Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The train rocked gently beneath the weight of a hundred restless lives, each one crammed into velvet-lined compartments and overheated walkways, trailing noise like cloaks behind them. Somewhere up the corridor, someone shrieked about a missing toad. Laughter bounced off the windowpanes like ricochet spells. The trolley cart was already sold out of cauldron cakes by the time it passed.

But none of it touched her.

She sat slouched in the far corner of a near-empty compartment, one boot planted against the opposite bench, the other leg crooked under her. Arms crossed like a barricade over her chest, chin tipped toward the fog-smeared glass of early September chill. The window rattled softly in its frame with every bump of track, a heartbeat rhythm that would’ve been soothing if it didn’t remind her how long the ride was. How long the year would be.

The countryside blurred by in streaks of color—green hills, gold-tipped wheat, sheep clustered like distant ghosts. Pretty, in a lifeless sort of way. Like a painting hung on a wall she didn’t own.

Her reflection drifted in and out of view— a blur of motion, shadow, and the occasional glint of light catching the small chain at her neck.

Fifth year…

Halfway through, and she still felt like a wrong note in a symphony. Like someone had handed her a wand, a trunk, and a school schedule with no real explanation. Just a letter out of nowhere and a door that opened where no doors ever had before.

She remembered the first train ride.

Not this one—that one.

Four years ago now, knees bouncing under a hand-me-down coat, eyes flicking toward every new noise like she expected someone to call her bluff. Nobody had explained the rules. She hadn’t known what a Hufflepuff was. She’d spent the first week thinking someone would come pull her out of class, tell her it had all been a joke. That magic wasn’t real. That she wasn’t welcome.

But no one had. And so she stayed.

Got sorted. Got robes. Got by.

And somewhere in between memorizing spellbooks and avoiding questions, she’d carved out just enough space to exist. Not thrive. Not shine. Just exist.

It was better than home. That wasn’t saying much.

Home had meant cracked linoleum and a broken lock on the bedroom door. It had meant voices slurred with drink and silence sharp as glass. Hogwarts, for all its chaos and moving staircases, had rules that stayed mostly the same. Teachers who noticed if you went missing. Beds that stayed warm through the night. She hadn’t realized how much that mattered until she got it. Until she learned that other kids didn’t flinch when someone raised their voice. That not every family argued with the sound of glass bottles tipping over in the background.

But she never talked about it. Never would.

There were things you packed at the bottom of your trunk and locked with charms you didn’t tell anyone the incantation for. Some ghosts you lived with quietly.

She reached into her pocket, fingers brushing the folded edge of a sugar wrapper she’d kept from the platform—just to fidget with. It crinkled faintly between her fingers, papery and fragile.

It wasn’t that she hated school. It just… didn’t fit right.

Too many of the kids had lived soft lives. They joked too easily. Trusted too quickly. Belonged without trying. And she didn’t know what to do with any of that.

She was kind. At least, she tried to be. She didn’t start fights. Didn’t make trouble unless she had to. But she didn’t bend, either. Didn’t simper or apologize for her edges. It made her hard to place. Harder to approach.

Some people mistook that for arrogance. Or worse—danger.

She let them.

It kept the noise down.

A scrape echoed in the hallway outside—someone dragging their trunk or maybe a Prefect making rounds. She didn’t bother to look. Just watched the sky shift through the window, soft grey clouds swallowing patches of light.

Ten months. That’s how long it’d be again. Ten more months of moving through corridors like smoke, of letting her grades hover just high enough to stay off anyone’s radar. Ten more months of sitting on the edge of groups she didn’t fully belong to, smiling at jokes she didn’t always get, holding the seams of herself together when things got too loud.

Ten months of pretending she wasn’t still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Maybe this year would be different. Maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe she didn’t care.

Except that wasn’t quite true, somewhere deep down, buried under all the practiced indifference and tired sarcasm, she wanted this year to be different.

She wanted to matter. Just a little.

The compartment door slid open with a sudden click, snapping her out of the spiral like a hand yanking her collar. She didn’t flinch. Just turned her head slightly, one brow already twitching upward.

And there he was. In all his glory—

Milo Moore stood in the doorway, arms full of books and papers and what looked suspiciously like a wrapped sandwich he’d absolutely stolen off someone else’s plate. His curls were a wind-blown mess, his cheeks pink from the walk through the corridor. His Hufflepuff jumper hung a little too long in the sleeves, and his trousers were already rumpled like he’d slept in them.

He looked like the aftermath of a warm summer storm: chaotic, soft, and hard not to smile at. His face lit up the second he saw her.

“There you are,” he beamed, “Told myself you’d be brooding in the last car. Nailed it.”

She didn’t smile, not really. But the corner of her mouth twitched like it wanted to.

“‘Brooding,’” she echoed dryly, dragging her gaze back toward the glass with an over exaggerated sigh— “You make it sound like I’m trying to be mysterious or something.”

“You say that like you aren’t.”

He stepped fully into the compartment, shouldering the compartment door closed behind him. Then, in true Milo fashion, he collapsed into the seat across from her like he’d been dramatically injured by the weight of merely existing. A sketchbook slid off his stack of books in the process of his dramatics hitting the floor with a satisfying thud.

She arched a brow. “Ah, Graceful.”

He simply grinned up at the ceiling. “Fifth year resolution: suffer loudly.”

“Bold of you to assume anyone wants to hear that.”

“Oh, please. You love it.”

She hadn’t argued.

Milo finally sat up properly, brushing soft brown curls from his eyes. His gaze flickering over to hers for a moment longer than necessary—quietly searching, like he was trying to take stock of her without making a show of it.

“Oi- You alright?” he asked.

The question was casual. Light. A toss of words he threw her way every year on this train without fail, like a test balloon to see if this was the year she’d pop.

She tilted her head sideways, pretending to think about it for a moment. “Well, nobody’s hexed me yet, so I guess we’re off to a strong start.”

He snorted. “I’ll put that in the positives column.”

“You’ve got a column?”

“I have a spreadsheet,” he said solemnly. “Color-coded. Annotated. I’ve been tracking your annual emotional damage since second year.”

That earned a soft huff of laughter from her—barely audible, but real.

He leaned back, satisfied, and kicked his feet up on the edge of her seat like he owned the place.. letting a comfortable silence fill the air before a huff left his lips, “I forgot how awful this train is…” he muttered, green eyes glancing around the compartment with a small furrow in his brows. “You’d think they’d have just a little more color, why the dull blue?”

“Guess we can’t all be as stylish as you, Milo.” She scoffed, rolling her eyes with a smile all the while.

His chest puffed out at that as he gestured towards his oversized jumper and lopsided collar. “Thank you for noticing.”

She shook her head, finally letting herself settle into the cushion beneath her- sinking almost. The tension that had been coiled up in her spine since King’s Cross began to fade—not vanish entirely, but loosen, like someone cracked a window in a too-small room.

That was the thing about Milo. He never asked for entry into the places she kept locked. Never knocked, never pressed his ear to the door. He just… showed up. Quiet as dusk, constant as gravity. Slid into her space like he belonged there—which, in some strange, unspoken way, he did. He never made her explain the silence or apologize for it. Never tried to tape over the cracks or name the things she wouldn’t touch.

He simply sat with her in the quiet, let it stretch and settle until it wasn’t suffocating anymore. Until it felt like something gentler—something with room to breathe. With him, the silence was never empty. It was shared. Safe.

With Milo, the world always tilted a few degrees back into place.

Chapter Text

The train screeched into its final curve as the sun dipped below the mountains, casting long, soft shadows over the glistening track. The sharp hiss of steam rose in bursts as the brakes engaged— harsh, metallic, familiar. Outside the fogged glass, lamplight flickered to life along the edge of the station platform like a trail of breadcrumbs leading nowhere in particular.

She shifted slightly in her seat as the momentum slowed. Milo had fallen asleep somewhere around the last village, arms crossed, head tilted sideways against the smudged window. His curls were flattened awkwardly on one side, cheek creased faintly with the imprint of the windows metal.
She didn’t wake him.

Instead, she just sat there in the dim compartment, letting the train’s lull fade out of her bones. The quiet right before arrival always felt too still— like the moment before a coin lands. She hated it. Hated the hush of transition.

The train groaned again, only before coming to a stop. Stilled.

Outside, the platform came into full view, washed in lantern glow and the bustle of Prefects calling out orders to drowsy students hauling cloaks and squirming toads. A few overexcited first years pressed noses to windows like this was all still magic to them.

And maybe it was.

“Hey,” she murmured, nudging Milo’s knee with her boot. “Train stopped. Get up before someone writes on your face.”

He stirred, blinking with slow confusion, then groaned. “No one would dare.”

“Mm. I’d dare.”

“Rude.”

But he sat up, rubbing at his neck, stretching like a cat who knew exactly how dramatic he was being. She smirked faintly and rose to her feet, grabbing her coat and brushing off the invisible lint of disuse.

No luggage. That’d be taken ahead like always. neatly spelled away by the staff the moment they stepped off. It was one of the few things about Hogwarts that felt almost indulgent.

The rest? The rest was barely held together with spit and charmwork.

They moved with the rest of the crowd, swallowed by the press of voices and dragging feet. The first-years were being shepherded toward the boats by Hagrid’s unmistakable silhouette, larger than life, holding a lantern like a beacon. His shout boomed out across the platform like thunder, calling them to line up. His voice thundered over the crowd:

“Firs’-years! Firs’-years over here!”

For a second, she paused, watching the smallest students jostle into place. Their robes still too long, some holding hands, one of them tripping over their own excitement. It was stupid, but part of her stomach pulled tight.

That had been her once. She didn’t remember what she’d looked like, not really—but she remembered the feeling. That awful, echoing what the ‘hell am I doing here?’ sort of panic.

Milo bumped her shoulder, pulling her back with his voice. “Still gives me goosebumps.. That first breath of Scotland.”

She shifted— stumbled more like, turning her head to shoot him a look. Letting out a small huff through her nose as she involuntarily gave a smirk. “That’s hypothermia.”

“C’monn,” he said, jerking his chin toward the boat path. “If we don’t get a good one, we’ll be stuck next to- If we get stuck with Ravenclaws again I will hex someone. I refuse to spend the whole ride being quizzed on owl anatomy.”

She followed him in silence, ducking under the iron arch at the far end of the station. The night air hit like a gasp, cool, crisp, full of pine and lakewater and old stone. It smelled like Hogwarts in a way nothing else did.

The boats bobbed along the inky surface of the Black Lake, ropes tugging gently against the wooden dock. Lanterns floated above the waterline, casting golden trails that shimmered as the boats rocked gently against the current. It was instinct, now— clambering into the narrow little vessel without needing help. She moved without thinking, knees folding as she dropped down into the front. Milo plopped beside her, and two familiar Hufflepuffs joined, Addy Carrow and Nolan Twist, both of whom she’d known since second year and tolerated more than liked. They knew not to expect too much chatter from her.

Good.

The boat jerked forward with a jolt as soon as the last one sat down, and then they were moving. Cutting across the black water in a slow, easy glide. The lake stretched dark and glassy around them, moonlight rippling off its surface in soft currents as the boats drifted forward, drawn by some unseen hand. The only sounds were the creak of wood and the hush of water against the hull, aside from the soft chatter of students if you ignored them of course.

She tilted her head back to look up.

There it was.

Hogwarts.

The castle sat high above the lake like a crown carved from mountain and magic. Towers silhouetted against the darkening sky, windows glowing amber, a thousand pinpricks of warmth in the stone ribs of the place. The reflection danced on the lake’s surface as though the water couldn’t quite decide what was real.

No matter how many years she saw it, it still hit the same way. Like a punch and a prayer. The sharp slope of the Astronomy Tower. The wide, yawning mouth of the front gates. The bridge that looked like it belonged in a fairy tale— or a battlefield.

She swallowed.

It was stupid, but part of her chest clenched when she saw it. Every time.

Because it wasn’t home. Not really. But it was better than anywhere else. Closest she had to such a thing.

The water lapped against the sides of the boat. Behind her, Milo let out a low whistle. “Every year I forget how bloody dramatic this place looks.”

“That's the point,” she muttered. “They want you to feel small before you even get to the front door.”

He glanced towards her, raising a brow. “That what it feels like?”

She didn’t answer.

The boat bumped lightly against the dock below the cliff path, and she stood up, gripping the edge for balance. The four of them climbed out one by one, joining the flow of students heading up the stone steps that wound toward the great entrance.

Torches lit the path, flames flickering in metal sconces like tired sentinels. The cold crept up through her shoes and into her spine. The stars were sharp and bright above them, scattered across the sky like someone had broken something precious and left the pieces behind.
And then the doors loomed ahead.

The entrance to Hogwarts—carved wood, dark iron bands, massive hinges that creaked with weight and age. A few staff members stood just inside, directing the incoming stream of students with brisk nods and murmured instructions.

She walked through the threshold and exhaled.

The Entrance Hall was as cavernous as she remembered—arched ceilings so high they vanished into shadow, floating torches casting flickers of movement across the floor, the scent of stone and wax and wood polish lingering in the air like memory.

Noise bounced off the walls.

“Great Hall’s open,” someone called. “First-years, this way!”

She and Milo peeled off from the crowd before the flood of robes jammed the walkway. The two of them slipped into the Great Hall, boots echoing off the flagstones.

The ceiling shimmered above them, bewitched to reflect the sky outside—deep indigo now, scattered stars and galaxies shimmering just above, so close yet in a way so far. And the faint trail of the moon just beginning to rise. Floating candles bobbed gently in midair, casting their flickering light across the four long tables running the length of the room. The House banners had been freshly hung—deep gold and black for Hufflepuff, crimson and gold for Gryffindor, emerald and silver for Slytherin, blue and bronze for Ravenclaw.

The Hufflepuff table was already filling up with familiar faces.

“Middle,” Milo said, nodding toward an open spot. “By the pumpkin juice.”

She followed him without a word, weaving between reunions and hugs and excited chatter. Familiar faces spotted her as she passed—Ernie Macmillan gave a wave, Hannah Abbott raised her goblet in mock salute, someone shouted her name from further down the bench, she simply gave a small smile and wave, sliding onto the bench and letting her fingers graze the polished surface of the table like she was reintroducing herself to it. Around her, the noise picked up—greetings and laughter, the clang of cutlery as some overeager second years reached for rolls too early. Professors filed in from the side door behind the staff table, settling into their chairs in a well-rehearsed rhythm.

And there it was again—this life, this place, this feeling. Like a snow globe someone had shaken just enough to make it sparkle.

Milo leaned toward her, voice low. “Look sharp. Sorting’s about to start.”

She glanced toward the front just as Professor McGonagall entered with a trailing line of first years behind her, all looking various degrees of nauseous.
And so it began again.

The start of a year. The start of something she couldn’t name yet.

But it was stirring. Somewhere deep.

Professor McGonagall strode toward the front of the hall with the kind of precision that could cut glass. The line of first-years trailing behind her looked like ducklings caught in a windstorm— clutching the hems of their robes, wide-eyed and pale under the glow of the floating candles. The line staggered to a stop beside the battered stool and Sorting Hat, which sat collapsed in a dramatic slump like it was thoroughly bored of the entire ordeal. Then— just as she’d seen every year before— the rip down its brim split open like a crooked smile, and the Sorting Hat lifted its head.

A hush fell over the room, sudden and whole. The kind of silence you could almost hear.

And then the Hat began to sing.

Its voice was deep and warbling, half-growl, half-tune, but the words rang clear:

“A thousand years and more have passed
Since founders laid these halls,
Where brave and wise and kind and sly
Were sorted by my calls.

So listen well, and weigh your mind,
For traits run more than skin-deep—
You may think you know your place,
But secrets still I keep.

In Gryffindor, you’ll find your fire,
The bold, the fierce, the true;
In Ravenclaw, sharp wit and thought
Will always welcome you.

Hufflepuff stands steadfast and sure—
The loyal, fair, and kind—
And Slytherin will teach ambition,
The power of the mind.

But never forget, you shifting youth,
That choices shape your fate.
The bravest hearts can wear black and gold—
So enter with no hate.

Now place me on your anxious head,
And let the year begin;
I’ll see the truth inside your soul—
Let’s find where you fit in.”

A ripple of applause followed the last note, polite from some houses, more enthusiastic from others. The Gryffindors always clapped like the Hat was some sort of rock star, and well.. Slytherins barely bothered as always.

Aside from her, Milo leaned closer again. “Hat’s getting more poetic every year. Think it’s bored?”

“Think it’s trying to warn us,” she murmured back, arms still crossed lightly over her chest. “Every year it says something that sounds like a threat, and everyone claps anyway.”

Milo grinned, but his eyes stayed on the front of the hall as McGonagall unrolled a scroll with quiet authority.

The Sorting began.

Each name was called out like the beginning of a story, and the first-years approached the stool like it might bite. A few of them got loud cheers when sorted—a little girl named Bettina Wiggs was sorted into Hufflepuff to the sound of Nolan Twist banging on the table like a drum. She looked like she might cry from relief when she joined them.

The process dragged on, as it always did. Some hat decisions took seconds. Others stretched on just long enough to make everyone fidget.
Whilst the rest of the table focused forward, she let her gaze wander..

A familiar face across the room caught her eye.

Cedric.

He sat a few spots further down the table, already deep in a conversation with another sixth-year. His expression was half-listening, the kind of passive nodding that meant he was being polite, but his gaze flicked up just long enough to catch hers.

He offered a brief wave. Not showy. Not too warm. Just enough to say: still see you.

She gave a slight wave back. Smile creeping its way onto her face despite her protest.

They weren’t friends, not exactly. They talked— knew each other well enough, Cedric was… dependable. One of those people who never looked through you. Not even when you wanted them to.

“Still got a crush?” Milo whispered teasingly.

Her smile faltered as she nudged him under the table with her knee.

“Ow,” he muttered, grinning. “I’m just saying, if he proposed to a tree stump, half the school would still cry at the wedding.”

“Let’s all hope it never comes to that.”

Another student was sorted— “Morley, Francis!” into Ravenclaw— and the applause picked up again.

The Sorting ended not long after that, the stool and hat whisked away by a flick of McGonagall’s wand. A beat of anticipation rippled across the hall like static.

And then Dumbledore stood.

He looked exactly the same as he always did. A bit like a constellation wrapped in robes. Glasses perched low, half-moon and unreadable, and his long silver beard catching the candlelight like spun starlight. He walked with that easy, ageless grace that didn’t quite match his years, and as soon as he reached the lectern, the entire hall fell silent—not from obligation, but from sheer collective instinct.

“Welcome back,” he said, his voice smooth and carried effortlessly to the farthest corner. “To both our returning students and our newest arrivals— may your minds be open, your hands be steady, and your friendships slightly better than last year’s.”

A few soft laughs rippled through the room.

He glanced down at the parchment laid across the lectern but didn’t read it.

“Now, before we dive into the mountain of food I’ve made vanish and reappear more times than I can count,” he continued, “a few announcements.” He raised a hand to count them on his fingers.

“One: The Forbidden Forest remains just that— forbidden. Yes, even if your friend dared you. Yes, even if you’re ‘just having a look.’ No, it is not part of the Defense curriculum.”

A Gryffindor somewhere near the front groaned theatrically.

“Two,” Dumbledore went on, eyes twinkling, “Filch has acquired a new set of rules that will, he assures me, ‘solve all behavioral issues.’ I have not read them. I suggest you don’t either. If you see a new sign on a door, assume it says, ‘Please Do Not.’

“And three,” he added, his voice dipping a shade lower, more serious now, “this year will offer challenges for many of you—academic, personal, magical. Growth is often uncomfortable, but rarely unimportant. Be kind to yourselves. And be kinder to each other.”

That earned a soft murmur of something close to approval. Even she found herself holding her breath for a beat longer than usual.
And then—

He clapped his hands together once.

The tables were instantly filled— overflowing with golden-roasted chicken, glistening vegetables, steaming potatoes and gravies and puddings of every kind. Pitchers brimmed with pumpkin juice and spiced cider, and platters shimmered under charms to keep everything warm and full.

Milo’s eyes lit up like it was Christmas. “I love this bloody school.”

She grabbed a roll and shoved it into his hand before he could start drooling.

The clatter and hum of dinner resumed like a spell had been broken.

Around her, conversation picked up into full chaos. Nolan Twist was already talking with his mouth full about some Quidditch theory he’d read in a thirdhand magazine over the summer, while Addy was gossiping about a supposed owl mishap that had dumped love letters across the Astronomy Tower towards the end of last year.

She leaned back slightly, letting the heat from the food warm her arms, and glanced up again.

The ceiling overhead was now streaked with thin clouds, stars blinking and flickering in and out between them like secrets.

For a moment, she let herself feel it— the weird, intangible calm of being right where she expected to be. Not wanted, not needed, but expected. And somehow, that was enough.

Milo nudged her elbow and handed her a second roll with a sigh. “You’re brooding. again.”

“Habit,” she muttered.

“Try joy. It’s in season.”

She snorted but accepted the roll, broke it open, and let the heat seep into her fingertips. And somewhere between the laughter, the stars, and the clatter of plates, she allowed herself to believe—for just a second—that maybe this year wouldn’t be like the others.

Maybe, just maybe, something was ahead for this year, or so she hoped.

This was the softest part of the year. Before the schedules. Before the tests. Before the trick staircases and forgotten essays and cruel little whispers in the corridors. Before the late nights and the too-early mornings. Before anything really started.

Just this: candlelight, good food, Milo beside her, and a ceiling full of stars that would never fall.