Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Winter 1891 - Bulgaria - Vulchana Keep

“Aric!”

Merith’s cry ripped through the smoke-choked air, hoarse and raw from the acrid fumes coiling around her. The ceiling above groaned, timbers bowing beneath the fire’s relentless advance. All around her, the manor surrendered—walls blistered, wallpaper curling into blackened ribbons, flames licking higher with ravenous hunger.

Her fingers dug into the splintered floorboards, slick with ash. Beneath her arm, she clutched the tome—a crude, iron-bound artifact that radiated cold even through the heat. Even in the chaos, she could feel its magic—old, thrumming.

“Aqua Eructo!”

A ribbon of water burst from her palm—thin, desperate. It hissed against the flames but barely slowed them. Her magic was waning. Every spell felt like shouting through a dream. Her lungs ached. Her vision blurred.

“Ascendio,” she gasped, barely more than a whisper.

The spell took—barely. Just enough to lift her clear of the gaping hole where the floor had vanished. She scrambled upright, staggering against the heat and smoke, blood from a deep wound soaking through her waistcoat. Gritting her teeth, she pressed the tome to her chest and managed a trembling Reducio—the book shrank and slipped into her waistcoat.

She blinked against the haze, pulse thundering in her ears.

Where is he?

Apparition had failed before—repelled by something ancient, cursed. The kind of magic that clung to the bones of a place.

Then—a crack.

A charred beam split and crashed beside her, spraying sparks. She cried out, stumbling back, pain lancing through her abdomen.

And then—footsteps.

Not rushing. Not shouting. Measured. Deliberate.

Merith froze, pressing herself against a half-collapsed bookshelf. She whispered a Disillusionment Charm—barely strong enough to cloak her presence. Her breath caught in her throat. The firelight flickered, casting long shadows as the footsteps descended.

They didn’t belong to a rescuer.

The wall exploded inward in a hail of stone and soot. Dust rained down. Silhouettes moved through the smoke—blurred, unnatural, their movements too smooth, too confident. One of them spoke.

“Where is she?”

A deep voice, sharp with menace.

“She’s here,” came another. “I can feel her.”

Her heart pounded in her ears. She dared not breathe.

A figure moved closer—tall, lean, familiar in the worst way. He knelt beside the splintered floor. His finger dipped into a smear of blood. He held it up to the light.

“She was here,” he muttered.

The voice was unmistakable.

Aric.

She flinched at the sound—at the cold focus in his tone, the precision. There was no panic in his movements, no fear for her safety. Only calculation.

“She best not have fallen in with the book,” another muttered. Their form began to resolve in the smoke—broad-shouldered, cloaked in something heavy and scorched, wand drawn at their side.

Merith's thoughts raced. She couldn’t stay here. Her charm was flickering. The heat was rising. Her limbs screamed for rest, but she forced herself to move—carefully, quietly—slipping between fallen beams and shattered glass.

Then—

“Merith!”

She turned the corner and nearly collided with him.

Aric.

His face was streaked with ash, but the eyes were unmistakable. Familiar. And yet... not.

He raised his hands slowly. “I need the book.”

His voice cracked—urgency, yes, but something darker beneath it. A strain she didn’t recognize. She backed away, breath catching as she pressed against the cool glass of a stained window, the light behind it dimming in the smoke.

“Aric, what have you done?”

The words trembled between them.

“I’ll explain. I swear it. Just—just give it to me.”

He stepped closer. There was a crack in his composure now—desperation, frantic and fraying. “You don’t understand, Merith. I need it. You need to trust me.”

She shook her head slowly, her fingers inching toward the window frame. “You betrayed me.”

A shadow rose behind him. A man—hulking, expression unreadable beneath the cowl of a scorched coat. His voice, when it came, was cold and certain:

“Restrain her.”

Aric turned, startled—but not fast enough. He reached for his wand.

That was all the time she needed.

Merith spun, braced herself, and hurled her body through the stained glass.

Shards exploded outward in a spray of color and firelight. Wind and cold slapped her face as she plummeted into open air—pain lancing through her side—but she clutched the shrunken tome tight to her chest.

She extended her hand mid-fall, fingers trembling.

The sensation struck like a blow—a hook behind her navel, yanking her through space with a sickening jolt. The world blurred, smeared into streaks of wind and shadow.

Just before the earth could meet her, she vanished.

The shattered window above gaped open, bleeding smoke into the sky.

The last thing she felt was the echo of Aric’s voice—distant, pleading—and then, mercifully, nothing.

Chapter Text

It had been several days since Merith last opened her eyes. When consciousness finally returned, a wave of terror swept over her, mingled with the disorienting sensation of falling through shadow. Two strong hands, unmistakably male and firm, grasped her wrists with unwavering strength, and a startled scream escaped her lips. Her vision swam and blurred, then gradually sharpened, yet instinct compelled her to thrash, desperate to break free from the unfamiliar hold.

Where was she? What had transpired? Confusion clouded her thoughts, until a voice, deep and unmistakably familiar, shattered the fog.

“Merith, it is I—your father. You have returned to us.”

The voice, steady and resolute, anchored her trembling soul. Slowly, she lowered her hands, which still quivered at her sides. His large, weathered palms cradled her face, guiding her eyes to meet his own.

“What has befallen you, child?” he asked gravely, concern etched in every line of his face.

But as relief began to settle, darkness crept at the edges of her vision, a veil threatening to swallow her whole once more.

When Merith next awoke, a full day had passed. A dull ringing pulsed insistently in her ears, accompanied by faint, indistinct voices murmuring somewhere in the room. She stirred slowly, gingerly sitting up. Her eyes settled on Mŭnichka—the family’s devoted house-elf—who moved with practiced quietude. The elf’s silvery hair was pulled tightly back, revealing knobby, weathered fingers as she levitated a duster, delicately polishing the crystal pendants of the grand chandelier hanging regally from the parlour ceiling.

Merith found herself resting in the parlour, a bed carefully arranged to ease her discomfort.

Reaching out, she whispered a charm to fill a glass with cool, refreshing water.

“Mistress Merith!” Mŭnichka’s bright voice sounded before the elf vanished, only to return moments later with her father, Dimitar Vulchanova.

Dimitar was an imposing figure—broad and tall, cloaked in his customary headmaster’s robes, the heavy fabric trimmed with bear fur at the collar. His silver-streaked hair framed a face marked by years of leadership, and his deep-set eyes, both stern and gentle, regarded Merith with profound concern.

Merith took a measured sip of water as he approached.

“How do you fare, my dear?” he inquired, settling into a nearby settee with the deliberate grace of a man accustomed to command, his gaze unwavering and intent.

“I daresay, I have experienced more felicitous moments,” she replied with a faint, wry smile, the edges of her lips twitching. “I feel as though I’ve been struck by a dozen Bludgers.”

Dimitar’s lips twitched, betraying a hint of suppressed amusement. “Quite so. Pray, did you tumble from a window?”

“Jumped,” she corrected, a flicker of defiance in her tone.

At that moment, Mŭnichka reentered with a tray laden with pudding, jellied eels, and Merith’s favorite—Banitsa. She reached eagerly for the pastry, but the tray was quickly pulled away.

“What has transpired, and where is Aric?” Dimitar’s voice grew firmer, urgency creeping in as he tightened his grip on Merith’s hand. She met his concern with measured calm, placing her free hand gently over his before withdrawing it slowly.

“I cannot say for certain,” she admitted, fingers threading through her tousled hair as fragmented memories struggled to surface. A whisper echoed within her mind—a mischievous, chilling voice: Liar. He betrayed you. She shook her head sharply, pushing the thought aside.

“I was at Vulchana Keep, as you know. The place was thick with hexes and jinxes; I expected our efforts to fail as many had before us. Yet, somehow, we gained entry with surprising ease—almost too easily. Inside, the keep seemed alive, the corridors shifting as if they were trying to confuse us. Eventually, we came upon a sealed chamber, protected against outside magic. From beyond its walls, a Bombarda charm was cast to breach the barrier…” Her voice faltered under the weight of the memory.

“I saw Aric there, following the blast. I’m unsure of all the details, but it seems he has forged new alliances.” She hesitated, swallowing hard. “I escaped through a window—the house was warded against apparition.”

A heavy silence fell. The only sound was the faint rustling of Mŭnichka resuming her dusting in a distant corner, her silvery hair catching the lamplight.

Merith’s eyes flicked toward the house-elf with slight irritation. “Could you make us some tea?” she asked.

Mŭnichka bowed with a slight nod and vanished with a delicate snap of her knobby fingers.

Dimitar studied his daughter carefully. “Did you find what we were seeking?” he asked at last, his voice quiet, though his eyes searched her face with intensity, as if bracing for disappointment.

“Yes,” Merith replied softly, the single word laden with exhaustion and significance.

A long breath escaped Dimitar’s lips—one he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His shoulders eased, the rigid line of his posture giving way to a subtle sag of relief. He sank further into the settee, the fur at his collar shifting as he settled back. For a moment, the stern headmaster gave way to a father overcome with quiet gratitude.

“Good,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

Confined to bed rest for the remainder of the day, Merith’s restless spirit soon gnawed at her resolve. One thought burned fiercely in her mind: what precisely Aric intended to do with that tome. 

Determined, she resolved to decipher its mysteries—no matter the cost.

The next morning, Merith awoke to the soft glow of sunlight filtering through the parlour curtains, casting warm, shifting patterns across the floor. Her sleep had not been restful—her dreams had turned cruel and relentless.

In one, she and Aric crept through the corridors of Durmstrang, hidden behind the thick folds of a faded woolen tapestry depicting Count Vlad Drakul, a dragon curled protectively at his feet. It had been a familiar memory from their youth, one of their many reckless escapades to avoid the gaze—and retaliatory jinxes—of patrolling senior students.

She remembered the feeling of Aric’s breath warm against her ear as he whispered for silence, the press of his body close behind hers beneath the dusty tapestry. His fingers had gently traced her jaw, and then, tenderly, he kissed the corner of her mouth.

But the memory curdled.

His lips darkened, his mouth filling with blood, teeth gleaming red. She tried to scream but choked instead on a metallic flood. As she stumbled from beneath the tapestry, the once-regal dragon had vanished. In its place: a towering mound of corpses at Drakul’s feet.

The Count himself grinned down from the tapestry with a mouth full of dagger-like teeth. Both he and Aric reached toward her in unison—beckoning.

She awoke with a gasp, drenched in sweat.

Fumbling for the water glass on her bedside table, she knocked it over. The glass shattered, and water spilled across the floor. In the haze of dream remnants, she was sure it had been blood.

But no—it was only water.

Breathing hard, she whispered, “Reparo,” and the glass reassembled with a soft shimmer. She refilled it, then sipped slowly, letting the tremors in her hands pass.

After a long pause, she summoned Mŭnichka.

“Where is my father?” she asked quietly.

“Master Vulchanova has returned to Durmstrang,” the elf replied promptly. “He will be back for dinner. Shall Mŭnichka bring Mistress something to eat?”

Merith waved the offer away. “Wine. The 1782,” she added, lifting a hand again before Mŭnichka could disappear. “The bottle, Mŭnichka.”

The elf tutted disapprovingly before vanishing with a delicate snap.

Alone once more, Merith peeled the bandage from her side. The wound was fully closed—healed clean, save for a small star-shaped scar that puckered faintly against her skin. She exhaled and reached for the waistcoat she'd arrived in, which Mŭnichka laid beside her upon returning.

The fabric was stiff with soot and darkened by dried blood. Her fingers delved into the inner pocket, retrieving what she sought—a tiny book no larger than a fingernail. Gently, she placed it on the bed, cupping her hands flat over it, and cast a quiet enlargement charm.

The tome swelled to its original size.

Bound in dark, aged leather, it was thick and weighty, though free of any title or inscription. A single bronze emblem adorned the cover—a torchlight, stylized and raised. She traced it with her thumb, puzzled. Though simple in design, the symbol pulsed with quiet power. It was not one she recognized from any standard magical lexicon. Yet something about it felt... ancient. 

She attempted to open the book.

The clasp resisted. She whispered a gentle unlocking charm—Alohomora—then a second, more forceful—Recludo. Still, the book did not yield. She traced protective runes over the seam with her wand, but even those had no effect. It was sealed—not by strength, but by will. The tome defied its very purpose. It did not want to be read.

“Have you encountered this before?” she asked, offering the book toward Mŭnichka, who leaned in with wide, curious eyes.

“No, Mistress,” the elf breathed, awestruck.

A flicker of resolve lit in Merith’s chest. She swung her bare legs over the edge of the bed and rose.

“Mistress!” Mŭnichka squeaked, wringing her long fingers as Merith, still in her emerald silk nightgown, swept through the double doors. The hem whispered over the floor as she moved, graceful and determined.

She walked the familiar corridor toward the family library.

It was no ordinary room. The Vulchanova Library was a sanctum—carved out generations ago by wand and will, meant not only to shelter knowledge but to honor it. Each head of the family had contributed to its shelves: spells, treatises, private journals, and rare volumes gathered from across continents and centuries. Its vaulted ceiling loomed high above, shelves climbing toward the dark, dust-laced rafters. The scent of ink, beeswax, and ancient parchment permeated the air like incense.

Merith paused in the doorway, allowing its presence to settle around her like a shadow. She was more than just a guest here—this was her birthright. As a direct descendant of Nerida Vulchanova, Durmstrang’s founding headmistress, her ties to this room ran as deep as its roots, entwined with its very history.

Walking among the stacks, her fingers brushed across the spines of tomes both beloved and forgotten. “Torches, brazier, beacon…” she murmured, half to herself. She plucked a brittle volume from a shelf—Torch of Agapov, the gilt title flaking in her fingers. Its pages shimmered faintly with enchanted ink. Eternal Brazier, read another heading. But nothing stirred that inner certainty. Nothing aligned.

She took a seat at the long, carved table before the hearth. The great stone mantle loomed above her, carved with the Vulchanova crest and flanked by a sweeping relief—an ancient seascape brought to life in stone.

Wizards stood upon the decks of weathered ships, their cloaks caught in conjured winds as they battled a serpentine creature rising from storm-lashed waves. One mage held aloft a flaming torch, casting a ring of light over the others, while runes spiraled skyward like smoke. The detail was extraordinary—so fine it seemed the waves themselves shifted when the fire flickered.

As a child, she had stared at it for hours, convinced the scene moved when she wasn’t watching.

She was so absorbed she didn’t notice her father until he cleared his throat.

“Merith.”

She looked up. Dimitar stood in the doorway, tall and cloaked, a shadow of concern crossing his features.

“You should still be abed,” he said, drawing nearer. “Your body is not yet ready for strain.”

“I’m well enough,” she replied, gesturing to the sprawl of parchment and tomes around her. “There is work to be done.”

He placed his large hands upon her shoulders, the weight grounding her. “So I see.”

He scanned the scattered documents before his eyes rested on the strange bronze-marked book she had placed nearby. His expression shifted as he took it—sober, alert. His fingertips hovered above the emblem, then rested there.

“No title. No index. Any leads?” he asked, carefully turning the volume in his hands.

“None that reveal anything of substance,” she said, stretching her arms. “It’s unnatural. A book that resists being opened—it contradicts its very purpose.”

Dimitar examined it further, turning it in his hands. “Medieval craftsmanship. Fifteenth century, I’d wager. Note the blind tooling and the use of an engraved metal centerpiece—a rare method, used to impress such a design in one pass. But the condition… immaculate. That alone suggests enchantment.”

He paused, letting his palm hover above the emblem. His eyes closed.

“The magic,” he murmured, “is not just ancient. It is forgotten. Dormant and buried magic.”

He handed the tome back with a solemn look.

“This will not open with spells alone. You’ll need to find its key.”

“Is there anything else you know?” she asked.

He did not answer immediately. Instead, he gestured for her to follow.

At the hearth, he raised his hand and spoke with quiet command: “Detegere.”

The carved relief above the fireplace stirred. The runes shimmered. The images of wizards and beasts began to shift. The battle unfolded—the same scene she had studied as a child now alive in motion. Ships heaved atop painted waves, sea-mages cast towering whirlwinds, and a great serpent thrashed against the prow of a wooden galley. One figure held aloft a flame-lit torch, its likeness strikingly akin to the emblem embossed upon the tome’s leather cover.

The wall rumbled low and slowly split apart.

A gust of cold air extinguished the fire.

The stone parted, revealing a narrow stair leading downward into darkness.

Merith’s breath caught.

She glanced at her father but said nothing, choosing instead to follow him.

They descended into a cloistered chamber. It was narrow and high, with shelves built into the stone itself. Dust hung in the air like mist. Every surface was cluttered—stacked with faded scrolls, spell diagrams, worn relics, and delicate pages sealed behind stasis charms.

Dimitar stepped aside.

“These records predate Durmstrang. Some were brought from the Carpathians during the school’s founding—others… older still. I have not entered this place since I was a boy,” he said, voice lower now, reverent.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

He gave a small nod. “Do not share this with your brother,” he added, more stern than jesting. “He lacks the discipline for preservation. He would auction the walls if left to his own devices.”

And with that, he left her to her work.

The air in the vault was dry and unmoving. Time here seemed to slow. Many of the books were too fragile to open without spellwork to preserve the ink. Some covers had half-dissolved into their bindings, the titles illegible. She worked carefully, casting light handling charms, using gentle levitation to turn each page. These were family records—charms long out of use, accounts of duels fought over honor, handwritten theories on primordial magical forces. It was not merely a vault of knowledge. It was memory. Legacy.

As the evening wore on, dinner was sent directly to the chamber, a quiet courtesy her father knew she would appreciate. She didn’t even glance at it.

That first night offered little in the way of answers. But one discovery drew her in—a portrait, hidden behind a brittle stack of war documents.

It showed a tall woman in black velvet, her gown heavy with embroidery, sleeves long and draped. Her wild dark hair swirled as if caught in eternal wind. She held a sleek black staff, the tip glinting silver. An owl the color of a moonless sky perched on her forearm, its amber eyes aglow.

Beneath the frame, carved in delicate script: Nerida and Ivar.

Merith stared, breath caught in her throat.

Nerida Vulchanova—her ancestor. The first Headmistress of Durmstrang. Fierce. Visionary. Misunderstood. The details of her life were often veiled in myth, but her death was even more so. A mystery that no scholar or chronicler had ever fully unraveled.

Her successor, Harfang Munter, had built the school’s reputation upon martial rigor, bloodline pride, and the study of the darker magical disciplines. But Nerida had left behind something older. Something... different.

Merith studied the portrait silently.

Nerida’s eyes seemed to look straight through the years and into her.

Eventually, she returned the painting to its resting place and turned back to her search.

The tome would not wait forever. And neither would the answers.

On the third morning since awakening, Merith sat on the balcony overlooking the frost-laced gates of the Vulchanova estate. A thick silence hung over the winter-bleached grounds of the Bulgarian countryside, broken only by the distant caw of a raven perched on the wrought-iron fence.

Mŭnichka had insisted on breakfast—black tea, eggs, minced meat, and white cheese—rather than her usual solitary bottle of wine. Merith had agreed, on one condition: the tea was to be replaced with wine. The house-elf had relented, albeit with a high-pitched whimper of protest.

She reclined on a chaise longue, shoulders wrapped in an embroidered throw, one hand cradling her goblet, the other rifling through weathered parchment notes. The gown she wore—a warm brown velvet with gold-thread embroidery curling along the sleeves and bodice—shifted softly as she moved, catching the light when she raised her hand to her lips. A full skirt spilled over the edge of the chaise, brushing the chilled floor with a whisper of careful tailoring and tradition.

The wine had already begun to soften the edges of her restlessness when footsteps approached from behind.

An arm reached past her shoulder and casually punctured the yolk of her egg. She blinked, watching the golden spill ooze across the plate. Then she turned.

The man who flopped down in the chair opposite her had the same sharp cheekbones and deep-set eyes as their father. His dark hair was combed back and curled slightly at the ends, thick and gleaming. A fine mustache curled at the edges of his smirk, and his olive-toned skin was wind-bitten from travel.

“These eggs are cold,” he muttered, dipping a finger into the yolk and wiping it absently on the edge of the tablecloth. Then, noticing the bottle, he gave a lopsided grin. “Liquid breakfast?”

“Is there a reason you’re here before noon?” Merith asked, not bothering to mask her irritation.

He was tall and wiry, with a slight forward hunch that gave his movements a predatory ease. A defined nose with a subtle ridge, a wolfish mouth always on the cusp of mockery. His boots, still dusted with snow, were already up on the table—carelessly resting atop scrolls, loose notes, and irreplaceable vellum.

With a flick of her wandless magic, Merith sent them tumbling back to the floor with a thud.

“Is that any way to speak to your dearest brother?” Michaél grinned, clutching his chest in mock offense.

She didn’t dignify it with a reply.

His grin tightened into something sharper. “So,” he said, leaning back and tipping the chair on two legs. “Where’s Aric these days? Has he finally tired of you?”

She didn’t look up, only turned a page.

His canines caught the light as his grin spread wider.

“So,” she echoed, finally stacking the pages and meeting his gaze. “Are you here to borrow more money? Or just to poison my morning with your scent?”

“I’ll have you know I’m quite solvent,” he said cheerfully. “But I’d accept ten Galleons in exchange for a promise to vanish until Yule.”

“I’d pay twenty if you left before finishing that sentence.”

Michaél laughed—low and hollow—then stood and crossed to the balcony rail. He gripped the iron bar, peering out across the snow-swathed hedgerows and stone guardians that marked their family’s ancestral grounds. The winter sun had only just begun to pierce the pale sky, casting long blue shadows across the land.

“Don’t worry,” he said, sneering at the scene. “I won’t linger.”

“Excellent.”

He turned back toward her, his expression cooling. “How is it?” he asked softly, stepping close enough for his shadow to fall across her lap. He braced his arms on either side of the chaise, leaning in. “Being Father’s favorite?”

“How does it feel,” she said without flinching, “to be forgettable?”

The silence that followed stretched too long. Then he straightened, adjusted his waistcoat, and flashed a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Liberating,” he said, grabbing the half-empty bottle and disappearing inside.

Merith stared at the spot where he had stood.

Their rivalry had once been sharp and gleaming, forged in the fires of shared ambition. Now it was dulled by history, warped into something heavier and harder to name. It was not hatred—but it was not far from it.

She turned back to the parchment in her lap, though her eyes lingered on the gate. A snowflake landed on the edge of her goblet and melted instantly.

There had been a time she might have admired Michaél. A time when his approval had meant something. But that time was buried beneath layers of secrets, duels, and locked doors her father had opened for her—and only her.

The embroidery at her wrist caught slightly on the parchment as she adjusted her notes, the gold thread glinting against the muted brown velvet. Her collar—stiff and upright—itched faintly against her jaw, though she made no move to loosen it.

A crow screamed again in the distance.

She drank deeply, then returned to her work.

Chapter Text

It was the evening of her fifth day since returning from Vulchana Keep, and the estate lay cloaked in freshly fallen snow. The dark Gothic spires and iron terraces of the ancestral home stood stark against the white landscape, like ink bleeding into a page. As Merith gazed through the frosted window, she noted how the gargoyles perched along the roofs and balconies seemed less imposing than she remembered—softened now by the pristine dusting that blanketed them.

She hadn’t seen the estate this winter—not since she’d begun living out of a rented room in Dobrogled, preparing for her infiltration of Vulchana Keep. The snow here felt sharper, more personal, as though it had waited for her return.

But that beauty stirred no warmth within her.

After five days spent poring over texts and relics, she’d uncovered little beyond family trivia, a handful of obscure jinxes, and a growing migraine. The tome remained sealed, inert and inscrutable. Each unanswered question dragged at her mind.

She needed air.

Pulling on her cloak, Merith stepped out into the snow-drenched courtyard. Her boots sank with each step, leaving prints that whispered behind her. The wind sharpened against her cheeks, and a profound stillness pressed close—broken only by the rustling of ice-laden branches.

She passed the frozen pond—now inert beneath its glassy surface—and the slope where she and Aric had once tobogganed until their fingers went numb. Ahead loomed the old Box Elder, skeletal against the dimming sky.

She paused.

It was beneath that same tree that Aric had once pressed his lips to hers. Pinned her so firmly against the bark that breath, body—even soul—felt devoured. The rough trunk had scraped at her back, its scaly surface and deep clefts biting through fabric and skin alike. It carved something deep—and she welcomed the ache.

That memory lived in her skin like a ghost. And like all ghosts, it needed exorcising.

“I see,” she murmured, fingertips grazing the bark.

Then, the word: “Confringo.”

The spell leapt from her lips in a soft hiss. Leaves blackened, curling into ash that spiraled upward before the wind carried them away. The branches glowed faintly, then darkened again, skeletal and spent.

She stood there, watching until the ash melted into the snow at the tree’s base, merging with the newly fallen snow. All that remained was the quiet.

Then—a presence.

Turning, she saw him. Her father stood on the high balcony, framed by the growing dusk and pale light. He remained motionless, observing. And then, without a word, he retreated inside. The large iron and glass-paned doors closed with a soft click that rang unexpectedly loud in her ears.

She lingered in the cold until it seeped through her boots and numbed her thoughts, then returned indoors.

Now, curled up by the fire, she half-read, half-dozed. The book in her lap blurred with the hundreds she’d poured over that week. She couldn’t even recall its title—only the weight of it in her hands and the warmth of the flames flickering against her face.

It was late when her father returned. The soft drag of his boots across polished floorboards stirred her from her stupor. He looked wearied, as if his long journey had carved lines deeper into his face.

Mŭnichka followed behind, pushing a gilded tea cart laden with delicate china, the porcelain clinking softly with each step. Steam curled from the spout of the teapot, unfurling into the room like a silken ribbon, warming the air with its gentle breath.

“I thought you might welcome company,” he said, his voice measured, settling beside her with the practiced calm of years spent leading.

He poured their tea wandlessly—an old habit wrought from his mastery, not necessity.

“Thank you,” she replied, resting her head gently against his shoulder.

“Has Michaél departed?”

“This morning,” he said, raising his cup to his lips. “Durmstrang alumni meeting, I imagine.”

She exhaled softly—less irritation, more habitual restraint. She wouldn’t taint this quiet moment. She kept her contempt well-caged when her father was present. He believed too strongly in the appearance of unity.

Unity is strength, he always said. Fractures in the family are fractures in the name.

She had done her best to live by those words—even when it felt like her brother’s sole ambition was to undo her.

The fire crackled.

Her father reached for a thick ledger from the table, sifting through parchment. As he turned a page, a yellowed envelope slipped from between the sheets and fluttered to the carpet. Merith bent to retrieve it.

The parchment was brittle, the wax seal cracked with age. She opened it carefully.

Dearest Nerida,

I find myself in pressing circumstances. They refuse to heed my counsel, even as I stand on the brink of something remarkable. Rackham has turned his colleagues against me, branding my work dangerous. You—only you—possess the wisdom to nurture unknown magic without fearing it.

I implore you to meet me in Hogsmeade in a fortnight. I have much to share.

Yours in urgency,
Isidora Morganach

She paused mid-folding. here, beneath the signature, was a small etching—a torch.

She tapped the mark and slid the letter across to her father.

His brows drew together as he read. He lingered on “Rackham”—the name pulling a frown to his lips before he continued.

“Does this mean anything to you?” she asked, her voice quiet, curious.

He exhaled and rubbed his forehead. “This likely references Professor Percival Rackham,” he said, rising to retrieve a leather-bound tome from a high shelf. “Allow me a moment.”

He returned with the volume and settled beside her once more.

“This journal is an enchanted registry maintained by the heads of the Triwizard schools. It records faculty, notable events, and occasional communications between institutions. Its intent was cooperation... though that ideal has often proved fragile.”

As he turned the pages, he paused.

Hogwarts Faculty, 1472

Niamh Fitzgerald – Headmistress

Charles Rookwood – Transfiguration

San Bakar – Magical Beasts

Percival Rackham – Divination

Isidora Morganach – Defence Against the Dark Arts

She leaned forward. “They were teaching at Hogwarts?”

Her father nodded. “Long before Durmstrang forged formal ties.”

“Is there more on them in our records?” she asked, eyes scanning the dusty shelves.

“None I could locate,” he said, closing the journal with quiet finality. “That year's files are fragmentary—Durmstrang was still establishing itself.”

Her heart sank. “Does our archive offer anything?”

He shook his head slowly. “Not for what you seek.”

Silence pressed in.

Then, in a spark of resolve, she leaned in.

“What if I went to Hogwarts myself?”

Her father raised a gloved hand. “Hogwarts does not welcome outsiders to comb through its mysteries—especially not those from rival institutions.”

She met his gaze. “Then what is your suggestion?”

He paused, then replied, “There is a possibility—but you may not like it. Nigellus Black is in our debt. I secured him a coveted seat in our Quidditch box.”

She arched her brow. “Yes?”

“I could request he appoint you as a visiting instructor—temporary, of course.”

“You propose I teach?” she asked, incredulous.

“It’s the best way to gain access without drawing suspicion,” he said simply.

She stared at him, the weight of the suggestion settling in. Teaching. Her?

She had no shortage of credentials—a Triwizard Champion, top of her class, the first woman to be admitted to Durmstrang in centuries. If anything, the position would seem beneath her. But it was also unassailable. Even the most cynical of skeptics would have little ground to question it.

Still, she hesitated. She was no teacher. Her patience was limited, her tolerance for incompetence even more so.

“You should know...” he continued, tone growing grave, “Hogwarts faces challenges. The Goblin Rebellion caused chaos. Ranrock is dead, others have disappeared. Some doubt official explanations.”

“You suspect a cover-up?”

“I am certain of it,” he said.

She gazed into the fire. Teaching Hogwarts—it made her pulse race with fear and excitement.

Finally, she spoke. “Very well. I will do it."

Her father’s lips curved in a faint smile—rare, and edged with pride.

“Leave it to me,” he said, before disappearing into the dim corridor, boots silent against the polished floor.

She did not rise. The fire had burned low, its glow dancing in the silver of her rings, the cold tea untouched beside her.

A professor. At Hogwarts.

It was laughable—until it wasn’t.

Once, she had hunted knowledge from the outside, knocking at locked doors with careful hands.

Now, she would walk the corridors as if she belonged—

and let the doors open themselves.

Chapter Text

That evening, her father dispatched an owl to Phineas Nigellus Black. The message bore more command than courtesy.

"How fares that coveted Quidditch box, Black? Difficult to dispute that it’s the finest seat in the stadium.”

Merith felt a flush of embarrassment at her father’s unabashed exertion of influence on her behalf. Was she not approaching her thirtieth year? What might her future colleagues think, learning of her reliance on such connections?

The following morning, an owl arrived in reply, carrying the headmaster’s response—a mixture of nervous rambling and gracious platitudes. Dinah Hecat, the current Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, would retire after the winter term. Merith was expected to arrive promptly to begin her transition into the role.

“A fitting title for you—Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts,” her father remarked, handing her the letter with an approving nod. “Absorb all you can from Hecat. Stay over Christmas—immerse yourself in the castle, acquaint yourself with your colleagues. I shall join you in Hogsmeade at the Three Broomsticks,” he added, with characteristic bluntness.

Merith sat silently, the weight of change pressing down. A flicker of apprehension tightened her chest as her father patted her shoulder. “Take the flying carriage—leave it at the grounds’ stables,” he suggested with gentle persuasion, seeking to ease her worries.

A faint smile touched her lips as she inclined her head slightly in gratitude. “Thank you, Father.” He nodded with measured approval, his voice low but earnest. “See that you do the family honour,” he said, before releasing her.

With only two days to prepare for her journey on Saturday evening, Merith’s first priority was to visit her preferred hatter, dressmaker, and jeweler to replenish her wardrobe for the esteemed post ahead.

Though her existing wardrobe was ample, her father’s insistence on new attire was an offer she found difficult to decline.

She also planned to visit other establishments, including the curiosities shop Passed and Present, famed for its arcane and rare objects, as well as her most anticipated destination—Hemlock Grove, the venerable apothecary run by Toma Talanov. Merith seldom admitted it, but her skill in potions was merely adequate, much to the quiet amusement of Michaél, the most accomplished potioneer of his year.

As she packed, the soft murmur of incantations drifted from her chambers — a medley of shrinking and extension charms as she expertly stowed countless volumes into her suitcase. Before departing the estate, she gathered her gnarled wooden broom, carefully loading it into the carriage.

She approached the Thestrals with genuine affection, running her fingers along their sleek ebony coats. These creatures embodied a rare elegance and grace; Merith had been raised to revere them deeply. In their quiet, knowing eyes, she felt a profound connection, as if they recognized her very soul — an unspoken bond forged by her ability to see what others could not.

Leaning against the estate’s wall, her brother feigned disinterest beside their father. “Sending me off?” she teased with a sardonic grin.

He scoffed, turning away, unusually neutral. She studied him, wondering what her father had said to prompt such tame behavior.

A sudden wave of anxiety gripped her as her father helped her into the carriage. This estate had been her sanctuary since birth, and now she was leaving—uncertain when she might return. The bittersweet weight of departure settled heavily upon her heart, mingling with the anticipation of the unknown.

The journey would stretch through much of the day, the weather’s whim dictating her pace. Though her father had offered a carriage driver, Merith preferred to take the reins herself. The trip proved pleasant, interrupted only by brief showers she deftly shielded herself from with protective charms. She was grateful the skies spared her from a harsher storm.

At some point, she had removed her flying goggles and tucked them into the satchel beside her. Her scarf now draped loosely around her neck, sheer and soft, its ends fluttering gently in the breeze spilling through the partially open carriage window. She adjusted one of her gloves—dark red leather against the beige fabric of her coat. The fine black piping along her lapels and cuffs caught the low evening light like ink on parchment. Beneath the coat, her high-collared blouse remained pristine despite the long hours of travel, its stiff white edge just visible above the scarf.

As dusk painted the horizon, the distinctive spires of Hogwarts Castle emerged, silhouetted against the fading light. She caught glimpses of students darting across the Quidditch pitch and wandering the grounds before she gently brought her carriage to a halt at the grand gates.

The hooves of the Thestrals echoed softly against the cobblestones as the carriage came to a stop. A few students glanced over with mild curiosity at the heirloom carriage, carved from dark ash and adorned with intricate designs—an unmistakable mark of her family’s heritage.

Frowning at the lack of attendants, she hopped down and removed her flying gloves. Catching sight of a nearby student in blue Quidditch robes who’d just landed on the lawn, she beckoned him over with a firm wave.

He hurried toward her, dark curls bouncing, glasses sliding down his freckled nose.

“What’s your name?” she asked, tone laced with authority.

“Everett Clopton, ma’am,” he replied, voice nasal and uncertain, glancing nervously at the cluster of peers behind him, whispering with amused expressions.

“Mr. Clopton, would you be so kind as to escort me to the carriage house?” she inquired, flashing a gracious smile as she produced a gleaming galleon and waved it before his bespectacled nose.

“Yes, ma’am!” he stammered, visibly flustered, snatching the coin as if it were a prize. She followed him toward the stables.

The stables were quiet save for the rustling of straw and the occasional snort from the magical creatures within. As they approached, Merith spotted a man slouched in a rickety chair, its back legs teetering at a precarious angle. His mouth hung open, head tilted back, snoring softly.

“Is he dead?” Merith muttered dryly, eyeing the disheveled figure. His waistcoat was askew, hair unkempt, and the unmistakable scent of firewhisky—mingled with something more sour—hung around him like a cloud.

Without hesitation, she delivered a firm kick to one leg of the chair, toppling him forward with a grunt and a curse. He scrambled upright, blinking rapidly as confusion gave way to recognition.

“Er—um—good evening,” he said, wobbling into a semblance of a bow, though his hair remained defiantly unruly.

“Are you the stable master?” Merith asked, her tone clipped.

The man hesitated. “No. Well—yes. Sort of…” His voice trailed off, as if unsure of his own position.

Clopton, still hovering nearby, piped up with a shaky voice, “That’s Gladwin Moon, ma’am—the caretaker.”

Merith gave the boy a look that sent him backpedaling. “My carriage is outside. The Thestrals require care. Can you manage that?” she asked.

Moon nodded fervently, clearly eager to make himself useful now that he had, belatedly, sobered.

“You may go, Mr. Clopton,” she said with a curt nod.

The boy didn’t hesitate. “Yes, ma’am!” he called out, retreating so fast he nearly tripped over a bucket.

Moon scurried ahead to tend to the Thestrals, mumbling apologies under his breath. Merith followed him briefly, watching as he fumbled with the harnesses, clearly more accustomed to lanterns and ledgers than the handling of magical beasts.

“I was meant to meet you at the front gate,” he blurted out suddenly, a flash of realization crossing his face as he straightened up. “The headmaster’s orders—I must’ve… dozed off.”

“Yes, I gathered,” Merith replied coolly, retrieving her wand to shrink her broom and slip it into her coat. She cast a final glance toward the creatures before turning back toward the path leading to the castle.

“I can escort you—show you to the main entrance, at least,” Moon offered, jogging to catch up, trying to recover some sense of professionalism.

"That won’t be necessary," she said, giving a dismissive wave with the gloves dangling from her hand. "I know the grounds well enough."

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and strode up the winding path alone. The layered hem of her skirt shifted with each step, catching the breeze as the black-belted coat cinched her movement into sharp, decisive lines. The air had taken on a brisk edge, and the sky was deepening from lavender to indigo. Students bundled in thick cloaks and pointed hats lingered across the lawn, their laughter echoing faintly against the ancient stone walls.

At the towering entrance, Merith slowed. Hogwarts rose before her in full, imposing majesty—its turrets and stained-glass windows aglow with golden torchlight. The sight sparked a flicker of nostalgia deep in her chest, but it was quickly smothered by fatigue and a growing sense of irritation. Each step toward the entrance dulled the romance of return, leaving only the sharp yearning for a scalding bath and a generous goblet of mulled wine.

The heavy wooden doors creaked open at her touch, and Merith stepped into the entrance hall, instantly enveloped by its familiar chill and cavernous stillness. Echoes of footsteps past seemed to cling to the high stone arches. Suits of enchanted armor stood sentinel along the walls, gleaming dully in the torchlight, their visors tracking her movement with silent precision.

Overhead, a ghost in monastic robes drifted by, hands clasped behind his back. He offered her a solemn nod before disappearing through the far archway. She returned it with a curt incline of her head, too weary to engage in pleasantries.

As she moved farther into the hall, her fingers trailed over the weathered surface of a scorched pillar—evidence, no doubt, of some misfired charm or overly ambitious student. A battered suit of armor nearby bore similar scars. She sighed. Some things, it seemed, never changed.

From behind her came the soft, quick steps of approaching heels, followed by a warm but clipped voice. “Good evening, Ms. Vulchanova.”

Merith turned to find a short, square-shouldered woman with ruddy hair and squared spectacles approaching with a slightly apologetic smile.

“I’m Professor Matilda Weasley. I trust your arrival wasn’t too much of an ordeal.”

“Not entirely,” Merith replied, brushing a fleck of debris from her sleeve. “Though I must say, the reception was... improvisational.”

Professor Weasley offered a sheepish smile. “Yes, well—Mr. Moon was meant to meet you at the gate. He’s a capable caretaker, in theory, though his habits leave something to be desired. I apologize on his behalf.”

Merith arched a brow. “He reeked of firewhisky and was unconscious in a chair.”

Weasley winced. “Yes... that would be one of the habits.”

Merith folded her arms, unimpressed.

“The headmaster only informed me of your arrival a few hours ago,” Weasley added quickly, her voice low and clipped. “Regardless, I’ve made arrangements. Professor Hecat will remain on until the Christmas break. Tomorrow morning, you’ll meet with her to begin the handover.”

Merith inclined her head in acknowledgment, though her thoughts were already drifting toward solitude. Her feet ached, her patience had thinned to a whisper, and she was beginning to suspect the castle’s internal temperature had somehow dropped further since her school days.

“I imagine you're weary from the journey,” said Professor Weasley. “If you're amenable, I can show you to where you'll be meeting Professor Hecat, and then to your quarters.”

“That would be appropriate,” Merith replied, her voice even, though fatigue edged each word.

“Very well—this way.”

They moved through the stone corridors, their footsteps echoing beneath high vaulted ceilings. The castle’s chill had settled in for the evening, seeping through the ancient stones, but Merith made no mention of it. They passed beneath archways carved with serpents and celestial symbols, lit by flickering sconces that threw long, wavering shadows along the walls.

Professor Weasley gestured toward a set of heavy doors that opened into the Central Hall. They stepped into the grand chamber, where the walls rose high and arched into a domed ceiling, stained-glass windows catching the last of the twilight. At its center stood a dramatic statue: a unicorn mid-rear, fending off a snarling werewolf. Around them, a ring of goblins brandished spears in frozen defiance.

Merith paused, giving the scene a dry once-over. “Subtle.”

Professor Weasley gave a quiet chuckle. “Hogwarts favors the theatrical.”

Near the far wall, a carved dragon exhaled thin trails of smoke from its nostrils, eyes half-lidded as if in judgment. Merith glanced up at the inscription overhead.

“Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus,” Weasley offered.

“It’s our school’s motto—‘never tickle a sleeping dragon’—a cautionary tale for well-meaning students.”

Merith’s gaze didn’t waver from the stone dragon. “Fitting.”

Then, almost to herself: “Dare á eldinn.”

Weasley glanced over. “Pardon?”

“It’s from my family crest,” Merith replied, stepping forward again. “We tend to prefer less... whimsical warnings.” 

Dare to dance with fire. 

The climb to the Defence Against the Dark Arts tower was steep and narrow, the stone steps worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. A gargoyle perched atop the archway grumbled as they passed, his voice gravelly and amused.

“A hundred and forty-two stairs, and this is your lot, eh?” the gargoyle sneered. “Could’ve been worse, at least.”

Merith raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Without raising her wand, she willed a subtle silence to settle over the creature’s incessant chatter, and the gargoyle fell mute.

At the top, a heavy wooden door awaited, adorned with clusters of glinting obsidian eyes—enchanted to observe the comings and goings of students and staff alike. She pushed the door open and stepped into a long, narrow classroom cluttered with strange artifacts: a vampire’s skeleton in a glass case, a crushing cabinet with dented wood, and a Hebridean Black Dragon skeleton suspended ominously from the ceiling.

The air hummed with a mixture of dust, magic, and history.

Professor Weasley gestured to a narrow spiral staircase at the far end. “Your office is just up here.”

They ascended and entered a circular chamber lined with overflowing bookshelves and a large, weathered desk. A stone fireplace, bearing the Hogwarts crest, dominated one wall.

“You’ll meet Professor Hecat here after breakfast,” Weasley said. “She’ll help orient you.”

Merith gave a curt nod, already taking in the room’s cluttered charm.

Merith’s gaze drifted to a narrow, shadowed stairwell tucked behind a heavy oak door. Curiosity tugged at her.

“What lies down there?” she asked, stepping closer.

Professor Weasley glanced over her shoulder. “A storage room of sorts. It once housed some of the larger beasts Defence Against the Dark Arts professors were permitted to study. That is, until an unfortunate incident centuries ago. It’s been unused in living memory.”

They descended a narrow spiral staircase, the cold stone walls damp and flecked with patches of ancient moss, shadows flickering as weak enchanted sconces struggled to push back the gloom. At the bottom, Weasley produced a small wand and muttered an unlocking charm. The heavy iron-studded door groaned open, revealing a cavernous chamber veiled in dust and neglect.

Inside, crates and forgotten relics were piled haphazardly, cloaked in cobwebs that shimmered faintly in the low light. An unused fireplace stood sentinel in one corner, its hearth cold and choked with years of debris.

Merith stepped inside, lifting her hands with practiced ease, hands at the ready. From her fingertips spilled a soft, pearly light that pulsed and danced like living threads of silver smoke. As she murmured silent incantations, shattered glass trembled and slowly mended itself, reassembling into flawless panes. Dust stirred, twirling upwards in delicate spirals before dissolving into the air like morning mist kissed by the sun. Grime and cobwebs recoiled and fled, chased by invisible currents of magic.

With a final, graceful motion, she wove a shimmering Aqua Ecrutio spell — a cascade of sparkling droplets erupted from her palms, swirling through the air like liquid crystal, washing over walls and floors. The water sparkled with iridescent hues, lighting the room anew before evaporating into a mist of shimmering motes, leaving the space immaculate and glowing softly.

Professor Weasley watched in astonishment. “Remarkable. I’ve never seen it look so—”

“Presentable,” Merith finished with a faint smile.

The professor chuckled softly. “Indeed.”

Merith set her suitcase down, her fingers nimble and sure as she began unpacking, weaving subtle enchantments that transformed the space into a personal sanctuary. The scattered relics shifted and sorted themselves into neat, orderly stacks, clearing a wide area that she filled with a large, sturdy bed—its frame carved from dark oak, headboard etched with intricate patterns reminiscent of the Vulchanova estate. Plush blankets and silken pillows appeared, layered just so, inviting and warm.

In one corner, a small writing desk materialized, polished smooth and warm to the touch, its surface illuminated softly by a floating candle. Books fluttered open and arranged themselves along invisible shelves that stretched upwards, their spines glowing faintly as if alive with quiet knowledge.

With deliberate care, Merith conjured an illusionary window on one wall—its glass shimmering like water, revealing a breathtaking vista of her family’s estate at dusk. Golden light spilled over rolling hills, birds alighted on ancient oaks, and a gentle breeze stirred the grass, carrying the faint scent of blooming lilacs.

Not content with mere comforts, Merith then set about crafting a washroom—an elegant copper tub filled with steaming water appeared, its surface rippling gently as if stirred by an unseen hand. Shelves lined with neatly folded towels and jars of fragrant soaps and balms formed along another wall, the space imbued with soft light that lent it a quiet serenity.

Each detail echoed her home, every charm and conjuration a deliberate echo of the Vulchanova estate’s timeless grace, shaping this forgotten chamber into a true refuge amidst the ancient stone.

With a snap of her fingers, the dormant fireplace roared to life, flames casting dancing shadows and filling the room with a comforting, amber glow.

Professor Weasley’s smile deepened, genuine approval shining in her eyes. “This will do nicely.”

Merith allowed herself a rare moment of satisfaction. “It will suffice.”

Chapter Text

Merith awoke to an unsettling disquiet, the remnants of her dreams still clinging like smoke. The silver pocket watch on her dressing table ticked in steady defiance of the hour; dawn had not yet claimed the sky. With a sigh, she cast aside her covers, the silence of the chamber pressing in around her like a shroud.

The bathroom beyond was lavishly conjured, its brass fittings gleaming in the candlelight. Shadows played upon the stone walls, shifting as if the darkness itself observed her passage. She disrobed and slipped into the steaming copper tub. The heat drew a reluctant sigh from her lips, while the fragrant curl of rose and spice elixirs unfurled in the air — indulgence she had long denied herself during her journey, yet now found impossible to resist.

When she emerged, she dressed slowly, piece by piece. First the fitted bodice of deep velvet, its intricate draping gathered at the waist by a narrow belt. Then the puffed sleeves, which narrowed to the wrist, their fine seamwork speaking of both restraint and ornament. The skirt fell in a dark, simple line that whispered of silk when she moved, the hemline softened with a ripple of ruffles and discreet bows.

A detail here, a shimmer there — nothing ostentatious, yet deliberate. Her hair she drew back with practiced care; though smooth and dark as jet, it never stayed obedient, and the shorter strands slipped free, curving across her cheek and temple as though claiming their own right to frame her.

Thanks to Professor Weasley’s foresight, a castle map had been left for her. A neatly inked note in the margin read: “Subject to change, of course.” The qualification only provoked her curiosity further. She had already seen a staircase swing away beneath her feet and force her onto another landing altogether, and a portrait had refused her entry until she guessed the password — though she suspected he only relented when he grew bored of the game. She tucked the map into her satchel, resolving that she would learn the castle’s temper as much as its layout.

The path to the Great Hall carried her past echoing corridors and restless portraits. One elderly witch in oils tutted loudly at Merith’s pace, declaring it “unseemly for a lady,” while a group of children in another frame jeered at her accent. Merith inclined her head and pressed on, the faintest smirk curling at her mouth. Hogwarts, it seemed, tested one’s patience before breakfast.

At last, she pushed open the tall doors of the Hall.

Merith paused, surprised to find Gladwin Moon already at his post, the caretaker’s wiry frame hunched over a plate stacked high with eggs, toast, and steaming muffins. He moved with a distracted zeal, smearing butter across the toast as if racing against some invisible threat, and the sharp tang of spirits clung faintly to him. Merith wrinkled her nose in quiet exasperation, masking her disapproval behind a practiced calm.

She slid into a seat between Mr. Moon and a silver-haired woman who held the morning paper at a precise angle, eyes scanning its columns with swift, practiced focus. A faint crease lined the woman’s brow—not with confusion, but with a measured concentration, as if each article were a report awaiting her quiet judgment. Her hands trembled slightly as she sipped her tea, causing the edge of the Wizarding World News to quiver gently in her grip.

“Ah, there you are,” the woman said, lifting her gaze, voice steady though lightly tremulous.

“Good morning,” Merith replied, pouring herself a cup of coffee from the ornate-handled pot. She regarded the breakfast spread, her stomach still unsettled from the lingering shadows of her dreams.

From the corner of her eye, she caught Mr. Moon tilting a flask into his cup, the liquid sloshing dangerously. Merith raised an eyebrow, a faintly wry smile tugging at her lips, and tipped her fingers in a small, deliberate gesture toward her own cup — a silent suggestion rather than a question, carrying no trace of disapproval for his choice of morning tonic.

“I take it you are my new charge,” the woman said, casting a pointed glance at Mr. Moon, whose attention remained glued to his meal.

Merith stirred her coffee with a levitated spoon, the liquid in her cup darkened by more than beans and steam. She let the warmth spread through her fingers before replying, “I take it you are Professor Hecat. It is an honour to make your acquaintance.” Her tone was steady, yet measured — careful.

“An honour, you say?” Hecat’s gaze flicked to the flask for the briefest moment, her expression tightening. It was not curiosity that passed over her face, but a thinly veiled disapproval — not just of the drink, but perhaps of those who found comfort in it before noon.

“Not everyone walks away from a Hebridean Black,” Merith said, spreading butter across her muffin without looking up. “But you did.”

Hecat’s voice was light when she replied, almost amused. “Walked, yes. Though not without reminders.” Her gaze held firm. “Dragons like that… they don’t go quietly. Nor should they.”

Mr. Moon, undisturbed by nuance, chimed in through a mouthful of crumbs. “Best to kill the lot of them, I say!”

The comment hung awkwardly before dissolving into a dry, shared glance between the women. Merith didn’t answer, but her raised brow and faint smirk said enough.

After a pause, Hecat shifted her focus back to Merith. “Come. We’ve work to do, and I don’t enjoy repeating myself.”

Merith followed through the Hall, past long tables where students whispered and stole glances at the unfamiliar figure in her wake. When they stepped into the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, her gaze was immediately pulled upward.

It hung above like a storm waiting to break — all ribs and spine, stretched mid-lunge, suspended in a final moment of fury. The skull alone could have swallowed a full-grown stag. Its jaws hung open wide, teeth jagged and uneven like shattered glass. Wings curled close to its sides, more splintered architecture now than anatomy, but still suggesting the vast sky they’d once ruled.

It didn’t look dead. It looked interrupted.

“I had my doubts about putting it down,” Hecat said, almost too casually. She walked ahead without turning, her voice clipped but controlled. “But it was necessary. At least, that's what I was told.”

There was something oddly youthful in the stiffness of her movements — like someone used to striding with purpose, only now remembering to mind the ache in her knees.

“In my homeland,” Merith began, her tone low and thoughtful, “dragons are sacred. My father spoke often of Níðhöggr — the ‘Malice Striker’ — coiled beneath the roots of the World Tree. He devoured corpses, yes, but he also kept darker things at bay. A destroyer, but also a guardian.”

Hecat glanced back at her, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You see poetry in monsters?”

“I see complexity,” Merith replied, lifting her chin. “And intent. Destruction is not always malice.”

“Quite the bedtime story,” Hecat muttered, though her gaze had drifted back to the bones overhead. There was no smile, only a flicker of something unreadable behind her eyes.

Merith said nothing.

“If it unsettles you,” Hecat continued after a pause, gesturing vaguely upward, “I can have it taken down. Once I leave.”

She didn’t wait for a response.

They crossed to the back of the room and ascended a short flight of stone steps into Hecat’s office. The air was denser here — filled with the scent of parchment, polish, and something older, fainter, like dried sage or forgotten wards.

“Classes resume tomorrow,” Hecat said, lowering herself into a high-backed armchair with a carefully hidden wince. “Sixth-years first. First-years after lunch. Then third-years. You may observe for now, since this is your first time on the other side of the desk.”

The quiet settled between them, punctuated only by the faint creak of settling stone and distant murmurs from the hallways. Merith’s eyes drifted once more to the dragon skeleton, tracing the jagged curve of its ribs.

“I remember you,” Hecat said suddenly, her gaze sharpening and settling on Merith with deliberate clarity.

Merith’s brow lifted, a flicker of curiosity breaking through her calm. “Do you now?”

“You were a Triwizard Champion,” Hecat replied, voice low but steady. “The first woman from Durmstrang in three centuries to claim victory. That’s not an easy memory to forget.”

Merith inclined her head slightly, guarded but intrigued.

“I was tasked by the Ministry to ensure no foul play,” Hecat continued, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “You faced the final trial with remarkable precision—casting Protego Diabolica so flawlessly it sent opponents straight to St. Mungo’s. And yet, the task was done in minutes. You were quite a ferocious young witch then.”

A shadow of appraisal passed over Merith’s face. “I was fortunate the Ministry intervened at the crucial moment. Recklessness, perhaps, more than skill.” Her words were measured, each syllable weighed to reveal only what she wished.

Hecat’s gaze shifted briefly to the dragon overhead. “I misled you, Ms. Vulchanova. I did not desire its death, yet fear guided my hand. The follies of youth, or maybe the illusion that we’re in control.”

Merith studied her, noting the subtle slackening of tension around Hecat’s eyes—softening beneath the burden she carried.

“Control is always fleeting,” Hecat said quietly. “We think we hold the reins until suddenly, everything shifts beneath us.”

Merith said nothing, but her eyes darkened with something like recognition.

Without another word, Hecat handed her a stack of reading materials with a curt nod. “Explore the castle. Learn its rhythms.”

Merith accepted them, the weight of the gesture pressing on her. This was more than an assignment—it was a chance.

To watch. To learn.

And if necessary, to conceal the sharper edges of herself until she could navigate this place fully.

The days slipped past in a blur of lessons and quiet observation. Merith rose early, taking her first walks along the ever-shifting staircases, noting with mild irritation how one passageway to the Great Hall now required a whispered riddle to a portrait — a clever twist of Hogwarts’ habitual mischief. The map Professor Weasley had given her proved indispensable, though no less temperamental. One morning, she found herself scowling at a painting’s demand for an elaborate curtsey — the indignity still bristled, though she complied with stiff precision.

Breakfast in the Great Hall became a ritual of sorts. Professor Hecat’s presence lent the proceedings a quiet structure, though she occasionally punctuated it with dry witticisms. Merith watched the students more than she spoke. She was used to being studied — not studying in return.

It was during one such breakfast that curiosity outweighed her reserve.

“Professor,” she began carefully, stirring her Bulgarian tea — strong, aromatic, nearly black — “you handle the students with a kind of… measured ease. May I ask how long you’ve taught here?”

Hecat looked up, mildly surprised by the question, then gave a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Briefer than most expect. But Hogwarts stretches time in more ways than one. Sometimes, it’s the castle that teaches us.”

Merith inclined her head, considering the words. “I’m beginning to see that.”

A short silence settled between them — not uncomfortable, but deliberate. Something in Hecat’s answer resonated, though Merith couldn’t yet name it.

The shifting of benches and rustling of papers broke the quiet. The day was about to begin.

“I trust you’ll be staying through the break?” Hecat asked without looking up, spooning marmalade onto toast.

Merith nodded, sipping her tea. “Yes. My father plans to visit in Hogsmeade for Christmas, but he’ll return to Durmstrang after. Headmaster duties never sleep,” she added dryly, glancing toward the staff table.

Approaching with brisk authority was Headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black. Something about him struck Merith immediately—not just the confident tilt of his shoulders or the sharpness in his gaze, but the stark, angular lines of his face: high cheekbones, a pointed chin, and eyes that seemed to hold a hint of weary amusement. Her mind flickered to an old portrait her father once showed her, one of a stern, dark-haired man with the same piercing stare and narrow lips. The resemblance was unmistakable.

“Perhaps for some,” Hecat muttered under her breath.

“Morning, morning!” Black boomed as he reached them, voice edged with brittle cheer. He pulled out a chair with more flourish than necessary. “Ah, Ms. Vulchanova, our soon-to-be professor! Apologies for the delay—Ministry business, all tedious nonsense. How is your father? I remember his lectures on that—what was his name? Bartholomew Barebone. A meddlesome Muggle who almost tore our world apart by trying to expose us. Your father was right to warn against letting such… foolishness slip through. The Muggle world is a danger we’d be reckless to invite in.”

He rambled on, veering into a half-monologue about Quidditch reforms and reinstating House Cup duels. Around the table, few were moved — perfunctory nods from staff, polite half-smiles from students. The energy barely stirred.

Moments later, Professor Weasley arrived, shifting the atmosphere entirely. Heads turned, a few students nodded in greeting, and a Charms assistant offered to pour her tea. The warmth of her arrival was unforced, earned by example rather than title.

“How are you settling in, Ms. Vulchanova?” Weasley asked kindly, tone light but perceptive. Her green eyes missed nothing — not Merith’s expression, nor the tension in her shoulders.

Merith offered a practiced smile. “Quite well. Though Hogwarts is… unlike other places I’ve known.”

Weasley smiled back — gracious, but there was something else beneath it. Consideration, perhaps. Or caution.

“Do let me know if you need anything during the transition,” she said. “These halls take some getting used to. Especially if you’re more accustomed to—” she paused, implying Durmstrang without saying it “—quieter climates.”

“I’ll manage,” Merith replied smoothly, the chill in her tone subtle but deliberate.

Hecat, ever unreadable, took a long sip of tea and interjected casually, “If anything’s needed, I’ll see to it. Ms. Vulchanova’s adapting admirably. A quick study.”

Weasley glanced at Hecat, arching a brow. The two women exchanged a look — long enough to suggest an unspoken conversation, then let it drop.

“Well then,” Weasley said with an easy smile, “I’ll leave you in capable hands.”

She departed, trailing quiet deference in her wake.

Merith’s gaze lingered on her briefly. There was something about the headmistress that made her skin prickle — not dislike, but recognition. Weasley was formidable and not easily convinced.

“Come,” Hecat said, rising slowly. “Time to put your observational skills to work.”

The classroom was already half-filled with fourth years when Merith slipped in and took a quiet seat at the back. She sat tall, spine straight, watching as the students trickled in and settled.

Two girls in the second row whispered between furtive glances — one had looked back earlier, eyes wide, the other hadn’t dared turn at all. They whispered again during brief pauses in Hecat’s opening instructions. Merith recognized that look: children sizing up a stranger in authority, unsure whether to expect threat or opportunity.

Hecat had offered no introduction all week. Merith suspected it was deliberate — her presence was under silent probation, legitimacy withheld for now.

“Vampires,” Hecat announced sharply. “Not the kind you fear from stories — the kind that ask to be invited in. Always watch those who smile before they speak.”

She moved with purpose, wand tapping rhythmically against the lectern. When a student dared to speak out of turn, Hecat simply paused, fixed them with a calm, unwavering glance. The silence that followed was absolute.

Merith watched with quiet respect. It wasn’t fear holding the class — it was reverence. Hecat wielded stillness like a weapon. No shouting, no grand gestures. Just presence.

It was a style Merith could learn — mimic, even — without compromising herself. She needed to be believable if she was to remain here. If she was to survive the scrutiny.

Later that evening, the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom lay empty, the hearth’s low flames flickering shadows on the walls. Merith remained behind, papers floating beside her as she wandlessly marked them — efficient, practiced. She liked the quiet. Control felt possible in the quiet.

Hecat’s arrival was no surprise. The older witch moved with soft surety, her steps light but her presence unmistakable. A pale, lined hand brushed Merith’s shoulder briefly — an unspoken acknowledgment: You are seen.

“Why don’t you conduct one of the final classes tomorrow?” Hecat said without preamble, glancing at the board. “Ending with Werewolves should be manageable. Given your skill.”

Merith looked up, pausing mid-mark. The suggestion hung in the air — neither challenge nor request.

She nodded slowly. “Of course.”

Hecat turned to leave, but Merith’s voice stopped her. “Professor—earlier, you mentioned the folly of youth. Was that about the Hebridean Black? The 1878 poaching raid?”

Hecat’s shoulders stiffened. Then, after a breath, she eased down onto the edge of a nearby desk, more carefully than usual — as if memory bore weight.

“You are astute, Ms. Vulchanova. Surprising no one’s mentioned it.”

From her satchel, she drew out a photograph — faded but clear. Hecat, younger, hair in neat plaits, eyes sharp but softer. Beside her stood a tall, dark-haired boy with a calculating smile and the Head Boy badge gleaming on his robes.

Merith turned the photo over. 1863 — Head Girl: Dinah Hecat. Head Boy: Phineas Nigellus Black.

Her breath caught. “Only forty-four years ago…”

“How is that possible?” she asked before she could stop herself. “Time magic?”

Hecat sighed softly, almost inaudible. “Yes. I was an Unspeakable before all this. There are costs. This was one of mine.”

Her voice was calm, but frayed at the edges. She didn’t elaborate — the toll was etched in the wear of her hands, the hollowness behind her eyes.

“I was supposed to die once,” Hecat added, tone almost conversational. “Wrong side, wrong place, wrong time. But here I am. Still breathing. Teaching a new generation of young min.”

Merith studied her, unsure if it was warning or reassurance.

“I imagine,” Hecat continued, “you didn’t come to Hogwarts out of simple academic ambition.”

Merith hesitated, tracing a finger along a book spine. Her voice was low. “No. I needed… change. Defence was what I knew best. The Dark Arts—they’re familiar. Not comfortable, but known.”

“Known things make us feel powerful,” Hecat murmured. “Comfort breeds illusion. Control, even more so.”

Merith’s gaze sharpened.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall was quieter than usual, a muffled hum of voices beneath the clatter of cutlery and the occasional burst of enchanted winter snow tumbling from the bewitched ceiling. Candles hovered low, casting warm halos over half-eaten plates of porridge and toast.

Merith sat near the end of the High Table, stirring her tea more out of habit than need. The steam curled into the morning air, mingling with the scent of cinnamon and warm bread. She’d barely touched her food.

She glanced up as a flutter of wings disturbed the calm. Dozens of owls swept overhead, parchment and parcels dangling from talons. One peeled away from the rest—a mottled grey barn owl that dropped a rolled newspaper with startling precision in front of her cup.

It landed with a soft thud and a bit of displaced jam.

Merith blinked, wiped her fingers, and unrolled the parchment.

THE DAILY PROPHET
"Goblin Encampments Withdraw North—Rebuilding Begins Across Highlands"
By Constance Bramble, Senior Correspondent

In the wake of the violent uprising led by infamous goblin rebel leader Ranrok, new reports confirm that numerous goblin encampments in and around Hogsmeade and the Scottish Highlands have been abandoned entirely.

According to sources within the Department for Magical Law Enforcement, a number of these groups have either surrendered or entered negotiations with local magical authorities, expressing a desire to “return to neutral footing” with wizardkind.

A senior member of the International Confederation of Wizards, who spoke on condition of anonymity, suggested that several goblin factions have retreated into the far north—“perhaps permanently”—while others are believed to have crossed borders into continental Europe.

“It’s not a surrender in the traditional sense,” said one Auror stationed near Balmoral. “It’s more like a disappearance. No enemy, no war.”

In a heartening turn, towns such as Invergarry and Braemar—once caught in the crossfire—have begun reconstruction efforts, aided by volunteer enchanters and a coalition of goblin craftsmen. Whether these alliances hold is a matter of cautious optimism.

Merith’s thoughts drifted beyond the printed words, far north to the rugged hills and shadowed glens of her childhood.

The goblin retreat to the northern territories—her home lands—was no surprise. The clans had been entrenched in endless disputes over borders, mines, and magic-forged artifacts for generations. Unlike the tentative peace being brokered elsewhere, the north was a crucible where grudges were as sharp as the stone and iron they forged.

She remembered her father’s voice, stern and unwavering, as it echoed in her mind:
"Never entrust goblin craftsmanship to wizards, and never rely on their aid without extreme caution. Their loyalties lie with their own—always."

Her father had refused to request goblin-made tools or weapons, even when they were unmatched in quality. Instead, he insisted that wizard-made items be crafted and guarded within the walls of their own houses. The very idea of depending on goblin skill was seen as a vulnerability.

It was a hard truth: respect for goblin artisanship was begrudging, wrapped in suspicion and old wounds.

Merith felt the weight of that legacy, the invisible chains of inherited distrust. Yet, reading about the abandoned encampments and whispered negotiations, she wondered if the tides might be turning—even if slowly, and painfully.

Still, the north was not a place for easy alliances. The past was never far behind.

A short grunt came from her left.

“I’d be careful reading too much into that,” said Professor Hecat, lowering her own paper and reaching for the teapot. “Bramble’s sources are usually a flask of sherry and her own imagination.”

Merith folded the paper in half but didn’t look away from it. “Still. There’s some truth in it, isn’t there? I’ve heard whispers. Abandoned outposts north of Upper Flagley. Trade routes resuming through Glencoe.”

Hecat nodded slowly, her expression unreadable. “Yes. Some have laid down arms. Others have simply... vanished. No skirmishes, no raids. Just smoke and empty fires.”

She poured the tea with care, then added, “What troubles me is the quiet. It’s not peace—it’s absence. And absence leaves room for stories to fill the gaps. Especially in print.”

Merith glanced down at the article again. “You don’t think it’s over.”

“Do you?” Hecat asked, sharp as a splinter. Then, gentler: “No. I suppose you wouldn’t.”

Merith’s gaze drifted toward the windows. Snow flurried beyond the glass. “Ranrok is dead. His followers are scattered. But anger like that doesn’t die with a name. It just waits for a new one.”

Hecat gave a quiet hum of agreement.

“The Headmistress has been working closely with the Ministry,” she said after a pause. “Trying to build something with the ones who’ve chosen diplomacy. Education, trade. A few proposals for joint apprenticeships.” She chuckled dryly. “Would’ve been unthinkable ten years ago.”

“Still might be,” Merith murmured, folding the paper once more and setting it aside.

A long silence passed between them.

Then Hecat said, “What are you covering today?”

“Lycanthropy,” Merith replied, finishing the last of her tea. “I thought I’d begin with classification. Beast, being… or something else.”

Hecat raised an eyebrow. “Bold choice. Vampires are easier to romanticize. Werewolves, not so much.”

“I’m not looking for sympathy,” Merith said. “Just perspective.”

Hecat studied her for a moment, then gave a short nod. “Well. Make sure they’re awake first.”

The worn carpet in her soon-to-be office was faded and threadbare, its once-rich pattern softened by decades of pacing feet and quiet frustrations. Merith moved across it now, back and forth, her footsteps a soft rhythm against the hum of her thoughts. Morning light filtered through the tall windows in pale shafts, catching on the motes that danced in the air like drifting ash.

She had not slept well.

In mere minutes, students would pour into the classroom—some bleary-eyed with fatigue, others thrumming with anticipation for the winter holiday. And she, apparently, was meant to stand at the front and lead them.

She touched the back of the chair beside her, grounding herself.

Leadership. A strange word. A heavier one, when it was not worn as a title but borne as a weight.

Durmstrang had taught her control. Precision. Fear, when necessary. Not warmth. Not this… gentler atmosphere she’d found at Hogwarts. Here, questions were not traps. Curiosity was not punished. Even discipline, when meted out, came with a certain mercy—an expectation of growth, not just obedience.

She'd only seen house points docked once—a duel gone sour, a mouth sealed shut mid-argument. But even then, the reprimand had been tempered by reason.

Merith had said nothing at the time. But privately, she’d sided with the Slytherin girl who cast the Silencing Charm.

Taunts deserved consequences.

The heavy door creaked open, drawing her back to the present. A low murmur of voices rose behind it—students, shuffling in, cloaks brushing desks, parchment rustling. Professor Hecat entered at their head, spine straight, expression composed, but her eyes scanned the room like a general taking stock before battle.

“Good afternoon, students,” she said, voice crisp. “I know the break begins tomorrow, and many of you are already dreaming of sugar plums or snowball fights—so I’ll keep it brief. If today’s lesson goes well, you may find yourselves released... a little early.”

A hopeful hush swept the room, broken only by the sound of someone stifling a cheer.

Hecat lifted a hand. “If—and only if—you give your full attention to our lecturer.” She turned slightly. “Professor Vulchanova, who will be taking over the class after the winter break.”

Merith stepped forward slowly, hands folded at her waist, her notes forgotten on the desk behind her. The students’ faces were a mix of skepticism and polite curiosity. She felt their eyes on her like weather—some chill, some warm, some merely waiting.

“Good afternoon,” she said. “As you’ve just completed your series on vampires with Professor Hecat, I thought I’d offer a brief introduction to lycanthropy.”

That earned a flicker of interest.

“Can anyone tell me what I mean by that?”

A hand shot up in the front row—sharp, eager.

“You, there.”

“Werewolves,” the girl replied confidently.

Merith nodded. “Five points to Gryffindor.”

She stepped away from the lectern, glancing to Hecat, who offered a subtle nod of encouragement. Merith’s voice deepened slightly, slipping into something more measured.

“Werewolves are classified—by the Ministry—as beasts,” she said, pacing slowly along the edge of the classroom. “And yet... others argue they are beings, cursed rather than born, victims of circumstance rather than monsters.”

She stopped near the windows, where pale light touched her sleeve. “So which is it?” she asked, eyes sweeping the room. “Beast or being?”

Silence. Uneasy, thick.

“Or perhaps... neither?”

She let the question settle, then glanced at her notes. But the script there—neat, orderly, safe—felt inadequate.

Instead, she began a story.

“I’ve encountered lycanthropy twice,” she said quietly. “Once in its most violent form. Once... in its gentlest.”

The students stilled, leaning in.

“The first: a boy. Not much older than some of you. Bitten late. He ran, fearing he might hurt his family. He tried to restrain himself—ropes, iron bars, crude potions. But the moon... doesn’t care about intentions. He broke loose. Killed a family on the road that passed near the woods. Didn’t remember it. Couldn’t.”

She heard a student inhale, sharp and soft.

“He was caught. Imprisoned. Studied, branded, forgotten.”

She paused, letting the weight of it hang there.

“The second: a man. Older. Quiet. He found me in the snow, once—injured, wand broken. He could have left me. But he didn't. He carried me back to his home, tended my wounds, stayed at my side until I could walk again.”

She looked around the room. They were watching her now—not out of obligation, but genuine attention.

“He had been bitten when he was young. But his family did not cast him out. They studied. Learned. Brewed potions. Reinforced the cellar door. He lived. Loved. Had a son of his own.”

A pause.

“They were both werewolves. But only one became a killer.”

She turned to the chalkboard, lifted her hand, and the dusty chalk rose into the air.

Resources, it wrote, in looping, deliberate script.

“Access. Money. Education. Blood status. All the things that make it easier to survive. Or harder.”

Another word joined it.

Policy.

“Ministry regulations haven’t changed in decades. Most werewolves can’t find work. Can’t attend school. Can’t even buy a wand without scrutiny.”

The chalk hovered, waiting.

“And the last?”

A pause. Then, slowly, a hand in the back.

She gestured.

The boy stood halfway. “Kindness?” he offered, voice hesitant.

A few students snickered.

Merith’s gaze snapped to them. The room went still.

She turned back to the boy. “Your name?”

“Elias Pondsy.”

She nodded once. “Two points to Gryffindor.”

She flicked the chalk once more.

Compassion.

“Not kindness as a gesture. Compassion as a choice. A way of seeing.”

She stepped back, letting the three words linger.

“Resources. Policy. Compassion. These things—more than silver, more than the moon—shape the lives of those touched by lycanthropy. You will hear that they are dangerous. Unnatural. That may even be true, in some cases.”

She looked out at them, level and steady.

“But so are we all.”

The room remained quiet, but something in it had changed—like snow settling after a storm.

“For the remainder of the lesson, I’d like you to reflect. One to two pages. Don’t write what you think I want to hear. Don’t bother with flattery. Just… answer the question.”

A flick of her wand sent parchment drifting across the room like leaves.

“Werewolves: beasts, beings, or something else entirely?”

She stepped back toward the lectern. “This is not for marks. It will not be collected. It’s yours. Keep it. We’ll return to this after the holidays.”

She turned toward Hecat, whose eyes—usually flinty—now held something softer. Not pride, exactly. But approval, edged with something warmer. Recognition.

The bell sounded.

Chairs scraped. Cloaks were gathered. But before they left, more than a few students paused to nod or murmur a quiet farewell to their retiring professor, “Happy Christmas, Professor Vulchanova.”
There was a different weight to it this time—a subtle recognition that Hecat wasn’t coming back, and that she was, now, the one standing in her place.

She hadn’t expected that.

At last, Elias Pondsy approached, parchment clutched like a lifeline, quill ink smudged across his sleeve.

“Happy Christmas, Professor Hecat—all the best,” he said first, then turned to Merith. “Great lecture, Professor Vulchanova. I think... I think I’m going to read ahead. Just a bit.”

He flushed, and hurried out before she could reply.

Merith stared after him, momentarily lost.

Hecat chuckled, a dry, warm sound. “You have a following, I think.”

Merith blinked. “He was... surprisingly earnest.”

“Many of them are,” Hecat said. “If you let them be.”

She reached for her wand, gesturing toward the skeletal dragon suspended above the blackboard.

“I think we ought to find that beast a new home. Perhaps the Astronomy Tower?”

Merith raised a hand. “If you don’t mind, Professor… I think it should remain here.”

Hecat tilted her head, curious.

Merith looked up at the bones—hollow, elegant, watchful. A remnant of a danger long past, now simply present. A silent reminder.

“It fits,” she said simply.

Hecat studied her for a long moment. Then she nodded.

“As you like.”

Chapter Text

A curious blend of satisfaction and unease lingered in Merith’s chest as she exited the classroom, her footsteps echoing against the polished stone corridors. The day had gone smoothly—better than expected—but the sense of performance hadn't faded. She didn’t yet feel like a professor; she felt like someone playing a convincing version of one. And for now, that had to be enough.

She wondered briefly if her father would have been proud. She imagined him seated stiffly in the back of the classroom, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He would have said little, if anything—but perhaps he would have nodded. That alone would’ve meant something.

Professor Hecat had been far more expressive. The pride in her mentor’s eyes after Merith’s lecture had been plain to see, though Merith suspected part of that satisfaction came from relief. The transition had been seamless—on the surface, at least. Merith had spent hours observing Hecat’s methods before her retirement, even mimicking her cadence and stance in subtle ways. It felt natural to her, and more importantly, manageable. Hecat had carved a path Merith could walk without faltering.

Still, a quiet question nagged at her: Could she maintain the illusion long enough to make it real?

Seeking a moment of solitude, Merith turned her steps toward the Thestral stables. The cold wind tugged at her cloak as she crossed the flying lawns, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the grass. The air buzzed with the excited chatter of students dragging trunks toward the exits, eager for the holidays to begin.

Laughter, cheers, and the thrum of broomsticks filled the sky. Merith’s gaze flicked upward to watch students touch down with varying degrees of grace. A wiry, animated instructor weaved among them, dark hair tied back with a leather cord. He flailed his arms dramatically as he tried to direct a particularly unruly descent, narrowly avoiding being flattened by an overzealous flyer. Students erupted in laughter as he leapt aside, exasperated but smiling.

A familiar pang of nostalgia twisted in her chest. The chaos reminded her of Durmstrang, though her departures had been far more rigid, her returns to the family estate marked by silence, formality, and the welcome presence of Aric. She missed the quiet of their shared corners—especially now.

“Professor Sharp assigned us several chapters and a pile of assignments!” one boy complained loudly as she passed, his friend patting him sympathetically on the back.

So much for a restful break, she thought, lips twitching faintly.

The stables loomed ahead, quiet and half-lit in the wintry haze. Mr. Moon was nowhere in sight, but her Thestrals stood peacefully inside, black hides shimmering in the dim light. She stepped closer to the largest of them, running a gloved hand along its leathery wing. The contact grounded her, a reminder of home—her real home, not the estate. These creatures were the last link to it.

The scent of straw and the warmth of the beasts settled her more than any party ever could. She stayed longer than she intended, silently communing with them, listening to their breath and the soft shifting of hooves on hay. A part of her longed to stay, but another knew the castle was expecting her return.

By the time Merith returned to the castle, the corridors had taken on a hollow stillness. Most students had already departed, bound for the Hogwarts Express or fireplaces that flared green with Floo powder. A few stragglers lingered, but the absence of youthful noise made the halls feel cavernous. The warmth of the holiday break, it seemed, was meant for everyone else.

The Christmas gathering loomed only hours away, and the thought of it tugged at her nerves like a loose thread. She had no interest in parties. Not now. But attending was expected. Professor Hecat would notice if she didn’t show. And her father’s voice lingered in her mind, crisp and cold as the estate's frost: “Connections are currency, Merith. You cannot afford to squander them.”

Back in her transfigured quarters, she washed away the scent of straw and stable dust, her dark hair cascading into the basin as warm water steamed the mirror. She dried it with a charm—one she'd first read about as a girl in Witch Weekly while dreaming of adult elegance. Once, she had used a similar spell on her brother, turning his hair pumpkin-orange for a full day. He hadn’t forgiven her for a week.

Her wardrobe remained in a state of disarray, her new gowns still en route from abroad. Left with few options, she sifted through her belongings: an emerald-green dress with a stern neckline, a black one draped in modest beading, and—

A glint of deep red caught her eye.

Buried behind a thick Bulgarian fox-fur coat was a forgotten treasure: a velvety crimson gown, its fabric plush and decadent, wrinkled from disuse. She hadn’t worn it in years. Her father had frowned upon it. 

She hesitated. Was it too much for a Hogwarts function?

Then again, what was too much for a room full of spell-slinging professors and eccentric witches?

She slipped into the dress.

The faculty tower sat tucked in the southern wing, a warm glow spilling from its high windows. As Merith climbed to the second floor, voices grew louder—merry, relaxed, unfamiliar.

Stepping through the open doorway, she paused just within the threshold.

The room was alive. Tables groaned beneath trays of delicate pastries, spiced roast game, and a magnificent tiered Christmas cake dusted with gold sugar and candied fruit. Floating candles twirled between garlands of holly, while glowing charms danced lazily along the ceiling in hues of snow and sapphire.

Some professors lounged in spoon-backed chairs, while others congregated in knots, drinks in hand. She spotted Mr. Moon at the center of a laughing group, drawing slips of parchment from a hat.

“I shall kiss a Demiguise… Wait—who wrote this?!” he read aloud, horrified.

Laughter erupted.

But as Merith crossed the room’s threshold, conversation dipped. Curious glances swept toward her, some lingering longer than others. Her dress had clearly outpaced the casual tone of the evening.

She didn’t flinch.

She lifted her chin and offered a poised smile, gliding through the crowd with quiet confidence, careful to mask the discomfort beneath her calm exterior. She had long since mastered the art of seeming at ease—even when her skin crawled.

From a nearby corner, a house elf appeared—small and sharp-featured, with large almond-shaped eyes gleaming beneath a mop of tangled hair. With impeccable grace, the creature carried a silver tray, and she reached out to take a slender flute of champagne, its pale gold bubbles sparkling like captured starlight.

Before she could settle, a man with a toothy grin approached. Dressed in a ridiculous plum-colored leisure suit and matching fez, he looked more magician than professor.

“Ms. Vulchanova! Marvelous of you to come. Abraham Ronen, at your service,” he declared with a playful bow. As he dipped, he lifted his purple fez with a practiced flourish, revealing wisps of silvery hair that caught the lamplight like fine threads of smoke.

“Dinah mentioned you were the first woman to win the Triwizard Tournament from Durmstrang! Any other brave young women admitted since?”

Before she could reply, a familiar voice interrupted, full of dry amusement.

“Oh, Abraham. Do give the girl a moment to breathe,” Professor Weasley said, slipping her a glass of chilled Perry. She chided him, however her tone remained playful. It was clear that the pair had known each other for some time.

Merith took it with a graceful nod. “Not to worry, Professor Weasley,” she said, smiling over the rim. “I rather enjoy the attention of handsome gentlemen.”

Professor Ronen erupted with laughter, nearly splashing Weasley’s drink across the floor. The older woman rolled her eyes but allowed a smile to tug at her lips. “Careful, Ronen, or she’ll outmatch your charm before the hour is through.”

It was a simple exchange, but it helped ease the weight in Merith’s chest.

The performance was going well enough.

The lights dimmed slightly as Professor Hecat made her way to the front, gripping the back of a rosewood chair for support. Everyone fell silent, accustomed to her commanding presence and fierce independence. She adjusted her robes, surveying the room with a steady gaze before beginning.

“Good evening, everyone. As many of you know, I have decided to retire. My health no longer allows me to stand before you as I once did. Though I would prefer to remain, sometimes we must recognize when it’s time to step aside.”

Her voice softened, but the room remained attentive.

“We’ve accomplished much here at Hogwarts. This is not merely a school; it is a stronghold against the darkness that threatens our world. Though Ranrok has been defeated, dangers still lurk. Each of you prepares our students to defend themselves and uphold what is right. Take pride in that.”

She paused, eyes briefly meeting Merith’s.

“I have full confidence in my successor. Merith embodies the discipline, resilience, and dedication required to carry on our mission. Support her as you have supported me. Change is never easy, but I believe she is more than capable of handling the task."

The room burst into warm applause, glasses raised, and a cascade of colorful charms floated from the ceiling, weaving a festive glow. The weight of the moment hung heavy, but celebration soon took over.

As the applause settled, a tall figure appeared in the doorway, framed by the flickering light of the decorations. His scar, running from above one eye nearly to his chin, caught Merith’s attention instantly.

“Take me home, kid,” Professor Hecat said with a dry chuckle, taking a swig from her glass.

The man smiled softly, his voice carrying warmth despite the scar’s severity. “You’re only my senior by a few years.”

“Well, trust me, I feel older,” she replied, the humor fading.

He nodded solemnly. “It’s unjust, truly.”

“Thanks, kid,” she said gently, patting his broad shoulder.

Together, they exited, leaving Merith with a swirl of emotions—and the lingering scent of Firewhisky.

“It’s just like Dinah to leave the party before it’s even begun,” a sing-song voice chimed beside Merith, pulling her from her thoughts.

She turned to see a petite woman, freckled and no older than a seventh-year student, with ginger hair braided into two long plaits. Atop her head perched an absurdly large green pointed hat, tied with a dusty pink ribbon in a grand bow.

“I was planning on leaving myself,” Merith sighed, nodding toward the door.

“No, no! That won’t do!” The woman linked her arm through Merith’s, pulling her deeper into the room. “Many have been eager to meet you, especially after Dinah’s kind words.” She gave Merith a pointed look, as if expecting an explanation.

Before Merith could respond, a tall young man burst into the conversation, his long black hair cascading freely, no longer tied back as before.

“Did you hear that, Mirabel? Full confidence? I have goosebumps,” he exclaimed, waving his arm under her nose.

Mirabel smiled approvingly. “I know—it’s uncanny.”

“Where are my manners? I’m Hyoto Kogawa, the flying instructor. I was the newest hire until you arrived.”

Merith smiled, taking a sip of her drink and looking up through dark lashes. “Ah, yes, you look quite polished out of your Quidditch robes.”

Color flushed Hyoto’s cheeks at her bold compliment.

Mirabel quickly introduced herself as the Herbology professor and launched into an animated account of how she came to the position—thanks to the previous professor’s unfortunate eye-gouging incident involving a Bowtruckle.

“I adore your gown, Merith,” Mirabel gushed, eyes sparkling. “How I wish I could wear red! Sadly, it makes me look like I’ve been transfigured into a ripe tomato.”

Hyoto burst into laughter, teasing her by tugging the point of her hat like a tomato stem. She swatted at him, but he was considerably taller.

“You all must have been busy preparing lessons before the holidays,” Merith said, gently steering the conversation.

“Quite!” Mirabel beamed. “I had to make sure the remaining mandrakes were properly potted, and the chomping cabbages fed…”

Merith nodded along as Mirabel rambled on, though her attention drifted to the other professors exchanging polite smiles and raised glasses in her direction. The warmth from Professor Hecat’s speech had clearly opened a door to camaraderie.

Hyoto finally interrupted Mirabel’s thoughts with a raised eyebrow. “I heard students in the hallways speaking positively about you today.”

Merith raised a brow in reply.

“Sympathy for the werewolf, was it?”

Fatigue suddenly washed over her, and the countless questions that evening began to feel overwhelming. She placed a hand gently to her forehead, feigning dizziness.

Hyoto’s concern softened his handsome features, reminiscent of a Veela’s allure. “Are you alright?”

“My apologies,” Merith said smoothly, “exhaustion seems to have caught up with me. I think it’s best I retire for the evening.” She untangled her arm from Hyoto’s, offering an apologetic smile.

“Shall I escort you?” Hyoto asked, extending his arm.

“Of course not,” she replied warmly. “You both should enjoy the evening. I’m sure I’ll see you before the holidays.”

She flashed a convincing smile, eyes sparkling with mirth, before turning toward the exit. With a deft flick of her wrist, she snatched a bottle of Firewhisky from a nearby table and slipped through the doorway like a ghost, vanishing into the evenings shadows.

Once alone, she straightened her gown and ambled down the dim corridor. Pulling the cork from the bottle in one fluid motion, she took a hearty swig of the warm spirit.

Rather than returning to her quarters, she headed toward the Bell Tower Wing. Stepping through the double doors onto the flying lawn, she took in the glow of Hogsmeade’s lights twinkling in the distance, mingled with faint music and laughter spilling from The Three Broomsticks.

Turning onto a secluded path leading to a small hidden garden overlooking the valley, Merith spotted a magnificent enchanted dragon shrubbery, its leafy form poised as if watching the horizon. She leaned against the cool stone bench, feeling the chill of her gown against the winter air without a cloak.

Pulling out her smooth bone wand—a family heirloom passed down through generations—she cast a warming charm, securing her wand within her ornate silver-jeweled hairpiece. Though skilled with traditional spellcasting, she increasingly favored wandless magic for its elegance and simplicity.

Sipping the Firewhisky, melancholic thoughts surfaced. She had intended to spend the holidays at her family estate—with Aric—but where was he now? Did he know where she was? The warmth from the spirit spread through her, though the ache of absence remained.

Suddenly, the crack of apparition sounded down the path toward Hogsmeade. Sitting up straight, she squinted into the darkness to discern the approaching figure. Rising, she trudged toward the railing, wand in hand. With a sharp “Lumos,” a burst of light surprised the newcomer.

He stumbled back, shielding his eyes. “Might I suggest, madam, that blinding strangers upon their arrival is hardly the most courteous of welcomes?”

Merith inclined her head slightly, lowering her wand. “I apologize if I startled you. It is not often one encounters a visitor at such an hour.”

He offered a dry smile, rubbing his eyes. “Nor do I often encounter professors with a distinct aroma of Firewhisky about them. Might I inquire if you have indulged rather liberally this evening?”

She returned the glance coolly, a subtle smirk touching her lips. “I assure you, sir, any warmth I carry is well-earned. I am no stranger to the comforts of a well-poured dram.”

He raised an eyebrow. “A most dangerous combination: a wand and a merry spirit. I trust you remain in control of both.”

“Control is a matter of perspective,” she replied smoothly. “Might I ask if you have any advice for navigating such… spirited evenings?”

He chuckled softly, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “Perhaps only this: moderation is the better teacher. And caution the wiser friend.”

A beat passed between them, the frosty night air hanging heavy with unspoken words. Then, with an almost reluctant motion, he extended his arm.

“Permit me the honor of escorting you back to the castle, Professor Vulchanova.”

Feigning surprise, she gave a slight laugh. “An offer most gentlemanly. I should be grateful, indeed.”

With a deft flick, she tossed the empty Firewhisky bottle aloft. It transformed into a flurry of dark moths, fluttering upward and vanishing into the starry night.

Merith looped her arm through his as they strolled back toward the castle. The night air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and distant smoke from Hogsmeade’s chimneys. Lanterns dotted the winding path, casting soft pools of golden light on the frost-kissed ground.

He moved with a deliberate, measured gait—steady but marked by a subtle limp that didn’t quite diminish his confident bearing. His shoulders were broad, and though his face was shadowed in the lamplight, she caught the sharp lines of high cheekbones and a firm jaw, framed by wisps of dark hair peeking beneath his collar.

After a moment, he broke the silence. “You carry yourself well, Professor Vulchanova. There’s a confidence there… though I sense a carefulness beneath.”

She offered a small, almost mischievous smile. “In this place, discretion is as valuable as wit. Sometimes it’s best to keep one’s true thoughts guarded.”

He chuckled softly, a dry, knowing sound. “Indeed. Hogwarts demands both trust and silence, in equal measure.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “So it seems."

His eyes glanced ahead, steady and unreadable. “Some lessons here are learned far from the classrooms, in the shadows.”

Curiosity got the better of her. “And what lesson has this castle taught you, if I may ask?”

He paused briefly, then replied with quiet wit, “That even the brightest halls can hide the darkest corners.”

Their footsteps crunched softly on the frosty path. As they neared the castle, his limp slowed his pace, but his grip on her arm remained firm yet gentle.

“Do you often find the night more agreeable than the day?” Merith ventured, breaking the silence.

He offered a faint, half-amused remark. “More than I probably ought to admit. There’s a peculiar comfort in the quiet hours.”

At last, they reached the heavy oak doors. He released her arm with a courteous nod.

“Good evening, Professor Vulchanova,” he said. “May your time here be everything you hope for.”

She returned the nod with a thoughtful smile. “And may your evenings be less solitary.”

With that, he stepped inside, leaving Merith alone in the cool night air. She watched the doors close behind him, the soft echo lingering as a sudden thought struck her: in all their conversation, she never asked his name.

The shadow of the unknown man stayed with her, as silent and inscrutable as the night itself.

Chapter Text

The upcoming term proved more demanding than Merith had anticipated. Though the castle remained quiet—its silence broken only by the occasional clatter of Peeves’ mischief echoing through the halls—days blurred into nights of planning, spell-cataloguing, and syllabus revisions done by candlelight. Still, she made steady progress.

Professor Hecat had left her meticulous notes: annotated lesson plans, brief character sketches of sixth- and seventh-year students, and pointed advice on which topics to introduce gently—and which to leave for spring. Merith appreciated the detail, especially with her first class—a sixth-year Defense seminar—set for Monday morning.

Optional at this level, the course drew only the most determined students—or the most troublesome—from every house. The curriculum spanned advanced non-verbal casting and ventured into darker subjects: Dementors, Banshees, Inferi, and the Unforgivable Curses.

She had considered beginning with the Unforgivables. It was a subject she knew intimately—both in theory and in practice. But Hecat, with her measured pragmatism, had advised restraint. Ease them into shadow, her notes read, or they’ll flinch at the light.

At Durmstrang, Merith had studied the Unforgivables by her fourth year. By sixth, she was deep in Dark Arts, Demonology, Dueling Theory, and Classical Transfiguration—each taught with rigorous, unflinching precision. Here, things moved differently. Softer, perhaps. More cautious.

Still, her duties extended beyond the classroom. This term, she would also lead Apparition training for sixth- and seventh-years, held on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. The thought stirred something warm within her.

She had learned to Apparate at twelve. She remembered the moment with startling clarity—the uneven creak of floorboards in her family’s library, the scent of salt air curling through the windows, the hush of hearth smoke and turning pages. Then, the dizzying pull of magic—sharp and clean—and when she opened her eyes, she was ankle-deep in the flowerbed beyond the estate, crushed violets blooming beneath her boots.

Her father had marked the occasion with a gift: his annotated copy of Ancient Thieves’ Text—a slim, leather-bound volume held together by little more than habit and reverence. Unassuming on the shelf, but within lay arcane techniques for enhancing reflex, precision, and flight. She kept it close.

A small smile ghosted her lips.

Then came the knock.

Turning, she found Professor Weasley framed in the doorway—composed as ever, her polite smile shaded with something unreadable.

“Forgive the intrusion,” she said lightly, folding her hands. “I wished to bid you farewell before I depart.”

Merith rose, brushing invisible dust from her wool skirt. “Not at all. I hope your holiday proves restful, Professor.”

Matilda Weasley cut a distinctly proper figure in the glow of Merith’s fire—her traveling cloak was a smart grey-blue wool, trimmed with simple embroidery at the cuffs, sensible and unfashionable in equal measure. She was dressed like a woman who never intended to draw attention—but often did anyway, by virtue of presence alone.

“Thank you again for volunteering to stay during the break,” she said. “We have more students remaining at the castle this year than usual.”

“I gathered as much. A consequence of recent events?”

Here’s a version with a bit of that 1890s Hogwarts Legacy vibe—formal, a touch old-fashioned, with subtle undercurrents of tension and propriety:

Weasley’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “Indeed. But that is not the sole reason for my visit.” She paused, as if weighing each word with care. “I have a favour to request of you.”

Merith blinked, masking her surprise. Trust from Weasley was a rare currency—respect, certainly, but something more elusive. Beneath her cordial exterior, a keen appraisal was ever at work. This favour was peculiar.

“I am listening.”

“I would ask you to keep watch over one of the brighter pupils—William Wexley.”

Merith’s brow arched.

“It is not his safety I question,” Weasley said, her gloved hand resting lightly upon the window ledge, gaze drifting towards the snow-dusted grounds beyond. “He possesses a penchant for peril and a marked inclination to skirt the confines of our rules.”

“I had understood him to be a model student,” Merith said, voice calm but probing.

“Oh, he is,” Weasley replied with a hint of dry humour. “Intelligent, composed, resolute. Yet, alas, utterly indifferent to regulations when they prove inconvenient.”

Merith’s eyes lingered on the mist gathering against the glass. “You anticipate trouble.”

“I do not merely anticipate it,” Weasley said quietly. “I am certain it approaches.”

There was no bitterness—only a weary fondness that caught Merith unawares. Weasley straightened, turning toward the door. “There is something I must show you before I depart. Follow me.”

They moved through dimly lit corridors, the castle unusually hushed. Portraits whispered greetings—some cordial, others watchful. Sir Cadogan charged at Merith with a challenge but was swiftly silenced by his grim neighbor, who professed migraines caused by excessive bravado.

Mr. Moon hurried past, arms laden with rattling baubles, stumbling at each turn.

Merith trailed behind Weasley, her eyes drinking in the scene with a reserved curiosity. She knew Hogwarts by reputation—eccentric, ancient, chaotic—but to witness its living heart was altogether different.

At last, they arrived at a quiet corridor on the seventh floor.

Nothing remarkable—at first glance. But Weasley paced once, twice, then turned; as if summoned by her will, a grand arched doorway unfurled upon the blank wall.

“The Room of Requirement,” she intoned softly. “It reveals itself solely when summoned by necessity, and shapes itself to the seeker's desire.”

Merith stepped inside.

The atmosphere shifted—cool and weighty, yet free of oppression. Above, vaulted arches soared like a cathedral’s, ribbed spires of dark wood and wrought iron casting deep shadows upon cold stone. The chamber was vast—far greater than the exterior suggested—crafted in unmistakable Gothic fashion.

Oddly familiar.

Pointed windows near the ceiling bore frost-work enchantments; ivy crept like serpents along the walls, verdant against the greyscale stone. There was no warmth here—no Gryffindor scarlets nor golden oak hues—but it held a quiet majesty.

It felt like home.

Weasley allowed her to explore. Merith’s fingers traced the edge of a desk, noting the meticulous arrangement of potion supplies—scales, vials, herbs dried and pressed like botanical maps. Nearby, potting stations and open vivarium doors revealed tiny ecosystems housing magical creatures in miniature biomes.

“A trifle more than your typical study chamber,” Weasley murmured.

Her gaze caught upon a corner where a towering corkboard held myriad clippings, notes, and sketches: maps, poacher insignias, depictions of magical beasts, reports of raids. Central among them, a photograph—masked figure in mid-motion, wand drawn.

An Auror’s tableau.

Or a vigilante’s.

Chapter Text

As Merith stepped through the grand archway into the Hogwarts library, a familiar wave of enchantment washed over her — subtle and unseen, like silk sliding over skin. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and ink, and as she gazed around, her heart gave a quiet lurch. Awe still lived here, even after everything. Even now.

Tall wooden shelves towered toward the vaulted ceiling, crammed with books of every size and color — their spines gleaming like old relics, whispering secrets in languages half-forgotten.

Golden light streamed through the high, arched windows, casting a drowsy warmth over intricate tables worn smooth by generations of restless hands and ink-stained pages. Time seemed suspended within these walls; every corner brimmed with breathless stillness, holding centuries of magic like lungs filled to bursting.

She ventured deeper into the labyrinth of shelves — fingers grazing the bindings as if they might speak. A faint fluttering emerged from above—illuminated by dappled sunlight, pages appeared nearly translucent — a butterfly's wings fluttering through the air.

But deeper in, the light began to fade. Here, the hearth murmured low in its grate, casting amber shadows against the bookcases. Flames flickered, unsteady, their dance reflecting her thoughts — wavering, inconstant.

Merith paused in an aisle shrouded in half-light, her hand still resting on the spine of a book titled The Nature of Shadows. The quiet pressed close. A breath. A stillness.

And suddenly—

A memory stirred.

Not summoned, not welcomed. It arrived the way old scents do — vivid, specific, uninvited.

It was the dark, always. The corners. The hush of near silence, broken only by breath.

Her mind betrayed her — or perhaps comforted her — as it slipped, unbidden, into the memory of Aric. The feel of her hands tangled in his fine golden hair — like raw silk and rain — her fingers curling tight, desperate to hold something fleeting.

Her hand curved instinctively against her waist, fingertips grazing the cool satin folds that gathered at the bodice, grounding her even as her mind unraveled into the warmth of his touch — the weight of silk mingling with the weight of memory, both impossible to let go.

She remembered the way they kissed in the archives — backs pressed to shelves, tongues tasting stolen time. Books toppling, laughter muffled against necks, the scent of ink and sweat and desire thick in the air. His mouth on hers — hungry, unpracticed, reverent. Her thigh hooked around his hip. His voice, rough against her ear: "No one comes back here."

And it was true — no one had.

Except her.

Here. Now.

She shook her head — sharply — like someone waking from a dream too vivid, too real. Her breath caught. For a moment, she hated the library for remembering with her.

Does he feel it too? she wondered. Somewhere?

As if her thoughts still reached him, curling through time and distance like ink in water. That old bond — frayed, maybe broken — still thrummed beneath her ribs, echoing in the quiet corners of old rooms.

How do you make new memories when the old ones haunt the walls? When every scent, every texture, carries a ghost? When does a place become just a place again — not a relic of what was?

Would it ever cease?

Would she ever walk through shadow and not feel him there?

Merith exhaled slowly, forcing the thought to dissolve, like mist off a mirror. The taste of him lingered, bitter-sweet and half-healed.

She pressed forward — deeper into the shelves.

A sigh escaped her lips as she shook her head again, quieter this time. “Why so elusive? Something must exist within these walls,” she murmured, brushing her fingers against the leather-bound volumes.

Titles like Arcane Secrets, The Nature of Shadows, and Chronicles of Lost Knowledge beckoned her, but none seemed to lead her to the elusive tome she sought — the one adorned with a bronze torch.

Just as her determination began to fade, a subtle shift in the room caught her attention. A figure was huddled over a massive tome in an antique chair tucked away by the fireplace, long legs stretched out beneath them.

Curiosity rose, pulling her toward him.

“Excuse me,” she said gently, mindful of the hush that ruled the space.

The man looked up — mirth flickering behind eyes too sharp for comfort.

“I hope you’re not after a book that answers the meaning of life — it’s quite dull, really,” he deadpanned, the ghost of a smile haunting his mouth.

Recognition fluttered like a curtain in a breeze. “Oh. It’s you.”

The memory of firewhisky lingered in her like smoke — warm, pleasantly muddled, and far more welcome than she cared to admit.

“Well, it appears you’re not an intruder after all.”

He folded the corner of the page and closed his book with a heavy thud.

“How reassuring to know I’m not some rogue bookshelf bandit,” he said, the dryness of his tone failing to mask his amusement.

Curiosity piqued, she took a step closer to glance at the cover. Words like curse and reversal leapt out at her.

“What are you researching?” she asked, interest softening her voice. “Curse-breaking?”

He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “It appears as so — but the intricacies are best studied in solitude.”

There was a certain precision to his aloofness — laced with a touch of playful derision — that, oddly enough, she found rather comforting.

“Why aren’t you out celebrating the holidays?” she asked, noting the empty halls and the quiet.

"Indeed—touché. Still, I might well pose the same question to you: what draws you to such a secluded corner?”

“I’ve only just arrived—it would feel rather foolish to turn back so soon.”

An admirable dedication to… what, precisely?” he asked—tone sharp, but not unkind.

She tilted her head, the faintest smile playing at her lips. “Well, I suppose I ought to leave you to your light reading then, Professor…?”

He chuckled. “Light reading indeed.” He hefted the book slightly. “Aesop Sharp. But I imagine I don’t need to introduce myself again, considering my brief, albeit memorable, role as an intruder.”

“Aesop Sharp,” she repeated. “Are you writing fables now? Collecting stories of those unfortunate enough to encounter ill-advised firewhisky?”

He smirked. “I’ll leave the storytelling to the likes of you. I’m merely here to unearth truths better left buried.”

Her pulse stirred — something between amusement and attraction, sharpened by the flickering firelight.

“Then I suppose I’ll leave you to your excavations, Professor Sharp,” she said with a subtle lilt. “And I’ll keep a watchful eye for any fables involving confused women, firewhisky, and taciturn professors hiding in libraries.”

Chapter Text

Merith returned to her new classroom just before dusk, the corridor swallowed in soft shadow — broken only by the low creak of shifting stone and the timid flicker of torchlight. The coming term loomed, promising a storm of lessons, dueling forms, and half-finished essays — but for now, she intended to steal what calm the fading light still offered.

Her trip to the library had yeilded little. Any tome worth its ink on the subject she chased wouldn’t be shelved in plain sight. Still, the act of searching had cleared her mind, if not her path. She tucked the few findings — scarce as they were — into her satchel and checked her watch.

Nearly supper.

Crossing the narrow stairwell that connected her office to the modest chambers she now called home, Merith paused at the enchanted glass of the window. Beyond, her family’s land stretched like a painted memory beneath the amber dusk. Her gaze caught on a distant shape — ghostly, blurred by enchantment and time—the old gates of the estate. The great iron “V” stood closed, as it always had.

She let the image dissolve with a blink, turning away.

With a flick of her wrist, she cast a familiar grooming charm — curling loose tendrils, lifting the faint weight of fatigue from under her eyes. A soft sheen bloomed across her hair, a subtle enchantment borrowed from a Witches Weekly spell she hadn’t entirely outgrown.

From the wardrobe, she drew a midnight-blue velvet gown. Its high collar and sharply gathered sleeves clung with a kind of disciplined grace, a silent homage to Durmstrang's austerity. Beneath the robes, the bodice was boned and structured—steel cut bead passementerie, cinched at the waist. The skirt flared gently, satin pleats catching the firelight like ripples in dark water.

Hogwarts—sentimental, rumpled Hogwarts—would not lower her standards tonight. Not without protest from the blood in her veins.

The enchanted ceiling above the Great Hall shimmered with the mirrored hush of evening. Stars blinked into view one by one, suspended in a sky of illusion. The last streaks of rose-gold light faded into blue, like breath exhaled from the heavens.

A familiar ache settled in her chest.

Summer nights with Aric drifted into her thoughts unbidden—leaning against one another under skies not unlike this, fingers intertwined, their laughter hushed by distance and moonlight. His hands had memorized her face then—brushing her brow, her lips, her collarbone. Her fingers drifted lightly to the edge of her bodice, the silk cool and structured beneath her touch. The pressure steadied her, a small anchor against the tide of memory.

She turned toward the dining table.

The Hall was already half-emptied—students no longer in uniform, but wrapped in travel coats and woolen scarves, the last few drifting through in loose clusters. Satchels hung from shoulders, trunks hovered obediently at their heels. Most had departed the day before, and what remained now was the soft echo of movement, the faint rustle of departure still settling into the corners.

Merith approached the faculty table with composed grace, her smile practiced but sincere. Behind it spun a thread of thought—lesson plans, names to learn, shelves to organize. She slid into her seat as easily as perfume settles in the air.

To her left, Gladwin Moon twirled his goblet absently, eyes distant. Astor Pugs muttered over his pheasant, his fork making slow, deliberate arcs—his tiny frame nearly swallowed by his chair, robes puddled like old parchment around him. Mirabel Garlick glanced up with a smile that glowed like hearthlight.

And beside her—an unfamiliar figure.

He rose slightly as Merith took her seat, offering his hand with a dandyish flourish that was both theatrical and oddly charming.

“Julian Spindle,” he announced, eyes twinkling. “Arithmancy, among other things.” He lifted her gloved hand in a soft, performative kiss. “A pleasure I’d surely remember, had we met before.”

“Likewise,” Merith replied, smile diplomatic as she retrieved her hand. The scent of bergamot and cardamom lingered faintly—a wizard who curated his presence.

A sharp scrape interrupted them—another arrival.

Aesop Sharp. Dressed in a three-piece suit beneath a weatherworn brown overcoat, the professor moved with a stiffness that time had not been kind to. His vest was askew, tie a touch loose—his overall appearance carried more function than finesse. He did not care for final details, only outcomes.

“Good evening,” Merith offered lightly. “Care to join us?”

His gaze caught hers briefly. “Not particularly,” he muttered, but he pulled out the chair anyway and sat with a slow, quiet grunt.

She caught the flicker of discomfort he tried not to show. Pain clung to him like a second coat—one long worn, never discarded.

“Perhaps next time, then?” she said, her tone soft with humor.

The corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile. “Perhaps,” he murmured, already reaching for the roasted vegetables, one hand still holding open a book on advanced counter-curses.

He didn’t look up again.

Merith respected that. Silence was its own language.

The table’s hum resumed—voices rising like warmth from a teacup. Mirabel’s steady kindness softened the room, while Julian’s flamboyant tales drew laughter and light.

“So, Julian,” Mirabel said, leaning in. “How are you finding the increased workload?”

Julian let out a theatrical sigh. “Utterly draining, darling. Between Arithmancy, Advanced Arithmancy, and Magical Theory—I scarcely have time to breathe. And don’t even get me started on the Slytherin-Gryffindor disputes. If I survive to spring with my hair intact, it will be a miracle.”

Merith smiled faintly, though her thoughts lingered elsewhere. House tensions. Bloodline legacies. The old battles never ended—only changed faces.

“There’s always been too much weight placed on lineage,” she said softly. “Often at the expense of talent.”

Julian raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Mirabel leaned in, voice lowered like a secret ready to escape. “Have you spoken much to Professor Sharp?”

“Not especially,” Merith replied, glancing down the table. Aesop had not looked up once—his fork moved in rhythm with his reading, eyes scanning the page with clinical focus.

“He does not often seek company,” Mirabel murmured. “He and Professor Hecat were close. And Fig, too… but after his passing, well—he has withdrawn somewhat.”

Her voice trailed off delicately.

Merith nodded once.

“I find him intimidating,” Mirabel admitted, almost guiltily.

Julian scoffed. “He’s an insufferable know-it-all. Arrogant to the bone.”

“Julian,” Mirabel chided gently, her fingers brushing his sleeve.

“It’s true,” he insisted. “He told me—me—that ‘incompetence often wears the mask of confidence.’ All because I substituted valerian for wormwood.”

Mirabel chuckled behind her teacup. “To be fair, he had a point.”

Julian gave an exaggerated look of betrayal.

Chapter Text

Merith awoke before dawn had fully unfurled its golden rays across the grounds of Hogwarts. The dim, silver-blue light filtering through her enchanted window lent the world a half-formed quality, as though the day itself had not yet made up its mind to begin.

Her breath caught—shallow, uneven, still ragged from the dream.

She sat up slowly, the sheets slipping from her shoulders like fallen snow, and pressed a hand to her chest. Her heartbeat fluttered, light and frantic, like a bird trapped behind glass. The sensation of falling clung to her—no real injury, no ground ever struck—yet her skin was cold, and her mouth, dry.

The dream had returned.

Again.

It began the same way: she stood in the crumbling remains of the Vulchana Keep, the ancestral stronghold long lost to time and disuse. Ivy strangled the stone walls, and the air stank of damp and ghosts. The floor beneath her creaked with deceptive gentleness—until it gave way in a brittle crack, splintering like glass beneath her boots. She plummeted, helpless, through a chasm of shadow, gravity dragging her through memory itself.

Then: the pond.

She landed not on stone, but on ice—thin, glossy, unforgiving. The surface of her family’s estate pond shimmered beneath a low winter sun, the sky above it brittle and bone-pale. She was a child again, her limbs awkward and cold, her scarf trailing like a flag behind her.

Beside her stood Aric, much younger, cheeks ruddy and laughing with careless warmth. And Michaél too—his voice teasing, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Honestly, Merith,” Michaél grinned, skating backward with arms crossed, “Remarkable, truly—that one might master Apparition, yet still struggle with the simple act of standing upright.”

The moment shimmered with warmth—childhood joy trapped in amber. The laughter, the skates carving lazy paths across the pond, the crunch of frost beneath their heels.

Then, as dreams are cruel to do, the warmth broke.

The laughter died.

The ice cracked.

It fractured beneath her like a curse—loud and final. She met Aric’s eyes just before she fell, saw his mirth twist into a helpless kind of horror.

And then: the plunge.

The frozen water devoured her in one brutal breath. Darkness closed over her like a locked door, her limbs sluggish against the weight. Her scream drowned before it reached her throat.

She woke in that silence.

Now sitting upright in her bed, Merith exhaled shakily and swung her legs over the edge. The cold stone kissed her bare feet, grounding her.

She stood, brushing her palms down her arms as if to shake off the dream like ice clinging to skin. But the chill lingered. It always did.

Her thoughts wandered, unbidden, to the Thestrals—silent sentinels of the forest. Strange, skeletal, and misunderstood. Like the dream, they offered an uneasy comfort. She didn’t fear them. Quite the opposite. She saw herself in them more than she cared to admit.

Wrapping herself in a woolen cloak, she crept through the quiet corridors of the castle, the early hush broken only by the whisper of her footsteps. The world was still blue with sleep, the windows pale with dawnlight. The castle itself seemed to hold its breath.

The scent of straw and cool earth greeted her as she neared the stables. The familiarity steadied her.

Until her boot squelched into something deeply unfortunate.

“Oh, for the love of—” she hissed, yanking her foot back. A steaming pile of Thestral dung smeared across her boot like a personal insult from the universe.

She cast a cleaning charm with a scowl, watching the mess vanish. Still, her irritation remained like smoke after a fire.

With an exasperated huff, Merith turned on her heel and strode toward the Great Hall, irritation simmering just beneath her skin. The thick, humid air seemed to grow heavier with each step through the stone corridors, her footfalls echoing sharply, amplifying her vexation.

She very nearly collided with a figure rounding the corner—Mr. Moon, the ever-hapless groundskeeper—who stumbled to a halt, surprise etched across his pale features, his face caught in the bluish wash of early dawn.

“Merith! Goodness, lass! You ought to watch where—”

"Oh, do spare me,” she snapped, arms folding tightly across her chest. Her voice rang sharp with indignation.

“Mr. Moon, how can you possibly call yourself the groundskeeper when the stables are in such a state? Do you even inspect them regularly? The Thestrals deserve far better than the negligence you’ve shown.”

Moon blinked at her, wide-eyed and baffled. “Now, see here—”

“Do you imagine I greet the dawn merely to wade through excrement?” she said, finger pointed sharply at the stables. “You’ve allowed this to become an utter disgrace.”

Before Moon could fumble a proper reply, footsteps echoed from the far corridor, slow and unmistakable.

Aesop Sharp.

He approached with his familiar, limping gait, wrapped in that long, travel-worn coat, the corners of his mouth curling with the faintest hint of amusement.

Chapter Text

Merith stepped through the arched doorway of her chamber, her stomach still fluttering from the warmth of breakfast in the Great Hall. As she closed the heavy wooden door behind her, the comforting crackle of a freshly lit fire greeted her, casting amber flickers across the stone walls.

Her new room was a delicate blend of magic and memory. Shelves brimmed with tomes and trinkets gathered from rare markets in her homeland—Bulgarian wards etched into copper, small crystal vials humming faintly with captured stormlight, and ancient coins enchanted to always land edge-up. Herbology textbooks, their pages adorned with vivid sketches of magical flora, stood beside a thick, leather-bound volume on Spectral Wonders.

On her desk, a glass orb glowed with thoughtlight—an indulgence she’d allowed herself—its swirling colors shifting with her moods. She placed it next to her wand stand, an intricately carved piece of enchanted yew that had been in her family for generations.

Her gaze drifted to a parcel resting atop her quilt. Shabby, bound in twine, its seal—an inky black stamp of a crescent moon framed by hawthorn leaves—belonged unmistakably to Toma Talanov, the enigmatic apothecary of Zdravets & Thorn. Toma had long provided remedies for various ailments, but lately, it had been her sleeplessness he addressed.

Approaching the parcel with cautious reverence, she peeled back the paper. Inside lay several dark vials nestled in straw, each filled with a violet potion that shimmered like bottled dusk.

A note slipped loose from among them.

Dear Merith,
Enclosed are the draughts we discussed. Use them sparingly. As ever, the cure offers only temporary stillness—abuse it, and you’ll find your nights more cursed than calm. Should you need anything further, my owl knows the way.

—Toma Talanov

A sigh parted her lips. She traced the edge of a vial with one finger, her thoughts as clouded as the potion inside. The temptation to reach for rest, even an artificial one, had grown too loud to ignore. But she knew better than most that such stillness was not freely given.

She returned the vials gently to their box, sealing them away with quiet resolve.

Amid the organized chaos of her belongings, another item caught her eye: a cream-colored envelope, edges weathered by travel. Her fingers tensed before she opened it. Her father’s handwriting was unmistakable—precise, unornamented, each line carrying the full weight of expectation.

My daughter,
I trust you are well and beginning to find your place at Hogwarts. Have you made any further progress in deciphering the tome? I understand your duties are demanding, but time favors neither the idle nor the uncertain.

The threads you follow are old and easily lost. Be diligent.

I shall see you at Christmas—noon, The Three Broomsticks.

—Your Father,
Dimitar Vulchanova

She stared at the letter for a long moment before folding it once, then again. There was no warmth to cling to in the words—but none had been promised.

Dimitar Vulchanova had carved a place for her in these hallowed halls, with name and reputation as collateral. That knowledge, more than duty, was what stirred unease in her chest. She had not come here to squander trust—yet days passed with little progress on the tome, and less clarity about what she hoped to find.

With a tired breath, she settled into her armchair and retrieved her quill.

Dear Father,

I remain well, and I thank you for your continued guidance. Hogwarts is as strange and wondrous as I had imagined, though the role of professor is more demanding than I anticipated. I confess I have made little headway on the tome, though I have not lacked for effort.

Still, I am resolved to uncover what lies within it—and I hope to offer you something of value by Christmas.

—Your Daughter,
Merith

She sealed the letter with her family crest: a Zmey, wings outstretched, its serpentine body coiled around sea and stone. The creature—shapeshifter, flame-bearer, guardian of thresholds—was more than mere emblem. It was her bloodline, yes, but also a truth she often felt humming beneath her skin. A bridge between worlds. A sentinel born to stand at the edge of secrets.

Her thumb lingered on the wax. Her gaze drifted.

The old tales returned—whispers from childhood—of dragons roosting high in the cliffs above the Black Sea, of guardians who passed between elements as easily as breath, of those marked to follow in their wake.

And yet here she stood—alone in a borrowed room, with the weight of that inheritance pressing upon her like snow before a storm.

She rose at last, drawing her winter cloak about her shoulders, and stepped into the brisk twilight.

The snow here was of an entirely different breed from the crystalline flurries of Durmstrang. Highland snow clung to her boots, melting into slick, muddy slush beneath each step. She grimaced at the sound—no crisp crunch, no clean chill—only the dull squelch of a foreign winter.

The castle loomed ahead, its towers blurred by mist. But the Owlery, regrettably, required a detour.

The interior assaulted her senses at once: dank air, the acrid sting of guano, the ceaseless rustle of feathers and the hollow hoots that echoed into the rafters like some ghastly choir.

The owls, as if aware of her distaste, stared down with unblinking disdain.

“How utterly uncivilized,” she muttered, selecting a grey barn owl—cleaner, she noted, than most—and fastening her letter to its leg.

“Dimitar Vulchanova,” she said crisply.

The owl blinked once, then launched skyward with the graceful indifference of a creature far above human pettiness.

She left the Owlery at a brisk pace, breathing deeply once she stepped into open air. The idea that all official correspondence still relied on birds—untrained, willful things—offended her sensibilities.

One day, she thought, she’d acquire her own owl. One she could trust.

Perhaps an Eagle Owl… or a Snowy. Something dignified. Disciplined.

As she passed beneath the archways of the courtyard, the clock tower chimed—curfew drawing near.

But she was not yet ready to return.

Instead, she followed a well-worn path to a solitary bench just beyond the grounds. From here, the lights of Hogsmeade shimmered below like candle flames adrift on ink. She withdrew two volumes from her satchel—The History of Magical Muddles and Cursed Contraptions—and opened one at random, desperate for the steadiness of structure, the comfort of facts.

Snow crunched faintly as she shifted. Distant laughter from the village reached her ears, a muffled reminder that the world still turned beyond her solitude.

She yawned, rubbing at her weary eyes as frustration mounted. Sleep continued to evade her. Night after night, she woke tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, her chest tight, her breath stolen by dreams she could scarcely recall. Only fragments remained—glimpses of fire, shadow, and the ancient script of a tome whispering from the dark.

She considered the draughts Toma had sent.

Not yet.

Closing the book, she let her gaze drift skyward. The stars were clear tonight—brittle points of light scattered across the heavens. Her breath hung in the chilled air, and for a moment, all was still.

Then—a sound.

Footsteps. Muffled, hurried, scuffing the stones below.

Three figures emerged from the shadows, whispering with the kind of urgency that only came from mischief. Merith watched, her voice calm but cutting through the dusk.

“And what,” she asked, “might you gentlemen be doing out after curfew?”

They froze, three deer caught in spell-light. She rose slowly from her bench, the book still in hand.

“Names?”

The first stepped forward.

“William Wexley,” he said, steady despite the guilt in his eyes. He stood lean, of average height—a figure shaped by equal parts scholarly endeavour and youthful mischief. Tousled hair framed striking blue eyes that met hers without flinching. There was something old in that gaze. Watchful.

She held it a moment too long before glancing to the next.

“Ominous Gaunt, Professor…” said the second, his posture polite but his voice clipped. He stood a touch taller than the others, his—pale hair and angular features whispered of an infamous lineage.

The third lingered, grin already half-formed.

“Name?” she prompted.

“I... ah, yes. You may call me... Ignatius the Unbothered.”

Merith raised a single brow.

“Name.”

“Sebastian Sallow,” he said at last with a roguish smile. “Apologies. Force of habit.”

She stared a beat longer than necessary, then turned back to William.

“Mr. Wexley,” she said. “I believe you're under Professor Weasley’s charge.”

“Not really,” he muttered, the shift in his tone betraying something he didn’t say aloud.

Merith considered them all.

“You’ll return to the castle now,” she said, gentler than expected. “Curfew is not optional, nor is my patience.”

They nodded, the mischief draining slowly from their faces. As they turned, she watched them go, something unspoken simmering in the space they'd left behind.

Once they vanished beyond the trees, she sat again.

A ghost of a smile touched her lips.

“I was fortunate to be the one who found you,” she murmured.

Had it been Professor Sharp, she mused, they’d be elbow-deep in cauldron scum by now.

She leaned back, eyes lifted once more to the stars.

The shadows were always moving—but so was she.

And she intended to meet them head-on.

Chapter Text

Merith had long since lost track of time.

Winter had settled over Hogwarts like a breath held too long—frost lacing the high windows, the hush of snow muffling even the castle’s murmurs. December sunlight poured through the panes in thin, pale gold, limning the stone corridors with a quiet glow that felt almost sacred. What few students remained wandered like ghosts, their voices low, their laughter rare, as though loath to disturb the old magic of the castle’s stillness.

It was a morning suspended in stillness—the kind of cold that bit politely at the edges, not cruelly, but enough to remind her she was alive.

Her footsteps echoed soft and deliberate on the flagstones, the hem of her black gown whispering behind her like smoke. The fabric shimmered faintly where the light caught it—dark, liquid, almost luminous. Its high collar framed her throat in a sweep of sharp elegance; buttons, obsidian and delicate, traced a path from her sternum to her waist. The sleeves tapered to her wrists, where subtle beadwork—nearly invisible save for the way it caught the light—glimmered like frost along glass.

She moved with intention, but not urgency. Time had loosened its hold in these quiet days between terms. Monday had blurred into Tuesday. Hours spilled like ink into one another. Even Peeves had grown bored, likely off sulking in a suit of armor, denied his usual audience.

The castle felt... suspended. As if holding its breath.

The scent of pastries and crisp bacon curled through the air as she neared the Great Hall—warmth tugging at her senses with the promise of something ordinary in a place that rarely was. Inside, the long tables stood mostly empty, save for a handful of lingering students scattered like half-formed thoughts.

At the far end of the Slytherin table, three boys sat huddled—shoulders close, voices low, heads inclined. Moths drawn to a mutual shadow. Sebastian Sallow was the first to notice her.

His grin flickered to life with practiced ease. “Good morning, Professor,” he offered, the words lilting with boyish charm that barely veiled the edge beneath.

Beside him, Ominis Gaunt gave a restrained nod—polite, precise, unreadable. William Wexley barely looked up, his fingers idly picking at a piece of toast, though his shoulders held a tension that spoke of distraction rather than hunger.

Something was simmering beneath them—something unsaid. Merith felt it in the glance that passed between Sebastian and Ominis, in the slight tilt of William’s jaw as if bracing for impact.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said, her smile poised and cool, the shape of civility wrapped in something quieter, keener. The words rang soft, but beneath them a hush of warning stirred—like a chord struck too low to hear. Secrets, she knew, had gravity of their own. And these boys were drifting too close to the pull.

She continued toward the staff table.

Astor Pugs sat slumped beside a steaming teacup, muttering a distracted greeting as he adjusted his spectacles for the third time. Across from him, Aesop Sharp looked up from a folded paper. His gaze—sharp, always—softened a fraction beneath the amber light slanting through the windows. The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Ah, Ms. Vulchanova,” he murmured, voice smooth with dry amusement. “How... quaint you look this morning.”

The smirk was almost too subtle to name.

Merith’s reply came laced with equal irony. “Charming as ever, Aesop.”

There it was again—that quiet current that hummed beneath their exchanges. Not flirtation, not exactly. Something more elusive. The tug of two minds circling, testing edges.

Conversation shifted to castle affairs—particularly the students who had taken to antagonizing the third-floor portraits.

“Gareth again?” Merith asked, brow arched. 

“Who else?” Aesop sighed. “Convinced one of the frames conceals a secret passage. The poor baroness inside threatened to hex him into next semester.”

“Can’t say I blame her.”

A pause.

Then, more carefully: “What would you do if you caught students sneaking out after hours?”

Aesop’s expression changed—just a flicker. The warmth drained from his tone like light dimming behind a cloud.

“If I discovered such transgressions,” he said, low and clipped, “I’d report them immediately. Detention, if they’re lucky. A mark on their record, if not. Recklessness has its price.”

Merith masked her surprise with a slow sip of tea.

So that was the line.

Beneath the scholar and the cynic—still a man who measured the world in consequences. She wouldn’t have been surprised to learn he’d once worn an Auror’s cloak.

Their conversation continued, but that thread remained—taut and unspoken. Later, their paths converged again in the corridor outside the Great Hall.

Mirabel Garlick passed them with an arched brow and a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She offered Merith a silent question with one glance, then slipped away.

The corridor narrowed as they walked. Tapestries faded by time lined the walls, the air scented faintly of beeswax, parchment, and distant snow. Outside, the winter sky hung low—thick with the pale hush of coming flurries. The castle creaked with its age, a living thing bracing for the season’s breath.

“What takes you to the library this morning?” Aesop asked at last, hands behind his back.

“Preparing next term’s curriculum.”

“Ambitious. And the first lesson?”

“Werewolves,” she answered, unable to hide the edge of purpose in her voice. “Misunderstood. Marginalized. Mishandled.”

He glanced at her sidelong, interest piqued. “Ministry jurisdiction is fragmented. I take it you disapprove.”

“More than that.” She paused. “The registry should be abolished.”

Aesop stopped walking.

A beat.

“You advocate dismantling a protective measure,” he said slowly. “A bold notion. Especially from someone schooled in Durmstrang tradition.”

Chapter Text

Merith had slept well—better than she had in weeks. The draught had dulled the sharp edge of her dreams and pressed a hush across her restless mind. Morning arrived not with dread, but with a rare and quiet clarity. When she opened her eyes, she did not cling to sleep but stepped from it with ease, as though rising from the shallows of a still lake.

She dressed slowly, deliberately. Her gown—a plaid of forest green, plum, and black, woven from fine winter-weight wool—fit close through the bodice and flared sharply at the bustle, its lines tailored with precise elegance. The pattern caught the morning light like shadow pinned beneath frost. Over it, she draped a matching cape, velvet-lined and trimmed in fur the color of smoke. The clasp at her throat—wrought iron, shaped like a thistle—fastened with a clean metallic snap, cold against her skin.

For the first time since arriving at the castle, she would step beyond its stone embrace. The promise of Hogsmeade—lantern-lit windows, cobbled lanes, a crackling hearth or two—warmed her like candlelight behind shutters. She meant to find a gift for her father, yes, but more than that: she meant to breathe.

She descended to the Great Hall, her footsteps quiet over centuries-worn stone. Sunlight spilled through the tall windows in pale ribbons, catching on suspended dust motes and the low gleam of pewter dishes. The air smelled faintly of toast, citrus peel, and woodsmoke.

Aesop sat alone at a table just beyond the reach of the sun, half-shadowed. One hand cradled a teacup; the other rested atop a slim dark notebook, fingers curling idly along its edge. His hair caught the light like cut jet. He hadn’t yet noticed her.

And for a moment, she nearly turned away—heat rising behind her collar, the ghost of their last conversation brushing once more at the back of her mind.

But then his gaze lifted. Found hers.

No judgment. Only curiosity—quiet and keen.

She straightened, schooling her breath into composure.

“Good morning,” she said—softer than she intended. The egg she placed on her plate wobbled slightly, uncertain of its own provenance. Too elegant for chicken. Too small for goose. She considered it for a beat, then looked away.

“Good morning, Ms. Vulchanova,” Aesop replied. His voice held that measured cadence she’d come to recognize—more observation than greeting. His gaze passed briefly over her attire, noting not the finery itself, but the intention behind it.

“You appear prepared for an outing,” he said at last.

The comment—so simple—warmed her more than it should have.

“I thought it time to stretch my legs,” she replied, regaining some of her usual poise. “Hogsmeade calls. There are gifts to be found, and I have grown weary of castle corridors.”

He stirred his tea, though it seemed he had forgotten to drink it. “A worthy expedition,” he murmured. “Hogsmeade is charming this time of year. Mirth and frost in equal measure.”

His expression shifted—subtly, but unmistakably.

“To my reckoning,” he added, “an outing wouldn’t feel complete without a proper guide.”

A pause.

Then: “I would be willing to accompany you. If you would have me.”

The words settled into the space between them like fresh snowfall—light, but full of gravity.

She adjusted her gloves, fingers tracing the seams. Her pulse had begun a curious flutter beneath the boning of her corset.

“I would be delighted,” she said simply.

Something flickered in his eyes—not amusement, exactly, but the idea of it. A warmth that did not smile, but hinted it might.

Astor Pugs, seated two chairs down, glanced up briefly, brow arched, before returning to his porridge without comment. The moment passed, without remark.

Something in her had shifted—not abruptly, but like thaw beneath snow. Subtle. Certain.

Whatever awkwardness had once stood between them had softened into something quieter—not simple, but easier to carry. Their last conversation no longer loomed; if anything, it had cleared the air, made space for this—this tenuous warmth she did not yet name.

Not closeness. Not yet.

But no longer distance.

Pushing open the heavy doors to the Bell Tower Courtyard, Merith was surprised to find Aesop already waiting—though she had arrived early. He stood just shy of the shadow line where the weak morning sun caught the frost-bitten stone.

He wore a dark wool suit, sharply tailored but plain, the fabric stretched taut across his shoulders. What caught her eye was the waistcoat—a deep green, blackened as if dredged from the depths of the Black Lake, the color shifting subtly in the light. The fabric seemed older than the rest, its style at least a few decades out of fashion. Yet on him, it was perfect, as though he’d always dressed a touch out of step with the world.

“I feel as if I’ve never seen you wear the same outfit twice. Is this new?” he asked, falling into step beside her.

“Not quite. I’ve had it since autumn.”

“Then it still qualifies as new,” he said with mock solemnity. “I wager it’s only seen the light of day a handful of times.”

She smiled down at her skirts, feigning indignation. “I’ll have you know this ensemble has been worn at least four times.”

“By Merlin,” he replied, pressing a hand to his chest. “I may well turn to stone from the shock.”

They followed the winding path toward the carriage house, the sharp winter air lending a rare hush to the grounds.

“Shall we take my carriage?” she offered as the outer wall came into view.

“I’m fine. No need to trouble yourself on my account,” he said abruptly.

She glanced sideways, catching him looking down at his leg. He walked steadily, but there was something taut behind his knees, a careful rhythm in his step.

With an exasperated breath, she turned fully toward him. “Did it occur to you I suggested it for my own comfort? You’ve accused me of vanity often enough.” She lifted her skirts just enough to reveal polished black leather. “These boots are new, and I refuse to let them sink into the muck.”

His scowl softened to a low, genuine chuckle.

From within the carriage house, Mr. Moon peeked out just in time to wave them toward their waiting transport. The thestrals hitched to the front pawed the ground restlessly, their spectral forms ghostly against the snow-packed stones. One nudged Merith’s shoulder with the bony curve of its snout.

She stroked the creature’s face gently, her voice softening as though speaking to something far younger. “Sorry I didn’t visit yesterday. We’ll fly soon, I promise.”

“They have names?” Aesop asked, watching her with something close to curiosity.

“No,” she replied softly. “Didn’t feel I had the right to give them any.”

He said nothing—only extended a hand to help her into the driver’s seat.

She accepted, their fingers meeting briefly, the moment unspoken.

He settled beside her with care, his movements practiced and precise. One hand rubbed absently at the top of his leg, just above the knee. Still, he made no mention.

“By Merlin,” he muttered suddenly, glancing back. “Where on earth did you acquire this grim little hearse?”

She laughed, clearly delighted. “This carriage is a family heirloom, thank you very much. A costly one at that! My great-grandfather ordered it custom.”

“I can see that. It has the distinct charm of something once buried with a lord.”

The wheels groaned over the rutted track as they pulled away, the road between castle and village softened by snowmelt and churned mud. The thestrals moved without complaint.

Ahead, Hogsmeade rose like a storybook scene, rooftops dusted with powdery snow, smoke curling lazily from crooked chimneys. Children darted across cobblestones in scarves and boots too large, clutching parcels and sticky sweets.

As they drew to a stop, a boy no older than eleven stared wide-eyed at the thestrals. Merith dismounted before Aesop could move, her boots landing with a gentle squelch in the slush.

“You,” she called, beckoning the boy forward. “Do you know how to care for thestrals?”

He looked ready to bolt, clutching his wool cap.

“They won’t bite,” she said gently, placing the reins in his trembling hands. “They only ask for kindness. Half now, and the rest when we return.”

She pressed five sickles into his palm and nodded reassuringly.

Inside the village, rooftops powdered like sugar, windows glowing with hearth-fire. The scent of oak smoke and roasting chestnuts curled in the air, mingled with magic faint enough to hover at the edges of her senses. Merith paused on the cobbles, tugging at her skirt where it had ridden too high after the jolting carriage, fabric pulled tight across her thigh, cold air kissing the exposed seam.

“If we’re lucky,” Aesop murmured, eyeing the boy, “he’ll steal the funeral cart.”

She swatted his arm. He caught her wrist and, instead of releasing it, tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. They moved forward like that, across the narrow bridge and into the heart of Hogsmeade.

As they ambled through the lively streets, Aesop began pointing out various shops.

“Ah, Tomes and Scrolls caters splendidly to one’s literary appetites,” he remarked, gesturing toward a modest building adorned with gilded embellishments. “And over there, you’ll find Ceridwen’s Precarious Cauldrons.” He indicated a shop where stout cauldrons, stacked high like mountainous trolls, jutted precariously over the entrance. Merith suspected they had been bewitched in place, for they seemed poised to topple at any moment.

“Merlin, is it usually this crowded?” she exclaimed as a gaggle of children squeezed past, laughter echoing, clutching boxes of sweets and lollipops nearly as large as dinner plates.

“Hogsmeade always has a lively charm,” Aesop replied with mild resignation. “But I daresay this crowd is swelled by last-minute shoppers. Surely others like yourself, buying poorly planned gifts.” The scowl returned, a stark contrast to the merriment.

“Where should we begin?” Merith asked, eager to soak in the atmosphere.

“Well, a stylish young witch such as yourself might find Gladrags Wizardwear to your liking,” he suggested.

Merith wrinkled her nose at the unfortunate name but followed him through the bustling cobblestone path.

The village unfolded in color and clamor, but Merith noticed how Aesop’s posture shifted slightly as they climbed the stone stairs leading to the next lane. A stiffness in his stride, a pause. She tightened her grip, subtle, silent. He didn’t speak of it, and she didn’t ask.

Ahead, children perched on a bench gazed eagerly through the windows of a vermilion building, its whimsical sign: ZONKO’S.

“Zonko’s?” she asked.

A boy nearby twisted open a container’s lid—only for it to burst, releasing a dark blue cloud that enveloped bystanders. Merith quickly retrieved a monogrammed handkerchief, covering her face while Aesop deftly guided them through the smoke.

He scowled. “You’ll become well acquainted with this place come term time. An unfortunately popular haunt among students. I often rue the day it finally meets its demise.”

“Oh dear, have the students played a prank on you, Professor?” she teased.

“Of course not,” he scoffed lightly, though she caught a faint hint of truth beneath the jest. She laughed softly into her handkerchief before tucking it away.

They pressed onward along the incline, passing stalls that called out to passersby until they reached a grand fieldstone archway marking the town’s heart. Before a purple-trimmed building, a gilded sign bearing the letters ‘GR’ swayed gently.

Aesop took her hand, guiding her up the uneven steps and pushing open the door with his other.

Inside, Merith surveyed the shop with deliberate care. Crimson drapes hung on the walls, their intricate tapestry suggesting wealth and taste.

Bolts of fabric lined shelves—vibrant colors and sumptuous textures: velvets and silks, inviting but yet to stir desire. She studied them with practiced detachment, taking mental notes.

Her gaze settled on a man near the door, impeccably dressed in a crimson frock coat falling just below his waist. His waistcoat, lighter with subtle patterns, revealed a meticulous eye. Pins clung to his collar, ready for any adjustment. He sipped tea, peering over rounded spectacles perched on a straight nose.

“Welcome, welcome! I don’t believe we’ve met. I’d certainly remember a gown as exquisite as yours,” he greeted warmly, his smile lighting the room.

Merith felt a gentle warmth at the compliment. “It’s one of a kind,” she replied smoothly, caught slightly off guard by his congeniality. “What might suit a woman of discerning taste such as myself? I ought to acquire a new gown for the New Year.”

“Ah, a new gown for a new year—perfect!” he agreed with enthusiasm.

“Perhaps I should wait outside?” Aesop interjected, already reaching for the door.

She grasped it firmly. “Oh no, you volunteered your day. Sit.” She moved a bulky wingback chair toward him.

With a resigned sigh, he settled, adjusting uneasily.

Augustus Hill, the proprietor, soon prioritized her, guiding younger witches aside to showcase new fabrics. As she perused the catalogue, she glanced over her shoulder to find Aesop absorbed in a small black book—Potion Purveyors of the Medieval Era. Amused, she noted how study clung to him, even on leisure days.

Returning to the catalogue, she marked a page. “Stop.” Mr. Hill revealed an elegant evening gown in soft pink and cream. Intricate draping accentuated the waist and hips, flowing into a graceful train. The off-shoulder neckline lent sophistication.

“I like the contrast—the smooth bodice and voluminous skirt. The pleating for the underskirt will require fine work,” she mused.

Augustus nodded, adjusting spectacles, sketching with deft strokes.

“And the color...” she trailed off, uncertainty blossoming.

“It’s all wrong for me,” she sighed, stroking fabric bolts with contemplative fingers.

Still, when she called to him—“Blue and silver, or green and gold?”—he looked up. And at her.

“I’m no expert,” he began.

“I’m not asking him. I’m asking you.”

He rose, surprisingly gentle, and approached. His fingers grazed the edge of a dark satin draped over her shoulder. The touch was not direct, not intimate.

And yet—

“This one,” he said, meeting her gaze.

In the space between them, something held. Neither heavy nor clear, but present.

Merith nodded, stepping back, disentangling from fabric. “Well, you may possess a fashionable bone in your body,” she quipped, passing the rolls to Mr. Hill, who smiled appreciatively.

“Quite right; the gentleman chooses remarkably well,” Augustus affirmed.

As they stepped back into the cool air, something unspoken lingered—no louder than a breath, yet impossible to ignore.

"I'm parched," she admitted, placing a gloved hand delicately to her throat.

“Shopping can be as strenuous as a Quidditch match,” he replied, amusement and mild exasperation mingling.

They paused in the village square, the air thick with merriment and shifting footsteps. Aesop leaned in, voice lowered to be heard over the din. He nodded toward the far side.

“Tea?” he offered, then gestured back along the cobbled path. “Or something stronger?”

“I definitely require something stronger than tea,” she murmured, reattaching herself to his outstretched arm as they resumed toward the Three Broomsticks.

The inn rose before them, a timber-framed structure weathered by time and softened by whimsy. Its slightly crooked thatched roof seemed to hum with laughter when no one listened. Warm golden light spilled from leaded-glass windows, voices rising and falling like a tavern tune—boisterous, bright, inviting.

The heavy oak door creaked open to reveal a space alive with the scents of mulled mead and roasted meat, hearth smoke curling in the air. The atmosphere was spirited, thick with chatter and occasional laughter, students mingling with townsfolk, fire crackling merrily behind the bar.

Merith took it all in as they stepped inside. A gaggle of Gryffindors to their left were locked in an animated game of wizard’s chess, maroon-and-gold scarves draped like battle standards. At the bar, cloaked patrons leaned close, voices low, perhaps trading tales too fantastic for sober ears.

She slid onto a stool, hesitating awkwardly, unsure what to do with her hands. The bar’s surface was tacky with remnants of a previous drink. Before she could reach for her wand, the wood gleamed clean, and she turned to find Aesop discreetly pocketing his own.

“Well, I’ll be… It’s been some time since I’ve seen you in here, Aesop,” came a familiar voice. Sirona Ryan emerged from behind the bar, her smile warm, voice lilting with a faint Irish cadence.

“Sirona,” he replied with his usual economy of words.

She raised a brow. “Is that all I get?” she teased, arms folding with mock offense. “At least introduce me to your drinking companion.”

“Merith Vulchanova, Sirona Ryan,” Aesop nodded once.

“She’s much too lovely for you.”

“Indeed, she is.”

Aesop turned back to Merith, expression unreadable. “Two red currant rums?” he asked.

She nodded, delighted.

The drink arrived in short order. As Merith lifted her glass, the heady aroma of red currants—ripe and faintly tart—mingled with the soft heat of aged rum. She sipped, the warmth curling in her chest. A quiet breath escaped.

Later, she excused herself to the privy, ascending the twisting wooden staircase to the upper floor. Returning, her seat at the bar had been claimed.

Beside Aesop, a woman spoke in low tones—Professor Weasley, her voice edged with concern. Merith caught fragments:

“…might be in danger…”
“…better to watch and wait…”
“…goblins and poachers…”
“…others poking around…”

When they noticed her, the conversation folded like paper.

“Ah, Merith! Lovely to see you.”

Merith smiled easily.

“I hope your holidays are peaceful—no troublesome students?”

“I’m with my sister and her brood,” Professor Weasley continued, waving toward a crowded table. A young man stood beside her now, unmistakably Weasley red hair and thick Gryffindor scarf.

“This is my nephew, Gareth. Gareth, Professor Vulchanova.”

“Hello, Mr. Weasley,” Merith nodded politely. “Will I see you in Defense Against the Dark Arts?”

Gareth nodded stiffly. “Uh, yes, Professor.”

Professor Weasley beamed. “Well then, I’ll see you both at term’s start. Happy Christmas. Oh—and Aesop? I’ll set up the meeting.”

With that, she returned to the Weasley table, swallowed by laughter and flame-red hair.

Merith leaned in slightly. “Everything all right?”

Aesop’s reply was smooth. “Of course.”

They visited two more shops before calling it a day. Aesop stored their parcels; Merith paid the boy the promised remainder. He petted one of the thestrals, murmuring something kind but inaudible.

She watched longer than necessary.

Then turned to Aesop.

And, without quite meaning to, smiled.

Whatever awkwardness once stood between them had softened into something else—not simple, but lighter. The last conversation, once sharp in memory, no longer held teeth. If anything, it had made space. For this. Whatever this was. 

As the carriage wound its steady path back toward the castle, Merith sat in thoughtful silence, her gaze unfocused as fragments of the earlier conversation between Professor Weasley and Aesop stirred quietly in her mind. Though the temptation to inquire pressed at her lips, it was evident from the guarded nature of their exchange that she was not meant to be privy to such matters—at least, not yet.

Instead, she broke the silence with a gentler line of inquiry.

“I observed that Professor Weasley’s nephew regards you with... some interest,” she remarked, her tone light, but laced with unmistakable curiosity.

Aesop gave a soft, disgruntled exhale. “Ah, yes. Mr. Weasley. I daresay he is the universe’s penance for every misjudgment I have ever made.”

“My goodness,” she replied, brows rising with interest. “Pray tell, what has he done to provoke such disdain?”

Aesop tilted his head slightly, his expression wry. “The more fitting question would be what has he not done?”

She smiled at that, already anticipating the sort of tale he might share.

“Having Gareth Weasley in my classroom is akin to inviting a dragon to tea,” he continued, his tone arch. “Just last week, he had the audacity to add not one, but three additional drops of fluxweed to a curing potion. The resulting spectacle was a technicolor explosion that enveloped half the classroom in a glittering haze. I have, to this day, not managed to rid my robes of the residue.”

Merith pressed a gloved hand to her lips to suppress a laugh.

“And only a fortnight prior,” he went on with growing indignation, “he brewed what I can only assume were 'fang-fluff' potions. The classroom descended into absolute bedlam—howling, capering, laughter echoing off the walls. It was less a lesson in potioncraft and more a matinee performance at a second-rate wizarding circus.”

Amused despite herself, Merith felt her thoughts tugged back to her own school days. She remembered, with mortifying clarity, the time she had misread the measurement for bicorn horn and caused her cauldron to erupt with such explosive force that the entire classroom had to be evacuated. The blast had fused three desks together, singed her fringe beyond repair, and left her robes smelling of sulfur for a fortnight.

At Durmstrang, such catastrophes were not treated with leniency—they were met with chilly weekends spent in the echoing caverns beneath the castle, where she’d been tasked with cataloguing fungi while reflecting on her many failings. She shivered at the memory, and not from the cold.

“And what measures have you taken to correct him?” she asked, curiosity tempered with sympathy.

“I have exhausted every civilised approach known to wizardkind,” he replied grimly. “Detentions, essays, scoldings both quiet and thunderous. I even gave a rousing lecture on the virtue of precision.” He paused, his voice tinged with dry defeat. “It was met with a grin and an impromptu firework display. I cannot shake the suspicion he draws strength from the chaos.”

“If that is the case, you may have missed your calling,” she quipped gently. “Sounds like a position in Care of Magical Creatures would’ve better suited your tolerance.”

Aesop shot her a look—more resigned than reproachful. She laughed quietly, stifling it behind a polite cough, though the amusement lingered in her eyes.

“Thank you for the warning,” she added with a smile. “I shall brace myself.”

She thought, not for the first time, of Aric. He had been similarly uncontainable in his youth—irrepressible, reckless, endlessly inventive. Time and experience had tempered him, but she recognised that brand of mischief well.

By the time the carriage slowed to a halt before the castle gates, twilight had woven itself across the grounds, gilding the ancient stones in amber and rose. The wheels creaked gently to a stop, the sound soft against the hush of the falling evening. Together, they stepped down onto the cobblestones, the wind cool but gentle as it swept through the cloaks and curls of the late returners.

Merith adjusted the folds of her cape, brushing away the signs of their day, while Aesop paused, casting a glance behind them—toward the soft lights of Hogsmeade flickering against the dusky horizon. For a fleeting moment, his expression softened, as though caught between memory and the present.

They began the slow ascent toward the castle, footsteps falling in quiet rhythm. Around them, the grounds were still, save for the rustle of leaves and the distant, floating sound of laughter from students lingering by the lake. The grand oak doors loomed ahead, warm light pouring from the sconces flanking the entrance, welcoming them home.

“Thank you for the company today,” Merith said gently, her voice touched with warmth. “I had a rather lovely time.”

He gave a small nod, and though his response was minimal, she caught the subtle curl of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“It was no trouble,” he replied.

She hesitated, then glanced up at him, her curiosity getting the better of her. “May I ask,” she began, careful to keep her tone neutral, “why you volunteered to accompany me today?”

A pause followed, filled only by the whisper of the wind.

When he finally answered, his voice was quiet, but entirely sincere.

“I suppose,” he said simply, “I just wished to.”

Chapter Text

The days leading up to Christmas passed in a hush—not silence, but something more subdued. The frenetic rhythm of the term had given way to a kind of suspended stillness, as though the castle itself were holding its breath. Snow fell in slow, deliberate drifts across the ramparts and courtyards, blanketing the grounds in white and softening every sound. Even the students moved more quietly, their laughter muted, their footsteps half-swallowed by the thick-carpeted halls.

Merith found herself retreating more often to the library—its musty warmth and high-vaulted stillness a balm against the cold without and the restlessness within. But lately, her steps had begun to drift further—downward, as if drawn by gravity. The Restricted Section had begun calling to her with a quiet, relentless pull, its shadowed shelves and sealed tomes murmuring like voices just beneath the surface of thought.

There was something down there. Something old. Something waiting.

On Christmas Eve, she claimed a forgotten corner on the lowest tier of the library’s secret wing—a recess tucked behind an arched stack of hexed bestiaries and arcane treatises on magical metallurgy. Only the low glow of the enchanted hearth lit the space, casting long flickers across the stone floor. Dust hung in the air like ash from some ancient fire. She let the quiet settle around her like a warding charm, pushing the world back.

In the flicker of the firelight, her thoughts wandered—unwelcome, unbidden—to the memory of a conversation she had not meant to overhear.

It had been in Hogsmeade, days ago. The Three Broomsticks was bustling with warmth and noise—clinking pints, the scent of roasted chestnuts, a string quartet valiantly playing carols above the din. She’d been tucked in a corner booth with her satchel, half-reading, half-listening… until a familiar voice carried through the murmur.

Aesop. Quiet. Clipped.

Professor Weasley, speaking low and fast in return.

She hadn't caught all of it. Just fragments. Goblins. Rebellion. Unfinished business.

Words that felt out of place in the glow of firelight and holiday cheer.

It was widely acknowledged—if not always openly discussed—that Goblinkind and wizardkind had been locked in conflict for millennia. The Ministry of Magic’s long-standing prohibition against Goblins wielding wands had reduced an entire race to second-class status, denied access to one of the most fundamental tools of magical life. Resentment festered in the margins of society, tucked beneath treaties and legislation, unhealed.

The infamous Goblin Rebellion of 1612, which had erupted in the heart of Hogsmeade, remained a defining rupture. The violence left scars not only on stone and soil but deep in cultural memory. Even two centuries later, its embers smouldered in policy, prejudice, and the wary glances exchanged in shops and alleyways.

Scholarship often pointed to Ragnuk the First—the brilliant and enigmatic Goblin king, famed for his silversmithing—as one of the conflict’s earliest flashpoints. Merith recalled the tale well. It was always the sword that drew attention.

According to legend, Godric Gryffindor himself had commissioned Ragnuk to forge a blade of unparalleled craftsmanship: forged from Goblin silver, edge imbued with runic enchantments, its hilt set with rubies that burned like fresh blood. Ragnuk complied—but as the sword neared completion, he grew possessive. Some versions said he believed it too fine a work to be surrendered. Others claimed he feared Gryffindor would never return it.

Either way, he sent armed emissaries to reclaim it. They failed. Gryffindor himself repelled them, wand drawn, blood spilled.

Within Goblin lore, the story had twisted over centuries into something more personal: a betrayal, a theft. Gryffindor had stolen from them, they said. Lied. Taken what was not his. Whether myth or fact, the bitterness endured.

And bitterness, Merith knew, was fertile ground.

Her thoughts turned to more recent unrest.

And then there was Ranrok.

She had overheard stories of Ranrok—the name spoken with fear and finality in the pubs of Hogsmeade, and more darkly still in Knockturn Alley. He had risen swiftly, a leader among Goblins, rallying them under a single, furious banner. Ranrok’s Loyalists had left a trail of devastation across the countryside: hamlets razed, wizarding families vanished, Aurors overwhelmed.

Whispers had reached her over the years—faint, contradictory, sometimes censored. Ranrok had courted power not only among Goblins but among the disaffected: trolls, werewolves, even certain fringe enclaves of human magic-users. But what had always intrigued her most was the persistent rumour that he had brokered an alliance with a cadre of Dark wizards.

If true, it would have been a union of ambition and old grievances. And it would explain why the Loyalists had lasted as long as they had.

She remembered catching the tail end of the story during a week in Ireland—an offhand remark from a pubkeeper in Ballyglass, buried beneath gossip about Quidditch and local hauntings. Ranrok was dead, they said. His forces scattered. The papers had reported a measurable decline in disappearances and magical skirmishes in the months that followed.

Still, no one seemed entirely certain of how he had fallen. Or who had brought him down.

Merith exhaled slowly, her breath curling in the cool, still air. Her fingers returned to the weighty tome in her lap.

Tonight’s reading had little to do with rebellion. The pages detailed the exploits of Ug the Unreliable, a minor figure in Goblin folklore, best known for peddling counterfeit magical goods and a comical scam involving an invisible Demiguise named Dervy. The tone was markedly lighter than the texts she’d scoured earlier, and for a moment, she allowed herself to sink into the absurdity of it—Ug’s schemes so ludicrous they bordered on genius.

But just as she began to turn the page, a sharp clatter shattered the stillness.

Squinting, Merith discreetly cast a revealing charm beneath the cover of her book. A faint shimmer took form in the air, the delicate outline of a figure slowly surfacing—obscured until now by a well-executed Disillusionment Charm.

"I see you, whoever you are," she said, her voice calm, but with a chill beneath it. "Reveal yourself at once, or I shall do it for you. I assure you, I’m less forgiving when forced.”

A pause—then came the soft shuffle of feet against stone, and the veil of concealment began to lift.

"You again?"

Standing sheepishly before her was none other than William Wexley—the same young man she had caught sneaking about with his companions not weeks before.

"And what, precisely, are you doing down here, Mr. Wexley? I may be new to this institution, but I am fully aware that students are not permitted in the Restricted Section without explicit authorisation." Her eyes narrowed as he avoided her gaze, choosing instead to study the crevices between floor tiles with dedicated intensity, the toe of his boot tracing idle patterns.

"I don’t suppose you’ve brought a permission slip?" she inquired, extending her hand in expectation, one brow arched in dry amusement.

When he produced nothing, she retracted her hand and regarded him with a steady, scrutinizing stare.

William lifted his gaze, composed. “I’m afraid not, Professor,” he said evenly. “But if it helps, I did consider the consequences.”

She tilted her head slightly. “And proceeded anyway.”

He nodded once. “Knowledge tends to be worth the risk.”

Her hand lowered, fingers curling loosely at her side. “A noble sentiment. And conveniently self-justifying.”

He offered a faint, polite smile. “I thought it might appeal to you.”

That gave her pause—but only briefly. She gestured to the empty chair opposite hers, the gesture neither invitation nor warning, but something that might pass for both.

“Very well, Mr. Wexley. Since you’re already here—what is it you’re after?”

He didn’t sit, but stepped lightly to a nearby shelf, his hands behind his back, reading the spines of ancient tomes with real interest. “Curiosity, mostly. I’d like to understand the things we’re told not to ask about.”

Her brow arched. “Such as?”

“There was mention of a spell in one of the older dueling manuals—Protego Diabolica,” he said without turning around. “Nothing detailed. Just a passing reference. It struck me as... omitted deliberately.”

“Not the kind of spell they teach in fifth-year Defense Against the Dark Arts,” she said, watching him carefully.

He finally turned to meet her eyes. “Sixth.”

There was no glint of mischief in his voice—only clarity, and perhaps a trace of frustration. She regarded him for a moment, weighing her words.

“It’s not a defensive charm in the traditional sense,” she said. “It’s destructive. Powerful. Unforgiving.”

He nodded, “I assumed as much.”

“And what do you intend to do with that knowledge?”

William didn’t answer immediately. “Nothing yet. But I’d rather understand something dangerous than ignore it and hope I never encounter it.”

She studied him. “A measured answer.”

“I try to be.”

Her tone softened—just barely. “Be careful not to confuse measured with invulnerable. They aren’t the same.”

“I know.” The honesty in his reply caught her off guard. “But understanding is the first defense, isn’t it?”

Merith let the silence hang a moment longer. Then her gaze dropped to the book in her lap.

He read the title aloud. "Whispers of Stone: The Forgotten History of Goblins."

“And what brings you to that Professor?” he asked.

Her fingers tightened slightly on the cover. “Let’s just say I’m interested in inconvenient truths.”

“The kind that don’t appear in textbooks.”

“Precisely.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “They say the Goblins are defeated.”

She met his gaze. “Do you believe that?”

“I believe history tends to be written by the victors.”

“An astute answer.”

“I try to be,” he said again, but this time with a flicker of dry humour.

She didn’t smile, but something eased in her shoulders.

“Well then,” she said, closing the book. “What shall I do with you?”

He considered her, thoughtful rather than flippant. “I suppose that depends on whether you're more concerned with rules or outcomes.”

“Ah,” she murmured. “An excellent question.”

He tilted his head, waiting.

She tapped a finger against the closed book. “Professor Weasley has already asked me to monitor you over the holiday. I imagine she suspected this sort of… initiative.”

“I suspect she did.”

“I won’t waste my Christmas overseeing a detention,” Merith said, rising from her chair. “So instead, I propose something else. You may return here—after Christmas, from breakfast until luncheon. Under my supervision. No wandering, no guests.”

“Agreed.”

“So easily?”

“You’ve just offered me the thing I wanted,” he said, “with clearer terms.”

She gave him a long look. “You’re either very sensible, or very dangerous.”

“Hopefully both,” he said, then quickly added, “academically speaking.”

She allowed herself a brief, dry smile.

William moved to ascend the stairs but paused halfway, turning back slightly. “There’s a book—somewhere in here—on Goblin silversmithing. Crafting Shadows, by Grimgore Gistleforge. No, wait, Gorgrim, that's right. It’s rare, but illuminating. Especially from the Goblin’s point of view. Less… editorialised.”

Merith raised her hand.

“Accio—Gorgrim Gistleforge.”

The heavy tome came whirling from the dark shelves above. With a swift flick of her wand, she slowed its flight with Arresto Momentum, catching it gently in her hands.

She traced a thumb over its dark, etched cover.

Behind her, William had already disappeared up the stairs.

As the soft chime of the clock in the Great Hall echoed overhead, mingling with the golden warmth that enveloped the room, Merith cast an admiring glance around her. Christmas Eve at Hogwarts was a spectacle to behold.

Candlelight hovered like suspended fireflies, their flames flickering gently above long wooden tables draped in ivy and holly. The enchanted ceiling above was a vast navy expanse, dusted with stars and brushed by a silver crescent moon that spilled its glow across the hall like a quiet blessing. Garlands of evergreen wrapped the columns, and the air was rich with the scent of honey-glazed ham, roasted pheasant, and mulled wine. The sweetness of spiced apples mingled with the warmth of cinnamon and citrus, wrapping the space in festive indulgence.

At the high table, Headmaster Nigellus Black presided, pouring himself a rather generous helping of wine into a crystal goblet. Around him, the remaining students—fewer in number over the holidays—chattered cheerfully across house lines, with Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws clustered together in unusually congenial arrangements. Even Slytherins, in their more insular way, seemed subdued by the enchantment of the evening.

It was one of the rare nights when even the castle itself seemed to exhale—its ancient stones softened under the hush of falling snow and candlelit wonder.

As Merith reached for her goblet, she glanced up just as the Headmaster rose to his feet.

A silence spread, half-expectant, half-dreaded.

Headmaster Nigellus Black stepped toward the lectern with his usual air of disdainful purpose, his robes swishing with calculated flair. His smirk—tight, satisfied, self-admiring—preceded his words.

“Attention, everyone! It’s that time of year again—Christmas Eve, or as I like to call it, the season of pretending we’re all perfectly jolly while dangers lurk around every corner. Isn’t it charming?”

The pause that followed was long enough for a first-year to choke quietly on a biscuit.

“Now, while I’m sure you’re all anticipating an abundance of cheer and merriment, I must remind you—it’s not all Mooncalves and Puffskeins these days. Between half-hearted attempts at bravery and your delightfully mediocre term reports, let’s try—just try—to keep our spirits from plummeting entirely.” He cast a meaningful glance toward the Gryffindor table, where several students suddenly found their mashed potatoes fascinating.

“As we dive headfirst into piles of food—because who wouldn’t seek solace in gluttony?—let us at least try to maintain a modicum of dignity. I do hope you’ve left room for disappointment; it pairs wonderfully with overcooked roast.”

Another silence followed, this one edged with stifled laughter.

He lifted his goblet. “So, raise your drinks—or whatever it is you’re drinking from—and let us toast: to surviving another year! May your holiday be filled with a dash of chaos, a pinch of mediocrity, and—if the Fates are kind—a fleeting brush with actual joy.”

With that, he sat, looking quite pleased with himself. The hall rippled with polite confusion, tempered with the kind of communal humor that can only be shared under the eye of an absurd tyrant.

Merith raised her goblet, expression poised, then offered with exquisite faux reverence, “Quite the inspiring sentiment, Headmaster.”

Headmaster Black looked up, clearly flattered. “Ah, yes! Thank you, Ms. Vulchanova! See? At least one among you recognizes quality oration when she hears it.” He gave a self-congratulatory nod. “One must endeavor to inspire—though of course, some of you are more inspirable than others.”

He chuckled alone.

Merith took a sip, carefully concealing her smirk behind the rim. Across from her, Aesop Sharp quirked an eyebrow, watching the exchange unfold like a particularly amusing duel.

When she caught his eye, she gave the smallest of nods.

He leaned slightly closer, voice pitched low. “His ability to misinterpret sarcasm is genuinely astounding.”

“It’s practically an art form,” she murmured back.

Headmaster Black, still basking in his imagined applause, stood again, clearly unwilling to let his captive audience slip away too soon.

“And let us not forget,” he boomed, “that this time of year is also about learning! What better lesson than to indulge freely while disregarding the darker aspects of life?”

Merith blinked. “Philosophy through poultry.”

Aesop’s mouth twitched. “I believe the term is emotional resilience through stuffing.”

Headmaster Black pressed on, oblivious. “Yes, embrace joy! For it is only in indulgence that we may appreciate the woes of the world!”

A low murmur of laughter swept through the students now—louder this time, less stifled. Heads shook. Goblets clinked.

Aesop leaned closer. “One wonders what ancient scroll he unearthed that from.”

“Most likely the back of a wine bottle,” Merith replied dryly.

Chapter Text

As if her subconscious were mocking her, on Christmas day, Merith found herself haunted by a memory that surfaced unbidden, one that required no distortion; it was simply how things had unraveled. A knot formed in her stomach as she fought valiantly to repress the knowledge of that day, but it had crept into her awareness, insisting that she face the grim reality.

Her mind flickered back to that pivotal moment when her life shifted irreparably. The group had been engrossed in various spells and rituals, determined to unseal the gates of Vulchana Keep, a fortress steeped in local lore and haunted history. To her astonishment, Merith succeeded far more effortlessly than anticipated, drawing gasps of disbelief from her companions. The keep, long sealed by the enigmatic sorceress Nerida Vulchanova, had remained an enigma since her untimely demise. The reason for its closure eluded many, transforming it into a specter of intrigue.

Fragments of that day rushed back to Merith with unsettling clarity. As she opened the gates, she barely took a step inside when the atmosphere shifted dramatically. A ghostly figure materialized before her—long, wild hair cascading around a striking face marred by a relentless scowl. It was Nerida, unmistakable in her fury. The apparition screamed dreadful threats, demanding that Merith and her party leave, her intensity causing Merith's blood to run cold. Books and bits of furniture hurled toward her, instinctively provoking her to cast powerful repelling and blasting charms to deflect the onslaught.

The very walls of the keep seemed to constrict around them as they fled down a dimly lit corridor, their collective fear propelling them toward a solitary door at its end. The door creaked open to reveal a dark, empty chamber. Stepping through the threshold, Merith discovered to her horror that there was no floor beneath her; gravity claimed her as she plummeted. In a desperate bid to save herself, she cast the Arresto Momentum spell just in time to slow her perilous descent. Chaos enveloped the space as the room blinked in and out of existence, reshaping itself in a dizzying, labyrinthine dance of terror.

The storm of events escalated, tearing their group asunder. She could hear the anguished cries of her companions echoing within the thick darkness, as isolation wrapped around her like a serpent. In a moment of keen determination, she cast Lumos, the wand’s luminous glow illuminating the unknown expanse. Her hands probed the walls, searching for hidden levers and mechanisms until they brushed against something chilling—a skeletal form sprawled beneath her touch. The moment her fingers grazed the bone of its jaw, a powerful gust of wind erupted from the open mouth, slamming her against the wall and sending her reeling. The mandible hung ajar, releasing a dreadful low groan that echoed like old trees creaking under the weight of the wind.

Before she could collect her thoughts, she felt herself being drawn through the very fabric of the stone into an oddly well-preserved study. The space was steeped in antiquity, a relic of the Tudor era, with rich oak furnishings and shelves laden with dusty tomes, their spines inscribed with golden letters. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and candle wax, mingling with an unsettling sense of familiarity.

An inexplicable force beckoned her forward. Her fingers brushed the cover of a particular tome, the engraved torch emblem sparking instinctive recognition deep within her. Just as she sensed something profound was about to reveal itself, the floor beneath her crumbled dangerously. A sharp wooden beam skewered her abdomen, sending fierce pain shooting through her core, an agonizing reminder that the specters of the past were not yet through with her.

She awoke in a panic, grasping at the spot where the wound had been; only a barely visible mark remained.

The terror was shortly followed by her routine bath, during which she wiped the nightmarish sweat from her body with fragrant bath salts bubbling around the faucet of the tub. The rich aroma of a rose garden enveloped the room, its scent even drifting into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.

After several nights of taking sleeping drafts, she began to feel their effectiveness waning. This morning, she felt sluggish and thought she would benefit from a sip of Euphoria Educing Elixir. But alas, nothing of the sort was at her disposal. Instead, she poured herself a cup of mulled wine leftover from the previous night.

Merith recalled her first experience with the elixir, which was banned at Durmstrang. Aric had rummaged through the confiscated chest in the faculty office and discovered a bottle. Hesitantly, she had taken a sip and was greeted with the most euphoric happiness she had ever experienced. She often found herself pondering whether such happiness—of that particular kind—could truly be cultivated organically within oneself.

Merith made her way to the Great Hall, the air buzzing with a jubilant cacophony louder than usual. Excited chatter wafted through the heavy wooden doors before she stepped inside. As she entered, owls swooped overhead, their wings flapping energetically as they dropped a flurry of colorfully wrapped packages onto the tables.

Strolling toward the head table, she nodded graciously at various students, wishing them a polite Happy Christmas as she passed. The atmosphere was alive with holiday spirit; yet, as she drew closer, she noticed that the other professors wore attire undeniably finer than their usual garb. However, their sense of being overdressed paled in comparison to her own carefully chosen outfit. Merith opted for a long woolen dress adorned in bold green and navy plaid. The A-line skirt presented a full, gathered silhouette that swished as she walked.

The fitted bodice, echoing the same vibrant plaid, was complemented by a ruffled white collared blouse and a pointed lapel-style jacket overlay. The dress cinched at the waist, accentuated by gleaming bronze buttons running down the front seam. She hoped this ensemble would elevate her spirits; she felt an urgent need to improve her sullen mood before meeting her father later that day.

“A Merry Christmas to you all,” Merith beamed, giving the table one of her best smiles, smoothing the back of her skirts as she gracefully settled into an open seat between Asher Pugs and Aesop Sharp.

“Happy Christmas, Ms. Vulchanova,” Aesop replied, his tone composed, a hint of a smile gracing his lips.

As she surveyed the festive spread on the table, he remarked, “It certainly appears they have spared no expense for the occasion. Are you planning to partake, or do you intend to save your appetite for your outing later?”

Merith sighed, her gaze drifting over the golden-brown roast goose and jewel-toned jams. "I ought to, but I find myself lacking an appetite at the moment. I shall be making my way to Hogsmeade shortly for a Christmas luncheon with my father.”

“Oh? That sounds pleasent,” Aesop remarked softly. “I remember you took considerable time to choose a thoughtful gift for him.” His teasing tone carried the familiar flatness, before he added, “I trust it brings him joy.”

“I do too,” she confessed, a faint smile gracing her lips. “It has been such a long time since we’ve been able to celebrate together in earnest. This feels significant.”

She realized how true that was; she hadn't had her father to herself since she was a child. There were always so many additional guests present at their estate—relatives and associates flooding the manor for nearly the entire holiday season. As she got older, holidays at the estate became uncertain, especially with pressing matters for either her father or herself to attend to. The previous Christmas, she had barely made it to dinner before needing to apparate back to Serbia to address a particularly pressing issue.

He nodded, his expression reflecting his understanding. “Such moments are invaluable, especially during this time of year when familial bonds can feel particularly significant.”

“And what of you, Aesop?” Merith queried, her curiosity aroused. “Do you have any plans for the holiday?”

Aesop paused for a moment before responding, his tone measured. “I shall likely remain ensconced in the library or my office, pursuing my research. It has become quite habitual.”

Merith felt a pang of sympathy for him. “That sounds exceedingly solitary. Surely, you could find something more festive to occupy your time? Might you consider joining me in Hogsmeade after my lunch? I should hate for you to miss out on the holiday spirit.”

Aesop hesitated, the seriousness in his eyes softening ever so slightly at her suggestion. “While I appreciate the sentiment, I would not wish to intrude upon your time with your father. That is a rather personal occasion.”

“It would not be intruding in the least,” she insisted gently. “I would sincerely enjoy your company. I promise to keep the mischief to a minimum.”

Just then, the conversation took a lively turn as Mr. Moon joined them, his jovial demeanor infectious, his cup brimming with cheer. Merith stifled a yawn, the fatigue from restless nights finally catching up with her, yet she felt invigorated by the blooming possibilities of the festive day ahead.

“Ah, the two of you!” Mr. Moon exclaimed, his eyes twinkling with delight. “What are we discussing on this splendid holiday? Plotting some grand adventure, I hope?”

Merith smiled, her fatigue momentarily forgotten. “Just trying to convince Aesop to join me in Hogsmeade later. He’s been buried in his work for far too long.”

Mr. Moon chuckled heartily. “Aesop, good sir, you cannot let the holiday pass without a bit of merriment! What say you? A trip to Hogsmeade could do you some good!”

Aesop adjusted his tie, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes as he considered the prospect. “While the social dynamics of Hogsmeade certainly have their allure, one mustn't let one’s academic obligations languish in the wake of trivial distractions. After all, it’s not every day that I interpret the nuances of alchemical theory, and one mustn’t let their scholarly pursuits wane for the sake of fleeting euphoria,” he replied, albeit with a slight edge.

Merith rolled her eyes playfully. “Trivial distractions? Aesop, just because you’re avoiding the polyjuice potion that is holiday cheer doesn’t mean you have to dismiss it entirely!”

Aesop smirked, his resolve wavering ever so slightly. “Ah, Merith, your enthusiasm is commendable. But I fear my scholarly pursuits may make me immune to such euphoria. Still, I will consider the potential benefits of mingling in the festive spirit you so passionately advocate.”

Chapter Text

As she returned to the castle later than she had planned, the evening’s festivities faded into a distant memory, leaving behind a dull haze.

Having subsisted primarily on a diet of spirits, a gnawing hunger for a proper meal in the Great Hall gripped her, though her stomach twisted anxiously at the thought. The weight of her father’s revelation pressed heavily on her mind: Aric had pilfered the plans from his office and aligned himself with enemy forces.

This internal turmoil left her disoriented; the boy she had once known seemed to splinter into two diverging selves. She recalled the Aric of her childhood—impertinent, playful, and undeniably kind. But now there was this new Aric: the one who had betrayed her. Had he truly intended to hurt her? When had this treachery taken root? The very notion twisted her insides.

What troubled her most was his complete lack of effort to reach out or contest the accusations leveled against him. This silence cast unsettling shadows over their already intricate relationship. Despite the bond they had forged at Durmstrang, their exchanges had often been interrupted by protracted silences—months would pass without a single word shared in their adult years.

Chapter Text

In the musty yet resplendent confines of Hogwarts’ restricted library, a reverent hush enveloped the grand room, punctuated only by the soft rustle of ancient tomes and the gentle crackle of the fireplace. Here, amidst towering, labyrinthine shelves laden with timeworn parchment, Merith had arranged to meet sixth-year student William Wexley, fulfilling a promise exchanged preceding Christmas.

As Merith settled into her familiar armchair by the hearth, the dancing flames illuminated the pages spread before her, casting a warm, inviting glow. The lowermost level of the restricted library, thick with an impenetrable layer of dust, was an unlikely rendezvous point—but it suited their clandestine purpose well.

Determined, Merith focused on her ongoing research into Goblin law—an intricate and enigmatic legacy akin to the very magic it governed. Yet, after hours of study, she had gleaned precious little, save for a flickering promise of discovery hidden among the dusty tomes. Across the room, William immersed himself in the shelves, radiating enthusiasm and youthful curiosity that contrasted intriguingly with a maturity beyond his sixteen years.

As he wandered, his attention was drawn to a delicate glass display case, housing shimmering artifacts that glinted in the firelight. His gaze lingered on a majestic Goblin silver sword; its intricately crafted hilt prominent among the collection. The sword appeared to stir something within William, a forgotten memory igniting a spark of fascination.

Chapter Text

Merith had been seething since her encounter with Aesop in the classroom—her anger bubbling to the surface so vehemently that she couldn’t face the prospect of lunch in the Great Hall. She feared her simmering rage might compel her to transform him into a training dummy, longing for a hexing that would provide both satisfaction and vindication. But, as her initial irritation faded, a wave of childishness washed over her. The furious outburst now felt unwarranted; deep down, she knew she didn’t genuinely wish to harm him. Instead, she felt a hollow ache, something more akin to hurt than anger.

Their previous evening together had been a warm cocoon woven from comfort and laughter. Now, she struggled to reconcile that serene connection with the discord that had erupted so suddenly.

What had Aesop meant by alluding to William’s hardships and troubled existence? Clearly, the other professors held insights she lacked, leaving her with a gnawing suspicion that refused to fade. The air of secrecy surrounding Professor Weasley—and now Aesop—about William left her frustrated, akin to an incessant itch she couldn’t scratch.

A familiar voice echoed painfully in her mind: “You are so incredibly naïve,” it seethed, a haunting reminder of her brother’s creeping doubts. She pushed it aside, unwilling to let his words intrude on her already tumultuous thoughts. Perhaps that was why Aesop's comments had struck so deeply, scraping against old wounds that had never quite healed.

Merith sighed, burying her face in her hands. She had lost her temper with him once again, and this time, it felt far worse than their prior quarrel over werewolves.

Resolute to distract herself from her spiraling thoughts, she slipped into her dressing robe and settled onto the rug before the fireplace. She rummaged through her bag, retrieving the tome William had recommended. Yet, as she began to read, her mind drifted elsewhere, forcing her to re-read entire passages. Frustrated, she closed the book and flopped onto her back, staring at the intricately carved stone ceiling above her. The book slipped from her grasp, landing softly on the floor, forgotten.

Her concentration eluded her, plagued by the remnants of their disagreement. She focused instead on the empty chair beside her, envisioning Aesop seated there, his presence now as comforting as it had been the previous night.

Summoning what remained of the bottle of wine from the night before, she poured a glass, the crimson liquid swirling enticingly within. Sipping from the glass brought her a fleeting wave of relief, allowing her frayed nerves to relax, if only momentarily.

Determined to channel her energy toward something constructive, Merith began to pull various volumes from the shelf, recalling references pertinent to curse-breaking. As she flipped through the aged parchments, her thoughts raced, contemplating how she might apologize for her earlier outburst. The desire to mend their simmering conflict was strong; she didn’t want to remain at odds with him.

Hours slipped away in research that both calmed and excited her. When she finally glanced at her pocket watch, she realized she had missed dinner. Although it wasn’t mandatory for her—being her evening off—she knew her absence would be noted, particularly since this marked her second missed meal in a row. She wasn’t hungry; the stress felt like lead in her stomach, quelling any real appetite.

Skimming through the growing pile of texts, she retrieved a slender black book from the back of the shelf. Untitled and resembling more of a research journal than a polished text, its erratic scrawl was often barely legible. As she started to set it aside, a particular phrase caught her eye: “curse management.” Intrigued, she flipped back to the page.

There it was: Magical Management: Curses and Jinxes. Beneath it was an underlined charm intended to alleviate some side effects from dark magic curses. It explicitly noted that the effects were transient, designed for temporary pain relief and general alleviation—a disclaimer emphasizing the charm's variable efficacy.

Yet, it was the first new lead she had unearthed, one Aesop had likely not yet explored. The thought filled her with a sudden flush of determination. Clutching the book tightly, she bolted up the steps, out of her office, and toward the classroom door.

Upon reaching the door, she grasped the handle and flung it open, nearly colliding with Aesop, who stood just beyond, wearing an expression of equal surprise.

“Aesop, I—” she began, breath catching as she struggled to articulate her thoughts, the weight of their earlier frustrations lingering in the air between them.

“Merith,” he replied softly, his voice a low, warm whisper that anchored her in place. She had never heard him utter her name with such tenderness before; it sent a flutter through her chest, her heartbeat echoing so loudly she feared it could be heard throughout the classroom.

Aesop stood framed in the doorway, illuminated by ethereal moonlight streaming through the window. Something about him appeared exquisite beneath the cool glow of night. Tugging self-consciously at her dressing gown, Merith felt uncertain about how to begin.

“I’m sorry; it seems I keep losing my temper with you. While I still disagree, Aesop, I will heed your warning. But hear me now, I am no silly girl.” Her voice steadied as she found the strength to meet his gaze. Their eyes locked, and a shared understanding began to bridge the gap the earlier confrontation had created.

“I must confess, I acted rather boorishly myself, exceedingly ungentlemanly,” he said lightly, a hint of jest creeping into his tone as he clasped her hands in his. “I regret my remark about your naivety—there are matters I am not at liberty to disclose, aspects of the situation you understandably lack awareness of. It was unkind of me to wield that against you. My words, though perhaps too blunt, were born from concern for your well-being; I genuinely wish to protect you from harm.” His tone shifted, growing serious, and she felt the weight of his sincerity wash over her.

“I will be careful, Aesop. But I genuinely like Mr. Wexley; I see much of myself in him.” She let go of his hands and smoothed her gown, her bare feet touching the cool classroom floor as the weight of her thoughts began to lift.

“I was on my way to find you,” she admitted, taking a step toward her office, Aesop following closely behind. “I unearthed something—well, it may be premature to declare its significance, but it’s a lead nonetheless.”

Once they reached her office, enveloped in the warm glow of firelight, she presented the notebook she had discovered, flipping it open to the relevant page. Aesop scanned it intently, pausing occasionally to decipher the scrawled, messy script.

“I am uncertain about this source’s credibility, given the author’s anonymity, but—let us test its merit,” he suggested, easing himself into the armchair by the fire. The way he settled into that chair brought a smile to her face.

“Very well, then,” he said, gesturing toward his leg with an undertone of discomfort as he shifted slightly.

“You want me to do it?” she asked, surprise coloring her voice. “I’d consider you more capable than I in this regard.” He conceded, his earnest expression underscoring his trust in her. His hands moved hesitantly away from his leg.

Merith hesitated, gathering her resolve, her hands hovering nervously over his leg as she extended her magical senses, reaching out to perceive the cursed magic coursing through him. It was potent and undeniably dark, quickening her breath. “May I?” she asked, gripping his pant leg delicately and lifting it slightly.

He flinched, averting his gaze. “Yes, that’s acceptable,” he murmured through gritted teeth. Did he wish to conceal the nature of his affliction? With gentle care, she raised his pant leg to the knee, observing the subtle discoloration etched against his skin, a thorny tendril coiled beneath the surface like a serpent poised to strike.

Carefully tracing her finger along the raised area at his calf, she noticed it wasn’t sharp as it appeared, but rather an indented impression against his flesh. Looking up, she found Aesop’s eyes glued to the flickering flames of the fireplace, his demeanor resolute yet uneasy, as if bracing for something inevitable.

Taking a steadying breath, she commenced the incantation, her voice low and deliberate as she executed the prescribed motions from the book. Minutes passed as she concentrated, her eyes darting occasionally to Aesop to ensure he remained comfortably bearable beneath her ministrations. Finally, feeling the pressure of her exertion, she sank onto the carpet with a soft exhale, releasing the magic from her fingertips.

“Well?” she queried, glancing up at him from her sprawled position on the floor, anticipation fluttering in her chest.

Aesop took a moment, gradually rising cautiously from his chair. His mind seemed a thousand miles away, but then he stepped forward, inhaling sharply as he focused intently on his leg.

“My word, you succeeded,” he exclaimed, astonishment lighting up his features. A newfound glimmer of joy radiated from him, illuminating his expression in a way she had not encountered in their previous interactions. “What do you feel?”

“It still holds some ache, yet it’s less sharp—more of a dull throb now,” he remarked, as Merith's eyes flitted toward him with concern. But the relief etched across his expression was unmistakable, softening his features in stark contrast to the tension that usually shadowed them.

“Proceed to walk around the room slowly and with caution; avoid vigorous activity,” she advised, watching with hope as he ambled across the floor. Although a limp persisted, he appeared considerably more at ease.

As she documented her observations on parchment, Aesop completed his circuit and paused in front of her, where she remained seated on the carpet. “It’s imperfect, yes, but there are myriad possibilities for refinement through experimentation. It’s promising until we ascertain a permanent remedy,” she continued, placing her quill down.

“We?” His brow arched with playful skepticism, a hint of mirth dancing in his eyes.

“Yes, ‘we’; clearly, you need my assistance,” she quipped back, a teasing smile curling on her lips.

“Perhaps you are correct in that assessment,” he replied, his tone sobering as he met her gaze once more. A warmth surged in her cheeks, and she turned her attention to the flickering fire, attempting to mask her sudden shyness.

“I must implore you to exercise caution, Aesop. I cannot ascertain whether the effects will only manage pain or provide some manner of temporary relief. You must avoid overexertion, or you may exacerbate your condition—no sprinting across the courtyard!” She offered a mild reprimand, yet in articulating her concerns, she bore an uncanny resemblance to the matron.

Chortling softly, Aesop extended his hand, pulling her to her feet. “How might I ever express my gratitude for this?” he said earnestly, sincerity shining through his voice. “You have shown me kindness exceeding what I deserve.”

Contemplating his question, she feigned deep thought, theatrically pacing before finally announcing, “Ah, yes, I know precisely what favor you owe me.” His expression shifted to mild apprehension, anticipation thick in the air.

“I do not suppose you possess gentleman’s evening wear?” she asked playfully, raising an eyebrow.

“Do you take me for a cad? Of course, I do!” he retorted, annoyance creeping into his voice.

“Then perhaps you would do me the honor of escorting me to the New Year’s celebration at the Three Broomsticks? It would be rather unsavory to attend without a gentleman by my side.”

“Naturally,” he responded, his mock-serious tone underlined by a genuine smile. “It would be an unparalleled honor.”

“Ah, but one moment,” he suddenly uttered, retreating into the classroom before reemerging with a plate filled to the brim with delicacies. “I was uncertain regarding your preferences,” he confessed, handing her the plate.

A grin spread across her face as her stomach growled at the sight of food. “Thank you, Aesop,” she said earnestly, settling herself into the chair by the fire.

“Well, I shall leave you to your supper. Good evening,” he said, turning to depart. He hesitated just before stepping over the threshold, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “I harbor a particular disdain for cranberry jelly,” she remarked, gesturing to the spiced sauce on the plate. “However, I do delight in Treacle Tart.” Raising it to her lips, she took a large bite, savoring the sweetness.

A soft chuckle escaped him, and she felt an effusive warmth radiate between them. “I shall remember that,” he promised, offering her a small wave as he descended the stairs from her office.

As Merith sank into the chair beside the fire, heat from the hearth mingled with a quieter ease taking root inside her. The weight of earlier misunderstandings thinned in the shifting glow, giving way to the tentative shape of what might still come.

Chapter Text

At breakfast the following day, Merith excused her absence, saying she had fallen ill but had since made a full recovery after some rest. The air around the table was filled with a lively chatter, primarily fueled by Professor Onai and Professor Ronen, who were deeply engrossed in discussion about the upcoming term and imparting wisdom on classroom management to their new pupil. Although Merith nodded along pleasantly, she found it difficult to concentrate on their conversation due to her lingering fatigue.

She had run out of her sleeping draught and was splitting doses until her supply was restocked. To calm her nerves, she had been indulging in a generous goblet of wine before bed. The absence of correspondence from her father since their last meeting tugged at her thoughts, causing her some concern as she became increasingly preoccupied with the obligations that had recently taken hold of her life—obligations that had led her to neglect her research into the ancient tome.

Looking around the Great Hall, her eyes fell on the empty seats where William and his companions usually settled. Perhaps they were still sleeping in the aftermath of a night filled with tales of their own. Rumors swirled around the head table about the students indulging in excitement within the Gryffindor common room the previous evening, the festivities rumored to have continued until the early hours of the morning.

“Don’t look at me; I am the head of Slytherin House,” Professor Ronen retorted to Professor Onai, who raised her arms in annoyance.

“There is currently no head of Gryffindor House in the castle, thus we are all responsible for managing the different houses, regardless of house allegiance,” she replied, her tone firm.

“Ah, let it be, Mudiwa. Let the kids have some fun,” chimed in Professor Howin, the Beasts professor, patting her colleague's arm. “As far as we know, there was no harm done,” she added casually.

“As far as we know,” Aesop repeated, before continuing to eat.

“As long as nothing untoward occurred, I see no reason to fret. These young people have likely been kept here against their own wishes. It’s only fair to let them enjoy a bit of their youth,” Merith said understandingly. 

“Well, I am under the impression that some untoward behavior did occur... just look at my daughter; she can barely keep her head upright.” Merith giggled but quickly stifled her laughter when Mudiwa shot her a weary look. Natsai Onai, a sixth-year student, had her head lazily propped on her hand as she scooped breakfast into her mouth.

“Oh, Mudiwa, you can’t tell me you didn’t get up to some trouble as a student,” Professor Ronen teased, his large, characteristic smile brightening his face.

“Well, all I’m saying is that I think there was more than pumpkin juice being sampled,” Mudiwa sniffed, as Merith fought the urge to grin at the humor in the moment.

“Anything missing from your supplies, Aesop?” Mudiwa queried.

“Not that I’ve noticed,” Aesop replied simply, his eyes catching Merith’s with a small twinkle that filled her with warmth.

“You will understand my plight when you have young witches and wizards of your own,” Mudiwa said knowingly to Merith and Aesop—the two currently childless adults at the table.

The discussion continued, with Mudiwa and Professor Ronen sharing stories about their respective children and the challenges of parenthood.

“I say good on the students. Parties never quite compare to the secret dwellings of our youth,” Merith mused, allowing her eyes to flick over to Aesop as she spoke.

“Such scandal coming from such a reputable Durmstrang graduate! What would your superiors think?” Aesop teased, his humor laced with his usual straightforward tone.

“I see it more as a testament to my ingenuity in the face of adversity,” she replied playfully, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she leaned slightly forward, her hair catching the candlelight and framing her face in a halo of warmth.

“Well, that’s one way to phrase it,” he chuckled, attempting to maintain his scholarly composure.

“Didn’t Slytherin dormitories have salacious parties?” she asked with a raised brow, amusement flickering across her features. The corners of her mouth turned upward, revealing a hint of mischief behind her well-bred demeanor.

“Oh, quite salacious indeed. I, however, remained acquiescent in my chambers,” he continued, the words rolling off his tongue with a hint of sardonic amusement. “I’m afraid my youthful escapades came considerably later. Once I became an Auror, I reveled in my... successes. Perhaps a little too enthusiastically with my fellow young, willful Aurors.” His gaze drifted momentarily, as if lost in the memories of those thrilling, reckless days.

“My, my, Aesop. Now that does surprise me!” she remarked, delighting in his self-exposure.

“And what kind of trouble did you and your handsome young gentleman friends get into?” She smiled coyly, the soft porcelain of her wine glass glinting in the morning light as she took a measured sip.

“I don’t think it would be gentlemanly to recount the events in the presence of a lady,” Aesop replied, suppressing a smile that threatened to break free, his eyes lowered as he cut away at a large turnip.

“Look who’s being scandalous now! This young Aesop seems rather rakish indeed,” she laughed, enjoying the light banter between them.

Aesop shook his head, continuing to eat, though the corners of his lips twitched like he was fighting back a smile.

“You won’t divulge anything? Perhaps then you really are a gentleman!” she teased, returning her attention to her own meal, warm bread resting softly on her plate, as golden as the first rays of morning light.

As breakfast drew to a close, she regained Aesop’s attention, her voice softening as she shifted the atmosphere between them.

“Aesop, I have a favor to ask,” she said, leaning in slightly as if to share a secret.

“Yes, of course. Shall I put your hideous carriage out of its misery?” he replied with jest, a playful twinkle in his eye. She rolled hers in mock exasperation, unable to suppress a smile.

“I was wondering if you would be so kind as to brew me a couple of sleeping draughts. I’m still adjusting to the new environment,” she continued, her tone sincere yet layered with an unspoken complexity.

“Ah, I’m surprised you don’t have a potions station set up in your quarters,” he mused.

“I’m quite dreadful with potions; I never quite got the hang of it,” she admitted, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as if revealing a secret. “Given your extensive repertoire of knowledge, I must say I’m astonished by your seemingly universal proficiency. One would expect a veritable know-it-all to excel in all pursuits." he added after a brief pause, the jest laced with genuine admiration.

Chapter Text

Following her discovery in the library, Merith hurried back to her office, heart pounding with anticipation. She yanked open her cluttered desk drawer, fingers trembling as she sifted through scattered papers until she found a spare sheet of parchment. Dipping her quill into the inkwell, her normally neat handwriting gave way to a quick, almost frantic scrawl.

Dear Father,

I recently made a fascinating discovery regarding the tome. While browsing the library, I happened upon an ancient text on goblin smithing from a time strikingly similar to our own. This tome details the life of Bragbor the Boastful, a renowned silversmith noted for creating exquisite items at the request of wizards. There’s a curious inscription scrawled near the bottom of the page, but unfortunately, I cannot decipher it. I fear that the knowledge contained within may prove elusive.

Though the teaching staff here are welcoming, they maintain an uncomfortable distance from me. You may have been right; something significant has occurred during this school year—something they seem hesitant to discuss. Perhaps I will earn their trust in time.

Have you any updates since our last conversation? Please extend my regards to Mŭnichka, and let her know that I am eating well.

Yours,

Merith

She folded the letter carefully, slipping it into an envelope bordered in deep red-black—a design Aric often teased looked more like mourning stationery than correspondence. In high society, such black borders signified grief, though Michaél joked that Merith wore her melancholy openly, as if it were stitched into her very cloak.

Her thoughts drifted to the family estate, to the likely quiet holiday season ahead. Michaél would doubtless make his brief appearance at the winter soirée—overindulge in drink, regale guests with loud stories, then vanish early the next day to spend the remainder of the holiday elsewhere, funded by the family fortune. A hollow tradition she had never questioned.

A sudden wave of sadness washed over her as she considered her father. This year, the house would be nearly empty except for him and their loyal house-elf. She suspected he had returned to Durmstrang for much of the holiday, burdened by headmaster duties and the growing unrest in her homeland.

The tensions between wizards and non-wizards stretched far beyond Hogwarts’ grounds. Bulgaria had long suffered under poachers and bandits, and the recent decade had seen goblin conflicts flare anew, rippling even to Durmstrang.

The prevailing wizarding attitude toward goblins was harsh—marked by disdain and intolerance for their language, culture, and very existence. This grim legacy had been passed down for generations. Merith felt a deep, empathetic ache for them. Like anyone else, goblins craved autonomy and the freedom to practice their magic. Why did the wizarding world cling to such oppression? Was it fear—fear of goblins rising to power, or the crumbling of an ancient hierarchy?

Buttoning her deep rust velvet coat trimmed with ostrich feathers, Merith took a steadying breath and tucked the letter into her velvet purse, the soft fabric whispering around it.

Today was her allotted time to leave the castle, and although she usually avoided personal errands, mailing this letter felt urgent—especially to avoid the arduous trek across Hogwarts to the owlery—she had no desire to step foot in that stony, dung-stained tower again. Aesop had once pointed out the post office in Hogsmeade, and the thought of the village’s fresh air and lively streets appealed more than the stony tower.

Stepping into the crisp morning, her breath misted softly before her. She made her way to the stables on the castle’s edge. The door creaked open, releasing the sweet scent of hay and the soft murmurs of the Thestrals she had grown fond of. As she led the creatures out, she realized Mr. Moon was absent, likely busy with his endless castle duties.

A pang of guilt struck her—her Thestrals had been cooped up far too long. So she chose a longer, scenic route to Hogsmeade rather than the direct path. The wind rushed across her face, the sunbathing them in gentle warmth as they soared above the castle grounds, casting shifting shadows below. 

Gently guiding the Thestrals down near the train station—a quiet corner where the ancient Hogwarts trains sat dormant during the holidays—she landed with soft, practiced grace. To most passersby, the skeletal creatures with their dragon-like faces, dark and ghostly, and their white, glittering eyes hollow and pupil-less, remained unseen—visible only to those who had borne witness to death. She wasn’t sure if those rare few who noticed them were unsettled by their eerie presence or simply distracted by the rhythmic clatter of the carriage wheels against the cobblestones.

The fresh air and quiet streets of Hogsmeade lifted her spirits. The village felt peaceful, a welcome contrast to her restless mind. An elderly man tended a small garden, coaxing blooms into the sunlight, while families strolled by with arms full of brightly wrapped parcels. Laughter and chatter filled the crisp air.

Among the crowd, an elderly woman caught her eye—her flamboyant hat festooned with feathers and ribbons stood out amid the muted winter tones. A flustered house-elf scurried behind, struggling under a teetering stack of parcels. Merith quietly cast a charm, steadying the elf’s load. Their eyes met, wide with surprise and gratitude. In that fleeting gaze, an unspoken understanding passed between them.

Approaching the Post Office, its quaint facade belied the bustle within. Two to three hundred owls perched in towering cages above the entrance, their sharp eyes tracking her entrance. Inside, wooden shelves overflowed with letters and parcels, while the cooing of owls mingled with the rustle of parchment in a cozy, chaotic symphony.

Merith approached the warped wooden counter, its bronze bars twisting elegantly. Setting her letter down carefully, she tried to avoid disturbing the clutter—only to find a mouse-haired witch scribbling furiously, oblivious to her arrival.

Clearing her throat softly, Merith startled the witch, who sent her quill spinning into the air, leaving a blot of ink on her parchment. “Oh! I didn’t see you there,” the witch exclaimed, startled. “What can I do for you, dear?” Her tone was a mix of alarm and mild irritation as she scrambled to reorganize her papers.

“I’m here to send a letter,” Merith said with gentle patience, tapping the envelope lightly. “I need your fastest owl.”

“That’ll cost extra,” the witch muttered, ink-stained fingers curling possessively around the letter like a nuisance.

“That’s fine,” Merith replied firmly, eager to finish.

As she handed it over, the witch’s eyes flicked to the corner of the envelope, where Merith’s name was neatly inscribed. “Merith Vulchanova?” she murmured, brows knitting. “That name rings a bell…”

“Unlikely,” Merith said, voice trailing as the witch disappeared into the back room, leaving her surrounded by fluttering owls and scattered parcels.

Moments later, the witch returned, a folded letter waving like a flag above her head. “This arrived yesterday,” she said urgently. “I didn’t recognize the name, so I set it aside.” Sliding the letter toward Merith, she eyed her curiously.

Merith stared at the envelope, heart quickening. No return address. Only her name scrawled hastily across the front. Her fingers trembled as she reached for it, imagination racing.

“We have a Great Horned Owl, fastest in the lineup,” the witch continued briskly, breaking her reverie. “But it’ll cost you.”

Merith dropped several shiny coins onto the counter, the clink echoing. “Keep the change,” she said without looking away from the mysterious letter.

Turning to leave, Merith nearly collided with a familiar figure—Sirona, the warm-hearted barmaid and proprietor of the Three Broomsticks. Sirona’s smile was like a sudden ray of sunlight amid the Post Office’s chaos.

“Ah, Merith! How lovely to see you!” Sirona exclaimed, her vibrant presence filling the space.

“Just a moment,” she said, holding up a finger as she set a strangely shaped package on the counter and exchanged a warm smile with the witch. The tension in Merith’s stomach tightened, her foot tapping anxiously as the owls’ raucous calls echoed overhead. With a quick glance at the package, curiosity blossomed, but she slipped the mysterious letter into her velvet purse.

When the brief exchange finished, Merith opened the door for Sirona, who thanked her with a bright smile that warmed Merith’s lingering nerves.

“What brings you to town?” Sirona asked once outside, her breath mingling with the crisp air.

“Just some post,” Merith answered, glancing toward the busy street. “Don’t they have an owlery at Hogwarts?”

“They do," Merith replied, “but you don’t have an owl yet?”

Merith’s cheeks warmed. “Not yet,” she admitted.

Sirona’s face softened. “I feel as though I should apologize to you,” she said suddenly, and Merith turned, surprised.

“Whatever for?” she asked, a light laugh escaping her lips, surprised by the earnestness in Sirona’s tone.

“When you and your father visited—I fear I may have overstepped. I mentioned Aesop…”

“Sirona, it’s fine,” Merith interrupted gently. “No harm done.” But Sirona’s worried eyes suggested otherwise.

Merith sighed, unsure how much to reveal. “Let’s just say a recent engagement ended badly. It’s rather complicated business.”

Sensing the conversation had reached a close, Sirona shifted cheerfully. “Well, in any case, let’s have a drink—my treat, of course!” she suggested cheerfully, gesturing toward the familiar outline of the Three Broomsticks, its trademark large barrels nearly beckoning them.

Merith smiled, feeling the weight in her chest lighten. “That sounds perfect.”

Inside the cozy pub, the rich aromas of roasted meat and spiced cider wrapped around them like a comforting blanket. Another bartender tended the counter, while Sirona moved behind it with practiced ease, expertly preparing their drinks. Merith settled into a small round table near the fire’s inviting crackle. The flames danced and flickered, casting playful shadows on the wooden beams above.

Moments later, Sirona approached, balancing two glasses with a flourish. “Here you are!” she said warmly, setting them down gently.

“Thank you, Sirona,” Merith replied, taking a hearty sip of the rum-spiked concoction that immediately spread warmth through her chest.

“So, how do you find life at Hogwarts?” Sirona asked, taking a sip of her own drink, her eyes sparkling with genuine curiosity.

Merith leaned back, letting the pub’s lively chatter and laughter wash over her. “It’s… different than I expected,” she admitted softly.

“Where did you study before? Koldovstoretz, perhaps?” Sirona prodded with a teasing smile. “Is it true they play Quidditch on uprooted trees instead of broomsticks?”

Merith laughed, shaking her head. “I couldn’t say—I attended Durmstrang.”

“Oh… that’s unexpected. I was under the impression they only admitted young wizards,” Sirona said, leaning in with intrigued eyes.

“Well, my father is the headmaster,” Merith confessed, a faint blush coloring her cheeks, as if needing to defend her place.

“Oh my… Aren’t you full of surprises?” Sirona quirked a brow, levitating a metal pitcher toward them and refilling their cups with a playful grin. “Do tell me more—I’d love to hear about your experiences there.”

Their conversation flowed easily as they swapped stories about their schools. Sirona recounted her Hogwarts days with pride—wearing Ravenclaw colors and playing seeker for three years—before eventually taking over the Three Broomsticks after the previous owner passed. Her tenure was marked by a string of unforgettable, if sometimes chaotic, adventures.

“Well, it’s been quite eventful since I took over. Just last year, a troll rampaged through Hogsmeade, nearly destroying everything in its path,” she said, shaking her head at the memory, eyes wide.

“A troll in Hogsmeade? You mean the one William Wexley took down?” Merith asked eagerly, eyes lighting up at the mention of the wizard she’d taken under her wing.

“Yes indeed! His brave deeds are still the talk of the village,” Sirona said, amusement twinkling in her gaze.

“Actually, he told me the story himself,” Merith smiled, remembering William’s earnest enthusiasm.

“Oh?” Sirona’s brows knit in curiosity as she leaned closer. “I haven’t seen him in ages. He’s quite the local celebrity. A peculiar lad, very kind-hearted. Once he even ventured into Horklump Hollow to retrieve some of my belongings. Can you imagine? With trolls rumored to lurk in those caves! Had I known, I never would have sent him,” she added, hands raised defensively, genuine concern etched on her face.

Merith chuckled softly. “I can believe it. From what I gather, William has a knack for finding trouble all on his own.”

She drained her glass and stood, buttoning her coat with quiet resolve. “Thank you, Sirona—for the drink and the insightful conversation.”

“Oh, already?” Sirona teased, a playful lilt in her voice. “I haven’t even asked about your outing with Aesop!”

Merith smiled, a small warmth blooming despite the flutter in her chest. “It was just a friendly meeting,” she said, hoping to steer the conversation clear of any romantic implications. Sirona’s mischievous eyes narrowed knowingly.

“I’ll accept that for now—on one condition: you must come to our New Year’s Eve celebration,” Sirona countered, raising a brow.

Merith chuckled softly, already resolved to attend despite her gown still being made. “I wouldn’t dream of missing it.”

Chapter Text

Merith awoke that morning from a dream markedly different from those of previous nights. This one had been shrouded in clouds and smoke—an uncertain landscape where she struggled to navigate through the thick haze. Stretching her arms out, she strained for clarity, only to catch sight of her hands: cool and grey, like stone.

As she wandered through the misty expanse, something massive loomed just beyond her reach, its silhouette barely distinguishable beneath the fog. Curiosity, like a persistent whisper in the back of her mind, urged her to draw closer. Tentatively, she reached out, her fingers brushing against the cool, textured surface hidden beneath the ethereal veil of mist.

The texture intrigued her—an engaging clash of rough and smooth that sharply contrasted with the damp chill surrounding her. She traced the contours with her fingertips, feeling deep grooves etched into the surface, as if an unseen artist had meticulously carved each scale over countless ages.

With every inch she moved along its length, she sensed subtle undulations beneath her touch, echoing a latent strength contained within. Running her fingers along what appeared to be wings, she felt an abrupt transition from finely detailed scales to broader, rugged edges, suggesting that this presence was expansive and poised for flight at any moment.

Leaning in closer, she pressed her ear against the cool stone. To her astonishment, she felt a rhythmic pulse—alive in a way that defied comprehension. It sent shivers crawling down her spine, igniting a tumultuous mix of fear and fascination. Pulling back slightly, her heart raced as she contemplated the potent being she had encountered, blissfully unaware of the mythical creature she actually touched.

Suddenly, the creature’s golden eyes snapped open, and a gasp escaped her lips as she stumbled backward in shock. The dragon stretched and rose, clinking and crunching as it lifted its stone body tall, the mist gradually dissipating until the majestic creature revealed itself in full glory. Not merely any dragon, but the legendary guardian of the Sleeping Dragon Statue.

Smoke billowed from its nostrils as it reared its head, and she could feel the heat radiating from its immense form. In that moment, clarity struck her: she was the knight in the stone carving.

Her body remained still as the dragon opened its cavernous mouth. A deep, thunderous rumble erupted from within, and she could do nothing but witness its awakening. Flames began to spark, glowing fiercely as they grew in intensity. She closed her eyes gently, surrendering to the fiery wave barreling toward her, feeling the heat enveloping her skin like an embrace.

Yet when she awoke, the morning light had crept into her room, and she found herself neither feverishly sweaty nor panicking, as was often the case after such vivid dreams.

Shortly after that tumultuous awakening, Merith sauntered into the Great Hall. Breakfast was already served, and she belatedly realized she had slept in. Rubbing her eyes, she noted a strange juxtaposition: despite feeling well-rested, her head swam with a sense of dazed restlessness. The dream lingered—unusual and vivid—and although it had felt like a nightmare at first, she’d felt no fear facing that dragon, nor as it engulfed her in its flames.

It was a sense of familiarity, as if she understood its touch, its knowing gaze. 

At the Gryffindor table, she spotted Mudiwa Onai, the divination professor, seated alongside Astor Pugs and Professor Ronen. Their presence provided her a warm sense of routine, an anchor amid her swirling thoughts.

“Good morning, Merith! I believe something has arrived for you,” Professor Ronen’s voice broke her reverie as he handed her a large, dark purple box topped with a dark crimson ribbon. He eyed it curiously. “It was carried by two owls,” he added, an eyebrow raised with intrigue.

“Ah, it’s a gown,” she acknowledged, forestalling further questions. “For New Year’s,” she continued, a small smile forming on her lips.

“How delightful! Will you be celebrating then?” Professor Ronen beamed, a twinkle in his eye.

“Well, it is my evening off, and it would be a shame to let a new dress go to waste,” she replied, gently placing the box on her lap as she settled into her seat. The rich, velvety fabric of the ostentatious bow felt luxurious against her fingertips, each sweep igniting a surge of anticipation as she imagined how the gown would drape over her skin.

Mudiwa, however, looked weary. “Are you attending a special gathering? Word is the upper-year students are planning something extravagant for New Year’s Eve. I’ve heard whispers of fireworks and perhaps some other… disruptions.” Her eyes narrowed as she considered the implications.

Merith glanced up, her eyes dancing with mischief. “I might’ve heard that too,” she admitted. “Yes, I’ve been told that the Three Broomsticks will be the place to be.”

Mudiwa scowled lightly, while Professor Ronen clapped his hands together, delight glimmering in his eyes. “How splendid!”

After breakfast, Merith approached Mudiwa’s classroom, softly knocking before entering. The divination professor sat at her desk, her quill moving gracefully across parchment with the fluidity of wandless magic. Merith marveled at the skill; she hadn’t witnessed anyone besides herself using wandless magic since she left home, and a small comfort flowed through her.

“Hello, Mudiwa. I’m sorry to interrupt. Do you have a moment?” Merith asked, stepping fully into the room.

“Of course! Come in, come in! Here, take a seat,” Mudiwa beckoned, patting the velvet cushioned chair beside her. Merith obliged, gently closing the door behind her.

“I hope I didn’t catch you in the midst of something terribly important,” Merith said politely as she settled beside Mudiwa, who set down her quill and fixed a warm gaze upon her.

“Not at all. Just making notations.” Mudiwa gestured toward the crystal ball before them. Merith peered into its depths—an empty void that nevertheless held an air of expectation. “I was hoping to receive your opinion on something. I never had the chance to study divination in my youth, as it wasn’t part of Durmstrang’s curricula. However, I hold great respect for the practice—my aunt was a remarkably gifted seer,” she explained, hoping to gain favor.

“Merith, it’s quite alright. What can I assist you with?” Mudiwa smiled, reaching out to pat Merith gently on the hand, her warmth radiating kindness.

“I've been having dreams... vivid ones. They’re always different, yet the feeling remains consistent when I awaken.” She hesitated, looking at her hands, struggling to meet Mudiwa’s gaze. “Last night, I dreamt I was the knight within the Sleeping Dragon statue in the Bell Tower. We were both made of stone. I awakened it—quite literally ‘tickling the sleeping dragon’ as I searched through a heavy mist until I found it, grazing its scales with my hands.”

Merith paused, steadying herself with a shaky breath before continuing, “It awoke, and then… it opened its mouth and breathed fire upon me. I couldn’t move, yet I felt no fear. What could that mean? Do you think it is related to what you foresaw in the tea leaves?” She finally lifted her gaze, locking eyes with Mudiwa, whose warm expression had shifted slightly, her brows knitting in concern.

Mudiwa took a moment to contemplate. “The dragon represents duality, as I have told you before. On one hand, it symbolizes inner strength and the courage to navigate life’s challenges. On the other, it embodies the deepest fears and anxieties lurking in the shadows of our subconscious.”

Understanding the weight of those words, Mudiwa sensed Merith’s anxiety and whisked over a steaming pot of tea, pouring with smooth precision. “This is Honeybush tea,” she said softly, placing a delicate cup and saucer in Merith’s hands. “Wonderful for its calming properties.”

Merith took a cautious sip of the tea, warmth spreading through her. “Please continue,” she encouraged.

“Confronting the dragon is often a call to acknowledge your shadow self—your pain—and to unite the pieces which remain broken.” Mudiwa sighed, placing her cup down gently, her expression thoughtful.

“If the dream is dark or otherwise, it sheds light on the dreamer, alerting them to threats that may be close to harm. Unfortunately, the dragon often lingers so deeply in the unconscious realm of the dreamer.”

“What do you mean, ‘deeply unconscious’?” Merith questioned, confused.

“The dragon often warns of danger near the heart. We ourselves can be the underlying source of that danger or inadvertently enable it to emerge and consume us whole, despite our better judgment.”

Merith’s heart thumped rapidly as her mind raced with the implications. ‘Close to the heart,’ she thought. Was it responding to Aric’s betrayal, the looming war, or something more personal? The ambiguity of these prophecies always confounded her.

“Thank you, Mudiwa. This has been enlightening,” she said lightly as she rose, hoping to escape the intensity of introspection. “And the tea is wonderful,” she added dismissively, trying to slip away from the heaviness that threatened to engulf her.

“Merith,” Mudiwa called as she descended several steps toward the door. Merith turned back, catching the professor’s kind eyes. “I cannot tell you what you must do, but I assure you that once you confront this darkness and slay the dragon, your life will not only feel complete but will hold profound meaning.”

Merith smiled sadly at her, the gravity of the moment weighing heavily. “But what if I don’t wish to slay the dragon?”

Mudiwa shook her head gently, meeting Merith's gaze with a knowing smile. “Well, that will be entirely up to you.”

Chapter Text

Merith stood before the ornate vanity in the washroom, the unopened box resting on her quilted bed behind her, a tantalizing secret waiting to be uncovered. Her hair was styled in an intricate arrangement, twisted strands framing her face while the rest cascaded down in verdant curls. A delicate velvet bow, its deep hue mirroring the shadows in her eyes, was artfully fastened to the side of her coiffure.

With quiet determination, Merith began to untie the ribbons binding the bow. With gentle care, she lifted the gown from the box, watching as the intricately designed garment unfurled like a delicate flower. The gown's dark silk neckline framed her shoulders beautifully, contrasting strikingly with the cream satin that adorned the bodice, flowing into a sweeping train. The back of the dress was a masterful finish, with a seamless transition from bodice to cascading skirt.

Draping the gown over her laced corset and stiff petticoat, she made sure the undergarments were artfully concealed beneath its sheath-like exterior. The creamy ribbon trim peeking out added a touch of whimsy to the overall design. Merith then turned her attention to the lacing at the back of the dress, deftly weaving the ribbons together while watching her reflection in the mirror. With each gentle tug, the fabric embraced her figure, molding itself with an elegant intimacy that felt both delicate and empowering. As the final knot was secured, she stepped back, marveling at the transformation that had taken place. The gown had unveiled a new version of herself—subtle yet striking.

The sensation of donning such a modern and daring creation filled her with delight.

Descending the grand staircase of Hogwarts, Merith stepped into the warm glow of flickering candles that danced across the ancient stone walls. Each footfall echoed softly, a rhythmic reminder of how late she was. Clutching her cloak tightly, her heart raced with a mixture of excitement and nerves about the evening ahead.

At the bottom of the stairs stood Aesop Sharp, his scholarly gaze fixated on a pocketbook he was poring over, perhaps preparing for a lecture on potion-making or jotting observations from his latest experiments. When he finally looked up, their eyes met, and for a brief moment, his expression shifted from concentration to genuine surprise.

As she reached the bottom step, Aesop stepped closer, taking her hand with the familiar formality typical of him. He momentarily seemed at a loss for words, his piercing gaze lingering appreciatively on the gown she wore—the very one he had advised her to choose, a brilliant balance of deep black and soft cream.

“Merith,” he began, his voice steady yet warm, “you look utterly enchanting this evening. The dress suits you perfectly—a true reflection of your elegance.” His tone was sincere, devoid of the usual sarcasm, as he acknowledged the thought he had put into her color choices.

A smile flitted across her lips as she absorbed his praise. “Thank you, Aesop. I suppose I owe you some credit for my glow this evening, considering your impeccable sense of color—or should I say, your keen eye for what would suit me?”

Aesop regarded her with a slight, amused smirk. “I merely sought to offer guidance; the real artistry lies within you, of course. Though I must admit, a drab choice on your part would have been an unfortunate oversight.”

Merith chuckled, almost retorting playfully about his penchant for finding fault in the most mundane matters, but Aesop moved to assist her with her cloak. His movements were careful and precise. As he helped her put it on, she couldn’t help but notice the ensemble he had chosen for the occasion. He wore well-fitted black wool trousers, a tailored waistcoat, and a matching tuxedo jacket, striking a balance between stylish and understated.

“Quite the effort you’ve made for yourself, Aesop,” she remarked, admiration dancing in her eyes. “You’ve obviously put thought into your appearance.”

He adjusted the cuffs of his jacket, a slight flush creeping to his cheeks, but he maintained his composure. “I thought it prudent to make a favorable impression this evening, considering the company. It was a slight ordeal, to say the least, but necessary.”

“Prudent, indeed,” she replied, her teasing tone evident. “Just know that I may not offer any fashion advice should you seek it.”

Aesop's reserved demeanor softened into a reluctant smile. “I wouldn’t wish to burden you with my ineptitude in such matters. Perhaps I shall take a leaf from your book for future endeavors.”

As Merith and Aesop stepped out of Hogwarts and onto the winding path toward Hogsmeade, they were greeted by a splendid evening. The moon hung high, casting a gentle silver glow over the landscape, illuminating the frosted ground beneath their feet. The frost crunched pleasantly underfoot, a welcome change from the slushy conditions that had turned their outdoor wanderings into a minor adventure. Each step felt invigorating, and Merith found herself momentarily distracted by the twinkling stars above.

“You know, Merith,” Aesop began, his tone infused with his usual stoic edge yet softened by the night’s enchantment, “it’s a lovely evening for a walk. The air feels crisp and invigorating, almost beckoning us forward.” He stretched out his leg, the charm she had applied earlier working its magic, allowing him to nearly forget the discomfort that had plagued him.

“Indeed, Aesop,” she replied, matching his pace as they strolled side by side. “It’s rather splendid, isn’t it? I daresay I could grow quite fond of these moonlit walks, especially if they allow me to spend time with you instead of being confined to a classroom.”

He arched an eyebrow, a flicker of droll wit sparking in his eyes. “I must admit, I’m enjoying it as well, though I certainly didn’t anticipate moonlit strolls becoming part of my academic pursuits.”

As they walked, the enchanting landscape gradually transformed. The soft sounds of laughter and music drifted toward them, mingling with the crisp night air. They approached the bustling streets of Hogsmeade, alive with energy as the festive spirit of the New Year descended upon the village. Small groups of students and villagers mingled, their faces flushed with excitement as they welcomed 1892 with delighted revelry.

As they approached the Three Broomsticks, the comforting sounds of music enveloped them. A lively band played nearby, the notes floating through the air like fireflies, instilling a joyous feeling that was impossible to resist. Merith felt the rhythm pulse within her, an infectious energy making her heart race with anticipation.

Walking through the entrance of the Three Broomsticks, they were met by exhilarated patrons. A gaggle of gentlemen in dark overcoats puffed on cigars and pipes at the entrance, clearing a path with courteous gestures and tipping their hats as Merith and Aesop pushed through the large wooden doors. Immediately, they were enveloped in the vibrant energy of the establishment. The air was thick with the rich scents of spiced cider and roasted nuts, mingling with laughter and chatter among a multitude of witches and wizards gathered to celebrate the New Year. Warm candlelight flickered around the room, creating a cozy glow that felt inviting yet chaotic.

Merith gazed around in awe, her excitement palpable. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” she exclaimed, wide-eyed as she took in the festive decorations and the array of people celebrating around them. Couples danced to a lively rendition of "You'll Miss Lots of Fun When You're Married," sung enthusiastically by a group of younger men clad in bright attire, while enchanted string, brass, and woodwind instruments played in joyful unison.

Aesop, however, stood slightly apart, his erudite demeanor making him seem a touch out of place amid the hustle and bustle. A shiver ran through him, betraying his self-consciousness in the exciting crowd. “It’s certainly… spirited,” he replied dryly, his voice nearly drowned out by the din. He hastily began assisting Merith with her cloak, folding it carefully before handing it to a nearby attendant. “It has been quite some time since I’ve had the opportunity to attend a gathering like this. I confess, I find myself a bit out of practice.”

Merith smiled reassuringly, placing a hand softly on his arm. “You’re doing just fine. Just stay close to me; I promise you won’t get lost in the crowd.”

But as they ventured further into the bustling room, Merith was suddenly jostled by a rather large gentleman with a pipe between his lips, who elbowed his way through the throng without a glance. She stumbled, quickly finding her balance as Aesop instinctively wrapped his arms around her, steadying her in an embrace that was surprisingly intimate.

“Ah, forgive me, fair lady,” he quipped, a playful smirk breaking through his usual composure. “It seems you’ve already found yourself in quite the dance, and we haven’t even ordered our drinks yet.”

Merith couldn't help but laugh, her earlier nerves melting away like morning mist. “I suppose I should be grateful for your sturdy presence,” she replied playfully, feeling lighthearted in his company.

With that, Aesop excused himself to the bar, navigating through the crowd with unexpected ease. Merith watched him go, admiring his quiet strength and the way he commanded the space around him. As she stood aside, she allowed herself to soak in the atmosphere, feeling a sense of belonging in this lively, vibrant environment.

She found herself enjoying the antics of a particularly inebriated couple, where the gentleman swung his partner around clumsily, both laughing heartily at their shared silliness.

Her people-watching was interrupted by an unknown man who approached her, eyes gleaming with bravado. “Well, aren’t you a vision tonight? Mind if I steal a moment of your time for a dance? The night is young, after all.”

Merith raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering within her. “Oh, I’m afraid my dance card is rather full,” she replied politely, though her genuine smile faltered just enough to convey her discomfort.

“Oh, come now, don’t be shy. Just one quick dance,” he persisted, clearly not catching her hint.

Before she could respond, Aesop returned with two drinks in hand, seemingly oblivious to the interaction that had taken place. He approached with a steady gait, then suddenly halted, his expression shifting as he registered the gentleman’s advances.

“Ah, I see you’ve welcomed an admirer, Merith,” Aesop said, a sharper edge creeping into his voice. “I must commend your tenacity, sir. It takes a bold individual to approach her under the watchful eyes of discerning company—who, I might add, would surely prefer to remain elusive rather than be a mere footnote in tonight's festivities.”

The man stumbled over his words, taken aback by Aesop’s serious tone and the challenge lingering in his words as he backed away sheepishly.

Once the gentleman had retreated, Aesop turned to Merith with a hint of relief in his gaze. “I sincerely hope I didn’t come across as too forward,” he said, setting one drink down before her. “But I found his lack of discretion in your presence rather irritating.”

Merith smiled, a teasing glint in her eyes. "Pray tell, Aesop, do I detect a twinge of jealousy in your tone? I must admit, I never pictured you as someone prone to such sentiments."

To her surprise, Aesop met her gaze steadily, a hint of seriousness clouding the warmth in his expression. “Perhaps I am,” he replied without hesitation, a rare vulnerability slipping through his usual composure. “I just… don’t take kindly to those who disregard the value of an engaging conversation in favor of mere flattery.”

Merith blinked, momentarily taken aback by his forthrightness. She was accustomed to clever repartee, moments that danced between banter and charm, yet this was different. Aesop’s honesty was disarmingly refreshing, and the intensity of his words rendered her speechless for a brief second.

“Well, um…” she stammered, searching for a witty retort but finding it elusive. A flush crept up her cheeks as she realized he was indeed jealous, igniting a thrilling blend of excitement and confusion within her. "I must confess, I did not foresee you uttering such a remark. Surely a true gentleman ought to adhere to the conventions of polite society, would you not agree?"

Aesop raised an eyebrow slightly, a ghost of a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. “And what are those rules? To smile and accept attention from every charmer that wanders by?”

Merith smirked; the playful nature of their exchange returned as she regained her footing. “Touché. But I would wager that a true gentleman would also know when to step in and ensure that the lady in question is enjoying the company she chooses."

His teasing smile widened, and warmth spread through her in response. “Then I suppose I’m merely ensuring that your choice remains a worthy one,” he said, his voice low and sincere.

Merith couldn’t help but grin, charmed by his straightforwardness. “Well then, in that case, I suppose I’ll have to keep you around,” she replied, her tone playful. With that, she nudged him lightly, feeling the night wrapping around them in a cocoon of camaraderie and promise.

Their banter was abruptly interrupted by a bubbly Mirabel Garlick, who appeared to have indulged a little too much in gigglewater. “Oh, Merith, and Aesop! What a lovely surprise!” Mirabel giggled, her voice bright. She embraced Merith around the waist, squeezing her affectionately— which felt mildly constricting but endearing.

Merith grasped Mirabel’s hands, gently prying them free. “Happy New Year, Mirabel! I’m glad to see you in good spirits,” she said, laughter threading through her tone as she squeezed the woman's hands.

“Oh Merlin, and your dress—it’s stunning! I would have loved to borrow it, if I weren’t so short!” Mirabel pouted—a true observation, for Merith towered over her by nearly a head.

“I’m sure I can cast some charms to remedy that!” Merith assured, receiving a radiant smile from Mirabel, who clasped her hands together.

“Could you truly do that? How wonderful!” she squealed, her eyes lighting up like a child’s. Merith laughed at Mirabel’s delight while glancing at Aesop, whose expression bore mild amusement as he watched the pair of women chatter, sipping from the drink in his grasp.

“Have you seen our gracious host?” Merith questioned, wiggling her grasp from Mirabel as she tilted her chin up to survey the crowd.

“Oh, I’m afraid I lost her! I haven’t seen her since we danced the two-step!” Mirabel lamented. “Sirona is such a lovely dancer,” she mused dreamily, swaying slightly to the background music.

“How have your holidays been, Mirabel? Did you have a pleasant visit to London?” Merith inquired, eager to hear about her colleague's adventures—the conversation flowed easily as they moved between topics, despite Mirabel’s somewhat disorganized drunkenness.

“Talking about me, are we?” Sirona appeared behind Mirabel, a butterbeer in hand, likely indulging her friend to keep her alert through the celebration while offering refreshments to Merith and Aesop.

"Only good things," Merith assured, smiling kindly at Sirona. “Thank you for having us tonight, Sirona.” Aesop contributed unexpectedly, sending surprised glances from the women in his direction.

"Oh, you're quite welcome, Aesop!" Sirona replied, her tone infused with warmth and a hint of mirth. The conversation flowed easily from there, and Sirona launched into a discussion about the challenges she faced with Chomperbugs, pesky pests that had been wreaking havoc on crops, including her prized barley and wheat. Mirabel leaned in closer, her breath whispering across Merith's ear as she asked, "So, have you been enjoying your winter break?"

Her tone carried a subtle suggestion, and her gaze flicked in Aesop's direction, where he was still engrossed in conversation with Sirona. The atmosphere was convivial, warm light casting a sense of comfort around them.

“Yes, quite. Nothing terribly strenuous or eventful,” Merith said easily, mindful of the implications beneath Mirabel’s words.

“Oh, don’t tease me so, Merith! What is going on between you and Shar—Aesop?” Mirabel corrected herself, her voice fervent as her wide eyes brimmed with curiosity.

“There’s nothing to tell, Mirabel,” Merith shrugged, casting a sidelong glance at Aesop, who met her gaze with a small smile that hid the underlying intensity of the moment.

Mirabel scrutinized her watchfully, having witnessed their earlier exchange. “Well, that may be the case… for now.” A giggle erupted from Mirabel again, prompting Merith to shake her head in amusement.

The conversation shifted into Mirabel and Sirona discussing holiday escapades, discussing plans for the weekend before Mirabel returned to Hogwarts—Merith and Aesop quietly observing until the band took a break, allowing other patrons to gather around the bar and by the fireplace to warm themselves.

“Would you care to dance?” Aesop suggested, his voice wavering between seriousness and lightness, a challenge sparking in his eyes as he gestured toward an open space where couples twirled with abandon.

Merith beamed, surprise and amusement evident in her laughter. “Dance? You, Professor? I must say, that would be an intriguing sight.”

"Ah, I assure you, I'm quite skilled—well, at least in the theoretical sense," he replied, adopting an exaggerated air of confidence. "Regardless, I find it a tragedy to let a good evening go to waste by resisting New Year's traditions. Besides, my leg feels much improved, thanks to your clever charms." He extended his hand to her, waiting expectantly.

Merith hesitated, caught off guard by the sincerity of his offer and the warmth in his gaze. The surroundings radiated with vibrant energy, an ideal backdrop for moments like this where possibilities bloomed like stars in the night sky.

Finally, with a playful smirk, she took Aesop’s hand, feeling an electric spark at the touch. “Very well, Professor Sharp. Lead the way!”

Aesop guided her to the makeshift dance floor, where others swirled and spun, shedding their inhibitions beneath the joyful atmosphere. As they joined the circle, Aesop’s earlier timidity appeared to vanish, replaced by newfound confidence that sparked a flutter within Merith.

He positioned himself beside her, posture unexpectedly light as he matched the music’s rhythm. “You know, I’ve always found the art of dance to be quite similar to potion-making,” he said, his brow furrowing slightly as he concentrated. “You must measure—”

“—and mix,” he continued, taking a step in time with a twirl.

“Yes, I know, Aesop! But with less risk of a fiery explosion in the process,” she quipped.

He chuckled—a genuine sound that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Precisely! Unless, of course, one makes mistakes on the dance floor, in which case one can expect… potentially catastrophic outcomes.”

As the music quickened, they moved with unexpected grace. Aesop was surprisingly nimble, dictating the rhythm with a careful precision that made it easy for Merith to follow. In that moment, the uncertainty clouding their relationship faded into mere background noise, drowned out by the laughter and music. She surrendered to joy, twirling under his nimble guidance, the silk of her gown swirling about her like a living entity.

“What are you doing?” she teased playfully as he spun her with more confidence than she expected.

“Creating a delightful spectacle,” he proclaimed with mock seriousness, matching her laughter with a gleam in his eye. “Or at minimum, providing the audience some entertainment.”

Merith laughed again, her heart racing to the music’s beat. She had forgotten how liberating it felt to dance—to lose oneself in the rhythm and a moment. And dancing with Aesop? That was something she hadn’t dared to imagine.

Suddenly, the music shifted to a slower, mellower tune, and Aesop gently pulled her closer, eschewing the carefree twirling for something more intimate. “May I?” he asked, the question lingering in the air like a soft whisper.

“Of course,” she nodded, warmth flooding through her as they settled into one another. His arms encircled her waist, pulling her nearer, swaying gently as the world around them faded away. It was just the two of them, the flickering flames casting a warm glow that illuminated the connection blossoming between them.

“I was beginning to think you never knew how to let loose,” she mused, her forehead nearly touching his as they swayed.

He chuckled softly, his breath warming her cheek. “Contrary to popular belief, I can indeed indulge on occasion. Though I admit, it’s far more enjoyable when I’m in your company.”

His sincerity caught her off guard, and suddenly the space between them felt charged with undeniable energy. It was exhilarating yet frightening—a moment suspended in time.

“Tell me, Aesop,” she said quietly, searching his eyes, “are you always such a gentleman, or is this a new development?”

A faint blush colored his cheeks as he cleared his throat, the usual scholarly facade wavering under the night’s spell. “Perhaps it is a new development, inspired by the enchanting company I happen to find myself in,” he replied, keeping the tone light but sincere.

Merith’s heart thudded against her chest, heat rushing to her cheeks. “You do realize it’s going to be quite difficult for you to maintain this gentlemanly demeanor when we’re back in the classroom?”

He chuckled, warmth spilling from his voice. “Ah, but that’s the beauty of all this, isn’t it? These moments are fleeting—ephemeral. They remind us that we can rise beyond our usual roles, if only for a while.”

Though his words were thoughtful, an undercurrent of intensity flowed between them. In that moment—the world fading away, just the two of them dancing under the lights—Merith felt the undeniable connection deepen, an invisible thread growing stronger.

But as the last notes faded, reality began to creep back in, reminding her of responsibilities and expectations—her purpose at Hogwarts. Reluctantly, she stepped back, taking a deep breath as a tumult of emotions swirled within her.

"Shall we sit for a moment?" Aesop suggested, his voice gently cutting through the lively chatter of the dance floor, perhaps sensing the palpable shift in atmosphere.

“Undoubtedly,” she replied, a smile gracing her lips as she allowed him to lead her away from the bustling crowd toward a cozy nook beside the crackling fireplace. They settled into two wingback chairs, the flickering flames casting a warm glow that enveloped them like a comforting blanket, contrasting with the chilly evening air outside.

As they sat together, Merith couldn’t help but steal glances at Aesop. The way his dark hair fell slightly over his forehead, paired with the earnest expression that softened his usually stoic demeanor, ignited a flutter of anticipation within her. The subtle warmth from the fire melded with the warmth blossoming in her chest.

“Thank you for joining me tonight,” she said quietly, meeting his gaze with sincerity. “It’s been… refreshing. Much more than I anticipated.”

His expression shifted, seriousness returning like the solemn notes of a cherished symphony. “It has been a true delight for me as well, Merith. We’re not often given the luxury to step outside the walls of Hogwarts and simply be people instead of students or professors.”

“And what kind of person do you wish to be, Aesop?” she asked, her tone playful yet laced with curiosity, her eyes sparkling with intrigue.

He turned his head slightly, contemplating her question, the flickering firelight dancing across his features as he pondered the complexities of his identity. “One who engages in more than just potions and lectures. A person who dares to enjoy life as much as he studies it.”

As Aesop finished the last of his drink, he noticed his posture gradually relaxing, his rigid demeanor easing into something softer, almost carefree—the warmth of their conversation surrounding them.

Catching sight of Aesop’s surprisingly light demeanor, Merith decided to summon two drinks from the bar to replace their now-empty glasses.

“It’s hotter than a dragon’s breath on a summer afternoon!” she exclaimed, pushing her hair back from her shoulders. Aesop watched her movements intently, his gaze drifting momentarily to her collarbones before returning to the flickering flames.

“Indeed, the proximity to the hearth certainly accounts for the warmth in the room,” he replied, gesturing toward the fire with a hint of amusement.

“I think I shall take some air,” Merith said, fanning herself dramatically. Aesop rose beside her, his expression attentive. “Would you like company?” he asked.

“Well, perhaps I need a gentleman to fend off any unsavory characters,” she replied haughtily, taking his arm as they navigated through the throngs of revelers toward the entrance. Clusters of men stood outside, smoking pipes and engaging in lively conversation.

As they stepped outside, snow began to fall softly, transforming the world into a dazzling winter wonderland. The air was cold and invigorating, a refreshing contrast to the warmth of the Three Broomsticks. Merith inhaled deeply, shivers dancing across her skin in the crisp air.

“Ah, now this is more like it,” she sighed, tilting her head back to admire the delicate flakes twirling in the soft glow of nearby lanterns. “A proper evening in Hogsmeade, complete with light snowfall. It’s almost magical.”

Aesop surveyed the scene, a gentle smile playing on his lips. “It certainly has its charm. Though I do believe the magic lies more in the company than the scenery.” He turned to her, his gaze direct and warm, causing her heart to flutter in response.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, you know,” she teased lightly, unable to suppress the grin that spread across her face.

“Only if it’s deserved,” he countered, sincerity draining the lightness from his tone. The effect made heat creep into her cheeks once again.

Merith drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders, suddenly aware of the cold creeping into her clothes, but the warmth radiating from Aesop proved reassuring. The sounds of merriment from inside faded as they stood in the cooling air, and she took a moment to revel in the quiet beauty of the snow falling around them.

“You know,” she mused, “I think I shall remember this New Year best—when we’re not worrying about the next potion to brew or lecture to prepare.”

“I agree. Perhaps I should take notes on this,” Aesop quipped, a teasing smile returning to his lips. “A chapter on the unplanned joys of life.”

Merith laughed, her spirit lifting, feeling emboldened by the warmth of the moment. “You know, Aesop, we take life far too seriously sometimes. I appreciate that you’re allowing yourself a little levity tonight.”

“I must admit, it’s liberating,” he replied, his voice dropping slightly as their eyes met, creating a connection that shimmered like the snowflakes around them. “And entirely unexpected. Is this what you always do—revel in the moment?”

“Only when I’m with the right company,” she said softly, her gaze drifting back up toward the delicate flakes spiraling through the chilly air. “Speaking of unexpected—what if we took this adventure further? Beyond the Three Broomsticks, what else does Hogsmeade have to offer on a snowy night?”

Aesop raised an eyebrow, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “What do you have in mind?”

“Just down the street is the pond, and it looks serene right now. Imagine: a moonlit walk by the water, perhaps a snowball fight, or even ice skating if it’s frozen enough?” Her eyes sparkled with excitement.

Aesop raised an eyebrow, clearly apprehensive. “Are you suggesting I attempt to skate? I’m not sure my coordination extends to such a pursuit.”

“Oh, fret not! A misstep is merely part of life’s grand adventure. Besides, I shall be right there to offer my support. Let us discover what you are truly capable of!”

Taking her enthusiasm as encouragement, Aesop nodded slowly. “Alright, let’s venture to the lake, then. But if I do fall, it’s on your head!”

“It's a deal!” Merith exclaimed, her heart soaring as they began walking down the snowy path, the thrill of spontaneity racing through her veins.

The distance from the pub to the lake was filled with laughter and the promise of adventure. As they drew nearer, the moonlight bathed the pristine snow in a silvery glow, each step echoing warmth in the cool air. Merith could hardly believe how the boundaries between them began to dissolve—the evening’s escapade unspooling like a tapestry before her.

When they finally reached the lake, Aesop's excitement quickly tempered by the sight that greeted them. Much of the water remained unfrozen, glimmering faintly under the moonlight, with only patches of ice forming near the edges.

“Oh no, what a shame,” Aesop said, his voice laced with sarcasm as he surveyed the scene. "Skating on water that clearly desires to become a veritable swimming pool hardly aligns with my notion of leisurely enjoyment."

But Merith was unfazed by the open water and Aesop's commentary. “Worry not!” she replied cheerfully, her eyes sparkling with determination. With a swift flick of her wrist, she cast a Glacius charm, sending shimmering waves of frost cascading across the surface. The ice crackled and hissed as it rapidly firmed up, hardening beneath them into a glistening expanse.

“There! Good as new!” she declared triumphantly, flashing Aesop a grin that could thaw even the coldest of hearts.

Aesop raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. “You truly have a talent for making the impossible seem possible.”

“I'm glad you noticed!” she laughed, already stepping back onto the ice. “Now, come join me! The fun awaits!”

Merith’s laughter rang out across the frozen surface of the lake, her spirit liberated as she glided gracefully over the smooth ice. Each step ignited delightful exhilaration, the crisp winter air further fueling her enthusiasm. She felt as if she were a child again, carefree and filled with joy, her spirited movements a celebration of the magical night.

“Come along, Aesop! The ice is as fine as silk!” Merith called back, her voice playfully inviting him to join her in her frolic. She spun in delight, arms outstretched, inhaling the invigorating air as if it were the essence of freedom itself, completely oblivious to the pitted patch of ice that lay in wait.

As Merith glided closer, the pale moonlight danced across her face, illuminating the natural charm that radiated from her. "You're like a snowflake, Ms. Vulchanova," Aesop called out, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Delicate, yet free. One moment you're here, and the next, you might just melt."

Merith's laughter was music to Aesop's ears as she spun around, her feet moving in perfect harmony with her merriment. "Oh, I assure you, I won't melt!" she exclaimed, feigning a dramatic pose. "Besides, I've never been one for delicateness!" 

Just as Merith's foot touched a rough spot, she wobbled precariously, her balance faltering. Aesop's instincts kicked in, and he sprang into action, his hand closing around her wrist with a firm but gentle grip. Merith gasped, surprised by the sudden movement, but as her gaze met Aesop's, she felt a shiver run down her spine. The world around them melted away, leaving only the two of them suspended in a moment of pure connection.

Aesop's gaze was intense and almost possessive; the grip he held felt both grounding and electric. "Careful!" he admonished gently, though the corners of his mouth turned upward in a playful smile. "This ice can be quite capricious. One moment, you glide like a swan; the next, you might be the unwitting test subject for the lake's depths."

Merith's eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief as she breathed, "Perhaps I have a penchant for a touch of danger!" Her gaze was transfixed on Aesop's, drinking in the warmth and intensity radiating from him. As they shared the moment, an air of possibility enveloped them, an unspoken connection simmering just below the surface.

The pulsing music faded into the background, and the world around them vanished. It was just the two of them. "Merith," Aesop began, though she noticed the flicker of hesitation in his eyes. Taking a breath, she felt emboldened, her heart racing with anticipation.

"About our outing," Merith said softly, her voice laced with a hint of mischief. "I don't believe we need to stick to the rules and decorum, do we? Not when the world outside feels momentarily forgotten."

Aesop's brow furrowed as he processed her words, his mind racing through the protocols of propriety that had always guided his actions. Yet, somehow, in the warmth of their shared moment, that hesitance began to soften. The glimmering lights of the festivities surrounding them seemed to fade into a mere background, amplifying the enchanting bubble they were creating together.

"Perhaps we should," she suggested softly, leaning in slightly as her heart skipped a beat. Aesop's eyes sparkled with a hint of desire, and his breath quickened. As the atmosphere shifted, their faces began to inch closer. "Perhaps, Merith," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

The flickering flames danced in tandem with the swell of emotions between them, and Merith felt her heart drumming loudly in her chest. With a soft, inviting breath, she leaned in, her gaze locked on Aesop's lips, which parted ever-so-slightly with quiet expectation.

And then, in a spontaneous culmination of emotions, Merith closed the distance between them, capturing the moment with a soft, lingering kiss. Aesop's lips were warm and surprisingly gentle against hers, igniting a spark that reverberated through her very core.

As they broke apart, breathless and wide-eyed, the weight of the moment settled between them like a shared secret. The playful banter had transformed into uncharted territory, a new canvas of potential painted with bold strokes of a New Year's kiss.

Merith felt a flush spread across her cheeks, excitement and trepidation swirling within her. "Well," she managed to say, mischief dancing in her eyes, "that was decidedly unscientific, don't you think, Professor?" Aesop chuckled, his smile bright and filled with warmth.

"I believe it might be the most delightful experiment I've ever conducted," he replied, his eyes sparkling with amusement. Encouraged by his playfulness, Merith playfully nudged him, feeling an urge to continue this delightful new chapter.

"So, I wonder what other experiments you have planned for the evening?” she asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. Aesop leaned closer, his voice low and intimate. "No plans," he replied, setting down one drink before her. "Except to enjoy the rest of the night in your delightful company, and perhaps attempt to keep both our dancing and conversational skills sharp."

As midnight approached, the festive crowd began to cheer, their laughter mingling with the sound of crackling fireworks. Aesop's glance turned to the clock in the square, and Merith instinctively grasped his hand, their fingers intertwining.

"Ten... nine..." the crowd began to chant, anticipation swelling. Aesop's voice was barely above the noise as he murmured, "Remember, it's tradition to kiss someone at the stroke of midnight. I think that's an experience we should both eagerly partake in."

Merith's heart fluttered at his suggestion, and she couldn't help but smile, joy flooding her senses as the countdown escalated. "Three... two..." she whispered, her gaze locked on Aesop's lips, which parted ever-so-slightly with quiet expectation.

"And one!" The noise erupted around them, laughter and cheers mingling like a symphony of joy. Without hesitation, Merith captured Aesop's face, pulling him closer once more. As the magic of midnight washed over them like a spell, their lips met again, igniting a fervent kiss.

As they finally broke apart, the boisterous crowd continued to celebrate, fireworks sparkling in the darkened sky above, lighting the warmth of the moment—a moment that signified not just the start of another year, but a possible chapter unfolding for them both.

And just like that, amid the festive chaos of the New Year, they began dancing toward whatever the future might hold.

Chapter Text

As the festive excitement in Hogsmeade gradually faded, Merith and Aesop walked along the cobblestone path, their footsteps softly echoing in the stillness following the New Year celebrations. Merith couldn't shake the thought that their friend Mirabel would be wondering where they had gone, and her heart ached for a chance to exchange New Year's wishes with both Mirabel and Sirona before she and Aesop returned to Hogwarts. Their arms brushed comfortably against one another as they navigated the tranquil streets, the atmosphere enveloping them in warmth and ease.

Suddenly, a brisk gust of wind swept through the narrow lanes, causing her gown to flutter and a shiver to race down her spine. Instinctively, she drew closer to Aesop, seeking warmth and solace in his presence. While she could easily cast a warming charm, this moment felt special in its simplicity—some experiences didn't need magic to feel enchanting. Just then, she sensed something unfamiliar in the air, a fleeting reminder of something buried. Pausing, she glanced over her shoulder. A few revelers wandered by, laughter spilling into the night, yet nothing seemed amiss.

“Is everything alright?” Aesop asked, his voice slicing through the stillness as he noticed her momentary hesitation. Merith exhaled softly, managing a smile and a nod as they resumed their steps toward the bustling Three Broomsticks, though a whisper of unease lingered between them like an unwelcome shadow. Fortunately, as they approached the lively pub, the sound of laughter and lively chatter began to soothe her anxious thoughts. Patrons overflowed into the streets, some singing cheerfully, others sharing heartfelt farewells to the past year.

“Well, let’s say our goodbyes and head back to the castle,” Merith suggested, her voice melding with the jubilant noise around them. Aesop chuckled at her decision.

“Yes, let’s do that,” he mused, guiding her through the door of the bustling Three Broomsticks. The warmth and laughter enveloped them; a medley of voices mingled with the clinking of glasses and the enticing aroma of freshly brewed butterbeer. Merith scanned the room and quickly spotted Mirabel and Sirona, their laughter ringing out like a welcome melody as they energetically refilled their drinks, clearly determined to extend the festive spirit of the evening.

“My goodness, there you two are! I’m afraid you’ve missed the countdown into the New Year!” Sirona exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with mischief. There was no offense in her tone, only a playful understanding, as if she sensed the unspoken connection between Merith and Aesop. Mirabel swayed slightly, her delight evident as she processed their arrival.

“Oh, Merith! There you are! Join us for another drink! The night is still young!” Mirabel urged, playfully tugging at the sleeve of Merith’s cloak.

“I think we’d better return to the castle,” Merith replied kindly, her gaze shifting to Sirona, who was trying to catch Aesop's attention while he deliberately averted his eyes.

Mirabel, never one to be easily discouraged, enthusiastically gestured to the drink beside her. Merith accepted it with a smile and quickly downed its contents before placing the empty glass back on the bar. Aesop watched her antics, shaking his head in bemusement.

“Ah,” Sirona said slowly, her eyes glimmering with mischief as she turned her attention back to Merith. “Safe travels, you two. A happy New Year indeed,” she said, hiding a secretive smile behind her drink.

“Happy New Year,” Merith and Aesop echoed in unison, before Merith took Aesop’s arm once more, leading him out of the vivacious establishment and back toward the school.

“Well, that wasn’t too painful, was it?” Merith teased, their familiar banter resuming as they walked through Hogsmeade toward the entrance bridge.

“Painful? No. Louder than a Quidditch match? Yes,” Aesop replied drily, wincing slightly as they descended the stairs, the effects of the charm clearly beginning to wear off.

“I'm sorry you didn't enjoy yourself,” Merith said playfully, exaggerating her disappointment.

Aesop stopped and looked at her earnestly. “You must know I enjoyed myself—especially the moments spent away from the chaos.” His serious gaze caught her off guard, and she realized he had misunderstood her light-hearted comment, perceiving it as something deeper.

Merith smiled softly, looking at the enchanting moonlit scenery stretched before them. Despite the overcast sky, a handful of stars peeked through the clouds, shimmering like charms cast upon the recently fallen snow that glimmered on the cobblestones. She turned her focus back to Aesop, who watched her with an expectant expression, as if waiting for her reply.

“Of course, Aesop, it was a lovely diversion,” she said honestly, but as the words left her lips, she felt a shift in the air. The softness in his eyes dimmed, and the small smile that had adorned his face faltered.

“A diversion?” he echoed, mulling over her words. In that instant, Merith felt the weight of her misstep.

A heavy silence enveloped them, and the once-enchanting moonlit scenery suddenly felt somber. Merith rushed to clarify her comment. “I mean, not that you are a diversion. It was a much-needed break from—” she began hastily, trying to salvage the moment.

But she hesitated, her mind flashing to the name that lingered just beneath the surface—Aric. Until that moment, she hadn’t thought of him, but now a knot twisted in her stomach. It had only been weeks since they had parted, and she had already sought solace in Aesop’s affection, which clearly seemed to be blossoming into something more profound.

Desperately, she looked to Aesop, hoping to meet his heartening gaze. Yet the look on his face told her it was too late—the damage was done.

Aesop’s eyes, once warm and understanding, now shimmered with disappointment. He turned his gaze away, staring at the snowy cobblestones beneath their feet. “Reprieve from what, exactly?” he asked, his voice laced with hurt.

Merith bit her lip, regretting her thoughtless words. She knew Aesop yearned for something deeper, a recognition of their bond that had formed in Hogsmeade. Instead, she had trivialized it, reducing their connection to a mere “diversion.” The weight of her mistake pressed heavily on her shoulders, urging her to amend the breach.

Without thinking, Merith reached out and intertwined her fingers with his—a gentle pressure that symbolized her presence and her determination not to let go. “Aesop, I—” she began, but he interrupted her, his voice softening as he turned to face her.

“Let’s just walk, Merith. Enjoy the quiet, the beauty of the night.” His gaze locked onto hers, and for a fleeting moment, the tension dissipated. Together, they continued down the stairs; despite the disappointment simmering between them, he wrapped her arm in his, their footsteps echoing through the hushed village.

Why couldn’t she be honest with him? Merith mused, grappling with her uncertainty. What would she even confess? Aesop had given her no reason to distrust him, yet moments like these paralyzed her with indecision. The sight of disappointment clouding his eyes sent a jolt through her heart. It was a feeling she detested more than anything, and seeing it mirrored in Aesop’s expression only deepened her reluctance to speak.

Her thoughts spiraled with self-loathing until bursts of laughter erupted in the distance ahead, jolting her from her heavy contemplation. Peering into the shadows, she spotted three familiar figures stumbling along the road, two young men nearly dragging a third across the bridge leading out of Hogsmeade.

“Of course,” she groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “What did I expect? Only mischief from them at this hour.”

As they drew closer, she recognized Sebastian Sallow, Ominis Gaunt, and William Wexley—three sixth-year students clearly oblivious to the school’s curfew. Standing beside her, Aesop tensed, annoyance flickering across his features.

“Ms. Vulchanova,” he whispered sharply, fixing her with a concerned yet stern gaze. “They’re completely inebriated. This is unacceptable.” Her heart sank at the formal tone he had adopted, casting aside their earlier intimacy.

“I was hoping to avoid this,” Merith replied, frustration building. “But it appears they’ve landed themselves in quite the mess.”

As they came within earshot, Sebastian’s face broke into a lopsided grin, clearly amused. “Look who it is! Our favorite professor and her stern companion!” he slurred, nearly fumbling a flask as he attempted to raise it in a mock toast. "Care for a drink, professor?"

“Ask me again when you’re sober, Mr. Sallow,” Merith countered, her voice laced with dry humor.

Aesop crossed his arms tightly, a reproachful glare aimed at the trio. “Sallow. Gaunt. Wexley. Do you realize how serious this is? You’ve completely disregarded school rules.”

Sebastian feigned offense, dramatically clutching his heart. “Professor, you’re crushing my spirit! We were merely enjoying the charming festivities! Right, Ominis?” He nudged the swaying boy beside him, who struggled to stay upright.

“Charming, indeed…” Ominis mumbled, leaning heavily against William, his voice thick with intoxication. “If charming means I might be sick…”

“Festivities? It’s past curfew, and you’re three sheets to the wind!” Aesop exclaimed, cutting him off. His voice lowered to an imposing tone. “I have half a mind to make you three scrub cauldrons all night, but I fear Mr Gaunt may just release the contents of his stomach into them.”

Ominis groaned and clutched his abdomen, while William shot Aesop a panicked look. “That’s not really fair, Professor,” he began, squirming under the weight of his embarrassment. “We didn't think that—”

“Not thinking is precisely the issue, Mr. Wexley!” Aesop thundered. “You’re supposed to set an example as leaders of your House. You ought to understand the implications of your actions.”

Merith let out an exasperated sigh as she glanced at William, who was doing his best to avoid her probing gaze. His cheeks were flushed with shame, and he nervously adjusted his collar, clearly aware of the disappointment she wore like a shroud.

“William,” she said firmly, though her heart softened at the evidence of his contrition. “This isn’t a game. You know better than to be out like this, especially given the circumstances.” Aesop continued to stare intently at William, determined to ensure he comprehended the gravity of their actions.

Merith's curiosity piqued, she turned to Aesop with questioning eyes, seeking the circumstances he was alluding to. She sensed a hint of seriousness beneath his composed demeanor, and soon recalled Professor Weasley's earlier words, which implied a string of reckless behavior from William—like the daring tussle with the troll in Hogsmeade and the risk-taking explorations into Horklump Hollow in search of trinkets for Sirona. She wondered what other tales lay hidden behind William's guarded exterior and whether Aesop was about to share another such story.

“I—I know, Professor,” William stammered, finally finding the courage to meet her gaze—though shame flickered in his eyes as he quickly looked away. “We just… everyone was celebrating. I thought…”

“Thought what? That the rules didn’t apply to you?” Aesop snapped, frustration spilling over. “Do you comprehend how serious this is?”

Sebastian interjected, waving dismissively. “Oh, come on, Professor! It’s just a bit of harmless fun! What’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like we’re committing any crimes.”

“Exactly—just a spot of amusement,” Aesop added, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Until the Headmaster discovers you're missing in the morning and you’re in far deeper trouble than you’ve already created.”

Ominis groaned again, swaying unsteadily. “I’ll be in trouble if I don’t reach a lavatory soon…” he muttered, fear creeping into his voice.

“Let’s focus on getting you all back without attracting more attention,” Merith suggested, her tone softening as she looked at Ominis, who appeared clearly distressed. She moved closer, placing a steadying hand on his back. “Hold on to me, Gaunt. We don’t want to injury to insult.”

As they began to move, she noticed William finally meeting her gaze, a mixture of shame and regret reflected in his eyes. “I’m really sorry, Professor,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“Your intent doesn’t excuse your actions,” Merith replied, though her voice held compassion. “You’re better than this, William. But right now, let’s get you back to Hogwarts.”

Sebastian laughed, though it lacked its usual mischief. “At least you’re not dragging us to detention yet! Consider us fortunate, eh?”

Merith shot him an exasperated look as her patience began to wane. “You’re fortunate I still have some semblance of compassion left after dealing with the likes of you all night.”  

As they trudged back toward the castle, the sharp air nipped at their cheeks, yet Merith found unexpected comfort in the camaraderie with her reluctant group. Aesop walked beside her, his expression still stern, but he glanced her way from time to time, silently supporting her as they made their way.

“Joyous New Year celebrations, indeed,” Aesop muttered, irony thick in his voice. Merith couldn’t help but smile slightly, despite the chaos surrounding them.

“You wouldn’t believe the stories I could share about my own escapades at this age, Aesop,” she replied, allowing herself a moment of levity. “But I’m not sure they would help your case.”

“Let’s ensure we get them safely back to the castle without any further incidents, and rest assured that your past will keep them from following too closely in your footsteps,” Aesop replied dryly.

“Right,” Merith said, a playful smirk creeping onto her face. “ "But if any other professors inquire, I definitely never acted this recklessly!”

“Your secret is safe with us,” William promised, finally cracking a nervous smile as they approached the castle gates, relief and anxiety washing over their group.

“I suppose we weren’t really thinking at all,” he admitted, finally holding her gaze, shame reflected in his eyes.

“‘Weren’t thinking’ won’t shield you from the consequences,” Aesop scolded, his tone remaining stern but a hint of leniency creeping in. “If we don’t get you back in one piece, I assure you the repercussions will be even harsher when Headmaster Black hears about tonight.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Oh please. He’ll just brush it off; he’s friendly with Ominis' father. Professor Weasley, on the other hand—”

“Let’s not assign blame here, Mr. Sallow,” Merith cut in, her voice firm. “This isn’t a laughing matter. You’re all lucky it’s us finding you and not some other unsavory individuals.”

Ominis, still unsteady, piped up, “If I heave, I’m aiming for Sallow.” He shot Sebastian a glare that would have been more effective had it not been delivered through dazed eyes.

Aesop sighed, exasperated. “Can we focus on getting you all back to the castle?” He nudged Sebastian forward, who continued up the path, stumbling slightly. William, the most sober of the trio, stayed close to Ominis, providing support to Merith, who was struggling to keep the swaying Ominis upright.

Aesop lingered back for a moment, watching as Sebastian careened ahead, disorderly yet still buoyed by the night’s festivities. “Your compassion for them is commendable,” he remarked, a trace of warmth touching the corners of his mouth, “but it won’t prevent them from detention. I intend to ensure they learn their lesson.”

Merith nodded, relieved that the tension between her and Aesop had lessened. Perhaps, in the end, they would all emerge from this chaotic night a little wiser.

Chapter Text

Aesop was a man of his word. Like clockwork, the next morning, he had the three Slytherin boys set to work scrubbing cauldrons and tackling any other tasks he deemed necessary. As the sun began its ascent, filtering through the stone corridors of the dungeons, Merith ventured down to check on them before lunch. A large wicker basket cradled in her arms was filled with steaming portions of food generously supplied by the house-elves in the kitchen.

She knocked lightly on the classroom door, drawing the boys' attention from their strenuous tasks. Sebastian rolled his eyes at her entrance and returned to scrubbing with a half-hearted burst of effort. In contrast, William looked up, his face lighting up. He offered her a nod and a cheerful smile before leaning over to whisper something to Ominis, who appeared to be nursing a hangover.

Inside the cold, cluttered potions classroom, Merith stepped in—the aroma of freshly baked bread and rich beef wafting through the air, instantly pulling the boys' focus from their hard work. The tempting scent stirred their hunger, temporarily banishing the monotony of their chores.

“Well, look at you all,” she began warmly, her voice cutting through their hustle like a gentle breeze. “It seems Professor Sharp has put you to quite the task. Perhaps you could use a lunch break? This basket isn’t going to lift itself.” She held the basket aloft teasingly, the enticing contents hinting at a feast that promised relief from their labor.

Sebastian was the first to react, leaning closer, eyes wide with hope and desire. “Is that—could it be? Beef?” He licked his lips, anticipation dancing in his gaze, his passion for food palpable in the room.

William, torn between respect for the professors and his own appetite, raised an eyebrow as he glanced between Merith and Aesop. “Are we permitted—”

But Aesop, deeply engrossed in his research, sighed dramatically, raising a hand in mock exasperation. “Merith, for the love of all that is magical, do set it down at the table, would you? I doubt my pupils can concentrate any longer with whiffs of such diversion in the air.”

Chapter Text

Merith stepped out of Aesop’s classroom, the door sighing closed behind her like an exhale too weary to last. She paused in the corridor, arms stretched overhead, spine arching as if reaching for sleep she hadn’t earned. A yawn slipped through parted lips—long, silent, and telling. The potion hadn’t worked. Nor had the whisky.

Dreams, no—visions—had chased her through the night, relentless and vivid.

She stood alone in a keep of blackened stone, wreathed in flame.

Not the fury of wildfire, but something ceremonial—fire that revealed, not consumed. Each flame cast shadows that danced against soot-stained banners, their embroidered stories moving as if they remembered her.

A woman emerged from the smoke.

She was tall and still, robed in black. Her hair tumbled in dark waves, wild as storm-tossed sea. A spear rested in her hand like an extension of her will. Upon it perched a great owl—dark as soot, gold-eyed and knowing. A sentinel from some old place in her blood.

This was Nerida Vulchanova. Or some echo of her. Not frozen in oil paint but alive, animated by flame and will and ancient purpose.

And yet—Merith was her, too.

Not a mirror, not a ghost—yet unmistakably her.

But older. Sharper. As if shaped by some ancient forge.

Behind the figure, branches unfurled from the stone like charred antlers, their tips crowned with embers. The owl called out—low, reverent. Its cry pierced the silence like a memory being remembered.

Merith did not run. She stepped forward.

The fire kissed her bare feet.

And in that warmth, she understood:

This was not a warning.

This was a calling.

She woke breathless.

Even now, the embers of that dream smoldered behind her eyes.

Merith stood still, one hand brushing the edge of the casement, caught in the afterglow of the dream.

The dragon had circled her—not as predator, but as sentinel. Its fire, once imagined as ruin, had drawn her close, wrapping her in living flame. Not to consume. To cleanse.

A crucible.
A sanctuary.

In both dreams, the fire had not destroyed her. It had unmade the cage.

Wind stirred through the tall window, cool against her skin, threading its fingers through her hair. Below, the grounds stretched golden in the morning light—perfect, serene, untouched. But inside her, something restless twisted.

What was it, this strange gravity that pulled her toward fire and chaos?

Why did it feel like home?

Peace had once been her sanctuary. Solitude, her shield. But now, her choices echoed outward, rippling through lives not her own. She thought of Aesop—his calm gravity, his presence like an anchor in her storm. The moments they'd shared shimmered in memory, fragile and bright.

And yet—
She could not reach for him while still tangled in her own shadow.
To draw him into that tangle would be cruel.

Resolve gathered like rising wind.

Turning from the window, she climbed the spiral stair to the Defence Against the Dark Arts Tower. Each step rang against stone—measured, deliberate—but her thoughts had already outpaced her body.

Her father’s absence pressed against her chest like a bruise.
No word since Hogsmeade.
Only silence.
And silence, she’d learned, was rarely empty.

The rumors of Goblin unrest lingered like smoke in a sealed room—unseen, but choking. Danger moved at the edges of things, quiet but coiling. 

A thread pulled taut inside her.

How easily the world could crack.

Her office welcomed her with silence. She liked it that way. The room held her scent—spice, parchment, and faint sandalwood—and her presence, even in solitude. Her fingers drifted through her beaded purse, brushing charms and oddments, until something rigid met her fingertips.

The letter.

She froze, then slowly drew it out. The paper was worn from travel, the handwriting hurried, familiar.

Merith.
We need to speak. I’m being followed.
Meet me. — A.

A charm glowed faintly beneath the ink—old magic, coded with intent. Her breath caught.

“Aric,” she whispered, the name tasting like ash and memory.

A spark flared low in her chest.

Of course—it was Aric. His mark. Their old game. Part code, part ritual, now laced with shadow and doubt. They had always spoken in riddles, their messages hidden in reflections, their glyphs etched in vanishing ink. A bond once forged in secrets too delicate for daylight. And now the game was back, its edges honed by time and silence.

Her breath caught as the enchantment shimmered across the parchment. The letters stirred—just slightly—as if woken by her focus. They shifted and curled, not into words, but into images. Symbols rising like steam off a hidden spring.

She pressed her palm to the page.

The ink shimmered, then rippled, unfurling into an image—a forest thick with moss and mist, trees like towering sentinels. A silver lake beyond. Familiar, and not. A place between dream and memory.

Merith retracted her hand from the parchment slowly, heart tight. The weight of Aric’s intent settled heavy beneath her ribs—an ache woven from equal parts longing and suspicion.

She sank into the desk chair, its wooden frame creaking softly beneath her, and pressed her fingers to her temples. The letter still trembled slightly in her grasp.

Why this?

Why now?

She thought of all they’d shared—stolen nights, whispered dreams, the warm echo of his voice tangled with hers beneath old rafters. His promises had always felt honest—woven with careful intent, stitched over years. He had stood beside her, petitioned her father, spoken of a future not yet written but always assumed.

And now—this.

The tome from Vulchana Keep. A relic of her family’s bloodline, thick with magic and memory. For Aric to reach for it—not with reverence, but with calculation—felt like rot beneath the surface. As if the boy she had known had been a mask worn too well.

Had she missed it?
Had his ambition always waited just out of sight?

The betrayal was not loud. It was quiet. Creeping. The way a door left ajar lets in cold.

She exhaled sharply, frustration flaring before exhaustion dulled its edge. The weariness came like fog—soft, smothering. There were too many threads. Her dreams. Her bloodline. Aric’s duplicity. It all pressed inward, crowding her thoughts.

Her father would want to know. He would demand it. But something in her rebelled. Aric had once meant something sacred. And she wasn’t ready to burn him away just yet.

Even if he’d begun to unravel the threads of trust, even if ambition had crept where devotion once stood—he had still been hers, once.

A headache bloomed behind her eyes. She poured a finger of Firewhisky, watching the amber swirl like captured sunlight, then sank into the chair by the hearth.

She didn’t hear the door open.

“Locked in thought again, Ms. Vulchanova?” came Aesop Sharp’s voice, smooth and dry as aged brandy.

She looked up. He stood in the doorway, robes impeccably neat, eyes sharp and searching.

“You didn’t come to dinner,” he added, stepping inside.

Merith blinked, slow to rejoin the moment. “Didn’t realise the hour.”

Aesop’s eyes narrowed—not unkindly. He walked toward her, hands behind his back, posture straight even in concern. “It’s unlike you to sequester yourself without cause. And you’ve the look of someone haunted.”

She arched a brow, lips quirking faintly. “Do I?”

“You do.”

A pause stretched between them. She felt the quiet weight of his presence, like steady rain on glass—subtle but insistent.

“I could lie,” she said at last, fingers tightening on the glass. “Say I’m nervous about tomorrow’s lessons.”

“But that’s not what’s troubling you,” Aesop replied without hesitation.

Merith looked at him fully then, surprised by the gentleness in his voice. There was a softness beneath his precision—a quiet understanding.

“No,” she admitted. “It isn’t.”

Aesop stepped closer. The firelight flickered across his dark hair, casting subtle glints that softened the stern lines of his cheekbones. “Then what is?”

She hesitated.

A choice.

A trust.

She set the glass down. “A letter arrived,” she said, her voice low. “From someone I once trusted. It’s… complicated.”

“Complicated,” Aesop echoed, with a wry tilt of his lips. “The word of the century.”

She glanced at him, expecting dismissal, perhaps even amusement. But his eyes—dark, intelligent, weathered by battles she couldn’t name—only watched her patiently.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” she said.

“Try me,” he offered, voice softer than she’d ever heard it.

Something shifted in her. Slowly, she nodded. “He was part of my past. Childhood friend. Closer, once. We shared everything. Until I realised we… weren’t walking the same path anymore.”

“And now?” Aesop asked gently.

“Now he’s asking me to meet him. Says he’s in danger. Says he’s being followed.”

Aesop folded his arms, exhaled slowly. “You don’t know if it’s truth or manipulation.”

“No,” she whispered. “I don’t.”

Silence fell again. But this time, it was companionable. Thoughtful. The air between them thick with shared weight.

“When I was young,” Aesop said at last, voice distant, “I joined the Aurors because I believed truth was simple. You uncover it. Expose it. And justice follows.”

He smiled, a slow, tired thing. “It took me less than a year to learn otherwise.”

Merith’s gaze lifted. “What changed?”

“I did,” he said. “Truth is rarely pure. Often… it’s wrapped in affection. Guilt. Loyalty. The hardest lies to see through are the ones told by those we love.”

Something flickered in her chest. “And what did you do?”

“I trusted my instincts. And I made peace with the consequences.”

She met his eyes. There it was—that grain of truth. Something personal. Unspoken. Yet shared.

Her fingers brushed his, just barely—a graze, light as breath.

Aesop didn’t flinch.

Instead, he let his hand linger near hers, their skin not quite touching, but close enough to feel the warmth.

“I suppose I needed to hear that,” she murmured.

“Suppose I needed to say it,” he replied.

Merith allowed herself a small smile, genuine and tired. “You’re not just clever with a wand, then.”

“I’m clever with many things,” he said, the corner of his mouth curving.

She laughed—quiet, melodic. It felt strange on her tongue, like a song half-remembered.

Aesop turned then, and from behind his back, revealed a tray. “No cranberry this time,” he said with exaggerated solemnity. “Just proper sustenance. I took the liberty.”

Her stomach grumbled in betrayal.

“You’re terribly smug about this,” she said, accepting the tray.

“And you’re terribly stubborn,” he returned. “But I find it charming.”

Their eyes met.

Something unspoken passed between them. Not a promise. Not yet. But the potential of one.

As she ate, her thoughts wandered—back to Aric, to the forest, to the fire and the owl and the ancestral call echoing from her dreams. But tonight, she wasn’t alone with them.

She glanced at Aesop.

And something in her—something quiet and tentative—began to loosen its grip.

Morning light poured through the tall windows of Merith’s office, flooding the room with a soft, golden wash. Every corner, every stack of parchment and dog-eared textbook, was bathed in warmth—the promise of a new term vibrating faintly in the air like a whispered invitation. Yet beneath the bright veneer, an anxious pulse thrummed through Merith’s veins.

Aesop had promised to return after breakfast—stoic as ever, even in pain.

He had refused her treatment the night before, insisting she rest instead. But she had seen it—the pallor in his skin, the stiffness in his movements, the way his hand curled, white-knuckled, against the edge of her desk. Still, he had offered her comfort, cloaked in his usual calm, as though his pain were an afterthought. That quiet sacrifice had lodged in her chest like a stone.

Now, alone in the soft hush of morning, she stared out her window. The trees swayed gently in the breeze, their leaves whispering secrets she couldn’t quite make out. Her thoughts strayed to Aesop again—his rare smile, the depth in his gaze, the way he listened with intent that made her feel... seen.

There was something there.

Complicated. Subtle. But undeniably present.

A knock of laughter from below drew her attention.

“Professor, Vulchanova.”

Mudiwa Onai’s bright greeting pulled her back as he strode toward the Great Hall table, accompanied by Professor Abraham Ronen.

“Ah, good morning,” Merith managed, brushing away the lingering shadows of her thoughts.

They settled around the table, the Great Hall’s hum of soft chatter folding around them like a familiar cloak.

“You look like you’ve been wrestling with a Hungarian Horntail all night,” Mudiwa said with a soft smile, squinting as a touch of motherly concern crossed her face. “Or perhaps just the usual chaos before a new term.”

“Something like that,” Merith smiled, though the tightness in her chest lingered. “A few last-minute preparations. I’m a little nervous.”

“Ah, the nerves,” Ronen said with theatrical concern, leaning in as if sharing some ancient wisdom. “Don’t fret. The first class is all theater—tone-setting, really. Say something clever, spark a light, and they’ll think you’re brilliant.”

He bit into a biscuit with gusto, humming his approval. “Besides, I heard you led part of a class before the holidays. Very impressive.”

Mudiwa’s voice softened. “Enjoy these last quiet moments, Merith. Soon the halls will be full of scuffed shoes and shouting. Best savor the silence while it lasts.”

Professor Howin, just arrived, gave a low grunt of agreement. “Hordes of mischief, right on time.”

Across from her, Aesop Sharp remained silent, nodding once in wordless solidarity. His presence, even quiet, carried a steadying gravity.

But Ronen, as ever, refused to join the chorus of gloom.

“Nonsense,” he declared, brushing crumbs from his robes. “Hogwarts comes alive when the students return. Their joy, their missteps—it’s all part of the magic.”

Merith smiled, drawn to his unshakable warmth. There was something childlike in his hopefulness, as if he’d never grown weary of wonder.

“Don’t listen to these old cynics,” Ronen stage-whispered, loud enough for the table to hear. “You’re young. This is your first year as a professor. Don’t start buried in coals—let your fire burn bright!”

He winked, and Merith let her laughter rise freely.

In that brief, golden moment, the weight in her chest loosened—just enough.

Just for now.

After breakfast, Merith walked with Aesop back toward his classroom. The three Slytherin boys were due shortly to serve their detention, giving her a brief window to cast the temporary healing charm she’d been preparing.

Guilt tugged at her—sharp and insistent. She had delayed too long, caught in the thicket of her own tangled thoughts, while his pain went unanswered.

Pain lined his brow and set his jaw, but Aesop met it with the quiet discipline of someone long accustomed to suffering.

“Well, I’m sure the young gentlemen will be relieved when their cauldron-scrubbing duties finally come to an end,” she said with a cheeky smile.

Aesop nodded.

“Indeed. You’d think Ronen would add more punishment, but he said my judgment alone would suffice.” A faint smile tugged at her lips. Aesop’s punishments were infamous—carefully crafted to fit each student’s particular folly.

“I’m afraid I’d have been a most trying student under your watch,” she teased.

“Likely so,” he replied, tone dry but amused.

Inside the classroom, Merith lit candles and lanterns, bathing the room in flickering warmth. The familiar aromas of herbs and potions stirred her resolve. Aesop unlocked a hidden cabinet near the entrance, revealing a collection of delicate items — potions, parchment, and an Auror badge resting on a velvet cushion. Her gaze flickered to it briefly before she knelt by his side, her skirt falling softly around her.

She untied the ribbon of her cropped velvet jacket and handed it to him without a word.

Magic gathered beneath her skin—warm, coiling—rising steady as breath. She lifted the hem of his trouser leg, revealing the curse: dark veins, branching like cracked obsidian, pulsing faintly as if aware. It was alive. And waiting.

She extended her hand.

Magic unfurled from her hand—golden, deliberate, alive. It met the cursed skin and stuttered. The shadows shrank, then lunged, hungry and bold. They drank from her like thirst from a vein, drawing her power deeper than she’d meant to give.

Her chest tightened. The spell shook beneath the weight of it, her reserves thinning like stretched silk.

Still, she held.

The curse writhed, then gradually eased—its shadow retreating, but not vanishing—settling beneath the skin like a storm held at bay.

She exhaled, light-headed, and let her forehead rest gently against Aesop’s knee. The stone beneath her knees felt distant. Her magic, hollowed.

His expression was guarded yet contemplative, eyes lingering on her in a way that sent warmth blooming through her veins.

She felt her cheeks heat. But he didn’t pull away.

And that, somehow, made it worse. Or better.

She wasn’t sure.

Slowly, she lifted her head.

Aesop leaned forward, tugging the hem of his trousers back into place. Their faces hovered close—too close. He held her jacket open, and she slipped her arms into its fitted sleeves. His fingers grazed her skin as he tied the ribbon at her neck—a fleeting touch, but enough to send a flicker of heat between them, swift and silent.

For a breathless moment, the world fell away.

The space between them thrummed with unspoken truths and fragile longing. Her heart quickened, suspended between the pull of desire and the weight of restraint.

Sensing her hesitation, Aesop exhaled softly and stepped back. He rose, offering a steady hand. She took it, warmth blooming through her as he helped her to her feet.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He reached past her and held out a small green vial.

“Wiggenweld. Drink.” His voice was low, clipped—but not unkind.

She drank deeply. Restorative warmth spread through her limbs, steadying the lingering weakness. His skill with potions was unmistakable—evident in the clarity, the potency, the way it settled in her bones like balm.

“If you’re to assist,” he said quietly, discarding the empty vial onto the desk behind him, “then fairness demands I do the same.”

A sharp knock interrupted them, followed by a hesitant voice.

“Professor Sharp? Are you in there?”

William’s footsteps echoed into the classroom beyond. Merith moved to the door and swung it open, greeting him with a bright, effortless smile.

“Good morning, William. Rest well after all your grueling chores?” she teased, casting a sidelong glance at Aesop—whose slightly stiff posture made her smile deepen. The thought of him being caught off guard, alone with her in his office, was almost too amusing.

William nodded eagerly. “Ominis and Sebastian should be right behind me.”

“Well then,” Merith said, straightening, “I’ll see you after lunch, Mr. Wexley. My office.”

“Of course, Professor. See you then.”

Merith turned to go, waving lightly over her shoulder—eyes catching Aesop’s with a flicker of mischief.

“Have fun,” she said, voice airy with implication.

She slipped out just in time to see Ominis Gaunt and Sebastian Sallow barreling up the stairwell, Sebastian practically dragging Ominis behind him like a tethered comet. Both offered breathless nods and brief greetings before disappearing into the Potions classroom below.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun bathed the spires of Hogwarts in a honeyed glow, casting long shadows across the castle’s worn stones. Light spilled through the high windows of Classroom 3C in pale gold ribbons, but within, the air felt dimmed—thick with the quiet ache of stillness.

Merith stood at her desk, unmoving. The room bore the hush of early term—books half-opened, chalk dust drifting like pollen through the filtered sun—but in her, a storm churned. A slow, circling fog of thought she could not seem to dispel.

The tome lay open once more—unchanged, unyielding. Etched into the margin of the page on Bragbor was a lone torch—distinct from the text, yet purposeful in its placement. That clue had brought her so far, but now the trail had grown cold.

She traced a fingertip along the sketch of parchment forest inked with Aric’s magic: a winding copse surrounding a lake, its mirrored surface swallowed in fog. Something in the lines unsettled her. The trees were too tall, the darkness too still. It stirred a feeling she could not name—familiar and foreign in the same breath.

She pressed the page flat, jaw tight.

No word from her father. Not since Christmas. And Aric’s letter… cryptic, delicate, like a match waiting to be struck. She did not yet know if it offered warmth—or fire.

Her voice, when it came, was barely more than breath: “Why must everything be so tangled?”

She ran her fingers through her curls, frustration prickling beneath her skin. The castle’s stone walls felt closer than usual. Suffocating, somehow. She considered taking to the air—just a short flight, enough to clear the smoke of thought clouding her vision.

But before she could move, the classroom door creaked open on old hinges.

William Wexley stepped inside, shoulders slouched and fingers red-raw from punishment. The smell of burnt soap and brass clung to him.

“Afternoon, Professor,” he said with a grin that was far too chipper for someone fresh from detention. “Thought I’d try transfiguring a cauldron into a pillow. My hands are protesting, but my optimism lives on.”

He lifted his hands in demonstration—calloused, ink-stained, and endearingly earnest.

Merith allowed a small laugh, the corner of her mouth twitching. “A pillow with a vendetta, I assume? Perhaps your exhaustion will aid the spell—less energy for chaos.”

He stepped closer, catching sight of the drawing on her desk.

“That forest,” he said, tone shifting. “Looks familiar. Haunting, but—yes, I know it.”

She turned her head, brows lifting. “You recognize it?”

He nodded. “The Forbidden Forest. Just beyond the castle grounds. I’d bet my wand on it.”

Merith frowned, fingers brushing the parchment. “I’ve never been inside. Are you certain?”

“Absolutely,” he said, eyes brightening with the thrill of mischief. “Dense trees. Lake in the center. Wild magic. My mates and I wandered in last year. Bit of a habit, really. Uncovered a few poachers, stirred up some trouble. Let some beasts loose.”

Merith blinked. “You... freed poacher-held beasts? As a fifth-year?”

He offered a sheepish shrug. “Chaos with a cause, Professor.”

She studied him anew. So this was the boy the other professors whispered about—sharp as flint, prone to sparks.

“Well,” she said, half to herself, “firsthand observation might serve better than books in this case.” Her eyes found his. “Care to guide me?”

His expression lit like a struck match. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly.” A pause. “Maybe we’ll see how you handle a real Acromantula—not the sort conjured in controlled environments.”

William puffed his chest, playfully proud. “Happy to oblige. Been itching to test out a few theories in the field.”

For a breath, Merith said nothing—just watched him. That flicker of defiance. That gleam of insatiable curiosity. He reminded her, a little too clearly, of herself.

“I’ll need a moment,” she said at last. “Something less... velvet.”

When she returned, her robes had been traded for a deep navy ensemble tailored for flight—functional but no less striking. The wind tugged gently at the silk scarf she’d tied back over her hair, and for the first time in days, something like anticipation settled in her bones.

“I imagine I’ll be fired before the week is out,” she murmured, half to herself.

William laughed, adjusting the grip on his broom. “Professor Fig and I often had unsanctioned field trips. Said the best lessons happened off the syllabus.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly at the name—Fig. It struck a faint chord. One to follow later.

“Lead on, Mr. Wexley.”

They slipped quietly through the halls, stone corridors echoing beneath their boots. By the time they reached the Bell Tower Courtyard, the sun had begun its slow descent, casting long gold shadows across the green.

The Forbidden Forest loomed ahead like a memory unspoken—its trees tall and still as watchmen, the undergrowth shivering beneath their ancient weight.

As they dismounted at the tree line, Merith paused. Her pulse hummed with something beyond nerves. The forest was older than stone, older than language. It pressed against her senses like breath against glass.

As they neared the tree line, the air shifted—thicker, colder, laced with an ancient hum that threaded through the ground beneath their feet. The Forbidden Forest loomed like a living cathedral, its vaulted canopy arching high above, tangled and impenetrable. 

Ancient magic whispered here.

She stepped forward.

And the trees swallowed them whole.

“I’ve never actually set foot in the Forbidden Forest,” she admitted, her voice barely rising above the wind, glancing sideways at William, whose knuckles had gone white around his wand. Youthful confidence radiated from him, though it flickered now at the edges.

She untied the silk scarf from under her chin with a single, practiced motion, folded it delicately, and tucked it into her pocket—as if shedding a final layer of civility before stepping into shadow.

“It’s incredible,” William replied, eyes alight. “Full of creatures—dark or otherwise. Just stay close and follow my lead.”

Merith stifled a laugh. Who’s the professor here? she mused.

They passed into the gloom. The shift was immediate—light dimmed to a dusky green, and the air grew close, the scent of damp moss and rich decay curling around them. Shadows flickered and stretched as they walked, as though the forest watched them. The path beneath their feet was narrow, worn smooth by centuries of curious—or careless—souls.

Their first trial came swiftly.

A Thornback Shooter emerged from the underbrush, its glassy eyes catching the faint glimmer of wandlight. It paused, legs twitching, its fangs clicking with anticipation.

Merith raised her brow, casting a sidelong glance at William. “You know what to do.”

He did.

“Arania Exumai!” he cried, voice steady.

The spell surged forward in a brilliant arc, striking true. The spider shrieked and collapsed into the undergrowth with a hiss of evaporating venom.

“Brilliant,” Merith said, surprised by the flush of pride rising in her. “You’ve practiced. There's hardly a flaw in your casting.” She clapped him on the back, her heart still racing.

But the further they walked, the more familiar the dark became. Not in comfort—no, it was recognition that stirred in her, and not a welcome one.

The gnarled trees began to shift, taking on twisted, familiar shapes. Limbs like claws. Bark like skin. The air cooled, and she knew this chill—it belonged to a memory, half-buried, from a forest far from here.

The Forbidden Yew.

She slowed, eyes scanning the shadows, her fingers tightening around her wand. That wood in Bulgaria had been steeped in forgotten rituals and whispered names. This forest, though different in scent and sky, stirred the same unease—the same sorrow. A place steeped in secrecy, where the veil between past and present thinned.

Each step now felt weighted. She could almost hear the laughter of her childhood, drowned in wind and blood. The branches creaked like old bones. Her past stirred.

But there was no time to dwell.

A rustle in the underbrush snapped them to attention. From the gloom emerged a creature not native to these woods—an Absconder. Larger than the books described. Its fangs glistened with venom, its many legs rippling like blades.

William froze beside her. “What do we do?” he whispered.

“Keep to the sides. It strikes in a straight line,” she said quickly, her voice low, controlled. “We’ll need to draw its attention, then strike while it’s distracted. I’ll lead.”

His eyes darted to hers, wide—but trusting.

They crouched behind a fallen tree, breath shallow.

“On three,” she said. “One... two... three!”

She broke cover first, wand raised. “Scoundrel! Over here!” The creature hissed, pivoting toward her. She hurled a Confringo, the blast catching its face. It screeched—high, fractured, terrible.

“William! Now!”

“ARANIA EXUMAI!”

The spell hit with staggering force, knocking the creature off its legs. Merith moved in, firing Incendio with a fierce cry. The creature shrieked again, writhing violently, but still it fought.

Venom sprayed—some catching her thigh, burning through fabric and skin. She winced, stumbling, but didn't falter. With a final flick, she summoned a luminous blast that seared through the air, striking true.

The Absconder collapsed, limbs curling inward like scorched parchment.

Silence returned, broken only by their labored breaths.

Merith wiped her brow, the sweat and dirt stinging her eyes. Her breeches smoked where the venom had hit, fabric torn and blackened.

“I cannot believe we just did that!” William said, breathless, exhilarated. He examined the fallen beast with the reverence of a scholar at a dig site.

“Well done,” Merith said, her voice still catching, pride humming beneath it. “You handled yourself remarkably.”

She looked down and groaned. “But look at my trousers. Cleaning spells can deal with grime, but holes?”

William burst into laughter. “Tragic. Your reputation as the most fashionable professor—ruined!”

She gave a wry look and smoothed her windswept curls with a flick of her wand. “Let’s just hope no one asks too many questions at dinner.”

They pressed on, the forest growing quieter now, the trees parting slightly as they neared the Forest Lake. An enchantment seemed to rest over this place—a hush, thick and reverent.

Then, softly:
“Your wand,” William said, glancing at it as it caught a glimmer of light. “It’s not wood, is it? Looks like… bone?”

Merith smiled faintly. “Good eye. It is. An heirloom—crafted from the femur of an ancestor. Fifth or sixth great-grandfather, I believe. Or perhaps a great-uncle. One can never quite be sure in my family.”

“That’s… brilliantly grim,” William laughed.

Chapter Text

It was yet another dream—a relentless journey into her subconscious, a place rife with contradictions that had recently become all too familiar. The conversation she had with William in the Forbidden Forest undoubtedly influenced her visions, pulling her back to childhood memories.

She found herself again as a girl of twelve or thirteen, standing in her father’s study, clad in a robust three-piece tweed suit with breeches. The ensemble, reminiscent of a young gentleman's attire but tailored for femininity, was complemented by a softer blouse beneath.

Mŭnichka, her loyal house-elf, approached her, cradling her cloak in her small, bony fingers. Merith accepted the garment, wrapping it around her shoulders and fastening the button adorned with their family crest. Just then, her father entered the room, his hands resting on her shoulders for a brief moment. "Are you ready?" he inquired, though it felt more like an obligatory formality than a genuine question.

"Yes, Father," she replied, her voice steady but a slight quiver in her chin revealed her inner turmoil. This day weighed heavily on her; she feared not the forest hag, who was said to feast on children, but the possibility of failure—the thought that she might not be able to capture her and that all her preparations would come to naught.

Beside her stood her tutor Dobrin Skandar, an experienced wizard and former Ministry of Magic researcher, there to guide her to the Strashna Yavorina, or Fearsome Yew, where she would confront Zlatka Mrokovica, the dreaded hag. Merith had been preparing for weeks, carrying only a satchel filled with a few magical items and supplies, relying mostly on her ability to conjure what she needed.

As her father led her out of his office, Merith felt a sudden tug on her wrist—a distraction she instantly recognized. It was Michaél, her older brother. She shook off his hand, irritation bubbling to the surface. But his gaze was calm and serious. "You don’t have to do this; it’s ridiculous. Just go to Beauxbatons," he urged, searching her eyes intently.

"That's exactly what you'd love to see, isn't it? Me backing down so you can gloat?" She stood her ground, their eyes nearly level as Michaél barely stood a few inches over her. "I will capture that hag, and you can mark my words—you’ll see my face every day at Durmstrang."

He bristled at her defiance, their mutual stare lingering until she turned away, stalking down the corridor.

The dream began to swirl like ink merging with water on parchment, transporting her to the Fearsome Yew, a place that mirrored the depths of the Forbidden Forest.

She remembered Dobrin’s warnings—that the real challenge lay in capturing the hag, who would undoubtedly sense her presence. It would not merely be a test of strength but a battle of cleverness; hags were renowned for their cunning.

More powerful hags were known to hide their true forms using various forms of dark magic. One infamous example was the medieval hag Maladora Grymm, who duped a king into marrying her while under the effects of a beautification potion.

Merith tread cautiously through the damp underbrush of the forest, her heart pounding in her ears. After enduring hours of relentless rain, she found refuge in a nearby cave. Gathering twigs and strips of bark, she cast Incendio, illuminating the cave with a soft, warm glow. She wrapped her cape tightly around herself, finding a moment of comfort against the cool stone walls as the storm raged outside.

Snap.

The fire had long since faded when she opened her eyes, the ash and coals a stark reminder of her exhaustion. A bluish light filtered through the mouth of the cave, likely heralding dawn. Pressing herself against the cave wall, she cautiously peered out into the forest.

The air was unnaturally still; even the leaves hung motionless, and the birds sang no morning farewell. An uneasy silence cloaked the woods.

With her hands poised defensively, Merith crept from the cave, sensing an unseen presence trailing her, watching her every move.

She pressed on, feeling a watchful eye upon her. Hours slipped by as dusk fell, cloaking the forest in shadows, invoking ancient magic where creatures lingered in the dark.

Those likely wishing to be unseen.

The rain resumed—thick drops cascading from the treetops. It pelted her relentlessly as she struggled to wipe the water from her face while scaling the side of a ravine.

In an instant, her foot slipped, sending her tumbling through the underbrush, colliding with all manner of flora and vegetation until a fallen trunk halted her descent with a painful thud.

Wind knocked out of her lungs, she gasped as she rubbed her eyes now clouded with rainwater and slick with blood seeping from a cut on her forehead. Breathing heavily, she rummaged through her bag, retrieving a salve to apply to her injury.

She lay under the shelter of the fallen tree, waiting for the medicine to take effect. Moving slowly, she assessed her body—nothing appeared broken. Just as she tried to stand, a pounding headache seized her, and the forest shifted around her once more.

The dream swirled again, as if water had met ink on parchment, and she found herself suddenly plummeting into the mud. Struggling, she forced her hands into the dark muck to pull herself up, spotting a hut just ahead.

Smoke coiled from its chimney, camouflaged by the encroaching vegetation. The door creaked open, and in an instant, two gnarled hands grasped her, pulling her over the threshold and dropping her by the flickering fire.

Inside was a modest cottage dominated by a hearth surrounded by sparse belongings.

"Children should not wander the forest alone," a voice rasped menacingly from behind her. Merith whirled around but found only empty air.

Turning back to the hearth, she confronted an ancient woman—her features as twisted as the gnarled roots outside.

"Stay here, my child; I will keep you safe," she croaked again as her form began to warp, transforming into the ghastly shape of Zlatka Mrokovica.

Desperation surged within Merith, and she hurled loose coals from the fire at the hag as she shrieked in agony, shielding her face.

Merith bolted away, but Zlatka lunged after her, her face contorted into a grotesque mask of rage. "Children must obey," she hissed with venom as Merith cried out, "Incarcerus!"

The ropes sprang forth, binding the hag as Merith quickly fumbled through her bag for chalk, sketching runes onto the wooden floor to secure Zlatka's bindings.

Breathless, she watched the hag struggle as the dream morphed into a murky pool, tendrils of darkness creeping around her.

Battered yet determined, Merith trudged through the woods, the weight of Zlatka hovering behind her—levitating the hag drained her of energy. "Miserable little witch—I should have left you to drown in the mud," the hag spat, but before she could respond, Merith cast a silencing charm upon the squirming hag.

Dobrin had warned against attempting apparition with the hag. It was possible that the hag could thwart the spell, the consequences dire.

Pushing through, Merith stumbled again, entangled in strangleweed and tumbling into the mud once more, with Zlatka groaning behind her.

Awareness settled in as the stillness returned, thickening the air.

Her heart pounded fiercely as she scanned her surroundings, aware of lurking eyes among the brambles. "Show yourself!" she called, voice steady though fatigue clawed at her strength.

"SHOW YOURSELF!" she shouted again, her voice rising in intensity. A massive silvery wolf emerged from the shadows, its gaze locked intently on Merith.

Its muscles rippled beneath its rugged coat as it moved with a silent grace, its piercing amber eyes reflecting an ancient wisdom and an unyielding strength. With every step, the wolf exuded an air of both majesty and menace, a true guardian of the secrets hidden within the darkened woods.

In that moment, fear should have gripped her, but it didn't.

The wolf’s eyes bore into her, a knowing look that pierced the haze of fear. "Please guide me; I shall take the hag away from this forest."

Merith recognized this creature was no ordinary wolf.

"You are the guardian of this forest, aren’t you?" she asked, her voice strong despite her uncertainty.

The wolf replied in her mind, I can show you the way, but you must leave the hag behind.

She gasped in disbelief. "Leave the hag?" she echoed, staring into the wolf's intelligent eyes. "I can’t do that; I must bring her with me!"

Do you truly think you must? She is entwined with the forest; her kind dwells here.

"But she eats children!" Merith protested, shooting a glare at the hag.

It is in its nature to do so, the wolf replied calmly.

Give me the hag, and I will ensure she causes no further harm, the wolf said, retreating into the deeper shadows of the forest.

"No! I can't!" Merith cried desperately. 

Of course you can, the wolf countered, its gaze unwavering as it faded into the brambles.

Chapter Text

Merith rubbed the sleep from her eyes as she ambled towards the Great Hall, as the professors had forecasted, the halls were full of bustling students, hurrying past her to the Great Hall. Gone was the quiet serenity of the winter break, replaced with the loud bustling chatter of students, clattering footsteps, and the amble of portraits greeting the returning students. 

A ghost Merith had come to loathe stood at the base of the Grand Staircase, draped in a garish orange suit and blue top hat- Hogwarts arguably most dislike feature- perhaps even more than Headmaster Black. Peeves- who behaved like a court jester, she would surely have removed if she had the authority to do so. 

"Watch out, watch out! What’s that ahead?  
It’s a flying bread roll, imbued with dread!  
Dodge and dive, or you’ll end up spread,  
In a fluffy loaf—oh, duck your head!"

The pesky ghost expertly juggled the stale loaves, his hands moving with a practiced ease as the bread flew through the air. The students, caught off guard, scrambled to avoid the flying loaves, ducking and shielding their heads with their arms.

Merith raised her hand, and with a quick, deft motion, transformed the bread into a kaleidoscope of butterflies. The sudden change was mesmerizing, and for a moment, the students forgot about their predicament.

Peeves, however, was not impressed. He stuck out his tongue at Merith with a childish scowl, and then blew a raspberry above her head with a flourish, his face twisted in mock annoyance.

"Oh Merith, sweet Merith, what a party pooper!  
Transfigured my bread to a fluttery fwooper!  
Vulchi Vulture’s got nothing on me,  
Wishing her bald is my grand jubilee!”  

“With a wig full of feathers, and a beak that’s absurd,  
I’d cackle and giggle, oh, haven’t you heard?  
So next time you meddle, you meddling pest,  
Know that my mischief is simply the best!”

The ghost careened towards her, its shrill cackle piercing the air as it dived into the floor beneath her feet. The students hastily bid their professor rushed thank-yous and sprinted to the Great Hall, hoping to avoid the ghost's impending return.

Merith scowled, her annoyance evident as she waved the students towards the Great Hall and followed, attempting to compose herself. She forced a warm smile as she entered the Hall, her gaze struggling to focus amidst the flurry of students.

As she wove through the crowd, a young scholar suddenly stepped in front of her, causing her to brake her long strides. "Good morning, Professor," Mr. Pondsey said, his eyes shining with enthusiasm. "Happy New Year!"

Merith patted his shoulder and sidestepped him, her tone a gentle rebuke. "Ah, Mr. Pondsey, thank you. I hope you had a lovely break." Her gaze lingered on his face, her expression softening as she took in his eagerness.

"Oh yes! I read the entire chapter on lycanthropy over the holidays, Professor," he said, his voice bubbling over with excitement. Merith paused, taken aback by his fervor. "The whole chapter, how impressive. Perhaps you should teach the next few lessons."

Mr. Pondsey's face flushed, and he stuttered, "n-no, of course not, Professor, I-," but Merith's teasing tone put him at ease. She offered him a knowing smile and a gentle nod. "I will see you in class."

As she navigated towards the head table, she noticed her colleagues had adopted a familiar seating arrangement. She would take Professor Hecat's spot at the centre table, flanked by two L-shaped tables. Aesop sat at the end of the leftmost table, engrossed in the morning's copy of The Wizarding World News. Merith raised an eyebrow, wondering where he had obtained the paper so early.

"Good morning, Professor Sharp," she said curtly as she passed him, taking her seat. He looked up, his gaze on her as she settled into her chair near him. "How fortunate we are paired so closely together. Hopefully, you shall never tire of me?"

Merith's lips twitched into a smile. "I can promise you'll never be dull. You look like a delightfully adorned throw pillow." Sharp's expression remained deadpan, but a hint of amusement lurked in his eyes.

Hyoto Kogawga flanked her right and Mirabel Garlick sat beside him. Mirabel waved enthusiastically from her seat beside the Headmaster. "Hello, welcome back," Merith said, offering her a warm smile. The trio began plating breakfast.

As Hyoto poured her a cup of coffee, Merith's hand shook slightly, a lingering effect from her dream. He steadied her hand in his own, releasing it when she smiled graciously. "I trust you had some rest over the Christmas break and didn't overwork yourself?" he asked, a hint of teasing in his voice.

"I over-prepared, but I did find time to visit Hogsmeade and spend several hours in the library each day," Merith replied, her tone laced with amusement.

Hyoto scrunched his nose in mock horror. "Goodness, I fear we have differing definitions of relaxation." He offered her a dazzling smile.

Merith's gaze drifted towards the young ladies giggling in the crowd, and she caught Mirabel's knowing glance. The Professor had become a favorite among the students, many of whom hoped to catch his eye by trying out for the Quidditch season.

As the conversation turned to their respective breaks, "Well, what escapades did you get up to over the Christmas break." Merith questioned, Mirabel leaned in, curiousity enveloping her as well.

"I spent some time reconnecting with old friends and teammates, then I enjoyed several days with my family," he replied.

"Ah, yes! How is dear Chiyo faring? Is she whipping the Hollyhead Harpies into shape this season?" Mirabel inquired, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. 

"Quite well. It was fortunate that she could step in at the last minute. Though, I must admit, there’s a bit of bitterness. The moment she takes leave from Hogwarts; Black decides to reinstate the game. She remarked that 'that fickle flobberworm suddenly gets an upgrade for the World Cup, and now he’s interested in Quidditch.'"

Merith's expression paled when Mirabel brought up Black's consideration regarding the reinstatement of Quidditch, an action her father had been directly responsible for. Fourtunately for her, the arrival of owls and the scattering of letters and packages interrupted the conversation.

A tawny brown owl dropped a single letter in Merith's hand, the handwriting unfamiliar. It was from the former Professor Dinah Hecat. Merith's brow furrowed as she gazed at the letter, a sense of unease growing within her.

Dear Professor Merith Vulchanova,  

I hope this letter finds you in good spirits as you begin this new term at Hogwarts.  

Please do not panic—be assured that you are well prepared for the challenges that lie ahead. Should you find yourself in need of guidance or support, I am here for you. Furthermore, you may count on the other esteemed professors of Hogwarts, all of whom would be more than willing to assist you should the need arise.  

Remember that help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it. 

And when all else fails, tell them a story.

Dinah Hecat  

She sighed, feeling tears prick at the corners of her eyes. Merith fought the urge to press the parchment to her chest. A warmth spread through her, yet confusion lingered over why the former professor’s words had gripped her so ardently.

Merith could hear students bustling into the classroom several minutes before the class was set to begin, their chatter a mix of voices evidently shuffling between classes or study periods. She was grateful for having ordered a selection of gowns prior to her employment, each deemed suitable for the occasion. Today, she wore a deep, supple black velvet gown with a skirt that flowed gracefully, complemented by short, puffed sleeves draping over a soft pink satin base. Intricate black lace adorned the chest, back, and sleeves, while a black satin bow fastened at her waist trailed into a velvet train. The neckline featured two voluminous pink satin bows at the back.

Merith had grown accustomed to being overdressed at Hogwarts—a habit she had no intention of changing. Peeking through the crack of her office door, she observed that most of the desks were already filled. Sebastian Sallow stood by the desk where Ominis and William were seated, his animated words clearly trying to grab his friends' attention, though they appeared unfazed by his usual antics.

Taking a deep breath and recalling Professor Hecat's words, she pushed open the classroom doors. If she faltered, she could always share a story. "Good morning, and welcome back to those who have just returned. I trust you all had a good winter break and are refreshed and ready to continue your studies—or perhaps still a bit weary from indulging in festive activities." She smiled, scanning the room. Sebastian remained at the edge of his friends' desks. "Please take your seat, Mr. Sallow," she encouraged, gesturing to a vacant spot next to Garreth Weasley. A seating arrangement she suspected she would come to regret.

"For those of you whom I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting, I am Professor Vulchanova," she said, lifting a piece of chalk wandlessly and scrawling her name on the board with flair before letting it fall with a soft thud. What else should she say before diving into the lesson? Should she elaborate further or proceed? She glanced around again, catching William's eye; he offered a small, encouraging smile.

"Does anyone have questions about me before we begin? I admit this is my first attempt at teaching, do your former teachers share much about themselves?" she asked candidly, swiftly wiping her name from the chalkboard. Hands shot up throughout the room, a flurry of curiosity evident among the students.

A pretty freckled brunette with short hair in the front row raised her hand. "Hello, Professor. I'm Poppy Sweeting. Would you mind sharing which house you were sorted into as a student?" Her seatmate, whom Merith recognized as Mudiwa’s daughter, nodded in agreement.

"Well, I actually didn't attend Hogwarts; I was a student at Durmstrang starting in my third year; I was tutored before that, no sorting ceremony for me," Merith explained succinctly, giving Poppy a polite nod after her response. "Anyone else?" More hands shot up, eager to satiate their curiosity. She stifled a sigh, regretting her invitation.

She gestured to another student, dark-haired with a stern expression. "Welcome Professor, Imelda Reyes. Is it true you were a previous Triwizard champion?" The question sent whispers rippling through the room, quieting only when Merith answered simply, "Yes, Triwizard Champion, 1880."

She moved quickly to the next student, Garreth Weasley, whose arm was raised high, eager as ever. "Yes, Mr. Weasley, go ahead."

"Are you married?" he asked, eliciting murmurs and giggles from the class.

"Alright, that's enough of that," Merith said, raising a hand to quell the chatter.

"Professor Hecat has informed me that your last studies covered Inferi and shield charms, is that correct?" Nods confirmed this, particularly from Poppy, who appeared to be hanging on her every word. "As you are all in your sixth year, this class is no longer mandatory. Therefore, the materials will become more complex and, at times, disturbing."

She continued, "When witches and wizards think of the Dark Arts, the first things that often come to mind are the three Unforgivable Curses. However, as many of you are likely aware, they make up only a small portion of the Dark Arts—albeit some of the more infamous ones, for good reason, as their use can earn you a one-way ticket to Azkaban."

Merith scanned the room, noticing a mix of nervous faces and eager expressions. "The Dark Arts are much broader than just a handful of curses and jinxes. Like your other studies, they can encompass charms, potions, and enchanted objects. This subject also includes what many consider to be innately evil beings, such as vampires and Rougarou." She gestured towards the vampire skeleton that had remained in the corner of the classroom prior to Professor Hecat's tenure.

"When we examine various strands of dark magic, it can be tempting to believe there’s a clear distinction between it and the magic taught in this school. What many of you feel is righteous and protective magic is merely a slight distinction between the two." She noticed confused looks among some students. "After all, both require significant skill and can yield immensely powerful results."

"So, what distinguishes the Dark Arts from other forms of magic?" she asked, inviting their thoughts. The room fell silent until a voice broke through, "Well, those who practice the Dark Arts often become dark wizards." Merith's heart sank slightly—could there be more Weasleys in this class? The response earned a scoff from Sebastian Sallow, who shot a glare at the speaker, while the boy seemed oblivious or chose to ignore it.

"Your name?" Merith queried as she approached the student's desk in the center of the room.

"Leander Prewett, Professor," he replied confidently, receiving an eyeroll from the witch beside him.

"So, Mr. Prewett, let me ask you this: are Aurors and officers dark wizards?"

"Well, no, of course not," he proclaimed matter-of-factly, as if her question was absurd.

"Correct. The Ministry of Magic grants its Aurors and officers certain authority to use Dark Magic when the situation necessitates it. In times of war, even the use of Unforgivable Curses could be justified, depending on the Ministry's discretion. This ruling mainly affects the reach of the Ministry; in other parts of the wizarding world, the community may hold a more permissive view on the use of Dark Magic." She paused, assessing the class’s rapt attention, then flashed an amused smile.

"Durmstrang has taught a class specifically on the Dark Arts. Do you think I am a dark witch for learning it?" Merith raised an eyebrow innocently at Leander.

He paled. "Uh, well, no, of course not, Professor..." he stammered, to Sebastian’s delight, who wore a self-satisfied grin from the back of the room.

Merith chuckled, giving Leander a friendly pat on the shoulder before returning to the front of the class.

"So then, what distinguishes Dark Arts from other types of magic?" she asked, crossing her arms and leaning against the podium.

At that moment, Ominis Gaunt raised his hand. His expression was blank, but there was a slight tremor in his raised hand. "Yes, Mr. Gaunt, what are your thoughts?" she leaned in, intrigued by what a member of an esteemed pureblood family would say on the topic.

"It’s the way magic is often used; when one wields it to harm another." His tone was serious and unwavering. Merith noted that he seemed somehow older in that moment. Although Ominis was blind, she felt as if his gaze was piercing directly through to her.

"Intent," she nodded approvingly. "Well done, Mr. Gaunt. Ten points to Slytherin." Sebastian let out a small cheer, patting Ominis on the back, eliciting a glare from Ominis while William shook his head in amusement at the duo.

"If someone uses a spell to harm physically or mentally, then it is generally deemed dark magic. Additionally, if a spell, potion, or creature is created explicitly through dark magic, it falls into the same category."

"As an example," Merith said, summoning several books from her office wandlessly and levitating them in front of her, "a book may contain a pleasant enchantment." She opened one, a musical text that filled the room with the sound of a string quartet, enchanting everyone present. With a snap, she closed the book and sent it back.

"And then there are others..." She gently opened a large volume, slamming it shut with a flick of her wrist. It emitted a ghostly screech that echoed in the classroom, rattling the bones of the Hebridean Black Dragon that loomed overhead. Several students covered their ears, and Merith cast a silencing charm on the book, holding it up for all to see.

"Still, this is child's play," she mused, her tone laced with a mix of amusement and challenge. "Some of you may recognize this book by Godelot, Magick Moste Evile. I’ve borrowed this copy from the restricted section, an action I suspect will earn me a scolding from Madame Scribner—"

"It remains one of our most essential historical texts concerning Dark Arts, yet I believe it is quite limited. There exists dark magic beyond these walls that remains understudied and poorly managed. You may recall from your History of Magic classes that dark magic is suspected to have originated around 100 BCE, long before Muggles began recording their own history. However, I suspect it likely existed even before that and has coexisted with our understanding of magic since the inception of wizardkind."

She surveyed the room, relieved to see that no one appeared lost. Although some looked uncomfortable, they still listened attentively. "Several scholars theorize that the lack of information we have regarding the history of the Dark Arts may stem from the deliberate destruction of these materials. Others believe it may be due to the harsh realities of famine, war, and natural disasters. I suspect that multiple truths coexist."

"I don't believe in shielding you from the realities of Dark Magic. I will do my utmost to prepare and educate you to the best of my abilities. Once you leave this school, you will likely encounter instances of dark magic in your own lives. As young Mr. Gaunt eloquently pointed out, it is not necessarily the magic itself that is dark; it is the intent of the caster."

"With that said, we will be covering several subjects in this class, beginning with non-verbal Spells and Dementors, and concluding with the Unforgivable Curses. I will also set aside fifteen minutes at the beginning of each class for questions—related or unrelated to the lesson—if you have inquiries pertaining to the subject matter as a whole. I sense many curious minds among you." Some students looked around nervously, while others scribbled notes with urgency, eager to gather their thoughts.

"However, if you’re feeling less bold and wish to speak privately or have any concerns regarding the course materials, I will hold office hours on Tuesdays during 5th period and Thursdays during 6th. If neither aligns with your schedule, we can arrange another time."

"Now, let’s begin our lesson. Yes, Miss. Sweeting?" Merith turned to the brown-haired girl, who tentatively raised her hand.

"Well, Professor, you never mentioned the text for the class. Are we to use the same one that Professor Hecat prescribed?" Poppy asked kindly, drawing groans from other students.

"Ah, right. If you wish to engage in supplementary reading, feel free, but I will not be assigning readings from that text." Excited whispers filled the room, and Merith raised her hand to quiet them, flashing the class a bemused smile. "Now, onto non-verbal Spells. Can anyone tell me the advantages of using non-verbal spells?"

"Moving forward, in nearly all spells used in this class, I will expect them to be non-verbal," Merith announced, her tone both serious and playful, a hint of a smile dancing across her lips. "It may benefit you to practice these techniques in a particular unsanctioned dueling club that I swear to know nothing of—" She let the words hang in the air, a playful smirk etched on her face, as if daring anyone to call her bluff.

"Alright, off to lunch," she declared, waving her hand and urging the students to leave the classroom. The hum of chatter filled the air as they gathered their belongings and filed out, the atmosphere buzzing with excitement.

As the sixth-year students exited the classroom—after a lengthy lecture that had extended nearly two and a half hours—William made his way over to her. "A stirring lecture, Professor. I'll certainly need to make an effort to re-learn defensive spells wordlessly," he said, a hint of determination in his voice.

Merith smiled reassuringly. "Well, I’m not expecting you to accomplish this in mere weeks, let alone months. It’s likely practice you will continue well beyond your time at Hogwarts."

"I suppose," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I must admit, Professor, I find myself missing our private lessons and clandestine library ventures."

Her expression softened, and she smiled warmly at him. "Thank you, William. That’s… well, rather kind of you to say. You may always come to me with your questions or concerns." She watched him thoughtfully, then gently urged, "Now, you really should head to lunch before the others finish without you."

As Merith meticulously organized the scattered papers on her desk and securely locked her office door, her thoughts meandered around William's unexpected words of praise. The notion of being a role model had never crossed her mind; particularly not during her time at Durmstrang. Back then, she had felt like an outsider, a girl navigating a boys' club where her competitive spirit and combative nature only served to intensify her isolation. Her father, the headmaster, had watched over her with the kind of fierce protectiveness that, while well-intentioned, often widened the chasm between her and her classmates.

Strolling towards the Great Hall for lunch, memories of her time at Durmstrang washed over her like a tide. She had often found herself a solitary figure in that bustling environment, more inclined to bury herself in her duties and obligations rather than engaging in the intricate social games that defined the school’s culture. The few friendships she had formed—Aric, for instance—had been rare gems amidst a sea of indifference. But, his closest friend had been her brother Michaél, whose antics had consistently provided her with both annoyance and unexpected amusement.

A wry smile tugged at the corners of Merith's lips as she recalled the tempestuous dynamic she shared with Michaél. Their contentious relationship was infamous among their peers, characterized by fierce arguments that echoed throughout Durmstrang’s stone hallways.  Aric frequently found himself playing the role of their lighthearted mediator, expertly navigating the stormy waters of Merith and Michaél’s relationship. During mealtimes, especially at lunch—the only meal Merith consistently attended—he would position himself strategically between the two siblings, a buffer against their tempestuous dynamics. His presence acted like a gentle shield, softening the sharp barbs that often flew back and forth.

With a disarming smile and a knack for humor, Aric could diffuse the tension in the air as easily as he might pop a bubble. He would often chime in with a playful joke or a well-timed comment that elicited reluctant laughter from both Merith and Michaél, drawing their attention away from their simmering disagreements. In those moments, it was as if he wielded a magical charm, allowing them to find common ground, if only temporarily. 

Merith had been captivated by Aric from the very first moment they met. It was during Christmas break of his first year at Hogwarts when Michaél had brought him to her family’s estate—an occasion that had set her heart aflame. Aric had been an embodiment of youthful exuberance, charming and kind, effortlessly making her laugh while completely unfazed by her nine-year-old self tagging along, much to Michaél's chagrin. She remembered watching him through starry eyes, wishing upon the brightest stars above that he might one day notice her—not just as her brother’s little sister, but as someone worthy of his affection.

Her youthful longing took root over the years, blooming into a quiet hope that one day Aric might return her feelings. That wish became a reality during the Christmas break of her fifth year, coinciding with Aric’s final year at Durmstrang. Their families had continued the tradition of gathering at her estate, a comfortable backdrop for the unspoken chemistry that had been simmering between them.

On one fateful evening, they found themselves sneaking away from the annual Chritmas banquet, stealing away to enjoy some Firewhisky that they had pilfered from the festivities. In that dimly lit corner of the grand ballroom, wrapped in the cozy haze of their illicit drinks, they shared a tender moment that felt as if the universe had conspired to bring them together. 

However, their blissful secrecy was not destined to last. It was only a few months later, during one of their clandestine rendezvous, that disaster struck. Michaél discovered them together in the grand ballroom, their laughter echoing in the silence. The fury that etched itself into his features was almost theatrical—eyes blazing with betrayal, mouth set in a grim line. In that instant, Merith felt a sharp pang of guilt—not for herself, but for Aric, who suddenly bore the weight of Michaél's wrath and the impending judgment of their peers.

With Michaél’s discovery, their innocent connection soon became a source of scorn and gossip among the students at Durmstrang. Weather instigated by Michaél, or otherwise the students had chosen their sides, and Aric had faced the brunt of it, enduring whispers that cast shadows on the tender moments they had shared. And Merith was left grappling not only with her brother’s anger but also with a heart aching for the boy who had dared to dream the same dreams as her under the starlit sky.

Michaél's voice had thundered through the air, each accusation a heavy weight. “You just have to take everything from me? Can I never have anything? You foul soul-sucking succubus—” Those words lingered in her mind even now, their sting still as potent as it had been years ago.

The atmosphere in the grand ballroom had shattered the moment Michaél confronted them, the air thick with unspoken tension. Aric, fueled by a mix of indignation and protectiveness, had lunged at Michaél, their dispute erupting into a physical altercation that startled the guests around them. Merith stood frozen for a heartbeat, her heart racing as she processed the scene unfolding in front of her. The boys bond seemed to hang by a fragile thread, ready to snap at any moment.

In a surge of instinctual dread, she chose not to linger and witness the fallout of their clash. Instead, she turned on her heel and fled, her heart pounding in her chest, leaving behind the echoes of shouts and the clatter of thrown furniture. 

Though Aric had undoubtedly possessed the strength, and the skills honed during his time at Durmstrang, the outcome of their match became irrelevant in the wake of their crumbling friendship. Whatever victory Aric might have claimed over Michaél in that moment was overshadowed by the gaping chasm that now lay between them. 

From that day forward, Michaél and Aric adapted to an uncomfortable silence, one that felt like an unspoken pact to pretend that nothing had changed, even as everything had. Aric continued to visit her family during the holidays, upholding the traditions they had shared, but their connection felt like a ghost haunting the edges of the room. In the view of others, they exchanged pleasantries that rang hollow, smiles that lacked warmth, every lingering glance cast aside before it could reveal the depth of their unspoken emotions.

As the visits continued, it often felt to Merith as though they were two actors playing roles in a farcical play, mimicking a friendship that had evaporated in an instant. They skirted around each other, lost in the shadows of their own thoughts, both painfully aware of what they had lost yet too proud—or perhaps too wounded—to reach out and connect once more. 

The laughter that once filled the room felt like a distant echo, replaced by an awkward silence that hung heavily in the air. Pretending as if their bond still thrived became the norm, but in those moments of hollow joy, Merith could see the truth reflected in Aric's eyes—an echo of the affection that had once been there, now etched in a painful longing neither of them dared to acknowledge.

Drawing a deep breath, Merith pushed the painful memories aside as she entered the Great Hall, her focus shifting back to the present. She took her place at the staff table, exchanging light banter with her colleagues as they began their midday meal.

As she began to pick at her lunch, each morsel seemed to lose its appeal, the colors on her plate blending into a muted palette that mirrored her burgeoning disquiet. Merith found her thoughts drifting once more, contemplating the future that lay ahead. Would the bond she had begun to form with William—her bright, eager student—flourish, or were their paths destined to diverge as so many had before? The uncertainty made her heart ache, a lingering reminder of the limited friendships that had slipped away in her own past. 

Only time would reveal the answer. 

Chapter Text

It was Tuesday, her second day of teaching, and the atmosphere felt significantly lighter than the lingering apprehension of Monday. Classes wouldn’t commence until after lunch, and she was scheduled for a first-year lesson, followed by office hours that had been pleasantly quiet.

During this time, William had dropped by, his intrigue sparked by a peculiar article referenced from the Daily Prophet. “Professor, can you tell me more about that story?” he asked, leaning forward, his eyes wide with curiosity. “The one about the woman using the Imperious curse to force customers to buy from her stand?”

Merith nodded, recalling the absurdity of it all. The headline had made rounds at Hogwarts, many finding humor in the tale. “While it may seem outlandish, the dangers of an improperly cast Imperius curse are very real. A man miscast it years ago, and the victim's mind became severely addled.”

William’s expression darkened momentarily, as if her statement had triggered something in the deep recesses of his mind.

After a brief silence, he tentatively asked, “Is there any way to protect oneself against such a curse?”

“Well, yes and no. There are methods, but they often require anticipating it's use,” Merith replied.

Before she could delve deeper into defensive techniques, a soft knock interrupted them. “Come in,” she called, flicking her hand in a gesturing motion to draw the door open and welcoming Mudiwa Onai into her office.

“William, let’s continue this discussion another time,” she suggested gently. William nodded, rising. “Thank you, Professor. I’ll see you shortly.” He exited, gently closing the door behind him.

“Good afternoon, Mudiwa,” Merith greeted, gesturing toward the chair across from her.

Mudiwa surveyed the space before responding. “It’s very considerate of you to offer drop-in hours for students seeking help or clarification.”

“I’m here regardless, so I thought it prudent to make myself available,” Merith replied, brushing off the compliment, though a flicker of warmth stirred in her chest. Merith continued to experience a sense of vulnerability after disclosing her dream to Mudiwa during the break.

She found it difficult to dismiss the unease that accompanied having bared her thoughts to someone with whom she had only recently acquainted herself.

Mudiwa's expression turned earnest, a keen glint in her eyes. “You show more passion than you realize, Merith. While humility is admirable, don’t hesitate to embrace your enthusiasm.”

Merith felt a blush creeping into her cheeks. “I'll take note of that,” she murmured. “What brings you here today, Mudiwa?”

“I’m here on behalf of my daughter, Natsai,” Mudiwa began, hesitance evident in her tone. “She’s succeeded with some basic apparition exercises and feels ready, and yet…” Her voice trailed off, laden with concern.

“Are you concerned about her safety?” Merith asked gently.

Mudiwa sighed, her brow knitting together. “Natsai is quite headstrong and brave, much like her father was. However, she sometimes struggles to recognize her own limits. In Matabeleland, she excelled at apparition from a young age, taught by her father. I hoped to further those teachings with her, but now… we often clash due to our rather... conflicting temperaments.”

“I see,” Merith replied softly.

“I just want her to succeed without feeling overwhelmed,” Mudiwa confessed, her fingers fidgeting with her robe’s hem. “She agreed to take this course because she knew you would be teaching. It appears she aspires to be like you.” Vulnerability slipped into her voice. “Please, keep an eye on her. She’s incredibly resilient but also deeply sensitive. I worry that the lessons may evoke emotions that could distract her.”

Merith felt a swell of empathy, an unfamiliar warmth enveloping her. Memories of her own mother, lost when she was just five, flickered through her mind. With few recollections to hold onto and her father never having remarried, she was unaccustomed to such motherly concern. “I promise to do my utmost to support Natsai and all my students,” she assured Mudiwa, even as a thread of anxiety tightened in her chest.

With a nod and a grateful smile, Mudiwa departed, leaving Merith to ponder the weight of responsibility now resting on her shoulders.

As the final period approached, students began to file into the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. Among them were familiar faces from her previous sixth-year class, including the notorious trio of Slytherin boys, now joined by Gareth Weasley, Matilda's spirited nephew. Natsai Onai sat with Imelda Reyes, and Merith strolled over to greet them. "Good evening, ladies."

“Is Miss Sweeting joining us today?” Merith inquired, scanning the room.

Imelda shot back with her characteristic sass, “She’s probably too terrified to take this class and would rather ride a Hippogriff.”

Merith chose not to engage further; she had found Poppy Sweeting to be quite brave in her own way, particularly when it came to knowing one’s limits in a perilous undertaking like apparition. As more students settled into their seats, she noted that the class was intentionally small—no more than seven or eight students—to facilitate closer management.

Once everyone was settled, Merith introduced herself as “Professor Vulchanova” for the benefit of any newcomers. “It’s not standard for a professor to teach apparition lessons; typically, a Ministry representative would handle this. However, given the recent passing of the previous instructor and the Ministry's backlog of requests, here I am."

She continued, surveying the eager faces before her. “I've received a package from the Ministry containing notes from the former instructor to guide us. They're currently developing a licensing system to track students completing the course successfully. If you excel, you’ll earn a certificate signed by myself and stamped by the Ministry of Magic.” She paused to gauge their reactions. “Although the course spans twelve weeks, some of you may not need the entire duration if I believe you possess the necessary talent to wield the skill safely.”

Merith then shifted to details about apparition, highlighting its significance as a mode of travel. “So, why rely on conventional, albeit inferior, methods like Portkeys or the Floo Network when apparition exists?” she asked, a hint of challenge in her tone. “Apparition is an advanced skill that carries its own risks and, if mishandled, can lead to unfortunate consequences. Hence, why even experienced wizards tend to use it sparingly.”

She continued, “The further you travel, the riskier it becomes, especially with cross-continental apparition, which is often reserved for emergencies. This skill is paramount for anyone aspiring to become an Auror—along with many other Ministry and non-Ministry careers.”

“It can feel a bit like being squeezed through a rather large flubberworm” she explained, eliciting a few chuckles. “So don’t fret if you feel ill; it's actually a rather unusual sign of success.”

As she took a piece of chalk and hovered it near the blackboard, she stated, “The process consists of two essential parts: first, ‘disapparating,’ which is the act of vanishing.” Writing ‘disapparate’ in clear script, she continued, “Then comes ‘apparating,’ which is the reappearing part.” She wrote that down as well.

“It’s crucial to maintain a clear mind and strong visualization skills for successful apparition. Focus is vital; failing to concentrate can lead to dire outcomes, including ‘splinching’—when insufficient determination prevents you from reaching your intended destination, leaving parts of you behind.” The seriousness of her tone lingered in the air as she added, “this course demands commitment and focus. Many may find themselves challenged by this advanced form of magic.”

Having established the foundation, Merith moved to the practical component of the lesson. “Now, I’d like you to work on visualization exercises. The ability to maintain a vivid mental image of your destination—not just its form but also its surroundings—is vital,” she instructed. She levitated various metal containers, each filled with sand, allowing them to land softly in front of each student.

“As you focus on your visualization, this enchanted sand will take shape based on what you envision,” she announced. The confused expressions on their faces were amusing as some prodded at the sand, half-expecting it to respond. “The clearer your mental image, the more defined the terrain and details will appear—much like what you’ve learned in Professor Weasley’s transfiguration classes."

Moving to Natsai’s container at the front of the room, Merith took a moment to conjure the edge of the Forbidden Forest in her mind—an area that had preoccupied her thoughts as of late. Holding that image for a heartbeat longer than necessary, she released it to transform into a small mound of sand. With a graceful wave of her hand, she smoothed the grains, manipulating them artfully. “Now, it’s your turn,” she encouraged, her gaze sweeping across the classroom.

As Merith circulated among the students, she observed their efforts, some sand formations resembling vague hills. Gareth Weasley appeared particularly frustrated, trying to conjure something coherent. “Take a breath,” she suggested gently. “You’ve got the concept; now focus on the finer details.”

Wandering among the desks, she admired Sebastian Sallow’s intricate depiction of the Owlery, complete with minuscule sandy birds perched atop its structure. “Well done, Mr. Sallow. That’s quite impressive!” she praised, encouraging him to explore other locations for practice.

William was also making progress; his sand representation took the form of a rather peculiar room—broad yet strangely empty. It featured a large descending staircase that led to a circular chamber, flat and devoid of furnishings, with four peaked windows—or perhaps they were mirrors; she wasn't quite sure.

He caught her gaze for a fleeting second, then abruptly collapsed his creation into shapeless heaps.

Continuing her rounds, Merith noted that Natsai had beautifully captured what she assumed was her home in Matabeleland. “Excellent work, Natsai,” she commended, feeling satisfied with the overall progress of the lesson. “That’s all the time we have for today. Please take your sand with you and keep practicing in your own time. If you can conjure three different locations by next week, you may move on to the next part of your training. Keep at it!”

As the session concluded, students began to file out. William waved thoughtfully at her, while Sebastian rolled his eyes and turned to William. “I think I’ve discovered something particularly fascinating that aligns with your skills…” he trailed off, provoking an exasperated sigh from William. “I don’t know, Sebastian…”

The door clicked shut behind them, and the classroom fell into a tranquil silence.

It was Wednesday afternoon, and Merith felt a tingling sense of liberation wash over her as she stepped out of her last class. The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden rays that filtered through the towering spires of Hogwarts, illuminating the ancient stones of the castle in a warm glow. Yet, her thoughts were far from the stunning architecture; they were drawn to the familiar potions classroom. Aesop Sharp had one more lesson left before he wrapped up for the day, and she had a compelling reason to see him.

Walking through the castle halls, she felt both nervous and excited, her heart pounding as she neared the potions room. She slid through the door with practiced ease, just in time to catch the tail end of Aesop’s reprimand to a young Ravenclaw student.

“Honestly, Miss. Rowle! This potion looks more like rejected jelly than anything else!” His voice resonated with frustration, and Merith could see the ladle firmly stuck in the cauldron, ensnared by the disastrous concoction. A flick of his wand liberated the utensil, and his magic sent the cauldron shimmering with ill-fated alchemical brilliance.

The students were quickly dismissed, their faces a mix of relief and trepidation as they practically sprinted out of the classroom, eager to escape Aesop’s sharp words. Merith watched with quiet amusement, a smile creeping across her face at how clearly intimidated they were. Her own excitement had bubbled at the prospect of seeing him in his element.

As the last of the students cleared out, she stepped forward, past the specter of chaotic potions and thick, lingering fumes. Aesop stood surveying the classroom with a critical eye, disdain tugging at his lips as he examined the failed experiments. His brow was furrowed, his frustration palpable. 

“Another reminder that talent requires nurturing,” Merith teasingly injected, breaking the silence, and his head snapped toward her with an incredulous look.

“You think you’re a fountain of wisdom on the matter?” Aesop countered, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though it did little to mask the annoyance he wielded like a weapon.

“I like to think I am,” she replied, unable to suppress a laugh. 

“What brings you to my classroom today?” Aesop asked, his tone shifting from irritable to curious, his intrigue evident amidst the chaos of potions.

“I thought it time to recast the healing charm, but I had another idea,” she replied, her heart fluttering as she ventured forward. “I thought it prudent to document the curse on your leg—the appearance and size—before we continue with the spell. A rough sketch could serve as a reference.”

At that, Aesop’s features darkened slightly, a hesitance spreading across his face. “A sketch?” he echoed, a slight flush creeping into his cheeks as he instinctively glanced away.

“What? You think you're the first man I've seen with his trousers down?” she teased, emboldened. There was something thrilling in the air, a tension crackling like magic itself.

His scoff was immediately followed by a sidelong glare, but the way he fought against a smile made her spirits rise. “Prudishness has never been my style, Merith,” he replied coolly, though his slight smile betrayed him.

She pulled out her notebook, revealing rough outlines of male figures she had sketched from various angles, her interest suddenly piqued. “Well, let’s get to it then,” she said, glancing back at him.

“Fine, but don’t make a habit of this,” Aesop finally relented, leading her into his office. He shut the door, and the soft click of the latch filled the air with a palpable tension, as if the world outside had faded into oblivion.

As he unbuckled his boots, she took a moment to observe him, noticing how he seemed less tense, more relaxed here within the confines of his classroom. When he finally slipped off his trousers, revealing loose linen drawers that hung considerably shorter than she expected, her breath caught in her throat. His legs were muscular, the darker hair dusted across his strong, defined thighs. She felt heat rush to her cheeks, and her heart raced with a curious mixture of vitality and vulnerability.

“Look away if you must,” he quipped, attempting to regain some semblance of authority, but the joke failed to mask the underlying thrill of exposure between them.

Merith broke her gaze, though it was a struggle to do so; there was something alluring about the way he carried himself. “I need to see you if I am to accurately depict the curse,” she managed, her voice faltering with the thought of their intimate positioning.

As she knelt before him, her fingers brushed against his ankle, gently pulling down his sock to inspect the curse almost blossoming to life on his skin. The tendril of the curse wrapped around his leg like a serpentine vine, and she felt a shiver of something when she noticed the way it spiraled under his skin. The moment her fingertips lightly grazed the vine-like impression, an electric spark surged through her.

His hardened expression had softened, yet an unspoken tension still lingered, as if the sudden gentling of his features was a fragile, easily shattered thing. Despite this, a guarded part of him remained, clearly discomforted by the vulnerability he'd allowed to seep through his reserve, a sense of exposed rawness that made him bristle with unease.

“Does it go any higher?” she dared to ask, gesturing to his torso, noticing his posture stiffen as he cleared his throat. His eyes hesitated, burdened by something unarticulated. 

“It doesn’t,” he murmured, the confession feeling heavy in the air, a shared knowledge that left them both slightly flustered.

“Alright,” she breathed, the moment stretching as she hesitated, her heart racing with a sudden burst of boldness. “Turn,” she instructed gently, analyzing the curse at the back of his leg, barely concealed beneath the edge of his drawers. “Can you sketch what I can't see?” 

He obliged, his fingers dancing over the parchment, drawing the final lines of the creeping curse. She took the notebook from his grasp after he finished. It seemed the curse had only inched a little higher up the front of his thigh than what was concealed by his undergarments.

“If it’s alright with you, I’d like to cast the charm now, while—you know—partially disrobed. I want to adjust the spell for increased potency.”

“Fine,” he replied, the reluctance in his voice evident, though his gaze was drawn to hers like a moth to a flame.

As she began the spell, the air between them grew electric, anticipation simmering with each word she spoke. However, the adjustment proved more demanding than she had anticipated. Her energy was swiftly depleted, and as the final spark of her cast dissipated, she stood and felt herself stumble, hurtling towards him with unsteady feet.

Before he could react, Aesop fell back against the desk, and Merith tumbled into his lap, pressed flush against him. She gasped as his legs pressed firmly against her sides, anchoring her close. The warmth radiating from his body enveloped her, filling her senses with the intoxicating scent of herbal freshness, smoky undertones, and something distinctly Aesop.

“Well, how does it feel?” Merith spoke, breathless and dizzy from their positioning. The irritation that once colored Aesop’s features vanished, replaced by an unmistakable longing that flooded his eyes and stole the breath from her lungs.

“Your leg, I mean,” she quickly added, her heart hammering as she remained suspended in his grasp, even as she felt the heat of something more profound simmering beneath the surface of their exchange.

Aesop’s breath ghosted across her cheek, electric and warm, igniting a heat that swirled inside her. She could feel the erratic rhythm of his heart drumming against her own—flesh, echoing desires unspoken.

But just as the moment seemed to blossom—a perfect, reckless heartbeat—they were suddenly interrupted by the familiar voice of Gareth Weasley wandering into the classroom.

“Professor Sharp?” Gareth called innocently, panic surged through Merith. Wide-eyed, she turned and quickly locked Aesop’s door with a twist of her wrist, their bodies still pressed together in the confined space of his office. The moment stretched into eternity as they held their breath, listening intently to Gareth’s footsteps echo softly around the room. 

When he finally left, the sound of the door clicking shut was like a spell shattering the magical moment they had created.

“He’s definitely stolen something,” Aesop muttered dryly, his authoritative mask slipping back into place. Compelled by her relief, Merith laughed softly, leaning her head into the crook of his neck, the scent of him intoxicating her senses.

As she pulled away, a wave of shame and fluster washed over her. Aesop steadied her, gently guiding her to his chair while he gathered his scattered clothing. He slid on his trousers with surprising ease, a stark contrast to the effort it had taken to remove them.

Leaning back against the desk, his movements casual yet deliberate, he pulled on his boots, and Merith couldn’t help but be captivated by the play of muscles across his shoulders—the way they flexed and shifted with each motion, drawing her gaze like a magnet.

Temptation gripped her, and she reached toward him subconsciously, fingers brushing through the air, desperate to make that connection—even if just for a fleeting moment. But the sudden realization of her whims jolted through her, and she pulled back in alarm, heat flooding her cheeks as she fought against the impulse to touch him. 

Instead, she clutched her notebook tight, heart still racing from the proximity they had shared and the tenuous connection that lingered between them—a shared secret, an uncharted territory that neither of them dared to name.

Merith took a deep breath, grounding herself after the whirlwind of emotions that had just unfolded. Aesop, still seated at the edge of his desk, furrowed his brow in concern. “Are you alright?” he asked, the sincerity in his voice wrapping around her like a warm embrace. 

Forcing a surge of playfulness, she stood up and spun dramatically, her skirts flaring out around her as she twirled to face him. “Quite well!” she exclaimed, punctuating the statement with a flourish. The bow at her waist caught against the edge of the chair, unfurling into two long, delicate ribbons that trailed behind her like ephemeral vines. 

Aesop raised an eyebrow, a smirk dancing on his lips. “Ah, I see you’ve come undone,” he quipped, his gaze flicking to the trailing ribbons, teasing and playful in its familiarity. The banter flowed easily between them, the earlier tension dissolving into something lighter, yet still charged.

“I suppose I have,” she replied, returning his banter with a mischievous smile. He motioned for her to turn back toward him, and she complied, feeling the warmth of his presence at her back.

“Allow me,” he said softly, his fingers brushing against her waist as he took the two ribbons in his hands. The touch sent a shiver down her spine, igniting embers of heat in her core. “Let’s fix that.”

Merith felt her breath catch as she tilted her head slightly, allowing him to tie the ribbons together. “Tighter,” she whispered, not entirely sure where the command came from—but the thrill of the moment swept her away. 

He chuckled, a warm sound that sent ripples of energy through her, and obliged, pulling the ribbons snugger against her waist. The added pressure felt intoxicating, an exquisite kind of tension that she hadn’t anticipated. She felt a rush of heat under his gentle touch, and as his fingers lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary, the warmth spread through her like wildfire. Then, just as quickly, he withdrew his hands, leaving her breathless and craving more.

In the silence that followed, a question hung in the air—one that neither had dared to articulate since that fateful New Year’s Eve. The kiss they had shared had been electric, leaving a mark on her soul that she couldn’t shake. Would he kiss her again? Would they finally speak of the storm that roiled just beneath the surface of their complicated relationship?

With her pulse quickening, Merith spun around to face him again, searching deep into his eyes for the answers. “Aesop, I—” she began, but the words faltered as she confronted the longing mirrored in his gaze. 

Before she could finish, Aesop's expression shifted, a determination igniting behind his eyes. He reached for her waist, pulling her closer to him. The fire between them reignited as he pressed her against him, their lips finally meeting in a desperate kiss that consumed them both. 

Her senses erupted into a whirlwind of sensation as she placed a hand against his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart echoing her own erratic rhythm. The world around them faded into a distant memory; there was only the intensity of that moment—the warmth, the urgency, the unspoken truths that hung suspended between them.

As their lips moved together, she felt every ounce of longing she had kept buried flood to the surface. Aesop’s hands found her waist again, fingers digging gently into her sides, grounding her in the reality of what they were sharing. Each kiss deepened the connection, tethering them in a way that felt both thrilling and terrifying.

In that swirling harmonization of intensity, time ceased to exist, and all the complexity around them unraveled. The kiss felt like home and adventure, and Merith couldn’t help but wonder what this moment truly meant for them. As Aesop’s mouth hovered just a breath away from hers, the tension mingling with anticipation was almost palpable.

He backed slightly, Merith gazed up at him, searching his expression. “What does this mean for us?” he said softly against her lips, her heart hammering beneath the weight of the question. 

But Aesop’s expression remained torn. The warmth in his eyes still held that spark of desire, and though the room buzzed with energy, there was an undercurrent of cautious vulnerability that tethered their hearts. 

His question hung in the air, a quiet plea for clarity in the midst of the turbulence that had been building between them. As she gazed up at Aesop, she couldn't help but wonder if she was merely caught up in her own desires or if there was truly something more between them. The complexity of their relationship had been a delicate dance, with each step forward leading to more questions and fewer answers.

Merith found herself releasing a soft sigh, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she pressed a delicate kiss against Aesop's scarred cheek, then caressed the spot with the tips of her fingers. The touch was gentle, a soothing balm to the raw emotion that had been building inside her. "Let us not think too heavily on this," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her heart. "Let us just be." 

For a moment, they stood in silence. Then he pulled back, and his eyes met Merith's. In that brief instant, she caught a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze.

"Ah, I feel rather ungentlemanly," he said, his voice low and husky, his gaze dropping to his hands as if ashamed.

Merith's heart skipped a beat as she reached out, her fingers brushing against his. "You would never be ungentlemanly to me," she replied, her voice filled with conviction. "You are always gentle with me, Aesop."

In that moment, she felt the cracks in her well-crafted exterior begin to melt away. Aesop had a way of bringing forth the softness in her that she often tucked away behind layers of composure and resolve. With him, it felt safe to be vulnerable—safe to let him see the gentle heart beneath the facade she had carefully constructed. 

"Aesop," she began, her voice softening, “there is—”

But the words fell away as she looked into his eyes, losing herself in the depths where that same vulnerability mirrored her own. So much she wished to say churned within her—secrets and fears threatening to spill over.

Merith felt a tightening in her chest, an overwhelming urge to share her burdens, but self-doubt anchored her in place. What if he didn’t understand her? What if her truths only served to push him away? She could sense the tremor of uncertainty in her voice, a faint quiver that betrayed her fragile resolve.

As the silence between them stretched out, it weighed heavily on her, thickening the air with unspoken fears. She couldn't find the words, not yet. The fear of rejection loomed larger than her desire for connection, and in that moment, she felt more isolated than ever, trapped by the very walls she longed to dismantle. 

Chapter Text

The weekend morning sun cast its warm glow through the Hogwarts library's windows, a gentle counterpoint to the usual chaos that reigned below. Merith, ever the seeker of solitude, had retreated to the restricted section, where the air was thick with dusty tomes and the promise of quiet contemplation. It was here, on hallowed ground, that she had invited Aesop to join her - not for a study session, as the rest of the student body had deemed necessary, but simply to enjoy each other's company, free from prying eyes and the weight of academic expectation.

But even as Aesop's presence brought her a fleeting sense of comfort, Merith was consumed by the familiar ache of self-loathing. The lies she told, the secrets she kept - they had become her most steadfast companion, piling up like the shelves upon shelves of forbidden texts that surrounded her. With each passing day, the weight of deception pressed in on her, making it harder to breathe, harder to look herself in the mirror. And yet, they remained, these carefully crafted falsehoods, the only thing that seemed to stand between her and the abyss of truth.

As she opened a new book, the pages rustling softly, Merith couldn't help but think of all the others, the countless lies she had amassed like a collection of rare and precious artifacts. Each one a tiny thread in the intricate web of her deceit, a thread that seemed to bind her more tightly to the very person she was trying to conceal. She felt a shiver run down her spine as Aesop's eyes met hers, a moment of connection that threatened to unravel the very fabric of her web of lies. But still, she said nothing, unable to tear away from the fragile comfort of her own self-deception.

Aesop's eyes scanned the shelves with practiced ease, soon zeroing in on a tome bound in worn leather: The Elixir Codex: Unearthing the Secrets of Potionery. Content, he settled into the aged settee, its cushions creaking in protest as he opened to a marked page, the words instantly drawing him in.

Merith soon joined him, though her mind wandered as she browsed the Hogwarts archives, skimming through resources haphazardly stored on the overwhelming shelves. Aesop watched her from the corners of his eyes, his gaze lingering warmly as she crouched down, searching for a particular text. “Catching up on some Hogwarts history, are we? Ever so studious of you.” he inquired, his voice low and smooth, inviting her to engage.

“Something like that,” Merith called over her shoulder, her tone playful but laced with an undercurrent of something deeper. She straightened, hands cradling a precarious pile of books and loose papers, and ambled back to the settee beside him. With a gentle thud, she deposited her load onto the table, sending him a fleeting, startled glance as he raised an eyebrow.

Aesop's amusement was evident, though he said nothing, merely watching as Merith levitated a nearby chair, easing herself into the seat beside him. The silence that followed was a warm, golden thing, filled only with the soft rustle of pages turning and the quiet breathing of the pair. Merith’s gaze drifted to Aesop, a fluttering warmth igniting in her chest, a reaction that both delighted and terrified her.

Since their advancement the previous day, she had felt a stirring within her—a dangerous curiosity, a burgeoning excitement that was childlike and exhilarating. Yet surrounded by the musty scent of old books and the glow of the afternoon sun, she was equally plagued by self-doubt. Her thoughts kept trailing back to the tangled web of secrets she had woven, where every lie felt like an ink stain on her soul, darkening her days. Watching Aesop, so focused, she felt foolish, berating herself for harboring these fancies, these feelings that seemed so foreign. But still, she couldn’t resist the urge to observe him, his brow furrowed in concentration as he read, completely absorbed.

Occasionally, a sigh or a disgruntled noise would escape his lips, followed by a page flip, and then his gaze would drift back to her. She felt nervous excitement racing through her as Aesop studied her, a mirror reflecting back her own curiosity. Legs swinging playfully over the side of the chair, she leaned back, comfortable yet exhilarated.

Their gazes tangled in a dance, a series of fleeting sidelong looks that left Merith both self-conscious and bold. A giggle escaped her, feeling childish yet freeing. In this moment, it was as if they had created a small universe amid the dust and shadows, a place where worries faded like sunlight through fading clouds. 

Minutes trickled by, and Merith’s boldness swelled. Her legs swung over Aesop’s lap, and his hand instinctively fixed upon her ankle, tracing gentle circles against her stockings. Heat surged through her, her cheeks aflame, but she resisted the urge to pull away, riveted by his presence.

As the clock chimed lunchtime, their shared moment lingered in the air, heavy with unspoken words. Aesop and Merith moved through the library’s hallowed halls, their footsteps muted by the vast shelves teeming with ancient tomes. Merith, an inveterate bibliophile, returned several well-thumbed volumes to their rightful places, her tiny purse bulging defiantly as she tucked each book inside. Aesop chuckled at the sight—a paradox of sorts, where such a small vessel could contain such literary weight.

With a teasing glint in his eyes, he quipped, “You know, it might be wise to record your loans with Madame Scribner rather than sneaking them away like a thief in the night.” His tone was playful, lightly mocking, illustrating a part of him that was bemused yet fond of her antics.

Merith straightened her back, feigning indignation at his gentle ribbing. “I’ll have you know, Aesop, that I always return them once I’ve finished—well, mostly.” The caveat hung in the air, palpable and electric, but her smile softened the defiance in her voice.

He shook his head, laughter dancing in his eyes as he took her arm in a gesture both protective and guiding. “You truly are incorrigible.” They began their ascent from the musty embrace of the restricted section, the familiar creaks of the library supporting their steps.

However, as they navigated the winding staircase, something flickered in Merith’s periphery, breaking the rhythm of their ascent. “You go on ahead, Aesop,” she said, her voice laced with curiosity. “There’s one last book I wish to retrieve for this evening.” She glanced back, intrigue dancing in her gaze.

“Ah, the siren call of literature beckons,” he replied, his playful sarcasm masking an undeniable admiration for her tenacity. With a teasing bow, he made his way up the remaining steps, leaving her alone with her thoughts and whims.

Merith lingered for a moment, allowing Aesop’s footsteps to fade into the echoes of the library's heart. With curiosity piqued, she crept back down the stairs, eyes scanning the dimly lit corners of the stairwell until they fell upon two ancient, dust-laden shelves that had long been overlooked.

One shelf, in particular, caught her eye. At its very edge, she noticed the faintest etchings that had surely been there all along—an image so subtle it had eluded her awareness. A small bronze torch, almost imperceptible, marked its presence. She leaned in close, fingertips brushing against the cool surface, tracing its contours as though seeking a secret hidden within.

As her fingertips explored the shelf, she pulled at various books, their spines cracked and yellowed with age, but nothing particularly remarkable revealed itself to her. Frustration welled within her, and she settled on the bottom step, drawing her knees close. Tilting her head, she noticed a detail glimmering in the scant light. At the base of the shelf, an inscription read, In tenebris, lumen.

In darkness, light.

With her heart racing, Merith whispered the incantation, “Lumos Solem.” The spell resonated with a soft hum in the air, illuminating the space with a gentle glow. To her astonishment, the shelf resisted her touch, creaking back into the wall with a deep crunch, revealing a narrow opening that beckoned her with promises of the unknown.

Casting a furtive glance around the stairwell to ensure she was unobserved, she stepped into the shadowy passageway behind the shelf, her heart pounding in anticipation. Darkness enveloped her, yet her wand shone brightly, pushing back the suffocating gloom, while cobwebs brushed against her skin.

As she advanced through the narrow stone corridor, the scent of damp earth mingled with the musty fragrance of aged books, creating an atmosphere thick with mystery. She reached a door, its surface gnarled and weathered by time—a testament to the neglect of this hidden realm. Dust collected in the grooves beneath her fingers, reminding her that this place had remained untouched for far too long.

Merith pressed forward along the narrow corridor, her heart racing with anticipation until she met a sturdy wooden door. She pushed against it, but it refused to budge. Agitated, she tried again, this time using her shoulder, forcing her weight against the door with a determined grunt. Magic could have helped her, but she hesitated; lingering doubts kept her wary of casting spells in an unfamiliar space. Better to break through on her own than to risk awakening any unseen enchantments that might be housed within.

Casting the Lumos charm again, she watched as the warm light spread through the cramped space, revealing a room no larger than a broom closet. The stark contrast to the dusty, neglected corridor was stunning. Here, everything was pristine; not a speck of dust dared to settle on the smooth wooden surfaces. This little nook reminded her of the secret library tucked away in her father's study, rich with wonder and mystery. Narrow shelves lined the walls, laden with books, and various ornately painted chests and caskets were stacked neatly atop one another.

Her eyes gleamed with curiosity as she approached one of the larger caskets. She opened it gingerly, and her breath caught at the sight of the contents: an assortment of scrolls of parchment, each carefully rolled and tied. Picking one up delicately, she noticed the date inscribed at the corner: 1562. The realization that this parchment was over three hundred years old left her awestruck. Yet, it was perfectly preserved, as if the letter had only been sent mere weeks prior. It dawned on her that the room, or perhaps the items within it, had been enchanted with a powerful preservation spell.

Her thoughts drifted back to Nerida Vulchanoava’s study, which had also remained immaculate despite its age.

Skimming the contents of the parchment, she discovered it was merely an inventory checklist, detailing supplies for the school—cauldrons, goose-quill pens, and even a commission receipt for several dozen Divination books to be bound. But what truly piqued her interest was the name elegantly signed at the bottom:  Percivil Rackham. The very same person Isidora had referenced in her letter to Nerida. It was a thread she couldn’t ignore.

Realizing that her exploration would have to resume later—after Aesop and the others had moved on to their scheduled activities—she decided it best to exit the hidden room. She knew her absence would spark concern from Aesop if she missed lunch in the Great Hall. Perhaps, she thought, she would return in the evening, past curfew, when she could meander freely through the library’s secrets.

Merith's heart was still racing as she nearly sprinted to the Great Hall, a smile lighting up her face as she took her seat beside Aesop. He turned to her, his brow furrowed in curiosity, and she plopped down, attempting to appear composed despite her breathlessness. 

Aesop regarded her strangely, gesturing at the side of her head with two light taps of his fingers. Confused, she reached up to touch her own hair and discovered a sticky, yet silken texture caught in her dark locks. She pulled her fingers away, examining the substance before shaking them to dislodge the remnants. As she scraped her hand against the back of her chair, she glanced over to see Hyoto beside her, laughing heartily at her predicament. 

“Goodness! Were you using your hair as a duster?” Hyoto smiled brightly, deftly picking at the strands tangled in her hair with quick, smooth movements. Merith turned her gaze slightly toward Aesop, catching a flash of annoyance cross his features as he watched Hyoto tend to her.

A chuckle bubbled up inside her, teasing at the corners of her mouth. Aesop could be quite jealous, she mused, and she fought to suppress her laughter, redirecting her gaze while he brusquely returned to his meal. She felt a warmth in her chest at the thought of the competing attentions, a flicker of delightful absurdity in their friendship that made the moments feel all the more precious. 

As Hyoto continued to untangle the silky webs, a sense of camaraderie enveloped them, a transient spell of laughter weaving through the certainly chaotic atmosphere of the Great Hall. Merith couldn’t shake the thrill of her clandestine discovery from her mind—Percivil Rackham, the enchanted chamber, and the promise of secrets waiting to be uncovered. She hoped that as evening descended upon Hogwarts, Aesop wouldn't be the only thing on her mind.

"Merith, are you alright, dear?" A hand waved in front of Merith's face, snapping her back to reality. She realized the teachers' table had cleared while she had been lost in thought, her expression dazed as she registered her empty plate. Looking up, she found the concerned faces of Mirabel Garlick and Hyoto Kogawa standing in front of her seat. 

"We were watching you rather amused during dinner, but your dazed state has carried on longer than we thought normal," Mirabel continued, a soft frown creasing her brow.

Merith chuckled lightly, though it came out more forced than intended. "My apologies, it seems I have a lot on my mind," she confessed, offering her colleagues a reassuring smile. "Thank you for your concern; I swear I am alright."

"Well, we thought that perhaps you would like to join us on a visit to the town? We'll be leaving in half an hour,” Mirabel suggested brightly.

Merith shook her head. "No, I couldn't impose." The prospect of trekking to Hogsmeade with her energetic young colleagues felt daunting today, especially when an intriguing adventure was still whispering at the edges of her mind.

"You would never be an imposition, Merith. Come now, you have yet to spend any time with me outside of Hogwarts! It's rather unfair that Mirabel had your company on New Year’s,” Hyoto chimed in, his charming conviction making her smile despite the reluctance weighing on her.

"Well, how could I say no to such a handsome face?" Merith replied lightly, attempting to shake off the reverie she found herself in.

Returning to her chambers, she took a moment to collect herself before the outing—one she felt had been decided under pressure. Self-doubt started to creep back in as she weighed the tangible benefits of joining them. On one hand, her father had advised her to form connections and blend seamlessly into Hogwarts, which she believed she was doing. On the other hand, she hadn’t lost sight of her research and the possible new lead it had unearthed. Yet, she felt the weight of his silence hanging over her, his absence leaving her without guidance. 

Where had all this self-doubt sprung from? It felt as if Hogwarts itself was attempting to unravel her wits, each moment spent within those castle walls feeling increasingly like a tightrope walk. 

The longer she remained within the castle walls, the less she recognized herself.

Why had they invited her? The thought nagged at her as she ambled through the hallways toward the Great Hall. What did they wish to gain from such an excursion? Had they needed something from her? A sense of suspicion began to build, but intuition nudged her to consider otherwise—their wishes might be truly innocent, simply an attempt to include her.
 
“Ah, there you are! Ready to go?” Mirabel urged as they met near the entrance, her gaze appraising Merith. She stroked the brocade fabric of her gown peeking from under her cloak. “This is rather fetching,” she complimented.

Merith smiled back, returning the kindness as best as she could. The group quickly began their descent to Hogsmeade, and as they neared the carriage house, Merith raised her hand, altering her companions. “Shall we take a carriage?” she suggested pleasantly.

“Nonsense,” Hyoto countered with a grin, gesturing around them. “It’s one of the warmest days we’ve had in weeks! The sun is positively beaming.” 

Mirabel nodded in agreement. “Yes! I can’t help but agree. I’m willing to venture by foot as well. Merith, does that suit you?” she asked earnestly, glancing at the flowing train of Merith’s gown. “Although, I wouldn't wish for your gown to be ruined in the muck…”

With a mental sigh, Merith plastered a bright smile on her features. “Not to worry.” She gestured at her skirts, casting a charm to shorten their hem so they no longer dragged against the ground. The alteration revealed a pair of shiny leather walking boots underneath. 

Mirabel clasped her hands in glee. “Oh yes, please do me next!” she urged, and Merith deftly lifted Mirabel’s skirts by a few inches in return, preserving the hem for the trek to Hogsmeade.

Hyoto was correct; it had been a remarkably warm day, as the snow had nearly vanished, leaving the path to Hogsmeade laden with mud. Merith trudged behind Hyoto and Mirabel, who were engaged in animated conversation, her boots squelching uncomfortably in the muck. She attempted a waterproofing charm, but it offered little defense against the mud that splattered around her ankles. 

Hyoto and Mirabel seemed to glide through the slosh effortlessly, while Merith occasionally felt her boots sink deeper, the unpleasant sound of suction following as she pulled them free. 

“Alright, Merith?” Hyoto called over his shoulder, looking back with a smirk.

“Yes, quite fine,” she replied cheerily, albeit through clenched teeth, sighing in relief when they finally reached the solid stone path nearing Hogsmeade.

The duo continued to discuss Quidditch, a topic Merith had little interest in, her only exposure being from overhearing her brother and Aric delve into discussions for what seemed like hours. Despite this, she nodded along, making supportive hums when necessary, as the pair bickered for the duration of the journey.

Mirabel and Hyoto carried considerable house pride, a concept that was foreign to Merith, as Durmstrang prioritized school pride as a whole rather than factional affiliations. The spirited duo was locked in a debate about a previous Quidditch match between Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, which had taken place in November before her arrival.

“It should have been a FOUL!” Hyoto exclaimed, waving his arms dramatically. “He deliberately put himself in the way of Ravenclaw’s Seeker! It was obstruction!”

Mirabel scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Hardly! Quite bold of you to accuse Isaac Cooper of such a thing! He’s an honorable player and the most talented Chaser at Hogwarts!”

Hyoto waved her off dismissively. “Oh, please, Isaac Cooper isn’t that grand!” he shot back, making an exasperated sound. 

“Hyoto, green is not your color,” Mirabel teased, laughing as he scowled at her.

“Are you suggesting I’m jealous of Isaac Cooper? Me? That’s a laugh! He couldn’t throw a Quaffle into a Butterbeer Barrel!" 

He continued, “I was, and am, a more talented Chaser than that little Billiwig, right Merith?” he called over his shoulder.

“Undoubtedly,” Merith responded easily, having no real idea what he was talking about. Chaser? Did that mean he chased something? He certainly seemed wily enough to be good at it, she thought.

“Well, Hufflepuff has nothing on our Keeper, Andrew Larson! If Hufflepuff hadn’t caught the snitch, you would barely have made a dent in our defenses!” 

“Yes, well, it is a shame your Seeker was not up to the task; it’s one of the most vital positions in the game, don’t you agree, Merith?” Mirabel noted.

“Oh yes, one must seek out…um, what needs to be sought, I suppose,” Merith added, her voice trailing off. She had only been half paying attention, still trying to cast the caked mud off her boots.

They both turned to her, incredulous expressions painted across their faces. “Merith? Have you ever watched Quidditch?” Hyoto asked, sounding genuinely shocked as if she had grown a second head.

“Not once,” she said plainly, without a shred of sarcasm.

“How is that possible?” Mirabel marveled, curiosity evident in her wide eyes. 

“It never came up,” Merith replied simply, an unapologetic shrug accompanying her words. She realized that wasn’t entirely true; she recalled how Aric had attempted to coax her into attending several World Cup games with their family, boasting about their prestigious box. Yet sitting outside, watching witches and wizards fly around on broomsticks had never appealed to her.

“Bulgaria is one of the top teams! They’re going to be at the World Cup finals, no doubt!” Hyoto exclaimed.

“Oh, is that so? How nice for them,” Merith said pleasantly, flashing a smile. “Perhaps there will finally be peace at the estate. I’m sick of Todor leaving his ghastly equipment all over the lawns—the whole fetid lot of them.”

“Todor? You know Todor Ivanova?” Her companions’ interest piqued.

Merith made a disgusted noise low in her throat. “A few of them are friends with my brother, I believe. Todor and his rowdy bunch used to fly around the grounds of the estate—it was a terrible nuisance! Throwing their unshapely balls, whacking them with sticks—positively medieval.”

“One could barely think with all the clamour,” she added, throwing her arms up in exasperation. Realizing she had just launched into a rather ungracious complaint against the beloved game of her coworkers, her self-loathing was interrupted by raucous laughter erupting between Hyoto and Mirabel.

“Oh Merith, you are quite amusing!” Mirabel said, trying to quell her laughter as both she and Hyoto fell back into step beside her. 

“We’re sorry for carrying on for the entire journey, I swear we can talk about other things besides Quidditch,” Hyoto smiled, the earnest look in his eyes a comfort to her.

Merith’s lips quirked into a sheepish grin. “It's quite alright; I found your banter rather entertaining,” she admitted as their group finally descended into Hogsmeade. With a subtle flick of her wrist, Merith had restored her gown and Mirabel's to their original length—though Mirabel seemed blissfully unaware of the adjustment. For good measure, she had also cast a cleaning charm.

“I’d like to go to Spintwitches, but I fear Merith might spontaneously combust,” Hyoto joked, and Merith shook her head playfully.

“Well, I do need to go to J Pippins for some things. Why don’t we meet at the Three Broomsticks once we’re done with our respective tasks?” she offered with a bright smile.

“Are you sure? You wouldn’t like to buy a new Quidditch jumper with me? You could become an honorary Hufflepuff!” Mirabel insisted, attempting to draw her in.

“I think I will pass,” Merith replied amusedly, waving the pair down the street while she continued toward J Pippins, spotting the purple structure in the distance. The paint was flecking and in dire need of a fresh coat.

She would have written to Toma Talanov for a restock, but she feared that if she requested one more sleeping draught, it would raise suspicions and possibly provoke a pointed lecture in the form of a Howler.

A bell dinged above her as she entered the shop, and she felt a pang of guilt for walking into the establishment. 

“Ah, hello there! Anything I can help you with?” The shopkeeper was an older gentleman with high widow's peaks and a serious expression.

Were all potioneers so domineering? Merith wondered, strolling up to him as he stood behind the counter, pasting labels on several empty phials.

“Hello, yes, there is, in fact—sleeping draughts, quality sleeping draughts,” she emphasized, earning a bemused glance.

“Quality is all we sell,” the man reassured, descending behind the desk to retrieve several vials of deep purple liquid. “Are they all of the same potency?” Merith leaned in, staring quizzically at the lining of stock before her.

“These are standard; these are of increased potency—only recommended for sparing use or in combination with other medical treatments,” the shopkeeper outlined, gesturing between the differing brews which appeared nearly identical in appearance.

“Hmm, how many do you have of these on hand?” She pointed to the potent vials mentioned, her nail clicking against the glass.

“Nearly a dozen, I believe,” he noted. “Are you a healer?” he asked, scrutinizing her.

“Does it matter?” she questioned easily, dropping her weighted coin purse against the wooden counter.

“I suppose not,” Pippin replied with a bored sigh. “Well then, do me a favor and wrap them all up for me.” 

He regarded her for a moment longer before beginning to package the potions. Merith paced leisurely around the shop, examining various potions until she encountered a rather sickeningly pink heart-shaped glass container.

“Love potion?” she questioned, waving the brew incredulously.

“Euphoria-inducing, and quite temporary,” he noted from behind the desk.

“How tacky,” she remarked simply, venturing back to the counter as Pippin finished bundling the packages. 

“Thank you,” she said, giving him a smooth smile as she dropped the allotted coins into his palm and collected the parcel under her arm. 

“Good day, sir,” she said, and he returned the sentiment with a nod of his head as she exited the establishment.

Stepping onto the cobbled street, she spotted several older students passing by; those in upper years were permitted to travel to Hogsmeade during weekends at their leisure. A wave of excitement mixed with trepidation washed over her as she began to wander through Hogsmeade, her mind racing with thoughts of Percival Rackham, the hidden room in the library, and the potential revelations that awaited her upon her return to the castle.

The Three Broomsticks buzzed with the chatter of patrons, but Merith scanned the bustling room and noted that her friends, Mirabel and Hyoto, were nowhere in sight. Just then, Sirona's familiar voice broke through the noise. “Ah, my friend!” she called, waving her over from behind the bar. “Good to see you again so soon. That dress looks lovely on you.” 

Merith smiled, feeling a warmth spread through her as she obliged, settling onto one of the few empty stools. “Sirona, you look well. I’m meeting Mirabel and Hyoto here—they’re likely still at Splinters? … the Quidditch store.” She hesitated, struggling to recall the name of the shop. 

Sirona chuckled lightly, clearly amused. “Splintwitches, love. But it seems that group of students is finally leaving,” she added, nodding toward the crowd. Merith wasted no time as she quickly moved to their recently vacated table, casting a discreet cleaning charm over the surface. A few patrons cast her curious glances in response. 

“Goodness, sit down before people think there’s an outbreak,” Sirona teased as she joined Merith, briefly eyeing the vacant bar stools. 

“The usual?” Sirona inquired, and Merith nodded, a smile tugging at her lips. “I didn’t think I was regular enough anywhere for someone to know my preferences—unless you’re just more perceptive than most,” she remarked, enjoying Sirona’s straightforward nature and knew how to pour an acceptably stiff drink.

“You flatter me, Merith,” Sirona replied with a playful wink. She navigated her way toward the bar again while Merith glanced around at the eclectic mix of clientele. A large group of students caught her eye; some were familiar faces, but she couldn’t quite place any of their names.

Suddenly, the door swung open, and a group of men swaggered in, each draped in peculiar coats made from exotic materials. Some appeared to be crafted from stiff leather adorned with bone and tusks, while one man wore a coat resembling a serpent’s skin, accentuating his slender and pale features. He strolled in with an air of confidence that shifted the atmosphere in the pub, causing a few heads to turn.

As tension crept through the room, Sirona returned drink in hand, following Merith's gaze to the newcomers. “Here comes trouble,” she murmured, adopting a smile that seemed out of place for someone of her conviction.

“Gentlemen, shall we retreat to our usual room upstairs?” the slender man proposed, his voice revealing that the decision was already settled in his mind. He spoke with a tone of haughtiness. Another chimed in, “And be sure to send the most attractive server you have.” 

“I'm afraid it’s just myself and Brutus today,” Sirona replied evenly, gesturing to the imposing figure behind the bar, who kept a watchful eye on the newcomers.

The slender man turned his attention to Merith, and a flicker of recognition crossed her mind as he met her gaze. “Ah, Ms. Vulchanova. This is a surprise,” he said, his icy stare undermining the warmth of his words. His mismatched eyes, one a murky green and the other a frigid blue, were like storm clouds poised to unleash their fury—striking yet foreboding, reflecting the turbulence of a tempestuous soul. They hinted at a volatile brilliance, captivating yet chilling, evoking the unsettling sense of a predator lurking in the shadows, ready to strike.

“I could say the same to you, Gorvoth,” Merith replied coolly as he seized her gloved hand in a tight grasp, placed a perfunctory kiss atop it—his gaze unsettlingly intense. She recoiled slightly, gripping the glass Sirona had just delivered and taking a small sip to steady herself.

“I didn’t realize we were on such familiar terms, my dear,” he said, a sly smile forming as his upper lip curled back, exposing his jutted incisors. He leaned in closer, as if drawing power from her discomfort. “I am truly sorry to hear about Aric—no, really I’m not,” his laughter mocking, standing tall again. “We both know he was never worthy of your divine blood. His pure-blood lineage is rather… spotty. Half-bloods litter that line.” 

“You revel in the sound of your own voice, don’t you?” Merith replied, her tone light yet edged with sarcasm, barely masking her disdain. Gorvoth held her gaze, unfazed, before signaling for his companions to follow him upstairs. 

Gorvoth turned, casting one last glance at Merith before confidently striding away. "I'll be seeing you," he called over his shoulder, his tone light yet laced with a subtle threat, as if he relished the idea of their paths crossing again. Once the group had vanished from view, Merith let out a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding, grateful the crowd returned to its jovial hum.

“Sirona, could I trouble you for another?” Merith gestured to her now-empty glass. “Of course,” Sirona replied, a hint of concern in her voice. “I’m surprised you know Gorvoth Gaunt.”

“Unfortunately,” Merith replied, her voice flat. Sirona’s eyes narrowed as she filled Merith’s glass, returning to her side.

“Does he come here often? I find it hard to believe a tactless snob like him would frequent this place,” Merith sniffed, her gaze darting to the door Gorvoth had passed through moments earlier.

“More often as of late. His group seems to be becoming regulars—I can’t quite explain it, but it feels… unsettling,” Sirona remarked, lowering her voice. 

"Unsettling?" Merith pressed, "we finally enjoyed a period of peace after Victor Rookwood was declared missing and news broke of Ranrock’s defeat. From what I’ve heard, the goblin leader attempted to attack Hogwarts but was subdued in the process. Unfortunately, there’s little else known about that situation. Then, a couple of weeks later, Gaunt and his associates began to surface, asking questions about Rookwood’s whereabouts, as well as the locations of some of his other known allies."

Merith’s mind raced as she tried to make sense of why Gorvoth would be wandering around Hogsmeade. It struck her as particularly unusual, given what she had come to learn about the Gaunt family. Once one of the richest and most powerful families in the wizarding world, they had fallen to a status of nouveau pauvre, reduced to little more than their blood connection to Salazar Slytherin and their dilapidated family estate. Yet they did their best to mask this decline, leeching off other pureblood families, trading upon their influence to secure favors—one of the few things that had endured, alongside their tarnished legacy. 

Her own family was among those who had hosted and entertained the Gaunts on several occasions, and Merith had never understood why her father tolerated them or why he continued to invite them into their home year after year. Gorvoth Gaunt was particularly unpleasant, to the point that even Michaél had made a point of avoiding him. Beyond their name, the only remnants of value left in the family were their treasured heirlooms—these had slowly trickled into the antiquities market. Merith's brother, at their father’s behest, had become well-versed in appraising these items and had secured more than generous prices for several Gaunt family relics. It seemed absurd that a family of such lineage could find themselves so diminished, yet here they were, clinging desperately to vestiges of a past that no longer held weight. 

What could Gorvoth want now, especially in the hidden rooms of The Three Broomsticks? Merith’s unease gnawed at her as she considered the implications. The Three Broomsticks appeared to be a gathering place for gossip and merriment, not for clandestine dealings. If Gorvoth was here, it was likely not for a casual drink. 

Perhaps he was involved in something illicit—after all, families like the Gaunts often resorted to underhanded methods to regain their lost prominence. Was he seeking information? A deal? Or perhaps he required something more dangerous—alliances, perhaps, with those who operated in the shadows of the wizarding world. She remembered the hushed conversations that often erupted around her family’s dinner table whenever the Gaunts were mentioned; murmurs of their declining fortunes had grown increasingly desperate, hinting at darker schemes they might entertain to reclaim their former status. 

Merith could envision Gorvoth, lurking in a dimly lit corner, hatching plans with unsavory companions. The hidden rooms of The Three Broomsticks could provide the perfect cover, away from prying eyes and ears. Maybe he was even trying to sell off more family artifacts, cashing in on what remained of his family's once-illustrious legacy. 

She felt a pang of indignation; it was outrageous that the Gaunts still thought they could wield influence, even without the wealth to back it up. If Gorvoth was up to something nefarious, she would have to be careful. In a world where bloodlines mattered, her family’s connection to the Gaunts placed her in a precarious position. She needed to speak with her father about this development. 

Chapter Text

The door of The Three Broomsticks swung open nearly half an hour later, revealing Mirabel and Hyoto. They rushed inside, packages tucked securely under their arms. Sirona waved enthusiastically from her post behind the bar, weaving through the throngs of patrons, her smile a beacon of warmth. Hyoto slid into the seat beside Merith with a sigh of relief, tucking his packages under the round table like treasures unearthed from an adventure.

Mirabel embraced Sirona, her face lighting up with joy. “Oh Sirona, you grow more radiant every time we meet!” Sirona returned the affection with a gentle nod, her eyes sparkling as she affectionately stroked Mirabel's hair.

“I hope we didn’t keep you too long, Merith?” Mirabel asked, a flicker of guilt crossing her features. In that moment, Merith was reminded of Mirabel's characteristic thoughtfulness. She was always attuned to the feelings of those around her. With a smile, Merith replied, “Not at all. In fact, I found myself in splendid company. She gestured towards Sirona, who responded with a gentle smile, clearly pleased by Merith's kind words.

“Did you find what you were looking for at Splitwitches?” Merith inquired. Hyoto's expression brightened, launching into an animated account of a new broom upgrade he had discovered.

Merith listened, nodding, though she struggled to keep up with the terminology he tossed around. “Goodness, I didn’t even know you could make such alterations! I’ve been using the same basic broom for nearly a decade,” she confessed, half-laughing at her own admission. Hyoto looked momentarily aghast.

“Well, we must inspect your broom! It must be as slow as the enchanted staircases,” he teased, referencing the notoriously daunting moving stairs of Hogwarts.

Admittedly, Merith had grown accustomed to her trusty broom. She enjoyed leisurely flights at manageable heights, never one for racing, and generally preferred carriages for longer journeys, relishing the comforts they provided.

"I should take my leave," Sirona said, glancing towards the door leading to the upstairs room. "The patrons will undoubtedly grow impatient and will be needing another round." Merith exchanged a knowing glance with her before Sirona retreated to her post, efficiently gathering glasses at the bar.

"Is everything all right?" Mirabel asked, following Merith's gaze as Sirona ascended the winding staircase, disappearing behind a closed door. Meanwhile, Hyoto had happily redirected his attention to his hearty meal, enthusiastically devouring a plate of roasted chicken, blissfully unaware of the undercurrents of tension in the air.

“Ah, yes. I just worry about Sirona—she has to deal with the unwelcome presence of Gorvoth Gaunt.” Merith gestured toward the door where Sirona had retreated, her expression tense and her tray now empty.

“Gorvoth Gaunt?” Hyoto mumbled, his mouth still full of chicken. After swallowing, he continued, “Never heard of him.”

"He must be related to Ominis Gaunt. I can't say I've been personally acquainted with that family, other than Ominis, the poor dear." Mirabel twisted her hands in her lap, her discomfort growing as the mention of those connections hung heavily in the air.

“He’s a rather enigmatic young man—very polite, he can be quite amusing, and yet there’s a coldness in his tone,” Merith mused, taking a sip of her red currant rum. The rich flavor washed over her senses as she continued, “From what I gather, he’s had a quite difficult life… estranged from his family, it seems.” Merith noted the way Mirabel lowered her voice, a sense of gravity settling over their conversation.

“I can’t help but feel uneasy about that family,” Mirabel said, shaking her head. “They can be monstrous in their cruelty.” Merith had long known this but allowed Mirabel her moment to vent. “Poor Ominis spends nearly every holiday at the castle and the summers at Feldcroft with Sebastian Sallow’s family—well, until last summer, of course.” Mirabel sighed, taking a small sip of her drink, distress evident on her face. Yet, Merith’s curiosity had been piqued, urging her to dig deeper.

“What happened?”

"Well, Sebastian's caretaker, his uncle I believe, passed away near the end of the school year, leaving both him and his sickly niece orphaned once again. It seems that in his grief, Sebastian vanished for a bit, only returning to Hogwarts weeks after the term had begun." Mirabel's voice softened as she recalled the rumors that had circulated about him. She felt a pang of sympathy for Sebastian, understanding that loss could weigh heavily on anyone, especially someone so young. "I can only imagine how difficult that must have been for him," she added, glancing back at Merith, hoping for a shared understanding of the sorrow that shadowed their conversations.

“Ominis had nowhere to go that summer. He couldn’t just leave on his own, being an underage wizard. Headmaster Black sent him back to his family estate for the summer. Many of us professors fought against it, offered to take him in, but the Headmaster wouldn’t even entertain our suggestions,” Mirabel said, a rare bitterness creeping into her voice.

“We failed that boy, and I fear he has only grown more withdrawn since the incident, the boys only spend their time in each other's company...” she continued, frustration clouding her features.

“Nobody was more distraught than William. He pleaded with Professor Weasley to reconsider, but it wasn’t her decision to make. William was so upset that he turned down her offer to stay and chose to return to the hamlet where he came from.”

Merith recalled William’s somber words in the Forbidden Forest about his unusual upbringing, and the way he had tried to escape Hogwarts under the cover of night. The mention of Professor Weasley had clearly unsettled him that first evening. Now, everything was beginning to fit together in Merith’s mind; she could see the connections forming like strands of fate weaving together.

She understood at last why Professor Weasley had asked her to keep an eye on him; she had given him space, aware that he had been taking his frustrations out on her. William felt that the professors had betrayed Ominis, and she was the only staff member completely unencumbered by that decision.

There was clear hurt beneath the facades the trio projected. Sebastian appeared to be the most outspoken and confident of the group; it was almost inconceivable to imagine he was someone who had endured so much pain. Yet, he carried on as if nothing had happened to him. That was a dangerous type of grief—the kind one pushes to the depths, unwilling to be acknowledged, often until circumstances forced it into the light.

Ominis left her even more perplexed. He maintained a distant demeanor, but at times, he resembled a content young student. Other moments found him stoic and difficult to interpret. He spoke the least of the trio, frequently making comments rather than initiating conversations. His complex nature left those around him guessing, unable to fully grasp the turmoil that lay hidden beneath his calm exterior. 

"One does not choose their own blood, but one can choose the path they walk," Hyoto said suddenly, in a more serious tone of voice, that she had not seen him adopt before. It was unusual, and slightly disconcerting seeing her usually bubbly companions so somber. Mirabel patted his hand, clearly privy to something concerning Hyoto that Merith had not been.

"But it seems like the trio appear to be back to their usual antics, yes? While troublesome, I take it as a good sign. A little portrait told me Aesop had to corral them to their rooms following your New Years," Mirabel teased, clearly attempting to lighten the mood. Following her cue, Merith had begun to disclose the events of the evening, specifically omitting certain intimate details, and beginning from their discovery of the boys ambling towards Hogwarts in the streets.

Her story had done the job of lightening the mood, both Hyoto and Mirabel clearly had found the evening as amusing as she did. "I can't imagine Aesop was thrilled by that situation." Mirabel considered, "I think he took some minor amusement in Mr. Sallow's tumble," Merith added, a small chuckle escaping her lips.

"Am I missing something?" Hyoto said suddenly, studying Merith with renewed interest, "why were you and Sharp walking from Hogsmeade together after midnight?" Hyoto questioned, clearly baffled at the thought of Merith and Aesop sharing any mutual space together. Merith, blinked at the question, unexpectedly.

"Yes, Merith, how exactly did you come into the company of one another?" Mirabel questioned, her tone innocent but her eyes implying something else entirely.

"I see I walked myself right into that trap, haven't I?" Merith mused, finishing the contents of her drink, waving to the bulging man, who must have been part giant behind the bar.

"Come on Merith, you must give me something, the suspense has been absolutely killing me. We promise not to utter a word to anyone," Mirabel urged, while Hyoto—who appeared still confused—nodded hesitantly, clearly in the process of trying to understand the interaction between the two witches.

Was this what it was like to make friends? Her life had been full of acquaintances and pleasantries, but in this moment, if she wasn't mistaken, it seemed that Mirabel and Hyoto wished to know her beyond mere pleasantries. The only person she had a friendship with prior would have been Aric, and that friendship had felt so easy and natural. She had known him for so long, it was difficult to parse when their closeness had begun or how those connections were even formed.

The only person she had felt that ease with since had been Aesop.

"I'm sorry, I fear I have made you uncomfortable," Mirabel retreated, sensing the anxiety looming over Merith.

"Well, yes, but I do not think it is a bad discomfort. I think that I am just merely out of my depth," Merith admitted slowly as she attempted to detangle her thoughts in a coherent manner. "It's just that, I am not accustomed to so many personal questions about myself," Merith admitted, feeling embarrassment creeping up her neck. Why had this felt so difficult to say aloud?

"Well, I suppose we just wish to get to know you better and perhaps be your friends?" Merith laughed at the simplicity of the situation, a true smile creeping through her expression as both Merith and Hyoto had liked that. It appeared that most were not as cunning and calculating as she was and merely wished to get to know her. She had felt rather foolish, a trait she had begun feeling applied to her in recent weeks. She had distrusted Hyoto and Mirabel without any reason to do so and projected her own intentions upon them.

"I apologize, I fear I'm rather out of practice in that regard and will likely require further education," Merith said, and Mirabel and Hyoto shared a quick amused glance at each other beaming in return. "Well..." Hyoto said in false consideration, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, "I believe we are up to the task, what say you Mirabel?"

"Yes, quite right!"

Merith and her newly anointed friends left The Three Broomsticks and returned to the castle, packages in hand. Rather than discussing Quidditch, they babbled about a plethora of topics, with Mirabel and Hyoto eagerly including Merith in their conversation. She appreciated their efforts, as she was more than eager to discuss anything other than the sport at that moment.

In truth, she enjoyed listening to the pair. They made for rather amusing companions. Hyoto was easily distracted by the simplest things, often jumping from subject to subject before eventually circling back to his original point. She didn’t mind; his conversational style reminiscent of chasing Cornish pixies—scattered and energetic.

Mirabel, on the other hand, spoke with a smooth eloquence, often providing more detail than necessary. But Merith found comfort in her thoroughness. It became clear that Mirabel was the most passionate of the three when it came to educating the future of the wizarding world. She spoke dearly of her students, whom she affectionately referred to as her 'flowers.' It might have come off as overly sentimental had Mirabel not conveyed it so sincerely. She nurtured them with the same care she gave her own plants, attending to each one's unique needs for growth. Merith couldn’t recall feeling that kind of passion about anything in her life—other than the constant drive to be the best. Yet, leaving Durmstrang had left her with an unsettling hollowness, rendering that ambition meaningless.

Once they reached the castle, Merith parted ways with Mirabel and Hyoto and returned to her room. She deposited her package from J. Pippin's Potions and disposed of the empty bottles but paused. Perhaps Aesop could make use of them. She set them aside in an empty box.

Pondering Aesop's whereabouts—was he in his classroom or perhaps his quarters?—she realized she had no idea where his room in the faculty tower could be located. Dinner was still some time away, followed by her rendezvous in the hidden passageway of the restricted section. She collected the box in her arms and ambled toward the potions classroom, but as she pushed the door open, she found it uninhabited.

Twisting the tension from her neck, she continued her trek to the South Wing of the castle. Regret began to settle in; she had already spent the day trudging through the mud to Hogsmeade, and now she had to wander around the castle searching for Aesop’s room. Supposedly, there were passageways to expedite travel, but they required passcodes and could be temperamental.

Hogwarts certainly had a knack for doing things in a convoluted manner. Merith couldn’t fathom the purpose of some of its antiquated traditions, such as the ghosts that roamed the halls—an unfamiliar presence she was gradually getting used to, though some were more bearable than others. Durmstrang had no ghosts; if any had dared to appear, they likely would have been banished.

As she pushed through the doors of the Faculty Tower, she caught sight of a specter loitering in the stairwell. As she approached, she noticed it staring at a bust that reflected its own image. The ghost was tall and thin, with the translucent quality typical of specters. A flowing cloak trailed behind him, and a ruffled collar adorned his neck.

Merith ascended the stairs, observing the ghost grumbling to himself as he stared into his likeness. “Good afternoon…” she greeted slowly, attempting to navigate around him. He glanced at her from his bent position.

“Good afternoon, Madam,” he replied, bowing slightly before straightening. “Is everything all right?” Merith asked.

“No, not quite, I’m afraid. The house-elves have neglected to dust me! Utterly disrespectful, and here I am, dusty! Is this what has become of my legacy?” The ghost feigned dramatic despair, overplaying it masterfully.

“Oh, I see… Is that all?”

“Is that all? A travesty, I say!” He clutched his collar in distress, revealing a thin line across his neck—perhaps a hint at his demise.

“Please calm down, you’re giving me a headache. Just one moment.” Merith steadied her voice, pressing her hand to her head in irritation as pain coursed through it. She stretched out her hand over the bust, and with a faint incantation, it transformed into a dazzling shine, free from dust.

“How marvelous, well done, Madame!” he cheered, and she winced, giving him a pained look. “Ah, my apologies, where are my manners? Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, at your service.” He bowed again, lowering his voice to a more tolerable level.

“It’s quite alright. Could you point me in the direction of Professor Sharp's room?” she inquired pleasantly.

“Certainly—it’s at the top of the fourth floor, the door on the left with the bejeweled tortoise shell.”

“Thank you, Sir Nicholas,” Merith said gratefully, continuing past him up the stairs. She couldn’t shake the feeling that it was rather unfair Aesop had been placed on the fourth floor—particularly uncomfortable considering his condition. Yet, like herself, Aesop seemed stubborn and likely preferred to avoid drawing attention to any shortcomings.

As promised, when she reached the fourth floor, the jewel-encrusted tortoise shell came into view at the top of the staircase. She approached the door and gave it a quick rap. Inside, she heard some shuffling and the scraping of a chair. After a few moments of silence, she knocked again, speaking into the door, "Aesop? Are you in there?"

There was more shuffling, followed by the sound of the lock turning. Aesop opened the door just a crack, enough for his face to come into view.

“Merith… what are you doing here?” he asked, his voice hoarse and strained. His complexion was pale, with a thin sheen of perspiration glistening on his skin.

“I come bearing gifts. I came to see if you could use these empty vials. I thought perhaps they might be useful to you?” He stared at the package in her hands, reaching out to grasp it. He widened the door only enough to retrieve it.

“Thank you; that is most considerate,” he said, though his tone was strained, tightly gritted. “You’ll have to excuse me, Merith. I'm in the middle of something.” He gave her a brief nod before shutting the door with a jolt, leaving her standing in the hallway, dumbstruck. She looked down at her hands where he had taken the package, noticing a small smudge where their skin had brushed. A crimson smear marked her knuckles. She held her hand under her nose; the sharp, metallic scent invaded her senses—blood.

Chapter Text

Merith had spent the rest of the day coiled with knots in her stomach, a tightness that had become all too familiar. Her nights had been restless—turbulent dreams filled with twisted memories and foreboding shadows that loomed large, leaving her with a lingering sense of unease. Ever since her conversation with Professor Onai about her dreams, she'd been plagued by a constant paranoia, an unsettling conviction that something dreadful was looming just out of sight, ready to come crashing down at any moment.

Twisting the Zmey-encircling bracelet her father had gifted her, she resorted to this nervous habit as she anxiously wrapped it around her wrist repeatedly. It was a small comfort amid the chaos in her mind. The previous night, she had awoken under layers of confusion, having taken a potion from J. Pippin that had been unusually potent. It lured her into a deep slumber, but she'd stirred long after dawn’s first light and had, unfortunately, missed breakfast entirely. Groggy and disoriented, she struggled to piece together the disjointed remnants of her dreams, each more troubling than the last.

It wasn’t as if she were a consistent observer of breakfast. More often than not, she would request something to be delivered to her office, avoiding the trek to the Great Hall where the bustle and chatter sometimes felt overwhelming. But on this morning, having overslept, she felt an easy decision had settled upon her: waiting for luncheon would be simpler, and after she'd readied herself, it would nearly be that time.

With a sense of determination, Merith ran herself a bath, the warm steam rising in gentle tendrils to envelop her. As she slipped into the steaming water, she grasped a glass of ruby-red liquid, allowing it to dangle over the side of the tub. Settling into the comforting embrace of the bath, she let out a sigh that mingled with the soft sounds of water rippling around her. The bathroom had always been a sanctuary for her, a place to ponder her thoughts and contemplate the pressing decisions that loomed before her.

One looming decision, particularly heavy on her mind, was the impending meeting with Aric. As outlined in his letter, they were to convene at the Forest Lake, nestled within the Forbidden Forest, in just a few days. Although she resolved to have clarity by the end of the weekend, she remained plagued with uncertainty. 

Merith longed for someone to confide in, to gather a second opinion to ease the burden she carried. She considered her father—the most logical choice. He could offer rational advice and might even possess additional information. Yet an ache settled in her chest at the thought of him. It had been too long since they had last communicated. She knew he was busy with his responsibilities, but his lack of response stung, kindling feelings of abandonment that only deepened her anxiety.

Michaél was another potential confidant, but that option was firmly out of the question. Though he and Aric had once shared a close friendship, she doubted he would be willing to discuss such weighty matters, considering their fractured relationship. Additionally, there was something within her that felt stubbornly prideful, unwilling to expose her vulnerabilities to someone who she believed would never understand.

Then there was Aesop. Similar to her father, he was a source of profound wisdom, someone who would likely take her predicament seriously. In an ideal world, she would have approached him without hesitation. However, a sense of caution held her back. They had only known each other for several weeks, and she worried about imposing her burden onto someone still grappling with his own struggles. She recalled the last encounter with him vividly—how he had suddenly closed the door, ending their conversation in a manner that felt both clear and abrupt. It left her with the feeling that he was encased in his own troubles, and she wondered if she had any right to pry or seek his support.

Yet the thought nagged at her—he would need a re-cast of the healing spell, and she felt a pang of worry at her inability to offer help when he clearly needed it. She chewed her thumb nervously, scanning the small, enchanted room around her for answers and solace. The gentle ripples of the water seemed to mock her as they lapped against the edges of the tub, and she sighed heavily, wishing for the clarity that remained maddeningly out of reach.

Merith had spent the remainder of the day preparing for her upcoming lectures and grading assignments between meals. Stress weighed heavily on her mind, and while she had spoken with Aesop briefly, he had appeared distracted, his thoughts seemingly miles away. He had quickly left both meals before she could engage him in further conversation. The sting of hurt crept in, but deep down, she understood that this was likely something beyond her comprehension.

Determined to finally venture back to the secret room within the restricted section, Merith recalled her plans from the previous evening. She had intended to explore the mysteries hidden there, but her excitement had been thwarted by an unexpected detour into a rather juvenile prank in the Hufflepuff ladies’ lavatories. A potion had gone awry, transforming the area into a veritable mess of sticky pink goo. After sorting through the chaos and identifying the prankster, they had discovered it was Sacharissa Tugwood—a gifted potions student who had been experimenting with a brew for “spot removal.”

After sorting through the clamor and ensuring the girl understood her mistake, Merith had decided to release Sacharissa with a simple deduction of house points, provided the girl cast a cleaning charm. It was clear Sacharissa had meant no ill intent; she was a bright young witch who seemed to grasp where her brew had gone astray. Merith had suggested that perhaps she consult Professor Sharp on the matter, noting that his experience would likely reveal safer combinations and help her avoid future mishaps.

Exhausted from the incident and in desperate need of a bath, Merith had lost her initial energy to head to the library. Yet, the following Sunday evening, her resolve was stronger. It was not uncommon for professors to patrol the halls, and so she slipped from her room just past half-past nine, clad in her floor-length green dressing gown adorned with lace ruffles and embellished with dark green silk ribbon that swayed gently as she walked.

The castle’s ambiance enveloped her as she stepped out of her classroom and into the quiet halls. The familiar sound of the castle creaking and shifting surrounded her, accompanied by the distant snores of portraits hanging on the walls. She navigated the corridors under the soft glow of moonlight, the glow casting intricate shadows, until she nearly collided with Matilda Weasley, who was ambling her way around a corner.

"Oh goodness, Merith, you gave me a fright," the Headmistress chuckled, her voice laced with a weary yet kind familiarity. Matilda was still dressed in the same gown she had worn to dinner, suggesting she had had a long day as well.

"My apologies, and you’ve caught me in my dressing gown," Merith replied, offering a small smile. Matilda looked her over with a slight tilt of her head, her expression light and kind but with an unmistakable glimmer of suspicion—a look that unsettled Merith yet was becoming oddly familiar.

"I'm afraid you caught me ambling to the kitchens. My wine supply is depleted, and I was hoping for a glass to ease me into slumber."

"Well, that does sound rather appealing. I have a delightful vintage I've been meaning to try; would you care to join me?" Matilda offered.

Merith hesitated for a moment, weighing her options carefully. On one hand, the prospect of wine was appealing, but she had a nagging feeling that Matilda was keeping tabs on her. It would likely be unwise to head to the restricted section tonight. The deputy headmistress seemed to notice everything—she was acutely attuned to the comings and goings of Hogwarts. 

With forced pleasantries, Merith nodded. "That sounds lovely, and likely better than what I could procure from the kitchens."

As they made their way to Matilda's quarters, Merith noted how the professor wore her authority with ease. The room was expansive yet inviting, adorned with plush couches and personal mementos, creating an atmosphere that felt lived-in and warm. Merith’s fingers brushed against the ivory keys of a Muggle piano that sat in one corner, its presence intriguing.

"Do you play?" Matilda asked, glancing at her with curiosity.

"No, I'm afraid not," Merith replied, examining the object with curiosity. She had never had the time, and had her father known of any interest, would have insisted she focus on magical studies.

Matilda approached the piano and placed a hand upon the keys, producing a delightful tune with staccato notes that danced in the air between them. "Delightful," Merith noted, genuinely impressed.

"Ah, Mozart," Matilda said, raising her hand from the keys and gesturing for Merith to take a seat on the settee in front of the large stone fireplace, adorned with the school crest.

"I have to admit, I haven’t had much exposure to Muggle music," Merith said, a hint of hesitation in her tone.

Matilda shrugged as she poured wine into their glasses, the rich liquid glistening in the flickering firelight. "He was quite a famous child prodigy, much like yourself—albeit a Muggle."

Merith felt a flush creeping into her cheeks at the compliment, but she chose to divert the topic. "I see," she said, raising her glass and staring into the deep liquid, overwhelmed by the sudden awkwardness. Seated in the deputy headmistress's living room in her dressing gown, sipping wine and discussing Muggle music, was not how she'd expected her evening to unfold. Hogwarts had a talent for making her feel severely out of her element.

After a few moments of tense silence, Professor Weasley rose again, taking out her wand to tend to a rather odious-looking black-leafed plant nestled between stacks of dusty books, its dark purple blooms almost ominous in the dim light.

“Do you have any interest in gardening, Ms. Vulchanova?” she asked casually, watering the plant with a delicate touch.

Merith paused mid-sip, picturing wriggling worms and dirt under her nails, shuddering at the thought. “Certainly not,” she stated firmly, earning a small, amused smile from Matilda, who seemed to find her discomfort entertaining.

“Well, it is a hobby of mine—flowers interest me in particular,” Matilda said, finishing her watering and placing her wand on the table beside her, her eyes gleaming with passion.

“You start to learn things about certain plants; for example, Asphodel thrives best in well-drained soil, whereas Begonias prefer wet and well-drained soil. A small difference, but that distinction can determine whether a plant merely survives or truly thrives." She ran her fingers over the surface of the felted leaves before continuing, her tone reflective.

“Then there are plants that look strikingly similar but are fundamentally different—twinberry honeysuckle may be mistaken for deadly nightshade. Near-identical in appearance, but one could lead to irreversible harm.”

Merith arched an eyebrow at the shift in conversation. “I am under the distinct impression that we are no longer speaking of simply flowers,” she said flatly, taking a sip of her wine, trying to maintain her composure.

Matilda met her gaze, an amused smile resurfacing as she leaned forward slightly. “Please, do speak plainly if you wish to accuse me of something.” Matilda raised a brow at Merith's tone, her intrigue piqued as she leaned back into her seat.

"I will admit, I was initially opposed to your hiring, Merith," Matilda said candidly, her voice steady. Merith felt her heart pick up its pace, instinctively shielding her expression to remain neutral. It became clear that Matilda was privy to the circumstances surrounding her hiring—not that it came as a surprise.

As if reading her mind, Matilda added, “Only myself and Headmaster Black know the details of your hiring.” Merith remained silent, studying the red-haired professor, who had returned to her seat, now facing her.

“You must understand my concerns regarding your hiring, considering the culture at Durmstrang,” Matilda continued. “The last thing Hogwarts needs is another figure like Professor Black, if you'll allow my boldness, with his prejudices against non-purebloods. However, I must admit, that doesn’t appear to be the case with you. You are considerate and patient with all students, treating professors and students alike equally. Furthermore, you’ve proven to be a rather enigmatic educator. I don’t know your purposes for being at this school, but I hope you will continue to prove me wrong.”

Matilda’s regard held a seriousness that Merith had not encountered before. She had heard whispers that the professor had once been a Curse-Breaker for the Ministry of Magic before her employment at Hogwarts. Merith had been correct not to underestimate her; all this insight came with weight and deserved careful consideration. Unsure how to respond, she was ultimately relieved when Matilda continued.

"I suppose you may be wondering why I had asked you to watch over William Wexley."

Merith paused, her mind racing as she carefully weighed her words. "I do not know all the details of the situation, but it is evident that William holds resentment toward you and the other faculty. He feels that you failed to protect his friend, Ominis Gaunt, and it seems you entrusted me with his care since I have no direct connection to the incident."

Matilda let out a sigh, taking a thoughtful sip from her glass. “Indeed, that is true, but I wish it were that simple, Ms. Vulchanova. The fact is, he has come to trust you, and he is a young man who is quite lost and in desperate need of guidance." Although Merith noted that William was guarded, she felt that Professor Weasley might be slightly exaggerating. Nevertheless, she chose to remain silent and listen.

“William is a special student, much like you—he is a prodigy in his own right. His magic and abilities are rather unusual. He is a late bloomer, with his powers only manifesting in the previous year; yet, his potential is immensely powerful—more so than abilities I have witnessed.” Matilda paused; her features marred with concern.

“Merith, I am afraid I come to you with a rather large request: would you consider continuing to educate William?”

Merith froze, her gaze narrowing on Matilda, the weight of the moment thickening the air. Just how much did this witch know?

"William has reportedly been more motivated since the term resumed. His other professors have expressed that he is showing a more positive shift in attitude and eagerness to learn. I have also been informed he has returned to the Crossed Wands dueling club. When I confronted Aesop about this progress, he mentioned your efforts and compassion toward William over the Christmas break."

At the thought of Aesop speaking about her progress without her knowledge, Merith tensed momentarily, a flash of unease flickering across her mind. But then she eased, warmth spreading through her at the mention of his name. He had vouched for her.

"He did?" Merith blurted out, surprising herself with the intensity of her own reaction, before quickly snapping her mouth shut in disbelief.

Matilda sipped her wine, a mischievous glint lighting her eyes. "Indeed, I was quite surprised by his endorsement." A moment of silence fell between them as Merith’s mind raced, then Matilda continued.

"So, what is it you wish to ask of me?" Merith probed, eager to navigate away from the anxiety-inducing conversation.

"William has an opening in his schedule, and I had hoped you would take him on for an independent study."

“An independent study…” Merith trailed off, her brow furrowing as she grappled with the implications of Matilda’s proposal. Independent study was no small matter, and she was uncertain just how much support young William would truly require.

“A class, just for William,” Matilda clarified, her tone reassuring. “I believe he needs additional support to catch up to speed. Consider it a tutelage of both theoretical and practical nature. Most importantly, he requires guidance with controlling and honing his magic—something you excel in. Your casting is precise, controlled, and rather creative.”

Merith sat quietly, mulling over the request. The weight of her existing obligations pressed on her mind like a heavy shroud. Between her responsibilities as the professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts and her apparition lessons, her days were already stretched thin, with personal problems compounding more rapidly than she could grapple with.

“I’m not quite certain I am what young William needs…” she murmured, the words escaping her lips with an apprehensive lilt.

Matilda smiled gently, reaching across the table to place a reassuring hand on Merith’s. “Merith, you are precisely what he needs. He requires a connection—someone to speak with who may understand what it feels like to be rather… unique.”

Merith sighed, raising her empty glass of wine. Matilda, ever attentive, promptly refilled it, the rich liquid sloshing enticingly with the gesture. A nagging part of her knew the professor was right. Moreover, she felt an inexplicable attachment to William, a bond that tugged at her heartstrings. His presence evoked memories of a childhood long past, washing over her with youthful, raw feelings—an odd comfort amidst the turmoil of her current life. But alongside that warmth was discomfort; their conversations had reopened old wounds from her own past. With every encounter, it was as if she were staring into a window reflecting her own woundedness. For reasons she couldn’t fully articulate, a small voice within her urged her to accept the responsibility Matilda was offering.

“I accept. However… I wish to be given reprieve from my evening rounds until I complete the apparition lessons,” Merith negotiated, asserting her boundaries with quiet determination. She was learning the importance of standing firm for her own needs, even in the face of well-meaning requests.

Matilda shook her head, amusement dancing in her eyes. “That can be arranged.” Her smile was knowing, and Merith felt a flicker of frustration—she realized that she could have negotiated herself a better deal. Perhaps she ought to have asked for more time.

“Please speak with William promptly to work together to devise a scheduled meeting time,” Matilda continued, as if sensing the tide of thoughts that crashed relentlessly through Merith’s mind. 

Merith nodded absently while finishing off the last of the wine in her glass, reflecting on the myriad feelings bubbling within her. “I should retire. Thank you for the wine, Professor.” 

As Merith stood, the gentle clink of her empty glass against the coffee table seemed to punctuate the moment, a subtle signal that their conversation was drawing to a close. Yet, Matilda's words hung in the air, imbued with a depth of understanding that made Merith feel seen, and quite vulnerable. 

“Merith, you are not the first professor to come to Hogwarts in search of something, or to escape something. Whatever your intentions or goals may be, allow yourself some levity,” Matilda said, her voice calm and soothing. “Sometimes we are not aware of opportunities that present themselves in the service of something greater.”

Chapter Text

Merith sat at her small desk, the soft, amber light of the morning filtering through the window, casting gentle shadows on the pages scattered around her. Her quill hovered above the parchment as she carefully considered her next words. The morning hours had become her sanctuary, a time she could carve out for herself amidst the chaos of her responsibilities at Hogwarts.

Rather than risk oversleeping for her early sixth-year lectures after taking another potent sleeping draught from J. Pippin's Potions, she opted for a different method to calm her anxieties. With a steaming cup of herbal tea—a thoughtful gift from Mirabel—close at hand, she felt a mixture of determination and trepidation. Settled comfortably, she began to compose letters that had lingered in her thoughts, hoping to find release and clarity within.

Merith’s first letter, addressed to Professor Hecat, flowed more easily. It was filled with gratitude and appreciation for the guidance she had received since her arrival.

Dear Professor Hecat,

Thank you for your previous note. Your words of encouragement have truly aided me as I adjust to life here at Hogwarts. I am slowly but surely finding my footing, although I do miss the familiar comforts of home.

I would greatly appreciate the opportunity to visit you soon. Perhaps at week-end? It would be wonderful to see you once again. 

Warm regards,

Merith Vulchanova

Merith knew the retired professor would likely correct her, insisting that "professor" was no longer an appropriate title. Yet, she felt it disrespectful to address her otherwise. To Merith, Hecat remained a deeply valued figure and a cherished mentor.

With a deep breath, she turned her attention to the second letter, one that weighed heavily on her heart. Writing to her father, Dimitar Vulchanova, had always been a complex endeavor. She yearned to share her thoughts and feelings but felt a sense of apprehension constraining her words.

The ink flowed slowly as she meticulously crafted her message, the letter shaping itself only after several attempts.

Dear Father,

I hope this letter finds you well. I am concerned that I have not heard from you since Christmas, though I suspect you are terribly busy with your work.

Life at Hogwarts remains much the same, but I recently stumbled upon a hidden room in the library marked with the same symbol from the tome we discussed. I hope to uncover more about its significance in time.

However, there is something of great importance that deserves our attention. Aric has reached out to me, requesting a meeting near the coast. Unfortunately, I received his note after the proposed meeting had already passed. Have you heard anything from him lately? I find myself increasingly worried and in need of your guidance.

Please correspond sooner rather than later, as my nerves could use some solace.

Additionally, I encountered Gorvoth Gaunt at the Three Broomsticks recently. He has been making his presence known there, holding meetings in the upper room. I thought it necessary to keep you informed.

With love,

Merith Vulchanova

Setting the quill down, Merith felt a rush of mixed relief and anxiety. She grappled with guilt over altering the details concerning Aric yet still longed to protect him.

On a cloudy Monday morning, Merith settled into a front-row seat in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, relieved to have persuaded Mr. Moon to forward her letters from the village following their morning meal. Her hectic schedule seemed to intensify, leaving little time to make the trek to Hogsmeade and mail her letters in person. Between lessons, office hours, and extracurricular activities, every moment felt booked solid, and the thought of squeezing in a trip to the village felt like nothing more than a distant luxury.

Her reluctance to visit the owlery remained unwavering, leaving her dependent on others for her correspondence. The desks, typically arranged in neat rows, had been pushed to the periphery of the room, creating space for a critical lesson—students were about to hone their non-verbal spellcasting skills under Merith's expert guidance.

Merith's eyes narrowed slightly as she continued to pace the room, observing her students as they attempted to cast non-verbal spells. "A good effort, Mr. Thakkar, but your lips are still moving—it’s giving your intentions away," she warned, her voice a blend of firmness and encouragement. The Ravenclaw student apologized profusely, nodding earnestly before trying again, his lips pressed tightly together as he focused on his task.

As Merith moved through the classroom, her attention settled on William Wexley. He was casting with an intensity that bordered on unnerving; his concentration was absolute. Not a flicker of his lips betrayed his intentions; his face was a mask of focused effort. His eyes were locked on the training dummy, jaw clenched with unwavering determination.

His movements were economical and precise, every gesture efficient. Spells flowed from him like a river, each one perfectly timed and executed. Leviosa, then Flippendo, Glacius, and finally Confringo—each followed in quick succession, a series of perfectly orchestrated actions, reminiscent of the precise tick of a clock.

Merith's gaze lingered on William for a moment, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. Having scarcely seen him over the weekend, she suspected he had retreated into the Room of Requirement, pouring over books and practicing his wandwork. Aesop's assessment rang true: William was undoubtedly overpowered. Magic appeared to flow from him with an ease and force that was almost unnatural. The training dummy strained under the pressure of his spells, its wooden limbs buckling with each application of his power.

She made a mental note to speak with William after class to schedule his independent study. Ominis Gaunt followed closely behind him, and while his lack of sight was undeniable, it was no barrier to his capabilities. Ominis seemed to wield his wand as if it could see for him. She had often observed him raise his wand, a glowing orb of red at its tip—his guiding light. It was rare to catch Ominis off guard; he possessed a keen awareness of his surroundings that often surpassed that of his sighted peers.

Ever since her encounter with his relative at The Three Broomsticks, she had begun to take a closer look at Ominis. Mirabel had provided tidbits of information indicating that his relationship with his family was tenuous—something she could not fault him for. He wielded his words with a careful cunning, reminiscent of the Slytherin ancestor he descended from.

Ominis was adept with his casts; they were polished and deliberate, hinting at a strict and rigorous education much like her own at Durmstrang. His magic however, lacked a certain freedom, appearing static and by the book, devoid of room for deviation. Despite the precision, a certain melancholy seemed to shadow his expression.

Next followed Sebastian, who approached the dueling space with a haughty smile that spread across his freckled features. "Nice effort, lads, but I fear I may just be your match," he said with a wink. His demeanor shift was palpable as he squared his stance, narrowing his eyes as his grin faded into an unsettling intensity. The muscles in his cheeks and neck twitched under the weight of his determination.

Sebastian unleashed a barrage of spells at the training dummy with astounding speed:

Accio

Confringo

Glacius

Confringo

Glacius

Confringo

The dummy creaked under the relentless assault—frozen and scorched in succession. Beneath the illusion of enjoyment lay an undercurrent of tension—an anger simmering just beneath his playful exterior. It was a fury that seemed to simmer just beneath the surface, contained by a thin veneer of lightness and jest. She could see it now, and perhaps it felt oddly familiar to her.

William, noticing Merith's puzzled expression, quickly cast a shielding charm around the dummy. Sebastian, his brow glistening with sweat, looked momentarily frustrated. "Careful, mate. You’ll blow the thing to bits and land us in detention," William remarked lightly, a blend of admonition and humor lacing his tone. The serious intensity faded from Sebastian’s face, replaced by a familiar grin as he clapped William on the back.

"What, admitting defeat?" Sebastian teased.

"In your dreams, Sallow," William retorted, their banter culminating in a playful scuffle. Merith's gaze drifted back to Ominis, who observed the exchange with a similarly perplexed expression that mirrored her own.

A sharp crack interrupted their camaraderie, and Merith turned to see Gareth Weasley on the floor, scrambling for his wand. "Honestly, how does one manage to disarm oneself?" she mused silently. Her attention shifted to a group of students across the room. Natsai Onai had cast a levitation charm, quickly followed by an Accio, but the spells had gone awry, sending the training dummy hurtling towards her. Merith instinctively cast Arresto Momentum, halting the dummy in its tracks. Natsai, her face flushed with embarrassment, glanced at Merith.

Merith approached Natsai with a playful glint in her eyes. "Should any of you find yourselves in danger, I won’t fault you for using protective charms that require words. I’d much rather that than a trip to the infirmary. Remember, your casting isn’t a race," she advised, encouraging Imelda to step forward. After a moment's observation, she returned to the chalkboard to inscribe a series of spell combinations for the students to practice.

The sardonic tone of Sebastian’s voice cut through her focus, piquing her interest. "Come now, Ominis, don’t be rude."

Merith's attention flickered between Sebastian and Ominis, tension rising in the air around them like an ominous storm. She had been attempting to concentrate on her lesson, but the sharpness of their disagreement was impossible to ignore. William, usually the voice of reason, appeared deeply frustrated, concern etched across his brow. Merith’s curiosity swelled as she wondered what complexities brewed under their apparent conflict.

The atmosphere thickened with intensity; the words exchanged hung like unspoken challenges. Ominis' tone dripped with disdain as he admonished Sebastian to "drop the subject," his voice icy and dismissive. Sebastian, indignant, shot back, an anger sparking in his eyes like a flame. "What’s your problem?" He retorted, his voice rising in indignation.

As the argument escalated, Merith felt a knot tighten in her stomach, her unease growing with each passing moment. Ominis’ carefully chosen words seemed intent on striking deep, and Merith sensed a darker undertone in their clash. When he retorted, “Even if you found the cure, you have no idea where she is. And why is that, exactly, Sebastian?”, the weight of his words crushed the breath from Sebastian's lungs.

Without another word, Sebastian turned sharply on his heel and stormed out of the room, the door swinging wide behind him like an ominous gash in the air. The heavy silence that ensued was suffocating, and Merith couldn’t shake the feeling that something far deeper lay beneath the surface of their disagreement.

William sighed deeply, shaking his head in disappointment as he turned to Ominis. "There was no need to be that harsh," he remarked, frustration creeping into his voice. Ominis' retort was quick, bladed: "Why not? It’s clear he hasn’t learned a thing." The bitterness surrounding his words made Merith ponder the stakes at play in their conflict. She observed the exchange carefully, noting the tension that lurked within their interaction. Just as she steeled herself to interject, William's eyes met hers, an unspoken plea for her assistance shining through.

Merith gave William a slight nod, and he stepped toward the door after Sebastian. "Let’s refocus, everyone," she stated, attempting to restore a semblance of normalcy to the atmosphere, hoping to smooth over the tension. Despite her efforts, the strain was palpable.

After another half-hour, Merith concluded the lesson, summarizing the critical points and inviting any lingering questions. As the students began to file out, she approached Ominis, who stood near the door with arms tightly crossed over his chest.

“Is everything alright, Ominis?” she inquired, striving to maintain an air of genuine concern rather than mere idleness. Ominis tilted his head slightly in her direction; for a fleeting moment, Merith thought she detected a flicker of vulnerability within his gaze, but it was quickly masked. He redirected his focus, flicking his wand to open the door. "Just fine, Professor," he replied curtly, his words laced with formality, "well, if you require—"

“—Thank you for your concern and assistance on New Year’s,” he interrupted, his voice betraying no emotion. “However, I require nothing, and I would kindly ask you to avoid discussing me with the other Gaunts—I am aware they have ties to your family.”

Merith’s expression stiffened, her instincts warning her of the underlying threat in his words. A chill trickled down her spine upon realizing how deeply Ominis understood her connection to his family, unsettling her further. It dawned on her that his trust in her was far less than she had initially presumed.

“Of course, Ominis,” she replied, her voice steady despite the turmoil swelling within. “I would never dream of discussing your personal matters with your family.”

His clouded gaze bore into her, as if searching for something; then, with a decisive turn, he pointed his wand at the door. "I'll leave you to your lesson planning," he said brusquely before exiting the room in a swift motion.

Merith exhaled slowly, unease coiling in her gut. It dawned on her that she might have stepped into something far more intricate than she had anticipated, leaving her to question whether it was her place to confront it.

Chapter Text

Under the cloak of dusk and shielded by a Disillusionment Charm, Merith crept towards the restricted section of the Hogwarts library. She wasn’t about to repeat the previous blunder and find herself accosted by another member of the Hogwarts staff. Something was always afoot at Hogwarts, it seemed, and the constant undercurrent of intrigue was starting to wear her down. Pushing open the heavy doors, she noted with a sigh of relief that Madame Scribner, the stern librarian, was thankfully absent. The towering shelves loomed before her as she navigated the hushed aisles of forbidden knowledge.

Somehow, this task, though crucial, had been relegated to the back burner amidst a flurry of pressing concerns. She chided herself, recognizing the need to refocus on her primary mission, and then, perhaps, she could finally return to the solace of her family’s estate.

And yet, here she stood, poised on the precipice of finding the information she sought, and she’d allowed herself to be distracted in a multitude of ways. Had she found it oddly…enjoyable? She was becoming almost accustomed to the bustling halls, the barrage of questions from students, and…the thought of Aesop flickered unbidden in her mind.

Their relationship remained a perplexing enigma, and it was clear that Aesop harbored secrets of his own. A pang of hurt, a familiar sting, momentarily washed over her. But she reminded herself that she, too, guarded a trove of hidden truths. And yet, an inexplicable, almost unnerving, urge to know everything about him gnawed at her.

She moved through the labyrinthine aisles of the restricted section, finally settling before the bookshelf marked with a discreet, solitary torch. Whispering the incantation, she watched as the concealed passageway shimmered into existence. Releasing the Dissillusionment Charm, she cautiously lit a Lumos to guide her through the narrow passage.

The small, hidden room remained as it was, untouched by time or prying eyes. Merith began her search, carefully sifting through documents. Many appeared to be records, receipts signed by Niamh Fitzgerald, the Headmistress of Hogwarts from a time long past. She'd assumed that Niamh had been the one to have created this space, safeguarding the documents and records within a secure location.

As the hours ticked by, a growing sense of unease began to creep in. Why had this old witch had gone to such painstaking lengths to conceal these seemingly mundane records? The evening was proving to be a rather disappointing affair. She reached out, her fingers brushing against a small, smooth object – perhaps a rune stone? – that had slipped from her grasp and rolled under the bookshelf.

Kneeling on the unnaturally pristine stone floor, she reached beneath the shelf. The rune stone was cool to the touch, but her fingers had brushed against something else. Abandoning the stone, she grasped the smooth cover of what felt like a thin book. Pulling it free, she examined it. No markings, and no text adorned the front or back.

Merith settled against the shelf, supporting herself, and gently opened the delicate, aged pages. The script was immediately different from the precise hand of the former Headmistress or the flowing, somewhat flamboyant script of Percival Rackham. She’d become rather attuned to the subtle patterned slopes and curves of their script.

As she scanned the pages, fatigue settled in her bones, and she stretched, arching her back to ease her stiff limbs. How long had she been there? Likely hours. She was about to return to the refuge of her room, when the familiar name, etched on the inside cover, caught her eye: Isidora Morganach. Merith nearly dropped the book, her focus sharpening, her mind suddenly racing. It was her – the woman she had been searching for, the woman who she had found no trace of after the discovery of her letter at her family’s estate. And yet, here was additional proof that she had existed, that the letter was not a fanciful fabrication.

Pulling herself to her feet, she grasped the shelf for support. Her muscles ached, and a deep fatigue threatened to overcome her—a natural state, but becoming harder to ignore.

She slipped from the secluded archives, closing the hidden corridor behind her, re-enacting the Dissillusionment Charm as she snuck back to her room. It was already nearing midnight, yet she knew that sleep would be impossible until she had devoured the journal’s contents.

Undressing, she traded her dressing gown for her undergarments: a chemise and drawers, smoothly fitted, edged with delicate sheer lace. She burrowed under the heavily quilted bedspread, pulling the covers almost to her nose, a comforting habit from childhood.

Isidora Morganach proved to be as ingenious and confounding as Merith had imagined. The entries formed a research journal of sorts, though pages were missing. Isidora outlined her ability to remove pain through the manipulation of what Merith surmised to be ancient forms of magic, and she had seemingly found a great deal of success. She had spoken of her father, who, in his grief, had never recovered from a great loss. She had used this magic to take the pain from her father, but had become concerned about the ability to store these reserves of potent and darker aspects of magic. A pain imbued with the old magic—it seemed—was unstable and unpredictable. 

In her desire to help alleviate others' pain, she would require a way to trap the remnants of the pain stored within the magic. She had sought the help of a goblin, Bragbor the Boastful, and had commissioned him to create a repository, of a scale vast enough to house this magic. The details of the repository remained vague, but she had noted that its creation had been successful in trapping the pain, which she continued to collect from those around her.

However, after this achievement, the entries became fewer, and shorter in duration. Frantic, even. Until, only one entry remained.

I fear my time may be short; there is still much for me to accomplish, much for me to discover. The powers of this ancient magic may be boundless. I believe I can start this world anew, fresh, free from pain, from disease, from suffering.

But, I fear that those whom I had wished would trust me are closing in on me and may discover my plans. I have entrusted them to safe keeping, and even if I am betrayed by all, my works will not be destroyed – my efforts will not be in vain.

Hidden in the cloak of night, and forged in the fires of light, one shall know the truth of our salvation.

Merith awoke, the journal still clutched in her hand. She wasn't sure of the time. She had no lectures until after lunch. She glanced at her pocket watch on the bedside table. The breakfast bells had rung some time ago, and the meal would have wrapped up shortly. She blinked, hearing a faint knocking sound from above.

Smoothing her hair with a charm, she slipped on the green dressing gown she had discarded the night before, which was left on the floor in a rumpled pile. Hastily buttoning the front, she padded her bare feet against the cool stone stairs, up to her office. She peeked through the door and saw Aesop standing inside. He'd placed a lovely-looking plate of food on her desk and turned at the creak of the door.

Merith pushed the door open slowly, giving Aesop a small smile. “Good morning, Aesop,” she greeted, uncertain of where they stood at this moment. They had seemed to be fine until their last meaningful encounter, when she had visited his room.

“You missed breakfast. I interrogated a house-elf, and they informed me you hadn’t eaten.” He noted dutifully, taking a few steps toward her, examining her as if she were a physician. “You look rather pale.” He noted, causing her to let out a small chuff of amusement. “Ah, yes, I’m afraid I didn’t sleep very well.”

Merith noticed she was not the only one worse for wear. Aesop's leg appeared to be paining him again. His movements were once again laboured, as they had been before her interventions.

“Is there something I can do? Perhaps a healing potion, or perhaps something to relax the nerves?” He thought pensively, appearing to weigh different options in his head. A smile formed at this; she had grown accustomed to his preening concerns for her wellbeing, despite his feigned nonchalance.

“And what kind of things might you prescribe for soothing one’s nerves?” Merith said carelessly, leaning against her desk, her arms spread on either side of her. She tilted her head, a smooth smile forming against her features.

Aesop turned to her, a heat spreading across his features, and yet he did not look away. He appeared to be examining her thoroughly; it made her feel exposed under his gaze, yet she did not dare shy away.

“I was considering a Draught of Peace, however, in your case…” Merith leaned forward, before nimbly removing herself from the desk and planting herself in front of him. Despite her tall stature, Aesop still had a considerable height over herself.

“In my case…” she urged him to continue, now quite close, yet not touching.

“In your case…” he said slowly, considering his words. He stepped towards her, causing her to back away unconsciously, bumping against her desk.

“You are quite willful—I fear a draught such as that would have no effect on you... you are like the calm before a storm. And yet, I suspect you may also be the storm.” These words had started in jest, but as they neared completion, they were devoid of their usual humor or mirth.

Her breath hitched, and the unconscious effort of breathing became suddenly laborious, a natural instinct forgotten. She had never been spoken to in this way before; it made her feel exposed, and yet, she hadn’t minded how his words had rendered her naked.

His arms fell to his sides, their features mere breaths apart.

“A Draught of Living Death would need to be employed; only then would I have peace,” he said, lighter now, his formal sarcasm creeping into his tone. She swatted him, yet he grasped her hand, pressing her palm against his face. She felt the warmth of his skin, and the prickle of his stubble. He sighed into her hand, as if her touch was a salve against a wound.

Merith smiled, gently caressing the indentations of his scar with gentle stroking movements. "Is your leg feeling alright? I could cast a charm if you like?" Merith suggested, causing him to falter in her grasp. It had happened again; she had unsettled him. "Perhaps another time; I cannot have you tend to me in this state in good conscience."

"I'm quite alright, I have some Wiggenweld," she urged.

Aesop snapped, his tone edged. “Merith, please,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair, a perplexed expression crossing his features. "I don't require your services at the moment. I am gracious of your help," he communicated, attempting to lighten his tone from the previous outburst.

Merith tensed at this, feeling anxiety coil within her. Had she pushed too hard? She flushed, feeling rather embarrassed at this moment. No, this had to do with something else entirely; he was hiding something, and she was finding it rather difficult not to interrogate him further.

“Alright, as you wish,” Merith said, more emotionless than she had intended. “Thank you for your delivery services once again, Aesop. I shall see you later.” She added, giving him a small, forced smile, before retreating back down the stone stairs to her quarters, scooping the meal tray in her grasp.

She sighed, closing the doorway behind her, descending down the cool stone steps. She desperately wished to knock her head against the stone walls in frustration. When had this occurred? When had this man begun affecting her so severely? Why had she left in such a state? Anyone else, she would have likely not pressed, but with Aesop, she clung to him, berating him with questions, in a way that did not feel entirely dissimilar from the way she had clung to Aric in certain respects—especially in their youth. If Merith were a flower, Aric was the sun, and she had wished every day that he could bestow his light upon her.

She continued her descent, dropping the tray onto her bed with a sigh of frustration, noticing a letter peeking from underneath a serviette. Her breath hitched at the familiar scrawl, and she tore into the letter with a desperate urgency. She had only sent the letter the other day. Her father would have had to send the letter immediately upon its receipt.

Merith,

The situation at Durmstrang and the surrounding areas has been tense. I feel a war brewing. Despite the defeat of Ranrock, it is clear that there are other factions of goblins, werewolves, and dark creatures that aim to rise against us, pushing their forces further north. They are becoming bolder, and I suspect their actions may be fueled by our discovery of the tome. It contains secrets, Merith; I do not know what exactly, but secrets that pertain to their liberation—and possibly the displacement of Wizardkind.

It is likely that they had known the location of this information the entire time but had not been successful to enter Vulchana Keep. They had likely had eyes watching and waiting, and I suspect that Aric is one of those eyes.

I am not sure what deal Aric has made with the goblins, but he is not to be trusted. He has always been a goblin sympathizer to his family’s dismay. It is very likely that he plans to ambush you for the tome and exploit your relationship. I recommend staying close to Hogwarts and not traveling alone if you must; it is likely he is waiting on the outskirts, waiting to confront you.

It sounds like your research is taking fortunate turns; the time for answers has become quite dire. We need to discover the secrets of the tome to understand the plans the goblins have in store. Keep the tome safe, and speak of it to no one. There are eyes everywhere, and one does not know who is listening.

Remember, Merith, the ancient bloodlines we possess tie us together in a way that other wizards cannot begin to comprehend—it binds us.

As for Gorvoth Gaunt, he is not of concern; I hold his family’s legacy within my grasp; he would not step out of line as to send his family into further ruin.

Your father,

Dimitar Vulchanova

P.S. Mŭnichka is pleased to hear that you are taking care of yourself and advises that you include more beet-root in your diet to lower inflammation.

Merith, while initially relieved by the dutiful response, found it equally troubling. She would heed her father's warning for the time being and not seek out Aric. If there was a war brewing, there was much at stake, and now was not the time to seek answers for her own personal reasons. She would wait, as instructed, and continue her research.

But as Merith continued to learn more information pertaining to the tome, the less clear it seemed. She had known of several things: Isidora had sought the help of the goblin, Bragbor the Boastful, to construct a repository that held the remnants of pain, divulged from witches and wizards through a source of ancient magic.

Merith remembered mention of it from prior education, but that had been over a decade past. She recalled that it had been poorly understood and was thought to occur independently of the efforts of wizards. It was of the natural world, but could be triggered by the nature of reality. She recalled her father mentioning it briefly when he had spoken to herself and her brother when they were children. She recalled other facts from one of her lectures with her tutor; he had noted that creatures could often be imbued with ancient magical resistance, such as in the scales of dragons or the skins of giants.

This was the limit of her knowledge on the subject, and she had not given it much thought since she had learned the information, as it was not something she had used practically or encountered in her life since.

Then, there was the matter of Gorvoth Gaunt. Merith felt rather unsatisfied or reassured by her father's response in that regard. She was unsettled that Gorvoth appeared to have insight concerning the details of Aric's betrayal. Had her father told him? It had likely stood out that he was no longer present, but just how much had her father divulged about the situation?

Aric had mentioned in his letter that he was in hiding. Had her father asked Gorvoth to be on the lookout for him? Surely he would have communicated that. He had only mentioned that the Gaunt's were loyal, as they had no where else to turn to. But what if they did? What if Gorvoth had been making deals with other wizarding families in the backrooms of the Three Broomsticks?

It was certainly possible, and something she felt she would need to investigate further before drawing any conclusions. She wished she could visit her father in person. Perhaps for their next conversation, she would travel by Floo. 

Merith found the nagging suspicion that her father was withholding further information, no doubt to protect her, both unsettling and paralyzing. The thought, though rooted in a deep sense of familial duty, was tinged with a guilt that threatened to immobilize her.

Chapter Text

"It appears to be in working order. You were very close, Leander; I'm sure you'll have it next week," Merith noted, slightly annoyed by the poor attitude, but did her best to remain encouraging. She returned to the front of the room, taking her notebook from the podium, making final notes about the assessment.

"Nice try, Leander. If you don't succeed in this course, perhaps you could take it again next year," Sebastian's voice dipped, his tone light, but his words dripping with contempt.

Leander turned, his cheeks flushed, matching his hair. "Was that your home in Feldcroft, Sallow?" Leander spat, his mouth curling into a sneering grin.

"Kind of ironic that you conjured it. I hear it's no longer yours. Why visualize a place you can no longer Apparate to?" Leander said. Sebastian stood abruptly, pushing his bench out, nearly knocking William off balance.

"Those are fighting words, Prewitt, but can you back them up?" Sebastian said, his voice low and menacing. Students glanced nervously at each other. Leander rose to match Sebastian. Before he could respond, Merith clapped her hands together, the sound booming, causing some students to cover their ears.

"Sit," Merith said, tension in her voice, her patience now worn thin. The boys looked at her, then at each other—a power play of refusing to sit before the other.

Merith sighed, moving both her hands, forcing the two boys into their seats, to the alarm of all in the class.

"As we have a couple of minutes remaining, I'd like to go over the 'Three D's of Apparition': Destination, Determination, and Deliberation. It will be essential before you begin the exercises for next week." Merith did her best to continue the lecture, despite her agitation from the interruption. She couldn't help but notice the fear striking the students' features as she had forcefully seated the boys. Had she gone too far? She hadn't thought so; that would have been a minor reprimand at Durmstrang—plus, she had given them the opportunity to listen themselves.

"Alright, we will commence next week. Nice work, everyone; please review the Three D's, as I'll give a brief quiz. It's essential you understand those components." As the students packed their bags, Merith gestured at the two, "you two, stay seated," she ordered, walking toward William and gesturing him to the side near the classroom door.

"William, I have a proposal for you," Merith began. William looked at her with intrigue. "I noticed you have an open spot in your schedule and wonder if you'd be interested in an independent study, with myself as your private mentor?" William's eyes widened, and he quickly blurted a "yes" without considering the offer. "I looked at our schedules, and it appears we both have Monday evenings available; would that suit you?" Merith questioned, a small smile on her face.

"Yes, Professor, Monday works well. Wonderful. We can begin next week and start by going over some things we'll cover—we can work together to develop a plan?" William grinned, "Merlin," he shook his head, rarely at a loss for words. "Alright, off you go; I have some rather unsavory work ahead of me." She shook her head, returning to the two boys, seated at opposite ends of the room.

"I don't know what the issue is between you both, but it's been nothing but biting comments and disrespect from the beginning of the term," Merith sighed, seating herself on the desk in contemplation.

"If this were Durmstrang, this insolence wouldn't be tolerated. You're fortunate that you are sheltered by the goodwill and leniency of Hogwarts." Merith rose from the desk, stalking about the room, glancing at various trinkets and artifacts in contemplation.

"Well, what is to be done with the pair of you?" Merith questioned, turning to face the duo, her arms crossed. "Ah," she said. With a whisk of her hands, she conjured the dueling table, the blue celestial design assembling across the length of the room.

"Glacius!" Sebastian responded, his voice steady and filled with a confident edge. The jet of water froze the flame in mid-air, shattering it into icy shards. He followed with a swift "Diffindo!" A bolt of energy sliced through the air, narrowly missing Leander's face. "Too slow," he murmured, the smirk widening.

Leander, now on the defensive, began to fall behind. His spells, while effective, lacked the raw power and speed that Sebastian possessed. "Stupefy!" Leander sent a stunning spell towards Sebastian.

"Protego!" Sebastian again blocked the attack. Sebastian non-verbally cast a knockback jinx, nearly sending Leander off the table, he skidded to a stop in a crouched position, cautiously lifting his wand in defense.

"Well played," Leander said, slightly out of breath. "But this duel isn't over yet."

Sebastian grinned, enjoying the upper hand, a glint of ruthlessness in his eyes. "Expelliarmus!" he fired the disarming spell, but instead of hitting Leander, he aimed at the walls around them. Several stones were knocked out, creating a chaotic distraction. "A little tactical advantage never hurt anyone," he said with a shrug. Leander gritted his teeth, frustration in his eyes. "You're a real show-off, Sallow."

Sebastian chuckled, clearly amused by Leander's reaction. "That's what happens when you're the best, Prewitt. Someone's got to keep you on your toes."

Merith stepped out of the way from the debris, shooting an irritated glance at Sebastian, who merely shrugged in response.

Leander, capitalizing on the chaos, shouted, "Levioso!" raising a boulder from the ground above Sebastian.

Chapter Text

Leander lay crumpled on the dueling platform like a discarded parchment, limbs twisted inelegantly, his robes soiled with dust and pride. A shallow breath escaped his lips — proof of life, but only just.

"Sebastian!" Merith’s voice cut through the haze like a snapped wand. Her boots echoed sharply across the stone as she rushed forward, cloak streaming behind her. "What have you done?"

Sebastian lowered his wand with leisurely precision, the faintest smirk curling his lip. He didn’t flinch. Didn't even glance at Leander. “He’s still breathing, isn’t he?”

A flicker of something — not quite pride, not quite remorse — danced in his eyes before it vanished, swallowed by nonchalance. He stepped back, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve.

Merith dropped to her knees beside Leander, fingers already moving in practiced motion. A diagnostic charm flared faintly blue at her fingertips. “Unconscious. Concussed,” she muttered. “He needs the Hospital Wing. Now.”

Her voice sharpened. “And you, Mr. Sallow — this was reckless. Unnecessary. What could possibly justify that kind of force?”

Sebastian only shrugged, unconcerned. “Maybe now he’ll take dueling seriously.”

That he wasn't even pretending to care chilled her more than the violence itself. There was no flicker of fear, no shame. Just... detachment. That, Merith thought grimly, was the truer danger.

She flicked her wand, and a stretcher spun into being — polished wood and levitating linen — and gently lifted Leander onto it. She gave Sebastian a look that could freeze the Black Lake.

“You. Stay here.”

Sebastian leaned against the wall, arms crossed, all casual insolence. “But it’s nearly dinner,” he said, as if pointing out a minor scheduling inconvenience.

Merith’s mouth parted in disbelief. “I can’t believe you have an appetite right now.”

She turned without waiting for a reply, the stretcher gliding beside her as she swept from the room. Leander stirred faintly — a twitch, a breath — as they passed beneath the flickering torchlight.

At the far end of the corridor, a familiar silhouette was ascending from the dungeons — tall, precise, deliberate. Aesop Sharp.

“Aesop,” Merith called as she approached, urgency trailing in her voice like loose thread. 

He caught sight of the stretcher and immediately adjusted his stride. “Merlin’s beard… What happened to Mr. Prewitt?”

His voice was cool but not cold — brisk concern without panic. He drew his wand, adding a supportive levitation charm with deft ease. Together, the stretcher lifted higher, smoother, the burden shared.

“A duel,” she replied, tone clipped. “It wasn’t meant to go this far.”

Aesop gave a glance that said they never are.

The Hospital Wing was dim and expectant, the scent of antiseptic herbs hanging in the air. Pale green curtains swayed gently in the draught, and the flicker of lanterns painted shadows on the flagstones. Empty beds lined the walls — too orderly, too clean, as if waiting for trouble to arrive.

Matron Blainey emerged, smoothing her apron with a sigh as she took in the scene.

“By the stars,” she said, her youthful features drawn taut. “What has befallen Mr. Prewitt? He looks like he’s been thrown from a Hippogriff.”

“Dueling accident,” Merith answered. “Friendly — or so I thought. It escalated.”

Leander groaned, the first sounds of waking, as his eyes fluttered open and immediately squinted against the lamplight.

“You’re in the Hospital Wing, Mr. Prewitt,” Blainey said gently, casting a quick charm to measure his vitals. “Can you tell me what happened?”

He blinked slowly. “I remember Sallow being a bloody menace,” he muttered, voice thick with indignation. “Then Professor Vulchanova said we could duel. Fair terms. And… well, that’s it.”

Aesop shot Merith a glance, sharp and unreadable. She offered only a resigned shrug.

“It was meant to be harmless,” she murmured. “Crossed Wands style. Sallow went too far.”

“Hm.” Blainey frowned. “He’ll need observation overnight — just to be safe.” With a flick of her wand, she floated Leander to an open cot and tucked the blankets around him as if she were tucking in a small child. “I’ll monitor him closely.”

“Foolish stunt,” she muttered under her breath, drawing the curtains with a snap just as Leander grumbled something unprintable about Slytherins.

She turned, gaze fixed on Merith. “This needs to be reported to the Headmistress.”

“I know,” Merith said, resigned. “I’ll see to it. Mr. Sallow is still in the classroom.”

“I’ll go keep him company,” Aesop offered, dry as parchment.

Merith glanced sideways at him, some part of her grateful for the offer. “Thank you.”

They left the Hospital Wing together, their footfalls echoing down the corridor. For a moment, neither spoke.

They left the Hospital Wing together, their footfalls echoing down the corridor. For a moment, neither spoke.

The quiet between them wasn’t awkward — it was measured. Like both were unwilling to disturb the fragile weight of the moment.

Merith walked slightly ahead, her hands clasped behind her back. The scent of antiseptic still clung to her robes. Leander’s shallow breathing, the sight of his limp arm slipping from the stretcher — it haunted her peripheral vision. She had watched duels dozens of times, taught counter-spells, monitored competitions.

But this had been different.

She felt it in her chest. That hollow tug.

"You made the right call," Aesop said at last, his voice low, barely above the creak of the floorboards.

She slowed, turning her head. “I don’t feel like I did.”

“You diffused it. Contained it. No one died. That’s something.”

“A student was injured.” Her voice was sharper than she meant it to be.

Aesop didn’t flinch. “Students are injured every day here. You’re not new to Hogwarts, Merith. You know what this castle swallows and spits back up.”

She looked away.

“I didn’t anticipate Sebastian using that level of force,” she admitted. “Or maybe I did. And I thought I could control it.”

“Sebastian has a fire in him that doesn’t wait for permission.”

Merith nodded, swallowing. “And I... sympathize with that. Too much, perhaps.”

At that, Aesop said nothing. Not yet. But his silence held weight — not judgment, but recognition.

They reached the stairwell landing. She paused.

“I appreciate you stepping in,” she added, more softly now. “You didn’t have to.”

His brow ticked upward. “It was either that, or let the boy faint halfway to the Hospital Wing while you tried to levitate two students and your guilt at once.”

That almost earned a laugh. Almost.

She looked at him fully for the first time since the duel. His expression was unreadable. But there was something different in the way he watched her — no smugness, no bemusement. Just... steadiness.

That, more than anything, threatened to undo her composure.

“I need to speak with Professor Weasley,” she said, straightening her robes with a too-careful flick of her wand.

He nodded. “I’ll wait with Mr. Sallow.”

She hesitated. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

Their eyes held for a moment longer than necessary. Not searching. Just staying.

And then, without another word, they parted.

The soft click of Merith’s heels echoed like accusations through the stone corridor.

She didn’t rush. Rushing would suggest panic — and she couldn’t afford to appear unmoored. Not with her position so newly acquired. Not with a student unconscious in the Hospital Wing because of a choice she had made.

As she reached the Great Hall, the air was thick with supper: roasting meats, buttered roots, and low student chatter — oblivious, mercifully. But at the Slytherin table, William already sat upright, his eyes narrowing as he spotted her.

She didn’t meet his gaze.

Instead, she veered toward the high table’s corner, where Professor Weasley was just standing to leave. “Professor,” Merith called, voice composed but firm. “May I have a word? There’s been an incident.”

Matilda’s expression darkened immediately, and — as if summoned — Headmaster Black turned from where he had been conversing with an unfortunate first-year. “An incident, you say?”

“We should speak in private,” Merith said carefully.

They relocated to the antechamber behind the Hall — a narrow lounge with low-burning sconces and a velvet settee far too grand for its use.

Merith recounted the events carefully, choosing her words with precision. There was no mention of Expulso—no hint at just how far the duel had truly unraveled.

Matilda Weasley listened with furrowed brows, fingers steepled at her lips. Her disappointment was measured but unmistakable.

“We don’t encourage dueling to resolve disagreements, Merith,” she said quietly.

“I understand,” Merith replied. “It was a misjudgment. I believed it would offer some… catharsis. But it was shortsighted. I’ll ensure it’s handled.”

Weasley softened slightly. “I appreciate your honesty. Mr. Prewitt will recover, I presume?”

“Yes. Matron Blainey expects a full recovery.”

“Then let’s consider it a lesson learned,” Matilda concluded. “For all involved.”

“Well,” Headmaster Black drawled, stretching his arms in the corner like a man bored by his own existence. “Far be it from me to interfere in the petty squabbles of Gryffindors and Slytherins. One wins. One loses. Balance restored.”

Merith blinked. “Sir, this was—”

He waved a hand. “Oh, don’t be so earnest, Ms. Vulchanova. You handled it. Continue to handle it. And do try not to create so much paperwork.”

He departed with a dramatic swirl of his cloak, leaving a trail of pomposity and wood polish behind him.

Merith turned back to Matilda, who was already sighing.

“I’ll speak with Mr. Sallow’s Head of House,” Weasley offered. “Let Abraham take over disciplinary measures—”

“No.” Merith’s answer came too quickly. She caught herself. “It was my error. I’ll handle it.”

Matilda gave her a long look — not disapproving, exactly. More like... quiet concern. “Very well,” she said at last. “But be cautious. You cannot protect them from everything.”

Merith only nodded.

But part of her knew: she wasn’t just protecting Sebastian.

The classroom felt hollow in the aftermath of the day’s chaos, the torches’ glow reduced to a trembling pulse in the dusk-lit hall. Desks and chairs stood silent and abandoned, as though reluctant witnesses to Merith’s internal storm.

At the teacher’s table, Sebastian sat slumped—crestfallen, abrasive bravado gone—his dark hair a disheveled halo around a pale face. The silver platter of food she set before him—roast chicken, root vegetables, a soft roll—seemed to float on the table between them, surreal and out of place.

Merith stood rigid, heart still racing. “I’m disappointed,” she said softly, voice low where her authority met weariness. “But not cruel enough to starve you.”

He didn’t look up; his silence was heavy, loaded with things unsaid.

She glanced toward the door. “Once you’ve eaten, return to your dormitory. We’ll talk again tomorrow—after classes.”

Sebastian hadn’t moved. His shoulders hunched beneath the flickering torchlight, his plate untouched. There was something sealed in his stillness—not remorseful, not contrite—but closed off in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

She had underestimated him. Not in ability—Sebastian Sallow was always capable—but in volatility. In pain. In how closely those two things twined inside him, feeding off each other in silence. His recklessness hadn't come from bravado alone—it had the shadow of grief carved into it.

For a breathless moment, she stood suspended between pity and unease. Then she turned and continued upward, her hand gliding along the cool stone railing.

She closed the door to her office with a faint whisper of movement. The tension in her shoulders loosened only slightly, though her stomach churned with the unresolved implications of the day.

The office was large but dimly lit, the only light coming from the flickering fire in the hearth. Shadows danced along the walls, softening the edges of the room. There, she found Aesop waiting—an uncluttered calm amid her inner storm.

He regarded her quietly, offering neither question nor reaction—only presence.

She fell into the chair behind her desk, hands brushing over parchment and quills as if seeking anchor. “I... wasn’t sure how to handle it,” she admitted, voice drained of its earlier precision.

Aesop inclined his head. “I gathered as much,” he said, measured. “Did Sebastian say anything of consequence?”

She shook her head. “Nothing of note.”

He watched her, still. Finally: “This—“ he motioned at the classroom outside, “—was… unfortunate. Not to mention dangerous. But you managed to keep it from becoming far worse.”

“Barely,” she said, glancing at him. “Everything feels like walking on glass.”

Aesop took a slow breath. “You don’t need to decide everything tonight. Perhaps let Slytherin’s Head of House—or even me—step in for now.”

She shook her head again, more firmly this time. “It’s my mess,” she said, voice soft but certain. “I’ll deal with it.”

Recognition glowed in his eyes. The quiet clasp of understanding passed between them—unspoken, but heavier than words.

Merith’s chest loosened, a quiet gratitude settling over her as Aesop spoke with steady calm. His words, measured and gentle, brushed against her like a balm—he understood her too well, saw through the rushing tide of her fears before they could overwhelm her. She drew in a slow, deliberate breath, letting the warmth of the room fold around her like a soft cloak.

Without a word, Aesop’s fingers flicked subtly in the air, weaving a silent, wandless spell. The office door eased open with barely a whisper. Aesop caught Sebastian’s eye, his voice firm but low. “Find your way back to Slytherin dormitory, Mr. Sallow. No detours.”

Sebastian’s gaze flickered but he said nothing. Nodding slightly, he turned away, the door closing softly behind him. Merith sank back into her chair, the weight of the moment pressing lightly at her ribs.

“Thank you, Aesop,” she murmured, her voice low, softer somehow. She rose and moved behind him, the impulse surprising in its suddenness. Her arms slipped around his shoulders, the warmth of his skin grounding her. She rested her chin on the crown of his head, the steady rhythm of his breath a quiet anchor in the storm of her thoughts. The tension that had knotted her shoulders began to unravel.

His hand found hers, fingers curling around hers with quiet steadiness. When his lips brushed a kiss to her palm, rough against the softness of her skin, a small shiver traveled through her. She’d noticed the changes—the neatly trimmed stubble, the careful way he wore his clothes. A subtle gesture, perhaps just for her. A warmth spread beneath her cheeks, gentle and unspoken.

Then she saw it—the dark stain blooming through the fabric of his trousers.

Her breath caught, the warmth from his hand turning cold.

“Aesop,” she said lowly, reaching toward his leg before pausing just short of touching him. Alarm crept into her tone like a chill draft through an open window.

He shifted, almost imperceptibly, and waved off her concern with a forced nonchalance. “It’s nothing. Just… a scratch.”

“A scratch doesn’t bleed through wool,” she countered, voice sharpening like the crack of ice. “What happened?”

A silence stretched between them, long and reluctant.

Then—quietly, without the usual precision of his speech—he confessed, “I’ve been conducting… experiments.”

His gaze dropped, and his next words fell like stones. “Desperate ones.”

Merith’s chest tightened. “Experiments?”

“To alleviate the curse,” he said, almost apologetically. “Extraction, bloodletting. I’ve even attempted… surgical removal.”

Her hands stilled at her sides. “Aesop…”

“I thought if I could isolate it—study the essence—I might be able to undo its tether. But it… fought back. Violently.” A muscle in his jaw tensed. “I fear I’ve made things worse.”

He tried to shift again, but the motion only revealed more of the spreading stain. His voice softened, frayed at the edges. “The wound isn’t healing. My usual charms… are losing their strength.”

“You should have told me,” she said quietly, more breath than reprimand.

“I didn’t wish to cause you concern,” he murmured. “But clearly I’ve done so nonetheless.”

A flicker of shame crossed his expression, deepened by a weariness that sat far too comfortably on his face.

Without speaking, Merith reached for her wand. Though she didn’t use it often, she thought it might sharpen her focus or provide more stability. But instead of drawing it, she set it aside and moved closer. She knelt carefully, fingers ghosting over the edge of the fabric near the wound.

“Let me help you,” she said, her voice threaded with steadiness, though her heart thudded unsteadily against her ribs.

“Please,” she said, her voice low but urgent, threaded with steady resolve. “I’ve been refining the warding charm in my spare hours. It’s weakening already—but if I can reinforce it now, just for a moment, we might stall the curse’s hold. We can do this more regularly… but I need the space to concentrate.”

Aesop hesitated, his hand hovering as if to stop her. But at last, he gave a quiet nod.

She rolled up the trouser leg with careful precision, revealing the source.

The wound was not merely physical—it was alive. Tendrils of dark magic curled along his skin like parasitic vines, pulsing faintly with a sickly hue. The mark seemed to resist her nearness, as if aware of her presence.

Merith swallowed hard. “It’s binding itself to you more aggressively. Like it’s anchoring.”

He nodded once, grim. “That’s what I feared. It’s not just dormant anymore. It’s defending itself.”

Her fingers hovered above the twisted flesh as she murmured incantations, the glow of her magic soft and unwavering. Her brows furrowed in concentration, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Slowly, the tension in the wound began to ease. The bleeding dulled. The twisted edges of flesh relaxed, if only slightly.

She finished the charm, her voice softer now, threaded with something unspoken. With a slow exhale, she eased the fabric of his trousers back down, smoothing the cloth with gentle fingers, as if she could quiet the pain beneath with touch alone.

Their eyes met.

“I didn’t know,” she said at last, barely above a whisper. “Not truly. I should’ve seen the signs.”

“You’ve your own burdens,” he replied, but the words felt too careful—an excuse dressed as comfort.

She studied his face, then lowered her gaze. “I’ve been careful,” she murmured. “Too careful, perhaps.”

A pause stretched between them.

“You speak of burdens,” she continued, “but I’ve made sure you never saw mine. That wasn’t fair.”

Aesop said nothing, but his attention didn’t waver. It grounded her.

“I think… I’ve been afraid,” she confessed. “That if I laid my grief beside yours, it might feel smaller. Or worse—reveal how little I’ve done with it.”

At that, Aesop’s brow softened, a quiet understanding flickering behind his eyes. Still, he didn’t interrupt—only leaned slightly forward, his presence like steady earth beneath a faltering step.

Merith's gaze dropped to her hands. “But I can’t ask you to bare your wounds while I keep mine bandaged.”

He blinked slowly, something shifting in his expression — a softening, a quiet understanding.

“I don’t know how to begin.” she said, gently now. 

“You can begin,” Aesop said, his tone like a page being turned, “by telling me the truth. Even if it’s difficult.”

She looked at him. Hesitated.

“I’ve heard,” he added after a beat, “that you were once engaged.”

Her breath caught — not from the question, but from the simple way he’d asked it. Not with jealousy or accusation, but care. Curiosity. As though he were offering her a key to a locked room she’d barricaded long ago.

“Sirona,” she murmured, realizing. “She must have mentioned it. I never meant for you to hear that.”

“It’s alright,” Aesop said gently. “I didn’t take it for careless gossip. I know what it is to keep things to oneself.”

Merith hesitated, the words resting on the edge of her tongue like the crest of a wave just before it breaks. She toyed with the ribbon at her waist, the velvet trailing between her fingers like the tether of a memory.

“I once knew love,” she said quietly, her voice a thread pulled from some distant, fraying place. “His name was Aric.”

She didn’t look at Aesop at first. Her gaze drifted, unseeing, toward the window where frost etched the corners of the glass. The castle outside stood silent and vast, but her mind was far from its halls.

“We were children together, once. Friends... and then something more.”

Her voice softened, folding inward. And in her mind’s eye: the box elder tree, its bare limbs clawing at the winter sky, and beneath it—Aric, arms wrapped around her, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered her name like a secret only the wind was meant to carry.

“I was lonely,” she said, the truth unspooling now. “Sheltered, always watched. Aric... he was freedom. He made the world feel wide. He made me feel seen.”

A shadow passed over her face—too brief to name, too deep to ignore.

“I thought love would be enough. That it could save me.” A pause. “But it wasn’t.”

She drew a breath, slow and trembling. “We drifted. He left before anything real could take root. I was too afraid to face the truth. My father never approved, of course.”

Her fingers twisted tighter around the ribbon.

“Perhaps he was right.”

Aesop remained silent, listening—truly listening—not with pity, but with patience.

Merith's voice dropped to a near whisper. “The Valkov family is... steeped in shadows. Aric once confided that his grandfather might’ve been a half-blood, though his lineage was wrapped in so many lies, even he couldn’t be certain. My father hated that ambiguity. He said it made Aric weak—unworthy.”

She exhaled. “And Aric… he lacked ambition. He was charming, reckless. Mischievous in a way that could unravel me if I wasn’t careful. I clung to him like a child to a toy she wasn’t ready to outgrow.”

She looked down, lost in the memory. “And maybe that’s all it was. A girl’s dream.”

The silence that followed was heavy—gentle, but weighted with meaning.

When she finally met Aesop’s gaze again, his expression was unreadable, but kind.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For trusting me.” Then, more carefully, “Do you still have feelings for him?”

The question lingered in the air like mist over still water—silent, thick, inevitable.

Merith didn't answer at once. Her hand dropped to her lap, the ribbon falling from her fingers like a lifeline let go.

“There was a time I believed it was love,” she murmured. “But not in the way I understand it now. What I felt was... the adoration of a girl for a boy—for what he represented. A dream. A refuge.”

Her gaze drifted to the shadows skimming the flagstones, the ribbon in her lap slipping between her fingers unnoticed. Silence stretched—not uncomfortable, but heavy with thought.

She wasn’t sure how to name what lingered.

It was complicated now. Disappointing, in a quiet, unremarkable way—the sort of ache that didn’t cry out but lived deep beneath the skin. Once, she had believed it was love. But perhaps it had only ever been longing—something fragile she clung to, hoping it might shape the rest of her life into sense.

She tilted her head slightly, as if listening for a memory she could no longer quite reach.

It had become a struggle. A weight worn into her like sea-smooth stone—unquestioned, but always there. And now…

Now, it was little more than a hollow

When she finally looked up, her expression had shifted—softened not by sorrow, but by clarity. The girl she’d been no longer lived in that memory. And perhaps the love had never truly belonged to her, but to the dream she’d wrapped around him.

She looked at Aesop—really looked. “Now I find myself here, in something I never expected. With you.”

She reached out without thinking, her fingers brushing a lock of hair from his brow. The touch lingered longer than necessary. Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t pull away.

“I didn’t think I’d find comfort again. Or stability. Or… this.”

Her voice dropped to a hush.

“I want to explore it—even if I don’t know where it leads.”

Their eyes locked—her vulnerability a quiet dare, his silence a steady anchor.

A tentative smile curved her lips. “I wish to venture deeper into your waters than I perhaps should,” she said, voice soft as tidewind. “To see what lies beneath the surface.”

Aesop leaned forward, his hand rising with slow purpose. One callused palm found the back of her head, fingers weaving gently into her hair. The other cradled her cheek, thumb grazing her bottom lip in a touch both reverent and searching.

“Then allow me to guide you through them,” he murmured.

Their lips met—not in haste, but in gravity. A deliberate collision of breath and longing, soft at first, exploratory. His stubble scraped lightly against her skin, the roughness grounding the kiss in reality even as it threatened to unmoor her.

The room vanished.

All she felt was warmth—his hand splayed in her hair, the other cupping her jaw like something sacred. Her lips parted beneath his with an unspoken plea, and he answered it, his tongue brushing hers, testing, tasting.

Merith gasped softly against his mouth, her hands finding his shoulders, then slipping to his collarbone, then down. Her body moved with instinct, with yearning—she straddled his lap, skirts bunching around her thighs as she sank into him.

Their kiss deepened—heat unraveling between them like steam from sun-warmed stone. Her breath hitched as he gently tugged her hair, exposing her throat. He kissed along her jaw, his lips skimming the line of her neck, and she tilted her head back, surrendering to the moment.

The rhythm between them was fluid—like water pooling in cupped hands, like tides drawn by hidden moons. Her hands curled in his hair, anchoring herself as he returned to her lips, more insistent now, tasting her with the hunger of a man who hadn’t dared hope for this.

She nipped at his lower lip, and he groaned softly into her mouth—one hand slipping to the small of her back, drawing her closer until not even magic could slide between them.

Breathless, they broke apart, foreheads pressed together, lips swollen, hearts pounding in tandem.

The room was quiet again—only the sound of their shared breath, heavy and warm.

Her eyes fluttered open. “This feels like falling into deep water,” she whispered. “And I don’t know what waits beneath.”

Aesop smiled, winded, brushing his thumb once more along her cheekbone. “Then we’ll learn to swim together.”

Chapter Text

Merith sat alone in the desolate Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, casting glances at her pocket watch every few moments and releasing tentative sighs. He was late. Sebastian was to join her after his lessons, and she knew he should have arrived promptly after the fifth period. Yet, the Slytherin student remained conspicuously absent.

Several minutes later, the door creaked open, and Sebastian sauntered in with a leisurely gait, his signature easy grin plastered across his freckled face. The afternoon sun spilled through the dusty windows, illuminating the room's worn wooden beams, casting playful shadows on the stone floor.

"You're late," Merith remarked flatly, snapping her pocket watch shut with a decisive click. The echo of the closing lid seemed to reverberate throughout the empty classroom.

"Ah, well, Professor—Peeves held me up, blasted poltergeist," Sebastian replied, shrugging with feigned nonchalance as he approached the front of the classroom. He leaned against a desk, a mischievous sparkle in his eye. "You’d think he’d have better things to do than torment perfectly innocent students."

Merith surveyed him with arms crossed, her expression unyielding. 'Innocent' wasn't the word she would have used to describe Sebastian Sallow.

“Is something amiss, Professor?” he asked, gracefully seating himself upon the edge of a desk while languidly extending his legs before him. She found it both unsettling and remarkable how effortlessly he maintained such a nonchalant air. Rarely did his emotions stray from their customary repose.

"Several things, now that you mention it." Sebastian’s grin broadened. A lopsided grin spread across his face. 

"I’m aware you modified the account of my little skirmish with Leander—and I haven’t overlooked that." He raised an eyebrow, daring her to dispute him. "I am not ungrateful, I assure you." Sebastian's demeanor shifted for a heartbeat, sincerity coloring his voice before he slipped back into his casual attitude.

"Guilty as charged. But who hasn’t embellished a story now and then?" Sebastian raised an eyebrow, and Merith nearly broke into a smile at his roguish charm.

"While that may be true, you're pushing your luck," she said with a weary sigh. "You still need to atone for your actions. And the embellishments clearly weren't enough to keep you out of trouble."

Sebastian's curiosity piqued. "What do you have in mind?"

"I've devised a research task for you—something I think you may enjoy more than you deserve." She leaned forward slightly, the light illuminating her weary features.

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "I'm listening."

"I'm going to lend you my copy of Curses and Counter-Curses by Vindictus Viridian," she explained, her tone now slightly more conversational. "All I ask is that you read through it and select three suitable Dark Arts spells; I'd like you to outline their history as well as their potential for both harmful and beneficial applications."

"Dark Arts and beneficial applications? I fear those two concepts are fundamentally at odds," he replied, a playful smirk dancing on his lips.

"The challenge of this task is perspective, Mr. Sallow. If you wish to delve into the Dark Arts so ardently, I want to see how you justify your choices." Merith crossed her arms, the ancient classroom walls absorbing her seriousness.

Sebastian let out a short laugh, running a hand through his tousled brown hair. "Well played, Professor Vulchanova. I accept your little challenge."

Merith handed him the book, feeling a mixture of annoyance and intrigue as he accepted it with a flourish. "This may come in handy," she warned, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"Trust me, it will." With a final wave, Sebastian exited the classroom, leaving Merith once again alone with her thoughts and quiet rhythm of the room.

As the week drew to a close, Merith received a letter from Dinah Hecat, suggesting that if her schedule allowed, she should plan a visit—Aesop was already intending to travel, and it made sense for them to Apparate together. Merith felt her cheeks flush at the innocuous suggestion; the notion of visiting friends outside the classroom felt refreshing yet strangely daunting.

Thursday morning nearly caught her off guard; she had indulged in one of J. Pippin's remarkably effective sleeping draughts, which had lulled her into a deep, dreamless slumber. The heaviness of the potion draped over her like a damp blanket, weighing her down.

The effects might have been too potent, causing her to scramble from her office mere minutes after the lesson had begun. Slippers tucked covertly beneath her gown, she hurried to the raised wooden lectern at the front of the classroom, feeling a pang of anxiety as she entered.

Her increased workload—now balancing Defence Against the Dark Arts, Apparition, and the personal development of the elusive William Wexley—had begun to take its toll. The scarcely kept stacks of parchment scattered across her desk seemed to taunt her in their unfinished state.

That week had seen her make ridiculous blunders: pouring gravy instead of milk into her tea, accidentally casting a Full-Body Bind Curse on an unsuspecting student for whom she had neglected to teach the counter-curse, and nearly forgetting her office hours before her Apparition lecture.

Fortunately, William had arrived just before she intended to retreat to the library to return some volumes at Aesop's behest. He often came to her office hours, courteous enough to step aside if another student sought her attention. At times, he even offered his own guidance, which Merith found rather admirable. She had grown fond of this side of William; he could be kind and considerate amidst his mercurial mood swings.

Today, however, his demeanor leaned toward the latter. He fidgeted with stray fibers on his robes as Merith settled into her chair, offering him an expectant smile. "Is something troubling you, William?"

"You seem preoccupied," she noted after a moment of silence from him, the soft crackle of the fireplace a faint backdrop to their palpable tension.

"I apologize, Professor. I don't wish to burden you with my melancholy," he replied, his voice subdued, his gaze drifting toward the floor.

Merith sighed, closing the door with a soft gust of air and gesturing to the seat beside her. "Have a seat, William."

He complied, sinking into the embroidered armchair and running a hand through his hair, a gesture that hinted at his inner turmoil. "Is this about Mr. Sallow's outburst?" he asked tentatively.

His gaze drifted toward the hearth, where flames twisted and danced against the charred embers, casting their glow upon his troubled expression. The way he hesitated spoke volumes.

"I promise whatever you disclose will remain between us," Merith reassured him, her tone softening as she noted the grimace that momentarily crossed his face. Finally, he met her gaze.

"How much do you know about last year, Professor?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Merith contemplated his question. "I know Ranrock's army infiltrated the area and that he was ultimately subdued. Yet, I have yet to hear how that came to pass from anyone directly involved."

She paused, then added, "And I know Mr. Sallow lost his uncle and was missing for some time."

William flinched, the mention striking a raw nerve in his composure. He appeared caught in a struggle, meticulously weighing what to reveal as emotions swirled within him, his blue eyes flickering with unspoken pain.

"It's just... Sebastian can be stubborn. Ominis, too, I suppose." His fingers raked through his hair in frustration, a familiar habit he reverted to in times of stress. "Last year, the three of us encountered a situation—led by Sebastian. You see, his sister Anne is unwell. She was cursed by Victor Rookwood a few years past. She once attended Hogwarts, but after that incident, her health declined, and she was removed from school..."

"Sebastian was one of the first friends I made here," William continued, his voice thick with nostalgia. "We dueled in Professor Hecat's class, and his talent impressed me. He was a champion at crossed wands, humble in defeat. Rather than sulk, he welcomed me as a friend—or perhaps an asset. While fiercely loyal, Sebastian can also be determined, sometimes to a fault."

Merith listened intently as William labored to articulate his feelings; the weight of his emotions was palpable in the shadowed corners of the classroom.

"He became consumed with finding a cure for Anne, to the detriment of everyone around him. I even encouraged him at times, convinced we could accomplish anything together. He has that effect, making one feel invincible." He chuckled softly before continuing, "Ominis, however, was less approving, often trying to obstruct our plans. In hindsight, perhaps he was right. Still, we persisted. Sebastian discovered an ancient relic attributed to Salazar Slytherin, convinced it held the key to saving her."

A flicker of raw emotion crossed William's turbulent blue eyes. "But the magic was dark—there are always consequences when tampering with such powers, as Ominis warned... and Sebastian's uncle, Solomon Sallow, was a consequence of that."

Merith's brows knitted in confusion, her heart aching as she silently pieced together the fragments of William's story. She held her questions, allowing him to gain momentum.

"Because of this, Anne wanted nothing to do with Sebastian and vanished without a trace. He searched for her in vain before returning to Hogwarts, where a letter finally reached him. It was from Anne, asking him to stop looking for her, stating she never wanted to see him again. He was devastated, but relieved to know she was safe."

He took a moment, gathering his thoughts as he stared at the desk beside him, his fingers tracing the grains of the wood. “It’s hard to watch someone you care about lose themselves,” he continued, his voice steadier now. “I thought my encouragement would help him find peace, to temper that fire with a bit of reason. Instead, I inadvertently fanned the flames.” There was a pause, as he glanced up to gauge their reactions, and he took a deep breath before adding, “Sometimes, love isn’t enough though, is it? Sometimes, it can lead to destructive paths, and you don’t even realize you’re walking down them until it’s too late.”

Merith stared at William in wonderment, the young man had always given an impression of wisdom beyond his years. His words had struck her like a bolt of crucio—intense and searing. What was this pain she felt? His words echoed in the room, like a cautionary tale told to children on a winter's eve in front of a blazing hearth.

William adjusted in his seat, clearing his throat in an attempt at composure. "Ominis is still upset with Sebastian—his closest friend disappeared for months and then returned without a word. When Sebastian finally pleaded for Ominis' forgiveness, he agreed, but only if we all pledged to abandon the quest for a cure since Anne had made her wishes abundantly clear."

He continued, "Sebastian seemed to genuinely accept this, redirecting his focus as if nothing unsettling had transpired. Ominis and I tried to do the same, and we avoided discussing Ominis' summer spent at his dreadful family estate. We didn’t address..."

William hesitated, collecting his thoughts. "As I mentioned, Sebastian can be quite obsessive—true to the cunning nature of Slytherin. He isn’t searching for a cure; instead, he’s trying to use tracking magic to find Anne. In class, he brought up a curse-breaking discovery from St. Mungo’s that he thought might help her. But Ominis wouldn’t tolerate it, and I can’t say I blame him for feeling that way."

It was evident that Sebastian struggled to keep his promises, prioritizing his desires over the feelings of others, even his friends.

"Ominis has always cared for Anne," William continued, his brow furrowing and cheeks coloring at the mention. "But I think Sebastian is completely oblivious to that fact..."

"But it's becoming increasingly difficult for us to pretend that nothing has changed when, in truth, everything has. Some days feel blissful, filled with distractions from our troubles—like when class goes well, or we seize fleeting moments of harmless mischief. But on other days, one of us slips, breaking the fragile illusion and reminding us of the weight of our misdeeds."

William’s voice grew heavier as he spoke. "Some days, I feel like I might combust under the weight of it all. I know I need to keep my emotions contained; others rely on me. I fear that if I misstep again, the whole wizarding world will come crashing down around us." He shook his head at his own intensity, adding awkwardly, "I must sound absolutely muddle-headed."

Merith let out a small chuff of amusement, startling William with her response. Rising from her seat, she walked toward the fireplace, where the flames flickered weakly. With a gentle wave of her hand, she levitated several logs, coaxing the fire into a dazzling blaze. The warmth spread through the room, and the flickering light danced across their faces, momentarily dispelling the shadows of their worries.

As the warm light danced across her face, Merith glanced down at William, whose gaze was fixed intently on her—hopeful yet uncertain. "Unfortunately, I am quite familiar with the predicament you describe."

"I’ll be honest: I’m not well-versed in the arts of honesty, friendship, or reconciliation. But I know a thing or two about living a life shrouded in secrets and lingering doubts. Your friends are likely feeling the weight of whatever burdens you all share. These secrets, while kept close to your chest, are fortunately not yours to bare alone. The damage is done, and yet, you’re not truly alone—though you all act as if you are." She returned to her seat behind her desk, smoothing her skirts behind her.

"Speak to your friends, William. Clearly, there is more that needs to be said." She waved her hand, as if imparting spontaneous wisdom, but her gaze remained steady on him.

"Is that what you would do, Professor?" William asked, curiosity glimmering in his eyes as he continued to study her, trying to decipher her thoughts.

Merith chuckled softly, shaking her head while keeping her gaze fixed on him. "You will find I am not adept at taking my own advice," Merith admitted, her voice laced with a bittersweet honesty. "The friends I once held dear have faded from my life, and I am likely partially at fault for it. In the end, it seems we all had our own secrets that we felt compelled to guard."

Chapter Text

Merith writhed beneath the covers of her quilt, trapped in a restless sleep. Despite the effectiveness of the sleeping draught from J. Pippin’s Potions, she found herself tormented once more by dreams that threatened to break free of the constraints she had forcefully imposed on her mind. They had begun as fleeting images, like snippets from the Daily Prophet, but had gradually morphed into haunting segments that spiraled through her subconscious, relentless and vivid.

That morning, the remnants of the draught still clouded her mind, leaving her in a daze. She recalled seeing her brother’s twisted expression, a mask of disgust sneering down at her, and her father’s unreadable gaze—offering neither comfort nor solace. 

As she made her way to the grand dining hall of Hogwarts—the second-to-last Saturday in January—she could hear the morning chatter of students echoing off the walls, the warmth of the sunlight pouring in through the tall, arched windows. Each step toward the staff table sent her heart racing at the prospect of seeing Aesop Sharp. Adjusting to life at Hogwarts had been a journey, and secretly, she found herself looking forward to his company amidst the enchanting world of magic.

The effects of the sleeping drafts had also suppressed her appetite, leaving her nauseated and barely able to consume a paltry crumpet with her cup of tea.

As she approached, her eyes landed on Aesop. His dark hair was slightly tousled, and he was intently focused on a paper and the meal before him, nodding absently at Mr. Moon, who was lost in his own contemplations about the challenges faced by groundskeepers.

A smile crept onto her lips at the sight of him.

“Good morning, Professor Sharp,” Merith greeted, her voice light as it cut through the din of the hall.

He looked up, his brow furrowing slightly as he recognized her. “Ah, good morning, Ms. Vulchanova,” he replied, straightening in his chair with a careful, almost guarded demeanor. “I was just contemplating some rather troublesome matters with Mr. Moon... insufficient support for the eradication of Gnomes, is that not correct?”

“Absolutely, those bothersome little beasts,” Mr. Moon interjected, his voice lively yet whimsical. “The deputy headmistress is advocating for the ‘lifting and tossing’ method. I suggested a repelling charm—simple, effective—but no, it’s far too ‘inhumane’ for those little nuisances. If you have any students in need of a detention, do send them my way, will you?” He rambled enthusiastically, but then his attention wandered as he realized his mug was empty.

With a knowing smirk, he pulled a flask from the inside pocket of his jacket, generously pouring some of the contents into Merith’s tea too. She regarded him with a nod of both appreciation and mock disapproval, bringing the steaming liquid to her lips with cautious contemplation.

Aesop shook his head, returning his focus to the parchment spread before him—the latest edition of the Wizarding World News. The headline blared, “Goblin Insurrection: Fight or Plight?” Merith squinted at the striking image on the cover, where several goblins adorned in battered armor were gathered around a structure reduced to rubble.

In the foreground, there was a domineering silhouette resembling the lighthouse near the village of Koprivets, only a stone’s throw from Vulchana Keep. Merith’s curiosity piqued, and before Aesop could collect himself, she snatched the paper from his grasp, causing him to drop the fork he had been holding with a loud clatter.

“Ever considered employing your eloquence? I know you possess a remarkable knack for wielding words effectively when you choose to,” he stated, slight irritation creeping into his tone. “That destruction is not far from my home.” Her fingers traced over the image—the jagged cliffs and turbulent waters—and for a moment, she could almost hear the crashing waves beneath the wind.

As she scanned the article, it detailed how goblins were advancing up the coast, ransacking villages and pillaging ancient ruins. Her heart raced as she read the final paragraph. It stated, “The goblin threat is not one of surprise or serious concern. Ranrock is defeated, and although their numbers linger, they remain disorganized and leaderless. We have tolerated minor acts of defiance, yet this will no longer be the case. The goblins shall not breach our northern borders; they are unwelcome here.”

Dimitar Vulchanova, Headmaster of Durmstrang Institute.

A shiver ran down her spine; it echoed her father’s concerns conveyed in his urgent letter. He was putting on a brave front for the press—a tactic to avoid inciting panic—but the underlying urgency in his words weighed heavily in her heart. The papers only confirmed her deepest fears; she felt trapped here, itching to return home to do whatever she could to deter any further attacks against her family.

“Are you alright, Merith?” Aesop asked gently, reaching for the top of the newspaper and lowering it to meet her gaze directly. She tried to relax her rigid posture, folding the paper closed and extending it towards him with a tight smile. “Nothing of great suprise...”

“I noticed your father's comments in the paper. It seems they believe they have the situation under control for now?” he observed, taking the paper from her hand, his fingers briefly covering hers—a subtle yet comforting squeeze.

“Right, nothing I can do from here, anyway...” she conceded, her tone heavy with resignation.

“I’m due for a visit with Dinah shortly. What are your plans for the day?” Aesop asked, arching an eyebrow as he regarded her intently.

“To join you, if I may,” Merith replied with an attempt to infuse some cheer into her otherwise somber demeanor. “I myself wrote to her, inquiring about her well-being. She mentioned your visit and suggested I accompany you.”

Aesop regarded her with a nod of approval. “Very well. Let’s apparate after you’ve finished your meal.”

“I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite,” she admitted, gazing wistfully out the window, the weight of her thoughts still pressing heavily on her heart.

Once they had finished their breakfast, Aesop and Merith strolled towards the edge of the grounds. Hogwarts was warded against apparition, so Aesop extended his arm towards her. In a flash of golden light and the familiar tug of magic, they vanished from Hogsfeild.

An instant later, they materialized in front of a charming cottage nestled within the lush greenery of the English countryside. Ivy clung to the stone walls, and soft smoke curled lazily from the brick chimney, creating a genuinely welcoming scene.

“Quite a lovely place,” Merith remarked, glancing around as they approached the door, feeling her spirits lift.

“Indeed, it serves as a comfortable refuge for Dinah and her niece—though that may not be her perspective,” Aesop replied, the formality in his tone giving way to a hint of warm amusement. He rapped gently on the door, which swung open moments later to reveal Dinah Hecat.

“Merith! Aesop! Well, don’t just stand there like statues—come inside!” Hecat exclaimed, gesturing invitingly into the cozy homestead, her eyes sparkling at their arrival. Though she looked a touch frailer than during their last meeting, the zest of her spirited presence remained undiminished.

“Professor Hecat,” Merith greeted warmly, stepping over the threshold. “Thank you for having us.”

“Just Dinah now, please,” Hecat replied with a smile, stepping aside to allow them entry. “I was just finishing a rather interesting book—Uncommon Garden Guests and Guardians,” she said, her voice brimming with enthusiasm. “Matilda generously gifted it to me; she seems to believe that now I’m retired, I might take up gardening. You don’t garden, do you? I fear the book’s contents are wasted on me.” Merith deftly removed her midnight velvet cloak, adorned with floral motifs.

Inside, the cottage exuded warmth, with the rich aroma of freshly baked goods wafting through the air. Dinah’s niece was diligently arranging a set of magical textbooks on a nearby table, her brow furrowed in concentration. She glanced at the visitors and greeted them before rushing past with an empty basket hanging from her arm. “Anything from the market, Aunt Dinah?” she asked briskly.

“Perhaps some wine?” Dinah replied with a teasing lilt. Her niece stared back at her incredulously. “Not just for me! It’s for my esteemed guests, too!” she clarified as the young witch shook her head, closing the door behind her. “Nice girl, a bit insistent. I may appear one foot in the grave, but I’m far too young to be treated like a relic!”

Aesop shook his head, sharing a knowing smile with Hecat’s niece, while Merith couldn't help but grin in response.

“Shall we have some tea?” Dinah asked, whisking the tea set toward them, narrowly missing Aesop as the tray clattered onto the slightly battered coffee table.

Merith smoothed the darted skirts of her gown—an inky blue adorned with delicate roses and weighted velvet trim elegantly highlighting her neckline and cuffs. Aesop removed his overcoat, draping it over the edge of the couch, then deftly poured tea into cups for each of the witches, serving Dinah first; her cup brimmed with dark, inky tea that required no sweetening. He carefully filled Merith’s cup, leaving just the right amount of room for a splash of cream.

Merith's heart fluttered at his attentiveness, appreciating his keen observation of her preferences. While he had remarked on knowing little about her in their last encounter, he seemed to have taken note of what she liked.

As they settled into the snug living room, Merith took a moment to express her gratitude. “Thank you for having us, Dinah… and for your encouraging letter at the start of term. Although, I fear things haven't gone quite as swimmingly as I’d hoped…” A resigned sigh escaped her lips as her thoughts drifted to the altercation between Sebastian and Leander that had taken place just days earlier.

“Exaggeration, perhaps? From what I hear, Ms. Vulchanova is navigating things rather seamlessly,” Aesop interjected smoothly.

Hecat nodded knowingly, her expression softening. “Ah, the learning curve is steep, but you shall find your stride... Speaking of challenges, I’ve heard whispers of a neighbor of mine facing difficulties lately. If I may, I’d like to consult Aesop regarding the matter. Would you kindly visit my neighbor? She’s having a terrible time with a Snappaweed.”

“Ah, yes, I suppose I am just brimming with kindness and goodwill,” Aesop retorted, rising from his seat. He hesitated briefly, casting a glance at Merith before stepping outside to assess the situation.

As the door clicked shut behind him, Merith sank back into her thoughts, gingerly cradling her cup and saucer. “It’s lovely here… quite peaceful, I suppose?” She scrutinized the cottage, filled with pots and pans dangling from the ceiling and herbs arranged haphazardly near the sun-dappled windows.

“If ‘peaceful’ means ‘bloody boring,’ then I suppose your assessment is spot on,” Hecat huffed with a small chuckle.

“No dragons here?” Merith asked playfully, raising an eyebrow.

Hecat shook her head, a grin breaking across her thin lips. “I believe there’s a rather small lizard that has taken up residence in the potting shed.”

“Well, let’s hope Aesop has a bit of excitement to report back to us then?”

“Aesop and excitement? I’m not sure those two words are synonymous,” Merith joked, envisioning Aesop wrestling with an unruly garden pest. Still uncertain about the nature of a Snappaweed, its name alone suggested it would be somewhat unpleasant to encounter.

“Well, it sounds like the two of you have been up to some excitement; a New Year’s gathering at the Three Broomsticks, was it?” Hecat raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “Oh? And what other adventures has Aesop shared?”

Merith placed her cup and saucer on the table before her, elegantly levitating the china to a soft stop. “Why don’t you tell me, and I’ll confirm?” Hecat’s calculated demeanor amused Merith—a delightful chase of banter between them.

“Ah, never mind. Keep your secrets,” Merith waved dismissively, charmed by the older woman’s incorrigible nature.

With a sudden laugh, Hecat said, “The two of you are thick as thieves. You’d think you were under interrogation.” Merith lifted the teapot and poured herself and Hecat another cup of tea.

“Dinah, may I ask your impression of Aesop’s predicament?” Merith inquired, her curiosity overriding any earlier hesitations. “I’ve come to understand it’s quite peculiar.”

Hecat leaned back in her chair, the light shifting across her expression as she considered her answer. “Curse-breaking was not my primary vocation, Merith. You see, when one is unaware of the particular enchantment placed, it can make it nearly impossible to untangle. Especially with dark magic involved.”

Merith's heart sank at Hecat’s words. The harsh reality of Aesop’s struggle weighed heavily on her. She noticed Hecat observing her closely, a gentle sympathy radiating from her gaze—more common in her past than present.

Feeling the weight of Hecat’s scrutiny, Merith quickly shifted the subject. “Well, perhaps you could assist me with another curiosity of mine, perhaps to alleviate your boredom,” she suggested, her voice brightening. “Have you ever heard of magic being employed to preserve spaces, as if untouched by time?”

The question piqued Hecat’s interest; her expression shifted to thoughtful contemplation. “There have been… attempted methods,” she replied cautiously, as if treading on fragile ground. “But for how long would you ask?”

“Several hundred years,” Merith confessed, surprised by her own certainty.

Hecat’s brows lifted in intrigue. “I was unaware of such endeavors,” she admitted, pausing as if considering new possibilities. “You ought to speak with Astor Puggs regarding this matter.”

Merith blinked, taken aback momentarily. “The Ancient Runes professor?” The image of the little old man with his wild, white hair scarcely accompanied by many words flitted through her mind.

“Indeed. While he primarily teaches runes, he also conducts an elective course on Ancient Magic. You might find the connection quite illuminating.”

Merith’s curiosity reignited. Had Isidora not spoken of the boundless nature of Ancient Magic? Yet her understanding remained vague; it seemed to engender itself independently of wizard intervention—rising from the essence of reality itself.

Feeling a swell of excitement mixed with uncertainty, she hesitated, questions swirling in her mind. “Will you pry into my thoughts, Professor Hecat?”

A knowing smile graced Hecat's features. “It is part of my nature to explore such musings, my dear.”

Just then, the door burst open as Aesop re-entered, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. He had rolled up the sleeves of his button-down shirt, looking rugged and slightly disheveled.

“Did you manage to sort it out?” Hecat asked, her eyes gleaming with curiosity.

Aesop released a deep sigh as he flopped onto the couch beside Merith, their thighs brushing momentarily, stirring an unmistakable warmth between them. “Only just. Snappaweed is a most unruly plant, to say the least. I had to wrestle with it and uproot it before it could spread further.”

“Ah, the infamous Snappaweed,” Hecat chimed in, a smile teasing her lips. “A rather tricky specimen, if I recall.”

“Yes, and I placed a barrier charm to stop its roots from regrowth,” Aesop explained, exasperation coloring his tone. “But on the bright side, I managed to take as much as I fancied.” He produced a bulb adorned with glossy red petals, holding it up for Merith to examine. “These can enhance the effects of charms in potions.”

Merith leaned in closer, squinting to admire the delicate petals of the magical flower. Its vivid crimson hues seemed to dance under the soft candlelight, compelling her curiosity. But Aesop, quick as a whip, withdrew it from her grasp. “Careful there,” he warned, a playful smirk curling his lips. “It’s a bit potent and carries quite the risk of paralysis.”

Undeterred, she swiped the flower back, brandishing it like a wand in jest. Laughter bubbled between them, warm and infectious, displacing the tension that had been cloaked around the room like a heavy fog. Dinah stood to the side, a silent observer, but the flickers of amusement that flared in her eyes reflected her enjoyment of this rare moment of levity.

As the colorful flower hovered between them, Merith couldn't help but notice Aesop's strong grip around her wrist. The connection was palpable, like a gentle spark igniting her senses. His collared shirt was smudged with dirt—evidence of his tussle with the notoriously unruly Snappaweed—and she found that unexpectedly enthralling, as though it revealed a side of him rarely seen.

“I could really use a drink,” Hecat mumbled, getting up from her cozy chair and ambling toward the kitchen with a slight sway. Aesop instinctively loosened his grasp, letting the flower drop from Merith's fingers. She reached forward, brushing the dirt from his cheek with delicate fingers, their casual touch laden with unspoken intimacy.

As a sudden quiet enveloped them, Aesop relaxed against her touch, the tension of their surroundings lifting momentarily. He took a bold step, holding her hand in his, gently pressing a firm kiss upon her palm, before releasing it back to her lap just as Dinah entered the room, balancing a bottle of mead and several misshapen-looking cups.

“Ah yes, I thought there was something stashed away from our last escapade,” Dinah remarked, a hint of mischief glimmering in her eyes. Aesop adopted his gentlemanly persona once more, pouring glasses for the ladies with a flourish before filling his own.

"Alright then, what shall we toast to?" Merith questioned, her gaze fixed on the honeyed liquid swirling in her cup. She took a small sip, savoring the rich flavor, and nodded in approval.

“To friends, old and new?” Hecat offered, raising her glass high. The others followed suit, their glasses clinking together with a harmonious chime. Aesop took a cautious sip of his own, his face scrunching up before he placed the cup down on the table with a hint of distaste.

“Just how old of friends are you two, anyway?” Merith asked, glancing between them with genuine curiosity. It was startling to realize there were merely seven years between them—on first glance, Hecat resembled a grandmother figure rather than a contemporary.

“Well, not during school, I can assure you,” Aesop replied, his voice laced with humor. “I certainly didn’t register with Hecat back then. She, however, was quite well-known—Head Girl and one of the most skilled duelists Hogwarts has seen.”

Hecat smiled wryly at this, her demeanor shifting as she nodded. “That’s true. I hadn’t really known you until after your rapid rise to the upper rankings. One of the youngest we’ve seen in quite a while, if I remember correctly.”

“Oh? And how did you manage that, Aesop?” Merith leaned in, intrigued.

“I was recruited for the program at the start of my seventh year, and I received a tentative offer to begin right after graduation,” he recounted, a distant look in his eyes as memories washed over him. “Upon graduating, I was whisked off to London. The Ministry was in dire straits, desperately seeking recruits—Farvis Spavin had been Minister for several years but was faltering in popularity. The exodus of several aurors and officials into early retirement left quite the void.”

He continued, his voice unwavering, “Around that same time, the Muggle government had plans to demolish the Leaky Cauldron for Charing Cross Road. One of my first assignments was to provide security for Spavin’s speech before the Wizengamot—seven hours of droning! Can you fathom it? All he did was lament the loss of the Leaky Cauldron. Meanwhile, the wizarding community was in uproar, casting mass Memory Charms and even employing the Imperius Curse on a few Muggle city planners to reroute that new road. I nearly entertained the thought of a career change after that debacle. But then Atticus Thistlewaite stepped in as my mentor and guided me through the chaos that followed.”

Aesop gestured to Dinah, “I crossed paths with her a few times at the Ministry; those in the Department of Mysteries often kept to themselves, but our duties occasionally overlapped on various cases.”

“Honestly,” Dinah interjected, feigning seriousness for effect, “I thought he was rather arrogant at first. You would hear whispers about the brazen young auror who charging headfirst into every battle. He generated enough paperwork to keep half the department busy.” Hecat wagged a finger at Aesop, adding, “Thank Merlin for Atticus—he kept you in line.”

Aesop chuckled, shaking his head, a hint of a smile dancing on his lips. “You exaggerate.”

Hecat shot back with a glint in her eyes, “After every triumph, you and the other young lads would get absolutely smattered at the Leaky Cauldron, regaling tales of your bold encounters.”

Aesop countered, a touch of sarcasm lacing his tone, “I must remind you, I was not the one to spin those tales—that honor belonged to Hubert Smatten. He couldn’t keep his bloody mouth shut; his words flowed as freely as the ale.”

“Well, regardless, you all were unruly, and the young Aurors basked in Aesop’s glory. What exactly did they say for your promotion?” Hecat inquired, appeared to draw on a distant memory.

“Ah,” Aesop replied, rolling his eyes in faux annoyance, “that I needed more challenge and direction to refine my skills.”

“And they were absolutely correct,” Hecat chimed in with a snap of her bony fingers, her tone as assertive as ever.

"They were correct" Aesop nodded, affirming her statement before finishing the last of his drink with a scrunch of his nose. “Then you became much more tolerable to work with—a proper auror indeed.”

“Well, thank you, Dinah. I believe that’s the nicest thing you've ever said to me,” he replied, the warmth in his eyes revealing a fleeting moment of appreciation for his companions.

Aesop caught her eye from across the room, his gaze softening as he sought reassurance. He tilted his head slightly, an unspoken question lingering in the air—are you alright? Merith returned the gesture, nodding gently, a small smile gracing her lips as warmth radiated from his concern.

It was well past lunch when Aesop Sharp and Merith bid farewell to the formidable Dinah Hecat, promising another visit soon. The faint tingle of apparition lingered in Merith’s stomach, a small reminder of the jarring transition. Yet, as she refocused her gaze, she found not the familiar gates of Hogwarts but the winding path leading to Lower Hogsfield, the distant outline of the village beckoning them forth.

The sky was a patchwork of grays, though hints of sunlight broke through the clouds, casting a silvery light over the rocky terrain. The path was uneven, remnants of the recent rain still clinging to the soil, but the warmth of the last few days had infused it with a newfound solidity that was welcome after the muck she had grown all too accustomed to.

“I thought we might stroll the rest of the way, if you aren't too eager to return," Aesop suggested, gesturing broadly to their surroundings, and extending his arm in that familiar manner. Merith slipped her arm through his with ease, a warmth spreading through her chest. “That sounds delightful,” she replied, a small smile lighting her face as she tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

“It’s rather refreshing to see you like this, Aesop,” she remarked, her curiosity piqued. “You seem... lighter somehow.”

Aesop tilted his head slightly, a flicker of mischief entering his gaze. “Are you well?” he inquired, his tone both gentle and teasing, the shadows of his usual stoicism lifting momentarily.

“Yes, I’m perfectly fine,” she replied, her lips curving into a small smile. “I was merely wondering... What you like as a child; did you always take life so stern?”

He chuckled softly, the warmth of his voice mingling with the cool air between them. “I imagine I was quite the stern little lad, yes. But every now and then, I had my moments of laughter,” he said, a far-off look gracing his face. “Can you picture me unburdened, laughing without a care in the world?”

Merith laughed lightly, letting the sound mingle with the rustling leaves above. “I’d like to think all children possess that playful spirit. You must have been a different sort of boy back then.”

“It’s possible,” Aesop mused, a brief shadow crossing his expression. “But it sounds like you were quite spirited as a young Auror as well,” she said, his voice a mixture of playful inquiry and genuine interest.

"Indeed, I was, at one point," he admitted. "However, circumstances have a way of altering a person's character, would you not agree?"

“Why did you return to Hogwarts after... well, after everything?” she asked gently, sensing the heaviness of his past lingering just beneath the surface.

Aesop paused, gathering his thoughts as they rounded a bend in the path. “I returned for several reasons. For one, the Hogwarts Library boasts some of the finest resources in all the wizarding world. If there’s any hope of discovering a cure, it was likely to be found within those towering shelves.”

“And what about the other reason?” she probed further, her innate empathy shining through in the softness of her voice.

A shadow crossed his face, deepening the furrows of his brow. “I had nowhere else to go,” he confessed. “No one left to return to. Hogwarts feels like the only place that holds any semblance of familiarity.”

Merith’s heart ached at the weight behind his words. “No family home to return to?”

He sighed heavily, and she could see the memories dancing behind his eyes like fleeting ghosts. “My parents perished in a wizarding accident when I was young, and the family estate was lost soon after. By the time I reached fifth year, I didn’t have a true home anymore. I often stayed behind during the holidays, alone.”

“Didn’t you have anyone who could take you in?” she asked, her heart aching for him.

He shook his head. “No, I spent my summers tucked away in a cramped rented room above the Three Broomsticks.”

“Do not look upon me with pity, Merith—this is not something I require.” A slight annoyance crept into his tone, but it softened as he continued, revealing a more vulnerable side. “I was not entirely without guidance. Eleazar Fig took an interest in me over the years,” Aesop explained, his demeanor evolving into one of quiet reverence. “He became a mentor of sorts, offering me direction when I most needed it. His recommendation was instrumental in my acceptance into the Auror program.”

Aesop spoke of this relationship matter-of-factly, yet Merith sensed an undercurrent of deep appreciation in his words. Eleazar Fig was an esteemed figure at Hogwarts, a name that reverberated through generations of students.

“What about after Hogwarts? Did you keep in touch with him?” she asked, probing gently, wanting to uncover the layers behind his guarded demeanor.

Aesop nodded, his expression growing introspective. “Though our correspondence has grown thin over the years, he would still write to me, tracking my accomplishments and encouraging my progress. But after the accident... I found myself adrift again.”

Merith searched his gaze, feeling the weight of unspoken pain. “The Auror Recruitment Programme?”

“Yes. I had the option, but I found no passion for it,” he confessed, shaking his head as if to shed the memories. “It felt like surrendering to despair. So, I reached out to Eleazar once more for a recommendation, and he helped secure a teaching position for me.”

“That’s kind of him,” she said, her tone encouraging. “And then the Potions Professor position opened up?”

“Yes,” Aesop affirmed, a flicker of pride igniting his voice. “Potions had always been my strength while at Hogwarts, and I’ve always held the belief that one should pursue what comes naturally.”

“It’s an excellent fit for you,” she replied warmly, her smile reflecting genuine happiness. “I’m really glad you’re here, Aesop.”

“Thank you, Merith,” he said, his eyes softening with gratitude. “For selfish reasons of my own, I’m glad you’re here too.”

As they continued walking, the warm afternoon sun enveloped them, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Merith sensed a flicker of hope blossoming within her chest.

When Merith made her way back to her chambers, the familiar stone walls of Hogwarts welcomed her like an old friend. She had scarcely taken a few steps when she spotted Abraham Ronen, the beloved Charms professor with his kind demeanor, waiting at the corner of the corridor. A warm smile lit up his weathered face.

“Merith!” he called out, his voice echoing pleasantly through the hall. “Good to see you! How was your day?”

“Much better now, Abraham,” she replied, mirroring his smile. “I just had a delightful visit with Dinah.”

“Ah, splendid!” he exclaimed, nodding with approval. “You know, an owl dropped off a letter for you just before lunch.” With a flourish, he reached into the pocket of his worn robe and pulled out a dark, richly colored envelope, handing it to her with a slight bow. “Thought you might want to have it.”

Her brow furrowed in worry as Merith accepted the letter, her heart sinking slightly as she recognized the elegant handwriting even before she tore it open. Michaél Vulchanova—the very mention of that name stirred a whirlwind of emotions, and an unsettling sense of foreboding washed over her.

“Thank you, Abraham,” she said distractedly, her mind racing as she traced her fingers over the intricately embossed seal. “I appreciate it.”

“Anytime, my dear,” he replied, his voice thick with concern. “Just make sure you take care of yourself, alright?”

“Of course.” With a nod, she turned away, her mind already swirling with questions about the contents of the letter.

Once inside her chambers, she sank onto her bed, her heart racing as she broke the seal and unfolded the letter. The crisp parchment crackled under her touch as she began to read:

Merith,

Before you think it, no, I am not in need of any money. I do, however, need to speak with you; the matter is of magni momenti. I will be returning from Romania in the coming weeks, and I believe it is in both our interests that we converse.

Watch for my correspondence, and if you hold any care for me as your brother, keep this matter between us.

—Michaél Vulchanova

Confusion washed over her like a cold wave. It was indeed unusual for Michaél to reach out, let alone request such secrecy. Just what entangled web was he caught in that warranted her discretion? She felt a twinge of irritation alongside her intrigue—too many secrets had been dropped in her lap over the years, and her enthusiasm for her brother’s schemes had long since waned.

As her mind pieced together the possible ramifications of his return, a pang of anxiety tightened in her chest. Could he know something about Aric? The notion sent a chill racing down her spine. She had received little to no news since their last encounter, and although their father insistent Aric posed a genuine threat, Merith desperately clung to the hope that there must be more to him than met the eye.

With a heavy sigh, Merith set the letter aside, her nerves fraying under the collective weight of her anxieties. A dose of J. Pippin’s sleeping draft would be in order; this night promised to be restless, and her mind was swirling with too many unanswered questions.

“Why now, Michaél?” she whispered to the empty room, bowing her head in frustration. No matter what, he had ignited her curiosity, and that could prove to be a dangerous thing. 

Chapter Text

“Congratulations, each and every one of you,” Merith announced with a bright smile, her hands clasped together as she surveyed the classroom of eager students. “It seems you are all ready to advance to the next phase of our apparition lesson.” Leander’s face lit up at the news; Merith acknowledged Leander had made significant improvements. Fortunately, he remained blissfully unaware of the recent incident involving Sebastian.

The desks had been neatly pushed against the walls, clearing the center of the room except for a scattering of small metal hoops glinting on the stone floor. “Please find a hoop and stand beside it,” Merith instructed, her voice firm yet encouraging. As the students shuffled to claim their spots, she retrieved her own hoop, carefully placing it on the top step in front of her office before returning to the front of the classroom.

“Now, we come to the crux of today’s exercise. The beauty of this task is that your visualization skills are less critical with the hoop right beside you. I want you to channel the same effort into imagining yourself inside that hoop. You may gaze into the hoop, or if you prefer, you can close your eyes and picture it there beside you. Remember, it’s not just about the hoop—consider the environment around it. When you feel the tug, allow it to take you.”

Just as the students began to buzz with anticipation, Merith raised her hand for silence. “A word of caution: this task demands mental clarity. Focus your attention wholly on this endeavor.”

“Now, begin!”

The classroom transformed into an amusing spectacle, each student scrutinizing the hoops with intense concentration. Gareth Weasley examined his hoop closely, his nose nearly brushing the metal as he committed every detail to memory.

Moments later, the tranquility was shattered by the first crack of apparition. Merith turned to see Sebastian confidently standing within his hoop, an all-too-familiar smirk on his face. She had an inkling that he was already proficient in this skill, and he feigned humility, making no effort to hide his mastery.

“Come now, William, let’s see you get it over with,” Sebastian called out, a hint of impatience in his tone. With a resigned sigh, another crack filled the air as William found himself in the center of his own hoop. The two boys exchanged satisfied grins, a stark contrast to Leander, who looked as if he might implode from the pressure.

“Seasoned professionals, it seems,” Merith noted, suspicion lacing her voice as she addressed the pair. “Just here to obtain our certificates,” Sebastian shrugged nonchalantly.

“Perhaps you’re just an exceptionally skilled teacher, Professor. Do give yourself some credit,” he quipped, mirth glimmering in his eyes.

“Well, allow me to retrieve my schedule so we can book your examinations.” Merith retreated to her office, rummaging tirelessly through a mountain of parchment until she unearthed her daybook.

Upon her return, it appeared that chaos had unfolded in her absence. The students had gathered in a tight knot around one another. “Don’t be jealous, Leander; your face is turning red to match your ridiculous hair,” Sebastian chortled, leaning casually against the cool stone wall, his expression one of mischievous delight.

“I don’t get you, Sallow. What’s your angle?” Leander shot back, his glare cold.

“Leander, I’m flattered to think I consume your thoughts. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have my own fan club,” Sebastian replied with a playful smirk.

“I am no fan, Sallow,” Leander spat darkly, the tension between them crackling like the air before a storm. Just then, Merith hurried down the stairs, determined to defuse the brewing conflict.

“Enough! All of you, back to your hoops, immediately.” The crowd began to disperse, Merith gesturing with her fingers—one pointing toward Sebastian and the other at Leander, signaling them to separate. Leander shot Sebastian one final glare before heading to his hoop.

“Why must trouble always find you, Mr. Sallow?” she mused, although he merely shrugged in response. William, seemingly weary of the ongoing drama, interjected, “Is it possible to complete our exams this week, Professor?” he suggested, sidestepping Sebastian’s earlier taunts.

“Perhaps on—” Before Merith could complete her thought, a deafening crack of apparition rang through the air, followed by a heart-wrenching cry.

“She’s been splinched!” a student shouted, panic spreading through the room like wildfire. Natasi Onai sat on the floor, clutching her leg, tears streaming down her face as blood poured from a gaping wound.

“Out, everyone! Clear the area!” Merith commanded, swiftly ushering the students away as she began casting healing charms. William rushed to summon a stretcher, positioning it beside Natasi and assisting Merith as she gently lifted her onto the stretcher.

“You’re going to be alright, Natasi,” Merith said, maintaining focus as she attempted to staunch the bleeding. “Sebastian, William, levitate the stretcher while I maintain the charm. The rest of you… class dismissed.”

The remaining students stood frozen in shock. “Well, you heard the professor. Off you go!” William urged, glancing over his shoulder as the stragglers scuttled away.

The trio quickly made their way to the Hospital Wing, Natasi trying to put on a brave face despite the tears that refused to stop flowing. Merith felt a wave of guilt wash over her. She had promised Mudiwa that her daughter would remain safe, and now she felt she had utterly failed. Yet another student had been injured under her watch, and she was beginning to fear she was proving to be the worst Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher Hogwarts ever did hire.

Upon reaching the Hospital Wing, the Matron’s expression shifted from irritation to concern at the sight of Merith. “Please tell me this isn’t another disciplinary incident,” she said, her voice edged with annoyance.

“Miss Onai has been splinched,” Merith replied, her voice taut as she stepped aside and allowed the Matron to take control. 

“Thank you, gentlemen. You may leave,” the Matron instructed, her tone softening slightly as she glanced at William and Sebastian, but the boys hesitated, concern etching their features. Merith stepped closer, knowing they required reassurance.

“She’s going to be alright,” she promised, gently guiding them toward the door. “William, could you please send word to Professor Onai?” He nodded quickly, the worry still evident in his bright eyes as he slipped out of the infirmary.

Wiping a fine sheen of sweat from her brow, Merith turned her attention back to Natasi. The young witch lay still on the stretcher, her breathing softening as the Matron administered a sleeping draught. Merith watched as the tension gradually drained from Natasi’s face, her brows unfurling as relief washed over her features. Merith tried to push aside the intrusive thought urging her to search the Matron's office for any additional draughts. She shook her head, feeling a surge of shame for even entertaining the idea.

“You managed her injury remarkably, Merith. She’ll be just fine,” the Matron said, her voice gentle and reassuring as she adeptly worked her magic to mend Natasi’s wound. The gaping flesh wound seemed to weave itself together before her very eyes, like yarn on a loom. The Matron likely sensed the anxiety radiating from Merith, the palpable fear coiling around her heart like a serpent.

With a heavy sigh, Merith rubbed her face with her hands, shaking her head slowly in disbelief. One moment, everything had been perfectly fine—the classroom filled with laughter and anticipation—and the next, calamity had struck. A wave of dizziness overcame her, the weight of shock settling like lead in her stomach, flooding her system with an overwhelming weariness.

Failure. That’s how she felt—like an utter failure.

She felt increasingly nauseous, a sickly churn in her gut warning her that sickness could overtake her at any moment, but she knew her stomach was empty; all that remained was the bitter taste of her own shortcomings.

It wasn’t long before Mudiwa burst into the infirmary, her presence demanding immediate attention. Behind her, Abraham Ronen rushed in, his face a blend of exhaustion and uncertainty, his small, boxed hat precariously balanced on his head as he hurried after the fraught mother.

Mudiwa's panic was palpable as she floundered toward her daughter, grasping the hand of Natasi’s sleeping form. Her eyes, wide with fear and distress, shone with unshed tears. In her desperation, she began to bombard the Matron with questions, the words tumbling out in a frenzied rush. The Matron responded slowly and methodically, doing her utmost to explain Natasi’s injury and treatment amidst the relentless barrage of inquiries.

“Splinched?” Mudiwa echoed, her voice morphing into a mixture of surprise and horror. She scanned the room, her frantic gaze landing on Merith, who had been standing silently across the room, feeling utterly exposed.

In an instant, Mudiwa's expression shifted from grief to a blazing anger. “You were supposed to look out for her!” she cried, hurt lacing every word. “I trusted you, despite my better judgment and my own intuition!” Each accusation struck Merith like a stinging cold wind, leaving her stunned and reeling, unable to form a coherent response.

Abraham hesitated, opening his mouth as if to intervene with words of optimism, but Merith lifted her hand slightly, signaling him to pause. “I am incredibly sorry, Mudiwa. Truly,” she said, her voice coming out more stiffly than she intended, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. The sight of Mudiwa, wracked with worry and facing the maiming of her daughter, cut deep into Merith’s heart; she felt the bitter taste of failure linger on her tongue.

“Get out—I don't wish to look upon your face!” Mudiwa snapped, though a trace of sadness lingered in her voice, her words cutting like daggers. Without giving Merith a chance to defend herself, Mudiwa stormed back to her daughter’s bedside, her anger palpable in the charged air between them.

Abraham stepped in to offer support, reaching out to squeeze Merith’s shoulder reassuringly. “I’ll be fine,” she insisted, her tone taut like a drawn bowstring, the tension in her muscles refusing to ease. “Please, go to Mudiwa. She will need your support.” With a sympathetic glance, he complied, returning to Mudiwa’s side and placing a gentle hand upon her shoulder, a silent show of solidarity.

Merith gripped the rail of the gurney beside her, steadying herself as attention shifted away from her. Her vision felt clouded, as if shadows were encroaching at the edges of her sight. With a deep breath, she squeezed her eyes shut for several moments, fighting against the darkness threatening to swallow her whole. Finally, she opened them and made her way out of the infirmary.

As she descended the stairs of the faculty tower, Merith battled against the tumult of emotions swirling within her. Mudiwa had every right to be upset; had she been in Mudiwa's shoes, she would likely react the same way. All that greeted her in return was disappointment in herself—a heavy burden she struggled to bear. She had promised to keep Natasi safe, and instead, she felt she had failed her catastrophically. What was she even doing at Hogwarts? She had come to acquire the knowledge she needed and then depart, disappearing back to the safety of her family estate.

But the longer she lingered within the ancient walls of Hogwarts, the more she sensed an unsettling change within herself.

As she approached the fourth floor, her gaze caught on Aesop’s door. For a fleeting moment, she felt tempted to knock and seek refuge in his comforting embrace, to let the burdens of the day spill out in a torrent of emotion. But she shuddered at the thought; she had no right to impose her turmoil upon him when he had his own burdens to bear.

A sudden, instinctual pang of longing filled her heart, a desperate yearning to speak with Aric. He had always been the one who understood her struggles, who knew the weight of her burdens, and who listened without judgment as she poured out her heart, lamenting her misfortunes. Yet, those days seemed to be a distant memory now, lost even before the betrayal that had torn them apart.

With a deep sigh, she pressed on, forcing herself to ignore the turmoil that churned within her mind like a storm at sea. She couldn’t afford to fall apart now; there was too much at stake, too much responsibility resting on her shoulders. 

Merith hadn’t gotten much sleep in the days following the incident. Guilt and apprehension weighed heavily on her as she grappled with her shortcomings—that not one, but two students had been injured in her classroom shattered her sense of adequacy as an educator. She had developed deep respect for Mudiwa, and the thought of failing that student felt like a betrayal.

To add to her growing malaise, she hadn’t had the ambition to schedule a meeting with the Ancient Runes and newly discovered Ancient Magic professor, Astor Pugs—a task she would have usually approached with urgency. Now, however, merely completing basic tasks seemed insurmountable. 

Even eating turned into a chore; the idea of food often made her stomach turn. As the days wore on, she survived mostly on nibbles of whatever was placed before her, washed down with generous goblets of wine and, more often than she cared to admit, stronger spirits. To her chagrin, she realized Mr. Moon wasn’t the only one hiding a stash of Firewhisky at mealtime.

Her sleep—something that had never been stable—continued to elude her. The effects of her sleeping draughts were wearing thin, leaving her increasingly desperate. She found herself writing to her usual contacts, but Toma Talanov informed her that his services were delayed due to a goblin ransacking, promising the draughts would come at his earliest convenience. 

J. Pippin responded that he was back-ordered and wouldn’t be able to fulfill her request for at least another week. His shop, infamous for its solitude, only brewed potions upon the date of order, and she had come to lean he was not easily swayed by bribery—an unfortunate reality that had likely earned her a low priority on his list.

Despite her predicament, pride prevented her from reaching out to the potions master nearest, Aesop. Asking for his help felt impossible; she feared his response would lead to a lecture on how inappropriate it was for her to ask this of him. Instead, she opted to mix what remained of her sleeping draught with Firewhisky, a foolhardy remedy she knew wouldn’t last, yet it seemed her only course until the week’s end.

After Thursday’s apparition lecture, Merith felt like a ghost haunting the hallowed halls of Hogwarts, drifting through her responsibilities in a daze. It was painfully clear that her lectures had lost their usual spark. Relying heavily on a flood of readings and assignments, much to her students’ dismay, she had even canceled her office hours, posting a note on her door that simply read, "Unavailable."

During dinner, Merith found herself absentmindedly picking at a stubborn beetroot when she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder. Turning, she discovered Hyoto gazing at her with concern etched across his features. Mirabel's wide-eyed gaze peeked over Hyoto's shoulder, her face revealing an equal mask of concern.

She had been avoiding meals, claiming to be under the weather, but she could sense the growing suspicion among her colleagues. Mudiwa’s pointedly aggrieved demeanor weighed heavily on her conscience and was certainly noticed by the other Hogwarts professors. Their encounters in the hallway had become fraught with tension, and Mudiwa’s deliberate avoidance of eye contact during mealtimes only deepened the awkward atmosphere, rippling through the table like an uncomfortable wave.

“Are you feeling quite well, Merith? You’ve barely touched your dinner,” Hyoto asked, his voice low and empathetic.

Merith summoned a smile, striving to project a façade of normalcy. “Quite well, thank you. I had a rather large lunch… but I think it may have set my stomach into fits.” Her attempt at humor fell flat, the words tasting bitter in her mouth.

Beside him, Mirabel furrowed her brow. “I have the perfect solution—marshmallow root and fennel. I’m sure Aesop could brew a perfect draught.”

Merith shook her head, raising her hands defensively. “No, please—I don’t wish to inconvenience anyone.” The thought of being any more of a burden sent a wave of anxiety coursing through her.

“Nonsense, Professor Sharp!” Mirabel persisted, her voice a tad too loud for the communal space, causing Merith to flinch. She squeezed her eyes shut for a brief moment before glancing over at Aesop. He looked up from his meal, surprise evident in his expression, a hint of concern shadowing his features.

“Merith is feeling under the weather,” Mirabel declared, launching into a detailed explanation of how they could help her, her enthusiasm unwittingly intensifying the awkwardness of the moment. Aesop listened intently, nodding along, making mental notes while stealing concerned glances toward Merith.

She had been trying to avoid Aesop since the incident with Natasi, desperate not to burden him further with her emotional turmoil. Yet Aesop, wise as he was, had attempted to reassure her after that fateful day, delivering a lecture on the known risks of apparition, weaving a story about a particularly horrific splinching at the Ministry that hadn’t quite had the soothing effect he intended.

“I’m really quite fine,” Merith insisted, unable to keep the sheepishness from creasing her voice. She desperately tried to conceal the heat creeping into her cheeks, mortified by the sudden attention she was receiving.

“Humor me,” Aesop replied softly, his gaze locking onto hers with a knowing intensity. There was no doubt he understood that her malaise went beyond a simple stomachache; the way he studied her made her feel exposed, as if he could see right through her carefully constructed façade.

The moment elongated, her heart racing as the warmth of his concern enveloped her like a double-edged sword, both comforting and cutting. Merith yearned to retreat, to escape the weight of his gaze that felt like an anchor. Yet, amidst her turmoil, there resided a flicker of longing—a stubborn, quiet desire.

After dinner, they made their way to the potions classroom, the ambient sounds of the castle fading into an eerie stillness as they navigated the dimly lit corridors. Merith noticed Aesop’s limp had resurfaced, and the sight twisted like a knife in her gut. A wave of self-recrimination surged within her; she had sunk once again into a mire of self-loathing, fixating on her own exhaustion while neglecting his needs. She held her tongue, aware that any mention of his discomfort would not be well-received—he abhorred martyrdom and pity more than anything.

The walk felt interminable, each step amplifying her weariness. Merith appreciated Aesop’s steadying grip on her arm, but fatigue gnawed at her, making her head swim and her hands tremble. When they finally reached the potions room, he guided her to a stool with gentle care.

Leaning closer, concern etched deep lines across his features. "What seems to be the trouble? I daresay this predicament transcends mere indigestion, does it not?"

Merith let out a sigh, her chest constricting with unease. "Mirabel tends to embellish, I assure you that I shall be perfectly well."

Aesop shook his head slightly, folding his robust arms across his chest as he regarded her with a mix of disbelief and concern. "Is this somehow tied to Nastai? It was not your fault... Surely, you understand better than most the perils that accompany apparition."

Frustration surged within her, ignited by the raw vulnerability of the moment. “I said I’m fine, Aesop! You don’t need to play the concerned professor. It’s exhausting.”

“It’s exhausting to ignore what’s right in front of us,” he shot back, his tone sharp yet tinged with genuine concern. “You’re not fine. You look like you haven’t slept in days. You can’t keep pretending.”

Merith clenched her jaw, unwilling to let him see how much his words affected her. “I can handle it,” she snapped, the bite in her tone surprising even herself.

“I’m not a child in need of your constant supervision," she insisted, though her voice wavered. Aesop took a step closer, his eyes softening. 

“Then why are you shaking?” Aesop countered, his jaw clenched and frustration etched deep across his brow. “Why do I have the distinct impression that you’re about to fall apart?”

Merith stood abruptly, heat flooding her face as a turbulent mix of fury and shame churned inside her. “Why must you insist on—”

The words choked in her throat. In an instant, her vision blurred, and the room tilted as if the ground beneath her was shifting. Stars exploded in her periphery, and a jolt of panic surged through her veins. Desperately, she reached out, her nails digging into the worn wooden edge of the stool, grasping for anything that would anchor her to reality.

“Merith!” Aesop’s instincts kicked in; he swiftly turned and caught her, guiding her gently to the floor as her legs crumpled beneath her.

“I—I'm fine,” she gasped, the bravado of her assertion feeling hollow, echoing back like an empty promise. An all-encompassing darkness began to close in around her, swallowing the light and warmth of the room, and she felt herself drifting.

“Just breathe,” Aesop urged, his voice taut with tension. “Focus on my voice. You need to relax, not fight this—”

But the darkness crept in, suffocating her resolve. With one final, desperate gasp, the world around her tilted grotesquely, the edges of her consciousness blurring like the muddled waters of the Black Lake. Just before she surrendered to the overwhelming void, she caught a distorted glimpse of Aesop's worried expression—his brow furrowed, eyes wide with alarm.

And then, everything faded into nothingness. Darkness swallowed her whole, leaving only silence in its wake.

How inconvenient.

Chapter Text

When she finally emerged from the abyss, consciousness trickled back in like slow sunlight breaking through heavy clouds. The world was muffled, and the soft cocoon of warmth she felt hinted at her surroundings. Blinking away the remnants of the void, she found herself lying in an unfamiliar bed, the warm woolen blanket atop her grounding the disorientation.

The room was dimly lit, with a sensible fire crackling in the hearth and the flickering glow of lamplight spilling from a crowded work desk in the corner. As Merith attempted to sit up, her head throbbed in protest, and she squinted against the pain, managing to prop herself up against the headboard. The walls around her were lined with seemingly random and crooked picture frames, some covering the dilapidated wallpaper beneath.

The room was expansive but appeared to be in a state of flux, as if someone were in the process of moving in or out. Books were stacked precariously on the floor, trunks piled against the walls, some ajar with clothes spilling out, while the wardrobe stood open, revealing only a few disheveled articles of clothing. The mismatched furniture bore the marks of different eras, each piece collected with a story but never fully settled into the space.

“Ah, she awakens,” a voice beside her said suddenly, snapping her from her examination. Merith turned to see Aesop Sharp hovering nearby, his familiar dark eyes watching her with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. Memories of the night flooded back in an overwhelming rush; the sensation of collapsing, the veil of unconsciousness, and now, inexplicably, finding herself in his room.

“How long was I out?” Merith croaked, her voice raw and hoarse.

“Not long; it was fitful,” Aesop replied, his features settling into focus as he leaned closer, the tension in his expression deepening.

“How inconvenient,” she managed, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth despite the lingering haze clouding her thoughts. A spark of humor was both an instinctive defense and a reminder that, despite her struggles, he was right there, unwavering.

“You scared me,” he admitted, a slight smile breaking through his worry as he looked at her, his concern palpable. "It seems you've neglected your own well-being; a better care of self is in order."

Merith sighed, allowing herself to lean into his steady presence. "Easier said than done, of course. Life has a way of complicating even the simplest tasks," she murmured, feeling the comforting weight of his gaze on her.

Without hesitation, he cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing softly against her cheeks. "Merith, I place my trust in you, and I stand ready to assist. Speak your mind; tell me how I may lend my hand. I assure you; no plea shall go unheard."

The warmth of his tone ignited something within her, and she felt the heaviness of despair begin to lift. Leaning into his touch, she closed her eyes, reveling in the coolness of his fingertips. “You must find some rest,” he continued, his voice carrying a tenderness that was both soothing and infrequent. It enveloped her like a protective shield, calming her racing thoughts.

"I shall prepare a sleeping draft for you," he declared, his brows furrowing with concern. "Rest is what you need. I will cancel your classes for tomorrow. Do not protest." The resolute tone in his voice quelled any arguments that threatened to escape her lips.

As he moved to the corner of the room, the familiar sounds of alchemical vials clinking and clattering surrounded her—a comforting symphony that eased her tension. She sank deeper into the soft embrace of the blankets, pulling them up under her chin like a child seeking solace.

He returned with a slender vial containing a milky lilac potion, a stern yet caring expression upon his face that offered her an unusual sense of security. She drank it quickly, the liquid gliding down her throat with a soothing coolness before she handed him the empty glass. However, as moments passed, Aesop’s brows knitted together in confusion, a flicker of concern flaring in his gaze.

Turning on his heel, he revisited the work area, examining the cauldron's contents with furrowed brows. He poured the mixture into another vial and lifted it to the light, scrutinizing the color and consistency. “Merith,” he called, his tone suddenly serious, “answer me honestly… Do you take sleeping drafts regularly?”

Merith's gaze dropped to the floor for a moment, her heart sinking under the weight of the truth. She nodded silently, her lips pressed tightly together.

“I see. For how long?” His voice was firm yet compassionate, akin to a healer probing a patient in search of their afflictions.

“Intermittently,” she admitted, her voice strained and small.

“Last question: the potions you’ve acquired—what is their hue? Lilac, or perhaps darker like a Midnight Rose?” Merith felt the familiar pull of her better judgment, but weariness clouded her resolve to fabricate a more elaborate excuse.

“I believe you already have an inkling of the answer,” she replied with a sigh, pulling the blankets snugly up to her nose.

Aesop’s expression remained composed, though a sense of understanding flickered in his eyes. “That explains why the draught I prepared did not take effect. However, I don't believe it wise to offer you any additional sleeping potions…” He returned to the shelves and obtained a calming potion. “A calming draft is all I can provide.”

After she hastily consumed the solution, Merith returned the empty vial, already feeling its soothing effects begin to course through her veins. "So, what is it that tires you, Merith?" He inquired, seemingly casual, yet the depth of his curiosity indicated he genuinely sought to understand her struggles.

She laughed lightly— a mild strain coating her voice; enjoying the distraction. "Sleeping draughts and fine drink—what is it that wears you out, Aesop?"

He contemplated the question for a moment, although she had intended it in jest. “Well, I had a rather tedious conversation with our dearly departed Professor Binns, which nearly sent me to sleep,” he replied dryly, referencing the ghostly educator.

Merith let out a soft chuckle into the sheets, a smile lifting the corners of her lips as she attempted to push aside the heaviness that had enveloped her earlier. “What would your mother do when you were a young girl?” Aesop’s smile remained steady, but there was a glimmer of something deeper in his eyes.

“I can’t say for certain… I don’t remember much,” she confessed, her voice decreasing in volume. “I was very young when she passed away.”

“I’m sorry,” Aesop said, a frown tugging at his features.

“It’s fine,” she said dismissively, not wishing to linger on the topic. “I cannot miss what I do not remember.” The air grew heavy with unspoken emotions, and an awkward silence ensued, prompting her to quickly redirect the conversation.

“Mŭnichka, our house elf, used to…” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “She would run her bony little fingers across my face when I was a child. She told me stories about a Bowtruckle that lived in a hollow in a tree within a wild, untamed forest. As she wove her fingers through my hair, they transformed into branches, tracing a path to my forehead and down the slope of my nose, narrating its adventures as if it were traversing vast plains, always returning home to its hollow.”

As she spoke, she tentatively met his gaze, noticing the peculiar expression on his face. Heat flooded her cheeks at her own vulnerability, and she couldn’t help but wonder why she had chosen to share that memory. Just as she contemplated retreating into her thoughts, Aesop knelt beside her on the bed, a pensiveness etched on his features.

"Very well, do tuck in and make way, if you please." He said, his tone light and jokingly brusque. Merith blinked at him, a mix of surprise and amusement crossing her face. “Come on, make room,” he urged again, a playful grin tugging at his lips.

With a hesitant shift, she complied, her heart racing. Aesop settled beside her atop the covers, propped up on his elbow and looking at her with sincere intent. “Close your eyes,” he instructed.

Merith stared at him in disbelief, yet the undeniable warmth in his gaze quietly coaxed her into compliance. When she hesitated, he gently placed two fingers on her brow, softly urging her eyelids to close.

He began then, his fingers gliding through her hair, sweeping it away from her neck so that it flowed over the pillow like dark ink on parchment. “There once was a Bowtruckle who lived in a grand old tree,” he whispered, his voice tender and soothing.

Merith's breath caught at the softness of his words and the gentle brush of his fingertips. The embarrassment of sharing her story began to fade as she sensed the sincerity in his tone. He was doing this for her, providing comfort in the way only he could.

A wave of vulnerability washed over her, and tears threatened to spill as she focused on Aesop's voice—the calming ebb and flow—as his fingers traced delicate paths across her skin, like whispers of lost tales. “He found himself at the edge of a steep cliff, utterly perplexed about where to go next. Should he dare to brave the drop, or perhaps retrace his steps and climb back up?”

As the world around her blurred, her body began to melt into the bed beneath her, her eyelids growing heavy like ornate drapes. Aesop's voice, warm and enveloping, faded into soft murmurs, merging with the gentle caresses that gradually lulled her into slumber.

Merith stirred at the sound of the enchanted lock rattling open, followed by the unmistakable clatter of a door closing. The soft padding of footsteps across the squeaky floorboards pulled her from the last tangle of sleep. She blinked against the dim light as Aesop appeared in the doorway, shrugging off his coat and tossing it onto a chair with an absent-minded flick of his wrist.

When he turned and saw her, surprise flickered across his features—his eyes widened, a flicker of guilt blooming behind them—before he quickly looked away.

“My apologies,” he said, his voice low, tinged with awkward restraint. “I didn’t expect you to still be in bed.”

There was no mirror in Aesop’s room, but Merith could already imagine what he saw—her hair a mess of curls, darkened lashes likely smudged from the cloves and oil she’d used the day before. The sheets were askew, her underclothes rumpled from tossing and turning. She felt exposed—raw in the quiet gray light—and worse, she couldn’t recall a single dream from the night before.

That, more than anything, unsettled her.

The memories from the evening came in disjointed pieces. She had slipped beneath the covers just before dawn, shedding her dress with heavy limbs and a mind half-lost in exhaustion. Now, in the golden hush of morning, she was disheveled, undone—and he had seen her like this. Not dressed in mystery or elegance, but as she truly was: vulnerable, unguarded.

And yet, he hadn’t leered. He hadn’t laughed. He looked away as if she were too much to look at.

Her heart ached with something between shame and yearning.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. The floorboards creaked under her bare feet as she stood and stepped toward him. “I haven’t enjoyed a restful night in quite some time.”

He nodded, but still wouldn’t meet her eyes. His shoulders were tense, his hands braced at his sides. The silence thickened between them—one of those moments that feel fragile and full of meaning all at once.

“Thank you,” she added, almost whispering.

She reached for him without thinking, cupping his face in her hands. His breath caught audibly as her fingers grazed his cheek, and he froze beneath her touch.

“Why do you look away from me?” she asked softly, her voice steady despite the thunder of her heart. She searched his expression, but he gave her only the stillness of a man used to silence.

He hesitated. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

Finally, he said, “Because looking at you makes it harder to think clearly.”

His voice was low, edged with restraint—but there was something raw beneath it, something tightly coiled.

Merith blinked, surprised by the honesty of it. And yet, it was exactly the answer she hadn’t dared to hope for.

A flush warmed her skin, though not from embarrassment. His words had struck deeper than he likely intended. This man—who could dissect a potion’s properties with surgical calm, who rarely gave away more than a flat stare or a dry quip—was unraveling. For her.

“Does that stir you?” she asked, testing the waters with a smile that trembled just slightly.

His eyes met hers again. This time, he didn’t look away.

“Yes,” he said. Then, after a pause, he added, quieter still, “Far more than it should.”

Merith’s breath hitched at the honesty in his voice—so tightly controlled, and yet now, for her, cracked open just enough. It made her want to reach for him again—not just out of desire, but from something gentler. Protective.

He stood utterly still, hands at his sides, like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

She closed the distance between them.

“I don’t want to be careful right now,” she whispered, and her fingers ghosted over the front of his shirt, settling above the steady rhythm of his heart. “I’ve been careful for too long.”

Aesop exhaled through his nose, a sharp, measured breath.

“I don’t make a habit of—” He faltered. “Of... indulging impulses.”

She smiled faintly, sadness tucked beneath the curve of it. “Neither do I. But if we keep pretending we don’t feel this—” she looked up at him, her eyes wide and searching—“we’ll let it slip away before we understand what it could be.”

He looked at her then. Really looked—none of the usual guarded sharpness, no sardonic armor. Just quiet, unspoken ache.

And still, even now, he didn’t touch her.

So she took his hand. Gently. As if taming a wounded creature.

He let her.

She guided it to her waist. His fingers curled there slowly, uncertain but firm, like he wasn’t ready to believe he was allowed. Merith stepped into his space fully then, her lips finding his with tender urgency—a kiss that wasn’t reckless, but intentional.

He returned it after only a beat, and it was as if something inside him broke open all at once.

It wasn’t hunger, not at first. It was need.

His arms wound around her, tentative becoming sure, and the kiss deepened with a sudden desperation that caught her breath. His mouth moved against hers like he was memorizing the shape of it, testing boundaries long since drawn in ink and now smudged by rain.

Her fingers tangled in the folds of his shirt, and her body pressed against his, all pretense stripped away. There was no performance now—only warmth, friction, and the terrifying relief of being seen.

But as the back of her legs brushed the edge of the bed and she pulled him with her, Aesop suddenly tensed.

His breath hitched, and his grip on her waist faltered. Not from reluctance—pain.

Merith drew back instantly, her brow furrowing. She didn’t need to ask. She knew.

His cursed leg. The one that had never fully healed. The one he never complained about.

A familiar shadow crossed his face, fleeting but unmistakable.

“It'll pass,” he said quickly, voice low and dismissive—too quickly.

Her eyes searched his. “Do not pretend with me, Aesop.”

He sighed, the sound resigned, almost exasperated—but not with her. With himself. “It’s nothing of consequence. Simply caught me unawares.”

She reached for him, slower now, gentler. “You seldom admit when you are in pain.”

“It is a constant companion,” he replied, dry and clipped. “One learns to endure it in silence.”

That admission struck a chord deeper than she expected.

“You ought not bear such burdens alone.”

He shifted, jaw tightening as he adjusted his weight with practiced ease. “There are many things I have long resigned myself to—should and shouldn’ts alike.”

Her hand lingered on his cheek, drawing his gaze back to her. “Perhaps, then, you need not resign yourself to solitude.”

That silenced him.

For a moment, he only looked at her—caught between instinct and surrender. And then, quietly, he allowed her to guide him back onto the bed.

His movements were reluctant but trusting. He reclined against the pillows, one arm braced behind him, the other resting against her hip as she eased herself atop him with delicate intent. There was no rush now. No reckless pull. Just the steady warmth of presence and permission.

“Simply thus,” she whispered.

His hands found her thighs again, slow and reverent, and this time there was no hesitation in his touch. Only a man—worn, wounded, and wanting—holding something too rare to mishandle.

And Merith, despite all the things she hadn’t told him, despite the danger and doubt curled around her like smoke, let herself be held by the one person who never asked for more than she could give.

“You’re not a risk I take lightly,” he murmured.

“And you’re not comfort I ask for lightly,” she replied.

That quieted him. The air between them shifted again—not with lust, but gravity. Trust. Permission.

His fingers explored the skin beneath her skirts—slow, reverent, the kind of touch that asked Are you sure? even when she’d already answered.

They kissed again, slower this time. No longer drowning, but breathing each other in.

Aesop's touch remained tentative at first, his fingers exploring the soft flesh with deliberate slowness—gentle pressure that both soothed and ignited. Their lips remained locked in a tender ballet, breaths mingling, the world outside the small room receding into a soft, unfocused blur. Each touch became a whispered promise, a silent question, answered by the yielding contours of her body.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathed against her lips, the words a low, rough rasp that echoed deep within her. His voice—heavy with sincerity and quiet reverence—dismantled the walls she’d built, leaving her bare and trembling, yet wrapped in a fragile sanctuary of trust.

A warm flush blossomed across Merith’s cheeks, the color deepening with every stolen breath. A gentle smile curved her lips, soft and sincere, mirroring the tender ache in his touch. “And so are you,” she whispered back, the truth flowing as effortlessly as the kisses they shared.

As Aesop’s fingers deepened their exploration, tracing the subtle nuances of her muscles, Merith surrendered to the growing tide of sensation. They were learning each other's bodies, mapping the landscapes of desire, tracing the delicate lines between longing and surrender.

Her fingers twisted in the dark silk of his hair, pulling him closer, a soft moan escaping her lips as she pressed her hips more firmly against him. This sound, unfamiliar in its intensity, hinted at the raw desire simmering beneath his controlled exterior. His hands moved from her thighs to her waist, drawing her up into a seated position against the headboard of the bed. Wrapping his arms around her, she nestled more firmly on his lap, burying her face in the crook of his neck. His breath was hot against her skin, the subtle rasp of his stubble a tantalizing contrast to the softness of her flesh, while he pressed small, lingering kisses along the curve of her neck and down her shoulder.

The sensation of his embrace was new, exciting, yet strangely comforting. A sliver of guilt pricked at her conscience, but she pushed it aside, focusing on the present. There was a safety in Aesop's touch, a promise of something deeper than mere lust, yet it was tinged with delicious uncertainty.

She felt his fingers at her shoulders, delicately working at the silken ribbons that held her bodice in place. The soft lace trim tantalized the sensitive skin of her collarbone as he untied the first bow, revealing the swell of her breast. His lips followed, brushing against the newly exposed skin in a slow, deliberate exploration that sent shivers cascading down her spine.

He was a scholar, meticulous in his study, and it seemed he approached her body with the same careful attention to detail. He repeated the process on the other strap, and with a soft sigh, the bodice slipped down, pooling gently at the base of her breasts.

Aesop’s gaze lingered, a silent appraisal that made her skin prickle with anticipation. He was devouring her with his eyes, and she reveled in the sensation of being seen—truly seen. A tremor ran through his body, a physical manifestation of the desire that simmered just beneath the surface. His hands rose again, gently cupping her breasts, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks.

Merith felt her body heat, the embers of desire igniting into a raging inferno. She arched her back, pressing her hips more firmly against him, savoring the delicious friction. Her hands moved to his shirt, unbuttoning it with feverish impatience. Their kiss deepened, slowing, evolving into a desperate exploration of each other's mouths. His hands found her waist, pressing their bodies together, eliciting a soft gasp from Merith.

Her hands wandered over his now-exposed chest, tracing the defined contours of his muscles with delicate fingertips, her nails leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their wake. The fine hair on his chest caught the light, accentuating the hardness of his physique and adding a layer of warmth beneath her touch. As she pushed the sleeves down his arms, she grasped his biceps, the memory of their strength and skill fresh in her mind.

She had admired his form before—the sculpted lines of his torso—but now she could touch him, feel the heat radiating from his skin, the pulse of life beneath her fingers. He was within her grasp, and the realization filled her with an intoxicating sense of power and possibility.

Merith's fingers trembled with anticipation as they reached beneath her skirts, deftly untying the ribbons that held her drawers in place. A surge of impatience coursed through her, a desperate yearning to feel his touch, to bring his skin against hers.

With a swift motion, she lifted one leg, sliding the cotton down her calf and discarding it thoughtlessly onto a nearby chair. She repeated the process with her other leg, casting away the garment as if to signal her readiness. The air around them felt charged, electric with unspoken desire.

"Ever so impatient, as is your custom." Aesop murmured, drawing her into a tighter embrace as his lips found the sensitive hollow of her shoulder once more. His hands rediscovered the softness of her thighs, now unhindered by fabric. He traced the inner curve with deliberate care, each stroke sending shivers of anticipation coursing through her. With the cotton of her drawers no longer there to absorb the sensation, leaving her exposed and vulnerable.

Merith pressed her exposed womanhood against the rough texture of his trousers, her head falling back, a soft gasp escaping her lips. She rocked against him, relishing the abrasive pressure, savoring the exquisite discomfort it brought. When her gaze met Aesop's, she found his eyes dark with desire, his expression etched with an intensity that ignited a fire within her. He squeezed her thighs, his thumbs pressing deeply against her most sensitive skin, while his fingers fanned out across the plush top of her thighs.

He was hard beneath her, had been for some time, and she had reveled in the knowledge. With a tentative curiosity, she reached down, her fingers brushing against the fabric of his trousers, outlining the rigid shape beneath. He grasped her hand, gently but firmly, and placed it on his shoulder, then guided her other hand to the same position.

He shifted her hips subtly, momentarily taking away the delicious friction that had been building between them. The sudden absence of contact left her yearning, a sweet ache intensifying the anticipation that hung in the air. His fingers continued their exploration of her thighs, circling closer to her core, teasing and tantalizing, making her tremble and hold back a frustrated whine.

Finally, he pressed his fingers against her entrance, not entering, but applying small, circular motions. He explored the slickness, the throbbing heat, his fingers dancing across her most sensitive areas. She moaned against his ear, her breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.

He continued to tease, moving his fingers with maddening slowness between the sensitive areas, building the tension to an almost unbearable level. He returned to her entrance, pressing slightly harder, and she arched her back, desperate to feel his touch more deeply. His other hand kept her raised, preventing her from fully succumbing to the mounting pressure.

He began to slowly, deliberately slide one finger inside her, inch by laborious inch, until a sigh of relief escaped her lips as he finally filled her. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. She grinded her hips against his touch, and he added another finger inside her, stretching and filling her until she was almost trembling with need.

She was more than ready for him, and yet he continued to tease, enjoying her reaction, his eyes fixed on her face, gauging her pleasure, her impatience. He took his time, gauging her responses, watching how the tension coiled within her. Every movement was deliberate, each caress calculated to explore her limits.

Merith sighed, the sound a mixture of longing and resignation. Once again, her hand instinctively went to his trousers. She watched his expression as her fingers brushed against the fabric, a familiar tremor running through him. She cupped him, the subtle movement enough to elicit a low groan from his throat. This time, however, he didn't flinch away from the touch.

A spark of hope flickered within her. With a gentle hand, she worked at the buttons of his trousers, easing the fabric down to offer him some reprieve. He exhaled against her neck, the warmth of his breath sending delightful shivers cascading down her spine. Emboldened, she slipped her hand inside, her fingers encountering his rigid length. He was undeniably hard, pulsing with a life of its own against her gentle touch.

Aesop withdrew his hands from her hips, the brief absence of contact prompting an involuntary soft sound of discomfort to escape her lips. Despite her efforts to remain composed, the sound revealed the depth of her yearning. He elevated his hips slightly as Merith, now emboldened, reached for the waistband of his trousers, assisting him in removing them entirely.

A flicker of nervousness crossed his features, a familiar shadow lingering in his eyes as her hands lightly traced over his cursed limb. Yet, within her, there was no trace of disgust or fear. It was a part of him—integral, like his smile or the furrow of his brow when lost in thought.

She had embraced this truth long ago. Her gaze met his, and she cradled him gently in her hand, offering silent reassurance. She held him in the warmth of her eyes, conveying that there was no shame in their union, no darkness clouding the intimacy they shared in this moment.

With a fluid motion, Merith pulled her bunched chemise over her head, letting it fall to the floor. The firelight danced across their naked bodies, casting long, flickering shadows on the walls. They paused, a silent acknowledgment passing between them, allowing a moment to fully absorb one another.

Merith's eyes roamed the contours of his form, pausing to admire the definition of the muscles in his chest and the way his abdomen tightened with anticipation. Aesop's gaze reciprocated her exploration, a palpable hunger evident in his eyes as he studied the gentle curve of her breasts and the soft swell of her hips.

Then, with a determined grace, Merith positioned herself atop him, her weight settling comfortably against his form. The warmth of their nakedness was intoxicating, cathartic. It felt like the weaving of ancient magic—an old, sacred bond rekindled between two souls. Perhaps, in its own way, it truly was.

She began to move against him, her hips rotating slowly and deliberately. There was nothing separating their bodies now—only skin against skin, warmth against warmth. Their arms encircled each other tightly, a desperate embrace born of a shared vulnerability, as though they both feared the other might vanish if they dared to let go. Merith positioned herself carefully, guiding him inside her. A sharp gasp escaped her lips as he filled her, a sensation that was both exquisite and overwhelming.

Aesop groaned against her skin, the sound a raw expression of pleasure and release. They moved slowly at first, exploring the contours of each other's bodies, savoring the feeling of being so intimately connected. She allowed herself to sink deeper into the motions, her hips rolling in time with his. As they continued, their pace began to build, the rhythm becoming more insistent, more demanding.

Their breaths grew ragged, each gasp and moan serving as a testament to the mounting pleasure enveloping them. Their skin became slick with sweat, glistening beneath the warm firelight. Although the flames in the hearth were beginning to wane, flickering lower and lower, the warmth radiating between them was sufficient that Merith scarcely noticed. In that moment, their world contracted to encompass only the two of them—a universe defined by touch and sensation, filled with moans and whispers, underscored by a desperate need that threatened to consume them both.

The friction intensified, sending jolts of euphoric energy coursing through her body. He pushed upwards, meeting her thrusts with an equal fervor, his hands gripping her hips tightly, guiding her, urging her on. Merith arched her back, her breasts straining against his sculpted chest. She tangled her fingers in his hair, drawing him closer, and pressed her mouth against his neck, tasting the salt of his skin.

They moved with increasing urgency, swept away in a whirlwind of sensation. Her mind became a blur, consumed by the feeling of him inside of her, the sound of their ragged breaths, and the raw, primal pleasure that surged through her veins. A tightening sensation gripped her lower abdomen, followed by a wave of heat that washed over her, intensifying the experience and drawing her further into the depths of their shared ecstasy.

She cried out, a vociferous keening that was lost in the crescendo of their passion. Aesop's movements became more frantic, more desperate, as he too felt the peak approaching. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that resonated through her very being. His body tensed, every muscle straining with effort. Then, with a final thrust—a torrent of release that sent shivers down her spine. Merith gasped, her body convulsing in response. Waves of pleasure washed over her, each one more intense than the last.

She clung to him, her nails digging into his back, as she rode the crest of the climax, her body completely consumed by the sensation. Slowly, gradually, the tremors subsided. Their breathing began to slow, their heart rates returning to normal. They remained locked together, their bodies slick with sweat, their limbs intertwined.

The silence that cloaked them was broken only by the dying fire’s whispered crackle—a fragile hymn of warmth and quiet fulfillment.

Merith buried her face in the hollow of his neck, inhaling the mingled scent of smoke and skin, drinking deeply of the warmth that held her fast. His arms curved around her, a tether forged from fear and longing, as if to anchor her soul against slipping away.

At last, his voice stirred—soft and tremulous, a fragile murmur upon her skin. “Merith,” he breathed, “I—”

Her fingers rose, tender and sure, pressing gently upon his lips, silencing the unspoken. “Say nothing,” she whispered, “only hold me.”

And so, he held her, an unyielding embrace as the flames flickered their final prayer and darkness claimed the room—leaving only the steady cadence of two hearts bound in quiet grace.

Chapter Text

Merith stirred in the half-light of dawn, her cheek resting against the quiet rise and fall of Aesop's chest. Outside, the world still lay beneath a blanket of shadow, hushed and unmoving. A dream clung to the edges of her waking mind—something distant, half-remembered. She had been back beneath the twisted boughs of the Fearsome Yew, a child again, trailing the silent wolf through ancient underbrush. But this time, the dream had ended before she could see where the path led.

She turned slightly, her gaze settling on Aesop beside her. The covers had slipped down to his waist, revealing the steady rhythm of his breath, his bare chest rising and falling with quiet precision. A faint snore rumbled now and again—barely audible—but it made something in her chest twist fondly. Morning light, pale and uncertain, slipped through the curtains and painted his jaw in silver. Even in sleep, his expression remained furrowed, as though part of him refused to be fully at rest. The sight almost made her smile. That unrelenting gravity of his—so familiar now—was strangely endearing when softened by sleep.

Her gaze wandered to the scar that carved a pale line from the base of his chin to his brow—an old wound, ragged and poorly healed, as though it had resisted every poultice and incantation meant to mend it. Dark magic, most likely. The kind that left more than surface damage. She would have wagered ten Galleons it hadn’t responded to a single healing spell—another silent clue to a past steeped in peril.

With a soft sigh, Merith turned onto her back, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling above. She found herself not anxious, not filled with regret, but rather wrapped in an unfamiliar sense of ease. There was comfort in the quiet aftermath—in the honesty of having been seen, and still held. And yet, that very ease unsettled her, as though peace were something she hadn’t earned, or couldn't trust to last.

She bit at the skin around her fingers—a childhood habit she thought long abandoned—as guilt began to prickle beneath her skin. The calm she felt clashed with the storm of questions rising in her chest. Without letting herself dwell too long, she slipped from the bed in a quiet motion, casting one last glance at Aesop’s sleeping form. Wrapping a blanket around herself from the footboard, she crossed the chilled floor toward the hearth.

The chill in the room bit at her skin, urging her to gather logs from a nearby stack and rekindle the dying embers. She settled into the wingback chair opposite the fire, drawing her knees close and watching the flames flicker and dance. The warmth seeped into her bones, a fragile comfort in the stillness.

Her thoughts drifted unbidden to Aric—the sharp green gleam in his eyes during the chaos at Vulchana Keep. A pang of guilt struck her; how could she entertain such memories when Aesop lay just a few feet away, oblivious and vulnerable? Yet the question lingered, unresolved. Would she ever make peace with what she felt for Aric?

Here, in this unfamiliar room, surrounded by the scent of burning wood and the soft crackle of fire, she was tangled in a new reality. Aesop, the enigmatic man whose presence unsettled yet grounded her, seemed a world apart from the distant memories and distant loves. The pursuit of the ancient tome, once all-consuming, now felt distant, overshadowed by the turmoil twisting inside her.

The harder she tried to find clarity, the more elusive it became. Merith, who had always prided herself on knowing her own mind—on understanding her ambitions and her place in the world—now found herself adrift in uncertainty. Questions swirled like smoke in the dim room, clouding the edges of her carefully constructed identity.

With a restless sigh, she threw the blanket aside, letting it fall to the floor like shedding a weight. Bare and exposed, she stood in the flickering firelight, feeling the fragile boundary between the life she’d built and the truths she’d hidden grow thinner by the moment.

Her eyes roamed the room, taking in the stacks of trunks and scattered books. It surprised her that Aesop had been living out of suitcases after all this time—books piled haphazardly across his desk, empty Firewhisky bottles tucked in drawers left ajar. The mess seemed oddly fitting.

sharp voice cut through the quiet crackle of the dying fire.

“Up to a bit of burglary, are we?” Aesop’s voice broke through the quiet, gravelled with sleep but edged with wry amusement. He propped himself up on one elbow, his features half-lit by the fire’s glow. “I’d warn you against it—my valuables are limited, and my curses rather more advanced.”

Merith turned slowly, unstartled. She stood bathed in firelight, the blanket discarded, her posture unashamed. “If you insist on hiding contraband in your drawers, I feel obligated to inspect it.”

Aesop gave a soft huff of laughter, rubbing a hand across his face. “And did you find what you were looking for?”

“I’m still deciding,” she said, her tone mild but watchful. “The Firewhisky was a clue. The books, a puzzle. You, however... remain rather unreadable.”

He blinked at that, then looked away as if to conceal the flicker of something unguarded. “Good. I rather hoped to remain that way.”

There was a pause—neither uncomfortable nor idle—until she added, more gently, “I couldn’t sleep.”

Aesop’s expression shifted, softening. “So you thought rifling through my things might soothe you?”

“No,” she said, crossing the room with deliberate steps. “But the silence was too loud. I thought I’d keep it company.”

He watched her in that quiet, sharp-eyed way of his, then shifted aside beneath the blanket. “Well. Either come back to bed or fetch the tea tin. I refuse to be philosophical before dawn.”

She smiled, just barely, and returned to his side. As she lay beside him, he tucked the blanket up to her chin without comment, his fingers brushing her temple like a passing thought.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured. She did.

But he didn’t reach for a book or a story. Instead, he let his fingers thread slowly through her hair, each movement unhurried, unearned, and infinitely gentle.

“You’re safe here,” he said after a long moment, almost as if it surprised him to say it.

Merith didn’t answer right away. The words had folded around her too swiftly, too carefully, like a spell she wasn’t ready to speak aloud.

But eventually, she turned toward him and whispered, “I know.”

Outside, the night still held the world in its hush. But in the fragile space between flame and shadow, neither of them moved again.

The Saturday breakfast buzzed with the usual hum of early risers and half-asleep chatter, but Merith felt a quiet tension coil in her chest. She’d risen far later than intended, slipping through the corridors with practiced ease, keen to avoid the usual morning scrutiny. But near the staircase, two figures caught her eye—William Wexley and Sebastian Sallow, looking every bit as rough as a late-night escapade would suggest: rumpled robes, disheveled hair, and the sort of bleary-eyed exhaustion that only came from reckless hours.

Their gazes locked on her with unmistakable confusion, as if questioning what kept Merith, the always composed and punctual professor, from her usual discipline. She gave a subtle shake of her head—no use hiding from the inevitable. Clad still in yesterday’s clothes, she slipped away into the solitude of her classroom.

Inside, she set to work—quick spells smoothing her hair and refreshing her skin, each touch a reminder of the warmth she’d left behind only hours before. Aesop would be the picture of composure, no doubt, as he always was—his quiet professionalism a shield against whatever storms lingered beneath. She chose a striking blue jacket embroidered in delicate white-gold filigree, a soft pleated blouse underneath, and a subtle purple tie at her throat—a balance of grace and armor.

She stepped into the Great Hall just as the breakfast rush settled, the familiar scrape of chairs and clatter of cutlery echoing around her. A pang of nerves hit her, the same old ache of eyes silently measuring, whispering. She was a grown woman, yet lingering eyes were never kind to women who carried secrets like hers—an affair whispered about, a bond neither publicly acknowledged nor entirely hidden.

She scanned the staff table, noting Mudiwa’s absence. Her gaze then settled on Aesop, who, having just spent the night with her, looked up from his book with a quiet amusement. His eyes lingered on her, a subtle, knowing smile playing on his lips as if he found her return amusing—or perhaps sharing a secret only they knew. She met his look with a raised brow and a small, wry smile of her own, silently acknowledging the shared moment between them.

Mirabel Garlick arrived in a whirl of warmth and lavender scent, sliding into the seat beside Merith with a delighted hum. Her curly auburn hair bounced with every movement, and her bright hazel eyes sparkled beneath the wide brim of her garden hat, which she wore indoors with unapologetic flair.

“Merith, darling!” she exclaimed, spreading butter on a biscuit with graceful, practiced strokes. “How lovely to see you! You look positively radiant this morning—whatever you’re using, I want three jars of it.”

Merith smiled over her teacup. “Potions do work wonders. I’ll let you know if the effect lasts past noon.”

Mirabel’s eyes danced. “Brewed by a certain brooding colleague of ours, perhaps?” Her gaze slid briefly across the hall toward Aesop Sharp, who sat alone, steeped in his usual air of wary quiet.

Merith didn’t answer immediately—just sipped her tea and arched a brow, lips twitching.

Mirabel leaned in a little. “I don’t mean to pry, of course. But there’s something rather… charged about him, isn’t there? Like standing too close to a thundercloud.”

“I’d say more like brewing next to one,” Merith said dryly, though a faint smile curved at the corner of her mouth.

Mirabel gave a quiet, delighted laugh, clearly pleased at the reaction. “You’re brave. I still flinch when he so much as clears his throat.”

Merith gave a soft laugh, though her gaze had begun to drift—past the warm clatter of breakfast, past the clinking of cutlery—to the far end of the Great Hall, where Professor Astor Pugs was slowly, almost reluctantly, making his way toward the exit. His shrunken frame and hunched gait were unmistakable even at a distance.

Hyoto appeared a moment later, sliding into the seat across from them with his usual offhand charm. His long black hair was tied at the nape of his neck, a few strands escaping around his temples. He wore an old Ravenclaw Quidditch jumper, slightly frayed at the cuffs, but still flattering in a way that seemed entirely unintentional.

“Morning,” he muttered, squinting at the plate before him. “Cold smoked herring? Delightful. Who doesn’t crave oily fish at dawn?”

Mirabel wrinkled her nose. “It looks like something that was sent back in time by mistake.”

“From the Middle Ages,” Hyoto muttered. 

He pushed the plate aside with a theatrical sigh, “I long for toast. Just toast. No tricks.”

Turning her attention back to Merith, Mirabel brightened again. “Are you free this afternoon? I’m heading to Hogsmeade to oversee the early preparations for the Valentine’s Ball. I could use your eye on some of the gown designs—my mother sent me the most ghastly silks.”

Merith tilted her head. “The ball’s still weeks away.”

“Exactly!” Mirabel beamed. “That gives us time to fix the tragedy before it becomes tradition. Besides, nothing lifts the spirits like a bit of romance. Or chocolate. Or chocolate with romance.”

Her eyes lingered—just for a second—on Aesop Sharp, before flicking back to Merith, a note of curiosity beneath her smile. “Though I do get the sense some of us prefer our sweets dark, bitter, and difficult.”

Merith choked softly on her tea. “You’re reading too many novels again.”

“Probably,” Mirabel agreed airily. “But I read people fairly well too.”

“I suppose I could be persuaded,”, her attention shifted once more—Professor Pugs was nearing the archway and paused, squinting at something in the distance with that familiar air of faint displeasure.

“Brilliant,” Mirabel said lightly, though Merith was already rising to her feet.

“I just remembered—I need to ask Professor Pugs about a few defensive rune sequences for Monday’s lecture,” she said, her voice smooth but distracted.

Hyoto arched a brow. “You’re chasing down Pugs before breakfast’s even done? Brave.”

“I’ll be quick,” Merith promised, already stepping around the bench.

Neither Mirabel nor Hyoto stopped her, though both watched her go with quiet curiosity. Her pace quickened as she passed under the high windows, the morning light streaking across the flagstones. Pugs was nearly gone.

She weaved through the tables, intent on catching him before the opportunity slipped away.

Merith caught sight of Professor Astor Pugs just as he was about to exit the Great Hall—a small, bent figure, his once-crisp double-breasted grey suit hanging loosely on a frame that had clearly shrunk with age. The jacket’s shoulders drooped awkwardly, sleeves slipping past his narrow wrists. His squarish white beard was neatly trimmed, but disheveled tufts of hair stuck out haphazardly around his bald crown. A round nose twitched as he paused, and for a moment, he regarded the bustling hall with weary detachment.

Merith stepped forward, her voice clear and composed. “Professor Pugs, may I have a moment?”

He turned slowly, his pale blue eyes narrowing behind round spectacles.

There was a guarded edge in his voice, as if engaging with other staff were an unwelcome chore. He was known for his aloofness, especially with newcomers. It was only because Professor Hecat—a rare kindred spirit in temperament—had mentioned Merith to him that he now gave her a moment’s attention.

“I wished to inquire about Ancient Magic,” Merith said deliberately. “Professor Hecat mentioned that you occasionally teach an advanced course on the subject. I have encountered something... unusual—a room preserved in a manner that suggests ancient enchantments.”

Astor’s round nose twitched. “Hecat mentioned you—though that woman does have a penchant for finding trouble,” he muttered, fumbling with the oversized sleeves of his jacket, his trembling fingers betraying a hint of nervousness.

Merith kept her tone steady. “Trouble can be a matter of perspective.”

The old man’s thin lips pressed into a tight line. “Depends on what you want from me. Durmstrang, wasn’t it? You don’t come highly recommended around here. Outsiders tend to complicate matters.”

Merith met his gaze evenly. “I’m not here to complicate things, Professor. I want to understand. The room—it’s as if time itself is held at bay. Professor Hecat thought it might be linked to Ancient Magic. I wondered if you could shed light.”

Astor grunted, then motioned for her to follow. “Come. If you want answers, it’ll take more than idle questions.”

They climbed the narrow stairs to his classroom on the sixth floor. The room was cramped and dim, with three small circular tables scattered between tall bookshelves. Pinned to the walls were dozens of parchment pages bearing symbols and runes—many overlapping or half-curled, a chaotic mosaic of forgotten knowledge. The air smelled of old parchment, ink, and time.

Astor took a duster and began to erase the largest chalkboard, his slow, deliberate strokes stirring a fine cloud of chalk dust.

“You know you have magic, right?” Merith said, watching him with a furrowed brow. “Why bother doing it by hand?”

He didn’t answer.

Once the board was blank, Astor faced her. His blue eyes appraised her, a flicker of skepticism still there.

“Ancient Magic,” he began, voice low and cautious, “is not something you study lightly. It’s older than any spellbook or wand. It’s tied to the very fabric of reality—more force than any one person can control. And it is unpredictable.”

Merith nodded slowly. “I’ve heard that Ancient Magic might respond to strong emotions—love or sacrifice—but I’m not certain how much truth there is to it.”

Astor’s beard twitched in a faint, wry smile. “Ah, yes. The usual romantic notions. It’s not so simple. Sometimes it answers to feelings, sometimes to nothing at all. You’re looking for something concrete, but much of this is... theory and legend.”

“I’m hoping for more than theory,” Merith pressed.

He drifted slowly around the perimeter of the room, the faint tapping of his cane echoing softly.

“There is much speculation surrounding the study of Ancient Magic—how it originated, or whether it has coexisted with wizardkind since magic first sparked in our blood. Some scholars believe it predates wandlore altogether. Others argue it is the raw material from which modern magic was refined.”

He gestured toward the pinned parchments around them. “It appears across cultures—Egyptian funerary spells, Greek oracles, Druidic rites. Nearly all accounts reference it obliquely, in runes or metaphors. Even the Founders were thought to have worked with traces of it, though little was written down.”

He tapped a curling page. “There are many theories as to its function. Some say Ancient Magic is elemental—independent of wizards, a force like wind or tide. But others—myself among them—believe it can be stirred by us, intentionally or not. We are part of nature, after all. And nature… listens.”

Merith’s expression darkened with memory. “Several months ago, I was engaged on a difficult assignment—one where the place itself seemed alive with protective magic,” she said carefully. “Our team encountered an array of hexes and jinxes, many designed to keep intruders out. To our surprise, we breached the outer defenses more easily than expected. It felt… almost too simple.”

Astor’s eyes narrowed. “A trap, then?”

Merith nodded. “Inside, the place was like a shifting maze, constantly rearranging itself to disorient us. Then I found it—a room sealed tight from the outside, a barrier no ordinary magic could penetrate.”

She hesitated. “The door led to a void—no floor beneath us. I barely managed to slow my fall with a spell. The room flickered strangely, as if reality itself was unstable.”

Her hands tensed. “Then I found something—ancient, unsettling. A skeletal figure, silent until I touched it. A sudden gust from its open jaw slammed me back. It groaned—like a forest in a fierce wind.”

Astor had grown still. His wrinkled hands gripped the edge of a nearby table.

Through the stone, I emerged into a Tudor-era study—preserved unnaturally, its air thick with dust, ancient texts, and... an atmosphere that felt—significant." She stopped short of mentioning the tome itself. Some things, for now, had to be kept to herself. “The place is gone now—leveled by goblins. I can’t return. All that remains is the memory… and the mystery of what protected that room so fiercely.”

Astor rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eyes drifting back toward the clustered runes.

“Ancient Magic is a language few speak fluently. It reacts to conditions—rituals, emotions, sacrifices. It doesn’t bend to will alone,” he said slowly. “It chooses. Or waits. Sometimes for the right moment. Sometimes for the right person.”

Merith’s thoughts spun. “What kind of sacrifice are we talking about?”

“A life, perhaps. Or something just as costly—love, loyalty. Magic like that demands payment,” he said. “It’s not a power to be taken lightly. And it rarely gives anything for free.”

Astor adjusted his ill-fitting jacket with a huff, then turned fully to face her.

“What you saw—what you felt in that room—it wasn’t a trick of enchantment or illusion. It was something older. Something watching. Something choosing. That’s the part scholars forget: this kind of magic might not simply exist... it may decide.”

Chapter Text

Merith found herself gradually growing more accustomed to the company of her colleagues beyond the venerable walls of Hogwarts. What had begun as mere civility now blossomed into a curious enigma—an unexpected lightness in her heart whenever she was near Hyoto and Mirabel.

Today, it was Mirabel—the lively young herbologist with a wild mane of crimson hair—who lifted Merith’s spirits during their stroll toward Hogsmeade, mere hours after a hearty luncheon. The walk, once a tedious chore, now felt like a quiet delight. Mirabel’s exuberance was infectious, casting a subtle spell over Merith. She savored the gentle breeze caressing her cheeks, the dappling sunlight filtering through shifting clouds, and the enchanting scenery—the forested landscape punctuated by ancient, weathered stone ruins lining their path.

Mirabel, her hair free and dancing with the wind, stretched her arms skyward as though inviting the very air to join their revelry. “As much as I cherish my time with Hyoto,” she declared brightly, “it is an even greater pleasure to spend this moment with you.” Her voice was as warm and radiant as the sunbeams filtering through the branches above.

Merith returned her smile, feeling the faintest lift of spirits in harmony with the playful breeze—an unseen hand guiding her forward.

As they neared the quaint covered bridge marking Hogsmeade’s threshold, the bustling streets ahead teemed with festive energy. Wizards and witches mingled in a lively tizzy, embracing Valentine’s Day with a joyous fervor not unlike that of their Muggle counterparts. Though Merith had only heard whispers of the holiday, she had never actively partaken.

Her thoughts drifted briefly to Lupercalia, the ancient Roman feast long lost to time—rituals performed by priests called Luperci, sacrifices and purifications to honor fertility gods. Such customs seemed distant now, replaced by gentler expressions of affection that filled the air.

Hogsmeade stood in quiet grandeur, draped in a tapestry of vibrant hues and delicate shrouds of crepe and lace fluttering softly in the breeze. A subtle magic whispered through the cobblestone alleys, as if the village itself were wrapped in a timeless cloak of romance.

At the heart of the village, Merith’s gaze was drawn to the grand window of Honeydukes Sweetshop. Framed with gilded woodwork carved into sugar quills and cherubs with heart-shaped wings, the display seemed almost alive. Inside, confections sparkled behind glass and crystal jars, shimmering like jewels beneath the glow of enchanted lights.

The air was thick with the scent of indulgence and magic. A large heart-shaped cake, frosted in pastel pink and adorned with edible blossoms, pulsed softly to the tune of a love ballad drifting through the shop. Nearby, mounds of handcrafted Sweetheart Licorice tempted couples to indulge in the spirit of the day. Above, lace trailed like silken love notes, and enchanted Cupid figurines flitted about, scattering shimmering confections into a bubbling cauldron below.

Merith couldn’t help but chuckle at the scene. Nearby, a cluster of young witches—likely Hogwarts students—chattered excitedly, selecting gifts to convey their affections.

“A chocolate frog is hardly romantic,” one declared with urgency. “We must dash to Scrivenshafts before all the finest cards vanish! Merlin forbid I try crafting another enchanted card—last time, it sounded like a howler!”

Their laughter bubbled like potion bubbles as they hurried down the street, parcels wrapped bright and cheerful in their arms.

“Ah, the trials of young love,” Mirabel mused, her tone sing-song and amused.

“Indeed,” Merith replied, curiosity piqued as she watched the girls disappear around a corner. She beckoned Mirabel onward with a light gesture, their path leading to Gladrags Wizardwear.

Inside the shop, the air hung thick with enchantment. Walls were draped with tapestries illustrating whimsical tales of love and companionship through the ages. Heart-shaped banners fluttered from the ceiling, inscribed with clever, heartfelt slogans such as “Dress to Impress Thy Valentine” and “Apparel for Thine Heart’s Desire.” The mingled scent of blooming enchanted roses, fresh parchment, and hints of lavender lent the space an almost ethereal quality.

Large bay windows revealed the bustling street beyond, showcasing striking ensembles perfect for romantic rendezvous—flowing robes in rich crimsons and soft pinks, accented with delicate lace and shimmering brooches shaped like hearts and stars. Each display whispered of masterful craftsmanship, inviting passersby to partake in the festivities.

Further within, Merith admired an array of charming accessories: elegant gloves, shimmering brooches, and mystical jewelry, each piece humming quietly with its own magic.

The shopkeeper, Augustus Hill, clad in a tailored waistcoat embroidered with hearts, was quick with gossip. “Goodness gracious! The young ladies this year have a fiery edge! Whoever this Isaac Cooper is, he’s got his pick of witches, I warrant.”

Mirabel burst into laughter, her voice bright amid the enchanting ambiance. No doubt she imagined the scowl Hyoto would wear if she praised the infamous Isaac Cooper any further.

As they perused the fine fabrics, Mirabel’s face brightened with genuine delight. “Oh, how I adore pink!” she declared, her eyes shimmering with affection for the hue. Then, almost shyly, she added, “But Mother insists it does not suit me.”

Merith’s brow creased slightly as she studied the small, fiery-haired woman before her. “And was your mother ever particularly fashionable? Did you find favor in her attire?”

A soft gasp escaped Mirabel’s lips—“Merith!”—tinged with surprise and a flicker of amusement.

Merith sifted through a rack of silken scarves, her voice steady and matter-of-fact. “Then tell me this—why listen to her at all? I’d wager she only wears green because someone once said it complemented her hair.”

Mirabel’s laughter rang clear—light, infectious, and warm—unsettling Merith’s carefully composed exterior. Her brows furrowed in contemplation, then lifted in mild alarm. Once again, the girl had caught her off guard. Mirabel, with her curious blend of earnestness and jest, remained an enigma Merith found herself drawn to—never quite certain whether the laughter was a veil or laid perfectly bare.

Encouraged, Mirabel’s fingers danced over the luxurious textiles, her mood buoyant. Suddenly, her gaze fell upon an exquisite gown—an alluring masterpiece that seemed to beckon from the rack.

“Now this,” Merith breathed, awe coloring her voice, “you should wear without hesitation.” The gown was crafted from delicate pink silk, its bodice a marvel of form and texture—softly pleated satin swirling to reveal a subtle corset that cinched the waist with quiet elegance—a silhouette designed to make hearts flutter.

Mirabel stepped closer, her eyes seemed to be drawn to the off-the-shoulder neckline that would frame her collarbones. Clusters of silk roses, ranging from pale blush to deeper rose, adorned the shoulders and trailed softly down the skirt. The floral details seemed to grow naturally from the fabric.

Merith reached out to touch the flowing skirt. Vertical stripes and gentle pleats, finished with a ruffled hem, promised grace in every movement. “Well, give it a try,” she said, a quiet eagerness in her voice.

Mirabel’s eyes lit with excitement as she disappeared behind the curtain. The soft sounds of fabric shifting and the faint scent of lavender drifted out. When she emerged, the gown seemed to transform her—soft silk catching the light, the floral details blooming like whispered secrets across the fabric.

Merith studied her thoughtfully. “It suits you beautifully. There’s something about it—both delicate and commanding.”

Mirabel twirled once, the skirt swirling around her ankles. “Delicate and commanding? That sounds like a contradiction.”

“Perhaps,” Merith replied, stepping closer. “But sometimes, the most powerful things are the ones that balance on that fine line.”

Mirabel grinned, the excitement returning to her eyes. “Then I suppose this gown will do just fine.”

Merith nodded, a flicker of resolve in her gaze. “Yes. And you should wear it without hesitation.”

Mirabel’s excitement didn’t waver as she slipped back behind the fitting curtain. She cast a mischievous glance toward Merith. “You really ought to try something yourself. I daresay you’d turn quite a few heads.”

Merith raised an amused brow, letting her gaze drift over the fine fabrics around them. “That would be rather curious, since I have no plans to attend the festivities,” she said, gazing toward the window displays. “Though the evening holds its own allure, I suppose.”

Mirabel’s voice grew playful, insistent. “But everyone will be there — professors included. It’s tradition, after all. The staff must chaperone. If you go, Aesop would surely be glad to see you in something like this. I still remember how he looked at you that New Year’s.”

A soft warmth spread across Merith’s cheeks at the mention of Aesop. A memory flickered—one night that had shifted everything between them. She smiled knowingly, a trace of mischief in her tone. “You might be right, Mirabel. I do seem to have a talent for making an impression.”

Suddenly, Mirabel popped her head out from behind the curtain, clutching the gown to her chest. She glanced around the shop, catching sight of two older women nearby exchanging disapproving tsk-tsks. With a quick, amused shake of her head, she ducked back behind the curtain, eyes twinkling. “Then something’s happened between you two, hasn’t it?”

Merith met her gaze, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Let’s just say we’ve strayed past the edge of the map,” she admitted softly. “There were moments... quite unforgettable.”

Mirabel’s smile grew wider, delight shining through. “A budding spring romance! How wonderful! Imagine how he’ll look at you — like he’s bewitched all over again.”

The thought made Merith’s pulse quicken. “I suppose I shall try on a gown, then,” she said with quiet resolve, as if the choice had long been made. “Prepare yourself, Mirabel. Art takes time.”

“That’s the spirit!” Mirabel exclaimed, the dress thudding to the floor as she clapped her hands and bounced lightly on her toes.

Before the ornate mirror, Merith stood, the exquisite gown hugging her form. A mix of thrill and nervousness stirred within her. The fabric caught the light with a soft shimmer, its satin texture rich and inviting. The gentle blush hue lent her a quiet sophistication, a timeless elegance that felt refreshingly distant from her usual, bolder choices.

The structured bodice hugged her waist with graceful precision, while the sweetheart neckline dipped just enough to highlight her collarbones without ever crossing into immodesty. Cap sleeves framed her shoulders delicately, enhancing the gown’s understated allure.

Mirabel’s voice broke the quiet. “That’s... unexpected,” she said, her expression brightening. “But in the best way. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear something so soft. It really works.”

Merith returned the smile, appreciative of her friend’s warmth. “It does feel quite different from my norm, doesn’t it?” She turned slightly, admiring the draped detailing at her waist—the fabric twisted into an elegant knot that added both depth and fluidity. The layered skirt flowed effortlessly with her movements.

For a moment, the quiet hum of the shop wrapped around her like a soft whisper, the faint rustle of fabric and distant footsteps weaving into a serene rhythm. Yet beneath that calm, a subtle shift seemed to ripple through the air, an undercurrent of expectation she couldn’t place.

Her breath caught as the familiar jingle of the bell sliced through the stillness, sharper than before. Heads subtly turned, the atmosphere thickening like the sudden hush before a storm. Then, from the doorway, he emerged—Gorvoth Gaunt—his confident stride carving a path through the crowd. His striking features held a magnetic intensity, and as his gaze found hers, sharp and unwavering, as if challenging the very air between them

“Ah, Merith,” he drawled smoothly, “that gown—’tis positively enchanting on you. I can see your aura shining in that shade.” He stepped closer, eyes roaming with an unsettling appreciation. “Strong… capable… dangerous, even.”

A shiver traced Merith’s spine, but her composure remained intact. There was something predatory in his gaze—a sharp reminder of the rumors that trailed him. “Thank you, Gorvoth,” she replied with careful politeness. “It’s merely a dress, after all.”

He closed the distance further, and she instinctively steadied herself, wary of his proximity. “Oh, but it’s more than that,” he murmured, voice low and intimate, leaning in. “It reflects you—someone who understands the power… of allure.”

Before she could respond, his finger brushed lightly along her collarbone—a touch as delicate as a whisper but charged with warning. With swift grace, she snapped open her fan, the sharp edge pushing his hand away. The fan shielded her face, but the slight curl of her lips betrayed her displeasure.

When she lowered the fan, her expression softened into a calm, measured smile. “Gorvoth, dear, I believe a gentleman ought to maintain a respectful distance.”

His smirk persisted, and he leaned in slightly, unbothered. “Come now, Merith. Is it so wrong to admire that which merits attention?” His tone was silken, yet beneath it lurked a slimy undertone. “Besides, I don’t recall ever being much of a gentleman.”

Merith cast a glance toward Mirabel, who stood behind the counter with a hand resting lightly on a swath of folded tulle. Their eyes met briefly, and Mirabel raised her brows in subtle inquiry. Merith responded with a nearly imperceptible nod, her expression composed but edged with steel.

Then, turning gracefully on her heel, she gestured toward the other end of the boutique. “Come, Gorvoth,” she said, her tone light but commanding. “If you insist on loitering, you might as well be useful.”

She led him past displays of embellished robes and satin cloaks, toward a charming little alcove draped in lace and ivory—shelves lined with delicate evening gloves, silk sashes, and painted fans. From the array, she plucked a pair of gloves the color of pale moonlight and slid one over her hand, testing the fit.

“I never took you for someone with an interest in Hogsmeade,” she remarked coolly, not looking at him. “Rather provincial for your tastes, isn’t it?”

He gave a soft, affected sigh. “Oh, but Hogsmeade is charming,” he said, voice dripping with mockery. “A quaint little hamlet, truly. Sheep. Butterbeer. Students gallivanting with love-struck eyes and frostbitten noses. It's practically utopian.”

Merith snorted delicately, amused despite herself.

Without a word, she reached for another pair—blush-pink lace, so sheer they resembled spun sugar. The embroidery along the cuffs shimmered faintly in the light, catching Gorvoth’s eye.

With measured grace, she drew one glove over her hand, smoothing the lace down each finger. The gesture was deliberate, precise—half adornment, half ritual.

Gorvoth reached for her hand without asking, fastening the pearl clasp at her wrist with practiced ease. His touch lingered just long enough to make its message clear.

He lifted her hand, admiring it. “Perfection,” he murmured. “Though I daresay the glove only dims what’s already exquisite.”

Her lips curved in a tight, practiced smile. “Are you here to keep an eye on me, Gorvoth?”

At that, he laughed—low, warm, entirely too self-assured. His teeth flashed white, the corners of his mouth curling upward as he looked toward the ceiling, mock-thinking. “If that were my assignment,” he said silkily, “I would be an eager volunteer.”

Then, leaning in just slightly, “But I’m surprised you’d even ask. What makes you think you warrant supervision?”

She pulled her hand free, the glove now fastened, and met his gaze with quiet intensity. “Why are you here?”

Gorvoth’s expression remained relaxed, his posture easy. “Curious little thing, aren’t you?” he said, stepping closer—close enough for the suggestion to be felt. “So full of questions.”

He picked up a fan from the display and flicked it open with a single snap, examining the painted roses before flicking it shut again. “Have dinner with me,” he offered smoothly. “Perhaps I’ll be gracious enough to answer one of them.”

Merith turned her head slightly, watching him from the corner of her eye. “I don’t trust you.”

His grin widened, sharp and amused. He leaned in, his breath warm against the shell of her ear as he murmured, “And isn’t that what makes me so tempting?”

She turned to the mirror, checking her reflection—half to steady herself, half to hide the heat rising in her cheeks. But her gaze slid sideways again, back to the gloves. Wordlessly, she adjusted the lace on her wrist, this time with a kind of quiet defiance. Not merely finishing a fitting—but reclaiming control.

Gorvoth watched her with open appreciation. “You know,” he said softly, voice teasing, “I’ve always thought there’s something dangerously unpredictable about a beautiful woman slipping on gloves—you never know if she’s about to leave or strike.”

Merith’s reflection didn’t waver. “Perhaps I’m considering both.”

After a pause, Gorvoth turned toward the shopkeeper. “We’ll take the gloves—and the gown.”

At that, her hand stilled for just a breath.

“At my expense, of course,” he said smoothly, as though the notion of generosity required no justification. “A white mink stole would do it justice, don’t you think?”

Merith arched a brow, her gaze narrowing with the kind of amused restraint that was far more cutting than open disdain. “Undoubtedly,” she said, her voice dipped in velvet—polite, but not warm.

Then she turned to him fully, her tone shifting like a blade slipping from its sheath. “But do put it on my account, won’t you? Your coin is as good as mine—given that it flows directly from my father’s hand.”

That hit. She saw it—a flicker in his expression, subtle but unmistakable. A moment’s stillness at the corners of his mouth. His fingers tapped once against the glass, then stilled completely. He wore his elegance like inherited silk: crisp, expensive, and slightly threadbare. There was polish, yes—but beneath it, the faint tarnish of a fortune in decline. A man raised to wealth, now performing it.

Ah. So she hadn’t imagined it.

If there was one chink in his polished armor, it was the state of his inheritance—what remained of it. It was the one subject that turned his charm brittle.

To his credit, his smile didn’t falter. But when he spoke, the warmth in his tone had cooled by a degree, a quiet blade beneath the velvet.

“Ah,” he said lightly, “how touching. I do enjoy when you remind me just how entangled we all are, darling. It gives such… clarity to things.”

His eyes lingered on her a beat too long—something calculating behind the charm. And then, just as easily, he turned away, his voice once again laced with idle extravagance. “Still, you’re right. Best it go on your account. I'd hate to sully your father’s fine taste in allies with the likes of my petty pocket change.”

He gave her a short, mocking bow and strode from the boutique without looking back. The door shut behind him with a soft chime, but the air he left behind felt sharp-edged, brittle.

Mirabel, who had observed the exchange in silence, let out a breath through her nose. “What a character,” she muttered, arms crossed loosely over her chest. “Are you certain you wish to keep him about? He seems a touch too… slippery.”

Merith’s eyes remained on the door, her expression unreadable. A pulse of something electric still lingered at the base of her throat—not fear, exactly, but not comfort either. “Not my type, to be sure,” she said after a moment, her tone cool and clipped.

She wouldn’t lie to Mirabel. But she wouldn’t speak too freely either. Not yet. There was more to Gorvoth Gaunt than practiced arrogance and the scent of old coin. And she intended to find out precisely what.

With renewed poise, she turned back toward the counter. “Now, about that gown,” she said, her voice once again steady, purposeful.

Her fingers smoothed over the bodice, movements precise, methodical. But the faint crease between her brows remained—a quiet, unresolved line. 

Chapter Text

Merith woke with a quiet gasp. The remnants of a nightmare clung to her—cold mist fading at the edges but heavy on her chest. They never truly left. Though Aesop helped steady her with gentle touch and steady words, the shadows lingered, tucked deep in her mind.

He never asked what she dreamed. Not once. And part of her wished he would. Wished she might cry out in sleep—if only to unburden herself, to show him the darker corners she carried. If he knew, perhaps she wouldn’t feel so utterly alone inside them.

She exhaled slowly, turning her head.

Aesop lay beside her, breath steady and serene. His hair, recently trimmed but still artfully tousled, spilled in soft waves across the pillow. It suited him. She noticed the subtle changes: a tailored waistcoat, finer trousers, a new garment folded carefully in his wardrobe. Modest. Deliberate. Quiet pride.

He was a still sleeper—unmoving, quiet—yet his presence filled the room. She watched him in these early hours, amused by small things: the flutter of his lashes, his hand finding hers in sleep, the warm exhale against her shoulder. When he woke, his dark, soft eyes found her as if she were something precious and rare.

She understood that feeling. Because she felt it too.

Rising carefully so as not to disturb him, Merith padded across the room and drew a bath. The soft gurgle of enchanted pipes filled the quiet as steam began to curl toward the ceiling. She slipped into the warmth, breath easing from her lips.

A moment later, she heard him stir.

Aesop stepped into the tub behind her with slow, deliberate grace, careful not to send ripples too harshly through the water. But Merith caught it—just a flicker of tension in his jaw, the brief wince as he lowered himself in. Pain, quickly masked.

Her brow creased slightly as she glanced back.

He met her gaze, composed as ever. No mention of it. No acknowledgement.

So she said nothing, but the worry lingered in her expression a moment longer than he let on.

He settled behind her, long limbs folding neatly, knees rising from the surface. She turned slightly, her gaze trailing over him—scarred, strong, but elegant, in the way of something well-worn and carefully kept. There was beauty in that. In him.

His hands found her shoulders, thumbs pressing slowly, firmly into her skin. She sighed, sinking against him, head resting in the crook of his neck, letting his warmth ease into her as deeply as the bathwater.

“I bathe every morning,” she murmured, eyes half-closed. “So I don’t wake feeling dreadful. Clammy. Like I’ve been running from something in a fever. The only way to shake it off is to wash it all away.”

He paused behind her, his breath warm against her ear.

“Then let it be washed away,” he said softly. “No shadow from your dreams crosses this threshold. You are safe. Here. With me.”

There was certainty in his voice—a calmness that settled over her like a blanket pulled gently across the shoulders. She liked the way he spoke. Measured. Poetic without posturing. As though words were meant to carry weight, but never to burden.

She closed her eyes and let that warmth—his warmth—anchor her.

His fingers slipped through the damp curtain of her hair. He lifted a section with careful reverence, brought it to his face, and inhaled slowly—unabashed, indulgent.

He leaned close, breath warm against her hair, lips barely brushing the damp strands.

“You carry roses with you,” he whispered, voice low and husky. “Wild and untamed… my elusive flame.”

She stiffened, twisting just enough to catch the shadow of a smile, voice soft but steady.

“I am no delicate bloom.”

His fingers traced a slow, deliberate path along her shoulder, a touch both gentle and claiming. He pressed a featherlight kiss just behind her ear, where the pulse of her skin fluttered beneath his lips.

“Not delicate,” he murmured, “but intoxicating all the same. I’d chase it through darkness and dawn alike.”

Aesop lingered a moment longer, the heat of him wrapping around her like a secret spell, before he slipped away to his chambers.

The faint, lingering scent of roses and something indefinably his trailed after him—an echo that made her lips curl with a quiet, knowing smile.

The faint trace of roses lingered—soft, wild, and haunting—as if the very air had been embroidered with his essence. The memory of him, cloaked in her scent, drew a quiet curve to her lips—a secret smile, folded into the stillness of the room.

Breakfast in the Great Hall would begin soon, but Merith’s feet carried her elsewhere—toward the draft, the straw, the murmur of wings high in the Owlery. Aesop had asked her to send a letter, and she’d agreed without hesitation. She had one of her own to dispatch, after all.

Her father expected her home Friday, following lessons. Or rather, he had been informed. It had been weeks since she’d received anything from him beyond the occasional message, passed through official channels. What she knew of the goblin movements in the North came only through the Prophet. Nothing of substance. Nothing she trusted.

Now, with what little she’d uncovered about the maddeningly resistant book, she knew they would have to share knowledge if either hoped to unravel the secrets beneath its surface.

She’d managed to stave off homesickness—the northern coastline, the ruby wine warmed by hearthfire—but the stone walls welcomed her return with a hollow echo, like a distant bell tolling her unspoken arrival.

The stairs creaked beneath her boots—quiet as a breath—as she climbed toward the Owlery, that dank ember of feathers, droppings, and avian intelligence. She loathed the odor and the eyes. She visited only out of necessity.

And then she saw him.

He didn’t see her yet.

Ominis stood in the gloom, the faint dawn light pooling around him, reading a letter with slow, deliberate care. The paper was pale in his fingers, edges soft and worn as if handled many times. His expression was distant, focused.

Though the Owlery’s shadows should have swallowed him, he appeared strangely unguarded—his posture loose, cheeks flushed with the morning chill, a faint, unthinking smile curving his lips.

It unsettled her.

Not the careful, composed boy she knew from class. Something softer. Boyish. Young. For a brief moment, she glimpsed how much younger he was—untouched by the burdens of his family name.

She might have called out.

She didn’t.

Then, a grey owl swooped down beside her in a flurry of feathers and sound, scattering the fragile quiet.

Startled, Ominis folded the letter swiftly—precisely—then tucked it into the pocket of his robe with practiced ease. The warmth that had briefly surfaced in his expression vanished beneath the familiar mask of polite detachment.

“Good morning, Ominis,” she said, voice steady, deliberate, passing over him like a leaf drifting on an autumn breeze.

“An early start for a Monday, Mr. Gaunt,” she added.

His reply was measured, distant—polished. “Ah, yes, well… what do they say? Early Fwooper gets the first Flubberworm?”

Humor aimed but misfiring, lingering in the space between them.

She observed him closely: cordial, precise, but drained of meaning. Not coldness, exactly—but a curtain drawn tight against her glance.

She allowed herself a quiet, near-sardonic smile.

“See you in class, Mr. Gaunt.”

She stepped past him, boots tapping softly against stone, tying her dispatch to an owl that had not yet stirred.

He offered a nod, drifting away with the elegance of someone accustomed to slipping between shadows and demands. Not hurried, but resolved.

By mid‑morning, the familiar rhythm of lessons had dissolved beneath more pressing concerns. The Valentine’s Dance—less than a week away—hummed through the corridors like a spell no one dared dispel.

Girls clustered in conspiratorial knots, voices spun with thrill and uncertainty.

“Issac Cooper is definitely asking Lenora Everleigh,” one hissed.

“No, he sat next to Elowen Carver at lunch. That means something,” another countered, her certainty sharp as a knife.

Across the room, the boys fared no better. They paced the aisles like condemned men, caught in private pacts of panic. Rejections loomed large. Time dwindled. Options vanished.

Merith sat behind a stack of half‑marked essays, observing with the cool patience of a naturalist tracking birds in seasonal frenzy. Her quill tapped lazily against her chin as her gaze settled on Sebastian Sallow and William Wexley—two conspirators decidedly not discussing counter‑curses.

Sebastian leaned across the aisle, smirk half‑conspiratorial, half‑feral in the morning light.

“You’re wasting your time, Wexley,” he said, voice low and confident. “They’ve all been asked—or they’re waiting for someone unattainable.”

He gestured vaguely toward the girls. “Even if they weren’t, I wouldn’t touch half that lot with a broomstick. Too shrill.”

William remained dubious. “Even Elowen?”

Sebastian made a face—something between boredom and thinly veiled horror. “Especially Elowen. She hexed Norris over a seat in Potions. I like my ribcage intact.”

William sighed, tapping his quill against the margin of notes wholly unrelated to romance. “So then? You’re just not going?”

Sebastian’s grin deepened—the same grin Merith recognized before someone’s inkwell transformed into a frog.

“Oh, I’m going,” he said breezily. “With Eira Vale.”

William blinked. “Eira Vale? Seventh year. She doesn’t even know who you are.”

“She will,” Sebastian replied, fully committed.

William groaned, folding his hand against his face. “She’s going to obliterate you.”

Sebastian only brightened, grin edging on gleeful.

“It’ll be worth it,” he said, then barreled on. “But what if she doesn’t? What if I’m the charming underdog with tragic eyes and nothing to lose? What if she’s sick of stiff-collared seventh-year swots quoting spell theory and offering logical, parent-approved affection? What if—”

“She’s a seventh‑year prefect who probably thinks we’re still learning to tie our robes,” William pointed out.

Sebastian shrugged. “That’s why I’m not showing up with a garish bouquet or a gift from Honeydukes. I’m going to give her something meaningful… something rare. To her taste.”

William squinted. “Is that a clever way of saying ‘stolen’?”

Sebastian’s smile sharpened. “Does anyone truly own what once belonged to the dead? Such treasures gather dust unused.”

Merith raised an eyebrow, placing her quill down with quiet precision. Of course, Sebastian’s plan involved grave‑robbing—or something very near it.

William let his quill drop, conceding defeat. “You’re mad.”

“Perhaps,” Sebastian allowed, solemn in the way only someone being utterly unserious could manage. “But I’d rather be mad and memorable than meek and miserable.”

He leaned in, eyes glittering with purpose. “So. Wexley. You up for a little scavenger hunt?”

Merith reached for her tea, hiding a small, amused curl at her lips.

The classroom was quiet, the kind of quiet that lingered after magic had been worked—like smoke after a duel. A faint pulse still shimmered beneath their feet, the warding circle alive with slow, rhythmic light. Ancient. Containing.

The circle caught force like a net catches falling stone—steady, precise, unforgiving. Within its bounds, magic could swell and break without tearing through the room, or the one who cast it.

Merith stood at the far end of the practice hall, hands loosely clasped before her. The low amber hush of evening curled along the stone, catching on the cream of her sweater—its high collar and sweeping gigot sleeves casting long, deliberate shadows. Brass buttons lined her high-waisted trousers, their faint gleam winking with each slow step.

Merith stood at the far end of the practice hall, hands resting in quiet symmetry before her. The echo of the morning’s lecture had long since faded, leaving only the hush that follows intention.

The day’s lecture had long since dissolved into memory. What remained was a quieter kind of work—this hour carved out by her own request. Not punishment. Not indulgence. A space set aside like a warded alcove, meant for something delicate. Necessary.

“You will find,” she began, voice even, eyes sharp, “that control is not merely restraint. It is the act of knowing when to hold back, and when not to.”

William stood within the circle, brow furrowed, shoulders tense. There was something unformed about him—not inapt, not careless—but raw. The kind of potential that hadn't quite decided what to become yet.

She stepped forward, soft-footed over stone.

“As your magic deepens,” she continued, “so will its appetite. And if you do not know its nature—if you do not understand your own—then it will act without you. Or worse, through you.”

He nodded slowly. “I understand.”

“You don’t,” she said plainly. “But you will.”

She circled him, letting silence speak between words.

“I’ve seen your casting, William. The acromantula in the forest. The practice dummy last week. You didn’t just strike—you displaced the very air around them.”

He blinked. “I didn’t intend that.”

“That,” she said, “is exactly the problem.”

The runes around him flared once, then faded. The ward held.

She didn’t say what truly unsettled her—that the magic felt familiar. Not just strong. Resonant. Like something she had known once, in another place, long buried beneath years and silence.

“You cannot control what you haven’t yet felt,” she said softly. “But once you feel it—once you know it—you can begin to shape it. Otherwise, it shapes you.”

William nodded solemnly, his posture straightening with quiet determination.

She watched him—eyes steady, brow drawn in thought. There was a focus to him, yes, but also something more rare: curiosity unclouded by fear, unshaped by the sharp edges of ambition.

It was still early in him. Unformed. But promising.

“Well?” he asked, hesitant. “Was it enough?”

Merith regarded him a beat too long.

“Yes,” she said. “More than enough.”

Too strong, she thought—but held the words behind her teeth.

Instead, she gestured toward the circle once more.

“Again,” she said. “But slower. And breathe.”

He raised his wand.

Before he could cast, the doorway opened with all the subtlety of a grin.

“Are we still lecturing,” came the familiar voice, dry and amused, “or has Wexley earned private tutoring?”

Sebastian Sallow leaned casually against the doorway, arms crossed, a mischievous grin playing on his lips as if he'd just uncovered a secret joke.

William flushed. “It’s not—”

Sebastian raised a hand, all charm. “No judgment. Just an observation. Ambition suits you.”

He turned slightly. “Professor.”

Merith met his gaze with calm steadiness, her silence a quiet defiance. She had learned not to heed Sebastian Sallow’s interruptions unless she chose to dance with his provocation.

Sebastian turned back to William, his voice lowered, conspiratorial.

“The hour approaches. Our scavenger hunt awaits.”

William groaned. “This is your polite way of saying we’re breaking into the trophy room again.”

Sebastian feigned offense. “Wexley, please. This isn’t larceny—it’s a quest. For love.”

William sighed audibly.

“Oh, yes,” Sebastian said, his grin blooming like mischief incarnate. “I’m not showing up with paper hearts and perfumed parchment. I intend to retrieve something rare. Something with dust in its bones. Something… shiny.”

William narrowed his eyes. “By retrieve, you mean… rob.”

Sebastian raised a finger, as though correcting a child's grammar. “Reclaim,” he said smoothly. “Recover. Rescue, even. I fail to see the crime in liberating a trinket that’s been entombed for centuries. It’s not as if the dead are curating collections.”

William stared. “You’re talking about actual grave-robbing.”

Sebastian gave a lofty shrug. “I prefer romantic archaeology. Besides, half the castle’s relics came from raided tombs—this is just a more intimate version.”

He leaned in, lowering his voice like he was offering a sacred rite. “It’s not theft if no one remembers it’s there. A scrap of forgotten magic. A fragment of history. Something with meaning. You think Eira Vale wants chocolates? No. She wants mystery. She wants legacy.”

William’s frown deepened. “She probably wants someone who hasn’t desecrated a crypt.”

“And she shall have both,” Sebastian said brightly, unbothered. “I’ll be tasteful. Discreet. I won’t even disturb the sarcophagus.”

“You’ve seen a sarcophagus?”

Sebastian only smiled.

William turned toward Merith, desperate for grounding. “He’s joking.”

But Sebastian’s grin stayed, a little too sharp. A little too sure.

“Am I?” he said softly.

Then, with the ceremony of someone inviting a companion into noble ruin, he clapped William on the shoulder—just hard enough to sting. “Come along, brave Wexley. The dead are terribly dull company without us.”

William hesitated, glancing toward Merith one last time.

She waved them off with a faint shake of her head, though her attention had already drifted elsewhere.

She had more urgent mysteries to mind—namely, William Wexley himself.

Chapter Text

Merith received Michaél’s owl over Friday morning breakfast. The message was as concise as it was cryptic:

Meet me in Keenbridge this Friday evening.
Signed only, M.V.

It struck an oddly conspiratorial note—too formal to be casual, too vague to be innocent.

Her reply to Michaél had been equally succinct.

Keenbridge won’t be possible. I’m traveling to Durmstrang. Father awaits. We’ll speak soon.

She doubted Michaél would take it well—he rarely took anything well—but she hadn’t the time or the patience to entertain his grievances. Her purpose outweighed his complaints.

Headmaster Black had been unusually accommodating when she requested private use of the Floo Network.

“Of course, of course,” he’d said, bustling around his office, nearly upsetting his inkwell in the process. “Pass along my warmest to your father. Or—should I say sternest? Perhaps... neutral?”

She gave him a clipped smile, waved off his dithering, and said nothing.

The hearth in Black’s office was already roaring when she stepped into it, green flames licking up the stone like a promise. The Floo powder was fine and dry in her hand—familiar, but rarely used for this particular destination. She tossed it in and, with a last breath, spoke clearly:

“Headmaster’s Study, Durmstrang.”

The sensation was immediate—disorienting. Her body twisted, as though drawn through a narrow pipe, her vision warping in flashes of green and soot. She felt her limbs press inward, her robes snapping like flags in a storm. Then, just as suddenly, the world reassembled around her.

She stumbled out onto cold stone, boots echoing in the wide hearth.

The room greeted her like a memory half-frozen in time: an austere, ample space, cloaked in deep reds and heavy shadows. The hearth behind her offered little warmth, its embers dulled as if in permanent mourning. Tall drapes sagged slightly over frost-glazed windows, and the air smelled faintly of cigar smoke and aged parchment.

Books lined the walls—leather-bound, spined in silver, stacked with uncompromising precision. The only signs of recent life were the papers strewn neatly across her father’s desk and a bronze ashtray bearing the stubbed remains of a half-smoked cigar. She recognized the make: Bulgarian, hand-rolled, laced with wormwood.

The worn chair behind the desk hadn't changed. Polished arms from years of use, cushion frayed at the edges.

Her fingers brushed the desk’s edge, hesitant.

When had she last stood in this room? Not since she was a student—before the world sharpened her.

She looked down.

A map stretched across the desktop, pinned at its corners—by a black orb and a glass paperweight shaped like a rune-marked wolf. Her father’s notes trailed through the margins, clipped and methodical. Names. Territories. Movements. Goblin strongholds lit the parchment like infection points.

Then—there.

Half-concealed beneath a report on northern skirmishes, something caught her eye.

A drawing.

Not just any drawing—a dragon’s head, sketched in precise charcoal. Smoke curled from its nostrils. The linework was familiar. Brutal in its elegance.

She paused.

Carefully, she lifted the page.

The full figure emerged: the serpentine coil of its body, flames licking from jagged jaws.

The dragon was not of flesh, but of bone—its skeletal structure rendered in stark, intricate detail, a haunting reminder of something ancient and eternal.

But it was what sat atop the beast that struck her still.

A rider. Torch raised high.

Not just any torch.

The torch.

Her pulse skipped.

She had seen it only in fragmented glyphs, illusions carved deep in the restricted section’s foundation, in texts barely translated. But the shape—the flaring crown, the band of runes scorched along its shaft—it was the same. It glowed in the sketch not with light, but with significance, as though the ink itself remembered being fire.

Her heart ticked once—sharp, but steady.

Then came the soft click of the study door unlocking.

Merith closed the pages with quiet precision, her movements unhurried. She smoothed the edge of her glove, drew herself upright, and cast a minor charm to erase the ash-smudge on her sleeve.

The door opened.

Headmaster Dimitar Vulchanova stepped inside, his tall, broad frame filling the threshold with an imposing presence. Despite the passage of years, his features remained sharply defined, the kind of face that aged like dark oak—weathered but unyielding. His hair, still thick and dark with streaks of steel gray, framed a stern visage marked by a carefully trimmed beard reminiscent of the Russian tsars, particularly Alexander II. Though in his late sixties, he carried the vigor and bearing of a man closer to fifty.

His dark robes, trimmed with thick, somber bear fur, hung with practiced ease over broad shoulders, lending him the aura of a northern warlord rather than a mere academic.

His expression was unreadable—until he saw her.

He paused. A blink. One brow lifted faintly.

“Merith. I expected to meet you at the estate.”

“I thought I’d meet you here instead,” she replied evenly. “Being at Hogwarts again… it stirred something. Nostalgia, perhaps.”

A flicker of something passed through his eyes—dark, intense, and always measuring. Then he moved to the desk—his desk—with the practiced ease of ownership. He glanced at the map, at her lingering gaze.

“You’re tracking the Goblins,” she said.

He nodded. “They’re no longer content with the Keep. Now it’s pillaging. I’m trying to stay one step ahead.”

Her eyes stayed on him. “Why do they want the book?”

He didn’t answer at once. Just one breath longer than needed.

Then, quietly: “You’re quick. You always were.”

“I’ve been patient,” she said. “But I’m tired of being left outside doors that concern me.”

He moved behind the desk and brushed his fingers across the worn chair, a thumb catching an old nick in the armrest. When he spoke again, his voice was almost gentle, though still commanding.

“You look more like your mother every time I see you.”

The words hung in the air, unexpected and out of place. Merith blinked, caught off guard. In what way? she wondered silently. Her mother had been small, delicate—fair-haired, light-eyed—nothing like this. She glanced down at herself, dark hair falling heavy around her shoulders, eyes shadowed and intense, a reflection so clearly her father’s it had never occurred to her to think otherwise.

It was rare—almost unheard of—for him to speak of her mother at all. The comment unsettled her more than she let on.

Something old and raw pressed at her chest. She swallowed it.

“I need to know,” she said.

He met her gaze.

There was no challenge in it. No dismissal. Just steady patience. Something in her armor shifted.

It wasn’t softness. It was calculation. An understanding: he already knew parts of it, perhaps more than she did. Silence wouldn’t shield her now, and withholding would only cost her time.

So she told him.

About Isidora Morganach. About the book hidden with Nerida’s help. About Vulchana Keep. About her failures. That the torch was the key.

When she finished, he said nothing.

Instead, he reached for the stack of papers and pulled the drawing—the one with the dragon and the torch—laying it between them.

“I hoped you’d find it,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed. “You knew.”

“I know what it means to chase something most don’t believe exists.”

She studied the drawing again. The Zmey. The knight. The torch.

“Do you know what’s in the book?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he traced the dragon’s head with one finger. “The Zmey was always our family’s crest. But it’s not just a symbol. It’s not a myth. It was real.”

She gave a breath of bitter amusement. “It’s been a long time since you told me a bedtime story.”

He looked up. “Then it’s time I told you the ending.”

He leaned back, lighting a fresh cigar, the ember glowing like a second hearth in the shadows.

“You know the tale—the sea serpent that became the Zmey. But you don’t know what it bargained for.”

He began slowly, his voice more ancestral than academic now.

“It was small once. A ribbon of scales. Fed on fish and seabirds. But the North has a way of awakening things. Ancient things. And it grew. Fed on shipwrecks. On fear. On storms.”

She watched, unmoving.

“A war party found it—blood mages from the eastern steppes. Warlords, not scholars. They bound it in a net of rune-thread and silver stone. And it spoke.”

He met her eyes.

“It offered them a gift. Power. Legacy. A voice that could command what slithers in the dark. A tongue older than men—one that doesn’t speak, but summons.”

Her lips parted. “Parseltongue.”

He nodded. “Its origin. The true serpent tongue. Slytherin inherited only a whisper.”

“And they accepted.”

“Of course,” he said, flicking ash into the tray. “Men always accept power when they think it won’t change them.”

He tapped the image again. “But the serpent changed. Grew wings. Breathed flame. Left the sea and took to the skies. It became more than creature. It became force.”

“The Zmey,” she said.

“Yes. Elemental. Ancient Magic made flesh. It didn’t cast spells—it was spell.”

She leaned forward. “And the book?”

“If the Zmey was sealed,” he said slowly, “then the book may be the only record—of where, how… or how to unseal it.”

The words hung like a binding charm between them.

Merith exhaled. “You think the goblins wish to release it.”

“They’re not looking for war,” he said. “They’re looking for a weapon. One they can’t create—only awaken.”

She looked again at the torch in the image. The fire in its shape.

“And if the source of that weapon is tied to Ancient Magic…”

“Yes.” His voice was a note lower. “Then its root lies in Hogwarts.”

She looked up. Her father’s eyes were steady, the way old stone is steady.

The silence grew.

Then, softly: “Do you remember what I used to say about stories?”

She nodded. “They’re how we survive.”

He gave a faint smile. “This one is no different.”

The Floo journey from Durmstrang to the Vulchanova estate was mercifully short—but it scraped at her bones, leaving soot in her hair and something quieter lodged beneath her ribs.

The hearth at the family manor roared to life as Merith stepped through it, heels landing neatly on the worn parquet floor of the entrance hall. The room was dimly lit—lit more for atmosphere than warmth—and the scent of beeswax polish and dry winter herbs clung to the air like memory. Dust motes hung like suspended snow in shafts of dying evening light, and the soft creak of settling wood whispered reminders of age and endurance.

Before she had the chance to remove her gloves, there was a pop of magic and a familiar voice.

“Mŭnichka did not believe her own ears! But it is true—Miss Merith is home!”

The house-elf appeared in the foyer in a billow of old wool and alarm, clutching a linen tea towel embroidered with the Vulchanova crest. Her knobby fingers trembled slightly as she wiped a stray tear from her wide, watery eyes. Her thin hair, wisps of silver like cobwebs, framed a face etched deeply with years of service, her expression a mixture of worry and relief.

“You are too thin, too thin! Look at you, pale as frost and no meat on the bones! Hogwarts kitchens must be manned by flapping fools. Mŭnichka has seen how they burn the mushrooms—no art, no soul!” She sniffed disapprovingly.

Merith fought a small smile. “I assure you, Mŭnichka, I’m fine.”

“You are not fine! You look weary! Eyelids like wilted petals. Mŭnichka will bring broth, and hot bread, and veal, and then you will feel better, yes?”

“I’m not hungry—”

But it was too late. Mŭnichka had already vanished, muttering to herself about “English incompetence” and “soulless stews.”

Merith sighed, beginning to unfasten the silver clasp of her traveling cloak. She hadn’t even crossed the threshold when she heard the voice from the far room.

“Well, well. The ghost of Durmstrang returns.”

Her head turned toward the grand sitting room—though her father still called it the drawing room, in keeping with whatever century he’d decided to remain in. There, leaning indolently against the carved doorframe, was her brother.

Michaél Vulchanova.

His tall frame was draped in a luxurious robe of dark forest wool, cut sharply to accentuate broad shoulders. The sleeves were pushed back to reveal finely cuffed linen, embroidered with silver thread that caught the fading light. His cravat hung loose, tied in a fashionable knot of deep burgundy satin. A meticulously groomed moustache curled with a flair that suggested both vanity and confidence, polished like the shine on his expensive leather boots. His handsome features bore the practiced arrogance of a man used to command and admiration—the faintest smirk tugged at one corner of his lips, though fatigue darkened the edges of his eyes.

He gave her a slow, almost droll nod. “Sister.”

“Michaél.”

“Travel agree with you?”

She didn’t answer. But neither did he expect her to.

“Dinner is ready—if the elf hasn’t kidnapped you outright,” he added, gesturing lazily toward the corridor.

As if summoned on cue, Mŭnichka reappeared, juggling a tray and levitating two decanters of wine behind her. “Come now, come now, food is hot and the roast waits for no wizard!” she barked, more schoolmarm than servant, as though addressing wayward children rather than a house of composed, calculating adults.

They moved to the dining room—an austere yet elegant space steeped in history. The dark mahogany table, inherited from generations long past, gleamed with a polish honed by centuries of dinners and decisions. Its carved legs bore the mark of master artisans: twisting vines and arcane symbols subtly woven into the woodwork. Heavy heirloom chairs surrounded it, their leather cushions cracked and softened by time—a quiet testament to the Vulchanovas’ enduring presence.

The walls were lined with ancestral portraits—stern faces in ancient wizarding robes, their painted eyes watching with silent, inherited judgment. Ornate silver candelabras cast flickering shadows that danced like ghosts across the polished surfaces of storied heirlooms: an ancient silver ewer shaped like a dragon, a delicate glass orb humming faintly with protective magic, and a clockwork phoenix that stirred now and then, its metal feathers catching the light.

The table was set for three. The place settings, though gathered in haste, were flawless: heavy silver forks, etched crystal goblets, and fine porcelain plates rimmed in gold.

None of them had changed.

Not into formal dining wear. Not into roles. That, perhaps, unsettled Merith the most.

The meal began in quiet civility: roasted venison, smoked trout, barley with mushroom glaze, and black rye. Merith sipped her wine—dry and Northern—and tried to recall the last time the three of them had sat at this table without guests, without obligations. Without masks, if such a thing had ever truly existed.

Michaél looked drawn, but alert. Their father, for all his composed severity, carried wear behind the eyes—subtle, but there.

“You’ve come from Romania?” Dimitar asked over the rim of his glass.

Michaél nodded, slicing neatly into his veal. “Yes. The antiquities business doesn’t wait for weather, unfortunately. The snow was relentless. Had to cancel half a dig outside Transylvania.”

“Recover anything of interest?”

“A few enchanted reliquaries. A cursed loom. One tome we’re still trying to date—it sings when no one’s in the room.” His fork paused midair. “Mostly junk with a history.”

Merith glanced at Mŭnichka, who hovered behind her, spooning yet another helping of barley onto her plate. The elf’s knobby fingers moved with the care of long practice.

“I really don’t need—”

“Nonsense,” Mŭnichka muttered with conviction, barely lowering her voice. “What do they feed you there? Boiled cabbage and false hope?”

Merith caught her brother’s smirk across the table and said nothing.

A lull followed.

Then Michaél, cutting neatly into a slice of delicate pink roast, said with idle cruelty, “And how is the enchanted nursery? Still calling itself a school?”

Merith didn’t look up. “Hogwarts is… adequate,” she replied evenly, though she felt the flick of the blade all the same.

“‘Adequate,’” he echoed with a grin, rolling the word like a coin between his fingers. “A fine endorsement. And what brings you home? Surely not nostalgia and gooseberry jam.”

She raised her wineglass to her lips, holding his gaze with a calmness honed over years. “Why don’t you guess?”

“Oh, I don’t need to guess. You’re enjoying yourself far too much for it to be anything dull.” He sliced his meat with surgical precision. “Whatever it is, it’s something you want.”

There was something in his eyes—knowing, restrained, dangerous. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

Merith set her glass down lightly. Her thoughts turned to his letter—the one requesting they meet in Keenbridge. She had planned to confront him. But not now. Not here. Not with their father seated at the head of the table and Mŭnichka dishing out horseradish like a general preparing for battle.

That moment would come.

Privately.

For now, she returned her attention to her plate, hands poised, the quiet tension around the table simmering beneath silver forks and polished civility.

The past never cleared its plate in this house. It lingered. And it always came back for seconds.

Their father excused himself shortly after dinner, murmuring something about urgent missives waiting in the study. The old routine, unbroken: a glass of plum brandy, the eastern correspondence, and a fire lit too low to be comforting.

Merith waited until his footsteps faded before rising, intending to retreat to her room. But she’d barely reached the corridor when a voice slid through the dark like a blade.

“Don’t pretend you’re here for the snow and sentiment.”

She turned.

Michaél stood beneath the great stained-glass window at the corridor’s bend, half-lit by its dusky shimmer. Colors flickered faintly across his face—greens, golds, silvers—as if the glass held the memory of a sun long set. Behind him, the enchanted image stirred with its familiar, nearly imperceptible motion: a weeping fig tree arched over two children—a girl and a boy—both reaching for the same piece of fruit, forever just beyond their grasp.

Neither had ever reached it.

Merith met her brother’s gaze, voice even. “It’s not sentiment. I have business with Father.”

Michaél tilted his head. “Do you.” He tasted the word. “Business,” he repeated, dry as parchment. His eyes swept over her, sharp and measuring. “Just because you’re the favorite doesn’t mean you’re the only one with a part to play.”

She offered a faint, unimpressed smile. “And what about you? Cataloguing heirlooms and whispering to haunted hairbrushes these days?”

His jaw tightened, but his tone stayed cool. “Don’t pretend the goblins only razed Scotland. Durmstrang still smells of smoke.”

“They burned Vulchana Keep, not your study in Varna,” she replied steadily. “Don’t confuse personal inconvenience with grief.”

The air between them pulled taut.

“I’m researching,” she said after a pause, smoothing an invisible crease from her sleeve. “At Hogwarts. There are… connections to the rebellion. I’m following them.”

Vague. Carefully so. But Michaél’s silence spoke volumes.

“You seem quite comfortable there,” he said finally, light but needling. “Almost as if you’ve grown fond of the place.”

She narrowed her eyes slightly. “What are you implying?”

“Oh, nothing,” he replied, waving a dismissive hand. “Only that I happened to meet one Julian Spindle at a holiday salon in Paris. Gossipy little man. Knows everyone—or likes to think he does.”

Merith’s expression didn’t shift, but something behind her eyes flickered.

Michaél’s smile thinned. “He mentioned a new professor at Hogwarts. Said she was growing… attached to a colleague. And that tongues were wagging.”

“He sounds misinformed.”

“Does he?” Michaél stepped forward, shadows shifting with him, staining the contours of his face.

His smile barely touched his mouth.

His voice dropped. “He said you seem content. Settled. As if you’d found your place.”

She said nothing.

“I told him you’ve always been good at playing roles when it suits you.” His gaze sharpened, colder now. “But I do wonder—what would your dear colleague think, if he knew the fire you’re really kindling? That this isn’t about scholarship or sentiment—but power, cloaked in purpose?”

A brittle pause stretched between them.

Then, softer—more dangerous:

“Tell me, Merith. Do you even know what you’re becoming over there?”

A flicker beneath her ribs. Barely felt. Quickly smothered.

She didn’t flinch. “Why did you want to meet me in Keenbridge?”

Michaél stilled. For a moment, it seemed he might deflect—cut the tension with a grin, a word, a jab. But then something inside him shifted. Shoulders squared. Voice lowered.

The performance fell away.

“Not here,” he said.

A beat passed.

“We’ll go tonight. Veliko Tarnovo. There’s a place called the Krŭvna Vrŭzka.”

Merith raised an eyebrow. “The Blood Bond?”

“It’s more refined than it sounds. Private rooms. No records.”

She studied him. The change was real—undeniable. And that unsettled her more than any barb.

“Fine,” she said quietly. “Tonight.”

They lingered in the colored hush of the corridor—two reflections warped in glass. The fig tree swayed above them, luminous and still, its fruit untouched.

Still reaching. Still fruitless.

Then they turned, peeling away from the past in opposite directions—each walking alone down the same corridor.

Chapter Text

Merith stepped into the dim establishment, the door closing behind her with the soft finality of a secret. The air was warm and quiet, thick with clove smoke and the low murmur of distant voices.

She paused just inside the threshold, then slipped off her short black cape—its lace edges catching the light in a faint glint of sequins—and draped it over a carved oak stand. The ermine lining whispered against itself as it fell, like an exhaled breath lost to the dark.

Beneath the cloak, the fitted bodice of her gown clung close in deep violet silk, velvet stripes of the skirt sweeping the floor with each step as she crossed to the booth near the hearth. One puffed sleeve snagged slightly on the polished wood of the bench as she slid in, steadying herself with a breath and the deliberate calm of someone determined not to appear rushed—or rattled.

The tavern was hushed, deliberate. No chatter, no clatter—only whispers drifting like smoke through shadowed corners. A northern gentleman sat rigid in the corner, eyes sharp and watchful. Upstairs, another party had already taken a private suite. Staff moved quietly, respectful, waiting until summoned.

Merith settled into the booth, the cushion swallowing her weight. She let the velvet swallow the silence. No Three Broomsticks here, she thought. No laughter bent around corners. Just polished shadows hiding dangerous things.

Michaél was already there, a tumbler of brandy in hand, flame’s reflection sharp in his eyes. He did not greet her; he let the fire speak first.

She sat and crossed her arms over the bodice’s fitted waist, absently smoothing a velvet stripe as tension drummed beneath her ribs. “I won’t waste my time,” Merith said, voice low and steady. “You called this meeting. Tell me why.”

He took a slow sip of brandy, eyes catching the embers. “Aric wishes to speak with us.”

Merith stiffened. Her breath hitched. The name was a blade veiled in silk.

“Aric?” she echoed, her tone sharpened but measured.

“Yes.” Michaél exhaled, irritation flickering across his face. “He reached out in Romania—briefly. Our meeting was cut short. He insists he has no alliance with the goblins… only knowledge of the tome. Ancient magic… dark, unyielding. He warned: it must not be opened. Asked us to hear him out.”

She studied him, velvet gathering at her side. Aric—it’s still you who’s the betrayer. And now you ask me to trust you once again? Anger simmered beneath her composed gaze.

“When did he decide you were the trustworthy one?” she asked softly. “And not me?”

Michaél’s jaw tightened. “Maybe he didn’t think you’d listen.”

Her breath caught. The irony cut deeper than she expected: she, champion of truth, silenced because the messenger assumed she wouldn’t hear. Yet the truth was, Aric had sought her—and she had turned him away.

Silence stretched between them. The hearth crackled faintly nearby, its warmth failing to thaw the chill threading through her ribs.

Merith lifted her glass, more for motion than thirst. Fingers curled delicately around the stem. Her voice neutral. Almost indifferent.

“Did he say anything else?”

Michaél didn’t answer at once. He stared into the fire, as if weighing the cost of his next words against their brittle peace. When he finally spoke, his voice dropped, edged with discomfort.

“He mentioned the old tree,” he said at last. “Said it’s strange, the things one remembers when everything begins to unravel.”

The words landed like stone dropped in still water.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. But inside—something shifted.

The box elder.

The fire hissed—wood splitting in the grate.

She recalled how the bark had cracked beneath her fingers, the flames clawing through the roots as if determined to rip memory itself from the earth. She told herself it was a severing—a necessary one, clean and final.

But hearing that he still carried it—them—in his thoughts was like ash swirling back into her throat, choking the breath from her.

He still loved her. Or at least, enough of her remained etched in his heart to remember the place where they had crossed from innocence into something rawer, hungrier, untamed.

Now he left her this fragile breadcrumb, a whisper wrapped in smoke and memory.

What did he seek from that echo? To draw her back across the threshold? To remind her of what once was? Or to reach something tender within her, a soft pulse he could still find and hold?

Did she want to see him again?

She should say no.

She should—

He had stolen from them, lied, vanished like a shadow fleeing dawn. Left her to sift through fractured pieces, while whispers of betrayal clung to her like smoldering smoke. He let her believe the worst and never fought to rewrite the story.

And yet—

Still.

The memory of that tree stirred beneath her ribs, a buried ember glowing faint but relentless, refusing to die.

She didn’t look at Michaél. Didn’t want him to see how her throat tightened or how hard it was, just now, to remain unmoved.

Merith studied her gloved hands folded in her lap—still, elegant, a portrait of restraint. Her voice, when it came, was calm. Even.

“He doesn’t know.”

Michaél didn’t look surprised. “No. I didn’t tell him.”

She gave a tight nod—the kind that seemed to affirm something small but confirmed something much larger.

A breath slipped from her lips. Her fingers grazed the velvet trim of her gown, grounding herself in the texture.

“Are you meeting him again?”

Her eyes lifted—ice in the gaze now. The familiar armor settled over her like silk woven from steel.

Michaél leaned back, unfastening his necktie with a flick of irritation. “Yes, we’ve drifted. But something’s wrong—bigger than any old grievance. These days, I’m questioning everyone’s motives—Father’s, Aric’s, yours. And when that happens, it usually means someone’s playing a deeper game.”

Merith turned her gaze toward the hearth, voice smooth as pressed parchment. “This magic—this legacy—was left to us. Nerida didn’t hide it for vanity. She was trying to protect something. Or someone.”

He tilted his glass, watching the amber swirl like a divination pool. “And yet here we are, scraping away secrets she chose to bury.”

“We haven’t claimed it,” she said. “Not truly. Not without understanding it.”

Michaél gave a hollow little laugh. “You speak as though knowledge absolves. As if understanding can make the serpent less venomous.”

“I don’t believe it harmless,” she answered. “But power isn’t evil by nature. It’s what we choose to do with it that becomes legacy.”

“Ah, the noble romantic.” His smile was faint but sharp. “You see the Zmey as some ancient god we’ve only forgotten how to worship. But it was a serpent first. And serpents do not forget the shape of their hunger.”

The fire popped—spat something into the dark.

Merith shifted slightly, the velvet whispering like wind over stone. “Gorvoth Gaunt is in Hogsmeade. I reported it. Father dismissed it far too quickly.”

She hesitated. “I don’t know if that’s complacency—or complicity.”

Michaél’s gaze sharpened. “If Gorvoth’s sniffing around, he’s not doing it alone. The Gaunts answer to someone—and that someone likely shares our blood. Father always did admire dynasties.

“I saw him,” she said softly. “A month ago. And again this week.”

Michaél leaned forward slightly. “He approached you?”

“He didn’t say much. Just enough to make sure I knew I was being watched.”

She didn’t say how his fingers brushed her collarbone. Or the way his stare stayed behind, long after he’d gone. That part lived only with her.

Michaél studied her. “And you didn’t tell Father.”

“I doubt he’d tell me, if the positions were reversed.”

He gave a tight smirk and lifted his glass. “You’re learning.”

He tilted it in mock salute. She didn’t return the gesture.

“A Gaunt doesn’t move without orders,” he went on. “And Father never wastes his better pieces. He just puts them out of reach—where they can’t interfere.”

Merith’s voice was quiet, clipped. “I’ve been placed just outside the circle. Just close enough to believe I’m in it.”

“We all have,” Michaél murmured. “Some of us just happen notice.”

Her gaze narrowed. “So you think I’m being… handled.”

“No. I think Father sees you as a piece he doesn’t dare move.” He leaned in. “Because he doesn’t know which way you’ll strike.”

She looked away, breath tight behind her ribs. This wasn’t the first time she’d been kept in shadow “for her own protection.” She’d once called it patience. Strategy. Now it felt more like containment.

He watched her closely. “And yet here you are—Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. Nestled into your little post like you were meant to be there.”

“I keep watch,” she said coldly.

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Michaél’s smile soured. “Aric ran off to Merlin knows where. You’ve fled into nostalgia." 

A glint of something meaner now. "At least Aric doesn’t bed faculty.”

She went still. Her stare sharpened, unmoved.

“Professor Sharp,” he added lightly. “He’s quite... attentive, isn’t he? Though if he were truly sharp, he’d see through you.”

Her spine straightened. She didn’t rise to it. Not here. Not now.

Michaél’s voice turned low—velvet with something serrated beneath. “You walk those halls like they’re yours. Speak of legacy like it was written in your name alone. But Hogwarts isn’t home, Merith. And they won’t carry your secrets forever.”

He let the silence stretch, watching her with a predator’s patience.

“The longer you stay,” he said, “the more you start sounding like someone else’s weapon.”

She didn’t reply.

But something in her stilled—quiet, cold.

She rose. Each movement careful. Cut from restraint.

“I’ve heard enough.”

Michaél raised his glass, mock salute glittering in the firelight. “Try not to burn the world down chasing your legacy. That would be... repetitive.”

She gathered her cloak, sequins catching like starlight in the flicker of the hearth.

“Be seeing you,” she said.

And the door closed behind her with the hush of something unfinished.

Twilight draped the world in bruised lavender by the time Merith returned to the mansion. The corridors met her with their familiar hush—too quiet to be comforting, too grand to feel warm.

Each step echoed on the polished floors, her heels clicking like soft accusations. The sconces flickered as she passed, casting long shadows that slithered along the walls—unsettled, restless.

She paused before her chamber door.

Inside, the silence was heavier. It wrapped around her ribs like a corset drawn too tight. The scent of old incense lingered in the tapestries, mingling with the faint iron of cold stone and polished wood.

She closed the door behind her.

A silencing charm left the room in perfect stillness. The quiet became unnatural. Expectant.

She stood in the center of the room, pulse roaring in her ears. Michaél’s words scraped against her—accusations dressed as riddles, truths dressed as warnings.

A sound rose from her throat—raw, strangled.

She screamed.

It tore through her like a spell uncast, not loud but jagged—like glass against the inside of her chest. And when it faded, the silence that followed was worse.

She reached for the nearest thing—a glass decanter—and hurled it. It shattered with a crystalline violence, shards skittering across the stone like scattered stars.

Merith fell to her knees.

Hands trembling, she whispered the spell to mend it. Slowly, the shards crawled back together. Piece by piece. Seamless.

Untouched. As if it had never broken.

She stared at her hands. Pale. Steady now. Deceptive.

No one could see the cracks. Not Father. Not Michaél. Not even herself.

Because here, in the house of ghosts and bloodlines, weakness was treason.

And control—the mask, the silence, the perfection—was the only legacy she could still claim.

Chapter Text

Merith stepped out from the shadow of the mansion and disapparated with a sharp crack, the hush of the highlands replaced in an instant by the cobbled calm of upper Hogsmeade.

The air here was brisk—laced with woodsmoke and the scent of melting frost. Sunlight spilled softly through the crisscross of slanted rooftops and chimney haze, casting golden threads across the quiet shopfronts. Somewhere nearby, a crow called once, then fell silent.

She drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders, the fabric whispering against itself, and set off down the winding lane toward Gladrags. The walk, familiar and unobstructed, unfolded in gentle turns and small silences. With each step, the noise she’d carried from the manor—the brittle heat of words unspoken—thinned and softened, falling away like old ash.

As she neared the storefront, sound began to swell: muffled laughter, voices quick with anticipation. Through enchanted windows, gowns spun slowly in midair, their colors shifting with every blink—deep garnet to moonlit silver, to green that stirred like leaves in wind.

Inside, the shop was a flurry of movement. Gowns floated along enchanted rails. Young witches twirled before mirrored panels, trailing fingers over velvet sleeves and illusion-lace hems. Mothers fussed over hairpins and heel heights, their voices rising in the clamor of indecision. Above it all, a soft enchantment thrummed, coaxing the fabric to glow gently under spell-light.

Merith slipped in with her usual quiet grace, unnoticed at first. The clerk behind the counter recognized her a moment later and offered a polite nod—already reaching beneath the counter for the waiting parcels.

A wide white box appeared, wrapped in blush-pink satin ribbon. Alongside it, a smaller parcel sat like an afterthought—sleek, precise, gleaming faintly in the warm light.

Merith stepped forward, fingers brushing the edge of the ribbon. Her name was inked in neat, slanted script across the receipt:

Account Holder – Merith Vulchanova.

But just beneath it, another line, smaller, almost shy in its placement:

Gloves – Paid to the account of G. Gaunt.

Her brow arched, faint and unreadable.

She slid the smaller box toward her and lifted the lid.

Inside: a pair of lace gloves, soft as breath and barely there, dyed the blush of new roses. At the wrist, a single pink pearl fastened each one with quiet defiance. They shimmered faintly—enchanted fabric, impossibly fine.

Beneath them, a sliver of parchment curled like a whisper.

“For striking purposes only. Handle with care.”

Her lips curved—halfway to a smile. Wry. Unimpressed. Almost fond.

Then it was gone.

Her fingers twitched, and she gave a faint sigh through her nose—one that might have been amusement, might have been annoyance. Not today.

With a flick of her wand and a murmured charm, both boxes folded in on themselves with a soft, satisfying click—collapsing into a compact square, which she tucked neatly into the silver chain at her hip.

No flourish. No indulgence.

She turned back to the door, her cloak sweeping behind her.

There were other matters awaiting. Other shadows to walk through.

And she had no time—

no patience—

for Gaunt’s games, no matter how delicately laced.

Then came the low whistle of air—followed by the sudden, sharp scrape of bristles against gravel. A blur shot down from the clouds and carved a wide arc through the frost-bright sky before skidding to a halt on the path just ahead, kicking up a soft swirl of snow-dusted leaves.

Natsai Onai landed with practiced grace, her broom tilting as she leaned into the stop, boots crunching lightly against the stone. Her braids trailed behind her like dark silk ribbons in the wind, and her cloak fluttered with the leftover momentum, edges lined in gold that caught the afternoon sun. Her cheeks were wind-pink, her eyes bright from flight—and mischief.

“Professor Vulchanova!” she called, her voice like sunlight on cold stone.

It had been several weeks since their last meeting. Merith recalled that Matron Blainey had noted Natsai’s steady recovery from the splinching accident during Apparition class, though she knew Natsai’s mother, Professor Mudiwa, had chosen to withdraw her daughter from school for a time to ensure a complete healing.

“How have you been feeling, Miss Onai?” Merith asked with quiet formality, the weight of the past weeks lingering in her tone.

Natsai’s smile didn’t waver. “I’m more than alright, thank you for asking, Professor. I’m recovering faster than expected.”

Merith inclined her head slightly. “I understand your mother has been especially cautious.”

Natsai’s expression softened. “Yes. And I want to say I hold no ill feelings toward you, Professor Vulchanova. I am sorry for how my mother reacted. She can be fierce, but it’s never personal.”

Merith’s eyes darkened with understanding. “I respect your mother’s care and vigilance. It is clear her concerns come from a place of deep affection.”

Natsai chuckled softly. “Her temper is formidable, but even she cannot hold anger indefinitely.”

After a brief pause, she added, “I won’t be returning to Apparition lessons—the course is nearly over—but I will be back in Defense Against the Dark Arts. I’ve no desire to face my N.E.W.Ts underprepared."

Merith allowed herself a small, faint smile. “It will be good to have you back. Hogwarts is diminished without you.”

Natsai gave a quick, confident nod, then swung her leg back over her broom with practiced ease. Her posture shifted into that of a flyer again—shoulders set, heels lifted just slightly, fingers wrapped around the handle like it was second nature.

“I’ll see you soon, Professor,” she said, and with that, she kicked off the ground, broom rising in a smooth ascent.

The wind caught her cloak as she soared toward Hogsmeade in a blur of motion and laughter, vanishing into the winter-bright sky as suddenly as she’d arrived.

Merith stood a moment longer, the faint curl of a smile lingering on her lips.

Her thoughts were lighter now—if only briefly—after the encounter.

The Great Hall had never looked quite so alive.

Rosy candlelight flickered in suspended lanterns shaped like heartseed pods, casting soft halos that swayed in rhythm with the music. Garlands of enchanted ivy and crimson roses shimmered along the rafters, winding through the golden arches like living lace.

Overhead, the enchanted ceiling revealed a velvet night sky, richer than real dusk. Altair and Vega glimmered among the stars—two lovers across a river of dark, their light steady, their silence ancient. The heavens held their distance with grace, not sorrow.

The long house tables had vanished, replaced by a polished wooden dance floor and clusters of linen-draped round tables, each crowned with floating bouquets of heart-shaped lilies that bloomed in time with the music. At the far end, a quartet of musicians played a slow, romantic reel on silver-stringed violins, their bows moving as if coaxed by invisible hands.

Merith stood near the arched doorway, observing the students whirl across the floor in waves of taffeta and velvet. Her own blush-pink gown, sleek and understated, shimmered faintly when she moved—a subtle enchantment rather than anything garish. Her gloves—soft pink lace, clasped with pearls—remained pristine despite the evening’s many interruptions.

She hadn’t intended to linger here. But watching was easier than engaging. 

Her mind kept drifting back to her brother’s voice, the weight of that conversation pressing against her ribs like a held breath. There was no room for softness after that. And yet—

A sudden bloom of laughter pulled her out of her reverie. Leander Prewett spun Poppy Sweeting across the dance floor with absurd bravado, her pink dress flaring like spun sugar. Nearby, Matilda Weasley chuckled into her goblet while Professor Ronen beamed like the entire evening had been his personal achievement. 

Mirabel Garlick glided past, her cheeks flushed with pride and delight. With a graceful hand, she plucked a bloom from a drifting bouquet and tucked it into Merith’s deep brown hair without so much as a warning.

“Isn’t it just perfect?” Mirabel breathed, eyes aglow as she surveyed the scene. “The Herbology Club outdid themselves, I daresay. That vine over there? Veneficus clematis. Rare as mooncalf tears this time of year.”

A loud, ragged hiccup erupted nearby—sharp enough to startle a flutterby bush into recoiling.

“Whoever invented school dances,” slurred Mr. Moon, goblet in hand, “deserves an Order of Merlin, First Class. No—Second. Actually—no, First!”

Without a word, Merith extended her hand—no wand, no flourish—and flicked her fingers. The goblet lifted cleanly from Moon’s grasp and sailed into a tray balanced expertly by a passing House-Elf, who vanished with it in an instant.

Mr. Moon blinked.

Merith didn’t break her cool expression.

“Let’s pace ourselves, Mr. Moon,” she said dryly.

Then she saw him.

Aesop Sharp stood at the edge of the dance floor, arms folded behind his back, posture exact as always. His robes were dark and finely tailored, the waistcoat stitched with silver embroidery subtle enough to catch only when he moved. He had trimmed his beard, slicked back his hair, and still, there was something unruly about him—something that flickered behind the quiet set of his expression when he met her gaze.

She looked away too quickly, fingers adjusting the smooth edge of her glove though nothing was out of place. 

He always had that effect on her. Ever since—

A commotion near the refreshments broke her thoughts.

Sebastian Sallow was there, of course—shoulders squared with that casual arrogance he wore like a badge, holding a suspiciously shaped flask a little too close to the punch bowl. His dark robes were slightly rumpled, the collar open just enough to suggest charm over discipline. A familiar glint of mischief danced in his eyes.

William Wexley and Ominis Gaunt flanked him like reluctant accomplices. William stood tall and wiry, the perpetual storm of curiosity in his gaze dimmed somewhat by the social awkwardness of the evening. His robes were pristine, if a little stiff, as though he'd been ironed into them by an anxious house-elf. Ominis, ever composed, looked as though he regretted every life choice that had led him to this moment. His pale features were drawn in a tight line, the glow of his wand—the enchanted guide he always carried—casting a faint golden light over his sharply cut Slytherin dress robes.

Merith approached with measured steps.

“Mr. Sallow,” she said, eyeing the trio gathered far too casually by the refreshments. “Would you care to explain why you’re holding an unlabelled flask over the communal beverage?”

Sebastian blinked—caught. Then smirked faintly, ever unfazed.

“Just making sure the punch doesn’t feel left out, Professor,” he said smoothly, lifting the flask like an innocent party favor.

William shot Merith a sheepish grin—one that tugged at the corner of his mouth and reminded her, just for a moment, how young he still was beneath all the bluster and ambition. Ominis, on the other hand, looked seconds away from either hexing Sebastian or vanishing into the floor. Clearly, Sebastian’s treasure-hunting charm had lost its luster—Eira Vale had arrived with a polished Seventh Year Ravenclaw, and from the looks of it, she hadn’t given Sebastian a second glance.

Merith arched a brow.

“Five points from Slytherin. Flask—now. And if you even look at the refreshments again—”

She didn’t need to finish.

Sebastian sighed, slipping the flask into her waiting hand with theatrical delicacy.

“Confiscated. Got it.”

With a flick of her fingers, Merith tucked the flask into a concealed fold of her gown, never breaking eye contact.

Sebastian turned on his heel and sauntered off toward the archway, William and Ominis trailing close behind. As they passed, Merith caught the muttered remark under Sebastian’s breath—dry, just loud enough to ensure it reached her:

“Spending too much time with Sharp, that one. Starting to confiscate sins before we commit them.”

Ominis groaned.

"Do us a favor, Sebastian. Don’t talk.”

She said nothing, but a faint smile tugged at her lips.

“Efficiently done,” came a voice beside her.

Aesop had approached without fanfare. As he passed behind her, his hand brushed lightly across her back — not urgent, just a steadying touch — before he came to stand at her other side.

“I’m adaptable,” Merith murmured, still scanning the crowd.

“You seem... distracted,” he observed after a moment, his tone gentle, not unkind.

She tilted her head but offered no reply.

A pause settled between them, light as breath and twice as fragile.

The music shifted—slower now, tender—a waltz spun from candlelight and memory, meant to draw hearts into rhythm without asking permission.

Aesop extended his arm without a word, as if the moment had always been waiting.

She paused—just a blink—then placed her hand in his, the way one might press a palm to water, unsure of the depth.

Their steps began quiet, deliberate.
Aesop was no practiced dancer, but there was a patience in him—a quiet gravity to the way he moved. He didn’t push, didn’t pull, only adjusted, seamlessly, when her foot slipped the beat.

There was no need for words.

The ease of it—the unspoken understanding— tightened her throat. It settled in her chest like a sigh she couldn’t release.

Warmth passed between them in flickers: the soft curl of his fingers over hers, the way his gaze found her with every turn— not insistent, just present.

But her eyes couldn’t hold his.

Guilt pressed behind her lashes, and she blinked away before it could spill.

Then, in the hush between phrases, his voice reached her—low, near, threaded with something she couldn’t yet name.

“Not your usual,” he murmured, his voice low, almost contemplative. “And yet—it suits you.”

His gaze wandered slowly, reverently—down the soft sweep of her shoulders, to the pale, unguarded line of her collarbones. The off-the-shoulder satin clung like moonlight, catching the room’s dim glow with each breath she took. Around them, the crowd blurred into a distant hum. For a moment, he seemed to forget they weren’t alone.

“Though I’d be hard-pressed to imagine anything that wouldn’t.”

She didn’t answer. Her pulse had quickened—an ache she could feel in her throat. A strand of hair had come loose in the last turn, brushing her cheek. He reached up, slow and deliberate, tucking it behind her ear. His knuckles grazed her neck, fingertips barely brushing the hollow above her collarbone—featherlight, but impossibly warm. Whether it was meant or not, the touch lingered.

When she finally spoke, her voice had softened—low, edged with something almost wistful.

“And here I thought I was the one with a taste for drama.” Her eyes flicked to his. “I like the new look. You’ve… polished up.”

A ghost of a smile touched his mouth.

“Purely coincidental. These happened to be the least rumpled robes I own.”

She arched a brow, unconvinced.

He relented—just slightly.

“Or perhaps not entirely accidental. A scholar knows how to read a room.”

A pause, then a tilt of his head—measured, knowing. “Still. Customary black.”

The corner of her mouth curved—more shadow than smile.

“So it was for me, then.”

“For the occasion,” he said softly—then, after a breath: “and perhaps… for you.”

They twirled through the soft lilt of the waltz, the space between them narrowing in subtle, shifting ways. Around them, whispers stirred like moths to lantern light. A few students watched openly now, nudging one another with wide eyes.

Hyoto Kogawa caught her gaze. He raised a brow and lifted his wineglass, giving her a slow, deliberate look over the rim—so it’s true, then.

Aesop noticed.

His spine straightened almost imperceptibly, and his gaze flicked to the edges of the hall, where several staff had clearly taken note. The hand at her waist remained steady, but something in his shoulders shifted—a quiet bracing, like a man who recognized the weight of watching eyes.

“We’ve become a subject again,” he murmured.

“We were never not,” Merith replied, her voice even. “This just gives them new material.”

A breath of a chuckle escaped him—low, private.

“Mr. Moon’s taken to organizing wagers, I hear.”

“Weasley’s the ringleader,” Merith said dryly. “She thinks I’ll corrupt your moral compass.”

“It wouldn’t take much,” Aesop said. Then, with mock solemnity,

“It’s been frayed for years.”

She laughed—unguarded, light, almost startled by the sound of it.

A pause bloomed between them.

“That laugh suits you, too,” he said quietly.

Her gaze dipped then, lips parting—but the moment curved, and turned quiet again.

It was then he spoke, low and careful, the words tucked close to her ear:

“If I still had family… I imagine I’d have introduced you by now.”

They landed heavier than he’d meant.

The words echoed, soft and strange, settling in the hollow beneath her ribs. She didn’t know where to place them—so she didn’t try.

Her breath came quietly. Her head turned away, eyes fixed on something far off—midair, or memory.

“Are you sure they’d have approved?” she asked at last, a gentle deflection. “I’m told I’m hard to place.”

“My father wouldn’t have approved of anyone,” Aesop said, almost fondly—though something colder flickered behind it. “Especially not a woman with opinions.”
He glanced at her. “But my mother… she would’ve seen you. Clearly.”

A beat. “She had a gift for that.”

Merith didn’t answer.

But her hand shifted slightly in his. Her posture softened.

And though the music still carried on around them, they slowed. Just a little. Just enough to mark the moment without disrupting its rhythm.

Aesop didn’t press.

They danced on.

As the waltz dwindled and couples began to drift apart, Aesop offered his arm again—not to lead, but to suggest.

He tipped his head slightly toward the tall, arched doors that stood open beyond the ballroom.

No words were needed.

Merith inclined her head, and together they stepped from the candlelit warmth of the hall into the cool hush of the corridor—and then beyond, into the stillness beneath the stars.

The courtyard just outside the ballroom had been brushed with enchantment: frost curled like silver ink along the stone archways, delicate as breath on glass. Clusters of floating lanterns drifted low over rosebushes coaxed into midwinter bloom. Their petals, still kissed by snow, shimmered faintly with residual charm—each blossom glowing with a soft rose-gold light, like the blush of memory.

It was cold, but not cruel. The kind of cold that stirred color into the cheeks and turned breath into ribbons of smoke—thin, ephemeral, curling upward like forgotten prayers.

Couples lingered in alcoves and under awnings, laughter muffled beneath wool hoods. Some clasped hands, others stole kisses with the kind of secrecy that felt timeless. A few students strolled the frost-dusted paths, flushed from champagne punch, their voices softened by the mist. From behind them, the ballroom music echoed faintly—an echo of strings and shadow, distant and blurred by stone.

At the foot of the stairs, Professor Mudiwa Onai swept past.

Her formal robes—layered indigo and deep copper—moved like ink spilled in water. The folds recalled the elegance of Uagadou tradition, yet flowed with deliberate grace against the Highlands’ chill. She moved with a dancer’s poise, her presence both regal and restrained.

She inclined her head politely at Aesop—reserved, formal—but when her eyes flicked to Merith, they held something quieter. Not the fire of old resentment, but the embers of something left unsaid. Wound or memory. A note unplayed.

Merith met the glance only briefly. And then Onai turned, her silks whispering over stone as she vanished beneath an archway of frost and shadow.

Aesop said nothing.

Neither did Merith.

The courtyard stretched quiet around them, suspended in that hush between hours.

They stopped near the edge of the cloister, beneath the arch’s silvered reach. Lanternlight flickered across the stone, painting pale halos on the ground, catching in the lace at Merith’s wrist—intricate, antique, like the edge of a letter never sent.

Neither spoke.

The wind combed through the hedges, soft and murmuring.

From within the Hall, the music swelled again—faint, melodic, restrained.

Then, with the ease of ritual, Merith reached into a hidden seam of her gown and withdrew a flask—small, dented, and well-loved.

Aesop raised a brow, his eyes catching in the light.

“You’re still holding onto that?” he murmured.

“For educational purposes,” she said, her voice low, almost fond.

He gave a faint exhale, dry as parchment. “What’s the lesson?”

“That the night is long,” she replied, unscrewing the cap, “and sometimes you have to steal warmth where you can find it.”

She offered it to him first.

For a moment, Aesop hesitated. His hand rose to the edge of his jaw, thumb brushing the neatly trimmed scruff at his chin—absent, almost pensive. Then he took it.

Merith watched as he lifted the flask—watched the way his mouth met the metal, the slow parting of his lips. The gesture was quiet, unremarkable to anyone else, but to her it stirred something low and aching. Something she refused to name. In that moment, she found herself wanting—just briefly, foolishly—to press her own lips where his had been. To chase the heat he left behind.

He drank.

Not much—just a sip—but enough.

She took it back with fingers steady, though her pulse wasn’t. The flask was warm where his hand had been.

She drank, too.

The taste was unforgiving. Some strange hybrid of cheap firewhiskey and wild herbs—sharp, with an afterburn that bit at the throat. The kind of thing that felt less like drinking and more like summoning courage.

When she glanced up, he was still watching her.

His expression was unreadable—but not unfeeling.

“I’ll pretend I enjoyed that,” he said at last, grimacing faintly.

“You’re terrible at pretending.”

“So are you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—it settled gently, like a shared cloak draped over their shoulders.

Above them, the stars shone cold and clear. Altair and Vega hung suspended across the sky, their light stretched thin by distance and fate—two celestial figures forever reaching across a river they’d never cross.

“You’re not entirely here tonight,” Aesop said softly.

Merith’s gaze lifted. “I’m trying.”

He nodded once. “That’s enough.”

And—for now—it was.

Then, with quiet care, he reached for her hand. His fingers brushed against the lace of her glove, trailing down until he found her palm. He turned it gently, pressing his lips to her knuckles—slow, deliberate. A courtly gesture. Entirely appropriate. And yet—

It lingered.

Not in length, but in weight.

The touch carried meaning neither of them named. A promise. A plea. A rare moment of softness from a man who rarely offered it. And from her, a stillness—a silence that answered in kind.

Her breath hitched, just once.

She didn’t pull away.

Instead, her fingers curled gently into his.

For a few heartbeats, they stood beneath the frost-touched archway, the world hushed around them like snow on stone.

Then, lightly—her voice quieter than before—Merith turned toward the hall.

“We should go,” she said. “If the punch remains unguarded, I wouldn’t be surprised to find a few... creative additions by dawn.”

Aesop’s mouth twitched. He offered his arm.

She took it without hesitation.

As they walked, Merith caught it—the almost imperceptible shift in his gait. Still composed, still controlled, but not without effort. The limp was back, subtle but certain. He bore it with his usual discipline, but she saw it now, clearer than before. The tension in his jaw. The faint drag in the line of his stride.

She had cast the charms only that morning—refined, specific, etched with care. Spells meant to ease the strain, to dull the curse’s grip on his joints.

And yet...

Already, the relief was slipping.

The magic was losing ground.

Her stomach twisted, quiet and slow. But she said nothing.

Above them, the constellations wheeled. Cold. Constant. Indifferent.

Her brother’s words echoed in her mind: Whatever it is, it’s something you want.

Was it?

And if it was—did that make her foolish?

Or simply honest?

She glanced sidelong at Aesop as they moved in step. The lanternlight etched his profile in gold and shadow. He looked composed, as always—his hair slicked back, the sharp architecture of his features as immovable as stone.

But she had touched the fracture lines.

She knew the pain he carried—knew the strain in his hands, the quiet grit behind each movement. When their fingers brushed now, she felt something far stronger than need. She felt trust.

And it scared her more than anything else.

They stepped back into the warmth of the hall, their shadows stretching long behind them.

To anyone watching, nothing had changed.

But something had.

And for tonight—perhaps—that was enough.

Chapter Text

The faintest whisper of a lullaby—half-remembered, unanchored from time—pulled Merith from sleep.

It drifted through her like smoke, fading as consciousness took hold. A scent lingered at the edges of her mind: beeswax, old paper, and woodsmoke—faint, familiar, like a forgotten spell cast long ago.

She was small again. No more than a toddler, tucked against her mother’s skirts in the shadowed alcove of the Vulchanova estate’s library. The velvet folds of her mother’s gown smelled of lavender and rosewater.

Michaél sat just feet away, perched on a narrow stool, his slender fingers drawn to the ornate chest their father kept beneath the window. The box was carved from black walnut, runes etched deep along its seams—wards old and humming with memory.

Their father loomed nearby, his silhouette blurred by the dim lamplight. His face was cast in shadow, but the stiffness of his shoulders betrayed him. He was tense—distracted. His voice came low, nearly inaudible, rasping through the quiet.

“...They broke the terms again. The goblins won’t sign unless we concede more land—old land. Sacred ground.”

There was more: words like sanction, consequence, and containment threaded through the conversation, though Merith hadn’t understood them then. Only the fear they carried.

Then the memory shifted—fluid and sudden. She was older, kneeling by the hearth, a soft glow playing across her face. In her hands was the globe—her favorite: a handheld sphere of polished ashwood and smoky glass, etched with minuscule runes that shimmered when touched. When activated, the globe stirred to life, revealing dancing auroras, drifting Thestrals, and shifting constellations.

She turned it gently, watching a scene unfold—a Kelpie rising from a moonlit sea—when Michaél’s voice cut across the silence.

“Why can’t we talk about her?”

Merith froze.

Michaél stood now, rigid and pale, his voice shaking with more than anger. “Why wasn’t there a funeral? Why is she locked away in the crypt like she never existed?”

The air in the room thickened, as though the very walls held their breath.

Their father looked up from his ledger, the ink on his quill still wet. His expression hardened—not cruel, but exhausted. Hollow.

“We’ve been over this,” he said, slowly.

“No. You’ve avoided it,” Michaél snapped. “It’s like she died and you buried the truth with her.”

The slap was sudden, jarring.

Not loud—but sharp enough to silence the room.

Michaél’s head jerked sideways, his small frame trembling, his cheek reddening in stark contrast to the fire’s glow. The globe slipped from Merith’s hands and hit the floor with a dull roll, spinning once before settling against the uneven stone.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then their father dropped to his knees beside Michaél. His voice cracked as he reached for him, arms trembling.

“She’s gone, my son. That’s the truth. There’s no spell that can bring her back. Holding on to her memory will not ease the loss. It will only deepen it.”

Michaél didn’t speak. His fists unclenched slowly at his sides.

Their father reached for Merith then, pulling her close with one arm, his other around Michaél. His voice was quiet, rough from disuse.

“We are still a family. We move forward. Together. That is the strength she left us.”

The silence that followed was not peaceful, but binding. Heavy. A thread woven tightly around grief.

Even then, Merith hadn’t cried. She only buried her face in her father’s coat, breathing in parchment and wormwood, and made a silent vow: she would never ask questions that caused him pain. She would not press at old wounds. Not like Michaél.

She would be strong.

It was a child’s promise, made with all the weight her heart could bear—and one she had never truly broken.

Now, as the memory faded, Merith lay still in Aesop's narrow bed in the faculty tower—simple, clean linens drawn tight, curtains softly closed. Aesop's still sleeping figure lay beside her. Her fingers remained faintly curled, as if still clutching that old globe. The ache in her chest had settled into something deeper, quieter—not sorrow exactly, but a quiet reckoning.

She had believed that moment had made her strong.

Perhaps, instead, it had only made her silent.

The air in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom clung thick with the scent of old smoke and something faintly metallic—remnants of the Banshee lesson earlier that week, and the unease it had left behind. The torches on the walls flickered low, casting long shadows across the wooden planked floor.

Merith paced the front of the room with quiet precision, but her sharp gaze lingered on two familiar figures near the back: Sebastian Sallow slouched low in his chair, eyes rimmed with fatigue, while William Wexley sat upright but stiff, his jaw clenched in a way that betrayed the strain. Both had the look of students running on too little sleep—and perhaps too much adrenaline.

She cleared her throat. “Good morning,” she said crisply. “Today, we turn our attention to a topic less spectral than our last, but no less dangerous.”

With a graceful sweep of her fingers, the blackboard came alive. Chalk scraped sharply across the slate, sketching the outline of a hunched figure cloaked in shadow, wiry hair cascading down its back, and claw-like fingers curling in midair. The eyes—two deep hollows—seemed to follow the room.

“Hags,” Merith announced. “They’ve appeared in magical folktales from the Hebrides to the Carpathians, but make no mistake—they are real. And they are deadly.”

She stepped aside, tapping the chalk as it adjusted the figure’s spine—exaggerated, crooked, an unnatural curve beneath the sketch of threadbare robes.

“Never underestimate a hag’s cunning,” she said. “They’ve survived for centuries not by brute strength, but by deception, wit, and a disturbing grasp of human frailty.”

She paused, letting the silence draw the class in.

“One particularly clever hag—some of you may recall her from a lesser-known Midlands tale—once brewed a Beautification Potion so potent she transformed herself into a woman of rare and haunting beauty. She married a Muggle king, ruled beside him for nearly a decade, and slowly poisoned half his court before vanishing without a trace.”

A few students shifted in their seats.

Merith’s voice grew quieter, more deliberate. “Unlike Banshees, which you’ve now had the distinct pleasure of encountering, hags are not tethered to a single place. They walk freely, adapt quickly, and often hide in plain sight. Their magic is ancient—drawn from blood, ritual, and illusion.”

The chalk scrawled a list beside the hag: Unnatural fog. Spoiled food. Disturbed dreams.

“They prefer isolation—moorlands, caves, deserted cottages—but a skilled hag can vanish in a crowd just as easily. They feed on fear and weakness. And they’re clever enough to make sure no one sees them coming.”

Sebastian's quill hadn’t moved. William scribbled notes, but more slowly than usual. Merith narrowed her eyes.

“They’re resistant to many common defensive spells. Stunning charms, especially, rarely hold. Binding is your best option—if you get it right.”

She turned toward the room. “Now. Who can remind me of the three primary categories of binding spells?”

Silence. A few hands rose, sluggish. Even Imelda Reyes looked distracted.

Merith let her gaze fall on the two boys once more. William blinked hard, struggling to focus. Sebastian, pale and withdrawn, stared at his parchment as though hoping it would fill itself.

She raised an eyebrow. “Tired, gentlemen?”

William sat up straighter. “Just a long night, Professor.”

“I trust it wasn’t spent chasing Banshees outside your assigned parameters.”

A glance flickered between them—quick, practiced. Merith didn’t miss it.

Her tone softened, but not her intent. “What we study in this classroom is not theoretical. When misjudged, they maim. They kill. And they do not reward curiosity without caution.”

Sebastian finally spoke. “We remember, Professor.”

“Good. Then let’s see if you remember this.”

With a sweep of her wand, the classroom dimmed, and a training dummy—patched together from enchanted cloth and charmed straw—lurched forward from the corner, stitched face twisted into a leering grin.

“Pair up,” she said. “Incarcifors Sequence. Start with the base incantation and layer intent. The dummy won’t stay still—and it won’t forgive sloppiness.”

Ropes of magic cracked across the room. Some latched onto the dummy with satisfying thuds, others fizzled midair. Merith made her way through the rows, correcting stance and pronunciation, but when she reached William and Sebastian, she paused.

Their form was tight. Too tight. Spells timed with near-perfect precision, as if they'd done this routine countless times before. The kind of coordination you didn’t build in class.

Merith watched a moment longer, then turned away, lips tightening slightly. She’d speak to William privately.

When the lunch bell rang, the dummy collapsed into a heap of loose cloth, and the students dispersed in a wave of chatter and groans. Merith remained still, watching the last pair of boys disappear through the door.

With a commanding gesture, the classroom reset itself—quills tucked neatly away, scorched desks polished clean, the candles flaring back to life. She moved to her desk, her fingers brushing across parchment already curling at the edges—notes and theories about the failing charm on Aesop’s leg. Even the ink looked weary.

The sound of firm, measured footsteps echoed from the hallway.

“Still putting the room back together?” came a familiar voice.

Matilda Weasley leaned against the frame, arms crossed, her mouth curved in that half-smile that always seemed both knowing and vaguely disapproving.

She wore a dark teal traveling cloak, modest but tailored, with faint golden embroidery glinting at the cuffs. Her hat perched at just the right angle—half practicality, half authority.

Merith sighed. “They left it in one piece this time. Only two scorched desks. And one slightly more flammable sixth-year.”

Matilda stepped into the room, glancing around with the critical eye of someone who’d rebuilt more than her fair share of chaos. “I heard one of them describing the lesson as ‘gruesomely invigorating.’ You do have a talent for theatrical menace.”

“I prefer practical,” Merith replied. “It tends to leave a stronger impression.”

“Clearly. Though I’d wager Sebastian Sallow looked like that long before your lesson.” Matilda tilted her head. “Worn down. Edgy. William too.”

“They’re hiding something,” Merith said simply. “Haven’t said as much, but I know the signs.”

Matilda’s expression shifted—less amused now, more thoughtful. “Have you considered they may be doing something they think is worth hiding?”

“They’re talented,” Merith said. “But they’re also reckless. That combination rarely leads anywhere good.”

Matilda’s smile faded slightly, her gaze sharpening. 

“You’re not wrong. Those two have a tendency to find trouble like it’s mapped into their blood.”

Merith gave a soft huff. “I’d like to think they inherited that from this place rather than anything inborn.”

“Perhaps. But Hogwarts always brings something out of us—good, bad, or otherwise.” Matilda’s gaze drifted to the papers on Merith’s desk.

After a beat, she asked, tone carefully neutral, “Not student work, I take it?”

Merith didn’t answer immediately. “No.”

A pause.

“He's good at hiding the worst of it,” Matilda said at last.

Merith stilled, her gaze meeting Matilda’s.

“I’ve seen the limp worsening,” Matilda went on. “The way he braces on certain stairs. Keeps his hands in his pockets more often. He’s careful about how long he stands.”

Merith hesitated. Then, with quiet resolve: “The spell’s failing. Stronger versions buy us a little more time, but not much. I’ve tried everything—counter-charms, layered enchantments, even runework I’m not entirely sure I trust.”

Matilda stepped closer, not intruding, but anchoring her presence. “And you’ve taken this on yourself.”

Merith looked back down at the page. “He wouldn’t ask.”

“No. But that never stopped you, did it?”

There was no accusation in her voice. Only recognition.

Then, with a faint smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, Matilda added, “You care for him. That much is plain.”

Merith said nothing, her silence as much an answer as any confession.

“Just be careful you don’t do what he’s doing,” Matilda said, softer now. “Carrying it alone.”

Merith nodded faintly, and for a moment, the room was still save for the whisper of candle flame.

As Matilda turned back toward the door, she glanced over her shoulder. “Try not to set anyone else on fire, until supper.”

“I’ll do my best,” Merith murmured.

“I’m not convinced,” Matilda said dryly, and was gone.

Her footsteps faded into the corridor.

Merith sat, fingers curled loosely around her quill, and stared down at the scrawled diagrams and notations. Matilda had seen more than she'd let on—but then, she always did.

And if she had, it meant there were others who might, too.

Time was running short.

The final bell had long since faded, and the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom was now cloaked in amber shadows, its silence broken only by the soft hiss of torchlight and the rustle of parchment. William Wexley moved methodically through the last of his notes, shoulders squared despite the fatigue that still tugged at the corners of his posture.

Merith leaned against the edge of her desk, arms folded, watching him. He was composed, alert—far more so than during the lesson. The kind of quiet control that always sharpened once the audience had left.

“Ready for something a little less theoretical?” she asked, her voice low, touched with dry amusement.

William glanced up, and the weariness in his expression shifted—tempered now by curiosity. “You mean we’re finished measuring magical thresholds?”

“For now,” she replied, straightening as she withdrew a slim scroll from a locked drawer. She laid it carefully on the table between them. The parchment was soft with age, the ink a faded umber that caught the candlelight like dried blood. At the top, in delicate, spidery script, were the words: Ruin Song & Sea Memory—Recovered Accounts of the Secluded Shore.

William leaned closer, brow lifting. “Field work?”

“If you’re up for it.”

He gave her a look that might have been cocky if it weren’t so plainly sincere. “Always.”

As Merith began outlining the assignment—extraction from a sealed ruin near the coast, obscured by enchantments known to warp memory—their conversation, as it often did, wandered. They drifted between theories and logistics, then to people. As always, Sebastian’s name surfaced, wrapped in careful phrasing and unfinished sentences.

“He’s been... focused lately,” William said eventually, adjusting a stray inkpot. “A bit too focused.”

“On what?”

“Everything. Coursework, duelling, brewing, you name it.” William hesitated, then added more quietly, “He hasn’t mentioned Anne in weeks. I think that’s part of it.”

Merith said nothing, but the look in her eyes told him she understood.

“He needs something to chase,” William said after a beat. “We both do, really. And if it brings in a few extra sickles—well, so much the better.”

She arched a brow. “Sickles?”

He winced, then shrugged with the practiced sheepishness of someone long used to skirting the rules. “Hogwarts covers the basics, sure. But there are things we need—books, ingredients. Wards that need better decoding tools. When Sebastian’s uncle was still around, getting even a spare Knut was like pulling dragon teeth.”

Merith’s gaze softened, though she didn’t interrupt.

“We started small. Odd jobs—retrieving things for portraits, answering requests from cursed travellers who pass through the Highlands. Some of them pay well. Others... eventually.” He gave a faint, lopsided smile. “Usually when we show up with a cursed brooch and a near-death story.”

That earned a laugh from her—genuine, if weary. “So, you’re treasure hunters now.”

William shrugged, though there was a trace of pride behind it. “Something like that. I suppose it just feels good to know we can. That we’re not stuck waiting for life to start after N.E.W.T.s.”

Merith studied him, a flicker of something distant in her eyes. There was a time—not so long ago—when she too had spent nights in half-collapsed ruins with only a wand, a battered map, and borrowed spells. Cold floors, colder winds. The thrill of finding something that had gone forgotten by time. And someone to share the silence with.

“Is it just the funds that keep you chasing?” she asked, her tone gentler now.

William was quiet for a moment. Then he shook his head. “No. I like the challenge. The puzzle of it. And the company.”

Merith offered the faintest smile. “Good answer.”

She reached for the scroll again, rolling it carefully and tying it with a thin leather cord.

“Well then,” she said, stepping away from the desk, “let’s test that. This next part may require a late dinner—and no, you may not pay with cursed brooches. I’ll cover it.”

William grinned. “Generous of you, Professor.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, sweeping her cloak from the back of her chair. “You’ve never tried following sea-bound ley lines after dark.”

“Sounds like an adventure.”

Merith gave him a look over her shoulder, something between warning and mischief. “It is. But it’s not the sort that always ends clean.”

The torches guttered slightly as they left the room, the scroll tucked under her arm, the heavy door swinging shut behind them.

The classroom returned to stillness. Only the blackboard remained animated, the chalk figure of the hag still grinning faintly in the shadows.

Twilight spread over the Secluded Shore like ink poured into a basin of silver. The sea shimmered beneath it—dark and vast, whispering in tongues older than language as the tide crept up slick black rocks. Salt clung to the wind, mingled with something subtler, older—like damp parchment or the last breath of a spell forgotten by time.

The ruins loomed just beyond the breakwater, hunched and half-drowned in the surf. Their stones, worn smooth by centuries of salt and wave, peeked out of the sea like the vertebrae of some long-dead leviathan. Moss threaded their arches. Coral bloomed where windows once were. It was breathtaking, in a way that subtly beckoned, as if an unseen tide was quietly guiding your steps closer to its edge.

The village nearby was no more than a clutch of slanted cottages with sea-glass in the shutters and iron charms hammered to every lintel. Fishing nets dried like cobwebs across fences, and everywhere the scent of brine and woodsmoke drifted on the air. Despite the hour, lamps still glowed behind warped panes, and figures moved within—too slowly, too quietly.

Merith and William made their way from house to house, never pressing, always asking carefully. The villagers spoke in the hesitant cadence of people who’d seen too much to trust silence but too little to believe clarity. The same stories repeated in different voices:

“Birds vanish mid-flight. Not a feather left behind.”

“Lanterns under the water, red and steady, movin’ like they’ve got somewhere to be.”

“Sound of cryin’, just as the tide turns. Sometimes it’s a girl, sometimes a man. Sometimes... it sounds like both.”

One old woman, stooped with the weight of years and grief, grasped William’s wrist with surprising strength. Her eyes, fogged with cataracts, flicked to Merith, then back. “You’re goin’ down there, aren’t you?”

“We are,” Merith said gently.

She sniffed. “Fools, then. That place were a stronghold once. Magic folk. Not Hogwarts types—older. Kept something there. Something they wouldn’t let die.”

William frowned. “A relic?”

“Maybe. Maybe a spell. Maybe a prison. Doesn’t matter now. One day it all went wrong. Sea rose so fast it split the cliff. Wasn’t a storm, no—was like the ocean came for it. Like it had a purpose.”

“And the people?” he asked.

The woman leaned back and made a sign over her chest. “Gone. All of ’em. Not a single one crawled out. Just silence and salt.”

Before they could step away, another voice cut in from a shadowed doorway. A man stepped into view—broad-shouldered, his coat thick with salt and fraying at the cuffs. His eyes were sharp, but wary. 

“You’re not the first to try,” he said, steadying the old woman as he guided her back across the creaking threshold of the shack.

Merith turned slightly. “Try what?”

“Going down there. Investigating.” He rubbed a calloused thumb along the line of his jaw. “A few young ones over the years—foolish, curious. They get pulled in by the lights, or the voices. And when they do come back—if they come back—they’re not the same.”

“Not the same how?” William asked.

The man’s gaze darkened. “Disoriented. Sickly. A few don’t speak for days. One lad forgot his own name for a fortnight. Another kept scribbling nonsense runes in charcoal—’til he set his sheets alight in the night and nearly burned down the docks.”

Merith frowned. “Memory loss?”

The man nodded. “That’s what the healer thinks. Like something inside them got... scrambled. Like they saw too much—or weren’t supposed to see anything at all.”

She glanced at William. “Thoughts?”

He didn’t hesitate. “A modified memory charm. Not cast by a person—woven into the place itself. A passive enchantment, maybe proximity-triggered.”

Merith raised a brow. “To protect the ruins?”

“Or to protect something in the ruins,” William said. His mind was already ticking forward. “We’ll need countermeasures. Occlumency might help. Maybe even grounding charms—something to tether thought to memory.”

Merith paused at the shoreline, drawing a thin silver thread from her satchel. She wrapped it three times around her wand, then pricked her thumb and pressed it to the hilt. A pulse of blue light shimmered at the tip.

“Thread of recall,” she murmured, more to herself than to William. “Anchors memory to the moment it was cast. If the charm holds, I’ll know who I am—and why I’m there.”

William watched as the magic settled. “Looks like something out of a Department of Mysteries handbook.”

“It nearly was. Hecat left the notes behind before she retired. I adjusted the spell for field use.”

Before he could reply, she turned to him, already unwinding a second thread.

He raised a brow. “Is this optional?”

“No.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she’d already wrapped the thread around his wand, quick and precise. When she reached for his hand, he didn’t pull away—though his expression was somewhere between amused and resigned.

Merith pricked his thumb with a conjured pin and pressed it to the wand’s hilt. The magic flared again, sharp and clean.

“There,” she said. “Now we both come back.”

William looked down at the thread-bound wand, then at her. “Bit forceful, don’t you think?”

“If I left you to your own devices, you’d try some half-tested sigil you etched into a boot sole.”

He tilted his head. “In fairness, it worked last time.”

Merith gave him a flat look and turned toward the surf. “Come on.”

They left the cottages behind in silence, their footsteps muffled by damp grass and sea-worn stone. Lantern light faded behind them, swallowed by the thickening mist. The path curved along a narrow ridge above the surf, where the wind picked up sharp with salt and the scent of something faintly metallic—magic, old and unsettled. 

Ahead, the sea stretched wide and dark, the ruins hunched just offshore like bones exposed by the tide.

William exhaled slowly. “Hope you can swim.”

Merith gave him a sidelong look. “That was never in question. I do hope you didn’t pack lead boots.”

He smirked faintly. “Only metaphorical ones.”

By nightfall, the clouds thickened, and the air took on a biting sharpness. No enchanted cloaks tonight—Merith muttered a warming charm under her breath, and William followed suit. With a precise motion, she swept her hands apart, and the waves parted just enough to reveal the slanted stone stairway submerged beneath the water’s surface.

“After you,” she said.

He offered a mock bow. “How courteous.”

They dove.

Beneath the waves, the world turned still and dim and strange. The water was cold but not unbearable, held back slightly by their magic. They moved downward through the sunken structure—arches twisted like ribs, flagstones half-swallowed by coral. Silverfish darted through holes where windows had once been. Columns stood, crooked but proud, their capitals etched with sea-worn runes.

As they reached the first air pocket and broke the surface, Merith paused, touching two fingers lightly to her temple.

Her shoulders relaxed by a degree. “Anchor’s holding.”

William blinked water from his lashes. “Good. Identity intact. Though I was half-expecting to return with a more commendable set of decisions.”

“You mean someone who doesn’t swim into cursed ruins before dinner?”

“Precisely.”

The next chamber opened before them—dry, quiet, and strange. The stonework had the weight of sanctity about it.

Merith brushed her fingers across a cracked mural: a figure wreathed in flame cradling a basin of stars.

“Do you see that?” William whispered, pointing to the wall.

Soft blue runes had begun to shimmer faintly, flickering to life as he stepped closer. They pulsed, quiet and curious, like something waking up.

Merith’s brow furrowed. “They’re responding to you.”

He didn’t answer, but traced one with a fingertip, eyes distant.

The final chamber was larger, opening like a cathedral vault beneath the cliff. Water pooled in the center—still and black. Runes ringed the dais above it. Bones littered the corners—some animal, some not. A dull pressure built in the air, like the moment before a storm breaks.

A flicker of red light threaded through the cracks in the stone.

Then came the groan.

It was not sound, not fully—more sensation, like breath trapped in a dying body. The pool churned. Hands breached the surface—pale, swollen, slick. One. Two. Then dozens. Inferi.

They rose, jerky and dripping, their mouths slack, eyes glowing like embers beneath silt. They moved as one—silent, slow, certain.

“Bombarda!” Merith’s voice cracked like a whip. The first spell blew two of them back into the water. “Confringo!” Another blast, heat licking across the damp walls.

But still they came.

She glanced at William, heart climbing to her throat.

He hadn’t moved.

Not out of fear—she knew that look. This was something else.

His wand hung slack at his side. His eyes were wide, unfocused, staring through the Inferi as if they weren’t there at all—as if he were somewhere else entirely.

A breath caught in Merith’s chest. “William—” she called, firm but low.

He didn’t answer.

The Inferi closed in, limbs sloshing through the water, their wet, skeletal fingers reaching.

Merith turned, wand raised, ready to blast them back—but still he didn’t move. His gaze was locked, jaw clenched, shoulders rigid. And then she saw it—his hands trembling, barely perceptible. Not from fear. From memory.

A flicker of something passed over his face. Grief. Fury. Shame.

He whispered something—Merith couldn’t hear it.

And then it happened.

A surge of energy erupted from the wand in his grasp—not conjured, not incanted, but summoned from somewhere deeper. The chamber pulsed with light, not red this time, but a piercing blue-white that spilled out in all directions, coalescing into swirling strands that lifted into the water like threads of starlight.

The Inferi froze mid-step, heads snapping toward the source of the magic.

Then they shattered.

The magic exploded outward in a wave—pure and ancient. It struck the undead with an almost celestial force, unraveling their cursed forms into ash and steam. Bones cracked. Screams never voiced hissed into bubbles.

Then silence fell—sudden, absolute, and as complete as a vanishing charm.

William stood at the center of the still water, chest heaving, wand half-raised. The last threads of blue-white light curled from his fingers before dissolving into the dark.

He blinked—slowly, as if surfacing from deep beneath the waves.

Merith lowered her hands, her last spell uncast. She stared, stunned.

Her voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper. “What… was that?”

William’s arm dropped to his side. His breath came shallow, ribs tight beneath his coat. The silence pressed in around them—damp and reverent.

He looked down at the water, where flecks of ash still swirled like silk through ink. Then, almost absently, he murmured, “‘There hath he lain for ages and will lie…’”

Merith blinked. “What?”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Tennyson. The Kraken. It seemed… thematic.”

“You quote poetry now?”

“Only when surrounded by drowned corpses and ancient runes.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Poetry and combat. You might’ve been missorted.”

He gave a quiet snort. “Don’t let the Hat hear you say that.”

She stepped closer, her tone softer now. “William… what did you just do?”

He hesitated. Ripples caught the glow of his wand, casting restless light across the stone—but the Inferi were gone. Reduced to dust and memory.

“I don’t know,” he said too quickly.

Merith fixed him with a look.

He sighed, jaw shifting. “It’s happened before. Just… not like that. Not that strong.”

“Does Sebastian know?”

“He’s seen it.” William’s gaze flicked toward the dark archway where they’d first entered. “We don’t talk about it. Not recently.”

Merith didn’t look away. “That wasn’t spellwork. That was older. Innate. That was ancient magic, William. The kind you don’t study. The kind that just is.”

He met her eyes at last, voice quiet. “I know.”

The air around them felt still again—watching.

After a moment, Merith raised her wand and cast a warming charm over them both. The damp chill eased slightly, the cave breathing softer.

They lingered. The hush of seawater echoed faintly through the tunnels, as William began methodically casting Revelo across the floor and walls. Ribbons of blue magic swept out, illuminating every crack and surface. But nothing stirred. No hidden sigils lit up. No concealed compartments revealed themselves. The room offered no secrets—only the bones of the forgotten.

William let his wand drop with a sigh. “Well… that was anticlimactic. I was expecting at least a cursed locket or a cryptic map. Maybe a trapdoor.”

Merith didn’t answer immediately. Her attention had drifted to the single intact mural along the far wall.

A great sea serpent wound through a ring of stars, its sinuous body coiled in a figure-eight. The mural had faded with time, but the serpent’s eyes still gleamed, dark and knowing. Its scales shimmered faintly in the dim Lumos light—iridescent, like they might shift under your gaze if you weren’t careful.

She stepped closer, fingertips brushing the edge of the stone. “Must there always be a reward?”

William looked at her, then back at the empty space around them. “It wouldn’t hurt.”

A pause stretched between them, heavy with salt and silence.

Merith gave the serpent one last glance, then turned. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the tide remembers it’s meant to drown us.”

They moved together toward the tunnel, their footsteps echoing off the slick stone. Water lapped at their boots.

Before reaching the mouth of the passage, William crouched beside the cold, wet wall and drew a small piece of charmed chalk from his coat.

With practiced ease, he etched a sigil across the back of his hand—circles within loops, an open eye sinking beneath the surface. The glyph flared once before sinking beneath the skin.

Merith glanced back. “That’s not standard Ministry work.”

“No,” he said, flexing his fingers. “It’s tied to my own arithmantic pattern. If my thoughts start to fray on the way up, this should bring me back to baseline.”

She nodded. “And if it doesn’t?”

He gave a dry, weary sort of grin. “Then I’ll start quoting Tennyson again. You’ll know something’s gone terribly wrong.”

Merith shook her head, amused despite herself. “Hopeless.”

She raised her wand once more, parting the water ahead. The stairwell emerged, slick and waiting.

“After you,” she said.

William stepped past her, voice low. “Let’s not make a habit of this.”

They slipped beneath the waves.

And behind them, the sea serpent on the wall watched in silence, unmoving—but not forgotten.

Chapter Text

The wind howled as they mounted their brooms, salt spray lashing at their faces. Merith’s onyx cloak streamed behind her like a banner, a sharp contrast to the shadowy folds of William’s robes. They climbed into the sky above the churning sea, the ancient ruins below shrinking until they were little more than jagged teeth in the surf. The air hung heavy with brine—and something older, deeper. Something that stirred unease.

But behind her, Merith’s thoughts raced.

That magic had not come from his wand. It had come from him—raw, instinctive, impossibly old.

She didn’t press. Not yet. Not here.

Some truths needed dry clothes, firelight, and firmer ground.

Twilight bled into night as clouds gathered, vast and bruised, blotting out the final vestiges of light. A low rumble echoed across the water.

Then, the wind shifted. Cold swept in with a suddenness that bit through even their warming charms.

Rain fell in great sheets—cold, hard, blinding. It stung Merith’s face and blurred her vision as the sea below turned violent, its surface writhing.

“Merlin’s beard,” William muttered, barely audible above the roar. “This wasn’t in the forecast.”

The storm hit in earnest. Rain lashed their forms, and the wind battered their brooms into erratic spirals. The ruins vanished beneath a haze of mist and water. Merith’s fingers tightened around her broom, white-knuckled. 

“We need to take cover!” she shouted, her voice nearly lost to the wind. “Find shelter!”

William gave a grim nod. His face, pale with concentration, gleamed with rain as he fought for control.

They landed just beyond Upper Hogsfield, the storm driving Merith’s cloak flat against her back. The village, typically lively, lay subdued beneath the deluge. The air reeked of wet stone and damp wool, a stubborn chill clinging to the melting frost. Only the old brewhouse on the embankment—a squat, timbered building known as The Copper Cask, famed for supplying butterbeer to nearby hamlets—offered any promise of warmth. Its windows glowed through the sheets of rain like watchful eyes. Nearby, the rhythmic churn of the mill wheel provided a steady heartbeat against the quiet unease.

Merith drew her hands briskly down her coat and over her shoulders, muttering a charm. Water whisked off her garments in shimmering rivulets. Her attire was functional: dark trousers tucked into well-worn boots, a long black cloak, a cropped jacket, and a high-collared white tunic. Her wide-brimmed hat cast a shadow over her face, adding an air of steely resolve. Not her usual ensemble, but far more suitable than silk and velvet for an unexpected detour.

Under the shelter of the brewery’s overhang, William did the same—drawing his wand with a quick flick, water spiraling from his robes. Dark curls clung to his forehead in soaked spirals, and rain dripped from his lashes.

The interior of the Copper Cask was warm, almost oppressively so. The scent of woodsmoke, roasted meat, and sweet spices enveloped them at once. Butterbeer, unmistakably. A boisterous crowd filled the main hall—villagers gathered around long wooden tables, toasting and clapping in celebration.

Merith approached the bar, her presence cutting a path through the crowd. The bartender, ruddy-cheeked and distracted, grinned broadly as he clapped two pints onto the counter—one sloshing with mead, the other crowned with the frothy head of butterbeer. He smelled faintly of clove and barley, and clearly enjoyed sampling his own wares.

Merith raised a brow, wiped the sides of their mugs with a nearby bar rag—gingerly, as if it might contaminate her patience—and returned to William with drinks in hand.

“They must have little else to do in this township,” she said dryly, “if they’re indulging in libations this early in the week.”

William accepted his butterbeer and leaned close to speak over the din. “They're celebrating the birth of the brewer’s first grandchild. Seems the whole village turned out.”

Merith gave a brief, restrained smile. “How lovely for them.”

With a subtle gesture, she guided him through a pair of warped glass-paned doors. Outside, beneath the overhang, the rain drummed steadily. Mist hung in the air, cool against their cheeks. Below, the river flowed silently beneath the embankment, its surface mirroring the lights of the village like scattered stars.

They settled on a damp bench. Merith took a cautious sip of mead—stronger than expected—and turned to face William, her expression now serious.

“Mr. Wexley—” she began, but he interrupted gently, his gaze fixed on the river.

“I know what you’re going to ask,” he said. “I wasn’t meant to speak of it. At first, I thought I was keeping a promise. But truthfully… maybe I just didn’t want to share it.”

He looked at her then—his eyes, once summer-clear, now shadowed like storm-tossed waters.

“I don’t think it requires much explanation,” he continued. “You saw it too. I saw the recognition in your eyes, even if you didn’t say it.”

Merith’s pulse quickened under his gaze. It was rare for her to feel caught off guard.

“Yes,” she said finally, “Ancient Magic.”

William’s brow furrowed. “You know it? How?”

Merith was silent for a moment, her gaze drifting toward the rain-drenched river, though her thoughts remained fixed on him.

“I’ve felt it before,” she said at last, her voice low, pensive. “In places long buried, steeped in time and silence. It lingers like old smoke—unsettling, but distant.”

She turned to face him fully, her expression unreadable.

“But never like that,” she added, softer now. “You. Your magic—it’s unlike anything I’ve ever known.”

Her words weren’t an accusation. They carried a note of awe. And something else. Caution. Perhaps even fear.

A shadow passed over William’s face. He leaned back slightly. “Does it change things? What you think of me? Do you believe I’ve hidden too much? That I’m unfit for your mentorship?”

The words were more resignation than question.

Merith reached across the table and placed her cool hand over his. He stilled.

“William,” she said softly, “do you recall what I once told you? People fear what they do not understand.”

She waited for him to meet her gaze, then continued.

“I may not understand your reasons for secrecy. But I do know this—you are a capable and thoughtful young wizard. You’ve shown concern not just for your friends, but for everyone around you. You bear a burden far beyond what should be asked of someone your age… and still, you shoulder it.”

She squeezed his hand gently.

“I do not pretend to understand your path. But I have never once doubted your character. And you’ve yet to give me reason to.”

William relaxed slightly at her words, his shoulders easing as if she had lifted some quiet weight from them. The storm continued to fall around them in a steady rhythm, but here under the overhang, their little corner of the world was still.

Merith took another slow sip of her mead, eyes thoughtful. “You’re not the only source of Ancient Magic I sensed in that cave,” she said after a pause. “That place—” she shook her head slightly, “—it was thick with it. Cloying. The kind of magic that seeps into the bones of the earth and refuses to be forgotten.”

She leaned forward, voice low. “The way the sea swallowed it one day without warning. Every witch and wizard perished—none spared. And then… nothing. Just silence. And darkness. As if their souls had been devoured, their bodies left behind as—”

She paused, searching for the word. “—puppets. Still standing. Guarding… what? Nothing. Or perhaps, waiting.”

William’s gaze drifted toward the river again, his expression unreadable. “I felt it, too,” he murmured. “Even before we reached the cave. When we stood on the shore… it was there. Like something ancient stirring just beneath the tide.”

He ran a hand through his damp hair, fingers curling in frustration or thought. “When we descended, I could see it. Swirling through the water as we passed through that barrier. The cave walls lit with runes—responding to it. And then those tendrils of light… they didn’t just guide me. They pulled me.”

Merith’s brows lifted. “You saw it?”

He nodded. “Yes. And not just then. I’ve seen it before. It’s part of what it means to wield it—or so I’ve come to understand.”

A silence settled between them, heavy with implications. Merith stared at him, the implications not lost on her.

“You've seen Ancient Magic,” she repeated, slowly. “Not just felt it.”

“Yes,” William said, his voice quiet. “I saw it long before I ever knew what it was.”

He leaned back slightly and exhaled, bracing himself. His hand raked through his hair again, almost absently, a nervous tic returning. “I began developing magical ability quite late, as I’m sure you’re aware. I was a… belated admittance to Hogwarts. Odd, but not unheard of.”

He glanced at her, then away again. “It began small—flickers, mostly. Strange things happening around me. But then, very suddenly, it escalated. It was as if all the years my magic had been dormant decided to surge forward at once, catching up all at once.”

“I was living with a family at the time. Good people, but concerned. They wrote to the Headmaster.” He let out a short, humourless breath. “The Headmaster didn’t take much interest. Thought me a squib with residual flare. He didn’t come himself. Instead, he sent Professor Elizar Fig to appraise me.”

William’s expression softened slightly. “I remember the professor standing there, expecting me to cast something. I’d no formal training—just whatever I’d glimpsed other witches and wizards doing in the village. I didn’t even own a wand.”

He smiled faintly at the memory. “Professor Fig reached into his coat and handed me one. Holly, ten inches, Troll Whisker core. Not particularly special, but… when I held it—” he looked down at his hand, as if still feeling it there, “—I felt, for the first time, that I had a future. That I could be something.”

Merith watched him closely, saying nothing.

“I was determined not to squander the chance. My control was poor—my magic unpredictable—but Professor Fig… he believed in me. I think, in a way, it helped him too.” William hesitated. “He’d lost his wife, Miriam. She believed in harmony, in good deeds. I think mentoring me allowed him to honour her memory in some way.”

He sat back slightly, his voice quieter. “We trained all summer. Long hours. Relentless practice. I was terrified of failing—afraid I’d be turned away, sent back to a life of shifting between households, tending gardens and lighting street lanterns. I couldn’t go back to that.”

Merith’s gaze softened, and her hand, still loosely wrapped around her mug, tightened just slightly.

“Then the day came. I received my admission letter—by Professor Fig’s recommendation. I was to travel to Hogwarts for the Sorting. Before we left, the professor met with a man—George Osric. He’d brought an artifact. Something Miriam had sent him before she died. They couldn’t open it—had tried, in vain. But when I looked at it…”

His eyes unfocused, staring into the past. “It glowed. From within. When I touched it, it opened. A portkey.”

Merith sat forward slightly, her interest sharpened.

“We were attacked mid-transport. George was… killed. In the chaos, Professor Fig and I were separated from him. We landed somewhere unknown—far from Hogwarts, in the middle of something ancient and buried. That was my true first encounter with Ancient Magic.”

“And with Ranrok.”

The name hung like a stone between them.

“We survived—just barely. And made it to Hogwarts, late, disheveled, but alive. Fig insisted we keep the matter quiet. He didn’t know who could be trusted. And I…” William exhaled slowly. “He gave me everything. I owed him too much to let him down.”

“It didn’t take long for me to encounter Ranrok again,” William said quietly. “He was behind the troll attack Sebastian and I fought off in Hogsmeade. Brutal creature—unprovoked. We barely made it through.”

His fingers traced the rim of his mug absentmindedly.

“Afterwards, we saw him. Ranrok. Speaking with Victor Rookwood.” He looked up at Merith, his gaze dark. “It wasn’t a chance meeting. I think Rookwood had been sent to find me. Question me. Perhaps recruit me—or assess whether I was a threat.”

He shook his head, jaw tightening. “That was when I understood. Whatever this conflict was—whatever storm was brewing—my role in it had already been written. Long before I had a choice in the matter.”

He fell silent a moment, the only sound between them the patter of rain against wood and the low murmur of laughter from inside the brewery.

“I decided then that I’d help Professor Fig in any way I could. Not just out of loyalty… but because I needed to understand what was happening to me. Why had my magic come so late? Why could I see what others could not? That magic—the ancient strands threading through the world—it called to me.”

He glanced down at his hands. “And in time, I found my answers.”

William’s expression shifted—thoughtful, measured, as though he were choosing each word with care.

“I wasn’t the first to wield this kind of power,” he said. “There were others, long before me. They called themselves the Keepers. Four of them—Professor Rackham, Charles Rookwood, Niamh Fitzgerald, and Percival Rackham.”

Merith blinked once, her expression unreadable. “Rookwood?” she echoed, carefully.

William nodded. “Yes. Not Victor—though I suspect there's a connection. This one… he was older. Long passed. But they left behind memories. Trials. Magical constructs meant to test me—to determine whether I was… worthy.”

He exhaled, brushing his hand through his curls again, though the motion had grown wearier.

“I didn’t understand what they wanted from me at first. I was just trying to survive. But they said that what I could do—what I was—could be dangerous, if left unchecked. That I had to learn to control it, or risk losing myself to it entirely.”

He took a long drink of his butterbeer, as though to steady himself.

There was one more name they spoke of,” William continued. “Isidora. Isidora Morganach.”

Merith went utterly still.

For a brief moment, the world around her dimmed—her focus narrowing to the name alone. Isidora. The very name inscribed, veiled in code and inked in grief, connected to the ancient tome she had discovered within her ancestor’s keep. That book had led her here, to Hogwarts. To comb out secrets long buried beneath stone and silence.

A witch erased from memory, omitted from every lesson, spoken of only in whispers, if at all. 

And yet—William had the truth. All along.

She schooled her expression carefully as he spoke on.

“She’d been one of them—a witch of immense talent, like me. Or so they said. But something went wrong. She used the magic to remove pain from people. Pulled it out, stored it. She believed she was helping them.”

William shook his head slowly, the flickering candlelight playing against his features.

“But it changed her. She became obsessed. Possessive. She started using the pain—absorbing it. The Keepers turned against her. Sealed her memories away.”

Merith’s voice was cool and quiet. “And the goblins?”

“They wanted the magic too,” William said. “Ranrok believed it belonged to them. He was convinced the Keepers were hoarding it unjustly. He wanted to draw it out, weaponize it. And when he realized I could see it—use it—he focused everything on getting to me.”

He leaned forward slightly, voice low. “He thought the Keepers were hiding something. And he was right. They were protecting the location of the final repository—the place where all the remaining ancient magic had been stored. Sealed away.”

Merith nodded faintly, but her mind was elsewhere.

Isidora…

She remembered the strange flickers she’d found in the Restricted Section: the echoes of a mind fractured by brilliance and grief. Magical signatures that didn’t behave like any known charm or curse. An entire chapter in magical history buried beneath politics, fear, and the crumbling arrogance of time.

And William… he was the key. The missing piece I’ve been searching for all along.

She felt her pulse tighten.

“And you found it?” Merith asked.

William nodded. “Yes. Eventually, after the last trial, we pieced together the location. The Keepers showed me what Isidora had tried to do, what she became. They warned me that power without balance would consume me.”

He hesitated, looking almost surprised at himself for how much he had said. The mug in his hands was empty, his fingers tightening around it as though only just noticing.

“We tracked down the final repository—”

But he stopped. His breath caught mid-sentence.

Merith had gone still. Her eyes were no longer on him.

William followed her gaze.

Across the tavern, standing just beyond the firelight near the far wall, was a figure draped in black, half-obscured in shadow—and yet unmistakable.

Gorvoth Gaunt.

Even from a distance, his mismatched eyes caught the dim light—one a murky green, the other a frigid, unnatural blue. They were like storm clouds on the cusp of breaking—striking, arresting, and deeply wrong. That volatile brilliance behind his gaze had always unsettled her. Captivating, yes, in the way a predator holds the gaze of its prey. But chilling all the same.

His expression was unreadable, but his gaze never left her. Not once.

Merith’s breath stilled.

The warmth of the Copper Cask drained around her. The clink of mugs, the low thrum of conversation, even the scent of woodsmoke and spilt ale seemed to fade beneath the growing pressure in her chest.

This was no coincidence.

William shifted beside her, sensing something was off. “What is it?” he asked softly, following her line of sight.

Merith rose, carefully smoothing her cloak with practiced calm. “It’s late,” she said evenly. “You’re still a student. I have lessons to prepare.”

He blinked, confused but compliant. “Of course…”

She touched his shoulder lightly, grounding him. “We’ll speak again.”

But her eyes never left Gorvoth’s.

Her mind was already working. They could mount their brooms and take off from the balcony behind the glass doors—but that would only draw more attention. Too sudden. Too suspicious. She needed to be measured. Precise.

“Follow my lead,” Merith murmured beneath her breath, and turned toward the door.

As expected, Gorvoth stepped into their path—his movement slow, deliberate, like the final act of a play descending into its darker turn.

“Well, now,” he said, his voice smooth as silk, yet laced with the suggestion of steel. “Off so soon? I should think it rather poor form to slip away without so much as a good evening. Your father, as I recall, placed some value on propriety.”

Merith’s expression remained unreadable. “And I was unaware your presence warranted such a courtesy.”

His smile was faint—more a curl of the mouth than any real warmth. “A quaint village like this… I confess, I find the provincial charm endearing in small doses. Though one does begin to wonder if sheep outnumber minds here.”

His gaze slid past her, sharp as a knife, and settled on William. “And this? A student? Or merely a shadow given form?”

“An academic assignment,” Merith returned, tone clipped. “Field study. Practical guidance. One of the many joys of tenure.”

“Is it indeed?” he said, voice low with suggestion. “I’d not taken you for the hands-on sort, Professor.”

William stiffened. His eyes narrowed.

With practiced elegance, Gorvoth extended his hand. “Gorvoth Gaunt,” he said, every syllable shaped with exaggerated civility. “And you are?”

William didn’t move. He met the gesture with cold silence.

At last, Gorvoth chuckled—soft and indulgent. He withdrew his hand with a theatrical flourish. “Ah. A young lion. All teeth and mistrust. Charming.”

Merith stepped forward, her presence cool and commanding. “We were just leaving.”

He inclined his head in mock surrender. “Of course. I wouldn’t dare stand in the way of scholarship.”

They moved past—but as Merith reached the threshold, Gorvoth stepped nearer and caught her hand.

The touch was deliberate. His palm, warm against her skin, lingered longer than decency allowed.

“I sent the gloves,” he murmured, voice like velvet with an edge of something darker. “Though I confess, I never quite pictured you wearing them.”

Merith’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then your imagination is duller than I remember.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. “Ah, so you did wear them.”

“I did.”

His thumb grazed the inside of her wrist—barely there. “And did they serve?”

She smiled—measured and unreadable. “They served their purpose.”

Gorvoth’s eyes glinted. “I should hope they did more than serve.”

He dipped his head slightly, his breath brushing the inside of her wrist like a secret.

“Though next time, I might choose something… less practical.”

Her expression didn’t falter. “Practicality is underrated.”

His smile curved slowly. “Mmm. Only by those who fear where indulgence might lead.”

He released her hand, and the absence of his touch felt colder than it should have been.

His laughter followed them into the rain—low, amused, and unmistakably pleased with himself.

The grounds of Hogwarts stretched vast and hushed beneath the shroud of night, shadows pooling like ink around the ancient stone walls. Their return had been swift, the silence between them thick with what neither dared speak aloud.

Merith kept her senses sharp—sending slender, silvery charms trailing into the clouds behind them, each one a whisper of vigilance. Every gust of wind, every rustle of the trees, tugged at her nerves. Gorvoth’s presence lingered—not seen, not heard, but felt. Like a dark thread winding through her thoughts, tugging at the edges of her mind.

Beside her, William moved with tension wound tight into his shoulders. His composure—so often unshakeable—had begun to splinter. There was something fraying in him now, an unease behind his eyes like a storm on the verge of breaking. Merith felt it—the doubt, the fear. It clung to him like mist, and it disturbed her more than she liked to admit. His trust, once tentative, now felt as fragile as spun glass. And the weight of what they’d encountered threatened to crack it entirely.

Their flight back had passed in near silence, the air broken only by the soft rush of wind and the muted rhythm of their breathing. Merith’s charms wove invisibly around them—traceless runes meant to scatter magical signatures, to keep their trail hidden from scrying eyes. But now, as they slipped through the grass and into the castle’s watchful shadow, she felt it again—that weight. That presence. As if they were being watched from somewhere just beyond the veil of the night.

Hogwarts welcomed them in eerie quiet, the corridors yawning wide and cold. Stone breathed around them—ancient, patient. Paintings slumbered in gilded frames, their faces stilled in centuries of practiced indifference. Even the air seemed to sharpen as they descended, the chill deepening as if the castle itself held its breath.

She didn’t trust it.

Not the silence. Not the stillness. Not her own calm.

Gorvoth had been too precise. His timing too clean. Had he followed them to the Copper Cask? Had he been waiting? Watching? The thought made her stomach tighten, and her fingers curl unconsciously around her wand. If he had... what had he seen? And worse—what did he now know of William?

Just as she opened her mouth to speak, William’s voice slipped from the quiet.

“Sanguine regnant,” he said, eyes locked on the smooth stone wall. The carving of a serpent shimmered to life, pulsing bronze as it slithered upward, revealing the hidden entrance to the Slytherin dungeon. He cast a quick, wary glance over his shoulder, as if expecting someone—or something—to emerge from the shadows.

“That’s the password.”

Merith studied him. His face half-cast in shadow, his eyes narrowed and searching. That suspicion—that edge of distrust—pricked something deep inside her. Was it directed at Gorvoth? At her? At something else entirely?

She hesitated. The silence between them felt charged, like the air before a storm.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last, voice low. “Our conversation earlier was... interrupted. Gorvoth is of little consequence. Don’t let him unnerve you.” The words tasted hollow. She didn’t believe them. And she suspected he didn’t either.

William’s jaw clenched. “Ominis always said his family was dangerous. Ruthless. A Gaunt doesn’t involve themselves in anything unless they can twist it. If Gorvoth’s aligned with them...” He trailed off, lips tightening. “I’d watch your back.”

She nodded, the words striking too close to truths she wasn’t ready to unearth. The thought that Gorvoth had tracked them—anticipated them—coiled in her stomach like a poisoned hook. How long had he been watching? Had he already glimpsed what William barely understood himself—that rare, flickering current of Ancient Magic beneath his skin?

She weighed her next words carefully, instinct warring with intellect. She couldn’t afford to lose the boy’s trust—but neither could she offer him full truth. Not yet.

“Keep this between us,” she said softly. “If Gorvoth approaches, do not engage. Not unless I say otherwise. Until then... steer clear.”

A flicker crossed his face—uncertainty, perhaps fear—but he nodded.

Merith stepped closer, her hand resting briefly on his shoulder. A gesture of reassurance she didn’t entirely believe in. “Get inside. Rest. We’ll speak more soon. You did well today, Mr. Wexley.”

He gave a silent nod and disappeared into the passageway.

Merith lingered.

The corridor behind her stretched long and dark. Somewhere above, a draught whispered through unseen cracks in the stone, carrying the scent of night and storm.

She stood there, unmoving, her thoughts a churned sea beneath a deceptively still surface. Gorvoth had disturbed more than just the mission—he had stirred something deeper. A warning. A reckoning.

And at the heart of it stood William.

More than a student. More than he understood. The tome, the bloodlines, the uncanny resilience she couldn’t explain—it all pointed to something far older, far more dangerous than she’d anticipated.

He was the key.

But keys did more than open doors.

Sometimes, they turned locks that should never be touched.

Chapter Text

Merith couldn’t sleep.

The wind rasped against the tall windows of her chambers like breath through teeth—rhythmic, but never soothing. It sounded like something trying to get in. Or out.

She lay rigid in the half-dark, the bedsheets damp and tangled beneath her like seaweed clinging to skin. Sweat cooled at the hollow of her throat. The ancient tome beside her remained unopened, its leather cover catching the candlelight in dull, reluctant pulses. It might as well have been a stone. Or a shackle. Something dredged from deep water and left at her side, humming with a power too old for comfort.

A relic. And a reckoning.

She had begun this inquiry—this hunt—with clarity. Intellectual, dispassionate. A curiosity that burned clean.

William complicated that.

William, with his quiet steadiness. His odd, luminous magic. His trust.

It made her feel seen in ways she hadn’t asked for.

He would follow her, if she asked. No—if she simply gestured. He would leap into the dark with the certainty of someone who still believed trust was a virtue, not a vulnerability.

And she had let him believe that. Let him want to help.

Because he reminded her of someone. Of more than one someone.

And that, too, was dangerous.

The book pulsed faintly at her side. She could feel it even now, without touching it. The way it reached down into something old in her blood—something long buried but not forgotten. A voice behind glass. A beckoning hand in the smoke.

Her fingers curled against the cover, but she didn’t move.

She thought of her brother—Michaél’s cold, precise gaze when he assessed risk, and, worse still, people. He would have dissected the boy’s intentions with the detachment of dry bone.

And he wouldn’t have been wrong.

That was the true danger: even in cruelty, Michaél's judgment was often accurate.

And then there was her father...

The thought brushed the edge of her mind like a shard of ice. If he glimpsed what William could become—what she herself had only seen in flickers—he would shape it. Mold it. Bend it to his will. Weaponize it. Call it legacy.

A part of her—the part she did not name—understood why.

She closed her eyes. Told herself she would give it time. A day. A week. Until she knew what to do.

But the decision had already begun to form. Quiet. Unshakable.

A sharp knock at the door broke the stillness.

“Merith!” Mirabel’s voice rang through the corridor, sing-song and unmistakable. “Surely you don’t mean to nap while the rest of us are at the match?”

“I rather hope she does,” came Hyoto’s familiar dryness. “Might be the only chance I’ve got at a seat that doesn’t require a telescope just to spot the Quaffle.”

Merith swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The tome stared up at her, silent. She didn’t need to open it to feel its hunger.

She dressed with care—sharp lines, clean tailoring. The black velvet coat flared at the waist, collar lined in olive satin that caught only the faintest light. Her gloves slid on like second skin—cool, smooth, anchoring.

By the time they reached the Quidditch pitch, the stands were already roaring—alive with color and thunder and the kind of feral joy only youth and altitude could conjure.

Merith followed the others up the narrow staircase toward the professors’ box, the wind tugging at her coat. Banners snapped like sails. Scarlet and gold streamed past her eyes, punctuated by shrieking laughter and a volley of enchanted bubbles that spelled GO LIONS in glittering script.

She paused once at the top of the stairs—not from exertion. From instinct.

She didn’t enjoy Quidditch. Not like others did. The spectacle grated against her subtler rhythms. The chaos. The speed. The pageantry. But it served as a distraction.

And right now, distraction was the closest thing she had to peace.

The professors’ box jutted over the pitch like a carved outcrop, its canopy of weathered canvas fluttering in the breeze. Mirabel had already claimed a spot near the railing, scarf wound tight around her neck, fists clenched in enthusiasm. Hyoto, by contrast, stood stiff and reserved, gaze fixed on the field like a tactician before battle.

Merith slid into her seat beside Mirabel, smoothing the back of her coat with deliberate grace. Her gloves creaked faintly—black leather, soft and fitted.

Above them, Headmaster Black paced like a caged Jarvey, his robes flaring with each theatrical turn.

“Will someone please throw the Quaffle and get this farce underway?” he bellowed from the uppermost row of the box, his voice sharp as a spellstrike and twice as unwelcome. “Some of us have actual responsibilities!”

Matilda Weasley sat beside him, spine straight, expression taut with the restrained dignity of someone enduring both the wind and the company.

“You missed the opening chant,” Mirabel whispered conspiratorially, bumping Merith’s shoulder. “‘What do we do?—We dig in!—What do we love?—We win again!’”

Merith blinked. “Is that… gardening-based bravado?”

“Tradition,” Mirabel replied cheerfully. “Don’t mock it.”

She nodded toward the pitch. “Also, if Cooper doesn’t pass to Eddins soon, Hyoto may rupture something irreplaceable.”

“I’m perfectly composed,” Hyoto muttered, arms crossed, eyes locked on the field. “I’m simply observing the slow death of tactical thought.”

Merith adjusted her gloves. “Twenty broomsticks hurtling through the air trying to knock each other unconscious. Yes. Very tactical.”

“Give it time,” Mirabel said with a grin. “Quidditch grows on you.”

“Like ivy,” Merith replied. “Or regret.”

Below, the match surged—a spinning hive of broomsticks and bludgers, chaos with a rhythm all its own.

The wind tugged at scarves and sleeves. In the stands, enchanted banners shimmered and flared, rippling like applause caught in a spell.

Merith glanced toward the far end of the box.

No Aesop.

A slow, precise twist in her chest—too quiet to name, too familiar to ignore.

Her gaze swept the towers, the alcoves, the tunnel by the pitch. But she already knew. That kind of absence wasn’t something you spotted. It settled. You felt it in the air, just behind the sound. A space where someone should have been, and wasn’t.

The game began in earnest then—broomsticks flashing past, bludgers cracking through the air, the dull roar of the crowd rising and falling like a tide. The enchanted commentary boomed overhead, voice breathless with excitement. Names she barely recognized. Maneuvers she didn’t care to remember.

Let the movement pull her forward. Away from the book. Away from William. Away from the warning she’d been ignoring since dawn.

“Bludger headed for Cooper—he spins—no, he’s through! Eddins regains possession for Gryffindor!”

“About time,” Hyoto muttered, arms folded tight. “If they keep letting the Badgers run the rhythm, they’ll end up chasing shadows.”

Mirabel sprang to her feet as Hufflepuff scored—one long, arcing shot just past the Keeper’s outstretched fingers. Her hands clapped sharp and fast. “YES!”

From somewhere below, fireworks bloomed—streamers of colour curling into the sky, followed by the honk of an airhorn charm that rippled through the crowd.

“Eddins returns—dodges one—two—look at her go—passes to Calloway—Bludger in play—Merlin’s beard, did you see that deflection from Summers!”

Hyoto stood up, eyes keen. “Perfect angle. Sent it back like it owed him three Galleons and a blood oath.”

Even Merith found herself leaning forward slightly, tension strung taut between the motion and the noise.

She reached for the flask beneath her coat. Cool metal, firm against her palm.

Then—

The rustle of robes. A scent of bergamot and something sweeter beneath it. Cloying.

A voice, as practiced as any spell.

“Well, well. This perch does improve with every seat I claim.”

She didn’t look. “Julian.”

He gave a theatrical shiver. “Who schedules a match in this wind? I had to Sticking-Charm my hair just to walk here.”

“Tragic.”

“I endure.”

He slid into the seat beside her—uninvited, as always—dusting off an immaculate sleeve like the elements had insulted him personally.

“Well,” he continued, cufflinks gleaming, “watching children chase a bewitched walnut through a gale pales beside the pleasure of your company.”

She said nothing.

He let the silence stretch, testing the edge of it.

“I had the distinct pleasure of meeting your brother at the Winter Soirée.”

Her eyes remained on the pitch, unmoved.

“Michael, yes?” he went on, all bright familiarity. “Sharp fellow. Made me feel like I was hemorrhaging dignity and he hadn’t even raised his voice. That runs in the family, I assume?”

“Is there a purpose to this?”

Another goal—Hufflepuff again—and Mirabel whooped with delight, laughter ringing through the wind like something far younger than any of them.

Julian sighed, gaze drifting back to the game. “Can’t a man engage in small talk without being accused of scheming?”

“No.”

He smiled. “Well. Fair.”

A pause. Then, with false lightness: “I was in Mould-on-the-Wold not long ago. Quaint little hamlet. Absurd shop hours.”

Her brow didn’t move. But she was listening.

“I met someone,” he said, flicking at a thread that wasn’t there. Liminal sort. Golden hair. Mouth like a lie you want to believe.”

He paused, briefly distracted, before continuing. “Bit of a… windswept poet look, though his suggestions were more cutpurse than couplet. Said he knew you.”

Stillness, deep and slow, rooted behind her ribs.

Aric.

“Said—let me get this right—‘I know someone at Hogwarts. Brilliant creature. Tall. Dark. Mind like an encyclopaedia in petticoats.’ I was charmed, of course.”

Her gaze held steady.

Julian’s grin widened, sharp as ever. “Said it with fondness, I thought. Or something close to it.”

“And what did he sell you?”

“Nothing,” Julian said, hand raised in mock innocence. “I’m not always buying contraband. Though he did suggest a rather unorthodox use for flux powder and silver thread. I made a note.”

She reached for the flask. Firewhisky, faint and low, burned just enough.

She didn’t answer. But Julian knew he’d struck something. That was all he ever needed.

He leaned back, pleased.

The crowd roared again—“AND SHE’S GOT IT!”—and a shower of golden-yellow and black fell from the sky. Streamers curled like comets, and Mirabel clutched Hyoto’s arm mid-cheer. He grimaced, but didn’t shrug her off.

Merith allowed herself one breath. One still second in the afterglow.

Julian clapped once, slow and light. “I do love a happy ending. Especially when no one sees the second act coming.”

But she’d already turned.

No sign of Aesop.

And she knew—knew like muscle remembers the fall before the bruise—that he wouldn’t be at the match.

He would be where he always went when the noise grew too loud.

The castle’s warmth pressed against the cold breath of the night, its stone walls exhaling centuries-old quiet as Merith traced the familiar spiral of the faculty tower’s stairs.

Her steps—measured, deliberate—wove through the shadowed corridor where sconces guttered, their flames bowing low, hesitant to burn away the lingering ghosts. Somewhere distant, timber sighed, the castle’s ancient skeleton settling into restless sleep.

At the hall’s end, her fingers hovered just above the worn wood, catching the faint scent of cold stone mingled with wax and the faint trace of dying embers. Twice she knocked—soft, practiced. The lock yielded with a metal sigh, the sound like breath exhaled after long hold.

“It’s open.”

She entered.

The room held its darkness with the tenderness of a dying fire—ash floating like a slow memory, the scent of smoke and brittle parchment folding into the space between shadows and light. Grey day-slice pierced the window, cleaving the air in two, tracing dust motes that drifted like reluctant time.

Aesop sat angled toward the hearth, a figure cut from the softened edges of dusk. No coat to guard him from chill, just a grey shirt, collar slack, sleeves rolled back as if he had pushed away more than just fabric. His trousers dark, well-worn; boots—dragonhide, frayed and buckled—half-laced and resting heavy on the stone floor, the undone act echoing tiredness too deep for words.

He did not look up.

“You missed the match,” she said, voice low but steady, weighted beneath the words. “Hufflepuff took it.”

He breathed out a quiet grumble. “Not fond of stairs tonight. And sore. Those two facts are more linked than you might think.”

She closed the door with a muted click, stepping forward with soft certainty. The faint creak of boots against stone filled the space—hesitation carved into sound.

Her gaze found the boots.

“You haven’t worn those since…” Her voice softened, the unfinished sentence a thread stretched taut between them.

A dry laugh, rough and brittle. “They help. Some days.”

His eyes remained distant. His hand flexed, knuckles etched in firelight—maps of fatigue, a terrain she read but did not speak aloud.

“The charms?” Her question floated, more observation than inquiry.

A single nod.

“Wearing thin. Faster now. Some mornings, pain waits by the bedside like an unbidden guest, polite but persistent.”

His voice lowered, gathering weight.

“Other days, my hand shakes so badly I can’t hold my wand steady long enough to stir tea. Last week, a teacup split—clean, without warning.”

Her chest tightened, the ache threading through quiet knowledge.

She closed the space between them, arms folding gently. “There are options. Research. Travel. Cairo. Prague. Mudiwa’s ties to Uagadou run deep, you know that.”

“No.” The word landed, final and soft-edged.

Surprise flickered, then settled.

“Aesop—”

“I said no.” His voice cracked, brittle as dry bark underfoot, splintering before it could harden.

He raked a hand through hair, frustration flickering but dulled by exhaustion.

“I am not a relic to be studied or moved like chess pieces across a board. Don’t make me a problem in need of fixing.”

Her breath caught in the stillness, the sting of his words deeper than intended.

He exhaled, heavy as stone settling.

“It’s not you,” he added, quieter now, almost a confession. “I— I don’t have the strength anymore. Not for this.”

She barely whispered back, the words like a tether: “You’re afraid.”

His gaze lingered on the dying embers, where the flames had dwindled to a slow, red breath.

“Yes.”

The single word carried the weight of all they left unsaid.

She knelt beside him, careful, deliberate. Her gloved hand found his—fingers worn, uncertain, brushing the edge of her palm like someone reaching through memory. His hand was cold, the kind of cold that felt lived-in. Old pain. Familiar.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Their breathing settled into the same rhythm, slow and fragile, as if even silence might bruise.

Then she bowed her head, resting her forehead lightly against his knee. The wool of his trousers was coarse against her skin, but real. Solid. A small anchor in the hollow drift between them.

He didn’t move. Not away. Not toward her. Only his fingers shifted—just enough to curl against hers.

“I do not know how to help you,” she said quietly. Not desperation. Not demand. Just truth, spoken bare.

Her voice trembled at the edges—not from fear, but from restraint.

“I only know I want to.”

That broke something in him—not loudly, but irrevocably.

He exhaled—slow, uneven.

“Your presence alone is help enough.”

The words weren’t comfort. They were a kind of surrender.

But even as she heard them, something inside her recoiled. Not at him, but at the shape of it. At the weight of being just enough to stop the bleeding, but never enough to stop the wound from forming again.

Still, she stayed there—because she wanted to, because she chose to—head bowed, his hand in hers, both of them tethered to something neither could name.

And in the quiet that followed, something passed between them—not a promise, not a fix, not even understanding. Just the ache of two people who had not yet figured out how to stop carrying the weight alone.

The fire whispered low.

And though neither of them moved, Merith felt it—that fragile, irrevocable truth:

This would break her.

And still—she stayed.

Chapter Text

Merith woke with a sharp breath, the taste of salt and smoke still ghosting her tongue. A cold sweat clung to her bare skin—slick as sea spray against the twisted linen sheets, Aesop’s sheets, damp and tangled beneath her. Her heart pounded, ribs drawn tight, as if the dream still coiled around her, half-clinging, half-vanished.

The Zmey had returned.

But it was not wholly dragon, nor the sea serpent of her childhood tales. It was caught between forms—shifting, fluid, glimmering like oil on water. It had risen from a horizon where sea and sky blurred in violence, wings struggling to unfurl, scales gleaming with a sorrow too old for words. It hadn’t spoken.

And yet, it had spoken.

She lay still, letting her breath slow as the dark room gradually began to pale. Shadows stretched long across the floorboards—dawn slipping its fingers past the curtains.

Carefully, she turned, unwilling to wake Aesop—not that he ever minded. Still, she lingered, studying the curve of his brow, the familiar bridge of his nose, the gentle dip of his philtrum. Her fingertip hovered above his mouth, tracing air rather than skin.

A warm hand found hers in the quiet. She stilled.

He didn’t stir, but his breath ghosted over the inside of her wrist, soft and steady, tinged faintly with the rasp of stubble.

He didn’t wake.

She slipped free.

At his wardrobe, she found her tea gown—freshly laundered, its velvet untouched. She ran her fingers across the fabric, then slid it over her shoulders: a deep violet skirt that whispered at her ankles, a dark velvet jacket with long sleeves, gold threadwork catching the faintest light. The bodice beneath pressed cool and firm against her chest. The beaded fringe swayed with each step, like reeds bending in wind.

She left without a sound.

The castle slumbered still, but spring had begun to press itself into the world. Tiny wildflowers—dog violets, pale primroses, and soft wood sorrel—pushed through cracked stone. Grass, damp with dew, chilled her bare feet and dampened her hem as she moved beneath twisted yew trees and low hedgerows.

Downward, always downward—toward the lake, where a veil of mist hung low, silvered by the rising sun.

The viaduct courtyard loomed ahead, stone gone blush with rose-gold. Beneath its underpass, braziers flickered with quiet light. A song thrush called from the canopy above—its notes sharp and crystalline in the hush.

At the wrought iron gate, she paused, then descended the moss-slick stairs leading to the boathouse. Below, the lake spread wide and dark, black as glass, still as waiting breath.

But not empty.

A small boat rocked gently near the center, haloed by the sun’s first gold. Merith stopped, half-veiled by the trailing limbs of a willow, watching.

William rowed.

Sleeves rolled to the elbow, forearms tensing with each pull—steady, deliberate. He could have used enchantment. He didn’t. There was meaning in that silence. In the labor.

At the stern, Ominis sat upright, one hand trailing languidly in the water. His head tilted toward the breeze, as if listening not to the others, but to something just beyond the veil of sound—wind, water, memory.

And at the bow, Sebastian knelt like a figurehead—arms flung wide, chest outthrust, theatrical as ever. His laughter rang like bells through the mist, catching sunlight on his face. For a moment, he seemed unbearably young—untouched by weight or war or time.

A ripple beneath the surface.

Then—a tentacle, vast and pale, broke the water, brushing the side of the boat with almost affectionate force.

Sebastian yelped—a sharp laugh more than fear—and tumbled over the edge in a splash that shattered the quiet. Water scattered like shattered glass; birds scattered skyward.

For a beat, silence.

Then he surfaced, sputtering and grinning, hair plastered to his brow, eyes alight.

“I’m fine!” he shouted, between breathless laughter, treading water like a mischief god.

William offered a hand. He ignored it. Clambered up on his own, robes sodden, boots sloshing. He tugged one off and shook it, water pouring in a gleaming arc. Then he shook out his hair like a dog, utterly without shame.

Ominis groaned, turning aside. “Sebastian—Merlin’s bones—”

“Worth it,” Sebastian declared, flopping like a prince into the bottom of the boat.

Merith watched.

Unseen.

Her hand lifted absently to her waist, brushing the golden fringe that swayed with each breath. And in her chest, something bloomed. Not quite sorrow. Not envy.

Something gentler.

Something older.

How brief youth was. How rare its lightness.

She thought of Aric—of fogged greenhouse windows and laughter pressed between glass panes. Of duels beneath moonlight, reckless and radiant. Of Michaél’s voice, clear and daring, daring the world to catch him as he danced along the garden walls.

When had she last laughed like that?

She didn’t know.

No one ever does—until the memory is already behind them.

The boys’ laughter faded as the boat turned gently back. Merith lingered a breath longer.

Then turned.

Mist coiled behind her, folding over her footprints—softly, quietly—as if she had never been there at all.

The chime of the grandfather clock in Merith’s office—a brass relic enchanted not to mark the hour, but the intention of the moment—barely stirred her. This morning, its needle quivered between two etched Cyrillic words: Preparation and Instruction.

The fire behind her crackled low in the grate, but its warmth didn’t reach the cold unease that had crept beneath her skin since before dawn.

A single parchment lay open on her desk. The ink was sharp, clinical, precise.

Three points.
Three names.
Three tides.
One moon. Cragcroft.

No signature.

There was no need for one.

The handwriting was unmistakable—elegant, surgical, cold as frost-laced steel. Michaél’s script had always carried that same unnerving clarity, like a scalpel poised above flesh. This wasn’t a request. It was a summons.

Cragcroft. Naturally.

The very edge of the map—wind-scoured cliffs and iron-colored sea. The farthest reach of Scotland where land frayed into water, where even memory felt threadbare. It had always been the closest thing to home. Even without warmth. Especially without warmth.

She folded the letter carefully, slipping it into the seam of her journal, as if the weight of the pages might blunt its edge.

Beside it, her own letter—unfinished. Ink frozen mid-sentence, a blot left in the pause:

I’m close to something. The ancient magic you once feared may not be entirely lost after all—some texts mention a repository, though details are scarce…

Scarce—and embellished.

She thought of her father. The caution in his tone whenever conversation drifted too near the ruins of things best left buried. He’d taught her how to walk the boundary between reverence and recklessness. She would need to say enough—but not too much. Not yet.

Not until she spoke with Aric.

The name still sat uneasily in her chest—like old glass beneath the skin. She wasn’t ready. But maybe, when she did, the path forward would stop shifting beneath her feet like loose stone.

Outside, the sounds of the waking castle grew louder—chairs scraping, laughter rising, a door swinging wide. Life pressing on, unbothered by the weight of old things.

Merith exhaled, slow and shallow, and stood.

She smoothed the folds of her gown. The deep green velvet shimmered faintly in the muted morning light. Durmstrang gold embroidery curled across the bodice—runic, angular, like watchful eyes. The cuffs, trimmed with glass beading, clicked gently as she moved.

The Defence classroom buzzed with quiet disorder by the time she arrived.

At the far end, Imelda Reyes sat stiff-backed, arms crossed, glaring at Gareth Weasley—who was, as always, brushing toast crumbs from his robes with more pride than urgency.

“Did you bathe in the breakfast table again?” she muttered.

Unfazed, Gareth lifted a half-eaten biscuit. “Crumbs are for luck.”

“Or infestation,” Imelda snapped, though her scowl softened slightly.

From behind her, Poppy Sweeting stifled a giggle, her glance sliding toward Gareth, amused but silent.

Imelda’s casting had sharpened, though her frustration seeped into every exhale. Gareth remained too loud, too theatrical—yet, at last, his spells found their mark more often than not.

Sebastian, for his part, seemed intent on demonstrating how little effort was required. His wand twirled idly in his hand, lips unmoving, yet the spells struck swiftly and surely. Not elegant—perhaps too forceful for that—but undeniably effective.

He caught Merith watching once, and offered her a glance—half-amused, half-daring.

She did not rise to the challenge.

Not yet.

As the last spell flickered and faded into stillness, Merith moved to the front of the room. The students were settling again—some triumphant, others sullen, all a little further along than they had been an hour ago. There was sweat behind their temples, ink smudges on their fingers, frayed nerves beneath their bravado.

Progress. Messy, imperfect progress.

She hadn’t meant to stay this long. Hadn’t meant to memorize their wand habits, or the cadence of their moods. She hadn’t meant to care.

What had begun as a role—something worn for convenience, draped like a cloak over older intentions—no longer felt like performance.

She adjusted the cuff of her sleeve, expression neutral.

Perhaps she was simply better at pretending than she thought.

Or perhaps... she wasn’t pretending at all.

By the end of the hour, as the students shifted in their seats and gathered themselves, Merith returned to the center of the room once more. A rustle of magic stirred the air. A stack of parchment floated in behind her, the edges glowing faintly as they separated mid-flight, each aligning with practiced grace and landing neatly on the students' desks.

“Your Apparition certificates,” she said, tone level. “For those who’ve completed training and returned intact.”

That earned a ripple of subdued laughter. Even Leander paused before grinning.

When his parchment landed, he held it aloft like a trophy. “See? Not even a nose out of place. I’m practically transportation royalty.”

From the back, Sebastian didn’t look up. He was sprawled in his usual posture, legs stretched out, arms folded behind his head. His certificate remained untouched beside him.

“Royalty? Please,” he drawled. “You barely survived without turning yourself inside out.”

Leander turned, bristling. “I landed exactly where I meant to.”

Sebastian finally glanced up, gaze flat. “You landed sideways and flinched at the sound of your own Apparition pop. If magical travel ran on biscuits and blind luck, you'd already be Head of the Department.”

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Sallow.”

Sebastian sat forward, slowly, the air around him growing sharper. “Jealous? Prewitt, I walked away with a perfect score and not a scratch. You’re the one who nearly disapparated into a torch bracket. The only thing I’m jealous of is your ability to fumble every spell and still believe you're brilliant.”

Leander pushed back his chair, the legs scraping harshly against stone. “Say that again—”

Before the words could turn reckless, Merith stepped between them. The sharp click of her boots against the floor was louder than any shout.

“That’s enough.”

Her voice wasn’t raised, but it cut through the room with undeniable authority.

Sebastian didn’t flinch—but the smirk slipped. He leaned back again, expression shuttered.

Leander muttered, “Yes, Professor,” and sat down, though his fists remained clenched on the desk.

Merith lingered a moment, gaze passing between them, her silence carrying more weight than a reprimand. Then she turned without a word and returned to her desk.

The luncheon bell chimed.

The classroom broke into motion—chairs scraping, parchment rustling, voices lifting in low murmurs as students filed out in twos and threes.

All except one.

William Wexley remained behind. His quill had stilled mid-note. He looked up, his gaze steady, quiet.

Merith met his eyes and offered a small, knowing smile. “See you this evening in my office, Mr. Wexley,” she said. “Perhaps we’ll pick up where we left off.”

He inclined his head—respectful, wordless—and followed the others into the corridor.

She watched him go, the silence behind him thick with things unspoken.

Merith, already late for lunch, moved swiftly through the winding castle corridors, the scent of old stone and morning hearths clinging to her gown. Peeves’s voice—shrill and delighted—ricocheted ahead like broken glass across flagstone.

“Oy, Vulchie Vulture! What’s this, then? Slytherin scuffling in the Quad! Feathers flying and tempers flaring—just the way we like it!”

She quickened her pace, slipping between students who hadn’t yet learned to mind where they stood, the rising clamour tugging at something familiar and unpleasant just beneath her ribs.

She emerged into the Quad—a cloistered courtyard where ivy usually softened stone and the old fountain sang in drowsy silver threads. Today, that peace lay shattered.

Sebastian Sallow had Ominis Gaunt pressed hard against the wall, the ancient stones damp with shadow and ringing with the strain of silence. Sebastian looked half-feral—robes askew, hair wind-tossed and wild, as though he’d run through smoke to reach this moment. In one clenched hand, a scrap of parchment hung limp and crumpled, edges torn like something wrenched from a wound. His eyes, normally bright with mischief, were storm-dark now—burned hollow by betrayal.

Ominis didn’t flinch.

A bloom of blood curved at the edge of his mouth, startling against the ivory of his skin, but he stood straight beneath the pressure. Chin lifted. Expression unreadable. His voice, when it came, was calm and cut-glass. “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you, Sallow.”

He was bleeding. But not broken.

Merith saw it—the way he carried pain not with defiance, but with familiarity. A boy who had stood too often in the path of another’s fury and learned, quietly, to let it pass through him.  A little thinner for it, but still standing.

So many boys shaped by secrets they were never meant to keep.

William Wexley hovered nearby, caught in the tension like a thread pulled taut. His hands twitched toward them, uncertain. “Sebastian,” he said, voice low but urgent. “This isn’t helping. Just—ease up, yeah?”

Sebastian didn’t hear him. Or refused to. His grip on Ominis’s collar tightened, knuckles pale against wool.

“You’ve been talking to her behind my back—my sister" he hissed. "Don’t think I won’t find out everything.”

That tone—accusation honed to a blade, dulled only by overuse. Merith had heard it before. Too many times. Echoes of voices long behind her—sharp and furious, or worse, quiet and cold. It didn’t matter who had been right. Only how it had ended.

She didn’t shout.

“Mr. Sallow.”

Her voice slipped into the courtyard like a sudden winter wind.

He froze.

“Release him. Now.”

He hesitated—but the decision was no longer his to make. With a flick of her fingers, wandless and precise, she unraveled the violence in his grip. 

Ominis stumbled forward, one hand bracing against the stone. Blood streaked his lip, and when he spat, it hit the cobblestones with a splash that looked far too small for the weight of the moment.

She stepped toward him, but he stopped her with a gesture. “I’m fine, Professor. It's nothing of concern.”

The kind of lie boys tell to protect each other, even as they break.

Her gaze caught the tremble in his hand—the tell he couldn’t quite suppress.

"Nothing?"

Her voice, when it came, was quiet. Measured. And more dangerous than a scream.

“I expected more from both of you. Friends, turned on each other like cursed blades in a goblin war—sharpened once by loyalty, now dulled by pride.”

Ominis knelt by the fountain. The water, still undisturbed by the chaos, gurgled over the stone basin as he cupped it in one hand and rinsed the blood from his mouth. His fingers moved delicately, like a musician resetting a string gone out of tune.

“Mr. Wexley,” Merith said, not turning. “Kindly take Mr. Gaunt to the infirmary.”

William moved without hesitation, offering a quiet hand to Ominis. Together they turned and disappeared beneath the archway’s shadow.

Merith remained. The stillness returned in their absence, but not the peace.

She looked to Sebastian.

He stood where she had left him—fists still clenched, breath shallow, a torn thing barely stitched together by his own restraint. He looked older in that moment. Not grown, but aged.

She lifted a hand, then let it drop.

What was there to say?

What had ever helped before the fall?

“It’s one thing to hex Leander Prewitt over a half-eaten insult,” she said at last, her voice a low burn. “But this?” Her eyes narrowed. “This is something else entirely.”

Sebastian didn’t flinch. “He stopped being my friend when he chose secrets over truth.”

And in that flash of grief beneath his words—not anger, but grief—she saw the shadow of another boy. Another firebrand she had once loved. Another war she hadn’t stopped.

“Spare me the lecture, Professor,” Sebastian said, voice dry and brittle. “Just give me detention and be done with it.”

But she didn’t.

She saw too much of the past in his posture. In the parchment still clutched in his hand. She saw what it might cost him—not now, but later. When there was no one left to tell him he’d gone too far.

“No,” she said, simply. “I’ll be informing Professor Ronen. Let your Head of House decide what to do with you.”

That landed. A flicker crossed his face—not fear, but the sting of consequence.

And all at once, she felt tired—tired of granting him rope only to watch him wrap it tighter around his own neck.

She left him there, beneath the watchful eye of the stone gargoyle overhead, where ivy moved like quiet judgment.

The stones beneath her boots felt suddenly colder. And somewhere deep in her chest, the ache returned—that quiet grief for boys with fire in their blood and no map for where it might lead them.

Chapter Text

Twilight sifted through the tall windows of Merith’s office like soot through water—slow, silver, thick with the hush of old magic. The light didn’t so much illuminate as it softened, casting shadows across dark wood and velvet drapes. The room was heavy with scent: burnt clove, iron ink, and the dry, spine-tingling musk of books too ancient to remember their own names. Somewhere in the castle’s bones, stone murmured faintly—a groan that seemed less sound and more whispered listening.

The door clicked shut without a word. William entered, boots whispering over age-softened slate.

His satchel hung neatly over one shoulder—upright, composed. Yet behind his eyes, there was distance; shadowed, guarded, as if even memory had sharpened teeth.

Merith didn’t rise. She inclined her head toward the armchair across her desk.

“Sit.”

He obeyed. The soft weave of his grey wool jumper caught the candlelight—fine, but worn—green-and-silver threads of the crest resting precisely over his heart. A rearing serpent, elegant, restrained—coiled in defense, not strike.

It lent him quiet dignity. But beneath it, the boy looked far older than his years.

He sat tall—too still, too controlled for someone so young. And beneath that stillness, the unmistakable fatigue of one denied rest.

Merith studied him a moment longer than decorum allowed.

“I regret we didn’t speak after the Copper Cask,” she said finally. “It ended… rather abruptly.

“It did,” he replied, voice flat but steady. Then, after a pause: “But I suppose you had your reasons.”

“Still.”

Merith’s fingers brushed the clasp of her quill, hesitating for the briefest moment before she redirected her gaze.

“Regarding your current assignment,” she said, voice steady, “you held your own. I’ve reviewed your field notes.”

Something flickered behind his eyes—thin-edged, reluctant. A shard of pride, unwelcome but real. Like a badge he never asked to wear.

“Your memory charm was clean. Well-structured.” She tapped the scroll between them. “Not flawless—but more than respectable, given the circumstances. If memory magic still interests you, I’d suggest Professor Weasley. She might help you refine the technique.”

He nodded once. “I’ll consider it.” His voice was polished, neutral—filed and signed like an internal report.

But Merith caught the edge beneath it—not disinterest, but disdain. Quiet, unresolved animosity. He hadn’t forgotten the grievance that still tethered him to Professor Weasley.

She set the scroll aside.

“Your transcription of the runes was accurate,” she continued. “And your description of the Inferi—terse, but serviceable.”

His eyes didn’t move.

“Would you prefer something more elaborate?”

“No,” she said gently, rubbing the back of her neck. “I’d prefer the truth.”

Merith leaned back, fingers tracing the nape of her neck where tension pooled like old bruises. Whatever flickered behind her eyes, she left buried. Some things didn’t belong on the record—not anymore. Not with wolves sniffing at every door.

She cleared her throat softly.

“Did you decipher any of the runes further? You referenced Professor Pug’s compendium.”

William shifted, the sleeve of his jumper sliding back to reveal a faint scar curling along his wrist.

“Some. Mostly protective—warding glyphs, layered structural magic, obscuration charms. Not meant to fight intruders outright, but to repel. As if the cavern was meant to be forgotten.”

Merith folded her arms, watching the firelight flicker in his gaze.

“Which, evidently, it was. Half-consumed by the sea, yet untouched by time.”

William lifted his gaze, catching the invitation beneath her tone.

“It’s remarkable. The enchantments—still holding after all this time. Even the artwork remains. That serpent, coiled across the stone wall, its scales etched in gold leaf—untarnished. Eyes still gleaming as if only just painted.” He shook his head slightly. “That place wasn’t just built. It was preserved. I’d wager it’s hundreds of centuries older than Hogwarts.”

Merith arched an eyebrow.

“And what does that suggest to you?”

“That the magic was ancient,” he said without hesitation. “More than that—it was deliberate. Purposeful. Whoever raised those wards wasn’t just clever. They wielded something deeper. Older.”

She studied him a moment before nodding slowly.

“And yet... it lies beneath the sea. Abandoned.”

He didn’t look away.

“The question is why. What became of them? What could warrant such complete erasure?”

She adjusted her seat, brushing her hand absently across the velvet folds of her dark olive gown.

“You suspect it wasn’t a natural collapse.”

“I suspect they feared something.” His brow furrowed. “You don’t anchor a place with that kind of magic unless you know something might come for it.” He paused, voice dropping, shadowed with unease.

“But what kind of force could do that?” He spoke slower now. “The structure was solid—hewn into the cliffside, fortified with enchantments still holding. And yet the sea...” His eyes met hers, uncertain. “It didn’t just wear it down. It rose—too fast, too precise. As if summoned. Or turned.”

He exhaled quietly through his nose.

“That castle wasn’t abandoned. It was drowned.”

Silence fell again between them—thick as sea-mist.

“There’s something I meant to ask—before we were interrupted last time,” she said, voice tightening. “You mentioned Ranrok was after you… after a final repository. A place where Isidora’s magic was sealed. You were leading to something, if you still wish to speak of it.”

William didn’t answer immediately. His fingers curled along the arms of the chair—not tense, but still. Measured.

The silence lengthened.

Then:

“I won’t tell you.”

Merith blinked. Her breath caught—not from surprise, but the precision of it.

A line drawn. Deliberate.

“I’ll show you,” William added softly.

Her gaze narrowed, not in offense, but calculation. She leaned back a fraction, letting the firelight shift over her face. “Show me?”

He nodded once. “There’s a Pensieve in the Headmaster’s office.”

She stared at him, expression unreadable. Then exhaled through her nose, a wry, quiet sound.

“Of course there is.”

William watched her with quiet intensity, as though her reaction were yet another part of the test.

“I’ve used one before,” he said, voice low, almost reverent. “Several times, in fact. This one’s hidden away in the Headmaster’s office—beneath the eastern alcove window, veiled under a warded cloth. Not precisely standard issue... unless you’re summoned.”

She gave a dry breath of a laugh, though her eyes remained sharp. “And I suppose we’re not expecting an invitation.”

His mouth curled—half amusement, half something darker.

“No.”

The fire cracked faintly in the hearth. Somewhere beyond the tall windows, the wind whispered through the castle’s stone hollows.

“So this is what?” she asked, voice low. “A test of loyalty?”

William didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His gaze held hers—not cold, but stripped of pretense.

You said you wanted answers, it seemed to say.

Prove it.

Merith rose, slowly. She took her time smoothing the folds of her skirt, fastening her cloak draped over the chair. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Deliberate.

She looked at him, one brow arched—a flicker of reluctant amusement passing like shadowlight across her face.

“Always three steps ahead, aren’t you?”

William stood, wand already in hand.

“Someone has to be.”

The corridor outside the Headmaster’s office was steeped in shadow, lit only by the flickering gold of torches and the waning afternoon light slanting through high arched windows—the doorway flanked by two bronze Thestrals. Merith stood motionless beneath the shimmering veil of her Disillusionment Charm, breath held tight behind her teeth.

Beside her, William was silent—eerily so. He had cast the charm over himself without instruction, wand moving with a practiced, fluid ease. That alone spoke volumes.

Beyond the thick oak door, voices echoed—sharp-edged and unmistakable.

“So you’re certain this cure for boils won’t worsen the condition?” came Headmaster Black’s voice, nasal, impatient, with the distinct tone of of a man who’d already committed to complaint and now merely awaited validation for his suffering.

“It’s a standard salve, Headmaster,” came Sharp’s reply—flat, dry, and utterly unimpressed. “I’ve brewed it plenty. Safe enough, assuming it’s not slathered on like treacle.”

“And if it’s not applied correctly?” Black pressed, voice pitched in theatrical dread.

A long pause. “Then you’ll simply have more boils. Which I’m sure your staff are well accustomed to managing by now.”

Merith suppressed a snort.

Footsteps. The creak of the door. She tensed.

Black swept into the corridor, robes billowing, muttering about “utter incompetence” and “needlessly dramatic side effects.” Sharp followed at a slower pace—measured, deliberate. As he reached the hallway, he paused. Just briefly.

His eyes flicked toward the shadowed corner where Merith and William stood hidden beneath enchantment.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move.

But his head tilted, ever so slightly. His nostrils flared, as though he’d caught the faint scent of something that shouldn’t be there.

His gaze lingered—one heartbeat too long.

Then, with a slow blink, he turned, cast Black a dry, disbelieving look, and walked on.

The corridor emptied.

Merith exhaled slowly, her heart hammering against her ribs. She waited a full count of ten before lifting the Disillusionment Charm.

William followed a beat later.

Merith looked at him—then at the great iron-handled door before them.

“This never happened,” she muttered.

William arched a brow. “You mean the part where a professor breaks into the Headmaster’s private office with a student?”

She gave a breath of a laugh—low, incredulous. “No. I mean the part where I’m that professor.”

Drawing her wand, she crouched beside the lock. The mechanism was old—finicky, charmed against casual tampering. But not against her.

She whispered a charm, her fingertips guiding the magic like smoke through the keyhole. A soft, satisfying click broke the silence.

The door swung open.

The room yawned before them, all stone and shadow.

The Headmaster’s office was vast and cavernous, its ceiling lost in vaulting heights. Bookshelves loomed on every wall, clawing upward toward the stone dome overhead. Between them, strange artifacts rested on pedestals: hourglasses filled with ash instead of sand, a bronze orrery that turned of its own accord, a petrified raven with wings outstretched in silent warning.

The hearth was cold. The curtains drawn. Yet the air felt thick—alive—with a subtle pressure, as if centuries of magic had soaked into the very stone, making it dense… watchful.

At the far end of the chamber, raised on a marble plinth beneath a tall stained-glass window, stood the object they had come for.

The Pensieve.

Its basin was wide and shallow, hewn from pale stone veined with silver. It shimmered faintly—imperceptibly—with that quiet sort of power that didn’t need to announce itself. Runes were etched into the rim—elegant, curling, each one whispering of something older than language.

Merith approached it with measured steps, breath catching in her chest.

She had seen one before—her father’s, back when she was still small enough to sit cross-legged in his study and watch the silvery strands flow like smoke. But she had never used one. Never touched the surface. It had always felt like crossing into sacred ground.

Now, it stood before her, silent and waiting.

Behind her, William drew closer. His face was unreadable, all traces of that earlier tension buried beneath a surface calm. But when he reached for the memory, Merith saw it—the flicker of reluctance, the weight behind the motion.

He lifted his wand to his temple.

A slow breath. The motion deliberate.

And then, gently, he drew a thin silver thread from his mind—light as mist, gleaming with soft luminescence. It curled at the tip of his wand like a strand of moonlight.

He held it above the basin.

Merith stepped aside, not speaking.

With the softest motion, William lowered the thread into the Pensieve. The silver melted into the basin with a quiet whisper, vanishing beneath the surface like breath through water.

Merith looked at the Pensieve, then at William.

“Are you coming with me?”

William shook his head once, slow and certain. “I’ve already seen it. Once was enough.”

She met his gaze, and for a moment, something passed between them—unspoken, but understood.

“Keep watch,” she said.

William nodded.

Merith stepped to the edge of the basin.

She braced her hands lightly on the rim, let her breath still, and leaned forward—

And plunged.

The plunge was instant.

No wind. No pull. Just silence—and then:

Soundless descent.

As if falling through water that never quite touched her skin.

Colour bled into her vision in slow, inky waves. Shadows first—charcoal greys and soot-blacks blooming outward—then stone. Rough-hewn and ancient. A great cavern unfolded beneath her, its walls folding inward like the ribs of some long-buried leviathan.

Dust roared around her, thick and alive.

But there was no heat. No pain.

Only presence.

Her boots touched stone—insubstantial, echo-thin. Memory didn’t offer footing, only illusion. And yet, she stood.

Ahead, the cavern groaned. Not stone, but magic under strain—cracking, splintering. The very air trembled. Arcs of golden energy spiderwebbed through the rock, lighting veins that pulsed like arteries beneath the earth.

And then she saw him.

William.

Younger—only slightly. Battle-worn. His robes torn at the shoulder, blood at his collarbone. His wand gripped tight in one hand, the other raised against the force thrashing the air around him.

And there—opposite him—Ranrok.

Not as he had been.

But something else.

Transfigured. Consumed.

Fire coursed through the creature’s veins. Wings of molten gold unfurled behind him—no longer flesh, but raw, devouring power. The thing that had once worn Ranrok’s face let out a howl so deep it turned the ground to ash.

A voice, and not a voice:

“You would try seal it? You, a child of dust and fleeting breath?”

William didn’t answer.

But his stance said everything.

A refusal. A warning.

The creature rose.

The cavern collapsed—not from impact, but from proximity. Stone turned to sand in midair, devoured by the pressure of the unleashed magic. Wind surged like water. Runes ignited across the crumbling archways—reactive, frantic.

And in the space between heartbeats—

William raised his wand.

A spell.

Not spoken.

Older than language.

It came not from his lips, but from somewhere buried deep within—older blood, older memory. The same thread Merith had felt in herself. Whispers of inheritance. Warnings told through the bedtime stories of the Zmey.

A sigil flared beneath his feet.

Gold.

Then silver.

Then—something darker. Beyond color. Beyond light.

Ranrok screamed.

The dragon-beast lunged.

Flames swallowed the platform.

And just before it struck—

Light.

White. Absolute.

Merith gasped.

She jerked upright, air slamming into her lungs like ice. The glow of the Pensieve dimmed at the edges of her vision, stone underfoot replaced by the cold stillness of the Headmaster’s office.

She staggered back a step, catching herself on the basin’s edge.

William turned to her at once.

She didn’t speak—not yet.

The silence stretched.

The Pensieve still shimmered faintly, but the light had faded—its memory spent.

Merith stared into its depths, though what she saw now was only reflection. Her own eyes, wide and shadowed.

What she had witnessed clung to her skin like smoke. The cavern. The fire. That monstrous thing that had worn Ranrok’s form—twisted, yes, but far more than just him. Something ancient. Something hungry. The Zmey? Or merely a fractured echo of it—an unleashed shard of something far greater, fractured and furious?

She wasn’t sure.

There had been no resolution—only light. Blinding, absolute. The memory had felt whole, complete in its shape, and yet… something had been severed. Cut away abruptly. With intent.

Merith was no part of that memory—only a witness, viewing it through William’s mind. And as she watched, a pressing question grew in the silence:

What had become of the ancient magic they sought to seal? It hadn’t vanished—magic of that magnitude does not simply dissolve, especially when untethered from the goblin silver meant to bind it.

Where had it gone?

What could possibly contain such force now?

A cold shiver threaded down her spine.

And then—quiet, unwelcome—the darker thought surfaced:

Or who.

She turned toward him, the question still echoing behind her eyes.

William stood before the Pensieve, silent, his wand already moving. He was retrieving the memory—lifting it slowly from the basin in a strand of pale silver, its glow reflecting off his features.

The light haloed him in a way that made her breath catch.

His face, illuminated from below, was carved in shadow and softness—the clean lines of his jaw, the furrow just beginning to etch between his brows. His eyes, usually such a cool, unreadable blue, now shimmered like glacial pools catching firelight—haunted and still.

He looked impossibly young. And impossibly tired.

She opened her mouth to speak—

Rattle.

The door handle behind them jostled.

Merith spun. With a single flick of her wand and a whispered "Velare," a shimmering veil like woven mist swept over the Pensieve. The glow vanished beneath its cover.

“Come on—” she breathed, grabbing William by the wrist.

He didn’t resist.

They sprinted up the narrow staircase, cloaked in silence and urgency. Merith reached the top, shoved open the balcony door with a soft click—just as the office door below swung inward.

William stumbled out behind her, nearly colliding with her back—and pitched sideways into the open air. His spine hit the low stone railing with a sharp gasp, and for a breathless moment, he teetered on the edge.

Merith caught his hand.

“Don’t make me explain this to the Board of Governors,” she whispered, straining as she pulled him back.

He let out a huffed laugh, gripping her arm. “Tell them I tripped on my conscience.”

“Tell them you had one,” she muttered, dragging him fully onto the balcony.

He braced himself against the castle wall, exhaling hard, one hand gripping the stone. The faintest smile ghosted across his face, despite himself.

Merith crept down the winding stony stair spiraling from the balcony's edge and peeked carefully around the narrow turret. Through the warped glass of the office window, she caught a glimpse of the intruder.

Scrope.

The Headmaster’s house-elf was bustling about with grim efficiency, grumbling to himself in hushed, theatrical misery. His pointed nose twitched with irritation. Tufts of wiry hair curled over his ears, where a single long ear twitched reflexively. The other was little more than a pale stump, hidden mostly by the height of his brow. He muttered as he wiped down the bookshelves with a floating feather duster, occasionally swatting at invisible dust as if avenging some great personal offense.

Merith sighed.

“It’s only Scrope,” she said softly over her shoulder. “Probably thinks dust is a personal insult.”

She ascended the narrow stair again, her boots quiet on the iron. William was waiting, still leaning against the rough stone wall, his eyes on the horizon.

The stone beneath Merith’s hands was cool, worn smooth by time and wind. She leaned into it, eyes tracing the horizon where the last light of day bled into shadow. From this height, the world felt distant—Hogwarts’ towers casting long silhouettes across the valley, and beyond them, the Highlands unfurled like ancient fabric, stitched in shades of rose and violet, bruised gold seeping into their folds.

Above, the sky was surrendering—sunset unraveling into twilight, the hush between worlds.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

They simply watched as the day exhaled its final breath, the sun slipping beneath the horizon like a secret too old to name. Silence gathered between them—not empty, but reverent. The kind of stillness that follows revelation, or the moment before a truth takes shape.

Merith didn’t look at him when she spoke.

“What became of Ranrok,” she asked softly, “and the repository?”

Behind her, William didn’t answer at first. She heard the shift of fabric as he sat on the narrow stair leading down into shadow, elbows on knees, gaze fixed somewhere past the edge of the sky.

“I don’t know,” he said at last.

A pause.

Then—too quickly—“I must’ve lost consciousness.”

She glanced over her shoulder. The sun caught the side of his face, gilding the sharp line of his jaw. His eyes didn’t meet hers.

He was lying.

“The ruins collapsed around me,” he continued, voice low. “Professor Weasley found me. They’d assumed the worst. But the sphere—the vessel—it landed over me. Shielded me. I shouldn’t have survived.”

The wind stirred between them. The silence that followed wasn’t still—it shimmered, brittle.

“You were put in an impossible position,” Merith said. “You showed strength. Restraint. You survived.”

William gave a breath of laughter—dry, sharp. “Strength and restraint,” he repeated, like a language he didn’t speak.

Merith hesitated.

Then, from her chatelaine, she withdrew a folded piece of parchment, edges softened by time. A flick of her fingers sent it drifting on the breeze between them. It hovered in the air—then unfurled.

Ink shimmered like gold-leaf.

A cloaked figure astride a skeletal dragon, fire coiled in its ribcage. In its hand: a torch—not of flame, but of writhing golden strands. Ancient magic rendered in careful strokes, still alive with intent.

“Does this look familiar?” she asked, watching him.

William stilled.

His hand lifted before he seemed to realize it—fingers brushing the torch lightly. Not recoiling. Drawn.

His voice was taut. “What is this?”

“A risk,” she said. “One I wasn’t sure I’d take.”

He looked up at her sharply. “Where did you get it?”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she asked, “What do you know of me—before Hogwarts?”

He frowned, thrown. “Durmstrang. Triwizard Champion. You’ve traveled—ritual sites, ruins…”

“And my family?”

“You mentioned a brother. Your father’s the Headmaster of Durmstrang, isn’t he?”

She nodded. “Vulchanova. Old blood. Like the Gaunts. Or the Blacks. Just… colder.”

A faint smirk flickered across his lips.

“Do you know our crest?”

She pulled back her sleeve. Around her wrist coiled a silver ring—a dragon, smoke-thin and serpentine.

“A Zmey.”

He reached, hesitated. “May I?”

She waved him on. Slipped it off and placed it in his palm.

It slithered faintly—almost lazily—against his skin, warming with contact.

Merith turned to face the light, her hands resting on the cool stone.

“My father used to tell us the story,” she said. “Of the Zmey.”

William stayed quiet.

“It began in the sea,” she said, voice low. “A serpent, hidden beneath shipwrecks and drowned kings. Small at first. Feeding on storms. But the North…” she tilted her head, eyes scanning the horizon, “has a way of waking old things.”

“It grew.”

Her voice shifted—less like instruction now, more like memory.

“It fed on what we buried. Then the war mages came—nomads from the East, obsessed with conquest. They trapped it. Wove a net of rune-thread and silverstone. When they bound it… it spoke.”

William’s eyes flicked up.

“It offered them power,” she said. “‘A tongue to speak with stone. A voice that could call even serpents to heel.’”

He inhaled. “Parseltongue.”

She nodded. “Slytherin inherited only a whisper.”

“And the mages?”

“They accepted. But the Zmey wasn’t finished. It shed its skin. Took wings. Took fire. It rose from the sea, no longer beast—just force.”

A gust of wind stirred her hair. The parchment between them fluttered, the dragon’s fire catching the last of the sun.

“The Zmey,” William murmured.

“Not a creature who cast spells,” she said. “A creature who was spell.”

She let that hang in the air a moment.

“It didn’t crawl anymore. It soared. And it didn’t destroy out of malice. Only hunger.”

A pause. The sun had dipped now—leaving only ember-glow along the tops of the distant hills.

“That’s what it felt like,” William said quietly. “When Ranrok changed.”

Merith turned to him. “Ranrok?”

He nodded slowly, eyes unfocused.

She watched him—not pressing, but waiting.

His gaze drifted to the floating parchment again. His fingers still rested on the torch.

“What became of it?” he asked. “The Zmey. The story ends in fire—but not in death.”

“They say it was sealed,” Merith said. “Beneath stone and sea. No one knows how.”

“Ancient magic?”

“Most likely.”

William’s jaw shifted. “Then what was released in the repository? That… thing. It was rage. Fire. But it didn’t seem whole.”

“No,” she said. “But I don’t think it was the Zmey. I think it was… a shadow. A splinter of what remains. A remnant, stirred by Ranrok’s corruption.”

He went still again.

She continued, softer now.

“The repository was built to contain Isidora’s corrupted magic. But ancient power doesn’t just vanish—it lingers. It needs anchoring. Maybe if it had remained pure, it could’ve returned to the earth, faded into the ley lines…”

Her voice thinned.

“…but corrupted as it was…”

Her eyes found his.

“…it would have clung to whatever it could.”

A breath passed between them—unspoken, heavy.

William leaned back against the cold stone wall, the fading light catching the silver thread of the Slytherin crest at his chest. His face had gone still—not empty, but unreadable in a different way.

There was something in him now.

Something settled.

Not fear. Not denial.

Recognition.

She said nothing.

He turned his head toward her.

“Why are you helping me?”

His voice was quieter than the wind.

She looked at him—really looked. Then leaned back against the stone beside him, the shadows stretching long behind them.

“I’m helping you,” she said, “because I’m not sure where your path ends… and mine begins.”

He said nothing.

She looked out at the last light over Hogwarts. The lake below had caught fire—orange and gold flickering over black water like dragon’s breath.

“The Zmey was a warning,” she murmured. “A bedtime story. Something to fear.”

She let out a breath that didn’t steady her.

“I used to think I was chasing history. Trying to find where the world broke—and who held the chisel.”

Her voice fell to almost nothing.

“But maybe I was only listening for something old to call my name.”

She glanced sideways at him.

“And now here you are. Carrying something no one should carry. Asking questions I once thought only I was foolish enough to ask.”

Silence.

Then, softly:

“Some threads don’t unravel, William.”

Her eyes lingered on the parchment, where the torch still pulsed faintly with gold.

“Some threads pull us home.”

Chapter Text

The fire in Merith’s hearth had long since burned to embers, casting only a soft amber glow across her chambers. The hour was late, but not yet indecent—quiet enough for solitude to feel chosen rather than imposed.

She stood before the tall mirrored wardrobe, one hand lifted to her hair, dark as wet ink, the other steadying a small silver box atop the vanity’s edge. Pin by pin, she disarmed herself, setting the day aside in delicate clicks of metal. Her dark hair loosened, curl by heavy curl, until it spilled down her back in an ungoverned wave.

The last pin dropped into the box.

She didn’t rush.

The hooks of her gown slid free with the softest of whispers. Silk peeled from her shoulders, her back, her hips—falling in a sigh of fabric to the floor.

Bare now, she stood in the hush of her own chambers, unhurried in the ritual of solitude.

She reached for nothing—not the lace chemise on the bedpost, not the velvet wrap folded at the screen. Her reflection in the mirror was still. Thoughtful. A study in contrasts: bare skin against shadow, composure against something quieter beneath.

A knock.

Three fingers’ width from the robe, she paused.

Not a loud knock. Not impatient. But precise. Deliberate.

She didn’t ask who it was.

She knew.

Her hand drifted to the edge of the open wardrobe, fingers resting lightly there. Not moving. Not yet.

The door opened slowly.

Aesop Sharp stood in the frame.

He always lingered, as though her threshold were not just a door but something older, more sacrosanct. This time was no different. His coat was still on—dark wool, collar damp from a light rain, the scent of damp parchment and ash trailing faintly behind him.

His gaze fell on her.

Not sharply. Not with surprise.

Just… still.

Merith didn’t flinch. Her posture was calm, arms loose at her sides, one hip half-tilted into the shadow of the wardrobe door. The fire behind her caught the edge of her collarbone, tracing the outline of her ribs in molten gold.

“You’re late,” she said, voice smooth as silk and just as unreadable. The coolness in her tone was deliberate, almost lazy. Like a blade drawn slowly, not yet meant to cut.

"Am I?"

Aesop’s gaze dipped—first to her mouth, then lower, just briefly. "From where I’m standing… it looks like I’m right on time." he replied, his voice low, roughened at the edges.

His voice was low, always. Dry, too—like stone after a storm. She had heard it softer, warmer, even raw once or twice. But not tonight.

She turned, not bothering to hide herself. She didn’t cover her chest. Her stance was confident, but not cruel—unhidden, but not performative.

Something unspoken hung in the air between them.

“Shut the door, Aesop,” she said softly. “You’ll let the cold in.”

He did.

Still, he stayed near it.

Her hand moved again, finally, lifting the cream-colored chemise from the foot of the bed. Lace-thin and pale as frost, it shimmered slightly in the firelight. She stepped into it slowly, letting the fabric slide across her skin like a second breath.

Aesop watched her—not leering. But watching.

As if she were something he had tried, many times, to study without conclusion.

She drew the ribbon at her waist, tying it with a practiced hand. Then, just as she was reaching for the velvet robe beside the mirror—

“I recognized the smell of roses.”

She froze.

Her hand lingered near the velvet, fingers brushing the heavier fabric.

Aesop’s voice was quiet now. But not soft.

“Outside the Headmaster’s office. Earlier today.”

Merith stood still.

Her robe’s ribbon fluttered slightly in the fire’s heat, like breath.

“You’ve always worn that scent,” he continued, stepping forward at last. “But it never lingers. Not unless you’ve been standing still.”

She turned to face him fully.

The silence that stretched between them wasn’t empty—it was brittle. Weight-bearing.

“You weren’t just passing by,” he said.

Her lips parted.

Then—without a word—she stepped behind the screen and reached for the velvet robe. Thicker. Heavier. She pulled it around her, buttoning it up her chest like armor being drawn into place.

“I wasn’t,” she said.

Then, with a breath:

“I broke into the Headmaster’s office.”

Aesop’s jaw shifted. Not clenched. But tighter.

She emerged from behind the screen, composed again—clothed now, yet somehow more vulnerable than she’d been a moment before.

“I didn’t do it alone,” she added.

A beat passed.

“William was with me.”

The name landed with weight.

She watched him, carefully.

His face—handsome in a sharp, unfinished way, all harsh lines and watchful eyes—remained unreadable.

But his voice was colder when it returned:

“I see,” Aesop said again, though it was a poor disguise for what he actually felt.

He moved further into the room, each step deliberate. His presence was like his voice—controlled, precise—but tonight, there was something more volatile underneath. His boots made no sound against the rug as he came to a slow stop just short of her desk, where an untouched brandy decanter caught the firelight.

“And what exactly,” he asked, gaze flicking to her, “compelled you to violate direct security wards in the company of a student?”

Merith didn’t look away.

“To see the truth,” she said simply.

Aesop’s brow lifted—slight, skeptical. “The truth.”

She nodded once. “William showed me his Pensieve. The memory from the final battle. With Ranrok.”

That stopped him.

His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out at first. Instead, he looked away, dragging a hand through his hair—carefully swept back, though strands were already falling loose around his temples.

“You shouldn’t have seen that,” he said, finally.

Merith’s breath caught. “You knew.”

Aesop didn’t respond.

“Aesop.” Her voice cut through the space between them. “You knew what he was. What he is.”

He inhaled deeply through his nose and turned his head, not quite meeting her gaze. When he did speak, it was with weary precision. “I do.”

Merith stepped forward, her jaw tight. “And you didn’t think I deserved to know?”

“I thought,” he replied evenly, “that William was entitled to choose who he trusted with that knowledge.”

“But you already knew,” she repeated, lower now. “You knew he was an Ancient Magic wielder. You knew he’d faced Ranrok. You knew he had done something impossible—and you kept it from me.”

Something flickered in his eyes at that. Not guilt. Not quite.

Resignation.

“You’re not his guardian, Merith,” he said quietly.

“No,” she shot back, “yet, I am the sole one who has been there for him.”

The words rang louder than she meant. Her fists had clenched before she noticed.

Aesop’s brow creased. “Professor Weasley—”

“Passed the responsibility onto me without telling me what it would cost,” she snapped. “I was meant to keep an eye on him. Support him. But how do you support someone when you don’t even know what they’re carrying? You’ve all just… watched him. Watched him fray.”

“William isn’t—” Aesop began.

“He is,” she said. “He’s fraying. He’s unraveling. And you’re standing here acting like he’s some neatly contained case file—‘troubled and possesses’—”

She stopped herself.

But the silence she left was too heavy.

Aesop didn’t fill it.

He didn’t need to.

She read it in the tension around his eyes. In the set of his mouth. The truth wasn’t news to him. It was weight he had already learned to bear quietly.

“You knew,” she said again, but this time, it wasn’t accusation—it was ache.

He glanced toward the hearth, his voice low and tightly reined.

“He was never supposed to tell anyone.”

The words sank.

Merith’s hands went to the buttons of her robe again, fastening the top one with fingers that trembled slightly now. Not from the cold.

“You isolate him,” she said, quiet but unwavering. “Keep him quiet. Then act surprised when he starts to slip—when he trusts the first person who listens without treating him like a case study.”

Aesop’s gaze cut back to her. Sharper this time. “You think listening is enough?”

She exhaled—tired, not defeated. “I think it’s the only thing that matters when someone believes no one’s really hearing them.”

Her voice was fraying now—threadbare at the edges, emotion tightening behind her words like a pulled stitch.

And she hated that it showed.

She turned from him, moving to the window. Cold glass met her palm—firelight fractured her reflection, scattering it into warped shards across the pane.

“I didn’t come here to play the saviour,” she said at last. Her voice was low, composed. “And yet… somehow, I’m drowning in the remnants others leave behind.”

Aesop said nothing.

“I didn’t ask for this,” she continued, softer now. “None of it was planned. Some days, I hardly know what I’m doing here.”

That shifted something.

When Aesop stepped forward, it wasn’t with accusation—it was with intent. A kind of stillness edged in restraint.

“Then tell me,” he said. “Why did you come to Hogwarts, Merith? Truly.”

She turned. Not because she had to. Because something in his voice asked her to.

He hadn’t spoken the question like a trap. But like a man who had carried it too long, silently—waiting for the moment when it might slip free without shattering them both.

She didn’t answer.

So he went on, quieter now—a frustrated tenderness.

“Trying to understand you,” he said, “is like chasing smoke through fog. Every time I reach, you vanish. I feel you—close, warm, real—and then suddenly… you’re gone.”

His hand lifted—not toward her, but outward, as if gesturing to the shape of her absence.

“One moment you’re beside me. In my arms. In my bed. And the next… all that remains is a scent. A hollow in the sheets. Silence.”

She folded her arms—not for warmth, but to hold herself steady.

“This is supposed to be about William,” she said, the steel returning to her voice.

He didn’t bristle.

He simply stilled.

There was no anger. No wounded pride. 

Only a shift—a shadow behind his gaze. Not quite disappointment. Not quite regret.

Something gentler. Sadder.

“You’re right,” he said softly.

Then, after a pause: “Forgive me. It seems I’ve grown careless with the boundaries I used to keep.”

The formality wasn’t cold. It wasn’t armor.

It was a closing. A door drawn gently shut, without blame.

The silence that followed did not settle.

It hovered—dense, fragile. Not empty. But filled with the residue of things neither dared name.

Aesop’s eyes lingered on her, then shifted toward the decanter of brandy at her sideboard. He poured himself a brandy with the same care he might measure a tincture—methodical, exact. The clink of glass punctuated the stillness.

He didn’t offer her one.

Merith moved—quiet, deliberate. She crossed to her vanity, her fingers tracing the filigree of a silver box. The lid clicked open. A final hairpin dropped inside.

The mirror caught them both. Her gaze flicked to his reflection—stoic, firelit, jaw set.

He sipped. Then placed the glass down, untouched.

“I didn’t mean to make this personal,” she said, still turned from him. Her voice had cooled—not into ice, but into something still and hushed, like the air after a storm has passed and the wreckage lies quiet.

He waited.

When he finally spoke, it was with that same polished restraint. But something beneath it had frayed, just slightly.

“It’s always been personal, Merith.”

She didn’t move.

Her fingers drifted to the sash at her waist. The velvet trembled faintly beneath her touch.

“I should’ve told you about William,” he said. “I made the call I thought best.”

“You thought I couldn’t handle it.”

“No,” Aesop said. “I thought you wouldn’t stay.”

Her breath caught.

Slowly, she untied the robe and let it fall open. The lace hem of her chemise brushed against her thighs—cool air and firelight brushing bare skin. But she didn’t reach to cover herself.

Not yet.

“You thought I’d run,” she said, the words brittle.

“I thought I’d wake one morning to find your scent fading from the sheets and your silence echoing through the room.”

The words struck deeper than he likely intended—right into the part of her she rarely let surface.

She turned toward the hearth, one hand brushing the stone mantle. Her robe slipped from one shoulder.

“That may have been true once,” she said. “But I don’t think it’s an option anymore.”

“Why?”

His voice held no challenge. Just quiet need.

She paused.

When she spoke again, the words came stripped bare.

“Because I don’t know what staying means.”

She turned to face him, eyes unguarded.

“When I left home, I thought I knew myself—knew what I was meant to become. But the longer I remain here, the more that version of me fades. I can’t go back to find her… and if I stay—truly stay—I don’t know who I become in her absence.”

He didn’t speak.

But something in his gaze shifted. Softer. Less guarded.

She continued, not quite able to stop.

“I came to Hogwarts thinking I could remain untouched. That I could observe without being seen. But William… he pulls at the threads. Makes you look at yourself, even when you don’t want to.”

She swallowed.

“And you,” she added, voice thinning, “you ask the kinds of questions that make the ground fall away.”

Aesop stepped closer—only a pace.

His voice was barely above a whisper.

“Then what’s keeping you from letting it fall?”

Her exhale trembled. She drew the robe back around her—not for modesty, but to keep herself together.

"Because when the ground gives out, it isn’t just the fall I fear—it’s the wreckage I’ll leave behind."

Her voice dropped to near silence.

“I don’t know who to trust anymore. And every path feels like betrayal… of someone.”

The quiet was thick. Unyielding.

Aesop’s jaw tightened. But gently. Then, finally, he nodded—not in surrender, but in understanding.

“I’ll speak to William,” he said. “The burden’s heavier than he lets on.”

She nodded faintly.

He hesitated. Then: “And Scrope—”
A pause. A glance upward. A quiet shake of the head.
“I’ll keep him out of it. Let’s call it… academic solidarity.”

Her mouth tugged into something almost like a smile.

But it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

He lingered. Watching her.

Then turned toward the door.

At the threshold, he paused. His hand rested on the latch.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured, gaze lowered. “About not knowing where you go when you disappear.”

He glanced back once—just once—as if he might say more.

But whatever it was, he folded it away with a breath and let the silence swallow it.

The latch clicked softly.

And just as the door began to close—

“I don’t know either,” she said, her voice small. “But you’re the only one who’s ever tried to follow.”

The silence that followed wasn’t hollow.

It ached.

She stood in it, arms wrapped tight around her middle.

Not for comfort.

But to keep from unraveling.

The morning was still and grey, the kind of grey that blued the stone walls of Merith’s office and turned the frost-laced windows into mirrors of mist. There was no fire in the hearth—by choice. The cold kept her alert, sharp. It bit at her fingers and settled in the fabric of her sleeves, a physical tether to the waking world.

Outside, the Scottish fog pressed close against the glass like a second skin, blurring the outlines of the distant hills. Hogwarts had not yet stirred to full wakefulness; the corridors beyond her door lay hushed and hollow.

Merith sat hunched at her desk, notetaking long abandoned. One hand absently twirled a quill between her fingers, the other pressed flat against the sealed cover of the ancient tome.

Around her, parchment lay scattered in patient disarray—etched with runes both familiar and half-forgotten, spiraling glyphs copied from the margins of the texts she’d borrowed from Astor Pugs’ office. Some she had drawn directly atop the tome’s cover, the ink deliberate, the symbols bold.

Still, the book did not react.

Not a flicker of warmth. Not even the whisper of latent magic through her hand.

It sat inert. Indifferent. Heavy, and heavy-handed—its silence almost mocking.

Merith frowned, the tension in her brow sharpened by a long, sleepless night. She tapped the end of her quill against the desk’s edge, eyes scanning the glyphs again—origin, unmaking, and a third without translation. That one she felt more than understood: a symbol that hummed against the throat when spoken, as though language itself recoiled from it.

Even the ink’s shimmer, charmed faintly with minor enchantments, had begun to dim.

She leaned back with a sigh, smoothing a hand down the pleated front of her gown. It was forest green—fine, light wool stitched with black beaded florals—and its high collar buttoned to her throat. Her hair had been twisted and fastened into place with a heavy comb inset with a dark green stone, though several wisps had begun to fall loose.

Her eyes drifted again to the tome.

Perhaps William could open it.

The thought crept in like mist through cracked stone—quiet, unwelcome, insidious. And she despised how tempting it sounded.

She imagined him there—his hand hovering just above the surface, ancient magic flickering in the air between them like light through stained glass.

She had never seen a student carry so much power. Not just a student—any witch or wizard, in truth.

And once, not so long ago, she would’ve asked—no, insisted—that he use it. Not unkindly, but without hesitation.

Because it was necessary. Because it made sense.

Because she hadn’t cared.

But now?

Now she recoiled at the thought. Not because he couldn’t handle it—but because… because she wasn’t sure she could.

She leaned forward again, tracing the faint rune of unmaking with the tip of her finger.

When had she become like this?

The cost of care. The inconvenience of attachment. Especially to someone who wasn’t hers—wasn’t her student, not truly. Not her kin. Not part of the life she had once imagined for herself.

He was just a boy.

And yet… he reminded her, so painfully, of someone she had once tried to be. A part of her who still remained.

A knock broke through her thoughts—sharp and sudden.

Merith’s spine stiffened. She blinked, then moved quickly, the familiar rhythm of secrecy tightening her movements. With a wave of her hand, the parchment vanished.

Then she whispered, “Reducio,” shrinking the tome to a sliver of its true self. It landed in the drawer with a dull, traitorous thud.

She shut it with more force than was necessary.

“Enter,” she said, voice steady.

The door creaked open.

Mudiwa Onai stood there, framed by grey light and early cold. Her indigo robes clung damply to her shoulders, curls tucked beneath a violet scarf, dark eyes unreadable.

She did not step forward.
She did not smile.
And she did not sit.

Merith rose, the folds of her gown falling neat around her legs.

Before she could speak, Mudiwa did.

“I’m not angry with you anymore.”

Merith stilled.

“…I’m not sure I ever truly was,” Mudiwa added, her voice low and resolute.

Merith’s brow furrowed faintly, but she said nothing.

Mudiwa stepped into the room at last, her silhouette tall and straight, but her face held none of its usual sharpness. The sleeves of her indigo robe were slightly wet at the cuffs, her hair wrapped in a silken scarf the colour of bruised violets.

She looked—tired. Human.

“It was never truly about you,” Mudiwa said, her gaze sweeping the office before settling on Merith again. “It was anger, yes. But not yours to carry.”

Merith shifted slightly, her hands brushing the folds of her gown, the fine green wool crackling faintly as she moved. The beaded florals caught the morning light, tiny black suns stitched into vine.

“I didn’t want to wound you,” she said softly.

“I know,” Mudiwa replied. “And perhaps I needed to be wounded anyway. A little.”

She paused there—her tone even, but deliberate.

“You know, when Natsai returned from that Ashwinder mess last spring, she told me nothing.”

Her voice had changed. It was still composed, still careful—but now it carried weight. Like something being drawn up from a deep, cold well.

“Not at first,” she went on. “But I saw it on her—how she held herself. The way she’d flinch when I so much as raised my voice.”

Merith’s mouth tightened. She didn’t speak.

“She’d been hit with Crucio,” Mudiwa said, barely more than a breath. “Not deeply. But deep enough.”

A pause. Then:

“She never should have been in that fight. Never should have been near it. She was fifteen.”

Mudiwa’s voice did not crack—but something faltered behind it, like wind brushing a curtain. She looked past Merith for a moment, as though the words required distance.

“Since her father passed, she’s carried this... need. Not just to protect, but to punish. As if grief can be bartered away through bravery. As if pain might be silenced if she’s loud enough in battle.”

Her gaze returned, level but quieter now.

“She calls it justice. I know it for what it is.”

A breath, shallow and sharp.

“I thought I’d lost her that day.”

“I read the signs, Merith. Every card. Every thread of smoke. And still, I didn’t see it. Or I didn’t want to.”

Her eyes met Merith’s again—darker now, steady.

“She came back to me changed. Quieter. The kind of quiet that makes a mother’s bones go cold. I thought I’d lost her that day.”

Merith felt something cold coil low in her chest. She looked down, tracing a faint mark where ink had seeped into the grain of her desk—staining it, as if permanence could ever be so quiet.

“I blamed the boys involved,” Mudiwa said, voice low, measured. “I blamed Professor Weasley for letting her go. I blamed Eleazar for dying when he did. I blamed the castle—this castle—for swallowing her into its hungers. I blamed William…”

She paused, gaze unwavering.

“And now, I blame you.”

The words landed not as accusation, but truth—heavy with the weight of having carried them too long.

“But most of all,” she said, “I blamed myself. For not seeing what was already unfolding. For trusting that she would be safe in the shadow of our care. For being what I always seem to be—wise, too late.”

The silence that followed was not cold, not cutting. It was the kind that lingers after grief has burned itself quiet. The kind that drapes across ruin, soft as ash.

“I didn’t know,” Merith said finally. Her voice, though quiet, held the shape of something fragile. Honest.

“No,” Mudiwa replied. “You didn’t. And that isn’t your fault.”

They stood there a moment longer—two women, not absolved, but no longer armed. Something brittle between them eased, just slightly.

Then, without ceremony, they turned and stepped into the hallway, the first hints of morning reaching through the stone like memory.

Merith paused. Then, as if the impulse came not from thought, but instinct, she reached out—took Mudiwa’s hand in both of hers.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she said, low.

Mudiwa’s fingers tightened once, firm, before slipping away.

Neither smiled. Not really.

But something passed between them.

And this time, neither turned away.

They didn’t speak until they neared the Great Hall, and even then, it wasn’t Merith who broke the silence.

“Ah—there you are,” Mirabel Garlick called softly, rising slightly from her seat at the staff table. She offered a warm smile and a gentle wave of her gloved hand. “I was beginning to think I’d be sipping tea alone this morning.”

Mudiwa inclined her head in greeting. “We were delayed,” she said simply.

“Oh, of course.” Mirabel’s gaze flicked between them—curious, but not pressing. “You’ve not missed much. A minor mishap in Greenhouse Four. One of the sixth-years overfed a Chomping Cabbage—it got a bit… spirited. Mr. Clopton’s fine, though she’s insisted on limping for dramatic effect.”

Merith raised a brow faintly.

“I’m keeping the poor thing under glass for now,” Mirabel added. “The cabbage, that is. Everett, I believe, will recover.”

Mudiwa made a quiet sound—part exhale, part suppressed laugh. “I’m not sure which of them you’re more concerned for.”

Mirabel only smiled and sat back, pouring herself a second cup of tea. “You know me, Professor Onai. Everything grows better with a bit of attention.”

They reached the table just as the morning platters shimmered into place—soft eggs, toast points, curls of smoked fish. Merith slid into her seat beside Mirabel and allowed herself to fall into the familiar rhythm: the clink of silver, the scent of steeping tea, Professor Ronen’s booming laughter somewhere behind her shoulder.

But her eyes strayed.

Across the table, Aesop Sharp sat already with his tea, posture precise, a copy of the Daily Prophet folded beside his plate. He didn’t speak. Not to her. But his gaze flicked up once—brief and unreadable.

He nodded.

It was polite. Respectful.

Distant.

She had asked him not to press. Not to pull.

And he hadn’t.

And yet—something in her chest twisted, sharp and unsettled, as if distance were a wound disguised as courtesy.

She looked away.

Above, the owls began to arrive, sweeping low and silver through the rafters. One dropped a letter beside her cup—a thick parcel sealed in Professor Hecat’s unmistakable script. Familiar. Grounding.

But the second envelope landed without sound.

Plain. Unmarked.

Too plain.

Merith’s brow furrowed. She didn’t touch it immediately—only extended a hand, fingers flexing. Magic stirred beneath her skin. 

“Revelio.”

Ink bloomed across the surface—thin, silver filaments that stretched and bled into shape. Lines. Elevations. A coastline, rough and curling. Mountain slopes cutting into sea.

A map.

Cragcroft.

Her breath left her in a slow, deliberate stream.

The meeting place.

Where Michaél—and Aric—would be waiting tonight.

Her fingers curled around the edge of the map, folding it once.

Tension returned like a tide—quiet, certain.

She did not speak.

And this time, no one noticed the silence.

Chapter Text

The air smelled of salt and woodsmoke.

Merith stepped from the green glow of the Floo Network into the damp hush of Cragcroftshire, her boots scraping softly against rain-slick cobblestone. Fog curled thick around her ankles, swallowing sound, softening the village into a smear of wet stone and pale halos of lantern light. Somewhere beyond the clustered chimneys and wind-worn storefronts, the sea churned unseen—an ever-present pulse beneath the wind.

She drew her dark woolen cloak tighter. The hem whispered against the stones as she climbed the sloping path toward the cottage perched at the village’s edge.

It emerged slowly, like a memory made flesh—two stories, narrow and leaning, wooden slats silvered by salt and storm. The shingled roof sagged with damp. A single lantern glowed beside the door, its light catching and refracting through the mist.

Beneath the overhang, a figure waited.

Tall. Lean. One shoulder braced against the siding, head tilted under the low eaves. A cigarette burned low between his fingers, the ember flaring briefly—catching the angular cut of his cheekbone, the strands of his hair pale and damp as fog. The front pieces clung to his face, framing it like careful brushstrokes.

Merith froze. Her breath caught, caught like a bird in a net.

She hadn’t seen Aric in months. Not since—

The tip of his cigarette flared as he inhaled. Then his head turned slowly—not as though he saw her, but as though he felt her.

The lantern revealed his face—sharpened by fatigue, streaked with rain, mouth parted just enough to breathe smoke into the mist.

“Merith.”

Her name was a murmur. A question. A promise.

She didn’t move.

Then the door creaked open.

“About bloody time,” came a voice from inside. Dry. Sharp. Cynical.

Michaél.

Her brother.

She forced her legs forward, stepping past Aric. He didn’t move—only flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath his boot. As she passed, his scent lingered—tobacco and something darker, spiced, stubborn, maddening.

He didn’t speak. She didn’t look back. Not yet.

Michaél held the door, one hand flat, the other tucked into his side, a sigh heavy in his chest. He didn’t speak—only raised a brow, a silent calculation that her arrival had cost him personally. A gesture unmistakably Michaél: sardonic, exasperated, and far too aware of the dramatic tension curling through the room.

Merith passed beneath his arm with the grace of someone too tired to fight. The hem of her cloak trailed damp across the boards.

Warmth hit her like a second impact.

The cottage breathed heat and age—the scent of soot, rain-damp wool, and wood steeped into its bones. A fire roared in the hearth, too large for the room, snapping at the wet chill clinging to her shoulders.

Shadows pooled beneath the sparse furniture: two chairs, a low table, a velvet settee slouched in the center like a drunk uncle.

She drew back her hood. Droplets clung to her jawline, her hair damp and loose beneath the folds. She unfastened the cloak, letting it slide from her shoulders. The wool caught briefly on the curved silver fangs of her bracelet. She paused, tugged gently, and freed it.

The bracelet coiled sleek around her wrist: silver, serpentine, eyes garnet-bright. The dragon’s mouth was frozen in a snarl, tiny teeth sharp enough to catch silk.

She didn’t look at it.

Her gown caught the firelight. Muted brown, like wet bark, the silk shimmering faintly with her movement—its texture reminiscent of moth wings or water on stone. The high collar framed her throat sharply. The sleeves, trimmed in curling black feathers now ruined by rain, whispered like burned parchment as she moved.

She hung the cloak by the door and turned—just as Michaél poured rakia into three crystal glasses.

He didn’t meet her eyes. He held one out.

“You came,” he said.

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not,” he replied. “Just surprised. You’ve been ignoring your owls.”

He sipped. Thin smile. “Figured you traded ambition for chalk and lesson plans. Teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts—how noble of you.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“With what?” Michaél arched a brow. “Mending misbehaving students—or misbehaving with the faculty?”

Aric flinched—a faint, involuntary pull—but she didn’t look.

“Charming, as ever.”

“I do try.”

Aric hadn’t moved from the hearth. Hands braced the mantle as if it alone held him upright. His shirt collar dark with damp, smoke and rain curling upward in the heat.

Merith lowered herself into one of the chairs. Feathers brushed the arms, delicate, decayed. She held her glass but didn’t drink.

“You look well,” Aric said, voice soft, almost reluctant. He still hadn’t turned.

“Better than the last time you saw me, I suppose.”

From the couch, Michaél made a low sound—amusement or warning, impossible to tell.

Aric finally turned. His eyes met hers. Familiar. Foreign. Raw beneath the veil of absence.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Which part?” she asked. “Ambushing me for the tome? Betraying me? Watching me fall three stories through stained glass and deciding not to look back?”

His jaw tensed.

“I tried to find you.”

“You didn’t try very hard.”

Michaél sprawled across the settee, rakia swirling in idle precision, one brow raised in quiet amusement.

Merith rose. The train of her gown whispered, catching on the rug’s frayed edge.

“Let’s not waste time. I’m here. Now talk.”

Aric remained near the hearth, cigarette pinched between two fingers. Ash trembled near breaking. He inhaled, letting the smoke drift from his nose—coiling soft and slow.

“Your father,” he said finally, “isn’t protecting anything.”

Merith stiffened.

“What did you just say?”

“He’s not guarding a legacy, Merith. He’s weaponizing it.”

She blinked. A dry, sharp laugh escaped. “Of course. That’s why you called me here—to grind your axe against my father.”

“I spoke to a goblin,” Aric said flatly. “One who was there—at the Repository beneath Hogwarts. Who saw what Ranrok became.”

Her posture shifted. Shoulders tightened, eyes narrowing.

“You never miss a detail.”

“I dug through archives,” he continued, voice low, deliberate. “Records buried under centuries of neglect. Glyphs scratched into saltstone. Paper swollen, crumbling at the edges. I may have told your father I acted on his orders… but I didn’t. Not truly.”

Merith didn’t speak. Arms folded. Skepticism quiet, but present.

“I was looking for the truth.”

“So, the weaponized legacy,” she said, voice cold. “What does that even mean?”

“Ranrok wasn’t merely a goblin obsessed with power. He twisted the magic in our bloodlines. The tome you protect—it’s the key. One that could open gates best left sealed.”

Her fingers brushed the bracelet, cold metal grounding her.

“There’s more.” His hand rested on the table. Firelight rimed the storm in his eyes.

“The histories of the Zmey aren’t fables,” he said. “They stretch far beyond Durmstrang’s foundations. Long before the Vulchanovas claimed the Keep.”

Merith’s chin lifted. “Ghost stories.”

“No,” he said, voice dropping. “Rites. Offerings. Not for favor. For survival. Blood rituals. Sacrifices to keep something restless and hungry asleep.”

He paused. Reverence, gravity in his voice, like a priest before an altar.

“Months were only echoes. Then I found him. A wizard in the Galician hills. No wand. No Ministry record. Munter. Last of a line who remembers. Harfang’s blood. My blood.”

Merith scoffed. “That’s your proof? A half-mad hermit and genealogy?”

He ignored her. “He told me what I missed. Nerida Vulchanova’s death wasn’t death. It was a vow. A binding. She gave herself—body, blood, magic—to the Keep. So no one could use what lay inside.”

“I know the tale,” she said.

“Do you?”

“Yes,” she said. “She sealed it from the inside. Layered the spellwork into her bloodline. Only a Vulchanova could unravel it. And now it’s back in our hands.”

“Your father didn’t seize it out of reverence,” Aric said. Bitter laugh. “He wanted the weapon. My blood. My family’s records. My name—read like a ledger.”

Her jaw tightened. Firelight masked her face.

“I already know how she did it,” she said. Elegant, distant, proud.

“Do you know why?” he asked.

Her breath caught.

“I’ll bet that wasn’t in your family’s archives,” he said.

Her eyes met his—cold, brilliant, unflinching.

“You went through our private records?”

“Not all,” he said. A flicker passed her eyes.

“You had no right.”

“I had every right,” he said. “The moment your father used my name as a key. The moment he turned my family’s past into strategy.”

He stepped closer. Firelight traced the pulse at her throat.

“I didn’t touch anything sacred,” he said. “Not your mother’s letters. Not family relics. But I did read your father’s notes. The translations. The reconstructed glyphs. And the margins, Merith. Do you know what was scribbled there?”

Her silence answered.

“He is trying to break it open,” he said quietly. “He never wanted to protect Nerida’s work—” a pause, a flicker of realization crossed his face, “—or should I say, Isidora’s. He wishes to reverse it.”

“You don’t understand—”

“No,” he cut in. “You don’t. You’ve believed your father a steward of her legacy. But he is not. He’s the unraveller.”

Her breath caught—rage and disbelief flickering.

“You’re twisting this,” she said. “My father spent years trying to understand the Keep—the tome.”

“He wants control. Worse,” Aric said. Fire cracked behind them.

“He’s not guarding a legacy, Merith,” he said, deliberate. “He’s curating a lie. One that ends in blood.”

Merith turned, jaw clenched, fists curling.

“I don’t need your sermon,” she said, brittle.

“No,” he replied, stepping closer, shadows flickering across his face. “You need the truth. But you won’t take it from me.”