Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

October 31st, 1981,
Godric's Hollow,
third person POV,
ERB:

The Potter house was unusually quiet. The usual laughter of two children and the five adults who cared for them was nowhere to be heard. It would never be heard together again, not when two of them, Lily and James, had just been murdered in their own home.
Elizabeth Black, a three-year-old girl, whimpered quietly in the spacious kitchen cupboard. She didn't know how long she had been there, but she had heard everything. Her aunt Lily had swept her into the kitchen, practically shoving her into the cupboard before racing upstairs with baby Harry in her arms. Elizabeth heard Uncle James open the front door. She heard the stranger's voice shout those terrible words: "Avada Kedavra!" She heard her uncle's body hit the floor with a dull thud.

She liked to believe she wasn't stupid, even at three. She knew who the stranger was. She had heard Daddy talking about him with Uncle James, Uncle Moony, and Wormtail. Wormtail, what a terrible secret-keeper he was! The man whose name must not be spoken had been in Aunt Lily's house. He had made them fall into the forever-sleep! What a meanie! What a big, scary meanie!

Elizabeth hugged herself tighter, trying to stop the trembling. She would tell on him when Daddy came!

She flinched when the front door burst open again, immediately covering her mouth. What if the bad man had come back for her?
But the footsteps rushed toward the second floor, ignoring Uncle James's still form.
Elizabeth couldn't tell how much time passed. The person upstairs, a man, she could tell from his deep, anguished cries, seemed to stay forever. She had just begun to calm down when new footsteps thundered into the house.
"Fuck! James! JAMES!"

Her eyes widened. Daddy!

"Daddy! Daddy!" she cried, pushing open the cupboard doors. She couldn't stop the tears from coming again.

"Elizabeth!" Sirius dropped to his knees beside James's body and rushed to the kitchen, scooping her into his arms immediately. "Are you okay? Are you hurt? Oh, Merlin..." He checked her over carefully while she cried and nodded at his questions. "I'm so glad you're safe... Merlin..." He held her close, his voice breaking. "James is dead... Lily's dead... Harry... Harry!"

He adjusted Elizabeth on his hip and ran upstairs, bursting into the bedroom. He glanced at Lily's motionless form before rushing to the crib where baby Harry sat, a lightning bolt-shaped cut on his forehead.
Elizabeth stared at the strange mark. It looked like the lightning in her picture books, but red and angry.

"He's alive..." Sirius breathed in relief. As he reached for the baby, a massive figure filled the doorway.

Elizabeth was happy Harry was okay, but one word echoed in her head: dead. She didn't fully understand it, but she remembered when they said Auntie Marlene was "dead," and she never saw her again. So she knew. She would never see Uncle James or Aunt Lily again. A single tear slipped down her cheek. At least she still had Uncle Moony and Uncle Wormtail.

"Sirius! Wait!" the giant man called. "Dumbledore's told me ter take Harry ter him!"

Elizabeth's face lit up despite her tears. She knew this man! "Mister Ha-Ha-Hagrid!" she beamed, turning in her father's arms.
"Lizzie! Lovely ter see yeh, little one. How're yeh doin'?" Hagrid's voice was gentle despite his size.

Sirius set Elizabeth down and whispered in her ear, "Why don't you pack your stuffed animals and pajamas? Your birthday's tomorrow, and Atlas is waiting at home."

She nodded eagerly and ran to gather her things from the guest room.

★·.·'¯'·.·★·.·'¯'·.·★

When she returned, Hagrid was gone. So was baby Harry.
"Where's Mister Hagrid? Where's Harry?" she asked, struggling with the pronunciations.
"Hagrid took Harry to Dumbledore, sweetheart. Let's go home now. Atlas is waiting for us." Sirius took her pink backpack, his voice hollow.
"Oh..." Elizabeth's face fell. "I wanted to go with Harry."
"We'll see them another day," Sirius lied, taking her tiny hand protectively.
Elizabeth nodded and stretched her arms up. "Up?"
How could he deny her anything? She was his baby princess. Sirius sighed and lifted her into his arms. "You need to rest now."
Elizabeth closed her eyes as they left the house, never to return.

★·.·'¯'·.·★·.·'¯'·.·★

November 1st, 1981,
Ministry of Magic,
third person POV,
ERB:

Elizabeth didn't like unfriendly-looking people. She felt bad about judging them, but she couldn't help it. She also didn't like waking up in strange places.

She sat in a small, dark room beside Atlas, both of them gripping each other's hands tightly. A stern woman with sharp features sat across from them. Neither twin paid attention to what the adults were discussing. They only wanted to know where their father was.

"Atlas," the woman began with a harsh voice, "Roxaine." Both children flinched at their names. Elizabeth was confused; why was the woman using her middle name? "You'll be living with me from now on."

Elizabeth's eyes widened. She turned to Atlas, who spoke first. "W-what about Daddy?"
Elizabeth looked back at the woman, who tensed. "Your father... is unavailable to care for you. It's likely you'll never see him again."

Tears immediately filled both children's eyes. Elizabeth broke first, wailing loudly, with Atlas joining her moments later.

★·.·'¯'·.·★·.·'¯'·.·★

November 1st, 1984,
12 Grimmauld Place,
third person POV,
ERB:

Living with their grandmother wasn't as difficult as Elizabeth (or Roxaine, as the older woman insisted on calling her) had expected. The rules were stricter and the house was colder, but it was manageable. She actually enjoyed spending time with Grandmother Black, even if the etiquette lessons were deadly boring.

It was the morning of their seventh birthday. Neither twin felt much excitement anymore, knowing they'd only receive stiff, uncomfortable new clothes. They had learned not to expect much else.

The twins sat on the living room sofa. Atlas hummed softly while Roxaine leaned against his shoulder. "Grandmama isn't awake yet," she murmured, swinging her feet. "Maybe we should wake her?"

"Yeah..." Atlas replied after a moment, sitting up straighter.

Roxaine stood and stretched. "I'll go," she muttered, heading upstairs.

She had been worried about their grandmother lately. The older woman had been getting sick more often, and Kreacher spent most of his time hovering nearby.

As Roxaine approached the bedroom door, dread filled her chest. Her mind went blank as she raised her hand to knock. She didn't understand why, but something felt wrong about Grandmother's condition.

Before she could knock, the door slammed open. Walburga Black stood tall before her, though Roxaine could have sworn she heard a tremor in the woman's voice. "Roxaine. Where is your brother?"

"Atlas is in the living room, Grandmother." Roxaine curtsied slightly, as she'd been taught when addressing elders or superiors.

Roxaine glimpsed into the bedroom and saw a bloodstained handkerchief on the floor. She was about to mention it when her grandmother nudged her aside.

"You two must be hungry," Walburga said quickly, closing the bedroom door behind her and changing the subject when she saw Roxaine about to speak.

"Kreacher gave us breakfast," Roxaine replied. "Don't worry about us, Grandmother. What was the handker—"

"Then we'll go out. You need new clothes." Walburga placed a firm hand on Roxaine's shoulder, guiding her down the hall.

Roxaine grumbled but didn't argue further. "There's a dress in Diagon Alley that was very pretty... Remember? We saw it last week."

Walburga nodded. She remembered; Roxaine hadn't stopped talking about it. "I'll buy it for you."

Roxaine's eyes sparkled. "Really?!" She bounced with excitement until she had to navigate the stairs carefully. "Thank you, Grandmama!"

She practically skipped to the living room where Atlas sat stiffly, staring ahead.

"We're going shopping, Atlas! Get your coat and shoes!" Roxaine said excitedly, tying her shoelaces; a skill she'd only recently mastered.

Atlas sighed and stood, looking directly at their grandmother. "She wants to shop for her birthday," he said, putting on his coat. "I want to see our dad."

"We can't see Daddy. He's in Azkaban," Roxaine said absently, unaware of the tension building between Atlas and their grandmother.

"He's our father and he's innocent. We should be able to visit him," Atlas replied curtly, frowning.

"You will not see your father. That is final." Walburga crossed her arms. "I'll buy you a broom instead. Hurry up." She took her own coat from the hook.

Roxaine pouted. "I want a broom too! They're so cool!" She jumped up, hands on her hips.

"You're not getting a broom," Walburga replied curtly, walking toward the door.

"What? Why not?" Roxaine whined.

"It's not appropriate for a young lady to ride brooms," Walburga said firmly.

This was one thing Roxaine hated about Grimmauld Place; no brooms allowed. Her grandmother said it wasn't feminine, and no amount of begging would change her mind.
Roxaine huffed but said nothing more.

"I want to see my father," Atlas repeated, his frown deepening.

"I said no, Atlas." Walburga's patience was clearly wearing thin.

"Atlas..." Roxaine mumbled, eyeing their grandmother cautiously. "Don't push it..."

"Shut up! Don't you understand? It's not fair! Everyone else gets to spend their birthday with their parents!" Atlas screamed, tears streaming down his face as he wiped them angrily.

"Atlas." Walburga's hand moved to her wand. "Be quiet."

"No! I want to see Dad! You can't stop us!"

"Your father is imprisoned. You will not see him. That is final." Walburga opened the front door. "You're staying with Kreacher, you insolent child. Roxaine, we're leaving."

"I... but... Atlas..." Roxaine stuttered, torn between loyalty to her brother and fear of their grandmother's wrath. In the end, she followed Walburga out the door.

★·.·'¯'·.·★·.·'¯'·.·★

May 1st, 1985,
12 Grimmauld Place,
third person POV,
ERB:

Roxaine had learned not to show worry easily. Her grandmother had taught her that lesson well. "Don't be dramatic, Roxaine," the older woman would say. "It's not appropriate for a young lady to behave so scandalously." Roxaine had resisted at first, but eventually learned to comply.

Atlas wasn't as adaptable. He continued to talk back, argue, and make comments that earned him punishments. Roxaine would try to warn him, but he never listened.

The pattern had become their new normal, even as both children wondered if they would ever see their father again.

Roxaine laid on her bed with her legs crossed, humming softly as she read. It was late morning; around half past eleven, she guessed. Lunch would be ready in an hour, and she had nothing else to do. Their grandmother had grown softer with her over the years, though Atlas was a different story. He still rebelled constantly, which only made Walburga stricter with him. Because of this, the twins rarely spent time together anymore.

She sighed and closed her book, sitting on the edge of her bed. She was bored and wanted to play with Atlas. She wondered if he had any free time; they hadn't even crossed paths in at least two weeks.

Roxaine stood and walked out of her bedroom, yawning and stretching before letting out a soft huff. "Atlas?" she called, walking through the second-floor hallways while looking around for her brother.

She hummed a melody she couldn't quite place anymore. She must have heard it from Aunt Lily, who had loved to sing. Roxaine couldn't remember anything beyond the tune, though. "What a shame," she mumbled under her breath, walking slowly down the stairs.

"Atlaaas?" she called again, louder this time, as she turned the corner toward the kitchen.

"Oh." The color drained from her face at the sight before her: Atlas was curled up in the corner of the kitchen while their grandmother stood over him, wand in hand.

"Uh... hi?" she mumbled, frozen in the doorway as she looked at her brother, then at her grandmother, then back at Atlas.

"Roxaine." The older woman greeted her without flinching, then turned back to Atlas. "You should be more like your sister. Look at her; she's managed to adjust perfectly. Look at yourself, child. You're just like your father."

Atlas flinched. He knew that was meant as an insult. He looked at Roxaine, silently pleading for help.

Roxaine frowned. She knew she should defend Atlas, but that would mean punishment, and she hadn't been struck in eight months. "Uh..." She walked slowly toward them both. "Atlas... you really should stop this. It's not doing you any good."

Atlas's face crumpled with betrayal and hurt before hardening into anger. Roxaine had chosen their grandmother's side.

Walburga's lips curved in the faintest smirk.
"Is this about Father again?" Roxaine continued, her voice growing stronger. "You know he's in Azkaban. We can't see him, and... and..." She swallowed hard, glancing at her grandmother from the corner of her eye. "And he's a blood traitor. We really shouldn't want to see him. It's not... it's not right."

Walburga nodded approvingly and stepped back. "Go to your room, Atlas. You won't be having lunch today." The woman swept out of the kitchen without another word.

Roxaine released a breath she didn't know she'd been holding, closing her eyes for a moment before looking at her brother. "Atlas..."

But Atlas was already standing, his eyes blazing with fury.

"I hate you!" he screamed, storming past her and up the stairs. His bedroom door slammed with enough force to shake the walls.

★·.·'¯'·.·★·.·'¯'·.·★

May 19th, 1985,
12 Grimmauld Place,
third person POV,
ERB:
Walburga had begun to cough more, she had gotten way less strict with both children, which surprised both of them, but neither complained.

Embers crackled in the fireplace as Roxaine sat curled on the sofa, her feet tucked beneath her nightgown, a closed book resting in her lap.

She wasn't reading. She was simply listening to the silence; the grandfather clock in the hallway, the whisper of flames, and the slow, slightly labored breathing of her grandmother, who reclined in the large armchair.

Walburga was wrapped in a charcoal wool shawl. Her glassy stare had fixed on the dancing flames and hadn't moved in nearly an hour.

Roxaine said nothing. She just watched.

Until:

"Grandmother..." Her voice was barely above a whisper, almost fearful. "Did you wear braids when you were little too?"

Walburga's eyes narrowed slightly, and to Roxaine's surprise, she nodded.

"I despised them. They pulled at my scalp. My mother was gentler than the governess, at least."

Roxaine remained perfectly still; Walburga rarely spoke of the past. "Did you learn to take tea silently too?"

"At five years old. I was punished once for making a slurping sound. Mother made me repeat the entire ceremony twelve times." Walburga's voice was distant, matter-of-fact.
Silence settled between them again, but it wasn't uncomfortable; it was soft, almost tender.

"Did you like being a Black?" Roxaine asked, her voice barely audible.

Walburga looked at her. For a long moment, she didn't respond. When she finally spoke, her voice lacked its usual steel. "It's not a matter of liking it, child. It's what we are. What we must be."

Roxaine nodded solemnly, and without asking permission, she slipped from the sofa and approached the armchair. She settled at her grandmother's feet, resting her head against the older woman's knees.

Walburga didn't move. But after a moment, a weathered hand, still surprisingly strong, began stroking Roxaine's hair.

Slowly.

Clumsily.

Warmly.

"Your father never would have understood this," Walburga murmured without malice. Her voice held only distance, sadness.

"Why not?"

"Because he was soft. Foolish. A dreamer."

Roxaine didn't respond. She simply closed her eyes, and for the first time in years, Walburga told her a story, not about war, not about bloodlines or family duty. It was a story about when she was twelve and climbed out her bedroom window to watch the stars with her younger brothers.

That night, for one fleeting moment, Roxaine wasn't the carefully molded heiress or the broken child, she was simply a granddaughter resting against a dying woman's knees, and both of them, unknowing, clung to that warmth as if the world wasn't about to change... again, even if they knew it would, too soon for their liking.

★·.·'¯'·.·★·.·'¯'·.·★

May 20th, 1985,
St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries,
third person POV,
ERB:

The morning after their tender moment by the fire, everything shattered.

Roxaine woke to terrible sounds; retching, then a crash, then Kreacher's high-pitched wailing that made her cover her ears. She crept out of her room in her nightgown, her bare feet silent on the cold floor.

"Kreacher is getting help! Kreacher is calling the Healers!" the house-elf shrieked, his magic crackling through the air.

Roxaine found her grandmother collapsed in the hallway outside her bedroom, her gray nightgown stained with something dark and wet. Walburga's face was pale as parchment, her breathing shallow and rattling.

"Grandmama?" Roxaine whispered, dropping to her knees beside the older woman. "Grandmama, wake up."

Walburga's eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glassy. "Roxaine... child..."

"I'm here. I'm right here." Roxaine took her grandmother's cold hand, squeezing it tight. "You're going to be okay. Kreacher called for help."

The St. Mungo's emergency team arrived in a whirlwind of lime-green robes and urgent voices. They spoke in words Roxaine didn't understand: "massive internal hemorrhaging," "critical blood loss," "advanced deterioration." She pressed herself against the wall as they levitated her grandmother onto a floating stretcher.

"Is she going to die?" Roxaine asked one of the Healers, her voice small but steady.

The woman paused, her expression softening as she looked down at the composed seven-year-old with too-old eyes. "We're going to take very good care of her, sweetheart. Are your parents—"

"There's only Atlas and me," Roxaine interrupted. "He's my brother. He's upstairs."

"We'll need to contact your guardians—"

"Grandmama is our guardian." Roxaine's voice was patient, as if she were explaining something simple to a very slow adult. "There's no one else."

The Healer exchanged glances with her colleague. "Well, you can come with us to the hospital, dear. We'll sort everything out there."

★·.·'¯'·.·★·.·'¯'·.·★

May 20th - May 28th, 1985,
St. Mungo's Hospital,
Third Person POV,
E.R.B:

The hospital became Roxaine's second home.
She sat in the uncomfortable visitors' chair beside her grandmother's bed every day, her legs swinging because her feet didn't quite reach the floor. Kreacher brought her meals and fresh clothes, fussing over her like an anxious mother hen. Atlas had come once, stood awkwardly by the door for five minutes, then left without saying a word.

"He's angry," Roxaine explained to her unconscious grandmother on the third day.

"Not at you being sick. At you being... you. At me for..." She trailed off, picking at the hem of her dark green dress. "For choosing you over him."

Walburga remained still, her breathing assisted by a complex array of magical monitoring devices that hummed and chirped softly. The Healers had explained that she was very sick, that her body was failing, that they were doing everything they could to make her comfortable. Roxaine understood what they weren't saying. She wasn't stupid.

She read to her grandmother from the books Kreacher brought; Pure-Blood Directory, Magical Genealogy of Ancient Families, Proper Etiquette for Young Witches. Sometimes she just talked, telling Walburga about her dreams, about how the food at the hospital was terrible, about how she missed their evening tea times.
"I've been practicing my posture," she said on the fifth day, sitting up straighter in her chair. "Look, Grandmama. Perfect straight back, just like you taught me. The Healers say I'm very well-behaved for a little girl. They don't understand that I'm not little anymore. I can't be little anymore."

On the seventh day, Walburga's eyes opened.
"Roxaine," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"I'm here!" Roxaine jumped up, nearly knocking over her chair. "I'm right here, Grandmama. How do you feel? Do you want some water? Should I get the Healers?"

"Sit," Walburga managed, gesturing weakly to the chair. "Come... closer."

Roxaine pulled the chair right up to the bed and climbed up, kneeling on the seat so she could be at eye level with her grandmother. Walburga's hand found hers, cold and trembling but determined.

"I need to tell you something," Walburga said, each word an effort. "Something very important. Can you listen carefully?"

"I'm always a good listener," Roxaine said solemnly. "You taught me that too."

A ghost of a smile crossed Walburga's lips. "Yes, I did. My clever girl." She paused, gathering strength. "Roxaine, you are going to be the head of our family now."

"What do you mean?"

"The heir. The heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Do you know what that means?"

Roxaine frowned, thinking hard. "It means I'm in charge? Like you were in charge of me and Atlas?"

"In a way, yes. But it's more than that. It means you carry our name, our history, our responsibility. You are the last true Black, Roxaine. The last who understands what our family means."

"What about Atlas? He's a Black too."

Walburga's eyes darkened slightly. "Your brother... he may choose a different path. And your father..." She coughed, a harsh sound that made Roxaine wince. "Your father abandoned what it means to be a Black. But you... you understand. You've always understood."

"I try to be good," Roxaine said quietly. "I try to make you proud."

"You do. You always have." Walburga's grip tightened slightly. "But being the heir means more than being good. It means being strong. It means making hard choices. It means putting the family first, always."

"Even before myself?"

"Especially before yourself." Walburga's voice was growing weaker. "The individual is nothing compared to the family name. You must remember that, Roxaine. Promise me you'll remember."

"I promise, Grandmama."

"And you must remember that you are alone now. You cannot depend on anyone else. Not your brother, not your father, not anyone. You must be strong enough to carry this burden by yourself."

Roxaine's lower lip trembled slightly. "That sounds scary."

"It is scary. But you are brave. Braver than I was at your age. Braver than your father ever was." Walburga's breathing was becoming more labored. "I tried to prepare you for this. I tried to make you strong enough."

"You did," Roxaine said, even though she wasn't entirely sure what she was agreeing to. "You made me strong."

"My fierce little star," Walburga whispered. "You will survive what's coming. You will endure when others fall. The Black name lives or dies with you now."

"I won't let it die," Roxaine promised, though she didn't fully understand the weight of what she was saying. "I'll take care of it. I'll take care of everything."

Walburga's eyes were closing again, but she fought to keep them open. "I know you will. You are... you are the best thing I ever did. The only thing I did right."

"Grandmama?"

"I love you, child. In my way... I loved you both. But you... you were meant for this. You were born to carry our legacy."

The words hung in the air like a sacred oath.

★·.·'¯'·.·★·.·'¯'·.·★

May 29th, 1985,
St. Mungo's Hospital,
Third Person POV,
E.R.B:
Roxaine was eating lunch in the hospital cafeteria when Healer Matthews found her.
"Roxaine, sweetheart, I need you to come with me."

Something in the woman's tone made Roxaine's stomach drop. She left her half-eaten porridge and followed the Healer down the long corridor, her small hand gripping the woman's larger one.

"Is Grandmama worse?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

"She's... she's asking for you, dear. Only you."
Roxaine nodded. She had been expecting this moment, preparing for it in the way that children do when they've already lost too much.

The room was quieter than usual. The magical monitoring devices had been turned off, leaving only the soft sound of labored breathing. Walburga lay propped up against white pillows, her face gaunt but peaceful.
"There's my girl," she whispered as Roxaine approached the bed.

Roxaine climbed up onto the chair and took her grandmother's hand. It felt like tissue paper, delicate and cold.

"Are you dying now?" Roxaine asked, her voice matter-of-fact.

"Yes, child. Very soon."

"Will it hurt?"

"No. The Healers have made sure it won't hurt." Walburga's thumb traced over Roxaine's knuckles. "Are you afraid?"

Roxaine considered this carefully. "A little. But you taught me to be brave."

"Yes, I did. And you are brave. The bravest little girl I've ever known."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, hands clasped, watching the morning light filter through the hospital windows.

"Roxaine," Walburga said finally, "do you remember what I told you yesterday? About being the heir?"

"I remember."

"It's a big responsibility for someone so young. But you're not truly young anymore, are you? You haven't been for a long time."

Roxaine shook her head. "I stopped being little when Daddy went away."

"Yes, you did. And that's not fair, but it's the truth. Life isn't fair, especially for people like us. But we endure. We survive. We protect what matters."

"The family."

"The family. The name. The legacy."
Walburga's breathing was becoming more shallow. "You understand now why I was so strict with you? Why I had to teach you to be strong?"

"Because you knew this day would come."

"Because I knew you would be alone. And I needed to make sure you could handle it." Walburga's eyes were beginning to flutter closed. "I wasn't... I wasn't always kind to you. I know that. But everything I did was to prepare you for this moment."

"I know, Grandmama."

"You'll take care of Atlas when he comes home. Even if he doesn't want you to. Even if he hates you for it. He's still a Black. He's still family."

"I will."

"And you'll remember that you are worth more than your brother's love, more than your father's approval, more than anyone's opinion. You are the heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. That means something. That has always meant something."

Roxaine squeezed her grandmother's hand. "I'll remember."

"My precious girl," Walburga whispered, her voice barely audible now. "My little star. You were the light in this dark old house. You were the reason I could believe our family still had a future."

"Grandmama?"

"I'm proud of you. So proud. And I'm sorry... I'm sorry I couldn't give you a childhood. I'm sorry I had to make you grow up so fast."

Tears started to form in Roxaine's eyes. "It's okay. I understand now. You were protecting me."

"In the only way I knew how." Walburga's grip was weakening. "Stay strong, my dear one. Stay true to who you are. The world will try to break you, but you're unbreakable. You're a Black."

"I'm a Black," Roxaine repeated, like a prayer.

"And you're mine. You'll always be mine."
Walburga's breathing slowed, then stopped.

Roxaine sat there for a long time, holding her grandmother's hand as it grew cold. She didn't cry; ladies didn't cry, especially not in public, especially not when they had just inherited the weight of centuries.

When the Healers finally came to check on them, they found a seven-year-old girl sitting perfectly straight in her chair, her posture impeccable, her face composed.

"She's gone," Roxaine announced calmly. "Grandmama is gone."

And in that moment, childhood ended completely for Roxaine Black.

She was the heir now.

She was alone.

And she was only seven years old.

★·.·'¯'·.·★·.·'¯'·.·★

June 1985 (One Week After Walburga's Death),
Guardianship solicitor's office,
Third person POV,
E.R.B:

The solicitor's office smelled of old parchment and fear. Roxaine sat in the oversized chair with her spine perfectly straight, hands folded in her lap exactly as Walburga had taught her. She wore her black funeral dress still, the one with the high collar and long sleeves that made her look like a miniature version of her grandmother.

Atlas slouched in the chair beside her, his hair unkempt, his eyes red-rimmed from crying. He hadn't spoken to her since the funeral. He hadn't looked at her either.

"The matter of guardianship," the elderly wizard began, his voice echoing in the sterile room, "is complicated by the children's unique circumstances."

The door opened with a soft creak. Lucius Malfoy entered first, his walking stick tapping against the floor in measured rhythm. His pale eyes swept over both children with cool assessment. Behind him came Remus Lupin, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere else in the world.

"Uncle Moony," Atlas whispered, his voice breaking on the familiar nickname.

Remus's face crumpled slightly. "Hello, Atlas."

Roxaine watched this exchange with calculating eyes. She said nothing.

"Mr. Malfoy," the solicitor nodded with obvious deference. "Thank you for coming."

"The Black family has long been allied with mine," Lucius said smoothly. "It would be unconscionable to allow such a noble bloodline to be... mismanaged."

His gaze lingered on Roxaine. She met his eyes steadily, unflinching.

"And you, Mr. Lupin?" The solicitor's tone was considerably less respectful. "I understand you wish to petition for guardianship as well?"

"Not for both," Remus said quietly. "I know I can't provide what might be expected for the Black heir. But Atlas..." He looked at the boy. "Your father was my best friend. I failed him once. I won't fail you."

"This is highly irregular," the solicitor muttered. "Separating twins—"

"They have different needs," Lucius interrupted. "Different... inclinations. Perhaps separate arrangements would benefit both children."

Atlas shot to his feet. "So she gets the fancy house while I—"

"While you get someone who actually cared about our father," Roxaine said calmly.

The words cut through the room like a blade. Atlas stared at her, mouth open.

"Miss Black," Lucius said, and there was something like approval in his voice. "You show remarkable maturity for your age."

Roxaine inclined her head slightly. "Thank you, Mr. Malfoy."

"Rox," Atlas whispered, and for a moment he sounded like the brother who used to comfort her during nightmares.

She looked at him then, really looked at him. His eyes were still soft, still full of hope despite everything. Still believing in fairy tales about their father's innocence and happy endings.

"You'll be happier with Lupin," she said finally. "He can give you what you need."

"And what's that?"

"The luxury of believing in heroes."

The legal proceedings passed in a blur of signatures and formal declarations. Roxaine answered questions with perfect poise, her voice never wavering. She was the heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. She would act like it.

Atlas signed his papers with shaking hands, glancing at her constantly as if waiting for her to change her mind.

She didn't.

As they prepared to leave, he approached her one last time.

"I know why you chose her," he said quietly. "Grandmother. I know you thought you were protecting us."

Roxaine's composure didn't crack. "I was protecting the family name."

"No," he said, his voice sad rather than angry. "You were protecting yourself. And I understand that. I really do. But Dad would have wanted us to protect each other."

"Our father," Roxaine corrected, "is in Azkaban for betraying his best friends. Perhaps his judgment isn't worth following."

Atlas flinched as if she'd struck him. "You don't mean that."

"I mean exactly what I say."

He stared at her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Goodbye, Roxaine."

"Goodbye, Atlas."

She watched him walk away with Lupin, his small hand disappearing into the man's larger one. She felt nothing. She was proud of feeling nothing.

"Come, Miss Black," Lucius said, his voice not unkind. "Your new life awaits."

★·.·'¯'·.·★·.·'¯'·.·★

July 1988,
Malfoy Mannor,
Third Person POV,
E.R.B:

Malfoy Manor was everything Grimmauld Place had pretended to be. Elegant. Refined. Powerful. Ten-year-old Roxaine Black had learned to navigate its marble halls with the grace of someone born to them.

She spoke three languages fluently now. She could discuss politics with Lucius's associates, play chess with strategic precision, and had never once embarrassed the Malfoy name at social functions. The nightmares had stopped. The guilt had been buried so deep she sometimes forgot it had ever existed.

"Magnificent work on your essay about bloodline preservation," Lucius said over breakfast, setting down her parchment. "Your arguments are both eloquent and logically sound."

"Thank you," Roxaine replied, cutting her food with perfect precision. "I've been reading the genealogical texts you recommended."

"Excellent. Knowledge of our heritage is crucial for someone in your position."

She nodded, taking a delicate sip of her tea. She never slurped. Ladies didn't slurp.

"I've arranged for you to meet with the Parkinsons next week," Lucius continued. "Their daughter is your age. It would be beneficial for you to form appropriate friendships."

"Of course."

The sound of running footsteps echoed through the corridor, growing closer. Eight-year-old Draco burst through the breakfast room doors, his platinum hair disheveled from sleep, still wearing his pajamas.

"Father! Roxie won't come see the new peacocks with me!" he announced, then stopped abruptly when he noticed the formal atmosphere. His shoulders straightened automatically.

"Draco," Lucius said mildly, though his lips twitched slightly. "We've discussed proper breakfast etiquette."

"Sorry, Father." Draco's cheeks flushed pink. "Good morning, Roxaine. Good morning, Father."

"Good morning, Dragon," Roxaine said, using the nickname she'd given him during his first tantrum two years ago. Something softened in her expression. "I told you I'd come after breakfast."

"But they're so pretty! And Mother said one of them might let us feed it!"

Narcissa appeared in the doorway, her long blonde hair loosely braided, wearing a simple morning gown instead of her usual elaborate robes. "Draco, you promised to wait." Her voice held gentle reproach rather than anger.

"I did wait! I waited forever!"

"Twenty minutes is hardly forever," Narcissa said, but she was smiling. She moved to ruffle his hair affectionately. "Though I suppose it feels like forever when you're excited."

Lucius set down his tea cup. "Perhaps we could all visit the peacocks after breakfast. I believe I have some time before my first appointment."

"Really?" Draco's eyes lit up. "All of us?"

"If Miss Black is amenable," Lucius said, turning to Roxaine with something warmer than his usual formal tone.

Roxaine looked between them; Draco bouncing slightly on his toes, Narcissa's gentle smile, Lucius's unexpectedly soft expression. Something inside her chest loosened, just a little.

"I'd like that," she said quietly.

"Excellent!" Draco beamed, then caught himself. "I mean, that would be most agreeable."

The attempt at formality made Narcissa laugh, a genuine, musical sound that filled the room with warmth. Even Lucius's stern expression cracked into what might have been amusement.

"Go get dressed properly, young man," Narcissa said, still smiling. "We'll wait for you."

As Draco raced off, Narcissa took the seat beside Roxaine. "How are you feeling today, dear one?"

The endearment was something she'd started using after Roxaine's first nightmare at the Manor. It had made Roxaine flinch initially, too close to Walburga's "my dear one", but Narcissa's version was softer, warmer, without conditions attached.

"I'm well," Roxaine replied, then paused. "The peacocks really are beautiful."

"They are," Narcissa agreed. "Though not as beautiful as the two children who've been plotting to befriend them all week."

Roxaine's cheeks warmed slightly. She wasn't used to being called beautiful, not in that gentle way. Walburga had called her "handsome" or "well-presented," but never beautiful. Never like she was something precious just for existing.

"I finished the transfiguration exercises early," she said, changing the subject. "And the astronomy charts."

"Of course you did," Lucius said, pride evident in his voice. "You're exceptionally bright, Roxaine. But you know that already."

"Grandmother always said intelligence was a tool."

"Your grandmother was right," Narcissa said softly. "But it's not only a tool. It's also a gift. Something to be celebrated, not just used."

Roxaine considered this. Walburga had never spoken of gifts, only duties and expectations. But here, in this sun-filled breakfast room with people who seemed genuinely happy to be around her, the word didn't feel foreign.

"Draco says you helped him with his letters yesterday," Lucius said. "He's improved considerably under your guidance."

"He's not stupid," Roxaine said quickly. "He just learns differently. He needs to move around while he thinks."

"Yes," Narcissa said, her voice warm with approval. "You understand him well."

"He's like..." Roxaine paused, something flickering across her face. "He's like Atlas used to be. Before."

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was gentle, giving her space to feel whatever she needed to feel.

"It's alright to miss him," Narcissa said quietly. "Missing someone doesn't make you weak."

"Grandmother said—"

"Your grandmother loved you," Lucius interrupted, his voice unusually gentle. "But she was shaped by difficult times. Things can be different now."

Roxaine looked at him, surprised. "Different how?"

"You can be strong and still have a family," Narcissa said. "You can be the Black heir and still be our daughter. You can honor your grandmother's memory and still choose your own path."

"I'm not your daughter," Roxaine said, but there was no rejection in her voice. Only confusion.

"Perhaps not by blood," Lucius said. "But by choice. If you'd like to be."

The offer hung in the air like a delicate gift. Roxaine stared at them, this family that had taken her in, that let Draco climb into her bed during thunderstorms, that celebrated her achievements and comforted her tears. They were nothing like what she'd expected from the stories she'd heard.

"I'd like that," she whispered.

"Then it's settled," Narcissa said, reaching over to squeeze her hand. "Now, shall we go rescue those peacocks from your eager little brother?"

For the first time in years, Roxaine smiled without calculating the effect it would have. She smiled because she was happy.

Because she was home.

Miles away, in a cottage that smelled of chocolate and old books, Atlas helped Uncle Moony tend to a garden that would never grow properly. His hands were dirty, his hair was messy, and he laughed at Remus's terrible jokes.

He was smaller than Roxaine now, less refined, but there was something in his eyes that she was slowly rediscovering. Hope, perhaps. Or simply the ability to believe that love could exist without conditions.

Neither twin spoke of the other. But sometimes, in the quiet moments between sleep and waking, they both wondered what would have happened if they had chosen differently.

Those were no longer dangerous thoughts for Roxaine. The Malfoys had taught her that strength didn't require isolation, that love didn't require sacrifice.

She was the heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. She had survived when others had fallen. She had endured when others had broken.

But she was also something Walburga had never imagined: she was a daughter. A sister. A child who was allowed to be happy.

And for the first time since she was three years old, Elizabeth Roxaine Black felt like she was home.

Chapter Text

July 31st, 1991,
Malfoy Manor,
third person POV,
ERB:

The morning was unusually quiet at Malfoy Manor. Roxaine laid quietly on her bed as the sun rays began to seep through the windows and onto her face. She grunted, turning around so she gave her back to the windows, protecting her face from the sunlight.

Suddenly, the door barged open, as Draco came in running. "Roxie! Wake up! We're going to Diagon Alley."

Roxaine groaned, turning around so that her back faced him. "Go away," she muttered tiredly.

"But Father says we're leaving in an hour!" Draco protested, bouncing on his toes with excitement. "I get to get my wand today, and my books, and—"

"Your enthusiasm is nauseating," Roxaine said, though there was no real venom in her voice. She sat up slowly, dark hair falling in waves around her shoulders. "Fine. I'm awake."

Draco grinned and threw himself onto her bed, making her bounce slightly. "You know what else? Father said we might see other families there. Important ones. He wants me to make the right connections."

Roxaine raised an eyebrow. "You're eleven, Draco. What connections could you possibly make?"

"The same ones you made when you were eleven," he retorted. "Besides, you'll be there to help me. Won't you?"

For a moment, something softer flickered across Roxaine's features. "Of course."

An hour later, they gathered in the drawing room. Lucius adjusted his cufflinks with practiced precision, while Narcissa smoothed down Draco's hair despite his protests.

"Must you?" Draco complained, ducking away from his mother's hands.

"Yes, I must," Narcissa said firmly, though her eyes held warmth. "You're representing the family name today."

"He already represents it perfectly," Roxaine interjected, settling into her chair with the fluid grace of someone trained in proper deportment. "The hair is merely cosmetic."

Lucius chuckled; a sound rarely heard outside these walls. "Eloquent as always, Roxaine."

"I learned from the best," she replied, inclining her head slightly toward him.

Narcissa moved to Roxaine next, checking her appearance with the critical eye of someone who understood the weight of public scrutiny. "Your robes are pressed, your hair is perfect..." She paused, studying Roxaine's face. "Are you well? You seem tired."

"I'm fine, Aunt Narcissa," Roxaine said softly. In moments like these, when it was just the four of them, she allowed herself to be what she rarely was anywhere else; young. "Just thinking about the upcoming term."

"Third year already," Lucius mused. "And the head of the house tells me you've improved considerably as a Beater."

"I've had excellent equipment," Roxaine replied with a slight smile. "The broom you gifted me has been... advantageous."
"Only advantageous?" Draco asked, grinning. "You said you knocked Marcus Flint clean off his broom during practice last month."

"He was being insufferable," Roxaine said primly. "I merely provided a correction."

Narcissa laughed; a genuine sound that transformed her usually composed features. "Remind me never to get on your bad side, dear."

"You never could," Roxaine replied, and meant it.

But as they prepared to leave for Diagon Alley, the masks began to slip back into place. Lucius's expression grew more austere, Narcissa's smile became more calculated, and Draco straightened his shoulders in imitation of his father. Roxaine felt the familiar coolness settle over her features like a well-worn cloak.

The warmth of the drawing room was left behind as they stepped into the world where they were no longer simply family; they were Malfoys, and that meant everything.

July 31st, 1991,
Diagon Alley,
third person POV,
ERB:

The cobblestones of Diagon Alley were already crowded with families preparing for the new school year. Roxaine walked slightly behind Lucius and Narcissa, her hand resting lightly on Draco's shoulder in what appeared to be sisterly affection but was actually subtle guidance.

"Remember," she murmured to him as they passed a group of chattering students, "posture. You're not just another first-year."

Draco nodded, lifting his chin slightly. "I know."

"Good."

They made their way through the crowd with the easy confidence of those who belonged. Other families stepped aside, some with recognition, others with wariness. Roxaine noted each reaction with the trained eye of someone who had learned to read social dynamics before most children learned to read books.

At Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, they paused.

"Draco needs his school robes," Narcissa said to Lucius. "And Roxaine could use new dress robes for the formal occasions this year."

"Of course," Lucius replied. "We'll meet you at Flourish and Blotts in an hour."

July 31st, 1991,
Diagon Alley – Madam Malkin's,
Third person POV,
E.R.B:

Roxaine sat motionless in the armchair near the window, flipping through a French catalogue of robe design with mild detachment. Her own Hogwarts uniform had arrived from Paris weeks ago, custom-fit with hex-repellent stitching and deep green silk lining. She wasn't here to shop. She was here to supervise Draco.

The bell above the door rang.

She didn't look up right away. Not until the hush that followed it crept under her skin like a ghost.

Then she turned her head.

There he was.

Same hair. Same glasses. Slightly taller, not by much. The scar visible under the fringe. And that posture;  stiff, uncertain, like he didn't know whether to disappear or be noticed. As if the world had offered him a spotlight and he wasn't sure if he should step into it or run.

Harry Potter.

She watched him in silence, not flinching, not reacting. Just... observing.

He didn't recognize her. Of course he didn't.

One-year-olds rarely remembered the people they used to fall asleep beside, and she had no intention of reminding him. The boy who had once shared a biscuit with her on the Potters' kitchen floor now stood ten feet away, entirely unaware.

Madam Malkin led him to the platform beside Draco, and the fitting began.

"Hogwarts too?" Draco asked, tone casual.

"Yes," Potter replied.

"My father's next door getting books, Mother's up the street looking at wands," Draco went on, drawing out each word like it bored him. "After this we're going to look at brooms. First-years aren't allowed them, but I plan on getting one anyway. Father'll cave eventually."

From her chair, Roxaine rolled her eyes slightly. She kept reading.

"You've got a broom, don't you?" Draco asked.

"No."

"You play Quidditch?"

"No."

Draco looked over at her. "You hear that? No broom. No Quidditch."

Roxaine turned the page. "Tragic. He might have to develop a personality."

Draco grinned. "I'm trying out next year. My father says it would be a crime if I weren't chosen."

"He says that every year," Roxaine said, still not looking up. "And yet, the team still breathes."

Draco tilted his head back at Potter. "Roxaine's on the team. Beater. Soon to be captain."

"Impressive," Potter said, though he sounded unsure if he meant it.

"Tell him how many times you've broken Marcus Flint's nose," Draco added.

"Three," Roxaine said without inflection.

"One of those was technically an accident," Draco whispered to Harry, then smirked. "But no one believes that."

Potter blinked. "Right."

"Do you know your House yet?" Draco asked.

"No," Potter said.

"No one really does until the Sorting, but I'll be in Slytherin. Family tradition. I'd rather run than end up in Hufflepuff."

Roxaine looked up briefly. "You'd be lucky to get into Hufflepuff. They don't take cowards."

Draco pulled a face. "Don't start. He doesn't even know what the Houses mean yet."

Potter turned toward the window. "That's Hagrid out there," he said, suddenly brightening. "He works at Hogwarts."

Draco glanced outside. "That half-giant?"

"He's the gamekeeper."

"I've heard he lives in a hut and can't do proper magic," Draco said, shrugging.

"He's great," Potter said tightly.

Roxaine closed the catalogue and set it down. Her tone was calm, deliberate.

"You have a talent for defending things you don't understand."

Potter looked over at her, eyes narrowing slightly.

"You don't know me."

"No," she replied. "But I know the type."

There was a silence, thicker now.

Draco tilted his head. "Where are your parents, anyway?"

"Dead," Potter said simply.

Draco hesitated. "Oh. Sorry. But they were wizards, right?"

"They were."

Draco nodded as if that solved something. "Good. I don't think they should let in just anyone. It should stay in magical families. You know. Traditions and all that."

He paused, curious. "What's your name?"

Before Potter could answer, Madam Malkin cut in.

"All done, dear. You're ready."

Potter stepped down quickly, clearly relieved.

"See you at Hogwarts, then," Draco called after him.

Potter nodded without turning.

His gaze flicked to Roxaine, just for a second. There was something in it, confusion, maybe. That strange sense you get when you pass a face in a crowd and your bones say you've met before.

But Roxaine said nothing. She just watched him leave, her face perfectly still.

"That was Harry Potter," Draco said once the door closed.

"So I gathered," Roxaine said.

"He didn't seem like I expected."

"He rarely does."

"You've met him before?"

Roxaine didn't look at him. "Not in any way that matters."

Draco raised a brow. "What do you think of him?"

She stood and brushed imaginary lint from her robes.

"I think," she said, "he's going to have a very difficult time understanding the rules of the world he just fell into."

Then she walked back to the armchair, sat down, and reopened her catalogue.

Page seventy-two. Emerald silk. Better than Malkin's entire collection.

The name Potter didn't come up again.

Not out loud.

September 1st, 1991,
Hogwarts Great Hall,
third person POV,
ERB:

The Great Hall was awash in warm candlelight, the floating flames reflecting in polished silverware and shining banners. Roxaine Black sat at the Slytherin table, poised and unblinking, her posture as straight as the line of prefects down the table. Cassius sat in front of her, glancing bored at the first years. “Your little brother is in there, isn’t he?”

Roxaine nodded slowly, the ghost of a smile creeping onto her lips; Draco was her cousin, everybody knew that, but Cassius insisted on calling him her brother, she had only ever corrected him once, when she thought he had gotten confused, but when he said he knew, and kept calling Draco her brother, she didn’t try to correct him anymore. “He is.”

To her left, Marcus Flint was making some crude joke about Hufflepuffs. To her right, a younger fourth-year was elbowing for a better view of the new first-years as they filed in, small and unsure under the enchanted ceiling.

But Roxaine's gaze was fixed on one figure among them; small, untidy, eyes too wide and clothes too big. Harry Potter.

He didn't look at her. He wouldn't. But she watched him with surgical precision, dissecting every twitch of his brow, every hesitating step. She'd wondered if he'd seem different in the candlelight. If memory had distorted him.

It hadn't.

He looked exactly like James Potter.
A muscle ticked in her jaw. She folded her hands on the table.

Then, "Malfoy, Draco."

The name rang clear, and Roxaine's eyes snapped away from Harry as Draco strode forward, chin high, spine stiff. There was a pause as he sat on the stool and the Sorting Hat was placed over his head, the brim twitching slightly.

Slytherin. Of course.

Roxaine clapped first; and loudest.

Three sharp, deliberate claps. Then more. She didn't smile, but she nodded at him with pride, and when he looked over his shoulder as he approached the table, her eyes met his.

Well done.

He sat beside her, practically glowing. She didn't say anything, not in front of the others, but she reached for his water goblet and handed it to him without a word. He took it like a knight receiving his sword.

Then, "Potter, Harry."

Silence fell.

Roxaine didn't move, but her heart gave one slow, painful thud. The hall had frozen. She turned her head smoothly to watch as he made his way forward, thin shoulders set as if he were preparing for war.

The Sorting Hat took its time with him.

Roxaine watched, and waited.

Would he be one of them?

Would he sit at her table?

Would she have to eat breakfast across from the boy whose life had upended hers?

Gryffindor.

Roxaine blinked once. Of course. How... poetic.

The Gryffindor table erupted in cheers. The Weasleys slapped him on the back, and someone who looked like the Longbottom boy nearly knocked over a jug in excitement.

Roxaine didn't clap.

She simply watched him walk away.

And when he looked over his shoulder, across the room, and their eyes met once again, she didn't flinch.

She tilted her head the smallest degree, like a cat acknowledging something it could neither eat nor ignore. Then she turned away.

September 1st, 1991,
Hogwarts Great Hall,
Third person POV,
H.J.P:

Harry had never seen anything like the Great Hall.

The ceiling mirrored the sky outside; stars blinking softly in an indigo haze, and the air was filled with the scent of roasted meats and warm bread. Everything shimmered and echoed and felt a little too big for him.

He followed the line of first-years, heart pounding, eyes wide, trying not to trip.

Then he saw her.

She was already seated at the Slytherin table. A girl about his age, older, probably, a third-year, dressed perfectly in emerald robes that looked sharper than anyone else's. Long dark hair. Pale skin. The girl he had seen accompanying Draco in Madame Malkin’s. Her face carved in stillness, like someone who had never cried in her life.

She was looking right at him.

There was something about her. Something unsettling.

Like she knew who he was before he even said it.

Like she remembered something he didn't.

Then a blond boy, Draco,got called up. Harry vaguely remembered him from Madam Malkin's. Draco strutted to the stool like he owned it. When the Sorting Hat shouted "Slytherin!", the girl clapped three times, sharp and elegant. Everyone at the table followed her lead.

She didn't smile. But she nodded. It meant more than any grin.

Then it was Harry's turn.

As he stepped forward, he felt her eyes on him. He could feel them across the entire hall; steady, cold, watching.

The Sorting Hat muttered in his ear. He wrestled with it. He begged.

Not Slytherin. Anywhere but Slytherin.

"Gryffindor!" it shouted.

Cheers exploded to his right. He stumbled toward the table, feeling half-dazed, half-relieved, letting himself be swallowed into a group of red and gold.

But before he sat, something made him glance back.

She was still watching him.

And for a second, just a second, he thought she might say something.

But she didn't. She just looked at him like she was waiting for him to make a mistake.

He turned away, shivering, and sat between Ron and Seamus.

"Who was that?" he whispered.

"Who?" Ron asked, mouth full of treacle tart.

"That girl at the Slytherin table. Dark hair. Older than us."

Ron made a face. "Oh, her. That's Roxaine Black. Don't mess with her. I heard her father was a murderer and she grew up with the Malfoys."

Harry blinked. "Black?"

"Yeah," Ron whispered.

Harry looked back again, but Roxaine had already turned away.

She was talking quietly to Draco now, perfectly composed. Like nothing had happened.

But Harry knew something had.

He just didn't know what.

September 1st, 1991,
Hogwarts’ Great Hall to Slytherin Common Room,
Third person POV,
E.R.B:

As Dumbledore's final words echoed through the Great Hall, Roxaine rose from her seat with fluid precision. Around her, the other students began their usual post-feast chatter, but she moved with purpose toward the cluster of nervous first-years wearing green and silver ties.

"First years," she called, her voice carrying easily over the din. "To me."

The command was quiet but absolute. Eleven small faces turned toward her, including Draco's, though his held barely contained excitement rather than the wide-eyed terror of some of the others.

"I am Roxaine Black," she continued, clasping her hands behind her back as she surveyed them. "I will be escorting you to your dormitories. Stay close, keep quiet, and do not wander off."

A timid-looking boy with sandy hair raised his hand tentatively. "Are you a prefect?"

"No," Roxaine replied simply.

“She is the Quidditch captain starting this year, so show some respect." Added Cassius sarcastically as he stood beside her, and Roxaine rolled her just enough for Cassius to notice.

The boy's hand dropped immediately. Several of the first-years exchanged glances; even they had heard whispers about Slytherin's youngest captain in decades.

As they began to move, Marcus Flint caught up to her, his heavy footsteps echoing on the stone floor. "Black," he said, lowering his voice. "Morwyn's been asking about tryouts. Think we should give him a shot at Chaser?"

"His form is adequate," Roxaine replied, not breaking stride. "But his commitment is questionable. Schedule him for Thursday. If he can't handle three hours of practice in the rain, he's not worth our time."

Flint grinned. "Brutal as always. I like it."

"I prefer 'efficient,'" Roxaine corrected, though there was the ghost of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

Behind them, she heard one first-year whisper to another: "She's only a third-year, but she made captain last year. They say she's never missed a Bludger."

"My cousin told me she broke Adrian Pucey's wrist during practice," came the hushed reply.

"It was a clean hit," Roxaine said without turning around. "He should have been watching his blind spot."

The whispers stopped immediately.

They descended into the dungeons, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. The temperature dropped noticeably, and several first-years shivered in their new robes. Roxaine moved through the corridors with the confidence of someone who had walked these paths countless times, past tapestries that seemed to shift in the torchlight and portraits whose eyes followed their movement.

"The common room password changes monthly," she explained as they approached a blank stretch of wall. "Currently, it is 'Vermis Regina.' You will be informed of changes through your house prefects."

She spoke the word clearly, and the wall slid open to reveal the Slytherin common room in all its green and silver glory. The fire crackled in the ornate fireplace, casting dancing shadows across the dark wood furniture and the windows that looked out into the depths of the lake.

"Boys' dormitories are up the stairs to the left, girls' to the right," Roxaine continued, gesturing appropriately. "Your belongings have already been brought up. Breakfast is served from seven to nine. Do not be late."

As the first-years began to disperse, Draco lingered behind, practically vibrating with excitement. Cassius gave Draco a small nod on acknowledgement, patting Roxaine’s shoulder slightly and leaving to his room.

"Did you see Potter's face when I got sorted?" he asked, his voice barely contained. "He looked like he was going to be sick."

"Perhaps he was," Roxaine replied mildly. "The hat did take an unusually long time with him."

"You think it considered putting him in Slytherin?" Draco's eyes widened at the thought.

Roxaine was quiet for a moment, thinking of green eyes and untidy hair and the way Harry Potter had looked at her; like he was trying to remember something just out of reach.

"I think," she said finally, "that Harry Potter is exactly where he belongs."

Draco looked disappointed. "But wouldn't it have been brilliant? Harry Potter in Slytherin? Father would have,"

"Your father would have been pleased," Roxaine agreed. "But consider this: what use is a weapon that doesn't know its own strength? Better to have him where we can watch him. Where we can learn what he's truly capable of."

She moved toward the fire, settling into one of the high-backed chairs that gave her a perfect view of both the room and the entrance. Several older students nodded respectfully as they passed, and she acknowledged each with a slight incline of her head.

"Besides," she added, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "enemies are often more useful when they think they're safe."

Draco stared at her for a moment, then grinned. "You're brilliant, you know that?"

"I'm practical," Roxaine corrected. "There's a difference."

As the common room began to empty, students heading to their dormitories for the night, Roxaine remained by the fire. The flames cast her face in sharp relief, highlighting the aristocratic lines that marked her as unmistakably a Black.

She thought of Harry Potter, sitting at the Gryffindor table, surrounded by friends who would never understand what it meant to carry the weight of a name like his. What it meant to be defined by things that happened before you were old enough to choose.

The difference was that she had learned to make that weight into armor.

She suspected he had not.

Not yet.

But third year was young, and Hogwarts was a place where people learned all sorts of lessons; not all of them from books.

Roxaine smiled then, sharp and predatory, and settled back to watch the flames dance in the darkness beyond the windows.

September 1st, 1989,
Hogwarts Great Hall,
Third person POV,
E.R.B: (Flashback)

The Great Hall had felt impossibly vast to an eleven-year-old Roxaine. The ceiling stretched endlessly above her, stars winking in the enchanted darkness, and the four House tables seemed to hold more students than she'd ever seen in one place.

But she hadn't let any of that show on her face.

"Black, Elizabeth."

That name no longer belonged to her.

She walked forward without hesitation, every step as deliberate as her speech. The Sorting Hat barely touched her head.

"Oh ho... well then. Ambitious. Brilliant. Calculating. And angry, aren't we? Angry and cold, but only because you had to be. You've learned the rules already. You want power so no one else can hold it over you ever again."

There was no argument. She didn't beg for Gryffindor. She didn't hope for Hufflepuff. She had no illusions.

"Slytherin!"

The applause from the Slytherin table was brisk and formal.

She walked toward it with the ease of someone who had rehearsed the path a hundred times.

She did not look back. Not even once.

At the table, a dark-haired second-year boy with a sharp chin made space for her. She could tell from his posture, his robes, the way he carried himself that he was part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

"You're a Black," he said simply, as if that explained everything.

"I am," she answered.

"Cassius Rosier," he introduced himself with a slight nod. "Second year."

"Roxaine," she replied, settling into the seat he'd indicated with fluid grace.

"Just Roxaine?" There was no mockery in his voice, only mild curiosity.

"Just Roxaine." Her tone made it clear the subject was closed.

Cassius studied her for a moment, taking in her perfect posture, the way she held her silverware, the controlled blankness of her expression. "You know the rules."

It wasn't a question.

"I know the rules," she confirmed.

They sat in comfortable silence as the Sorting continued, both of them watching the new first-years with the detached interest of those who understood that every placement mattered, every alliance had weight.

When "Black, Atlas" was called, Roxaine's grip on her goblet tightened imperceptibly.

"Your brother?" Cassius asked quietly.

"My twin.” she corrected, watching as Atlas walked to the stool with none of her composure, his shoulders set defiantly.

The Hat deliberated longer with Atlas. Much longer.

"Gryffindor!" it finally declared.

The red and gold table erupted in cheers. Atlas's face lit up with genuine joy as he bounded toward his new House, immediately welcomed by the Weasley twins who clapped him on the back.

Roxaine's expression didn't change.

"Difficult," Cassius observed.

"Predictable," Roxaine replied coolly. "He always chose the harder path."

"And you chose the practical one."

"I chose the path that leads to power." She folded her hands on the table. "Everything else is sentiment."

Cassius nodded approvingly. "My father says sentiment is a luxury our families can't afford."

"Your father is wise."

As the feast began, Cassius introduced her to the other Slytherins with the efficiency of someone who understood hierarchies. Not as someone to be pitied or questioned, but as someone who belonged. He didn't ask about her parents, didn't probe into her history, didn't treat her like a curiosity.

He simply accepted her as she was.

"The older students respect strength," he told her as they walked to the common room after the feast. "Show weakness once, and they'll never forget it."

"I don't intend to show weakness," Roxaine replied.

"Good." Cassius glanced at her sideways. "You'll do well here. You have the right... instincts."

When they reached the common room, he gestured toward the chairs by the fire. "These are typically reserved for older students, but..." He shrugged. "Blacks have always been welcome at the best seats."

As they settled by the fire, Cassius handed her a glass of pumpkin juice without being asked. "Tell me," he said conversationally, "what do you know about Quidditch?"

"Everything," Roxaine replied without hesitation.

"Flying?"

"I've been flying since I was seven."

"Dueling?"

"Adequately."

Cassius smiled then, the first genuine expression she'd seen from him. "We're going to get along very well, Roxaine Black."

Late that night,
Slytherin Common Room,

Roxaine stood by the green-lit window that looked out into the depths of the Black Lake, her reflection dancing in the glass like a ghost.

Behind her, the common room hummed with first-night chatter. Cassius, the dark haired second year who spoke to her in the slytherin table was arguing about brooms with a boy named Pucey. Someone laughed about how easy the first-years were to intimidate.

Roxaine said nothing.

She had not spoken to Atlas.

She wouldn't.

Because if she did... if she did, she might remember how it felt when he whispered "Don't leave me" that night after Walburga died.

And she had left him anyway.

(End of flashback)

September 1st, 1991,
Slytherin Girls' Dormitory,
Third person POV,
E.R.B:

The third-year girls' dormitory was quiet when Roxaine finally made her way upstairs. Her roommates were already asleep, their breathing soft and even in the darkness. She moved silently to her four-poster bed, drawing the curtains closed with practiced stealth.

With a whispered Lumos, her wand cast a gentle glow over her trunk. She reached beneath the false bottom she'd charmed herself, fingers closing around a small, leather-bound photo album. The cover was worn smooth from years of handling, though she would never admit to anyone how often she looked at it.

She settled back against her pillows, opening the album to a page she knew by heart.

There it was. The photograph that had haunted her dreams and sustained her in equal measure.

Two-year-old Elizabeth Roxaine Black, perched high on James Potter's shoulders, her chubby hands tangled in his messy dark hair. The Eiffel Tower rose behind them, glittering in the summer sunlight. She was laughing in the photo, mouth wide open in delight, while James grinned up at her with the same expression Harry had worn when he'd first seen the Great Hall.

To their left, Sirius had his arm around a very pregnant Lily, both of them laughing at something off-camera. Remus stood beside them, holding a two-year-old Atlas, who was trying to grab at a butterfly that kept fluttering just out of reach. Even Peter was there, taking up the edge of the frame, his face partially obscured but smiling.

The photo moved as all wizarding photographs did. Little Roxaine bounced on James's shoulders, pointing excitedly at something in the distance. Sirius kept making faces at the camera, trying to make her laugh even harder. Lily kept smoothing her hand over her belly, where Harry was growing, just months away from being born.

They looked so happy. So whole.

So completely unaware that in less than two years, most of them would be dead.

Roxaine traced James's face with one finger, careful not to actually touch the photograph. She could still remember the feeling of being up so high, of feeling like she could see the whole world from his shoulders.

"Are you watching over him?" she whispered to the photograph. "Your son?"

James continued to smile up at tiny Roxaine, oblivious to the question. In the photo, he was adjusting his grip on her little legs, making sure she felt secure.

He'd made her feel so safe, and then he was gone.

Roxaine closed the album carefully, pressing it against her chest for just a moment before returning it to its hiding place. The Lumos faded from her wand, leaving her in darkness.

She thought of Harry Potter, sitting at the Gryffindor table, surrounded by new friends who would never understand the weight he carried. She thought of his eyes, so like his mother's.

She thought of the boy who had no idea that the girl watching him from across the Great Hall remembered when his father used to carry her on his shoulders, when his mother used to braid her hair, when his godfather used to sing her lullabies.

When they had all been a family.

Before betrayal. Before murder. Before everything fell apart.

Now she was a Black, and he was a Potter, and they were supposed to be enemies.

The irony wasn't lost on her.

As she finally drifted off to sleep, Roxaine wondered if James would be proud of the man Harry was becoming, or horrified by the girl she had become.

She supposed she would never know, but she would be watching over him. After all, someone had to.

Chapter Text

September 20th, 1991,
Hogwarts' Quidditch Pitch,
Third person POV,
E.R.B:

"Again!" Roxaine shouted, her voice carrying across the pitch. "Higgs, if you can't catch the Snitch faster than that, Potter will have it in his pocket before you've even spotted it!"

Terence Higgs, their current Seeker, looked murderous as he dove again for the practice Snitch. The rest of the team was running formation drills, sweat beading on their faces despite the cool evening air.

"Black's been even more brutal than usual," she heard Bole mutter to Derrick.

"Can you blame her?" Derrick replied. "Gryffindor's got Potter now. Kid's supposed to be some sort of natural."

"Natural or not," Roxaine called out, proving she'd been listening, "he bleeds just like everyone else. And if you can't land a Bludger on a first year, perhaps you should consider taking up chess instead."

She mounted her broom and shot into the air, grabbing her Beater's bat from where she'd left it hovering. "Higgs, release the Snitch again. Bole, Derrick, I want you to focus on disrupting the Seeker's line of sight. Show me what you'll do when Potter comes diving at you."

For the next hour, she drove them mercilessly, her own Bludger work flawless and brutal. Every shot found its mark, every strategy was executed with military precision. When practice finally ended, half the team could barely stay on their brooms.

"Same time tomorrow," she said as they gathered their equipment. "And if anyone thinks this is harsh, wait until you see what I have planned for next week."

As she walked back to the castle, Roxaine tried not to think about the fact that her increased training schedule had begun the day after Harry Potter joined the Gryffindor team.

Some coincidences were better left unexamined.

September 20th, 1991,
Slytherin common room,
Third person POV,
E.R.B:

The common room's green-tinged light cast long shadows across the stone floor as Roxaine pushed through the portrait hole, her Quidditch robes still damp with sweat. The fire crackled in the hearth, its warmth a welcome contrast to the evening chill that had settled over the pitch.

"Roxaine!" Draco's voice carried across the room, higher-pitched than he'd probably intended. He was perched on the edge of a leather armchair, his pale hair catching the firelight as he turned toward her with obvious eagerness.

Cassius Rosier looked up from where he sat sprawled in the opposite chair, a Potions textbook balanced on his knee. At thirteen, he possessed the kind of easy confidence that came from knowing exactly where he stood in the world's hierarchy. His dark eyes found hers immediately, and she caught the slight upward curve of his mouth.

"How was training?" Draco asked, practically bouncing in his seat. "Did you make Higgs cry again?"

"Draco," Roxaine said, her voice carrying a note of warning that made the first year settle back slightly. "If you're going to ask stupid questions, at least do it quietly."

But there was no real bite to her words, and both boys seemed to recognize it. Cassius closed his textbook with a soft thud, giving her his full attention.

"Rough evening?" he asked, taking in her disheveled appearance with the practiced eye of someone who'd spent years reading people's moods for survival.

Roxaine moved to the empty space on the sofa nearest the fire, her movements precise despite her exhaustion. "Productive," she corrected. "Though I suspect half the team would prefer to transfer to Hufflepuff by now."

"Father says that's how you build character," Draco offered, clearly trying to impress her. "He told me about your match against Ravenclaw last year. Said you nearly knocked their Seeker clean off his broom."

"Your father exaggerates," Roxaine replied, though there was something almost fond in her tone. "I only knocked him unconscious."

Cassius laughed, the sound low and appreciative. "I remember that match. Flint was furious that you'd done his job for him."

"Flint doesn't have my aim," she said simply, settling back into the cushions. The warmth of the fire was beginning to seep through her robes, and she felt some of the tension leave her shoulders.

"Cassius was just telling me about the old Quidditch teams," Draco said, clearly eager to continue whatever conversation her arrival had interrupted. "About how our families used to have private matches."

"Before the Ministry got involved with their regulations," Cassius added, his voice carrying the particular disdain reserved for bureaucratic interference. "The Rosiers and the Blacks played every summer. Your father nearly broke my uncle's nose during the match of '76."

Roxaine's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. "Sirius always did lack subtlety."

"You could bring it back," Draco suggested, his voice bright with possibility. "When we're older. The Malfoys have a full pitch, and Father's always saying we should honor the old traditions."

"Perhaps," Roxaine said, though her tone suggested she was already considering the logistics. "Though I suspect the Ministry would have opinions about unsanctioned matches between Sacred Twenty-Eight families."

"Let them," Cassius said, his voice carrying the kind of casual dismissal that only came from generations of privilege. "What are they going to do? Arrest us for playing Quidditch?"

The three of them fell into comfortable silence, the crackling fire providing a soothing backdrop to their thoughts. Around them, the common room hummed with quiet activity as other students worked on assignments or engaged in low conversations.

"Are you worried about Potter?" Draco asked suddenly, his voice dropping to a whisper as if speaking the name too loudly might summon the boy himself.

Roxaine's eyes sharpened, fixing on the younger boy with an intensity that made him shift uncomfortably. "Worried?"

"Well, not worried exactly," Draco backtracked quickly. "But Father says he's supposed to be exceptional. And Wood's been running extra practices too."

"Wood can run all the practices he wants," Roxaine said, her voice carrying quiet certainty. "Natural talent means nothing without proper training. And Potter's had neither the time nor the guidance to develop real skill."

"Still," Cassius said thoughtfully, "it might be worth watching him more closely. Understanding his patterns, his weaknesses."

Roxaine nodded slowly, though something in her expression suggested her interest in Harry Potter's patterns went deeper than simple strategic planning. "Knowledge is always useful."

"You could have Crabbe and Goyle watch him," Draco suggested eagerly. "They're subtle enough when they try."

"Crabbe and Goyle are about as subtle as a dragon in a teacup," Roxaine replied dryly. "No, if Potter needs watching, it will be done properly."

The conversation drifted to other topics, but Roxaine found herself only half-listening as Cassius offered advice about handling younger students and Draco eagerly absorbed every word. Her mind was elsewhere, circling around the boy with messy dark hair and her father's eyes, wondering why the thought of him in danger made something twist uncomfortably in her chest.

Some reactions, she reflected, were better left unexamined.

October 31st, 1991,
Slytherin Common Room,
Third person POV,
E.R.B:

The Halloween feast had been interrupted by Professor Quirrell's dramatic announcement about the troll, and now Roxaine found herself efficiently organizing the evacuation of younger Slytherin students to their dormitories. Her movements were calm, controlled, showing none of the panic that had gripped many of the other students.

"Third years and below, straight to your dormitories," she commanded. "Fourth years and above, assist the prefects in securing the common room. No one goes anywhere alone."

"But what about the troll?" a terrified second year asked.

"The troll," Roxaine replied with perfect composure, "is the professors' concern. Our concern is following instructions and staying alive."

It wasn't until the next morning that she learned the full story. Potter, Weasley, and Granger had apparently faced the troll themselves, in the girls' bathroom of all places.

"Mental, the lot of them," Draco declared over breakfast. "Who runs toward a mountain troll?"

"Gryffindors," Roxaine replied dryly. "It's practically their defining characteristic."

But privately, she wondered if it was bravery or stupidity that had driven Harry to face a twelve-foot mountain troll to save a girl he barely knew. She thought of James Potter, who had died protecting people he loved, and felt that familiar twist in her chest.

November 1st, 1991,
Slytherin common room,
Third person POV,
E.R.B:

Roxaine had hoped to slip into the common room unnoticed, but the explosion of green and silver that greeted her made it clear that subtlety had never been an option.

"Surprise!" Draco's voice rang out, though his grin suggested he was far more excited than she was. The entire corner near the fireplace had been transformed with floating ribbons and what appeared to be enchanted serpents made of light that coiled through the air.

"Draco," she said quietly, taking in the elaborate display. "This is excessive."

"It's your birthday," he replied, as if this explained everything. "Besides, Cassius helped."

Cassius emerged from behind one of the armchairs, looking pleased with himself in that understated way of his. "Fourteen is important," he said simply. "The old families have always marked such occasions properly."

A small pile of elegantly wrapped gifts sat on the low table, and Roxaine found herself staring at them with an expression caught between gratitude and something that might have been pain. November 1st had not been a day for celebration in a very long time.

"You didn't have to do this," she said, her voice softer than usual.

"Of course we did," Draco said, bouncing slightly on his toes. "We're family, aren't we? And Cassius, well, you are friends"

The words hung in the air between them, and Roxaine felt something shift in her chest. Family. Friends. Such simple concepts, yet both had seemed impossible for so long.

"Open this one first," Cassius said, selecting a silver-wrapped package from the pile. "It's from both of us."

Inside was a leather-bound journal, its cover embossed with her initials in elegant script. The pages were thick parchment, the kind that would hold ink beautifully for years.

"For Quidditch strategies," Draco explained eagerly. "And other things. Important things."

"It's beautiful," she said, running her fingers over the smooth leather. "Thank you."

The rest of the gifts were equally thoughtful: rare Quidditch texts, a set of silver hair pins that would never tarnish, a small vial of expensive perfume that smelled like winter mornings. Each item spoke to how carefully they'd observed her preferences, her habits, her carefully guarded interests.

November 1st, 1991,
Great Hall,
Third person POV,
E.R.B:

The morning owl post arrived with its usual flurry of wings and scattered feathers, but Roxaine's attention was caught by the magnificent eagle owl that landed directly in front of her plate. Its pristine white plumage and regal bearing marked it unmistakably as one of the Malfoy family's birds.

The package it carried was wrapped in midnight blue silk tied with silver ribbon, and the attached card bore the Malfoy crest in elegant script. Inside, she found a delicate silver bracelet set with emeralds that caught the light like captured starfire, and beneath it, a first edition copy of "Advanced Transfiguration Theory" bound in dragon hide.

"Many happy returns on your fourteenth birthday," the card read in Narcissa's flowing handwriting. "With love and best wishes from your second family. -N. & L. Malfoy"

Roxaine's fingers traced the emeralds, each one likely worth more than most families spent in a year. The Malfoys had always been generous with their gifts, but there was something deeper here; recognition of her place in their world, their acknowledgment that she belonged.

She was still examining the bracelet when the sound of raucous singing drifted across the Great Hall from the Gryffindor table, where the Weasley twins had orchestrated what appeared to be a full-scale musical celebration.

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Atlas, happy birthday to you!"

The entire Gryffindor table had joined in, their voices creating a joyful cacophony that echoed off the enchanted ceiling. Atlas sat in the middle of it all, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he laughed, truly laughed, in a way that transformed his entire face.

"Make a wish!" Fred Weasley called out, sliding a small cake across the table toward him.

"And make it a good one," George added, grinning. "We put extra magic in that cake."

"That's not reassuring," Atlas replied, but he was still smiling as he leaned forward to blow out the single candle.

From the Slytherin table, Roxaine watched this display with carefully neutral expression, though something flickered in her eyes as she saw her twin brother surrounded by warmth and laughter. The contrast between their celebrations was stark, each perfectly suited to their chosen paths.

November 1st, 1991,
Corridor outside the Great Hall,
Third person POV,
E.R.B:

They passed each other in the corridor as students streamed out of the Great Hall, the dinner crowd creating enough chaos that their brief encounter went unnoticed. Atlas was still flushed with laughter, his Gryffindor tie slightly askew, while Roxaine moved with her usual composed precision.

For a moment, their eyes met across the flow of students, and time seemed to slow. Twin faces, mirror images despite the different houses, the different choices, the different lives they'd built from the same shattered foundation.

"Happy birthday," Atlas murmured as they drew close enough to speak without being overheard.

"Happy birthday," Roxaine replied, her voice equally soft.
The words carried weight beyond their simple meaning. They were acknowledgment, remembrance, a shared recognition of what this day had once meant and what it had become. For just a moment, they were not Gryffindor and Slytherin, not Atlas and Roxaine, but simply two fourteen-year-old children who had survived the unsurvivable together.

Then the moment passed, and they continued on their separate ways, each carrying the ghost of their shared past and the reality of their chosen futures. Behind them, the Great Hall continued its evening bustle, unaware that it had witnessed something rare and precious: the briefest reunion of two halves of a broken whole.

November 1st, 1991,
Slytherin common room,
Third person POV,
E.R.B:

"Are you all right?" Cassius asked quietly when she returned to find him and Draco still waiting by the fire.

Roxaine settled into her usual chair, the leather journal still clutched in her hands. "I'm fine."

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Draco observed, his voice carrying genuine concern.

"Haven't we all," she replied, though there was something almost fond in her tone. "Thank you. For all of this. It was... unexpected."

"Good unexpected or bad unexpected?" Draco asked, clearly seeking reassurance.

"Good," she said simply, and meant it. "Very good."

They sat in comfortable silence as the fire crackled, the floating serpents casting dancing shadows on the walls. Outside, November rain began to patter against the windows, but inside the common room, surrounded by thoughtful gifts and the quiet presence of people who cared enough to notice her birthday, Roxaine felt something she hadn't experienced in years.

She felt, for the first time in a very long time, that she was exactly where she belonged.

November 15th, 1991,
Great Hall,
Third person POV,
E.R.B:

"Look at him," Draco sneered, pointing across the Great Hall to where Harry sat with his teammates. "Acting like he's already won the match."

Roxaine glanced over, noting the way Harry's shoulders were set with tension, the way he kept pushing his food around his plate rather than eating it. "He looks nervous."

"Good," Draco said vindictively. "He should be. You're going to destroy him, aren't you?"

"I'm going to play Quidditch," Roxaine replied. "What happens to Potter is entirely up to his own skill."

But even as she said it, she was studying Harry's posture, the slight tremor in his hands when he reached for his goblet. First match nerves, she diagnosed. She remembered the feeling well.

When Draco started to make another cutting remark about Harry's chances, Roxaine cut him off smoothly. "Perhaps you should focus on your own studies, Draco. Your Potions essay is due tomorrow, and I doubt Professor Snape will accept 'I was too busy mocking Potter' as an excuse for poor work."

Draco deflated slightly, but nodded. Around them, other Slytherins chuckled at the gentle rebuke.

What none of them noticed was the way Roxaine's eyes had never left Harry's face, or the calculating look in her dark eyes as she watched him struggle with his pre-match anxiety.

November 15h, 1991,
Quidditch Pitch,
Third person POV,
E.R.B:

The roar of the crowd was deafening as the teams took to the pitch. Roxaine gripped her Beater's bat, her knuckles white beneath her gloves, every muscle in her body coiled with anticipation.

"I want a clean game," Madam Hooch announced, though her eyes lingered particularly on the Slytherin team. "From all of you."

Roxaine met Harry's eyes across the pitch and saw him flinch slightly. Good. Fear was useful.

The whistle blew.

The match was brutal from the start. Roxaine played with surgical precision, her Bludgers finding their marks with devastating accuracy. She sent one screaming toward the Gryffindor Chaser formation, scattering them like startled birds, then immediately redirected to cover Higgs as he dove for what might have been the Snitch.

But her eyes kept tracking Harry, noting his flight patterns, his reflexes, the way he moved on his broom like he'd been born to it.

Just like James.

She shook the thought away and lined up another shot, this one aimed at the Gryffindor Keeper. The crowd gasped as Davies had to dodge, the Quaffle sailing through the now-unguarded goal.

"Brilliant work, Black!" Flint shouted as they pulled ahead.

But then Harry's broom started bucking.

At first, Roxaine thought it was just the pressure getting to him. First-year nerves manifesting in poor broom control. But as she watched him struggle, really watched him, she realized something was wrong. Very wrong.

His broom was moving erratically, violently, in ways that had nothing to do with skill or nerves. Someone was cursing his broom.

Her blood ran cold.

Without thinking, she abandoned her position and shot toward him, ostensibly chasing a Bludger that had gone wide. As she passed beneath Harry's wildly bucking broom, she scanned the stands with the trained eye of someone who had been taught to spot threats.

There. Professor Quirrell, his lips moving in what looked like constant incantation, his eyes fixed on Harry with unwavering focus.

But that wasn't right. Quirrell was Defense Against the Dark Arts. He was supposed to be one of the good ones.

Unless...

Roxaine's mind raced as she pulled up alongside Harry's broom. "Potter!" she shouted over the wind and crowd noise. "Pull up! Get higher!"

"I can't!" Harry yelled back, his knuckles white as he gripped his broom handle. "It won't respond!"

For a split second, Roxaine felt like a child again, watching helplessly as her world fell apart. Then the moment passed, and she was herself again, cold and calculating and utterly focused.

She couldn't help him directly, not without revealing too much, not without questions she couldn't answer. But she could create a distraction.

Pulling her broom into a sharp dive, she sent her Beater's bat spinning toward the Gryffindor goal posts with enough force to crack the wood. The crowd's attention shifted to the spectacular near-miss, and in that moment of distraction, she saw Harry's broom steady slightly.

Whatever spell had been cast was broken.

Harry shot upward, his broom finally responding, and within moments he was diving toward the ground, his hand outstretched. When he pulled up, the Golden Snitch was clutched in his fist.

The crowd erupted. Gryffindor had won.

Roxaine landed smoothly, her expression giving nothing away as her teammates gathered around her, faces dark with defeat.

"Unlucky, Black," Flint said grimly. "You played perfectly. Potter just got lucky."

"Luck," Roxaine repeated, her eyes finding Harry in the celebration crowd. He was grinning, his earlier nerves completely forgotten, looking exactly like his father had after a particularly good match.

"Yeah," she said quietly. "Lucky."

But as she walked off the pitch, Roxaine's mind was already turning over what she'd seen. Someone had tried to kill Harry Potter today. Someone with access to the stands, someone who knew enough about curses to maintain one during a Quidditch match.

Someone who thought they could get away with it.

November 25th, 1991,
Hogwarts Library,
Third Person POV,
ERB:

The far corner of the library was quiet, untouched by the bustle of students revising for exams or pretending to. Roxaine Black sat with one leg tucked beneath her, scarf slipping from her shoulder, quill gliding smoothly across a sheet of green-trimmed parchment. Her notes on Quidditch defensive formations were already impeccable, but perfection was not something she ever left half-finished.

She felt them coming before she heard them. The jittery hush of boys too confident for their own good, whispering like they had a plan. She didn't look up. She didn't need to.

Cedric Diggory's voice broke the silence with a practiced nonchalance. "You always sit here?"

Roxaine didn't blink. "Clearly."

He edged closer, hands stuffed in his pockets, trying to look casual but carrying the tension of someone who'd spent the last five minutes rehearsing. Behind him, two Hufflepuff boys leaned around the bookshelf, one of them giving an encouraging thumbs-up.

"You studying strategy?" Cedric asked, peering at her notes. "You're already lethal."

"I like to stay that way," she replied flatly, eyes still on the page. "You'll see during the match."

"I was hoping I would," he said. "Actually, I've been watching you play. You don't miss."

"I don't."

Cedric hesitated, then grinned. "Still, if you did happen to miss, let's say during our match, maybe we could make a deal."

Now she looked up, chin lifting just slightly. "A deal."

He took a breath. "If you try to hit me with a Bludger and miss, you owe me a butterbeer in Hogsmeade."

A beat passed.

Roxaine didn't speak. She tilted her head, eyes cool and unreadable. Behind Cedric, his friends leaned forward like it was the final minute of a match.

"Is that supposed to be a bet," she asked, "or a confession in disguise?"

Cedric didn't look away. "Why not both?"

She stared at him. Really stared. Like she was dissecting him, measuring whether this was idiocy or actual nerve. The grin. The confidence. The blush threatening to rise on his neck. And the eyes; steady, blue, too honest to be faked. She didn't like honest boys. They were harder to ignore.

Still. He was handsome.

And she was curious.

Roxaine closed her book with a snap.

"Fine," she said, rising smoothly. "If I miss."

Cedric blinked. "Wait, you're serious?"

"Completely." She looped her scarf around her neck. "But don't count on it. I never miss."

As she passed him, she paused for half a second.

"But if I do," she added softly, "I'll take the butterbeer cold, no foam."

Then she was gone, leaving behind parchment, ink, and three very stunned Hufflepuffs.

Cedric stood there a moment, frozen somewhere between shock and victory, grinning like he'd just caught the Snitch with one hand tied behind his back.

Behind him, one of his friends muttered, "You're actually insane."

Cedric just kept smiling.

And somewhere down the corridor, Roxaine Black adjusted her scarf, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable.

She never missed.

But maybe this once... she wouldn't mind it.

November 25th, 1991,
Slytherin Common Room,
Third Person POV,
ERB:

The fire burned low in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the ancient stonework. Most of the younger students had already drifted off to bed, leaving the Slytherin common room pleasantly quiet, save for the occasional crackle of flame and the rustle of pages turning in Cassius Rosier's lap. He sat like a king in exile, legs stretched across the green velvet settee, a smug calm about him that only the very well-bred could wear so effortlessly.

Roxaine dropped into the chair opposite him with her usual elegance, though there was something tight in the line of her shoulders. She said nothing, just began unfastening her scarf with slow, deliberate fingers.

Cassius glanced up. "You look like someone just suggested Gryffindor has moral complexity."

She didn't dignify it with a reply.

He closed his book, watching her now. "Alright. Out with it."

"Cedric Diggory spoke to me in the library."

Cassius perked up immediately. "Ah, a confession."

She exhaled through her nose. "Not exactly. He made it into a wager."

Cassius's grin spread. "Did he now."

"If I try to hit him with a Bludger during the match and I miss," she said, smoothing the fabric of her skirt with unnecessary focus, "I owe him a butterbeer in Hogsmeade."

A beat.

Cassius blinked once. "You said yes?"

She nodded, stiffly.

A slow, gleeful horror crept across his face. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice low with theatrical scorn. "You. Said yes. To Diggory. Who once helped a first year rescue a puffskein from the lake."

"He's handsome," Roxaine said flatly.

"Oh no," he breathed. "It's worse than I thought. You're softening."

Her eyes narrowed. "I am not."

He gasped, a hand clutching his chest. "The cold-hearted Black melts for cheekbones and Hufflepuff humility. This is a tragedy. I need a drink."

Roxaine rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched.

Cassius leaned back, smug again. "You'll be writing him poetry next. Something about brooms and feelings."

"I'll hex you."

"You won't," he said. "You're too busy wondering if your swing will falter at the sight of his boyish grin."

And that did it.

A small, reluctant sound slipped from her lips. A laugh, low and quiet (more of a chuckle, really) but real. She turned her head away, but not fast enough.

Cassius grinned like he'd just won the House Cup. "There it is. The tiniest, most reluctant laugh in Slytherin history."

"I hate you," she muttered.

He placed a hand over his heart. "And yet I remain your closest friend. A mystery."

She composed herself again quickly, but the tension in her shoulders had lessened. She leaned back, gazing at the fire.

"I'm not going to miss," she said.

Cassius nodded solemnly. "Naturally."

"But..."

He turned toward her, curious.

"If I do, I'll wear black."

His grin returned. "Good. It'll match your descent into emotional ruin."

She chuckled again, just once, and let it fade into the firelight.

November 28th, 1991,
Hogwarts Quidditch Pitch,
Third Person POV,
E.R.B:

The sky over Hogwarts was a dull grey, clouds hovering just enough to threaten rain but not commit. The stands were packed, scarves of green and yellow waving in equal measure, students buzzing with excitement for the long-anticipated Slytherin versus Hufflepuff match.

Up in the commentator's box, Lee Jordan leaned into the magical microphone with a grin, eyes scanning the pitch.

"And here they come, folks. Our charming, vicious little house of snakes slithers into formation. Slytherin, captained by third-year Beater Roxaine Black, takes the pitch with signature arrogance and completely justified confidence."

He paused dramatically.

"Facing off today against the ever-earnest, ever-optimistic Hufflepuff, captained by seventh-year Bertram Aubrey and featuring Cedric Diggory. Yes, that Cedric Diggory, who, rumor has it, made a bet with Miss Black herself."

There was a collective murmur from the stands, and Lee let it simmer before he went on.

"That's right, folks. Sources, very reliable and definitely not eavesdropping, say that if our girl Black misses hitting Diggory with a Bludger, she owes him a butterbeer in Hogsmeade. Adorable, reckless, and possibly suicidal. Ten points to Hufflepuff for audacity."

On the pitch, Roxaine Black's jaw had tightened the moment Lee said it. She had known the bet would leak eventually. Slytherins couldn't keep secrets unless it benefited them. But hearing it publicly confirmed with half the school watching was another matter entirely.

Originally, she had decided to miss.

She had aimed to glance the Bludger just off course. A show of mercy, the rare kind. Because Cedric had asked her like a gentleman, and maybe because she hadn't stopped thinking about the quiet steadiness of him in the library.

But now the stands were watching. Now Lee Jordan was narrating it like it was a soap opera.

She could feel the stares on her back, the whispers in the wind. A Black doesn't lose. A Black doesn't flinch. A Black certainly doesn't throw a match for a boy.

No. He made it public. He ruined the game.

Now he gets the real version of her.

"AND THEY'RE OFF," Lee roared as Madame Hooch blew the whistle.

Brooms shot into the air, emerald and gold blurring against the sky. Roxaine surged upward, hair whipping behind her, bat in hand, eyes narrowed.

Lee kept up the stream of commentary, his voice rising and falling with the rhythm of the game.

"Quaffle in play. That's Montague with the steal. Hufflepuff Keeper dodges left. Oh, beautiful block from Diggory, showing he's got more than good hair."

The first Bludger shrieked past her left ear.

She didn't flinch.

She saw him across the pitch, scanning for threats. Confident. Relaxed. He wasn't even looking at her.

That was his mistake.

She pivoted mid-air, wind slicing past her, and locked onto the second Bludger. With one clean, fluid motion, she redirected it. Not with anger, not with hesitation, but with precision. It cut through the air like a curse.

Crack.

Cedric barely had time to react. The Bludger hit him square in the shoulder, knocking him back several feet before he righted himself, wincing but still airborne.

Lee let out a low whistle.

"And there it is. Hit confirmed. Black does not miss, I repeat, Black does not miss. Which means Diggory's chances at love and a free butterbeer are officially shattered. Our condolences to the Hufflepuff bench. Also, someone tell Cassius Rosier to stop smirking, it's distracting."

Down on the pitch, Roxaine didn't even glance his way. She banked left, already tracking the next play, expression unreadable.

But her hands were steady now.

And there would be no mercy today.

November 28th, 1991,
Slytherin Changing Rooms,
Third Person POV,
ERB:

The rain had held off until the final whistle, and now the sky had finally broken open in cold sheets, soaking the pitch as students filed out of the stands, shouting and laughing under hoods and umbrellas.

Slytherin had won.

It hadn't been a graceful game. It never was with Hufflepuff. But it had been decisive. One hundred ninety to seventy. Clean blocks, brutal hits, and one particularly perfect Bludger that had left Cedric Diggory bruised and quiet for the rest of the match.

Inside the changing rooms, the team buzzed with the high that always followed a win. Flint roared something incoherent, Bole was tossing towels into the air.

Roxaine stood near the lockers, her uniform still damp with rain and sweat, bat tucked under one arm, hair loose from its ribbon. She had already changed out of her gear, but hadn't left. Not yet.

Cassius leaned casually against the wall, smug as ever. "Well, well. A girl of her word. I assume Diggory didn't get his romantic outing."

Roxaine didn't respond. She was watching her teammates instead. Montague chest-bumping Terrence, Bole laughing so hard he tripped over his own broom, Flint dragging a wet scarf across Derrick's face. It was loud. It was chaotic. It was hers.

A faint smile ghosted across her lips. Not wide. Not soft. Just the right amount. The kind of smile that only surfaced after a win, and only when no one was directly looking.

Cassius caught it anyway.

"You're practically radiant," he said. "I'm overwhelmed."

She rolled her eyes, but didn't hide it. "We won. I'm allowed to enjoy it."

He folded his arms. "So you hit him because the bet went public, didn't you."

"I hit him," she said coolly, "because I'm not a liar."

Cassius grinned. "You also hit him because you were insulted. Which, frankly, is why I adore you."

She didn't answer. Just straightened her gloves and stepped toward the exit, passing by her celebrating teammates. One of the younger players reached out and tapped her arm.

"Nice shot, Captain," he said, eyes bright.

She gave a single nod. "Of course it was."

Then she walked out into the rain. No umbrella, no hood, just the echo of cheers behind her and a victory that sat, just for now, comfortably in her bones.

Chapter Text

November 29th, 1991,
Hogwarts Library, Upper Aisles,
Third Person POV,
ERB:

The library was quieter than usual, the way it always got after a match. Students tended to overcompensate after a weekend of shouting, gambling, and borderline hexing from the stands. The usual clatter had been replaced by a collective pretense of studiousness.

Roxaine sat in the upper aisles, where the thick carpeting muted footsteps and the lamps flickered low over aged wood. She had Transfiguration notes open in front of her, but she hadn't touched her quill in fifteen minutes.

She heard him before she saw him.

Not in the literal sense. Cedric Diggory was maddeningly quiet for someone who lived to be liked. But something in the air shifted;  that kind of presence certain people carried. And she had a knack for knowing when someone was about to make a mistake.

She didn't look up until he was standing at the edge of the table.

His arm was in a sling.

Of course it was.

"I'm not here to complain," he said, answering the words she hadn't spoken yet.

Roxaine leaned back slightly in her chair, folding one leg over the other.

"Then why are you here?"

He gave a small shrug, wincing at the movement. "To ask something."

"Make it quick."

Cedric pulled out the chair across from her, slowly, like she might hex it out from under him. He didn't sit, just rested his good hand on the back of it.

"You were going to miss," he said. "Weren't you?"

The question hung there. No teasing, no grin. Just calm certainty.

She stared at him for a beat.

Then she closed her book.

"I changed my mind," she said coolly.

He tilted his head. "Why?"

Her gaze flicked upward, sharp.

"Because someone," she said, voice clipped, "decided to make a private wager into a public joke."

Cedric didn't flinch. He just nodded slowly. "Lee exaggerated."

"You knew exactly what would happen when you told your friends," she snapped.

"It wasn't meant to humiliate you," he said. "It wasn't meant to spread."

"Everything spreads," she replied.

He looked at her for a moment longer. Then, quietly, "I wasn't trying to ruin it."

Roxaine exhaled through her nose, looking back at her notes. "That's the difference between you and me. You believe things can stay harmless." She didn't add that for a brief moment, she had believed it too.

Cedric didn't argue. Just watched her for a few seconds, then let go of the chair and turned to leave.

Halfway down the aisle, she spoke again, not looking up. "It was a clean shot."

He glanced back over his shoulder. "I noticed."

Then he kept walking, steps quiet again. No farewell.

Roxaine sat alone in the silence, hand resting on the closed book, eyes steady on nothing in particular.

November 29th, 1991,
Slytherin Common Room,
Third Person POV,
ERB:

The common room had a way of reflecting unspoken rules.

No one said anything directly to Roxaine Black after the match, and that was precisely what made it different. The usual post-victory reverence had cooled. No more enthusiastic retellings of her hits. No playful requests for a repeat performance. No praise that wasn't calculated.

She had still won the match. But she had almost lost control, and almost was enough to sow quiet speculation.

Cassius noticed first, of course. He sat beside her on the green velvet couch, flipping a silver coin between his fingers, watching as Flint gave a loud, performative laugh with two sixth years by the fireplace. Normally, he would have been over by them, singing Roxaine's praises with false modesty on her behalf.

Instead, he hadn't even looked at her when he mentioned her name.

"You feel that?" Cassius said without looking at her.

"I'm not interested in their gossip."

"You should be," he replied, still tossing the coin. "It means they're bored. And bored Slytherins are dangerous."

Roxaine didn't answer. She was already thinking the same thing.

She excused herself early that evening, claiming homework. Not that anyone asked.

Up in her dormitory, a letter lay waiting on her pillow, sealed in pale green wax, marked with the delicate serpent Narcissa Malfoy used only for family.

She broke the seal without ceremony.

Roxaine,

Lucius told me about the match. Well done. You kept your promise. That's what matters.

Still, I've heard things regarding a certain wager. We'll talk properly over the Christmas break. Letters are too easily misread, and you're too old for scolding.

Do try to avoid spectacle. Even in victory.

— N

Roxaine read the letter twice.

It wasn't a reprimand. Narcissa never wasted time with disappointment. Her messages were colder than that. Sharper. They carried consequences without the need for threats.

Do try to avoid spectacle.

She folded the parchment neatly, sliding it into the hidden compartment of her trunk, alongside the other letters. The older ones were more affectionate. This one was short.

Tidy.

Expected.

She sat on her bed, eyes fixed on the flickering lantern near the window, letting the silence settle.

Narcissa would not say more until December. But the message was clear. Roxaine had been noticed. And not in the way that earned you heirlooms or blessings.

She traced the edge of her sleeve with her thumb, thinking of Cedric, of the bet, of her own decision to miss and then not.

Even winning could be dangerous, if it wasn't done on the right terms.

And next time, she wouldn't forget that.

November 30th, 1991,
Hogwarts Library,
Third Person POV,
ERB:

It was well past dinner, and the library had thinned out to a few scattered first-years frantically finishing homework they should have started days ago. Candles burned low, flickering in their brackets, and Madam Pince muttered to herself near the Restricted Section, as if daring someone to breathe too loudly.

Roxaine moved quietly between the shelves, not looking for anything in particular. Some nights she came here just to walk, just to think, just to be surrounded by something older than herself.

She paused near a table tucked between Ancient Runes and Magical Theory.

Granger.

The Muggle-born girl was hunched over a thick book nearly half her size, lips moving silently as she read. A pot of ink had spilled and dried near the edge of her notes, and her parchment was a mess of crossed-out equations.

Roxaine watched her for a few seconds. Hermione hadn't noticed.

Pathetic.

She stepped forward, not bothering to soften the sound of her boots on the floor.

"That book is three years above your level," Roxaine said flatly.

Hermione looked up, startled. Then stiffened when she saw who was speaking.

"I know," she said defensively. "But Professor Flitwick said we could read ahead if-"

"Oh, Flitwick said you could?" Roxaine interrupted, folding her arms. "Well then. By all means, rewrite magical theory because the half-goblin gave you permission."

Hermione flushed.

Roxaine leaned over the table slightly, eyes skimming the parchment.

"You're confusing wand pressure with incantation emphasis. Typical. You're not adjusting for magical inheritance variables. Did they forget to teach Muggle children that we don't all cast with the same strength?"

"I was trying to-"

"I know what you were trying to do," Roxaine said. Her voice wasn't raised, but it sliced like ice. "You think if you just read hard enough, you'll be one of us. That if you memorize every page, we'll forget what you are."

Hermione's mouth tightened. "I don't care what you think I am."

"Of course you do," Roxaine replied. "You wouldn't be here otherwise."

She pulled the book toward her, flipped two pages forward, and pointed to a diagram Hermione had missed entirely.

"That symbol," she said, "doesn't represent flow. It represents restriction. You interpreted the charm like it was meant to move magic when it's meant to channel it. Subtle difference. Important one."

Hermione blinked, looking at it.

"Oh," she said quietly. "That makes sense. Thank you-"

Roxaine snapped the book shut, hard enough to make Hermione jump.

"If mudbloods like you are going to pretend you own our magic," she said coldly, "you might as well learn to do it correctly."

Then she turned on her heel and walked away, robes trailing behind her like shadow. She didn't look back.

December 20th, 1991
King's Cross Station, Platform 9¾
Third person POV
E.R.B:

The train hissed in the cold, steam rising around its scarlet frame as trunks thudded and owls screeched. The platform buzzed with strange energy; part excitement, part exhaustion. Most students shouted quick goodbyes to their friends before disappearing into fireplaces or clasping their parents' hands.

Roxaine stood near the back of the platform, gloves buttoned, scarf tucked precisely, and Draco beside her, watching as Lucius and Narcissa emerged through the barrier.

Lucius, tall and severe as always, did not spare her more than a glance as she approached them with Draco beside her.

Narcissa gave them both a small nod, adjusting Draco's collar slightly before they all began walking to the carriage.
As soon as they got in, Draco took off his shoes, sighing in contempt as he stretched his legs across the seat opposite them.

"I cannot believe I had to share a compartment with a Hufflepuff," he groaned, dropping his head back against the cushion. "He kept humming. Humming. For the entire ride. Who hums during a storm?"

Roxaine didn't say anything. She simply looked out the window as the city blurred past them, the soft clatter of carriage wheels muffled by the layers of velvet and charmwork. Narcissa reached over and tucked a stray lock of Roxaine's hair behind her ear. Her touch was gentle, and Roxaine did not flinch.

Lucius, across from them, folded the Prophet with precision. It was quiet for several minutes before he spoke.
"How were your marks this term?"

Roxaine straightened slightly. "Perfect, as always."

Lucius did not praise her. He simply nodded, as if anything less would have been unacceptable.

"And yours, Draco?"

Draco made a face. "Above average."

"That is not what I asked."

He shifted in his seat. "I did well. Potions is still my highest."

Roxaine glanced at him, a flicker of something close to amusement in her eyes. "That's because Professor Snape favors you shamelessly."

"And he's right to," Draco snapped, crossing his arms. "I'm more talented than half the idiots in that class."

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of Malfoy Manor before the argument could escalate. Snow dusted the hedges and gate columns, the lawn already blanketed in white. As the door opened, a gust of cold air swept inside.

"Home," Narcissa murmured with a soft smile.

Roxaine stepped out first, the wind tugging at the hem of her cloak. She stood still for a moment, watching the manor rise before her, all stone and shadow, proud and unyielding.

Draco bounded past her toward the door, and Narcissa followed with light steps. Lucius paused beside Roxaine.

"You will be expected to join us for the New Year's gathering. You'll behave accordingly."

"Of course," she said without turning.

He said nothing else.

Inside, the warmth of the manor wrapped around her like an old, familiar coat. Dobby , their House elf,  appeared to take their cloaks, and Roxaine let hers slide off her shoulders without a word.

The drawing room was lit, fire crackling, and hot chocolate already set out on the silver tray. Roxaine crossed to the window instead, watching the snow fall in slow spirals beyond the frosted glass.

Draco threw himself onto the nearest couch and started talking about Quidditch again. Narcissa listened with half a smile, pouring tea for herself and offering Roxaine a cup. Roxaine took it silently, sipping as her eyes remained fixed on the storm outside.

The manor was quiet, but it was never still. Somewhere down the hall, portraits whispered. Magic moved in the walls.

She was home. Finally.

December 21st, 1991
Malfoy Manor, Kitchen Wing
Third person POV
E.R.B:

The halls of the manor were hushed, draped in velvet dark and sleeping portraits. Roxaine moved soundlessly through them, her bare feet cold against the marble. She hadn't been able to sleep. The storm had passed, but her mind hadn't.

She pushed the door to the kitchen open quietly. The elf on night duty had already vanished. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting a soft amber glow across the counters. She reached for the silver pitcher on the sideboard, then froze.

Someone was crouched by the pantry.

Draco.

He was half-hidden behind the door, sleeves of his nightclothes rolled up, a tin of biscuits in his lap. When he noticed her, he jumped so hard he hit his head on the shelf above. "Bloody hell!”

Roxaine blinked at him, still holding the glass.

Draco stared back, crumb-covered and mildly offended.

"You can't sleep either?" he asked, attempting to recover his dignity while brushing sugar off his collar.

She tilted her head slightly. "Are you hiding from your parents or from the elf?"

"The elf," he admitted, scowling. "She keeps trying to swap my biscuits for dried fruit. Says sweets before bed are unbecoming of young masters."

Roxaine crossed the room, her steps silent. She poured water into her glass, then glanced at the tin.

"What kind?"

"Chocolate. The good ones." He hesitated. "Want one?"

She gave him a long look, considering. Then, with no expression at all, she reached into the tin and took one.

They sat in silence for a moment, Roxaine perched lightly on the edge of the counter, Draco on the floor with his prize. The fire cracked softly behind them.

Finally, Draco spoke again, voice quieter. "They're saying you aimed for his shoulder."

She didn't answer right away. Her gaze was fixed on the dark window across the room.

"I did," she said eventually.

He nodded. "Good. He deserved worse."

Roxaine said nothing.

After a few more minutes, she stood and placed her glass back on the tray. Before she turned to leave, she reached down and plucked another biscuit from the tin without a word.

Draco smirked faintly as he watched her go.

And though she never looked back, the corners of her mouth lifted just barely.

Chapter Text

December 22nd, 1991
Malfoy Manor, East Library
Third person POV
E.R.B:

The east library was quiet, except for the occasional sound of turning pages and Draco's voice echoing faintly from the rug by the hearth.

"I'm just saying," he continued, flipping onto his back and staring at the ceiling, "he didn't even dodge. Potter just sat there like a stunned kneazle and still caught the Snitch."

Roxaine didn't look up from her book. She was curled in one of the velvet armchairs, robe wrapped loosely around her, legs folded beneath her. Her feet were bare, toes occasionally brushing the embroidery of the cushion as she turned a page.

Narcissa sat across from her, posture impeccable, though her usual jewels were absent. Her hair was loose over her shoulders, and she sipped her tea slowly, eyes scanning the open tome in her lap. The only sign that she was listening was the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth each time Draco added a new insult to Potter's name.

"Honestly," Draco went on, "he probably thinks a Quaffle is something you plant in Herbology. You should've seen his face, Rox."

Roxaine hummed faintly, noncommittal.

"I am talking to you."

"I'm reading," she said simply, eyes unmoving.

Draco groaned and rolled over, arms outstretched across the floor like a martyr. "You're no fun."

"Neither is losing your voice complaining about someone who doesn't care about you."

Narcissa gave a soft, graceful exhale that might have been a laugh, and Rox finally looked up, a small glint of amusement flickering in her eyes.

Footsteps echoed just beyond the archway, sharp and even.

Lucius entered without announcement, as always, a book tucked under one arm. He surveyed the scene; Draco sprawled inelegantly on the carpet, Narcissa serene in her chair, and Roxaine, quiet as a portrait but very much alive, watching him.

He stopped behind her chair and reached down to smooth a hand lightly over the top of her head, fingers briefly mussing her hair. Roxaine blinked, surprised, but didn't move away.

"Decorum," he said dryly, addressing Draco without looking at him.

Draco sat up a little straighter with a muttered "Yes, Father."

Lucius handed the book in his arms to Roxaine, who took it carefully, examining the spine.

She raised an eyebrow. "This isn't my Christmas present, is it?"

Lucius looked faintly amused. "If it were, you'd have no reason to complain."

Roxaine opened the cover. The pages were delicate, written in a flowing hand and annotated in the margins. A first edition. She traced the title with one finger, then looked up at him.

"I'm not complaining."

He nodded once, then turned and exited as smoothly as he had arrived.

Roxaine sank slightly deeper into the cushions, the book resting on her knees. Across from her, Narcissa met her gaze.

"That belonged to his mother," she said, voice low and unhurried. "He doesn't give it lightly."

Roxaine didn't answer. She only nodded, then opened the first page again, her thumb running along the inside binding.

Draco had resumed his complaints by then, picking up right where he'd left off.
And for a moment, the manor didn't feel so cold.

December 23rd, 1991
Malfoy Manor, Drawing Room
Third person POV
E.R.B:

The drawing room was lit with soft golden lamps, casting warm shadows across the polished floors. A charmed fire crackled behind the chessboard, which sat centered on the low marble table between two armchairs.

Lucius Malfoy leaned back in his seat, fingers steepled under his chin, silver eyes fixed on the board.

Roxaine was sitting cross-legged in the opposite chair, her expression unreadable, robe sleeves pushed to her elbows, one hand resting lazily on the armrest.

Draco was sprawled on the couch nearby, flipping through a Quidditch magazine upside-down and narrating loudly to no one.

"And then Terrence dropped the Quaffle; dropped it. Like a bloody beginner. Rox was so close to hexing him mid-air, I swear-"

"Draco," Lucius said without looking away from the board, "if you're going to interrupt, do it with useful commentary."

"I'm adding ambiance," he huffed, but lowered his voice.

Roxaine moved her rook.

Lucius's knight exploded.

Quite literally.

The enchanted piece let out a high-pitched shriek and burst into sparks before vanishing, leaving behind only a faint trail of smoke and Lucius's raised brow.

Draco laughed.

Roxaine didn't.

Until Lucius reached for his bishop, hesitated, and then realized, too late, that he was already trapped.

Checkmate in three moves.

She didn't say it aloud. She didn't have to.

Lucius stared at the board for a full five seconds.

Then looked up at her.

"You've been holding back," he said evenly.

Roxaine's lips twitched. "Perhaps."

"You baited me with the pawn."

"I thought you liked strategy."

Lucius blinked once. Then leaned back with the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Narcissa was right. You're dangerous."

Draco let out a theatrical gasp from the couch. "You LOST? To her?"

Lucius gave him a look that shut him up immediately.

But Roxaine laughed; a sharp, startled sound that broke out of her before she could stop it, and for a moment she looked her age.

"You really didn't see it coming," she said, shaking her head. "I waited five games to do that."

Lucius's smile sharpened slightly. "Well played."

She looked at the board again, then back at him, unsure whether to gloat.

He gestured to the table. "Next time, don't wait."

It wasn't a warning. It was approval.

And Roxaine, still half-smiling, realized something odd: She didn't need him to pretend to lose, and she didn't need applause. Just this. The game, and someone who played it honestly.

Lucius's smile sharpened slightly. "Well played."

She looked at the board again, then back at him, unsure whether to gloat.

He gestured to the table. "Next time, don't wait."

Just then, the door opened, Narcissa stepped in, barefoot, holding a glass of wine with the same casual grace she wore like a second skin. Her hair was swept back in a soft twist, no earrings, no jewels; just silk and moonlight.

She glanced at the board, then at Lucius's expression, and her lips curved into something dangerously amused. "You lost."

Lucius didn't look up. "Temporarily."

"To a third-year."

"She's had good teachers."

Roxaine smirked, but tried to hide it behind a sip of tea.

Narcissa crossed the room, stopping beside Rox's chair. She looked at the remains of the match and then at Roxaine herself, gaze steady.

"I told you he favors symmetry. You only had to wait for him to corner himself."
Rox blinked, half-surprised.

Narcissa smiled, just a little. "You were always the better one at waiting."

Lucius made a sound between a scoff and a laugh. "You've been conspiring."

"It's not conspiring if I simply observe."

Draco groaned loudly from the couch. "Someone please hex me if they start talking about strategy again."

"You'll be the first casualty," Narcissa said lightly.

She reached down and touched Roxaine's shoulder, a feather-light gesture, then turned back toward the hall.

"Try not to burn the room down," she added over her shoulder. "I'd like it to still be standing for Christmas."

Lucius and Roxaine shared a glance.
And for a second; just a second; Rox felt something soft settle in her chest.

It didn't have a name, but felt like home.

Lucius's smile sharpened slightly. "Well played."

Roxaine leaned back, smug despite herself. She hadn't meant to grin, but it happened anyway.

Then Lucius stood.

And she knew. She knew something was coming.

"Don't," she said quickly, already leaning away.

He stepped around the table.

"Lucius," she warned.

Too late.

He reached down and ruffled her hair violently, fingers digging through the precise waves Narcissa had taught her to maintain, sending half of it into a tangled mess.

She shrieked, actually shrieked. "Lucius Malfoy!"

Draco choked on his drink. "Oh. Oh this is historic."

Roxaine tried to bat Lucius's hands away, twisting in the chair like a feral cat. "Stop it. I spent time on this."

Lucius finally withdrew, perfectly calm, as if he hadn't just descended into chaos.

"Next time," he said, straightening his sleeves, "don't bait your opponent and expect a quiet defeat."

"You're unhinged," she muttered, trying to fix her hair with both hands.

"That's enough, both of you," came Narcissa's voice from the doorway.

She walked in like a ghost in silk, holding a glass of wine, expression unreadable but faintly amused.

She looked at Lucius, then at Roxaine, whose hair now resembled a mild explosion.

With the elegance of someone watching two lions wrestle in their drawing room, she simply said: "Are we quite finished?"
Lucius gave her a shallow nod.

"She cheated," he said mildly.

"I won," Rox snapped.

"She shrieked," Draco added helpfully, still laughing.

Narcissa sipped her wine, clearly unimpressed. "I married one of you. I raised the other. And yet somehow, she's the one who wins."

She walked over to Roxaine, smoothing a section of her hair with gentle fingers. "I told you not to sit with your back to him. That's how he got me in '82."

Roxaine blinked. "You played him?"

"Beat him," Narcissa said. "Twice."

Lucius muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

The fire crackled.

And for a few seconds, in that half-lit room full of old wood and laughter and terrible hair, Roxaine forgot she was a Black. She forgot the letters in her trunk, the pressure on her back, the rules.
She was just a girl, in a house, with people who, however silently, loved her.

December 24th, 1991
Malfoy Manor, Winter Parlor
Third person POV
E.R.B:

The winter parlor smelled faintly of cinnamon and cedarwood, the kind of scent Narcissa conjured without effort. A soft melody played from the enchanted harp in the corner, and snow fell quietly against the tall windows, blurred by the warmth of the room.

Roxaine sat curled in an armchair, legs tucked under her, flipping through a heavy leather-bound volume of old wizarding duels. Draco lounged sideways across a chaise, arms folded, narrating half a memory, half a lie.

"I'm telling you," he said, "if Father hadn't stopped me, I would have cursed that Hufflepuff clean out of the Quidditch stands."

Narcissa, sitting by the fireplace with embroidery on her lap, didn't look up. "You were eight."

"I was ready," he insisted.

Lucius, nearby, was sorting through parchment without giving the conversation any real attention.

Draco sat up dramatically. "Anyway. You'd think somebody would have thanked me for protecting the Malfoy name from dishonor."

"By hexing a twelve-year-old over a biscuit," Roxaine said, not even looking up from her book.

"It was a stolen biscuit. There were witnesses."

Just then, Dobby entered, struggling under a silver tray stacked with Christmas biscuits, miniature puddings, and steaming mugs of spiced cocoa. His ears flopped with every step as he made his way to the low table between them.

"Dobby is sorry for being late," he squeaked. "The marshmallows kept escaping."

"Of course they did," Draco muttered.
He leaned forward, snatched a cookie shaped like a Hippogriff, and examined it critically.

"You ever wonder," he began, "if these things feel pain when you bite off their heads?"

Roxaine looked up.

Draco locked eyes with her, holding the cookie by its frosted neck.

"Because I do. I think about it a lot."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Roxaine laughed.

Not the usual dry exhale or the sharp, cruel sound she used at school.

A real laugh.

Light, sudden, almost startled out of her.
It rang through the parlor like a dropped charm and startled even herself.

Everyone turned.

Narcissa's eyes lifted. Her lips curled upward, slow and warm.

Lucius didn't speak, but he looked at Roxaine for a long moment, then gave a single, subtle nod, as if marking something significant.

Draco looked smug.

"I am hilarious," he said, biting the Hippogriff's head off without remorse.

Roxaine shook her head and returned to her book, the ghost of a smile still on her lips. "You're ridiculous."

"Hey!"

For a little while, no one said anything else. The harp played on. The fire burned soft.

December 25th, 1991
Malfoy Manor, Master Bedroom
Third person POV
E.R.B:

It started the way it always did.

A creak of the door.

Then footsteps; soft, deliberate, entirely unstealthy.

Lucius stirred slightly, but didn't open his eyes. He knew what was coming.

There was a pause.

Then a whisper.

"Three..."

"Two..."

"ONE-"

"MERRY CHRISTMAS!"

The bed shook violently as two bodies launched themselves onto it with zero grace or remorse. Roxaine landed near the footboard, Draco crashed somewhere near Lucius's knees, and chaos bloomed.

"Wake up, wake up, it's Christmas!" Draco yelled.

"Get up or we're opening everything without you!" Roxaine added, already crawling toward the pillows.

Lucius groaned. "This again?"

"You act surprised," Narcissa murmured, eyes still closed.

Roxaine grabbed the covers and pulled. "Come on, I've been awake since six."

"So has Dobby," Draco added helpfully. "He was humming carols. Off-key."

Lucius sat up slowly, regal in misery. His hair was tousled, his expression vaguely betrayed. "This is a respectable household."

Draco flopped dramatically against him. "Not today."

Roxaine was already bouncing. "Come on, Father. You promised not to ruin Christmas with politics before breakfast."

"I said no meetings before breakfast," he corrected. "I said nothing about maintaining order."

"You have five seconds before I start singing," Draco warned.

Narcissa finally opened her eyes, glancing at the chaos with resigned amusement. "What makes you think that would be effective?"

"Because I know all the verses to the Goblin Carol."

Roxaine snorted. "The one with the pitchforks?"

Lucius looked genuinely horrified. "Absolutely not."

Narcissa sat up, drawing her robe around her shoulders. "If you make it to the chorus, I will hex you both into next year."

"That's not a no to presents," Draco said brightly.

Lucius ran a hand down his face. "Merlin save me."

But he was already swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

Roxaine grinned.

It was ridiculous, all of it. Loud and inelegant and probably a little beneath the Malfoy name. But it was theirs.

A tradition born years ago and never once broken.

They raced each other to the grand staircase, robes flapping, laughter echoing off marble.

And for just one morning, the weight of the world didn't matter. Not family name. Not lineage. Not legacy.

Only this.

Only them.

Chapter Text

December 26th, 1991
Malfoy Manor, Roxaine's Bedroom
Third Person POV
E.R.B:

The snow outside had thickened into silence. No wind, no flurries, just that muffled weight that made the world feel paused. Inside Roxaine's bedroom, only a single lamp glowed near her vanity, casting a soft amber circle over the floor. She sat in her armchair, robe drawn close around her, one hand resting on the armrest, the other still holding the letter Narcissa had left earlier that day. It was unopened. On purpose.

A soft knock.

She didn't answer, but the door opened anyway. Narcissa entered without announcement, as she always did. She wore a satin robe in pale silver, hair swept loosely behind her shoulders, and carried with her the scent of rosewater and old magic.

Roxaine didn't move.

Narcissa walked to the edge of the bed and sat, hands folded neatly over her knees. She said nothing for a moment, just looked at the girl in front of her.

"You know why I'm here," she said at last.

Roxaine unfolded the letter with two fingers and placed it on the side table without reading it. "The bet."

"Yes." Narcissa's voice remained calm. "And everything that came with it."

Roxaine met her eyes. "I didn't lose."

"That isn't the point."

Roxaine sat straighter. "He made it public. Lee Jordan was announcing it like it was some schoolyard crush."

"And so you punished him," Narcissa said. "With a Bludger. In front of the entire school."

Rox didn't flinch. "He deserved it."

"Perhaps." Narcissa looked toward the window. "But you didn't throw the Bludger because he made it public. You threw it because you were embarrassed. And when a Black moves from calculation to emotion, the consequences change."

Roxaine's jaw tightened. "He made me look like a fool."

"No," Narcissa said softly. "He made you feel like one. That's different."

Rox fell silent.

Narcissa rose from the bed and crossed to the vanity, fingers lightly brushing over the polished surface.

"I was your age when someone humiliated me in public. I hexed him so thoroughly the stains never came out of his collar again."

She turned back to Roxaine, eyes sharp but not unkind.

"And yet, it was me they whispered about. Not him."

Roxaine didn't speak.

Narcissa walked over and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"You may win every match you play, but you are still a girl in a world that punishes girls for being visible. Especially if they carry our name."

There was no venom in her voice. Just truth.

"I didn't cry," Roxaine muttered.

"I know," Narcissa said. "But next time, don't forget who you are. And how easily affection can be used against you."

She turned to go, pausing at the door.
"If the boy meant nothing, let it go. But if he meant something, then choose better next time. Not softer. Better."

The door closed behind her with a quiet click.

Roxaine sat still for a long time, the shadows stretching quietly across the room.

December 30th, 1991
Malfoy Manor, Narcissa's Dressing Room
Third person POV
E.R.B:

The dressing room smelled of verbena and old perfume. Silks hung in color order along the walls, and a soft charmed light glowed above the antique vanity. Roxaine stood near the long mirror, arms crossed, watching as Narcissa adjusted the waistline of a black gown draped on the mannequin.

"It was mine at sixteen," Narcissa said, smoothing the fabric. "Lucius hated it. Said I looked too sharp."

"You did," Roxaine replied. "You looked like you could cut glass."

Narcissa smiled faintly. "That was the point."

She stepped back and studied the dress in silence for a moment. The fabric shimmered faintly, not with sequins or charmwork, but with the suggestion of something expensive and unforgiving.

"You'll wear this tomorrow," Narcissa said. "With the emerald earrings. Not the necklace."

Roxaine raised an eyebrow. "No snake pin?"

"Too obvious."

She nodded once. Accepted.

Narcissa turned to face her. "You understand who will be there?”

"Yes."

"Do you understand why?"

Roxaine hesitated, then nodded again. Slower.

Narcissa crossed to her, hands resting lightly on Roxaine's shoulders. Her touch was soft but firm, like someone shaping porcelain.

"They will look for weakness," she said. "They always do. And they will look at you because they don't know where to place you."

"I'm a Black."

"You're more than that. And less, in their eyes. You've been raised here, but you were not born here. You carry a shadow they think they understand." Her eyes darkened slightly. "You have your father's name. His blood."

Roxaine's jaw tensed.

Narcissa continued, voice even. "Some of them still serve Him. Quietly. Others only pretend to have moved on."

"And what do we do?"

"We do what we've always done," Narcissa said. "We wear silk. We drink from crystal. We play the game until it breaks."

She brushed a lock of Roxaine's hair behind her ear.

"They'll test you."

Roxaine held her gaze. "Let them."

Narcissa's lips curved into the smallest smile. Not pride. Not softness. Something steelier.

"Good."

She turned back to the gown, adjusting the hem with careful precision.

"And Roxaine," she added, without turning, "if someone asks about the match—"

"They won't."

"They might."

Roxaine's voice dropped. "I'll lie."

Narcissa nodded once.

"I know you will."

December 31st, 1991
Malfoy Manor, Grand Ballroom
Third person POV
E.R.B:

The ballroom had been enchanted to look like moonlight spilled through the vaulted ceiling, though no actual windows pierced the stone. Snow fell in slow, shimmering spirals above the chandeliers, vanishing before it touched the floor. The floor itself was marble, polished to a mirror shine, and every corner of the room exuded wealth older than memory.

Roxaine Black stood near the base of the staircase, her gown falling in elegant lines of onyx silk trimmed in silver thread. The emerald earrings Narcissa had chosen for her caught the candlelight with every subtle turn of her head.

She was not greeted. She did not need to be.

She had attended these gatherings since before she could speak. The faces had not changed. The games had not changed. Only her place in them had.
Now, people looked.

Not in amusement, not with indulgence.

They looked with calculation.

Lucius and Narcissa moved fluidly through the crowd, receiving quiet nods and polite bows, but Roxaine was not under their wing tonight. She stood slightly apart, as she was meant to.

A man with silver hair and a pointed cane approached, his wife trailing beside him in robes embroidered with family crests. Roxaine inclined her head before he could speak.

"Mr. Selwyn," she said.

The old man raised a brow. "You've grown into your title faster than most. I remember when your grandmother wore that shade."

Roxaine gave a smile too subtle to be warm. "She had taste."

"And fire. You've inherited both, it seems."

He stepped aside with a murmur of approval, and others filled his place. Old names. Travers. Greengrass. Nott.

Each one addressed her formally.

"Miss Black."

"Lady Black."

"You wear the ring well."

They were testing her. Weighing every syllable. But Roxaine had learned from the best.

She smiled without showing teeth. Spoke without offering anything. Tilted her chin just enough to suggest pride, not arrogance. The etiquette of war in velvet gloves.

Cassius Rosier found her not long after, two glasses in hand.

"Is it treason," he said, offering one to her, "to say you look better than your aunt ever did at these things?"

Roxaine took the glass without smiling. "Don't speak ill of the dead. At least not when her portrait's in the hall."

He laughed, raising his drink. "Touché."

They moved to the side of the room, near the long windows charmed to overlook a fake winter garden.

"She's watching you, you know," Cassius said quietly.

"Narcissa always watches."

"I meant Lady Parkinson."

Roxaine didn't look. "Of course she is. Her daughter still cries every time she loses a hair ribbon."

"She's crying tonight because your hair looks better."

Roxaine arched a brow. "That's because it does."

Cassius laughed again. He was older, yes, but she'd grown into the space between them.

He tilted his glass toward a cluster of adults gathered near the hearth. "They're talking about Durmstrang. Rumors about its real allegiance."

"They always talk about Durmstrang. It makes them feel better about their own cowardice."

Cassius studied her for a moment. "You're different this year."

"No. They're just realizing I was never a child."

She said it like a fact.

He didn't argue.

Near the center of the room, Draco stood in a semi-circle of second years: Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, and Astoria Greengrass. Their conversation was mostly posturing and Quidditch insults, peppered with jokes that mimicked their fathers' intonations without understanding them.

"She's probably a Squib," one of them was saying, laughter bubbling under the words. "Imagine getting sorted into Hufflepuff and not even having magic."

Draco didn't laugh, but he smirked. "They should just make a special school for their kind. Something with glitter and group hugs."

Roxaine didn't turn, but her eyes shifted slightly in their direction.

Cassius saw it. "They're still children."
"So were we," she said. "And look how that turned out."

The music changed. A softer, richer waltz filled the room.

Adults began moving onto the floor. Robes shimmered. Gloves met gloves.

Cassius offered his arm.

She took it.

He led her to the edge of the dance floor, but they didn't step in. They stood just close enough to be seen. Just far enough to be missed.

"You know," he said lightly, "when you're sixteen, they'll start asking."

Roxaine glanced at him. "Asking what?"

"Whom you'll marry."

She tilted her head. "They've already asked Narcissa. Twice."

"Twice? And?"

"She laughed. Then changed the subject."

Cassius gave a low hum of amusement.

"You're not laughing," he said.

"I'm not amused."
He smiled, just a little. "You'll make a terrifying wife."

"Only if he's boring."

A beat passed.

Then she added, "Or if he lies."

Cassius studied her face again, this time more quietly.

Then he raised his glass in mock salute. "To terrifying wives."

"To useful husbands."

They clinked glasses.

And across the room, one of the oldest men—Lord Montague—turned toward her and raised a hand in greeting.

Roxaine didn't blink.

She moved forward.

She was a Black.

And tonight, the room remembered.

January 1st, 1992
Malfoy Manor, Upper Hallway
Third person POV
E.R.B:

The last of the guests had Disapparated with sharp cracks and the scent of cologne. The ballroom had been returned to its original silence, only the faint twinkle of floating candles left as if the manor itself hadn't realized the party was over.

Roxaine stood barefoot at the top of the stairs, heels dangling from one hand, the hem of her gown brushing the marble as she looked down into the now-empty hall.

Her shoulders were lower now. Still straight, still composed, but less razor-sharp. The weight of posture had lifted, just a little.

Cassius was leaning against the banister near the staircase's midpoint, already out of his dress robes and into a dark sweater he must have conjured from one of the guest wardrobes. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, and his tie hung loose around his neck.

"You always look taller when everyone's gone," he said.

Roxaine didn't smile, but her lips curved in acknowledgment.

"That's because I'm not shrinking for them."

He made a low hum. "I noticed. Especially when you tore apart Lord Travers with that comment about inbreeding."

"He asked why my eyes were so light. I answered scientifically."

Cassius grinned. "Your science is terrifying."

She sat on the banister, one leg tucked under her, the other brushing the railing. "You're not going home?"

He shrugged. "I never do on New Year's. Tradition, remember?"

"I could revoke that."

"But you won't."

Roxaine tilted her head. "Why not?"

Cassius looked up at her, half-lit in candlelight, black hair falling over her shoulder like a shadow made real.

"Because you like not having to talk."

She didn't answer. Which, ironically, was the answer.

The manor creaked slightly around them. Pipes shifting. Magic exhaling.

Cassius pushed off the rail and walked the rest of the way up. He didn't ask if he could follow her. He never did.

They ended up in one of the unused sitting rooms, where the fire had long since died and the air was cold enough to make their breath mist.

Roxaine lit the hearth with a flick of her hand. No wand.

Cassius watched, but didn't comment.
She sank into the armchair closest to the fire, pulling her legs up beneath her, hair beginning to loosen from its pins.

He sat on the floor with his back to the couch, head tilted toward her.

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke.
Then:

"You liked being seen tonight," he said.

Roxaine looked at him. "Of course I did."

"I don't mean admired. I mean seen."

She was silent for a long time.

Then: "They're never looking at me. They're looking at my name."

Cassius picked at a loose thread in the rug. "But tonight, the name behaved like you. So they watched."

Roxaine exhaled. Not annoyed. Not bored. Just tired in a way that didn't show unless someone had known her and still decided she wasn’t boring or too little. Someone who knew her.

"Do you ever wish," she said slowly, "that we could just... be?"

Cassius looked at her, truly looked.

"Sometimes."

"And then?"

"And then I remember we're Rosier and Black."

She nodded.

The fire popped. Somewhere, deep in the manor, a door clicked shut on its own.

Cassius leaned his head back against the couch cushion, eyes closed.

"Do you ever think," he murmured, "that if we'd been born anything else, we'd be insufferably happy?"

Roxaine looked into the flames.

"No. We'd still be us. Just without the excuses."

Cassius smiled, faint and sharp.

"That's worse."

She didn't disagree.

He opened one eye. "Do I get the green room?"

"You always do."

"Because I like the view."

She gave him a look. "It's the only room with a hidden exit in case someone tries to murder you in your sleep."

He grinned. "Exactly. The view."

She rolled her eyes, but this time, the corners of her mouth twitched.

He stood, stretched, and started toward the door.

Before leaving, he paused.

"Happy New Year, Rox."

She didn't say it back.

But she watched him until the door clicked behind him.

Then, for the first time in hours, she let her head fall back against the chair, unguarded. No eyes to impress. No mask to hold.

Just firelight. And breath.

And silence.

January 1st, 1992
Malfoy Manor, Roxaine's Room
Third person POV
E.R.B:

The curtains were drawn tightly shut, blocking out most of the morning light, but Roxaine was already awake. She sat on the chaise near her window, barefoot and in a thin robe, brushing her hair in long, practiced strokes. The kind of silence she allowed herself only when no one was watching.

The knock didn't come.

The door just opened.

"Honestly," Draco said, half-barging in, "how is he still here?"

Roxaine didn't turn. "Good morning to you too."

Draco flopped dramatically onto her bed, still in his sleepwear, hair sticking out in five directions. "Cassius Rosier is in our house. Again. On New Year's Day. With his smug face and his perfect posture and his 'Good evening, Narcissa.' It's unnatural."

"He's always stayed over," she said simply.

Draco rolled onto his stomach. "He acts like he owns the East Wing."

"He does not," Roxaine said.

"He asked the elf for jasmine tea," Draco muttered. "Jasmine."

Roxaine finally turned to look at him, eyebrow raised. "Do you want tea, Draco?"

"No."

"Then why are you still talking?"

He let out a groan and stuffed a pillow over his face. "You like him more than me."

"I like everyone more than you."

"You do like him more!"

Roxaine crossed the room slowly, bare feet silent on the rug, and stood over him.

"I like Cassius," she said. "I tolerate you."

"That's favoritism."

"It's hierarchy."

Draco peeked up from under the pillow. "Did he sleep in the green room again?"

"Yes."

"And you let him?"

"He asked nicely."

"Since when do we reward good manners?"

"Since always."

Draco huffed, flopping onto his back. "It's disgusting. You two with your eyebrows and ancient curses and weird brain-link or whatever. I bet he didn't even spill anything last night."

"He didn't."

"I spilled three things. I tripped over a wine glass and broke a floating candle."

"I know. I was there."

Draco grinned. "I'm chaos. You need balance."

She turned to leave, tossing over her shoulder, "You're noise. I need silence."

Just as she reached the door, Draco called after her.

"Tell him if he touches my chocolate frogs, I'll curse him."

"I'll make sure to write it in calligraphy and leave it on his breakfast tray."

"Rox!"

But she was already gone.

And Draco, for all his whining, smiled into her sheets like the annoying little brother he was always meant to be.

Chapter Text

January 6th, 1992
King's Cross Station, Platform 9¾
Third person POV
E.R.B:

The station was colder than usual, the kind of crisp London chill that settled into sleeves and soaked through gloves. Steam hissed around the scarlet engine of the Hogwarts Express, curling up through the air like something alive.

The Malfoys arrived without spectacle, as always: sleek, composed, expensive. Narcissa had wrapped Draco's scarf herself, then turned to Roxaine, adjusting the fold of her collar with elegant fingers.

"You have your letters," she said quietly. "And the ring. If anything changes—"

"I'll know," Rox answered.

Narcissa nodded once, then leaned in and kissed her cheek.

Lucius stood behind them, pale and unreadable. "Remember who you are," he said to both children.

Roxaine met his eyes. "I never forget."

Draco was already dragging his trunk toward the nearest door, grumbling about how someone better have saved him a good compartment. Narcissa's gaze followed him for a moment, then returned to Roxaine.

"Stay warm. And stay clever."

Rox didn't smile, but her hand brushed lightly against Narcissa's before she turned and walked toward the train.

The metal steps were slick under her boots. The scent of iron, smoke, and sugar from the trolley drifted faintly through the corridor as she climbed aboard.

January 6th, 1992
Hogwarts Express, Second Compartment from the Rear
Third person POV
E.R.B:

Cassius Rosier had claimed the window seat before she arrived. Of course he had.
Roxaine slid the door shut behind her and settled across from him without a word, her posture precise, her gloves folded neatly in her lap.

"You look exhausted," Cassius said, watching the countryside begin to blur past the window.

"You should see the people I had to talk to last night."

"Selwyn?"

"And Nott. And Travers. And every other relic who thinks quoting Hesper Starkey makes them intellectual."

Cassius made a face. "My condolences."

They fell into silence after that, the comfortable kind. Cassius opened The Practical Hex and began flipping through annotated pages while Rox pulled out a quill and half-finished Arithmancy essay. The compartment rocked gently with the rhythm of the tracks.

Then came a knock.

Cassius looked up, mildly annoyed.
The door slid open before Rox could speak.

Cedric Diggory stood there, hands in his pockets, hair still slightly damp from the mist outside, a quiet grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"Rosier," he greeted with a slight nod.

Cassius blinked. "Diggory."

"Mind if I borrow her for a moment?"

Rox didn't look up. "I'm not a library book."

Cedric's grin widened. "No, but you do look good in leather binding."

Cassius made a strangled sound. Rox sighed through her nose and finally looked up.

"What do you want?"

"A conversation."

"Then say it."

He stepped inside. Didn't sit. Just leaned slightly against the wall by the door. "I was wondering," he said, "if maybe... when we're back, you'd like to have a drink with me in Hogsmeade."

Cassius froze mid-page turn, Roxaine didn't blink.

"That's a bold question to ask in front of an audience."

"You're used to those."

She tilted her head. "I'm busy."

"Not all the time."

Roxaine's lips parted—just slightly—but no retort came. Not right away.

Then: "I don't have time for distractions."

Cedric's smile didn't falter. "You hesitated."

"I didn't."

"You did," he said, eyes steady. "But that's alright. I'm patient."

She stared at him.

He gave a mock half-bow. "I'll ask again later."

Then he turned and left, boots soft against the floor.

Cassius exhaled slowly. "What was that?"

Roxaine didn't answer. She just uncapped her ink bottle and dipped her quill, like the question had been rhetorical.

It wasn't.

He stared at her.

"Rox."

She kept writing. "It was nothing."

"Oh, forgive me. I didn't realize 'nothing' comes in the shape of a Hufflepuff offering you a date in front of me like I'm your bloody chaperone."

Her quill paused.

She looked up, meeting his eyes. "Do you want an apology?"

"I want an explanation."

She leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms now. "It was harmless."

"You hesitated."

"You sound like him."

Cassius's eyes narrowed. "And that doesn't bother you?"

"Why would it?" she replied. "I said no."

Cassius shook his head. "You didn't say no. You said you were busy. You said you didn't have time. You didn't say no."

There was a silence.

Then Rox looked out the window, voice quieter. "Because I didn't want to say it like that."

Cassius stared at her, stunned into stillness.

"You like him," he said finally. "You actually like him."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

He sat back against the window now, arms crossed tightly, jaw clenched.

After a moment, he added, more subdued, "You're going to get hurt."

Roxaine didn't flinch. "I always do."

He studied her for a few seconds more. "He's not like us, Rox."

"I know."

"He doesn't understand how this works."

She turned her head slightly toward him. "Neither did I. Not really. If he really wants to, he'll manage."

Cassius looked away.

They didn't speak again for a while.

Outside the window, the hills rolled by in quiet indifference.

January 6th, 1992
Hogsmeade Station, Arrival Platform
Third Person POV
E.R.B:

Snow drifted gently from the sky as the train slowed to a stop, the brakes screeching faintly beneath the low chatter of students standing to gather cloaks and trunks.

The lamps outside cast golden halos on the frost-covered windows, and Roxaine sat still for a moment, letting the quiet stretch before moving.

Cassius stood, already shrugging on his cloak. "Back to the prison."

Roxaine arched a brow. "Please. You thrive in prison."

He offered a smug half-smile. "True. But I do prefer velvet carpets to stone corridors."

She rose, straightening her gloves. "Then stop hexing prefects in public."

"You act like I don't have restraint."

"You don't," she said.

He opened the compartment door with a dramatic bow. "After you, heir of shadows."

"Rosier," she said evenly, "I will hex you into the next season."

They stepped into the corridor just as Draco emerged from further down the train, Crabbe and Goyle trailing behind him.

"You took your time," he said, falling in step with Roxaine.

"You were surrounded," she replied, glancing at the other boys.

Draco sniffed. "They wouldn't stop talking about Bertie Bott's Beans. I told them licorice isn't worth the risk."

Cassius muttered, "Hufflepuffs aren't worth the risk, but here we are." Which earned him a look from Roxaine.

The group descended from the train into the snow-covered station. The wind nipped sharply, but the students moved fast, boots crunching against the ice-packed ground as they gathered into lines for the carriages.

Roxaine stood still for a second, watching the castle rise in the distance, tall and lit like something ancient and eternal. The cold seeped past her collar, but she didn't flinch.

Cassius looked over at her. "Back to the game board."

Roxaine's eyes never left the towers. "Back to the rules."

March 17th, 1992
Hogwarts, Second Floor Corridor
Third Person POV
E.R.B:

Roxaine walked briskly down the corridor, arms wrapped around a stack of books that nearly hid her face. The castle air still clung with the sharp chill of late winter, but her gloves were tucked into her robe pocket—she liked the feel of parchment against her fingertips.

She turned the corner just as three figures came into view.

Fred. George. Atlas.

They were laughing at something George had said, shoulder-bumping each other like oversized first-years. The sound faltered when they saw her. Not entirely, but enough for it to be noticed.

Atlas's gaze hardened immediately. Roxaine didn't so much as flinch. They passed each other at a distance wide enough to fit their entire shared childhood.

George offered a bright, mocking salute. "Black."

Roxaine didn't answer. She shifted her grip on the books.

Fred's voice followed a beat later, quieter. "So... Diggory, huh?"

There was a smirk in the tone, but it didn't reach his eyes.

George snorted. "Figures you'd go for a Hufflepuff with hero syndrome."

Fred elbowed him. "Oi."

Roxaine paused, ever so slightly, one step past them. She didn't turn.

"Your concern is noted," she said coolly, without facing them. "Dismissed."

George chuckled. "You're welcome."

Atlas didn't speak. He didn't even glance back.

But Fred did.

He watched her shoulders as she walked away; rigid, perfect, unbothered.

Only she wasn't.

Because she'd seen his face when he said it. The shadow beneath the grin. That flicker of something almost familiar.

And just like that the corridor faded, replaced by wildflowers and freckles.

Voices smaller. Softer.

Before the war.

Before the name Black became a burden.

May 2nd, 1981
The Burrow, Garden
Third Person POV
E.R.B:

The grass behind the Burrow was uneven and wild, sprinkled with daisies that refused to stay out of the flower beds. The late afternoon sun dipped low, casting gold across the orchard and the garden fence. Somewhere inside, Molly's voice echoed faintly as she argued with one of the twins over biscuit crumbs.

Elizabeth (Lizzie to most) was kneeling in the grass, hands full of tiny white flowers, her face streaked with dirt and delight. Her curls were a little frizzy, her knees scraped, but she didn't care. She was on a mission.

Fred sat obediently in front of her, legs crossed, grinning like a fool.

"Don't move," Lizzie warned, holding a flower crown in both hands like it was the most precious magic she'd ever performed. "You're gonna look so pretty."

"I am pretty," Fred declared proudly. "Mum says I'm sunshine."

Lizzie giggled. "You're a boy."

"So?" he said, puffing out his chest. "Boys can be sunshine too."

She placed the crown gently on his head, adjusting it just so. Her fingers lingered in his red hair, tucking a daisy behind his ear with exaggerated care.

Fred beamed. "I'm gonna marry you one day."

Lizzie blinked. "What?"

"When we grow up," he said simply, as if it had already been decided. "I'm gonna marry you."

She tilted her head, considering. "Even if I get all messy like Atlas?"

Fred nodded. "I like messy. You can be messy and still wear flower crowns."

Lizzie's smile stretched wide, gap-toothed and sincere. "Okay. I'll marry you."

And then, "Lizzie-bee!"

The back door creaked open, and Sirius Black stepped out, hair wind-tousled, robes wrinkled, wand stuck behind one ear. He looked like trouble and exhaustion all in one.

"What're you-" He stopped mid-sentence when he spotted her. His expression softened immediately.

There she was.

His daughter.

His baby girl.

Covered in grass.

Crowning a Weasley.

"Lizzie-bee," he repeated, coming down the steps with theatrical horror. "Are you proposing marriage in my absence?"

She looked up at him, chin raised.

"He said it first."

Sirius gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. "And you agreed?"

Fred stood up, still wearing the flowers, and extended a hand solemnly.

"She's gonna be my wife, Mister Black."

"Oh, Merlin's pants," Sirius muttered, sweeping Lizzie into his arms and spinning her once. She squealed. "I leave you two alone for five minutes, and suddenly I need to buy a wedding dress and scare off the groom."

"I'm not scared!" Fred yelled proudly.

"You will be," Sirius said with a wink.

Lizzie clung to his neck, still laughing. "Can I stay for dinner? Mrs. Weasley is making noodles!”

Sirius looked over Fred's shoulder at the house. "If Molly agrees. But no more marriage proposals until I've had a drink."

He kissed Lizzie's cheek and muttered something about eloping babies, carrying her back toward the house as Fred followed closely behind, holding the flower crown like it was sacred.

In that moment, she was just Lizzie.

Just a child with dirt on her nose.

And everything still felt possible.

March 17th, 1992
Hogwarts, Dungeon Corridor
Third Person POV
E.R.B:
I’m
Roxaine blinked.

The corridor had emptied. The laughter had faded.

Fred and George were already turning the corner, Atlas close behind. Their footsteps echoed faintly, then disappeared altogether.

She remained still for a moment longer, arms tight around her books, throat dry.

The flash of daisies.

The scratch of grass on her knees.

Lizzie-bee.

She shook her head slightly, like trying to clear fog from glass.

Then, with practiced ease, she straightened her shoulders and resumed walking.

The path to the Slytherin common room was cold and dim, the torches casting long shadows against the stone walls. The quiet was almost welcome.

When she reached the familiar stretch of damp stone and muttered the password, the door slid open soundlessly.

Inside, the common room was hushed and glowing with low green light. A few students lingered near the fire. Someone was writing an essay in the far corner. The air smelled faintly of ink and polished wood.

Roxaine crossed the room without a word, without looking at anyone.

She didn't stop to talk to Cassius. She didn't pause by the fireplace. She didn't drop her books.

She just went straight to the girls' dormitory.

Her steps were steady, but her chest ached in that particular, stupid way she hated. The kind of ache that came from remembering something good.

Something soft.

Something she'd buried on purpose.

She closed the door behind her, set her books down, and sat at the edge of the bed.

The flower crown was long gone.

But the boy wasn't.

And neither was the girl.

Not completely.

She just wasn't Lizzie anymore.

March 17th, 1992,
Slytherin Third Year Girls' Dormitory,
Third Person POV,
E.R.B:

The dormitory was quiet.

The kind of quiet that settled deep in the stone and crawled up through the walls. The fire in the corner hearth had dwindled to soft embers, casting thin shadows against the green-tinged ceiling. Her roommates had already slipped behind bed curtains, their voices hushed to barely audible whispers, or perhaps silence had taken them too.

Roxaine sat at the edge of her bed, hair still damp from a bath, one hand resting on the edge of her knee, the other curled around the silver cuff of her robe. She hadn't bothered drying it magically. The cold of the dungeon air kissed at her collarbone and the side of her neck where strands clung stubbornly.

The soft dripping of water from the bathroom echoed in the background. A quill scratched faintly in the next room. But none of it reached her.

She stared at nothing.

Her trunk was closed. Her books stacked perfectly. Her bed made with ritual precision.

But her mind was a mess.

"You idiot," she whispered.

The words cracked like glass in the stillness. Not loud. Not angry. Just... honest.

She leaned forward slightly, elbows to her thighs, letting her hands hang between her knees. Her voice was barely more than breath when it came again.

"You absolute idiot."

The kind of whisper that no one was meant to hear.

She closed her eyes.

"Fred Weasley."

There was venom in the name, but only because there needed to be.

Her lips twisted bitterly, half a laugh, half a wound. "As if Diggory wasn't bad enough."

She rose suddenly and began pacing; slow, barefoot, almost quiet enough not to wake anyone. The hem of her nightgown brushed the stone floor as she crossed to the vanity, stared at her reflection in the mirror, and almost didn't recognize the flicker of softness behind her eyes.

"He's loud. He's ridiculous. His robes never match. He smells like cinnamon and dust and sugar quills and chaos."

She scoffed. "He's Weasley."

The word was its own sentence.

She leaned on the vanity, palms flat, knuckles pale from how tightly she pressed them.

"And you-"

She blinked at her own reflection. Her mouth tightened.

"You were smiling. You let yourself remember."

That was the real crime.

Not the glance. Not the flicker of something like nostalgia. But the remembering.

Because Lizzie had no place here.

Lizzie didn't survive the war.

She pushed herself away from the mirror and dropped back onto the bed, rubbing a hand over her face.

"You can't be seen with him," she muttered. "Not ever. Not even in jest."

It was the truth, spoken aloud. The kind of truth that tasted like ash.

"It would ruin everything."

The respect she'd earned. The silence she commanded. The way even the older purebloods looked at her with something close to deference. The Black legacy. The Malfoy alignment. Narcissa's letters. Lucius's nods. The games she played and won.

"You've spent years building this," she whispered. "Every word. Every step. Every calculated choice."

And Fred Weasley was a crack in the marble.

Not because he was unworthy.

But because he was... loud. Real. Honest.

And honest things didn't survive long in this world.

"Even Diggory—" she scoffed again. "Even Diggory would be better. At least he knows how to play a role."

She tilted her head back and stared at the canopy.

"You foolish girl. You can't afford this."

Her voice broke a little, just at the edge, like a thread pulled too tight.

"You don't get to want things."

That part came out quieter.

Like it had been said before.

She curled up then, knees pulled close to her chest, blankets still folded behind her untouched. Her hair dampened the pillow, her breath slowing in the half-dark. She didn't cry. Roxaine Black didn't cry. But her chest ached, low and dull.

She closed her eyes and whispered one final time, so quietly the room barely heard it.

"You don't get to want things."

Then silence.

Not peace.

Just... silence.

Just… Roxaine.

Chapter Text

March 18th, 1992
Great Hall, Lunch Hour
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The clatter of cutlery and low hum of conversation filled the Great Hall, where sunlight spilled in through the enchanted ceiling, casting a soft glow over silver plates and linen napkins. Slytherin table gleamed in emerald and silver, but Roxaine was silent amid it all, her fork idle as she picked at a piece of roasted pumpkin.

Cassius sat beside her, mid-conversation with Marcus Flint about next week's practice schedule, though his eyes flicked to her every so often. He didn't comment on her silence. Not yet.

"Black," came a familiar voice from behind.

Roxaine looked up slowly.

Cedric Diggory stood near the end of the table, one hand tucked into his robe pocket, the other resting casually at his side. His smile was lighter today—less flirt, more patience.

"Are you seriously-" Cassius began, but Rox raised one hand without looking at him.

"Can I help you?" she asked Cedric, flatly.

He tilted his head. "Yes, actually."

Her eyebrow lifted.

"There's a Hogsmeade visit tomorrow," he said, carefully casual, like they were talking about homework. "And I'd like to take you for tea. Or cocoa. Or something stronger, if I can convince Madam Rosmerta."

Around them, several students turned to listen. Cassius tensed like a spring. Even Draco paused halfway through a bite of treacle tart.

Roxaine exhaled slowly, setting her fork down.

"Do you ever take no for an answer?"

Cedric shrugged. "I take it seriously. Not personally."

She narrowed her eyes. "That's not charming."

"Didn't say I was trying to be."

A silence stretched. Her pulse was annoyingly loud in her own ears.

"You're persistent," she muttered.

"I'm hopeful," he corrected.

Cassius muttered something like "delusional" into his goblet.

Roxaine looked at Cedric for a long, slow moment.

Then she said, as if dragging the words out against her will, "Fine. One drink."

Cedric blinked. "Sorry?"

"I said one drink," she repeated, sharper this time. "And only to shut you up."

He grinned, stupidly pleased. "Tomorrow at three?"

"Don't be late," she warned. "I won't wait."

"I believe you," he said. "See you then."

And with that, he turned and walked away, entirely too satisfied with himself.

The second he was gone, Cassius leaned in, voice low and deadly. "What are you doing?"

Rox picked up her fork again, expression unreadable. "Making a strategic concession."

Cassius stared. "That wasn't strategic. That was you saying yes."

"I said one drink," she snapped. "That's not a courtship, it's a ceasefire."

Draco, who'd been listening shamelessly, snorted into his goblet. "You're going to regret that."

"I already do," she muttered.

But her fingers, curled lightly around the stem of her glass, trembled slightly.

And somewhere, deep beneath the armor, something shifted.

March 19th, 1992
Slytherin Girls' Dormitory, 2:34 PM
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

Roxaine sat in front of the mirror, silent.

The dormitory was empty for once—her roommates had fled toward Honeydukes and gossip like moths to flame. The only sound was the soft fizz of her perfume uncorking, the faint clink of a silver clasp as she closed the chain around her neck.

Her reflection stared back.

Calm. Composed. Dangerous.

She wore a dark green cloak lined in velvet, her hair pinned with a single silver comb Narcissa had sent by owl that morning. Not a word in the letter. Just the box, the comb, and her seal.

The message was clear: "Make them remember you're a Black."

Her blouse was high-collared, her skirt precise. Not romantic—never romantic. She didn't do soft. Not in public. But there was something deliberate about the softness of the curl that brushed her cheek, the hint of gloss on her mouth, the way her eyeshadow shaded like dusk.

This wasn't vanity.

It was strategy.

Armor.

She took a breath and fastened the last button on her sleeve. Then stopped.

The girl in the mirror blinked back at her.

One drink. That's what she'd said.

And yet it felt like she was walking into a trap of her own making.

"You're an idiot," she muttered. "You don't want this."

She reached for her ring—Lucius's ring, the Black crest—and twisted it once on her finger. Then again. Then again.

"You're doing this to shut him up."

Another twist.

"Because it's better to control the narrative than let him build it himself."

Again.

"You don't care."

She held her gaze in the mirror, eyes sharp as glass. Then forced herself to stand.

At the door, she paused. Looked over her shoulder once more. Still herself, still cold. Still in control. And yet there was a pulse in her wrist that hadn't stopped racing since lunch. She exhaled through her nose, then opened the door and walked out to war disguised as a date.

March 18th, 1992
Hogsmeade Village, The Three Broomsticks
Third Person POV
E.R.B:

The streets of Hogsmeade were alive with motion, cobblestones damp with melting snow, and students bundled in their best cloaks darting in and out of shops like honeybees drunk on warmth and laughter. The air smelled of cinnamon, smoke, and something sticky and sweet. Roxaine moved through it like a ghost in velvet—sharp, polished, deliberate. Her cloak was deep green trimmed in silver, her gloves thin and immaculate. Every detail of her appearance had been calculated, from the slight wave in her hair to the single black ribbon she wore knotted at the base of her neck. She looked composed. Unbothered. Dangerous.

She spotted Cedric before he saw her.

He stood near the entrance to the Three Broomsticks, one hand shoved into his coat pocket, the other brushing a bit of snow from his collar. His scarf was slightly uneven, as though he'd tied it in a hurry. His hair was a little windswept. He looked too at ease in a place like this—too warm. Too golden.

When his eyes finally landed on her, they widened just slightly. He straightened. Smiled. That stupid, perfect Hufflepuff smile like he hadn't been expecting her to show at all.

"You came," he said, stepping toward her.

"I said I would."

"You also said you were busy. Or bored. Or both."

"I can be all three things at once."

He chuckled. "Fair enough."

She didn't smile, but she didn't cut him down either. A small victory, maybe.

They entered the pub together, and it was warmer than expected, filled with the crackle of firewood and the scent of butterbeer and roasted chestnuts. The tables were nearly full, but Cedric spotted a small booth toward the back and gestured toward it.

"After you," he said.

She didn't thank him. Just took the seat.

He slid in across from her, and for a moment, there was a stretch of silence. The kind that lingered between two people who were trying to measure how sharp the other's walls were. Cedric didn't flinch. He leaned back, draped one arm casually over the bench, and smiled again.

"Alright," he said. "Let's get the interrogation over with."

She raised an eyebrow.

"You know," he went on, "the part where you ask me why I invited you, what I want from you, whether I'm stupid or brave, and whether I have any idea what I'm getting into."

"I wasn't going to ask that," Roxaine said, folding her gloves and setting them beside her.

"No?"

"I already know the answer."

Cedric tilted his head. "Do tell."

"You want me because I'm inconvenient," she said flatly. "You think I'm clever. Maybe beautiful. But mostly, I'm a challenge. And you like challenges because they make you feel like you're not wasting time being good at everything else."

His grin didn't fade. "So far, you're not wrong."

"You're also an idiot."

"Maybe. But I'm an honest one."

She didn't answer that. A waitress came by, and they each ordered a butterbeer—hers with cinnamon, his with extra foam—and when they were alone again, Cedric leaned forward, elbows on the table.

"Do you always do this?"

"Do what?"

"Make a boy feel like he's being examined under a microscope when all he did was ask you for a drink?"

She looked at him then, really looked. "Do you always flirt with girls who could destroy you in a sentence?"

He laughed. Not just a chuckle. A real, full laugh. "Only the interesting ones."

Their drinks arrived, steaming and sweet. Roxaine didn't sip hers immediately. She just let her fingers wrap around the mug, absorbing its heat.

"You're different than I expected," Cedric said after a moment.

"I'm exactly what you expected," she replied. "You just didn't think I'd show up."

"True."

They sat in silence again. But it wasn't uncomfortable. The pub buzzed around them, students laughing and glasses clinking and Madam Rosmerta bustling behind the counter.

Then, with surprising softness, Cedric said, "Do you ever get tired of it?"

She blinked. "Of what?"

"The mask."

She didn't answer.

He shrugged. "I don't mean that in a 'poor you' kind of way. I just wonder what it's like. Carrying something that heavy all the time."

Roxaine looked down at her drink.

Her voice, when it came, was soft. "You get used to it."

"That's not the same as wanting it."

"No."

He let the quiet settle again, then reached out and tapped the edge of her mug with his finger. "You can take it off, you know. With me. I won't tell."

She met his eyes, and for the first time that afternoon, her expression flickered—just for a second. A hairline crack.

But she didn't respond.

Because she couldn't.

Not yet.

Instead, she lifted her butterbeer, took a small sip, and said, "You should fix your scarf. It looks ridiculous."

Cedric grinned. "You noticed. That means you care."

"I notice everything. Don't flatter yourself."

He raised his mug in salute. "To being noticed, then."

She rolled her eyes, but this time, just barely, she smiled.

They left the warmth of the Three Broomsticks just as the afternoon sun began to slide behind the rooftops. Snow hadn't fallen in a few days, but there was still a crispness in the air, the kind that bit gently at the fingers and turned breaths into clouds. Roxaine pulled her gloves back on slowly, fingers elegant and practiced, while Cedric tucked his scarf tighter around his neck and nudged her playfully with his elbow.

"Do you always drink butterbeer like you're judging it for the Prophet's annual wine guide?"

She gave him a side glance. "Do you always talk like you're trying to charm an examiner into passing you?"

"You didn't hate it."

"I didn't love it."

"That," he said, smiling, "is the closest I'll get to a compliment from you today, isn't it?"

They walked in easy rhythm, their boots crunching against the icy path, the village slowly thinning out as most students made their way to Zonko's or lingered outside Honeydukes. The shops were lit from within, windows glowing amber, fogged slightly with warmth. Somewhere in the distance, a group of second years were throwing snowballs with exaggerated drama.

It was almost... peaceful.

Until a voice cut through the calm.

"—bloody disgraceful, letting Mudbloods on the team. I don't care how fast she flies. She's an embarrassment."

The voice came from up ahead, near Scrivenshaft's. A small cluster of Slytherins leaned against the wall, laughing low and cruel. Rox recognized them instantly—Bletchley, Flint, and one of the Mulciber boys. Their House pins gleamed against their cloaks, silver and green, sharp and unmistakable.

Roxaine didn't slow.

One of them laughed again, too loudly, clearly hoping to be heard. "Did you see her wandwork in Defense? Filthy technique. Just like a Mudblood—wild and unrefined."

Cedric's steps faltered.

He looked at them, then back at Roxaine. "Do they always talk like that?"

Her eyes didn't leave the path ahead. "Often."

"And no one says anything?"

"No one they'd listen to."

He was quiet for a moment. Then, with clear disgust, "It's ugly. That kind of language."

Roxaine's lips twitched—not a smile exactly, but something close. She still didn't look at him. "Is it?"

He glanced at her, surprised. "You don't think so?"

She shrugged, the motion graceful and detached. "It depends who's listening."

"So... you agree with them."

"I didn't say that."

"But you didn't say the opposite either."

Now she did look at him—just a glance, quick and sharp. "You think the world runs on kindness and fairness, Diggory. I think it runs on power and perception. We're both wrong sometimes."

Cedric looked away, jaw tight.

They passed the group of Slytherins without pause. One of them nodded at Roxaine—Flint, maybe—and she gave a subtle incline of her chin in return. It was nothing. Barely a gesture. But Cedric noticed.

He didn't speak again until they were well past the village square and the laughter had faded behind them.

"I thought you were different," he said finally.

Roxaine didn't respond immediately. Her gloved fingers brushed against the edge of her cloak, adjusting it with unnecessary precision.

"You thought I was soft," she said. "Because I don't scream at people in corridors. Because I read poetry and drink butterbeer with cinnamon. Because I let you flirt."

He didn't deny it.

She stopped walking, turned to face him fully. Her eyes were steady. Cold. Not cruel, but ancient. The kind of gaze that carried generations in it.

"I'm not soft, Diggory. And I'm not yours to mold."

He blinked, slightly taken aback; not by the words, but by the calm finality in her voice.

She didn't wait for a response. Just stepped forward again, leaving him standing there beneath the darkening sky, the snow beginning to fall again in gentle flakes.

And yet, even then; he followed, he always would. Because she had never pretended to be kind.

But she had never pretended to lie, either.

The silence stretched between them as they walked.

Not brittle—yet. But strained, like the taut string of a bow just before release.

Cedric walked half a step behind now, as if unsure whether to catch up or let her lead. Roxaine didn't glance back, but she felt the shift. The way his easy warmth had pulled back. The way her words still lingered like frost between them.

He wasn't used to people like her.

She wasn't used to people like him.

"Do you believe it?" he asked quietly, after a long pause. "That blood makes us better?"

Roxaine didn't answer right away. They passed the edge of the village, where the stone fence lined the outer path, snow clinging in soft clumps to its curve. The sun was lower now, the sky tinted faint gold and blue, clouds thin as veils.

"I believe blood matters," she said eventually. "That legacy matters. That history... builds things. Structures, expectations, debts."

"That's not the same as better."

She looked over, expression unreadable. "No. But better is subjective. Ask Flint, and he'll say yes. Ask a Muggleborn, and they'll say no. Ask me..."

She trailed off.

Cedric's voice was gentler now. "I'm asking you."

She sighed softly, her breath curling in the air. "I believe people are shaped by where they come from. And I believe some structures are stronger than others."

"And you think yours is stronger."

"I know mine is."

He didn't argue that. Couldn't, really. She carried herself like someone born to marble halls and unspoken rules. Like someone forged, not raised.

But then he said, "Strength doesn't always mean right."

Roxaine gave the ghost of a smile. "I didn't say it did."

A few more steps passed in silence.

Then Cedric huffed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, that was the worst first date conversation I've ever had."

She blinked. Looked at him sideways.

His expression was mock-wounded, a dramatic sigh escaping him. "I was this close to holding your hand and now we're debating blood supremacy."

A reluctant laugh caught in her throat before she could stop it. She looked down, lips twitching, trying to school her expression into something more severe.

He noticed.

"Oh, there she is."

"There who is?" she said, forcing a neutral tone.

"The girl who almost smiled."

"I smile."

"Not at me, you don't."

"I did when you burned your tongue."

"That doesn't count."

She stopped walking again, this time beside a fence post where the path split toward the edge of the woods. The wind had picked up just slightly, sending strands of her hair drifting across her cheek. She tucked them behind her ear, her gloves creaking faintly.

"I don't do this," she said. Not an apology. Just fact.

"Dates?" he asked, stepping closer.

"...Letting people follow me."

He considered that, then said, "I didn't follow you. You told me to keep up."

That made her laugh—properly this time. Short, sharp, real. She looked away quickly, as if embarrassed by it, then gave him a small, amused shake of her head.

"You're insufferable."

"I'm charming."

"You're lucky I haven't hexed you."

"I'm lucky you're still here."

Her eyes met his again, softer now. Still guarded, but not impenetrable.

They stood there for a few seconds more, the wind whistling low between the trees, the castle just barely visible beyond the hills.

Cedric glanced at the sky. "We've got, what, fifteen minutes before the carriages head back?"

"Sixteen," she corrected automatically.

He grinned. "Then I say we get something sweet."

Her brows lifted. "You want dessert?"

"I want to buy you one."

"I don't eat sugar."

"You judge sugar. That's different."

She rolled her eyes, but she followed.

And this time, the silence between them wasn't sharp. It was warm, and ridiculous, and slightly too sweet, just like the boy beside her.

Honeydukes was a riot of color and chaos. Shelves teetered under jars of fizzing, floating, bouncing treats. Rows of chocolate frogs blinked lazily from their boxes. A group of second-years squealed as a stack of Pepper Imps exploded somewhere behind the counter.

Roxaine looked like a snowflake dropped into a volcano.

Her spine remained perfectly straight, chin lifted just enough to signal she was above it all. She kept her hands folded behind her back as she surveyed the room like a judge in a courtroom full of clowns.

Cedric loved it.

He wandered a few paces ahead, glancing at different shelves while she stood near the entrance, radiating aloof disapproval.

"You're missing the fun," he said, not turning around.

"I'm observing."

"You look like you're contemplating a coup."

"I am. Against this place."

He chuckled and came back with something hidden behind his back.

"I found you the perfect treat."

"I don't eat sweets."

"Everyone eats sweets."

"I don't."

He brought the item forward dramatically: a massive pastel-pink swirl of sugar on a stick, studded with tiny sparkling jellybeans and a ribbon that read Love Me, Love Diabetes.

Roxaine blinked.

"Absolutely not."

"Oh, come on," Cedric said, eyes gleaming. "Just hold it."

"Why?"

"For the aesthetic."

"It's the aesthetic of a toothache."

"It's beautiful. It's everything you're not."

She narrowed her eyes.

"I mean that as a compliment."

"Do you?"

He stepped closer, still holding the cursed sugar swirl between them. "You look like you hex people for blinking too loudly. This makes you approachable."

"I don't want to be approachable."

"I know," he said with a grin. "That's what makes it so fun."

She took it very, very slowly.

And only because the room had started watching, and she refused to lose a battle of petty pride.

It looked ridiculous in her hand. The candy was nearly the size of her head. The jellybeans sparkled.

Cedric looked like he was going to combust from joy.

"I'm not going to eat them," she warned.

"Of course not."

"I mean it."

"I know."

She scowled. "Stop smiling."

"Can't. You're too adorable when you're offended."

She huffed and turned toward the door, tucking the monstrosity under her arm like a scroll she planned to burn later. But she was walking slowly. Not in any real rush.

Cedric followed, swinging the bag of chocolate buttons he'd picked out for himself.

Outside, the light had turned coppery. The wind had calmed.

They fell into step side by side without thinking.

"So," he said eventually, "was this terrible?"

Roxaine kept her gaze forward. "It wasn't ideal."

"But?"

She didn't answer.

He smiled to himself.

"You're going to eat that later," he said confidently.

"I am going to incinerate it."

"In the privacy of your dorm, where no one can see you enjoying it?"

She didn't respond, but her lips twitched just slightly.

He didn't push more. Didn't press. He just walked beside her, hands in his pockets, humming something under his breath.

They reached the carriages just as the last group of students climbed in. Cedric held the door for her. She stepped up without a word, without looking back, and took the corner seat furthest from the window.

The candy stick leaned against her bag; she didn't throw it out. Not yet.

The walk back to the castle was quiet. Not uncomfortable—just quiet. The sky had dimmed into early dusk, brushing the edge of the clouds in violet hues. Hogsmeade was behind them, flickering with lanterns. Ahead, the castle rose out of the mist like something ancient and watchful.

Roxaine walked with her hands folded behind her, the cursed candy still tucked neatly under her arm like she had absolutely not forgotten about it.

Cedric walked beside her, glancing sideways now and then, as if trying to decide whether to speak again or just let her live in the silence.

He chose silence.

Until they reached the dungeons.

They paused before the stretch of blank stone that hid the entrance to Slytherin's common room, the air colder here, wrapped in the scent of damp stone and magic too old to name.

Roxaine stopped.

So did he.

"Well," she said simply, adjusting the bag at her shoulder. "You can go now."

Cedric grinned. "You say that like I've overstayed my welcome."

"You did. But you were... tolerable."

He placed a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. "Tolerable? That's the best I've gotten from you so far."

"It's the best you'll get."

"I doubt that."

She turned slightly to face the wall, already preparing to give the password.

He took one small step closer, just enough to drop his voice a bit lower.

"You don't smile much."

She didn't turn around. "I have nothing to smile about."

"You could," he said. "If you wanted to."

There was a beat of silence.

Then, without warning, he pivoted, already starting to walk back the way they'd come. His voice came over his shoulder.

"Oh. By the way, Black..."

She paused, eyes narrowing.

He looked back with a smirk.

"Your ears are red."

Roxaine blinked.

She reached up eflexively, and felt the heat blooming at the edges of both ears.

She scowled. "No, they're not."

"Sure they aren't."

Then he disappeared around the corner, humming under his breath.

She stood there for another second, cheeks now matching the cursed sugar swirl in her bag.

Then, and only then, she gave the password, the wall slid open, but the warmth in her ears lingered long after he was gone.

The stone wall groaned open and Roxaine stepped inside, her steps echoing softly against the polished floor. The Slytherin common room was low-lit and quiet, the fire casting long shadows across green velvet and silver trim. A few first-years glanced up, then quickly back down.

Cassius Rosier was sprawled in his usual chair near the fireplace, legs crossed, a book open across one knee—but his eyes weren't reading.

Draco stood behind the couch, arms folded, smirking like he'd been waiting hours for this moment.

Roxaine didn't pause.

She walked in like she hadn't just returned from a date. Like her ears weren't still pink. Like she hadn't been caught off-guard by a Hufflepuff with too much charm and too little sense.

"Finally," Draco drawled. "Did you have to walk him all the way back to his dormitory? Hold hands through the Forbidden Forest?"

"Did he kiss your hand?" Cassius asked, flipping a page without looking at it. "Tell you your eyes shine like moonlight over sugarcane?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she said sharply, dropping her bag onto the nearest table. "He just escorted me back."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "He looked very pleased with himself."

"Because he bought me candy."

Cassius arched a brow. "Candy?"

"The type that could cause a diabetic coma," she muttered.

Draco's grin widened. "So romantic."

"I'm not going to eat it."

"You kept it, though," Cassius said casually.

That earned him a sharp look.

"I didn't say I wanted it."

"You didn't say no either," Draco pointed out.

"I was being polite."

"You? Polite?" Cassius shut his book. "To a Hufflepuff?"

She exhaled through her nose, started unfastening the buttons of her outer robe. "Are we finished?"

"No," both boys said at once.

"Draco thinks he's in love with a fourth-year Ravenclaw who complimented his handwriting," Cassius offered flatly. "We've been waiting to compare disasters."

"She meant it," Draco insisted. "And she's a respectable pureblood."

"She thought Andromeda Tonks was a constellation."

"She was just nervous," Draco muttered.

Roxaine rolled her eyes and collapsed into the empty armchair between them, tugging off her gloves with slow, precise movements. The candy box still poked from the side of her bag like a neon scarlet sin.

Neither of them said anything else for a moment.

Then:

"He likes you," Cassius said softly. Not teasing now. Just honest.

Roxaine didn't answer.

"And he's not playing," he added.

That, somehow, was worse, not because it was new information, but because she knew. She leaned her head back against the chair and stared at the green-tinted ceiling.

"I didn't say yes because I like him," she said eventually. "I said yes so he'd stop asking."

Cassius didn't argue.

Draco sat on the armrest beside her, nudging her with his knee. "You're doomed."

She didn't respond, she just let her eyes fall shut. And the candy stayed unopened.

Still sweet. Still waiting.

Still dangerous.

March 19th, 1992
Slytherin Third Year Girls' Dormitory
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The dormitory was dark, save for the faint emerald glow of the enchanted sconces near the ceiling and the low flicker of the fireplace, which had long since dwindled to a nest of amber coals. The curtains on every bed were drawn. The rustle of blankets and the occasional sigh confirmed that her roommates were asleep.

All except Roxaine.

She sat cross-legged on her bed, wand in hand, casting a silent Muffliato around the space like a veil. Her emerald silk nightgown shimmered in the low light, hair unpinned and cascading over her shoulders in soft waves, no longer tamed by charm or intention. Her face was bare of its usual composure, softened, younger somehow. Almost dreamy.

And in her lap sat the enemy.

A massive pastel-pink swirl of sugar on a stick, studded with tiny sparkling jellybeans and tied with a ribbon that read in loopy, enchanted script:

“Love Me, Love Diabetes.”

She had stared at it for an hour; told herself she would throw it away. Then told herself she'd at least take off the ribbon to destroy the evidence. And then, slowly, like a sinner in confession, she'd unwrapped the cellophane.

Now the ribbon was folded neatly beside her pillow, the stick already sticky with melted sugar, and Roxaine Black—elegant, ruthless, terrifying heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black—was devouring the most disgustingly adorable candy wand ever created.

She bit into the sugar swirl again, and one of the jellybeans burst between her teeth, flooding her mouth with something that tasted like peach soda and childhood.

Her eyes fluttered closed.

"Merlin's bloody beard," she whispered, licking pink sugar from her thumb. "I hate him."

The truth was: Roxaine had the biggest sweet tooth Hogwarts had never seen.

She loved sugar in all its forms—burnt caramel, vanilla fudge, enchanted lollipops that sang arias when they melted. But she'd long since learned to hide it. Power demanded precision. Commanding presence did not include pastel stains on your teeth or sticky fingers. So she'd perfected the art of public disdain.

Publicly: “I don't eat sweets.”

Privately: “I would kill for a bag of fizzing fondants right now.”

She took another bite and sighed.

The swirl was soft now, melting into syrup on her tongue, and the jellybeans crackled faintly with tiny fizzing spells. It was stupid. Excessive. So pink it almost hurt. And... so good it made her toes curl.

She pressed a hand to her forehead and let herself fall backward onto the pillows, the candy still gripped in one hand like a torch of shame and delight.

"I'm a fraud," she mumbled to the canopy.

Another jellybean popped. She chewed with dignity. She had none, but she chewed with it.

Somewhere, she could almost imagine Cedric's smug little grin, that blasted "I knew you'd like it" expression hovering just behind his words.

"I don't like it," she told the ceiling. "I'm tolerating it."

She bit off another piece. "Because it's here. And it would be wasteful not to. And it's pink, not even my color, and entirely impractical. And no one should be able to buy candy this sweet without being arrested."

Another jellybean popped on her tongue and she moaned just a little, then she turned and stuffed her face into her pillow, sugar wand still raised above her head like some sort of defiant, confectionary flag.

"Fine," she whispered. "Maybe he's not completely useless."

She licked the last swirl of frosting sugar from the stick and set it gently down beside her on the bed like it was made of glass.

Then rolled onto her back again, sighing. "I'm doomed."

But she was smiling just a little.

Chapter Text

March 21st, 1992
Third Floor Corridor, after Charms
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The hallway buzzed with the usual after-class chaos: students laughing too loud, parchment flapping under arms, books half-shoved into bags. The air still smelled faintly of chalk dust and ozone from a particularly explosive Cheering Charm gone wrong.

Roxaine Black walked at her usual pace—unhurried, poised, calculated. Her robes, freshly pressed. Her bag, perfectly balanced on one shoulder. Her gaze, cool and distant.

Until she turned the corner.

And saw him.

Fred Weasley was leaning against the wall just outside the classroom, one foot propped behind him, the picture of effortless mischief. George stood beside him, mid-conversation, until his eyes landed on her and he gave an exaggerated wince.

"Oh no," George muttered. "Incoming storm."

Fred didn't move. His eyes tracked her like a target. She had half a second to prepare for the inevitable.

"Look who it is," Fred said lightly, voice laced with something that tried too hard to sound casual. "Our very own patron saint of lost causes."

She didn't break stride.

"Fred," she replied without warmth. "Still projecting?"

"Not at all," he said, falling into step beside her. George wisely peeled off, muttering something about wanting to survive the week. "I just wanted to ask- are we still collecting strays, or was Diggory a one-time act of charity?"

She stopped.

Not abruptly, not dramatically—just a quiet halt mid-corridor that forced him to turn and meet her eyes properly.

She stared at him, dark brows raised. "And here I thought the Gryffindors were all about kindness. Tolerance. Respect."

He smirked. "I'm kind. Respectfully sarcastic."

"You're pitifully jealous."

He blinked. "Of Diggory?"

She tilted her head, gaze razor-sharp. "Of anyone I look at twice."

He scoffed, trying to hide the way his mouth twitched. "Please. I'm not threatened by a boy who uses his hair to communicate weather conditions."

"Funny. I don't remember asking for your opinion."

"You never do. You never have."

The tension twisted between them, tight and taut like a wire drawn too far.

Then, unexpectedly Fred's eyes softened. Just slightly. Just for a second.

"You really don't remember, do you?"

That caught her off guard.

"Remember what?"

"Nothing," he said quickly. "Doesn't matter."

But the crack had formed.

And through it slipped something warm.

Sunlight on freckles.

Mud on her knees.

A voice in the orchard: "Hold still! You're ruining my masterpiece!"

The memory was faint but sudden; Fred, age four, face smeared with jam, holding still with the reverence of a knight while she, Lizzie, wove dandelions into his hair.

A crown for her king.

Her fingers twitched against the strap of her bag.

"You should really stop," she said quietly, brushing past him now.

"Stop what?"

"Reminding me of things I've buried."

He didn't follow her this time.

Didn't crack a joke, didn't chase.

He just stood there as she walked away, watching the sway of her hair and the set of her shoulders, and for once, didn't smile.

And Roxaine? She didn't look back, but her fingers wouldn't stop twitching.

March 24th, 1992
Great Hall, Breakfast
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

There was a strange quiet over the Slytherin table that morning.

Not complete silence; Slytherins didn't believe in unnecessary dramatism. But the usual murmur of conversation had grown... sharper. Certain glances lasted half a beat too long. Forks paused in mid-air. Someone dropped a spoon with a soft clink, and no one commented.

Roxaine Black cut her toast with surgical precision.

Narcissa had taught her that control began in small details; straight back, firm hands.

So, when Avery Flint leaned in just slightly from two seats down and said, too-casually,
"Tell me, Black. Do you like your tea sweet? Or do you prefer it... yellow?" she didn't look up.

"Excuse me?"

"The House of Helga has a certain charm, doesn't it?"s he went on, voice low, amused. "All that kindness. So refreshing after years of pureblood rigidity."

Several students snorted behind their hands.

Rox set down her teacup with a soft clatter and finally looked up, her gaze like a razor pressed lightly to the skin.

"If you're implying what I think you're implying," she said, voice soft, "I suggest you finish that sentence very carefully."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of implying anything," Flint replied, all teeth and confidence. "It's just what people are saying."

Roxaine didn't blink.

Behind her, Draco stiffened. Cassius leaned forward.

"People are fools," Cassius said coldly.

"But even fools get their stories from somewhere," Montague piped in. "And from what I heard, she didn't exactly reject him outright."

The word reject hissed between them like steam escaping a crack in a teapot.

Pansy let out a hum from further down the bench. "It's just funny, isn't it? First she snaps at everyone who so much as breathes too close to her, and now she's sharing candy hearts with Diggory in broad daylight?"

Roxaine smiled then.

Slowly.

The kind of smile that could peel skin from bone.

"Pansy," she said, lifting her eyes. "How lovely of you to notice what I do in my spare time. Though I'd worry more about what your time says about you. Staring across the Great Hall at me when you could be practicing your wandwork. Unless, of course, you're still having trouble with nonverbals?"

Pansy's jaw tensed.

Rox turned back to her plate, serene. "Don't speak of ambition if you can't cast a simple Silencio."

A hush fell over the group. Then a snort. Draco, of course, covered it poorly with a sip of juice. Cassius didn't laugh. He looked at her, hard.

March 24th, 1992
Corridor outside Transfiguration
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

"Are you going to deny it?" Cassius asked.

They walked side by side, her steps measured, his just slightly more agitated.

"Deny what?"

"That you went to Hogsmeade with Diggory."

She didn't answer.

"Rox," he said. "I'm not asking as your strategist. I'm asking as your friend."

"Funny," she said coolly. "You always sound the same."

He stopped walking. "You know it's true."

She turned toward him. "Does it matter?"

He gave her a look that made her feel fourteen again, too-young and too-wise at once. "It matters when your name starts shaking pillars we've spent years building." There it was; the we that always meant her. Roxaine didn't flinch.

"I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?"

She looked up at him. "Always."

They stared at each other for a moment. Then Cassius exhaled, softly. "They think you're weak, Rox."

She smirked. "Let them."

"And if Diggory asks again?"

She paused. "...He won't."

Cassius arched a brow.

Rox didn't correct herself.

March 24th, 1992
Girls' Dormitory, Late Evening
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The dormitory was quiet.

No whispers tonight. No laughter through curtains. Just the low hum of ancient stone and the faint crackle of dying embers in the hearth.

Roxaine Black sat upright on her bed, legs crossed, robe draped over her shoulders like armor she hadn't yet taken off. Her trunk was closed. Her shoes perfectly aligned beneath the foot of her bed. Every surface around her looked untouched, deliberate, composed.

Except for her.

She was seething. Not with fire—but with poison. Controlled. Refined. The kind that slipped through the cracks of glass and tasted like sweetness just before it killed.

She didn't cry. She didn't frown. But her jaw was locked. Her fingers flexed every few seconds like they wanted to grab something—tear something apart—but nothing around her was worth the ruin.

The day's comments looped back in fragments.

Do you like your tea sweet... or yellow?

Sharing candy hearts with Diggory in broad daylight?

They thought they were clever. They always did.

But they were reckless. And stupid. And envious.

Because they couldn't do what she did. They couldn't walk through the halls with posture like a blade and words like glass and make people listen.

And now they wanted to stain that.

Rox reached for the drawer in her nightstand. She didn't know exactly what she was looking for—until her fingers brushed against it.

The wrapper.

She pulled it out slowly. The ribbon still attached. The cursed little label; "Love Me, Love Diabetes" now slightly smudged from being folded and unfolded too many times.

She should have thrown it away.

She should have burned it.

But here it was.

She turned it between her fingers, letting the silk slip against her skin.

There was no candy left. Of course not. She'd eaten the last of it two nights ago, long after lights-out, curled up with her curtains drawn and her wand dimmed.

No one had seen her smile when she bit into that ridiculous jellybean-studded thing.

No one had to.

That version of her; the one who laughed just a little, the one who almost dropped her guard when someone held out a sweet for no reason at all, that girl didn't leave this bed.

She folded the wrapper neatly again and slipped it back into the drawer.

For a second, her hand lingered inside.

Then she closed it.

Sat back.

Let the silence return.

She didn't need to justify herself. Not to Nott. Not to Montague. Not to Cassius or Draco or anyone else who thought proximity gave them entitlement.

They didn't know what it was to play the game and bleed for it in private.

She'd sacrificed too much to flinch now.

Still...

Her fingers curled again, this time tighter.

Because she hated that they'd made her doubt. Even for a second.

She lay back on the bed without undressing, the robe still wrapped tightly around her, as though shrugging it off would make her too soft, too open.

And in the quiet, with only the sound of her breath and the cold whisper of stone against stone, she made herself a vow.

No one would see her crack again.

And tomorrow?

She'd remind them who they were dealing with.

March 25th, 1992
Hogwarts, Dungeons – Potions Class
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The dungeon air clung damp and thick, scented faintly with wormwood and scorched lacewing flies. It was a usual Wednesday in Slughorn's old classroom, now claimed by Snape, and the tables were cluttered with brass scales, bubbling cauldrons, and a general tension that hovered like fog. Roxaine Black sat near the left corner, already slicing her shrivelfig into precise, paper-thin segments. Her station was immaculate. Her ink didn't smudge. Her notes were color-coded by wand charm. Her seat partner; Avery Flint, a fellow Slytherin third-year and roommate, sat quietly beside her, double-checking their ingredient list with the caution of someone who knew better than to interrupt Roxaine when she was this focused.

On the opposite side of the room, Cedric Diggory was laughing. He leaned forward against his desk, arms crossed, grinning at something his Hufflepuff friend; Andrew Thatcham, if Rox remembered right, was saying. They were loud. Too loud. Cedric's laugh echoed against the stone walls, warm and low and wholly out of place in a room that reeked of expectation and judgment.

Snape's eyes snapped toward them like daggers.

"That will be enough, Mr. Diggory," he said, voice as soft and dangerous as a snake coiled beneath silk. "If the instructions are too difficult for your limited attention span, I'm sure Miss Black would be happy to compensate for your shortcomings."

The room quieted like someone had snapped a binding spell over it. Cedric straightened slightly, smile fading just enough to look sheepish.

"My apologies, sir."

Snape stared at him for a moment longer, then turned his gaze toward Roxaine. "Switch."

Rox didn't move immediately. She didn't have to. The command wasn't for her benefit. She finished slicing the final segment of fig, laid the silver blade aside, and then rose with the elegance of someone who was never surprised, only inconvenienced. Marceline visibly deflated in her seat, clearly not thrilled to lose her partner. Cedric had already stood, collecting his notes and vials as he walked across the room.

Their eyes met briefly as he reached her station.

"Fancy seeing you here," he muttered, low enough that only she heard.

She said nothing, just reclaimed her seat and resumed working as if nothing had changed. Cedric settled beside her, a fraction closer than he strictly needed to, the warmth of his presence far too noticeable in the otherwise cold dungeon air. His elbow brushed hers once; lightly, unintentionally, but she didn't flinch. She just tilted her chin ever so slightly higher and kept stirring the valerian root.

He smelled like parchment and vanilla fudge. And something else. Something inconvenient.

Roxaine Black did not get distracted in class, but that day, her pulse betrayed her.

Cedric readjusted his stool, setting his ingredients in a slightly crooked line. The disarray grated against Roxaine's nerves. She reached over, uninvited, and straightened the vial of lovage root and his too-close bundle of asphodel. He watched her in silence, one brow arching as if amused.

"Don't touch anything unless I tell you to," she said without looking at him.

"Yes, ma'am," he murmured, lips curving.

She ignored the comment.

Snape's instructions for the Calming Draught were scrawled across the blackboard in his usual, angular handwriting. Precise measurements. Exact timing. Zero tolerance for error. Rox had brewed this potion before; twice, in fact, and both times it had come out flawless. It was a test of patience and of heat management, both of which she had in abundance.

But she hadn't brewed it beside Cedric Diggory.

She handed him the mortar and pestle without speaking, gesturing to the dried chamomile. He took it slowly, his fingers brushing hers with a casualness that wasn't casual at all.

"You could say please," he noted.

"You could start grinding before I do it myself," she replied.

He did as told, watching her from the corner of his eye as he worked. Her hair was pinned back with a single silver clasp, her sleeves folded just to the elbow, showing a faint ink stain on the inside of her wrist. She stirred clockwise. Always clockwise. Exact speed. Seventeen rotations. He counted them.

"What do you see in this class?" he asked quietly.

She didn't look up. "Discipline."

"And here I was thinking you liked it for the poison."

"That too."

Their voices were low, tucked just beneath the bubbling and hissing of other cauldrons. Most students had long since given up trying to eavesdrop on Roxaine Black's conversations.

Cedric held the crushed chamomile out to her. She took it with a nod.

"Thank you," she said.

He smiled, clearly surprised. "You said please in reverse."

"You won't get it twice."

"I don't need it twice."

She added the chamomile and leaned slightly forward to adjust the flame. Cedric didn't move back. Their shoulders touched for a second, just a second. It was enough.

She didn't pull away.

He smelled like sun-warmed air and trouble, and something in her sternum tightened.

"You're tense," he said softly.

"You're chatty."

"Noticed you didn't deny it."

She kept stirring, unfazed. But her grip on the ladle was tighter than before.

Across the room, Snape prowled between tables, robes whispering like silk and smoke.

"Mr. Diggory," he snapped suddenly, though he hadn't even turned. "If your talking impairs her brewing, I will give you a zero."

Cedric held up his hands in surrender. "Wasn't talking, sir. Just... breathing too loud."

Snape's eyes narrowed.

Rox kept her smirk to herself.

But she could feel Cedric's glance shift toward her again, lingering just a little longer than it should.

And this time, she didn't pretend not to notice.

The potion had reached its midpoint, the mixture shifting from a cloudy grey to a faint lavender hue. It shimmered just slightly when stirred at the right angle, catching the greenish dungeon light. Roxaine adjusted the flame beneath it with a single flick of her wand and leaned forward to sniff, her face inches from the surface.

She didn't realize Cedric had done the same until their heads nearly collided.

Their cheeks brushed.

She froze, he didn't.

"Still breathing too loud?" she asked, her voice quiet, sharp around the edges.

Cedric tilted his head, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, the way his shoulder nearly grazed hers again. "Maybe you're just standing too close."

Roxaine didn't answer. She reached for the powdered valerian root, her sleeve sliding slightly up her wrist as she stretched, revealing the pale skin underneath. Cedric's hand moved at the same time, reaching for the same jar.

Their fingers touched.

Not brushed. Touched.

The contact was brief, barely half a second, but it was warm and electric and wholly unwelcome.

She didn't look at him.

He didn't move away.

Instead, he let his hand linger against hers just long enough to make a point.

She took the jar with perfect calm, her chin high, her expression unreadable. But the corners of her mouth tightened.

He watched her add the valerian, watched the way she stirred; clockwise again, always precise. Watched the little line between her brows that appeared when she was thinking.

"Do you always do everything so perfectly?" he asked after a long stretch of silence.

"I do things correctly," she replied.

"Same difference?"

"Not at all."

He leaned an inch closer, just enough to see her side-eye him without turning her head. "So what happens when someone does something unexpected?"

"I don't allow them to."

"That's not an answer."

She turned her head, finally meeting his gaze. The distance between them wasn't enough. It was never enough.

"You're asking a lot of questions today."

"I'm spending a lot of time next to you."

Their eyes locked for a breath too long. Behind them, someone's cauldron sputtered. A student cursed. Snape snarled something about incompetence.

But Cedric and Roxaine didn't move.

Not until she blinked and turned back to the cauldron.

"You'll ruin the potion if you keep staring," she said, her voice level.

"Then you'd better stop being so interesting."

She rolled her eyes, but there was something off about the way she stirred now. The motion had rhythm, but not calm.

He reached to adjust the flame, his hand brushing her waist as he leaned across her side. Light pressure. Bare contact. Still, she stiffened.

She exhaled slowly.

"You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Trying to see if I'll flinch."

He didn't respond, at least not with words. Just a soft hum, somewhere between a laugh and a challenge.

The air between them had shifted. It wasn't flirtation. Not quite.

It was something heavier, something sharper.

Like knowing a dagger was on the table and daring each other to reach for it first.

The final vial had been corked, labeled, and placed neatly on the tray at the front of the room. The rest of the students filtered out in their usual hurry, books half-shoved into bags, conversations spilling into the corridor. The scent of mugwort and crushed root lingered like fog across the stones.

Roxaine was wiping the last of the condensation from her side of the table, deliberate and slow, each movement too precise to be casual. Cedric had yet to leave either. He stood across from her, arms folded, watching the way her fingers moved, how her jaw clenched when she noticed his gaze but didn't comment on it.

Snape had disappeared into his office without so much as a nod. They were alone now. The silence should have been a relief. It wasn't.

"You always clean like you're trying to erase the whole room," Cedric said, breaking the hush with a voice that was just a bit too low.

"I like things tidy," she replied without looking up.

"You're avoiding something."

She finally did look up at that, one brow raised in a perfect arch. "What could I possibly have to avoid?"

He stepped closer, slowly. There was no desk between them anymore, just air and tension and the smell of herbs lingering in his robes.

"You tell me," he said.

She didn't step back.

"I thought you were supposed to be charming," she said.

"I am," he answered, smiling. "You're just incredibly difficult."

"And you're incredibly persistent."

He shrugged. "I'm not trying to be."

"Then stop hovering."

He smiled wider. "You'd miss it."

She looked up at him for a moment too long, her expression unreadable. Then she grabbed her bag with sharp elegance, swung it over her shoulder, and walked past him toward the door.

He didn't follow.

But just before she crossed the threshold, he said quietly, without a hint of humor, "You flinched earlier."

She stopped, didn't turn, didn't breathe for half a second. Then, very slowly, she looked back over her shoulder, her gaze darker than before.

"Next time," she said, voice like polished steel, "you'll have to try harder."

And with that, she disappeared into the corridor, leaving him standing alone in the green light, smiling like someone who had just discovered a crack in the armor.

Not a victory. Not yet.

But definitely a beginning.

March 26th, 1992
Great Hall, Breakfast
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The morning sun filtered through the enchanted ceiling in muted pastels, clouds drifting lazily in the high, painted sky. Most of the school had already settled into a familiar din—cutlery clinking, students murmuring over jam pots and homework due in the next hour.

At the Slytherin table, Roxaine sat with her spine straight and hands folded in her lap. A small dish of sliced pears and toast sat untouched in front of her, and beside her, Cassius Rosier was mid-monologue about a Transfiguration reading he found laughably remedial. She nodded along politely, though her eyes remained on the folded parchment resting just beside her teacup.

The owl had arrived moments earlier, graceful and silent, landing before her without ceremony. The parchment was a creamy ivory, sealed in pale green wax, and though it bore no name on the outside, she had known instantly who it was from.

She hadn't opened it yet.

Cassius glanced at the letter. "If that's from Lucius, I vote we burn it."

"It's not," she murmured. "It's Narcissa's."

That gave him pause. "Oh." A short beat. "Then you should absolutely read it."

She broke the seal with a practiced flick, unfolding the letter slowly, letting the parchment crackle between her fingers. Her eyes scanned the elegant handwriting.

My dearest Roxaine,

I trust this finds you well.

I was told quite unexpectedly, I must say, that you were seen in Hogsmeade recently, enjoying the company of a certain Hufflepuff.

I won't insult your intelligence by pretending to be surprised. I know you are more than capable of handling your affairs, and of choosing your conversations wisely.

Still, darling, it would ease my mind greatly to speak with you during your next visit to the village.

We'll have tea. And perhaps a quiet walk, if the weather allows.

You know I only ask because I care.

With all my affection,
Narcissa

Roxaine read it twice.

Then once more.

The script was delicate but precise, the message unmistakable. She imagined Narcissa's voice even as she read: warm and low, with that effortless air of gentility that made her both disarming and unshakable.

Cassius, who had been studying her face, finally spoke. "Well?"

She lowered the letter and folded it neatly again, sliding it under her napkin. "She wants to talk. Next Hogsmeade visit."

"About Diggory?"

Rox didn't answer immediately. Her fingers closed slowly around her teacup, the porcelain warm against her skin.

"She's not angry," she said. "Not exactly."

"But she knows."

"She always knows."

Cassius made a sound halfway between a sigh and a scoff. "Of course she does."

Rox took a slow sip of tea, then set the cup down with deliberate care. Her eyes lingered on the rim, where her lipstick had left a faint smudge.

"She signed it 'with all my affection'," she said absently.

Cassius raised a brow. "That's worse than anger."

She smiled, just slightly. "No. It means I have until tea to fix the narrative."

"Which you won't."

"No," she agreed. "I won't."

Cassius leaned back slightly, expression unreadable. "So what now?"

"I keep showing up," she said simply. "I drink my tea. I listen. I let her remind me who I am."

"And Diggory?"

Rox lifted her eyes. "Is not part of the conversation."

Cassius said nothing to that. Just watched her for a moment longer, then returned to his toast, satisfied; at least for now, that she hadn't lost the plot entirely.

But beneath the table, hidden by layers of cloth and shadow, Roxaine's fingers drummed a slow rhythm against the letter, her thoughts already reaching beyond breakfast and quiet threats.

Narcissa wanted a walk.

That meant it was serious.

She wondered, absently, if Cedric had any idea what kind of storm he'd wandered into.

Then she smiled again and bit into her pear.

Chapter Text

April 4th, 1992
Hogsmeade, Private Parlour, The Tea Rose Room
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The Tea Rose Room was tucked discreetly behind a wrought iron gate at the far end of Hogsmeade, shielded from wandering eyes and student gossip by layers of enchantment. It was a place of soft linens, polished silver, and conversations that never left the walls.

Roxaine arrived precisely on time. Narcissa was already seated.

The elder witch wore a velvet coat in the deepest navy, her gloves folded beside a teacup that had barely been touched. Her posture was perfect, the line of her jaw drawn tight with expectation. She didn't rise to greet her niece—didn't need to.

Roxaine curtsied slightly and sat across from her without a word.

The silence held.

Then Narcissa spoke.

"You will tell me exactly what went through your mind, Roxaine, when you decided it was acceptable to be seen in public—in Hogsmeade, no less—walking beside a Hufflepuff boy with a candy ribbon that said 'Love Me, Love Diabetes'."

Roxaine inhaled very slowly.

"I thought the message was clear," she replied. "Love me, suffer the consequences."

"This is not amusing," Narcissa said, sharp and cold. "The entire Parkinson family wrote to me. Twice. Astoria's mother added a footnote asking if you were under some sort of enchantment."

"I'm not."

"I didn't ask," Narcissa snapped. "I don't care if he's charming, or polite, or has teeth like Apollo. You were seen. You were witnessed. And they are not laughing, Roxaine. They are plotting."

Rox's back straightened more, if such a thing was possible. "Let them."

Narcissa's hand landed softly on the tablecloth. She didn't slam it. She didn't raise her voice.

But the words that followed struck like a wand to the chest.

"You do not get to be reckless, Roxaine. You are not a child, and you are not unknown. You are a Black. You are watched. We cultivated that. We need that. And you—do—not—jeopardize—it."

The final word landed between them like a dropped blade.

Roxaine held her ground, eyes fixed on the delicate embroidery along the edge of the tablecloth. Her fingers didn't twitch. Her jaw remained still. But inside, something curled tight.

"I know," she said after a long pause. "I didn't forget."

"Then why act as if you did?"

Narcissa's voice wasn't raised. That made it worse. It was the quiet tone she used before making decisions that echoed for years.

"I didn't think it would cause this much—" Roxaine cut herself off. That wasn't the truth.

Narcissa narrowed her eyes slightly, studying her. Then, very slowly, she leaned back in her chair, the velvet of her coat rustling softly.

"You didn't think," she said at last. "That's what it was."

Roxaine looked up.

"You've been playing chess since you were six years old, and now, one boy with a smile and some sugar throws you off the board?" Narcissa raised a single brow. "No. That's not the girl I raised."

Roxaine's mouth opened, then closed.

Narcissa exhaled, more tired than angry now.

"Well," she said, lifting her cup and taking a slow sip. "Since I can't change the past, I may as well extract the truth."

She set her teacup down and gestured, composed once more. "Tell me. From the beginning. What happened?"

Roxaine held her ground, eyes fixed on the delicate embroidery along the edge of the tablecloth. Her fingers didn't twitch. Her jaw remained still. But inside, something curled tight.

"I know," she said after a long pause. "I didn't forget."

"Then why act as if you did?"

Narcissa's voice wasn't raised. That made it worse. It was the quiet tone she used before making decisions that echoed for years.

"I didn't think it would cause this much—" Roxaine cut herself off. That wasn't the truth.

Narcissa narrowed her eyes slightly, studying her. Then, very slowly, she leaned back in her chair, the velvet of her coat rustling softly.

"You didn't think," she said at last. "That's what it was."

Roxaine looked up.

"You've been playing chess since you were six years old, and now, one boy with a smile and some sugar throws you off the board?" Narcissa raised a single brow. "No. That's not the girl I raised. That's not the girl who rewrote entire hierarchies in her second year."

Roxaine's mouth opened, then closed.

Narcissa exhaled, more tired than angry now.

"Well," she said, lifting her cup and taking a slow sip. "Since I can't change the past, I may as well extract the truth."

She set her teacup down and gestured, composed once more. "Tell me. From the beginning. What happened?"

Roxaine hesitated. A flicker of something—uncertainty? amusement?—crossed her face before she straightened her posture and began.

"He asked again. The day before Hogsmeade."

"In public?" Narcissa interjected, tone sharp.

"Yes. But not loudly."

Narcissa sighed, but gestured for her to go on.

"I said yes. Not because I wanted to," Rox added quickly. "He was persistent, and I wanted him to stop asking."

Narcissa didn't look convinced. "So you gave in."

"I agreed. Once. That's all."

"And?"

Roxaine's voice lowered, quiet but not timid. "We walked. Talked. He tried to be charming."

Narcissa's eyes narrowed faintly.

"I kept it vague. Formal. He was the one trying to be clever."

"And did you let him?"

There was a pause.

"I tolerated it," Roxaine said carefully.

Narcissa made a soft, thoughtful sound. "Did he touch you?"

Rox's eyes widened slightly, but she recovered quickly. "He offered me sweets."

"That's not the same thing."

"No. But I... I accepted them." Her voice was dry. "Under protest."

Narcissa's lips twitched. Not quite a smile.

Roxaine cleared her throat. "He walked me back to the dungeons. Said something stupid at the end."

"Such as?"

She hesitated. "He said my ears were red."

Now Narcissa did smile, just a little, as she tilted her head.

"And were they?"

Roxaine didn't answer; she didn't have to.

Narcissa exhaled, not with frustration this time, but with the kind of long-suffering fondness reserved for stubborn girls and their first mistakes.

She stood, walked to the window, and clasped her hands behind her back. Roxaine remained still in her chair, spine perfectly straight, hands folded tightly in her lap.

"You understand what this looks like," Narcissa said, her voice now calm, deliberate. "You understand what people will say, and not just the children who whisper behind their goblets. The adults. The ones who matter."

"Yes," Roxaine replied.

"And yet," Narcissa continued, turning back toward her, "you didn't say no."

"I didn't encourage him."

"No," she agreed, returning to her seat. "But you didn't discourage him either. And that, darling, is all the invitation most boys need."

Roxaine looked away.

Silence settled for a beat. Then Narcissa reached forward and tapped the letter with her index finger.

"We will discuss this in full when you next visit Hogsmeade. I want every detail—who saw you, what you wore, what was said. If there is a rumour, we will shape it. If there is interest, we will redefine it. The Diggory name is old enough. Pure enough. Useful, if handled correctly."

Roxaine blinked.

Narcissa gave her a look—cool, measured, but not unkind. "In any case, if you're going to let a boy make your ears turn pink, at least let us get something out of it."

For a moment, Roxaine didn't move. But her lips betrayed her—just barely.

A smile. Brief. Involuntary.

Narcissa caught it.

"Merlin help us," she murmured. "You actually like him."

Roxaine flushed. "It's not like that."

"Of course not," Narcissa replied smoothly, reaching for her gloves with quiet precision. "Which is why your ears are red and you've been staring at the same spot on the carpet for five full minutes."

"I'm not—"

"Roxaine."

She fell silent.

Narcissa's expression softened, but only slightly. "Just remember, darling: you don't have to fall for anyone. Especially not someone who hasn't earned the weight of your name."

Roxaine nodded once.

"And now," Narcissa said, slipping her gloves on with graceful economy, "you're going to take me on that walk through Hogsmeade you promised. You can tell me everything while we plan the damage control."

She offered a hand—regal, assured, not really asking.

Roxaine took it.

And the scolding, of course, wasn't over yet.

The wind along the cobbled streets was gentler than usual, brushing over rooftops and carrying the scent of honeyed pastries from the bakery. Cloaks fluttered like shadows behind passersby, and a low murmur of laughter drifted from the Three Broomsticks.

Roxaine walked beside Narcissa down the sloping path near the apothecary. The older witch's heels clicked against the stone with poised precision, her gloved hand looped through Roxaine's arm like a subtle leash.

They moved in unhurried tandem, the elegance of their steps stark against the warmth of village chaos.

"For Merlin's sake," Narcissa said, still low enough that no one but Roxaine could hear, "you let him pay?"

"I didn't ask him to."

"And yet you let him."

Roxaine's mouth tightened. "It was just a drink."

"A free drink, in public, with a Hufflepuff, while half the school was watching," Narcissa corrected. "Darling, even the cinnamon sticks know what that implies."

"I didn't realise cinnamon sticks were keeping up with courtship politics," Rox muttered.

Narcissa gave her a look. The kind that said, I've survived two wars and three Malfoy generations. Don't test me.

They passed Zonko's. Narcissa steered them away from a pair of giggling fourth-years and dropped her voice again.

Roxaine hesitated, then gave in with a sigh. "We went to the Three Broomsticks. He made a few jokes. I glared. He looked delighted. I ordered a butterbeer with cinnamon."

Narcissa gave her a sidelong glance. "How bold of you."

"He said it was sweet."

"Well, he's not wrong."

"I said that liking sugar is for children."

Narcissa's brows lifted.

"He then bought me a candy the size of my face," Rox finished dryly.

There was a pause.

"Did you eat it?"

"No."

Narcissa glanced sideways.

"...Yes."

Narcissa didn't say anything for a few paces. The sound of their heels clicking over the cobbled street filled the silence between them. Children darted between shops with peppermint bark and glittering fudge, and flakes of soft snow floated through the air like ash from some sweeter fire.

"You ate it alone," Narcissa said at last.

Roxaine didn't answer.

The corner of Narcissa's mouth lifted, just faintly. "So he still doesn't know."

"Of course not," Rox muttered.

"And the wrapper?"

"Vanished."

"You're thorough. As expected."

They turned the corner. Honeydukes glowed like a sugar-laced cathedral, its windows packed with towers of chocolate frogs and rainbow confections. Outside, Draco was standing with his arms folded, tapping his foot in evident impatience.

"I told him I'd buy him his ridiculous peppermint bark," Roxaine sighed, already heading toward the door.

"Of course you did," Narcissa replied, falling into step beside her. "Spoiled creature. You do realize he's weaponizing affection now?"

"It works."

Inside, the scent hit them like an explosion—caramel, cinnamon, melted sugar, and the faintest wisp of something more floral. Roxaine inhaled despite herself.

"Go on," Narcissa said, plucking a sample of crystallized pineapple from a dish. "I'll wait here. Don't make me chase you down the chocolate aisle."

Rox rolled her eyes but wandered deeper into the store, her fingers trailing absently over the displays. The sweets glimmered under enchanted lighting—chocolate roses that bloomed, sour snakes that hissed from their jars, every color of sugar wand.

She wasn't looking for anything. Not really.

At least, not until she saw it again.

The same stupid swirl of pastel-pink sugar, stacked on a stick like a tower built to tempt the gods. Tiny glittering jellybeans sparkled in its spirals, and the ribbon still read, in bold cursive: Love Me, Love Diabetes.

She didn't reach for it, she just stared.

Something warm and ridiculous curled in her stomach. She hadn't even meant to stop walking—hadn't realized she was standing still. Her hands were at her sides, her gloves tucked beneath one arm, and her lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line.

Behind her, the bell above the shop door jingled.

"I thought you didn't like sweets."

Her entire spine tensed as she turned her head; there he was.

Cedric Diggory. Scarf slightly crooked, cheeks wind-bright, that same cursed smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knew exactly how to get under her skin.

She narrowed her eyes. "I don't."

He nodded solemnly. "So naturally, you came to Honeydukes to not buy one of those."

Rox didn't look away. "It's for Draco."

His brows lifted. "Draco Malfoy has a taste for... aggressively pink sugar tornadoes with glitter beans stuck in them?"

"He has a taste for everything," she said crisply. "Especially if it gets on my nerves."

Cedric laughed. And then, softer, "So you didn't eat it?"

She paused. "No."

He tilted his head. "You hesitated."

"I did not."

"You did," he said, stepping closer, just enough that the scent of sugar and winter cologne mingled somewhere in the air between them. "But that's alright. I'm patient, remember?"

She folded her arms. "You're persistent."

"Same thing."

"Irksome."

He smiled. "Still here, aren't you?"

That annoyed her more than it should've; he wasn't doing anything wrong. He wasn't even being smug—well, not terribly smug. Just confident. Warm. Honest in a way that didn't flinch.

And that, more than anything, was what got under her skin, because honest boys don't survive in her world.

Rox turned back to the display and reached for the swirl of sugar. She didn't buy the one he gave her before. She did eat it, though.

At night. Alone. When no one would see. And she'd liked it; stupidly, shamefully liked it. Both because it was sweet and because it tasted like something not allowed.

Now she held the twin of it in her hand, studied it with a frown, and said flatly, "It's hideous."

Cedric leaned beside her, pretending to examine the same shelf. "But endearing."

"Only if you have no aesthetic standards."

"I don't. I like chaos."

"You like challenging me."

"I like you," he said simply.

Roxaine froze for half a heartbeat. Her eyes flicked to him; he wasn't grinning anymore, he just looked at her, real and unguarded.

She cleared her throat and dropped the candy into her basket like it weighed more than her wand. "It's for Draco," she repeated, quieter this time.

He nodded once. "Of course."

Then he straightened up, offered her a polite, almost courtly little bow, and said, "Enjoy your grotesque purchase, Lady Black."

She rolled her eyes. "Try not to fall into a sugar coma, Diggory."

He smiled again—this time, smaller—and turned to leave. She didn't watch him go. She didn't need to, because her ears were already burning, and her hands were trembling, and in her basket sat a candy she would absolutely eat in secret again as soon as no one was looking.

March 28th, 1992
Hogsmeade, Outside Honeydukes
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The bell above Honeydukes' door chimed as it swung shut behind her. Roxaine stepped back into the brisk spring air, paper bag in one hand, the oversized monstrosity of a candy stick in the other, still warm from where she'd snatched it off the stand.

She glanced at the ribbon fluttering faintly in the wind. Love Me, Love Diabetes, it declared with cheerful shamelessness. She refused to acknowledge how the colors matched the blush that had crept up her neck during her brief encounter inside.

He had caught her. Again.

"I thought you didn't like sweets," he'd said. That Hufflepuff grin—all mischief and honey—still lingered like an echo in the back of her mind. She'd barely gotten out "It's for Draco" before turning on her heel and pretending she hadn't heard the way he'd laughed.

She'd lied, of course. The peppermint bark was for Draco. The sugar tornado of pink shame? That was for her.

And now she had to carry it in public.

With her spine impossibly straight and her nose tilted just a touch higher, Roxaine made her way down the cobbled lane, weaving through the scattered students and villagers until she spotted the silver shimmer of Narcissa's robes just outside Tomes & Scrolls.

Narcissa turned precisely as Rox approached.

Rox hadn't said a word.

"You're flushed," Narcissa said, tone mild.

"I was indoors. It's warm in there."

"It's five degrees outside."

"I overheat easily."

Narcissa's eyes dropped to the candy in Rox's hand.

Then, slowly, back up.

She didn't say anything. Not at first.

Then, in the most serene tone imaginable, she said, "I just saw Cedric Diggory leave the shop."

Rox stared straight ahead.

"And yet," Narcissa added, eyes faintly amused, "you're the one holding the dessert version of a Valentine's Day explosion."

Roxaine exhaled sharply. "It's for Draco."

"The peppermint bark, perhaps."

Rox didn't answer. But her grip on the stick tightened.

"You're holding it like it insulted your bloodline," Narcissa murmured. "Which is exactly how you used to hold your schoolbag in first year. Right before you refused to be Sorted."

"I wasn't refusing, I was considering my options."

"You threatened the Hat."

Rox finally looked at her, horrified. "You were there?"

Narcissa smiled faintly. "Of course I was."

Rox shook her head and resumed walking, but Narcissa fell into step beside her, glancing at her sidelong.

"You're not fooling anyone, you know."

"I'm not trying to."

"You walked out of Honeydukes holding that abomination like it was a weapon. Your ears were red. They still are."

"They're not."

"They are," Narcissa said lightly. "And your eyes have that shimmer they get when you're hiding something soft and pretending you aren't."

"I'm not hiding anything."

"Mm."

They passed Zonko's, the windows glinting with prank merchandise and pink-hued fizzing potions. Narcissa didn't say anything else for a moment.

Then, after a pause, she said, "I never thought you'd fall for a Hufflepuff."

Rox frowned. "I haven't—"

"But," Narcissa continued, ignoring her, "I can see the appeal. He's grounded. Decent. Far too straightforward to be truly dangerous, and therefore... tempting."

Rox looked horrified.

"Not that I approve," Narcissa said smoothly. "But temptation is a very old language, darling. And you've always been fluent."

They walked a few steps more.

"I ate it alone," Rox said quietly.

Narcissa turned slightly.

"The one from last week," Rox clarified. "I said I wouldn't, but... I did."

Narcissa's mouth quirked. "And does he know?"

"No."

"Of course not." She considered. "That would ruin your image."

"Exactly."

They walked in silence for a little while longer, the wind picking up the edge of Narcissa's cloak and scattering a few dry leaves across the path. The candy stick caught the light as Rox adjusted it under her arm, the jellybeans sparkling obnoxiously.

"You're going to eat that one too, aren't you?"

"No."

"...Yes."

Narcissa didn't smile. Not quite. But her tone was lighter now, teasing.

"Just don't let him catch you again."

"I won't."

"Because next time, if you're still holding something that says Love Me, Love Diabetes, I'll assume you're getting engaged."

Rox groaned.

"Besides," Narcissa added, "if you are going to fraternize with the enemy, you might as well enjoy the sugar."

They continued toward the carriages, the candy stick bobbing like a flag of delicious, humiliating surrender.

Chapter Text

April 15th, 1992
Slytherin Common Room, Late Evening
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The fire in the Slytherin common room crackled quietly, casting greenish shadows against the stone walls. Roxaine sat curled in one of the leather armchairs by the hearth, ankles crossed, a half-read copy of Hagatha Crowley's Theory of Magical Inheritance in her lap. Her eyes skimmed the same line for the third time, not because the subject bored her, but because the rhythm of the room had shifted. She could feel it—an energy gathering like static before a storm.

And then it came.

Draco Malfoy burst into the room with an energy so sharp it made several heads turn. Crabbe and Goyle stumbled in behind him, puffing slightly, but he ignored them completely, scanning the space until his gaze landed on Rox.

"There you are," he said breathlessly. "You won't believe what I just saw."

She raised an eyebrow, calm and unreadable. "You look like you've sprinted through the castle. Was someone giving away shares of Gringotts?"

Draco didn't even rise to the bait. That alone was unusual.

"No," he said, practically vibrating. "Potter. The Weasel. And that Granger girl. They were in Hagrid's hut."

"Fascinating," Rox murmured, reaching for her bookmark. "Next you'll tell me they were breathing, too."

"No, listen—" He dragged the armchair closest to hers and dropped into it without permission. "It was hatching."

Rox paused mid-movement. Slowly, she closed the book and looked at him. "It?"

"A dragon," Draco hissed, lowering his voice. "A real one. A Norwegian Ridgeback."

She blinked once. "You're certain?"

He nodded fervently. "I heard them talking at breakfast. Potter got a note from that blasted owl of his—said it was hatching. I followed them after Herbology. They ran straight to Hagrid's hut. And when I looked through the curtain..." He sat back, expression gleeful. "There it was. The egg cracked open right in front of them."

He recounted every detail like a child retelling a favorite bedtime story. The gleam in Potter's eyes. The absurd size of the egg. The sparks that flew out of the hatchling's snout. How Hagrid had cooed at it like it was a kitten.

"And get this," Draco added, eyes shining. "The thing looked like a bloody umbrella. Wings like bat sails, these ridiculous little horns, and eyes like... like orange lanterns. Absolutely hideous. Hagrid said it was beautiful."

Rox remained silent through the entire retelling, her fingers tracing an invisible pattern on the spine of her book.

"He's going to get caught," Draco continued. "He has to. It's illegal. He'll be expelled. Potter too, probably. They're breaking half a dozen laws."

"You think Dumbledore would allow that?" she asked quietly.

Draco's lips curled. "Maybe not. But someone else might not give him a choice. Imagine the Prophet headline—'Boy Who Lived Aids in Dragon Smuggling'."

He laughed at his own joke.

Rox didn't.

Instead, she leaned forward, resting her chin lightly on her knuckles. "And what exactly are you planning to do with this information?"

"Tell someone, of course." Draco's eyes sparkled. "Professor Snape, maybe. Or McGonagall. They'll have to act. And when they do, I'll be the one who exposed them. Potter won't be so smug after this."

Rox stared at him for a long moment. Then she stood, her book now forgotten.

"You truly don't see it, do you?"

Draco blinked, the grin slipping slightly. "See what?"

She crossed to the hearth and stood there, watching the flames twist behind the grate.

"There's more to this," she said softly. "More than just a dragon. Potter's nosing into something—and it's not just eggshells."

Draco made a dismissive noise. "Potter's always nosing into something. He thinks he's the center of the universe."

"Yes," Rox replied, turning back toward him. "And sometimes, that's exactly what makes him dangerous."

Draco frowned. "Why are you being like this? You're always the one reminding me to pay attention to power moves. This is one."

She approached him again, slow and deliberate. "It's not that you saw something useless, Draco. It's that you think it's the whole story."

There was a beat of silence.

"I'm saying," she added coolly, "be careful not to waste your information too early. What Potter's doing may get him expelled... or it may get someone else killed. You should know what game you're playing before you call checkmate."

Draco fell quiet at that.

Rox sat again, this time with her back straighter, expression calm.

"But by all means," she said, tone almost bored, "run to a professor and tattle like a first-year. If that's what you think your last name is worth."

That stung.

Draco looked at her, frustrated, torn between indignation and reluctant admiration.

"You don't actually care about the dragon, do you?" he asked.

"No," she said honestly. "But I care about what hides behind it."

She stood once more, brushing invisible dust from her skirt. "Keep watching them. But keep your mouth shut, for now."

As she started toward the girls' dormitory stairs, she paused and looked back.

"And Draco?"

"What?"

"Potter may not be the center of the universe," she said. "But something is pulling him toward it."

And with that, she vanished up the steps, leaving Draco staring into the fire, the flames flickering brighter now—like something had just cracked open.

April 15th, 1992
Slytherin Girls' Dormitory, Later That Night
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

Roxaine sat at the edge of her bed, hands resting lightly on her knees, eyes fixed on the canopy above as if the velvet shadows might answer the question forming behind her ribs.

A dragon.

Potter. Weasley. Granger. All complicit.

And Draco; smug, eager, convinced he'd found a weapon, had failed to notice the part that mattered.

She had no interest in fantastical creatures. Fire-breathing reptiles were for storybooks and fools. What mattered was the why. Why would the Golden Trio risk detention—risk expulsion—for something so reckless? Why would Hagrid, a half-giant with more love than sense, keep a creature that dangerous under the castle's nose?

Unless—

Unless it wasn't about the dragon at all.

Unless it was a piece.

A tile on the board.

She pressed two fingers to her temple. The firelight from the common room had long since faded, and the only glow in the dormitory came from her wand, lying beside her pillow. She hadn't dressed for bed. She hadn't even moved since closing the door behind her. Her cloak was still slung over one shoulder, the hem dusted with ash from the hearth.

She thought of Cedric. The warmth in his voice. The sweet, impossible candy. The way her name had sounded when he said it.

For half a heartbeat, her brain reached for the softness—tried to nestle into it like a reprieve.

But then—

It wasn't exactly pretty... looked like a crumpled black umbrella...

The image returned.

Not the dragon.

The boy.

Potter, hunched beside the table, watching something claw its way into the world. Granger, likely explaining facts no one asked for. Weasley, face lit with excitement.

And in the background, that same current. The same storm she'd been feeling since the start of the year.

It was getting closer.

She could feel it in her bones.

She rose and crossed the room to the window, barefoot, silent. The lake shimmered darkly below, moonlight catching on the still surface like the eye of something sleeping. Watching.

"Fools," she whispered.

But she didn't sound convinced.

Because deep down—somewhere beyond bloodlines and ambition—she understood. Not the foolishness. Not the sentiment.

The pull.

The ache of knowing the world was about to shift, and wanting—no, needing—to stand where it happened.

Her fingers brushed the cold glass.

Potter was standing too close to something dangerous.

April 1992
Great Hall, Breakfast
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The morning was pale and sharp, streaks of silver light slanting through the enchanted ceiling like distant, watchful eyes. Most of the Great Hall still buzzed with sleep and jam-stained fingers, but at the Slytherin table, Roxaine already sat with perfect posture, butter untouched, and a spoon gently circling her tea clockwise—once, twice, pause.

Draco slammed into the bench beside her.

"She's mad," he hissed, not even bothering with a greeting. "Completely mad."

Rox didn't look up from her tea. "You'll have to narrow it down."

"McGonagall!" he snapped, stabbing his fork into a sausage like it had personally wronged him. "She gave me detention. Detention."

"Mm."

"And took twenty points from Slytherin!"

Now she did look at him. Slowly. One brow arched.

"I told her Potter was sneaking out in the middle of the night with a dragon—an actual dragon—and what does she do? Drags me by the ear and says I'm the liar!"

"Technically, you were out of bed."

"That's not the point!"

She took a bite of toast with surgical precision, chewing as if his fury were merely background noise.

"She called it rubbish," Draco went on. "Rubbish! As if I'd invent this. I saw them, Rox. I heard them. The three of them rushing off to Hagrid's like they were smuggling contraband—and surprise, surprise, it was contraband. Hagrid's dragon hatched. A Norwegian Ridgeback."

He leaned in, voice lowered now, but the spark in his eyes was sharp with indignation. "I was trying to stop something dangerous. I was doing the right thing."

"No one likes a martyr, Draco," Rox said, sipping her tea. "Especially not one in silk-lined pajamas."

He huffed, sitting back with a scowl. "Snape didn't even look surprised when she told him. Just nodded and said I'd receive the same detention as Potter, Weasley, and Granger!"

"Same detention as them," she repeated. "Your family name must be weeping."

He gave her a sour look.

For a few moments, they both ate in silence, though his version of eating was stabbing toast and glaring into space.

Then, casually—too casually—Rox set her cup down. "You're sure that's all you saw? Just the hatching?"

Draco frowned. "What else would I've seen?"

She didn't answer right away. Her gaze slid across the Hall, momentarily catching the Gryffindor table in the far distance—Potter, Granger, and Weasley whispering furiously over porridge.

"Nothing," she said lightly. "Just wondering if our dear Hagrid's taken to adopting Hippogriffs next."

He snorted. "Wouldn't surprise me."

Still, he kept glaring at his plate.

She watched him out of the corner of her eye. He didn't see the bigger picture, he never did.

And that made her job significantly harder, but not impossible.

April 1992
Hogwarts, Corridor outside the Great Hall
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The Great Hall's doors had barely swung shut behind her when Roxaine heard the unmistakable rhythm of someone speeding up behind her—boots soft but insistent against the stone. She didn't break stride, but her spine straightened a fraction, shoulders drawing back into their usual defensive grace.

"Black."

She recognized the voice instantly.

Cedric.

Of course.

She didn't pause. Just walked. But he caught up effortlessly, steps smooth, hands tucked in the pockets of his cloak like he had all the time in the world.

"Next weekend's another Hogsmeade trip," he said lightly, glancing down at her. "Thought I'd give you advance notice. In case you were planning another philanthropic date with a less-than-respectable Hufflepuff."

Her eyes didn't flicker. "Bold of you to assume I'd go again."

"I'd like it if you did."

They rounded a corner, her pace increasing with a sharpness that wasn't quite polite.

Cedric kept up. Undeterred.

"I thought it went well," he continued. "I didn't spill anything, you didn't hex me, and you only insulted my taste in sweets once."

"Twice," she muttered.

He smiled. "You smiled when I burned my tongue."

"That was not a smile."

"It was definitely a smile," he said, voice warm now. "Small. Left corner of your mouth. Almost like a twitch, but it counted. I liked it."

Roxaine sighed through her nose, tight-lipped, but she was walking faster now, half a step ahead.

"I don't have time for distractions."

"So you said last time."

"I meant it."

He shrugged. "Didn't stop you from enjoying the date."

She stopped abruptly, and he nearly walked into her. There was a second of complete stillness. The corridor ahead was quiet. The echo of students far off in the distance, a door closing somewhere, the faint scratch of a quill from an open classroom.

"I didn't like the candy," she said.

Cedric blinked. "I didn't say anything about the candy."

Her jaw twitched.

"Wait—" His grin grew slowly, like sunrise. "You ate it."

Her eyes narrowed.

"You so ate it."

"It was a mistake."

"Was it delicious?"

"I'm going to murder you."

"You loved it."

"I tolerated it."

He leaned slightly closer, voice mock-conspiratorial. "What part did you like more? The jellybeans embedded in the pink swirl of sugar, or the part where the ribbon told you to love diabetes?"

"Die."

"Too late. I'm already yours."

Roxaine turned on her heel and stormed toward the dungeon staircase without another word.

But he saw it. The twitch; left corner of her mouth. Almost a smile.

April 1992
Hogwarts Library, Late Afternoon
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The library held its usual hush, broken only by the occasional scratch of quills and the slow turning of parchment. Golden light from the sinking sun filtered through the high windows, catching on the motes of dust that drifted lazily through the air like tiny floating spells. Somewhere deep in the Restricted Section, Madam Pince rustled behind a shelf like a particularly territorial bat. The scent of old bindings, ink, and waxed wood settled heavy in the air.

Roxaine Black sat in the far left corner, where the sunlight barely reached and the students tended not to wander. The table was organized with surgical precision: her Arithmancy notes arranged by subject, quill perfectly sharpened, two books open at crisp right angles. She didn't glance up when footsteps approached. She didn't need to.

"You're in my favorite spot."

Cedric Diggory's voice was low, amused, and maddeningly close.

"Then choose a new favorite," she replied coolly without lifting her eyes.

He took it as permission and dropped into the seat across from her with the ease of someone who had decided long ago not to be intimidated by her. He placed a book on the table — Hogwarts: A History, thick and worn from overuse — and let out a sigh as though he'd just survived a duel.

"Tell me something," he said after a beat. "Does Professor Binns teach History of Magic or the art of vocal hypnosis?"

That earned him nothing.

Undeterred, he opened the book with a resigned huff. "Every time he starts talking about goblin uprisings, my brain floats away and starts designing quidditch plays."

Rox flipped a page with pointed delicacy.

Cedric leaned forward slightly. "Do you ever help people?"

"I avoid lost causes."

"Ouch," he grinned. "That felt like a challenge."

"Good," she said, eyes still on her book. "Now leave."

There was a pause. She could feel his gaze, steady, like someone considering whether it was worth poking a dragon twice.

"Look," he said after a moment. "I have a History of Magic essay due tomorrow morning, and I have no idea who Emeric the Evil is. I only know he probably wasn't nice."

Rox finally glanced up.

"You don't know who Emeric the Evil is?"

"I told you. I sleep during that class."

"Then you deserve to fail."

He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "Fair. But I thought you might take pity on me."

"Why?"

He gave her a shrug that was almost a smile. "Because you're brilliant. And terrifying. And just merciful enough to keep me hoping."

She blinked.

It wasn't a compliment. Not entirely. It was something else — gentler, somehow, and disarming in its quiet sincerity.

She closed her book with a slow sigh.

"Show me what you've written."

He slid the parchment over. It was... tragic. Half a paragraph, three misspellings, and one line that read Emeric was probably angry a lot.

She stared at him. "This is an insult to history. And parchment."

Cedric grinned. "It's also all I've got."

Rox pulled the parchment closer, summoned a quill, and began annotating the margins without another word. Cedric watched, brows raised, as she corrected, rewrote, and even diagrammed one of his sentences with arrows and sharp comments like this is not a personality trait and who is "the guy"?

"You're very intense when you tutor."

"I'm not tutoring. I'm fixing."

"Still," he said, leaning forward, elbows on the table now. "Thanks."

She didn't answer. Her hand brushed his as she reached for his inkpot, and neither of them moved for a second. Just the soft touch of skin on skin, the shared pause. Then she pulled away like nothing happened.

Cedric didn't.

"Do you always do homework alone?" he asked.

"I prefer silence."

"So you just tolerate me."

She looked up, meeting his eyes directly. "You're not loud. You're... persistent."

"Same thing, really."

There was a beat. She didn't smile. But the corner of her mouth twitched in the smallest of concessions.

Cedric noticed.

"Roxaine," he said softly, almost like testing the taste of her name, "you know, if you keep being this nice to me, people are going to talk."

Her head tilted, one brow arching. "They already are."

He grinned. "That's true. But none of them know you corrected my grammar with actual contempt. It's kind of intimate."

"Don't say that word."

"What, intimate?"

Her eyes narrowed.

He leaned in just slightly. "If you hex me now, it would be worth it."

Rox rolled her eyes and shoved the parchment back toward him. "Finish it properly."

"Yes, ma'am." He straightened the paper and picked up the quill, though his smirk remained intact. "Would it kill you to admit you don't mind having me around?"

"Possibly."

Cedric chuckled softly and dipped his quill into the ink. "You'll have to risk it someday."

They sat in silence after that — not awkward, not forced. Just two students surrounded by tomes and parchment and the dying light of late afternoon. She watched his handwriting slowly improve under her notes, his brow furrowed in concentration. And for a fleeting moment, Roxaine let herself enjoy the quiet company just a little.

The sun dipped lower, staining the floor with amber streaks that stretched across the stone. Most students had filtered out already, their chairs scraped back with casual abandon, their books returned in hurried stacks. The library breathed in a softer rhythm now — hushed, slow, private.

Roxaine remained in her seat, hand supporting her chin as she watched Cedric scribble something with the very edge of his tongue poking out in concentration. It should've been ridiculous. Childish, even. And yet there was something about the sincerity of it, the way he genuinely wanted to understand, that made it hard to look away.

"I have to ask," he said suddenly, not looking up. "Is it true that Slytherins write their essays in blood when ink runs out?"

She blinked. "Only if the blood belongs to someone else."

He let out a quiet laugh, pleased by her response. "Merlin. I'll be careful not to bleed around you then."

"I'd advise it."

Another pause.

"You never really stop, do you?" he asked, setting the quill down now. "The... thing you do. Always calculating. Always guarded."

She didn't answer immediately. Her eyes returned to his parchment, now halfway decent — still not brilliant, but no longer tragic.

"I was taught not to waste words," she said at last. "Not to give things away for free."

Cedric tilted his head. "And here I was thinking you just didn't like me."

Rox considered him for a long, still moment. Then: "I haven't decided yet."

That made him laugh again — softer, less teasing this time. As though something in her answer genuinely amused and humbled him all at once.

"You're kind of terrifying," he murmured.

"I've been told."

"But also... kind of fascinating."

"That one's new."

He glanced down at his hands, suddenly a little shy. Then back up. "Thanks for the help. Really."

She nodded.

He hesitated, fingers drumming lightly on the edge of the table. "Would it be terribly foolish to ask if you'd ever want to study again?"

Rox raised a brow. "You mean — tutor you again?"

"I was going to say study, but if you insist on being mean about it—"

"I insist on accuracy."

Cedric gave a mock bow from his seat. "Then yes, terrifying Miss Black. Would you, in your infinite accuracy, agree to study with me again sometime?"

She didn't smile. But her eyes lingered a little longer on his.

"I'll think about it."

It was more than he'd hoped for. "I'll take it."

He stood then, gathering his things. She watched him, arms folded, expression unreadable. At the edge of the aisle, he turned to look at her one more time.

"Don't stay too late. You'll turn into one of the library ghosts."

"I'd be the most organized ghost here."

"You'd haunt me with red ink."

"Don't tempt me."

He grinned. "Goodnight, Roxaine."

And just like that, he left — leaving her in a library stained gold by dusk, surrounded by open books and a heart beating slightly louder than it had when she first sat down.

Chapter Text

April 17, 1992
Dungeons, Potions Classroom
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The classroom was dim, the torches along the stone walls casting a flickering amber glow that made every bottle on the shelves glint ominously. A faint, acrid scent of something acidic clung to the air — Snape's latest brewing experiment, no doubt.

Roxaine sat with her usual composure, spine straight, quill already inked, waiting for Snape to begin listing the components of a Swelling Solution. Her gloves were tucked into her pocket. She hated wearing them during lessons. Too many details got lost beneath fabric.

Next to her, Cedric Diggory was uncharacteristically quiet. Which, in her experience, meant he was up to something.

She didn't glance at him. Not until she heard the faintest scratch.

A folded scrap of parchment landed lightly on the edge of her book. Cedric was still writing the date on his own notes, perfectly casual. Too casual. That only confirmed her suspicion.

Rox took her time unfolding it.

In neat, slightly slanted handwriting, it read:

So, Hogsmeade this weekend?
I'll be waiting for you at 3.
— C.D.

She didn't react at first. Let the words sit there like a challenge.

Then she took out her own quill, flipped the note over, and — without looking at him — wrote one word.

Presumptuous.

She passed it back the same way it had come.

Cedric read it and smirked. Then carefully added beneath her reply:

Confident.

He slid it back.

Rox stared at the parchment again, lips twitching despite herself. But she said nothing.

Snape's robes swept into the room like smoke in a corridor.

"Today," he announced, "we'll be reviewing the precise stages of brewing a Swelling Solution. Instructions are on the board. If any of you value your limbs in their current proportion, I suggest you follow them exactly."

Rox tucked the note into her sleeve without a sound.

Cedric looked smug.

And she hated that she didn't hate it.

April 18th, 1992
Hogsmeade Village, South Path Entrance
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The sky above Hogsmeade was a cool sweep of soft gray and pale gold, the sort of light that made everything look brushed with old parchment. The wind tugged gently at the hem of cloaks and played with strands of hair left unpinned. Somewhere behind the cluster of cottages, the smell of baking and distant honey wafted on the breeze.

Roxaine arrived precisely on time. Not early. Not eager.

Her boots clicked neatly over the cobblestones as she stepped through the low iron gate at the south entrance, her posture as poised as if she were walking into a duel. The forest green of her cloak caught the light with each movement. She looked like someone who didn't wait for anyone. And yet, she paused.

Cedric was already there, perched casually against a lamp post like the protagonist of a very cheesy novel, hands in his pockets, grin ready-made.

"You're punctual," he said, straightening up. "That's hot."

Roxaine arched a brow. "You're ridiculous."

"I know," he said brightly. "But you're here, so who really loses?"

He offered her his arm. She didn't take it, but she also didn't walk away, which was more than enough encouragement for him to fall into step beside her.

"You know," Cedric mused as they crossed toward the village center, "I was a little worried after that note exchange this week. 'Presumptuous,' you said. Cut deep, that one."

"You seemed to recover."

"Barely. I wept in a broom closet. Flitwick had to console me."

"Pity," she said, coolly. "I would've paid to see that."

Cedric grinned wider. "That's the spirit."

He walked close enough that their shoulders almost brushed. Almost. Roxaine kept her eyes ahead, chin lifted, stride exact. But her lashes flicked sideways once. Just once. That was the only sign.

As they entered the heart of the village, with its crooked chimneys and tangled ivy, the low murmur of students, villagers, and shopkeepers filled the space around them. Cedric leaned a little closer, dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"So, are we doing something rebellious today? Robbing Zonko's? Starting a candy cartel? Confessing our tragic backstories?"

"I thought I was tolerating your presence, not inviting a therapy session."

"Oh, I know," he said solemnly. "But I'm wearing you down. Slowly. Like water on rock."

She snorted softly—barely audible—and shook her head.

It was a sound he'd been hoping for.

They turned the corner toward the Three Broomsticks. A few older students were already clustered near the windows, mugs steaming on the tables. The door opened with a little chime and the warm rush of butterbeer, cinnamon, and firelight washed over them.

Cedric gestured grandly. "After you."

Roxaine swept past him without a word, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

He followed, smug as ever.

The interior of the Three Broomsticks was warm and gold-lit, its windows steamed from the inside and framed by velvet drapes. Lanterns hung from exposed rafters, casting soft amber light over polished wood and low chatter. The air smelled of roasted nuts, honeyed mead, and the burnt sugar crust of someone's forgotten treacle tart.

Cedric guided them toward a quieter booth near the back, where the din of the room melted into a murmur. Roxaine slid into the seat across from him with the same precision she used when drawing a wand; controlled, elegant, unreadable. Her cloak draped around her like armor, and she glanced around the tavern as if mentally cataloguing every table, every possible exit, every face worth remembering.

A young witch in an apron appeared at their table, smiling brightly.

"What can I get you two?"

Cedric leaned forward on his elbows, grin already forming. "One butterbeer, make it warm, extra foam. And she'll have..."

Roxaine didn't even let him finish.

"Butterbeer," she said crisply. "With cinnamon."

The waitress blinked. "Oh! Sure, we can do that. One butterbeer with cinnamon, one regular. Got it." She disappeared before Cedric could say another word.

He gave her a look across the table. "You... didn't let me order for you."

"I'm capable of speaking."

"You are," he agreed, nodding solemnly. "You also remembered your exact drink from last time. Fascinating. I was under the impression you only drank tea steeped in disdain and the tears of your enemies."

She glanced at him. "That's reserved for mornings."

Cedric laughed, low and genuine. He sat back in his seat, arms loosely folded across his chest. "You know," he said, "I'm starting to suspect you actually enjoy my company."

"Don't get ahead of yourself."

"You're here."

"I owed you," she replied flatly. "After that idiotic note."

"Owed me?" He gave her a wounded look. "You wound me again."

The butterbeers arrived then, steaming and golden. Hers had a soft curl of cinnamon dust on top, the scent rising sweet and sharp. She wrapped her hands around the mug, but didn't drink immediately.

He watched her carefully. "You always drink like you're expecting poison."

"You'd be surprised how often that's a realistic concern."

They drank in silence for a moment, the tavern bustling around them but somehow distant. Roxaine's fingers tapped once against the mug, almost absent. Cedric watched her over the rim of his drink. There was a sharpness in her eyes today—not cruel, but guarded. She hadn't smiled. Not really.

He leaned forward again, elbows resting on the table, voice softer this time. "You know, you haven't made a single joke at my expense."

"I'm pacing myself."

"Or maybe you're distracted," he said lightly. "Thinking about that candy you didn't eat."

Her eyes flicked up. "What are you talking about?"

He grinned. "You know what I mean. The—what was it?—Love Me, Love Diabetes? The jellybean monstrosity?"

She arched a brow, but there was a flash in her eyes now. A tiny crack. "You mean the one you bought knowing I didn't like sweets?"

"I like to live dangerously."

"I threw it away."

"Of course you did."

She took a sip of her butterbeer. "I did."

"You're lying."

"I am not."

"Roxaine."

She set the mug down. "Fine," she muttered. "I ate it. Later. Alone. Happy?"

His smile bloomed immediately. "Ecstatic."

"You're insufferable."

"And yet, here we are."

She didn't respond this time.

But she was still sitting across from him. Still drinking her butterbeer. Still letting the moment stretch, like maybe—just maybe—she didn't want to cut it short.

Their eyes stayed locked for a moment too long—just long enough for the warmth between them to shift, to thicken slightly. The tavern's laughter and clinking mugs seemed to muffle, just a little. Roxaine's breath caught in her throat before she schooled it into invisibility.

Cedric leaned back, but there was something quieter about the way he moved now. His grin faded into something softer. "Do you want to go for a walk?"

She didn't answer right away. She glanced at her half-full butterbeer, then out the window, where the light outside was beginning to tilt, golden and low. Finally, she nodded once.

They walked through Hogsmeade in a silence that wasn't heavy, but wasn't light either. The kind of silence you had to choose to keep. Cedric didn't speak right away, and Roxaine didn't ask him to. The cobbled path curled through rows of little shops and cottages, their windows glowing like lanterns in the dusk. Her gloved hands were folded behind her back, his tucked loosely in his coat pockets. Their shoulders nearly brushed as they walked, and when they did, neither pulled away.

"I meant what I said earlier," he murmured eventually. "About your smile."

She didn't look at him.

"You smiled," he added, glancing sideways. "Last time. When I burned my tongue."

"I was amused by your suffering."

"That's what I liked about it."

Roxaine rolled her eyes. But there was color in her cheeks now. The kind that had nothing to do with the wind.

They stopped near a narrow stone bridge over a frozen stream, the kind of quaint little place Hogsmeade seemed to specialize in. Cedric leaned over the rail, glancing at the water below. She didn't follow him. She stayed upright, spine perfectly straight, but didn't walk off either.

"You're not what I expected, you know," he said after a moment, still looking down.

"Oh?"

"I thought you were cruel."

She gave him a flat look. "I am."

"No. You're sharp. That's different."

"You don't know me."

"Maybe not," he said, lifting his gaze to hers again. "But I'm trying."

That did something to her expression. Something small and twitching at the edge of control.

"And why would you want to?" she asked, low.

Cedric didn't smile this time. "Because I see more than you want people to."

She hated that. Hated that her throat tightened at it. That something inside her chest folded in on itself, sharp and tender all at once.

He got off the rail, turning to her and taking a slow step closer—not too close, but close enough that she felt the shift in the air. "Do you really want me to stop?"

Her jaw tightened.

He waited.

Then, very quietly, she said, "You're making a mistake."

"I've made worse."

She turned her face away.

But didn't walk.

Roxaine remained still, eyes fixed somewhere just past his shoulder, as if anything else—anything—were safer to look at than the way Cedric was watching her. But her breath had changed. Slower, shallower. The way it did when someone was very carefully not reacting.

Cedric didn't speak again. He just stepped closer.

Not enough to crowd her, but enough to make the air between them thin. His hand hovered near her sleeve, not touching. Just... waiting. There was no sudden rush. No reckless tilt of the head or panicked stumble. It was quieter than that. Deliberate. Real.

She looked up at him, finally.

And that was it.

That was the moment.

Because for once, Roxaine Black didn't have a scathing remark or a clever retort, no shield of words or weapons to raise. There was only silence. And her lips parted the smallest bit.

Cedric's hand lifted—slow, like asking for permission without asking. His fingers brushed the edge of her jaw, and she didn't pull away.

Her breath caught.

And he leaned in.

Closer.

Closer still.

Their noses nearly touched. His eyes flicked to her mouth, then back up.

So did hers.

But just before their lips could meet—just before—she stepped back.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just enough.

The cold filled the space between them again.

Her voice came quiet, rougher than usual. "I can't."

Cedric straightened, hands dropping to his sides, but he didn't look angry. Not even disappointed. Just... patient.

"I know," he said softly.

She looked away, cheeks hot, throat tight.

"You almost did," he added.

"I didn't."

"You did."

"I changed my mind."

His mouth curved—not in mockery, but something gentler. "I'll try again."

She didn't answer that. Couldn't.

Not without risking something she wasn't ready to name.

So instead, she turned and started walking. Not quickly. Just enough to put space between her and whatever that had nearly been.

And once again, Cedric followed. Quiet, steady, a pace behind. Smiling like a boy who hadn't won, but knew the game wasn't over.

The walk back to the castle was quieter than usual, but not in a bad way.

The kind of quiet that felt... full. Like something had been said even if the words had never made it past their lips.

Roxaine walked with her hands in her pockets, gaze fixed ahead, but Cedric knew her well enough by now to recognize the tiny tells: the way she kicked at a loose stone on the path, the subtle shift in her jaw, the flicker of her fingers when she adjusted the collar of her cloak. She was thinking. Hard. And not about the weather.

He didn't press her.

Not yet.

Instead, he let the quiet stretch, giving her the space she'd never ask for out loud. The spring wind tugged at the edges of their robes as the castle loomed closer, its windows glowing gold against the deepening dusk.

"You know," he said finally, not quite looking at her, "if I'd actually kissed you back there..."

She tilted her head, one brow raising slowly. "If?"

"I said if." He smiled sideways. "You'd probably have hexed me."

"Probably," she agreed.

He chuckled. "Would've been worth it."

She didn't respond right away, just kept walking, her expression unreadable in that maddening way of hers.

Then: "Your overconfidence is exhausting."

"Thanks. I work hard on it."

They reached the stairs to the dungeons, where the warmth of the torches gave way to the cool shadows of the lower halls. Her pace slowed instinctively—almost like she didn't want the moment to end, even if she'd never admit it.

He noticed.

And he couldn't help it.

"Is this the part where you threaten me into silence again?" he asked, voice low, teasing.

Roxaine exhaled softly, amused despite herself. "No. You've proven remarkably uncooperative."

"I take that as a compliment."

"You shouldn't."

But there was no venom in it. None of the sharp-edged sarcasm she used like armor. Just... quiet exasperation. The kind reserved for people she didn't entirely hate.

They reached the arch that marked the entryway to the Slytherin common room.

Cedric stopped first.

She did too, after a step, as if only just realizing she'd slowed.

He looked at her, studying the faint crease between her brows, the faint pink still clinging to the tips of her ears, barely visible in the torchlight.

"By the way," he said softly, "your ears are red again."

Her hand flew up to touch them instinctively, eyes narrowing. "They are not."

"They are."

"They-" She caught the smile on his face and immediately dropped her hand. "You're insufferable."

"Maybe." He took a step back, still grinning. "But you almost kissed me."

"I changed my mind."

"You'll change it back."

She didn't answer.

Didn't glare.

Just watched him turn and walk away, his laughter echoing lightly down the corridor.

And once he was out of sight, she touched her ears again. Just in case.

April 18, 1992
Slytherin Common Room, Late Evening
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The fire crackled lazily in the hearth, casting shifting emerald light across the stone walls. Most of the other students had already disappeared into their dormitories, and the ones who remained were buried in books or half-whispered gossip. Roxaine sat in her usual armchair, her posture impeccable, her fingers resting on the spine of a closed book she hadn't managed to open for twenty minutes.

Cassius Rosier approached without a word, dropping into the chair beside her with the ease of someone who had known her long enough not to ask for permission. He tilted his head, examining her carefully.

"You're doing the thing."

"What thing?" she replied without looking at him.

"The thing where you sit perfectly still and pretend to be reading while mentally setting fire to your own thoughts."

Roxaine didn't respond. She adjusted the hem of her sleeve.

Cassius leaned back, folding his arms. "So. Was it Weasley again?"

"No."

"Diggory, then."

A pause. Then, quiet and deliberate: "We almost kissed."

Cassius blinked once.

Then he sat up straighter. "You what?"

"I said we almost kissed," she repeated. Her tone didn't change. Controlled, measured, as if she were discussing the weather. But Cassius knew her too well. The tension was in her shoulders. In the way her fingers curled slightly around the edge of the book.

He stared at her. "Merlin's hells, Rox."

"It didn't happen," she said flatly.

"Not for lack of trying, apparently."

She closed her eyes for a moment, just long enough to collect herself. "He was being... idiotic. Flirting. Relentlessly. I tolerated it."

Cassius narrowed his eyes. "You tolerated it so much that your faces ended up half an inch apart?"

"It was a moment."

He scoffed. "You don't have moments. You engineer outcomes. You manipulate optics. You don't—"

"Cassius."

The sharpness of her voice cut him off. Not loud. Just decisive. Enough to remind him that whatever this was, she had already gone over it a hundred times in her head.

Still, he wasn't letting it drop.

"You like him," he said, like it was an accusation.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't need to."

They stared at each other for a long beat.

Then Roxaine looked away, her voice lower now. "It's irrelevant."

Cassius leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Not to me."

Silence settled again. Heavy, but not angry.

Then, more carefully: "Are you going to see him again?"

She didn't answer.

That was answer enough.

April 20th, 1992
Slytherin Common Room, Late Afternoon
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The letter arrived wrapped in green wax, thick as lacquer and stamped with the Malfoy crest. It was delivered not by school owl, but by a sleek black falcon that circled once above the Slytherin table before descending directly to Roxaine's lap during a late afternoon study hour. The bird was beautiful, silent, and cold as a blade — unmistakably Lucius's.

She didn't open the letter immediately. Just stared at it for a few moments, back straight, chin slightly raised. Cassius, seated beside her, glanced sideways and muttered, "That's not your usual owl."

Rox answered with a small shake of her head.

She waited until she was alone in the common room to break the seal.

The parchment inside was parchment only in theory — thick, high-quality vellum, smooth as marble, and just as cold. The ink was black with a faint iridescent sheen, like oil on water. Every line flowed with the careful elegance of Lucius's hand.

My dear Roxaine,

It has come to my attention, through various channels of unimpeachable reliability, that you have recently been seen in Hogsmeade, once again walking arm in arm with the Diggory boy.

You will forgive me, I'm sure, for skipping the pleasantries. I imagine your mother has already offered hers, and I trust she did so with her usual warmth and grace. I, on the other hand, must address this issue with a more practical tone.

Tell me, Roxaine — what precisely do you think you are doing?

I trust that you are aware of the delicacy of our position. Of your position.

You carry the Black name. You are known. Watched. Whispers are currency, and yours must not be spent so frivolously. The Diggory line, while technically of pure blood, lacks the rigor, the lineage, the ideology that sustains families like ours. Cedric Diggory is a Quidditch player, a dreamer, and — need I remind you — a Hufflepuff.

This is not a matter of affection. This is a matter of optics. You must never allow anyone to see you drift from the place we've carved for you with such precision.

There is a way we do things. There is our way. I suggest you remember it.

We will discuss this further at the manor during the summer holidays. Or sooner, if your behavior demands it.

Be wise.

L.M.

She read it once. Then again.

And then she folded it neatly and slid it back into the envelope, hands steady even as her pulse roared in her ears.

The fire flickered low in the hearth, casting wavering shadows across the serpent-carved mantle. Outside the dungeons, the castle stirred in its usual rhythm — students returning from classes, laughter echoing faintly up the stone halls. The world went on, unaware that Lucius Malfoy had just clipped her wings with a single letter.

Her first instinct wasn't sadness.

It was fury.

Not at Lucius — that was expected. But at herself. For forgetting. For letting herself believe, even for an hour, that she could have something quiet. Something warm. Something real.

She rose, slow and composed, and tucked the letter deep into her satchel, between her Arithmancy notes and her self-inked copy of Advanced Magical Theory.

Then she left the common room without a word.

April 25th, 1992
Courtyard Outside the Great Hall, Midday
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

Cedric saw her before she saw him.

Or perhaps she had seen him, and simply hadn't reacted.

She was seated alone beneath the half-shadow of a stone arch, posture flawless even with her legs crossed at the ankle and one elbow propped lazily on her knee. The courtyard bustled around her—groups walking past, a few younger students playing some absurd chasing game—but she was a fixed point. Like everything else moved around her by design.

He approached anyway, hands tucked into his pockets.

"You disappeared," he said lightly.

Her eyes lifted. No smile. No warmth. Just a slow blink, and then her gaze returned to the book resting on her lap.

"You're not owed a schedule."

"Didn't say I was," Cedric replied, voice low but steady. "But it's been days."

"I know."

Silence.

He stood there a moment longer. The wind stirred his hair. Hers remained immaculate, of course.

"I've been thinking about the other day," he added. "At Hogsmeade."

She didn't answer.

"You were going to let me kiss you," he said, tone just shy of a challenge.

She closed the book with deliberate calm.

"I didn't."

"No. But you would've."

A pause. A twitch in her jaw. So faint it was almost imaginary.

"You mistake tolerance for intent," she said. "That happens with people like you."

He exhaled a soft laugh, but there wasn't much humor in it. "Right. Because I'm just another boy who thinks he can charm a Black into liking sweets and soft things."

Her eyes flicked back to him. Sharper now.

"If I wanted soft things," she said, "you would be the last person I'd choose."

Something about the precision of that cut deeper than any shout.

Cedric stood straighter. He nodded once.

"Alright," he said.

And then, after a beat: "I liked you better when you were pretending not to care."

Her expression didn't change, but her fingers tightened slightly against the spine of the book.

"I'm not pretending anything."

He tilted his head. "Then just tell me. Is this done?"

She didn't answer right away. She looked at him for a long moment. Not cruel. Not angry. Just detached. Distant, like she was already imagining herself three steps beyond this conversation, this courtyard, this version of herself.

Finally, she stood.

"It was never anything."

Then she walked past him.

Not fast. Not cold.

Just final.

And he didn't follow.

Chapter Text

April 26th, 1992
Second Floor Corridor, Dusk
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The day was bleeding into evening, casting slanted gold light across the stones as Roxaine leaned against the windowsill of the deserted corridor. The lake shimmered beyond the glass, deceptively calm. Her expression was composed, but her grip on the parchment in her hand was too tight to be casual. She had already folded and unfolded it four times, creasing it along new lines until it no longer looked like a letter but a deliberate maze of angles.

Cassius arrived in silence, his footfalls barely audible on the stone floor. She didn't look up until he was standing beside her, close enough to share breath but not warmth.

"It came yesterday," she said without greeting.

He glanced at the paper between her fingers. "From him?"

She nodded once. "Lucius."

Cassius exhaled through his nose, sharp but unsurprised. "And?"

Rox handed him the letter wordlessly. Let him read it himself. She didn't want to say the words out loud again. Didn't want to give them more power than they already had.

He took it. The silence between them stretched as he read; slow, careful. His eyes moved over every word with clinical precision, and by the time he reached the signature at the bottom, his jaw was tense.

When he finally looked up, she was already staring back at the lake.

"It's not even veiled," he said. "He might as well have underlined 'optics' in blood."

Roxaine didn't flinch. "He's never veiled with me. Not when it counts."

Cassius folded the letter neatly, a mirror of her earlier movements, but his hands were steadier.

"Have you answered him?"

"No."

A pause. Then, quietly, "Are you going to?"

She didn't respond at once. Then, finally, "I wrote a reply. Three versions, actually. Crumpled all of them."

Cassius hummed. "Of course you did."

Rox turned toward him, gaze sharp now. "What would you have written?"

He shrugged, too easily. "Something between a declaration of independence and a dissertation on bloodlines."

She almost smiled. Almost.

But the air between them was growing dense. Not with fury. With expectation and disappointment.

Cassius handed the letter back, but she didn't take it. She only stared at it, as if by doing so she could burn through the parchment and into the ink.

"If it bothers you this much," he said, voice steady, "then speak to him."

Roxaine finally turned. "Speak to him?"

"Yes. Lucius. Confront him."

A shadow shifted just beyond the bend in the corridor. Cedric Diggory, arms full with a stack of Charms books, slowed his pace as the familiar sound of her voice reached him. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop. He'd only been heading toward the library. But now, something in her tone; sharp, worn, nothing like how she'd sounded days ago in Hogsmeade, pinned him to the marble.

"And tell him what?" Rox was saying. "That I like Diggory? That I enjoy meaningless walks and sugar-filled nonsense and the occasional near kiss?"

The name hit like a thrown stone. Cedric stopped completely, heart stalling mid-beat.

Cassius didn't miss a beat. "Do you?"

"That's not the point."

He stepped in front of her, blocking her from the corridor light. Cedric, still out of sight, stayed where he was, silent as the carved stone around him.

"You keep saying you're not a child, that you can handle your own narrative," Cassius said, voice rising. "So handle it. You said Narcissa's on your side. Use that. She's already softened the field. You're not without leverage."

"This isn't about leverage."

Cassius blinked. "Then what is it about?"

"It's about him." Her voice was lower now, strained. "You think I can just waltz into the manor and tell Lucius Malfoy that I'm seeing a Hufflepuff boy who calls me pretty and buys me ridiculous candy?"

"If it's the truth—"

"It's not a truth he'll accept."

"Then make him."

The silence that followed was brittle. Roxaine looked away, jaw tight, arms crossed, and just around the corner, Cedric stood frozen. He hadn't meant to hear. But now that he had... he couldn't seem to move.

Roxaine let out a short, breathless laugh; the kind that had no humor at all. "You say that like you understand what it means to cross Lucius Malfoy."

Cassius's gaze sharpened. "You think I don't?"

"No," she said coldly, "I think you like to pretend you do. But when he looks at you, he sees a Rosier. When he looks at me, he sees a legacy. One he believes he built. One he expects me to uphold. I'm not just some cousin he tolerates. I'm a symbol he crafted."

"Don't flatter him. You're not a symbol, you're a person."

"Not to him."

"And yet you keep choosing him over yourself."

"I never said I chose him."

"You didn't have to," Cassius shot back. "You're still dancing to his rhythm."

She took a step forward. "And what would you have me do, Cass? Throw away everything I've built for some- some fleeting butterbeer smiles and pink ribbons?"

Just around the corner, Cedric stiffened. The words didn't sting, but they landed with a clarity he hadn't asked for.

Cassius didn't back down. "If that's how you see it, then you never cared in the first place."

"I didn't say that either."

"Then what are you saying?"

Roxaine faltered. Her lips parted, but no answer came. Her hands were clenched at her sides now, the parchment of Lucius' letter crumpled between her fingers.

Cassius exhaled, quieter this time. "You're terrified," he said, not unkindly. "And instead of facing it, you're pushing everyone away so you don't have to admit it."

That landed deeper than she'd let him see. But she didn't flinch. Not visibly.

"I don't need to be understood, Cassius," she said, voice like winter glass. "I need to be respected."

He shook his head. "They're not the same."

And with that, he turned and walked away, his robes sweeping after him like a final word.

Roxaine stood still for a moment longer, expression blank, spine too straight.

And that was when she heard the footsteps behind her.

Slow, careful; someone who'd stayed still for too long.

She turned, and there he was; Cedric. Books still in hand, face unreadable, gaze too quiet for comfort.

She didn't speak. Neither did he, not yet.

Cedric didn't look angry.

That was the worst part.

Roxaine could have handled anger; it was loud, predictable, flammable. She could have folded it neatly and tucked it away between cold retorts and icy dismissals. But this? This silence? This stillness?

It unnerved her.

She didn't move. The crumpled letter was still in her hand, the edges biting into her palm. She said nothing; not a word to excuse herself, not a word to acknowledge what he might have heard. Because if she didn't speak, maybe none of it would become real.

Cedric stepped forward, slowly, until there was only a hand's width of space between them. His voice, when it came, was soft.

"You could've just told me."

Her jaw tightened.

"I'm not naïve," he added. "I know what your name costs."

She looked away then, not out of shame but out of instinct; the same one that kept her spine straight in front of any known name, the same one that made her school her face into marble.

Still, she replied, low, clipped. "Then why keep bidding?"

He didn't smile. "Because you're worth more than what they're selling."

A beat of silence stretched between them.

"You shouldn't have heard that," she said flatly.

"No, I probably shouldn't have."

She looked at him now, really looked at him; the open concern behind the calm eyes, the way his hands flexed slightly at his sides like he didn't know what to do with them.

"You don't understand," she said finally. "You think this is about pride, or performance, or... or being seen. But it's not. It's about survival."

"I believe you."

That surprised her.

She frowned. "Then why are you still here?"

"Because I care," he said simply. "Even if you don't want me to."

She inhaled slowly through her nose, searching for something to anchor herself.

"And what would you have me do, Diggory?" she asked, voice low but laced with something raw beneath. "Bring you home for tea? Introduce you to the portraits of all the dead Blacks and ask for their blessing?"

His mouth quirked, just slightly; not mockery, not amusement. Something gentler.

"No," he said. "I'd ask you to stop running."

"I'm not-"

"Yes, you are. You push. You vanish. You weaponize your name, your silence, your rules; and I let you, every time. Because I get it. But I don't want to be your secret, Rox."

She flinched just slightly.

And Cedric sighed.

"Look," he said, softer now. "I'm not asking you to pick a side. I'm not trying to pull you into some fairy tale where love fixes everything and we dance at the Yule Ball next year. I'm just... tired of pretending that what we have is something you can cut off like a loose thread."

She didn't answer.

And when she didn't, Cedric nodded once.

Not angry.

Not even disappointed.

Just... accepting.

He stepped back.

"I'll see you in class."

And then he was gone; leaving her standing in the corridor, alone, the weight of the letter in her hand suddenly heavier than ever before.

As his footsteps faded down the corridor, Roxaine remained still. Her pulse had steadied, but there was a pressure behind her ribs, like something folded in too tight.

She looked down at the crumpled letter still clutched in her hand, the elegant scrawl, the cold precision of every word. It had weighed on her all week. And now it had spilled into something she couldn't shove back into silence.

The hallway was empty.

Her eyes flicked to the direction Cedric had gone.

Then, under her breath, barely audible:

"Well... fuck."

No dramatics. No sigh. Just a single syllable falling like a cracked gemstone from her mouth.

She straightened her shoulders and walked to her common room.

April 28th, 1992
Great Hall, Breakfast
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The morning was brittle with late spring chill, light filtering through the enchanted ceiling in pale, watery beams that cast a silver sheen over the long tables. Roxaine sat at her usual place, porcelain-still, her teacup cradled between gloved fingers as steam rose in soft coils. The din of the Hall felt far away today; unimportant. She had barely touched the half-sliced pear on her plate.

Cassius sat across from her, reading the Prophet without real interest. His gaze flicked upward every so often, searching the hall absently, noting who sat where, who whispered to whom. He didn't speak. Neither did she.

Then came the owl.

A sleek, ash-colored creature glided down from the rafters and landed precisely in front of her with the quiet confidence of a creature that had done this many times before. The envelope bore a wax seal dark as ink, the Black crest gleaming faintly under the enchanted ceiling light. Not a Malfoy seal. A Black one.

Rox paused. Her breath, already shallow, narrowed to the space between heartbeats.

Cassius looked up sharply.

She didn't meet his eyes as she slid the letter free from the owl's claw and broke the seal.

It smelled faintly of rose and cedar. She knew before reading.

My dearest Roxaine,

I trust this finds you well. I expect by now that spring has begun to thaw the lake and that the greenhouses are full of more pollen than decorum. I do hope you're taking proper care of your lungs; one must never underestimate the power of seemingly harmless things.

I will be in Hogsmeade this weekend. And I would very much like you to join me.

Let us call it what it is not: a command. Let us say, instead, that I miss your company and wish to take tea with you. There is a new salon that serves a rather impressive Ceylon cinnamon blend, I believe it may suit your evolving tastes.

You need not dress formally, though you always do. A touch of burgundy might be wise.

I expect you at noon. Punctuality flatters the host.

With all my affection,
Narcissa Black-Malfoy

P.S. I trust you know this is not merely about tea.

"Narcissa," she said under her breath.

Cassius raised a brow. "Urgent?"

"She's coming to Hogsmeade."

He waited for more.

"She wants tea." Her tone was flat, unreadable. "This weekend."

"And?"

"She expects me there at noon. Burgundy recommended."

Cassius tilted his head slightly. "Which means it's not just tea."

Rox folded the letter precisely and slid it into the inside pocket of her robes, near her ribs. "She signed it with her maiden name." That was all she said.

But Cassius caught the shift in her expression, so faint most would miss it. A soft crack at the edge of her mask. Not worry. Not fear, no. It was preparation.

Because when Narcissa summoned her wearing the name Black, it meant there were moves being made. And Roxaine; brilliant, poised, calculating Roxaine, was being positioned.

Cassius leaned forward just slightly. "Do you want me to come?"

"No," she said simply. "This isn't for you."

A pause.

"But thank you."

And with that, she picked up her teacup again, blew lightly across the rim, and sipped. As if the air around her hadn't just shifted.

As if her name hadn't just been called to the table.

May 2nd, 1992
Hogsmeade – Courtyard of Choux Fleur,
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

Roxaine arrived exactly at noon.

The sun had warmed the cobblestones just enough to coax the scent of butter and lilac from the shopfronts. Students flitted in groups around the main street, laughter echoing faintly through the alleys, but she walked alone; calm, wrapped in shadow-toned wool and wine-colored gloves, her hair held back by a silver clasp.

Choux Fleur was elegant, but not ostentatious. Small white marble tables circled the fountain in the central courtyard, where fresh tulips spilled from stone planters. A waitress with rose-gold spectacles greeted her with a bow and led her not inside, but to a shaded table near the ivy-wrapped gate. The seat facing the street was empty.

The other two were not.

Narcissa Malfoy looked, as always, like winter disguised as spring. She wore dove grey robes with sheer sleeves, minimal jewelry save for a brooch shaped like a crescent moon, and she was stirring her tea with one hand, a delicate gold ring catching the light.

Beside her sat Lucius.

Impeccable. Cold. Watching her approach with unreadable poise.

Roxaine did not falter. Her chin lifted barely half an inch. Then she stepped forward and gave the faintest inclination of her head.

"You summoned me."

Narcissa's smile was polite. Measured.

"I invited you, darling."

"Same thing."

Lucius's mouth curved, not quite into a smile. "Still sharp, I see."

Rox's gaze didn't move. "Always."

The silence between them held, brittle as glass.

Then Narcissa gestured to the seat beside her. "Come. Sit."

She did. Silently.

A waitress appeared almost instantly. "Would the young lady like her usual?"

"Yes," Narcissa answered for her. "Butterbeer, cinnamon stick, hint of cream."

Rox flicked her eyes sideways. "You've been asking the house elves."

"I've been paying attention."

The waitress bowed and vanished. The tension did not.

Lucius finally spoke. "You've been seen twice now in Hogsmeade with the Diggory boy."

Rox answered without blinking. "Correct."

"And you believe this is... appropriate?"

"I believe it's already been done."

Narcissa sipped her tea slowly. "Lucius," she murmured without looking up, "she's not here to be interrogated."

Lucius did not move. "She's here to be reminded of who she is."

"No," Rox said softly. "I'm here because she asked me."

There was another pause.

Lucius studied her carefully, then turned to his wife. "You approve of this?"

Narcissa dabbed her mouth with her napkin. "I approve of her thinking for herself."

"That isn't what I asked."

"But it's the answer you needed."

Roxaine's voice slid in, cool and deliberate. "He is not an idiot. He knows what I am."

"And yet he still chooses you?" Lucius's gaze narrowed. "Hufflepuffs are sentimental like that."

"No," Narcissa said softly, and now her eyes were on her husband. "He chooses her because he sees her. And you should too."

Lucius said nothing.

Rox sat back slightly as her butterbeer arrived, the cinnamon stick swirling slowly inside the golden liquid.

Narcissa reached for a sugared biscuit, broke it cleanly in two, and passed one half to Rox without looking.

"Tell me," she said, voice air-light, "what did he say the first time he saw you smile?"

Rox looked at her, slowly.

Lucius exhaled, visibly unamused.

But Narcissa just smiled again, quietly. "Don't lie."

And Rox, lips parting faintly around the edge of the mug, said nothing.

But her ears, Narcissa noted, were red.

Lucius's jaw tensed, though his fingers remained perfectly still where they rested atop his cane. He had not touched his tea. He hadn't looked at Roxaine since she spoke last.

"I fail to see how a boy known for his charm and athletic mediocrity is worth risking this family's reputation."

"Reputation?" Narcissa's tone barely shifted. "You mean the one you've spent the last year salvaging from The Dark Lord's shadow?"

Lucius's eyes snapped to her.

But Narcissa, elegant and composed, was already reaching for another biscuit.

Roxaine said nothing.

Lucius's voice was quiet. "Careful, Narcissa."

"Always," she replied, with a smile far too soft to be harmless.

Rox sipped her butterbeer, the cinnamon warming her chest. She didn't interject. Watching them was like watching chess played with smiles and silk gloves—except the board was rigged, and the pieces had teeth.

Lucius finally turned to her again, gaze sharp. "You think this is clever? Tying yourself to a name like Diggory's?"

"I'm not tying myself to anyone," she said evenly. "I went on two dates."

"And a third," Narcissa added lightly, "if he asks again."

Lucius ignored her.

"You walk a narrow line, Roxaine," he said. "You've always known that."

She tilted her head. "Then maybe I've just learned to balance."

His expression didn't flicker, but something in his voice cooled. "You are not your own."

Roxaine's back straightened slightly. "No."

Lucius leaned forward now, elbows on the table. "You are a Black. That name was given to you because the House fell silent, and someone had to hold what was left. And I will not allow that legacy to be squandered on adolescent whims."

Narcissa, surprisingly, didn't interrupt.

Neither did Rox.

She waited.

Let the words settle like smoke.

Then, with precise calm, she asked, "So what would you have me do?"

Lucius didn't answer right away. Then he said, "Withdraw."

"And lie?"

He met her eyes directly. "If that's what it takes."

Across the table, Narcissa let out a faint sigh and placed her cup down a touch harder than necessary. "You always mistake silence for stability, Lucius. It's not. It never has been."

His jaw clenched.

Roxaine leaned back, finishing the last of her drink.

"I don't care about approval," she said finally. "But I do expect consistency. If Cedric were a Rosier, you'd be celebrating this."

"If he were a Rosier," Lucius said coldly, "we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Rox smiled.

Not kindly.

Then she stood.

Narcissa looked up at her, eyes unreadable.

"Are we done?" Rox asked.

Lucius looked at her like she was a pawn that had forgotten it wasn't a queen.

"We'll speak again before summer."

Rox inclined her head faintly.

Then turned on her heel and walked out of the tearoom, leaving behind the scent of cinnamon and lilac and the taste of something too sharp to be sweet.

Narcissa didn't follow. Not yet.

But her fingers brushed the edge of Lucius's cup. Still full, still untouched. And cold.

The afternoon light was duller now, grey and honeyed, stretched thin between the chimneys of the village. Roxaine walked alone through the cobbled streets, gloved hands in her pockets, not in a rush to return to the castle. The breeze tugged at the ends of her cloak, lifting them just enough to make her feel untethered.

She hadn't said goodbye to Narcissa. She hadn't needed to. The conversation with Lucius still sat sharp behind her ribs, like a brooch pinned too tight to bone.

She turned onto a quieter path, one that passed behind Honeydukes and toward the edge of the village. Fewer students wandered here, and the air smelled of damp wood and chimney smoke. Peaceful. Or it would've been, if her thoughts didn't keep replaying.

You are not your own.

Her jaw clenched.

He could command every part of her life. He had, for years. But he couldn't command what her heart refused to bury.

Footsteps echoed behind her.

She didn't stop walking.

"Black."

She almost rolled her eyes.

She slowed only slightly and turned her head just enough to glance at him. Cedric. His hair looked a little windblown, his cheeks pink from the cold, and his smile, cautious.

He caught up to her, matching her pace.

"I wasn't following you," he said.

"Of course not."

"I just happened to be leaving the bakery and saw someone sulking down the alley like she'd just hexed a first year."

"I should've," she muttered.

He chuckled.

They walked in silence for a few seconds. The breeze carried the sound of distant chatter and clinking mugs from the Three Broomsticks.

"Are you okay?" he asked, not looking at her this time.

"Fine."

"Sure?"

She gave him a look that clearly meant: drop it.

But then he said, softer, "You don't look fine."

She stopped walking. He did too, two steps later.

There was a pause.

He waited.

"You don't get to ask that," she said finally.

Cedric blinked, confused. "Why not?"

"Because I don't owe you answers."

"I didn't ask for answers," he said gently. "I asked if you were alright."

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides.

She should've walked away. She always did. That was the arrangement. Not official, but carefully built. He'd flirt, she'd tolerate. He'd ask, she'd evade. He'd get close, she'd shut the door.

But today she was tired. The kind of tired that made her tongue heavy and her armor slip sideways.

So she said, "I met with my family."

He nodded slowly. "And?"

"And I remembered why I hate meetings."

He smiled, brief and unsure.

Another pause.

"Did they mention me?" he asked.

She didn't answer.

"Did they threaten to disown you for entertaining a Hufflepuff?"

"Something like that."

He shoved his hands into his coat pockets. "That explains the expression."

She looked at him then, her gaze sharp but not cruel. "What expression?"

"The one that says you'd rather die than be seen with me right now."

She stared. Then, without thinking, "If I wanted to avoid you, you wouldn't have found me."

A breath passed between them. Neither moved.

Cedric tilted his head. "So... are you avoiding me?"

She didn't answer right away. The light caught the edges of her hair like it was gilded, though her face was unreadable.

"Not yet," she said finally.

Cedric stepped closer, not enough to touch, just enough to feel.

"So there's still a chance?"

She gave him a look, but it wasn't as sharp as it could've been. "You're insufferable."

"You're intolerant."

"And still here."

"You're impossible, Black."

"And you're a problem I don't have time for."

He smirked. "You just made time."

She turned then, back toward the castle, walking a little too fast.

He fell into step beside her, again.

"Don't," she warned.

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're looking at me."

"You're very look-at-able."

She shot him a glare.

"See? Look at that. I didn't even know glares could be that elegant."

"Diggory—"

"Did they at least let you keep your wand after the interrogation?"

She didn't smile. Not really.

But something in her shoulder tension softened.

And he saw it.

He didn't say anything else. Just walked with her.

Quiet.

Present.

Not asking for answers. Not expecting anything in return.

And for once, she let him.

They reached the edge of the main path back to Hogwarts when Roxaine slowed, just slightly. The air was cooler here, the slope of the hill already casting long shadows. The castle rose in the distance, its towers pale against the evening sky.

Cedric was still beside her, quiet. He hadn't pushed further. Not since she let him stay.

And that, in itself, was strange.

It felt almost... companionable.

She hated that it felt good.

From the upper path that curved around the side of the village, two tall figures stood near the wrought-iron railing. Lucius Malfoy, in his heavy black coat, gloved hands resting lightly on his cane. Narcissa beside him, elegant even in stillness, her gaze fixed below.

Lucius didn't say a word, but his posture shifted; chin raised slightly, lips drawn in a line that wasn't quite displeasure, but certainly not approval.

Narcissa's eyes tracked her niece, narrowed just enough to take in everything. The way Roxaine kept her hands in her pockets. The way she walked a step ahead of Cedric but didn't push him away. The silence that wasn't tense, but layered.

Roxaine didn't see them at first.

Cedric did.

He turned his head, just a flicker of movement, then lowered it again like nothing had happened.

But Rox noticed the shift.

"What?" she asked under her breath, sharp.

He hesitated.

"...Nothing."

She followed his gaze before he could stop her.

And there they were.

Like carved marble, watching.

Roxaine's jaw tensed. She didn't stop walking, didn't pause. But her entire body shifted just slightly. Straighter. Colder. Measured.

Cedric glanced sideways. "Want me to peel off?"

"No."

Her voice was quiet.

Surprising even herself.

But she didn't turn away. Didn't drop his pace. Didn't fake a scowl or raise a shield.

'Let them see,' she thought bitterly. 'Let them guess.'

Lucius, above, tilted his head. His gaze burned.

Narcissa; her lips parted, just faintly. Not quite a smile. But almost.

"They're watching," Cedric said softly.

"I know."

"Should I be worried?"

"Only if you plan to marry me."

He blinked.

Then, low, "You've got a strange way of flirting, Black."

"Good."

He chuckled. "Strange. But good."

And then they passed out of view.

Lucius remained still.

Narcissa finally turned to him.

"Well?" she asked.

His eyes were still on the path. "She's testing us."

"She's living," Narcissa corrected. "And you're missing it."

Lucius didn't reply.

But his grip on the cane tightened.

April 26th, 1992
Hogwarts' corridor
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The corridor was dimly lit, all soft golden sconces and the faint scent of stone warmed by sun. Their footsteps echoed against the floor, too loud in the silence they didn't dare fill.

They weren't speaking.

They hadn't spoken since she saw her uncle.

But gods, they were breathing too loud.

Roxaine walked a step ahead, hands still in her coat pockets, her jaw clenched tight. Cedric was behind her, close; way too close. Every so often, she could feel the warmth of his presence at her back. A flicker of heat, a whisper of nearness, like static before lightning.

She stopped outside a narrow passage near the Charms corridor, beneath the archway that led toward the dungeons.

So did he.

"You're following me," she said quietly, not turning around.

"I'm walking you back," he replied, just as low.

"There's no need."

"There never is."

She turned then. Slowly. Her eyes locked with his.

And something shifted.

The air between them grew heavy, dense. Her spine was straight, her lips neutral, but her gaze burned. Cedric didn't step back. He tilted his head slightly, searching her face with that maddening gentleness that always made her want to scream or kiss him or both.

"You knew they were watching," he said.

"Of course I did."

"And you didn't care?"

"I always care."

"But you didn't stop."

"Should I have?"

He looked at her, really looked at her, and something like restraint warred with something like desire in the lines of his mouth.

"No," he said. "But it's going to get you in trouble."

She took a step forward. So did he.

They were far too close now. The hallway narrowed, the world contracted, and suddenly all she could see was the flicker of a smile he wasn't letting bloom.

"You think I'm afraid of trouble?" she whispered.

"I think you're brilliant at inviting it."

Another step.

Now she was close enough to feel the warmth of him. His hand brushed hers. Not a grab, not a hold; just a ghost of contact. She didn't pull away.

He leaned in, slowly.

"You do that thing," he murmured, voice low and curved like silk over a blade, "where you pretend you don't care, but you lean forward when I speak. Just a little."

"I don't."

"You do."

Roxaine's pulse thundered beneath her skin.

She could feel it; that reckless gravity that lived in the space between their mouths. If she leaned in, even a breath...

He would kiss her; she knew it. He knew it. They both knew it. And neither of them moved.

Not yet.

Not while they still had names to protect.

Not while the hallway could echo.

Not while she could still pretend her hands weren't shaking in her pockets.

"Do you want me to stop?" Cedric asked, his voice barely a breath now.

Roxaine swallowed hard.

Then, with a voice smoother than glass and just as cold, she answered, "If I did, I'd already be gone."

He blinked and smiled, but didn't kiss her. Didn't step back either.

They stood like that, held in place by something thick and electric and sharp.

The silence stretched.

Until finally, she turned away.

But her hands were trembling.

And his were clenched in his coat sleeves.

Neither of them said goodbye.

Chapter Text

April 30th, 1992
By the Black Lake,
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The spring wind curled low around the lake's surface, just enough to ripple it, not enough to chill. The trees still held onto their early buds, pale green against the gray light of a day that hadn't decided whether to bloom or vanish. Roxaine sat on the low stone wall that framed the path by the shore, back straight, hair unmoving in the breeze, hands resting lightly atop a closed book she hadn't opened since she sat down.

She'd come here to be alone.

So of course, he found her.

He didn't speak at first. Just approached carefully, like she might spook. Cedric had learned to treat her stillness like a lake's surface; if you moved too fast, too loud, it broke.

"Mind if I sit?" he asked, voice quiet.

She didn't answer. But she didn't stop him either.

He sat. Not too close. Not too far.

For a while, the only sound between them was the soft rustle of branches and the occasional croak of something half-submerged.

Then Cedric broke the silence. "I don't really care about rumors."

She didn't move.

He added, "I care about you."

Still no reaction, but her fingers curled just slightly around the edge of the book.

"I mean it," he said, gently. "But if I'm going to keep... caring about you, I want to know who you are. Not the Black everyone whispers about. Not the one who walks through school like a marble statue."

She breathed in through her nose, slow and steady.

"I want to know you, Roxaine."

At that, she did turn; just slightly. Enough to give him the edge of her profile, not her eyes. Not yet.

"You think you want that," she said quietly.

He didn't respond right away. He let the wind speak again. Then, softly, "Try me."

She was quiet for a long time. Long enough that it seemed she might never answer at all.

But finally, Roxaine Black spoke. Not like the girl everyone feared. Not like the one Cassius scolded, or Draco idolized. But like a voice she hadn't used in years; low, thoughtful, real.

And Cedric listened.

She didn't look at him. Not even once. Her gaze remained fixed on the water, the play of light and current, on the smooth surface where ducks glided silently like they belonged to a different world. But her voice came, softer than the wind, and Cedric stayed completely still to hear every word.

"I was four when they took us to her house," she said finally. "Our grandmother. Walburga Black."

The name alone made Cedric's shoulders tighten; he'd heard it before. Anyone raised in a magical home had. A name spoken like a spell and a curse, depending on who was speaking.

"She hated noise," Rox continued, not bothering to explain. "Hated laughter. Hated mess. We weren't allowed to cry. Or play. Or argue. We had to be... statues. Well-polished, perfectly dressed, poised. I got good at it."

"And your brother?" Cedric asked, gently.

"Atlas fought." A trace of something slid into her voice then. Not quite fondness. Not quite pain. "He never learned how to keep quiet. Or bow his head. Or lie when it was easier."

Cedric didn't interrupt. He barely breathed.

"She said he was ungrateful. Unworthy. Weak. He called her a monster once. She slapped him so hard he couldn't hear out of one ear for two days."

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the book, knuckles paling.

"I didn't say anything," she added, almost inaudibly. "Not to her. Not to him. I just... watched. And learned."

She finally looked at Cedric; not fully, but enough for him to catch the shine of something too old for her age behind her eyes.

"She said we were chosen," Rox whispered. "That the Blacks were sacred. That our blood was clean, and that was why we suffered; because the world wanted to destroy what it didn't understand. She said everything outside our walls was chaos and filth, and if we wanted to survive, we had to be better. Purer. Colder."

Cedric's jaw tensed, but he didn't speak.

"She taught me the creed," Rox said, and for a moment her voice lilted like she was repeating something carved in her spine. "Blood before all. Silence before shame. Legacy before love."

The wind blew a strand of her hair across her cheek, and she didn't move it.

"I believed her," she added, more to herself than to him. "I had to."

Silence.

Then she looked away again.

"She died when we were seven," she said, as if changing the subject, but not really. "Of an internal hemorrhaging, I believe. I was there, she held my hand as she passed. The days before her passing were... the sweetest she'd even been to me. Atlas was relieved when he found out. I wasn't."

Cedric leaned forward slightly, but didn't speak.

"I still don't know if I miss her or the idea of order."

Another pause.

"But I do know," she said, voice barely audible, "that I envy Atlas. Even now. He's reckless. Wild. Impossible. But at least he still feels like a person. I feel like... like something she sculpted and forgot to give a soul to."

She looked down at her hands. Pale. Still.

"I'm trying," she added, quieter. "But sometimes I don't even know what parts of me are mine."

There was nothing he could say to that. No comfort that wouldn't ring hollow.

So he simply reached out; slow, careful and placed his hand beside hers on the stone, not touching, but close enough that she'd feel the warmth if she needed it.

She didn't move.

But she didn't pull away either.

Cedric didn't say anything at first. Just let the silence stretch, warm and taut between them. Her words still hung in the air, delicate and heavy all at once, like frost forming over the surface of something volatile. It wasn't everything, not even close, but it was more than she'd ever offered anyone. And that mattered.

After a while, she shifted slightly. Not away from him, but enough to relax the line of her shoulders. Her fingers stopped digging into the stone. She even let out a breath, not quite a sigh, but something softer than her usual composure allowed.

"I actually do have a huge sweet tooth," she muttered then, as if the confession were more damning than anything she'd said before. "Always have. Cakes, tarts, chocolate frogs, those sickening licorice bats. I'd live off sugar if I could."

Cedric blinked, then let out a short laugh. "Really?"

She nodded, solemn. "I was a menace at birthdays."

"You? Elitist, terrifying, blood-supremacist Roxaine Black? A sugar gremlin?"

"I once bit Atlas over the last pumpkin pasty."

He looked at her, stunned.

"I was three," she added, tone carefully flat. "He had it coming."

He grinned. "So all that about sugar being childish—?"

"A façade," she said simply.

"Of course."

There was a pause.

Then he leaned a little closer, voice dipping into that mock-conspiratorial tone he wore so well. "So when you ate the Love Me, Love Diabetes lollipop, was it—?"

"It was delicious," she interrupted, expression perfectly neutral. "I regret nothing."

He laughed again, louder this time. "Merlin, I should've gotten two."

"Too late," she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "You've missed your chance."

He nudged her shoulder lightly. "There's always next Hogsmeade."

Rox didn't answer.

But her mouth curved just slightly. Just enough.

Then, slowly, almost without thought, she leaned sideways. Resting her head against his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she wasn't calculating the risk or anticipating the fallout. Like she just... needed the warmth.

Cedric stilled for a second.

Then let his head tilt against hers.

They sat like that, unmoving, as the sun dipped low behind the trees, casting golden light across the lake. Neither spoke. Neither moved.

It was the closest thing to peace either of them had felt in weeks.

April 30th, 1992
Corridor Outside the Charms Classroom
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The hallway outside Flitwick's classroom was mostly empty; just the hum of distant footsteps and the occasional echo of laughter from younger years. Roxaine stood with her back against the stone wall, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the far end of the corridor where the sun painted dappled shadows through the stained glass. Cassius leaned beside her, but not touching; he knew better.

He glanced at her sideways. "So? How bad was it?"

Rox didn't answer at first. She tilted her head back and sighed through her nose. "It wasn't bad."

Cassius arched a brow.

"I didn't say it was good," she added dryly.

He gave her a look. "You went to the lake with him and came back with your shoulders relaxed. That's rare."

She shrugged, still staring straight ahead. "He asked questions."

"And you answered?"

"Some."

"Bloody hell," he muttered, folding his arms now. "That serious?"

Rox didn't respond.

Cassius turned more fully toward her, tone gentler now. "Rox... I know what Lucius said. I know the pressure. But if this is something you want—"

"It's not about what I want," she cut in, sharper than she meant to. "It never is."

There was a silence.

Then, quieter, "It could be."

She turned to look at him. Cassius wasn't smiling. No smugness, no snark; just something solemn in his eyes. "You think Narcissa hasn't already calculated all the angles? If she let you keep seeing him, it's because she's already working on a way to make it fit. You just need to give her something to work with."

Roxaine exhaled. "Lucius will never—"

"Narcissa will handle Lucius."

"I'm not going to be a pawn in their game."

Cassius let out a soft laugh. "You already are. We both are. The difference is you're in a position to tip the board if you want to."

She looked at him then, really looked — and something in her expression shifted. There was tension, yes, but underneath it: hesitation.

"She asked me to make a choice," she murmured. "Said she could bend the narrative if I let her. That she saw something in me that Lucius doesn't yet."

Cassius studied her. "She's right. You know she is."

Rox looked away.

"You don't have to marry the boy," he added, trying for lightness. "But if you like him... and I know you do... let this work in your favor."

"I'm not used to things working in my favor."

"Then it's time they start."

Roxaine didn't respond right away. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her sleeve, smoothing and re-smoothing the seam as if it held the answer she hadn't yet found. The sunlight caught in her hair, and for a second Cassius just watched her, silent. Then-

"So," he drawled, arms crossed. "Do I get to meet him now? Or do I have to wait until you bring him to a family dinner and pretend I'm not the one who hexed his socks off in second year?"

That earned him a sharp side-eye. "You didn't hex his socks off."

"I tried," he corrected, proudly. "It was a noble effort."

"He was eleven."

"An overconfident eleven-year-old. It was for his own good."

Rox didn't smile, but her mouth twitched.

Cassius leaned closer, smirking. "You like him. Don't deny it."

"I don't dislike him."

"High praise from a Black. Shall I inform the Prophet?"

She rolled her eyes and started walking, but he followed easily, falling into step beside her.

"So," he said again, now nudging her shoulder lightly with his own. "Is this the part where I give you the obligatory big-brother talk? If you hurt her, I'll flay you alive and feed you to the Giant Squid- that sort of thing?"

"You're not my brother."

"Tragically," he sighed. "But emotionally? You're stuck with me."

She was silent again.

Cassius waited a beat, then added more gently, "I just don't want to see you screw this up because you're scared. You're allowed to be happy, Rox. Even if Lucius hates it. Even if it doesn't fit the plan."

Her steps slowed, ever so slightly.

He didn't press.

Instead, he bumped her arm again, grinning. "Besides, if I have to sit through one more of your broody monologues about politics and power consolidation, I'm going to start dating a Gryffindor just to spite you."

That made her scoff; a real one this time, and she glanced at him with something half amused, half warning.

He raised his hands, mock-innocent. "I'm just saying. If you start sneaking around with Diggory, at least let me have the dramatic scandal."

"Don't push your luck, Rosier."

"Too late. I'm already drafting the wedding toast."

She elbowed him in the ribs without looking.

And he grinned through the pain.

May 1st, 1992
Dungeons, Potions Class
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The dungeons smelled of damp stone and ashroot; a familiar scent that clung to Roxaine's robes and pressed against the collar of her blouse. Students moved sluggishly to their seats, the low mutter of conversation layered under the sharp clicks of Snape's boots against flagstone. He hadn't entered yet, but silence was already blooming in anticipation.

Roxaine sat at her usual table, her ingredients lined with militaristic precision: bundles of dittany, a phial of lacewing flies, powdered asphodel, and flitterbloom stem, chopped just so. Her notes were inked in a perfect, slanted hand. No smudges, no blotting. Just the illusion of control, written line after line.

Next to her, Cedric Diggory dropped into his seat with the subtle grace of someone who absolutely did not take things seriously.

"Good morning, partner," he said under his breath, nudging her cauldron like it might grin back. "You look delightfully murderous."

Roxaine didn't look up. "And you look delighted to be murdered."

"Only by you."

She sighed, adjusting the angle of her stirrer, then slid him the instructions without looking. "Read. And don't ruin this one."

"I never ruin anything," he said, mock-wounded. "Except maybe your plans for a quiet morning."

Snape swept into the room just then, his robes snapping like thunderclouds. The low buzz of conversation cut off entirely. He didn't speak at first, just glared across the rows with that long, disdainful pause that promised someone's doom. Then, curtly:

"Page two-seventy-four. Brewing the Soothing Draught. Begin."

Cedric leaned over the book dramatically, so close his elbow bumped hers. "You know, I think I'm allergic to calm," he whispered. "Maybe we should brew something more chaotic."

She didn't answer, but the slight twitch of her lips betrayed her. Barely.

Cedric's reading, of course, was more performative than practical.

He tilted the book between them like a stage prop, clearing his throat with exaggerated gravity as if about to recite poetry rather than potion instructions. His eyes skimmed the lines — though judging by the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, he was paying more attention to her than to the text.

"'The Soothing Draught,'" he intoned in a low, dramatic whisper, "is a gentle calming potion, effective against minor anxiety, emotional spikes, and irritability- well, we're clearly brewing it for you, then."

Roxaine didn't look up from grinding the flitterbloom stems, but her hand slowed just slightly.

Cedric continued as if he hadn't said anything remotely provocative. "'Must be stirred counter-clockwise exactly nine times, or the mixture may result in mild delirium or...'" he trailed off, then added cheerfully, "...mood swings. That's the last thing you need. You'd destroy someone."

"I am one misstep away from doing exactly that," she murmured, still not looking at him.

He glanced sideways at her, eyes glinting. "Is it me?"

She gave the barest shrug. "Does it matter?"

"You wound me."

"Not enough."

He grinned, flipping the page. "Step one: simmer base ingredients; lavender, powdered asphodel, and chopped dittany. Wait five minutes. Step two: stir nine times counter-clockwise."

He turned the page too quickly, skimming the next part aloud with lazy confidence. "Step three: add lacewing flies, and say a prayer, because apparently this is where everything can go terribly wrong—"

"You skipped a step," she said tightly.

He blinked. "No I didn't."

"Yes, you did," she said, snatching the book from his hand. "There. Flitterbloom stems must be ground and added before the simmering process. Otherwise the potion curdles."

He leaned in, peering over her shoulder. "Are you sure you're not inventing that to sabotage me?"

She shoved the book back toward him, eyes still on the ingredients. "Sabotaging you would be significantly more satisfying than this."

"Ouch," he said, voice low with delight. "And here I thought we were bonding."

"We are," she said flatly. "I'm bonding with the concept of homicide."

Cedric laughed; softly, but it carried.

Snape's voice cut through the room a moment later like a whip: "Mr. Diggory. If you find the concept of flitterbloom stems so amusing, perhaps you'd like to come to the front and explain it to the class?"

Cedric stiffened. Rox didn't hide the smirk that finally curved on her lips.

He muttered, "See? This is what happens when I try to bring light into your life."

"Then try darkness," she replied coolly. "You'll find I respond better."

He looked at her. Really looked. There was a flash of something behind his smile; interest, challenge, something dangerously close to admiration.

He didn't say anything for a beat.

Then he leaned a little closer again and murmured, "You'd make a terrifying deity, you know that?"

She didn't answer.

But she didn't pull away, either.

Cedric reached for the powdered asphodel, still humming thoughtfully under his breath, and completely ignoring the precision she was trying to maintain. She adjusted the heat of the flame beneath the cauldron with the tip of her wand, silently counting seconds.

"Careful," she muttered. "Too much heat and the base thickens."

He peered over the flame with an exaggerated squint. "You sure you don't mean you?"

She blinked. "What?"

"You," he said, flicking a glance at her face as if testing the waters. "All these harsh words and narrowed eyes, and yet here you are, helping me brew a Soothing Draught. A cry for help, really."

She ground her teeth, turning back to the chopping board with a sharp flick of the blade. "If you mess this up, I'll feed it to you raw."

He grinned, completely unfazed. "You'd nurse me back to health, wouldn't you?"

She didn't answer.

He tilted his head slightly, letting his voice drop just enough to hover at the edge of teasing and earnest. "Or is this how you flirt? Threats. Precision. Silent judgement."

"You're insufferable," she snapped, turning toward him, eyes sharp and voice low to avoid drawing Snape's attention. "Merlin's bones, do you ever stop talking? Or flirting? Or existing in this constant swirl of smirks and charm and idiocy?"

He blinked once, looking mildly delighted. "Wow. That's the most passion you've shown all class. I should annoy you more often."

She inhaled through her nose, slowly.

He didn't stop.

"I mean, I get it," he went on, voice soft, amused, dangerous. "You're used to people being intimidated by you. I'm not. Must be exhausting, having to pretend you don't enjoy the attention."

"Don't flatter yourself," she said coldly, though her pulse had started an annoying thrum beneath her skin. "I tolerate your presence because I need a passing grade."

Cedric leaned in again, closer than strictly necessary, his breath brushing against her ear as he murmured, "Are you sure you're not just afraid?"

She stiffened. "Afraid of what?"

He smiled; slow, crooked, maddening. "Of what happens if you actually let yourself want something."

Her hand paused over the lacewing flies.

He looked at her like he'd just found the right crack in a fortress wall.

Then, still low, still velvet-voiced, he added, "Tell me to stop, Roxaine. I will."

But she didn't.

Not right away.

Instead, she looked down at the potion, watching it swirl. Her heartbeat was steady, no faster than usual. No louder.

Except it was lying.

And so was she.

She dropped the lacewing flies into the cauldron, and the liquid hissed.

Cedric smiled again, but this time, it was quieter. Victory edged with something softer. Something patient.

She didn't look at him again for the rest of class.

But her fingers brushed his once when they cleaned up, and she didn't pull away first.

He didn't pull away either.

Not when their fingers brushed, not when his shoulder nudged against hers as they both reached for the same stirring rod, not when she stepped slightly sideways and his hand "accidentally" settled on her waist to steady her.

It was just a second. Less than. A blink, a breath.

But she froze.

Cedric didn't.

"Sorry," he said, absolutely not sounding sorry.

She narrowed her eyes. "Are you trying to die in this class?"

He leaned in a fraction, close enough that her hair caught on the edge of his collar. "Not at all. I just figured if I'm going to perish, I might as well do it with style."

She rolled her eyes and turned away, but his voice followed, low and silk-soft.

"You know, it's funny," he mused aloud. "You spend all this time acting like you don't care, like I'm a pest—"

"You are a pest."

"—and yet," he continued, ignoring the jab completely, "you never really stop me."

She shot him a warning glance. "That's because I haven't brewed a proper poison yet."

Cedric grinned, then dipped his head slightly, voice a murmur only she could hear. "What if I kissed you?"

Her hand jerked, nearly tipping the phial of knotgrass essence. She caught it just in time, steady fingers betraying none of the static racing beneath her skin.

"What?" she asked, too sharp, too fast.

"If I kissed you right now," he said, still soft, still maddening. "Right here. Right between the bezoars and Professor Snape's scowl. What would you do?"

She didn't answer.

He smiled, slow and deliberate. "Would you hex me? Slap me? Or would you kiss me back?"

"You're unbelievable."

"I've been told that before." He took the knife from her hand; the one she was clearly gripping too tightly, and set it down on the chopping  board with a pointed gentleness. "You've also not denied it."

She turned fully then, gaze blazing, ready to say something; anything, but he leaned closer once again, his fingers grazing the crook of her elbow this time. It was so casual it was infuriating.

"Relax," he said, teasing again. "I said if."

She exhaled slowly through her nose, spine straight, posture cold, but there was a traitorous heat blooming at the base of her neck.

Cedric reached past her for the dragon liver. She didn't move out of the way, and his shoulder brushed hers again.

It was deliberate. She didn't move, and he didn't stop smiling.

Snape's voice cut through the simmering tension like a blade of ice. "Vials on my desk. Now."

Roxaine stepped back immediately, her expression snapping back into place; cold, precise, controlled, as if nothing had happened. As if her hands weren't still tingling from where his had brushed against her. As if the question he'd asked hadn't set something humming just beneath her skin.

Cedric, utterly unbothered, casually stoppered their shared vial and handed it to her. "After you, partner," he said with a little bow, as if he hadn't just spent the last twenty minutes emotionally waterboarding her with flirtation.

She snatched the vial with a sharp glare and strode toward the front, hips straight, chin high. Behind her, Cedric followed at a far-too-leisurely pace.

Snape stood by the desk, expression unreadable as he inspected each student's potion. When Rox placed theirs down, he paused.

"...Acceptable," he murmured, tone flat, but his eyes flicked briefly between her and Cedric before he moved on.

They returned to their seats, but before Rox could say anything; not that she was sure she would, the bell rang.

The classroom exploded into motion. Chairs scraped, bags swung over shoulders, murmurs rose instantly. Rox gathered her things quickly, eager to slip out before he said anything else.

But Cedric was already next to her again, his tone far too casual. "So, did I survive today, or should I start drafting my will for tomorrow's class?"

She shot him a look, sharp enough to wound. "You're insufferable."

"Still not a no."

He bumped her shoulder lightly as they stepped into the corridor. She stiffened, but didn't move away.

The corridor buzzed with students heading to lunch, the chatter too loud, the air too warm. Cedric didn't press further, didn't ask again, didn't even look at her.

But he walked beside her, his fingers brushing her sleeve once more, just barely.

And Roxaine said nothing.

Didn't hex him.

Didn't stop him.

Didn't walk away.

Chapter Text

May 4th, 1992
Dungeons, Potions Class
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

It was already the beginning of May, and the dungeons still held onto the kind of damp chill that soaked straight into your bones. Roxaine sat at her usual table, parchment neatly unrolled, quill uncapped, posture perfect. Cedric was—unfortunately—beside her again. Professor Snape had begun pairing them consistently, likely out of sheer malice or possibly because it amused him to watch Roxaine Black be driven slowly to madness.

Today's assignment was a particularly complex Dreamless Sleep Draught. One mistake and the result wouldn't be sleep; it'd be unconsciousness or hallucination. Which, of course, meant the class was filled with tension and silent concentration.

Except for Diggory.

Cedric leaned toward her as she read over the instructions, his voice low. "What's the over-under on Snape snapping and cursing Montague today?"

Roxaine didn't look up. "Higher if you keep talking."

"See, I was thinking the opposite. Maybe if I talk just enough, he'll move me."

She stirred clockwise. "Unfortunately, he won't."

He smiled. "You wound me, Black. Do I truly irritate you so much?"

"No," she replied tonelessly. "Only enough to pray for spontaneous combustion."

He gave a quiet hum of amusement and reached across her to grab the powdered asphodel. Their shoulders brushed.

She did not flinch.

He definitely did it on purpose.

"Just admit it," he said under his breath. "You'd miss me if Snape moved me."

Roxaine measured out three grams of crushed Valerian root with exacting care. "You'd be a lot more tolerable if you used your mouth for potion instructions instead of this running commentary."

Cedric's hand hovered near hers as he reached for the next ingredient, knuckles grazing hers lightly. "Is it the running commentary? Or just the running thoughts about me?"

She turned to him slowly. "I'm going to shove your head into this cauldron."

He grinned, entirely unbothered. "Romantic."

Her jaw tightened. "Read the next step."

He lifted the book, glanced over the instructions, and nodded seriously. "Alright, alright. Add two drops of wormwood essence... stir clockwise four times... and absolutely—absolutely—do not let the flame get too high."

Rox reached for the vial. Cedric, to be helpful—or so it seemed—twisted the burner knob below the cauldron slightly.

Just slightly.

Too slightly.

At first, nothing happened.

Then the mixture began to hiss.

And boil.

And froth.

Cedric's eyes widened just slightly. "Uh—"

And then—

Boom.

Purple steam burst from the cauldron, a wave of sour-smelling mist enveloping them both. Roxaine stumbled backward, coughing, her perfect notes covered in ash. Cedric stared, stunned and mildly singed, a small fleck of something green dripping from his hair.

Across the room, Snape's robes flared as he stormed toward them, expression thunderous.

"Oh," Cedric muttered, still blinking through the smoke. "That... might've been my bad."

The class fell into an eerie, anticipatory hush as Snape reached their station, the fumes parting like terrified ghosts at his approach. His black eyes were murderous, cutting through the haze to where Cedric stood guiltily, slightly scorched, and Roxaine remained unnaturally still, expression unreadable beneath a light dusting of potion ash.

Snape didn't speak at first. He simply surveyed the damage; the scorched edge of the cauldron, the charred outline of their notes, the sour stench that still lingered like regret. Then his gaze locked onto Cedric with the weight of a slow-acting curse.

"Diggory."

Cedric straightened. "Yes, Professor?"

Snape's voice was cold and precise, the verbal equivalent of a scalpel. "Is it possible — even remotely — that I instructed you to boil the draught to detonation?"

"No, sir."

"Then perhaps you could enlighten me as to what possessed you to adjust the flame?"

Cedric hesitated. "I thought it was too low."

"You thought." The word was like acid. "How noble. How tragic."

Snape turned his gaze to Roxaine, who stood immaculate in posture, if not in powder. "And you, Miss Black. What was your contribution to this... performance?"

She met his eyes, tone calm. "I asked him to read the instructions."

Snape blinked. Just once. "I see."

He turned away sharply, robes sweeping behind him like wings. "Detention. Both of you. Tonight. Seven o'clock. No excuses."

Cedric winced. "Yes, sir."

Snape didn't turn. "And Diggory—if I ever smell burnt Valerian root on your hands again, I'll personally see to it that you brew nothing but Skele-Gro for the rest of the term."

The silence he left behind was absolute. A few scattered students tried and failed to stifle laughter. Roxaine calmly vanished the remains of the explosion with a flick of her wand, restoring what little dignity could be salvaged.

Cedric glanced at her sideways. "You're going to kill me, aren't you?"

She didn't answer.

Instead, she shook out her notes, tapped them clean, and returned them to her bag with infuriating grace.

But her jaw was tight. Too tight.

He tried again. "In my defense, the instructions were very small print."

She slowly looked up at him, lashes lifting, expression pure poison.

"Diggory," she said icily, "if you flirt with me one more time while I'm handling volatile materials, I will turn your teeth into lace."

Cedric grinned.

"So you're saying there's a chance."

The bell finally rang — a dry, distant clang that echoed off the dungeon walls like a reprieve. Students shot to their feet, parchment rustling, cauldrons clanging as they scrambled to escape the lingering tension and acrid fumes of exploded potion.

Roxaine moved with her usual composure, gathering her things with clipped, elegant movements that made it impossible to tell she'd nearly been blown sky-high half an hour ago. Cedric, on the other hand, was still brushing powdery ash off his sleeve with a sheepish smile plastered across his face.

She made to leave, but he caught up to her, adjusting the strap of his satchel over his shoulder.

"You know," he said lightly, falling into step beside her, "I've had worse first dates."

She didn't look at him. "That wasn't a date. That was detention-worthy incompetence."

"Still charming, though. I mean, nothing brings two people together like shared public humiliation and the threat of Snape's eternal wrath."

Her shoes clicked evenly across the stone floor. "I'm not speaking to you."

"You just did," he pointed out, grinning.

She let out a sigh that sounded like it had been clawing at the back of her throat for the past hour.

"You're exhausting."

"You're radiant."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

She stopped in front of the staircase, turning to face him at last — head high, arms crossed, expression impassive.

"You flirted through half the instructions, got the temperature wrong, and nearly caused an explosion that burned a hole through my notes. And now we have detention. Tonight."

He stepped a little closer, just enough that she had to tilt her chin to maintain her posture of superiority. His gaze flicked down to her lips and back up — subtle, but not missed.

"You're right," he said, voice low. "I was a disaster."

She raised a brow.

He leaned in slightly, just enough for the space between them to hum. "But admit it... part of you enjoyed watching me panic."

A breath hitched, so faint she barely noticed it herself.

She didn't move.

Didn't retreat.

Just said, voice calm as ever, "If you're trying to butter me up so I don't hex you tonight, you're wasting your time."

"Oh, I wasn't planning to butter you up." He paused. "Though I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted to kiss you right there in front of Snape."

Her eyes narrowed.

"You wouldn't have dared."

"I'm daring now."

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. There was only the flicker of torchlight, the faint swell of breath, the way his shoulder brushed hers just barely — as if by accident, as if testing a boundary.

She turned away first.

But her ears were pink again.

He caught up after two steps, ever the golden boy with a reckless heart, and added softly,

"See you at seven, Black."

May 4th, 1992
Potions Storeroom
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The storage room at the back of the dungeons was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a single floating lantern near the ceiling, casting long shadows across shelves stacked with grimy jars and labeled boxes. It smelled of dried herbs, vinegar, and the faintest trace of dragon bile.

Roxaine was already inside when Cedric arrived — sorting a box of badly alphabetized powdered roots with clinical precision, her brows drawn, her posture sharper than usual.

"You're late," she said without turning around.

"Fashionably," Cedric replied, shrugging off his robe and stepping inside, the door creaking shut behind him. "Besides, Snape only said we had to organize. He didn't specify how fast."

"I intend to finish this quickly," she muttered, sifting through a cluttered mess of bundled herbs. "Which means without you distracting me."

"Then you shouldn't have looked so incredibly kissable last class."

Her hand paused mid-reach. Slowly, deliberately, she turned her head and gave him a look that could've frozen a Dementor mid-glide.

"That," she said icily, "is not the sort of comment one makes when one is standing two inches from flammable ingredients."

Cedric held up his hands in mock surrender, but his grin didn't fade. "Alright. No compliments near the powdered bicorn horn. Got it."

She exhaled sharply and reached for the next jar — but his hand brushed hers as he passed it, lingering just half a second too long.

"Stop doing that," she snapped, voice taut.

"What?"

"Touching me on purpose."

"Who said it was on purpose?"

"I know you."

Cedric leaned against the opposite shelf, arms folded. "You barely let me. Know you, I mean."

That gave her pause. Just a second.

She looked back down at the ingredients. "Don't make this sentimental."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice as he peered over her shoulder at the messy boxes. "Hard not to when we're trapped in a dark room full of bat spleens and old wine vinegar."

"You're insufferable."

"And yet you haven't hexed me."

"Don't tempt me."

He reached past her to grab a vial, the motion forcing them momentarily too close — shoulder brushing shoulder, her breath catching against his.

"I don't tempt you?" he asked softly, near her ear.

Roxaine dropped the jar she'd been holding. It landed with a thud and rolled toward the wall.

She whirled on him, cheeks flushed, voice low and furious. "Stop playing games."

"I'm not."

"Then stop standing so close. Stop—smiling like that. Stop making this—this ridiculous."

"But it's not ridiculous," Cedric said, his voice steadier now, less teasing, more grounded. "And I think you know that."

For a beat, neither of them moved. The lantern above flickered slightly, shadows dancing over the curve of Roxaine's cheek, catching the glint of her silver pin. Her breath was shallow now, her arms rigid at her sides.

Cedric's tone shifted again, no trace of mischief in it now. Just quiet conviction. "I like you."

She didn't respond.

"I mean it," he said. "Not because it's entertaining to flirt with someone who glares like a curse is coming. Not because you're impossible to read — though you are, and it's maddening — but because even when you act like there's nothing under the surface, I know better. You pretend like nothing touches you, but I've seen it. The real you."

Her jaw tensed. She stepped away from him, back toward the shelves, facing the jars. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I do," he said softly.

Roxaine picked up a vial, held it up to the light. She wasn't really examining it.

"There are things you don't understand," she muttered.

"Then explain them to me," he said. "You want to keep me away, but you haven't. You let me stay."

She didn't turn, but her fingers curled tighter around the glass.

"I'm not asking you to change," Cedric went on, voice low, sincere. "I'm not asking you to risk anything. I'm just asking you to stop pretending like none of this matters."

Silence.

Stillness.

Then slowly — as if the air had thickened between them — Roxaine turned.

She looked at him for a long moment. No mask, no smirk. Just her eyes, tired and bright and burning.

"Stop looking at me like that," she said, and her voice cracked around the edges.

He took a step forward. "Like what?"

"Like you see me."

"I do."

She stared at him. Her lips parted, as if to speak — to warn him off, to scold him, to beg him — but nothing came.

Instead, she crossed the distance between them in a heartbeat, grabbed the front of his robes, and kissed him.

It was a disaster.

She kissed him like she'd been possessed, fists gripping the front of his robes as if she could choke the tension out of both of them. He made a surprised noise — a squeak, Merlin help him — just before their teeth collided with a clack loud enough to echo.

"Ow—bloody—sorry—" Cedric mumbled, but she didn't stop.

There was no rhythm. No grace. Their noses mashed together at a crooked angle and one of them — she wouldn't admit it, but probably her — tilted the wrong way, making the whole thing more like a headbutt with lip contact than anything remotely romantic. Cedric accidentally stepped on her foot, she shoved him back instinctively, they crashed into a shelf, and something above them tipped dangerously. A jar rolled. They both froze mid-kiss, half-gasping, just in time to see a box of porcupine quills thud to the ground next to them.

Still. Neither pulled away.

Eventually, Cedric leaned in again — too fast. Their foreheads smacked together.

"Merlin's balls," Roxaine hissed, grabbing her head. "We are terrible at this."

Cedric was grinning, lips pink, eyes wide with a sort of radiant disbelief. "You kissed me."

"You fell into my face." She tried to snap, but her voice cracked — and the second the words left her mouth, he laughed.

A full, startled laugh. The kind that came from his ribs.

And unfortunately, the sound was contagious.

Roxaine clenched her jaw, trying — trying — not to smile. But the corners of her mouth betrayed her, twitching treacherously. Her arms folded, spine stiff, eyes burning like she could hex the very concept of kissing into oblivion. Her ears, traitorous as ever, burned crimson.

"That was—" Cedric started.

"Don't. Finish. That sentence."

"I was going to say perfect," he said, too innocently, and that earned him a scowl she hadn't worn since first year.

Her hands dropped to her sides, then crossed again — she couldn't decide what to do with them. She wasn't blushing. She wasn't flustered. She was composed, obviously.

Except for the slight twitch at the edge of her lips. The very slight one. Almost invisible.

"You're smiling," he said, eyes gleaming.

"I'm grimacing."

He took a small step forward, bumping her shoulder with his. "You're so smiling."

"I should kill you," she muttered.

"But you're not."

She exhaled sharply through her nose. "Only because I haven't figured out how to avenge myself for this level of humiliation."

He looked ready to burst from the inside out. "That was your first kiss too?"

"...Maybe."

He blinked.

And then, almost reverently: "We're going to need practice."

She groaned, covering her face. "Do not say things like that."

"Oh, I'm definitely saying things like that."

She elbowed him. Half-heartedly.

Then allowed herself — just barely — a breath of laughter.

Only one. She had appearances to uphold, after all.

Cedric, still recovering from the chaos of their collision, leaned back slightly and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as if he couldn't quite believe any of it had just happened.

"Well," he said, voice airy, "that was exactly how I imagined it."

Roxaine gave him a flat look. "Then you have very low standards."

He nodded solemnly. "Apparently. But don't worry. I think we have a shot at becoming the worst kissers in Hogwarts history."

She narrowed her eyes.

"I mean, we've set the bar impressively low," he continued with faux-seriousness. "We can only go up from here. Unless we accidentally knock out a tooth next time. That's still on the table."

"You are—" she began, tone scathing.

"—irresistibly charming?" he supplied, hopeful.

"—deeply irritating."

He grinned.

But then he didn't step back. Instead, the laughter faded from his eyes — not gone, exactly, but gentled. Something shifted in the air between them. Quieter now. Quicker somehow.

He reached forward, slowly, and before she could move or make a cutting remark, his hands cupped her cheeks.

And stilled.

His thumbs hovered just beneath her cheekbones, not quite touching. His fingers, warm and careful, rested along the sides of her jaw, as if she were something fragile — which she was not, obviously — and this moment was something breakable — which it most certainly was.

Roxaine didn't breathe.

Didn't blink.

"Hey," he said, voice lower now. No more teasing. "I meant it, you know."

She blinked, startled out of stillness. "What?"

"I really like you."

He said it so plainly. Not like a declaration. Not like a joke.

Just like a truth.

Roxaine's pulse thundered. Her throat was dry.

And yet, somehow... she didn't move away.

His thumbs brushed lightly along her cheekbones now, tentative, as though testing the waters of her silence. His gaze flicked between her eyes and her mouth, and for a long, suspended moment, Cedric looked like he wasn't sure whether to risk it again; not because he didn't want to, but because he wanted to do it right this time.

Roxaine remained still, but her eyes didn't leave his. And something in the quiet—something in the way she hadn't recoiled, hadn't sharpened her voice or raised her chin—gave him permission.

So, with all the clumsy determination of a fourteen-year-old who had never kissed anyone properly in his life but very much wanted to get it right just this once, Cedric leaned in again.

This time, he didn't crash into her. He didn't trip over the shelf or bang his nose against hers. This time, it was slow. Cautious. His lips found hers softly, uncertainly, as though afraid too much pressure might scare her off, or worse, ruin everything.

It wasn't perfect — his mouth landed slightly off-center, and she had to adjust, barely tilting her chin. Their noses bumped a little. And his hands, still on her cheeks, twitched awkwardly like he wasn't sure what they were supposed to be doing.

But still... it was sweet.

It was warm.

And for a second — just a second — she kissed him back, shyly, as if she couldn't quite believe she was allowing it. As if part of her still wanted to scoff at it all, at him, and the other part wanted to grab the front of his robes and never let go.

They broke apart with a whisper of breath, eyes wide, both of them blinking as if waking up from something.

Cedric opened his mouth, then closed it, then finally exhaled a quiet, awkward little laugh. "That was... better."

Roxaine's brows twitched. Her lips parted like she might snap something scathing.

But no words came.

Just a single, small nod. Stillness. And cheeks flushed deeper than she'd ever admit.

Cedric blinked once, still a little dazed, then smiled. Not his usual teasing grin, not the cocky smirk he wore in class; this was something softer. Quieter. Like he couldn't quite believe what just happened, but he didn't want to scare it away by acknowledging it too loudly.

"You kissed me back," he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Roxaine rolled her eyes, but the movement lacked venom. Her arms were still stiff at her sides, her face warm. She wasn't sure if she wanted to hex him or hide under the nearest cauldron.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Diggory."

He held up his hands in surrender and took a slow step back, still grinning. "Noted. No getting ahead. Just... just properly filed historical record. For posterity."

She narrowed her eyes, but her lips twitched — just slightly. A warning tremor, like her control might slip again if he kept that stupid look on his face.

"Go clean the shelves."

He was already halfway there, bending to pick up the fallen jars with exaggerated care. "Yes, ma'am. Happily. Might whistle a little, if that's alright. Feels like a good-whistle moment."

"Cedric—"

"I said might." He shot her a glance over his shoulder. "Unless it'll tempt you to kiss me again. In which case, I'll hum instead."

The clang of a glass jar settling back into place echoed too loud for her reply. Or maybe she didn't have one.

She was still standing exactly where he'd left her, trying very, very hard not to smile.

May 4th, 1992
Dungeons Corridor
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

They left the Potions storeroom in near silence, but it wasn't the kind of silence that pressed on the lungs. It was full, crackling with static, softened by the gentle cadence of steps against stone and the way their shoulders brushed once—twice—as they turned a corner. Cedric didn't offer his arm. Roxaine didn't ask for it. But they walked close, close enough for their hands to swing a little too near. Close enough that the air between them still tasted like cinnamon and fire.

Neither had spoken since the kiss. The second one. The real one.

Cedric didn't seem in a rush to break the quiet. He walked beside her with a thoughtful look on his face, like he was still turning over everything that had just happened, but wasn't sure which part of it to speak aloud. Rox, on the other hand, was too busy trying to suppress the heat still blooming across her skin; ears, cheeks, neck. She hated how warm she felt. She hated even more that it wasn't the uncomfortable kind of warm. It was the safe kind. The dangerous kind. The kind that whispered you could want this, you could keep this.

Her arms were crossed tight over her chest, though she wasn't cold. Her back was straight, steps calculated. A perfect picture of collected indifference—if you ignored the faint red at the tips of her ears.

"I didn't expect you to punch me," Cedric said at last, his voice light, teasing.

"I didn't punch you," she replied flatly.

"I mean metaphorically."

She glanced sideways. "Would you have deserved it?"

He pretended to consider. "Well, I did ruin your potion. Then talked too much. Then kissed you."

"That was a lot."

Cedric grinned. "But you kissed me back. So I'm willing to only take partial blame."

She didn't reply. But her mouth twitched—again, barely noticeable. Still, Cedric caught it.

"I know that wasn't a smile," he said with mock gravity. "Because if it was, I might start thinking I'm charming."

"You'd be mistaken."

"Good. Just wanted to be sure. Because I am very charming."

"You're very loud."

"Charming and loud are not mutually exclusive."

"You're also very persistent."

He looked over at her, brows slightly raised. "Is that a complaint?"

Roxaine was quiet for a second too long. Then: "It's an observation."

They reached the base of the Slytherin corridor, dimly lit by the wall-mounted torches. She paused just short of the stone archway, the one that would disappear the moment she spoke the password.

He stopped beside her, a step back, like he knew this was the end of the evening and didn't want to push it further. His hands were in his pockets now, head tilted slightly toward her. The warmth in his eyes hadn't faded.

"I can walk myself the rest of the way," she said, chin lifted.

"I know," he said quietly. "But I wanted to."

There was a silence.

Then he added, with a soft smile, "For the record—I really, really liked today."

Roxaine kept her face carefully blank. Her fingers dug lightly into her own arms, where they were folded.

"You exploded a cauldron."

He laughed, and the sound echoed gently through the corridor. "Yeah. That was less ideal. But I meant after that. You know, the bit where you kissed me and didn't hex me into the next decade."

"I still might."

"I know. I live on the edge."

That earned him a glance. Brief. But her expression had softened, even if she didn't say anything more.

Cedric hesitated, then took one step closer. Not enough to crowd her. Just enough to lower his voice.

"I'm not expecting anything, Roxaine," he said seriously. "Not a perfect answer. Not even a plan. I just... want to keep walking you to class. To Hogsmeade. To wherever you'll let me."

She didn't move. Didn't reply. But the look in her eyes faltered—for just a moment—and the corner of her mouth, traitorous thing, lifted half an inch.

He smiled.

Then, slowly, Cedric backed away, step by step, not turning until he reached the edge of the corridor.

"I'll see you in class."

She nodded once.

And then she turned toward the common room, the shadows of the dungeons swallowing her whole.
But her fingers, hidden in her sleeves, were still warm.

May 4th, 1992
Slytherin Common Room
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The green glow of the underwater torches cast long, wavering shadows across the Slytherin common room. Most students had either retreated to their dormitories or were murmuring in low voices by the fire, but one figure sat in the high-backed chair nearest to the entrance, one leg crossed over the other, a book in hand that he clearly wasn't reading.

Cassius looked up the second the stone door slid open.

Roxaine stepped through with all the calm of a girl who'd just returned from polishing cauldrons, not from kissing someone in a locked storeroom like her reputation depended on not doing so. Her robes were tidy, hair intact, face unreadable.

Cassius snapped the book shut and gave her a look that might have been amusement. Or suspicion. Or both.

"Well?" he asked smoothly.

"Well what."

"Detention. The horrors. The shame. The unparalleled tragedy of spending two whole hours with your favorite Hufflepuff."

Rox dropped her bag beside the nearest armchair and began undoing the buttons at her cuffs. "It was fine."

"Fine," Cassius repeated, eyes narrowing. "That's all I get?"

"Snape made us reorganize shelves."

He leaned forward. "Shelves."

She nodded.

"Alone?"

She tilted her head, giving him a pointed look. "Do you think Snape supervised?"

"No, but I think someone must have supervised," he said with a smirk. "You came back looking like you either murdered him or—well. Something else."

Rox shot him a look of perfect composure, the kind that only made Cassius more suspicious.

He pressed, voice low. "Did something happen?"

"I alphabetized ingredients."

"You alphabetized ingredients," he echoed.

"And cleaned vials."

He arched a brow. "And?"

She crossed her arms. "And Cedric was there."

"So?" he prodded, gaze sharp now. "Did you two have a nice little chat? About sugar, maybe? Or did he spend the whole time trying to get under your skin like usual?"

"He was annoying," she muttered, already turning toward the fireplace.

"Annoying in the ha-ha-I-like-you way or the I-wish-I-could-hex-you way?"

Roxaine didn't answer.

Cassius blinked, watching her profile as she lowered herself into the seat by the hearth. "Rox."

She stared into the fire.

He frowned now, more curious than amused. "You're blushing."

"I am not."

"You are absolutely blushing."

"I reorganized powdered puffapod roots and dragon liver under torchlight for two hours. Of course I'm warm."

Cassius leaned back slowly, eyes never leaving her. "Tell me something."

"No."

He grinned. "Did anything explode?"

"...A cauldron."

"Did he do it on purpose?"

"I wouldn't put it past him."

"Did you threaten his life?"

"Yes."

"Did he enjoy it?"

"Probably."

Cassius tapped his fingers against the armrest.

Then, slowly: "Did he kiss you?"

Rox's head turned sharply.

Cassius lifted both hands in mock innocence. "A simple yes or no would suffice."

She narrowed her eyes. "I already told you we reorganized ingredients."

"That's not a no."

"It's also not a yes."

"Which is exactly the kind of evasive response someone gives when—"

"Cassius."

He shut his mouth, lips twitching.

But he didn't stop looking at her.
And she didn't stop not looking at him.

Cassius didn't say anything for a long moment. The silence stretched, filled only by the crackling of the green-lit fire and the distant drip of water echoing through the dungeons. Roxaine, perfectly still in her chair, refused to meet his gaze.

But then he leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, tone deceptively light.

"So," he murmured, "he kissed you."

"No," Roxaine said flatly.

Cassius blinked. "No?"

She exhaled—slowly, almost like admitting defeat. "I kissed him first."

That stunned him into silence.

And then—"You?"

She finally turned her head, her expression so calm, so cool, so infuriatingly composed that it took him a second to realize her ears were turning faintly pink.

"Yes," she said simply. "Is that a problem?"

Cassius blinked again, trying very hard not to laugh. "You. Initiated. The kiss."

She rolled her eyes. "Must I repeat it a third time?"

"I just—Merlin, Rox. That's not you."

Her mouth twitched, just slightly. "Maybe it is."

Cassius sat back, staring at her like she'd grown a second head. "You kissed him."

"Yes."

"You chose to kiss him."

"Yes."

He let out a low whistle and dragged a hand through his hair. "Do you know what this means?"

"I imagine you'll tell me."

"It means I was right." He grinned. "You do like him."

Roxaine stood abruptly, brushing invisible dust from her robes. "I'm going to bed."

"You kissed him."

"Goodnight, Cassius."

As she ascended the stairs, he called after her, still grinning like a lunatic: "You kissed him!"

She didn't turn around. But a faint, amused scoff echoed down the staircase.

Chapter Text

May 5th, 1992
Great Hall,
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The Great Hall was awash with the clatter of cutlery and the low hum of morning chatter, early sun pouring in through the tall windows and casting long golden streaks over the house tables. Laughter erupted somewhere near the Gryffindor end; a girl at the Ravenclaw table spilled her pumpkin juice; owls circled overhead. All perfectly ordinary.

At the Slytherin table, Roxaine Black sat with her spine straight and her every movement composed — a picture of pureblood precision. She was slicing her toast with mechanical rhythm, as though she were too focused to be bothered by the noise around her. Next to her, Draco was deep in a smug conversation with Crabbe and Goyle, recounting something that seemed to involve a Quidditch play, a near-fight, or both. Rox hadn't been listening.

Across from her sat Cassius, barely touching his food, his fingers steepled over his plate as he watched her with the kind of look that meant trouble.

She knew it was coming before he opened his mouth.

"So," he said, voice low and entirely too casual. "How was it?"

Roxaine paused mid-motion, butter knife hovering just above the toast. Her hand remained poised in the air for a beat too long. She blinked once. Slowly. "Excuse me?"

Cassius smirked, leaning forward a fraction. "The kiss, Rox. You can't just drop a revelation like 'I kissed him first' and then pretend it never happened. That's not how this works." He grabbed a piece of toast and took a large bite, chewing like this was any other breakfast conversation.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Cassius—"

"Oh, come on. I just want to know if he was any good." He wiggled his eyebrows, and her expression darkened instantly. "Did he use too much tongue? Or did you two just bump noses like awkward third years?"

Roxaine inhaled sharply through her nose. "You're impossible."

Cassius grinned, utterly unrepentant. "You kissed him, Roxaine Black. I think I'm entitled to a follow-up."

At that exact moment, Draco — who had gone suspiciously quiet — turned slightly toward them, one brow arched high. "What kiss?"

Roxaine froze.

Cassius froze.

A beat.

"Oh, no," she muttered, setting her knife down delicately, as if that would somehow steady the ground shifting beneath her feet.

Draco leaned in. "Cassius," he said, voice cool and dangerous in that very Malfoy way, "what kiss?"

Cassius looked at Rox as if asking permission to lie — or maybe just for the fun of watching her squirm.

"Drop it," she murmured, shooting him a warning glare.

But Draco was already narrowing his eyes. "You kissed someone? Who?"

And now the table was quiet — not entirely, but just enough to make the sudden absence of sound noticeable. A few seats away, Pansy Parkinson was eyeing them with gleeful suspicion. Someone across the table leaned in a little, and she could feel Avery Flint suddenly quiet down on her conversation with another one of their roommates.

Cassius tilted his head and gave her a look of pure amusement. "Well, Rox. He asked."

Roxaine reached for her tea as calmly as she could manage, but the slight tremble of her fingers betrayed her irritation. Or panic. Or both.

She took a measured sip. Then said, with impeccable serenity, "I kissed no one."

Draco scoffed. "Cassius just said—"

"And Cassius talks too much," she cut in smoothly, glancing over the rim of her cup. "Especially when he's sleep-deprived."

Cassius, infuriatingly, didn't contradict her. Just smiled into his toast like he was watching the best play of the season unfold.

"But—"

"Draco," Roxaine said sharply, placing her cup back down. "I believe you were in the middle of telling Goyle about your brilliant maneuver yesterday." She didn't even glance at him, just resumed buttering her toast with surgical precision.

There was a silence. Then, slowly, Draco turned back toward his previous conversation, though not without a glance — sharp, calculating — in her direction.

Cassius leaned in across the table again, voice pitched low. "You know that didn't work, right?"

She didn't answer.

He gave a smug little hum. "So... will there be another one?"

Roxaine pressed her lips into a thin line.

Cassius only grinned. "You didn't say no."

Roxaine didn't dignify Cassius with another word. She stood, collected, smooth as ever, and brushed invisible lint from the sleeve of her robes. Then she left the table with the same grace she'd use to walk into a duel — unhurried, lethal, untouchable.

Cassius followed three seconds later, a piece of toast still in his mouth.

"Don't even think about it," she said, not turning around.

"Think about what?" he said, around crumbs. "Following you? Too late. Already doing it."

She shot him a look over her shoulder, sharp enough to silence a lesser boy.

Cassius, being Cassius, only picked up his pace until he was walking beside her, hands in his pockets, eyes dancing.

They reached the first corner, the corridor dimmer here, quieter — and yet Cassius kept going, undeterred. "You know," he began, conversationally, "I really expected more resistance. You've gone unusually silent. Almost like you're... avoiding."

"I'm walking," she said.

"You're fleeing."

"I'm going to the library."

"You hate the library in the mornings."

"Congratulations," she snapped, turning on her heel so fast her robe flared. "Would you like a medal for knowing my routine?"

He grinned. "Only if it's for Most Loyal Confidant In Forbidden Inter-House Affairs."

Roxaine glared.

He took that as permission to continue. "So. You kissed him. First. I'm not over it."

She crossed her arms. "You're making it sound—"

"Like the truth?"

"It was detention."

"Uh-huh. Classic first-kiss setting: late night, confined space, romantic lighting from a dusty oil lamp—"

"Stop."

"—the overwhelming scent of pickled flobberworms in the air—"

She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. "I hate you."

"No you don't."

There was a brief silence. A few younger students passed by, glancing at them and whispering. Roxaine ignored them.

Cassius, of course, didn't.

"I'm just saying," he added, nudging her with his elbow. "I never thought I'd see the day. Roxaine Black, image of self-control, keeper of icy glares and sharp comebacks—completely losing her head over a Hufflepuff."

"I did not lose my head."

"You kissed him like you were possessed."

"I regret telling you anything."

"I live for the fact that you did."

She turned to him again, this time slower. "Do you ever stop?"

"Only if you bribe me," he said with a shrug. "Or hex me. Either works."

Roxaine rolled her eyes and started walking again. Cassius fell into step beside her once more, this time quieter. After a few beats, he glanced sideways.

"...So was it awful?"

She didn't answer immediately. Just walked, stiff shoulders and tightened jaw. But there was a faint, faint twitch at the corner of her mouth. Barely there.

Cassius saw it anyway.

"You liked it."

"I didn't say anything."

"You're smiling."

"No, I'm not."

"You are. It's terrifying."

She let out a breath and muttered, "It was ridiculous."

"Because you like him?"

"No," she said, too quickly. "Because it was clumsy. And chaotic. And—"

"—a first kiss?"

Silence.

He smirked. "So. When's the second?"

At Cassius' last question, Roxaine stopped walking.

She didn't whirl around dramatically. She didn't scoff or slap him or shoot a hex at his feet. She simply paused, spine straight, chin high, refusing to look at him — because she knew that if she did, he'd see it. The warmth lingering in her cheeks. The flush that hadn't quite faded since last night.

Cassius caught it anyway. He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes slightly as if confirming a suspicion. Then grinned. Slowly. Like a wolf catching the scent of something rare and delightful.

"You already kissed him again," he said, stunned, delighted. "Didn't you?"

She inhaled, long and steady through her nose. "Cassius."

"That's a yes."

"It's a warning."

"Oh, come on," he pleaded, walking around her so he could see her face properly. "Spare me something. What happened? Was it another broom closet ambush? Did he burn his tongue again and you decided to kiss it better?"

Roxaine gave him the kind of look that might've killed a man with less nerve. "He cupped my cheeks," she said, each word clipped like she regretted offering them the moment they left her lips.

Cassius froze.

"...He what?"

"He—" she faltered, cursed herself for it, then regained control. "After the first kiss. He cupped my cheeks. And kissed me again."

Cassius blinked.

Roxaine rolled her eyes. "It was better than the first."

"Of course it was. First kisses are a mess. Second ones are where you find your footing." He leaned closer, inspecting her face. "You're blushing."

"I'm warm."

"You're glowing."

"It was hot in the dungeon."

Cassius grinned. "Sure it was."

Roxaine exhaled sharply and started walking again, faster now, muttering under her breath.

But he could still hear her.

"...Stupid Hufflepuff with his stupid hands and his stupid—"

Cassius laughed, long and loud, trailing after her like a shadow too amused for his own safety.

"Admit it!" he called. "You're smitten!"

She didn't dignify him with an answer.

But her ears were pink all the way to the tips.

May 8th, 1992
First-Floor Corridor,
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The castle was quiet in that strange, suspended way it always became between classes — too late for most students to still be lingering in the common rooms, too early for the next swarm to fill the halls again. Roxaine moved through it with practiced ease, her steps measured, her books balanced perfectly against her hip, her expression unreadable.

Until—

"Roxaine," came a voice behind her, casual but just amused enough to grate.

She didn't slow. "Diggory."

He jogged slightly to fall into step beside her. "I saw you vanish out of Herbology before I could say hello."

"Maybe that was the point."

"Ouch." He clutched at his chest in mock injury. "You wound me. And after all we've been through."

She gave him a sidelong glance. "We survived Snape's storage room. That hardly counts as 'all.'"

He grinned. "Hey, speak for yourself. I was emotionally scarred. You yelled at me, you called me a hazard, you—kissed me."

"You kissed me," she corrected, without looking at him.

"You started it."

She inhaled, long and slow. "What do you want, Diggory?"

"Just walking," he said simply. "Happened to see you. Thought I'd... walk too."

Roxaine didn't respond, but her pace didn't increase either. It wasn't permission — but it wasn't rejection.

They walked side by side in near silence for a beat, save for the echo of their shoes over the stone floor.

Then: "You're not going to hex me if I say something flirty, are you?"

"I'll consider it."

Cedric grinned. "That's practically encouragement."

She didn't look at him, but he caught the slight upward twitch at the corner of her mouth.

He took it as a win.

"New ribbon?" he asked, nodding subtly toward the silver thread tying back her hair.

She glanced at him, suspicious. "You notice details now?"

"I've always noticed." He smirked. "I just usually pretend not to, in case it gets me hexed."

"You have excellent instincts."

"Do I?"

Rox didn't answer. Her eyes flicked ahead again, but she didn't pull away when his shoulder brushed lightly against hers. It wasn't a stumble or an accident this time. Just a quiet pressure, there and gone again.

And still, she didn't stop walking.

Neither did he.

They had almost reached the corridor bend when a drawling voice slithered out from behind one of the archways, too casual to be coincidence.

"Well, well."

Roxaine tensed beside Cedric as Draco Malfoy emerged from the shadows, arms crossed, expression far too smug for this early in the day. His gaze slid from Rox to Cedric with unhurried disdain.

"If it isn't Hufflepuff's finest." His lip curled, tone light and venomous. "What is it this time, Diggory? Offering her flowers? Reading her poetry? Or are you still under the illusion that you've got a chance?"

Roxaine exhaled sharply. "Draco—"

"I mean, really," Draco went on, ignoring her. "You do know who she is, don't you? Her bloodline? Her expectations? Or do they skip that lesson in your little sun-drenched common room?"

Cedric didn't even blink. "We've gone on two dates."

Draco snorted. "Yes, and I've had tea with Professor Trelawney. That doesn't mean I see my future with her."

"She kissed me."

The words dropped between them like a boulder. Loud. Unapologetic.

Roxaine froze. Her head snapped to Cedric. "Are you serious?"

He looked at her, almost sheepish. "He started it."

"You absolute—"

Draco was staring at her now. Eyes wide. Shock morphing rapidly into disbelief, then betrayal. "You what?"

"It wasn't—"

But there was no finishing that sentence.

"You kissed him?" Draco's voice pitched up a little, the control in it cracking at the edges. "As in lips on lips? Cedric Diggory? Hufflepuff Cedric Diggory?"

Cedric muttered, "It wasn't a house-themed kiss, Malfoy."

That earned him a glare so sharp Rox almost respected it.

"You've lost your mind," Draco snapped at her. "Is this some kind of game? Some twisted experiment in rebellion?"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake—"

"Because it's one thing to entertain him," Draco went on, ignoring her again, "but it's another thing entirely to—"

"To what?" she cut in, cold now, eyes flashing. "To do something that wasn't pre-approved by your father? You're not my handler, Draco."

"You're Black," he hissed, stepping closer, jaw clenched. "That means something."

"Yes," Cedric said before he could stop himself. "It means she makes her own choices."

Roxaine groaned softly. "Will you both—"

But Draco had already turned on Cedric fully, eyes narrowed. "You really think she'd ever choose you? Long-term?"

There was a beat of silence.

Cedric didn't flinch.

Roxaine, for a single breath, didn't either.

Then: "I can speak for myself."

Draco looked at her. "Can you?"

And for the first time, there was something beneath the fury in his voice. Not just rage. Not just disgust.

Hurt.

"You kissed him," he repeated, quieter now.

Roxaine didn't answer.

Didn't deny.

Didn't excuse.

She just stood there, arms crossed, expression like frost.

And Draco—unable to stand it—turned and walked away. Not storming. Not running.

Just walking, shoulders tight, fists clenched.

And the corridor felt colder for it.

Cedric glanced at Rox, cautiously. "Should I not have said—?"

"Don't," she muttered, already walking again.

But this time, he didn't follow right away.

She walked ahead with clipped, purposeful steps, but Cedric wasn't done. He jogged forward, falling into stride beside her, just close enough to catch the tension radiating off her like heat off pavement.

"Roxaine—wait—"

She didn't stop.

"I'm sorry, alright? I didn't mean to blurt it out like that. It just—it just came out."

Still, she walked.

"I wasn't trying to cause trouble."

And that was it.

She came to a halt so sudden he nearly ran into her. She turned sharply, and her eyes pinned him like cold iron to a wall.

"You didn't mean to?" Her voice was low, steady, but it trembled at the edges like a rope pulled too tight. "You didn't mean to?"

Cedric opened his mouth, but she didn't give him the chance.

"You think this is a joke?" she hissed. "You think this is some common schoolyard squabble? That you can just say things and they won't echo?"

He blinked, caught off guard by the way her voice cracked—not with emotion, but with effort. As if she was holding something back. Holding everything back.

"You know what's going to happen now, Diggory?" she went on, sharper, quieter, slicing every word with precision. "He's going to write to Lucius. Not because he's cruel. Because he thinks he's protecting me. Because to him, this—whatever this was—us—isn't a romance. It's a liability."

Cedric's brow furrowed. "I don't—"

"He's right," she said, more to the air than to him. "He's going to write, and Lucius is going to read it, and that'll be it. Done. Over. No second chances. No explanations. No space for 'I'm sorry.'"

There was a moment where neither of them spoke.

And then she added, more bitterly than she'd intended, "And no letter from my mother will change his mind."

Cedric's expression was caught somewhere between frustration and disbelief. "But why? What does it matter that much to them—?"

"Because you're not one of us."

The words landed heavy.

Roxaine swallowed, suddenly too aware of how quiet the corridor had grown. How loud her voice had sounded in it.

Cedric stared at her, unmoving. "I'm pureblood."

"That's not what I meant."

His voice, when he answered, was softer. "Then what do you mean?"

She looked away.

She looked exhausted.

"Your blood might be pure," she said after a long pause, "but it's not old enough. Not influential enough. Not... right enough."

"That's—"

"I don't make the rules, Diggory," she cut in, louder this time. "I just live by them."

He was quiet.

Rox's arms folded, then unfolded, like she didn't know what to do with them. Her whole body was taut, defensive. Her gaze flicked anywhere but him.

"I didn't plan this," she said. "I didn't expect it. And I certainly didn't want it to turn into something I couldn't control."

"You don't have to control it," Cedric said quietly.

"Yes, I do."

He stepped closer.

"Roxaine."

"Don't," she snapped, stepping back. "Don't say my name like that. Like it means something to you."

"It does mean something to me," Cedric insisted.

"Well, it shouldn't."

And just like that, her mask snapped back into place. Chin high. Voice cool. Hands steady.

He looked at her then—not as a boy with a crush, not even as someone who had kissed her.

But as someone who had realized he was no match for the war she fought in silence every day.

And maybe never would be.

She turned away again.

And this time, he didn't follow.

Chapter Text

May 9th, 1992
Great Hall, Breakfast
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The morning sun streamed through the enchanted ceiling, soft and golden, but Roxaine Black's mood didn't match the weather.

She sat stiffly at the Slytherin table, perfectly dressed as always, her toast untouched, her tea growing lukewarm. Cassius was already beside her, watching her from the corner of his eye with the quiet calculation of someone weighing the exact moment a question would turn into a crime. He knew better than to press just yet.

Across from them, Draco was going on — loudly — about something Blaise had said in Defense the day before, complete with exaggerated impressions and smug commentary. His voice was grating. His laughter, even more so. And the way he kept glancing toward her, like waiting for a reaction — that was the final straw.

"Are you planning to retell the entire class verbatim," Roxaine said coldly, "or is there an intermission coming up?"

The chatter around their end of the table dimmed slightly.

Draco blinked, thrown. "I—what?"

She didn't even look up as she added a spoonful of sugar to her tea. "You're louder than Peeves and half as entertaining."

Cassius bit into a piece of toast to keep from smirking.

Draco recovered fast, leaning in slightly with that smug glint she'd grown to hate. "You're awfully cranky this morning. Late night? Or was it that your Hufflepuff prince didn't walk you to your tower this time?"

The porcelain clink of her teacup meeting the saucer was sharper than it needed to be.

She raised her eyes then — calm, but deadly. "I'll pretend you didn't say that."

He opened his mouth, but Cassius interjected smoothly, voice low. "Draco, I'd advise shutting up before she dumps that tea on your robes. And I'm not saving you this time."

Roxaine gave a tight, humorless smile and picked up her toast, finally taking a bite like the conversation was no longer worth her attention.

Draco huffed and turned back to his plate, clearly irritated but not stupid enough to push further — at least not while she had a knife in hand.

Cassius leaned in closer. "Still angry?"

Her eyes flicked toward him, cool. "Furious."

He nodded once, thoughtful. Then, lightly, "So. Normal morning, then."

She didn't answer — but her mouth twitched.

Somewhere at the far end of the table, the rustle of owl wings began. Mail was coming.

The air shifted before the wings did. Roxaine could feel it — the sudden hush beneath the noise, like a chord had been plucked under her ribs.

Owls swooped low over the four House tables, parchment fluttering, packages dropping. One—sleek, dark, and unmistakably expensive—glided above the Slytherin table and released a single envelope directly in front of her plate.

The seal was broken before it touched porcelain.

The handwriting, familiar. The ink, crisp.
The tone?

Ice.

Roxaine,

Your cousin informed me—rather hesitantly, I'll admit—that young Diggory claimed you kissed him.
You did not correct him.
That silence speaks louder than any confession.

I will be direct. Whatever childish game you believe yourself to be playing ends now.
Do not test me on this, Roxaine. You will not win.

You carry not only the name but the weight of this family on your shoulders. It is not a bauble to pass around in alleyways or behind castle walls. You are a Black, and Blacks do not indulge in adolescent fantasies with boys bred on sentiment and sugar. You know what the Diggory name lacks. You know what yours demands.

I do not blame you for naiveté. You are, after all, still young. Barely more than eleven in my mind, still in ribbons and ink-stained collars. But youth is not an excuse for recklessness. I entrusted you with more than most ever receive.

Do not shame me by pretending you don't understand what's at stake.

We will speak of this properly at the manor. But I expect that by then, this nonsense will have resolved itself. I trust you will behave as I raised you to.

L.M.

The parchment was expensive — thick, heavy — but it crumpled easily in her hand.

Cassius hadn't looked over, but his entire body had stilled, like he could feel the chill radiating off her. Draco, for once, had the sense to keep his mouth shut.

Her tea had gone cold. She didn't touch it.

She folded the letter once, precisely. Slid it into her pocket.

Then she stood. Quietly. Mechanically. With the kind of dignity that only came from years of being told how to walk when everything inside wanted to shatter.

Cassius rose with her, alarmed. "Rox—?"

"Not now," she said simply, and walked out of the hall like nothing had happened.

May 12th, 1992
Slytherin Common Room,
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The lake cast slow-moving shadows across the stone walls, green light flickering like breath against the vaulted ceiling. Most students had long since retired to their dormitories, leaving the common room in its usual midnight hush — deep and heavy, a stillness earned only by the weight of generations.

Roxaine sat curled in one of the high-backed armchairs closest to the fire, legs tucked beneath her, a book open but unread in her lap. Cassius sat across from her, slouched with one ankle resting on his knee, arms folded and head tilted in quiet observation. Between them: the thick fog of things not said and the rare comfort of someone who didn't need them spelled out.

She hadn't spoken much in the last few days — just enough to keep up appearances, just enough to keep breathing. But tonight, with only Cassius there and the fire warm enough to melt the edges of the tension in her shoulders, her voice returned.

"He called me eleven," she murmured.

Cassius blinked. "What?"

"In the letter," she said flatly, still not looking up from the page she hadn't turned in twenty minutes. "He said I was 'barely more than eleven in his mind'. As if that justifies treating me like I'm stupid."

Cassius exhaled through his nose, slow. "You know he didn't mean it that way."

"I don't care how he meant it," she snapped, sharper than she intended. Then, after a breath: "He said I was his responsibility. Like I'm some... antique. A family heirloom he forgot to lock away properly."

Cassius leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "He's scared."

She looked up.

"Lucius," he clarified. "He's not angry because you kissed Diggory. He's angry because you liked it. Because you might want to do it again. Because that means he's not the one writing the script anymore."

That did it. A short, involuntary breath that could have become a laugh if she'd let it.

Cassius offered no smile, just quiet certainty. "He can't put you back in a cabinet. Not now."

Before she could answer, the common room door creaked open behind them.

Draco stepped in casually, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed, as if the tension in the room wasn't a noose tightening the moment he crossed the threshold.

"Evening," he said lightly.

Roxaine didn't move, didn't blink — but her entire body coiled tighter.

Cassius sat up straighter.

Draco moved toward the armchairs like he might sit. "You two look—"

"Don't," Roxaine cut in.

He paused. "Don't what?"

Her voice was ice. "Don't act like you didn't run to him with your tail between your legs."

Draco blinked. "Rox—"

"You knew what would happen if he found out."

Cassius didn't interrupt. He just watched, lips pressed in a straight line.

Draco frowned, clearly unsure whether to defend himself or feign ignorance. "I only said—"

"You told him I kissed Diggory." she snapped, rising to her feet now, book slipping shut with a quiet thud. "And that I didn't deny it. Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"He's your uncle," Draco shot back, defensive now. "He was going to find out eventually. Better from me than from some half-blood gossip—"

"Oh, how noble," she said, voice a low venomous hiss. "Did you earn yourself a medal for that? A pat on the head?"

Draco's eyes narrowed. "I was protecting you."

"No," she said, stepping closer, eyes glittering. "You were protecting the version of me that makes you feel superior."

The silence that followed cracked like glass.

Draco swallowed hard.

She didn't give him time to recover.

"You made your choice, Draco. Don't pretend it was about me."

Draco's mouth opened — then closed again. He stood awkwardly by the fireplace, the usual confidence in his posture replaced by something hesitant, almost sheepish. The flicker of the flames didn't reach his face the same way it reached hers. She was carved in light and shadow, sharp angles and narrowed eyes, while he looked younger than usual. Smaller.

"I didn't mean for it to..." He trailed off, searching.

"To explode in my face?" Roxaine supplied, voice brittle. "Too late."

"I thought if he heard it from me, it'd be—"

"Gentler?" She let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head as she stepped back, folding her arms tightly across her chest. "Since when is Lucius gentle?"

Draco flinched at the name. "I didn't think he'd be that harsh."

"He told me to end it," she said, cutting over him. "Now. No excuses. No delays."

Draco lowered his gaze, but she wasn't done.

"You told him everything, didn't you?"

He hesitated. "...I told him you kissed him."

She nodded slowly. Her voice dropped.

"That —" she said, fingers curling at her sides, "— was mine."

Draco's brow furrowed. "What?"

"That was the only thing in my life that wasn't rehearsed. Wasn't planned. Wasn't assigned to me by someone else."

The words came faster now, pulled from a place she rarely let anyone near.

"It was messy. Stupid. Secret. And it was mine. You don't get it, Draco. You were born with his approval. You never—not even once— felt like had to earn it, never had to perform for it, beg for it. Everything I do — every step I take — I weigh against what he'll say. What he'll think. And for once, once, I didn't."

Draco's throat worked silently.

"And now it's gone," she whispered, the fury in her expression twisting into something far more dangerous. Hurt. "You took it from me."

"I didn't mean to—" he started.

"But you did," she snapped.

Cassius, silent until now, slowly stood up behind her, a quiet, steady presence, eyes never leaving Draco's.

Draco looked between them, hands twitching uselessly at his sides. "I thought you'd thank me. For trying to make it easier."

Roxaine's laugh was short and joyless. "You didn't make it easier. You made it impossible."

Draco opened his mouth again, but no words came. None would help. Not now.

Draco looked like he might argue — like there was one last thread he could pull to unravel this mess into something resembling forgiveness. But the moment stretched too long, the silence curdled, and his shoulders sank under the weight of words he couldn't make right.

Cassius stepped forward, his voice low but unflinching. "Draco. Please. Leave."

It wasn't angry, but it wasn't a request.

Draco glanced at Roxaine one last time. She didn't move. Didn't blink. Her jaw was tight, her gaze locked just past him, like if she looked at him directly, she might break something — him, or herself.

So he nodded, mutely, and turned.

His footsteps were barely audible as he left the common room. The door shut behind him with a soft click.

Roxaine didn't move.

Cassius waited a beat, then another. And then he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her.

She didn't return the hug, not at first. Her arms remained pinned between them, stiff against her body. But she didn't pull away either.

Cassius held her tighter, one hand cradling the back of her head, not saying a word. Just breathing with her. Steady. Quiet. Present.

And after a moment, her fingers curled into the fabric of his robes, her head dipping slightly toward his shoulder, not enough to surrender — just enough to stay.

Cassius didn't speak. He knew better than to try and fix what couldn't be fixed with words. Instead, he stayed right where he was, his arms strong around her, offering not answers but something rarer — safety, permanence.

Roxaine let out a quiet breath, her brow brushing against the collar of his robes. She was still tense, like a bowstring stretched to its limit, but the crack in her composure had started to show. And Cassius — who had known her longer than anyone still standing — knew how rare it was for her to let even that much escape.

"Did I ever tell you," he murmured after a while, "that you're the scariest person I've ever met?"

She snorted, muffled against his shoulder. "You're not the first."

"But definitely the prettiest."

That earned him a soft, reluctant sound — not quite a laugh, but something dangerously close. She pulled back just enough to glare up at him, though the effect was ruined slightly by her glassy eyes and the way her cheeks were still flushed from anger.

"Don't start."

He grinned. "Too late."

Rox rolled her eyes, but her mouth twitched — a faint tug upward. She shook her head and let out a breath that sounded lighter than before. "You're an idiot."

Cassius lifted a hand to push a stray strand of hair from her face. "I know. But I'm your idiot."

She blinked, surprised by how those words caught somewhere behind her ribs.

"...Thank you," she said, very quietly, as if the words were unfamiliar on her tongue.

Cassius tilted his head, pretending not to have heard. "Sorry, what was that?"

"Cassius."

"Hmm?"

She sighed, but there was no venom in it. "Don't push your luck."

He smirked, satisfied. "Wouldn't dream of it."

They sat down on the nearest velvet couch, Roxaine curling into one side, Cassius lounging with casual ease beside her — their shoulders barely touching, but solid. Real.

For a few minutes, the common room was quiet save for the soft crackle of enchanted fire and the distant hush of pages turning from somewhere upstairs.

And when Cassius glanced sideways, he found her eyelids fluttering slightly, the weight of the day pressing down at last.

He didn't say anything — just pulled his cloak from behind him and draped it over her with a gentleness that few got to see from him. She didn't protest.

Her breathing evened out. He stayed beside her. Kept watch.

Whatever came next — letters, confrontations, broken hearts — would come.

But not tonight.

Cassius shifted slightly, glancing down at the girl slumped beside him. Roxaine had fallen asleep sometime between one bitter sigh and the next, her head tilted just barely toward his shoulder, her arms folded defensively even in rest. There was a crease between her brows — as if even in dreams, she was bracing for war.

He hesitated. He could've let her stay. She probably needed the sleep more than anyone.

But the couch would ruin her neck, and if anyone else came down, if someone saw her like this — soft, vulnerable, unguarded — she'd never forgive him.

So, with all the care of someone diffusing a very fragile, very dangerous hex, he leaned in and murmured close to her ear, "Rox..."

She didn't stir.

He tried again, softer still. "Roxaine."

This time, her lashes fluttered, and her body gave the faintest jolt — her defenses snapping back into place before her eyes even opened. She blinked up at him, disoriented for half a second, before remembering where she was.

Cassius offered a small, lopsided smile. "Come on, Black. You'll destroy your spine on this couch."

She squinted at the fire, then at him. "What time is it?"

"Late. Or early. Depending on how dramatic you feel."

Roxaine groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "You could've let me die here."

"I considered it," he said lightly. "But then I remembered how unpleasant your ghost would be. Nagging me forever about posture and diplomacy."

Her lips twitched faintly. "And sugar."

He smirked. "Especially sugar."

Rising slowly, she rubbed at her neck with a grimace. He stood with her, steadying her without comment when she swayed for a moment.

"Go on," he murmured, tilting his chin toward the staircase. "I'll see you in the morning."

She hesitated, then nodded. "Night, Cass."

"Night, Rox."

And as she ascended the stairs to the girls' dormitories, Cassius remained where he was — watching the embers die down, the silence settle again — the protector in the quiet dark.

May 13th, 1992
Hogwarts Dungeons, Potions Classroom
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The dungeon was cooler than usual that afternoon, the stone walls damp with the stubborn breath of spring rain. Cauldrons lined the countertops like squat, expectant toads, and the slow clink of glassware being set out filled the silence before class. A few flickering torches painted narrow shadows on the walls, catching in the amber of Roxaine Black's eyes as she arranged her notes with deliberate precision, refusing to glance to her right.

Cedric Diggory had been watching her since he walked in, quietly hopeful in the way boys sometimes were when they didn't understand yet that patience wasn't always rewarded. He slid into the stool beside her with practiced ease, letting his shoulder brush hers, light as breath, testing the waters.

She didn't flinch, but she didn't turn either.

"I saved you hellebore," he said under his breath, placing a sprig beside her neatly inked parchment. "It was the last decent one."

Nothing. Not even a nod. Her hand moved to tuck her hair behind her ear, but her eyes remained locked on her textbook, and her expression was carved from cool, deliberate stone. A Black through and through.

Cedric cleared his throat and tried again, voice softer this time. "You haven't even looked at me since Tuesday."

Still nothing.

Around them, students filtered in. A blur of green and gold and black robes, muffled laughter, half-hearted complaints about the essay Snape assigned. Roxaine's spine was straight as a sword. She didn't need to say anything; her silence had weight, and it pressed on Cedric more than any sharp retort would've.

He leaned in, just a little. "Rox, come on. If this is about—"

The door slammed open.

Professor Snape swept into the room like a gust of thunderclouds, his robes trailing behind him with theatrical menace. The class straightened at once, all fidgeting and whispers vanishing as he strode to the front and fixed them all with a disdainful stare.

"No excuses. Wands away. Page two-hundred-twelve," he snapped, flicking his wand toward the blackboard, where today's lesson—Sleeping Draught, advanced variant—etched itself in spidery silver ink.

As students reached for their books, Roxaine raised her hand with calm formality, not bothering to look at Cedric even then.

Snape's eyes flicked toward her. "Yes, Miss Black?"

"I'd like to request a seat change," she said crisply. "Back to my original arrangement, with Avery Flint."

The silence that followed was sharp.

Snape's gaze flicked to Cedric, who had frozen beside her, and then to Avery, who blinked from across the room. After a brief pause, Snape nodded curtly.

"Granted. Mr. Diggory, you'll return to Mr. Thatcham. Miss Flint, swap seats."

Avery was already collecting her things, moving with quick, quiet efficiency toward Rox's side. Cedric sat motionless for a beat longer, his jaw tight, hands fidgeting with the spine of his book as Roxaine stood and moved without once meeting his eyes.

By the time Avery sat beside her, her posture relaxed only slightly, as though she'd shed something heavy in the walk across the room. She didn't look back.

Cedric didn't look away.

The switch was seamless. Avery Flint dropped into the stool beside Roxaine with a satisfied little exhale, the kind that only came when something had finally been set right. Her dark hair gleamed in the dim light, braided back in the Slytherin way—tight, neat, and not an inch out of place. Roxaine, for her part, didn't glance up from her ingredients, measuring powdered valerian root with cold precision, but her presence seemed instantly calmer.

"Finally," Avery murmured under her breath, lips barely moving. "Couldn't stand that Hufflepuff beside me for much longer. Always smelled like broom polish and grass. Kept tapping his quill."

Roxaine let the corner of her mouth lift—not quite a smile, more a sharp flicker of amusement. She reached for the flask of sopophorous syrup and said, evenly, "You should've hexed him."

Avery smirked. "Tempting. But I assumed you'd get bored eventually."

"I did," Rox replied coolly, tilting the syrup to a perfect three-drop pour. "Just took longer than expected."

Across the room, Cedric was still stealing glances, but she didn't return them. Slytherins didn't look back.

Avery hummed, pleased, as she unscrewed the stopper from the mortifyingly dented vial of valerian that had somehow survived three years in her possession. She made a face and pushed it toward Roxaine. "Yours is better. Switch?"

Without a word, Roxaine slid hers over and took Avery's in return, inspecting it with mild distaste but making no complaint. They worked like clockwork—efficient, elegant, deliberate. When Rox passed her the silver stirring rod, it was without looking; when Avery adjusted the flame beneath the cauldron, Rox tapped the rim three times to mark the timing. Years of being roommates had taught them how to communicate with almost no words at all.

Still, Avery didn't let the silence last long.

"So." Her voice was low, cool, edged with something just shy of smugness. "The Hufflepuff has finally wilted."

Roxaine didn't look up from the potion, which had begun to thicken into the right shade of pearly grey. She gave it a single clockwise stir before replying. "It was overdue."

"I assumed it would end with blood," Avery mused. "Yours or his."

Rox scoffed under her breath. "Please. He wouldn't know where to cut."

That made Avery laugh—a short, sharp sound that earned a narrowed look from Snape, which she ignored with the practiced ease of a Flint. "You know, for a while there, I thought you were actually entertaining the idea. That you were... indulging him."

Rox's hand faltered for the briefest moment as she reached for the valerian. "I was," she said flatly, then added with a shrug, "It passed."

Avery leaned slightly closer, her elbow on the table, voice dropping. "Did he really kiss you?"

The question was edged with curiosity, not judgment, but it still landed with an uninvited weight. Roxaine's jaw tightened, but she didn't flinch. She finished slicing the root into clean, surgical pieces and finally said, "Yes. Once."

Avery raised an eyebrow. "Just once?"

"That was enough," Rox muttered, pushing the chopped valerian into the cauldron with a flick of her silver blade. The potion hissed as it accepted the ingredient, color deepening.

There was a pause—long enough to almost settle—before Avery tilted her head. "Lucius?"

Roxaine didn't answer immediately. Her hands moved with clinical precision, adjusting the heat beneath the cauldron, stirring once counter-clockwise. She could feel his gaze—Cedric's—across the room, stubborn and insistent and unbearably warm. She didn't look up. She didn't want to.

"Of course Lucius," she said at last, each syllable cold and perfect. "Did you think he'd send me chocolates?"

Avery snorted again, clearly delighted. "No. I just didn't think you'd fold."

"I didn't fold," Roxaine snapped, too quickly. She stopped stirring, met Avery's eyes, her voice dropping low. "I calculated."

Avery met her look evenly, then nodded once. "Right."

They went quiet after that, the kind of quiet that only Slytherins understood. Not uncomfortable. Not sympathetic. Just a tacit agreement to put the subject down before it got messy.

Across the room, Cedric dropped his pestle and cursed under his breath. Rox didn't flinch. Avery smirked.

"Pathetic," she murmured, pretending to scratch at a stain on her sleeve. "I can't believe you let that follow you around for months."

"I didn't let him," Roxaine said, tone clipped. "He stayed."

"And now?"

Rox turned the flame off beneath their cauldron, inspecting the draught with an exacting eye. It had settled into a smooth, silvery swirl, perfect viscosity. She nodded, almost to herself, and set the stirring rod down with finality.

"Now he'll stop."

But when she glanced up—only once—Cedric was still looking.

And he didn't look like he was going anywhere.

Avery followed Roxaine's brief glance with sharp, Slytherin-trained instinct, her gaze sliding over to the other side of the room with lazy precision. Cedric was hunched slightly over his cauldron, shoulders tight, lips pressed into a flat, frustrated line as he ground his ingredients with a bit more force than strictly necessary. He looked out of place there—gold and soft lines in a world of damp stone and poison.

Avery tilted her head. "He looks like a kicked pup."

Roxaine didn't reply, just kept her eyes fixed on her notes as if the runes for enforced dormancy in potion compounds were suddenly riveting.

"I mean," Avery went on, resting her chin on her hand now, voice languid and amused, "he's not that bad to look at. I'll grant you that. For a Hufflepuff, anyway."

Roxaine gave the faintest twitch of a brow, but her expression didn't change. "Low bar."

Avery smirked. "Please. You've seen Marcus. You think he's the standard?"

That drew the ghost of a grin from Rox. Not full, not generous—but there, nonetheless.

Avery leaned in conspiratorially. "Honestly, I think Mum started giving him rough-skinned fireseed in his porridge when he hit puberty. There's no other explanation for that face."

Roxaine exhaled slowly through her nose, not quite laughing, not disagreeing either. "The jaw of a troll and the grace of a Quaffle."

"Exactly," Avery said, satisfied. "So compared to that genetic tragedy, your Hufflepuff was practically presentable."

"He wasn't mine," Roxaine corrected at once, icy and automatic, and the shift in her tone cut through the humor like a blade. But then, quieter: "He just... lingered."

Avery didn't push, though the glint in her eyes lingered longer than Cedric ever could've hoped to. She dipped her quill into her inkwell and began labelling the draught in her tidy, slanted script.

"Well," she said casually, voice feather-light, "at least now I don't have to pretend to be nice to him."

"You never did," Rox replied dryly.

Avery grinned. "I tolerated. That's practically affection."

From across the room, Cedric looked up again. He was still watching. Roxaine didn't turn. She just twisted the cap onto the flask of finished potion, slid it toward the front tray, and reached for her next set of notes like she hadn't heard a thing.

Avery Flint, satisfied now that their potion was safely labeled and out of the way, leaned back in her seat with that particular kind of sly contentment only a pureblood Slytherin girl could wear—equal parts mischief and self-satisfaction. She picked a stray thread from her sleeve and then turned to Roxaine, eyes glittering.

"Oh, by the way," she said, voice syrupy sweet, "I borrowed your Delacour perfume last Friday. The rose-oak one."

Roxaine's quill paused mid-sentence. Her gaze lifted slowly, elegant and deliberate, cutting through Avery with that sharp Black stillness. "You absolute bitch," she said, calm as a snowfall.

Avery only grinned wider. "I had to. I ran into the Burke boy in the library and couldn't be seen smelling like hospital wing antiseptic. I'm not you, I don't get away with ice as a signature."

Rox raised a brow, lips twitching ever so slightly. "You know that blend was custom. Mother charmed it to only bond to my skin tone properly. Anyone else ends up smelling like mildew and regret."

Avery's smirk didn't falter. "Mildew, possibly. Regret? Not quite. Burke followed me all the way back to the common room asking what I was wearing."

"Because he thought it was me," Rox said, as if explaining things to a particularly dull child. "Which is worse."

Avery chuckled, tossing her braid back over her shoulder. "Please. He couldn't handle you if he tried. I was doing public service."

Rox returned to her notes, but the ghost of amusement still lingered at the corner of her mouth. "You're unworthy of my things."

"Oh, please. You used my brooch at the Montague dinner last month and never returned it."

"It was a hideous brooch, Avery. I buried it."

Avery gasped, hand to chest in mock outrage. "That was vintage Mulciber! My aunt wore it to her seventh engagement party."

"Which one?" Rox asked, dry as ash. "The one that ended in dueling or the one that ended in scandal?"

Avery made a show of pretending to think. "Scandal. Definitely scandal. She was disowned for a week."

Rox gave a slow, approving nod. "Acceptable lineage, then."

A pause. Avery leaned in conspiratorially again. "Speaking of lineage. I heard Cassius turned down the Nott girl."

Roxaine arched a brow. "I told him her voice sounded like a crying elf."

Avery snorted. "He said she tried to flirt using Gobbledegook."

Roxaine didn't flinch. "Tragic."

"But the worst part?" Avery whispered. "She meant it. Apparently she thought it sounded exotic."

Roxaine shook her head with solemn disdain. "She drinks pumpkin juice with lemon. Her judgment is gone."

Avery hummed. "Sad. I almost felt bad. But then again, she wore yellow satin to a Black wedding last year."

"Unforgivable," Rox said, lips finally curling into a real, razor-edged smile. "Should've been exiled."

The two of them lapsed into silence again, the kind that was rich with shared understanding. No apology, no softness—just sharp tongues wrapped in silk and secrets, girls raised to wield words like weapons and still leave the room untouched.

Across the dungeon, Cedric dropped something again—his pestle this time, clattering against stone. A few students looked up. Roxaine didn't.

Avery, of course, noticed. "Still looking."

"He'll stop," Roxaine murmured.

"Mm." Avery smirked. "Or he'll keep following. Like a Crup with no tail."

Roxaine didn't respond. But the next note she wrote was just a little more precise than necessary.

Chapter Text

Late May, 1992

Hogwarts Library,

Third Person POV

E.R.B.:

Final exams approached, and Roxaine found herself buried beneath a growing mountain of parchment, textbooks, and the kind of mental fatigue that only Ancient Runes could induce. The castle had begun its slow descent into that particular brand of quiet chaos: students whispering formulas to themselves in corridors, goblets of black coffee smuggled into common rooms, and the faint smell of over-sharpened quills everywhere.

Roxaine had taken refuge in her usual corner of the library—tucked away near the Restricted Section, far from the chattering groups of second-years pretending to study and fifth-years who clearly weren't. Here, among dust-coated tomes and high, arched windows breathing in pale afternoon light, she found the only semblance of calm left at Hogwarts.

A long scroll of Transfiguration notes curled like a serpent across the table. Next to it sat three open books, each dense with diagrams and cross-referenced theory, and a half-finished essay annotated in her sharp, elegant script. She sat with one leg tucked under the other, posture composed, her quill scratching rhythmically, jaw set in silent concentration.

Her inkpot was half-empty. Her tea had gone cold. She hadn't noticed either.

The world had become narrow, deliberate—quill, page, repeat—and that was how she liked it. No distractions. No wandering eyes across dungeons. No letters from Wiltshire. No—

The chair across from her scraped.

Roxaine didn't look up.

Not yet.

The chair across from her scraped faintly again, hesitant this time. Roxaine finally glanced up, her expression flat and unamused, quill pausing mid-stroke. Standing there with her usual nervous stiffness was the Granger girl—books clutched to her chest like a shield, curls frizzing at the temples, eyes determined but wary. Roxaine arched a brow.

Hermione cleared her throat, clearly bracing herself. "Er—sorry to interrupt. I know you're probably busy. I just—well, I was wondering if you might... possibly help me again?"

Roxaine didn't answer immediately. She set her quill down with deliberate grace, fingers steepling lightly over the open page. Her gaze swept over Hermione like one might appraise a stain on silk—measuring, cold, already disapproving.

"Charms wasn't enough?" she said finally, her voice low and smooth as velvet over ice. "What is it this time—Transfiguration? Or have you come to borrow another wand, just in case yours misfires again?"

Hermione flushed but didn't move. "Transfiguration. I've been trying to get the match-to-needle switch right, but it's not... precise enough. Professor McGonagall says my intention is there, but I'm missing some kind of... technical detail."

Roxaine clicked her tongue. "Well, at least she's generous with praise. I suppose it's the Gryffindor way." She looked back at her notes, as if bored already. "Sit, then. Before I change my mind."

Hermione sat quickly, her movements stiff with contained embarrassment, setting her Transfiguration textbook down and pulling out her notes with frantic efficiency.

"You really shouldn't be struggling with something this basic," Roxaine said airily, reaching over to take the parchment without asking. Her fingers avoided Hermione's—subtly, deliberately. "Unless, of course, it's a matter of... lineage."

Hermione stiffened. Roxaine didn't look up.

"I imagine wandcraft and precision don't come naturally when your blood's been diluted by centuries of... mediocrity." She said it like a botanical observation, detached and clean. "But then, you already knew that."

Hermione's lips pressed into a thin line. She didn't answer.

Roxaine skimmed the notes with narrowed eyes, flipping one of the pages. "Here. Your incantation emphasis is wrong—you're overcompensating on the last syllable. It's not 'ver-NAS-co,' it's 'VER-nas-co.' The intent flows from the first sharp syllable, not the trailing one."

Hermione frowned, scribbling it down. "That wasn't in the textbook—"

"Of course it wasn't," Rox snapped. "If the Ministry put real technique in those books, half of Hogwarts would blow its own eyebrows off."

She reached into her satchel and pulled out a slim, leather-bound volume—worn, hand-annotated, with a faded Malfoy crest embossed on the inner flap. She flipped to a page and turned it around, pushing it toward Hermione with one elegantly manicured finger.

"Read that. Twice. Then try the match again."

Hermione stared at the page, startled. "You're lending me your notes?"

"I'm not lending you anything," Roxaine said sharply. "You're reading it here. You so much as smudge the ink and I'll vanish your eyebrows myself."

Hermione blinked. "Right. Thank you."

Roxaine raised her chin, expression unreadable. "I'm not doing it for you."

Hermione didn't respond, too busy copying the annotated motion diagrams into her own notebook.

Rox picked her quill back up with a sigh. "Honestly. They'll let anyone into this school these days." She said it quietly, but not so quietly that it couldn't be heard.

Hermione said nothing. But she kept copying.

Hermione worked in tense silence, the only sound between them the scratch of her quill and the occasional rustle of parchment as she flipped back and forth between Roxaine's notes and her own, trying to imitate the intricate wand motion diagrams. Rox made no effort to help further—she watched the girl with the kind of cold indifference a cat might give to a struggling mouse it wasn't quite ready to kill.

But eventually, Hermione glanced up.

"Er—sorry," she began again, quieter this time. "Can I ask you something else?"

Roxaine didn't lift her eyes. "Merlin's bones, Granger. It's like speaking to a leaky cauldron."

"It's just a question," Hermione said, voice edging into stubborn. "I wanted to know what you think about Professor Snape."

That, finally, earned her attention. Roxaine raised her gaze slowly, meeting Hermione's eyes with an expression that flickered between amusement and suspicion.

"Snape?" she repeated, tone dry. "You mean our Head of House, Prince of Dungeon Glares, Terror of the First Years, and unmatched potion-maker in all of Britain?"

Hermione hesitated. "Yes."

Roxaine leaned back in her chair, folding her arms over her chest. "He's exactly what he should be. Efficient. Intelligent. Unapologetically harsh. And extremely loyal to those who deserve it." A pause, then, cool and pointed: "Not all of us do."

Hermione flushed again, fingers tightening on her quill.

"But..." she went on, cautious now, "don't you think it's strange? The way he acts around Professor Quirrell?"

Roxaine blinked once. Slowly. "Quirrell?"

Hermione pressed her lips together. "Never mind."

"No, go on," Roxaine said, intrigued now, her voice cutting with careful interest. "You're the one who keeps poking your nose into every dark corner of this castle. What is it this time? You think Snape's up to something?"

Hermione hesitated, then shook her head quickly. "Forget it. Just... curious."

Rox studied her for a moment longer, then scoffed under her breath. "You're either the most dangerously observant first-year I've ever met or the most naive. Possibly both."

Hermione went back to her notes, looking like she regretted speaking at all.

Roxaine reached for her own parchment again, murmuring, "Snape may be a great many things, but he's not a fool. Or a traitor. If something were actually happening in this school, he'd know before Dumbledore did."

Hermione nodded, half-heartedly, and went silent again.

A few more minutes passed. The scratch of quills returned, slow and steady.

Then Hermione asked, almost in a whisper, "Did you... hear anything about what Hagrid's been doing lately? At night?"

Roxaine's quill stilled.

She didn't look up. Not right away.

"I don't concern myself with what half-giants raise in their fireplaces," she said evenly, voice cool. "But if I had, hypothetically, noticed anything unusual... it wouldn't be worth discussing with someone who nearly set their sleeve on fire trying to enchant a feather."

Hermione blinked at her. "So you do know something."

Roxaine's eyes lifted just barely, a warning glittering beneath the calm.

"I know that if you keep poking into things that don't concern you, eventually something will poke back."

Hermione stared.

And for once, she didn't ask another question.

Hermione's grip on her quill tightened, but she lowered her gaze again, blinking quickly, as though forcing herself not to react. Roxaine watched her for a beat longer, chin propped delicately on her hand, lips parted ever so slightly in a look that hovered between disdain and amusement.

"Honestly," Rox said at last, tone soft but knife-edged, "you don't understand the difference between knowing something and surviving knowing it. That's the problem with your kind."

Hermione looked up, mouth opening like she might argue—but she stopped herself. Roxaine tilted her head.

"No rebuttal?" she asked, arching a brow. "No textbook-ready moral philosophy?"

"I just—" Hermione straightened her parchment nervously, trying to refocus on her diagram. "I think Hagrid might be in trouble. That's all. Or maybe... not him exactly, but something he's protecting."

Rox's expression didn't change, but there was a brief flicker of something behind her eyes—recognition, perhaps. Or memory. A crackling fire. The leathery flap of wings.

Her fingers moved idly, as if brushing dust from her sleeve. "Whatever Hagrid is doing, it's beneath the notice of people who actually matter."

Hermione frowned, brows knitting. "So you don't care?"

"I don't have to care," Roxaine said coolly. "That's the advantage of being me."

Hermione's eyes narrowed slightly. "And what does that mean?"

"It means," Rox said, voice suddenly sharp, "that I don't waste time on creatures that breathe fire in backrooms or fairy tales about forbidden corridors. I leave that to people like you—desperate to matter."

Hermione bristled, face flushed again, but stayed quiet. Not because she didn't have something to say—but because somewhere beneath all the venom, she knew Roxaine might be right.

Rox went back to her notes, tapping her quill against the edge of her inkwell with rhythmic precision.

"I'll give you one warning," she said without looking up. "Don't ask questions you can't protect yourself from. This castle has a long memory. And not everyone gets to leave it unscathed."

Hermione, after a beat, gathered her notes in silence. "Thanks," she said stiffly. "For the help. I'll return your book now."

Roxaine didn't reach for it, didn't even glance as Hermione slid the slim, worn volume back across the table. "Good girl," she murmured, almost idly. "Try not to blow yourself up with it next time."

Hermione left without a word.

And Roxaine, once alone again, finally allowed herself a breath. Not quite tired. Not quite settled.

But something was unraveling at the edges. Something burning faintly, just beneath the surface.

May 28th, 1992

Slytherin Girls' Dormitory, Third-Year Chambers

Third Person POV

E.R.B.:

The greenish glow from the enchanted lake filtered in through the dormitory windows, casting long, languid shadows across the polished stone floor and the velvet-curtained beds. The faint hiss of water lapping against the castle's lower walls served as a constant hum in the background, like the castle was breathing through its foundations.

Roxaine sat curled in the corner of her bed, one leg tucked beneath her, the other stretched out beneath layers of Slytherin-green silk blankets. A heavy book lay open on her lap—an annotated volume of Advanced Transfiguration Theory—but she wasn't really reading it anymore. Her eyes were half-lidded, her expression a study in composed disdain, and her fingers twirled her quill in slow, idle loops as the soundtrack to her evening continued to drone on from across the room.

Avery Flint was pacing.

Pacing and mumbling, in a kind of muttered rhythm that had only grown more irritating with time.

"...Goblin rebellions... 1612... wasn't the one at—no, no, that was the one with the inn—ugh, what was it called? The Three Broomsticks? No. That's... that's Hogsmeade. Or was it—Gringotts?"

Roxaine didn't look up. "Yes. The famous Gringotts Bed-and-Breakfast."

Avery paused mid-step, blinked, then made a face. "Shut up."

"You shut up. Or at least mumble with some historical accuracy." Rox's voice was honey-coated ice. "It was the Goblin Rebellion of 1612, yes, and the inn you're thinking of is the Three Broomsticks—but that one was built after. You're confusing it with the Silver Flagstone, which was torn down after the rebellion. Probably because goblins set it on fire."

Avery groaned and threw herself dramatically onto her bed. "How do you even remember that?"

"I have a functioning memory," Rox murmured, finally turning a page. "And taste in sources."

"Ugh." Avery rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. "You're a menace. No wonder you're top of the year. I bet even Binns is scared of you."

Rox raised an eyebrow. "He's dead, Flint."

"Exactly."

There was a pause. Then Avery suddenly sat up, grabbed the cushion at her side, and hurled it with surprising speed across the room.

Roxaine moved only slightly, leaning a fraction to the left, letting the cushion fly past her and thud uselessly against the wall.

There was a beat of silence.

Then, without shifting her spine or even marking her place in the book, Rox picked up her own cushion—one with darker stitching and a faint scent of eucalyptus—and lobbed it back with a flick of her wrist.

It landed squarely against Avery's chest.

"Oof—Merlin's sake!" Avery collapsed backward, groaning as though mortally wounded. "Is this how you show affection?"

"It's how I show restraint."

Avery flung an arm over her face. "You've been insufferable since we started exams."

Roxaine smirked faintly. "And yet you keep coming back."

There was another pause as Avery fidgeted with her notes, flipping them open with theatrical reluctance and muttering under her breath again.

"Goblins... uprising... 1612... Silver—something..."

"Silver Flagstone," Rox said without looking.

"Whatever. You're actually making me hate goblins more than usual."

"Then Binns would be proud."

Avery glanced over at her. "I'm telling Marcus you've gone soft. You're being civil."

"I'll deny it under Veritaserum," Rox replied, still not looking up. "And speaking of Marcus—"

"Oh no."

"—you throw like him," Roxaine finished, serene and deadly.

Avery bolted upright. "Take that back."

Roxaine's smirk deepened. "No."

"You're vile."

"You missed me from less than eight feet."

Avery grabbed her wand. "Don't tempt me."

Roxaine finally turned her head, eyes gleaming, mouth curved in a lazy smile. "Honestly, if you had half that dramatic energy on a broom, you might actually be useful."

"Excuse you?"

"I'm saying," Rox said, folding her book shut with a deliberate thump, "you'd make a decent Chaser if you learned to aim."

Avery gasped, as if personally offended. "You're a Beater! You have no right to judge—"

"I'm the Captain," Rox corrected, tone like silk sliding over a dagger. "Which means I have every right. And a clipboard."

Avery groaned into her pillow again. "You're unbearable."

Roxaine leaned back against her headboard, eyes half-lidded. "And still more helpful than every prefect combined."

Avery Flint let out a long, pained groan, arms sprawled dramatically across her bed as if she were a fallen heroine in some fifth-rate tragedy. Roxaine, by contrast, had resumed her earlier pose—book balanced on one thigh, one hand lazily turning pages, the other idly toying with the chain of her signet ring as though she hadn't just insulted her roommate's entire lineage of broom-handling skills.

"I'm telling your aunt you said that," Avery muttered into her pillow, voice muffled.

"She'll agree with me," Roxaine said absently, not even glancing up. "She's the one who told me Marcus once mounted his broom backward in second year and flew into the lake."

"That was a rumor—"

"She showed me the photo."

Avery sat up again, pointing a quill like a wand. "If I get disinherited because of you—"

"Then I'll finally be the prettier one." Roxaine's tone was cool as ever, but her lips twitched.

"Oh you evil creature—" Avery flung the quill, but it went wide, spinning lazily through the air and landing harmlessly on the floor. "Ugh. Fine. Maybe I wouldn't be a good Chaser."

Rox didn't miss a beat. "No, you'd be a spectacle. The kind that makes the front page of the Prophet under 'tragic sporting injuries.'"

Avery narrowed her eyes. "You know, for someone with the reflexes of a basilisk, you're shockingly mouthy."

Roxaine closed her book with a quiet snap and stretched, arms overhead, spine arching like a cat preparing for the kill. "And for someone with Marcus as a brother, your throwing arm is disgraceful."

"You're obsessed with him tonight."

"I'm horrified by him nightly," Roxaine corrected. "That's different."

"You're lucky I like you," Avery said, reaching to retrieve her fallen quill with a huff. "Otherwise I'd be telling everyone in the common room how you got hit in the face with your own Bludger second year."

"That was sabotage," Rox said calmly. "The wind turned."

"There was no wind, Rox. We were underground."

Roxaine only gave her a slow blink. "I don't recall asking for your commentary."

"Oh, I'll give it anyway. What else are roommates for?"

"Window dressing. Noise. Occasional humiliation."

"Don't tempt me to start singing again."

"You wouldn't dare."

Avery smirked. "Try me."

Roxaine sat up straighter, suddenly very alert. "Flint. If you so much as hum that Celestina Warbeck song again, I will have your voice hexed until exams are over."

"You can't silence a gift, darling."

"I can, I will, and I'll make it look like a self-inflicted injury. You'll never sing again without sprouting boils."

Avery cackled, flopping onto her back again. "I'm telling Slughorn you threatened me."

"Good. He'll probably offer me a pin for it."

Silence stretched between them for a moment, soft and companionable now, punctuated only by the faint ripple of water outside the windows and the distant thunder of Flint's shouting during what must have been late-night Quidditch drills echoing faintly from the pitch.

After a moment, Avery spoke again, more quietly this time.

"You know you're the only reason I've survived this year, right?"

Roxaine didn't look up from her book again. "Obviously."

Avery threw another pillow. This one hit.

The pillow landed squarely against Roxaine's shoulder with a soft whump, toppling the open book from her lap and earning a raised brow, cold as glass. She moved with the precision of someone trained not to flinch, not to react—until she did, reaching down with exaggerated slowness to retrieve the traitorous cushion.

"Right," she said, her voice a touch silkier than before. "Now it's war."

Avery had already rolled halfway off her bed in preemptive defense, but Roxaine's aim was lethal—clean, brutal, and perfectly calculated. The pillow soared across the room like a rogue Bludger and hit Avery in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her with a theatrical "oof!"

"Uncalled for!" Avery groaned, clutching her middle.

"Entirely earned," Rox replied, smoothing her robes like the entire exchange had been a courtroom dispute, not a childish skirmish. "Next time I'll use the one with buttons."

"You would," Avery wheezed, dragging herself upright. "Is this what you do to Gryffindors on match day?"

"No," Roxaine said simply. "Gryffindors get steel-core."

There was a pause—then a shared snort, both girls laughing in that restrained, slightly cruel Slytherin way, like they'd just hexed a first year in sync. Roxaine's composure didn't crack much—her laughter was more a breathy exhale through her nose—but Avery's was loud, unabashed, and rolling.

Once the chaos settled, Roxaine leaned back against her carved, green-velvet headboard and picked up her fallen book again, her fingers running along the margin she'd written in earlier. Avery settled into a cross-legged perch on her bed across the room, twirling her quill between her fingers, still breathless from laughter.

After a moment, Avery broke the quiet again, voice softer.

"You know," she began, twirling the feather until it blurred, "when you're not being terrifying, you're almost tolerable."

Rox didn't look up. "Careful. You'll ruin my reputation."

"Please. That ship sailed the moment Marcus told everyone you punched a Ravenclaw Beater for calling you 'princess.'"

"He misspoke. I corrected him."

"You shattered his broom arm."

"It healed. Mostly."

Avery grinned, tapping her parchment as if warming up to start again. "Still. You've mellowed. Just a bit."

Roxaine gave her a sideways glance, faintly amused. "I've been busy."

Avery snorted. "Busy rejecting poor, tragic Hufflepuffs in potions class?"

Rox's eyes flicked toward the window. "He's not tragic. Just... in the wrong category."

"House, you mean?"

"No. Tax bracket."

Avery let out a delighted, scandalized gasp. "You cold-hearted little snake."

Rox smirked faintly. "You're just envious I say it better."

"Please. I live for your vicious one-liners. Write them down for me when you die, will you?"

"You'll die first."

"I'm a Flint. We never die."

"Only in combat or scandal."

"Or by falling off broomsticks."

They laughed again, quieter this time, fading into the familiar rustle of pages and the soft sound of Avery beginning to scribble at last, mumbling under her breath about "Goblin rebellions" and "bloody Uric the Oddball."

Roxaine resumed her reading, gaze steady, the faintest curl at the corner of her mouth betraying that—for tonight, at least—she didn't mind the noise.

A lull settled between them, the kind that came after well-spent mockery and mid-evening nonsense, filled only by the soft scratching of Avery's quill and the occasional page turning from Roxaine's side of the dorm. The greenish light from the enchanted sconces cast a low, silvery glow across the room's stone walls, bouncing off polished trunks and iron bed frames. The crackling fire in the grate had dulled to embers.

Roxaine didn't lift her eyes from her book as she asked, offhandedly, "Where's Odette?"

Avery hummed absently, still writing. "Astronomy tower, I think. With that Ravenclaw prefect. The one with the shiny hair and no backbone."

Rox's brow lifted minutely. "The Montmorency boy?"

"Mmm," Avery confirmed. "He brought her lilies. Again."

Roxaine turned a page, slow and deliberate. "He's weak."

"Positively tragic," Avery agreed. "Keeps calling her 'ma chère colombe.' I'd hex my own ears off if someone ever called me that."

Roxaine snorted under her breath. "Odette eats it up."

"She'd eat mud if it was served on a French saucer."

Rox finally looked up, book balanced on her knee. "Disgraceful."

Avery grinned. "She's thirteen, in love, and has no ambitions beyond marriage and monograms. What did you expect?"

"Discretion."

"Oh, please," Avery said with a wave of her quill. "She told me she wants matching dress robes for their engagement party. And an owl named Jules."

Roxaine blinked once. "We should stage an intervention."

"I've tried. She said I was 'poisonous to romance.'"

"You are."

"So are you."

"Yes," Roxaine said, placid. "But at least I'm honest about it."

Avery barked a laugh, collapsing backward onto her four-poster with a dramatic groan. "Merlin help us all when she starts drafting wedding invites. If one of those touches my pillow, I'm setting her trunk on fire."

"Warn me first. I'll help carry the kerosene."

Avery was still mumbling curses into her pillow when the clock on the far wall gave a sharp, mechanical chime—ten thirty. The enchanted sconces dimmed themselves slightly, the greenish hue of the dorm softening into a low glow that seemed to ripple faintly with the movements of the fire. Outside, the lake lapped against the dungeon walls in steady rhythm, as if echoing the hush settling over Slytherin House for the night.

Roxaine shut her book with a quiet snap, the sound oddly final. She didn't mark her place—she never needed to—and slipped it back into the drawer of her bedside table with slow, elegant precision. She didn't bother to stretch; her posture was always perfect, even at rest, spine straight as she pulled back the heavy emerald quilt and slid beneath it without a word.

Avery had flopped over on her back by then, arms and legs sprawled in an exaggerated star shape on top of her blanket. "We're too young to die of boredom," she muttered.

"You're too loud to die quietly," Roxaine said, reaching for the velvet tie that held back her hair and tossing it onto the table. Her voice was drowsy but sharp, like the bite of cool silver.

Avery shifted to one elbow, watching her. "You're going to dream about hexing Odette's wedding dress, aren't you?"

"I'll dream about tearing it apart at the seams and blaming the house-elves."

A snort, then a yawn. "You're horrible."

"I'm practical."

A beat passed. Then, from across the room: "Rox?"

Roxaine didn't open her eyes. "Mm?"

Avery's voice dropped into something quieter, almost reluctant. "You're not really... bothered about the Diggory thing, right?"

Silence. For a moment, just the fire.

Then: "Go to sleep, Avery."

Avery didn't press. She rolled over with a sigh and dragged the covers up to her chin, muttering something unintelligible that might've been a wish for summer or a curse toward the essay still unfinished. The dorm room fell quiet, save for the occasional rustle of fabric or creak of bed springs, and the dim green light flickered gently across stone.

Roxaine stared at the canopy above her bed, eyes sharp and unblinking in the dark, long after Avery's breathing had evened out. Her fingers curled once against the sheets before going still.

She didn't dream of Odette's wedding dress. She didn't dream of Diggory either.

She dreamt of nothing at all.

May 29th, 1992

Slytherin Girls' Dormitory – Third Year Room

Third Person POV

E.R.B.:

The lake filtered in pale green light through the enchanted windows, dappling the stone floor in sluggish, wavering patterns. It was nearly time for breakfast. Outside the dormitory walls, the sound of distant footsteps and the occasional sharp trill of Peeves echoed faintly—Hogwarts beginning to stir, reluctantly, into another day.

Roxaine Black was already up.

Her motions were slow, deliberate, practiced: brushing her hair in front of the tall, slightly tarnished mirror with quiet precision, the strokes even and soundless. Her uniform lay on the end of her bed, already ironed, robe freshly pressed. She moved like someone with no interest in rushing. Like someone preserving stillness for as long as possible.

Behind her, Avery let out a groggy groan from under her sheets. There was a beat of rustling, the thump of a leg kicked out from beneath a tangle of green blankets, and then her voice—hoarse, petulant—broke through the silence.

"When did you get back?" she mumbled, twisting to peer across the room.

Odette Travers was seated on her bed already, tying the laces of her shoes with sleepy fingers and an exaggerated yawn. Her hair was still vaguely pinned, strands escaping from an effort made in haste or laziness the night before. "Late," she said vaguely. "I don't know. After curfew."

"That's specific." Avery flopped onto her back and blinked up at the ceiling. "You snuck in like a bloody ghost. I didn't hear a thing."

"You sleep like a troll," Odette shot back, not unkindly.

From the vanity, without turning, Roxaine said flatly, "It's a bit late for both of you to start gossiping."

The words cut clean, cold. They didn't carry irritation—just something steely beneath the surface. A quiet dismissal. Her voice, as always, held composure, but her tone was tighter than usual. Detached. Detached enough for Avery to pause, for Odette to glance her way and decide against a comeback.

Roxaine didn't meet either of their eyes. She was adjusting the silver clasp on her robe, fingers deft, jaw set. Her face was unreadable.

Avery sat up, watching her with a flicker of hesitance. "You're up early."

Roxaine smoothed the fabric of her sleeve and finally turned, expression serene, impenetrable. "I always am."

Neither girl responded. The air shifted—not awkward, exactly, but thinned of its usual lazy banter. Roxaine walked back to her trunk, lifting the lid and retrieving a small bottle of perfume—a dark, crystalline vial with a narrow silver cap. Her morning routine unfolded like clockwork, each gesture measured, not a second wasted.

Avery stood up, scratching her head as she dragged herself to her own trunk. "Well, if we're up, I'm claiming first shower next time."

"You're only up because we talked," Odette pointed out, grinning.

Roxaine said nothing. She picked up her wand from the nightstand and tucked it neatly into the inner fold of her robes. Her fingers lingered there for a moment, not quite still—just long enough for someone to notice, if they were paying attention.

But neither Odette nor Avery said anything.

None of them mentioned what day it was. And Roxaine didn't offer it.

She didn't wear mourning black. She didn't break her silence. She simply finished dressing, fastened the final pin in her hair, and walked to the door without so much as a glance behind her.

May 29th, 1992

Great Hall, Breakfast

Third Person POV

E.R.B.:

The Slytherin table gleamed beneath the enchanted ceiling's overcast sky, all pewter gray and low morning hum. Students filtered in with lazy half-steps and sleep-creased robes, chasing steam from teapots and warm rolls with half-lidded eyes. Roxaine sat already, flanked on one side by Cassius Rosier, who'd arrived not long after her and wordlessly dropped into the seat beside her with a yawn muffled behind his fist.

He didn't say anything when he saw her.

He just poured her tea.

Two sugars, no milk—exactly the way she drank it when she was quiet like this.

Roxaine hadn't touched the eggs or toast on her plate, only the steaming cup between her palms. She stared past it, lips pressed, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Her features were composed, but the muscles in her jaw sat tight beneath the surface. She hadn't said a word since they entered the Hall.

When the owl post swept in, it was as if the world rippled around her in slow motion. Cassius glanced up out of habit, already reaching lazily to push away an incoming copy of the Daily Prophet. A sleek, pale barn owl dropped gracefully onto the table before her with a soft clink of claws against silver.

A letter, sealed in heavy green wax. The Malfoy crest gleamed beneath the waxy sheen like a serpent coiled in judgment.

Then came a second owl—this one smaller, dusk-feathered and elegant. Narcissa's.

Roxaine didn't blink.

Cassius looked sideways at her, eyes catching the way her hands stilled on the cup's porcelain rim.

She reached for the first letter without ceremony, broke the seal, and unfolded the parchment. Her eyes scanned quickly. She didn't let them linger.

"Roxaine,

We are aware of the significance of this date to you, and trust you are carrying yourself with the same dignity that befits the house you represent. Your grandmother would have expected no less. Walburga Black was many things, but above all, she was loyal to her blood, her name, and her cause. We expect that you continue to honor her memory in both conduct and alliance.

—L.M."

The second letter smelled faintly of gardenia.

"Dearest Roxaine,

I know this day still leaves its shadow, no matter how far behind the years fall. Your grandmother was proud of your mind, your elegance, your discipline—all things she valued, all things you carry like second nature. Lucius and I are thinking of you this morning. Be gentle with yourself, even if you choose not to show it outwardly.

With affection,

—Your Aunt, Narcissa."

Roxaine folded both letters with perfect precision and slid them into the inside pocket of her robe. She didn't speak.

Cassius hadn't looked at them. He didn't need to. He knew the date as well as she did.

"Toast?" he offered after a moment, nudging a plate toward her, tone maddeningly casual.

"I'm not hungry."

"Didn't ask if you were." His voice dropped a fraction, sardonic but soft around the edges. "I said toast."

Rox gave him a sharp look. He held her gaze evenly, one brow arched.

Her fingers moved after a beat. She broke off a small piece of bread and let it sit idle beside her cup.

Cassius leaned back, satisfied.

They sat in silence for a while—two Slytherins surrounded by the hum of house chatter and clinking cutlery, untouched by it all. Cassius didn't press. He never did. He knew better than to ask about Walburga. He knew better than to mention grief when it came to Roxaine, whose mourning was a cold, iron thing: worn like a badge beneath the ribs, never spoken of, never surrendered.

"I'll walk with you to Transfiguration," he said after a while, more statement than offer.

"I'm not some porcelain figurine, Rosier."

"No," he said, buttering his toast with insufferable calm, "but you're dramatically unpleasant when you pretend you've got no pulse."

She said nothing. Just drank her tea, eyes fixed ahead, spine perfectly straight. But after a long, slow sip, she didn't protest. And when they stood, she didn't tell him not to follow.

May 29th, 1992

Corridor Outside the Great Hall

Third person POV

E.R.B.:

The stone corridor stretched long and sun-washed, wide enough to carry the murmur of dozens of students funneling out toward their first lessons. Roxaine walked with measured steps beside Cassius, their robes moving in tandem like twin shadows across the flagstones. Her bag was slung across one shoulder, not heavy—she never overpacked—but she adjusted the strap anyway, as though the shift in weight could distract her mind from the itch behind her ribs.

Cassius, half a step behind, was humming something low under his breath. She recognized it—an old waltz their mothers used to make them practice to during garden parties. His way of teasing without speaking.

Roxaine didn't rise to it.

Not today.

Then she saw them.

Up ahead, just before the staircase that split toward the courtyard and the Charms corridor, stood a trio too loud, too bright, too pleased with the world. Atlas. Her twin brother, her mirror in so many ways, and yet—not in this moment. He was grinning, wide and unguarded, his arm around one of the Weasley twins (Fred? George? She never bothered to distinguish them), laughing at something that must've been absurdly stupid.

He nudged one of the twins with his shoulder. The redheads barked out synchronized laughter. Atlas laughed with them, mouth open, carefree. Like this day—this day—meant nothing to him.

Roxaine slowed.

Not visibly, not enough for someone else to notice, but Cassius matched the shift without asking.

Her eyes narrowed, not in fury, but something smaller. Tighter. Cold.

Cassius followed her gaze.

Atlas, completely unaware, mimed something ridiculous—looked like one of the twins had dared him to imitate McGonagall's walk. He did it with flair, head high, chin taut, shoulders stiff, sending the other two into a fit of hysterics. Atlas took a bow. Fred (or George) ruffled his hair.

The warmth in his face didn't belong to the day. It didn't belong to memory. It didn't belong to her.

"He looks like he's about to throw rose petals at the sun," Cassius muttered dryly.

Roxaine's jaw didn't clench, but the breath she released was sharp-edged.

"He always did love an audience," she said, voice clipped. "He must've forgotten the date."

Cassius shot her a glance that said he doubted that very much.

But Roxaine didn't look away. Her eyes were steady, cold. As if by staring long enough, she might remind him without words. Or carve the absence into him the way it still pressed against her ribs.

Then Atlas noticed her.

His smile faltered—just for a second, just a hairline fracture. Enough to prove he hadn't forgotten.

But he didn't leave the twins.

He didn't walk over.

He didn't say anything.

He just lifted his hand in a casual half-wave, like it was any other morning. Like they weren't standing on the ashes of a woman who'd practically raised them in her own twisted image. Like this day hadn't been marked in the back of her mind since 1985.

Roxaine's expression didn't change.

She gave him a nod. Perfect. Polished. A gesture fit for Ministry halls or ancient parlors—not one born of twinhood, or shared memory.

Then she walked past. Cassius at her side.

She didn't look back.

Chapter Text

June 1st 1992,
Great Hall,
Third Person POV,
E.R.B.:

There was a particular kind of smugness in the air at the Slytherin table that night—one that was earned, not assumed. The green-and-silver banners floated high above them like silent crowns, declaring what everyone already knew: Slytherin had won. Again.

Roxaine sat between Cassius and Avery, her posture pristine, fingers absently toying with the rim of her goblet. Her hair was immaculate as always, the slightest curl tucked behind one ear, and her uniform was unwrinkled despite the heat of the crowded hall. She wasn't one to smile broadly in public, but there was a precise satisfaction in her expression, like a painting completed with the last stroke.

Across from her, Marcus Flint was bragging to a younger boy about how Slytherin would soon dominate the Quidditch Cup as well. Avery was half-listening, half-dreaming, and Cassius... Cassius had been watching the Gryffindor table like a cat watches the cage of songbirds.

When Potter walked in, there was an annoying murmur that rippled through the Great Hall like static. The whispering turned to chatter, then to applause—mostly from his own table, of course. Roxaine merely rolled her eyes and took a slow sip of pumpkin juice, not even bothering to look in his direction.

"Another year gone!" came Dumbledore's too-cheerful voice, and the babble subsided like water settling. Rox's eyes flicked up to him as he rose.

Cassius leaned slightly toward her and whispered, "Think he'll bother with his usual speech about unity and learning through friendship?"

Roxaine gave a dry smirk and said, "He's too distracted by Potter's hair to think clearly."

The usual announcements passed without incident, and then came what everyone had been waiting for.

"Now, as I understand it, the House Cup here needs awarding," Dumbledore said, and Rox lifted her chin as he read the points aloud. "In fourth place, Gryffindor, with three hundred and twelve points..."

The Gryffindor table groaned. Rox didn't bother to hide her amusement.

"...in third, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two; Ravenclaw has four hundred and twenty-six and Slytherin, four hundred and seventy-two."

The Slytherin table exploded into a thunder of cheers, fists pounding on the table, goblets clinking, Marcus standing and howling like they'd already won the war. Draco Malfoy looked one joyful tantrum away from jumping onto the table itself, and Cassius gave a satisfied nod as if this were merely how the world should be.

Then Dumbledore spoke again.

"However, recent events must be taken into account."

A subtle freeze descended across the Slytherin table. The smiles wavered. Roxaine narrowed her eyes, lowering her goblet. Dumbledore had that twinkle in his eye she knew too well—the one he wore when he was about to do something infuriating under the guise of benevolence.

"I have a few last-minute points to dish out..."

Cassius groaned under his breath. Rox set her cup down with a controlled clink.

"First, to Mr. Ronald Weasley... for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Gryffindor House fifty points."

The Gryffindor table erupted like a fireworks show gone wrong. Percy Weasley looked moments from combusting with pride. Rox shot Cassius a deadpan look. "They're giving House points for board games now?"

"It's the pity system," he muttered.

"Second — to Miss Hermione Granger... for the use of cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor House fifty points."

Avery leaned sideways with a low whistle. "Was that the little one who asked you about transfiguration the other day?"

Rox's lip curled. "Yes. The Mudblood."

Avery snorted. "Logical and annoying. Terrifying."

Then came the silence, the kind that sweeps a room clean. Rox's spine straightened, instinct prickling.

"Third — to Mr. Harry Potter... for pure nerve and outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor House sixty points."

The eruption this time made Roxaine's ears ring. She didn't blink. Cassius leaned close again, voice cold. "He's going to hand them the Cup. He's really going to—"

Dumbledore raised his hand, the gesture like a guillotine before the fall. The hall went still once more.

"There are all kinds of courage," he said, and Rox already hated where this was going. "It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends. I therefore award ten points to Mr. Neville Longbottom."

Avery made a choking noise. "Longbottom? Are you joking?"

Rox closed her eyes, once, tightly, before opening them again. The ceiling, bewitched as always, now trembled with the magic of the crowd's hysteria. Laughter and joy rolled off the Gryffindor table like a wave. Even Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs joined in, clapping like fools.

And then it happened.

With a single clap, Dumbledore transformed the entire hall: green turned to red, silver to gold. The Slytherin banners vanished, replaced by towering lions. The air itself seemed to shimmer with scarlet defiance.

It was an assault, Roxaine thought. A declaration. A slap.

Cassius sat still, jaw tight. Avery's knuckles were white around her fork. Across the table, Marcus Flint was still staring at the banners, eyes narrowed, his fists clenched around his goblet like he wanted to throw it.

Rox didn't speak. She didn't move. Her gaze drifted lazily toward the Gryffindor table where Potter and his friends celebrated like saviors. It wasn't rage in her bones—not exactly. It was something colder. A note tucked between her ribs that read: they'll regret that.

And as Snape shook McGonagall's hand with the expression of a man biting glass, Roxaine Black sat straight-backed in her seat, surrounded by the wreckage of stolen victory, and let the bitter taste of the moment brand itself into her memory.

This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

June 1st, 1992
Slytherin Common Room, Hogwarts
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The greenish light of the lake shimmered low across the vaulted ceiling of the Slytherin common room, casting wavering reflections on cold stone and colder faces. A fire crackled half-heartedly in the hearth, the room otherwise buzzing with the tense, poisonous quiet of a snake pit stirred too early. What should have been a triumphant evening was now nothing short of humiliation—and that was something Draco Malfoy didn't take well.

He had launched into a tantrum the moment the door sealed shut behind them, fury crackling through every motion like static. His fists slammed into a side table, knocking over a set of crystal ink bottles. "It was rigged!" he snarled, blond hair wild, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and something far worse: public defeat. "It was rigged and Dumbledore knew it! They cheated! Potter cheated—he always does! And that stupid Longbottom—ten points? For what? Falling over himself like a worthless—!"

"Draco," drawled Roxaine, not even looking up from the armchair where she sat with her back straight and her hands folded in her lap, nails pristine, expression unreadable. Her voice cut across the room like the blade of a letter opener, clean and swift. "You're embarrassing yourself."

His head whipped toward her, red-faced and still panting like a winded child. "You think this is nothing?"

She finally looked up, one elegant brow arching. "I think if you throw one more tantrum, you'll put Marcus Flint to shame. And that would be unforgivable."

He sputtered. "They humiliated us! They humiliated me—"

Roxaine stood. Smooth, calculated. Her robes were immaculate, green-trimmed and pressed, her silver pin in the shape of a serpent catching the firelight. Her voice was calm, detached, every syllable dipped in frost. "You are not the only one humiliated, Malfoy. We all had to watch our banner vanish into red and gold, endure the stares, the whispers, them." She didn't say "Gryffindor," as if even uttering the word would sour her tongue. "Do not presume your pride is more valuable than mine."

He was quiet for a beat. Then: "You don't even care, do you?"

Her eyes flared then—barely, a whisper of ice cracking under pressure. She stepped toward him, measured and deliberate. "I care, Draco. I care so much I can't even breathe. But I will not scream about it like a child." Her voice dropped, cold enough to bite. "If you want to make us look weaker than we already do, be my guest."

Around them, the common room had fallen entirely silent. Avery had frozen mid-step on the stairs, a book under her arm. Even the seventh years lounging in the corner weren't bothering to pretend disinterest. All eyes were on them—on her.

Roxaine, always composed, always untouchable, had raised her voice.

But just as quickly as it had risen, she reined it in. Adjusted her sleeves. Tilted her chin. "Now," she said, voice once more silk and knives, "if you're done throwing breakables, perhaps we can all go to bed before someone decides to write home about what a disgrace we've become."

She turned without waiting for an answer, her braid snapping like a whip against her back, and walked back to her armchair. She sat again. Crossed her legs. Lifted her book.

Draco stood frozen, jaw clenched, breathing through his nose.

And the common room, begrudgingly, returned to its quiet simmer.

Only Roxaine's page turned. Slow, precise. Unbothered.

June 2nd, 1992
Hogwarts Express,
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The train cut its way through the rolling countryside, steam curling upward and vanishing into the pale spring sky. Inside, the Hogwarts Express buzzed with voices already tinged with nostalgia and summer plans. Laughter and chatter echoed from compartments, sweets were shared, trunks were shoved into overhead racks with careless energy. It was the end of a year, and for most, it had ended with fireworks.

But not for Slytherin.

In the fourth compartment from the rear, the air was markedly colder. Roxaine Black sat by the window, arms crossed, cheek pressed against her fist as she stared out at the shifting fields. She hadn't spoken since they'd boarded. The sunlight flickered through the glass, catching the gleam of the silver snake pinned at her collar—still perfectly polished despite the disaster the night before. Her expression didn't crack, not even when Cassius slumped across from her with a dramatic sigh.

Draco paced.

He had refused to sit since the train started moving, too wound up, too full of anger he hadn't managed to burn out the night before. His shoes thudded against the floor with every pass, his robes catching on corners, hair an unbrushed mess. He looked less like a Malfoy and more like a storm about to break.

"No one is talking about them," he growled suddenly, for what must have been the fifth time. "No one cares that they cheated. No one cares that Dumbledore handed them the Cup like it was a birthday present—"

Roxaine didn't flinch. "He did it because he could," she said calmly. "That's what power looks like."

"Don't sound so impressed," Draco snapped, whirling on her.

"I'm not impressed," she said, still not looking at him. "I'm calculating."

Draco's mouth opened, but Cassius cut in before the sparks could catch. "Merlin, could you both shut up for five seconds? It's the train. It's over. It's done. We lost. Get angry, make a list, start scheming, whatever it is you both do when your egos are bruised—but later. Right now, I want to eat this Cauldron Cake in peace and pretend I don't know either of you."

Draco threw himself into the seat beside Cassius with the grace of a collapsing bookshelf. Roxaine didn't move. She watched the trees blur past as though they might offer her an answer she hadn't yet found.

She didn't say a word, but her silence was louder than Draco's tantrums.

Inside her chest, the weight of that final feast still pressed, heavy and sharp. Not because of the points or the banners or even the cheers from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff—but because they had been dismissed. Made small. Forgotten.

She had never been good at forgetting.

"Next year," she murmured under her breath.

Draco glanced up at her, sharp, catching just enough of her tone to stiffen. "What?"

But Roxaine didn't answer. Her reflection in the window looked back at her, composed, calm, and quietly furious.

June 2nd, 1992
Platform 9¾, King's Cross Station,
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The whistle blew with a final, piercing cry as the train hissed to a halt. Steam billowed over the platform, wrapping around the students like a parting veil as they filed out, pulling trunks and cages, already peeling off their school robes in favor of Muggle coats. Laughter rang through the fog, parents calling out names, the echoing clatter of trolleys and the sharp squeal of brakes filling the air.

Roxaine stepped off the train with practiced poise, her green-trimmed cloak perfectly settled, her chin slightly raised. Draco was just behind her, visibly annoyed by the jostling students and the loud, undignified reunions. Beside them, Cassius slung his bag over one shoulder and turned, brushing back a strand of hair as he took in the station like someone bracing for battle.

"Well," he muttered, glancing from one twin to the other. "See you in September, then. Assuming none of us gets murdered by our fathers before that."

Roxaine arched a brow. "Don't be melodramatic."

"I'm being realistic," he replied, then rolled his eyes with a crooked grin. "You two take care of yourselves. And—" He looked directly at Roxaine. "Don't lose your temper. Save it. Sharpen it. Use it when it counts."

She didn't smile, but she did nod, just once. That was all he needed.

Draco gave him a half-hearted wave, and Cassius melted into the crowd, disappearing with the ease of someone used to slipping through tight spaces and tighter expectations.

Roxaine turned slowly, her gaze sweeping through the shifting smoke until it landed on the tall, unmistakable silhouettes ahead—Lucius Malfoy, elegant and cold, with his cane and gleaming blond hair, and Narcissa beside him, regal and pale, her expression unreadable. They stood apart from the crowd, like kings waiting to claim a kingdom.

She could feel the weight of their presence even from here. Her fingers curled slightly at her sides.

"Come on," Draco muttered, voice clipped. "Let's get this over with."

But before she could move, a voice called her name—quiet, but cutting through the noise like it was meant only for her.

"Roxaine."

She turned.

Cedric was stepping through the steam, a little breathless, his trunk forgotten behind him. His prefect badge had been tucked away, and his tie was loose around his collar. His eyes searched hers with urgency, but not panic. It was something quieter. Something like hope.

Roxaine didn't move. Her body remained still, perfectly poised, but her eyes betrayed the flicker of surprise. She hadn't expected him to come. Not here. Not now.

Draco looked between them, incredulous. "You've got to be joking."

But Cedric didn't look at him. His attention was on her, only her, as if there was no one else on the platform.

"Can I talk to you for a second?" he asked.

And for the first time since stepping off the train, Roxaine hesitated.

Roxaine's spine stayed straight, even as her fingers twitched faintly at her side. For the briefest second, her eyes met Cedric's with something taut and unreadable—half guarded, half aching. She didn't look at Draco, just murmured under her breath, barely audible through the steam:

"I'll catch up to you in a little."

Draco stared at her, mouth parted, scandal written all over his face. "Rox—"

"I said go." Still soft, but firmer now. Final. She didn't even look at him.

Draco lingered, clearly torn between throwing a fit and obeying, but a sharp glance from Lucius down the platform snapped him to his senses. With a heavy scowl and a muttered curse, he turned on his heel and stormed off toward their parents, shoulders stiff with tension.

As soon as he was gone, Cedric stepped closer, close enough now that their shadows nearly touched in the fading steam.

"You don't have to walk away like this," he said, his voice low and steady, even as his jaw tensed. "I could talk to him. To your family. I know they're impossible, but I'd do it. I'd take whatever they throw at me if it meant—if it meant we didn't just end here."

Her eyes flashed—not soft, not grateful, but sharp and bitter like frost across glass.

"You're insane," she said coldly. "Utterly insane."

Cedric opened his mouth, but she cut him off with a slight shake of her head.

"You're going to stand here on a public platform and declare war on the House of Black and the entire Malfoy line like some tragic hero? Please. Just go. You're making a fool out of yourself."

He didn't move. He didn't even flinch. If anything, her words only seemed to strengthen the steel in his eyes.

"I don't care."

Roxaine inhaled tightly, chest rising in a way that gave away too much. She didn't turn away. Not yet. The space between them burned—not with anger, not fully, but with the unbearable pressure of two worlds threatening to split them down the middle. Her fingers twitched again. Her expression held, cool and composed, but her voice was quieter now when she said,

"You should care."

And still, she didn't walk away.

Cedric didn't budge. His eyes scanned her face with a kind of desperation she had only seen once before—when he had kissed her in that cupboard, hands shaking like he wasn't sure he'd ever get to do it again. Now, the stakes were higher. Now, he looked like he was about to fight the whole damn war with nothing but his name and stubbornness.

"I don't care what your father thinks," he said again, firmer this time. "I'll tell him. I'll say it to his face—I like you. I'm not going to pretend that didn't happen, and I won't let you pretend either."

Roxaine exhaled, short and sharp like a blade drawn clean.

"You're insane," she snapped, voice cold but quivering just enough to betray her panic. "Completely out of your depth. You don't even know what you're walking into—"

"Then explain it to me," he pushed, stepping forward, "or let me find out. Either way, I'm not walking away just because your father wears silk robes and sneers for a living."

Her hand shot out instinctively when she saw his eyes drift past her shoulder—toward Lucius Malfoy, standing like an ivory pillar beside Narcissa, already watching them with narrowed, glacial interest. Cedric moved toward them as if nothing in the world could stop him.

"Don't you dare," she hissed, grabbing his arm with a force that startled them both. Her fingers curled into his wrist like a chain.

He paused, startled, glancing down at where her hand clutched him. She didn't let go.

"I'll talk to him," she muttered through clenched teeth. "You'll just make everything worse. He'll eat you alive if you go in there like that."

Her voice faltered at the end, brittle with fear, but her grip didn't loosen. Her eyes, wide and dark, locked onto his.

"Please," she added under her breath—so low he almost missed it. "Let me handle it."

Cedric studied her for a long second. And for once, he didn't push.

Cedric looked at her hand still gripping his arm, then back up to her eyes—something solemn softening the lines of his face. He wanted to argue. She could see it; it flickered across his expression like the last glint of defiance before surrender. But in the end, he just exhaled slowly and gave a single, reluctant nod.

"Alright," he said quietly, the word almost swallowed by the clamor of trunks, cats, and the distant hiss of the train. "But only because it's you."

She let go of his arm as if it burned her.

Without another word, Cedric turned and walked back toward his parents—his shoulders tense, posture tight, but his steps steady. He didn't look back. Roxaine watched him go with her chin raised, breath shallow, and the imprint of his pulse still thudding in her fingertips.

Roxaine stood for a moment, frozen in the space Cedric had left behind, as if the noise of the station couldn't quite reach her. Then she exhaled slowly, composed herself like someone sliding on a familiar mask, and turned on her heel. The black fabric of her traveling robes fluttered lightly behind her as she made her way back toward the part of the platform where the Malfoys stood—regal, aloof, and unmistakably apart from the rest of the milling crowd.

Lucius was already speaking in a low, clipped voice to Draco, whose arms were crossed and expression vaguely petulant, though he snapped to attention the moment he spotted Roxaine approaching. Narcissa, ever the watchful mother hawk, turned as well, her pale eyes sweeping over her niece with a hint of something gentler—an understanding perhaps, quiet and unspoken.

Roxaine didn't speak. She simply stepped into place beside Draco, her chin tilted slightly in the defiant angle she always reserved for public appearances, and let her hands clasp calmly in front of her. Whatever lingering emotions had been tugging at her features dissolved into that cool, immaculate stillness that she wore like armor. Whatever happened behind her—whoever—was not for display.

Lucius gave her a faint nod. "Ready?" he asked.

She didn't answer right away, just allowed the silence to stretch a moment too long. Then, voice flat and even, she murmured, "Yes."

The walk toward the black Ministry carriage was practiced, nearly ceremonial. The Malfoy family cut a clean, severe line through the crowd, a trio of pale heads and expensive robes moving in impeccable sync. Draco's stride was firm and steady, his chin lifted just enough to project confidence without arrogance. Narcissa's heels clicked softly against the platform, her hands loosely clasped behind her back, expression unreadable. Roxaine walked a pace behind, posture straight, eyes ahead—her heart hidden behind a curtain of composure.

No one spoke until the door of the carriage clicked shut behind them, the sound sealing them into a space of muffled quiet and fading magic. No sooner had the lock latched than the illusion fractured.

Draco slouched into the nearest velvet seat with a relieved exhale, throwing one leg over the other and tugging off his gloves like they were shackles. Narcissa let her shoulders drop, her elegant façade softening into something more human, her fingers reaching up to gently fix Roxaine's collar. Even Lucius, usually a marble statue of political restraint, relaxed the tight set of his jaw and leaned slightly back into the cushions.

It was the unspoken ritual they shared after every public moment: the collective exhale after a performance, the unraveling of masks.

But it didn't last.

Lucius's eyes narrowed, and his head snapped toward Roxaine as if the memory had just struck him like a curse. "That boy," he hissed, ice threading every syllable. "That Hufflepuff boy—"

Roxaine blinked slowly, feigning calm, but her muscles tensed beneath her robes.

Lucius leaned forward, his voice still quiet, but jagged at the edges. "So that's the Hufflepuff you snogged in a cupboard? Merlin, Roxaine. You're out of your mind." He laughed once—cold, incredulous. "You're fourteen."

Draco sat up straighter, looking between them, but wisely said nothing. Narcissa's lips parted as if to intervene, but she waited.

Roxaine met Lucius's gaze unflinchingly. "I know how old I am."

"That's not the point," he spat, eyes sharp. "You are a child. A Black. And you're walking around—letting him speak to you like that in front of everyone? Do you have any idea what that looks like?"

"Yes," she said, her voice cool and low. "I know exactly what it looks like."

"You don't understand the weight of what you're to inherit—" he began, but Narcissa's hand found his wrist, gentle but firm.

"She understands more than you think," she murmured, not quite looking at either of them.

Lucius didn't answer right away, but his hand trembled once beneath Narcissa's touch before he pulled it back. He turned his face away, towards the curtained window, muttering under his breath, "She'll ruin herself before she even gets the chance."

Draco shifted awkwardly, pulling at a thread in his sleeve, eyes flicking to Roxaine's face. She gave no indication of emotion—no blush, no tremor, no falter in her breath. She just leaned back into the seat and folded her arms loosely, gaze distant.

But her fingers dug slightly into her own sleeves, and she didn't speak again for a while.

The silence in the carriage simmered after Lucius's last words, tension pressing against the walls like steam beneath porcelain. Outside, the city began to blur past the windows—brick buildings and lampposts folding into the shadows of early summer dusk—but inside, the weight of family legacy, expectations, and raw emotion thickened the air like fog.

It was Narcissa who spoke first, her voice calm but not without edge, as she watched her husband with that unreadable softness she reserved for when she chose her words with care.

"He was brave," she said, quietly. "That boy. Foolish, perhaps, but brave. To even attempt approaching you—he must care for her, to do that. That kind of boldness doesn't come without reason."

Lucius turned sharply toward her, appalled. "Brave?"

"He's a pureblood," she continued, more firmly now. "One of the old lines. Not particularly influential, not nearly our level, no—don't look at me like that—but still. He's no half-blood or worse. And if he has the gall to try toapproach you at King's Cross, knowing full well who you are, then maybe he isn't entirely useless."

The reaction was instantaneous. Lucius jerked upright in his seat, white-blond hair falling slightly out of place as his expression twisted. "That is not the point!" he barked, voice sharper than before. "I don't care if he's a Selwyn, a Travers, a bloody Rosier reincarnated—she is a child."

Roxaine didn't flinch. She sat with her hands folded tightly in her lap, expression unreadable. Only Narcissa noticed the small, barely perceptible twitch in her jaw.

Lucius's voice broke for a moment as he leaned forward, fingers clenching against his knee. "She's my child," he hissed, almost whispering now. "You think I'll entertain courtships or bloodlines when she's fourteen? When she's still—" He shook his head, angry at the tightness in his own throat. "You've barely left childhood, and already you're letting boys near you—"

"I'm not letting anyone," Roxaine said flatly, finally speaking, but she didn't raise her voice. "He approached me. I didn't invite him."

"You kissed him," Lucius snapped, turning to her again, "you think I've forgotten? And now he thinks he has the right to walk toward me like we're equals?"

"He would have made a fool of himself if I hadn't stopped him," she replied, as calm as ever, though her nails dug into the hem of her sleeve. "You didn't even have to raise your wand."

"That is not the point!" Lucius repeated, almost wild now. "There are no boys. Not now. Not next year. I won't hear about love letters or Hufflepuffs or hormones or whatever it is he thinks he's doing."

Draco was now frozen stiff in the corner, eyes wide and shifting between his father and cousin. His mouth twitched like he wanted to make some joke, but wisely decided his life was more valuable than testing the air.

"She's not ready," Lucius said again, more to Narcissa now, quieter but raw. "She's a child. And she's mine."

For a moment, it wasn't the Malfoy patriarch speaking. It was just a father. Fierce. Possessive. Frightened by time.

Narcissa sighed softly, not arguing further, only placing a hand gently over Roxaine's, her thumb brushing once across her knuckles. "She's growing," she said gently. "That's all."

Roxaine looked away, to the window, to anything but them. Her voice came cool, distant. "We'll be home soon."

And the rest of the ride passed in silence, broken only by the occasional creak of the carriage wheels over uneven stone.

The silence after Narcissa's words stretched long and taut, like the breath held before a dam burst. Roxaine remained turned toward the window, her face cool but unreadable, the golden glare of late sunlight catching in the silver of her lashes. Lucius sat rigid, one hand clenched so tightly against his cane that the wood creaked faintly under pressure, while Narcissa had retreated into quiet grace, her fingers still loosely resting on her daughter's.

Then, just when the silence threatened to collapse under its own weight, Draco, who had been sitting stiffly with a look of immense discomfort for far too long, suddenly exhaled and muttered with grave seriousness:

"Well... at least she didn't snog a Weasley."

The carriage went still for a second longer—and then Roxaine let out a short, stunned bark of laughter. It broke from her without warning, sharp and clean, catching her by surprise more than anyone else. She lifted a hand to her mouth, trying to smother it with a composed cough, but another chuckle slipped through, this one reluctant and more genuine.

Even Narcissa's lips twitched—though she said nothing—while Lucius turned his head slowly toward his son with a look of absolute betrayal.

"What," Lucius said icily, "do you know about snogging anyone?"

Draco blinked, then sat a little straighter, folding his hands in his lap like he was a model of decorum. "Absolutely nothing," he said primly. "But if Roxaine had gone for such blood traitor, I'd say we'd have every right to throw her out of the manor and burn her name off the family tree."

Roxaine let out another stifled snort, her composure slipping further, and Narcissa raised an eyebrow, watching them all like a queen among children. Lucius, for his part, merely closed his eyes and muttered something too low to hear, possibly a prayer to Salazar himself.

Draco, now pleased with the reaction he'd earned, leaned back smugly. "Frankly, I think I deserve some sort of medal for easing the tension in here. You're welcome."

"You're ridiculous," Roxaine said, voice softer now, but still tinged with that dryness only she could manage.

"And you're welcome," he repeated, grinning.

Outside, the sun dipped low over Wiltshire fields, and the gates of the Malfoy estate began to rise in the distance, casting long, solemn shadows across the road. But inside the carriage, something had cracked—just enough to let the air flow again.

Chapter Text

June 2nd, 1992

Malfoy Manor – Main Drawing Room

Third Person POV

E.R.B.:

The wards shimmered faintly as the carriage crossed onto the estate grounds, signaling their arrival. The massive iron gates of Malfoy Manor opened in solemn silence, and the gravel beneath the wheels gave way to the smooth cobblestone path that led to the grand front entrance. House-elves waited like clockwork at the foot of the stairs to take coats and trunks, but the moment the family stepped out, the performance of poise—the careful choreography of the outside world—began to peel away.

By the time the tall doors of the manor had closed behind them with a muffled thud, Roxaine's shoulders dropped half an inch, the first betrayal of exhaustion. Her shoes tapped quietly over the marble floor as she moved through the entryway with increasingly languid steps, until, upon reaching the drawing room, she simply let gravity take her. She dropped onto the nearest velvet-lined settee with an ungraceful exhale, letting her head fall back dramatically and her arms flop to either side.

The pristine posture, the razor-sharp spine, the imperious tilt of her chin—gone. She looked, for the first time in weeks, like the fourteen-year-old girl she still was: wrung dry by pressure, half furious, half tired, and completely done with everything.

"I never want to wear another bloody pleated skirt in my life," she muttered toward the ceiling.

There was a pause, a rustle of robes, and then Draco—without so much as a warning—threw himself bodily across her, collapsing with a groan like he'd been mortally wounded.

Roxaine let out a muffled grunt, squished under the sudden weight of her cousin, arms flailing. "Draco—get off—are you five?"

"Emotionally? Maybe," he replied, face half-buried in her shoulder, sounding thoroughly unbothered. "But physically, I am dead. Don't speak to me."

"You threw yourself on me, you insufferable twat—"

"You were lying down," he drawled, eyes closed now. "You looked inviting. I acted on instinct."

She gave an exaggerated huff and tried to push him off, but he went limp like a sack of robes, dead weight and smugness combined. "I swear, I'll hex your eyebrows clean off if you don't move."

"Then I'll haunt you with bald fury."

"Your face already haunts me."

"Charming."

They descended into bickering half-mumbled insults, too drained to mean any of it, too relieved to stop. In the background, Narcissa passed by without a word, only casting a long, fond glance over the back of the couch before disappearing deeper into the manor. Somewhere upstairs, Lucius could be heard snapping orders at a house-elf about something regarding "the sitting room curtains being slightly off-center," likely still unsettled by the encounter at King's Cross.

But down here, in the lavish drawing room heavy with ancient tapestries and sun-faded carpets, two Malfoy children sprawled without elegance or grace, pressed together not out of affection but habit—exhausted, spoiled, overwhelmed, and safe.

Lucius entered the drawing room with all the quiet menace of a gathering storm. His robes swished as he crossed the threshold, cane clicking once against the marble before stopping. The sight that greeted him—the very picture of collapsed decorum—made his left eye twitch. Roxaine, flung sideways across the settee like a discarded doll, and Draco, sprawled half on top of her like an overly dramatic cat, both in wrinkled travel robes, hair disheveled, boots still on.

"Get off me, you barnacle," Roxaine muttered, elbowing Draco in the ribs.

Lucius cleared his throat with the precision of a guillotine blade. "I see we've all chosen to abandon dignity the moment we passed the wards."

Draco cracked open one eye and didn't even pretend to sit up. "Hello to you too, Father."

Roxaine yawned audibly and flicked her wrist toward him in a limp gesture of acknowledgment. "We're mourning, Father. Our spines. They died somewhere between Platform Nine and Three-Quarters and the manor gates."

"I will not have either of you draped like limp laundry in my drawing room," Lucius snapped, advancing a few feet more into the space, his cane punctuating every word. "We are Malfoys. A name of weight. Of history. Have you no respect for the house you carry?"

"None," Draco answered immediately.

"Less than none," added Roxaine, barely moving. "I left mine at King's Cross. Along with my patience."

Draco snorted. "I think yours got trampled by that group of third-year Hufflepuffs."

Lucius's jaw clenched so tightly a vein surfaced at his temple. "You are behaving like common layabouts. This—this posture—this attitude—is an affront to our legacy."

Draco lifted his head just long enough to look him in the eye. "Would it help if we draped ourselves more... elegantly? Maybe over an armrest?"

"Or across the piano," Roxaine offered, deadpan. "Very tragic. Very Victorian decay."

"That's enough," Lucius growled, voice sharp. "Another word of mockery from either of you and there will be no dessert tonight."

Silence fell.

Roxaine slowly turned her head to Draco, eyes wide with mock horror. "Did he just say—"

"No dessert," Draco whispered back, clutching his chest theatrically. "Not the treacle tart, Father. Please. Anything but that."

"I'll repent," Rox said solemnly. "Immediately. Posture and all. Bring out the pearls and the shame."

Lucius looked to the ceiling as though praying for strength from long-dead ancestors. "You're both impossible."

"True," they chorused at once.

And still, neither of them moved.

The fire in the hearth crackled softly, untouched by their antics. Outside, the evening settled like velvet across the estate, all golden haze and long, blue shadows. Inside, Roxaine and Draco still hadn't moved an inch from the settee. The carpet bore witness to scattered travel bags and cloaks hastily discarded, the first signs of a long summer brewing beneath high windows and higher expectations.

Lucius remained standing, cane in hand, as though posture might salvage his sanity.

It was Roxaine who spoke next—unexpectedly quiet, almost... reserved. Her voice carried that same deliberate calm she always wore in duels and arguments: weaponized composure.

"If I were to ask," she said, eyes fixed on the fire, "in theory, of course... permission to continue interacting with Diggory—"

"Interacting," Lucius repeated flatly.

"Not courting," Rox added quickly, which was clearly a lie, "just... existing in proximity. You know. Polite, occasional... exchanges."

Draco's head snapped toward her with the slow dread of someone watching a friend reach into a cursed box. "You've lost your mind."

"You've lost your privilege to comment," she muttered back.

Lucius's eyes narrowed. "You want to continue consorting with the Hufflepuff boy who had the idiocy to try to approach me this afternoon at the station? You mean that interaction?"

"It was brave," she replied neutrally, as if they were discussing chess moves. "Unwise. But brave."

Lucius made a strangled sound somewhere between a cough and a scoff. "You're fourteen, Roxaine. You were learning to tie your robes properly six minutes ago. And now you think you're old enough to—what, date?"

"I never said that," she said, though she didn't deny it either.

Draco groaned loudly and rolled off the couch, arms flung over his face. "This is so revolting."

"Silence," Lucius snapped, without even glancing at him. "You're eleven. If I want opinions from a toddler, I'll ask one of the house-elves."

Draco let out an indignant noise but stayed down.

The door opened with an elegant creak, and Narcissa entered in her soft blue robes, every step composed, every detail pristine. Her eyes took in the scene instantly—Lucius standing rigid, Rox on the couch with unbothered grace, Draco sprawled like a corpse—and she lifted a brow.

"Well," she said lightly, "what crisis are we dramatizing now?"

Lucius gestured helplessly. "She wants to go out with Diggory."

"Not go out," Rox corrected, "acknowledge publicly that we've kissed."

"Dear Merlin," Lucius muttered, rubbing his eyes.

But Narcissa's reaction wasn't one of horror or scandal. She walked further in, slow and thoughtful, and looked at Rox with something almost... proud in her expression. She sat on the armrest beside her, brushing a hand through Roxaine's thick black curls with a familiarity born of years. "He's a pureblood," she said simply.

"He's a Hufflepuff," Lucius countered.

"He's bold," Narcissa said, tilting her head. "He almost came up to you. Knowing who you are. Knowing what it meant. That alone shows more spine than half the boys his age."

Lucius gave her a wounded look, as if she'd betrayed a sacred code. "She's not even our daughter—"

"She's a Black," Narcissa said with gentle finality. "And she behaves as our child. Because we've raised her so. Don't split hairs you were happy to ignore every other day of the year, Lucius."

Roxaine didn't move, but her fingers curled slightly in the hem of her sleeve. That was how she thanked Narcissa: in silence. In stillness. In loyalty.

Lucius stared at them both, visibly flustered for the first time in ages. "She's fourteen."

"She's also more composed than any adult in this house," Narcissa replied calmly.

"She's still my child."

"And what would you rather?" Roxaine said at last, eyes steady. "That I run around behind your back with someone unworthy? Or that I ask for permission—like we pretend I don't understand what that means in this family?"

Lucius opened his mouth, closed it again.

Narcissa rose, smoothing her robes. "Let her speak to the boy again, Lucius. She's not asking to marry him. She's asking to keep her dignity intact."

There was a long silence, the kind that only years of cohabitation make bearable. Then, with a growl, Lucius turned toward the door.

"I want to be informed. Of everything."

"I tell you nothing already," Rox said sweetly. "This would be an improvement."

Draco groaned again. "I'm going to vomit."

"Go ahead," Lucius barked. "If it distracts you from contributing to this travesty."

Draco peeked up from behind a cushion, eyes bright. "At least if they do date, it'll be easy to blackmail her later. They already snogged."

Lucius pointed his cane at him like a sword. "If you say snog again in this house, I'll send you to Durmstrang."

Narcissa looked amused.

Roxaine only leaned further into the cushions and said flatly, "You're all deranged."

And yet, for the first time in hours, she smiled. Just a little.

June 2nd, 1992

Malfoy Manor – Roxaine's Room

Third Person POV

E.R.B.:

The heavy double doors shut behind her with a soft click, muffling the echo of Lucius's protests still bouncing through the east wing. For a moment, Roxaine stood still, framed by moonlight spilling in through the tall arched windows, her reflection faint on the polished floor. The silence of her room — larger than most Hogwarts dormitories, dressed in silver and obsidian silks, smelling faintly of lavender and parchment — had never felt so indulgent.

And then, she exhaled sharply, and the composure cracked.

With uncharacteristic speed, she kicked off her shoes, let her outer robe drop in a pool at the foot of the bed, and launched herself face-first onto the mattress with a breathless huff. Her laughter was muffled in the fine Slytherin-green sheets, half-exasperated, half-incredulous, entirely giddy.

She rolled onto her back, black hair fanned wildly around her, and stared at the canopy with a stunned smile creeping across her face — the kind of smile she'd never allow downstairs, never show in the presence of Lucius or Draco, and rarely even to Narcissa. It wasn't the dignified smirk of a girl who knew she was winning. It wasn't smug. It was pure. Unguarded. Ridiculous.

"You idiot," she whispered, not sure if she meant Cedric, Lucius, or herself.

She let her arms flop out at her sides, then curled her knees up like a child trying to trap a secret in her chest. Her heart was still thudding — from the confrontation, from the laughter, but mostly from the image of Cedric's face earlier, when he looked like he would've spoken to Lucius Malfoy himself, bare-handed, just for her. Insane, she had said. But gods, she hadn't hated it.

A squeal — small and quickly swallowed — escaped her throat before she could stop it. Roxaine Black did not squeal. She covered her face with both hands in immediate shame.

But she was still smiling. And for once, alone, she allowed it to stay.

Eventually, the weight of giddiness bubbling in her chest demanded direction. Roxaine lay sprawled across the fine linens for a few more indulgent seconds, her fingertips trailing absent patterns across the embroidery of the duvet, before she huffed a final breath and sat up, still grinning faintly — though it vanished the moment her feet touched the floor. She smoothed her nightdress absently and flicked a hand toward the door.

"Dobby," she called, her voice returning to its usual cool drawl, though a spark lingered behind it.

There was a loud crack! and the elf appeared in the corner of the room, eyes enormous, ears drooping slightly under the weight of his enthusiasm.

"M-Miss Black called for Dobby?" he squeaked, wringing his hands, looking both terrified and hopeful at once.

"Yes," she said, not unkindly. "Parchment, two fresh quills, dark green ink, and my writing board. The one with the silver filigree. It's in the study. And I want tea. Honey, no sugar."

Dobby bowed so fast he nearly hit the floor. "Right away, Miss Black, right away!"

With another crack, he vanished.

Roxaine turned toward her writing desk by the window but made no move to sit just yet. She stood for a moment, arms crossed loosely, watching the moonlight slide like silk over the edge of the vanity table. Her reflection in the mirror looked nearly as collected as ever, but there was a softness in her eyes tonight. A glint. The edge of something hopeful. Or maybe just mad.

She looked away before she could catch herself smiling again.

Another crack! echoed, and Dobby reappeared, arms full and ears flapping as he hurried to arrange her materials on the desk with painstaking care. "Would Miss Black like anything else?" he asked, eyes darting nervously up to her face.

She waved a hand. "No. That'll be all."

With a squeaky bow, he vanished again.

Roxaine finally stepped over to the desk, pulling the chair out with a quiet scrape. She sat, settled her elbows on the edge, and pulled the parchment closer, uncapping the bottle of ink with precise fingers.

She stared at the blank page for a long moment, quill poised mid-air. Her expression gave nothing away. But her heart, treacherous thing, beat just a little faster at the thought of what she was about to write — and who she hoped would read it.

The first sentence came with reckless ease, like a spell slipping off her tongue before she could think to weigh the consequences.

You won't believe this—

Roxaine froze, eyes narrowing at the inked curve of her own handwriting. Her lips pressed into a thin line. Too eager, she thought. She stared at it for another heartbeat, then scoffed under her breath and crumpled the parchment in one fluid motion, tossing it into the small silver bin beside her desk.

New parchment. Clean slate. This time, her fingers hovered longer before touching quill to page.

I told you it was mad, but somehow—he didn't completely hate the idea—

She blinked, and the words seemed to mock her. The way her hand curled excitedly at the end of that dash made her feel fourteen again — not in the calculating, watchful way she usually wielded her age, but genuinely, painfully young. Too soft. Too giddy.

Another crumple. Another toss.

The third attempt was worse. Sloppier. Ink blotched slightly where her hand had trembled with whatever ridiculous mix of adrenaline and nerves still rushed under her skin.

Lucius didn't bite off my head. Actually, he looked like he might have, but—

Gone. Crushed in her hand, tighter than the last two.

She leaned back, breathing out sharply through her nose, and stared at the growing pile of failed beginnings in her bin. Her teacup sat untouched beside the ink bottle, delicate porcelain long cooled.

It was absurd, really. She could command a room without blinking. Could hex half her dorm blindfolded. She'd stared down pureblood elders and recited obscure bloodline facts like scripture. But somehow, writing one letter to a Hufflepuff — one letter that sounded even slightly like she cared — was utterly beyond her.

She reached for a fourth parchment. Paused. Stared. Then leaned forward, placed her forehead on the desk, and let out a muffled, mortified groan against the wood.

Behind her, the moonlight danced over the velvet curtains. The house was quiet. Lucius and Narcissa had long since retreated to their own wing. Draco had likely fallen asleep halfway through dramatizing some Quidditch strategy aloud.

And Roxaine Black — heir of ancient lines, cool-blooded Beater, darling of decorum — sat frozen in the middle of her room, surrounded by half-finished letters she couldn't bring herself to send, because for once, the words weren't armor. They were hers. And that, somehow, was much worse.

She tried again.

You looked like a fool today, do you know that? But I suppose I should thank you. Somehow, you didn't ruin it completely.

She stared at it. It sounded like her. It had the sting, the veiled snobbery, the bite. But it wasn't the letter she wanted to send — it was the one she'd send to save face. She crushed it, slower this time, fingers lingering on the paper as if part of her mourned the little shield it could've been.

The fifth attempt began with her looping his name. Cedric. Just his name. Over and over in a strange, swirling script that didn't look anything like her usual harsh strokes. She filled half the page with it before realizing how ridiculous it was and scorched it with a quiet, controlled Incendio. The ash curled neatly into the bin with the rest.

On the sixth try, she didn't even get past the first word.

Darling—

"Darling... Darling! Are you insane?," she hissed at herself, appalled. That one didn't even deserve a crumple — she stabbed her quill straight through the parchment and threw the whole thing in the bin, quill and all, ink leaking onto the others like spilled secrets.

She sat back, arms folded tightly across her chest, scowling at the bin like it had betrayed her. A chill crept in from the open window, stirring her nightgown slightly, but she made no move to close it. Her eyes lifted to the dark sky beyond, cloudless and full of sharp stars. Somewhere out there, Cedric was probably brushing his teeth like a normal person. Maybe sleeping. Maybe still thinking about her.

Her stomach flipped again.

She gritted her teeth and reached for another parchment.

I don't know what spell you used to survive Lucius Malfoy's stare, but I suppose it worked. That doesn't mean you can go around acting like it's done. It's not. I said I'd handle it, and I will. Don't do anything idiotic.

Too aggressive. She hated how it sounded like she was scolding him for caring. It was true, of course — he had looked like an idiot. But she hadn't hated it. Not really. She wanted him to try, to fight. And he had. That was the worst part: he had.

Crushed. Tossed. Parchment number seven.

It was well past midnight now. The clock ticked solemnly above her mantle. Dobby had returned twice already with fresh parchment and a new quill. The elf didn't say a word about the mess, only left a steaming cup of cocoa on her side table and vanished.

It took another three tries — one too cold, one too rambly, one that ended halfway through because she realized she'd started sketching his collarbone instead of writing — before she finally picked up a fresh page, sat straighter in her chair, and let the ink settle into something formal.

Something safe.

Cedric,

This is only to inform you that Lucius Malfoy did not reject the idea outright. Do not read into that. It is not permission. It is not encouragement. It is merely the absence of immediate catastrophe. As discussed, I will handle it. Please don't attempt any more suicidal conversations with my guardian. He is not known for second chances.

That said—thank you. For trying. You're absurd. And very brave. I suppose I've always liked that about you.

R. Black

She read it three times. It wasn't perfect. It was stiff. Guarded. But the ending... that ending made her want to rip it up again. And yet she didn't. She folded it. Carefully. Pressed her seal into the wax with her signet ring. Set it aside for the owl.

And then — only then — she let herself lie back across her bed, arms spread wide, a grin creeping over her face like some small, private rebellion.

She had written to Cedric Diggory. Without swearing, without hexing him, without hiding.

And somewhere under all the night's failed drafts, her heart beat wildly on.

Chapter Text

June 3rd, 1992
Malfoy Manor — Roxaine's room
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The sun hadn't quite crested over Wiltshire's hills when Roxaine stirred beneath the emerald silk of her bed curtains. For a moment, she lay still, feigning indifference even in solitude — as if the house itself might judge her for feeling anything too brightly. But the fluttering of wings outside the tall window snapped through the room's hush, and her heart stuttered.

She slipped from bed with quiet precision, pale toes sinking into the cold rug, and unlatched the tall glass pane just enough to let in the tawny owl perched imperially on the balcony balustrade. It held itself like a creature carved of old wood and fog, but its eyes met hers with a knowing sort of patience, and tied to its leg was a letter — one she recognized by the soft, looped script across the folded flap.

Cedric.

Roxaine didn't breathe until the owl had departed and the curtains were drawn tightly shut again. Then, crawling back into bed like a fugitive, she brought the letter under the covers, hiding in the tent of green velvet as though the whole world might come looking.

The parchment was warm from the sun. He hadn't sealed it with wax; instead, there was a crude doodle of a badger asleep in a field and the words "Private (but not ominous, promise)" scrawled on the back.

She opened it.

Roxaine,

I hope this owl is dignified enough for you. I tried to find one that looked like it came from a diplomatic envoy, but all the regal-looking ones were taken, and this one bit me. Twice.

You didn't hex me yesterday, so I'm taking that as a good sign. Either you're softening, or you're planning something. I'll prepare for both.

(Also, remind me never to try talking to your guardian again. I made it three steps before you looked at me like I'd asked to duel your great-grandmother. Terrifying. Strangely flattering.)

Are you going to write back? Or do I have to start sending haikus carved into pumpkins by owl? I will, Black. Don't test me.

Yours in barely tolerated affection,

Cedric D.
(P.S. Your frown is still my favorite face you make. Don't roll your eyes. I felt it.)

Below was a quick, smug doodle of a badger — chest puffed, paws on hips, blowing a ridiculous little heart-shaped kiss in her direction.

Roxaine read it three times. Then again. Then a fourth, just to make sure she hadn't conjured it in sleep. Her cheeks had gone pink — not just a warm flush, but a full, visible betrayal of her composure, as if her body had turned against every lesson in stillness and coldness and perfect detachment she'd ever learned.

She smiled. Wide and helpless. An actual smile.

Then she buried her face in the letter, groaned into the pillow like a ridiculous schoolgirl, and immediately tried to claw her dignity back by hiding the parchment beneath said pillow.

Not good enough.

She sat up, glared at the curtain slit like it might open any second, then crept to the edge of the bed, lifted a loose panel in the wooden floor beside her trunk, and slipped the letter into the hollow space, sealed tight with a breathless kind of reverence. Contraband. Treasure. Her heart.

She was just getting back into bed — arms wrapped around her own middle, a smile still ghosting on her lips — when the door opened with its usual, deliberate softness.

Lucius Malfoy.

She shot upright, nearly hitting her head on the canopy. "What—"

He narrowed his eyes immediately, as if her startled movement alone had confirmed the presence of sin. "You're awake early," he said slowly, taking a few careful steps inside. His gaze swept the room with suspicion sharpened by years of political vigilance. "And smiling."

She scoffed, pulling the covers up like a shield. "I'm not."

"You are," he said flatly, now looking vaguely horrified. "Why are you smiling?"

"I'm not smiling," she repeated, eyes narrowed in warning, but it was too late. Something in her still glowed, still shimmered with leftover joy.

Lucius stared at her as if trying to summon an Obliviation charm by willpower alone. "This is about him, isn't it?"

"Who?"

He gestured toward the window, exasperated. "The Hufflepuff. The boy you snogged."

"Don't say snogged, that's vulgar."

"It's accurate!"

She turned toward the pillows with theatrical calm. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're fourteen, Roxaine. Fourteen. You're supposed to be — I don't know — reading French poetry and terrorizing Slytherins. Not writing letters at dawn and blushing like some... Gryffindor farm girl."

"I wasn't blushing."

"You were beaming. Beaming!" He stepped back like the very word might burn him. "This is unnatural. Unacceptable. He's— he's—"

"A pureblood?" she offered, deadpan, one brow arched.

Lucius groaned as if she'd hexed him. "You're my child."

She blinked. "You didn't even adopt me."

"You live in my house," he said immediately. "You eat my food. You wear Italian fabric. You terrify my son. You're mine."

And with that, he spun on his heel, muttering about how "all this nonsense" would be the death of him and how he was going to "burn every owl in the British Isles."

When the door shut, Roxaine waited exactly five seconds.

Then she dove for the floorboard. Just one more read. Just one.

June 3rd, 1992
Malfoy Manor – Breakfast Room
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The morning sunlight poured through the tall windows of the breakfast room, painting the long table in soft gold and silver streaks. The porcelain was already set, steaming cups arranged in delicate formation, and beside the marmalade, butter, and toast sat Lucius Malfoy, stiff-backed and alert, reading The Daily Prophet with one brow already twitching.

Roxaine entered in silence, as she always did, her posture straight, her hair perfectly combed. But Lucius immediately noticed something was wrong. Not wrong in the usual sense, but unsettling — deeply, personally unsettling. She was humming. Humming. She had a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth like she didn't even notice it was there, and her steps... light, almost careless. As if she were floating into the room.

Lucius lowered the paper an inch, eyes narrowing. "You're smiling."

Roxaine blinked, composure snapping back like a rubber band, and she quickly busied herself with the teapot. "I'm not."

"You are." He folded the paper slowly, like one might fold a battle flag. "You were humming. You never hum."

"I wasn't." Her voice was clipped, colder now, and she sat down with calculated grace, but the pink tinge on her ears betrayed her.

Narcissa, already sipping her tea, didn't bother hiding her amusement. "Let her be, Lucius. Girls do smile from time to time."

"Not her!" he said, as if Narcissa had suggested Roxaine had grown antlers. He gestured vaguely in her direction with a butter knife. "She's been smiling since this morning. At letters. And now she's humming. She didn't even flinch when I said good morning."

"Perhaps she's just... in a good mood?" Narcissa offered delicately, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin, though her eyes gleamed with delight.

Lucius leaned forward slightly, pointing an accusatory finger at Roxaine's now carefully blank expression. "You're still thinking about that boy. Aren't you?"

"I am thinking about toast," she replied dryly.

"You're not. You're blushing."

"I am not blushing."

"She's absolutely blushing," Narcissa chimed in, almost singing it. "Look at her ears."

Lucius groaned, rubbing his temples with both hands as if physically pained. "You're fourteen, Roxaine. Fourteen. You should be sneering at boys and hexing their shoelaces together. Not—smiling at correspondence!"

"I didn't smile," Roxaine muttered, poking her eggs with unnecessary force. "And you're being dramatic."

"Dramatic?" Lucius repeated, scandalized. "I walked in on you giggling at parchment."

"I didn't giggle," she hissed. "That was... a hiccup."

"A hiccup?"

Narcissa laughed behind her cup.

Lucius was too appalled to speak. His daughter-not-daughter, heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, raised on politics, Latin, and arithmancy drills — was hiccuping over love letters from a Hufflepuff.

He looked at Narcissa as if to ask whether there was still time to put Roxaine in an all-girls finishing school in the Alps. Narcissa only arched an eyebrow and kept sipping.

Roxaine, meanwhile, focused on her toast with murderous precision, trying to smother the giddiness rising in her throat again, desperately willing her heart to slow down.

Roxaine was mid-bite, trying to focus on her toast and not the curling warmth that still sat low in her stomach, when the breakfast room doors burst open with all the subtlety of a Hippogriff in a porcelain shop. Draco marched in, his blond hair a mess, socks mismatched, and a crumpled letter clutched in one hand like damning evidence. He didn't even look at the adults. His eyes zeroed in on her with the intensity of someone who had discovered a state secret and was prepared to deliver it to the press.

"You—" he said, breathless and horrified. "You absolute traitor."

"Oh, Merlin," Roxaine muttered, setting her fork down as Narcissa calmly reached for her jam, unbothered.

Lucius turned from his teacup, already sighing. "What now?"

Draco slammed the letter on the table, flattened it with both hands, and in the most theatrical voice he could manage — somewhere between wounded Shakespearean prince and gloating older brother — he began to read.

"Roxaine," he recited, dramatically gasping between lines like he needed to pace himself. "I hope this owl is dignified enough for you. I tried to find one that looked like it came from a diplomatic envoy, but all the regal-looking ones were taken, and this one bit me. Twice."

"Draco—"

"You didn't hex me yesterday, so I'm taking that as a good sign. Either you're softening, or you're planning something. I'll prepare for both." He looked up at her, eyes narrowed. "What does that mean?"

"Keep reading," Lucius said flatly, leaning forward now, pale knuckles on the table.

"Also," Draco went on, clearly enjoying himself now, "remind me never to try talking to your guardian again. I made it three steps before you looked at me like I'd asked to duel your great-grandmother. Terrifying. Strangely flattering." He gasped. "You threatened him with your eyes?! What kind of power do you have?!"

"Give me that!" Roxaine hissed, reaching for the letter, but he spun away just in time, holding it aloft.

"Are you going to write back? Or do I have to start sending haikus carved into pumpkins by owl? I will, Black. Don't test me."

Narcissa coughed behind her napkin — possibly laughter.

Draco stumbled back, hand to his chest. "Yours in barely tolerated affection," he cried. "Cedric D. — AND THEN—"

"Draco, I swear—"

"P.S." he shouted, waving the letter like a banner. "Your frown is still my favorite face you make. Don't roll your eyes. I felt it."

Lucius was staring at Roxaine like she'd grown wings. Or a boyfriend. Possibly both.

"And look!" Draco flipped the letter around, pointing to the bottom. "He drew a badger! Blowing a kiss! Do you have any idea how humiliating this is for the family name?"

"Give. It. Back." Roxaine's cheeks were now on fire. She lunged, finally managing to snatch the letter from his hand and crumple it into her lap.

Lucius looked like he was going to have a stroke. "Pumpkin haikus. Badgers blowing kisses—this is warfare."

Narcissa, serene as ever, poured herself more tea. "I think it's sweet."

"Sweet?!" Lucius barked. "He's corrupting her. She used to scowl. She used to glare at boys in the corridor!"

"She still might," Narcissa said calmly. "With more flair now."

Draco flopped into a chair, shaking his head. "You're all mad. I need juice."

Lucius pinched the bridge of his nose as if trying to summon the patience of every ancestor in the Black and Malfoy family trees combined. "This," he said icily, "is precisely what happens when you let Hufflepuffs believe they're safe."

Roxaine shoved the crumpled letter into her pocket like it was contraband and adjusted her napkin with exaggerated poise, avoiding all eye contact. Her ears, unfortunately, remained visibly red. "He's not corrupting anything. And he's not—I'm not—just eat your scone."

"Don't deflect with carbohydrates," Lucius snapped. "You were smiling. Twice."

Draco, now halfway through a goblet of pumpkin juice, lifted it in salute. "A smile before breakfast. Historic. Shall I send word to the Prophet?"

"I will hex your goblet to spit in your face," Roxaine muttered, barely above a whisper.

"That's more like it," Lucius huffed, sitting straighter as if her hostility had restored some cosmic balance. "You're still one of us. For now."

Narcissa, meanwhile, sipped her tea with an amused glint in her eye. "I think it's darling. The badger has flair. I'd have drawn a peacock myself, but to each his house."

Draco groaned. "Mother, please. Don't encourage the cross-species flirtation."

Lucius shot a glare at all of them and then turned his narrowed eyes back to Roxaine, scrutinizing her like a delicate glass about to crack. "I will say this once. No matter what you think you're doing, you are not to be seen canoodling in public, exchanging handwritten poetry, or collecting cartoon rodents on family parchment."

"I didn't ask for the badger—"

"And," he continued, lifting a long, imperious finger, "no dessert if I receive so much as a single rumor from the Floo Network about your hand brushing his in a corridor."

Roxaine glared at him with all the teenage indignation in her bones. "That is a ridiculous punishment."

Lucius leaned back in his chair with cruel satisfaction. "Is it? Then prove me wrong, little Black. Behave, and you may keep your pudding privileges."

Draco clutched his sides. "This is the best breakfast I've had in years."

Roxaine looked ready to transfigure his eggs into frogs.

"And you—" Lucius turned to Draco. "Will not be rereading private letters aloud in this household like a town crier with a personal vendetta."

"Even if they involve flirting badgers?" he asked, already dodging a bread roll flung expertly at his head.

"Careful, Draco." Narcissa chirped mildly.

Lucius stood abruptly, straightened his cuffs, and glared at the table. "If anyone sends her another love letter, I expect it to come notarized, grammatically flawless, and signed in blood." And with that, he swept out of the room like a man personally betrayed by owls.

Roxaine dropped her face into her hands.

Draco took another sip of juice. "So... when are you writing back?"

June 3rd, 1992
Malfoy Manor — Roxaine's bedroom
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The manor had long since settled into its post-breakfast hush — that oddly reverent stillness that came after Lucius had made one of his grand, sweeping exits and Narcissa had retired to her study with a floating tray of second tea. Roxaine lay on her bed like a felled general, arms flung wide, the letter (creased, re-folded, then smoothed again into obedience) tucked safely beneath the pillow behind her head. The canopy above was pale silk, drifting slightly with the charmed breeze that filtered through the room, but she hardly noticed. Her heart was still fluttering, inconveniently and unapologetically, every time she remembered your frown is still my favorite face you make.

She groaned and buried her face into her blanket, biting back a laugh that felt too dangerous to let out fully. This was idiotic. She was not some fluttery halfwit who blushed at doodles and read between the lines of jest. She was Roxaine Black. She walked beside Lucius Malfoy in public. She sat at the front of every lecture. She could recite the family tree of every Sacred Twenty-Eight by heart. And now here she was — giddy over a sarcastic Hufflepuff with excellent penmanship.

The door opened with its usual quiet grace, but she didn't move. She expected a house-elf. Maybe Narcissa. Not—

"In two days is my birthday!" Draco announced, striding in like a conquering prince, arms already raised in triumph.

She cracked an eye open. "You're eleven, not eighty. Calm down."

"I'm going to be twelve," he corrected, dramatically offended. "Which means I'm practically a teenager. Practically an adult. I should get two desserts."

"Lucius said no dessert if he hears anything about me and Cedric," she muttered, flopping her arm over her eyes.

"I know," Draco said smugly, hopping onto the foot of her bed. "Which is why I'm going to tell him I saw Cedric send you two letters. That way, you'll owe me two favors."

She lifted her arm just enough to glare at him. "Do you want to spend your birthday hexed into a doily?"

"I'm just saying, you'd better start planning something incredible for my gift." He grinned like a boy with no real worries in the world — which, all things considered, was close enough to the truth. "And it had better involve flying, fire, or both."

She finally sat up with a groan, hair mussed and expression murderous. "You're an absolute gremlin."

"I'm your favorite gremlin," he sing-songed, bouncing on the mattress like a child high on treacle fudge. "Admit it."

Roxaine just picked up her pillow and hurled it straight at his face. "You'll get your gift, Draco. But if you ever read another letter aloud like that again—"

"I won't, I won't! Promise!" he said quickly, muffled behind the pillow, then peeked out with a grin. "Unless the next one has a drawing of you."

"Get out."

He was already halfway to the door, cackling. "Two days!" he shouted over his shoulder before slamming it shut behind him.

Roxaine exhaled sharply, flopping back onto the bed. She stared up at the canopy again, long enough for her heart to settle. Then, quietly — almost guiltily — she reached back beneath her pillow and pulled out the letter again.

Just one more read. Just to be sure the badger still looked smug.

Chapter Text

June 4th, 1992
Malfoy Manor – Roxaine's Room
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The early summer light cut pale ribbons across Roxaine's wardrobe doors as she stood before the tall mirror, fastening the delicate silver clasps of her robes. She moved with the same deliberate precision she always had: hair brushed into a sleek fall down her back, collar straightened, cuffs perfectly aligned. The routine was armor, something she could control.

On the edge of her bed sat the bag Narcissa had set out for her — a discreet but expensive-looking thing made of soft green leather, charmed to hold far more than its size suggested. A list of supplies floated above it in neat cursive: quills, parchment, refills for her ink pot, a new set of gloves, and "don't forget to try on dress robes, Roxaine" written in Narcissa's elegant hand.

She ignored the note for a moment, pulling her hair over one shoulder and twisting it once before letting it fall again. She wasn't sure why she felt... different. Diagon Alley trips were a familiar ritual: stay poised, stay visible, stay perfect. But the memory of Cedric's letter, the smug little badger doodle that still lived under her floorboard, hummed in the back of her mind like a forbidden charm.

She tightened her belt, checked her reflection one last time, and murmured under her breath, "Just another day. That's all."

A soft knock came at her door. "Roxaine?" Narcissa's voice — calm, measured, but carrying that maternal undertone that always cut through Roxaine's mask. "Are you nearly ready? The carriage leaves in twenty minutes."

"I'm ready," she replied, sharper than intended. Then, after a pause, "I'll be down shortly."

Footsteps retreated. Roxaine exhaled, grabbed her bag, and glanced once toward the section of floor where Cedric's letter was hidden. She forced herself to look away.

Diagon Alley meant masks. And today, hers would have to hold.

June 4th, 1992
Malfoy Manor – Entrance Hall
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

Roxaine descended the marble staircase with her usual composed stride, the soft green of her robes blending with the silvered railings. Narcissa stood waiting by the grand doors, effortlessly elegant in traveling attire, a light shawl draped across her shoulders. Beside her, Draco fidgeted with the clasp of his cloak, bouncing slightly on his heels, already impatient.

"Finally," he muttered when Roxaine reached the last step. "I thought you'd died up there."

"You'd be thrilled," she replied dryly, adjusting the strap of her bag.

"Not before my birthday," he shot back, then turned to Narcissa. "Can we go now? I need to see the broom shop before everyone buys everything."

"You'll see the broom shop," Narcissa said calmly, glancing between the two children with that faint, practiced smile that somehow kept them both in check. "But first, we'll handle supplies."

Draco groaned. "Supplies are boring."

"Supplies are necessary," Roxaine corrected, voice sharp but steady. "Unlike you, I'd rather not run out of ink two weeks into summer."

He made a face at her but didn't answer, which she counted as a minor victory.

Narcissa's eyes flicked briefly to Roxaine, studying her posture, the slight stiffness in her shoulders, the way her gaze avoided meeting anyone's for too long. "Lucius won't be joining us today," she said as they moved toward the waiting carriage. "He's tied up at the Ministry."

"Good," Draco muttered. "He would've made us spend an hour talking to people we don't like."

"People you don't like," Roxaine corrected without looking at him.

"Same thing."

Narcissa gave a small sigh, ushering them both into the carriage. "Do try not to draw attention. And Draco, remember—no racing off."

"I know, I know," he grumbled, climbing in first.

Roxaine settled beside the window, keeping her expression calm as the manor doors closed behind them. The carriage jolted forward, and for a brief moment, with Lucius away, the polished weight of aristocratic formality loosened slightly. Narcissa sat back, smoothing her skirt, and Draco slouched instantly, stretching his legs across the seat with all the dignity of a kneazle in a sunbeam.

Roxaine didn't fully relax. She sat straight, gaze on the scenery rushing past. Even with Lucius absent, she felt his expectations like a shadow pressed against her spine.

June 4th, 1992
Diagon Alley
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The carriage rolled to a smooth halt at the cobbled edge of Diagon Alley. The moment Narcissa stepped down, her posture shifted—shoulders straight, chin lifted, every gesture deliberate. Draco mimicked her instantly, pulling himself upright as though he hadn't spent the last ten minutes sprawled like a lazy cat. Roxaine followed suit, the invisible weight of public expectation sliding over her like a second cloak.

Even in early summer, Diagon Alley hummed with movement. Shopkeepers stood in their doorways, calling out charms for sale, owls swooped between rooftops, and the scent of parchment, sugar, and dragonhide blended into a familiar haze. Heads turned as soon as the Malfoy trio entered the street. People noticed them—always. Some nodded respectfully, others whispered behind their hands.

"Madam Malkin's first," Narcissa said smoothly, steering them toward the robe shop. "Best to get the fittings out of the way."

Draco muttered something about broomsticks but obeyed. Roxaine walked a half step behind, her gaze moving over the crowd with practiced disinterest. She could feel eyes on her—the heir of the Black family, raised at Malfoy Manor, a child taught to be watched. She kept her spine straight, her face neutral, her thoughts locked tight behind her composed mask.

Inside Madam Malkin's, the cool air smelled faintly of new fabric and powdered chalk. Bolts of material hovered along the walls, enchanted scissors snipping silently through swaths of black, green, and silver.

"Roxaine, fittings first," Narcissa instructed.

Roxaine stepped onto the raised stool without argument. Madam Malkin bustled forward, pins floating at her command. "Stand tall, dear," the witch said kindly, wrapping a measuring tape around Roxaine's waist.

"I am standing tall," Roxaine replied, her voice flat but polite enough to be acceptable.

Draco leaned against a display of cloaks, clearly bored. "You're getting new dress robes too, right? Not just school ones?"

Narcissa glanced over her shoulder. "Both of you will."

Draco perked up slightly. "Can mine have dragons?"

"No," Narcissa said without hesitation.

While pins floated around her sleeves, Roxaine's eyes flicked toward the window. Somewhere in this busy street, Cedric Diggory might also be buying books or sweets or broom polish. The thought caught her off guard, quick and unbidden, and she snapped her gaze back to Madam Malkin's hands as if she hadn't imagined it.

"Hold still," the seamstress said gently. "You're tensing."

"I'm fine," Roxaine murmured.

June 4th, 1992
Diagon Alley
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The sun was already climbing higher, casting a sharp gleam over the polished shop windows. Narcissa led the way through the crowded alley, her presence cutting an effortless path; people moved aside instinctively, murmuring greetings or bowing their heads in acknowledgment. Roxaine kept pace beside her, Draco trailing a half-step behind, muttering under his breath about broomsticks and how surely they could stop by Quality Quidditch Supplies first.

They had just exited Flourish and Blotts—Roxaine with a new transfiguration text and a slim collection of essays on ancient charms tucked neatly into her bag—when she caught sight of movement beyond the tide of shoppers.

A boy, tall for his age, weaving easily through the crowd. Cedric Diggory.

He spotted her almost instantly, and his entire face brightened in a way that was infuriatingly obvious. He raised one hand in a cheerful wave—unconcerned, unhidden, as though the world wasn't watching.

Roxaine's posture stiffened. For a fraction of a second she considered pretending she hadn't seen him. But her eyes betrayed her, flicking back to meet his. She didn't wave—of course she didn't—but something in her expression faltered, the cool, controlled line of her mouth tightening just slightly.

Draco followed her gaze, then let out a sound of disgust. "Ugh. The Hufflepuff." He turned, stuck out his tongue in the most juvenile, exaggerated way possible, and made a face that would have been more appropriate for an eight-year-old.

Roxaine didn't even think. Her hand shot out and smacked him across the back of the head—sharp enough to make him yelp, but not enough to draw Narcissa's attention immediately.

"Ow! What was that for?" Draco hissed, rubbing the spot.

"Don't embarrass yourself," she muttered through clenched teeth, though she didn't take her eyes off Cedric—who was now closing the distance between them with that maddeningly easy confidence.

Cedric slowed as he reached them, careful, respectful, but still smiling like he wasn't standing in the middle of a political minefield. "Roxaine," he greeted, voice warm, casual—as if they were simply classmates running into each other near the library, not here, in the heart of the Alley with half the wizarding world watching.

Draco stepped half in front of her, chin up. "She's busy."

Roxaine inhaled slowly, kept her composure intact, and stepped around Draco with the kind of icy grace that made him instantly shut his mouth. "What are you doing here?" she asked Cedric, tone clipped—proper—but her eyes gave her away. She wasn't entirely displeased.

"Shopping," Cedric said simply, lifting the small stack of books in his hand. "My mum's at the apothecary, and I was..." He hesitated, glanced at Draco, then back at her. "...hoping I might see you."

Draco snorted loudly. Narcissa, who had been pretending to examine a window display nearby, finally turned with a perfectly calm expression that didn't hide the fact that she was listening.

"You're bold," Roxaine said evenly, though her voice had gone quieter.

He grinned, quick and almost boyish. "You've told me that before. Didn't stop me then either."

Draco groaned. "This is disgusting."

Roxaine shot him a look sharp enough to make him back up a step. "Draco." Just his name, low and cold.

Cedric glanced between them, his grin softening slightly. "I should probably let you go," he said, though his eyes lingered on hers for half a beat longer than necessary. "But... maybe I'll write again?"

Roxaine's jaw tightened. She didn't answer, not verbally. She simply gave him the smallest incline of her head—a gesture so subtle that anyone else might have missed it entirely. Cedric didn't. His smile widened just a fraction, enough to betray that he understood.

He stepped back, polite as ever, and then disappeared into the crowd with an ease that made it seem as though he had simply been a passing breeze rather than a boy who could throw her entire composure off balance.

Draco let out a long, dramatic sigh. "Really, Rox. A Hufflepuff? In public? What if someone saw?"

"Someone did see," Narcissa said lightly, brushing a speck of dust from her sleeve. Her eyes flicked to Roxaine, faint amusement playing at the corners. "He's fearless. I'll give him that."

"Fearless or stupid," Draco muttered. "Probably both."

Roxaine didn't respond. Her mask was back in place, her posture perfect, but her pulse hadn't settled. She adjusted the strap of her bag, looked straight ahead, and said coolly, "We should keep moving."

The crowd seemed louder after Cedric vanished into it, voices blending with the clatter of footsteps and the occasional hoot of an impatient owl. Roxaine kept her eyes forward, her grip on her bag strap firm, her pace deliberate. She didn't look back, didn't allow herself to.

Draco, however, was not about to let it go.

"That was humiliating," he declared, walking at her side. "You didn't even hex him. You just stood there. Are you sick? Should I call for a Healer?"

"Draco," Narcissa said without turning her head. Her tone was mild, but Draco flinched anyway.

"What? I'm just saying! He waltzed right up like he owns the Alley—"

"Better that than sulking in the middle of it," Roxaine cut in, her voice low, cool, and sharp enough to make him pause.

Draco narrowed his eyes. "So you like that he's reckless."

Roxaine didn't answer.

"Oh, Merlin, you do," he muttered, then looked at Narcissa. "Mother, tell her she's making a terrible decision."

Narcissa didn't respond immediately. She guided them smoothly around a group of shoppers before saying, "It's not my place to dictate what your cousin thinks of anyone, Draco. Nor is it yours."

Draco blinked. "But—he's—he's—“

"A boy who dared to approach a Black in public," Narcissa finished for him. "Which, frankly, is either very brave or very foolish. Both qualities are... interesting."

Roxaine's lips pressed together. She hated how her pulse betrayed her, quickening just slightly at Narcissa's words.

They stopped at a narrow shop whose windows were filled with rare quills, each suspended midair like a display of delicate weapons. Narcissa gestured toward it. "We'll need to restock inks. Roxaine, you can choose what you prefer."

Inside, the shop smelled faintly of cedar and iron gall. Rows of shimmering inkpots lined the shelves: traditional black, deep emerald, even one that sparkled faintly gold when turned. Roxaine reached for a bottle automatically, her hand steady despite the storm beneath her practiced exterior.

Draco, however, had found a quill shaped like a serpent and was making it hiss at her. "Look, Roxaine, I'm a bold Hufflepuff, notice me!"

She didn't even look at him. "Do that again and I'll make it bite you."

Narcissa glanced over, one eyebrow raised. "Draco. Enough."

He dropped the quill onto the counter with a sigh. "Fine. But when Father finds out about this—"

"Father doesn't need to find out," Narcissa interrupted calmly, selecting her own ink. "Not yet."

That shut him up.

Roxaine glanced briefly at her aunt, uncertain whether that was protection or warning. She didn't ask. She simply chose her inks, paid with the small purse Narcissa handed her, and stepped back into the sunlight.

By the time they reached the apothecary, Draco had switched topics entirely, talking about his birthday plans, what kind of broom he wanted, and which sweets shop had the best chocolate wands. Roxaine nodded occasionally, answering only when necessary.

Still, as they walked past the crowd, her gaze flicked once—just once—toward the busy street behind them. She didn't see Cedric again.

June 4th, 1992
Diagon Alley – Quality Quidditch Supplies
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The bell above the shop door jingled as they stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of polished wood, leather, and the sharp tang of metal enchantments. Draco's entire demeanor changed instantly—his sulking evaporated as he darted toward the display cases like a Kneazle let loose.

He stopped in front of one particular shelf, eyes wide. "Look! They've got adjustable speed charms, and they come with their own carrying box. Please, can I—" He pressed his nose almost to the glass as a golden ball hovered lazily inside, its tiny wings flicking like nervous birds.

"Not today," Narcissa said smoothly, not even breaking stride. "We're here to look, Draco, not to empty the entire shop."

Draco groaned theatrically, dragging his feet as though gravity itself had betrayed him. "Worst trip ever," he muttered, loud enough for the entire store to hear, before sulking toward the door.

"Come along," Narcissa called, already gliding toward the exit.

Roxaine's gaze had been caught by a new line of beater equipment displayed near the back wall—reinforced bats with elegant ebony handles, bludgers locked inside anti-flight cages that trembled faintly as if itching for release.

She kept her expression neutral and said evenly, "In a moment. I want to see the newer beater gloves."

Narcissa paused, assessing her for a beat, then nodded. "Five minutes. Meet us outside."

Draco shot her a suspicious look as he shuffled after Narcissa. "Don't take forever."

The door closed behind them, leaving Roxaine in a space that suddenly felt calmer, quieter. She moved toward the gloves, picking up a pair and testing the grip with practiced precision. The leather was soft but strong, spelled to absorb impact—better than her current set, though she'd never admit it aloud.

Then her gaze slid back toward the glass case Draco had been practically worshipping. The practice snitch still hovered there, gleaming faintly under the enchanted lights. Its wings twitched as if impatient to escape.

She glanced toward the door—Narcissa and Draco were nowhere in sight—and then toward the counter.

"I'll take one of those," she said quietly to the clerk, nodding toward the snitch.

The man retrieved it with a grin, carefully placing it into its velvet-lined carrying box. "Good choice," he said, handing it over. "Adjustable speeds, enchantments hold for years. Ten galleons."

She handed him the coins from her own purse, ignoring the slight twist in her chest at the price. Draco would never expect this. He'd probably assume Lucius bought it, or that Narcissa had relented. He wouldn't know she'd slipped back to do it herself.

The box fit perfectly in her bag. She closed it carefully, almost reverently, and straightened her shoulders.

The bell over the shop door jingled again.

"Roxaine?"

She froze before turning.

Cedric stood just inside, hair slightly windblown, holding a rolled-up list in one hand. He blinked, surprised but undeniably pleased. "I didn't think I'd see you again today."

Roxaine kept her face smooth, though her pulse had spiked. "Apparently, you thought wrong."

He grinned. "Lucky me."

Roxaine shifted her weight, the velvet box heavy in her bag. She kept her hands perfectly still at her sides. "What are you doing here?" she asked, tone clipped but not sharp enough to be dismissive.

Cedric glanced toward the shelves of broom polish and flight goggles. "Looking around. I'm supposed to be meeting my mum soon, but—" He lifted a shoulder lightly. "I wanted to see if they had any new seeker gear."

"Seeker," she repeated, as though verifying something she already knew.

He nodded. "Third year on the team. They've updated the gloves—they're lighter now." His gaze flicked back to her, and his smile softened just enough to feel deliberate. "You're captain, right? Beater?"

"Yes." She said it without hesitation, but something in her chest shifted.

There was a beat of silence—brief, weighted. Roxaine's fingers brushed the edge of her bag. Before she could think better of it, words slipped out faster than intended: "I could—" She caught herself but didn't stop. "I could accompany you. While you look."

It came out too quickly. Not calculated, not planned—just there.

Cedric blinked, then laughed softly. "You'd want to do that?"

"I didn't say I wanted to," she corrected automatically, straightening her spine. "I said I could. There's a difference."

His grin widened like he'd caught her in something. "Then I'd appreciate it."

Roxaine's pulse betrayed her, faster than she allowed. She adjusted the cuff of her sleeve and said, too briskly, "We should make it quick. I'm expected outside."

But when she stepped toward the aisle of seeker gear, she realized she was walking just slightly faster than usual—not fleeing, but not entirely in control either.

Roxaine moved deliberately, eyes on the shelves, as if the display of seeker gloves required her full attention. Inside, though, her composure had cracks—thin but undeniable. Her pulse was quick, and there was an unfamiliar lightness beneath her ribs that she immediately tried to suppress.

Cedric walked beside her, hands casually in his pockets, his steps unhurried. "You know," he said, glancing sideways at her, "for someone who insists she doesn't want to be here, you're walking pretty fast. Almost like you're... excited."

"I'm not," she replied sharply.

"Right." He nodded as though he believed her, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. "You're just here to make sure I don't accidentally buy the wrong gloves. Out of pure... public duty."

"Exactly," she said, reaching for a pair on the top shelf just to avoid looking at him.

"You're a very selfless person, Black," he continued, mock-serious. "Escorting a rival house seeker through a store just to keep him from making a terrible fashion decision. Truly noble."

She placed the gloves back with more force than necessary. "If you're going to talk this much, we'll be done slower."

He chuckled, leaning slightly closer. "I think you're enjoying this."

Roxaine turned her head just enough to glare at him, though her ears felt hot. "You're insufferable."

"I've been called worse."

Cedric stopped in front of a rack lined with streamlined seeker goggles. He picked up a pair, turning them over in his hands. "What do you think? Too flashy?" he asked, though his tone suggested he didn't really care about the answer.

Roxaine didn't even glance. "You're asking the wrong person."

"You mean because you don't care about style?" he teased.

"Because I don't care about you," she corrected quickly.

"Ah," he said, grinning. "So you're walking around the shop with someone you don't care about, helping them choose gear you don't care about. That makes perfect sense."

Roxaine opened her mouth to reply but stopped when he leaned closer, his voice lowering just enough that it felt deliberate. "You know, you're terrible at pretending not to like me."

Her entire body went still. "I'm not pretending."

"Really?" Cedric tilted his head, studying her expression like he was trying to find a crack in it. Then, without warning, his hand brushed hers as she reached for another pair of gloves—an almost casual touch that lingered half a second longer than necessary. When she didn't move, he did something bolder: he caught her wrist gently, holding it just enough to make her look at him.

Roxaine's breath hitched, too quick, too obvious. "Let go."

He smiled, not smug—amused. "Only if you admit you're not here just for gloves."

She stared at him, every muscle tight, her mind racing for a cutting response. None came fast enough.

The bell above the shop door jingled violently.

"Roxaine!" Draco's voice rang sharp and irritated.

She jerked her hand back instantly, Cedric letting go without resistance. Draco stood in the doorway, eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of them standing too close, too comfortable.

"You're—YOU'RE ON A DATE?!" he yelled, his voice carrying far louder than the crowded shop required.

Every single head in the store turned.

"I am not—" Roxaine began, but Draco was already spinning toward the door, shouting into the busy street.

"MOTHER! SHE'S ON A DATE WITH THE HUFFLEPUFF!"

Roxaine's blood ran cold. "Draco Malfoy, if you don't—"

Too late. Narcissa Malfoy was already striding into view outside the window, her posture impeccable despite the sudden chaos. Her expression, however, was unreadable—a calm mask sharpened by something more calculating.

"Wonderful," Roxaine muttered under her breath, snapping her bag shut.

Cedric looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. "You're... going to have to explain this one, aren't you?"

She turned to him, voice low, tight. "Don't say a word. Not one."

Draco, meanwhile, was still pointing dramatically from the doorway. "She abandoned us for him! She—"

"Draco." Narcissa's voice sliced clean through the noise. He froze instantly.

Roxaine stepped out first, her chin lifted, every inch of her posture sharpened back into pureblood composure even though her pulse thudded in her ears. Cedric followed, a step behind her, looking like he was trying very hard to match her calm while his hand tightened almost imperceptibly around the strap of the shopping bag he carried.

Narcissa stood a few feet away, elegant as ever, her pale gaze cutting between them and the red-faced Draco, who looked moments away from declaring the news to the entire Alley.

Roxaine stopped in front of her aunt. Cedric stopped too, slightly to her side, though his shoulders were tense, and his jaw was set in a way that betrayed how hard he was forcing himself not to look absolutely terrified — which he was.

"Mrs. Malfoy," he said, his voice even but noticeably quieter than usual. "I—this isn't what it looks like."

Narcissa tilted her head, calm but watchful. "Isn't it?"

Cedric swallowed. "I mean—it is, but—no, it's not—I was just—" He glanced at Roxaine for half a second, as if hoping she'd save him from himself. "We ran into each other, that's all."

"Ran into each other," Narcissa repeated softly, almost like she was testing the words.

"Yes, ma'am." Cedric's politeness was flawless, but his hand twitched slightly at his side. "I wasn't... I wasn't trying to—"

Draco interrupted loudly, "He grabbed her wrist in there! I saw it! He—"

"Draco," Narcissa said without raising her voice. The single word was enough to silence him.

Roxaine finally spoke, her tone crisp. "He was leaving when you barged in."

Cedric nodded quickly. "Exactly. I was just leaving." He was standing straight, but his breathing betrayed him—measured, deliberate, like someone trying to keep from panicking. "I didn't mean to cause... any trouble."

Narcissa's gaze flicked between the two of them. Her face gave nothing away, but there was the faintest spark of amusement in her eyes, hidden well beneath the layer of aristocratic detachment.

Narcissa's gaze lingered on Cedric for a measured moment—cool, poised, and impossible to read. "I see," she said softly, her voice smooth as glass. "Then you should rejoin your parents before they wonder where you've gone."

"Yes, ma'am," Cedric replied immediately, relief and panic mixing in his tone. He shot Roxaine a quick glance—brief, almost involuntary—before backing away. "Good day."

Roxaine didn't look at him. "Good day," she said curtly, the words clipped like a blade.

He hesitated as though he wanted to say something else, then thought better of it. The crowd swallowed him quickly.

Draco muttered under his breath, "Coward," earning himself a sharp look from Roxaine that made him snap his mouth shut.

Narcissa turned back toward the street, her posture effortlessly regal. "Come along, both of you."

They walked in silence for a stretch, weaving through shoppers and vendors until the alley narrowed. Roxaine kept her eyes fixed ahead, her face composed but pale. Draco kept glancing between her and his mother, clearly waiting for an explosion that never came.

It was Narcissa who broke the silence first, her voice deceptively mild. "He's rather bold, that boy. To speak to me directly, in public, knowing who I am."

Roxaine's steps faltered just slightly. "...He's reckless."

"Or fearless," Narcissa countered lightly. "There's a difference."

Draco groaned. "Mother, please don't encourage this."

"I'm not encouraging anything." Narcissa's lips curved—just barely. "I'm only observing."

Roxaine stayed quiet, but her fingers tightened around her bag strap.

Then Narcissa glanced down at her, eyes glinting faintly. "Still," she murmured, "you might have warned me I'd be supervising... what do they call it now? A date?"

Roxaine's head snapped toward her, eyes wide despite her usual control. "It wasn't—"

Narcissa's expression remained perfectly composed. "Of course not."

But there was an unmistakable hint of amusement in her voice now.

The carriage door closed with a muted thud, shutting out the noise of Diagon Alley. Inside, the air was cooler, quieter, and smelled faintly of leather and the faintest trace of some elegant Malfoy cologne. Roxaine slid into her seat with her usual precision, but her hand betrayed her—still curled around her wrist, the one Cedric had grabbed.

Draco noticed immediately. "Why are you holding it like that?"

"I'm not." She released it instantly, resting both hands neatly in her lap.

"You are," he insisted, leaning forward. "Did he hurt you? I told you he's—"

"No," she cut him off sharply. "He didn't."

Draco frowned, unconvinced, but Narcissa spoke before he could continue. "Enough, Draco. Sit properly."

He huffed but obeyed, crossing his arms. "I'm telling Father."

"You'll do no such thing," Narcissa said without looking at him.

Roxaine kept her gaze fixed on the window, her reflection perfectly still even as her pulse wasn't. She could feel the warmth still lingering on her wrist where Cedric's hand had been, and it infuriated her that she couldn't push the memory away as easily as she wanted to.

Narcissa's eyes flicked toward her briefly. "You don't have to strangle your own hand, Roxaine," she said smoothly, her tone almost casual.

Roxaine's grip loosened a fraction, but she didn't look up.

Draco, oblivious to the undertone, kept going. "Mother, she's acting weird. First she disappears, then she's—"

"Draco." Narcissa's voice sharpened just slightly. "Drop it."

Silence settled in the carriage. Roxaine's posture was perfect, but her fingers kept twitching against the fabric of her skirt.

Draco leaned back, arms crossed, smirking like he'd just exposed a grand scandal. "You're awfully quiet for someone who wasn't on a date," he said, his tone sing-song and needling.

Roxaine didn't turn her head. "You're an annoying little shit."

Narcissa's head snapped toward her instantly. "Roxaine." The name came out like a whip—elegant but razor-sharp. "Language."

Draco's grin widened as he stuck his tongue out at her in victory.

Roxaine didn't miss a beat. "I hope you're enjoying that now, because I didn't get you anything for your birthday."

Draco gasped dramatically, clutching his chest as though she'd physically struck him. "What?"

"I was going to," she said flatly, "but now I'm reconsidering."

"You're bluffing."

"Try me."

Draco glared, then stuck his tongue out again—longer this time—before muttering, "You're the worst cousin ever."

"And you're proof that the universe has a twisted sense of humor."

"Enough," Narcissa said sharply, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—half scandalized, half struggling not to let amusement slip through. "Roxaine Black, I do not tolerate that kind of language under my roof—or in my carriage."

Roxaine exhaled slowly, smoothing her skirt with deliberate calm. "Understood."

Draco leaned forward, stage-whispering just loud enough for her to hear, "She's still mad about her date."

This time Roxaine actually turned her head, eyes narrowing. "Draco, I swear—"

"Both of you," Narcissa cut in, her patience thinning. "Not another word until we arrive."

Draco stuck his tongue out one last time while Narcissa wasn't looking. Roxaine didn't react—she just sat straighter, lips pressed into a tight line, but her fingers twitched like she was considering smacking him later.

June 4th, 1992
Malfoy Manor – Dining Hall
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

Dinner at Malfoy Manor was a formal affair by default—long polished table, gleaming silver, and candlelight reflected off walls designed to intimidate. Roxaine kept her posture immaculate, shoulders set and chin high, though her expression betrayed nothing. Narcissa sat to Lucius's right, cutting into her meal with the same precision she'd use for a political negotiation. Draco, however, couldn't contain himself for even two minutes.

"Father," he started, too casually.

Lucius didn't look up. "Yes, Draco?"

"She went on a date today."

Roxaine's fork paused midair. Narcissa's head turned just slightly toward her son.

Lucius's eyes lifted—cold, sharp, and immediately locking on Roxaine. "A what?"

"It wasn't a date," Roxaine said evenly.

"Yes it was!" Draco leaned forward, animated. "I found her with that Hufflepuff boy—the same one she—"

"Draco." Narcissa's voice cut him off like a knife, but it was too late; Lucius's attention was fixed.

Roxaine set her fork down deliberately. "I wasn't with him. I happened to see him in a shop. That's all."

Draco snorted. "Sure. That's why you were smiling."

Roxaine turned her head, slow and precise. "You are insufferable."

"Enough," Lucius said, his tone calm but carrying weight that silenced both of them. He looked at Roxaine for a moment longer before returning to his food. "We will discuss this later."

Draco smirked across the table at her, clearly pleased with himself.

Roxaine's voice was cool as ice. "Enjoy your birthday gift while it lasts. I'm considering returning it."

Draco's smirk faltered for half a second. "...You bought me something?"

She didn't answer, just raised her glass in a perfectly composed gesture, though under the table her foot tapped once, betraying restrained irritation.

June 4th, 1992
Malfoy Manor – Lucius' Study
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The study smelled faintly of parchment, old leather, and the sharp, comforting edge of polished wood. Candles floated low, casting a soft amber light over rows of perfectly aligned books. Roxaine stood just inside the door, her hands folded neatly in front of her as Lucius closed it with a quiet click.

He regarded her for a long moment before speaking. "You're getting very good at keeping your face composed," he said, voice measured. "Almost as though you know when you're about to be interrogated."

"I wasn't on a date," she replied calmly.

"I didn't say you were," he countered, lips twitching. "Though it's interesting you assumed I would."

Roxaine's chin lifted slightly. "Because you always assume the worst when it comes to boys."

"Because I have every reason to." He walked behind his desk but didn't sit. "You're fourteen, Roxaine."

"I know how old I am."

"Do you?" Lucius arched a brow. "Because you seem to be forgetting that to me, you're still that small child who—" He stopped, exhaling through his nose. "—who barely reached my knee when she arrived here."

Roxaine hesitated, then said quietly, "I'm not her anymore."

"I know." His tone softened unexpectedly. "That's the problem."

The admission hung in the air, uncharacteristically vulnerable. Roxaine didn't move, waiting.

Lucius cleared his throat, his composure snapping back. "Don't misunderstand me. You've become—Merlin help me for saying this—remarkably poised, intelligent, capable. I'm proud of you." He made a vague gesture with one hand. "But then there's... this. Letters. Boys. Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs circling like—"

"Cedric is a pureblood," she interrupted before she could stop herself.

Lucius narrowed his eyes. "Don't use my arguments against me."

For the first time that day, a very small smile tugged at her lips. "You're the one who taught me to debate."

He let out something dangerously close to a laugh before shaking his head. "You're impossible."

"You raised me."

There was a pause—half amused, half heavy—then he moved closer. "Roxaine." His voice lowered. "You do understand, don't you? Why I react this way?"

"Yes," she admitted. "You still think I'm the child you brought here seven years ago."

"Exactly," he said simply. "You're not supposed to be... older. Taller. Witty enough to make me feel my age."

She didn't tease him for that. Instead, she asked, softer, "Does that mean you don't want me to grow up?"

Lucius looked at her for a long moment. "I want you to grow up safely. That's all."

Something shifted then—less politics, less Malfoy calculation, more something that belonged to the version of him only she knew. He stepped forward and, without hesitation, rested a hand briefly on her shoulder before pulling her into a proper embrace.

It wasn't stiff, nor cautious—just warm, solid, and very real.

Roxaine closed her eyes. For a brief second, she felt like that small girl again—the one who'd been terrified, stubborn, and unwilling to trust anyone.

July 1985
Malfoy Manor – Roxaine's Room
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The room was too large, too quiet, and too perfect to feel safe. Its emerald velvet curtains draped all the way to the floor, muffling every sound from the manor's long corridors. A little girl—barely seven, still thin from years of careful, joyless meals—sat curled in the center of the bed, her nightdress wrinkled, her dark hair sticking to her damp face. She had woken from another nightmare, the kind that left her heart pounding and her throat dry, but she didn't dare cry out.

Her grandmother's voice still echoed in her memory: "Blacks do not whimper. Pain is endured, fear is conquered, and weakness is punished."

So she hadn't screamed. She hadn't called for anyone. She had simply sat there in the dark, trying to swallow the panic until her chest hurt.

Finally, needing light, she slid off the bed. The floor was cold against her bare feet. She stretched up on tiptoe, reaching for the nearest candleholder, but her hands trembled. The silver base slipped, toppled, and crashed onto the floor with a sharp clatter that sounded impossibly loud in the silent room.

Her breath froze. She knelt quickly, trying to set it upright before anyone came. "Please don't," she whispered under her breath, as though the manor itself might hear. "Please don't—"

The door opened.

Light from the corridor spilled in, and Lucius Malfoy stepped inside, still dressed in his evening robes, wand drawn but lowered when he saw her. "Roxaine?" His voice was low, controlled, but there was a trace of surprise. "Why are you awake?"

She went still, clutching the candleholder to her chest as though it could shield her. "I—" She couldn't find the right excuse fast enough.

Lucius glanced around the room, then at the overturned bedcovers, then back at her pale face. "A nightmare," he said—not a question.

Roxaine's lips pressed tight. "No."

His brows lifted slightly, but his tone remained calm. "You're shaking."

"I'm fine."

"You're not."

She flinched at the certainty in his voice and instinctively took a small step back, as though expecting reprimand.

Roxaine stepped back instinctively, clutching the candleholder as though it were a shield. Lucius didn't move closer immediately. He stayed where he was, watching her with that precise, assessing calm that even at eight years old she recognized as dangerous—except now it wasn't aimed like a weapon.

He exhaled slowly. "No one here will punish you for having a bad dream."

Her eyes flicked up, uncertain, almost disbelieving.

"I know what that look means," he added. "You expect trouble. You won't find it in this house."

She didn't answer.

He lowered his wand, set it on her desk, then crouched—not low enough to feel patronizing, just enough that he wasn't towering over her. "Come here, Roxaine."

For a moment she didn't move. Then, hesitantly, she stepped forward, still holding the candleholder like a lifeline.

Lucius reached out and gently took it from her hands, setting it on the table. "You're safe here," he said evenly. "You understand that, don't you?"

She nodded, but it was a small, automatic motion that didn't reach her eyes.

Lucius studied her for another second, then straightened. "Back to bed."

She obeyed instantly, scrambling onto the mattress with the same disciplined precision she'd been raised to follow, sitting stiffly on the edge.

He sighed—quiet, almost too quiet—and removed his outer robe, draping it over the chair before sitting down beside her. "You don't have to sit like a soldier."

"I'm not—" she began, then stopped.

"You are," he said, softer this time. "You're seven. At seven, you're allowed to look like a child."

Her lips pressed tight. She stared at her lap, not daring to say that she didn't know how.

Lucius reached for the nearest candle, lit it with a simple flick of his wand, and set it on the bedside table. The warm glow softened the shadows in the room. "Better?"

She gave a small, quick nod.

After a pause, he said, "You can try to sleep again. I'll stay until you do."

Her head snapped toward him, startled. "You don't have to."

"I didn't say I had to," he replied, leaning back against the headboard with an ease she couldn't yet mimic. "I said I will."

She hesitated, then carefully lay down, as though testing whether it was truly allowed. Her body remained rigid, her eyes wide open even as she faced the dim light.

Lucius glanced at her, then at the too-big, too-empty bed, and something flickered in his expression. Without a word, he reached and adjusted the blanket around her shoulders—practical, precise. When she still didn't relax, he shifted slightly, stretching an arm along the headboard in a way that left an unspoken invitation: closer, if you want to.

It took her several long, cautious breaths, but eventually she edged toward him, tentative as a stray animal. When her shoulder brushed his sleeve, he didn't move away.

"You're safe," he said again, quieter this time.

She didn't answer, but after a few more moments, her small head tipped slightly against him, her hair brushing the fabric of his shirt.

Lucius stayed still, posture formal for a while before it softened. Slowly, deliberately, he let his arm drop just enough to settle lightly around her.

It wasn't awkward. It wasn't even something he seemed to second-guess.

Within minutes, her breathing steadied, the tension leaving her small frame.

Lucius remained exactly where he was long after Roxaine's breathing evened out. The flickering candlelight threw shifting shadows across the room, but she didn't stir, curled small under his arm as though still unsure it was allowed.

He could have left once she slept. That would have been the sensible thing—he had work waiting in his study, letters to answer, and a schedule that did not include sitting half-upright on an undersized bed. Yet every time he adjusted slightly, her fingers twitched against the blanket, gripping it tighter, and something in him resisted moving.

He leaned his head back against the carved headboard, exhaling. What am I doing?

This wasn't part of any plan. He had agreed to take her in because it was the right thing politically, because Narcissa had asked, because a Black child couldn't be left to rot in a decaying house with an unstable, old house elf. He hadn't expected—hadn't intended—for her to matter.

But here she was, small and pale and stubbornly silent even in her sleep, like she was afraid that needing anything at all would cost her.

Lucius shifted carefully, pulling the blanket higher over her shoulder. She didn't wake.

For hours, he stayed there, one arm propped so she wouldn't roll off, the other draped lightly along the side of the bed. He watched the candle burn lower, felt the stiffness set into his back, and still didn't move.

When dawn finally began to gray the edges of the curtains, she stirred slightly, burrowing unconsciously closer, her forehead brushing his sleeve. Lucius froze for a second, then let out the faintest, resigned sigh.

"Very well," he murmured, almost to himself. "Stay."

June 4th, 1992
Malfoy Manor – Lucius' Study
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

Lucius didn't release her immediately. He stayed still, the familiar scent of parchment and ink around them, his hand steady between her shoulder blades. "I forget," he said quietly, almost as if to himself, "how small you were that first summer. You could barely lift a teacup without looking like it weighed more than you."

Roxaine managed a dry, almost amused sound. "I learned."

"You learned," he agreed, pulling back enough to look at her. "Faster than most children have to. Faster than I would have wanted you to."

She kept her composure, but there was a flicker of something more vulnerable in her eyes. "I didn't really have a choice."

Lucius studied her a moment longer. "No. You didn't. And that's why I'm reluctant now."

"Because of Cedric?"

"Because of everything." His tone wasn't sharp—it was even, deliberate. "It's too soon for you to be anyone's... anything. I'm not ready to see you hurt, Roxaine."

She didn't say I can handle it. She didn't say 'I'm not a child anymore.' Instead, she glanced down, lips pressing together before she murmured, "You're making it sound like I'm still seven."

His mouth curved—just slightly, and not without tension. "You still look seven when you sleep. Do you know that? Same frown line between your brows. Same way you pull the blanket all the way to your chin like someone might take it away."

Her eyes flicked up at him sharply, startled. "...You've been checking on me?"

"Always." He gave a small shrug, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You don't stop looking after someone just because they get taller."

For a beat, neither spoke. Then, because the air had grown heavier than either seemed to want, Lucius straightened his cuffs and said dryly, "But if you insist on growing up, you could at least pick someone less... Quidditch-faced."

Roxaine blinked. "Quidditch-faced?"

"You know the type." He made a vague hand gesture. "Always tanned, always smiling, always about to ask if you've seen their broom."

Despite herself, she laughed—soft and brief, but real. "You're ridiculous."

"Perhaps. But I'm right."

She shook her head but didn't step away when he pulled her into another quick, firmer hug.

June 4th, 1992
Malfoy Manor – Roxaine's Room
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

Roxaine walked back to her room with her usual measured steps, but once the door closed behind her, the precision dropped away. She exhaled, leaning briefly against the wood before crossing to the bed.

The curtains were half-drawn, moonlight spilling across her desk where Cedric's letter still lay hidden under the floorboard. She didn't touch it this time. Instead, she slipped out of her shoes, unfastened her robes with automatic ease, and set them neatly on the chair—Malfoy discipline ingrained too deeply to abandon.

When she finally slid beneath the covers, the composure began to crumble. The conversation with Lucius replayed in fragments—his quiet ‘I want you to grow up safely’, the unexpected warmth in his voice, the memory he'd brought up without warning: ‘Same way you pull the blanket all the way to your chin like someone might take it away.’

She hadn't realized he'd noticed that. Not back then. Not even now.

Roxaine pulled the blanket up to her chin anyway. Out of habit. Out of comfort she didn't want to name.

Her eyes stayed open for a long while, the steady rhythm of Malfoy Manor's silence around her—familiar, protective, heavy. Eventually, exhaustion tugged her under, and she slept without dreams.

Chapter Text

June 5th, 1992
Malfoy Manor – Roxaine's Room
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

Roxaine was still deep in a rare, dreamless sleep when her door flew open with a dramatic crash that only one person in the manor would dare make.

"ROX!" Draco's voice cut through the quiet like a spell gone wrong. "Wake up! It's my birthday!"

She jolted upright, hair a mess, wand-hand twitching out of instinct. "What—Merlin, Draco—" Her voice was still heavy with sleep. "It's not even light out."

"I don't care! I'm twelve today!" he declared, marching in as if he owned the room. He jumped onto the edge of her bed, making the mattress dip sharply. "Get up. You're supposed to be the first to say happy birthday."

"You didn't give me a choice." She rubbed her eyes, scowling faintly. "You're loud."

He ignored that. "You got me a present, right?"

Roxaine gave him a flat, unimpressed look. "No. I told you yesterday you're an annoying little—" She stopped herself, remembering Narcissa's scandalized face from the carriage incident, then finished, "—pest."

Draco smirked triumphantly. "You did get me something."

"I didn't say that."

"You're too calm," he accused. "That means you're lying."

She sighed, flopping back onto her pillow. "If I had gotten you anything, it wouldn't be until later. Which means you're going to have to wait. And if you keep shouting in my room at dawn, maybe I'll return it."

He leaned over her, still grinning. "You wouldn't."

"Try me."

Draco stuck his tongue out, exactly as he had in Diagon Alley.

Roxaine rolled her eyes, grabbed her pillow, and shoved it into his chest. "Get out. Go terrorize the house-elves or something."

Draco didn't budge when the pillow hit him. Instead, he dropped it on her face dramatically. "Nope. You're awake now. That means you're coming with me."

Roxaine groaned from beneath the pillow. "It's not even six."

"All the better!" he said, yanking the blanket off her. "You always say purebloods have discipline. Prove it."

"I meant discipline, not insanity." She sat up, glaring at him but making no move to stand.

"Come on, Rox," Draco urged, his usual smugness replaced by actual twelve-year-old excitement. "It's my birthday. You're supposed to be nice to me today."

She gave him a long, unimpressed stare. "That's not a rule."

"It is now."

He reached out, grabbed her wrist, and started tugging. She let him pull for two steps before digging her heels in. "Fine. Give me two minutes or I'll hex you."

Draco crossed his arms but backed toward the door. "Two minutes. I'll be timing you."

She muttered something under her breath, dragged on a robe, and tied her hair into a quick knot. When she stepped out, Draco was waiting with the triumphant air of someone who'd won a battle.

"Where are we going?" she asked flatly.

"The kitchens." His grin widened. "For early birthday cake."

"You're unbelievable."

"You're coming, though," he pointed out, already heading down the hall.

Roxaine followed, still muttering but with the faintest curve to her lips.

June 5th, 1992
Malfoy Manor – Kitchens
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The manor kitchens were warm and already bustling despite the early hour. House-elves darted back and forth with trays, enchanted knives chopped herbs midair, and the scent of fresh bread clung to the room like a comforting fog.

Draco burst in as though he owned the place—which, technically, he did. "It's my birthday!" he announced to no one in particular. "Where's the cake?"

One of the older elves, Mippy, immediately appeared, bowing low. "Master Draco! Yes, sir, happy birthday, sir! Cake is being prepared for dinner, but we can—"

"Now," Draco said decisively.

Roxaine stood in the doorway, arms crossed. "You're shameless."

He glanced over his shoulder. "You're eating some too."

"I am not."

Mippy's large eyes blinked up at her. "Miss Roxaine, we can make a small one for you also—"

"She doesn't need one," Draco interrupted quickly. "She's just here to celebrate me."

Roxaine raised an eyebrow. "If you keep talking, I'll make sure your presents mysteriously disappear."

Draco paused, calculating. "...Mippy, make it big enough for two."

Within minutes, a perfectly iced chocolate cake—smaller than the one reserved for the evening but still decadent—appeared on a silver tray.

Draco grabbed the knife, cutting a slice with more enthusiasm than precision. "Best birthday ever," he declared through a mouthful.

Roxaine took her piece reluctantly, sitting at the edge of the long wooden table. "You know Narcissa will find out we ruined your appetite."

"I'll eat again," Draco said easily.

She shook her head but took a bite anyway. It was good—too good to maintain her usual detached composure.

Draco noticed immediately. "You like it."

"I didn't say that."

"You don't have to. I can see your face."

Roxaine looked at him with mock severity. "One day, Draco, someone's going to curse you just for talking too much."

He grinned, chocolate smudged at the corner of his mouth. "But it won't be you."

She rolled her eyes but didn't argue.

Draco leaned across the table, eyes narrowing. "Bet I can finish mine faster than you."

Roxaine looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "Are you actually challenging me to a—"

"Race. Yes." He was already cutting another slice. "Unless you're scared."

"Scared?" She gave a short, incredulous laugh. "You're twelve."

"Exactly. I've got the energy advantage." He smirked. "You're practically ancient."

That did it. Roxaine reached for the knife, carved herself an equally large piece, and slid it onto her plate. "Fine. On three."

Mippy hovered nervously, clutching a tea towel. "Miss Roxaine, Master Draco—"

"Three!" Draco didn't bother counting properly. He shoved a forkful into his mouth so fast frosting smeared across his cheek.

"You cheated," Roxaine accused, but she dove in anyway, abandoning decorum entirely.

Within seconds, it was chaos: chocolate smears on the table, crumbs everywhere, and both of them laughing despite themselves. Roxaine tried to keep pace but Draco, determined and wild-eyed, was shoveling cake like it was a Quidditch final.

"Ha!" He slammed his fork down triumphantly. "Done!"

"You look ridiculous," she said, breathless, with frosting on her nose.

"Better than you," he shot back, pointing at her face. "You have—wait—" He reached across the table and smudged a finger at her cheek.

She grabbed her own handful of icing and swiped it across his sleeve. "You deserved that."

Before he could retaliate, the kitchen door opened.

Narcissa Malfoy stepped in, elegant as ever, and froze. Her eyes swept over her son—chocolate-stained, grinning—and then to Roxaine, who was no better.

There was a pause.

"Explain," Narcissa said coolly.

Neither spoke. Draco's grin faltered. Roxaine straightened instinctively, but with frosting on her robes, the effect was ruined.

Narcissa's eyes narrowed just slightly. "You are both filthy."

Draco opened his mouth, but Roxaine—ever the strategist—cut him off. "He started it."

Draco gasped. "Liar! You're the one who smeared my sleeve!"

"You provoked me," Roxaine replied calmly, though her cheeks were pink.

"You're covered in icing," Narcissa interrupted, voice sharp but betraying a trace of disbelief. "Both of you. At six o'clock in the morning."

Before either could respond, the door opened again.

Lucius Malfoy stepped inside, immaculate as always, and stopped dead. His gaze traveled from Draco's frosting-streaked hair to Roxaine's chocolate-stained robe to the devastated table.

A slow, dangerous silence filled the room.

Then: "I was under the impression," Lucius said softly, "that this manor contained civilised children."

Draco shifted behind Roxaine. "It's my birthday."

Lucius's eyes flicked to him. "That does not exempt you from basic—" He stopped mid-sentence, catching sight of Roxaine, who was now trying to subtly wipe icing off her chin with a napkin. "You as well?"

"She was helping me celebrate," Draco offered quickly.

Roxaine muttered, "Against my will."

Lucius pinched the bridge of his nose. "Merlin preserve me. Narcissa, do something before I—"

"Lucius," Narcissa interrupted smoothly, though her lips twitched. "They're children."

"They are Malfoys," Lucius corrected, straightening. "And Blacks. There is an image to maintain."

"An image that apparently doesn't survive chocolate," Narcissa murmured.

Roxaine looked down, biting back a laugh she couldn't quite stop.

Lucius noticed. "Do not laugh. You are in as much trouble as he is."

Lucius exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that suggested he was summoning every ounce of composure he possessed. "Do either of you understand the concept of restraint?"

"Yes," Roxaine said evenly.

"No," Draco said at the same time.

Lucius blinked. "At least one of you is honest."

Draco snickered. Roxaine shot him a glare that promised retribution later, but it didn't erase the tiny upward curve tugging at her lips.

Lucius's eyes narrowed. "Is something amusing, Roxaine?"

She straightened, smoothing her messy sleeve as if that could restore dignity. "Not particularly."

"You're smiling."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"She is," Draco chimed in, grinning broadly. "She laughed too."

Lucius turned his attention to his son. "You are hardly in a position to—"

"You have icing on your cuff," Draco interrupted.

Lucius looked down. A small smear of chocolate clung to the edge of his pristine sleeve—likely from when he'd instinctively placed a hand on the table.

For a beat, no one spoke. Then Draco burst out laughing. Roxaine tried—she truly tried—not to, but it escaped anyway: a soft, sudden laugh that made Narcissa's hand rise to her mouth to hide her own smirk.

Lucius closed his eyes briefly. "I am surrounded by traitors."

June 5th, 1992
Malfoy Manor – Dining Room
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The long dining table gleamed under morning light. Narcissa sat with her usual poise, pouring tea as though she hadn't just dragged two cake-smeared children upstairs to wash their faces. Roxaine and Draco trailed in behind her, unusually subdued, and took their seats.

Lucius entered last, robes immaculate once more, but the faint muscle twitch in his jaw suggested his patience had already been tested for the day. He glanced at the plates the elves were setting down—perfectly arranged breakfast spreads: eggs, toast, fruit, and porridge.

"Eat," he said, settling into his chair.

"We're not hungry," Draco muttered.

"You will eat," Lucius replied without looking up.

Roxaine, usually composed, stared at her plate. "We... already had something."

Lucius's gaze snapped to her. "Cake is not breakfast."

Draco perked up. "It was good, though."

Lucius's expression flattened. "Eat. All of it."

Draco groaned. "But—"

"No complaints. Twelve or not, you are still a child, and children require proper meals."

Roxaine picked up her fork without a word, moving eggs around her plate rather than eating them. Narcissa hid a smile behind her teacup.

Lucius noticed. "Roxaine."

"Yes?"

"Chew."

"I haven't put anything in my mouth yet," she said dryly.

"Then do so."

Draco snorted into his juice. Lucius didn't even look at him—he simply said, "You too."

Draco stabbed at his eggs like they had personally wronged him. Roxaine, in a quieter rebellion, sliced her toast into perfect squares but didn't bring any of them to her mouth.

Lucius's gaze flicked from one to the other. "You are both behaving as though I've asked you to ingest poison."

Draco muttered, "Cake was better."

"Cake," Lucius said sharply, "is dessert."

"Then why do people eat pancakes for breakfast?" Draco shot back.

"Because," Lucius replied, "people are weak."

Roxaine bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Narcissa set down her teacup and said mildly, "Lucius, perhaps forcing them isn't—"

"They need discipline," Lucius cut in, though the edge in his tone sounded almost automatic rather than fierce. "They can't survive on sugar and stubbornness."

Draco made a face at Roxaine across the table, exaggerating a chewing motion in mockery.

Without lifting her eyes, Roxaine flicked a grape at him. It hit him squarely on the forehead.

Lucius's hand froze halfway to his own cup. "Did you just—"

"Accident," Roxaine said smoothly.

Draco grinned. "She's lying."

"Draco," Narcissa said sharply. "Enough."

Lucius set his cup down with deliberate precision. "Both of you. Eat. Now. Or so help me, I will personally supervise every single meal you have for the rest of the summer."

Roxaine finally took a bite. Draco followed, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like, "This is child abuse."

Lucius didn't even blink. "Chew faster."

By the time Draco and Roxaine set down their forks, they both looked mildly betrayed by life itself. Lucius leaned back, satisfied. "See? Not so impossible."

Draco slumped in his chair. "Worst birthday breakfast ever."

"Better than no breakfast," Lucius countered.

"Debatable," Draco muttered under his breath.

Before Lucius could respond, Narcissa's voice cut smoothly through the tension. "Enough. It's a birthday. We'll have no sulking. Draco—your presents."

Instant transformation. Draco sat up so fast his chair scraped the floor. "Finally."

A stack of neatly wrapped packages appeared on the table with a soft pop, courtesy of a house-elf. Draco's hands hovered eagerly.

Narcissa smiled. "Go on."

He tore into the first gift—an elegant new set of Quidditch robes. The next revealed a collection of rare Chocolate Frog cards. His grin only grew wider with each box.

Meanwhile, Roxaine sat back in her chair, sipping tea with deliberate calm.

Draco glanced at her between gifts. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Yours."

She arched a brow. "I didn't get you anything."

His mouth dropped open. "You're serious?"

"I told you yesterday. You're an annoying little—" She caught Narcissa's look. "—brat. Why would I?"

Draco narrowed his eyes. "You're lying. You always get me something."

"Not this time."

Lucius glanced between them. "Roxaine."

She lifted her chin. "I didn't."

Draco leaned back dramatically. "Wow. Betrayal on my birthday. I'll remember this forever."

She smirked faintly. "Good."

Draco's lower lip jutted out, his entire posture collapsing into the most exaggerated sulk imaginable. He crossed his arms, staring pointedly at the far wall as though refusing even to acknowledge Roxaine's existence.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," she muttered.

"I don't even care," Draco said loudly, not looking at her. "It's not like I wanted anything from you anyway."

"You're twelve," Roxaine replied flatly. "Try not to sound five."

He turned his head just enough to glare. "You're cold. You know that? I thought we were—" He stopped, making a vague gesture. "—allies."

Lucius raised an eyebrow. "Allies?"

"She's supposed to be my favorite cousin," Draco said, his voice rising in theatrical tragedy. "But no, apparently I'm just some brat who doesn't deserve presents."

Roxaine hid her smirk behind her teacup. "Exactly."

Draco slumped lower in his chair. "Worst birthday ever."

Narcissa set her fork down delicately, amusement flickering in her eyes. "Draco, perhaps she's simply waiting for the right moment."

He perked up immediately, turning to Roxaine. "Is that true?"

Roxaine didn't blink. "No."

His face fell again. "You're cruel."

Lucius sighed, rubbing his temples. "One day, I will have a quiet breakfast in this house."

June 5th, 1992
Malfoy Manor – Draco's Room
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

Draco was sprawled on his bed, still dramatically sulking when Roxaine stepped inside, a small box tucked behind her back.

He didn't even look up. "What do you want?"

"To annoy you," she said coolly.

"Mission accomplished."

"Good," she replied. For a moment, she just stood there, then sighed. "You're insufferable when you pout."

He glanced at her, suspicious. "Why are you here then?"

Without answering, she tossed the box onto his bed. It bounced once, landing beside him.

Draco blinked, then sat up. "What's this?"

"Nothing," Roxaine said, already turning toward the door.

He opened it—and froze. Inside was the exact practice snitch he'd begged Narcissa for in Diagon Alley.

His eyes widened. "You—"

"Don't make a big deal out of it," she cut in quickly, not turning around. "It doesn't mean I like you or anything."

Draco's smirk was instant. "You like me."

"I don't."

"You so do." He tossed the snitch into the air; it darted up, wings flaring, before circling the room. Draco laughed, the earlier sulk forgotten. "Best cousin ever."

Roxaine muttered, "Annoying little brat," and closed the door behind her.

June 5th, 1992
Malfoy Manor – Lucius' Study
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

Lucius stood near the window, hands clasped behind his back, when Roxaine entered. "Sit," he said without turning.

She obeyed, straight-backed, curious but cautious.

After a pause, he said, "I've been considering an investment. The Slytherin Quidditch team will be receiving new brooms next year. Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones."

Her composure cracked; her eyes widened, lips parting. "For the entire team?"

"Yes."

"That's—" She stopped herself from grinning too obviously. "That's... generous."

"Indeed."

But as she studied him, her excitement cooled slightly. "Why are you telling me this today?"

Lucius finally looked at her, expression smooth. "Because it concerns you."

"Me?"

"And Draco," he added. "He'll be joining the team next year. As Seeker."

Roxaine blinked, the suspicion sharpening. "You're buying the brooms to get him the Seeker position."

Lucius didn't bother denying it. "He has the talent. This will simply... ensure the opportunity."

Roxaine leaned forward. "My Seeker is already good enough. He's fast, reliable, and—"

"He's also replaceable," Lucius interrupted. "Draco is my son."

"He's my cousin," she shot back. "And I'm Captain. I care about the team winning—not about handouts."

Lucius arched an eyebrow. "Are you saying you would refuse the brooms?"

"I'm saying," Roxaine said carefully, "that you're not doing this for Slytherin. You're doing it for Draco."

"Correct," Lucius said, calm but firm. "And for you. A better broom means a stronger team. You'll thank me when you're holding the Cup."

Roxaine crossed her arms. "You assume we'll win with him as Seeker."

"You assume you won't."

Roxaine's hands tightened in her lap. "You don't need to buy an entire set of brooms to secure Draco a place. When a Seeker position opens, he can try out—like everyone else."

Lucius regarded her as though she'd just suggested something profoundly naïve. "You believe talent alone determines positions at Hogwarts?"

"It should," she replied sharply. "That's how I run my team."

"You run it, yes. But the world runs differently." He leaned against the desk, studying her with a mixture of patience and calculation. "Influence wins matches long before the Quaffle leaves the Chaser's hands."

"That's politics, not Quidditch."

"Both," Lucius corrected. "And both matter if you intend to lead."

Roxaine's jaw tightened. "I am leading. And my Seeker is capable. He's earned that place."

"For now," Lucius said smoothly. "But imagine what you could do with the fastest brooms on the market and a player whose success reflects back on this family."

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "So that's what this is really about. Malfoy pride."

"It's about ensuring Draco has every advantage—"

"Even if he hasn't earned it?"

Lucius's eyes narrowed slightly. "Careful."

Roxaine exhaled slowly, forcing her voice calm. "I'm just saying... let him earn it. If he's as good as you say, he won't need you to buy him a team. He'll win the spot himself."

Lucius regarded her for a long moment, his expression smoothing into that impenetrable calm she had learned to recognize as finality.

"You're passionate," he said evenly. "Good. It will make you a stronger leader." He straightened, adjusting the cuffs of his robes. "But I am not seeking your approval, Roxaine. I am informing you."

Her spine stiffened. "You're deciding for my team."

"I am ensuring an outcome," he corrected, stepping behind his desk once more. "An outcome that benefits you, Draco, and Slytherin as a whole."

Roxaine's fingers curled against her skirt. "You're undermining me."

"I'm protecting you from mediocrity," Lucius countered, his voice clipped but not unkind. "This is not a debate. The brooms will be purchased, and Draco will be your Seeker next year."

For a moment, she didn't speak. Then, in a quieter tone: "You could've just let him prove himself."

"He will," Lucius said. "On the pitch, where it matters. But he'll do it on the best broom money can buy."

Roxaine looked away, her jaw set.

Lucius's voice softened slightly. "You'll see. Winning makes these arguments... irrelevant."

The heavy door clicked shut behind her, its polished surface reflecting her tight posture as she stood motionless for a moment. Her hands were still clenched from the conversation, nails faintly biting into her palms.

Roxaine exhaled through her nose, forcing her shoulders back the way she'd been taught, but it didn't smooth the frustration humming under her skin. He hadn't just dismissed her concerns—he'd decided for her, as though she were still a child trailing behind him instead of the captain of her own team.

She started down the hall, each step sharp against the marble floor. From the far end, she could already hear Draco's laughter—light, unbothered, unknowing.

Roxaine quickened her pace, the echo of her heels almost too loud, and muttered under her breath, "He's not even on the team yet."

June 5th, 1992
Malfoy Manor – Draco's Room
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

Draco was still in his pajamas, crouched on the floor, practicing with the new snitch when the door flew open. Roxaine strode in without knocking, tossed something hard at him, and said flatly, "Get dressed. We're playing Quidditch."

The Quaffle hit him square in the chest, knocking him backward. "Ow! What—now?"

"Yes. Now."

He scrambled to his feet, catching the snitch mid-hover. "But—it's my birthday—"

"And I'm giving you attention," she cut him off. "Don't waste it. Gear up and meet me outside."

Draco frowned but didn't argue. Her tone wasn't playful. It was the clipped, cold one she used when she meant business.

June 5th, 1992
Malfoy Manor – Private Quidditch Pitch
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The air outside was warm, the grass clipped to perfect symmetry—an immaculate private pitch that mirrored Lucius's obsession with order. Roxaine stood already mounted on her broom, hair braided back tight, the Quaffle tucked under one arm. Draco arrived moments later, still tugging on his gloves.

"You're slow," she said, hovering a few feet above the ground.

"I was putting on pads," Draco muttered, mounting his broom. "Some of us value our bones."

"Some of us value speed," Roxaine countered, kicking off the ground smoothly. She climbed fast, her form sharp and practiced, and called down, "Come on, birthday boy. Show me if you can keep up."

Draco grinned. "Easy." He shot upward, and for a moment, the familiar excitement of flying softened her mood despite herself.

Once they leveled out, she tossed the Quaffle hard. He caught it, wobbling. "Merlin, Rox! Are you trying to break my fingers?"

"If that hurt, you're not ready for Bludgers."

"I'm not trying to be a Beater!"

"You'll still get hit by them if you're too slow."

Draco scowled but sped up as she darted forward. What began as simple passing quickly escalated; Roxaine kept pushing him—sharper turns, faster dives, sudden stops. Every time he tried to joke, she undercut him with pointed corrections.

"Your grip's sloppy."

"I caught it!"

"Barely. Hold tighter."

"You're insane."

"I'm Captain."

"Not my captain," he muttered.

"Lucky for you," she shot back, though her lips twitched despite her irritation.

Draco managed to steal the Quaffle mid-pass once, his smug laugh echoing over the pitch. "Ha! You're slipping, Rox—"

She cut him off by diving at full speed, stealing it back with practiced precision. "You were saying?"

"Cheater!"

"Better flyer," she corrected, tucking the Quaffle under her arm. "If you're going to survive as Seeker, you need to be faster. Watch your angles on dives. You stall too high."

Draco groaned. "This was supposed to be fun."

"It is."

"For you!"

Roxaine smirked faintly but didn't slow. She launched the Quaffle again. "Eyes forward. Hands steady. Less talking."

By the fifth lap, Draco's hair was plastered to his forehead, and his birthday excitement had dulled into determined frustration. Roxaine circled him like a hawk, her eyes sharp. She was trying—hard—to keep her own mood in check, but every precise correction came clipped, controlled, and colder than usual.

Finally, Draco stopped midair, panting. "Okay, what's wrong with you? You're usually mean, but this is... next level."

Roxaine stiffened. "Nothing."

"You're lying."

She shot upward, avoiding his gaze. "We're not here to talk."

"Oh, now you sound like Father." Draco followed her, stubborn. "Did he say something? Is this about—"

"Draco," she snapped, "fly."

The edge in her voice silenced him. For a moment, he just stared at her. Then, quieter: "Fine. But you're not fooling me."

Draco adjusted his grip on the broom, still hovering opposite Roxaine. "You know," he said between breaths, "most people would just say they're upset. Not drag their cousin into high-speed drills on his birthday."

Roxaine's jaw twitched. "You need the practice."

"I need cake," he muttered, darting sideways when she suddenly launched the Quaffle at him again. He caught it instinctively, almost losing balance. "Merlin, warn me!"

"Seekers don't get warnings," she said flatly, already banking in a sharp arc. "React faster."

Draco scowled but followed, his smaller frame leaning low over the broom. "You're impossible."

"That's why I win."

"Or because everyone's too scared to argue with you."

Roxaine gave a brief, humorless laugh. "That helps."

For several minutes, they fell into a rhythm—hard passes, sudden climbs, dives that made Draco's stomach twist. Each time he thought she'd slow down, she only pushed harder. But then, just as he reached to snatch the Quaffle mid-loop, Roxaine hesitated—barely a fraction of a second—and Draco managed to outmaneuver her. He shot upward, holding the ball aloft with a triumphant grin.

"Got you!"

Roxaine blinked, caught off guard. "Beginner's luck."

"Admit it," he panted. "I'm good."

"You're better," she corrected reluctantly. "Not good enough."

He circled her, smirking. "You're just mad because I—"

"Careful," she cut in, her voice low but not without an edge. "Don't push me."

That silenced him for a beat. He hovered closer, studying her face. "Whatever's bothering you... it's not me, is it?"

Roxaine didn't answer. She just turned her broom sharply and shot into a dive so steep Draco yelped before instinct made him follow.

"Rox, we're going to crash—"

"Then keep up," she called, and for the next few minutes, there was no talking—just speed, wind, and the sharp rush of adrenaline that drowned out everything else.

Roxaine pulled out of a dive smoothly, the Quaffle secure under her arm. She glanced over her shoulder—Draco was still there, flushed, messy-haired, but keeping up better than she expected. For a moment, her irritation thinned. Maybe he wasn't hopeless.

She slowed her pace deliberately, tossing the Quaffle back to him—not as hard this time. "Fine. Let's see what you do without me breathing down your neck."

Draco blinked, caught it, and looked almost suspicious. "Wait... are you actually playing now?"

"Yes," she said dryly, "don't die of shock."

He grinned. "Finally!" He shot forward, weaving clumsily but with genuine enthusiasm. Roxaine followed, matching his speed rather than exceeding it. They passed the Quaffle back and forth, dodged imaginary Bludgers, and even faked goal attempts.

"You're leaning too much on your left," she pointed out, but her tone was lighter now.

"Maybe I'm just showing off my good side."

"You don't have one."

"Ha, hilarious." He tried a barrel roll, nearly dropped the Quaffle, then somehow managed to recover. "Admit it, that was impressive."

"Admit it, you almost fell."

Draco laughed—loud, unrestrained, and entirely unbothered. Something about it chipped away at the tension she'd been carrying since leaving Lucius's study.

After a while, she even found herself smirking. "Alright, birthday boy. You're not entirely terrible."

Draco gasped dramatically. "High praise from the almighty Captain Black."

"Don't push it."

He darted ahead anyway, calling over his shoulder, "Race you to the other end!"

Roxaine rolled her eyes but kicked off after him. "You're going to regret that."

Draco shot forward, wind whipping his pale hair into a frenzy. "You'll never catch me!" he yelled, laughter spilling out of him.

Roxaine leaned lower over her broom. "You're lighter. That's the only reason you're ahead."

"Excuses!"

She narrowed her eyes, pushed harder, and the gap between them shrank. "I warned you," she called.

"Nope! It's my birthday, you have to let me win!"

"That's not how Quidditch works!"

High above the pristine pitch, two figures stood on the balcony of the manor, observing quietly. Narcissa rested her hands lightly on the railing, her eyes following the sharp arcs and dives below. "She's testing him less now," she murmured. "She's actually... laughing."

Lucius, standing beside her, crossed his arms.

Below, Draco whooped as he dove recklessly toward the far goalpost, Roxaine right behind him. Lucius's jaw tightened when she gained on Draco easily, then—unexpectedly—pulled back just enough to let him reach the end first.

Draco threw his arms up. "I WON!"

Roxaine smirked. "Barely."

Lucius exhaled through his nose. "She let him win."

"Of course she did," Narcissa said softly. "She's angry at you, not at him."

Lucius didn't reply. His gaze stayed on the pitch, where Roxaine hovered a moment, rolling her shoulders as if finally unwinding, while Draco turned circles in the air, grinning like it was the best day of his life.

The hours slipped by unnoticed. What had started as drills and clipped instructions had softened into something almost careless. Roxaine stopped counting laps, stopped barking corrections, and just... played.

Draco's confidence swelled with every successful catch, every laugh he managed to pull from her. "You're getting slower!" he taunted, darting past her with the Quaffle tucked under his arm.

"You're getting cocky," she shot back, chasing him. She could have overtaken him easily but didn't. Instead, she let him test his own limits—pulling into dives so sharp that the wind howled in their ears, then climbing until the manor grounds shrank beneath them.

By late afternoon, the golden light stretched long shadows across the pitch. Roxaine leaned on her broom, watching Draco loop clumsily around the goalposts, arms out like he was already celebrating a Quidditch Cup victory.

"You're going to fall if you keep showing off," she called.

"I'm brilliant!" he shouted, narrowly avoiding a collision with a post. "You're just jealous!"

She laughed—short, real, unguarded. "Jealous of what?"

"Of my natural talent!"

"Natural disaster, maybe."

They kept going even as the sky shifted to orange, then deep purple. Their energy slowed, passes became lazier, but neither suggested stopping. Not until the first stars appeared and Narcissa's voice echoed from the balcony.

"Roxaine! Draco! Enough for today!"

Draco groaned dramatically, circling back toward Roxaine. "Five more minutes?"

Roxaine glanced at the darkening horizon, then at him. "You'll be too tired to eat your birthday cake if you fall asleep on your broom."

He smirked. "You just don't want me to beat you again."

"Again?" she echoed, raising a brow. "Do you really want me to ruin your birthday right now?"

He stuck his tongue out at her, which earned him a light throw of the Quaffle to the chest.

Draco's broom wobbled as he descended, his earlier bravado replaced by the clumsy exhaustion of someone who had spent far longer in the air than usual. Roxaine followed, gliding down with practiced ease, her hair wind-tangled, her cheeks flushed from hours of cold air.

Lucius stood at the edge of the pitch, cane in hand, his expression sharp and unreadable. The kind that made most people straighten instinctively. Draco, however, was too exhilarated—and too tired—to notice.

"I told you I could keep up!" Draco puffed, hopping off his broom and nearly stumbling. "You saw me! I won!"

Lucius arched a brow. "If by 'won,' you mean 'survived without breaking any bones,' then yes. Remarkable."

Draco frowned. "I actually—"

"Enough." Narcissa's voice was smooth, decisive. She appeared from the path, her cloak drawn close against the evening chill. "Both of you are freezing, you've been in the air for hours, and dinner is waiting."

"But—" Draco started.

"No." She swept an assessing glance over him, then at Roxaine, whose posture was carefully neutral but whose fingers flexed around her broom handle—still wound tight from earlier arguments. "Inside. Both of you."

Lucius opened his mouth. "Narcissa, they—"

"They're children," she cut in, softly but firmly. "Children who have clearly worked themselves to exhaustion. Whatever you're about to say can wait until after they've eaten."

For a rare moment, Lucius looked like he might argue—and then he exhaled slowly, straightening his cuffs instead. "Very well." His gaze shifted briefly to Roxaine. "We'll speak later."

Roxaine met his eyes, steady but unreadable. "Of course."

Draco, oblivious to the tension, bounced on his heels. "Can I tell everyone at dinner that I beat you? Because I did."

Roxaine shot him a flat look. "Try it."

June 5th, 1992
Malfoy Manor – Dining Room
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

Dinner at the Malfoy Manor was, as always, elegant: polished silver, crystal goblets, and perfectly arranged platters of roasted meats, buttered vegetables, and fresh bread. Roxaine sat between Narcissa and Draco, her posture composed but her eyes fixed on the table with a faint scowl. It wasn't the food itself—it was fine, better than fine—but it wasn't what she wanted.

She wanted sugar. Bright, cloying, childish sugar. Candies. Chocolate frogs. The ridiculous, sour gummies she kept hidden in a tin under her bed. She wanted birthday cake leftovers—if Draco hadn't eaten them all already.

Across the table, Draco was already shoveling food onto his plate, cheeks still pink from the wind and his grin uncontainable. "Did you see me out there, Mother? I was incredible. Rox tried to beat me, but she couldn't."

Roxaine didn't even glance up. "You're delusional."

Lucius set down his knife with a soft click. "You were playing," he said evenly. "Not competing."

"I won," Draco repeated, stabbing a potato with his fork. "Ask her."

Rox finally looked up, her expression flat and unimpressed. "Do you really want me to answer?"

Draco hesitated. "...No."

Narcissa hid a smile behind her napkin. "Both of you did well enough if you lasted until dusk without one of you hexing the other out of the sky. That's an accomplishment in itself."

Roxaine shifted in her seat, poking at the vegetables on her plate. She wanted sugar so badly that the perfectly seasoned carrots might as well have been stones.

Lucius's gaze flicked to her. "Is there a reason you're glaring at your food as if it personally offended you?"

Rox answered without looking up, "It's not sweets."

Roxaine's deadpan answer hung in the air for half a beat before Narcissa let out a soft laugh. "You'll get your sweets," she said smoothly, signaling the elf. "Bring dessert now, before our dear Captain Black withers away from sugar deprivation."

Draco nearly choked on his drink. "You're worse than me! And I'm twelve!"

Rox shot him a glare. "You're insufferable."

"You're practically pouting," Draco teased. "Do you need me to cut up your food too?"

Before Rox could retort, Lucius's voice cut through, calm but firm. "Enough, both of you. This is a meal, not a—"

"Shut up, old man."

The words slipped out before she could stop them—flat, sharp, but laced with something that wasn't quite defiance. For half a second, the room froze.

Draco's eyes went wide. Narcissa's brows lifted. Even Rox blinked as if she'd surprised herself.

Then Lucius exhaled, very slowly, as if trying to summon all the dignity he possessed. "Did you just—"

"—call you old? Yes," Rox said, lips twitching despite herself.

There was a pause, and then Draco burst into laughter so loud it echoed off the high ceilings. Narcissa's hand went to her mouth, but she was laughing too—quiet, graceful, and entirely unbothered.

Lucius closed his eyes briefly, muttering something about "ungrateful children" and "losing control of this household," but there was no real heat behind it.

Roxaine leaned back in her chair, smirking just enough to break her own usual composure. "You love it."

Lucius looked at her, at both of them—messy-haired, smug, and entirely un-Malfoy-like at that moment—and the corner of his mouth betrayed him with the smallest, reluctant curve.

The seriousness of the manor cracked, just a little. For the rest of the meal, it wasn't heir and guardians, wasn't pureblood formality—it was simply a family.

The elves returned quickly, balancing silver trays heavy with confections—small frosted cakes, sugared fruits, and a towering chocolate torte that looked almost ceremonial. Roxaine's posture straightened immediately, but the moment a plate landed in front of her, the composure cracked. She picked up a fork with quiet determination, eyes focused like she was about to duel it.

Draco noticed. "You act like you're starving."

"Maybe I am," she muttered, taking a large bite.

He leaned over shamelessly, trying to swipe a piece of her cake with his fork. She blocked him midair without looking, the fork in her hand a perfect parry. "Try it again," she said calmly, "and you'll be eating with your other hand."

Narcissa hid her laugh behind her glass. "Children, honestly."

Draco pouted. "It's my birthday! I should get extra."

"You already had extra this morning," Rox shot back, eyes still on her dessert. "You practically inhaled half the kitchen."

"That was breakfast cake. This is dinner cake."

Lucius pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is supposed to be a refined meal—"

Rox didn't even look up. "Old man, hush. You're ruining dessert."

Narcissa actually choked on her wine this time, coughing as she tried—and failed—to hide her amusement. Draco laughed so hard he nearly dropped his fork.

Lucius stared at them, utterly betrayed by his own household. "...I have completely lost control."

"Completely," Narcissa agreed lightly, still laughing.

And yet, he didn't stop Draco when he finally managed to snatch a bite from Rox's plate. He didn't even comment when Rox retaliated by flicking a sugared berry at her cousin's forehead. For once, the rules of decorum didn't matter.

June 5th, 1992
Malfoy Manor – Living Room
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The firelight cast long shadows over the ornate living room. Draco was sprawled on the rug, surrounded by discarded wrapping paper and a pile of birthday gifts, while Roxaine sat curled in one of the armchairs, legs tucked neatly beneath her, a book open but barely read. Narcissa was pouring tea when Lucius entered with deliberate composure, cane tapping softly against the polished floor.

"I have an announcement," he said, voice smooth but carrying weight. Both children looked up. "I've secured Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones for the entire Slytherin Quidditch team. They'll be delivered before the first practice next term."

Draco's eyes widened. "For the entire team?"

Lucius inclined his head. "Yes. A proper team should have proper equipment. And—" He looked directly at Roxaine. "—it ensures that my son will have the... opportunity he deserves. He'll be Slytherin's new Seeker."

Draco froze for a moment, then grinned so wide it looked almost painful. "I—wait—you mean I'm on the team? I'm on the team!" He spun toward Roxaine, eager. "You knew! You knew and didn't tell me!"

Roxaine didn't flinch. She turned a page in her book, her face perfectly calm. "Apparently."

Draco blinked. "So you're fine with this? You're actually fine with me taking the Seeker spot?"

She lifted her gaze briefly, her tone neutral. "Congratulations, Draco."

That was all. No protests, no visible frustration.

Draco practically vibrated with relief and pride. "I thought you'd fight me for it! But you actually want me on your team. I knew it. You're finally admitting I'm good enough."

She just closed her book slowly and set it aside, expression unreadable.

Draco bolted out of the room before anyone could stop him, shouting for Narcissa to "come see my team strategy" and already listing imaginary plays to himself. His footsteps faded down the hall, leaving only the low crackle of the fire and the faint rustle as Roxaine reached for her book again.

Lucius didn't move. "You're not fine with it."

Roxaine didn't look up. "I congratulated him."

"You're pretending to be fine with it," Lucius corrected, his voice even. "There's a difference."

"I'm not pretending anything," she replied calmly, eyes scanning a page she wasn't actually reading.

Lucius stepped closer, resting one hand on the back of the chair. "You're upset. And instead of saying so, you're hiding behind that Black composure as if I can't see through it. I can."

Roxaine's fingers tightened slightly on the book. "...I'm not upset."

He arched a brow. "Roxaine."

Finally, she exhaled and set the book down with deliberate care. "He's not ready."

"You tested him yourself," Lucius reminded. "I watched you. You saw that he's capable enough."

"I saw that he's better than I expected, not that he's ready to be our Seeker."

Lucius regarded her quietly. "Your loyalty to your team is admirable. But I didn't come to ask your permission—I'm informing you of what's already decided."

Roxaine's jaw tightened, but she didn't speak.

"Tell me," Lucius continued, softer now, "would you rather I hadn't told you at all?"

She looked at him then, sharp and cold. "No. I'd rather you'd let the pitch decide, not your gold."

For a second, his expression shifted—something like surprise, maybe even pride—but he said nothing more.

June 5th, 1992
Malfoy Manor – Hallway
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

Roxaine slipped out of the living room a few minutes after Lucius left. Her footsteps were silent against the marble floor, but her thoughts weren't. She hated that he was right—that she wasn't fine with it—and hated even more that Draco believed she was. By the time she reached the far end of the corridor, her expression had already reset into its usual careful neutrality.

She was halfway to the stairs when the sound of the front door opening reached her. Voices followed—low, smooth, unmistakable.

"...Severus," Lucius was saying from the entrance hall.

Rox paused, then turned the corner just as Severus Snape stepped into view, his black robes billowing even in the still air. He looked exactly the same as he did at Hogwarts—tall, sharp, perpetually unimpressed—but here, at the manor, there was a subtle shift: less menace, more familiarity.

Draco's voice rang out before Rox could greet him. "Uncle Sev!"

Severus inclined his head slightly, the closest thing he gave to warmth. "Happy birthday, Draco. I assume you've already terrorized everyone in the house?"

Draco grinned. "Of course." He held up a wrapped box. "Look what Father got me!"

"I see." Snape's gaze flicked to Roxaine. "And you're still standing, Roxaine. Impressive."

She gave him a small, dry smile. "I've survived worse."

"Undoubtedly," he replied, voice flat but edged with something like amusement.

Draco immediately grabbed Snape's sleeve. "Come see my presents! And my new broom! Well—it's coming next term, but Father said—"

"Yes, yes," Severus said, allowing himself to be pulled along. As they passed Rox, he added under his breath, "He's louder than his cousin was at that age."

Rox smirked faintly. "He's louder than everyone."

Severus's lip twitched. "True. You, however... you look like you're plotting something. Should I be concerned?"

She arched a brow. "I'm a Black. You should always be concerned."

June 5th, 1992
Malfoy Manor – Sitting Room
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

Draco had already spread his birthday gifts across the low table by the time Severus stepped in, his long robes trailing like a shadow. Narcissa followed with tea, and Roxaine lingered at the doorway, arms folded.

"Look!" Draco grabbed the practice snitch Roxaine had secretly bought him earlier. "This one's mine. Roxaine didn't even want to get me anything, but she did!"

Roxaine rolled her eyes. "Don't make it sound like charity."

Severus picked up the snitch delicately, its wings twitching under his fingers. "Adjustable speed charms," he noted. "Surprisingly thoughtful, considering."

"Considering what?" Draco asked, suspicious.

"Considering she usually prefers bludgers to anything delicate," Severus said dryly.

Roxaine's lips curved faintly. "True. Things that hit are easier to manage than things that run away."

"Much like people," Severus muttered under his breath—too low for Draco, but loud enough for Rox to catch. She smirked.

Draco, oblivious, began showing Severus each gift in turn. "And Uncle Sev, I'm getting a Nimbus Two Thousand and One! Father's buying them for the whole team. I'm going to be Slytherin's Seeker next year!"

Severus gave a single slow nod. "Ambitious. I assume your cousin approves?"

Rox's face didn't move. "She says she does," Draco said proudly, "but I think she's secretly happy about it."

Severus glanced at Roxaine, eyebrow arched. "Is she?"

Rox answered coolly, "She's amused."

Narcissa intervened smoothly. "Children, behave."

Severus took the tea she offered, then looked back at Rox. "I see you've grown into the Malfoy habit of masking everything. How very... unlike your father."

Draco blinked. "Her father?"

Severus's gaze stayed on Rox, deliberate. "Yes. Sirius Black was never particularly subtle. Or quiet. Or intelligent enough to hide what he felt."

Rox didn't flinch. "He was also never particularly present. So I wouldn't know."

That earned the smallest pause from Severus. Then, with that same dry sharpness, "Then perhaps you should be grateful you didn't inherit his tendency to hex first and think later."

"I don't hex unless I'm provoked," Rox replied smoothly. "He probably started most of those fights, didn't he?"

Severus's mouth curved—barely. "Almost always."

It wasn't warmth, but it was something. Narcissa noticed it and hid her smile behind her teacup.

Roxaine slipped away before anyone could call her back, her steps silent along the polished corridor. She didn't bother with candles when she entered her room; the fading light from the tall windows was enough. She shut the door, leaned against it for a moment, and exhaled slowly.

The air felt still, heavy after the noise downstairs. She crossed to her bed, let herself fall back onto the quilt, and stared up at the carved canopy. Cedric's letter was still hidden under the floorboard. She could feel its presence like a secret heartbeat.

For a moment, she considered taking it out—reading it again. Instead, she turned onto her side, pressing her face into the pillow. Her body remained perfectly composed, but her hand gripped the fabric tightly, knuckles white.

She didn’t want to think about Draco's excitement. Or Lucius's decision. Or the way Severus had looked at her like he saw through everything she wasn't saying.

She closed her eyes.

Chapter Text

June 22nd, 1992
Malfoy Manor – Roxaine's Bedroom
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The morning sunlight cut through the heavy emerald curtains, landing across Roxaine's pillow. She blinked awake, still half-buried under the blankets, when a soft tapping broke the quiet. At her window stood a familiar tawny owl, dignified as ever, holding itself like a messenger on official duty.

Rox pushed herself up, opened the latch, and untied the parchment from its leg. The owl hooted once, as if impatient, then flew off toward the distant tree line.

She unfolded the letter carefully:

'Roxaine,

If you're not too busy being terrifying, I'll be in Diagon Alley around midday today. Thought you might want to escape Malfoy Manor for an hour—unless you're grounded for life for daring to look at me last time. Let me know if I should bring protective gear.

– Cedric'

She read it twice. Then a third time. A faint heat spread across her face, entirely unwanted, and she pressed her lips together as though that could stop the feeling.

Her first thought wasn't whether she should go—it was how to do it without anyone noticing.

June 22nd, 1992
Malfoy Manor – Narcissa's Dressing Room
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The scent of perfume and fresh parchment lingered in Narcissa's dressing room, sunlight reflecting off silver-handled brushes arranged with precision. Narcissa stood before the tall mirror, fastening an opal clasp at her throat, when Roxaine appeared in the doorway—composed, but a fraction too composed.

"Yes?" Narcissa asked without turning.

Roxaine stepped inside, hands folded neatly behind her back. "I was wondering," she began lightly, "if there were any errands that needed to be run in Diagon Alley today."

Narcissa glanced at her reflection, one brow lifting. "Errands? Or an excuse to leave the manor?"

Rox's posture didn't falter. "Both."

Narcissa turned fully then, assessing her. "You rarely volunteer for errands."

"Perhaps I'm bored."

"Perhaps," Narcissa said slowly, "you're meeting someone."

Roxaine's chin lifted an almost imperceptible degree. "Does it matter if I am?"

Narcissa's lips curved—not into a smile, exactly, but something close. "It matters to your uncle. Less so to me, provided you use your head."

"I always do."

Narcissa studied her for a beat longer, then said, "I'll have the carriage ready in an hour. Be discreet, Roxaine."

Rox inclined her head. "Always."

June 22nd, 1992
Malfoy Manor – Roxaine's Bedroom
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

Her wardrobe doors stood wide open, revealing neat rows of dresses, cloaks, and robes—every shade of green, silver, and black arranged with aristocratic precision. Roxaine stood in the middle of it all, arms crossed, gaze sharp but betraying nothing of the tension twisting in her stomach.

This shouldn't matter. It was just Diagon Alley. Just Cedric. Just—

She reached for a deep emerald set of robes, hesitated, then dropped them back onto the hanger with a scowl. Too formal. The pale gray? Too stiff. The black? Too obvious. She wanted to look effortless, not like she'd spent twenty minutes in a silent battle with silk.

She exhaled sharply and grabbed a lighter set—charcoal with subtle green embroidery, understated but fitted enough to look intentional. She tied her hair half-up, glanced at herself in the mirror, then frowned. It looked... fine. Perfectly fine.

Not that she cared.

Except her pulse was a little too quick for someone who didn't.

She straightened her shoulders, locked away the indecision, and told her reflection flatly, "You're going to Diagon Alley. Not to war."

But she still changed her hair twice more before leaving.

June 22nd, 1992
Diagon Alley
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The carriage rolled to a stop just beyond Flourish and Blotts. Roxaine stepped down, her posture perfectly Malfoy-taught: chin lifted, steps measured, gaze detached. Narcissa's reminder—be discreet—still echoed in her head.

Crowds filled the cobblestone street, witches and wizards weaving past with packages, owls, and children tugging at robes. Rox's eyes scanned automatically, trained to observe without seeming to. And then she saw him.

Cedric leaned casually against the wall near Quality Quidditch Supplies, hands in his pockets, sun catching in his hair. When their eyes met, his entire face lit up. He didn't hesitate; he waved like they weren't supposed to be subtle at all.

Rox's composure cracked just enough to betray a flicker of something—surprise, maybe—but she kept walking as though she hadn't been caught smiling.

"Black," Cedric said when she reached him, tone warm and far too easy. "You came."

"You sound surprised," she replied, keeping her voice cool.

"I am. Last time I saw you, you were threatening me under your breath while dragging me away from your terrifying guardian."

"You're exaggerating."

"Not by much." His eyes flicked over her robes—quick, but noticeable. "You look... formal."

"Unlike you." Her gaze dropped pointedly to his slightly wrinkled shirt.

He grinned, unbothered. "Good. At least one of us looks like we belong in public."

Cedric fell into step beside her, easy and unhurried, while Roxaine kept her usual measured pace—back straight, hands clasped lightly in front of her. Still, her eyes flicked to him once, then forward again, betraying the fact that she was acutely aware of his presence.

"You're walking like you're escorting a diplomatic envoy," Cedric said lightly. "Do you do that everywhere, or is this special for me?"

"It's called proper posture," Rox replied coolly. "Something you clearly lack."

He glanced down at himself, then smirked. "True. I guess Hufflepuffs don't come with instruction manuals on how to look terrifying while buying quills."

"Terrifying keeps people out of your way," she said, scanning the crowd.

"Not me." He leaned slightly toward her, lowering his voice. "You could scowl all you want, and I'd still say hi."

Rox's lips pressed together, not in disapproval so much as to keep them from twitching upward. "That's because you're reckless."

"Bold," he corrected, smiling. "Fearless, even."

"You're insufferable."

"And yet, you're still here."

She ignored that, stepping into the flow of people heading toward the bookshop. He followed easily, his hand brushing against her sleeve as the crowd pressed closer. The contact was accidental, but it made her stiffen before she could stop herself.

Cedric noticed. Of course he noticed. "Relax," he said softly, teasing but gentle. "I'm not about to hold your hand in the middle of Diagon Alley. Unless that would terrify your cousin enough to be worth it."

Rox shot him a sharp look. "Do not even think about it."

He chuckled under his breath, clearly enjoying himself. "You're fun when you're trying not to look flustered."

"I am not flustered."

"Right." He tilted his head, studying her. "Then why are your ears pink?"

"They're not."

"They are." He grinned. "I'm good at Quidditch, Black. I notice things."

She kept walking, faster now, muttering, "You're intolerable."

"Maybe. But I'm the intolerable person you came to meet."

For a moment, she had no response to that. And for just as long, she didn't want one.

The sun had shifted higher, spilling heat onto the cobblestones. Cedric slowed as they passed Florean Fortescue's, glancing at the line of people with sundaes and cones.

"You look like someone who doesn't do well in heat," he said, eyeing her heavy robes.

"I manage."

"Translation: you're about to melt." He stopped anyway. "Come on. I'm getting you ice cream."

She frowned, instinctively defensive. "I didn't say I wanted any."

"Didn't ask," Cedric replied easily, already steering toward the shopfront. "What's your favorite flavor?"

"I don't have one."

"Try again."

Her lips tightened. "Vanilla."

He grinned, triumphant. "Knew it. You seem like a vanilla person."

"I don't know what that's supposed to mean."

"It means you're classic, reliable, and pretending to be boring when you're not." He gave her a quick look over his shoulder. "Two scoops, right?"

She didn't answer. He took that as a yes.

A few minutes later, Cedric handed her a perfectly neat vanilla cone. She hesitated—half from pride, half because accepting anything from him felt like giving ground—but finally took it with a quiet, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he said, already licking his own chocolate one. "See? You can survive one afternoon without hexing me."

She bit back a retort and focused on her ice cream instead. It was simple, sweet, and—annoyingly—exactly what she'd wanted.

Cedric noticed the smallest shift in her posture. "Told you," he said softly, not smug now, just amused. "Vanilla."

Cedric veered off the main street, slipping into a quieter, shaded side alley. He sat down right on the worn stone step of a shuttered shop, legs stretched out like he belonged there.

Roxaine stopped at the entrance, staring. "You're sitting on the ground."

"Correct." He gestured to the space beside him. "Your turn."

She hesitated, glancing at the uneven stones as though they were somehow offensive. "People throw things here."

He looked around theatrically. "Nope, no curses, no puddles, no lurking dark wizards. Just a step. Come on."

She exhaled through her nose, but after a moment, she lowered herself carefully beside him, robes gathered to avoid contact with the ground.

"See? Not so bad," Cedric said around a mouthful of chocolate ice cream. "Feels almost... normal."

"Normal is overrated," she replied, but she took another small bite of her vanilla cone.

He glanced at her cone, then at his own—which was already half gone. "Yours looks better."

"It is."

Before she could react, he leaned slightly over and took a quick bite of her ice cream.

Roxaine froze, staring at him as if he'd just violated centuries of pureblood etiquette. "You did not just do that."

Cedric licked the corner of his lip, grinning. "I did. And you're not hexing me. Progress."

"That was mine."

"You've got plenty left."

"That's not the point." Her voice stayed even, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her—curving up, just a little. "You're insufferable."

"Still eating it, though." He gestured at her cone. "And still sitting here with me. Maybe you don't hate me as much as you say."

Rox took a deliberate bite of her ice cream, looking straight ahead. "You're lucky I don't have my wand."

He laughed, leaning back against the wall. "You'd miss me if you turned me into a toad."

Cedric stretched his legs out further, boots tapping lightly against the opposite wall. "You know, you could admit you're having a good time."

Roxaine kept her gaze on her melting cone. "You're assuming a lot."

"Am I wrong?"

She didn't answer right away, which made him grin wider. "That's not a no," he said.

"You talk too much."

"I've heard that before."

"From everyone?"

"Mostly from you."

Rox took another small bite of vanilla, slow and composed despite the warmth. "Maybe you should listen to me more often."

"I am listening." Cedric tilted his head, watching her. "And I'm hearing that you're secretly enjoying this, even if you'll never say it."

"Maybe I'm just tolerating it."

"Same difference."

She glanced at him briefly, almost incredulous. "You're insufferable."

He smirked. "You've said that three times today. I'm starting to think it's code for something else."

"It's not."

"Sure." He leaned back against the wall, deliberately casual. "If I annoy you that much, you wouldn't still be sitting here."

Her lips twitched, betraying a flicker of amusement she quickly smoothed away. "I'm only here because you stole my ice cream."

"Then I'll keep stealing bites." He reached toward her cone again.

She pulled it back sharply. "Try it, and I'll—"

"What? Scowl at me? You already do that."

Her eyes narrowed, but there was a faint warmth behind them. "You have no idea who you're dealing with."

Cedric laughed, low and unbothered. "I think I do. And I like it."

Cedric's gaze flicked from her cone to her face, calculating. Roxaine noticed too late.

"Don't even—" she began, but he moved fast.

He leaned in, tapped a quick, exaggerated peck to her cheek—so fast it barely landed—and while she froze, startled, he swooped in and took a massive bite from her vanilla ice cream.

"Cedric!" Her voice shot up, and she stared at the cone as if it had been attacked by a starving hippogriff. "That was half!"

He sat back against the wall, unbothered, licking the stolen ice cream from the corner of his mouth. "Worth it."

"You—You—!" Words failed her. She tried for outrage, but the corners of her lips betrayed her, twitching upward.

Cedric held up both hands as if to defend himself. "Hey, I needed leverage. You're fast when you're guarding sweets."

"You kissed me to steal food?"

"Technically, I distracted you. And you let me."

"I did not—"

"You didn't hex me either." He gave her that maddening grin. "Progress."

She shook her head, muttering, "You're insufferable," but there was an unmistakable flicker of amusement in her eyes now, no matter how hard she tried to keep her composure.

Roxaine glared at what was left of her cone, lips tightening. "Unbelievable. Theft. Pure theft," she muttered under her breath, then took a determined bite—faster, sharper than before.

Cedric watched, amused. "Careful, you'll get brain freeze."

"I'd rather get brain freeze than let you steal any more." She kept eating at an uncharacteristically quick pace, all elegance abandoned in the name of defending what was left.

He tilted his head, trying not to laugh. "You're actually guarding it now."

"I'm ensuring you don't commit another crime." Roxaine kept her focus on finishing the cone before Cedric could make another attempt, but he didn't reach for it again. Instead, he leaned his head back against the wall and watched her, still wearing that easy, infuriating grin.

"You know," he said, "I don't think I've ever seen you eat that fast. Should I feel honored?"

"You should feel ashamed," she replied, wiping a stray drip from the side of her hand with crisp precision. "Stealing from a Black. Pathetic."

He laughed softly. "You can hex me later if it'll make you feel better."

She glanced at him, arching a brow. "You think I wouldn't?"

"Actually, I think you'd make it creative. Probably with something no one's ever heard of."

Roxaine didn't answer immediately, but there was a faint trace of a smile now—small, quick, and gone as soon as it appeared.

Cedric leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. "It's weird. You're so... proper. Controlled. And yet here you are, sitting on a dirty step with a Hufflepuff, eating ice cream like it's the last thing you'll ever do."

She scoffed lightly, but her tone wasn't as sharp. "Don't get used to it."

"Too late." He tilted his head toward her. "You're not as untouchable as you want people to think."

Her eyes narrowed, though not unkindly. "You don't know me."

"I'm trying to."

For a while, neither of them spoke. Roxaine concentrated on what was left of her ice cream, slow now, deliberate, as if reclaiming some measure of composure. Cedric sat beside her, legs stretched out, hands loosely folded, but his posture wasn't as relaxed as it looked. He kept stealing quick glances—not at her face entirely, but lower, brief flickers toward her mouth before catching himself and looking away.

She noticed. Of course she did. Roxaine noticed everything. But she didn't acknowledge it. She held her spine straight, chin slightly lifted, pretending her only concern was finishing the cone neatly.

"You're very quiet all of a sudden," Cedric said finally, breaking the silence.

"I was hoping you'd follow my example," she replied smoothly.

"Cold," he murmured, though there was a hint of amusement behind it. "Do you ever just... relax?"

She didn't look at him. "Not when I'm sitting in an alley with someone who's proven himself a thief."

"Still about the ice cream?"

"Yes."

Cedric's lips twitched, and he tilted his head back against the wall again, watching the narrow strip of sky above them. "You're impossible."

"You've said that before."

"I'll keep saying it."

There was a long beat. Roxaine finished the last bite of her cone, brushing her fingers carefully on a handkerchief she'd pulled from her sleeve. Cedric's eyes flicked toward her again, softer this time. He didn't move closer, didn't say anything bold—just sat there, stealing those quick, restless glances like he wasn't sure why he was doing it himself.

Roxaine kept her gaze forward, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing she'd noticed.

The air between them felt heavier now, quieter than before. Cedric shifted slightly, turning just enough that his shoulder almost brushed hers. He didn't speak right away, but there was something different in the way he was watching her—intent, thoughtful, like he was working up the nerve to say something and then decided against it.

Roxaine didn't move. Her chin stayed lifted, gaze fixed straight ahead, but her fingers tightened imperceptibly around the folded handkerchief in her lap.

Cedric's voice came lower than before, softer, almost testing. "You ever let anyone this close?"

She glanced at him briefly, her eyes sharp but not unkind. "You think you're close?"

He smiled faintly. "Closer than most."

For a fraction of a second, it seemed like he might lean in just a bit more—his gaze flicked once to her mouth, then back to her eyes—but he stopped himself, pulling back just enough to cover it.

Roxaine let out a small, controlled exhale, as if she hadn't noticed. "You're ridiculous."

"Probably." He looked away, but the grin that stayed on his face gave him away.

Cedric didn't speak again immediately, and the pause stretched long enough that Roxaine felt the weight of it press against her carefully kept posture. She reached to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear—an automatic, precise motion—and that was when Cedric moved.

Not abruptly, not with the careless humor he'd used before. He shifted forward slowly, giving her every chance to pull away, his gaze steady now and far less playful. Roxaine's breath caught before she could stop it, though her chin remained lifted. At the last second, her instinct to keep control betrayed her—she closed her eyes.

The kiss wasn't practiced. It wasn't polished or theatrical like the social dances she'd been trained for. It was slower, tentative, and softer than she'd expected, a little off-center because Cedric had leaned in carefully rather than confidently. But it was warm, steady, and startlingly real. Her hand twitched as though to rise, then she stilled it, fingers tightening against the folded handkerchief instead.

When Cedric finally drew back, Roxaine's eyes opened immediately, her face composed but her ears—traitorous, impossible to control—flushed a sharp pink that crept to the tips. She straightened, chin higher than before, as if posture alone could erase what had just happened.

Cedric noticed. Of course he did. A slow, unmistakable grin curved his mouth. "Your ears are giving you away," he said softly.

"They are not," she replied, voice crisp, though the words came a fraction too fast.

"They're practically glowing."

Roxaine turned her head slightly, as if scanning the alley, but mostly to avoid his gaze. "You are imagining things."

Cedric leaned back against the wall, still grinning. "I'm imagining that you kissed me back, too?"

Her eyes snapped to him, sharp but not convincing. "You stole a kiss."

"You didn't hex me," Cedric countered, tilting his head. "That's as good as permission in your language."

"I was... surprised."

"Sure." He pushed himself up to stand, brushing dust off his trousers like nothing monumental had just happened. "Come on, Malfoy-in-training. We should blend back into the respectable public before your chaperones hunt me down."

Roxaine rose more slowly, gathering her robes with careful precision, trying to will the heat in her ears to disappear. "I wasn't flustered," she muttered, almost to herself.

"Right," Cedric said, falling into step beside her, "which is why you're walking faster now than you did when I first saw you."

"I have things to do."

"Like pretending that didn't just happen?"

She didn't answer, which made him grin wider. "Fine," he said lightly. "We'll pretend. You're very intimidating when you're pretending."

Roxaine's lips pressed together—part restraint, part the tiniest bit of suppressed laughter she refused to let show. "You're intolerable."

"And you're still here."

She didn't respond, only lifted her chin and stepped back into the sunlight-drenched crowd. Cedric matched her stride easily, no longer teasing out loud but still glancing sideways at her, clearly amused by the slight stiffness in her movements and the way her hand occasionally brushed against her ear as though checking its temperature.

They turned a corner, the noise of Diagon Alley swelling again—merchants calling, children laughing, the distant whoosh of a broom overhead. Roxaine's composure began to return, her steps evening out, her expression smoothing back into what Lucius would call "presentable."

And then she saw him.

Lucius Malfoy stood just beyond the entrance to Flourish and Blotts, silver-topped cane in hand, his sharp gaze scanning the crowd with the ease of someone who always noticed everything. His eyes landed on her instantly—and then shifted to Cedric walking at her side, too close, too comfortable.

Roxaine's breath caught for a split second. Cedric noticed but didn't slow. Instead, he murmured under his breath, low enough for only her to hear: "Do I get points for bravery if I survive this?"

She kept her face perfectly composed. "Walk," she ordered softly, as though she hadn't just kissed him in an alley.

Cedric grinned. "Yes, ma'am."

Lucius's gaze locked on Cedric first, cold and assessing, before it shifted to Roxaine—and softened immediately, though only slightly. "Roxaine," he said, his voice calm but edged, "I wasn't aware you were... out."

Roxaine's spine straightened another fraction, her mask snapping into place. "I informed Narcissa this morning," she replied smoothly. "She approved."

"Did she?" Lucius's eyes flicked briefly toward Cedric, then back to her, as if Cedric wasn't worth direct acknowledgment. "And she thought it appropriate for you to be—" a pause, deliberate "—wandering Diagon Alley alone?"

Roxaine kept her chin high. "I am not alone."

Lucius's expression tightened, and his gaze shifted back to Cedric. "Yes," he said coolly, "I see that."

Cedric, to his credit, didn't look away. "Good afternoon, sir."

Lucius's reply was clipped. "Diggory."

The difference in tone was unmistakable—where Roxaine received precise, formal phrasing, Cedric got something flat and almost dismissive. Lucius's eyes narrowed slightly, studying Cedric the way he might evaluate an untested potion ingredient. "I wasn't aware you and my—" his glance slid back to Roxaine "—ward had business here."

Cedric smiled politely, but there was a trace of his usual humor. "Just happened to run into each other, actually."

"Did you." Lucius's voice made the simple words sound like an accusation. He didn't bother to hide the skepticism. "How... coincidental."

Roxaine's hands tightened at her sides. "We were just leaving," she said quickly, her tone clipped but calm, as if she were the one dismissing Cedric, not Lucius.

Lucius's gaze flicked to her, softening again—but only toward her. "You should have an escort when you're out, Roxaine. Diagon Alley isn't... secure." Then, with a pointed glance at Cedric: "Clearly."

Cedric's jaw tightened, though he kept his tone even. "I'd make sure nothing happened to her."

"That," Lucius said sharply, "is not your role."

Roxaine cut in before Cedric could answer. "Lucius—"

"Roxaine," he interrupted, turning his full attention to her now, his voice lowering into that falsely calm register he used when trying to rein her in without making a scene. "You've had your outing. Let's go."

Cedric glanced at her, then back at Lucius. "It was good to see you, Rox."

Lucius's eyes narrowed at the casual use of her name. "Yes. I'm sure it was."

Roxaine felt Cedric hesitate beside her, as though considering saying something more, but her subtle shake of the head stopped him. He nodded once, gave her a quick, warm smile, and stepped back into the crowd, disappearing within seconds.

Lucius exhaled through his nose, adjusting his grip on his cane. "You asked Narcissa because you knew I wouldn't allow it."

Roxaine met his gaze evenly. "I asked Narcissa because you weren't there."

"That is not an answer."

"It's the only one I have."

He studied her for a long moment, and for once his carefully controlled composure cracked—just slightly. "You're fourteen," he said, quieter now, almost under his breath. "You're still—" He stopped, catching himself, then straightened. "Come. Narcissa will be waiting."

Roxaine fell into step beside him, posture perfect again, though her ears still betrayed her—flushed pink against the pale of her skin. Lucius noticed, and his lips pressed into a thin line.

June 22nd, 1992
Malfoy Carriage
Third person POV:
E.R.B:

The carriage door shut with a firm click. Inside, the air felt heavier than the crowded street had. Lucius settled into the opposite seat, cane across his lap, every line of his posture controlled. His gaze fixed on Roxaine, who sat perfectly straight, hands folded neatly, expression unreadable—except for the faintest trace of color still clinging to her ears.

For a long moment, Lucius said nothing. The quiet was deliberate, meant to make her speak first. Roxaine didn't.

Finally, he exhaled sharply. "I assume this is what you consider discretion."

Roxaine tilted her head slightly, her voice smooth and measured. "We were in an alley, Lucius. Hardly a public spectacle."

"That is not the point."

She raised a brow. "Is it the part where I bought ice cream, or the part where I wasn't alone?"

His eyes narrowed. "Do not test me, Roxaine."

She met his gaze steadily, then, with the smallest curve of her lips—too subtle to be called a smile—said, "I didn't realize you were so easy to shock. Should I start warning you before I speak to anyone male in public?"

Lucius's jaw tightened, but he didn't snap. "This is not amusing."

"It's a little amusing," she said quietly, almost to herself.

His lips pressed into a thinner line. "You think this is a game?"

"No," Roxaine replied, lifting her chin. "I think you're overreacting."

He leaned forward slightly, his voice low, controlled. "You're fourteen. You don't understand—"

"—that you'd like me to stay ten forever?" she interrupted softly, her tone sharper now but not cruel. "I already know."

That caught him. For a second, Lucius's composure cracked—not in anger, but in something more complicated. His gaze softened briefly, then he looked away, adjusting his cufflink like he hadn't heard her.

Roxaine's lips twitched. "Don't worry. I survived the ice cream. I'll survive the boy, too."

Lucius shot her a look, half-warning, half-incredulous. "You're mocking me."

"Maybe." Her voice was calm, almost playful. "But only because I know you'll let me."

His eyes narrowed, but there was no real heat in it now. "Careful."

"Or what?" she asked, arching a brow in perfect Malfoy style. "You'll ban dessert again?"

The corner of Lucius's mouth betrayed him—just barely, almost invisible—but there was the faintest twitch of reluctant amusement. He looked away, muttering, "You're impossible."

Roxaine leaned back against the seat, satisfied. "So I've been told."

June 22nd, 1992,
Malfoy manor,
Third person POV,
E.R.B.:

Malfoy Manor's grand doors swung open before the carriage even stopped. Narcissa stood in the foyer, elegant as ever, her eyes flicking immediately to Roxaine's face, then to the faint, unmistakable pink at her ears. A knowing smile touched her lips.

"Ah," Narcissa said lightly, "so that explains why you begged me this morning."

Lucius stepped inside behind Roxaine, removing his gloves with deliberate precision. "Begged is an exaggeration," he muttered.

Roxaine ignored them both, unfastening her cloak with controlled movements. "It was a perfectly uneventful afternoon," she said coolly.

Narcissa's gaze slid to Lucius. "From your expression, I take it 'uneventful' includes running into Cedric Diggory?"

Lucius's jaw tightened. "Running into implies chance. He was waiting for her."

"Which means," Narcissa said smoothly, "he planned ahead. How resourceful."

Lucius turned sharply. "How inappropriate."

Roxaine exhaled. "He was polite."

"He was—" Lucius began, but Narcissa cut him off with a soft laugh. "He was harmless, Lucius. And pureblood. You could do far worse."

"That isn't the issue." Lucius glanced at Roxaine, his voice shifting softer, almost reluctant. "She's fourteen."

"Fourteen, yes," Narcissa agreed, "not four."

Before Lucius could respond, Draco's voice echoed from the staircase. "You're back! Did Cedric kiss you yet?"

Roxaine froze. Lucius's head snapped toward the stairs so quickly Draco stopped mid-step.

"I mean—uh—" Draco faltered, then grinned. "He did, didn't he? Look at her ears!"

Roxaine spun. "Draco—"

"Enough." Lucius's voice carried the kind of authority that silenced rooms. "Not another word."

Draco smirked but backed up a step. "Fine. But you're definitely blushing."

Roxaine muttered something under her breath in French.

Lucius pinched the bridge of his nose. Narcissa tried—and failed—to hide her amusement. "This," Lucius said finally, "is exactly what I mean. You're already gossip material, Roxaine."

"From Draco," Roxaine shot back. "He hardly counts as 'people.'"

Draco gasped in mock offense. "Rude."

"Both of you—upstairs," Lucius ordered, pointing toward the grand staircase.

Roxaine lifted her chin. "I'm not a child, Lucius."

His voice softened without losing firmness. "No. But you're still my responsibility."

For a heartbeat, Roxaine's mask slipped just enough to show a flicker of something warmer—acknowledgment, maybe even gratitude—before she recovered. "Fine," she said, brushing past Draco. "But for the record, I don't regret it."

Lucius's hand tightened slightly on his cane. Narcissa noticed and smiled faintly. "She's growing up," she said quietly.

Lucius didn't answer right away. His gaze followed Roxaine until she disappeared upstairs. "Yes," he said finally, low. "Too quickly."

June 22nd, 1992
Malfoy Manor – Roxaine's Room
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

Roxaine slammed her bedroom door with more force than intended, the echo snapping against the pristine silence of Malfoy Manor's east wing. Her composure fractured the instant the latch clicked. She muttered under her breath, sharp and fluid, "Merde. Absolument insupportable."

French always slipped out when her temper spiked—it was instinct, buried from childhood. Walburga had drilled it into her early: formal lessons in the mornings, nursery rhymes laced with commands, vocabulary barked like orders. Grimmauld Place's library had been littered with leather-bound volumes from Parisian collections, pages smelling of dust and old ink. Malfoy Manor had its own French shelves too, though here they were polished, their spines gleaming instead of cracked.

Roxaine never forgot any of it. She could debate politics fluently, read Baudelaire without a dictionary, and curse with cutting elegance—but she rarely used the language aloud. England didn't need it. Hogwarts didn't care for it. Speaking French felt like taking off armor she couldn't afford to lose.

She crossed to her window, tugged the drapes aside, and leaned her forehead briefly against the cool glass. Her ears were still warm—traitors. "Ridicule," she whispered. "C'est... complètement ridicule."

Something small and pale streaked across her peripheral vision. Roxaine blinked and stepped back just as a tawny owl tapped against the windowpane, parchment tied neatly to its leg. Her pulse jumped. She unlatched the window, letting the owl swoop inside. It dropped the letter onto her desk before fluttering to the wardrobe top like it had done this before.

Roxaine stared at the folded parchment, tension rising in her chest for reasons she didn't want to analyze. She hesitated, then picked it up. The handwriting was familiar—looser, more rushed than the precise lines she was used to seeing from home:

‘Rox,

I'm hoping you didn't get locked in the Manor's dungeon for today. If you did, I'll plan a daring rescue (I'm very good with brooms, terrible with stealth).

Also—about earlier. I think you're wrong. You don't terrify everyone. Just most people. Definitely not me.

Thanks for not hexing me. Or maybe you're saving that for next time?

—Cedric

(P.S. I drew you a portrait. It's... accurate.)’

Below the signature was a crooked cartoon: a stick figure girl with sharp, triangular eyebrows, a tiny crown, and two massive ears shaded bright red. Next to her was a grinning stick figure boy holding an ice cream cone, a heart hovering between them like Cedric hadn't thought too hard about hiding it.

Roxaine froze, then let out a small, entirely unplanned laugh.

She sat down on the edge of her bed, letter in hand, rereading it twice, three times. Each time her chest felt tighter, lighter, both at once. By the fourth read, she was on her back, the letter held above her face, her lips pressing together to contain the ridiculous smile threatening to escape.

"Mon dieu," she whispered, covering her face with both hands, her ears burning hotter than ever. The image of the kiss—unexpected, warm, clumsy—flashed uninvited through her mind. She turned onto her side, pulling her pillow close, then onto her stomach, legs curling slightly as though she could physically stop herself from feeling so... giddy.

She buried her face into the pillow, muffling a soft sound that was dangerously close to a laugh. "Ridicule," she muttered again, though it didn't sound like she believed it anymore.

Roxaine lay sprawled across the bed, Cedric's letter dangling loosely from her fingers. Her normally perfect hair had loosened, strands falling over her flushed face. She turned onto her back, stared at the ceiling, then laughed softly—completely unguarded, an unfamiliar sound in the quiet, polished room.

The door creaked.

"Roxaine?" Lucius's voice, controlled as ever, but closer than she expected.

She didn't even sit up. "It's unlocked," she said quickly, too distracted to add the usual "come in."

Lucius stepped inside, his presence filling the space the way it always did. He paused at the sight before him: his heir—always composed, deliberate, perfect—now pink-eared, hair mussed, holding a letter like contraband while half-buried in blankets.

"Roxaine," he said carefully, "are you—ill?"

She let out a small, breathless laugh and rolled onto her side, propping herself up on an elbow. "Not ill," she said, voice lighter than he'd heard in years. "Just... fine."

Lucius's eyes flicked to the parchment. "I assume that is from the Diggory boy."

"Yes." She sat up suddenly, holding the letter to her chest. "And you're going to have to be more approving of him, Lucius. Please."

His brows rose—Malfoys didn't plead, not like that. "Roxaine—"

"He's not horrible," she rushed, her words tumbling out in a rare break from her usual precision. "He's... he's polite, he's a pureblood, and he makes me—" She stopped, realizing too late how much she'd said, then pressed her lips together, cheeks heating again. "He's not awful," she finished lamely.

Lucius's gaze softened despite himself. "You are... very young."

"I know," Roxaine said, then—shockingly—smiled at him, small but unguarded. "But I like him. And I want you to not make this harder than it already is. Please, Lucius. Just... be less terrifying when you see him."

Lucius stared for a long moment, cane still in hand, posture immaculate—but his daughter's gray eyes, so sharp and steady on most days, were wide and hopeful now.

He sighed, quietly. "I will... consider it."

"That means yes," Roxaine said instantly, still flushed but grinning now.

"It means I will consider it," Lucius corrected, but his tone lacked its usual bite.

Rox flopped back onto the bed, clutching Cedric's letter. "You're impossible, but I adore you."

Lucius blinked. She never said things like that out loud. "Roxaine—"

"Go away before I embarrass myself more," she muttered, burying her face in her pillow. "Please."

Lucius stood there for another moment, caught between irritation, protectiveness, and the dawning realization that she was slipping out of the little girl he'd raised. He adjusted his cufflink, exhaled, and finally left, closing the door softly behind him.

Inside, Roxaine smiled into her pillow like she couldn't stop.

Chapter Text

July 17th, 1992
Malfoy Manor – Roxaine's Room
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The weeks after that first Diagon Alley outing settled into a rhythm Roxaine hadn't expected. Cedric had written more often than she thought he would, each letter easy, teasing, and entirely unlike the formal notes she was used to exchanging with other pureblood families. Their meetings—always brief, always under the pretext of errands—became a quiet pattern.

Between them, life at the Manor moved forward as usual. Mornings were spent revising school material—Arithmancy tables spread across her desk, ink stains she'd never admit to Narcissa. Afternoons often meant Quidditch practice in the back gardens; she'd insisted on sharpening her technique, though Draco loudly accused her of just wanting to impress "a certain Hufflepuff." Lucius had become... not approving, exactly, but less severe, his comments shifting from sharp disapproval to pointed reminders to "be careful." Narcissa's knowing looks did not help.

Now, mid-July sunlight spilled across her bedroom floor. Roxaine sat cross-legged on her bed, a heavy book balanced on her knees, gray eyes scanning its margins with disciplined focus. The air was quiet enough to hear the faint hum of garden bees through the open window.

A soft flutter of wings broke the stillness. She glanced up just as a small owl swooped through the window, landed on her desk, and stuck out its leg impatiently.

Roxaine set her book aside, rose, and untied the parchment. The owl gave a quick hoot, nipped her sleeve like it knew this routine, and darted back out.

She unfolded the letter. Cedric's handwriting was as unbothered as ever:

Rox,

I've been very productive today: ate three chocolate frogs, fell off a broom once (not my fault), and realized it's been far too long since I saw you. I'm fixing that.

Diagon Alley. Tomorrow. I'll be at the same spot, trying to look casual but probably failing. Bring that posture that makes everyone think you're about to hex them—it's my favorite.

—Cedric

(P.S. I drew us again. Don't laugh.)

Below the note was a crooked little sketch: a stick-figure Cedric holding a broom, grinning, next to a taller stick-figure Rox with a crown and exaggerated sharp eyebrows. This time, a speech bubble above "Rox" read: "You're insufferable."

Roxaine stared at the page for two seconds too long before her lips twitched, betraying her. She folded the letter carefully, set it on her desk like it might break, and pressed her fingers briefly to her temple as though trying to will her face back to neutral.

It didn't work.

July 17th, 1992
Malfoy Manor – East Wing
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

Roxaine folded Cedric's letter neatly—too neatly—and slipped it between the pages of the book she'd been reading. The urge to stay calm, to be composed, fought against something lighter and quicker that had been winning too often lately. She stood, smoothed the front of her robes, and crossed the hall with measured steps.

Narcissa's sitting room smelled faintly of tea and lavender polish. The door was open; Roxaine hesitated at the threshold before stepping inside. Narcissa sat near the window, quill poised over correspondence, her posture as precise as ever.

Roxaine cleared her throat. "Narcissa?"

Without looking up, Narcissa said, "Yes, darling?"

"I..." Roxaine's fingers brushed the edge of her sleeve—nervous, but she hid it quickly. "I'd like to go to Diagon Alley tomorrow. Just for a short while."

Narcissa glanced up, studying her face. "For supplies? Or for Cedric Diggory?"

Roxaine didn't flinch. "For Cedric Diggory."

There was a pause, deliberate but not unkind. "Have you asked Lucius?"

"He isn't here." Her tone stayed steady. "And he told me last week that I should inform him next time, not ask."

"That," Narcissa said smoothly, "is his way of giving permission without admitting it." She set down her quill. "Do you have a time and place?"

"Yes." Roxaine clasped her hands behind her back, formal out of habit. "He suggested the same spot as before."

Narcissa's lips curved slightly. "You're very proper when you're nervous."

"I'm not nervous."

"Of course not." Narcissa rose, crossing the room to adjust a strand of Roxaine's hair with practiced hands. "Be discreet. Take a cloak even if it's warm—less recognizable that way. And avoid Flourish and Blotts during peak hours; too many eyes."

Roxaine exhaled, almost relieved. "Thank you."

"One more thing," Narcissa added, tilting her head. "If Lucius asks where you're going, you'll tell him?"

Roxaine hesitated. "Yes," she said finally. "After I leave."

Narcissa smiled faintly, knowingly. "That's an answer he'll have to accept."

July 18th, 1992
Malfoy Manor – Breakfast Room
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The morning sun poured through the tall windows, glinting off polished silverware. Roxaine stepped into the breakfast room with her cloak neatly folded over one arm, her expression calm, practiced. She hadn't expected Lucius to be at the table—he was rarely home this early.

But there he was, seated at the head, tea in hand, scanning a copy of The Daily Prophet. Draco sat two chairs down, already halfway through a plate of toast, butter smudged on the corner of his mouth.

"Good morning," Roxaine said smoothly, taking her usual seat.

Lucius lowered his paper just enough to look at her. "You're dressed to go out."

"Yes," she replied, keeping her voice neutral. "I have an errand in Diagon Alley."

Draco perked up instantly. "An errand named Cedric Diggory?"

Roxaine shot him a sharp look. "Eat your food."

Lucius's eyes flicked between them. "Cedric Diggory?" His tone carried no anger, but there was an unmistakable shift—slightly sharper, distinctly protective.

Roxaine didn't look away. "Yes."

Lucius set his cup down carefully. "You planned this yesterday and chose not to inform me?"

"You weren't home," Roxaine said evenly. "I told Narcissa."

"That," Draco muttered around a bite of toast, "is basically cheating."

"Draco," Lucius said without looking at him, "stop speaking."

Draco rolled his eyes but obeyed.

Lucius turned back to Roxaine. "And you intend to go alone?"

"I'm capable," she replied, tone steady. "You know that."

Lucius studied her for a long moment—sharp, assessing, then quieter. "You're still fourteen."

"I'm also the head of the house of Black," Roxaine countered, her chin lifting slightly. "You raised me to act like it."

The room went still. Even Draco stopped chewing.

Lucius's jaw tightened, but his eyes softened. "Stay where there are crowds. Return before dinner."

Roxaine's lips curved—not quite a smile, but enough to show she'd understood his reluctant permission. "I will."

Draco broke the silence. "So you're just letting her go? What if Cedric—"

"Draco," Lucius said calmly, "if you wish to live to see your next birthday, stop talking."

July 18th, 1992
Diagon Alley – Near Quality Quidditch Supplies
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

Roxaine stepped out from the Leaky Cauldron's brick archway into the familiar bustle of Diagon Alley. Cloaked, poised, and perfectly composed, she scanned the crowd with practiced detachment. Then she saw him.

Cedric was leaning casually against a lamppost, waving as if subtlety had never existed. He wasn't wearing wizarding robes at all—just a short-sleeved shirt, faded denim trousers, and trainers that looked far too casual for this street. A canvas bag hung over his shoulder, bulging with something.

Roxaine stopped dead. "What in Merlin's name are you wearing?"

Cedric grinned. "Clothes. Muggle ones."

"That much is obvious," she said sharply, eyes narrowing. "Why?"

"Because," he said, stepping toward her, "we're not staying here." He held up the canvas bag. "I brought extras. For you."

Roxaine blinked. "For me?"

"Yep. You're changing."

"I am not."

"You are," he said cheerfully. "Unless you want every witch in Diagon Alley to keep bowing like you're here on diplomatic duty."

Roxaine's chin lifted. "This is appropriate attire."

"For the Alley, maybe. Not for where we're going."

She folded her arms. "And where exactly is that?"

"Surprise," Cedric said, clearly enjoying himself. "But it'll be a lot easier if you're not wearing three layers of aristocratic armor."

"I don't—"

"Yes, you do," he interrupted lightly. "Here." He offered the bag. "There's a changing room just inside the Quidditch shop. Two minutes. I promise I didn't pick anything ridiculous."

Roxaine hesitated, glaring at the bag as if it might explode. "I don't wear muggle clothes."

"You do today." He smiled, softer now. "Trust me."

For a long moment, she considered refusing outright. But curiosity—and the stubborn spark that always rose when Cedric pushed—finally won. With a tight exhale, she snatched the bag. "Two minutes. If this is humiliating, I will hex you."

"Noted," he said, grinning wider. "You'll thank me."

Two minutes turned into nearly five. Cedric waited outside the shop, rocking back on his heels, the grin never leaving his face. When the door finally opened, Roxaine stepped out—and stopped dead as though reconsidering everything.

She wore simple jeans, a fitted white shirt, and a lightweight jacket. Her black hair, normally perfectly arranged, now fell in softer waves over her shoulders. She looked... almost normal. Almost. Except for the way she carried herself, chin lifted, eyes sharp, as if daring anyone to comment.

Cedric's grin faltered for just a second—long enough to be obvious—before turning smug again. "Merlin. You look..."

"Do not finish that sentence," Roxaine warned.

"—like someone who doesn't always hex people for smiling at her."

Her ears turned pink. "These clothes are—strange."

"They're comfortable," Cedric said, circling her once as though inspecting his work. "You can actually move. And look, no one's staring."

"They're staring," she muttered, tugging at the hem of the shirt. "They're always staring."

"At you, maybe," Cedric said casually. "But not because of the clothes."

She ignored that, attempting to gather her usual composure. "Fine. I changed. Now tell me where we're going."

"London." He nodded toward the Leaky Cauldron's back entrance. "Real London. You've been outside the Alley, right?"

"Of course," she said quickly, though the slight hesitation gave her away.

"Not with me, you haven't." He reached out, not quite grabbing her hand but close enough that she felt the pull. "Come on."

Roxaine stared at his hand for a fraction of a second before stepping forward. "You're reckless."

"Bold," Cedric corrected easily, pushing the pub door open. "And trust me, you're going to like this."

July 18th, 1992
Muggle London
Third Person POV
E.R.B.:

The brick wall closed behind them, and Roxaine stepped out onto Charing Cross Road like she'd just walked into another world. The noise hit first—honking horns, engines rumbling, voices overlapping in a dozen accents. Bright signs, buses twice as tall as any carriage, and people everywhere, none of them wearing robes.

She froze on the pavement. "What is—" A red double-decker roared past, and she flinched back instinctively. "What in Merlin's—"

"Bus," Cedric said quickly, amused but gentler now. "Don't worry, they're supposed to do that."

"They're enormous," she muttered, gray eyes darting everywhere—at the flashing crosswalk lights, the rushing streams of people, the way no one seemed to notice or care that she was standing rigid as marble.

"Yeah," Cedric admitted, stepping closer so their shoulders almost touched. "London's... a bit loud when you're not used to it."

Roxaine's hand twitched near where her wand would normally be hidden under robes—except she wasn't wearing robes now. She hated that she felt exposed. "How do they all know where to go? They're walking like they're being chased."

Cedric smiled. "Welcome to the Muggle world. People here are always in a hurry, but most of them are harmless."

"Most?" she echoed sharply.

"Relax, Black." His tone softened further. "I've been here dozens of times. You're safe."

She kept her chin high, but her eyes betrayed her—wide, alert, almost too focused. Cedric noticed and, without asking, reached for her hand.

Roxaine stiffened, instinct screaming to pull away, but the crowd surged past them, and letting him hold it was easier than losing her footing.

"Better?" Cedric asked, glancing sideways at her.

She exhaled slowly. "I am not admitting that."

"Noted," he said, grinning but keeping his pace steady, guiding her around a corner. "You'll get used to it."

Cedric guided her through the rush of the city until the buildings opened into a wide square lined with bright posters and glass-fronted marquees. Towering above them were names and titles she didn't recognize, all lit by bold letters.

Roxaine slowed, staring. "This is a cinema."

Cedric raised an eyebrow. "You know what a cinema is?"

"I've... heard of it," she admitted, still scanning the posters. "I think I went once. Or twice. When I was very young." Her tone shifted slightly, distant.

Cedric didn't press. "Well, you're going again today. With me."

She turned toward him, guarded. "What are we watching?"

"No idea yet," Cedric said, unfazed. "We'll pick something that doesn't involve too many explosions. Baby steps."

"I don't need baby steps."

"Sure you don't," he said lightly. "But you also nearly hexed a bus with your eyes, so let's start easy."

Her ears flushed red, though she kept her chin high. "I was assessing potential danger."

"You were about to duel public transportation." Cedric grinned. "It's fine. You're here now."

He stepped ahead toward the ticket booth. Roxaine hesitated a fraction of a second before following, her gaze still flicking warily over the crowd, the signs, the constant motion. She hated feeling unprepared. But there was something about Cedric's ease—his certainty—that made her keep walking.

The lobby smelled of sugar and something warm, salty, and unfamiliar. Roxaine's eyes darted over glowing menu boards filled with words she barely recognized—popcorn, nachos, cola, slushie. People milled about carrying paper tubs larger than their heads.

"This," she muttered under her breath, "is extremely inappropriate. I should not be here. Eating—" her gaze landed on a man dipping what looked like fried sticks into a red sauce—"whatever that is."

Cedric glanced at her, amused. "You're dramatic, you know that? You're not breaking any ancient wizarding laws by eating popcorn."

"I might be," she said crisply. "No Black has ever done this."

"Then you'll be the first." Cedric stepped to the counter before she could object. "One large popcorn and two colas."

Roxaine stiffened. "I did not agree—"

"You'll like it." He handed her a cup. "Try it. It's not dangerous."

She eyed the clear fizzy liquid suspiciously before taking a cautious sip. Her lips tightened—then softened. "It's... very sweet."

"You like sweet things," Cedric said casually, taking the popcorn from the attendant.

She ignored that, though her ears flushed faintly. "What even is popcorn?"

"Corn that... popped." He tossed one into his mouth. "Try it."

Roxaine pinched a single piece as though it might bite, then tasted it. Her expression betrayed nothing—but she didn't give any signs to have disliked it either.

"See?" Cedric said, grinning. "You're already blending in."

"I am not blending in," she whispered sharply as they entered the dim theater. "I am a Black. I should not be—"

"Eating popcorn in a Muggle cinema?" Cedric held the curtain aside for her. "Relax, Rox. No one here knows your family tree."

She muttered something under her breath—too low to catch but definitely French—before following him inside.

The lights dimmed until the room sank into darkness. Roxaine stiffened instinctively, hand tightening around her drink as the massive screen flickered to life. Sound swelled—too loud, too close—and for a heartbeat she almost reached for a wand she wasn't carrying.

"Relax," Cedric murmured beside her, voice low. "It's just the previews."

"I know that," she whispered back, though her shoulders stayed rigid. "It's... larger than I remember."

Cedric smirked in the glow of the screen. "Haven't been here since you were very young, right? Makes sense."

Roxaine didn't answer. Her gray eyes tracked every image, wide despite her best effort to remain detached. She forced her posture straight, her chin lifted, but her fingers betrayed her—restless against the cardboard popcorn tub balanced between them.

Cedric reached in casually, his hand brushing hers. She froze, then pretended not to notice, selecting another piece with exaggerated precision.

"Careful," Cedric teased under his breath. "If you analyze every kernel, you'll miss half the film."

She shot him a sharp look. "I am not analyzing. I'm—"

"—flustered?"

Her ears flushed red in the dim light. "You are insufferable."

"Maybe." He leaned slightly closer, just enough that his shoulder brushed hers. "But you're still here, eating Muggle food, in a Muggle cinema, with me."

Roxaine looked back at the screen quickly, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her—just barely curving before she caught herself.

The opening credits rolled, and Roxaine tried—truly tried—to maintain her usual Malfoy-trained composure. Her back remained perfectly straight, chin lifted, and she kept her hands folded neatly in her lap. For the first ten minutes, she didn't touch the popcorn at all, as though eating during something so... large and loud would be improper.

But the movie pulled at her despite herself. Bright cityscapes, quick music, characters running across streets she'd just walked past—it was impossible not to watch. Gradually, her posture softened. Her fingers uncurled. When Cedric nudged the popcorn tub toward her, she didn't even glance his way—she simply reached in, absent-minded now, eyes glued to the screen.

At one point, something exploded—a sudden, sharp sound that made her jolt slightly in her seat. Cedric glanced at her, amused, but didn't say anything. He only tipped the tub closer in silent offering. She accepted without looking, fingers brushing his again. This time, she didn't flinch.

Fifteen minutes later, she was leaning forward unconsciously, gray eyes wide. A car chase unfolded across the screen, lights flashing, horns blaring, and Roxaine's lips parted just enough to betray her fascination. She even whispered, "How are they not hitting anyone?" before catching herself and straightening immediately.

Cedric grinned in the dark. "Magic," he whispered.

She shot him a sideways glare, but her ears were already red.

By the halfway point, she'd forgotten herself completely. When the characters laughed, a small, involuntary sound escaped her—quick and soft, but unmistakably a laugh. She clapped a hand over her mouth instantly, as if she'd said something scandalous. Cedric leaned closer, smirking.

"Careful," he murmured. "Someone might think you're enjoying yourself."

"I am... tolerating this," she hissed back, though the popcorn tub was now firmly in her lap, nearly half-empty.

Cedric dipped his hand in again, deliberately brushing hers. "You're terrible at pretending."

She didn't answer this time. Her attention snapped back to the screen, and for the next twenty minutes, she forgot him entirely. Her eyes tracked every movement, and when the protagonist narrowly escaped a fall, she let out a quiet gasp. Cedric saw her fingers tighten slightly on the armrest.

When the film reached its climax, Roxaine was leaning forward again, caught between tension and wonder. Cedric didn't interrupt. He just watched her watching—her hair falling forward, her pale face lit by the shifting colors, her aristocratic mask completely gone.

The credits rolled at last. The lights began to rise. Roxaine blinked, almost startled, and immediately straightened, smoothing her jacket as if that would erase the last two hours.

Cedric stretched beside her. "So," he said lightly, "still think this was inappropriate?"

Roxaine glanced at him, clearly trying to rebuild her usual cool expression. "I suppose it wasn't... entirely terrible."

"You mean you liked it."

"I mean," she corrected, standing with precise grace, "that it was tolerable." She stepped past him toward the aisle, but the faint pink at her ears betrayed her.

Cedric followed, laughing under his breath. "You're going to make a terrible liar if your ears keep giving you away."

They stepped out of the cinema into the cool evening air. London was louder now—neon lights buzzing, street musicians playing quick, unfamiliar tunes, people spilling out of shops and cafés. Roxaine's eyes darted everywhere, but the tension in her shoulders wasn't as sharp as before. She wasn't clinging to her aristocratic posture quite so tightly; her steps were still measured, but her pace had slowed.

Cedric noticed. "See? You're not glaring at every bus anymore. That's progress."

"I was never glaring," she said, adjusting the sleeve of her jacket. "I was... evaluating."

"Right. Evaluating snack vendors too?" He nodded toward a small cart where a man was spinning sugar onto sticks.

Roxaine's brow furrowed. "What is that?"

"Candyfloss. Or cotton candy, depending on who you ask. Want some?"

"It looks ridiculous."

"It's sugar."

She hesitated—just for a second—then muttered, "One. Small."

Cedric grinned, bought one, and handed it to her. Roxaine took it as though it might collapse if she wasn't careful. She pinched a tiny piece, placed it delicately on her tongue, and froze.

"It... disappears," she said quietly, surprised despite herself.

"That's the point." Cedric started walking again. "And you like it."

She didn't answer, but she kept eating.

They wandered past shop windows full of dresses, books, and strange electronic displays that flickered with moving images. Roxaine's gaze caught on them more than once, though she quickly looked away each time, pretending disinterest.

"You're curious," Cedric said after a while.

"I am observant."

"Same thing."

She stopped at the edge of a crosswalk, watching the glowing pedestrian light switch from red to green. "Muggles have to wait for permission to cross the street? That's inefficient."

"It keeps them alive," Cedric said, steering her lightly with his hand at her elbow as a car sped past. "And you nearly walked straight into traffic."

"I knew what I was doing," she said quickly, though her ears flushed pink again.

They continued through the city—past Covent Garden, where street performers juggled fire, and along quieter roads lined with lampposts. Roxaine's posture was still precise, but she was no longer walking like someone carrying a fragile reputation on her shoulders. Her eyes lingered on things now. She didn't flinch at every loud noise. And when Cedric's hand brushed hers again, she didn't pull away.

The city thinned as they reached the river. Street noise softened to a distant hum, replaced by the rhythmic rush of water and the occasional rumble of a train passing overhead. Lights from bridges and buildings shimmered across the dark surface, scattering in long, trembling streaks.

Roxaine stopped at the railing, her hands resting lightly on the cool metal as she looked out. She wasn't pretending to be unimpressed now—her eyes lingered on the glow of the skyline, the endless movement, the unfamiliar beauty of it all. Her posture was still straight, but something in her shoulders had eased.

Cedric stood beside her, silent for once. The wind lifted strands of her wavy black hair across her cheek. Without thinking too much, he reached down—and his fingers brushed hers, then slid naturally into her hand.

For the briefest second, Roxaine froze. She almost pulled away out of habit, out of pure instinct, but didn't. Instead, her fingers tightened around his, deliberate this time. She didn't look at him, didn't say anything. Neither did he.