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Chapter Text

As a child, Tove Lindqvist wished for nothing more than for siblings. To have someone to play with, someone she could tell her stories to. Not to be so terribly lonely all the time.

Later, when her family moved from the Swedish countryside to central London and she had her first day of public school - one particularly gloomy August day in Paddington, she still remembered it vividly, pouring rain, greyish skies, lots of crooked teeth (very British) - she sullenly started to accept her fate as an only child.

Instead, she started wishing for some friends.

It had always been hard for her to connect to others, but with the of the language barrier on top of - well, to say it nicely, her peculiarities - she had no chance. Tove was different than the other children and not in the fun and whimsy kind of way, no, she was no kid that spend her time in flower fields talking to animals and pressing pretty petals for her diary, she didn't even look particularly cute either.

She was tall, way too tall for a six year old, and skinny: her arms and legs looked like the bony branches of one of those dead spindle trees that grew around their new townhouse and her feet were so big that she stumbled over them constantly.

As if all this weren't bad enough, Tove didn't only look like a living skeleton, she was also strangely fascinated by all things morbid from a young age onwards. When the other children invited her to go to the playground, perhaps to play with their dolls or chase each other around the monkey bars, Tove would roam around the bushes and search for dead animals. Sometimes, she even liked to collect them and bring them home (that's also how she found her cat Cerberus, whom she swore wasn't breathing when she picked him up from the streets), to her parents' utter dismay, of course. (He was full of beans now, always on Tove's side, whether she had soccer practice or loitered around the corner store to read comics.)

The walls of her room were covered in very meticulously drawn studies of corpses, human body parts and creatures that neither Tove or her parents could name, with long sharp teeth and red glowing eyes. Needless to say, other kids found her scary.

It also didn't help that all kinds of strange things seemed to happen around her all the time, either. Wherever Tove went, accidents seemed to follow. Whether it was the postman being attacked by a flock of abnormously big ravens, her very odious and much hated piano teacher Miss Bukowski being followed by a lonely cloud of pouring rain wherever she went or all of her fathers left shoes going missing from one second to the next (this at least, Tove suspected, had been Cerb's doing): all of these unfortunate events contributed to her ongoing friendlessness.

When her acceptance letter to a school called Hogwarts arrived, some place that taught 'Witchcraft and Wizardry' and sent its mail by owls, nobody was really surprised. If anything, her parents were even a little bit relieved they'd finally found a place where their beloved daughter truly belonged. Surely, the other small witches and wizards all read Edgar Allen Poe and held strange mystic rituals at midnight just like their little Tove did. Surely, she'd find some friends there and become a successful young woman, perhaps in a different world than theirs was, but one that she felt a part of.

If only they had been right.

If only Tove hadn't been selected into Hufflepuff of all houses, where everyone was honey-sweet and whimsical all of the bloody time. If only Cerb hadn't bitten off Susan Bone's finger in their first night in the common room, when the silly cow tried to tuck on Tove's white-blond hair, saying that it looked like spiderwebs. If only Tove hadn't turned out to be a complete failure in almost every subject except quidditch. If only she didn't have the biggest crush on Pullox Montague, the Slytherin quidditch captain and absolute tyrant who'd always - thankfully - ignored her before (much like he ignored everyone else, that rude arrogant sucker). If only they didn't both end up in detention with Professor Snape of all people. And if only Tove didn't have such an obsession with said quidditch captain, that she found out (by accident! to her credit) about his most darkest and very well-kept secret...

Chapter Text

There was hardly anything that Tove hated as passionately as the colour yellow. If things had been up to her, there would have been a law by the ministry that forbade everyone with a skin shade lighter than hers (stark white) to wear anything - be it ochre, buttercup, mustard, lemon - remotely close to this despicable - ugh! - colour (if you could even call it that), punishable with at least several years of prison sentence.

But alas, she wasn't in the ministry nor part of the government, which was, she thought, probably better for everyone, as they'd likely be living in an autocratic state otherwise. And she wasn't sure she'd make a good dictator, what with her emotional instability and her penchant for impulsive decisions. The ministry was in enough of a fragile state already. No need for a raging depressed teenager to overthrow the system these days, when they had bloody fascists looming in every corner and some raving mad dark wizard (who just refused to finally die) lurking around.

Good thing Tove wasn't worried. Sure enough, things didn't look so bright for a muggleborn witch like herself. But Tove was used to bleak prospects and she thrived in misery. When everyone else was sad and worried, she felt less different, more normal. Low spirits, despair, recession, this was her turf.

Anyway. Here she was, her fifth year of yellow ahead, ill-tempered although she hadn't even entered the train that would lead to her demise. Waiting on the platform crowded with students whose faces she'd seen before but names could never remember, her stomach felt queasy and her head began to throb. Her parents came to her mind, the disappointed looks on their faces when she told them once again they didn't need to accompany her to King's Cross, just like every year, and her heart sank. Her mother, always so attentive, inevitably sensing that her daughter still hadn't found her feet, be it in her own world or the other. Her father, moonstruck and kind, supporting each of her macabre interests with his own intellectual curiosity as if it was the most normal thing in the world to dissect frogs or roam around the forest by night. They were the kindest people she knew, her best friends, how could she hurt their feelings and exclude them like this? She was a terrible person.

She couldn't bear it though, her parents stumbling around the wizarding world like little toddlers, in awe of everything remotely magic and the laughing stock of every conceited pureblood that laid eyes on them. No, she wouldn't allow that.

'Hiya Linny, everything alright?' Tove, jumpy by nature, immediately turned around by the unfamiliar voice behind her. Not that it was uncommon for her to be unaware of her surroundings, she usually had her head up in the clouds. What was uncommon though, was somebody approaching her in the first place.

he face of the person who'd been talking to her, a tall dark-haired girl with broad shoulders and an incredibly white grin, turned out to be that of Angelina Johnson's, Gryffindor's star Chaser and last year's most frequent victim to Tove's notoriously brutal Bludgers. Strangely though, that seemed to have only warmed her up to the otherwise rather quiet Hufflepuff.

Tove, very new to social interactions (sixteen years to practice hadn't been that long of a time after all - and this was an ambush attack), remained silent too long and thus made things awkward (like always). Finally, when Angelina's originally cordial smile began to freeze, Tove hawked unseasonably and answered bravely: 'Yes, what about you?' Her voice, to her own horror, came out far too loud, almost like a drawl and she began wishing for a hole in the ground to disappear into, like always somebody tried to assail her with smalltalk.

Seemingly content with having received at least some kind of answer, Angelina's eyes warmed up again. 'Everything splendid,' she said easily and pointed with her head towards the now approaching train. 'Would you like to join me? I've got a date with Liz and the two Weasley pests to plan this year's victory against the snakes. We could use some advice from an excellent Beater such as yourself.'

Blushing profoundly at the compliment, Tove realised that Angelina hadn't actually greeted her by accident. It seemed the girl was somehow intent on engaging her in conversation. She gulped.

'Join you?' She asked cautiously, very aware of her voice this time. "As in, sit with you?' When she realised that her words made her sound like frightened little animal, even more blood rushed into her cheeks. To preserve somewhat of appearances, she at least tried to keep her features in check, no cringing or avoiding eye contact now.

Passing over Tove's inept gracelessness anew, Angelina shouldered her heavy trunks with an easy sweep and started towards the train in quick steps. 'Well, you can't quite well just change teams, can you? A bummer, if you ask me.'

Tove, who simply refused to hand off Cerb along with the other animals to the storage compartment, quickly moved to gather all of her belongings, which was a confusing heap of bags, suitcases, boxes and cumbersome parcels, all the while doing her best not bruise the little cat in her arms. Naturally she was a sweaty unkempt mess when she arrived at the train, though it had only been a walk of a few meters (a few meters too much!). She'd lost sight of Angelina, her woollen jumper was terribly itchy on her neck and Cerb had began to fidget around, uneasy in the midst of so many people and their strange animals. Her heart was beating very loudly and she could feel the tears rising in her eyes - damn herself and her uncontrollable emotions - all those noises, the smells, the milling crowd surrounding her, everyone shouting and laughing and pushing each other around, there was someone whistling in a high, unbearably shrill tone, suddenly there was someone jostling her towards the rail track, there was a girl giggling hysterically, probably about her. Something in her was about to explode, she knew it and desperately hoped she didn't make anything bad happen again.

It was then, of course, than she saw him. His tall, muscular back, the sun kissed neck and always so precisely dishevelled hair, the profile of his self-important, annoyingly handsome smile, she'd mesmerised it all in neat precision and hated him all the more for it. He stood there, still in casual clothing, with his ridiculous leather jacket and those cursed denim jeans that fit him, of course, perfectly. Being one of the only halfbloods in Slytherin, he was still somewhat popular, always surrounded by some minor lackeys, trying to bask in the light of his glowing halo (or in the shadows of his horns? Perhaps more fitting). Pullox Montague, Slytherin Quidditch captain, known for his rogue manners, his violent temper, having a criminal record and his big ego. Rumors said he'd even killed someone (probably one of Lee Jordan's fairytales if you asked Tove, someone as pretty as Montague couldn't possibly have the backbone to commit murder). They'd had only a few interactions, since they ran in different social circles (as in: he had a social circle and she had none), but he had always treated her like everyone else, which meant curt and unnecessarily mean.

She couldn't say when she'd developed a crush on him exactly. Perhaps the first time she saw him play Quidditch: the way he never missed a goal, the way he took every bludger, even if it broke his nose, so focused on winning that he didn't even notice the pain. Or perhaps when he beat up Marcus Flint after that dickhead had kicked the janitor's cat just to be cool. Or perhaps when he burped so loudly during last year's champion selection for the Triwizard Tournament Snape had to throw him out. Or perhaps (that must've been it!) the look of appreciation he'd given her in their first year after Cerb's attempt on Susan Bone's life. She couldn't say. For all she knew, those nasty feelings had always been there, fluttering around her stomach like a bad case of diarrhoea.

Before he could turn around and catch a glimpse of her, flustered and messy as she was, Tove quickly entered the train, suddenly much lighter on her feet. All at once, her bags didn't seem as heavy anymore, her brain very much focused on other things, and when she found the compartment with Angelina Johnson and her Gryffindor friends, her cheeks all warm and fuzzy, knees a little weak, she even managed a shy, but genuine smile.

Tove tried almost the whole eight hours of the train ride to adjust herself to her surroundings, sitting with the chatty Gryffindors (she usually shared a compartment with a few other Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs nobody liked), who threw all kinds of witty jokes at each other and talked so freely it seemed they didn't find each other half as intimidating as she did. Whenever they asked her a question, Tove stuttered, forgetting all the words in fear of saying something wrong. In spite of all her efforts to be liked by the others, Tove knew it was only a question of time until they realised what an alien she was. Better they think I'm boring, she thought to herself, than having them realise who I really am. (At least the time went by much faster, being stressed seemed to have that effect.)

They had almost arrived at Hogwarts, through the window she'd watched the dawn break over vast green landscapes, interrupted by bodies of black water that lay eerily still, when darkness began to fall. Though being thankful she'd found a place to sit that she felt more welcomed than abandoned to, she still found herself wishing to be somewhere else, somewhere she felt less misplaced. Looking at her own pale reflection in the glass that became more distinct the more the daylight withdrew itself, she hoped that perhaps, out there in the approaching night, there was - somewhere, somehow - someone else just like her. Just one person would be enough, one person who understood her. It was a comparably small wish but yet one she feared would remain unfulfilled. Too unlikely the chance that luck was something designated to her.

It was the slowly stirring excitement of the upcoming arrival that broke Tove out of her dark brooding, students hurrying up and down the train, the sound of zipping bags and rustling robes. Immediately infected by the commotion, she rushed out of her seat, noticing too late that one of the Weasley twins was also currently pulling something from the rack above her and thus knocked her head into his chest with such force that they both lost footing, tumbling together with whatever had been on the rack to the ground. Understanding the damage she'd done only in belated horror, she barely saw the outlines of a heap of enormously large suitcases racing towards them, including the rack that had seemingly broken off under Weasley's weight.

Anticipating pain, perhaps even an early passing (RIP Tove Lindqvist, squashed by bags in one of many unfortunate events that marked her short life), she tightly shut her eyes. It was sad it had to end that way, there had been so many things she'd yet to experience, but part of her also found it relieving to be over. Maybe she'd be granted another chance now. Oh, to be reborn as someone less complicated!

However all that followed - was silence. No clamorous collision, no cries of accusation, not even a scandalised gasp. Something was off.

Slowly, worrying she might've already moved right on into the afterlife, she blinked open one eye. The scene before her however, she was even less prepared for. As though the world around her had frozen in a manner of seconds, it was ice cold. Nobody was moving. In the middle of the air, a few suitcases were hanging, completely ignorant to the physical law of gravity. Except there was someone, no, something moving, on top of one of the larger trunks, nonchalant as only cats could be: Cerberus, licking his little pink paw.

Staring first at him, than at the stone still Gryffindors, their faces caught in unaltered shock, then at the Weasley next to her, Tove quickly scurried away from the incriminating scene, still somehow unable to process what exactly had happened. Reaching for her wand, her eyes landed on Cerb yet again and a very strange thought struck her.

'Did...' - her own voice frightened her in the complete and utter silence that engulfed them now and her pulse immediately began quickening - 'did you do this?'

But Cerb only looked at her, blinking twice, his green Irisis round and innocent, pretending as if he didn't understand a word she said.

Shaking her head, Tove decided to just accept the situation as it was (her therapist had once advised her that, admittedly whilst discussing very different circumstances, but wasn't learning all about knowledge transfer these days?) and instead flicked her wrist, causing the rack and all the suitcases to fly back to their original places. Cleaning charms never failed to impress Tove who was very much used to causing chaos with her magic, so she seized the moment to marvel at her witchcraft, relying on the rule that once her world had been thoroughly shaken in one moment, everything usually turned back to normal in the next. A tad disgruntled by the sudden tumult, Cerb meowed accusingly when his newly found resting place began to move underneath him and sprang sylphlike right onto her lap. As soon as her fingers found his black fur, he curled up and started purring, as loud as a sewing machine (that comparison came from her mother)

And indeed, waiting another few minutes in complete stillstand, Tove suddenly noticed the train starting to move again, slowly, like it was waking from a trance. Then, someone groaned beneath her, she noticed the other students slowly shuffling on their seats with confused looks on her faces, everyone dazed, but still: alive again, and in dreadful anticipation, she knew, time had started to flow once more.

Chapter Text

When in human society, there are various proper etiquettes for all kinds of absurd situations. For example, in case of the burial of a distant relative, you are supposed to always look sad, even if you didn’t know said relative at all and you are not supposed to laugh about the crying widow, even if she wears a very funny hat. Or in case of a celebratory dinner, you are not supposed to start eating before everyone else had received their food, even if it means you will be very bored whilst waiting and your soup will turn cold. Or in case of your own birthday, you are not allowed to hide in your room under your bed when other children are invited, even if they are very loud and sing for you. Of course there were many more rules of conduct that Tove had learned but didn’t fully understand, yet none of them told her what to do in an impossible situation as in the present case. Cats that turned out to be magical were not an occurrence that fell into Tove’s pre-practiced set of do’s and don’ts.

Hence, when the Weasley’s red-haired head suddenly appeared in front of her, sitting up with a look of utter confusion on his face, she didn’t know what to do.
Desperately searching for the correct words for the present circumstance, Tove felt completely helpless. Naturally, he was the first to collect himself.

‘What happened?’ He asked, turning his attention from Tove to Angelina and his twin who seemed equally as confused as him, though perhaps less dazed.

Knowing it was her task to find a plausible explanation (since Cerb, albeit magic, still looked to be mute), Tove said, very calmly: ‘It appears you stumbled over your own feet, Weasley.’

After a moment of stunned silence (in which Tove wondered whether she’d s inadvertently said something offensive), there was a sudden snort from Angelina Johnson, followed by a bellow of laughter. The twins soon followed and Tove, though unsure as to why they were laughing, knew enough to join in, relief easing some of the tension that had start to build in her muscles.

‘Careful Weasley,’ Johnson spluttered, tears in her eyes, ‘she’s going to think you’re easy prey. Tackled by a girl and the next moment you’re flat on the ground. I don’t think she’ll need a bludger to knock you off your broom!’

Weasley, with a little red in his cheeks, simply grinned, shrugging his shoulders. ‘If you wanted me flat on the ground you could’ve just asked.’ Looking at Tove under long blonde lashes, she couldn’t help but feel like he’d just told a joke she didn’t understand.

Frowning slightly, Tove studied Weasley’s face. It was pleasant to look at, she decided, with its boyish features and the freckled nose. ‘But why would I want that?’ She asked back, doing her best to understand what was happening. To her surprise, this only caused more laughter from the Gryffindors who acted as though her question had been a particularly clever comeback.

‘Right?’, the other Weasley twin piped up, ‘Why would she want that when I’m clearly the superior twin!’ Grinning wildly at Tove, he didn’t see the small object coming his brother had just produced from his pockets and thrown at him, resulting with it hitting him straight in the face. The moment it collided with his head, a horrible stench exploded into the compartment, a smell so repellent Tove for a second believed she’d faint. Angelina, though heaving, her face unnaturally pale, was the first to react, flinging open the windows.

With a menacing stare, she turned around to the Weasleys, pointing her finger first at the one on the ground, then at the other. ‘You two,’ she hissed, at her tone the twins immediately lost the wide grins on their faces, ‘you can count yourself lucky if you’re still alive by the time we reach Hogwarts. Otherwise, you’ll be flat underground and I’ll make sure you won’t enjoy that experience.’

 

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Upon entering the Great Hall, both of the Weasley twins were covered in an ugly battlefield of pimples, a sight that evoked giggles and laughter wherever they went (a fact that - to Tove’s utter astonishment - seemed to somehow please them). Unfortunately, though one might think that Angelina’s branding would’ve made the twins more distinguishable, that was not the case. It appeared that being monozygotic also affected the way a body reacted to jinxes, an insight that made Tove very eager to continue experiments in this regard.

Nevertheless, as much as she would’ve enjoyed to follow that thought, her attention was soon dragged back into reality, where the Great Hall glittered like a cathedral of excess. Thousands of candles floated in the enchanted air, their wax dripping onto nothing, their flames bowing slightly in the breeze that swept in from the towering double doors. The ceiling, as always, mirrored the world outside: a velvet dusk scattered with the first shy stars of September.

Tove dragged her feet over the stones, following the stream of scarlet-cloaked Gryffindors she had attached herself to on the train, half by accident, half by cowardice. Their chatter rose and fell around her like a wave, easy, confident, the kind of noise that came only from people certain they belonged.

She too wanted to belong, but not here, not now. For Tove, the Start-of-Term Feast was usually one of the scariest ceremonies the school year included, as there was only one exit in case she had to make a run for it - and far too many students. For someone with such an extensive list of diagnosed phobias - her therapist had once written them all down, three pages of paper full of Tove’s fears, a document she kept in her nightstand like her granny Astrid the holy bible - the beginning of new a school year always meant severe exposure therapy.

As the Gryffindors spilled toward their table, she faltered. The sight of the yellow-and-black banners yawned at her from across the hall, grossly optimistic and insufferable. She could already hear the badger mascot laughing in her face. (She’d once found a dead badger in their carport - it had died by electrocution, chewing on cables. Strange animals with even stranger eating habits, she couldn’t fathom how they made it on the house crest).

‘See you tomorrow, Linny!’ one of the Weasley twins called over his shoulder, tossing her a wink so casual it nearly knocked her over.

Linny. The nickname struck her like a hex to the ribs. She swallowed a groan, pulled Cerb tighter to her chest, and shuffled toward the Hufflepuff table.

The chatter was already unbearable. All around her, students leaned in, exchanging gossip, speculations, news carried over from parents and owls and Prophet headlines.

‘New teacher.’
‘Defense Against the Dark Arts again, can you believe it?’
'My mum says she’s close to the Minister.’
‘She looks like a Christmas pudding, if you ask me.’
Tove lowered herself onto the bench, praying no one would try to engage her. Of course, prayer was futile, faithless as she was. But hey, a girl could try.

At the high table, the professors were already assembling like the judges of a high court. McGonagall in her tartan robes looked as humourless as ever, her gaze not once meeting Tove’s, even though she had almost blasted her whole classroom last year (she’d tried to turn a pheasant into a tombstone - unsuccessfully). After her, Flitwick hopped into his seat with surprising vigor. Even Snape glided in, robes flaring like wings of a carrion bird. Dumbledore himself arrived last, glowing with misplaced cheer, his twinkling eyes at odds with the tense undercurrent in the hall.

But all eyes went to the new teacher.

Dolores Jane Umbridge.

Tove blinked twice, convinced her vision had blurred. No, the pink nightmare was real. A cardigan dotted with tiny bows, a velvet bow at her throat, a face like raw dough, lips painted an alarming shade of bubblegum. Her eyes, watery and calculating, swept the hall with suspicion even as her smile proclaimed sugary delight.
Tove imagined her as one of those frosted cupcakes you buy in cheap bakeries: pretty in a grotesque way, too sweet to the point of nausea, and filled with something rancid underneath.

Dumbledore stood, arms open, his voice warm and grand. ‘Another year, my dear students—‘

'Hem, hem.’ The sound was so prim, so offensive in its bumptiousness, that the entire hall froze.

Umbridge had risen. Her smile stretched wider, her voice syrupy and sharp at once. ‘If I may, Headmaster. It is, after all, only proper that I, as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher and High Inquisitor of Hogwarts, offer a few words to our precious children.’

Dumbledore, to his eternal credit, bowed slightly, his expression one of mild amusement. The twinkle in his eyes, however, was dangerous.

And so Umbridge spoke. She droned about ‘order,’ ‘discipline,’ ‘the preservation of traditional values.’ Every word was wrapped in lace, every sentence a sticky trap. She smiled as though she were serving them tea, yet her tone promised something far less pleasant. At some point, Tove imagined leaping across the table and stuffing candyfloss into that woman’s mouth just to make it stop.

When at last she finished, Dumbledore’s applause was gentle, but the feast appeared with a grand swoosh nonetheless. Platters of roast meats, steaming potatoes, gravy boats — the works.

Tove snatched the nearest bread roll, sinking her teeth into it with a ferocity that startled even herself. Chewing gave her purpose. Chewing kept her from screaming.
Beside her, Justin Finch-Fletchley - a curly-haired fifth year and terrible busybody - leaned in, lowering his voice like a conspirator in a bad spy film. ‘Did you hear,’ he said dramatically, ‘that You-Know-Who is back?’

Wondering why ever he would approach her of all people with this topic, Tove raised her eyebrows without pausing her chewing.

‘Potter says so,' Justin continued. His tone was proud, as if Harry Potter had confided in him personally. ‘Most people think he’s lying, but between you and me, it all makes sense. The Ministry covering things up, dementors in Muggle towns—‘

‘Fascinating,’ Tove muttered around her bread, wishing he’d choke on his own self-importance.

Justin frowned, visibly taken aback by her lack of engagement. ‘You don’t seem concerned.’

‘Should I be?’ She tilted her head. ‘If the Dark Lord is back, I certainly hope he’ll leave me alone. If he doesn’t, well, what am I to do? At least there is hope I could be reborn as a venomous serpent or a mandrake instead of a Hufflepuff.’

Poppy Sweeting, a Hufflepuff in her year and one as he unfortunately shared a dorm with— puffed-up, perky, and forever chewing on a quill — gasped loudly. ‘Merlin, Lindqvist, you’re so morbid. Honestly, it’s disturbing.’

Tove bared her teeth in what might have been a smile. ‘Thank you.’

Poppy sputtered, flustered, and turned back to her pudding.

That shut them both up, mercifully.

To her great chagrin, the silence didn’t last. Zacharias Smith, after Cedric Diggory’s death this year’s Quidditch captain, seized the lull as his cue.

‘Tove,’ he began, voice loud enough for half the table to hear. ‘We need to talk strategy.’

He had big shoes to fill, she understood. Nevertheless, Cedric had always shown consideration for her shyness, talking to her privately or merely in the presence of the team when quidditch was concerned. Zacharias had been part of the team since his third year now. He should know better. She closed her eyes. ‘I’d rather not.’

‘No, I mean it. You’re one of the best Beaters we’ve had in years. If you focused, we could take the Cup. Maybe even get you scouted.’

‘Scouted?’

'For professional leagues,’ he said eagerly. ‘Imagine it — Tove Lindqvist, star Beater, crowds chanting your name, your face on Chocolate Frog cards—'

And she did - picture it: thousands of eyes, roaring voices, cameras flashing. Her palms went clammy.

‘No, thank you,’ she said flatly. ‘I’d really rather not.’

‘But—‘

“I don’t like attention,” she interrupted, unintentionally so, as her nervousness always caused her to do. “Or crowds. Or cameras. Or chanting. I really mean it - I don’t want to be your star Beater.’

He blinked at her, baffled. Zacharias Smith clearly was not used to rejection, especially when it involved his grand visions.

Before he could launch into another monologue, Tove turned away, letting her gaze flicker over the great hall.

To her own surprise, she felt strangely drawn towards the Gryffindor table, even if the train ride had been a stressful experience. Sometimes it took Tove a moment to realise she actually liked someone. Angelina Johnson sat tall among the Gryffindors, laughing, a goblet raised in her hand. She seemed to belong there as naturally as the candles floating above their heads, her presence easy and intimidating at once. Where Tove stumbled through silences, Angelina navigated the crowd with effortless ease: trading jokes with Lee Jordan, teasing the Weasley twins, and coaxing shy first-years into conversation without missing a beat.

It wasn’t just her magnetic personality that made her shine tonight — the way people leaned toward her unconsciously, as though her confidence could spill over onto them. News had already spread down the tables that she was Gryffindor’s new Quidditch captain, and judging by the way her teammates looked at her, nobody doubted she was born for the job.

She caught Tove’s eyes across the tables, winked, and raised her drink in a mock toast.

Tove nearly stabbed herself with her fork.

 

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The feast wound down with puddings vanishing and benches scraping. Students surged toward the doors, their voices echoing high into the rafters. Tove clutched Cerberus tightly, grateful to have his purring as comfort for her own thundering heart.

‘Well, well, if it isn’t Linny.’

The voice was too gleeful, too identical in timbre to place. Fred. Or George. Both, in fact — one materialized at her left, the other at her right, trapping her neatly like wolves flanking prey.

‘We have a proposition,’ said Twin One.

‘A business opportunity,’ finished Twin Two.

Before she could object, they each hooked an arm through hers and marched her down the corridor.

‘We’re expanding,’ said one.

‘Branching out,’ said the other.

‘We need agents in every House.’

‘And you, Linny dear, are our badger in shining armor.’

With a dramatic flourish, they produced a lurid poster: Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes — Skiving Snackboxes, guaranteed to get you out of class! The letters flashed obnoxiously in shifting colors.

Tove’s stomach clenched. She was ready to mutter some excuse — allergies, stage fright, death — when her attention suddenly diverted.

He strolled past with the kind of ease that made apparent nobody ever stood in his way (whenever Tove tried to navigate herself through corridors full of students - eyes downcast, fast-paced - it felt like she was participating in an obstacle course), his Slytherin robe hanging loose, tie undone, hair falling over his brow in artful rebellion. There was a spark of humor in his dark eyes, the hint of someone permanently in on a joke no one else could quite catch.

As he passed, his gaze flicked to the twins’ poster. Instead of sneering, he gave a low whistle. ‘Skiving Snackboxes? Clever.’

Fred puffed up immediately. George beamed.

‘Finally, a man of taste,’ said one twin.

‘Finally, a Slytherin with vision,’ said the other.

Pullox’s mouth quirked into a crooked smile. ‘Don’t get used to it, Weasleys.’ Then, almost imperceptibly, his eyes brushed over Tove. A glance, brief and unreadable, before he was gone again, stride unhurried, as though the whole castle belonged to him.

Tove stood frozen, clutching Cerbe so tightly the cat wriggled in protest. She barely noticed the twins pressing the poster back into her hands. Her pulse was a drumbeat in her ears.

He hadn’t mocked them. He hadn’t mocked her. He’d actually encouraged them.

Pullox Montague, the Slytherin boy who looked like he’d walked out of a magazine, had sided with the Weasley twins. And had glanced at her — surely that counted for something.

‘Yes,’ she blurted, words tumbling out before she could stop them. ‘I’ll do it.’

The twins whooped, triumphant. Tove barely heard them. She was still replaying the way his smile had looked, lopsided and conspiratorial, like a secret invitation.
It was ridiculous.
It was impossible.
And it was everything.

Chapter Text

The dungeons of Hogwarts were colder than Tove remembered— a fact that she always tended to forget whenever she thought of them (and she thought of them quite a lot). Despite it being dark and eerie down here, a sort of environment that she usually preferred, she didn’t like the feeling of windowless spaces, far too claustrophobic for her taste. In the sparsely lit classroom, the smell of damp stone, burnt herbs, and something faintly metallic hung in the air. Cerb wriggled in her bag, he too unhappy with the chill.

Potions was a subject Tove was particularly untalented in. It had once occurred to her that, in her whole student career (five whole years of constant failure by now), she had not once finished an assignment given by Professor Snape successfully. Be it brewing a Befuddlement Draught or writing an essay on the characteristics of Salamander blood, she always ended up fumbling the task.

Professor Snape entered like a gust of midnight, robes billowing like storm clouds, and immediately, the lively chatter of the students ceased. Tove liked to think of him as a human-shaped raptor, the way he seemed to scan the class as if calculating how many of them might die before Christmas.

‘This year,’ he said, voice soft and cutting, ‘we will avoid the catastrophic incompetence of previous terms. To ensure that even the most… hopeless among you do not sink entirely, I have devised a new arrangement.' His gaze lingered on Tove just long enough for her to avert her gaze. Catastrophic incompetence was definitely one way to put it, she thought.

‘Each dunderhead will sit beside someone less inclined to blow themselves up. With any luck, proximity to competence might prove contagious.’

A ripple of nervous laughter died quickly under his glare and only then the students began to realise that he actually considered half of them completely incompetent. Snape began pairing them with a flick of his hand. ‘Crabbe with Abbott. Parkinson with Finch-Fletchley. And…” his mouth curled in something close to a smile, ‘…Lindqvist with Montague.’

Tove’s stomach plunged. 

Across the aisle, Pullox unfolded from his seat with lazy grace. He didn’t hurry, didn’t frown — he just slung his bag over one shoulder and started toward her row. Each step echoed too loudly in her ears.

Don’t stare, don’t stare, don’t stare, she told herself over and over. She stared anyway.

He looked especially windswept today, almost like he’d come just from quidditch practice. Having forgotten his tie and cloak altogether, he reminded her of a misplaced plainclothesman who’d just entered into a room full of accurately uniformed officers. The smirk he wore wasn’t directed at her — maybe at no one — but it was enough to make her heart skip. She yanked her gaze down to her desk, to her hands, to her quill, which suddenly seemed the most fascinating object in the universe to her.

Cerberus hissed from inside her bag. Traitor.

Pullox dropped into the chair beside her, and the bench dipped under his weight. With his arrival, the air seemed to shift, thicker, charged. He didn’t acknowledge her. Just sat there, as if his presence in the classroom was purely by happenstance, an accidental conjuncture he couldn’t really explain himself. And yet, when Snape chalked out the ingredients for a Sleeping Draught, Pullox sat up straighter, focus sharpening.

Say something now, she scolded herself, not wanting to sit in awkward silence when she was next to him. Something normal. Something clever. Anything.

Poking at her valerian root as though it might bite her first, she decided that starting with the task would probably break the ice, perhaps even make her seem somewhat proactive. ‘So… we cut this?’ she whispered.

He gave her a sideways look, half annoyed, half something else she couldn’t quite pinpoint. 'With a knife, yeah,' Pullox muttered, voice threaded with boredom. 'Don’t decapitate yourself.’

Clearly, he wasn’t half as excited to be sitting next to her as it was the other way around. Tove did her best to swallow her disappointment, even though her feelings usually just felt too big to fit down her throat.

‘I don’t usually work with knives,’ she replied honestly. 'They’re usually not sharp enough for a proper beheading.’ As soon as she had finished the sentence, her ears began to burn. In fact, she had once tried to behead a dead pigeon with a kitchen knife, an undertaking that had resulted in lots of blood (really, who would’ve thought that so much blood fit into such a small body) and a nearly headless bird. But that wasn’t information she should provide here and now. Not in front of him.

Pullox’s brow lifted, and then, to her horror, he grinned. With a row of impeccably white teeth, she noticed. Not in a taunting way though, more so entertained. ‘Not sharp enough for a proper beheading. Right. I’ll be sure to remember that.’

Clueless what to do with that answer, she fixed her eyes on the blackboard, though the instructions swam unreadable before her. Her pulse beat in her throat, her palms, even in her knees. Being forced to sit next to him, all calm and obedient, felt like a rabbit forced to play nice with a wolf, knowing it could rip her to pieces any moment.

Then Snape’s voice sliced through the haze: ‘Begin.’

Eager to get the whole ordeal over with, Tove tried her best to cut with the blunted blade of her especially haggard-looking knife, sawing at the root. To no avail. The blade skittered, the root shot off the table like a cork. Thankfully though, Pullox caught it without looking, as if he’d expected it (it sometimes angered her, how easy things just came to him. Why was life so unfair? Who had distributed talents, wealth and looks so unevenly? And why did they hate her so much?).

Cerb growled. Low, sharp, directed at Pullox. His fur stood on end, bottlebrush tail thrashing.

‘Your cat’s got opinions,’ Pullox remarked flatly, handing her back the root as though nothing had happened.

‘He hates everyone,’ Tove said, though it wasn’t entirely true. Cerb usually didn’t hiss at people this violently. Only at dogs and children (whom she didn’t count as real people, yes). 

Pullox, perhaps not as bright as she had painted him out to be after all, didn’t heed the warning though, and leaned across to reach her spilled vial. The movement brushed too close to Cerb, who leapt from the bag with an ear-splitting screech. His paw snagged the edge of their cauldron.

The world slowed.

The cauldron tilted.

Pullox lunged to steady it. Tove lunged too, but at the wrong angle, knocking her pestle straight into the brew.

The potion hissed, boiled over, and with a sharp pop erupted into a fountain of violet foam. It splattered across their table, onto the flagstones, up Montague’s sleeve. Steam billowed, choking and sweet-smelling, curling toward the ceiling.

‘Brilliant,’ Pullox coughed, suddenly very un-nonchalant.

Students shrieked, laughed, some scrambled back. A glob of fizz landed in Tove’s hair, where it began to harden into a sticky crust. She swatted at it like a panicked bird, unsure what would happen if it reached her scalp.

Snape was there in an instant, black eyes narrowing at the mess. ‘Montague.' His voice was silk wrapped around venom. ‘I expected more.’

‘It wasn’t—‘ Pullox began, but Snape silenced him with a look.

‘And you, Lindqvist,’ Snape cut across her. ‘Still incapable of brewing so much as cough syrup without detonating the classroom. And what—‘ his gaze dropped, hawk-like, to the floor—‘is this?’

Cerberus arched his back, hissing at Snape as though daring him closer.

‘A cat,’ Tove said quickly. Too quickly. Then added, ‘His name ist Cerberus.’, as if that made any difference.

‘Really.’ Snape crouched, studying the creature with unnerving intensity. ‘Unusual eyes. Kneazle ancestry, perhaps? Curious.'

Cerb only bared his teeth at that statement as though finding the Professor’s words highly offensive.

Snape’s lip curled. He straightened and swept his gaze back over them. 'Montague. Detention. Friday night. Perhaps in silence you will reflect on how not to make my classroom resemble a battlefield.'

The class snickered. Tove wanted to sink through the flagstones. Pullox’s hands were fists on the table, jaw tight, but he didn’t argue. Snape glided away, already dismissing them.

For several moments, only the hiss of the ruined potion filled the air.

Tove tried to break the silence. ‘At least it didn’t explode.’

Pullox turned on her, eyes dark with fury. ‘Because I stopped it.’

‘True,’ she admitted.

She wished he’d say something to lighten the mood. Perhaps crack a joke, maybe even at her cost. But he didn’t. Instead, he shoved his things into his bag with sharp, angry movements. ‘Congratulations Lindqvist, really. Thanks to you, I’ll miss Quidditch tryouts. This is a catastrophe.’

Tove blinked. ‘Oh.’

‘Oh,’ he echoed bitterly, then slammed his bag shut, the sound echoing in the dungeon. ‘You don’t get it. That means training will be delayed another week. That means one week of advantage for the Gryffindors. Quidditch is everything.’ As if trying to emphasise his statement, he turned around to her once more, eyes glinting in anger. “Ev-ery-thing.’

Cerb growled again.

Pullox’s glare could have curdled milk. He shouldered past her toward the door, muttering under his breath. ‘At least maybe Hufflepuff finally has a chance of winning now.’
 
Tove stood rooted to the spot, potion-stained and sticky-haired, and though she found his apparent emotionality towards Quidditch slightly ridiculous, she still wondered why her chest felt tight — not possibly from guilt, but from the impossible ache of wanting to fix what she couldn’t. 

Chapter Text

Pullox Montague had long ago decided that he did not belong to the diurnal part of his kind. At home, he never stood up before the sun had reached its zenith (that is, if there actually existed a sun in Scotland - that whole ‘it’s just hiding behind the clouds’-story sounded like just another diversion tactic from the government to hide they had already blown it up by accident, if you asked him). Nothing good ever happened before noon, and yet here he was, dragging himself out of bed because even he had to show up for classes every now and then if he wanted to keep his Quidditch spot.

Still, mornings had their perks. Breakfast, for example. For someone almost seven feet tall and thus perpetually hungry like him, three meals a day were the bare minimum. Sleeping through it usually meant late night visits to the kitchens, and then entering into a doom loop of going to bed too late and missing breakfast yet again. On top of this, he had his people waiting for him.

Not friends, exactly. Pullox didn’t really trust other Slytherins. Being part of his house resembled what he imagined living in a posh neighbourhood full of frustrated housewives must’ve felt like. There was somewhat of an ostensible community, a mutual understanding of being superior to the other houses (mostly based on traditionalist pure-blood sentences or classism), but internal, they all resented each other. There were few exceptions, people like him, who were maybe just a little too shrewd to fit anywhere else. At the end of the day, his gang had allied more so because of a lack of choice variety than feeling drawn to each other.

Nyx Greengrass, the female third of their group, was early as usual. She leaned against the stone wall outside the common room, hair hacked blunt across her forehead, probably a cut she’d done herself last night (at least he couldn’t remember that atrocious fringe had been there yesterday), as rash decisions were kind of her thing. Her tie was covered in safety pins, her boots scuffed, nails painted a glossy shade of chipped black. She looked like she’d dressed just to upset the dress code this year, and she’d done a pretty good job at that.

‘Look who’s here,’ she said, her lips curling into a sharp little grin. ‘Didn’t think you’d ever miss your beauty sleep.’

Pullox rolled his shoulders. ‘I am, mind you, beautiful with or without sleep. Which is more than I can say for you and your hair.’

She snorted, though her grin didn’t falter. ‘Careful, you’ll break my heart.’

‘Don’t bother,’ Pullox said. ‘I know you have no such thing.’

Behind Nyx, Rook Travers materialised from the shadows like a ghost, silent as ever. He was tall, shoulders heavy from hours with a Beater’s bat, hair spiked in every direction as though he’d stuck his finger in a hexed socket. Rook rarely spoke, whether that was a deliberate choice or just due to a lack of intelligence, Pullox wasn’t sure.

‘Morning, Rook,’ Pullox said cheerfully. ‘Made anyone cry today?'

Rook shrugged, his face carved in an eternal frown. ‘It’s only 7:40,’ he mumbled, almost a little apologetic.

Nyx groaned. ‘How are you so talkative before breakfast.’

‘That’s just my quirky personality,’ Pullox said with a wink. ‘Don’t act like you don’t love me.’

The three of them headed out together, boots clicking across damp stone. They moved with a kind of silent choreography: Pullox in the center, usually leading the way, Nyx on his right, always on a quest to frighten first-years, Rook on his right, scowling at each and everyone coming their way. As a matter of fact, Pullox believed he was the sunshine of his trio, no way he’d ever outbid the other two in depressiveness. Which was fine by him, a change of perspective couldn’t do him any harm.

They had just entered the corridor that lead directly toward the Great Hall, when voices echoed around the corner, twin in tone and tempo. Pullox couldn’t believe his luck. The Weasley twins. Almost like fate had made him wake up this morning.

Indeed, Fred and George Weasley came sauntering towards them, heads huddled together in what seemed to be a heated discussion, mischief practically steaming off their red hair. Most Slytherin despised them, the Weasley’s pranks were a notorious topic in the common room, often accompanied by many empty death threats and plans of meaningless counterattacks. Today however, their sight delighted Pullox immensely, he was a man on a mission after all.

‘Well, well,’ Fred said, bowing dramatically as soon as he noticed the Slytherins. ‘If it isn’t Montague, prince of the dungeons.’

George chimed in, ‘Didn’t expect to see you conscious before lunch.’

Pullox didn’t break stride. ‘Didn’t expect to see you vertical after Peeves’ last tantrum. You two are slipperier than I gave you credit for.’

(Rumour had it Peeves had chased them around the castle with a spiked mace he'd nicked from one of the many armaments displayed in the third floor after the twins had thrown a self-made firecracker at him last night).

‘High praise,’ Fred said. 'Almost sounds like you like us.’

Pullox shrugged. ‘Don’t flatter yourselves. I’m merely being opportunistic, not friendly.’

That got their attention. Fred and George exchanged a glance that was practically telepathic. ‘Sounds like you’re in need of a service,’ George said.

‘And, as it happens, we’re in need of a filthy rich costumer.’

Pullox didn't bother to tell them that he was, contrary to popular belief, not at all from a loaded family (the only money he possessed was what he'd earned with his mini-job at the record store during summer and selling pixie weed to his classmates every now and then). He stopped in front of the twins, lowering his voice just enough to make Nyx lean in, curious. ‘Something loud. Something humiliating. Something to put Flint and his lackeys back in place.’

There was no way Pullox would allow hat dimwit to be captain next year. Even if the Malfoys favoured the prat, they could only sponsor so many brooms. Pullox was the more gifted player. And he’d make damn sure things stayed the way they were.

Fred’s grin widened. ‘Music to our ears.’

George slipped a hand into his bag and pulled out a small vial of green liquid, cork stoppered and glowing faintly. ‘A drop of this in his pumpkin juice, and Flint will sing like a banshee every time he opens his mouth. Loud. Off-key. Unstoppable for a good hour.’

Nyx, who’d overheard everything (nosey as she was) gave a snort. ’That’s hardly a change for the worse if you listened to the shit he usually spouts.’

Not minding her, Pullox took the vial, inspecting it once with an contemplative look in his face before pocketing it. ‘Consider me your silent investor.’ He tossed a small pouch of Sickles to Fred, who caught it one-handed.

‘Pleasure doing business,’ Fred said with a grin.

‘Don’t mix it with alcohol or he might die,’ George added.

Pullox smirked. ‘No promises.’

As they walked away, Nyx elbowed him lightly, visibly irritated by his antics. ‘You’re buying toys from Gryffindors now? What’s next, sharing a butterbeer with Longbottom?’

Pullox arched a brow. ‘Relax. It’s not charity. It’s revenge. Entirely different currency.’

Even Rook cracked half a smile at that.

 

ཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮

 

By the time they filed into Defense Against the Dark Arts, Pullox’s mood had lifted. Which, naturally, Dolores Umbridge immediately ruined.

She stood at the front of the classroom like an overstuffed pastry in pink wool. Her smile was a painted mask, her voice a sticky treacle that clung to the air.

‘Good morning, children!’ she squeaked, the kind of pitch that could crack glass. Children, Pullox repeated in his head, almost wanting to laugh. She had a class of seventeen-year-olds in front of her, for God’s sake. Harriet Jones from Ravenclaw was missing because she’d gotten knocked up during the holidays. That woman should know better.

‘The Ministry of Magic cares very deeply for your education. We only want what is best for each and every one of you.’

Pullox slouched in his chair, arms crossed. Across the aisle, Nyx mouthed the words kill me now.

‘This year,’ Umbridge continued, 'we will be focusing on theory. Practical magic is far too dangerous for such young witches and wizards. The Ministry believes it is in your best interests to study spells conceptually, so that you may understand them without the risk of misuse.’

Pullox leaned sideways toward Rook, feeling the need to say something, if only to distract himself. ‘Looks like an embittered old spinster to me. And now she’s projecting all that sexual frustration on us, the innocent children we are.’

‘Merlin help us,’ Rook agreed, probably only forcing himself to engage in the back and forth given the alternative: paying attention to the class.

‘Defense,' Umbridge said, ‘is about knowledge. Not reckless wand-waving.’

Nyx muttered, ‘If I wanted a lecture on wand-waving, I’d ask Warrington.’ Pullox stifled a laugh, covering it with a cough. Sure enough, Elyas Warrington, seventh year and Slytherin’s keeper, had once compared his manhood to the size of an enormously large bratwurst during dinner. When nobody believed him, he’d actually exposed himself and thus earned himself a bloody nose from Nyx, who was known for her left hook ever since.

Reminiscing in the pleasant memory, Pullox almost didn’t hear the Ravenclaw’s question who’d held her arm raised since the beginning of the class. 'Professor, is it true the Ministry just passed new restrictions against werewolves? My father said they won’t be allowed to work certain jobs anymore.’

The air in the room shifted. Or was that just his own imagination? Suddenly, he felt very exposed in the middle of the room, like he was standing in the dock instead of sitting at his school bench. Directly in Umbridge’s view.

The professor’s smile widened, revealing teeth too sharp for her mouth. ‘Ah, yes. The Ministry’s noble efforts to protect us all. Werewolves, you see, are creatures of instability. Untrustworthy. Dangerous. It would be terribly irresponsible to allow them freedom equal to decent, hard-working witches and wizards. Our society must remain vigilant against… undesirable elements.’

A chill went through the class. Even the Ravenclaws who usually heckled stayed silent. Pullox stared at his parchment, his hand tight on his quill. Nyx didn’t say a word. Neither did Rook. For once, silence was the only safe play.

Umbridge went on, words dripping like venom disguised as honey, until finally — mercifully — the bell rang. Students shot from their seats like arrows, desperate for escape. Pullox rose too, bag slung over his shoulder, when her voice cut the air.

'Mr. Montague. A word.’

Nyx gave him a look on her way out. ‘Enjoy your execution.’

Rook followed, silent as a shadow.

Pullox approached the desk, every step deliberate. He’d learned long ago that people like Umbridge fed on fear. He wasn’t about to give her a feast.

‘Yes, Professor?’ he said, voice flat.

Her smile was so sweet it rotted. ‘Professor Snape, I regret to say, is occupied with other duties. Therefore, I shall be supervising your detention myself. Tonight.'

Pullox blinked once. ‘Lucky me.’

Her smile didn’t waver. ‘Indeed.'

She dismissed him with a flick of her hand, like he was her dog and she his master. Pullox turned and walked out, the weight of her gaze heavy between his shoulder blades.

Outside, Nyx and Rook were already waiting.

When he didn’t say anything, Nyx was the first to ask. ‘Well?’

Pullox let out a low whistle. ‘Snape’s off the hook. Madam Toad herself is taking my detention.’

His friend grimaced theatrically. ‘Better start writing your will.’

Rook snorted — his version of a belly laugh.

Pullox forced a grin, though his stomach felt like lead. ‘Don’t worry. With my unmistakable charm, I’ll have her wrapped around my finger in no time.’

They laughed — or in Rook’s case, made a noise that resembled laughter. And Pullox let the mask of humour sit heavy on his face, because it was easier than admitting what he felt.

He’d seen the look in Umbridge’s eyes.

And he knew what suspicion smelled like.

Chapter Text

The morning air was thin and bright, full of that particular kind of cold that scraped at your lungs and turned your cheeks pink. It was only September, but summer had left early this year, harbingering a long and chilling fall. The pitch glittered with dew, when the Hufflepuff team was beginning to gather — yawning, tugging on gloves, broom handles thumping lightly against boots.

Tove Lindqvist was always early.

Not because she was eager to chat or warm up with the others — but because she liked the quiet before everyone else arrived. The steady hum of the wind through the hoops, the smell of damp grass, the faint, comforting weight of her Beater’s bat in her hands.

She swung it once, twice, testing the feel. The balance was perfect. Predictable. Safe.

‘Lindqvist!’

Zacharias Smith’s voice carried easily over the field — loud, confident, always a little too pleased with itself. ‘I swear, you’re part owl. How are you up before sunrise every practice?’

Tove turned her head just enough to look at him. His blond hair was glinting in the morning sun like it had been designed for a broomstick magazine cover.

‘I go to bed early,’ she explained flatly, wondering yet again why people always asked her questions that seemed to answer themselves.

Zacharias grinned, closing the distance between them in long strides, followed by the rest of the team like a disorganised flock of sheep. ‘I bet you do. If you ever need someone in your life to keep you up late from time, just let me know.’ He winked at her.

Adjusting her grip on the bat, Tove knitted her brows. ‘What a silly proposal.’

At her words, Tamsin Applebee and Anthony Ricket - both of them equally mediocre Hufflepuff Chasers - snorted into her scarves. Zacharias clutched his chest dramatically. ‘Cold. Ice cold. Merlin, if I weren’t so dangerously handsome and popular among girls, I’d actually think you just rejected me.’

Tove tilted her head, studying him as though he were a complicated potion ingredient. ‘You’re not in danger,’ she said finally. 'You’re fine.’

Laughter broke across the team. Even Zacharias couldn’t help but grin as he mounted his broom. ‘Don’t always take everything so literal, Lindqvist.’

Wondering what she’d done wrong now, Tove frowned.

But then again, once they were in the air, none of it mattered. The world dropped away — the chatter, the teasing, the boundaries of the field. It was just wind and balance and the wild pulse of movement.

Tove’s body understood flight better than it understood conversation.

The drills started simple: passing formation, acceleration sprints, goal practice. The Hufflepuff team was solid, maybe not as good as Gryffindor or Slytherin (with the loss of Cedric, the only two really talented players left were Zacharias and herself), but dependable — a quality that fit Tove well.

Then Zacharias blew his whistle and called, ‘Beaters, you’re up!’

She felt her pulse quicken — the kind of electric anticipation that hummed in her muscles before a hit. Two Bludgers were released from the trunk, spinning through the air like living cannonballs.

‘Target practice,’ Zacharias shouted. ‘I want clean control and zero concussions this time!'

Maxine O’Flaherty, a tall seventh year and fellow Beater, laughed nervously. ‘That was one time!’

Tove ignored them. The first Bludger screamed past Tove’s ear, close enough to have almost touched her skin. She didn’t flinch. Instead, She leaned into her broom and followed, her hair whipping in the wind, eyes narrowing against the sun.

Timing. Breath. Swing.

The bat met iron with a satisfying vibration that sang through her arms. The Bludger shot off like lightning and shattered the practice dummy’s helmet clean in half.

Zacharias whistled. ‘Beautiful, Lindqvist! Bloody terrifying, but beautiful!’

Tove didn’t smile. She just circled back, adjusting her angle for the next one.

The second Bludger came from below — she dove to meet it, rolled, hit again, this time deflecting it toward Maxine’s left shoulder. Maxine however, visibly unprepared, only yelped and ducked. The ball whizzed past, missing her by a hairsbreadth.

‘Sorry,' Tove called out — genuinely. ‘You moved wrong.’

Amelia gaped at her. ‘I— I was avoiding getting my arm broken!’

But Tove didn’t hear her.

The drills continued, Tove weaving in and out of players with calculated efficiency. Where others hesitated, afraid of collision, she darted through gaps the width of a wand, her shoulder brushing robes, her knees gripping the broomstick like iron. She played with the focus of someone threading a needle while falling.

By the time the whistle shrieked to end practice, her hair was plastered to her temples, her lungs burning, but exhilaration buzzed through her veins. On the ground again, she dismounted, legs shaking slightly from adrenaline.

‘You were brilliant,’ Zacharias said, swaggering over the pitch like it already belonged to him, with that grin again. He ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, managing to look as though he’d just stepped out of a painting. 'If you don’t watch out, you’ll break hearts along with records.’

Tove stared at him blankly. ‘I don’t aim at crucial organs.’

He chuckled, nonetheless a little confused, and she walked off toward the changing rooms before he could say anything else.

 

ཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮

 

Later that evening, after a very long double period of Transfiguration and an even more bone-grinding hour of Apparition (honestly, why did she even bother - she’d never pass the test without splinching herself into a thousand pieces), she was back in the Hufflepuff girls’ dormitory, where the air smelled faintly of lavender sachets and freshly laundered sheets. Poppy Sweet, Lenora Everleigh, and Amelia Fittleworth sprawled across the beds with butter-yellow blankets, their chatter spilling into every corner.

‘Have you heard about Harriet Jones?’ Poppy said in a scandalized whisper, painting her nails with enchanted polish that shifted from gold to amber. ‘She’s not coming back this term.’

Lenora, in the middle of putting her hair in pink plastic curlers, gasped. ‘Why? She didn’t get expelled, did she?’

‘Worse,’ Poppy said, savouring the moment of knowing something the others didn’t. ‘She’s pregnant.’ (The last word she said in a tone that Tove imagined had last been used in medieval times during witch trials, shortly before an innocent muggle would be prosecuted by the mob).

Amelia shrieked, nearly choking on the liquorice wand she’d been eating. ‘No! Over the summer?’

‘Apparently,’ Poppy said smugly. ‘And by a muggle boy at that. It would’ve been her responsibility to use a basic contraception charm, if you ask me.’

‘Didn’t you use to sit next to her in Arithmancy, Tove?’ Lenora asked, eager for more information.

‘You knew her?’ Excitement was written all over Amelia’s pretty face.

All three turned to Tove, as though her opinion were a prized object. She kept folding her socks into exact squares, stacking them with military precision.

‘Not really,’ she said somewhat offhandedly. Folding clothes always took up all of her attention, as everything had to be meticulously arranged into symmetrical piles. If something went wrong, she’d be forced to start from scratch again. Therefore, full concentration was vital.

But the girls clearly weren’t ready to let her off the hook this easy. ‘Well, what do you think about the situation?’ Pressed Poppy impatiently, who was the unofficial head of the clique (and also the most irritating in Tove’s opinion).

Refusing to feed into Poppy’s hunger for a public éclat, Tove sighed. ‘She should have told her stupid boyfriend to use a condom,’ she finally said matter-of-factly, without looking up.

Silence — then Amelia, the daftest of the three and only pureblood in their dorm, asked: ‘Condom? What’s a -…’

‘Don’t ask,’ Poppy promptly intervened, her tone more of a command than a well-meaning advice. ‘She’ll actually explain and you don’t want to know.’

Tove frowned, unsure on why she shouldn’t explain when there was blatantly a lack of education in matters of procreation among witches and wizards. She was however sure that further input to the discussion from her part wasn’t wished for.

As usual, when Tove said something out of place, the girls dismissed her quickly and the conversation shifting seamlessly, as it often did, toward boys.

‘Alright,’ Poppy said, tossing her nail polish aside (feeling oddly sympathetic with the inanimate object, Tove flinched). ’Top three Hogwarts hotties. Go.’

Lenora raised a perfectly plucked brow. ‘Easy. Cormac McLaggen, obviously.’

‘Oh, please,’ Poppy groaned. ‘McLaggen screws anything with a heartbeat. You could be a broomstick with eyelashes, and he’ll still try.’

Amelia clutched her pillow, giggling. ‘But you’ve got to admit, he’s cute.’

Snorting, Poppy shook her head. ‘What about Zacharias? Did you see him at practice today? That hair, that smile -‘

Lenora grinned, waggling her eyebrows playfully. ‘I see you like them young.’

Poppy rolled her eyes. ‘He’s one year younger. And already Quidditch Captain.’

‘And already such a flirt,’ groaned Lenora. ‘He’s got that attitude, you know. Like he already knows he’s pretty.’

They dissolved into laughter until Amelia’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘But Montague…’

A hush fell over the room. Tove’s hands froze mid-motion.

Lenora groaned. ‘Ridiculous. That body. He’s, like, a sex god.’

(Tove couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Were people actually speaking that way? She’d always imagined that was only a thing in corny American coming-of-age movies.)

‘Oh Merlin, yes,’ Amelia whispered, fanning herself with her hand. ‘Massive. He could probably carry me all the way up the Astronomy Tower without even breathing hard.’

(Tove certainly didn’t like that idea.)

‘His voice,’ Lenora said reverently. ‘So low and masculine. If he said my name like that - ’ She shrieked, covering her face with her pillow. ‘I’d faint.’

Poppy burst into laughter. ‘You’d faint before he even looked at you.’

‘Have you seen his hands?’ Amelia asked in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘You know what they say when they have big hands.’

(Tove didn’t.)

Eyes wide, Lenora collapsed onto the bed with giggles.

(What did they say about people with big hands?)

Poppy gave a wicked little grin. ‘Rumor says he never dates anyone twice. Just ruins them and walks away.’

Lenora squealed into her blanket. ‘Stop, I can’t - he’s too much!’

Tove’s ears were burning and she tried her best to focus harder on the precise fold of her jumper, willing the other girls not to see her stiff shoulders. Ever since they had started to talk about him, her stomach was twisting with something she didn’t quite understand.

But of course, Poppy’s attention darted straight to Tove, equipped with an unmistakable instinct of sniffing out secrets, and then to her trunk, where Tove had just lifted out another neatly stacked bundle. ‘Oh my god Tove, what’s this?’ she cried, snatching something before Tove could stop her.

Tove’s favourite pair of black lace underwear dangled from her fingers.

The squeals were deafening. ‘Black underwear!’ Amelia gasped, eyes wide with glee. ‘You know what they say about black underwear…’

Again, Tove didn’t.

‘That means you want to have sex some day!’ Lenora cried, both scandalised and delighted at the same time.

Amelia shrieked with laughter. ‘It’s always the quiet ones! I’m telling you!’

Tove’s chest felt tight, air hard to pull in. Heat rushed to her face. She didn’t want it, didn’t want them staring at her like that, didn’t want their laughter crawling over her skin. With a clumsy jerk she stuffed the garment back into her trunk and slammed the lid shut with a thud.

The sound of the other girls’ laughter swelled around her, rising and falling in waves, echoing in her ears. Her hands trembled as she fumbled for the lock. She couldn’t breathe.

Without a word, she bolted from the dormitory, the shrieks of ‘Tove!' and ‘Come back!’ following her down the staircase like a swarm of Doxies.

 

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The castle corridors were cool, covered in darkness and - thankfully - completely deserted. Tove’s footsteps echoed down the sprawling stone floor, her breath still uneven, cheeks still burning. She didn’t know where she was running to, only that she needed to get away from the unbearable noise and the suffocating heat of the dormitory.

Where was Cerb when she needed him? The bloody cat had been missing all day.

She turned a corner and nearly collided with a tall, broad-shouldered person (immediately imagining the worst, as she’d been caught roaming the castle at night several times already, funnily enough always by Snape). Much to her surprise, it turned out to be Angelina Johnson, her braids tied back in a scarlet ribbon, looking like she had just come from her own practice session. She steadied Tove with a firm hand on her arm.

‘Whoa. Easy there. You look like you just sprinted half the castle.’

Tove shook her head, words caught somewhere in her throat.

Angelina’s sharp eyes softened. ‘Are you okay?’

Tove hesitated, then muttered, ‘They were… being loud.’

She knew she wouldn’t understand. They never understood. Why even bother trying to explain herself at this point.

Angelina however, instead of asking lots of superfluous questions on the whys and hows, simply chuckled low in her throat. ‘Trouble in the badger den?’ She guided Tove to sit on the bottom step of the staircase. 'Come on. Breathe. Whatever they said, forget it. Girls in dorms can get… difficult.’

Tove sat, clutching her knees, staring at the stone floor. She could still hear the blood rushing in her ears.

‘It just sometimes gets too much.’ The worlds tumbled out before she could stop them, hot tears burning embarrassingly in her eyes.

‘Hey,’ Angelina said very calmly, as though speaking with a frightened animal. It still helped. It was exactly what she needed. ’Is it okay if I touch you?’ Startled, Tove looked up, then realised Angelina had been midway between putting a comforting arm around her shoulders. She tentatively nodded yes, feeling her muscles relax at the touch.

It was odd. Other people touching usually always discomforted Tove. Even her mother’s embraces could feel suffocating sometimes, when she was especially overstimulated. But with Angelina, it was different. Maybe because she had asked for permission in advance. Or maybe because Tove felt especially scared and lonely today.

For a while, they just sat there in companionable silence, the murmur of the castle around them. Then, when Tove felt like she had finally calmed down and her brain started to work again, she gathered up all her courage and asked: ‘Can I ask you a question?’

Smiling kindly, Angelina nodded. ‘Of course.’

'They said…’, She paused for a second, a flush creeping up her neck. ‘They said black underwear means you want to have sex.’ She felt stupid repeating Lenora’s statement, already knowing it sounded completely ludicrous.

But Tove needed someone to explain it to her. Those strange teenage ways. She hated always being the outcast. All she wanted was to be in on a joke for once.

For a second, Angelina looked startled — then she threw her head back and laughed. Not in a cruel way though, not like in the dorm. It was warm, rolling, alive. ‘Merlin’s pants, Tove. They’re ridiculous. Black underwear just means you’re not into yellow polka dots. That’s it.’

Tove glanced at her uncertainly. ‘Really?'

‘Really,’ Angelina said firmly, still smiling. ‘Trust me. If underwear decided who was ready for sex, half the school would be with baby by now.’

That earned the faintest tug of a smile at Tove’s mouth. Angelina noticed and leaned her shoulder lightly against hers. ‘See? You’re laughing. Told you it’s nonsense.’

Warm relief flooded Tove’s chest, dispelling her anxiety like a Patronus charm. Angelina tilted her head, studying her. ‘You know, you’re brilliant on the pitch. I saw you earlier — clean passes, fearless dives. You’re wasted on Hufflepuff, honestly.’

Tove frowned. ‘I’m not wasted.’

Angelina grinned. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I mean — you play like a Gryffindor. Brave, reckless, powerful. I like that.’

Tove blinked, uncertain how to respond. Compliments still felt like puzzles with missing pieces.

Angelina’s grin softened into something gentler. ‘Don’t let them get under your skin. You’re sharper than they know.’

Her voice had changed — less teasing, more intent. Tove didn’t notice the way Angelina’s gaze lingered a beat too long, the way her arm stayed close against hers, not moving away.

‘I should… go back,’ She instead murmured after a while, though she didn’t stand.

‘You don’t have to,’ Angelina said quietly. ‘Stay a bit. Let them wear themselves out. Tomorrow they’ll be on about someone else, I promise.’

The corners of Tove’s mouth twitched again. She leaned her chin on her knees, feeling calmer than before. With Angelina next to her, the world didn’t press so hard.

Chapter Text

The next morning began the way most of Tove’s mornings did: with a very thoroughly planned routine. Everyday, she would wake up around five, press a short kiss to Cerb’s forehead (who preferred to sleep in), grab her clothes for the next day (already carefully ironed and laid ready, prepared by herself the evening prior) and tiptoe to the bathroom to get ready. In doing so, her early rising was less a token for her fondness for the early hours, but for her aversion for communal showers.

Her body had always been a target for teasing, as skinny and disproportioned as she’d been as a child, she feared what comments she might have to endure now that she was becoming a woman. Being a late bloomer, puberty had hit her late. But when it did, it hit with might and main. It happened this summer, in the sanctuary of being home in her parents’ house, that she’d begun to change. Her legs, once unshaped bony sticks, were suddenly toned, strong with muscles and freckled by the sun. Her stomach, once the hollow valley between her wretchedly protruding ribcage, now didn’t seem to be starving anymore, soft and girl-shaped. Even her chest, which had stayed as flat as one of granny Astrid’s blueberry pancakes for the first sixteen years of her life, had started to grow. Undoubtedly, she’d never become as busty as Lavender Brown, but she was still somewhat proud of her new assets.

Herself liking her new shape notwithstanding, people had never been nice to her. What else was there to do, than to stay out of the trajectory.

After standing under the hot shower for at least ten minutes, it took her another twenty to dry her hair, which wasn’t only thick but also unpractically long. Tove’s hair grew like she bathed her head in fertiliser (she had to cut it once a month to keep it from being in her way all the time). Since she hated going to the hairdresser immensely, it sometimes hung down to her hips by the end of a school term, when she could return home and have her mother do the job. (Some of the especially imaginative kids had once compared her to Dumbledore, saying they shared a hairstyle in length and colour.)

While brushing her teeth, Tove usually counted the seconds, just like the dentist had recommended it to her. All of her tasks, she absolved with careful precision, as she considered every step a build-up to make it through the rest of the day.

Being Tove Lindqvist wasn’t particularly easy. With so many things to fear, and so little things to enjoy, the world could appear a hostile place. Living in it took a lot of courage.

When she was done in the bathroom, Tove usually waited in the common room for Cerb to emerge from the dormitory, sometimes reading a book she’d burrowed from the library or finishing her homework.

Of course, things couldn’t always go to plan. Last year, for example, there had been a day in which Lenora had interrupted Tove’s bathroom routine to use the toilet. Another time, Poppy had tried to forbid Tove to get up so early, as it (allegedly) disrupted her sleep, and stolen her alarm clock.

Whenever that happened, Tove fell to pieces. She’d helplessly cry for hours, refusing to leave her bed, writing her parents that she needed to go home immediately, and consequently missed the whole school day. It usually took her several of Madam Pomfrey’s Calming Draughts to quieten down, but even then these instances shook her to the core.

Nevertheless, today, everything went according to Tove’s calculations. As soon as she’d flipped open her potions textbook, a sleepy meow announced Cerberus’ imminent arrival. Sure enough, not a second later, her black cat stalked around the corner, immediately demanding breakfast and attention in no clear order, dismissing her hopes of learning vehemently. His voice, high and astoundingly resonant for such a small creature, echoed through the whole wing, his first meal of the day never missed to be a very thrilling event for him, and a very awakening one of the rest of the house.

As soon as she heard the other students rouse, she took Cerberus to the kitchens, where the house elves prepared him breakfast and gushed over Tove, whom they greatly adored for her tidiness (albeit never understanding why she insisted on doing her laundry herself).

When all of this was done (and only then), Tove finally felt ready to enter the Great Hall. There, she’d always have her bowl of cereals (first six scoops of cornflakes, then the milk), a cup of pumpkin juice (no coffee, or her heart felt like it’d explode any second) and read the The Daily Prophet (or rather pretended to do so, a precaution against any attempts of conversation).

At the time that she sat in the Transfiguration classroom, Cerb hidden under the desk on her lap, purring contently, Tove felt ready to finally draw a deep breath: she’d survived another morning. As nonsensical as it sounded, for her, the start of a new day always brought something existential in its wake. Gazing out the tall windows that filtered a few shy beams of sunlight into McGonagall’s classroom, Tove felt almost at peace. That is, until the austere professor herself entered, expression so deadly serious one would’ve thought she’d just received the most sinister news, her emerald robes swishing like a nun’s habit.

‘Today,’ McGonagall began, her crisp Oxford accent slicing through the chatter, ‘we will continue with advanced Object-To-Animal Transfiguration. To turn a teacup into a tortoise should be fairly easy for you by now, as we have been practicing intermediate transformations since last year.’ She paused, raking the students through her half-moon spectacles, lips thin as a thread.

‘Miss Lindqvist.’

‘Yes, Professor?’ Tove asked, bracing herself.

‘I trust you have practiced since last time’s,’ she paused for a moment ‘incident with Mister Towler’s broom?’

‘I have, Professor,’ Tove lied.

(Last year, Kenneth Towler’s nimbus had burst into flames while trying to turn it into a Holly shrub. Truth be told, it hadn’t been an accident. He’d made fun of Tove’s apparent lack of talent, so she’d shown him she wasn’t entirely incapable.)

Two rows behind her, Towler (now equipped with a Firebolt, that stinking rich doofus), gave a butt sore snort. Suppressing a smirk, Tove turned her attention instead to the delicate Chinese teacup in front of her. It had a beautiful colour, flint red with speckled markings that displayed the traces left by time, painted with fine illustrations of bamboo plants. Despite being so innocently pretty, Tove felt like it was laughing at her already.

Pointing her wand at it, half convinced the cup would explode into a thousand pieces, Tove mumbled ‘Tortugamorphia.’

There was a sharp pop, followed by a hiss. In horror, Tove watched the teacup sprouting legs - five of them - and how it began to scuttle frantically across the table. The faint pitter patter of its small feet triggered Cerb’s hunting instinct, whose head immediately surfaced from underneath the table, yellow eyes focused on the walking teacup, ears twitching. Then, with the calm dignity of someone who didn’t understand the workings of consequences, he raised his paw and batted the teacup off the desk.

It exploded into a shower of steam and porcelain.

Materialising next to her like an apparition in what must’ve been only the blink of an eye, McGonagall adjusted her glasses with a sour expression on her face.

‘That,’ she stated, ‘did not look like a tortoise Miss Lindqvist.’

Tove, who was still surveying the sad leftovers of her pretty teacup, sighed. ‘I’d say it was on the evolutionary path.’

McGonagall’s mouth twitched - dangerously close to a smile. All the same, she collected herself quickly, shaking her head in disappointment. ‘Five points from Hufflepuff.’

Flicking her wand to clean up Tove’s mess, the Professor’s eyes darted to Cerberus, who purred at her fondly. For some reason, he’d taken a liking to the stern teacher.

Her voice a little softer, she added: ’And please remember, cats are not allowed in class.’

 

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Outside the classroom, the castle smelled of old stone and the faint lemon polish the house-elves used to scrub the floor. Tove was always quick to leave class, scared McGonagall might find yet another reason to despair over her if she stayed only a second longer. Next to Tove, Cerb padded along her heels, his sleek tail brushing her calf every few steps; a quiet reminder that he was there and didn’t want to be trampled. She was already halfway down the corridor when a familiar voice called.

‘Linny!’

Turning around, Tove wasn’t surprised to find Fred and George Weasley standing in the notch of the stairwell (there were, after all, very few people who called her by that annoying nickname). Both of them were smiling in a very ominous manner, as though trying to look as non-threatening as possible, and thus achieving just the opposite.

‘We’ve been looking for you,’ the left of them said cheerfully.

Tove frowned. People usually didn’t look for her. They looked over her, if at all. ’You found me.’

‘Actually, we need your talents,’ the right twin continued.

Exchanging a puzzled look with Cerb, she scratched the back of her head. She was growing more confused by the moment. ‘My talents?’

‘Yes!’ Twin on the left agreed cheerfully. ‘Exactly. We’ve been discussing this thoroughly and came to the conclusion that you -‘

‘With your very unique and specific skill set,’ twin on the right added hastily.

‘- are exactly who we need.’ Nodding at each other as though to convince themselves of their own idea once again, Tove wondered how they managed to maintain their level of enthusiasm all year round. Perhaps a shared state of manic psychosis.

She folded her arms. ‘I don’t do pranks.’ As a matter of fact, trouble had a way of finding her on its own. There was no need for her to start actively searching for it. She’d lose Hufflepuff enough house points without trying, that much was sure.

‘We neither,’ twin on the right nodded, now walking toward her.

‘We prefer to call them acts of poetic justice.’

Ushering her along their way, Tove began to sense she had no chance against the two of them - resistance - it seemed - was futile. And although part of her still believed they were confusing her with someone else, a small spark of excitement began to flare in her stomach.

‘And why do you need me?’ Of all people, Tove wanted to add, but her therapist had forbidden her to talk derogatorily about herself.

Lightly padding her shoulder, twin on the left’s grin widened. ‘Because you, my dear Hufflepuff, have the aim of a professional Beater and the face no prefect suspects.’

Twin on the right nodded sagely. ‘Besides, everyone else was busy.’

That, Tove decided, sounded at least vaguely sensible.

The twins lead her up the staircase ascending to the Serpentine corridor, a passage on the third floor of Hogwarts’ Defence Tower, past several empty classrooms, heading deeper and deeper into the upper halls. Not exactly in a rush, but also never pausing. Cerb, alert and tail pointed upright in joyful anticipation (probably thinking they were on a hunt for a particularly delicious snack), had to break into a jog to keep pace with the rest of them.

‘What is it do you need me to do?’ Tove asked, slightly breathless (not that the sprint through the castle was exhausting her, she simply sometimes forgot to breathe when she was nervous).

‘Does the name Callum Avery ring any bells?’ Twin on the left counter questioned.

Ready to answer in the negative - it had taken her months to learn the names of all her quidditch team mates, why ever would she know the one of someone completely unrelated to her? - it suddenly occurred to her it was not completely unfamiliar. Thinking very hardly, she rubbed her nose, but came to no conclusion.

‘I once had a hedgehog called Callum.’ She finally said, trying to add something to the conversation, though she was pretty sure the twins weren’t talking about him.

Twin on the left snorted very loudly. ‘Close, but not. Unfortunately, Avery’s not a hedgehog.’

‘He’s head boy,’ twin on the right explained. ‘Slytherin, seventh year, full time teacher’s pet.’

‘I didn’t even know we had a head boy,’ Tove mumbled, yet again feeling gobsmacked at how facts like these always just completely passed her by.

‘I love that for you,’ twin on the left said very sincerely.

‘Anyway,’ twin on the right continued, ‘that’s exactly what makes you so perfect for the task. Fresh-faced and innocent, he won’t suspect a thing.’

As though commenting on this statement, Cerberus let out a small, unbelieving sneeze.

‘You’re going to be our distraction. Keep Avery busy while I slip this into his bag.’ He held up a tiny metal sphere that shimmered faintly purple under the torchlight. ‘Our latest masterpiece — a Weasleys’ Sinkbomb. Silent release, three-minute delay, and then—‘

‘—smells like a dragon’s armpit,’ twin on the left finished proudly. ‘We’re still fine-tuning the ratio.’

Looking from one twin to the other, Tove, slowly but surely, started to feel slightly blindsided. Stopping, she wriggled out of the twins’ grip, shaking her head. ’But why should I help you?’

Frowning, twin on the right tilted his head. ‘You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.’

Twin on the left, doing a much worse job at hiding his disappointment, nodded nonetheless. ‘Of course, Linny. We’re friends, anyway. If it’s too much for you, we’ll ask someone else.’

‘Without you, it would be only half as fun, though,’ twin on the right winked.

Friends. The word made something twitch faintly in her chest. Was that what they were?

‘I don’t mean to push, but we don’t have much time.’ Growing visibly more restless by the moment, twin on the right looked over his shoulder as if expecting someone.

‘Look, we’ll grant you three seconds thinking time.’

‘Three.’

‘Two-‘

‘Fine!’, Tove cried, who hadn’t been thinking at all, still completely occupied with trying to grasp the concept of friendship and whether she was now actually a part of it. ‘Fine, I’ll talk to him. I’ll be your human distraction.’

‘Brilliant!’ Immediately, the twins started herding Tove down the corridor again, probably complete strangers to rejection and therefore never having expected anything else from her.

‘Though we don’t need you to talk to him, love. Dazzle, that’s what we need you to do. Play with your feminine charms.’

Tove tried to picture herself playing with her feminine charms. Needless to say, it didn’t come naturally to her.

‘Do you want me to prank or traumatise him?’ She asked flatly.

‘Up to you, Linny,’ twin on the left shrugged, pulling her into the shadows of a particularly well concealed nook that Tove had never noticed before. ‘You have full artistic freedom.’

And indeed, it seemed the twins had done their job of researching Avery’s timetable, because not a minute later, the latter turned around the corner. With his nose in a parchment, Tove only recognised him by his very neatly polished silver badge, a gangly young man, yet moving with unmissable confidence.

‘Go,’ mouthed the twins, pushing her forward and just into Avery’s way. The Slytherin, still completely absorbed by his parchment, didn’t notice her at first. Looking back at the Weasleys for help, the two of them only motioned her to proceed with the plan, yet no clear instructions were identifiable from their cryptic gesticulation.

Faking what she hoped sounded like a timid cough, Tove raised her chin, still in the process of convincing herself she was up for the task.

Avery stopped short, surveying her through hawk-like eyes. His nose, formerly hidden behind the parchment, turned out to be long and crooked and gave him the semblance of a tall and famished bird. ‘Lindqvist.’ He acknowledged her in a pinched tone. ‘What are you doing here?’

Unsure of herself, Amelia Fittleworth came to Tove’s mind (whom she knew was known for her naive - maybe even a little daft - nature, but who was still fairly popular among boys). Giving her best impression of the Hufflepuff girl, Tove batted her lashes.

‘Waiting for someone,’ she said, feigning Amelia’s typical bashfulness whenever she talked to one of her many crushes. Eyes downcast, fingers fiddling with the hem of her cloak, Tove felt like an imbecile.

‘Who?’

She blinked. ‘You.’

He faltered slightly, uncertain. ‘Me?’

‘Yes. I wanted to ask about the corridor patrol schedule.’ (The only reason Tove knew about the corridor patrols was because she’d made it a habit to wander about the corridors at night. She was fairly proud it had come to her mind just this instance.)

‘The… schedule?’

She smiled coyly. ’Yes. I thought maybe I could volunteer.’

Avery straightened, clearly flattered despite himself. ‘Well, that’s very - uh - commendable of you. Most students lack that sort of initiative.’

Tove kept her gaze dutifully fixed on Avery’s face, when one of the twins slid into view behind him, brushing the leather strap of the head boy’s satchel with his fingers.

’I just thought someone should help maintain order, especially with a teacher from the ministry here this year. Some students can be quite… reckless.’

At her words, something softened in his stance. Running a hand through his hair, he gave her a somewhat pitying look, and then launched into a catalog of rules and regulations, doing his best to explain to her why she, a non-prefect and very poor student, could never possibly take up such an important duty (though not fully listening, Tove still noticed how he avoided talking about her blood status completely, even if it stood between them like a wall of prejudgement).

He did not notice the twin’s hand slip the small, conjured stink bomb into the satchel’s outer department. It was the size of a walnut, harmless for everyone but the variety of certain Slytherins.

Tilting her head, she looked up at him through thick lashes. ‘You must be very proud to be head boy.’

Avery’s ears pinked and he puffed up slightly. ‘Well, it’s a position of responsibility.’

Behind him, the twins scrambled up, dusting off their robes, mouthing done! Gesturing her to come along. they began sneaking away towards the staircase (Cerb tucked under their arms, who looked at Tove with an utterly puzzled expression).

Tove straightened. ‘Well, anyway, thank you for explaining, Avery. That was very, um, enlightening.’

They parted civilly. Avery, preening after so much - what he believed had been honest - appreciation for his job. And Tove, feeling exhausted, her heart pounding loudly, watching him shuffle off in the direction of Umbridge’s office.

A red head poked around the corner by the end of the corridor, signing Tove to hurry up. Now, he whispered. It appeared her mission wasn’t over yet.

She followed the twins as they rushed down the stairs and then slipped outside, into the cold. Through the door that opened into the small courtyard, the castle exhaled old warmth in soft billows. October was announcing itself with heavy grey skies and the first autumnal frost.

Alerted by the sound of rustling trees and chirping birds, Cerberus darted out of the twins’ grasp and vanished into a huge pile of autumn leaves the housekeeper had swept up this morning.

At the startled look of twin on the right (formerly twin on the left), Tove only shrugged. ‘He’ll come back once all the mice are dead.’

Eying the pile of leaves with a slight frown, he looked almost disappointed at the sudden loss of their forth companion. ‘Suit yourself,’ he eventually said to the pile, not entirely without offence.

A small head appeared between the leaves, yellow eyes with pupils wide as plates blinking at them. You have something to say? They seemed to ask.

‘Strange cat,’ twin on the left mumbled, already turning towards the castle walls. Tove waved Cerb goodbye before she followed the twins, knowing how much he valued good manners.

‘Do you think you could get up there?’ Twin on the right pointed up the wall to a small platform, once used as an outlook to spot approaching enemies from afar. It wasn’t high, maybe three or four meters, and easily accessible from the side, where a metal ladder had been hammered into the stone.

Ignoring the question, Tove squinted at the tower on the other side of the courtyard. There was a window located approximately at the same height as the platform, which (unsurprisingly) led straight to Umbridge’s office.

‘Do you want me to watch a meeting?’

‘Oh no! Imagine that, how boring,’ twin on the left gasped dramatically. ‘Don’t worry, we’d never subjugate you to torture.’

‘Sabotage our little head boy conference, that’s the goal here.’

‘Trigger the bomb.’

With great relief, Tove grasped her next task wasn’t related with any kind of social interaction. Assessing the distance between the platform and Umbridge’s office once again, she decided this was basically child’s play compared to talking to Avery.

‘All right, but you owe me one, okay?’ She said, not really because she was in need of a favour, but because she’d seen people say that on tv in situations like these.

‘I’d say that’s a given, isn’t it?’ The twins nodded vigorously, eager for her to proceed with the mission.

Having always been a decent climber (she’d made it up trees thrice as high just this summer), it took Tove no effort to reach the platform. Crouching beneath the battlements, she immediately caught sight of Umbridge through the window, sitting starched and pink, a handkerchief neatly folded in her lap. Avery stood still across from her, on the other side of the desk, shoulders square, reporting something Tove couldn’t hear through the glass.

Umbridge, it seemed, had remodelled the office completely into what looked like a suffocatingly pink and frilly monstrosity, decorated with countless dead flowers and a considerable collection of ornamental plates that would make granny Astrid pale with envy.

‘Can you see them?’ Asked one of the twins in a mixture between a shout and a whisper.

Looking down at him, Tove felt a small wave of annoyance prickle the back of her mind. ‘Yes!’ She whisper-shouted back. ‘But could you please shut up?’

Instantly, she worried she might’ve offended them. Having a short temper surely wasn’t helpful building friendships.

But her comment was met with two cheekily grinning twins, who whisper-shouted back in unison. ’Nope!’

Fortunately, it seemed neither Umbridge nor Avery had heard them. Pulling her wand from her robes, Tove steadied her breath, focusing - trying to ease her mind into the same kind of calm that came over her on the Quidditch pitch, the world narrowing to a single target. Then, she flicked it.

For a heart beat, nothing happened.

Then Avery’s expression faltered. He sniffed the air once, uncertain. Umbridge’s nose twitched. A faint violet haze began to seep from the head boy’s satchel, curling toward the ceiling like an embarrassed ghost.

Springing up from her chair, Tove watched the Professor say something, suddenly looking rather agitated. The pop! that echoed from Avery’s bag in response was audible even through the glass, followed by a shower of glittering pink smoke. The last thing she saw was Avery leaping toward the window, before she quickly ducked out of view.

With the background noise of Umbridge’s frenzied shrieking, Avery’s muffled stammering and what sounded like a thousand hysterically mewling kittens, Tove made her way down the ladder. She found the twins had completely collapsed into laughter, one leaning against the wall, the other had tears streaming down his face. Around them, the faint smell of rotten cabbage began to gather.

‘Explain yourself!’ Tove heard Umbridge bawl over the courtyard. Momentarily worried they might’ve been found out, she whirled around, only to see the professor was still yelling at Avery, clueless to their intermingling.

‘Run,’ the twins mouthed anyway, already own their way back inside, pulling Tove along. Feet slipping on ancient stone, an adrenalin-fuelled sensation of giddiness swelled in her chest, and she felt like a small fish in a current, free and yet part of something much bigger than herself. Once back inside the main complex, they slipped behind a tapestry to catch their breath like children hiding from the headmaster.

‘He’s got no clue,’ twin on the right gasped, wiping a tear from his eye. ‘They didn’t even look our way!’

Worried to sound like a scaredy-cat, Tove couldn’t help herself but ask. ‘Do you think he’ll suspect me?’ She didn’t like people being angry with her.

Twin on the left grinned. ‘No way, he’s convinced you’re smitten with him. His ego would never allow him to believe otherwise.’

Elbowing her lightly, twin on the right leaned in conspiratorially. ‘By the way, I would’ve never figured you’d have such stagecraft, I’m honestly impressed.’

Tove felt her cheeks heat, and suddenly found herself immensely interested in her toes.

‘With your looks, that’s power, Linny.’ Twin on the left agreed, sounding like he was already scheming their next adventure.

That was a problem she’d save for later, Tove decided. For the moment, something else Weasley had said garnered her attention.

‘My… looks?’

Twin on the left, who was currently peeping into the corridor from behind the tapestry, shrugged. ‘You changed over the holidays, didn’t you notice?’

‘You’re hot shit, Linny. Zacharias even placed a bet on who’s gonna be the one to -…’

‘I don’t think she wants to hear that, Fred.’ Twin on the right - George, Tove deduced - interrupted. ‘The corridor’s clear by the way, no teacher in sight.’

‘Oh,’ Tove said, not really knowing what to do with that information. She’d never in a million years pictured being hot shit, whatever that meant. ’Is that why you’re so nice to me?’

Turning round to her with an expression as though she’d said something insulting, George shook his head. ‘No?’
‘No?’ Tove repeated, not understanding why he’d phrased a statement as a question.

‘We’re nice to you because Angelina likes you. Which means you must be a decent person.’

Fred nodded in agreement. ‘She’s very picky with her people.’

They started walking off, with Tove in tow - whose head was currently preoccupied with very arduous thinking and hence had to be guided by her elbow to not run against any barriers or hindrances. It seemed only natural to the twins to not leave her behind.

It only occurred her later, when she was back in her common room, with a sleepy Cerberus draped over her book (stuffed to the gills with mice, at least that’s what his bloated belly told her), that it hadn’t only seemed natural to them.