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Chapter Text

Prologue

"...By the age of 17, she had taken the lives of six prominent wizards…”

-The Daily Prophet

"While her heritage had predetermined certain expectations for her future, her upbringing deviated from the norm among her peers . . . Academic underachievement, minimal ambitions, and evident evil tendencies defined her school years—professors at Hogwarts critiqued her weak performance, and peers bore witness to her violence."

-The New York Ghost

"Predictably, given her family's sordid history of breeding criminals, it was hardly surprising that she would morph into a bloodthirsty killer, much like her vile father. Curiously, Albus Dumbledore not only mentored her but also shielded and observed her evolution into precisely what he had doubted she'd become. He quietly watched as she unfurled her black wings and proudly paraded them throughout her years at school, leaving this inquisitive writer to ponder whether he played a role in her ascent to prominence or if he was merely a well-intentioned but naive soul who sympathized with a young orphan. Whatever case it was, one undeniable truth remains: this young yet malevolent girl stands as one of the most notorious terrorists of our time."

-Chats with Rita Skeeter

Part I: The Lost Child

Dedicated to the child I once was,  
who dreamed only of boundless skies and untamed freedom.  

Chapter 1: Vera

Wednesday, July 26, 1989

Before the resting place of her parents, a faint smile graced Vera’s lips, a quiet victory carved from the depths of her tumultuous past.

Yet, the Humphreys were never truly her parents, despite their frequent claims. To them, she was nothing more than a servant, a source of unpaid labor, and a tool to elevate their social standing.

It was a warm August afternoon in 1986 when she first arrived at their house.Their home, along with their goat farm, lay nestled among the golden fields of Cornwall. Though she had been through nine foster families before, it was clear that these elderly farmers would leave the most indelible mark on her life.

As she watched the social worker's car fade into the distance down the gravel road, the dark-haired girl stood before the unfamiliar farmhouse, clutching her small backpack with anxious hope. The old couple, their faces weathered from years of hard work, looked stern and unyielding. They greeted her with faint smiles that never quite reached their eyes, then quickly suggested a tour of the house.

In her tattered dress, she followed her new foster parents through the wooden doors of a rustic barn, where the air was thick with the earthy scent of hay and the soft bleating of goats. Mr. Humphrey's gaze, as cold as the steel tools he worked with, settled on her. He then pointed to a nanny goat, tethered by a frayed rope.

"Let's see your worth, girl," he grumbled, thrusting a pail into her hands.

"Milking a goat isn't easy," Mrs. Humphrey added. "You’ve got to be gentle, yet firm."

Vera placed the pail on the ground and knelt before the goat, her eyes wide with fascination. She waited, expecting the milk to flow on its own, unaware of what was required.

"Looks like they've sent us a dim one," Mr. Humphrey remarked, his tone dripping with disdain.

"She's merely eight, Gerald," Mrs. Humphrey countered. "She’s meant to learn."

"I told you, a lad would’ve been more useful."

"We've discussed this already—there were no boys available! And what choice do we have now? Sending her back would set tongues wagging."

“Volunteering ourselves was unwise, Ruth.”

"Father George assured us it was a virtuous act, one that would elevate our standing in the church. I'll put her to use in the kitchen. Lord knows I need the extra hands these days."

“Fine! But mark my words, girl,” he said, turning to Vera, “any mischief won’t be tolerated.”

Oh, and it certainly wasn't.

Standing at Mrs. Humphrey's funeral nearly three years later, Vera couldn't escape the haunting memories of the painful days she had endured in their home. The years of relentless torment had etched themselves into her very being, leaving scars on her soul. As memories surged like an overwhelming tide, a single tear slipped down her cheek. In the somber atmosphere of the funeral, onlookers mistook her tears for sorrow, unaware that they were, in fact, tears of joy.

She was finally free.

After the burial concluded, Miss Jones, the dedicated social worker overseeing her case, approached to offer her condolences. Vera sat by the fireplace, munching indifferently on a scone, her eyes frequently darting toward the door.

"Poor Mrs. Humphrey," Miss Jones sighed. "Her death was so sudden, and only a week after her husband's passing? What an absolute shock."

"They were almost bloody ninety," Vera muttered under her breath.

Miss Jones offered a sympathetic smile. "I know how hard it’s been for you, Vera. But I promise, everything will be okay."

Vera’s uncertainty was evident, though she remained mostly unbothered. "Where will my new foster home be?" she asked with a mouthful.

Miss Jones sighed, her expression kind but troubled. "To be honest, dear, finding a long-term placement for someone your age has been a bit... complicated. But don’t worry, there’s a girls' home in London that has a spot for you."

"A girls' home?" Vera echoed, a hint of fear in her voice.

"Yes, dear. We’ll be leaving Cornwall today by train. I know it’s sudden, but we need to reach London before nightfall. Could you pack quickly?"

Vera didn’t own much: three plain dresses, a single pair of pajamas, a worn-out hairbrush she despised, a couple of loose hair ties, a toothbrush, and an old sketchbook with four colored crayons and a pencil that had been sharpened to death. She packed everything into the same backpack she had arrived with—now old and frayed—then quickly made her way to Miss Jones’s car.

Pausing for a moment, she took one last look at the farm. Her sapphire eyes, sharp with disdain, swept over the familiar surroundings. She eagerly anticipated leaving it all behind—especially those fucking goats.

They arrived at their destination shortly before sunset. The girls' home, located in Sutton, just south of London, blended seamlessly with the surrounding houses, distinguished only by a sign near the entrance that read:

St. Mary's Home for Girls.

As Vera stepped inside, she was greeted by Miss Nelson, the matron in charge. She was a strikingly beautiful Black woman in her early thirties, exuding an air of sophistication and grace. Her hair was impeccably styled, and a simple cross hung around her neck, which stirred an uneasy feeling in Vera's chest. After bidding a final farewell to Miss Jones, she followed her matron on a thorough tour of the home.

The residence was not overly grand, housing only a modest number of girls, but it had a warm, welcoming atmosphere. Toys and shoes were scattered across the floor, and the sound of loud music drifted down from one of the rooms upstairs.

The ground floor of the house served as a common area, featuring a television, a small library, cozy sofas, a fireplace, and a dining hall. A concealed door led to the underground kitchens, pantry, and laundry room. On the first floor were the matron's office, staff rooms, and a nursery with six cradles. The second floor housed four bedrooms, each crammed with four closely packed beds and shared closets. However, Vera was instructed to store her belongings beneath her bed, which was a creaky iron frame that emitted a distinct squeak with every movement.

Throughout the house, a persistent blend of wood and baby powder filled the air, accompanied by the never-ending cries of infants. Despite the noise and the crowded conditions, Vera found herself drawn to the place. There was a warmth to it, and she could already imagine herself settling in.

"Now pay close attention," Miss Nelson's voice momentarily jolted her from her thoughts. "You must follow a certain set of rules if you intend to remain under this roof."

Suppressing an almost instinctual eye-roll, Vera checked herself.

"Firstly, no fighting with the other girls.” Miss Nelson began. “Should I catch wind of any hair-pulling, you will be punished.”

Vera nervously nibbled on her lip, recalling all the kids she had punched before.

“Secondly, you are not a guest here. This is your home. Meaning you would have to participate in taking care of the house as well as your younger sisters. You shall be assigned certain tasks throughout the day."

Nothing new, Vera thought.

"Lastly, your presence at school along with a good record of marks is non-negotiable. Am I making myself clear?"

"Yes."

"Good. Supper is served at 8. Furthermore," she concluded, her steps drawing her towards the exit, "attend to your personal hygiene at once. The bathroom is situated down the hallway, to the left."

A trace of disdain lingered in her voice, prompting Vera to wonder whether the scent of the farm still clung to her skin. The door closed with a decisive thud, leaving her alone. She took a deep breath, allowing the reality of her new situation to settle in. After freshening up, she intended to rest before joining the others for dinner, exhausted from the train journey to London. However, her brief respite was interrupted when two girls burst into the room.

"Check it out, it's the newbie," one of the girls said, her tone both curious and dismissive.

She was older than Vera, tall with dirty blonde hair and sharp green eyes accentuated by smudged eyeliner.

"We ought to give her the grand tour then," the other girl added.

She was slightly chubby, wore glasses, and had red hair with a face full of freckles.

"I'm Lydia," said the blonde one. "And this 'ere is Abbie."

"I'm Vera," she offered with a smile, extending her hand politely. However, the girls disregarded it, walking past her toward the bed.

“Right, Bumpkin. Where's your shite?” Abbie asked, reaching beneath her new bed.

With a flourish, she retrieved Vera’s backpack, and both girls indulged in a fit of giggles. They proceeded to scatter her items onto the bed, making fun of what she owned. They mocked her plain dresses and Lydia even went so far as to spit on her toothbrush.

Vera stood by the bedside, her astonishment palpable. It was only when Abbie unearthed her sketchbook that she jolted from her shock.

"What do you think you’re doing?" She demanded.

"Easy now, we're just giving you a bit of a welcome." Lydia said as she wrested the sketchbook from Abbie's grasp. “Now, what's this then?"

She peered into the pages, and their chuckles soon filled the room as they flicked through, mocking every doodle.

"Is that a bloody dragon?" said Lydia, pointing at one of the sketches.

Vera acted swiftly, reclaiming her sketchbook from their hold. "Let's see you try and draw a dragon then."

Lydia narrowed her eyes. "I'm not a fucking wonk."

"You're a moron that's what you are." Vera said, inciting a surge of wrath from the blonde girl.

"Watch your gob dipstick."

"See? That's exactly what a moron would say." Vera countered, unflinching.

Lydia's visage flushed crimson; clearly, she wasn't used to people talking back to her.

"Looks like we're gonna 'ave to teach the newbie a lesson." She proposed to Abbie.

Vera quickly recalled Matron’s first rule and had no intention of breaking it on her first night at the orphanage. As Lydia and Abbie aimed to punch her in the belly, she stepped back, instinctively raising her arms to protect herself.

Just as the girls were about to strike, another girl walked in, halting the confrontation.

"What’s going on here?" She yelled, pulling Lydia and Abbie away. "Pack it in, or I'll grass you lot up to Miss Nelson."

“Get lost, Em!" Lydia shouted. “This ain't your business!"

"Leave her alone or I'll tell Miss Nelson you're sneaking out to meet your dimwit boyfriend at Kuster's."

"Take that back! Danger ain't dimwit, you bloody tosser!"

"Anyone who goes by Danger is a right bloody dimwit in my book."

"Well, fuck your book!"

"Clear off!" Em snapped, her presence looming over them.

"Fine,” Lydia hissed, dragging Abbie out of the room. “Let's go, Abs. We'll sort the newbie out later, and don’t you dare think of dobbing us in!"

"You alright?" the new girl asked, her voice filled with concern.

She was a lot older, with shoulder-length amber hair that framed her face. She wore a short black dress and a leather jacket, accessorized with fishnet stockings and an array of bracelets on her arms. Vera found herself captivated by her presence, silently wishing she could exude the same cool confidence.

"I'm fine," she replied, adjusting her dress in place.

"Don't mind them. Lydia's a right cunt and Abbie's got about as much sense as a box of rocks."

Vera chuckled, slightly taken aback by the unexpected swearing. She resumed gathering her belongings and placing them back into her backpack.

"I'm Emily, but you can call me Em."

“I’m Vera."

“Oh, like that lady on Corrie!” Em exclaimed, picking up the sketchbook from the floor.

Vera blinked, momentarily puzzled.

"Did you do these?" Em asked, flipping through the pages.

Vera hesitated, unsure if she could trust her. But Em quickly reassured her.

"These are brilliant!" She exclaimed. "You've got real talent."

"Thanks," Vera said, her mood lifting.

She had never shown anyone her drawings before; they had always been a source of insecurity. The Humphreys had derided her hobby, calling it devilish, something she never fully understood.

"These are all so bloody creative!” Em added. “Ok so that’s a dragon, these might be mermaids but what is that? A smurf?" she asked, gesturing at a drawing of a wrinkled being with large eyes, tall nose and bat-like ears.

"No it's just some... Creature." Vera said shyly.

"Blimey! Where do you come up with ideas for these drawings?"

Vera hesitated before replying, unsure of how crazy her answer might sound. "I dream them up most of the time."

“Well done you!” Em said, handing back the sketchbook.

The two girls then descended to the ground floor, where the younger ones were engaged in playing with dolls near the fireplace, while the older ones prepared the dining table.

It became clear that the group was notably small, mostly composed of children barely five years old, and Vera found herself among the older few. Emily then excused herself, slipping into the kitchen to lend a hand, leaving her to navigate the room on her own.

"Hiya," a girl suddenly greeted, approaching with a warm smile.

She had a cascade of beautiful black curls that framed her bronze complexion exquisitely. Her hazel eyes radiated warmth, and her full lips curved into a graceful smile.

“I'm Kaya." She herself with a polite smile. "You must be Vera. Miss Nelson told us about you.”

Vera returned the greeting with a genuine smile.

“How old are you?” Kaya asked.

"Oh, I'm ten."

"Oh, mint!!! I'm eleven. But I skipped a year, so we'll be in the same class.”

“That’s nice,” Vera said, feeling a sense of comfort in this connection, as Kaya was the closest in age among the others.

"The school we go to is pretty decent,” Kaya added, “and the teachers are really nice. Although I think it’s because they feel sorry for us. You’ll see what I mean in September.”

Vera learned that she would be attending a local school nearby, like many of the other girls at the orphanage. Before moving in with the Humphreys, her education had been sporadic due to her frequent changes in foster homes. She had completed her third, fourth, and fifth years at a small school in Cornwall. Despite the challenges, she excelled in her studies, finding solace in learning amid her farm chores. However, her time at her previous school was marred by relentless bullying.

She was often targeted for her “shitty” odor and her status as an orphan. One boy cruelly taunted her by calling her a “bastard,” while a girl named Maggie spread hurtful rumors about her mother, claiming she was a London prostitute who had abandoned her baby. Knowing nothing about her biological parents, Vera felt powerless to defend herself against the slander. But when Maggie pushed her too far, she retaliated by punching her in the face, knocking out one of her teeth. Although the Humphreys punished her for it, she was too fucking proud of herself to feel any regret.

“Can we be friends?” Kaya asked with an innocent smile.

Vera’s excitement was palpable as she nodded enthusiastically. She had never truly had any friends before; most of the other children were advised to keep their distance from her due to her unknown lineage. But Kaya’s warm conversation before dinner was a comforting change, giving her hope that her new school experience might be different from her past.

"You’ve never had a chippy before!" 

"Not really," Vera admitted. "My foster parents were old and always sick. They didn’t like any sort of unhealthy food."

"But it’s not unhealthy! I mean, it’s fish, init?”

"I suppose so."

"And you must’ve gone to the beach a lot?"

"No, never been."

"But you lived in Cornwall!"

Vera shrugged, unsure how to explain.

"I wish I lived down south.” Kaya said wistfully. “It’s so stunning."

"I think I prefer it here, to be honest."

"Sutton? It’s dull as dishwater, and no one important ever lived here."

Vera offered a polite smile. She wasn’t quite sure how to express her excitement about living in a town with people and shops instead of just trees and cow shit.

As dinner approached, the senior girls took charge, serving food and guiding the younger ones to the table. Vera found comfort sitting beside Kaya, enjoying the simple pleasure of friendly company. After the meal, Em assigned them to dishwashing duty. Surprisingly, Vera found joy in the task; their shared laughter made it enjoyable and gave her a sense of belonging she had longed for.

“Hey, new girl,” Grace, an older girl, suddenly interrupted. “Miss Nelson wants to see you in her office.”

Anxious thoughts swirled in Vera’s mind as she pondered the unexpected summons. Climbing to the first floor, where Miss Nelson's office awaited, she hesitated briefly before the open door and knocked gently to announce her arrival.

"Come on in," the matron’s voice invited from within.

As Vera stepped into the room, she took in her surroundings. The space was impeccably organized, featuring a small library filled with an array of files and books. A sizable window behind the desk offered a view of a bustling street outside. One wall was adorned with a crucifix, a framed portrait of the Virgin Mary, and beside it, a poster of... Dolly Parton?

"Do you fancy my collection?" Miss Nelson inquired, noticing her gaze fixed on the small religious figurines arranged on the desk.

"Yes, they're quite lovely." Vera politely replied.

"I had this one shipped all the way from France," Miss Nelson said, indicating a particularly ornate statue. "It cost me a pretty penny, but it was worth every quid. It's called Maddona and Child."

Vera offered a polite smile.

"Do you recall the rules, Vera?"

"Yes, Ma’am."

"Oh heavens, Ma’am makes me feel ancient," the matron joked, placing a hand on her chest. "Just call me Miss. Or Rosemary, if you're feeling naughty."

“Yes, Miss,” Vera said with a giggle, feeling a weight lift off her shoulders. It was a rare comfort to encounter such kindness from an adult.

"Alright, then. I heard you were a bit of a troublemaker at your last school."

Vera definitely couldn’t deny it.

“But I was also informed that you possess remarkable intelligence.” Miss Nelson continued. “Your academic performance, particularly in Science stands as a testament to your capabilities. I have high expectations for your time at Sutton's."

Vera was overwhelmed with a sense of validation, a feeling foreign to her. The Humphreys had always managed to diminish any achievements she garnered in the past, and being spoken to in such a supportive manner felt novel and invigorating.

"Now, there's one matter I wish to discuss," Miss Nelson said. "While you might attend interviews on a regular basis, I want to emphasize that adoption is not a certainty, especially given your age. Please understand that if a family doesn't choose you, it's not a reflection of your worth. As for the future, you'll reside here until you turn eighteen. After that, you'll be responsible for yourself. I strongly advise you to devote yourself to your studies. No matter what anyone says, education is and will always be a girl's only guarantee for a better life."

The weight of her advice resonated with Vera, and she found herself involuntary smiling.

"One last thing," Miss Nelson carried on, prompting her attention. "Do you have any talents or particular hobbies that you excel in?"

The unexpected question left her momentarily puzzled, a flicker of confusion crossing her features.

"It's for your profile, dear.” Miss Nelson clarified. “I need to include it for potential adoptive families."

A moment of thought later, Vera recalled her conversation with Em about her drawings and the acknowledgment of her talent.

“I enjoy drawing, ma'am, uh, I mean, Miss."

"Excellent," Miss Nelson responded. "I'll make sure to include that in your profile, if that's alright with you?"

"Yes, thank you," Vera answered with gratitude, inwardly relieved that Miss Nelson did not disapprove of her artistic inclination.

“Now go join the other girls in the Living area." the matron concluded, casually resting her feet on the desk. "I have loads to do."

With a carefree air, she flipped open what appeared to be a romantic novel, featuring a shirtless man on the cover.

Vera swiftly head back downstairs to meet Kaya and the others. She found them all squatting in front of a medium sized television watching a show.

"You into Eastenders, Vera?" Kaya asked, turning to her.

Vera nodded and crouched beside her and Grace. She had only heard about the show from her peers back in Cornwall but had never had the chance to watch it. Her eyes widened in disbelief as she realized she could finally enjoy television—something the Humphreys had never allowed her to do. Within five minutes of the show, she was completely hooked.

This newfound joy was just one of the many pleasures she experienced during her summer at the girls' home. She and Kaya formed a deep bond, as if they had been friends forever. Their laughter echoed through the hallways, solidifying their friendship with each passing day. Whether it was watching television, drawing, playing board games, or kicking a football on the street, the two girls were inseparable.

However, their play often led to trouble with the neighbors, as many would come out, shouting about the noise or accusing them of breaking windows. Yet, there was one elderly woman who never yelled at Vera. Instead, she would simply stare at her with a disturbing, unsettling gaze.

That woman was a curious figure in the neighborhood. A bit chubby, she had a pair of sharp grey eyes that seemed to see straight through people—usually with a look that hovered between knowing amusement and mild disapproval. Her wardrobe was a spectacle in itself: layers upon layers of fabric, swirling around her like she was perpetually caught in a gust of wind, all in colors and patterns that clashed so violently they might have started a war. And then there was the hat—always present, always enormous, as if it had been grafted onto her head at birth. Wherever she went, a delegation of cats followed, weaving through her ankles like devoted acolytes.

"Do you know Mrs. Wriggleshore?" Kaya asked, glancing over her shoulder.

Vera frowned. "No, never seen her before."

"Well, she seems to know you. She’s always staring."

"Yeah," Vera muttered, shifting uncomfortably.

Then, in an attempt to shake off the unease, she added with a smirk, "What kind of name is Wriggleshore, anyway? Sounds like a fish trying to escape a net."

Kaya snorted with laughter, and Vera managed a grin—but the weight of the old woman’s gaze still pressed against the back of her mind.

After an electrifying football match, the girls trudged home at sunset, exhausted but determined to freshen up before dinner—an event both anticipated and feared, thanks to the formidable Mrs. Quinn.

The house’s resident chef was a middle-aged Irish woman with hair so violently orange it looked like it had a personal vendetta against gravity. By the end of the day, her flushed face often matched her hair, a testament to the battlefield that was her kitchen.

Vera found her endlessly entertaining—when she wasn’t yelling at them, that is. Mrs. Quinn had a habit of belting out songs as she cooked, only pausing to hurl creative insults at anyone foolish enough to interrupt her process.

Despite her boisterous charm, she ruled the kitchen with an iron spoon, and the girls knew better than to question her methods—or her food. Especially her puddings, which were... an acquired taste. Criticism was out of the question. Instead, they smiled, nodded, and lied through their teeth, showering her with praise to avoid the wrath of a woman who took her desserts very personally.

That day's dinner held a distinct quality as Miss Nelson joined them to deliver some news.

"Tomorrow, we're having visitors," She announced, and the girls erupted in excited chatter, as if they already knew what she was about to say.

"Visitors?" Vera asked, turning to Kaya, her usual dinner companion.

"Potential adopters," Kaya replied, her excitement mirroring that of everyone else.

"They will be meeting with you all, so I expect everyone to be ready, with tidy hair and clean clothes. Emily, Cynthia," Miss Nelson directed her attention to the 17-year-old girls seated near her at the table. “Assist in dressing your younger sisters, please. And make sure they don't choke on their hair ties this time."

"Yes, Miss." Emily and Cynthia responded.

"Now, carry on with supper and sleep early. No longer than one hour of telly is allowed tonight."

"Oh crikey!” The girls erupted in protest, their voices rising in unison.

“No, Miss! We're gonna miss Top of the Pops!" 

"Please, Miss! Kylie's performing!"

"Alright," Miss Nelson relented, rolling her eyes. "Hour and a half for Kylie bloody Minogue."

As excitement rippled through the group of girls, Vera remained preoccupied with thoughts of the visitors expected the following day.

"Are they going to adopt one of us?" She asked Kaya.

"Usually, they go for the babies.”

"But they might adopt one of us, right?"

"Yeah, of course," Kaya answered, attempting to reassure her, though her response carried a hint of uncertainty.

Vera's excitement mirrored that of her peers. The idea of adoption had never crossed her mind before, but she perceived it as a preferable alternative to being fostered. As she imagined a life with two parents, an unfamiliar but hopeful desire emerged. Despite fears of ending up with unkind people again, she clung to the hope that a warm and welcoming one would embrace her, fulfilling her long-standing wish for a proper family.

However, her visible excitement did not go unnoticed by the girl seated across from her at the table. Lydia, unwilling to let the newbie escape calling her a ‘moron’ without consequence, seemed to be already planning her revenge.

Friday, August 4, 1989

Vera woke up earlier than usual, a rare occurrence for someone who usually enjoyed sleeping in. Because today, she had a mission.

She joined the impossibly long queue for the shower, fully aware that by the time she stepped in, the hot water would be nothing more than a fond memory. Still, she refused to let this minor tragedy ruin her plans. She was going to look her absolute best for the visitors—no matter what.

Once under the water, she took her time, scrubbing and rinsing like she was preparing for battle. Her excessive thoroughness earned her a chorus of impatient sighs from the other girls, but today, she cared about exactly one person: herself.

The real war, however, began after the shower.

Her hair—long, untamed, and seemingly possessing a will of its own—refused to be tamed. An hour and one broken hairbrush later, she surrendered, twisting it into a braid and adorning it with borrowed accessories that made her feel just a touch more elegant.

Her dress, a faded blue number that Mrs. Humphrey had stitched together from salvaged fabric, had been hers for three years. But today, it wasn’t just an old dress. With a bit of effort—and a great deal of ironing—she willed it into something worthy of admiration.

"Girls, be ready in 10 minutes!" Miss Nelson's voice echoed from downstairs.

As Vera hastily spritzed on some old borrowed perfume, a younger girl, Lola, suddenly approached, gently tugging at her dress.

"Mrs. Quinn wants to see you," she lisped adorably.

"What?" Vera replied, surprised. "NOW?"

She swiftly hurried downstairs, joining the other girls in a somewhat chaotic shuffle. In the living room, the older girls were busy fixing the younger ones' hair and stopping them from chewing on their shoelaces. She made her way to the underground kitchen to find out what Mrs. Quinn needed. To her surprise, the kitchen was empty, though the pantry door was wide open.

"Mrs. Quinn?" She called out, her voice trembling slightly.

"I'm right here," a voice replied from just beyond the pantry door.

Vera cautiously stepped closer, but before she could react, she was shoved inside, the door slamming shut behind her. Laughter echoed in the distance—Lydia and Abbie, unmistakably.

"Get me out of here!" she shouted, pounding on the door with all her might.

"No chance, newbie," Abbie taunted from the other side

"Enjoy the mice!" Lydia added, her voice fading as they walked away.

As their footsteps grew distant, a wave of panic washed over her.

"No, no! Please, get me out of here! Please!" she pleaded, but the silence that followed was deafening.

Trapped in the dark, cramped space, her attempts to escape only deepened her frustration. With each passing minute, her anger grew, fueled by the realization that Lydia’s cruel prank had ruined her day. The excitement of meeting potential parents, a moment she had eagerly anticipated, now felt hopelessly lost.

The room, packed with food cans and vegetables, seemed to close in on her, amplifying her sense of entrapment. As tears streamed down her face, memories of the Humphreys’ harsh punishments resurfaced, and the weight of past trauma overwhelmed her.

Her despair soon turned into hysteria, and the hope of a new home, a fresh start, crumbled in her mind. It felt as if misfortune was woven into her very existence, and pain pulsed through her veins.

Her anger, no longer containable, erupted like a volcano, and she screamed with everything she had, her voice raw with emotion. Suddenly, the door to the pantry shook violently and, in an instant, burst open. On it's own.

Vera’s body radiated heat, her head throbbed with pain, and her vision blurred. She cast one last glance at the now-open door before collapsing onto the floor.

Chapter Text

Friday, August 4, 1989

Amidst the bustling activities at the Ministry of Magic, one department, the Improper Use of Magic Office, found itself notably swamped this week, courtesy of Hogwarts students returning to their homes.

Mafalda Hopkirk, the department head, commenced her day with a steaming cup of tea, surrounded by a multitude of cases spanning the United Kingdom, laid out on a sizable map affixed to the office wall.

Upon detection of any energy, the location on the map would illuminate in a captivating light blue hue, revealing the name of the young wizard or witch responsible for the emitted magical energy. Mafalda would proceed to assess each case, identifying the charm or spell employed and implementing appropriate measures.

Embracing the inherent busyness, she recognized that during the summer holidays, most cases involved accidental magical occurrences like levitation or object transfiguration in non-magical settings. These incidents typically resulted in warnings issued to the young practitioners.

However, one particular case that morning seized Mafalda's attention due to its peculiar nature.

In Sutton, south London, an intense surge of magical energy emanated, one that wouldn't occur from accidental outbursts or commonplace spells.

Intriguingly, Mafalda set her fifth cup of tea aside, realizing the additional oddity: the source was an unregistered individual. A blank tag appeared on the map before her, with no name on it.

Without hesitation, she forwarded the case details to the Magical Registration office, typically a realm of mundane paperwork and a rather uneventful department within the office.

Dom and Donnie, two tragically underpaid office drones, were locked in a battle far more intense than any actual work-related task: a wizarding chess match of epic proportions.

Dom, currently crushing her colleague with the grace of a seasoned strategist, was moments away from obliterating his queen.

Donnie, on the other hand, had suddenly developed a deep and suspicious interest in the mountain of papers that had just materialized on their desk.

“No, no, no—you’re not weaseling out of this,” Dom declared, blocking his escape with her leg.

“Weaseling?" Donnie scoffed, attempting to maneuver past her. "I’m simply being a responsible employee." 

She raised an eyebrow. “Since when?”

“Excuse me? My work ethic is legendary.”

“Oh really? And who was it that skived off yesterday to watch a Quidditch match?”

“It wasn’t just a match, it was—”

“A senior citizens Quidditch match. Yes, Donnie, we know." 

“It was incredible, Dom. You had to be there.”

“I don’t care for Quidditch. You know that. Now, make a move before my leg loses circulation.”

“Spare me the humiliation and just end it,” Donnie sighed, halfheartedly sliding his rook in what could only be described as a pitiful last stand.

His king was promptly shattered into pieces by Dom’s queen, who executed the move with all the ruthlessness of someone who had been waiting for this moment.

“Nice move,” he said with a mock bow, while Dom beamed like she’d just won the World Cup.

“You’re so stupid,” she teased. “But I do enjoy playing with you.”

“Thanks, darling. Our parents really nailed it with you,” Donnie shot back, scowling in exaggerated offense. “Now, kindly return to your desk. You’re cluttering my space.”

“What space?” Dom snorted, raising a knowing eyebrow.

“Oh, is that a fat joke? Really original, Dom. I expected more from you.”

“I wasn’t talking about you, you absolute numpty—I meant the size of this broom closet we call an office!”

Dom and Donnie’s office was, to put it kindly, compact. Less kindly, it was a glorified storage closet masquerading as a workspace.

The room itself was drowning in paperwork, with stacks of parchment shoved into every available corner. A quill scribbled away at a pile in one corner, while a stamp thudded dutifully in another, doing more work in an hour than Donnie did in a week. Two desks sat opposite each other, though one was far more lived-in than the other.

Dom’s desk was a war zone.

Newspapers dating back months were scattered haphazardly among half-written letters, shattered quills, and ink bottles so dry they may as well have been artifacts. Six teacups—some definitely growing something sentient—sat precariously next to a cage containing a white rabbit with concerningly sharp teeth.

Donnie’s desk, on the other hand, was practically pristine. Not because he was tidy, but because he never actually used it. His job, as far as anyone could tell, consisted mainly of wandering the Ministry, eating other people’s snacks, indulging in elaborate card games, and gathering enough gossip to fuel an entire tabloid.

Dom, in contrast, was the antisocial sort. Her natural resting glare tended to deter unnecessary conversations, which suited her just fine.

Despite being siblings, they shared little in the way of looks. Donnie was a broad-shouldered man with big black eyes and dark skin, while Dom, lanky and light-skinned with sharp brown eyes, looked nothing like him. It was an unfortunate reality that they were often mistaken for a couple—a thought that never failed to make them both gag.

As Donnie carefully collected the shattered remains of the chess pieces—and his pride—off the floor, Dom’s eyes landed on the fresh batch of documents from the Improper Use of Magic Office.

"Merlin's beard, Donnie, you’ve got to see this!"

"What now?" Donnie grumbled, still nursing the sting of defeat.

"We’ve got a field trip on our hands—an unregistered child in south London."

"Unregistered?" Donnie repeated, brow furrowing in confusion. "Is it a baby Muggleborn?"

"Doesn't look like it," Dom replied, her expression darkening. "The level of magical energy they emitted is... off the charts."

"Could it be their first time using magic?"

"Maybe, but that's an insane amount for a beginner. Don’t you think?"

"What spell did they use?"

"The report says it was a knockback spell," Dom said, eyes narrowing as she skimmed the document.

"How in Merlin's left nut would a child pull that off?"

"That’s what we’re going to find out. We’re heading there tomorrow morning. Check the location."

Donnie sighed, dragging himself over to a dusty old shelf and retrieving a book that looked like it had been around since the dawn of time. With a flick of his wand, he revealed the location, his face falling as he read the address.

"Uh, Dom...?" he said, his voice wavering slightly.

"What’s the matter?"

"It’s a bloody orphanage."

As the two wrestled with the weight of their latest case, the door swung open with dramatic flair, and in marched Remy, Donnie's girlfriend.

"Gotcha a Koink, fresh out of the oven!" she announced, proudly presenting the comically oversized cookie shaped like a coin to Donnie, who was too deep in thought to even notice.

Normally, he would’ve dropped everything for a hot, gooey treat, but today, his mind was occupied with far weightier matters.

"What's going on?" She asked.

"We’ve received a notice about an unregistered child," Donnie said, snapping out of his reverie.

"Oh, how thrilling!" 

"Not quite," Dom interjected, her fingers drumming nervously on her desk.

"The child is at an orphanage,” Donnie explained. “It’s a refuge for Muggle children without guardians."

"I know what an orphanage is," Remy said, rolling her eyes. "Why’s it a problem?"

"Well, normally, when we get a notice about an unregistered child, we visit the family, explain the situation, get them to sign some forms, and head back to the office."

"But in an orphanage," Dom added, "we risk exposing magic to the Matrons, which could violate the Statute of Secrecy."

"Plus, we don’t even know which child did it. Are we just supposed to walk in and ask, 'Any budding witches or wizards here?'”

"It’s an orphanage," Remy said nonchalantly. "Why not just pretend you’re interested in buying a child and see what happens?"

"Adopting," Dom corrected.

"Same difference," Remy said with a dismissive wave, taking another bite of the Koink—clearly forgetting she’d bought it for Donnie.

"But how would that work?" Dom asked. "Donnie can’t go alone; he’d come off as creepy, and I can hardly pass for a motherly figure."

Remy’s eyes sparkled with mischief. "I have an idea," she said, her voice dripping with playfulness. "But you two might not like it."

Back at St. Mary’s, Vera awoke to the squeak of her bed on the second floor, disoriented about how she even got there. Her eyes turned to Kaya, who was seated at the foot of the bed, holding her hand.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re awake,” she exclaimed, visibly relieved as Vera’s eyes fluttered open.

“My head’s killing me,” Vera groaned, shifting into a sitting position.

“We found you out cold in the pantry with blood pouring out your nose. What on earth were you doing in there?”

“Lydia...” Vera replied, her voice tinged with exhaustion.

“I knew she was up to no good. I searched high and low for you, but then the meeting started and—”

“How’d go?” 

“The meeting? Oh, same old, same old. They weren’t impressed and decided to go for a baby after all. I reckon they’ll pick baby Emma."

Vera’s face fell at the news.

“Don’t fret; we’ll have other chances. Now, what happened in the pantry? Miss Nelson reckons the door slammed into your face and knocked you out.”

“I... I don’t really remember,” Vera admitted, although she clearly recalled not even touching the door, but kept that detail to herself.

“Are you going to tell her about Lydia?”

“I want to sort Lydia out myself,”

“That’s the spirit!” Kaya cheered. “I’m up for helping with whatever plan you’ve got in mind.”

She gave her hand a supportive squeeze, which made Vera flinch from the pain in her head. But as Kaya let go, the throbbing eased a bit.

“I’ll fetch you something to eat;” Kaya said, making her way to the door. “You’ll feel better with a bit of grub."

“Thank you.”

“Vera...” Kaya called before stepping out.

“Yeah?”

“I was dead worried about you. Seeing you all bloodied up, it made me..." She swallowed. "I was proper scared, Vera.”

“I’ll be alright, Kaya. Promise.”

“I hope so,” Kaya said, offering a final, concerned glance before shutting the door.

Vera's face lit up with a smile upon hearing Kaya's words, reveling in the newfound warmth of someone expressing concern for her—a sensation she had never encountered. However, the glow dimmed as memories of the pantry incident resurfaced.

As she rubbed her forehead in an attempt to ease her throbbing headache, she noticed something strange.

Her fingertips had an unusual tinge of purple, and her nails appeared an odd shade of yellow. Frowning, she turned her hands over, and to her growing unease, she saw that her veins were now prominent with an unnaturally dark blue color.

Her mind raced as she tried to make sense of the change. The veins stood out starkly against her pale skin, giving her hands a peculiar, almost otherworldly appearance.

Moments later, Kaya returned with a steaming plate of food and a small bottle of painkiller.

“Here you go,” she said, handing her the pills. “These should help with the pain. And I’ve got a bit of fish and chips here—thought you might fancy a proper meal.”

Vera took the food gratefully, her stomach rumbling at the sight of it. “Thanks, Kaya. You’re a legend.”

“I’ll make sure the little ones don’t disturb you. Try to have a kip, yeah?”

“I will. And thanks again for everything.”

“Anytime,” Kaya said, giving her one last reassuring pat on the shoulder.

With that, she quietly slipped out of the room, leaving Vera alone with her thoughts.

As she ate and took the painkillers, she felt a comforting sense of calm wash over her. The food was warm and satisfying, and the presence of Kaya’s kindness lingered, making the day’s troubles seem a bit more manageable.

Closing her eyes, she surrendered to the weight settling in her head, seeking solace in a moment of rest.

Saturday, August 5, 1989

The following morning, she woke with a newfound lightness, as if the troubles of yesterday had been swept away by a refreshing breeze. She felt as though she had slept on a cloud, and despite the lingering shadows from the previous day, she chose to embrace the new day with optimism.

Rushing downstairs for breakfast, she joined a lively group of girls gathered around a table laden with pancakes. As she helped herself to a stack, a familiar disappointment set in.

"Mrs. Quinn seems to have confused starch for flour again," she remarked, wrinkling her nose as she took a bite.

"Ah, pancakes aren't exactly her forte,” Em, who was seated beside her, quipped with a grin. “But how did you know it was starch?"

"It's harder to chew," Vera explained. “I’ve made pancakes countless times before, so I can tell the difference.”

Em’s eyes widened in surprise. “You can cook?” 

“Yeah,” Vera said with a modest shrug. “I used to cook every day with my last foster family.”

“Wow, you’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” 

Vera chuckled softly. Cooking had been one of the few things she enjoyed, the only household chore that didn’t feel like a burden.

“You should offer to help Mrs. Quinn,” Em suggested. “She could really use someone with your skills.”

Vera considered the idea. Despite being forced to do it, she had a genuine passion for it.

“Maybe I will,” she said thoughtfully.

Em pushed a packet of cornflakes and a bottle of milk towards her. “Here, have some cereal. The milk's fresh.”

Vera glanced at the milk with a shudder. The mere sight of it made her feel queasy, and she gently nudged the bottle behind the cereal box, opting for the orange juice instead.

As she continued eating, she couldn’t help but notice Em’s outfit. “Who's that on your shirt?” she asked.

“The Stone Roses!” Em exclaimed, nearly spitting out her food in excitement.

Vera remained puzzled.

“You don’t know The Stone Roses?” Em asked, almost offended.

“Nope, what are they?”

“They’re a band, love, the BEST band."

“Oh,” Vera said, trying to keep up.

“They’re my absolute faves. I’m actually off to see ‘em next week with my mates.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, in Blackpool. I’ve got everything sorted, proper posters and all.”

“That's mint!”

“I can hardly wait,” Em said, her grin widening. “And actually, I could use your help with something.”

Vera raised an eyebrow. “Me?”

With palpable excitement, Em practically bounced as she led Vera upstairs, their shared anticipation almost crackling in the air. As they crossed the threshold into the older girls’ bedroom, Vera’s eyes widened in pure awe at the spectacular chaos before her.

The room was a riot of color and personality, every inch teeming with a wildly eclectic mix of posters and memorabilia. Band posters from The Stone Roses, Ramones, and The Clash jostled for space alongside movie stars and cinematic icons like Tom Cruise and James Dean, creating a visual symphony that was both overwhelming and thrilling.

“Wow,” Vera murmured, the word slipping out with a sense of wonder.

“You like it?” Cynthia asked, glancing up from the magazine she was absorbed in while lounging on her bed.

At seventeen, she was one of the oldest girls in the home. With a tall, slender frame, dark complexion, and large brown eyes, Cynthia looked every bit the part of a cool older sister. Her box braids, streaked with pink strands, framed her face effortlessly, and a tiny nose piercing added just the right amount of edge.

“It’s so mint,” Vera said, still in awe of the scene before her.

Each bed in the room told a story of its occupant. Em’s bed was an explosion of black and red, framed by grungy band t-shirts and plaid flannel shirts casually tossed over the footboard. Pillows with skulls and stars added to the rebellious vibe, and a well-worn crimson throw blanket completed the look.

In stark contrast, Cynthia’s bed was a bubblegum pink paradise. Above it, her name was spelled out in sparkling letters, and the bedding cascaded in soft pinks, hearts, and flowers. Pink stuffed animals and glittering fairy lights dangled from the bedpost, casting a dreamy glow across the room.

Grace’s bed, meanwhile, was a creative disaster. Piles of skirts, jeans, and sweaters covered the bed and spilled onto the floor, as if she’d been caught in a whirlwind of fashion choices. Despite the mess, the space exuded a certain charm, with fashion magazines and accessories strewn about carelessly.

Vera stood in the center of the room, taking it all in. The overwhelming vibrancy, the personal touches, the sense of freedom—it was like nothing she had ever experienced.

Back at the Humphreys’, her space had been stark and impersonal, stifling her creativity and dismissing her love for art and self-expression. Here, in this chaotic, colorful room, it felt as though each girl had painted a piece of her soul on the walls.

"Alright, so," Em began, pulling out pieces of cardboard from underneath her bed. "I need your artistic touch to help me with these posters. I'm hardly a master at drawing."

"Of course, I'd love to," Vera replied eagerly.

"Great! Just paint lemon all around the words here," Em instructed, indicating the half-finished cardboard, with the words:

‘I Wanna Be Adored by you, Ian’

"Lemons?" Vera questioned.

"Exactly like these," Em responded, passing her a poster featuring four men with a strikingly large yellow lemon hovering above them.

Vera found herself inexplicably drawn to the man at the center, who exuded an aura of charisma so potent it practically screamed ‘I’m a walking charm spell.’

"Who's that?" she asked, pointing him out like a tourist in a foreign land.

"Ian fucking Brown," Em and Cynthia answered in perfect harmony.

"Aka my future husband," Cynthia added, tossing a wink as if she had already written the wedding vows in her head.

"In your dreams," Em shot back.

"Oi, just you wait! I'm going to win him over."

"With what, your stunning personality?" 

"Something like that," Cynthia replied, glancing down at her chest. "These usually do the trick."

Vera’s face turned crimson at the bluntness, unsure if she was blushing from the words or from just being around them.

"Well, good luck getting close to him." 

"I have my ways," Cynthia said, twirling her tongue like it was a baton at a parade. 

Vera eagerly began sketching out designs on the cardboard while Em busied herself with other ones.

The room resonated with the melodic strains of The Stone Roses, emanating from Em's radio, and Vera found herself thoroughly enchanted by their music.

♪ Passion fruit and holy bread
Fill my guts and ease my head
Through the early morning sun
I can see her, here she comes
She bangs the drums ♪

Unexpectedly, Miss Nelson made her entrance into the room, causing Vera to tense instinctively, bracing herself for a potential reprimand for the loud music. However, her worries quickly dissipated as she saw Miss Nelson’s softened expression and the kind eyes that met hers.

"Sorry to interrupt," she began, lowering the volume of the radio. "Here’s your allowance, girls. I’ve added a little extra for next week's trip."

“Oh, thanks, Miss!” Cynthia and Em exclaimed.

“Remind me, who are you going with again?” she asked, handing each of them a small bundle of cash.

“Our usual mates,” Em replied, reaching for the money.

"And?" Miss Nelson pressed, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

“And him, yes,” Em admitted, a faint blush creeping up her cheeks. “We’ll be spending the night at his house after the gig.”

“Don’t worry, Miss,” Cynthia chimed in with a mischievous grin, “I’ll keep them on the straight and narrow—making sure they don’t do anything unholy.”

“Oh, shut it!” Em snapped, tossing a crayon at her.

“Very well,” Miss Nelson said with a nod. “Just remember what I told you about using protec—”

“Alright, Miss, I got it!” Em cut in, her tone full of embarrassment. “Cheers.”

Miss Nelson winked playfully. "Just making sure.” 

Turning her attention to Vera, her gaze lingered appreciatively on the artwork taking shape. "You really are talented," she remarked warmly.

“Thank you, Miss,” Vera replied, her cheeks flushing with gratification at the unexpected compliment.

“You know, Saint Mary and Dolly are feeling a bit lonely on the wall in my office. Would you care to make me a drawing to hang next to them?”

A surge of warmth and pride flooded Vera’s chest. Her smile widened, her eyes shining with excitement.

"I’d love to, Miss!”

The matron's smile grew brighter, and she gave her a reassuring nod. “Great. I’m looking forward to seeing what you come up with. I’ll leave you to your creativity then.”

As she left, Vera settled comfortably on the floor.

The quiet hum of music and the occasional rustling of cardboard filled the background as she concentrated on her drawing. Her eyes occasionally wandered around the room, taking in the unique arrangement of the space.

However, as she glanced towards Cynthia's direction, she noticed something odd.

Nestled under her bed was a collection of plates piled high with old, rotting sandwiches, bottles of unopened sodas, and a mix of overripe fruits. The sight made her stomach churn a little, but she decided not to say anything.

Em turned to her with a curious look. “So, how’re you finding life in Sutton?” 

Vera’s face lit up with a warm smile. “Honestly, I’m really enjoying it. It’s so different from Cornwall, but in a good way. More lively, I guess.”

“Lively is one way to put it. I can’t wait to get the hell out of here.”

Vera tilted her head, puzzled. “Why’s that?”

Em sighed deeply, leaning back against the bed. “I just don’t feel like I belong here. Sutton, not St. Mary’s, mind you.”

“People here are too posh,” Cynthia chimed in. “Was your foster family in Cornwall posh, Vera?”

“Oh, um… kind of,” Vera replied, hesitating slightly as she chose her words.

“Well, Sutton’s got the worst kind of posh snobs,” Em continued. “They don’t like how Miss Nelson runs the place, and they’re always judging us—our clothes, our lifestyle, and even the stuff we can’t control.”

Vera raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“The color of our skin.” Cynthia said bluntly.

“And even if we’re ‘white enough,’” Em added, “they’ll still moan about our accents, our last names, or what part of the country we’re from. They always find something to nitpick.”

“And don’t even get me started on Mr. Dawson,” Cynthia added with an eye roll.

“Who’s Mr. Dawson?” Vera asked.

“The geezer next door with the yappy dogs,” Em said, her tone filled with annoyance.

Cynthia snorted. “He’s a real piece of work. Always poking his nose into our business and running off to Miss Nelson to tattle, as if she’s got time for his nonsense.”

“The other day,” Em leaned in, “he actually called me over just to lecture me about my skirt being too short."

“Oh, I bet he enjoyed that, the creepy old perv,” Cynthia remarked.

“And, of course,” Em carried on, “he’s just like the rest of this bloody street—a tt.”

Vera frowned, confused. “tt?”

Em smirked. “Tory Twat.”

Vera burst into laughter, the unexpected term catching her off guard.

Em chuckled along with her. “Yeah, well, I’m counting down the days until I can move to Cardiff and leave all these lunatics behind.”

“What’s in Cardiff?”

Emily’s face softened into a genuine smile. “University. I’m majoring in Political Science—can’t wait to start.”

“And I’m heading to real London,” Cynthia added. “Business school for me. It’s time to escape this provincial hellhole.”

Vera sat quietly, her mind swirling as she tried to take it all in. These girls had dreams, big ones, and it was clear they couldn’t wait to shake the dust of Sutton off their shoes. However, her mind kept drifting back to one particular thought that she couldn’t shake.

“Um, Em?” she began hesitantly, her brow furrowed as she gathered the courage to speak. “Do you know how can I find someone in London?”

“Someone?” Em echoed. “Who’re you trying to find?”

“A f-friend,” Vera stammered, her voice wavering with uncertainty.

Em tilted her head thoughtfully. “Well, you could always try the phone book. Might take you some time, but it’s worth a shot. Just make sure you’re not dialing random numbers, though. Miss Nelson would lose her marbles if the phone bill went through the roof.”

Vera nodded. “Right, I’ll give that a try. Cheers, Em.”

Em gave her a supportive smile, then they both turned their attention back to decorating the cardboard signs for the upcoming concert.

Wednesday, August 9, 1989

Donnie and Dom launched into action with all the enthusiasm of two people who really should’ve known better.

They apparated into Sutton on Wednesday morning and set off toward St. Mary’s Home for Girls with the swagger of undercover agents… in very questionable disguises.

“This is completely mental,” Dom grumbled. “Why couldn’t Remy do it herself if she’s so bloody sure this’ll work?”

“Because,” Donnie drawled, “Remy doesn’t work at the Ministry. We do.”

Dom let out a theatrical sigh, patting her hair. It was a voluminous, chaotic mess resembling a Fwooper’s nest after a thunderstorm. “My hair is a disaster, and this makeup is giving me vertigo.”

“You look fine. For a Muggle. Besides, the makeup was necessary to hide your—”

“I KNOW!” Dom hissed before he could finish.

“Merlin, Dom… dramatic much?”

“And are we sure this is how Muggles dress? Because I’m starting to think Remy’s having a laugh.”

“She asked her Muggleborn friend. There were magazines involved. It’s all very scientific.”

Remy, their self-appointed stylist, worked at a magical hair salon in Diagon Alley and was no stranger to reckless aesthetic choices. She changed hair colors more often than socks and once spent three weeks bald after a misfired charm. And honestly, she rocked that too.

For this mission, she’d roped in her Muggleborn mate, whose sense of fashion clearly fossilized around 1983.

Dom’s look? A navy blue dress absolutely assaulted by giant pink flowers and shoulder pads so aggressive they probably required a license.

Remy went for broke on the accessories: purple grape earrings (that jingled), a pearl necklace the size of Gobstones, and a neon pink handbag that could double as emergency signaling equipment. Pink heels completed the ensemble, causing Dom to wobble like a newborn foal with each step.

Remy hadn’t stopped there. Dom’s face was practically a paint sample chart: purple eyeshadow, ghostly mismatched foundation, and lip gloss that could reflect sunlight into orbit.

Donnie fared only slightly better.

His tight curls had been Jhere’d to perfection, and his button-up shirt matched Dom’s dress like they’d stepped straight out of a regrettable couple’s catalog. Khaki trousers, a denim jacket, and a misplaced sense of pride completed his look.

“Honestly,” he said to Dom as they walked, “I think I might keep this hairstyle.”

Despite their best attempts at blending in, they were about as subtle as a pair of fireworks in a library. Smiling and waving as they walked down the street only seemed to make things worse. People stared, whispered, and one child pointed openly. And still, Dom soldiered on in her pink heels and floral battle armor, wondering if this was what Ministry duty had come to.

“Is the matron expecting us?” Donnie asked as they finally turned onto the street where St. Mary’s sat.

“Yeah, I rang her on that Muggle contraption yesterday. Took me half the day to figure out how it works. Adopting a child’s not exactly popping down to Honeydukes, you know. Forms, references, proof we’re respectable citizens. I practically had to charm our way in.”

“You used magic? Dom! We agreed—”

“It wouldn’t have worked otherwise! Keep up, Donnie.”

“Merlin’s beard, Dom! I meant we have to be careful.”

“We are careful,” she said, tossing her feathery disaster of a hairdo. “Now all we have to do is figure out which kid’s been pulling accidental magic.”

Donnie stopped short. “Wait. Wait. You don’t know who it is? I thought that was your part of the plan!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dom snapped. “I was too busy convincing them we’re parents of the year. Do you have any idea how many documents they wanted? Bank statements! Property deeds! I had to fabricate half of our life story while you were busy playing dress-up with Remy.”

“Looking the part is a key part of the mission, Dom. I’ve been doing this longer than you.”

“Oh really? And that’s why I’m parading around looking like I lost a bet with a tropical bird? Besides, we’re not actually adopting anyone—we just need to find out who the little wizard is and make a note of it.”

“You’re missing the point! We’re standing outside with no idea who we’re looking for. What’s the plan?”

“We improvise.”

“Improvise?! This is not one of your ‘crash in, Obliviate later’ Auror stunts.”

“And why not? That method never failed me.”

“Is that why you’re not still an Auror?”

Dom shot him a look sharp enough to slice parchment. “Tread carefully.”

“Right. Sorry. I’m just saying—caution.”

She rolled her eyes. “Just remember: We’re the Smiths now.”

“Right. Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Got it. Also… that Muggle contraption? It’s called a telephone, Dom. Try not to forget.”

“Telephone... telephone... telephone…” Dom muttered, committing it to memory like it was a complicated incantation.

They arrived at St. Mary’s at precisely ten o’clock, punctual enough to impress a Head Girl.

Miss Nelson stood by the door with the polite-but-slightly-baffled expression of someone who’s just been handed a pineapple in place of a birthday cake—confused, but too well-mannered to question it.

She ushered them inside without comment. In her office—a tidy little space filled with floral cushions and the faint scent of lemon polish—the siblings settled in, doing their best to radiate respectable Muggle couple energy. It was like acting in a play neither of them had rehearsed for.

“So, Mr. and Mrs. Smith,” Miss Nelson began, giving them both a prim smile. “What age range were you hoping for?”

“My hus—husband and I,” Dom stammered, her tongue nearly tripping over the word, “don’t have a particular age in mind. As we discussed on the... umm...”

“The telephone,” Donnie hissed out of the corner of his mouth, smile still plastered on.

“Yes! The telephone!” Dom chirped a little too loudly. “We’d love to meet the children first, if possible.”

“Of course,” Miss Nelson replied graciously. “Though today may be tricky. In the meantime, I can offer you a file to peruse.”

They nodded, their synchronized expressions of interest worthy of an award, and accepted the file with solemn reverence. Inside were details on girls from tiny and adorable to just-starting-to-sass.

Meanwhile, Miss Nelson’s gaze drifted to a cheerful painting propped on her shelf—a wobbly but charming portrait of herself, courtesy of Vera. A pang of guilt tugged at her; the older girls always had fewer prospects. She hesitated, then reached for another folder.

“Perhaps you’d consider an older girl as well,” she suggested gently, pulling out the ‘Ages 9–14’ file. “Some of them are exceptionally bright. Truly special.”

Dom took the file with a nod, flipping through the pages with an air of studious intent, though mostly scanning for signs of accidental magic. Meanwhile, Donnie, clearly losing his nerve, filled the silence with a stream of nervous babble.

“Your office is lovely. Cozy, really. Small, but in a nice way. I tried having a plant in my office once. It died. Maybe overwatered? Or under? Plants are complicated...”

“Donnie,” Dom tried to cut in.

“...I do like what you’ve done with the curtains, though. Very cheery.”

“Donnie.” Her voice sharpened.

“I wonder if maybe I should get curtains like that. Or maybe not. They’d clash with my—”

“DONALD!”

The room fell silent, Miss Nelson blinking in surprise.

“What?” Donnie asked, bewildered.

Dom wordlessly turned the file around. His eyes landed on the page. And his jaw fucking dropped.

“Miss Nelson,” he said with a sudden surge of composure. “Could my... wife and I have a quick word in private?”

“Certainly.” Miss Nelson rose with grace. “I’ll make us some tea.”

As soon as the door clicked shut, they both lunged for the file, and stared at the page in mutual disbelief.

“Tell me I’m not seeing what I think I’m seeing,” Donnie whispered.

“You’re seeing it,” Dom whispered back, wide-eyed.

“Is that really who we think it is?”

“I don’t know, Donnie. But it certainly looks that way. This might be exactly who we’re looking for.”

“Maybe she’s Muggle-born? Muggles reuse wizarding names all the time, right? Total coincidence?”

“Look at her, Donnie!” Dom shouted, jabbing a finger at the black-and-white photograph paperclipped to the file. “The hair, the eyes, the cheekbones, that nose—She looks just like them!”

“What in Merlin’s name is someone like her doing in a MUGGLE orphanage?”

“I have no idea,” Dom muttered, running her thumb along the paper’s edge. “But this changes everything.”

Donnie exhaled slowly. “Well... at least we’ve found the one who did the accidental magic last week. No way this is a coincidence.”

Dom nodded. “Now we just need to figure out how to approach this without causing a scene.”

“Take a look at this,” Donnie said, tapping the ‘Interests and Hobbies’ section. 

Dom nodded, a plan sparking in her mind. “I think I know exactly what to do.”

Chapter Text

Thursday August 10, 1989

Vera had always loved to cook—there was something magical about turning a pile of ingredients into something that made people shut up and savor. At Em’s suggestion, she started spending her mornings in the kitchen with Mrs. Quinn, whipping up all sorts of breakfast delights.

To her surprise—and slight terror—the girls actually liked her cooking. Even more shocking? Mrs. Quinn, a woman who treated her kitchen like a sacred temple where no mortal should dare tread, didn’t kick her out. In fact, she welcomed the help, happy for a little extra time to care for her ailing husband.

Mrs. Quinn, despite her woes, remained a force of nature. Her sharp wit was only rivaled by her sharp tongue, and Vera quickly realized that the woman had an impressive arsenal of curse words—some so inventive they should probably be in a museum. Naturally, Vera made it her personal mission to memorize all of them.

Between stirring pots and flipping pancakes, Mrs. Quinn regaled her with stories, which ranged from hilarious childhood antics to deeply concerning conspiracy theories about the government. Vera wasn’t sure if half of what Mrs. Quinn said was true, but either way, mornings in the kitchen had never been more entertaining.

In the afternoons, she engaged in lively activities with Kaya, be it playing football, watching television or, more recently, plotting the slow and painful downfall of their arch-nemesis, Lydia.

"I could easily hurt her," she said. "But getting her in trouble? So much better."

"She deserves it, though." Kaya countered. "You let her walk all over you once, and she’ll do it again."

"I'm not putting snails in her pudding! That could make her proper sick."

"Doubt it."

"Right, is she a vampire now?"

"Fine, fine! How about we put chili powder in her knickers?"

"Blimey, Kaya! Where the hell do you get these ideas from?"

"At least I’m coming up with ideas!"

"We need to be smart about this. If we get caught, Miss Nelson will skin us alive."

"What’s your genius plan then?"

"What’s Lydia afraid of?"

Kaya scoffed. "Fear fears that twat."

"Think!"

Kaya pondered, then snapped her fingers. "Miss Nelson finding out about her dodgy little thing with that wanker down the street."

"Who? Dangerous or something?"

"Danger," Kaya corrected. "And yeah, he is dangerous—mainly to my patience. Thinks he’s some hard bloke when his family’s proper posh. He’s a skinhead, Vera. Once called me a—" She paused, shaking her head. "Never mind."

Vera's expression darkened. "Oh."

"And Miss Nelson hates him. But if you ask me, he and Lydia deserve each other. A right pair of cunts."

Vera chuckled—there was more swearing in this house than at a sailor’s convention. "Alright, so we get her and Danger busted. Miss Nelson will sort her out, and our hands stay clean."

"Mint!" Kaya grinned. "Can’t wait to see her face when she gets caught. Though I still reckon she should eat a snail cupcake."

Meanwhile in the Wizarding world, Millicent Bagnold, the Minister of Magic, interrupted her schedule to meet with Mafalda Hopkirk, the head of the Improper Use of Magic Department, along with Dom and Donnie, the individuals behind the surprising revelation.

"Can we be certain this is her?" she asked.

"Her birthdate and appearance align perfectly with the information we have about the child." Dom responded.

"Have you talked to her family?" 

"We weren't able to reach them. As you know, they're no longer in the country after—"

"Yes, yes, I know,” the minister quickly interrupted. “How about her mother's family?"

"They don't want to make any comments about the situation," Mafalda replied. "They seem rather unwilling to claim the girl."

"This is deeply concerning.” Bagnold sighed. “The girl’s at a Muggle orphanage, possibly oblivious to her lineage or magical potential. And, most importantly, she's approaching eleven without being registered! How could this happen?"

“We never knew she was in the muggle world,” Mafalda said. “We thought she was with her father’s family all those years."

“I am talking about her registration!” Bagnold exclaimed, banging her fist on the desk.

"Minister, its protocol.” Mafalda explained calmly. “We need to detect at least three occurrences of magic before we can register any child."

"And you didn't manage that?"

"It was too complicated; the girl was constantly moving from one house to another."

"In the file Dominique and Donald presented, it says she stayed with a family in the south for three years. Were there no incidents throughout that time?"

"According to our archives, there were only two instances in Cornwall."

"TWO! Only two? In three years? Can't you see how concerning that is?!"

"It is indeed, minister, but due to her lack of magical activity, we thought the child might be a squib."

"But she's not?"

"Her last occurrence showed a rather huge magnitude of energy. So no, we don't believe she is."

"So she is not a squib, but she only performed magic twice in the span of three years?"

"Yes, minister."

Bagnold took a deep breath, removing her round-shaped glasses and placing them on her desk. "I'll be leaving the Ministry by the end of the year, Miss Hopkirk. I can't depart with this egregious situation on my record. We need to ensure the girl's well-being and register her as quickly as possible."

"We're scheduled to meet with her soon," Donnie chimed in. "We'll thoroughly document her situation."

"Yes, I've reviewed your proposed plan Donald. A very effective strategy indeed, well done, both of you.”

Dom and Donnie smiled at each other in pride.

"Execute it flawlessly.” The minister continued. “Ensure the girl is registered before her eleventh birthday and is aboard the Hogwarts Express with all necessary provisions. And make CERTAIN she understands the Statute of Secrecy."

"Understood, Minister." Dom responded.

"I will be writing to Dumbledore,” The minister added, “requesting him to keep a vigilant eye on the girl's fragile condition while she's at school. Meanwhile, make sure this situation remains private. Don’t go around boasting about it. I’m looking at you, Donald.”

“Don’t worry minister." The gossip loving employee responded. "I’ll keep my mouth shut.” 

“What about the public ma’am?” Mafalda asked. “Won’t the girl’s appearance at Hogwarts cause concern?”

“I will inform the newspapers not to publish any articles about her or her namesakes. This dark chapter of history was closed long ago, and I will not allow this young girl’s emergence to reopen it."

Friday, August 11, 1989

“I’ve got a plan,” Vera said, setting her toast down with a dramatic flourish.

Kaya, mid-bite into a crumpet, raised an eyebrow. “This better be good.”

“I overheard Miss Nelson’s meeting a mate at the caff down the street tonight at half six.”

“And?”

“We trick Lydia and Danger into showing up there instead of that greasy chicken shop. Miss Nelson catches them red-handed. Boom. Trouble.”

Kaya’s eyes lit up. “Oh... OHHHH! That’s genius! But how’re we pulling it off?”

“Easy. I’ll call Danger, pretend to be Lydia, and tell him to meet me there.”

Kaya shook her head. “Lydia never rings him. Miss Nelson would smell a rat.”

“Then how do they usually talk?”

“They meet up at Danger’s house. His parents are never home.”

“That’s no good…”

“They also pass notes.”

“Perfect! We’ll send Danger a note from ‘Lydia,’ changing the plans. Same for her.”

“Won’t they clock the handwriting?”

“Leave that to me,” Vera said smugly. “You figure out how we get the notes to them.”

“Lydia sneaks into Danger’s room through his window. Always bragging about snogging him there—absolutely rank.”

“Where’s his house?”

“Right next to Mrs. Wriggleshore’s.”

“We’ll slip his note under the door, then.”

“And get Lola to deliver Lydia’s.”

“Lola?” Vera hesitated. “What if she grasses us up?”

“Lola’s loyal, but she’ll need a bribe.”

“What’s her price?”

“Chocolate.”

“Done.”

“Now we just need to copy Danger’s handwriting.”

“And nick some of Lydia’s homework to match hers."

Kaya leaned back, grinning. “Vera, this plan is evil. I love it.”

“Doesn’t matter if it doesn’t work.”

“Oh, it’ll work. I cannot wait to see Lydia’s face.”

“All this effort will be worth it when that bitch gets what’s coming to her.”

Kaya snorted. “Look at you, swearing and scheming like a pro.”

Vera winked. “Learned from the best.”

The girls wasted no time. With Lydia sweating away in the underground laundry room, they seized their chance, slipping into her bedroom like a pair of dodgy burglars.

“Right,” Kaya whispered. “Let’s find something incriminating.”

They didn’t have to look hard. Tucked under a heap of clothes in Lydia’s drawer was a crumpled note from Danger.

Vera grinned. “Perfect.”

She sat at Lydia’s desk, cracking her knuckles like some criminal mastermind about to forge the Queen’s signature. Within seconds, she was replicating Danger’s handwriting so precisely that Kaya just stood there, mouth open.

“Blimey,” she muttered. “You should be forging bank notes, not love letters.”

Vera smirked. “Don’t tempt me.”

Without missing a beat, she grabbed one of Lydia’s school notebooks and flawlessly copied her handwriting onto a fresh piece of paper. And so, the fake note to Danger was done. Now, they just needed delivery.

Enter Lola, the chocolate-loving four-year-old.

Kaya crouched down to her level, holding up a Mars bar like it was a bar of solid gold. “Wanna do a job?”

Lola’s eyes locked onto the chocolate. “What kinda job?”

“Easy. Just take this note to Lydia. Don’t say we gave it to you. Don’t lose it. And definitely don’t eat it.”

Lola snatched the Mars bar, stuffing it into her pocket. “Done.”

As she scampered off on her mission, Vera turned to Kaya. “You ever consider a career in organized crime?”

Kaya laughed. “If this works, I might.”

As the afternoon sun began to cast long shadows, the sneaky duo headed towards Danger's house, moving with practiced stealth. But their mission was abruptly interrupted by a rusty, trembling voice.

"What are you two up to?"

They froze, the hair on the back of their necks standing on end. The voice belonged to none other than Mrs. Wriggleshore, the old woman who lived nearby, known for her eerie presence and sharp tongue. She was watching them from her window, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

Kaya tried to recover, forcing a nervous smile. "Oh, hello, Mrs. Wriggleshore! We were just—"

"You’re the spitting image of her." Mrs. Wriggleshore cut her off, her gaze locked onto Vera with a mix of disdain and something darker.

Vera’s heart skipped a beat.

"Who… who do you mean?" Kaya asked.

"Her," Mrs. Wriggleshore spat, her eyes still fixed on Vera. "She looks just like that vile woman—that cold-hearted liver eater."

Vera felt a chill run down her spine, her fear momentarily paralyzing her.

Kaya turned to her, confusion and concern written all over her face. "What’s she talking about?"

"I—I don’t know," Vera stammered, trying to shake off the fear that was gripping her.

The two exchanged bewildered glances, but when they looked back at the window, Mrs. Wriggleshore had vanished.

"How did she just—" Kaya began, but her words were cut short by a loud noise coming from Danger's house.

"Vera, we’ve got to go!” she whispered. “Leave the note at the door, now!"

However, Vera remained silent, her eyes fixed on Mrs. Wriggleshore’s window. Noticing her sudden stiffness, Kaya quickly took the note from her hand and tossed it through Danger’s door. Then, without hesitation, she grabbed Vera’s hand and pulled her out onto the street. The two of them bolted down the road, with Kaya in the lead, laughing breathlessly at their daring trick. But Vera, lagging slightly behind, remained quiet, her expression troubled.

"That was bloody mint!” Kaya exclaimed once they reached the grounds of St. Mary's. “I can’t believe we pulled it off!"

Vera managed a faint smile, but her discomfort was obvious.

Kaya’s laughter faded as she noticed her unease. "Are you okay?" she asked, concern creeping into her voice.

"Yeah, I’m just..." Vera trailed off, pressing her fingers to her temples. "My head’s hurting so much. And I think I’m going to—"

But before she could finish, she bent over and vomited onto the side of the pavement.

"Blimey, are you alright?" Kaya asked, her worry growing.

Vera nodded weakly, but her face was pale, and she kept rubbing her throbbing head.

"Come on, let’s get you to bed," Kaya said gently, slipping an arm around her shoulders.

She guided her friend back to the front door, supporting her as they made their way inside. The walk up the stairs to their shared bedroom was slow and unsteady, with Vera leaning heavily on Kaya for support. By the time they reached her bed, she could barely keep her eyes open. She collapsed onto the mattress, burying her face in the pillow, and within moments, she was fast asleep.

Hours later, she was stirred awake by the distant echoes of Miss Nelson shouting. Blinking groggily, she looked out the window and saw that evening had already settled in. As she sat up, she noticed Kaya standing near the slightly opened door, peeking out at the commotion beyond.

"What's going on?" she asked, her voice still heavy with sleep.

Kaya spun around, her face lit up with excitement. She rushed over to her bedside, crouching down with a broad grin.

"My dear friend, our bloody plan worked!" she exclaimed, practically. "Miss Nelson caught Lydia and Danger at the caff just like we planned. She’s tearing into her right now!"

The two shared a fit of giggles as Kaya eagerly recounted the details, painting a vivid picture of the scene.

"Lydia's face was priceless! Even better than we imagined!"

Vera sighed. "Oh, how I wish I’d seen it!"

Kaya’s expression shifted to one of concern as she studied her face. "I hope you're feeling better though... How are you now?"

"I feel... great, actually," Vera replied, surprised by how true it was. "Like I wasn't even sick."

"What about the headache?"

"It’s gone... completely."

"That’s mint! Do you have any idea what was wrong with you?"

"I don’t really know. How long was I asleep?"

"A few hours."

"It felt like ten years," Vera murmured, rubbing her temples.

"Maybe you just needed the rest! It happens."

"Yeah... maybe," Vera said, though she couldn’t shake the lingering sense of unease. "By the way, what was Mrs. Wriggleshore talking about?"

"Oh, something about a vile woman you apparently look like. But forget about her; she’s off her rocker. Em says she’s got that old people’s disease. You know, the one that makes them forget things and act all crazy?"

"Yeah... it’s probably nothing," Vera said, trying to convince herself.

"One of the girls swears she saw her kill a bird with her bare hands once.” Kaya continued, trying to lighten the mood. “And she always dresses like she’s going to some hippie convention."

Vera chuckled, deciding not to dwell on Mrs. Wriggleshore’s strange words.

But then Kaya’s smile faded as she noticed something. "Um... Vera?"

"What?"

"What the hell is wrong with your fingers?"

Vera glanced down at her fingertips and froze. They were once again swollen and tinged with a purplish hue, while her nails had taken on a sickly yellow color.

"I... I don’t know," she stammered, her voice laced with worry.

"Did you burn yourself or something?" 

"I don’t remember..."

"I’ll get you some bandages," Kaya offered quickly, standing up to leave the room.

As she walked out, Vera remained in bed, her fingers tingling with a sensation she couldn't quite place. The room felt colder now, and as she stared at her discolored fingertips, a wave of stress and confusion washed over her. Something wasn’t right, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was more than just an ordinary illness.

Following dinner that evening, Miss Nelson summoned her to her office. As she entered, she noticed her matron savoring a chocolate chip cookie she had made earlier that day.

"Everything well, dear?" she inquired, her voice warm as she enjoyed the treat.

"Yes, Miss," Vera replied politely.

"Kaya informed me you were tired. How are you feeling now?"

"I'm much better, thank you." 

"And your fingers?" Miss Nelson added, glancing at her hands.

"Oh, it's nothing.” Vera quickly replied, trying to hide her hands behind her back. “I reckon I burned them this morning."

"You ought to be more careful, dear. Cooking can be very dangerous! That’s why I can’t bother with it."

"I will."

"These treats are exquisite, by the way. I can't fathom losing you from this household after you've showcased your culinary talents."

"You will never lose me, Miss Nelson.” Vera chuckled. “I assure you."

"I'm not entirely convinced, dear," Miss Nelson remarked, brushing cookie crumbs from her shirt.

Vera shook her head. “Miss?”

"Don't worry; it's truly delightful news. You've been selected for a remarkable opportunity sponsored by a charming couple!"

Vera's confusion deepened, her heart quickening. "A what?" 

"The Smiths visited us a while ago, initially considering adoption. They altered their plans and now wish to generously sponsor your education. Isn't that wonderful!"

"But... how will they do that?" 

"I presented them with your file and the artwork you made me, and upon recognizing your exceptional talent, they proposed sending you to a prestigious private art school!"

An art school for her? The idea seemed too good to be true.

"But why did you mention losing me?" She asked. 

"Well, you see, dear, it's a boarding school in Scotland. You'll reside there throughout the year, except for Christmas and summer holidays, of course. Despite being away, you'll always be a part of this house. It’s just a train ride home anyway. We'll stay in contact, and the Smiths, your sponsors, will ensure your financial well-being."

"So, I'll be living at the school?"

"Yes, my dear." 

Seeing Vera’s bewildered expression, she got up from her desk and approached her. "You're free to decline, darling,” she said gently, “but it's a remarkable opportunity, and I wouldn't want you to miss out!"

Vera hesitated, the thought of leaving St. Mary's—a place she cherished, filled with friends and memories—felt overwhelming.

"Look," Miss Nelson continued. "Remember what I told you the first night you were here? About education?"

"You said it is a girl's only guarantee for a better life."

"Exactly! Not marriage, not adoption, but education. I know what you’ve been through, love, and just because you had a hard life doesn’t mean you deserve it or that you should surrender to it. You and your fellow sisters are remarkable, brimming with potential, but the world hasn’t been kind to you. It’s unfair that you don’t get to finish the race just because you were born behind the starting line.”

She then leaned closer, gently cradling Vera's face in her hands. "You have a passion for art, and at this new school, you'll be surrounded by people who are just like you. You'll build friendships and excel as the best student there! I believe in you, darling, and I need you to believe in yourself too."

Tears welled up in Vera's eyes as she absorbed these words. The genuine concern and care Miss Nelson showed her were unlike anything she had ever experienced.

"Can I have time to think about it?" she asked.

"Of course, dear, but I need you to provide an answer within two days, as the Smiths wish to meet with you before the end of August."

"Okay, Miss Nelson. I will share my decision in the morning, if that's acceptable?"

"It's entirely fine," Miss Nelson replied, her voice soft and reassuring.

Vera nodded, feeling both overwhelmed and touched by the unexpected opportunity laid before her. Later that night, she spilled the news to Kaya, who exploded with excitement.

"ARE YOU BLOODY KIDDING ME, VERA?!" she shrieked, jumping up and down on the bed like a toddler on a sugar high. 

"Easy! I haven’t even said yes yet!" Vera yelped, trying to keep her balance.

"Well, you better say yes, or I swear I will murder you in your sleep!" 

"I don't know, Kaya. I don’t want to leave you or the house. I love it here."

"Forget about me, you silly cow! This is your big break! You’ll be an artist! You’ll eat fancy food with posh people, probably meet a rich posh boy, marry him, and live in a massive house with a garden and a butler—oh my god, the possibilities are endless!"

Vera burst out laughing. "Alright, alright, I’m convinced—mainly because of the rich boy part."

"So, you’re going?" Kaya demanded, practically bouncing.

Vera hesitated. This place, this house, these people—they were her family. But then she saw the way Kaya was looking at her, all wide-eyed and expectant, and a grin slowly spread across her face.

"I guess… yes," she admitted, exhaling like a weight had finally been lifted.

"YES! YES! YES!" Kaya screamed, launching herself into another round of bed-jumping. 

"Shut it, or we’ll definitely be grounded," Vera whispered between laughs.

"I don’t care, I’m just so happy for you!" Kaya beamed, squeezing her in a hug so tight she nearly cracked a rib. "Alright, now tell me everything!"

"I don’t know much yet. I’m meeting the family sponsoring me soon, and they’ll explain the details. But Miss Nelson said the school’s in Scotland."

Kaya gasped. "OH MY DAYS! Scotland is gorgeous! Maybe the school’s in a castle! Scotland’s filled with castles, you know."

"Oh, I wish!" Vera sighed dreamily. "I bloody love castles."

"But how will you get there? Will the Smiths drive you?"

"No, I think I’ll take a train."

Kaya's mood shifted instantly. The smile that had lit up her face disappeared, and a trace of unease crept into her voice.

"You're taking the..." She swallowed, "t-train?"

"Yeah, Miss Nelson said something about a train ride." 

"Oh," Kaya hesitated, the enthusiasm from moments before now completely gone.

"You don’t like trains?" Vera asked carefully, sensing that something was off.

"Not really," Kaya replied, her voice quieter, tinged with an unspoken sadness.

Vera felt a knot form in her stomach. She crouched on the bed, her words chosen with the utmost care.

"Is it… is it because of what happened to your mum?" She asked. 

Kaya’s eyes widened, shock flashing across her face. "What...?" 

"I... I mean... Didn’t your mum... pass away in a train accident?"

Kaya's expression hardened, her voice taking on a firm, almost defensive tone. "It wasn’t an accident." she said. "She killed herself."

The room fell into a heavy silence. Vera bit her lip, regretting her question instantly, the weight of her mistake pressing down on her chest.

“I’m really sorry, Kaya.” She began. “I shouldn’t hav—"

"How did you know?" Kaya cut her off.

"What...?" 

"About my mum... How did you know?"

Vera was caught off guard, her mind scrambling for an explanation. "You... You told m—"

"No, I didn’t tell you, Vera," Kaya interrupted, her voice trembling with intensity. "I would remember if I had, so how did you know?"

Vera paused, the room spinning around her as she tried to piece together. "I don’t know, Kaya. I’m really sorry for bringing it up." 

"Forget it," Kaya dismissed her, her tone cold, but Vera could see the hurt in her eyes.

The silence that followed was suffocating, and Vera’s heart ached, praying she hadn’t pushed her best friend away. 

Finally, Kaya broke the silence, her voice flat. "What happened to your mum?"

Vera was taken aback by the question, but she understood why it was asked.

"I don’t know," she answered truthfully. "I never knew her, or my dad."

Kaya paused, her eyes fixed on the wall as if searching for answers that weren’t there. It was clear she was still grappling with her own loss, and Vera’s words seemed to deepen the chasm between them.

Finally, she spoke again, her voice laced with bitterness. "Lucky you."

Chapter Text

Wednesday August 16, 1989

As the impending meeting with the Smiths loomed, Vera fought with the thought of a school abroad. Surreal didn’t begin to cover it—it was a dream she hadn’t yet learned to believe. Still, a fragile hope prickled at her chest, a teasing promise of happiness after the Humphreys’ long shadow.

The meeting was Wednesday morning, and sleep had fled hours ago, leaving her mind buzzing with what-ifs. Before dawn, she slipped from bed, and padded downstairs.

The house was quiet, and she felt a nervous flutter in her chest, thinking of the hours to come. Needing something to distract herself, she grabbed the phone book from the small side table and began flipping through its pages. Suddenly, a faint rustling sound outside caught her attention. She looked up, and through the window, she saw Em standing at the front door, locked in an embrace with a young man. Vera quietly moved closer, peering through the lace curtains.

Em’s boyfriend, tall and ruggedly handsome, leaned into her, their lips just a breath apart.

“I should go,” he murmured, though his hands still gripped her waist, holding her close.

“You always say that,” Em whispered with a teasing smile.

Her fingers slid through his messy hair, tugging gently before pulling him into another heated kiss. Their bodies pressed closer, the air between them heavy with desire. Vera, wide-eyed, stood hidden, her heart pounding not out of embarrassment, but from an unexpected rush of excitement at witnessing such raw intimacy.

"Shh... you have to be quiet." Em said between soft gasps. "You’ll wake everyone." 

Her boyfriend chuckled, his lips trailing down her neck. “I’d be quiet if you stopped tempting me.” 

“Tempting you?" she whispered, her body betraying her eagerness. "You’re the one who can’t keep your hands off me.” 

Their laughter softened into something more, the tension between them undeniable. He finally stepped back, though his gaze lingered, his eyes dark with longing as they roamed over her like he was committing every inch of her to memory.

“Tomorrow?” he asked, his voice husky with the promise of more.

“Definitely,” she breathed, giving him one last kiss.

As she turned back toward the house, Vera snapped into action, burying her nose in the phone book like it was the most riveting novel ever written. Maybe if she concentrated hard enough, she could will herself into invisibility.

No such luck.

“Well, well, well…” Em’s said. “Sneaking a peek, were you?”

Vera’s face flushed. “I—I wasn’t watching! I was just—uh—brushing up on my alphabet skills.” She jabbed a finger at a random name. “Look! Abernathy, Fred. Fascinating bloke, I bet.”

Em snorted, strolling into the room and tossing her leather jacket over a chair. “Relax, I’m just winding you up.”

She cast a glance out the window toward where her boyfriend had disappeared, then back at Vera with a knowing grin. “He’s fit, init?”

Vera, still flustered, tried for nonchalance and failed. “I mean… yeah. You two look, uh… very close.”

Em flopped onto the couch with a dreamy sigh. "It’s nice, you know? Having someone who just gets you. But don’t worry, kiddo. One day, you’ll find someone to stare at all moony-eyed, too.”

Vera scoffed. “Pfft. Doubt it.”

Em just grinned. “Famous last words.”

She stretched out on the couch, watching her curiously. "Oi, why you still up? It’s mad late for you."

Vera let out a sigh, rubbing her eyes. "Couldn’t sleep." 

"Who you always lookin' for in that phone book, anyway? I’ve clocked you doing it loads."

"Just… someone."

Em gave her a knowing look but didn’t press. After a brief silence, she shifted in her seat, changing the topic. "I heard you’re getting sponsors, though. That’s proper big news, you know?"

"Yeah, I know. Everyone keeps sayin’ I should be over the moon. But... I’m sorta scared. I love St. Mary’s."

“I get it. I’m bricking it about uni, too. Scary stuff, innit? Leaving everything you know. But, you’ve gotta think about yourself for once. Can’t stay stuck here forever."

Vera bit her lip, feeling torn. 

"Listen," Em continued, leaning in, "getting a proper education’s a game-changer, especially for girls like us. You know what people think when they look at orphans—they reckon we’re gonna end up on the streets, doing God knows what to get by. No one expects us to actually do somethin’ with our lives. That’s why this is huge, Vera. You can’t let it slip."

Vera felt her chest tighten. She knew what Em was saying was the truth, but it still felt overwhelming.

"We’re lucky, yeah?" Em added. "We’ve got Miss Nelson lookin’ out for us. She’s young, proper sound, and she actually gives a toss about what happens to us. A lot of kids in other homes don’t have that. They’re not getting this chance like we are. Thing is, you’ve gotta let go, embrace the change, and take the leap. Dive into whatever’s out there for you with an open mind. You never know, you might actually like what you find."

Vera stared at the phone book for a moment, Em’s words swirling in her mind. As much as it scared her, maybe this was the break she needed. 

"Cheers, Em," she whispered. "I’ll give it a go."

"That’s the spirit, love.”

That morning, Vera was on a mission: nothing was going to go wrong this time. She had showered before bed, braided her hair like Grace had taught her, and mentally run through every possible disaster scenario. The only problem? Her only dress was ruined, thanks to the ill-timed nosebleed in the pantry.

Just when she was ready to declare defeat and show up looking like a Dickensian orphan, Kaya swooped in like a hero with a dress. And not just any dress—a beautiful violet one with a lace collar, an adjustable waistband, and tiny embroidered poppies.

“You’re a lifesaver, Kaya,” she sighed, running her fingers over the fabric.

“I know,” Kaya said smugly. “Try not to bleed on this one, too.”

Vera changed quickly, pausing to inspect her hands. The bruises and swollen knuckles stood out against the soft fabric, so she decided to keep the bandages on. It was a safer look—“well-composed” rather than “just survived a street fight”. Still, excitement warred with nerves in her stomach.

What if the Smiths didn't like her? What if this whole thing fell apart like everything else? What if they weren't nice?

"They’re paying for you to go to some posh school," Kaya scoffed, lounging on the bed. "Of course they’re nice."

"I don’t think they’re giving me the money." Vera said. "Just covering the fees."

"Same thing! If they were awful, they wouldn’t even do that."

"Then why change their minds about adoption all of a sudden?"

"Maybe they realized paying tuition is easier than actually raising a kid."

Vera rolled her eyes. "Right, what a relief." 

"We’re too old to get adopted anyway."

"We’re eleven."

"Exactly. People want babies, not dodgy almost-teenagers with opinions."

"And you think that’s a good thing?"

"Obviously! Can you imagine being adopted by some rich family and having to act all grateful and well-behaved? They’d want you to change, follow their rules, and be their perfect little thing."

Vera considered that. It wasn’t like she wanted to be adopted, not really. But still, the idea of being unwanted stung more than she liked to admit.

"I wouldn’t want to adopt someone like me," Kaya muttered under her breath.

Vera frowned. "Why would you say that?"

Kaya waved her off. "This is better. You get a fancy education, and you don’t have to be anyone’s pet. Win-win."

Vera nodded. She didn’t want to be someone’s charity case. She didn’t want to be molded into something she wasn’t. She just wanted a chance—on her terms.

"Speaking of which," Kaya continued, "why didn’t those folks you lived with adopt you?"

Vera’s face darkened. "I dunno. I think they just hated me."

"Why?"

"I was troubled, apparently."

"Troubled?"

"I think they meant I kept getting into trouble. Not my fault those kids at school were twats who deserved a punch."

Kaya snorted. "Can’t argue with that."

"But they also said I was unholy,” Vera added, her voice quieter. “And that no one would want me because of that."

"Unholy? What’s that even supposed to mean?"

Vera shrugged, but she could still hear Mr. Humphrey’s voice in her head—low and tight with barely concealed disgust.

You’re marked, child. Sin follows you like a shadow.

It had never made sense, but it had stuck.

Kaya scoffed. "Bollocks. If anyone’s unholy, it’s that Lydia cow."

Vera chuckled, shaking off the memory.

"Ugh, I’m so jealous of you right now," Kaya groaned dramatically. "You get to swan off to some posh castle, while we rot down here in Sutton."

"I promise, Kaya, I wouldn’t trade St. Mary’s for anywhere else."

"That’s ’cause the only other place you’ve lived was a shitty farm. Literally."

"It’s not about where you are. It’s about who’s there."

"Listen to you! Already talking like a snob."

Vera tossed a pillow at her, then turned back to the mirror, adjusting the purple accessories she’d carefully placed in her hair. She spritzed some perfume—borrowed, of course—and took a step back. 

"How do I look?"

"Absolutely stunning, Vera. They’re gonna adore you."

"What if they don’t?" 

"They will," Kaya said firmly, giving her a gentle shove. "Now, come on! They’ll be here any second."

Vera swiftly grabbed her sketchbook, then followed Kaya downstairs to the living area. The two climbed onto the sofa, pressing their noses against the window as they eagerly scanned the street for any sign of the couple. As they waited, Lydia and her sidekick, Abbie, sauntered into the room.

“Look at this, Abs,” Lydia sneered. “Farm girl thinks she’s something special now that she’s got herself a sponsor.”

Abbie smirked. “Wait till they get a whiff of her. They’ll be out the door before they know it.”

Vera and Kaya did their best to ignore the jabs, staying focused on the street outside. But Lydia wasn’t having it. Annoyed at being ignored, she stepped forward and yanked Vera’s hair, sending her tumbling off the sofa.

"Do you really think they’ll like you?" She hissed, grabbing a fistful of her hair and pulling it so hard Vera could feel strands ripping from her scalp. "With this stupid long hair and your pathetic artsy crap?"

Vera tried to pull away, her voice desperate. "Let go of me!"

But Lydia only tightened her grip. "Why do you get a sponsor, huh? We've been stuck here for years, and you waltz in a month ago and suddenly, you’re the favorite?"

Kaya leaped from the sofa, rushing to help, but Abbie was quicker, grabbing her arm to keep her back.

Lydia finally released Vera’s hair but grabbed her face instead, squeezing her cheeks so tightly Vera could barely move.

"Sponsor or not, you’re just another worthless loser mommy and daddy didn’t want. Don't think that fancy school will change who you are." She leaned in, her tone venomous. "A fucking bastard.”

She gave her face one last vicious squeeze before shoving her to the ground. With a final glance of disdain, she turned and strode out of the room, Abbie following after. Vera stayed on the floor, clutching her scalp, her breath shaky and ragged.

Kaya rushed to her side, her eyes full of worry. "Are you okay?"

She nodded, though tears stung her eyes. She wasn’t sure what hurt more—her throbbing head or the sting of Lydia’s cruel words.

“Yeah, are you?” she asked softly.

“I’m fine,” Kaya replied, her voice trembling with anger. “I’m going to kill them, I swear to God!”

Before Vera could respond, Miss Nelson marched into the room. “What on earth are you doing on the floor, young lady? And why is your hair in such a state?”

“It’s Lyd—” Kaya began, but Vera cut her off quickly.

“I fell,” she blurted, rising to her feet, smoothing down her dress with shaky hands.

“This is no time for foolishness!" Miss Nelson said curtly. "The Smiths will arrive at any moment. Come here.”

As she began to fix the hair, gently smoothing the tangles and adjusting the style, Kaya stood nearby with her arms crossed.

She shot Vera a look that screamed, Why didn’t you tell her the truth? But Vera avoided her gaze. She just wanted to get through the day without more trouble.

“These opportunities, Vera, are rare,” Miss Nelson said quietly as she fussed with her hair. “Do not ruin this for yourself.”

“I promise, Miss Nelson, I’ll behave.” 

“You better,” Miss Nelson replied sternly, giving her hair a final pat. “Remember, first impressions are everything.”

A few moments later, the doorbell rang. Miss Nelson smoothed down her long skirt, adjusted her hair, and took a deep breath before opening the door. Vera straightened, her fingers tightening around the sketchbook. She had imagined this moment a hundred different ways—strict, sharp-eyed benefactors, cold handshakes, clipped voices—but nothing prepared her for them.

The couple standing in the doorway looked… unconventional. Their matching outfits were oddly charming, almost theatrical, and despite their polite smiles, they seemed just as nervous as she felt—if not more.

"This is Vera," Miss Nelson said, placing a hand on Vera’s shoulder. "The talented girl you’ve chosen to sponsor."

“Hello, Vera." Mr. Smith said, his smile warm. "It’s a pleasure to meet you!”

He smelled like pumpkin and apples, a strangely comforting scent.

“I’m Dominic,” Mrs. Smith added, “and this is Donald, my… husband.”

Vera couldn’t help but notice the woman’s distinctive hairstyle, which she thought she’d have to share with Kaya later.

“It’s nice to meet you!” She replied, careful to sound polite.

An awkward silence stretched between them, the couple still wearing their peculiar smiles. Vera wasn’t sure if they were expecting her to say more, or if they simply didn’t know what to do next.

Miss Nelson, sensing the tension, quickly stepped in. “Shall we proceed to my office?” 

As they climbed, Mrs. Smith stumbled on nearly every other step, and Vera pressed her lips together to stop herself from laughing.

When they reached the office, Miss Nelson offered tea, which the couple accepted graciously. Vera was handed a cup too—just as she liked it, without milk.

“So, shall we begin?” Miss Nelson prompted, settling into her chair with an encouraging smile.

Mr. Smith cleared his throat.  “Yes, of course! The school we’ve chosen for you, Vera, is called Leonora College. It has a diverse curriculum, but its true strength lies in fine arts. We thought it would suit you perfectly.”

“That sounds exceptional, doesn’t it, Vera?” Miss Nelson interjected, practically beaming.

Vera nodded, though she wasn’t sure if it was exceptional or too good to be true.

Mrs. Smith leaned forward. “You won’t have to worry about a thing. We’ll handle all expenses, supplies—everything.”

Vera glanced at Miss Nelson, who gave her a proud wink.

Then, Mrs. Smith politely lifted her empty teacup. “Could I have a bit more tea, please?”

“Of course!” Miss Nelson reached for the kettle, but frowned as she lifted it. “That’s odd… I don’t remember us finishing it.”

The couple sat perfectly still, smiling.

Too still.

Too smiling.

Miss Nelson shook her head with a chuckle. “Well, no matter. I’ll just go prepare more. Please, carry on without me.”

She bustled out of the room, kettle in hand. The door clicked shut behind her. And just like that, something changed.

A draft, though no windows were open, sent the papers on her desk fluttering like startled birds. The air felt cooler, lighter, as if the room itself was holding its breath. The Smiths were still smiling, but now that Miss Nelson was gone, those smiles seemed… different. 

“So, tell us, Vera,” Dom began, her gaze flicking to the bandages. “What happened to your hands?”

“Oh, I… I burned them on the stove,” Vera said quickly, forcing a casual shrug.

Dom and Donnie exchanged a glance.

Vera swallowed, then swiftly thrust her sketchbook forward. “I thought you might like to see these.”

Donnie took the book, flipping it open. He and Dom then scanned the pages, their expressions shifting between curiosity and something Vera couldn’t quite place. Every now and then, their eyes flicked back to her, assessing.

“These are quite something,” Donnie murmured, pausing on a sketch of a fantastic beast. “Where do you get your inspiration?”

Vera hesitated, absently twirling a loose strand of hair. “Books, sometimes. Or the telly.”

Donnie arched a brow. “You see these on the telly?” He asked, tapping a page where a birdlike creature loomed, feathers bristling with something almost alive.

Vera flushed. “No, that one—I, um, saw it in a dream.”

“Ah... Fascinating.”

Vera resisted the urge to squirm. They think I’m odd, she thought. 

But the way Dom studied the drawing, the way Donnie’s fingers hovered over the paper as if feeling for something unseen—it didn’t feel like judgment. It felt like recognition.

The room fell into a heavy silence again as Dom and Donnie exchanged another glance, causing Vera's anxiety to spike.

Finally, Donnie broke the silence. “Vera?”

“Yes, Mr. Smith?”

“There’s something you need to know about us."

"We’re not actually a couple." Dom added.

"Our name isn’t Smith,"

"And we’re not here to send you to an art school.”

Vera’s heart plummeted. “Um, what do you mean?” 

Dom and Donnie shared smirks, their eyes meeting before they turned their attention back to her.

“My name is Donnie, and this is my sister, Dom. And we’re not here to sponsor you.”

“We’re here because you’re special."

"And Because of what you did last month.”

Vera’s mind raced. Last month? Did they mean the pantry incident? Her heartbeat roared in her ears, the walls felt too close, her hands balled into fists as panic took over. And before she could stop it, the tears came.

“I’m sorry..." She gasped, her body trembling. "I’m sorry!”

Dom and Donnie froze. They exchanged confused glances, unsure of what had triggered her distress.

“What did you do?” Dom demanded, jabbing her brother with her elbow.

“Ouch!” Donnie exclaimed, rubbing his arm. “I didn’t do anything!”

“Why is she crying then?”

“How would I bloody know?”

Vera’s sobs only grew worse, her shoulders shaking as she buried her face in her arms. “I won’t do it again,” she choked out. “I promise.”

Donnie’s eyes widened in alarm. “Vera, it’s okay! Please, stop crying!”

Dom softened, scooting closer and wrapping an arm around her. “Hey, hey,” she murmured, voice gentler than before. “Why are you crying, dear? Let’s take a breath, yeah?”

Vera swallowed a sob. “Are you… are you going to lock me up?”

“What? No! Of course not! Why would you think that?”

“Because… Because I’m not normal.”

“Oh, Vera... Just because you’re different doesn’t mean you’re not normal.”

Donnie watched in mild astonishment. His sister wasn’t exactly known for tenderness, but here she was, cradling a trembling child like she actually meant it.

Vera’s sobs refused to subside, her chest tight with panic. Donnie shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Dom, who only raised an eyebrow as if to say, Fix it.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair before crouching beside Vera. “Hey, listen,” he said gently. “We’re different too.”

Vera sniffled, eyes still swimming with tears. “What?”

“Dom and I—we’re special, just like you.”

She tensed at his words, uncertainty flickering in her gaze, and Donnie could see she wasn’t buying it. 

“Look over there,” he said, nodding toward Miss Nelson’s desk. “See that statue?”

Vera followed his gaze to a small figurine of the Blessed Virgin Mary, clad in a flowing light blue robe, cradling baby Jesus in her arms. 

She sniffled. “Saint Mary?”

“Um, yeah, that’s the one. Watch this."

Vera focused on the statue, her confusion mounting as she wondered what he intended to show her. But she barely had time to question him before it began to move.

“Blimey…” she gasped, her body tensing with awe and fear.

The Virgin Mary swayed gently, cradling baby Jesus in her arms and tenderly kissing his forehead. Her robe seemed to ripple as if caught in a breeze, and the baby’s eyes blinked softly.

The room was filled with an otherworldly glow as the miraculous scene unfolded before her. A serene hush settled over the space, and a subtle warmth emanated from the statue, creating a comforting atmosphere.

Vera watched, spellbound, her breath shallow. 

“How… How did that happen?” she whispered, barely trusting her own voice.

“I made it happen,” Donnie said softly. “With magic.”

Her gaze snapped to him, but she couldn’t form words. Her mind was still reeling, stuck between disbelief and the undeniable truth she had just witnessed.

“Magic…” she murmured, eyes drifting back to the Virgin Mary, who had stilled once more. “Magic is real?”

“Of course it is,” Dom said, giving her a hearty pat on the back. “And you, my dear, are a witch.”

The word settled in her chest, unfamiliar yet… oddly fitting.

Witch.

Dom picked up her sketchbook, flipping through the pages with keen interest.

“These creatures you’ve drawn?” she said. “They’re all real.”

Vera’s mouth parted in astonishment. “Even unicorns?”

“Even unicorns,” Dom confirmed with a grin. “I knew a bloke who had one. Named it Steve.”

Vera blinked. “Steve?” 

“Yeah. Stupidest name for a unicorn, I know. But hey, he liked it.”

Vera shook her head, a startled laugh bubbling up despite herself. Everything felt surreal. Too bizarre to be true, yet too wonderful to doubt.

Donnie leaned forward, his voice warm. “We work for the Ministry of Magic, Vera. We were sent to find you.”

“There’s a ministry for it?” she asked, her brows shooting up.

“Of course, darling,” he said with a wink. “There’s an entire world out there—one you belong to. Just like your parents did.”

Vera’s expression shifted to one of stunned disbelief.

"You know who my parents are?" she asked.

Dom and Donnie exchanged a look. For a moment, neither spoke, but then Donnie gave Dom a small nod.

"Yes, dear," she said softly. "We do."

Vera felt the world tilt. Her whole life, her parents had been a mystery, a locked door with no key. And now—just like that—someone had the answer? She pinched herself, trying to ground herself in reality.

"Where are they?" she asked quickly, hope surging in her chest. "Are they—are they looking for me?"

The siblings remained silent, their faces drawn with sympathy. The hope inside her flickered, and she already knew the answer before they even said it.

"They’re gone, aren’t they?" she murmured, her voice hollow.

Dom reached out, gently brushing a hand against her cheek. "I’m afraid so, darling."

She had told herself this for years—prepared herself for it. But it had always been a possibility, a distant maybe.

Now it was fact. 

Still, in the ache of the moment, she clung to a single thought: They didn’t leave me. Fate had taken them, not indifference. And that was something, at least.

"What about the rest of my family?" she asked, grasping onto a sliver of hope. "My grandparents? Do I have brothers or sisters? What about my uncles? My aunts? Are they magical too? Do they... do they know I’m here?"

Silence.

A terrible, suffocating silence.

Dom shifted uncomfortably, while Donnie looked away.

Vera’s heart pounded. "I don’t understand," she pressed, a deep frown creasing her forehead. "They don’t know I'm here?"

More silence. And then, realization dawned.

"So they do know." Her voice dropped, sharpening with betrayal. "But they don’t want me."

"It’s complicated, dear," Dom tried, her tone gentle.

"Right," Vera muttered, her fists clenching.

Her whole body felt hot—whether from grief or fury, she wasn’t sure. She had always suspected she was alone in the world. Now, she knew. And yet… something inside her refused to break. She straightened, her mind latching onto the only truth that mattered. I’m a witch. A bloody witch.

She let out a slow breath, grounding herself in this newfound truth. Then, after a pause, she tilted her head. "So… you're not sending me to an art school?"

Dom and Donnie exchanged grins, the heaviness in the air finally lifting.

"Even better," Dom said, eyes twinkling. "You're going to Hogwarts."

Vera blinked. "What’s that?"

Donnie gasped. "Only the best school for witchcraft and wizardry in the entire world!"

"A MAGICAL SCHOOL?" 

"Yes, dear," Dom chuckled. "And you’ll learn all about magic while you're there."

A thrill shot through Vera. Just minutes ago, she had been drowning in grief, but now—now there was something bright, something extraordinary waiting for her.

"I know you have a lot of questions, darling,” Dom said. “And we will answer them all later. But right now, there's one important thing you have to know."

Vera leaned forward. "What is it?"

"No one can know. Not Miss Nelson. Not your friends. No one. Do you understand?"

Vera nodded, grappling with the weight of the secret, the realization that she couldn't share this with Kaya weighing heavily on her.

"Now we can't say anything more because Miss Nelson is about to come. But soon, we will take you to the Wizarding world, where you can learn all about your home.”

“I won’t tell anyone.” She promised, and Donnie teasingly winked at her.

Just then, the door swung open, and Miss Nelson bustled in, balancing a tray.

"My apologies for the delay," she said, shutting the door with her elbow. "It’s the strangest thing! I couldn’t find any tea, and the water unexpectedly cut off!"

Dom and Donnie exchanged an innocent glance, while Vera had to bite back a grin.

Chapter Text

Wednesday, August 23, 1989

Dom and Donnie had somehow convinced Miss Nelson to accompany Vera for what seemed like a routine school supply shopping trip. But their real destination was far from any ordinary store.

To mark her first foray into the wizarding world, the siblings were taking her to none other than Diagon Alley. The day held even more significance for Vera, as it was also her—

“WAKE UP, BIRTHDAY GIRL!”

Kaya’s voice boomed like a foghorn, rattling the walls and Vera’s half-dreams alike. She stood at the foot of the bed, triumphant, wielding a plate stacked with pancakes shaped into a crooked 11.

“They probably taste like rubbish,” she said, “but admit it—my knife work deserves applause.”

Vera’s chest tightened with a warmth she didn’t quite recognize. No one had ever made a fuss over her birthday before. It felt strange, yet brilliant.

“Kaya, this is mint! I don’t even know how to thank you!”

“Please. Friends don’t do thank-yous, you daft cow.”

With a smirk, Vera speared a piece and popped it in her mouth—then cheekily offered Kaya a bite.

“Not half bad,” Kaya said around a mouthful. “Might open a bakery."

Before Vera could reply, Miss Nelson appeared in the doorway like a queen entering court.

“Vera, darling, the Smiths will be here shortly. Do try to look presentable.”

“Yes, Miss Nelson,” Vera said, still beaming through the pancake chaos.

“Oh, and—” Miss Nelson’s tone softened as she pulled out a violet-wrapped package from behind her back. “A very happy birthday, my dear.”

Vera froze, then carefully unwrapped the gift. Inside was a purple shoulder bag, studded with cheerful buttons that chirped: Never Give Up. Be You. You Got This.

She just stared, throat tight, before managing a whisper. “Thank you.”

Miss Nelson’s smile softened, and gave her a gentle pat. “You’re welcome, darling. Now off you go—birthday girls mustn’t keep the world waiting.”

Vera had never felt this way before—like she truly belonged. The warmth of friendship, the unexpected kindness, the quiet reassurance that she wasn’t alone in the world—it settled deep in her bones. And today, of all days, she had no time to dwell on disbelief. She had an adventure to prepare for.

Of course, Miss Nelson and the others believed this was just a routine trip for school supplies—textbooks, art materials, maybe a new sketchpad. But Vera knew better. Today wasn’t about mundane stationery.

Today was about magic. 

Determined to look the part for her first steps into the wizarding world, she dressed carefully. A borrowed black skirt from Kaya, a crisp maroon shirt, and to tie it all together, an oversized denim jacket from Grace. It hung off her small frame like a child playing dress-up. Grace was five years older, after all.

Before heading downstairs, she wrapped her bruised and swollen fingertips in bandages. She didn’t need anyone questioning them today.

Eagerly waiting by the door, she could barely contain her excitement. Thoughts raced through her mind, filled with a swirl of unanswered questions since her last encounter with Dom and Donnie.

When the siblings finally appeared, they wore outfits almost identical to the last time she’d seen them—only the colors had changed. She couldn’t help but wonder if the outfits themselves were enchanted, their hues magically altered while everything else remained the same. The possibilities seemed endless now that she had accepted the reality of magic.

As they walked together down the street, her thoughts buzzed with anticipation. How would they transport her to the wizarding world? Was there a secret entrance somewhere? An underground tunnel? Maybe they’d fly through the air on enchanted broomsticks?

Her heart raced at the thought. But confusion soon set in as they suddenly stopped.

In front of… another house?

“We’re here,” Donnie announced, marching up to the front door and giving it a firm knock.

Vera, still trying to figure out why this house was the gateway to the magical world, wisely kept quiet. 

The door swung open.

“Hello, I’m Don—” 

The door slammed shut.

He let out a long, suffering sigh and turned to Dom, who responded with an equally exasperated eye roll.

Without missing a beat, she knocked again, her patience clearly dangling by a thread. This time, the door inched open, revealing an elderly woman sporting an oversized hat, topped with what appeared to be.... dead mice.

“We’re from the Ministry of Magic, Mrs. Wriggleshore,” Dom said quickly before the door could be weaponized against them again. “We sent you a letter yesterday.”

Mrs. Wriggleshore squinted at them. “Then why are you dressed like bloody Muggles?”

“It’s part of our job, ma’am,” Dom replied through clenched teeth.

Vera, confused, leaned toward Donnie. “Muggles?” 

“Non-magical people,” he whispered back. “Like your matron and friends.”

Mrs. Wriggleshore let out an over-the-top sigh and stepped aside. “Well, don’t just stand there like lost puppies—come in.”

Inside, chaos reigned.

The house was essentially a feline-run government, with cats of every shape and size darting through rooms, leaping off furniture, and knocking over precarious towers of newspapers. It smelled like old books, tea, and a suspicious hint of burnt toast.

As Vera cautiously stepped inside, her gaze landed on a bizarre display near the kitchen—an entire wall covered in clocks.

Each one ticked in eerie unison, creating a hypnotic rhythm that felt one dramatic moment away from opening a portal to another dimension. Among the sea of timepieces, a framed photograph stood out—a young man with honey-brown hair, piercing blue eyes, and a crisp beige suit. His red tie was perfectly knotted, and his faint, enigmatic smile was straight out of the Mona Lisa playbook.

Vera found herself staring, inexplicably drawn to his face, until Mrs. Wriggleshore casually plucked one of the dead mice from her hat and lobbed it onto a worn-out couch. Immediately, the cats exploded into action, launching themselves at the unfortunate rodent.

Vera jumped back. “Did she just—”

“Don’t ask,” Donnie murmured, grabbing her arm.

With the path now mercifully clear, Mrs. Wriggleshore shuffled toward the fireplace, waving for them to follow. 

"I knew it the moment I laid eyes on her," she said, her voice as creaky as the floorboards beneath them. "She's got their distinct features. How unfortunate."

She squinted at Vera, looking her up and down like she was inspecting a particularly questionable fruit at the market. "Good thing she was raised by Muggles. A fine way to humble her lot."

Vera bristled. Her lot? What was that supposed to mean?

But before she could even begin to unpack the potential insult, a far more pressing realization hit her: Mrs. Wriggleshore wasn’t just the strange old neighbor who collected newspapers and smelled vaguely of mothballs—she was definitely a witch. And suddenly, all her oddities clicked into place.

One question, however, remained: why were they here?

The old woman then unscrewed a jar's lid and held it with a gruff reluctance. "Funny how the Ministry only remembers I exist when they need something from me."

"You will be compensated for your troubles, ma’am," Donnie assured her.

"I’ll believe it when I see it."

Meanwhile, Dom straightened up. "Proceed without me. I'll Apparate back."

Donnie turned to her. "You're not coming with us?"

She gestured at her head with mild disgust. "Do you truly expect me to stroll through Diagon Alley looking like this?"

"You look perfectly fine."

She shot him an unimpressed glance. "I'll meet you in the office, Donald."

"Excuse my sister, Vera. She doesn’t like shopping... or people... or anything, really."

"Ha ha, hilarious," Dom deadpanned. But then, to Donnie’s surprise, her expression softened.

She crouched down to Vera’s eye level, her voice dropping to something almost... warm. "Take care of my brother, will you? And make sure he doesn’t buy anything ridiculous."

Donnie gawked. "Who are you, and what have you done with my sister?"

Dom ignored him, handing over her brown leather shoulder bag before turning toward the door. With one last glance at Vera, she gave a small nod and stepped outside.

Vera rushed to the window just in time to see Dom vanish into thin air, leaving behind only the faintest shimmer of golden dust.

"Bloody hell," she whispered, her heart pounding.

Shaken from her amazement, she turned back to Donnie, who was already preparing her for their own highly questionable mode of transportation.

"Alright, listen up," he began, holding up a small container. "This is Floo Powder. It’s what we’ll use to travel to Diagon Alley. You go first, and I’ll follow right after. Simple, yeah?"

Vera eyed the powder warily. "Will it hurt?"

"Not at all, dear," he assured her with a smile. "Just step in, toss the powder, and say Diagon Alley clearly. Oh, and make sure to step out when you see a warm orange light—very important."

Vera’s stomach churned. This all sounded suspiciously like something a wizard might say right before a minor "Oops, we accidentally turned you into a goat!" situation. But Donnie’s calm confidence was oddly comforting, so she took a deep breath and stepped into the fireplace.

She grabbed a handful of powder, squeezed her eyes shut, and tossed it at her feet. "Diagon Alley!" 

The moment the words left her mouth, she was yanked into a whirlwind of motion. Her body spun like a sock in a washing machine, flickering past countless fireplaces at a speed that felt deeply illegal. Blurs of furniture, startled wizards, and what she swore was a chicken all zipped past her.

Do not vomit. Do not vomit. Do not vomit.

Then—just as panic began setting in—she spotted it: the warm orange glow Donnie had mentioned. Summoning what little grace she had left, she lunged toward the light and prayed.

A second later, she stumbled out of the fireplace, landing in a cozy living room. A couple of people sat nearby, sipping tea, staring at her like she’d just teleported into their home unannounced.

Her eyes widened in fear. "Oh, sh—"

But before she could finish, the fireplace roared to life again, and Donnie stepped out.

He brushed some soot off his jacket, adjusted his bag, and glanced down at her. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, totally fine," she said, though her legs wobbled as she stood. "Thought I might’ve ended up in a stranger’s house."

He chuckled. "Don't worry. This is a charming little inn right here in Diagon Alley. My friend owns it."

As if on cue, a voice bellowed across the room.

"DONNIE!"

Vera turned just in time to see a lanky man with an impressive mustache—so large it looked like it had its own postal address—striding toward them.

"BIRDY!" Donnie shouted back with equal enthusiasm before the two men embraced like long-lost brothers in a dramatic display of camaraderie.

"Oi, are you coming to the Quidditch match on Sunday?" Birdy asked, pulling back.

"You know I wouldn’t miss it for anything!"

"What’s with the new hair, though? You look like a chunkier version of that Muggle singer—you know, the one with the fancy footwork."

Vera squinted. Does he mean Michael Jackson?

"I look good, eh?" Donnie smirked. "Might just keep it."

Birdy cackled before his eyes landed on Vera, still standing awkwardly nearby. "And who’s this?"

Donnie, clearly in no mood for lengthy explanations, cleared his throat. "Ministry duty, Birdy. No time for chit-chat."

He clapped his friend on the shoulder, already inching toward the exit. "But I’ll see you on Sunday, eh?"

Birdy grinned. "Yeah, yeah, get outta here." 

As they stepped out of the inn and onto the bustling streets of Diagon Alley, Vera came to a dead stop, her brain short-circuiting from sensory overload.

Everywhere she looked, something new and utterly bizarre demanded her attention—robed witches and wizards chatting animatedly, men casually flying on broomsticks like it was no big deal, and shop windows displaying everything from enchanted books to self-stirring cauldrons.The air smelled like a mix of fresh bread, cinnamon, and something distinctly pumpkin-y.

It was, in a word, insane.

"Alright, first things first," Donnie said, snapping her out of her daze. "We need to visit the bank and arrange a loan for you."

"A loan?" she repeated, her wonder instantly replaced by confusion.

He crouched slightly to meet her eyes, his tone gentle but firm. "Here's the situation: Hogwarts is free, but you still need to buy your school supplies. Since you don't have any family who can cover the costs right now, the Ministry worked out a deal with the bank to get you a loan. And let me tell you, negotiating with those goblins was not fun."

Did he just say goblins?

Before she could question that particular detail, Donnie was already leading her down the street toward an imposing white building that towered over the rest of Diagon Alley. She had never been inside a Muggle bank before, but she was pretty sure this wasn’t what it would look like.

Massive marble pillars framed the entrance, and the whole place radiated the kind of we have all your money and your soul energy that made her stomach twist.

The moment they stepped inside, her awe dialed up another notch. Everything was gleaming, expensive-looking, and intimidating as hell. But what really caught her attention were the creatures behind the counters.

Goblins. Actual, real goblins.

Sharp features, sharper suits, and expressions that screamed, Try me, I dare you.

She and Donnie joined the queue leading to the loans office, where the tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a cursed dagger. Suddenly, a woman burst out of the office, her face streaked with tears, clutching a piece of parchment like it had ruined her life.

Donnie exhaled through his nose. "Tough luck," he muttered, though his voice held a trace of sympathy.

Before Vera could react, the line moved forward, and they were soon seated in front of a particularly stern-looking goblin who peered at them over a pair of tiny, wire-rimmed spectacles.

"We’re inquiring about a loan," Donnie said. "For young Vera here."

The goblin’s expression soured. “Are you daft? We don’t give loans to children.”

Without missing a beat, Donnie produced a parchment from his bag and slid it across the desk. The goblin sighed before snatching it up and scanning the contents.

“Oh,” he said, his tone doing a complete 180.

His beady eyes darted back to Vera, now looking her over with something resembling… respect?

“Apologies, Miss. Had I known who you were, I wouldn’t have been so—” He cleared his throat. “I’ll see to it that your loan is processed immediately.”

Vera blinked. Who am I?

She glanced at Donnie, but he only shot her a smug little wink.

Without another word, the goblin disappeared through a door that hadn't been there a second ago. Vera was still reeling from the weirdness of it all when Donnie casually pulled an extremely large cookie from his bag and handed it to her.

She took a hesitant bite—and immediately, her taste buds threw a parade. “Oh my God, this is mint! What is it?”

“It’s a Koink,” he said through a mouthful of his own. “Pumpkin dough, apple sauce filling. Ministry break-room staple.”

She frowned at the half-eaten cookie in her hand. This was just a snack? It tasted like it had been baked by fairies. Possibly drunk fairies, but still.

Before she could pry further into the magical secrets of superior cookie-making, the goblin returned, holding a small, rather serious-looking coin purse. He settled back into his seat, and with a rustle of parchment, an official-looking contract appeared on the desk.

Vera took the quill he offered, eyeing it warily before dipping it into the inkwell and signing her name. The moment the ink dried, the goblin handed over the money, signaling that their business was done.

With the purse in hand, Vera and Donnie stepped out into the lively street of Diagon Alley, ready for their shopping adventure. But before they could make another move, Donnie suddenly stopped, giving her a grin that was all charm and reassurance.

"Don’t sweat the loan," he said with a wave of his hand. "You’ve got ages to pay it back. And if you ever find yourself needing more, we’ll just waltz back here and grab another one."

She nodded, still feeling like she was in a whirlwind of wizarding chaos, but grateful for his calming presence.

"But before we go," he said, digging through his bag, "there’s one more thing you need."

He pulled out a letter—perfectly ordinary, except for the elegant emerald green ink spelling out her name and the crimson wax seal that seemed to scream official.

"Normally, this would get delivered to your house, but, you know, the whole Muggles situation and all... so I had it sent to the office."

Vera gingerly peeled the wax seal off with her bandaged fingers, feeling like she was handling something important—because, well, she was.

Inside the envelope, she found a beautifully crafted parchment, and for the first time since arriving in the wizarding world, her heart did a little happy flip.

Donnie sighed with nostalgia. "I remember when I got mine. It was the highlight of my entire life. And I do mean entire life."

Vera’s eyes sparkled as she read through the letter, the excitement building with every line. It was all real. She was going to Hogwarts. It was finally sinking in.

“There’s a list of items we need to get,” Donnie said, checking a small piece of parchment. “But first, we need to get you a suitcase."

She nodded eagerly, ready to dive into the magical shopping experience that awaited her. As they strolled down the bustling street, her focus shifted between the list of supplies and the lively surroundings. Donnie, meanwhile, greeted nearly everyone they passed with friendly waves and handshakes.

“He knows everyone,” she murmured to herself, impressed.

Their initial destination led them to a quaint luggage boutique. Donnie assumed the task of selecting a suitcase for her, while her attention drifted to the neighboring shop across the alley.

Distinguished by its light purple facade and vibrant display, the small shop beckoned to her curiosity. A petite, ivory pink sign delicately hangs beside its entrance, bearing the inscription:

Lucy's

Exiting the luggage boutique, she found herself drawn to the captivating allure of the establishment. Upon pushing the door open, a delightful bell chimed, announcing her arrival.

Behind the counter stood a boy, slightly older than her, with dark hair and piercing bright blue eyes.

Yet, Vera remained oblivious to his presence, captivated instead by the enchanting array before her—makeup, magical makeup.

As she perused the enchanting offerings, her gaze alighted upon a spectrum of cosmetics that seemed plucked from the realm of fantasy. Gleaming lipsticks shimmered with iridescence. Magical eyeshadows adorned the shelves, crafted in the shape of lunar phases, their hues evoking the mysteries of the night sky.

Perfumes whispered to expel negative energies and evoke feelings of serenity. Delicate jars of fairy dust sparkled with ethereal light. And vials of mermaid scales for eternal youth.

Her eyes widened in awe as she took in the enchanting assortment, each item more mesmerizing than the last. The magical makeup seemed like it had been conjured straight from a dream, adding a sense of wonder to her already extraordinary day.

"Hello, love. Are you all alone?"

The question drifted toward her like a gentle breeze, stirring her from her enchanted daze.

She turned, eyes wide with wonder, to find a woman whose presence felt like stepping into a dream.

The woman's brown curls tumbled down her back like waves, shimmering in the soft light, and her flowing red dress, alive with rich hues and adorned with an array of curious trinkets, seemed to dance with her every move. A delicate feather rested in her hair, giving her the appearance of a creature from a far-off fantasy.

Vera nodded, unable to suppress the smile creeping across her lips.

The woman’s gaze fell on the shimmering lipstick in her hand, and her eyes sparkled with understanding.

"Ah," she said, her voice like a soft melody, "Is that the one that’s captured your heart? It’s quite special, you know."

"What does it do?" 

"It changes with you," the woman explained, "mirroring the colors of your soul."

Vera’s breath caught, her eyes widening with wonder.

"Would you like to keep it?" the woman asked.

Vera hesitated. "I-I don’t have any money," she stammered, her voice small.

But the woman waved it away with a graceful flick of her hand. "Oh, darling," she said, her voice soft and reassuring. "It’s a gift. Yours to keep."

Gratitude flooded Vera's heart, the moment so pure and unexpected that it felt like a dream she never wanted to end.

Just as she opened her mouth to thank the woman, a sharp rap at the window pierced through the magic.

Donnie stood outside, his face shadowed with anger, beckoning her to leave with an urgent wave. The dream faltered, and she reluctantly placed the lipstick back into the woman’s hands, her heart heavy with longing.

"Don’t worry, dear," the woman whispered, her smile as gentle as the first light of dawn. "You can always come back. We will be here, waiting for you."

With one last look at the whimsical shop, where every corner seemed to hum with magic, Vera stepped outside.

Donnie’s scowl met her, harsh and cold. "WHERE DID YOU GO!" his voice thundered, pulling her sharply back to reality.

His words were heavy with frustration, scolding her for wandering off. But as he grabbed her arm and began pulling her away, her gaze kept drifting back to the shop—to the woman who had touched her heart in such a fleeting but unforgettable way.

"You nearly gave me a heart attack," he huffed, still shaken. "I thought I’d lost you."

"Sorry..." she mumbled, rubbing the back of her neck. “Did you manage to buy the suitcase?”

"Yes," he grumbled, his tone softening a little. "They’ll send it to my office once it’s been carved."

"Carved?"

"Come on now," he urged, brushing aside her curiosity. "We’ve still got plenty more to buy."

They made their way to Madam Malkin’s, and after a thorough fitting session, the seamstress brought out a pristine Hogwarts uniform from the storeroom. Their next stop was the apothecary to acquire potion ingredients. Lost in reviewing their list, Vera inadvertently collided with someone while entering.

"Sorry," came a soft, gentle voice.

Startled, she looked up, her breath catching as she came face-to-face with a boy.

He was tall, with broad shoulders, and an impeccably styled brownish hair, evoking the timeless charm of a 1950s movie star. His eyes were captivating brown, though they were framed by dark circles, as if he had carried the weight of sleepless nights for years.

Their eyes met for what felt like longer than a moment, before he offered a charming smile and gracefully exited the shop. Vera stood there, unable to pull her gaze away as he vanished into the crowd outside.

"Vera!" Donnie called from inside.

She shook her head, then entered the shop, where she was instantly enveloped by the rich medley of scents—earthy herbs, sharp spices, and the faint tang of potions bubbling in the back.

For a moment, it was overwhelming, but soon her curiosity took over. She wandered among the shelves, her fingers grazing the jars and vials, eyes scanning each label as she tried to commit their names to memory.

A sense of excitement bubbled within her—was this what she would be learning at Hogwarts? 

Meanwhile, Donnie struck up a conversation with the shopkeeper, who sat casually behind the counter, half-hidden by a large newspaper.

"Anything noteworthy happening, Timmy?"

"The usual affairs," Timmy replied, lowering the newspaper to meet his gaze. "Blackwood’s stirring the pot again."

Donnie raised an eyebrow. "What’s he on about this time?"

"Criticizing the candidates for the new Minister position. Says none of them will uphold Bagnold’s standards."

"Is he entirely wrong though?"

"Ah, it's Blackwood," Timmy waved it off. "He’d criticize his own mother if given the chance. I say we give some of these new candidates a shot. Fudge seems reasonable enough."

Donnie shook his head. "I respectfully disagree. Fudge is the weakest candidate by far."

"You don't want the old establishment holding all the power again, do you?"

"As if they won't through Fudge? He’s just a puppet, you know."

"Come on, mate, give the man a chance. Maybe things will work out." With a good-natured sigh, he then folded the paper. "Now, what can I get you?"

Once they existed the apothecary, Vera carefully scanned the list once more, checking off items as she went. She hadn’t expected the shopping trip to take so long, but Donnie’s friendly nature slowed their pace.

He paused for casual conversations in nearly every shop and couldn’t resist picking up random trinkets along the way.

"Just your wand left." He remarked as they walked along the bustling street.

The mention of the wand made Vera’s stomach twist in nervous anticipation. Donnie had explained the importance of it, and that she’d need to find the one that was meant for her. They soon arrived at Ollivander's, the quiet shop filled with shelves upon shelves of dusty wand boxes.

"Mr. Ollivander!" Donnie called out, his voice echoing in the stillness.

A soft voice responded from the back, and an elderly man with pale, piercing eyes emerged from the shadows. "Ah, a wand for the young one, is it?"

"Indeed, sir," Donnie replied with a polite nod.

Ollivander examined Vera closely before retrieving several boxes.

"The wand chooses the wizard," he said softly, handing her the first one. "Try it."

Vera glanced nervously at Donnie, unsure of what to do.

He placed his hand gently on her shoulder. "Remember when I made that statue move the day we met?"

"Yeah..."

"Well, I did that with my wand," he explained. "All you have to do is wave it at something, and the magic will flow by itself, okay, darling?"

She nodded, gripping the wand firmly, trying to focus. If it was indeed as Donnie explained, then it seemed simpler than she had imagined.

“Remember,” Ollivander said, "You’ve got to be gentle, yet firm."

With the wand in hand, she aimed at a nearby box, willing it to open.

But nothing happened.

"It’s alright," Ollivander reassured her with a calm smile. "Let’s try another."

One by one, she tried wand after wand, but nothing responded. Each failure chipped away at her confidence, and Ollivander’s expression grew more serious.

Sensing her frustration, Donnie leaned in. "It’ll be alright, dear. The right one’s here somewhere."

Still, as the process dragged on, a tension hung in the air, and Donnie, catching on, turned to Ollivander with concern etched across his face.

"Mr. Ollivander, could I have a word with you?" he asked quietly.

The two stepped away, moving deeper into the shop, their hushed conversation hidden from Vera's ears. She watched them closely, noting how Mr. Ollivander shook his head, his expression a mix of concern and contemplation. Whatever they were discussing didn’t seem reassuring, and her heart began to race.

After a few tense moments, he turned back to her, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Do not worry. I have an idea."

He climbed up a towering ladder, disappearing into the shadows of the upper shelves. Vera’s anxiety grew as she waited, her eyes following his every move. After what felt like an eternity, he returned, holding a small, worn box.

"Your father had a similar one," he said softly, his pale eyes locking onto hers. "I believe it will work for you. Cypress wood with a phoenix feather core—very flexible."

But instead of offering her the wand to try, he carefully packaged it up and handed it directly to Donnie.

"I trust it will serve her well," he said, a quiet finality in his voice.

Donnie nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Ollivander."

As they stepped out of the shop, Vera’s mind whirled with a storm of unanswered questions, her thoughts fixated on the mention of her father.

Donnie, however, effortlessly shifted their focus to lunch.

“How about a chicken sandwich?” he suggested, a twinkle of enthusiasm in his eyes. “I know a great place that also has hookahs.”

“Donnie, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, shoot."

“What happened to my father?”

He paused, a flicker of unease crossing his face. He shifted uncomfortably, his silence betraying his reluctance to dive into the topic.

“Mr. Ollivander mentioned my father,” she continued. “He gave me a wand similar to his. So, he must know him as well?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Donnie said with a heavy sigh.

“so, what exactly happened to him?”

“It’s... a bit complicated, dear.”

“And what about my mum?”

Donnie’s discomfort grew, a nervous edge to his voice as he raked a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know much about her, Vera,” he admitted. “But I do know she wasn’t from here.”

“Where was she from?”

“Um… Another country,” he said cautiously, choosing his words carefully. “I’m afraid I can’t give you many details.”

He watched as she absorbed the gravity of the conversation, her mind clearly wrestling with the weight of his words.

"Vera," he began, "you're a remarkable girl, and your parents undoubtedly loved you. However, the wizarding world faced its share of challenges, and not everyone… survived them. It's a complicated story with many perspectives, but I want you to understand one thing, okay?”

“What is it?”

“Don't blindly accept what others say about your family. Seek the truth on your own terms and form your own judgments. At Hogwarts, you might encounter students saying odd things; do your best to ignore them, and if anyone bothers you, don't hesitate to write to me. Understand?"

She nodded slowly, trying to process the depth of his advice.

"I'll escort you back to Mrs. Wriggleshore's now. But I'll keep everything in my possession, alright? I can't send you home with dried sage and dead worms. I'll have everything neatly packed in the suitcase we ordered, ready for the Hogwarts Express next week."

“Okay, thank you, Donnie,” she said gratefully, handing him the remaining items.

“You’re very welcome,” he replied with a warm smile.

As he began to carefully organize the items he was carrying, his eyes suddenly lit up. “Oh, I almost forgot!”

He reached into his bag and pulled out a colorful painting set—a bundle of crayons, pencils, a sketchbook, brushes, tubes of oil and water paints, and a small white canvas.

“Happy birthday!”

Chapter Text

Friday, September 1, 1989

Part one: The Train Ride

In Vera’s final week at St. Mary’s before Hogwarts, she packed her days with laughter, late-night chats, and a few too many bruises from street football.

She painted on the rooftop as the city hummed below, soaking in the moments before everything changed. Diagon Alley had been a whirlwind of magic and marvels, but Donnie’s thoughtful gift remained her most treasured.

Still, it wasn’t the only act of kindness.

Knowing her wardrobe was more "bare necessity" than "school-ready,"  the older girls at St. Mary’s generously shared their clothes for the months ahead. They also made her beautifully decorated farewell cards, while the little ones—too young to write—poured their love into wobbly, crayon-colored drawings.

For the first time in her life, she felt truly cared for. The warmth of her St. Mary’s family filled her with hope, but beneath it all, a quiet ache lingered. London was home. Leaving it, and especially her best friend, wasn’t easy.

"You’re not gonna forget about us when you’re off with all those posh lot, are you?" Kaya asked, dramatically pouting as she helped her pack.

"Not a chance," Vera said. "I doubt they’ll even like me."

"What are you on about? They’ll love you."

"They’ll probably think I’m just some townie."

"And you’re not?"

"Shut it!" Vera laughed, flinging a shirt at her.

Kaya caught it with a smirk. "Well, if any of them give you trouble, don’t hesitate to punch them right in their posh faces."

"Trust me, I won’t."

Kaya exhaled, flopping onto the bed. "Blimey, Vera. I can’t believe you’re actually leaving."

"You were the one who convinced me to go!"

"Yeah, but I didn’t think it would actually happen. I’m gonna miss you."

"Oh, look at you, getting all soft," Vera teased, tucking her painting set into her suitcase.

"I’m serious! Call me EVERY DAY, or I swear I’ll kill you when you come back."

"Alright, alright, I will," Vera grinned, snapping her suitcase shut.

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Kaya pulled her into a tight hug, squeezing like she never wanted to let go.

At first, the warmth of it felt almost foreign. Vera had never been one for long embraces, but as she allowed herself to sink into it, guilt crept in. She hated lying to Kaya, to someone who meant so much to her. But the wizarding world had its rules, and she had no choice but to follow them.

They were still wrapped in each other’s arms when Miss Nelson entered, checking her watch with a patient smile. "Are you ready, dear?"

Vera pulled back, forcing a steady breath. "Yes, Miss. All set."

"I’ll be downstairs waiting. Don’t be late. The train leaves at half past ten."

As Miss Nelson exited, Kaya let out a long sigh. "So this is it, then?"

"I’ll be back before you know it. Christmas isn’t far off."

Kaya reached into her pocket. "I’ve got something for you."

She pulled out two identical bracelets, each adorned with a charm shaped like half a heart. With a small smile, she fastened one around her own wrist and handed the other to Vera.

"Watch this," she said, clicking the two halves together.

They snapped into place, forming a whole heart.

"My heart won’t feel whole again until I’m with you," Kaya murmured.

A lump formed in Vera’s throat. She blinked rapidly, but the tears came anyway, hot and stinging. Wordlessly, she threw her arms around Kaya one last time. Then, before she could second-guess herself, she grabbed her suitcase and headed downstairs.

The other girls had gathered at the entrance, showering her with hugs, well-wishes, and teasing farewells. And before she knew it, she was walking down the street, stealing glances back at St. Mary’s, and at Kaya, who stood by the door, waving her goodbye.

They took the bus from Sutton to London, Miss Nelson blissfully unaware that Vera’s destination wasn’t the 10:30 train at King’s Cross.

In her pocket sat a counterfeit ticket for "Platform 9," filled with fictional details of a journey that didn’t exist. Vera had to admire the craftsmanship—the magical siblings had outdone themselves.

Back in Diagon Alley, Donnie had told her to wait for him and Dom to escort her to the Hogwarts Express. She still didn’t get why Miss Nelson couldn’t just take her straight to the train. But in a world where magic was real, things had long since stopped making sense.

"Here we are," Miss Nelson said as they reached the bustling platform, glancing at the departure board. "You’ve still got ten more minutes."

"I’ll be fine, Miss."

"Are you sure, darling?"

"Yes, I don’t want you to miss the bus back to Sutton."

Miss Nelson hesitated, then handed over the suitcase before crouching to meet her gaze. From her coat pocket, she pulled out a small envelope, pressing it gently into her hand.

"Your allowance for the next few months," she said.

"But Don—I mean, the Smiths said they’d cover that."

"I know," Miss Nelson replied with a knowing smile, "but every girl at St. Mary’s gets an allowance, sponsor or not. It’s only fair you have yours too."

Vera swallowed hard and tucked the envelope safely into her bag. "Thank you, Miss," she murmured. "For everything."

"One more thing," Miss Nelson added, her expression softening. “I understand you might feel out of place between the other students at first, but if you show disinterest in belonging, people will ensure you don't."

She pulled Vera into a warm embrace before standing and walking away, leaving the eleven-year-old standing on the edge of a world she barely understood, ready—or not—for whatever came next.

Vera positioned herself in front of the Platform 9 sign, anxiously awaiting Donnie and Dom's arrival. Moments later, she heard her name being called.

Glancing around, she saw no one at first and thought she might be imagining it, but the voice persisted. Intrigued, she peeked around the corner, and there they were, as casually cool as ever, like they'd been hanging out in the shadows for ages.

As she walked over, it didn’t take long for her to notice the new looks they were sporting.

Donnie's once towering hair was now cropped short, with dark roots fading into white tips. The edgy new style was only amplified by a collection of glistening earrings, a nose ring, and an eyebrow slit. He wore a black velvet suit, perfectly matched coat, and enough silver rings to make a werewolf shiver.

But Dom? She was almost unrecognizable.

Her makeup was minimal, save for the razor-sharp eyeliner that could cut glass. Her hair was sleek and cropped, and her black suit—paired with a long leather coat that swayed dramatically—had Vera wondering if she had stepped out of some spy thriller.

But what truly startled her was the scar that adorned Dom's left cheek—faint yet striking.

"How are you, Vera?" She asked.

"I'm good, thank you," Vera replied shyly, feeling slightly overwhelmed by her presence.

"Are you ready?" 

"Yes, but I'm confused. Where's the Hogwarts Express you mentioned?" 

Donnie and Dom exchanged a look, one that only promised trouble, before Dom took a step forward. Without a word, she walked briskly toward the solid brick wall, and Vera’s eyes widened as she watched her disappear.

"Come on now, your turn," Donnie said, effortlessly taking her suitcase.

Vera stared at the wall in disbelief, her heart pounding. She took a tentative step toward it, uncertainty clouding her mind.

"It’s okay, dear," Donnie reassured her gently. "Close your eyes and run for it. Dom will be waiting for you on the other side."

Squeezing her eyes, she braced herself for the unknown, and ran toward the wall, expecting to collide—only for it to never come. Instead, she was greeted by the sharp blast of a train horn and the lively hum of chatter. Opening her eyes, she found herself in an entirely different world. Above her, the sign read: Platform 9¾.

To her left stood the magnificent Hogwarts Express, its scarlet paint gleaming under the station lights. And in that instant, she understood exactly why Miss Nelson couldn’t be the one to bring her here. Seeing something like this might have given the poor woman a heart attack.

As promised, Dom was waiting on the other side, her expression stern but softened by a faint smile of reassurance. Moments later, Donnie strolled through the wall like he had all the time in the world, completely unfazed by the magic of it all.

Vera, still processing the sheer impossibility of what had just happened, turned her attention to the crowd. The platform was packed with students—some her age, others older.

Parents hovered anxiously, offering last-minute advice, tightening scarves, and smothering their kids with hugs that ranged from loving to downright suffocating.

As she scanned the crowd, she suddenly felt it—eyes on her.

A woman with long brown hair stood a few feet away, watching her with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. She was with a young girl—likely her daughter—and a man with striking blue eyes. While the man spoke to his daughter, the woman remained fixated on Vera, her expression unsettlingly familiar.

Vera blinked, feeling unsettled, but chose to shake off the odd encounter, returning her focus to Donnie and Dom.

“I’ve got your suitcase ready,” Donnie said, his grin proud like he’d personally handcrafted it. “It’s got your name on it and all the Hogwarts essentials.”

“And you’ll need this once you arrive,” Dom added, pulling a sleek black robe from her bag. “Wear it when you get there.”

Vera took it, a wave of gratitude swelling inside her. Over the past month, Donnie and Dom had been her guides, her protectors, her friends. And as she stepped onto the train, she wondered if they would always be there for her. The thought comforted her as she turned back to wave.

“I really hope she has a good life,” Donnie murmured, still watching after her.

“You know perfectly well she won’t.”

“Merlin’s beard, woman,” he huffed. “Can you be more pessimistic?”

Vera wandered through the narrow corridor of the train, her eyes scanning each compartment in search of an empty seat. Ideally, she wanted to sit with students her age, hoping to avoid traveling alone. After peeking into several compartments, she finally found one that caught her attention.

Inside were four students, three boys and one girl, chatting animatedly. They all looked polished, their appearance exuding an effortless elegance.

The girl, slender with warm bronze skin, had large, striking black eyes and dark hair tied with a green ribbon, which contrasted beautifully against her glossy black dress adorned with delicate golden jewelry.

Seated beside her was a tall boy with sharp features, his jawline strong and his dark almond-shaped eyes intense. His black hair shone under the compartment's light, styled immaculately to complement his fashionable black suit and silk scarf draped artfully around his neck.

He looked almost too perfect, and Vera found herself momentarily mesmerized by his presence.

Opposite them, two other boys sat close together. One was pale, almost ghostly, with long, brown curls that framed his face, while his companion, with deep brown skin and hazel eyes that sparkled under the light, exuded a quiet confidence.

The seat next to him was unoccupied, and, feeling a bit nervous but determined, Vera knocked gently before sliding the door open.

"Hello!" she greeted politely.

The moment she stepped inside, the chatter in the compartment didn’t just pause—it flatlined.

Then, as if on cue, the girl closest to the impossibly handsome boy leaned in and whispered—loud enough to ensure Vera caught every syllable.

"Merlin’s beard, what is she wearing?" 

The boy beside her didn’t bother to look up from his book. He only flicked his gaze to her hands for the briefest moment before turning a page. "Never mind the fashion crime. What’s up with her hands?"

Vera followed their gaze, her stomach twisting.

The oversized, bleach-stained overalls sagged on her frame, the faded flannel beneath looking drab beside their polished outfits. Even Kaya’s bracelet—one of her few prized possessions—suddenly seemed like nothing more than a cheap trinket.

Worst of all were her hands, wrapped in fraying bandages that now stood out sharply under their watchful eyes. As their laughter settled into her bones, she instinctively tucked them behind her back, as if that could shield her from their judgment.

"Uh, is this seat taken?" she asked, hesitating at the door.

"Why do you think you can converse with us?" the boy with the brown curls spoke, his voice laced with condescension.

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

The boy with hazel eyes smirked. "His question wasn’t difficult. Why are you talking to us?"

"I just wanted to know if I could sit here. The other compartments are full."

The girl let out an annoying, exaggerated laugh. "Is she dense?"

"Aren’t they all?" the hazel-eyed boy quipped. 

Vera felt her temper flare. She had approached them with basic politeness, and they had chosen cruelty? Fine.

"There’s no need to be fucking rude," she snapped. "You could just say no, and I’d leave."

The laughter died instantly.

Four pairs of eyes fixed on her, their amusement curdling into something sharper, more venomous. The boy with brown curls slowly stood, towering over her as he closed the distance. He smelled expensive, but no amount of luxury could mask the ugliness in his expression.

"Watch your mouth," he said through gritted teeth. "It’s bad enough we have to study with you people. Don’t think for a second we’ll tolerate your vulgar nature too."

Vera’s fists clenched at her sides as rage surged through her. Her instinct was to strike him, to wipe that smug look off his face. Instead, she rolled her eyes, turned on her heel, and stomped out of the compartment.

"Posh fucks," she muttered under her breath, already hunting for a less insufferable place to sit.

As she navigated the cramped train corridor, two identical blurs of red hair suddenly whooshed past her—one on the left, one on the right—barely missing her shoulders.  

"EXCUSE US!" they bellowed in unison, laughter echoing behind them as they hurtled forward, clearly fleeing from some impending doom.  

Seconds later, another redhead—this one older, red-faced, and radiating pure exasperation—came charging after them.  

"We haven't even reached Hogwarts, and you've ALREADY VEXED ME!" he hollered, half out of breath.  

Then, he slowed for a moment, offering her a sheepish smile. "Oh—hello."  

Before she could even muster a response, he was off again, resuming his pursuit of the chaos gremlins. Shaking her head, she continued her search until she finally found a compartment with an open seat.

After the icy reception earlier, she hesitated before stepping in, wary of another hostile encounter. Gathering her nerves, she carefully slid the door open.

"Mind if I sit here?"

"Seats are free, aren’t they?" a boy answered with an easy grin, his thick Irish accent instantly reminding her of Mrs. Quinn from back home.

Relieved by the warmth in his voice, she stepped inside. The compartment was already filled with five other students—three boys and two girls.

The girls sat together, side by side. The one by the window had striking almond-shaped eyes, and flawless porcelain-like skin. Her dark, sleek hair fell over her shoulders in a perfect cascade.

Next to her sat a taller girl, slender with big green eyes that practically buzzed with energy. She wore a wildly mismatched cardigan, the kind that would’ve looked ridiculous on anyone else but somehow suited her perfectly. Her light brown hair was pulled into a high ponytail, adding to her effortlessly quirky charm.

The boys were scattered across the remaining seats. One had light brown hair and striking grey eyes, his smile warm and inviting. Beside him was the Irish boy, dark brown hair neatly styled, his calm brown eyes radiating quiet confidence.

And then there was the last one—shorter than the rest, with a mess of fiery red curls, a dusting of freckles across his nose, and a set of braces that gleamed every time he grinned.

"What's your name?" the girl by the window asked with a soft, welcoming smile.

"Vera."

"I'm Maddie Park," the girl introduced herself. "And these are Sarah, Cedric, Tommy, and Kenny."

"Nice to meet you all," Vera said, a little surprised to be met with smiles instead of sneers.

"Whereabouts are you from?" Tommy—the Irish boy—asked eagerly.

"Uh... London."

"I'm from Brandywell," he said with a slight puff of pride. "That’s in Derry."

"I’m from Edinburgh," Sarah chimed in.

Maddie frowned. "So you left Scotland… to go to Scotland?"

Sarah smirked. "My parents apparated me here, so technically, I poofed."

"Wait, your parents are magical too?" Tommy blurted out, leaning forward like she had just revealed state secrets.

"Yep," she replied with a grin. "But they’re both Muggleborns. What about yours?"

"Nah, mine are normal," he said, then froze as Cedric let out a quiet snort.

"I mean… Muggles," he corrected quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Still getting the hang of all these wizarding words."

Sarah chuckled. "No worries."

"And yours, Cedric?" he asked, eager to shift the spotlight.

"Both wizards," Cedric answered, stretching back lazily.

"Same here," Kenny added, raising his hand slightly like he was answering a question in class. "But mum’s a Muggleborn."

"My parents are Muggles too," Maddie said. "Mum nearly fainted when she saw my toys floating around the room when I was a baby. Thought we had ghosts."

That sent them all into a fit of laughter. Then, just like that, all eyes turned to Vera.

"What about you?" Cedric asked, curiosity in his gaze.

She hesitated. "Yeah, they are wizards too," she said, and instantly cursed herself for the slip.

Tommy’s face lit up. "That’s brilliant! Bet living in the wizarding world is a right laugh, yeah?"

She felt the urge to correct him, to explain that her life wasn’t nearly as magical as he imagined. But before she could get a word out, a loud bang shook the train, causing everyone to jump.

"What was that?" Maddie shrieked, hands flying to her ears as red smoke began to curl into the compartment.

They all rushed to the door, peering out into the chaos. Laughter—wild, uncontrollable—echoed down the corridor, and through the haze of smoke, two figures sprinted away, their footsteps quick and erratic.  

"Bet it’s the Weasley twins," Cedric said.

"Cracker," Tommy added, his eyes wide with admiration.

And sure enough, seconds later, the twin troublemakers came skidding back down the corridor, their ears firmly in the grip of the older redhead from earlier.

The rest of the journey to Hogwarts passed in a whirl of lively chatter and shared snacks. Maddie, ever the generous one, bought treats from the trolley for everyone, distributing them with a cheerful grin.

Sarah dove right in, shoving sweets into her pockets while devouring yet another chocolate frog with an enthusiasm that bordered on impressive. Meanwhile, Tommy and Cedric fell into an animated conversation about Quidditch, with Cedric explaining the finer points of the game in a way that left Tommy nodding in awe.

Maddie was lost in a book, while Kenny, on the other hand, had succumbed to the lure of sleep, his head bobbing gently as the train rumbled on.

Seeking a quieter way to pass the time, Vera pulled out a small sketchbook and pencil from her oversized overalls and began to doodle, her mind drifting as her hand moved across the page.

“Wanna see something cool?” Sarah’s voice suddenly cut through the background noise, and she looked up, curiosity piqued.

“Yeah, sure.”

Sarah reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small jar. Inside, was a collection of dead insects.

Vera’s stomach turned, but her shock only deepened as Sarah casually started attaching the beetles to her hair.

“Don’t worry, they’re taxidermied!” she said with a grin, as though that somehow made the whole situation less unsettling.

Vera forced a polite smile, her distaste barely concealed, and quickly returned her focus to her sketchbook, hoping the whole bizarre display would end soon.

A few hours later, the prefects made their rounds, alerting the students to prepare for their arrival at Hogwarts.

She quickly pulled on her black robes, excitement and nerves bubbling inside her as she stepped out of the compartment and into the bustling corridor.

Being on the shorter side, she found herself struggling to weave through the crowd of older students, her attempts to get to the exit a bit like navigating a maze. When she finally reached the door, she collided with someone trying to re-enter the train.

"Sorry!" they both exclaimed in unison.

The voice was oddly familiar, and as she looked up, her heart skipped a beat. 

It was him—the same boy she'd accidentally bumped into at Diagon Alley.

"We really have to stop meeting like this," he said, flashing an easy smile.

She froze for a moment, unsure of how to respond, her brain stalling in a mix of surprise and embarrassment.

The boy gently placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her to the side, clearing the way for the crowd behind them. He gave her one last smile before turning back into the train, leaving her momentarily speechless.

Her admiration was quickly interrupted when Tommy appeared at her side, urging her to join the other first-years. Shaking off the unexpected encounter, she followed him, rejoining her friends, who were all standing in front of a rather unusual sight.

"Gather round, gather round!" boomed a deep, husky voice.

Vera and her friends looked up, eyes wide in disbelief. Because standing before them was a giant of a man, his beard and hair so thick and wild, he looked like a force of nature.

"Is this everyone?" he asked, scanning the group of first-years. "Ah well, let’s get a move on, shall we?"

The giant introduced himself as Rubeus Hagrid, Hogwarts’ gamekeeper and keeper of keys, then explained that they were about to take boats to the castle. Vera found herself with Maddie, Tommy, Cedric, and Sarah, the group holding their breath in collective awe as they glided across the dark water.

The nervous tension melted away as they gazed up at the towering, ancient castle, its lights glowing like something out of a dream against the night sky.

"We’re actually here…" Vera whispered, her voice full of wonder, still trying to wrap her head around the fact that this was real.

Part two: The Sorting Ceremony

She soon found herself at the threshold of an ancient castle, ready to embark on a magical journey she had never imagined. She repeatedly pinched her arm to confirm the surreal reality of her situation, all while her eyes roamed over the castle’s venerable stone walls, soaking in every intricate detail.

Reaching a massive staircase, she stood among the other first-years in front of a stern woman clad in emerald green robes, her pointed hat adorned with a feather.

“Here they are, Professor McGonagall,” Hagrid announced. “Didn’t expect so few this year.”

“Thank you, Hagrid.” Professor McGonagall replied with a calm nod. "That will be all."

As she began to introduce herself and outline the day’s proceedings, Vera’s gaze wandered. She caught sight of the arrogant posh group from the train, clustered together with another boy who seemed intent on annoying the girl in front of him by tugging at her hair.

Nearby were the red-haired twins along with a dark-skinned boy with dreads, and a couple of girls. Vera found herself standing with Maddie, Kenny, Sarah, Tommy, and Cedric, who were all listening intently to Professor McGonagall as she explained some of the rules.

Four other students rounded out the group.

“Lolly?” Sarah turned to her, extending a sweet she had pulled from her pocket.

“Um… no thanks,” Vera replied politely.

“Suit yourself,” Sarah shrugged, unwrapping the lollipop and popping it into her mouth.

"Oops, I'm so sorry!" came a voice from behind as a girl accidentally stepped on her robe.

Startled, Vera turned to face her and was immediately struck by her beauty.

The girl had a smooth, radiant complexion with warm, golden-brown skin. Her large, expressive brown eyes were framed by thick, dark lashes and perfectly arched brows. Her rich chocolate hair was styled neatly, adorned with a delicate pink ribbon.

"It’s fine!" She replied, offering a smile, still taken aback by the girl’s striking appearance.

"I'm Malika, by the way. Malika Khan." 

"Vera. Nice to meet you!"

But before their conversation could continue, Professor McGonagall’s voice rose above the bustling hall.

"Quiet, please." she instructed, her tone firm and commanding. "Before you take your seats, you will be sorted into your houses—Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin."

At the mention of the houses, a ripple of excited whispers swept through the crowd. Vera exchanged a nervous glance with Maddie, both uncertain about what lay ahead.

"The Sorting Ceremony will now begin," Professor McGonagall declared, her words marking the start of the highly anticipated process.

The grand hall doors swung open, and the first-year students rushed inside, eager to get a glimpse of their new surroundings.

Vera's heart raced as she followed the crowd, feeling increasingly anxious about the unfolding events. As she entered the vast dining hall, her eyes widened at the spectacle before her. The hall was bathed in the warm glow of floating candles, which cast a soft light across the place.

She noticed that the students already seated were divided by different colors, which she assumed indicated their respective houses. Her gaze wandered until it landed on the boy she had bumped into twice already, sitting at the red-clad table. He flashed a friendly smile her way, which she returned before being jolted by a tug on her sleeve.

She turned to find Maddie, who was pointing upward with wide eyes.

"What in the world..." she murmured, her voice trailing off as she took in the sight of the starry sky above them.

The ceiling was completely open, revealing the night sky—a sight she had never imagined possible.

Nearby, the boy with dreads turned to the twins with a mischievous grin. "Do you dare me?"

"Dare you what?" the twins asked in unison, clearly intrigued.

"To catch one of the candles," the boy responded with an air of confidence.

Vera and Maddie exchanged amused glances and stifled giggles, thoroughly entertained by the challenge and the magical wonder of their surroundings.

As the group moved forward, a sudden, high-pitched scream cut through their excited chatter. Vera’s head snapped around, her eyes scanning the crowd to locate the source of the shriek. She soon spotted it—a ghost! Casually floating above the tables, grinning mischievously.

The older students roared with laughter, clearly entertained by the startled reactions of the newcomers. The first-years, on the other hand, stood wide-eyed, clearly not expecting to encounter a ghost on their first night.

They soon found themselves standing in front of a peculiar sight—a hat, looking surprisingly comfortable as it perched on an old wooden chair. The room hushed as Professor McGonagall stepped forward, and swiftly introduced the headmaster, Professor Albus Dumbledore.

Draped in long, flowing red robes and with a white beard that nearly brushed the floor, the man looked like a figure plucked straight from a fairytale. Vera found herself mesmerized by him, as though he were the embodiment of magic itself. His voice was gentle yet filled with authority as he addressed the students.

"Welcome to another year at Hogwarts," he said warmly, his eyes twinkling beneath his half-moon spectacles.

He gave a brief speech, then began to introduce the various professors. "I would also like to welcome Professor Harkin Frey, who will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts this year. We wish him a fruitful time at Hogwarts."

Polite applause filled the room as the new professor gave a small nod. Vera noticed a few whispers circulating amongst the older students, but before she could tune into what they were saying, the headmaster signaled for the sorting ceremony to begin.

"When I call your name, please step forward," Professor McGonagall instructed, lifting the hat with an air of ceremony.

"Adrian Pucey," she called out first.

Vera recognized the boy immediately—the annoying one who had been pulling the girls’ hair.

He strutted to the front and took a seat, his chin held high. The hall fell into an expectant silence as the hat was placed on his head. The tension stretched for a few moments until, unexpectedly, the hat spoke.

Vera jumped in surprise, her hand instinctively clutching Tommy's sleeve. He glanced at her with equal confusion, but said nothing.

"Slytherin!" the hat declared, its voice booming through the hall.

The green table burst into cheers and applause, though the rest of the students remained notably more restrained in their response, clapping slowly and politely.

Adrian stood up, a smug grin on his face, and as he lifted the hat from his head, the insides of his black robes transformed instantly into green.

"How’d his robes change color?" the boy with the dreads asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Cedric puffed up slightly. "Once you're sorted, your uniform changes to match your house."

Next came Alicia Spinnet and Angelina Johnson, both of whom were sorted into Gryffindor.

The red table erupted with an infectious level of energy, students banging on the table and cheering as loudly as they could. Vera couldn’t help but smile at their enthusiasm.

"Cassius Warrington," Professor McGonagall called next, her voice slicing through the din.

The tall, arrogant boy with brown curls stepped forward, drawing Vera's instant disdainful gaze.

"Who even names their kid Cassius?" she whispered. "Did he come out of his mum’s womb in a suit?"

Cedric couldn’t help but snort loudly, his giggles echoing in the otherwise quiet hall. Cassius shot them both a nasty look, his eyes narrowing in irritation as he settled under the hat.

"Slytherin!" the hat bellowed almost immediately, and the Slytherin table cheered once more, their applause as smug and arrogant as Cassius himself.

"Of course..." one of the twins muttered, rolling his eyes dramatically.

Cedric Diggory was next, his calm demeanor wavering slightly as the Sorting Hat was placed on his head.

"Hufflepuff!" the hat declared after a few seconds, and the yellow-clad table erupted in joyous cheers.

Following him was Eudora Dlamini, the haughty girl Vera had already taken a disliking to. With her green bow perfectly placed in her dark hair, she carried herself with an air of superiority as she walked toward the hat.

Unsurprisingly, the hat barely touched her head before calling out, "Slytherin!"

The green table, once again, exploded into raucous approval. Eudora strutted proudly towards them, but not before intentionally shoving Vera’s shoulder as she passed.

“Bitch,” Vera muttered under her breath.

Thankfully, it went unnoticed by those around her.

With half of the group that had tormented her on the train already sorted into Slytherin, she silently prayed she wouldn't end up with them. The last thing she wanted was to spend the next seven years among those arrogant pricks.

Next up were Fred and George Weasley, the red-headed twins who had rushed past her earlier.

They were barely seated before the hat shouted, "Gryffindor!" in rapid succession.

The Gryffindor table responded with the loudest cheers yet, their excitement palpable. They were soon joined by Lee Jordan, and a much more nervous Kenneth "Kenny" Towler.

"Gryffindor's getting quite crowded this year," one of the ghosts floating above commented.

Jane Corrigan was sorted into Hufflepuff, and Vera couldn’t help but notice the girl's beautiful dark red hair and tearful eyes as she hurried to her seat.

"Madeline Park," Professor McGonagall called.

Maddie stepped forward, her hands visibly trembling. The normally bright and confident girl now seemed like a bundle of nerves as she took her seat. 

After what felt like an agonizing eternity, the hat finally declared, "Slytherin!"

A smattering of polite applause came from the Slytherin table, far less enthusiastic than before.

Vera’s heart sank, knowing Maddie—a kind, warm girl—was about to be surrounded by the likes of Eudora and Cassius. She shot her a sympathetic look, though Maddie seemed too stunned to notice.

Next up was Malika Khan, the petite girl with a pink ribbon in her hair, who was happily sorted into Hufflepuff, along with Patricia Stimpson.

Miles Bletchley, Cassius’s smug friend, predictably joined Slytherin, prompting another bout of cheers from the green table.

Then came Roger Davis, tall and freckled, who became the first student to join Ravenclaw, which earned him a round of applause from across the hall.

"It's the smart house, you know," Sarah whispered to Vera as they watched him join his new table.

Vera nodded absently, deep in her own thoughts. As her name inched closer to being called, she began weighing her options.

Ravenclaw intrigued her—surely a house for the sharpest minds—but she felt a pang of doubt. Was she smart enough?

Hufflepuff, with its warmth and kindness, seemed like a place she could feel safe, and both Cedric and Malika were there.

Gryffindor, meanwhile, seemed like the house for bold adventurers, where the lively Weasley twins and that boy—the one she kept running into—belonged.

Then there was Slytherin.

Despite wanting to stick with Maddie, the idea of sharing a house with the posh fucks made her stomach churn.

"Ryujin Avery," Professor McGonagall announced, and the handsome boy from the train stepped forward.

The hall seemed to hold its breath, especially the green table, whose attention sharpened as they leaned in to catch every word of the Sorting Hat’s deliberation.

“Let’s go, Ryu!” one of them shouted, followed by scattered catcalls and whispers of anticipation.

Tommy leaned closer to Vera and Sarah. "Is he, like, a celebrity or something?"

"Close," Sarah whispered back. “He's an Avery.”

Vera and Tommy exchanged bewildered glances, clearly not understanding the importance of that name.

The Sorting Hat appeared to deliberate much longer than usual, causing the students to fidget with impatience. The Slytherins, in particular, looked eager for their newest recruit.

But when the hat finally opened its mouth, it called out, "Ravenclaw!"

A murmur of surprise rippled through the hall, with the Slytherin table barely managing a half-hearted clap of disappointment.

Meanwhile, Ryujin proudly smiled, looking utterly unfazed as he strode confidently toward the Ravenclaw table.

"Sarah McMahon," Professor McGonagall called out, her voice carrying a hint of amusement as Sarah, with a lolly still in her mouth, skipped toward the stool.

Her hair was still adorned with real tiny beetles, each one catching the light in a peculiar way. McGonagall raised an eyebrow as she placed the Sorting Hat on her head, unable to hide a flicker of bewilderment at her odd fashion choices.

"Hmm... let's see," the Sorting Hat began thoughtfully. "What a fascinating mind indeed."

By this point, the attention in the hall had waned.

Most students had checked out, whispering to one another or shifting in their seats, eager to wrap up the ceremony. The green-clad table, satisfied with their earlier picks, seemed especially indifferent, barely glancing at Sarah.

"Slytherin!" the hat finally declared.

The entire Slytherin table looked visibly surprised, exchanging glances that ranged from confused to annoyed. They certainly hadn’t someone like her to join their ranks.

Unbothered by their reactions, Sarah hopped off the stool and skipped happily toward her new housemates, grinning from ear to ear. Maddie, who had looked somewhat scared sitting among the Slytherins, beamed with relief when Sarah plopped down next to her.

"Guess we'll be housemates after all!" she chirped, offering Maddie the lolly she’d pulled out of her mouth.

Maddie laughed, waving it away.

"It's just the two of us now," Tommy whispered to Vera, his nerves finally showing as they both stood at the edge of the dwindling crowd of unsorted students.

"Thomas Mallon," Professor McGonagall called.

"Good luck!" Vera encouraged him, offering a supportive grin as he took a deep breath and made his way toward the stool.

The Sorting Hat barely grazed his head before it bellowed, "Hufflepuff!"

Tommy's face lit up with joy as he eagerly pulled off the hat and, in a cheeky move, tossed it back to Professor McGonagall like a frisbee. She caught it with a bemused sigh, shaking her head but clearly entertained.

Tommy bolted toward the Hufflepuff table, his excitement evident as he exchanged a victorious high-five with Cedric, who welcomed him with an equally bright grin.

Professor McGonagall adjusted her glasses, lowered the parchment, and cleared her throat with a crisp authority.

Vera, standing alone now, found her gaze drifting toward Professor Dumbledore. The headmaster sat calmly, one hand resting beneath his chin, his sharp blue eyes twinkling with a knowing look.

He seemed to be waiting for this very moment, as though her sorting carried more weight than she had ever imagined.

Conversations still echoed from every corner of the hall. The Slytherins continued their self-assured murmuring, Hufflepuffs were still caught in a whirlwind of cheers, and the Ravenclaws were subtly rearranging themselves, lost in their own little world. Over at the red table, Fred and George Weasley were nudging Lee Jordan, encouraging him to grab a floating candle from the enchanted ceiling.

The hall buzzed with activity, but Vera didn’t mind their distraction. After sorting through nineteen students, the excitement had naturally waned.

Her name was called at last, and the hall fell into silence.

Every pair of eyes in the Great Hall, from the youngest first-year to the most senior prefect, turned in her direction, their faces frozen in shock and disbelief.

Students who had been casually ignoring the ceremony before were now sitting straight, their attention laser-focused on the final girl standing before the Sorting Hat.

The Slytherins stopped talking.

The Hufflepuffs stopped cheering.

The Ravenclaws sat down immediately, and the Gryffindors were now focusing on her instead of Lee and the twins.

"Did you catch what McGonagall just said?" one Gryffindor whispered to another.

"It can't be..." murmured an older Hufflepuff, her voice laced with disbelief.

“She does look like them,” a Slytherin muttered, eyes narrowed as they examined Vera closely.

Vera, still standing in place, could feel her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

Why was everyone staring at her like she had just sprouted a second head?

She swallowed nervously, feeling the weight of the entire hall pressing in on her. As she sat down to be sorted, her eyes darted around the room, seeking any hint of what had caused such a drastic shift in the atmosphere. Instead, she was met with bewildered, almost unnerving stares.

The Gryffindor boy she had met on the train, the one who had smiled at her so warmly before, now wore a deep scowl, his brow furrowed in anger and disgust.

Alicia’s jaw was slack, eyes wide in shock, while the red-haired twins scrambled over each other, jostling for a better view of the blue-eyed girl who had seemingly captivated the entire hall.

At the Slytherin table, students began to rise from their seats, whispering among themselves. Sarah’s lolly slipped from her lips, forgotten, as her gaze remained fixed on Vera. Cassius's eyes were full of shock and slight fear, while Euroda was now staring at her with a guilty gaze. 

At the blue table, Ryujin Avery was staring. Just staring.

The hat was placed gently over her curly dark hair, slipping down over her eyes, casting everything in darkness. Her heart raced, but she quickly pulled herself together, once again straining to see the room beyond the brim.

“Oh,” the Hat suddenly spoke, its voice thick with intrigue, startling Vera from her reverie. "Haven’t had one of you in a long time... interesting, very interesting…"

The room held its collective breath in silence as the hat pondered, its quiet muttering filling Vera’s ears alone.

"Very well, very well..." the hat finally concluded. "I know exactly where to put you."

Vera's heart pounded harder, heat rising in her chest as she braced for the declaration.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Relief washed over her in waves. She expected the usual uproar of cheers and applause, but the hall remained eerily quiet.

Confused, she glanced at the long red table, hoping for some sign of celebration. Instead, she found only blank stares.

The once rowdy, lively Gryffindors now seemed frozen, their excitement evaporated into thin air. No one erupted in cheers for her, no one slammed their hands on the table in joy. There was nothing but a heavy, palpable silence.

Her eyes drifted toward Professor McGonagall, who, instead of her usual stern but encouraging nod, offered a look of subtle pity.

Then, from the stillness, a single clap echoed through the hall, cutting through the quiet like a crack of thunder. Vera's head snapped toward the sound, her heart lurching in surprise.

There, at the staff table, stood Professor Dumbledore, his kind eyes twinkling as he softly clapped, alone.

His slow, deliberate applause prompted a few hesitant claps from the students around the hall, but the usual roar of approval never came. As she stood up, the deep crimson of Gryffindor slowly bled into her robes.

Her heart raced as she made her way towards Professor McGonagall, clutching the hat tightly, her fingers trembling against its worn fabric. The room seemed to blur, the flickering candlelight casting strange shadows over the sea of expectant faces.

McGonagall, who was usually so austere and unyielding, looked at her with an unexpected warmth. Her sharp eyes softened, catching Vera's unease as she gently took the hat from her grip.

Then, leaning forward ever so slightly, she spoke in a voice that was both quiet and full of sympathy.

"Welcome to Gryffindor... Miss Black."

Part three: New... Home?

“Is that true?”

“Yes, word has it she lives with her great aunt.”

“Great... Just when we thought we’d gotten rid of them.”

“Why do you reckon she didn’t end up in Slytherin?”

The whispers around her grew louder as dinner progressed. Curious glances were cast her way, and fragments of conversations drifted over from nearby tables.

Vera, oblivious to the buzzing speculation about her, sat at the edge of the Gryffindor table, isolated from the main group of first-years.

To her right was an empty space, and on her left sat Kenny Towler. Across from her were Alicia, Angelina, and Lee, with the Weasley twins squeezing in beside Kenny.

As the feast began, Vera felt a pang of disbelief at the magical spread that appeared as if by sheer wonder. Her impulse was to share her amazement with Kaya, but she quickly remembered the constraints of the magical world and the secrecy it demanded.

She forced herself to focus on her surroundings, trying to navigate the social dynamics of her new house. Despite her efforts to appear friendly, with smiles and polite nods, the scrutiny and whispered conversations from the other students made her feel like an outsider.

“Yep, muggleborn,” Angelina informed Alicia with a casual air.

“Mum’s a Muggle, da’s a wizard.” Alicia said, her accent similar to that of Tommy's. “They’re split up, so my brother and I are caught between two worlds."

“Sorry to hear that,” Kenny said with genuine sympathy.

Alicia shrugged. “It’s for the best, really."

“And you?” Angelina asked, turning to Lee.

“Both are Muggles,” Lee replied, his eyes drifting to the floating ghosts in the hall.

The conversation continued to flow around Vera, but she remained largely unnoticed. No one asked her anything.

"Do you dare me?" Lee suddenly asked Alicia, interrupting her conversation with Angelina by her side.

"Dare you what?"

"To eat six shares of sausage in less than a minute.”

"Catch yourself on!” Alicia exclaimed. “You can't do that."

But before they realized it, he devoured six pieces of sausage in 40 seconds, diligently counted by Fred and George.

Vera found herself joining the table's laughter, as everyone began to congratulate him for his accomplishment, shaking his hands, and patting his back.

As the group's conversation gained momentum, she struggled to keep pace. Angelina and Alicia delved into Sarah's peculiar hair,

"I swear it, they are real bugs!"

"No way, they're plastic for sure,"

all while Kenny's confidence soared, prompting him to inquire about the new Defense professor.

"I heard he was in the north,” he said between bites. “Slaying dragons when Dumbledore asked him to come."

"Not the north," Fred corrected. "It was China."

All that Vera was thinking about was how nonchalantly they were all talking about bloody dragons. She cast a sidelong glance in Professor Frey's direction. He had a moderate stature and was slightly overweight. He wore glasses, and his hairline had receded noticeably, creating a pronounced baldness at the forehead. She couldn't help but think that he didn't exude the typical aura of someone inclined towards the daring feats of dragon-slaying.

"So it's true?" Lee questioned, his curiosity evident.

"It might be;” Fred replied. “Our brother Charlie mentioned something about it."

"Charlie knows all about dragons,” George chimed in. “So his word can be trusted."

"Yep, he's going to study them after graduation," Fred proudly informed the group.

"Which one is Charlie?" Angelina asked.

The duo gestured towards the older boy with red hair seated at the center of the table.

Vera recognized him as the one who had disciplined the twins on the train and kindly said ‘Hello’ to her. He exuded self-assurance with a charming smile and captivating dark green eyes. The conversation buzzed with energy as Fred and George continued their animated discussion about Quidditch.

“Unfortunately for us,” Fred began, “first years are barred from playing.”

“Absurd rules, if you ask me,” George added, rolling his eyes.

“But we’ll be training every day to secure a spot on the team next year,”

“Who’s on the team currently?” Lee asked.

“Our brother Charlie is the captain,” Fred said proudly. “He used to be a Seeker but has been a Beater since last year.”

“And he’s undoubtedly the best one,” George added with a nod.

“But he’s a seventh year,” Fred continued, “which means,”

“Which means a Beater position will be available next year, and a Weasley shall carry the torch,” George finished, lifting his hand for a high-five, which Fred eagerly returned.

“And the rest of the team?” Lee pressed.

Fred began listing off the players, “Oliver Wood over there is the Keeper,”

“Denise is a Chaser…”

“And, of course, our glorious Seeker,”

“Felix Bobbin.” 

Vera’s heart skipped a beat as the twins pointed at him.

Her gaze drifted to Felix, seated in the center of the table. The boy who had smiled at her twice looked distant now, staring at his plate as he absentmindedly poked at his food with a fork. The shadows beneath his eyes seemed even more pronounced, giving him a worn, brooding appearance.

As she continued to watch, he suddenly lifted his gaze from the plate, locking eyes with her. Startled, she flashed a faint smile, but he responded with narrowed eyes and a subtle roll of his own, leaving her feeling uneasy.

“The best thing is,” Fred continued, “he’s only a third year.”

“So?” Lee asked, puzzled.

“So? We’ll have him until we’re in our fifth year! That’s five consecutive years of guaranteed wins!”

“Is he really that good?” Angelina prompted.

“The best,” the twins said together, their pride evident.

As the dinner concluded, the first-year students were assembled by a prefect, who introduced himself as Charlie Weasley.

The newcomers, however, were already familiar with his identity, thanks to the twins, who seized every opportunity to extol their older brother.

Charlie led them through winding corridors, stairs, and more corridors. Enthralled by the magic unfolding around her, Vera found herself particularly astonished by the talking and whispering paintings.

After ascending numerous stairs and navigating what felt like an endless maze, the students found themselves standing before the portrait of the—

"FAT LADY!" The twins' exuberant shouts startled the seemingly napping woman in the painting.

"We've heard all about you!" George informed her.

"To be honest, Fat Lady,” Fred added, “we expected you to be much fatter,"

"Oh, you think I'm small?” The fat lady blushed, placing a hand on her chest.

"Nope, you're still fat," the twins teased, provoking an indignant response from the portrait, while the other students chuckled.

"PASSWORD!" She snapped.

"Apologies for my brothers; Mum forgot to teach them manners," Charlie quipped. "Higgle Wort."

The portrait swung open, and the six newcomers stepped into their new abode.

As Vera surveyed the common room, she couldn't help but wonder if the other houses boasted similar decor. Charlie walked the students through a set of rules specific to Gryffindor Tower. Despite answering questions with politeness, he found himself needing to raise his voice at the mischievous twins on occasion.

"Lastly,” he concluded, “should any of you require assistance, don't hesitate to approach either myself or one of the other prefects.”

Afterward, he directed the boys to their respective bedrooms and enlisted the help of the seventh-year head girl to lead Vera, Alicia, and Angelina to theirs.

In their shared bedroom, the three girls discovered an extra two beds.

Angelina and Alicia were still engaged in chatter, and Vera couldn't help but feel ignored by them. The two girls hadn't said a word to her so far, and she began to feel queasy. They left the dormitory shortly after to visit the common room, leaving her alone.

She readied herself for sleep, securing her hair in twin braids and brushing her teeth. As she nestled into her bed, she was captivated by the enchanting life-like stars embellishing the tapestry overhead. 

Even though she was exhausted from the train journey and the thousand stairs she climbed, she found herself unable to sleep.

Her stomach twisted with unease, haunted by the posh kids’ sneers on the train, the silence after her sorting, and the whispers that followed her all night.

Despite the growing despair, she remembered Miss Nelson's counsel and resolved not to yield so easily. She got up and located her suitcase in front of a bed, alongside another one brought by Donnie.

She couldn't help but smile as she notice the elegant carving he must had added on it—an intricate golden script beautifully spelling out her full name: Vera Black

Swiftly, she opened it, revealing her school uniform, which she placed on the chair. Organizing her books, quills, and cauldron on the desk, she then eagerly retrieved her most valuable purchase.

Her wand.

Lying on the bed again with it in her hands, she couldn't help but remember Mr. Ollivander who told her that her dad had a similar one. Despite never knowing her parents, thoughts of their lives consumed her.

Did they, too, traverse the halls of Hogwarts in pursuit of magical knowledge? Were they in Gryffindor like her? What ever happened to them? And why was she left alone in the muggle world if they were both wizards?

These questions clung to her, stirring suspicion about her family and Donnie’s stubborn silence on their past.

All she knew, was that they were gone.

Chapter Text

Saturday, September 2, 1989

Vera woke the next morning with something dangerously close to optimism. She had two whole days before classes started, plenty of time to bask in the magic of Hogwarts—or at least, to figure out how not to get lost in it.

Normally, she’d sleep in on a weekend, but today she was up early, surprised to find the dorm already deserted. She threw on jeans, a white shirt, and her trusty denim jacket, securing Kaya’s bracelet around her wrist before making a beeline for breakfast.

The Great Hall buzzed with morning chatter as she stepped inside, scanning the tables for a familiar face. Instead, her gaze landed on the absolute last person she wanted to deal with before food: Cassius Warrington.

There he was, lounging at the head of the Slytherin table, surrounded by his usual entourage—Miles, Adrian, Eudora, and Ryu Avery, the strikingly sharp-eyed Ravenclaw. As soon as he spotted her, Cassius stood and waved her over.

Curiosity won over irritation, and she made her way toward them. She braced for the kind of smug condescension Slytherins seemed to think was an art form, but to her surprise, Cassius greeted her with a smile instead.

“Vera! Good morning.”

She arched a brow. “Is it?”

"We’d like you to sit with us.”

Her gaze flickered between them, their faces carefully arranged into polite expressions. A far cry from the sneering disdain they’d thrown at her on the train.

“Oh?” she said, folding her arms. “I thought you don't want to tolerate my vulgar nature.”

Cassius had the decency to look awkward. “Yeah, about that… We sincerely apologize. We didn’t realize who you were.”

Something about the way he said it sent a prickle of unease down her spine.

What, exactly, had changed overnight?

She kept her face impassive, remembering every mocking glance, every whispered insult about her patched-up clothes and bandaged hands. Whatever game they were playing, she had no interest in being the pawn.

“Come on,” Cassius coaxed, his smile too smooth to be real. “Join us for breakfast.”

She scoffed. “I’d rather die in a ditch, but thanks for the offer.”

She turned on her heel and walked away, leaving them stunned in her wake. Cassius’s grin twitched into a scowl, Ryu let out a low chuckle, and Miles stared after her in disbelief.

She settled at the far end of the Gryffindor table, putting as much space as possible between herself and the Slytherins. She reached for a piece of bread, but her gaze wandered toward the Hufflepuff table, scanning for Tommy and Cedric.

However, her eyes locked onto an older Hufflepuff girl who was staring at her—expressionless, but watching.

Her pink hair, dark roots peeking through, struck a familiar chord. And then it hit her—Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

She’d seen her there, talking to her father while her mother had kept a sharp, unrelenting eye on her. Now, that both mother and daughter seemed to be fixated on her, she couldn't help but wonder why or who they were. 

She turned her attention to her meal, hoping she'd lose interest. A few minutes later, Maddie appeared, practically vibrating with energy, and dropped into the seat beside her.

“Hey, Vera!” she chirped. “Mind if I sit?”

“Not at all.”

“How’s Gryffindor’s common room treating you?”

“It’s mint,” Vera said, though she scowled slightly. “Too many bloody stairs, though.”

“Slytherin’s common room is insane! It’s massive, and you’ll never guess what I saw.”

"Go on, then.”

“Mermaids! Real mermaids!” 

Vera’s eyes widened. “No bloody way! Where?”

“Right there in our common room! Turns out it’s built under the lake, and there’s this giant glass wall. You can see everything.”

“You’re takin’ the piss.”

“I swear! Though, they’re called selkies, and they’re not the dreamy sirens you’d expect. More like… nightmare fuel.”

Before Vera could respond, a sudden whirlwind of energy descended upon them.

“Maddie!”

Sarah skidded to a stop at the table, eyes blazing with urgency. “We have to go, now! I found a frog—a real one this time. We have to catch it!”

Before Maddie could so much as grab a piece of toast, Sarah seized her by the shirt and yanked her off the bench.

“See ya later, Vera!” she called out, laughing as she was unceremoniously dragged out of the Great Hall.

Left to her own devices at the Gryffindor table, Vera finished her meal in peace. With time to spare and no particular destination in mind, she set off to explore the castle, hoping to get a better grasp of its winding corridors before they got the better of her.

As she wandered, the paintings reacted to her presence in varying degrees of enthusiasm. Some waved cheerfully or nodded in greeting. Others, for reasons beyond her understanding, turned their backs the moment she passed—one particularly dramatic wizard even stormed out of his frame entirely. 

Eventually, she found herself in the courtyard.

It was quiet, save for the occasional burst of laughter from students passing through. She spotted an empty bench in the shade and sank onto it, stretching her legs out in front of her. Only then did she notice—she was the only one sitting alone.

A familiar pang settled in her chest, and her fingers brushed against the half-heart trinket hanging from her wrist.

The weight of it, small but solid, tugged her mind back to summer, Kaya’s easy laughter filling the air, her boundless energy pulling her into adventure after adventure. It was strange, being here without her—like standing on a dock after the tide had gone out.

With a sigh, she leaned back against the bench, tilting her face to the sun. If she closed her eyes, just for a moment, she could almost pretend Kaya was here too.

The sound of a familiar voice tugged her from her thoughts. She cracked one eye open, then the other, to find Charlie Weasley sitting on the bench across from her.

And beside him? None other than Felix Bobbin.

A surge of self-consciousness hit her out of nowhere. Without thinking, she smoothed her hair and adjusted her jacket, suddenly hyperaware of how she looked.

Charlie and Felix were deep in conversation, heads bent over a notebook as they discussed Quidditch strategies—well, Charlie was talking; Felix was furiously scribbling down notes as if plotting a military campaign.

Taking a breath, she mustered the courage to approach.

"Hello."

Both boys looked up.

Before she could get another word out, Felix’s expression darkened, and with an audible snap, he slammed his notebook shut, stood abruptly, and stormed off without so much as a glance in her direction.

Charlie blinked after him, eyebrows lifting in surprise. "Well," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "That was dramatic."

A knot of unease twisted in her stomach as she watched him disappear into the castle. Whatever that had been, it wasn’t good.

"Vera, right?" Charlie asked, breaking the awkward silence.

"Um… yes," she stammered, still thrown by Felix’s stormy exit. "You mentioned yesterday that if we needed anything, we could come to you."

He straightened, shaking off the tension. "How can I help?"

"I was wondering… where can I find the telephone?"

He blinked. "Come again?"

"The telephone," she repeated. "Is there one at Hogwarts?"

"What do you need a telephone for?"

"I need to call my friend."

His brows knitted together. "Er—there aren’t any Muggle devices here, I’m afraid."

She sighed, disappointment settling in. A whole castle full of magic, and not one bloody phone?

Charlie must have noticed her crestfallen expression. "Why don’t you just write your friend instead?" 

She thought about it for a moment, picturing her modern city friend laughing at the sight of an old-fashioned letter. But with no other option, it seemed she had to adjust.

"Alright," she agreed reluctantly. "Where’s the postbox?"

Charlie tilted his head. "The what?"

"Where we put letters?"

"Oh! Postbox! Third-year Muggle Studies, chapter five. Quirrell almost skipped that one."

Vera just stared at him.

"But why use a postbox?" He went on. "Just send an owl."

"An… owl?"

"Yeah. If you don’t have one, you can borrow a friend’s."

She shifted uncomfortably. "I can’t send an owl to her."

"Why not?"

"Because she’s a Muggle."

Charlie’s easygoing expression faltered immediately. "Muggle?"

"She doesn’t know I’m a witch. So, an owl showing up at her window would freak her out."

He was silent for a beat, studying her as if watching a dragon breath fire.

"Vera..." He then said, carefully. "Can I ask… does your family know you're friends with a Muggle?"

Her stomach clenched. "Why do you ask?"

"It’s just… unusual."

"For a witch to be friends with a Muggle?"

"For you to be friends with a Muggle."

She frowned, confusion creeping in, but before she could press him, he continued.

"I’ll talk to Professor McGonagall. She’ll know how Hogwarts handles Muggle mail."

"Really? That’d be brilliant!"

"No problem." He replied with a wink. "We’ll sort this out."

Later that day, she was among the first to arrive at the Great Hall for dinner, sliding into a seat at the Gryffindor table. Not long after, Alicia and Angelina joined her, but something felt… off.

Though they sat beside her, there was a subtle distance, an unspoken gap that had nothing to do with space. She considered striking up a conversation, but their silence pressed down on her, heavier than she expected.

Had she done something wrong? Or was this just how things were? She’d thought, at the very least, that they’d stick together—being the only first-year Gryffindor girls and all.

The Great Hall filled quickly, and as soon as the long tables were full, food began appearing on the plates in front of her. The sheer abundance was staggering. Platters of roast chicken, steaming potatoes, golden Yorkshire puddings, and an array of vegetables spread before them like a feast fit for a king.

How do they even make all this so fast? she wondered, absently reaching for a roll.

She was so caught up in the thought that she barely noticed when someone approached her table.

"Hello, do you mind if I join you?" a quiet voice asked.

She looked up to see a girl with short red hair standing there, her expression tentative.

"Of course not," she replied quickly, relieved to have someone to talk to. "I'm Vera, by the way."

"I know," the girl said with a small smile as she slid into the seat across from her. "I'm Jane. Jane Corrigan."

Recognition flickered in Vera’s mind—Jane had been sorted into Hufflepuff during the ceremony, though she hadn’t looked particularly happy about it at the time.

Now, seeing her up close, she noticed the telltale signs of a rough day: puffy eyes, red-rimmed as if she’d been crying for hours.

"You and I are the same, you know," Jane said suddenly.

Vera raised a brow. "How’s that?"

"We’ve both been sorted into the wrong houses. My family are Slytherin legacies, much like yours."

Vera stilled. 

The memory of the Sorting Ceremony flickered in her mind—how the Slytherins had stared, their scrutiny sharper than the others. Cassius’s sudden interest, the way he had so quickly changed his tune…

Was that why?

A knot tightened in her stomach. She knew so little about her own family, yet here was a stranger casually confirming what she hadn’t even dared to wonder.

"I don’t mind it, though," Jane continued, offering a small shrug. "I only wish my parents felt the same way."

Vera stayed quiet, unsure how to respond. The weight of house allegiance was foreign to her. What did it matter? People made such a fuss about houses, but at the end of the day, weren’t they all just students in the same castle?

"Is Hufflepuff considered bad?" she asked, innocently.

"Oh no, not at all," Jane said quickly. "It’s actually wonderful. It’s not what I expected, but it’s lovely."

"Then what’s the problem?"

Jane sighed. "You know how our families are. I’m sure yours were disappointed too when you got into Gryffindor."

Vera hesitated, unsure of how to respond. She didn’t want to reveal to Jane, who exuded an air of wealth and privilege, that she lived in an orphanage or that she knew nothing about her own family. Oddly, she felt a desire to impress her.

“Is Gryffindor Tower really as bad as they say?” Jane asked, snapping her out of her thoughts.

“I… don’t find it bad.”

“Hufflepuff’s common room is amazing. It’s so warm, with plants everywhere, and the best part is, it’s right next to the kitchens!”

“You can visit the kitchens?”

“Well, the house elves don’t really like students going in there, but some manage to sneak in every now and then.”

“House… elves?”

Jane looked surprised. “You didn’t know they’re the ones who prepare all the food here?”

Vera shook her head.

“We have four at home,” Jane added with a hint of pride.

As dinner progressed, Vera found herself increasingly drawn to her charm and intelligence.

Jane eagerly shared details about the magical processes at Hogwarts, from how the food appeared on their tables to the intriguing enchantments behind the living paintings that decorated the castle.

Vera listened intently, fascinated by the wonders of the magical world that Jane described with such enthusiasm.

By the time dessert had vanished from their plates, they had already made plans to meet in the library the next day—to go over their syllabus, to prepare for their first classes, and, if Vera was being honest with herself, to continue this unexpected but fascinating conversation.

Sunday, September 3, 1989

As she wandered the corridors the next day, she kept herself entertained with lighthearted chats with the paintings, all while mentally mapping out the castle’s labyrinthine layout.

Along the way, she spotted Charlie again—this time with the pink-haired girl from yesterday, though her hair had since morphed into a striking mix of blue and gray.

"Vera!" He called, steering her aside with an easy grin. "Got some good news for you."

As they talked, Vera couldn’t help but notice the blue-haired girl sneaking glances at them, curiosity flickering in her eyes.

"I had a word with Professor McGonagall about your question. There’s a letterbox in Hogsmeade, but it’s only open on Mondays and Thursdays. You’ll need to get your letters there in time."

"Oh, that’s mint!" She beamed. "But how do I actually get them there?"

"You can give them to Hagrid—he’ll take care of the posting for you."

He then fished a folded piece of parchment from his bag and handed it over. "McGonagall also wanted me to give you this."

Vera unfolded it to find an address: Leonora College—her supposed art school’s fictional cover story.

Buzzing with excitement, she showered Charlie in gratitude before bolting back to Gryffindor Tower, eager to draft her letter to Kaya.

With Thursday fast approaching, she wasted no time grabbing parchment and quill—only to immediately wrestle with the wizarding world's infuriatingly messy ink.

Blots splattered. Letters smudged. After a few exasperated sighs and ink-stained fingers, she abandoned the quill entirely, opting for one of her trusty pencils from her painting set.

Dear Kaya,

I am sorry for not ringing yesterday; the school doesn't have phones, which seems a bit antwackie. Even though it's only been a day, I already miss you terribly.

There's so much I want to tell you. The school is in an old castle, just like we hoped. It's so beautiful and so bloody huge! I've gotten lost three times already.

The corridors are filled with countless paintings, each more enchanting than the last. I could spend hours talking looking at them.

I truly wish you were here; I've been feeling lonely. The girls in my dorm don't seem to like me, and haven't spoken to me yet. However, I've met some nice people.

Everything here is different Kaya, and everyone seems to know things that I don't. I’m feeling like an outsider.

Tomorrow is the first day of classes, and I'm both excited and nervous. Wish me luck; I truly need it. Send my regards to everyone, and please write back, even if you think it is goggy.

Yours sincerely,

Vera

She found an envelope tucked among her school supplies and quickly slipped her letter inside.

Determined to get it posted, she headed downstairs and soon learned that Hagrid lived in a hut on the school grounds, right by the edge of the forest. After asking for directions—and getting a few conflicting ones—she eventually spotted the small, weathered building.

Standing before it, she took in its rustic charm—like something straight out of an old storybook. She knocked, and moments later, the door swung open to reveal the enormous man. For a brief second, his sheer size made her hesitate, but his beaming smile and gentle eyes instantly put her at ease.

"Alright there, young one?" he greeted, his accent strikingly similar to Mr. Humphrey’s.

Stepping inside, she was immediately hit by the warm, slightly chaotic coziness of the place.

The fire crackled in the stone hearth, filling the room with flickering light. Oversized furniture, clearly built for Hagrid’s stature, sat amongst an endearing jumble of mismatched cups, plates, and magical odds and ends.

The walls were adorned with animal skins, bundles of dried herbs, and what looked like the remains of various magical creatures—though whether they were souvenirs or old friends was anyone’s guess. In one corner, a large bed with a colorful patchwork quilt added to the homey feel.

Curled up on a battered old sofa by the fire was an enormous boarhound, who barely raised his head at her entrance.

"That’s Fang," Hagrid said proudly, giving the dog a fond pat.

Vera tore her gaze away from the animal skins long enough to remember why she was there.

"Mr. Hagrid," she started, keeping her voice polite, "Charlie Weasley said you could help post letters in Hogs… meat?"

"Hogsmeade," Hagrid corrected with a chuckle. "Professor McGonagall did mention you were havin’ a bit o’ trouble with the owls. I’ll tell yeh, Muggles have got some strange ways of doin’ things."

She giggled, thinking how is sending an owl is any less odd?

"I’ll be happy to send it for yeh. Got one ready?"

She handed him the letter with a grateful smile. "It’s for my friend in London—er, Muggle London. I wrote the address on the back."

He gave the envelope a quick glance and nodded. "Aye, it’ll get there safe."

Relieved, she turned to leave but paused at the doorway. "Oh, and I love your hut, by the way!"

He beamed. "Cheers, young Vera!"

She hurried back to the castle and slipped into the Great Hall for dinner, her eyes immediately catching Jane’s cheerful wave from the Hufflepuff table. Without hesitation, she made her way over and took a seat across from the red-haired girl.

"I waited for you at the library," Jane said, disappointed.

Vera rubbed the back of her neck. "Sorry, something came up."

As they ate, her attention drifted to Felix Bobbin, who had just entered the hall and taken a seat at the Gryffindor table—alone, nose buried in a book. The memory of his earlier behavior lingered in her mind, stirring her curiosity.

She leaned in slightly towards Jane, who was busy munching on a bowl of crisps. "Can I ask you something?"

Jane looked up, still chewing. "Sure."

"Do you know Felix Bobbin?"

"Hard not to. He’s pretty well-known. And his family is loaded."

Vera blinked. "They… are?"

"You’re joking, right? They own, like, half the apothecaries in the country. I figured you of all people would know that."

"Oh," Vera said, not entirely sure how to respond.

Jane smirked, tossing another crisp into her mouth. "Though, obviously, never wealthier than yours."

Vera nearly choked on her drink.

Wealthy? The idea felt foreign, almost laughable. If her family had money, where was it? Maybe Jane had her facts wrong. 

The two girls chatted away, their conversation flowing effortlessly as they enjoyed their meal. Midway through, Vera spotted Maddie entering the hall. 

"Mind if I join you?" she asked, flashing a bright smile. "Sarah’s skipping dinner—she’s in our dorm messing around with that poor frog she found."

"Not at all," Vera responded warmly.

Maddie slid into the seat beside Jane, who, for some reason, suddenly looked as if she had been hit by a bus.

"This is Jane, by the way," Vera introduced.

"Hi there! I’m Maddie," the Slytherin girl said cheerfully, offering a handshake.

Jane, however, barely glanced at her before scrambling to her feet. "I... um... I forgot something at the library. I’ll catch up with you later, Vera."

And just like that, she was gone, leaving Maddie’s hand awkwardly suspended in mid-air. With a graceful shrug, she withdrew it.

"Well, that was odd."

Vera frowned, watching Jane disappear into the crowd. "Yeah… no clue what that was about."

"Anyway," Maddie said, shaking off the moment, "how are you finding Hogwarts so far?"

"It’s both overwhelming and absolutely wicked!"

Maddie grinned. "Totally agree! And those portraits—so chatty!"

Vera laughed. "Right?"

"I keep wondering if they’re, like, real people."

"I think they are. Just, you know… dead."

Maddie wrinkled her nose. "Well, that’s unsettling."

"Jane was telling me Hufflepuff’s common room is right next to the kitchens—and apparently, house-elves make all the food."

Maddie’s eyes widened. "Elves?"

"Yeah! And they’re right below us. They just magic the food up through the floor onto the tables."

"No way! I was so confused about how the food just appears!"

"Did someone say food?" Tommy smoothly inserted himself into the conversation, dropping into the seat beside Vera and immediately piling his plate with whatever was within reach.

"Yep," Maddie replied. "Vera was just telling me about the fascinating creatures that prepare our meals."

"Ah, the house-elves," Tommy said knowingly, already halfway through a mouthful of chips.

Maddie sighed, gazing dreamily around the Great Hall. "Everything here feels like a dream, honestly."

"I’ve been saying the same thing for the past two days," he agreed.

"Where’s Cedric?" Vera asked, scanning the room.

"Oh, he’s in our common room studying." 

"Already?" Vera and Maddie exclaimed in unison.

"Oh, he’s very serious about it…"

As the trio continued chatting, marveling at the magical oddities of Hogwarts, two passing Ravenclaws cast furtive glances at Vera, whispering behind their hands.

Tommy smirked. "You seem to have quite the reputation here, Vera."

"Yeah, I can't quite figure out why, though."

Maddie shrugged. "Well, Sarah did mention that your family is basically royalty in the wizarding world."

Vera nearly dropped her fork. 

"Cedric said the same thing," Tommy added. "Apparently, you're from one of the most ancient and noble families or something like that."

Vera sat frozen, the words sinking in like stones in water.

Royalty? Ancient? NOBLE?!

The idea was so absurd it almost made her laugh—except no one else was laughing. She wasn’t from some grand, prestigious lineage; she was just Vera—an orphan from a farm who had stumbled into this world by sheer luck. And yet… a small, unsettling thought took root.

She knew nothing about her family. So, maybe—just maybe—the rumors weren’t entirely wrong.

"Is it true, though?" Tommy's question broke through her thoughts.

She blinked. "What?" 

"You can speak French?" 

"Um, why would you think that?"

"I heard that you live in France," Tommy said, inadvertently enlightening her.

The two stared at her, waiting for an answer, but she remained silent.

Her mind raced, recalling Donnie’s mention of her mother being from another country. This connection led her to ponder revealing her own truth—that she had little knowledge of her family and currently lived in a girls' home in Muggle London.

Yet, she felt hesitant and embarrassed to share such a personal detail at that moment. Despite her silence, Maddie and Tommy seemed unaffected, seamlessly continuing their conversation.

"Do you know who speaks French?" Maddie asked, lowering her voice as she leaned closer.

"French people?" Tommy teased, chuckling at his own joke.

"That girl Eudora," Maddie answered swiftly. "Sarah and I were supposed to share a dorm with her, but she got upset and kept mumbling in French. Eventually, she swapped rooms with an older student."

"What a bitch," Vera remarked bluntly.

Tommy choked on his food.

"Vera!" Maddie said, laughing while glancing around to make sure no one overheard.

"What?" Vera shrugged. "She and that other Poshlander made fun of my clothes on the train."

"Poshlander...” Tommy echoed. “I like that."

"That boy in Ravenclaw?" Maddie asked.

"Yeah, Ryu or something."

"Ah, yes," Tommy said mockingly. "The celebrity."

"He does have that celebrity look," Maddie admitted, raising a brow.

"He looks OKAY," Tommy grumbled, a little too defensively.

"I don’t like him," Vera added. "But he does look like he stepped out of a bloody magazine."

"You girls are so strange."

"Oh, as if you boys aren’t?" Maddie shot back. "You and Cedric were practically drooling over Malika during the Sorting Ceremony."

Vera burst out laughing as Tommy, caught red-handed, tossed a crisp at Maddie. She dodged it easily, grinning back at him. The three of them carried on, their laughter and chatter blending into the lively hum of the Great Hall.

Later that night, Vera found herself deep in thought, replaying her conversations with them.

Wealthy?

Ancient house?

Royalty?

The mysteries surrounding her own identity weighed heavily on her mind, leaving her with a whirlwind of unanswered questions.

Yet, despite the confusion, she felt an unexpected surge of pride.

She had never imagined that she might discover such intriguing truths about her family, let alone their supposed affluence and prestige. The thought of what her life might have been like if she had grown up among them filled her with contemplation.

But as she considered revealing the less glamorous reality of her existence, she hesitated.

Poor.

Orphan.

Nobody.

What if they knew the truth—that she shared a bedroom with three other girls in an orphanage? That she worked as a farm laborer, and that she had no real knowledge of her so-called 'Noble' lineage?

The fear of being judged or ridiculed, as she had been in Cornwall, loomed over her. Perhaps it would be better to keep up the pretense, to lie rather than face the potential for more bullying and taunting.

Maybe it was safer not to reveal the truth, to maintain the illusion of her family's grandeur rather than risk exposing the stark reality of her life.

Despite the moral weight of deceiving others, her desperation for acceptance and recognition as a "normal human being" drove her to consider adopting the façade of a wealthy girl from a royal wizarding lineage.

She grappled with the notion that while she wouldn't be entirely dishonest, she would be selectively concealing parts of her truth.

The internal conflict between her desire for authenticity and her longing for recognition weighed heavily on her conscience, but in the end, her desperation won.

With her eyes closed, she offered a silent prayer for forgiveness and hoped that her new life would be better than the challenges of her past. Amidst the turmoil of her thoughts, she repeated to herself with resolute determination:

"My name is Vera Black, and I am from the most ancient and noble family in the wizarding world."

Chapter Text

Monday, September 3, 1989

Despite a night of restless tossing and turning, Vera sprang out of bed at 6 a.m., eager for her first day at Hogwarts.

Her magical abilities still felt like a fresh discovery, and she couldn't wait to dive into the world that had only recently revealed itself to her. With purpose, she unbraided her hair and neatly packed her books into the purple bag Miss Nelson had given her for her birthday, taking extra care to avoid any mishaps. Standing in front of the mirror, she admired her uniform with a mix of pride and disbelief, staring for a good half hour as if waiting for some sign that this was all real.

Determined to look her best, she ditched the bandages and slipped on the burgundy gloves that came with the uniform, hoping it would add a touch of elegance. Alicia and Angelina, equally hyped, were busy with their own preparations across the room, pointedly ignoring her.

With her bag slung over her shoulder, she made a beeline for the Great Hall, eager to meet up with Jane and get her hands on her schedule for the year ahead.

"First years, follow me," Professor McGonagall's crisp voice sliced through the chatter, and the group of eleven-year-olds shuffled in line.

“Because the number of new students is so... modest this year, the school has decided on unified classes. That means you’ll all be attending the same lessons together.”

"Cracker news," Tommy muttered to the Weasleys, grinning.

“Absolutely revolting,” Cassius whispered to Miles with a dramatic roll of his eyes.

"You’ll now receive your schedules for the year," McGonagall continued, distributing parchment and maps to each student.

Vera unfolded her schedule with a sense of wonder. The week ahead promised eight classes, each one a tantalizing mystery waiting to be unraveled.

Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays featured Transfiguration, Charms, History of Magic, and Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Tuesdays included Double Potions, Astronomy, and Herbology.

Thursdays followed a comparable pattern but substituted the second potions class with a flying lesson.

After breakfast, the students eagerly made their way to their first class of the day: Transfiguration with.

As Vera stepped into the classroom, she was immediately struck by its size and grandeur. It was a far cry from her old school in Cornwall, which could barely fit the students in its cramped, uninspiring classrooms.

Hogwarts, however, was a different story.

The room was brimming with magic and wonder—cages containing odd and mysterious creatures, chandeliers hanging from a soaring ceiling, and the scent of something magical in the air. The classroom was arranged with 15 desks, each large enough for two students.

Jane, always quick on her feet, darted to the front and claimed a pair of seats for herself and Vera. Behind them, Malika was caught in the middle of a spirited tug-of-war, as Fred, George, and Lee were all vying for the seat next to her. Lee won the coveted spot, leaving the twins to settle for the third desk.

Behind them, Cedric and Tommy had clearly become fast friends, with their camaraderie even more evident after just two days of school. Eudora and Ryu took the front desk beside them, each busy in their own little world—Ryu adjusting his tie, as perfectly symmetrical as ever, and Eudora preening in a small mirror.

Behind them, Cassius and Miles were deep in conversation about Quidditch, their voices rising in excited discussion. Adrian sat alone, but his leg sprawled across the other side of the desk, reserved for Roger Davies.

"Are they, like, friends or something?" Vera whispered to Jane.

"No, not really," Jane replied. "But Roger's in Ravenclaw, so Adrian thinks it's smart to, you know, get in good with him, maybe to get some help with homework." 

Patricia 'Patty' and Kenny claimed the front seats in the third column, with Sarah and Maddie sitting behind them. Alicia and Angelina, however, were clustered around a cat perched on Professor McGonagall’s desk, gently petting it with rapt attention.

The bell tolled, chairs scraped, and the classroom fell into order. Then, as if bored of mere purring, the cat on the desk stretched, shimmered, and promptly turned into Professor McGonagall herself.

"That was cracker," Tommy exclaimed in awe, while Alicia and Angelina exchanged embarrassed glances.

The stern professor soon delved into the curriculum, initiating the day's first lesson—transforming a turtle into a notebook. Instructing the students to work, chaos ensued as they hastily embarked on the task.

Cassius and Miles, oozing self-satisfaction, finished first. Their notebooks gleamed a smug shade of green, and they wore matching smirks to go with them.

“This is too easy,” Miles said.

“For us, it is,” Cassius added, practically marinating in arrogance.

Fred and George wrapped up next and immediately turned their turtles into racing champions, lining them at the desk’s edge and shouting encouragement like overzealous bookies. Lee, naturally, placed his wager.

Meanwhile, Cedric and Tommy were too busy cracking up at Tommy’s endless stream of jokes to notice the competition. Somehow, between the punchlines, they still finished third, then kept the comedy show rolling.

Roger and Adrian successfully completed the assignment, with Adrian proudly taking credit, though it was widely clear that Roger had done the heavy lifting.

Sarah and Maddie weren’t so lucky. Sarah somehow misplaced her turtle and marched up to McGonagall for a replacement.

“I swear I saw her stuff it in her bag,” George muttered to Fred.

Meanwhile, Lee was stuck in an endless loop with Malika, who still looked baffled.

“But where did the cat go?” she pressed.

“For the last time, Malika,” Lee groaned, “McGonagall is the cat.”

Ryu and Eudora turned in the most stylish notebooks of the lot, splashed with color and flair that actually earned them a point of praise. Patty, on the other hand, could barely think straight, as Kenny was too busy chattering away with juicy gossip to even notice there was an assignment happening.

Alicia and Angelina’s notebooks didn’t just transform—they mutated. Heavy and slimy on the inside, they sent both girls shrieking in horror. Miles and Adrian nearly fell out of their seats laughing, which, of course, only made the girls’ misery worse.

Jane adeptly transformed the turtle into a notebook and seamlessly reverted it back. However, Vera was struggling.

"How did you manage that?" she asked, her frustration evident.

"It's quite simple really," Jane said, "just concentrate," 

Vera’s frustration mounted as she realized she was the only one still floundering. Everyone else had finished, yet her turtle sat there, smugly ordinary, refusing to cooperate. She’d been flicking her wand and chanting the incantation for what felt like forever, but nothing happened. Maybe, she thought with a sinking feeling, the problem wasn’t her spellwork at all. Maybe the wand had chosen the wrong witch.

Professor McGonagall, sensing her struggle, approached to offer assistance. "Is everything alright, Miss Black?"

"I don't know; I've been attempting it, but it simply won't work."

"Leave it for now, and you can try again later." 

Class ended in a blur, and soon everyone shuffled off to Charms. There sat Professor Flitwick, balanced on a tower of books, cheerfully guiding them through their very first spell: levitating a feather.

Vera figured this had to be easier than Transfiguration. Until, of course, every feather in the room floated gracefully while hers clung stubbornly to the desk. After ten minutes of furious swishes and flicks, she chucked the feather skyward and slumped face-first onto the table.

At lunch, Jane tried to soothe her. “It’s okay—”

“No, it’s not!” Vera snapped. “I’m a bloody loser who can’t even lift a feather.”

“It’s just the first class. You’ll get the hang of it.”

But Vera couldn’t let it go. The thrill she’d felt since learning she was a witch had fizzled into something heavier. Magic was supposed to feel wondrous, so why did it look effortless for everyone else while she was left flailing?

Next up was History of Magic with the ever-dreary Professor Binns. Malika could hardly stand him. Not just for his coma-inducing lectures, but because, well, he was a ghost. The boys, naturally, treated her unease as their golden ticket to play the heroes.

As Binns droned on about the Werewolf Code of Conduct, yawns spread like wildfire. Kenny and Patty were already out cold, Eudora busied herself with her nails, Angelina sketched on her desk, and Cassius, Miles, and Adrian passed notes like it was their own private post office. Fred, George, and Tommy? They’d turned the back row into a Quidditch strategy summit.

The only ones still upright and actually listening were Cedric and Vera.

Vera found herself genuinely enjoying History of Magic. Not just because it spared her the humiliation of spellwork, but because the subject itself fascinated her. Back in Cornwall, she had hidden away in the barn with books from the school library, losing herself in tales of far-off worlds and impossible wonders. Those stories had been her escape from long, weary days, and now she was living in something remarkably close to them. Learning about goblins and werewolves—and actually being tested on them—felt like stepping into the very pages she used to cherish. And with her knack for Muggle history, the subject came naturally, only adding to her delight.

The bell rang, and the first-years bolted, abandoning Professor Binns mid-sentence without a shred of guilt. Vera and Kenny were the last to leave, with her inquiring about the syllabus and Kenny still in a post-nap daze. She resorted to tapping his shoulders repeatedly to rouse him from his slumber.

Exiting the classroom, third-year students gathered by the door, preparing for their subsequent History class. Among them was Felix Bobbin, leaned against the wall with one hand in his pocket and holding a book with the other. Despite being surrounded by peers engaged in conversation with him, he appeared unbothered, silent, avoiding eye contact and staring at his feet. 

Summoning courage, Vera approached him. "Hiya," she said shyly, placing her hands behind her back.

He glanced up for a split second, then hurriedly pushed past her to get to his class. She stood there, shocked and unsure of how to react. Offended by his dismissive move, she couldn't understand why he would ignore her in such a way. Arriving at her next class, she joined the students waiting for the bell to ring before entering.

"Are you okay?" Jane asked, noticing her distant expression.

"Yeah, I'm alright," she replied, attempting to push aside her thoughts and concentrate on the upcoming lesson.

The students chatted about rumors regarding their new teacher, with Kenny enthusiastically sharing some interesting tidbits.

"Not even the Ministry wanted him as an Auror; they said he was too violent."

"That can't be true," Cedric argued. "Dumbledore wouldn't let him teach here if that was the case."

"Oh, you didn't know?" Roger chimed in. "Dumbledore's been having a hard time filling this position for quite some years now."

"So what?" Alicia said. "Would he let anyone in just because he doesn't have any other choice?" 

Roger shrugged. "It's a tricky position."

"Some even say it's cursed," Kenny added, causing the group to gasp.

"That's a load of bullocks," Fred remarked.

"I swear—"

The bell rang before Kenny could finish, prompting the students to hurry inside, eager to secure the best seats. However, upon entering, they were shocked by what awaited them. Only 12 desks stood in front of them, each accommodating two students. Aligned in two columns with 6 seats on each side, the students soon discovered that they were all pre-assigned, each bearing their names on a piece of paper.

"Hurry and sit on your assigned seat," Frey announced, his back turned as he wrote on the chalkboard.

The first years began searching for their designated seats, colliding with each other in the narrow space between the two columns. After a few moments, they were all seated, and as they glanced around, they collectively realized a shocking revelation.

"He must be joking," Fred remarked, arms crossed.

"There's no way he's allowed to do this," Alicia whispered, her expression brimming with anger.

"I think I like him already," Cassius smirked, evidently pleased with the new professor.

The students were divided into two groups.

In the first column, Vera found herself seated in the front row next to Ryu Avery. Behind them were Eudora Dlamini and Adrian Pucey, followed by Jane Corrigan and Miles Bletchley, Cassius Warrington and Roger Davies, while the fifth seat was occupied by Cedric Diggory alone. Fred and George Weasley sat in the last seat. In the second column, Sarah and Maddie occupied the front seats, followed by Patty and Malika, Alicia and Lee, Kenny and Angelina, with Tommy in the final seat by himself.

Ryu - Vera                      Maddie - Sarah
Eudora - Adrian              Patty - Malika
Jane - Miles                    Alicia - Lee
Cassius - Roger              Kenny - Angelina
Cedric                            Tommy 
Fred - George  

"My name is Professor Frey," the professor began, his hands clasped behind his back as he addressed one particular group within the class, "and you may only address me as such. You shall have the honor of attending my class this year."

The twins exchanged an eye roll.

"Now, let's waste no time," Frey continued briskly. "Open your books to the first chapter."

Before they knew it, he launched into a rapid reading of the chapter, offering no explanations or answering any questions. Observing that both he and Cedric were seated alone seemingly without reason, Tommy rose from his seat and walked over to join his friend.

"What do you think you’re doing?" Frey suddenly yelled, causing the class to startle.

“I…” Tommy began to stutter.

“What is your name?” Frey sneered.

“Thomas Mallon, sir,”

“Well congratulations Mallon, you just earned yourself and Diggory detention on your first day.”

"But sir, we're both sitting alon—,"

"And now you've earned yourself another week of detention." 

"But sir—"

"One more word, and you'll have detention for a month. Now, back to your seat!"

Tommy returned slowly to his seat, his face flushed with anger.

“Look at his face,” Adrian laughed, turning to Miles.

“Botttt Sarrrr,” Miles said, mocking Tommy’s accent.

"You are to maintain these seats until the end of the year," Frey asserted with a stern tone. "Any deviation from your assigned seat will result in punishment."

Fred and George were seething with frustration, Tommy’s leg wouldn't stop shaking, and Miles and Cassius were stifling giggles, evidently finding amusement in Frey's decree.

Vera wasn’t exactly thrilled to be seated next to Ryu Avery, the same boy who’d mocked her clothes on the train. Still, she found herself sneaking glances at him. He sat with flawless posture, chin high, utterly absorbed in Frey’s lecture, and that subtle, captivating scent only made it harder to look away. Up close, he was even more striking, and watching him take notes without so much as a glance at his parchment left her secretly impressed.

God, even his handwriting is perfect, she thought, a pang of envy creeping in.

Ryu seemed largely unbothered by her presence, though she caught the occasional glance he threw her way, lingering on her dark hair just long enough to make her feel like he was silently assessing her.

As the lesson dragged on, Miles and Adrian—lined up one behind the other—kept up their constant whispering, shoving Vera’s concentration out the window. Their chatter was far from subtle, and she couldn’t fathom why Frey hadn’t put a stop to it yet.

The new professor clearly had no love for hands-on teaching, preferring to stick to theory. He bombarded the class with facts about dark creatures—their types, traits, habitats, diets, and more—all at a dizzying pace. Vera did her best to keep up, but the sheer avalanche of information left her reeling.

“In five minutes, I will be cleaning the board,” Frey announced, pausing the lesson just long enough to throw the class into action.

Quills scratched across parchment as students copied frantically. Vera, in particular, wrestled with her ink while Frey patrolled the room, dishing out smiles to some and subtle scowls to others.

"Mr. Avery, how is your father?" He inquired, directing his attention to Ryu, who remained fixated on the board. "I trust his stewardship of the ministry is proceeding smoothly?" 

"Yes," Ryu replied with a bored tone. 

"Ah, very good indeed. Overseeing the ministry’s finances is a formidable task," Frey remarked, his smile directed at Ryu, who appeared to deliberately ignore him.

Turning to the nervous Vera, he continued, "I've heard you reside with your great aunt, Miss Black?"

Vera nodded nervously, realizing Frey seemed unaware of her true situation, unlike McGonagall or Hagrid. Uncertain of what to disclose, she opted for silence, avoiding falsehoods.

"Ah, it must be truly enriching to learn from such a wise woman. Please convey my regards to her,"

She nodded again, wishing she could disappear from the scrutiny of her peers. At this point, she would rather die than tell them the truth about her.

"You as well, Mr. Warrington," He then addressed Cassius. "Do extend my regards to your father. We are acquainted, you know."

Cassius's demeanor tensed at the mention of his father, nodding curtly before returning to his writing.

"When might we delve into defensive spells, sir?" Kenny dared to ask, and Frey's smile quickly transformed into a stern glare.

“I refuse to be dictated to regarding the curriculum!" He asserted firmly, causing Kenny to recoil.

He then swiftly turned to clean the board, despite the students' protests that they hadn't finished copying.

"Silence!" His sharp shout caused an immediate hush to fall over the classroom. "You will now work in pairs to classify the mentioned dark creatures based on their dietary habits. Diggory and the other boy, you will work independently on this."

Vera glanced at Ryu, already absorbed in scribbling his answers. “Wouldn’t you like to discuss it first?” she asked.

“No need,” he said coolly, eyes glued to his parchment. “I can do it for both of us.”

With a dramatic eye roll and an exasperated sigh, she snatched the parchment from him. “Don’t bloody think so.”

“Fine,” he muttered, surrendering as her glare made it clear she meant business.

They began hashing out the answers, Vera taking the reins when it came to writing them down. She couldn’t help feeling self-conscious about her handwriting, and Ryu’s occasional smirks didn’t help. Eventually, his focus drifted from her script to her face, watching her intently as she concentrated on the task at hand.

“Is there a problem, Avery?” she asked, catching his intense stare.

“Your eyes are blue.”

She couldn’t help but cringe. “And they say Ravenclaws are the smartest? How funny.”

“No, I mean,” he clarified, “your eyes are blue, but your right eye has a hint of hazel. Have you ever noticed?”

“Why, thank you for pointing that out, sir,” she replied mockingly, slipping into a posh accent. “I, alas, own no mirrors.”

“I think they’re nice, really,” he said, and her cheeks betrayed her with an involuntary blush.

“But your eyebrows could use some grooming,” he added, and just like that, the color drained from her face.

“Excuse me? What’s wrong with my eyebrows exactly?”

“Eyebrow,” he corrected.

“What?”

“Singular.”

Vera’s anger simmered, ready to boil over at his jab. But before she could fire back, Frey announced the end of the task, cutting her revenge short.

Fred and George, normally the class clowns, stayed unusually quiet, scribbling notes like model students—at least for once. The stillness shattered when Adrian discreetly flicked his wand at Fred’s ink bottle, sending it clattering to the floor.

“DETENTION, WEASLEYS!” Frey barked.

The class collectively gaped, muttering about the unfairness, while Adrian and Miles dissolved into hysterical laughter. The twins said nothing—wise enough to know that arguing would only double their punishment.

The bell rang, and the students began preparing to leave when Frey abruptly snapped at them. "You will only leave when I tell you to leave. Now, sit. Back. Down!"

They sank back into their seats, and Frey continued explaining the lesson for fifteen additional minutes.

As they spilled out of the classroom, chatter erupted like a shaken cauldron.

"Is this how it's going to be for the rest of the year?" Alicia questioned.

"There's no way he separated us like that." Roger grumbled. "What does he think this is? The 1940s?" 

Vera walked alongside Jane, who didn't appear overly bothered by Frey's decision.

"I mean, he's our professor," she said to Vera. "He knows what's best for us."

While Vera didn't quite grasp the significance of the seating arrangement, she was upset by how he treated the twins.

“Adrian and Miles didn’t shut up once all class, and he didn’t say a word to them. He clearly has it out for Fred and George.”

Jane remained silent, merely shaking her head.

“And that Avery is getting on my last nerve!” Vera continued.

“What did he do?”

“He said I have a unibrow!”

Jane chuckled.

“DON’T LAUGH,”

“I’m sorry Vera, but you sort of do.”

Meanwhile, Fred and George were already hatching plans for retaliation.

"This is going to be an interesting year, Freddie."

"Oh, it most certainly will be, Georgie."

Later that afternoon, Vera threw herself into practicing spells, but no matter how hard she tried, magic stubbornly refused to obey her.

Maybe Mr. Ollivander gave me a plastic stick or something, she muttered after two hours of fruitless attempts. Frustration mounting, she finally tossed her wand aside in exasperation. Deciding on a change of pace, she picked up a potions book instead, determined to at least be ready for tomorrow’s class.

Double Potions with Professor Snape was dreaded by nearly everyone, especially after Fred and George had regaled them with tales of the Hogwarts’ strictest professor. Yet, when Vera opened the textbook, she was surprised to find herself captivated.

“It’s like science,” she murmured, flipping through the pages. Before she knew it, she had read the entire chapter, taking meticulous notes along the way. Just as she was ready to dive into the next section, Alicia and Angelina burst into the room, giggling and shattering her focus.

"I swear they're planning something,"

"They're gonna get in so much trouble!" 

"They're bloody idiots, for sure."

Curious about their conversation, Vera longed to join in but felt too self-conscious to speak. Watching Alicia and Angelina, she realized the Gryffindor girls weren’t mean or arrogant—they were lively, approachable, and well-liked by everyone… except the poshlanders, who kept to themselves.

A twinge of isolation hit her as they didn’t reach out, and self-doubt crept in. Why couldn’t friendships come as easily to her as they did to others? Shaking off the thoughts, she refocused on her potions notes, determined not to let them distract her.

Tuesday, September 4, 1989

During breakfast the following day, she encountered Jane, who was noticeably anxious about the upcoming class.

"It's two hours of having to be around a cauldron!" She exclaimed with a mouthful. "I'd prefer to die!"

"It can't be that bad."

"Are you joking? I don’t even know how to add sugar to my own tea, let alone brew a potion."

Vera chuckled at her friend's apprehension, though she kept her own excitement for the upcoming class to herself.

"And Snape," Jane continued, anxiously devouring her plate. "For Merlin's sake, he's intimidating. I can't even imagine if he scolded me or something."

"Why would he scold you? You hardly speak during classes." 

"What if he scolded me for not speaking?"

Having wolfed down breakfast at record speed, the students hurried across the castle to the far-flung potions lab—only to discover their classroom was buried underground.

The moment Vera stepped inside, she was nearly overwhelmed. Cauldrons bubbled like restless kettles, flasks brimmed with suspiciously glowing liquids, and jars of herbs jostled for space alongside scales, mortars, and pestles. Strange scents—sharp, sweet, and faintly sinister—twined together in the air. Four hefty tables filled the round, low-ceilinged chamber, each ready to seat five would-be potion-makers.

The Poshlanders swooped in to seize a table before anyone could blink, while the rest scattered like startled geese. Vera ended up with Jane, Roger, Sarah, and Maddie; Alicia, Angelina, Kenny, Patty, and Malika banded together at the next. That left the final table to the Weasleys, Tommy, Cedric, and Lee—no doubt the liveliest corner of the dungeon.

The bell rang, and with a sharp crack the dungeon door flew open. In swept Professor Snape, his black robes billowing like storm clouds, his gaze enough to freeze the chatter. Vera studied him warily: long, oily hair framed a pale, hawkish face, and his eyes cut through the room like daggers. He wasn’t quite the monster Fred and George had promised, but he certainly wasn’t anyone’s idea of friendly.

He wasted no time laying down his rules, his voice silken but edged with steel. The first hour crept by in an icy haze of expectations: a dry syllabus rundown, a brisk introduction to the intimidating arsenal of cauldrons, flasks, and scales. He then cracked open the first chapter of their text—the charmingly titled cure for boils.

“What are boils, exactly?” Malika muttered to Kenny.

Snape’s head snapped up. “Two points from Hufflepuff if you ever feel the urge to whisper again.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

"You will now brew your first potion." He continued. "The ingredients are before you. The instructions are in your book. You will not ask for help. Is that clear?”

No one dared speak. Dozens of heads bobbed in unison.

“If your potion succeeds, you will see pink smoke. If it fails, you will see green—and boils will blossom on your skin instead of vanishing. Consider it… an incentive.”

Across the room, Tommy leaned toward Fred and George, eyes gleaming. “Well, lads, this is it,” he whispered, and the twins grinned back.

The class dove in with the enthusiasm of toddlers lighting their first fireworks—loud, messy, and disastrously uncoordinated. Few bothered to actually read the recipe. Vera, however, calmly consulted her notebook, double-checking each step before lifting a finger. Snape’s sharp eyes flicked her way, and for the briefest of moments his mouth twitched—almost a smile. The spell was promptly broken by the crash of shattering glass.

Lee stood frozen above the wreckage of a broken flask.

“Five points from Gryffindor,” Snape declared.

The groans from the red-and-gold corner were cut short by the frantic bubbling of overheated cauldrons and the clatter of students fumbling with scales. Chaos was brewing faster than the potions themselves.

Cassius, naturally, looked irritatingly confident. He completed the first step with precision, earning Slytherin a point and a curt nod from Snape.

“That’s rubbish,” Fred and George muttered in unison, glaring at him.

At the next table, Malika paled at the sight of snake fangs waiting to be crushed, while Sarah, with suspicious nonchalance, slipped a few into her pocket.

“Planning to make jewellery?” Maddie teased, arching a brow. Sarah smirked but said nothing.

Cedric, meanwhile, was in full-blown crisis mode. His potion had failed three times already; his cheeks were red, his usually neat hair stuck out in sweaty tufts. Tommy, utterly unconcerned, seemed far more invested in some whispered scheme with the twins.

“Do you dare me?” Lee suddenly hissed.

“Dare you what?” Cedric sighed, sounding thoroughly done.

“To eat one of the slugs.”

Cedric blinked. “You do realize you only get four horned slugs, right? Three won’t save your potion.”

Lee paused, slug dangling between his fingers. “Oh. Right.” 

Eudora let out an exasperated mutter in another language as Flobberworm mucus landed on her white blouse. Ryu, standing beside her, waved his wand with effortless precision, and the shirt was instantly spotless.

“No need for the fuss, Dora,” he muttered, his tone edged with mild annoyance.

Snape prowled between the tables like a watchful shadow, occasionally snapping at a student or giving a sharp rap to the head with the book in his hand. When he reached Vera’s table, he paused. His dark eyes flicked over her work as he rested his fingers against his chin. Vera’s hands trembled slightly, but she forced herself to keep going.

Then his voice, low and cutting, sliced through her concentration. “Why did you do that?”

She froze. “Excuse me, sir?”

“The instructions call for dried nettles. Not soaked dried nettles.”

“Oh… I thought it might, um, speed things up.”

One eyebrow arched. “Explain.”

She swallowed. “Soaking extracts the active compounds faster—at least, that’s what I read. I thought it would make the potion more efficient.”

Snape regarded her in silence, his gaze sharp enough to cut glass. For a moment, she thought he might scold her into the floor. Instead, he gave a faint, skeptical hum, shook his head, and swept away with a swirl of robes.

Her pulse still raced, and she wasn’t sure if she’d impressed him or doomed herself on her very first day.

“Ten minutes remain,” he announced, his voice slicing through the dungeon like a blade.

Panic reigned. Cedric was still fumbling at step two, Malika hadn’t even lit her fire, and Lee managed to nick his finger on the onions, yelping as the stench made his eyes water. Patty, who’d forgotten just how viciously strong they were, was left blinking furiously through streaming tears. At the next table, Kenny misjudged his timing and added porcupine quills before removing his cauldron from the flame—promptly reducing it to a molten puddle.

Around the room, cauldrons belched streams of ominous green smoke. Failure, according to Snape’s decree. Only three cauldrons glowed with the telltale pink vapor: Cassius’s, Ryu’s, and Vera’s.

Roger scowled at his own hissing mess, disbelief written across his face. He’d measured, stirred, and timed everything exactly as written. Yet there was Vera, her potion behaving perfectly.

“How did it work for you?” he asked, frustrated.

She glanced at her gently swirling potion, then at him, and gave a helpless shrug. She had no idea herself.

As Snape prowled between tables, distributing notes with disdainful commentary, Vera caught sight of Tommy and the twins whispering furiously. Their hands moved with suspicious precision, folding a scrap of parchment into a tiny packet. She realized, with a mix of dread and curiosity, that they’d wrapped it around bulbadox powder. A discreet flick of a wand later, the little bundle floated across the dungeon and plopped neatly into Adrian’s cauldron.

“This’ll teach him,” Tommy muttered under his breath.

The result was immediate. With a deafening boom, Adrian’s cauldron erupted like a volcano, showering his tablemates in scalding potion. Shrieks filled the air as angry red boils blossomed across faces and hands. Eudora burst into tears, Ryu grabbed at Miles’s robe in a desperate attempt to wipe his own skin clean, and Cassius—though outwardly composed—seethed with barely suppressed fury.

Laughter rippled through the dungeon. Vera tried, and failed, to smother her giggles; Jane, meanwhile, looked horrified.

Snape, however, drew the wrong conclusion. “Pathetic,” he snapped, glaring at Adrian. “If you cannot follow simple instructions, you have no business holding a wand.”

He ordered the whole group to the hospital wing, his voice as icy as ever.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Take Black’s potion with you. It may spare Madam Pomfrey some time.”

The words sent a warm jolt of pride through Vera. For once, she hadn’t just kept up... She’d stood out.

Chapter Text

Thursday, September 7, 1989

“Up.”

“Uppp.”

“Come on, up!”

“UP, YOU STUPID BLOODY STICK!”

Vera’s first flying lesson went about as well as a rock trying to sprout wings. While her classmates zoomed around like they were born on broomsticks, she couldn’t get hers to twitch. Madam Hooch, ever the picture of patience, finally suggested she try the radical art of sitting on the grass for the rest of the lesson. From the sidelines, Vera watched rings conquered, loops attempted, and even a few reckless tricks—each one twisting the knife deeper. By the end, her broom had won the war, and she had lost her composure.

She cried all through lunch, Jane loyally camped at her side.

“It’s alright, Vera." Jane said, rubbing her back. "It happens.”

“No, it doesn’t!” Vera snapped, tears dripping dramatically into her pumpkin juice. “Everyone flew—everyone but me!”

“Malika didn’t fly.”

“That’s because she was scared! I couldn’t even make mine shiver!”

Jane’s sympathy deepened, though words failed her.

Vera finally slumped. “I should’ve known it was too good to be true…”

Jane frowned. “What do you mean?”

Vera hesitated, then lifted her gaze. She couldn’t say it aloud, but the fear gnawed at her: maybe the hat had lied, the wand had glitched, the letters had been a clerical error. Maybe she wasn’t really a witch at all—just an ordinary girl sentenced to extraordinary misery, while the world played a cruel joke at her expense.

The very idea of happiness felt foreign, like some rare commodity reserved for other people, never meant for the likes of Vera Black. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she kept her gaze fixed on the table, until a gentle rumble broke through her misery.

“Didn’ quite catch you at breakfast, Miss Black.”

She turned and found herself looking up at Hagrid, tools clutched in one massive hand, a letter pinched delicately in the other.

“Hello, Mr. Hagrid,” she said quickly, wiping at her face with her gloves. “I ate early so I could head to the potions lab.”

“Well, good thing you’re here now,” he said, smiling. “This just came for yeh.”

The moment the envelope touched her hands, her mood shifted like a spell had been cast. It was from Kaya, her best friend back in London. She thanked the half-giant profusely, then snatched up a butter knife to slit the seal.

Beside her, Jane leaned in curiously. “Why’d Hagrid give it to you?”

Vera froze, her mind scrambling. “Oh… um… my owl’s sick.”

Dear Vera,

I couldn't stop laughing when I got your letter. What kind of school doesn't have a telephone? Do they not have a telly either? If not, I'm ready to come to Scotland and rescue you myself. I miss you loads! Your school sounds mint. I wish you had a camera to send me photos of it all. As for those girls in your dorm, they sound like proper bitches. Don't let them bother you, Vera. You are lovely and cool, and I'm sure you will find friends in no time. Remember, you are better than all of them. They had everything, and you had nothing, and now you are all in the same school. So, you are not an outsider, you are a fighter!

Everyone sends their regards, and Miss Nelson says to remember what she told you at the train station. What was it? I'm dying to know. I don't know how to end letters, but I love you!

Sincerely,

Kaya Sterling

A smile spread across Vera’s face as she drank in Kaya’s words. Memories of their summer together came rushing back, warm and steadying, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. It amazed her how someone she’d known for barely two months could already feel indispensable. She had never met anyone like Kaya, never known a friendship that felt so fierce and unwavering. And when she reached the end—when she read those three words—she realized it was the first time anyone had ever told her, I love you.

The despair that had nearly crushed her minutes before dissolved into something else: resolve. For Kaya, for Miss Nelson—her fiercest champion—she couldn’t just give in. The letter had reminded her there was hope, and she wasn’t ready to let go of it.

So she wrote back. Again and again. Soon, the rhythm of their letters became the heartbeat of her days at Hogwarts: Mondays were for writing, Thursdays for receiving. She even began skipping breakfast on Thursdays, sneaking straight to Hagrid to collect Kaya’s reply. It was easier that way. Just her, the half-giant, and the envelope she couldn’t wait to tear open, no prying questions attached.

Saturday, September 30, 1989

By the end of September, her days revolved almost entirely around her determination to improve at magic. The sting of her early failures still lingered, but she forced herself toward hope instead of despair. Every afternoon, she drilled spells in her dormitory—most of them fizzling into nothing—then spent weekends buried in the library stacks. Jane often kept her company, and when they weren’t studying, the two roamed the castle grounds, getting to know every corner of Hogwarts.

Vera also found comfort in painting. Whenever she spotted a view that struck her, she captured it on paper and tucked the sketch into a letter for Kaya. In her careful retellings, potions became “science,” history of magic was simply “history,” and Defense Against the Dark Arts morphed into “Arts.” She wrote about the Poshlanders, Ryu’s insufferable remarks, the twins and Lee’s endless pranks, and Sarah’s peculiar talent with animals—all scrubbed clean of any magical fingerprints.

Kaya, in turn, filled her letters with her own school stories and neighborhood news. The girls in London were getting along, though Abbie and Lydia had already landed themselves in trouble—and suspension. Miss Nelson, meanwhile, was still meeting someone mysterious at the café down the street, fueling endless speculation. And Em had gone off to Cardiff on a university scholarship.

Vera missed St. Mary’s more than she cared to admit, but Hogwarts had its perks—namely, not being completely miserable. While she enjoyed Jane's company most of the time, she found the posh girl a bit too reserved for her taste. Consequently, she chose to spend time with Tommy, who seemed to share more similarities with her, possibly due to his Muggle-born background or similar upbringing.

“We can’t use a Quaffle, Tommy,” she groaned, eyeing their improvised football pitch in the courtyard. “Kicking that thing’s like punting a brick-shaped potato.”

Tommy frowned. “So what do we use, then?”

“We don’t exactly need a ball. Could just kick a can.”

“A can? That’s the dullest idea I’ve ever heard.”

“Well, excuse me for trying to make do in the middle of a bloody castle!"

Cedric, still baffled by the whole ordeal, chimed in. “So… you just score more goals than the other team, and you win?”

“Yes, Cedric,” Vera and Tommy said together.

“That’s it?” He frowned, clearly waiting for secret rules involving dragons.

Vera smirked. “That’s it. No wands. No brooms. Just feet and a ball-shaped object.”

Cedric scratched his head. “Dunno… sounds dodgy.”

Before Vera could defend the honor of football, Fred and George came tearing in.

“WE’VE GOT IT!” Fred bellowed.

Vera turned—and promptly snorted. “That’s a cabbage.”

“It’s round, innit?” Fred said, holding it aloft like the Crown Jewels.

“And light,” George added.

“We even charmed it so it won’t explode mid-kick.” 

“So, it's perfect!” 

Tommy shook his head. “I’m not kicking a cabbage! My mum would kill me for wasting food.”

“Well, it’s this or thin air,” Fred shot back.

“Or a can,” Vera muttered. “A can, people. My mates and I use one all the time back home.”

Cedric squinted at her. “Wait—you play this at home?”

“Uh, yeah?” she said, wondering what alternate universe Cedric lived in.

“And your family… allows it?”

Vera stared at him. Why wouldn't they be okay with football? Perhaps Cedric thought it was a game only for boys. But before he could ask anything else, George interrupted.

“Enough talking—let’s play! We’ll feed the cabbage to Hagrid’s beasts after. Waste not, want not.”

“Oh yes,” Vera muttered as they kicked off. “Because Hagrid’s creatures will definitely appreciate a half-deflated, trampled cabbage.”

Within minutes, the “match” had devolved into pure chaos. The twins were wrestling each other more than the cabbage, and Cedric looked like he’d aged twenty years.

“FOR THE LAST TIME, FRED, YOU CAN’T USE YOUR HANDS!” Vera barked, planting her fists on her hips.

"Too many rules!" Fred groaned. "This game’s well daft!" 

Cedric, wheezing like a broken kettle, croaked, “Merlin’s beard—I’m knackered. Muggles do this for fun?”

“Right, forget the rules,” Vera sighed, watching the cabbage roll pitifully across the courtyard. “We’ll just do free kicks.”

“Brilliant,” Tommy said between gulps of air.

George squinted. “And free kicks are…?”

Vera rubbed her temples. “Free… kicks. As in—you kick... You know what? Never mind.”

"So confusing," Cedric repeated, still puffing like an old steam train. 

Just as they were lining up, an unexpected and unwelcome trio approached. Cassius, Adrian, and Miles strode over with sneers etched on their faces, their eyes fixed disdainfully on the makeshift cabbage ball.

“Well, well,” Cassius drawled. "Playing with vegetables now, Weasels?"

Adrian and Miles snickered like trained hyenas. The twins shot each other a quick look, but neither flinched.

“We’re just having a bit of fun,” Fred said. “Ever heard of fun, Warrington?”

Cassius’s grin widened. “Fun, huh? With what—Hagrid’s leftovers?”

“Keep at it, Weasels,” Miles sneered. “Maybe the cabbage’ll sprout galleons if you kick it hard enough.”

“Can’t even afford a real ball, can you?” Adrian piled on. 

George folded his arms. “It's called being resourceful.”

“More like plain poor,” Adrian said.

“Better to be short on gold than on manners.” George shot back smoothly.

Vera felt a twist in her stomach. The thought that the Weasleys might be struggling financially hadn’t even crossed her mind until now. For some reason, she had innocently assumed everyone in the wizarding world would be wealthy because of magic. It didn’t make sense to her that poverty was also prevalent here.

But the twins? They didn’t flinch. The insults rolled right off them. No shame, no excuses—just defiance. Vera admired that. In fact, she envied it. She wished she could face her own poverty with that kind of shameless courage.

“We don’t need your commentary,” she said firmly, though a pang of guilt tugged at her as she stepped forward.

Cassius’s lip curled. “And you’ve dragged Black along too. Why not join us, Vera? Before this lot pollute you any further.”

“Pollute?” Vera repeated, blinking. What on earth did he think they were doing—rolling in sewage?

Sensing the shift, Tommy jumped in. “Why don’t you join us? Proper fun, this is.”

Adrian snorted. “Us? Play with you?”

Miles wrinkled his nose. “It’s humiliating enough we’re talking to you.”

Then Cassius jabbed a finger at Tommy. “And look at his trousers! Honestly, you could house Hagrid and his dog in those.”

Tommy's face reddened with anger, though he tried to maintain composure. “Big talk from someone dressed like my granda.”

Cassius smirked. “You couldn’t afford a button off my suit.”

“Even if I could, I’d die of shame wearing it.”

Cassius leaned in. “Exactly… if.”

“How does it feel, Mallon?" Adrian sneered. "Not just a Mudblood—but a poor one, too.”

Even their insults are posh, Vera thought, clueless to the weight of the word.

“That’s enough!” Cedric barked, fists clenched.

“Know your place, Diggory,” Adrian hissed, stepping closer.

Before Cedric could reply, Vera piped up sweetly, “Oi, Pucey! Fancy a cabbage?”

All three turned just in time for her boot to connect with the “ball.” The cabbage rocketed straight into Adrian’s face, smacking him so hard he staggered back with a yelp. The twins collapsed into laughter, Tommy doubled over wheezing, and even Cedric’s fury cracked into a reluctant grin.

With Adrian reeling, Miles flapping, and Cassius too busy sputtering, Vera shouted, “Leg it!” and the lot of them tore off.

Their laughter bounced off the stone walls as they sprinted down the corridors, breathless and giddy.

“That was cracker!” Tommy crowed, slapping Vera a victorious high-five.

To her astonishment, the Poshlanders didn’t march off to Snape or plot some elaborate payback. No detentions, no hexes in the back, not even a nasty whisper the next day. The whole affair had vanished as if it never happened. Maybe they realized they’d crossed a line. Or maybe the Black name still carried just enough weight to make them think twice.

Either way, Vera couldn’t deny the thrill of it. After years of being on the receiving end of privileged cruelty, she’d finally learned their power only worked if she let it. And discovering she was immune? That felt downright intoxicating.

Friday, October 6, 1989

The cabbage incident faded quickly into the background as the grind of schoolwork closed in. Leisure became a distant memory under the weight of McGonagall’s endless assignments, Binns’s sleep-inducing droning, Snape’s exacting standards, and Frey’s newfound obsession with rules. It was a relentless onslaught, but Vera refused to cave. Still, no matter how fiercely she pushed herself, her spells stubbornly fizzled more often than they sparked—enough to make a few professors begin exchanging worried glances.

One Friday afternoon, during Professor Frey's class, a fifth-year prefect disrupted the lesson.

"Excuse me, Professor," the prefect nervously announced, standing by the classroom door with a piece of parchment in his hand.

"What?" Frey replied coldly, his gaze fixed on the board.

The prefect approached him, extending the parchment. Lowering his glasses on his nose, Frey glanced at it and then directed his attention to Vera, who was seated at the front of the class.

"Miss Black, you may leave."

Vera looked up, perplexed. The prefect seemed to be waiting for her to accompany him, prompting her to gather her belongings in her bag and follow him out the door. The rest of the class mirrored her confusion, their eyes tracking her departure until Frey sternly reminded them to refocus.

The two strolled down the corridor, the prefect leading the way, and Vera's confusion deepened as they headed toward the south wing of the castle.

"Um... excuse me?" She finally spoke up. "Where are we going?"

"To the hospital wing," he answered calmly.

The hospital wing?  She couldn't fathom why she would be summoned there. She wasn't sick or feeling unwell. Despite her perplexity, she refrained from questioning him and courteously followed behind. It marked her first visit to this side of the castle, leaving her in awe as always.

Upon reaching the hospital wing, her eyes swept across the surroundings. The hall, with its high ceiling, exuded a sense of order and warmth. It defied her expectations, and she couldn't help but harbor a secret desire to fall ill just to experience it again. The prefect led her to a small room situated at the hall's entrance, where he knocked, alerting the hospital matron.

Madam Pomfrey exhibited a warm demeanor; her kind smile and gentle voice alleviated Vera's unease about the abrupt summoning. Expressing gratitude to the prefect, she then guided Vera to take a seat on a nearby bed.

"I am sorry for interrupting your class, dear," she kindly said.

Not at all, Vera thought. She was, in fact, rescued from Frey's hell.

"You are probably wondering why you are here, but don't you worry; it is just a cautionary procedure."

"I don't understand," Vera said. "I am not sick, ma’am."

"You are not, of course, but there is something happening with you that we need to unravel."

Vera's stomach dropped.

“Lumos.”

Madam Pomfrey gracefully wielded her wand, casting a gentle, illuminating light. With precision, she moved the wand in front of Vera's eyes, prompting her to follow the light's path. Next, she placed a hand on her forehead, gauging her temperature. Her gaze then shifted to the Vera's hands.

"A bit warm to be wearing those," she said, her gaze fixed on the burgundy gloves. "Don't you think, dear?"

Up until now, Vera had successfully convinced anyone who inquired about her gloves by telling them she has a condition that made her hands cold all the time. However, she knew she couldn't deceive the school's healer, who was well aware that such a condition didn't exist.

“Could you take them off, please?” she asked gently.

Vera peeled back the gloves with deliberate care, revealing her hands inch by inch. Pomfrey moved to the desk, returning with a small tray of tools, but when her eyes fell on Vera’s bare hands, her professional composure faltered.

Pale as parchment, Vera’s fingers were marked with a dark line reaching the joints; her nails were shadowed at the tips, and the veins across her palms pulsed with a deep, bruised purple.

“When did this happen?” Pomfrey asked, concern sharpening her voice.

Vera hesitated, swallowing. “About a month ago.”

“Oh, dear,” the healer murmured, eyes widening. “And… do they hurt?”

Vera shook her head. “Not really.”

Pomfrey pressed a hand to her chest, studying the peculiar hands with careful scrutiny. After a pause, she resolved to proceed. In her fingers, a small needle gleamed, prompting a flicker of anxiety in Vera.

“Just a tiny prick, dear,” Pomfrey offered, her voice soft but reassuring.

Before Vera could protest, the healer grasped her hand and pricked her index finger. A single drop of blood welled up, and Vera winced.

“I’m sorry, dear! Did that hurt?”

Vera shook her head, though the pain echoed in her voice. “No… it’s… my head. My head hurts.”

Pomfrey’s brow furrowed in puzzlement, but she refocused on the drop of blood. Dark, burnt-maroon, thick, and redolent of iron, it seemed almost unnatural. She carefully collected it in a tiny bottle before bandaging Vera’s finger.

“All done, Miss Black,” she said, her tone calm, though her eyes betrayed lingering concern.

Still wincing from the headache, Vera fished her gloves from her lap and slid them back on while Madam Pomfrey scribbled notes on her clipboard.

“What’s the blood for?” Vera asked, rubbing her temple.

“Oh, just some standardized tests.”

“Does that mean… something’s wrong with me?”

Pomfrey’s eyes softened with a touch of pity as she settled on the edge of the bed, setting the clipboard aside. “I don’t believe there’s cause for alarm, dear. Witches and wizards have encountered similar conditions before.”

Vera frowned. “What condition?”

“You’ve had difficulties casting spells, yes?” 

A jolt of anxiety tightened Vera’s stomach. “I… I’m not a witch?” she whispered, voice trembling.

“You most certainly are, dear. Otherwise, why would you be at Hogwarts?”

She bit her lip, glancing down at her gloves. “Then… why can’t I cast any spells?”

“That’s exactly what we’re investigating.” 

“So…” Vera hesitated, her fingers twitching inside the gloves. “I… I can stay at Hogwarts?”

Pomfrey chuckled. “Absolutely.”

Vera drew a deep breath, feeling a weight lift from her chest for the first time in weeks. 

“Now, about the headache,” Pomfrey continued. “Does it happen often?”

“Not always,” Vera admitted, rubbing her temple. “Sometimes… when someone touches my hands, I get one.”

“Interesting…” Pomfrey murmured, pen poised over her notes.

“You said you’d give me willow bark to ease it,” Vera added hopefully. “Could I… have it now?”

Pomfrey blinked. “Did I say that?”

“Um… yes?”

“My memory seems to be failing me these days,” Pomfrey confessed with a soft chuckle.

She bustled over to the medicine cupboard at the hall entrance. Vera’s head spun, fatigue washing over her, nausea threatening. Pomfrey returned with a small glass of willow bark extract, and Vera downed it in one go, ignoring the bitter tang.

“It’ll take a few moments to work,” Pomfrey said.

Vera nodded, leaning back and waiting.

“I could have used a healing charm to relieve the pain instantly,” Pomfrey added, “but with your… fragile condition, that wouldn’t be wise.”

Slowly, the willow bark began to take effect, and Vera felt the weight on her head lift. She drew a deep breath and grabbed a cup of water from the bedside table, washing away the lingering bitterness.

“Better?” Pomfrey asked.

“Much better, thank you, ma’am.” 

The healer settled back in her chair, clipboard in hand, positioning herself in front of Vera.

“If it’s all right, I’d like to ask a few more questions,” she began.

Vera nodded.

“I need you to be completely honest, dear; it’s very important.”

Another nod.

“Let’s start then,” Pomfrey said, adjusting her chair and closing the distance. “Tell me about what happened a month ago.”

“You mean… when I made the pantry door open?” 

“Is that what happened?”

“I… I don’t really remember.” 

“What do you recall?”

“I was locked in the pantry. It was dark. I felt scared… angry… and I screamed for help.”

Pomfrey jotted a note. “And then?”

“The door started shaking and… it opened on its own.”

“Did it slam or open gently?” 

“I think it slammed,” Vera said, shrugging, unsure why it mattered.

Another note went onto the clipboard. “And after that?”

“I fainted,” Vera said. “My friend said I was bleeding from my nose too.”

“Aha,” Pomfrey murmured, recording it. “When you woke, how did you feel?”

“My head hurt… and I was thirsty.”

“Understood.”

“I didn’t know it was magic at the time, ma'am.” 

Pomfrey paused. “What did you think it was, then?”

Vera shrugged, silent.

“Very well,” Pomfrey said, jotting another note. “Now, let’s talk about the farm.”

“The… farm?” Vera asked, taken aback.

“You lived on a farm in North Cornwall for three years, yes?”

“Yes,” Vera replied cautiously.

“Did anything happen there like the pantry incident?”

Vera stared at her feet.

“Anything unexplainable..." Pomfrey pressed. "Magical, perhaps?” 

“No,” Vera said firmly, meeting the healer's gaze.

“Try to remember, dear.”

“Nothing happened.” 

“Are you certain?”

She paused, then said, “I’m sure.”

“Very well…” Pomfrey murmured, still jotting notes, though her brow betrayed a hint of skepticism. Vera felt the familiar fatigue creeping in.

“May I be excused now?” she asked.

“Of course, dear,” Pomfrey replied kindly.

Vera slung her bag over her shoulder and made her way out of the hospital wing. By the time she emerged, the last class of the day had already ended. She wandered the campus, her mind buzzing with unease. An underlying concern lingered that something might be deeply wrong with her, some invisible block preventing magic from flowing.

She eventually made her way to the library for a study session with Jane.

“Are you okay?” Jane asked the moment Vera sat down. “You look pale.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Vera said, though her eyes told a different story.

“Where did you go?”

“Professor McGonagall’s,” Vera replied quickly. 

She wasn't sure why she lied, but at this point, it became so effortless, slipping out almost involuntarily.

“What did she want?” Jane pressed.

“Nothing important. Anything exciting happen while I was gone?”

“The usual,” Jane shrugged. “The Weasleys are in detention again, and Malika cried because she couldn’t finish her assignment in time and got scolded.”

“I’ll check on her at dinner.”

“By the way,” Jane added, lowering her voice, “Ryu looked upset that you were gone.”

“Bloody weirdo,” Vera scoffed. “Upset he had no one to make fun of. If he doesn’t judge someone every five seconds, he practically combusts.”

Jane’s expression softened. “Are you truly okay, Vera?”

“Yeah…” Vera tried to sound composed, but her thoughts drifted back to the hospital wing. What if Pomfrey was wrong? What if she wasn’t a witch at all? And yet… the pantry door had opened on its own.

She exhaled, letting a small sigh escape. “I think… I’m a bit hungry.”

“Well,” Jane said with a grin, “I know just the perfect solution for that!”

True to her Hufflepuff nature, Jane had sniffed out the kitchens through a senior’s tip and treated the place like her personal common room annex. She often slipped down for a nibble, sometimes feasting on piping-hot pastries, sometimes just crunching an apple while scribbling homework.

As the two made their way down to the kitchens, Vera was making a conscious effort to conceal her enthusiasm. Cooking had been her one true refuge at the orphanage—Mrs. Humphrey, perpetually exhausted, had left most of it to her—so the prospect of discovering Hogwarts’ hidden heart was almost too much.

With a tickle of the pear, the painting swung open, revealing not just a kitchen but a kingdom of food. A cauldron-sized pot bubbled like it had been simmering for centuries; prep stations sprawled across the room; ovens crouched in every corner; and a pantry stuffed with herbs, spices, and produce seemed to stretch further than Vera’s imagination could follow.

And, of course, there were house-elves bustling about.

Vera attempted to appear nonchalant as she observed the diminutive creatures with pointed ears going about their work, as if she were accustomed to them at home. However, internally, she was bursting with excitement. She couldn't help but wonder why they were adorned in tea towels, but refrained from asking Jane to avoid sounding ignorant. And there was something naggingly familiar about them, though she couldn’t place where she’d seen such beings before.

Jane, meanwhile, had already filched a tart and was happily munching, while Vera wandered with wide eyes, poking her nose into every detail. Magic and food together—what could be better? She resolved then and there that one day she’d learn every secret of this enchanted kitchen. 

“Do you think they’d let me cook here if I asked?” She wondered aloud, glancing at Jane, who was elbow-deep in a bowl of crisps.

Jane paused mid-crunch. “You… cook?”

“I mean, yeah. Sometimes.” Vera fiddled with a crumb on her sleeve. “I quite like it, actually.”

Jane blinked at her. “Blimey, I don’t even know what our kitchen looks like at home.”

The way she said it carried the faintest whiff of judgment, and Vera felt her cheeks warm.

They drifted to an empty corner, where a plate of pilfered treats kept them company. The kitchen’s buttery-sweet aroma curled around them, as if the room itself was determined to fatten them up.

“I swear, I’ll never get tired of these,” Jane sighed, lifting a strawberry tart.

“Same,” Vera agreed, popping a sugared biscuit into her mouth.

“Mother never lets me have sweets at home.”

“Why not?”

Jane only shrugged, it didn't seem like it was a subject she wished to delve into.

“Are your parents still… upset?" Vera asked after a moment. "About you being in Hufflepuff?”

“Not really,” Jane said. “They’ve stopped caring—as long as I bring home good marks.”

“That’s mint.”

Jane’s smile flickered, soft and real. “What about your paren—I mean, your family?”

Vera hesitated. “Yeah. They’re… fine with it now.”

She had kept up the careful pretence that she lived with relatives, sidestepping questions about “home” with vague answers or half-truths. It spared her the effort of fabricating elaborate lies, but the guilt lingered all the same. Shame, really—that her truth was an orphanage, hand-me-down clothes, and the gnawing suspicion that her so-called noble family wanted nothing to do with her.

“I’ve never quite understood the fuss about legacies,” Jane mused, licking a smear of jam from her thumb. “But I suppose if I’d had a good run in one house, I’d wish the same for my children.”

“Yeah… I guess so—”

“Bring us some milk!” Jane cut in, directing her request to a passing house elf, and Vera couldn't help but feel startled by it.

The house-elf promptly nodded and hurried off to fulfill the request. He reappeared in a heartbeat, setting two glasses of milk at their feet.

“Um… thank you,” Vera whispered, her voice so low it was nearly swallowed by the kitchen’s bustle.

She eyed the milk uneasily, her stomach giving a sour twist. With a small shove, she pushed the glass out of sight. Jane, unbothered, was already sipping hers.

As the two slipped out of the kitchens and into the cool stone corridor, a sudden commotion rippled down the hall.

“Just leave it, Charlie,” a student urged, hurrying alongside him.

But Charlie Weasley was having none of it.

“I don’t care if he’s a professor." His voice rang out with fury. "He can’t keep getting away with this!”

Chapter Text

Friday, October 13, 1989

It soon became clear that Professor Frey, the freshly appointed Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor, was rapidly climbing Hogwarts’ “least popular” chart. First-years moaned about his crushing workloads, while older students grumbled that his lectures were long on theory and short on anything remotely useful in a duel.

“I’m starting to think his résumé is made-up,” Charlie said, pushing aside his fork at the Gryffindor table. “Half the things he claims… wildly suspicious.”

“He’s hardly brilliant either,” Percy cut in. “Have you noticed how he dodges every practical demonstration? Makes you wonder if he can actually perform half the spells he names.”

Tonks leaned across the table. “Don’t forget the dragon-slaying nonsense. No offense, Charlie, but the man couldn’t wrestle a doxy, let alone a dragon.”

“None taken,” Charlie snorted. "Trust me, dragon-handling isn’t for the faint-hearted, and Frey’s got less grit than a teabag.”

“So why would Dumbledore hire him?” Oliver asked.

Percy shot him a look that said do keep up. “Because Dumbledore didn’t have much say. Ministry meddling. Again.”

Tonks arched a brow. “Meddling how?”

“Rumor has it,” Percy lowered his voice, “Frey’s got friends in high places. Connections with some of the Six.”

Charlie nodded. “Watch how he talks to Yaxley in class. It's like they're old chums.”

“And Flint,” Oliver added. “Always gets special treatment.”

Felix Bobbin, silent until now, frowned. “But the Six don’t control the Ministry… do they?”

“Not yet,” Percy replied. “But once Bagnold’s out, they’ll tighten their grip. And since no one else wanted Defense, they shoved Frey in.”

“The man’s unbearable,” Oliver burst out. “Kept us past five last week! Completely wrecked Quidditch practice!”

Tonks rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Forget your broom drills. The segregation policy is the real rot.”

Felix’s expression hardened. “Someone should tell the headmaster. The way he’s running things. It’s dangerous.”

“I already spoke to Professor McGonagall,” Charlie said, exhaling heavily. “She hates it as much as we do, but technically, there’s no rule against it.”

Oliver slammed his fist down, rattling the cutlery. “That’s insane! He’s dragging us back to the Stone Age! What’s next? blood purity tests?”

The first-years at the Hufflepuff table were in the middle of an equally serious discussion.

“I swear down,” Vera declared solemnly. “His bald spot’s the exact shape of a pear.”

“And shiny,” Sarah added quickly. “Shinier than Quirrell’s, even.”

“Avery practically uses it as a mirror,” Vera shot back, deadpan.

Cedric raised a brow. “Forget the shine. His head’s too small for the rest of him. Looks like a mismatched set.”

“Nah, mate,” Tommy argued through a mouthful of bread. “The head’s fine. It’s the body. Built like a proper barrel, he is.”

Maddie leaned in, lowering her voice with relish. “Anyone else notice the lazy eye?”

“How could you miss it?” Tommy snorted. “Thing’s playing peek-a-boo half the time.”

“Drives me mad,” Vera agreed with a grin. “I never know which eye to look at.”

“This is cruel, you lot,” Malika murmured. “We can’t just slag him off for his looks.”

“He deserves it,” Tommy shrugged.

“I mean…” Cedric hesitated. “I wouldn’t care if he weren’t such a—”

“Word is his wife left him,” Kenny cut in dramatically, practically vibrating with gossip.

“Not shocked,” Vera quipped. “Even his hair didn’t stick around.”

The table erupted, laughter bouncing between them. Tommy raised his cup in a mock toast. “Here’s to hoping class doesn’t drag past five. The Weasley twins are sneaking us down to watch Gryffindor practice.”

Cedric smirked. “Bet Frey wishes he could leave early.”

“Yeah,” Vera cackled. "If he could squeeze through the door with that barrel chest of his.”

“Please,” Tommy grinned. “Easier to just roll him out.”

Like half the castle that year, Vera ranked DADA as her absolute least favorite class. And not just because Frey was a walking yawn, or because the Slytherins in the back wouldn’t shut up, or even because her friends were all scattered across the room. No, the real torment was sitting next to Ryu Avery, snob and perfectionist extraordinaire.

Worse still, she’d recently noticed a new habit of his: staring. Constantly. Sideways glances, measured and unblinking, like he was cataloguing her flaws for some secret report. After the third one that afternoon, Vera snapped.

“Problem, Avery?” 

He didn’t so much as blink. “No.”

“Then stop staring.”

He hesitated, as if debating whether she was worth the oxygen. His gaze slid back to the front, to Frey’s droning monologue, before he finally murmured, flat as parchment, “Your hair could use oils.”

Vera froze, blindsided. Of all the things, hair tips? From him? 

“Right,” she said sweetly. “Because I’ve been dying to get beauty advice from someone whose only friend is a mirror.”

For the first time, Ryu’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smile. He said nothing more, leaving Vera to wonder if she’d scored the point… or if she’d just signed up for round two.

She tried to regain her composure, but her fingers still clenched tightly around her quill. Taking a deep breath, she turned to Maddie, hoping to silently communicate a plan.

“Psst.”

Maddie caught on instantly. Smuggling notes under Frey’s dreary monologues had become their second nature. All it required was timing.

The moment he turned to the board, Maddie stretched out her hand in one smooth, well-rehearsed motion. Their fingers brushed—

—and then disaster.

Frey spun on his heel with the speed of a hawk sighting prey. His eyes zeroed in on the half-passed scrap of parchment, and the air in the classroom froze solid.

“What,” he barked, voice like a whip crack, “are you doing?”

The chatter collapsed into silence. Every head turned toward Vera and Maddie.

Frey’s boots struck the floor in heavy, deliberate thuds as he advanced, savoring the moment. And with a quick, cutting gesture, he plucked the note from Maddie’s hand, unfolding it with cruel precision.

The whole room held its breath.

"Let me see what we have here," he sneered.

As his eyes flicked over the words, his frown deepened, and his glare shifted to Maddie, who shrank under the weight of his gaze.

“What’s your name?” he demanded.

“M-Madeline, sir. Madeline Park.”

“And do you find amusement in mocking your classmates and writing such remarks… Park?”

“No, sir,” Maddie whispered.

“Then why, pray tell, did you write it?” 

Vera’s heart ached seeing her friend take the fall. She couldn’t stay silent any longer. 

“She didn’t write it, sir." She blurted out. "I did.” 

Frey’s gaze shifted to her, and for a moment, the harshness in his eyes seemed to soften. “There’s no need to cover for her, Miss Black,” he said, his voice unnervingly gentle. “Park must face the consequences of her own actions.”

Vera shook her head. “It’s the truth. I wrote it, not Maddie. She has nothing to do with it.”

The room was suffocating in its silence, and Frey’s cold gaze pierced through Vera, leaving her frozen with uncertainty of what consequences awaited her. She knew what kind of petty punishments he liked to dish out: detentions that stretched on for weeks, and extra assignments meant to break a student’s spirit.

"It's alright, Miss Black.” he finally said, offering her a faint smile. “I will ensure Park doesn't harass you any longer."

Vera blinked, stunned. Harass? What was he talking about?

His smile disappeared entirely as he turned to Maddie, and a clear look of disgust contorted his features. “As for you, Park, three weeks’ detention. And you are to apologize to Miss Black. Right now.”

Vera’s jaw dropped. How had he twisted this entire situation around? The note wasn’t even about her. It was about Ryu. And now Maddie was being painted as some sort of bully.

“Sir," she began, "there’s really no need for—” 

“Park evidently lacks the upbringing to respect others,” Frey sneered. “But now, she’ll have the opportunity to learn.”

Maddie’s face had paled, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She didn’t argue. She didn’t fight back. And that broke Vera’s heart more than anything. 

“But sir—” she tried again, desperately, only to be cut off by Frey’s sharp tone.

“Apologize to Miss Black. Now,” he barked, his voice cold and unyielding.

Maddie, trembling, kept her eyes downcast, staring at her hands.

Vera shook her head furiously, mouthing, “Don’t,” but Maddie wouldn’t look up.

“I’m sorry, Vera,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“Louder,” Frey demanded, his voice brimming with the need for humiliation. “So the entire class can hear.”

Maddie’s hands clenched into tight fists as she raised her voice, trying to steady herself. “I’m sorry, Vera.”

The class remained silent, though the disbelief was palpable. Everyone knew Maddie hadn’t done anything wrong. It was absurd. 

Vera’s stomach churned with guilt and frustration. She glanced at Frey, but his expression was as rigid as stone. There was no reasoning with him. Her mind was in a whirl, trying to make sense of his actions, and the regret for getting Maddie into trouble gnawed at her. As the class ended, she hurriedly followed her and Sarah.

“Maddie, please wait!” she called out, her voice urgent.

Maddie and Sarah stopped and turned.

“I’m really sorry, Mads,” she said, catching her breath. “I shouldn’t have sent that note. It’s all my fault.”

“It’s okay—”

“No, it’s not,” Vera cut in. “I shouldn’t have let him make you apologize. That’s not fair.”

“Vera, it’s really alright,” Maddie said with a small laugh, though her eyes were still red. “I’m not upset with you.”

“You’re not?”

“Of course not. Why would I be?”

“I got you into trouble...”

“It’s not your fault.”

“But it was me who wrote the note, and I’m truly sorry. I’ll make it right, I promise! I’ll even make Frey give me detention next class so I can be there with you!”

“Come on now,” Sarah scoffed. “You know he’ll never do that.”

“What do you mean?” Vera asked, puzzled.

Maddie sighed. “He clearly favors you, Vera.”

“No, he doesn’t...”

“He never punishes you or the other poshlanders. And he acts like we don’t even exist.”

“I don’t think it’s intentional.”

“Oh really?” Sarah interjected. “He doesn’t even bother to learn our names.”

As Vera absorbed their words, it dawned on her. She hadn't seemed to notice that before, but now, with Maddie and Sarah pointing it out, she started to connect the dots.

“But... why?” she asked. “Why would he favor us?”

Maddie and Sarah exchanged glances, sensing her ignorance.

“Because...” Maddie said slowly, “you’re Pureblood.”

Vera stood motionless for a moment after Maddie and Sarah departed, trying to process what she had just heard. The words were elusive, their meaning slipping through her grasp. Jane approached a moment later, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Are you alright, Vera?" she asked softly.

Vera looked up, hesitating before giving a small nod. "Um, yeah... sort of."

"Shall we go eat?"

She managed a faint smile and trailed after Jane, though her mind stayed tangled in the earlier exchange with Maddie. All through lunch, the questions gnawed at her, questions she couldn’t quite form, let alone voice. Jane, seemingly unbothered, laughed and chatted as usual, which only convinced Vera to swallow her doubts and keep silent.

By the time she climbed the staircases back to Gryffindor Tower, her thoughts were a restless swarm. Entering the common room, she spotted Charlie sprawled across the sofa, a book balanced in his hands.

If there was anyone who might give her answers, it was him. Still, the weight of uncertainty pinned her to the spot. After a long, hesitant breath, she edged closer.

“Hey, Charlie,” she called softly.

He glanced up from his book and broke into an easy smile. “Hello there. Need a hand with something?”

“Um… yeah. I’ve got a question.”

“Shoot.”

Her mouth went dry, and for a moment she faltered. Charlie caught the hesitation and sat up, patting the cushion beside him. She slipped onto the sofa, tugging nervously at her robe’s hem.

“There’s something I don’t understand,” she admitted.

“Which subject?”

“It’s not about lessons. It’s… something else.”

That piqued his interest. He shut the book and leaned in, giving her his full attention. A faint whiff of cigarettes clung to him, sharp beneath the warmth of his cologne.

“It’s about Professor Frey,” she began slowly. “He splits us into two groups in class, and I just don't get it.”

Charlie’s brows shot up. “What don’t you get?”

“I don’t understand why he does it.”

“Because he’s a raging cun—” Charlie bit the word back, clearing his throat. “Because he’s a purist.”

Vera frowned. “Purist?”

He studied her as though waiting for the punchline. “You don’t know what that means?”

She shook her head.

“You’ve never heard it?”

Another shake, her puzzled gaze fixed on him.

He paused, shaking his head slightly as if to clear his thoughts. “Right. Okay. A purist is someone who believes in blood supremacy.”

Her expression only grew more bewildered.

“You don’t know what blood supremacy is either?” he asked, incredulous.

She shook her head once more.

“The irony…” he muttered under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He waved it off quickly, though his face still carried surprise. “I’m just shocked, that’s all. But don’t worry. I’ll explain.”

She straightened slightly, her curiosity outweighing her nerves as Charlie began to explain. His tone was patient but tinged with something graver than usual.

“See, there’s this whole… hierarchy some witches and wizards obsess over. At the top are the purebloods, families where both parents and all their ancestors were magical. Then you’ve got half-bloods. One magical parent, one Muggle parent. Some go further, sneering at anyone with ‘tainted’ ancestry, calling them half-breeds if there’s non-human blood somewhere in the family tree.”

He paused, watching her face, then continued. “A Muggle is someone with no magic at all. Muggleborns are witches and wizards born to Muggle parents. And then there are Squibs. Born into magical families but without any magic themselves.”

Her brow furrowed, trying to keep up as he pressed on.

“You’ll also hear about blood traitors. That’s what purists call purebloods who don’t buy into all this rubbish. And the ugliest one.... Mudblood. That’s a slur for Muggleborns.” 

Each new term felt like a stone added to Vera’s chest. The world she’d imagined—full of wonder and belonging—now revealed cracks and shadows. If magic itself wasn’t enough to unite people, then what was the point of it all? Pureblood, half-blood, Muggleborn, Squib… Too many labels, too many rules for something no one chose.

Her thoughts flickered back to the train ride. She had taken Cassius’s sneers and Miles’s smirks as jabs at her shabby clothes, her patched-up shoes. Now she saw the sharper truth behind their cruelty: they hadn’t just thought she was poor. They’d thought she was a Muggleborn.

And the realization stung more deeply than she expected.

“So…" Her voice wavered, caught between horror and disbelief. "Professor Frey thinks people like me deserve magic, while people like Maddie don’t?” 

“Precisely. He believes we’re somehow superior by nature, which is absolute rubbish. People shouldn’t be measured by blood purity but by who they are. Some of the greatest witches and wizards in history were Muggleborn. And some of the most vile were pureblood. In the end, it’s about values, not bloodlines.”

Vera sat quietly for a moment, absorbing the weight of what she had just learned. Racism? Even in this world?

“And they think Muggles are…” She hesitated, her throat tight.

“An abomination,” Charlie said, his voice dripping with disgust. “That’s the twisted logic of purists. It’s madness.”

Her eyes widened, heat rising in her chest. The thought of anyone sneering at Miss Nelson, or dismissing Kaya, simply because they lacked magic. It made her stomach twist with fury. But even as indignation swelled, another question surfaced.

“Then why does Frey always punish Fred and George? They’re pureblood, aren’t they?”

Charlie sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. My family’s pureblood… but we’re different.”

“Different how?”

“We’re poor.”

“Oh.”

The single word slipped out, heavy with disappointment. She had imagined pureblood as a shield, an escape from cruelty. But Charlie’s weary tone told her otherwise. Even with the “right” blood, there were still reasons to look down on you.

“Frey’s a leech, Vera,” Charlie continued. “His favoritism isn’t just purist nonsense. He’s desperate to fit in with the so-called elite. Blood matters, yeah, but not as much as wealth. Class trumps everything.”

“Class?” she repeated, frowning.

“It’s like a pyramid. Top of the heap: families like yours—old, rich, noble, pureblood with ancient names. They’re untouchable.”

Vera’s stomach twisted. She never felt like she belonged to that world, but hearing it laid out so plainly made her feel even more alien.

“Next down, families like the Flints, Yaxleys, Macmillans—pureblood, wealthy, but not ancient. Still important, just… second tier.”

“And then?” she asked, drawn in despite herself.

“Then you’ve got the pretenders. Families that aren’t truly pureblood but throw money around to act like they are.”

“Like who?”

“The Bletchleys, Petrovichs, Puceys, Corrigans—”

“Corrigans? But Jane acts like—”

“Exactly.” Charlie chuckled. “Her family weren’t even fully in the wizarding world until a couple generations ago. Married into Muggles, then scrubbed it clean. Now they put on little rituals to prove how ancient and pure they are. All smoke and mirrors.”

Vera’s head spun. She’d thought blood was everything, but this was uglier.

“Middle tier’s a mixed bag,” Charlie went on. “Some families are rich but not purists. Others are purists but broke, like Frey.”

“And at the bottom?” she asked softly, though she already knew.

“Muggleborns. Squibs. Halfbloods. Families like mine.” He gave her a rueful smile. “We’re not rich, not purist. So we don’t matter.”

Vera’s throat tightened. “So it’s all about… money?”

He gave a short, bitter laugh. "Vera, everything is about money."

Her mind reeled. She’d thought blood purity was the root of everything. Now she saw how tangled it truly was.

Charlie shrugged. “Don’t lose sleep over Frey. He thinks he’s shaping the next generation, but really? He’s just pathetic.”

She exhaled, still trying to digest it all. Then, under her breath, she muttered, “PT…”

He frowned. “What?”

“Purist Twat,” she said, louder this time.

For a second, silence. Then Charlie burst out laughing, nearly doubling over. “Merlin’s beard, Vera! You’ve just given me my new favorite insult!”

She grinned, warmth spreading through her chest.

“He is exactly that,” Charlie wheezed, still chuckling. “A bloody PT.”

“Is Professor Dumbledore a PT?”

The laughter died in his throat. “What? No! Merlin, no. Dumbledore’s the furthest thing from it. He’s one of the greatest wizards alive. He’d never be a purist.”

“Then why would he hire Frey to teach us?”

Charlie exhaled heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t think it was his call. The Ministry’s been sticking its nose in more and more.”

"But Dumbledore’s headmaster. Isn’t he supposed to run the school?”

“Hogwarts is Ministry property,” Charlie said bitterly. “They meddle in everything. Except the things that actually matter.”

“But what can we do? About Frey? He treats my friends like dirt, and he never tells the Slytherins off.”

“As I said, he’s a leech. Loves polishing their boots. Best thing you can do is ignore him.”

“Ignore him? That feels wrong.”

“I know. But kicking off at him won’t help. He feeds off that. If we’re smart, we bide our time. If he crosses a real line, we’ve got people to turn to—Dumbledore, McGonagall, Flitwick. They won’t look the other way.”

Vera’s shoulders slumped. “I just want things to be fair.”

Charlie gave her a small, steady smile. “We all do, Vera. But fair doesn’t just fall in your lap. Sometimes you’ve got to push for it, little by little.”

Saturday, October 21, 1989

Sitting in Jane’s dorm room a week later, Vera was still dwelling on the situation.

"What about this one?" Jane turned to her, holding a blue dress in her hand. But Vera’s mind was completely elsewhere.

"Vera?" Jane called, attempting to pull her from her reverie.

"Yeah?" Vera responded, finally tuning in.

"I asked, what about this one? Do you like blue?"

She barely glanced at it. “Yeah. It’s nice.”

Jane sensed her distress and set the dress aside, walking over to sit next to her on the bed. "It’s okay, Vera. Just tell your aunt to send you another suitcase."

"What?"

"Aren’t you upset that you lost the suitcase with your nice dresses on the train?"

Vera had been lying so much lately; she was starting to lose track.

"Right," she responded hesitantly. "Yeah, I’ll tell her."

"Is there something else bothering you?" Jane asked, her big doe eyes brimming with concern.

“No, I’m fine.” Vera forced a smile. “Thank you for the dress, Jane. Truly.”

“You’re most welcome!” Jane beamed.

She plucked another gown from the wardrobe and turned to admire herself in the mirror. “And I’m glad you’re coming to the tea party. It’s been a tradition in my family for centuries.”

“Lovely,” Vera murmured, biting back an eye-roll. Posh shenanigans weren’t her thing, but Jane—lonely Jane—looked so hopeful.

“Is it just us, then?” she asked.

“I thought about inviting Eudora, but she won’t come without Ryu. And it’s girls only.”

“What about Malika?” Vera suggested quickly. “She’d love it.”

Jane paused, fiddling with her hair as if weighing her words. “Oh? Would she?” she said at last, voice light but calculating. “I didn’t know.”

Vera clenched her jaw. “Aha.”

The two prepared themselves, Jane in a beige dress embroidered with green and finished off with lace gloves, a matching headpiece, and real pearl-and-gold accessories. Vera slipped into the borrowed blue dress with matching gloves. She tied a bow in her hair and borrowed a pair of Mary Janes, the closest thing she had to “proper shoes.” The bow felt a little childish, but when she caught her reflection, she almost resembled the kind of girl she’d only ever seen in storybooks.

Bundled in coats, they strolled through the corridor toward the garden. Students turned to watch, some admiring, others snickering.

“Ayo, Jane Austen!” a boy called, sending his mates into fits of laughter.

Jane didn’t so much as blink, while Vera forced her chin high, pretending she hadn’t heard.

The autumn air outside was crisp, laced with the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves. Beneath the sweeping branches of an old oak tree stood a quaint wooden table draped in white linen. A teapot poured itself, filling rosy porcelain teacups that perched on vintage saucers. A tiered stand offered golden scones dusted with sugar, flanked by jars of clotted cream and raspberry preserves. Miniature pumpkin pies, their flaky crusts crowned with cinnamon-spiced cream, nestled among pastel macarons and sugared biscuits.

Vera took it all in, the air sharp in her lungs, the table glowing like something out of a painting. Maybe—just maybe—posh shenanigans weren’t so bad after all.

The two girls settled across from each other as the teapot poured itself. Jane reached for the sugar, dropping four cubes into her cup. Vera raised an eyebrow.

"How do you like yours?" Jane asked.

"Um, two sugars, no milk."

Jane frowned. "No milk?"

"Aha." Vera nodded politely, though inside she was second-guessing herself.

She mimicked Jane’s way of holding the cup, a little stiff, until Jane gently corrected her with a quick lesson in etiquette. Vera tried not to laugh, then distracted herself with the treats on the table. But even as they nibbled and chatted, her thoughts drifted back to Professor Frey.

“Hey, Jane?" She finally said, toying with a pink macaroon. "Do you think Professor Frey is unfair sometimes?”

Jane tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“He doesn’t treat us all the same. Haven’t you noticed? He never punishes anyone who’s… like us.”

“Us?”

“You know. Purebloods.”

Jane hesitated, setting a tart back on the plate. “He punishes the Weasleys and Cedric all the time, and they’re purebloods.”

“Yeah, but—” Vera faltered. “Never mind.” 

“Does it matter to you?” she then asked. “This blood thing.”

“No, not really,” Jane replied, eyes flicking away.

Vera leaned in. “Can I ask you something? Be honest.”

“Um… yes?”

“Why do you avoid Maddie?”

Jane stiffened. “What? Who says I avoid her?”

“It just seems that way. Every time she’s around, you leave.”

“That’s a coincidence,” Jane said quickly.

“What about Tommy, then? He says you never say hello. Or Malika. Or even Patty in the common room.”

“I—” 

“And you know Malika would’ve loved this tea party. So why didn’t you invite her?”

“Because I’m not friends with them, that’s all!”

“You can tell me the truth, Jane.” Vera’s tone softened. “You can trust me.”

“It’s not like that. I don’t mind them, but…”

“But?”

“I just think they should be in their lane, and we should be in ours.”

Vera blinked. “Why?”

“Because we’re different from them!”

“Better, you mean?”

“I didn’t say that!” Jane snapped, her cheeks flushed.

They both fell into a moment of silence. While Jane betrayed her nervousness, Vera seemed unwilling to let the conversation come to an end.

“I think it’s all downright stupid,” she muttered.

Jane nodded quickly. “Me too. I promise.”

“And your parents? What do they think?”

“It’s… harder for them.”

"I see..."

“They would know!” Jane suddenly burst out, tears spilling down her cheeks. “If I talked to a Muggleborn, they would know! And they would punish me for it!”

Vera sat frozen. She hadn’t expected the outburst, nor the fear trembling beneath Jane’s words.

Despite the pearls, the lace, the rehearsed grace, Jane didn’t seem cruel. She had been nothing but kind to Vera, never mocking or sneering like the other poshlanders. And yet… she was trapped. Shackled by invisible chains of expectation.

“I’m sorry, Jane,” she said gently. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

She passed her a napkin, then leaned closer to rest a hand on her shoulder.

“I thought,” Jane sniffled, “out of all people, you would understand.”

Vera frowned. “How so?”

“Because,” Jane whispered, dabbing at her swollen eyes, “your family would do the same if they knew you were friends with them.”

The words struck Vera like a slap. For a moment, she could only sit there, stunned.

Everything she knew of her family came secondhand: whispered legacies of wealth, nobility, even royalty. Once, those words had filled her with a secret pride. Now, they tasted bitter, hollow. If her family truly thought as Jane’s did—if they measured worth by blood, not by heart—then what kind of legacy was that to claim?

Upon returning to her dorm, she was met with a whirlwind of color and laughter. Alicia and Angelina were lost in a fashion frenzy, tossing outfits onto beds, flipping through magazines, and spilling suitcases across the floor. The lighthearted chaos, so foreign to her quiet existence, sparked a bittersweet rush of memories from her time at St. Mary’s.

Seeing her standing there, tearful and still, Alicia and Angelina exchanged worried glances.

“Are you alright?” Angelina asked softly. It was the first time she had ever addressed her directly.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” Vera blurted, a plea for connection threading through each syllable.

The two girls blinked, caught off guard, unsure how to respond to the sudden torrent of emotion.

“We… we’re sorry, Vera,” Angelina began.

“But why?” 

“We just thought…”

“We thought you didn’t like us," Alicia cut in. "That’s all.” 

Vera wiped at her tears with the edge of her gloves, meeting their eyes earnestly. "I do like you. I thought… I thought you didn’t like me.”

“The truth is,” Angelina began again, her words more confident this time, “we thought you didn’t want us to talk to you.”

“But then we saw you were friends with Maddie,” Alicia added, “and we realized we’d been wrong about… you know… what we assumed.”

“And we didn’t say anything because we felt bad about it,” 

“Yeah,” Alicia agreed, “we felt bad, honestly.”

“But we’re sorry, Vera. We really are.”

Vera’s lips quivered as she absorbed their sincerity. She felt the knot in her chest loosen slightly, replaced by a cautious warmth.

“So…” she said, her eyes glistening with tears, “can… can we be friends?”

A shared smile blossomed on the three faces, fragile yet genuine, as if a bridge had finally been built over the month-long gulf of silence and misunderstanding.

As the night wore on, the walls between them crumbled, giving way to laughter, shared stories, and a budding sense of camaraderie. The Gryffindor girls dove into a lively exchange of topics, weaving together student gossip, their most dreaded classes, and humorous tales of the Weasleys’ and Lee’s mischievous pranks.

Between the laughter, personal details surfaced. Vera learned that Alicia hailed from Belfast, while Angelina revealed a keen passion for fashion. Both girls eagerly discussed their hopes of joining the Quidditch team in the coming year, something Vera found quietly inspiring.

When the conversation shifted toward her life back home, she deftly avoided specifics. Instead, she guided the discussion to her love of painting, showing her sketchbook to the intrigued girls. Her work sparked genuine curiosity, allowing her to share a part of herself without revealing the deeper truths she wasn’t yet ready to disclose.

Even amid the joy of friendship, a twinge of guilt lingered. She knew she was keeping the reality of her past tucked away. One day, she would have to tell them, and she resolved to do so with honesty and care. For now, though, lighter matters held sway.

“So…" she grinned, "what do you reckon we should do for Halloween?”

Chapter Text

Tuesday, October 31, 1989

Vera had never so much as carved a pumpkin, let alone celebrated Halloween. The Humphreys dismissed it as some dreadful pagan nonsense, so she grew up treating October 31st like any other dreary day. But after hearing Kaya’s riotous tales of St. Mary’s Halloween traditions—sugary chaos, costumes, and candlelit pranks—Vera was practically vibrating with anticipation.

Hogwarts only fanned the flames: by breakfast, the Great Hall was already alive with jack-o’-lanterns grinning from the rafters, ghosts crooning eerie ballads, and the warm, buttery scent of pasties hanging in the air. And yet, the real spectacle seemed to be the first-years themselves, chattering loudly about the supposedly grand plans she, Alicia, and Angelina had cooked up for the night.

“Whoa, whoa, time out!” Tommy threw up his hands. “Why in God's name are we talking Gryffindor Tower?”

Angelina shrugged. “Best spot to play.”

“Yeah, for you. That’s basically home-field advantage.”

Maddie nodded. “He’s right. We need a neutral territory.”

Alicia tilted her head. “Alright then, Einstein. Where?”

“The Astronomy wing?” Roger piped up hopefully.

Lee snorted. “Terrible idea. Not enough hiding places.”

Vera narrowed her eyes. “And how exactly do you know that?”

“Oh, we know,” Lee and the twins said together, looking far too pleased with themselves.

Cedric folded his arms. “Fine. Where do we play then?”

“The bell tower,” the twins announced like it was divine prophecy.

Alicia raised a brow. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly,” they replied in perfect sync.

"The Hufflepuffs are on board with that choice," Cedric declared, following a brief discussion with Malika, Tommy, and Patty.

Roger nodded. "The Ravenclaws agree as well."

Alicia smirked. “Roger, you are the Ravenclaws.”

"Nevertheless, I agree."

Maddie grinned. “Sarah and I are game.”

Vera turned to Jane, who looked like she wanted to melt into the floor. “Jane?”

Jane fiddled with her sleeve. “Um… yeah. I’m in.”

“Done deal,” Angelina declared, clapping her hands. “Bell tower after the feast. And don’t be late.”

The students were practically buzzing all day, their excitement crackling through the classrooms like a misfired spell. Paying attention to lessons? Forget it. Half the group was already plotting elaborate strategies for the upcoming game, while the rest were knee-deep in Halloween costume scheming.

The Muggle-borns were baffled to learn that wizards didn’t exactly do the whole Halloween dress-up thing. Apparently, when you’ve got real-life ghosts, ghouls, and werewolves wandering about, imitating them with papier-mâché and glitter is considered… well, tacky.

But Angelina, never one to let a good party die, proposed a clever middle ground: animal costumes. It gave the Muggle-borns their taste of tradition, and the wizard-borns something silly enough to embrace without accidentally offending an actual vampire.

By the time lessons mercifully ended, the first-years swarmed into the Gryffindor common room like an army of sugar-rushed pixies. Vera quickly claimed command of the paintbrushes, setting up shop with all the gravitas of a master artist. Seated at the top of the table with a painting set beside her, she worked diligently while the others added the finishing touches to their designs.

“LIONS!” the twins roared directly in her face, nearly knocking the paintbrush out of her hand.

“Both of you?” she asked.

“Make it three,” Lee chimed in. “I want a mane too.”

Vera giggled and turned to Maddie. “What is it with boys and lions?”

“Gryffindor brainwashing,” Maddie deadpanned.

Unbothered, Vera went to work, swiping golden whiskers and proud little noses across the trio’s faces. They completed their looks by donning a fluffy and dramatic headpiece they had crafted to resemble a lion's mane.

“GRYFFINDOR PRIDE, LET’S GOOOOO!” they shouted, so loudly that a portrait two floors down probably woke up.

Sarah groaned, flopping against the table. “This is so stressful.”

Vera paused mid-brush. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t pick a favorite animal!"

“She loves all animals,” Maddie explained.

Vera smiled warmly. “How about I surprise you, then?”

Sarah’s face lit up. “YES!”

Knowing Sarah’s borderline-obsessive love for butterflies, Vera painted delicate wings across her cheeks, adding soft strokes of color until the design seemed ready to flutter off her skin. When she handed over the mirror, Sarah’s green eyes went wide.

“I know exactly what to do with my hair!” she gasped, dashing off to her dorm.

Vera and Maddie exchanged a knowing look. They didn’t say a word, but both were clearly thinking the same thing: butterfly hair accessories incoming.

“What about you, Jane?” Maddie then asked, noticing the Hufflepuff girl hovering quietly on the edge of the group.

Jane finally shuffled forward and perched beside Vera. “I’ll be a fox,” she said softly. “It’s my family’s sigil.”

“Ooo, classy,” Vera replied, reaching for the orange crayon.

As she began sketching foxlike features, she couldn’t help but wonder if her own family had a sigil, and whether it would be something noble like a stag… or something tragically unglamorous, like a toad.

One by one, the rest of the group made their choices. Maddie became a rabbit, Patty picked a panda (naturally adored by everyone instantly), Tommy and Cedric both flexed their ferocity as tigers, Kenny opted for a leopard, Alicia insisted on a unicorn, Angelina and Malika went festive with reindeer, and Roger declared himself a wolf, probably for dramatic effect.

Finally, Vera saved herself for last. She drew sleek black lines, winging her eyeliner to perfection, dotted on a cat’s nose and whiskers, and slipped a pair of hand-made kitten ears onto a headband. A black cat: elegant, mischievous, and just a little unlucky. Perfect.

By the time she finished, the hour had struck: the Halloween feast awaited. The girls paraded through the corridors in their animal disguises, drawing attention like a traveling circus. Older students clapped or shouted good-natured jokes, while the ghosts floated by with surprisingly sincere compliments, especially for Vera’s handiwork. She blushed under the praise, though she secretly basked in every word.

The Great Hall had outdone itself. Hundreds of floating candles bobbed above the students’ heads, casting flickering shadows across pumpkins that leered from every corner. Bewitched decorations weren’t just for show this year. They wriggled, cackled, and occasionally tried to nip at passing sleeves, much to the delight—and mild terror—of the younger years.

The feast was a masterpiece courtesy of the tireless house-elves: platters of Pumpkin Pasties steaming invitingly, Bat-shaped Biscuits flapping their wings before being devoured, and Cauldron Cakes bubbling over with sweet, sticky filling. At the center of it all loomed a colossal jack-o’-lantern, its carved grin glowing as pumpkin juice frothed and fizzed inside, illuminating the tables in a golden haze.

Professor Dumbledore rose to give his customary remarks, short and sweet. With twinkling eyes, he reminded everyone that unity and camaraderie mattered now more than ever—particularly with the wizarding world on the cusp of a new Minister for Magic. His words, though brief, carried weight.

Still, for most of the first-years, the real anticipation buzzed not for pumpkin juice or politics, but for the night’s true highlight: the game the Gryffindor girls had so mysteriously cooked up.

After dinner, the group assembled in the North Hall, buzzing with anticipation as the Vera, Alicia, and Angelina prepared to unveil the rules of the game. But before they could begin, the doors creaked open and a new set of voices echoed in.

Tommy scowled. “Oh, brilliant. Them.”

Striding in with practiced swagger came Cassius and his entourage: Miles, Adrian, Ryu, and Eudora.

Fred’s eyes narrowed. “What in Merlin’s saggy socks are they doing here?”

“It’s fine,” Vera said quickly. “I invited them.”

“You what?” 

“They wanted to join,” she whispered. “I couldn’t exactly say no.”

Lee pinched the bridge of his nose. “This has ‘bad idea’ written all over it.”

Cassius shoved his hands in his pockets, flashing his signature smug grin. “Relax. We’re not here to cause trouble. We just want to win.”

The twins rolled their eyes in perfect unison, while Tommy and Cedric practically doubled over laughing.

“I say let them play,” Alicia chimed in. “Just because they shut us out doesn’t mean we should act the same.”

“Exactly,” Angelina agreed.

“But what if they cheat?” Sarah piped up.

Eudora scoffed dramatically. “Please. We don’t need to cheat.”

“Fine,” Fred muttered, glaring daggers. “But if they pull anything, I’ll—”

“Alright!” Angelina cut in before sparks could fly. “Let’s get started!”

The poshlanders joined the group and they all diverted their attention to the three girls.

“The game is simple,” Alicia began. “It’s Hide and Seek.”

“Mostly Hide and Seek,” Vera cut in. “We… added a few surprises.”

“We’ll be split into two teams,” Alicia continued. “Red and Blue. Twelve Blues, eight Reds.”

“Reds hunt. Blues hide,” Angelina said as she began to distribute wristbands among the group.

Malika squinted at hers. “These are quite lovely. But... what are they for?”

“They’re enchanted,” Vera explained. “These magical wristbands will light up in your team’s color. If you get caught by the Red team, your wristband will turn off, and you will return here, to the North Hall.”

“Also,” Angelina added, “if it starts glowing brighter, it means you’re close to the other team.”

Tommy’s jaw dropped. “That’s cracker!”

"How did you manage that?” Cedric asked, clearly jealous. 

Alicia smirked. “That's a secret.”

“We’re not done yet,” Angelina said. “There’s one last twist.”

“What now?” someone asked, already half-dreading the answer.

“We recruited Peeves,” Vera explained. “He’s hidden a small wooden box somewhere in the tower. If a Blue finds it before being caught, the wristbands all flash blue—instant win. But if every Blue gets caught first… Red takes the victory.”

Adrian folded his arms. “And we’re supposed to believe you didn’t bribe Peeves to tell you the hiding spot?”

Vera gave him a flat look. “Have you met Peeves?”

That shut him up.

“When in Merlin’s beard did you even plan all this?” Maddie blurted, echoed by several nods of disbelief.

The three Gryffindor girls just giggled knowingly. The truth was, they’d spent nights hunched over parchment, charmed quills scratching furiously, and had practically grovelled to Professor Flitwick to get the wristbands working. But their lips were sealed.

“Alright then, masterminds,” Cassius drawled. “How do we know which team we’re on?”

Vera exhaled dramatically. “Easy.”

Alicia produced a small jack-o’-lantern bowl, rattling it like dice before holding it out. Inside were twenty folded slips, each marked Blue or Red. One by one, the group drew their fates. As the papers unfolded, the wristbands flared to life in their assigned colors.

Roger, Alicia, Cassius, Ryu, Adrian, Sarah, Lee, and Fred were branded Red. The rest glowed Blue.

“Brother! NOOOO!” George wailed, clutching at Fred like they were being separated by Azkaban guards.

Cassius smirked, and Ryu shot a glance at Vera as soon as his wristband lit up red. She met his eyes and felt a slight discomfort.

Meanwhile, Sarah looked thrilled, visibly geared up to embrace her role as a hunter.

"I'm sorry, Maddie,” she declared with a deadpan expression. “From this moment on, we don't know each other."

Maddie laughed nervously. “Um… okay?”

Sarah placed a solemn hand on her shoulder. “May the best soldier win.”

She then turned on her heel and marched toward the Red camp, where strategy huddles were already underway.

The Blue team was granted a head start, and in a flurry of footsteps and muffled whispers, they scattered through the tower like startled owls.

Malika hesitated at the crossroads of two dim corridors, torn between left and right, until George grabbed her hand without a word and pulled her along. The pair disappeared swiftly into the shadows.

Cedric and Tommy took off side by side, with Kenny trailing just behind them, clearly banking on their instincts for finding a decent hiding spot.

Meanwhile, Eudora and Miles weren’t even pretending to hide. Their eyes gleamed with singular purpose as they stalked through the halls, scanning every crevice for the elusive wooden box. Eudora kept fussing with the bow in her hair every few seconds, as though preparing for battle.

Vera and Jane began together but soon split ways, slipping into separate staircases. Both cast quick backward glances before vanishing, their glowing wristbands bobbing like fireflies.

Five minutes later, the Red team was unleashed.

For the Blues, the real challenge began. The enchanted wristbands glowed faintly in the dark halls, betraying anyone careless enough to keep moving. Every flicker of light risked drawing hunters nearer.

On the fourth floor, Cedric and Tommy ducked into a cramped alcove, dragging Kenny in after them. They pressed shoulder to shoulder, stifling laughter as their wristbands pulsed a little brighter, proof that the Reds were close. 

Malika and George, still hand-in-hand, opted for strategy over panic. George guided her up a concealed staircase that twisted to the sixth floor and into one of Hogwarts’ many secret passages. With George’s encyclopedic knowledge of the castle’s quirks, they managed to stay just out of reach, each turn buying them precious time.

As for Eudora and Miles, they went after the box with almost ruthless determination. Every cupboard was opened, every tapestry lifted, every nook scrutinized. For them, it wasn’t about survival; it was about victory. 

As the game wore on, the tension thickened like fog in the dungeons. The Red team pressed forward with ruthless determination, and the Blues scattered like startled mice, each second bringing them closer to capture... or triumph. Somewhere in the tower, Peeves cackled gleefully at his secret hiding spot, the prize still untouched.

Amidst the chaos, Patty—the quiet little Hufflepuff panda—slipped away so silently that no one even noticed when she was gone.

Kenny, meanwhile, abandoned Cedric and Tommy in search of a “better” hiding spot. His bold independence lasted all of three minutes before Roger and Alicia cornered him like predators. One swift tag, a snuffing of his wristband, and Kenny trudged back to the North Hall.

Sarah, still possessed by her sudden general’s spirit, cut through the halls with ruthless efficiency. She single-handedly tagged both Angelina and Miles, escorting them back as if they were prisoners of war. Her wristband glowed crimson, and she stood taller with every successful capture, clearly savoring her role as commander of the hunt.

Elsewhere, Maddie sprinted through the corridors with a single mission: find the box. On the third floor, she nearly collided with Eudora, who was still obsessively scouring the tower.

“We should team up,” she urged with a smile.

Eudora scoffed. “I don’t need your help.”

Maddie, ever patient, wished her luck, but Eudora shoved past and disappeared deeper into the castle. Her arrogance, however, led her straight into Lee and Fred. She put up a fight, but they managed to tag her cleanly, snuffing her wristband. She stormed back to the North Hall, fuming.

Meanwhile, Cassius and Adrian had locked onto their quarry: Tommy and Cedric. But the two Blues were annoyingly agile, weaving through hidden staircases and winding passages like seasoned pranksters. What should’ve been a quick capture turned into an endless chase, the Reds growing more frustrated with every sharp turn. Tommy and Cedric, laughing breathlessly as they ran, seemed to be enjoying the chase far more than the idea of hiding.

After what felt like hours of running, Vera stumbled into the music room, panting. A small ensemble of frogs—wearing nothing but their natural green—were mid-rehearsal, croaking in an oddly harmonious yet deafening chorus.

“Shut up!” she hissed, but the amphibian symphony only grew louder.

Her wristband pulsed aggressively, and a prickle of panic ran down her spine. Scanning the room, she spotted a small door at the far end. Without a second thought, she bolted, flinging it open to reveal a narrow, low-ceilinged corridor.

The corridor was cluttered with instruments and choir costumes. She tiptoed carefully over scattered violins, tattered robes, and a particularly judgmental-looking drum, trying not to add her own accidental soundtrack.

At last, she reached another door. Heart hammering, she twisted the knob and stepped inside. The room was dimly lit, and the frogs’ chorus had mercifully ended. She allowed herself to exhale in relief, only to realize: she wasn’t alone.

“Hello.”

The voice cut through the silence behind her. She spun, squinting into the shadows.

“Lumos maxima.”

Light flared, washing the room in a golden glow, and her pulse nearly leapt out of her throat when she saw who it was.

Felix Bobbin.

“How did you find your way here?” His tone was calm, measured, as though the answer hardly mattered.

She froze, her nerves prickling under the weight of his presence. He was lounging on a small narrow sofa, book in one hand, wand in the other, the spell’s glow sparking amber in his eyes. They caught the light and held it, as if his gaze itself was the flame.

“Three years at Hogwarts, and I’ve kept this place to myself,” he mused. “Until now.”

Vera's hand darted to the door—

“Don’t go.”

Halting, she turned to him, expecting annoyance but was met with a faint smile instead. Rare for the Gryffindor seeker, who was usually more storm than sun. He closed his book, then rose and stepped toward her.

"What are you supposed to be?" he said, lifting his wand, its glow framing her face. “Kitten?”

She gave a small, wary nod, baffled by this sudden softening. He’d been nothing but sharp edges earlier this year, yet now... he was different.

Her eyes tracked him as he came closer. The neat gleam of his dark hair, precise to the point of arrogance. The flawless smoothness of his skin, untouched by any real battle. The firmness of his lips, suggesting restraint, or maybe secrets.

But above all, it was his eyes. Those amber eyes, burning, elusive, and alive with warmth and shadow in equal measure. Eyes that seemed to see more than they ever confessed, and hid what they refused to give away.

He wore the Gryffindor crest as if it belonged to him alone, red and gold draped across his frame like a second skin. Boldness and fearlessness should have been the natural conclusion, but there was something softer in his expression. A restraint. A quiet, fragile note beneath the composed exterior, as if the boy and the mask were not entirely the same.

It unsettled her, that contradiction. How he could feel both close and impossibly distant at once?

“And has another cat stolen your tongue?” he teased, his eyes casually scanning her from head to toe.

“I didn’t know anyone else was here,” she managed at last. “My mates and I were playing hide-and-seek, and I thought… I wanted…”

Her explanation unraveled into silence, but Felix didn’t so much as blink. Instead, he stepped forward, his wand lifting her hand with practiced ease.

“And what’s this?” he asked.

“It’s—it’s a magical wristband.”

His brow arched, a hint of curiosity breaking through his composure. “For what?”

“It’s for the game,” she said quickly, swallowing against the dryness in her throat. “The closer someone from the other team gets, the brighter it glows.”

He tilted his head. “It’s glowing a little too intensely now. Guess you’ll have to stay.”

With that, he sank back onto the sofa, landing with a kind of careless grace that looked effortless, though the rigid line of his shoulders betrayed him. He stretched an arm along the backrest, wandlight casting long shadows as his eyes flickered back to her.

Vera lingered at the threshold, heart pounding loud enough she was sure it betrayed her. Then, summoning what courage she could, she crossed the room and perched gingerly at the far edge of the sofa, hands clasped in her lap.

“Vera?” His voice broke through, his lips curling slightly, as if her name tasted familiar on his tongue. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

She managed only a shaky nod. “Yes.”

“My name is Felix.”

“I know.”

His eyebrow arched. “You know?”

She nodded again, more firmly this time.

He leaned in slightly. “And my last name? Do you know that too?”

“It’s Bobbin.”

His smile flickered, then completely vanished. “So. You do know my name.”

“Of course.”

“Then you also know you shouldn’t be speaking to me.”

Her breath stuttered. “I… shouldn’t?”

“No.”

Her stomach knotted tight. "Why not?” 

He studied her with a sharp look in his amber eyes. Not anger, not kindness. Something else entirely. The silence stretched again, taut as a wire, and her skin prickled under the weight of it.

“Why not?” she pressed, her voice a little desperate now.

“You’re too young to understand,” he said at last, his tone dismissive, almost condescending, as if he were speaking to a child who had asked a foolish question.

“What does that even mean?” she demanded. “What are you talking about?”

He let out a sigh, his gaze hardening for just a second before it softened again. “I need you to do me a favor, Vera.”

“Yeah?”

"Don’t speak to me in public. Ever again.”

The words hit her like a blow, knocking the air from her lungs. “I... I don’t understand—” 

“I said don’t speak to me. Not in front of anyone.”

Her chest cinched tight. "But… why?” 

“It’s not about you.” His voice softened, almost apologetic. “It’s just… you wouldn’t understand.”

She wanted to argue, to demand answers, but the weight of his tone held her still. 

“I’m sorry.” he said, and this time there was a hint of genuine regret in his eyes as he watched her. “But it’s for the better. Trust me.”

She looked away, blinking hard against the sting rising in her eyes. Her chest tightened with the unsaid, with the thought that maybe, somehow, this was her fault.

“Hey.” His voice gentled. “That doesn’t mean you can’t talk to me at all.”

“But you just said—”

“In public,” he cut in, sudden sharpness returning. “Not when others are around. But when it’s just us… That’s different.”

She swallowed hard, her thoughts a tangled storm she couldn’t begin to sort. “I don’t understand…” 

“You will one day,” he said quietly. Not a promise. Not a hope. Just a truth he seemed already resigned to.

He leaned back, retreating into his thoughts, and picked up the book he’d left aside. Without sparing her another glance, he flipped it open, fingers trailing the lines of text with exaggerated calm, as though nothing had happened.

The silence returned heavier than before, thick with all the things he hadn’t said. Vera sat motionless, staring at the floor. She wanted to argue, to demand something—anything—more. But as her lips parted, the glow of her wristband dimmed.

Felix noticed. “You’d better go,” he murmured. “So you can win.”

She rose, turning to the door, her thoughts a storm of fear and questions without answers. Her hand had barely brushed the handle when his voice stopped her cold.

“Vera.”

Slowly, she turned her head. “Yes?”

He rose from the sofa, his movements slow as he began to close the space between them. His amber eyes glowed with a strange, unsettling focus, as though he saw something invisible to her, and wouldn’t let it go.

“Don’t tell anyone you’ve spoken to me.” He said, his tone sharp. 

She couldn’t move, her hand still locked on the handle, her body rooted in place by the weight of his stare. The gap between them was shrinking, every step he took toward her deliberate and unnerving.

“Don’t tell anyone you saw me.” 

Her pulse thundered in her ears, her body stiff with fear as he leaned closer.

“Don’t even speak my name.”

A shiver ran down her spine, her body instinctively tensing as his presence engulfed her. With a small, shaky nod, she turned back to the door, her hand trembling as she grasped the handle once more. 

The cold air of the corridor rushed over her like a wave, stinging her skin as she slipped out. She shut the door quickly, refusing to glance back, Felix’s last words still reverberating through her mind like a curse.

The moment she stepped away from the music room, it felt as if someone had driven a fist straight into her stomach. Why had he acted that way? Why the secrecy? Why her? Every question only tightened the weight pressing on her chest.

Her wristband pulsed brighter now, the faint blue light keeping time with her racing heartbeat. As she neared the threshold of another corridor, a sudden firm grip seized her arm, yanking her out of her thoughts.

“It’s over, Black,” came a low, cutting voice.

Her wristband instantly blinked out, its glow dying like a candle in a draft. She spun on her heel, glare ready. 

“Oh, fantastic." She scoffed. "Out of everyone, it had to be you.”

Ryu Avery, tall and irritatingly unbothered, arched a brow. “That’s your concern? Not the part where you just lost?”

“I didn’t lose,” she snapped. “It’s a team game.”

He smirked, that infuriating little curve of his mouth she wanted to smack. “Cute. But I caught you, which means you lost. Math checks out.”

“Congratulations on your groundbreaking discovery,” she deadpanned. “Now let go.”

He released her with a mock flourish, and they fell into step toward the north hall, their footsteps echoing in sync. 

“So… what exactly are you supposed to be?” He asked, his eyes trailing over her costume, annoyingly thorough.

She side-eyed him. “A black cat. Duh.”

“Why a black cat?” His tone was teasing, but his gaze lingered a beat too long.

“Because I like black cats.”

“Do you own one?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Why are you interrogating me?” 

“If you like them so much, you should get one.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It’s literally that simple.”

She rolled her eyes, lengthening her stride. “Do you have a pet, then?”

“Of course.”

“What kind of pet?”

“A dragon.”

She stopped short, heat flashing across her cheeks before she could stop it. “…Sorry, what?”

“A Japanese dragon,” he said smoothly, as if it were the most normal answer in the world. “It’s back home, in Kyoto.”

Her jaw dropped. “And you just—what? Walk it around the garden on a leash?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

She blinked at him, trying to decide if he was joking or just unhinged. “Why would you have a pet dragon?”

“Why wouldn’t I? It’s my family’s sigil.”

“Oh.” She stared, words failing her. Who was this guy?

Ryu tilted his head, studying her. “So… no pets at all?”

“Nope.”

“Not even a crow?”

Her brow furrowed. “Why would I—?”

But before she could finish, both their wristbands flared alive, flooding the corridor with a sharp, electric blue glow. 

“Yes!” Vera exclaimed, a rush of delight shooting through her as she realized someone from the blue team had found the hidden box.

She bolted toward the North Hall, momentum carrying her forward, while Ryu followed behind, his expression a mixture of annoyance and disbelief.

By the time they arrived, the majority of the players were already gathered. The blue team basked in their victory, laughter and cheers echoing off the walls as they waited to see who had unearthed the elusive box.

Meanwhile, the red team looked like someone had just sucked the fun out of the room. Cassius and Adrian were locked in a heated argument with Fred and Lee, accusations flying like arrows as each tried to pin the blame for their failed plans on someone else.

On the floor, Sarah lay sprawled like a starfish, utterly defeated, her disappointment radiating in waves.

Ryu drifted off to deal with Eudora, who was clearly unhappy about being caught so early, leaving Vera’s attention free to roam. That’s when she noticed Jane, sitting alone, distant and decidedly unenthusiastic despite the blue team’s celebrations.

Then, like a plot twist no one had expected, the triumphant discoverer appeared, clutching the wooden box with an almost gleeful skip in her step. The room collectively froze, astonishment painted on every face. 

“PATTY????”

Patty grinned. "It was in the music room!"

Chapter Text

Sunday, November 5, 1989

It was the season’s first Quidditch match, and the stands vibrated with excitement. Students from every house crowded the pitch, the air thick with cheers, banners, and adolescent hormones. Gryffindor red clashed against Ravenclaw blue, the flags snapping in the wind like rival armies ready for war.

“Do you dare m—”

“NOT NOW!” the twins roared at Lee, cutting him off before he could finish whatever nonsense he was about to say.

The trio had squeezed back into their ridiculous lion costumes—Halloween repurposed into Gryffindor battle gear—roaring and flag-waving like their team’s entire victory hinged on their lungs.

Tommy and Cedric, squished in beside them, were doubled over with laughter at the spectacle, their sides hurting almost as much as Vera’s ears.

The commentator, a sixth-year Hufflepuff, boomed through the enchanted megaphone, his voice ricocheting around the stands.

“Ladies and gentlemen, fasten your broomsticks—it’s time for the clash of the titans! Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw!”

The stadium exploded in cheers, banners whipping wildly in the wind, voices clashing in a chorus of house pride.

“First up—guarding Gryffindor’s hoops with nerves of steel and reflexes that defy human anatomy—the indestructible, the immovable, OLIVER ‘BRICK WALL’ WOOD!”

The third-year zoomed across the sky in flawless loops, sending the Gryffindor section into a frenzy.

“And here comes the captain himself—faster than a Niffler on payday, the seeker turned beater, the unstoppable—CHARLIE ‘LIGHTNING BOLT’ WEASLEY!”

The twins nearly toppled out of the stands, shrieking like banshees as their brother streaked by, pausing just long enough to slap their outstretched hands mid-flight.

“And finally—last but by no means least—the snitch-slayer, the hawk-eyed hero, the seeker who carried Gryffindor to glory last year—give it up for FELIX ‘QUICKSILVER’ BOBBIN!”

A tidal wave of red and gold rose to its feet as Felix sliced through the air with effortless grace. The roar of the crowd rattled the pitch itself, each cheer feeding his momentum as he soared higher, the living embodiment of Gryffindor pride.

The third-year, draped in scarlet and gold, met the roaring crowd with all the enthusiasm of a stone gargoyle. His brow was permanently furrowed, his half-lidded eyes unreadable.

Vera bit her lip, remembering their conversation on Halloween, the one that left her unsettled long after it ended. While the stands erupted in feverish applause, she remained stubbornly silent, bitterness bubbling in her veins.

The whistle blew. Seekers darted like hawks, Chasers weaved and dove, and Beaters unleashed bludgers like guided missiles. The pitch became a whirlwind of speed and strategy, each near miss earning a gasp or a cheer.

"THIS IS CRACKERRRRR!" Tommy shouted, nearly rupturing Vera’s eardrum and leaving Alicia blinking spots out of her vision.

This is a bloody crime, Vera muttered inwardly, watching the iron balls whip through the sky with homicidal glee.

The spectacle was more nightmare than marvel. Every time a bludger rocketed toward a player, her stomach lurched, and she had to squeeze her eyes shut, praying for the chaos to end. And then, barely fifteen minutes in, it did.

“BOBBIN CATCHES THE SNITCH!”

The Gryffindor stands erupted, their first victory of the season sealed. Felix wasn’t just good—he was divine on a broomstick. Riding the latest model, he cut through the sky like he was the Snitch, untouchable and gleaming.

And yet, even as awe prickled at her skin, the bitterness lingered. For all his brilliance, Felix Bobbin’s unexplained hostility still soured every cheer in her throat.

That night, the Gryffindor tower was a blur of butterbeer, laughter, and victory chants—yet her eyes kept flicking through the crowd, searching for him. 

“Where’s the Seeker?” Angelina asked Percy over the noise.

“Bobbin? He’s not one for parties,” Percy answered primly.

Vera bristled. Too arrogant to join his own teammates’ celebration? Was a little camaraderie beneath him? The thought soured her even further, yet, maddeningly, she couldn’t stop circling back to him. Why did he look at her with such disdain, when he barely knew her at all?

She resolved to starve the obsession. Leaving History of Magic early became her new routine—better to slip away before the third-years arrived. If she spotted him in the common room, she made for the door before he had the chance to notice. Hogwarts was vast, and Felix seemed to prefer solitude anyway, vanishing for long stretches as though the castle itself swallowed him whole.

And still, despite all her careful maneuvering, he managed to linger in her mind like a curse she couldn’t quite shake.

Sunday, November 19, 1989 

As the days at Hogwarts grew colder and the rain showed no mercy, her usual adventures outside became less and less feasible. More often than not, she found herself holed up in her dormitory or tucked away in the Hufflepuff common room, whiling away the hours with Jane.

But one weekend, when the skies briefly relented, she seized her chance. Armed with her sketchbook, she ventured out to capture the mountains and the glassy lake in watercolors, a portrait meant for Kaya back home. Yet before she could finish, the clouds betrayed her. Raindrops spattered her page, smudging her work into a watercolor tragedy. Muttering curses, she gathered her things and sprinted, but the downpour hunted her down, drenching her before she could find cover.

At last, she stumbled into a long stone corridor with arched windows that framed the storm-lashed mountains beyond. The rain hammered harder, the sound swelling through the empty space. As she wiped her face and tried to rescue what was left of her sketchbook, she caught sight of a figure slouched in the window’s shadow.

She groaned under her breath. “Buggers.”

“That’s a rather big word for such a little girl.”

Little. She despised that word.

Felix’s gaze lingered on her as she wrung out her dripping hair with crimson gloves. With a subtle flick of his wand, he directed it toward her, and in an instant, her clothes and hair were completely dry. The gesture startled her—she hadn’t expected it—but she couldn’t help being impressed.

“Thanks,” she muttered.

His lips curved. "You’re welcome, kitten.”

The word slithered under her skin. Was it mockery, or something else entirely? She remembered Halloween, his sharp words, his preference for silence. Best not to press.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’m going.”

“I didn’t ask you to leave."

“But you want me to.”

“That’s not true… stay, if you like.”

She hesitated. The storm-wrapped mountains outside the window were hauntingly beautiful, the kind of scene Kaya would want to see. And she hadn’t finished her sketch. With a quiet sigh, she sank back down, opening her book to the half-ruined page.

Felix, opposite her, didn’t so much as glance up. He drifted back to his own book, wand hovering nearby, keeping him wrapped in a bubble of warmth. The silence between them wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it wasn’t unbearable either.

After a stretch of quiet, he finally spoke. "Can I see your drawing?”

“It’s not finished.”

“Perfect,” he said, snapping his book shut.

His wand trailed after him like a well-trained dog, radiating a gentle heat that tickled her arm as he leaned closer. She hugged the sketchbook to her chest, but Felix—smooth as ever—slid it from her grasp with maddening ease.

He perched opposite her on the windowsill, stretching his legs until the tips of his shoes brushed against hers, and began flipping through the pages.

“Are these all regular drawings?”

“Regular?” she echoed.

“Non-magical.”

“Yeah.” She hadn’t realized there was supposed to be another kind.

He stopped at a sketch of a black cat. “Is this yours?”

“No. I don’t have a cat.”

“Hm.”

Does he ever say anything besides hm?

Still, he studied the drawing with unusual intensity, lowered his floating wand into his hand, and gave it a little flick. He then turned the sketchbook around, and she couldn’t stop the grin that spread across her face: the cat was now alive, swishing its tail, licking its paw, and curling itself on the page.

“Go on." he said. "Pet it,” 

“What?”

Before she could protest, he caught her wrist and nudged her hand toward the parchment. The charmed cat pressed against her fingers, purring loud enough that she almost laughed. She glanced up—and caught him watching her. Really watching her. His usual detached mask cracked just enough to show a fleeting, genuine smile.

“How did you—”

“Simple animation charm,” he interrupted, with a shrug that made it sound as effortless as breathing.

Jealousy stung—sharp and familiar. He always seemed to excel: born rich, good at Quidditch, naturally gifted at magic. She, meanwhile, still fumbled with the basics.

“Want me to teach you?” he asked.

Her heart leapt, but insecurity dragged it right back down. She couldn’t bear to expose her failures, not to him.

“No," she murmured, "it’s alright.”

“Maybe later?” 

“Yeah. Maybe.”

But the earlier sting of doubt lingered, shadowing the moment—even with the little cat still purring beneath her fingertips.

“Felix,” her voice cracked the silence, threaded with a sadness she couldn’t quite hide. “Can I ask you something?”

His answer came quick, almost rehearsed. “I’m not going to tell you, Vera.”

“Why not?”

He pushed off from where he sat and crossed back to the window, leaning into the frame with folded arms. “You’re too young to understand.”

“Did I… do something wrong?”

“You? No. Never.”

“Then why are you—”

“Just drop it, alright?” His voice snapped sharper this time, cutting hers in half. “Forget it.”

But how could she? Every vague word of his only pulled her deeper into the tangle. She hated it—the secrets, the distance he kept like a wall she couldn’t climb.

“And don’t go asking anyone else, either,” he added. “Focus on your classes. Stay out of trouble.”

She bit her lip, refusing to let his evasions stand. “But what if it’s all just a misunderstanding?”

His gaze caught hers, heavy with something that looked like sorrow. “I only wish,” he muttered, the words dragging more weight than she was ready for.

He closed his book with deliberate care, straightened, and moved to leave. His steps were unhurried, almost reluctant—as if some part of him wanted to stay. Passing her, he paused just long enough to throw a glance over his shoulder.

“Later, kitten.”

And then he was gone.

Vera stared at the page in front of her, the half-finished sketch blurring under her gaze. The pencil lay in her grip, but her mind was elsewhere, circling back, again and again, over his words, his look, that nickname. What was he hiding? Why couldn’t he just say it?

She hated being shut out, hated being told to forget what had already rooted itself in her chest. Felix hadn’t given her answers—only more questions, and for her, ignorance was the cruelest punishment of all.

Friday, December 15, 1989

Snow had swallowed the mountains whole, and with it came the dreaded realization that term’s end was creeping closer. At Hogwarts, this meant only one thing: stressed-out students haunting either the library or their common rooms, frantically trying to stuff knowledge into their heads before exams. The first-years, Vera included, were no exception—though they seemed to be drowning in chapters as quickly as the grounds outside were drowning in snow.

History of Magic, however, remained as lively as a funeral… until it wasn’t. One moment, Lee was busy engineering a levitating jelly bean house with the twins as his dubious architects, and the next, Professor Binns floated in with news that immediately killed whatever joy had managed to sneak into the room.

“For your final assignment this term,” droned the ancient ghost, “you will be working in pairs on a research project.”

The class barely reacted.

“…I’ll be assigning the pairs at the end of the class,” 

Instant silence, and Lee’s jelly bean house plummeted onto the desk like a sugary omen of doom.

“Professor?” ventured Eudora, “Wouldn’t it be better if we chose our partners ourselves?”

“Not at all, Miss Dlamini,” Binns replied with the unwavering cheer of someone who’d been dead for decades and therefore immune to pre-teenage suffering.

A wave of groans and muttered protests swept the room, but he drifted on, unbothered. 

The rest of the class was spent in collective dread, each student silently bargaining with fate not to be saddled with their least favorite peer. Vera, for her part, was deep in prayer—specifically to avoid being paired with Ryu 'I’m better than everyone' Avery.

Finally, the dreaded moment arrived. Binns shuffled the parchment with all the urgency of a snail on holiday, clearing his throat like he was announcing the end of the world.

“He’s remarkably slow for a ghost,” Vera whispered to Jane.

“Let’s see now,” he intoned… and promptly took another ten seconds just to glance at the paper.

Partners were soon announced, and the room buzzed with a mix of delight, groans, and outright despair. Alicia and Tommy beamed; Fred got stuck with Kenny; George was paired with Maddie. Lee was sentenced to Sarah, Patty with her dorm-mate Malika, Jane and Eudora together—Jane exhaling in relief like she’d just dodged a bludger. Miles ended up with Cedric, Angelina with Roger, Adrian with Ryu, and Vera…

“Mr. Warrington, you will be working with Miss Black.”

“SOMEBODY KILL MEEEEE!” Vera practically screamed, her meltdown propelling her toward the next class like a human cannonball.

“Just swap with Jane,” Maddie offered hopefully.

“We tried! But Binns said no swaps."

“Honestly, it’s not that bad,” Jane said, trying to sound reasonable. “Just the weekend.”

“Two bloody days, Jane! That’s practically a lifetime!”

Jane shrugged. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

Vera took a deep breath, and stopped walking. "I need a thick rope."

Maddie and Jane exchanged glances. "Um, what for?"

"To hang myself."

During Frey’s class, her internal monologue had officially descended into full-blown cursing. She was already juggling assignments, wand practice, and a general sense of doom. And now, of course, she had to partner with the teacher’s pet.

Trying to force some optimism, she reminded herself that Cassius was one of the top students. Maybe—just maybe—she could glide past his insufferable perfectionism and focus on snagging a decent grade. That hope evaporated the moment he raised his hand.

“Professor, aren’t you going to assign us a new chapter for the second term?”

“Yes, of course,” Frey replied. “Thank you for reminding me, Mr. Warrington.”

The rest of the class groaned, and Vera’s fingers itched with homicidal urges directed squarely at his tall, smug neck.

As they left class, he sidled up to her.

“Hey, Black!"

“What?” she shot back, face contorting into pure discontent.

“I suggest we start the assignment soon. Library, tomorrow morning?”

“Oh, how delightful,” she said, dripping sarcasm. “Let’s meet at dawn while we’re at it. I sleep in, Warrington, so I’ll see you at noon.”

She stalked off, silently praying the sun would rise later than usual. Starting her morning with Cassius Warrington’s smug mug was exactly the nightmare she’d been hoping to avoid.

The next day, she fought tooth and nail to keep her frustration in check as she trudged toward the library. She’d planned to arrive by noon, but the siren call of a truly exceptional lunch had set her back.

When she finally appeared, Cassius’s eyes narrowed. “You’re late, Black.”

“Pardon me, milord,” she snapped, rolling her eyes. “Shall we just get this over with?”

“Don’t worry,” he said with a smug grin. “It’s easy.”

“I never said it wasn’t,” she shot back, “but someone—bless their soul—managed to get Professor Frey to assign a new chapter just before the holiday. Delightful timing, really.”

Cassius arched an eyebrow, that infuriating condescension in full display. “Well, some of us enjoy intellectual challenges. Maybe if you put in more effort, you wouldn’t struggle so much.”

Her jaw clenched. “I don’t need your advice, Warrington.”

“Clearly you do,” he countered, smirking. “Consider yourself lucky I’m here to assist you.”

“Your assistance is the last thing I need.”

“Well,” he said, still grinning, “lucky for you, you don’t get a choice in the matter.”

“Bite me."

They settled into a strained silence, each focusing on the assignment, though Vera couldn’t ignore his ever-watchful gaze creeping over her shoulder.

“Could you not breathe down my neck?” she snapped, spinning around just enough to glare.

“Just making sure you don’t mess up."

“I don’t need your supervision!”

“Considering your track record, I’d beg to differ.”

She clenched her teeth so hard she was pretty sure they’d crack. The library, normally a sanctuary of quiet, now felt like a battlefield, and the assignment less a project and more a duel of wills. Every subtle jab, every condescending glance from him, grated against her patience like nails on a chalkboard.

“Why do you always act like you’re better than everyone?” 

“Because I am,” he said smoothly, dismissive as ever. “Some of us are simply born with more intellect.”

“You mean arrogance,” 

“Not my problem that you refuse to see the truth.”

“The truth? What truth?”

“The people you surround yourself with. They’re holding you down, polluting your mind.”

“My friends, you mean?”

He scoffed. “Those people aren’t our kind of friends, Black.”

“And why is that, Warrington?”

“You know why.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Because their blood is dirty!” he snapped, venom coating every word. “I thought you’d know better. You are a Black, aren’t you?”

Her face flared red, a mix of anger and disbelief. “I don’t agree with what my family thinks...”

A few nearby students peeked up from their books, curiosity piqued by the verbal sparring.

Undeterred, Cassius pressed on. “You’re too naive. Life isn’t a happy tale where everyone gets along—despite what your… mudblood friends might tell you.”

"Maybe it's not, but we should still try to make a world where everyone gets along without being mean."

Cassius’s smirk deepened. “What we should do, is stick with our own. I mean, look at you! Supposed to be one of the best among us, but you’re trying so hard to be like them that you’re practically one of them. I bet if your family found out what you’re doing, they'd be disappointed in you.”

“And what exactly am I doing?”

“You’re acting like them.”

“Acting?”

“Yes. Dressing like your dormmates, speaking like you were raised in a barn.”

She swallowed, heat rising to her cheeks.

“So vulgar,” he continued, “and for what? For them to like you?”

“You don’t even know me, Warrington.” 

“I can read people like a newspaper,” he said, voice dangerously calm. “I’ve read you since day one.”

“Easy now—”

“You’re too naive, Black. One day, you’ll regret it. Especially when your family finds out what you’re doing.”

Her gaze lingered on him, but the words she wanted to say got lost somewhere between fear and defiance. Her lie had grown too big, too tangled. The carefully constructed façade now threatened to crumble, leaving her raw and exposed before the scrutinizing eyes of the Poshlanders.

They think she’s merely pretending to be like a muggleborn. But what if they knew the truth? That beneath the carefully measured posture, she was just another girl raised among muggles, indistinguishable from the very students they sneered at.

She didn’t care for Cassius—or his clique—but the thought of them discovering her secret made her stomach twist. Despite their obvious disdain for her friends, they seemed to respect her… because of her blood. 

And oh, how dearly did naive young Vera love it.

“Do what you like, Warrington,” she said, leaning back and crossing her arms like a shield. “But don’t tell me who to be, and never call my friends mudbloods again. Got it?”

“I’m only saying—” his voice dipped. “You are Vera Black. Your family ruled the wizarding world once. I’d be careful who you trust. Not everyone likes us.”

“That’s not true.”

“They’re jealous of us. They hate us. They wish they had our strength. That’s why they stole magic.”

Vera froze. “Stole… magic?”

“How else would they have it? We are descendants of ancient dynasties. Our blood is merged with that of beasts. They are commons. Dirty. Their magic is impure.”

She tried to digest his words. Despite his age, Cassius spoke with an unsettling blend of maturity and arrogance, a certainty that made her question herself. His beliefs were steeped in prejudice and entitlement, a dangerous echo of the kind of worldview the Humphreys had once tried to impose. And, for the first time, she wondered if she’d been naïve to think herself untouchable by it.

“I don’t believe that’s true, Warrington,” she said after a careful pause.

“It is true,” he said, almost certain. “One day, when the Dark Lord returns, we’ll be proven right. And all the mudbloods… they’ll have to give their magic back. Whether they like it or not.”

A chill ran down her spine. The words weren’t just arrogant... they were frightening. Shock rooted her to the spot, and for a moment, she couldn’t find a response.

And did he just say… Dark Lord?

“Let’s just focus on the assignment,” she said, deciding some topics were better left unspoken.

“Good idea,” he agreed, though the swagger in his voice had softened. “Though I doubt we’ll finish it today.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Funny… didn’t you call it ‘easy’ earlier?”

“It is easy,” he hedged. “Some of these events just… lack sources.”

She couldn't argue there. The chapter on the 1911 gargoyle strike was a mess of jargon and thinly sourced facts. For all Hogwarts’ magic, its history curriculum oddly resembled the soul-crushing monotony of her old muggle classes.

“Did they even have newspapers in 1911?” she asked.

“Duh."

“Then why not just find a newspaper account and reference it?”

For a moment, Cassius blinked, that perfect smugness faltering as he registered the practicality of her solution. Vera couldn’t help the tiny, victorious smirk tugging at her lips.

The two edged toward the librarian, Madam Irma Pince, who looked thoroughly absorbed in a book so thick it might as well have been a brick.

“You ask her,” Vera whispered.

“It was your idea—you do it!” 

Madam Pince lowered her book, eyes narrowing. “What do you want?”

Cassius cleared his throat. "We’d like to access the newspaper archives.”

“Please,” Vera added, with all the politeness she could muster.

Still looking mildly scandalized by their very existence, Madam Pince led them into a cramped hall just beside the restricted section. The room was a chaotic sea of newspapers, stacked and scattered in every conceivable direction. Vera blinked, unsure how they were supposed to navigate the paper tsunami.

With a flick of her wand, Madam Pince demonstrated a charm that neatly summoned the needed papers.

“Do not mess up the dates or the names,” she warned, tone deadly serious. “And for merlin's sake, don’t use too much force! Or else, you’ll tear the delicate fabric of the papers.”

She then left them to fend for themselves among the sea of newspapers. Cassius, ever self-assured, dove in effortlessly, wand flicking with all the ease of someone born to magic, while Vera hovered nervously nearby.

“You start with The Daily Prophet, I’ll find the rest,” he directed.

Panic bubbled—there was no way she could reveal her inability to cast. She opened her mouth, searching for an excuse, but nothing came.

“What are you waiting for, Black?" He prodded. "Can’t do the charm?”

“Of course I can,” she scoffed, though her trembling hands betrayed her. “I just… um… need to use the loo.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Be quick.”

Once out of the archive, she took her time, deliberately stalling. In the bathroom, she entertained herself by wadding up tissues and flinging them at the ceiling, cackling silently at her own little rebellion. 

When she finally returned, she found him smugly seated at the table, newspapers stacked neatly.

“Merlin, Black, did you get lost?” 

“Bugger off,” she muttered, desperately masking her nerves.

“You’re lucky to have me as a partner. I found everything while you wandered the halls.”

“Good for you!” she shot back, swiping the papers from him with exaggerated flair.

Despite the rocky start, they settled into an uneasy rhythm—dividing tasks, bickering just enough to keep it interesting, and managing to finish the research.

Afterward, Vera practically bolted to the Great Hall, where her friends were buried in their own work.

“So?” Maddie leaned forward, eager.

“How did it go?” Alicia chimed in.

Vera slumped into the seat beside George, letting out a dramatic sigh. “Worse than I thought,” she admitted, secretly proud of surviving Cassius Warrington without exposing herself.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, December 19, 1989

“What about Father Christmas, then?” Tommy asked.

“Nope. Not a wizard,” Alicia said flatly. "Just some muggle nonsense."

Malika, halfway through an innocent sip of orange juice, froze. She nearly inhaled it instead, eyes bulging. “But… he is real, right?”

The table went dead quiet, and glances zipped around like owls delivering scandalous letters.

Finally, Lee cleared his throat. “Er… yeah, nah. Don’t reckon so, Malika.”

And that was it. The Christmas spirit detonated. Malika burst into tears and bolted, just as Vera slid into the bench.

“What’s that all about?” she asked, mid-sit.

“Lee just assassinated Father Christmas,” Angelina said dryly.

“Oi!” Lee threw up his hands. “How was I supposed to know she still believed in the bloke?”

“Easy fix,” Vera shrugged, nudging the milk bottle away. “Tell her you lied.”

“Orrrrr,” Maddie said sagely, “maybe it’s time she faced reality. I was eight when my parents told me.”

Lee groaned, already standing like a condemned man walking to the gallows. “Malika, wait! I was only joking!”

The rest exchanged looks across the table.

“Right," Angelina said, "now that the holiday ruiner’s gone, what’s everyone got planned for Christmas?”

“My parents are taking me to Korea to see Granny,” Maddie said proudly.

“That’s cracker!” Tommy exclaimed. “Mine are dragging us to Belfast for the markets. Alicia’s coming too.”

Alicia grinned. “Yeah, can’t wait!” 

“Ugh. Just another boring dinner with the family for me,” Angelina moaned, stabbing her cereal like it owed her money.

“Do some magic at the table,” Cedric suggested with a sly grin. “Make the sprouts vanish. Legendary stuff.”

“Brilliant idea,” Angelina smirked. “Nothing says ‘Merry Christmas’ like giving Auntie Joan a heart attack.”

“What about you, Vera?” Fred nudged her. “Anything thrilling?”

“I’m going to see a film,” she said casually.

Every head turned.

“At a Muggle cinema?” Alicia asked, narrowing her eyes.

Vera froze mid-chew. Shite. They still thought she was trapped under the thumb of her strict French pure-blood aunt.

“Uh... yeah,” she swallowed, brain scrambling. “Just, y’know… living on the edge. Could get caught. Might not. Bit of a thrill, innit?”

Fred grinned. “Sounds like a proper heist.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got to escape somehow,” she muttered nervously. 

The others exchanged sympathetic looks, imagining her spiritless holiday under the watchful eye of Aunt Guillotine. Vera let them believe it, guilt gnawing but lies stacking higher than a Gringotts vault.

And still, she kept at it. Because by now, lying wasn’t just a habit. It was her bloody side hustle.

Lee and Malika returned to the table.

“I may have… exaggerated a bit,” Lee admitted, looking sheepish. 

Malika dabbed at a stray tear. “You think? Father Christmas is real, Lee. Always has been!”

He scratched the back of his head. “Guess I’ll need to make the nice list this year to dig myself out of that one.”

“Good luck,” Angelina deadpanned. “Yesterday you turned our snowman into a sculpture of mashed potatoes.”

“Mashed potato sculptures are a tragically underappreciated art form!!” Lee huffed, clutching his chest in faux offense.

The entire group groaned in unison.

“Why don’t we just pool our Christmas wishes?” Maddie suggested brightly.

Fred grinned. “I wish for a lifetime supply of Chocolate Frogs. No—two lifetimes.” 

“And an endless game of Exploding Snap,” George added.

Alicia sighed. “I just want to pass Transfiguration without McGonagall breathing down my neck.” 

“I wish to meet Joey Jenkins.” Cedric chimed in dreamily.

Vera snorted. “If we’re being serious, I wish for Lee’s potato sculptures to be recognized as a full-blown art movement."

The table roared with laughter, Lee sweeping into a dramatic bow. “Your support of my starch-based genius is deeply moving, my lady.”

The laughter rolled on, wishes tangling with ridiculous holiday plans until the air around the table buzzed like tinsel.

At last, Angelina stood. “Right, packing to do. See you at the carriages.”

“Same here,” Vera said quickly, snagging an apple before slipping out of the Great Hall.

Sprinting through the castle corridors, she dodged and collided with other students in her haste, her feet barely touching the ground. By the time she burst outside, the crisp winter air slapped her cheeks, snowflakes catching in her lashes like tiny sparks of light.

Hogwarts lay beneath a flawless sheet of white, the grounds glittering as though someone had dumped a sack of sugar over them. Her boots crunched fresh trails into the snow, each hurried step leaving delicate imprints that barely had time to settle before she was gone.

She tugged her woolen hat lower over her ears, dark hair spilling out beneath it, while her Gryffindor scarf flapped behind her like a banner. Her cheeks glowed pink, half from cold, half from the secret thrill warming her chest.

In her hands, she clutched a small square parcel wrapped in crimson paper, the folds sharp and precise, tied off with golden twine that gleamed against the snow.

Hagrid’s hut came into view, smoke curling lazily from its crooked chimney. On the steps sat Hagrid himself, bundled in his usual bear-sized coat with a knitted beanie doing its best to tame his mane. Fang thumped his tail in welcome as she approached, his breath fogging the air like a dragon on its day off.

“Morning, Mr. Hagrid!” She called out.

“Ah, mornin’, young Vera,” he rumbled back, a broad smile spreading under his tangled beard.

She thrust the parcel into his enormous hands. “Happy Christmas!” 

His brows shot up in surprise. “Now, what’s all this for?” he asked, turning the box over as though it might sprout legs and scamper away.

“Go on, open it!” She urged, bouncing slightly on her heels.

With surprising delicacy, he tore through the wrapping. The paper fell away to reveal a canvas, and for once, the gamekeeper was struck silent. His eyes softened as he took in the painting: his hut, snug against the snowy edge of the Forbidden Forest, Fang at his post on the steps, and a handful of magical birds glowing faintly in the sky.

“Did… did yeh make this yerself?” His voice cracked like a log on the fire.

“Yep!” She beamed. “Hogwarts is beautiful, but your hut? Definitely my favorite bit.”

He blinked rapidly, his eyes shimmering. “No one’s ever done anythin’ like this fer me before..."

Before his tears could flood, she fished a crumpled napkin from her pocket and handed it over. “Here—can’t have you watering your beard. Might start sprouting daisies.”

He let out a rumbling chuckle, then dabbed at his eyes. “Thank yeh, young Vera. I’ll hang this right next to the bear skin—pride o’ place.”

“Happy Christmas, Mr. Hagrid!”

“And a very happy Christmas to yeh,” he said warmly, giving her shoulder a fond pat that nearly sent her toppling into the snow. “This is somethin’ I’ll treasure forever.”

Her heart swelled as she waved goodbye, then dashed off toward the carriages, the memory of his watery grin tucked safely away with her own Christmas magic.

“Jane! Hey, wait up!”

Jane stopped mid-step, Eudora and Ryu pausing beside her.

“Where’d you disappear to?” she asked, worry written all over her face. “I searched everywhere.”

“Sorry,” Vera panted, brushing snow from her scarf. “Had… something to do.”

“Come on, Jane,” Eudora interrupted briskly. “Cassius and Miles saved us a carriage.”

She then marched off with Ryu, who glanced back at Vera with a faint smile before following.

Vera frowned. “You’re sitting with them?”

Jane bit her lip, eyes darting away. “I'm really sorry. But you should join us. It’ll be fun!”

She forced a faint smile. “It’s fine. I already promised the others.”

“You’re not mad, are you?”

A flicker of disappointment twisted in her chest, but she shook it off. “Of course not. Hope you have a great holiday.”

“You too.” Jane said, pulling her into a quick hug before hurrying after Eudora and Ryu.

Vera exhaled slowly, then jogged to catch Maddie and Sarah.

“Let’s ride with Fred and George,” Maddie suggested, waving them over.

The three climbed into a carriage where the twins were already waiting. As Sarah and Maddie settled in, Vera lingered, staring ahead with furrowed brows.

“Didn’t you say these were horseless carriages?” she asked, eyes fixed on the front.

“They are,” the twins said in unison.

“Then why call them horse-less? Wouldn’t it make more sense to name them after the creatures pulling them?”

Everyone turned to her like she’d sprouted a second head.

“There are no creatures, Vera,” Maddie said gently. “They move on their own.”

“What do you mean, no creatures?” she demanded, jabbing a finger at the front. “They’re right there!”

George’s grin faltered. “What are you talking about?”

She began to feel frustrated, convinced that the boys were playing one of their usual pranks on her. 

“Oh, forget it,” she muttered, rolling her eyes and climbing in, though the image of the skeletal beasts hitched to the carriage lingered stubbornly in her mind.

The train ride to London was a blur of noise and laughter. The twins were busy plotting their next grand prank, with diagrams that looked suspiciously like blueprints for a small war. Lee kept daring himself into increasingly stupid stunts, culminating in sticking his head out the window like an overgrown Labrador. Sarah swore blind she’d seen a mouse, spending half the trip on her knees trying to catch it. And Maddie, saint that she was, returned from the trolley armed with enough sweets to fuel the chaos.

Before Vera knew it, the train screeched to a halt at King’s Cross. Heart racing, she bolted through the magical barrier and straight into the waiting arms of her matron.

“Where in God’s name did you spring from?” Miss Nelson exclaimed, pulling her into a warm hug.

Vera clung to her, grinning so hard her cheeks ached. The whole way back to St. Mary’s, Miss Nelson fired off questions about her school—friends, lessons, achievements, all of it. And Vera, unwilling to disappoint her, began spinning tales on the spot.

By the time they reached Sutton, she had painted herself as a stellar student, a rising star in every subject, and practically best friends with half the castle. And yet, as Miss Nelson listened with proud eyes, she felt the familiar pinch of guilt. The truth was too dangerous, and it was easier to lie than watch someone’s smile fade.

As soon as they reached the residence, Vera bolted to her bedroom, only to be ambushed by Kaya, who was waiting on the stairs.

“I MISSED YOU SO MUCH!”

“I MISSED YOU MORE!!”

Vera grabbed her wrist, pressing her own close until their half-heart charms clicked neatly together, forming one whole. Both girls beamed like they’d just reunited two lost halves of a treasure.

The rest of the evening vanished in a blur of chatter and laughter. Though they’d been exchanging letters every week for three months, Kaya still brimmed with questions about the ever mysterious boarding school.

“So? Tell me everything!” 

Vera stuck to the cover story like a pro, spinning her usual line. “I swear, Kaya, it’s just as I told you.”

“But it sounds so boring!”

“It is! Nothing but books, essays, more books… I’ve practically turned into a walking library card! Now, your turn. Did you ever crack the case of Miss Nelson’s secret dates?”

“She’s a fortress. But I know she has a boyfriend.”

Vera grinned. “Then clearly, we need a plan.”

In the days leading up to Christmas, St. Mary’s transformed into a hive of festivities. Laughter and the scent of pine filled the halls as the girls wrestled with a towering tree, decking it out with handmade ornaments and tangled strings of lights.

In the drafty living room, a flickering television cast shadows over wool-clad girls huddled together, their mismatched sweaters as colorful as the sweets and chocolates piled high around them. Giggles ricocheted off the walls, turning the old house into something almost magical.

Miss Nelson, however, was neck-deep in preparations for the Boxing Day fundraiser, her brow furrowed with stress while the girls buzzed about, eager to help.

“It’s so bloody boring,” Kaya groaned, slapping another poster on the wall. “Just a bunch of geezers talking and pretending to feel sorry for us.”

“It can’t be that bad.” 

“Oh, it’s the worst. But at least we get new stuff out of it.”

“Huh?”

“Clothes, toys, all sorts. The donations come in boxes, and we get first pick. But you’ve got to be fast.”

Vera frowned. “Why?”

Kaya draped an arm around her shoulders with mock gravity. “Because, my friend… it’s a bloodbath.”

When the day of the Christmas market in Sutton finally arrived, the girls of St. Mary’s set off in high spirits. Vera clutched the allowance Miss Nelson had given her back in September, her head spinning with gift ideas.

The market was alive with color and light—stalls draped in garlands and twinkling bulbs, the air rich with the scent of roasted chestnuts and spiced wine. Laughter spilled through the crowds as vendors called out their wares, their voices competing with carolers on the corner.

Vera and the girls meandered through the throng, pausing to marvel at handmade trinkets, glittering ornaments, and plates stacked with sugary sweets. Vera’s eyes lit up when she spotted just the right gifts for her friends back at Hogwarts, each one chosen with deliberate care.

That evening, back at St. Mary’s, she and Kaya sat cross-legged on the floor, wrapping the treasures with mismatched paper and string. One the mission was done, Vera tucked the little parcels beneath her bed with a satisfied grin.

“I’ll post ’em tomorrow,” she said.

“Want me to come?” Kaya offered.

“Nah, just cover for me while I’m out.”

Kaya smirked. “No worries. Miss Nelson’s got another date tomorrow anyway.”

“In the morning?”

“Yeah. Proper weird, innit? Who even dates before lunch?”

Thursday, December 21, 1989

The next morning, Vera packed the gifts carefully into her bag, but instead of heading to the conventional post office, she opted for a different destination further down the street.

“Mrs. Wriggleshore! Are you in?” she called, her voice bouncing off the still, frosty morning.

The door creaked open, revealing the elderly witch, a crooked pipe clamped between her fingers. “What do you want?” she grumbled.

“I was hoping to use your owl to send some gifts to my friends!” 

Mrs. Wriggleshore shook her head. “No owls here, girl.” 

She started to retreat, muttering to herself, but Vera slipped inside behind her, gently closing the door.

“I use the owl service in Diagon Alley to avoid drawing attention,” the old witch explained, puffing smoke rings into the air. “The only owls I get here are from my newspaper subscriptions, and those beasts are as hungry as they are nosy. One nibbled my mouse just last week!”

“Oh,” Vera said, disappointed. “Then how does the service work?”

“You write your letters, attach the addresses, and take them to the owl emporium in Diagon Alley. Simple enough."

Vera’s eyes brightened with another idea. “Could I use your floo to get there?”

Mrs. Wriggleshore arched a bushy eyebrow. “Alone?”

“It’s reaaaaally important!” 

The old witch sighed. “Fine. Do you have wizarding coins?”

“Um… only Muggle money.”

“Let me see.”

Vera dug into her small purse and handed over her cash. Mrs. Wriggleshore counted out a few bills and exchanged them for a pouch of sickles and knuts.

“That should do,” she said, tucking the coins away.

As they approached the fireplace, Vera’s eyes drifted to the wall lined with clocks, two of which had stubbornly stopped at six o’clock.

“Mrs. Wriggleshore, your clocks… They’ve stopped ticking. Did you notice?”

The old witch merely shrugged, unfazed, and continued to puff on her pipe. With a small jar of Floo powder in hand, she ushered Vera towards the fireplace.

“Off you go, then." She said. "Don't talk to strangers, and head straight to the emporium!”

Vera arrived in Diagon Alley with a swirl of determination, and just a hint of mischief. Following Birdy’s directions, she thanked the innkeeper politely before setting off toward the owl emporium.

Her original plan had been simple: get in, send the gifts, and be back before Miss Nelson noticed she was gone. But as she wandered the bustling, twinkling streets, Diagon Alley’s holiday charm threatened to derail her mission.

The air was thick with the scents of warm butterbeer, and freshly baked pastries. Carolers, dressed in their finest robes, serenaded visitors with traditional wizarding carols and cheerful holiday tunes. Crowds jostled from stall to stall, all hunting for the perfect gifts for loved ones.

Vera’s feet, however, betrayed her intentions. She detoured instinctively toward Lucy’s, the cosmetics shop that had enchanted her on her last visit. However, her stomach sank when she found it closed, the once-vibrant facade now dark and shuttered.

Disappointment prickled briefly, but she shook it off. She had a mission to complete. Steeling herself, she resumed her path, weaving through the festive crowds as she made her way to the owl emporium.

Upon arriving, she approached the counter, her bag heavy with carefully chosen gifts, and offered the attendant a polite smile.

“Hello,” she said, her voice betraying a trace of nerves. “I’d like to send these, please.”

“Certainly,” the man replied, courteous and professional. “Do you have the addresses?”

“Yes, I’ve written them on each gift."

He began assessing the parcels, counting them meticulously, then calculated the fee. “That’ll be fifteen sickles and eleven knuts.”

She carefully emptied her pouch, counting out the coins with practiced precision before placing them on the counter.

“Excellent,” the attendant said, smiling again. “And your name, please?”

“Vera Black,” she answered without hesitation.

His smile vanished instantly, replaced by a tight, disbelieving frown. “Black?” he repeated, his voice rigid.

“Yes, sir,” she said, maintaining her composure.

He cleared his throat, then pushed the coins back toward her. “Your money is not welcome here,” he hissed. “Take your belongings and leave.”

Words failed her as she gathered her coins and stowed the gifts back in her bag, her hands trembling with the weight of humiliation and hurt. With a heavy heart, she made her way to Birdy's inn, tears tracing silent paths down her cheeks.

“Are you alright?” his voice cut through her haze of distress.

“Yeah,” she sniffled. “I just… I want to go home, please.”

He nodded, handing her the Floo powder that would take her back to Mrs. Wriggleshore’s. With a swirl of green flames, she stepped through, emerging to find the old witch waiting, her eyes clouded with concern.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice gentle but probing.

Vera’s sobs broke through. “He… he refused to help me!”

“Stop crying, child!” the witch commanded sharply, but the hard edge softened the instant Vera spoke again.

“He… he said my money is not welcome there.” 

Mrs. Wriggleshore’s face flickered  with Understanding.

“I see,” she murmured, taking the gifts and coins from her shaking hands. “Give them to me. I’ll send them myself.”

“But… why would he refuse me, Mrs. Wriggleshore?” Vera questioned, her voice tinged with confusion and hurt. 

The old witch’s gaze softened further, a hint of sadness beneath her eyes. “Go back home, child, and don’t dwell on it. Everyone harbors prejudices in their own way.”

Monday, December 25, 1989

The owl-emporium incident was already fading into the background, replaced by the sheer magic of the season.

“IT’S CHRISTMAS, VERA!”

Kaya yanked her out of bed, and the two tumbled down the stairs, nearly colliding with the living room tree in their excitement. The pile of presents beneath looked like a small mountain, and the other girls were already tearing into theirs.

Vera scanned the chaos. Most had received books, school supplies and clothes, while the younger girls squealed over dolls. She and Kaya hunted for their names, though having a premonition of their contents.

“Ugh, seriously?” Kaya groaned, peeling off the wrapping of her gift to reveal a copy of A Christmas Carol. “Books again. Every single year.”

Vera, however, looked entirely unbothered when she unwrapped her own, a small smile tugging at her lips as she admired the cover.

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

“Well,” Kaya said, “at least now you won’t have to practice reading the phone book like a psycho.”

Vera chuckled quietly, before returning to the cover.

“Vera, my dear, you’ve also received this,” Miss Nelson said, handing her a second package, wrapped in shiny golden paper. “It’s from your sponsors.”

“Lucky cow,” Kaya muttered, rolling her eyes.

Vera peeled back the paper to reveal a petite, golden vintage mirror and a matching hairbrush, accompanied by a neatly folded note.

Dear Vera,

Wishing you a joyful Christmas from Dom and me. We trust your time at Hogwarts has been filled with merriment and excitement. Enjoy our gift. My girlfriend Remy works at a salon; she believed you’d appreciate it.

Just a friendly note: perhaps refrain from using it in the company of your Muggle friends.

Sincerely,
Donnie

Vera’s smile broadened as she read the thoughtful message.

Kaya, peering over her shoulder, frowned in confusion. “What’s got you grinning like a fool? It just says ‘Happy Christmas.’” 

Vera laughed softly, appreciative of the magical touch in Donnie and Dom's thoughtful message.

“If you keep tossing the wrapping paper on the floor, you may find yourself excluded from our film night!” Miss Nelson warned, her voice firm enough to quiet the room… almost.

“What film are we watching this time, Miss Nelson?” One of the girls piped up.

“The mermaid one.”

The room erupted into screams of joy, the girls bouncing on the sofas like hyperactive sprites. Kaya and Vera, equally thrilled but slightly more sensible, pressed their hands to their ears, hoping to muffle the chaos.

Cinema night had become a cherished Christmas tradition at St. Mary’s. Miss Nelson handpicked the film, booked the tickets, and even arranged for a bus to take the girls there—turning the outing into a fully magical experience.

For Vera, who had never been to a cinema before, the anticipation made her practically glow. She darted upstairs to get ready, meticulously brushing her hair and fussing over every detail. In the privacy of the bathroom, she finally retrieved Donnie and Dom’s Christmas gift: the golden mirror and matching hairbrush.

The moment she ran the brush through her hair, the magic revealed itself. Her usual tangle of black locks transformed into a sleek, shiny cascade of perfect curls. She gasped at her reflection, joy threatening to spill into happy tears.

Kaya, noticing her transformation, tilted her head. “How on earth did you manage that?”

“Just some oils,” Vera replied, keeping her tone casual.

Later, seated at the cinema, Vera’s grin refused to fade. The Little Mermaid on screen was thrilling, of course, but what made her glee almost unbearable was that she alone knew mermaids weren’t just fairy tales. She fought to keep herself from blurting it out, lest she ruin the magic for everyone else.

That evening, as she sat down for her first Christmas dinner at St. Mary’s, a warm sense of gratitude washed over her. Surrounded by laughter, sparkling decorations, and the comforting hum of home, she realized just how lucky she was to belong somewhere so full of joy. To finally have a place she can call Home.

Tuesday, December 26, 1989

The following day, the house buzzed for the annual fundraiser at the local community center. Speeches from generous donors kicked things off, each one more heartwarming than the last. Miss Nelson followed, delivering a moving address that left the girls a little misty-eyed.

“In moments like these, it’s not just about the gifts we receive but the warmth and care that accompany them. My lovely girls, your resilience and spirit inspire us all.”

Applause rippled through the room, and soon the attendees drifted away, leaving the girls with the less glamorous task of cleanup. Once they were done, Miss Nelson gathered them for the moment they’d all been waiting for: the donations container.

“Okay, listen up,” she began. “There’s only one toys container this year. The rest? Clothes. So you know what that means…” She fixed them with a stern glare. “NO FIGHTING THIS TIME!”

The words barely left her lips before the girls surged forward like a stampede of reindeer. Screams, laughter, and occasional shrieks filled the air. What was meant to be a civil sorting of gifts instantly descended into what could only be described as a glorious battlefield of holiday chaos.

Hair was tugged, shoulders shoved, and toes trampled in the mad scramble for coveted prizes. The younger girls surrendered quickly, clutching whatever toys they could snatch, while some lingered at the edge of the fray, eyeing the chaos like it was a live-action horror film.

Miss Nelson and the staff looked on, laughing at the organized pandemonium, clearly entertained by the scene they’d unintentionally unleashed.

Kaya dove in headfirst, arms flailing as she scooped up toys with the precision of a treasure hunter.

Vera charged in behind her, but very quickly realized that keeping up with Kaya was another story entirely. Her first venture into the Great War of the Donations Container was messy, awkward, and exhausting. Yet, she refused to give up, her competitive spirit nudging her forward despite hair tangle threats, and minor bruises.

In the middle of the chaos, her eyes locked onto the ultimate prize: a stuffed black cat. She lunged forward with single-minded determination, weaving through the storm of pushing, shoving, and flying hair. Scratches and tugs assailed her from every side, but nothing could break her focus. Step by step, she closed in, until finally… she had the black cat clutched triumphantly in her arms.

Victory, however, was short-lived. A hand shot toward the toy—Lydia’s—and Vera’s anger ignited.

“Give it back!” she shouted.

“No! I saw it first!” Lydia yelled, tugging fiercely.

“I caught it first!”

“Let go of it, you slag!”

And just like that, the scramble escalated into a full-blown tug-of-war. Vera refused to relinquish her prize, Lydia refused to yield, and the black cat became the epicenter of their battlefield.

Bodies collided, fists flailed, and before long, Lydia had somehow managed to pin Vera to the floor. Desperation flared, and Vera slapped her hand across Lydia’s face, but the fight took a sharp turn when Lydia bit one of her gloved fingers. The pain shot through her, and she screamed, a high-pitched note of frustration cutting through the commotion.

Miss Nelson swooped in like a general separating her troops. “You girls are unbelievable!” she scowled, dragging them apart. “Now come here!”

She led Vera aside to examine her injured finger. The room buzzed with post-donation container excitement, but Miss Nelson's attention was solely on her hand.

“Take off the glove,” she said gently, until the sight of her darkened skin made her heart skip a beat.

“What happened to your fingers?!” she exclaimed, genuine concern knitting her brow.

“Um… it’s paint!” Vera blurted out, hoping her excuse sounded convincing. “From… um… one of my school assignments.”

Miss Nelson didn’t look entirely convinced. With a firm but gentle grip, she held her hands, checking for any broken bones. Vera winced—not from her fingers, but from a sudden, throbbing headache.

“Well, I’m not a doctor,” Miss Nelson said with a hint of humor, “but they look fine.” 

She finally released her grip, and Vera carefully slipped her gloves back on. Despite the lingering pain, she smiled triumphantly as she was handed the black cat. She started back toward the battlefield, but her mind wasn’t on the chaos anymore.

“Doctor…” she muttered under her breath, staring off into the distance. Then, in a flash of sudden realization, her eyes went wide.

“OH. MY. GOD!”

She rushed over to Kaya, who was diligently guarding their modest haul from the container.

“Did you find anything good?” Kaya asked, noticing her excitement.

“I got this cat, but that’s not important right now!” 

“Then what is important?” Kaya pressed, intrigued.

“Miss Nelson!” 

“What about her?”

“Her boyfriend… he’s a doctor!”

Kaya’s eyes went wide. “WHAT?!”

“I swear! His name is Doctor Shirley. That’s who she’s always meeting at the coffee shop.”

“I knew it!” Kaya clapped her hands in delight. “But… how did you figure that out?”

Vera’s confident grin wavered. “What?”

“How did you know?” Kaya repeated, arching an eyebrow.

“Oh… um,” Vera stammered, cheeks warming. “I may have… overheard her talking about him.”

“OH, THAT’S MINT!” Kaya beamed. “I can’t wait for her wedding!”

Vera chuckled nervously, though her mind was clearly elsewhere.

“So… what are you going to name it?” Kaya asked, nodding toward the black cat.

“Oh.” Vera scratched her head, glancing down at the plush in her hands. “Well… ever since I was little, I’ve had this dream about owning a black cat. In the dream, he always licks my face until I’m laughing, and then a woman calls him away. That’s when the dream ends.”

“Annnnd...? What does she call him?” 

Vera looked up, meeting her friend’s expectant gaze. “Vinny,” she said softly, a hint of nostalgia in her voice.

Kaya nodded with a smile. “Vinny it is.”

Chapter Text

Sunday, December 31, 1989

The kitchen at St. Mary’s was a whirl of clattering bowls, flour-dusted faces, and far too much giggling for any serious baking enterprise. Vera and Kaya teamed up with the older girls on a noble holiday mission: baking cookies for the neighbors to ring in the New Year.

Laughter tangled with the sweet scent of butter and sugar as the dough took shape under their nimble fingers. Each round disc bore a careful “1990,” a sugary announcement that the old year was packing its bags.

When the oven’s glow finally gave way to golden perfection, the girls bustled off to deliver their edible masterpieces. Most houses welcomed them gladly, but the question of who would dare present cookies to the infamous Mrs. Wriggleshore sparked a heated debate.

Vera, masking her eagerness with an air of sacrifice, volunteered herself. The others, all too happy to dodge the assignment, waved her off with suspiciously quick agreement.

Marching up to the crooked doorstep, Vera caught sight of Mrs. Wriggleshore already stationed at the window, as if she’d been waiting for her. Before she could even knock, the door creaked open.

“In, quick!” the old witch barked. "Before the cats make a dash for freedom!" 

Vera slipped inside, weaving through a sea of twitching tails. The house smelled of jasmine smoke, courtesy of Mrs. Wriggleshore herself—perched on the kitchen table, pipe in hand, newspaper spread before her like a throne room decree.

“Happy New Year, Mrs. Wriggleshore!” Vera beamed, holding out the tray as if it were an offering to royalty. “I brought cookies—I hope you’ll enjoy them.”

The old witch squinted at the plate. “Hm. It’s a’ight. Best give them to the cats; they’ve grown bored of mice and birds.”

Before Vera could protest, Mrs. Wriggleshore waved a hand at the floor. Dutifully, Vera set the cookies down, and within seconds the feline horde descended, purring like an orchestra and crunching away with unnerving enthusiasm.

Out of nowhere, Mrs. Wriggleshore’s eyes snapped to her. “Tell me—old Dumbledore still breathing, is he?”

“Uh… yes?” Vera replied, caught off guard.

“Hmph. Thought so. Seems only yesterday he was a strapping young thing, talking about conquering the world.”

Vera blinked. She wasn’t sure which part was weirder—that Mrs. Wriggleshore remembered Dumbledore as a young man, or that she spoke of him like he’d once auditioned for the role of Julius Caesar. Either way, the math placed the witch’s age somewhere between “prehistoric” and “immortal.”

She perched on the edge of a chair, her eyes drifting toward the newspaper in Mrs. Wriggleshore’s hands. Splashed across the front page was the smiling face of an elderly man in an absurdly grand hat, waving cheerfully from a moving photograph.

The Daily Prophet

New Era Begins: Cornelius Fudge Takes Office

“Is that the new magical Prime Minister?” She asked innocently.

Mrs. Wriggleshore lowered the paper just enough to shoot her a look. “Minister of Magic, dear.”

Vera's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "Oh, right," she mumbled, feeling somewhat sheepish.

Her gaze then fell upon another newspaper resting on the table.

Wizarding Chronicle

New Minister Meets Margaret Thatcher, Says She's Great

Should We Be Worried?

Her eyes caught the headline immediately, recognizing the name Thatcher as the only politician the Humphreys never complained about. Everyone else, yes—but never Thatcher. She was more of a hero to them. 

“Does the Muggle Prime Minister know about us?” Vera asked, curious.

Mrs. Wriggleshore nodded.

“But why? Why her and not—well, not everyone?”

“To keep balance between our worlds,” the witch replied, though her tone suggested she didn’t buy the line herself. “Or so they say.”

Vera nodded as if it made sense.

“What a shame,” Mrs. Wriggleshore sighed, folding her newspaper shut with a snap. “Bagnold may have had her faults, but she got the job done.”

Vera’s gaze lingered, questions burning behind her eyes.

Mrs. Wriggleshore huffed, lowering her pipe. “What is it you want, girl?”

“I… I have something to ask you.”

The witch exhaled through her nose like a dragon denied its nap. “Well? Out with it.”

Vera hesitated, her words sticking in her throat before she finally pushed them free. “You know my family, don’t you?”

A harsh, humorless laugh cracked from the old woman. “Know them? How could I not, when their poison’s seeped through this world for generations.”

The venom in her tone made Vera flinch. “Could you… could you tell me about them?”

“And why would you want to dredge that rot up?”

“Because I didn’t grow up with them. I don’t know anything about them, ma’am.”

“You should thank your lucky stars for that. Being kept from that nest is the best gift fate ever gave you.”

“But…” Vera pressed on, cheeks hot. “Everyone at Hogwarts seems to know who they are—everyone but me. And they’re my family.”

For a heartbeat, the sharpness in Mrs. Wriggleshore’s eyes dimmed. Her grip slackened on the pipe, and the jasmine smoke curled softer around her.

“Child,” she said, quieter now, almost kind, “sometimes not knowing is the mercy. Best leave their ghosts where they belong.”

But Vera’s resolve didn’t falter. “Please, ma’am. I need to know.”

Mrs. Wriggleshore heaved a sigh, long and weary, as if Vera had just asked her to recount the history of misery itself. “Fine, fine. What is it you’re after?”

Vera straightened in her chair, anticipation bright in her eyes. “All right then… what did they do for a living?”

The witch’s bark of laughter startled the cats. “Work? Don’t be ridiculous, child. The Blacks never soiled their hands with labor.”

“But… I heard they were rich.”

The laughter turned into a rasping chuckle. “Rich is too small a word. They swam in gold. They could’ve paved their floors with galleons and still had vaults bursting.”

Vera frowned. “But where did the money come from, if they didn’t work?”

“They’ve had money since the days of Merlin, or so the tales go,” Mrs. Wriggleshore muttered, levering herself toward the cupboards. “No one quite knows how they struck the first vein of fortune. Some say a lucky hoard of treasure, others something far less innocent.”

Vera leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

The old woman returned with a steaming cup, setting it before her. “Theft, dear.”

Vera blinked. “They stole it?”

“Yes—but not in the way you’re imagining.”

“How then?”

Mrs. Wriggleshore poured her own cup, the chamomile steam curling around her words. “Dark magic, of course.”

The phrase rippled through Vera like a draft through the old house.

“They had ways,” the witch continued, smoke and memory swirling together. “Ways of pulling secrets from people—secrets that could ruin them. With those secrets, they bought gold. Though really, it was never about the gold. It was always about the land."

"Land?"

"Whether in this world or the wizarding one, land is what compels people to go to extremes. It’s a quiet simple concept really, if you own the land, you rule it."

Vera dropped her gaze, her thoughts racing. “Is that… why the man at the owl post wouldn’t help me? Because of my family?”

“Didn’t I tell you not to gnaw on that bone?”

“I know,” Vera said quickly, “but I can’t stop thinking about it. He said my money wasn’t welcome. He was kind before I gave him my name. And then… everything changed.”

Mrs. Wriggleshore’s eyes softened. “So that’s why you came here.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Vera whispered. “So is that why? Because they stole everything?”

The witch’s laugh was colder this time, stripped of humor. “Theft was the least of their sins, you naive child.”

She seemed to catch herself then, lips pressing tight. Her pipe sputtered out. With a flick of her wand, the flame bloomed again, giving her something to hide behind.

“Please!" Vera begged. "Please tell me.”

The old witch drew in a long, deliberate breath, then leaned forward, her tone suddenly grave. “Whatever I say about them, you must understand—it comes from anger, from bitterness. Those feelings are mine to carry, not yours. Do you hear me?”

“I…” 

“All I’m saying—the only thing you share with that family is a name. Don’t you dare let what I tell you decide who you’ll be.”

“I won’t,” Vera promised, leaning forward with urgency. “But please—tell me!”

Mrs. Wriggleshore shut her eyes, as though summoning courage from some shadowed place. When she opened them, they gleamed with old rage.

“Your family, child… they were a disease.”

Vera’s stomach lurched. “What?”

“Parasites!” the witch snapped, striking the word like a curse. “Leeches, sucking the lifeblood out of wizarding society.”

“I… I don’t understand…”

“Politics,” she spat. “That’s how they fed. Pollux and his little cabal of purist fanatics strangled the Ministry for decades. Twisted the laws until they served no one but themselves. They wrapped themselves in respectability while keeping Azkaban far from their door—no matter what sins they committed.”

Vera tried to sip her tea, but the chamomile caught in her throat. “What… what kind of crimes?”

“All sorts,” Mrs. Wriggleshore said with chilling ease. “Dark magic like it was a parlor trick. Blackmail, bribery, corruption. And murders—”

“Murders?” Vera’s voice cracked, her pulse hammering. “They—murdered people?”

For the first time, the old woman faltered. Her eyes searched Vera’s face, torn between cruelty and mercy. “Are you sure you want to know, girl? Some truths, once spoken, cling like smoke. You’ll never scrub them out.”

Vera’s hands trembled around her cup, but she forced her voice steady. “Please. Tell me. Who did they kill?”

“Many,” Wriggleshore said at last, her voice heavy, as though dragging each word out of a grave. “Some whose names were forgotten, buried with them. Others… quite prominent.” Her eyes clouded, drifting inward. Then her jaw clenched. “That curse of a woman.”

“Who?” Vera pressed.

“Lucretia,” the witch hissed, her voice low and venomous. “She butchered three boys—children, no older than you. Slaughtered them like vermin, without hesitation, without mercy.”

The words sliced through the silence, leaving Vera frozen, her breath caught in her throat.

“But life has a way of settling its debts,” Wriggleshore went on. “Many Blacks paid for their wickedness in the end. The evil they sowed turned inward, devoured them.”

“So… are they all dead?”

“Not all. Some still draw breath—but in disgrace, exiled after He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named vanished.”

Vera’s stomach twisted. “W-who?”

The answer came like a shadow falling over the room. “They called him the Dark Lord. But he was no lord—only another tyrant drunk on power.”

At once, Cassius’s words from the library echoed in Vera’s mind: the Dark Lord’s return.

“The Black family,” Wriggleshore continued. “were not innocent bystanders. They were architects. Pollux was first to kneel, and once he did, the other pure-blood families lined up behind him. And Orion…” Her mouth curled in disgust. “That drunken fool dragged us all to ruin.”

“What did he do?”

“If you learn only one truth about your bloodline, let it be this: control. They had it all. Land, power, fear. If they wanted your house, they took it. If you resisted, you vanished. At one point, they owned nearly every acre worth owning—farmers, merchants, even other wizards leased from them.”

Vera stared, stricken, as the witch’s voice grew harsher.

“And when Orion inherited that empire, he squandered it like a child with sweets. When gold lost its shine, he began to gamble. Not with coins, child—properties. Homes. Shops. Whole villages. Families were cast out, livelihoods stripped away. It was a massacre. The Murpheys. The Bobbins—”

“Bobbin?!” The name struck Vera like a curse. 

"Oh yes, the Bobbin family suffered the most devastating blow. Over thirty of their businesses were seized by Orion’s debt collectors. They rebuilt, eventually, but at a terrible price. Their boy, Julius, was only twenty at the time..."

Vera's heart lurched, her hands tightening around the teacup. "What happened to him?"

"He tried to stand against Orion." Mrs. Wriggleshore’s voice dropped. "But no one confronts Orion Black and lives to tell the tale. It’s said a vampire was sent to silence the poor lad—though no body was ever found."

Vera felt a weight settle on her chest. The pieces of Felix's mysterious behavior towards her began to fall into place. The tension, the secrecy—they were both marked by their family names. He, a Bobbin, and she, a Black. Families carved into history with blades of debt and blood.

The revelation of her family's dark past became increasingly suffocating. How could she ever escape the shadow of what her blood had wrought? The thought of being perceived in the same light as her notorious family instilled fear in her poor little heart.

Mrs. Wriggleshore studied her face, and instantly saw the torment. "Best not to dwell on it, child. Their reign is over, despite what anyone says about you."

Vera stiffened. "What do they say about me?" 

"Nothing worth your worry," Mrs. Wriggleshore waved a hand. "Only that most thought the Black line had ended—until your name surfaced in your grandmother’s will. But idle tongues wag. Pay them no mind."

"And my father?" Vera’s voice trembled now, caught between fear and fragile hope. "Was he… like them?"

For the first time, Mrs. Wriggleshore faltered. Her eyes searched Vera’s face, as though weighing something unspeakable. Finally, she shook her head, her tone hushed. "I’ve said more than enough for one day. Best you head home now."

Despite her disappointment and unyielding curiosity, Vera found herself clinging to the fragile comfort that some truths were better left buried. What if her father had been entangled in the same darkness? The very thought sent shivers down her spine, forcing her to embrace ignorance as a form of mercy.

Yet the revelations she had uncovered cut deep, offering a chilling clarity. She understood now the whispers that trailed her, the assumptions Cassius so confidently made—that she must share his values.

She understood Felix’s hesitations, his reluctance to be seen with her. Even Donnie’s silence made sense; he had chosen to keep her family’s sins hidden rather than force her to bear them.

Their legacy was cruelty, bloodshed, Dark magic—pure evil. And she was their descendant.

On the walk back to St. Mary’s, guilt and shame pressed down upon her like an iron shroud. She had worn the name Black like a badge at the start of term, eager to claim its aura of power, only to realize now the folly of her pride.

The stares she once mistook for envy had never been admiration for her supposed wealth or status. They had been sharpened by suspicion, painted with disgust. To them, she was not a girl of privilege but the daughter of a cursed line—a symbol of blood purity, bigotry, and inherited malice.

The realization hollowed her out, leaving her isolated, disillusioned, and more alone than ever.

“What’s wrong?” Kaya’s voice was gentle, tinged with concern as she saw the tears brimming in her eyes.

“Nothing,” she murmured, turning away to hide the storm behind her gaze.

She longed to confide in someone, to let the weight of her family’s dark legacy lift for just a moment—but how could she? How could she explain that her ancestors were far from virtuous, that their sins ran deeper than words could capture?

Needing space, she excused herself and slipped away, eventually finding solace atop the roof. The cold stone pressed against her legs as she perched with Vinny, her new stuffed cat, gazing out at the distant lights that twinkled like fragile hope.

Yet even here, the chill wasn’t just from the wind. A sense of dread wrapped itself around her heart, smothering any flicker of optimism. Her thoughts tumbled in a relentless cascade: Murder… Pollux… dark magic… Orion… Lucretia… thieves… The Dark Lord… gold… Azkaban… blood… poison… secrets…

“What if I am like them, Vinny?” she whispered, voice barely rising above the wind, as her eyes fixed on the small stuffed cat in her lap. 

"Like who?" Kaya's sudden interruption startled her.

"No one," She replied, hastily wiping away her tears as Kaya climbed onto the roof beside her

“What in the world are you doing up here?" Kaya said. "It’s freezing.”

“Thought I might catch the fireworks from up here.”

“And you didn’t think to invite me?”

“Sorry, K...”

“Something’s bothering you, isn’t it?”

Vera exhaled, her breath curling in the chilly night air. “Do you ever wonder about your family? Like… if things were different, and you’d grown up with them?”

“I guess sometimes…” Kaya murmured, her gaze drifting toward the horizon.

“And?” Vera pressed gently.

“I think I prefer things the way they are.”

“Why?”

Kaya’s voice grew soft, trembling. “After Mum passed, I lived with my dad. He… he wasn’t great. Cared more about his drugs than about me.”

Vera’s chest ached. “Is that why you don’t want to be with him?”

Kaya shrugged. “I don’t really have a choice. He’s locked up.”

“Oh… I’m so sorry,” Vera whispered, offering a tentative embrace.

Kaya leaned into her shoulder. “I do miss him sometimes. He used to sing to me…”

“That’s nice,” Vera said, keeping her tone light, though her heart felt heavy.

Kaya smiled faintly, a fragile glimmer in the firelight. “It really was.”

“So… he wasn’t really a bad person?”

“I don’t think so. He just… made bad choices. And it spiraled until he couldn’t stop.”

Vera paused, reflecting on her friend’s words. Her own life had been sheltered from such direct pain, even if it had been lonely. Though she’d always longed for a normal family, she realized their absence had protected her from the sting of loss in her present.

“Look!” Kaya suddenly pointed as a firework burst overhead, painting the sky with brilliant colors.

“Happy New Year, Vee,” she said, her eyes shining in the reflection of the lights.

Vera returned the smile. “Happy New Year, K.”

Tuesday, January 9, 1990

Over the next few days, she tried deliberately to shove her conversation with Mrs. Wriggleshore to the back of her mind. Every now and then, a fragment of their discussion would surface, sending a sharp pang through her stomach, but she forced herself to focus on other things. Having Kaya at her side made it easier. The two of them clung to every moment together, diving into each other’s company and savoring the time they had left as if it were too precious to waste.

When the holidays finally sputtered to an end, she clutched the counterfeit ticket Donnie and Dom had cooked up for her and made the trek to King’s Cross with Miss Nelson in tow. She boarded the Muggle train, sat just long enough for her matron's back was turned, then hopped off, and bolted straight through the brick wall.

In the chaos of the station, she nearly tripped over the sight of Fred and George mid-lecture from a frazzled, flame-haired woman—surely their mother. Flanking them were yet another ginger boy and girl, and Vera found herself wondering, with a mix of awe and dread, if there was some sort of Weasley factory running at full tilt.

However, her attention was soon drawn to Nymphadora Tonks, standing with her parents nearby. As she glanced over, the mother quickly noticed her and offered a warm smile and a friendly wave. Confused, Vera smiled and waved back, unsure of the reason for the unexpected interaction from this stranger.

“She’s your relative, right?” Kenny’s sudden voice made her jump.

“W-what?” she stammered, blinking in surprise.

“Mrs. Tonks. Isn’t she related to you?”

“Huh?”

“She's a Black... like you?” 

Vera froze from shock. For the first time, she glimpsed a living connection to her family—someone she actually saw in person. A Black. Alive. Real. Right here. 

Her gaze drifted back to Mrs. Tonks, studying her with careful attention. Despite the family connection, the resemblance was strikingly minimal. Vera’s features were sharp, her cheekbones pronounced, her dark blue eyes round and intense, and her hair a cascade of voluminous black curls. Mrs. Tonks, by contrast, possessed soft, delicate features, hazel eyes, and light brown hair that framed her face with effortless grace

“Or… was,” Kenny went on. “I’m not entirely sure how it works when someone gets disowned.”

Vera snapped out of her reverie. “Wait, what?” 

“Wasn't Mrs. Tonks disowned for marrying a Muggleborn?”

She blinked, the revelation sending a strange mix of shock and curiosity coursing through her.

“Come on,” Kenny said. “The train’s leaving.”

He walked away, leaving her rooted in place, her thoughts tumbling over themselves. Despite the crisp bite of the air, a curious warmth unfurled within her. She had a living Black relative—one who had dared to defy the family’s infamous creed of blood purity.

The train’s whistle shrieked its final warning, but her mind was miles away. A Black who isn’t a blood purist… The notion sparked a fragile, flickering hope. Perhaps she wasn’t doomed to inherit the darkness that trailed her name. Snapping back to the present, she darted aboard.

Hey, Kenny!” she called, weaving her way down the corridor. “Wait!”

Kenny glanced back. “Yeah?”

“About Mrs. Tonks…” she panted, skidding to his side. “You said she was disowned?”

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

“So… that means she wasn’t part of the Black family anymore?”

“Yeah, that’s how it usually works..."

She drew a steadying breath. “Do you know if anyone else in my family was disowned?”

Kenny looked confused. "Um... No. My mum’s friends with Mrs. Tonks, that’s the only reason I heard about it.”

“Oh… I see.” Vera’s voice dropped, but her thoughts raced faster than ever. For the first time in what felt like forever, the heavy shadow of her bloodline seemed to loosen its grip, letting a sliver of light through.

As Kenny drifted ahead, she turned her attention to the train, scanning the compartments for her friends. Relief flickered across her face when she spotted Jane slipping into one.

“Jane!” she called brightly, lifting her hand in an eager wave.

But Jane only cast her a fleeting glance before disappearing into the compartment, the door sliding shut behind her. Vera froze, bewildered by the sudden coldness, half-ready to follow after her—until a voice from another direction called her name.

“Oi, Vera!” Lee called out through the racket. “Come sit with us!”

She spun around to see him wedged between the twins, with Alicia and Angelina crammed in too. Bracing herself for the chaos, she slid into the compartment.

“Cheers for the fireworks, Vee,” Fred grinned.

“Oh, absolutely!” Lee chimed in. “I blew up my mum’s angel cake with them!”

Vera managed a thin smile. “Glad to be of service.”

The chatter spiraled into holiday stories—snowball fights gone wrong, near-death broom accidents, and one unfortunate cat who may never trust tinsel again. Vera stayed quiet, folding herself into the corner. No one needed to know her holidays were spent sifting through second-hand toys and unearthing her family's legacy of tyranny.

“Did you manage to see that film, Vera?” Angelina asked.

“Oh, I… didn’t,” she lied quickly.

“It’s all right,” Lee offered her a comforting smile. “One day, you’ll join the civilized world of cinema.”

Desperate to redirect the spotlight, Vera turned to Alicia. “And you? How was Belfast?”

Alicia’s face pinked. “It was great! I spent most of it with Tommy. He’s quite... funny.”

“Oooh, Tommy,” Fred sing-songed. “Someone’s fallen for a Hufflepuff.”

Alicia smacked his arm. “Shut it, Fred! He’s just a friend.”

“Right,” George drawled with a wink. “A very funny friend.”

Angelina rolled her eyes and jumped in before Alicia could combust. “What about you two troublemakers? How was the Weasley gathering?”

Fred’s grin widened. “Brilliant! Bill told us all about his curse-breaking work in Egypt. You wouldn’t believe half of it.”

George leaned forward eagerly. “We’re definitely trying some of those curses out—strictly educational purposes, of course.”

“Speaking of education,” Lee suddenly piped up, “who brought the Bertie Bott’s?”

“Never fear.” Fred produced a packet with a flourish. “What’s a train ride without gambling with your taste buds?”

“Ugh, remember the vomit-flavored ones?” Alicia groaned. “Nearly ruined me for life.”

“Ruined you?” Angelina laughed. “Lee would’ve paid for that flavor.”

“Absolutely,” Lee said without missing a beat.

The compartment erupted in laughter, their voices mixing with the steady chug of the train. For a while, Vera let the warmth of it wash over her, nestling into the noise. In their laughter, she could forget family shadows, and the hollow ache she carried. For a few precious hours, she was simply part of the chaos.

As the train screeched into the station, excitement surged through the students, carrying them in a tide toward the Great Hall. Vera wove through the crowd, her eyes catching on Jane, who stood with Eudora and Ryu. 

“Hey!” she greeted brightly. “I called to you on the train—didn’t you hear me?”

The three turned at once, their brows knitting. Jane’s eyes shimmered, on the edge of tears, but she said nothing. Instead, Eudora’s hand clamped around her arm, and with a curt tug they swept past Vera, leaving her stranded in the corridor.

She stood rooted to the spot, the sting sharp and bewildering, watching their figures vanish into the throng. A knot of confusion and hurt tightened in her chest, but the crowd pressed on, carrying her unwillingly toward the Gryffindor table.

Sliding into her seat beside her friends, she tried to swallow the unease rising in her throat. However, she couldn't shake the feeling of unease as she noticed everyone's eyes on her, accompanied by hushed whispers that seemed to carry her name. 

“What’s going on?” she whispered, leaning toward Kenny across the table. “Why is everyone staring at me?”

Kenny’s expression softened with something close to pity. “I’m sorry, Vera.”

Her stomach dropped. “Sorry about what?”

“You mean—you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?” 

“Everyone on the train was talking about it.”

Her heart hammered. “Talking about what, Kenny?”

"Vera..." he said hesitantly. "They're saying... you're a squib."

Chapter Text

Wednesday, Jan 10, 1990

Vera awoke the next day with puffy eyes and a damp pillow, having cried herself to sleep the night before. The realization of her worst nightmare had sunk in: everyone at Hogwarts knew she couldn’t do magic. No matter how hard Angelina and Alicia had tried to soothe her with gentle pats, or how many ridiculous faces the twins had pulled to wring a laugh out of her, nothing could loosen the chokehold of failure tightening around her chest.

Too hollow for food and too brittle for pitying glances, she skipped breakfast and slipped into Transfiguration, praying to blend into the walls. But the universe wasn’t done with her. Her stomach dropped when she saw Jane—once her anchor—now perched comfortably beside Miles.

To make matters worse, the Poshlanders took it upon themselves to make fun of her throughout the entire day, their taunts and jibes only serving to deepen her distress. The situation escalated during History of Magic, with their bullying reaching new heights as they deliberately raised their voices for her to hear.

“It feels so good to be a wizard, doesn’t it, Miles?” Cassius drawled.

“Certainly does,” Miles answered, floating his book in lazy circles with his wand.

Roger groaned. “Would you two pack it in?”

“Pack what in, Davies?” Miles shot back. “It’s hardly our fault some people are allergic to magic.”

Eudora chuckled. “How does she even manage to stay at Hogwarts?”

“They must pity her,” Ryu added, smug as a cat with cream.

"I almost pity her myself." Miles added, a smirk playing on his lips. "Almost." 

Vera seethed with anger, yet opted to tune out their taunts. Catching Jane's sympathetic gaze, she couldn't fathom how her friend could sit with them and remain indifferent to their cruelty. The rest of the class grew increasingly irritated by the group's remarks, though Professor Binns appeared oblivious to their antics.

When the bell finally rang, she hastily flew the classroom as tears streamed down her cheeks like a relentless downpour. As she dashed out, her eyes met Felix's, who stood at the door with the other third-years. She quickly averted her gaze and bolted away, desperate to escape the overwhelming torment.

No matter where she sought solace, she couldn't escape the whispers and stares that trailed her like shadows. Growing increasingly exasperated, she wandered aimlessly until she found herself in the deserted music room, where only the chorus of frogs provided any semblance of company. Rushing to the far end of the room, she slipped into the small chamber she had stumbled upon on Halloween.

The space was cloaked in darkness, pierced only by thin slivers of sunlight filtering through the cracks in the walls. She enveloped herself in a tight embrace on the small sofa, her sobs echoing off the walls as she replayed the cruel taunts that still haunted her. With a heavy heart, she closed her eyes, silently wishing for oblivion to engulf her. Before she realized it, exhaustion consumed her, and she drifted into an uneasy sleep.

Sometime later, she woke slowly, her mind groggy and thick from the weight of sleep. Her cheeks felt tight, dried tears marking her skin like salt from an open wound. She blinked a few times, disoriented, before she realized someone was there with her. 

Felix stood above her, half-swallowed by shadow. 

“Hey,” he said softly. “You alright?”

She jolted upright, arms locking around her knees like armor. “Why are you here?”

“Funny—I was going to ask you the same thing.” He lowered himself onto the seat beside her, studying her carefully. “I didn’t expect to find anyone in Haven.”

“Haven?” she echoed.

“That’s what I call this place. It’s where I hide when… everything feels too loud. It’s where I come when I need to cry.”

Her head snapped toward him. “You cry?”

His lips curved in a wry smile. “You sound shocked. Boys aren’t supposed to, right?”

The thought of a boy—let alone Felix Bobbin—crumbling the way she did made her uneasy. “What makes you cry, then?” She asked.

“Plenty of things,” he said lightly. “Once, because I accidentally turned my hair bright pink.”

She blinked. “You’re taking the piss.”

“Don’t laugh,” he warned, though amusement flickered in his eyes. “Tried out a new charm in the common room—backfired spectacularly. One second I’m me, next second I’m bubblegum.” He shook his head. “I was convinced it’d never wash out.”

A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “What did you do?”

“I begged Madam Pomfrey. She was the only one kind enough not to laugh in my face.” He leaned back against the sofa, chuckling. “Even Snape smirked. That was… humbling.”

She managed a fleeting smile, but it vanished as quickly as it came. “At least you can cast a spell…”

Felix’s expression softened. “I heard what happened today. I’m sorry, Vera. Those kids… they don’t know a thing. Their words don’t mean anything.”

But his reassurance bounced off the ache lodged deep in her chest. The tears she’d fought so hard to dam up burst free, and she buried her face in her hands, her sobs ripping through the fragile silence.

Felix shifted closer. “Hey… you can’t let them break you, Vera.”

She shook her head fiercely, words muffled by her palms. “I’m already broken.”

“That’s not true.”

Dragging her hands away, she looked at him with tear-streaked cheeks and wide, desperate eyes. “I can’t do magic, Felix,” she confessed, the truth tumbling out in ragged sobs. “I don’t belong here.”

His lips parted, as if he wanted to argue, but no words came. The empathy in his face was almost painful to look at.

“I thought this would be my chance,” she whispered. “That I’d finally be something special. But I’m not. I’m just… a bloody loser.”

“You’re not a loser—”

“But I am!” Her voice cracked sharp through her sobs. “I can’t use my wand, I can’t fly, I can’t do anything magical. I’m just pretending—pretending to be something I’m not.”

“Most people struggle at first—”

“No, Felix. Everyone else in my class can do it. Everyone but me!” She swiped at her face furiously, frustration boiling over. “At first I thought maybe it was my wand—maybe it was broken, or fake. But it’s not. It’s me. I’m broken. And now... now they’re calling me a squib.”

Felix’s jaw tightened. "You can’t let some tossers write your story, Vera.”

Her shoulders sagged, trembling under the weight of his words. “But what if they’re right?”

"You are more than what runs in your blood. A good wizard isn’t measured by spells or broomsticks—it’s by their heart. Their resilience. Their kindness. That’s what makes someone truly magical.”

She looked at him, a small glimmer of hope flickering in her tear-filled eyes. His words reached her, but they couldn’t erase the pain completely. She wanted to believe him—needed to—but doubt still gnawed at her.

In that moment, she couldn’t help but wonder why he was extending such kindness to her despite the atrocities her family had committed against his. As her thoughts darted back to her conversation with Mrs. Wriggleshore, fresh tears welled in her eyes.

But she had to say it, no matter how much it hurt.

“Felix...” She hesitated, the words caught in her throat. “I know what my family did to yours.”

For a heartbeat his features rearranged, then he folded it into a patient calm. “So you asked?” he said.

She shook her head. “I just— I knew. I’m sorry, Felix. I’m so sorry.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t have to say sorry for what happened, Vera. You weren’t even born then.”

“But it’s still my family. It’s a part of me.”

“Your family’s past might be part of your story, but it doesn’t define you. You’re not responsible for their mistakes.”

His words warmed and hurt at the same time. She exhaled a shaky breath and nudged the question she’d been too frightened to ask.

“Then why won’t you—why don’t you act like this in front of others? Why don’t you… talk to me?”

He turned his face away for a moment, choosing his words like stones across a river. “It’s not about you,” he said quietly. “There’s more going on than you know.”

“So… we can’t be friends?” she whispered, each syllable hopeful and terrified.

His mouth curved, real and small. “Of course we can.”

Feeling a bit lighter, she made her way back to Gryffindor tower, Felix’s words still echoing in her mind like a mantra. 

Entering the common room, she found Kenny curled up in an armchair, half-swallowed by cushions.

“Hiya, Kenny,” she said softly, managing a small smile as she sank into the sofa beside him.

He glanced up, eyes bright with curiosity. “Where’d you disappear to?”

“Nowhere special,” she murmured, though the warmth of Haven still clung to her like an ember. “Did Professor Frey say anything?”

“He asked Jane about you.”

Her chest tightened. “And?”

“She told him you weren’t feeling well.”

“Oh.” 

He studied her quietly. “Are you?”

“I’m okay,” she assured him, her smile more genuine this time. “Thanks for asking.”

“I’m sorry about yesterday. I shouldn’t have mentioned the rumor.”

She shook her head gently. “I would’ve found out sooner or later, Ken.”

“Maybe. Still…” He sighed, sinking further into the chair. 

As her smile lingered on him, the common room door burst open and the rest of her housemates tumbled in, bringing with them a rush of laughter, chatter, and the kind of energy that could shake the gloom right out of the walls.

“Vera!” Alicia spotted her first. “We missed you in Defense!”

“Are you alright?” Angelina asked, scanning her face with concern.

“Yeah,” Vera said quickly, sitting up straighter. “I’m fine now.”

Fred leaned against the arm of her sofa with an easy grin. “Good. Because if anyone so much as looks at you wrong again, we’ll make sure they regret it.”

She gave a small laugh. “Thanks, Freddie. But I think I should just ignore them. Whatever they say doesn’t matter.”

“Exactly." Angelina nodded. "Let them bark all they like—wolves don’t lose sleep over chihuahuas.”

Vera bit her lip, her smile faltering. “But… what do you think?”

Alicia frowned. “Think about what?”

“I mean…” She twisted her hands together nervously. “Would you mind if I really was a… squib?”

The question dropped like a stone, pulling the air taut. The group exchanged looks, waiting for someone to take it on.

“We wouldn’t mind at all.” Fred finally said, his eyes meeting hers with steady sincerity.

“Yeah,” Lee chimed in with a firm nod. “Doesn’t change a thing.”

“As long as you don’t turn into Filch.” George added slyly. 

Vera’s eyes went wide before she cracked into laughter, the sound bubbling out of her, loosening something tight in her chest. The others joined in, the room filling with warmth instead of pity.

As the group continued their comforting efforts, she felt a surge of confidence wash over her. With her friends by her side, she knew she could weather any storm the Poshlanders threw her way. And with Felix's advice guiding her, she was ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

Thursday, Jan 11, 1990

The next day, in the murky glow of Snape’s dungeon classroom, Vera braced herself. The air was thick with the usual cocktail of damp stone, simmering brews, and Slytherin sneers. The Poshlanders’ barbs flew like poisoned darts, each one meant to sting, to remind her of what she wasn’t.

But today, she refused to flinch. She smothered her frustration under a mask of calm and fixed her eyes on her cauldron.

The room filled with the hiss and spit of volatile potions, the air heavy with fumes. Insults rose and fell around her, but she tuned them out, narrowing her world to mortar and pestle, ladle and flame. Her knife glinted as she sliced with precision, her spoon moved in steady circles, her timing exact.

While others faltered—cauldrons frothing or ingredients mismeasured—hers stayed steady, obedient to her will. When her potion finally settled into its perfect hue, she couldn’t help the small, fierce smile tugging at her lips.

Snape loomed over her workstation. “Well done, Miss Black." He said, his voice cool as ever. "Five points to Gryffindor.”

Gasps fluttered through the classroom—it was almost sacrilege for him to award points to anyone outside his house.

Fred and George, from the back, couldn’t contain themselves. “Way to go, Vee!” they shouted, their voices echoing like a fanfare.

“Silence!” Snape snapped, his eyes flashing. The twins ducked their heads, but their grins stretched ear to ear.

The Poshlanders, however, seethed, their glares sharper than any blade. But amid their discontent, Cassius stood apart from the rest—watching her not with scorn, but with something far more sinister. The look screamed what he dared not say aloud: a so-called “Squib” had just shown him up.

Vera, however, refused to cower. She met his glare with steel in her eyes and, without hesitation, stuck her middle finger up to him.

Cassius went scarlet, fury practically steaming from his ears, while Tommy and Cedric doubled over, their laughter echoing like firecrackers across the dungeon.

“Silence!” Snape thundered, robes billowing as his eyes swept the room.

Lucky for Vera, his timing was impeccable. He’d missed the gesture entirely.

By the time flying lessons rolled around, she was already dreading it. The courtyard gleamed under a fresh blanket of snow, every flake glittering like a cruel reminder that today would be colder than usual—in more ways than one. The crisp winter air bit at her cheeks as she lingered at the edge, her gloved hands cupped close to her mouth, each breath puffing out in tiny clouds.

The others, buzzing with excitement, raced toward the middle of the courtyard, eager to take off. She stayed rooted, watching from the sidelines as broomsticks shot skyward. She tried to look unfazed, but the Poshlanders clearly smelled blood.

When Madam Hooch hurried off to tend to Patty, who had taken a tumble, the jeering began.

“What’s wrong, Black?" Adrian swooped low, his broom kicking up powdery snow as he passed. "Broom giving you fright?”

Miles orbited her like a smug little moon. “Oh no, Adrian—it’s not the broom. It’s the pilot.” 

Cassius, of course, couldn’t resist. “Imagine her up there!" He barked out, hovering just above. "She’d topple off, flap her arms, and sprout chicken wings!”

“I can already picture the headline in the Daily Prophet," Adrian cackled. "Vera Black Shatters Broomstick; Soars Like a Chicken Instead.” 

Vera felt the sting of their laughter, but she refused to let it land. If she gave them a reaction, they’d win. Instead, she forced her gaze away—toward Jane, who was just sliding off her broom. Her usual fluid grace seemed replaced by hesitation, every movement cautious, guarded.

Despite the knot in her stomach, Vera crossed the snow-dusted courtyard, each step heavier than the last.

“Hey,” she said softly, her voice wobbling.

Jane looked up, startled. Her eyes flicked nervously toward the Poshlanders before darting back down.

Vera rubbed her palms together, feeling the chill seep through her gloves. “Did I… do something wrong?”

“No, it’s not—” Jane began, but her words faltered as footsteps crunched in the snow.

“She doesn’t want to be friends with a squib.” Miles slipped neatly into the silence, draping himself in smug authority. His hand closed around Jane’s, pulling her slightly behind him like a prize he was claiming.

Vera’s heart lurched. The implication had haunted her since the rumor started, but hearing it aloud made it cut deeper.

“Is that true?” she whispered.

Jane’s face flushed crimson. Her eyes glistened, pleading, but no answer came.

“You said you didn’t care about all that blood rubbish!” Vera’s voice cracked, raw with disbelief.

Miles smirked. “Of course she does. Why else would she choose us over you?”

“Shut up, Bletchley!” Vera shouted, her fury echoing across the snowy courtyard.

Heads snapped toward them, brooms dipped from the sky. Alicia and Angelina rushed forward, worry etched across their faces, while other students gathered at the edges of the field.

But Vera hardly noticed the crowd. All she could see was Jane—her silence, her hesitation, her betrayal.

"Just tell her, Jane." Miles urged. "Tell her why you really hung around with her in the first place."

"Miles, stop," Jane whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Look at you!" Miles said. "You actually believe Jane would befriend you if her father hadn’t ask her to?"

Vera shook her head, struggling to comprehend. "What?"

Jane’s face crumpled. “It’s not true, Vera! That’s not how it happened, I swear!”

“Then what’s he talking about?” Vera demanded.

"Just tell her already!" Miles snapped.

Jane’s shoulders shook as she tried to steady herself. “I wrote to my father after the Sorting." She whispered, lowering her head. "I was terrified to tell him I’d ended up in Hufflepuff… so I mentioned you.”

Vera frowned. “Mentioned me how?”

“I thought if he knew you’d been—missorted too, maybe he’d go easier on me. But the next morning, he wrote back and told me to—”

“Told you to what?” Vera pressed, her fury flaring.

Jane’s lips trembled. “To… to be friends with you.”

The words crashed into Vera like ice water. “Why?” 

Jane shook her head helplessly, sobs breaking her speech.

“Why!” 

“Because you’re a Black!” Jane finally screamed it, the truth torn from her throat.

Vera’s blood boiled as if every nerve in her body had caught fire. “That’s it?" She spat. "That’s the only reason you were my friend? Because of my bloody name?”

“Of course,” Miles snickered. “That’s the only reason she—or anyone of us—would bother with you.”

Cassius scoffed. “You might be a Black by name, but you’ll never be one of us.”

Before Vera could open her mouth, Cedric stepped forward, his tone steady and sharp. “That’s enough, Warrington.”

“Stay out of this, Diggory,” Cassius snapped. “She needs to hear the truth.”

Vera’s fists curled tight at her sides. “What truth?” she demanded, her voice raw.

Cassius leaned in, eyes gleaming with malice. “That everything about you is repulsive. At first we thought it was just those mudbloods polluting you," he gestured toward Maddie and Tommy, "but now we know. Your blood’s filthy, just like theirs.”

Vera’s breath caught, fury tangling with the ache in her chest.

“I don’t know how Jane stomached you for as long as she did,” Miles sneered. “Your thoughts are twisted, and your mouth—”

“Disgusting,” Adrian cut in. “You talk like a commoner.”

“And dress like one,” Eudora added coldly, her eyes sweeping over Vera’s worn clothes.

"Even your smell…" Ryu added. "...is different."

Cassius chuckled darkly. "You're nothing but a fraud."

“Has your family disowned you yet?” Adrian said. “They should have, long ago.”

Tears burned at the edges of her eyes, but she fought them back with everything she had.

“You think we haven’t noticed?” Miles pressed on, his voice gleeful now. “You never fly with us. You never cast spells in front of anyone. You skulk about with that lot instead of sticking with your own kind.”

“And let’s not forget the archives,” Cassius sneered. “When you wouldn’t even try the charm. We’ve known since the start of the year. Jane just confirmed it.”

Vera’s chest heaved, disbelief and betrayal stabbing through her like a blade. She turned, her eyes wide, locking onto Jane.

“It was you?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You’re the one who started the rumor?”

“No, Vera!” Jane’s words cracked, desperate. “That’s not what happened!”

"She told us she never saw you use your wand," Miles interrupted coldly. "All that time together, and nothing. We didn’t have to work hard to put the rest together.”

The floor seemed to tilt beneath Vera. “You said that?” Her voice broke as she stared at Jane.

But Jane's silence was all the answer she needed. The sorrow in her eyes hardened into something darker, rage bleeding into her words.

“You’re nothing but a coward, Jane." She hissed. "A pathetic coward. And I fucking pity you.”

Jane recoiled, her sobs shuddering in the icy air. But before she could speak, Miles shoved her behind him, stepping into Vera’s space until his face was inches from hers.

“And you,” he said, “are nothing more than a squib.”

Vera leaned forward, her voice low and furious. “I. Am. Not.”

Miles’s grin spread wide, his eyes glittering with cruel delight. “Then prove it.”

“I don’t have to prove anything to you, Bletchley."

Laughter erupted behind her, sharp and jeering.

“Come on, Black,” Adrian mocked. “Show us a trick. Anything at all.”

“Or are you too scared?” Eudora cooed, her sing-song voice slicing like glass.

Cassius smirked. “Go on, then. Unless, of course… you’re exactly what we say you are.”

Then, twirling his wand with theatrical flair, the snow at his feet shivered, rose in spirals, and shaped itself into a perfect snowman. He dusted his hands smugly and turned back to her. “Your turn, Black. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Vera’s chest constricted, fury and dread clawing at her ribs. “Fine,” she spat.

“Don’t do it, Vee,” Fred warned sharply.

“They’re not worth it!” Tommy echoed, his voice straining with urgency.

But their words barely reached her. The need to prove herself—to silence the sneers, the whispers, the jeers that haunted her every step—roared louder than reason.

She squared her shoulders, jaw tight. “No. I’ll do it.”

Her hand shook as she drew her wand, its familiar weight suddenly alien, as if the wood itself knew she didn’t belong. She leveled it at the snow, breath shallow, every eye in the courtyard fixed on her.

But nothing.

A snicker cut the silence. Then another.

“Squib.”

The word was soft at first, almost playful, but then others joined in, swelling into a chant. “Squib. Squib. Squib.”

Her arm trembled as she slashed her wand through the air again, but the snow didn’t stir.

The chant grew louder, sharper. “Squib! Squib! Squib!”

She gritted her teeth, tears burning the corners of her eyes as she tried again, her whole body taut with desperation.

Still nothing.

Adrian’s laugh cut through the din. “Pathetic! Give it up, Black!”

The voices rose higher, a merciless chorus battering her from all sides. “Squib! Squib! Squib!”

Her wand slipped in her sweaty grip. Her chest heaved. The cold bit into her skin, but all she felt was the suffocating heat of humiliation pressing down, crushing her.

“Squib! Squib! Squib!”

Her vision blurred with tears as her hand clenched around her wand, her fury boiling over until it consumed her. She couldn't bear it anymore. She just couldn't.

With a sudden surge, she raised her wand, eyes blazing as she leveled it at Cassius’s snowman. Then she felt it: a force, raw and unbridled, crackling in her veins. She didn’t think. She let it loose.

A crimson beam erupted from her wand with a hiss, slicing through the frozen air. For a heartbeat, time itself seemed to crawl as the spell tore toward its target, vibrating with a dangerous power.

And then—

Boom.

The snowman exploded in a blinding burst, shards of ice and frost whipping outward like shrapnel. The thunderous blast rolled across the grounds, drowning the air in chaos. Snow and ice pelted the crowd, forcing everyone to shield their faces as shouts and screams rang out.

The Poshlanders stood frozen, their smug sneers wiped clean, replaced by open-mouthed shock. But the rest of the group erupted, their cheers cutting through the storm, applause rising like a wave of disbelief.

Vera barely heard them. The surge that had filled her drained away as fast as it came, leaving only a dizzy fog. Her head throbbed. Heat burned through her body. The world blurred at the edges.

She glanced down at the snow beneath her feet, and that’s when she saw it. A drop of red splattered against the white snow.

Then came another.

And another.

Her wand slipped in her grasp as her knees buckled, and before she could understand, darkness swallowed her whole. 

Chapter Text

“Are you certain, Professor?”

“I’ve never seen anything quite like it. But I’m confident it’s not what we first feared.”

“Could it be only beginning?”

“We mustn’t speculate, Poppy. Best to seek a third opinion. For now…”

The voices stirred Vera from her slumber, yet they seemed distant and reverberant, as if emanating from within her own mind. Attempting to open her eyes proved futile; something enveloped her head and obscured her vision. Her body was numb, suspended between weightlessness and the faintest draw of breath.

A serene tranquility washed over her as the voices dwindled and merged into a singular hum, lulling her back into slumber. When she woke again, she felt careful fingers loosening the cloth that veiled her eyes. Light spilled in, harsh and blinding, and she squinted until the world resolved into the familiar outline of Madam Pomfrey.

“Awake at last?” the matron asked softly, the cloth dangling from her hand.

“…Water,” Vera croaked.

At once, Pomfrey flicked her wand at the empty cup. “Aguamenti.”

Vera forced herself upright and drank greedily, each swallow tasting impossibly new.

“How’s your head?” Pomfrey asked.

“I don’t feel anything.”

“No pain, you mean?”

“I don’t feel… anything.”

“I gave you a stronger dose of willow bark extract. That might explain it.”

Vera blinked around the curtained bed. Beyond, the infirmary glared with sharp daylight. Noon? Later? She couldn’t tell.

“What happened?” Her voice rasped.

“The same thing that struck you over the summer.”

Broken fragments of memory flashed in her mind like smoke: Cassius, Jane, snow, squib… and blood. Too much blood.

“But… I don’t remember,” she whispered.

“Your friends say you obliterated a snowman with a rather powerful spell.”

She pressed her temple, trying to force the images into order, but they slipped away.

“Rest now,” Pomfrey said, already turning toward the ward. “I’ll explain everything in time.”

“No,” Vera interrupted, her voice trembling. “Please, Madam Pomfrey—tell me what’s wrong with me…”

Pomfrey froze mid-step, sympathy flickering across her face before she returned to her side. 

“Professor Dumbledore and I have been studying your case for months now." She said gently. "We suspect… you may be suffering from a kind of blood poisoning.”

“Poisoning?” Vera echoed in disbelief. “What does that mean?”

“It means that your blood appears to be rejecting the magic within it.”

Vera’s mind spun with questions, each thought colliding into the next. “I’m sick… because of magic?”

Pomfrey's calm mask slipped, revealing the weight of the truth she carried. “We’re doing everything we can, Vera. But I won’t lie to you—it’s rare, and terribly complex. We don’t yet understand the full extent.”

A chill coiled through Vera’s spine, sinking deeper with every breath. “How did this happen?” she asked faintly, as if speaking only to herself.

“We don’t know,” Pomfrey admitted softly. “Not yet.”

Vera nodded, though the gesture felt hollow, her body heavy under the press of uncertainty. Her gaze drifted beyond the curtain, where the light of the infirmary carved shifting shadows across the floor. Everything felt dreamlike, grotesquely surreal—like a nightmare spun too finely to escape.

Her eyes dropped to her hands, bare without their usual gloves. The darkened skin seemed starker than ever, her fingers dry and wasted, veins raised like black threads beneath parchment.

“What about my hands?” she asked hoarsely. “Are they like this because of the blood poisoning?”

Pomfrey let out a slow, weary breath. “That’s the missing piece. We believe it’s connected, yes—but the how and why still elude us.”

Vera swallowed, her heart hammering a dreadful rhythm against her ribs.

“Perhaps you can tell me more about them?” Madam Pomfrey prompted gently. “For instance—do they hurt?”

“No,” Vera murmured, her fingers curling into fists, hiding their twisted shape.

“And your head? You said when someone touches your hands, it triggers headaches?”

“Yeah. That’s true.”

“Has this happened often?”

“Only a few times. I always wear gloves so no one notices… and I avoid touching people.”

“Anything else I should know?”

Vera hesitated, and Pomfrey caught it instantly.

“Well?” she pressed,

pausing at the edge of the curtain.

Vera faltered, her mind reeling with fragmented memories she couldn’t pin down. “There’s… something else. I don’t know if it matters.”

Pomfrey returned to her bedside, curiosity sharpening her gaze. “What exactly?”

“It’s probably nothing,” Vera said quickly. “But it’s happened a few times now, and I only realized it recently.”

“Tell me, dear.” Pomfrey leaned closer.

“Someone touched my hand. My matron back home...”

“And?”

“As always, I got the headache. I felt sick. But this time… there was something else.”

Pomfrey’s brow furrowed. “Something else?”

“I don’t know if it was real—or just in my head. Maybe I imagined it. But I think I…” She hesitated, the whisper barely scraping past her lips. “I think I saw inside her mind.”

The room seemed to still. Pomfrey’s face darkened, alarm flickering through her features before she reined it back under control. 

“What exactly do you mean by that, Miss Black?”

Vera caught the faint shift in her tone—discomfort, carefully disguised. Regret pricked at her; perhaps she had been foolish to confess something so strange.

“I only meant…” she faltered, “…I seemed to know something about her. Something she never told me.”

“And are you certain she hadn’t?” 

“I’m certain. It isn’t the kind of thing she’d share with me—or with anyone.”

Pomfrey eased herself onto the edge of the bed. “Tell me more, dear.”

Vera hesitated, unease tightening in her chest. “It’s… private.”

“Then explain how you know it came from her touch.”

“She brushed my hand, and she said a word. Suddenly, I remembered something—but it wasn’t my own memory. It was hers.”

Pomfrey’s brows knit together. “And this memory—was it clear?”

“Not really. Just a flash. Seconds, maybe. But I know it wasn’t mine.”

“How can you be certain?”

“Because I’ve never been there. It was a coffee shop. Moments. I saw the cups with the name on them. She was there with someone—a man. I didn’t recognize him. But I heard her say his name. Doctor Shirley. That’s all I saw.”

Pomfrey’s expression tightened, concern darkening her eyes. “Have you told anyone else about this?”

“No, Madam.”

“Let’s keep it that way.”

The words were quiet but edged with gravity. Vera stared, unnerved by the shadow in Pomfrey’s face. “Is it… is it not normal?” she asked.

“Try to rest,” Pomfrey replied gently, sidestepping the question. “I’ll send you something to eat.”

And with that, she left—leaving Vera to her own thoughts. 

Silence settled over the hospital wing, a somber veil draped across the bed. She closed her eyes, but her mind refused to follow. Questions clawed at her, sharper now, refusing to be silenced. Why had Pomfrey looked at her that way? Why had she insisted on secrecy?

Her thoughts circled back to the worst truth of all: her blood was rejecting magic. The words rang like a curse, dismantling her dreams piece by fragile piece. All she had ever wanted was to be a witch. And now, that future glimmered before her like a mirage—close enough to see, but never to touch.

As despair threatened to pull her under, soft voices drifted through the hush of the curtains.

“She prefers strawberry.”

“Well, I still say we should’ve brought blueberry too—options never hurt.”

“Except she hates blueberry.”

“How would you even know—”

Vera sat up quickly, tugging on her gloves. “Hello?” she called.

The curtains swished open to reveal Alicia and Angelina, their faces lighting up with equal parts relief and concern.

“Vera!” Alicia exclaimed, stepping forward.

“How are you holding up?” Angelina asked.

“I… think I’m okay,” Vera replied, though her voice lacked conviction.

“We were worried sick,” Alicia said.

“Utterly petrified,” Angelina added with a deadpan look.

Vera couldn’t help but smile, but her gaze fell on the familiar purple bag in Alicia’s hand. “Is that… my bag?”

“Of course,” Alicia said proudly. “Madam Pomfrey asked us to bring you some stuff. We grabbed your pajamas, toothbrush, hairbrush, a couple of books, and—most importantly—your stuffed cat.” She presented it with a flourish, as if it were a priceless relic.

“And,” Angelina cut in, placing a plate on the bedside table, “actual food. Because if we left you to the hospital's porridge, you’d waste away in a day.”

Vera chuckled softly, touched. “You two really thought of everything.”

“Please,” Alicia sniffed, tossing her hair. “We’re excellent under pressure.”

“Except when it comes to blueberry muffins,” Angelina muttered.

“Drop it, Angie!”

Vera eagerly pulled Vinny from the bag, clutching the stuffed cat to her chest before setting him beside her like an old friend standing guard. She reached for her hairbrush next, relief washing over her as she dragged it through her tangled hair. The bristles hummed faintly, smoothing out every knot with practiced ease.

“Whoa,” Alicia breathed, eyes wide. “So that’s how your hair always looks perfect.”

“I’d trade my left hand for that brush,” Angelina said, running a hand through her own curls with a sigh.

Vera laughed softly. “You can borrow it anytime.”

“Where’d you get it?” Alicia asked.

“It was a gift. But I think there’s a shop in Diagon Alley that sells them,” she said, a fond smile tugging at her lips as Donnie’s letter flickered in her memory.

“Then I’m saving my allowance,” Alicia declared.

The warmth of the memory lingered as Vera set the brush down. For the first time that day, the heaviness in her chest lifted. She dug into the plate of food the girls had brought, eating as though she hadn’t tasted anything real in weeks.

“So,” she managed between bites, “what happened exactly?”

“You mean when you blew up that snowman?” Angelina asked, her grin already spreading.

“Yeah. I… don’t remember much of it.”

“At first, it was so class,” Alicia said, her voice bubbling with excitement. “You turned that smug little snow fella into a billion bits of ice.”

“You should’ve seen Warrington's face,” Angelina added with relish. “Like somebody had hexed his broom mid-flight.”

Vera chuckled, the thought of wiping the smirk off Cassius’s face soothing her more than the food.

"And then what?" She asked. 

Her friends exchanged a look.

“Then we saw you,” Alicia said, voice quieter now, “and blood was pouring from your nose. Before we could even move, you fell to the ground.”

“There was blood everywhere,” Angelina whispered, grimacing at the memory.

“It was terrifying, Vera,” Alicia said. “We didn’t know what to do.”

“Cedric and Tommy sprinted to get Madam Hooch,” Angelina added, “and Malika cried so hard I thought she’d faint.”

“And when it felt like forever and no one was back yet, Fred and George just… picked you up and carried you here.”

Vera blinked, startled. “They… did?”

“Yeah,” Alicia nodded firmly. “They were the only ones who didn’t freeze.”

“But we’re just glad you’re alright,” Angelina said, her smile softening. “Really, Vee. You scared us. But what happened?"

For a moment, she wanted to spill everything—the poisoning, the way her own body was betraying her—but fear clamped her throat shut. She wasn’t ready. Not yet.

“I’m not really sure,” she admitted quietly.

After bidding farewell to the girls, she was once again enveloped in solitude. The weariness that had burdened her evaporated, leaving her body feeling light. Reaching into her bag, she drew out the books they had left behind, fingertips brushing the familiar cover of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland—her cherished Christmas gift from St. Mary’s.

With eager anticipation, she cracked it open and slipped into Lewis Carroll’s odd, enchanting realm. The words swept her away, and before long, drowsiness crept over her like a soft spell, coaxing her into sleep.

Upon awakening some time later, she found herself bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, its warmth casting shadows against the darkness outside. Gradually regaining her senses, she noticed a chair pulled up beside her, and her eyes widened as she focused on the figure seated there.

“I hope I didn’t disturb your rest,” his calm, familiar voice said.

She jolted upright, heart quickening. “Professor Dumbledore?”

“How are you feeling, Miss Black?” 

“I—I’m well, sir.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” His eyes held hers, kind yet probing, as though measuring truths she had not yet spoken. “Perhaps you already know why I’ve come.”

Her stomach tightened. “Because of… my hands?”

His gaze drifted to the book nestled between her gloved fingers, its bright cover catching the flame’s glow. “Tell me, Vera—do you take comfort in stories?”

“I do,” she admitted softly, “but not the boring ones.”

A twinkle of amusement brightened his expression. “Ah. Then we are alike in that.”

Leaning forward, he took the book with surprising gentleness, his long fingers brushing the worn edges before his eyes settled on the title. “This one,” he said, almost to himself, “was once a favorite of mine. The author—an ordinary Muggle, you know—had an imagination most wizards would envy.”

Her eyes widened. “You’ve read Alice, sir?”

“Indeed,” he said, his voice touched with nostalgia. “There is more magic in that tale than in a hundred spellbooks. But it was Alice herself who stayed with me.”

“How so?”

“She was resilient,” he said simply. “No matter how bizarre, how perilous Wonderland became, she never stopped searching for her way home.”

A sense of understanding dawned on her as she absorbed his words, feeling his warmth emanating through the room. She hadn't expected the renowned headmaster to have such a whimsical side to him. He had always seemed carved from wisdom and mystery, a figure to be revered rather than approached. Yet here he sat, speaking of childhood stories with fondness. Still, her confusion remained. Why was he here?

“Curiously enough,” he said at last, “I have a tale of my own to share.”

“A tale?” she echoed.

"You see, Vera, the origins of magic remain shrouded in mystery,” he began, fingers absently brushing the cover of Alice. “Some insist it is nature’s great dance with humanity. Others call it the work of simple alchemy. But across the centuries, many respected scholars and wizards have arrived at a theory both extraordinary and troubling.”

She leaned closer, caught in his cadence. “What theory?”

“That magic,” he said, “is evolution itself.”

Her brow knitted in confusion, struggling to follow the turn of his thought.

“The idea was not universally embraced,” he continued gently, “yet it birthed dynasties—families who's blood carried not just spells, but the very essence of creatures who walked this earth beside us.”

Her intrigue deepened. “D-dynasties?”

Dumbledore’s smile was faint, almost wistful, as he set the book aside and reached into his robes. From within, he produced a small pouch of lemon drops, offering one before unwrapping another for himself. She accepted, the sharp tang blooming across her tongue as his voice wove on.

“Legends tell of men and women whose blood mingled with that of animals, granting them uncanny gifts. Some could speak with their kin; others mimicked their abilities. The Serpentis were famed for their communion with snakes—their language, their venom, even their healing. The Avior family, bound to birds of prey, saw farther than any wizard alive, could ride the wind with a gesture. And then… there were the Draconis. A line bound to dragons themselves. They commanded fire, communed with beasts, even took on forms that echoed the creatures they revered. For a time, they seemed unbreakable.”

Vera’s pulse quickened as she listened, utterly transported.

“But dynasties rise and fall,” he went on. “Pride, war, or simple fading of their bond reduced most to myth. Their powers waned, their names dissolved into history. All but a few.”

She straightened, unable to contain herself. "Like who?"

Leaning in closer, Dumbledore flicked his fingers, and the candle’s flame shivered. Its shadow stretched across the wall, warping and reshaping until it became a bird—sleek, dark, and alive with movement. Vera’s breath caught as the silhouette flapped, dipped, and wheeled around the chamber. Guided by Dumbledore’s subtle gestures, it soared gracefully before settling on her lap.

For a heartbeat, it seemed real. She felt certain she could feel its weight, hear the rustle of feathers. Tentatively, she reached out, but the moment her fingers brushed the air, the bird unraveled into smoke, curling upward before fading into nothingness.

“The Crow Dynasty,” Dumbledore said at last, his voice breaking the hush.

“Crow?” She echoed, her surprise sharpening the word.

“Unassuming in size, yet unmatched in wit. Families of that lineage possessed a rare affinity for the bird—commanding them, seeing through their eyes, even bending entire flocks to their will. But that alone is not what made them remarkable.”

“Then what was?”

He rose with a slow, fluid motion, hands clasped neatly behind his back as he paced the chamber. “They carried within their bloodline an ability unlike any other—an inheritance the wider wizarding world came to fear.”

Vera leaned forward instinctively. “What kind of ability?”

After a long silence, he circled back to her bedside, lowering himself onto the edge of the mattress. "Psychometry."

Vera blinked, struggling to make sense of the word. “What does that mean, sir?”

“An untraceable magic,” he explained quietly, “rare beyond measure. For most wizards, such mastery takes decades of grueling study. But for the crows… For them, it was instinct. Inherited, passed down through their lineage, making them formidable beyond measure.”

“What sort of magic is it, then?” 

Dumbledore’s hand stroked his beard, his voice dropping lower. “It is a magic that allows one to glean truths about others. Some practiced it through Legilimency—the reading of minds. Others through Clairvoyance, glimpsing events beyond the present. And a rare few—through Clairtangency...”

Vera’s breath caught.

“…physical touch."

Her eyes widened, her heartbeat thundering in her chest. She struggled to steady her shaking hands, her mind racing to comprehend the weight of his words.

“Through a simple touch,” Dumbledore continued, rising from the bed and returning to his chair, “the crows could unlock secrets, peer into memories, and unearth truths hidden deep within another’s mind.”

“Like me…” she whispered, disbelief threading her voice.

“Like you,” he confirmed. “You are Clairtangent, Vera.”

Her lips trembled. “B-but… how, sir?”

“The Crow Dynasty,” he said, his fingers steepling thoughtfully, “originated from three founding families. Two of those—Odam and Yancer—have long since vanished. Their bloodlines are no more.”

“And the third?” she asked, a tremor of anticipation in her tone.

“The third rose above the rest,” he said quietly. “For over a century, they held sway over the wizarding world, their mastery of Psychometry cementing both power and fear. They wielded their gifts as both sword and shield, shaping society to their will. That house… is the House of—”

“Black,” Vera breathed, realization dawning like a lightning strike.

Dumbledore met her gaze, his expression gentle but unwavering. “Yes. The House of Black.”

Vera sank into a heavy silence, her thoughts spinning in a chaotic storm. She had always known her family wielded power and influence—but now she understood how they had achieved it.

Mrs. Wriggleshore’s words echoed sharply in her mind:

“…They had their ways of pulling secrets from people—secrets that could ruin them.”

The realization that she carried the same abilities—abilities that had once brought suffering upon others—filled her with a cold dread. She had once believed she could distance herself from her family’s legacy, perhaps even escape it entirely. Now, confronted with the truth, she saw that it was woven into her very blood, an inescapable part of her.

“But…I don’t want to be like my family!” she cried, her voice trembling. “I don’t want to hurt anyone…”

Dumbledore regarded her with quiet compassion, his eyes reflecting understanding rather than judgment. “We do not have the luxury of choosing our heritage, Vera,” he said softly. “But we do have the power to shape the path we walk.”

“Please, Professor! Help me… help me get rid of this,” she pleaded, her voice choked with emotion. “There has to be a way—there has to be a cure!”

His gaze remained steady, warm but firm. “Though we suspect your condition may be linked to the blood poisoning, your gift is not a disease.”

Vera blinked through her tears, confusion clouding her features. “I… don’t understand, sir. What do you mean?”

“When your body attempted to reject the magic, it inadvertently strengthened it. The psychometric abilities you possess are a manifestation of your inherited traits—not a sickness. But it is not something we can remove or undo.”

“I… I don’t understand,” she whispered, voice trembling. “How can this be…?”

“It is indeed a complex situation, especially for someone your age. Yet you are not just any child, Vera. What you have endured, what you continue to endure, demonstrates a resilience most cannot claim.”

His words settled over her like a balm, though unease still knotted in her chest. Finally, she ventured the question that had been clawing at her mind. “Does this mean… I’m a crow?”

Dumbledore’s expression hardened. “I cannot say for certain, Vera.”

“You said my family could control crows?” 

“Controlling crows is considered the rarest and most difficult form of ancient magic. Even being born into the Crow Dynasty with psychometric abilities does not guarantee mastery. Only a select few ever achieved it. The link has weakened over the centuries, and no one has been born with the gift in a long time.”

“But… if I could control them, what would it mean for me?”

“It would mean you carry a singular heritage, one with extraordinary potential. But even if the crows do not obey, you possess a gift few can claim. A gift… that must be kept hidden.”

“Hidden?” she echoed, confusion knitting her brows.

“It is not your fault that you are Clairtangent, Vera. But psychometry, in all its forms, is forbidden by law.”

She swallowed. “What would happen if people found out?”

“Curiosity would turn to concern,” he said carefully, “but you must not dwell on that. Keep your gift concealed, and you will be safe.”

His gaze drifted to her hands. “Continue to wear gloves. And if anyone questions you, simply say it is none of their concern.” A twinkle of mischief lit his eyes as he winked, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Vera managed a tentative smile in return, still dazed but comforted by his words. She resolved to follow his advice, though a knot of apprehension lingered in her chest.

As he rose to leave, she summoned the courage to ask one final question. “What about my condition, sir? Why does my body reject magic?”

He paused, regarding her with calm intensity. “Your blood poisoning is indeed a mystery,” he acknowledged. “But it is one we are capable of solving. Rest assured, Vera, we will find the answer.”

Friday, Jan 12, 1990

The next morning, Madam Pomfrey finally released Vera from her clutches, though not without a stern lecture about avoiding unsupervised spellcasting. Vera bit back a laugh—hardly a problem, since flinging sparks at random wasn’t exactly on her to-do list. She nodded solemnly anyway, wearing the kind of polite smile one reserves for overprotective aunts.

She was also informed that a professor would be assisting her in daily wand practices to enhance her skills— a prospect that both intrigued and daunted her. Despite the challenges ahead, she resolved to heed Professor Dumbledore's advice and view her abilities as a gift rather than a curse.

With that resolve came another: to hold her people closer. After nearly dying in front of them, she figured they’d earned it.

Her first stop after the hospital wing was the kitchen, where, with a little house-elf assistance, she concocted something worthy of thanks. By breakfast, she appeared at the Gryffindor table carrying a box like it was a treasure chest.

“Hey, everyone!” she announced brightly.

“VERA!” George cried, while Malika was up and hugging her before she could blink.

“We were so worried!” Fred said.

“We thought you died!” Lee declared with tragic gusto.

“How are you feeling now?” Kenny asked.

“I’m okay,” Vera said, grinning as she sat down. “And I brought proof that I lived.”

She slid the box onto the table and nudged it toward the twins.

Fred’s eyebrows shot up. “What’s this?”

“Alicia and Angie told me you two carried me to the hospital wing. I imagine that was like carrying a sack of wet flobberworms, so… these are for you.”

The twins tore open the box in perfect synchronization.

“WOAH,” they chorused.

Lee and the others leaned in to catch a glimpse of the mysterious gift, their expressions mirroring the twins' astonishment.

“You made these?” George demanded, awe in his voice.

“I did,” she replied smugly.

Inside lay two oversized cookies, each painted in sugary detail with the freckled face of the red-haired twins.

"Hold on!" she interjected as they reached for them, then quickly switched the treats so that each matched the twin seated at the table.

"This one is for you," she said, handing the first cookie to Fred, "and this one is for you," she added, passing the second to George.

George held his cookie up beside his face. “Blimey, she nailed it! Look, Fred—she even got my nose!”

“Thank you, Vera,” Fred said, genuinely touched. “But these are works of art. We’re never eating them.”

“NEVER!” George echoed, clutching his cookie portrait like it might be snatched away.

Vera chuckled as they proudly paraded their sugary doppelgängers up and down the Gryffindor table, letting everyone admire the cookies before vowing again, very loudly, that they would never eat them. She couldn’t help catching glances from Felix and Charlie down the table—Charlie gave her a warm, approving smile, while Felix, true to their recent truce, kept his expression politely unreadable.

She let it go. Today wasn’t for brooding, it was for belonging.

And as Lee launched into an over-the-top retelling of the snowman fiasco—complete with sound effects—and Kenny gleefully caught her up on every scrap of gossip she’d missed, Vera leaned into the laughter. The heaviness of recent days lifted, if only for a while, and she let the comfort of her friends wrap around her like a blanket.

“Mail’s here!” Malika announced suddenly, pointing skyward as the owls swept into the hall.

Usually, Vera ignored the flurry of wings and feathers. Post wasn’t for her; it never had been. Which was why her jaw nearly dropped when a small parcel landed directly in front of her plate.

She stared at the name scrawled neatly on the label: hers. Definitely hers. Her hands trembled slightly as she untied the string and lifted the lid. Inside lay three pairs of gloves, each more beautiful than anything she’d ever owned—delicate stitching, soft wool, warm colors. Nestled among them was a folded slip of paper.

She smoothed it open, her heart tripping over itself.

Dear Vera,

Always follow the white rabbit. 

Chapter Text

Thursday, February 1, 1990

The heavy oak door groaned open, as though protesting Vera’s arrival. She slipped inside the office, the smell of damp parchment, bitter herbs, and judgment, choking her senses. 

“Late, Miss Black.” came a silky drawl from behind the desk.

“Sorry, Professor.” 

So much for her excitement over extra wand practice—one glance at her instructor had smothered it like a wet rag on fire. Potions with Snape was one thing; spells, apparently, were another breed of misery entirely.

“We will refine your Lumos charm today,” he announced, leaving less room for negotiation than the laws of gravity.

Vera nodded, clutching her wand. She inhaled, squared her shoulders, and tried: “Lumos!”

Her wand flickered like a dying firefly before giving up altogether.

“I’ll—uh—try again, Professor.”

“Do make haste. I’d hate for the century to end before you succeed.”

She bit her lip, steadied her breath, and tried once more. “Lumos!”

This time, the glow held, a stubborn little ember.

“I did it!” she blurted. “It’s not much, but—”

“Correct. It is not much,” Snape cut in. “Do spare us the self-congratulation until you achieve something worth celebrating.”

Her triumph shriveled, but something else took its place—something hotter, more determined. 

“LUMOS!”

The wand blazed brighter, and she beamed. “There! Better!”

Snape’s lip curled. “Better, yes. Adequate? No. As always, your focus is lacking. Again.”

She cast once more, the light steady now, and again, each spark a little fiercer than the last.

“AGAIN!” He barked, his voice cracking through the room like a whip.

And she obeyed—not because he demanded it, but because, for the first time, she wanted to outshine his scorn. But the exercise was grinding her down like sandpaper on raw skin. Her head throbbed, her stomach churned, and the air felt heavy enough to crush her ribs.

“I… I feel sick, Professor,” she rasped, her voice thin.

“You’ll feel sick whether you cast or not. Again.”

Something inside her broke loose then—anger, exhaustion, sheer bloody stubbornness. She raised her wand with shaking hands and roared, “LUMOS MAXIMA!”

Light exploded from the tip, not a glow but a sunburst, flooding every shadow in the room. The walls flared white, the air burned gold, and Snape actually recoiled, squinting as if daylight itself had stormed his office.

Vera’s chest heaved. A triumphant grin tugged at her lips—until a warm trickle of blood slid over them.

Snape extended a napkin with the delicacy of someone offering poison. “That will do for today,” he said coolly.

With a blood-stained cloth pressed to her nose, Vera trudged through the corridors, each step sending another throb ricocheting through her skull. The trek from Snape’s dungeon office to the hospital wing stretched on like some cruel endurance trial designed by wizards who had clearly never heard of lifts.

“This castle is too bloody big,” she muttered, wheezing as she mounted yet another staircase.

Headaches, nosebleeds, the daily cardio—she was starting to accept them as part of her new routine. Almost welcome them, even. Because each wand practice brought with it the single bright spot in her miserable existence: Willow Bark.

“Hello, Madam!” she sang upon staggering into the hospital wing.

Madam Pomfrey didn’t bother with small talk, simply slid the vial across with the weary efficiency of someone dealing with a frequent flier. Vera seized it, tipped it back in one gulp, and nearly gagged at the taste.

But oh, the relief. The pain dissolved, slipping away like ink in water. Then came the sweet, heady rush.

Suddenly the torchlight gleamed like treasure, her stomach rumbled in eager anticipation of food that would surely taste divine, and even the warbling off-key lute from a nearby portrait struck her as… charming.

By the time she left, her head was light, her body buoyant. She wasn’t walking through the castle anymore—she was gliding, drifting, blissfully unbothered, as though pain had only ever been a bad dream.

“Vera!” Maddie’s voice barely pierced the din of the Hufflepuff table.

“Vera…”

“Vera.”

“VERA!”

Vera jerked upright, blinking. “Huh?”

“Are you even listening to me?” Maddie demanded.

“Absolutely,” Vera said with a grin far too confident to be believable.

Maddie narrowed her eyes. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”

“Doing what?”

“Zoning out mid-conversation. Like your brain just takes a holiday without telling the rest of us.”

“Sorry, Mads.” Vera reached for a crisp, holding it aloft with sudden excitement. “But look! Doesn’t this crisp look exactly like Hagrid?”

Cedric leaned over. “Uh… no?”

“You’ve got to squint. Reeeeaaaally hard.”

Tommy squinted at it, then gasped. “Wait—I think I see it! The beard! It’s the beard!”

“It’s literally just fried potato,” Maddie groaned. “I don’t know why I even try with you lot.”

Vera popped the Hagrid-esque crisp into her mouth. “Relax, Mads. We’ve got time. Sarah’s birthday isn’t for another month.”

“Exactly! Only a month, and I still haven’t found her the perfect gift!”

“Easy,” Tommy said through a smirk. “Get her something dead posh.”

Maddie snorted. “Sarah’s the least posh person I know.”

“Yeah, she’d hex a diamond necklace just to make a point,” Vera added, laughing. “Speaking of—where is she?”

Maddie sighed. “Last I saw, she was buried under a pile of chocolate frogs, muttering something about ‘immortalizing the taste in her soul,’ then promptly passed out.”

Cedric nodded. “Checks out.”

“That’s it!" Tommy piped up. "Get her a mountain of chocolate frogs. You can definitely afford it...”

“It’s not about the money, Tommy. It’s about being meaningful.”

“Chocolate is meaningful!” Tommy insisted, spraying mashed potato across the table.

“Don’t stress,” Vera said lazily. “We’ve got ages to figure it out.”

“Yeah, totally,” Tommy agreed, still chewing. “What’d you even get for your birthday, Vee?”

“Just the usual—school junk,” she said with a shrug. “My matro—uh, aunt—got me a bag, and a family friend sent a painting set.”

“When is your birthday again?” Maddie asked, flipping open her notebook.

“August twenty-third.”

"Leo?" Cedric asked.

"Virgo." She corrected, a smug smile on her face.

Maddie scribbled furiously. “Right. Noted.”

Vera raised an eyebrow. “Are you… taking notes on gift-giving?”

“Obviously. I’m not leaving these things to chance.”

“Well, in that case, I’ll take chocolate,” Vera said with a grin. “Preferably by the mountain.”

As Maddie scribbled down birthdays like a detective compiling evidence, Vera’s gaze strayed to the Slytherin table. 

“Lost my bloody appetite ,” she muttered, shoving her plate away.

The others followed her line of sight, all landing on the arrival of the Poshlanders, accompanied by their newest recruit, Jane.

“She’s practically welded to Bletchley now,” Tommy sneered. “You’d think she was his shadow.”

“She may as well drag a sleeping bag into our common room,” Maddie added, rolling her eyes. “She’s always there, clingin' to him like a bad smell.”

Cedric turned to Vera. "Are you upset that you’re not friends with her anymore?”

She snorted. “Please. Couldn’t give less of a toss. She was only pretending for her dad’s sake, and I was daft enough to fall for it. Absolute mug, me.”

“Oi, don’t,” Tommy nudged her. “She’s not worth the aggro.”

“She’s a hypocrite,” Vera shot back. “Should’ve clocked it sooner.”

“She was always snippy with me,” Maddie chimed in with a pout.

“And when I called her on it, she flat-out said we should all stick to our own kind.”

“That’s a load of codswallop." Cedric frowned. "How people still think like that is beyond me.”

“No kiddin’. I’m embarrassed I ever considered her a friend.” 

“Well, better to clock it now than later,” Maddie said warmly. “And at least you two—” she nodded between Vera and Cedric “—don’t buy into that rubbish.”

“This whole blood supremacy nonsense is bollocks,” Vera said firmly.

“Too right,” Cedric agreed.

“Did she try talking to you after… y’know, the whole thing?” Tommy asked.

“Nope. Acts like I don’t exist.” Vera’s tone was brittle, her fork stabbing at her plate. “They all do. Well—except Avery.”

Cedric’s brow lifted. “What about Avery?”

“We sit together in Frey’s class. Hard to ignore me when I’m right there.”

His jaw clenched. “Does he bother you?”

“Obviously,” Vera said with a dramatic eye-roll. “He’s still the same smug prat who thinks he’s Merlin’s gift to the wizarding world. But no—he hasn’t called me names or brought up the incident. Not yet, anyway.”

“Maybe they feel guilty,” Maddie said.

Vera let out a sharp laugh. “Guilty? Them? Not a chance.”

“They might! They looked proper rattled when you fainted. Especially Avery.”

“Yeah—rattled they’d get blamed,” Vera shot back.

“I dunno,” Cedric said slowly. “They seemed genuinely worried.”

“Doubt it,” Vera muttered, folding her arms like a fortress.

Tommy leaned in. “Nah, I reckon they were gutted you proved them wrong. That whole ‘squib’ rubbish they threw at you? Done. And then you went and cast a spell they couldn’t dream of touching.”

“Exactly!” Vera huffed. "They think I’m some kind of a fake, and that you lot polluted me with ‘impure’ ideas. They don’t actually care about me.”

Maddie sighed. “Yeah… you’re probably right.”

“Hey, you feeling better?” Cedric asked, his voice threaded with concern. “Patty said she saw you in the hospital wing yesterday.”

“Oh.” Vera hesitated, her usual armor slipping for just a beat. “Yeah, that was nothing. Just a stomach ache. Like I told you before, Pomfrey thinks I fainted from stress and the cold.”

“So… it won’t happen again, right?”

“Course not,” she said quickly, flashing a smile that looked braver than it felt. Her eyes, however, flickered with doubt.

“Good.” Cedric's expression softened. “We just want to make sure you’re alright.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded, holding the smile in place like a fragile charm she didn’t dare drop.

The days slipped by, and her magic crawled along at the speed of a limping snail. She could manage the basics now—simple charms that fizzled into existence—though they never came without the usual encore of headaches and nosebleeds.

Only the staff knew the truth about her blood poisoning. To the rest of the castle, it simply looked like Vera Black had struck gold: no spellcasting in class, no chance of collapsing mid-duel, no singed eyebrows from misfired jinxes. Some whispered about “special treatment.” Others downright envied it.

But she knew better. Her “privilege” was nothing more than being benched for everyone else’s safety. And she was determined to keep it that way, her secret under lock and key, safe from ridicule.

So when Frey’s lessons turned practical, she stayed rooted in her chair. While the others hurled spells like fireworks at a festival, she sat serenely, the picture of restraint… or, as Tommy muttered, “like she was about to knit a scarf in the middle of a duel.”

Ryu, of course, thrived in the chaos. He reigned supreme in Defense Against the Dark Arts, basking in the glow of “top student” as though it were his birthright. Smugness practically strutted beside him as he returned to their shared desk—where Vera, as usual, had abandoned note-taking in favor of doodling across the wood grain.

“You’re defacing school property,” he said flatly, eyes narrowing at her work.

“I’m turning it into a masterpiece,” she replied without looking up.

“By ruining it?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to recognize brilliance, Avery. But when I’m England’s most famous artist, this desk will fetch millions at auction.”

“Millions of sickles, maybe. And that’s assuming someone wants a desk covered in dead cats.”

“They’re abstract, you uncultured swine!"

“They look like a troll used them as a chew toy.”

“Take. That. Back.” She jabbed her quill in his direction. “And tell me again why you’re speaking to me? I thought my smell offended your noble nostrils.”

“I never said it was offensive,” Ryu scoffed. “Just… different.”

“Ah, yes. Different. The polite cousin of ‘repulsive.’”

He fell silent, watching her doodle with something that almost looked like hesitation. His eyes, usually brimming with smug superiority, now carried a strange weight, like he was summoning courage.

“I’m… sorry, by the way,” he said finally, softer, almost earnest.

Vera paused, looking up in surprise. An apology from him—or any Poshlander—was rarer than a fire in a snowstorm. 

“Whatever, Avery,” she muttered, rolling her eyes and returning to her doodles. “I don’t care what you lot think.”

“But… you didn’t tell your aunt what we said, did you?”

Vera blinked. Classic. She had half expected sincerity, but of course, he was worried about himself.

“Ohhh, that’s why you’re apologizing. Afraid my aunt will write to your parents and get you grounded for the summer?”

“No! That’s not it,” Ryu sputtered, a hint of panic creeping into his voice. “I mean it. We never should’ve—well, you know. We were just—”

“Just what?”

“Confused.”

“Confused?” She arched an eyebrow. “About what? How to use your brain?”

“About why you never cast spells in class.”

She shrugged, keeping her face carefully neutral. “You know why, Avery.”

“No, actually, I don’t.”

Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she turned fully to him. “It’s because my magic is so powerful… I’d blow you all to bits if I tried.”

He blinked. “Wait—come again?”

She leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “Picture it—your blood spattering the walls, poor Filch mopping up the mess, Mrs. Norris licking the rest from the floor…”

Ryu froze, pale as parchment.

She was deadly serious for a beat longer… and then she burst out laughing. “Relax! I’m joking. Or… am I?”

He exhaled sharply. “Merlin, you’re impossible.”

“Maybe. But now that I’ve properly freaked you out… what was it you wanted again?”

“The truth,” he said cautiously, still keeping an eye on her.

“You reeeeally want to know?”

“Obviously.”

“Alright, then.” She beckoned him closer with a sly tilt of her head.

Hesitating, he leaned in.

“Closer,” she whispered, eyes sparkling with mischief.

He leaned further, cheeks flushing pink at how close he was.

She cupped her hand around his ear and, in a conspiratorial whisper, said: “None of your fucking business.”

Ryu jerked back, caught between exasperation and embarrassment, while Vera shot him a wicked grin, flicked him off, and casually returned to her doodles.

“Vulgar,” he muttered, rubbing his ear.

“Yep,” she replied cheerfully. “But at least my cats look better than you.”

Wednesday, February 14, 1990

“What’s with everyone today?” Vera asked, sliding onto the Gryffindor bench and eyeing the Great Hall as if it had suddenly caught a contagious illness.

“Valentine’s,” Angelina groaned, brutally spearing her eggs. “Utter rubbish, if you ask me.”

“I think it’s class,” Alicia sighed dreamily, practically melting into her toast.

Angelina shot her a look. “Yeah, you would. Still swooning over that blue rose your boyfriend got you?”

Alicia sat up straighter, face instantly pink. “Catch yourself on! Tommy’s just a mate.”

“Mm-hm. Because mates are always handing each other roses. Funny, though—none of us got one.”

“It doesn’t mean anything!” Alicia hissed, but her blush had deepened to a full scarlet signal flare.

“Oi, check that out!” Kenny cut in, jerking his finger at the Slytherin table.

Every head turned. Sure enough, a mountain of enchanted green roses was threatening to smother Eudora, who looked delighted at being buried alive in foliage.

Angelina groaned. "Ugh..."

“Even the older Slytherins are at it!” Alicia muttered, souring instantly.

“Where are they even getting all those roses?” Vera asked, genuinely baffled.

“Greenhouses,” Percy called over from where he sat with Oliver. “They’re charmed to grow roses on Valentine’s.”

“Professor Sprout despises it,” Oliver added with a grin.

“Can’t blame her,” Angelina sniffed. “Her poor plants getting wrecked by all this sloppy romance. Honestly—flowers deserve better.”

As the Gryffindors kept nibbling and snarking about Slytherin’s leafy circus, Maddie strutted in, clutching a massive bouquet of roses so colorful it looked like she’d mugged Cupid on the way in.

“Happy Valentine’s, darlings!” she beamed.

“Even you, Mads?” Angelina gawked, eyeing the bouquet.

"What, these? Oh, please. Not for me—these are for you!”

She began distributing roses down the table like a benevolent flower queen. One by one, her friends accepted them, the sarcasm melting into genuine smiles.

“Merlin’s beard, Mads,” Angelina said, momentarily sincere. “That’s sweet of you.”

“Cheers, Mads,” Vera added, twirling a purple rose and trying not to grin too much.

A pink blush crept into Maddie’s cheeks, though she masked it quickly with another radiant smile as she plopped down among them.

“Well, well, well,” Fred’s voice chimed as he and George slid onto the bench. “What have we here?”

George arched an eyebrow. “Valentines for us, Maddie?”

“Obviously,” Maddie teased, handing them two golden roses.

The twins, for once, were robbed of words—though not color, as both promptly turned Gryffindor-red.

“Brilliant!” Fred managed, clutching his rose like a trophy.

George, however, wasn’t so easily distracted. His eyes were already roaming the hall. “Er—seen Malika anywhere?”

Angelina leaned in. “Why the sudden interest?”

“No reason,” George said too quickly, fiddling with his rose.

“She’s with Cedric,” Maddie cut in, her tone sharper than before. “He just showered her with pink roses, if you can believe it.”

“Bloody hell…” George muttered, sinking a little lower on the bench.

“Best get in line, Georgie,” Vera quipped, only to be immediately walloped in the face by a flying sausage.

“Got any love letters tucked away for you, Percy?” Fred asked, flashing his older brother a sly grin.

Percy adjusted his glasses. “Not yet. The owls are clearly delayed. As for you two…”

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe the fan mail,” Fred boasted, puffing up like a peacock.

“Drowning in chocolate, too,” George added solemnly.

Percy snorted. “The only thing you’re drowning in is your own delusion.”

“What about you, Charlie?” Alicia piped up, turning to where he was half-hidden behind his newspaper.

Charlie blinked, caught off guard. “What about me?”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” she pressed.

The twins exploded with laughter so loud half the table turned.

“Charlie?” George wheezed. “With a girlfriend?”

“You’re more likely to spot a unicorn taking Arithmancy,” Fred cackled.

Charlie ignored them, offering Alicia a mild smile. “No. Between classes and Quidditch, there’s not much room for… that sort of thing.”

Percy, never missing a beat, leaned in. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s practically the school’s heartthrob.”

“Every girl in Hogwarts has probably penned him a poem by now,” George said with mock envy.

Fred smirked. “And I’d bet a galleon someone’s tried slipping him a love potion.”

Charlie rolled his eyes and went back to his paper. His brothers’ antics barely registered, though Vera could see why the girls swooned—easily the most handsome of the lot, and with an effortless confidence that didn’t need boasting.

As the twins persisted in their banter, her eyes caught sight of the headline on the front page of his newspaper.

Wizarding Chronicle

Lucius Malfoy Appointed as Fudge’s Legal Advisor

Are the "Six" Taking Over? Hugh Blackwood investigates the sudden shift in power at the Ministry

"Hey Charlie,” She said, her curiosity piqued. “What's the 'Six'?"

Charlie rotated his newspaper to read the headline. "Oh, they're an unofficial political party. Comprised of the families who survived the Red Dinner."

"The... Red Dinner?"

"It was a massacre that happened a few years back. The six families who suffered losses on that night banded together, forming an alliance to prevent such an event from recurring."

She leaned closer, suddenly intrigued. "Which families?" 

"If memory serves me right, Malfoy, Flint, Yaxley, Parkinson, Nott, and Rowle."

"But what actually happened during the Red Dinner?"

"Many members of those families lost their lives." 

"How?”

“It’s a complicated and long story, Vera. Nobody’s really sure what happened that night, but it was certainly bloody.”

While she mulled over his words, a storm of owls swooped in, scattering feathers and parcels across the tables.

“Here we go,” Angelina muttered darkly.

Around them, students ripped into letters and sweets with the frenzy of a Honeydukes raid. Vera, however, stayed calm, sipping her juice—until a small, square package landed in front of her.

“What’s that?” Kenny leaned over, eyes glinting with curiosity.

“I don’t know." Vera frowned, turning the package over in her hands. "No name on it.” 

Fred’s grin spread like wildfire. “Looks like someone’s got a secret admirer…”

“Ooooooh,” George chimed in, leaning so far he nearly tipped into her porridge.

“Well, go on then!” Alicia urged, practically bouncing in her seat.

Vera’s stomach fluttered as she carefully peeled back the wrapping. Inside was a velvet jewelry box, small and elegant. Her hands trembled slightly as she flicked it open—then her face broke into a wide smile.

“What is it?” Angelina asked, half out of her seat.

Kenny craned his neck. “Earrings. Shaped like…”

“A cat!” Vera said, grinning.

With a spark of excitement, she plucked the earrings from their box and fastened them onto her ears. She opened her mouth to say something witty—then froze, her eyes turning comically wide.

“BLIMEY!” she yelped.

Angelina and Alicia jumped in unison. “What?!”

“They’re talking,” Vera blurted, darting her gaze around the hall as if expecting to catch someone playing a prank. “I can hear them!”

“No chance,” Kenny said, leaning dangerously close to her ear like he might overhear them himself.

“I swear!” Vera insisted. “They’re… they’re complimenting me! My hair, my eyes—they just called me radiant!”

Alicia squealed. “That’s so class!”

Charlie peeked over his newspaper. “Charmed earrings. Clever enchantment, actually.”

“But who sent them?” Kenny pressed.

“I don’t know,” Vera whispered, fingers brushing the tiny silver cats as though they might give her the answer. “I… honestly don’t know.”

Wednesday, March 14, 1990

For weeks she fretted over the talking-cat earrings, wearing them like a tiny, flattering secret. Their compliments were a constant hum behind everything she did, a private chorus that made ordinary days feel less gray. Then March loomed, and with it a bigger problem: Sarah’s birthday, and a gift that had gone spectacularly sideways.

“I NEED YOUR HELP!” She bellowed across the Gryffindor common room.

Fred and George looked up from a suspiciously large pile of schematics.

“Blimey, slow down!” Fred said. “Right—what’s exploded now?”

“It’s a long one. Filch. His office. Right now!”

George grinned. "Sounds promising. Spill.”

"Oh, it's a bloody mess," she groaned, flopping onto the nearest couch. "Maddie and I had this plan to get something for Sarah that she's been wanting forever."

"Aha, I think I see where this is going," George said with a knowing grin.

"It's this rare beetle with proper shiny green wings.”

“I take that back.”

“Sarah’s been banging on about it, saying there’s one in Hogwarts somewhere, but she’s never had any luck finding it.”

“That’s a bonkers present,” Fred remarked with a chuckle.

She shrugged. “It’s Sarah, what can I say?”

"Fair play." the twins agreed.

“We hunt for days, and finally spot one by Hagrid’s hut. We catch it in a jar. Everything’s perfect.”

Fred clapped his hands together. “Birthday miraculously sorted. Lovely.”

“Then Maddie trips. The jar drops. Beetle bolts. Chaos, obviously.”

“What's Filch got to do with this mess?” George asked.

“We chased after the beetle, but that bloody bitch Mrs. Norris nabbed it!”

Fred howled. “That cat! I hate that cat!”

“Honestly, I wanted to boot her into next week."

“Did you?” Fred asked, eyes glittering with mischief.

"Well, sort of..." she confessed, blushing slightly. "Accidentally!" 

George chuckled. “Alicia would call that ‘class’, I suppose.” 

"We got the beetle back into the jar but Filch caught us with Mrs. Norris. I swear down these two could communicate telepathically or something. He knew I kicked her, so he went off his rocker, swore at us, and confiscated the beetle as punishment!"

"And that’s why you want to break into his office?"

“Sarah’s birthday is tomorrow. I’ve got nothing else and I can’t let her down.”

Fred and George exchanged a look that said they’d been born for this exact emergency.

“Don’t fret, Vee,” George said, clapping a hand on her shoulder with theatrical confidence. “You’ve come to the right people.”

With a mix of nerves and excitement, the trio embarked on their daring mission, their footsteps echoing softly in the dimly lit corridors. As they reached the door to Filch’s lair, Vera’s heart pounded with anticipation.

“Alohomora!” Fred whispered confidently, and the door swung open with an ominous groan.

The office was a chaos of confiscated trinkets, moldy files, and lurking shadows.

“Right,” Vera whispered. “I’ll check the desk. You two—drawers.”

She set to work immediately, sifting through towers of parchment, her eyes sharp for the glint of glass. The twins, however, were instantly distracted. 

“Merlin’s beard, Georgie…" Fred pulled open a drawer and gasped. "It’s like Christmas morning in here.”

“Look at all this junk,” George breathed, lifting out a trick wand that emitted pink smoke. “Absolute treasure trove.”

“Oi! Focus!” Vera hissed, casting them a fierce glare. “We’re not looting the place, we’re rescuing one beetle.”

But her own breath caught as her eyes locked on a familiar green shimmer. Nestled among parchment rolls, half-hidden, was the jar.

“Got it,” she whispered, reaching for it. 

“Check this out, Vee!” Fred called, waving her over.

She groaned. “You two are going to get us killed.” But curiosity tugged her anyway. 

She padded over, eyes narrowing at the drawer of oddities: a biting yo-yo, a shriveled deck of Exploding Snap cards, and wedged in the corner, a scrap of parchment.

The moment she unfolded it, faint footsteps shimmered across the surface, then vanished like mist.

“Did you see that?” she whispered.

Fred squinted. “See what?”

“There—footsteps!”

And as if on cue, another set appeared, skittering across the parchment before blinking out of existence.

George let out a low whistle. “There they go. Proper weird.”

“It’s enchanted,” Fred muttered. “Got to be. Some kind of tracking spell, maybe?”

Before they could delve into the mystery, the sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway outside.

“We’ve got to scram!” Vera hissed, yanking the twins toward the door.

With one last reluctant glance at the glittering hoard of confiscated treasures, the three slipped out of Filch’s office and into the corridor.

Back in the common room, they sprawled out on the rug, the magical parchment spread between them in the lantern’s glow. Fred and George tapped and prodded it, muttering half-baked theories, but after several failed charms and fizzles of sparks, they gave up.

“Probably just a dud,” George concluded with a shrug. “Old spell parchment that’s lost its magic.”

Vera wasn’t so sure. Something about it thrummed with possibility, as though it were waiting. After bidding the twins goodnight, she slipped the parchment into her pocket and carried it up to the dormitory.

Later, tucked beneath her blanket, she clutched it tightly. Vinny, her stuffed cat, leaned against the pillow beside her, his stitched eyes watching as if he too were waiting.

“What do you think, Vinny?” she whispered. “Should we give it a try?”

She leaned closer to the parchment, voice low and steady.

“Reveal hidden secrets,” she breathed. “Show me the truth.”

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the parchment rippled, its faded script writhing like ink coming alive. Letters bled into one another, swirled, and stretched into new shapes.

But then, the words stilled, forming a sharp and clear sentence.

What is your name?

Vera hesitated for a moment, unsure why the parchment would need her name. But something inside her urged her to trust it.

"My name is Vera," she whispered. “Vera Black.”

As soon as the words left her lips, the parchment reacted in a way she never could have anticipated. The script shifted once more, but this time, it formed a message that sent shivers down her spine.

Greetings, Kindred spirit... Padfoot says ‘Hello’

Her mind raced with questions. What did it mean? And who was Padfoot? But before she could ponder further, the words began to rearrange themselves again.

To reveal our secret, You must solemnly swear that you are up to no good.

Her eyes widened in astonishment, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Without a moment's hesitation, she murmured, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

As the incantation left her lips, the parchment underwent a miraculous transformation. Letters and drawings materialized on its surface, unfolding a scene that left her breathless. Before her very eyes, the image of Hogwarts Castle emerged, its majestic towers and winding corridors depicted in intricate detail. And beneath the grand illustration, a bold title proclaimed:

Messrs.

MOONY, WORMTAIL, PADFOOT & PRONGS

are proud to present

THE MARAUDER'S MAP

Chapter Text

Sunday, April 1, 1990

“Again, Black.”

“I think I’m going to be sick, professor…”

“Then try not to do it on my floor.”

“But I can’t help it!”

“That lack of control is precisely why you’re useless at this spell. Now—again.”

Vera gripped her wand tightly, considering a way to divert her frustration—perhaps burning Snape's hair instead of the parchment she’s practicing the fire-making charm on. Tears threatened to spill over as she contemplated giving up, until he uttered the most unexpected remark.

“Do you honestly believe your father would be proud of the pitiful witch you’ve become?”

Her wand clattered slightly. “My… my father?”

"At your age, he could conjure most elements with ease. He’d be ashamed to see his daughter flounder with sparks.”

Vera was speechless. Snape's strict demeanor during wand lessons was familiar, but his cruelty was unprecedented. She hadn’t even known he knew her father, let alone admired his skill.

“And it wasn’t just him,” he pressed on. “Your entire family were counted among the finest witches and wizards this castle has produced. Yet here you stand—singularly unremarkable. Each failure of yours dishonors their name.”

Her jaw ached from clenching, but she forced her voice to stay calm. “I know what you’re doing, professor. But it’s not working. I’m not angry.”

“You can’t even match the skill in your own bloodline. It’s a marvel you’re permitted to share their surname.”

“What if I don’t want to be like them?” The words shot out before she could stop herself.

That seemed to actually catch him off guard. He drifted closer, hands clasped behind his back, his stare cold enough to freeze marrow. “Your family understood the weight of magic. You, however, squander it. If you spent half the energy you waste on childish chatter actually studying—perhaps you might accomplish greatness like them.”

"You think what they did was great?" 

Snape’s lips curled into a smirk. "Greatness manifests in myriad ways."

Vera swallowed her emotions, fighting tears. "You mentioned my dad," she said after a pause. "Did you know him?"

"I did... Though you may not match his level, you two do share certain traits…"

Vera's heart raced with anticipation, craving to hear more about her father. But Snape's words cut through her hopes.

"Spoiled, stubborn, arrogant, and cowardly. Much like him."

His words stung like salt in a wound, shattering the semblance of respect she held for him.

The air crackled with tension as her hand tightened around her wand, her eyes ablaze with anger. Without a word, she focused her energy, channeling her rage into the very magic he belittled. With a flick of her wrist and a silent incantation, flames erupted from the tip of her wand, not towards the parchment, but towards his meticulously organized desk.

The wood crackled and charred as the fire danced, consuming the surface with voracious hunger. Snape's expression shifted from smug superiority to startled disbelief as the flames engulfed his workspace.

For a brief moment, she felt a surge of satisfaction, a vindication of her power in the face of his scorn. But as the flames grew, reality crashed down upon her like a wave.

What had she done?

Panic replaced her momentary triumph as she realized the severity of her impulsive retaliation. Snape's eyes bore into hers, a mix of fury and astonishment flickering in their depths. Before he could utter a word, she fled the classroom, leaving behind the chaos she had wrought.

Outside, the corridor stretched before her. With each hurried step, her heart pounded, echoing the turmoil within. She wiped the blood from her nose with the end of her robes then withdrew the Marauder's Map, its parchment surface unfurling eagerly.

Her heart quickened as she scanned it, searching for an escape. Then, her eyes alighted upon a faint outline, a concealed passage that wound its way through the castle's ancient stone walls. With a sense of urgency, she followed its winding path. The air grew cooler, the walls closing in around her, until at last, she emerged into the hallowed halls of Gryffindor Tower through a portrait.

The familiar sight of the crimson and gold decor greeted her, a comforting embrace amidst the uncertainty that clouded her thoughts. With a sigh of relief, she made her way to the Gryffindor common room.

As she sank into the plush armchair by the crackling fire, her gaze fell upon her wand. It was the very wand she had been told her father once wielded, a connection to a past she scarcely understood.

Snape's words echoed in her mind, casting doubt and uncertainty upon her thoughts. She didn't want to believe his accusations about her father, but a nagging feeling persisted within her. Was she truly like him? The question lingered, a shadow of doubt tugging at the corners of her mind.

“What ever happened to you, Dad?” She whispered to herself.

The common room suddenly erupted, as the Gryffindors spilled inside, their laughter ricocheting off the stone walls.

“I still can’t believe you pulled that off!” Kenny doubled over, wheezing.

“Pulled it off?” Lee arched a brow. “That was art.”

“It was idiocy,” Angelina cut in, folding her arms.

“Oh, Vera, you missed a masterpiece,” Kenny said, flopping down beside her. “Fred, George, and Lee bewitched the cups in the Great Hall to tickle anyone who took a sip.”

“It was bloody genius,” Alicia said.

“Reckless!” Angelina countered.

“Oh, cheer up, Angie, it was harmless fun!”

“Harmless? They're downright going to be in trouble now.”

Fred only grinned. “It's April Fools.”

“And our birthday,” George chimed.

“So naturally, we had to do something unforgettable,”

“Something legendary,” 

“Something historic,” 

“Something detention-worthy,” Angelina finished dryly.

The twins exchanged a look. “Worth it.”

“Are you alright?” Alicia leaned in, eyeing Vera’s pale face.

Vera remained transfixed by the fire, her expression one of shock. "I set Snape's office on fire," she confessed at last.

Silence fell like a dropped brick, until Fred let out a low whistle.

“Well, you didn’t have to go that far for our birthday present, Vee."

George blinked. “Wait—you're joking, right?”

"I wish..." Vera replied, her eyes wide with fear.

The group burst into raucous laughter—all except Angelina, who looked ready to faint on Vera’s behalf.

“TELL. US. EVERYTHING!” Lee practically bounced on the spot.

“I’m going to be expelled,” Vera groaned, burying her face in her hands.

“Yeah, but was it worth it?” Fred asked. “What did Snape do? Did he scream? Did his eyes twitch? Oh, please tell me his eyes twitched.”

Despite herself, Vera smiled. The memory of Snape’s priceless expression ignited something warm in her chest.

She sat up straighter, smirk tugging at her mouth. “Totally worth it.”

Fred whooped and slapped her palm in a triumphant high-five. “Absolute legend!”

“Why’d you do it, though?” Alicia asked.

Vera shrugged. “It was… sort of an accident. He kept pushing, and I just… snapped.”

“Well,” George said with a grin, slinging an arm around her shoulders, “if anyone in this castle had it coming, it was definitely him.”

“ARE YOU ALL BLOODY JOKING?” Angelina’s voice sliced through the laughter.

“What?” Lee blinked innocently.

“If Vera really set Snape’s office on fire, that’s at least a hundred points gone! Add your idiotic prank, and we’ll be in last place by sunrise!”

“Oh, shite,” Vera muttered, the weight of reality hitting her stomach like a stone.

“It’s fine, Angie,” Alicia said soothingly.

“No, it’s not fine!” Angelina snapped. “We’re nearly at the end of the year, and Gryffindor’s already limping behind!”

“Three whole months left,” Fred countered breezily. “Plenty of time for redemption.”

“Not if you lot keep pranking and Vera keeps torching classrooms! We’re doomed!”

“Merlin, Angie,” Alicia groaned. “Didn’t know the House Cup meant this much to you.”

“Do you want Slytherin to win? Because they’re miles ahead, and catching up is practically impossible.”

“Not our fault,” Kenny argued. “Snape and Frey hand out points like sweets to their little pets.”

“Bletchley gets rewarded every Defense lesson just for twirling his wand dramatically,” Lee grumbled.

“And Warrington too in Potions,” Alicia added. “Even though Vera wipes the floor with him. Snape just pretends not to notice.”

“Well, he is their Head of House,” Angelina retorted. “It’s the same everywhere—Flitwick can’t stop throwing points at Avery.”

“That’s because Avery’s brilliant at Charms,” Vera said flatly.

“And Defense,” Alicia added.

“And Transfiguration,” Kenny piped in.

“And Astron—”

“That’s not the point!” Angelina snapped, cutting Lee short. “House heads favor their own, it’s common knowledge.”

“Yeah, well McGonagall’s our Head of House,” Fred sighed, “and she never hands us points.”

Vera scoffed. “Too busy tossing them all at her precious Cedric.”

Angelina folded her arms. “So, you’re suggesting we just give up then?”

“We’ve still got three months to claw back points,” Lee said brightly. “We’ll come up with a plan.”

“A plan that doesn’t involve you three terrorizing the castle.” 

Fred smirked. “No promises.”

She swatted him on the arm. “Fred Weasley!”

“Ouch! Cruelty on my birthday?” he gasped, clutching his arm in mock injury.

Angelina rolled her eyes and turned to Vera. “And you—you need to apologize to Snape.”

Vera groaned. “I’d rather take a Bludger to the head!”

“You have to! Otherwise he’ll have you in detention until seventh year.”

“Just tell him it was an accident,” Alicia offered helpfully.

"FINE!" Vera snapped, burying her face in her hands. As she let out a muffled scream of frustration, she felt a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“May the wisdom of Merlin guide you through this most noble sacrifice, Sister Vera.” George said dramatically, with Fred and Lee clasping their hands together like monks in prayer.

She placed her gloved hand atop his. “Bless you, Brother George. Your faith sustains me.”

The three collapsed into mock chanting while Angelina pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered. “Every last one of you.”

“By the way, Vee,” Fred cracked one eye open mid-chant, “where’s this amazing birthday gift you promised?”

Vera’s lips curved into a sly grin. Without a word, she grabbed the twins by the hands and tugged them out of the common room.

“Oi—where are you dragging us?” George asked as they half-sprinted down the corridor.

“You’ll see,” Vera said, her mysterious smile only deepening.

They darted into a narrow, hidden passage she’d discovered, the walls pressing close as torchlight flickered behind them.

“Merlin’s beard, how’d you even find this?” George whispered, eyes wide.

“Is this the present?” Fred asked eagerly.

“Nope.” Vera halted dramatically, fishing in her robes before pulling out a folded parchment. “This is the present.”

Fred squinted. “You’re giving us… homework?”

“Not homework, Weasley. Destiny.”

George arched a brow. “Oh, destiny fits in your pocket now?”

“You two are insufferable,” she muttered, but her smirk only grew. “Ready yourselves for the single greatest work of magic ever created.”

“You’ve got the pitch down,” Fred teased. “Should’ve been a shopkeeper.”

“Focus, heathens!” She snapped in mock indignation. "And behold the greatness of… drum roll please."

The twins instantly complied, air-drumming like maniacs. “Dum-dum-dum-dum…”

Vera snapped the parchment open with a flourish. “The Marauder’s Map.”

The words alone made the twins freeze, jaws dropping. They snatched the parchment from her hands, unfolding it in frantic awe.

“Is this—wait—isn’t this the parchment from Filch’s office?” Fred breathed.

“Yep. Cracked the secret a week ago. But I saved the reveal for today. You’re welcome.”

“Vera, this is—”

“This is—” 

She smirked. “Greatness, my friends. Pure greatness.”

The twins gaped at the parchment, utterly spellbound.

“We can see everyone!” George blurted.

“Even Dumbledore,” she confirmed smugly.

“Merlin’s beard,” Fred whispered, eyes wide. “This is… unbelievable.”

“Truth is,” she said, trying not to grin too much, “I thought about keeping it for myself. But what’s the point of discovering secret passages if you don’t have partners in crime?”

George arched an eyebrow. “Ohhh, so we’re just convenient sidekicks now?”

“Aaaaand,” she continued, “because it’s your birthday, and because you two actually deserve it.”

Fred shot her a rare, genuine smile that made her cheeks burn. “Cheers, Vee.”

“Yeah, thank you,” George echoed. “But you have to tell us how you unlocked it!”

“I’m… not exactly sure. It asked for my name. I told it, and it just wrote back: Padfoot says hello. Then it opened.”

The twins exchanged a quick glance.

“Padfoot?” Fred asked.

“I think he was one of the mapmakers—his name’s on it.”

“But why would he say hello to you?” George pressed.

She shrugged. “No idea. He also called me a kindred spirit. Whatever that means.”

“I think it means someone you’re connected to,” George said thoughtfully.

“Or someone who shares your traits and beliefs,” Fred added. “Like family.”

“Like how Fred is my kindred spirit.”

“Am I, Georgie?” 

“Duh.”

Vera rolled her eyes. “Well, whatever it means, I’m just glad it worked. Now—” she tapped the parchment—“find me the fastest route to the hospital wing. My head is killing me.”

Sunday, May 19, 1990

After another grueling session with Snape, Vera slipped into the hospital wing, praying willow bark would dull the pounding in her skull. But her steps soon faltered when she spotted Felix stretched out on one of the beds, his scarlet-and-gold Quidditch uniform jarring against the stark white sheets. His arms were folded behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The room was empty but for them, the silence thick and awkward.

She swallowed. “Are you alright?” 

His gaze flicked to her, then drifted back upward. “Quidditch practice didn’t go as planned. I’ll manage.”

She lingered, studying the shadows beneath his eyes, the new sharpness in his jaw. He looked worn thin.

He pushed himself up, fingers raking through his tousled hair. “And you?”

“Oh... just a headache.”

"Shall I alleviate it for you?" he offered. "I know how."

A smile tugged at her lips. “That’s kind, but… I’ll wait for Madam Pomfrey.”

His answering smile was faint, tired around the edges.

“What happened out there?” she asked gently.

He exhaled, eyes dropping to the floor. "We're gearing up for the final next week, and I had a collision."

“Oh… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

She Blinked. "What?"

“What about you?” He deftly changed the subject. “Thinking of trying out for the team next year?”

She almost laughed. “I can barely stay upright on a broom, let alone play Quidditch.”

“You could surprise yourself. I’ve got a feeling you might be a natural.”

“I highly doubt that, Felix.”

He tilted his head, studying her. “You’re an odd one, Vera.”

“Odd?”

“Compared to your family, I mean. Why is that?”

“I didn’t really grow up with them.”

The words slipped out before she could catch them. Her pulse quickened instantly, and she braced herself for the inevitable questions, for the judgment she knew would follow. But Felix’s expression only softened.

“I understand,” he said quietly. “I, too, spent more time with my governess and our house-elf than with my own family.”

Vera froze in place. Was that what he thought she meant? For a heartbeat, she considered correcting him, letting the truth spill free—but the fear clamped down harder.

He was one of Hogwarts' wealthiest students, gilded in privilege, while she cleaned goat shit for three years and now relies on charity. Better to let him believe she was simply rebelling against her family’s ideals than risk watching his face change.

So she stayed silent.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor—Madam Pomfrey returning. 

“Well… good luck with the match next week,” she said, forcing brightness into her voice. 

Felix reclined again, eyes drifting back to the ceiling. “Thank you."

Sunday, May 27, 1990

The late sun slanted over the Quidditch pitch, gilding the scene in firelight. For weeks, the school had buzzed like a kicked beehive for the final clash. Now the stands were packed, the roar of the crowd rolling across the crisp afternoon air.

“And we’re off! Gryffindor against Slytherin—the match everyone’s been waiting for! Keep your hats on, keep your wands tucked, because this is going to be anything but polite!”

Charlie Weasley, Gryffindor’s captain and last year's hero, stood tall at the center of the pitch, his bat clenched like a general’s sword. Nearby, Oliver Wood—barely a third-year but already brimming with grim determination—perched on his broom like a hawk, scanning for incoming danger. Felix Bobbin, their seeker, lingered lower, restless as a cat, his sharp gaze sweeping the field for the glimmer of gold.

Slytherin’s captain, Trevor Yaxley, was all smirk and swagger, prowling with the air of someone who’d already written the victory speech. His bat hung ready at his side, and with his reputation for brutal precision, no one doubted he meant to use it.

The whistle shrieked, and chaos unfurled. Players rocketed skyward, their brooms carving the air into ribbons. Bludgers howled through the pitch like cannon fire, sending chasers ducking and weaving for their lives. Oliver moved like he’d been born in front of the goalposts, blocking shots with the ease of a boy who’d sooner break bones than let a Quaffle through.

“Oh, look at that save from Wood! He’s a brick wall with reflexes—Slytherin’s going to need more than luck to squeeze a Quaffle past him!”

The crowd gasped, shrieked, cheered—it was war in the sky, and not even gravity dared interrupt.

But then the mood shifted. Yaxley, with a grin sharp enough to cut glass, sent a Bludger screaming straight at Charlie. The first swing missed—barely—but the intent was clear.

Fred’s fists tightened on the railing. “Yaxley’s always dirty, but this is beyond foul!”

“That didn’t look random.” Lee said, shading his hands.

“Of course it isn’t,” George said. “They’ve been at each other’s throats since first year.”

“Yaxley can’t stand Charlie,” Fred growled. “Hates that he’s better at—well—everything.”

The second Bludger came faster, crueler. This time it slammed into Charlie’s chest with a sickening thud. The crowd’s roar fractured into gasps as Gryffindor’s captain spiraled downward, his broom twisting like a wounded bird.

“Sweet Merlin’s socks!” Lee’s voice cracked. “Yaxley’s trying to turn this match into a crime scene!”

The stadium froze, every eye fixed on Charlie. The only sound was the rush of wind as teammates dived toward him. Then—like a phoenix rising from the ashes—he wrenched control of his broom, let out a furious roar, and shot back into the fray. 

Fred and George shot to their feet. “That’s our brother!” 

High above, Felix had no time for theatrics. His gaze was locked on a single glimmer: the snitch, flickering like a golden heartbeat against the horizon. He tucked in, dove, the wind howling past as the pitch tilted beneath him.

The match below blurred—bludgers, quaffles, shouts—but Felix cut through it all, closing in, inch by inch, until his fingers snapped shut around the fluttering wings.

“And that’s it, ladies and gentlemen!” the commentator's voice cracked with triumph. “Felix Bobbin with the grab of the century—Gryffindor takes the Cup!”

The stands shook with thunderous cheers as Gryffindor’s victory was sealed, the golden Cup glittering in the twilight like a crown. Charlie thrust his beater’s bat skyward, his grin as wide as the pitch itself, while Oliver looped gleeful circles above the hoops, drinking in the crowd’s roar.

On the dais, Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled brighter than the snitch itself. Beside him, McGonagall’s lips fought a losing battle against a full-blown smile. A few seats over, Snape and Frey clapped stiffly, their expressions so sour they could’ve curdled the pumpkin juice at breakfast.

Felix, the hero of the hour, hovered above it all with cool detachment. Though a flicker of a smile tugged at his mouth, it was gone as quickly as it came.

“He’s just humble like that,” Percy offered, chin high with pride.

But Vera wasn’t convinced. To her, Felix’s distance felt less like modesty and more like… something else.

Meanwhile, Trevor Yaxley stood seething on the sidelines, his face carved into a permanent scowl. Every cheer was a slap, every banner a taunt. Finally, he snapped. With fists balled and jaw tight, he stormed across the pitch.

“Weasley!” His voice tore through the revelry, slicing the cheers in half. “You lot cheated!”

Charlie spun around. "That’s rich, coming from you, Yaxley. We played fair. You just can’t stand losing.”

“Fair?” Yaxley snarled, closing the distance. “Don’t feed me that rubbish! Gryffindors are nothing but cheats and liars!”

"The fuck did you just say?"

Up in the stands, Fred and George exchanged a sharp look. They knew that tone—Charlie’s temper was a dragon best left unpoked, and Yaxley had just jabbed it with a stick.

“Easy now, lads,” the commentator’s voice boomed over the stands. “No need to turn the Cup Final into a boxing match.”

But Yaxley was far past reason. His face twisted with fury, and he lunged at Charlie, fists swinging. “I’ll show you fair, Weasley!”

The crowd’s jubilant roar snapped into a collective gasp as the two captains collided, grappling in a tangle of fists, shoves, and shouted curses. Victory songs died on the spot, replaced by stunned silence broken only by the scuffle below.

Fred and George shot from their seats like fireworks, shoving through the crowd.

“Charlie, duck!” Fred bellowed.

“Or swing harder!” George added.

But before the twins could reach him, Felix cut through the turmoil with unnerving calm. One flick of his wand, and a flash of red light blasted between the brawlers. Yaxley and Charlie flew apart, hitting the ground on opposite ends of the pitch, coughing and glaring but too dazed to continue.

“Enough!” McGonagall’s voice cracked like a whip, reverberating across the stands. “Both of you—my office. Now.”

Snape loomed at her side, his expression a cocktail of smugness and irritation. He gave Charlie a particularly oily glare, as though the fight had inconvenienced him personally.

“Consequences,” McGonagall continued, “will be severe!”

The Gryffindor common room glowed like a furnace that night, packed with red and gold, laughter spilling over the armchairs and banners strung crookedly across the walls. Songs had long since lost their tune, but no one cared—victory was victory, and even the earlier brawl couldn’t dampen the fire in their chests.

By the fireplace, the younger students huddled together, cheeks pink from shouting themselves hoarse.

“I still can’t believe Yaxley got off easy just because of exams,” Fred muttered, tossing a popcorn kernel into the fire.

“What did they get, anyway?” Alicia asked.

“Detention,” George said flatly. “Charlie with McGonagall, Yaxley with Frey.”

“Detention?" Lee choked. "That’s it? Yaxley practically tried to murder him in front of the whole school. Should’ve been expelled on the spot!”

Fred rolled his eyes. “Please. His father pulled strings.”

Kenny leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Isn’t his father one of the ‘Six’?”

“Yep,” George confirmed grimly. “And word is, he just bagged himself a Ministry post.”

Vera, who’d been quiet until then, spoke up, her voice tinged with worry. “But Charlie—he’s alright?”

Fred waved her concern aside with a grin. “He’s fine. Trust me, it was Yaxley who got flattened.”

“Only thanks to Bobbin stepping in." George smirked. "Otherwise Charlie would’ve mopped the pitch with him.”

“Our brother does have a temper. Especially when it comes to that rat.”

Alicia clapped her hands. "We’ve still got the Cup!”

“Absolutely,” Lee agreed, raising his mug. “To Gryffindor—still champions, still brilliant!”

“Now all that’s left is snagging the House Cup,” Angelina declared, her eyes gleaming with ambition.

“We’re neck and neck with Slytherin,” Vera reminded her. “If we keep racking up points and they trip up, it’s ours.”

“Then we stick to the plan,” Alicia agreed, before shooting Vera a sly smile. “By the way, I’m shocked Snape didn’t skin you alive for torching his desk, Vee.”

Vera scratched at the back of her neck. “Yeah… weirdly, he was fine with it. Even before I said sorry.”

Kenny sighed. “I’m still worried about Frey’s class. He’s getting stricter by the day.”

“And snippier,” Angelina added darkly. “It feels like he’s just waiting to pounce.”

“Not waiting,” Lee said. “He is pouncing. He’s docking points left and right. Doesn’t hate us all though—seems to have a soft spot for Vera.”

Vera blinked in surprise but said nothing, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve.

“We just have to be perfect,” Alicia reasoned. “Don’t give him an opening. If we hold steady, the Cup is ours.”

One by one, the group nodded, their laughter fading into a quiet determination as the fire cracked in agreement.

Monday, May 28, 1990

The next morning, the Gryffindors filed into Frey’s class with the grim focus of soldiers before a battle. Notebooks straight, quills poised, spines stiff; they were determined not to slip. When Frey swept in, the room seemed to chill by several degrees. He launched straight into the lesson, his voice clipped and cold.

They exchanged wary glances. Perfect, they’d promised each other. No mistakes.

But perfection was impossible under Frey’s gaze.

George was the first casualty. His inkwell tipped, a blot blooming across his parchment.

“Five points from Gryffindor for clumsiness, Weasley,” Frey snapped.

George froze, shoulders hunched under the weight of his friends'' accusing stares.

“We said perfect,” Alicia hissed from across the aisle.

“Another five points from Gryffindor for unnecessary chatter,” Frey declared without even looking up.

A ripple of horror swept through the Gryffindors. Ten points, gone in under five minutes.

Meanwhile, the Slytherins whispered and snickered openly, their quills scratching lazy doodles. Frey noticed nothing—or chose not to. Vera’s jaw tightened, but she forced her eyes back to her parchment. To speak was to bleed more points.

Angelina dared to raise her hand, steady and polite, but Frey’s response was a scathing glare.

“Ten points from Gryffindor for insolence, Johnson. I will not tolerate disrespect in my classroom.”

Vera’s insides screamed. Insolence? They’d lost twenty points already, and the hour wasn’t half over.

Then came the paper bird.

Adrian flicked his wand with practiced ease, conjuring a parchment sparrow that darted through the air, pecking at heads to the delight of his cronies. 

Frey’s head snapped up. “Who is responsible for this?” 

Vera expected Adrian to smirk, to admit it with his usual arrogance. Instead, he sat back, lips sealed, his gang following suit. The bird fluttered a final loop before alighting—of all places—on Kenny’s desk.

“So. It was you, boy?”

Kenny blanched. “N-no, sir, it wasn’t—”

“Twenty points from Gryffindor.”

The Gryffindors gasped. Forty points in one stroke—gone. With only a month left in the school year, it was a wound that would never heal. Angelina teetered on the brink of tears, Kenny was already sobbing. Fred and George burned with fury while Alicia bowed her head in quiet defeat.

But Vera's mind jolted into overdrive.

“It was me, sir,” she blurted, her voice cutting through the silence. “I made the bird, not Kenny.”

Gasps again, sharper this time.

Frey’s eyes narrowed, weighing her with cold calculation. He wouldn’t dare strike her openly—not with her name—but he had other weapons.

“Did you now?” His smirk crawled across his face. “Then prove it.”

“Shite,” she breathed.

Of course. He knew about the blood poisoning. He knew that a real attempt would end with a nosebleed, and there she stood, perfectly clean.

“Make another bird,” he pressed, enjoying the flush rising in her cheeks.

The class leaned forward, waiting, but she didn’t even know the animation charm.

“Just as I thought.” Frey smirked. “Don’t play the hero, Miss Black. They’re not worth bleeding for.”

The words sliced deeper than she wanted to admit. She clenched her jaw, fury simmering, while Kenny wept and the Poshlanders pounced.

“Look at his face!” Miles cackled, and the laughter caught like wildfire.

"Careful there, ketchup," Adrian mocked. "Or you'll burst and stain us."

But it wasn’t Miles, or Adrian’s jibe, that hollowed her chest. It was Jane’s laugh—clear, cruel, and sharp as broken glass.

That was it. The house cup was lost, the war already over. There was nothing left to lose.

She shoved her books into her bag, stood, and crossed the room. Conversations died mid-breath; even the Poshlanders fell silent as she dropped into the empty seat beside Tommy.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, wide-eyed.

Frey turned to investigate the cause of the sudden gasps, only to find Vera seated on the opposite side of the room.

“Miss Black, what do you think you’re doing?”

“I couldn’t see the board from over there, sir.”

“…From the front row?”

She swallowed. “It’s the lighting. Better here.”

“The lighting,” he repeated flatly. He set his book down, removed his glasses, and cleared his throat. "Miss Black, I suggest you return to your seat immediately."

She swallowed again, sensing her friends' silent pleas for her to relent. Maddie shook her head, and Tommy discreetly kicked her leg beneath the table, but she remained resolute.

“No.”

The word detonated in the classroom. Nobody—ever—had dared say it before.

“…Pardo—”

“I said NO.”

Frey’s composure flickered. “Did you just say no to me?”

“I don’t want to sit there. I want to sit here.”

“In this class, you follow my rules!” His voice cracked like a whip, but she heard the strain beneath.

Her pulse roared in her ears. Her palms were damp under her gloves. But the rage burning in her chest shoved the fear aside.

“Well,” she said, every word sharp enough to cut, “your rules are stupid.”

Gasps burst through the room like shattering glass.

Frey’s eyes went glacial. “Excuse me?”

“Are you deaf?" She scoffed. "I said your rules are stupid—and so are you.”

Chapter Text

Friday, June 1, 1990

“Do you dare me?”

Percy pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lee, we don’t have time for—”

“Okay, but do you dare me?”

“Dare you to do what?”

“To climb that shelf and perch on top.”

Percy gave him a flat look. “Hmm, let me consult my soul… absolutely not.”

“Honestly, how you share blood with Fred and George is beyond me.”

“Trust me, I ask myself the same question daily. Sarah—stop strangling Scabbers.”

Sarah blinked at the rat in her hands. “Did you know he’s missing a toe?”

“Yes, I did. Thank you for the reminder. Now, back to—”

“Can I hold him?” Vera cut in, eyes sparkling. “I’ve never held a rat before.”

“Everyone, please, focus!” 

The third-year Weasley had made the grave mistake of volunteering to tutor first-years. Within minutes, the library table had transformed into a battlefield of parchment scraps, ink splotches, enchanted paper planes, and one increasingly harassed rat.

“I don’t think your rat likes me, Percy,” Vera muttered, squinting at the squirming creature.

“Maybe you’re squeezing him too much,” Kenny suggested.

“No, I’m gentle. He’s just being a naughty little bitch.”

“Language, Vera!” Percy barked.

She blinked innocently. “Oh right, he’s a boy.”

“I meant no swearing!”

“I know what you meant,” she said sweetly, handing Scabbers back to Sarah with a wink.

“Vera, how can you be this calm?" Angelina groaned. "Exams are, like, tomorrow.”

“It’s my little secret, Angie.” Vera smiled serenely, the bitter aftertaste of willow bark tea still clinging to her tongue. 

“No, really,” Tommy piped up. “If I had detention every day with Frey, I'd go bonkers.”

Vera shrugged. “It’s honestly not that bad.”

“ENOUGH chit-chat!” Percy thundered, slamming his book shut. “LEE JORDAN—GET DOWN FROM THERE!”

“Hey, where are Fred and George?” Alicia asked, peering between the shelves.

“They always vanish,” Maddie replied with a shrug.

“It’s almost like they’re wizards or something,” Vera deadpanned, cracking herself up.

Cedric gave her a look. “I think she’s already gone bonkers.”

“That’s it!” Percy shot to his feet, his chair screeching against the floor. “If you’re not here to study, I’m leaving.”

“No!” Angelina grabbed his sleeve. “We need you!”

“Stay, please,” Alicia begged. “I’m still two chapters behind in Astronomy.”

Percy hesitated, then sat back down like he was lowering himself into a trap. “Fine. But absolutely no more nonsense.”

“We promise, Percy,” Maddie said solemnly.

“Yeah, Percy,” Vera chimed in sweetly, then leaned toward Sarah, who was still cradling Scabbers like a prized heirloom. “Hey, Sarah?”

“Mm?” 

“Is that the beetle Maddie and I gave you for your birthday?”

Sarah glanced down at the green beetle-shaped brooch pinned to her sweater. “Yes, it is.”

“Poor thing,” Vera sighed. “Survived Mrs. Norris, and Filch’s dungeon... just to end up as jewelry.”

“Vera,” Alicia cut in, “don’t you have detention with Professor Frey right now?”

Vera froze mid-smirk. “…Oh, buggers.”

Quickly sweeping her things into her bag, she hurried off to Professor Frey’s office, her new evening haunt ever since she’d called him 'stupid' in front of the class. For that slip of the tongue, Gryffindor had been slapped with a thirty-point deduction, dropping them to fourth place in the House Cup, and Vera had earned nightly detentions with the professor until term’s end.

The punishment should’ve stung, but instead it sparked awe. Her housemates, long past caring about Gryffindor’s chances at winning, admired her nerve. Even older students gave her subtle nods of respect when she passed. She soaked in the attention, striding through the corridors like a knight returning from battle, punishment be damned.

And oddly enough, Frey hadn’t stayed furious. His fear of her family had quickly eclipsed his outrage, leaving him wary, deferential, even… kind.

“Sorry I’m late, Professor,” she said breezily as she entered. “Got caught up studying in the library.”

“It’s quite alright, Miss Black,” he said with a small, careful smile.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to leave early tonight."

“Of course,” he said quickly. “Er—by the way, did you… ah… send my letter to your aunt?”

“I did,” she lied smoothly. In truth, she’d fed the letter straight to the fireplace the moment he’d handed it to her. “But she’s very busy these days. I wouldn’t expect a reply anytime soon.”

“Well… as long as she received it.”

She forced a polite smile as she slid into the chair opposite his desk. She pulled out her notebook, immediately drifting into idle doodles. He rarely gave her any real work during these so-called detentions.

“Your aunt, Lady Cassiopeia, was quite a remarkable woman,” Frey mused, reclining until his chair groaned under him. “Not only wise, but widely regarded as the epitome of beauty in the wizarding world.”

Suppressing an eye roll, Vera nodded as though she’d heard it all before.

“And I’m sure she still is!” He added hastily, panic flickering in his eyes.

“Indeed,” Vera said smoothly. She had no idea what Cassiopeia even looked like.

“And how is the Crow King these days?”

“Um…” 

“Lord Pollux,” he clarified eagerly. “I trust he is well?”

She’d heard only scraps about Pollux—grim tales from Mrs. Wriggleshore, whispered with the kind of relish reserved for monsters and scandal. Beyond that, he was just another shadow with a ridiculous name.

“He’s doing remarkably well,” she lied with practiced ease. “Couldn’t be better.”

“Ah, splendid. Since your family relocated to France, contact has been… limited. I haven’t heard a whisper about the Crow King since the party’s—ah—unjust downfall.”

"He tends to keep to himself these days, taking care of his... um, ah, birds?"

“Indeed,” Frey said reverently. “What a commanding presence he had. A stalwart figure. I’m certain he’ll restore the party’s glory soon.”

Vera nodded in time with his words, her quill scratching half-hearted spirals across the page. One day it was Cygnus, the next Arcturus. If her family tree was a forest, it was one overgrown with maniacs who collected sinister titles like trading cards.

“Is Yaxley not joining us today?” she asked, trying to steer the conversation away from the family-name parade.

“He should be,” Frey muttered, checking his pocket watch.

Vera's disdain for Trevor Yaxley was no secret. The seventh-year Slytherin had not only assaulted Charlie but also exuded an air of snobbery and repulsiveness that grated on her nerves.

She did her utmost to ignore him during their shared detentions in Frey's office. Fortunately, this wasn't too difficult, as he seemed more preoccupied with playing wizarding chess than with her presence. Over time, she had gleaned tidbits about his life: a Ministry job waiting, a father with a seat at the ‘Six’ table, and a cologne drenched in whiskey fumes.

As Frey continued his nostalgic ramblings about the dark lord's bygone era, she attempted to tune him out by focusing on her doodling. However, her concentration was shattered as Yaxley burst into the room, his presence jolting them both.

“I can’t take this any longer!” He snapped.

“Mr. Yaxley, please—” Frey began.

“No!” Yaxley cut him off. “You promised to sort this out with him!”

“I’ve done all I can—”

“You haven’t done nearly enough. I will destroy you, Frey. Do you understand me?”

“Trevor, please,” Frey pleaded, and there was real fear in the plea now. “Let’s step outside.”

Yaxley ran a hand through his dark hair, then stormed out with Frey stumbling to follow.

“Miss Black, if you’ll excuse us,” the professor said over his shoulder.

Vera gave a small, amused nod, left alone with her doodles and the faint aftertaste of someone else’s whiskey. But as the door clicked shut, her curiosity prickled sharper than any sense of caution. She rose from her chair and crept to the door, ear tilted toward the narrow gap. The voices outside bled through, low and heated, until Yaxley’s temper tore clarity into the air.

“I want him ruined!” 

“I’ll… I’ll find a solution,” Frey stammered.

“You said that last time. Look where it got us.”

“It’s… complicated.”

“No, it’s not. I am the best, so I have to look the best. If I don’t secure first place, my father will see to it you never teach again. You have one week, Frey. No excuses.”

With those final words, he strode away, leaving Frey visibly shaken and overwhelmed. Vera quickly retreated to her seat, pretending to engross herself in her notebook as Frey returned to the office, his complexion noticeably pale.

“That will be all for tonight, Miss Black,” he murmured. “You may leave.”

She nodded, shoving her things into her bag with unusual haste. As she stepped into the corridor, her thoughts whirred like restless cogs. Yaxley’s threats, Frey’s fear... they begged for unraveling. But exams loomed like thunderclouds, demanding all her attention. For now, the mystery would have to simmer at the edges of her mind.

Sunday, June 3, 1990

The weekend before exams hit Hogwarts like a tidal wave of panic. The library was bursting at the seams, every desk buried under parchment and groaning students. Vera, however, looked the most likely to combust.

While others perfected spellwork, she was still tripping over the basics, and her lingering blood poisoning wasn’t helping. Just as the looming exams threatened to crush her, McGonagall swooped in with unexpected mercy: She was excused from the practicals. Only theory.

But relief was short-lived. She was just as hopeless at theory, and Snape had chosen this exact week to cancel their practice sessions, cutting off her precious supply of willow bark. Without her painkiller, focus became a fantasy. Caffeine, sugar, and colour-coded notes all failed her. Instead of revising History of Magic, she doodled in the margins and brushed her hair like the world’s most frantic housecat.

By the end of the night, her nerves had frayed to threads. She collapsed onto her bed, textbook slipping from her hands, and glared up at the enchanted stars above.

“I could just tell Madam Pomfrey I’ve got a headache,” she muttered to Vinny, her stuffed cat. “But then she’ll ask if I used magic, and I’ll get another lecture.”

She rolled onto her side, still negotiating with the toy. “A stomach ache? No, you’re right—she’d never hand out willow bark for that.”

Hours of failed revision and tossing about later, desperation won out. If Pomfrey wouldn’t give her the painkiller, she’d just nick it herself. One quick trip, one little theft, and maybe she’d stand a chance in exams.

The clock read nearly 1 a.m. Alicia and Angie were long asleep when Vera slipped on her shoes and crept out. The common room was still and dark, her footsteps soft against the rug. However, just as she neared the exit, a familiar voice sliced through the stillness.

“Vera?”

Her heart skipped a beat. She spun to see Charlie sprawled on the floor, half-buried in books, wandlight painting him in gold. But what really snagged her attention was the cigarette glowing between his fingers.

“Charlie?” she blurted, eyes darting between him and the haze.

He glanced up, smirk playing at his lips as he exhaled a ghostly ribbon of smoke. “And where exactly are you off to?”

"I, uh… was sleepwalking.”

“In shoes? That’s ambitious.”

Her gaze flicked back to the cigarette. “You’re smoking?”

“Stress relief,” he said with a shrug. “Not exactly a habit I’m proud of. Keep it between us?”

She couldn’t help but be fascinated; this was a side of Charlie she hadn’t expected—so different from the responsible prefect everyone looked up to.

"Your secret’s safe with me," she replied, a smile tugging at her lips.

“Now, truth. Where were you going?”

“The hospital wing,” she admitted.

His expression softened instantly. “Are you alright?”

“Just a headache.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No, really.” She waved her hands in protest. “I’m fine now.”

He gave her a look. “Is that so?”

Her shoulders sagged. “Am I in trouble?”

With one last drag, he crushed the cigarette against the floor and vanished the ashes with a flick of his wand.

"Relax," he said, "I’m not hauling you to McGonagall."

The knot in her chest loosened. That was Charlie—never nosy, never judgmental. He even knew about her letters to the Muggle world and had never breathed a word. Whether out of respect or sheer indifference, she was grateful all the same.

She nodded toward the chaos of parchment around him. “Studying for NEWTs?”

“Trying to. Fell asleep, woke up… And now, well, here I am. Smoking like an idiot."

“They’re next week, aren’t they?”

“Yeah. Yours are first, though.” 

“You’ll be fine. Plenty of time.”

“You always this optimistic, Vera?”

“Only when I’m not sleepwalking.”

That earned a warm chuckle. “Fair enough. How about you? Nervous?”

Her eyes dropped to the floor.

“Don’t stress,” he said gently. “They’re just numbers on parchment. They won’t bite.”

She looked up, a small smile breaking through. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Course I am.” He winked. “Now off to bed before I write you up for aiding and abetting.”

Friday, June 8, 1990

By the time exams began, Vera’s nerves had curdled into full-blown dread. Every subject felt like a battlefield, and she was losing ground in most. The one exception was Potions, where she not only held her own but outshone expectations. Snape’s rare approving nod was proof enough.

But Potions was a lonely victory. In Transfiguration, Charms, and Defense, her wand refused to keep pace. Professors, sympathetic but firm, handed her quills instead of practicals. It was kinder, but stung all the same. Ink on parchment could never match the sparks her classmates conjured with ease.

“Flitwick nearly applauded my Reparo,” Fred boasted.

“Ha! McGonagall was speechless when I nailed my teacup-to-toad,” Lee countered.

“Transfiguration was brutal,” Alicia admitted. “But Charms? Easy.”

Angelina’s eyes landed on Vera, who sat quiet, prodding at her food. “And you, Vera?”

She summoned a small smile. “I managed.”

Her voice held steady, but her eyes betrayed her. Appetite gone, she toyed with her food, her thoughts circling a cruel refrain.

Would this be her forever? A witch who couldn’t mend or levitate, who couldn’t conjure fire or heal a wound without blood spilling from her nose and pain splitting her skull? A witch who couldn’t even touch another without her cursed hands hurting them?

No. Not a witch at all... just a bearer of curses.

A tear slid from her lashes, vanishing into her untouched meal.

When she finally glanced up, she caught Felix watching her from down the table. For once, he wasn’t pretending she didn’t exist. His eyes urged her down, sharp and insistent.

Puzzled, she lowered her gaze just in time to see a paper plane glide against her leg. She snatched it quickly, unfolding the parchment under the the table.

Omni luci est umbra.

She frowned, shaking her head. But Felix’s stare pressed her to look again. The words shimmered, then shifted:

There is a shadow to every light.

Her lips curved despite herself. She looked up, ready to share the smile with him, but he had already turned away. Still, the message lingered, warm against the hollow ache in her chest.

Even in secrecy, their friendship gave her something she hadn’t felt all week: hope.

She resumed her meal, engaging in conversation with her friends, when suddenly, an unexpected interruption shattered the tranquility of the moment.

"Percy! Percy!" Kenny's urgent cry echoed through the Great Hall, drawing the attention of the Gryffindor table.

All eyes turned to the distressed boy as he hurried toward them, his breaths labored with anxiety.

"Percy, you have to come," he gasped out. "It's your brother Charlie. They're saying he got caught cheating on a quiz!"

The table erupted, disbelief rippling through the students. Percy shot to his feet, the twins right behind him.

Left in the wake of their departure, the others sat stunned. Charlie Weasley—of all people—accused of cheating? 

By the time classes let out, the castle was buzzing. Everyone wanted the latest on him. Vera rushed with the others to the common room, only to find Percy and the twins already there, faces flushed, anger simmering.

“It’s absolute rubbish!” Fred spat, pacing furiously.

“What actually happened?” Lee asked.

“Frey claims Charlie had a page from the book under his desk,” Percy bit out.

George slammed his fist on the arm of a chair. “He’d never cheat. He doesn’t need to.”

“And why would Frey spring a quiz two days before NEWTs?” Felix demanded.

“Because he’s deranged,” Percy snapped.

“Where’s Charlie now?” Alicia asked.

“Still with McGonagall,” George muttered. “Trying to clear it up.”

Fred shook his head, furious. “It won’t matter. Frey won’t budge.”

“What will they do to him?” Vera’s voice slipped out, softer but sharp with worry. 

Percy looked at her, eyes hard with anger but weighted with grief. “Frey wants him barred from sitting his NEWTs.”

The common room fell silent, heavy with disbelief. Charlie—the golden headboy, Hogwarts’ brightest student—facing ruin. His dream of dragon training dangled on a thread.

Even the twin, usually brimming with mischief, now teetered on the edge of tears. Despite the Weasley brothers' penchant for playful banter and teasing, Vera couldn't help but discern the depth of their love for each other.

That evening, on her way to Frey’s office for detention, her mind churned with questions she couldn’t quiet. Knocking on the door, she cautiously entered, only to find Frey slumped over his desk, with a book, ‘Lethal Dragonflies’ clutched in his hands. The pungent scent of alcohol permeated the chamber, and her irritation flared at the sight of a half-empty bottle of whiskey on his desk. With an eye-roll, she turned on her heel, ready to leave him to his stupor.

But just past the threshold, an idea struck.

She slipped back inside, silent as shadow. His snores rattled steady as she rifled through the chaos on his desk—quizzes, essays, half-marked parchment. She began to sift, her fingers brushing paper after paper, searching with the precision of someone who didn’t know what they sought but knew, instinctively, that it was hidden somewhere close.

Minutes passed. Nothing. Just the mundane, the expected, the tedious. Her frustration mounted, tightening her jaw, until she nearly abandoned the effort altogether. And then, like a cold finger tracing her spine, the realization struck her.

The answers wouldn’t be found on parchment. Not in ink. Not here on the desk, no matter how many pages she scoured.

They would be in him.

It came like a whisper, faint and treacherous, the kind of thought that sneaks up uninvited yet refuses to let go once it takes root. Inspiration—or temptation, perhaps—struck her with sudden clarity.

But her stomach twisted at the thought. She knew what it meant. She knew what she was considering, what she was on the verge of doing. To cross such a line would not only be reckless but invasive, a trespass on the most personal ground one could imagine. Her conscience flared, whispering warnings, tugging at her hand, begging her to turn away before it was too late.

But then came the counterweight: every insult, every injustice, every gleam of cruelty in Frey’s eyes replayed itself in her memory like sparks catching tinder. Her friends had suffered because of him. She had suffered because of him. And if he was indeed tethered to something far worse, then the cost of her hesitation could outweigh the sin of her intrusion.

With trembling fingers, she pulled the glove from her right hand, feeling the chill of the room against her bare skin. Her heart hammered louder than the ticking of the clock on the far wall, each beat reminding her there was still time to stop. Still time to walk away.

She didn’t.

Biting down on her fear, she reached out, her palm hovering for the briefest of moments above his hand before lowering onto it. His skin was warm, the touch wrong in ways that made her shiver.

And then it began.

Pain ripped through her skull, sharp and merciless. Her knees buckled, but she clung to the contact with sheer will. The taste of iron filled her mouth, bitter and metallic, as though her very blood protested the act. Fatigue poured over her in suffocating waves, threatening to drag her down into unconsciousness. Yet still she pressed forward, clenching her jaw, sharpening her focus.

She forced herself to burrow past the agony, to push deeper, deeper, until the haze of his mind began to unravel before her. Images flickered, scattered fragments of thought and memory tumbling around her like shards of broken glass. She seized them, piecing together the fragments, pushing aside the noise until clarity began to form.

And then, through the storm of Frey’s mind, the truth emerged.

Ignoring the pulsating ache in her head, she raced back to the Gryffindor common room with a single-minded purpose driving her forward. The journey felt like a blur, her determination propelling her forward despite the disorientation engulfing her senses. Bursting in, she found Percy and the twin still there, their frustration palpable.

"Where's Charlie?" she gasped out, her voice strained with urgency.

"Dad arrived to handle things.” Percy replied. “They're at Dumbledore's office."

"Take me there!" 

Without hesitation, Percy and the twin sprang to their feet, their own anxiety mirrored in her urgency. Together, they raced through the winding corridors, their footsteps echoing in the stillness. Vera’s head throbbed, but her resolve burned hotter than the pain. She would see the truth exposed.

At last, the stone gargoyle loomed before them. A quick glance passed between them, then the heavy door creaked open. Inside, the air was thick with tension. Dumbledore and McGonagall stood stern and silent, while Charlie and his father faced them, voices taut with strain

"How can Frey have such authority?" Mr. Weasley demanded, his features contorted with fury.

"I'm afraid all the professors have the power to withhold exams from students caught cheating." McGonagall explained.

"With all due respect, Professor, you know Charlie would never stoop to such deceit. You've taught him for seven years, for Merlin's sake! He's always been an exemplary student, and you know it."

"I understand your concerns, Mr. Weasley," McGonagall replied solemnly. "But I was not the one who imposed this punishment. Regrettably, I am unable to sway Professor Frey's decision, despite my fervent desire to do so."

Tension thickened the air as the group entered, their sudden presence drawing curious gazes from those already assembled.

"What are you all doing here?" Charlie asked.

"Vera has something to say," Fred exclaimed, breathless with urgency.

Charlie's brow furrowed. "Vera?"

"Charlie didn't cheat," she gasped out, her words cutting through the mounting tension.

McGonagall sighed. "Miss Black, this is not the time for—" 

"I can prove it!" 

All eyes turned to her, a collective sense of anticipation hanging in the air as they awaited her revelation.

"Please, Miss Black," Mr. Weasley said, his voice laced with kindness. "If you truly have evidence, share it with us."

Vera steadied herself, mustering the courage to speak despite the turmoil within her.

"He did not cheat," she repeated, her voice firm with conviction. "Professor Frey is lying. He planted the paper under Charlie's desk. I... um... I overheard him talking to someone about it!" 

As she spoke, a droplet of blood trickled from her nose. Hastily, she wiped it away, but the gesture did not go unnoticed by Dumbledore, who wore a knowing smile.

"I'm afraid hearsay is not sufficient evidence, Vera," he interjected. "We cannot levy accusations against Professor Frey without tangible proof."

"Tangible?" she echoed.

He got up from his desk, moving closer to her. "Is there anything you can recall? Anything at all?”

"I... I don't know..."

"Try, Vera," he encouraged with a subtle wink of understanding.

Her mind whirled with possibilities, each more daunting than the last. But amidst the chaos of her thoughts, a glimmer of realization surfaced.

"There is one thing," she finally admitted. “But, I’m not sure about it, sir.”

With a nod, Dumbledore bent toward her, lowering himself to her level. She whispered the truth into his ear, her words barely audible.

His eyes lit with quiet realization as his fingers stroked through his beard. “Percy, fetch Mr. Filch, if you please.”

Percy hurried off with the twins, returning moments later with Filch and his ever-watchful cat. After a hushed exchange with Dumbledore, the caretaker departed and soon returned, Frey in tow. The professor reeked of whiskey, his robes disheveled, his scowl already fixed in place.

“Still clinging to this farce, Weasley?” he sneered, eyes trained on Charlie while conspicuously ignoring his father. “My ruling is final. The punishment stands.”

“Harkin,” Dumbledore’s calm voice cut through the tension. “We have evidence you framed Mr. Weasley for cheating.”

Frey’s eyes darted wildly before landing on Vera, confusion flashing across his features.

“What is this nonsense?” he barked, spittle spraying with each word.

Dumbledore only gestured to Filch, who stepped forward and offered him a worn leather-bound book: Advanced Dark Defense.

“Is this book yours, Harkin?” He asked.

Sweat broke on Frey’s brow as he gave a reluctant nod.

Without a word, Dumbledore opened the volume and turned its pages slowly, the silence of the room thickening with every turn. At last, his fingers paused on a jagged edge inside the book. He drew out the loose scrap Charlie had been accused of using, and with deliberate precision, laid it against the torn page. The two pieces aligned perfectly—an undeniable match.

“You son of a bitch,” Charlie growled, his fury boiling over as he lunged at Frey. “You bloody framed me!”

Mr. Weasley and Percy restrained him, holding him back.

Frey paled, sweat beading at his temples under Dumbledore’s steady gaze.

“This is outrageous!” he barked. “Weasley must have stolen my book and staged this charade!”

Dumbledore’s voice remained calm. “We have more than this, Harkin. Miss Black overheard your intentions.”

Frey’s eyes flicked to Vera, fear flickering there. To call her a liar would risk the wrath of her family. His lips pressed into a tight, bitter line.

“I will not probe your motives," Dumbledore continued. "But your time at Hogwarts has ended. You will have one week to settle your affairs. And before you go, you will offer Mr. Weasley an apology.”

Vera’s mind buzzed with the recent events as she made her way out of the office with Fred and George, who were discussing the absurdity of Frey's tactics.

"Can you believe that idiot?" Fred exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief. "He can’t even come up with a clever idea to frame someone for cheating!"

“Tell me about it,” George nodded in agreement. "We could've come up with a hundred idea that are far more inventive."

"Hey, Vera," Charlie approached her with a grateful smile. "I just wanted to thank you for what you did back there. It means a lot to me."

Vera returned his smile, her cheeks blushing red.

“But I have to ask,” He continued. “How did you know about the book?"

She hesitated for a moment before answering, "I... I searched Frey's office. I couldn't say anything, I was afraid of getting into trouble."

His eyes widened in understanding, and he placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I really appreciate you doing all of that for me.”

As they exchanged a brief smile, a weighty truth lingered on her conscience.

"Charlie," she began hesitantly. "It was Yaxley. He asked Frey to ruin you so he could be top of the class. I overheard their conversation during our detention. They didn't mention your name, but when the news broke, I knew it had to be him."

Charlie's expression shifted, a mixture of disappointment and understanding crossing his features. "I suspected as much, but it helps to have confirmation."

"Are you going to fight him?"

He grinned, calm as ever. "Sometimes, the most effective way to deal with those kind of people is to confront them with what they fear the most, rather than resorting to violence."

"And what do they fear the most?" 

"Our resilience."

Chapter Text

"Allow me to extend my congratulations to Ryujin Avery for achieving the top position in Charms."

"I wish to commend Mr. Avery for his exceptional performance this year. He has claimed first place in Transfiguration."

"And it comes as no surprise that the leading student in Defense Against the Dark Arts is, once again, Mr. Ryujin Avery."

"Blimey," Vera muttered, rolling her eyes.

When the exam results were unveiled, the hall buzzed with the usual mixture of relief, dread, and thinly veiled envy. Rising above the crowd was Ryu Avery, the meticulous Ravenclaw whose name had been engraved into the top spots of Transfiguration, Charms, and Defense Against the Dark Arts. His peers could only look on, torn between admiration and the faint urge to hex him under the table.

Yet, brilliance wasn’t confined to one boy alone. From Hufflepuff’s corner came Cedric Diggory, the quiet overachiever, who claimed History of Magic and Herbology. And then there was Roger Davies of Ravenclaw, staking his claim in the heavens themselves with a stellar victory in Astronomy.

But when it came to Potions—universally regarded as one of the most brutal subjects—everyone braced themselves for impact.

"I'm sure I've failed," Lee whispered, gnawing at his lip.

"You're not alone," Kenny muttered. "I completely botched the practical."

Of course, Professor Snape, ever the sadist, refused to make it quick. He postponed the results until the very end of the week… only to delay them further until the very end of class. While tension boiled like an overbrewed cauldron, he droned on about next year’s curriculum, clearly savoring every second of collective dread.

When he finally began, it was never random. No, Snape had a system—start with the failures, work his way up. Maximum humiliation.

He called names with disdain curling off his tongue. Malika dissolved into sobs. Jane sniffled into Miles’ shoulder. Adrian hissed like a cornered snake. Eudora cursed softly in French. Lee, against all odds, perked up. "Not as bad as I thought," he said, sounding almost cheerful.

Fred whooped and slapped George a victorious high-five. Cedric’s frown suggested he was already plotting to do better. Miles looked far too smug for anyone’s liking. Roger, on the other hand, stared at his paper as though it had personally killed his favourite movie star.

At last, only three students remained, and the air grew taut. Snape, unbothered, strolled forward and handed a parchment to Ryu, who scowled at the indignity of third place.

Next, with the elegance of a knife twisting in a wound, he delivered the second paper to Cassius.

Which meant—

"Miss Black, you have earned the highest mark among your peers. Well done."

It was the sort of “well done” that suggested he’d rather swallow flobberworms whole than admit it.

Despite her disappointment in most of her exam results, Vera found a rare, glowing sense of fulfillment in finally excelling at something. For once, she wasn’t just scraping by, she was at the top. The victory tasted even sweeter when she caught sight of Cassius’ sour expression. Outshining him, she realized, was far more satisfying than topping the class.

"Did you see his face?" she laughed, linking arms with Angelina and Alicia as they exited the lab. "He looked like someone set fire to his hair."

"Don’t get too smug, Vee," Angelina teased. "He still trounced you in everything else."

"Yeah," Alicia added with a smirk. "Fourth overall in the year, remember?"

"You two are a nightmare," Vera sighed dramatically. But before she could launch into another quip, a voice called her name from behind.

The three turned to find the Poshlanders approaching, Cassius striding at the front like he owned the damn castle.

"Congratulations," he said smoothly, flashing a smile.

Vera tilted her head. "Oh, congratulations, is it? That almost sounded painful for you."

Angelina and Alicia stiffened beside her, sensing the sparks.

"I mean it," Cassius pressed on. "You did really well on the exam."

"Thanks for the news," she smirked. "In case I’d missed the part where Snape handed me the paper."

Cassius faltered, clearly thrown off, before clearing his throat. "Anyway, we were thinking—"

"Thinking? Warrington, I didn’t know you had that skill," she cut in sweetly, folding her arms. "Go on, I’m intrigued."

He glanced back at his group for reassurance, then tried again. "We were thinking maybe you should spend more time with us next year. With people who understand your true potential. That way you could excel in other subjects, not just Potions."

"My true potential?" she echoed, arching a brow.

"We just think you’d benefit from being around others who are more..." His eyes flicked to Angie and Alicia before returning to her. "...like you."

"You mean people who think they’re better than everyone else."

"We are better than everyone else," Adrian chimed in smugly.

"How adorable," she said sweetly. "So tell me, Warrington. What changed your mind about me?" She then turned her eyes to Jane, who nervously avoided her gaze. "Did your daddy write to you asking to befriend me too?"

Cassius’ jaw clenched at the mention of his father, his hand twitching at his side. But before he could spit a retort, Miles stepped in with a lazy drawl.

"Suit yourself, Black. We were only trying to be nice."

Her eyes flashed. "Don’t call me Black. And keep your charity for someone who gives a damn."

She turned to leave, but froze when her gaze collided with Ryu’s. For the briefest second, something unreadable flickered in his expression.

"Fix your face, Avery," she said flatly, before spinning on her heel and storming off, Angelina and Alicia flanking her.

By the time they settled down for lunch, she was stabbing her poor sandwich. “It’s like they think I’ll just forget all the rubbish they’ve chucked at me.”

“Did you clock the way he was eyeing up Angie and me?” Alicia cut in. “I was this close to smacking him right across the gob.”

“Don’t let them get under your skin, Vee.” Angelina said. “Look on the bright side, you’re a genius at Potions!”

Vera poked at a slice of cheese, unimpressed. “Yeah, and still landed in ninth place.”

“That’s not so bad,” Alicia offered.

“Easy for you to say,” Angelina shot back. “You bagged seventh.”

“Yeah,” Alicia muttered, pulling a face. “Same as Pucey. Joy of joys.”

Angelina shrugged. “Still better than tenth.”

“And did you see Jane?” Vera huffed. “Standing there like everything’s fine. Drives me mental.”

“Honestly, Vee, don’t waste your energy on those melters.”

“What’s a melter?” Fred’s voice chimed in as he and George slid into the seats beside Vera—Fred on her right, George on her left like a practiced formation.

“Poshlanders want Vera to ditch us and buddy up with them,” Angelina explained.

“Which is never happening,” Vera snapped, loud enough for the table to hear.

George grinned. “They’ve got about as much chance as catching a Niffler in Gringotts."

“Where were you two, anyway?” Angelina asked suspiciously.

“Setting a dungbomb,” they said together, far too cheerfully.

Alicia groaned. “Seriously? And you two still managed fifth place?”

“Yeah, how?” Vera asked, baffled. “You’re always mucking about with pranks. How do you even pull decent grades?”

“It’s a trade secret,” they said in perfect unison, pressing fingers to their lips.

Angelina and Alicia scoffed, veering off into a discussion about study plans. Meanwhile, Fred leaned just a little closer to Vera, lowering his voice.

“And we know your secret.”

She froze, her eyes widening as her heart skipped a beat. What secret could he possibly mean? Did they somehow know she lived in a Muggle orphanage instead of her so-called posh relatives? Had they caught wind of the blood poisoning? Or worse... Had they uncovered her Clairtangent gift, and how she’d used it on Frey to help Charlie?

Her throat tightened. “W–what secret?”

“We’ve been keeping tabs on you with the map,” George murmured.

“And we noticed you’ve been sneaking off with Snape and Madam Pomfrey every afternoon for the past three months.”

She swallowed hard, trying to keep her face neutral.

“And we know…” George let the words hang, milking the pause.

Her pulse hammered.

“…that they’ve been giving you private Potions lessons,” Fred finished, a grin tugging at his mouth.

Vera blinked. “W…what?”

George rolled his eyes. “You could’ve at least given us the heads-up.”

Relief crashed over her so fast it left her dizzy. “I—I didn’t think it was that big a deal,” she stammered, heat rising in her cheeks.

“Not a big deal?” Fred shot back. “You’re getting one-on-one coaching from the Potions Master and the school's healer.”

“No wonder you aced the exam!” George added, grinning like he’d just solved a great mystery.

Vera flushed crimson. “I just didn’t want everyone thinking I was… struggling.”

Fred shook his head. “Trust me, nobody’s gonna think that when you’re brewing like Merlin’s long-lost cousin.”

“But come on, Vee," George urged. "What’s the real reason?”

She laughed nervously. "I figured you lot would think I'm getting special treatment from them."

Fred arched an eyebrow. “Well… you are.”

“Wait—why were you spying on me in the first place?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Oops,” the twins blurted together, then traded sheepish looks.

She folded her arms, eyebrow arched expectantly.

Fred cleared his throat. “Well, we were just… you know… keeping tabs. For… uh… research purposes.”

“Research!” George echoed, nodding furiously. “Very important research. Got to stay ahead of the game.”

“Research,” she repeated flatly. “Right. And by research you mean nosiness.”

The twins shared a guilty glance.

“Alright,” George admitted, “maybe a bit of both.”

She sighed, though a smile tugged at her lips. “Well, in that case, I think it’s only fair I get my turn with the map. Seems I should do some… research of my own. On YOU.”

Fred and George exchanged a quick, mischievous look, then answered in perfect unison: “Not happening.”

“Why not?” 

“We’ve had a few… chats with the map.” Fred said conspiratorially.

“And it’s taught us some tricks.” George added.

“Like how to make it go blank once we’re done,” 

“And how to keep ourselves hidden from it,” 

“Well then, I want to hide myself too!” Vera snapped.

“That’ll cost you,” Fred teased.

“No way.”

“Come on, don’t be stingy,” George prodded. “You’re proper rich.”

“I reckon it’s only fair after you two spied on me,” she countered.

George tilted his head thoughtfully. “She’s got a point there, Freddie.”

“Yeah, Freddie,” Vera mocked. "She's got a point."

Fred groaned but relented. “Fine, fine—we’ll teach you how to vanish from the map.”

“Merci,” Vera said with a grin, taking a long sip of her drink.

“And you can hang onto the map over the summer,” George added brightly. “Might not work outside Hogwarts, but if you chat with it, it’ll spill a few secrets. Knows all sorts of tricks.”

Vera’s hand froze halfway to her mouth. The thought of Kaya catching her whispering to a scrap of parchment in the middle of the night sent a cold ripple down her spine.

She forced a casual shrug. “Nah, you two keep it. I’m good.”

She drained the rest of her drink, but it did little to wash away the weight in her chest. Because while the twins laughed and carried on, she knew there was still a far bigger problem waiting in the shadows.

After classes, she climbed the spiral staircase to Professor McGonagall’s office. The brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head glinted in the torchlight as she rapped gently and stepped inside.

The room was as formidable as its occupant: high shelves brimming with leather-bound tomes, the faint scent of old parchment and polish hanging in the air. At the center stood a massive oak desk, its surface neatly ordered, save for a single Quidditch medal gleaming atop a stack of parchment.

To Vera’s surprise, McGonagall greeted her not with a frown but with a faint smile.

"Ah, Miss Black. Do come in. Tea?” she offered, gesturing toward a steaming pot and two delicate china cups waiting on a small side table.

“Um… yes, thank you,” Vera said, caught off guard by the stern professor’s unexpected hospitality.

They settled opposite one another, the clink of porcelain punctuating the quiet. 

“I must say, Miss Black," McGonagall then said. "I was quite pleased to hear of your achievement in Potions. Top of your class is no small feat.”

A rush of pride colored Vera’s cheeks. Praise from Professor McGonagall was rare and precious.

"Thank you, Professor. I only wish I could do as well in my other subjects.”

McGonagall gave a small, understanding nod. “Every witch and wizard has their strengths. What matters is diligence, and the will to improve. Perseverance carries farther than talent alone.”

The words settled over Vera like a protective cloak. She had always admired McGonagall’s wisdom, but in that moment she felt not only guided, but genuinely seen.   

“Now, what brings you to my office today?”

Vera fidgeted in her seat. “Professor… I have some concerns about taking my school books and magical stationery home. As you know, I live with Muggles, and… I’m worried about what they might think if they were to see them.”

“I see,” McGonagall murmured. “And I assume that would make completing your homework at home… difficult?”

Vera nodded. “Yes, exactly.”

“Do not worry, Vera. You may leave all your magical belongings here at Hogwarts while you’re home for the holidays. They will be kept safe until your return. As for your books, I can alter their appearance so they look like ordinary Muggle texts. That way, you can work on your homework without raising any suspicion.”

Vera’s chest warmed with gratitude. “Thank you…”

As she rose to leave, her eyes were drawn to the Quidditch medal gleaming atop McGonagall’s desk. “Did you play Quidditch, Professor?”

A nostalgic smile tugged at the corners of McGonagall’s lips. “Indeed. I was quite devoted in my younger days.”

“What position did you play?” Vera asked, leaning forward.

A hint of pride flickered in the professor’s eyes. “I was a chaser for Gryffindor. Exhilarating, I must say.”

The conversation drifted naturally to stories of her Quidditch days, Vera listening intently. Then the professor’s tone shifted, gentle yet careful.

“You know… your father was quite the Quidditch player as well.”

Vera was taken aback. “He… was?”

“Indeed. One of the best seekers Hogwarts has ever seen.”

Vera’s heart raced, a mix of wonder and longing filling her. “Did… did you teach him, too?”

“I did,” McGonagall replied. “He was exceptional—top of his class in every subject for six years, always quiet and disciplined. On the Quidditch pitch… he was remarkable.”

Vera hesitated, her mind a swirl of questions. “Professor… um… what did he look like?”

McGonagall’s gaze softened further, distant for a moment as if peering into memory. “Dark hair, shoulder-length, and piercing teal eyes… much like yours. Now that I look at you, Vera, your resemblance to him is striking.”

Vera's heart somersaulted as the words hung in the air. It was a revelation wrapped in a bittersweet veil, stirring emotions she had scarcely explored. The father she'd never met suddenly became tangible, a phantom presence haunting her thoughts.

The sting of never knowing him cut deep, leaving a void that no answer could fill. Curiosity gnawed at her like a persistent whisper, urging her to uncover the truths buried beneath layers of silence. And yet, woven into that curiosity was a seed of fear, sprouting tendrils of doubt: what if he was a stranger to love, a shadow lurking in the corners of her lineage?

That night, she was drawn to the mirror as if pulled by gravity. Trembling fingers traced the contours of her own face, short hair mimicking the style she imagined he wore. In the reflection, she sought both solace and answers, striving to bridge the chasm separating her from the enigmatic figures of her past.

Her mother, her father... strangers whose absence echoed louder than any presence could. Questions swirled in her mind, each one a dagger aimed at the heart of her identity.

What became of them? Why had they left her adrift in a world crowded with unfamiliar faces? The truth, elusive and merciless, danced just beyond her grasp, teasing her with secrets.

She was a paradox: a mosaic of contradictions that defied simple definition: strong yet fragile, wealthy yet poor, adored yet overlooked.

While the table rang with laughter and summer plans, she sat adrift, half-present, tangled in thoughts she couldn’t quite name. Around her, the chatter buzzed with Quidditch, holidays, and adventures that belonged to other people.

"Fred and I are gonna train like maniacs over the hols," George said. "Mark my words, we’ll make the team next year."

Alicia’s grin was instant. "I’ll be in England with my da. He’s promised a summer full of Quidditch drills as well."

"Ooh, no Tommy for two whole months?" Fred teased.

George doubled down, and Alicia swatted them away, her blush betraying her smirk.

"My gran’s again," Kenny groaned. "Knitting, tea, and small talk. Wish I could swap with Maddie—she’s sailing the Atlantic like royalty."

"A cruise?" Lee gawked.

"Yep. Posh as it gets," Kenny muttered.

"What about you, Vera?" Alicia asked.

She kept her tone casual. "Oh, nothing fancy. Just home."

"Nothing fancy?" Fred’s eyebrow shot up. "Vee, you live in a bloody castle. Don’t tell me you’ve not got a battalion of house elves polishing your tiara collection."

"Yeah," Lee added. "Bet they even iron your socks."

The table erupted again, and Vera forced a laugh, though her smile pinched at the edges. Their jokes weren’t cruel, not really, but each one pressed against the fragile wall she’d built. She longed to drop the act, to tell them the truth and breathe easy—but fear kept her gagged. Better the mask of a girl with secrets than the risk of them seeing her as nothing at all.

Just as she was about to mumble some vague excuse, Dumbledore’s voice swept over the Hall.

“This year has been a testament to the resilience and strength of our collective character,” he began, his words steady as the tide.

Vera latched onto his voice like a rope thrown into deep water, letting the cadence soothe her frayed nerves.

“Now, as we prepare to bid farewell to another year filled with memories and milestones, we stand upon the edge of one final moment of celebration... the awarding of the House Cup.”

Excited murmurs rippled through the Hall, quills were tucked away, robes shuffled, and the room seemed to lean forward as one.

“But remember,” Dumbledore continued, “victory is but one measure, and never the truest. What matters most are the kindnesses we share, the friendships we build, and the values we carry. So let us face this moment with humility, knowing that win or lose, Hogwarts shines brightest when we shine together.”

A hush followed his words, heavy with anticipation. Every fork stilled, every whisper cut short, as the Great Hall waited.

“In fourth place, Gryffindor, with 390 points.”

A groan rolled through the Gryffindor table. Oliver Wood muttered something naughty about Frey, and Vera nearly choked holding back a laugh.

“In third place, Hufflepuff, with 420 points.”

Tommy’s shoulders sagged, Cedric wore disappointment like a mask of dignity.

“In second place, Ravenclaw, with 445 points.”

Vera’s gaze drifted toward their table—only to find Ryu staring straight at her. The second their eyes met, he looked away, quick as a Snitch dodging a Seeker.

“And finally, with 460 points… Slytherin wins the House Cup!”

The green-clad table exploded in triumph. Cassius and Miles smacked palms, Adrian drummed the wood, and the rest of Slytherin roared their glory into the rafters.

Vera rolled her eyes. "Posh fucks.”

As her gaze met Dumbledore’s across the Great Hall, a sharp pang cut through her chest. His words had been full of wisdom and warmth, yet doubt gnawed at her—what if he was disappointed in her for what she did to professor Frey? 

When the feast ended and the tide of students surged toward the doors, her stomach dropped at the sight of a Gryffindor prefect threading through the crowd.

“Professor Dumbledore wishes to see you in his office.”

Her heart gave a violent lurch. Every nerve screamed for escape, but her feet moved of their own accord, carrying her up the stairs. Would he expel her? Expose her? Was this the end of Hogwarts before it had properly begun?

The door opened onto his office, the shelves and whirring contraptions suddenly sharper, more ominous, under the weight of her fear. Behind the desk, the Headmaster sat with the same serene expression he wore at feasts and farewells, his gaze gentle yet impossibly unreadable.

He lifted a hand, inviting her to sit. “Would you care for some tea, Vera?” 

Caught off guard, she blinked, then nodded, clutching at the offered thread of normalcy. “Yes… thank you.”

He poured the tea with unhurried grace, steam curling between them like a protective veil. A plate of lemon sherbets appeared on the desk—cheerful, almost absurd in the gravity of the moment.

Vera wrapped her hands around the cup, letting its warmth steady her as she stole a glance around his office. She noticed details she had missed before: portraits pretending to nap but clearly listening, curious instruments whirring and humming as though they had secrets of their own.

“Am I in trouble, sir?” she blurted, unable to bear the silence any longer.

His gaze was calm. “And what leads you to believe that?”

Her throat tightened. “It’s what I did… to Professor Frey.”

“Do you believe your actions were wrong?”

“I—I was only trying to help Charlie—”

“Then it is not."

Her voice tumbled out in a rush. “I swear, I’ll never do it again, sir. I promise.”

“Unless necessity demands it?”

She hesitated, guilt battling honesty. “I don’t know. But… I’d never do it if I didn’t have to.”

His eyes warmed, a faint approval softening his features. “Your integrity is commendable, Vera. And no, you are certainly not in trouble.”

She blinked. “So… you’re not angry with me?”

“Angry?” A quiet chuckle escaped him. “No, Miss Black. Far from it. I am rather proud of you.”

Her mouth opened in disbelief. “Proud? But I used dark—”

He raised a hand, stopping her mid-word. “What you did came not from malice, but compassion. You acted from loyalty and love. That, I assure you, is nothing dark.”

“But… but I broke the rules. Isn’t that a crime?”

He leaned forward, eyes gleaming with a kind of ageless mischief. “Rules have their place, but they are not sacred. There are times when true courage lies in challenging them—and in doing so, we discover who we truly are.”

Her head spun, guilt clashing with relief. She had braced herself for punishment, even expulsion. Instead, she found unexpected mercy.

“You’ve shown,” Dumbledore continued, “that even though your body protests, you can wield your gift for the right reasons.”

She frowned. “Why do you keep calling it a gift, sir?”

“Because all things may be gifts, depending on the eyes through which we see them.”

“But… it makes me proper sick.”

“Not the magic itself,” he said gently, “but your body’s rejection of it. The ailment is not in your gift, Vera, but in the vessel that carries it.”

"But why does my body reject it?”

“That, my dear, is the question. One I intend to pursue over the holiday. A trusted friend of mine may also lend his expertise.”

Hope flickered in her chest, fragile but real. “Thank you, sir.”

“For now,” he said, leaning back with a small, knowing smile, “hold fast to your resilience. Your path will not be easy, but I have no doubt—you will rise to meet it.”

She rose, ready to take her leave, but hesitation anchored her to the spot. “May I… ask you something, sir?” 

“Of course,” Dumbledore replied, his gaze inviting.

She drew in a breath, steadying her nerves. “Do you know what happened to my father?”

Dumbledore’s expression softened, lines of sympathy etching deeper across his face.

“I never knew him, or my mum,” she pressed on, words tumbling out before fear could stop them. “And since I came here, I’ve only heard how dreadful my family was. I don’t know any of them. Professor Frey said they cut all ties, moved away. But… I want to know the truth. And I can’t shake the feeling that my father… that he was like them. So was he, sir? Was he a bad person?”

Silence stretched. Dumbledore’s eyes, kind yet unbearably knowing, held hers. He seemed to measure the weight of his answer against the fragility of her hope.

“Your father was very young when it all happened,” he said at last. “Far too young to grasp the full gravity of his choices.”

Tears pricked her eyes. “So… he was…” She swallowed hard. “He was a bad person.”

“He made mistakes,” Dumbledore admitted, his tone grave. “And mistakes of the sort that cannot be undone. He paid dearly for them.”

The last shred of hope dissolved, leaving only a hollow ache. She stared at the floor, fighting back the tears that blurred her vision.

Dumbledore’s voice softened, carrying a note of quiet wonder. “When I first read the news of your birth, I confess I was astonished. In the midst of war’s chaos, when all seemed destined for ruin, a life had begun. Many called it a dark omen. But I saw it as a sign of hope. A fragile light, defiant against the shadows. And now, seeing the resilient young witch before me, I know my faith was not misplaced.”

Vera managed a fragile smile through her tears, though her curiosity pressed forward. “What news are you referring to, sir?”

“When your grandmother passed, the Daily Prophet ran a story. Someone had seen fit to leak a portion of her will. It revealed your father’s marriage… and your birth. Matters your family had kept carefully hidden.”

“Why?” her voice cracked, raw with hurt. “Why give me up? Why put me in the Muggle world? Was there something wrong with me, professor? Did my parents… not want me?”

“Listen closely, Vera." Dumbledore leaned forward. "Chasing shadows of ‘why’ will only weigh you down. Your parents were terribly young when you came into their lives, and their world was already fraught with turmoil. But make no mistake—whatever else was tangled in their choices, there was love. A great deal of it.”

She wanted to believe him, wanted to know—yet fear held fast: fear of truths too heavy to bear, fear of learning she had been nothing more than a mistake. She steadied herself with a slow breath, the way she had so many times before, drawing on the resilience that refused to let her break.

At last she rose to leave, her hand brushing the wood of the door. But a thought stopped her, fierce and sudden. 

She turned back. “Sir?”

“Yes, Vera?”

“What was my grandmother’s name?”

With determined strides, she cut through the winding corridors of Hogwarts, her mind alight with questions that refused to rest. The library loomed before her, silent and cavernous, its shelves brimming with secrets. She moved unerringly toward the newspapers archives, rows of dusty volumes standing like sentinels of forgotten time.

Her pulse quickened as she raised her wand. The spell would not be simple—she knew that—but the truth demanded to be unearthed.

She whispered the incantation, and for a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, with a violent shudder, the shelves erupted—newspapers shot into the air, flapping and tumbling like startled birds. Headlines blurred together in a chaotic storm, parchment whirling around her as if the past itself resisted being touched.

Her grip faltered, pain knifing behind her eyes, a thin trickle of blood sliding from her nose. With a weary sigh, she lowered her wand, watching the storm collapse into disarray around her.

Dropping to her knees, she began to gather the scattered sheets, stacking them in trembling hands, forcing order onto the chaos. Then, as she reached for one crumpled page, her gaze snagged on the ink that screamed across it. A single headline, bold and merciless.

WALBURGA BLACK’S WILL LEAKED

THE BLACK FAMILY LINEAGE LIVES ON

Exclusive: Rita Skeeter Uncovers Startling Revelation in the Black Family Saga!

In an unprecedented turn of events, a well-placed source within the Black family has divulged to yours truly a bombshell revelation straight from the reading of Walburga Black's will. Brace yourselves, dear readers, for what I'm about to reveal will shake the very foundations of wizarding society!

It seems the infamous Black matriarch, known for her icy demeanor and iron-clad traditions, harbored a clandestine secret that even the most astute of us in the press corps failed to sniff out. Yes, you heard it right! The indomitable Walburga Black had a grandchild, purportedly a girl, tucked away from prying eyes and wagging tongues.

But hold onto your broomsticks, because the plot thickens! This isn't just any ordinary family scandal. Oh no, this revelation unravels a tapestry woven with clandestine affairs, whispered alliances, and the stuff of wizarding legends.

Picture this: a hush-hush wedding, a shadowy pact with the esteemed Rosier House of France, and a birth shrouded in secrecy. It's the kind of stuff that sends shivers down your spine and makes you wonder what other secrets lie buried in the Black family vault.

As for the whereabouts of this mysterious offspring, well, your guess is as good as mine. But rest assured, dear readers, they are most likely ensconced within the confines of the Black family, wherever they are hiding.

But hold on to your hats, darlings, because the plot thickens! Rumors are swirling like wildfire that this hidden scion is none other than the secret child of the eccentric Sophie Rosier and the deceased death eater Regulus Black!

Can you imagine? If these rumors are true, this would make this “Black Rose” the rightful heir to the illustrious Black family, a lineage thought to have withered away with Regulus’ untimely demise. The question on everyone’s lips now is whether this hidden girl will step out of the shadows and lay claim to the Black family legacy that has long been left to gather dust.

Stay tuned, dearest readers, because this story is just beginning to unfold!

Chapter Text

Part II: The Black Rose

Dedicated to the man who first radicalized me, and taught me that the only path towards freedom, is through resistance.

Though you are no longer with us, your words and teachings live on, eternal.

Chapter 21: Twelve

♪ Underneath the moonlight,
In the softness of the night,
Close your eyes, my baby girl,
Let the stars fill you with light. ♪

Wednesday, August 1, 1990

Vera stirred from her slumber to the rustle of papers nearby. Blinking awake, she spotted a blonde five-year-old perched on her bed, clutching her crimson notebook.

"LOLA!" 

"Hi Vera."

She swiftly snatched the notebook from her little sister’s grasp. "How many times have I told you to keep your hands off my shite?"

"I'm thorry," Lola pouted, her speech tinged with a cute lisp.

"Quit the act, you stinky little lice ball!"

"I don’t have lithe anymore!" 

"I can see 'em from here, you lying frog, NOW SCRAM!"

With a huff, Lola descended from the bed. "You’re a bitch!" she taunted, sticking out her tongue.

Vera retaliated with a pillow throw before flopping back down. As she closed her eyes, she tried to summon the elusive memory of her dream—a reoccurring one that had haunted her for as long as she could remember.

In this dream, a striking blonde woman with mesmerizing hazel eyes stood before her, singing a haunting melody. Her voice echoed through Vera's mind, its beautiful, raspy tone both enchanting and familiar. "Underneath the moonlight…”

"Why's Lola in tears?" Kaya suddenly barged in. "Did you yell at her again?"

Vera hastily hid the notebook under her pillow. "She's been nosing around my stuff again, and she's gonna spread her lice to me.”

"But she was cleaned just yesterday."

"Oh, come off it. She's probably hosting a lice convention again. Everyone is in this bloody house. I swear, if I catch 'em, she's in for it."

Kaya frowned. "Blimey, Vee, calm down. What's gotten into you?"

"Nothing," Vera huffed, her mind racing back to the notebook.

"Sure about that? 'Cause ever since you got back from that posh boarding school, you've been proper odd."

"That's a load of bollocks!"

"Oh, please, you've been in a right state ever since you got here. Barely eating or playing with us, spending all your time on the telly, always napping, fighting with Lydia, and you've probably spent more time with Mrs. Quinn than me.”

“She’s fun to be around, you know.”

“Oh please, she’s only on about politics.”

“And she makes it fun.”

“What about Billy then, huh? You’ve likely given him a proper whack to the noggin.”

"Billy had it coming," Vera shrugged, unbothered about their young neighbor who they spent most afternoons playing on the street with.

"Yeah, but the way you belted him? It's a wonder Miss Nelson only grounded you for a week."

"We were playing footie, and he was being a proper arse! What was I supposed to do?"

"I'm just worried, that's all, Vee.” Kaya said with a concerned expression. “Did something happen while you were off at school?”

Vera shut her eyes, trying to push back the memories of her final days at Hogwarts. It was all a blur now, anyway. She'd barely engaged in any of the end-of-year shenanigans, spending most of her time holed up in her dorm, crying or sleeping, unable to confront the harsh truths she'd uncovered.

Alicia and Angelina had been fretting over her, but she couldn't bring herself to tell them anything. How could she, anyway? How could she face anyone after what she'd found? On her last day, she left the Hogwarts Express and belted to the muggle world without even saying goodbye to anyone. All she'd wished for was to vanish from existence.

"No, nothing happened," she lied, her voice strained.

“Well, buck up, eh? If I had sponsors lining up to take me shopping, I'd be over the moon."

Vera nodded, still preoccupied with the notebook hidden beneath her pillow, the blonde woman in her dreams, and the overwhelming weight of her existence. Then, her eyes widened in sudden realization.

“BUGGERS, I FORGOT!”

She swiftly prepared herself with just ten minutes remaining until Dom and Donnie were due to arrive. The pair were treating her to the customary school supply shopping spree in Diagon Alley. With the clock ticking, she hastily dressed and packed her essentials into her bag, neglecting even to run a brush through her hair. She then descended the stairs to find Miss Nelson engaged in conversation with Donnie in the living area.

"Ah, here she is," the kind matron announced with her ever-contagious grin.

"Sorry for being late, Don— Ah, I mean, Mr. Smith."

"Not a bother at all.” Donnie replied. “Are you all set?"

"Aye, where's Mrs. Smith?"

"She's waiting for us in the car." 

The two then headed towards Mrs. Wriggleshore's to take the Floo Network to Diagon Alley.

"Where's Dom, really?" Vera pressed as they were walking.

"Um, she's...occupied." Donnie answered vaguely, casting a wary glance around to ensure no one from the orphanage had caught wind of their true destination.

"Donnie, why don't we just apparate there?" she suggested, scratching her head.

"You're not used to it; you might feel a bit queasy."

"My friend Sarah's folks apparate her everywhere, you know."

"They've probably been doing it since she was in nappies."

"I can't wait till I master apparition. I'd travel the globe in a blink!"

"I only wish it were that simple, Vera."

They knocked on the door and were soon greeted by the eccentric old witch.

"I smell trouble in the Ministry," Mrs. Wriggleshore remarked as they all walked towards the fireplace.

"I'm sure they'll sort it out soon." Donnie reassured her.

"Don't make me laugh," she scoffed, retrieving the jar of Floo powder. "They've installed a whiskey maker as an official, and now he's dragged his drunken son along. What's next? Are we to be governed by Quidditch bookies?"

"Can't argue there." 

Meanwhile, Vera tuned out their increasingly political banter and focused on the old lady's clock wall. Two more clocks had stopped ticking, their hands frozen at six. The young man in the framed photograph appeared to have a slightly altered demeanor, though she couldn't quite discern what had changed. She then shifted her focus to the kitchen table, which was strewn with newspapers, as usual. She picked one up and read the headline:

Wizarding Chronicle

Trevor Yaxley Joins Ministry amid Controversial Mass Layoffs

Who is behind these new Policies, and why is no one talking about it? Hugh Blackwood Investigates.

She recoiled at the sight of Yaxley's name, recalling Slytherin's most notorious student and the lingering odor he carried. With a disdainful flick, she discarded the newspaper and reached for another.

The Daily Prophet

Canada wins the 421^st Quidditch World cup against Scotland

Seeker Hector Lemont blames his short fingers for the Defeat

"Vera, let's get moving!" Donnie urged.

The two then Flooed their way to Diagon Alley and arrived at their first stop, Gringotts, where Vera was slated to secure her loan. The queue for the loans office stretched long, with some customers even spilling outside. As they waited in line, more patrons joined, while others exited the office hysterical.

"Why are they crying like that?" Vera asked, scratching her head.

"It's been one hell of a year," Donnie replied grimly. "Gringotts is tightening its loan regulations."

"Does that mean we won't get one?"

"It's possible, especially since you haven't paid off your previous one. But don't worry, we'll figure something out."

She scratched her head again, observing the variety of creatures in the line. Some clutched large files of parchments, while others muttered to themselves, as if rehearsing what to say once inside.

"Donnie?" She called out after a moment.

"Yes?"

"Why would an heir need a loan?”

Her question caught him completely off guard. "Come again?"

"Why would I need a loan if I’m... an heir?"

"Um," Donnie stammered, taken aback. "I'm not entirely sure how to explain it, Vera."

"Just give it to me straight."

"Well, legally speaking, you're the heir since your father was, but—"

"Right, so why am I stuck in a line for a loan if I'm supposed to be rich?"

Donnie sensed her escalating frustration.

"Listen," he began carefully, "it's not as simple as that. Whoever had control of the family fortune at the time of your grandmother’s passing is the one who can grant it to you."

"And who had control?"

“I am not sure, Vera...”

"Couldn't we just ask?"

"Ask who?"

"Someone from my family!"

"We can't." 

"Why the bloody hell not?" she shouted, drawing puzzled glances from the other people in the queue.

"Because," he hissed, "we have no idea where they are!"

"So they lost the war and just buggered off?" Her voice wavered with a mix of anger and hurt. “And left me behind?”

"What's going on, Vera? Why are you acting like this?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

He couldn't help but regard her with a worried expression.

“Besides,” she continued, her tone softening. “I skipped breakfast.”

"You know, there's a nice little spot nearby. We could grab something to eat once we're through here."

They finally reached their turn, and to their astonishment, the stern goblin in the office greeted them with a smile.

"Another loan for Miss Black?" he asked.

"Yes." Donnie confirmed, taking a seat beside Vera.

"Very well, I shall have it prepared."

Vera and Donnie traded wide-eyed looks. The loan had slipped into their hands with suspicious ease—no grilling questions, no suffocating rules. Vera couldn’t help but suspect her surname had done the heavy lifting. For a fleeting second, she didn’t mind the nepotism. In fact, she rather liked it.

The goblin then handed her a stack of documents to sign.

"Pardon me," Donnie interjected. "We would also like to inquire about the deadline for repaying the previous loan."

"That won't be necessary," the goblin replied. "It has been settled in full."

Vera swiftly glanced at Donnie, who mirrored her astonishment. "But...who settled it?"

"A member of your family, naturally."

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Wh-who exactly?" 

The goblin rummaged through his drawer before producing a document and passing it to her, and her eyes widened in shock as she saw the signature at the bottom of the page.

Pollux Black

"I don't understand!" she shouted, her anger boiling over as she and Donnie settled at a table in a pub near the bank. "They ignore me, then suddenly pay off my loan?"

"Vera, listen—" 

"I get it, Donnie," she cut in, her voice laced with bitterness. "They don't want me because I'm polluted by Muggles."

"No, Vera—"

"But why leave me in the Muggle world in the first place? I just don't understand!"

"Neither do I but—"

"And it's not like I want to be with them! I'd rather die than live with those lunatics, but I'm supposed to be the heir!"

"You're overthinking this, Vera. Please, just stop."

“And what bullocks is that they pay my loan but not give me my inheritance? You know what? Fuck them!"

"Vera, enough!"

“I hate them!” she shouted. “I hate them all! I want nothing to do with them!"

"Can you please calm down?"

"I’m bloody glad they didn't raise me!”

“Lower your voice!”

“I'd have probably ended up just like my father if they did—"

"Vera!"

“A bloody death eater!”

Donnie’s shock was instant—his hand shot up to clamp over her mouth, eyes bulging.

"Where did you hear this?" he demanded as he released her. “WHO TOLD YOU?”

"No one!” she replied defiantly. “I found out on my own.”

"How?" 

Her eyes, glossy with tears yet blazing with fury, locked onto him. She dug into her bag and pulled out a crimson notebook, its cover scarred with the word SHAME in bold black marker. Donnie’s brow furrowed, his expression twisting in confusion as he thumbed through the pages.

"Merlin's beard... What have you done?" His voice trembled with disbelief. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"

"You told me to seek the truth on my own terms," she retorted defiantly, wiping away her tears with a fierce determination. "So I bloody well did."

"This isn't seeking the truth, Vera. This is sheer madness!"

"You refused to tell me anything!"

He slammed the notebook open on the table. "So you went and did THIS!" 

Inside the ‘SHAME’ notebook lay a chronicle of horror and infamy. Each page carried a headline with a damning testament to the darkness that shrouded the Black family.

“Crow Party Collapses as Black Family Flees”

Next page

"Orion Black Suspected in Julius Bobbin’s Disappearance"

Next page

“Bellatrix Lestrange, Daughter of Cygnus Black, found guilty in the Longbottoms Torture”

Next page

"Pollux Black & Abraxes Malfoy Linked to Muggleborn Minister's Suspected Poisoning"

Next page

"Cyrus 'The Mad' Black's Macabre Experiments: Guilty Verdict in Illegal Breeding Trial"

Next page

"Pollux Black's Deadly Deployment of Demonters at Squib Rights Marches Leaves 36 Dead"

Next page

"Lucretia Black’s Major Involvement in the Crain Children Massacre"

Next page

"Orion Black Loses 40 More Properties in Gambling Debacle"

Next page

"Regulus Black, Heir & Death Eater, Dead at 18”

Each headline was a jagged shard of truth, meticulously cut and pasted into the notebook of despair and obsession. Night after night, she would immerse herself in the darkness of these revelations, driven by a relentless need to uncover the secrets that had been kept from her.

“These are not truths, Vera.”

"They're still part of the truth, aren't they?" she challenged, her voice quivering with emotion. "AREN'T THEY!"

Donnie let out a long, weary sigh, then closed the notebook with careful hands.

"Yes, darling, they're part of the truth," he said, his voice softening. "But that period of time was madness. Newspapers waged their own war, shaping people's perspectives with every story and scoop. Your family has done terrible things, yes. But most of these articles are part of a larger narrative, one that you are still too young to fully understand. You can’t believe everything newspapers claim to be the truth."

"I knew they were terrible, Donnie. Mrs. Wriggleshore told me all about them last year. But this is more than terrible, they were monsters! And my dad… he was a monster too. No wonder Felix doesn’t want me to talk to him in front of others."

"Who the hell is Felix?"

"And if my friends knew, they would stop talking to me, Donnie! They would hate me."

"That’s not true, darling."

"What if…" she sniffled, trying to compose herself. "What if I ended up like them? What if I already am?" 

"No, no, Vera. You can never be like them."

"But they were all bad, Donnie. They were all like this, so why would I be different?"

"Because it’s not about blood; it’s about how you are raised, the values you hold, and the principles you live by. What your family did, or who they were, doesn’t define who you are or who you should be."

"I just wanted to understand," she whispered.

"And you deserve to understand. But this..." He gestured to the notebook lying between them. "This isn't the way."

"I'm sorry, Donnie," she murmured. "I'm just so angry all the time!"

"Don't apologize, Vera. We'll figure this out together, I promise."

"Could you please be completely honest with me from now on?"

"Absolutely," he responded promptly. "Let's have our meal first, and then I'll share whatever information I can."

"Alright," she sighed heavily, scratching her head.

And so, Donnie began to unravel the tangled web of her family’s history, his voice lowered in secrecy as he revealed the remaining members of the Black lineage.

"MY GRANDPARENTS WERE COUSINS!"

"It's very norma—"

"IT'S BLOODY DISGUSTINGGGGG!"

"Can't argue there."

"Oh, Donnie," she sighed. "My stomach suddenly hurts." she paused for a moment, then took a deep breath. "Who is gone and who is left exactly?"

"Well, apart from yourself, there are four individuals who still carry the name Black. Your great-grandfather, Lord Pollux, his sister Lady Cassiopeia, and his son, Sir Cygnus—"

"Bellatrix's father?" 

"Lower your voice!" He urged, casting cautious glances around. "Yes, that's correct. He had three daughters. The other two are no longer Blacks; one married Lucius Malfoy, and the third was disowned."

"Mrs. Tonks..." she murmured, connecting the dots.

"Yes, precisely. Now, Lord Pollux and his sister vanished completely after the fall of the Crow party. Rumors say they now live together in France, but no one knows for sure. Cygnus is still somewhere in England, but hasn’t been seen in years. He was never accused of any crime but was probably ashamed of what his daughter did."

"But why are they hiding exactly?"

"After the war, people demanded that Pollux should be investigated for his crimes, so that explains his vanishing. Lady Cassiopeia has always been secretive and was rarely ever seen, to be honest."

"People think I live with her, why is that?"

"She’s the last remaining member of the family to be unmarried, so people assumed she would be the one who raises you."

"But, she didn’t… None of them bloody did."

"Don’t dwell on it too much, dear."

"I just want to know why they didn’t want me."

"You can’t assume that for certain, Vera. There could be a valid reason, you know."

She scoffed. "I doubt it."

"Think about it, why else would Pollux settle your loan?"

Her mind raced with uncertainties, but she saw his point. 

"And the fourth?” she said after a moment, scratching her head. “You said there are four Blacks left besides me, so who's the fourth?"

Donnie hesitated. "Um... Your uncle... Sirius."

"Is he my father's younger brother?"

"No, Sirius is the elder."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "But if he's older, why isn't he the heir?"

"Well, um, he was disowned."

"Oh," she sighed. "Where is he, then?"

"In Azkaban."

“Wow, what a shock,” she scoffed mockingly, rolling her eyes. "What did this one do?"

"It's a long story, but he... he murdered thirteen Muggles."

"Blimey... Is there anyone in my family who wasn't a bloody murderer?"

"I think so... Of maybe not? Blimey, I don't know." 

"But why didn't I find any newspaper articles about Sirius?"

"Well, there was quite a commotion about it back then. Eventually, Bagnold managed to suppress the articles written about him."

Vera took a thoughtful bite of her food, absently scratching her head as she processed the new information. "And what about my mother's family?"

"The Rosiers were... different."

"Not so different if my mother married a Death Eater," she remarked with a hint of cynicism. "I meant, where are they now?"

Donnie appeared reluctant to divulge, despite his promise of complete honesty. "Those remaining are in France." 

"And let me guess," her tone turned bitter, "they don't want me either..."

He swallowed, shaking his head reluctantly.

Another tear escaped her eye, but she quickly wiped it away. "Whatever..."

"I am truly sorry, Vera. I'm sorry you had to learn the truth this way."

"It's alright. I understand why you didn't tell me."

"I remember them, you know. Your father and uncle, that is. We were all at Hogwarts together."

"Really?"

"I was a few years younger than them," he reminisced. "Merlin, they were right proper Seekers, those two.”

"Were they terrible to you?"

"Not at all," he chuckled softly. "In fact, your uncle was quite amusing, a true prankster."

"And my father?" 

"He was... the reserved one. I never talked to him, or hardly ever saw him, now that I think about it. He kept to himself and steered clear of trouble, unlike his brother. I was in my fourth year when he was exposed as a... you know. He left Hogwarts immediately, and we never heard from him again until his death."

"Did he kill anyone?"

Donnie was taken aback by her question. "I really can't say, Vera," he replied solemnly. "Simply because I don't know."

"He probably did..." she said, prodding at her food disinterestedly. “I'm glad he's dead."

Donnie struggled to find words.

"And my mother, Donnie?" she then asked. “What happened to her exactly?”

"I don't have much information about her, dear. Except that your father and she were engaged at fourteen."

"FOURTEEN!"

"That's customary in most pureblood families. They are betrothed at a young age and marry at seventeen, usually for political reasons—solidify alliances, join bloodlines or to seal business deals."

“So, for money?”

“Um, ah, sort of.”

"That's why my parents got married? Not because they were... in love?"

"Um… I'm not sure, dear."

She scratched her head again, trying to comprehend this peculiar concept and gather her thoughts.

Dead family.

Five Blacks remaining.

Murders aplenty.

Parents? Never in love.

She took a deep breath, absentmindedly poking at her food. "All I ever wanted, every birthday wish I ever had, every prayer I asked from God was to know where my parents are and what happened to them. I thought about them every day, wondering if they had loved me or if they were one of those people who throw away their babies because they had them by mistake. I always wanted to know the truth, but now that I do, I don't care anymore. I don't care if they loved me or not—I don't care if I was really a mistake, and I don't care about who they were."

Donnie remained silent, visibly shaken by her words.

"I never thought I could hate my own folks, or simply hate someone I had never met, but I hate them, Donnie. I hate them so much."

"I am truly sorry, Vera."

“It’s alright, I have a better family now,” she sniffled, then met his gaze with a gentle smile. “And I have you.”

He returned her smile, though his expression seemed reluctant. Then, he cleared his throat and straightened his posture, hoping to change the mood.

"Now, you must promise not to do this," he pointed at the ‘SHAME’ notebook, "ever again."

She gave him a hesitant look.

"Promise me, Vera."

"Alright," she relented, scratching her head. "I promise,"

"Good, I will be taking it with me.” He shoved the notebook down his bag. “Now finish your meal so we can purchase your books."

“Okay.”

“And why, in merlin’s name, have you been scratching your head all day?"

She shot him a fearful look. "Buggers..."

"Please, tell me it's not what I think it is."

“Lola…” she angrily muttered under her breath.

Once she’d gathered her books and supplies, Donnie disguised them with a charm to look as if they were ordinary Muggle stationery. Among the stack, one title caught her off guard—a slim little volume, boldly stamped Dark Defense Ethics.

As they exited the bookshop, she turned to him with a pleading expression. "Can we stop by Lucy’s first?"

"Lucy’s?"

"The makeup shop near the luggage store."

"The one you disappeared into when we first got here and nearly gave me a heart attack?"

"Yep!"

"I don't know, Vera... We don't have much time left. I need to have you back home by noon."

"Aw, buggers."

"Merlin's beard, where did you pick up all these words?"

"I think we've learned that there are worse things a Black can do than swear, Donnie."

"Can't argue there."

He then led her down a winding cobblestone street lined with quaint little shops until they stopped before a whimsically adorned storefront labeled Whiskers.

Vera’s eyes went wide the moment she stepped inside. The salon looked as though it had leapt straight out of a fairy tale—mirrors floated midair, reflecting customers in various stages of reinvention while levitating brushes and combs darted about like overcaffeinated pixies.

Crystal chandeliers dripped soft, enchanted light, and the chairs—apparently with minds of their own—wriggled and stretched to suit each sitter’s comfort. Well-dressed house-elves bustled about with all the seriousness of royal attendants, passing potions and elixirs that shimmered on polished shelves.

The air was thick with the sweet, heady scent of magical shampoos, equal parts enchanting and suspiciously addictive. Vera couldn’t decide if she’d stumbled into a hair salon or an elaborate charm designed to keep customers from ever leaving.

"Donnie, this place is so mint!" she exclaimed, her previous frustration swept away in the face of such wonder.

Donnie beamed. "I'm thrilled you think so."

As they sank into their floating chairs, Vera’s eyes roamed the salon. The place was teeming with characters straight out of an artist’s fever dream: one man had makeup so dramatic it practically deserved its own billing, while a woman nearby waved her wand and changed her hair color with every flick.

“Donnie, love!” A voice chimed like a charm, pulling their attention. A woman swooped in, wrapping Donnie in an embrace and planting a kiss on his cheek. “I’ve missed you!”

Donnie returned the affection with easy warmth before gesturing between them. “Vera, meet Remy.”

“Your girlfriend!” Vera blurted, memory clicking into place.

Remy was a vision—bronze skin kissed by sunlight, blue dreadlocks threaded with golden rings cascading down her back. Her butterfly-shaped eyeshadow literally fluttered with every blink, which was both dazzling and mildly disconcerting. Dressed in a pink frock jingling with assorted trinkets, she radiated the kind of charisma that made you want to follow her into whatever questionable adventure she suggested.

“So, you’re the Vera I’ve heard so much about?” her eyes twinkled mischievously. “Donnie simply cannot stop talking about you.”

Vera blushed. "Thank you for the magical hairbrush, Remy.”

“Of course, darling.” 

“Vera here has a bit of a problem,” Donnie announced far too casually, motioning to her hair.

Remy smiled. “Well, nothing I can’t fix. What’s the trouble, love?”

Vera inhaled deeply, cheeks heating. “I… I have lice,” she whispered.

“Sorry, darling, didn’t catch that?” 

“LICE,” Donnie boomed like he was making a public service announcement.

Brushes paused mid-air, mirrors flickered, and a few heads turned. Vera buried her face in her hands, wishing the floor might open up and swallow her.

Remy merely nodded, taking a polite step back. “Not to worry, dear—I’ve got just the potion for that. SCOTTYYYY!”

Scotty approached with purpose—purple hair, bold makeup, and enough confidence to make mirrors nervous. “Yeah?” 

“We have a lice situation."

Scotty’s gaze swept over Vera’s hair, his brow furrowing in mock gravitas.

“Ah, indeed…” he murmured. "I think… we have to chop it all off.”

Vera’s jaw hit the floor, her scream ricocheting like a banshee through the salon. “WHAT?!” 

Donnie, Remy, and Scotty collapsed into laughter, clearly enjoying the terror they’d just inflicted.

“I’m only teasing,” Scotty said. “There’s a charm for this. I promise—you’ll never see lice again.”

She exhaled, relief flooding her. But her chest began to unexpectedly hurt.

Scotty retrieved his wand, then murmured an incantation, wand tip glowing softly as it hovered over her hair. Slowly, the lice stirred, lifting into the air like tiny, disgruntled airborne tenants. Remy swooped in, jar at the ready, capturing each pest.

When the last one was secured, Scotty stepped back, eyes sweeping over Vera’s locks appreciatively.

“Honestly… that’s the most mesmerizing shade of black I’ve ever seen,” he said, voice tinged with admiration. “Truly something special.”

Vera’s cheeks flamed, and a shy smile tugged at her lips.

The tinkling of the salon’s entrance bell announced a new arrival. She turned, curiosity piqued, to see a man swaggering in—a leather jacket hugging him like it had secrets of its own, face tattoos striking enough to make her blink twice. He cut straight to Scotty, moving with the confidence of someone who clearly owned at least three galaxies.

Then, to her utter astonishment, he leaned in and planted a fiery kiss on Scotty’s lips. Her eyes nearly popped out of her head, her heart doing a chaotic drumline. She quickly looked away, cheeks flushing as a bizarre mix of shock, confusion, and something else entirely washed over her.

“Get a room,” Remy scoffed.

“Careful, you two,” Donnie warned. “We aren’t in Everbrook.”

“Speaking of Everbrook,” the leather-jacketed man said, “how’s Dom holding up?”

“She’s finding her feet..."

“Send her our regards when you see her, yeah?”

“Will do,” Donnie affirmed, before glancing at Scotty. “So… how much do we owe you, Scott?”

As the two headed off to settle the bill, Remy sidled up to Vera, brandishing the jar of captured lice. “Want to keep it? You know, as pets?”

Vera recoiled, utterly baffled and mortified. “Uh… no thanks."

As she made her way home, the magic of the day clung to her, gradually pushing aside the morning’s frustrations. Determined to make amends, she sought out Lola, presenting her with a chocolate frog she’d picked up in Diagon Alley. Lola’s eyes practically popped out of her head as the little treat twitched in her hand.

“It’s jumpin’!” she squealed.

“Yep,” Vera grinned, momentarily disregarding any potential consequences of her choice of gift. “Better eat it fast—before it hops away!”

Later that night, as she sat down to dinner with Kaya, her mind buzzed with the day’s chaos. But one moment refused to let go.

“Guess what I saw while shopping today!” 

“Let me guess… a unicorn?” 

“Even stranger,” Vera whispered, leaning in. “I saw… a gay couple.”

“That’s it?” Kaya said, barely looking up.

“They were proper gay, Kaya. Kissing and everything! And one of them had makeup on!”

“Uh… first time seeing someone gay?”

“Shh! Keep it down! Have you ever seen one before?”

“They’re not exactly mermaids or giants, Vee,” Kaya said, rolling her eyes. “Why the fuss?”

“Because," Vera hesitated, glancing around. “It’s wrong...”

“Why on earth would it be wrong?"

“You know. Because it's a… sin."

Kaya recoiled. "WHO TOLD YOU THAT NONSENSE?" 

"The Humphreys always said—"

"The Humphreys are buggers! Didn't you say they were terrible people?”

“They were—”

“Then, why would you listen to them?"

"But—"

"If two people love each other, what does it matter, Vera? Miss Nelson would be so angry if she heard you saying these things."

"Sh-he would?" 

"Of course! She always taught us that the only true sin is harming others. And I hardly see how two people loving each other could hurt anyone, do you?"

"No…" Vera conceded, her tone filled with shame and regret.

"You've got to wise up Vee, and forget what those old folks said to you.”

"I suppose I never really thought about it that way." 

"Well, it's never too late to start seeing things differently."

Vera felt caught in a mix of shame and guilt—emotions she knew well, but this time they felt heavier. For the first time, she had a real reason to feel ashamed of herself.

She had never questioned the beliefs her strict foster parents had taught her. As a child, she sometimes noticed their biases, but she didn’t have the understanding to know right from wrong, especially when she was only shown one way of seeing the world.

That night, as she lay in bed, her thoughts turned over the idea of inherited prejudices and the responsibility of thinking for herself.

Born into a family infamous for their biases and hatred towards others, she had vowed never to emulate their narrow-mindedness. And yet, the unsettling truth pressed against her: somehow, she had become a reflection of the very attitudes she had sworn to resist.

Kaya’s words ran through her mind, encouraging her to see things differently. In that quiet moment, Vera saw a chance to grow, to break away from her past and form her own beliefs.

Amid the shadows of doubt, she found solace in her friendship with Kaya, whose steadfast support and wise counsel had illuminated her path through the labyrinth of moral uncertainty.

And as her birthday arrived, she couldn't help but feel even more grateful.

Thursday, August 23, 1990

“Make a wish, Vee.”

She puffed out the candle balanced on a stack of pancakes shaped like a twelve—their little, ridiculous tradition.

“What’d you wish for?” Kaya bounced.

“You know,” Vera said, a mischievous smirk playing on her lips.

Kaya scoffed. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re still on about that.”

As Vera pondered her birthday wish this year, she weighed the tumultuous events that had shaped the past months.

She considered wishing her blood poisoning away—fingers crossed, no more magic that comes with a side of agony.

She also pondered wishing for forgiveness from friends she’d lied to, or to shrug off the family name that felt more like a chain.

Maybe the awkward ‘gift’ of Clairtangency would sod off, or that exams would suddenly become fond of her.

But eventually, she realized what mattered to her most.

“I wish to finally become a woman.” She declared dramatically.

Kaya made a face. “That’s bollocks, Vee. Wish for something useful.”

“Easy for you to say—you’ve already got it!” 

“And it’s a nightmare! Besides, I’m a year older than you, aren’t I?”

“So? Grace had hers at eleven.”

“It’s not all confetti and sparkles, Vee. It’s proper painful. You’ll be panicking about blood stains in front of boys.”

“I’ll take the pain,” Vera said coolly, recalling the numerous times she fell ill at Hogwarts. “I’ve been through worse. And boys? I couldn’t care less.”

“You will care,” Kaya warned. “The first cramp will have you wailing. It’s like someone’s planted a cactus in your insides.”

Vera scoffed. "You're being dramatic and overlooking the brighter side of it all."

"What brighter side?"

"TITS!"

“You don’t magically grow tits once you get your period you git!”

"But you did! While I’m still flat like a bloody paper towel."

"So you're wasting your birthday wish on something that's bound to happen anyway?"

"I want it to happen this year!"

Kaya teasingly punched her in the shoulder, then relit the candle. "Wise up, and make a proper wish."

"Fine," Vera relented. “Although, I don’t think you can just restart your wishes.”

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and ran through her options again.

No more blood poisoning.

Excellent grades.

Snape kicking the bucket.

Gryffindor winning the house cup.

Lydia getting lice, forever.

But in the end, her mind could only fixate on one thing, and one thing only.

Chapter Text

Saturday, September 1, 1990

"I'm going to miss you so much it physically hurts. These past few weeks, you've been my sun, my moon, my everything, and I cannot imagine how I'll go on without you. Just know that no matter what, I love you to bits."

Kaya groaned. "Would you pack it in already?"

"Give us a break, K!"

"Break’s over. Let go before you’re late."

"Just a few more minutes! I’m not ready to part ways."

"Vera, it’s just a telly."

"Just a telly?" Vera drew herself up, scandalized. "Excuse you? It’s the love of my life. You wouldn’t understand what it means to be cut off from civilization for months on end!"

"Don't worry, I'll write you a weekly summary of Eastenders."

"And Byker Grove."

"Absolutely."

"And Corrie."

"You got it."

"And—"

"Vera, darling, are you ready?" Miss Nelson’s voice cut through the theatrics.

"Yes, Miss!"

Her eyes darted down. "What in God's name are you clutching the telly for?"

Vera heaved a world-weary sigh. "My school is the sworn enemy of human progress."

"You’ll live," Miss Nelson replied dryly. "Now release it. Mrs Quinn needs to watch the news. AND MAKE HASTE!"

With tragic flair, Vera pressed a kiss to the glass. "Goodbye, my beloved."

"Come on, drama queen." Kaya snagged her wrist and pressed their bracelets together, forming the little engraved heart.

"Remember," she whispered with a sly wink.

"I know," Vera smiled, hugging her tight. "My heart will never be whole until I’m with you again."

"Vera!" Miss Nelson’s voice echoed. "Move your tail!"

The two made their way to King's Cross Station for Vera to catch her train back to school. Armed with a forged ticket and Miss Nelson's generous allowances, she sprinted through the barrier to Platform 9¾, feeling a surge of excitement and determination. Navigating through the bustling crowd toward the Hogwarts Express, she spotted Fred—or was it George?—waving enthusiastically for her to join their red-haired clan. 

“Hello,” she greeted, a little tentative.

“Ah, here she is, Molly!” Mr. Weasley beamed. “The Vera I’ve been telling you about.”

Before Vera could react, Mrs. Weasley swooped in and smothered her in a hug, rocking her side to side like a long-lost daughter. “Thank you for helping our Charlie,” she said, voice thick with warmth. “We’ll never forget it.”

“You’re going to flatten her, Mum,” Fred teased.

Vera coughed out a laugh once she was freed. “No worries, ma’am.” 

Mrs. Weasley took her by the shoulders and gave her a once-over, eyes brimming with approval. “Oh, but you’re stunning, dear! Isn’t she stunning, Arthur?”

“Stunning?” George arched a brow at Fred. “Has she ever called us that?”

“Not once in all our years, Georgie,” Fred said, folding his arms with mock outrage.

“Thank you,” Vera murmured, cheeks hot.

The twins had painted their family in such colorful strokes, but standing here in the middle of it—the kindness, the chaos, the warmth—it was almost too much. She felt a sharp little sting of envy.

“Charlie sends his regards,” Mr. Weasley added kindly.

“Oh yes, how grateful he is!" Mrs. Weasley said with a proud smile. "We all are.” 

Fred grinned. "How about you adopt her while you’re at it, Mum?" 

The suggestion made Vera flush scarlet, her heart skipping at the thought. Being part of this family... it was too much like a dream.

"It was a pleasure meeting you all," she said as the train whistle pierced the air. "And you too, Ron and Ginny. Fred and George told me all about you."

Fred leaned in, squinting. “What’s with the polite voice?”

“Yeah,” George smirked. “Where’s the dirty-mouthed Vera we know?”

“Shut it, you two!"

“There she is!” they chorused, triumphant.

The trio waved off the Weasleys and clambered aboard. Percy wasted no time disappearing into a compartment where Oliver and Felix sat hunched together. Vera’s eyes flicked to Felix. He was thinner than she remembered, hair brushing his shoulders now, his gaze hollow with exhaustion. For a moment she wanted to say something, but their silent agreement held fast: no words in public.

She tore her eyes away and followed the twins instead.

“I didn’t see your family,” Fred remarked once they’d flopped into an empty compartment.

“Oh,” her voice wobbled. “I came by myself.”

The lie slipped out way too easily. She’d spent the summer rehearsing this very balance: two worlds, two versions of herself. Never speak of Muggle matters, never mention money. If people wanted to think she came from a bloodstained madhouse, fine. But poor? Poor was unspeakable.

She knew it was the wrong move, but it was too late to tear it down now. If they discovered the truth, they’d never forgive her. So, better to keep the mask on than watch it all crumble.

“All the way from France?” George asked, brows raised.

“Um, no,” she stammered, heat prickling her neck. “I stayed here over the holidays.”

Even she marveled at how fast her mind spun lies.

“How was your Quidditch training?” she blurted, eager to pivot.

“Not to brag,” Fred leaned back smugly, “but our spots are practically guaranteed.”

“And not just because we’ve got a bribe lined up for Wood,” George added with a conspiratorial wink.

“Oliver’s captain now?”

“Yep! Charlie chose him before he left.”

Before Vera could respond, the door flew open.

“Weasleys!” Lee roared.

“Jordan!” the twins bellowed back, launching themselves at him until the three of them toppled in a heap. Vera burst into laughter despite herself.

“Hey, Vee,” Lee grinned up at her, brushing himself off. “Still got those cold hands, eh?”

She blinked, glancing down at her gloves. Then it hit her. “Oh, yeah,” she forced a giggle. “Always.”

Two lies in under five minutes. She was on a roll.

The boys were already knee-deep in plotting their latest pranks and Quidditch schemes, so she slipped out, deciding a wander was in order.

She found Tommy and Cedric squeezed into a compartment, their friendship clearly levelled up over the summer. They were joined by Malika, who had grown even more beautiful, and Patty—well, Patty had… grown in other ways.

“Blimey,” Vera muttered under her breath, dragging her eyes away from Patty’s chest before envy could sour her face.

On her way back down the corridor, she nearly collided with Percy and Oliver.

“Oliver!” she grinned. “Congrats on becoming the captain!”

Oliver’s ears went pink. “Thanks.”

“Word of advice,” she said, lowering her voice as if passing state secrets. “Fred and George are already scheming to bribe their way onto the team.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Mm-hm. And if the price is right, well… Who’s to say you shouldn’t take it?”

Percy gave a sharp laugh. “My brothers? They’ve nothing worthwhile to offer.”

“You might be surprised,” she shot back with a wink, and sauntered past, leaving Oliver chuckling and Percy frowning in confusion.

Upon arriving at Hogwarts, the crowd spilled toward the horseless carriages, but Vera lingered, eyes fixed on the eerie winged creatures tethered to them. No one else seemed to notice. They never did.

She stepped closer, heart thudding, and cautiously stretched out a hand toward one’s wing.

“What’s with the Nazi salute?” a voice cut in behind her.

She jumped so hard she nearly toppled. “Jesus Christ, Tommy! You scared me.”

“I didn’t know you were a fan of Jesus,” he said with a grin.

“A fan?” She snorted. “What, like he’s the drummer in a band?”

He laughed. “I just meant you pureblood lot don’t usually bother with him.”

Vera realized she’d slipped. “Oh… right.”

“But who am I to talk?” he shrugged. “Last year I thought Merlin was the wizarding god.”

She stifled a laugh, though she’d once thought the exact same.

“Cedric nearly died when I said it,” Tommy went on.

“Let me guess.” She grinned. “He laughed till he snorted?”

“You’ve noticed that too?”

“Of course. He once told me I laugh like a pig being slaughtered. Had to fire back somehow.”

“Was he wrong, though?”

“Shut it.”

“Alright, Piggy.” Tommy caught her gloved hand and helped her into the carriage. “Come on! I want front-row seats for the first years’ faces when the ghosts show up.”

Cedric, Malika, and Patty caught up with them, and together they trudged toward the castle. Vera inhaled the cool, familiar air of Hogwarts and felt her shoulders loosen. Maybe, just maybe, her second year would be better than her first.

The Great Hall was a riot of chatter and clinking cutlery when they gathered for the feast.

“Do you dare me?” 

“OH, HERE WE GO!” chorused half the Gryffindor table.

Lee promptly lost an arm wrestle against Felix, collapsing in mock agony. The twins, Alicia, and Angelina were deep in Quidditch talk with Oliver, who looked positively thrilled to have an audience. All while Kenny was holding court with the latest scandal from his grandmother’s endless well of gossip.

Vera’s eyes wandered, skimming the hall until they landed on Roger at the Ravenclaw table. She waved, grinning, then instantly dropped her hand and wiped the smile off her face when she noticed who sat beside him.

Ryu.

He was staring at her, as always. And God, he looked different. Taller—even taller than Cassius, who was usually their year’s measuring stick. His black hair had been cut, but glossy strands still fell across his eyes in a way that made her stomach flip. She caught herself staring too long and jerked her gaze away.

“Shite,” she hissed under her breath.

Against her better judgment, she risked another glance. And there he was... still watching her.

Before she could untangle the knot in her chest, the great doors groaned open and the first years filed in. The hall erupted with excitement, and Tommy nearly doubled over laughing when the little ones shrieked at the ghosts drifting by.

“He's forgetting how he nearly shat himself last year at the same sight,” Vera muttered to Kenny, smirking.

As the Sorting began, her thoughts drifted, back to her own Sorting, and to the hush that had fallen over the hall when her name was called. The memory of the whispers, the damning headlines, the truth she’d unearthed about her father—all of it pressed down like a weight.

She lowered her head, forcing herself to shake the thoughts loose. When she finally looked up, her gaze met Professor Dumbledore’s across the hall. He smiled warmly, the same quiet, steady encouragement he always gave her. She smiled back, feeling a surge of pride as she remembered their previous conversations and his unwavering support. Recalling his advice not to give up, she shifted her focus back to the ceremony.

Gryffindor welcomed Katie Bell, who discovered she would be sharing a dorm with Alicia, Angelina, and Vera. And Cormac McLaggen, whose family was reputedly ‘Big in the Ministry’. 

“Before we commence the feast,” Dumbledore’s voice rang through the hall, “allow me to introduce Professor Kathrine Garner, who will be teaching Muggle Studies in Professor Quirrell’s absence.”

Kenny leaned over immediately. “Heard Quirrell’s off on a sabbatical to find himself a wife,” he whispered, earning a round of chuckles.

“And your new Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor,” Dumbledore continued, “Professor Eduardo Morales.”

The professor rose, and half the girls in the hall broke into chatter.

“Well, that’s one hell of an upgrade from Frey,” someone sighed.

Eduardo Morales was undeniably handsome. He exuded an air of sophistication, with a distinguished beard flecked with silver, close-cropped dark hair touched with grey, and keen brown eyes behind round glasses. He looked reserved and had a charming demeanor as he bowed and smiled at the applauding students.

“I think Defense is already my favorite subject,” Angelina said dreamily as platters of food appeared.

“Have some dignity,” Fred teased.

Lee shrugged. “He’s alright.” 

“Doesn’t matter how he looks if he can’t teach,” Alicia muttered. “I cannot afford to fail Defense this year.”

“I heard he’s single,” Kenny piped up. “And lived in America for a bit—wrote books, too.”

Alicia snorted. “Merlin’s beard, Kenny. Witch Weekly ought to hire you on the spot.”

"I'm so full, I swear there’s a baby in me," Vera groaned, collapsing on her bed like a corpse.

"Same," Katie mumbled, patting her stomach.

"Welcome to our dorm, Katie," Angelina grinned. "Alicia snores, and Vera has late-night heart-to-hearts with her stuffed animal. Good luck surviving."

"Vinny is a very good listener!" Vera shot back.

"He's literally a lump of stuffing."

"Yeah, and still more reliable than half the people I know," Vera smirked. "By the way—did you see Patty?"

Alicia’s eyes widened. "Oh my God, Angie and I were just saying—"

"They’re massive!" Angelina blurted.

Vera groaned dramatically. "Tell me about it. I’m so jealous."

"They’ll show up when they’re ready," Alicia sighed.

Vera flopped face-first into her pillow. "If I don’t get my period this year, I’m gonna lose my bloody mind."

Angelina rolled her eyes. "Trust me, you don’t want it."

Vera shot upright like she’d been hexed. "WAIT. You got yours?!"

"Yeah," Angelina said smugly. "Over the holiday. Mum nearly cried, it was embarrassing."

Vera clutched her chest. "I feel… I feel betrayed! My own dormmate, hiding this from me!"

"Oh, get a grip," Angelina tossed a pillow at her head.

Vera caught it and squinted at Alicia, who was suspiciously quiet. "Don’t tell me—"

Alicia groaned. "You already know I got mine last year."

"Exactly. Traitors everywhere."

"I did too," Katie piped up softly. "A few months ago. Mum says the women in our family are… early bloomers."

That was it. The final betrayal. With a scream of anguish, Vera buried her face in the pillow and wailed like a banshee.

After her overblown theatrics, the dorm settled into its usual chatter, but she felt a restless tug in her chest. She slipped off her bed and dug out the battered suitcase she had stashed away at Hogwarts, the one stuffed with all her magical stationery. One by one, she sifted through its contents until her fingers brushed the cool rim of her cauldron. She set it aside and reached instinctively for her wand.

The moment she closed her hand around it, the familiar warmth curdled into something sour. Now that she knew the truth about her father—that this was the same wand he had once held—it no longer felt like an heirloom. It felt like a curse carved in polished wood.

With a flash of bitterness, she hurled the wand aside, the sound of it clattering against the floor cutting through the room like a sharp retort. She snatched up Vinny, her ragged stuffed cat, and clutched him to her chest as if he alone could anchor her.

"I'll never be like him, Vinny," she whispered softly. "Never."

Sunday, September 2, 1990

The students were lucky enough to have a day off before lessons began, meant for sorting out timetables and stocking up on supplies. Not that the second-years cared. Over breakfast, they were far too busy catching up on gossip.

"You really are proper posh, Mads," Tommy said, grinning as Maddie wrapped up the tale of her family’s summer cruise.

Maddie flushed. "We’re just… comfortable."

"That’s exactly what a proper posh would say," Tommy teased.

Maddie quickly turned the spotlight. "Have you ever been on a cruise, Vera?"

Vera swallowed a mouthful of toast. "I don’t think I’ve even been near a beach. Auntie hates it."

The lie slid off her tongue smoother than butter. Amazing, really, how quickly she was getting good at this.

"Oh, that’s a shame," Maddie said softly, giving her a kind smile that only made Vera squirm more.

"It must be boring, living with old people," Lee added. "No offense, Vee."

"None taken," Vera replied breezily. "It really is."

Not entirely untrue. After all, she had lived with the Humphreys, and they were practically walking corpses.

"Do you have a governess?" Maddie asked. "I had one until I came to Hogwarts."

Vera’s fingers toyed with her sandwich at the word. She thought of Felix, who once told her he’d spent more time with his governess than his own family. She’d imagined that kind of childhood for herself, gilded and lonely.

"Um, yeah," she lied again, hesitating just long enough to feel the heat creep up her neck.

Her eyes darted around, already searching for a way out of the conversation. Suddenly, she caught sight of Jane entering the hall, hand-in-hand with Miles, who was dragging her toward the Slytherin table. She felt that old prick of irritation—memories of last year’s trouble with Jane flaring up—then shoved it down. No drama. Not today.

“Merlin,” Fred muttered, eyes locked on the pair. “Is she his new pet or something?”

The Gryffindor lot angled their heads, trying to look casual while actually staring.

“I heard he’s trying out for Quidditch,” Angelina said.

“Pucey and Warrington too,” George chipped in.

“How do you know that?” Lee asked.

“Flint’s been banging on about it,” George replied. “He’s the Slytherin captain now—loves the sound of his own voice.”

“And Avery?” Vera asked, trying not to sound too curious.

“I'd rather not have him anywhere near a broom,” Alicia snapped. “He’s good at everything. Of course he’d be good at Quidditch, too.”

“I hope they all make it,” Fred said a beat too cheerfully, earning a few puzzled glances. “Then I’ll finally have a reason to clock them all one in the face.”

After breakfast, Vera trailed after him and George as they bounded off to the Quidditch pitch. She wasn’t keen on flying herself. Sketching on the grass while the boys zoomed about seemed far safer.

To her surprise, Oliver and Felix were already there. Felix hovered lazily in midair, a book balanced in one hand as if broomsticks were merely floating armchairs, while Oliver barked drills like a commander at war. The twins threw themselves into it, but within ten minutes they looked ready to keel over.

“He’s mental,” Fred wheezed, hair plastered to his forehead.

“MOVE, WEASLEY, MOVE!” Oliver bellowed again.

Vera hunkered over her sketchbook, trying very hard not to look at Felix—especially since he’d made it perfectly clear last year that he wanted nothing to do with her.

“Oi, Vee!” Fred suddenly swooped low, hovering right in her space.

She jumped. “Go away, Fred! Oliver’ll skin me alive if you slack off because of me!”

“He said we can have a break,” George chimed in, smirking as he drifted down beside them.

Fred grinned. “And we thought we might teach you to fly!”

Vera’s face lit up despite herself. “Wait, really?”

“"It's the least we can offer after everything you did for us last year.” Fred said, puffing out his chest.

Vera’s grin faltered, gratitude tangling with the ache in her chest. Flying had always been a dream, and for a heartbeat she let herself imagine it. Wind in her hair, the castle looming below, freedom. Then reality pressed in: her blood still poisoned, her magic still unreliable. She couldn’t even charm a feather without risking catastrophe, so what chance did she have on a broom?

“Thanks, mates,” she said softly, forcing a smile. “But I can’t.”

George frowned. “What do you mean, you can’t?”

“I can’t even get a broom to twitch, and if I did, it’d be… a disaster.”

Fred swooped past, nearly brushing her shoulder. “Disaster’s sort of our thing. At least try.”

“I’d just fall, Freddie.” 

“If you did, we’d catch you,” Fred said immediately, looping back around with a grin.

“Yeah, don’t you worry, Vee,” George echoed, drifting in lazy circles around her. “We’ve got you covered.”

“You can count on us,” Fred added, his tone unusually steady for once.

Something in Vera’s chest swelled. “Really?”

“Really.”

Their encouragement was infectious, and she finally rose to her feet, setting her notebook carefully on the grass as if she might need it again—if she survived. George glided down until his broom was level with her. 

"I'll keep it afloat," he assured her, stepping down. "Just hop on, and we'll take it from there."

Summoning her courage, she swung a leg over the broom and settled on the seat. Fred and George whooped in triumph, immediately barking out instructions like Quidditch coaches. Felix lowered his book at last, and even Oliver paused his drills, hovering nearby.

Then... it happened.

The broom quivered beneath her, and slowly, impossibly, her feet lifted off the grass.

“I’M FLYING!” she cried, laughter bursting out of her.

“That’s hovering, Vee!” Fred called up, shading his eyes. “Lean forward if you want the real deal!”

She nodded, gritted her teeth, and leaned forward. For one dazzling second, the broom responded. And then—pain.

A sharp stab behind her eyes, white-hot, blinding. Her vision wavered, and the broom lurched under her hands, bucking like a wild horse.

“No, no, no—” She clung tighter, trying to force the magic steady, but the harder she focused, the worse the pain became, blooming into an excruciating headache.

“It’s alright, you’ve got it!” Oliver’s voice carried up, steady and sure.

But she didn’t. The broom jerked and shuddered violently, rising, dropping, as though desperate to throw her off. Panic clawed at her throat. She screwed her eyes shut and reached inward, summoning every scrap of control she had. For a heartbeat, the broom obeyed. Smooth. Steady.

Then, like a cannon shot, it bolted forward.

“NO!” the twins roared together.

Fred, Oliver, and Felix kicked off at once, streaking after her as she hurtled away—a blur of wind, hair, and terror. But the broom had other plans. It carried her higher and higher, straight toward the clouds. The air grew razor-cold against her cheeks; her eyes streamed from the wind. Her gloved hands slid against the polished wood, every second loosening her hold.

She dared a glance down. The emerald pitch was already shrinking into nothing, swallowed by a vast ocean of grey. The boys were specks below, their shouts torn away by the wind. No one could reach her now.

As she lost all hope of regaining control, she made a split-second decision and let go of the broom, allowing herself to fall.

The world vanished into silence. Only the shriek of air filled her ears as she plummeted, arms flailing, stomach lurching into her throat. Her body spun, weightless and doomed, until instinct kicked in—she twisted midair, trying to angle herself, praying she might soften the inevitable.

She was falling like a star ripped from the heavens, burning her way back to earth. The blue sky stretched endlessly above her, receding, abandoning her. This is it, she thought, the final flicker of her story.

She shut her eyes, clawing for a happy memory to cling to in the plunge. But instead came the golden-haired woman—her face half-hidden in dreamlight, her lullaby threading through the rush of wind. A farewell hymn, soft and tender, as though calling her home.

♪ Underneath the moonlight,
In the softness of the night,
Close your eyes, my baby girl,
Let the stars fill you with light ♪

Opening her eyes, she saw nothing but the blazing sun above. And she could swear it was smiling at her.

She braced for impact. And then—through the blur of wind and tears—she saw him. Felix, cutting through the air like an arrow, his arm stretched toward her. Her fingers clawed desperately at the empty sky, but she couldn’t reach him. Her heart sank; this was it. She shut her eyes, surrendering to the fall.

But Felix refused to surrender.

With a sharp dive, he angled his broom beneath her, looping his arm around her waist in one clean, fierce motion. The world snapped back into focus as he pulled her against him, their bodies jarring together, the broom rocking under the weight.

When she dared open her eyes again, she was tucked safely in his arms, the rush of the wind tempered now by the steady beat of his chest against her cheek. Above them, the sun burned like a halo. His eyes—dark, sharp, and impossibly calm—met hers, and something in her stomach turned over.

They descended in a controlled glide, Felix steering them earthward with precision. The second her boots hit the grass, Fred and Oliver came pelting toward them, George a step behind.

“Are you mad?” Fred’s voice cracked with relief and fury all at once.

Vera’s legs wobbled beneath her. Her vision swam, her head pounded, but she forced a crooked smile. “I’m fine,” she said, fighting the urge to retch.

“You nearly gave us all a heart attack,” Oliver wheezed, bending double with his hands on his knees. “Thought you were off to join the rest of your stars.”

She swayed slightly, catching herself, then turned toward Felix. His face was unreadable save for the flicker of worry in his eyes.

“Thank you,” she murmured, meeting his gaze.

Immediately, regret hit her. She’d spoken to him in public—directly—and anxiety gnawed at her chest. Please don’t be angry, she thought, heart hammering.

Felix remained silent, his eyes fixed on hers. Then, without a word, his icy hand cupped her face.

She blinked rapidly, stunned by the sudden move. The world seemed to slow around them, and every anxious thought she’d had about anger or punishment evaporated under his steady touch.

With his other hand, he delicately wiped the blood trickling from her nose, sending shivers crawling through her body. He cleaned his fingers on the edge of his sweater, golden stripes smudged with red, then returned to her face with meticulous care. His thumb traced over her lips, erasing the last traces of blood, and her heart fluttered with a mix of awe and alarm.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, still holding her face.

She nodded, unable to look away. But her mind whirled. He’d not only saved her life but was talking to her, really talking, in front of everyone. Maybe his family had finally softened, she thought.

Finally, Felix released her, stepping back abruptly. “You two are idiots,” he snapped at the twins, who looked sheepish and guilty.

“It’s not their fault,” she interjected quickly. “I lost control.”

“Still,” Felix glared, “they promised to catch you, and they didn’t.”

“Sorry, Vee,” Fred and George said in unison, voices dripping with contrition.

Vera forced a weak smile, pressing her fingers against her throbbing forehead in a futile attempt to ease the pounding in her skull. But then, her eyes went wide.

“My bracelet…” she whispered, voice trembling.

“What?” George asked.

“I—I lost it!”

“It must’ve fallen when you were up there,” Oliver said gently, hovering nearby.

No, no, no. The thought that her most precious possession had vanished made her stomach twist painfully. Tears sprung to her eyes as she scrambled across the pitch, desperate, frantic.

“It’s okay, Vee,” Fred said. “We’ll find it.”

“I can’t lose it!” she cried, scanning every inch of the grass and sky-worn earth. 

The boys joined the search, combing the field with renewed energy, but minutes stretched into half an hour, and the bracelet was nowhere to be found.

“You were really high up,” Oliver said finally, his voice heavy with sympathy. “Honestly, it’s impossible to find it now.”

She let out a strangled sob, clutching her sketchbook like a lifeline, and stumbled away from the Quidditch pitch, tears streaming unchecked. By the time she reached the hospital wing, her face was streaked, her hair damp from her grief. Madam Pomfrey’s sharp scolding barely registered as she continued to weep, the weight of her loss pressing down like a stone in her chest.

Back in the dorm, she collapsed onto her bed, burying herself in her pillow, clutching Vinny tightly. Her body shook with exhaustion and sorrow.

“I’m sorry, Kaya,” she whispered over and over into the soft fabric, letting the willow bark settle slowly in her veins, trying to calm the storm in her heart. Sleep came at last, heavy, tear-stained, and filled with dreams of what she had lost.

Chapter Text

Monday, September 3, 1990

Vera woke up with swollen eyes and a sore throat, still harboring bitterness over the events of the previous day. With a sigh, she shut her eyes again, trying to replay the chaos of it all—the fall, the blazing sun, Felix.

She’d brushed shoulders with death and, oddly enough, felt almost calm about it. Her only true regret was losing the bracelet. The thought lodged a lump in her throat, and fresh tears threatened. But she forced them right back, sat up, and swung her legs out of bed.

In last night’s misery, she’d forgotten to prepare a single thing for her first day of classes. Panic snapped her upright, and she scrambled into her clothes, dragged a brush through her hair, grabbed her bag, and bolted for the Great Hall.

"Excited for Defense with the new professor?" Alicia asked as she slid onto the bench at the Gryffindor table.

"Oh, thrilled," Angelina drawled, chin propped on her fist.

"Let’s hope he doesn’t start dividing us," Vera muttered, pushing the milk bottle aside and reaching for a sandwich. "Because if he does, I might just set his desk on fire."

"An expert move of yours," George chimed in. "Remember Snape’s desk?"

She smirked. 

"I bet he’ll be nice," Angelina said with a dreamy sigh.

"Shallow," George shot back, rolling his eyes.

"Weasley!" 

Fred leaned in toward Vera. "Hey, Vee. Still upset about yesterday?"

She managed a small smile at his concern. "No, I’m fine. Promise."

"Because we’re reallyyyy sorry—"

"It’s not your fault I’m a screw-up, Freddie."

He gave her shoulder a sharp swat.

She winced. "Ow! What was that for?"

"Don’t call yourself that again."

"Alright, alright," she grumbled, rubbing her arm, though her lips twitched into the ghost of a smile.

The group made their way to their first class of the day: DADA. When they stepped into the classroom, they found the new professor bent over his desk, scribbling intently. Remarkably, the room was quiet—eerily so. Even the Slytherins, usually incapable of keeping their mouths shut, sat in orderly silence.

To Vera’s relief, seating was assigned at random. The Poshlanders had tucked themselves into one corner, leaving her blessedly out of their reach. Roger caught her eye and waved her over, patting the seat he’d saved at the front.

“Thanks, Rog,” she murmured with a smile, sliding in beside him and setting down her books.

The professor rose at that moment. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Professor,” the class chorused automatically.

“My name is Eduardo Morales,” he said, his voice calm and measured, “and I will have the honor of teaching you Defense Against the Dark Arts this year.”

The accent wasn’t as American as she’d expected. Smooth, refined, with a clipped edge that reminded her faintly of Miss Nelson's. More polished than foreign. But what startled her most, though, was the way silence seemed to coil tighter around him without him having to raise his voice. He commanded the room without so much as a glare.

Vera studied him with interest. His hair and beard bore silvery streaks, but he looked far too young for it—late thirties at most. A gray vest hugged his frame over a crisp white shirt, his tie patterned so subtly it looked secretive. A pocket watch gleamed faintly at his waistcoat, and his sleeves were rolled neatly to the elbow.

Then she noticed it—ink curling out from beneath the rolled fabric, a tattoo etched along his forearm. Vera’s eyes widened. A tattooed professor? This was going to be interesting.

“We’ll start by getting to know each other,” Professor Morales said, his easy smile brightening the room as he slipped his hands into his pockets and strolled down the steps with unhurried confidence. “Please stand, give us your name, and share a little about yourself.”

A ripple of curiosity passed through the class. Some students leaned forward, intrigued by the professor’s casual charm, while others exchanged skeptical looks. This wasn’t the sort of formality they’d been expecting.

“We’ll begin here,” Morales decided, stopping near the front where Miles and Jane sat.

Though no order had been given, Miles leapt up as if the stage were his by right.

“Bletchley,” he declared, chest puffed. “Miles Bletchley.”

“A pleasure, Mr. Bletchley,” Morales said warmly. “And what might you share about yourself?”

Miles smirked. “I’ll be the greatest Chaser this school has ever seen.”

The twins collapsed into muffled laughter, hiding their faces in their arms. 

“You may laugh now, Weasels,” Miles shot back, “but mark my words.”

“Very well,” Morales replied smoothly, his smile unwavering. “Best of luck, Mr. Bletchley.”

Miles beamed, scanning the room as if awaiting applause. Morales turned then to Jane, who looked as though she’d rather vanish into her chair. She glanced at Miles, who gave her a subtle nod, like a king granting permission.

Vera rolled her eyes.

Jane stood, voice a whisper. “My name is Jane.”

“Corrigan,” Miles cut in loudly, as though Jane couldn’t be trusted with her own surname.

Jane flinched, then forced herself onward. “Jane Corrigan.”

“Pleasure, Miss Corrigan,” Morales said gently.

“Um… something about me is that I…” Jane faltered, glancing back at Miles, who seemed to be whispering something to her. “I, uh... I have a baby vixen at home."

Vera blinked. Jane had never mentioned having a pet before, let alone that kind of pet.

“That’s wonderful, Miss Corrigan,” Morales said, encouraging her with a kind smile. “What’s her name, if I may ask?”

Jane’s lips curved into the smallest smile. “Her name is Rory.”

The professor’s smile lingered as he turned to the next pair.

“Warrington,” announced the boy with the towering hair. “Cassius Warrington. And I met with Minister Fudge this week."

The collective eye roll from the class was practically choreographed.

"He had dinner at our manor," Cassius added smugly. “He always does.”

Morales’s smile thinned, but he let the silence do the talking.

"Pucey is my name, and I have a signed Quaffle from Joey Jenkins," the next boy announced proudly, smirking at Cedric, known to be Jenkins' biggest fan. 

Another round of eye rolls. It was becoming a sport.

“Dora Dlamini. I speak four languages—French, Italian, Spanish, and I’m currently studying Dutch.”

“Blimey…” Vera muttered under her breath.

“Ryujin Avery,” came the next name, spoken in a voice so deep and smooth that Vera’s stomach dropped.

Ryu stood with practiced elegance: posture immaculate, chin tipped high, dark hair parted perfectly down the middle. Taller. Sharper. Somehow… flawless.

Still perfect, she thought bitterly, and this time her eye roll wasn’t even subtle.

“My grandfather was the last dragon tamer in all of Japan,” Ryu continued. "I was named after him."

“This is torture,” Vera groaned inwardly.

She couldn’t believe she had compared herself to these people merely because of her family name. The sheer arrogance of it all made her want to choke. And yet, a pang shot through her—jealousy, sharp and raw. She couldn’t help imagining what her own life might have been like if she hadn’t been abandoned.

She bit her lip hard, shoving the thought down. No. She wouldn’t envy them. Their lives might glitter with luxury and pedigrees, but at the end of the day, she’d still rather be herself than a pure-blood zealot drowning in their own self-importance.

Her spiraling thoughts screeched to a halt when the professor’s gaze landed squarely on her.

“And you, Miss?”

She shot to her feet, heart thudding. Dozens of eyes followed, curious, expectant. She could practically hear their guesses: some dazzling anecdote about a family estate, or maybe an exotic pet with a ridiculous name. If only. She was about to disappoint the entire room with the bleak normalcy of her existence.

“My name is Vera,” she began, and paused. Black pressed against her lips but refused to escape.

“And what would you like to share with us, Vera?” Professor Morales asked smoothly, not so much as blinking at her half-introduction.

She stalled, mind scrambling. Every inch of her screamed Muggle. Football matches. Soap operas. Bargain-shop clothes. None of it belonged here. None of it was safe to say.

Finally, a spark. “I wish to become an artist, sir.”

Professor Morales’s face warmed with approval. “What kind of art?”

“Paintings,” she answered, voice steadier than she felt.

“That’s wonderful, Vera,” he said, eyes kind. “I look forward to visiting your galleries one day.” He added a playful wink, and her cheeks betrayed her, heating up at once.

She sat back down, a sudden comfort washing over her. Morales’s presence had a way of making the classroom feel less like a battlefield and more like… possibility.

As he moved on to Roger, her eyes flicked to his rolled-up sleeve. Ink curved across his forearm, an intricate design framed with words too blurred to read. She squinted, trying to decipher the symbol. Whatever it was, it wasn’t ordinary. And she was hooked.

“Now that we're done with getting to know each other,” he said, “we’ll move on to another kind of introduction. Take out a parchment and ready your quills.”

A wave of startled looks swept through the room.

“Um, Professor?” Angelina raised her hand. “What for?”

“Is this a quiz?” Kenny asked nervously.

“Sort of,” Morales replied.

The class erupted in groans.

“But we haven’t learned anything yet!” Cassius protested.

“This quiz is for me to learn about you,” Morales explained patiently. “Not the other way around. And don’t worry—it won’t affect your academic record.”

“They always say that,” Fred muttered to George, earning a snort.

“Alright then,” Morales clapped cheerfully, “let’s begin.”

Reluctantly, the students shuffled parchments across desks and unstopped ink bottles.

The twins, of course, used the moment to swap seats every thirty seconds, grinning like foxes. Morales only chuckled at the antics, much to their dismay.

Lee busied himself comforting Malika, who looked seconds away from tears, while Cedric flipped open a battered notebook and scanned his meticulous notes.

“When did you manage to write all that?” Tommy whispered.

“Some of us actually revise, Thomas,” Cedric murmured back.

Across the room, Adrian hissed toward Roger, jerking his head in command. “Oi, Davies. Over here.”

Roger hesitated, then grimaced at Vera. “Sorry. If I don’t, he’ll make my life miserable.”

“Of course he will,” Vera sighed, scooting aside as Roger switched places with Cassius.

“Brilliant,” she muttered under her breath. “This day just keeps improving.”

“Relax,” Cassius said smoothly, straightening his parchment. “If you need help, I’m here.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Actually, I do need your help with something.”

He perked up instantly. “What is it?”

“Under the desk,” she said, pointing down.

Cassius bent to look—and found himself face-to-face with her middle finger.

He straightened slowly. “Rude.”

Professor Morales settled himself on the steps, adjusting his pocket watch. “You’ll have until the end of class to write a five-hundred–word essay.”

“About what, sir?” Cedric asked, quill already poised.

“In your opinion, why is it important to study Defense Against the Dark Arts?”

“That’s it?” Miles scoffed, unimpressed.

“Yes,” Morales replied simply. “But your essay must include at least two examples with explanations. Beyond that, you have freedom.”

A ripple of uncertainty passed through the room. Some students exchanged wary looks, while others shrugged and dipped their quills.

“You may begin now.”

The soft scratch of ink filled the classroom almost immediately. Ryu and Cedric seemed to fly across their parchments, quills racing as though they’d prepared for this exact question. Meanwhile, Vera stared at her blank parchment. Her quill hovered, useless. Not a single word came.

She risked a glance sideways. Cassius was bent over his essay with focus, writing steadily. She tilted her head ever so slightly, pretending to stretch, and tried to sneak a look at what he’d written. But something else caught her eye.

Faint red marks banded his wrists. Not bruises, but scars. Burn scars.

“Trying to cheat off me?” he whispered suddenly, not looking up.

“You wish,” she muttered, forcing her eyes away from his wrists.

“My offer still stands, you know."

“Whatever,” she hissed, dragging her quill across her parchment with exaggerated determination.

Despite her efforts, her mind remained frustratingly blank. The steady scratching of quills all around her only made it worse. She tapped her own quill against the parchment, left a blot of ink, then sighed. She had retained little from Professor Frey’s lessons, hadn’t bothered with assignments, and hadn’t so much as glanced at the syllabus during the holiday break.

With only half an hour remaining, she resigned herself to jotting down whatever scraps of thought came to mind. By the time Professor Morales collected the essays, her parchment looked pitiful beside Cassius' neatly stacked pages.

“I butchered it,” Lee groaned as they spilled into the corridor. “Completely butchered it!”

“I actually liked the professor,” Patty remarked, smoothing her robes. “He seems nice.”

“So nice,” Angelina agreed dreamily, twirling a strand of hair—until George gave her a playful nudge on the head. “Ouch!”

“Oh, Professor Morales, sir,” Fred chimed in falsetto, clutching his chest as though reciting Shakespeare. “I’ve written you a love poem, sir. Roses are red, pixies are blue—”

“You’re in for it now, Weasley!” Angelina yelped, chasing after him as the others burst into laughter.

Tuesday, September 4, 1990

The remaining classes turned out to be far tougher than anyone had expected.

Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays were packed: Defense Against the Dark Arts, then Charms, Astronomy, and Herbology to finish off the day. Tuesdays and Thursdays were no kinder—Tuesdays began with Transfiguration and History of Magic before dragging them into a punishing double Potions session, while Thursdays hit just as hard with double Transfiguration, History of Magic, and Potions.

It was a schedule designed to wring out every ounce of energy and magic they had.

On the second morning, Vera hurried down the corridor, her nerves tightening with every step toward her first Potions lesson of the year. She loved the subject—she was good at it, too—but the thought of sitting under Snape’s watchful eye turned her stomach. His words from last year still clung to her like a curse.

Spoiled. Stubborn. Arrogant. Cowardly. Much like him.

The cruel comparison to her father had planted a deep resentment, especially after she had discovered the truth about Regulus’s troubled past. It was one thing to resemble him in appearance—something she had long since accepted—but to be likened to him in character was unbearable.

Still, she tried to push it aside. Perhaps Snape’s insult was nothing more than a calculated jab, a way to rattle her and harden her resolve. Perhaps he hadn’t even known her father at all. But his favoritism toward Slytherin made it harder to fully forgive him.

“Five points from Gryffindor.”

“Oh, come on!” the twins chorused in protest. “It’s only been ten minutes!”

As always, Snape began by meticulously reviewing the syllabus for the new term before plunging straight into the first chapter. 

“You will be creating a potent Herbicide,” he announced. "Ensure not a single drop finds its way into the Greenhouses.”

The students exchanged wary glances.

“This potion is highly sensitive and demands constant, intense heat. You have until the end of class to complete it. I will test each batch myself to ensure it has reached the proper temperature.”

Vera felt unease tightening in her chest. She hadn’t revised over the summer—or even the weekend, as she normally would—and under Snape’s penetrating stare, she found it almost impossible to focus.

Fred and George, however, had no such trouble. They slipped a pinch of powdered dragon claw into their cauldron, grinning as a foul, vomit-like stench seeped into the dungeon. Lee’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter when Snape leaned over their table and his expression darkened like storm clouds.

Cedric, meanwhile, sat hunched over his notebook, scribbling furiously, while Tommy leaned against the desk and teased him for overcomplicating things.

Across the room, Cassius worked with unnerving calm. His movements were precise, practiced—as though he had brewed this potion a dozen times before. Vera shot him a sidelong look, bitterness prickling as her own flame sputtered. Keeping the temperature steady felt like an impossible task.

And then, just when she thought things couldn’t possibly get worse, her stove gave a sharp pop and went out.

“Oh, come on, you piece of shite,” she hissed under her breath.

She tried to pull the cauldron off the stand, but even through her gloves the metal seared her palms. Snatching up a scrap of cloth, she shoved it aside and crouched to fuss with the stove. Sparks fizzled uselessly, and her frustration mounted with every failed attempt. And then a too-familiar voice cut through the clatter.

“Hiya, Vera.”

“What?” she snapped before she could stop herself. Her nerves were frayed, and he was the last person she wanted hovering.

“I was just wondering if you had any spare lionfish spines,” Ryu said, almost sheepishly. “Seems I lost mine.”

Her head jerked up. Lost? Avery, of all people? She flicked her gaze toward his workstation—where the lionfish spines sat, plain as day, right beside his cauldron.

Her eyes narrowed. “Really? You mean those spines over there?” She jabbed a finger in their direction.

He scratched the back of his head. “Uh, didn’t see them.”

She folded her arms. “Are you trying to sabotage my potion, Avery?”

“What? No!” he exclaimed, far too fast. “Honestly, I—just missed them.”

She rolled her eyes and bent back to relight the fire. But he didn’t leave. Instead, he lingered, watching her wrestle with the stove.

“Do you need help?” he asked.

“Do I look like I need help?”

“Yes.”

“I’m fine.”

He edged closer. “Just let me see.”

“I said I’m fine!” she snapped, her voice cracking with irritation.

Ryu ignored her and reached for the stove anyway. Standing so close, Vera was suddenly aware of how much taller he’d grown over the summer. He loomed beside her now, all long limbs and steady posture. Boys shoot up like weeds, she thought bitterly. And me? I can’t even grow an inch.

Suddenly, the stove roared to life. A burst of flame shot upward, forcing her to stumble back. Her eyes flew to Ryu—his hand was still on the stove.

“Ryu!” she gasped.

But to her astonishment, he didn’t flinch. Calm as ever, he drew his hand back, then—before she could shout at him—lifted the cauldron with his bare hands and set it neatly on the rekindled flame.

She rushed to him without thinking, seizing both his hands in her gloved ones. “Are you mad? Let me see—are you hurt?”

“No,” he answered, his eyes flickering curiously to her frantic expression.

She turned his palms over, bracing for burns, blisters—anything. But they were smooth. Untouched.

Her brows furrowed. “You’re not… hurt?”

“No,” he repeated simply.

Still bewildered, she studied his hands again. That’s when she noticed it: a silver ring on his smallest finger, etched with the coiling figure of a Japanese dragon.

He glanced down at her, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m fine,” he said again, this time with a quiet laugh.

She froze, suddenly aware she was still holding his hands. Heat prickled at her cheeks, and she released him so quickly it was almost a shove. “Good—um, ah. That’s good.”

Turning hastily back to her cauldron, she pretended to fuss with the mixture, her pulse still unsteady.

“...You’re welcome,” Ryu murmured, before strolling back to his station as if nothing unusual had happened.

She forced herself not to think about his strange calmness—or that ring—and kept her attention locked on finishing her potion. But when Snape announced the end of the assignment and began making his rounds, her confidence ebbed away.

At her cauldron, he dipped the magical thermometer, watched the numbers rise, then sneered.

“Mediocre... Just as I suspected.”

Vera clenched her jaw, biting back the retort that burned on her tongue.

“Perhaps you believed you didn't need to study anymore after last year’s marks. Arrogance, Miss Black, always precedes the fall. One would think you, of all people, might understand that.”

She exhaled sharply. “My stove cut out, sir.”

“Ah. The age-old excuse—blame the equipment.”

“It’s not my fault this school is older than the pyramids,” she shot back, her voice bold despite the hammering of her heart. “Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if this very stove was around when you were a student here. You know," she smirked. "A hundred years ago.”

A ripple of laughter spread through the room—even the Poshlanders couldn’t suppress their chuckles—until Snape’s hiss silenced them like a whip crack.

His expression stayed stern, but for an instant a shadow of amusement tugged at his mouth. Then he delivered the killing blow.

“Arrogant like your father, and a Muppet like his brother.”

Vera stiffened, forcing her face into a mask even as her insides twisted. Snape always knew where to cut deepest, and this time was no different. She darted a glance around the room, praying no one else had heard. But the pity in her classmates’ eyes told her otherwise.

Snape, as if bored of her already, drifted to the next cauldron. He peered into Cassius’s brew, checked the temperature, and gave a rare nod.

“Perfect, Mr. Warrington. Five points to Slytherin.”

Cassius puffed up, flashing smug grins around the room. But Vera caught something the others didn’t: the brief twitch of his hand, sharp and involuntary.

Snape turned back toward her, dark eyes glinting. “Perhaps,” he drawled, “Miss Black might benefit from your… guidance.”

She stumbled out of the dungeon half wanting to scream and half wanting to set the entire place on fire. If she were honest—and she wasn’t—she fantasized about making Snape vanish in a very tidy accident. No one would miss him, she thought, a bitter, ridiculous smile curling at the edges of the idea.

“He’s the same old Snape." Alicia murmured, catching her arm. "Ignore him, Vee.”

“It’s one thing to be a miserable professor,” Vera snapped, "and another to compare me to my bloody uncle!” 

“Your uncle?” Angelina echoed. “Why, what did he do?”

Heat flooded Vera’s face as she realized her slip up. She can't let anyone near that part of her life—can’t let her friends know about her family’s crimes.

“Never mind,” she said too quickly. “I’m just going to make sure Snape never has the chance to taunt me again.”

Wednesday, September 5, 1990

As expected, none of the professors allowed her to practice spells in class, wary of the danger her unstable magic might unleash. Though her classmates had long since stopped asking about the special treatment, their silence did little to ease the sting of standing apart.

She loathed being unable to blend in, yet her greater dread was the thought of once again training under Snape. Secretly, she wished he might fall ill—or suffer some convenient mishap—anything to spare her another lesson with him.

Keeping up with her courses was a daily struggle, but one glimmer of relief came in the form of Professor Morales. His lessons had quickly become the most anticipated of the week, not just for her but for the whole class.

“Now, before we begin our first lesson, I’ll return your essays,” he announced.

A murmur of nervous whispers swept through the room.

"Butchered it!" Lee exclaimed to Malika, sharing his worry.

Professor Morales began handing back the parchments, and the class stilled in surprise—he had already memorized all of their names.

“Mr. Diggory,” he said, offering Cedric his work with a nod. “Well done.”

Cedric frowned at the page. “Um, Professor—you forgot to grade it.”

Morales only smiled and continued on. “Mr. Warrington, your essay was… very detailed.”

Cassius flipped through his sheet. “But there aren’t any notes.”

“Correct,” Morales replied simply.

“How are we supposed to know how we did?” Miles piped up.

"As I mentioned," the professor replied, "this is not a graded assignment; it's a way for me to understand you better."

The students exchanged baffled looks, then a few chuckles.

“That’s class,” Alicia whispered with a grin.

“So class,” Angelina sighed dreamily.

One by one, the papers were returned—until only Vera sat empty-handed.

“Um, Professor,” she ventured, raising her hand, “you didn’t give mine back.”

Morales paused, his expression unreadable. “Ah, yes. Please see me in my office after class. We need to discuss your work privately.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks, prickling like firewhisky. She hadn’t thought her essay was that bad.

“Ouch,” Miles drawled with a smirk, setting off a round of laughter.

Vera sank lower in her seat, wishing she could melt into the floor.

She made a valiant effort to focus through the rest of her lessons, but her mind kept drifting back to Professor Morales and whatever fault he had found in her essay. By the end of Herbology, her nerves were buzzing like restless bees. She slipped out the greenhouse door, eager to get the meeting over with.

“Here, take this,” Sarah said suddenly, blocking her path and pressing something small and brittle into her palm: a dead beetle, black with streaks of crimson.

“Um… what’s this for?”

Sarah grinned. “Good luck charm.”

Vera let out a nervous laugh and tucked the beetle into her hair. “Thanks, I’ll need it.”

As she approached Morales’s office, she noticed the door stood slightly ajar. Heart pounding, she raised her hand and knocked softly.

“Come in, Vera,” his voice called smoothly from within.

She stepped inside. The small room looked more like a storm had passed through than a professor’s office. Books leaned in precarious towers, parchment littered every surface, and quills lay abandoned in ink-stained mugs.

A curious smell hung in the air—a strange blend of cigarettes, cologne, and old paper.

Professor Morales sat behind his desk, a book open in his hands. The instant she entered, he closed it with deliberate calm, slipping it into a drawer. She caught only a flash of its crimson cover, marked with the sketch of a single, watchful eye.

“Please,” he said, gesturing to one of the chairs before him.

She moved to sit, only to find both chairs stacked high with books and loose parchment.

“Ah—my apologies.” Morales gave a rueful smile. “I haven’t had much time to organize.”

“It’s alright,” she replied, returning his smile though her stomach still knotted with nerves.

She picked up a stack of papers from one of the chairs to clear a space. As she held them, her eyes wandered, and she couldn’t resist glancing at the title scrawled across the top sheet:

The Siege of Everbrook

By Eduardo Morales

“You write books, sir?” she asked. Perhaps Kenny had been right about him after all.

Professor Morales gave a nervous smile. “Ah… yes, I do.”

But before she could look further into the stack, he quickly plucked it from her hands and slipped it into a drawer.

“That’s mint!” she exclaimed. “What’s it about?”

“I’m afraid they’re rather dull,” he chuckled lightly. “Just a bit of recent wizarding history I was working on before I came to Hogwarts.”

“I can’t wait to read it, sir!” she said politely, hoping her enthusiasm might soften his judgment of her essay.

“Thank you,” he replied warmly, though there was a faint sadness behind his smile. “But I doubt it will ever be published.”

“Why not?”

He hesitated, furrowing his brow as though weighing how much to say. “Because many people believe some things are best left forgotten.”

Vera didn’t quite grasp his meaning, but she nodded all the same.

“Speaking of history…” he opened the drawer again, this time withdrawing her essay. “I must say, Vera, what you wrote here… quite surprised me.”

Oh, shite, she thought, bracing herself.

“It was very different and unexpected.”

Sweat prickled her forehead.

“And I must commend you for it.”

Wait—what? He liked it?

He stood, moving around the desk to lean casually against the wall.  “While most of your classmates wrote about werewolves, vampires, and other dark creatures, you drew examples from…” He paused, his gaze locking with hers. “Muggle history.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she blurted, her pulse racing. “I didn’t study over the holiday.”

“Don’t apologize,” he reassured with an easy smile. “It’s actually impressive that you’re so well-informed about these events. Even more impressive how you wove them into a magical context.”

Her lips twitched into a smile—though inwardly she was screaming with joy.

“The First World War, for example—very well done. But how did you come across it?”

Vera bit her lip, scrambling for a safe answer that wouldn’t betray too much of her life outside Hogwarts.

“Um, I read a book about the war once, and it stuck with me.”

“Remarkable!” Morales said, eyebrows lifting. “And this other example you used… it’s quite recent.” He skimmed the essay again. “Are you familiar with Irish politics?”

“Oh—uh—it’s my cook back home, sir,” she said quickly. “She’s Irish, and she tells me stories from home.”

She kept quiet about catching news reports of the Troubles on TV, fearing how he might view her Muggle activities.

“I see.” He nodded thoughtfully. “You’re a listener.”

“A… listener?”

“You take in what people say. You remember. That’s rarer than you think these days.”

Vera flushed, awkward but secretly pleased. “Um, thank you…”

“Now, Vera, there’s one thing I wanted to ask you about,” he said, returning to his desk and removing his round glasses. “In your essay, you wrote about defense, but you also used another word... Resistance.”

Vera tilted her head, confused. She hadn’t considered the weight of her choice.

“Why did you use that word, Vera?”

“I… I don’t know,” she admitted, fidgeting slightly. “It’s just a word Mrs. Quinn uses all the time, so I thought it meant the same as defense.”

“I see… They are similar, but there’s a subtle difference. Do you know what it is?”

“No, sir.”

“Defense is protective,” he began, interlacing his fingers on the desk. “Like building a fence around your home to keep burglars out. Resistance, on the other hand, is reactionary—it comes into play when all defenses have failed.”

Noticing her furrowed brow, he moved his chair closer and leaned in slightly.

“Think of it this way,” he said gently. “Defense is protecting your house from being stolen. Resistance is fighting to reclaim it once it has been.”

He put on his glasses, giving her a faint smile. “While the difference may seem trivial, many people see one as justified and the other… not.”

“Which one?” she asked, curiosity tugging at her.

“Let’s leave that for another day,” he said with a chuckle. “I wouldn’t want to bore you with another linguistic digression.”

Vera returned his smile, amused and a little baffled. She wondered why would a writer concerned with grammar be teaching defense against the dark arts.

“I was informed by Professor Dumbledore about your condition,” he continued.

Her smile faltered instantly.

“So, I’m afraid you won’t be able to participate in any of my practical classes.”

Vera bit her lip, a bitter sting rising in her chest.

“Yet,” he added.

“Yet?”

“I will be taking charge of your training instead of Professor Snape this year.”

She wanted to scream. Actually, scream.

“You, sir!” she blurted, struggling to keep her composure.

“Indeed,” he said, smiling, clearly entertained by her reaction. “However, we’ll begin in October—I’m still settling in.”

“That’s alright, sir!” she replied, practically bouncing with excitement.

As she left his office, her steps nearly skipping with joy at the thought of being free from Snape’s oppressive presence, she plucked the dead beetle Sarah had given her from her hair and kissed it.

“THANK YOU!” 

Chapter Text

Saturday, September 8, 1990

As Gryffindor tower buzzed with anticipation for the upcoming Quidditch trials, it seemed less like a common room and more like a military camp. In one corner, Fred and George were hard at work "revolutionizing" broomstick design.

"Picture this," Fred announced, "a broom that swerves away from Bludgers on its own!"

"And one that cheers on the Chasers mid-dive!" George added. 

Across the room, Angelina and Alicia were plotting like generals before battle. Angelina scribbled furiously, parchment littered with arrows and circles, while Alicia jabbed her quill at the page. And then there was Lee, gleefully narrating the madness in his best commentator voice.

"And behold—Alicia Spinnet, soaring with the grace of a Hippogriff on holiday!" he boomed, narrowly dodging a cushion lobbed at his head as the room erupted in laughter.

Meanwhile, Oliver Wood had vanished. Rumor had it he was lying low to escape the twins’ latest campaign of bribes. Whenever he surfaced, they leapt on him like starving Nifflers, armed with fresh incentives: self-correcting quills, sweets that triggered unstoppable giggles, or—most dangerously—the right to name Gryffindor’s next mascot.

While the whole castle roared with Quidditch fever, Vera had slipped away into a different kind of chaos—the kitchens.

"So you’re telling me Koinks has no secret ingredients?" she pressed, looming over a weary-looking house elf who was just trying to get on with his evening.

"No, Miss, as I’ve already said—no secret ingredients!"

Vera frowned, unconvinced. "It just doesn’t make sense. There has to be more to it."

The elf clutched a mixing spoon like a weapon of last resort. "May I please use the oven now?" he asked, his patience fraying with every syllable.

"In just a minute," she promised, eyes darting toward the tray of cookies she was fussing over.

"You’ve been saying that for an hour," the elf groaned.

Vera barely heard him. She was too busy piping sugar into broomsticks and a golden snitch, each one glinting under the warm kitchen lights. It was a ridiculous amount of effort, but after Felix had saved her life, a simple “thanks” felt inadequate.

At last, she stepped back, admiring her handiwork with a proud grin. "Perfect."

On her way to the Great Hall, she wrestled with a dilemma: should she give Felix the cookies in private, or present them openly? After all, he had saved her life, spoken to her in front of others, and—most disarming of all—gently wiped the blood from her lips. That hardly suggested their so-called “agreement” still meant anything.

Bolstered by this thought, she decided not to skulk in shadows. If Felix no longer cared to keep their connection quiet, neither would she.

Spotting him at the Gryffindor table, she slid onto the bench beside Percy, directly across from him. The boys were locked in animated debate about the upcoming trials.

"For the last time, Fred," Oliver groaned. "NO."

Fred shrugged. "Your loss."

"More like the team’s loss," George chimed in.

Oliver shot him a look. "I’ll take my chances."

Before the twins could reply, Alicia leaned across the table, eyes glittering with mischief. "Bobbin, lend me your broom for the trials? Pretty please?"

Felix offered her a polite, tight-lipped smile. "Sorry, can’t."

"You’ll all use the same brooms," Oliver cut in firmly. "Fairness and all that."

Alicia groaned, slumping dramatically. "Ugh! Ruining all my plans."

Vera waited for a lull in the endless Quidditch chatter, her mind split between boredom at broomstick jargon and the flutter of anticipation in her chest. At last, she drew a steadying breath, cleared her throat, and slid the tray forward.

“Um… Felix?”

He turned, brows knitting the instant he realized she was speaking to him. His fork froze midair, suspended halfway to his mouth, before his eyes locked on hers.

“I made these for you,” she said softly.

His gaze flicked from her to the tray of carefully decorated cookies—broomsticks and a golden snitch glistening with sugar. But instead of warming, his expression darkened, a shadow crossing his face.

“To say thank you,” she added, her nervous smile wobbling.

The clatter of metal rang out as Felix dropped his fork, the sound slicing through the din of the hall. The table fell silent. Dozens of curious eyes turned toward them.

Felix’s jaw tightened, his glare sharp enough to cut glass. Then, without a word, he shoved back his bench, fists clenched, and stormed away. His abrupt exit sent whispers rippling through the room.

Vera sat frozen, the tray still hovering in her hands like a ridiculous prop. Her heart plummeted as the sting of humiliation settled in. Around her, the silence fractured into murmurs and sideways glances, leaving her stranded in the center of the spectacle—cookies and all.

Lee leaned closer, brows knitting. “What on earth was that about?” he said, eyes darting toward the doors Felix had stormed through.

Vera swallowed hard, her throat tight. Words refused to come. She lowered her gaze to the tray of cookies, their bright frosting suddenly looking childish and absurd. With trembling fingers, she slid the tray back onto the table. 

From further down, Angelina whispered to Percy. “Do you know what’s going on?”

Percy’s polished composure faltered for once. “I—ah—it’s nothing,” he said quickly, eyes fixed on his plate.

Fred raised a brow. “Oh, come off it, Perce. You clearly know something. What’s eating him?”

“Just… leave it,” Percy said firmly. Then, he leaned toward Vera, lowering his voice. “Why in Merlin’s name would you do that?”

She flinched. “I was only—”

“You should know better, Vera,” he cut in, his voice sharp. “You’re not a child anymore.”

And with that, he stood abruptly and strode after Felix, leaving her reeling.

Her eyes stung as tears gathered, Percy's words slicing deeper than Felix’s anger. She blinked hard and forced them back, unwilling to cry here, in front of all of them.

“Vera?” Fred asked gently, concern softening his normally playful tone.

She gave a brittle smile. “I’m fine.”

George wasn’t convinced. “What did Percy say to you?”

“Just drop it!” Oliver snapped, his voice cracking like a whip across the table. Then, more softly, he added, “Vera… go wash your face.”

The pitying eyes around her burned worse than the tears. She shook her head faintly at Oliver’s gentle smile, then rose quietly, slipping away from the table toward the lavatory, her retreat shadowed by whispers and unanswered questions.

The bathroom was mercifully empty. The moment the door swung shut behind her, she broke. Tears spilled over as she clutched the edge of the sink, her body trembling with the weight of Felix’s rejection and Percy’s cutting words. The tiled walls carried back the sound of her quiet sobs, hollow and relentless, until it felt like the room itself was weeping with her.

Her thoughts spun, sharp and desperate. What if she told him the truth? That she had no family to stand by her. That she carried their name but none of their loyalty. Would it matter? Would Felix believe her?

Her chest tightened as the answer came. No.

Nothing she said could untangle her from the name she bore. To him, to all of them, she would always be a Black.

She splashed water over her face again and again, as though she could wash away the features staring back at her.

“I’m not them,” she whispered. “I’m not…”

She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Blue eyes, dark hair, proud angles of bone—unknown to her, she was them, all them.

She finally dragged herself back toward the Great Hall, each step was heavy, as though the floor itself resisted her. Breathing hurt. Thinking hurt. Yet beneath the ache, a spark burned steady.

Felix was wrong.

He had no right to measure her against her grandfather’s sins. He had told her once that blood wasn’t everything—that she was more than her lineage. And now he spat on his own words.

Yes, he had saved her life, and she owed him gratitude. But gratitude did not demand swallowing humiliation. And it certainly did not mean she had to bow beneath his disdain.

When she slid back into her seat, a quiet resolve settled inside her. The ache lingered, sharp and raw, but beneath it something steadier stirred: she would not let rejection define her.

“Are you okay?” Angelina’s voice was soft, tinged with concern.

Vera forced a smile and busied herself with her plate, hoping the clink of cutlery would shield her from further questions. Around her, the others exchanged glances, curiosity flickering in their eyes. She ignored it, praying they’d never learn the truth.

The very thought of it—their faces when they discover her family’s crimes—was enough to turn her stomach. And worse still: what if Percy told the twins? Or Kenny’s grandmother let something slip without meaning to? Each possibility pressed like a cold hand against her spine. She forced down another bite, as though food could drown her thoughts.

The silence grew taut, stretched thin. Then Oliver, with uncanny timing, cut through it.

“These cookies look brilliant, Vera,” he said warmly, his smile easing the edges of the tension. “Did you make them yourself?”

She nodded quickly, grateful for the shift in focus.

“Well then,” he went on, a mischievous glint in his eye, “I might just smuggle them back to the dorm. If you don't mind.”

She managed a small, genuine smile. “Yeah… sure.”

“Grand,” Oliver beamed, his Scottish lilt softening the mood further as he gathered up the tray.

Watching him walk off with the cookies, she felt a faint glimmer of relief. His easy kindness reminded her that not everyone weighed her down with her family’s sins. Some saw her—just Vera—and for now, that was enough to breathe a little easier.

“So?” Fred demanded the moment Oliver disappeared with the tray.

“So… what?” Vera replied lightly, stabbing at her potatoes.

“What in Merlin’s stinky beard was that about? Why did Bobbin storm off like that?”

“I don’t know,” she muttered, eyes fixed firmly on her plate. “Maybe he doesn’t like sweets.”

“Don’t fob us off,” Alicia pressed. “Tell us.”

“Yeah,” Lee added. “We’re your friends.”

“I swear, it’s nothing!” she snapped, exasperation creeping into her voice.

“Then what did Percy say?" George asked. "To make you cry..."

“Percy didn’t make me cry,” she sighed, shifting uncomfortably.

“He whispered something to you,” Lee persisted, “and then you—”

“No!” She cut him off sharply. “Can we just bloody eat?”

Alicia scoffed, crossing her arms. “Excuse us for being worried.”

Vera groaned, pressing her palms to her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m just… sorry.”

The tension softened as Fred reached across, resting a hand on her shoulder. She lifted her gaze to meet theirs—wide, desperate, pleading for them to let it go.

“Look,” she said quietly. “It’s not something I can talk about, alright? So… can we please just drop it?”

The group exchanged uneasy glances, curiosity still burning behind their eyes. But one by one, they relented, shifting the conversation elsewhere. Relief mingled with guilt in Vera’s chest as she sat back, the noise around her swelling again. For now, at least, her secret was safe.

Saturday, September 15, 1990

Days passed quickly, and the drama with Felix faded into the background as all eyes turned to the upcoming Quidditch trials.

Amidst the excitement, Vera felt lonelier than ever. She didn’t share her peers’ obsession with broomsticks and Bludgers. Tommy and Cedric were buried in practice, Kenny lingered with older students, Sarah and Maddie busied themselves in the gardens without inviting her, and even Patty and Malika seemed distracted.

But solitude was no stranger. She had lived half her short life in its embrace.

She found comfort in her own quiet pursuits: sneaking through corridors with the Marauders Map, doodling, scribbling baking recipes into her journal, writing letters to Kaya. Sometimes she chattered away to the castle’s portraits, who were far better listeners than most students. She even tried narrating Coronation Street to the ghosts, though it nearly bored them into a second death.

The library became her second refuge. She was hungry to learn more wizarding history—anything that might impress Professor Morales during their next training session.

It was on her way there one afternoon that a flash of grey darted across the corridor. Scabbers. The rat bolted ahead, and she gave chase, finally scooping him up near the library doors.

“You’re a little bugger, aren’t you?” she laughed, holding the wriggling rodent at arm’s length. “Let’s go find Percy, shall we?”

Inside, she spotted the red-haired boy sitting with Penelope Clearwater, Oliver, and someone hidden behind a book.

“Percy,” she announced, tossing Scabbers into his lap. “Your rat reallyyyy hates me.”

“Thanks for getting him back,” Percy said briskly. “He isn’t normally hostile. Are you sure you weren’t… provoking him?”

“Pfft, as if. Not my fault he’s a wanker.”

Penelope and Oliver burst out laughing. Percy glowered. But before Vera could gloat, a whisper came from behind the book:

“Big word for a little girl.”

Vera froze, her stomach lurching as she recognized the voice. The table fell into silence, every eye flicking between her and the hidden figure.

“I’m not little,” she shot back, more defensive than she intended.

The book lowered, and Felix’s gaze met hers. “But you are.”

Her jaw tightened. What game was this? He had been the one so adamant about not speaking to her in public, yet here he was, tossing jabs like it was nothing.

And God, she hated being called little.

Felix returned to his book, and she felt the urge to challenge him. Let him get angry—she was tired of his moods, his shifting rules.

Glancing at the cover, she immediately recognized his book as one of Miss Nelson's favorites. The kind matron would share every story she read with her, and she had them all memorized. 

She crossed her arms and leaned into her smirk. “You know… Jane Austen’s books are for girls.”

The rest of the group looked surprised. Perhaps they were taken aback that a pureblood aristocrat like her would know Jane Austen, the Mugglest of Muggles.

Felix lowered the book again. “They’re also for Muggles. Yet here we are. Who decides what’s for whom, exactly?”

The logic sank in, leaving her momentarily speechless. 

“Have you read it?” he pressed.

“Of course,” she shot back.

She hadn’t.

“Really?” His smirk was razor-thin.

“Yes,” she said firmly, lifting her chin.

“Then what do you think of it?”

She swallowed nervously. She only knows about Pride and Prejudice from Miss Nelson, and realized she was now treading into unfamiliar territory discussing it.

“I think it’s… nice.” She began hesitantly.

Felix narrowed his eyes. “Hmm.”

She composed herself, trying to recall the details of it, and Miss Nelson’s explanations.

“But,” she continued cautiously. “I don’t understand why people think it’s a love story when it’s clearly about family."

That silenced him—and the others.

“You don’t think it’s about love?” he asked at last.

“Of course it is,” she shot back, “but Elizabeth loved what Darcy could give her family just as much as she loved him.”

The group’s eyes ping-ponged between them.

“And what was that?” Felix pressed.

She rolled her eyes. “Money, obviously.”

His mouth curved in the faintest smile. “So you think she’s shallow?”

“Not shallow,” she snapped. “Practical. She was trying to help her family.”

He leaned forward, gaze fixed on her. “If that’s true, why not marry Collins?”

“Because Collins had money. Darcy had wealth and more than that.”

“So in your opinion, it still comes down to money.”

“Everything comes down to money, Bobbin. Do you really think she’d look twice at him if he were poor—especially after he insulted her family?”

Felix held her gaze. “And what about him?”

“Him?”

“Darcy. Was it not love from his side? Or was it just about the money, too? You think Elizabeth seeing his wealth and swallowing her pride was what made him love her? I don’t think so. He loved her from the start, wealth was indifferent to him. So no, not everything is about money.”

Her throat tightened. How could he ever understand? A boy who’d never had to worry about money in his life.

“Darcy is different.” she said.

“Why?”

“Because he can afford love.”

“And Elizabeth can’t?”

“No. She has to settle for it.”

For the first time, Felix looked genuinely impressed. “Perhaps you’re not so little after all.”

She smirked, matching his gaze. “And perhaps Jane Austen isn’t just for girls after all.”

He chuckled, lifting his book again, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Vera rolled her eyes and turned to leave. 

"See you later, everyone," she said, walking away. As she stuck her tongue out at Scabbers, she added, "You too…" then, subtly glanced up from Scabbers to Felix, "…wanker."

Saturday, September 22, 1990

The long-awaited day of the Quidditch trials finally swooped in, and Vera marched to the stands armed with her arsenal of crafted signs. Each poster was a masterpiece of questionable artistry: roaring lions, broomsticks, and motivational slogans dripping with glitter that would haunt the pitch for weeks.

She plopped down beside Lee, Kenny, and Katie, surrounded by older Gryffindors who eyed her enthusiasm with weary patience.

On the field, the twins, Alicia, and Angelina zoomed about like caffeinated bats, executing Oliver’s drills with just enough flair to show they meant business.

Vera and Lee had dedicated the entire previous night to creating spirited chants in support of them. When Fred and George took their turn, they leapt to their feet, enthusiastically hoisting their signs high above their heads.

Fred and George, the mighty pair,
In the air, without a care!
Twins so tricky, oh what a sight,
Bringing laughter to our night!

Go lions, show your flair,
With your brooms up in the air!
Score those goals, make us proud,
Send those Bludgers through the clouds!

The twins’ egos seemed to be the real fuel in their broomsticks as they weaved through the air, throwing in flourishes like they were already stars of the team. Vera’s throat was raw from cheering, but that hardly stopped her from shrieking herself hoarse with every barrel roll.

Percy, abandoning his post beside Penelope, slid into the seat next to her. “If you two poured half this effort into your studies, we’d have the House Cup in the bag.”

Vera grinned. “Effort goes where the heart leads, Percy!”

He arched a brow. “That’s rather poetic. Where is it from?"

"I just came up with it."

"Impressive."

The stands erupted again as Felix pushed the boys harder, putting them through tighter formations. Vera clapped along with the crowd but kept her eyes firmly away from him. She couldn’t stomach looking at him—not after the sharp words and colder silences that had replaced their fragile truce.

Percy noticed. Of course he did. Where a moment ago she had been all noise and laughter, now she sat folded in on herself, staring at her hands as if they held the answers she didn’t want to say aloud.

“You’re not angry with me, are you?” he leaned in. “For what I said the other day?”

She blinked at him, surprised by the question. His words had stung, but she’d never taken them as cruelty—just Percy being Percy: earnest, blunt, and far too serious for his own age.

“Of course not,” she said gently. “You were right. I should’ve known better.”

“I don’t even know why I said it. It’s not as if you knew.”

Her jaw tightened. “I do know.”

“You do?”

“My grandfather… he—” The words caught in her throat, too jagged to voice.

“So you understand why Felix reacted the way he did?”

“Yes. But Percy, he saved my life!”

“And you had every right to thank him. But… he can’t be seen talking to you.”

“But he did! In front of you, Oliver, Penelope—Fred and George!”

“Oliver, Penelope, and I are his best friends. We’d never breathe a word. And my brothers—well, they’re oblivious half the time. But everyone else? They’d see it differently.”

“Oh…” The sound was small, ashamed. “I was so stupid.”

"Don't be too hard on yourself. Felix could have handled it better, but I think he was just overwhelmed. You know about his family—" he suddenly paused as if unsure how to continue.

"Yes?"

"His father is very strict, Vera. And the Bobbin family holds traditions in high regard. They consider what happened to his uncle Julius an offense against them all. According to their customs, they hold your entire family responsible for his death, not just your grandfather. That's why he can't talk to you; they see you as connected to that offense in some way. Even though you had nothing to do with it, and neither did your own father."

She swallowed. “So if they found out Felix spoke to me—what then?”

His gaze met hers, full of reluctant sorrow. “They’d disown him, Vera.”

Her heart plummeted as Percy’s words sank in. She had never grasped the iron weight of the Bobbins’ traditions—their grudges apparently ran as deep as their vaults.

But then why had Felix risked it? Why had he spoken to her at all? Why had he saved her life so readily, if she was supposed to be his enemy? Why didn’t he carry his family’s hatred in the same way they did?

The questions churned in her mind like a storm she couldn’t calm.

Her gaze drifted back to the pitch. Felix cut through the air on his broom, sharp and effortless, and the sight twisted something inside her. To stand against his family—even in small ways—he had to be braver than she had ever given him credit for.

Regret pricked her like pins. She thought of the clumsy cookies in the Great Hall, of the careless insult she’d flung at him in the library. All of it seemed so childish now.

Julius Bobbin’s death had become more than a ghost story whispered in corridors—it was a wound that time hadn’t healed, one Felix was forced to bleed for. And she, in her ignorance, had only made it worse.

She pressed her lips together and made a silent promise: never again would she judge someone before knowing the whole story.

Friday, September 28, 1990

She promised herself she wouldn’t seek Felix out—not a word, not a glance—unless he wanted her to. That was easy enough. Their paths rarely crossed anyway… except on Fridays, when her Herbology lesson followed the fourth years’.

A few days later, fate clearly decided to test her resolve. On her way to the greenhouses, she spotted him leaving class with his friends. Instinct took over—eyes down, pace quickened, alternate route engaged. But Felix had other plans.

He stopped mid-step, crouched as if to tie his shoe, and let the rest of his classmates drift ahead. Then, as they passed each other, his shoulder brushed lightly against hers.

“Haven,” he breathed, so quietly she almost wondered if she’d imagined it.

Her heart gave a startled thud. She turned, half expecting a smirk or a second glance, but he just kept walking, hands in pockets, as though nothing had happened. She forced herself back into conversation with Tommy, though her words were on autopilot—the single word Haven echoing over and over in her mind.

By the end of Herbology, curiosity had outmuscled caution. She found her feet carrying her down familiar corridors until she reached the unassuming door tucked behind a forgotten stretch of hallway.

The room beyond—his so-called Haven—was just as she remembered: tucked away from the world, humming faintly with old magic and softer music. She pushed open the door and stepped inside.

"I was worried you hadn’t heard me," Felix said with an easy smile, lounging on the little sofa. As she made her way in, he swiftly sat up, running a hand through his hair.

"I was still in the gardens," she explained. "Helping Sarah catch a butterfly."

"Did you?"

"Yeah."

"What did it look like?"

"Um… orange."

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just a touch. "Change is on the horizon."

She blinked. "What?"

"Nothing." His lips twitched, but he said no more.

They continued to stare at each other, both silent. Then—

"I'm sorry," they blurted out at the same time.

Vera laughed, a light, unguarded sound that made his smile widen.

"What are you sorry for?" she said. "I was the one—"

"I'm sorry for being rude," he cut in quickly. "You were kind, and I… acted like a jerk."

She shrugged. "You were upset. I get it." 

He held her gaze for a long moment, words lingering unsaid, before he finally moved. Pushing himself off the sofa, he leaned back against the wall, arms folded loosely.

"I loved your cookies," he said suddenly. "They were brilliant."

Her brow furrowed, caught off guard. “Yo-you actually got them?”

"Oliver brought them to the dorm," he replied with a small grin. "Told me you’d made them yourself."

Her cheeks warmed despite herself, the mixture of Oliver’s thoughtfulness and Felix’s compliment stirring something she couldn’t quite name.

"The truth is," he went on, "I wasn’t angry that you spoke to me in front of everyone. I was angry at the situation itself."

"The situation?" 

"That I couldn’t be friends with someone as kind as you, all because of some stupid—" He broke off, frustration flickering across his face. "I mean, who does that? Giving such a thoughtful and lovely gift to someone they know they can't truly be friends with?"

"What I did was nothing compared to what you’ve done," she said quietly. "I mean, you caught me, Felix. If it weren’t for you, I would have—"

"I would always catch you."

The words stopped her cold. His loyalty, his kindness—so freely given despite everything—felt impossible. If she were in his place, she would have clung to the grudge without hesitation. But Felix was different. Felix was better.

"I was worried about you," he admitted after a pause. "Watching you fall—it was..." He trailed off.

"I’m sorry," she murmured.

"But I was also impressed."

"Impressed?" she echoed, frowning. "By what?"

"Your speed. I’ve always thought you’re a natural."

She let out a disbelieving laugh. "Are you taking the piss?"

“No.”

“I was a bloody disaster.”

"It wasn’t your fault."

"Oh? Then whose fault was it?"

"The broom’s," he said simply. "It couldn’t handle you. You were too strong for it."

"Now you’re definitely taking the piss."

He laughed—a real, unguarded laugh that deepened the dimple in his cheek. She’d never noticed it before, and the discovery startled her more than she cared to admit.

"I'm serious," he continued, his tone growing earnest as he stared down at his feet. "You should consider trying out for the seeker position next year."

"Why, are you planning on leaving?" she teased with a giggle, but he responded with nothing but silence, his expression neutral, and his eyes still down.

She sensed his discomfort and hurried to cut through the silence. “Um, Felix?”

“Yes?”

“I do understand your situation. And I promise I’ll never cause you harm again.”

He drew a slow breath, his gaze darting away before it returned to her. “So Percy told you, then? About my family’s…” He bit down on the word, jaw tightening. “…traditions.”

She nodded, unsettled by the way the word seemed to taste bitter on his tongue.

“I don’t agree with them,” he said quickly. “Just so you know.”

“I know,” she murmured, her fingers fussing nervously in her lap.

“But perhaps we really shouldn’t be talking to each other.”

She snapped her head up, eyes wide.

“Because you embarrassed me that day in the library,” he finished, his mouth curving into a grin. “I honestly thought I had a solid argument.”

Relief washed over her in an awkward laugh. “Oh… sorry about that.”

“Don’t be. You were right. Once I finished the book, I saw your point. Though I still refuse to believe everything boils down to money.”

She wished desperately that he was right about that.

“How do you know that story, anyway, Vera?”

“Oh, um… my governess.” The lie rolled off her tongue, but guilt clung to it. For reasons she couldn’t name, lying to him felt worse than to anyone else.

“You ought to be careful with Muggle literature,” he warned lightly. “I can imagine your family wouldn’t be thrilled.”

Her gaze sank to her shoes, the weight of her mistakes stacking one atop the other.

“Now tell me,” he leaned closer. “Who’s ‘K’?”

Her eyes widened. “How did you—?”

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his gaze locked on hers. Her heart thumped erratically as she noticed his hand dip into his pocket.

And then... he pulled out her bracelet.

“YOU FOUND IT!” she burst, unable to keep her excitement contained.

He gave a small nod. “Spent the whole week looking for it. Wood scolded me, but… worth it.”

“Worth what?”

“Seeing you smile like that.”

Touched by his thoughtfulness—and the lengths he’d gone—she acted on impulse and... hugged him.

As she tightened her arms around him, she felt his body tense slightly, a faint crimson creeping up his cheeks. His usual composure faltered, and for a heartbeat, he looked genuinely caught off guard.

Realizing her boldness, she pulled back slightly, cheeks flaming. “I-I’m sorry..."

Felix offered a small, slightly awkward smile. “It’s… okay. Really. I’m just glad I could help.”

She nodded, a shy smile playing on her lips as she released her hold on him. She stepped back, allowing a comfortable distance to return between them, though the memory of their shared moment lingered in the air.

Then, with gentle care, he took her hand, wrapping the bracelet around her wrist and using his wand to repair it.

"You still haven't told me who 'K' is," he remarked playfully.

“She’s like a sister to me,” she said softly, a fond smile spreading across her face.

“Then I hope she knows how much you love her.”

Her smile deepened, happiness bubbling inside her.

“You better go now,” he said with a teasing lilt.

As she turned toward the door, a lingering smile on her lips, he called after her.

“Vera?”

“Yes, Felix?”

“Noli desperare.”

Chapter Text

Monday, October 1, 1990

“What’s his favorite color?”

“Yellow. Obviously.”

She jotted it down with purpose. “And his favorite animal?”

“Dragons, I’d say. Though he’s soft for dogs too.”

She scribbled faster. “Favorite flower?”

Tommy snorted. “Don’t be daft, Vee. Boys don’t do flowers.”

“Everyone does.”

“Oh yeah? What’s yours then?”

She paused dramatically, then grinned. “Poppies!”

“Poppies? The dullest of the lot.”

“Excuse you. They’re iconic. Anyway—what’s his middle name?”

“Why on earth does that matter?”

“Just tell me, Tommy!”

“I actually don’t know.”

“He’s your best mate, and you don’t know his middle name?”

“Do you know mine?”

“Do you know mine?”

He smirked. “That’s a trick question. You don’t have one.”

“How’d you know that?”

“I’ve got my ways.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Suspicious…”

“More suspicious—why don’t you have one?”

“Focus!” She waved him off. “We need every detail perfect for his birthday.”

“You baking the cake yourself?”

“Of course. Should I write ‘Happy Birthday Cedric,’ or keep it simple with ‘Happy Birthday’?”

“How about ‘Happy Birthday Snorty’?”

Her eyes sparkled. “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

“What’s brilliant?” Cedric’s voice broke in as he dropped onto the bench beside them in the gardens.

Vera snapped her notebook shut and stuffed it into her robes with suspicious speed. “The weather,” she lied smoothly.

Tommy gave her a solemn nod for her lightning-fast lying skills.

Cedric frowned. “I told you to wait for me.”

“You were ages,” Tommy drawled. “Honestly, mate, what’s McGonagall want with you every single day?”

“She fancies him,” Vera said, waggling her eyebrows.

Cedric tugged her hair with mock offense. “Take it back!”

“Never." She teased, her hair still in his grip. "You’re basically her tea-time sweetheart.”

He tugged tighter. “Want to lose your hair, Piggy?”

“I’ll bloody kill you first.”

“Oi!” Tommy threw up his hands. “Save the murder until after the Quidditch results, yeah?”

Vera gasped. “Shite—I forgot the trials list comes out today!” 

“Before dinner,” Cedric said, letting go of her hair.

She leaned in, squinting. “You’re nervous.”

“Pfft. No.”

"Yeah, you are. Your cheeks always turn red when you're nervous."

"But they also turn red when he's shy,” Tommy interjected, “or sad, or scared, or angry-" 

“WE GET IT,” Cedric snapped, face redder by the second.

Vera smirked. “See? Nervous.”

“I am not. Don’t care either way.”

“Oh, Snorty,” she cooed, flinging her arms around him, “you’re in for sure.”

“You reckon?”

“Positive. If you didn’t, I’d torch the Quidditch pitch myself.”

Cedric grinned. “You’d do that for me, Piggy?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Tommy cut in. “She’d burn it anyway.”

“I would,” Vera agreed with a huff. “Quidditch is a crime against humanity.”

"Never thought someone like you would say that." Cedric remarked.

"Why?"

"Didn't your family own a Quidditch team once?"

She screamed in her head.

Tommy’s eyes went wide, mirroring hers. “Wait—you owned a team? Vee, you’re loaded!”

Vera let go of Cedric, nervously biting her lip. She still couldn’t grasp how wealthy her family truly were. And she was their supposed heiress? She could barely imagine buying a match ticket, let alone an entire bloody team.

She forced a smile. “Anyway—we should go.”

The trio slipped into the Great Hall just as the buzz reached its peak. At the front, the four Quidditch captains stood lined up, waiting for the crowd to quiet before the announcements began.

Vera slid into her spot at the Gryffindor table, where Fred and George were already running a betting ring with Lee keeping tally.

“These two are going to be filthy rich one day,” he remarked with a grin. “Mark my words.”

Across the bench, Alicia was jittering her leg like a drumbeat while Angelina gnawed nervously on her nails.

“You’ll both make it,” Vera said warmly, leaning in with a smile that was steadier than their nerves.

Her gaze drifted across the hall. At the Slytherin table, the Poshlanders clustered together. Cassius sat stiffly on top of the bench, knees pulled in, staring at the floor as though sheer concentration might rewrite his fate. Miles and Adrian, by contrast, looked like they hadn’t a care in the world. Vera couldn’t help but wonder whether Ryu had tried his hand at Ravenclaw’s team.

“Alright, everyone,” Oliver began, his booming voice trying—and failing—to command the room.

“We’ll start with Slytherin,” Flint cut in immediately.

“That’s not what we agreed on, Flint,” Oliver snapped.

Within seconds, the two were bickering like an old married couple until Snape, looking exasperated, settled it with a curt coin toss.

Gryffindor won the right to go first, and Oliver strode forward. “This year, Gryffindor had several open spots. I am pleased to announce our new team formation.”

He cleared his throat for maximum drama. “As Beaters…” He let the pause hang in the air. “The deadly duo—Fred and George Weasley!”

The Great Hall exploded. The twins leapt up onto the benches, bowing with exaggerated flourish and blowing kisses to their adoring fans before chest-bumping so hard they toppled clean off the table. The laughter rolled through every corner of the room.

“Settle down!” Oliver was laughing too, trying to keep order. “We’re not done yet.”

As the cheers faded, he raised his voice again. “For our Chasers, I’m proud to introduce two brand new additions—Alicia Spinnet and Angelina Johnson!”

The Gryffindor table erupted a second time, cheers and whistles shaking the rafters. Alicia and Angelina looked stunned, joy etched across their faces. Vera’s grin was wide enough to ache as she pulled them both into a hug, her excitement spilling over in waves.

“As for our Seeker—” Oliver’s voice dipped into a grave tone that sliced clean through the cheers.

The Great Hall fell silent.

“Wait, what?” someone hissed.

“Seeker? Did he just say Seeker?”

A ripple of confusion surged through the Gryffindor table, students exchanging wide-eyed glances. Vera’s gaze darted down to the end of the bench, where Felix sat calmly, his posture unshaken, as though the entire Hall hadn’t just collectively stopped breathing.

Oliver let the pause drag, milking the tension. Then—

“We won’t be changing him anytime soon, so relax.”

“Merlin’s beard, Wood!” Fred’s voice rang out indignantly. “Thought you were sacking him right here in public!”

“You nearly killed us!” George added, clutching his chest in mock outrage.

Laughter rippled across the table as Gryffindors broke into relieved cheers and rhythmic table-banging. Felix offered a faint smile in acknowledgment, as if the uproar were happening several worlds away.

Vera studied him carefully. Most players would have been beaming, basking in the roar of the crowd. But Felix—Felix looked untouched by it all, as though Seeker was less an honor and more a burden he had already resigned himself to carrying.

“Alright, enough from you lot,” Flint barked, swaggering forward to seize the spotlight.

Oliver muttered something dark under his breath as he slunk back to the Gryffindor table.

“This year,” Flint began, puffing out his chest, “my team had three openings. Bole and Derrick will, of course, remain as our Beaters.”

The Slytherin table burst into cheers. Over at Gryffindor, the collective response was a synchronized eye roll.

“And I, Marcus Flint”—he actually paused to smirk—“will remain a Chaser.”

Another wave of groans and muttered “who cares” followed from the red-and-gold side.

Flint pressed on, oblivious. “For the vacant Chaser position, after much thought and careful deliberation…”

Vera’s eyes flicked to the Slytherin table, where Cassius was sitting taut as a bowstring.

“...the position needs a fierce player.” Flint dragged on. “But before I announce—”

“Here we bloody go,” Oliver groaned, rubbing his temples.

“As I was saying,” Flint snapped, shooting him a glare, “every candidate who tried out deserves recognition. I believe—”

“Take a shot every time he says ‘I,’” Oliver murmured, and half the Gryffindor table stifled laughter.

“Spare us, Flint,” the Ravenclaw captain called, impatience dripping from his tone.

“In conclusion,” Flint droned, clearly savoring his moment, “we all deserve the opportunity to shine.”

“Finally,” Oliver muttered, earning a round of snickers. 

“As for the Chaser position,” Flint continued, his tone flat enough to lull the ghosts, “I have decided to go with…”

The green table leaned forward as one.

“Adrian Pucey!”

The Slytherins exploded into cheers. Adrian rose with a smug grin plastered across his face, soaking up the noise like it was his birthright. Cassius, however, didn’t so much as blink—no clap, no nod, not even a polite pat on the back. His gaze stayed fixed forward, jaw tight.

“And for Keeper,” Flint went on once the ruckus subsided, “I have chosen…”

Vera’s eyes flicked back to Cassius again. His leg bounced wildly under the table, nerves spilling over.

“Bletchley.”

“Yes!” Miles shot to his feet, arms raised as his tablemates roared. Jane lunged for a hug but was brushed aside in favor of Adrian. Vera winced at the sight, a pang of sympathy creeping in despite herself.

And Cassius... He remained frozen, every muscle taut with expectation.

“And lastly, for Seeker…” Flint puffed up his chest, dragging it out with theatrical pauses. “It was a very difficult decision, I assure you, but I—”

“If he says ‘I’ one more time…” Oliver muttered, low and murderous.

“…had to go with—Higgs!”

The Slytherin table thundered with applause for Terence Higgs, a fresh-faced first-year who looked dazed by the sudden wave of praise.

Cassius, on the other hand, went rigid—then bolted. He shoved back from the table, storming out of the hall without a word.

Vera tracked his departure with narrowed eyes. Honestly, all this drama over chasing a ball on a broomstick? Pathetic. Yet no one else seemed to notice. The green table was too busy lifting Adrian, Miles, and Terence on their shoulders, basking in their victory.

“Hufflepuff only had one position open this year,” their captain announced, her voice carrying over the chatter of the Hall.

As she spoke, Vera slipped away from the Gryffindor table and crossed to the Hufflepuff section, sliding into the bench beside Maddie. Both had come for the same reason: Cedric.

“You’ve got this, Snorty,” she whispered, giving his shoulder a light tap.

“Thanks, Piggy,” he muttered back with a sheepish grin, his cheeks already pinking.

“After much consideration,” the captain went on, “the new Seeker for Hufflepuff is—of course—Cedric Diggory!”

Hufflepuffs pounded their table, shouting his name, while Cedric ducked his head. And yes, his face went crimson. Maddie suddenly sprang to her feet and threw her arms around him, only making him glow redder than ever.

Before the applause could settle, the Ravenclaw captain stepped forward. “Our team has one position open this year. Thank you to everyone who tried out, but the new Chaser is—Roger Davies!”

Roger blinked, clearly stunned, before breaking into a grin as the blue table roared in approval. Vera clapped enthusiastically with them, then cast a quick glance at the Slytherin table.

Her eyes found Ryu. For a moment she expected bitterness, maybe even a scowl. Instead, he was clapping too—smiling, no less—as if Roger’s success was his own.

After dinner, the common room buzzed with endless Quidditch chatter, every corner alive with speculation and victory retellings. Vera, drained by the noise, slipped out with the Marauder’s Map tucked under her arm, craving silence—and maybe a new secret passage to distract her.

Her wandering carried her to the Astronomy Tower, where her footsteps slowed at the sound of muffled sobs echoing up the spiral staircase. The noise was raw, jagged—someone crying as though the world had just caved in.

Frowning, she unfurled the Map. Her eyes swept across the parchment until a single name made her breath catch.

“Cassius,” she whispered.

The sobbing stopped.

“Who’s there?” His voice, sharp and wary, cut through the stairwell.

Vera stiffened. A Part of her wanted to climb the steps, to offer some clumsy reassurance. But another part—the louder part—remembered every sneer, every condescending remark, every time he’d gone out of his way to remind her she didn’t belong in his world.

His footsteps shifted above, coming closer, and panic jolted through her. She snapped the Map shut, turned on her heel, and bolted down the stairs, praying he hadn’t caught a glimpse of her.

Back in her dorm, she forced herself to focus on Cedric’s birthday plans, scribbling notes and lists until her eyes ached. But no matter how hard she tried, the sound of Cassius’s broken sobs lingered.

And yet, she shoved it away. He wasn’t her problem. Not now. Not ever.

Friday, October 5, 1990

As October progressed, the demands of her classes grew more intense. Nevertheless, she clung to the hope of a fresh start, especially with the upcoming training sessions with Professor Morales.

"This afternoon’s meeting, don’t forget," he reminded her with a playful wink as the students filed out of class.

Forget? How could she, after weeks of counting the days?

She was eager to spend time with Professor Morales, who was undeniably the kindest and most intriguing instructor at Hogwarts. The thought of wielding her wand again thrilled her as well. But most of all she longed for the willow bark’s magic—how it made the world sharpen, shimmer, and glow.

After her last class, she hurried to her dorm. With painstaking care, she polished her wand until the wood gleamed, holding it to the lamplight and squinting at the surface to make sure no streaks marred it. She opened a brand-new notebook, running her hand over the crisp, untouched pages as though they might catch some of the wisdom she was certain she’d gain.

Finally, she lifted Angelina’s perfume from the bedside table. One spritz, then another, then—panic—too much? She flapped her collar desperately, willing the cloud to thin before anyone noticed.

“Hey, Vee,” Lee greeted as she descended into the common room. “Do you dare me?”

“Not now, mate,” she brushed him off. “I’ve got a date.”

Lee blinked. “With who? Filch’s cat?”

But she only swept past him, her heart fluttering with determination. To her, this was no joke. This was it—the moment everything might finally change.

And so she arrived at Professor Morales’s office early, breathless with anticipation.

As she stepped inside, she noticed immediately that something had changed. The familiar haze of cigarettes and cologne still clung to the air, but the chaos was gone. The office was orderly now, shelves lined with bright spines of books that looked recently placed.

“Tea?” he offered, gesturing toward a tray as she perched on one of the newly cleared chairs.

“Yes, please.”

“How do you like it?”

“Um… two sugars, no milk."

His brow creased. “No milk?”

She nodded, and he obliged, stirring sugar into her cup.

He began speaking, and she tried her hardest to focus. However, her eyes betrayed her—darting again and again to the jug of milk. The longer it sat there, the more unbearable it became.

Abruptly, she stood, leaned across, and slid the teapot in front of it like a curtain. Then she sat back down, sipping her tea as though nothing at all had happened.

Morales paused, his own cup halted halfway to his lips. For a moment, silence hovered. But he let it go, continuing instead with his steady tone.

“As I was saying—Professor Dumbledore informed me about your condition. But I’ll still need to do some examination myself.”

“Absolutely, sir,” she said brightly, forcing a grin.

She reached into her bag, suddenly bustling with energy.

“I have my Charms notes here,” she said, dropping a notebook onto his desk, “and my Transfiguration notes here, plus Snape’s exercises from last year—oh, and this book I found in the library on magical efficiency. And—”

“Vera,” he said gently.

“—and of course my wand is polished and ready—”

“That won’t be necessary,” he interrupted with a small, sympathetic smile. “Not yet.”

Her shoulders slumped. “But you said you were going to train me.”

“Not in the way you think.”

“I… don’t understand.”

“I know what Professor Snape taught you. I respect his methods, but I don’t think they suit you.”

She frowned. “What?”

“Your problem isn’t ability, Vera. It’s not power or technique.”

“Then what is it?” 

He set his cup down and leaned forward, his eyes kind but steady. “It’s that your body is rejecting magic.”

"I know… but why?”

“That,” he said with quiet reassurance, “is what we’re going to find out. Together.”

Her confusion lingered, and she gnawed lightly on her lip as the professor set a sheet of parchment, a box of crayons, and a pencil down between them.

“What’s this for, sir?”

“You said you wanted to be an artist.”

“Yes, but… what does drawing have to do with magic?”

“Nothing,” he said simply. “And everything.”

Her brow furrowed. “Erm…”

“Go on,” he urged, nudging the parchment toward her. “Draw.”

She picked up the pencil, still dubious. “But what should I draw?”

“Whatever you see fit.”

A ripple of disappointment ran through her. This wasn’t at all what she had prepared for—the notes, the books, the wand she’d polished until it gleamed. She had been ready to impress him with spells, not doodles.

Still, stubborn pride made her lower the tip of the pencil to the page. She hesitated, then began to sketch, her mind racing to make sense of the exercise.

Morales leaned back, studying her with quiet curiosity. After a moment he reached into a drawer, pulled out a thick book, and flipped it open. The soft scratch of turning pages mingled with the sound of her pencil whispering against parchment.

“Would you like to listen to some music?” he asked after a moment.

“Yes,” she said, then quickly wrinkled her nose. “But anything except the Beatles.”

That drew a laugh from him. “You’re in good company, then. I’ll never play the Beatles.”

He reached for a record and held it up. “How about this one?”

She gave a small nod.

With an easy flick of his wand, the vinyl floated across the room and settled onto the turntable. Another flick set the needle down with delicate precision. A faint crackle filled the air, followed by a low swell of melody that seemed to unfurl itself into every corner of the room.

Vera felt her pencil glide a little more freely as the music wove itself around her, soft and steady, like an enchantment made not of spells but of sound.

♪ Slow down you crazy child 
You're so ambitious for a juvenile
But then if you're so smart tell me
Why are you still so afraid? ♪

“Do you always wear gloves?” Morales asked suddenly, his gaze flicking to her hands.

“Um… yes,”

“Why?”

The question landed too directly, and her pulse quickened. Snape had never pressed her about her hands, and until now she believed only Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey knew of her… affliction.

For a moment she said nothing. Then, slowly, she peeled the gloves away, revealing the darkened shade that stained her fingers.

“I see,” Morales murmured.

“Madam Pomfrey said it’s just a side effect of the blood poisoning,” she offered quickly. “When my body fought the magic, it only made it stronger. That’s why my hands turned dark.”

“Do they hurt?”

“No, sir.”

He stroked his beard, still watching her hands. “And this began… after the incident in the pantry back home?”

She froze, caught off guard. What exactly did he know?

“Yes, sir,” she replied at last.

“I see...”

To her surprise, he made no move toward her, no request to examine her hands further. He simply let the moment linger. Taking the cue, she slid the gloves back on, tugging them snugly over the darkness.

“Do your friends ever ask why you always wear them?” he asked.

“They used to. Not anymore.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“That I have a condition that makes my hands cold all the time.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Clever.”

She returned a small smile of her own, then bent back over her drawing.

“And what about your sisters at home?” he asked.

Sisters? Did he know she lived in an orphanage? Perhaps Dumbledore had told him… but why would it matter?

“What do they think of your gloves?” he pressed gently, noting her pause.

“They don’t really ask about it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just… how things are at St. Mary’s.”

His brows knit. “Could you elaborate on that, please?”

“Well… it’s like an unspoken rule. We see things, but we keep quiet about them.”

The explanation seemed to hang in the air, not quite reaching him. 

“For example—” she tried again “—Cynthia hides food under her bed. Lydia’s always got cuts on her hands and legs. Grace used to eat her own hair. And Kaya—she… she can’t ride trains.”

“And you wear gloves...”

She nodded. "Yeah."

A long silence followed. Morales’s eyes stayed fixed on the desk, his fingers stroking his chin.

“And your matron?” he asked at last.

“She once asked me. I told her I’d spilled paint on my hands.”

“And she never asked again?”

“Um… no.”

His gaze didn’t lift from the desk. He seemed lost in thought, as though weighing something too heavy to speak aloud.

“Vera, when you perform magic,” he asked suddenly, “what do you think about?”

“Um, I’m not entirely sure, sir. I usually just focus on the incantation and follow the instructions.”

“So nothing else comes to mind?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Interesting...”

His gaze flicked, almost absently, to the untouched milk on the tea tray before returning to her. Vera bent over her parchment, doodling in silence until at last she set down the pencil.

“I’ve finished, sir.”

“Let me see,” he said with a smile that only grew wider when he looked at it. “Well now, you’ve made me look rather dashing.”

Heat rushed to her face, and she bit back the words you already are.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep it,” he said softly. “I’ve never had a drawing of myself before.”

“It’s all yours, sir.”

“Thank you. But you forgot one thing—sign it.”

“Sign it?” 

“So people know who created it.”

She hesitated, then scrawled neatly in the corner: Vera B.

With a flick of his wand, the parchment floated up and fixed itself to the wall behind his desk. Vera stared at it, pride swelling in her chest despite the quiet ache of disappointment—this wasn’t the kind of training she had imagined.

As she rose to leave, she cleared her throat. “Um, sir? Could we postpone tomorrow’s meeting? It’s my friend’s birthday, and we’re having a party.”

“Of course. In fact, I was about to say—our meetings won’t be daily. Only when I decide they’re needed.”

Her brow furrowed, questions bubbling up, but she swallowed them back. Wand work or not, she told herself she could trust his way. For now.

Saturday, October 6, 1990

Cedric’s birthday had finally dawned, and Vera commandeered the Hufflepuff common room like a pint-sized general plotting a coup.

“Malika, Patty—you’re on decorations,” she barked, handing them boxes filled with enchanting embellishments she had stolen from Filch’s office.

Malika beamed. “We’ll make this place sparkle!” 

“Tommy,” Vera continued, pointing like a commander, “your mission is to keep Cedric out until the big reveal.”

“Done and dusted,” Tommy saluted, looking way too pleased at the chance to harass Cedric for hours.

Vera turned to the real centerpiece: the cake. A magnificent dessert shimmering with golden flourishes that would make Helga Hufflepuff herself weep with pride.

While it baked in the oven, the house elves in the kitchens assisted her in crafting a regal crown made of golden cardboard and adorned with hand-drawn dragons, dogs, and—naturally—dragon-dogs.

By evening, the common room had shed its everyday coziness for full-blown magical extravagance. Floating candles hovered lazily, enchanted golden streamers coiled and uncoiled like metallic snakes overhead.

“How do I look?” Maddie fussed, tugging nervously at her hair.

“Like yourself,” Vera reassured. “It’s Cedric’s birthday, not your wedding.”

“Vera, this cake is class!” Alicia gasped, circling the masterpiece reverently.

Fred leaned in. “Sure, but is it edible?”

“Or are we about to die?” George added.

“Shut it, you two,” Vera shot back, swatting them both away. 

“The house-elves at your palace must have it easy, Vera,” Sarah teased. “Bet they hardly lift a finger with you around.”

Vera smirked, leaning into the joke. “Oh, absolutely. At this rate, they should be paying me their wages.”

“Only if they had any,” Alicia chimed in.

Vera blinked. “What do you mean?”

Alicia gave her a baffled look. “Because… they don’t get paid? House-elves work for free. Duh.”

A ripple of laughter spread across the room, but Vera just sat frozen, her grin faltering.

What? No wages? That couldn’t be right. It sounded too absurd, too cruel—like someone had made it up for a laugh. Surely Alicia was joking.

Before she could press further, the door banged open and Kenny stumbled in, panting dramatically.

“He’s here!”

Instant chaos broke out as everyone scrambled into position. Maddie fussed with her hair by the entrance, while Malika tried to shush Fred and George, who were already giggling like maniacs.

The door swung wide, and in marched Tommy with Cedric in tow.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” 

Cedric froze, blinking in surprise as Vera darted forward. She plopped the golden cardboard crown onto his head, the dragons, dogs, and dragon-dogs wobbling precariously. The group launched into song with gusto.

“And here’s your cake!” Vera announced proudly, unveiling her masterpiece.

Cedric’s face lit up—then crumpled into laughter as he read the icing: Happy Birthday Snorty. The nickname was instantly justified when he snorted mid-laugh, which only sent the room into hysterics.

“Thank you, everyone,” he managed between chuckles. “You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

“It was all Vera,” Tommy piped up. “She’s got a future in party planning—I'll tell you that.”

Cedric turned to her, eyes warm. “Thanks, Piggy.”

She blushed, smiling shyly—until her gaze snagged on Maddie. Maddie wasn’t smiling. She was staring at Vera like she’d just stolen more than decorations from Filch’s office.

“Right then,” Fred declared, brandishing his wand as George struck a match. Together, they lit the cake.

“Don’t forget your wish!” Malika reminded brightly.

Cedric closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and blew. The flames sputtered out—then flared back to life.

The twins cackled, collapsing against each other.

“Really?” Angelina deadpanned. “That’s your prank? Relighting candles?”

"Make another wish." Roger said.

"You can't restart your wishes, silly." Vera argued.

Roger scoffed. "Of course you can."

“No, you can't,” she shot back. “Everyone knows you only get one.”

“Rubbish,” Roger retorted.

"LET’S move on to the gifts," Angelina swiftly interjected, restoring the festive atmosphere.

The gift-giving began with the usual Quidditch staples—polish kits, gloves, a book or two promising “Secrets of Seeker Stamina.” Cedric received each with a grin.

Then Sarah stepped forward, holding out her gift with a mysterious smile. Cedric opened it to find… a dead yellow butterfly.

He hesitated, then gave a shy smile. “It’s… delicate.”