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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The damp cold of the night seeped through the half-open window, striking Lea's face, her cheeks bathed in a cold sweat. Her mind was a whirlwind, a cage of images spinning out of control. Nausea churned in her stomach, a physical and familiar reaction. With a hand that barely trembled, she found her own arm and began giving it small pinches, one after another, until the sharp, precise pain managed to anchor her consciousness. The world stopped spinning; her eyes, once unfocused, fixed on the gloom of her bedroom. Fear was a forbidden word, a weakness she was not permitted. Lea could not, would not, have anything to do with it.

Nightmares were not foreign to her. She didn't remember when they had started, nor did she make any effort to stop them. "Facing our challenges head-on" was a value branded into her being, a legacy of bravery she believed she had inherited. So, every time she woke up like this, she forced herself to remember. She closed her eyes and there they were, as always: the piercing blue eyes of a snake, cold as ice, fixing on a point just behind her. But that wasn't what had woken her. Beside her, a girl of a scrawny appearance, her face streaked with silent tears, looked at her with a dread that seemed to consume her. Lea took a step forward, the question "What's wrong?" forming on her lips. But before the sound could escape, she heard her parents' voices, a whisper clearer than a shout in the dream's silence:

“Mudbloods will never be like us, Lea. They are weak, helpless.”

Before her dream-body could react, the snake lunged. Lea, paralyzed by a powerlessness that burned her insides, could do nothing but watch. To touch it, to interfere, could be worse. The unwritten rule echoed in her mind: that little girl should never have been there in the first place.

Lea's eyes snapped open, gasping. It had been a long time since she had remembered that particular girl. A sudden shiver, colder than the night air, ran down her spine. The window was wide open, and the pale moonlight filtered through the long golden velvet curtains, casting dancing shadows. Her body ached; a dull, familiar burn crossed her back, and she sensed her arm would soon follow suit. With an effort of will, she tried to push all thought from her mind before sleep reclaimed her. A long day of activities awaited her. She was already familiar with the exhaustion that would overwhelm her if she didn't get enough sleep. To be inefficient was a sin; a job poorly done, simply unacceptable.

…

The days, especially the mornings, were always a respite. While dinners could be charged with a thick tension, the sunlight seemed to dissipate her father's ghosts. Saturday breakfasts were a ritual Lea almost yearned for, an oasis of normality she looked forward to with genuine joy.

However, before leaving her room, there was the ritual of presentability. Grooming herself, being impeccable inside and outside the home, wasn't a suggestion; it was a family brand, a code of honor she was unwilling to break. Nor was she willing to break any of the other unwritten rules.

The book of choice that morning was a treatise on the history of Albus Dumbledore, the old Headmaster of Hogwarts and, for many, the greatest wizard of all time. Lea knew it inside and out, as if the story weren't printed on every Chocolate Frog card. But knowledge did not exempt her from duty. Repetition was the foundation of mastery.

—Eleanor! — Her father's hoarse, vigorous voice boomed from the floor below. — It's 7 a.m., time to come out of the cave, princess!

Lea bounded down the stairs two at a time, a burst of energy and hope. If she ever allowed herself to be optimistic, it was after nights like the previous one, with the expectation of the gift her father always had ready for her.

—Lea — Alistair greeted her, leaning down to place a soft kiss on her crown. — Your mother mentioned that, after yesterday's incident… — Lea felt a phantom stab of pain in her back that made her smile tighten for a millisecond — your behavior has continued to be exceptional. So for you, I have this little thing here.

From behind his back, he produced a pair of gloves. They were made of a black leather so lustrous it seemed to absorb the light, with subtle reinforcements on the knuckles. A masterpiece of magical craftsmanship. Lea felt a slight worry mix with her excitement. The gift was magnificent, no doubt, but she didn't think her performance from the previous day deserved something so valuable. Perhaps…

—You have spell practice today — her father continued, reading the doubt in her eyes. — So, how about if you perform as expected, I give you these beautiful gloves?

A jolt of pure emotion shot through Lea's body, banishing any remnant of the night's shadows.

She went out to the back patio with her father. The morning air was fresh and clean. In the center of the perfectly manicured lawn, a noble wooden table held seven glass jars, each with a liquid of a vibrant color. Lea recognized it immediately: it was an ancient magical game, one she had studied in one of the dense tomes that formed part of her monthly training. It wasn't a simple pastime; it was a test.

—So, champion — said Alistair, placing a firm, paternal hand on her shoulder. — Mum is watching us. How about we show her what you've learned?

She knew that, at her age, doing magic outside of school was strictly forbidden. But her parents had always repeated that her case was an "exception for a greater cause." Although, deep down, Lea had the feeling that, with or without explanation, few at the Ministry would dare contradict the will of Alistair Blackwood.

—You can do it! — shouted her mother's melodious but firm voice, who watched seated at an elegant tea table in the middle of the garden, like a queen in her tribune. — Show them which family you belong to!

A warm flush rose to Lea's cheeks. It wasn't that big a deal; the trick to winning was simple. She preferred to concentrate. She took the parchment with the rules and read with determination:

Seven potions before you see,
One will lift you, one will make you flee.
Two will put you to sleep, three will make you laugh,
But one, if you think well… will make you scathe.
"The golden one seems safe, but all that glitters is deception."
"The red comes before the black, and the blue is next to the danger."
"The green laughs, the black sleeps, and the crystal keeps silent."
"The black is not asleep and stays next to the red."

Right, it was pure logic. Her reward was almost assured. The point was to discard the dangerous options. But when the final ones remained, relying solely on deduction could be a mistake. You had to use the right tools. With a precise movement of her wand, which she was still not authorized to use outside the home, she whispered:

—Revelio.

The red and black potions glowed with a faint but unmistakable light. The magic confirmed the danger. Having already discarded the red from the clues…

—It's the black one — declared Lea in a voice firmer than she expected, looking at her father.

Alistair returned her gaze with one of deep satisfaction, a silent pride worth more than any praise. From her little table, Seraphine applauded softly, a smile of approval on her lips.

—All yours, my darling — said Alistair, extending the precious gloves. His gaze, once satisfied, became intense, almost scorching. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a sacred secret. — And when you enter Hogwarts, Eleanor — he corrected softly, emphasizing her true name almost obsessively, Lea would say —, there will be no wizard capable of surpassing you. And Gryffindor will see greatness in its house once again. Ours. Do not forget.

—Thank you, Father — replied Lea, and finally allowed herself a wide, genuine smile, feeling the weight of her father's words not as a burden, but as a promise.

As she felt the soft, cool leather in her hands, everything else faded. She could always trust her parents. No matter what happened, whatever the hidden "lesson" in their methods, they would always be there to compensate her, to reaffirm her place in the world. And in that moment, under the clear morning light, Lea was sure that everything, absolutely everything, was worth it.

Chapter Text

Lea took a deep breath, holding the air in her lungs before forcing herself to get up. The July dawn light filtered through the window, pale and cold. It was the 31st, and she frowned as she recognized the date in her mind. As she tried to stretch, a sharp, stabbing pain shot across her back, so intense it bent her double for a moment. She hugged her torso, stifling a gasp, until the sting subsided enough for her to straighten up with a rigid back.

Idiot, she thought, digging her nails into her palms. Forgetting the key ingredients of a Polyjuice Potion had been a beginner's mistake, unforgivable.

She undressed for her morning ablutions but paused in front of the full-length mirror. Her reflection showed multiple red marks, thin and elongated, etched into the skin of her back like runes of failure. They weren't open wounds, but scarlet echoes of every shortcoming, every deviation from the demanded perfection. Mistakes. All of them were mistakes she had to erase if she wanted to become what her parents expected. Yet her body, the sacred vessel of her legacy, had to remain immaculate in the eyes of the world. She couldn't allow those marks to tarnish the image of the Blackwood heiress.

She took her wand from the nightstand, where it rested on a fine red gauze cloth—a touch of color that contrasted brutally with the wine-and-gold opulence of her room—and, with a precise, practiced movement, pointed it at her back.

—Vulnus Latens — she whispered.

A slight tingling, like silk dragging over skin, traveled across her back. It was a specialized spell from her mother, designed to hide magically-inflicted wounds under an illusion of intact skin. The comfort was bitter: the pain would persist, sharp and reminding, for several more hours. After completing her ritual of presentability—her hair impeccable, her clothes starched—she went to her desk. The chair felt more uncomfortable than usual, as if every small movement reminded her of yesterday's error.

The book, meticulously placed there every morning by a household charm, waited on the polished wood: "Good Manners for Witches of Class." A bitter déjà vu washed over her palate. Had her performance yesterday, despite the pain, earned her this boring punishment? And she had briefly thought her parents might be considerate.

She took a griffin-feather quill, destined for note-taking for the hundredth time, and in her personal notebook she scribbled marginal notes; observations that, undoubtedly, no classy witch would approve of. Lea liked to draw, an impulse that had never been instructed. She had once tried to justify it, arguing that sketching portraits would be useful for catching criminals. Her parents, with impeccable logic, reminded her that for that, Pensieves existed. She was forced to desist, but the impulse never completely ceased. Sometimes, for no clear reason, her anxious fingers would take the quill and trace onto the paper the first thing her mind threw at her: long, sinuous figures with sharp fangs, or animals of all kinds. She even dared to try to capture the majesty of the great Gryffindor lion that ornamented her headboard, though her attempts usually looked more like a scrawny cat than the emblem of her ancestor's house. Curiously, these creative impulses grew stronger on days like today.

The sepulchral silence of the mansion was suddenly replaced by excited murmurs rising from the floor below. Lea's heart skipped a beat. That didn't bode well, not while she didn't know its origin. She ran out of her room, hurried down the main staircase, and as she rushed down the long hallway, the portraits followed her with their gazes, whispering and pointing. Some, to her surprise, congratulated her with broad smiles.

Something is very, very wrong, she thought, with a knot of apprehension in her stomach.

—It can't be, Alistair! Is it true? — Seraphine's voice sounded shrill, laden with a happiness that felt alien to Lea. She had never seen her smile like that, not even the day she won the Best Smile in the Wizarding World award.

—That's right, darling. What did I tell you? She is the one. We are close to achieving it — Alistair's voice was a low rumble of satisfaction. He was seated in an armchair, and besides his crystal glass, he carefully held a parchment envelope in his left hand.

Lea peered into the great room, sure she had moved stealthily, but instantly, her parents' gazes fixed on her.

—Eleanor! — exclaimed Seraphine, crossing the room to envelop her in a hug so tight it cut off her breath. She didn't let go until Alistair approached and extended the envelope to his daughter.

It was made of thick, creamy parchment. And on it, a sealed wax stamp with a coat of arms as familiar to her as her own name: a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake, encircling a large 'H'.

Her hands began to sweat and tremble slightly. She tried to control it, to clench her muscles, but the emotion leaked into her voice, cracking it.

—Bu-but… There's still a year left. I only turn fifteen this year and… — she stammered, confused.

Her mother interjected, her tone now sweet and calculating. — However, Professor Dumbledore must have remembered the value of our family and the usefulness of having you there, alongside Mr. Harry Potter.

The mention of the "Chosen One" took her by surprise. He had always been present in conversations, a ghost to measure herself against, but hearing his name in this context felt strange and disturbing.

It was her father's turn. These scenes, almost choreographed, where they complemented each other with unsettling precision, sometimes felt like a performance to her. — Besides, your potential cannot be ignored. It is an opportunity like no other — he made a significant pause —, and a reward for all your hard work.

—Furthermore — added Seraphine —, I think it would be necessary to show the boy… that blood and discipline can be even more significant than the luck of a prophecy.

Her gaze met Lea's, confirming her worst suspicions. Lea swallowed hard. She didn't like how any of that sounded. It wasn't that she doubted she could surpass Potter—she never doubted—but the burden they were placing on her shoulders was new, and heavy.

—But what are you waiting for, darling? Open it — Alistair's voice was now honeyed, but his eyes, fixed on her, lost none of their intensity.

The initial feeling of pure excitement had vanished, replaced by nervous caution. Lea opened the envelope with slow, deliberate movements.

Miss Eleanor Mei Blackwood
Largest Bedroom, East Wing
Blackwood Manor
Nº 7, Ravenshade Lane
Kensington, London
England

It was finally happening. Everything she had fought for, all the pain and study, everything made sense in that instant, materialized in her hands.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class; Grand Sorcerer; Supreme Mugwump; Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot)

Dear Miss Blackwood,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
The term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress

A wide, involuntary smile spread across Lea's face, so intense she felt the prick of tears behind her eyes. But crying was not worthy of such a triumphant moment. She held back, merely staring at the letter, rereading the message over and over. July 31st.

—But today is July 31st— she said, looking at her parents, trying to hide her anxiety at the idea that, by not responding in time, they might take it away from her—. I have to send the reply immediately.

—Oh, Eleanor — said Alistair with a calm that sounded almost condescending—. We already replied. As soon as the letter arrived.

—Remember, dear — added Seraphine with a smile that tried to be reassuring but only made the atmosphere more tense—, that Mummy and Daddy always take care of everything.

Alistair leaned down and placed a soft kiss on her temple. Her mother's gaze, fixed on her, was not one of comfort, but of warning. And in that moment, between the paternal kiss and the maternal smile, the excitement of the letter mixed with a cold disquiet that settled in her chest. The path to Hogwarts was paved; now it was her duty to walk it with honor.

Chapter Text

August was dying, dragging with it the last, heavy blankets of summer heat. The air, once warm and enveloping, was beginning to feel strange, charged with the electricity of things to come. With each passing day, the start of her school life loomed over Lea like a long, unknown shadow. She would never have admitted she was nervous; not even to herself. The idea of interacting with people her own age, beyond the mirages of the talking portraits, the recurring nightmares, the dusty books, and her mother's endless etiquette lessons, was a virgin and overwhelming territory. It was novel, and as with everything else, she intended to be the best.

Yet Lea felt a dull, persistent fear. She knew there were children of Muggles at Hogwarts, and that made her tense for reasons her mind refused to unearth, reasons hidden behind a thick fog in her memory. Her parents had reminded her of this, on several occasions, with that mix of disdain and warning: Muggle-borns were nothing more than an obstacle in her path, something that, regrettably, had to be tolerated.

So she forced herself to bury those ruminations and immersed herself in the study of spells, charms, and potions, building a solid foundation for her entry. However, lately, concentrating felt like an uphill battle. Every time her mind wandered to the unknown corridors of Hogwarts, she felt a stab of worry that, although she knew how to dissipate quickly, repeated so frequently that, in the end, her skin began to burn and an unpleasant numbness ran through her fingers, interrupting her routine with a biting frustration. It was annoying. She couldn't identify that sensation; an anticipation mixed with something indecipherable. Years ago, when she was still weak, she would have called it fear. Now it was no longer a recognizable feeling. She had no reason to be afraid. Her future was written, and the ink promised greatness.

These last few days were especially difficult. Her parents had been in a better mood since the letter arrived, but that boon was conditional, a loan that would expire if she didn't fulfill her duty, something that remained to be seen.

—Lea, good afternoon — her father's voice echoed in the hall, cold and distant. He wasn't even looking at her. For things like this, she preferred the mornings, when his mood was usually lighter.

—Good afternoon, Father.

—I hope you are ready for today. — Alistair walked with a firm step through the long hallways of Blackwood Manor, his gaze fixed on a point at the end of the corridor. He gripped his wand so tightly his knuckles were white. Sweat beaded on his temple and his breathing was somewhat ragged, like a broken tango.

Her mother was already waiting for them in the training room, impeccable as always. She shot a look of slight distaste towards Alistair before addressing Lea.

—Our last test before your big day. How do you feel? — she asked, drilling her eyes into her daughter's. But before Lea could formulate a response, she saw the volume resting in Seraphine's lap. She recognized it immediately: the Family Legacy Book.

—I… fine. I feel determined to do it perfectly — she replied, searching deep within herself for all the confidence she could muster under the dual scrutiny of her parents. It wasn't doubt she felt; it was the pressure of expectation. She hadn't failed a test in months. Her mistakes, though still paid for with sharp pain, were minimal, and that gave her a thread of hope.

—So be it. This time, simple spells — announced Seraphine. And, without further preamble, she cast a Confringo directly at the crystal chandelier hanging above their heads. The explosive spell hit with a blinding burst, raining down sparks and fragments of molten glass. Lea was left gaping. Her mother could have been an Auror too. A wave of pride, mixed with a point of fear, washed over her.

—And Protego, the shielding charm — her father began to say, casting the enchantment on himself and positioning himself beside Seraphine. A translucent golden dome enveloped him, deflecting the remains of the chandelier. The spectacle was impressive.

—You've practiced them quite a bit, haven't you? Which one would you like to try? — asked Alistair, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

It was a simple answer. — Confringo — replied Lea, confidently, though she noticed a slight tremor in her hands. She had to be ready. She had to—

—Confringo! — her father roared, with a wand movement so fast it was barely a flash.

The impact hit her before her brain could process the command. Before the Protego could form on her lips, a sensation of liquid fire shot through her torso. She fell to the marble floor, her body turned into a torch of internal pain. She gasped, searching for air her chest could not find. Her vision blurred, and the burning tore involuntary tears from her that evaporated on her cheeks.

—Extinguere — pronounced Seraphine in a voice that was harsh, cold as ice.

The fire ceased, leaving only the echo of the agony. Lea got to her feet as fast as she could, her legs trembling, unable to lift her gaze from the stained floor.

Her mother stood up. Lea remained alert, every muscle tense. Seraphine's heels clicked in the empty room, an ominous click-clack approaching.

—Lea — her voice was a blade. She took her daughter's chin with a finger and lifted it firmly. The disappointment in her eyes was a punishment worse than any burn. — You are the future of this family. — She raised the book she was still holding. — You, more than anyone, must honor the memory of the fallen. And you will. The wizarding world will not have known a greater witch. And her surname will be Blackwood.

But Lea was barely listening. A movement in her peripheral vision was her only warning.

—Confringo! — her father roared again, just as Seraphine stepped aside, clearing the line of fire.

—Protego! — Lea screamed, falling backwards and landing seated on the cold floor. A magical shield of a vibrant, electric blue hovered over her just in time, absorbing the spell with a dull thud. She had never conjured a shield so powerful. A smile of pure relief and triumph spread across her lips, even as she gasped.

And then, her father laughed.

—I told you she would. Honestly, I would have preferred if you had chosen Protego, daughter. I'm an expert with that one; I could even have taught you to make it rebound. — Seraphine, on the other hand, did not seem to share his joy.

—In a real battlefield, that error in choice could have cost you your life — she said, and her voice cut the air like a dagger. — And with it, our future, Eleanor. It's not just about achieving it. It's about achieving it when you have to.

—Your mother is right — Alistair nodded, his good humor evaporating. — In a fight against a Death Eater, Confringo won't even be the weakest spell you receive. I'll have to come see you later. — Lea swallowed, knowing full well what that meant.

—However — Alistair continued, changing his tone —, your mother now has something to tell you. Darling?

Seraphine's countenance had changed. She was looking at the book with a complex emotion, indecipherable to Lea.

—In the Gryffindor common room library — she began to say, her voice low and firm, almost a whisper laden with secrecy — there are many books like this one. But one of them… is a twin to the original copy. Sealed with ancient and powerful magic.

—What does it contain? — asked Lea, unable to contain her curiosity.

—Something precious to everyone. Something you will enjoy knowing — her mother replied instantly, and a nearly imperceptible smile, a wink of complicity, appeared behind her serious facade. Lea didn't understand where that expression came from.

—We are the only ones capable of opening it, and we will teach you how… as soon as you have managed to bring it back to where it belongs.

—There will be a great reward for your work — Alistair added calmly, watching her.

—It would make us very proud if you were able to recover this… missing piece of family history.

—I will, Mother. I swear.

—Oh, darling, I hope so. We trust you. — And this time, Seraphine's smile was wide and genuine, and a spark of hope grew in Lea's chest as her parents looked at her, expectant. They expected much from her, and she would prove them right. No matter what. She knew she would achieve it.

Her parents walked away, and she was enveloped by the low murmurs of the portraits and the background music that always seemed to emanate from the walls. The violins must be in a good mood today, she thought. She let herself be carried by the melody for a moment, thinking about the book. What secrets would it hold? Perhaps something about her grandmother Eleanor, whom her mother never wanted to talk about. She would become tense, and her father would have to intervene. It was a delicate subject, she supposed. She had loved her madly, and losing her as a child left a deep wound. Lea would have liked to know her more. In the book, it was only mentioned that she died with honor, defending the family, and that a statue was erected in her honor, destroyed during the war. Lea never got to see her grandmother, not even in portraits. Everyone who knew her said she resembled her, which only fueled her curiosity. Who was this woman whom everyone admired?

She took a brief breath and opened her eyes. She was looking forward to tomorrow. She was sure something awaited her. At least, after her father's nocturnal visit, she recalled with a shiver Alistair's "gentle words." A sensation tightened her chest slightly. No matter what. Probably, tomorrow she would get something better.

Chapter Text

The fresh morning air barely grazed her face, a faint tingling that failed to pierce the heaviness anchoring her to the sheets. She didn't move. The ghost of the previous night, an intangible yet familiar presence, hung over her body like a slab, hindering any attempt to advance. She was vaguely aware that this inertia was a mistake, that the daylight would dissipate this numbness. Yet, detaching herself from the bed required a titanic effort, an action demanding a strength that, at that moment, seemed to have vanished. But Lea was an expert at summoning strength from where she had none; it was a lesson seared into her.

She sat up in bed, straightening her back with the precision of a ritual. Routine, always the routine. Her gaze slid briefly towards the window by the desk, where the birdsong was beginning to weave the symphony of dawn. "Perhaps they've already felt the spring calling," she murmured to herself, a practical observation. With measured movements, she got to her feet and took her practice wand from the nightstand. The path to her room's bathroom was a familiar route, a journey she always preferred over her personal bedroom; the bathroom gave her an inexplicable calm that contrasted with the slight feeling of oppression she felt in her personal bedroom.

She stopped, as she did every morning, before the large, ornamented mirror. Her reflection watched her, pale and expectant.
—Vulnus latens— she pronounced clearly, and a wave of artificial well-being coursed through her. She remained a moment longer, appreciating the details of the image she had so fervently helped to sculpt: the perpetually smug smile, the blue eyes of her father, the immaculate skin, a legacy of her mother's meticulous care. Her silver hair, straight and orderly, fell over her shoulders. She preferred it loose, a small margin of autonomy that her mother, after a silent assessment, had permitted for Hogwarts, with the express condition that she not hide her face —her calling card to the world. Her smile widened, satisfied. Perfect, after all. That's what she was.

She walked, pleased, towards the bathtub. A fluid movement of her practice wand turned the knobs, and soon, steam began to fog the tiles. It was Sunday, and her strict study hour was slightly delayed, granting her a precious interval to enjoy the hot water and the foam enveloping her body, banishing all uncomfortable thoughts and sensations. Under the water, only she and the ephemeral warmth existed. Hogwarts was a week away, and that thought was the fuel she needed to keep going. There was still much to do.

Getting dressed was another rehearsed act. She put on the dark wine-colored robe over the red sweater, and over that, she pulled on her prized long leather boots, the most comfortable garment and, she wouldn't admit it aloud, the one that gave her the greatest sense of power.

That day, however, something disrupted the predictability of her desk. The usual study book didn't lie there, but rather a chocolate frog and an anonymous note with an inscription: "I know you'll do better next time." An unusual warmth, sharp and pleasant at once, expanded in her chest. She quickly stored the note in the drawer, eating the chocolate frog before it had the slightest chance to escape.

Merlin (5th Century A.D.)
Considered the most powerful wizard of all time, advisor to King Arthur and founder of the first known magical order. His wisdom inspired the creation of Hogwarts and the International Confederation of Wizards. A defender of the balance between magic and humanity, his legacy remains a symbol of knowledge and compassion.

"Merlin! It's him, wow. Merlin," she read aloud, and a stifled laugh escaped her lips. She immediately reprimanded herself for the unrefined sound, though without genuine regret. She didn't collect the cards, but she appreciated these fragments of knowledge, these pills of wisdom she was grateful for as another resource in her training. She wondered, with a flash of curiosity, if her parents had selected that specific piece for her or if it had been capricious chance that had granted it to her.

She left the room for the dining hall. The grand hallway resonated with invisible violins and the whispering murmurs of the portraits, a sonic backdrop for her morning procession.
—Ohhhh, Eleanor, Eleanor! —The deep and somewhat hoarse voice came from the largest painting in the corridor. Her Uncle Victor, a man with a bushy mustache and robust build, dressed in a red robe and always with a butterbeer in hand, watched her with sparkling eyes.
—Good morning, Uncle. Are you well? —Eleanor responded, stopping with due courtesy.
—Better than ever, I'd say! A little bird told me today would be a great day for you —he declared with a poorly disguised hint of amusement. Always cryptic; Lea suspected that, not being able to fully capture the essence of people, portraits could only articulate vague phrases, echoes of what they truly meant to say.
—Thank you for the heads-up, Uncle. I will remain expectant, though I would love it if you didn't ruin the surprise.
—Oh, no, no! Never. It's better you see it for yourself —Uncle Victor returned to his usual pose, bringing the tankard to his lips with an audible sip.

Lea quickened her pace, a spark of genuine excitement igniting within her.

Her parents were already finishing breakfast when she arrived in the dining room. The long, polished oak table reflected the soft morning light.
—Sweetheart, good morning. You took a while —Alistair greeted her without looking up from the copy of The Daily Prophet he held elegantly.

Seraphine scrutinized her from head to toe in a loaded silence of assessment. Finally, she nodded, a brief, approving gesture, before returning to her plate.
—Good morning, Mother. Father —Lea responded, sitting down carefully, suppressing any expression when the hard wooden seat made contact with her body—. Uncle Victor stopped me for a moment in the halls.
—And you arrived before lunch? I can't believe it —commented Seraphine, not bothering to hide her slight disdain for certain portraits. She respected them, of course, but she had always considered that none did justice to the real and living memory of the Blackwood legacy. That's why they had stopped commissioning paintings generations ago.
—Perhaps he hadn't drunk enough yet. He even had the delicacy not to spoil the surprise for me —said Lea, watching her mother hopefully, seeking the slightest hint of complicity.

Alistair looked up from the newspaper.
—That drunkard— he murmured, and Lea detected the irony in his tone—. Did he already tell you? You really can't trust them —he added, smiling with amusement.
—I still don't know what you have planned. I just know it's something —confessed Lea, unable to contain a thread of anxiety in her voice.
—You'll see. Finish your breakfast and we'll meet at the car —Seraphine stood up, and Alistair, in perfect sync, hurried to open the door for her.

Lea didn't finish her breakfast. She almost ran out after her parents. Opportunities to go beyond the mansion's garden were scarce, and she wasn't willing to lose another second within its walls. What could they want to do with her? She stopped just before crossing the main threshold. A profound sensation, like a chill at the base of her spine, warned her that something could go wrong. Perhaps it was another test, and the excitement was clouding her judgment. She took a deep breath, containing the internal whirlwind. She went on alert, mentally preparing for any eventuality. Emotion could not cloud her.

The white Porsche 1869 was a dubious license granted by the Ministry of Magic for her parents' fifteenth anniversary, enchanted to fly; it was one of the few Muggle creations her father openly preferred over its magical counterpart; traveling by broom as a family could be uncomfortable. Lea got into the car and sat in silence, waiting for the signal.

Seraphine, in the passenger seat, and Alistair at the wheel, looked at her through the rearview mirror with a brief but significant smile.
—Relax, Lea. We're going shopping —said her father in a tone meant to be reassuring.
—Can you guess why? —Seraphine continued, her voice a thread of inquisitive silk.

Lea thought quickly. If they were going shopping, the destination could only be Diagon Alley. It wouldn't be robes; her mother made those personally. Nor basic ingredients. Considering the painting's clue, it could only be one thing. A genuine smile, devoid of artifice, illuminated her face.
—A wand.

Alistair let out a soft laugh.
—Well, sweetheart. And I thought you'd be more perceptive —he commented. His tone was light, but Lea felt the subtle sting of a barely hinted disappointment. She had taken longer than expected to deduce it.
—We thought it would be appropriate —Seraphine intervened, speaking calmly while observing herself in a small floating mirror she held in front of her. Lea felt she could breathe again.
—Are you wearing your hair like that, dear? —Her mother's gaze rested on her again, analytical.
—Yes. I prefer it like this. It's a personal mark —responded Lea, sure she had followed all previous advice. Her hair, straight and of a discreet length, was impeccably tidy.
—Correct —Seraphine averted her gaze towards Alistair, and seemed satisfied with what she saw, for she didn't speak again.

The car stopped on a busy street in London, Charing Cross Road. They got out and blended with the crowd of Muggles coming and going. Her parents maintained an impassive serenity on their faces, though Lea knew, from the haughty way they avoided any eye contact or physical touch, that this environment was profoundly unpleasant for them.

Upon entering The Leaky Cauldron, the thick stench of stale beer and damp wood enveloped Lea. Eyes immediately fixed on her and her parents, and murmurs of recognition and respect were not long in coming.
—Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood— greeted Tom, the owner, with visible nervousness—. Good morning. Anything I can help you with?
—Good morning, Tom. That won't be necessary, thank you —Alistair responded with a polite but distant smile, adjusting his stride towards the back exit leading to Diagon Alley.

Lea spoke again as they approached the brick wall.
—So, we're going to Ollivander's. I noted it as the only thing missing from the list, although I thought I would use a family wand, to be honest —she said, directing her gaze to her father. Wands chose their owners, but the Blackwoods sometimes used wands from ancestors, preserved as relics; among those, one would choose its wielder. She had been mentally preparing for that possibility, though, undeniably, the idea of having a wand completely her own, perfectly suited to her, filled her with a much deeper satisfaction; of course she would be honored to possess the wand of some noble ancestor, but this possibility facilitated adaptation and therefore efficiency.

As they passed through the wall, the vibrant, colorful bustle of Diagon Alley welcomed them. The greetings and curious looks persisted, but Lea preferred to ignore them, walking upright and with her gaze forward, imitating the calm and imposing demeanor of her parents. They, on the other hand, did respond to greetings with slight nods and calculated smiles.

Seraphine spoke as they advanced, navigating the crowd with natural authority.
—We thought that, since you are the one who will forge the path forward for the Blackwoods, you could be the one to bequeath your wand from now on. And for that, you would require your own —she explained methodically.

The alley smelled of magic, of strange incense ash and precious woods. Lea looked at the sky, an intense, clear blue. She sighed.
—It's an honor. I will meet expectations —she responded, and her words were sincere. It was.

They continued until they stopped in front of the shop with its narrow facade and worn sign: "Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.".
—You two go in— instructed Alistair—. I'll take care of some matters. I'll be right back. —He leaned in to give a chaste kiss on Seraphine's lips, a necessary public gesture of affection, before disappearing into the crowd.

The door, somewhat crooked from the weight of the centuries, creaked with a mournful sound as it opened, releasing a gust of air laden with cedar dust, vanilla, and something else, something indescribable… the smell of ancient magic, Lea supposed.

—Mrs. Blackwood —the elderly wizard greeted, emerging from among the tall stacks of boxes like an apparition. His large, pale eyes shone with a curious light—. It's not very common for your family to honor our shop with their presence.
—Nevertheless, this time the situation warrants it —Seraphine responded with silent pride, looking directly at Lea.
—Oh, so the young Miss will need a wand, isn't that right? —he asked, directing his penetrating gaze towards Lea.
—That's correct, Mr. Ollivander —she confirmed, with assurance.
—If that's the case, I shall endeavor to find you the best —the old man laughed, a lopsided smile illuminating his wrinkled face.
—The best, for the best —Seraphine clarified, amused, and placed a firm hand on Lea's shoulder—. It seems like only yesterday she cast her first spell.

Ollivander began taking her measurements with a magical tape that moved by itself. The silence of the shop filled with the whisper of tissue paper as boxes were opened, with the soft rustle of wands being withdrawn and tested... One of oak (too rigid, a dry thud). Another of willow (too flexible, a weak vibration). A third with a unicorn tail hair core (a faint, kind flash, but not the right one).

Until one of them, upon touching her palm, shone with a warm and constant light, bathing the room in a golden glow. A serene warmth, as if a river of familiar yet new energy ran down her arm, anchoring itself in her heart. It was as if a part of her, until then asleep, had finally found its home.
—Curious... very curious —murmured Ollivander, observing her with renewed intensity—. Hawthorn, twenty-two centimeters, dragon heartstring core. Flexible. Excellent for complex charms, very versatile, with a predisposition to powerful magic... and of great character.

Lea made an effort to hide the triumphant smile that wanted to bloom on her lips. She held the wand delicately, marveling at the vibrant and fierce energy that seemed to pulse within the wood. It was hypnotic. However, a shadow of doubt briefly clouded her euphoria. It wasn't exactly what she had expected. Hawthorn wood was acceptable, but the core...
—Oh, dragon heartstring —murmured Seraphine, in a whisper so low only Lea could catch it. It was a phrase loaded with unspoken meaning—. What do you think, Lea? —Her gaze rested on her, piercing, seeking any crack in her composure.
—I think... I will do an excellent job with this one. Thank you, Mother —Lea responded, keeping her voice firm.
—Thank you very much, Mr. Ollivander.

Seraphine was holding back, Lea noticed. It wasn't the choice her mother would have made. She probably would have wished for the stable purity of unicorn hair or the predictable nobility of oak. But Lea trusted fully. She would make it work.
—Thank you, Ollivander. It's been a pleasure, as on every occasion —said Seraphine, depositing the seven Galleons on the counter before heading towards the exit.

Upon crossing the doorstep, Lea tried to reinforce her confidence.
—I will manage it, Mother —she said, but she wasn't sure of the tone she had used.
—We will discuss this at home. Focus on controlling your wand. Remember your role —Seraphine's voice was cold as steel. Lea remembered very well what role she was to play. She didn't plan to deviate from the script.

Her father was waiting for them outside.
—How did it go? —asked Alistair. He was holding a polished silver cauldron with the Gryffindor insignia engraved in gold in the center. On the bottom, an inscription: "Eleanor Blackwood". Lea quickly averted her gaze, refusing to analyze the message behind the gift.
—It's not what I had in mind. However, it is a wand with great potential —declared Seraphine as they began their return.
—I will make you proud —murmured Lea, more to herself.

Lea held her new wand with both hands, as if it were the most precious possession in the world. And it probably was. It wasn't just an instrument; it was her key to the future, the tool with which she would forge her destiny and honor the Blackwood legacy. A contained and fierce energy seemed to resonate from the hawthorn wood deep into her very being, promising power, challenge, and above all, the possibility of being, finally, impeccable.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

—The firs' years, Professor McGonagall —said the giant.
—Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here.

Hagrid! That was the giant's name, and Lea felt the brief triumph of having solved a small mystery, though she still lacked an understanding of the man's exact role at the school. Perhaps he was a guide, a custodian.

The Entrance Hall was even larger than the Blackwood mansion's, a cavernous space adorned with torches that cast dancing shadows on the stone walls. Floating candles lit the path towards imposing marble staircases, and a colossal chandelier hung from the heights, its flickering light reflecting in a central carved stone fountain. Lea expected no less from Hogwarts.

Professor McGonagall led them up the stairs, and as they ascended, the sound of a distant bustle began to grow into a constant rumble. The Great Hall, Lea supposed, where the other students were already gathered. However, the professor led them into a small, secluded antechamber and began to speak in a clear voice that cut through the damp air.
—Welcome to Hogwarts —she said—. The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room.

A protocol explanation, Lea noted, but necessary for those who came unprepared.
—The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards.

There it was. The first tangible step towards her brilliant future. She would soon be one of those outstanding witches, an exemplary product of this place and her house.
—While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will lose them. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the House Cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours.
—The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting.

Lea felt a stab of nervousness insisting on emerging from the pit of her stomach. She quickly suppressed it, digging her nails into her palms until she felt the sharp pressure through the fine leather of her gloves. She returned to reality. She was prepared for this. For everything.
—I shall return when we are ready for you —said Professor McGonagall before withdrawing, leaving most of the students with a palpable bewilderment on their faces—. Please wait quietly.

Lea followed the professor's advice and tried to remain calm, even surrounded by boys and girls whispering about the houses, their faces pale with a fear that seemed quite unnecessary to her. After all, the ceremony was just about putting on a hat.
—How exactly do they sort us into houses? —asked a boy with jet-black hair and round glasses to the red-haired boy beside him.
—I think it's some sort of test. Fred says it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking.

Lea almost laughed at the genuine look of horror on the small boy's face. After the unpleasantness with Hermione, she would have preferred not to converse with anyone else, but she respected the Weasleys; almost all their members, like those of her family, had belonged to Gryffindor. It was sensible to be on good terms with her future housemates.
—It doesn't hurt —she clarified, giving the bespectacled boy a look intended to be reassuring—. They put a hat on you and it chooses which house you belong to. They say it reads your mind. I believe it reads your heart.

The bespectacled boy, shorter than both, regained some color in his face.
—Really? —he said, in a thin voice.
—Yes. They try to keep it a secret, but my parents were here and they told me so I'd be prepared. There's nothing to worry about.
—No wonder Percy wouldn't tell me —grumbled the Weasley—. That rule-loving fool.

Lea was about to introduce herself formally when they were interrupted by a group of ghosts gliding through the back wall, plunging the room into a sudden chill. Pearly white and slightly transparent, they floated through the room, absorbed in their own argument, barely noticing the first-years.
—...Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give him a second chance... —said one who looked like a monk.
—My dear Friar, haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and, you know, he's not even a proper ghost... —replied another in a more shrill voice—. What are you all doing here?

No one answered. The house ghosts, Lea supposed. They were a mystery even to the books, but they seemed harmless in their ethereal indifference.
—New students! —said the Fat Friar, suddenly beaming at everyone—. About to be Sorted, I suppose?

Some nodded mutely.
—Hope to see you in Hufflepuff! —the Friar continued—. My old house, you know.
—Move along now —said a sharp voice—. The Sorting Ceremony's about to start.

Professor McGonagall had returned. The ghosts, like smoke, floated through the opposite wall and vanished.
—Now, form a line —Professor McGonagall told the first years— and follow me.

When they passed through the enormous oak doors into the Great Hall, a wave of sound and warmth enveloped them. They were met by thunderous applause from the students, seated at four long tables, each headed by a banner with their house's colors and emblem. But what took Lea's breath away was the ceiling: enchanted to look like the night sky, a velvety black expanse studded with bright stars. It was identical to the one in her room at home, and a pang of familiarity, bittersweet and powerful, shot through her.

At the far end, on a raised, more ornate table with carved chairs like thrones, sat the teachers. Among them, the silver-haired figure of Albus Dumbledore stood out. Lea felt genuinely awestruck for the first time in the wizard's presence, and under the impression, she thought his twinkling eyes rested on her for a fleeting second. Beside him, a man with a lilac turban, another with a hooked nose and greasy hair, a portly woman with white curls, and a short man with a comical mustache completed the picture.

Professor McGonagall had placed a three-legged stool in front of them, right before the staff table, and brought out an old, patched, and dusty hat.

And then, the hat sang.

Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,
But don't judge on what you see,
I'll eat myself if you can find
A smarter hat than me.
You can keep your black bowlers,
Your top hats sleek and tall,
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat
And I can cap them all.
There's nothing hidden in your head
The Sorting Hat can't see,
So try me on and I will tell you
Where you ought to be.
You might belong in Gryffindor,
Where dwell the brave at heart.
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry
Set Gryffindors apart.
You might belong in Hufflepuff,
Where they are just and loyal,
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true
And unafraid of toil.
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,
If you've a ready mind,
Where those of wit and learning,
Will always find their kind.
Or perhaps in Slytherin
You'll make your real friends,
Those cunning folks use any means
To achieve their ends.
So put me on! Don't be afraid!
And you won't get in a flap!
You're in safe hands (though I have none)
For I'm a Thinking Cap!

The hall erupted in applause and the first-years looked at each other, visibly more relieved. Professor McGonagall stepped forward with a large scroll of parchment.

—When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted —she announced—. Abbott, Hannah!

A girl with a pink face and blonde pigtails stepped out of the line, put on the hat, which fell down to her eyes, and sat down. A moment's pause.
—HUFFLEPUFF! —shouted the hat.

As Professor McGonagall continued calling students, who went to their respective tables amidst applause, Lea began to feel a slight, nervous itch, a sensation only comparable to the moments before a major test. Which was ridiculous and unnecessary, she told herself, for she already knew what would happen. There was no reason to doubt. Not now. Her destiny awaited.

Just to be sure, Lea instinctively touched her arm through the soft black silk of her robes.
—Granger, Hermione.

She heard the Muggle-born girl's name and looked up. Hermione ran, almost stumbling, to the stool and crammed the hat onto her head with visible nervousness. If anyone asked Lea, the girl would most likely end up in Ravenclaw, the house of knowledge, the only thing that could redeem her origins.
—GRYFFINDOR! —shouted the hat.

Lea felt her heart stop for an instant. Poor Godric. It was truly unheard of how some ended up in the prestigious house.
—Malfoy, Draco.

If the previous had been a displeasure, now Lea couldn't even hide the grimace of horror that formed on her face upon hearing the name of the boy with pale blonde hair and light grey eyes. Malfoy stepped forward arrogantly. It was no surprise when the hat barely touched his head before making a decision.
—SLYTHERIN!

The hat's shout was received with satisfaction by Malfoy. The house of the Death Eaters, of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and of all the evil the magical world had known. Absolutely horrible that people like him and his father could coexist there.

There weren't many people left now.
—Blackwood, Eleanor.

The sound of her name traveled through the Great Hall with a different weight. It wasn't a simple call; it was an announcement. A collective whisper, laden with expectation, rose from the tables.
—A Blackwood?
—Surely to Gryffindor.
—The family of the war heroes.

They said it with a naturalness that made Lea smile smugly inside, ignoring the subtle tension knotting in her chest. She forced herself to stand even taller, took a deep breath, and walked towards the stool with the impeccable composure her mother would have approved of: firm steps, straight back, gaze forward. She could not permit the slightest tremor. There was no fear in her stride, only the absolute certainty of what awaited her.

She noticed, out of the corner of her eye, how the gazes followed her, scrutinizing her. Some, curious; others, reverent; a few, from the Slytherin table, with a shadow of disdain. But Lea remained unmoved. She didn't need to. She knew perfectly well what was expected of her: to confirm the lineage, to honor the surname, for the Hat to pronounce "Gryffindor" and for everything to fall into the universe's perfect order. And that was exactly what she would do.

When she reached the stool, the wood creaked faintly under her weight. The silence grew denser, more expectant. Professor McGonagall held the hat, and Lea noticed the slight tremor of her own breath, held back, almost imperceptible. Not from fear —she repeated to herself— but from the solemnity of the moment.

The hat descended slowly, brushing against her silver hair. The rough brim touched her forehead and a warm shadow covered her eyes. For an instant, the external world —the murmurs, the stares, the hall— faded. Only the sound of her own blood pounding in her ears remained, and the certainty that everything she had been, everything she had been told she must be, now depended on a voice that had not yet spoken inside her head.

A low whisper, curiously alive, resonated in her mind.
—Well, well... What a... noisy mind I have here. And so... orderly. Curious. It's not often one finds thoughts so polished, so perfectly aligned. I wonder... for whom, exactly?

Lea held her breath. She hadn't imagined the Hat "spoke" like this, nor that the sensation would be so visceral, as if someone were rifling through the most intimate drawers of her consciousness.
—You seek honor, duty... perfection —the inner voice continued—. But, do you believe in it? Or do you obey because you fear you are not enough?

She wanted to protest, but the Hat seemed to be probing corners she herself didn't visit.
—Ah, no, don't deceive yourself. You yearn to have the heart of a Gryffindor, but that flame you defend... it doesn't burn with its own fire.

Lea clenched her fists on her knees, under her robes. "I am here on merit," she thought with all the force of her will. "Through discipline. Through work. I am worthy. I am a Blackwood. I am a Gryffindor." She felt a damp heat in her palms, the stinging echo of the half-moons her nails had marked on her skin.

The Hat emitted a low murmur, almost a compassionate laugh.
—Exactly. Worthy. You need the world to acknowledge it, don't you? To grant you the seal of approval you so crave.

There was a heavy, eternal silence inside her head.
—And yet... there is goodness in you. Buried. Fragile. Bound by the hands that molded you. You could have been many things, little Blackwood. Perhaps you still could be.

Eleanor's world froze. She felt a storm approaching, a conclusion she had not foreseen even with all her meticulous preparation.
—It's a pity, really. You have everything to be an excellent Gryffindor... on the surface. But there is something deeper... a cunning, a cold determination, a yearning for power not to dominate, but to prove... to survive. Something that clamors for a different path. Better...
—SLYTHERIN!

The shout resonated in the hall, but for Lea, the sound came distorted, as through thick glass. The silence that followed was more deafening than any roar. For a second, no one breathed. Then, from the green and silver table, applause erupted, sharp and triumphant, mixed with murmurs of astonishment and confusion from the other tables.

Eleanor did not move. The hat was removed from her head, and for a fraction of a second, she didn't know if she was still breathing. It couldn't be. There was a mistake. Her body reacted before her mind: she clung to the edge of the stool, her knuckles white with the force. She felt the heat in her palms, damp, stinging, the unmistakable burn of injured skin. That pain was real. The only real thing in a world that had just crumbled.

She forced herself to look up. The tables watched her with a mixture of curiosity and pity. Her gaze fixed on the red and gold banners of Gryffindor, waving strongly across the hall. That's where she should be. That was her place. A sharp pain pierced her chest.

No. There was no mistake. It had to be a test. The Hat must have wanted to test her mettle, her loyalty, her obedience even in the face of adversity. It was the final lesson. Everything in her life had been a lesson. This was too.

Her legs moved, automatic, propelling her body towards the Slytherin table. Every step on the stone flags was a monumental effort. Her face was a mask of perfectly carved indifference, but inside, everything was cold and empty. She felt the air, dense and heavy.

But her mind, trained to find solutions, was already working with cold precision: if it was a test, she would pass it. If it was a mistake, she would correct it. She could do it, she repeated to herself, while a ragged breath burned her lungs. Her hands, hidden, remained clenched. She had control. She always did. Nothing had changed. She could not allow it to change.

When she finally reached the table, a dozen faces greeted her: some with polite smiles, others with open distrust, and one, like Draco Malfoy's, with a mocking satisfaction that only inherited victories bring.

Slytherin. The house of those who destroyed her own. The house whose name her mother still uttered with the tone of one spitting venom.

Eleanor drew herself up to her full height. Her gaze, cold and deliberate, swept the table and then shifted, slowly turning towards the Gryffindor table. She searched for it among the multitude of faces, and in her chest, something burned with an intensity she didn't immediately recognize. It wasn't shame. It wasn't fear. It was something older, deeper, more dangerous. It was rage. A cold, silent rage.

And then, she smiled. She wasn't going to stop now, she couldn't afford to fall, to doubt is weakness and she was not weak.

It wasn't the measured, polished smile her mother had taught her. This one was different. Smaller, sharper, just a slight curve of the lips that didn't reach her eyes. She designed a new one, one that fit her new reality. Eleanor Blackwood was, above all, a model of adaptable perfection. Wherever they sent her, she would prove her worth. The mistake, the test, her destiny... greatness. If she was not with the lions, then she would make those of her new house deserve her.

"You are the best," she repeated like a mantra, sitting down with a rigid body on the Slytherin bench. "This is exactly what your parents want." And her arm, hidden under the table, began to burn with more intensity.

She was Eleanor Blackwood.

Because if the Sorting Hat thought it had condemned her, it was mistaken. Slytherin needed a guide. Someone to lift it from the mud of its prejudices and make it shine with the same brilliance as the Gryffindor lions. And who better than her to achieve it.

On the dais, Professor McGonagall's voice rose again, relentless and solemn, cutting through the general murmur:
—Potter, Harry.

But Eleanor barely heard it. Her gaze was fixed on a distant point, her mind already tracing a new path, a new plan. She was resolved. If her place was in Slytherin, then Slytherin would learn to speak with a Blackwood's voice.

Chapter Text

The blood continued to pound forcefully in her ears, a rhythmic, dull drum that deafened everything else. The sharp pain in her arm, where her robe stuck to the raw flesh, indicated with clinical precision that it was time to stop. Her hands, stained with blood and sweat, yearned for freedom outside the now-ruined silk gloves. The world seemed to return to itself gradually, like a veil being lifted. Albus Dumbledore was standing, speaking, but the words reached her distorted, unable to fully concentrate on their meaning. She noticed the feast began the very moment the plates, brimming with food of exquisite appearance, magically emerged before her. She picked up a couple of utensils with measured movements, placed them in perfect symmetry next to the golden plate, but served herself nothing. Instead, she remained rigid, her back straight as a wand, looking at the long Slytherin table, her new house. The tip of her index finger found, almost by chance, the sharp point of the knife she was holding too tightly. A brief, sharp sting. She forced herself to breathe, a deep, silent inhalation that filled her lungs with cold air. She would handle it. She just had to adapt, and for that, she had to be in control. Another prick, this time deliberate, helped anchor her in the present and look forward with renewed clarity.

The Bloody Baron was staring fixedly at her, as if she were the most interesting piece in the hall, a curiosity worthy of study. Right next to her, Draco Malfoy seemed as disgusted with her presence as Lea was with her own; his expression was a mirror of her own disdain.

"Let everyone choose their favorite tune!" declared Dumbledore, with a spark of joviality in his voice that Lea found discordant. "And off we go!"

Her heart slowed its pace, settling into a more tolerable rhythm as she stood up along with the other students, a synchronized movement. Her breathing became regular in her lungs, measured, and her expression, once tense, was replaced by a mask of indifference and appropriate reverence towards the anthem. Although a persistent knot in her throat made it impossible for her to make a sound, her upright posture and forward gaze didn't allow anyone to notice the incapacity.

When the singing ended, applause echoed through the Great Hall like a wave breaking in the distance, not reaching her. Dumbledore spoke of new beginnings and old values, giving way to the common rooms. Lea allowed herself a moment of calm, a single heartbeat of truce. She had to draw up a plan from this point, a new origin from which to build her strategy.

"Slytherins, with me," announced a female voice, clear and authoritative.

Lea felt anxiety swirling in her chest, a cold mist of apprehension. What would she find there? But she forced herself to maintain her composure, straightening her shoulders as she followed the tall girl, whose penetrating gaze and inflexible posture brooked no questions as she led them all towards the dungeons. They crossed corridors adorned with torches that transformed into increasingly damp and cold stone passageways, descending stairs until they reached a gloomy, dark, and damp place, welcomed by faded, cold stones and a smell of stagnant water. Literally a prison, she thought, with a flash of bitter irony. That was what that house deserved after all.

The girl stopped in front of a wall of bare bricks. Lea thought, with a hint of distaste, that she would open some sewer and put them in there.

"My name is Gemma Farley, I'm your prefect this year." Gemma spoke with great determination, each word a dry, efficient blow, which pleasantly surprised Lea. She seemed like a decent person, quite different from the place's gloomy reputation. "Next, you will hear the password to access the common room."

Then, she turned around, looking directly at the wall.

"Pure Blood," she pronounced with a clarity that cut the cold air.

Lea felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. A silver serpent emerged from the wall, sculpted from the stone itself, which waved gracefully in the air before carving the outline of a door that Gemma pushed firmly.

The place was completely different from what she could have imagined. It wasn't gloomy and depressing; it was elegantly cold, an underground chamber of power. Emerald green and silver tones permeated the room, bathed in a greenish light that filtered through giant windows allowing a view of the great black lake. Were they… under the lake? The light from the fireplace in the living room, carved from black marble, illuminated the faces of students lounging in large green leather armchairs. Everything was familiar in its opulence, too familiar, and that unsettled Lea deeply, as if she had been swallowed by a distorted version of her own home.

"The head of our house is Professor Severus Snape," Gemma continued, pausing calculatedly for the name to weigh on them. "You will answer to him when you commit any infraction." She made a longer pause, her gaze sweeping over the group. "He isn't very understanding, so I advise you to be sensible and act properly."

She signaled to a boy standing in front of the large fireplace, who approached with silent steps.

"Girls, follow me. The boys will go with Burke. We'll show you your rooms."

Gemma inspired a strange confidence in Lea, one that her logic told her shouldn't be there. Yet, the girl carried herself with an appropriate bearing, a steely gaze, was properly groomed, and spoke in a modulated tone. There was no flaw to be found in her, except for the silver badge she wore on her robe. Perhaps Slytherin could produce a good wizard for once, and she would be the living proof of it. It was a possibility worth considering.

They walked towards the rooms down a long hallway housing various dark wood doors, stopping at one halfway down the corridor. Upon opening the door, a room with the same greenish tones was revealed, the walls draped with silk and the beds decorated with silk fabric canopies. They were elegant, distinguished. Her mother would definitely have approved of the place, Lea concluded, assessing the architectural distinction of the Slytherin common room. However, she didn't feel the same about what it meant, much less about those who belonged to it, she thought, keeping the reflection to herself.

"Have a good night," said Gemma, withdrawing, leaving Lea with four other girls in the now silent room.

She recognized two: the blonde girl and the black-haired girl from the forest, who were already talking in low voices, whispers that cut the air. On the other hand, the stocky girl had gone directly to a bed right next to the door, claiming it with a possessive gesture, and the last, shorter one, took the one beside it with quick movements.

"I didn't know the Blackwoods still existed. I thought they were ruined," said the black-haired girl, approaching Lea with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Then you know something new," she replied without altering her tone, looking directly into the girl's eyes, challenging her insolence. "The Blackwoods always return. Watch your words."

Lea was still trembling slightly from the previous events, a residual tremor she detested, and she didn't want to have to lose the little calm she had left with the black-haired girl. A brief memory, an etiquette lesson from her mother, passed through her mind before she completely suppressed it and turned towards the bed she distinguished had her luggage, seeking a tangible task.

"You think you're so above everyone, don't you?" Contrary to her, the girl intended to continue, her voice laden with provocation. "But look, here you are. In the dungeons."

The air became heavy, dense. The stocky girl had opened her eyes again, observing the scene with mute interest. The blonde had something akin to fear on her face, a tension at the corner of her lips.

"Yes, I am, in fact. And that's why I'm here," declared Lea, her voice beginning to tense at the edges, "because people like you need someone to teach them what it means to honor a surname."

Lea was bordering on anger, a hot and dangerous emotion. The other was acting completely irrationally. Did everyone want to have problems with her that day?

"Egomaniac idiot!" roared the girl, and her face turned a bright red.

It was enough. Lea thrust her hand into the pocket where she kept her wand, the instinctive movement of someone who feels cornered. She knew that staying calm was the best way to solve things, but she had stayed calm all day, every minute a battle. Blood began to throb in her ears, a roar that drowned everything out, but she couldn't finish the action she had started.

"Leave her, Pansy," the blonde girl's voice was firm, a command. She had her gaze fixed on the hand Lea kept hidden in the folds of her robe while taking Pansy's shoulder with authority.

Pansy's face was red; she didn't seem to want to shut up at all, her breathing was agitated. In any case, she didn't speak again. Sensible, thought Lea, however, she still felt compressed, as if her skin were too tight to contain her, as if she could explode at any moment. At home, her parents would have already sent her to her room for such a display of lack of control, but in that place, she couldn't seem to find the solitude she craved, the restorative silence. This was not her home. By no means.

"I think we've started off on the wrong foot, haven't we?" Daphne spoke, addressing everyone in the room, to the annoyance of the young girl by the door who was now playing with a ginger cat, ignoring them all. "We're going to be here for several years, so the prudent thing would be, at least, not to try to kill each other." She said the last part looking directly at Lea, with a slightly arched eyebrow.

She snorted internally. As if I had started the stupid situation, she thought, returning to her bed and beginning to remove her silk gloves with abrupt movements, storing them in her trunk with exaggerated care. She noticed her hands for a moment, the dirt embedded under her nails. That wasn't going to come out with a simple spell, she thought irritably.

"I'm Daphne Greengrass, my friend with emotional management issues is Pansy Parkinson."

Parkinson and Greengrass, she noted mentally, of the same ilk as Malfoy, with another nuance. She thought, now without the robe, feeling the cold air of the dungeons on her arms.

"And our famous infiltrator is Lea Blackwood." Lea fixed her gaze on Daphne's green eyes, defiant, but she continued, unperturbed. "And that leaves us with you two, girls," she said, looking towards the smaller girl and the one with the cat.

"Tracey Davis," the brunette merely said, without looking up.

Daphne was silent for a few seconds, looking in the direction of the larger girl, her silence a question. When she understood that she refused to speak, she gave up with a slight shrug.

The larger girl, with a sullen face and broad hands, remained silent by her bed, stroking a ginger cat with a distant air, as if she were in an empty room.

Lea watched her out of the corner of her eye. There was something in her coarse calm, in the deliberate way she avoided all eye contact, that she found deeply irritating. After a whole day trying to maintain her composure, the sensation of being observed—or worse, ignored—by someone she considered inferior began to grate on her already tense nerves.

"What's your name?" she asked, with a tone that tried to sound neutral but didn't quite manage to hide an edge of impatience.

The girl didn't respond. Her fingers, thick and strong, continued to sink into the cat's fur, an act of passive defiance. The animal purred, oblivious to the tension.

The silence weighed more than it should have, filling the space between them like a thick substance.

Lea felt a familiar pang: the same sensation as when her mother ignored an incorrect answer, the same coldness in the air, the same suspended judgment that froze the blood.

"Eloquence isn't a predominant characteristic of the house, is it?" she commented with a false lightness that dripped disdain.

The girl looked up slowly, and in those dull eyes Lea thought she saw the exact reflection of everything her upbringing had taught her to despise: ignorance, docility, the rotten heritage of those who, she was sure, had followed Voldemort.

"None of your damn business." It was the first time she had heard her speak. The voice was as rough as her appearance.

Lea felt a heaviness invade her, a recognizable dizziness. It was anger, the emotion she found hardest to repress, the most difficult to hide under the cold indifference she had inherited. She wasn't going to tolerate disrespect from someone like that. She was above the girl, above everyone in the room. Her lineage demanded it.

Perhaps that's why the words came out colder, more cutting, than she had planned.

"Or is your surname so important that you won't pronounce it?" she continued, her voice tightening with each word, like a rope about to snap. "Or maybe… you're afraid? Don't worry. Just your name is enough. I wouldn't want to know either if I were sharing a room with another Death Eater."

"Millicent," the girl spat, her eyes alight with a pure and simple fury. Her cat, sensitive to the change, arched its back and hissed.

Lea held her gaze, motionless, a statue of ice. Inside, something relaxed. It wasn't pleasure, but the cold satisfaction of a problem solved, a challenge overcome. She didn't know why she was doing it, only that she needed to. She needed to win, even in something insignificant.

She had touched a nerve. She was right. Seraphine would be proud, she thought, invoking her mother's internal standard.

She heard Pansy laugh under her breath, a short, approving sound, and Daphne let out an incredulous exhalation, almost of respect. It wasn't a mocking laugh; it was recognition, a twisted one, one befitting the place they were in.

Lea had regained control, or something that resembled it, a shadow of dominance.

But the taste left in her mouth wasn't that of victory, but of iron and a profound weariness, as if she had fought a battle she didn't want to fight.

As she lay down on her bed, although brief murmurs from Pansy and Daphne could be heard in the background, the room was charged with a thick emotional fog difficult to dissipate. Lea, in her bed, could barely register anything other than her own thoughts, which spun like a whirlwind. Before she had even recovered from the previous event, a new problem had already appeared in her mind, more urgent. If the book was in the Gryffindor common room library, how was she going to get it now? Silence fell as the faint light in the room grew even darker, her eyelids heavy as lead. Whatever it took, she would handle it. She always did, thought Lea, before succumbing to the overwhelming fatigue that, finally, conquered her.

…

She had imagined she would be ahead, but not for that any less interesting. Just as expected, she was quite ahead in most classes; however, there were some, like Transfiguration, that ended up taking her to the library seeking more information, a need she hadn't anticipated. Her parents had given her the tools to excel, and she would achieve it, even if she had to strive harder at times. Success wasn't an option; it was an expectation.

The librarian, an older, very strict witch named Irma Pince, didn't allow a single loud sound in the library and deducted points or imposed punishments on anyone who contradicted her. It was her starting point for the mission, although it wasn't very helpful, as she quickly realized the older witch wouldn't be willing to look for the one different book among hundreds that looked like copies of the legacy they already had. Her mission required a tact and access that Miss Pince couldn't, or wouldn't, provide.

Which led her to another possibility. Transfiguration, taught by Professor Minerva McGonagall, was truly complex if you didn't know the object to be transfigured in depth. During their first class, they were taught to transform a matchstick into a needle, and although she was the only one to succeed, the mental process had cost her more than she expected, a reminder that absolute mastery required constant effort.

The professor, besides being an Animagus—Rather unpleasant, changing one's body like that, thought Lea with an internal shudder—was also the head of Gryffindor house, but she wasn't very willing to help Lea beyond strict protocol.

"Professor, good morning, I have a question," Lea had said, approaching after class with calculated precision.

"Miss Blackwood, what can I do for you?" replied McGonagall, with her usual dryness, looking at her over her square spectacles.

"I need access to the Gryffindor common room library, Professor."

"Get a pass signed by one of your first-year peers, and access is yours. During established hours, obviously."

"Any student from the house can give it to me?"

"Any first-year student."

"Excuse me, but why that rule? Wouldn't it be just as valid for another student to grant it to me?"

"It's equally important to have relationships with upper years. However, the common room libraries help us get closer to our peers from other houses and strengthen relationships. Having an upper-year student ask a younger student for a pass, or vice versa, would create a power imbalance that doesn't foster coexistence."

"And why would that be?" Lea was finding the thing increasingly absurd, a bureaucratic barrier without apparent logical sense.

"Among younger students, respect for their elders would make them hand it over without a word, while the elders would feel compelled to grant it. Miss Blackwood, you only need a first-year in Gryffindor to want to sign the pass for you. I'm sure you'll manage it."

And with that, McGonagall withdrew, leaving Lea with more questions than answers and an apparently insurmountable obstacle. Lea had evaluated that possibility; however, the general distrust that had formed towards her person after her house assignment made it an inconvenience. It was to be expected, on one hand. Slytherin isn't to be trusted, thought Lea, understanding the logic of the prejudice though not sharing it.

Herbology was dirty and very practical. Lea had always seen her family's garden as a pristine and peaceful place, a static work of art; she would never have even thought of seeing a dittany root or munching cabbages there. The professor, Pomona Sprout, however, was quite pleasant, a plump lady with white hair who seemed very passionate about her subject, always willing to answer questions and kept the greenhouse with a pleasant minty smell that, unexpectedly, reminded Lea of the herbal perfumes her father used, a sensory connection that disturbed her slightly.

History of Magic had never been boring in the books, and yet, the professor who taught it, a ghost who seemed older than Hogwarts itself, made Lea prefer to spend the day de-leafing hellebores rather than listen to him for one more second. Astronomy was on Wednesdays at midnight, but she had never been interested enough in the stars to stand and appreciate them at the cost of her valuable sleep and study time, another concession this new life demanded of her.

Both courses were taught to all houses together, and if it wasn't enough to have to endure the looks and murmurs behind her back while she tried to concentrate, she had to compete with the muggle-born girl with the bushy hair to answer the professors' questions. Hermione Granger raised her hand even before they finished speaking and, when she opened her mouth, she spat out the books letter for letter, as if she had them written on her tongue, a display of prodigious memory but lacking the elegance of true understanding, or so Lea told herself.

Hermione was good at memoristic courses. Muggles, at least, know how to read, thought Lea; it wasn't surprising that she excelled in these, although it made her wonder if the girl would be equally good in courses that required direct magic, intuition, and innate power, though she doubted it very much. It was a logical assumption, based on what she knew of the world.

Charms was, without a doubt, one of the subjects in which she excelled from the start. Not by raw talent, but by meticulous training. Since childhood, her parents had insisted on correct pronunciation, the exact cadence of the spell, the position of the wrist, and breath control. "Magic is an extension of your will, not your emotion," her mother would repeat while correcting her gestures in front of the practice room mirror. At Hogwarts, those years of diligent practice bore their cold fruit: while her classmates barely managed a faint glimmer with their wands, hers traced clear, firm figures in the air; she even gave an impeccable demonstration of the Accio charm that flew a book directly into her hand, earning her the silent respect of several Hufflepuff students with whom she had class.

Regarding the altercation in the room, the rumor that "the Blackwood girl" had humiliated Millicent Bulstrode ran quickly through the stone corridors, which Lea attributed entirely to Greengrass's gossip. The comments weren't long in coming; in the common room, some called her nicknames like "Giant-Scorcher" or "Troll-Crusher," completely out of tone and taste, thought Lea with annoyance. In a way, she might have felt ashamed of how she reacted, of the loss of control, but on the other hand, the general change in attitude towards her presence was beneficial and helped her focus on her primary goals without minor interference. Even so, murmurs and fleeting glances in the corridors, laden with a new caution, remained common.

"Scary, do you think she supports the Death Eaters now?"
"Look, there goes the Blackwood from Slytherin."
"Her parents must be furious."

And that last thought struck her like a well-aimed arrow. Of all she heard daily about herself, the mention of her parents was what hurt the most, a vulnerable point that even she hadn't managed to fully armor. Just the day after the Sorting Ceremony, her parents sent her a letter announcing how happy they were that Lea was finally at Hogwarts following her path to the future. That letter, written in her mother's elegant handwriting, was addressed to "Our little Gryffindor," something they already took for granted but which made Lea tremble inside every time she remembered it. She wasn't lying, she repeated firmly as she responded to their letters with carefully chosen phrases, without contradicting the reality her parents believed. She had to pass the test alone, find the book, and then her parents would have an answer to the situation, a lesson to teach and a measured consequence. They couldn't find out now, when she had nothing to show, no success to overshadow the initial failure. She didn't want to imagine what would happen if that reality came to pass; a shiver ran through her at the thought, a cold, formulated fear. Lea would make her parents proud no matter what. It was a mantra, a promise made to herself.

By that week's Friday, Lea already had a new plan in mind to continue her search. She found Harry and Ron, the Weasley boy, on the moving stairs. Harry Potter hadn't stood out much individually, to Lea's relief; in the classes they shared, the boy remained quiet and didn't draw much attention, although, of course, he was still a recognized celebrity in the school, but he didn't yet seem an active obstacle to overcome. That gave her the necessary tranquility to handle the situation with the strategic calm it required.

"Good morning," she greeted both boys, extending her hand to each with a learned courtesy she hoped would be reciprocated.

"Hello," Harry was the first to respond and shake her hand cautiously, a brief grip.

While Ron seemed still skeptical, his hands remained in his pockets.

"Hey," he said, not taking his eyes off her, a frank hostility in his blue eyes.

Lea immediately noticed the change in the boy compared to when they spoke before the ceremony. Being a Slytherin really has no advantages, she thought, or perhaps everyone already knew about her stupid nicknames and had judged her for them.

"Are you heading to the Great Hall?" said Lea, sounding genuinely friendly for the first time in a long time, forcing a light tone.

"Yeah, like everyone, right? It's morning," said Ron with an ironic tone that cut like a knife. Lea swallowed, containing the immediate retort.

"Well, I was wondering if I could accompany you there," she proposed, maintaining her composure.

"Yeah, I suppose. It's the same way," said Harry, looking at Ron, who shrugged with disdain.

"Have you been to the Gryffindor library?" Lea asked, sounding casual, as if the answer were indifferent to her.

"What? We have a library?" said Ron, sounding genuinely bewildered.

"Yes, well, it's supposed to be in some area of the common room," she continued, trying to guide the conversation.

"Neither of us has been, but Hermione surely knows something," Harry replied as they passed into the Great Hall. "Look, in fact, there she is."

Of all people, Lea was sure that Hermione Granger was the last person she would ask for access to something like that. It was a dead end announced.

"Well, but I'd rather ask you two. How could a Muggle-born have any idea about these things?" she tried to sound amused; it was a joke of the kind she shared at home and made her parents smile condescendingly. Though it seemed to have the opposite and immediate effect: Ron's face contorted, his freckles seemed to stand out against a background of reddened skin. Lea thought that something like that would probably be funny with her housemates, but she suppressed the thought forcefully.

"Well, she has a lot more idea than you, obviously," said Ron, sounding deeply offended, as if she had profaned something sacred.

What the hell was wrong with that boy? Lea didn't want to believe that the Weasleys were "blood traitors" as they were sometimes called in her circle, but speaking to her like that, to defend a Muggle-born, was, strange, to say the least. Irrational. Lea pinched the bridge of her nose, a gesture of contained frustration, before continuing.

"Of course… Well, could either of you sign me a pass for the library? It's not free, of course. I'd owe you a favor." Now it was Harry's turn, her last hope in that duo.

"We don't know how to do that," Harry intervened, his voice firmer now. "But, even if we did, we wouldn't give you something like that."

"Oh, so Harry Potter is a defender of Muggles?" said Lea, unintentionally sounding as condescending as she did, though, thinking about it, it made sense. The boy was a half-blood, after all. His loyalty would, naturally, be divided.

"Besides, why would you want to go there?" continued Ron, ignoring the comment. "Maybe you burn all the Muggle books?" He laughed at his own joke, a harsh sound. "Or burn Hermione's things," he added, laughing again. "Or…" Ron smiled maliciously before speaking again, to Lea's disgust, who began to observe the situation like someone watching a child throwing a tantrum. "Maybe you get burned passing the portrait, by the presence of impure blood?" He said this last part with a tone of feigned fear before bursting into laughter again, a coarse and predictable taunt.

"Or maybe, I'd die of disgust from having to hear one more of those awful jokes, Weasley." The boy was trying her patience, and although responding to such a low provocation wasn't a rule of etiquette, letting others mock her with impunity wasn't either. It was a matter of self-respect.

"Anyone who despises Muggles isn't welcome in Gryffindor." Ron was now red to the ears, and Lea had the sensation that in the Great Hall, several students were turning their heads towards them, attracted by the raised tone.

"Really, I have no idea which part of what I said gave you that idea," said Lea, sincere in her bewilderment. "Their presence is only a nuisance when they make themselves noticed, like what you're doing now, with this scene." Ron's face was a picture of pure indignation.

"You must be joking," he muttered, breathless.

"What's going on here?" Hermione Granger had appeared behind Ron, with a furrowed brow and crossed arms, a figure of reproach.

"And with that, I'll take my leave then." Lea had a feeling that if they continued this discussion with Granger there, things could only escalate into even more unpleasant territory. "Thank you for your help," she referred, looking only at Harry, who had remained notably passive during the entire exchange. Quite passive for the Chosen One, thought Lea, turning on her heel.

"Slytherin. They're all the same." She heard Ron say bitterly as she walked away. Sitting at her table, she turned to notice how Hermione was speaking, totally angry, with Ron, who seemed to be ignoring her, sunk in his own fury.

"Nice scene, Blackwood," said Pansy, just as she placed a slice of bread on her plate with affected delicacy. "Failed attempt to make little friends in Gryffindor? We've already told you. You belong here now. In the dungeons."

Lea listened to her while eating a piece of bacon with precise movements, and sighed before responding, a sound of pure mental exhaustion. She wanted to end this as soon as possible. It was almost time for Potions class.

"Yes, Parkinson, I see you love reminding me. Is it a fixation with dungeons? Because in Azkaban they have some you'd love." Now it was Daphne's turn to intervene, with her always slightly amused tone.

"Could you two stop acting like we live in a prison?" said Daphne. "Everything is literally decorated better than many mansions."

Lea was aware of that, of course. The aesthetics were impeccable.

"However, they're still adapted dungeons," Lea retorted. "Are we sure it wasn't built to contain you all in the first place?"

"Contain us?" roared Pansy, her black eyes shining with indignation. "Don't forget it's your place too!"

"Aw, look, she's even including you now," said Daphne, amused, nibbling on a grape.
Lea dropped the conversation, too tired to respond or continue with that farce. Although she hated the idea of being in Slytherin, she was aware that it was a test and, above all, of the fierce pride of those who belonged to it. She couldn't realize her idea of reforming the place, of proving her worth despite everything, if she couldn't even get along with its most immediate inhabitants, and that was a problem requiring an analytical solution like any other. She would have to think about how to manage that, and also the book. After the disastrous interaction with Ron and Harry, she seriously doubted that anyone from Gryffindor would ever want to give her the pass. That was another thing: when it came to Gryffindor, every attempt to approach seemed to be rejected with a coarseness that bewildered her logical mind.
Primarily, she thought her lack of practice speaking with people her own age might have something to do with it. However, she had managed to successfully approach, or at least maintain civil interactions, with people in Ravenclaw and, even, within her own house, where most didn't even try to be friendly, so there wasn't much room for her to be so either. At best, she maintained a polite coldness, more than they deserved, she thought. What she found even stranger was that her parents had educated her specifically to fit into that environment, the House of Godric was her house, they said. Perhaps the values were being lost, she thought with a hint of genuine pity, as she walked to Potions with Daphne and Pansy, although the latter seemed as uncomfortable with her presence as Lea was.

Chapter Text

The journey to the Potions classroom felt eternal to Lea, not just because of the long, winding path down to the dungeons where it was located, but because of the persistent way Pansy and Daphne seemed to float around her. Their banal conversations, based on the minutiae of their day and superficial comments about other students, struck her as unbearable and absurd, a background noise that aggravated her already tense reserve. After several long minutes, they arrived and took their seats in the dark wooden chairs, facing the gleaming pewter cauldrons. The professor, it seemed, had not yet arrived; only the Gryffindor students, with whom they would share the class, were present. After the altercation in the Great Hall, entering here only generated more murmurs and loaded glances that stuck in her back like pins.

"They say Snape is horrible," commented Daphne with a deliberately exaggerated grimace of horror on her face.
"Just say? I think it's obvious at a glance," continued Pansy, smiling smugly at her own joke. "But he's our Head of House, I don't think he'll give us much trouble."
"I don't know, I've never been any good at Potions," confessed Daphne, with a slight tone of genuine worry.
"Quiet," Lea cut off Daphne sharply, noticing the tall, dark silhouette of the professor entering the room with a sweep of his cloak that cut the air like a raven's wing.

Severus Snape was a tall, thin man, dressed entirely in black, and his entire posture conveyed a profound bitterness, as if life itself were a personal affront. His face, pale and gaunt, reflected no emotion except for a perpetual distaste and a glacial indifference. Snape didn't greet them before starting to take roll call; his voice was a thread of poisonous silk that wound through the room.

"Ah, yes," he murmured with what Lea discerned, with acute precision, as pure contempt. "Harry Potter. Our new... celebrity."

Lea noted immediately that Snape was unlike any of the other Hogwarts professors. Most had some distinctive character trait, and while demanding, none were truly the kind of figure that inspired genuine admiration in her. Of course, she respected them, as was her duty, but they hardly reached the educational excellence and unshakeable firmness of her parents. McGonagall came close, but she softened on occasion. Professor Snape, on the contrary, didn't seem to have an ounce of compassion in his cold black eyes.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began, speaking in a deep whisper that nevertheless commanded the room's absolute silence. "There will be very little foolish wand-waving here and many of you will scarcely believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of a softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death... if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

An interesting way to start a class, thought Lea. And a good way to capture the attention of the most inept and filter out those not up to the task from the very beginning.

"Potter!" Snape said suddenly, turning on him like a predator locating its prey. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

It struck Lea as odd that a professor would ask a question so personally directed, however, being Harry Potter, it must be a test. It made sense that he would want to ensure the Chosen One lived up to the fame that preceded him. It was a logic she understood perfectly.

"I don't know, sir," Harry replied.
"Tut, tut... clearly, fame isn't everything," Snape concluded with a blood-freezing disdain.

Lea smiled, involuntarily, a quick, slight movement of her lips that was a combination of relief and arrogance. Potter was just another name, not like her. Her mother had said the same thing weeks ago, and it was evident that Snape, a man of demonstrable achievements, shared her opinion.

"Let's try again. Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

At that moment, Lea noticed a movement across the room. Hermione Granger was raising her arm so high she could easily dislocate it, desperate to make one of her usual displays of empty knowledge, lacking the elegance of true understanding. Professor Snape, luckily and to Lea's satisfaction, ignored her completely.

"I don't know, sir."
"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?"

The professor, despite his Slytherin status—or perhaps precisely because of it—was, surprisingly, growing on Lea. He was strangely familiar. A necessary harshness, someone who understood the importance of rigidity and high demands for educating the incompetent, the weak-willed.

"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

At this, Hermione stood up, unable to contain herself. Lea was doing her utmost not to tell the girl to stop her deplorable and pathetic act.

"I don't know," said Harry with a calm that seemed suspicious to Lea. "But I think Hermione does. Why don't you ask her?"

Did Potter have no dignity? Was he capable of passing his responsibility to a Muggle-born? Pathetic, she thought, another symptom of the decay she sometimes perceived.

"Sit down," he barked at Hermione.

Lea's smile, which threatened to join the sniggers heard in the room, was only contained by a deep breath and a slight shake of her head. Composure, she reprimanded herself. But it was gratifying to see someone, finally, put the busybody in her place.

It was probably unprofessional to reprimand students with more physical punishments; that should be a duty reserved for parents, not a proper use of an educator's functions. However, Snape found a way to teach with the force of character and intimidation, tools often underestimated.

"For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, also known as aconite. Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?"

Lea immediately took her quill and noted on her parchment in precise handwriting what she already knew, but which was, nonetheless, an order. Obedience to competent authority was fundamental.

"And a point will be taken from Gryffindor House for your cheek, Potter."

Snape set them to preparing a simple Cure for Boils potion, in pairs. And to Lea's absolute disgust, her partner was Draco Malfoy. She could almost swear it was premeditated, by the almost imperceptible way Snape looked at them both when saying their names, a kind of challenge and sinister amusement in his cold gaze.

"Malfoy," she greeted him, trying to avoid the hint of disdain that escaped her lips.
"Blackwood," Draco, in contrast, was openly unpleasant in his greeting, and he didn't improve during the rest of the preparation. "Leave this to someone with real skill, will you?" he said arrogantly, looking at her as if she hadn't studied potion preparation almost her entire life. The blood began to feel hot and heavy in her veins.

Draco tried to take the initiative, snatching the snake fangs. But his arrogance completely contradicted his skill. Crushing them, he applied too much force, leaving some fragments too thick and others turned into useless powder. To be expected, thought Lea with annoyance.

"Step aside, Malfoy," she ordered, with a coldness that brooked no argument.

With precise, economical movements, she took a new handful of fangs. With the base of her mortar, she crushed them into a fine, uniform powder with one controlled, perfect blow.

Then, with one hand, she stopped Malfoy's clumsy, excessive circular motion in the cauldron.
"You're shaking, not integrating. The powdered horn will precipitate. The potion will become granular and useless," she explained, her voice a whisper laden with impatience.

She snatched the wooden spoon from him before he could protest. She began to stir with a gentle but firm figure-eight motion, a refined technique that allowed for a homogenous mix without creating lumps. The murky color of the brew began to clear towards the desired pale, translucent pink.

It was at that moment that Snape's black cloak loomed over them, casting a long shadow over their cauldron.

He stood in silence, observing. Draco, with an arrogant smile, straightened up, expecting the praise he believed he deserved. Stealing credit from others must be part of his family heritage, Lea thought with contempt.

Snape completely ignored Malfoy. His eyes were fixed on Lea's hands, on the perfect movement of her wrist, on the exact color of the potion.

"An advanced stirring technique. Most interesting, Miss Blackwood," his voice, a cutting whisper that silenced the room's residual murmur, wasn't warm, but it was laden with professional recognition. His gaze shifted for an instant to Draco, whose face was beginning to flush with the shame of being ignored. "It would seem, Mr. Malfoy, that your partner possesses a practical knowledge that you have evidently not yet... acquired."

He didn't take points. He didn't make an overtly cruel comment. But the message was more devastating than any scolding. He had praised her skill using Malfoy's humiliation as a contrast. It wasn't an affectionate praise. It was a silent reckoning. Snape hadn't just seen her competence; he had seen Malfoy's empty arrogance and used it to make a point. The pang of pride that shot through her was now far more akin to the deep satisfaction she got from passing a test correctly at home, than any of the empty or condescending praises in her other classes. It seemed the professor wanted to say something more, however, he was interrupted by a Gryffindor boy whose cauldron had begun emitting green clouds with an unpleasant smell of rotten eggs.

"Idiot boy!" Snape said angrily, clearing the disastrous potion with a sharp flick of his wand. "I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?"

Neville Longbottom was whimpering pathetically, while pustules began to appear on his nose; his punishment was already taking form on his own flesh.

"Take him up to the hospital wing," Snape ordered Seamus Finnigan with a gesture of disgust.

Then, he turned to Harry Potter. "You, Harry Potter. Why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? Thought he'd make a fool of himself if he got it wrong, did you? That's another point you lose for Gryffindor," he announced, and then, with deliberate calm, added, "And one point to Slytherin for Miss Blackwood's impeccable performance, prior to Mr. Longbottom's... interruption."

With that, Snape ended the class with a final gesture.

Lea decided to stay after the other students began to file out, as it was the last class of the day and she couldn't think of a better way to approach her Head of House. After the failed attempt with her Gryffindor peers, her options were dwindling and she needed to explore all avenues.

"Aren't you coming, Blackwood?" asked Daphne, already standing. Pansy, beside her, rolled her eyes to the heavens.
"Why should we care what she has to do?" grumbled Pansy.
"My thoughts exactly," Lea replied coldly, gathering her things with deliberate slowness.
"Pansy, don't you see? She's Snape's new favorite. Keeping her close saves us potential public humiliations, like Malfoy's," said Daphne with a feigned horror that didn't hide her calculation.
"Right, did you know that was going to happen when we followed her through the corridors here?" Pansy retorted sarcastically.
"I knew you were following me," Lea stated, without fully looking up.
"Following you? Following you? It's not like there's another way to get here, don't flatter yourself, Blackwood," Pansy snapped. Inexplicably, and against all logic, Daphne seemed amused to be dealing with two people who obviously couldn't stand each other.
"When I stopped for three minutes in front of the tapestry of the dancing trolls, you did too, feigning interest. That is, by definition, following me," Lea pointed out with analytical precision.
"Is it so strange that I'd want to get on the good side of someone who wants to 'purify'," she put a theatrical emphasis on the word, "our house? I've been sleeping with a dagger under my pillow all week."
"I'm not going to kill you, Greengrass." The absurdity of that statement caused a pang of irony in Lea. She wasn't going to kill any Slytherin, at least not for now. It wasn't worth the mess.
"But you could. And it's better to be on your side when you try," Daphne winked at her, with a smile that was half-joke, half-genuine strategy.
"I won't get my hands dirty with your blood, you can be sure of that," Lea responded, with the certainty of someone stating an obvious truth.
"Daph, let's go, will we? Maybe we can still get some homework done before dinner if we stop wasting time," urged Pansy, pulling on her friend's arm.

It seemed odd to Lea to hear them talk about anything as mundane as homework, though it made sense. Even if they carried stained surnames or ones of dubious loyalty, they still had to meet certain academic expectations to keep up appearances.

Daphne bid farewell with another exaggerated gesture and, along with Pansy, their departure left the Potions classroom completely empty, plunged into a silence broken only by the distant crackle of some residual potion.

Lea approached the black marble stairs leading to the professor's office. She tried to knock before entering, but the door was slightly ajar. She held her breath and entered.

"Professor," Lea spoke with determination, keeping her back straight.
"I do not give extracurricular tutorials, Miss Blackwood. Leave," Snape spoke without looking up from a parchment he was marking with vigorous strokes of red ink. He wasn't going to let her speak if she didn't capture his attention immediately. As she had nothing tangible to offer, she decided to take another, more direct route.
"I need entry to the Gryffindor common room library. They won't permit it," she declared, omitting pleasantries.
Snape didn't look up. "I'm sure you are aware of the rules, Miss Blackwood."
"I have tried to follow the established channels," she insisted.
Snape cut her off sharply, his voice like a whip. "Solve your problems yourself."

It was the response she had, deep down, expected. However, Lea couldn't give up so easily. Stubbornness was a flaw that was sometimes confused with determination.

"It's important, Professor. I need a book." Snape's patience seemed visibly thin; Lea tensed instinctively. Normally, she knew what followed an expression like that at home, but here she didn't know what to expect.
"And what is so important about this book you seek?" he asked, finally looking up. His dark eyes scrutinized her.
"It's..." She hesitated. She couldn't reveal her quest like that, not to a Slytherin, no matter that he was her Head of House and professor. Distrust was a second layer of her skin.
"Miss Blackwood," Snape said, his voice dripping ice, "you are trying my patience. And if you believe that being your Head of House means there will be no consequences for doing so, you are monumentally mistaken."

Lea swallowed but stood her ground, digging her heels into the stone floor.

"I have tried in many ways. Nothing works. I thought you might get me the permission. The book is important." She paused, evaluating her next move with lightning speed. It was a gamble. "My family needs it," she stated, with all the conviction she could muster.

That finally captured the professor's full attention. His eyes narrowed.
"Is that so? And why don't your honorable parents come to retrieve it themselves?" Snape spoke with a tone laden with scorn and irony, which irritated Lea somewhat. Her family was not a subject for mockery.
"It's a personal test," she replied, maintaining the mystery, imitating the secrecy that always surrounded Blackwood affairs.
"If that is the case, acquire it, Miss Blackwood. Find a solution." Snape finally looked her directly in the eyes, and it was like facing an abyss. "Only those willing to do what is necessary achieve their objectives."
"But I've exhausted the options that—" Lea insisted, a note of barely contained desperation seeping into her normally controlled voice.

Snape leaned forward over his desk, his black eyes boring into her with an intensity that almost made her step back. His voice was a whisper laden with meaning, each word deliberately slow and precise.

"Rules," he cut in, "are a corset for mediocre minds. They are designed to contain the majority... not to limit those with the determination to transcend. If this book is as vital as you claim, then its value must outweigh that of mere... adherence to protocol." He paused, letting the silence weigh in the gloomy room. "Your parents, I am sure, did not attain their status by obeying every whisper from the Ministry. Sometimes, Miss Blackwood, true loyalty to oneself... and to one's legacy... demands a certain creative contempt for obstacles. Now, I repeat: get out of my office."

The words struck Lea with the force of a revelation. "Creative contempt for obstacles." It wasn't so different from what her parents had always insinuated: "The Blackwoods take what is theirs. The weak wait for permission." But coming from Snape, from a figure of authority at Hogwarts, gave it a new weight, a dangerous and electrifying legitimization. He wasn't giving her a tool; he was giving her permission to use the ones she already had.

The frustration consuming her suddenly solidified into a cold, sharp determination. Diplomacy had failed. Patience was a luxury she could no longer afford. If she couldn't earn entry to the Gryffindor library, then she would take it. It wasn't insubordination; it was out of duty. It was what was expected of her. It was, she now understood with crystalline clarity, the true test.

But Snape wasn't referring to a direct confrontation, that would be risky and foolish, no, Lea doubted the professor meant anything so crude. However, she could imagine, from what she had observed of his character, what subtle and calculated methods he would use in her situation. And perhaps, that was exactly what she needed: a change of perspective, not of objective.

.

Following her conversation with Snape, Lea headed to the library as usual during her free periods. She involuntarily noticed that this particular afternoon, Hermione Granger, who was usually as much a part of the place as the books themselves, was not in her usual spot. On the other hand, those who were there were Pansy, who was visibly frustrated with Daphne's inability to keep quiet, and Daphne herself. Lea, against her better judgment and after a quick calculation, sat down with them at their table.

"Impossible, Blackwood, hello!" said Daphne in a strident whisper.
"Lower your voice," Pansy's irritation was palpable. "It's a bloody library, not your mother's tea salon."
Lea continued taking out her study books and placed them on the table carefully, aligning them.
"What made you change your mind about joining us?" asked Daphne with a glint of curiosity and amusement in her eyes.
"It was the only free table, Greengrass," Lea lied serenely. But visibly, it wasn't; there were several empty spots. If Daphne noticed, she didn't say anything and, finally, concentrated on her book to Pansy's relief, who returned to hers with a sigh of exasperation.

One rule, thought Lea, had definitely been not to get close to Slytherins, least of all possible children of Death Eaters. However, connections were an important part of public relations, and after a week of actively avoiding all her housemates, having people who were aware of what she was capable of—and who seemed to respect it grudgingly—was useful. Being alone wasn't always good, nor did it give the best appearance. Demonstrating power by being a pariah in her own environment was quite foolish, in fact. She had to appear strong and respected, with a base of support, however minimal. So she decided that, firm in her convictions and objectives, she would accept, with certain conditions and constant vigilance, the company of the two girls.

They are insufferable. But power is measured by the ability to surround oneself with useful idiots and purposeful adversaries. I need both. She thought, before immersing herself completely in the reading of her Herbology book, finding a strange, and temporary, solace in the cold logic of her own strategy.

Chapter Text

Lea received a letter at least once a week. The parchment, sealed with the family crest, was sometimes a reminder of her goals, other times it contained well-wishes veiled between lines that only she could decipher. She replied with the same frequency, each of her missives written in impeccable handwriting, telling of her time at the castle with far more cheer and color than actually tinted her life there. Some ironic contrasts she noticed when sending her replies were her obvious lack of knowledge about what her Gryffindor peers looked like, acted like, or how they lived, something she had to guess or invent based on vague observations to maintain the facade that she belonged to that house.

This worried her especially in the moments of silence, right after sealing the letter. Remembering what her parents expected her to be and contrasting it with the reality she saw when looking up in the Great Hall—the scarlet robes, the strident laughter—sometimes she felt a cold pang of anxiety gnawing at her chest, which she immediately replaced with the familiar sensation of her quill tip pressing against her thumb, almost piercing through her glove. She would make them proud regardless. She would get the book. That certainty was the foundation of everything.

The book was another recurring theme in the letters. Lea had already explained, with invented detail, having started reading the Gryffindor common room library book by book, though she had made no real progress. Her parents, despite the tactical lies, had seemed content with her actions, which she interpreted as a vote of confidence in her method.

About her "friendships" there, she couldn't say much, and in fact told the truth: Harry Potter, a fraud propped up by the fame of a scar; Ron Weasley, a traitor to his lineage due to his affinity for Muggles; Longbottom, a pathetic boy whose clumsiness was an insult to magic; and an arrogant Muggle-born who thought memorizing books made her their equal. The rest, irrelevant. She highlighted with surgical precision how each of them was an affront to the Gryffindor values her parents so admired, and they replied with the same refined disdain she expected. On occasions like those, she missed, deep down and for a very short time, her home. She knew the tilted look of approval Seraphine would give her in their home's dining room at such a comment, her father's amused and proud smile, the atmosphere of demand and order that used to envelop her before arriving here. Her routine of study, consequent tests, and silent meals was a difficult normality to forget, a well-oiled machine of which she was an essential part.

She missed the predictability and absolute control her home provided. Something deep within her, however, was relieved not to be in that place. But she didn't dwell on the feeling. It was quickly repressed, drowned under the weight of duty. She snapped back to herself. She had to adapt to the new environment; continuing to rely on the mental security of her home was a beginner's mistake. She had to find new ways to navigate her surroundings, which seemed to be actively working to make her weak, with mild consequences for errors, constant words of encouragement, and overflowing emotions everywhere, except for a couple of people. All of it seemed not just permitted, but encouraged at Hogwarts, and she wouldn't let that environment poison her. Her parents had done a good job with her education. And of course she respected her family's ancestral house of learning, but she had already been warned about its modern "weaknesses" and would function as she ought, regardless of the environment. "Hogwarts's compassion knows no bounds," she thought, watching a Hufflepuff student being consoled over a bad grade. "Even the least capable can function here. It's not ideal, but one has to accept it as part of the landscape." Therefore, she tried to impose upon herself the lessons from home: the tangible, self-inflicted consequences for her failures and the cold, cutting reminders when she didn't meet her own standards.

"The last time I rode a broom, some Muggles chased me in giant helicopters," Draco Malfoy's voice pulled her from her thoughts and from re-reading her morning letter. With childish arrogance, he was telling one of his totally invented stories to a small circle. "I had to dodge them by doing loops. They crashed into each other. It was quite impressive."
"You showed those Mudbloods their place," Pansy spoke, sickly sweet, and Lea felt slight nausea churn her stomach. Daphne, sitting across from her, had an expression quite similar to her own, a mix of boredom and contempt.
"Of course I did," Malfoy boasted. "I told them never to mess with the Malfoys again."

The others at the table, except for his friends Crabbe and Goyle—whose names Lea rarely bothered to remember—and Pansy, of course, actively ignored Draco when he started with these fables straight out of the cheapest Muggle storybooks. *And he calls himself a pure-blood*, Lea thought with disdain. *Telling stories like a Muggle child in a playground.*

"Lea, do you have any magnificent flying stories too?" Daphne spoke, with marked irony, clearly fed up with listening to Draco and Pansy murmur.
"I can fly," replied Lea, looking directly at Malfoy, who, after the incident in Potions, no longer had much desire to confront her directly. "But I prefer to demonstrate my skills practically, not through anecdotes."

Malfoy got up from the table with a snort and left without answering her, so Lea refocused her attention on her tea and breakfast. The conversation had arisen because that day they would have their first flying lesson, with the Gryffindor students, and Lea allowed herself to remember her home again. Her father, a Quidditch enthusiast, had complete broom collections that he had taught her to use for as long as she could remember. Never in very open spaces—the forest surrounding their home was off-limits to her—and yet, she had achieved good results, even with some "minor learning inconveniences," like a broken arm or wrist that healed with potions in a matter of hours.

That was one reason her father had reminded her in his last letter that she had to join the Quidditch team in her second year, as soon as she could. He had been captain in his day at Hogwarts. Lea noted, however, that although he was passionate about it, duty weighed heavier, which was why he had become an Auror. This hadn't completely diminished his fascination, as they attended the Quidditch World Cup every year, where the most interesting thing for Lea was never the lights, the thundering stadium, nor even the game itself, but the cold tactics her father would dissect with his old workmates, as if he already knew everything that would happen on the pitch.

That afternoon, at three-thirty, the Slytherin and Gryffindor students headed to the flying field, located near the meadow connecting to the Forbidden Forest. It was so sunny that, from a distance, the place didn't feel too different from the thick layer of trees surrounding her home, only vaster and less controlled.

The grass on the flying field was a vibrant green and the air made the grass dance. Lea noticed Hermione Granger, not for her usual ability to irritate her with her class chatter, but because this time that inability to shut up stemmed from her nervous complaints about her inexperience in flying, which made Lea allow a slight, private smile. *As I thought*, she reflected, *empty knowledge, no real practical skill. A Muggle-born, after all. Not a tangible threat.*

The professor arrived shortly after, a tall, grey-haired woman with a hard expression on her face and hawk-like eyes.
"Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone beside a broomstick. Come on, quickly!"

Lea looked at the training brooms, worn and with uneven twigs. They weren't a patch on the models she had at home. She sighed at that, an exhalation of resignation.
"Stick out your right hand over your broom," Madam Hooch instructed them, "and say 'Up!'."
"UP!" everyone shouted at once.

Lea's broom, as she expected, flew quickly and obediently to her hand, with a precise, firm movement. Those of Malfoy and Potter had done so with similar speed, which she found slightly interesting in the latter's case.

Then, Madam Hooch showed them how to mount the broom without sliding off the end, and walked along the line, correcting their grip. She looked at Lea for a second, whose posture was impeccable, and gave a slight nod of approval. To Malfoy, on the contrary, she said dryly that he'd been holding it wrong all these years. Lea suppressed a broader smile; Daphne, beside her, did not, letting out a stifled laugh.

"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off hard from the ground," said Madam Hooch. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle... three... two..."

Again, Neville Longbottom committed an act of pure panic, demonstrating that his very existence on a broom was a miscalculation, and shot up before the whistle.
"Come back, boy!" shouted the professor, but Neville was rising in a straight, uncontrollable line, like a cork out of a bottle... Four meters... six meters... *With any luck*, Lea thought coldly, *he'll learn to fly after this, if he survives, of course.*

Neville crashed into a stone wing of the castle and, after being brutally shaken by his broom, fell. Straight towards the ground, with a loud, unpleasant crack. Then only his pathetic whimpers were heard. Madam Hooch ran over to him, looking genuinely worried.
"A broken wrist," murmured Hooch, bending over. "Come on, boy... It's all right... Up you get."

She turned to the rest of the class, her face serious.
"None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing. Leave the brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch'. Come on, dear."

*Seriously?* Lea thought with annoyance. *The punishment would be for them when the only one at fault was Longbottom with his lack of judgment and flagrant incompetence?* It was the same soft logic she despised.

Lea then heard an unpleasant but familiar sound coming from the crowd of green and silver hoods. Malfoy's mocking voice.
"Did you see his face, the great lump?"
"Shut up, Malfoy!" said Parvati Patil, a Gryffindor girl, in a sharp tone.
"Oh, are you in love with Longbottom?" Pansy chimed in immediately. "I never thought you'd like fat little crybabies, Parvati."

Malfoy was almost as incompetent as Neville in many ways, yet he seemed to revel in others' misery, which, like everything about the blond boy, struck her as irritatingly base. Still, Neville deserved it for his weakness. At least Malfoy possessed some semblance of arrogant dignity, however false it was.
"Look!" said Malfoy, crouching down and picking up something shiny from the grass. "It's that stupid thing Longbottom's gran sent him."

It was a crystalline object, but Lea couldn't make out exactly what it was from her position.
"Give that here, Malfoy," Harry Potter intervened. His tone was calmer than his face, which was beginning to redden. The other students fell silent, tension growing in the still air.

Lea watched with feigned disinterest, though her mind analyzed the scene. The Malfoy boy was as predictable as he was irritating. Using fear and other people's possessions for fun was a crude tactic, lacking the elegance and purpose that should characterize a wizard of his supposed status. Potter, at least, showed a direct, almost primitive firmness, but it was effective.

"I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find... how about... up that tree?" Malfoy pointed with a cruel smile.
"Give it here!" Harry roared, but Malfoy had already mounted his broom and ascended. He flew with mediocre competence, but enough for his petty purpose. At least in that he hadn't lied completely.
"Come and get it, Potter!" Malfoy shouted from the air.

The situation was becoming a public display of strength. It lacked the elegance Lea associated with a true duel, but it was interesting, in a purely clinical sense, to see Potter in action outside the classroom. An unofficial field test of the "Chosen One."
"No!" shouted Hermione Granger. "Madam Hooch told us not to move! You'll get us into trouble!"

*Certainly*, Lea thought with annoyance. But it was obvious Granger didn't understand the underlying importance of a confrontation like this. She, after all, had no ancestral name to honor, no legacy to defend in every public interaction. For her, it was all about rules.

Then, Potter did it. In a flash of pure instinct, he launched into the air. Lea held her breath for a fraction of a second. It wasn't the polished, economical technique she had been taught; it was something wild, visceral, risky. But it worked. The broom seemed to respond to an iron will.

Harry leaned forward, grabbed the broom with both hands, and shot straight towards Malfoy. It was a reckless, almost suicidal move, but imbued with absolute certainty. Malfoy, his face contorted with panic, barely managed to dodge him.
"Crabbe and Goyle aren't here to save you now, Malfoy," Harry exclaimed, regaining control with an ease that spoke of natural talent.

The observation was apt, Lea acknowledged. Potter, at least, understood the basic dynamics of power: attack the opponent's support base.
"Catch it if you can, then!" Malfoy shouted, now clearly cornered and furious. With a gesture of childish rage, he threw the crystal object high into the air and descended rapidly towards the safety of the ground.

It was then that Lea identified it. It wasn't just any crystal ball. The silvery veins inside, the perfectly spherical shape... it was a Remembrall. A valuable and delicate magical object. The stupidity and waste of Malfoy mistreating it were as great as his cowardice.

Harry went into a dive. The wind must have been whistling in his ears, but from below, only a straight, determined line against the blue sky was visible. He stretched out his arm and, a few meters from the ground, caught it securely. He pulled up his broom with miraculous clumsiness, the Remembrall safe in his closed hand.

A murmur of amazement ran through the students, who burst into applause and exclamations. Potter, panting but victorious, held the shining sphere up for all to see, a wide, triumphant smile on his face. He was the undisputed hero of the moment. However, he had made a judgment error as obvious as not landing immediately and getting to safety. That sealed the moment.

Malfoy, in a final act of pure cowardice and frustration, lunged at Harry from behind, trying to unbalance him. He didn't manage to knock him off, but the impact sent the Remembrall flying from Harry's hand.
"Ah!" The crystal sphere described a new, desperate arc in the air, destined this time to smash irrevocably against the hard ground.

Lea was sincerely tired of the situation. Malfoy's cowardice was as unpleasant as Potter's final lack of judgment. The Remembrall, on the other hand, was a useful magical object, and although Neville Longbottom didn't deserve it, she could understand why someone with his... limitations, might need such an object. If it broke, it would only attract more negative attention and a collective punishment she considered unnecessary. They were already going to be in trouble for the unauthorized flying; it was better to avoid another inconvenience and save a functional artifact.

"Accio Remembrall!" she whispered clearly and softly, drawing her wand in a fluid motion and executing the charm with precision.

The Remembrall stopped its fall abruptly, as if an invisible rope had yanked it back forcefully. It crossed the air in a perfect straight line, defying gravity, and landed with a soft *plop* in the palm of her hand, which she had raised with detachment, as if receiving something that was rightfully hers. The sensation of the smooth, slightly cool glass against her skin was unexpectedly satisfying. It had worked perfectly, and a smile of cold smugness formed on her lips.

The silence was absolute, broken only by the sigh of the wind. All eyes, which a moment before had been following the object's fatal fall, were now fixed on her. Potter, confused and empty-handed. Malfoy, his face twisted with fury and humiliation. Granger, her eyes like saucers, disbelief and disapproval mixed in her gaze. But before she could savor the satisfying stares of her peers, a voice, laden with glacial anger, cut through the air.

Lea's heart beat with a single pulse of pure, cold lucidity. Professor McGonagall was running towards them, her face a mask of absolute fury. She had only seen the end: Harry in the air, then on the ground with his broom in hand, and Lea, the Slytherin intruder, holding the Remembrall as if it were her personal trophy. Quickly, Lea stowed the object in a fold of her robes.
"Never... in all my time at Hogwarts..." Professor McGonagall was almost speechless with shock, and her spectacles flashed in the sun. "How dare you...? You could have broken your neck!"
"It wasn't his fault, Professor—" Parvati Patil attempted, her voice trembling.
"Be quiet, Miss Patil!"
"But Malfoy—" now it was Ron Weasley's turn to try and help his friend.
"That's enough, Weasley!" McGonagall cut him off, her icy gaze fixed on Harry. "Harry Potter, come with me. Now."

McGonagall grabbed Harry firmly by the arm and marched him away at a brisk pace, leaving Lea in the center of the field, the Remembrall still warm in her hidden hand, and the weight of all their stares—a mixture of hatred, astonishment, resentment, and an unanswered question—stuck in her back like a dagger.

"You could have done something earlier!" Hermione Granger's voice, sharp and laden with reproach, was directed straight at her. "Why did you wait until the very end?"

Lea turned slowly, facing the Muggle-born girl with deliberate calm. "Pardon? I was expecting, at the very least, a 'thank you' for saving the pathetic Longbottom's object. If it weren't for his initial incompetence, I wouldn't have had to bother." A few Slytherin boys around her snickered.
"It was Malfoy who started it, everyone saw it!" Hermione countered, her face flushed with indignation. "Now we're all going to be in trouble! You could have stopped them before they even started flying."
"Why would I do that?" Lea replied, with an ice-cold tone that cut like a blade. "It was a personal squabble, not a matter I should intervene in without cause. Besides, I hadn't identified the object, Granger. I acted the moment it became necessary. Some of us don't have the constant need to seek attention."
"Some of us have to prove our worth beyond a mere surname, which, by the way, you never tire of tarnishing with your attitude!" Hermione spat the words, driving the dagger where she knew it would hurt most.
"Do you think you have any right to speak of surnames, Granger?" Lea's voice dropped in tone, charged with a dangerous disdain. Affronts to her family were the only trigger that could make her lose her composure, and she was sure Hermione had noticed this in their brief encounter on the train, and was now using it as a weapon.

Madam Hooch returned to the field before Lea could articulate the response boiling on her tongue, where words like "Mudblood" stirred, poisoned and ready to be launched.
"Right, everyone, where is Harry Potter?" asked Hooch, looking around in confusion.

Everyone fell silent, except Hermione, who, with pursed lips and a gleam of moral triumph in her eyes, recounted the entire sequence of events, omitting no details, including Lea's charm. This led Professor Hooch to demand the Remembrall from Lea, who handed it over with a gesture of contained annoyance. Hermione Granger believed she possessed the moral truth in every situation, acting as if she were above her, and that, more than anything else, had the power to push her completely over the edge. Who did she think she was?

.
For the rest of the day, Lea was submerged in a dense, palpable bad mood that seemed to tarnish everything around her. She decided not to go to the library; Granger would probably be there, buried in her endless stacks of books, and she was the last person Lea wanted to see. The mere thought of having to endure her morally superior gaze or, worse, an unsolicited lecture, was unbearable. The Slytherin common room wasn't a viable refuge in this state either. She didn't want Greengrass, with her often annoying sharp perception, asking why she was frowning or making light jokes about her intervention on the flying field. Even worse, she didn't want to hear another single word from Malfoy, whose resentment and childish arrogance had already deeply sickened her.

So she decided she would use her time on something more useful, or at least, something that kept her away from prying eyes and banal conversations. She crossed the castle with firm, silent steps, heading for the main door. Hogwarts had a large courtyard stretching towards a low stone wall and a giant archway. In the center, there were ornamental features, stone benches worn by time, and a large fountain whose constant watery murmur was a sound she always found orderly. To the left, the imposing stands of the Quidditch pitch rose. Lea thought about going to see if there was any practice, but probably no one would be there at that hour, and besides, she still had a purpose to fulfill. It was relatively close to dinner, but hunger was a secondary sensation, almost a luxury, compared to the stinging urgency of her mission.

As she exited, the cool evening breeze greeted her, carrying the smell of damp grass and earth. In the distance, the entrance to the Forbidden Forest looked like a dark, unsettling blot. The training brooms were still stacked in their place, abandoned after class. Lea carefully took one, making sure none of the students wandering the great courtyard saw her. She promised herself she would return it as soon as she was done; she wasn't a thief, just a temporary borrower driven by necessity.

She then headed towards the west side of the great courtyard, towards the exit leading to Hagrid's hut, located behind the Quidditch pitch. She walked, feeling the night breeze on her face, growing colder as autumn advanced. The icy air brought back a bad memory, a pang of something she preferred not to name, but she obscured it by concentrating on the details of the terrain: the texture of the grass under her feet, the shape of the clouds tinged purple and orange in the twilight sky.

Hagrid's house was small, too small for someone of his gigantic stature, a wooden hut that looked like a toy house. It wasn't the first time Lea had wandered near the hut at night; she had done a thorough reconnaissance of the grounds during her first few weeks and had identified that place as the most remote from prying eyes. It was far enough from the Forbidden Forest not to pose an immediate threat, although its dark, dense silhouette could still be seen from there, a reminder of the imposed boundaries.

When she felt the darkness envelop her completely and that no one could see her, she pulled up the hood of her robes, mounted the broom with a fluid motion, and took flight. She hadn't flown in quite some time, and had been left wanting to do it properly in Madam Hooch's class, which she couldn't because the professor insisted everyone stick to the basics before continuing. Here, in the silent freedom of the night, there were no restrictions, no stares, no incompetents to worry about.

The air hit her face directly as she ascended, cold and revitalizing. For a moment, it was deeply relaxing, a sensation of control and freedom she rarely experienced within the castle walls. She began to move with precision, performing tight turns and spiral ascents that demonstrated years of practice. She climbed several meters until the castle became a majestic silhouette outlined against the starry sky. From there, she could see at least half of the structure, the Forbidden Forest like a sea of impenetrable darkness, and the great lake, whose silvery surface reflected the moon like a black mirror. It was as magical as one could imagine, and the way the yellow lights from the windows illuminated the ancient stones generated a strange and fleeting sensation of warmth, a feeling she quickly attributed to the simple aesthetic appreciation of a well-composed landscape. She thought that, perhaps, she could have more nightly outings, not for pleasure, but to practice spells away from curious eyes and indiscreet ears, she told herself pragmatically.

Then, she took a deep breath and began with what she had really planned. Lea needed to assess the terrain. Entering the Gryffindor common room directly was madness without the right equipment. She had consulted her parents about the possibility of them sending her enchanted boots to muffle the sound of her footsteps, to which they agreed, but with the warning not to fail. However, these wouldn't arrive until Christmas, and she couldn't just sit idle until then, paralyzed by inertia. Therefore, she decided to see if there was any way to access the common room from the outside, through an unprotected window or a forgotten balcony.

On her broom, she flew towards the Gryffindor tower with utmost care, staying in the shadows and taking advantage of the cornices. The windows she saw were closed and, to her growing frustration, were too small and too high to pass through. In the distance, she spotted a small balcony, a stone lookout, but upon approaching stealthily, she saw that inside there were no Gryffindor students visible; only empty armchairs and the glow of a fireplace. "Probably dinnertime," she thought, calculating the timing with disapproval. She landed softly on the balcony, feeling the cold, rough stone under her feet. She looked around; she was on one of the highest parts of the castle, a bitter irony that didn't escape her. *Of course it was. Of course they would be up high, with panoramic views and clean air, and Slytherin in the depths, under the lake, surrounded by damp and cold stones. That's how it was, that's how it must be. The hierarchy, even the geographical one, was etched into the very architecture of the world.*

She turned and tried to open the glass door leading inside. Her hands, sheathed in her silk gloves, trembled slightly at the remote possibility of success. If so, she would only have to wait for the right moment, an instant of collective carelessness, and entry would be hers, provided no curious glance crossed her path. However, the window didn't have a visible handle; as she brought her hand close, it simply wasn't there; it was hidden on the inside, clearly enchanted. "Of course," she thought, suppressing a snort of frustration. It was logical.

"Alohomora," she whispered, pointing her wand at the place where the lock should be, her voice barely a thread of sound in the wind.

But nothing happened. The door didn't move a millimeter. That made perfect sense, of course; security had to be appropriate for a common room. She briefly considered, with a calculating coldness, the option of breaking the glass, but she knew it would be a last resort, an act of desperation that would leave evidence, and probably the glass was also enchanted against fractures and curses.

Suddenly, murmurs, laughter, and footsteps began to be heard from inside, heading towards the portrait of the Fat Lady, the main entrance. Lea knew it was time to leave; she couldn't risk being discovered in that place, so exposed. She remounted her broom with a quick movement and descended rapidly, flying back towards the safety of the darkness near Hagrid's hut, where she landed with a soft rustle against the damp grass.

No one could see her there. It was a good hiding spot, she thought, though the idea didn't comfort her. She was angry, frustrated, and deeply tired. The day hadn't improved and she had only wasted time on another fruitless endeavor, adding another link to her chain of failures. One of her hands tentatively approached her left arm, and there, she dug her nails in with a force that threatened to tear the fabric, seeking the familiar, biting sting of physical pain to drown out the mental irritation, to punish the incompetence. Then, she sighed, a long, weary sound lost in the immensity of the night.

She stayed there, unsure exactly how much time passed. She sat on the cold grass, ignoring the tingling dampness beginning to seep through her robes, and began practicing wand movements in the air, mentally reviewing all the spells, plants, and potions she knew. It was an attempt to mimic the rigorous weekly exams her mother used to give her; she at least had to be productive, had to extract some benefit from a night that would otherwise be a complete waste. At some point, she found herself staring fixedly at the line of trees of the Forbidden Forest, which seemed to emit a faint, strange greenish light filtering between the trunks. That place reminded her, unsettlingly and undesirably, of the forest surrounding her home. *What absurd nostalgia*, she thought, rejecting the feeling vehemently, as if it were an unforgivable weakness.

Before finally retreating to the common room, a wave of frustration washed over her with such force it almost bent her double. She still had no concrete progress, stuck in a dead end, and now she had to wait, powerless, for external help that she intuited probably wouldn't be enough. But she would think of something. She always did. She solved problems. It was what was expected of her, the only thing that justified her place in the world.

Arriving at the cold, damp stone wall that served as the entrance to her common room, she stopped and sighed again, this time with a resignation that tasted of defeat.
"Pure Blood," she pronounced clearly, though devoid of all enthusiasm, like an empty password.

The silver serpent emerged from the wall, coiling in the air with its usual cold elegance before forming the door, which she passed through with weary steps.
"We were wondering where you were," said Daphne from one of the green leather sofas, looking at Lea over the back of her cat, which was purring in her lap. "It's almost curfew."
"Really? I barely noticed you were gone," replied Lea with a fatigue she didn't attempt to disguise, wanting only the solitude of her bed and the temporary oblivion of sleep.
"Everyone's been talking about how you put that Muggle-born in her place and about Malfoy and Potter's 'duel'," Daphne said the last part while looking sardonically towards where Draco was conversing in low tones with Crabbe and Goyle, and then shot an exasperated look at Pansy, who was unsuccessfully pretending to be absorbed in a spellbook.
"A duel? What, are they now chasing after their lack of dignity?" asked Lea, genuinely tired of the constant farce and unnecessary theatricality that seemed to surround Malfoy.
"It's at eleven, in the trophy room. But I'll bet anything he won't go." The two of them looked at the large pendulum clock in the common room, its hands dangerously approaching the hour.
"Of course he'll go, it's Draco," Pansy interjected, defending her idol with a ferocity that Lea found pathetic.
"That's exactly why he *won't* go, Pansy. I'll bet ten Galleons," Daphne said firmly, and Pansy turned her head, refusing to take the bet. "See? You know it too."

Pansy didn't respond, her silence a tacit admission that spoke louder than any words.
"It's a trap," Lea declared, analyzing the situation with lucid contempt. "He surely wants Potter to be caught out of bed after curfew and get expelled. It's a coward's move. He has no intention of facing him on equal terms."
"Yeah... that's what I thought," Daphne concluded, dramatically throwing herself over Pansy's shoulder before feigning a faint of boredom.

Lea, for her part, had neither the energy nor the interest for more teenage dramas. She retreated towards the room she shared, where the uncomfortable, empty feeling in her stomach reminded her harshly that she had skipped dinner. "I probably deserve it for my incompetence today," she thought, before collapsing onto the bed and sinking into a deep, agitated, and far from restful sleep.

Chapter Text

“You couldn't save her, Lea. It was her fault.”

The voice, cold and familiar, slipped into her dream like a knife. Lea woke with a start, her body shaken by an uncontrollable tremor that seemed to originate in her bones. Her hair, damp and cold with sweat, clung unpleasantly to her face and neck. Her heart was beating with disproportionate violence, a runaway drum in her chest threatening to crack her ribs. With an effort that demanded all her willpower, she wrapped her arms around herself, crossing them firmly, forcing herself into absolute silence and forbidding the tears burning in her eyes from finding a path through her impeccable composure.

It wasn't enough. Her breathing grew increasingly rapid, an irregular gasp she couldn't tame. The room, submerged in the green gloom of the dungeons, seemed to be closing in on her. Then, with the precision of a ritual burned into her, she did the only thing she knew to restore order. Her hand slid into the drawer of her nightstand and pulled out the needle she always kept there. Without hesitation, she made a fine line on the skin of her arm, a sharp, clear sting that cut through the fog of panic and returned her to the tangible reality of cold stone and darkness. With a second, deeper prick, she could remember what had put her in that state in the first place.

The dream. Always the same. A dark, lurking forest, the trees twisted like claws against a starless sky. In the background, the girl. The same one as always, in a light dress that was a pale stain in the gloom, bent over the roots of an ancient oak, her small body lost in the tall grass. She seemed to have exhausted her last strength, a castaway at the mercy of the green and shadowy tide. And approaching, slithering through the trees with a sinuous, deadly movement, was the giant white serpent, its pale scales gleaming with a ghostly light. Lea tried to run, to scream, to warn, but an invisible force immobilized her, anchoring her to the ground. Her body was made of lead, her voice a stifled whisper in her throat. The girl never turned. When the pale jaws closed over her, Lea couldn't look away; the same force that paralyzed her held her eyelids open, forcing her to bear witness.

Lea, however, could open her eyes now, in wakefulness. Her breathing, though still agitated, was beginning to find a more controlled rhythm. She looked around: the Slytherin girls' dormitory, her roommates sleeping peacefully in their four-poster beds with silk hangings. It was impossible to tell the time in that windowless place. "It was her fault," she repeated in a whisper, a mantra that sealed the guilt rather than dispelling it. She got up with determination, resolved to take a shower before anyone could disturb her fragile equilibrium.

The path to the girls' private showers was a transit through a world of echoes and shadows. A nearby wall clock told her it was nearly 5 a.m. She had to hurry. The metallic echo of her footsteps resonated in the empty corridor. Upon arriving, she stopped in front of the steamed mirror and finally allowed herself to look at her arm. She hadn't stopped to observe it in longer than she should have. It was bruised, a landscape of red and purple lines on her pale skin, a silent testimony to every failure, every error in judgment, every misstep. It was the symbol of everything that was wrong, impossibly ruined.

She attempted a Vulnus Sanentur, knowing beforehand it wouldn't work. The spell only concealed magically-inflicted wounds, and these marks were too personal, too physical. The pain, a sharp, stinging itch where the needle had bitten moments before, was a reminder of her lack of finesse. "Perhaps I can still fix this one," she thought, concentrating.

"Tergeo," she whispered, and the blood coating the most recent line vanished, leaving the skin clean but marked.

Her parents didn't know about these rituals of control. They had no reason to, because, in the first place, she shouldn't be forced to resort to them. She thought that, deep down, they would approve, but not in this crude form, not with this lack of the relentless elegance that characterized them. They had taught her Vulnus Sanentur to ensure her body remained pristine after every lesson, without a trace of the necessary discipline. However, she wasn't capable of equaling that perfect coldness. She had sought out and learned other spells, for wounds not necessarily of magical origin, that her parents never needed, because as they said, and rightly so Lea thought, "A good wizard will never be hit by a spell. A Blackwood, on the other hand, will not be hit at all."

Those spells weren't easy for her. The margin for practice was almost nil and they required an anatomical knowledge she didn't possess, but which, given the circumstances, she would definitely try to acquire.

"Episkey," she articulated, her wand trembling slightly.

To her relief, the most recent wound closed, the skin sealing without leaving any trace that it had ever been there. A small, but tangible, achievement. When she was satisfied with her grooming and appearance—every hair in place, every fold of her robes impeccable—she took the bandage she had brought and wrapped her arm with precise movements before pulling down the sleeve of fine fabric. She promised herself she would research some potion capable of removing those older marks. Perhaps she would try asking Snape, if she found a way to do it without giving herself away.

Upon leaving, most of her roommates were already awake, except for Millicent, who usually slept until her cat woke her by scratching her face. Pansy and Daphne, for their part, were already getting ready, a point which Lea, reluctantly, appreciated.

Lea had adapted her routine very slightly recently. Instead of leaving the room directly after her morning ritual, she would sit on her bed with a book for a while, until Daphne asked her, with a kind but firm insistence, to accompany them to the Great Hall. Lea told herself she only did it because it was more comfortable to wait on the bed than outside, with the other boys already filling the common room with annoying sounds.

When they went up to the hall, the air was imbued with a sweet, spicy smell of roasted pumpkins. Upon entering, the scene couldn't be more evident. That definitely explained the nightmare.

"Ooh, Halloween," Daphne announced, dropping onto the bench between her and Pansy.

Lea's blood ran cold. A familiar chill spread from her stomach to her fingertips.

"I didn't think they celebrated Halloween so... animatedly here," continued Pansy, looking around as the professors finished decorating the ceiling, already adorned with floating candles, with lit pumpkins and mechanical bats flapping their leathery wings. "I thought it would be more... solemn, like a funeral."

"Must be a Dumbledore thing," said Daphne with a shrug. "My father says he's a lunatic, and judging by how he dresses, he could easily turn a crime scene into a reason for celebration."

Breakfast passed with relative calm after the casual chat about the commemorative day, except for Lea's leg, which tapped the floor with a constant, involuntary rhythm under the table. The rest of the day hadn't been much different. Lea was in a limbo during most classes, acting on her learned perfection autopilot, executing orders with surgical precision, pronouncing the required spells, and answering any questions with the coldness of a textbook. By nightfall, she only remembered fragments: Professor Sprout's voice explaining something about a plant that grew stronger with despair, a kelp whose name was lost in the void adorning her mind; Professor Flitwick having them practice the Wingardium Leviosa charm, using Lea as an example to her chagrin, her wand lifting a feather with an elegance that earned her envious looks. If her feeling of being watched that day was paranoia, it only intensified now. Professor McGonagall didn't help at all; she didn't take her eyes off her during the entire Transfiguration class, and Lea felt the overwhelming need to run when she thought, for an instant, that the professor would approach her.

When night came, Lea sat in the Great Hall with a resignation that weighed like a tombstone. The common room doors were locked until the feast ended, robbing her of the possibility of flight, her only strategy. The horrible day was almost over. Just a little longer.

"Hey, Blackwood, you look like a ghost today. Everything alright in that Machiavellian little head of yours?" Daphne tossed the question like someone throwing a stone into a still pond, waiting for the ripples.

"Yeah, you've been quieter than usual," added Pansy, without looking up from her plate, "which I appreciate, but it's a bit eerie."

"I'm fine," Lea lied, forcing a calm she didn't feel. "I appreciate your inopportune concern."

She hated herself for not being able to maintain her composure completely over something so banal, so predictable as a date on the calendar. The din of the place was a wall of sound she kept crashing against. The lights, the strident laughter, the hall packed with people, the tables overflowing with food and garish orange decorations. It was all so similar to her parents' opulent celebrations, and yet, none of that spectacle was for her. It never had been.

"I'll be back in a moment," she announced, standing up abruptly before her control shattered completely, leaving behind Daphne and Pansy's confused looks. She needed a quiet place, a corner to confirm that everything was still in its place, that the walls weren't collapsing.

The second-floor girls' bathroom was her closest option. She entered quickly and stopped in front of the marble sink, leaning on the cold stone with both hands. She observed her reflection in the mirror: impeccable, controlled, neat. "She's fine," she told herself, "she is fine." Her breathing was beginning to steady when a noise broke her concentration. A sob, low and heart-wrenching. Her gaze, previously fixed on her own image, shifted to a corner of the bathroom she hadn't checked upon entering. There, sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, was Hermione Granger, who seemed not to have noticed her presence.

Lea thought about leaving immediately. However, there was nowhere else she could go without risking being seen in the corridors or, worse, having to return to the Great Hall. She wanted to wait for this day to end, hidden in the relative silence of the bathroom. She hadn't spoken to Hermione since their altercation in the flying lesson, though nothing seemed to have changed in the Muggle-born's attitude; if anything, she had become more annoying, correcting everyone with a confidence Lea found insufferable. But now, that façade of confidence had shattered. All that remained was her most primitive and natural side. Her shoulders trembled, her face was buried in her knees, and her hands were gripping the fringe of her Gryffindor robes with white-knuckled force. She wasn't the confident, defiant girl from classes; she was just a child, vulnerable and defeated. For a moment, Lea felt something akin to urgency, not to console, but to correct, to lecture, to make her understand the fundamental logic of survival.

"These displays of weakness only make you more vulnerable, Granger."

Hermione started, lifting her head sharply. Her eyes were red and swollen, and tears had left shiny tracks on her cheeks. Shame and fury mixed in her gaze upon seeing Lea observing her with that evaluative calm that was more insulting than any mockery.

"What do you want, Blackwood?" Hermione managed to say, her voice broken by sobs. "Come to gloat?"

"On the contrary," replied Lea, her voice a thread of cold silver. "I just wanted to remind you that, in a place like this, letting others see how pathetic you can be is, simply, dangerous."

Hermione held her gaze, and for a fleeting moment, Lea thought that perhaps, in that moment of harshness, the other girl might understand the relentless logic of her point.

"Do you even know why I'm crying?" Hermione's voice was a mix of disbelief and bitter curiosity. "Do you even know what it's like to cry, Blackwood?"

The question resonated strangely in Lea's ears. How could she not know? It was a physical reaction, a system failure. Lea's brief silence, however, prompted Hermione to continue, with a hint of bitter triumph.

"Even if you were capable of understanding it theoretically, I highly doubt you could comprehend what it means."

"I know what crying is," Lea retorted, allowing an edge of frustration to seep into her tone. "I know it's a sign of vulnerability. Something you are, precisely, demonstrating. Something others can take advantage of. Anyone could have walked in here, and not everyone would have the same... pragmatic assessment of your kind that I do."

Hermione wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, a spark of her usual fire returning to her eyes.

"Want a thank you?" she spat. "I'd rather show the 'frailty' you talk about than be incapable of feeling anything other than empty pride."

"If I were capable of feeling anything else, then I would have failed, Granger," Lea declared with absolute conviction. "My pride is founded. It is my reason for being."

But they weren't equals, and the other girl would never be able to see it. Lea sighed, too tired to keep defending a self-evident axiom. She had tried to teach the Muggle-born girl something valuable, but her patience had limits. If Hermione didn't value her own integrity enough to understand, then Lea wouldn't bear the guilt.

The awkward silence that settled between them didn't last long. Heavy, dragging footsteps echoed in the corridor, approaching. The noise was so out of place that both of them froze. Then, the bathroom door swung open with a sinister creak, and before them loomed a mass of grayish, rough skin. A mountain troll, at least ten feet tall, with a smell of sewer and rotten earth that flooded the room. Lea was the closest to it.

"Duck!" screamed Hermione as the troll, with a guttural grunt, swung its enormous club against the wooden cubicles.

A deafening crash filled the bathroom, followed by a rain of wooden splinters flying through the air. Hermione managed to dodge them by rolling on the floor. Lea barely registered the sharp pain when a sharp splinter grazed her cheek, leaving a thin cut from which a drop of warm blood welled. She had only one thing in mind, a thought that surfaced from the depths of her being, cold and clear: "It can't happen again."

An icy shiver ran through her. Her mind, clouded moments before by frustration and tiredness, cleared abruptly, focusing on the threat with terrifying lucidity. She ran towards Hermione and positioned herself in front of her, drawing her wand in a fluid motion. When the troll raised its club again to crush them, Lea shouted:

"Protego!"

A translucent shield flickered in the air before them, but the troll's blow was of brutal force. The shield shattered like glass, throwing both girls backward with the impact wave.

"Do you know how to handle that?" asked Hermione, staggering as she drew her own wand, her voice trembling but full of practical urgency.

"Yes," replied Lea, through gritted teeth, straightening up. "This doesn't usually happen."

Suddenly, Hermione tried to run to the other side of the troll, seeking to flank it. "Does she want to get herself killed?" Lea thought, with an incredulity bordering on fury.

"Incendio!" shouted Hermione, and a jet of flames shot from her wand, hitting the troll's coarse skin.

The creature roared with pain and fury, stopping its focus on Lea to concentrate on the new fire scorching its back and the source of the spell. Distracted, it waved its enormous hands trying to put out the flames.

"Stupefy!" It was Lea's turn.

The spell hit the troll in its side, but the creature barely faltered for a second before roaring louder, turning its head towards Lea with bloodshot eyes. "Idiot, they have magical resistance," she thought, cursing her miscalculation.

"Get out!" she yelled at Hermione, who didn't seem to have any intention of moving, paralyzed between fear and determination.

The door burst open and the voices of Potter and Weasley erupted into the chaos. For an instant, Lea felt a pang of pure fury: more idiots throwing themselves into certain death. Perfect.

The troll turned its thick neck towards the noise, distracted by the clumsy movements of the two Gryffindors. The creature seemed torn between them and Hermione, who was still cornered against the shattered wall, her eyes wide with terror.

Lea took advantage of that moment of distraction to retreat a few steps, her mind working with mechanical precision, suppressing the residual tremor in her hands. "Too big. Medium-high magical resistance. Slow, but with enough brute force to kill with one blow. Direct attacks are ineffective."

Just as she was weighing whether to attempt a more complex containment spell, Harry Potter's voice cut through the air.

"Distract it!" he yelled, but his next move was so impulsive that Lea could barely suppress an exclamation of disbelief.

Harry Potter, the famous one, the boy with the scar, ran straight towards the troll and, with desperate agility, jumped and clung to its back. The creature roared with fury and began to spin and shake, blindly beating the air with its club.

Lea twisted her wrist and conjured almost by instinct:

"Levicorpus!"

The troll's body halted for half a second in its downward movement, its feet lifting a few inches off the ground, just enough for its next blow to lose force and veer off, smashing into the wall. Potter was still clinging to its neck, struggling. And then she saw him do it: amidst the struggle, Harry raised his wand—by reflex, by instinct?— and shoved it straight up one of the troll's nostrils.

The screech that followed was deafening, a high-pitched, bestial sound that resonated off the tiles. The monster spun around, shaking its head like a furious bull, and Potter was thrown off, landing heavily on the floor with a choked groan.

The troll, now blinded by pain and confusion, roared again, seeking a random target. Ron Weasley was pale as death, but his gaze moved quickly, from Potter on the floor, to the enormous club lying nearby, and back to the monster.

And then, he said it, in a broken but clear voice:

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

The club shot out of the troll's hands, rose into the air, and fell with a dull, brutal sound onto the creature's own head. The troll staggered, with an almost comical look of surprise, and collapsed forward with a thud that shook the bathroom's foundations.

For a moment, only the insistent drip of a broken faucet and everyone's panting breaths could be heard.

Lea slowly lowered her wand. Her heart was still beating hard against her ribs, but her breathing was coming back under control. She observed the scene with the attention of a strategist reviewing a battlefield: Potter panting on the floor, Weasley frozen with a smoking wand, Granger trembling by the wall. None seemed able to process what had happened.

"That was..." Ron began, but didn't finish the sentence.

"Miraculously effective," murmured Lea, her voice low, cold, more like a tactical assessment than praise. "And stupidly dangerous. Do none of you value your irrelevant lives?" She addressed Hermione directly, and noted with surprise that her own voice trembled with a cold rage and something else, an unidentifiable feeling burning in her chest. "You should have run as soon as you could. You could have gotten yourself killed."

"And since when do you care about that?" Hermione retorted, with a hint of genuine confusion mixed with her exhaustion.

The images from the dream, of the forest, of the girl, flooded Lea's mind. She took a deep breath, focusing on the sharp pain of the cut on her cheek, anchoring herself to that sensation to not lose control right there, in front of them. When she didn't respond, the boys turned towards her, their expressions a mixture of relief and perplexity.

She turned towards the inert body of the troll and examined it with a clinical gaze. The smell of sweat, earth, and dried blood mixed in the heavy air. It was repulsive, but her mind only processed the logical sequence: action, reaction, result.

"Is it... dead?" asked Hermione, her voice a thread.

"I don't think so," said Harry, getting up with difficulty. "I think it's just knocked out." He then bent over and, with a grimace of disgust, pulled his wand from the troll's nose, which was covered in a slimy, grayish substance he wiped on the creature's rags. "Ugh... disgusting."

A sharp slam of a door echoed through the bathroom then, so sudden that even Lea, with her senses on high alert, gave a small start. She hadn't realized the level of noise they had caused. Of course they would have been heard.

Footsteps hurried inside. The door flew open and Professor McGonagall entered like an incarnation of divine fury, her robes billowing. Behind her came Snape, with his silent, icy gait, and Professor Quirrell, who paled upon seeing the troll on the floor, let out a strangled squeak, and collapsed onto a toilet, clutching his chest dramatically.

Snape went straight to the troll. He bent over, his black, piercing gaze scrutinizing every detail, assessing if there was any residual magic, any magical manipulation beyond the physical struggle. Lea watched him attentively, trying to decipher if he could read her intervention with the Levicorpus from the scene.

McGonagall, however, didn't need to examine anything. The fury she radiated was so palpable the air seemed to vibrate. Her lips were so tense and white they looked like a line cut in marble. She took two steps forward, each more measured and terrible than the last.

"What on earth were you thinking?" her voice was a whisper charged with anger. "You are lucky you weren't killed. Why weren't you in your dormitories?"

Snape shot a penetrating look at Harry, and then at Lea, with a barely perceptible flash of warning in his dark eyes.

"Please, Professor McGonagall..." Hermione's voice, weak but clear, cut the tension. "They were looking for me."

"Miss Granger!"

"I... I went looking for the troll because I thought I could defeat it, you know, because I'd read all about them." It was evident she was lying. Her voice trembled, but not with fear, rather with the determination to take the blame. Why?

"If they hadn't found me, I'd be dead now. Harry stuck his wand up its nose and Ron knocked it out with its own club. They didn't have time to fetch anyone. It was about to finish me off when they arrived." Hermione deliberately omitted Lea from her narrative.

"And what was Miss Blackwood doing here?" asked McGonagall, turning her icy gaze towards Lea.

"I believe she can tell you herself," said Hermione, looking at Lea with a strange challenge in her eyes.

"I was here before the troll was announced," Lea admitted coldly, determined not to show any emotion. "When the troll entered, with Miss Granger already inside, I simply acted as events unfolded. Although I suppose my intervention was irrelevant enough for her to decide not to mention it." She allowed a cold, cutting smile directed at Hermione, irritated by her omission but aware that, in Granger's account, she came off as a mere spectator, which was perhaps safer.

"Well... in that case," said Professor McGonagall, looking at them with a mixture of exasperation and relief, "... Hermione Granger, you are a foolish girl. How did you think you were going to defeat a mountain troll on your own?"

Hermione hung her head, determined to continue her charade. Lea's indignation was overshadowed by deep confusion. Why was this girl, so attached to truth and rules, lying to protect those who had acted recklessly? Potter and Weasley deserved it, they could have handled it differently, she would have handled it. But Hermione preferred to tarnish her own model student reputation. It was illogical. Absurd.

"Hermione Granger, for this, Gryffindor will lose five points," McGonagall pronounced. "Lea Blackwood, five points to Slytherin for appropriate conduct in a situation of imminent danger."

Lea couldn't help a genuine smile of satisfaction from appearing on her lips at Hermione's incredulous and furious look, who swallowed her retorts.

"I am very disappointed with your conduct, Miss Granger. If you are not hurt, you had better return to Gryffindor Tower. The students are finishing the feast in their houses."

Hermione left, not without shooting Lea a final look, a complex gaze that Lea couldn't decipher.

"Well, I still think you were lucky," McGonagall continued, addressing Harry and Ron, "but not many first years could have taken on a fully grown mountain troll. You have won five points each for Gryffindor. Professor Dumbledore will be informed of this. You may go. You too, Miss Blackwood." She gave Lea a final look, laden with the same inquisitive intensity from that morning.

Lea didn't wait a second longer. She turned and left the destroyed bathroom, leaving behind the smell of troll and the residual tension. In the dark, silent corridors of Hogwarts, she could finally breathe deeply. A fight with a troll definitely wasn't what she'd expected when escaping the Great Hall, but it had been preferable to staying there. And she had survived. That and her horrible day. "Not everything has to be so bad," she thought, allowing herself a glimmer of forced optimism as she rubbed her bandaged arm through her robes.

As she turned a corner, however, she came face to face with the last person she expected to see.

"Miss Blackwood."

Headmaster Albus Dumbledore was standing under the dim light of a torch, his long silver beard glowing softly. He was wearing robes of a deep blue adorned with golden stars, and his friendly, serene smile didn't seem, to Lea, fitting for a man who had just learned of a troll loose in the castle.

"Good evening, Headmaster," she managed to say, feeling her pulse quicken under his inquisitive gaze, which seemed to see through her layers of control.

"I didn't expect to see you out here at this hour of the night."

Lea felt the immediate need to explain her presence, to justify the recently earned points, but he seemed to understand everything before she could articulate a word.

"So you took on the troll by yourselves, did you?" he commented, with a glint of curiosity in his blue eyes. "Students are becoming more and more proficient." He paused. "Did it cause you much trouble?"

"I don't believe so, Headmaster," Lea replied, keeping her voice as neutral as possible. "But different actions would have avoided unnecessary trouble."

Dumbledore smiled, a wide, genuine smile that reached his eyes.

"You sound exactly like your mother, Miss Blackwood."

Lea felt her hands turn to ice. An involuntary tremor ran through them, and, against all her will, a smile—small, tense, but real—formed on her lips. People always remarked on her eyes, inherited from her father, or the color of her hair, from her grandmother. Hearing that something in her, even if it was her pragmatism, resembled the excellent Seraphine Blackwood, filled her with an intense, profound pride that almost took her breath away. She knew, in the deepest part of her being, that it wasn't true, that she didn't come close to the cold, relentless excellence of her mother, but in that instant, under the Headmaster's gaze, she allowed herself to believe it.

"You should return to your house, Miss Blackwood. It is late. I have some matters to attend to." The Headmaster's gaze shifted for a moment beyond her, towards the light coming from the bathroom she had just left.

"Yes, Headmaster. Excuse me. Good night." She inclined her head slightly and made to leave, a whirlwind of contradictory emotions churning in her chest.

But something stopped her.

"Miss Blackwood." Dumbledore's voice was soft, but charged with an intent that cut the air.

She turned back.

The Headmaster paused, and his eyes, for an instant, seemed to lose their jovial twinkle, becoming serious and deep.

"Happy Birthday."

Then, he turned and walked away down the corridor, leaving her alone in the gloom, with those two words resonating in her mind like a bell toll.

Everything she had struggled to keep at bay, all the tension of the day, the fear, the frustration, the momentary pride, crashed down on her at once, like a bucket of ice water. The weight of the date she had tried to ignore, suppress, punish. "Happy Birthday."

Lea didn't sleep at all that night. She lay awake in her bed, staring fixedly at the green silk canopy, feeling the echo of those words and the ghost of a girl in a dark forest, while the castle, around her, kept its silence.

 kept its silence.

Chapter Text

When November arrived, the Quidditch season had officially begun. The air grew colder and sharper, and the great lake, once clear, now looked like a sheet of opaque glass about to freeze. Lea had finally decided to make space in her tight schedule to attend a Slytherin team practice. It was a terrain assessment, a necessary reconnaissance if, as her father insisted in every letter, she was to consider joining the team the following year. Although, recently, that age restriction seemed to have been suspiciously lifted at the same time Harry Potter became Gryffindor's Seeker. "More favoritism for the Chosen One," she thought, with a hint of bitter irony.

Along with Pansy and Daphne, who were notably more excited than she was by the prospect, she headed to the pitch. That afternoon would see the first match of the season, an instant classic: Slytherin vs. Gryffindor. Most in the dungeons were painting it as a crushing victory for the green and silver.

However, Lea harbored serious doubts. She had witnessed Potter's innate skill with a broom during the flying lesson and the troll incident. It was most likely that Gryffindor had a significant advantage thanks to him. The Seeker, after all, was the crucial piece on the Quidditch board, capable of deciding a match in a single move. Daphne and Pansy had told her, with a careless shrug, that Slytherin, like Gryffindor, hadn't won the season cup for several years. A fact Lea found deeply humiliating, especially considering her house's reputation for dirty play and ruthless tactics.

Upon reaching the vast pitch, Draco Malfoy and his cronies were already in the stands, shouting empty slogans. Lea and Daphne sat on the completely opposite side, to Pansy's visible displeasure, who let out an exasperated sigh before following them.

Lea observed. The Slytherin team was practicing against training dummies mounted on brooms, but the spectacle was absolute chaos. It seemed like every player was waging their own private war, without an ounce of coordination.

The rules of Quidditch had evolved since the last World Cup her father had made her study. The modifications, which Lea considered a triumph of pure logic, gave Seekers a greater role beyond catching the Snitch, and reduced its value to 50 points, allowing a 5-minute period after its capture to end the match. This gave renewed importance to Chasers and Beaters. Her father, who had been a Keeper, had strongly agreed with the changes. However, the Slytherin team seemed anchored in the archaic rules of the last two centuries, but executing them in a way that was simply worse.

Miles Bletchley, the Keeper, remained by his hoops, immobile as a statue, because there was simply nothing to defend. Meanwhile, the Chasers—Adrian Pucey, Graham Montague, and Cassius Warrington—fought over the Quaffle amongst themselves like hungry dogs around a bone. When one had it, they tried to charge alone towards the hoops, failed spectacularly, and another would retrieve it only to repeat the cycle of incompetence.

"I've never seen anything so..." Pansy began, searching for the right word.
"Pathetic. Disorganized. Impractical. And inefficient," Lea pronounced, not taking her eyes off the aerial disaster.
"Really? It's not that bad," said Daphne, though her voice sounded uncertain, as if trying to convince herself.

The Beaters, Thorvald Nott and Marcus Flint—the team captain, a burly fifth-year whose arrogance rivaled his scant tactical intelligence—dedicated themselves to hitting the Bludgers with brute fury. They tried to hit the training Seeker, but in their clumsiness, they directed the heavy iron balls towards their own Chasers and their Seeker, Terence Higgs.

Higgs, for his part, seemed to inhabit a parallel dimension. His gaze was fixed on the practice Snitch, so absorbed that he didn't see the Bludger that Flint, with a miscalculated swing, sent directly at him.

"Levicorpus!" Lea shouted, acting on instinct.

Her spell didn't completely stop Higgs's fall, but it cushioned the impact enough to prevent him from crashing into the ground and killing himself. The Seeker fell with a dull thud, motionless. Everyone ran towards him; the practice stopped dead.

"I think he's unconscious," said Daphne, with genuine concern in her voice. "We should call Madam Pomfrey."
"Will he still be able to play in today's match?" asked Draco's irritating voice, looking at Flint more than at the injured player.
"Another display of this house's incompetent arrogance," Lea declared, crossing her arms. "With any luck, he'll be able to stand again."
"Oh? Who do we have here?" Marcus Flint's voice was a growl laden with fury. He approached, his face red, and the other team members positioned themselves behind him, forming a wall of green and silver. "The Gryffindor intruder. You're the one who sabotaged him, aren't you? I saw you cast a spell."

Lea didn't retreat an inch. Flint was several inches taller, but she looked him directly in the eyes.
"I saved him from a painful death or a serious fracture, Flint. The only one to blame for your team's lamentable state is you."

Flint let out a loud, fake laugh, which the others immediately imitated.
"Lamentable?" he spat. "I think someone believes she can do better than us."
"I'm sure," Lea replied, her voice icy.
"Yeah, right! What would you know about Quidditch, you perfect, wonderful princess?" Adrian Pucey interjected sarcastically. "Going to teach us how to play from your manual on how to lick the Gryffindors' arses?"

Lea's patience, already a scarce resource, was stretched to its limit. At this point, she deserved a medal for maintaining her composure. Her gaze grew even sharper.
"Lea, leave these idiots," Daphne whispered, pulling on her sleeve. "It's not worth it."
"I know how to win," Lea declared, ignoring Daphne and addressing Flint directly. "And that's all I need. It's not about the crest on the chest, but about playing with your damn head. You all fly around hoping for the best, and because of your lack of tactics, your Seeker now probably needs a wheelchair."
"Then play," Flint roared, to the incredulous looks of his teammates. "Today."
"You can't be serious?" Draco protested. "Her? She'd make us lose on purpose."
"He's right," Nott supported, with contempt. "It's safer to play with just six than to put her in."
"No," Flint cut in, a sadistic, murderous smile stretching his lips. "If she thinks she can do it, let her prove it. And when the match is over, at least we'll have someone to laugh at for the rest of the year." His gaze, charged with icy rage, fixed on Lea, challenging her.

It was an obvious provocation, a trap designed for public humiliation. It was impossible to adapt to the team's chaos in a matter of hours. There was no logical way to win. But, against all rational judgment, or perhaps driven by a deeper, more stubborn logic, Lea responded.
"I accept," she said, holding Flint's gaze without blinking. "And when we win today, you will name me starting Seeker."

Flint stared at her and let out a guffaw.
"After you prove to the whole school what a little shit you are, sure. With pleasure. Though I doubt you'll be able to show your face anywhere after today." With that, Flint turned and marched off, followed by Draco and the rest of the team, leaving an aura of hostility in the air.

When they were far enough away not to be heard, Daphne exploded.
"Why did you accept? It's a trap!"
"I noticed," Lea replied calmly.
"They want to humiliate you in front of everyone! They're going to sabotage the match!"
"I considered that."
"Then why the fuck did you accept!" Daphne was red with anger and confusion, her green eyes blazing with unusual frustration.

Daphne brought her hands to her face and let out a muffled sound of exasperation.
"I have a plan," Lea declared with a tranquility that brutally contrasted with the chaos around her, and she began walking towards the pitch exit.
"See, Daphne? I told you she was barking mad," Pansy let out with a dry laugh. "We never should have gotten close in the first place, and now we should disappear from her side before we become the house laughingstock too."

Daphne turned to Lea, searching her face for a hint of doubt, of fear, anything that justified a retreat. But she only found a cold, calculating determination.
"You can leave, of course," Lea said, unperturbed. "I won't pretend I care. It's very likely we'll lose." Pansy laughed again. "But, if you evaluate my results objectively, I never do anything that cannot, in one way or another, benefit me."

.

That afternoon, the nerves Lea felt weren't the typical ones for a match. With the tight green and black uniform on her body and an emerald robe flowing behind her, the reality of her situation was too obvious to ignore. She was a pariah in her own environment due to her family, and a fraud in her closest circle due to her house. A paradox she could hardly escape.

She wasn't supposed to be a player until the following year. She had to use a worn, corroded training broom, which compared to her teammates' models was little more than a toy broom. She took a deep breath. That day she was going to fulfill, in the most twisted way possible, one of her father's deepest dreams. But if he saw her, he would feel nothing but rejection. Lea didn't want to imagine what would happen if that were the case. Perhaps Daphne was right, she thought reluctantly. But she quickly tried to transform the thought. She sighed and straightened her head. It couldn't be. She had a plan. She would follow it and leave the place having demonstrated her superiority. It wasn't exactly what her parents would have wanted, but if they saw her results, they would approve, she forced herself to believe. No matter what others thought, she was there to triumph, to demonstrate who she was and that the surname she carried defined her, no matter where she was.

Before they took to the pitch, Flint addressed the team.
"Today we're not going to win," he said, and his gaze settled on Lea. "Normally I wouldn't say that, but today we have someone on the team who is sure of it. Let's prove her right." Flint spoke slowly, his voice laden with ulterior motives.

Lea noticed Draco Malfoy leaning against a wall, holding a Nimbus 2000. He was probably the reserve Seeker who would come on when they managed to force her out. She smiled to herself with irony, finishing adjusting her gloves.
"Slytherin!" Flint roared, and all the others shouted in unison with fierce determination.

They carried their insignia with a visceral pride, embracing their house with ironclad loyalty. It was obvious they believed they were better than everyone else, and Lea, amidst all her contempt for her housemates, could glimpse something respectable in that conduct.

As they walked out, the whole school was there, occupying every available space in the enormous stone stands. Colored pennants waved, dividing the four houses. It was impressive, truly. It wasn't a World Cup, but the excitement pulsing in the air was tangible. Lea felt her heart accelerate against her chest. The sound of cheers flooded her ears when Gryffindor took to the pitch.

With their scarlet red robes, led by Oliver Wood and, at his side, Harry Potter. A pang of a cold, sharp, venomous feeling invaded her as the shouts chanting "Potter!" became present. Cold sweat ran down her back. Her parents had told her what her place in the world was, and she was seeing it right before her eyes. She looked forward, her composure intact.

Professor Hooch arrived on the pitch and positioned herself in the center.
"Mount your brooms, please."

Harry mounted what Lea recognized as a Nimbus 2000. An instrument of precision, not a worn-out log like the one she was on.

Madam Hooch gave a long blast on her whistle. Fifteen brooms rose. Lea clung to hers, the rough, slow wood under her hands.
"And the Quaffle is caught immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor!" Lee Jordan's voice boomed. "What an excellent Chaser she is, and by the way, she's very pretty—"
"JORDAN!"
"Sorry, Professor."

Lea tried to concentrate, filtering out the commentary and the boos from the stands. Her task was to contain Potter, but battles weren't won without risks, and her team wasn't helping. Gryffindor started with an advantage. The Slytherin Chasers—Warrington, Montague, and Pucey—were a coordinated disaster, unable to keep up with Gryffindor's fast, precise passes.
"POINT TO GRYFFINDOR!" Lee Jordan shouted.

Angelina Johnson had only opened the scoring for the many goals that followed. If this continued, it would be a humiliation. Something that, in another context, should please Lea. Seeing the house of Death Eaters lose was what she would yearn to see. However, now, she was on their side of the pitch.

Lea spotted the Quaffle heading forcefully towards the hoop that Bletchley, immobile, couldn't defend. She pushed with all the speed her broom allowed, dodging a Bludger, and deflected the shot directly to Flint, who caught it.
"Slytherin's Seeker, Lea Blackwood, ladies and gentlemen! Aside from being divided between two houses, she also plays more than one role!" Lee Jordan commented, amused. Lea felt her blood run cold.
"Pass it, Flint!" she shouted, hoping he would pass it to Pucey, who was unmarked. But Flint ignored her, charging like an enraged troll until Wood stopped his shot with dazzling agility.
"Stay in your damn position, Blackwood!" he yelled at her, blaming her.

Lea refocused her gaze on Harry. He remained motionless, scouring the pitch for the Snitch. That passivity, unbecoming of someone with the weight he carried, irritated her. It generated a bitter sensation in her chest. "The Chosen One," she thought with rage. He had everything she had ever wanted and, yet, he didn't seem fazed, he didn't show it. Someone who didn't deserve it, whose only feat was being born. Not like her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a Bludger approaching at full speed. She barely managed to dodge it, holding onto the broom and tilting her entire body, ending up almost upside down.
"What the fuck, Nott?!"
"Stay alert!" the boy grunted, moving away with a mocking laugh.

Lea had to deflect another Bludger that Johnson sent her way because Flint didn't come to protect her. He was too focused on stealing the Quaffle. Already fed up with this circus, she gripped the broom tightly, feeling her hands tense with anticipation. She headed straight for Katie Bell, intercepted the Quaffle before she could receive it, and in a fluid motion, passed it to Warrington, who was alone in front of the hoop.
"POINT TO SLYTHERIN!" Lee Jordan announced, and finally, her own stands cheered.

Lea continued. She intercepted Quaffles, cleared shots, and did everything possible to structure the disaster that was her team, which, reluctantly, began to show some glimmer of cooperation. But it wasn't enough. If Harry caught the Snitch, even with the reduced point margin, they couldn't win. She had to buy time.
"Blackwood!" shouted Montague, throwing the Quaffle to her in an act of desperation.

Lea aimed directly at the hoop and, with all her strength, shot from a considerable distance.
"A POINT FROM AFAR FOR SLYTHERIN, BY THE SEEKER! Is that even allowed?" Lee Jordan turned to look at Professor McGonagall.

Lea raised her arms to celebrate, but in that moment of distraction, a Bludger hit her arm, knocking her off her broom. She held on with her other hand, her vision blurring for an instant, but she managed to distinguish Flint's satisfied face looking towards where the hit had come from.
"Get the reserve ready!" Flint shouted towards Draco, who returned a triumphant smile.
"Ooof, that had to hurt," Lee Jordan said in an almost compassionate tone.

The expectant looks on her back, the murmurs, the boos, the constant reminder that she didn't belong... At that point, she knew it was all too much. She held her sore arm, but didn't find the peace she sought. She wouldn't lose control now, so close to the end. She had to finish what she started.

With a superhuman effort, she pushed herself up and, with her good arm, remounted the broom. Only minutes remained.
"What's that? The Snitch?" said Lee Jordan.

Lea spotted Harry moving like lightning towards the small golden object. She didn't have a good broom, she was slower, and the pain barely allowed her to focus. But something else drove her: the burning rage of knowing that she should be in that boy's position. She deserved it. She wasn't going to win, but she would prove she was better.

She calculated the trajectories in a fraction of a second. She wouldn't reach the Snitch before Potter. But she could reach *Potter*. She launched into a brutal dive, crossing his path. It wasn't a crude obstruction, but a precise angle cut that forced Harry to swerve. The Snitch disappeared. The shouts of "Foul!" from Gryffindor were drowned out by Hooch's whistle, which called nothing. Lea felt a sour satisfaction. Efficiency, not brute force.

She smiled seeing the scoreboard. Slytherin was 50 points ahead. Even if Potter caught the Snitch, they wouldn't lose. Not while she was on the pitch.
"Lea Blackwood interfering with Potter's pursuit with a play of almost terrifying precision!"

Every time her name was called, a new lash of conflict ran through her. Proving her worth felt like a betrayal of her very essence. She repressed the feeling with all her strength. One last effort.

She and Harry were neck and neck. She wouldn't let him move, anticipating his every maneuver. Being so close to Harry proved beneficial; Fred and George Weasley kept Flint and Nott's Bludgers at bay, involuntarily protecting both Seekers.
"Get off me!" Harry spat at her, irritated.

She didn't respond, merely dodging a Bludger so that it grazed him. Harry didn't fall, holding firm on his broom. For a second that felt eternal, their gazes met. Lea saw a mirror. She saw through her parents' eyes.

Hooch's whistle sounded, announcing halftime.

The teams descended. The blood pounded in her ears, drowning out the cheers. The pain in her shoulder was a constant reminder. She saw Harry, safe on the ground, surrounded by his teammates, and envy tasted like bile.

She took a deep breath, straightening her back. It wasn't cowardice, she told herself fiercely. It was strategy. She had demonstrated what they needed to see. To continue would be to grant them their victory and tear herself apart even more.

With cold determination, she landed and approached Flint.
"If we continue like this, we can win. We just have to contain Potter," Flint said, with a flash of something that might be forced respect.
"My participation ends here," Lea declared, her voice serene and cutting as the lake ice.
"What are you talking about, Blackwood? Get your gloves back on!" the captain growled.
"I've finished what I came to do. You have the advantage. I've demonstrated I can carry the team. And I was right, wasn't I? You are a disaster, and now you'll win with Malfoy. So I will not become the starting Seeker. Everything went as you wanted, Flint." She looked at him with a calculated coldness, a smile of pure pride on her lips. She had done it.
"Damn coward," Flint spat.

Lea's knuckles tightened. Adrenaline boiled in her veins.
"I faced your sabotage and, despite it, I played as a team. I maintained composure, I supported in every possible area," she paused, her voice charging with a glacial intensity. "And *I'm* the coward? My loyalty, Flint, is to myself."

The boy planted himself in front of her, close enough for her to feel the heat of his body, in a final attempt at intimidation.

Outside, the shouts of "Slytherin!" grew.
"I think there are some people who would like to see my face out there again," she smiled as she never had before, a gesture of pure, tired pride. "However, you were right. It would be better not to show it. I wouldn't want to overshadow your perfect team."

Before Flint could retort, she withdrew, walking away from the pitch, from the noise, from the paradox. She still had unfinished business with herself.

.

The Blackwoods weren't the kind of people who fled from conflict; they charged headlong into danger regardless of the consequences. That was what her father used to tell her, when she was still small and the nightmares hadn't begun to colonize her dreams. The memory of that lesson was a distant echo, an ideal fading under the weight of reality.

Now, the only lesson that persisted in her mind was the tactical assessment, cold and devoid of sentimentality: if a situation can benefit you, take it; otherwise, protect your integrity. Because she wasn't simply another Blackwood. She was all that was left. The two most intense flames of her lineage—her parents—had handed her their light, their legacy, their relentless demand, so that she would be the one tasked with making the sun shine again on the surname. The ashes of a fallen empire weighed on her shoulders, and she was the designated phoenix to raise it.

The faint candlelight of the girls' bathroom enveloped her, dimmed by her own reflection in the steamed mirror. Darkness wasn't something a Blackwood should know, but to Lea it felt so inherent, so safe, so intimately familiar that she sometimes struggled to remember what full light felt like, if she had ever felt that light the way they told her she would. "They will understand," she told herself, sealing the justification with the coldness of an oath. Before doubt could take root, she readjusted the bandage on her arm with precise movements, hiding the physical reminder of her internal battles.

She breathed deeply, trying to sync her heartbeat with the silence of the bathroom. But from outside, filtering through the thick stone walls, came the distant, sharp sound of the match's final whistle, putting an end to what she herself had started. Immediately after, an explosion of cheers, laughter, and triumphant chants flooded the castle. The roar of the joyful Gryffindor crowd was so powerful it could probably be heard from the other end of Hogwarts. "Potter did it," she thought, and a bitter, twisted smile formed on her lips. It was the result she had expected, nonetheless.

A sob, deep and heart-wrenching, interrupted her bitter soliloquy. "No, not again," she thought, with an annoyance that clouded her vision for a second. She had chosen this bathroom specifically to avoid a repeat of the encounter with Granger. But as she turned, ready to face another display of pathetic crying, she was met with a very different sight. It wasn't a distraught student, but a translucent, silvery figure, with two tight pigtails and a plump figure, floating over one of the toilets, emerging through the toilet itself with a dramatic languor.
"What...?" Lea managed to articulate, too exhausted to disguise her bewilderment.
"Didn't you even notice me, did you?" the ghost's voice was a high-pitched whine. "I've been here for fifty years and no one notices me." The specter began to sob exaggeratedly, and its ethereal tears splashed the stone floor without wetting it.

Lea regained her composure immediately, pulling her sleeve down further. "What did you see?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.
"I see everything!" the ghost wailed, its crying intensifying. "I see when they come to cry, to kiss in secret, or to fight! But as soon as they see me, they run away!"
"They run?" Lea began to feel the weight of accumulated fatigue in her shoulders, a dull ache begging her to go to sleep. But a flash of macabre curiosity, a purely analytical interest, stopped her.
"Yes!..." The ghost assessed her with its tearful eyes. "Why haven't you left?"
"I have no idea," she sighed, and the ghost, as if that were the definitive confirmation of its tragedy, broke into even more thunderous weeping.
"Merlin's beard, they probably leave because they can't stand your screeching," Lea murmured to herself, rubbing the bridge of her nose in annoyance.

The ghost's crying was now so loud and piercing that it completely overshadowed the distant din of the Gryffindor celebration. Lea felt her eardrums were going to burst.
"I didn't want to go to my common room," she admitted, more to herself than to the specter. "I needed a place without... annoyances. Like this one, before you showed up." She headed for the door, determined to end the interaction.
"No! Please don't go!" the ghost begged, its voice broken by hiccups.

Under any other circumstance, Lea would have ignored the plea and left without looking back. But in her mental exhaustion, an idea, cold and pragmatic, began to take shape in her mind.
"You say no one comes here," she stated, stopping. The ghost nodded vigorously, its pigtails swinging. "What's your name?"
"Myrtle," the ghost replied. Lea raised a slight eyebrow, expecting a surname that didn't come. Myrtle, however, interpreted her expression differently. "You know it too, don't you? You know they call me Moaning Myrtle? They make fun of me... You will too, won't you?" Her crying took on a hint of self-destructive rage.

Lea was silent for a moment, observing the purest, most pathetic manifestation of what uncontrolled weakness could lead to. "To death," she supposed, though, ironically, there was an unbreakable willpower in a ghost still chained to the place of its own death, clinging to its misery with tenacity.
"Merlin, no," Lea replied, with a tone that wasn't comforting, but a statement of intent. "I'll come more often. Just make sure you remain so... repellent that no one else wants to use this place."

And with that, she left the bathroom, leaving behind the sobs of Moaning Myrtle, which mixed with the echoes of someone else's victory. As she headed towards the Slytherin common room, the strange encounter made her reflect, not on sadness, but on the repulsive nature of exhibited vulnerability. She didn't need the lesson, of course, but the disgust it produced in her was more than enough to anchor her back in reality. "If I died right now," she thought, "what legacy would remain?"

She advanced through the cold, gloomy corridors, each step a reminder. She was still a Slytherin, whether she liked it or not. And above all, she was still a Blackwood. She still had a duty to fulfill, a purpose that burned in her veins more strongly than any pain, any defeat, or any ghostly tear. The path was lonely, but she wasn't lost. She was, simply, reevaluating the terrain.

.

"Blackwood!" Gemma Farley's voice cut through the common room murmur the instant Lea crossed the entrance. The prefect, standing by the fireplace, was looking at her with an unusual smile, followed by the scattered but genuine applause of several students present. "Your performance today was exceptional! I haven't been that excited about a Quidditch match in ages."

The praise, and especially Gemma's openly admiring tone, struck Lea as a fascinating crack in her usual façade of professional stoicism. However, along with the positive attention, she also felt the weight of other, colder, more disdainful looks seeping from the darker corners of the room. The Quidditch team boys and, especially, Malfoy, were fortunately not present. Thank Merlin, she thought, allowing herself a second of relief.
"Thank you," she replied, measuring each word. "I did what I could with the resources I had." She made a brief, calculated pause. "Which, truth be told, were not the most suitable."

Gemma smiled, with a glint of complicity in her eyes.
"Of course not. They've been clinging to the same disorganized, individualistic game for years," she said, crossing her arms with an attitude that betrayed her own annoyance. "But strategic intentionality is what counts. I hope to see you on the pitch again soon."

With a parting gesture, Gemma rejoined her group, leaving Lea under the mixed scrutiny of the room.
"Lea! Merlin's beard, what the fuck happened out there!" She hadn't even fully oriented herself when Daphne Greengrass planted herself in front of her, her green eyes blazing with a mix of exasperation and excitement.
"I told you I had a plan," Lea replied, with a fatigue that was starting to seep through her armor of control.
"Yeah, I noticed, you idiot! But your arm! You disappeared!" Daphne tried to reach out to examine the injured limb, but Lea took a step back, erecting an invisible barrier.
"It's not your problem. And it's fine..." Discomfort took hold of her, tangible as a layer of ice. "Do you want to step back?"
"You were brilliant, before you disappeared," Daphne insisted, ignoring the suggestion. "Malfoy couldn't keep up with them even if they'd set his broom on fire. Potter caught the Snitch just five minutes after the second half started," she added with a disdain laden with satisfaction. "Then Flint tried to decapitate Wood in a fit of rage and things got... ugly. Gryffindor won, of course."
"I noticed the scarlet lions in the midst of what looked like a Dionysian celebration on my way here," Lea replied dryly. "But thanks for the clarification, Greengrass."
"Is that how you treat your official sponsor?" Daphne huffed, crossing her arms and raising her chin with affected dignity.
"Excuse me?" Confusion managed to filter through the tiredness in Lea's voice.
"Of course! Who do you think told everyone it was Flint's fault you left? They were furious when you didn't come back. So I told Davis, who told Burke, who in turn told everyone else," she made a dramatic pause, a Machiavellian smile adorning her lips. "Now everyone thinks he and little Draco tried to sabotage your play out of envy."
"I thought that was fairly obvious, considering that... well, my Beaters seemed intent on using my head as target practice," Lea pointed out sarcastically.
"Only for the more observant. I made sure every last first year knew. And I added a few details of my own, of course."
"What did you do?" The exasperation, mixed with physical and mental exhaustion, was impossible to contain. The memory of how, thanks to Daphne's previous 'efforts', she'd been nicknamed 'Troll-Crusher' all through September didn't help at all.
"Nothing, nothing. I just commented that, well, you knew it was going to happen, so you decided to withdraw in time to expose the team's incompetence," Daphne said with astounding calm. And for the first time, Lea felt a pang of genuine surprise. The blonde girl had guessed, or at least intuited with alarming precision, the mechanics of her plan.
"And... well maybe I said that....it was my idea?" Daphne finished asking, with a glint of mischief in her gaze.
"What thing?" Lea sighed, too tired to follow that thread. "It doesn't matter."
"Everyone is going to love us, Lea. Trust me," Daphne affirmed, though in her eyes, for an instant, Lea thought she saw something more than a simple childish desire for popularity. There was a cold calculation, an ambition. *It seems we all have our own games here*, she reflected.
"Be careful, Greengrass," Lea warned, her voice regaining its usual coldness. "I am not a pawn on your board."
"I know, I know. Bitter." Daphne made a dismissive gesture. "Now, go take a shower, will you? You look like you just came from a war."

Lea thought that, for once, Daphne was probably right. Though she noted the absence of a particularly annoying presence.
"And Pansy?" she asked, almost against her own will.
"That idiot," Daphne snorted. "Must be in some dark corner of the castle, consoling Draco's wounded ego."

*I hope they stay there*, Lea thought vehemently before turning and finally heading towards the bathrooms, longing for the solitude of hot water and silence, away from stares, praise, machinations, and the suffocating paradox of being, at once, a heroine and a pariah.