’t want to feel this anymore,” Elowyn whispered.

“We’ll feel it with you,” Callum said.

“You don’t have to,” Elowyn croaked.

“We already are,” Peter replied.

Callum moved first. He shifted from where he sat at the head of the bed and reached for Elowyn—not with hesitation, but with a quiet, unshakable certainty. With an arm around Elowyn’s middle, he guided him away from the wall and into his arms, settling them both down as if by instinct. Elowyn resisted at first, breath catching, limbs stiff. But Callum didn’t let go. He turned onto his side, his back to the wall, and brought Elowyn with him. Peter came next, climbing up from the foot of the bed and curling around Elowyn’s front. His arms wrapped low and careful across Elowyn’s chest. The warmth of him pressed in as if anchoring them both.

There were no blankets—only the soft weight of bodies and breath, and a silence that finally held something other than fear. Elowyn sagged between them, trembling still, but the trembling began to slow. And when he exhaled—truly exhaled—it was not relief, but release. The Castle stirred around them, stone pulsing once beneath the floor, a shiver through the wards like a breath drawn in. They are mine, it seemed to murmur. And in that slow-burning dark, the three of them slept—held, together, until morning.

Chapter Text

The rain veiled the windows in blurred sheets, dulling the morning light and casting the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom into a gloomy May grey that felt neither dead nor alive—just waiting for a Spring that, like so much else that year, seemed reluctant to arrive at all. Candles guttered in their sconces, their light sullen and reluctant. The room was quiet as a crypt, save for the scratch of quills and the low, deliberate pacing of Professor Snape.

He had begun the lesson before the last bell had finished tolling.

“Books out,” he said now, without looking up. “Page ninety-seven.”

A rustle of parchment. The title on the page read Deflective Hexcraft: Redirective Theory in Minor Cursework. The textbook—The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble—was already worn at the edges despite being only half-used. Peter suspected Snape had selected it with contempt. He rarely followed it.

“You will note,” Snape continued, turning with a sweep of his cloak, “that Trimble considers the Hex Scattering Charm, Carpiros, too advanced for first-years. That will not be an obstacle.”

He paused near the front of the room. His eyes were dark hollows in his sallow face, and his tone was acid. “If you cannot manage to redirect a basic stinging jinx, then you are unlikely to survive much of anything at all. Consider this practice for the life you claim to want.”

A shiver ran through the Ravenclaws. Even the Slytherins—those not seated near the triad—were silent. Vesper glanced toward Honoria with a faint flicker of unease, but neither girl spoke. They had grown bolder over the term, but had kept their silence along with the rest of the House. As far as the others were concerned, the triad had slipped beyond recognition—beneath interest, beneath mention. They were not harassed anymore. They were not helped. They simply weren’t. A quiet erasure, as if indifference might finish what cruelty had failed to do.

Elowyn, Callum, and Peter sat side by side, their wands already in hand. There was a closeness between them now that needed no words. Peter had his leg pressed lightly against Elowyn’s; Callum’s hand lingered just behind Peter’s back when they shifted. They did not glance at one another, but they moved as if choreographed.

“We will work in pairs,” Snape snapped. “One student will cast a minor jinx—specifically, the Punctio hex. The other will attempt to redirect it, using the wand movement illustrated on the board. You will use the basic stinging hex and nothing else. Any student caught attempting a different hex will lose House points. Do not test me. No protective barriers. No dodging. Fail, and you will be stung.”

"On your feet," he ordered.

Chairs scraped back and the students rose, stiff and uncertain. With a flick of his wand, a diagram scrawled itself across the blackboard—a curling flick paired with a downward snap. Then, with another sharp gesture, the desks shuddered and slid back against the walls in a synchronized scrape, vanishing one by one to reveal the cold stone floor.

"You will have the full space. No excuses."

“You three,” he sneered, his gaze raking over the triad with something sharp and sour behind the eyes. “Forever clinging to each other like limpets—how touching. One wonders if you’ll ever manage an independent thought, or if you simply prefer the comfort of your little echo chamber forever. Positively naseating.”

He turned to address the whole room. “You know how this works. Groups of three or four Ravenclaws to a single Slytherin—unless you truly are incapable of counting. I should not have to spell this out every lesson as though instructing simpering simpletons.”

Snape moved on without another word, and the students broke into their now-familiar clusters—three or four Ravenclaws encircling each Slytherin with a practiced, grudging rhythm. The room filled with the scrape of hesitant feet and the mutter of incantations recalled. It had been like this for months, and still, no one looked pleased.

Their practice began swiftly. The groupings were silent, mechanical, a forced symmetry of numbers. Callum faced a pale boy with a pinched mouth and narrowed eyes. The Ravenclaw cast Punctio—clumsy but fast. Callum deflected it with a well-measured Carpiros, the spark snapping sideways into the flagstones. The Ravenclaw scowled, reset, and cast again without comment. Callum didn’t look at him.

Peter, across the room, parried cleanly but without flourish. His partner neither acknowledged the success nor returned it. Only Elowyn met his Ravenclaw’s eye—briefly, coolly—and turned away again.

Elowyn turned to Peter and gave the smallest nod.

They all traded spells in quiet succession. A few Ravenclaws faltered, earning snapped corrections from Snape. Once, a girl burst into tears when a stinger hit her arm and blistered the skin. Snape merely said, “Then you’ll remember not to flinch.”

By the time the interruption came, the tension in the room had thickened into something like fog.

A flash of movement—a small parchment spell-folded into a hawk-shaped parchment construct, wings fluttering with faintly enchanted precision, zipped in through the open gap in the door and hovered in place.

Snape turned, his expression carved from stone, and with a flick of his wand, summoned it to his hand.

He took the letter, cracked the seal, and read.

“Mr. Ainsley,” he said without inflection. “You are summoned to the Headmaster’s office.”

Peter froze.

Callum’s arm dropped to his shoulder before he could move. Elowyn turned sharply toward the parchment as if it had bitten the air, his eyes narrowing. Something in him bristled, not with fear but with recognition.

Peter began to move—slow, uncertain—but Callum steadied him, and Elowyn was already shifting to gather their bags.

“We’ll get our things,” Elowyn said, coldly composed.

Snape’s gaze sharpened. The air grew taut.

“That is not what the note says,” he said, voice cold and deliberate. It was not a suggestion.

“No,” Callum agreed, eyes steady. “But it’s what we’ll do.”

A long, dangerous silence. Snape’s jaw ticked once. He turned slightly, as if to dismiss them, then froze, his black eyes glinting. Something bitter and ancient twisted in his mouth. When he spoke, it was soft—too soft.

“How noble,” he murmured, with a sneer that twisted slowly, venomously across his face. “The sort of saccharine theatrics one expects from the sentimental slobberings of Gryffindor bedtime tales or Hufflepuff hallway handholding. Touching, really—if you find mediocrity and sentiment worth applauding. I do not.”

He looked at them then—not as boys, but as specters—as if their loyalty were a poison he’d once swallowed. Callum met his gaze without flinching, chin lifted in open defiance. Elowyn’s eyes, dark and steady, held no fear—only quiet challenge. Around them, the classroom had stilled completely. Even the Ravenclaws had gone silent, sensing something larger than a summons passing between the lines—an old bitterness meeting a new allegiance it could neither command nor comprehend.

“Go then,” he said, quieter still, but with a vicious undercurrent. “Rush off to your grand appointment. But know this—when your marks collapse and your spells falter, you will find no mercy here. Sentiment makes poor armor. Loyalty, even poorer. And war does not pause for children who fancy themselves brave.”

They left as one, shoulders brushing, steps matched, a unit forged not by school but by survival. The classroom remained utterly still in their wake, as if no one dared breathe until the door clicked shut behind them. Even then, no one spoke.

Snape did not move. He stared at the closed door with an expression carved from old, bitter stone. What he had seen—three boys who defied him not with shouts or theatrics but with the quiet absolution of shared purpose—was not bravery. It was insubordination polished to something almost holy. They no longer looked to authority for protection. They no longer believed the adults could be trusted to keep them safe. And in that choice, they became something Snape both despised and remembered.

He turned back to the room with a flick of his robes and a narrowed gaze. "Back to work," he snapped. His voice, when it came, was not loud. But it cut like a curse.

The door had shut behind them with a heavy thud, muffling the renewed murmurs and footfalls of practice beyond. They did not speak, not at first. They moved down the corridor nearly side by side—Elowyn in the middle, slightly ahead, with Callum and Peter flanking him on either side. The space between them was more suggestion than reality.

The Castle was quieter than usual. It wasn't silent rather it was expectant. As though it too had read the letter—as though it was holding its breath.

They passed a suit of armor that turned its head slightly, just slightly, as they walked by. The torches guttered, then flared again as they neared, lighting their path a little more brightly than they had for the others. A portrait of a long-dead witch whispered something inaudible to her raven.

“It must be about the attack,” Callum muttered. “What else could it be?”

Peter shrugged, one hand loose at his side while the other held his wand firmly and ready to be used. “Could be he wants to congratulate me on my excellent bleeding technique. Or warn me not to stain the corridor rugs next time. Bit of a nuisance, that.”

Callum chuckled softly, but Elowyn didn’t acknowledge what Peter had said. He was listening to the Castle. It didn’t speak—not aloud—but its magic murmured through the seams of the floor, a pressure behind Elowyn’s ribs. He didn’t need to think which way to turn. The route simply presented itself. He led them with assurance.

After several more twists and turns, they found themselves at the foot of a spiral staircase nestled behind the stone gargoyle. They approached cautiously, their footsteps echoing in the marbled corridor. The gargoyle said nothing. They had not been given a password, but the staircase began to move of its own accord. With a low, resonant grind, it turned and unfurled, forming step after step, rising into shadow and firelight. The boys exchanged glances, and for a moment, the old unease stirred.

“Do we…go?” Peter asked.

Callum looked at him and shrugged and then stepped forward first. Peter and Elowyn followed, one after the other, into the slow turn of the stairs. The stairs turned slowly beneath them, step after step, until at last they came to rest before the great oak door that led into the Headmaster’s office. It opened before they could knock. They stepped inside; Peter first followed closely by Elowyn and Callum.

The room was just as it had always been described in whispered awe and wide-eyed tales: it was grand and glowing, full of strange instruments that ticked and hissed with no discernible rhythm, their silver arms spinning slowly in the golden light. It had high windows, which cast golden light across the carpet—not a reflection of the actual weather, but from a ceiling charm that mimicked sunlight, warm and eternal, regardless of the weather outside. The enchanted sunlight glanced off a towering case of crystal phials, a cabinet of shimmering sweets, and the gently dozing portraits of former headmasters and mistresses. One snored softly. Another cracked an eye. Fawkes—the famed phoenix—perched silently on his golden stand near the window, flame-gilded and still.

And behind it all, standing rather than seated at his desk, was Albus Dumbledore.

His robes were resplendent as ever, a deep plum threaded with fine gold, though they hung more loosely now around his thin frame. His left hand—blackened and withered—rested on the edge of the desk as though to brace himself. He looked up as they entered, the familiar twinkle in his blue eyes—faded, but not gone.

“Ah,” he said, “our young Slytherins. Just the three this year—rarer than phoenix feathers, you might say.” He paused then, just long enough for the room’s stillness to press in again, as though he’d lost the thread of thought or wandered somewhere distant. Then he blinked, smiled benignly, and continued. “Forgive the summons. A rather dreary morning for such solemn business, but alas, time has little regard for weather, or sentiment.”

He gestured to three silver chairs—upholstered in rich velvet, deep green—their sudden appearance so seamless it felt as though they had always been waiting. The boys sat, stiff-backed and silent.

Dumbledore folded his hands over the desk, the injured one trembling slightly before it settled.

“I wished to speak with you all personally,” he began, “about the conclusion of our investigation into the unfortunate events of the autumn term.”

Peter’s expression didn’t change. Callum stared ahead, jaw tight. Elowyn looked, as ever, unreadable. But all three of them exchanged subtle glances—quick, sharp, instinctual. Dumbledore had said he summoned them all, but they remembered Snape’s words. Either the message had changed…or someone was lying. The doubt slipped in, quiet and sure.

Dumbledore continued, his voice slow and measured, each word draped in calm. “After careful examination by Professor Snape, and in consultation with the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, and several of my own trusted contacts within the Ministry, we have determined that the source of the incident was—curiously—an assortment of long-forgotten battle brews that were left sealed in a disused chamber dating back to the early centuries of the Castle itself.”

He gave a small smile, almost wistful. “Hogwarts, I’m afraid, has many corners. Peeves, in his usual mischief, stumbled upon them. He thought it quite amusing to repurpose a few aged potions for a harmless prank. The effects, naturally, were far more dangerous than he understood.”

Callum’s eyes narrowed. Peter shifted.

“I nearly died,” Peter said flatly.

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said, nodding gravely. “And Peeves has been, as much as one can manage, sternly reprimanded. The matter has been closed by all investigative parties.”

“There was a pin,” Callum said. “Pewter and emerald. And a girl. Peter saw her in the memory.”

“A memory fragment recovered under duress,” Dumbledore said gently. “Severus was quite thorough, but fragments are unreliable. Dreams, fears, suggestion—memory is not a perfect recorder. It is a mirror that distorts with time.”

Peter frowned. “Snape said there was something dodgy about the memory. Like someone tried to muddle it—clumsily.”

Dumbledore inclined his head, almost sadly. “Likely the effects of the ancient potion itself. Such brews were known to interact unpredictably with the mind. Hallucinations, cognitive gaps, even false memories—it would explain much of the confusion that followed.”

Peter looked toward Callum and Elowyn, his jaw working slightly. Callum gave the faintest shake of his head, and Elowyn, sitting unnervingly still, didn’t meet his gaze at all. The moment hung between them—something tired and finished settling over their shoulders. Dumbledore’s explanation, too perfect and polished, rang hollow in the quiet.

And then Elowyn spoke.

“We know who it was,” Elowyn said quietly, yet utterly certain. “Merrick Rosier and Cressida Vale."

Dumbledore’s gaze rested on him a moment longer. “Mr. Rosier and Miss Vale," he repeated softly. "Serious accusations. Do you have anything beyond a memory fragment and suspicion? Something concrete?"

Peter opened his mouth—and didn’t stop. “They attacked us again in March,” he said. “We were out in the forest south of the lake. It wasn’t just the first time.”

Callum stiffened beside him, but nodded. “They waited for us to be alone. We were studying Defense Against the Dark Arts. They found us.”

Elowyn’s eyes stayed locked on Dumbledore. “They meant to finish what they started.”

Dumbledore’s brow furrowed deeply, and for a moment the expression seemed genuine—both concerned, yet weary. “You’re quite certain?”

All three nodded.

“Yet you did not report it,” Dumbledore said, voice soft.

“We suspected nothing would come of it,” Peter said. “Just like before.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly, gravely. “Ah, I see.” He looked down at his desk, fingers steepled, then back at them. “The forest, you say…that is troubling indeed. But consider—Mr. Rosier and Miss Vale are older students, skilled ones. It is not inconceivable they observed your training from afar and intervened when they believed you were at risk. Misguided, perhaps. Even reckless, but not malicious.”

He offered a sorrowful smile. “Slytherins are not without their better instincts. And war, as I’m sure you’ve come to learn, draws out both the worst and the best in us all.”

Peter leaned forward. “Elowyn was bleeding badly. Callum’s leg was burned. You want proof? We’ve still got scars.”

Wordlessly, Elowyn began to undo the top buttons of his uniform jacket, his fingers slow and deliberate as he worked through the high collar and finely knotted tie. It took time—longer than one might expect—before he peeled back the layers and pulled aside the fabric just enough to reveal a thin, pale scar winding along his upper arm and shoulder. Callum hesitated only a moment before simply nodding. “It’s on my thigh,” he said flatly. “You want me to show it?”

Dumbledore raised a hand gently. “That won’t be necessary.”

The room was silent but for the subtle ticking of a nearby instrument.

Dumbledore rose slowly from his chair, hands clasped behind his back. “I do not doubt that you were hurt,” he said gently. “But magical training—especially unsanctioned practice on the outskirts of the school grounds without adult supervision—can lead to unexpected consequences. Potent spells, backfiring curses, magical creatures too long disturbed...” He trailed off, sighing. “Without verifiable witnesses or a magical trace taken at the time, nothing would hold in any formal inquiry. As you did not come forward immediately, well…I’m afraid any residual signatures would have long since faded. Timing, you see, is often everything in such matters.” He sighed again and added, softly, "I am sorry.”

Peter leaned forward again, voice sharper now. “They attacked us in March. They attacked me in the fall. It was Merrick and Cressida both times.”

Dumbledore sighed, folding his withered hand atop the good one. “Without solid proof,  I’m afraid there is nothing we can act upon. Not in the eyes of the Ministry, nor the Board of Governors, nor even within the bounds of what Hogwarts permits. I do not question your sincerity. However, sincerity and proof are not always the same thing."

He leaned back slightly, as if the weight of it pained him. "We live in a time when shadows move freely, and truth is rarely rewarded. It grieves me, truly, but I must also be protector of the greater whole. I can do no more."

There was a silence that stretched uncomfortably thin.

Peter opened his mouth again—then closed it. Callum glanced toward him, but said nothing. Elowyn’s hands, folded in his lap, did not move.

Dumbledore smiled, kind again. “I am truly grateful for your courage. Hogwarts stands because of those willing to endure its burdens. You have been brave. You all have been brave. And resilient too. And now, you must allow yourself to heal. Focus on your studies. Let the past rest.”

The portraits above them murmured softly. Armando Dippet snorted in vague disapproval. Phineas Nigellus smirked but said nothing. Fawkes blinked once, head tilting.

Dumbledore rose. “Come. Let me see you out.”

He moved slowly, favoring one side. At the threshold, he paused and turned.

“One more thing,” he said, reaching into the folds of his robe.

He offered them a silver dish, lined with small golden-wrapped sweets.

“Lemon drop?”

Peter stared at the dish.

“No thank you, sir,” he said.

Dumbledore smiled, and offered one to Elowyn and Callum too—both of whom silently shook their heads in refusal.

“As you wish.”

The spiral staircase turned in front of them, step by slow step, carrying them away as the door clicked shut. And above, in the Headmaster’s office, the golden light still poured from the ceiling enchantment, soft and honeyed—untouched by the gloom that cloaked the rest of the Castle. It gleamed on the polished wood and gilt-framed portraits, on the sleeping phoenix and ticking brass. But beneath that brilliance, something colder stirred. For all its warmth, the light did not comfort. It merely concealed.

Once the stairs had deposited them at its foot, they stood there for a long moment, not speaking. Peter rubbed his thumb along the edge of his wand, while Callum’s hands remained stiff at his sides, his shoulders tight and square. Elowyn looked ahead, unseeing, as though searching for something in the gloom that wasn’t there. Then, with the quiet instinct they had come to move in, they leaned ever so slightly toward one another—Peter’s elbow brushing against Elowyn’s, while Callum’s arm pressed into Peter’s for just a long breath. There was no surprise in what had transpired, only the slow ache of confirmation—they had expected to be let down. Still, they were only boys, and it was too much for boys to carry. After a several moments passed, Peter exhaled through his nose and muttered, “Reassuring to know Hogwarts maintains such high standards of disappointment.”

Chapter Text

The shimmer came first—a faint, almost lazy flicker across the edge of the dormitory door, like moonlight catching on water. Elowyn was the one who noticed it, half-drowsing, his eyes tracing familiar lines on the stone ceiling from where he lay curled on his side beneath his green-and-silver coverlet. The shimmer pulsed once. Then again. Then came the sound.

It was not loud—not at first. It was more like a breath held too long that turned to static. A sibilant hum threaded through with the undercurrent of a ward being broken: the soft tearing sound of magic unspooling. It then crescendoed to a blaring screech. Elowyn sat up. Across the room, Callum had already swung his legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet thudding softly on the cold floor.

“That’s our alarm,” Peter whispered from the center bed, the humor drained from his voice like blood from a wound.

The shimmering broke into mist—and then the door swung inward, not flung open, but deliberate, like the unfolding of a letter. A man stood in the doorway, his silhouette cut clean by the pale light of the hallway sconces. He was older, perhaps forty, with the tight, drawn look of someone used to silence. His robes were black with green cuffs, formal and worn, fastened with a small silver pin that caught the light but bore no crest or name.

“You three. Up,” he said. His voice was flat. Impatient. “All Slytherins are evacuating. Now.” Without waiting for acknowledgment, he turned and strode down the hallway toward the next year’s dormitory, his footsteps fading into the distance like a metronome counting down to something unseen.

Elowyn’s eyes flicked to the wards that had failed. Callum was already standing, pulling his school robes on over the boxers he always wore to sleep, wand clenched tightly in one hand. Peter had swung his legs over the side of the bed but had not moved beyond that—his threadbare hand-me-down pyjamas hung awkwardly on his slight frame. Elowyn moved with quiet urgency, the sleeves of his silk sleepwear slipping beneath the folds of his school robes as he pulled it on. His hair was still mussed from sleep, his eyes sharp with unease.

Elowyn crossed the room quickly. “Something’s wrong,” he murmured, barely loud enough to be heard.

Callum gave a sharp nod. “Aye. Feels off. But if there’s fighting upstairs…”

“We can’t stay here,” Peter finished. He sounded steadier now, but his hands were trembling as he fumbled with the clasps of his robe.

Their school robes billowed over pyjamas as they bent to shove bare feet into shoes with hurried, fumbling hands. The man reappeared at the threshold, his expression tighter now, urgency threading his tone. "Come on," he said, sharp this time. "Hogwarts is under attack. We have to move. Now."

“Wands,” Callum hissed as they reached the threshold. But they already had them—Callum’s was in his hand, knuckles white; Peter’s gripped tight in his fist. Elowyn’s was already tucked into his sleeve, familiar and warm against his wrist.

They stepped into the hallway. Behind them, the stone dormitory door swung shut, the wards gone, the frame silent. It did not shimmer this time. It simply closed, as if the Castle itself were holding its breath.

The hallway beyond the dormitory was pulsing with low voices and the rhythmic shuffle of slippered feet against cold stone. Boys streamed past in various states of dress—robes thrown over bare chests, trousers half-buttoned, socks mismatched or missing entirely. No one screamed. No one ran. This was Slytherin. Even in confusion, they moved with purpose—some with the sharp-eyed calm of those who had expected this, others with the disoriented tension of being woken too soon and told nothing.

The triad merged into the current, drifting upward through the winding stair that led to the common room. The corridor smelled faintly of damp wool, ink, and the metallic tang of magic in the air—old wards stirring, thinning. Peter craned his neck to look behind them as they climbed. Callum kept close to Elowyn’s shoulder, wand still clenched in his fist.

They emerged into the vast, echoing cavern of the common room. The green fire in the central hearth had burned low, casting long shadows that reached like fingers across the marble floor. The lesser fireplaces along the walls flickered dimly, their light too weak to pierce the corners where shadows pooled like ink.

Students were being herded toward the portal by barked commands—prefects and a few upper years taking point, wands drawn not in threat but in wary readiness. Over by the entrance, Slughorn stood in his billowing velvet robes, his face damp with sweat. He was louder than necessary, voice booming with false reassurance as he beckoned the students forward.

"Keep close, my Slytherins! Stay together! We’ve prepared for this, no need to panic, follow the stairs—up through the dungeons—yes, yes, quickly now!"

He didn’t see them. Or if he did, he didn’t care. His gaze swept past them, catching on a group of well-dressed seventh-years clustered near the girls’ stairwell—several of them members of his Slug Club. His voice rose as he pivoted toward them, gesturing wide. The portal was gaping open, the cold draft from the dungeons beyond already curling into the room like breath from another world.

Elowyn hesitated. His fingers brushed the edge of a pillar near the boys’ stair, half-hidden by shadow. Callum stopped beside him, frowning.

“This doesn’t feel like a drill,” Elowyn murmured, falling back from the stream of students. “Feels like we’re being…removed.”

Callum didn’t reply. He was watching the corners, because not everyone was moving.

In the dimness near the tertiary hearths close to the girls' dormitory stairwell, a cluster of older students lingered. They hadn’t joined the exodus. They hadn’t spoken. But they were watching. Merrick Rosier leaned with casual precision against the stone balustrade, wand in hand, his eyes half-lidded like he was waiting for a cue. Beside him stood Cressida Vale, her long dark braid lit faintly by firelight. She was smiling—but not in a way that suggested kindness.

Peter edged closer to Elowyn. “We should go.”

“We can't,” Callum said flatly. “Look.”

The last wave of younger students had vanished into the portal. The stairwell beyond was empty now. The triad stood a quarter of the way between the main portal and the stair that led down to the boys' dormitory, three small figures suspended in a moment that hadn’t yet chosen its direction. They had not decided to stay—not fully—but the choice was made irrelevant when, from the shadows skirting the outer hearths near the girls’ dormitory stairs, the older Slytherins emerged, quickly blocking off the entrance, taking up quiet, deliberate positions that closed the room like a trap—and smiled. As their older Housemates stepped from shadow to shadow, the portal began to close—the stone melting seamlessly upwards back into place, sealing the passage with a finality that left no doubt, only thick, stone walls. The fires hissed low, shadows shifting in the corners as if roused by breath. The room, once filled with the ordered chaos of retreat, was now nearly silent.

The attack began without warning—a flash of green light sliced through the dim common room like a blade, and the crack of spellfire echoed off the stone. Merrick had stepped forward from the line, wand raised and smile cold. He didn’t aim to frighten. He aimed to maim. The curse missed Elowyn by inches and scorched the pillar behind him, sending stone chips skittering across the floor.

“Spawn of dirt and ritual,” Merrick snarled, eyes locked on Elowyn. “Let’s see if the mud-child bleeds like the rest of us.”

Callum answered with a shield—Protego Maxima roaring to life as another curse collided with it in a burst of sickly yellow light. Peter flanked to the right, wand up, breath hitching as he fired off a Confringo that sent one of the advancing seventh-years stumbling. Elowyn raised his wand with elegant precision and cast Incendio; a wall of flame burst across the carpet between them and the attackers.

It only made them laugh.

“Burn your own House down, ritual-born bastard?” someone, perhaps Osric, jeered from behind Merrick. “Shows you never belonged here in the first place—stinks of ritual and rot.”

The room then exploded with curses. Bolts of red, purple, green, and gold burst towards them, painting the stone in flickering, violent light. It looked for a moment like stained glass on fire. The air smelled of scorched linen, ash, and something sharp—blood, maybe, or fear made manifest. The sound was worse: crack after crack of unleashed magic, screams tangled with spellfire, and the deep, rattling hum of old wards reacting.

The triad moved as one, a rhythm carved from weeks of training. Shield, strike, pivot. Retreat. Again.

Elowyn stepped lightly, wand moving in graceful arcs, a jet of force flashing from its tip. It caught Cressida off guard—she jerked sideways, her braid whipping through the air as she barely blocked it.

In that moment, his wand felt utterly sure of itself. The kelpie core did not leap forward but flowed outward, its magic woven seamlessly with Elowyn’s own—rising like a tide called home by gravity. It did not merely channel his spell; it recognized it, bore it, and claimed it as its own. The rowan wood steadied the force, lending clarity to power that could so easily have turned feral. Together, they moved not as wielder and weapon, but as a single arc of intention—elegant, unerring, and unshaken.

Beside him, Peter ducked low. His hands were shaking, but he aimed true. A jinx shot under the legs of two oncoming boys; one cried out as it caught his shin, collapsing with a grunt against the edge of a bench. But another took his place at once, wilder-eyed, teeth bared.

There was no end to them. Only fury.

Furnunculus. Obstringo. Reducto.

For one breathless moment, it felt as though the tide might turn. Peter struck again—this time not with a jinx but a blasting curse that caught a sixth-year squarely in the chest, sending him crashing backward into one of the armchairs by a secondary hearth. The chair split with a crack, wood and velvet flying. Another attacker lunged forward and was met with a sweeping hex from Elowyn, the blast forcing her into the edge of a table with a yelp.

A cutting hex—a clean, vicious arc of purple light—sliced across Callum's upper arm, tearing through his robes and opening a line of red. He grunted, clutching the wound with his other hand as blood began to soak the sleeve. Still, he stepped forward rather than back. He dropped to one knee, lips drawn in a grimace of pain and focus, and raised his wand.

“Deprimo!”

The word tore from him like a dare. A violent crack split the air—but the spell didn’t land clean. Instead of a true collapse, the flagstones beneath their attackers fractured unevenly, a jagged seam opening just enough to knock one off balance and startle the others into a pause. The floor groaned but held.

Callum swayed slightly, the backlash of the advanced spell buzzing through his injured shoulder like fire in the bone. It was too much magic. Magic he hadn’t practiced. Magic he wasn’t ready to wield. But for a single heartbeat, their enemies hesitated.

“We can do this,” Peter whispered, half in disbelief, half in hope. 

And then the hesitation ended. The attackers regrouped. Someone screamed Flagrante! and the air lit with cruel fire. Callum raised a shield when the word came that cracked their world apart and dashed any hope they still harbored.

“Crucio!”

The curse soared towards Callum, shattered his shield and hit him squarely in the chest. He didn’t cry out at first—he choked. Then he screamed, a sound ripped from his throat with raw, unfiltered agony. His body arched, wand dropping from his grip as he collapsed to one knee, hands scrabbling at the stone. The pain was not sharp or searing—it was consuming, an invisible fire tearing through every nerve, every thought, every ounce of strength he had left.

The older Slytherins laughed. It was not mocking—it was giddy delight.

“Look at them now,” someone sneered. “Not so clever when they’re writhing.”

Peter froze. Elowyn’s face drained of color—but his hand shot forward, reaching for Callum even as his knees buckled.

“Now,” he gasped.

Together, he and Peter cast—Protego Maxima, both voices rising in unison, wavering but determined.

Their combine shield surged to life—a dome of pale gold force encircling them just as a new volley of spells struck its surface. Sparks ricocheted in every direction. The magic wailed against the barrier, angry and wild, as if it could sense the desperation of the boys behind it.

Callum writhed still on the floor, body trembling with the aftershocks of pain. Elowyn dropped beside him, keeping one hand raised to maintain the shield while the other gripped Callum’s wrist, grounding him. Peter stood above them, wand shaking, eyes wide but focused.

The shield held. Spell after spell slammed into it—Confringo, Stupefy, Impedimenta, and then darker things, foul magic whispered with ancient malice, curses designed not to stun but to wound.

The glow of the barrier flickered under the weight of them. Cracks of force reverberated like drumbeats in their bones. A green-tinted hex sizzled on contact. A slashing curse sent sparks showering sideways. The very air grew thicker, charged with rage and raw power.

Still, the dome remained—but each blow drained them. Elowyn's wrist began to tremble from the strain. Peter's legs buckled slightly as another impact lit the edge of the shield in violet flame.

They were holding. But, with each impact, it was breaking them—the weight of it pressed into their magical cores, draining them, weakening their breath and arms and even their thoughts.

They were holding—but only just…barely. And in that moment, the truth landed harder than any spell: they were out of their depth, flailing in waters too deep and dark to name.

Their shield shattered. The weight of magic pressed them backward again, and what ground they had taken vanished beneath them like sand beneath a wave. The hope snapped. They began to retreat toward the stairs to the boys’ dormitory, dragging Callum between them as they moved. Their wands flashed left and right, casting jinxes and hexes in frantic bursts—each one followed by a flickering shield meant more to deflect than to block. The rhythm was desperate now: cast, drag, shield, stumble. The din of curses behind them never ceased.

Peter took the brunt of a Reducto to his left shoulder—a crack like a tree splitting filled the air as the force of the curse slammed him backward. He hit the stone floor hard, a bark of pain escaping before he could bite it back. The fabric of his robe burned away at the seam, revealing skin torn open, bruising already blooming beneath the blood. He staggered up, one arm hanging low, his grip on his wand slick with red. He didn’t fall again.

“Keep going,” he rasped, voice rough with pain, and shoved Elowyn forward with his good arm. They were retreating faster now, weaving past shattered chairs and scorch marks, breath shallow, feet slipping on blood-slick stone. The shield flickered up in fits—no longer the joined strength of three, but separate, sputtering attempts by Elowyn and Peter and Callum to hold back the tide. They were too disoriented, too drained to cast the stronger joint shield. 

As they retreated, too slowly, to the dormitory corridor, each boy summoned what magic he could, spells born more of instinct than strategy, flaring into being only to gutter out a second later, too taxing to maintain. A jet of violet flame shot past their heads. Another cracked the wall beside them. The stairwell yawned behind them like a mouth, but the space between felt impossibly wide, like a corridor stretched by the waking nightmare they found themslves in.

“You don’t belong here,” Cressida hissed, wand whipping toward Elowyn. “You never did.”

A pale curse hit him in the ribs and sent him sprawling. He gasped, the wind knocked clean out of him, but Callum, who had finally managed to shake off the aftereffects of the Cruciatus, hauled him up by the back of his robe. They stumbled together.

Callum then took a hit—a Petrificus Totalus slammed into his side, sending him sprawling against the wall with a grunt of pain. His limbs locked for a moment before Elowyn quickly cast Finite Incantatem and the spell wore off enough for him to gasp and twist back into motion. Groaning, he pushed up onto one elbow and found his wand again. His hand trembled, but his eyes found Elowyn’s and Peter’s, and they didn’t need words.

“Now,” Elowyn whispered.

All three raised their wands—Protego Maxima—but the magic that answered was feeble, fractured from the start. The dome flared to life with a sputtering flicker, gold laced with threads of silver and shadow, and even as it formed, it began to fail. It cracked on the first impact—then again on the second. A third hit shattered it entirely.

There was no time to recast, but there was also no strength left to try. They were running now—never once turning their back on their attackers—but stumbling backwards, ducking spells, wincing as sparks grazed skin and robes alike. Peter cried out as a jet of red clipped his arm. Elowyn's breath hitched with every step. Callum was limping, blood slicking the stone behind him. They didn’t speak. They couldn’t. And somehow, through sheer will or miracle or madness, they barely made it to the stairs.

The attackers snarled. One of them shouted something guttural. Another cast a Sectumsempra—the arc of dark magic shearing through the air with a high, slicing hiss. The spell glanced across Peter’s foot with brutality. He cried out, stumbling hard against the stairwell wall, his leg giving beneath him for half a second before he shoved himself upright again. Blood seeped through the tear in his robe. His wand hand shook. But he kept moving backwards and down the stairs—teeth gritted, eyes bright with pain and something fiercer still.

They were backing down the stairs now, step by painful step, wands still raised though their magical cores were nearly spent. Their breath came in shallow gasps, the stone slick beneath their feet. They kept casting feeble shields—desperate, flickering barriers that shattered on impact, saving them only from the brunt of the spells hurled after them. Still, it was enough to stagger through the hail of curses. One cracked just above Peter’s head, showering them in glowing dust. Another seared the rail. The stairs tilted beneath their exhausted legs, and still they moved, too scared to turn and run, but too stubborn to fall.

Elowyn spun at the base of the stairs, violet eyes wild and glowing in the dim light. He raised his wand and shouted, "Incendio!" with every ounce of magic he could summon.

His wand obeyed, but with an edge of uncertainty. The kelpie core, so often exultant in motion, now hesitated—not in refusal, but in instinctive caution. The magic rising from Elowyn’s core was frayed at the edges, thinned by pain and grief, laced more with desperation than resolve. His wand bore the current, but it did so warily, sensing that the force surging through its grain was no longer anchored in clarity but unraveling with dangerous momentum. It responded not with reluctance, but with restraint, holding its power close—as if unsure whether releasing itself fully might bring harm to itself.

The flames burst outward, thin and reedy, barely more than trembling wisps of firelight crawling along the corridor. They licked at the walls and hissed weakly against the stone—too faint to catch, and too frail to wound. The attackers blinked, then sneered, stepping through the failing embers with contempt curling on their lips. Elowyn had been certain he could do it—could summon again that wild, terrible blaze—but his magic buckled beneath him, spent and hollow. What rose from his wand was not fury. It was a dream of fire that would never truly burn.

Their attackers began a new onslaught of curses at the retreating boys. One struck Elowyn directly—a brutal Furnunculus hex, flung with such force that the boils it conjured surged beneath his skin like fire, rising and rupturing in a trail of searing agony. A second curse followed fast—striking Elowyn in the shoulder with a soundless crack. It didn’t break the skin, but the pain bloomed cold and sharp beneath it, as if something venomous had coiled there. He gasped, his wand nearly slipping from numb fingers.

He staggered, breath hitched, and nearly dropped his wand—but Callum and Peter were already there, hands dragging him backwards into the corridor. As Elowyn’s grip loosened, his wand dimmed in spirit. The kelpie core, so often fierce and attuned, now pulsed faintly with something perilously close to grief. It did not resist his touch, nor did it withdraw its magic entirely, but it no longer surged to meet him. The current between them—once fluid, whole, and sure—had fractured under the strain of exhaustion. Its rhythm faltered, disrupted by fear, failure, and the staggering weight of retreat. For the first time since they had joined, his wand no longer felt itself a bearer of his will. It felt instead the ache of futility—the hollow, dissonant stillness that follows a spell drawn not from power, but from the final dregs of its bearer's spent and staggering magical core.

Another curse screamed through the air—Incarcerous—and hit Peter square in the chest. Ropes exploded from nowhere, twisting around his ribs and thighs; he went down hard with a cry. Callum yanked him free, blasting the cords apart with a rough Diffindo, but a hex caught him in return—Rictusempra, poorly cast, wild and painful. It jolted through his ribs like a punch to the lung.

Still, they didn’t stop. They wouldn't stop, not with the door to their dormitory so close, and the world in front of them burning. They reached it barely ahead of a fresh volley. Callum shoved Peter through first, then Elowyn, then turned to fire a last desperate Expulso that made the corridor quake.

Merrick, leading the charge in the close confines of the corridor, raised his wand, a green gleam already dancing along its tip. His eyes were alight not with hatred, but hunger.

This was his moment. He had waited, watched, and plotted for months—every spell honed and every whisper of strategy calibrated not to survive, but to ascend. Now, with the mud-born boys gasping on the threshold of their sanctuary, bloodied and broken, he saw it: the path to glory.

To serve the Dark Lord, one needed more than purity. One needed to kill. He lifted his wand higher—slow, deliberate, and reverent. He was going to offer their lives to the Dark Lord like a gift. And in doing so, prove himself worthy. As the words began to form, his eyes glittering with unholy devotion. Merrick bared his teeth.

“Avada—”

The Castle moved. Deep beneath the lake and the mountain, in bedrock laced with ancient enchantments, it shuddered—its foundations flexing as though the very bones of the earth had stirred in outrage. The dormitory doorframe shuddered and collapsed inward, stone folding down like a portcullis, smooth and sudden. The Killing Curse hit the wall with a thunderous crack, green light splashing across the newly-formed stone like acid on water. It would have struck Callum clean in the chest had the Castle not sealed the door in that final heartbeat. The magic hissed, flared, and died, its power smothered by age-old enchantment.

Merrick's scream of rage was lost beneath the barrage that followed as spells slammed against the new wall—furious but ineffectual. Each impact echoed down the corridor like the beat of war drums. Within the walls of their dormitory, each curse reverberated like a bell struck too hard and in quick succession—the sound sharp and enormous, shaking the air with a force that made their bones ache. But the stone held firm, cool and immovable.

The triad scrambled backward in the darkness, dragging themselves across the cold stone floor until they reached the farthest corner from where the door had once stood. It was instinct—animal, unthinking—a need to get away from that wall and from the memory of green light and the death that nearly was. As they huddled in the corner, their blood had joined and pooled beneath them, smearing across the cold stone. Their breaths came in stuttering gasps. Elowyn was trembling uncontrollably, his wand arm curled protectively to his chest, black tendrils still tracing along his skin. Peter let out a sob he couldn’t swallow, and Callum made a noise that was almost a growl and almost a cry, as he wrapped his arms around both of them. They held each other, not just for comfort but to keep from shattering. The dark pressed in as tears streaked their cheeks, and though their mouths opened to speak, no words emerged, leaving only silence as deep and still as a long-deserted, wholly-forgotten tomb. 

Chapter Text

Elowyn, Callum and Peter lay in the corner of their dormitory room in a twisted knot of limbs and blood, still touching where their bodies had fallen. It was dark and quiet, but it was not silence, not truly. Silence was a thing with shape and definition—a hush folded in velvet. This was absence—a void so total it seemed to have swallowed not only sound, but time, and the memory of time. They remained that way for a long while—curled, bloodied, and barely breathing—three boys clinging to the last fragile threads of life. Time lost meaning. They did not speak, only breathed as best they could, breaths thin and shivering, like moths beating against glass. The room pressed in around them. They tried to breathe. That was all they could do.

Time passed like it does for those in shock. Minutes felt like hours and hours felt like days and days would have felt like an unbounded eternity. The fire had gone out and the sconces remained black. The only light streamed from the windows above as the day slowly tore through the blackness of night and its light filtered through the depths of the lake.. The air grew thick with the iron scent of blood and the sour tang of spell-burned flesh. Somewhere behind Elowyn’s closed eyes, magic rippled—low and wild and coiled—but he could not reach it. Every movement sent a fresh wave of agony down his side, across the shattered nerves in his arm, through the boils on his torso that pulsed with each heartbeat.

Elowyn’s breath came in shallow bursts, his body rigid with pain, wand arm curled tightly to his chest, black tendrils like ink crawling just beneath the skin from shoulder to elbow. Peter raised his wand, whispering, "Lumos," and a narrow beam of light spilled forth, pale and trembling. It caught on the broken lines of Elowyn’s arm, tracing the black tendrils like a curse etched into skin. Peter made soft, rhythmic sounds that could have been sobs or simply the rattled breath of someone trying not to cry anymore. 

When Peter looked at Elowyn’s arm—at the black tendrils webbing beneath the skin, curling like smoke from a fire he could not smother—something inside him lurched. The markings were too familiar, too close to the ones that had bloomed across his own flesh half a year ago when they pulled him broken from another dark place. For a moment, he was no longer in the dormitory. He was back there—helpless, voiceless, and engulfed in a pain he could not name. He swallowed hard against the flood of memory, shoving it down with all the force he could muster.

He had every right to fall apart, but Elowyn needed him. Callum needed him. They both did, so he bit his lip until he tasted blood, pushed his terror into a corner of himself he wouldn’t open until later, and pressed his hand gently to the stone floor for balance, but the shaking didn’t stop. Callum inched closer, pressing his forehead to Peter’s side, trying to cling to his warmth and the steady comfort of his presence. But Peter stirred beneath him, his body taut with purpose, and slowly began to shift away—first lifting his glowing wand, then one hand, then the other, bracing himself against the stone. He tried to stand, bracing himself against the floor, but the effort proved too much. His knees buckled, and he collapsed back down, curling inward on instinct. For a moment he simply lay there, shaking, willing strength into bones that no longer felt like his own. 

As Peter tried to stand, Callum pulled away and leaned closer to Elowyn; his good arm curled tighter and more protectively around Elowyn’s middle, but he didn’t try to hold Peter back. He couldn’t—not with the other arm limp and slick with blood, and not with the trembling weight of exhaustion dragging at his limbs. His other hung useless at his side, slick with blood from where a cutting hex had torn through muscle. He couldn’t reach Peter without pain—and so he inched closer to Elowyn instead, resting his forehead against Elowyn’s temple, trusting that Peter was close enough to touch without needing to grasp. 

They remained joined not by gesture but by presence, and it was enough. They were boys again, not warriors or rebels, and not even students—just children who had survived something no child ever should.

In the thin light of Peter’s Lumos, they were able to see clearly that the door was truly gone. Where once it had stood—a carved, arching frame of serpent-marked stone—was now a single slab of stone, thick and unyielding, as though the Castle had never designed an entrance at all. 

Slowly, deliberately, Peter shifted. This time, when he braced his palms against the floor and pushed upward, his arms held. He rose—shakily, breath ragged, but standing. For a moment he wavered, the dim beam of his wand casting long shadows across the walls. Then, steadying himself with one hand on the wall to his right, he began to move forward, eyes scanning the dormitory by the dim light glowing at the tip of his wand—Lumos still casting soft illumination as it trembled faintly in his grip. They hid the magical first aid book there months ago and kept it sheltered there when not in use. It was time to act. They had survived the storm. Now they had to survive the aftermath.

“I need to bind your leg,” he muttered. “Mine’s not too bada, and yours's still bleeding.”

Callum stirred, a breath escaping him like wind from a cracked bellows. “Legs don’t work. Arms…barely.”

Peter nodded, already tearing at the inner lining of his robe with shaking fingers. “I’ll start with you, El,” he said, moving to Elowyn’s side. “Then your arm, Callum. Then me.”

Elowyn tried to speak, but the words caught behind a fresh wave of fire that lit his ribcage and shoulder. He managed only a nod, barely perceptible.

Peter’s foot dragged as he moved, blood soaking through the shredded fabric over his foot. His left shoulder hung lower than it should, burned and fractured. But his hands moved with a kind of clarity—shaky, but sure. 

He peeled the remains of Elowyn’s robe aside and hissed through his teeth. The Furnunculus curse had left angry welts already rupturing, and beneath them, an impact bruise was spreading in deep violet beneath the skin from a second hit. Peter pointed his wand and muttered, "Scourgify." The charm stuttered slightly but cleared the worst of the blood and grime. Then he applied a salve from the emergency kit Thaddeus had given Elowyn at winter break, The salve fizzled against the boils, releasing a faint medicinal smoke.

“Sorry,” Peter whispered. “You’re going to feel this for days.”

Elowyn didn’t scream. But he did turn his head sharply into Callum’s shoulder, breath stuttering through clenched teeth.

The shoulder came next—black tendrils still twitching with faint magic. Peter shuddered and pushed his bubbling fear back down. He dared not touch them. Instead, he applied a cold poultice to numb the burn where skin was still whole, and wrapped the arm as gently as he could. The moment the cloth touched, Elowyn shuddered but did not pull away.

“Callum,” Peter said, not looking up. “Your arm.”

Callum let out a noise halfway between assent and agony. He tried to raise the wounded limb, but it sagged uselessly. Peter crawled to him, bound it in firm pressure wraps, and applied the same cleansing charm. The Cruciatus had left no visible mark—but the trembling in Callum’s legs and the ghost of pain in his eyes made Peter hesitate.

“I don’t know how to treat that,” he admitted softly.

Callum shook his head. “Just stop the bleeding. Then you.”

Peter nodded as he uncorked one of the vials Emrys had sent, dabbing the gleaming salve gently along the raw edge of Callum’s wound. A soft shimmer followed the motion of his fingers, the faint scent of pine and camphor rising as the skin began to knit beneath the spell he murmured. When he finished, he turned his wand on himself last. He bound the foot first, the Sectumsempra gash oozing sluggishly, then pressed gauze to his side. His hands were stained red by then, his arms trembling.

He patched all of them up as best as he could, working in a slow, grisly rhythm that was both too practiced and not practiced enough. 

Elowyn’s voice came at last, papery and low. “The door…”

Peter looked. Then shook his head. “No door.”

Callum turned his head slowly toward the wall. “Then how—?”

“We wait?” Peter asked. “Or…try something?”

Elowyn stirred. “There’s nothing left to wait for.”

When Elowyn reached the foot of Callum’s bed, he paused, bracing his good hand against the carved frame to steady himself. His limbs trembled faintly—not with fear, but with the exhaustion that settles after too much magic and too little mercy. With a slow, deliberate step, he crossed the remaining space to the wall, lifted his hand, and raised his wand.

It did not flare with light, nor did it pulse with defiance. Instead, it answered with a quiet, grounded recognition—subtle as the reverberations that follow thunder. The kelpie core, wild and willful by nature, offered no resistance. It did not thrill or burn or shudder. It simply held its magic close and gave it, unforced. In that stillness, the wand acknowledged what fire and fury had already proved: Elowyn was no longer merely its wielder. He had become its anchor. He had become its keeper. He had become its chosen.

Though his magical core had thinned to embers and his spirit hung ragged at the edges, his wand did not retreat. It sensed the fraying of his strength, the hollow ache beneath his breath, and yet it remained—attentive and unwavering. It was merely content to be held by the one who, even in the depths of pain, had never once wielded it with cruelty. The bond between them—though strained by cost and wear—had not broken. It had only deepened into something quieter and more complete.

With a slow, shuffling step—and another—Elowyn crossed the space to the wall, lifted his good hand, and pointed his wand.

“Alohomora,” he whispered.

The stone remained still. It did not flicker. It did not stir.

He cast again, voice rasped and roughened with strain. Peter, who had followed quietly behind, added his voice to the spell. Then Callum, though his wand slipped from his fingers before the incantation was complete.

Still, there was no response. No tremor beneath their feet. No crack in the wall. No answering breath of magic in the stone.

There was only silence—thick, unmoving, unrelenting.So they turned and huddled together on Callum’s bed—close and instinctive—beneath the dormant sconces and the hearth that had not stirred. The only light came from above, filtered through the green-tinted windows high in the ceiling, where the lake’s murk shifted slowly overhead. Time passed without shape or urgency, marked only by the changing hues that danced across the floor: slate grey to emerald, then the faint silver of morning, as if the world above had remembered them at last.

They sagged back into silence—not in defeat, but in a kind of hollow, breathless quiet that came when despair no longer had room to breathe. And then, just as the stillness threatened to settle into permanence, the wall began to tremble. It did not shimmer or vanish. It peeled—folding inward like parchment, or like fog retreating from the mouth of a cave. And beyond it: darkness. The corridor lay beyond, emptied of everything but the faint trace of freedom.

As the stone withdrew, the fire in the hearth roared suddenly to life, bright and green and startling, and the sconces along the walls both inside and outside their room followed suit in a cascade of warm illumination. Light washed over the boys in an instant, revealing their injuries in stark relief. The Castle had returned—perhaps only now free to turn its attention back to them after holding fast against whatever evil had raged above. It had saved them with its last breath, and now, it lit the way forward.

Peter stood first, leaning heavily on the bedframe, his wand casting a pale, flickering light. “We’re getting out of here.” Elowyn followed, pushing himself upright with a wince, clutching his bandaged side, wand arm limp at his chest like something broken and beloved. Callum rose last, teeth clenched, a curse under his breath as he draped his good arm across Peter’s back for balance. They didn’t speak again. They didn’t need to. One step at a time, they crossed the threshold. And behind them, the door closed with the slow finality of stone remembering how to sleep.

The journey through the Castle was slow and torturous. The corridors, once bustling with laughter and the rhythmic shuffle of students’ feet, now stood hollow, echoing only the soft slap of blood-slick soles against stone. They moved as one fractured thing—three boys barely upright, holding each other with trembling arms, their bodies sagging with every step. The Castle was eerily silent save for the faint creaks of shifting enchantment and the lingering crackle of magic in the air, its walls still humming with aftershocks of the battle above. Debris littered their path—splintered portrait frames, the sharp glint of shattered glass, and the blackened scorch marks where their spells had struck. Their limbs burned. Their breaths came short and wet. The ascent from the dormitory to the Hospital Wing felt not like a crossing, but a pilgrimage.

When they finally reached the infirmary, the doors swung open to chaos—beds full and voices hushed but urgent. White-robed Healers from St. Mungo’s moved briskly between the wounded. In the middle of it all, Madam Pomfrey turned, her hands still glowing from a diagnostic charm, and gasped. For a moment, she simply stared. The younger students, she thought, had been safely evacuated. But here were the three Slytherin boys—the three, the only first-year boys in the House this year—collapsed against one another, their school robes tattered, slick with blood and ash and torn nearly to threads. She rushed to them, barking orders at an assistant to clear the nearest beds. The room paused. Every eye turned and the whispers began.

Pomfrey’s hands were never rough, but they were swift. She cast diagnostic spells in rapid succession, her brow knitting tighter with every pass of her wand. “What happened?” she asked, voice sharp with disbelief, but the boys didn’t answer—not really. Callum tried to mumble something, Peter blinked slowly, and Elowyn only shook his head. The spells told her more than their words: advanced hex damage, complete magical exhaustion, lingering traces of the Cruciatus, fractured bones, a nearly severed tendon, and something dark coiling beneath Elowyn’s skin that made her hesitate. She swallowed her questions and focused on treatment. Students’ health came first. Always.

Around them, other patients—mostly older students and a few Order members—watched with wary eyes. The news was already spreading: Dumbledore was dead. Killed. No one knew quite how, but theories buzzed in whispers, passed between cot-bound bodies and hovering friends. The boys, still clad in what was left of their green-trimmed robes, drew stares. Not just for their condition—worse than anyone else’s by far—but for their House: Slytherin. There was pity in the glances, yes, but it was pity laced with suspicion and that sharp-edged doubt that clung to green and silver like smoke.

She treated them herself, with Order assistants only stepping in when absolutely necessary. Though nearly all students had made it out unscathed, a few older ones hadn’t—dueling where they shouldn’t have, and staying where they should have fled—and Pomfrey dealt with those in turn. But not before she cared for Elowyn, Callum, and Peter. 

Once they were stabilized—bandaged, splinted, and tucked under warmed blankets—Pomfrey summoned a small enchanted quill from her desk, its nib already humming with containment charms keyed to blood relation. It was the kind of quill used only in the gravest of circumstances, charmed to script letters that could be read only by the parent or guardian to whom they were addressed, and to seal themselves against prying eyes. There could be no risk of interception—not with the war breaching even the Castle’s walls. She wrote three letters. Each flew from the window like a silver dart, carried by the fastest post the school maintained. Each the kind of letter no parent should ever receive.

Their parents all arrived within hours. Thaddeus came first, pale and tight-lipped, with Emrys not far behind—his Cornish cloak still dusted with dirt, and his boots soaked from the rain in the Koes. Isolde and Malachy McCormack followed soon after, their expressions locked in a shared grief Callum refused to look at. Peter’s mother arrived last, eyes rimmed red, clutching her son’s name like a spell. His father couldn’t come—the Ministry was on full alert. None of them raised their voices. None of them needed to because the sight of their boys, bruised and broken in neat white beds, said everything: The war, it seemed, had finally come for even the youngest in the Wizarding community.

The boys stayed in the infirmary for days. They slept often and woke rarely. Their rest was aided by Dreamless Sleep potions and broken only by sips of all the other potions needed to cure them of all their various magical maladies. Their parents came daily, Disapparating in from their homes each morning to the Castle gates—none could bring themselves to stay away for long, not after what had happened. Though they didn’t remain by the boys’ sides around the clock, they visited in long, aching shifts, speaking in low tones and touching with caution, as if their sons were made of glass. 

The boys had understood the attack as it happened—the betrayal, the brutality, and the near brush with death—but understanding was not the same as reckoning. When the shock began to ebb and the stillness set in, what remained was trauma: the bone-deep knowledge that they had come within a breath of dying, of being ended by the Killing Curse itself. The aftermath would take longer to survive than the night.

It had been decided that none of them would return by train. There would be no ceremony at King's Cross: no waving through steam and no lingering goodbyes. The usual rhythms of departure had been broken, replaced by urgent necessity. Each parent wanted their son removed from danger, delivered directly into safety—scarred and nearly broken but alive.

But the boys did not want to part.

“I’ll go wherever they go,” Peter whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking under the weight of everything unsaid. “I don’t care what you say—I can’t be without them. I won’t.”

Callum pushed himself upright, fists clenched in the blankets. “We’re not leaving each other. You can’t make us. We need—” But the words caught. He bit them down, lips trembling. His father tried to interject, but Callum overrode him with a shout. “We almost died! We almost died, and you want to split us up?”

Elowyn wept. Not loudly. Just long and slow, the tears slipping down his cheeks unchecked. “You don’t understand,” he whispered, barely audible. “I don’t sleep when they’re not near. I can’t think. I—I don’t feel safe.” Thaddeus crouched beside him, one hand on his son’s knee, trying to soothe him with reason. But Emrys said nothing—just looked at Elowyn as though something inside him had shattered.

Their parents tried to explain. Each of them had spoken, separately and gently, about safety. About healing. About how home was best for rest and recovery. About how the boys needed time with family, and needed space to process what had happened. “It’s only for the summer,” Peter’s mother had said. “You can write. You can visit. But for now—”

“No!” Peter had shouted, and then broken into sobs, curling in on himself with an aching, wounded sound that didn’t belong in a child so small. “We have to stay together. You don’t understand. You weren’t there. We are family. They are my family.”

Elowyn, from where he lay, nodded fiercely, his voice rough but certain. “He’s right. We are.” His eyes, bloodshot and glistening, didn’t leave Peter’s face, and when he looked toward his fathers—standing stiff and silent nearby—he saw them watching him with an ache he could not yet name. He was still weeping, and the tears came hot and fast, soaking the edge of the blanket tucked at his side. It was uncharacteristic—for all his quiet sensitivity, Elowyn rarely cried this way—and Thaddeus felt the weight of it like a stone in his chest. Emrys looked away, jaw tight, and for a moment it seemed as though they might yield. But they didn’t. They couldn’t. They were adults, and they knew what their son could not yet accept: that to keep him safe, they had to keep him apart—for now, at least. Even if it tore them all open in the doing.

Callum followed with a quiet, fervent, “I don’t care what anyone says—we’re not just friends anymore. We’re family. That’s what this year made us.”

They argued. They pleaded. They offered to live in one house or to alternate between them all. They begged with the fervor of boys who had faced death and come out the other side bound not by choice, but by something deeper. And still...the answer was no. Their parents—each with their own fears and losses—would not bend. 

The silence that followed was thick with heartbreak. The boys looked at each other, not in confusion, but with the aching clarity of recognition. This, too, was a kind of failure—not of institutions, or of teachers or headmasters—but of family and of those who loved them most yet could not understand what they needed. Their gazes met, heavy and knowing. And then they lowered their heads, not in defeat, but in a sorrow too old for their years.

On the last night before their departure, when the Hospital Wing had gone still and only a single lantern flickered near their bedsides, the boys found themselves alone together for the first time since the attack. Elowyn sat propped against a pillow, his bandaged arm nestled in his lap; Peter leaned beside him, his foot still splinted, his shoulder heavy with poultices. Callum sat on the edge of the bed nearest them, his posture straight despite the wrap binding his ribs. The window was cracked open just enough to let in the lake-breeze, and beneath the scent of potions and linen hung the fresher tang of summer coming. 

For a while, they said nothing. It was enough just to be—present, awake, and touching. A chocolate bar emerged from Peter’s nightstand, and was passed silently between them. The wrapper crinkled softly as they ate—the taste a balm for things words could not reach. Elowyn smiled first—just a flicker. Peter managed a weak laugh. Callum, at last, exhaled.

They spoke little, but they did not need to. Everything that had been shattered still remained between them: the promises made in spellfire, along with the trust grown in shadow. They would part in the morning, but tonight, under the hush of dark and the thin glow of lanternlight, they were still together. 

When the wrappers were crumpled and the chocolate gone, Peter shifted first, easing down onto his uninjured side and opening one arm with a tired, wordless invitation. Elowyn followed, careful and slow, tucking himself against Peter’s front. Callum moved last, gingerly climbing into the narrow bed behind Elowyn and pressing close, his breath warming the nape of Elowyn’s neck.

There were no wards, or spells, or vows exchanged—just bodies pressed close in the quiet dark, hearts beating in synchrony with grief softened by nearness. Their wounds ached and their magic was spent, but the warmth of each other made the pain bearable. For a few precious hours, they were held—not by spells, not by duty—but by love, and the desperate, holy refusal to let go. 

They slept that way, tangled and silent, the lanternlight painting them in gold. From beneath the folds of collar and cuff, the faint glint of platinum caught the firelight—three chains, barely visible, the serpents at their throats resting still and watchful.

And when sleep finally came, it came gently, like the hush that follows once the storm has broken—but it did not come for all of them. Elowyn lay between them, eyes open in the dark. He did not sleep. He could not. The warmth of their bodies calmed the ache in his chest, but it did not banish the knowledge that morning would bring separation, or that love was not always enough to change a world bent on dividing what did not fit. So he stayed awake and listened—to their breaths, to the soft creak of the Castle settling, and, most importantly, to the truth that had settled deeper than any wound: They had only each other now.

And so he kept watch.