Chapter Text
Revelation — The unveiling of hidden truths, divine or dreadful—some knowledge cannot be unseen.
A moment of clarity, painful or sacred. The truth cuts in every direction—cleansing, condemning, or simply refusing to be denied.
Matt
Footsteps. Heavy. Leather soles, scuffed unevenly at the heel. One step heavier than the other — old injury, right side. The roof beneath them vibrated slightly with each movement.
Heartbeat—elevated. Not frantic, but fast and inconsistent. A hint of hesitation. Breathing pulled tight, held too high in the chest. Sweating, despite the cold.
Matt adjusted his stance.
Safety clicked off. He heard it — deliberate, practiced. The weight of the firearm shifted slightly as it was raised.
The man stepped onto the rooftop from the stairwell. His boots scuffed the gravel. He carried himself like he’d been trained — military or private sector, maybe both. Movements controlled. No wasted steps. But the nerves were setting in now. His hands were steady, but the air around him pulsed with uncertainty.
“Don’t move!” the man barked.
The voice cracked.
He was trying to control the space, but he didn’t know what he was facing. He was scanning for movement, searching for a shape. For someone visible.
He didn’t see Matt. Not really.
Matt moved.
The gun fired — once, twice. The shots cracked through the rain, sharp and quick, but wide. Matt had already shifted past them, body turning in a practiced arc. One hand touched the slick rooftop for balance. The other swept upward, guiding the momentum of the rain.
A sudden arc of force. The water snapped against the man’s hand. The weapon was knocked clear, skidding across the rooftop in sharp, metallic bursts.
The man cursed, reaching for a sidearm.
Too slow.
Matt closed the gap. A strike to the ribs — low and controlled. He felt the connection, the way the man’s body folded slightly from the hit. The air left his lungs. Matt followed through: a quick elbow to the jaw, then a sharp flick of his fingers. A pulse of energy surged from his palm, a targeted strike of pressure.
The man was knocked off his feet, dragged across the gravel and into the rooftop’s flat stretch.
“You should’ve stayed inside,” Matt said. His voice was steady. Cold.
The man coughed, spat blood, and drew a knife. Less noise this time. Less bravado.
Didn’t matter.
Matt stepped forward. The water around his boots shifted. He reached out — and stopped.
He felt it.
The soul. Close now. Raw. Heavy with what it had done.
It was like touching an exposed nerve. The guilt clung to it, thick and unfiltered. Echoes of violence — recent, sharp. Someone screaming. Not the man. Someone smaller. Helpless. A memory still trying to surface.
Matt hadn’t meant to go that far. But the soul had reached back.
And his magic reacted.
A low pulse shimmered under his skin — not visible to him, but tangible. His sigils activated on instinct, the old ones embedded in his body. They pulsed, slow and hot beneath his soaked shirt.
The air around them shifted. Dense.
The man froze. Not in body — but inside, something locked down. Matt felt it. That tremor down the spine, that internal collapse when the walls give in. The knife was still in the man’s hand, but he wasn’t holding it with purpose anymore.
The guilt was unraveling. Being pulled free.
Matt gritted his teeth. The sin flowed into him, slow and forceful. It settled in his chest — bitter, burning. Not like fire. Like weight. Heavy and wrong.
He didn’t keep it.
Matt braced his feet, held his ground, and forced the energy out — not cleansed, but changed. Not purified. Redirected. It surged through him and back into the world, shaped into something sharp and final.
A blunt wave of pressure slammed into the man. His body hit the wall near the stairwell with a solid crack. He crumpled and didn’t get up.
Matt stood over him, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. His fingers still tingled. Steam rose faintly from his skin — heat from the magic, chased away by the cold rain.
“You’ll live,” he said. His voice was rough now. Strained. “Do this again, and you won’t.”
Sirens started up in the distance. Police. Still a few blocks off.
Matt turned away from the man, his boots scraping against wet gravel as he crossed the rooftop. He reached the edge, found the drop.
And then he was gone. Swallowed by the rain, by the night.
That night, Matt barely made it back to his bed. Each step felt wrong. His balance was off, like his body wasn’t syncing with itself. His legs were too slow, arms too heavy, joints sluggish and stiff. It wasn’t just exhaustion—it was something else, something unfamiliar lodged beneath his skin. A pressure that didn’t start with him.
By the time he reached the edge of the mattress, he dropped. The moment his body hit the bed, he was out.
The dream came fast.
It didn’t feel like a dream at first. It was too sharp. Everything was clear, detailed, filled with things Matt shouldn’t have been able to sense. Sight. Color. Texture from a distance. None of it was impossible for him to dream but….
He knew it wasn’t his.
He stood in a hallway that stank of mildew, cold smoke, old food. The light fixtures buzzed overhead, humming unevenly, and the walls were lined with wallpaper that curled and flaked off in strips. A ceiling fan turned above him, the motor whining, each blade clicking slightly as it passed the same point. The air was dry and stale. Matt could feel the grime clinging to it. Cheap motel.
He looked down and saw a gun in his hand. It was a memory—not his, but close enough to feel real. The grip sat too comfortably in the palm of his hand. It had weight and shape like something he'd carried a hundred times. The barrel was angled toward the floor.
He took a step forward. The carpet was matted and worn. He walked down the hall like he’d done it before. Stopped at the door: Room 203.
He knocked.
A few seconds passed. Then the door opened.
A man stood in the doorway. Older. He looked tired, like he’d been woken up. Confused, still half caught between sleep and the world.
He didn’t say anything. Just inhaled sharply.
Matt’s hand lifted the gun. No hesitation.
He fired once.
The man jerked back. Clean hit.Centre mass. His body hit the ground with a dull thud, like someone had dropped a heavy bag and not a person. No shout. No struggle. Just silence. The carpet absorbed the blood quickly. It soaked in, dark and fast.
Matt didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He didn’t feel anything.
But the dream kept going.
The hallway felt tighter. The walls closer. Like the air had thickened.
Matt didn’t feel guilt. Not at first. But he could sense it. Not fresh, not immediate—it was old, buried deep. It had sunk into the man long before the shot was fired. The soul had already been fractured. Whatever remorse he’d once had had curdled over time, layered itself beneath excuses.
He deserved it.
It was a job.
There wasn’t a choice.
Matt didn’t believe any of it. But the man had.
And now it was sitting in him .
He felt it settle inside, like wet ash—something sour that didn’t belong. The soul’s weight clung to the edges of his mind. Not just guilt, but rot. Years of it. Hardened. Cold. Matt wanted it out. Wanted to scrape it off. He couldn’t.
He woke up hard.
Air forced its way into his lungs like he hadn’t breathed in hours. His skin was slick with sweat. His heart pounded too fast, each beat punching up into his throat. He stayed still, listened.
The other kids were asleep. Their breathing was steady, scattered around the room like small signals. No one had noticed. No one had stirred.
He pressed his fingers to the edge of the mattress. Counted his breaths.
Then, slowly, he reached for the book beside his bed.
It was enchanted—Karen’s idea. Only he could use it. The leather cover was worn smooth under his fingers. He opened it, found a blank page by touch alone. The matching quill was tucked in the spine, where he’d left it. He uncapped it, dipped it lightly in the ink vial, and began to write.
The ink lifted into raised lines, textured enough to read with his fingers. Not perfect. Not elegant. But it worked. It was his.
His hand trembled slightly as he wrote.
Entry 10: Observations Post-Transference Ritual — Subject: Self
Incident: Muggle Gunman
- Muggle Sins Can Be Carried.
The ritual worked. That matters. Magic isn’t the defining trait—soul is. I pulled something from him, and it stuck. He had no wand, no trace of magical lineage, but the rot was there just the same. Proof that corruption, real corruption, isn’t bred from spellwork. It's born in choice. - Sin Is Memory.
Not a dream. Not emotions wrapped in shadow or symbol. Literal.
His thoughts. The sound of his breath. The feel of the gun’s grip in his hand. The weight of the trigger beneath his finger. The quiet after the shot.
For less than a second, I was him.
Not fully, but enough. Enough to know what it looks like when a man makes peace with killing.
It wasn’t mine. But it stuck.
- Guilt Is Not Guaranteed.
Some sins leave wounds—soft, aching bruises beneath the skin. Remorse has texture. It bleeds.
But this one… nothing.
No echo. No regret. Just cold, clean calculation. Like flipping a switch.
It didn’t hurt. Not like I expected.
But it settled in heavier than any pain I’ve felt.
Like lead pressing down on my lungs.
Like silence that stretches on and never ends.
That’s the worst part—not the violence, but the emptiness inside it.
Remorse hurts, yes. But cold certainty? It’s a slow death. You don’t feel it until it’s already taken hold.
- The Soul Builds Scar Tissue.
Is it adaptation? Or erosion?
I respond faster now. Less hesitation.
The first time I faced Snape’s soul, I broke apart.
Now, I just track the damage.
My reactions have gone clinical. Numb.
I’m not feeling less. I’m filtering it. Removing the sharp edges before they reach me.
What does it mean when your soul stops treating horror like a foreign substance?
- Contamination Isn’t the Right Word Anymore.
It’s not just memories I carry. It’s reflexes. Thoughts flashing through me like they’re mine. A temper I don’t recognize.
I flinched the other day when a kid reached into his coat too fast.
I snapped at Karen for no reason.
I woke up tasting copper, like blood, on my tongue.
It’s not possession. It’s cohabitation.
Multiple selves, one body.
A voice pushing, pulling, always there.
Conclusion:
I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t even understand what I was doing at first. But it worked. It works.
I took something evil and made it stop. That should mean something.
The pain, the bleed-over, the broken sleep—maybe that’s the price. Maybe all power comes with a cost.
But what keeps running through my mind is this:
If I could do it once… maybe I should do it again.
That’s what scares me. Not the pain. Not the memories.
The pull.
Because this isn’t just about trying to help anymore. Not really.
It’s about knowing I
can
.
And now that I know… how do I stop?
—M.M.
Matt closed the book carefully, placing it back beside his bed.
He still felt the gunman’s pulse in his fingertips.
Still heard the silence stretching out after the shot.
Still couldn’t tell where his memory ended and the gunman’s began.
Karen
Karen sat at the kitchen table, eyes glued to the pages of her book. The apartment was quiet except for the faint scrape of paper hitting the wood. She looked up and saw her father standing there, holding an envelope. Curiosity pushed her to reach out and take it.
An invitation.
“Dad?” she said softly, lifting her gaze to meet his.
He didn’t move, just looked at her, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Our family’s been invited to the Malfoys’ for dinner,” he said plainly. It was the most he’d spoken to her all break.
Karen frowned, confusion tightening her brow. “Why?”
He folded his arms and let out a small, quiet sigh. “I work at the Ministry now. I met Lucian Malfoy there. I understand you’re in the same house as his son, Draco. Slytherin.”
She let the words hang for a moment. It was strange, almost ironic—being sorted with snakes when she felt like one herself. “We’ve met,” she said carefully, “but the Malfoys are blood purists, Dad.”
His expression didn’t change. “I’m aware.”
Karen hesitated, searching for more. “And you still want us to go?”
He shrugged, like it didn’t matter. “It’s always good to have connections.”
She looked down at the invitation again, then set it on the table. The paper was thick, expensive—meant to impress whoever received it.
“Do you want me to go with you?” she asked, voice steady but quiet.
He didn’t answer right away. After a moment, he said, “The Pages were invited."
“I know,” she said, steady. “But do you want me to go?”
There was a long pause. His blue eyes stayed steady, unreadable. No frown, no smile, no hint of what he was thinking. Finally, his voice was flat, almost cold.
“Do what you want.”
Without looking back, he turned and walked away.
Karen stayed where she was, staring at the empty space he’d left behind. The quiet pressed down harder now. She let out a slow breath, shoulders slumping. She wasn’t sure if it was disappointment or just exhaustion—tired of trying to figure him out. What did he want? What did he expect? What was she supposed to say?
Maybe it didn’t matter anymore.
If he wasn’t going to care, then she wouldn’t wait for him to. She was going. Whether he liked it or not.
“You’re seriously going to the Malfoys’ for dinner?” Matt’s laugh was full of disbelief.
Karen rolled her eyes, nudging his shoulder with the back of her hand—not hard, just enough to get his attention. “I can bring a plus one, you know.”
He grinned despite himself. “Bloodhound, do I look like I’m volunteering to walk into the lion’s den?” His voice was light, but the edge was clear. “Pretty sure the Malfoys wouldn’t be thrilled to see a muggleborn gatecrash their party.”
Karen crossed her arms and stood firm. “Exactly. That’s the point. It’d get under their skin. And my dad’s.”
“That’s not a selling point for me,” Matt said, shaking his head. “Hard pass.”
She shot him a sharp look. “Coward.”
“Realist,” he said, smirking. “But hey, you enjoy yourself.”
Karen lowered herself onto the floor. She glanced at him, her voice dropping. “Do you think people can actually change? Like... really change?”
Matt didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, they can.”
Her eyes narrowed, a challenge flashing there. “Think I could get Draco Malfoy to say something nice about a muggleborn by the end of tonight?”
Matt paused, scratching the back of his head. “People change, yeah, but not usually that fast. I wouldn’t bet on it.”
She shrugged, determination tightening her jaw. “I’m willing to bet I can.” It was less about the bet and more about having something to hold onto during the night.
Matt’s smile was slow but real. “Okay, I’ll take that bet. And don’t think I won’t know if you’re faking it.”
Karen grinned wide. “I always win, church mouse.”
Malfoy Manor,– Drawing Room Before Dinner
The manor smelled sharp — a mix of polish, old dust, and a faint trace of expensive cologne. Karen moved carefully across the polished marble floor. Despite the high ceilings and the way sound should have bounced around, her footsteps made no noise. She moved deliberately, aware of the quiet vastness around her.
Her father’s hand settled on her shoulder. The grip was firm but not warm, steadying rather than comforting. She kept close, matching his pace without speaking.
She glanced up at the portraits lining the walls. The painted faces watched her—cold, impassive, their eyes sharp and still. She offered a quiet greeting, polite but distant. There was no welcome here, only expectation.
The room felt cold—not just because of the chill in the air or the hard marble beneath her feet. It was a cold made of purpose and control, a place designed to impress visitors, not to make them feel at home. Karen stayed just behind her father, careful not to draw attention. Perfect. Presentable.
His eyes flicked to her once, sharp and unreadable. She couldn’t tell if it was approval, a warning, or simple indifference.
“Paxton,” Lucius Malfoy said, nodding as he extended his hand. “And your daughter. Karen, was it?”
Karen dipped her head smoothly. “Mr. Malfoy. Thank you for having us.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Narcissa appeared then, her smile polite but hard enough to cut. “Draco will join us shortly.”
Karen straightened, steadying herself. Good. Let him come to her.
Dinner was a quiet performance. Her father and Lucius leaned in low, voices clipped and tense as they discussed Ministry business—some new regulations and issues with improper wand use. Karen let the words drift over her as she sipped her pumpkin juice, her eyes moving around the room, taking it all in.
Draco Malfoy slid into the seat beside her, looking just as bored—and twice as restless—as she felt. He didn’t fidget; Malfoys didn’t fidget—but his face was tight, like he was working hard to keep his impatience hidden.
“You always look like you’re trying not to breathe,” Karen muttered softly, careful not to move her lips.
Draco’s gaze snapped to her. “And you always look like you’re ready to duel someone who isn’t even here.”
“Maybe I am.”
He paused, trying—and failing—to hold back a smirk.
“You know, most people try to impress the Malfoys when they visit.”
Karen gave him a sidelong glance, her expression cool and unimpressed. “You’re not most people. You’re just a boy with too much gel in his hair and a serious father complex.”
Draco stared at her for a moment, caught off guard. His eyes blinked rapidly, as if her bluntness threw him off balance. “You’re- you-” he stammered, struggling for a response.
“And you’re predictable.”
The conversation stalled. Quiet returned like a weight pressing down on the table. Just then, a house elf appeared with the next course: roast pheasant and some kind of green vegetable Karen had no interest in touching.
Across the table, Lucius’s gaze shifted toward them. Draco immediately straightened, adjusting his posture to appear more formal. Karen, however, didn’t bother.
Lucius’s voice was smooth and controlled. “You’ve raised a sharp daughter, Paxton.”
Her father gave a brief nod. “She takes after her mother’s temperament.”
Karen’s fork paused just inches from her plate. Her father rarely spoke of her mother, and when he did, it was brief and careful. Karen kept quiet, neither encouraging nor denying the comment.
Lucius’s attention returned to her, his eyes sharp and calculating. “And where do you see yourself, Miss Page? Ambition like yours ought to have a clear direction.”
Karen offered a thin smile. “Safe, sir. In control of my life.”
Lucius inclined his head, intrigued.
Draco was watching too. He tilted his head, like he was trying to figure her out.
Draco leaned against the cold stone wall beside the tapestry—a dull, faded piece showing tangled branches that marked some old pureblood lineage. “Why do you hang around that Murdock boy?”
Karen raised an eyebrow, folding her arms. “Why do you care?”
His jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed. “He’s a Gryffindor. A Muggleborn.”
“And your point?”
“He’s beneath you.”
Karen turned to face him fully, her gaze steady, unflinching. “You sound exactly like your father.”
His face heated with anger. “That’s not an insult—”
“It’s not a compliment, either.”
He let out a sharp breath, clearly frustrated. “You think you’re better than everyone.”
“No,” she said quietly, “I just don’t need anyone else to define me.”
That shut him up for a moment.
“I could hex you,” he said at last, his voice low and threatening.
Karen smiled, calm and unafraid. “Try it.”
He didn’t.
She let her fingers trail over the tapestry’s rough fabric as she glanced around the room. “Matt still owes you a favor, right?”
“Yes,” Draco said, sounding annoyed.
“So, what do you hope to get from a… Gryffindor Muggleborn?” Karen asked, watching him carefully.
Draco’s smirk stretched wider. “Murdock’s more capable than people give him credit for.”
That was enough for Karen. She grinned, eyes sharp. “Draco Malfoy, did you just compliment a Muggleborn?”
For a heartbeat, something like horror flickered across his face before it vanished beneath a sneer. “Don’t be ridiculous. I was merely—”
Karen wagged her finger at him. “No need to explain. Save it.”
Caught off guard, Draco stumbled over his words.
Karen stepped in closer, the smirk never leaving her face. “It’s okay. I won’t tell.” She leaned in and whispered, then winked. “Now, tell me — what do you actually do for fun in that giant manor of yours?”
Draco straightened, brushing off his moment of weakness. “We have a Quidditch pitch.”
“I don’t play Quidditch,” she said flatly.
He raised an eyebrow. “Can you catch a Snitch?”
Karen’s grin widened. “I can ride well enough.”
The sky above the Malfoy estate was a crisp summer blue, stretched wide and warm, with a few clouds drifting low over the hills like they couldn’t be bothered to move faster. Karen adjusted her gloves, steadied her grip, and kicked off from the ground.
The broom responded instantly. Smooth acceleration, solid control—no wobble, no lag. It was clearly top of the line. No surprise.
Draco was already in the air, flying wide, lazy circles overhead like he had something better to do. He spotted her and drifted closer, smirk in place, posture annoyingly relaxed.
“I’ll go easy on you, Page,” he called down.
Karen snorted and rose to meet him. “You’d better. Wouldn’t want to bruise your ego when I wipe the pitch with you.”
His smirk widened. “We’ll see.”
The snitch released with a quick flick of the charmed box, shooting up in a blur of gold. It caught the sun, vanished, then reappeared in a darting zigzag—just long enough to give them a target.
Karen didn’t wait.
She leaned forward and the broom surged ahead, cutting through the air with practiced ease. Her jacket snapped in the wind, eyes narrowed against the warmth.
Ilvermorny hadn’t trained her for this exactly, but it was close enough. Obstacle racing had been less about rules and more about instincts—cliff edges, sudden turns, and routes no sane person would take. She hadn’t learned to chase a snitch. She’d learned not to die flying.
Draco was fast, but he flew like someone used to clear skies and safe perimeters. Karen flew like she didn’t care if the broom snapped in half so long as she got there first.
The snitch dipped hard and veered left, racing toward the edge of the estate.
She didn’t hesitate.
The wards tingled as she crossed them—an invisible boundary breaking like a line of static over her arms. The trees closed in fast. Tall, dark, and tightly packed, with just enough space between them to make her regret the decision halfway through.
Too late to back out.
She ducked under a thick branch, pulled the broom sideways, scraped past a knot of brambles, and caught a flash of gold again just up ahead.
Then—a sound behind her. Leaves shifting. A sharp curse.
Draco.
Of course he followed.
“You’re mad!” he shouted from behind, voice strained.
Karen grinned, even as she swerved to avoid a tree trunk. “You’re the one who followed me!”
He wasn’t wrong, though. The trees were brutal. Roots jutted up from the forest floor, half-hidden under leaves. Low branches came out of nowhere. The broom barely fit through some of the tighter gaps.
But her heart was racing, her reflexes sharp, and she wasn’t stopping.
The snitch curved right—she followed. Fast.
Then something moved above her. A shift in air pressure. A shadow.
Draco.
He’d looped up and over the trees, followed from a safer angle, waited for his moment.
Snap.
He cut through the space just ahead and snatched the snitch with one clean motion.
Karen swore under her breath and yanked the broom to a stop.
Back on the ground, Draco landed first, his boots crunching lightly against grass. He dusted a few pine needles off his cloak like it was no big deal.
Karen touched down a second later, arms crossed, lips pressed into a flat line.
“That was cheating,” she said.
He tossed the snitch up and caught it without looking. “Strategy,” he said, smug. “I didn’t feel like dying in the woods.”
She gave him a once-over. “Didn’t think you had the nerve to pull that off.”
Draco ran a hand through his wind-tangled hair. “You’re not the only one with instincts.”
Karen raised an eyebrow. “You fly better than you talk.”
He grinned. “And you dodge trees better than most Beaters dodge bludgers.”
“Was that a compliment, Malfoy?”
He looked away, faint smirk still on his lips. “Don’t get used to it.”
Karen had just tugged off her glove and was wiping a smear of sap from her forearm when the sound of footsteps broke the stillness—measured, smooth, the kind of walk you didn’t mistake for anything but deliberate. Adult. Controlled.
Draco straightened almost on instinct, shoulders pulled back. Karen didn’t move.
Lucius Malfoy stepped into view, cane tapping once, then again against the stone path. Narcissa followed beside him—elegant, unreadable—and trailing just a step behind was Paxton Page.
Karen’s jaw locked. Her shoulders tensed. She didn’t look at him.
“Well,” Lucius said, stopping in front of them. His gaze drifted from Karen’s wind-mussed hair to the tear at the elbow of her sleeve. “That was… energetic.”
“She’s good,” Draco said, the words out before he could rein them in.
Lucius gave his son a brief, unreadable look. One brow lifted slightly. “She’s determined,” he said. “Certainly.”
Narcissa tilted her head toward Karen. “You chased the snitch into the woods?”
Karen shrugged with one shoulder. “Seemed more interesting than playing it safe.”
A slight smile touched Narcissa’s mouth. Barely there, but noticeable. “You sound like your mother.”
Karen blinked, caught off guard. “You knew her?”
Narcissa nodded once. “Briefly.”
Lucius held out his hand. Draco hesitated, then handed over the snitch. Lucius turned it over in his palm, examining it like it might hold something more than just gold and charmwork.
“A little reckless,” he said to Karen, tone smooth. “You could’ve been hurt.”
Karen didn’t look away. “I wasn’t.”
He hummed lightly, not disagreeing.
Then came the voice behind them.
“That was dangerous, Karen.”
Her father. His tone was flat, cool. He wasn’t even looking at her—his eyes were somewhere else, maybe on the sky, maybe on nothing.
“You could have gotten someone hurt.”
Of course. Not her. Never her. Karen’s stomach tightened.
“I used to do competitive flying,” she said, voice calm, controlled. “Remember?”
Paxton didn’t answer right away. His silence pressed in heavy, like he was weighing how annoyed he wanted to be.
“You were supposed to be catching the snitch,” he said finally. “Not showboating.”
Karen’s fingers curled around her glove.
There was a pause. Long. Too long.
Lucius broke the silence with a smile. Slow. Controlled. The kind of expression that said more than it needed to.
“Well. At least we know young Miss Page is spirited,” he said. “She’ll be quite the asset to Slytherin’s Quidditch team—if she learns to temper that fire.”
Karen didn’t flinch. She met his gaze, then shook her head.
“I don’t think I’ll be joining the team.”
Draco turned toward her, frowning. “Why not?”
“I flew competitively at Ilvermorny,” she said. “I like that kind of flying better. It’s solo. No plays to memorize. No formation drills. Just me and the sky.” She paused, then leaned in slightly, lowering her voice just enough so the adults wouldn’t catch it. “If you want, Platinum, I could teach you how to fly like that. Might even help you win for once.”
Draco scoffed. “As if I need your help.” His brow furrowed. “Platinum?”
Karen grinned. “Yeah. You’ve got that shiny, polished thing going. Very Slytherin. Very firstborn.” She straightened, still smiling. “You can’t beat me in a race.”
“I caught the snitch,” Draco said, voice sharp like a challenge.
Karen shrugged, unfazed. “You’ve got your strengths. I’ve got mine. I’m still the better flier.”
“Absolutely not.” Draco straightened up, eyes narrowing. “I challenge you—”
His words were cut off by her father’s voice, calm but firm.
“Lord Malfoy, Lady Malfoy, thank you for the dinner invitation, but I believe it’s time for us to depart.”
Karen turned to her father, surprise flickering in her eyes. “But, Father—”
He met her gaze with a cold, steady look. “Wouldn’t want to get your adrenaline too high, right, Karen?”
She frowned, then glanced down at her arm, the faint shimmer of scales beneath her sleeve. Slowly, she pulled it down to cover them again. “Yes. I think you’re right.”
Draco opened his mouth, about to protest.
Karen gave a small, polite curtsy. “Thanks for the game, Draco. We’ll finish our little competition come the school year. Got it?”
“You're on,” Draco said, smirking.
Her father’s hand landed on the nape of her neck, firm and unyielding. “Let’s go,” he said, voice low and controlled.
Karen took a steadying breath, and followed him away from the Malfoy estate.
Matt
Matt sat cross-legged on the rooftop, the cool night air brushing against his face. The city sounds were distant but steady—a soft hum under the quiet sky. He heard footsteps approach and recognized Karen’s light, confident stride before she settled beside him.
“How was dinner with the Malfoys?” he asked.
Karen leaned over, her breath warm against his cheek. “It went well,” she said, a trace of pride in her voice. “I did it.”
“Did what?” he asked, turning his head slightly toward her.
“Got Draco Malfoy to compliment a Muggleborn,” she said, her tone smug, almost daring.
Matt blinked—well, as much as a blind kid could. He hadn’t been thinking about that bet. Sleep had been a stranger last night. More like he hadn’t slept at all.
Karen nudged him gently. “He complimented you, y’know.”
That caught Matt off guard. He hadn’t expected it. “Damn,” he said quietly. “What did he say?”
Karen’s grin was clear in her voice. “He called you ‘surprisingly capable.’”
Matt snorted, shaking his head. “That hardly counts.”
“You never set boundaries,” Karen said, teasing.
“Fair enough.” Matt yawned, the exhaustion pulling at him.
Karen settled down beside him. “Tired?” she asked.
“Didn’t sleep. Was up all night,” he admitted.
Karen sighed, a tired sound. “Never should’ve taught you how to bypass the trace.”
“Too bad, too sad,” he replied, but then his brow furrowed. Karen’s magic signature felt different—off. “You alright?”
She hesitated, then spoke softly. “Transformed earlier,” she said. “I’m in control more now, but it’s getting harder to turn back. Not impossible, just… harder.”
Matt’s voice dropped, softer than before. “I’m sorry, Karen.”
She didn’t say anything right away. Just “Yeah,” and the word hung between them, heavy but quiet.
Then, a sudden noise cut through the stillness—a distant rumble, growing closer. Matt’s senses sharpened. Bus. But not just any bus. There was a strong magical signature attached to it. What the hell?
Karen stood too, her eyes narrowing as she looked toward the street below. “What’s that thing?”
The bus rolled to a stop outside the building. Matt joined her at the edge, peering down. “Someone just stepped out of it, and now the bus is gone,” Karen said, frowning.
Matt reached out with his senses, pushing them farther than usual. The magical energy was strong, familiar. “Is that... Harry?” he asked quietly.
There was a pause. Neither of them said anything at first—the kind of silence that holds a question, waiting for an answer.
Karen finally spoke. “I think you might be right.”
Without wasting time, they moved quickly down from the roof, muscles tense, senses alert.
At the bottom, Harry was standing near the curb, his head turning sharply as if scanning the area. He hadn’t noticed them yet.
Karen and Matt stepped out of the shadows.
Harry turned at the sound, startled. “Karen? Matt?”
“Harry,” Matt said calmly. “What are you doing here?”
Harry looked down, shoulders tense. “I—I messed up.”
Matt didn’t push. “Let’s go inside,” he said. “We’ll talk there. It’s cold out.”
They walked in silence toward the steps of Saint Agnes. The city noise dulled behind them, the streetlights humming faintly overhead.
As they reached the front steps, the door swung open.
“Matthew Michael Murdock,” Sister Maggie snapped, her voice sharp. “You’re supposed to be in bed—” She stopped short when she spotted Karen and Harry behind him.
Her tone shifted, but the edge didn’t disappear. “All three of you. Inside. Now.”
Karen, Matt, and Harry sat together on the couch. Sister Maggie stood nearby, arms crossed, her presence filling the room with an unspoken weight.
“Miss Page, I know you,” she said without looking away from Karen. Then she turned slightly, her voice sharper. “And who are you?”
“M-my name’s Harry,” he stammered, voice shaky. “Miss? Sister? What should I call you?”
“Sister Maggie is fine, dear,” she replied, her tone polite but tight, not inviting further questions.
“Harry’s a friend,” Matt said quietly. “From the boarding school I go to.”
Sister Maggie took a slow breath, like she was trying to measure her words. “And what’s your friend doing here in the middle of the night?”
Matt turned his head toward Harry, waiting for the answer.
Harry hesitated. His fingers clenched into fists on his lap before he spoke, low and careful. “I… ran away. From home.”
Matt sensed the tight knot of fear and guilt tangled inside Harry’s soul. It felt raw, stretched thin like a thread about to snap.
“Please don’t call the police,” Harry added, barely above a whisper.
Sister Maggie was silent for a moment. Then she pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled slowly.
“The three of you stay here,” she said finally, voice firm but not cruel. “I’m going to wake Father Lantom.”
Without another word, she turned and left, the door clicking shut behind her. The room felt empty suddenly.
Matt shifted slightly, his head tilting toward Harry again. “You ran away from the Dursleys?”
“Yeah,” Harry said, voice tight. “Aunt Marge showed up today. She’s staying the whole week. I couldn’t take it. She said awful things—things I can’t forget. And you said if I ever needed help, I could come here. So I did.”
His voice dropped lower, almost breaking. “If I’d stayed another minute with her there… I would’ve done something I’d regret.”
Matt nodded slowly. He could hear the weight in Harry’s words—the fear, the exhaustion. His soul felt battered, like it was pulling apart at the edges.
“They’re going to call the police on me, aren’t they?” Harry whispered. “I shouldn’t have come.”
Harry stood up suddenly, but Matt’s hand shot out and caught his arm, steadying him with a firm, calm grip.
“Relax, Harry,” Matt said. “Just wait.”
Harry didn’t move for a moment. Then he sat back down, his hands gripping his knees. The room was still except for the faint creak of the old church around them.
The door opened quietly and Father Lantom stepped inside alone. His steps were steady. Matt Matt caught the faint scent of strong tea and old paper drifting toward him. It clung to the man before him, mixing with something softer—worn leather, maybe, or the faint trace of candle smoke.
“Hello,” came the soft voice. Father Lantom’s words were calm but careful, steady in the quiet room. “Is everyone alright?”
Harry stood up quickly, the scrape of his chair sharp in Matt’s ears. His breathing was uneven, fast — nerves rattling beneath the surface. “I—I’m so sorry to bother you. I can leave if—”
“No, my boy,” the priest interrupted gently, extending a hand that was firm but kind. “The church welcomes all. Please, sit.”
Harry hesitated, a brief silence full of hesitation, then lowered himself back onto the couch. Matt could hear the tension in his chest, the quickened heartbeat like a drum beneath thin skin.
Matt stayed still. He didn’t need to see to know how tense the boy was. His other senses filled in what eyes could not. The slight tremble in Harry’s voice. The way his gaze flickered—Matt felt the weight of uncertainty hanging in the air.
Father Lantom shifted his attention, speaking next to Matt and Karen. “You two should be in bed.”
“Sorry, Father Lantom,” Karen said quickly, standing up. Her footsteps were light but determined, almost urgent. “I should probably head home anyway.” She gave a small smile toward Harry and Matt. “Bye, Harry. Bye, Matt.”
She left before Matt could say anything. His head tilted faintly in her direction, registering the quickness of her exit. Coward, he thought, though he kept the judgment to himself.
Father Lantom turned back to Harry. “So. Sister Maggie tells me you ran away from home. Are you… magical?”
“I’m a wizard,” Harry said simply, the word carrying a weight Matt could hear.
The priest nodded slowly, folding his arms as if weighing the boy’s truth. “And the people you ran from?”
“My aunt and uncle. They’re muggles.”
Lantom tapped a finger lightly on his knee. “Alright.” Then his eyes, sharp and steady, met where Matt imagined Harry’s face to be. “Listen, Mr…?”
“Potter. Harry Potter.”
“Well, Mr. Potter,” the priest said, voice low and measured, “I don’t know how the magical world handles situations like this. In the non-magical one, running away has consequences. There are laws. Do you think your aunt and uncle will call the police?”
Harry’s voice tightened. “They’d probably be glad I’m gone.”
The priest began pacing slowly, hands clasped behind his back. Each step creaked on the worn wooden floor, a steady rhythm in the quiet room. After a moment, he stopped, voice firm. “I saw nothing,” he said clearly. “You’re not here.”
Matt raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t lying a sin?”
Father Lantom gave a short, amused huff. “Don’t take after me, Matthew. I’m trusting you to come up with a plan.”
With that, the priest left the room, the sound of the door closing soft but definite.
Matt grinned. The tension in the room shifted, loosened.
Harry looked confused. “What just happened?”
Matt’s voice was calm, steady. “You can stay here. For now.”
Harry leaned back again, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It felt like relief.
Harry adjusted to the orphanage in his own way. Matt didn’t have a neat label for it—he just noticed things. Harry mostly stayed close to him and Karen, rarely talking much with the other kids. He kept to himself, eyes always moving, as if he didn’t fully trust the place yet.
Some of the older kids tried to mess with him once, the usual hazing they did to newcomers. But the second Matt stepped in, they backed off. He didn’t have to say anything—just being there was enough. People didn’t challenge Matt anymore. There were easier targets, and they knew it.
Having Harry around did change things, though. Matt couldn’t sneak out as often, couldn’t test the edges of the magic. But it wasn’t all bad. He and Harry started getting closer, even if neither of them said it out loud.
Apparently, the night Harry ran away had been his birthday—July 31st. He mentioned it once, in passing, like it wasn’t supposed to matter. That left Matt feeling a little guilty. He ended up admitting his own birthday too—June 16th. Karen made a joke about them both being “summer babies” or something equally pointless. Still, they remembered the dates.
Then there was Karen and Harry. Matt couldn’t exactly figure out what was going on there. They’d started this weird back-and-forth—bickering, trading sarcastic comments, sometimes teaming up just to one-up the other. It wasn’t hostile, though. At least not really. If anything, it almost looked like a rivalry, but a friendly one. So Matt let it be.
They were figuring things out—the three of them. It wasn’t fast, and it wasn’t always easy, but they were getting there. That counted for something.
Harry sat beside Matt on the roof, legs crossed, arms resting on his knees. The city moved around them: cars passing below, the distant thrum of voices, footsteps on pavement. Matt listened without looking, his head tilted slightly, tracking it all.
“So is this what you do all day?” Harry asked, breaking the quiet.
Matt shrugged. “I do other things. But I spend most of my time outside the orphanage. I like the fresh air.”
It wasn’t a lie. The air helped clear his head. Being outside meant space—less noise from thoughts and emotions pressed too close together. The roof especially was better. It gave him room to breathe, to focus. He could think without interruption. Up there, things didn’t feel as crowded or complicated.
Harry leaned back, supporting himself with his hands. “Makes sense. Better than being stuck indoors with the same people all the time.”
There was a short pause before Harry added, “We need to go to Diagon Alley soon… for school stuff.”
Matt gave a nod. “We can go tomorrow. Might as well take Karen too.”
Harry glanced at him. “Will Father Lantom take us?”
Matt tilted his head. “Maybe. Depends if he’s busy. You know he’s basically best friends with Arthur Weasley?”
Harry blinked. “What? Since when?”
“They met last year. In Diagon Alley,” Matt said. “Remember that fight between Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Weasley? Lantom helped break it up.”
“Oh—yeah!” Harry’s face lit up with recognition. “We were in the library when it started. Everyone ran to the windows to watch.”
Matt gave a small smirk. “Yeah. Whole alley stopped what they were doing.”
Harry let out a quiet laugh, the tension easing slightly.
After a beat, Matt asked, “Did you write to Ron and Hermione? About… being here?”
Harry shifted. “I write them letters. Hedwig delivers them and brings their replies.” He paused. “But I haven’t told them I ran away yet. I don’t want them to worry.”
Matt nodded, thoughtful. “Send them a letter. Tell them to meet us in Diagon Alley tomorrow if they can. Somewhere public.”
“I think Ron might still be on his way back from Egypt, but I’m not sure,” Harry said. “Still… I’ll send the letters.”
There was a pause, then Harry added, quieter, “Thank you… Matt.”
Matt blinked, a little surprised. “What for?”
“For letting me stay here.”
Matt shook his head slightly. “Of course, Harry.”
The Next day.
“I’ll drop you off by the… what’s it called? Leaky Cauldron,” Father Lantom said, adjusting his hands on the steering wheel as the car slowed near their stop. “Then the three of you can run around to your heart’s content. But please— please —don’t get into any trouble. Be safe, all right?”
Matt could hear the slight tension in his voice. He meant it. He wasn’t just being polite.
“I’ll be nearby,” Lantom added. “There’s a charity office a few blocks over I’m visiting for a meeting. If anything happens, I won’t be far.”
He paused, thoughtful. “And if you happen to run into Mr. or Mrs. Weasley, tell them I say hello. I’d love to come by for tea sometime and hear all about their trip to Egypt.” Another pause. “Actually, no—tell them—” He stopped himself with a short laugh. “Never mind. I’ll write.”
“Thank you for driving us, Father Lantom,” Karen said, already unbuckling her seatbelt.
“Yes, thank you,” Harry added from the back seat.
Matt nodded in agreement. “We’ll be careful.”
He meant it. He could already sense the crowded, shifting magic ahead—Diagon Alley just beyond the hidden entrance. It was a lot. But he was ready.
Matt heard them before they even got close. Ron and Hermione were already mid-argument by the time the group stepped into the Leaky Cauldron.
Ron’s voice came first—frustrated and sharp. “I’m warning you, Hermione. Keep that bloody beast of yours away from Scabbers, or I’ll turn it into a tea cozy.”
Hermione shot right back. “It’s a cat, Ronald. What do you expect? It’s in his nature.”
“A cat? Is that what they told you? It looks more like a pig with hair, if you ask me.”
“That’s rich, coming from the owner of that smelly old shoe brush. It’s alright, Crookshanks. You just ignore the mean little boy.”
Matt felt Karen shift beside him, the movement light but deliberate, her amusement clear in the way her breath softened. A faint catch in Harry’s breath reached him — subtle, but sharp enough to tell that Harry recognized the voices nearby.
They stepped further into the space.
“Harry,” Ron’s voice called out, steady and familiar.
Hermione’s voice turned toward them, quick and sharp. “Harry!”
Karen echoed the name with a teasing edge. “Harry.”
Matt added his own voice, calm and even. “Harry.”
Harry moved toward them with a burst of energy, laughter breaking free the moment he reached Ron and Hermione. The three exchanged greetings — quick, a little awkward, the kind that come after time spent apart but still warmed by friendship. Hermione’s eyes flicked past Harry, landing on Karen and Matt.
“What are you two doing with Harry?” she asked, a note of suspicion mixed with curiosity.
Karen’s reply came fast, with perfect timing. “Well, you see, Hermione, I kidnapped him and Matt to feed to my pet snakes, but alas — Harry’s too skinny to make a decent meal, and Matt doesn’t taste good.”
Hermione froze, the confusion clear in her voice. “I—I didn’t mean it like—”
Karen cut her off, soft but firm. “I know, Hermione. Hello.”
“’Ello Karen. ’Ello Matt,” Ron said, voice casual, almost like this was a normal conversation.
Matt nudged Karen gently with his elbow. “Hey, Harry, how about the two of us go shopping while you catch up with Hermione and Ron?”
Harry blinked, and Matt could hear the surprise in his voice. “You’d do that for me?”
“Of course,” Matt answered, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. “Just one thing — what electives are you taking?”
Harry thought for a moment. “Divination and Care of Magical Creatures. Why?”
Matt nodded slowly, pretending to consider it. “Right… yeah. I’m taking Care of Magical Creatures too. And Arithmancy.”
Was that right? Arithmency? Arithma-something? Too late to ask now. Matt gave a confident thumbs-up and started turning with Karen toward the entrance of Diagon Alley.
As they walked, he leaned in a little. “Did I say that right?”
Karen snorted quietly. “Close enough.”
They kept moving forward.
Karen and Matt returned, arms full with bags from Diagon Alley—textbooks, parchment, quills, potion ingredients, everything they'd need.
He paused before they reached the others, stopping Karen with a light tap on her arm.
“We got everything,” he said quietly, scanning the ambient magic around the bags. It buzzed faintly with traces of enchantments—nothing threatening, just the usual protective spells and store signatures. “No tampering.”
Karen nodded and adjusted the strap of her bag. “Took long enough.”
They started toward the group again when Matt heard Mr. Weasley's voice, low but urgent, speaking to Harry a few feet away. The tone caught Matt’s attention immediately—serious, edged with worry. He focused, listening more closely.
“Harry,” Mr. Weasley said, “there are people at the Ministry who’d be furious with me for telling you this—but I think you need to hear the truth. You’re in danger. Real danger.”
Matt felt a shift beside him—Karen heard it too. They stayed quiet.
“Is this about Sirius Black?” Harry asked. His voice was steady, but Matt could hear the tension behind it, the way his heart skipped, just slightly.
“What do you know about him?” Mr. Weasley asked.
“Only that he escaped from Azkaban.”
There was a pause. Mr. Weasley’s voice lowered even more. “Do you know why?”
Harry didn’t respond right away. Matt imagined him shaking his head.
Mr. Weasley continued, “Thirteen years ago, when you stopped—”
“Voldemort,” Harry said.
“Don’t say his name,” Mr. Weasley cut in quickly.
“Sorry.”
“When you stopped… You-Know-Who,” Mr. Weasley resumed, “Black lost everything. But he still remains loyal. Loyal to You-Know-Who. And in his mind, you—Harry—you’re the only thing standing in the way of his return to power. That’s why he escaped. He’s coming to find you.”
Matt felt it then—a spike of guilt and fear radiating off Harry’s soul, quiet but sharp, like someone trying not to panic.
“To kill me,” Harry said, his voice dull, like he was already resigned to it.
Mr. Weasley exhaled slowly. “Harry, I want you to promise me something. No matter what you hear, no matter what anyone says—don’t go looking for Black. Do you understand me?”
There was a long pause.
“Why would I go looking for someone who wants to kill me?” Harry asked finally.
Matt could hear the way Mr. Weasley shifted his weight, the quiet exhale that followed. Good question, Matt thought. But there was something off—buried beneath the man’s polite tone and careful words. His soul felt tense, pulled in two directions. Whatever Mr. Weasley wasn’t saying, it mattered.
Matt stepped forward, Karen close behind. “Hello,” he called out.
“Ah, hello, Matt, Karen,” Mr. Weasley replied, sounding a little surprised but not unfriendly. “How’s Lantom doing?”
“He’s good,” Matt said. He heard Karen shift beside him, handing Harry his things.
“I’ll head back inside,” Harry said, his voice softer now, like he didn’t want to disturb the quiet around them.
“I’ll come with you,” Mr. Weasley added, his footsteps moving away along the path.
Their steps faded into the distance, swallowed by the night. Matt moved carefully toward the nearby wall. His fingertips brushed something rough and thin—a paper surface stapled to the wood. He traced the edges, then peeled it free.
“What does this say?” he asked, holding it out.
Karen reached over, took the poster, and read it aloud, her voice steady. “‘Have you seen this wizard? Extremely dangerous. Approach with extreme caution. Sirius Black.’” She lowered the paper and looked at him. “Why? Planning to be a bounty hunter now, Church Mouse?”
Matt shook his head. “No. Just... smart to know who’s out there.”
He exhaled quietly, the breath almost lost in the stillness. “I hope this Sirius Black guy doesn’t show up at Hogwarts this year.”
“Isn’t Hogwarts supposed to be the safest place in the world?”
“If only,” Matt muttered. His other senses told him everything that sight could not: tension in the air, the faint hum of restless magic, the undercurrent of danger lurking just beneath the surface. Safe wasn’t a word he’d use for anything related to Hogwarts these days.
Karen smirked. “So, you’re trying to keep the legend of ‘The Bandit’ alive?”
Matt groaned. “That’s a stupid name. I’m not a thief.”
“You broke into the restricted section.”
“I returned the books.”
“You bypassed four wards to do it.”
Matt crossed his arms, his voice calm. “Still not a thief.”
Karen laughed softly, the sound light but unmistakable, close enough to catch every nuance. “Tell that to the librarian.”
Matt carefully set the stack of books down beside him and lowered himself to the floor, leaning back against the cool stone. The quiet stretched between them like a weight.
“Karen?”
She shifted slightly, moving closer. He could tell by the faint change in her breath and the subtle brush of fabric.
“I—” Matt began, then stopped. The words rose to the back of his throat but wouldn’t come out. Not now. He pressed his lips together, let the silence settle for a second.
Instead, he asked, “Are you excited for the new year?”
There was a pause, then her reply came, quiet but edged with dry humor. “Yeah. Hopefully no more trouble, huh?”
He exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. Hopefully.”
But something shifted—faint, just beneath the surface. Not in her voice. Not in her breathing. Something else. Like a thread pulling taut inside him.